My Dream…

I tell you—we are in the Fido Days of Summer. And in the late afternoon, I frequently require a nap in The Chamber. See, in my house, two rooms are AC—my office and my bedroom. So when I take a nap, I go to The Chamber.

Today I woke up after a surprisingly long (hour and a half) and deep sleep, and I remembered this dream:

I was at some sort of outdoor banquent, on a pretty day. I was clustered with others, around the fringes of a long dining table, with silverware and china, and we hadn't sat down yet. We were waiting for Ronald Reagan to arrive. When a golf cart pulled up—or maybe it was an army jeep—Ronald Reagan got out and he was youthful and lucid, kind of like a 1980 Reagan. He waved one of those "I'm running for president" high-up waves, and I made a break for him, with my camera in hand. All around, people—including me—were exclaiming in surprise: "Oh, he looks great!" Everybody was surprised that Reagan wasn't completely senile from Alzheimers. As I approached him, he was looking right at me and held out his decent little point-and-shoot camera, wanting me to hold it while he examined my new camera. He didn't even ask to see it, but I could tell he was delighted with it, so I handed it right to him. He admired it and then handed it back to me and got back into the jeep, and was driven off. Then I realized I still had his camera. I reported this to some nearby military types and a jeep was sent over to pick me up so I could return Reagan's camera. The MP driver was kind of bitter. He drove us out of this valley up this impossibly steep hill. I was kind of concerned, because it was a manual transmission and this hill was really steep. He was cursing under his breath, saying things like "this is what I gotta deal with…" Meaning: assorted errands and grunt work.

I woke up before I could find Reagan and give him his camera back.

Cafe Del Mar

A quick shout-out ot Cafe Del Mar, my wi-fi and double-espresso source!

Headed back inland

Probably no surprise, but since arriving at the Beach, I just haven't had time from blogging. Plenty of time to sit around lolling in a beach chair, though. Luckily for my leisure, the laptop fears the sand, so she no go to da beach! It's been delightful here in Wrightsville Beach. We're getting ready to head inland, Lucy and I, to take the long way home. I'm becoming a big fan of this, and have nearly comcluded that every bit of driving stress can be attributed to some aspect of Interstate driving—the trucks, traffic stop-ups, road work, dickheads, you name it. Most of these things, not found on the back roads!

A quick shout out to pal Jessie, who loves Wrightsville Beach! It's hot here, Jessie Lou! A hunnerd, nearly!

So we're gonna split for cooler climes. (no, it's not just that. it's a recurring thing called "work," too, calling us back to Lex) Hopefully some more adventures in the Pisgah Mountains, the Blue Ridge, "Mountain Mama," etc.

Oh, funny thing—I was searching for some jernt for us to get some fine fine North Carolina barbecue as we venture along, and got one of those automated banner ads that said the most ridiculous thing: "North Carolina Barbecue: Huge selection of new & used. Check out the deals now! www.ebay.com"

Chester and PICTURES

A town called Chester.

Something has always appealed to me abut this name. And Chester was a great uncle of mine. (and I'd be remiss, if I didn't mention that Hustler magazine had a regular comic called "Chester the Molester," and I know this because my middle school best friend Tim and I used to sneak into his basement to read his dad's rather extensive collection.)

Anyway—Chester, SC. I drove through last night and was surprised by the fanciness of it. Lots of of big old antebellum houses, dense treed lawns, a town square, etc. Even at 9 pm, you can see that these people are pretty darned proud of their town. Chester is also the home of a major branch of the SC DOT clean-up facilities. Which explains why the place smells a great deal like fresh paint.

Today, I'm headed to the beach. Huntington Beach, hopefully, which looked dreamy last year, when they turned me away (they were full) despite intense begging and nicing. This year, I'm trying to call ahead, but I keep getting a busy signal. Hoping for the best.

(editors' note: I didn't get there. I called and they were booked! Next year, I'm really calling ahead. I've changed the plan, and after a fabulous drive through rural SC, I'm heading to Wilmington, to meet up with Sweet Lucy, and the Points clan.)

Anyway, I've put some pictures up.

Traveling the scenic by-ways with Mick

Let's talk about Monday—Monday was about Asheville and the fabulous State Road 74-A with some Blue Ridge Parkway thrown in for good measure.

Woke up at the decent, but forgettable—what's it called?—ha ha—Lake Powhatan and packed it up quickly to search for a coffee shop in Asheville. When I told a record store clerk—never ask a record store clerk anything by the way—to point me to an area with "freaky, hippy, bohemian restaurants," he said, "pretty much that's all of Asheville." I would have to disagree, but the concentration is surprising. After a couple of hours at a communist bookstore (always a treat), I hit the road and made the first of two driving errors. Neither one were major, but I was a little pissed that I somehow got off course each time by about 15 miles. I love following maps and, folks, some placees the roads are marked more clearly than other places.

Wait—I'm writing to you from inside my tent at Chester State Park. It's too fucking hot to write in this tent at 10:30pm. I'll continue in the morning, if I haven't turned into a puddle.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Okay, last night was a hot one. At least to be in a tent. What I want, I've decided is one of those pop-up trailers. Some guy told me to go to folddowntrailers.com. Shoulda known that would exist.. (ps: it doesn't. I looked)

anyway, I'm at Waffle House a few miles up the road from Chester. And I'm a fugitive from the law. Yep. Skipped out on my camping bill. Hey, hold your judgment, a minute! It was funny—twice yesterday, the rangers waved me off when I tried to pay. At first I thought they were just being inexplicably samaritanly, but the second time I realized it was more of a laziness ("we'll getcha later, son...") So, this morning, I was packed up and showered and they hadn't "got me." On the way out the gate, I found myself driving past a ranger, and so I rolled down the window and did my best SC y'all drawl: "don't y'want want me to pay ya?!" He smled back and said: "We didn't get ya last night?" Nope, I said. And he mulled this over and said "It's $14.59." Aw, man… I thought—because, for some reason, I thought that it was $7. And I knew I only had $8. I fumbled around for my checkbook, half knowing that I didn't have it. I have to confess: I was secretly hoping that he would say "don't worry about it; we'll see ya next time." But no! Finally, I was mumbling about a cash machine, and allowin' as how I reckoned I could go down the road 5 miles to the BP, which I meant to do, I really did! Which as you read this, I didn't do. My rationalization: I can mail it later. I really hope I do that.

This fugitive stuff is exhausting.

Some South Carolina for y'all

this time it's outside of chester, SC. I landed here as if by design, after a botched attempt at going elsewhere.

Anybody thing the worlds too crowded for creepy desolation? I give you Woody Haven Recreation Area, sitting all by itself at the edge of the Sumter National Forest. This was my desstination, according to my trusty "Camping in the Carolinas" book, which has never failed me.. until now.

An unbelievable number of tunrs after I crossed the Carolina border, I finally arrived at the campground at about 7:15, or right on time, as we like to say.

The thing was—there was one shirtless guy there, with his pickup truck and a tent. Now, granted, I'm merely one shirted guy with his station wagon and a tent, but I had my doubts. I was prepared to stay, but there was something offputting about the place. Some desperation there. Maybe it was the decimation caused by the fir beetle plague that had struck here (many downed fir trees) or the fact that a forest fire was evident in the recent past, or the lack of another living soul… or maybe it was just the one shirtless guy.

Anyway, I split. I couldn't level the tent, so I split. The thing was, I had repeatedly considered going to Chester, because there was a state park there, and—you know— the dot on the map looked promising, and—hey—it's a place called Chester. So I hopped back into the very nicely-behaving Ms. Volvo (btw, she threatened to overheat at the desolation campground—bad sign) and we headed down the road about another half hour and had no problem finding Chester State Park, where the super waved me off when I asked to pay, and told me I could just pop the pin out of the park gate if I got back after they closed it. Did I mention that the place is a paradise of spruce trees, on a lake, with just enough campers to remove the creepy but not too many.. One thing: it is damned hot here. Shit, it's hot. I'm thinking about sleeping in the lake.

The Unbearable Strangeness of Being

The Unbearable Strangeness of Being
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Be sure to arrange your miniature collection of collectable figurines as strangely as possible. Note: This may be the result of a combination of too much refined sugar and carbon monoxide, both of which are abundantly available on Main Street in Gatlinburg, TN.

Down at "The Christian Store"

Down at "The Christian Store"
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Gatlinburg, people. This is what we're fighting for. Gatlinburg.

What Would Jesus Do? I don't think he would do this.

The Future of Camping and Computers

So I'm sitting at a campsite, next to the volvo, outside of Ashville NC, with my friggin' laptop. don't worry—there's no wireless. It hasn't happened. Yet. but it will, my digi-toads, it will.. Last year, this time, i wound up camped in South Carolina next to some fella who worked for the phone company, and he was sportin wireless, right there fireside... was i lustful? Yes I was. But here and now—the peace, the quiet.. the tap-tap-tap of my aluminum keyboard? no complaints!

Today has been a day of no talking—something generally only accomplished by traveling solo. Took a wing-ding journey across the Smokies, from g-burg down to cherokee, and the car, she only overheat once. And i may sound overly casual—and i like to think I was for the most part—but, a boiling radiator? that's the stuff that makes yr. back tight.. at least mine. Trouble is, I can't remember if it was like this last year, auto-wise. My car, she no like zee big hill. And I hope that's all it is.. All I know is, about a quarter mile from the top of what may or may not be called Beech Flats Prong, I decided to pull over, due to the temperature gauge finally, inexorably, regrettably going climbing undeniably into the red. I said: "red is red. pull 'er over." and did exactly that at the next lovely pulloff—just me and some bikers. As I sailed ini, I was dismayed to see steam sailing out of the hood. And even more dismayed to oop said hood and find a fizzing, angry burbling radiator plume; but—know what?—nothing was busted. I could see that. So I cooled my heels and so did my Volvo girl. I took some of my spare time and followed the martian green radiator dribble trail to the edge of the pulloff and decided that dearest fate had held off this engine violence until the last possible minute. Because I couldn't see a trail leading out onto the actual highway;. That means that if I had driven even 10 more feet, something much more dramatic might have happened. As it turned out, I sat next to a waterfall, took some pictures, glanced over my maps and then we were all rested up and ready to move on. Hooray!

And there's been no real trouble since. A couple of places on the Blue Ridge Parkway where some heat was building up. but this road was made for pulling over and so I did that, and just 5 minutes here and there was glorious for everybody involved.

And so, Sunday was about having that lovely drive that is the Blue Ridge Parkway. There is nothing more glorious. A winding road that ribbons along the ridge, free of advertising, free of commerce, free of angry drivers. Full of blooming mountain laurel, volunteer day lillies, rhododendron, and endless vistas that tell you in a glance why they're called "the blue ridge mountains."

It's easy to be startled with delight, i think, over and over on this magical road. I had a particular moment, somewhere near Mount Pisgah, when I saw sky through the trees on the left and a panorama to the right. I understood for one special moment that I was really and truly driving along an edge of the world, the actual ridge of the Blue Ridge. It was like being sucked straight up in an instant to some stratospheric vantage point, looking down at a moving dot on a map. That dot would be my grey volvo!

I stopped at Mt. Pisgah Inn, delighted with the knowledge (for my car) that it was quite literally all downhill from there) and considered dining. Actually I was looking forward to the lodge dining experience, but it turns out that this lodge has gone a bit hoity and was quite booked up for dinner (with a line) and $20 entrees and whatnot. No problem. Moving on is the name of the game with this trip, so I stopped in at the desk to ask some route advice.

The jolly desk guys were worth the trip alone. If you can be that happy at work, why not, then? If you hate your job, just know this: some people don't. These guys didn't. After singing a bar or two of the Hokey Pokey (don't know why) and cajoling me to take their pictures with a couple of strangers politely minding their own bizness, they gave me some very unusual directions: "Why don't you go to Lake Powhatan? Just go up the parkway about 14 miles. Look for an unmarked turnoff on the right. It's easy to miss. That leads you to a dirt road, turn right, and that dirt road goes down to Lake Powatan. Or if you want to go to Mills River (my old place), just turn left on the dirt road."

Yeah, right.

Would you take that kind of directions? I couldn't be sure if I would or not, but as I drove away, smirking, I kept one eye on the odometer and the other on the right side of the road... And there it was…

I turned off, thinking "this can't be it. He said 14 miles and it's only been 11." But looking at his scrawl, the name was right: Bent Creek Gap. So I turned right onto this dirt road, angled steeply down, actually cut the engine (gravity was doing the trick just fine) and drove into the gaping maw of the Bent Creek Experimental Forest.

What do you think happened? Well, you're reading this, silly—I wound up at Lake Powhatan,. just like he said. The funny thing was I came out of this service road and had to pick a direction to the park. I picked the wrong way, though, and sensing this, stopped and asked some road workers. They said the park was back the other way, and I only realized how weird I might have seemed when—after driving around and getting my bearings—I realized that the road that I approached them on only led to the park. Excluding my "shortcut" 15 mile dirt road, I couldn't have been coming from anywhere but the park. and yet, I was asking them "which way to the park?" They must have thought I was nuts,

More adventures tomorrow (or tonight) kids!

Summer vacation, part 2

Well, I know I've been out of school for a good many years, but I'm just not willing to give up on the idea of summer vacation. I think the dirtiest trick played on any child is keeping them in the dark about the fact that summer vacation doesn't exist for adults. What a load.

And it should, too. Wouldn't we all be happier if we got the summer off? What exactly is the point of all this work work workin? Really, I ask you.

So the point is—I'm not giving up on the dream. Which is why I'm about to give you the account of my second 2005 summer trip. Don't hate me! Just go on a trip yourself, fool. Or get a job as a teacher so you can have summers off, right? That's what I'm thinkin'…

So what follows, then is the infrequent documenting of The Carolina Way 2005.

As always thank you so much for reading my blog. Thank you!

The Great Western Way in Pictures

If you're really crazy enough to want to look, my recent trip out west is now fully documented—El Complete-O—in pictures with snappy commentary and you can see them here.

Warning: there are 200+ but you know they're great…

The Fading Cocktail Nation

On the way back from The San Diego Trip, TT and groused over the state of America's airports, in terms of drinking and such. A warning: Soon it will be illegal to have any fun at all.

True, this: We were on separate flights, leaving at almost exactly the same time, albeit from different terminals, around 9:30pm, and we were not allowed to consort beyond the x-ray machines. Boolsheet, I say!

Once we went our separate ways, turns out all the bars were already closed anyway. Without a doubt, many airports seem to be shutting down their bars earlier and earlier—when you can find one at all. And if ever there was a place for a cocktail, it's an airport, dammit.

Later—much later—I had a 5am layover in Chicago-O'Hare. Of course, everything's closed. Never mind that there are potential customers galore just shuffling around, bleary-eyed, over-commuted. Am I the only one who sees a problem here? Don't get me started on the Self-Serve Nation, that's a rant for another day. Anyway, I did my part by having a bourbon on the rocks the instant—the second— that the O'Hare Bar opened, which is to say 7:00am. I consider it my civic duty—both to my vacation and to the idea that, once upon a time, leisure was treasured. If you don't like it, you can go to McDonalds, and get a goddamned Diet Coke and an Egg McMuffin. I'll be in the bar.

Answer a Question, Ask a Question...

justcurio.us is a great little idea for modern technology. It's like a cross between an oracle, a confessional and Dear Abby, and it just takes about 30 seconds. And you don't have to provide any personal info. Curious yet?

That's Loretta Lynn!

That's Loretta Lynn!
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Lucy's pix came back from our trip to Owensboro to see the First Lady of Country Music, Loretta Lynn! Mom and Bill were kind enough to pick up the tickets. Thanks!

So she played technically at The Big E, Owensboro silently suffering flagship hotel. I expected the show to be in the Showroom Lounge (where I saw BB King when I was a whippersnapper). But, in fact, Loretta played this big concrete slab convention center type space. Not at all ideal for the Queen! Still, she owned the place. And she looked great doing it. You shoulda seen the dress. Jeezus!

We were in the VIP section, which meant, along with our stacking chairs, we got a folding table, some chex mix, a velvet rope to separate us from the ruffians (oh wait—it was all ruffians), and an unobstructed 20-foot view of the show. Can you say 'awesome?'

Favorite moments:

• Loretta gently curbs a woman who brings a pen and a book up for her to sign mid-song: "Honey, I can't sign that right now. If I did, they'd throw me out, and I wouldn't get paid! And y'all wouldn't get to hear me sing!"
• Loretta plops down in a standard-issue stacking chair, center stage, prom dress 'n' all, and discusses her health: "My nose is runnin… anybody got a kleenex?" With visibly shaking hand ("ohmigod! I'm giving Loretta Lynn a kleenex!), a woman in the front hands her a travel pack. Loretta thanks her, keeps talking, and after some fumbling, exclaims, almost indignant: "Well, I can't open these! Somebody open these!" and passes them off to her keyboard player.
• On separate shouts from the audience to play "Coal Miner's Daughter" and "Van Lear Rose," (the latter from me) Loretta shoots back, "I don't like that song." At the end she mock-begrudgingly goes into CMD, sighing, with resignation: "Alright. Here y'go..."

It was a great time! Thank you, Mom and Bill for helping Lucy and I to fulfill a dream!

Final thoughts on traveling Way Out West

Well, kiddos, I'm back in the Bluegrass, getting back into all manner of work and stuff. Wanted to share a few more pictures from the fabulous trip, and some thoughts.

Had a wonderful time in San Diego, staying at The Sportsman. I'll hopefully go back and visit sometime. Hell, maybe I'll buy the place. Seems like a good career to me. On second thought, maybe not. I would hate to have to look up and down every person who walked through the door, trying to decide if they were going to trash the place.

My last night, I let the girls do their gypsy thing, and I went for one of my trespassing walks. This is where I walk around—by myself—and see what sorts of places I can breeze in and out of without getting detected or, failing that, without getting hassled. Or thrown out. Shelter Island was a great place for that as I power walked through one swanky hotel after another. At one point, I heard a band playing, didn't think much of it, until I notced that between songs, the audience was really going wild. What the hell? I thought… A wedding or something? Turned out, it was Lyle Lovett, who I ended up watching for a couple of songs from the pool balcony of the next door hotel. Huh!

The next day, thanks to cooperation from the girls, we got some tamales! this had been on my list, for sure, and I even had a place in mind. But being July 4th, I was actually surprised at how many places were closed (note: I endorse this. I sure don't want to work on a holiday), including Liz's Tamale Factory. Luckily, down the street was a tamale cart woman!

Later, we saw San Diego's awesome 4th of July fireworks—a computer-controlled 4-site spectacular, with the exact same show being executed at exactly the same time in 4 different locations. Wow! We saw it from out in front of the airport, and I will confess that it's a little unnerving to hear loud explosions while standing at a major international airport. Yep..

After flying out of San Diego, I landed in Chicago, where I had a 3 hour layover. Didn't really see that coming, but I guess I could have looked at the ticket, right? But on the good side, I got in a visit with Helmut Jahn's United Terminal, a festival of lights and sound and architectural coolness.

That's about it, my chilluns! Thanks for reading and don't forget to look at the pictures!

A Cat named Monster

A Cat named Monster
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Out side the door to Carlos' owner suite at The Sportsman, sits a big fat furry cat. The cat's name, I'm told, is Monster. Monster has the run of the breezeway on a worn, blue 20-foot leash, which is apparently connected to him at all times. Monster seems resigned to it, and accepts this ultimate indignity with remarkable dignity.

Mostly, Monster sits by the door in eternal cat observation mode, with an added Confuscian look that says "I might lash you, fool." Carlos explains, his antique hispanic accent resplendent: "He's mean! You scratch his belly and then…" Carlos pantomimes taloned claws tearing into thin air. I sit with Monster for a bit, he on the concrete, me on a festive mosaic tile concrete bench, festooned with geraniums and other potted plants. (The bench is one of the many details telling me that The Sportsman is a venture long loved by its owners.) Monster's leash is inexplicably wrapped around the swimming pool fence in a way that seems impossible to have achieved. As a good faith gesture—my deepest desire is to pet Monster—I unclip his leash momentarily, quickly untangle it, and then clip it back. With this, Monster regains his purchase on the walkway, and slinks towards the outer reaches, his worn cloth leash winding out behind him like a drugged and starved anaconda. Not particularly interested in me, Monster settles at the end of his leashed kingdom, all attention on a Japanese beetle flailing around on the sidewalk, a couple of feet beyond his survey. I watch him watching, and—in an act designed to curry favor—walk off, kicking the beetle into his fatal grasp as I go.

The next time I come by, I get to pet Monster.

Way Out West, pt. 2 - MORE PICTURES!

Alrighty, friends, I'm posting more pictures from the Way Out West trip. Just click here to see them!

Concerning The Sportsman motel

TT and I made a beeline for Shelter Island and found a run-down mecca of 60's and 70's drive-ups that have gradually become "Patel hotels" (thanks Loris) Grateful for the possible reprieve from a hard floor, we walked around, doing some room-visiting. Lots of vacancy, if you don't mind your hotels old and a little musty. The prices weren'te quite what I was hoping for, but at around $120/night, it was still beating the pants off of "no vacancy" or $185/night. We were really close to biting at a run-down Ramada; They had a two-queen room seemed ideal for our expected accomodation of three (Super Kate on the way from LA, to augment to belly dance contingent) but the manager was driving a typically hard Bombay bargain. "My boss, she has the final word," he pleads, with one ear to the phone, the alleged price-fixing boss on the other end. Negotiations broke down at $129 plus tax, and as TT and I walked away (part of the strategy, right?), these two—blast!—Indian gents—these…interlopers— appeared out of nowhere, wanting to see a room. I watched in minor horror as he showed them our room.

Damn!—surely that option was gone. But never mind—After a couple more lackluster inquiries, TT and hit the motherlode—a place that I first reacted to saying "I don't like it. It doesn't have enough windows." Indeed, one wall seemed windowless. But this turned out to be a magnificent misconception. Upon closer inspection, the place was swimming in scratch and dent So-Cal style: style: Pink trim, aqua doors, kidney swimming pool, partial stone walls like yr. uncle's den…

Let me just get right to the point: this place is a fucking treasure.

We popped into the front door and behind a thick glass, and even thicker glasses, we met Carlos, a retired fisherman, on the far side of 80, maybe. TT asked—with what was at this point understandable reluctance—if by any chance they had any rooms for rent. Carlos, smirking a little, and replied "No, no…we don't have any rooms…" as he reached for some keys. I knew we were in good hands immediately This old wise guy was already bustin' our balls.

The next thing he said, I don't think was a joke. With no small labor, he scanned down a piece of paper that he held in his monumentally arthritic hands, and sighed enormously through his stooped shoulders: "I've got a three-bed room. But it's expensive." He paused and looked at us with great remorse: "It's eighty-five dollars," he confessed gravely.

I stared at TT. TT stared at me. We tried to act natural. "We'll take it!" I screamed. Reaching under the security glass, I tried to grab Carlos and shake him forcibly, to make my point more clearly. Just then the Indian Iinterlopers—remember them?—walked in the door, and struck up a conversation with Dinora, Carlos' wife.

Then, I saw it: The Approaching Checkmate: "Now, it's okay for us to stay here tomorrow night, too?" I asked quickly. Dinora looked at me and her face lit up. She said: "Oh, you want to stay tomorrow night, too?" to us—and then to the Indian Interlopers—a sympathetic shrug: "I'm sorry!" They were polite, good sports, and hit the door, banished to whatever inferior dive would take their sorry asses, the losers.

And we were in like Flynn at The Sportsman.

Oh, we've stayed in some hotels…

Studio 819 - located in subtly trendy-bendy Hillcrest. It's a residential hotel, 7 stories tall, with a distinct oldster smell. But not too bad. At first I was a little chapped over the $79/night price tag (I know—shut up—"that's cheap," you say), but there was a definite Barton Fink charm that won me over in a hurry. Talking to the front desk clerk, all I could think of was: "If you need anything, ask for me. My name is Chet."

This place had a Chet, and a laundry room, and a rinky elevator, and a buzz-you-in front lobby (not so much swanky as mildly musty). Still, we were kicked to the curb after one night, due to the apparently endless tide of 4th of July visitors. Who knew? After Internet searching, door to door, callin' the main Motel 6 line, we were still comin' up empty. Empty! My first phone call was to the San Diego downtown hostel, and they surprised me by teling me they still had one room. Yet, I got put on hold and when the girl came back on the line, the room was gone.

And, guess what? THAT WAS LUCKY.

Lucky, because we put off the search. Lucky because we went to the beach with the crew. Lucky because we stopped at an outdoor bazaar and I chatted up a shopkeeper who promised us that cheap hotel rooms were available aplenty near Shelter Island, in Point Loma. "Because that's where the fishermen stay," he explained. "and I can promise you they ain't workin' this holiday weekend." Roger, that as we became fond of saying on the walkie-talkies.

Next time I'll tell you about the glory of the Sportsmen's Lodge, one of my favorite hotels anywhere.

San Diego stories

Well, a little light on the blogging, due to the myriad of San Diego activities! Yep, we're here! A lot's been going on…

Pix are up!

Cadillac Ranch
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Take a look, gentle reader at some of the exploits of the Way Out West Gang, on the road to San Diego!

Click here for pictures!

Overheard

Ah, Motel 6…I didn't realize I'd get to become such a regular, but this trip has been The Motel 6 Trip. The reasons are two-fold:

1. Pets are welcome. Hello Charlie Brown and Olivia!
2. The rates, they cheap

Typically, there's no wireless, but there's been great luck finding it a door or two down at a neighboring hotel. Finally, there's no shortage of characters lurking around in Motel 6 land; Overheard being sung by an invisible, anonymous man in the breezway, at 6am, at Motel 6 in Flagstaff: "There's one thing I know…I like beer."

TT's here!

Through some odd weird confluence alignment-of-the-stars up above, tarasita done got her ass out here to NM! Now it's a celebration! righton!©

More about the Eaves Movie Ranch

Today, i unhitched the Woomobile from the u-haul and, with mapquest screens from my laptop, motored into the quickly setting sun, searching for some lost bit of my childhood. Across I-25, down state road 16, right on SR44, I found it: There was the dustblown, sunbleached sign: Rancho Alegre. Rancho Alegre, longtime home of my regionally famous cousin, J.W. Eaves and his family. I was overcome by a delight to return here, more than 20 years after my last visit.

Driving along the paved road (wasn't it dirt before?), I passed the house. I'm sure this was the house, right? A sprawling adobe manse, so foreign to these southern eyes, and so familiar to these childhood eyes. It sits low on a rise or desert red and brown, dozens of yards behind the running fence and the road. It looked unoccupied. That was the house. And down the road farther, on the left—there it was. The movie ranch. I was tingling at the sight of those fake buildings, that contrived western street, so well-situated out here among the dust and lizards, yet so absolutely anachronistic. this is a western town. No, this is not a western town. this is a movie set, a tribute to countless western towns on TV and in the movies for decades.

There seemed to be an "office" now, and fencing and a gate. Several signs claiming "set is closed" looked neglected as did a sunbleached sign warning of a guard dog. Since I could easily step through the ornamental gate, I decided that probably there wasn't a roaming attack dog.

Decades ago, I come here in a dune buggy, reeling in my good fortune. A dune buggy. JW's dune buggy, that he told me I could drive around. I was maybe 13 years old, and i had the keys to a dune buggy and permission to wander far and wide around a kingdom of scrubbrush and fake wild west buildings.

I can see two cars, but don't see any people. Is this what it's like "out west?" …You just wander around because everything is great big and nobody's really around anyway? I chew on that, as I amble as innocently as possible around the side of a building. Are there voices?Or is that the sound of movies by-gone taking a break between shots? No it's voices, I'm sure. As I come around the corner, I see a couple kicked back on a driftwood porch, drinking in the sunset. This has potential to be tense, so I send out a "hello there!" not too loud, but not too soft, either. They're actually so relaxed that they don't notice me, so I speak up a little: "HI THERE. Um, I know I'm trespassing, but…"—Such a story, how do I tell it?— Trying to get right to the point, I summarize: "I am a distant relative of JW and Ermalee's, and I used to come play here when I was a little kid. I've come all the way from Kentucky and couldn't be this close and not try to stop by." The guy on the porch seems to scoff and says: "Oh, we've never heard that story before!" I think he's giving me shit, but in fact, he means it. This leads to a sprawling conversation and recollection about JW and Ermalee, the Movie ranch, the house and more. Suddenly these things I've remembered, these near myths are made real, restored like a faded movie print. This guy, Thomas, knows everything I'm talking about. He knew the Eaves, he knows Mel, the grandson who inherited the ranch, he knows Trish, the daughter who was Miss Rodeo America in 1969 and he knows about the room that was full of nothing but her trophies. He even mentions The Cheyenne Social Club, a western that I only think of in terms of the Movie Ranch and may or may not have ever seen. Thomas is the first person I've ever talked to who knew these things other than my mom or my brother. It's a relief, a joy, kind of a dream, and it almost chokes me with emotion.

I remember JW took us on a tour of the property, a pickup truck on a rutted out road. He drove us down into a box canyon, telling us about how the just-released The Lone Ranger did some filming here. I want to see it immediately. In the bottom of the canyon, the walls rise up and JW hands me the keys. "Why don't you drive us out of here, Mickey?" he suggests with a sideways grin. The truck is a manual "column shifter" and they road out is about a 20 degree incline.

Thomas is as nice as he can be. He's a burly, shaggy headed cross between a cowboy and an actor. He's an actor who plays cowboys, but also seems to actually be a cowboy. He is the caretaker on the ranch, feeding the several horses, and doing I-don't-know-what. But he says he's quite busy and isn't especially tolerant of uninvited visitors, it seems. Luckily, I seem to be an exception. "A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning at 8am, I hear a knock on my door…" he says, with obvious irritation. "I get up, open the door, and there's this man and this lady, and he grins and says 'We came ALL THE WAY DOWN from Santa Fe! I thought I'd show my wife the ranch!'" Thomas pauses, reliving his disbelief. "'All the way down from Santa Fe,' huh?" he snorts. "Santa Fe is 25 minutes away, if you drive slow!"

The sun goes down, and we talk and talk some more. I'm certainly not being hurried off, and in fact eventually excuse myself, after getting clearance from Thomas to come buy tomnorrow "for the morning light" to take some pictures. I drive off with the most remarkable warm feeling, as if I've been granted an audience with a beloved, but long-dead relative. Which I have.

Click here for some pictures of JW Eaves' Movie Ranch.

Santa Fe!

Finally. Santa Fe.

but, you know, it's not really like that.

We have had the most leisurely drive out west, I think.

We've driven plenty, no doubt; weathered zillions of delays; got started late; drove until later. All of it, no prob. But I think there was round after round of public and private woot! when we crossed over into New Mexico. At that point, the landscape changed, the tenor changed… we were somewhere else. Finally, irrefutably. And that is the goal of a trip for me: to be somewhere else.

Today, from the second we got into NM, the weather started fuckin' with us, I will say that. The morning in Amarillo brought glorious light and a breeze; by the time we pulled over to see The Cadillac Ranch, the mercury was climbing but the breeze (wind, even?) was hanging in there. Later, in NM, right across the border in Tucum for an internet break (ah, the new world), the mercury wasn't climbing, it was soaring. As we hunkered down for the final 3-4 hours to Santa Fe, things got a little dicey, since the animal contingent (have I mentioned Charlie Brown and Olivia?) were seeming a little withered and the Woo machine (the Crown Vic) was inching towards too-hot-under-the-hood. So we abandoned AC, swapped the pets into the more—ahem—moderne Tif and Troy-mobile and rolled down the windows. This was a welcome broiling, in my opinion—caravanning up and up, among the mesas, under big skies with a loud sun. And then just when this seemed like the new norm, storm clouds started boiling on the horizon. and we eventually sailed into a rattling bout of lightning and and miniature rainstorm thrashing. Jules said: "Iit was like the raindrops were being thrown down at us." Then, cool… then hwy 285 rolled out for us and we drove the final hour into Santa Fe under total glory: cloud littered skies, rainbows, and air, delicious air in the mid-70s.

that was some kind of welcome…

THIS JUST IN!

the fabulous, the mega, the super-dee-duper Tessie T is joining us! Flyin' in, she is!

Okay, gotta git. We gotta tear ass for Santa Fe.

J.W. Eaves Movie Ranch

Okay, I've become once again enchanted by the EAVES MOVIE RANCH. As I may or may not have made clear, I played here as a child, and was so in love with the place. More on this to come.

This morn, from our remote outpost at Holiday Inn, Tucumcari, NM. The fine folks here opened their internet to us, and for that we are grateful.

Whilst blogging, I've discovered that since I last investigated, they got them one of them fancy fancy websites. Yee-haw!

I'm really curious about how this is working, since my 2nd cousin (once removed) JW, and his wife Ermalee passed into the Great Beyond a number of years ago. Who's runnin' the show??

I hope I get to visit somehow. but I wonder about the real influence of approaching Rancho Alegre and buzzing the buzzer and saying "I'm JW's 2nd Cousin (once removed)! Can I come in?"

but you never know.. I'm gonna at least try.

Breakfast in Amarillo

Quick breakfast tip: If in Amarillo, look for Stockman's Home Cookin', off of I-40. Be sure and get a side of their home-made hot sauce for your eggs and—well—just put it on everything.

A warning though: The pancakes and waffles have officially gotten the gasface from Tif and Woo.

Mick, so what are ya listenin' to?

I'm glad you asked. You know I never tire of the music thang—

Zap Mama, Brazilian Girls, Bebel Gilberto, Carl Henry Brueggen, Bossacucanova, some disco, Mosquitos, stories from "I thought My Father was God—The Best of NPR's National Story Project," and a Kurt Vonnegut collection.

Today, I predict Beck, Squeeze and Herb Alpert.

Note: the musical views represented herein do not necessarily represent those of the Toyota Landcruiser that is frequently seen in our company.

Tuesday Morning, the sun shone down

Amarillo TX—I'm sleepin' less than my travel partners. I don't know why, just am. I suppose I'm just too excited to sleep. I haven't been "out west" in so many years, and really so little as a whole. It's kind of like boats: When I was a kid my family had a boat, but it fell out of favor (another story) early on and so I never got to be a "boat person." Not so much. Nor have I gotten my preferred dose of the American southwest. And I do listen to a lot of Calexico, yes, in fact.

So back to the morning—sleeping, not sleeping and here we are in Amarillo, an hour and a half from New Mexico. I did my quietly-get-up-and-shower-and-find-breakfast thing, while the slumberin' continued (7:30am) Here's the magic then: I opened the door and—hear the heavenly angels sing?—the southwest texas morning sun rinsed me clean. Oh, the glory of the southwestern morning light. White, white light, accompanied by a cool calming steady breeze. What a way to greet the day.

"...St. Loo-ee, Joplin, Missouri..."

"You'll see Amarillo…"

It's hard not to be humming and singing "(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66" most of the time when driving along 44 and 40, the highways that have outmoded Route 66, "The Gateway to the West." I heard the story of the song once—popular myth has that it was written by a grateful GI returning home from abroad—and have always loved it. So to get to spend time even next door to this old road. Which is lucky, since that's what we've been seeing on this day of driving. Missouri, Oklahoma—a whole lot of OK, and some Texas panhandle, cowpokes! Which brings us to Amarillo, which Julie seems determined to pronounce with a hispanic flair: "ah-mah-REEE-lo." I say: "Julie—say it like a redneck…that's better."

The nighttime air here is glorious. A constant breeze seems to billow by, the stars boom down from overhead, and it's ever so slightly cool once the sun goes down. Not the case during the day; earlier we hit the upper 90's south of Oklahoma City. By the way, can't really call Oklahoma City "mighty pretty," but aside from that basic truth, I still like the road and am content to sit and let my eyes roam across the diminishing landscape. The trees grow lower, the scrub brush spreads and the dust starts to take flight. And something happens to franchise food service. I can't exactly explain it, but it was irksome. A lackadaisical putter that seemed to localize in line right in front of me. The kind of glacial transaction that takes the "fast" right out of food. Rude or not, just passing by, sorry pal—but can you make me a sandwiich soon? I gotta go.

We ate at a nice little scrubby diner with a huge neon EAT sign out front. Home made fries, yum. The men's bathroom made me laugh twiice; once for the framed picture that I recognized from the farm of two incredibly old looking toddlers in overalls, with the quote "So how long you been farming?"; and two, for the lectern that apparently is stored in the men's bathroom when not in use by who-knows-what ciivic group that holds their regular meetings at the EAT diner.

We're Motel Sixin' it for night number 2. I don't expect the wonder of yesterday's Airstream caravan in the morning, but soon we'll be in New Mexico (an hour and a half away) and there'll be wonder a plenty. I haven't been to NM since—I'm not sure—maybe since I was about 15. Over 20 years. My memories of it have always reigned supreme. New Mexico is another planet, different, haunted. We're all excited about it.

Santa Fe. I'm thinking of a special thing, but it may not happen. The odds are against it. Sometime, I'll tell you about JW Eaves Movie Ranch, also known once upon a time as Rancho Alegre, the home of my 2nd cousin, once removed, and the most wonderful place I ever played. JW and Ermalee Eaves are gone now, and I miss them even if they only met me a few times.

Up and Atom!

That's a joke, people, about Atom RSS, the method by which some of you subscribe to this blog. Get it? Up and Atom?
(oy, vey)

"Woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer." Okay, another joke alright? Actually, woke up this mornin' and I got myself a mess of scratchy towels for my Motel 6 mates. After a peculiar night of us packed into our beds, Olivia the kitty, meowing incessantly (all of us too pooped to care, I reckon), I cracked my eyes at the crack of 8:30 CST. Springfield,, MO. Check.

The word is that TT is gonna meet us in Sanfa Fe, but who can say, baybay? Never say nay with TayTay…

First thing, I did, I grabbed the ole powerbook and headed to the nextdoor Waffle House. Getting my wallet out of the car (that was a doh! moment; haven't I learned yet not to leave my wallet in the car, ever?? This has, after all, been a banner year for People Stealing Mick's Stuff). Anyway, I got to have a swell momentary conversation with the trucker who's Peterbilt was pointed at the side panel of Julie's Crown Vic. The conversation starter was his gi-mongous mesh grill bug catcher, emblazoned with the words: "Miss B Havin"

What's not to love?

Next, Waffle House, where I see my first truly memorable trip event: A departing caravan of Airstreams—100 or more—makes their way past the window, and all I can do is moan at more of these great campers than I've ever seen at one time. Turns out, right next door is one of the biggest Airstream events on the planet, right now! All I can do is watch and I feel kind of helpless because it's so enchanting to me. Airstream after airstream, all different ages and sizes, and pulling vehicles. My favorite: a convertable early 70's cadillac. It's all I can do not to call the hotel room and wake my sleeping comrades to witness. Hell, I want to jump on board, or talk to these folks or something! Instead I get to talk to an old farm couple about the Airstream phenomen, noting for myself too, how Wally's dream is in full tilt, people congregating and driving around in his iconoclastic, legendary camper. Amazing.

Headed Out!

Well, i haven't been talking about this, but…I'm headed to california! And here's what that means for you, gentle reader: A Mick Travelogue, which is a tradition that predates blogging. This medium was, of course, made for the travel narrative, so rest assured I'm going to take great joy in this. Entriies will probably be light on the "linkiness" (thanks, Rona), but I'll install links and pics as the opportunity (i.e.: wireless access) presents itself. Thanks for reading!

A longtime dream is in the process of being realized as I travel cross-country, escorting Julie Woolie to her new home in San Diego. Also along for the journey, intrepidsters, Tif and Troyboy. The mission: See the Bestus of the Westus, festus. We departed on sunday, somewhat later than expected, which is to say exactly when predicted. (ETD: 8am. ATD: 3pm).

But what ya gonna do? Hang out like it's vacation, that's what. And it is. My idea of a vacation— one where I got nothing really to do besides stare out the window or drive. Nice decision, methinks! This, after the several months grind of completing several major projects for the Ket.

So we got away late, then busted tracks. First stop: Louisville, to drop of my car at the Jamer's, prepped and parked for the return flight form san diego next week. then, onto the road in earnest, we get busy for san diego.

A favorite stop thus far: the trucker oasis north of evansville (hello aunts and uncles!) at 41 and I-64, provider of a wide range of fried delicacies, all nicely dehydrated from the heat lamps. Still, I couldn't pass up a small portion of jalepeno poppers (why, poppers?) and a corn dog. Also, I was momentarily horrified at the sight of Chicken Gizzards, which I used to be fed as a kid, but still have no idea the exact nature of. Gizzard?!?

Eventually, we cruised through the highway spaghetti of St. Louis about 10pm, which was good—those roads, kinda nutty puling a u-haul trailer. did i mention that part? two vehicles, each with a uhaul? that would be me and jules in the Crown Vic and Troy and Tif in the Landcruiser.. uh-huh. It's all good.

Have to say we made our goal, to my surprise, that being Springfield, MO. We had to concede Oklahoma City, but I'll settle for Springfield. Tomorrow will be a day of magnificent changing landscape as we make across Oklahoma (land of my people), Texas' panhandle (just skirting Pampa, former home of some of my people) and then into wonderful New Mexico, and our goal Santa Fe. Hopefully some Route 66 along the way!

More to come…

To Blink, defined.

I want to propose a 21st century additional definition for the verb "blink." The suggested addition is intended for your supermarket and mega-shopping experience, to ease communication with the harried check-out person. "Blinking," then, is the act of running something over that barcode scanner, most especially, the handheld "gun" version that some stores use. "Blinking" is where they take that scanner gun and "blink!" your purchases.

Rationale: Sometimes you buy something—say, a bag of ice—that you don't actually have in your cart but that you will grab after checking out. This is a prime opportunity to use the verb "to blink."

So you could say, "Oh, will you blink me a bag of ice, too? I'll get it on the way out."

I'm-just-sayin'- is-all…

Me and Sophie

My friends the Dos Vatos were visiting for the debut of their movie about The Kentucky Theater. Afterwards, Sophie and I got to talk about what to do with rabid chinchillas.

The Experts!

Well, kids there's a new comic on the block, around the block, all over the place, from our pal Kenn Minter! Kenn's worked really hard to give birth to The Experts. I think he's gonna have stretch marks, if you want to know the truth… You want to know the truth? Kenn's gone so far as to form his own publishing company, Near Mint Press, to bring you, gentle reader, a little further into his hipster brain. How many y'all got yr. own comic books, huh? HUH?!

The Experts—which has been co-hatched with Kenn's diabolical colleague Clarence Pruitt—is vintage Minter, showcasing some of his most endearing themes like—you know—neurotic superheros with dubious powers, a plethora of emotional hand-wringing and no shortage of curvaceous females. I said it was vintage Minter, right? The Experts is kind of a small-town suburban version of the X-Men, with half the superpowers, and double the super egos. It also reminds me of The Tick. Heck, pal, you don't have to believe me about the coolness of The Experts—take a look for yourself. Besides, I'm no comic genius. I just know the goods when I spot'em…

And thanks to Ye Olde Internet, it's a snap to get yourself a copy of Kenn's new book from ComixPress. If you're in Lexington, it's available at your finer comic book shops. Or if you want to deal directly with Mr. Minter—His Comixness—himself, just email him.

Hurry up and buy it so he can get himself cleaned up.

It doesn't get more claustrophobic than this…

Welcome to the latest way to spend the money you have too much of, you super-rich so-and-so. Let everybody know that you don't die like us little people with a crazy custom coffin! (note: even more arcane than their coffins is…their web site!)

TomKat?

What is with this "tomkat" shit? I don't pay attention but got the lowdown from my knowing pal Lara to fill me in. Mostly, I like the Scientology angle.

Anyway, this is a good way for me to shift the focus back to me and … a little story!

Once, while living in NY, I was walking home, and passed a Scientology location. They had this poster that showed this blockbuster looking sci-fi sort of image and it said "free movie about scientology." So I thought: "this'll be fun.." I mean—what other "religion" has their own holy cruise ship?

I went in and approached a lone figure seated behind a hotel-like counter. She was brief and receptive, leading me back to what I hoped to be some sort of outrageous mini-THX plush theater (this being based on the production value of the poster I saw out front). Instead I was taken to this blank, empty room, with maybe a couple of chairs and a TV on one of those rolling carts. The person said: "So and so will be with you in a moment to start the film." So I waited.. and waited... and waited.. okay, I waited for maybe 6 minutes. That was all the time I had for Scientology nutjobs. Then I strolled out the front door without saying 'bye.

Kinda wanted to see the film, though...

Gallery Hop, non-stop!

I want to thank everybody who came to my show at Isle of You. It was a great turnout and plenty of you decided to slide Mick a tenner for Instant cheap art! Thank you—both for the Hamiltons, and—more importantly—for owning my photography!

If you didn't make it down, you can still check out the snaps online.

Recent snapshots by Mick Jeffries

Snapshot Renaissance
by Mick Jeffries

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June 17, 2005 Gallery Hop, 6-8pm
Downtown Lexington
Isle of You, corner of Jefferson & Short

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Friends, I'm proud to announce my 4th Photography Show!

These pictures are up at Isle of You, for your viewing, even for your buying! They're unframed, unmatted, un-anythinged. You want one? Just slide Mick a tenner and it's yours. Instant cheap art for you!

This show is a simple collection of snapshots, blown up to mini-posters. I don't know what the difference between a "photograph" and a snapshot is, but I think we're living in a Snapshot Renaissance.So it's time to put some of them up.

Hope you can come down for the meet-and-greet, but if not, hope you'll check out the snaps online. And if you're in the neighborhood, you can stroll up the street to see fabulous tile work by Isle lovely Melissa Muir at Kentucky Mudworks.

Also, after Gallery Hop, be sure to head over to Mecca for Re:Arrangements, an amazing evening of performance art with Auk Theater, the soiled weirdness of Super-Toilet Brush, Super bendy Alyssum Pohl, and more!

My favorite hair mechanic

Oh, Amy Leigh— you so money! Girlfrien' cut my hair and she cut you's too. I ain't lyin'... Get her to cut yours, right now!

New Career direction

All of a sudden, trapped in my home office, I thought: Wouldn't it be nice to be a Moss Farmer. Well, wouldn't it?

Still, this ought not be confused with becoming a floss farmer.

"The Secret Ladder Tree"—a recollection

I've been meaning to publish this story, for Anessa, but I can't remember why for her. Maybe it's for Lori-Lyn. No, no, no! It's for JT!

============================

Once there was a tree, and it was a great tree.

I think it was my favorite tree ever.

JT called it "The Secret Ladder Tree." In my mind, it didn't have a name, but I can still see it, leaning skyward, a hulking bent-over pine in a grove of hulking bent-over Eastern White pines. Towering over a matted down bed of fallen needles, these trees stood away from the assorted paths, a shaded brood of sentinels. Most people bypassed them for the more obvious glories the garden, full of tulips and herbs, rich with manicure.

The pines had branches that groaned out from their sides, caked with sap. The bottom-most branches—those that hadn't been pruned—were nearly on the ground in the ten to fifteen feet that they ventured on the perpendicular, away from the trunk. But even these branches seemed just intentionally out-of-reach to the casual would-be climber.

Which was fine. Because the casual climber didn't merit the Secret Ladder Tree.

A friend showed me the tree, in the quiet dark, probably, one Ashland night, in the '80s. Showed me how, with a little foot-up, a purchase could be transacted. With a foot-up, you could climb up into The Secret Ladder Tree. Once up, even a seat on that first torso sized branch incited a pinch of vertigo, a tightening of the grip. Looking up, it was more than a pinch as the giant exploded skywards, arcing madly out of sight though a vortex of branches.

And it was easy to sit still there and think, "That's good for me. Right here," legs dangling, heart mildly racing, eight feet off the ground. But the next branch was right there and if you held on, and hoisted yourself to standing… and if you made a couple well-placed steps, you were 15 feet up. And that was certainly enough… But after the second landing, there was something you didn't notice. Now, as you looked up the trunk into that dizzying regress, it seems like there's a spray of branches, fanning up and around, up and around.

And so you can't help it.

That basic curiosity overrules the preternatural fear, and you start: One foot, and then one hand, and then the other, and then the other.

Every time I climbed this tree, whether alone or with a friend, I thought the same thing: I can't do this. My heart would be pounding and I didn't have to weigh the merits of not looking down. That was a no-brainer; anyway, down was farther and farther away with every step up.

Soon though— Tree World. The ground dissipates and becomes more abstract, obscured by cone and needle. As I approached it, every time, I could hardly believe it. Safety. Destination. Quietude. The Landing.

The Landing. Way way up in a tree, once upon a time, there was a cradle, a recline, a purchase. Way up above Ashland, there was a special place where two people could sit and talk, and forget about the world 50 feet below. Talk about "step into my office…" Way up there was a place that one person could actually lie back and go to sleep, as I did on many treasured occasions, dozing safely in the cradling arms of a great tree.

Kitty on the prowl

Kitty knows roses
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

My kitty, she don't want to stay inside this time of year.

Much hunting to be done. Most of the year, there's a fairly even division of inside and outside time— If she wants out, I let her out. If she wants in, I let her in. This time of year, she just comes in for some Cat Chow. Then it's back out to do cat things. Here, she's accessorized by the fabulous Bassett Rose Bush, which is draping the house (and nearly the lawn) with floral wonder.

One of my favorite things, incidentally, about outside kitty is that the inside litter box is kind of neglected. A habit that I endorse and adopt.

The sneaky Clematis!

The sneaky Clematis!
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

Over at the Bassett back yard, there's some great covert growth. Take this here Clematis— Just yesterday, Lucy and I were lamenting the fact that none of the Clemati that we've endeavored to plant have amounted to anything. They're fragile climbers, for sure, but around this time of year, when you start seeing them blooming, wrapped around people's lamp posts and such, you think: "I want one of those!" So I've tried for a couple of years to get one established.

I thought I'd failed.

Then, putting my bike away today, I was closing the back yard gate and what a surprise to see this fella, who's actually been quietly gaining a foothold of substance up the side of the chainlink fence. It made my day, it did.

Pint Lock your ice cream!

I haven't had suitably treacherous roommates in quite a while, but you might. Fear for your ice cream? It's Pint Lock to the rescue! Warning. If you work with me or share a refrigerator, I really wouldn't think twice about stealing your ice cream. Yes, I'm that guy.

Cambodian Watermelon Art!

Japanese Cambodian Watermelon Art

Oh, I know, I know— you're probably looking for some extended bit of ranting on something or another. I'm just way behind and am getting back here soon, really! Right now, in the words of my new sister-in-law, I got nothin' for ya! Except of course one of those "jeez, that is a crazy way to spend your time" links, namely Japanese Watermelon Sculpture! Enjoy and bon appetit!

Love Jones rocks the Hangar, y'all.

LOVE JONES ROCKS THE HANGAR AT BOWMAN FIELD
Originally uploaded by Anessa.

Anessa took some pix, thank gawd! E'rrabody wind up in her photo blog! Blogosphere repa-zent!

Quietly Worship

Now, let's have a moment of silence as you select your most appropriate Patron Saint of Graphic Design to pray to.

Horsin' Around

Blur-by week. Or Derby week, I guess. whatever, it was, it was a bucketful, a julip full, an aircraft hanger full of fun. Fun, people! Like it was meant to be had! The kind where there's not someplace you've got to be, not someplace you'd rather be. No business that you gotta take care of real quick or appointments to fit in. That kind of fun.

Much of this must be credited to The Minnesotans, who rallied, sparred, jabbed and parried like only the most exquisite and delectable party people can. How do you write about this? Well, first, I guess, you mention the reunion show by Love Jones, who amazed in spite of their near-brillo-pad roughness. For most bands, not practicing for a $25 a head charity gig would strike a dubious (and sour) chord, but the Louisville laggards (no, they did not appear in Swingers but they were in Since You've Been Gone) demonstrated that their "we don't fucking care what you think" edge was still razer sharp. Jennifer and I agreed that we'd never cut a band this much slack before and had such a great time in the process. Also, if a big loud rock show in an aircraft hanger sounds like a good idea, think again. Still, pour a strong and cheap enough screwdriver, in sufficient quantities and it's a wonder nobody got arrested on the adjacent runway (Or, as Ben explained: "As good of an idea as it may sound like, do not leave here and decide to drive your car down the runway. Take my word for it. I did it once and … it was pretty cool…")

One of the weirdest and coolest things of the evening was running into Anessa, a friend from the blogosphere! Wow! Who rock the party, she rock the party! I'm not sure it it was even weirder, but it turned out that we had actually met once before. At The Icehouse.

Much much more fun was had, but this post is already a week late, so another time, alrighty?

But here's some pictures, which are pretty funny. Especially the ones at Henry's Ark in Louisville.

iPod vending machine? Just misses the mark.

I have seen the future, in my addled little mind, and it is an MP3 Vending Machine. This link is to a pic of a vending machine selling iPods, which is really rather gauche (yo, rich guy—where y'gonna get some tunes before your flight boards?).

BUT...

An MP3 vending machine, where you could plug in, swipe your credit card, and grab some tunes from say, The Life Aquatic soundtrack before hopping on your plane…

Now, that, my friends, would be superbad.

Dawn Flowers Spring 2005

Just a peek
Originally uploaded by mrtoastey.

This morning I went for my occasional walk at dawn down the street to the secret world of the Ashland Estate. When I'm smart, I do this regularly, because it soothes my soul and I see amazing things.

Click here to see some of Springtime's wonders, as seen by my camera.

Cardstock is the new Digital.

Oh sure— you love yr. fancy digital camera, dontcha? Well, here's my even-fancier Paper Camera. All I have to do is cut it out and fold it together and I'm ready to go!

Crack-for-Gas conspiracy!

Lori-lyn gets the prize for pronto analysis of the cheap gas mystery!

And the winner is… Crack Kits!

No matter: I'm still gettin' my gas as cheap as possible.