american splendor

What do you think of when Louisville, Kentucky is mentioned? Most think of the Kentucky Derby.

I did not.

Let’s just say the splendor of that whole event took me by pleasant surprise as I pulled in to that lovely town for a couple days break after crushing roughly ¾ of my body in Nashville running a half marathon. The sun was shining bright as I happened upon an outdoor festival that was celebrating the arrival of another year of the Kentucky Derby. I was completely pleased with the performance of the locals in Louisville. Not only could you get by pronouncing the name of their fine city about 15,000 different ways, they also encouraged the disregard of all things related to work and employment for the days leading up to the Derby. I fit in beautifully swilling 24oz. cups of Budweiser, getting sunburned and listening to live music downtown at Waterfront Park which hugged the banks of the Ohio River. Just a good dose of American splendor, let me tell you. No bitching about politics, gas prices or inflation there. And you could feel it in the air. I felt indestructible for those 8 hours of random conversations and frisbee-throwing with the sounds of Americana tickling my ears. I kind of got lost staring in the to the beautiful randomness of the whole affair. Sometimes you cant help but wonder why certain places and things come together. Too pretty. That night Mason Jennings played, and for as many times as I saw him in years prior with much left to be desired, I was completely pleased that night in Louisville. Maybe even overjoyed.

The whole day just reeked of beautiful happenstance. American splendor.

Wilco sang about happenstance on their new album “Sky Blue Sky.” Maybe once or twice. And that day felt like sky blue sky— cheesy. It’s all about the fucking tie in though. I just can’t stop listening to that band. Nothing is pulling my ears away from their arsenal of records— A.M. being the most popular right now. This isn’t a new thing either. I can actually remember when it all started—well at least when this latest wave of obsession started. There were a few days back in 2006 when I had just moved in to my apartment in Wicker Park where I got a small gig writing for a Chicago-based zine that was looking for humorous content related to the indecision of being in your 20’s—the “so what do I do with my life now?” sort of stuff. I thought it was absolutely perfect, but things ended up not panning out because they were struggling to keep the website up due to funding.

Awesome.

ANYWAY, the first piece I had written for them that never actually got published was a short little essay about Wilco and one particular night that totally rejuvenated my wholehearted love for the band—and led to my current state of constant listening.

The story started with me at my girlfriend of the time’s apartment. It was late at night during the week in August. Her studio apartment was not air-conditioned. This left me paralyzed in perspiration unable to sleep at something like 2am. I turned on the little clock radio that had an auxiliary cord dangling from the side of it—this allowed me to plug in my iPod. I was probably sleeping in roughly 3 gallons of sweat at that point. My body was completely drenched. Yep. Awesome.

I rolled over, unable to sleep, and turned on “Hell is Chrome” off of Wilco’s fourth album “A Ghost is Born.” I kept the volume pretty low so as not to disturb anyone else’s sleep patterns and remained there listening. I ended up playing the song about 10 times over and over while my mind drifted back a few months to my life on the road traveling around the world. It was an oddly invigorating and sobering moment given that current state of perspiration saturation. I laid there, eyes wide open in the pitch black staring up at the ceiling, looking retroactively at the months that were, while I simultaneously super-imposed them on my current situation that was completely opposite—proper job, an apartment, a steady and consistent pattern to life. I was happy looking back but certainly questioned the general position I was in at that moment as I looked forward at my cookie cutter existence. My mind darted back to the days on the road and then quickly darted back to my current state sitting in an upright desk char. That night I played out the active scheme that I feel took place in my life on a daily basis—I held on closely to what was as I sort of blindly pushed forward in to this eerie unknown. I wasn’t exactly happy with all the question marks that were surrounding me (is this where I belong right now in my life?), but a lot of those can never be taken away.

What can be said is that in THAT moment I was pleased to be laying their in a pile of sweat trying to wrap my arms around becoming comfortable with those general ambiguities of life—this idea that we can’t have all the answers, but we can just generally keep a peaceful and honest direction (goal) in our everyday existence and the boat will steer properly. And it was like “Hell is Chrome”—no matter how much the lyrical direction of the song was related or unrelated to my thought patterns—ushered me in to that vision so beautifully. The openness of that guitar solo just left my mind exploding with thoughts as my eyes wandered the black ceiling with that balmy Chicago air nearly suffocating me.

So the essay never went anywhere except on my hard drive in a Word document, but I remember writing that piece in my new Chicago apartment having been moved in for about 14 minutes. I don’t think I even had silverware at that point. I was sitting on the hardwood floor with the windows open while the sun poured in. Wilco had always been a favorite of mine, but we go through these moments— whether its seeing a band live again or just recalling a song associated with a specific moment in the past— where our love for a certain song or album is totally rejuvenated. And that then translates to obsession-level playing of their music. So naturally, I played “Hell is Chrome” 4,000 times that afternoon in the new apartment, but I am reasonably sure I haven’t stopped in the last two years either. As it is, “No More Poetry” is my number one played song in iTunes right now. Apparently I have played it 70 times since the last time I updated my list. Scary.

Chicago remains a looming thought in my membranes: HOME, but not so much anymore. “Home” is an interesting concept. I find now more than ever that as I think of home as a relative term I get a bit nostalgic. Life on the road is a beautiful thing for my mind right now, but I would be totally lying if I said that I don’t occasionally miss the pleasantries that went along with my existence as a more conventional human being in Chicago—or wherever else I may find myself in the future. I guess Chicago is my closest sense of comparison.

I still remember trying to find that goddamn apartment in Wicker Park. I was cut-throat picky with the whole decision. I wasn’t going to settle for anything that didn’t feel exactly how I wanted HOME to feel like. It turns out after one month of sleeping on the futon at my then-girlfriend’s apartment and nearly destroying that relationship because of the extremes of living together, I quickly found something that suited my needs.

1417 North Wood, Apartment 2F.

I took trips to IKEA which was appalling at first. 20 years ago there was a day when all it took to make me happy was construction equipment. I am dead fucking serious. I was enamored with jack-hammers, back-hoes, forklifts and any Caterpillar earth mover for that matter. Philip won’t eat dinner? Take him to see a tractor. Can’t get him trained to shit in the potty? He will do it in front of a construction worker. My poor parents—we would be driving to grandma’s house and any split second image of a cherry picker or otherwise would warrant a stop of at least 13 minutes. I was completely blown away and amazed by the yellow and black machinery doing work on the side of the highway. Now, I was blown away by IKEA. I was baffled with the $6 woks! The 49 cent dish rags! Dining room chairs for $12!

Jesus.

I painted the walls with the help of my dear friend Mark (I use “dear” in that sentence to try and sugar coat the fact that Mark threw away $150 on a plane ticket to come visit me for the weekend in Chicago and ended up bringing his paintbrushes and a couple of tarps for my little project) in colors that blinded nearly everyone when they entered my apartment— the most appalling of which was probably in the guest room. The color of one wall in that room most closely resembled Ecto Cooler. It was lovely shade of green in its own right, or at least that’s what I thought. I think it gave everyone else a headache if they looked at it too long.

I arranged the place how I thought it would need to be. I didn’t mess with having a couch; I just left an old futon open all the time with about 45 pillows surrounding it and called it a day bed. It was REALLY comfortable though. My new enormous flat-screen TV sat about 10 feet away from this scene— my attempt at rewarding myself for efforts related to adopting a more conventional lifestyle and biting the bullet with taking a job that had me sitting on my ass for 9 hours a day in front of a computer. Lord knows I don’t even watch TV that much and probably had no business doing so seeing as how much I sat in front of a computer, but it seemed like a worthwhile purchase. It is sitting in my parent’s house in the basement now gathering dust if anyone is interested.

The balcony was high and far my favorite part of that HOME. I probably spent the majority of my time out there. It looked out at a maze of apartment buildings and the EL in Chicago. It wasn’t a particularly aesthetically pleasing environment to everyone else (I remember having this conversation while I was sitting outside with a friend saying over and over how beautiful it was. She looked at me in dismay and simply asked me “tell me again exactly WHAT you are looking at?”) but it was a place where my mind could wander away from everything no matter how loud the train passing by was. At one point I slept out there for a few weeks straight when the evils of winter faded and spring started to show its face. It was comfortable.

HOME.

I think those are the things that my mind occasionally yearn for given this new life of mine on the road—just that sense of comfort that you get from stupid trips to IKEA, dressing up your couch the way that YOU want, painting things in the color that only YOU will appreciate or just finding the simple comfort in the beauty of a balcony. Unfortunately, the Marriott doesn’t always provide that.

I got a quick dose of HOME comforts making my way to Washington DC via Indianapolis and Louisville. I was headed to DC to see my good buddy Mark (the one who helped me paint) and Mike from the college days. I would be able to live comfortably in an apartment—someone else’s mind you, but sometimes all you need is a couch and a pantry with an overflow of Cheez-its to feel that sense of HOME.

I still remember the first time Mark and I met. It was freshman year of college. We had all just moved in to the basement of Abbott hall at Michigan State. Mark lived next door to me in the dorms. So, that first day we all moved in, Mark and I walked to the Breslin Center for our freshman welcome seminar with Mark’s new roommate—his name was Phil. As we walked, Phil told us a story from his high school days. Basically the story revolved around Phil rear-ending a car in his school parking lot, the victim of this activity not getting a police report immediately and then Phil rubbing it in the guy’s face later on by denying the entire thing. I still remember Phil uncontrollably laughing telling us “ISNT THAT AWESOME!? THAT GUY WAS SUCH A DUMBASS!!” Mark and I just sort of stared at each other in horror. Well, I was laughing. Mark was terrified because thatwas his roommate for the next school year.

Days later I would actually meet Mike under similar circumstances. Instead of living next to me in Abbott Hall, he lived about 5 feet across from my door. The minute I saw Mike I thought he was Mexican which made me really happy. I thought for sure he would make us empenadas from time to time—maybe on Tuesday nights or something. He wasn’t Mexican at all though as it turns out. I remember one night Mike and I drinking before a party that freshman year. I was dating this girl that was basically holding a knife to our throats to take straight shots of Popov Vodka from a Dixie cup. All this so that we would be drunk like she was for some party we were apparently attending. I guzzled one down feeling like my throat had just been charred with a propane torch. Mike threw one down and then proceeded to vomit for the rest of the night. Poor fella. That was the first time we hung out. Maybe.

It turns out Mike and I became better friends a few years later when we shared a single room on Beal Street together for my bonus senior year (the last semester of my four and a half years) at MSU. Mike had this awesome bed in that room, and seeing as how I was the “illegal” on the rental lease I had to sleep in a conspicuous bed—which ended up being a futon mattress (probably the same one that served as the basis of my day bed in Chicago) just thrown on the floor. I am pretty sure I slept without sheets for 6 months. There was a small handful of nights where I lay sleeping on the floor nearly destroying my back while Mike lay 4 feet away in his Sealy Posturepedic mattress as we hashed out the occurrences of what ended up being a rather adventurous final semester.

Anyway, I was now visiting them both in DC for a few days before heading down to Florida for a Crocs event. I pulled up to Mark’s apartment in the truck fairly stressed out from having to circumnavigate the streets of Washington DC with the Crocs tank. He had zoned off a parking spot for me which was pretty nice so I thankfully didn’t have to mess with that. I walked in to his place while pulsating bass lines shook my torso. Apparently Mark was listening to dance music now. There was a small army of individuals in his apartment, all of which were looking pretty intoxicated. I drank warm whisky from a plastic cup for the rest of the night and it’s never tasted as good.

The days in DC were spent with Mike (while Mark was at work) waxing philosophy and taking walks through the streets of DC. We share a similar penchant for decoding the abstract, or even understanding further the blatantly obvious. We ate Ethiopian food. I think Mike almost shit his pants after on the walk home. At one point I felt like we were at the top of the city perched on a cement wall in Columbia Heights with laser beams of sunshine baking away the morning haze. We talked about women. Mike talked about his lack of situation in that department, which sometimes can be perfection. I enjoy the simplicity of it all.

The nights with Mark were similar. We had a lot of catching up to do as it had been quite some time since we last spoke. He has been helping me craft my approach with this ongoing book project of mine. It’s currently in the works, but Mark has been and will be a persistently driving force behind the whole operation. Or at least I am really hoping he continues to help me with it all.

So Mark and Mike coach the Rockies—a local little league baseball team. Honestly, the concept of this is just scary to me. Mark has the intensity of a rabid wolf even in the generally mundane situations like reading the paper in the morning. Mark doesn’t just have a casual glance at the thing, he reads it, screams about something on the front page, then leaves the paper in a disheveled mess all over the floor of his apartment. Mike, on the other hand, usually carries the sort of carefree attitude that suggests he has no business managing the sporting lives of a small pack of 6 and 7 year olds. I was eager, to say the least, to see these two in action as they coached.

On Sunday night, the team had practice. Mark must have called Mike 14 times throughout the day reminding him of the time that he and I would need to meet him to get to the field punctually. Once we arrived, we picked up Nelson— Mark’s little brother that plays on the team. Nelson was dressed in full athletic attire complete with socks hiked to his knees bearing the team colors. Mark barked out orders within 5 seconds of little Nelson entering the car and climbing in to his car seat. Mike was talking about candy bars with the little fella but Mark needed to know where Nelson’s ballcap was. Eventually all that business was sorted out and we were en route to the practice field. Little Nelson politely asked for his warmup music, to which Mark blasted track 5 off of a U2 compilation that was created just for car rides to baseball-related events. I was fairly impressed with the organization of the whole endeavor— even the music was orchestrated to fit the moment. “Vertigo” blared through the speaker box of the minivan as we paraded through the neighborhood streets to the field. Mike stared out the window looking bored as he was clearly used to this ritual. Nelson was in the back seat just banging out a few air guitar chords and getting in to it. Jesus. I was even getting excited.

We arrived and Nelson filed out of the minivan like he was in some sort of military drill. Mark, after crushing through a 24oz. fountain Coke, removed the materials for the practice from the trunk, which included the obligatory canvas coach’s bag that carried all the catcher’s gear, the batting helmets, 14,000 baseballs and a few metal bats. Mike turned to me and asked if I was impressed yet. You bet your ass I was. Holy shit. This was the real deal.

We approached the baseball diamond with a rag-tag bunch of kids hopping around like they had each just eaten an entire one pound bag of cane sugar— screaming, shouting, running, jumping, tripping, skipping, galloping, crying, whining, slapping. You get the point.

I wanted to go back to Mark’s apartment immediately.

Mark started shouting uncontrollably within about a minute and a half while Mike rattled off player’s names to get their attention. I was completely unaware of what the fuck was next, but I was introduced as Coach Phil— an event which made me swollen with excitement and also want to vomit. Coach Phil sounded fucking TERRIBLE. I really don’t like being called Phil to begin with, and now I was being called Coach Phil by an army of terrorist children. All I could think of was some overweight, hairy man with a clipboard and those tight polyester shorts that fall about 12 inches above the knee cap—that sounded like Coach Phil to me.

Devastating.

I was placed in charge of throwing fly balls to the army of kids and instructing each child on how to catch them. I was immediately taken back to my days in little league. My team was always the best in the league believe it or not. I played first base for something like 10 years in a row. My neighbor Bob always coached the team and his son most closely resembled Nolan Ryan on the mound circa 1989. We were an indestructible force. Now I was left taking the skills gained from little league days from well over a decade ago and now try to teach these little kids how to properly field a fly ball. Jesus. I hadn’t done so much as even looked at a baseball in probably 6 years and now I had to somehow get it together for all these whipper-snappers that I wanted to cuff for calling me Coach Phil? All I could think about was what in the hell I was going to do when one of the fly balls crushed Natalie in the face and broke her nose. I text messaged Google to get the local ambulance service’s number. I was struggling to properly convey understandable directions to the kids so as to properly lay out the necessary steps in fielding the ball. One child in particular, his name was Daniel actually, had a side-arm like Dennis Eckersley and found it hysterical to throw the ball about 15 feet to the right or left of me when it was time return the ball after his turn.

Well, Coach Phil took very fucking kindly to having Daniel run laps around the field until his face was purple. Yep. If the team was going to win on Tuesday night I was going to need to instill some discipline in those little fuckers.

We re-convened at the pitchers mound after the drill and I was praying that this meant that practice was over. My shoulder felt like someone hit it with a bowling ball from throwing all those fly balls. Mike and Mark were speaking to these kids as if they had both been doing this for a few year. Again, I was impressed. All the kids just sort of looked wide-eyed up at them—except for Daniel. I am reasonably sure Daniel’s father who was now at practice wanted to hit me in the face as he tried to urge his son to take a drink of water immediately to avoid dehydration. I looked on confidently as I was completely pleased and comfortable with my punishment scheme. My stone cold stare back was mental assurance to Daniel’s father that his son was being given a dose of athletic courage.

The Monarch’s, the opponent in the three days, were the fucking LEAGUE CHAMPS. There was no room for Daniel’s bullshit.

All of the kids lined up single file next to run the bases. That seemed perfect. I took a seat at the 3rd baseline player’s bench and gathered myself. I checked my phone praying to god that someone called and left me a voice mail so I could legitimately step away from this carnival of sorts and act like I was genuinely taking care of some matters of business. Nope. As I looked up I heard the collection of shouts from the kids about how they wanted Coach Phil to chase them as they ran around the bases. Sure, I thought. Sure, I’ll fucking chase the little assholes around the ball diamond. I did it once but that wasn’t enough. So I did it again, and again, and again until I was reasonably sure I had either re-broken bones in the lower half of my body or my lungs were about to collapse.

Awesome.

Practice was over and the moment we dropped little Nelson off all hell broke loose in conversation between Mark, Mike and me. There was a maelstrom of swearing and intensity going around—but not about bad kids, not about the women that Mike wanted to bang at the bar later, hell not even about what we were going to have for dinner that night. Oh no. We were talking strategy about Tuesday’s game against the Monarchs. Thankfully I would still be in town and able to help out. We were all taking it VERY fucking seriously. We exchanged thoughts on the lineup and a bit of pre-game thoughts all in an effort to coach these kids to a victory against the league champs from last year. Yep. This was no joke.

Honestly, Sunday passed and Monday morning I woke up rehearsing in my mind the batting order for Tuesday. I would have absolutely no say in the matter as this was strictly Mike’s role amongst the Mark and Mike coaching combo—but still, all I could think about was BASEBALL and VICTORY. Dinner that night was intense. There was no small talk related to anything other than baseball and kicking the shit out of the league champs in two days.

Tuesday night rolled around and we picked up little Nelson at his home to take him in the minivan to the ballgame. I shook young Nelson’s hand as he climbed in to his car seat and asked him if he was prepared to destroy the opponent. He shook his head. Then I turned to Mark asking where the hell his cleats were. They were gone and I was furious. Mark was furious. Mike was staring out the window looking at the blue sky. Jesus. I sat shotgun and took the lead on the getting the pre-game U2 disc pumping through the speakers. I looked back at Nelson and Mike playing some sort of hand game while Mark yelled at them to focus. This was serious. “Vertigo” came on and Bono started the song off. By the time it got to part where he screams “CATORCE!” I was violently waving my hands and yelling with the window down. I continued shouting with my teeth showing, to which Mark even looked at me with dismay. I kept screaming to Nelson if he was ready to crush the opponent to which I got the same casual nod. Mike was still gazing at the flowers as we drove by.

We arrived at the baseball diamond again and Mark parked the minivan. I was stretching before we even got out to the field and hopping on my toes to stay limber. The sight before me as I approached the field sent shivers up my spine. Not only were we playing the league champions, but they were all at least 6 inches taller than the Rockie’s tallest player. Their coaching squad all wore matching attire and the kids stared at Mark, Mike and me as we gathered around the kids dragging the canvas bag with all the gear. The Monarch’s were taking part in an intensive calisthenics routine that rivaled that of the New York Mets. They were using a goddamn pitching machine for their warm up. Jesus. I was intimidated by Robert—the Monarch’s star right-fielder— who looked as though he was 45 years old and stared me down with flared nostrils as I approached the Rockies bench. Good god.

The Rockies sideline was slowly preparing and I paced around them with intensity that rivaled Mark’s. I spoke with each player individually and instructed them on the importance of victory that night. I took to discussing matters related to my observations of each player based on the notes I had taken and discussed a few players’ injuries. I had instructed young Matthew to ice his foot every hour on the hour for the two days leading up to the game so that he would be prepared to place pressure on the ball of his heel as he tore ass running the bases. Upon inquiring about his adherence to my healing regiment I was appalled to find out he thought it was more important to ride his bike around the block and jeopardize his performance that night.

Awesome.

Mike gathered the kids around and read off the lineup he had created on an old receipt from my pocket just 15 minutes prior to showing up at the diamond. The children listened and did jumping routines when they heard their name called. I immediately told them that unnecessary jumping was just not acceptable seeing as how an injury before the game was just not allowed. They needed to focus on victory. I asked them repeatedly if they were ready to destroy the opponent. Each and every time I got a silent nod from Mark. Mike was playing with daisies.

The Rockies took to the field first and I squatted on my knees pulling grass and throwing it in the air to check the wind direction. The kids were out in the field and the Monarch’s lined up ready for battle. They were shouting war codes that I was unaware of. These kids were total business and I was impressed. The coaching staff looked on with solemn delight and I was terrified at the whole thing really.

Their first batter Robert stepped up to the plate—the same kid that caused me to pee my pants a little in the stare down contest. His teeth were showing and he was making an odd assortment of noises that made him sound like the Incredible Hulk. More war codes were fired out but the one thing I could understand was the screaming coming from one coach’s mouth telling Robert to murder the baseball.

“Just kill it Robert! KILLLLLL THE BALLLLLL!!” Holy shit. I was worried and excited all at the same time. Nelson and the rest of the Rockies were doing cartwheels in outfield. Daniel was playing with dirt at shortstop and I was furious. I yelled out for him to straighten up just as a laser beam off of Robert’s bat shot over his head about 400 feet in to left field.

The Monarchs got about 7 runs that inning. Every kid on their bench crushed the ball and grunted as they ran the bases. I was already questioning Mark on the availability of a mercy rule. I think every inning the Monarchs went to bat they got about 7 runs. Had you asked me, I thought the score was about 48-0 until there was one flicker of hope late in the game.

The bases were loaded and a Rocky batter stepped up to the plate— his name I can’t recall (Mark, help please? This is crucial to the story. He was the slightly overweight kid with the father that simultaneously talked on his Blackberry and coached at first base. This was totally unacceptable to me. Had it not been for his specific asking me if I preferred Phil or Philip I would have undoubtedly started a shouting match with him). I was coaching third base. Marco was on third base singing songs to himself and I told him that I would make sure he didn’t get his snack at the end of the game if he did not shutup and get to home plate to score the first run of the game. I saw the fear of god in his eyes, but Marco made it home damnit. This of course after the forgotten Rocky batter absolutely crushed the ball in to center field. I screamed at Marco to run to home plate. The next runner was approaching me from second base and I signaled her home. At this point I was on my knees waving my left arm like a windmill to send the kids to home plate. My shorts were filthy and dust was being kicked up at every swooping of my arm. The base hit ended up being a home run and we chalked up for four runs. Mark and I did a celebratory dance near the pitchers mound that probably looked depressing to the opposing teams coaching staff. I was ecstatic and once the inning was over, Mark approached the kids and told them that that was exactly how it needed to be done. As I was foaming at the mouth with excitement screaming with Mark, I think they were all just terrified.

That was high and far the best moment of the game seeing as how the Monarch’s not only defeated the Rockies that night, they also took their manhood. It was a defeat I did not want to accept. Salt in the wound of course came when the kids thanked “Coach Phil” for helping out that week. I was frustrated and disheveled but managed to give a hearty reply to all the smiling faces. After all, they deserved it—well, as soon as Marco cleaned up his fielding stance and Natalie got a little more comfortable positioning herself under a fly ball.

As the sun set that night it was a quiet ride home for Nelson. There was no closing remarks from U2. We were having trouble putting words to the whole occasion but told the little fella there was always next time and you just always have to give it your best. Amidst all that, it should be very clear that the highlight of my existence in Washington DC was taking part in that little baseball extravaganza with those kids. It was yet another sneak attack of American splendor out there on a crisp and pleasant Tuesday night.

(A very worthwhile read is Mark and Mike's blog about coaching the Rockie's to a victorious season: http://arockieseason.blogspot.com/)

western tendencies

1) REM – So. Central Rain
2) Wilco – Forget the Flowers
3) Wilco – No More Poetry
4) Magnolia Electric Co – Talk to Me Devil, Again
5) My Morning Jacket – Touch Me, I’m Going to Scream (Pt. II)
6) Wilco – I Must Be High
7) Turin Brakes – Ghost
8) Badly Drawn Boy – River, Sea, Ocean
9) Fleet Foxes – Mykonos
10) REM – Country Feedback
11) Archer Prewitt – I’m Coming Over
12) Josh Rouse – Quiet Town
13) Fleet Foxes – Innocent Son
14) The Watson Twins – Friend and Foe
15) Badly Drawn Boy – I Love NYE
16) Wilco – Blue Eyed Soul
17) Fleet Foxes – Drops in the River
18) Goldfrapp – Happiness
19) Grizzly Bear – Plans (covered by Band of Horses)
20) Jim White – A Town Called Amen

I listened to those songs-- on a mix CD I created with the words "Western Tendencies" scrawled across the front of it in permanent blue marker-- 14 times because it was the only goddamn CD I had for the 15 hour ride I had from Cincinnatti to Boston. Poor planning you say? Well no, just the wrong iPod adapter. I was in another rental truck because the Crocs rig was still not repaired at the Sterling shop in Cincinnatti—the one I had gotten the truck towed to by Virgil just about a week prior before surprising Mom at home for her birthday. This rental truck didn’t have the auxiliary port that allowed me to connect my iPod, so there I sat for 15 hours driving to Boston listening to the same mix CD over and over again. I was alone for this drive because everyone else was on vacation for the week before getting to Boston. I was the closest one to Cincinnati so I volunteered to pick the truck up and drive it to Boston while the others flew in from their respective areas.

I definitely stopped somewhere in rural Pennsylvania when I saw that a boot shop was going out of business and boasted clearance sales of up to 70% off their inventory of cowboy boots. Good lord. I entered through the doors and the jingle of the cowbells kind of rattled me. There had to be have been 500 boots thrown in pile in the middle of the floor. Despite the disorganization I saw the pair immediately that I wanted. Yep. They were made of ostrich leather. And I would say I was dead set on purchasing them until Carl, the attendant that was hounding me to make this purchase, informed me that these boots were handmade by a 78 year old American man and carried a price tag of $530. My next question was whether or not the 70% had already been taken off. It had, according to Carl, and I wanted to throw a hissy fit. Here I was in love with these boots—hell I was already wearing them and about to rip the tags off proclaiming they were mine—and Carl was here to tell me I was going to need to sell my body in order to scrounge enough greenbacks to pull off the transaction.

Awesome.

So I went outside, angrily of course, and took a walk. I was in the middle of nowhere and there was a fairly big sprawling field in the distance so I just walked towards it. The birds were chirping and it was something of a scene. I was kind of in a weird state of mind, hungry for some sort of inspiration. At this particular moment, I was looking to the trees for it. Perhaps the field. Most of all, the sunset that was coming.

Awesome.

I was kind of sitting there thinking about that, the beautiful sunset, this totally random field, with visions of ostrich boots still kind of lingering in my membranes, feeling sort of lonely but also feeling kind of inspired by it all. There’s those moments when you feel so powerful as a result of the fact that you are surrounded by so little-- there's a burst of freedom that comes from the simplicity of it all. It is kind of like those moments when you break up with a girlfriend/boyfriend. It’s like POOF! the person is gone and that feels sort of terrible, but once they are, the focus of everyday life wants and needs shifts back to being solely on yourself. And come on, when you have that realization for a split second it is invigorating. You then usually go back to being mildly heartbroken afterwards, but still. It’s there if even for a fleeting moment.

So it was me, myself and I. Literally. I climbed back in the truck after the rendezvous in the field and track 5 was on. Jim James was shouting in to the microphone about how “this feeling it is wonderful, don’t you ever turn it off!” I had roughly ten more hours of driving. I wasn’t bored though. My mind was keeping me occupied.

I graduated from Pennsylvania at some point around 1am and made it to cross the George Washington Bridge between New York City and New Jersey. You would have thought that Jesus Christ himself was waiting on the other side of the bridge handing out bricks of gold with the sort of traffic and congestion that was collecting. There were about four toll lanes open and about 17 billion cars looking to cross. Rosa eventually greeted me at the tollbooth. I made a comment about how busy it was to me and she threw my receipt at me with the change. This was not your ordinary bridge crossing—it cost $16 for me to cross the damn thing in the Crocs truck. I gave Rosa a smile but I don’t think she could have cared less. The heavy traffic lasted clear up to Connecticut and by 3am I wanted to saw my arm off if it meant I could escape the horrific mess that was now just eating my soul. I had to get a cup of coffee—weasel piss gas station coffee mind you—to stay awake. I did a casual jumping jacks routine before I got back in the car to assure the blood was still flowing.

Track 20 was blaring, and I mean seriously BLARING through the stereo as I pulled in to the Courtyard Marriott in South Boston around 4:30am. I was using anything I could to keep me up—windows down, multiple cups of coffee, monster energy drinks, loud music.

The Boston Marathon is probably the biggest weekend of the entire tour from a work perspective, and things went over pretty well. I felt pretty tired for the majority of the weekend seeing as how longtime friends Omri “Slice” Bloch (old housemate from days spent in Australia) and Drew’sef Jenson (roommate in Chicago) came up to visit from NYC. Between losing cell phones, sleeping in hotel hallways, outdoor barbequing, beer gardens and Omri being an absolute champion with the women of Boston, I’d say we did OK for the weekend.

The haze of Beantown faded in to Nashville.

Oh god.

Talk about excitement. I had randomely happened upon Nashville roughly four years prior with Nathaniel Booneskids Peerbolt (a college roommate) on one of our DISCOVER AMERICA road trips. These road trips were usually envisioned over a dozen beers and then acted out a few days later. If there is one person in this great universe that shares the great wanderlust for all things unfamiliar it is Booneskids. An infinite curiosity bring us together. So we were on spring break driving down to Miami some time ago and stopped in Nashville on the way down. What greeted us that night was a collection of honky tonk bars and pool halls that beckoned us at every turn. That night we had a beer, played some pool and then got back on the road for Miami. It was clear as we walked away from the magnificence that is Broadway Street in Nashville that we were both totally in love with the place.

That same love was in the air when I was back in Nashville for the third time. This, however, would be my longest stay. I was in town for roughly 5 days working the Rock ‘n Roll Country Music Marathon. I had intense plans of getting out my denim western shirt, Wrangler jeans and my finest dancing shoes for the weekend.

I checked in to the hotel and immediately threw my stuff down and bee-lined for the town. I asked the hotel front desk the best way to get to downtown Nashville by cab (we were staying out by Opryland) and I was promptly referred to “Jerry.” There was no formal brochure, no fancy letterhead or even a short explanation of this guy—I just needed to call Jerry. So, naturally, Jerry was contacted and he of course showed up promptly at 7pm like he said he would. The man was a firestorm of enthusiasm and probably intoxicated. He was about 5 foot 8 and skinny as a rail. His skin looked like aged rawhide. He wore an oversized button-up shirt and a pair of old stonewashed jeans from about 1987. The man must have told me he was going to show me a good time on about 45 different occasions. Every time Jerry spoke, there was some sort of hokey ending to the sentence that made it very difficult for me to keep a straight face. Most sentences involved “man” or a reference to this “good time” that he kept mentioning every 4 seconds or so.

I hopped in to the empty cargo van, completely unaware of where this Jerry guy was taking me or if I was actually even in a cab to begin with. His carton of cigarettes was wedged between the front console and the drivers seat. We drove on and Jerry broke in to full-on tour guide mode. I was learning things about Nashville that were pointless and intriguing (for example, the fact that Nashville houses the largest amount of bible publishers in the United States). It seemed as though every one in the town knew this guy. We must have stopped 36 times so he could say hello to whoever it was that knew him on the street corner—bums hoisting a 40 of Steel Reserve, scalpers outside the concert hall where Bon Jovi was playing a show, restaurant owners. You get the point. The highlight of these little occurrences was this little Danish man that was feverishly flagging down Jerry from a street corner. The guy was so sunburned he looked as though he had stepped in to an open flame. He was out of breath when he reached the car. His shorts fell about 5 inches above his knee cap. But he still had the mandatory western shirt on with a pack of smokes in the chest pocket. His straw cowboy hat looked like it was about 10 sizes too big and it shook every time he tried to construct his sentences in broken English to Jerry.

“Hi meester Jerry, my wife and I are ready to be take back to hotel.” You could understand the fellow just fine, but he was having a little bit of trouble with his English delivery.

Jerry kind of cringed a little bit as if he didn’t fully understand the guy. Well, actually I know he couldn’t understand him. Jerry began to ask questions. “You want a bar, man? You need some food?”

“Meester Jerry, can you take back to hotel.” The guy’s Scandinavian pale skin was just glowing bright red. He was definitely a grown man, but his demeanor made him seem all of five years old. Every 10 seconds his hat fell over his face and he would struggle to speak and simultaneously adjust it. Gotta love his effort though. The man obviously loved Nashville as any human being should.

“Ohh sure thing man. I will be around in ten minutes or so. Ten minutes, man. Ten minutes. You got it man. Ten minutes.” Jerry took off like in the van like a bat out of hell to the bewilderment of the Danish couple thinking they had a ride. And Jerry continued talking to me, “Hey man, they just came from Denmark, man. Been in Nashville for only a couple of days and already got himself a cowboy hat. Hell of a guy.”

I was trying to hold back laughter at this point as Jerry was spouting off pleasantries left and right, not even watching the road in front of him as he drove along. It all kind of reminded me of my Dad driving actually. Eventually Jerry dropped me off at a restaurant he recommended for some good southern cooking. What more could a cowboy-in-training ask for?

I ran the half marathon that weekend in Nashville. My plight as the common man running marathons continues—extremely painfully, however. The idea I have in my mind, supported by some of the folks that I work with, is the fact that anyone can do these races. You don’t need wonder fabric wicking shirts, million dollar shoes and a trainer that you pay $100 per visit. Hell, you don’t even need to train. So I wear normal street clothes in the race, run in a pair of Crocs and don’t train whatsoever. So far it has been OK for the most part, short of some fairly serious pain towards the end of this one past one.

About mile one in to the race, I realized that I had absolutely no fucking clue how to effectively work the chronograph on my Timex watch (so as to calculate my average mile time and approximate finishing time). I was tapping buttons and didn’t understand any of the language being displayed on the screen. Then it started to pour rain. This of course prevented me from using my iPod. So I now had 12 miles of running in front of me and no music to fuel my effort.

Awesome.

The Nashville race was a Rock ‘n Roll Country Music Marathon so the idea is that at about 3 mile intervals there is some sort of band playing some sort of music. I cant remember the name of the honky tonky band, but when I was passing their booth around mile three they were doing a cover of Tom Petty’s “Don’t Do Me Like That” and I immediately felt a bit of push from the overflow of Americana that was in the air.

For the first time since running these races in Crocs, I was getting a fair bit of inquiries as to why in the bloody hell I was being such an idiot. I didn’t have 5 minutes to give them the full story of it all so I came up with a different response every time—“my doctor recommended it,” “I forgot my running shoes,” “It’s raining? Cant you see? Crocs are better in the rain.” Etc. Towards the end this response changed to “I have no fucking clue.” One couple I could hear behind me and they were convinced that they were going to appear on a Crocs commercial.

Around mile 10 I was looking for inspiration and a shot of adrenaline from anything and everything. I was talking to trees, singing to myself and just looking up at the sky hoping that a wizard would come down and repair my ankles/knees. The most effective approach to getting my mind off the pain was hopping behind a female runner and allowing my train of vision to just fall to her ass. Yep. Desperation. It was all I could do. But it helped.

Mile 11 I realized that everything from waist down was failing. As I realized this, I passed a Gu station. Yes, Gu. It’s the stuff that comes in a little foil packet and you squeeze the substance in to your mouth and it’s supposed to give you a burst of energy. As I passed the booth I remembered the words of my coworker Nate (who runs many of these races) “I mean you should run on race day with whatever you train with.” Having no training whatsoever and being desperate for any sort of kick to keep me going I grabbed a small handful of the Gu packets in every flavor—espresso, French vanilla and chocolate.

French vanilla went down first. I struggled to open the damn thing to begin with, but once I did I practically swallowed the entire package. The thing tasted like the smell of toe jam and I was really wondering how they had any business calling it “french vanilla.” I was practically gagging this stuff down seeing as how it had the consistency of pancake batter. With coffee and chocolate left— but practically unable to breathe at this point—I had a big, big decision in front of me. I went for chocolate and could only gag down about half of it. If those things helped AT ALL, I was completely unaware of it. I am pretty sure I felt worse after eating the Gu. After 2 hours and 11 minutes of this bullshit, I crossed the finish line.

After the race that night I ate roughly ten pounds of barbequed ribs as a celebratory feast and remarkably took my western tendencies to the dance floor at Nashville’s finest honky tonk bars. See, Nashville isn’t your standard run-of-the-mill line dancing Texas bologna and cheese town. Oh no. It’s the sort of scene where you make it just exactly what you want—independent of how much you like anything country western. Every walk of life makes it in the bar—young bucks looking to have a shot at the opposite sex, old honky tonk veterans looking to just get their nightly dose of the good ‘ol days and everything in between. If anything it’s fun to sit at the bar mozied up to a cold Budweiser marveling at the unique clash of music and all walks of life. And it all feels normal. You go to Nashville feeling like you belong there in that moment.

After the brick of barbequed ribs in my stomach settled and I was able to take down 8 Budweiser’s to aid in the numbing of all bodily parts from mid-thigh down, I was able to shake a leg out there with the best of them.

good luck and spandex

So, you guessed it. Luck, or the lack thereof, would have its way with me again.

My attempts at circumventing the inevitable trip to the repair shop by beating the starter with an iron pole only lasted so long— and CERTAINLY were not going to get me to Boston. I did make it to Dayton on day three of the 3,026 mile mother trek from Carlsbad to Beantown, but Satan’s handshake greeted me on day four as I tried to complete the final leg to the finish line.

I woke up at 6am and rolled out of my bed at the Travelodge just adjacent to the Dayton International Airport. The night before, I had consumed four of the six Budweiser tall boys I purchased at a Shell station after getting through the whole don’t-turn-the-engine-off-for-the-entire-day drive out of Oklahoma City. It had been a long journey and America’s favorite lager (and mine, too coincidentally) was really putting me in fine spirits that night as I tuned in to Anderson Cooper and talked about far-off places with my friend Luana. All those “better spirits” wore off by the time my alarm was screeching noises at 6 o’clock the following morning.

I stepped outside hoping that someone had stolen the truck (this joke is only sort of funny seeing as how one of the other trucks for a different Crocs tour actually DID get stolen) but found it in the same spot where I had left it the night before. I opened up the rear hatch and threw my bag in. The marquee sign at the Travelodge was lit and advertised free breakfast with that creepy “Sleepy the Bear” fellow that they use in their advertisements. Anyway, so after I threw my bags in the truck I walked in to the lobby and looked around for some free eats.

“Breakfast” as it was labeled consisted of a box of Raisin Bran. It was the knockoff Spartan brand, and it wasn’t even in one of those silly plastic dispensers where you release the hatch and get your portion of flakes dropped in to your bowl— it was just the box sitting on a Formica countertop. Below that cereal, in a hokey little mini-fridge that smelled like 1 year old cream cheese, was some whole milk. I have never been picky so I of course poured myself a bowl that probably could have fed a small family (or a pack of dogs). When I sat down at a nearby table to enjoy my extravagant breakfast the chair leg snapped in half.

Awesome.

I relocated and upon placing my elbows on the new table realized they were lodged in some sort of sticky substance—my thought was maple syrup but god knows that the Travelodge wouldn’t have waffles. So it remained a mystery trying to figure out what was all over my elbows and forearms. Perhaps this should have told me that I should have just gone back to sleep and written the day off to bad luck.

I walked outside full of raisins… and bran… and whole milk, unlocked the door to the truck and crawled in to the drivers seat. I wasn’t exactly optimistic but did do a small good-luck dance to myself hoping that the truck would start.

Hell no.

I tried again. No luck. I searched for my metal pole in the darkness and found it on the floor.

I yelled for Katie, fully aware of the fact that it was 6:16 am, the door to her room was closed, she was probably still sleeping and I could be waking others up. But then I realized we were the only ones at the place and kept yelling. She eventually popped out of the room.

She approached me, took the keys from my hand and stuck the key in the ignition while I performed surgery on the starter. While I was hacking away at the thing, she turned the key. I was banging the starter like I really meant it. Had anyone else been around to see my behavior as I was crushing this thing, I am reasonably sure they would have told me take a breather, gather myself and just relax. But oh no, my frustrations were at an all-time high and I KNEW that I wasn’t going to be getting to Boston.

Then, believe it or not, it started to rain. Actually, it poured. It poured daggers of cold, dark unwelcome rain. I continued to beat the shit out of the starter with no luck whatsoever. So I wrapped up the operation promptly and burst in to Katie’s room because I had already thrown the key away to my room. I sat on the floor realizing that I was going to have to go through the same problem-solving mission that I had done roughly 15 days prior. I needed to 1) find a Sterling certified repair shop, 2) get the truck towed there and 3) get myself home.

Frustrations were mounting, I was sweating and Katie (I am reasonably sure) was probably sort of frightened as I approached the situation with codes and military-style hand communication.

Actually, I know she was.

After what seemed like about 45 different phone calls a fellow by the name of Virgil showed up—a short and stout man from a towing service in Dayton. The man looked like Joe Paterno and shot out the sort of intensity that let me know he would get the job done but also swore enough to suggest we could be friends. Virgil and I, as you could probably surmise, got along VERY well. He had the truck wrapped up and ready to go in record time despite what I presumed to be about 70 years of aging and a black and mild cigarette dangling out of his mouth through the entire process.

Step 1 and 2 complete. The truck was now gone, headed for Tokyo—I mean Cincinnatti—to a Sterling certified repair shop that was 52 miles away. That towing bill was almost $400.

Awesome.

My flight in Boston that I was supposed to catch the following afternoon was now a lost cause, it would need to be cancelled. The truck was staying in Cincinnatti, so now I needed to just either get a rental car or a flight back home to the Detroit area. National Car Rental’s overseas telephone response team took care of this issue promptly and set up a car rental reservation for me for pickup at the Dayton Airport. I thought of Max Monroe as I turned the volume up on my cell phone to assure I could understand everything the call-center attendant was saying.

Step 3 complete. Things were looking OK. Mom’s birthday surprise was still looking probable.

Katie had arranged a flight for herself home to Portland so we split ways. I shot off to the airport via the Travelodge shuttle service to pick up my rental car. The shuttle driver and her co-pilot were eating Wendy’s on the way and simultaneously barking orders to what sounded like a derelict babysitter that was doing questionable things to this woman’s child. I could have just as easily thought she was talking to her militant ex-husband with the sort of tone she was pumping out. The van smelled like a bowling alley and we listened to Def Leppard on the car ride. We arrived at the airport and I was out with my bags immediately.

I approached the rental counter. The attendant’s name was Doris.

My Toyota Yaris awaited me in spot 15 at the National Rental Lot. As I was putting stuff in the trunk I accidentally hit the panic button and pee’d myself a little bit because it scared me that badly. Exasperated and ready for an ice cream cone or something equally as comforting, I sat in the drivers seat, threw on my Abu Garcia hat and played the new
R.E.M. album “Accelerate” in the CD player. I-75 was a convenient 1 mile away and that was going to be my happy trail home.

I was driving 110 miles per hour at times because, well, lets be honest, I felt like I was in a race car with that hot little Toyota compared to my normal diesel digs. As I drove like Andretti, I was rehearsing in my mind how I was going to surprise my Mom when I pulled in to the driveway in roughly 2 hours. She had no idea I was coming home—hell, nobody really had any idea I was coming home then because had all things gone to plan I would be arriving on an evening flight from Boston the following night.

All of my mind rehearsals were promptly spoiled when I arrived home and my Mom wasn’t even there. Nobody was home actually except for the dog—the dog that I sort of like. Rudy is his name, and while he did once chew a sneaker of mine, he has maintained a fairly clean record of mildly acceptable behavior thus far. One damning card against the furry little fellow is that he does vomit quite frequently and the corresponding smell that results afterwards makes ME want to explode stomach bile from my mouth.

Anyway, I sat in the kitchen waiting patiently for mother dearest to come home while Rudy was yelping one room over in his quarters. I could have let him out but that would mean I would have had to take him outside to urinate and THAT was just out of the picture. So I ignored the situation and went upstairs to my room to check on the state of affairs in my banished quarters (my brother Alex has taken my old room). Things were still in order— a stack of shit piled to the ceiling from my last move out of Chicago, the half-completed painting I started with my roommate there, a row of sneakers lined up below the window facing our street and a hero’s share of junk mail strewn on the bed. I grabbed a copy of the magazine Ready-Made and brought it downstairs to read.

Rudy was still making weird noises.

Like every other time I come home, the first thing I do is begin to catalog the food assortment available for consumption. My Dad has a penchant for anything in the cookie or graham camp that he is able to be stuff in his mouth in one bite. As such, I am well taken care of in the sweets department. My brother Alex is a world-class athlete so he picks up the slack in the meat and protein area. Couple all this with the fact that my Mom has an unhealthy obsession with Costco (take my liking for the store and multiply it by about 35,000 to understand her level) so there are stocks of things like packages of lunch meat that are the size of a microwave oven or boxes of Goldfish crackers that need their own cabinet. That said, I usually put on a few pounds when I am home.

I made an enormous turkey sandwich and sat and read my magazine. The dog was still wincing in his quarters begging me to take him out. No chance. Finally I hear the side door open in the house but of course it was the one moment I had gotten up from my strategic perfect Mom surprising spot to get a glass of water. Realizing this, I kind of froze up and just sort of awkwardly appeared around the corner as my Mom was walking in to the house. This was probably the last of the surprise schemes I had bounced around in my head—try to scare her by jumping out of the pantry, act like I was the plumber fixing the sink, etc. She was actually talking to the dog when I just sort of awkwardly appeared in front of her. The resulting facial expression that appeared made it seem as though someone had just asked in a really, really kind and polite way if they could punch her in the face. She was extremely confused and unsure of how to respond. I gave her a hug and a kiss and she warmed up to the idea that I was actually there. So that was nice. But damnit, I wanted tears.

Within days the whole family—Mom, Dad, Emily, Alex and myself— was headed to the city of Douglas on the west side of Michigan for our little weekend getaway to celebrate Mom’s birthday. My Dad for the 4 weeks prior had relentlessly organized the whole excursion and it was the second of the two part surprise to my Mom. The cottage house was booked, he had recommendations on things we should do, places we should see, etc. He, however, was unaware of the fact that over the course of the weekend another rather large outing was occurring: Women’s Weekend. a This, of course was one of America’s largest lesbian gatherings in the month of April. And lesbians are fine and dandy—especially the ones that used to appear on the Howard Stern show—but I am pretty sure the jokes about the synchronicity of the whole occasion didn’t stop the entire weekend.

Celebrating Mom’s birthday was fun because it involved things like brunch, carefree attitudes, comfort and just the sort of general enjoyment that makes you feel invincible. For all the joking and sardonic commentary I spit out on a daily basis, if there’s one genuine thing I can talk about, it’s the fact that I love the time I can spend with my family. So naturally, the weekend in Douglas— despite the army of lesbians—was nothing short of incredible.

Alex, my little brother, continues to grow at rates that rival a Chea pet. Calling him my “little” brother may in fact be inaccurate. I am reasonably sure I could still kick his ass in a wrestling match, but Jesus I am expecting role reversal one of these days. I continue to be blown away by the shmorgasboard of sincere talents the kid has. I mean three activities that take up his time right now are lacrosse, welding and playing the guitar. And he runs a sneaker business on the side. I marvel at the randomness of it all given the fact he is a freshman in high school. Emily wore Spandex pants for the entire trip and that was one of the three highlights of the occasion. She also scored a bedroom set out of nowhere at a garage sale right across the street from the rented cottage. Yep, that’s how we roll. Emily has a ray of sunshine that explodes out of her that you rarely see in people. I can’t help but get excited when I am around her. We are going to live in the same city together one day soon. Dad’s sense of humor, no matter how much everyone else in the posse shrugs it off, continues to make me barrel laugh. I still marvel at the chronic smile that adorns his face. I don’t think he realizes or even acknowledges the daily effect he has on the people around him. I mention it whenever possible, but the man is incredible. And Mom was in her element the whole weekend; it was her birthday after all. The one pair of Crocs I managed to come up with as her gift ended up not fitting. Awesome. But she remains, and always will be, my rock. Hell or high water, the woman has the inner strength of an African Congo gorilla. And while that may seem like a joke, it really isn’t. I would put her up against anyone. Her attitude in life is one that keeps me forever moving forward. She lifts us all up really. It was nice being together with these people. There’s a sincere joy that we get from being together. And honestly, that’s something I can’t be thankful enough for.

See, I was going to say “I am a lucky sonofabitch” but that would then go totally against what I just said. And then I thought “I am a lucky motherfucker”— but again, kind of , sort of running contrary to what I said before.

So anyway, I am lucky—whichever way you look at it.