Day 3.

Thus far, I've failed to say it, and I fault myself for that. I'll say it now: this is a big lake I'm dealing with here.

Well I awoke VERY late in fabulous Oconto--I think I slept so good because the a/c didn't work in there. I learned back in my Barnabas days (Barnabas is a camp in rural Missouri where I slept for an entire summer in the out-of-doors temps with only a fan to keep the steam circulating) that a/c does quite a bit to give us colds in the night, as your grandparents would be quick to point out. I slept very soundly and longly.

Once up and out (say, noon), I got myself around the bend of Green Bay as soon as possible, and started heading back north on the tiny Door Peninsula. It's called that because it's all Door County up there. Get it? Door Peninsula is a tiny little finger that juts up northeast into Lake Michigan. Before I drove too terribly far, though, I had to deal with my hunger. Now, having done my homework by studying up in ROADFOOD (go buy your copy NOW),

I knew that I must needs be getting a product called a Butter Burger into my gut. This is an east Wisconsin delicacy in which you top a hamburger with a pat of butter. You know, for health purposes. I'd also yet to sample the Wisconsin frozen custard, over which I was in great anticipation. Lo and hark and all that, but I came upon a place with this on the door:


That pretty much set me up. Culver's it was. I ate those things along with Dairyland Cheese Curds, which was a bizarre name for what turned out to be tater-tot sized fried cheese. Okay. Now, this was an outstanding hamburger, I can certainly say that--and I'm not a big hamburger guy. This was impressive.

Up into the peninsula I went, finding cute coastal town followed by cute resort town followed by quaint fishing villiage. The west side is cuter than the east side, with Ephraim and Fish Creek kind of taking the prize. [There is no prize.]


On my way up, I stopped at Bailey's Harbor looking for a barber. "Ernesto," I said to myself, "there HAS to be an old-timey barber in one of these well-kept towns." I went into a coffee shop for directions, and asked the girl behind the counter. She didn't understand what I said, and told me so in a severe accent. I asked where she was from. She was from Bulgaria, and the other girl behind the counter was from Poland. I paused for a moment, then decided that I didn't need to hear the back story. I continued to look until, on my way out of the Door Peninsula, I stopped by a place on the main drag of Sturgeon Bay called the Yankee Clipper. I'd not have known to stop there except that they had that helpful barber pole with the stripe of blood running down it outside. All professions should have these visual aides. I know the doctors have those intertwined snakes (an inscrutable symbol if ever there was one--is that supposed to be a Biblical reference?), but nobody else does. It's outrageous!

I can't TELL how pleased I am with the way that haircut turned out. I met Joe Lindsley, a 40-year barbering vet, who cut Packers coach Mike Sherman's hair during his tenure (he'd just been sent Houston Texans paraphernalia from Mr. Sherman, who's now an assistant coach there. I saw the goods!), and had lots of sports memorabilia up on his walls. This guy was at the Ice Bowl! It was great talking to this guy, and he buttressed the idea I've had with the Rod about creating an upscale chain of barber shops and men's grooming. It's a dying breed, and I hate to see them go. Joe told me that there isn't one barber school in Wisconsin anymore. Sucks.

The day was getting on, and I knew that I faced an uncomfortable decision: dinner vs. exercise. Part of me was hoping for some Lake Michigan fish at some roadside joint (as talked about in famous books like ROADFOOD), but I saw a GIGANTIC YMCA and had to stop in. This was the YMCA for the whole of Door County, and it's a wing-dinger. It was only built in '97, with a massive wing added in '02. Two huge pools, great workout rooms, and 2 sweet basketball courts. I got my hoops on and did some weights. Good times. I got kicked out at 8pm.


My my, that hair's been lopped off in SUCH a handsome pattern! And, is that Ode De Y Locker Room you're wearing?

Then I was driving once again, headed south. I made it all the way to Port Washington, just 30 minutes north of Wisconsin, which is great because tomorrow I hope to rent a motorcycle from the Harley-Davidson headquarters there and take off west. I went through Dairyland, I suppose, because dairy farm after dairy farm separated the road from the Lake. After pulling off the highway, I stopped at a grocery store to get some cereal when I spied Sprecher Root Beer in the snack aisle. This was introduced to me by Wunderkind, and I do love this stuff. So I bought like six cases and moved on, into the night.


I found this country inn that said $50 SINGLES on the sign, so I stopped in (not a great price, but passable). Talking with Chris behind the desk, she told me that their only non-smoking room was a hot-tub suite. I talked fast and here I am, God bless her every one.

Miles driven: 425
Exercise: YMCA!
Lecture: the final installment from Mike Pearl’s Body, Soul, Spirit series
Writing: I failed on this one, today. This post is accomplishment enough.
Cash outlay:

Culver's Butter Burgers and other blood-clotting ingestives: 11
Yankee Clipper: 15
YMCA: 8.75
Cereal and Sprecher: 19
Hot Tub Suite: 54
Total: $107.75

PS- Today my ipod loved John Gorka and Norah Jones, both Didi picks, as well as Jack Frost (real name), the Gutteral Sermonizer. There was some “next song”ing done in the Camry.

PPS- I also considered today how much more I could get done if Bobby was awake in the car with me. Reading, navigating, writing, documenting with the photos—all would’ve been much better. I think, too, that if I had a MONTH to do this trip, I wouldn’t feel so frustrated with all I have to miss. It’s too bad, really.

One last thing: I like the semi-sour smell of dairy farms. I guess I owe this to my experience with them in my childhood due to my Uncle Kenneth, who owned one. If by poor sentence construction I made that sound like Uncle Kenneth smells semi-sour, I have misled you. He smells like Old Spice and alfalfa.

Day 2.

One addendum from yesterday’s noticings: I also noticed on Sunday that *America is finished with Sunday night church*. That surprised me, frankly. I never got that memo. I was really hoping to stop in somewhere for some worship, even if I felt like a complete outsider, or that everyone was staring at me. Ideally, I was hoping for a group where I might could get some free prophecy, too. But I must’ve passed 40 church-houses between 5 and 7:30 pm Sunday night, and that Sunday night service thing just wasn’t going down. Whaddaya know.

Alright then: Day 2 of Me and Bobby’s Big Trip.

Woke up in Saugatuck, where my pal Ben just spent a week of vacation. He heartily encouraged me to go see this artsy coastal town, and I gotta say, it’s so quaint and charming I could about puke.


I ate breakfast outside (carrot and chive frittata! Yes! Apple pancake casserole! Yes!), then made my way to a coffee shop with free internet—I posed as if I’d actually bought something. I wandered around town some, then headed over to Oval Beach, Saugatuck’s main lakeside spot. I read that morning in some free literature that Oval was voted one of the top 5 beaches in the nation by MTV, which worried me some, but I really don’t understand what that would be based on. Anyhow, being there at the beach was extremely surreal. Imagine a white sugar beach, and the surf coming in, and seagulls, and you go out there and it’s NOT salt water you taste. Weird. But I enjoyed that beach a lot—completely family-occupied, very quiet—I listened to the Rod’s MP3 player and caught some Rob Bell sermonizing while getting sunburned.

I didn’t get out of there until around 3pm, and I started to get a little concerned about my distance. I’d gone nowhere since waking up, and had a long, long way to go. So I stopped at a country grocery store and got a strange soda called Rock and Rye (liquid + sugar = good enough for me) and some strange-flavored chips. I also stopped at one of a hundred roadside fruit stands and bought a pint of cherries. Lunch.


Driving through Holland, I stopped off to see the Wooden Shoe Factory. This is an uncomfortable invention, the wooden shoe. Look at the photo below, and consider that you can no longer act like you don't know that hundreds of wooden shoes are aborted EVERY DAY.

From there, I was rolling, I headed up to Traverse City (holy SMOKES, this place is GREAT. I hope to return here for a weeklong vacation at some point. The beach is huge—it’s like Chicago’s lakeside—and the entire place seems to be built around the summer traveler. Great place for a getaway.), where I must pause.

While I was researching for this trip, I went to the library and the bookstore finding what I could find. One book I came across that I simply couldn’t let pass by was Roadfood. I bought it because I want it as a reference for the rest of my days. It catalogues 600+ one-off restaurants and greasy spoons across the country that typify local food or sell curiosities. I am very excited to own this book, and have marked on my map where Roadfood establishments exist. I ate at one of these places in Traverse City (and stopped at another in Beulah just because it sounded so interesting)—the Grand Traverse Pie Co.

Northern Michigan is a fruit-and-fisheries hotspot, and this place is supposed to crank out some of the best pie anywhere. So I got a sandwich and soup there, and finished with two slices of pie (I mean, I wanted a fair sampling. What if one wasn’t that great?). They were fabulous. If you have a chocolate cream pie with a great crust, brother, you done something right. I also looked on their free wi-fi at the possibility of my making it to the top of the Lower Peninsula before bedtime. I really wanted to see Mackinac island, where there’s no motorized transportation allowed, but again, was concerned about my timeline. So I looked at the motel situation up there (strong) my possibility of getting there before sleep hit me (good on time), and I set off. I decided that, if I wanted a motel at the internet-cheap rate, I could call my parents, who are ‘wired’ at home (Didi and I are not), and they could book it for me while I waited outside the office. Clever? Yes. Yes it is.

When I got to Mackinac Bride, the 5-mile suspension bridge that spans the meeting point between Lake Michigan and Lake Huron, connecting the two parts of Michigan, I felt pretty good, sleep-wise. I thought I could push on. By the way, it’s a little surreal going over a bridge, looking left and seeing a horizon on the water, and looking right and seeing the same thing. Okay, it’s a lot surreal. One genius thing that happened there, though, was that I tuned my AM dial to 530, where the signs told me to, and I got a free history lesson on the bridge! How terrific is that!? Why doesn’t the gub’ment tell states that they can each have their shot at AM 530 so that, wherever you go, you get a history lesson of that region via your radio? THERE’s some public education for ya!

Suffice it to say, I pushed on and kept pushing. I went through cute town after cute town, becoming more and more resolved to get into Wisconsin before bedtime, which I did. There was no town called Michconsin at the border, though there should've been. I came around the entire north shore and finally stopped in Oconto, just a little north of Green Bay, sunburned and sleepy. And the motel was cheap. Yes! The only disappointing thing about all this is that I know that I drove through a lot of beautiful country in total darkness, namely the Hiawatha National Forest. But there it is.

Miles driven: 518
Lectures endured: 2 from Rob Bell (shoulder shrug), the next one from Michael Pearl (I listened to it twice—it was heady stuff refuting Calvinism. I agreed with all of it).
Exercise- swimming in Lake Michigan!
Wrote- a pop song called My Lake Michigan.
Dough outlay:

Breakfast: 7.50
Pie Company: 13
Gas: 50.75
Room: 44.25
Total: $115.50

I am noticing how much, much cheaper it is to travel with two. Except for the meals, these costs would be exactly the same. Where’s my wife?!


PS- I will NOT believe that the ipod is truly random. It isn’t. It favors certain songs, there is no doubt in my mind. It also favors, for some reason, Sarah McClocklin (I have NO idea how to spell her name so I’m not even trying) and Ross King.

PPS- I actually turned around to get this photo. It's for everyone's enjoyment.

Day 1.

Here's the first blob from Me and Bobby's Big Car Trip.

I showed up at Budget Rent-this-car at around 2:15 today, and was rewarded with a free upgrade (as they were out of my $26-a-day-standard-car-from-Hotwire model), and drove off with a 2007 Camry with 370 miles on it. Yessss. I haven't prayed a lot about this trip, but I did ask God for a good car. Thank you, sir. I was on the road, after lunch with Didi, at like 3pm.

I created some rules for this outing, which may become my rules for all future road trips. I'm enjoying them so far. They are:

-only eat food that I couldn't get elsewhere. i.e., local places. No chains of any kind, even my beloved Cracker Barrel.
-At some point, get a haircut at some local place by a jittery old guy.
-only stay at one-off motels, no chains. Less comfort, less predictability, more color.
-stop and smell the roses.
-attempt exercise every day (motorcycling counts).
-listen to some sermony lecture every day.
-write something creative every day.

I made it to Notre Dame U. in South Bend, IN by about 6:45. Never been there. Things that stuck me:

All you need to know, to get the idea of how beautiful this place is, is that THIS IS THE BOOKSTORE.

"Welcome to our beautiful campus. You are not welcomed here."

*once again, I was ripped off. As a rule, DON'T GO TO COLLEGE IN TEXAS. College should be at a small, liberal arts college where you're steeped in books and history, and discuss poetry as if it matters, OR it should be at a massive place where opportunities never stop and the campus itself is a small city. ALSO (and this is what will disqualify Texas), it should be surrounded by lushness, at least one body of water, and outdoor pursuits. This place is in a GORGEOUS part of the country, and the campus is absolutely dripping with stateliness and huge, old trees (a necessary requirement to a great school).
*these people DO NOT WANT YOU HERE IF YOU'RE NOT A STUDENT PAYING TUITION. They wanted me gone and weren't ashamed to say so. This was disappointing, as I was hoping to put my own spin on the cow patty, and wanted some institutional john as my canvas. Alas.
*Texas has it all over these weenies when it comes to the non-stop pickup games I take for granted at TAMU. There is always, always, ALWAYS basketball happening there. I had my shoes out, and went to the rec center, hoping to mix it up with the youngsters. No such luck. Bummer. Maybe there's no summer school this late. I dunno.

I watched this for a while, until I was convinced that it was Suckball. Can't do that. Pass.

From there I drove into Michigan (in a dumpy town called Michiana, which is stupid. Sorry, Thad, but calling border towns some combination of the states' names just comes across as lazy. Half-baked.), pulling off the highway at Kalamazoo, because 9pm had come and it was time for grub. I consulted my printouts from wififreespot.com (this was the smartest thing I did for this trip) to find a coffee shop where I could put this up gratis, and I came up with this joint, Ravenwood Coffee. I had a passable burrito and one of those frozen coffee drinks and am throwing this up there.

I then drove into Sagatuck, a beachside resort town, where I stopped at a shady motel with a questionable interior designer for $60. NOT a steal. But I was able to shower and recharge everything and I have my own bed, so that's nice.

Miles travelled: 405
Dough spent:

Car rental-126
burrito- 6
frozen coffee- 3.50
gas-49
room- 65

total $249.50 (I'm hoping this is my most expensive day, with the car in there)
exercise (attempting to find a hoops game at ND)
lecture (parts one and two of M. Pearl's "Body Soul and Spirit". Provokative!)
wrote: poem, called Mile 26, below.

I know this is a long post. Learn to deal.
OUT

Mile 26

Sin never was the issue
That one was assumed
That I would be a misser
Of the goals that I presumed
To undertake with gumption
To look upon with pride
But I would be the cargo
Of the world I lived inside

Sin never was the issue
When he found me, unsurprised
It was me apart from all that crap
That he espied and prized
His eyes had seen through miles of fog
And found the perfect me
And that same version of myself
Is what he’s showing me.

Sin never was the issue
Though that’s where I sat and stared
I tried, in guilt, to master it
Becoming more ensnared
My efforts are the problem, see
Self-righteousness IS death
I nearly lost my soul in there
(I surely lost my breath)

Sin never was the issue
I repented not of sin
I repented of my life of works
And fin’ly came to HIM.
He cleansed me, little sinner boy
Said, brushing past my strife,
“You’ve had enough of death, my son
Now then, let’s start your LIFE.”


(ending feels a little trite, but I can live with it. That third stanza's where the guts is.)

Weird Old Guy

I went on Friday night with the Rod and the wives to see Michael Pearl. This is a wild-eyed, highly bearded coot who lives out in the woods, built his own sawmill, makes his own EVERYTHING, and teaches strange principles like "TRAIN UP your child in the way he should go", as opposed to just reacting when he doesn't act right. He's also a hard-core home schooling advocate. Here are a few of Michael's nuggets:

"All lazy people are liars."

"You might say to me, 'well, I don't know how to raise my own vegetables and can them.' Hey that's fine... if you're handicapped."

"If your kids grow up and get drunk and divorced and vote Democrat, the world is worse off because of you. It'd be better if you were never born."

I'm giving you, of course, the most provocative quotes, but I was actually extremely stimulated by this guy. This is a guy who couldn't possibly be more devoted to his family, and he understands the Biblical principle that, if you don't run your home well, and prove to be an effective minister there, you have NO BIDNESS leading anybody else, or trying to be a servant to the Church.

Provocative indeed.

Freedom vs. Discipline

I was with the Rod this morning, and God seems to be teaching him about something interesting. Thought I'd do a little bud-nipping and spit it out here.

Grace is still pretty foreign and uncharted territory for the Bride. I think most of us can agree on that. She is still caught up in the death dance of law and rules and morality and ways and means. Bless her. Grace means I get to come to God without any acting and just act like he's gonna like me either way based on Jesus' mediation.

Now then, what we REPEATEDLY see (whether it's some charismatic-y thing, or the Jesus Movement, or all the way back to the Corinthian church) is that, when the immature get their first taste of grace, they go bonkers. It's fun to be around these people, because they're zany. They dress dumb and talk stupid and they can just be silly, and it's "all good" as they say. They've never tasted freedom before, and they're stretching their wings like a 17-year-old college student. It's messy. And it's fun.

What we find, though, is that, in immaturity, we will resist things like authority and discipline. "How can discipline be freedom?" (Because we know that freedom=doing what feels good in the moment, right?) "I won't submit to authority!" (Because God would never want us to volunteer for hardship at the hands of another person, right?) I know exactly what this feels like; I still hang around that bar from time to time.

I'm understanding, though, that freedom is not at odds with discipline, as is the Rod. Grace and freedom means that I will NOT follow an arbitrary RULE to read my Bible, thinking that that activity in itself makes me acceptable to God for the day. Discipline IN grace, though, means that I WILL read my Bible, because I want to put myself in a place where I can easily meet with him, every day. How is that not freedom and grace? I know that he is with me regardless of my religious activities, or my efforts toward him, but when I participate in the LORD's supper or baptisms or meeting together with others to pray, or the discipline of giving, or fasting, or Bible study, I'm simply expressing my desire to receive more of Him, and acknowledging that he's told me the good places to get that done. How's that 'not being led by the Spirit?' So much high-sounding spiritual talk, it seems, cloaks sly rebellion or a simple lack of diligence.

I've been looking at the subject of Faithfulness in the Bible lately. Boy that word appears a whole lot. You wouldn't BELIEVE how many promises God makes to faithful people, in Psalms and Proverbs alone! And God names Himself Faithful and True, so that we'll understand this as a bottom-line character quality that he reproduces in people. Faithfulness is a fruit of the Spirit of God, by gum! I'm not saying that performance can't often give us a counterfeit to that fruit (it can), but we all know that the Spirt-led and the religiously flesh-led can VERY often appear exactly the same. So if someone is faithful, it's a result of the Spirit's presence.

Freedom and discipline are not at odds. Yesssssssssss.

This Week's Uniform

I am wearing the same outfit to work every day. I'm crazy about this outfit. Period. It consists of:

*the orange footwear given me by Jiff for last years birthday anniversary.
*the $3 Old Navy pre-battered tee I bought on Saturday
*my modified shorts, accentuated with Russia patch (thanks Musrat!) and self-styled butt reinforcement from old chinos (thanks ace!)
*no underpants!

I may see this outfit through to the road trip! Watch out!

Mavs news!

I just heard they traded DA (a fan favorite who never did too terribly much on the court, in my estimation.) for Anthony Johnson, who is Tough as Nails and can go nuts with the points. I've not thought him a great passer, though, and have seen him play several times, since he was wth Indy, the closest thing we Cincinnatians have to an NBA team. I think this is a fantastic trade for the little Mavs. Something for nothing, really.

I have nowhere else to say this, so I'll throw this in, too: Marquis Daniels--was he the Catfish (Sam Perkins) revisited? These guys along with Sleepy Floyd prove that you do not need to be alert to play NBA basketball.

I LUUUUUUUUV to DRIVE.

Amigos, there comes a time in every man's summer when he's had it with his job, the constant upkeep demanded by his home, and the monotony of his local geography. He goes exploring.

I shall do this very thing in the upcoming weeks. Sunday, I shall get into a car and start moving this way or that way. At this point, I honestly do not know where I'll go. I have some hunches, though. I think I'll either drive:

1) Northwest as the crow flies, to the lovely northern Michigan shores. This is reported to be a lovely part of our country, and the driving in western Wisconsin is singled out by my road atlas as some of the most tranqil and scenic in our land.

2) Southeast, into the rolling hills and laconic patois of the Carolinas. These people talk slow, lay low. And there are beaches there, too.

3) Northeast to NY, Vermont. The famed New England, of which I feel sorrowfully ignorant. They make syrup right out of trees out there! And they have old, cute houses!


On this week of driving, if my map tells me to stop somewhere good, I will. If I feel like a big, dumb meal somewhere, I will eat it. If I want to drive all night, I shall. If I want to sit at a nice B&B and read or write all day long, I will do that too. I think I'll take a box of cereal or two with me just in case. This will be a FANTASTIC WEEK.

After this week of driving thither, I shall board a plane with my wife (who doesn't want to join me on my car trip), and head down Mexico way, for the white beaches and overpriced daquiris of Los Cabos. We will eat avacados and snorkel and play board games on the balcony.


If you think I'm about to have fun in my life, RIGHT-O, CHAMP.

Next, Gabe Dixon will be seeing ME.

I played a pretty fun show Saturday night at a local place. The funnest thing about the show is that the place was crawling was grumpy, stocky lesbians. There are some sweet ones in the bunch, and they liked my music, eventually. I think they'd memoed each other about the uniform that night: hollister/polo collared shirts, cargo shorts, and sandals. Of course, lots of gel in the hair. It was like High School Boys Night. That's normal; I can handle that without too much thought. What gets me is when I see pretty lesbians, which I saw and met Saturday. These women confuse me even more than normal women. I am perplexed and addled, like looking at a menu in a foreign language. I hear I had a tab at the bar, but I never used it, and that will disappiont Jesse and ace. But all's well that ends well. And it's true what they say: lesbians are a girl's best friend.

Tease me!

Please.

Has anybody heard of this ridiculousness? Will this trend never die?

Opinions, please:

Which is your favorite? Which would you axe so that I don't pay to print up a loser?


This is the name of a song on the album...

Confusing!

The way:

(Jesus)

Not the way:


The truth:

(Jesus)

Not the truth:


The life:

(Jesus)

Not the life:

It All Changes Now

New wallet (Dad always called his a "billfold") . ALWAYS been a tri-fold man. Can't explain that.

As of today, *BI*-fold.

THIS... is wild.


Life never stops moving, you know?

The End of An Era

The course where I most grew up, Treeline Golf Club, is closing down after 53 years, my newly retired (and golfing-addicted) father just reported to me. Apparantly, Houston continues to gobble up the countryside, and grass must yield to the industrial dollar. At least, Treeline must. The owner, who my dad's known for 20+ years, is about to become a multi-millionaire and, as you know, nothing trumps the value of the capital M in America. But I digress.

As this chapter in Houston's history closes, I thought it fitting to pay tribute to the local links via the retelling of a modest story that happened to me, and to my good buddy Chris Havard, so very long ago:

It was 1990, spring. Chris and I were seniors in high school. We lived about 5 miles apart, and went to different high schools, but our parents were both cool. I say cool because, all during our senior years, they were amenable to writing notes for us so that we could rack up the Excused Absences, then go on into the fragile Unexcused Absences territory. We used this days carefully but whimsically. Once we stayed at my house all day and watched the Star Wars trilogy while eating Subway sandwiches and chili-cheese Fritos. Anyhow, this day (call it a Friday) was dedicated to good ol hot, cheap golf. I am not a good golfer. Chris is an excellent golfer. He was the MVP for the Chester W. Nimitz Cougars Golf Team! Anyhow, when I play poorly, I am frustrated but not surprised. Chris is shocked and horrified, and his temper can be... well... out of control. On this day, we were both not good.


After missing a makable putt, Chris brought his putter down with executioner-style wrath upon the green. Twice. As his wife LeRay and I both know, when Chris is going bazooka with the steamy ears, you should just be quiet. I thought, "Gee, Chris, I think that hunk you just took out of the green is probably preferred to be in tact. But, uh... heh heh. Easy does it. Nice, Chris." I think the only swearing I've seen Chris do was at a golf course. Ah, good times.

We rode on. I was glad to get some distance between us and that green. Later in the round, a Marshall came upon us. I am not fond of Marshalls, as most of my golfing experience is in the too-young-to-be-trusted-in-ANY-way era of my life, and I always felt suspect around these men with tall mesh baseball caps and tees tucked behind their ears. And their carts usually had some Official Markings, maybe a flag. It's over the top. Anyhow, he had an uncomfortable and reprimand-laced conversation with us about what happened back on Green 12. Then...


At the cash register, as we paid out for the day (old timey days! Cash!), Chris was informed that he was Banned For Life from Treeline Golf Club. Chris' reponse (remember: 17-year old high schooler, speaking to Working Adult)?

"Who cares about being banned from your crappy club. This place sucks."

Now, on the one hand, I was amazed by his chutpah (and his nuts, too). On the other, I was horrified, as this was my dad's 'regular' course, and I sure didn't want to be banned.

Something tells me that the Lifetime Ban might not be enforced were Chris to stop by today, but it was an impressive sentence back in the day. And there you have it. Adios, Treeline. Give me back my balls!

THIS is who I am.

I have a new album coming out soon, which I'm pleased about, and Sir Robert Hornak has written a bio for me that I think merits parading around in front of my friends. Here it is. I think I made a couple of tiny changes, Bobs, so forgive my arrogance:


Steve Manuel
(1945-2002)

Steven Alphonse Manuel was born backstage at the Théâtre de Babylone in Paris, January 5, 1953, during the world premier of Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot,” shocking his mother, who had already given birth to him once, eight years before. Beckett, a witness to the birth that night, commissioned his own epitaph on the spot: “I saw a baby born with lunch money in its pocket.” For Manuel, it was the beginning of a relationship with the stage that would last decades, garner millions of fans, and inspire three Elvis movies.

When he turned 16, Manuel’s mother was crushed beneath the foot of a rampaging Indian elephant, and he struck out, alone, in search of his estranged father, who had left the family ten years prior in search of his own father, a rampaging Indian elephant. His adventure took him to all corners of the globe, and little Stevie grew fast and strong in the lamplight of the world’s great societies:

At 19, traveling through Central Africa, Manuel – with his shock of bleach white hair – was mistaken for Nzambi, the supreme god for all the Kongo Kingdom. Later admitting his indulgence in hair product, he was demoted to a “nganga,” or a medicinal consultant in charge of rashes and phlegm.

At 23, Manuel burned his draft card and moved to Flin Flon, Manitoba, where he met and married a local anesthesiologist named Ruby who had induce-slept her way to the top of a prominent medical practice. The partnership unraveled, however, when Ruby admitted to splitting a cab once with U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara. The marriage was annulled and all reference to it blotted out of subsequent Soviet encyclopedias.

At 28, piecing his life back together, Manuel returned to his musical roots, and started a traveling harp-lute band. “It’s 1973,” he would often say. “And the world is ready for me and my harp-lute.” But it would be another sixteen years of dingy bars and honky-tonks from Lisbon to Istanbul before Manuel would finally be able to say, “At last I can say, nobody likes the harp-lute, and nobody likes me, Steve Manuel, who plays it.”

Little did he know that success lay just around the corner. While rounding it at a market in Prague, Stashwan (as he then was calling himself) slipped on a honeydew and immediately remembered the lyrics to an original song he heard in a fever dream as a child. He jotted the lyrics down on a banana rind and faxed it to his friend Elton John, who informed him that the song had already been recorded as “Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)”, although with completely different lyrics and melody.

Devastated, alone, and still father-less, Manuel did the only thing he knew how to do: he courted investors, rented a stage on Broadway, and launched a musical based on his own life and experiences titled “Waiting For Godot.” It was a smash success, heralded by critics for its “rigorous use of the unities,” its “implacable interpretation of human life” and its “generously early intermission.” It was immediately embraced by audiences of toddlers and transients everywhere. Steven Manuel had become a household word, festooned with accolades and beclothed with rich coats of many colors (and also rich matching pants and boots of many colors). Yet Manuel would not admit success until 1998, when his name was used as a puzzle on Wheel Of Fortune under the clue “androgynous mysteries.”

Sadly, Manuel met with misfortune in May of 2002, when the airship he was attempting to fishtail suddenly burst into flames. He lingered in a partial coma for three weeks, emerging from his mental haze in short episodes long enough to swear vengeance on Schneider, before finally succumbing on June 17, 2002. He was 114. He is survived by his dog, Steven Manuel.

Today's Public Safety Tip

I often feel that God wants me to be a living public service:


*Wear a safety helmet and don't take chances on motorcycles.

*Avoid falling asleep at the wheel of your automobile.

*Don't purchase investment properties over a thousand miles away from your residence.

*Wade with extreme caution into the waters of organized religion.

*etc.

Today's tip comes courtesy of the Pilot Inn, the wine bibbing station at the end of my road. Because of this quality establishment (which offers patrons white plastic deck chairs in lieu of actual seats), I have the opportunity of hearing yelling and/or fighting revellers up to and including 3am on Thursday-Saturday night. We also get to clear up alcoholic containers, cigarette wrappers, and fast food refuse from our yards in the daylight hours. It's a fine place with a neon Lite Beer/Bengals sign in the front. It's the kind of place moljer would probably absolutely love. Jacob Dylan once told that he'd like to watch his house burn (in his band's one enduring hit, "One Headlight", which was just before they smashed the whole thing by bringing us "Three Marlenas". The one neat thing about "Headlight" is that there are no cymbals anywhere on that song. I've always thought that was kind of cool.), and boy I'd like to see the Pilot Inn burn, as well.

In any case, the Fourth of July always brings out the celebrants, as well as their trail of fireworks casings, and this year was no exception. Wednesday morning Didi and I woke to find that both of our cars had been broken into (the third occurrence in four years for us both), and all available monies had been taken--for me, that included my wallet. Today's public safety tips are:

*Go ahead and leave your car unlocked (less damage that way); just clean it out of valuables each evening.

*Keep a list of the entire contents of your wallet somewhere (I think I had a completed Sub Club card in there!). But keep it somewhere other than your wallet (Jiff).

Senor Cleeenton

Somebody correct me if I misspeak here: about 10 years ago, or a little less, the name Bill Clinton was mud-caked and muck-raked. He was seen as a flim-flam man; a huckster and a snake oil charmer. He left office a degraded, but never ashamed, man, untrusted by a disillusioned nation. His relationship with his ambitious wife was seen as a marriage in name only, more like a business partnership by reticent equals who need each other to keep the company afloat. She was seen as manipulative, clever, and plastic. He was seen as vacuous and amoral. Their bond had housed drug use, many infidelities, possible murder, and let's say significantly questionable use of the most powerful office on the planet.

After the fact, Bill has been a marketing machine. He published his memoirs and put a homey smile on his innumerable public appearances; he's become an outspoken (and influential) advocate of AIDS and welfare crises in Africa; he teamed up with George H. W. Bush (seen as a benign but benevolent man, probably an image Bill would aspire to) in creating a charitible foundation for the millions of storm victims in the Indian Ocean and on the Gulf Coast. He opened his personal office in Harlem. He won two Grammys for spoken word albums. He opened the largest Presidential Library in the nation, where the adoring U2 gang sang for him. He's been active in UN conferences, opposed soft drinks in schools, and was awarded the J. William Fulbright Prize for International Understanding.

So... something changed somewhere in there. It certainly did for me. When I see that Clinton is now involved in something, I pretty much think "oh, that's good. He'll probably bring some heart into whatever's going on." I'm GLAD he's become buddies with Bill Gates; I think that money is probably being better spent because of Bill's contacts and experience. I heard him talk persuasively to the panel at the G8 summit, and he said lots of things that I'd want said to that group. In short, I've become quite sympathetic to the guy. I mean, if we'd been through the crapola he's been through (and forget the money and fame, neither of which is comforting when you share a bed with a woman who hates you, to name just one scenario that's certainly played out in his life), holy smokes, we'd either be a little more tolerant of others, or we'd become cynical and embittered. Anyhow. No, I don't want him as the Commander in Chief, nor as the guy holding the purse strings of this nation, but he seems to be doing great with the position he's been given: Listened-To Former President With Friends in High Places.

You might disagree with that paragraph, but that's me. Now, what I see is what everyone else on the planet sees: Hillary is coming. She has also learned a thing or two in the last decade, and does a whooooole lot less public conniving. She seems calmer, less menopausal, and more in control of herself. She's certainly more in control in some ways, since her husband's days of holding political office are over, and her future is the only one the family has left to fight for. Everyone speculates that the lady wants to be president just like Bill.

I can't believe I wrote all that. I really just wanted to ask this one question: IF the Republicans continue to mangle our country in the way they marry the military with business concerns, AND IF Bill has more grace and patience and wisdom than he once had, and IF Hillary is more calm, cool, and collected than ever...

Would Hillary For President really be the worst thing in the world? Now before you say "OH HELL YES!", let me just ask... really? Would it really be as bad as, say, Jeb running the show?

Those three sentences were the whole post, right there. This is epilogue. I just want to state that I don't pretend to be politically aware, savvy, or really very concerned--I place no hope in such things. I just found that question race across my mind today and was surprised. I'm a pretty run of the mill American on this stuff: I like to think of myself as discriminating in my judgment, but I'm pretty roundly uninformed and don't care to do the work that would make me so. I catch a sound bite a month. I am vulnerable to the image-makers' craft. And today I ask that question. Rockstar, feel free to rebut. I just ask the question. And no, this post has nothing to do with the Che post.