Hope Springas Eternal

Several of us are approaching a time in modern life commonly expressed in negative terms. Midlife crisis seems so harsh, really. Richard Ford talked about "the existence period" in Independence Day, as protagonist Frank Bascombe moved through his mid-40s in "the condition of honest independence" following a divorce and reordering of his life. I always found that a little melancholy, to be honest.

No, we need something else for our not-yet-but-we-can-see-it-from-here-over-the-hill gang. A modest proposal from me, then. In the spirit of youth being wasted on the young, I call for a reimagining of social norms. I call, my friends, for adult rumspringa. Or as Whitney knows it, life. Apparently it will involve karaoke.

I'm still working on the details, so I could use a little help. Our bodies can't take the fast life like they used to, so we probably need to limit the duration of our sabbatical from the real world. Amish kids get two years. We don't really need that much.

So let's say we get a 90-day break from the real world.

Our companies have to give us our jobs when we return, but they don't have to pay us while we're away. While I'm still waiting to hear any of the candidates in tonight's Democratic Presidential debate mention it, this seems like an excellent opportunity for the Federal Government to test Universal Basic Income for middle-aged people. We could take an advance on our Social Security to finance our alternate reality. The Gheorgheverse ranks among the generally fortunate, from a socio-economic perspective, so we've got to figure out how to make this public policy work for everyone, or it's one more privilege that we'll need to check.

Airlines and other travel entities will offer discounted fares for springers. (That's what they'll call us. I'm working on it.) Those of us that are married or in relationships can bring our significant others with us. It's not The Purge, you jerks. And we're not looking to sew wild oats, just mild oats.

Like the spring breaks of our youth, there will likely be concentrations of springers in warm, laid-back places, but they'll have better accommodations - Japanese toilets, for example. And we won't have to sleep 2-3 per bed, unless we choose to do so.

The bands of our youth will have permanent gigs. Hell, Whit and I just saw Elvis Costello and Blondie, and they still sound good. For the metalhead set, Bang Tango and Faster Pussycat are still touring. Just bring earplugs.

We're so much better at eating now than we were then, so the food had better be good. But not too rich. Maybe a plant-based springer package, then.

Reading back through my thoughtfully constructed proposal, I realize that I've basically described a very pleasant, if short, retirement. Ah, fuck it. If you can't say it, you can't do it.

Did I mention that springer haunts will play the movies of our adolescence.

Real American Hero

Slow days around these parts, what with the heat and the mid-summer vacation season in full swing. I think our loyal readership could use a bit of a boost. Something with energy, and verve, and all kinds of whimsy.

Craig Engels is the cure for what ails a body.

Engels is an American distance runner, primarily known for his prowess in 800 and 1500m races. In fact, he just upset reigning Olympic gold medalist Matthew Centrowitz to win the national title in the 1500m.

That's cool, and all.

But once you get a look at Engels in all of his free-flowing glory, you'll understand why we celebrate him today. You really only need the description at the 0:16 mark to get the point, but watch the whole race just for kicks.



The flow is real.

Rollin' on a River

A few weeks ago, I posted a preview of my trip through the Allagash Wilderness Waterway in Northern Maine. Today, you get a photographic tour of the seven-day, six-night, 112-mile paddle made by 10 intrepid extended family members.

After a night spent at Pelletier's Campground in St. Francis, ME, we
took two vans deep into the wilderness on logging roads to get to the
put-in on Chamberlain Lake

We had 15-20 mph winds on our first two days on the lake, which
put us well behind schedule. But it meant that we got this sunset from
Gravel Beach:

We busted our humps on the third day, making 31 miles and finally
getting onto the Allagash River proper.

On the fourth night, my cousin and I paddled out to see an enormous moon,
and our photog shot this one. Might see this framed somewhere in my
house the next time you come over.

We unloaded our canoes for the six-mile run down Chase Rapids. The
Maine Department of Agriculture, Conservation and Forestry
State Parks and Public Lands charges $10/group to shuttle gear. We'd have
paid 100x that to avoid a six-mile portage.

We did, however, have to portage about 1/3 mile to get around Allagash
Falls. Which features a 40-foot drop, and looks like this.

We ran about two dozen rapids, most like this one. Fun, and not really
all that dangerous

We saw a ton of wildlife on the trip, from six moose (one from really close -
those are enormous beasts), dozens of eagles, a friendly bunny, lots of
mergansers, a bunch of chipmunks, an osprey, terns, and too many really
tiny chub.

A lot of stuff going on here on the fifth night. Some tired dudes drinking beer,
a little bit of river pickin' and singin', a bit of cooking, possibly my cousin
taking a leak in the background.

Late in the week, a tailwind strong enough to move the boats under sail
power. For about 10 minutes. It was fun while it lasted.

We finished where we started, in St. Francis, and then we headed into
town, where we crushed a bunch of greasy food and some big beers. Best
meal ever. It included poutine.

You can see all 181 pictures our trip photographer took at this link. Hard for me to find words to do the week justice. Great group of guys, including my 69 year-old uncle and his 75 year-old brother. They first did this trip 53 years ago. Circle of life, and such. Seven days without cell service in an epically beautiful setting, working my muscles to soreness each day, eating heartily, going to bed early and getting up with the sun. I love my creature comforts, but there something simple and pure to be said for ditching them for a bit.

Your Number One Douche Has a New Album

Yes, I know. I have a problem.

I'm usually such a positive person, breezing my way through life like . . . like . . . like a Beach Boys song. (A good Beach Boys song, not garbage like "Kokomo.")

And yet there is someone out there who gets my goat so much that it makes me a compulsively negative person. Makes me an Internet troll, of all things. It's horrible. And it happens any time he is mentioned, gets a headline, or . . . lookee here, releases a new album!

Mike Love, y'all. Future resident of actual Hell. Current purveyor of musical Hell.

12 Sides of Summer is his newest auditory upchucking, and it's a dandy. Stephen Thomas Erlewine, the premier reviewer at AllMusic, gives it more credit than I would have (natch) but notes the "incredibly chintzy production that sounds like it was slapped together at home on a tablet computer."  Meanwhile, in the Evening Standard, Harriet Wolstenholme writes:

California Beach, a rare original song, opens with a quintessential Love lyric: “Where surfers are surfing and dancers are dancing/ You’re sure to find a honey that you’ll love romancing”. Ick.

We will get back to that rare original song in a minute, but let's get to Les Coole's review of the record:

Just dreck. I mean . . . dreck.

There you have it.  Bad covers of what Erlewine calls "shopworn summer standards" with putrid production and Mike Love's voice.  A voice, which does have a place in musical history, and is best highlighted here:

(I got that clip from a website called Crappy Music Monday in a post in which the first two sentences are "Mike Love is a douche-nozzle. Pretty much everyone knows this." Join the movement, people.)

Mike Love is 78, and it's understandable that a voice at that age will diminish.  Could be a good thing, but if the best descriptor for your vocals on an album is "wan," maybe it's time to hang up the baseball cap and just get back to supporting your pal Donald Trump's mission to Make America Like Kokomo For the First Time.

The songs... okay, so I created a playlist below featuring the originals, solid covers of those songs, and then Mike Love's 12 Sides of Summer renditions.  Have a listen and decide what you think.  (I know, you don't give a damn. Why do I get so twisted up?)

Example: You know The Rivieras' "California Sun," a beach all-timer with that Vox Continental organ and surf guitar that etches itself in the brain permanently. You may well know the Ramones' cover, with Johnny's pounding guitar and Joey's inimitable voice. And then you get this new version, a relatively inoffensive bongo-and-handclap stab with a robust backup chorus that juxtaposably dwarfs Dr. Love's frail warbling. Harmless but pointless. Steve Spurrier: "Not very good."

It's the same lot of tripe throughout, with a couple of things worth mentioning:

• He can't even cover the Beach Boys very well.
• If you can redo "Girl From Ipanema" with a sonic quality that says "What's two steps beyond elevator music?", well, you've accomplished something.
• A little media noise has been made about "Rockaway Beach," his take on the aforementioned Ramones, and how it's a crazy cross-culture mish-mash. It's not. It's not avant-garde, and it actually makes sense. The Ramones were punk rock but drew mightily from 60's sun and surf classics like the Beach Boys. Not a bad marriage. Well chosen, sir. But again, Mike Love's always nasally grating, now eunuchally impotent voice* coupled with mom's basement production utterly undercuts the result.

* From Mike Love's own website: "Love’s voice is a style of its own. He combines his steady bass/baritone with a whimsical intonation— indicative of the ultra-cool, self-confidence and innocence of the early 1960s."  

So he has his ridiculous description, I have mine.

• And finally, there's the original single that Rolling Stone calls "breezy."  It's called "California Beach," and if you astutely noted that Mike Love has covered "California Sun" and "Rockaway Beach" on the same album that he produces a "new," "original" song called "California Beach," good for you. That's not where the appropriating ends. To enable a true-side-by-side comparison, I've appended the playlist with some needless duplication. Obnoxious, eh?  Check it out. "California Beach" is "Rockaway Beach." (No, Finkle/Einhorn lovers, "Rockaway Beach is not "California Beach.")  All that's missing is a Cal Cal, California Beach chorus.  There's a reason the two tracks could not be placed further apart on this album, but it's still pretty brazen. This is "Riot in Cell Block 9" / "Student Demonstration Time" all over again.  Seriously. What a douche.

That's all, good people. Now back to my positively positive dipshittery.

Oh yeah... I also love this: http://cokemachineglow.com/features/pictures-of-mike-love-looking-like-a-douche/http://cokemachineglow.com/features/pictures-of-mike-love-looking-like-a-douche/

Chronicles of an Aging Gheorghie: Bar Tabs and Boat Drinks

A bit of consumer advocacy from our friend in OBX, which may well explain how we manage to rack up $700 bar tabs when we're in his neck of the woods. And the wisdom at the end is worth noting, though I suspect we all fall on the right side of that advice.

A brief tale of fading memory, camaraderie and small business accommodation that may resonate with those who age, who drink and who visit this outpost:

Several weeks back, a buddy and I met one afternoon at a local watering hole that shall go nameless, but rhymes with “Shmortuga’s Fly.” We sat at the bar and were there between two and three hours. We had a few beers apiece, we each had a meal, and at the end I ordered some takeout to carry home for the missus. I put the bill on my card, my buddy gave me cash, and off we went.

Fast-forward a couple weeks, and the charge on my credit card statement for that day was considerably higher than I remembered. There were no shots, no swag, no round of drinks for the bar. Of course, I didn’t keep the receipt to check against the statement, ‘cause I don’t need any more small pieces of paper in my orbit (Is that a thing? Do people keep receipts for a month to check against their credit card bill?).

Texted my buddy and asked if he remembered the total. He did not, but said it seemed high. Told him that I didn’t know if I had any recourse, since I didn’t have a receipt. Coincidentally, he owned a restaurant/bar in the Maryland D.C. suburbs for 25 years and said that most joints keep a record of credit card transactions, and certainly for the past month.

So, I drove to Shmortuga’s and talked to a manager. Wasn’t demanding or accusatory, but wrote out the date and the details as I remembered, and asked if they could research it. She was very polite and said it might be a few days, but they’d look into it.

A couple days pass, and into my inbox pop several texts. The first says, the bill looks right, with a screen shot of our order. Several more beers than I recalled, an appetizer we split that I didn’t remember, and I put the tip on the card, when I thought I left cash. Another text came in a little later with a screen shot of the card charge for the exact amount, complete with my illegible signature.
I texted back and thanked her for checking. Told her this is what happens when you’re old and you have a few beers and your memory’s shot. She said, no problem, we’re at the beach, it happens all the time, and thanks for my business.

I’ve heard a few anecdotes here of groups getting doctored bar bills – an extra pitcher that wasn’t ordered, an upsell on drinks (“when you asked for a tall one, I thought that meant you wanted a double”). For the most part, folks here play it straight. The Shmortuga’s manager assured me a couple times that they don’t do business that way. Told her, I’m not suggesting that you do; I might have mis-remembered, folks make honest mistakes, but just take a look if you can.

My takeaway is that my mind is an unreliable bookkeeper when out drinking and eating – during and after. Catawba White Zombie Ale on draft is a little pricier than you think. The bill is whatever it says it is, so just pay the damn thing and don’t waste my or any overworked manager’s time. And don’t let any of it deter you from visiting a little corner we’ll just call the Shmouter Blanks.

Farewell, Champ

Though he never knew if, my life story was intertwined - if only briefly - with that of Pernell "Sweetpea" Whitaker. I was saddened as I returned to civilization on Friday to learn that the former world titleholder in four weight classes (lightweight, light welterweight, welterweight, and light middleweight) was struck by a pickup truck and killed in Norfolk last Sunday.

In the winter of 1989, while I was a Pi Lam pledge, I found myself in the common area of our fraternity house with a mix of brothers and pledges. A boxing telecast came on, and as the tale of the tape was broadcast, one of the brothers noticed something. Whitaker was listed at 5'4", 125 pounds. "Russell," the brother (who's name is lost to history) gleefully exclaimed, "What are your measurements?"

"About 5'4", 125," I replied.

With a giddiness tinged with just a soupcon of sadism, he instructed me to stand next to the television and mimic Pea's moves throughout the fight. If my sense of timing is correct, the fight in question was Whitaker's win by decision over Greg Haugen, which earned the Norfolk native the IBF Lightweight belt. And that's how I came to fight twelve rounds in the Pit of the Pi Lam house in Williamsburg.

About four years later, I joined Whit and a bunch of other guys in a group house in Arlington to watch Whitaker take on Julio Cesar Chavez in a welterweight bout. Pea beat the everlovin' hell out of the legendary Mexican champ, winning 9 of 12 rounds in the eyes of Sports Illustrated's on-site reporter. The judges, possibly influenced by the heavily pro-Chavez crowd in San Antonio, saw it differently, calling it a majority draw (two judges had it a draw, while one called the fight for Whitaker).

The Pea was robbed, y'all, but not me, as I had 'draw' in the pool we put together, so I walked with a bittersweet payday.

Whitaker struggled after his career ended, like many in the fight game. He died at 55, far too young.

I've never been a huge fight fan, but two of the most memorable bouts of my life involved Sweetpea Whitaker. He was unquestionably my favorite fighter ever.

RIP, Norfolk's proud son.

Marcus King is the Shit And You Need to Listen to Him Because I Said So, So Please Do It Because I Really Mean It - He's the Shit. Thanks.

As traditional blues fades more and more onto the fringe of popular American music, the emergence of young guitar guns in the genre always raises the interest of veteran old fans who hope that torch of inspiration stays lit. We have seen it with the North Mississippi All Stars, and most recently with Gary Clark Jr.

But I'm not here to talk about them. I'm here to talk about Marcus King and the Marcus King Band. They are THE SHIT. Marcus King is 23 years old. He looks like a smush of Meatloaf and Greg Allman that was then miniaturized. And he plays like Stevie Ray, with a full life's worth of blues and soul in his young body, courtesy of his dad's legacy as a bluesman in his own right (Marvin King).

I highly recommend you find some time to play this wonderful show from last March at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, NY (home of the PCU Whooping Cranes!). Crank it at your desk, in your car, while you are doing nautilus, or while you are having a drink and getting loose. It takes 25 seconds for the show to start, so don't start wetting the bed when you click that play button!

The first two songs are hot fire that show the muscle he brings to the table. First song goes to about the 5:40 mark, and the second (full of classic rock licks you may know!) goes to about the 15:00 mark. And yeah, dig that horn section. And the keys too. Some funky funky stuff going down on that stage. He's a South Cackalacky dude, but there is some of that New Orleans funk in that band's sound.

I could probably find a YouTube single track to play from the band's eponymous album. And I could probably also point you to his track featuring Derek Trucks. But I'm instead going to dare you to play this show in the background as you are doing your Crossfit workout or finishing your TPS reports or dropping a deuce. At least make it to the 11:45 mark to hear him the classic rock teases while Marcus is absolutely shredding on the guitar.

The little dude is an otherwordly player. His star is very much on the rise and he is touring like a madman. Go get some!

The Duke of Brunswick Was a Baller - G:TB Does Swiss History

Amid the slacking here, I thought it would be a good time to offer a European history lesson. I now consider myself an expert after my last run through the continent for work in May. It was a whirlwind visit: London, Geneva, Luxembourg and Milan in a week. Lots of wrinkled clothes and work meetings, with a wee bit of tourism fun mixed in.

One of the surprising fun parts of my trip was my twenty-four hours in Geneva. I had been to Zurich for work about four years ago. It was cloudy and damp and uneventful, save for a good client meal where I learned about the Vivino wine app. Geneva was a different story, almost entirely b/c of the perfect weather. Things I learned on this trip included the following: Lake Geneva is one of the largest lakes in Western Europe!  It's pretty damn beautiful to look at when the sun is out! And it feeds the Rhone River, which runs all through France and, presumably, nourishes the grapes that make up Cote du Rhone wine, one of my favorite reds to accompany a nice steak!

My day included 24 degree weather (Celsius), abundant sunshine and lots of eventful walking between meetings, as you can see from my fantastic photos. So I got to enjoy great weather, see the town and learn a few things. On one walk, I walked past a curious structure right up against the lake. Turns out it was the tomb of the Duke of Brunswick. And he was kind of a badass. So let's learn!

Charles William Ferdinand was born in 1804 in Brunswick, a part of Saxony in Germany. He was rich as hell, and inherited a duchy at age 11. Not a dutchie, unfortunately. But Charles got squeezed out of power, forced to leave Germany, and his palace was burned. And his brother later returned to Brunswick, took over his duchy and had a mercenary army on call to defend it. Dick move by the brother, right?

So Charles became a wealthy expat across Europe for his whole life and lived it up something fierce. He spent most of his later years in Geneva. After visiting there, I get it. Water and sunshine and seasons and culture. All good stuff. I still think I would opt for Capri or Mallorca or Crete, but not all folks love islands.

Charles died in a hotel in 1873 at the age of 68. When I first saw that he died in 1873 (after being born in 1804), I thought he passed at age 69, which would have been cool. When I found out he passed before his 69th birthday, I thought it would have been cool if he passed 69 days before his 69th. But he died 73 days before his 69th. So, um, bummer. And yeah, I'm kind of a loser.

Here's where things get cool. When Charles died, he had quite a fortune from his duchy. He decided to leave it all to the city of Geneva, under the condition that the city build a special tomb for him that overlooks Lake Geneva.  Baller move, right? I'm surprised no US celebrities/magnates/politicians have tried the same with Mount Rushmore, Central Park, the Joshua Tree or any other iconic area. But I digress.

Turns out there was some consternation among the Genevites (Genevians?), but they took the money and ran. They built the Brunswick Monument for Charles and it stands to this day. And it's pretty sweet. May we all have such a theatrical homage to our life across the street from a European lake.

Be sure to turn in next week (or year) for our second lesson, where we learn about how weird Luxembourg is. 

Twelve Years a Dad

In April 2007, my wife and I went on a "babymoon" vacation before the birth of our first son. She was five months pregnant. We had no idea how ill-prepared we were for what lied ahead. But we knew that the vacation was a "last hurrah" before parenthood. We went to the Yucatan peninsula. We had a minor scare (googling the phrase "second trimester spotting" on the PC of a third world hotel is suboptimal), but ended up having a good time at Playa del Carmen and Isla Mujeres. I drank more tequila than necessary, and enjoyed a few Cubans. And some cigars too. Hey-oh!

In the years since 2007, we lost our last two remaining parents. And we have no siblings near us to babysit. So any adult time away came after paying for an overnight sitter. And that was not cheap. So we didn't do any adult traveling. Which sucked quite a bit!

But a light at the end of our adult vacation purgatory is emerging. It is sleepaway camp. Several years ago, we found out from a dad in town about a YMCA camp in the foothills of the Berkshires (western Massachusetts), near where some of us (including a very rural version of Rootsy) celebrated Dr J's wedding many years ago. I vaguely remember we ended that night doing diving football catches into a hotel pool and passing a bottle of Southern Comfort. And I think Rootsy started a hootenanny late night. I vomited the next day, seconds after exiting a train at Grand Central Station, amid a throng of young folks attending a Brazilian Day parade in Manhattan. That was fun for everybody.

Anyhoo, the camp is a values-based camp that is a pretty amazing place. Kids go for four weeks at a time, generally from the summer after third grade through the summer after eighth grade. After that, there are volunteer/travel opportunities and counselor gigs that are no joke. We know a neighbor/former camper who finished his freshman year in high school this year. He is now in Vietnam, doing a volunteer/travel program. Hopefully he hasn't seen Full Metal Jacket.

So where was I? My eldest is starting his third year at camp this year. He has become a fishing whiz who does improv acting and ultimate frisbee and got an elite badge by swimming over a mile across the lake. All these things came out of the blue. Which is awesome. That's camp. Try something new. Put yourself out there. Have fun. He has camp buddies from Boston, NY, California and other areas.

The camp is really quite cool. The link to the camp is here and there is a touching video below that makes my wife feel like there's dust in her eyes.



His experience has my younger kid fired up for camp. He will go for the first time this year. Life experience, fishing, camping, values, yadda, yadda, yadda.

But here's the rub - my wife and I will soon be empty-nesters for four weeks! It's the first time since 2007, starting Sunday July 21st. I had plans to eat cheese on my couch in my underwear, but the missus has other ideas.

So after we spend ~36 hours missing them, we will shoot down to Charleston for several days of adult activities: tourism, BBQ, booze, fine dining, sweating, relaxing by a pool, relaxing on a beach, booze, BBQ, sweat, rinse, repeat.

Charleston emerged b/c of the food scene. More specifically, I have been infatuated with the BBQ scene there. I have been itching to visit Rodney Scott's BBQ joint, which is just a mile away from town. Rodney Scott is a legend in the BBQ world. And I am irrationally excited to go there and eat the hell out of his offerings. I'm more of a pork loyalist with my BBQ, and he cooks the whole damn hog. He also won a James Beard award! That is impressive, but I don't exactly know why.

We also plan to do a day trip to Kiawah. And my wife is itching to do a trip to Columbia, SC, where she attended college her freshman year. I'm not up for that, but can use it as leverage for more BBQ. I'm looking at you, John Lewis BBQ. Any guy that worked at Franklin's in Austin and then moved to Charleston to sell that town on Texas style BBQ is worth paying attention to.

So be prepared for gluttonous comments from me next week. My wife and I have had a long run without some time to ourselves. The best we had in the past was kid camp on vacations when the kids were very young, but that's a distant memory. I have no idea if we will enjoy each other's company, but we'll enjoy the solitude. At least until my gas kicks in.

Where in the World was zman? Part 4

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings over the next few days. My last installment left off at bedtime on Friday.

On Saturday we woke up bright and early, had breakfast, and went over to the WDC. We were loaded onto a van and hauled over some truly bumpy terrain to a dinosaur dig site where we spent about four hours helping the WDC staff dig stuff up.

The big black thing on the right of zson is a Camarasaurus leg bone, I think it was a femur. zson found a small piece of Camarasaurus tendon which they let him keep along with some fossilized plant matter and "float bone" (random tiny bone fragments) that I found. He was thrilled. Then they loaded us up again and took us even further out onto a ridge that used to be below an ocean. It's littered with fossilized sea life. We found and kept a bunch of clam and squid fossils, then went back to the museum for a behind-the-scenes tour including a Maiasaura mid-assembly and various pieces of Jimbo the Supersaurus. He's 106 feet long.

Then we got a guided museum tour. It was dope, as the kids say. Here's a Camarasaurus:

And here's the best Archaeopteryx in the US:

And here's an explanation of the Archaeopteryx:

Then we headed back to Casper. On Sunday we fished again with great success including this 20 inch rainbow trout.

Then we went back to Denver on Monday. zson was too pooped to do much other than swim in the hotel's saltwater pool and play with other kids at a McDonald's playground. I guess he needed some kid interaction after six days with just me. Then we flew home. I read "The Boilerplate Rhino" by David Quammen through most of the flight and it's perfect airplane material, especially after our week in the field. It's a collection of Quammen's essays from Outside magazine. They're all about 5-6 pages long so it's easy to stop and start the book, and the one about T. rex fossils in Montana was particularly resonant given recent events.

None of this is a humblebrag (except for that last photo of the fish). I have no idea how to parent properly. My guiding principle when I'm faced with a decision about my kids is to avoid doing what my parents would have done. So rather than have him watch TV all summer I took zson to a place I've never been to do stuff I wanted to do as a kid (and as an adult, truth be told). I'm just trying to get things right.

Hopefully zson will look back at this trip fondly. I know I will.

Where in the World was zman? Part 3

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings throughout the week. My last installment left off on Friday.

The drive from Casper to Thermopolis takes two hours, the first eighty minutes of which are pretty boring. The final forty minutes through the Wind River Canyon are about as beautiful as any drive I’ve ever taken. Once you get to Shoshoni you turn north and drive along a lake which turns into the Bighorn River. Then you enter a canyon of multicolored rocks and flowers with the road right up against the river. The ride back south was even more beautiful. I could spend all day driving back and forth through that canyon in a convertible and never get tired of it.

Like Casper, Thermopolis is also a funny little place. The population is about 3,500 but it has a world-class dinosaur museum (the Wyoming Dinosaur Center or WDC), an amphitheater and the world's largest natural mineral hot springs. There's a tannery called Merlin's Hide Out. They sell all sorts of cool stuff like this:

Thermopolis also has one pretty cool restaurant with a brewery. But it also has this building with some uncool masonry (I hope it was built before the 1930s) and a Ron Paul sign.

Despite its libertarian streak, Thermopolis felt much younger, newer, and hopeful than Casper. I saw no cowboy hats or big belt buckles (although I did see a guy in boots with spurs and he was wearing them genuinely with no irony, unlike TR during his stint in the West Village). Most people were decked out in well-worn technical outdoor gear but with the swagger of a bow hunter, not a granola. The only time I smelled weed on the whole trip was by the men’s room at the One Eyed Buffalo (the site of my only real meal in Thermopolis—they make a hell of a prime rib). If Thermopolis was a singer it would be Sturgill Simpson.



At some point we had lunch. zson’s diet consists essentially of pizza, mac and cheese, and chicken tenders/nuggets so we had a fair number of meals at McDonald’s because (a) Wyoming pizza probably is not right and (b) there aren’t a ton of dining options in towns of 3,500 people. Thermopolis has a McDonald’s but more importantly it’s right next door to Ava’s Silver and Rock Shop. Much like Marls circa 1994, the shop’s outwardly dumpy appearance hides some amazing stuff inside. The owners (Eddie and Ava) are a husband and wife team of grumpy elderly geologists. Eddie discovered the Avaceratops (he named it after Ava) and he’s happy to tell the story. He’s also happy to tell you how the people running the Wyoming Dinosaur Center don’t know what they’re doing (apparently he and Ava helped get the dig sites started and were dismissed from their post sometime thereafter—Eddie is passionately pissed about this and Ava interrupted him at one point to merely say “It’s a sore point” and then got back to cleaning fossils). And man, do they have fossils. Cheap fossils! You can buy fossil fish for $10 to $20 and they’re beautifully perfect and decently big. They also have Spinosaurus teeth, shark teeth (for a dollar each), all sorts of plants (fifty cents a pop) and fish, bones from various sauropods, and an amazing lower jaw from a Mososaur. My biggest regret from the trip is not going back to their store on the way out of town to buy a fossil or two.

Then we checked into our hotel and learned that the air conditioning in our room was broken. I can say with great authority that there's nothing sadder than a Lasko box fan in your window on a 90 degree day. It was like freshman year in Monroe all over again. So we went over to Star Plunge where we swam in the hot springs, and this happened:

We played Bananagrams for a bit and had dinner, then we went back to Star Plunge to swim in the hot spring until it closed at 9 pm (once you pay you can leave and come back anytime that day). Then we slept a sweaty sleep.

Stay tuned for further installments later this week.

Where in the World was zman? Part 2

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings over the next few days. My last installment left off on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, zson and I flew to Denver and got a rental car. I knew we would have a good time when zson got in the car, a standard-size relatively popular five-passenger Japanese SUV, and said "Is this whole car made out of plastic?" I'm raising him right. I tuned the radio to Sirus's 70's channel as we started to drive north. About 10 minutes later zson said "We need to listen to country music" and he was correct. Just as walking around New York City with hiphop in your earphones can change the way you view a song and the city, country and western music sets the mood perfectly for the Rocky Mountain states. Four hours later we were in Casper, WY where we stayed in a cabin along the North Platte River.

Wyoming is strangely beautiful in late June. Driving north on I25, the prairie swells into mountains and the whole thing looks like a lumpy cake covered in sage green fondant. Every once in a while some force of nature cut the cake to reveal layers of coffee, chocolate, vanilla, and red velvet. It's stunning in a "Am I on Mars?" kind of way.

The next morning we woke up and went to the lodge about a quarter mile up the road where we got in a drift boat and fly fished our asses off with a guide from Crazy Rainbow. We caught rainbow trout exclusively, all of them in the 15 to 18 inch range. zson is pretty fishy—he always gets at least twice as many bites as I do and this day out was no different than normal. His cast isn’t great but he can mend and set really well. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your world view) the rainbows in the North Platte are so big and strong that they are more likely to pull zson into the water than he is to pull them into the boat. Ben, the guide, and I helped him finish off his fish. zson adopted the practice of kissing fish before releasing them.

We slept in the cabin that night and checked out downtown Casper the next morning (Friday). Casper is a funny little city. The population is only 55,000 but it has a college, an arena, a planetarium, several museums and lots of other stuff. Almost every man over 60 had a cowboy hat and boots, Wrangler jeans, and a big silver belt buckle commemorating some event involving cattle and/or horses. The vibe is old and hardscrabble mixed with right-wing patriotism. Here are some signs we saw in a diner.

If Casper was a singer it would be Merle Haggard.



That said, everyone we met was super friendly and interested to hear about life in New Jersey. Crazy Rainbow is affiliated with Ugly Bug Fly Shop, so we stopped by the shop and booked another half-day of fishing for the upcoming Sunday (I specifically didn't plan anything after Saturday because I wasn't sure what we would want to do, so we winged it from there). We also checked out Lou Taubert Ranch Outfitters, which is “One of the Nation's Leading Western Stores" according to their shopping bags, and a t-shirt store in which we bought University of Wyoming Cowboys gear: a shirt for zdaughter and socks for zwoman (cut us some slack, zson is eight).

Then we climbed aboard our plastic SUV and drove north for two hours, listening to Willie's Roadhouse, Outlaw Country, and Bluegrass Junction until we arrived in Thermopolis.

Stay tuned for further installments later this week.

America, Fuck Yeah

We've got a William & Mary grad at the helm. We've got the sublimely confident badassery of Megan
Rapinoe, and the no fucks given goal-scoring acumen of Alex Morgan, and the ball-hunting wall-crashing physicality of Julie Ertz, and the I'll-rest-when-I'm-dead full-field athleticism of Crystal Dunn and Kelley O'Hara on the outside, and the top-five in all of American soccer (men or women) technical skill of Tobin Heath, and the ridiculous skill coming off the bench from Carli Lloyd, Christen Press, and Mallory Pugh, and the stupendously underrated vision and offensive engine-room drive of Rose Lavelle, and 13 other all-World women on our side.

The Netherlands, they're good. Champions of Europe, terrific on set pieces, heiresses to a national obsession for soccer. They can beat us.

They're not going to.

Where in the World was zman? Part 1

It's been a hell of a twelve day run for your boy from the Neck. I will regale you with tales of my comings and goings over the next few days.

Two Fridays ago I had to go into Manhattan for a hearing which went about as well as I realistically could've hoped--if the hearing was an at-bat we hit a double. The hearing ended around 1:30 pm and counsel took me out for lunch at The Odeon where I had the grilled Eden Brook trout with quinoa. It was delicious. As luck would have it, I already had dinner plans in the city with a guy I used to work with. But that wasn't until 6:00 pm so I had about 3 hours to kill. Naturally, I headed to a bar, Monk McGinn's, to drink beer and watch college baseball. The trout wasn't soaking up much alcohol and I was worried that the freight train of fun might jump the track so at some point I ordered the crispy duck spring rolls. They were good. Much like Tom T. Hall, beer makes me a jolly good fellow and I was in great spirits when my friend showed up.



We drank for a little while more and headed over to Marc Forgione where we got the Chili Lobster appetizer and I got the swordfish with asparagus. My friend is into "mixology" so we drank from the cocktail menu. I got home late, drunk and full of seafood. It was a good night.

The next day we had reservations at Sushi Nakazawa, arguably the best sushi restaurant in Manhattan. It even has a Michelin star. The reservation is a pain in the ass to get--it isn't as difficult as it used to be but to be safe for a Saturday reservation you have to make it online at midnight 30 days before the date you want. Part of the hubbub stems from the fact that the head chef (Daisuke Nakazawa) was a sous chef at Sukiyabashi Jiro which is owned and operated by Jiro Ono, arguably the best sushi chef in the world. They made a documentary about Ono-san called "Jiro Dreams of Sushi" which you can find on Netflix. Nakazawa-san appears around 0:39 and 1:38



As you can see at 1:38, Nakazawa-san has trouble perfecting one particular egg-based dish. He fails over and over throughout the movie. Finally, after months of practice, Ono-san tastes what Nakazawa-san made and said it was acceptable, prompting Nakazawa-san to sob like Michael Jordan when he won the title in 1996. This is the final item Nakazawa-san serves everyone at his restaurant. I didn't have a bite of food that was anything less than outstanding. My favorite was the cuttlefish with Japanese mint which is second from the right.

The following Monday I was supposed to go to Richmond to see Jason Isbell and Father John Misty with Whit but I bailed for two reasons. First, zwoman scheduled the demolition of our kitchen counter for Tuesday and she wanted me there to make sure everything went according to plan. Second, I also had to pack and do a bunch of other stuff on Tuesday for a trip on Wednesday, which I'll cover in later posts. The trip was too important for me to half-ass the preparation, and I was worried I wouldn't have enough time to drive home Tuesday morning, likely all hungover, and pack in the afternoon/evening. Sorry Whit, but it was sons before bros this time.

As luck would have it, FOGTB Hoopie was in Manhattan on Monday night and I knew that even if I was all hungover on Tuesday I would at least wake up at home so I went out with him and fellow FOGTB Juan Carlos. We drank a bunch of beer, then went to Jongro, my favorite Korean BBQ spot. We ordered too much food and drank a bunch of beer and shochu.

Then we went over to the bar at the Ace Hotel and continued to drink boulevardiers and screw up their turntable. For the record, if you're going to put a turntable on the bar, where customers can access it, along with a stack of records, you shouldn't be surprised if a drunken music fan takes matters into his own hands. A good time was had by all and when I woke up the next morning zwoman told me that the entire second floor of zhouse smelled like a distillery.

Then on Tuesday I packed. Like me, the counter guy bailed. Demo date is still TBD.

Stay tuned for further installments later this week.

American Life

Good morning, America, how are you?

I am an American aquarium drinker. A demolition style hell American freak, yeah. In the day we sweat it out in the streets of a runaway American dream.

There was a Buffalo Soldier in the heart of America. Said he couldn't go on the American way. In Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria.

Well, she was an American girl. American woman. Knockin' me out with those American thighs.

Bye, bye, Miss American Pie. She need to get a piece of the American pie and take her bite out. All night, she wants a young American.

For the boy we have American life. American boys hate to lose. Don't wanna be an American idiot.

We're the kids in America. Two American kids growin' up in the heartland.

White America, I could be one of your kids. Take a jumbo across the water, like to see America. They're coming to America.

Oh, but ain't that America for you and me. America the beautiful.

Do you like American music? We like all kinds of music, but I like American music best.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Dipshittery...

I saw pictures of a tank* rolling across the Anacostia River Bridge this morning, and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

(* technically, it was a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, but at 27.6 tons carrying a 25mm chain gun, a TOW anti-tank missile and a 7.62mm machine gun for backup, it's got a pretty tanky affect)

Much has been written in recent days comparing the President's* Independence Day celebration to those of authoritarian regimes the world over. Aside from a reflexive shake of the head at our tinpot leader's predictable instinct for look-at-me showmanship, I didn't give it much thought.

Then I saw the tank, and I was both pissed and unnerved. (I understand that it's not a tank. Enough already.)

Pissed, because it's honestly and ironically un-American to flash our military might to celebrate the country. No less a figure than Dwight D. Eisenhower - the last military leader to serve as President - offered this counsel on the issue, "We, the United States, are seeking peace. We are the pre-eminent power on earth. For us to try to imitate what the Soviets are doing in Red Square would make us look weak.”

(NOTE: Turns out Ike's inauguration parade in 1953 featured tanks and rockets. Apparently his thinking evolved. He did, after all, famously and presciently warn of the creeping influence of the military-industrial complex. This is why I should probably do research before I post, rather than after. Doesn't change my overall opinion, though. In modern peacetime America, tanks on the streets are weird and chilling.)

And pissed because displays of militarism on the 4th of July run counter to what I know of the American Armed Forces. I spent my entire childhood around military men and women. They are professional, and diligent, and honorable, nearly to a one. They're also exceedingly humble, in my experience. I can tell you with certainty that my father, no shrinking violet of a bleeding-heart liberal, would be highly annoyed with the festivities planned in the Nation's Capital tomorrow. He, like so many of his fellow soldiers, served not for acclaim, but out of a sense of duty. In essence, the diametric opposite of the current Commander-in-Chief.

I was unnerved because the scene was so jarring, so contextually...wrong. Tanks roll into places marked by strife, by instability, where ruling parties seek to quash dissent, or occupying armies show force to keep the defeated in fear and awe. They don't patrol the streets of high-functioning modern democracies. I don't mean to be alarmist, for sure, and I know the Bradley in question wasn't 'patrolling' anything in a real way, but the visual struck me cold nonetheless.

People purporting to be patriots will cheer American might tomorrow as planes fly over D.C., fireworks explode in the sky, armored vehicles pass by on Constitution Avenue. Those 'patriots' are cowards in my book. They're losing the war of ideas, so they wrap themselves in the might of the American military while they suppress votes, cage brown people in a form of fear cloaked in other-hating bravado, and celebrate a President* anathema to nearly everything I thought I knew of America.

I'll return to Eisenhower to close this melancholy message. In a radio chat in 1959, the general-turned-statesman said, “If my message to you on this Fourth of July could be put into one sentence, it would be this: State the facts of freedom and trust in God, as we have ever done.”

We're denying the facts of freedom, and trusting in our worst instincts. I don't expect to have a terribly happy 4th of July this year.

Whimsy for the Winsy

We have a swingset in our back yard, a relic from a time when my children actually used such a thing. It's a bit rickety, and it's been generally unused for at least four years. It sits on a nicely leveled raised bed, framed by railroad ties.

One of my pipe dreams, home improvement category, is to remove the swingset and replace it with a tiny house/man shed/retreat. Something like this:

But I saw something yesterday that has me reconsidering the art of the possible.

Minnesotan-by-way-of-Alaska Gabe Emerson also wanted a small place to call his own on his friend's remote property. After first seeking to acquire an old plane fuselage, he went one better.

He bought a monorail.

Seems the Minnesota Zoo decommissioned one and had no idea what to do with it. Once Emerson convinced them he was serious, they sold it to him for a song. Or for $1,000, to be precise. It cost another $5,000 or so to dismantle and move the six-car train to the property, which is a steal, considering.

Emerson built a deck and is in the process of renovating and updating the cars. But he and his friends have already used it as an alternative to tents, and he's likely got the most unique cabin in Minnesota's famously cabin-crazed culture.

Now all I need to do is find a monorail.