Hiatus

Friends,

This blog has been with us a very, very long time. However, I have not done the best job of keeping it up-to-date and answering the question that it poses: Is Max Alive?

As you are all probably aware, I have created several other internet indulgences that have, over time, usurped this blog's position. I'm on Facebook and LinkedIn; I Tweet constantly; I created a web-presence focused on my writing and artistic work, as well as professional; and most recently I have launched a Tumblr blog that chronicles the adventures of my cousins and I in New York.

I am not shutting down this blog. Firstly, because it's a nice repository of writing going back nearly six years now. Secondly, because I might want it again some day. In fact, during my Assault on America's Senses, it was the only blog I could easily post to. It may prove useful again in the future.

So, I thank you for reading here and I hope you'll keep reading my elsewhere.

-Max

Blogging from the Air

So, this is it. I spent a fantastic few days with Garg-alum and former Mason Proper member Matt Thompson and now I am in the air. Thanks to the miracle of WiFi technology, I can write this while our plane shakes over the Rockies.

Many of you are probably wondering why I haven't been updating from the road more, though I imagine that most of you assume it's because I am too busy/lazy. Well, that's only half right. As previously stated, the iPhone app that I've been using to update this blog while on the road has ceased to function. That, combined with a full to the brim schedule of exploring Seattle and hiking around mountains, has prevented me from keeping you as up to date as I would like.

And now, cruising over clouds, I am not even sure what to say about the trip. For all intents and purposes it's over. But it doesn't really feel like it's over because there's so much left undone back in Virginia. Plus, I am flying back, so it feels just like an everyday vacation. The days of camaraderie and the nights of fear in the Utah desert seem distant, like the memories aren't even mine.

Maybe by tomorrow I'll be better sorted to put this all together. I've said farewell to the road, and now I need to write the epitaph for the Assault on America's Senses.

The Final Push

Today, I board a bus in San Francisco and ride (first south to Sacramento but then) North to Portalnd, Oregon. I'll say one night in a motel downtown and meet up with Cousin Sarah while she's attending some kind of conference.

On the 27th I'll take what is probably the shortest bus trip of my Assault and pay an extended visit on Matt Thompson (formerly of Mason Proper, formerly of Gargoyle, formerly of Some French Dairy Farm in France) in Seattle. I'm really looking forward to this, since I'd previously only spent a few hours in Seattle.

On the 30th (or so) I'll check my trusty duffel and ride a jet all the way back to DCA. That'll be it. That ends the Assault. Tonight is the final push up the west coast.

See you all soon.

The Lawns of Longmont

So, I already wrote this post while standing in the Denver Greyhound terminal, but Blogpress -- the iPhone app I have been using to blog while on this trip -- decided that it no longer wanted to play nice and did not actually publish the post. Then, for the sake of consistency, it deleted the draft of my post. Nearly an hour of thumb twiddling on my phone down the toilet.

This is very disappointing. Not just for the loss of a blog post, but because it means that my ability to update y'all gentle readers from the road is greatly inhibited. However, I have my trusty disposable laptop with me, so hopefully I can continue to keep you all in the know.

---

Thanks to everyone who wrote so encouragingly about me taking the plane from Omaha to Denver and "cheating" on my trip. Not only did it warm my heart to know that people are reading my blog, but it was great to have some positive reinforcement for my decisions.

And it turned out to be a great decision. Not only did I arrive in 1/20th the time it would have taken me to bus out to Denver, my ticket was apparently a "classic" ticket on Frontier airlines. As such, it entitled me to a free checked bag, a premium beverage (bourbon and soda water, thanks), and a snack (oh man, you guys have cheese curds?). I had no idea that I was entitled to such perks when I ordered the ticket and was feeling extremely pleased with myself as I floated in to the Denver International Airport.

Now, the Denver airport is famous for two things: losing your luggage, and horrible omens. First and foremost among the bad omens is that the airport is home to the worst bar in America: the "Q Bar," which is a Quiznos with an attached bar that charged me $9 for a Blue Moon (bottle) the last time I was there.

Second are the amazingly creepy murals that can be found inside. One of them, as I recall, depicts the Grim Reaper drawing the souls out of people.

Third is the Nightmare Pony, which I guess is supposed to symbolize the power and majesty of the Denver Broncos (football team, not horses). Why the artist chose to communicate this concept with a giant rearing blue horse with terrifying patterns across its body and illuminated red eyes is completely beyond me.

Fourth is a recent addition: a huge statue of Annubis, the Egyptian god of Death. So uplifting!

Despite all these bad omens my flight arrived on time, I met Kris (best pal, Boulder resident, artist), and was on my way to Longmont. On my way out, I was pleased to see two new members of the airport freakshow: gargoyles leaping out of suitcases that the explanatory placcard ominously says are "about the size of a ten-year-old boy."

Sunday was a lazy day for Kris and I, since it was pretty late by the time I got in. The next morning, I had planned to get started working on Kris' backyard. This wasn't a condition of my visit, but rather something I volunteered to do. As many of you know, I used to work as a groundskeeper and every year my hands get itchy for plants and soil. Kris inherited a rather unkempt lawn from the previous owners who had employed some downright odd gardening practices; the oddest of which was laying newspaper underneath mulch.

Unfortunately, after I had finished reacquainting myself with Kris' excellent vinyl record collection, I wound up getting distracted and not starting on the lawn. Most of the late afternoon was spent with Kris, going to different stores and searching for the legendary Mexicoke. That is, Coca-Cola from Mexico where it is still made with cane sugar. Years ago, Kris told me that after one drink of this stuff, I would understand why people used to be obsessed with Coca-Cola.

After four stores and nearly two hours of searching, we threw in the towel on the Mexicoke. Once again eluded by the fizzy beverage, I renewed my vow to track it down and taste its delicious, caramel colored contents.

That evening, Kris took me to Il Pastaio where I was once again treated to some of the best pasta I've ever had. Il Pastaio has an interesting format for ordering. You're presented with a menu that lists sauces and prices. When you order, you tell the waiter which pasta you'd like and with what sauce. You are billed not based on what kind of noodles you order, but the sauce.

The house specialty is, without a doubt, the ravioli. Unlike most other restuarants which might have, at most, three varieties of stuffed square noodles, Il Pastaio offers a veritable cornicopia of choices for the discerning diner. That night, Kris had the squash and I assure you that it did not disappoint.

The next morning, I gathered the gardening equipment I'd found the day before and began my assault on the yard. There's not much to say about that, and I am running out of time at this coffee shop, but I did a pretty good job and thuroughly enjoyed my time working on it.

To celebrate the taming of the yard, Kris and I went out to Toy Story 3 in the dying Twin Peaks mall (I looked for Laura Palmer, but she never showed). As you can imagine, the movie was excellent, and I declared it to be the best of the series.

There's much more to tell, and I am not being fair to the amazing time I had in Colordado, but I am running out of time. Kris: forgive me!

I must be going now, gentle readers. Portland awaits, and my bus leaves soon.

Onward!

Cheating

Right now, I am snug and cozy on the couch of Jenny -- a friend from College and GargAlum. She has been the most gracious of hosts, and I am grateful for it after the long slog it took to get here. I'm in Nebraska, a state I have visiting twice before. Both of those times, I was headed to where I am going tomorrow: Colorado.

However, tomorrow I will be boarding a plane to get there.

For me, it feels like cheating. Part of the reason I took this trip was to do it on the cheap and to stick to buses to see America pass by me. But I just got off of a 20+ hour ride this afternoon, and would be staring down the barrel of at least another 10 hours (more likely 16-20) to get to foot of the Rocky mountains. Right now, I just can't do that.

It would be one thing if it were my last big trek, but it isn't by a long shot. The trip from Colorado to San Francisco is over 30 hours, the train takes just about as long, and the flight is more than I am willing to throw down. Also, it's a cheap flight and a very short trip.

So I am cheating.

I feel bad about doing so. I feel like it's not in the spirit of this adventure, and that I'm not living up to my promise I made to myself when I stepped out of Virginia: do this and have fun, but be smart about it. And when I said that, I was thinking primarily of personal safety and bank accounts.

But getting to Colorado does put me in a good and flexible position for the final leg of my trip. Also, it means a nice respite before the longest ride of the trip. And right now, I think I need that. I've loved my trip but the long, dark, quiet nights in the buses aren't just hard on my back. I need to see more friends, take it easy, and lighten my heart before I get back on the Greyhound.

I'm looking at a no-transfers straight shot from Denver to San Francisco, and I am looking forward to being ready to make that trip.

New Jersey: Sinus Attack

There was something wrong with my throat when I woke up in New York on my last day in the Big Apple. I laughed it off over brunch, and only started to get worried while on my New Jersey bound train. If I was sick, it would throw everything off. Not just the trip but far more if it was serious. I had no insurance, it expired the night of my last day at SAIC. An illness could easily ruin a lot, not to mention my bank account.

But my red-headed aunt Mary was at the station when my train pulled in to Denville and everything was well with the world. That first evening I was treated to a lavish meal, courtesey of both Mary and uncle Rick. There have been many times on these long bus routes where I have thought of the steak I ate that night.

The next morning it was clear to me that I had a Sinus Situation on my hands. I didn't feel great at all, and I kep going back and forth between whether I was sick or just allergic to something. It was a maddening feeling, not knowing if I could or should continue my trip. It was particularly infuriating because my bus to Atlanta -- my next stop -- would not only pass through DC, but would stop there for over an hour. I could easily grab a cab back to m apartment in Virginia and rest up.

I discussed such things with Mary over what I can only describe as a "very cool breakfast." There was fresh fruit, eggs, and meat all eaten while a cool morning breeze blew off the lake. We ate on the porch, overlooking the lake. All the while Neil Young played on the stereo, my aunt humming along from time to time.

Because of my iffy health and the threat of thunderstorms, we decided to make it an easy day. Rick ha already left for work and Mary had business in town. I sat and read until the storm started.

It was swift and beautiful that storm. It blew in over the empty lake pushing a strong, cool wind through the entire house. And then the rain started, devilishly hard at first but eventually evening out into a steady patter. It felt like the whole woods and lake were collectively relieved as the rain cooled the ground and cleared the air.

I stood in the doorway of the porch, and felt I was cured of many things at once.

That night, Rick, Mary, and I had massive burritos, and we took a truncated tour of town. Of note was the house of a local provacatuer who had several run ins with local police and his neighbors over the lawn decorations that he puts up.

Lawn decorations is only one way to describe it. A giant fiberglass tiger crawling over an awning, a collection of animal statues, and a boat wedged magnificently in a tree pushed the limits of my ubderstanding of lawn art.






Needless to say, I was in love. Not only with this man's bombastic taste but also his audacity. When the police cracked down on him, the homeowner bought and restored a vintage cop car, painted "Thought Police" on the roof and frequntly parked it outside the local police station.

Is this immature and even a little reprhensible? Absolutlely. But I really like this guy. The world has far too many boring homes and predictable yards to require police intervention. Perhaps his passion could be better spent fighting greater ills, like homelessness, but I'm glad this man has taken a stand like this. It's not right to fault a man for following through on his passions and convictions. In addition to more interesting yards, I dare say we could use more people willing to be passionate about anything.

The afternoon of my last day, Mary drove me in to Newark. We grabbed a bite at the spectacular Hobby's Deli which had walls covered in letters from the corridors of power, giving thanks for pastrami on rye. A chief justice and An American diplomat spring to mind. Several large salami hung on the back wall, waiting to be sent to Iraq ad Afghanistan; a special treat for Soldiers abroad.

I boarded a bus and 20 some hours later was in Atlanta.

Location:U.S. 90,Lafayette,United States

It's Not Really Texas

That's what I was told when Ben picked me up from the bus station. In his own words, it's a hilly, verdent, liberal oasis in the midst of a multi-faceted Texas desert. While I can't speak to that per say, I cab say that I gel much better pulling in to Austin than I did other towns in Texas.

(Truth be told, I was intrigued by Houston, and would like to come back. Plans are already brewing in my mind for a future trip through the mid-northern and southwestern states.)

I've done a pretty bad job of keeping this blog up to date on my trip, but that's been a function of how much fun I am having! I've got back-fill posts started for New Jersey, Atlanta, and I must write about New Orleans, but I can't get bogged down and leave everyone hanging.

New Jersey was great, Atlanta was a blast, and I miss New Orleans already. Also: I took a shortcut through Alabama with my uncle Gary, so I have that to talk about as well. And to think, it's only been a week!

The southern extension of my trip has ended and now I turn Northward again. This is my last night in Austin, and I'll next be in Omaha, NE.

The most important things you need to know at thus: I am staying with Ben, an old friend from Highschool. Austin is a fun town, and we're going to make the best of it. And lat night, we had tacos from a fortuitously named cart:



Ben has been a vibrant pick-me-up from the post vacation depression that was starting to set in after NOLA. The trip is starting to wear on me a bit, but just when it seems bleakest (see: on busses) America offers me something to keep going. Whether it's great tacos or a church with a URL in it's name, it keeps me going.

Now: to shower.

Location:Northcross Dr,Austin,United States

New York, Yew Nork (part 2 of 2)

I woke up on Al Pacino's couch ridiculously early, already damp with sweat. I was sleeping on the third floor, and in full sun, so continuing to snooze was not an option. I knew that Hyatt was going to be sleeping for quite a while, so I left him a note and made my way back to Manhattan.

Luckily, the film crew outside of Lindsey's apartment hadn't started for the day. I would find out later that the crew was there to film an adaptation of the play "For Colored Girls That Have Considered Suicide," a play I know nothing about, but did remember from NPR.

Showered and refreshed, I headed back downtown to Time Square. From the directions I'd read off a sign on the subway, the King Tut exhibit was somewhere in that general area. It was not hard to find, thankfully. Time Square isna critical mass of tourists and bizzarre New York entertainment, and I prefer to view it from a distance.

The exhibit was surprising not only for its completeness, but also the scope of how informative it was. While Tut was not present, the exhibit goes to great pains to help the viewer understand the social, political, and religious context of Tut's rule.

For instance, I had no idea that Tut was the son of Aknahten, the enigmatic pharoah who overthrew the traditional gods and instituted his own brand of monotheism to Egypt. Tut succeeded Aknahten, and set about undoing most of the social and political turmoil created by his father. All of this was rather deftly handle by te exhibit, in addition to supplying plenty of shiny and interesting things to look upon.

After I'd had all the Tut I could handle, I retired to Bryant Park. I stumbled upon it while trying to find my way elsewhere, but found the peaceful allure of the trees too much to resist. As a result, I spent some time there.





The city provide park goers with equipment for games like bocci and ping-pong. I was stunned by how many games I ended up watching. It was shockingly engrossing!

Once Lindsey was off work, we strolled the stately grounds of Central Park. I arrived a little before she, and used the location-based game Gowalla to find some of the park's attractions that I had missed during previous visits. Little thing like the Cherry Hill Fountain:


And big things like the Bethesda Fountain Square, where I found a man playing cello:


After an excellent Thai meal, Lindsey, her boyfriend Noam, and I went out to Brooklyn to meet up with some of her friends. It was a curious evening, made curioser by the Armenian gentlemen we shared a table with. I think I'll go into greater detail on the other blog (wmeddy.com), but needless to say: the subject of the Michigan Militia was addressed.

We closed off the evening with a night-cap of rum from the Dominican Republic that tasted eerily like Nyquil. We used these coasters:


My last hours in New York were spent pleasantly with Lindsey and another of her friends over a late lunch. Befor I left, Lindsey was kind enough to show me one of the advantages of living in NYC.


And then I was off to New Jersey! I'm sorry that this is so glib, but I am running Late an have just completed a 22-hour bus trip from Jersey to Atlanta. More to follow, of course.


Onward!

Location:Savage Rd,Denville,United States

Yew Nork, New York (1of 2)

No, no; I'm not dead. But I seem to be laid up with some nasty allergies. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it's not an illness, since that would be disasterous at this stage. The Everett's are taking excellent care of me, though, and perhaps a slow few days would be good for me all around.

But I am nagged with fear that I might get derailed not even a week into my trip. Anyway, let's talk about New York.

The trip to the Big Apple started innocently enough with a tasty sandwich and cousin Laura dropping me off at the Boston bus station. I boarded on time and was expecting to be moving ahead of schedule. But it was not to be. Within two hours of leaving Boston, the bus started to feel warmer. Each breath increased the claustraphobia, and the terrifying illusion that there wasn't enough air in the bus.

At our first rest stop, the bus driver confirmed that the AC was working at half capacity. But w plaowed ahead. 90min outside of Manhattan we stopped again. The driver informed us that we might have to wait for another bus to transfer to. Several strong-looking and strong-willed guys that looked of college age became extremely perturbed at this. Sleevelessly they walked through the bus and lead a revolt/opinion poll supporting a platform of "pushing on through."

At the time I felt good about pressing onward, but looking back on it, I wonder how much of it was me, and how much was the charismatic youthes that spoke on behalf of the passengers.

Popular opinion won out, and we had a dreadful, grueling 2hr trip to the Port Authority bus station.
Arrived and revived by the cooler air of the station, I shouldered my bag and went downtown to meet Lindsey, my oldest friend.

Despite my disheveled appearance, she insisted I come up to her office, hugged me, refreshed my spirit, and introduced me to her boss. He was a handsome, clean, bald man that resembled an Egyptian male model I saw in a German soap opera years ago.

I showered and changed at Lindsey's apartment on 152nd street, and then headed out to meet Hyatt. Frequent readers will recognize him as one of my former roomates in college. While I didn't get any pictures of the H-Man himself, this was painted on the wall of the Brooklyn bar where we met.


We had a few drinks and talked about The Old Days. We talke about how we got to where we are now, and if "here" is where we want to be tomorrow. We made fun of Nico.

Hyatt has always been an artist. When we were in school, he studed film and was heavily involved in theatre. A lot of his work explores issues of race and identity, but to say that does him a disservice and makes me sound like a pretentious film critic.

The bar was an excellent locale for discussion between two old friends. It had a dark-wood interior, with little octagonal tiles across the floor. The bar itself was topped in blue tile squares and rectangles. In the candle light (yes, candle light), the moving shadows and echoing tile reminded me of the Belle Isle aquarium; a strange, anachronism in the Detroit river.

Our talking went all over the place, but I noticed that despite the continued tenuous existence that he maintained all through college and afterward, Hyatt seemed more self assured than ever. He spoke with great sincerity, even on the lightest of subjects. "I've had some of the best times, and some of the worst -- the lowest lows -- since moving to New York," he told me.

A highlight of the evening was receiving a free round from the bartender becuase he overheard us talking about Tom Waits.

Meandering back to the film commune where Hyatt lives, we stopped for Emergency Falafel. We ate it lazily in the back yard of the collective, where a stage was framed between the huge neighboring buildings that towered over us. We talked about the future.


Hyatt showe me around the home he shared with other artists who work together making films. I could feel the excitement that you get from imaginitive people through the walls. One tennent had nailed pages from a French poem to his door. Hyatt's small room boasted a fragmentary Lichtenstein.

It was late, so I slept in the common room on a couch allegedly used by Al Pacino in a made for TV movie. I woke early, and made my way back to Manhattan in the haze of someone who has slept, but rested too little.


Up next: Lindsey, Armenians in Brooklyn, and a journey to the Garden State.

Location:Savage Rd,Denville,United States

Blurry Photos

Folks, I've really been struggling with a way to post quality material to this blog while I am traveling. I am in no way throwing in the towel on this, but you should be aware that I am posting nearly everything that appears on this blog -- text, photos -- from my iPhone. I've been using an app called "BlogPress," which I've used in the past with some success.

I did not, however, realize exactly how it handled photos. Today, I realized that while it is uploading the images to my Picasa account, it is creating low-res thumbnails with a separate service and hosting them elsewhere.

So from now on, the pictures on the blog are going to be smaller. They will look better, but will probably look weirdly small since they're only 200x200 pixels. They can all be clicked on, however, and your browser will be whisked away to the Picasa website where much nicer looking versions of the images abide.

I'm pretty bummed out about the whole thing, but it's the best solution I have so far. Hopefully, while on the road, I can work out a better way to get things to you, my gentle readers.

That said, I am currently in the basement of my aunt and uncle in New Jersey. More on this to follow, probably posted from my iPhone!

The End Of Boston

Most of my first, and only, full day was the kind of event that would only be interesting for me. I wandered the city, I browsed bookshops, I sat by the harbor and wondered if the smell was from the restuarant on the jellyfish.



Later, I me back up with Laura and she toured me through Harvard, where I learned many disturbing things about the stories institution. Namely, that undergrads are organized and housed in large groups that they stay with for the duration of their studies. That thought terrified me. It also didn't do much to squelch the rumors of Harvard being a place to go for the connections you make.

But I digress. Dear cousin Laura is the product of their divinity school, so clearly it is a capable institution. Also, some of their architecture is stunning.





On the way over to a coffee shop, Laura asked me if I wanted to stop by the Lampoon. As in, The Harvard Lampoon. Despite having only read a handful of issues from at least 20 years ago, I knew a thing or two about the Lampoon. They were famous, they were successful, they were at least partly responsible for some of my favorite movies, they had their own building, they were secure, I was jealous.

In the end I ds opt to stop by, and I'm glad I did because sitting on the stoop of the iconic Lampoon offices was a dude in Wayfarer sunglasses, listening to Wings and drinking Coors Light. I wasn't sure what to do, and my first instinct was to simply take a picture and leave.



But I had come too far, and this trip is not about timidity. It's not about getting from point A to point B, it's about assaulting America's senses. So I assaulted in the only way I know how: through cheerful banter.

I asked him if he worked for the Lampoon. He said he did. I told him that I was formally of the Gargoyle Humor Magazine at U of M and, and this is true, that some time ago my friend Zack Beauvais (also of Gargoyle, class of 2010) emailed the Lampoon and challenge them to a wrestling match. The Wings listener seemed confused.

Once he had regained his composure and the grip on his Coors, he said that he'd never heard of such a challenge, but that he was relatively young. It may have been before his time. Well, I wanted to see this through and asked if I could give him some contact info to try and make the match a reality. He agreed.

I whippe out my pen and a notecard and started scribbling down names, emails, and other pertenant info. To cover the awkward silence, he asked: "What did you say the name of Dartmouth's humor magazine is?"

I didn't miss a beat, but in my mind I halted and realized that they didn't care about the Gargoyle, or any other humor rag. Maybe the East coast ones, but the Midwest was probably an alien landscape to him, and Michigan: something from Robocop.

"Dartmouth's humor mag is the Jack' O Lantern, but I went to te University of Michigan and worked on the Gargoyle," I said.

We chatted a bit more and he seemed as awkward and confused as any undergrad in the presence of an alum does. When we parted, he took the card and I left him sitting bemused on the steps of that famous building.

Later that night, before Laura took me to see band I'd never heard called The National, she and I chatted over fish and chips at her favorite local pub. The mood was quiet, the wood paneling was dark, and the beer was quite delicious. We talked about her work and the church, and how life on your own can be utterly befuddling. It seemed apt.

I'm currently in New York, trying to get my plan for the evening worked out. I'm staying with Lindsey B., my oldest friend, but I'm also trying to see my buddy Hyatt from the College Years. This town is intense, but I keep coming back.

Location:W 152nd St,New York,United States

The Perfect Drink

I've got some thoughts on the state of the American bus transit system, but I'll be tossing that up on wmeddy.com. For the purposes of this blog, I think it's best to say that I had a pretty good time on the busses. I was comfortable, for the most part, and just sat back to watch the beauty of urban decay whizz past.

I started my morning by going to bed at 2:30am, and then waking up at 5am. I arrived at the DC Greyhound station at 6:40am and after some wrangling, eventually got on a bus. It was a fairly uneventful trip, the only truly unerving part of it was the time spent in the NYC PA Bus Satation.








Behold, the horror of the New York Port Authority bus terminal. Your bus pulls in and you are discharged into a dark labyrinth, left to fend or yourself.


















New York terrifies my feeble, Midwestern mind, but I still kind of love it.








I arrived in Boston without much fuss and met up with my dear cousin Laura and took me straight to a restuarant to satiate my hunger pangs. By this point, I had not eaten in nearly 24 hrs.

The place where we stoppe had big picnic tables and a relaxed plastic-cup attitude. In keeping with my personal theme of being Aggressively Awesome, I ordered the salmon hotdogs:









The jury's still out on these, guys.

Afterward, Laura took me to a bar called Drink, which is something of a mixologist's dream. The place is dark with a very spare, clean decor of unadorned wood. The kind of place with low ceilings and bare lightbulbs that look more like vaccuum tubes. Behind the bar is all sorts of specialized drink mixing equipment, and the very best ingredients.









The warmth of the bar is offset by the almost clinical level of precision applied to drink mixing. The bitters are kept in dropper bottles, live herbs dot the counter, and the sinks looked suspiciously like those in a highschool chemistry lab.

Talking with Sam, our amazing bartender, he confirmed that this is a sort of cocktail laboratory, where you can not only experiment but also accurately make an excellent cocktail everytime. Bartenders are encouraged to take their time mixing drinks, and to strive for something truly experiential.

Interestingly, Drink has no menu. Obviously, you can order something off the top of your head, but the preferred method is to tell your bartender how your feeling, or your likes and dislikes. Like a mystic aura reader, the bartender will appraise you and assign you a drink.

"Ok," I said. "I'm taking a month long bus trip across America. I've quit my job and my future is uncertain. I have no health insurance."

"And he loves gin," added Laura.

Sam pondered and eventually crafted this:









"The Fortress Of Solitude."

Sam explained that te bar staff was wondering what kind of drink Superman had. They chose to shirk the obvious blue and red tie-in, and instead drew inspiration from the Man of Steel's private chmaber located in the Anarctic. I asked if I could photograph it, and Sam even volunteered to provide illumination.

The drink itself was an refreshing mint-chocolate number, based on Plymouth gin. It was eminantly drinkable without losing any of the gin's complex flavor. A real winner.

Obviously, I'm having a great time here with Laura. Boston is a fascinating town, and I'm eager to she my heavy pack and get the city under my feet tomorrow.

But man! For the first day, the bar has been set high!

Location:Washington St,Boston,United States

The Assault on America's Senses

I am about to do something very unusual, and I would like you to read about it here.

Graduation Day

This past weekend, Claire graduated from the George Washington University. She's leaving the school with a Master's in museum studies, and lots of experience working at the Smithsonian. She'll be spending some time back in Illinois before she sets out again for the University of Arizona, where she'll work on a Ph.D.

Things have been a little off around here for a while, as you can imagine. Nothing has really gone as planned. And though I've got good friends here, it's very hard for me not to be sad nor feel lonely right now.

Awesome Falls 3: The Keith Tape

Keith posted this video last night. His stated purpose "to capture the sight and sound of water" is a good guide to watching the video. Take a look at how the water moves through the gorge. It's not random; it's creating patterns and shapes that flow and morph as the space changes.

Awesome Falls 2: More Pictures

So it seems that the BlogPress iPhone app does not handle posts filled up with pictures very well at all. Good to know.






This is a pothole, a rock feature created by swirling water. The water leaves the stone with a woodgrain pattern and is fairly smooth.


















Part of the old canal.






Where the canal met the river.






Where we met up with the river. This was easily the most beautiful and violent stretch of the Potomac I have ever seen.

Location:Dewitt Ave,Alexandria,United States

Awesome Falls

Right now, Keith is driving his Volvo and playing music at outrageous volumes. All the windows are down. This is a truly unique way to experience music. It's visceral and sensual in that I can actually feel the sounds.

We're on our way back from Great Falls, VA which (believe it or not) contains some very literal great falls. I was completely ignorant of their existence until Cathy visited me a few weeks ago and went out that way herself. Like the good copycat I am, I gladly agreed when Keith suggested we go out there ourselves.

Once we got near the entrance of the park, I was surprised to see cars backed up all the way on to the street. We stayed in that line for nearly an hour, or however long the last half of "Come On Pilgrim" and all of "Demon Days" run for.

It's the first gorgeous day in Virginia: high 70s, clear sky, lots of sun. It was one of the rare times in any weather that I ventured outside without a hat or layers of shirts.

It took us a few minutes to get our bearings, but in no time at all we were beholding the falls in all their greatness.





As soon as we were finished taking in the "best view" of the falls, we chose a trail and started scrabbling across the rocky cliffs like a pair of billygoat tourists.

Location:Virginia 7,Falls Church,United States

Fallingwater

Actually, this should be called "Mostly Cumberland, MD with some Fallingwater" because as wonderful as a well designed house is, it has nothing on the madness that is small town America. I love it.

Fallingwater is probably the most iconic house in existence, after the White House. Most people don't know the name, but one look at this picture that I have stolen from the internet and you will know exactly what I am talking about:

The house was designed by the renowned American architect Frank Lloyd Wright, and depending on whom you ask it is either his "most well known" project or his "most perfect" project. Regardless, visiting it is an experience that was thuroughly enjoyable.

Prior to this, the only other Wright home I visited was the Robie House in Chicago. Claire, her father, and I toured the building last summer and I was very impresed with it. However, because of how the neighborhood had changed in the intervening years I was not really getting the full Wright experience. I've often been told that with a Wright house the landscape is an extension of the living space, but it was not until I set foot in Fallingwater that I understood this.

Every window in the house provides a spectacular panorama of the valley in which the house sits. Every porch and veranda seems to float right into the view. You don't feel like you are in a house, but somehow floating amongst the trees and the river. This experience is, obviously, carefully engineered by Wright, who moves you and your eye around the house like he were directing a film. It's an uncanny experience to be in a place that so determines your experience of it. It really is like Wright is there, telling us how to feel and what to look at.

Though what you see around the house is important, what is more impressive is what is hidden. Open stairways are carefully angled to hide other rooms as you pass over them. Each bedroom at the house has it's own cantilevered terrace over the falls, but the orientation of the house blocks any view of the path to the house, or the guest house up the hill. I've never experienced this kind of careful and considered design, where the house itself is not only a work of art, but serves as the channel through which something beautiful is experienced -- in this case, the wild Pennsylvania countryside.

During our tour, the guide pointed out some supporting pillars that had little flanges on the side. From the bottom of the path, the pillars look like stunted plants, with stubby branches. But from the top of the path looking down, the angle of the pillars is such that all the flanges disappear. I think this was a subtle thesis for the entire house: that in this space, certain things will be presented to you, and others intentionally hidden.

Here's some crappy pictures that I took. Hopefully I'll have some better ones soon.

This is a very difficult photo to unpack. Just let it sink in.

I should mention that this whole trip was the brain child of my pal Keith. Our journey was a strange one, driving 3 hours into the backwoods of Pennsylvania. This trip also took us along Route 68, AKA the National Highway. This is really quite the road: plunging through mountain passes, and winding around the rounded Appalachian peaks. Being a highway, it meant that we found ourselves far more entertained than we would have been on a toll road. Seeing things like the site where Noah's ark is being rebuilt; signs that welcome you to Maryland, and ask that you "drive gently;" houses covered with icicles; a road sign that simply says "BEGIN" in large, block letters; and of course, Cumberland, Maryland.

We stopped in Cumberland on our way back from Fallingwater looking for something to eat and, of course, adventure. From the road, it looked like a strange, rambling, complicated old-style city in a valley -- like Cincinatti, but smaller. Churches, bridges, and houses jutted around at strange angles that I found truly intriguing. However, once dismounted, we found it to be eerily empty. While it was clear that much work had been put into cleaning up buildings and developing a downtown, the only people we saw were inside restaurants. The following pictures I think go a long way toward fleshing out the experience of Cumberland.

I like to call this one "Trashy."

Cumberland, MD is the kind of place where you can buy a Confederate flag rug and a Robert E. Lee Knifegun in the same store.

(In there defense, we did see some hipper, cooler stores around. But this is funnier.)

There were five of these tableaus, each more politically incorrect than the next. This one is the winner by virtue of the pink leopard.

The mid-1950's Boy Scout handbook was mostly a grimoire for calling upon the ghosts of dead Indians.

Keith R. meets a mysterious long-necked figure in Cumberland, MD.

Truth be told, we had a great time exploring this part of America. It was weird, it was kind of crappy, but I liked it a lot. It's a small town that hasn't given up, and is trying very hard to reinvent itself. There's some really neat things to see in the town, especially if you are like me and love old buildings, winding streets, and numerous beautiful churches.

I should say that we had a PHENOMENAL and REASONABLY PRICED meal at an Italian place downtown. Everyone was very nice and curious about us, which was sweet. The drivers were another story, though. Indeed, navigating the sprawling roads and blind corners of the city was a bit of a challenge even when you are not being tailgated. It did, however, provide a major insight into the nature of the city: Cumberland Maryland is the kind of place where you accidentally drive to West Virginia.

Enough said, I think.

The "Soul Elements"

I've done a pretty bad job of chronicling my life with the ol' iPhone. After my trip through Ann Arbor and being stranded over Xmas, I sort of assumed that this would be the new way. But like so many things I try to do on the internet, it never quite works out so simply.

Recently, I took a trip back to Michigan, where I saw A Prairie Home Companion at the Fox Theatre in Detroit. It was a lovely trip, giving me the chance to explore Detroit a bit, catch up with old friends, and have a lovely meal with my family.

Seeing Detroit was particularly important to me. I've been reading a lot about the city lately, and I have to admit that I am keen to move back there at some point. But I digress.

My trip began with me being nearly killed a number of times. For whatever reason, I have had the worst luck with traveling as of late. There's always some horrible delay, plane malfunction, or piece of picket fence in the road that forces me to drive in to a ditch. Of particular note this time around was a 7-hour snowstorm that I drove through. The storm dominated my life from Breezewood, PA to the Michigan border, and more than once made me ask myself: "Maybe I shouldn't be doing this." On the occasions when I was the only one on the road, could not slow down for fear of getting stuck, nor deviate from the tracks left by an unknown car, it changed to "I really, really should not be doing this -- it is going to kill me."

After that minor inconvenience, it was high-fives all around in Ann Arbor with my Garg buddies. On Saturday, Cathy and Zack (Garg buddies graduating this year) accompanied me to see Garrison Keillor be his normal funny-ish self. It was a very good show, particularly the Detroit musical acts they brought in to perform. The whole thing is available online, and I highly encourage you to take a look at it, if only for the higher-quality photos.

Of particular note was Sir Mack Rice, who wrote Mustang Sally. Despite being slowed by age, he had an amazing stage presence and put on the kind of show that I imagine was a staple of Motown in its heyday. Not only arrived in a suit bedecked with a rhinestone collar, but also had a little friend whose function was to provide the "soul elements" of songs. He would respond at the end of lines and on the offbeats, occasionally throwing in a "well well" and a "good god!" every now and again. He MADE those songs. And what's more, it was obvious that he was doing what he loved.

The highpoint of the show was being lead by Keillor in a rousing rendition of the Faygo song, which has far more verses than are necessary.

Here's some more pictures of the Fox, because it is beautiful. So much so that its beauty cannot at all be captured by my crappy cameraphone.

The ceiling.

The right wall, complete with columns and organist.

It's important to note that before the show, I paid a visit to the Centaur bar. This establishment was chosen because it had a large fiberglass centaur giving a double peace sign outside the building. Later, I would discover that it's signature drink (The Centaur Martini -- a mixture of whiskey and gin) was the worst drink on the planet. Good to know!

After a lovely Sunday brunch with my parents and siblings I headed back East. Cathy came and visited me for a few days, and I did my best to keep her entertained despite working 8 hours a day. She did fine on her own, and seems to have had a great time visiting some really cool places in the NCR. You can read about her adventures here. Mostly, we ate food, saw some movies, and I pitched a terrible restaurant chain concept while eating quail fajitas with her and Keith.

This adventure ended last Wednesday, when Cathy trucked back to Michigan leaving me with the memories of good friends, good times, and this drawing: