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:

Snowpocalypse

Hi! I haven't left my apartment for seven days! This snow is ridiculous. This is what I looked the other day when I dug my car out with my bare hands and walked two miles for groceries.

And this is how I look now. According to a friend, "you LOOK like a man who's been trapped in his house for a week."

Truer words were never spoken.

It's OK

It's been very quiet here, but don't panic. There's a lot going on right now, and the dust will settle soon enough and maybe I can make some sense of it then.

But don't worry, I am actually doing all right.

My Christmas Miracle

From MarsEdit Images

As demonstrated in a previous post, I've had some troubles traveling this year. This is what happened:

After the previously blogged events, I stayed on the floor of DCA until 2am. At which time I was told that tomorrow I'd fly to Boston and get a connecting flight to Detroit. That was fine; I just wanted to get off the floor. They also offered me a hotel, but I'd have to take a cab. Since that was the case, I opted to just go home.

The cab got me home at 2:20am, and I was in bed asleep ten minutes later.

At 5am, the alarm went off and I was in DCA by 5:48am. I was slap happy and loopy. Words were hard to find, and my balance was somewhere between "humpty dumpty" and "drunken sailor."

Of course, I knew it wouldn't be easy. The ticket agent took one look at the piece of paper I had received the night before and started shaking his head. "Oh, no," he said. He went on to explain the myriad of reasons why it wouldn't work.

30minutes, 3 people, and one call to Jasmie on the help line did not raise my spirits. I still smiled and continued my exhausted politeness, but I had no idea what to do. I couldn't drive on two hours of sleep; there'd be no way I could make it by Christmas.

That's when my Christmas miracle happened. Somehow, I was booked on a direct flight from DCA to DTW. I don't know how, I fear some poor soul was bumped or otherwise inconvenienced to make it happen. But there was a ticket in my hand!

And so I arrived, well in time for Christmas. Despite everything, I did make it here. Topping that, was the fact that despite the incredible wackiness with my trip the entire staff of U.S. Airways worked to take care of and compensate me.

At this moment I'm in a car headed for Indiana, and grateful to be with my family (at last).

Location:Elizabeth St,Rochester,United States

Xmas Phase One Bragshot

Of note: Illustrated Paradise Lost, A Drifting Life, BPRD, Crumb's genesis, steel fingerpicks, wacom Bamboo, NPR quiz cards, flying time delorean, and Star Trek DVD in a nifty spaceship.

Phase 2: includes a Roku box, and and an angry mob.

Location:Barclay Ct,Troy,United States

Waiting for my Christmas miracle

I'm not going to complain too much. My flight was delayed 4 hours and then I was told the flight was oversold and that I would not be allowed to board the flight.



The staff of US Airways has been very helpful, but I am cold and lonely on the floor of DCA. I've been waiting for two hours just to get rebooked. But I am getting rebooked, and a pile of cash, and apparently a hotel for the night. That's why I shouldn't complain: it's been a crummy day, but that's all.

I wish I was at home.

Location:DCA

Arrival is the End

As you can surmise, I made it easily to Virginia. On reflection Ot probably went faster yesterday than any othe time I can recall. Without anyone on the roads I wizzed through four states until I finally got back to the NCR.

Speaking as a person from Michigan, this storm was pretty bad. The snow drifts are big enough to lose your kid in, and the gridwork of streets that make up my neighborhood haven't seen a lot of love from the snow plows.


This is like my winter dreams from childhood. We always would get a lot of snow, but this is a special thing that drives a city into its collective bunny slippers.


The roads are ice. Thick ice, going down near two inches in some areas.


Though it was predicted, everyone still seems surprised at the state of things. Even these chairs seem kind of dumbfounded.

The whole experience has been good for my local image as a rustbelter, experienced in the ways of economic decline, losing sports teams, and bad weather. I think that's difference between midwesterners and the east coast folk. Michigan folk never seemed to have any secret tricks for surviving snow storms, they just accepted whatever blew in. Snow always comes, as surely as trouble always comes. No sense in getting upset and running off to stock up on eggs when the weather man is grave; we'll get through this as we have so many other times.

Location:E Duncan Ave,Alexandria,United States