6 days left

I can feel every nerve coming out of my spine. There is a prickly electricity that is pulsating out of it every time I think about the trip. 6 days. 6 days left before I make it happen. Only 4 of those days are in Tacoma to prep for the trip. I fear that it may not be enough. The other 2 days are either last second fund-raising tour stops or test runs on the bike. I am running out of hours in the day to prepare and it shows in my eyes. The tension is as dense as a diamond and, if it pays off - twice as beautiful.

All day I crunch numbers, work on routing, stops, fuel and housing costs, contingencies, responsibilities, anxieties, once-in-a-lifetimes, dreams, fears and the mental, physical and emotional will power that it's going to take to see this through. It's a lot of work and my mind is a mess with the details and with each new issue comes two distinctive approaches to handling it. The first method is the fantasy resolution. This involves magic money, amazing feats of strength and/or endurance and crack precision timing. This is the sort of planning where there are no road blocks, speed bumps, bad weather, sore butts or long lines. I like this type of thinking as this is what makes a dream so brilliantly fantastic. However, realistically I think this type of thinking is the biggest hazard to the trip. Complaceny and lying to myself will leave me bleeding to death on the side of the road. I must be cautious not to let myself get to carried away.

The other sort of approach to each matter is the defeatist and pessimistic, "It ain't never gonna happen" mentality. This sort of thinking involves me harshly erasing my math or specific stops from the day planner or repeating, "fuck" in much the same way a man seeking a revenge on someone repeats their name over and over. In this approach, a particular stop might be too far away from the given route or add too much distance to a certain day (which is dangerous) and thus, the pre-steps and the post-steps of the detour are eliminated and a new route has to be discovered in it's place. This involves recalibrating distance, fuel costs, timing and the "worthiness factor". This is any part of the trip that gives the trip it's merit. Any fool could ride across America, but if they didn't "stop to smell the roses" then why go at all? Worthiness stops are what make the trip, the trip.

The danielrock.com web site has the tour dates. Every day I have to change my stops and this usually means I am changing what gear is coming with me and what isn't worth taking. This means I have to change my fuel numbers and the number of stops. This means that "who" I see or "where" I go gets punched around a lot. I think you can see the pattern of insanity developing within me. Once you see how deep it really is, then image me on a bike for 40 days, alone.

Sadly, all of this pre-planning has meant that something was getting neglected in my daily life. Sadly, most of that neglect is being felt by my friends. At what cost should a dream become a reality? Have I become so blinded by the trip that I am willing to walk past a fallen friend without extending my hand? I am dismayed at my behavior.... I'll send them a card or a gift certificate to the Olive Garden.

Also neglected - The perch. It's filthy. I have four days to stop mail, clean the perch from top to bottom. And I mean a real cleaning, not casual bachelor cleaning but obsessive-complusive germaphobe cleaning. I need to throw out all perishable foods that smell when left unattended for six weeks, do laundry, pay off the monthly bills and stay on top of my exercise regime. AND I still need to pack up the bike and then unpack it and then repack it, then unpack it and then repack it again. Not an easy task when I am still running around trying to finish off the little things. Who wants to bet that I start the trip without my pants on?

I am still a $210.00 away from my gas goal, but I think I will be able to make it anyway. I am grossly over-estimating the fuel costs so I think that I will be fine when I get out on the road. I want to say thank you to everyone that donated to the cause and helped me out over this past month. Your generosity will not go unrewarded. For those of you that donated to the blog cause, I am sending... ...full color... ...nude photos! Please email me and let me know if you want hot blonde-on-blonde action or if you want Hot Mandingo on fair skinned red headed girl nastiness or if you prefer Ron Jeremy. It's the least I can do for you. For those that didn't donate, this is your last chance to be a part of the action. [see button at bottom of posting] This offer for full color nudes ends when I run out of pages in the magazine so act now!

Yes, I'm extremely nervous. Yes, I'm scared. And YES, I'm so excited that I can't sleep!!! I am nothing but a ball of nerves and I love it. I am standing ever so close to the edge and I am filled with reckless anticipation about what is going to happen. If you could only see the smile on my face you would know how much it means to me to see this happen. I want this to happen for me and for everyone else that has a dream they never think will come true. It's my contention that if you "believe" in your dream, that you will make it happen.

The Invasion of America begins in 6 days. For those of you that know me personally and have felt the neglect that shrouds my days, please, please forgive me. Please know that I carry you with me every mile of this ride and that your faces and voices will be with me.

Full color nudes. Press here!

back where i started

I am writing today from the very spot from which this blog was started. I am sitting in the corner section of a large white leather sofa, located in the cyber cafe in downtown Dayton. From this very spot, much of what I have written here was hatched.

The lumps in my stomach are gone. The town is safe. Lost in the fire - which they are calling the Columbia Complex fire - was one home, a few head of cattle, a few out-buildings and 66,000 acres of pure natural loveliness. Strangely, the burn pattern from this wild fire avoided all farm land and just burned up the raw, untouched hillsides that don't directly impact the local economy. The burn mark itself is actually quite fetching to the eye. It almost looks like a high school art class pencil drawing where a low-end artistan "darkened" the shady parts a bit too much. This isn't a Thomas Kincaid painting that's for sure (however, a burn mark might make his work better).

The Ponderosa saw some action, but the closest the flames actually got to the property line was 100 yards, which for this raging fire, is the equivalent of fifty miles. There are some homes nearby where the flames actually lapped against the paint of the house enough to make it sweat. There are burn marks right up to the front door on some other homes. Thankfully, the Ponderosa looks untouched. The animals got to take a little trip during the evacuation, but are back home and don't look the least bit put out by the whole matter. The chickens were not evacuated. Apparently firemen don't like chickens either. They all survived.

It's hard to keep coming back to this place and looking at all of these familiar sites and re-experiencing their memory. The faces in town are all familiar but they feel distant as if they have continued to weather a storm that I have cowardly ran away from. There is a behavior that all small town people give to expatriated town-folk when the come back for visits. It's a sort of complacent, forced demeanor that makes the old neighbor feel welcomed back, but in reality it's just a measure to speed up the dialogue so it can end more rapidly. Small town people don't like to hear about what life is like elsewhere, most of these people left elsewhere to move here and they don't want to hear about elsewhere anymore. Elsewhere is a bad memory and now YOU are the living embodiment of that bad memory. So, if you take a moment to digest the "Hey, good to see you. What have you been up to? We never see you around anymore." what you will discover is that the towns folk are really saying is, "Hey! Go back to elsewhere. I don't want to hear about it anymore! We liked it when you left. Stop coming back." I love that about small towns.

I ate at the Book and Brew, bought some motorcycle insurance from my insurance agent, Betty Lou. I visited with a few locals in the coffee house and at lunch I flirted a bit with Robin - who isn't having any of it. I talked to my mother about purchasing the car, took a few pictures and now I am finishing this before I have to run back to Pasco for tonight's fiesta.

My heart is resting easier after my visit, but I am aware that the fire is still completely out of control in the Forgottens and could redirect it's attention at any moment. Apparently this fire has changed direction a total of nine times and is moving at a pretty heavy clip when it does decide to hang a sharp Louie. Every time it does, the firefighters have to run at top speed, in full gear which ways 100 pounds, around the fire to get back IN FRONT of the fire. Even though the bulk of the flames are ten miles south of town, it could easily find its way back without too much effort. The firemen have been working this fire for four days straight, most of them without rest and it could easily get the upper hand with one random wind gust.

It's a tough week for me feeling sorry for myself. I am surrounded by news from all over Danada about great suffering and difficulty among the readers. A good friend of mine in Canada has a 5 year old nephew with leukemia and it's making life miserable for the whole family. Another friend may have breast cancer and she is primary care giver to three members of her family that rely on her for their livelihoods. Another friend is teetering on the edge of a divorce. A whole town is suffering from smoke inhalation. Everyone I know, minus two or three people are flat broke with bills that make mine look like dollar store purchases. And all I really have to complain about is my sore fat ass and gas money for the trip. I love all of you. But it may be time to redirect our charity.

Many of my friends that are struggling right now are probably not reading this at the moment due to other things. But if you are, please know that my selfish heart does go out to you and even though I can not be with you there personally, I am with you more than you.

The true measure of strife isn't to make you suffer endlessly, but rather to make you see what your heart and soul are really made of. Savor each bite because there are no seconds. I love you all.

quickie

Okay. Just a quickie.....



First ride... Notice the sleak lines? The powerful profile? The superfine sexiness? And the bike?

SOUTHSOUND BMW PARKING LOT, FIFE, WASHINGTON








Notice the sleak lines? The Uber-powerful hunkiness? That defined and focused energy? And the bike?

SOUTHSOUND BMW PARKING LOT, SANS HELMET!!!!!
FIFE, WASHINGTON













Okay, perhaps the powerful lines and sexiness aren't there, but did you notice that I am wearing the greatest "non-smile" of all time? You wouldn't know that this was the first day on the bike.
SOUTHSOUND BMW PARKING LOT, FIFE, WASHINGTON

forgottenly yours

The Forgotten mountains sit peacefully next to an immense prairie in southeastern Washington. The range stretches from the interior of Idaho, across the north east corner of Oregon and up into Washington. It's a part of America that no one ever notices. There are many such areas of America that are like this, but this isn't about them, this is about the Forgottens. So named, because, well - they're forgotten. They are the inside of the egg shell - the part that no one ever cares to look at. If you ever drive to the area, you will probably be so focused on Portland or Seattle or Boise that you won't even take the time to look to your left or right to see what it is your driving past at 80 miles an hour.

Their peaks aren't legendary and their valleys aren't stacked up with million dollar homes. There is only one ski hill that is rarely open and it's more of a local's ski hill, not one that is going to host any major sporting event. They don't affect the weather pattern of any major city and they don't boast a historic deadly peak or famous Indian battle field. The only real brush with fame they have ever seen was when Lewis and Clark passed them on their way west. By the time L and C got to the forgottens, they had seen the Rockies and weren't too impressed with some minor little "bumps" on the landscape. They casually went around. In their journals, they didn't even mention the mountains, instead they wrote about the berries and the fish they caught in the stream.

I love the Forgottens. It was their healing powers that saved my life when my life wasn't worth saving. Those mountains were my test and those mountains gave me direction. To them, I owe everything. If the Oregon coast hadn't existed, I would have wanted my ashes to be spread in those lovely Forgottens.

The rivers that are born in the hidden valleys of the Forgottens are filled with some of the world's cleanest water. There is no major manufacturing nearby to sully the water factories on the slopes and thus the water is some of the best you can find anywhere. The trees there are also beyond exceptional. Great towering pines and deciduous trees of every make and model grace the landscape and their outstretched limbs act as air filters and air fresheners for the world downwind of them. These trees are so exceptional that I dare not tell you anything more about them lest you try to go and cut them down and keep them for yourself. It's rumored that even bears won't "mark" their territory on their bark lest they should damage the beauty.

Wild life is abundant and to each creature there is a story. If one was compelled to hike into the Forgottens, the first thing you must do is choose what type of tale you would want to have told to you. A walk up a ravine to the right could lead to a tale of wild Appaloosa stallions fighting each other over grazing rights and mares. Or, if the hiker was to choose a ravine to the left, they might see the tales of the rutting elk, the curious bears or the snagletoothed mountain lions - all of whom eat children (and hippies).

Each pathway is an endless stream of tales. What tale you will get depends on when you're there and with whom you travel. (I suggest taking a hippie for hungry bear protection)

The Forgottens tickle the sky with their modest peaks. From a distance the range appears to be series of hunched over men walking in a straight line. I believe that is why these mountains are overlooked - they're trying to avoid your gaze. They look like people trying to duck down in a large crowd to avoid detection. These are modest mountains and that modesty has made them the best mountain range of all time. Pristine, mysterious, crazy and very loving. These are the Forgottens.

Where the foothills of the Forgottens slam into the vastness of the grand prairie, Dayton was erected. It's a small town with a lot going for it that - like the mountains next door - give off no indication of it's true value. Dayton is just an easy town to pass through without a second glance. If you should stop, it would be for gas or to ask how to find your way somewhere. It's a common theme with the tourism in the area. I once suggested that our town motto be, "Dayton, It's in your way". The lady at the chamber of commerce didn't think it was funny either.

Dayton is the county seat of Columbia county, but in reality it's the only town in Columbia county so it wins the job by default. There are few minor "encampments" out on the prairie, but unless your lost, you'll never find them. Politically, the town is a sixty-forty split conservative to liberal. The conservatives primarily live outside of town and rarely come in for anything. The liberals live in town and spend most of their time "conserving" the downtown, the old houses, the library, etc. This is something that drives the conservatives that never come to town, mad. I'm not sure why.

The county is owned by two families which almost everyone in town is either related to or sleeping with. It's very incestuous and it works (I do not mean to suggest that there is real incest occurring, it's just odd). No matter where you are from or how long you stay, if you were not born in town, you are always going to be an "outsider" and therefore looked upon with suspicious eyes.

The city is filled with daily scandal, it has a social event every month, hosts one of the most successful community theaters in America (you have to audition here. It's taken very, very seriously) and everyone likes the local high school football team. It has several great restaurants that would flourish wildly in any major city. There is the Weinhard cafe which seats maybe 30 and is the God of carrot-ginger soup. On the outskirts of town sits Patit Creek, a four star restaurant that requires reservations and a huge pocket book. Neither of these restaurants has a hamburger or a chicken caesar salad on their menu- the symbols of lower-class dining. For those items, you have to go across town.

There is one main street and all of the action takes place on two blocks of it, between the unmarked intersection of third street and the marked "must stop" cross walk of first street. The day spa, the Eagles club, two antique malls, a cyber cafe, the florist, the second hand store, the bakery, the butcher, my dentist, my bank, the historic courthouse, the pizzeria/bar, the five and dime store, my insurance agent, the 24 hour gym and the town bar are all located on these two blocks. There are no chains or franchises of any sort in town. Subway has a tiny outpost in the IGA, but that doesn't count because it blends in to look like every grocery store deli you have ever seen and the IGA sits practically outside of town. It's waaaaaay down main street by the fair grounds and the General store.

This past Monday night, a lightning storm hit one of the foothills just south of town. It started a fire which seemed, at first, to be containable. Early Tuesday morning the winds picked up and the fire raged across the foothills on a rampage to rid the world of Dayton. The Ponderosa - my home for so many years, was evacuated. I do not know if it's okay or not as I write this.

I turn my attention to the denizens of Dayton. The people that helped me create a life when I had none. I started this blog in the cyber cafe on main street! Many of my greatest visual-emotional writings came from the world in and around that magic place. There isn't a day that passes that I don't think of Dayton, the Ponderosa, Heidi, the horses, the chickens, and all of the majestic beauty that is the Forgottens. I am filled with sorrow and grief at the moment, as I am not aware to the extent of the damage. But I want to believe that when I get to Dayton on Friday that the black scar from the fire will somehow have just missed town and that it will "fit" into the landscape scheme. I must remember that fire is a good thing and it's sole purpose is to destroy what is old to make way for something new. Fire brings new life and perhaps it was time for that to happen. Perhaps this fire is just what the area needed.

I shall write again on Friday. Hopefully it will be from the cyber cafe in downtown Dayton, Washington.

gandhi is laughing

My body is not made for Yoga. Even though I was a yoga junky for a long time, that time has come and gone. Apparently, it's long gone. I did some moonlight yoga the other night in an attempt to kickstart my health regime. I wanted to assault my physique like an Allied bomber over Tokyo. I was successful. Just like the bombers of yore, I completely missed the target and instead destroyed the structures around the target. I can't feel my left butt cheek.

The only positive that came from the Yoga - My craving for curry came back.

Yoga is incredibly good for you. If you do it right, it's really the best exercise you can do for yourself. Swimming is the "best" exercise, but sans a body of water that I can dip into with paying 70 bucks a month for it, I have to do the death Yoga. I am now half paralyzed and still fat.... Two weeks before departure. This is going to be an awesome trip!!!

No one really sees Yoga as true exercise. So, a little challenge for you, the reader - sit squarely on your ass. Lay your legs straight out in front of you. Toes up. Sit up straight so that the spine is at a 90 degree angle to the ground. Now put your hands next to your butt, flat on the ground.

NOW JUST SIT THERE FOR TWO MINUTES! Don't bend your knees!!!! Don't arch your back!!!! Just let the Yoga Gods fuck you up. All this pain... ...was invented from a culture that gave us Gandhi, can you believe that?

I do simple yoga. The Yoga for idiots. The stuff they put in books and on video tapes that they know anyone can do and not kill themselves. I have seen the serious Yoga being done, I have a good friend that loves yoga and she does the stuff that you only hear talked about in hushed tones. Kinda like the Kumate, fight challenge in Asia. Or the Delta Force of the American Army. It's there, but no one really talks about it and when they do, it's just "myth" or an urban legend. In fact, every time someone does talk about, a rain storm starts brewing and strong winds blow open the windows and snuff out all the candles, just as the lightning crashes outside! It's that type of Yoga - the stuff that people dream about doing to themselves, if only...

I am just trying to sit at a 90 degree angle and she can rest her nose in the crack of her ass. Yes, Yoga is very sexy, if you get off on smelling your own feet.

Sadly, I made the mistake of walking past a mirror without clothes on and besides the obvious fright of seeing myself naked, I was also blessed with a unique and very special treat. I write this now as a warning to all of you....

Never use an hand-knitted afghan as a yoga mat.

Presently I have some rather strange, rather red and very indented lines extending the length of my backside from my head to my feet. It looks like I was grilled on an outside BBQ grill. My own weight against the afghan has given me plow lines. I'm a semi-cripple red zebra. How tragic. I don't feel healthy at all.

I checked with some other riders of the world that have taken similar trips and the one thing that they say they wish they would have done differently is that they would have NOT departed so late in the year. It seems that bikes in the fall, especially in New England, run into a new hazard that I hadn't even thought about - fallen leaves. Falling leaves on the road way that are basically like trying to walk in a soapy tub. I can't fucking believe this! I have prepared for the rain of Virginia, The snow of Colorado, The blistering heat of Texas, The depression of Oklahoma, The repression of Utah and yet, somehow I completely forgot about the power and the glory of New England's maple trees. Shit!

With this in mind; I have decided that I need to get out on a dirt bike and practice wrecking. I need to learn how to put the bike down and do it safely at various speeds. I need to test the body armor that all of your donations have purchased for me (big thank yous to all of you that donated, Especially if I don't lose any skin when I wreck). I actually need to wreck the bike on purpose and get comfy with it. I need to see if I can slip on a leaf and hit a tree at sixty miles an hour and be able to walk away.

Don't worry. I'll be okay, there must be a Yoga posture that trains you how to wrap yourself around a maple.

one-sided grip

I am only sleeping five hours a night. My comedy is suffering. My diet is shit. I am trying to exercise but it's only making me feel fatter and more out of shape. That, and with the straining that my muscles are going through, I am constantly sore. The perch needs a good once-overing and I still need to do my laundry. The transferring of my recorded shows into a format that will allow me to make CDs out of them is still not done (however, there are forces at work). The Book Of Daniel Editing is still not done (again, there are forces at work). I have not been able to find a DMV open that will give me my motorcycle license. I still haven't called to set up an appointment for my physical. I really, really need to let some pressure off of my prostrate (really, really). I have yet to reach anyone in Canada about that leg of my tour ( I might have a warrant in British Columbia). I have yet to book work in October. I am 1000.00 short of my financial goal. I haven't cracked open a book in over ten days.

...And I am having the time of my life.

I say this, because I am supposed to say this.

Actually, I am alright about all of it save for the drop off in comedy talent, because I am so transfixed on the upcoming bike trip. I could really care less about all the stones gathering in my shoes. Even with the disruptive pain of each step, I know that they take me closer to the goal. When you rest along the way, it's not half as satisfying as the rest you get when you finish the journey.

My main concern is that I am not looking past the trip. I am concerned that I might be putting all of my focus on this trip and not thinking about the life I will have after I put the kickstand down for the last time. I still have to make a living. I still have - Well, everything I listed above.

So I ask you and I ask myself; What is better? Do I focus my energy on a dream? Do I climb a mountain and not concern myself with how I'm going to get down? Do I labor relentlessly and make a ridiculous dream come? What did Cinderella do after the honeymoon was over? Was she filled with a strange craving to start cleaning Prince Charming's castle? (perhaps that's why Prince Charming married her in the first place)

What will I do with out something to look forward to?

It's a heavy day in the pre-planning. I called the Canadian Authorities. I'm clean and ready to go there. The credit card companies are not willing to extend any credit so I am going to put all of my last hopes in a goodbye party before I leave town. Hopefully that will create enough funds necessary to create an after-dream life.

Tomorrow - License, and the pony comes home for the first time. I plan on riding it to Mt. St. Helens for a nice pre-trip "getting to know you" ride. Perhaps a ride up that mountain will give me some clarity as to how I get down.

As I write this, I am two hundred sit ups away from being fit for the day and four thousand away from being ready for the trip. I will be putting up a "sit up" donation button on the blog for anyone that would like to donate a few.

943 dollars away from security.
4000 sit ups away from pure sexiness
16 days away from departure.

I should really call and make sure everyone is still willing to let my loud snoring ass sleep at their house....

the demon's glee

I have never known a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will fall frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
- D. H. Lawrence

It is not the critic who counts;
not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles,
or where the doer of deeds could have done better...

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood;
who strives valiantly;
who errs, who comes short time and time again,
because there is no effort without error and shortcomings;
but who does actually strive to do the deeds;
who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions;
who spends himself in a worthy cause;
who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement,
and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly,
so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls
who neither know victory nor defeat.
- Ted Roosevelt

http://www.bmwmotorcycles.com/bikes/bike.jsp?b=f650gs

Cut and paste this link into your browser.

Please welcome to Danada... The new RED War Pony. Follow this link to see what all the fuss has been about and what I be riding on the tour. Missing from the photo are the metal panniers on the side of the pony, but just create them in your head.

It can take more than one attempt at something before you get it done. In this case, it took six attempts to complete the task. Each failure up to this success seemed like the end of the world, but the successful step feels like pure energy. Finally, after endless applications, phone calls, stressing, "try again tomorrow's" and fights with the BMW people - I have the bike. I owe my soul to the great state of Alaska and their under the radar, solitary credit union, but I have the bike. They apparently wanted my business - or they wanted my soul, enough to give me the dough I needed. I pissed off BMW when I turned down their financing offer and they decided to tack on new charges to the deal, but in the end - what do you expect from a pig but a grunt? BMW was what I felt was my last resort and when they played hardball and came across as ungrateful and greedy... Well. I am not good with that.

So the trip is officially a GO! I am blissfully happy.

Now the next step - Two smaller trips are needed to work out the bugs and get myself used to distance riding with full gear. I will need to get used to the new riding clothes and the new feel of the bike. I have been really looking forward to getting out there and knocking those trips out. Thanks to Ebay I have a new helmet coming my way and hopefully I will have everything else I need before the departure date. There are a ton of little things that I have to work out before I leave like getting my license, getting into shape, acquiring detailed maps of the routes, getting into shape, finding housing for those days off, getting a physical and getting into shape, bike locks or a cover for the bike to keep it from being stolen, and getting into shape. Getting into shape means hours and hours of yoga... Each day.

There is a lot to do and very little time to get it all done. If you wish to send me something for the trip to carry with me along the way, or for me to wear... Do it now, it must be here before the 3rd of September. Please try to keep the item (preferable a sticker or a patch or a photo) to something small enough to get on the bike. I have shows for the next three weekends and I will only be home for a total of seven days before I leave town. Not a lot of prep time, so if I thought things were tough before, they are only going to get more exciting now.

I will try to keep the blog going while on the trip. I don't think I will take the computer with me, but I will try to find coffee houses and other computer outlets to fill you in on the details as I ride along. I am also working on getting a digital camera for the trip for the occasional video footage of the dream ride. In keeping in with the fine Daniel tradition - the digital camera is having some issues with focusing, so I might be taking just a lot of footage of my fuzzy ride across the country. Some of the weird little points of interest that I am hoping to see are; Mark Twain's houses in Hartford, CONN and Hannibal, MO. Albert Einstein's house in Princeton, NJ. The Mutter Museum in Philadelphia. The dying CBGB's in New York City along with Coney Island for a hot dog and the street corner where Tesla died. Billy the Kid's grave in Ft. Sumner, New Mexico. And loads and loads of other nerdy stops that sound cooler when I DON'T write them out. If you have some suggestions send them in, I might be able to work them in to the schedule. Mostly, I am taking this trip to prove that it can be done. That anyone, if they want something bad enough, can do whatever they want.

Enjoy the quotes above. They have kept me moving through the past few fuzzy weeks. I will have different quotes for the next two months... HA!

jon benet takes one for the team

Little Miss Runner-Up had been dead for ten years. It's hard to believe when I think about it - ten years. I guess after years and years of media saturation, I just forgot about the when of the whole thing. Not that I remember any of the rest of it, but I know the name. Jon Benet. Who names their daughter Jon Benet? Rich freaks that get off on gender specific nepotism.

According to the media, the murder shocked us all. And, according to the media, the entire nation grieved along with the Ramsey family. I'm not sure why, but I never really bought into this. I remember when it all happened and I remember that I looked more upset about the murder than the Ramseys. My skeptical view point of the whole case is what made this case worth remembering in all of us. Scrutinizing missteps and evidence creates legends. It creates legendary characters that will be with us long after their deaths. OJ Simpson, less known as a football player as he is a suspected murderer. Micheal Jackson, less known as a performer as he is a suspected pedophile.

Crime + Media = Fame. Add in a 4 year old wearing heavy make up and you have media gold.

This case didn't start as a murder, originally it appeared that she had just been kidnapped. A ransom note was found on the stairs in her home which had been laboriously written with specific and elaborate details on the when, where and how to drop off the ransom. The first real strange clue to this whole case was how a kidnapper could have been able to write all of this down... On paper found only in the Ramsey's house. These complicated details would have taken extensive planning and forethought and would have taken a while to write out in hand. Not something most kidnappers like to do with the family near by.

Odd clue number two - Jon Benet was found dead in a "secret" room of the Ramsey house. She was bound, gagged with duct tape, raped, beaten and strangled. So the kidnapping note, which would have taken hours to write, was a weird dupe when the goal was just to rape and murder. The secret room - built by Poppa Ramsey - didn't seem to have any "useful" purpose other than to be a secret.

Odd clue number three - The Ramsey parents freaked out like all parents of supposed kidnapped victims who then turned out to be raped and murdered - they went on television - Looking "okay with it". The police were furious. The general public was furious. The media... Ate it up.

The case would only get stranger from there; The police department would be blamed for dropping the ball and never arresting a suspect. Of course, eventually every detective on the case would quit in disgust over the very apparent, and rampant, "political" interference. The Ramseys' behavior only became more and more suspect (of course, that's the media definition of weird) and the truth would eventually be diluted in hundreds of books that would come out about the case in the years following. There is very little about the case that the public doesn't know. Except the truth.

The media kept airing the images of Jon Benet in some beauty pageant, wearing a blue-sequined cowgirl costume and enough make up to make a southern tele-evangelist's wife jealous, so it was a shock when I saw the images of the her at the crime scene. There is a lot of rage there. Rage usually comes from frustration. What a 4 year old could have done to enrage someone that much is a mystery.

The most common theory of the crime is that Jon Benet was murdered by either her father or her older, highly neglected, brother. It was assumed that one of the two of them had tried to rape her and in the process, killed her. When the rest of the family found out, they scrambled to protect themselves and created the phony kidnapping story. When the story went public, the Ramseys called in some heavy political favors to protect themselves.

Of course, this is the most commonly accepted theory. This gave rise to even more fantastic theories of secret pedophile cults among the rich and powerful. The public couldn't get enough. No one likes to be told only part of a story. It eats us up. We HAVE to know. We MUST know. The fact that we only knew that Jon Benet was dead wasn't enough for us. We had to know everything and when there wasn't anyone there to tell the rest, we went mad and created the rest.

The photos of a dead Jon Benet are brutal. The autopsy reads like one of the worst attacks on anyone ever. She was brutalized. That's a lot of focused rage. A lot.

Momma Ramsey died of ovarian cancer just a few months ago. She never left her husband and she never had another child. After the murder, the Ramsey family moved back east and as far away as they could from the memories. Eventually the public's fascination of the crime simmered down and Jon Benet became a cautionary tale for all beauty pageant moms. After enough time, the jokes started to come out and that's when you know it's over - when the jokes become funny and not distasteful.

This week, a man in Thailand was arrested with the murder and has confessed... Sort of. He claims he did it and there appears to be a connection between himself and the Ramsey family which just rekindles the flames of public interest in the matter. Did he do it? Probably not, but with our need to know and our need to have the answers, he will be found guilty and the last chapter of this decade long story will begin to be written. We just need it to be him, for our peace of mind.

He's had ten years to dwell on this case. Ten years to read everything about the case, the family and all things Jon Benet. And much like an obsessed fan or an obsessed detective that won't let go, he seems desperate to be a part of this saga and see it's conclusion. His timid nature almost makes me believe that he know a lot about the case and perhaps he's being set up to take the fall.

Jon Benet - a toy child, a victim of a brutal amount of focused rage, a pre-schooler. She is the only part of this story that we could care less about. We spend so much time thinking about our suspicions and our curiosities that we forget that at the start of this was just some kid. Once again, purity of spirit loses out to the fascination of darkness. We would rather know who the killer/rapist is, and not who the victim was.

The lesson we learn from Jon Benet is not that you need to lock your doors with better locks or that you need to love your children more than you do already, but that we need to stop letting our selfish needs get the better of us. Poor Jon Benet, she had to die for our sins.

thank you... both of you

I apologize. I have purposefully not posted in a while because I was feeling sorry for myself. After exactly four days of having the Donation button up. Only two.. (one, two) people donated anything. That hurt and it zapped my motivation. I got a lot of emails from people saying, "I'm here for you" and "what can I do to help" or "you know I will do anything", but none of them touched the button. I know both people that did, the rest of you cut me to the bone.

At any other time, this really wouldn't have bothered me. But lately people have been promising, offering, or telling me one thing, and then very quickly, backing out of it. I was getting tired of being dragged along and having my hopes built up only to be dropped suddenly. The real bummer was the loss of time. When waiting for one person to do what they said they were going to do, I lost valuable time working towards finding real assistance. It would seem that I needed a harsh reminder that, "actions speak louder than words." It was a tough week that way.

I was so bent out of shape, that I had to stop talking to a good friend because their actions and their daily comments to me were two totally different things and I couldn't handle any more of it.

So, yes, I was feeling sorry for myself and I took out on the readers. However, there were still two people that did make donations and they shouldn't be made to suffer. I had to remember that their generosity showed that there were people that did appreciate and their actions were genuine. I also know that many of the Danists are hard up for cash themselves and can't afford to give. My hard luck issues aren't anywhere as bad as many people that email me daily. My financial woes are nothing compared to the strain that some people see. It took a while for me to burn off the "why me?" attitude and so now - I am back. You cheap, selfish pricks.

20 Days to go. Still no bike, no helmet, no gear. The tour route and the schedule change every day and I am going blind looking at blood red yarn on the wall map and the messy dry erase board that looks more and more like a two year old did the scribing. When not staring lovingly at my tour, my days are spent trying to find financing and the nights are spent working the local comedy circuit. And thank the gods for the comedy. It's been a very nice salve to rub on the burn from the corporate financial dealings. Their souls are dark and questionable and I'm not sure we can justify... ...It's been challenging. The hidden gem in all this was discovering that I earned more money last week doing JUST comedy than I would have if I worked the day job. Had I still been working the day job, I would have never been able to make it to any of the shows. I would have lost money and TIME. I don't have to get up at four in the morning. I slowly crawl into my day now. No rush, no rush hour. No transportation issues. With the day job dominating my day, there is no blog, no late-night money making comedy and there wouldn't be the time I need to race around preparing for the bike trip. Losing the day job was a blessing. I would have never known that at the time. I must remember to be patient with set backs that set me back a step or two. Sometimes they turn out to be three steps forward.

It's amazing how much opens up to you when you give your ego a rest and do the work. I would never have seen as much local comedy work as I have if I had maintained my holier-than-thou status toward low paying comedy shows. Keeping my mouth shut and just accepting that I can not WILL myself into a prosperous future has shown itself to be the best policy at the moment. By taking work that I would have normally passed on because I didn't think it was worthy of me, I have created enough buzz to create even more work that is. One "worthy" show only pays you once. Ten "unworthy" shows pay you forever. I just had to have the patience to wait for it. There is no longer an unworthy show. I no longer book myself based on worthiness. A good waitress doesn't abandon an order because she doesn't think the customer will tip. She does the job, and moves on to the next table. If she lets one table ruin her attitude, she won't get any tips. You must move past your ego.

So I am back. Here to entertain. As humble as always.

the button of shameless greed

Shameless. Shameless and more shameless.

Sweet Home Alabama is used to sell Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Like A Rock is used to sell Chevy Trucks.
Sweet Emotion is used to sell to Corvette
U2 was used for the World Cup promotions.
My BIGGEST SPIRITUAL WRITING HERO, Thoreau is used to sell Insurance.

Danists of Danada, hear me now! Sorry, I still can't really do it. Sorry.

In conjuction with my on-going quest to recoop my late summer losses, I have abandoned all remaining honor that I had left in my body and have accepted any and all forms of work. I have put price tags out on everything I own. I have even reached out to others for assistance and/or ideas. I've enjoyed most of the ideas and I will admit that at first I wasn't very receptive to any of them but that foolish pride has long gone. Now, I will move on any idea no matter what. Last night - opening act at a burlesque show. It's work and I don't feel any sting in my my pride anymore. This has been an exceptionally good lesson for me to experience.

The most common suggestion by you the readers,was to make my blog a pay site, which is odd that you would suggest it, because you would be the ones that would have to pay. I like the idea because it means this would be my job, but I just can't. Making people pay at this point is sort of like a drug dealer giving out the first few for free and then sitting back and waiting for you to mortage your house so you can get some more. I pushed the idea of charging for this blog out of my head until someone said that the alternative to requiring you to pay would be making it optional. I could just ask for Donations. She is my favorite person at the moment. Balance!

It's not easy to set up, it required using an IBM computer and a Microsoft employee, but VOILA! There it is, just to the left of this post, under my photo. I'm not sure where the money goes when you press the button or how to retrieve it, but HEY, I have a button! The financial instution of the future - eDough. I have mixed feelings about it, but at least I am not demanding the cash. It's up to you and that seems decent and less greed-like.

I will leave up the button for a while. If it works out and doesn't get under my skin, I'll keep it. I can remember feeling this exact same way about the Google ads when they first arrived. I would have gotten rid of them a long time ago but they began to grow on me and they seem to fit in an odd, dark humor sort of way. I'm sure many of you have gotten a giggle from what appears to be Google's insensitive greed. There ad for "Plane tickets to Israel" which they placed on top of my post about my trip to the German concentration camp, that was priceless. I'm sure today's will even be some sort of hoot. I often wonder what would happen if I just wrote, "Google Sucks" over and over again. I bet you anything they would try to sell Google stock.

So, welcome the new look Daniel Blog with a donation button experience. If it's successful, then perhaps everyone can get what they want. I can spend more time writing, exploring and.. Well, being Daniel. Thus fullfilling my desire to be the paid writer I have always wanted to be and allowing me to justify the four or five plus hours a day I spend on this AND... You can continue to enjoy reading about it. I don't know what the blog means to you, but if you enjoy it on a daily, weekly, monthly or periodically (to see if I am still alive) then maybe it's worth a dime or two.

Shameless. Shameless and more shameless. Let's give it a go.

the lingering smell that is fame

It's late and I want to go to bed. I am in the last stages of putting toothpaste on my toothbrush while transfixed at the aging image staring back at me in the mirror. I seem to play with my plan with my skin a lot more now. Lifting it, stretching it out, pulling on it. Noting works. My pants are dancing down my legs on their way to my ankles, but for the most part, I'm naked. The only light in the perch is coming from the empty city outside. There is just a sprinkling of rain in the air which you can feel in every passing breeze. As much as I would love this night at any other time, I'm very tired from my long day of feeling sorry for myself, and I could care less.

My phone rings, which shocks me. No one calls me this late, so it must be an emergency. I pick it up and all I hear is a woman sobbing. It must be really, really serious! Sobbing is never a good way to start a phone conversation. No longer the least bit tired, I keep asking the person on the phone, "Who is this?" and "Where are you?". All I hear is a faint, "The Swiss" in a heavily slurred drunk female voice.

The Swiss is a local bar that is pretty popular with everyone in Tacoma so as a clue, it's pretty useless. The only thing I can tell about this caller; They're local. Perhaps the voice belongs to one of the local comics, they're notorious drunks, perhaps there was a fight and they got messed up and one of their girlfriends is reaching out. My heart, as fragile and broken as it is, comes to life in a flash.

I rush to put on my pants, my socks and shoes and the first shirt I can find. I grab a grey flannel work shirt and I am running out the door, putting on clothes and jumbling keys. Most of the buttons don't find the correct button hole. I look like a mess.

As I pull up to the Swiss, I see a small crowd out front that is laughing and smiling and loving life. I drive a bit further and there, just down the block, I can see a dark figure leaning up against an SUV that isn't laughing, smiling or moving at all. All I can see is blonde hair, but no face. I park and I approach the figure, not knowing if this is the right person. I would hate to walk up and grab the wrong drunk. I am absolutely shocked to find out who it is. I know her, it's (her name and identity will be protected here). WOW!

"Are you alright. Do you need to go to the hospital?" That's really all I could think to say at the time. I wanted to make sure that she hadn't been assaulted, but she wasn't talking to me and she wasn't going to move her hair out of her face to show me if she was okay. There is a lot of crying and just some small head nods for answers. I need to get her home.

I take her keys and I put her in my borrowed car. She crumples up with her face away from me and just sobs. I start driving without having any idea where to go.

"Where do you live?" I ask several times.
"Gig Harbor" she replies after I start getting testy.

I have been to Gig Harbor quite a few times. It's just outside of town across the Tacoma narrows bridge and it's made up of a lot narrow, dark, unmarked streets that lead to rich people's private, gated homes. It's incredibly easy to get lost there and I have many times. All of the houses there say, "Go away!". My first thought was that it was going to be impossible to find her house and that if we did, I was going to have to buzz her family at the gate to get her in the house. Of course, they would think that I did this to her and I would have to explain that, NO, I wasn't the culprit. And that I am just a late night savior. But no one believes those stories. I guess I could just buzz them and leave her in a grocery cart like they did in "Animal House."

It takes an hour to get the directions from her because she just seems too upset about something else to want to go home. She is at that level of sadness where even the thought of going home is not enough to bring her peace. What ever happened to her this evening must have been pretty severe. I decide it's best not to press the issue.

This is a story of me driving someone that is drunk home. So it goes without saying that she did foul the car and herself along the way. I won't say what it was, but I will say it wasn't puke. It was another drunkard's malady.

I finally get her to her house and thankfully it's a nice home without a gate, but it's still miles and miles and miles away from the highway. I was so busy with her that I didn't pay attention to where I was going or how to get back - something which I pride myself on doing everywhere I go. So by the time I have dropped her off and pulled back out on to the dark, narrow, unmarked road, I am clueless as to how to get back. It's late. The car smells so bad that all the windows are down and I see the fuel light... Blinking.

I'm lost the second I pull forward. It doesn't matter where I'm going, I have no idea which way to turn, so no matter what, I'm just making it worse for myself. The only thing I remember about getting here is that it's "far" and "keep going". Even if I could replay the drunk's directions in my head, I don't know which left or right to "turn right here!" at. The distant glow of Tacoma on the horizon is the only bearing that I have and so I just keep turning toward the glow to get me home. I'm smiling. As fast as my mind works, all the imagery is just what I needed.

I run out of gas in much the same way someone in a horror film watches their flashlight slowly dim or when they watch their gun run out of ammo just as the monster rises up to behead them and they throw their gun in desperation.

It's pitch black in the heavily wooded, highly protected, wealthy community. Their narrow, unmarked streets to deter outsiders have claimed a new victim. I am lost, cold, in a car with a POWERFUL odor, out of gas and now I have to walk out of here. The first thought that goes through my head is that the person who lent me the car needs it back at 8 A.M. and that I probably won't get any sleep tonight.

I walk aimlessly in the dark for a mile or two before I am stopped by a cop and thrown in the back of the cruiser. I am not in my car and the owner is peacefully sleeping, unaware of the surprise that awaits her in the morning. What am I doing out here so late? Where do I work?(a question that they ask that they really shouldn't) Where does this drunk person live? Where does the person who owns the car live? What is the name of the drunk person? Why you?

Why me? Exactly! Why does everything happen to me?! Why has my luck run out in such dramatic fashion?! Why me?! Never has a question been more aptly asked. I might be going to jail, which would enable me to see the bottom of the bottom. A place where only the truly tragic ever have the misfortune of ending up. And I have the one way ticket. I get to see it all, up close and personal.

I give every piece of information that I have and explain the story. I am able to tell them who owns the car, a good idea of where they live, but not the address exactly, and how I know them. I don't know their phone number because I am a modern man and I use a cell phone which means I only know their name, not their number. I also try to make my case that no car thief would steal a car that smelled this badly.

Just as I slam into the bottom, something happens and instead of pain and great discomfort, I find that I am bouncing back up, like a superball. It happens as quickly as it started - The cop says, "Daniel Rock. Daniel Rock... You're not DAN Rock the stand up comic?"

"Yeah, that's me" I say. Fully expecting his recognition of me to be a bad thing.

"Dead baby Jesus! Right!" He says in much the same way you would say, "OJ! Right!" if you saw Kato Kaelin. It's my most controversial bit and what I open every show with, and most people stare in absolute horror as I do it. Some love it, most don't. He loved it. And not just a little bit, he repeated it to me. Odd, because that joke is something that changes every time I do it. Amazing.

He caught my show at Jazzbones a few weeks back and he can't stop telling people about it. He loved the show and wants a CD really, really badly, if I have one. I don't. But I promise he will be the first one to get one.

He takes me to a gas station and then back to the car. All the while asking about my comedy and the life of a stand up and touring and "the ladies" - General fame questions. Suddenly the dynamic in the car has gone from him, stormtrooper and me, next holding cell tenant, to him, giddy fan and me, arrogant and stalwart superhero. I can tell that he is going to try stand up in the near future and I tell him smugly, to give me a call if he needs some help with it.

He leads me out to the highway and waves goodbye. He even puts on his lights behind me as a joke, but before I get on the highway, I have to stop and "sponge" up most of the good deed in the passenger seat. The smell in the car is painful. Even a full bottle of Febreeze isn't working on it. The windows are down, the vent is huffing at full power and I... I'm still smiling.

I was in such a hurry that I didn't lock my front door and the toothpaste is still sitting there on the toothbrush, waiting to be used. I am in bed and as close to a breakdown as I have ever been. The saying, "No good deed goes unpunished" ringing inside my head. Oh what a powerful perspective shift and, oh, did I ever need this kick in the ass! Looking back I can see that my sorrows aren't deep at all, they're topical. My needs aren't great, their practically petty. My suffering isn't eternal, it barely qualifies as momentary. And most importantly, I was successful in my goal of coming to Tacoma. I came here to make a name for myself in comedy, and look! I have done just that. It took this crazy series of events to show me that dreams happen, It just may take a while and may come in a different fashion than you were expecting. I wanted the fame and I got some. Not one person in Tacoma has recognized me from any of my shows, except for one. And when it finally happened, it saved my ass. It was the "one" that mattered. It gave me gas. Gas to keep going... To get through the dark and unmarked streets... To humbly accept assistance from those that I would normally despise... To accept that dreams won't always be perfect or the way I want them... To be prepared for the unpleasant work that I might have to do to make them happen... To remember that I am truly blessed, even when I hit the bottom, I am blessed.

It's been a tough year for a lot of people I know. Really tough. My drunk friend is having her own tough year and I'm sure her mind is filled with all kinds of thoughts. I will call her later to see if she's alright. I know that I'm alive. I am alive. And the smell emanating from the passenger seat keeps reminding me of that.

A midnight walk on a dark street in Gig Harbor. Million dollar homes all around me. None of them accessible. Everything about them says, "fuck off". Then someone that lives where I live, in the cheap part of town, saved me. There is a lesson in there somewhere.

middle-aged whore's knees syndrome

Okay, this is it. I need a HO LOTTA money. Cash, bread, cheese, queso oro, Texas tea, mean green, moola moola, dead presidents.... I need a lot of money and I am willing to do anything to get it. I am open to suggestions at this point and I thank all of you for your support and your effort. I am very touched to see so many people reach out.

The complications I am having comes from a bank loan that I took out for my car - which I sold to my mother. As soon as she pays the bank what I owe on the loan, that releases my credit for the bike loan. My mother has decided that she doesn't WANT to start that process until late August. Thus, I still own the car(which she just drove to Kentucky from Washington and still has at this posting), I am still making the payments for the car, I have no bike, I have no loan for the bike and I am running out of time to make my departure date. Even if I did get the loan, they bank wouldn't give me the entire coast of the bike SO, I would still have to raise two grand to cover the rest of the cost of the bike. WHICH, If I could raise the two grand I would have to use that money to cover my bills before I could apply it to the bike. AND, as if that weren't enough, I would have to do it, in less than ten days! (this sounds like a Jerry Bruckheimer movie, doesn't it?)

HERE'S THE MATH::::

Bike "A" must be purchased in the next week SO THAT I can have it fitted with the gear required for such a long trip. THEN, I then need to get some shorter practice trips on the bike to fine tune the bike and myself; which gear to take, how long can I ride, suspension adjustments, etc. THEREFORE: Loan "A" for Bike "A" is waiting on a my mother's "Yea or Nay" to Loan "B" on Car "B", which she doesn't FEEL LIKE DOING until, MAYBE, a week before the trip is supposed to start! Car "B" could make the trip, BUT, the fuel costs QUINTUPLE if I take Car "B" instead of Bike "A". AND, the dream isn't a cross country road trip in a car... I have done that over a hundred times and it's not the same as a solo bike trip. Not to mention, she has the car with her.

As you can see... It's a tight spot.

A friend suggested that I have a fund raising auction where all of my friends could donate goods and then my other friends could buy them with all proceeds going towards the trip. Another friend suggested that I sell blood, sperm and/or plasma which is a wonderful idea, but you can only give blood once every three days. Plasma, once a day and sperm, once a week - if you're healthy and sperm-worthy (yes, even our sperm is scrutinized by the women's ever critical eye.)

Another good idea was whoring myself out to the world. No holds barred! This seems to be appeal to my darker sexual side a lot, but it doesn't seem particularly reasonable given my present physical state and age. But if it pays the bills, celibacy be damned! Sadly, the only customers that I could see trying to seek out a middle aged man whore for affection would be older men who couldn't get the younger man whores to touch them. So you can see, that makes that target market less than ideal. It would take more than a "grin and bear it" mentality to make enough money that way.

I could try to find sponsors for the trip. Putting stickers and patches on my bike and gear to supplement the ride. If you're willing to sell your sex for money, why not the back of your helmet? If you're willing to trash your morals for cash I say, GO ALL THE WAY! Get paid! "This trip brought you to by Vagisil".

I can sell the typewriters, my clothes and various other "Daniel used this!" items. That seems like a strong idea at the moment as I don't think I would have a place to come back to if I make this trip and if I didn't have anything in the apartment when they locked me out, I wouldn't feel so bad. Not to mention, those lucky enough to have the limited edition, Daniel coffee machine. Would know that it's a one and only. Should I become famous, these items would go down in history as the "Bike tour boot". Ebay, anyone?

Shows are usually the best for raising money fast so I am working with a few people at setting up shows along the bike tour route. Sadly, without a bike, it's going to be a hard sell a Comedy Bike Tour, but if I book shows, I'm a comin', no matter what. At this point, I am doing every local show within five hours of my house that is available to me.

An online travel magazine called, InTravel.com has shown some interest in publishing some of my road stories, but which ones? (I would be open to suggestions here as well) Do you think they would be interested in a daily "Invasion" diary of their own? I like the idea of having writing save my skin in this crisis. In a way, it would satisfy my deep desire to be seen as a legit writer. Not that I think that writing a monster blog posting every day isn't legit writing, but for some reason, paying a cover to read my stuff seems to validate the job title.

....Hey.... that's another idea.... a blog cover charge.... forget it.

I have auditions for a commercial, a live sex show and an indy movie over the next two days. If I give away a pint of plasma a day, a handful( ? ) of sperm a day and a pint of blood a day, I should be able to make another 100. There is always being a lab rat for a science experiments or pharmaceutical company drug trials, I have done this before and it pays well, however you tend to walk funny and you have a metallic taste in your mouth for weeks afterwards.

Does anyone want a Nintendo Game cube? How about a collection of photos of naked women that I have slept with that didn't know I had a camera? I have some pens that I have never ever used... And some paper that matches. There is some beef jerky in my cabinet that I am willing to part with.

Drum roll... I have a brown, very used, very smelly, very faded, brown hat.... Anyone? Anyone?

If you ever wanted to know where my breaking point is, I think we've found it.

take my eyes, my ears, my mouth. take my very soul

I once watched a man put a woman's head through a wall while ten people watched and did nothing. Myself, included. Moments before, the woman had spit in his face and the man just reacted out of rage. It was instantaneous. Now before you get bent out of shape remember this, had she been conscience after her head went through the dry wall, she would have continued to spit on him and probably try to put his head through the wall. She's wasn't just some poofy tailed bunny that needed a gentle touch, she was a rock-hard. And she had seen the other side of more than one wall in her lifetime.

Prior to that event, everyone in attendance was having a great time. There was tons of laughter and camaraderie to go around and everyone was filled with a youthful optimism and wonderful dreams. There was talk about starting up bands, or working together on road trips, or BBQ's at each other's houses. People were flirting with each other and a free-love sexual tone was quickly overcoming everyone in the room. A room full of strangers were blissfully happy about the future.

Then the head hit the wall.

After that, no one ever got together and made that band. No one had a BBQ. No one was feeling the free love anymore. No one wanted to hang out together anymore. Something had been taken away. The dreamers, it seemed, had been given a healthy dose of reality.

Not really. Some of us still held on to the dreams, but we realized that dreams aren't casual, hopeful talk when things are good, dreams are a reality when everything else around us is bad. Real dreams have weight and they are real, they are not just talk. And like all things that are real, they can die. In that room that day, with talk of a better tomorrow all around us, a head hitting a wall reminded everyone that there was work to be done. None of them wanted the dream bad enough to work for it.

Dreams are the byproduct of an active imagination tempered with a child-like fascination for the future. In dreams there is no work to be done, no patience, no road blocks, no toil or strife. In dreams there is only the end result. The past ten days have taught me that with dreams there is something more than just an active imagination - There's will.

China is gone. Korea is gone. My day job is gone. Now the new bike may be gone too. Perhaps I am, as a friend recently told me, holding on too tightly to this dream and trying too hard to control it. Something you just can't do. It's her contention that I am trying to dictate the who, what, when, where and how and that I am not being flexible with my world. In part, she is correct.

I haven't seen a movie in weeks. I am busting my ass to find comedy work to cover my bills and make the dreams I dream come true. I realize that you can't control the dream, but I have to believe that if you don't try to make it happen for yourself, then it's not going to happen, period! I am trying to stay calm, stay centered and trying to maintain my humility. I have bowed my head and accepted the fate that has befallen me, but I am not going to quit. I will not stop fighting for this to happen. Lie, cheat, steal - as the saying goes. Dreams become real only when your soul's determination is greater than life's attempts to take it away from you. The dreams you feel in your heart right now, are there to fuel your resolve to see tomorrow as better than today. Perhaps I don't get to ride across the country on the bike I want or with the gear I need. Perhaps I lose my cell phone for not paying the bill or I am evicted from the perch or I have to sell everything I own, but if I want this dream bad enough - if my will is stronger than my fear - than I will see it through.

When you want to climb Mt. Everest, you have to take months off from work. It costs tens of thousands of dollars and requires that you are in peak physical condition. You can die, lose limbs, go mad, or get lost in the wilds of Nepal. Everything about climbing Mt Everest says, "don't do it". But people do. Determination makes the dream come true, even when life tries to take it away from them.

Stay calm, stay focused, stay humble before your fate... and you shall see the top of the world.

I am open to suggestions at this point. If my writing suffers for a while, you'll know why. It's hard to give four hours of my day to the blog when I have other things to address - I will not abandon you, the readers of this blog because I am having a sour month. When it comes down to it - I would give up the ride and the comedy before I ever gave up the writing - that's a dream that shall never die. Not even if life puts my head through a wall.

bring me the head of mark walhberg

In the infancy of the white rapping festish, Marky Mark was one of the two standards by which all other white rappers were judged. The only other white rapper that was used as a measuring stick was Vanilla Ice, so you can see just how important Marky Mark was for the burgeoning white rapping trend.

Marky Mark didn't work hard to become the pillar of the new genre. Oh no. No, he got his start in an old fashion way; he was related to a different person. Marky Mark was the younger brother of a more popular singer at the time, "the bad boy" - Donnie Walberg of New Kids on The Block. The most popular group in the world. Donnie was broody and mysterious and he oozed all that makes a bad boy, bad. He set fire to his hotel room in Louisville, Kentucky. Cause all bad boys have issues with child proof lighters. He had a natural scowl. He licked his lips a lot. He wore baggy clothes. And he had a mohawk/mullet that was so hot at the time. Marky Mark was cut of the same cloth so it was no surprise that Marky Mark was such a furrowed brow angry Bostonian like his older brother. He never set a hotel on fire, but he did set the world on fire with his Calvin Klein underwear ad. Cause all bad boys love to sell underwear in their spare time. He had the angry scowl and the lip licking. His hair was under a sideways baseball hat(which is very, very naughty) but that didn't matter. Marky Mark had something that no one bad boy had ever had, muscles. No bad boy had ever had them before, but every real bad boy since has had them.

Marky Mark had two hits - a dance number called, Good Vibrations, which was filled with joy and happiness, two very serious bad boy traits. The other hit was a remake of Take a Walk on the Wild Side. He updated Lou Reed's lyrics a bit and wisely put his brother in the video to give it some credibility, but as soon as Marky Mark released Take a Walk on the Wild Side, he was gone. The future looked bleak for Marky and there was nothing that his brother's fame could do to save him. Donnie's fame was all but gone at this point and he was really milking anything he could off his bro's fame.

Suddenly, Judas Priest's lead singer came out of the closet and the band broke up, shocking everyone and shaking up the rock world. Just like that! Trying to find a lead singer to replace Rob Halford was going to be an impossible task. Rob's voice was the band so no ordinary man was going to do. So instead of seeking out an established singer from another famous band, the band instead found a man that was singing in a Judas Priest cover band. His name was "Ripper". And you could say that the band made all of his dreams come true. He went from being an obnoxious Rob Halford wannabe to being Rob Halford. Sans the Homosexuality (which the female fans really appreciated). Ripper was rich, famous and getting laid every day. (see momma, dreams really do come true!)

Marky Mark stopped singing but he didn't stop being famous. He saw the early writing on the wall for the white people in the black musical mediums and he jumped ship. He reappeared as Mark Walhberg: Master thespian (see the difference there; Marky Mark and Mark Walhberg?) But in order for Mark sans "EEE" to be taken serious, he needed a huge cock. So, It all starts with a huge cock with a coke problem.

In the seventies, men didn't have to be charming, funny or good looking to get laid. In fact, it was encouraged to be a slob and hairy if you wanted to get the ladies hot. Women ate it up! They couldn't get enough of these furry, drug addicted, no condom wearing, Friday night specials. Of course, it helped that these men had cocks that dragged behind them on the ground when they walked. I guess the laides like that sort of thing...

There were two men on the planet that were primarilary responsible for this new trend, they were two white boys named, Ron Jeremy - a former special education teacher from Queens, New York, and John Holmes - a shoe salesman from Ohio. These two white men with their huge love for women were the backbone of the porn industry for years. Their disgusting and every man appeal gave hope to millions of men around the world.

John Holmes' fame started to wane when he became a drug addict and was involved in a drug related murder. Eventually his fame all but washed up and he died in 1988 of AIDS, which he aquired after switching to Gay porn which paid him in coke. Ron Jeremy, depending on the way you look at it, is sadly still around. A living relic of a time when ugly men had the ability to rule the universe. Time was not very nice to him, and even though he is still making porn, he is now referred to as the "the human hedgehog" for his less than desirable appearance.

Mark Walhberg started getting more and more movie roles. They were "nothing" roles, not much to look at, in fact, they're forgettable. In "Fear" he played a bad boy that stalks a girl. In "Basketball Diaries" he played a bad boy junkie. And in "Renaisance Man" he played a bad boy solider. He was the new mold for short, muscled bad boys in film.

In the world of American sports, no world is more widely aspired to, or fantasized about, than football. With a high degree of accuracy I can say that 79 percent of all American males dream about playing professional football. They dream of walking onto the field, no matter what, and making the big play that wins the big game. Of course, the odds of becoming a football player are one in 100,000. These odds increase exponetially with each passing year of your life. In fact, only one person in the history of professional football has ever become a player after 30. Vincent Papale of the Philadelphia Eagles. He is the only walk on player to ever try out and make the team. No previous experience at all. None. The statistical average of that happening: 1:1,454,673,000.

Mark Walhberg was offered his first "real" role of his life. He was cast in the lead of the quasi-John Holmes bio pic, "Boogie Nights". The film was a huge success and Mark's popularity went through the roof. Especially when his musclely body was fitted with a 12 inch prosthetic cock which he displayed at the end of the film. He was as popular as one man could dream to be. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. Normal guys everywhere dream of becoming a porn star.

Mark Walhberg was offered his second "real" role. He was cast in the lead of the quasi-Ripper bio pic, "Rock Star". The film was a huge succee and Mark's popularity again, went through the roof. Especially when his body was fitted with a magical voice that could reach over eight octives. He even got to drive the Batmobile. He was as popular as one can could ever be. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. He has a 12 inch cock and he can sing. Normal guys everywhere dream of becoming a rock star.

Mark Walhberg was then offered the third film in his bio pic career path road to success. He was offered the "real" role of the "real" Vincent Papale. The film comes out this year and it's sure to be a success. Especially when his is fitted with acting talent. He will be as popular as he ever been. Women will want him cause he's an athlete with a huge cock and huge voice. Men will still want to be him and I'm sure there will be a small portion of world that will begin to think Mark Walhberg is the most perfect human that has ever lived. Normal guys everywhere dream of becoming a star athlete.

Donnie Walhberg had to lose forty pounds for a cameo role in "The Sixth Sense" for which he wasn't paid a dime. He played a disturbed, balding, crazy man who kills Bruce Willis and then himself. In fact, in all of Donnie Walhberg's movie he plays a disturbed, balding crazy man. "Ransom","Dreamweaver" and a video he made for his daughter. I think they should release the pillow with Donnie Walhberg on it today. I doubt to many people are going to rush out and buy it. The Marky Mark Pillow... There are men that would not only buy it, they would make out with it every night.

There is really only one thing left for Mark Walhberg to be associated with that would complete his "dream date" status - Jesus.

golden dust bin

China, in keeping with the mysterious and magical kingdom that it is, has officially been taken away from me. The booker of the tour has scratched the whole thing and now I am left with a huge 6 week hole in my life. I'm still in shock, after a brief email that just simply said, "sorry" I am without work, travel or purpose for the month of October...

...no comedy on the DMZ...
...no follow up flight to Bejing...
...no bike trip from Bejing to Mongolia...
...no income to cover the bills...
...no great wall of china...
...no cheap leather goods...
...no yummy mink blankets...
...no bimbimbop...

Suddenly my world is filled with doubts and the fact that I have lost so much work in the past week is beginning to take it's toll on me both personally and professionally. The weird part about all of this - I wanted this. Not the desitution or the desperation - I wanted the challenge. I wanted to test my resolve and see if I had any control over my reactionary emotions. I guess you could call it; an endless mediation. I wanted to see if I could stay focused through all of the distractions.

I am failing miserably.

I really wanted to go to Tuva. I really wanted to see Asia from the back of a motorcycle. I have been waiting for years to see Tuva. Shucks!

For the past two nights, I have been working the open mic circuit in Tacoma trying to drum up some local gigs that woud cover my day job loss. Sadly, I am very aware of the fact that even if I did a show a night until I left on the cross country bike tour, I still wouldn't be able to cover all the losses. Thankfully, I had the October tour to cover my bills. The money was going to show up upon my return from the bike trip and that would have carried me to the new year. With the recent loss of October, now my world is quickly becoming an even bigger financial disaster.

Stay focused. Stay focused.

So these are the first thoughts - Cancel the up coming bike tour and cancel all the up coming work and just accept the new day job that was offered to me. It pays the bills, it keeps me ahead of the game

OR

Fuck it all! Get on the bike, keep the few shows I have, down shift my living situation to an even more pawltry existence and then just roll with the punches.

The latter appeals to me the most.

Wouldn't it be easier to just to sell out and let another personal dream be crushed by the social standard? Perhaps the error in my ways was allowing someone to have control over my dreams in the first place. If I want to got to Tuva so badly, I need to get there on my own terms. If the world around me expects me to live on their terms and I choose to accept those conditions, then I don't deserve to have dreams in the first place. The very definition of a dream, as I see it, is a foreshadowing of your future.

I have been so filled with self-pity that I haven't been able to discipline myself and stay focused on what I need to get done. When you feel sorry for someone, yourself included, it doesn't seem appropriate to show any tough love. When you're the ailing soul that is down, your own harsh words and judgements will only make the suffering that much more intolerable.

I am on the open mic stage and I am kicking ass. It's a nice switch for me and it's taking my mind off of some the burdens at hand. The crowds seem to love what I'm doing and that kind of acceptance fills all my emptiness, if just for a moment. The other comics on the show seem to appreciate what I'm doing and they have been offering me smaller gigs to help me out. Their willingness to help me out is strong medicine.

It's when I step out in to the cool Tacoma night air that my focus returns to me.

My comedy is finally where I wanted it to be when I moved here. I have the new bike, 10,000 miles of a spiritually enlightened dreamscape filled with friends, family, BBQ and comedy. What... Is all that bad about my life?

Never let anyone take the reins of your dreams away from you. As with all things, it must be you and you only that brings about the realization of your craziest visions of the future. You alone are the bearer of all the happiness that can come your way. It's when we forget this that our life sours and begins to fester. Life will... Cancel the trip.

two half notes make a whole

I am the product of two fathers, both of whom are equally responsible for my growth into manhood and each man owns a part of the action. They represent the yin and the yang of fatherhood as each man was the extreme opposite of the other(one was in a rock band, the other never listens to music). At the end of the day, it seems that the only two things I can see that they had in common were a shared knowledge of my mother and that they were both taller than me. From that point on, the similarities cease.

"Xanadu" was a film that came out in 1980 and fast became a favorite for my friends and I to watch. It was so popular that my brother actually asked for, and received, the soundtrack(on record, no less). The film was a flop at the box office but was a huge success on HBO which was in it's infancy and looking for films to show. Xanadu came cheap and they put it into heavy rotation, this meant that I could watch it at least once a day and I think I did. I must have watched that movie two or three hundred times. The only film I have seen more is "Beastmaster". I can recite dialogue... Try me.

The film is about two men from different generations that meet and are inspired by a real Muse. Neither man feels a complusion to paint or sculpt, but rather, to open a roller disco. Yes, it's a classy film! Anyway, midway through the film, when both men are trying to figure out the "feel" of the club, the muse does her thing and each man has a vision. The younger man sees the club as a New Wave-rock club filled with crazy dancers. The music is heavy and the dancers are wearing spandex with their faces heavily painted. The older man sees the club filled with a Big Band scene with crazy dancers dressed like the Andrew sisters. The film tries to be fair and it gives each man's vision equal time to play their song and do their little dance... but then... something magically happens...

The two worlds of music... Come together! That's right, the music, the dancers, the musicians. It all comes together. It all fits like a glove. Even the film sets slide into each other to make one large mixed band with dancers. It was an awesome scene.. When I was 9.

My father, Chuck was a tall, dark skinned man with a black mustache. He slumped over a bit and was not particularly good looking. He had a great laugh, was a chain smoker and was a sloppy dresser - mostly sweats or throw back Seventies gear. He was a moderately successful writer with columns in several local Kansas City newspapers, but he never had any money. He was a dreamer that never held down a real job, not for one day of his life, yet somehow managed to eck out a living and live in a nice suburban house. He was an only child, the son of southern drunks that he didn't connect with at all. The best way to describe his childhood is - he lived in the room above the garage. He had a terrible dark side which manifested itself in many, many ways and was never fully understood, even ten years after his death. He fathered three children, was married three times - each time to a woman fresh out of high school. He was an actor, a democrat, a failed stand up comic, an avid toy collector, a crook, a college drop out, a history buff, a musician, and a huge film fan that loved each of his children. I loved him very much. He met my mother in a basement with some friends - He was dared to kiss her.

My father, Bill was a tall, pale, thin man with thick glasses and was the very essence of what people like to call, "nerd". He has a modesty to his movements that let you know that he isn't going to hurt you which is good because he's a doctor and I'm sure that he needs that aura with some of his more frightened patients. He's a product of the 50's and was raised in a very conservative, morally forthright Wisconsin family. He's the eldest son of three children, yet in all the time I have known him, I have never met his siblings. His parents owned a hardware store and were constantly hard on him to be a successful business man. He's a republican with a degree in Economics and a pHd. in Osteopathic Medicine. He's been a doctor for over thirty years and a pilot for twenty. He loves cars, but can't fix them. His present wife is an airport manager and they are inseperable. He is constantly studying either medicine or economics. He was a virgin until he was 28 and married my mother. He believes in God, Bill O'Reilly and a good investment. He's shy. Never flashy. Does not fight. He can be trusted. He's loving, caring, focused and everything that Chuck was not. I love him very much. He met my mother in a snowy parking lot - He offered to scrape the ice off her windshield.

Bill and Chuck were not friends and they only met a few times in their lives. An amazing feat considering all they had in common. Their fight for dominion over my soul and the right way to raise my brother and me went on for years and only ended the day that Chuck died suddenly. Bill felt that Chuck underminded everything that he had worked so hard to teach us and Bill was always put out by the fact that we like Chuck's free wheeling ways better than his. It was really a matter of reward. Chuck liked sugary, fattening foods, staying up late and watching movies. Bill believed in health foods(he once used only health food store candy for Easter - my brother and I cried for hours). Chuck made fun of Bill and we laughed. I laughed. Bill never spoke ill of Chuck. He never wanted us to be that kind of person. Ironically, my brother was with Bill in Montana when Chuck's health took a turn for the worse, and it was Bill that actually paid for my brother's plane ticket to go be with Chuck before he died. He didn't make it in time.

Growing up, Chuck - being Chuck, did not pay child support and relinquished his parental rights and Bill snatched them right up. He adopted my brother and I when he married our mother and even when they divorced 12 years later, Bill never waivered in his affections for us. My brother's loyalities waned as he got older, but that's another issue. Even so, Bill's love for my brother never faultered. We still bear Bill's last name. He's on my birth certificate as my father.

It hurt Bill to be known or treated as second fiddle to Chuck. Bill felt that he was the one that was making all the efforts, yet Chuck continued to reap what Bill had sown. It was agonizing for Bill, yet he kept it mostly to himself. I can't imagine what that must have been like. When Bill married his present wife, she came with two kids. He was once again thrust into a situation where he was second fiddle. This time, he backed off. He has never had children of his own.

I carry Bill's family name legally and use Chuck's birth name as my stage name. Bill has asked if I wanted to change my name from his and said he understands if I want to do it. He said he wouldn't be hurt if I chose to do so and I was going to do it, but then thought better of it. Early on, I felt that I was trading on his good name with my foul comedy and strange writing and I knew that he would be mildly hurt if he found out what my show is really like. (both men have seen my show, but that was 10 years ago and both shows were clean shows. Bill thinks I am the cleanest, funniest person he has ever met. He loves me that much) I decided not to change my name as I feel it's an honor to be known as Bill's son. He never has been able to see what his efforts have meant to me or my brother and I think that keeping his name instead of taking an easier path, would be the least I could do to honor him. He has more than earned the right. The only reason I would change it is if I felt that it would besmearch his good name. Which could happen...

Chuck was the darkness to Bill's light. One used foul language, ate twinkies, smoked cigarettes, chased women, and was constantly trying to find ways to milk money out people. The other still uses the word, "mularky" as an expletive, happily eats whatever his wife cooks for him, has slept with fewer women than Nathan Lane and his only vice is old vehicles. These two men would have made a great Amazing Race Team.

Chuck loved to watch movies with me. We used to go out at 2 in the morning for coffee and long drives no matter what time of year it was. He gave me cigarettes for my birthday every year from 15 on up. He taught me how to seduce, perform oral sex(I was 13 at the time) and break up with women. We enjoyed each other's company. He shared his darkest secrets with me. I gave his elogy at his funeral. I carry all of his recessive genes in my blood.

Bill loved to "treat" me as in medically. I have so many medical anomolies (ironically given to me by Chuck's DNA - yet another of Chuck's rotten tomatoes thrown at Bill) that Bill could dedicate his career to righting all the wrongs inside me. In fact, when I had my heart attack, it was Bill that paid my medical bill, not Chuck. In fact, Bill was my only relative to cover the huge tab.

Bill taught me to leave things better than you found them. He taught me to say, "no" to things that would be harmful to me. He taught me the value of the saved dollar, the bright future and the beautiful soul. He has always been there even when I have failed him. I owe him.

These two men that couldn't be any more different and yet they were the men that were responsible for creating my foundation. Their music comes together in a montage that can only be seen in me and my actions and I think of them often when I recall their wise words in my daily life. Bill's voice comes through when buying cars, clothes, and food. Chuck's voice comes through when I write a post, laugh out loud, or eat a PB and J. Bill is the smell of the warm pine of Washington. Chuck is the sound of crickets, the feel of humidity and the taste of Coca Cola that is the Midwest.

I miss Chuck, he's been dead for ten years now and I miss our talks. I miss the way he smelled, his laugh and his clueless social bravado. It bothers me that I don't have him to counter balance my world like I used to. In the moments where I sit and watch something on TV that I know he would have loved, I miss him most. When I write political pieces, I hear his voice in my words. He's not here to share that with me, but I have him firmly implanted in my mind.

In closing, I think it's important to mention, should the occasion ever arise, that I think Chuck finally paid Bill back for everything he did for me and for him. Chuck's death made me appreciate Bill so much more than ever before. I know to embrace Bill and savor him endlessly, because one day I might be left with no music left to soothe my soul.

a leisurely sunday drive

Home. I am back at home after my much maligned tour of Arizona. I never thought I would say this but I am happy to be back in Tacoma. The weather here is soothing that the mind can forget even the worst memories. It massages the skin with it's tiny little hands found in the wind. The rich smell of Pine, which dominates the landscape here, is much more pleasing than the smell of desert, which is why you have never seen desert scented candles or air freshner.

The little man of Tucson ended our relationship much the way he found it - without a word or any assistance. The best thing I can say about him is that he wasn't as bad with me as I hear he has been with others. Isn't that sad when the best thing anyone can think to say of you is that you aren't as shitty of a person as say, Hilter. He didn't offer me a ride to the airport, but he did pay me. So I guess I broke even. C'est le vie.

Home - late Sunday and trying to be ready for work on Monday morning. The biggest problem I have right now, other than the fact that I have to get up at four, is that I don't have a vehicle to get to work on Monday. The train and the bus aren't running that early and a cab would be close to 90 bucks. The pony and the car were sold so I am stuck with a truck that is in the shop and not ready for use. I stressed out for hours trying to figure out what to do and eventually a workable solution was arranged - I cried until a friend lent me their car.

I got to work two hours late... And was laid off.

Home - early from work on Monday and in need of a job to pay for a dream. I feel that I am slowly losing my grasp on my September tour and that scares me. It's one thing I have been looking forward to for a long time. It's one of the reason that I labored so hard in the hot sun during the entire month of July.

I spent Monday reviewing my dream tour and doing the math that will make it possible. I need to know the following; the mileage to money ratio, the food to money ration, the friends to distance to time ratio, the distance to time on the bike to comfort ratio. It's a labor of love, so I can't say that I was to put out by the math. I got to charting all my work and my spirits started to rise. There is something about using a dry erase board, a calendar, a map, some push pins, a ball of blood red yarn and a calculator to plot an event that makes you feel like you have the world by the balls.

Each push pin is a stop and the red yarn will be my path. With the enthusiam of a Mountain Dew'ed 6 year old, I am pushing pins into the map. I have almost emptied one box of push pins before I realize that I can't stop in all of these places in the time frame that I am giving myself. My unruly excitment has me on a tour that would take a TRON light cycle to achieve. After my intial plan, the grand totals for the trip are: 9 months of travel. 3000 dollars in fuel. Needless to say, I had some editing to do.

The rules became thus; I can't go more than 400 miles in any one day. I can't spend more than forty bucks on a hotel. I have to choose camping before staying at a hotel. I have to stay with friends and milk them for their showers, before camping. I have to over-estimate gas prices, gas mileage and travel time that it takes for a particular leg of the trip.

After a few hours the trip boils down into 25 legs, 31 days, 8000 miles, 600 dollars for gas, 600 dollars for housing and food, 4 shows along the way that cover 750 dollars of the trip, and 12 stops where I can borrow a shower from a friend. I will see Spokane, Butte, Fargo, Minneapolis, Chicago, Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, D.C., Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Indianapolis, Louisville, St Louis, Kansas City, Oklahoma City, Lubbock, Albuquerque, Salt Lake City, Boise and Tacoma. Of course, there are ton of stops in between, but those are the highlights.

The yarn on the map that connects each stop to the next, makes North America look like it has fuzzy arteries feeding every conceivable corner of it. Of course, these arteries are straight and don't allow for the true nature of the trip, but I feel like a Bond bad guy staring at my next evil plan to take over the world, every time I stand with my arms crossed looking at it. The fuzzy blood red arteries just add another element to my evil.

The tenative tour schedule is up on www.danielrock.com... they're subject to change as offers for free housing, free food, body massages and once in a lifetime events are presented to me.

The rest of my week is going to be spent trying to come up with the money necessary to cover the bills while I am on tour. I am still trying to find more work while I'm out on the tour, so if any of you know of a bar that would like a comic and can accomodate my schedule... I am willing to work something out for gas money and place to shower.

It would seem that I have a lot of time all of sudden... I can't say that I like this stagnant feeling, perhaps a month long bike tour is just what I need.