invasion of america - indiana, missouri and other such luck

Michigan - Missouri

800 miles.

The rains were supposed to have passed over me in the night and I was supposed to wake up in the peaceful aftermath of the storm of the century. I was supposed to be free from my nightmare, instead I woke up in Jackson, Michigan under heavy clouds and filled with chubby rain, and 30 mile an hour winds that seemed to me to be winds that were late to the party and just trying to catch up.

Thankfully my route for the day was a short one and I would only be on the bike for around four hours or so. I loaded up, geared up and rode out of Jackson. I made a bee line for Indiana and didn't stop until I saw Football Jesus. (yes, you heard me)

Before the introduction of football to Notre Dame University, the school had commissioned a rather large, gawdy Jesus mural to be placed on one its more predominate buildings. The artist spared no expense and really took the labor to heart. It's a beautiful mural standing over ten stories high and as the centerpiece of the mural, there is a five story tall Jesus, who's arms are lifted up above his head, with crooks in the elbows, which is the same posture that a football referee takes to indicate a team has scored a touchdown. A few years after the mural was completed, the game of football took off in Notre Dame and the stadium was built so the "Jesus" would over look the field. Everyone in the stands can see it during games and it is rumored that the presence of that Jesus has helped Notre Dame become the power house that it is today. Henceforth the mural was called, "Football Jesus".

I finally pulled into Lafayette, Indiana three rain soaked hours late. I was tired, but filled with joy. The past few days of travel I have seen the landscape slowly reshape itself from the thick, plush forest covered mountains, to the more nostalgic soft rolling hills of the Midwestern plains. The plains where most of my formative years were spent and where most of my fondest memories reside. There has been a great anticipation growing inside me for months with regard to this portion of the trip. Originally I was just supposed to visit Adam and then move on, but with his disappearing act and my new attitude toward viewing the world and it's merits, I have a new strange anxiety that is contained in my emotional mix. With each field of corn I pass, I grow and more impatient for Kansas City. I have big questions and bigger fears. What if Adam hasn't called because he's dead? What if I get to Kansas City and it's just awful? Should I just keep on going or should I stick out the four days that I have planned there?

This the time where you remember to stay in the moment and enjoy where you are. In this case; Indiana.

The night I arrived I was really too tired to do much else other than visit the bar where I will be performing and maybe walk around a bit. We went down to the place where I am performing in Lafayette and it was holding the annual Shannon Hoon tribute show which honors Lafayette's greatest son. Axl Rose could have claimed that title, but he is always the first to rip apart Lafayette when someone asks him about it. It's not uncommon to do so and I bet most people would rip part their hometown if they no longer lived there or felt that they had to leave to be "free". However, he could just say something generic and move on. He just can't do it and because of that, you get the sense that Axl won't get an annual tribute show when he passes away.

For all of you that don't know, Shannon Hoon was the lead singer of Blind Melon which had two major hits (and one minor one) in the early nineties before Shannon Hoon OD on a tour bus while in New Orleans back in 95. When he died, his daughter was just a few months old. Now she's 11 and she was crowd surfing over tons of fans that remember the band and come out to honor the man, his spirit and his music. Shannon was a hippie at heart and he loved to be naked and perform that way. You can see where someone like that could find a following pretty quickly. Living in Tacoma, you would think we could do something similar for our famous sons, I mean we did give the world Jimi Hendrix. But we never will because we know that if we did, we know that millions of people would show up in Tacoma and invade our space. I sense that Tacoma-ites wouldn't dig that and neither would Jimi. His son is 40-something years old, I doubt that he would crowd surf.

The next day I went in and had some tattoo work done by a damn fine tattoo artist in old town Lafayette. I enjoyed his dudue's spirit and his sensibilities toward life in general and that always makes for agood tat. I left his tattoo parlor with a sore arm and less than four hours to prepare for the show. My DaVinci tattoo is looking better and better and I will post some images of it soon. I love tattoos. A little pain is a good thing. If nothing else - it's a reminder that you're still alive and you can still, feel.

100 tickets were sold or given out for the show, 38 people showed up. It wasn't the Shannon Hoon show, but it held its own. It was fun and I think everyone enjoyed themselves. I can't say much more than that because I only have the feedback of one patron to form my assessment from. Who knows, they could have been terribly offended by the whole thing. I think I might have gained a reader or two, I don't know, I haven't heard from anyone in Indiana yet, but if the whole reason that I do comedy is to raise my readership, then it was completely worth it in the end.

I said my goodbyes to Lafayette and headed out early for the western horizon. For the first time in the trip, I have no idea where I am going or where I am going to stay next, and my anxieties over Adam and Kansas City grow with each mile I ride. The only thing I am sure of is that I need to be in Colorado in two weeks and that I am riding through an Indiana corn field at the moment. It's dead corn stalks which make me think more and more of Fall and that scares me when I think of "cold" and Fall.

The trip west seems to be calmer than the trip east. Perhaps nature want me to earn it or perhaps nature is trying to create great symbolism for my readership. What ever the reason, today it was calm. The sun was bright and warm and for a moment the winds were with me and things looked decent. I decided that a trip to Hannibal, Missouri would be the best course of action for me and I made for the border and the Central Time Zone. I had to cut out a huge portion of my Mark Twain sightseeing earlier in the trip and I have to salvage something!

More Corn.

And the return of head winds.

First resolution that I am making from this experience: NO more trips in the fall!

Illinois - More dead corn. Very flat. Over a few routine riding hours, the quality of human decency has started to slip and the quality of hygiene has regressed just as quickly. The only good news is that gas is a dirt cheap; $1.89 a gallon, but stopping to get it means more general ugliness by the locals. I am getting stared at more and more frequently, which isn't uncommon, but now the staring isn't about curiosities stemming from the bike's engine, or my sexy eyes, but rather, it's curious eyes like that of a caveman and his first experience with fire. "What kind of person rides a fancy-shmancy bike like-at?" I thought it best not to stop much if I could help it. When I did, it was on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, where I could be with myself and my thought and not have to worry about someone throwing rocks at me. With little fanfare I crossed the Land of Lincoln and practically sailed over the Mississippi to safety.... or so I thought.

The first impression of Missouri is that it's sooooo green. Endlessly green. The only salvation from a green OD are light brown cliffs and caves that appear randomly on the landscape Caves? yes, caves. Everywhere, caves!. Before it was called the "Show me State" it was called the "Cave state" did you know that? Missouri is almost all cliffs of sharp shale embankments, thick flourishing trees, small creeks(pronounced criks), deep endless caves that make up over 40 percent of the state's foundation, and poorly executed genetic mixing.

The things I love about being from Missouri; I love the fact that I can speak freely here and everyone around me sounds the same as I do. I like that no one asks where I'm from because I sound "southern". I like that these people aren't pretty in any way, which makes me feel like I have found my tribe. My bee hive, like the one in Blind Melon's video for "No Rain". I belong here. Missouri, the land of greatness. The land of great talents. The land of thinkers. Missouri spawned Mark Twain, Rush Limbaugh, Nelly, Sheryl Crow, Kathleen Turner, Kevin Kline, Charlie Parker, Cab Calloway, (and Brad Pitt). Missouri is fertile soil for greatness. Of course, you don't become great here. No, you have to leave to do that(as everyone on that list did). But you will need the memory of Missouri deep in your heart to inspire and motivate you. It seems to work best as a "or else" motivator.

Hannibal, Missouri is the childhood home of Mark Twain and the town is quite simply put, Tom Sawyer crazy. Even though the book is fictious and the characters in it are as well, the town has renamed everything, and had the state has recognized as state protected landmarks, most of the downtown as; Tom Sawyer's boyhood home; Becky Thatcher's house; Injun Joe's cave. These are real protected landmarks with real state signs in front of them. For people that are not real. I wonder if New York has "Batman's Cave". I don't know if anyone in town has read Twain's books, but I think someone needs to tell them that it's just Mark Twain's imagination(even the name, Mark Twain, is fake. But it's still Mark Twain's boyhood home).

It's a sentiment that pervades most of the Midwest, but it seems to have really taken hold here in Missouri. It doesn't have to be "real" to be real. You just have to believe in it hard enough and it becomes real. Maybe that is what makes Missourians such great superstars. They have been trained to believe in themselves without question and this has seen them through.

What I don't like about Missouri; "Guns save live" "God was pro-life" "Abortion stops a beating heart" "Vote no on human cloning"(this is what the right is calling the stem cell research bill) "Meat eating country" "I love trees, I used them to build my house". Stuff like this is put up on billboards to educate the residents of Missouri. It's a tortured tale. Without the billboards the people here wouldn't read at all. But what the billboards say is probably worse than illiteracy. The good and bad has a painful way of balancing itself in the universe. I'm sure the people that love what these signs say, wish they didn't have to "read" it.

It's easy to get sidetracked with all of the political and religious overtones of the ride. This isn't the first time that religion has owned the state I'm in and it won't be the last ( I have Oklahoma up ahead) but it's still hard to witness, especially when you know that the souls that believe this stuff are in the majority here. A majority that is still growing and will most likely vote no to stem research. Something that most of them would benefit from immensely.

I spent the night in Fulton, Missouri, because I felt that of all the towns in rural Missouri to sleep in, it might as well be the one where Winston Churchhill did the night before he gave his now famous, "Iron Curtain" speech back in 1946. I wanted to feel like I was making a good decision, which is something that I doubt a lot of the time. Fulton was a good decision.

I can not begin to describe my fellow Missourians in a fashion that is considered, "good Christianly" (her words, not mine) so I will try to say this politically and scientifically. I sat down to eat a modest meal at the local diner. Surrounding me on all sides are ghosts from my past wearing clothes from my past, speaking in tongues and filling me with the fear of God. Not in the way they might have wanted to fill me full of fear of God, but it's the same effect. These people love denim, the more ripped, tattered and stained, the better. The shoes lack laces and soles. Most of the hats are legible and contain a NASCAR emblem(the new religion). The tee shirts are all missing sleeves and have ripped down the arm hole to the base of the tee shirt, thus making it more of a smock with "Stone Cold Steve Austin says, WHAT!" These are my people. Teeth are optional and so is using soap. These are prolific breeders and the brood is usually in tow.

There was some Jazz playing in the restaurant. A woman, who was wheezing so much that I can hear it over the Jazz, screamed out, "Turn that shit off! It's making me ti-ard!!!" It was turned down and the last sensory barrier between me and my fellow Cave Staters was lost. Suddenly the air filled with talk of the upcoming NASCAR race in Kansas City and the proper way to get money that is "owed you" back from someone that "don't pay". I chose the lesser of two evils and learned that only a little violence should be necessary if you just show up with a gun and flash it a little. It works. I tried it with the waitress at the end of my meal.

The last thing I was able to see before I robbed the joint, was three of the largest, scruffiest looking guys turn from tough talking hill billies to three wet nurses in less than five seconds. One of the men's daughters came in with a toddler and left the toddler with "poe-pa" and took off. (Nothing fills the heart more than a woman smoking a cigarette carrying a two year old. Then leaving that child in a smoke encrusted diner with a bunch of NASCAR fans). The three men went from political pundits to "Gooch E, Gooch E, Goo-ers" so fast that it turned my heart. It was hysterical. If they would have had more teeth than the child, to fill their smiles it would have been picture worthy.

I have the biggest weekend of my life starting tomorrow. I need some sleep. So with the storms safely behind me, under the same inspirational sky that created great mental giants, and surrounded by landscape that could fill all it's caves with memories, I fell peacefully asleep. My grandmother's voice is calling me now and within her all of my life takes shape. She's tomorrow.

invasion of america - the fourth seal is opened

Annapolis - Jackson, Michigan

700 miles. All up hill.

Every day of riding on this trip has seen a monsterous headwind. Not just a casual wind that is to be expected on a motorcycle, no. This is a serious wind that has actually blown me off the road and has broken off tree limbs on trees in front of me. It's been brutal and it's kicking my ass.

Before I leave on any leg of my trip, I check the weather to see what I need to expect and to see if I need to reroute for any reason. Well....

Growing over the Rockies is a dandy of a storm. It has dumped over 14 inches of snow in Utah and Colorado, which is over a month early for that area(I ride through there on my last week) and it's created a cyclical weather pattern which is feeding itself, much like a hurricane. A dying hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico has sent a bunch of warm moist air north to get the wheels of the cycle turning. And that has slammed directly into a massive cold front which is blowing in from Canada and this has sent the atmosphere directly above the great plains into a frenzy. All of this energy and moisture and wind.... Is directly in front of me. I have just two days to get to Jackson, Michigan for my show and if I don't beat the weather there, I will be doomed. There is no way I can sit this storm out, it's for real. For the first time on the trip, I am thinking about carting the bike in the back of a truck, just to be safe.

Instead, I checked out of Washington DC around 3 PM and headed west. Ahead of me is a storm that is over 1000 miles wide and moving at rate of 60 miles per hour. It is dropping 5 inches of rain an hour and has sustained winds of over 70 miles per hour. It has created over 30 tornadoes in just one day and that killed 11 people and presently it's due to be in Jackson at exactly the same time I am. I have to determine rather quickly if I can out run the storm and drive around it to the north and beat it to Jackson OR, if I should wait a bit, and try and drive around it to the south after it passes by. Sadly, this option, safe as it sounds, is where all the tornadoes and heavy winds will be found. There are heavy winds with either choice, but what else is new????

I left three hours late from DC so I was already at a huge disadvantage when I got on the Interstate. I wanted to take the US highway, but I am now officially in a big fat hurry so I can't lollygag along.

Nemesis number 1 - Traffic. Leaving the DC corridor is impossible in the afternoon as it probable would be in any major city, because that's when all of the rats are piled up, trying to jump ship. It's just murder trying to get anywhere. Thankfully the shoulders of the highway are large and they are clear and it just so happens that I have a motorcycle so I am able to skirt most of the log jam without much of a headache. When I get to Northern Maryland, the roads are wide open but it takes 3 hours to go 100 miles!. It's 7 PM. The storm is in Northern Kentucky and just over 700 miles in front of me and closing the distance fast.

Nemesis number 2 - Chill. The storm is a low pressure ridge that is sucking all of the cool air out of Canada (which must mean it's stifling hot there) and it's freezing up the countryside. It's possible for you to see your breath with the sun still high and in the sky and shining bright. It's only going to get colder as the miles pass as I have a small, but impressive mountain range in front of me that will require me to rise up in elevation about 2000 feet. I rode as far as I could, but finally I had to pull over and put on the snow gear... In a town called, Frostburg. Freezing equals death.

As night fell, it finally occured to me that I am now officially going home. That every ride is west and with each mile I tally, it takes me closer to the Perch. I won't lie - I miss home and there are moments when I wish the whole thing was already over. I love this entire experience, even the parts that are trying to kill me, but I am extremely cold and with every home I pass that I can smell a fire burning in the fireplace and with every person I see snuggled up closely to another, I want to be "there". The road has taken me as far as I dreamed it could but now that pure desire will have to focused and used to take me home.

Nemesis number 3 - Road construction. If you're in a car, you don't think about it, but when you're on a bike, the bumps and grooves of road "demolition" are torturous and very scary. When they peal up the old asphalt they leave long striated grooves that grab the tread in your bike tires and, much like a train on fixed tracks, they dictate the ebbs and flows of your ride. Sudden jerks to the left and right are not uncommon and it freaks you out like nothing else. Miles and miles of endless striated grooving can give your soul a tumor. It slows you down quite considerably and that means it's going to take longer to get "there" AND that means you could miscalculate the distance and run smack dab into the middle of the storm of the century..... And death!!!

It became very apparent when the heavy winds and the stinging rain began to fall that I wasn't going to beat the weather. It was now night time and I was in hell. Or what motorcycle riders consider hell; Rain, wind, cold, road construction and the Interstate at night!!! Conditions couldn't be any worse. SO... I decided that I should just enjoy my death and so I thought I would do some sightseeing. Fuck you Mother Nature!!! Besides, I have always wanted to see all of the 9/11 crash sites. So in the frigid raining death darkness of Maryland, I rode north into Pennslyvania to Shankesville where United 93 crashed into a field. It took me about an hour to get there, but it was worth it.

The rural Pennslyvania countryside is incredible and even in the darkness I could see it's beauty. The towns were much like the small towns of New York and I couldn't say, "aaaaahhhhh" enough times. My favorite thing about PA was that fact that every business is named after a person, which I feel makes it more personal, OR more childishly selfish. As in, "Tony's Pizza" or "Mary's Coffee" or "Ted's Auto shop". Simple and easy. I liked that.

Shankesville was quiet. It was closed. I found the only open door in town, Ida's Country store and was given directions to the crash site with a warning; Beware of black bears! Apparently there are a lot of bears in the area are they are very active and super dangerous. I should, "stay in the car at all times and not wander to far off into the field". That made me feel better. At least I know that when I sit on the motorcycle that the bear won't be able to attack me.

It's a dark ride to the site. Even the headless horseman wouldn't make this trip. It's cold, the storm was beating up the trees and leaves were blowing everywhere. My headlight was barely strong enough to cut through the dark and I was making up excuses not to go. I finally found the field and the memorial. It's on top of a dark hill in the middle of nowhere. It's just a temporary memorial (it should take about sixty years to finish if the government works at their regular pace) with a small ranger station and a bunch of flags on flagpoles, which were being killed in the gale force winds. There was also a huge floral display that was left over from last week's anniversery and some seats that were all facing in the same direction. There were no lights and there was not a soul there to tell me where to go or what the protocol was. I didn't want to get off my bike or turn off the engine because the headlight was all I had for light. I was wearing my thick gloves so unzipping my tank bag and digging out my maglight would have been like flossing your teeth while wearing oven mits. If I take off the gloves, it's a frozen death. If the chill doesn't get me, the bears will surely smell my manmeat and eat me. I'm pretty sure these are Daniel-eating bears just like the ones of Upper Michigan.

I turned off the bike. I got out the flashlight. I walked out to the spot, which is nothing more than a crater. Not that you would know it was the impact sight if you looked at it unless you knew who it was created in the first place. Otherwise it looked just like a casual grassy knoll in this huge forest clearing. The fluttering flags were really distressing but they added to the overall asthetic of the moment.

Things happened here. Much like the World Trade Center and the Penatagon from early this morning - something bad happened here and you can sense it as you stand there in the stillness. It's years after the "moment" but it still breathes with the sentiment. I'm filled with mixed emotions over what I should do next.

Bear!

I was back out on the main roadway in less than twenty minutes. I found a gas station and while I was appreciating my traditional free cup of coffee during the "I once rode across the country" monologue which is given by every gas station attendent I meet, I had my moment. It was a deeply crusing moment where I didn't feel that my flippant attitude should sully another site. I felt very cheap and empty.... It was bad coffee.

This is the half-way point of the trip. Half-way mileage wise and half-way in time. So much has changed inside my head and around me and nothing I planned out has come to pass. In some way that has made this trip much better than I could have ever imagined if I had planned and dreamed of it for years. I am full of so many feelings and I know that it's good to be this way. I feel... Human.

I drove on until the weather beat me off the bike too many times for me to ignore any longer. The winds were so bad that it would actually blow me and the bike off the road and for a moment I could see my death. It was pissing me off. I stopped in St. Clairesville, Ohio for the night and I hoped that it would all pass by me by morning.

I woke up in the morning to find that I was in the eye of the storm and it was only going to get worse through out the day. There was nothing I could do about it so I packed up, geared up and pushed on. With each stop I make, I lose another part of my gear and in the last stop I have all but given up on the notion that I am going to ever again be able to camp on this trip. So why carry around some of this shit? I resolved to rid myself of all unused gear by Kansas City. If I make it there.

Ohio was delightful. The storm was laid out before me like a checker board in the sky. Patches of brilliant sun would quickly be wiped out by menacing rain clouds. They would pass and the sun would return. It felt like a bunch of second chances that I was abusing. For ten minutes it would be hell and then for forty minutes it would be heaven. During the forty minutes, I was just loving the Ohio country side and gawking at the Amish like everyone else(you haven't lived until you've seen a four year old Amish boy in the hat. He could be a toy like Elmo). During the ten minutes of hell, water was being lifted off of lakes and smashed into the side of me as I rode the bike down the rural county roads. The winds would howl and the bike would sputter. Then sunshine would come out and calm everything down again. It was a unique day.

I finally made it to Jackson, Michigan unscathed and safe from the storm. I was completely dead in the water - physically, but the show was delightful and the motel heater dried out most of my clothes. I passed out early, woke up late and began the trek south... To Indiana....

invasion of america - written on the walls

Annapolis - Jackson, Michigan - Day One

Day two of the march on Washington:

If you can get to DC early enough, and you're in decent shape(all of your limbs are working, you can touch your toes, you can run and your bladder could shame a camel) with very little baggage to carry(just some money, a camera and photo ID) and a sense of direction that even the Gods don't possess(ever been lost in a library?) then you can see everything there is to see in DC in one day. OH, and you'll have to take cabs everywhere or ride a horse.

We took in the outdoor landmarks the night before so today was primarily inside work starting with; The Smithsonian; The Capital building; The Library of Congress; The National Archives; The White House; and other various structures. Yes, it can all be done. But like I said, you have to be in decent shape, with very little baggage and have a good sense of direction. Two out of three ain't gonna cut it here. This is the proverbial mountaintop of Museum viewing. This is the largest information orgy of the mind that one can experience in one place at one time.

I have seen most of the Smithsonian museums on previous visits so I just wanted to focus my efforts on a few key buildings and thus be able to take in more than the average touring bear. I felt very cleaver. So off of my list are the National Art Museum; The Portrait Museum; The Natural History Museum.; And all of the ancillary museums that are tucked into the mall such as the African art museum, the Native american art museum and the Holocaust museum. Why these three groups get their own specialized museums is beyond me. I think it's a racist thing. Where are the Latin and Asian and European art museums? Where is the Chinese Holocaust Museum(lesser known, but more people died)?

The day started with the first "must see" Smithsonian building - Science and Industry - being closed. One might think this a huge set back, but no! I was really only there to gaze upon the typewriters anyway, so it didn't kill me to have to walk away. A brief walk and some foul language directed at the government later, I was at "must see" Smithsonian building number two - Flight. I love flying. Planes, helicopters, rockets - it's all love from me. Helicopters and I go way back to a time when I was younger and nerdier and I used to assemble helicopter models in my room. I must have put together at least twenty of them and they were all hanging from my ceiling during my early years of high school. (this little bit of trivia should never be repeated to anyone). I would still be a model helicopter guy but they jumped up in price and I was always moving in those years and they were constantly breaking, so I just gave it up(I guess they would make a good Daniel Day present... hint).

The flight museum is filled with all of the major flight vehicles of modern times; Glennis, the plane that Chuck Yeager flew to break the sound barrier (with a broken rib). The Spirit of St. Louis, the plane that Nazi lover Charles Lindberg flew across the Atlantic, solo. Apollo 11 that landed man on the moon(or did it??). Mercury 7, which was the first American manned flight into space. Gemini, which took two men into space. Then there are the planes that you know little about but are still pretty cool, I will spare you the nerdy, out of breath, details. They're all really boss though.

The building was filled with interesting pieces of history and all sorts of learning tools. Of course, the longer you're in the building, the more you begin to sense that flight - like all other things that are invented today - has been sullied by the war machine which is the common practice for all great inventions in modern day America. Rockets are for bombs, or spying, or killing... Planes and other assorted dreams, all turned into mechanisms of death (see September 11th, 2001 for more details). I had to leave. I couldn't take any more of my dream being tainted. I headed for the door but before I could get out of the buildin, a small pexiglass box standing in the center of the exit, caught my eye. It was put there to collect money from the general public. The Smithsonian, which gets more money than any other museum in the nation, was in need of more cash. Of course, with the present administration, you're not going to see a lot of humanities get the support they're accustomed to. Especially not ones that stress education, talent, or knowledge. As I see it, Republicans would rather have stupid, trigger-happy, paranoid, television watchers, that are easy to confuse and control (in much the same way a parent treats a small child) than see the people get out, share with neighbors, learn the truth, or learn how to think - and then be hard to lie to when a good lie is called for. Republicans are not good at telling the truth so they need people that know how to accept a good lie on the fly. Do I think the Smithsonian will get some cash? Yup. But only the parts of it that stress military history and patriotism. It's no wonder that the Holocaust and the Indians and the black people get museums of their own - those museums are all about conflicts. America needs its people to understand the justification for it's mishandling of certain "events" (especially if they are all reasons to go to war) If the museum is pro-war, or it celebrates war, then it gets the money it needs. If it's just a painting or a sculpture - it's fucked. You can't kill someone with a painting, and it's hard to make a lot of money off of sculpture, so how could the Republicans support them?

Sorry......

The Library of Congress - There has never... and there will never be a more perfect place on all the planet. Inside the sacred walls of this living ode to humanity is the single largest collection of man's greatest achievements - His writing - and all that they represent; His collected abilities, his languages, his beliefs, his discoveries, his failures, his passions, his evolution, his story. This is the epicenter of man's grand tale. It's a museum where the painting and the sculpture are made of words and all emotions are creates within the visions of your mind. I cried. I can not begin to describe to you the beauty of the building and it's art work, but I will say this - If you do nothing else in your life time, see this place before the Gods of War burn it down and turn it into the museum of American marketing.

The Capital - Two hours of standing in line. Thirty minutes of a walking tour. No orgasm. It was a big let down. Some minor facts to share with you that I found interesting: Every state has a statue inside the building that was given to the capital by that state. The statue has to be marble or bronze and it has to be of someone from your state that best represents you and that is dead. Virginia sent Robert E Lee. Missouri - Benton. Utah - Bringham Young. Florida - Florida sent the man who invented the ice machine.

I was pissed that I didn't get to see either the Senate or the House assembly rooms because that is really all I wanted to see. If there was ever a museum worth visiting it would be the Assembly rooms where the freeze-dried souls of the politicians are on display for everyone to see. Sadly, they kept the tour to a few select rooms and that was it. I walked out without looking around. I have seen a lot of statues and historic paintings and I don't need to see more white people - of the one God - justifying their brutality and rape of America. I bet you that in ten years, Thomas Kincaid will be in here painting a mural about George Bush's greatness.

The National Archives - Right in front of you. Mere inches away from your sticky-acidic little fingers are the Constitution of the United States; The Manga Carta (yes, THE Manga Carta!); The Bill of Rights; The Declaration of Independence, and ten million other articles of note that deal directly with America. Things such as notable speeches, records, notable diary entries, captain's logs, personal journals... You know... All things archival. No flash photos can be taken. The last time I was here you could read Mark Twain's letters. They're gone now. Very symbolically - The Constitution is fading to the point where it's illegible, so if you're a wise boy, you'll see it before it's gone. (hint - hint)

The White House - You can walk all the way around it. You can stare at it. You can ask yourself the same question as everyone else making the one mile walk around it, "If I walk around this seven times and blast my trumpet while I walk, and if I do this for seven days, will it fall?" One can only hope. You can take tours of the White House one "wing" at a time per visit but only if you get here early enough. I wasn't here early enough. Not that I was too disappointed, I look at the White House the same way most people look at the houses where famous serial killers used to live. "THERE!!!! That's where he ate all those little girls! Right in there!" and then you walk on by. That's the White House to me. I'll come back when Rudolph Guliani lives there.

It was a long day of walking for miles, gawking at history and listening to the sirens of DC go off every ten seconds. In DC, everyone of note gets a police escort whenever they travel. The length of your escort determines your seniority on the political totem pole. For instance, the Prez gets a whole bunch of cars, motorcycles, vans, a fire truck, a chef, a butler, a speech writer, a body double, an ambulance and a bomb squad thingy But the lowly Representative from Delaware just gets a tooth pick and fifty cents so he/she can call someone should he/she come under attack. Get it? The only thing missing from the Prez's motorcade was a Lifeguard and a reading instructor.

The damn sirens go off every time someone goes anywhere. Streets get locked off for blocks in every direction and people get shoved around without much concern for their safety. Any non-compliance to the security staff that is locking off the streets and it's off to sunny Cuba for an extended stay. It's bad. When the security car drives by, everything goes back to normal. I don't think that even the lights in the cross walk change for the Delaware rep. He/she has to wait there like everyone else.

The last bit of the tour was Arlington National cemetery, where I like to go and visit my old friend John. I love JFK with the same passion that only James Dean and Elvis freaks can understand. JFK was my boy and I miss him, even though he died 9 years before I was born, he's still my favorite Prez. His grave is massive tribute to his greatness and impact on the world stage. The eternal flame that burns above his head is a more a reminder to future Presidents that THEY can take you out when ever they want to and that THEY never sleep, more than it's a tribute to his eternal memory, but I still like it. His wife and one of his son's is buried with him. John Jr, was buried at sea. Carolyn will most likely opt to be buried next to momma. I doubt that any of the rest of the Kennedy clan ever comes here to visit. Ted has lived in Washington for over 40 years and I bet he's only been here three times. Once for Bobby's funeral. Once for JFK's and then again for Jackie's. If he outlives Carolyn, he might make it an even four trips. I doubt it. I think this place keeps Teddy in line.

I love this grave site and it chokes me up to see it every time. Bobby's is just down the hill from Jack's grave, but his is nothing by comparison. In fact, it's just really sad. Just a simple headstone, a cross and some dead grass. That's what you get for being just a lowly Attorney General.

My last day in the capital and it was quite the tour stop for me. I loved it all. Where New York is filled with boundless energy that makes you want to be something, DC is a vacuum that makes you believe that you could do BETTER than THEY are. It inspires you to be a better person by default. This place makes you want to throw your hat into the ring and really make a diffence - You could be the Senator from Minnesota. You could be the Prez. These politicians that you see all around you, and all these buildings you're touring around in - they are all filled with the history you'll need on how to run a country. So if you don't know something or you need a reminder, you can simply walk down the hill and get a refresher course. THAT's what's great about DC. It makes you want to do better. If not on the world's political stage, at least in your own life.

If only Georgie boy would just walk down the hill and take in one building a week, he would be the smartest man in the world. Just one building a week. That's reall what the Smithsonian is for. And the National botanical garden and the aquarium, and the zoo, and museum of natural history, and the art museum and the portrait gallery and the mint, and the National archive... I'm rambling. But just imagine how smart he would be...

The last thing I did before I left town was to stop in and see the Pentagon. I have a friend that works there and she took me around and showed me the scars that this building bears, the shopping mall that it contains inside, and the tiny courtyard in the center of it. The courtyard, as I see it, is there to remind the people that work at the Pentagon that there lives are not without beauty and that even in the very heart of darkness there is a garden with magnolia trees where you can go to feel whole again. The pentagon, which for years stood as the epicenter for all wars around the globe, is really nothing more than a gawdy office building. It's just a large recruitment center for all five branches of the military. It's just a huge office park. The real epicenter, as many of you might know, is the modest building across the street from the Aerospace museum. It's the odd little building that houses the Department of Energy. It's from there that all of our present wars and laws are created. Don't believe me? Look into it.

Nine hours later I am standing in a field in Shankesville, PA. I am staring at a field that five years ago was the only misfire for the 9/11 attackers. I can't stay long, they're bears here.

invasion of america - the string of pearls

New York - Annapolis

Maybe 200 miles.... ish.

I woke up in New Jersey and there was no one else in the house. My friend and all five of the room mates had fled their perch and headed into Manhattan to make it big following their own distinctive courses. Their willingness to leave me alone in their home unattended was bold and I was appreciative of their trust. Of course, I know that the real reason was that they didn't care, they were chasing ambitions and could have cared less what they left in their wake. Besides, I wouldn't have made it far with much.

I packed up and got out somewhat late. My plan was to get to Princeton, NJ in an hour; check out the school and any Albert Einstein stuff I could find and then head off to Philadelphia. There, I was going to do the Mutter museum; the Liberty Bell and anything Ben Franklin. From there, it was on to Baltimore and Edgar Allen Poe's gravesite; and then perhaps see the world famous pier. All of this would take me 5 or 6 hours and I would get to Annapolis in time to meet up with my friend and from there we could head off to Washington DC to take in some of the sights before they all closed. This WAS my plan. But like all things in regards to this trip - I am not in control of my destiny. The plan would have worked and should have worked, if I had left at 7 AM, driven in perfect weather, with no traffic, and with perfect directions. That would have been just super-duper if it had worked out that way. However, I didn't leave until 10 and the weather was again - against me with gale force winds. The traffic was what we like to call special needs people, "gifted" - a bit slow, somewhat aimless, and easily distracted - the pace was devastating. Thankfully, my belief in obeying traffic laws is pretty thin and the shoulder of the highway seemed like it was made just or me. Fifty miles of New Jersey was shoulder driving. I had a blast.

As much that has been said about New Jersey NOT being the ugly state that we all think it is; I would like to say that I can't chime in on the debate. All I was able to see of New Jersey was a huge wall of trees that lined the edges of the turnpike and made it impossible for me to see any of what lay beyond. The last thing I remember being able to see before the tree line started was Newark Airport and a ton of other "plants". Most of them spitting out smoke and smell into the atmosphere. You can easily get the impression that New Jersey is the boiler room of New York City. And that without the efforts of Jersey, New York would shut down completely. (Fact: All of New York City's garbage is sent to New Jersey. )

I'm sure New Jersey is very pretty when you get past the trees.

No Princeton. The word on the street is that Albert Einstein left very specific instructions that he never have a museum in Princeton. So that means there is no reason to go there.

No Philadelphia. I didn't have the best maps and the directions from the internet were vague and disheartening, so I just skipped it. However, I did see some of Philadelphia - from ten miles away. If you slowed down the memory playback in my mind and you enhanced a few of the frames, you might be able to see the glimmer of the sun off of the cracked Liberty Bell. (you gotta look reallllllll close)

No Baltimore. In the long and short of it; I was presented with a rare moment to see the Delaware countryside but it meant bypassing Baltimore to do so. I chose the Delawarian country side and now I wish I had chosen Baltimore. In all of my travels, for all of the beauty and the natural splendor and man-made awe that I have seen; Delaware is a rare miss. It was boring and to add insult to injury - it smelled of green onions. Sadly, our nation's first state is our dullest state. I think it's time to put Delaware out to pasture and just let Maryland annex it... If it will take it. THINK - when was the last time you ever heard someone say something about Delaware and beauty, all in the same conversation? Delaware was a bust. It didn't help that NASCAR was there and so were the millions of the NASCAR faithful that had come to pray at the altar of Number 8.

I arrived in Annapolis around 4 and was pleasantly surprised by it's rustic old world charm. It's very pretty and I am a big fan of civil engineering that doesn't have cars in the equation. Most of Europe looked this way and so does most of New England. The roads and the buildings are almost one with each other and a turn in the roadway can be as angled as 230 degrees and deeply rutted. No one was thinking about SUV's or BMW motorcycles when they planned out the scenic little seaside towns of the New World. Thankfully, nostalgia has kept most of these towns from disappearing into the nothingness that is quickly eating away New York City.

I had just enough time to unpack and get clean, and it was off again to another city for some sightseeing. There is a lot to see in the nation's capital and you really have to know what you're doing when you come here otherwise you'll miss out. This isn't a town for just walking around casually and taking in the sights as the present themselves. Here, the sights are planned out and you must know what you want to see, what you can see, how much time you have to see them and when you can see them or you'll leave town with a capital dome snow globe and a powerful frown that will take two months to remove from your face. Most of the people that live in the DC area haven't seen all that there is to see here, because most of them don't know what to see, where it is or when, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, have a plan, do some research and come here and walk away in absolute awe. DC is a series of beautific buildings, monuments, museums, and other odds and ends that are all laid out in quasi-perfect symmetry. Each spectacle is a pearl of wisdom, or history, or heritage, or hope and they are strung together in a three square mile area for you to enjoy. NO WHERE on Earth will you ever have it so good as you do here. This is a Xanadu for history buffs, museum ghosts and warrior-poets of all ages.

Thankfully, we arrived in town just as the sun was setting behind most of the monuments. Almost all of DC is made up of finished marble which has a majestic luster to it when the sun is just right. Sunset is the best "just right" in any town and I think the city planners were well aware of what they were doing when they planned this city out. They took the sun into consideration, you can tell. Why else would they have chosen to build this city here, on a swamp, when it would have been easier to build the city a mere half mile west, up on the hill top of Arlington, Virginia? It's harder soil, safer and it offers a more splendid view of the surrounding area. So why then build a city in a lowly swamp? I'll tell you - The hill top slopes ever so slightly and it steals some of the setting sun away, which would make this town look like Pittsburgh and who wants that? What good is the majesty of marble if you never get to see it shine in the setting sun? Need an answer; ask the pharoahs of Egypt that built the great pyramids or the builders of Rome or Athens.

I was camera mad. I must have taken more photos in one dusky hour than a spook at the Pentagon during a fire drill. I couldn't help it, I was in a moment where I was the greatest landscape photographer of all time. (I can only hope and pray that one day I will be better at self portraits)

We started in the middle of the mall at the base of the Washington monument and headed west toward the Lincoln Memorial. With every twenty steps taken, a new photo had to be taken of the new reflection of light off the clouds or the trees, or the buildings or a spider web. The light was just that perfect.

New to me on this trip to DC is the NEW World War Two monument that was built just to the west of the Washington Monument. It's large, ugly and historically inaccurate and therefore a blemish on the great grand spectacle of this shrine-happy town. First; it bears the name of George W. Bush because he was the Prez when the thing was dedicated. So it's only fitting that... Secondly; it has fifty states and several "American Territories" listed around it. During WWII there were only 48 states (Hawaii and Alaska don't join us until 1959 so they don't count) so a great fuck up on the monument is less about a tribute to the lives lost during this great war and more a lasting monument to the great stupidity of one man.

Vets hate that his name is on it because they see "Georgie Boy" as an AWOL, priviledged war dodger and they hate the fact that he is given any love at all for his limited "service".

Also; It's not lost on me that it took over fifty years to get a monument built to the WWII vets. Sadly, most of them never saw it. I guess that says something about the way our country treats its vets. No after war care, and no monuments until they need some political capital to work with. In its defense - The US did erect a beautiful Vietnam war memorial in less than ten years after that "conflict" ended. To this day, it's the best war dedication I have ever seen and I have seen a lot of them. (coming in second is the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor)

I touched the hallowed ground of the Lincoln memorial and was a bit torn up about whether or not I wish to speak ill or kind of the man. He was a snake and the worst kind of politician, and that pokes a hole in my rebellious side. But, he was also a great writer and that, as you know, appeals to me in a far greater way. Politics and stupidity aside, if George Bush was an avid writer, painter or musician, I think I would like him. I can forgive a lot when I know there is poetry in someone's heart, even Lincoln.

From the Lincoln memorial which makes up the western most part of the Mall, I headed north and east to the Vietnam war memorial. It's bold, it's black and it speaks volumes in its simplicity where the WWII says nothing in its complexity. You can see your reflection in the polished black marble and the names that are chiseled out on its face are in a simple font that when you stare at a name, you can only see THAT name. It's a powerful piece of art which has never been defaced in its brief history. Something that no other monument in America can claim. Even the WWII monument has been marred. (that and it's poorly maintained, when I was there, there were incredible spider webs all over it) Not once has someone tried to deface or disrespect this place. It could have something to do with the fact that twenty or so vets are always there watching over it, but I believe that no one dares to disgrace this monument because it's just too beautiful to shame in such a meaningless way. Even a drunk that is stumbling around looking for a late night spot to relieve himself can sense the power of this place and he will move on (Lincoln gets pissed on nightly)

The next two miles of the walk east were dull. There isn't much to see. If you look to the North you can see the White House, which has actually become harder and harder to get close to as the years have past. In fact, two of the main roads that pass by it are now closed off indefinitely. George can sense that the vets might be a bit pissed off at him and he isn't having his security tested. Cause "we live in the safest country in the world".

I got closer to the Capital near the east end of the mall and was stunned to see a huge display of banners hung all over the mall. Now, it's not uncommon to see a protest or two on the Mall so I didn't really give it much thought, especially when the banners read, "Wall of Hope". I mean, it sounded very Hippi inspired to me. So what's one more elaborate protest more or less?

There were hippies there. And there were others there too. The banners were various shades of purple and they didn't speak of war or deception or oil, these spoke of Cancer. Cancer from every state of the union. These people were cancer survivors or a friend or family member of someone that knew or knows cancer. These were my people.

I am a cancer survivor. My father died of cancer. Marcus, a dear friend of mine, is presently raising money for his toddler nephew that is suffering from leukemia. Cancer I know well and serendipity has brought me to this place at this time.

This was the Wall of Hope that is held every four years in our nation's capital to keep some of the world's focus on a long term war that has never ended and is still claiming victims as we speak. I had stumbled on to the main event of this gathering - a candle light vigil and march down the mall. Selected people from around the world would being cracking glow sticks and walking down the mall with them and lighting up the reflecting pool in front of the capital building.

I have always wanted to make a march on Washington so I cracked two glow sticks; One for me and my father and his sister Liz, and one for Marcus and his nephew. I walked, I stood and I meant it.

The sun was gone and the night sky was filled with the yellow-green glow of cancer a loft. Thousands of people had gathered to see this sight and it was very touching. Most were crying for loved ones or for themselves. Miss Maryland was there, herself a cancer survivor. She was very popular and a damn fine woman. There was a lot of bald and thin people walking around. A lot of women with flat chests. Husbands standing with photos of departed wives. Mothers with photos of bald children. All to familiar tears falling down their cheeks. It must be hard to find more tears inside themselves to cry again, but these people found them.

I walked, and then we went back to Annapolis... Tomorrow I wanted to see the rest of the pearls.

invasion of america - the neverending story

New York City

My friend lives deep in the maze of highways which is the New Jersey turnpike system. If you have seen the movie "labyrinth" then you get the general idea of how difficult it is to find your way around in magical conditions. This place makes David Bowie's maze look like child's play. Highways just lead off into no particular direction for long periods of time and distance, and you can actually circle back across your own tracks before finally reaching your destination. It's very confusing. And to add insult to injury - there is a toll booth every two miles that wants your money. Add a bunch of city drivers that know the cops in this part of the world don't care how you drive so they go NUTS and what you is pure driving anarchy. In a car, this would have been a living hell. On a bike, this is a lot like down hill skiing -- You have to dodge and weave your way through tiny openings between the traffic and try not to miss your turns. All of this at high speed. I'm alive, the bike has an ulcer and an accelerated heart rate, but she's okay too.

Jersey City - Right across from New York's lower west side and the best view of the World Trade Center memorial. From this point on Sept. 11th, most of New Jersey witnessed the attacks with an unobstructed view. I can only imagine what kind of horror that must be to live with. They have some of the twisted metal from the buildings and they built a memorial at the water front. The awesome power of the destruction is readily evident in the sheer force that it took to rip apart two inch thick iron beams. It was a real smack in the face welcome.

I unpacked, showered and spent the next two days and nights in the city across the river. You have to take the train into the city and it drops you off in lower Manhattan. From there, it's all you can do to not go crazy.

WHAT TO DO FIRST:

The Chelsea Hotel where Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller and Ethan Hawke once lived. Dylan and Arthur are dead, sadly Ethan is still alive, but living somewhere else. It's also where Nancy, of Sid and Nancy fame, was killed - Sid stabbed her to death in a heroin daze. They were the first couple of punk rock. Other than that, it's a pretty little hotel and while gandering at the spectacle of the lobby I saw my first celebrity -- I don't know his name, but I know his face, so no big deal. Moving on...

The New Yorker Hotel where Nikoli Tesla (see my website for more information about this man) lived for ten years and was eventually run over by a cab. My heart was a little uneasy about this stop. I love this man. He is my math god.

Times Square - Celebrity and tourist central. More famous people than you can put on a stick. It's an orgy of lights and sounds and your basic sensory overload. If it was just the glitz of light bulbs and four story television screens, that would be something, but add 200,000 people, tons of crazy cross traffic that is trying to kill you, television cameras, television flood lights and a wee bit of history and you have insane bedlam. Stay away if you have a weak heart or don't like MTV's TRL.

Madison Square Garden - Okay nothing special here. It's a huge building, there are lot of them here.

Studio 54 - Or what was Studio 54, now it's a parking garage. This is New York, not much stays here out of sentimental reasons. Make your statement and move on. People died trying to get in here and other people crossed other ethical lines just to go inside, now you can park your car here for ten dollars for each half hour.

Max's Kansas City - The bar where almost every famous band that came out of the seventies first played when they came to New York; Aerosmith and Bruce Springsteen are just a few of the rookies that played here first. Like Studio 54, it's a Burger King now.

Andy Warhol's Factory - It's just condos now, but it was the place where all things "cool and hip" where determined for 20 years back in the late sixties up to the mid eighties. People like Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Basquiat and Sid Vicious used to hang out here. Now, the place is just another doorway along a street. No one cares - Warhol is dead and so is everyone else that I mentioned here. Death is not hip or cool.

CBGB's - This is the temple and the soul of punk rock and with the recent fashion trend of young girls trying to look punk, the soul of punk rock is a shell of its former self. In fact, CBGB's is closing its doors forever. "HELP US ATRAYU, ONLY YOU CAN SAVE US FROM THE NOTHINGNESS!!!! GET ON YOUR DRAGON AND FLY!!!!" It's one of the darkest places I have ever been to in my life. I dare say it, but I believe that the hardest war-torn veteran would shiver when he saw the destruction that is the inside of this building. This place has seen more blood spilled in the name of entertainment than all the Girl Scout rodeos in history. It smelled so angry in there that I wanted to hit my friend in the head and have him hit me just so we can say we spilled some blood here. It was awesome to stand in the room where giants danced and gods were born. I'm glad I saw it before the fashion industry(or the nothingness) consumes it completely.

Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs - It's in Coney Island and the real reason I wanted to see it was because it was in Coney Island which is where "The Warriors" are from. Coney is at the ass end of Brooklyn and it takes 45 minutes to get there by subway from Manhattan. It's an uncomfortable ride and when you get to Coney all that is there to great you is depression. THe day was cloudy and cold and that only made the visit even more depressing. However, I blame the sentiment on Coney itself. Even with New York's ability to erase the past and start over with a Burger King or a parking garage, this former heavyweight champion looks like it was just left to be a playground for the poor, the dumb and the addicted. Ever see, "Escape from New York" that's a paradise compared to Coney Island, 2006. The once former ocean front boardwalk power house is now a death trap and should be condemned for every reason you can condemn a place. You can shoot a real human there for five bucks(photos coming). We ate our hot dogs, laughed, cried and then got back on the train before we succumbed to the nothingness that had already eaten this part of New York. ( I believe this might be the same nothingness that is eating up the rest of New York's great history)

World Trade Exhibit - It's a hole. The PATH train from New Jersey stops in the middle of that hole. SO when you walk off the train, you have to walk OUT of the the hole that WAS once the World Trade. You walk smack-dab into the middle of the memorial with people crying all around you. I should remind you that it's just barely five days after the five year anniversary of the attacks and people here are still pretty torn up. The flowers that people have left are still looking pretty fresh. In my mind, this is what the nothingness looks like after it devours the soul of history. Nothing here really hurt me that much or got under my skin until we went into the small church that sat across the street from the WTC that completely escaped the attacks without one physical scar. Inside the church i was a massive display of memorabilia from those terrible days and weeks that followed the attack. One of the more memorable pieces on display is a huge two foot wide scarf that is made up of millions of colors and stretches on for literally MILES. It is made up of millions and millions of a pieces of thread that anyone can add to by simply sending this one particular lady a piece of thread. She'll weave it into the end of the huge scarf and voila, a win for history over the nothingness. There are pieces of every conceivable type of fabric with a story for each one; "This was a piece of parachute that I used on D Day", "this is a piece of my baby blanket", "this is a piece of my wedding dress", "this is my father's uniform". The idea is beautiful - we are all linked by a common thread. When weaved together, it's a pretty tough piece of thread to break. Look her up on line if you wish to add to the scarf. I gave her a piece of my bike jacket.

That scarf got to me and so did the photos that had been collected off of the fence. Photos of those people that were lost on 9/11. There were photos of people moments before they went in to rescue people that never came out, and there were photos from weddings or high school yearbooks or from family reunions. Photos that people needed, treasured and were willing to give up in an offering to the gods for the safe return of the person in that photo. That tore me up. Sometimes nothingness takes more than it should from us. Sometimes a memory is not as good as the real thing.

Empire State Building - I went up at 11:30 at night when I was told that no one would be there and the wait would be nothing at all. If you try to see this during the day it takes hours of waing in long lines and, in fact when I got inside and saw the empty waiting ROOMS(plural) and how long the roped off LINES(PLURAL) were, I was ill. Thankfully, I just walked straight up to the building, went up the elevator, took my photos, did my thing and was down in less than forty minutes(I was forced out). From the top I was able to see New York the way you are supposed to see New York - from above it, like in the pictures. It's cleaner and softer from here and there is no rancid smell of rotting trash or large two foot rats running out in front of you as you walk down the sidewalks. From here there is no poverty or depression or failure that can be seen. NO visible nothingness, just lights, colors, muted sounds from below and energy that is palpalible. From here the only thing that is visible is the possibility of a dream. The belief that anything can happen if you can try to make it happen here. The descent back into the city on the elevators is very symbolic of the descent back into reality from the high horse that you were on just a few moments ago. And when the doors open onto the street and you see two drunks fighting and people just walking around them as if they weren't even there, you realize that the battle to reach the top isn't going to start with the purchase of a power suit. Perhaps there is more to every dream than meets the eye. Perhaps dreams are never found using our eyes. Aren't most of our dreams found when our eyes are closed at night and we are sleeping?

Central Park and The Dakota - John Lennon, bless his heart, was gunned down in front of the Dakota building which sits on Central Park West. A gunman shot him down in front of his wife, Yoko and then sat down and waited for police to come and take him to jail where hundreds of Beattles fans that are incarcerated could savagely beat and rape him for the rest of his natural life(Mark David Chapman has lived in protected custody in prison since December 8th, 1980. He is more a pariah in prison than child rapists). However, Mark did do something for the world: Hippies now have a god to worship and a Mecca of their own to which they must make a pilgrimage to at some point in their life to pay homage. Sadly, the world lost a great soul. Yoko still lives in the Dakota - doesn't get a lot of dating offers - and hippies hang around this place crying with cleaver signs that read, "Imagine" and "Give peace a chance". I pushed a few out into traffic and they didn't seem like they wanted to give peace a chance as they chased me down afterwards. The nothingness has consumed most of them along time ago.

Grand Central Station - It's beyond the beauty standards that a building should be allowed to have. No one structure should be this sexual attractive and it's just a train station. If you ever travel to New York. You will fly into one of the airports and then take a train into the city. You should get off here, no matter where your hotel is. Just so you can see this place. It's a good place to prepare for the streets of New York.

That makes up the bulk of my sight seeing. What you really what see in New York isn't the landmarks or forgotten history or the border between New York today and the nothingness that is creeping in, what you see here is the energy that exists here and no where else on earth. I saw five of the ten most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life in less than twelve hours. I saw fights between all sorts of people and they weren't racial or sexual oriented or religious, just pure unbridled personal hatred, the way hate should be. I ate two dollar hot dogs with hot mustard, I ate pizza, and a canoli. I watched people of all colors, religions and nationalities mix and mingle - sometimes nicely and other times, not so nicely. I rode the infamous subway and met interesting people that know an odd and puzzling kind of life that is different than mine. I met people in their forties that have never driven a car. I met people that have never known life with a yard or a tree or a garden. I met people that thought they were being cleaver in their "I heart NY" tee shirts. I saw people carrying around the same small package into the same small buildings and come out with the same huge belief that their lives were about to change with "this one". (those packages all contain headshots and resumes AND the bulk of their chances at getting that shot at fame and fortune here in New York)

I saw it all. I missed a lot, but I saw it all. I had so much I wanted to say and so much I could have said, but the best thing you can really do is say, "I saw it all". I missed out on some things by years or even decades. I missed meeting some of the people I wanted to meet by decades and centuries. I tried to rekindle the power and the magic that made me want to come here, but New York doesn't live on energy from the past, it exists on energy made right now. I enjoyed this town and took in all I could and all I was really able to walk away with was leg cramps and a chapped ass. I walked over twenty miles in the two days I was in New York. Easily.

Thankfully, I have two days of more walking in DC ahead of me.

There are eight million stories in this naked city; this is mine. Mine is made up of a man trying to find the stories that were written by other people in other times. Just because you sit or dance or take a picture in a place of note, doesn't mean that it will offer you any of the same magic it once gave someone else. It will not offer you any closure to the questions and curiosities that brought you to it in the first place. Your magic lives beyond the border of the nothingness, not in the middle of it.

DC is four hours down the New Jersey turnpike.

invasion of america - empire

Montreal - New Jersey

It was warm but the sky was grey and threatening as I drove out of Montreal, late Sunday morning. My friend with whom I had been staying was the unfortunate owner of a heavy heart and it wasn't because I was leaving town. A brother was suddenly gone and the mourning was just beginning.. It's always hard to watch someone you care about so deeply suffer in such a way. No one is ever ready for death, but when it happens unexpectedly, it's extremely harsh. It was hard to leave with emotions so tattered, but it was time to go. The bike was eager to work.

The first half-hour back on the bike felt strangely odd and I wasn't very comfortable no matter what re-positioning I worked with. I knew I was going to have to re-familiarize myself with the stresses of long distance riding and quick before I started on the 6000 mile return trip home. When I finally crossed back into America I was in new territory which I was excited to explore. I was filled with a child-like enthusiasm with the "Up state" view that filled my helmet. I almost put the bike down several times due to staring off at the landscape too long and not paying attention to the road in front of me.

I have never... ever... seen a more beautiful and idyllic land than up state New York. I remember the trees were doing their best to hold the green of summer just a little bit longer and they were so tightly packed across the landscape that it looked like a fluffy carpet rolling across gently the sloping hills. Periodically a massive rock formation would cut through the tree tops and thrust toward the sky, like a burst of water from a fountain. Much like the stubborn trees of Minnesota, these trees were fighting the late season molt into their fall finest, however one or two of them was slightly tipping the scale. It wasn't much, but it was just enough.

Hours of beauty. Miles. I left the highway as soon as I could and found the more scenic US highway system more to my liking. It was a bit more dangerous with a few trees dumping some leaves on the roadway which posed a new threat to me on the bike - leaves offer no traction for the bike which is a huge problem when I need the tires to hold me to the road during a curve. I am taking these curves at 70 MPH and one leaf could end this trip in a wink.

Every ten miles, the roads take you through a small New England town that come straight out of Norman Rockwell's dreams. The buildings are three hundred years old and they all contain the same types of businesses; a post office, a small country store, an auto body shop/gas station, a doctor, and an antique shop. Each town is the same. OH, and a plaque for something.

The farms that make up the rest of the area between towns are like a Disney rendering of what New England farms should look like if they were planned out by someone with - Perfect barns with matching houses with fences that stretch on for eternity, past the grazing animals and into the thick woods. Each farm comes equipped with a small stream that flows perfectly through the property and feeds everything around it. "this is why"

I was stuck in a spot about where I wanted to go, originally I was going to head to Walden Pond first and then continue on to Mark Twain's House and then the Baseball Hall of Fame before finally heading into New York City./All of this in two days. Again, time and money aren't on my side, so after some quality time with myself I realized that I was going to have to cut Walden and Twain but I should be able to salvage the Hall. I could have just cut them all out and headed straight into New York, but that would be a "kicking myself" decision. I know it.

I made it to Cooperstown, New York in the late afternoon on Sunday. It was the best four hours of riding I have ever done and the views are so burned in my mind that I could tell you what every curve and what every inch of that trip looked and felt like. Forgive me, but I want to keep it to myself.

Everything in Cooperstown was basically closed but it was still cuter than your town even with the doors locked and the lights out. I stopped in to the one thing that will always been open, even after judgement day - a bar. As anyone keeping up with the news will tell you, Sunday is Football day. Even here, in the most hallowed ground of Baseball, there are football fans. In fact, most of the people in this bar were wearing BHOF shirts, drinking and cheering for their losing New York Jets. Somewhere in the universe this is poetry, but for now it's just dinner.

I found a campsite just outside of town and was treated to the "biker special" by the married couple that own this spot of land. They spoke biker-speak which means that in an early incarnation of their lives, they were riders themselves. It also means that they know what I am doing and they have an unspoken connection to it. Spiritually they are with me. Financially, the cut me some slack. Which is a common theme with that bike. I rarely have to pay for tolls on the road and I get cheaper prices at restaurants, hotels, campgrounds, meth-head hookers, and parking is almost always free. I think this bike could save my comedy career if I let it. It's just that blessed.

The campground was empty save for a few late season stragglers that were zoned out and in mood to share. I chose a nice cozy spot under some trees that was down a shady lane made up of some of the most delicious looking trees I have ever seen. It was also far enough away from the other campers that nudity wouldn't be a problem. It also means that wild animals would have no problem sneaking up behind me and eating me for lunch. I have no idea if there are Daniel eating bears in this part of the world. In fact, I don't know if there are any Daniel eating animals afoot. I must be cautious.

I made a fire.... and it was good.

[this is a bad moment, if you don't want to hear it, read around it]

The camp fire was very good and there is always something purely magical about a fire. Especially one you can poke with a stick and just STARE at for hours. The flames grow and dance and it CRACKS and POPS with each passing moment. It's hypnotizing. My eyes are transfixed on the dancing flames and I can't pull away. This is my fire. Mine, and it's all I have to keep me company in the New York wilderness. I actually talked to it a couple of times. The bike is already sleeping and the gear is all stowed away in the two minute tent (so named for the time it takes to put up and take down) and I am sitting on a stump in front of the fire. I am watching the sun slowly sink behind the trees and I am talking to the flames and my future and my luck and my looks and my sore body and my options and my seemingly endless blessings.

The trees that surround me are the same trees from the side of the road during my trip down here and from up close and underneath, they look like the feeble attempt of a balding man who is using the last few strands of hair to cross the barrenness of his noodle. It's very wispy and linear looking. I don't think you can feel any more sorry for a tree when you describe it as a "balding man".

The fire poking stick is a national treasure that doesn't get a lot of press. I have owned many of these poking sticks over the years and for each stick that I have poked a fire with, I have had the said the same thing to myself, "This is the most perfect stick in the world. I need to take this stick home with me and use it for other fires that I will make in the future." But I never have taken one home. In fact, most of the time, the poking stick has become firewood as a last ditch effort. It would seem that the urge to be a "boy" and to burn anything is stronger than the urge to keep a useful stick. And what a sad ending to such a glorious career - The stagnant life of shading the ground for years and years without anything to show for it, is very suddenly cut short when I appear and feel the need to get in touch with my inner caveman. I use it for hours to stoke the flames that will consume its friends and family, while it watches in horror from the front row. If I am feeling especially evil, I might attach a marshmallow to it and make it suffer the indiginty of living its last few hours with melted mallow on its tip. After hours of this injustice - I burn it in the remenants of its friends and family. I am a demon to the forest people.

[this is the part you might want to skip]
Somehow I found myself seeking out other ways to enjoy this fire and somehow that led me to a country store a few miles down the road trying to buy a pack of cigarettes. If the store had accepted debit cards, I would be smoking right now. Let's thank the stubborn and modest amount of Ludititry that kept my non-smoking streak alive. But smoking with that fire would have been the cat's pajamas. It would be easier to remain a non-smoker if I wasn't allowed to see flames... or lighters.

I made coffee, it was a bad idea. I was "up" with nothing to do.

In order to embrace the moment and face a fear and defy it - I took a walk in the dark woods and filled my head with all of the horror film scenarios that I had ever seen. Needless to say, I was shitting my pants - a cigarette sure would have calmed me down a lot. I was a good bit away from my camp site and deep in the pitch black woods when I came across a patch of moonlight shining down on a simple little patch of grass. There, in the middle of all this living firewood, was a beam of solid moonlight just for me to see and no one else. It was idyllic for witches to do magic, I wish I had brought one along.

The moonlight was a translucent metallic blue cutting through a sea of jet black trees. There was no wind, but there were a few crickets singing to each other and the sound of my excitement pounding away in my head, to fill the moment. I walked all the way around the patch of light before I dared to walk into it. I was treating it a bit like the beam of light in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" where if you walked into it, it would spring a deadly trap and I would be impaled on something sharp and unfriendly.

After playing around with the idea a bit, I just walked in to the light and looked up. I didn't see any moon, just stars. Bright and plentiful against the vastness of space. But no moon. The stars were as bright as I have ever seen them and they were filled with more light than a full moon on a cloudless night. "Yes... This is why."

If you lay down and stare into space, the stars will move. They move for you as your mind wishes them to move. And they move for you as your mind wanders around in your own imagination. A full sea of stars that seem to be looking at you without blinking once. I was really enjoying the stars, for a long long time, until the moisture from the ground and the mosquitoes drove me back to my camp. [I was bitten over thirty times]

Sleeping in a tent isn't always the best way to end a fun-packed night of fire-staring and mosquito feeding. I am in two layers of clothes and the sleeping bag is pretty "gropey" which makes movement pretty restricted. You're zipped in and when you have to pee, it's not always the worth the trouble to get all the way out to do so. Let's just say it took me an hour of laying there in pee-pain discomfort, weighing my options out before I finally unzipped, put on, and crawled out just so I could pee in the frigid night. Sadly, It was pitch black out and I think I might have peed on my tent. Hey, I was tired and I didn't have my graceful aim with me.

I was up, packed and on the bike in twenty minutes from the moment the sun crested over the horizon. I had a full day planned and I needed to get a move on if I was going to see it happen. TODAY!

Plan: Breakfast. Fix the blog post that blogspot had fucked up. Baseball Hall of Fame. Drive down to Orange County Choppers. Drive into Jersey City. Party in New York. OH, and shower.

Breakfast turned into a Powerbar, there was no way to fix the blog in Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame was a complete let down. Yeah, a let down. I only had one reason for coming to see it and when I was in the main room of the hall, I was suddenly struck with the rational argument against that reason. Sadly, this rational argument always appears after it's too late. So I quickly took my photo of the reason I came here (George Brett, #5 Kansas City Royals) and headed out of town as fast as I could. I was enjoying riding over the landscape more than I was enjoying the relics anyway. They're interesting, but the few things that I would have really loved to see where on the fucking traveling exhibit which was most likely in Tacoma at the moment.

Orange County Choppers - was a store. The bike shop is off limits. The town where they have their shop(Montgomery) is beautiful and there were bikers everywhere, which I'm sure pleases the locals to no end. I would imagine that it's tough to keep a low profile in a town this small when you're fame is worldly wide and it rivals that of any major movie star. I'm sure more people could identify who the Tuetuls are faster than they could identify who Gene Hackman is. Ultimately, I'm glad I came here but it wasn't any different from the Hall of Fame - it was just a collection of relics. Except these were fresh ones.

I left New York and entered New Jersey. It sounds just like it felt.

THIS WOULD BE A GREAT TIME TO MAKE A PLEDGE DURING THE BRING DANIEL BACK TO TACOMA PLEDGE DRIVE. EVERY LITTLE BIT HELPS...

invasion of amer... canada - bon voyage

Michigan - Montreal

750 miles

It was pitch black outside and I was 60 miles outside of Sault Ste Marie, which is where I wanted to stop for the night. Sault Ste Marie sits on the border between America and Canada and I felt that it gave me the best jumping off point for the last leg of the trip. But the darkness was lulling me to sleep and not even the sky filled with twinking stars could keep my eyes from dragging. Thankfully the winds had ceased and I didn't have to waste any energy keeping the bike upright. There was nothing out there. Nothing.

Then, the oddest thing; A gas station appeared out of nowhere. And it was open! It was a teeny tiny gas station with two old fashion pumps from the seventies sitting out front. These don't have the digital display, the pay at the pump or the receipt dispenser on them, these only have rolling numbers to indicate your sale and everything else that is really important about pumping gas. An old lady came out of the tiny station to talk to me while I was pumping my gas and she was carrying a plate of donuts - Freshly made. That always makes pumping gas a little easier. I likey donuts. Freshly made cake donuts with nothing on them are scrumpdeliumptious.

"You don't look like you should be going on any further tonight. Why don't you stay here." she said with a seductive twinkle in her eye.

I have been hit on before by women in rural gas stations that are bearing freshly made donuts and that are old enough to be my grandmother, and I am not above using sex for a place to stay, so this didn't really seem all that strange to me. NOTHING on this trip seems strange. And donuts always make sleeping with someone easier.

"You can stay here. I have room. I'll give you my biker discount."

She's a pro. She knows just what to say to bikers. "discount". You don't often hear that associated with "biker". Very cool. However, the thought of this old broad humping a ton of fat, hairy old crack smoking bikers before I got here didn't sound all that appealing. BUT, older hookers that make donuts are still very, very sexy.

When I went in to pay for the gas I indicated that I would be wiling to stay for the night and she said, "30 bucks". The reoccuring theme of this trip has been - hookers mean warm beds. I paid the woman her money and prepped myself for what has to be one of the worst sexual experiences of my life. Then she handed me a key that said "ten" on it and she pointed off behind me and said that the building was half a mile down a dirt road behind the station. I am not sure if my surprise was defeat, discourgement, rejection, or relief.

I never saw the building from the road and I know why now. It was buried deep in the forest behind the gas station and you couldn't even see the lights from the gas station when you pulled up to the building. It was back, back, back in the thicket. I got to my room and I started to think about all the cheap 70's horror movies that I had seen about young travelers that stop in to a pleasant little family gas stations in the middle of nowhere and then end up being made into beef jerky and eaten by other travelers. I mean NO ONE knows I'm here AT ALL! Just me and the donut lady. My phone barely works out here and I am surrounded by Daniel-eating bear infested woods. If this woman wanted to kill me, smoke me and sell me to customers, no one would ever know. I bet there is a huge collection of motorcycles just behind the hotel. All stacked up and rusting out from years of exposure and neglect. Next to that pile is a pile of leather jackets and tiny little biker bells. As I drift off to sleep I kept wondering, "what was in those donuts?"

I survived the night without being cooked or BBQed and my sanity was safe for another day. I woke up to the beauty of the Upper Penisula's grand forest and massive... RAIN!

Lots of it. Tons of it. Dangerous amounts of it.

It was a miserable ride to Sault Ste Marie. Water on the roadway likes to fishtail off the back tire and create a skunk trail down your back as you ride. It's a huge problem and there is no way to avoid it. But that problem seemed trivial to the hydroplaning that occurs with a fast moving bike over water. I truly believe that I could drive over a lake if I was going fast enough. It's that's easy to do. The rain blocks out your visor and you're basically blind the entire time you're riding. Next time I say I want a helmet, remind me that I want one with a sun and rain visor on it. By the time I pulled in to Sault Ste Marie, I was soaked and so was all my gear.

I finished up some last minute details before I jumped the border into Canada. I made some calls and then rode the two miles across the narrows bridge into Canada. It's a beautiful bridge that spans two of the world's Great Lakes. It's like riding down a hallway of water. I wish there were sharks in these waters.

Then, with the end in sight and the smell of fresh mayonaise slowing filling the air, I became Canadian again.

600 miles to go.

I love riding in Ontario. Yes, it's true; they don't like motorcycles in Canada. Yes, it's true; they don't like Americans in Canada. Yes it's true; their gas is more expensive. But the roads in Canada are perfect and they are nothing but ideal for someone that wants to lollygag along and see the flora and fauna.

I wasn't able to make it the full 600 miles that I had hoped. I knew I wasn't going to be able to. 400 miles is a long way on a bike, 600 miles would be murder. So I had to stop in Pembroke, Ontario for the night. Interesting - The closer I get to Montreal, the less and less English I hear at my stops. The accents are starting to change to a more "French" twang and I am slowly getting more and more turned on, even with the ugly ones.

When I stopped in Pembroke for the night, I knew that I could have made it all the way to Montreal if I hadn't stopped, but I wanted to see some of the landscape in the day light and I really wanted to see the Canadian capital of Ottawa. I should have just kept going.

I took a hot bath and I turned on the weather channel to see if the wind was ever going to stop. It wasn't as bad in Canada but there was still a strong head wind and I was hoping that I would eventually find the head waters of this tempest, just so I could get behind it. The Weather Channel had a map of the region and there, just below Montreal, was a MASSIVE storm. "Days of endless rain" they kept saying. "High winds. Standing water. Danger. Daniel-eating bears!!! Go home!!!" Shit. If I push on now, I could beat the rain, but I would get there at 1 in the morning and miss some of what I wanted to see OR, I can press my luck and just pray for the best the next day.

I woke up the next morning and the rain was over an inch thick(a couple of centimeters - metric) on the road way. Loading up my bike, everything got soaked and in a snap, my spirits dropped. So it didn't matters when it took me six hours longer to get to Montreal with the weather. I never saw any of the landscape and I never saw the capital. I did almost die over a dozen times. Road construction is a killer for motorcycles. (and bears!)

I arrived in Monteal in the midele of the afternoon and crawled into my friend's house with the greatest smile on my face. I DID IT!

It's a beautiful home in an old neighborhood that looks a lot like the neighborhood from The Cosby Show. Montreal is a lot of three story walk ups all crammed together, block after block, that have long winding staircases in front of them as opposed to the large cement stoops that I am used to in other cities. Everything here is French - the people, the food, the language and the politics. It's very cute. Makes me horny all the time. I almost moved here but choose Tacoma instead. That's how much I like it.

One hour after I arrived, A young man entered his high school/junior college cafeteria and opened fire on his fellow students with a handgun. He killed one girl, wounded ten and then killed himself. In the midst of the tragedy and the shock the only thing the media could say about the matter was that, "He was wearing a trenchcoat". For some reason the trenchcoat industry must have pissed off some media tycoon and now that media tycoon is going to ruin the trenchcoat industry forever. What the coat had to do with the killing means nothing. The fact that the media is trying to blame the killing on the coat I think says everything about the media's detective abilities.

The killing took place across the street from where I am performing this weekend. I mean it's directly across the street.

I unloaded my gear and got some laundry started. I took it easy. Rested and tried not to lose my mind over what I had just accomplished and how much further I still had to go. To make things easier on me, we went out to eat in one of the greatest dining cities in the world. Everything here is supposed to be amazing and I was really looking forward to a huge banquet. We took the subway into downtown and got off in one of the more exciting neighborhoods in the city. I love the subway, I guess it's because I have never lived anywhere that had one so I really get off on taking them when I get the chance. It's my adult amusement park ride. However, unlike other cities that try to accomodate other languages in their mass transit, here it's just French and the rest of the world can fuck right off. But it was still fun.

So for all of the glory that is Montreal dining, all the choices, the experiences (you can eat at a restuarant that serves you in completely in the dark with blind waiters. NO LIGHT AT ALL!!)We ate.... Smoked Meat. Yes. Smoked Meat. What is smoked meat? Well, it's pastrami. That's it. Just pastrami and it's held in the highest regard here. In fact, this restaurant only served the one item: Smoked meat. I couldn't stop laughing through the whole meal. It was excellent meat. Nice and tender like I have never had Pastrami/smoked meat before. The experience was great save for the dining companions - You have to sit at tables that you share with other diners and sadly, we had to share our table with some LOUD New Yorkers that were incredibly Seinfeld-esque. Lots of whining. It was a lot to handle. I didn't stop laughing until the food was completely digested.

I ate my smoked meat. I keep saying smoked meat because they can't get enough of this stuff and I think it's funny to say a lot. You would think that this stuff was heroin the way the Montrealers talk about it, seek it out and devour it. It's just pastrami, but you would think it was keeping them alive or making it possible for them to breathe. I wonder if Ottawa is this crazy about Corned beef? After dinner we headed out on the town to see the sights: Old town - the part of Montreal that is covered with cobble stones; The famous church where Celine Dion got married; The college where William Shatner attended and has a building named in his honor. It was still raining pretty heavily but it was still a good experience. It was very nice to be walking and talking and experiencing with friends. That made the whole trip worth it. Almost dying and being made into, well, smoked meat, makes you really appreciate where ever you are.

Another oddity - Wednesday is the day that Montreal takes off. Nothing is open and nothing is happening. It's their Sunday. They're French, they like to be weird (and sexy)

The only real thing happening in town on this day was the shooting. The media circus was huge and the flowers and the candles were coming out as fast as people could run out and buy them. There were people crying and people trying to get interviewed. The whole thing was only a few hours old and the whole town wanted in on the action. So did I. As it turns out that this kid picked Wednesday because it was the day of the week when all the students gather in the cafeteria to "mingle". He picked his time, his targets and he made a mess. The media jumped on his outfit like the judges on Project Runway. It would seem that the only thing that really mattered in this shooting was what he was wearing. Not unlike the shooting in Red Lake, Minnesota or the one in Columbine or Arkansas or Portland, OR or the one at the rave in Seattle this year - the world needed a scape goat and some thing else to blame the insanity on. No one wanted to admit that the real cause of this shooting was the same as the cause for almost every shooting - parenting and apathy. That's way too much honesty. It's best to blame the clothes, the music and the video games and not have to shine the bright light of truth on yourself. One girl died at the scene in this shooting. The rest of the victims are in differing stages of recovery. There will be other victims just like this in the future; more dead children, more grieving families, more questions to answer. A lot more, until someone has the strength to be honest about these things. For all the flowers, and cards, and notes that were left for the victims - no one left anything for the dead shooter. His life will be remembered as all great tragic figures - as living evil. The injustice that this kid knew in life will be carried over into his death.

The rest of my time in Montreal is hopefully more happy; I have shows, some sight seeing and some bike repair to get finished before Sunday's return to America. Thanks for your patience on this week and I will try to keep you updated as the trip continues on.

Coming up this week.... Stops in New York City to see CBGB's, World Trade Center and Conedy Island. The baseball hall of fame in Cooperstown, New York. The Mutter Museum in Philadelphia. Albert Einstein's house in Princeton, New Jersey. All that stuff in Washington DC. Edgar Allen Poe's Grave in Baltimore. A pit stop in Pittsburgh for some bike talk, and then on to Jackson, Michigan to earn some money. Stay Tuned.