Swamp Buggy Badass

I just heard the phrase "swamp buggy badass" recently, and now it's stuck in my head. I mean, what badass could be badder than a badass driving a swamp buggy?

One of my cousins, years ago, was married to a guy who owned not one but two swamp buggies. They lived in a double wide at the edge of a swamp in some unincorporated area in southern Florida. There was a gravel road leading up to the place, and a pond in front. My cousin is a good decorator, and it was a cute home. Her husband had a Belgian last name and bright red hair. He worked for his family's landscaping company, and as I remember from the wedding, his grandmother didn't speak any English. He had a few chickens I think, and maybe a pig, and he liked to hunt and fish. He always had a few snake skins hanging over the railing of his back porch.

He had a pit bull who was really friendly. The dog liked to swing, by his jaws, from a rope swing that hung over the pond. He was going to take me boar hunting but we never got to go.

Things got rocky with their marriage, and he started quoting scripture. A short time later his dog went belly up in the pond, snakebit. They divorced a little while after that. My cousin is now happily remarried with two beautiful children. Long story short, I never got to drive that swamp buggy.

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On our first day in New Orleans we left town and drove up to the north shore of Lake Ponchartrain. As part of my ongoing narcozoology research I wanted to head into the gum and cypress swamps of Louisiana. We headed for the outskirts of Slidell and met up with the good folks at Honey Island Swamp Tours. They'd gotten us close to alligators before, and I hoped we'd get close again.

I've visited two kinds of swamp, mangrove and cypress. Mangrove swamps cover much of the Gulf coast of Florida, and the Keys. The mangrove swamp is a beautiful but scary environment, and I can't imagine living in one.

Cypress swamps, on the other hand, are, to me, some of the most wonderful places on earth. Beautiful submerged forests.

We set out on the Pearl River, and headed back into the bayou. It was a glorious morning, sunny, breezy and about 70 degrees. You can see the plucky and intrepid MizBubs sitting up toward the bow, unafraid of nutria rats, or alligators, or snakes falling from trees, or giant catfish leaping out of the water and whacking her in the head.



We headed up one of the bayous into the swamp. Here's what the swamp looked like going in:

Within minutes we were face to face with this fellow:

This gator was about 15 feet long, and is one of the older gators in that part of the swamp. He had just emerged within the past couple of weeks, according to our guide. He regarded us in the cold, dead-eyed way that alligators do. Sensing that there wasn't a single steroid user or crackhead on board, though, he soon went on about his business.

As we headed further into the swamp, the water turned darker, and we were enveloped by the smell of the swamp: dark smells of mud, thousands of years of muck and death and new growth, tides rising and falling, a hint of brine, wet leaves and bright floral scents emerging from it all, just long enough for you to notice the sweet fragrance before it wafted away. I love the way a swamp smells. It moves me.

Along the way we saw more alligators, small ones only 4 or 5 feet long, basking on logs:




Did I mention snakes? We saw a few of those, too, but I only got a blurry snapshot of this non-venomous water snake, also out for his George Hamilton moment in the morning sun:

We saw some beautiful birds, egrets and herons, and the majestic bald eagle.

I remembered at some point to look up and take in the trees:



Did you know that Spanish Moss was used at one time to stuff cushions, and as building insulation?

We emerged from the swamp, shook the snakes out of our hair and clothing, and cruised up the river past some of the fishing camps. The picture that graces the top of this blog was taken on a trip up this river in 2004. Sadly, Katrina sent a strong surge up the Pearl River, and a lot of these camps were destroyed. I could not find the place you see pictured above, and I think it was a casualty. We did see some other future compound sites though:



After a couple of hours the tour ended, and we returned to the dock. On our drive out, we passed the Saigon Noodle Soup, advertising French-Cajun Seafood Platter. I know this may surprise you, but I don't stop at every single restaurant I see. I regret not stopping here to check it out.

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Next stop: the greatest roadside attraction east of the Mississippi, the UCM Museum!

And now, enjoy a little swamp buggy badass, courtesy of New Orleans' own Quintron and Miss Pussycat:

Back to normal...

Or, at least, as close to normal as we get.

I finally arrived home around midnight on Thursday night/Friday morning after an invigorating 15 hour drive through thunderstorms, high winds and tornado warnings. Good times. I have sent the first email in what I'm sure will be the lengthy process of trying to obtain some satisfaction from American Airlines. I had 4 flights canceled in a 24 hour period. At least I wasn't one of those poor bastards stranded at the airport, and I didn't have a whole family in tow with me. Thank you, each and every one of you, for your kind comments while I was away. Business travelers, I salute you. Honestly, I don't think I'd want to live like this.

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The original plan this last week was for me to fly to Dallas, do that thing that I do, and be home Wednesday afternoon. Then I was going to spend the next few days working around the house. You see, it's not only time for the annual de-whitetrashification, but it's also redecorating season. We found a painter to do our kitchen/study, living room/back hallway/bathroom, and our youngest daughter's bedroom. MizBubs, girl dynamo, got everything moved around and ready for the painter. This meant that our dining room became a totally unusable maze of stuff from half the other rooms in the house.

MizBubs, girl dynamo that she is, is still human, and she got sick this week while I was gone. Picture your average suburban home in the middle of a redecorating project, populated by two teenagers, two dogs and a sick mom with an absentee husband. Oh, and every person in that household collects something. That's us.

So we're trying to get back on track. Which is hard, and my bride had to work this weekend too. When I got done with the dinner dishes tonight I noticed MizBubs working her delicate fingers to the bone, ironing the living room curtains to get them back on the wall. She seemed so determined, so plucky, so saintly as she toiled away. I thought to myself "now that looks like a girl who could use a strong drink."

I went to work. Originally I was going to make something called a "fancy bourbon" but we were out of triple sec. I made a few substitutions and arrived at this here drink:

The Kentucky Bluegrass

• 2 shots of bourbon
• 1/2 shot of blue Curacao
  
• 2 dashes of bitters
• 1/2 teaspoon of superfine sugar

Mix the ingredients together in a cocktail shaker over ice, shake well. Strain into a martini glass and serve:

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I discovered something new in Dallas: fried pie. I found it at a barbecue place near SMU called Peggy Sue BBQ. Picture an empanada with flaky buttery pie crust, and delicious pie filling. It was like what a Hostess fruit pie would be like if it didn't suck. The day I was there they only had two flavors, coconut and apricot. I had the apricot, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Their chopped brisket wasn't bad either, I'll tell you what.

Hope everyone had a good weekend. See you tomorrow.

OK...so I had a few drinks and someone talked me into tipping a cow. So what? That doesn't make me a bad person.

And now it gets better

My flight home on Thursday has now also been canceled. I can't get any flights out of Dallas Fort Worth tomorrow. They can book me on a flight "first thing" Friday morning, as if at this point I would trust American Airlines to be able to un-fuck themselves.

I am about to pull a Planes, Trains and Automobiles. I just rented a car and am going to drive home tomorrow. I figure I can make it in around 14 hours or so.

Which is way faster, and with more comfortable seating and meal service, and cheaper, than American Airlines can.

And I will never again fly to Dallas on business without first:

1. Making some kind of burnt offering or sacrifice to every deity I can think of,
2. Bringing all my good luck charms, amulets, religious icons, gris-gris, and
3. Charging a LOT more money than I did this time.
   

What is it with me and trips to Dallas?

I guess it's true that no matter where you end up, there you are. And here I am. In Dallas. Until tomorrow.

For some reason I have been afflicted with some type of Dallas-related travel curse. My earlier adventures included a flight canceled due to tornadoes and thunderstorms and a resulting trip through Richmond, Virginia, and then a return flight delayed and diverted to St. Louis as a result of a spring snowstorm.

This morning, when I tried to print out my boarding pass at the alcohol-friendly internet center, I found out that American Airlines has canceled more than 800 flights. Including mine.

My hat's off again to the nice folks at the Plano Hyatt Place, who have been extremely accommodating in my time of need. Like a bookie who won't leave his favorite restaurant booth, I've taken over a corner of their e-room and used it to make new arrangements. Assuming that American Airlines manages to pull its head out of its corporate ass by tomorrow morning, I should be back home on Thursday.

Now I'm off to do some sightseeing.

Here comes success

My job in Dallas, Texas is done.

The training video I worked on was unveiled today at a meeting of 150 regional loss prevention managers. I did a brief presentation following the film, and answered some questions. The handcuffing presentation was the last one of the day, and afterward all the attendees divided by region and went out to dinner together. Everyone seemed really happy with the training video, and judging from the evaluation forms my presentation went over pretty well.

I sat with a guy from South Carolina, a Chicago transplant who now lives in Tampa, and two women from Louisiana. Like everyone I've ever met from Louisiana, they liked to talk, and they liked to talk about food. I got hungry even as I sat there eating. We had a few beers with dinner and all ended up talking about alligator attacks. It was fascinating doing the compare/contrast between Floridian and Louisianan takes on alligator awareness. It was a splendid evening.

Now I'm back at the fabulous Hyatt Place hotel, which, if I were a regular business traveler, I'd be madly in love with.

They let you bring beer into their internet business center.

For those about to blog...

WE SALUTE YOU!

That Doctor Monkey Von Monkerstein is a sick simian bastard. But we love him.

I got home on Saturday from the last day of the ILEETA conference and found this in the mail. What a card.

We've never won, or even attempted to win, a vintage postcard from the Doctor. And still, this masterpiece arrived, unsolicited, at our front door. Amazing...

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I woke up this morning feeling about 15 years older. Why?

Well, for starters, I made the mistake of entering a 5k race on Saturday. Specifically the Flatfoot 5k, which is a fundraiser for the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund and the ILEETA scholarship fund.

I've run a lot of 5k races, so I thought "no big deal." I haven't trained much since December when I ran in Las Vegas, and have barely run at all in the last 2 months. I compounded my mistake by deciding to run with a 25 year old coworker, one of our newer officers, and I started toward the front of the pack, with a bunch of other tactical officers there for the conference. I started out way too fast. I am a doofus.

Boy, the start of the race was glorious. It was a 60 degree, sunny day. Gosh, it was beautiful. I provided some welcome comic relief to my fellow runners by declaring, about 100 yards into the race, "boy, I wish I hadn't stayed up so late last night smoking and drinking." I kept up for the first half mile or so, then started lagging back. I pushed on, chugging away. Then the wheezing and the coughing started. Then the fatigue. And the pain.

At 2 miles the body said f*ck it. I was just this side of a full-blown asthma attack. Thank God they didn't use the Champion Chip or any other timing system; I would have been forced to gut it out and actually finish the damn race.

As it was I was able to quit like a man at 2 miles, with a time of 17:50, and congratulate myself for having donated to a worthy cause. I was there to cheer on my younger and more athletic coworker as he finished in under 25 minutes.

When I got home I joined MizBubs as she started in the annual de-white trashification of our yard. We raked out the front beds, and also cleared the flower and vegetable gardens on the side of the house. We're now way ahead of where we were by this time last year. At least in the front and side yards.

The back yard is still a disaster area of dog shit and debris, highlighted by the wreckage of our beautiful screen house that we put up last year. The first harsh winter storm caught me by surprise, and the roof of the screen house was demolished by the snow. The back porch is a hillbilly jumble of turkey fryers, lawn furniture, snow shovels and propane tanks. It is a mess.

But I aim to get it cleaned up, and pronto. Anyway, I joined MizBubs, girl dynamo, in her yard work, and as a result there is not a part of my body that is not aching and fatigued this evening. At least it's a good ache.

I got a few more New Orleans bits, and then a whole lotta freaky goodness for posting this week. I leave again for Dallas on Tuesday, and then I'm off again for the rest of the week. There is so much I want to tell you about. Really.

Hope you had a good weekend.

I'm trying to mind my language

Created by OnePlusYou

I found this over at DGuzman's Impeachment and other dreams.

You can tell I'm not as cranked up and angry when I'm talking about food or travel, I guess.

Vicksburg

After breakfast at the Blue & White restaurant in Tunica, we made about the best decision of our trip--to head south on Highway 61 instead of getting back on I-55 and driving straight to New Orleans. I'd always wanted to visit Vicksburg and this seemed like a good time. Our bellies full and smelling vaguely of fresh baked biscuits, bacon and gravy, we set out on a picture-perfect morning.

I remember hearing someone say once that the only thing central Illinois was good for was landing airplanes on; meaning it's flat and boring. Well, I don't think Illinois flat can begin to compare to Mississippi Delta flat. Tunica was once described by Jesse Jackson as "America's Ethiopia" because of its poverty; now thanks to the miracle of casino gambling, they have really nice roads and new schools.

We drove south on Highway 61, past unplanted cotton fields and shotgun shacks and old collapsed barns. The town of Clarksdale, site of the famous crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to become a better musician, is about 40 miles south of Tunica. Clarksdale, already poverty-stricken, was ravaged further when crack cocaine became popular in the 80's and early 90's. There's now a delta blues museum there, and Morgan Freeman owns a juke joint nearby.

Just before hitting Vicksburg we turned onto "old" Highway 61, the business route that went directly into town. A few minutes later, I saw this ahead to my right:



It was big, and it was colorful, and we were just barely able to make out some bible quotes as we drove past. I pulled over and turned the car around so we could get a closer look:

We had arrived at the Home of the Double-Headed Eagle! We got out and started to read some of the signs, which seemed full of love and openness. "God don't have no white church, and he don't have no black church" and "bless us all" were some of the first ones we noticed. I didn't see anything on there about hell, or punishment. Just message after message of God's love, and calls to worship and praise.

I noticed an older lady walk out of the front a few moments after we arrived, and I walked over to ask her if it was ok for us to look around. She had come out to get her mail, which was in a rural delivery box on the other side of 61; I got her mail for her and we started talking. It turns out we were lucky enough to meet Margaret R. Dennis, whose former grocery store had been converted into this theological roadside attraction. Her husband, the Rev. H.D. Dennis, created this over a period of several years. The Rev. Dennis was out at the moment, but we were lucky to get to talk to Margaret for quite a while.

She'd recently turned 93 years old, and loves meeting people who stop to look around. She told us about the Reverend, and about the church she attends down the hill behind her house. MizBubs and the girls went inside with her while I took some more pictures outside.

The inside of the old grocery store is jam-packed with religious items, quotes, artwork, found objects, newspaper and magazine clippings and decorations. We chatted a while longer, promised to write when we got home, and then said goodbye.



We all felt so uplifted and good when we left there. It's hard to explain just what a good experience it was stopping and meeting Mrs. Dennis.

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We drove through downtown Vicksburg, which was pretty charming, and made our way east of town to Vicksburg National Military Park. I wanted to just stop by the visitor center and maybe drive around a little. I don't know much about the battle of Vicksburg, and in the national memory it tends to be overshadowed by the battle of Gettysburg (Gettysburg was fought on the first three days of July 1863, and Vicksburg fell to union troops on July 4th). Vicksburg was under siege for nearly 2 months, and by the end of the campaign it was a barren and battered place:



Soldiers on both sides dug extensive networks of trenches and dugouts, and many civilians ended up essentially living in dugout shelters themselves to avoid artillery fire. Now the park is one of the greenest places I've seen in a while, and it was good to see families and joggers out strolling the grounds.

While at first it was our intention to drive through, I thought it would be a good idea to get out and walk a little. I have a thing about battlefields. I step onto the ground of a battlefield and I start feeling the ghosts almost immediately. I tend to choke up easily in these places. We found a series of trenches that were occupied by soldiers from Illinois, and we got out there.

Before the campaign turned into a siege, Grant tried to overcome the Confederates in a series of direct assaults on their fortifications. It did not go well. In one case, Union troops made it through withering fire, right to the base of the Confederate fortification, only to find out that the ladders they'd been given were not tall enough to scale the walls.

To me it's a powerful feeling to stand in a place, looking out across those trenches and redoubts, and then just close my eyes for a while. I am awed by the bravery of anyone who goes to war. I am still powerfully moved and humbled by reading accounts of men stepping up out of their safe shelters and then marching or running headlong toward men who wanted to kill them.



After the park was dedicated, individual states were authorized to come in with historians and set up monuments in the areas their soldiers fought and fell. The overall effect of the park at Vicksburg is that of a beautifully rolling, green and pastoral cemetery.

Speaking of monuments, I have something here for my readers in Wisconsin. This is the Wisconsin monument:

Wisconsin soldiers fought bravely at Vicksburg. Wisconsin readers will note with pride that this monument does not bear any mention of the rampant necrophilia, alcohol abuse or ren-faire related violence that has since become so common in the Badger State.

Finally, we stopped by the USS Cairo, an ironclad gunboat that was salvaged from the Yazoo river and is now on display at the park. I never pictured ironclads as being that big. The Cairo was the first ship ever to be sunk by an electrically-fired torpedo.

We finally left the park, got back on the interstate, and continued to head south to New Orleans.

Memphis

Did I forget to mention
Forget to mention Memphis
Home of Elvis, and the ancient Greeks
What do I smell, I smell home cooking
It's only the river, it's only the river...

"Cities" by Talking Heads

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I will not forget to mention Memphis.

Our trip started and ended with one-night visits there, both too brief. The main reason to stop there was for the girls to see Graceland and Sun Studio. On the way down we stayed at the Gold Strike Casino Resort in Tunica, and coming back we crashed at the Days Inn across from Graceland. I won't say too much about the Days Inn, because Splotchy captured it perfectly in his piece here. I will say that to stay at the Days Inn is to wrap yourself in a wonderful cocoon of Elvis-themed Elvisness. I confirmed that the parking is for Elvis fans only, as Splotchy stated.

I was also lucky enough to actually see the Elvis fan vehicle for whom that spot was intended:

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If you've ever seen the Jim Jarmusch movie "Mystery Train" you have a good idea of what Memphis looks and feels like, even 19 years later. The town seems kind of dumpy and run down, but not in an entirely unappealing way. Here's a strange thing we noticed: there were a lot of stray dogs running around. We counted about 10 within one hour on a Saturday afternoon.

Like a lot of other places in the south, you're never far from the smell of barbecue smoke, frying onions or the deep fryer. When we stepped out of our room at the Days Inn at 6:30 in the morning we were immediately hit by the smell of frying onions and bacon coming from the residential neighborhood behind the hotel.

Ever want an intense, almost exquisitely lonely feeling, like the song "Sunday Morning Coming Down"? Then stand on Elvis Presley Boulevard in front of Graceland at 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday.

There's no one around, and you can smell breakfast cooking in the houses of people you don't know. There's hardly any traffic, and to top it off the canned Elvis music from the Graceland visitor center and gift shop never stops playing. That's right, you can look over at the place where the tourists line up for the shuttle bus and there's Elvis on the video monitors and speakers, performing for an audience that isn't even there yet. I have to tell you, it spooked me--it was like seeing Elvis somehow trapped in there, forced to perform forever. It's even better if it's a little rainy and gray like it was the morning we left to come home.

Anyway, I seem to have started at the end there.

Our first stop when we arrived last Monday was at Graceland. What can I say...I've turned into one of those great American cliches, the sappy middle class yahoo who gets weepy when he visits Graceland. The first time I was there it didn't happen until I walked out of the racquetball room and into the memorial garden. This time it started almost as soon as I walked in the front door.

Maybe it's all the stuff I read over the past few months (Peter Guralnick's excellent two volume biography) which gave me a lot of backstory for every room we walked through. I think a lot of it had to do with my kids' enthusiasm for Elvis.

The girls have no Elvis nostalgia, no memory of all those tabloid headlines from the mid-70's documenting his weight gain and drug problems. My daughters have an image of an Elvis as he was in the years 1954 to 1958. A kid just a little older than themselves, having the best time of his life singing and shaking his ass, full of energy and joy. I think they relate and have a purer enjoyment of him and and his music than people my age or older. The story of that young Elvis, his epic success and then the excesses and self-destruction and long slow decline that followed, is tragic.

As he got older the most popular entertainer in the world was terrified of not being liked, and of growing old. Elvis became trapped by being Elvis. If you've got any imagination, all that early joy and all the later sadness comes on and pours over you in waves, and you wish you could go back in time and grab that kid and shake him, and maybe save him from what was coming.

I was armed with a digital camera on this visit, intent on getting lots of pictures. Here's the thing--my camera would not work when I tried taking pictures inside the house. And I tried. I gave the camera over to MizBubs to check the settings, which she did, and it still didn't work. In my heightened emotional state I was convinced that Elvis' spirit didn't want me disrespecting the house by taking souvenir photos. I was crushed, because I was certain that if anyone had entered that home in the proper spirit of love and respect it was me.

The camera started working again in the racquetball room, where about a dozen of Elvis' later costumes were on display. Then it got stubborn again when we were outside in the memorial garden. The picture you see of Elvis' grave was taken with my cell phone camera.



I am convinced that the south is more obsessed with religion and death than any other region in the nation. At the time we walked through the memorial garden I didn't realize that this intensity of devotion, and the honoring of the dead, would be a theme that carried through the rest of our trip.

We saw other stuff at Graceland; there's a new exhibit called "Private Presley" that details Elvis' military service, and we went on the Lisa Marie, one of his private jets. There's also an exhibit featuring Elvis' cars, including this one that I think totally kicks ass:



Do you know why that car kicks ass? Because that car sports a gold alligator roof! Best of all, though, the car exhibit also features giant red "ELVIS" letters like the ones used on the 1968 comeback special:

I don't know why I didn't get my picture taken in front of this. These are the letters in the background as Elvis sings "If I Can Dream" at the end of the special. If I'd worn a snappy white suit I know I would've gotten my picture taken here.

When we left Graceland we headed over to Jim Neely's Interstate B-B-Q. Really great barbecue and fantastic smoky barbecued beans, served up in a formica heaven circa 1978. The cole slaw and potato salad were not that great, and the barbecue spaghetti is worth trying but I wouldn't make a meal of it. The chopped shoulder, though, was some of the best barbecued pork I've ever eaten anywhere, and the people there were really nice.

_____________________

We visited Sun Studios on Saturday, on our return trip. If Graceland is a shrine, a memorial to the memory of Elvis, then Sun Studio is closer to actual holy ground. A tiny place where big things happened, and walking into that studio was humbling. Standing on the spot where Elvis recorded "That's All Right", seeing where the Million Dollar Quartet sang together, seeing the same dingy acoustic tiles on the walls all these years later. Holding that old microphone. Whew. Johnny Cash. Carl Perkins. Jerry Lee Lewis. Oh man.

It was fun, again, watching my daughters go all googly over those old pictures of Johnny Cash and Elvis. What a reminder that this was music made by kids. My daughters were still smart enough, though, to be scared of Jerry Lee.

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One thing I really liked about Memphis was the signage. Here are a few examples:

He sells "herbal viagra" and is the "Piller" of the community.

Worried about your taxes? Then get likkered up and stuff your face with hot wings to ease your anxiety

In Memphis the pests are so pesty you need atomic-powered spacemen and giant cheese-eating rats to kill them all. And fly your flag proudly.

Screw it, I guess I'll stay

When I ran to MizBubs and told her that I'd received several mocking comments after baring my heart and soul to you people, she told me I had it coming, and that my plan rated a 9.7 on the hare-brained meter.

Oh well. Guess I'll just stick around here.

My favorite law enforcement event of the year started today--the annual ILEETA conference. I spent today being certified as a Management Of Aggressive Behavior instructor. Tomorrow I'll attend some workshops, and then Thursday I'll attend an armorer's class. I refrained from doing a lot of the hands-on physical training this year.

This time last year I was high on swag. This year's haul was less impressive, with far fewer flash drives, pepper sprays and laser pointers in the goody bag. I did get a leather duffel bag, a leather briefcase/laptop carrier, and a bunch of logo polo shirts, sweatshirts and a jacket. Best of all, I got a "Don't Tase Me, Bro" tee shirt. And an NRA law enforcement logo tee shirt, which I love because it can simultaneously identify me as both a gun nut and a cop if I ever wear it out in public. I saw a tee shirt with this excellent quote, and it expresses how I feel about the job I do:

"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf."
--George Orwell

And now, a soothing swamp picture:

I took that in a bayou off the Pearl River near Slidell, Louisiana.

I still have to tell you about my new favorite dive bar, my ecstatic experiences at Graceland and Sun Studio, our favorite roadside attraction and a few more random New Orleans stories.

Thanks for stopping by.

Thank you, and God bless you all!

Well, this is a difficult post to write. I'm so full of love for all of you right now, bursting with it, and have so many things that I want to say...but I'll just try and make this brief.

5 years, 11 months, and 25 days ago I started a blog to have some fun, reach out to people and entertain myself. Along the way I landed a blogging gig with ChicagoNow, and even got on the radio a few times. It's been a blast, and I can't thank you guys enough for reading, commenting and re-tweeting over the years..

Lately, though, I've felt something missing in my life. I began to realize that too much of my time and energy were being spent in what was, in effect, a rather shallow series of clown jokes, stories about weenie-wavers, and self-satisfied crowing about how much I ate and drank. I've also become less satisfied with my career as a law enforcement officer. For some time now I've spent hours thinking about how I could better live a life of service, compared to the well-paid and complacent civil servant's life I now lead.

I have wrestled with both demons and Lincoln's "better angels" of my nature. And I have made a decision. A trip down south affected me in a profound, and I hope lasting, way.

This is my last blog post.

I have taken a leave of absence from my job, pending my retirement. I have purchased a used Dodge minivan and converted it to a makeshift camper. I had hoped to buy a mobile home in which to travel the shining gospel way, but it didn't work out.

On Monday I will be driving south to New Orleans where I will be joining a recently-formed street ministry, the Good News Living Statue Ministry. I ran into some of these folks during a trip to New Orleans, as several of them acted out the Stations of the Cross around Jackson Square. As I stumbled out of a nearby daiquiri stand and crashed into one of the soldiers scourging the Christ, I felt a profound sense of disorientation and longing, and knew I'd been truly touched.

The GNLSM ministers mostly to gutter punks, street performers and tourists in the French Quarter. They do so mainly by acting out various Gospel passages while spray-painted gold or silver, in the manner of many New Orleans street performers. I was moved by the depth and intensity of their devotion to the Gospel, as well as to the art of living statue performance. They are truly Godly people, and other than a brief (but ugly) confrontation with a group of traveling Clowns for Christ, I have found them to be beyond reproach. I have signed on to act as a fry cook and go-fer for the troupe until I "learn the ropes" as a living statue and New Testament reenactor.

My beautiful wife and children, while not fully comprehending my decision, are nevertheless pretty much supportive of it. They will remain here performing earthly duties such as bill payment and home maintenance while I carry out God's work down south. They are my rock.

Please pray for me, as I will for all of you. God bless you all!

Time for a brutal self-assessment

100%ALCOHOLIC

That's just for starters.

Thank you, Bubbles and Kirby, for helping me see just how far I've fallen.

On the diet and weight front, I now tip the scales at 219 pounds, more than at this time last year. Last time I was in New Orleans on vacation with my family, in August 2004, I gained 7 pounds in 3 days, while training for a marathon.

And what did I fatten up on? Well...here's just a little something for you. Please forgive me if some of the photos are a little...blurred. In an effort to avoid looking like either a rube or a voyeuristic freak, many of my vacation snapshots were taken with a cell phone camera.

Chopped pork shoulder sandwich and barbecue spaghetti at Interstate B-B-Q in Memphis



Fried dill pickles at the Praline Connection on Frenchmen Street.

And of course, my beloved Sazerac. First with lunch at the Napoleon House

And then before dinner at Arnaud's



Did I mention beignets? Forget Krispy Kreme, Dunkin Donuts, Lard Lad and all the rest of them. This is the ticket: fried dough covered in a mound of powdered sugar. Beats the hell out of any elephant ear or funnel cake you've ever had at any county fair. Served up all day and all night at Cafe Du Monde on Jackson Square.

Let's just grab one more order to go



Wait, I almost forgot--there was also bacon involved in this trip. Oh yes.

At one point, my stomach full, enjoying an expansive feeling of well-being toward my fellow humanity, my senses and speech only slightly impaired by intoxication, I suggested to MizBubs that it was in fact entirely possible to design an entire cuisine around oysters, bacon and a deep fryer. Yes, there was a lot of bacon. The most glorious example was this gem, served as an appetizer at Elizabeth's on Gallier.

Behold, praline bacon:

That's all for now. I'm off to cook dinner, some clear broth and a few pieces of spinach, followed by a piece of fruit. For now the bacon will stay in the freezer, and no deep-fried food or delicious cream sauces will cross my lips.

See y'all later.

I miss it already

We're on our way home

I managed to push myself away from the beignets this morning and I am now speeding northward. If my Segway holds up after stopping in Memphis, I'll be home Sunday afternoon.

The Days Inn at Graceland, recommended by Splotchy, has an excellent internet connection. If I can tear myself away from the 24/7 Elvis movie channels I may post something else before we leave in the morning.

Greetings from Fat City

I am a techno-tard, so all my plans to blog from my laptop and upload tons o' cool pics from the southland have gone right down the crapper.

Instead I am sitting in the Bastille Internet Cafe on Toulouse Street while the girls nap.

A brief update. Let's put this in the category of why I love Louisiana. Last night we passed by a fellow cooking something delicious on a grill outside some restaurant in the French Quarter. A lady asked what he was cooking, and as I passed the reply came:

"Char-groiled oysters."

And today, while driving out to a swamp tour, we passed a strip club called "Scuttlebutt". Yes. Someone down here thought that "Scuttlebutt" would be a first-class name for a titty bar.

That's it for now. See y'all soon.

It's time to go

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The car is ready, the bags are packed and we're almost on our way.

We should be in Memphis by one o'clock this afternoon, and strolling the grounds of Graceland shortly after that. Then tomorrow it's on to New Orleans.

After seeing what a number the "guest bloggers" are doing over at Grant Miller Media, I decided to refrain from doing the same here. I've left these guys in charge of the compound while we're gone:


Anyone messes around here while we're gone, these guys will kick their ass. Hopefully they stay out of the liquor cabinet.

And now I'm off.

Let's get some new tunes

Here they are, in no particular order, available in the box to your right:

America is Waiting--David Byrne & Brian Eno

I Wish I Was In New Orleans--Tom Waits

The Look of Love--Dusty Springfield

Rainy Night in Soho--The Pogues

With a Girl Like You--Alex Chilton

Boy, are my arms tired...

Yep, nothing builds character like sitting helplessly as a 2 hour flight turns into a 6 hour flight. While Chicago may have been snowy, wet and miserable, Saint Louis was enjoying a beautiful sunny day. I know this, and have photographic proof, because my plane landed there and sat for a while after running low on fuel while holding over Peoria. I swear I didn't kill any albatross, and I have no idea why the weather cursed me so these past few days.

Eventually I made it home, having had a successful trip to Dallas. The filming went well, and I was told by professionals who know such things that I had a knack with the teleprompter. Anyway, the client was happy and I had a good time. My debut in industrial film is in the can.

I had a little time to wander around Dealey Plaza, even though it was dark by the time I got there, and I was struck by how small a space it was. Frankly, my whole world turned a little upside down--after standing near the "X" on the street marking the spot where JFK was hit, and looking up at that 6th floor window, I don't think it was that hard of a shot. Oswald could've made it. That still doesn't explain the pristine bullet, or why anyone would route a procession through a choke point like that, so I still have plenty of conspiracies to ponder.

The best part of my visit to Dallas was finding a hamburger place in a neighborhood east of the Book Depository. The name of the place was the Twisted Root, and I treated myself to a burger with hot sauce and blue cheese, with sweet potato fries and a Shiner Bock long neck. Instead of giving you a number when you order, they give you a little card with some redneck name on it that they pick out of a basket. So what card did I get?



How did they know I once had a dog named Buford? Or that I was a lawman? (Hopefully a less rotund and ridiculous lawman than Sheriff Justice.)

And now I'm home. On Monday we leave for New Orleans.

A question for you all

Which state is the most aggressively and self-consciously themed, Texas or Florida?

My youngest, when we visited Florida two years ago, observed that everything in Florida seemed to be Florida-themed, in other words, there were constant reminders everywhere that you were in FLORIDA, as if you might forget while you were there. She also said, on an earlier visit to Texas, that the problem with Texas was all the Texans. There's something about being someplace where the people seem compelled to remind you, almost constantly, that that is where you are.

I hadn't even made it to the baggage claim tonight after landing when I saw a souvenir shop called "LONE STAR". Nice strong start. They lost theme points almost immediately, however, by having an Au Bon Pain right next to it. Plus I haven't heard any gunfire or shouts of "WOOOO HOOOO" or "YEEE HAWWW" in the past couple hours.

I say Florida wins this round.