Made “good time” across Canada’s lower eastern flank. Across from Detroit into Windsor, with little incident, thank the Lord of the Road. Those borders can be a real motherfucker, believe me. Over into Ontario, where those miles turn to kilometers and well, the populace gets a little more interesting. I hopped on Canada route 401 and didn’t stray from it but for a couple pitstops. I followed that Canadian sonofabitch all the way to Toronto, passing the “Land of the Barenaked Ladies” (fuck.) just to the north a bit, continuing across Ontario’s eastern side up towards Montreal.

Crossing over into Quebec was interesting. Everything went French, from road signs to advertisements, to exclamatory remarks from passerby motorists enjoying my reckless, “hopelessly lost” ways. I passed through Montreal quickly, heading south towards Burlington, Vermont for Lance Violette’s wedding to lovely Vanessa.

Crossing the border into Vermont was somewhat of a relief, as my time in Quebec was haunted by visions of…

01. Being pulled over…
02. Being unable to speak Francais…
03. Being arrested in a foreign country…
04. Being thrown in some weird frontier prison…
05. Being accosted by French-Canadian trappers and shit.

It coulda happened.

- - - -

Back in the U.S.A., down 89 to Vermont. Happy ol’ Burlington. Rich, privileged college kids were out and about. Yay, youth! Wilco was playing at some theater, which I missed by a couple hours due to the lateness of the hour. Nectar’s was alive and festive, with some sort of jam music blaring out of it. I headed through the downtown, gassed up and hit the road for Stowe, some 35 miles southeast of Burlington.

I made it to Lance’s a little after midnight, to find a hearty gathering in mid-swing. Jared, Sue, Michaylira, Tevis, Rose, Frank, some bridesmaids, some groomsmaids, and Lance and Vanessa, of course. Some shit was talked, and Rose and I split back to the Stowe Inn.

- - - -

I made camp on the floor, and settled in to watch a repeat of the big debate. I thought Kerry did a good job. Bush, that coached little marionette, resorted to his “down home” mentioning of names and their respective hometowns to reassure us in such troubled times. I’d rather he tell us about what he’s gonna do to change the situation, versus tell us what “Homer McGillicutty of Devil’s Knuckle, Texas feels about the the Iraq situation.” Complete, bumbling fool. It doesn’t work on me.

“It’s hard work,” served as a good filler when a big word or clear thought escaped his grasp. This is war we are talking about, not digging a ditch. Sure, he’s “resolute,” about protecting fatcat money, oil interests and Halliburton contracts. Oh man, he’s gotta go.

I think Kerry sounded firm and clear. I’m all for getting the world back on our side, and gaining respect from a world community who sees us a bully cowboy. We gotta go at these problems on a global level, not as “big ol’ America who isn’t gonna back down from nobody.” We gotta think and solve on a bigger, multinational level. Our blinders are on.

I watch Bush on that podium, and I want-so much-to be soothed by him, to be impressed and inspired. But that never happens. I see a dimparody fumbling through his lines, through transparent soundbites, through macho promises. I want to feel good about “what we’re gonna do to make things better.” I fear what comes next. I fear what comes next, on his watch.

Let’s get him out of there and start over. They’ve fucked enough things up.

Spent the day regrouping at the parental compound, deep in the woods. slept in, ate, cleaned up, did laundry, managed email, worked, chilled, cleaned out Big S, readied him for the next leg, watched a little tube, etc.

Very nice to be home, but only for a split second.

Vermont was calling, so I hit the road again, for Detroit. After a brief foray up to Elk Rapids to check in with Eric Campbell, I was headed for Kalkaska.

Eric is doing well. Little Hannah is 3.5 years old, full of questions, a head full of curly blonde locks and getting to bed at a decent, fair hour.

The run down to Detroit, albeit dark and lonely, was quick. I had I-75 to myself, and made great time in my southbound trajectory.

And on into Detroit, east on the 696, jumping off in Warren to see Kurt and Loren. Good kids. Nice house. Lots of activity here. All good. We shot the shit late into the night, getting the update on all things Kurt, Swift Scout 4 as well as a heart-to-heart discourse about the current state of Detroit City, guided by little Loren. Good gal.

These little fuckers are really onto something down here, and hell, I wish them the very best.

Alright, off to bed, and goodnight. (Got my own room and everything, with wireless net too! Hee-haw!)

Grisly Bastards, Floundering, Honest Abe, Mr. Shea, Anger, Big Shoulders, The End Of The Line For Us

Woke up at the Country Inn, had a meal with a grisly group of locals at the adjacent Country Café and were on our way. Man, lots of interesting characters, all over this Mother Road. Smoking’s death grip has gotten many of them, contributing to their raspy, throaty sand paper voices. It’s amazing. The scary part is how young some of these folks are, with that raspy smoker’s death drawl. Heavy duty shit. Only for the dedicated.

- - - -

We followed 66 up towards Chicago, paralleling the road through farm country for the rest of the day. We’d come to a little “blip on the map” town, slow down, cruise the gut and then pick up speed to the next one. This went on for some time, hitting antique shops and interesting roadside attractions.

We weren’t making the best of time in the initial stretch out of Mt. Olive. At one point, after a considerably long pitstop at a vintage car lot, we “did the math” concerning our progress. Let’s see, we pushed off outta Mt. Olive a little after 10am. It’s 3:45 in the p.m. now. We’ve gone a total of 87 miles. Ha, that’s about 13 miles an hour.” Assholes.

So it goes when “seeing everything” is the road policy.

- - - -

Springfield, Illinois is the home of Abe Lincoln. He was actually born in Kentucky, where he spent his first 28 years, moving to Springfield to become the most successful lawyer in town, and maybe, in all of Illinois. We took a tour of his house, seeing the period furniture and fixtures. Love that shit. Just to think of him playing the boys, or coaching Mary Todd Lincoln through one of her “spells of depression” is enough to send my mind whirling off. High ceilings.

An outhouse with three thrones got dad’s imagination going. Dad saw the outhouse and pondered, “Eh, we could climb down there and get a turd from Honest Abe.” A master of timing, he always knows how to size up the moment. Due to our timeframe we had to keep moving, sans a turd from 1861.

- - - -

The best stop of the day, grubby hands down, was “Shea’s Texaco Station” on the outskirts of North Springfield. Mr. Shea has owned a Texaco station for some 63 years. And he hasn’t thrown a thing out from that time either. His station, no longer operational, serves as a time capsule of his career. The best. Vintage everything. Oil cans, pumps, clothing, maps, Route 66 trinkets…it was endless. Old man Shea was 83, a little slow in his tour, but nevertheless sharp as a tack with the firmest handshake this side of the Mississippi. Beautiful. Best stop of in the Illinois stretch.

- - - -

Dad’s a little pissed off at the trinket selection the Route has offered. He’s had one goal for the whole ordeal, to “Get mom something nice.” Well, stormin’out of store after store, pissed off at Chinese-built trinkets, is no way to come home bearing gifts. It drove the man nuts. I think we may show up back home empty-handed as far as gifts are concerned, but, we do come bearing a wealth of adventure stories.

- - - -

And on up into Chicago we went, all the way into the “City of Big Shoulders” at a little after 9 in the p.m. We braved Interstate 55 all the way in, down to Lake Shore Drive and up to Michigan Ave. We found where Adams met Michigan Avenue and turned off to park. This was the official beginning of Route 66, but for us, the end. P.J. “Hoss” Chmiel and Vanessa were gracious enough to come downtown to greet us. We enjoyed some small talk and shared a couple of tall tales. Good shit. I’ll see that bastard in a couple weeks the next time I pass through.

- - - -

So that was the end of it. What a journey. I am forever thankful for the opportunity to share the experience with my dad. The best co-pilot a guy could have. Many more adventures ahead of us, you bet.

Special thanks to dad for being there with me.

- - - -

As I type this, I’m proud to say these words are being transferred to this small laptop inside the Michigan state line.

Tulsa, Galena, Joplin, Springfield, Rolla, St. Louis, Mississippi River...

Tulsa in the morning…

Again, over to the Waffle House for another wholesome meal. Love the cooks, love the clientele: Grisly bastards, with cigarette-gnarled voices serving our meals up piping hot. Dad had a waffle, I downed some sort of egg sandwich.

Heading through downtown Tulsa, all that comes to mind is Larry Clark’s “Tulsa” book, a harsh look at a group of junkies in the ‘70s.

Out of Tulsa and up towards the Northeast corner of Oklahoma and into the very Southeast corner of Kansas. As you come into Galena, you are greeted by a small, ragged downtown...sadly run-down, in repose and boarded up. The "inevitable demise of small town America" is a running theme along Route 66 and I’d bet, across all of America. One thing we’ve heard, from town to town is, “As soon as the Walmart moved in, the small businesses dried up.” We’ve heard this tale too many times. These beautiful little American main streets…with one shop out of five still conducting some sort of business, is the going rate. Too sad. Lots of video stores, dollar stores and liquor stores nowadays.

So I get to wonderin’…maybe I oughta try one of these small towns?

01. Pay off a year’s worth of the mortgage and bills up in Portland.
02. Find a roommate to take my spot.
03. Pack up the rig with just enough gear to work/play with.
04. Move to Galena, Kansas.
05. Establish a good web connection to work off/stay in touch
06. Give small, smalltown America a try.

Just a thought, as we cruise through these amazing little communities.

- - - -

EMERGENCY, EMERGENCY

Dad brought two pairs of kicks along for the trip. One pair of Adidas running shoes (...like he actually “runs.”) and some sort of Bass loafers. He usually runs them without socks, which is a cardinal rule breakin’ way of things concerning odor control. Well, after a little adventure where we had to hike out into a muddy field, we got back to the rig and had to jump into dry shoes. Dad’s loafers were caked with mud and he had to switch to his running shoes.

Now, for the better part of the trip, it’s been warm out, so he’s been enjoying the Mother Road in his loafers. The running shoes have been stowed in the back of the rig, out in the open, and well, I’ve noticed a foul odor when I have to grab something back there. Due to the excitement of all of this, I have put two and two together…

That is, until today.

I smelled those fuckin’ things for the first focused time, and just about died. Being somewhat of a successful problem solver off the road, on the road I had to work extra quick. I took the next goddamn exit, found a shoe store and marched him in–barefoot, mind you–and had him try on some new kicks.

He reluctantly settled for a pair of New Balance deals, that promptly went on the DDC Gold Card. “I’ve never paid more than 40 bucks for a pair of shoes. Jeez” he added, looking down at the new kicks. He fought the purchase until he found out they were "Made In America." That made him feel a lot better.

You gotta act quick on the road, in the name of health and well, "What's right."

- - - -

Missouri reminded us of our Michigan home. Lots of green, lots of fields, lots of trees. Great stretches of 66 snake back and forth across the bustling I-44. “Slow going” is the way to go.

We made it across the “Show Me State” up to St. Louis where we did a little Arch gazing, a quick run through the industrial warehouse neighborhoods and across the Mississippi up into Southern Illinois.

- - - -

Tomorrow we jump on 66 for our final push to downtown Chicago. One more stretch to go. Lot to see, in that last 280 miles.

Panhandlin', Mediocre Music, Flaming Drive-By, Dirty Tulsa For The Night

Out of outskirt Tecumcari and over into Tex-ass. Instantly, a presence of George W. Bush was noticed, be it on passerby trucks or in yard fronts. Fuck. Bums me out to see the stickers, no matter where I’m passin’ thru. That idiot has got to go. To see folks rallying behind him, behind a fucking puppet, it gigantically saddens me.

Over to Amarillo, where some 10 miles before the city limits we turned off to check out the Cadillac Ranch. 10 Cadillacs, buried “ass end up.” I guess the local helium baron is a bit of an eccentric guy, sponsoring the Cadillac Ranch, as well as a campaign of silly signs that pop up all over town. We passed up one saying something about “Bates Motel” and “Taxidermy” all in one sign. Hmmm.

- - - -

And across Texas we went, Panhandlin’, all the way to Oklahoma where we turned off some at exit five and cruised into downtown Erick. We followed 66 for a bit, and just when we were ready to cut and run, dad noticed an odd little brick building.

We noticed some authentic 66 signs inside, as well as a million other colorful pieces of interest. We snapped a couple shots, were getting back into the rig, when a grisly, shirtless, bearded fella approached us from a group of houses a block away. Just when I thought we were going to be asked to hit the road, the guy started in with a gruff, “I’m Harley and you’ve made it to Erick, Oklahoma, the Redneck capital of the world!”

We’d arrived.

What unfolded over the next hour is something that’ll stay with dad and I forever. He let us in to his shop, offering me a chance to snap some photos, rattling off how he’d show his “stage” for the Erick’s own, “Mediocre Music Makers.”

His wife soon showed up, “Ms. Annabelle,” and they quickly jumped into their garb, red and white striped overalls.

Overwhelmed by the sheer awesome-ness of the experience, a list is an easier way to share the experience with y’all:

01. Held one of Roger Miller’s Gibson guitars. Y’know… “Bump, bump…King of the Road!”
02. Harley treated us to a blazing rendition of “Get Your Kicks On Route 66” on his guitar, complete with leg kicks and dancin’.
03. Pulled an original “Oklahoma Route 66” sign from 1920 down off the wall for photos. The real thing. Wow.
04. Harley and Annabelle showed us a pile of pictures from friends/production crews covering the spot/various travelers.
05. They invited us over for dinner.
06. They hammed it up for photos, suggesting spots and angles.
07. They sang to us.
08. They hugged us.
09. They waved goodbye, complete with blown kisses as we left.

This is a “must see” Route 66 phenomena. Erick, Oklahoma, on the western side of the state just of of I-40. Go downtown, cross over Route 66 for a block or so and look for the Meat Market brick building on the right. Do not miss this. Worth a trip to Oklahoma, just for this.

SPECIAL THANKS TO HARLEY AND ANNABELLE, for taking time out of their Sunday evening to share so much with dad and I. You guys are kings of the road. Not to be forgotten, any time soon, you bet.

- - - -

Dazed by the dazzling onslaught from Harley and Annabelle, we kept going to Oklahoma City. I have a tradition I honor each time I pass through this town: Going to “Wayne Coyne’s Stately Manor.” Wayne Coyne, y’know, of those goddamn Flaming Lips. I won’t give up the location on this site, as it’s a bit on the “stalker” side of shit.

Each time I pass through I want to run up and knock on the door. I refrain. That’s his home, his space. I’d bet the last thing he’d want is dad and I beaming on the front porch, with outstretched hands looking for handshakes. Or maybe he’d be cool with it? I’ve read that he’s greeted fans with open arms. The place is a palace, and knowing that from behind those walls comes some of the most amazing, creative, inspiring tunes I have ever heard, the quick drive-by always lifts my spirits real high. So cool. Oklahoma’s finest.

- - - -

Spent a half hour checking out the Oklahoma City Federal Building Memorial. Too sad. Too much pain. We quietly paid our respects and were on our way. What a tragedy. This community is tough.

- - - -

We hammered the 100 miles up to Tulsa, had a late night meal at a well-lit Waffle House and called it a night at Super 8 motel.

The Land of Enchantment

Gallup, New Mexico is quoted as the ‘unofficial capital of the Navajo Nation.” I’ll tell you one thing, it’s definitely a good place to get a cheap room. There must have been 20 places to choose from, a sterile array of recognizable chain joints…which we fell prey to. Dad settled on the Econo Lodge. After we had checked in, we went off into the night to explore the town.

We should have gone deeper to find a joint. It’s a couple miles off the intestate where you’ll find the colorful neon gems. All we could do was gawk. Heading back to the room, we were funneled into a “sobriety checkpoint,” which Dad–stone sober–barely passed.

- - - -

Each night as we settle in, I’ve realized we’re a little ill-equipped. I need a little fluorescent light forensic kit to check the linens for foreign fluids. I’ve heard that at any given time, you’ll find over 50 different instances of body fluids on a hotel room comforter. Yum. Lots of memories/golden moments on those covers.

This is how we do it: Get in, get the technology recharging and rip off the covers. I’ve got my own down comforter, as well as a pillow. I do put faith in a “clean set of sheets,” so, let’s hope those linens are getting washed/changed daily.

- - - -

The New Mexican stretch of the Mother Road isn’t know for it’s schtick-y turn-off spots, but for it’s breathtaking scenery. Pretty surroundings, as we whiz on through.

- - - -

Albuquerque, besides the challenging spelling, was cool and thriving. Lots of colorful car customizing displayed on the local vehicle population. Nob Hill looked Bohemian and colorful, with lots of college students and hipsters lining it’s sidewalks.

- - - -

There’s a stretch called the “Los Lunas Loop” that takes you off the interstate (…a necessary evil out here.) for some 20 miles south by south east. Absolute nothingness. The old road, just as it was back in the day. Very beautiful. Looking for the old, old road, we came across a desolate little stretch that we thought was the Los Luna Loop. Nope. This was the old old old road. I don’t know if it could get much older. Hell, dinosaurs traveled on this one.

Anyhoo, dad was driving, like an asshole and managed to “catch some air” over a certain ugly, washed out part. So much for that goddamn $129.95 alignment I popped for before I left.

“Like it’s my fault there was a big juda in the road.” –Dad. (“Juda” is “hole” in Polish, or so he claims.)

- - - -

We’re at the Palomino Hotel in downtown Tucumcari, bedding down for the night. Tomorrow is a big one: The Texas Panhandle, and into Oklahoma.

Hackberry, A Hot Shave and High Desert

Woke up, enjoyed hot showers and hit the road. Breakfast was scarfed down at the Silver Spoon Restaurant. Dad was pleased with his Denver omelette; to the point of passing out tips directly to the beaming cooks.

We climbed into the mountains of Northern Arizona, with a quick pitstop at the Hackberry general store. Dad loved the old cars rotting beautifully in the hot sun. Gotta watch out for those rattlers around that place. Up to three feet long, as the gallery of stretched skins don't lie.

On down to Seligman. coming to rest at Angel Delgadillo’s barber shop. Angel is there all day; offering handshakes, autographs, good cheer and a trim or hot shave to all who pass through. One of the most amazing fellas I have ever had the opportunity to meet. The biggest smile, with lyrics along the line of, “Life is good, I am blessed.” and, “I’m here to make people smile.” And he did. We shot the shit a bit and I saddled up in the barber’s chair for a hot shave. Hot towels, a straight razor, confident flicks, tonic and a little cranium massage for 10 bucks. I paid double, cuz, that’s how we do it on the road. I walked outta there smooth, with no itch.

“I’ve been doing this for 57 years.” he said with a big toothy grin. 77 years young.

The world needs more people like Angel. Wow. Dad hugged him two or three times.

- - - -

On the way outta Seligman–as you head back to I-40–watch for a quick turn off to the right. That’s the old road, and it turns out it’s the longest “original stretch still intact” of the entire Route 66. Savor it. We did. We’re cruising along and notice the “old old road” off to the right. We pulled over and hiked over to check things out. Old pavement, overgrown and cracked…the original road.

Standing there, thinking about the migration west by some 50,000 families…blows yer mind a bit. Of all those folks who braved the road for a better life, but 8% were allowed to stay in California. Everyone else was turned back. Fascinating.

- - - -

Over to Flagstaff where the 85-90 degree temps dropped to a comfortable 66 degrees. Perfect. We cruised the gut a bit and had a bite to eat at Zip’s diner before heading back to I-40 for a beeline for the gigantic 4000’ wide meteor crater, which was closed for the night, much to our dismay. We were gonna jump the fence, but then again, eight stitches in my palm way back in 1990 swayed my decision to stay on the right side of the law.

As the sun set behind us, we hauled ass toward Gallup, New Mexico. Two states down, six more ahead of us.

Road Warriors.

(Special Thanks, or, "Big Ups" to Luis "Big Lou" Calderin for the shot.)

Quintessential ”Open Road” Open Roads.

Being the Route 66 purists we are, we have gone/driven to painstaking lengths to make sure we are on the Mother Road as long as the wheels are on the pavement. We’ve had to bypass a couple chunks, due to deterioration or a hasrty, missed turn, but hey, we’re doing pretty good for a couple of asshole adventurers.

We made it outta Rialta around noon, had a quick lunch at the Cajon Pass Diner and dropped down into the hot valley north of San Bernadino. Smooth sailing ensued.

But here’s the deal, the next time you are on I-40, DO NOT MISS THE CHANCE to take the “Amboy Alternate Route.” You veer off the interstate onto Route 66 for some 80 miles of absolute desolation. Amazing. That’s where the shot comes from in the DDC 2002 O-A-M Mojave Exploration card. As far as the eye can see, neverending pavement and sky. You pass up Cadiz, Essex, Amboy, Roy’s Café and a handful of other drive-bys. The most amazing part is when you come up on the lone trailer. Who would live out there in all that nothingness? And to see toys strewn around; to think of kids playing in the heat is unimaginable. But hey, people are out there, and well, they collect a lot of old car parts and rusted shit. Good for them. God’s country.

Unfortunately, “General Bill” wasn’t holding down a a seat at the Bagdhad Café. His age ranges from 84 to 108, depending on how ornery he is that day. The cheerful waitress told us, “Bill is in a comfortable old folks home up the road. He’s with a group of guy his own age now.” I guess he was a fixture at the café for years, offering tall tales to whoever would listen.

Been snapping a lot of photos, and of course, I always feel like I’m “really onto something” with my limited photo prowess. Hey, I’m no goddamn Embry Rucker or anything, or nor am I an Amanda Marsalis…hell, I can’t even hang with the roommate Zimmerman, but, I try real hard, so that should count for something.

We pulled into Kingman, locked a spot down at the Hill Top Motor Lodge and are calling it a night. God Bless air conditioning. We put the machine on the “meat locker” setting and cool down.

We're holding court at a Love's Truckstop, but a couple flatbeds off the interstate, enjoying the cigarette smoke and zippo lighter revolving display. This is the part of the day we're the "DDC Mobile Command Unit" comes to life. Tired and spent, we can barely lift our fingers to the kieyboard. Dad is flipping through our library of Route 66 history books, I'm updating thing and answering emails. Good shit.

Dad and I are in agreement on many issues. The close confines, challenging surroundings we’ve had to overcome and our general ability to “fuck with eachother to the point of no return” has lent to our successful traveling harmony. The main issue, call it “Southern California: What A Shithole,” has been a hot topic. Disgust, fear, puzzlement and sheer, red-hot hatred have gotten the better of us as we navigate this so-called "Paradise."

Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic…hastily snailing along on hot, littered highways….I have to wonder, “How do these people deal with this day to day?” Just how does one learn to accept the lifestyle down here? Land of the beautiful? Man, the beauty, the romance of it all…it escapes me completely. Houses packed in like sardines, “me and only me” mentality….no way.

Never, ever, ever will I call this wasteland home. Never. Good luck to all the lucky ones who we’ll be leaving behind.

- - - -

We finally made it up to Santa Monica, after 2+ hours of gridlock. Good times, goddamit. We did a little book shopping at Hennessy’s and then walked the pier to take in a little salty air. We found the memorial that ends Route 66, had a moment of silence and made out way back to the rig.

So the story goes: You start Route 66 in Chicago and make yer way out west, through the desolation, ending up in paradise, in Californ-y, in the land of milk and honey and Zsa Zsa Gabor and botox and gridlock and star maps and 98 and 99 cent stores.

Well, for the record, we look at things a little differently: We’re heading east, back to that proud Midwest…our paradise. We’re escaping this place…leaving it behind.

Our well-written guides are turning out to be a bit of a challenge. They are all written with Chicago as the starting point. So it goes.

- - - -

FACTS ARE STUBBORN THINGS™: You gotta be strong on the road, and firm.

- - - -

And out we went, into that Inland Empire....

So we pull up to this little rathole called the “Rex Hotel.” The entire deal is built out of cinder blocks, with some gross coat of paint to spice stuff up. There’s bars over every opening and a grimy little window with a buzzer to ring. Dad swaggers up, rings the bell and after some time, a little window slides open, but a couple inches above waist level, and, I shit-you-not, a little set of eyes slowly appear to offer help. Turns out the guy was sitting down (we speculate) and due to the lateness of the hour, was slow and a bit cranky and spoke little-to-no English.

Of course, dad had to see the room before the big purchase. It’s a good thing, as it didn’t pass his test of tidiness and overall “not too bad”-ness.

“Nope, no thanks,” is all that was said as dad flicked the key back into the filthy opening.

A couple miles later, talk turned to the Rex Hotel encounter. “Aaron, that was gross,” the old man exclaims with a wave and furrowed brow, “that little guy was freaky.” And off we went into the night, eastbound on the Mother Road.

We settled on a wigwam at the Wigwam Village in Rialto. Hell yes. Since 1946. Very satisfied with our purchase for the night, as dad’s snoring in the background can attest to.

Woke up good and early at Rose's, only to walk in on he and his gal deep asleep, locked in the hairiest lover's embrace imaginable. Gross.

Had a meeting of the minds with Dad, Rose and Maja. Lots of ground was covered caressing the finer points of George Bush hatred, vintage signage and general knick-knack-ery. Rose and Dad are friends forever. Much knowledge was passed on.

And of course, it's hot as fuck here, and bright, and fast. People are driving like animals, in gigantic SUV's. Yuck. Paradise, eh?

Lunch was had at Wahoo's. Another success.

We had an official meet-n-greet at SNOWBOARDER magazine, getting Michaylira and Chief up to speed with everything. Fuckers.

Now we're heading up to Irvine to meet Luis "Big Lou" Calderin for some chatter. Might even stop off at the Oso parkway to see the old pad. Maybe not. Just want to forget about my time here, more or less.

Bedlam down here, man, fucking bedlam.

Drove all the way down to Red Bluff. ("Red Bluff!" -Watt) Crashed out in some rest stop in between a couple sleeping minivans. Got pretty cold out. My toes were tingling. Rule one for car sleeping: Wear a knit beanie. A cold head means a cold body. Same goes for toes. Wear the shoes, that is, if you aren't under a blanket/sleeping bag. And nothing sucks more than trying to fall asleep in yer shoes.

Got up, wiped the sleep outta the eyes and rolled down to the city by the bay. San Fran has always been good to me. I was at the SFO airport by 11am, meeting/greeting dad and our cousin John Johansen. Dad looked great.

We then caught the Bart into town, all the way downtown to Market street. We took a walk around the ballpark, where Bonds reigns supreme. 700 big ones for that guy, wow. We had a little bite to eat and cruised back out to the airport to continue the trip down the coast to Los Ang-uh-lees.

Fuck LA. Let's just get that one clear. But, being purists, and honoring Route 66's history, we have to be down here to start the trip outta Santa Monica.

So we cruised down the 5, right into Los Angeles, took a ride down the Sunset Strip over to the 405, then drove like bats out of hell all the way down to San Clemente, at the base of Orange County.

"Too many bodies down here. Jeez." is what dad had to say concerning godamn motherfucking Southern California.

We made it to Rose's pad and promptly hit the sack.

Dad's on board now. There is strength in numbers. And man, we are strong.

So this is it.

Been working like a dog to wrap everything up these last bunch of days.

01. Tuned up the rig, oil change, new passenger side meat, new back brakes.
02. Researched Route 66
03. The sleeping gear is in a nice kit. (Never trust Ryno to provide linens.)
04. New windshield wipers. Silent.
05. New DMV tags...good thru Nov. 2006.
06. The house is cleaned up.
07. All departments of the DDC Factory Floor are secured and powered down.
08. Zimmerman paid his rent. Good man.
09. All bills are squared up.
10. Big stack of cash in the back pocket.
11. Canon Elan II E camera poised for destruction.
12. Brick of film purchased.
13. New and improved cell phone that drop calls every fucking time.
14. All freelance endeavors maintained up to the point of departure.
15. DDC 2004 Fall Tour promo items well-stocked and ready for dispersal.
16. New DDC promo items ordered for "drop shipment" delivery nationwide.
17. DDC PR Dept. is bust organizing "key to the city" for, well, everywhere.
18. Whitney is secured, staying strong with a big, beautiful smile.
19. Guitar is tuned up for duets with coyotes.
20. New 40gb iPod for the tunes. We're wireless, bitch!
21. Road 'Puter tuned up, souped up, uploaded.
22. DDC Mobile Command Protocol is strong and refined.
23. Mileage charts calculated.
24. Big promises made to many, all over the nation.
25. One last shower to get the balls clean for 50 days of dirt.
26. Goodbyes said to significant others.
27. Last meals have been eaten.
28. Fingers crossed for smooth sailing.

Pushing off in a couple hours, heading south down that I-5 toward those Redwoods. Dad flies in tomorrow to San Francisco, and well, we'll be there waiting for that sonofabitch. You bet.

Stay tuned, our onlslaught of official road updates are being readied.

CAPOZZI WEDDING ANIMALS

Get a load of these best men.

Joey Capozzi, Ryan Coulter and Lance Violette, with as little respect as possible. Goddamn animals, all of 'em.

The best moment of our San Diego mission: A meal at Wahoo's.

Not one piece of rice was left. No cube of grilled chicken escaped our jowls. The plate was licked clean and placed back into general population.

Trying times in SoCal. Goddammit.

We'll spare the rant and say this much about it all: There is nothing better than a flight out of Southern California.

Exodus. Thank god, or something, for everywhere else.

And man, completely no love is felt for the Southern Californian Driving Experience...none. This image is titled: "Draplin and Huffman: SoCal Commuters" Lukas Huffman rented a real death nugget of a car to get us out of San Diego and up into Orange County. We both thought we were going to die on those big roads.

Bridges doing what he does best: "Opening His Goddamn Mouth And Lettin' It Fly."

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We’d like to give thanks to those who gave us their time down there…Brad, Kass, Nicole, Capozzi, Leigh, Kleckner, Yohan, Kami, Chief, Michaylira, Bridges, Pinksi, Gary, Mark, Baker, Rose, Hilton, Milo, Soli, Nelson, etc. Good people.

- - - -

On the player: “Let the night air cool you off….” from “Danko/Manuel” by those Drive By Truckers.

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Got a good eight days to get a Willamette Valley full of design wrapped up. All good stuff. Gonna settle in, get a tall glass of cool water from the tap and power through the projects. When the sun goes down I’ll run off to hang with Whitney. What a gal. Missed her. Come September the 20th, the rig will be readied for an all-out assault on this fine union…my, your, our United States of America. Lookin’ forward to hittin’ the road. 50 big ones all over hell.

- - - -

Two more months until the big election. Man, I hope with all my heart that crook is voted out. Enough of this madness. No more.

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The first issue of SNOWBOARD is out. Wow. Way to work, guys. At first hold, just feeling the object in your hands is enough of a reason to crack a big ol’ grin. We did it. We made this thing. Alright guys, issue one is down, now it’s time to find our voice and offer something new for all the riders.

- - - -

Glad to be back and hanging with Whitney.

A MOMENT OF SILENCE

Three years since that ugly day.

Last week in NYC I made a trip down to Ground Zero to pay some respects: The hole that remains is deafening.

Rebuild, rebuild.

A BREATHER, AND BACK AT IT

01. Vermont was good. We miss the green.
02. NYC smelled like NYC. It was good to us.
03. Seattle was productive. Like it should be.
04. Got to see Whitney last night for a couple hours. Good gal.
05. Back onto a plane in a couple hours for San Diego.
06. Tradeshow action, go see some skateboard/snowboard shit.
07. Back Saturday, to begin final push on all projects before Fall Tour.

VERMONT'ing

Out here in beautiful Vermont, absolutely filling my drawers over how "amazing it is in this neck of the woods." Staying at the Lance Violette compound but a couple miles of Stowe. His spread overlooks Stowe mountain and the most amazing expanse of green one has ever seen. Very lucky man.

His gal Vanessa, whom he will "tie the knot" with this upcooming October, is a real catch. No shit. Lucky man.

Capozzi is running a good show out here, prob'ly due to his gal Leigh's overall class and professionalism. If it was up to him, we'd be on the deck of some shoddy mini-ramp witnessing the exchange of celestial vows, or whatever the fuck you want to call them.

Had a chance to meet Capozzi's inner circle last night over cold ones at the Sunset Grill. Lots of good chatter, an account from Adam about his time in Iraq as a journalist and hell, but a couple of "Fuck You, too's" away from an all out brawl with a group of particulary nasty, ill-witted excavation "specialists." Shit almost came to blows. It was the, "Oh, a bunch of college pretty boys, eh?"

"Hey ditch digger, who you callin' pretty?", almost escaped my lips. Yes, I am college-educated, but, pretty? That little shit. The story is as old as dirt: Bunch of local-yokels a couple sheets to the wind, challenging the new guys in town. Big whup.

My free time, aside from Capozzi wedding happenings, has been spent relaxing in the cool air, pounding the keys/clicking the mouse of my laptop and sleeping way in. Hell, I even have my own room with clean sheets and a dresser. And a little bedside lamp. And, a bathroom to wreck all my own. Heaven. Much appreciation to Lance and Vanessa for the Smuggler's Notch-sized outpouring of hospitality.

In just a couple shakes of stick, I'm off to the offical "Pre-Wedding BBQ" where the familiy gets a chance to meet all of Leigh's friends, as well as meet Matt's asshole buddies, who are a complete group of animals, myself included.

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For mom: I'm okay out here, showering each day and eating square meals.
For dad: I'm gonna eat three platefulls at the BBQ, y'know, to get my money's worth.
For Whitney: I miss ya real bad.
For God: Is there one?
For Country: Man, Vermont is "REAL GOOD™".

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

Phew.

Tomorrow we’re off to Seattle to spend a quick afternoon with Ride, dart across town to shake hands with Brad and Kleckner, then with a quick shoulder shrug, onto a big ass jet airplane that is heading east for Burlington, Vermont. (JetBlue is the only way to go.)

We’re heading there for Capozzi’s wedding. Did his invites set, and consider ourselves a valued friend too…which explains the invitation to witness the big transaction. It's gonna be an amazing time. Burlington is great in the fall, so it’ll be nice to check the place out in during the Indian Summer days. Just as long as it’s cool…we’ll be cool.

We’ll be holing up at Lance Violette’s ranch out in Stowe. So considering how “unreachable” that fuck is, don’t even thing of trying to contact us. We are going underground…the Northern Vermont kind of “underground”…y’know, LL Bean turtlenecks and wooly vests and shit. Blend right in, munching on some sort of maple syrup product.

!!! Bowles, we will share the meanest handshake that town has seen in a long, long goddamn time. Take our word on that one. !!!

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Upon arrival back into Seattle Tuesday night, we’ll catch some much-needed Z’s at Brad’s place. Early bird gets the worm, same goes for COAL headwear. I’ll work a long (Brad’s bangs), ugly (Yohan) day at the C3 headquarters. That’s how we do it. That night, we’ll cruise back down to Portland, hang with the lady a bit and the catch another flight down to San Diego for the ASRrrrrrrrr action sports trade show.

See some shit, see some premieres, shake some hands, talk some smack, throw back some poisonous beverages, etc. All by the sea.

It’ll be good to see everyone, of course.

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WHITNEY UPDATE: She's an amazing gal. Lucky, we are.

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So, the DDC is “on the road” for the next 10 days or so. We’ll be back up and running on Monday the 13th.

Then we hammer for a week on all things design-y, readying the rig and spirit for the mother of all fuckin’ roadtrips, the DDC Fall 2004 North American Tour.

Man, miles are gonna be logged, states conquered, diners cleaned out, toll roads skipped, windows rolled down, wind on our bald spots...

Dad flies into San Francisco on the 21st. We’ll push off on the 20th out of Portland. Man, this one is gonna rule.

50 days on the road!