INDIFFERENT

In the same way that dozens of cars just like the one that you just drove off the lot with seem to appear on the journey home, I have begun to notice other houses for sale.

On a jog through the neighborhood today, I noticed a realtor sign up ahead, and almost tripped as I read the tightly spaced letters on the bottom of the sign that spelled out "INDIFFERENT." Being somewhat new to the home seller's rodeo, I just assumed that maybe I was missing out on an unorthodox strategy and made a mental note to ask our realtor "Does that attitude ever work?" At this point, I am willing to try anything.

But of course, as is usually the case in my life, I was mistaken. The sign actually bragged "I'M DIFFERENT," and through a combination of middle aged eyesight and a general case of being not too bright, I made the assumption. And we all know what happens when we make assumptions.

These are trying times in many industries, not the least of which is real estate. Many thousands of home owners are wondering what is the best and most successful strategy. Maybe leaving a plate of cookies under the sign is the answer. Or perhaps a sign that says "Three free lawn mowings if you buy now!" would do the trick. Although soon it will have to be edited to say "snow shovelings." Unfortunately I am not wealthy enough to advertise "Buy one get one free."

So, as I wait for my home to sell, I will get my eyes examined. Maybe there is a way to include an eye exam as part of the deal....

Moving On Down, To The South Side

Timing, as they say, is everything. Having decided that a change in career was in order, I packed the car, left the sale of the house in the very capable hands of my wife, and drove in the direction of the gulf coast. Luck was on my side, as my brother and his family would host me for the duration of a lengthy training period with a large company in the energy industry. We would be able to sell the house, load up the boy and the labrador retreiver, and resettle in the Texas or Louisiana gulf coast area. The plan was set and all we had to do was carry it out. A little time apart is nothing, and the future holds much business travel, for which I will be well compensated.

Then Ike came calling.

I don't like Ike.

I grew up along the Mississippi coast, but have not been through a Hurricane since 1985. I remembered that they were exciting, sometime scary inconveniences. In the same way that the memory of the pain of a broken bone or kidney stone or even, I am told, childbirth lessens as the years go by, I had forgotten how much hurricanes are a pain, even after the scenes of Katrina.

No power for two days. And we were the lucky ones. Many Houstonians are still without power and water, a miserable existence. Schools and business closed for at least a week, including my new employer, which delays the training period and the chance to begin to earn real money.

And, the stock market imploded, capital is questionable, banks and insurance companies are shaky and suddenly no one is interested in buying a wonderful, four bedroom home in the Omaha suburbs. Thank God that I have a loving, generous family with (hopefully) lots of patience. We are all going to need it.

Timing is everything.

Timeless

Road warriors know one thing for certain. If you close your eyes, you can be anywhere. One off ramp of the freeway is the same as any other. An interstate interchange in Omaha is the same as one in Peoria. Which is the same as another in Birmingham. And so on.
When it comes to road sustenance, the familiar is easy. It is nice to know that a steak at Outback is just as good in Sioux Falls as it is in Jackson. A Big Mac serves it's purpose just as well in London as in Monterey. But at a certain point, one has to say, wait just a minute.
When the opportunity arises, I like to experiment. I have found that there are many alternatives to the same old same old, if we only look for them.
In Sioux Falls, SD, necessity occasionally dictates that I land for the night in the downtown Holiday Inn. In addition to the fact that it is far from the highway motels, the first thing that you notice is that there are no chain restaurants downtown. No golden arches to be seen, no boomerangs hanging over the entrance across the street. But, a little searching turns up value, sometimes.
A short walk from the downtown hotel, along clean, windswept streets, is a locally owned place called Mama's Ladas. This restaurant is the antithesis of a chain restaurant, in all of the best ways. To begin with, they offer enchiladas. Period. Luckily for me, I love enchiladas. The server has one question as she nears the table. "Chicken or beef?" and "Half or full?" Chicken, and full, of course. And they offer the absolute best sangria this side of Austin, with apologies to Jerry Jeff Walker.
There is something to be said for a place that makes only one thing. Some would say that they are crazy, that to specialize is to limit, and therefore to die. but those people have never been to Mama's.
On a recent May evening, I walked into the small downtown restaurant and was immediately made to feel welcome. The waitress was friendly, and the atmosphere was top notch. There are only about ten tables int he place, and the ancient brick walls are decorated with colorful art. The impressive sound system played an eclectic mix of everything from Sam Cooke to Sade. I heard an obscure Ray Charles version of "Busted" that made me very happy.
There are good restaurants and there are memorable restaurants, all across this country. It is far too easy to rely on only the Ruby Tuesdays of the world and bypass the locally owned gems tucked away on downtown streets. Finding these places is not easy, but well worth the effort. I continue to travel and search, with an occasional tale to tell.

Down He Goes

I should not be a fan of Gil Scott-Heron. On the surface, there is everything arguing against this fact. As a southern white male partial to country rock from the seventies and alt-country music today, Scott-Heron’s music should miss the mark widely.
Gil Scott-Heron, like many of his time, is a complicated man. He is known, when he is known, as the godfather of rap, or a militant activist and founder of political rap whose targets are most often people in my demographic group.
It was 1979. Like a Martian holding forth among the masses, Gil Scott-Heron opened for George Benson at the University of Southern Mississippi, at Reed Green Coliseum. In the audience, I was amazed. A boy who was into Jimmy Buffett and James Taylor, I couldn’t believe what I heard and saw.
In a world of poseurs, Gil is a walking, talking wealth of soul and meaning. Sort of like watching Abe Lincoln or Fredrick Douglas sit at the piano and tell you how it is. Patiently laying down the facts, no matter whether it hurts or not, but feeling bad about having to be the one to deliver the message.
There are the songs that more people know than others. "Angel Dust" and "Johannesburg", which he performed on Saturday Night Live. "The Revolution Will Not be Televised" is cited by some as the quintessential Scott-Heron song. I like all of them. But my favorites are somewhat more obscure. I am especially fond of "B Movie", a hilarious and pointed criticism of 80’s politics and Ronald Reagan in particular, culminating in the "words" of Reagan, "Dammit, first one country wants freedom, the next thing you know, the whole damn world wants freedom!" and my favorite GSH line of all time, "John Foster Dulles ain't nothing but the name of an airport now."
In the early nineties, he released a song titled "Message to the Messengers" in which he said, among other things
"Four-letter words or four-syllable words won't make you a poet, it will only magnify how shallow you are and let everybody know it." It was if he was putting the others on notice. "I am watching and what I think matters a great deal."
But that is where the happy story ends and the downhill slide begins. In 2001, he began a slow descent into drug abuse and conflict with the law. He was sentenced to jail, got out in 2002, and went right back to prison in 2006. He was paroled in 2007 and began a series of shows in New York City, with plans for a new CD and a new book. But one day before he was to perform in NYC, he was arrested again for cocaine possession. Today he is back in jail. Who knows where tomorrow leads? As a fan of unique music and talent, I am eager to see his career reform some day in the future. As a fellow human, I hope only that he makes it back into the light.

I Fought The Plow And The Plow Won

To the best of my recollection, there were no questions about driving in icy conditions and avoiding snow plows on the Mississippi state drivers license exam in 1977. The need for awareness of one's surroundings is magnified tremendously on an Omaha street in Januay from your typical Picayune thoroughfare at any other time.

That said, you would think that the operator of a snow plow for the state of Nebraska would be able to see a Chevy Express in the adjacent lane and not attempt to scrape it from the pavement like so much frozen precipitation. But that was not the case, and the result was not pretty.

I have seen my share of auto hockey on the roads of the Midwest. Every year I cringe to think what might be waiting in the future. I have driven 35 miles per hour in a snow storm on the rumble strip of Interstate 90 between Sioux Falls and Worthington trailing an eighteen-wheeler and praying that I might see my family again. I have rolled a vehicle across the median east of Mitchell and stared in disbelief at the state trooper's citation for overdriving road conditions, saying "You weren't here, how could you possibly know?" when the truth was that the wind blew my van into an uncontrollable spin. And each year I think that this will be the last.

I drive typically one thousand miles per week, on average. Unless my Mississippi public school education fails me, that is 52 thousand miles per year, and roughly half a million over ten years. The odds of a crack up happening on occasion are pretty good, resulting in a somewhat fatalistic attitude on my part. The good news is that a significant portion of the year is not covered in ice and snow. So I continue to traverse the roads of the Great Plains, smiling when I can and cringing when I can't while trying to make it to the next stop, looking left and right for moveable danger and aware now more than ever that friendly fellow travellers, like snow plows, are sometimes wolves in sheep's clothing.

Along The Road

The first time I saw a hunting dog race down the hallway of my hotel, I will admit I was surprised. He was followed by his owner, in camouflage and carrying bags to the room after a day in the fields of South Dakota. I was also on the way to my room in the Holiday Inn Express in Aberdeen, and might have been less surprised had I already seen the sign posted in the rooms there that said:



Please do not clean game in the rooms. Thank You.



Over the years, I have stayed in many types of hotels and rooms in my travels. Everything from economy rooms that do not even provide shampoo, to suites with everything available at any time of day or night. For a road warrior, the ability to roll with the punches is essential. One day in Waterloo, IA I proceeded to my room and opened the door only to find opened luggage on the coffee table and someone in the bathroom. I quietly retreated and suggested to the desk clerk that she re-check her guest log and try again. Imagine if there had been an NRA convention in that hotel. Or a gathering of Ultimate Fighting hopefuls. Things might not have turned out like they did.
One thing that is common to every place of lodging along the highways of this great land is a lack of any reliable method of heating and cooling the room. No matter how many times the thermostat is adjusted, it is almost impossible to find the "sweet spot" and sleep soundly. This results in insomnia that is only tempered by watching David Letterman, or one show all about the making of another show that is only airing at some other time on HBO.
As the night drags on, along the corridor, fellow guests are tossing and turning in a vain attempt to find comfort. There we are, all under one roof, trying to make it through the night. And the only ones really happy are the hunting dogs, dreaming of plummeting waterfowl in the Dakota fields, and the thrill of the chase.