Portraits of Backway Wisconsin

Having gotten so far off of the main drag, thanks for the most part to a pesky county policeman in southern Wisconsin, I had decided long ago to just take all the backways -- the whole way up north. And I was starting to really like it. And I was starting to really get the "way of my road" deep in my bloodstream -- finding myself waking up in front of some inane television report in a smoky room somewhere right next to a trucker, and gambling away half my money at one of those damn quarter games they have, where you think you can tip a whole ton of quarters right over the edge, but then you end up losing eveything and more. Passes the time anyhow.

There's a rad bluegrass scene down here I guess, that kids from the backroad towns of Wisconsin totally really dig. The folky indie hippie types and what-have-you are into it anyways. Check out my buddie's band (i.e. the jam crew of a dude I chilled out with after connecting with his ex-girlfriend for a ride) the Ultimate Frisbee Orchestra. Mad props.

Had just the greatest time hanging out in the local bar, and having a big family dinner and everything. A real slice of rural America. Imagine Ryan Adams getting roughed up a bit and rolling his own tobacco. And there was something surreal about the red light that just hung so thick in the air inside the bar as a movie with UFOs or a SciFi plotline played out on the little TV screen way up in the corner. The bartender When the bartender moved, he almost floated -- although he barely moved at all.

I remember telling Beth to toss on the perfect song for the atmosphere and all that, as we cruised between small towns I don't know the names of. And I remember being totally chill and satisfied with a song she played that I had never heard before -- "The Story" by Brandi Carlile -- which sounded real sweet. So thanks.

And before I left, for more run-ins with the law on both sides of the border, "Gramma" made me sandwiches on fresh bread and made sure I had enough homebaked cookies.

From the Ultimate Frisbee Orchestra's song "Backroad Stretches" - "In a couple a' days I'll be comin' home soon. Trying to make my way by the light of the moon. Standing on the road, trying to hitch a ride...Singin' oo-oo me oh my..."

Listening Guide: -Black Moth Super Rainbow "Spinning Cotton Candy in a Shack Made of Shingles"
-The New Pornographers
-Ryan Adams "Come Pick Me Up"
-Ghengis Tron "Warm Woods"
-The Appleseed Cast "A Tree for Trails"
-Brandi Carlile "Wasted"
-Sun Kil Moon "Floating"

The Impotent Policeman?

So I guess you’re a big man now there Mr. Policeman. Propped up nice and comfy at the helm of the beast you yourself call “the chariot”. Turquoise numbers arc up to form different monitoring systems. The dials that shift around them, rising and falling at your command, are the colour of the autumn sunset fireball you see around here in the misty dusk. Take comfort in your two rifles standing strong and proud – steel will not become impotent you see. Not like you. Not the way a middle aged man like you will.

But technological innovation can fulfill your wildest dreams – extend your life – make you young again – help you forget all your failings. Thank you Pfizer, Astra, Proctor and Gamble. You serve and protect by mishandling the weakest, most vulnerable, the honest – doing the dirty work for private companies in your jurisdiction – we wouldn’t want any unpredictable elements mixing sand somehow into the oil of a nice and lubed up machine. I bet you wish that lube was all it took to solve some of your problems. Don’t you?

So you make me go thought my bag, empty out all my shit – breaking and entering my personal home – and check three of my IDs – because you’re headquarters and cronies were too fucking stupid to actually log things out properly the first time ‘round. Really cool though how it took over 20 minutes to run the ID check the Ohio guys did in less than two. And I’m sure glad you remembered to grab the McDonald’s meal deal before midnight rolled around and the new menu hit. I mean, it would be a shame if you actually had to put work before grease. And hell, I enjoyed chilling out with all four of you and your county cruisers and everything, but I hear you were actually having a “pretty busy” night, and it would suck if all the real criminals around here couldn’t have the wikkid awesome chance to witness your wonderful hospitality.

So as I got some rest, listening to my own chill tunes and watching stocky two-story farmhouses and lazy barnyards flow by, out the window of your “chariot”, I was thankful you were willing to go so far out of your way to dump me at a rest stop in the next county and inform the authorities there that I was now their problem. That was a stand up move. And Wal-Mart and their trucking division thanks you for keeping a “dangerous” hitchhiker like me away from their fleet. And BP thanks you for helping to maintain steady traffic-flow to their myriad pumps, without any interruptions, human exchange, or questions asked. And McDonald’s thanks you for your patronage – you’re their favourite type of cop. They prepared your burgers with an extra-large smile.

Oh, and by the way, that was a really nice touch, not being able to keep track of my knife. It’s cool though that you like to sit on confiscated weapons. I understand how a man like you might like his asshole fondled. So I really appreciated the couple bucks you thrust into my face for the vending machines here at the rest stop. I guess M n’ Ms and trail mix are the perfect antidote to the black transvestite truckers with quick dicks out looking for trouble, like, the ones actually known to inhabit the area. I mean, really, what would I have done without you Mr. Policeman? I’m sure your buddies would be proud.

Oh shit. I almost forgot about one last thing. The best part of all was finding out that you actually took me further out of my way – pushing me deeper, harder, deeper, longer, HARDER…OH YEAAH… into the backcountry.

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Listen to: -The Locust "One Manometer Away From Mutually Assured Relocation"
-The New Lost City Ramblers "How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live"
-Why "Fatalist Psalmistry"
-Tom Waits "Low Side of the Road"
-Sole and the Skydiving Band "One Egg Short of the Omelette"
-Pig Destroyer "Rotten Yellow"
-Madlib "Raw Tranquility pt. 3"
-Dillinger Escape Plan "When Acting as a Particle"
-Black Moth Super Rainbow "Neon Syrup for the Cemetery Sisters"

The Black Sooty Bowels of Supply and Demand

23 minutes after midnight. Pink moon rises over purple sky. Rolling hills, a spread out rise and fall dotted with pale amber and flickering red – have now been reduced to one thick sooty matte. The faded stars overhead are the only reminder something else exists out there.

This is the bowels of Western consumption. And a steady stream of shit flows along the intestines, as the waste makes its way to the anus in one final “Hurrah!” There is a space age glow to the rest stop lighting – blacker than night, brighter than day. About 20 18-wheelers are lined up side by side – spewing diesel all night, nostrils right up to the starting line, awaiting orders to GO! They’re giant and clumsy, like gorillas or buffalo [sic] or genetically modified wildebeest. They’re run all up and down, every which way by America’s forgotten children – ex-military, immigrants, and fierce independents – doing the dirty work for society – running commodities from Point A to Point B. I saw at least five Wal-Mart trucks pull either in or out of this rest stop alone in less than two hours.

Just watch the thing moving from the little square they allot you. Can you hear the queasy grinding of the gears under such tight pressure? Can you feel the persistent twisting of levers somewhere far up above? The whole environment screams. The neat lawn looks second to none, right out to the edges, though no one’s really allowed to come here to appreciate it, no one will ever use it. At capacity the parking lot could pack a small stadium. The two businesses that run the place, a couple of the world’s largest multinationals, doing business with the best, doing business like the worst. But the current PR campaigns both firms are running are slowly working on the psyche of their customer base, and future customer base – one taking the “environmental innovator” line, the other brandishing the “healthy menu” shtick. But, just by definition alone, neither claim could even be feasible. Though the authority with which they have been allowed to speak, the reverence they’re shown by government boosters and happily clueless society members, strikes awe into anyone who gets a wiff of the used-up power they excrete.

It’s a sickening dance we’re doing. Myriad colours to dazzle the eye in plastic merchandise and carcinogenic snack foods. Myriad atrocities checked off the list to keep assembly line production at “just in time”. I mean, of course you’re supposed to fall in line. The hint-hint nudge nude is so thick it’s palpable. Even obese gas guzzling dealership employees rumbling along in yet-to-sell SUVs are ashamed of the scene. But a place like this, despite the current reality and the true facts of the past, still clings like hell to the party-line story. We hear about valiant God-fearing frontiersmen populating the countryside with bravery and honesty. We’re told to praise American leaders who helped inspire a nation. No one talks about Lincoln, our idol president Lincoln, ordering "the Largest Mass Execution" -- (Native Americans the victims of course) in US history (Brown, Dee. BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE. New York: Holt, Rinehart, Winston, 1970. pp. 59-61). That was only one of the steps taken to ease Caucasians onto the field of agricultural production. The corporate rest stop continues to inspire pride, carrying “Pioneer” in its name. And now I miss my old roommate Patrick. He’d know what to do.

So swerve into frenzy. Watching little colourful circles bounce this way and that, erratic, off of traffic flow signs. Whip what you can. Scream while you still can. Limbs are jerked this way and that by the only dance you can do that can save your ass from all this. The perfect counterpoint. Because if you’re not careful you’ll soon be intoxicated. Listen to the Locust design tableaus in a new folk tradition through music. Hardcore’s electronic now. And move with style in the perfect counterpoint to way we’re told is the best one. Let’s not forget that God wants us all to work in factories.

Listen to: -The Locust “God Wants Us All to Work In Factories”

“Getting born again can be somewhat hard/A snake eating its own tail,/Riding the new wave of new…Well in case you did miss the memo...Rest in peace neoclassical absurdity/Let's polish turds/Then eat them/Yum, yum”

-System of a Down “Toxicity”

-Genghis Tron “I Won’t Come Back Alive”

“Turn up the lights, sear it away /Now it's unending; fills the body wide/How long 'til this common life will fold/Turn up the lights, sear it away”

-Joy Electric “I Am a Pioneer”

-Circle Takes the Square "Patchwork Neurology"

-The Dillinger Escape Plan “When Acting as a Wave”

Lake Michigan Laps @ the Urban, the Indie

I get dropped off from pickup truck at a fill station east of Gary, Indiana. I pick up a copy of the Chicago Tribune to grab the lay of the land I'm about to enter. "Fallout of violence fills his school day" is the title of the most prominent article on the front page of the Metro section -- and linked from the most prominent article on the front page of the A section. Dawn Turner Trice's article leads with the subtitle: "Let's fight what fosters young toughs".


See, the weekend had been pretty rough on Chicago -- three dozen shootings were to leave nine people dead and up the number of SWAT teams and specialized police units sent out to the streets. As Arab-American playwrights gather to discuss their station as outsider artists, Sub Pop artist Iron and Wine brings his "quietly surging majestic" music to the Vic Theatre to the satisfaction of Chicago's alternative-folk crowd, and slam poets prepare for the evening's showcase at the Funky Buddha, the specter of violence hung, as usual, over all of our heads. There had been enough trouble over the last few days in Chicago's west end. And I didn't know it yet, but that's exactly where I was headed.

Back in September 2005, the Chicago Tribune had readers vote one what they considered the Seven Wonders of the city. Living in an extremely dense, and yet totally accessible metropolitan area with quality leisure options, the top three selections were as follows: 1. The Waterfront 2. Wrigley Field 3. The "L".
http://www-news.uchicago.edu/citations/05/050915.sevenwonders.html


I was deposited at the edge of the "L" Train's Blue Line by a corporate catering king from the suburbs, who skydives on the weekends. It took me awhile to figure out how to pay the fare (you can't just pay cash -- you have to get a ticket first), but I chatted up some underground electricians fascinated by my tales, and soon I was headed up the escalator.

But I can see why people consider the "L" such an iconic piece of Chicago -- it runs 24 hours, it costs $2 to get anywhere on the line, and you get a pretty rad view of the city the whole way along. It's the third busiest mass transit rail system in all of the US. They call it the "L" or the "EL" because of the fact that, except for the most downtown section, the whole track is elevated about a story up. You pass just feet from windows and trees and all sorts of buildings. And Chicago's urban centre is so built up, not just in the core, but pretty much all the way out to the suburbs -- a vision of intensification brought into fruition that no one really seems to mind. No wonder "L" ridership keeps on rising.



I talk to a couple 20-somethings on their way to work or home or somewhere else pretty pressing, one with rad glasses and aqua shoes, the other with a pretty gnarly beard, to get a sense of what's up. They tell me about the beauty of Wicker Park, the laid back beach scene, the city's baseball frenzy, and a little dive bar with free shows on Mondays they call the Empty Bottle.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On the way to my buddie's place, riding the "L", I pass right by Wrigley Field. And something about it just looks so adorable -- nestled there among the brick apartment buildings poking their noses above the concrete and pavement, deep in the heart of the grid. Somehow it just totally fits -- not like the futuristic suburban superstructure of Toronto's SkyDome -- insulated by waterfront condos, a freeway, towering bank buildings -- like the one with gold plated windows, and now a corporate title. And even though I despise the reckless salaries of ballplayers, and I find the game boring, I was really drawn to the neighbourhood feel of Wrigley Field. Wrigleyville, I'm told, is an excellent place to party or pick up the girl next door. If you know what I mean.

So I drop off my pack and head down... where I want to go most... to Chicago's Waterfront. Why? Well, imagine you lived in a city that wanted to provide its citizens with a rad location to hang out downtown legally, while still being privy to an excellent view of urban movement -- skyscrapers, traffic flow, workers milling about, etc. And imagine your city is situated on the edge of a fantastic natural resource that could extend just the viewing pleasure alone all the way round to 360 degrees. Well. That city is Chicago. The natural resource is Lake Michigan. The location is the beach at the Waterfront.


So I end up drinking beers with some culinary students chilling out more in the sand. Behind us about 30 people are playing frisbee. The twilight gives the glistening downtown towers an iridescent glow. And we kick back and talk about places we've been and people we've met. It's that lazy urban feeling straight out of the eastern shores and deep blue waters in Requiem for a Dream -- except in Chicago. Something just feels so right watching the up to 3 foot waves roll in from the horizon line and break in sequence along the tightly packed sand. I wonder what the scene was like here last week after the earthquake shook the buildings downtown? Were the waves surfable? The one girl is reminded of her place out in Idaho I think, the simple countryside. The skinnier dude says he's always wanted to try hitchhiking but never knew it was possible. And I stick around even after they leave. I watch the deep blue waves transform into thick violet.

Having already seen the top three of Chicago's Seven Wonders, I knew it was time to head West. Further into urbania, for better or worse, richer or poorer. It was time to hit the Empty Bottle.

++++++++++++++++++++

Just like the guy on the subway platform rapping and melodizing for change with only a mic and a background track, the young punk I ran into in Subway out West down Division, reminded me or a young Usher or Nelly. The urban culture of R n' B and Soul isn't a put on around here. It's the real deal. Or, I guess I should say, "around HERRR" -- since that's actually how they'd say it. I think the guy said he was Puerto Rican. I'm not sure. All I know is that the wifebeater he was wearing really fit his style tight. Snap! He was surrounded by three of the cutest girls. One of the girls -- beautiful long reddish hair and all -- barely said a word. One was bubbly as hell, talking with rad ghetto spunk. And one of them -- the one they called Lil' Bit -- looked like a mini J. Lo. People in this area know well enough about the wrong side of a jail cell. And I know at least one of these kids has been locked up for gun offenses. The conversation floated in an out of relationship drama and various forms of drug use. You stand tough and might have to carry a piece. Because, once again, that's just how it is out here. That's how these kids know how to survive. They've hung tight now for years. The streets are so hard. You and your friends just have to be harder.

And Lil' Bit pulled her solid white glasses off the top of her head, as shiny as any nice new Audi or BMW, slowly lowered them over her eyes, and asked me what I though. I said, "Woah wo wo..."

And I asked her what she thought of my chill blue shades I picked up in Chinatown from that sweet vendor. She bobbed her head all chill n' shit, shrunk up a lil' bit like a kitten and said right back: "Woah wo wo..."

And i miss them like hell already. Believe it or not.


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


The Empty Bottle was populated by indie kids looking to hear catchy experimental pop-rock on the cheep. I talked to one guy, a knowledge industry worker of Indian background I guessed. He was curious to hear what he could of Toronto. They don't get much news of those things down here. And I saw the clothing colours shift on the average to the archaic purples and pinks, the trendster palate of art-clash. Just like with the rap-heads, hats still came big billed here. But if you wore it here it would have less of a slick street vibe and more of the goofy intelligencia you might have a chance to rock. And a software designer told me he hated his job, mind numbing he said, but was glad he still had one.

Sub Pop really had their crew out working the city. Iron and Wine tickets were hard to come by, even at $23 a pop. So all us indie-kids were more than happy to fork over our 2 bucks a beer to check out labelmate Kelley Stoltz, a singer/songwriter extraordinare with a California-style David Duchovny je ne sais quois. Listen to song after song. This could lull you to sleep. But hey Kelley -- how about this... can you jerk us all into the now, the awakening sounds?


"You travel all up and down. Seeing all the sights, the darkest days, the brightest lights. Different cities and towns and the open road. Traveling all around. And maybe one day you break down. And after you prostitute yourself out for a few days to make a little cash. Before you come to your senses. And you'll pause to look, just to look back. To think about this song. Tonight. And remember you'll remember this moment. The night you danced with a stranger."

The flutter of swimming sounds is methodical and intoxicating. I'm holding a piece of cardboard and some underground magazines. I look up at a girl a little taller than me. She says, "Hey, would you like to dance."

I almost got robbed later. And I almost didn't have enough money to get on the subway to grab my stuff. And I'm pretty sure I either witnessed a stop-light robbery or a bizarre drug heist. But I didn't care. Because I had had a chance to dance in the flow Lake Michigan's urban waves.

Locked in Arby's Feeling Up Meat

I guess I was just getting pretty tired of the whole suburban America thing, having already been exploring the highways and byways of the most powerful country in the world for a few days
-- doing everything from sunburning to kayaking to playing frisbee. Oh ya, and I hitchhiked a bunch too. Well anyways, when you're stuck in a pretty safe place with not a whole lot to do, you end up doing silly, crazy or just downright amazing things. Or you shoot yourself. But despite being in the home of the brave and the land of the gun, I didn't have one. And I didn't really want to gut myself with my deer knife. That would just be way too easy. At this point you gravitate towards other stuck in the same condition. So the only thing left to do was to start breaking rules. As Ryan told me later, "Around here there's not really all that much to do. So we've gotta make up our own stuff to do." And it was in this spirit we squished too many in the car and headed to Arby's.


Now, if you're from New York or Tokyo or Toronto, you're probably familiar with all the hot late night chill spots -- clubs and bars and strip joints and bubble tea shops. But what happens when you live in a place where it's almost considered illegal to be outside your home after dark? Well, you do what we did. Find someone who knows a lot about drugs, and get them to use magical keys to break into fast food joints. You hit a totally different sort of afterhours scene.


"I mean, I was only in jail for drugs. So it wasn't that bad. I mean, it's not like I killed anybody, or anything... at least not that they know of." This is how I met Carrie. Born on the sixth day of the sixth month back in 1976 (on 6.6.06 she turned 30) Carrie was a rarity in the big box wasteland of northern Indiana. Not only was she upfront and humorous about her (supposedly) former drug use ("it'll look good on my resume when I try to get a job as a drug counsellor"), she also had powers beyond what we could ever fathom. In a place that runs by the books, any sustained irregularity just baffles. But she had found a way to make it work. As a sort of fast-food guru who just didn't give a fuck -- she was totally rad. She defied the laws of Arby's and let us in after closing time. Then she locked us in, took our order and forced us to eat tray after tray of free food -- turnovers, apple and chocolate -- baked popcorn chicken -- some sort of calzone pocket dealey. And at the end of it all she just plopped down pounds and pounds of bacon and beef -- keeping hungry kids fed for a very long time. And we filled up our cups again and again with free fountain drinks. We got it all. We were in. Somehow we had pierced the steel-strong armour of suburbiana.

And so we chatted about everything from traveling to film making to blogging to music. And we wished Carrie the best in her upcoming surgery. And we hit on the subject of cultural differences. And I think it might have been Ryan or Andrew who said, "People in other countries kinda have the idea, I think, that all Americans are fat." Of course, I was quick to point out that every single one of the non student-aged people we had seen so far while hanging out were definitely overweight. I made special note of the grossly obese man we saw jiggling at top-speed across the empty parking lot for no obvious reason. And I heard how getting ahold of Fair Trade food, or even healthy food for that matter, is pretty much impossible -- though no one can figure out why, since they seemed to agree it was pretty tasty stuff. And I was pretty interested to hear about the one girl, Hope, who was looking to head down to Mexico in future to help out at an orphanage near the border. Because I might end up hanging out just right around there. So we'll see.

And it all just flowed so easy, and simple, and it wasn't a big deal. If a mall was open, we might have just gone there. But I think we ended up having a little more fun. Or at least I'm pretty sure that's what Ryan was thinking, stuck in the trunk, as we drove back to hang out for a bit in the dorm.

Ryan's "Stud Card".

Disecting the Anatomy of Midwestern Consciousness Means You're Gonna Have to Listen to Some Melodic, Emotional, Dolled Up Pop-Rock

Hollywood Undead - ...check out some Linkin Park-esque hip-hop emo. They seem to have an oppressed Sum 41 mixed with Slipknot vibe going on.

The Medic Droid - In emoland the electro-reprisal of Good Charlotte's emo forays pays off with middle-America's lost children. It's as if Jeffree Star and Jon B got together to manipulate computer kids with provacative hot-topic rhetoric and annoying synths. Pretty great stuff if you're in the mood.

Metro Station - "Kelsey" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRTyMUZ1m1A - One more emo favourite that I would normally pass on -- especially with the 80s flare I kill to avoid. But I checked their "Kelsey" music video online, and I have to say this is a pretty good interpretation of the spirit of the domesticated lands I've been traversing. The droopy haircuts, automobile transportation, traffic flow signs, the longing for the coast. "I'd swim the ocean for you. The ocean for you. Whoa-oh. Kelsey." Emo goes Escada -- for those in the know. The waves are kind of small, flat, and grey though.



Pomegranates -- silly Gondry-style indie-pop. I'd call this moreso local Deathcab-infused passion, rather than large-format emotional exploitation. I love the erratic starts and stops. Glad to see that element of the informal pop-rock playground sticking around.

Dark Room - http://www.myspace.com/darkroommusic This stuff is a little more spacey, and they could have even been at the symphony I was at, since that's pretty much their territory. I think those guys might like a little Mozart now and again, if my guess is correct.

Anathallo - yourhappymakesmegooldies.blogspot.com (playing the El Mocambo with Dosh on May 19th) http://www.myspace.com/anathallo The name sounds pretty cool, and I hung out with some kids that seemed pretty into this stuff, so I figured I'd give 'em a listen. From a first impression I'd expect the band to be sticking around for awhile anyways.

Symphony on the Lakes

I went to a symphony a few days ago with my grandma. We enjoyed two pieces by different composers -- Ludwig van Beethoven's "Opus 56" -- his concerto for piano, violin, cello and orchestra, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's "The Requiem Mass in D Minor". It was most excellent. It was fun to watch these talented musicians implement totally different styles and approaches to attacking the music, and still converging to form one unified voice.

Despite Beethoven and Mozart having living in the same era, it was great to hear two end products that were just utterly different.

Beethoven's "Opus" came across as intense as any Children of Bodom masterpiece, with Iron Maiden's technicality. And Mozart's "Requiem" could soothe the hardest of hearts, and probably save an entire generation on its own merits.

It was a serene as a catholic mass: "Grant them eternal rest, Lord, and let perpetual light shine on them....Death and nature will be astounded, when all creation rises again, to answer the judgement...what is hidden will be revealed, nothing will remain unavenged...because You are merciful...Grant them eternal rest".

The third violinist was so cute with her curly brown hair that shone like the music she played. I talked to her after by chance (I swear it was by chance) and she was just totally rad. And the ex-hardcore punk, now a father living just a few towns over, said he had a good time here running into old friends. And the old Canadian from Saskatchewan regaled me with cultural tales of Foster Hewitt. And I totally understood what was going on.

Such is a night at the symphony with my grandma.

When a Singular Action Awakens a Nation We Gather in Yankee Stadium to Bow Down to the Pope

Quotes: -"Indians can't hold down liquor, you know."
-[female newscaster] "I think that might be him right there. Is that him? I think that might be the pope coming up right there. I think I just caught a glimpse of the pope. Did you ever think you'd be saying this in your life? Oh! I saw the pope! I SAW THE POPE! Oh, that was like the greatest thing EVER!!!!..." [cut to commercial]
-"People here don't have to try very hard at all to have a good standard of living."


I have yet to talk to a single American who is excited about any of the presidential candidates. Mind you, I’m hitting up some pretty conservative circles and travelling through the down-homestyle Midwest. But the general consensus I’m finding goes something like this: all the candidates are running on platforms of change, and yet, none of these candidates is really offering any actual change in their political platforms. Forcing someone to pay for something they can’t afford is not exactly a realistic solution to a pretty comprehensive problem. So when all you have to work with, and all you can see for miles and miles on end, are lies, oratory, and deceit – I guess you go with the best man for the job – the best speaker. No one denies this man is Barack Obama. And with our man just barely leading the democratic mudslinging heading into potentially decisive Pennsylvania and Indiana, I worm my way through the back ways of Northern Indiana, and hear the tale of a man with a big screen TV and a pool, apologizing for the accumulating mess in his house (like I give a fuck), who is struggling to pay for his cute kid’s brain operation and diabetes monitoring. Things aren’t anymore quite like they once were.

I’ve checked seven stores now, and I still can’t get my hands on a New York Times. And none of the store owners have any sense of where I might find one. We had to go on a mission just to pick up a USA today. The lead story is a piece centered around the pope’s visit, bemoaning the personal devastation of 9/11 from a fairly evangelical standpoint. The Pope will try to make amends for the priests with the STDs. He'll visit Ground Zero and say a prayer over the lingering ashes of the twin towers. And he'll hit that other great centre of American achievement -- Yankee Stadium. America's pastime is the slowest game in the world. And the way it's told, delving into the lives of the faithful and faithless, you’d think you were reading a church bulletin or something. Seriously. No one asks the question “why?”. It’s this tragedy that happened. And it has happened to us (the US). And, of course, we all know it’s the Muslims (Obama and his ilk. “Barack was once a Muslim – and if you become a Muslim, of course, you can never get out, you know. They’ll kill you. That’s how they are.” – I hear this from one of my rides) that brought these horrors upon us. When I was in Ohio I talk to a gas station clerk – a sweet black girl who lives in a house nearby. She doesn’t know where Toronto is. She honestly has no clue. Maybe it’s near the city of Ontario. Probably. And I ask why she doesn’t know. Why wouldn't she have even heard of the largest city in one of the two countries closest to hers. I thought I had a right to be mad at her ignorance if I had wanted. She totally has a rad cute smile. You might see someone like her sitting in the audience at an Oprah taping. And alarm bells explode in my head as I can’t believe I’m actually hearing her say it: “Well I didn’t start really caring about what went on in the outside world until 9/11 happened.” A nation awakened. Singular action. Checkmate.

and so we hang phallic symbols on the pruned trees in our manicured yards

Your buddie with the hydrogen car the next state up that actually works just might be in talks with GM. His idea just might be the key to saving your civilization based on innovation and independence. But you just know they'll probably buy the information off him, tether him down to some non-compete clause, and just sit on the info. Bury it deep in their archives. No one actually wants change here, even though they talk about it.

It's a land based around one simple concept: seek cash TO THE MAX. With the foreclosure crisis sinking its teeth just deeper and deeper -- kicking not just the ghetto mammas out, but giving the boot to big doctors and dentists, separating them from their mini-villas on the lake, you think that developers breaking even might grab a sigh of relief. And you might think that if you could even turn a profit on a real estate venture, you'd be happy and sitting pretty. But, you know, that's not the case. The developers of one of the most elite condo communities in a clean section of the state are supposed to allocate space and build the residents a place the can interact -- a community centre. But instead they opted to just sell more condos and force the rich residents to fundraise if they want a community centre. But it's not because they've been hit hard. They're still selling units, right up into the double digits.

And I heard a lot of voices and filtered out a lot of obtuse opinions. But maybe the most accurate was this one: "Give it five years and the problem will sort itself out. The thing is, the administration is just way too top heavy to accomplish anything. The only way things will change is through a collapse."

Day 3 and 4: The Crossroads of America and Beyond

I keep waking up in unbearable pain from my sunburn – this is 3 days later.

Yesterday I dreamed about skinny dipping in an indoor pool with a girl I met at a party one time in Toronto last year. There were a lot of other people there too. I think we played water polo or something. Just before waking I was attempting to surf breaking waves on the tide pool.

I learned that the movement of water through a pipe is an unsolvable equation.

The LAV our “boys” are being blown up in Afghanistan in, are second to none around the world, according to one former GM source I talked to.

After the ice cream truck, I got a ride to the “crossroads of America” in the back of a protective father’s pickup. He knew his daughter was cute. But I knew she was laughing at me freeze my ass off in the middle of the night still wearing my shorts and trying to huddle up. From there I was picked up by a Willy Nelson/Uncle Jimbo grease monkey – known as a pot-head hippie by his buddies, despite the fact he wasn’t very environmentally conscious and hadn’t smoked a J since his daughter was born... 35 years ago. That’s the landscape we’re traveling through though – America’s backwoods, where global warming is as much happy horseshit as the politicians’ own ambition, the poor are held hostage by medical insurance companies in the pocket of Big Pharma, a place with none of the current presidential candidates could ever truly understand. I even met a “Mexican” who spoke with a Texan accent on the way through.

But it was funny coincidence to be picked up by this particular mechanic however, as he smiled with comfort as we passed the careful county sheriff. I didn’t find out until the end of the ride, and I probably should have clued in sooner, and who knows how true it is anyways, but as he tells it, this man turns out to have close ties to America’s own cultural love affair with hitchhikers. Turns out this man is part of Rambo’s extended family (not Sylvester Stallone – the actual John Rambo). Now, recall First Blood, the first in the recently butchered series. Rambo is he ultimate hitchhiker. He’s a man without a home, a victim of American foreign policy, and is not wanted by the land he went out expecting to die for. Across this land the social fabric still bears the scars of Vietnam, Nixon, and the rest of the lot. And that poignant first scene, if you’ll remember, was revived so well by the genius of Trey Parker and Matt Stone for the new lost generation, played out in cartoon form on South Park by the character Eric Cartman – himself known by just his last name, himself an equally resonant character. Cartman is the obese suburban adolescent, who manipulates his mother in individualistic schemes, with crass rhetoric, so he can play more videogames and eat more junk food, with no skin off his nose. When Cartman plays Rambo as the hitchhiker, nothing could be more fitting.

And so I help deliver the local paper door to door (it’s all they read anyways – you’ll be hard pressed to find a New York Times anywhere around here... and the gospel filled USA Today is pretty scarce itself) and move on from Ohio into Indiana, where condo developers of the most elite communities force residents to fundraise for a community center (while their eye remains squarely on the prize of new condo sales), even the bathroom graffiti in cultural hotspots is positive and religious, an hour of talk-radio goes by on the topic of “illegal” aliens, and aspirations are so far beyond means that one county can only make three per cent of the infrastructure payments it knows it should for road maintenance.

Day 2 - Ghetto Transactions. Homeland Security Hitting Home. Ice Cream Gettaway.

I spent the morning mostly lunging in only my boardshorts. I forgot about sunscreen until it was really too late. I spent enough time watching the Stallion girls run laps and do stretches -- soaking up the sun and the beauty, trying to stay out of the way. But eventually I grew tired and thought I better keep moving.

So I rearranged my backpack, and packed up my tent. As I passed in behind where some uniformed girls were playing catch, a couple of them missed the ball by accident, and I tossed it back. I got smiles all round, and a couple cute thank yous too. These sorts of things sometimes happen on purpose. You have an extended plane. And on that plane you have two intersecting lines (continuing on indefinitely, never to meet again -- under our system of mathematics anyways). Before I left the schoolground I refilled my waterbottle with water from the big orange Gatorade jug, and mixed in a packet of tang I brought along. I also stole a green tennis ball that was just lying by itself in the parking lot (the springiest tennis ball I've ever seen). They really did have way too many tennis balls.

Looking back, it probably wasn't the best choice to come down to Columbus. I spent the whole day burning up in the sun, not getting a hope of a ride even. At first I got stuck in what I took to be a sort of near-suburban ghetto area. On the one hand, the people seemed really interesting, and in some cases cool (think the guy with the green and yellow mowhawk driving the rusty muscle car, or the guy in the sporty car with the windows down and pumping hip-hop drum n' bass beats seemingly playing from the engine). But on the other hand I felt like I just couldn't connect with them (and vice versa). Then again, I was being introduced to a whole new culture -- Escalades straight out of a BET music video, crazy cornrow styles I've never seen before, and white trash heavy metal Nirvana remixes.

I think I clued into the whole ghetto-ness of the neighbourhood with one particular exchange. First a car filled with beautiful black women drove up. I guess they thought I was a homeless bum, and so they handed me a five dollar bill and told me to get something to eat. Following this, a car full of not quite so beautiful black women pulled up, and one of them asked me if she could actually borrow a dollar. So seeing as I was already taken aback by the pity-cash donation I had just received, and seeing as this woman obviously needed the money more than I did -- I mean she literally asked me if she could BORROW a dollar -- and since the whole ghetto monetary-flow-thing was tripping me out -- I said sure. I handed her the five. She took it. And she even went to the trouble to rifle around in her bag for four one dollar bills, arranged them neatly, and placed them carefully in by outstretched palm. Needless to say, I didn't get a ride there. But I was richer for the experience of the underground american ghetto transaction. So I hoofed it to the interstate, feeling pretty good -- except for the pain of my sunburnt back that was growing stronger by the minute.

*******************

I eventually got a ride to Ohio State University with a girl who stopped off first to say "Hi" to her boyfriend in a motorcycle repair shop in a back alley. It was called the Rice Patty. She said I could crash at her place if I needed. But I said, naw, I'm gonna try to get outta town if I can. After getting kicked off the heart of campus by some college rent-a-cop types, I headed up for a bite to eat on the city's main drag and student magnet, High Street.

Exhausted, I sat in a diner that never closes. I soaked it all in: The home-style "apple spice" filled chocolate donut for 90 cents. The American cheerleading championships playing on two TVs, featuring squads from more than one city nearby, and narrated with excitement by a technical play-by-play announcer. The punky counter girl who knew half of the patrons. The wide-eyed college kids, cute as hell, wearing courdoroy blazers and button up shirts, reading up for exams.

Two guys with short hair sat next to me talking pretty easy, using a lot of in-depth mechanical terminology I couldn't follow. I thought at first they were chatting about job opportunities and cadets. But then it hit me -- they're talking about Iraq. And so I tapped into stories of suicide (a friend of course), post traumatic stress (guy gets sent home, and now the people around town find him sitting on the top of watertowers), I hear about unfair discipline and the shame that comes with dropping in rank. And I hear about all the residual effects.

In my own memory it plays back in snippets: "...that was in Falluja...at one of the checkpoints they hit...met up with a convoy...came straight in from 2 o'clock...didn't see nothin' commin'...vehicle right in front exploded -- BOOM...shraptnel straight to the chest, he didn't even feel it."

The story was related from this red head sitting at the corner of the diner bar to his skinnier friend without much emotion, as if he were swapping baseball cards, or talking about the Indy 500. But you know, his high school buddie's death really did hit home: "So that night, right after the funeral, I went right to the bar. Started drinking. Took a taxi, went to another bar, drank some more. Took another taxi, went to another bar, and drank. And it was like that, taxi, bar, taxi, bair -- just on and on you know..." And his voice trailed off.

But there was still no emotion in his words, just reflection. How could there be? Here this sort of story, one that rocks worlds and shatters families and friendships, is a dime a dozen. It's modus operandi -- a fact of life for Americana. Tears won't do anything. Because it's not gonna stop anytime soon.

"I tried to get out of Columbus a few times," he told me later. He laughed saying, "It just never worked. It's really hard. There was one time I was just gonna go. Go down there to Florida. I was gonna go live down there for a bit. I almost couldn't get the day off of work. And when I went to leave, my car broke down. But I was like, fuck it, ima make this shit work. You know?" So he pulled off some last minute automobile rig up, slammed his foot on the gas and headed into the sunrise. South. "Problem was, when I got to Florida I couldn't find a job. Not where I was looking, anyways. So I had to come back." And he had a hard enough time returning, too. He broke down on the freeway, only making it to the Carolinas by setting up a way he could drive by reaching through the floor and manually shifting hears -- which had to be done backwards from normal, of course. Once he got to South Carolina, he hooked up with a NASCAR mechanic he knew who beefed up his machine so he could make it back to Ohio.

And so he never left Columbus, but continues to work shifts in the diner -- hitting sorority keggers with buddies, where they'll see over 50 kegs of beer and a ratio of five girls to every guy. But then again, he could end up in Iraq one day. It's nice to know that a guy like that's got options.

*****************************

The US is pretty serious when it comes down to business. So the burly dude from the burger joint on the corner said he wanted me off "thier" property. So he assured me he wasn't the "asshole" but that it was the "corporate" thing breathing down his neck forcing him to do all these terrible things. It's funny because I was actually on the edge of the sidewalk nearest the road, which was outside of the sidewalk surrounding the packed student chill spot, which was itself outside of the establishment's own inner pathway. The black muscle guy said they were trying to get an edge in the whole traffic-flow game. But I'm a business man too, so I told him I'd leave if he paid me bus fare. He disappeared, I'm sure reported directly back to the powers that be, and came back in less than five minutes with cash so I could ride the bus. I was glad we could work together to find a win-win. I just can't believe he actually PAID me to leave an area that didn't even belong to his restaurant.

As I made the transfers across town below multi-coloured shining skyscrapers, and took a good look and street-view Columbus, I was reminded of King Street in Toronto, and the grit of Detroit. The bus drivers knew their passengers, and treated them with respect. They seemed to be genuinely enjoying their job too. This was despite their route travelling throught some of the worst parts of the city, and having to deal with the poorest types of people. I'm thinking, let's get Adam Giambrone of Toronto's transit group down here to check how they run it.

It had been dark for hours, and I was still stuck in Columbus. It was now about 20 hours since I had arrived. I decided I would wait a bit longer before giving the Rice Patty motorcycle shop kids a call to chill with them for the night. And if that happened, I would have to start the exit strategy all over again. I was beginning to think I would never leave. So when an ice cream truck picked me up and whisked me away, my excitement wan't just from the free ice cream the old man and two young love birds game me.

I knew that once again I was moving -- on my way... far far far away...

4.17.08 – Love Of Country. Loss of Faith In It.

Do you carry on now with a childlike vigour? Can you feel the sunlit breezes caressing your back? Do the blades of the grasses flutter like the wings of a butterfly dancing along to some foreign song – all for you – all for you? So just lay back, soak it in and wonder where these clouds and leaves and rabbits and planes are all going. Maybe you don’t know nothing hey – but then again, you are here right now. Let’s watch the passing of America – and laugh – as we pass out here in America.

*********************************

Tying up loose ends is always difficult. And it seems to me like there were more knots than usual this time round. But so it goes. And so it goes. James, the cat-loving tough guy who took over my room and knows a bit about traveling was right though when he said, “Sometimes you have to burn bridges to move forward.” But as Patrick told me, looking into the coloured sky outside my window as we lay limp and dejected one night awhile back, preparing for a long night of work and crazy adventures ahead, when communication breaks down, sometimes you just have to move forward. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s just that, when you look down the path of the future, sometimes you don’t see anything. Not clearly anyways. That’s fear. But hell, it’s also exhilleration, too. So hit the high-brow fashion scene and stripper parties hard, jump out the roof so you don’t get arrested, clear up any lingering misconceptions that are still dragging you down, take hitchhiking cues from the indie-rock kids, have wine, coffee, cigarettes and more with your friends, late into the night, and stick around for one more at home bash with the brohiems and their vinyl. It all seems to play out over a Crystal Castles soundtrack. Check in on the rave scene, and then just shove off – Because at the side of the road, you know it, is how it all begins.

*************************************

If you had to hit the ground running at the age of 12, could you? Could you look inside at your talents and put them to use? Would you know how to chase that Canadian dream if it was what you wanted? An inner-city kid, could you make it in the wider world, leaving hippie-central behind to go after your hopes? Or maybe you could. Maybe you knew somehow, a deja-vu accident probably, maybe some crystal clear image just flooded your mind for an instant: well-cut brown suit, riding smooth in your shiny red Lincoln down a 400 series toll highway and happy to pay for the convenience, making complex deals over your cellphone that ensure the 80 per cent income advantage over your associates, a stake in the golf course you swing at, kids well-off with even bank president hook-ups. I mean, hell, you’re polite, confident, but not quite filthy rich. Congratulations you’ve made model Canadian. You now have the ability to pick up hitchhikers with style, to watch them feel the creamy leather seats as you point out the shimmering Burlington Bay and the majestic haze of STELCO, and smile just knowing they’re thinking “Shit! I’ve never been in a car this nice before.” Joe was my first ride.

*********************************************

American flags hang limp tonight in suburban Columbus. The quiet asphalt is slicker than oil and every inch of development from here to eternity is all cobbled up and owned by somebody more than happy to tell you what home alarm company they use. A street like Sandy Lane is more about imagination than reality. And the fancy lampposts are just too bright with no one around. At first you might think that the smell hanging in the air is the fragrance of flowers after the rain, but upon reflection you realize that it’s probably fresh rubber, new plastic, or whatever phosphates are seeping into the drain. A helicopter passes overhead, shattering the silence, adding an eerie touch. In a place like this, it’s not about what you see, but about what’s missing from the picture. To look around is to understand why you might want to flock to the functioning lighthouse serving as a steeple for the church just a short drive away – hell, it’s the most interesting thing for miles on end.

If you want cuban cigars you have to smuggle them in; but the tennis balls they crave so badly down there just sit out unscuffed and unused, protected by a fence, entrenched deep in the courts. The beeping that wakes you – not dump trucks or movers – that’s the sound of the trees coming down in the clutches of machines, probably making just enough room to squeeze in another subdivision, complete with vinyl siding, early to bed housewives and colourful toys for the kids. But if you’re persistent, and you know what to look for, and even despite all the efforts put out to mask it – you can still hear whispers of something else out there. Because no amount of electric candles behind laced curtains, tinted SUV windows or animal leashes can fully put a smile on the face of a sub-prime mortgage crisis, hip-hop public housing, a looming recession, or far-off wars that just won’t quit. Because, no matter where you run to, no matter where you try to hid – you just can’t escape the unending roar of the interstate highways – somewhere out there – somewhere not too far away. Not far way at all actually.

*************************

I don’t think I’ll ever forget bombing down I-90 in a little compact diesel with the CEO of one of the most effective leadership and voluntary organizations in the entire world, his wife sitting passenger side. I’m staring intently into the laptop monitor, watching a former marine give his story of unarmed military observation in Darfur, Sudan. Love of country, loss of faith in it. A man who has been through the wringer. Because, indeed, the devil came on horseback, and he’s learned how to shake the hands. But maybe more importantly, beyond the plucked out eyeballs and charred corpses and beyond local atrocities, maybe the true depravity is not the Janjaweed pirates or a scheming Sudanese government, but that even when this well-trained marine, the New York Times and the Bush administration steps up to the plate to reveal a “genocide”, and even when the ability to stop the killing already exists... no one has stopped the devil from coming on horseback. To rape. To pillage. To kill. Because, the news deluge eventually reverts to a trickle, the government fails to live up to its commitments under the UN, and Barak Obama and everyone else knows the country’s resources are already gushing into Iraq. And it’s no conspiracy theory that the U.S. wants access to what’s under the ground in Sudan, and must please their government, and face off with China to get at it. Hell, Bush knows he needs a peace deal in place and was briefed on the country’s atmosphere by the fundamentalist icon Rev. Billy Graham himself before he even stepped into office. Everyone has the ability to know what’s going on. And I look at a retired, young marine sitting emotionally in shambles as he relates his tale of powerlessness to the camera, sitting in his off-road vehicle as the arid African landscape dotted with scrubby vegetation and burnt-down villages lined with corpses streams by in the background. I drink it in, take a breath, and look up. The first thing I see is another COSTCO. I’m surrounded by baffling light patterns that rise and fall with the highway I’m on, as we weave up and down over once virgin landscapes – passing under six-lane highways every few miles. I see 24-hour Wal-Marts (mall worts we joke). I see rectilinear structures that are home to the proud happenstances of inane office politics. I see gas stations complete with jumbo coffees, arcades and multiple massage chairs. I’m looking at a completely different way of life that’s so difficult to maintain. And I think about the blue collar steelworker with a knack for photography who took me up to the border, and expressed his concern with the towers of greed his rebar helps to create and sustain. And so I open up a little book he passed along, quite at random – and I read something to ease my mind: “Wherefore I was grieved with that generation and said, They do alway err in their heart; and they have not known my ways. So I, sware in my wrath. They shall not enter in to my rest.” Alexisonfire covers Moneen and knows it. Obama at least says that he knows it. And hell you can survive it, or be a CEO and do something about it. But let’s not forget how this shit runs.

And this was just Day 1.