Days Four and Five

Day four was a breakthrough. My bod still insited it was wildly pissed off for the rigors it's been going through, but at leas it was willing to cooperate. My legs never did give out, and never hurt until I stopped for my night. The problems now lie with my shoulders, which claim that carting a 40 pound pack up and down mountains is too hard. I disagree. Day four was also the first time I felt real camaraderie with other hikers. Most hike from Georgia to Maine, thus northbound. Starting in Pennsylvania and heading south makes me a soutbounder. There are very few of us, therefore I don't run into the same couple of people every day. But last night I stayed at the shelter at Taggs Run with Willy-Boy, Burples and Toots, and it was great.

If day four was a breakthrough, day five was the test. It was humid all morning-- painfully, New Orleansly humid. Luckily however, when the thundrstorms started, the humidity went away. I hiked seven miles through the pouring rain amdst thunder and lightening, becoming drenched and irritable. I sang to keep spirits up. Eventually I came to a hostel, where I imagine I will stay tonight. Sitting there now-- still not quite dry. The sun is out, I could make several more miles before sundown but... a shower sounds so wonderful and laundry is a necessity, since all my clothes are cotton and drenched.

Regardless, I plan on being in Baltimore by the eighth.

Duncannon

For the first days of my journey, things have gone, to say the least, poorly. After my flight from Chicago I arrived by bus in Harrisburg, Pa. Duncannon, Pa is a popular trail town about 15 miles north. I tried to hitch a ride along the highways and failed miserably, walking abou twelve miles into town and in the process pulling a muscle in my knee. Someone stopped for me just outside Duncannon. This compares little, though, to issues that commenced in town. I stayed the night at the Doyle Hotel, a delightful little place designed mainly for thr-hikers. I awoke early on Memorial Day morning, and spent a good hour reading on a bench outside a park. I needed to go to the grocer (about a half-mile uphill out of town) so, having seen no one around or in the park this early on a holiday, I ditched my pack in the bushes and went on to the store. Coming back 45 minutes later, the pack was gone. I spent most of the day looking around Duncannon for my pack, talking to the PA State Troopers, and being coddled consolingly by the folks at the Doyle. Finally, the signs I posted offering a reward were of use. My pack was returned without my Ipod, camera, flashlight, or pocket knife-- but with the more pivotal gear. I've recently obtained a new flashlight, the folks at the Doyle gave me a pocket knife, and I bought a new camera. Everything is looking up.

Doyle Hotel-- World's Best Chilli!

PS- Everyone on the trail goes by a 'trail name'. Mine is Jude.

On Cities

San Francisco disappoints me. The Castro is not like the Moulin Rouge, the Haight is not like Woodstock, the Golden Gate is just a bridge and everything is too goddamn expensive. But it's always worth the trip.

Las Vegas is horrifying. Hallucinogenic and strangely uniform, all about appearances and vacant and evil. But it's always worth the trip.

New York and New Orleans defy description-- they are wonderful.

Austin is handicapped by the fact that it is in Texas. In vain attempts to reject that fact it drives hard for hipness and overshoots the mark, landing in pretension village and rollicking about, convinced it is wonderful when really it is simply pseudo-delightful.

Portland is like Austin, without the handicaps, in a better location. It is delightful.

Atlanta and Los Angeles were desinged by children throwing darts tied to strings at maps of Southern California and Central Georgia. Burning them downa nd starting anew should be seriously considered.

Nashville and Tucson are small and filled with charms. Too suburban and civilized for great adventures, but places to level out and enjoy quiet reflection.

And Chicago. Chicago starts out with low expectation-- it is in the Mid-West, the American capital of dull. How wondrous could it possibly be? Oh, how it exceeds low expectations! It is livable and vibrant an alive. It is the kind of place where you hop off of a bus and within ten minutes a man tries to sell you acid on the street. Where you hop the subway and ride through urban landscapes that are beautiful and functional. It is a place where things work.

I heart Chicago.

Oklahoma City

I've spent the last week in Oklahoma City, in a psychological vaccuum of subtle preparation and complete physical inactivity. I've grown a beard. I've shaved my head. I've looked at maps and bus schedules and made decisions and renewed contacts and bonds. I am ready for the trail.
The land is flat, the weather is warm and there is nothing to see. Upon arrival I applied and was hired at a McDonalds, but time and space worked against it and it was not to be. Thus, I've done nothing, and it is wonderful.
I'm completely immersed in this middle section of a new-life purgatory, patiently waiting to emerge from this cocoon as a new beast with new goals and a new life. Eager. Excited. A little dread? No more than anyone feels when they unfurl brittle new butterfly wings and leap into the fire.

Tuesday finds me in the Windy City-- one of my favorite places. Tuesday week finds me in Pennsylvania, learning to fly and starting to walk.

Goodbye New Orleans

It was a little more than a week ago when I left New Orleans, city of my rebirth, and while I am gone it is not forgotten. No other place has affected me as has that city. That vibrant and tragic and sleepy and balmy and difficult and beautiful and wonderful city.

From walking down shaded Willow street on a humid afternoon, eating a snowball.
From ducking out of Ampersand on a Sunday morning, squinting and wondering where the hell all this sunlight came from.
From a coffee shop in the Marigny, where you're never quite Bohemian enough--
From a balcony in the Quarter on a lazy afternoon, watching tourists below with their beers and Hand Granades.
From being sheltered by a sudden summer storm on the porch of the Columns, sipping bourbon.
From riding down Lakeshore Drive, buried under the influence, staring at Pontchartrain in all it's black monstrosity.
From beneath the oaks of City Park--
From a club on Frenchman where the brass and the funk roll out into the street--
From a bar on Bourbon, wasted--
From a restaurant on Magazine, stuffed--
From a bumpy streetcar ride, to a stroll down Esplanade Avenue, through the wild-eyed, bustling majesty of Canal Street, and a sunset over the Mississippi--

If time allows, if I settle down again, how could it be anywhere else? There is no other place.

That city is part of my blood.

Home

It was a sad realization, but I don't go 'home' anymore. I go to my parent's house.

My 'home', the place I grew up, no longer exists except in lackluster photos and memories best left buried. Oh, the tragedy of growing up, growing apart, growing. To be the people you are now you can't be the people you were then, and thus those people are dead and gone. All of them, murdered by children and careers and college and boredom. New people rose from the ashes-- sometimes better, sometimes worse-- and the ashes scattered in the wind.

Sure, in West Tennessee the places are all still there-- the woods and the bridges and the houses and the roads. But the energy is gone. They don't hold mystery, grandeure, excitment anymore. And, when revisited, they're never quite like you remembered-- always smaller, more beige.

Nothing is as futile as buying into your rose-hued nostalgia, and that is a lesson one must learn through experience. Sure, I realized that in a hazy, intangible way years ago, but now-- cut loose and wandering-- it became absolutley clear.

It's too late to drag everything that was out into the light of what is. It's best left in trunks and satchels in closets to be pulled out occasionally and viewed through eyes tinted with the cynicism of the present. You can't go home again. Nothing natural has roots and wings.

Eye Candy: Tim McGraw

So, theoretically, this should have gone up yesterday, but I was under the weather and it didn't. Whatever. He rocked Jazz Fest, as you can witness in my videos below, but he's very small in the videos-- viewed from a distance. I think he's worth looking at, too.                                                                                                   

Southern Boys: Tim McGraw Live at Jazz Fest

Because I am kind and benevolent, I took the following videos of Tim McGraw performing Sunday at the Jazz and Heritage Festival. Unfortunately, I was not overly familiar with the video functionality of my camera, so I apologize for the fact that the videos begin and end abruptly and at odd times throughout the songs. I also apologize for being a little stoned and turning the camera awkwardly away from the stage to look confusingly at the crowd, and also for turning the camera sideways. My bad.

First two verses/choruses of "Live Like You Were Dying"

First verse, first chorus of a new song called 'Southern Boys'.  He forgets the words at one point.

Edit, 04/30: An angry poster on YouTube informed me that the name of this song is not 'Southern Boys' but 'Southern Voice'. Okay. Another angry poster pointed out that before performing the song, McGraw mentioned he may forget some of the words. Yes, he pointed that out. I wasn't making judgements, only statements. People on YouTube are bitches.

Sunday at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival

There wasn't so much a 'race track' at the Race Track on Sunday afternoon as there was a huge, flowing tub of mud. But, really. All in all, it was a great day.

***

It's not Jazz Fest if you don't get wet-- but really... we didn't find the muddiest spot to stand in. This was indicative of the entire Race Track.

Tim McGraw, in his first Jazz Fest appearance
Josh and Natalie... behaving?
Natalie and Megan... behaving?
Strangers having too much fun.

***

Really, though. Do you see that mud? Fuck yeah!

Tattoo

"I didn't know you were religious..."

"Because I'm not."

(puzzled look)

"It's not about having faith, but believing there's something out there worth having faith in.  It's about seeking something that you may never find, but looking anyway, because that's what you have to do.  This is a talisman for a life's journey-- a symbol to remind me each morning to go out there and find what I didn't find yesterday.  And if I don't find it today, it'll remind me to look again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.  And if I spend the rest of my life seeking that fleeting item in which to lay my faith, so be it.  Life is in the seeking-- not the finding."

"Well, it looks really cool."

"Yeah.  I know."

A few days ago I walked down to Jackson Square and stood in front of the St. Louis Cathedral, that massive monument to God and order in the center of America's most Catholic and crazy city.  I looked at the church for a moment, and then strode away.  From down Chartres I turned to look back at the steeples rising into the night.  In a few days, I leave New Orleans, and I don't know if I'll ever see that building again.

"Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?"

"It reminds me a lot of that, as well..."

Eye Candy: Ryan Reynolds

I find it exceedingly difficult to take you serious as a legitimate actor.  But, then again, it looks like I could do my laundry on your abs, so you get the benefit of the doubt.  How about another cameo in Harold and Kumar 2?

Daisy Chain

Hey Josh!  What did you do this afternoon?  Well, disembodied voice, let me tell you what I did.  I threw on my Rolling Stones t-shirt, hopped in my time machine, and went back the 1968. How was it, you ask?  It was lovely.

After work, Abby Autin and I leapt vigorously onto the idea of going for a walk in City Park.  So we did.  We wandered the trails, looked at the ducks and the turtles and the squirrels, and we marveled at the wandersome oak trees that stretch their limbs out for miles and miles from their knotty, aged trunks.

We  finally found ourselves at the statue garden.  Upon slipping inside, we prudently chose only to pay heed to the large sign that said "Free Admission."  We ignored the smaller sign directly under it that read "Suggested Donation".  

Anyway,  to the inside.  We saw the Greek goddesses and the Hercules and the abstract art.  We rang the civil rights lynch victim Japanese bell.  We tiptoed across the weird tide pool thing while wondering aloud if we were actually supposed to be standing on this at all.  And then we got the the quad with the wooden horse and the giant spider and the Blue Dog and the LOVE.  And what, dear friends, do you suppose was underneath that giant spider?  Four girls with Sharpee cat noses, sitting on blankets and blowing bubbles.

Yes, these young 21st century hippies were tripping balls.

I could scarcely hide my delight, and before long they spotted me not-so-discretely staring at them and pranced over to us.

"New friends!"  They cried, in a state of precarious acid-induced unbalance.

"Will you be our friends? Please be our friends."

"Would you like a cat nose?"  They thrust the Sharpee towards our face.  We kindly declined out of prudence, not lack of desire.

"Smell our bubbles!  They smell like vanilla ice cream!"  They blew the bubbles in our face and I giggled, and they giggled, and Abby Autin began to freak out a little.  She was uncomfortable, and it was time to go.  If I stayed I was going to join these girls in a state of revelry here under this spider and I was going to loose myself in celebration of a lost time that could never have existed as I picture it in my mind, regardless of what they want you to believe.

Before we left they gave me a daisy chain.  They tried to tie it around my wrist, but they couldn't.  They could hardly function at all.  I guess it's the price we pay.  I tied it for them.  

Oh friends, I felt so much delight due to this encounter with these girls.  Their heedless, joyful, "all you need is love"  attitude lifted my heart and my spirits for one fleeting, bittersweet moment.  Once it was done, I felt the same way I do when I hear the soundtrack to Yellow Submarine, or see photos from Woodstock or read Hunter S. Thompson's musings on the late 60s.  

To much unabashed, unrestrained joy can't survive in the real world.  It's either destroyed by outside forces that sanitize it because it horrifies them, or it implodes upon itself.  Either way, the status quo never changes.

Outside the statue garden, still a little dazed, Abby Autin and I were admiring a magnolia tree and were almost struck by an SUV with Texas plates.  It honked at us.  Back in 2008, we crossed a bridge on the way to the car and I took off the daisy chain and dropped it into the water.  It floated away.

But for a moment, on a beautiful spring day in New Orleans, Louisiana,  underneath a giant spider, entranced in bohemian camaraderie, I truly believed that love is all you need.

Just Who I Am: To Adrian and Ty

"Now that I've met you, would you object to never seeing each other again?" (1)

 You can't hold me because I'll push you off.  You say you love me and I'll say I don't.  You try and kiss me and I'll turn away.  With you, only with you, I'm too honest for our own good.  I've got walls too high to scale, scars so thick they look like skin, regrets to wide to get around and you're just another drop in the bucket.  But this levee won't break.  You can't get in.

Lying in bed, looking at you, you're both the same.  Too beautiful for our own good, so I'm going to ruin everything again.  But I can shoulder my mistakes with a smile.  Practice makes perfect-- these things are easier the second time around, but these things don't get any better.

Commitment is a four letter word, and it's one that I don't know.  

"So kiss me hard, because this will be the last time that I let you." (2)

I always walk away before I get too attached.

But believe me, baby.  You can do better that me.

 

"One day you're going to find someone, and right away you'll know it's true-- that all of you're seeking is done and I was just part of the passing through.   And right there in that moment you'll finally understand that I was better as a memory than as your man." (3)

Footnotes

1, Aimee Mann

2, Chris Carrabba

3, Kenny Chesney

Hamburger or steak? Hamburger or steak?

A little rage at a stupid person and a stupid behavior:

I was at an IHOP, it was early in the morning and sitting adjacent to me was a three top of highway patrolmen. Or maybe NOPD. Either way, it's irrelevant. They were law enforcment officers, regardless of their exact affiliation. Anywho, they were waiting for their food, and I was waiting for my food and the waitress was ready to go home because it was about 4:30am.

And then she brought out their food and she asked, very kindly "Who had the big steak omlette?" And one of the patrolmen said, quite frankly, "I don't know what I ordered." I wanted to get up from my booth, take that heavy porcelain plate from the waitress's hand and bash him over the head with it until he cried.

I have waited tables and I have been to many different restaurants. There is absolutely no fucking reason for you to order food and then, ten minutes later, have no idea what it was you ordered. Are you that easily distracted? Could you even read the menu?

Hold on though, let me clarify something: actually there are two situation where it is acceptable.

1. You are intoxicated. If you are high or drunk, you're forgiven for not knowing what you ordered. You're not forgiven for being a public nuisance, but you are forgiven for not remembering what kind of food you requested.

2. You're in a restaurant that is of an ethnicity with which you are not familiar. Japanese, Thai, African, Lebanese, maybe even Chinese-- so you don't quite remember what you ordered? Okay, whatever, it's probably chicken and rice stretched out into eighteen syllables-- you don't deserve to have your nipples chopped off and shoved down your throat.

But if you are a highway patrolman who is on duty (and therefore, theoretically, sober) and at an IHOP, there is no excuse for this annoying, frustrating, unforgivable ignorance. I'm suprised you were able to drive your car to the IHOP in the first place. It terrifies me you are allowed into a profession that allows you to carry a gun.

There is no more frustrating waste of a server's time than to spend three minutes pondering what type of food you ordered 15 minutes ago. If you can't remember this simple, obvious thing, can I really trust you with any food at all? Do you know how to chew? Mightn't you choke? That's a liability. On one plate I have a hamburger. On the other is a steak. Which is yours? Oh, you don't know? You deserve to starve.

Eye Candy: Eric Bana

Don't worry, Eric.  Regardless of how this new-fangled Hulk revision turns out, you'll always be Bruce Banner to me.