I am in love with king size beds. I spent most of the day in one today, trying to recover from some stomach flu that is going around our cast and caught me by surprise this morning. What's wonderful is that a person can roll over and over and over again and still not even be close to falling off the side of the bed. It's brilliant. I love it. And I want one of my own.
No, not the desert's most wild and hot festival. Just my brother. So this is what one learns in college nowadays. Wouldn't it be cool if this video grew in cult popularity like that reporter who fell off the pier while stomping grapes? Or like that ninja kid who flips over and falls and hurts himself? I guess to do that, my little brother would have had to light himself on fire. I hope he doesn't. Then who will I pick on?
[OK, OK. Then who will pick on me?]
Despite what we naively thought were air-raid sirens, we trumpled off through the incredible lightning storm in southwestern Tennessee last night to visit the home of the blues and dig in to some scrumptious barbeque. Turns out the sirens were alerting residents to severe weather. Seemed a bit of a production to me, but who am I anyway?
Beale Street was great. My second visit (the first, February 2005) was more better than the first one. See, this time, my dinner guest (we'll call her T-Dog because she doesn't like it) and I found a hole in the wall joint down an alley called "Rendezvous" [see photo]. It smelled delectible and was recommended highly by a mutual acquiantance, so we went. The ribs were fine (dry-rubbed) and the beer adequate (Michelob on draught). I would never highly recommend it, however.
We then went to BB King's club to hear some live blues and get a second meal. Unfortunately, the kitchen was closed... but the bar wasn't [and they had one of my favorite hefeweisen's: UFO]. Playing was BB King's band and the king of Beale Street, Preston Shannon [see photo]. It was just heavenly.
There is also a group of Australians touring the States, looking at our cities and towns to learn what we do right and what works and what doesn't. This is smart, see... they can then go back down under and build better cities and towns there than we have here. In any case, they sat down with us at the table and we got to chatting. Lots of fun. Tony [coincidentally the only other Australian I've ever met was named Tony] told me about a jazz club on Sydney's waterfront called either Downstairs or the Underground. He also said, which I was surprised to hear, that he was so impressed with the hospitality he found in the States. "Black, white or inbetween, you people are so kind. Always a hello or a how-are-you-doing." Thanks Tony!
Countdown continues: Five days and fourteen hours. Two workshops. Four performances. Two venues. Five states. One excited guy.
You wonder why it is
that I can't find the time to write--
I'm always climbing up to that great height.
You query why it is
my blog is not updated--
I'm jumping off the walls: I'm not sedated.
Your thoughts at times may question
"Where's Beedow's cute reflection?"
I tell you once I tell you twice:
I'll show my locks in two days thrice.
No Dad, not your beer. This is for real, living with the big kids, the upper crust, the elite, the ritzy rich. I spent my second ever Easter away from home [the first back in high school on a trip to Poland] at Sea Island, Georgia's Cloister hotel [read: extravaganza].
Of course, I was there on business. But, my O my, what a business trip it was. They provided us complimentary rooms... perhaps the single greatest place I'll ever stay... ever. Robe, slippers, twice-daily housekeeping, valets, drivers, security, et al. The beach club was lovely, the food [looked] brilliant, the weather delightful.
Here, you'll see two views of my room--my individual room, with tub and shower, balcony, screen door, baby crib [I didn't understand that one], Easter cookies on my pillow, minibar, and VERY comfy bed. Then, the exterior of the building my room was in, and lastly, the main hotel building on Easter night.
I don't know that I could ever really live like that. I mean, well, I am playing the lottery tonight, but ... it's such a different way of life. Everyone is dressed to the nines, or, like a catalog family. Son is wearing the same yellow-and-blue-striped polo as Papa, Daughter has on a frilly dress and patent-leather-shoes. It's a bit too much I'd say. When we go on vacation, we head out to a cabin up in the Canadian wilderness on a gorgeous lake and spend the days sitting in plastic pool chairs around the dirt and trees, drinking beers, eating chips and laughing a lot. I don't think these people even realize such a life exists--although, to be fair, I guess I never realized their world existed either.
Oh well. I was back in reality the next day as we checked into the EconoLodge.
That's all from Princeton, Indiana. Thirteen days and eleven hours until my flight home and thus the end of this contract!
The World's Fastest Indian puts the great Anthony Hopkins right where he should be: in his own movie. There's nothing else happening in this film except the master himself. It's a true star vehicle, looking back to the golden era of Hollywood and the real stars of the silver screen.
Hopkins gets his own film and while the book [do they call movie scripts books? i don't think so probably] is weak, it's one of those delightful flicks that is on the same plane as Life as a House... at least, for Beedow. [Beedow can be seen tearing up at both of these movies, and he's OK with that. You can be too.]
Sure it's quirky, predictable and light-heartedly odd. But it's got that emotional tug, albeit through conventional means [the neighbor boy, for instance] that just makes you want to hug your movie-neighbor. Mimi, I bet you'd really enjoy this movie a lot. JJ, I'm glad I didn't ask your advice before seeing it, because if you have seen it, you would have steered me away and I would have missed a grand opportunity at a lovely evening in front of the big screen.
[Plus, in this picture, I think he looks a lot like grandpa... right, Mom?]
Thing One
Rarely have I been more impressed with anything in life than I have been recently with what is popularly known amongst elitist circles as the YMCA. During my time across this vast nation, I have had the opportunity to make more use out of this tremendous organization than most people probably ever imagine. There is a wonderful part of their membership agreement which allows a person to frequent other Y's across the country for no extra charge. So, here I am, the poor son of a kindly set of parents who purchased a family membership to their local Y. Now, I simply show my card at Y's all over these fifty nifty United States and swim in their pools to my heart's content -- for no extra charge to anyone. BRILLIANT.
Thing Two
I spent a few hours aboard an actual WWII submarine yesterday, docked at the Wisconsin Maritime Museum in Manitowoc, WI. The COBIA was built in Connecticut, used on several tours of duty during the Second World War and then, in the 1970s, moved to Manitowoc where it is now part of the museum's tour. For twelve dollars, visitors can explore the three levels of the museum, which leaves much to be desired. For that much cash, a person wants to do more than look at model ships, but, alas, I realized that in fact people most likely DO want to see them as that's the purpose of the museum.
Anyway, the sub was great fun. The eighty men on board would spend up to sixty or ninety days at a time on board, in quarters closer than those in Crackalandia, Sao Paolo. The loo has a seven-step flush system which, if not executed correctly, will result in heaps of fun for everyone. The Captain permitted the men to smoke because it kept them calm. Hrmph. And, if that all sounds fun, the Museum offers "Family Night on the Sub" for only thirty-seven bucks: spend a night on board, just like the crew did. Woo hoo. Sign me up.
Last Thing
So far, no coppers have pulled me over for a banana related incident on my first return visit to WI since the original incident.
28.09.49: Days. Hours. Minutes.
In that time, my flight will take off from the Atlanta airport and take me back home again. I'm through. I received an email from an Orlando hotel asking me to fill out a questionaire about my stay a couple of weeks back. Half way down on the list, I was asked to count the number of nights in the past twelve months I have spent in a hotel. I did not count. Rather, I cried.
Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration. I didn't cry. But I did feel an overwhelming sense of solitude, loneliness and depression. Here it is, almost six months of living in hotels for two different jobs, visiting cities and towns across the midwest and eastern USofA ... why the long face? How many people dream of travelling across the country for their job ... a chance to see the world if you will (and also if you won't).
It's fine. It's interesting, don't get me wrong. In the past few weeks, I've seen Alabama (Birmingham, Talladega), Georgia (Atlanta, Americus, Swainsboro), Florida (Orlando, Ft Lauderdale, Hollywood, Tampa, Boca Raton), Tennessee (Nashville) and now Illinois (Springfield). And that's just in the past three weeks. It's been great. I love the opportunity to check out these cities and be able to say I've been there or here. I just want to spend some time in a home again.
One doesn't realize the value of home until one doesn't have it. How much do we take for granted... my oh my.
In any case, check out some of these pictures I've taken recently... I broke down and show you my true identity simply because there could be no better way to reveal it than in this photo taken with this blog's namesake (PHOTO DELETED 6/2/06). Then, a bus on our way to Tennessee yesterday. Third, Nashville at night. Fourth, my artsy shot of the front door of Abraham Lincoln's boyhood home. And last, the moon beyond the railroad crossing in midafternoon.
I don't consider myself a failure. And perhaps none of my acquaintences (personal or business) would use such an adjective either. However, today, I feel like one. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not in the mindset of, O! Methinks my life a suicide should be. Rather, I'm behind on my paperwork. WHAT? you query in a louder-than-normal voice. True, it's true friends. I have chosen to lie on the beach rather than do the advance work my tour requires. And now, I am responsible for housing myself and seven others in Chicago on Monday night and I don't have a clue in which hotel we're being put up by our presenter. Damn. Of course, no one is in his office over the weekend, meaning I will phone early Monday morning in the hope of making contact. If not, perhaps one of those seven people will end their friendship with me. Or worse.
Perhaps I should really have a knock-out weekend then if worse is to happen on Monday. Yikes.
