Manifest Clandestiny

6000 miles - 13 states - 45 days - 7 burgers - 4 movies - 15 hikes - 1 flat tire - 0 plans fulfilled

We are back where we started, undercover and sneaking around Pagosa Springs six weeks to the day that we took off on this unintended intentional journey. There are some housekeeping items to attend to and a quick buck to be made but we are clandestine, sleuthing around town like Marty and Doc in 50's Hill Valley. That's Heavy. To this day, nothing has gone as expected but we're healthy, safe and after almost 45 straight days together, we're still madly in love. This trip full of twists and turns, hospitals and hamburgers, is shaping up as a once-in-a-lifetime journey that is strengthening our bond as every plan 'fails' and every improvisation is met with a WTF attitude that finds us laughing uncontrollably and the absurdity of it all. We are lucky.

It's been close to a month since I've posted. Somehow, spending time among the whirring, beeping and whizzing of a ICU soundtrack doesn't create content that I'm in a hurry to share. My dad is doing better - thanks to all that have checked in - he is now home after a months long stay in that horrible place that people go to die. His laugh and spirit never left even as his breath escaped him. His legs don't work like they used to but damn straight if he's going to let that deter him from being independently mobile. I appreciate his resolve and his strength through all of this. My step-mother is an angel picked right out of a John Prine song, sitting by my dad's side at every moment, inquisitively navigating the mind-numbing atrocities that occur on a daily basis in the American healthcare corporation. And what can I say about my beautiful bride? She's had my back and held my hand tightly through every moment of this difficult time, never uttering a sour word about what, where, when or why. "How do people exist in this heat?" Sarah asks. "Fair question. I don't know how I did it for 5 summers and no air conditioning. I was a lot thinner" I answer.

I will make an effort to update on a more regular basis as our trip resumes in the North East quadrant of this beautiful country. For now, I will, as promised, provide you with a list of the top 10 adventures, eats, drinks, swimmin holes and chicken rolls that we stumbled upon during our 3 week stay in Tennessee and Western North Carolina, most of which will not be a trick to end belly fat.

  

#10

Late night Waffle House

Weaverville, North Carolina

I order my hash browns large, smothered, covered, diced and chunked. It's a right of passage for soaking up boozy McBooze face at 1 am. 

 

#9

East Nashville

East Nasvhille is where 96% of my college buddies ended up relocating after graduating (or not) from Middle Tennessee State University. It's way cooler than the glitz and glamour of the lower Broadway honky-tonks of downtown Nashville. In fact, it's way cooler than you are, so don't bother coming unless you are covered (tatted), smothered (cigs and PBR), diced (a musician) and chunked (black/flannel). 

Dino's

 One of the finest late night diners any side of the Mississippi. Excellent burgers, fries and frito pie. Terrible drinks and loud, often questionable music.   

The Crying Wolf 

Cocktails expertly crafted under the peering, glazed over eyes of  many a mounted mammal by a bartender that gives less of a shit than you. 

Hugh Baby's

Nashville's answer to In-N-Out. Founded by pitmaster Pat Martin of award winning Martin's BBQ, this throwback burger and fries joint serves up delicious and straight-forward cheeseburgers that you can customize with pit smoked pulled pork, bacon, cheese and slaw. But why do that? They are perfectly cooked (crispy to the edge) and delicious as is. Don't screw it up. 

 The 5 Spot

The best, consistent, diverse and exciting live music/dance party lineup in Nashville. Soul Sunday, 

Mowtown Monday, $2 Tuesday hosted by the Lyle Lovett-esque Derek Hoke. Swing dancing, 80's dance parties and a rotating schedule of punk, funk, rock, country and soul on the weekends keeps you on your toes while standing asses to elbows with your favorite country music sidemen. 

#8

Flyte World Dining & Wine

Nashville

Don't let the wining and dining fool you, we are on a strict budget. We have to work odd-jobs to maintain this glamorous lifestyle (more on this later). HOWEVER, we have become experts on finding happy hours and Flyte has one of the best. $5 vodka or gin martinis and 25% off the starter menu - locally sourced and delicious everything - allows you to ball on budget before hitting up shows at:

#7

 Fantastic Negrito @ City Winery

Nashville 

Beautiful (yay!) Chain (boo!) Wine (yay!) Expeisive (boo!) Great sound (yay!) really expensive (boo!) Fantastic Negrito (YAY!) $15 martinis (BOO HISS BOO!) 

 #6

Dry Falls

Franklin, NC

15 miles from quaint downtown Franklin, North Carolina is a treasure trove of waterfalls, hikes, mountain top lakes and hidden old money estates. Dry Falls lies below a short walk punctuated by loud children, chain smokers, selfie stickers, insta posers and litter bugs - all enjoying the serene sounds of nature and car alarms. It's beautiful. We couldn't leave soon enough. 

#5

Ozone Falls

East Tennessee

Located a few miles off of I-40 about an hour west of Knoxville, this "waterin hole" provided welcome road-side relief akin to a 64 ounce truck-stop Mountain Dew and fried chicken** A quick scamper down several strategically placed rocks and boulders led us to this oasis in the mid-summer heat. Outside of the deliverance lookin fellas with their ubiquitous cigarettes, this was a surprise find that we enjoyed tremendously. 

#4

Dodge's Chicken Store 

Murfreesboro, TN

**Truck-stop fried chicken and pizza sticks can indeed provide welcome road side relief after a hard day of reminiscing at many a college watering hole. Sub 64 ounce Mountain Dew for brown bag Coors Light, please. I don't recall having this bad of heartburn after eating this same meal in college...?  

#3
Asheville, NC
Everything you've heard about Asheville is true. All of it. Great live music scene, more breweries than hippies, "mountains" and a foodie paradise. We got an inside scoop that our pals Fantastic Negrito would be performing for free .99 at Downtown After 5, a wonderful monthly concert series that is put on by the Asheville Downtown Association. Our intel operative also suggested that we hit up:

The Lazy Diamond
A punk-rock shot-n-beer dive bar that's equal parts fuck you and c'mon in. Show your membership card at the door, have a seat at the bar, and tap your fingers to the agitated frenzy pulsating through the joint. Walls are adorned with show posters and bathrooms with graffiti. Skee ball and pop-a-shot are as thirsty for you quarters as you are for a tall PBR. Drink up.

Nine Mile
Caribbean inspired and vegetarian friendly. Pasta and rice dishes topped with outstanding jerk chicken, fish or veg in complex and imaginative coulis spiked with a touch of cream, ginger and spice. Perfect black beans and tangy, tropical salsas accompany generous portions at very affordable lunch prices.

 

#2
Buxton Hall Barbecue
Asheville, NC
I could wax poetic about this church of smoked meats - East Carolina style low-and-slow all wood, whole hog barbecue. Tender and squeaky green beans with a shot of vinegar simmered under the cooking pig, bathing in a shower of pork jus. Cheerwine bourbon slushies and a life-altering smoked and fried chicken/bread and butter pickle/pimento cheese sando on house made biscuits that had me plotting a move to Asheville in order to learn the Jedi master secrets. Buxton Hall, you complete me!

 

#1
Friends & Family
This trip wouldn't be possible or nearly as enjoyable without the support and hospitality of our incredible friends and family dotted throughout the country. I was about to go off on some tangent about how we all need to get out, take the path less traveled, reconnect with nature and some other bullshit but I'm getting tired of writing, so I'm going to cop out, use a quote and post a pretty picture. Thanks to my brothers Dave, Jeremy, Mark, Chris and Vic for showing us the good times in TN and NC. Thanks to our family for all the love and support.



Smoky Mountains
Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina

Why don't you make like a tree and get outta here!
-Young Biff 

Transcendental Tourists

The Bat Tower

Nashville, TN 

IT'S FUCKING HOT!

- My first thought arriving to Nashville the summer of '97

- My first thought arriving to Nashville the summer of '18 

It's been 16 years since I moved back to Colorado from Nashville; a freshly minted college graduate armed with a degree in University Studies from Middle Tennessee State University and a desire to do nothing else than snowboard and play music. Not much has changed in that regard. Add a heaping spoon full of wanderlust and a dash of responsibility and you've a Damon casserole -- or a Damon hot dish as they say in Minnesota, DON CHA KNOW?! Speaking on Minnesota, we were just there following an exceptionally bland drive through North Dakota, following a slightly less bland drive through eastern Montana, following a beer and a turn-of-events-conversation in middle Montana, following a very "People Of Walmart" supply run at Walmart in Butte, Montana, following a not-so-surprising text message received as we screamed around that last dirt road turn and headed North on MT 287. 

*Sigh* 

My Dad is ill. He has been for a while. If hospitals stays were In-N-Out Burger, Dad's been In crushing double doubles and fries with a large milkshake to boot. Sarah (henceforth, I shall refer to "The Roommate" as Sarah) and I knew there was a possibility that we'd need to make a pit stop in the pit-of-hell-hot Deep South at some point during the summer but we never anticipated the driving 1,700 miles/entering a meat raffle in Fargo/day drinking in Minneapolis/sleeping at a rest stop in Wisconsin/eating Thai in Southern Illinois/ending up in the ICU at St. Thomas West in Nashville portion of the road trip. But that's why road trips are the best, eh?*

 *I'd adopted "eh" into my lexicon prior to our no-holds-barred road trip to Canada were to commence. Isn't that Ironic?** 

**It's Ironic because I used lyrics from Canadian born singer/songwriter Alanis Morissette's song, "Isin't It Ironic" to point our the irony that I adopted the widely used and sometimes mocked invariant tag, "eh" in anticipation of spending the summer in Canada. Instead, we're in Nashville, y'all!

Eh... (less Canadian, more Chris Berman). Forehead smack... Inner dialog, "This is my dream road trip! I'm finally back in Montana! With my Thelma and Louise like bandita wife! WE'RE ADVENTURING!" 

Double forehead smack... Inner dialog, "You're an asshole Damon, go see your Dad." 

Pondering over a pint at The Murray Bar whilst watching Croatia score the game winning PK against Russia, we lifted our glasses, motioned for a quick clink-clink and looked each-other in the eyes knowingly and exasperated. We're driving to Nashville. 

The Murray Bar

Livingston, Montana

 To get to Nashville from Livingston requires a not-so-scenic traverse of the American heartland from northwest to southeast. As we peruse our road atlas, we see that we can take I-90 East through South Dakota, then head south on I-29 through Nebraska and Iowa. That sounds terrible. Like, drive off a cliff Thelma and Louise style terrible; without the convertible, bandannas and Brad Pitt. I grab my phone and plug in coordinates to the navicomputer, "looks like we can head slightly north and drive through Minnesota before heading southeast through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Kentucky." We agree, "Alright! Let's do this!" (Cue the preparing for battle montage) Route saved, beers finished, pay the beer tender, high-five, sync watches, click seat belts, back out carefully, use turn signal, merge on to highway, set cruise control, drive straight for 13 hours, reassess the cliff jumping idea...

    

via GIPHY

I have traveled this path before, the I-94 corridor. Fargo, St. Cloud, Twin Cities... I scavenge my memory banks while flashes of landscape scream by at 79 miles-per-hour. "Where is Brained?" I think to myself, my inner dialogue now in full control... The Paul Bunyan statue, formative performances at the now-defunct Eclectic Cafe, manicured greener-than-green lawns. The lovely, welcoming and oh-so humble people. Northern lights, cigarettes and humid nights. The visceral recollections are as thick as the summer air, the images come flooding back and I can't get enough. I am at ease in perpetual motion. The travels of yesteryear align with the present-tense and there is a momentary, lightning-quick flash of clarity and purpose. It's palpable yet just beyond my reach.

It's getting dark. We have worked our way east into another time-zone. We are hungry and tired but manage to find a decent hotel a few miles north of downtown Minneapolis. It has the pool that we require and never use and the continental breakfast that we require and never eat. The provolone, turkey, pickle and spicy mustard wraps are consumed with little enjoyment but they satiate nonetheless. We settle in for the night and Sarah tells me she needs a break. I put up some resistance but I know she's right. We pass out to cable TV and cold air conditioning. Our limbs uncoil, taking advantage of every square inch of the king bed. Sarah steals all the pillows.

It's barely 11 and it's 90 degrees and humid. We fight about stupid things while on rent-a-bikes looking for something to do in a city we don't know. She suggests we go to the Irish Pub to figure it out. I don't listen to her and try to figure it out pedaling up a hill, in traffic whilst staring the navicomputer in my right hand and shifting with my left. We are sweating profusely, yelling profanely and I'm starting to lose my shit. Remember all that aforementioned clarity stuff? Not today, buddy... We dock our bikes a little too aggressively, stand with hands on hips and stare off in different directions mad as hell.

Man Smart, Woman Smarter.

15 minutes and an Uber ride later, we're at Keegan's Pub enjoying a black & tan and receiving a laundry-list of awesome things to do from an enthusiastic and informative bar tender.

Man Smart, Woman Smarter.

What transpires is a lovely day of bike riding and bar hopping. A perfect, non-muddled Old Fashioned at The Sonder Shaker, a impeccably adorned Chicago dog and fall-off-the-bone pork shanks at the not quite divey enough, Whitie's World Famous Saloon. A not-cold-enough Budweiser at the totally divey enough Terminal Bar (Est. 1932) served by an appropriately surly 3rd generation owner/shit talker/name unknown bartendress. "That'll be, hm... $3.50 each. Oh, let's just call it $7!"
Our day was full of twists and turns, biking across bridges and back again. A beer here, a cocktail there. Small bites to sustain but not exhaust. It was suggested that we go get a Jucy Lucy at at Matt's Bar but that would require another cab ride and we we're content with pedal power to and fro. As day turned to dusk, I received another text message from a forgotten friend, "Dude, that picture you took on Instagram was literally in front of my house. What are you doing tonight? I'm playing a show in a half hour" Live music in Minneapolis? Yes please! Maybe I can even elbow my way on to stage to earn a free beer and a shot of adrenaline.

Seth Doud is one of the ghosts from yesteryear that I was daydreaming about when driving through western Minnesota. A fiercely passionate musician with raw talent in droves, he performs on the edge of a cliff with no safety net below - few can be so bold. I met Seth while touring with Angie Stevens through the mid-west in the 20aughts. We'd shared the stage and a brew or three, having more conversations in music than English. He is one of those humble and endearing types that this part of the country so famously produces. The impromptu reunion at The Aster Cafe is quickly met with an offer for a beer - not yet earned - and an invitation to stay in the guest bedroom of the apartment Seth shares with his girlfriend. We are kicking ourselves as we politely decline, having already booked the hotel from the previous night. Alas, we join new friends and chat over too-smart cocktails and $5 Old Style drafts. The exposed brick, flat bread pizzas and bartenders con suspenders y bowties lend an air of uptight hipster-ness to the night. Our group is loose and a little loud for the melancholy yet pretty sounds emanating from the She and Him type duo harmonizing brilliantly from the small stage but we are enjoying ourselves among the sparsely populated patrons on this warm night.

It's Seth's turn to perform. He blazes through a few originals and the invites me to accompany him on cajon. He says a few complementary words about me and about how we came to be together at this moment in time. A few smiles and nods and we are off on a runaway train as I follow his strumming pattern intently, I close my eyes and listen hard for changes, for movement in tempo, vocal inflection and emotion, carefully matching his intensity and backing off when necessary. We play another and Seth gives me some space to embellish rhythms and pull off a few 'licks'. The few left in the audience clap appreciatively and give a few hoots and hollers.

 I thank Seth for the chance to play and exit stage left. The adrenaline is now coursing through my veins as I sit to catch my breath and down a once thought undrinkable IPA. Seth closes out his set with a apropos cover of The Purple One's rain song:

Everyone is giddy and a little sideways by the time Seth finished his set. There is nefarious talk of a Monday night strip club adventure, or, at the least grabbing a sixer and hanging at the apartment. The plan is to meet up at The Red Cow just across the Mississippi for a late night snack. This is very close to the apartment and has a great happy hour. We are hungry. We oblige willingly. In the car, we make a rash decision to cancel our hotel room and take Seth up on the offer of accommodations for the night. We'll simply let them know when we meet up in the mere 5 minutes it takes to get to the next destination. We arrive, order late night, local cheese curds recommended by our delightfully gay waiter and are on the lookout for our friends. Our curds arrive. Our new friends don't. Curdely-doodle-darn-doo-diggity and a Mother....Fucker.... for good measure. Phone calls go unanswered, texts as well.** Four handed slap to the noggin(s) as we realize our plight. Spend an ungodly amount of money for a fancy pants downtown hotel - probably with a pool and continental breakfast - or ration our limited budget by sleeping in the overly cramped Subaru Impreza at a trucker rest stop on the Minnesota/Wisconsin border, cheese curd farts and all.

**No one was injured or harmed in the case of Red Cow disease.

CONTENT! Sarah suggests. CURD FARTS! I counter. Saving $300 for sweaty and uncompromisingly uncomfortable night of sleep is worth it, we decide. Our initial decent into the pit-of-hell-hot south has begun...       

Chicago Dog at Whitie's World Famous Saloon 

Minneapolis, MN

Wall "Art" at Whitie's 

A perfect Old Fashioned at Sonder Shaker 

Minneapolis Skyline/Incriminating Instagram Picture

Artsy Fartsy

Post fight, post beer. Smiles all around. 

O' Canada, Where Art Thou?

** This Is Not Canada ** 

It is 'Merica and it's TREMENDOUS! The actual location of the precise spot upon which this photograph was taken is someplace close to Mary's Nipple which is generally adjacent to Grand Targhee that in fact is very, very close to Wyoming. And Idaho. Regardless, it's super to look at with your eyes and a little less through the lens of an iPhone. Alas, it is not Canada. 

It's been 5 years since I've licked my quill and put finger to keyboard. I'm surprised this account is still active. I'll be equally surprised if anybody will read more than a top ten list of shocking things to reduce belly fat! But if you, dear reader stick around long enough, I will diligently produce THE MOST AMAZING TOP 10 LIST EVER!!!!!! (fake news!) Though, for now, I will try to be thoughtful and eloquent and witty and all of those things. This is serious business folks -- it's a travel blog and I'm going to make all of the youtube money and become a best selling e-author and I'll soon enough be sipping non-virgin daiquiris with Zuckerburg, Musk and Branson on some far away island discussing space travel and posting Instas of our pasty white feet boomeranging left..right..left..right..left..right. 

My last attempted entry was from 7/17/2013. The subject was Alaska. I had just returned home to Colorado after the trip of a lifetime. Three months later, I re-met the woman of my dreams at a Gary Clark Jr. concert in Denver. I didn't really know it was the woman of my dreams but the tall PBR, whiskey and leather pants brought it all into a hazy-and-slightly-askew-blurry-focus. The Roomate (I shall refer to Sarah henceforth as "The Roomate") stated very early on and very matter-of-factly, "Once this stops being fun, I'm out!" Challenge accepted. 

Pagosa Springs->Nashville->Memphis->New Orleans->Ireland->MARRIED>Michigan/U.P.

>FOOD TRUCK->Arizona->San Francisco->New Orleans->SELL FOOD TRUCK->MOVE->BUY HOUSE->Santa Fe->California->Greece->Vegas->Colombia->RENT HOUSE->Ontario - uh, nope. Utah->Idaho->Montana->British Columbia->Washington->Oregon->NorCal. YEAH! Road trip of my dreams... 

ROAD TRIP 2018

 The Roommate and I - after little debate and many box wines - decide to rent the house and go somewhere. We see opportunity in Canada to work, play and dine on Mc Poulet. Unfortunately a shark, drunk on Swiss Miss, snatched that idea right out of our hands. Asshat. So be it. "Let's go North! and West!" So we did -- and we are. We visited our best buds and superhosts at Toxby Ranch in Idaho by way of Park City, UT. We hiked, tubed, jammed, drank superb wine and sake (not boxed and not hot!) We celebrated freedom with too much sunscreen and just-right hamburgers and hand-cut fries. As fireworks exploded into the night, our thoughts drifted to the adventure that lay ahead...

Guardsman Pass. 

Park City, UT

Lackwaxen Lake Trail

Park City, UT

Grand Tetons

Grand Targhee, Wyoming

#porkchopexpress

#freethearms

Toxby Ranch, ID 

     

Potosi Hot Springs Campground

Ennis, MT

Yesterday morning, we awoke from a restful - yet paranoid sleep (lot's 'o human hungry Grizzled Bears in MT, we were told) packed up camp, packed up the subie and hit the road. The only place we had to be was the greatest candy store known to me, The Sweet Palace in Phillipsburg, Montana. By the time we screamed around the last dirt road and on to pavement (MT 287 North) I received a text message that will change the entire scope of our trip and perhaps my life... 

No Rest For The Bi-Continental-Curious

I've felt as of late the writing a blog is an exercise in unbridled narcissism. A rambling and verbose expansion of the need for concise and attention seeking text that dominates our current twitter-face social universe. I am guilty. Guilty of posting the ridiculous, the obscene, the censored, the important, the self-important, the promotional, the humorous and the pathetic; most of which is represented in instagram photos of meals I've cooked and painstakingly garnished -- for myself. But here I am, half-drunk on wine, feeling clever and creative; fidgety fingers stabbing quickly at keys eagerly awaiting a masterpiece. Why? What is so god-damn interesting in my life would lead others in my "social network" to eschew their 140-character intake of the arcane and want to enter my inebriated and twisted little universe?

Clearly, I don't have an answer to that question. Now I'll post alternating pictures of cats with funny captions and attractive women eating turkey legs.

 

As I pour over travel memoirs of the famous, the not-so-famous, the explorers, the deceased and the unknown, I realize that their stories may have had just as humble beginnings as mine; except perhaps theirs were funded by National Geographic and mine are fueled by rhythm, food, caffeine and alcohol. Nonetheless, the last three plus years of my life I have spent a good amount of time drunk and silly and love-struck. The remainder of the hours have been spent on the road in a car/train/airplane, behind a drum set, in a kitchen, slowly climbing a mountain, descending a mountain at high rates of speed, Machu Picchu, Mexico, transversing the great USA in a rock-n-roll van in a rock-n-roll band, learning the secrets to Brasilian music in the redwood forest north of San Francisco, applying to teach English in Japan, carousing with friends and harboring avidity directed at another on the cobblestone streets of The Big Easy, savoring every last bite of the most fantastic bagel while wandering the congested avenues of Manhattan, and finally enjoying the solitude and peacefulness of my quiet mountain home in Colorado. Strong emphasis on the word HOME. Undoubtedly, I'm misplacing a detail or seventeen in my brief synopsis but like I said, I was drunk a lot too. I can't be expected to recall everything.   

Why do I feel compelled to recount this tail of self-congratulatory garbage as I have? Why do I agonize over grammatical errors or pace endlessly, searching a combination of words that will satisfy an apparent deep seeded desire to sound educated and interesting and cultured? These are questions I pose to myself prior to attempting prose and debilitating thoughts that have kept me from doing so for well over a year. But then I ask "why does the song writer write, or the painter paint?" or hitting closer to home, "why does the cook cook?" Sustenance and survival are the obvious and easy answers, however, in our burgeoning foodie obsessed culture, we all know that the answer to that question is multi-layered and complex akin to the finest dishes produced by our culinary masters. We eat and drink to celebrate. We listen to music that evokes a emotional response whether it be dancing, head-banging or self-loathing. We view art to see into the soul of the illustrator, sculptor or photographer - to attempt to understand the subject matter no matter how low-brow or abstract. We read to be transported into the minds of the interesting, the perverse, the exciting, other-worldly and fascinating. I am discovering at this very moment that I write to fill a creative void. It's challenging and painful and I hate myself for doing it. I despise the time I'm wasting when I could be practicing drums or at the gym or going for a hike. 

An epiphany strikes me as I'm once again finding any excuse to not finish what I've started. I will finish this god-forsaken blog entry which has gone completely off the subject matter I originally didn't intend to write about. My life and these experiences I choose to narrate aren't simply vacations. They are not well thought out and planned. Hell, I never thought I was going to be a professional musician. I never thought I was going to work in a kitchen again and enjoy the shit out of every minute preparing food that elicits smiles from a reserved suburban clientele. I didn't imagine that I'd be sharing my narrow breadth of rhythmic knowledge with an attentive young audience that will have more distractions than any generation that precede them. I'd always hoped to travel, to be worldly and wise but for a time, I didn't think that was in the cards. I was in a dark place - the bottom of a canyon if you will - the walls above crumbling down, suffocating my spirit and crushing my will. I was able to fight through it with the enormous help of a supportive and "real-life" social circle. Friends and family I leaned on in times of strife. Individuals I met with face to face to share a story, a beer, a hug. 

I have found happiness and contentment but not without wanderlust and curiosity always tugging the other direction. I am steadfast and ultimately believe in myself no matter where my "career" may lie. Life as an adventure and I am a willing participant. 

Alaska, Denali, the Kenai Peninsula await. 

A rousing percussion performance in Las Vegas (on pots and pans of all things) still visible in the rear-view mirror. 

...More to follow

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

-Mark Twain   

Bright Lights, Big City - Part 1

I fancy myself a avid traveler and I guess over the last 3 years, I have been. Much more than others and not as much as many, enough for some - but not so much for me. If I had my druthers, I'd be in a perpetual state of transit. Not a transient, mind you but a globe-trotting and free wheeling gentleman of some esteem, adept at wooing daughters of royalty while drinking with servants in the bowels of Romanian castles.

Fancying myself as something I am not is a wonderful daydream but the reality of the situation is my travel is primarily domestic, my free wheeling has budgetary constraints and my wooing is akin to Mario Mendoza's success rate hitting a baseball. Regardless, I flee when I can; exploring the lower 48 with the same enthusiasm I'd have continent hopping with an amex black and Olivia Munn as Princes Leia.



A fortunate set of circumstances recently allowed me to visit a place I've never wanted to go: New York City. Frontier airlines dangled a $220 round trip fare direct from DIA to La Guardia (La Gwordia? La Gahdiah?) that I simply could not pass up given that both my cousin Matt and college chum Brian live there. Matt is a student and NYU and Brian is a professional writer. If Matt were an investment banker and Brian a TV personality, I'd probably not have considered the trip. I assumed that both were proximate to my economic stratosphere (me being on the low end, of course) and that I could navigate the big pomegranate on a shoestring budget like those cute little guide books advise. My two hosts were more than accommodating, providing a plethora of options that didn't murder my wallet and may have even elevated my antiquated thought process a level or two.

-Strip Clubs
-Cheap Weed
-40's of Malt Liquor

I kid, I kid... well, except for the 40's

I hold up 4 fingers because we are drinking 40's
Apoloigies to fiddy cent
we is drankin fotys
Look how mature and distinguished we all look with our beards.
Pillsbury Dough Boy PHOTOBOMB!

As I was making final preparations to depart Denver, I emailed Matt to determine how best to acquire transportation from the airport to his apartment in Queens. Let me back up a bit and first tell you that I know nothing about New York. It's geography is completely foreign to me, I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the subway system and the neighborhoods (Brooklyn, Queens, Manhatten) are only significant to me as places that Jay-Z , Woody Allen or Billy Crystal perorate about via pop-culture.

I do remember that Eddie Murphy's character in Coming To America wanted to move to Queens when arriving in New York because he logically concluded that's where he would find an American Queen.



As one who doesn't typically use cabs I'm always a little uneasy about a cab driver pulling wool over my eyes, even in Denver. I'm about to head to the stereotypical asshole cab drive capitol of the modern world, clueless as to where I'm headed, white as snow with a suitcase in tow. Awesome. To further boost my confidence, Matt replies to my email with a very reassuring instructions as to how to deal with said cab driver:

"Once in said cab, prolly yellow, tell them that you are going to Astoria. With all of the NYC cocky confidence you've got, say 23rd ave at 28th st. If they ask how they should get there, respond with "whatever is fastest."

Grrrrreeeaaat. Damon Scott, Mr. NYC Cocky Confidence coming straight from the snow capped Colorado mountains on horseback pulling a carriage full of barrels of ice-cold Coors Original. I departed the plane around 11pm and made my way out of the severely outdated terminal, bypassing the baggage claim and exited the automatic sliding doors on a mission to quickly find a yellow cab. I looked to my left and saw a line of people patiently awaiting their turn to hop in the back seat of the clean and modern looking vehicles and I think to myself, "piece of cake... this ain't so bad". However, as my place in line continued to inch forward, I felt a tinge anxiety creep in between my ears and I started to stiffen up which is amazing because I concealed 5 shooters of whiskey on to the plane with me and pretty much downed them all while watching Millionaire Matchmaker on the smallish TV screen in the back of the seat

Yes... She's that scary, even miniaturized

I walked to the front of the line as the yellow Ford Escape pulled up beside me. The driver came around back to assist loading my suitcase into the rear of the SUV. In a thick and indistinguishable accent, he politely asked where I was headed. I loudly replied "ASTORIA. QUEENS!" His eyes seemed to widen a bit and he hesitantly nodded and backed away from the agitated, shaking, half-drunk loud mouth standing in front of him. With my iPhone clenched in my sweaty palm, GPS fixated on the destination; we silently rolled off into the bustling New York night. A few pleasantries were exchanged over the course of the 15 minute cab ride and I arrived quickly; unscathed, un-robbed and unharmed.

Over the course of the following 72 hours, I packed in as much New York City action as I could muster -- on a shoestring budget, of course.

Friday: 11:45 pm -- Matt and I drink multiple glasses/shots of beer/whiskey while catching up on life

Saturday: 10:30am -- Matt, Shauna, ((Matt's fiance) and I catch the subway to "museum row" and head to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I take pictures:






Matt is currently a PhD candidate at NYU's Institute of Fine Arts (I think). He's smart. He knows a lot about art. He has a penchant to fart. We spent a few hours at the enormous museum until it was time to get a drink. We headed to the southern exit and walked out to central park right as the sun was setting behind the Manhattan skyline. We grabbed a couple of Irish coffee's, had a seat on the quaint patio overlooking the small pond. It was all quite bromantic and fitting of a John Cusack cameo and a string quartet.



Matt and I met up with Shauna and walked down 5th avenue into the epicenter of mass consumerism and manufactured holiday cheer. There was a massive tree that must have been photographed 1.43 million times in the 5 minutes I was trapped amongst the immoveable heard of cattle people. I took one too:

Church of Jobs

Upon suffering a mild panic attack, I notified my hosts that I needed to depart Santa Claus Central with haste; certainly not before acquiring my new Louis Vuitton hand bag and Dolce Gabbana heels.

I was dutifully whisked away to an oasis of $3 draft beer and excellent Ethiopian cuisine:

With bellies full of beer and injera, we migrated to some other part of the eternal city in search of a Johnny Walker scotch tasting but instead found ourselves at a dingy garden level bar straight from the northern Florida coast line. Walls adorned with cheeky, cliche, beach/pirate lingo; weathered fishing nets (probably purchased that way), wooden steering wheels or "helms" from boats. The ubiquitous game of beer-pong provides endless hours of intermittent and entertaining LOUD YELLING-GIRL SCREAMING-DRINK, DRINK, DRINKING -- perhaps only surpassed by the near ear-orgasmic quality of hearing frat dudes bounce quarters off wooden tables in an epic battleship war!



At this point, the three of us made the wise decision to catch the N train back toward Astoria but not before stopping to cap the night off with a little karaoke and a place that I don't remember. Thankfully, I neither have video nor pictures of the evenings entertainment. What is readily apparent is that Matt is blessed with the "talented singer" genes and I received the singular "talented idiot" chromosome.

Shauna, Matt, and I.
One very lucky mirror.

Part 2:
-Hanging with Brian
-Pizza
-Polish Beer
-Brooklyn
-Tebow Time
-GHOSTBUSTERS!

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