Teddy Roosevelt, where are you now?

There isn't a person in this country that doesn't agree -- yes, we're united on one point -- that we need a change in government. No, we can't agree on what that change may be, but we agree it's needed. Some support McCain, some Obama, some Hillary. Some people are still holding out for Al Gore or Ralph Nader, and others are still wishing Kusinich, Edwards, Romney, Guilliani, or Ron Paul were still in the race.

No matter who you support, I don't know anyone who supports the current administration. OK, statistics say a few still do, but I can't fathom who they are.

I've been pretty public of my support of Barack Husein Obama, who is not a terrorist, not a Muslim plant, not a weakling ready to hand the country over to "Muslim Fundamentalists", and a guy who I would trust to answer the phone at 3 a.m., 2 p.m., or whenever it should ring. I find him to be appropriately experienced, having served in the same Senate as Mr. McCain and Mrs. Clinton, and although he did not live in the White House for 8 years, I wouldn't vote for Chelsea, Socks the cat, or Monica Lewinski; I just don't find that argument valid. Most importantly, and maybe because he's not part of the Washington establishment, I believe him when he says he's not a politician, and that's what I'm looking for in a candidate.

Really, everything the opposition points out as his weaknesses are what I find to be his strengths. He's an elitist... far better than the moron we have now; I want an intelligent President. He's inexperienced... I read that as uninfluenced. He's too young... no, not at all; most politicians are too old. His constituents and donors are all young. It's the young who are truly going to feel the effects of this presidency. Oh, he doesn't wear a flag pin on his lapel... I'm not even touching this one.

Now the new attack, his Facebook constituency. The Clinton people brought this gem to the table. “Our people look like caucus-goers,” Grunwald said, “and his people look like they are 18. Penn said they look like Facebook.”Penn added, “Only a few of their people look like they could vote in any state.”

I'm part of this Facebook constituency, I donated money to his campaign, I'm 32 years old, I vote, I voted in the last 3 Presidential elections, as well as a number of Senate, House, state, and local elections. So many people my age are contributing to his campaign, voted for him in the primaries, and support him for the election. Yes, we're young; most of us are not quite old enough to be President ourselves. We're the generation inheriting this shithole we call a country.

When it comes down to it, Barack Obama isn't even my first choice for president, but of the choices I have, I feel he's the best for the country. He's not the best for me, he's the best for the country. Maybe I'd like to have a beer with this guy, maybe I wouldn't, but I don't vote on that kind of feeling. Maybe one day he'll vote away my right to carry a pistol on a bus, or make me file an extra 6 forms to buy a new gun, but our children will have medical coverage. No one politician is going to espouse all of my ideals, and I accept that. But my ideals don't rule the rest of the country. I'm an atheist, but most people consider themselves Christian, or at least "people of faith". I accept that the President of the United States won't always agree with me, but I can hope that the President of the United States will do what's best for the country. I believe Barack Obama will.

If I were to vote my personal beliefs, I'd have to go with Kusinich. Alas, he dropped out of the race. If I had to vote for the greatest concerns I can think of, I'd vote Nader, but I fear that he doesn't have the strength to win, nor do I know his position on the issues beyond the environment. In that vein, I'd love to see Al Gore, but without him running, it's hard to elect him. If there's one person on this planet I always agree with politically, it's Bill Maher. Again, he's not running for office. He's a comedian, he's good at that, and people need to remember that.

Now, if there was one person I could vote for now, who would best serve the total and overwhelming needs of the people, and who I would agree with point by point on just about every issue, I'd vote Theodore Roosevelt.

Good old Teddy, historian, naturalist, explorer, author, soldier, progressive, and (the two down points) former President of the United States who died 89 years ago.

T.R. became the 26th President of the United States at the age of 42. For reference, Barack will be 47 by Inauguration Day, and in fact the Constitution only requires on to be 35.

He was a Progressive reformer who sought to move the dominant Republican Party into the Progressive camp. He distrusted wealthy businessmen and dissolved forty monopolistic corporations as a "trust buster". He was clear, however, to show he did not disagree with trusts and capitalism in principle but was only against corrupt, illegal practices.

Where is this man today? This is the kind of guy who would kick George W. Bush and Dick Cheney squarely in the teeth. What do you think T.R. would say about Halliburton?

His "Square Deal" promised a fair shake for both the average citizen (through regulation of railroad rates and pure food and drugs) and the businessmen. He was the first U.S. president to call for universal health care and national health insurance. As an outdoorsman, he promoted the conservation movement, emphasizing efficient use of natural resources. After 1906 he attacked big business and suggested the courts were biased against labor unions.

It sounds to me like Roosevelt was a Social Democrat, or possibly a Libertarian. His platform sounds pretty progressive and on target for today, not bad for a guy who was in office over 100 years ago. This sounds like a guy I'd vote for.

As a second choice to voting for a dead guy who has already served his 2 terms, and is therefore ineligible to be President, I offer armed rebellion. Allow me to quote the Declaration of Independence:

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

Of course, I fear, despotism has taken its hold, so if I were to march on Washington with my musket in hand, I would most definitely be jailed, is not executed under the false grounds of Treason. Perhaps I'd be sent to Guantanimo Bay and be waterboarded. When we signed the Patriot Act, we threw away the Constitution. Evidently the Declaration of Independence was in with it.

We are at an important crossroads in this country. The Unites States is truly screwed up, and so is the planet, and our priorities in government seem to be equally flawed. The big issues shouldn't even be the war in Iraq. It's already a failure. The big issue is bigger, it's about the United States' place in the global community. Our foreign policy is inherently flawed. And our contribution to the deterioration of our planet is so far in excess of what a responsible modernized nation's should be. We need to think beyond our own borders and beyond our own lifetimes, and I'm not sure we can right now. It's not about gas being $4 a gallon, it's about fossil fuel technology being non-sustainable, environmentally irresponsible, and politically dangerous.

I'm in total support of any fuel source that can be tapped that is better for us and the environment than petroleum. I am leery, however, as we explore new possibilities, that what may seem the solution today may become a bigger threat to the Earth tomorrow. In many respects, I may simply be more "anti-fuel" than "pro alternative fuel". Global warming is possibly the single most important issue we face right now.

It's gone beyond contemplating change, and it's gone beyond "we need to sacrifice". The lifestyle of the Westernized person needs to change radically, and the solution is not a matter of alternative fuels -- a lack of dependence on foreign oil -- but a lack of dependence on those things that require oil. Biodiesel and hybrid cars may help, but not driving entirely is closer to what I believe the solution needs to be. It's no longer enough to buy recycled and recyclable products, it's time to buy less products. Consumerism is destroying the Earth, and I don't know if anyone noticed, but the Earth seems to be pretty integral to our existence.

It's time to change the "westernized" way of life. It's time to change the "westernized" mindset. The current administration would like to spread Christianity, freedom and democracy across the globe. We think too highly of "our" way of life. It's our way of life that's destroying this planet, both physically and politically. Look at the impact of "westernization"; I don't think we have it right. How can we be so vain and arrogant as to think our way of living is the best? Well, it's the same arrogance that shouts out that this is "the best country in world", shouted by voices who have never left its borders.

There is an absurd notion that the map of the globe as it was at the end of World War II is carved in stone. Sure, we can occasionally draw another few lines bisecting the Soviet Union, Czechoslovakia or Yugoslavia, but any other evolution of the Earth is not allowed. New empires may not be formed. Borders may not be shifted. Iraq may not invade Kuwait, nor may the flawed concept of Israel be abandoned.

OK, please put down your flaming arrows for a moment, I am not an anti-Semite. I just believe that the genius who decided that, as restitution for the Holocaust and the near eradication of the Jewish people from Europe, carving out a piece of Middle Eastern beach front property for them was the right move, should be shot. No, not shot; whoever came up with that well-thought plan should have been personally made responsible for ensuring it peace, armed only with a pocket-knife.

Israel is a political nightmare, for itself, for the region, and for the United States. Now, what I'm going to say next will have me labeled as a terrorist sympathizer along side Rev. Wright. Osama bin Laden made clear, prior to 9-11, that his cause was to end American involvement in Israel. He asked us simply to leave Israel to its own means and let the Middle East deal with itself. So, in completely ignoring this, because in our own arrogance we knew better what the Middle East needed than the Middle Eastern people, yes, we invited the attacks of 9-11. Now, even knowing this, the U.S. has a policy that "we do not negotiate with terrorists". OK, tell that to someone who's father worked on the 107th floor of Tower 2.

Even leaving the Middle East alone, let's go to China. Like Cuba, China is a Communist nation. We have an embargo with the tiny island nation of Cuba; we can't smoke Cuban cigars, and they have to drive cars from 1952. They seem to be doing OK repairing their 52 Chevys, and giving their citizens nearly free healthcare, and welcoming Canadian tourists. China, on the other hand, is a giant super-power nation under a totalitarian Communist regime. Do we have a trade embargo with them? No. We couldn't. How would we stock our Wal*Marts? How would Barbie poison our little girls? Where else would we get the cheap consumer goods we need to have... for 6 months... before they fill our landfills and leach lead back into the soil? And what does China import from us? Just job opportunities.

But we don't care about job opportunities lost to Southeast Asia. We're only concerned with Mexicans working here. Mexicans aren't stealing jobs from us, they're doing the jobs we refuse to. Without Mexicans picking fruit -- if we had to pay fruit pickers at least minimum wage -- do you have any clue what a gallon of orange juice would cost? And maybe illegal aliens are moving into the jobs with a fixed wage, too. I'm fairly certain the people serving my coffee at Dunkin' are illegal. That's fine by me. When I was 16, that was the type of job I had; I worked at Wendy's and later Pizza Hut, my friends worked at McDonald's, the movie theater, etc. But today's youth are too good for these types of jobs, and since I (and millions of you, too) still want coffee and hamburgers that we don't have to make ourselves, illegal workers will happily work those jobs.

Our children are too good to be employed as laborers, too. Our parents and grandparents worked in factories, making things, but they wanted better for us. They wanted us to go to college. Now we have generations of our nation's children over-educated, and of the mindset that they are too good to perform manual labor. So, we have two choices, illegal aliens in our manufacturing plants, or ship those jobs overseas with everything else. Let's face it, the only thing our country produces anymore is debt.

We make debt. Our government makes debt. We have one thriving industry in this country, and it's debt. Did you ever notice how many credit card applications we receive daily; more companies, creating debt for profit, profiting off our debt. We have domestic debt. We have foreign debt. We have unpayable mortgage debt, yet we bail out failed investment debt. We have a massive trade deficit, which is just more debt. This month the government is trying to mail you back part of its debt, hoping you'll buy something. The problem is, 90% of the things one might buy just produce more trade debt.

There are still a few American companies still benefiting from the economy. Unfortunately, these aren't companies in the U.S. right now. These companies are in Iraq. These companies are actually thriving because the government is creating more debt financing them in Iraq. At least we can say that this multi-billion dollar debacle is benefiting a few American companies, right? Sure. But do we know who owns these companies? Members of the current administration, that's who. It's no different than if Bush, Cheney, and the gang just brought bills before the Congress to make their checking accounts items on the national budget... really enormous items on the national budget. This isn't war profiteering, this is felony larceny on the grandest of scales. Now I'm sure this isn't the first time this has happened, but never before has it been so blatant. And we're letting it happen.

Why? Because we're complacent. We're happy with our westernized way of life, existing only as consumers. We're happy to destroy the planet. We're happy to be the hind end of the global community. And we're happy to be taken complete advantage of by those we put in power. I never told my Congressman I wanted to go to war. I never told my Senator it was OK to burn the Constitution and replace it with the Patriot Act. I told my Congressman I wanted to support a clean energy bill. I told my Senator I was against the use of torture in any way. Was I heard? Likely not. Will I allow him to represent me next year? Likely not.

One screaming madman with a blog is just that. 10,000 unified voices is a movement. And a movement that is quieted or ignored becomes a revolution. True patriots held a revolution; they didn't eavesdrop or wear flag pins.

I still, and will always love this game

I'd like to start on a positive note: Next year is the 100th Anniversary celebration for my beloved Montréal Canadiens. The 2008 All Star Game will be played in the Bell Centre. And the Habs will be coming off their best season in years.

The down side, The Drive for 25 ended last night.

Admittedly, I really didn't start watching the Habs until about January this year. It's hard, when your favourite sports team is 365 miles away and in another country, to really see many games. If I was a Rangers or Bruins fan, or even a fan of a more popular sport, I would have been able to see every game this year... maybe even go to one. But I'm a Habs fan. I've always been a Habs fan. I'll always be a Habs fan.

My love of Hockey obviously comes from my family in Montréal, specifically my grandparents, even though, ironically, they're Red Wings fans. The reason is rather socio-political, and has to do with the era they began watching. In the days of their teenage years there were 6 teams, 2 in Canada and 4 down in "the States". Living in Montréal, Toronto was right out. But, being English, Les Habitants were not "their" team, either. Being fans of the game in the truest way, it was a genius player of their day that brought them to support one favourite team: Mr. Hockey, Gordie Howe. I can't argue with that. So, for no less than 60 seasons they have been loyal to their Red Wings, even when 19 times the hometown Habs have taken home the Cup.

My grandmother was a sports fan all around. At one time I believe she held season tickets to both the Expos (MLB) and the Alouettes (CFL). The first professional sports game I saw live was an Alouettes game with my grandmother. I still remember the long Metro ride out to Olympic Stadium, or Stade Olympique, at the Pie IX station, in Montréal's East End. I'll also never forget watching the last hockey game with her -- this time just a CBC broadcast on TV -- in March 2004, just a couple weeks before she died.

My grandfather is a great guy to watch a game with -- not only is he a huge fan of the game, but having been so for better than 70 years, there's no one I know with as much insight as him. It wasn't just a fan's insight, the usual comments about who could do what better, and who was weak this season, but real insight from not only a fan, but a former player, and later, a referee. In the 40's and 50's, my grandfather played at the AA level. His career topped at City Champions playing for the Point AAA, but I thought he could have gone up to the NHL level. A purely academic argument, though, as he gave up hockey in order to be a husband and father, and since my existence is dependent on the decision, I can't really argue it.

But, based on his knowledge of the sport, and pure love of it, and a certain intangible element that I can only explain by his being Canadian -- if you've ever watched the Canadian telecast of a game, and the fervor with which the announcers have the play-by-play, you'd understand -- he watches every game with such passion, whether his team is playing or not. Sitting here, passively watching the Pens-Rangers game as I type, I cannot claim such passion.

Growing up, grandson of those two fans, not to mention aunts and uncles of similar die-hard passion for their own favourite teams, and even my mother who grew up watching my grandfather referee the local Youth Hockey games during her youth, being a hockey fan was just a given... simply in my blood. If there was Youth Hockey in Milford, when i grew up, I'm sure I'd have played, instead of wasting my time with Little League.

My attention breaks for a moment, as Evgeny Malkin just put Molly's Pens up 2-nothing on the Rangers, with a beautiful little backhander. OK, sorry, where was I?

The first recorded evidence of my Hockey fanaticism appears in 1976, when I'm still less than a year old. My favourite toy is a rubber hockey stick, probably originally designed as a doggy chew toy, but I could care less. I have a picture from 1978, standing in my great-grandmother's hallway, in pajamas that resemble a Canadiens uniform, holding my grandfather's hockey stick, which itself was about 2 feet taller than me. Perhaps that was the moment that started me as a Habs fan, a simple gift from my great-grandmother, probably influenced solely by the availability of such items in Montréal in the 70's.

But perhaps it was bigger. In the late 70's, we did have the Hartford Whalers, and they weren't half bad. It would make perfect sense for me to grow up a Whalers fan, but that wasn't the case. Montréal was my second home, and in my mind the epicenter of the hockey world, and so I did my best to watch my Habs when they played New York, or Hartford, or sometimes the Islanders. Any time I could catch a game, I suffered through every fuzzy, black and white, 13" minute, on broadcast television, on the other team's network. For the All Star game, and when they made it to the playoffs, I'd be rewarded with network coverage.

In 1986, perseverance paid off, and by this time, in color, on a 19" TV, I got to see my Habs win their first Stanley cup since I was 2. I survived another 7 years of drought until 1993, now having access to cable and ESPN, I watched the Habs win #24. Two years later I was lucky enough to be at Boston U. the year they won the NCAA championships. Now having much greater access to the game, and the ability to watch any game I wanted thanks to ESPN and the younger ESPN2, I thought the late nineties would be a great time to be a Habs fan. ESPN Classic even gave me access to the great games of my youth, reliving the glory days of le blue, blanc et rouge, and even watching the 1976 cup series swept by the Habs just 3 days before I was born.

My luck, and that of the Canadiens, would not be so good. Instead of a great return to glory, the next great Montréal dynasty, my adult life has been marked by the longest cup drought in franchise history. For 15 long years I have faithfully watched my Habs, only to see them miss the playoffs, or be eliminated by the likes of Carolina, or more painfully still, by long-time rivals the Boston Bruins. I've travelled to Montréal to see the Habs beat the Bruins in 2002, and to Madison Square Garden to see them foil the Rangers in their home opener after the lockout season. For 15 years I have remained a loyal fan, and I thought this year I might see the turn around I've so long waited for.

The first half of the season, I have to admit I didn't follow too close. The Versus Network coverage hasn't been what I would have hoped, focusing far more on American, and worse than that, West Coast teams. But coming out of the All Star break, the schedule gave me more opportunity to at least watch match-ups against New York and Boston. Then, in the late hours of the season, the Habs are in a race not only for the playoffs, but for number one in the East. Not only can I finally catch some games, but this is exciting hockey.

So from late February on, I've been glued to my television. I'd come to believe this could be the year. Even with Captain Koivu out for the end of the season, and into the playoffs, it's a year to have hope. Right up until April 6th, it was hard fought. Ending the season April 5th on a win against Toronto gave us an opening round match-up against long-time rivals Boston, who we'd gone 8-0-0 against in the regular season. A shootout loss by the Penguins the next day gave us first place in the East, and number 1 seeding. It was the most exciting end to a season I can remember.

That excitement carried right into the post-season. 4 to 1, April 10th at home; 3 - 2 in overtime, 2 nights later; this was the playoffs I'd been waiting for. It was hard fought, but Kovalev, Higgins, the Kostitsyn brothers, and a rookie sensation Carey Price in goal were getting it done. the Bruins came back with a 2- 1 overtime win at home the next night, but the Habs answered with a 1 -0 shutout, still in Boston, the following Tuesday. By now Price was being compared to Dryden in 71 and Roy in 86.

20 year old rookie sensations are a funny lot, though. Sometimes 20 and rookie win out over the sensation, and that was true about Price. In game 5, Carey fell apart, giving up 5 unanswered goals in a 5 - 1 loss. 2 nights later wasn't any better, and a 5 - 4 Boston victory forced a game 7. Some questioned coach Guy Carbonneau's faith in the young netminder, but Price pulled through in a stunning 5 -0 series-ending shutout. Price had been tested, bounced back, and the Habs were back in the race. Only 12 more wins to a 25th cup.

Montréal went 4 and 0 against the Flyers in the regular season, and Philly, too, had come off a hard fought 7 game series that they squeaked out in a 3 - 2 overtime victory over Washington. There was every reason to be optimistic. A 4 - 3 overtime victory in game 1 on the 24th added to that optimism, optimism that would be short-lived.

A 4 -2 loss, then a 3 -2 loss, marked by a complete break-down by price, squandering a 2-goal lead, brought big doubts. These doubts caused Carbonneau to pull Price and start Jaroslav Halak. But fixing Price wasn't enough, and in fairness, he was never the whole of the Habs' issues with Philly. Halak's night in net still resulted in a 4 - 2 loss. Game 5 would be in Montréal in 3 days, and with the Canadiens facing elimination on home ice, something had to change.

On May 3rd, in front of 21,000+ of the leagues greatest fans, their backs against the wall, it was do or die. Price got the start. Had Carbonneau made the necessary changes? Could the Habs figure out the recently stellar Martin Biron? It looked like they could when Tomas Plekanec tipped in a 30' rocket by veteran defenseman Patrice Brisbois, the only Hab besides Carbonneau with a ring from the 1993 series. The Canadiens were on the board early.

There had been 4 points where I believe the Habs were lacking thus far in the series:

Price needed to just play better. He needed to use the glove hand, he needed to be confident, and he needed to be ready and alert.

The power play needed to change. Great skating and effective cycling had made the Montréal power play the best in the league, and source of the majority of their scoring in the regular season, but in the playoffs, it was barely breathing.

Martin Biron was nigh unstoppable. The Habs needed to figure him out and figure him out fast. He seemed to only have one weakness, hard shorts from in close, 30 feet or less, and Montréal needed to exploit that.

And finally, R.J. Umberger needed to be shut down. He had at least a goal in every game thus far, and more importantly, the opening goal in 3 of 4 games. in fact, Philadelphia had shot first in all 4 games thus far.

Now in the opening minutes of game 5, it looks like Montréal may have figured it all out. Price had gone out and got himself a new glove, one it looked like he intended to use. Montréal's earlier failing defense had stopped Umberger's first period tries. Now, on a power play, from 30' out, Brisbois and Plekanec had teamed to figure out Biron. Most importantly, they got themselves on the board first.

Halfway through the period, Umberger got loose, and tied it up, but within 90 seconds, Alex Kovalev answered. Early in the second period, Higgins, who had been struggling controlling the feed, tallied an insurance marker. Thing were really looking Montréal's way. But in the last 5 minutes of the second period, Price, the Habs, and the hopes of thousands of fans fell apart.

Richards from Umberger at 14:02 -- 3 to 2. Umberger from Hatcher at 15:44 -- tied 3 to 3. Hartnell from Timonen at 17:00, and now the Habs went to the dressing room down a goal after 2.

At 2:13 of the 3rd period, it looked like the Habs might mount the comeback they needed to keep their season alive, when Andrei Kostitsyn tied it back up. But that was it, and for almost the entire rest of the period, the two teams were held deadlocked, until, with 3 minutes and 4 seconds left in the game, Scotty Upshall came up with the go ahead goal against Price. The nail in the coffin came with 50 seconds left, Price pulled net for an extra attacker, and Mike Knuble broke away for the empty net, finishing the Habs' chances and ending the game, 6 to 4.

After another few faceoffs, the clock ran out, and the Flyers poured onto the ice from their bench. It took a couple seconds of stunned silence for the reality to sink in, then 21,000+ Montréal fans applauded. No boos, no more taunting, they congratulated the Flyers, and applauded their Habs, for a great season, on the night of their last game of the season.

We couldn't go all the way this year, but I'm still proud to be a Habs fan. It felt like this was the year we could have done it, but the reality is a little bit different. When Bob Gainey took over as General manager a few years back, I was forced to say "this was a building year", but I had faith. I saw our draft picks rise up to star quality like Higgins and Price. I saw an All Star goaltender in Jose Theodore get traded away. I saw Guy Carbonneau come in as Head Coach, with Kirk Muller and Doug Jarvis on the bench with him. With Bob Gainey, all of these guys had seen cup victories with the Habs, Muller and Carbonneau both on the most recent cup team in 1993. In a short time I saw Montréal build a team that could win a cup, and a real Montréal team, not a purchased roster like Detroit in 2002, but a team built on both experience and youth, that had a chance not only to win a cup, but to do something that hasn't been seen in decades, build a dynasty.

I have faith in the next Montréal dynasty. It won't begin in 2008, but I believe it's coming.

As I've written here, the Pittsburgh Penguins have won game 5 in overtime, eliminating the Rangers, and moving on the the Eastern Conference Finals. Not wanting this season to be over for me, I will shift my attention to the team of Molly's youth, who swept Ottawa and beat New York in 5. I'm not jumping ship on the Habs, but with them eliminated, I'm going to cheer for the Pens.

At the risk of offending legions of Habs fans by paraphrasing the words that for years have been written above the lockers in the hallowed halls of the Montréal Forum and the Bell Centre, Pittsburgh, To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high.

Ever have a Hazelnut Macchiatto?

Neither have I. Nonetheless, I was in Starbucks today.

When we first got Starbucks in our area, I was very much against the concept, seeing them as nothing more than greedy corporate coffee bent only on voiding our area of local landmarks such as The Daily Café, Willoughby's, Koffee?, and Common Grounds. Lately I've seen them differently, as a member of the ranks of those independent coffee houses; one that happened to make good, but still tries to maintain it's leftist roots. Yes, the menu has become a unified and homogenized Value Menu of coffee and espresso concoctions, but even the best of the independent coffee houses I frequent only usually brew 2 or 3 coffees plus a decaf daily. Plus, for a large corporation, Starbucks' commitment to fair trade beans, healthcare for their employees, and the promotion of independently released musicians sits pretty good with me. Most importantly, no one went out of business -- well, the Daily's gone, but that had nothing to do with Starbucks -- but now I have a non-Dunkin Donuts option when a drive-thru is necessary.

So, as i said, I was in Starbucks, just trying to get an iced mocha and a frapacchino, no big whoop. So I thought. In front of me is a curious assortment of people. There's this woman, her husband, and what i gather are her two adult children. Now I guess it's OK to go grab a coffee with Mom and Dad, but, well, if this was my Mom, she's be enjoying her decaf Americano at the home.

So I walk in, and these people are already at the counter, 2 lattés, a decaf something-or-other...

"A medium American."

"Dad wants a Grandé Americano."

"He'll have an Americano."

"What size?"

"What size, dear?"

"I said he wants a Grandé."

"A Grandé."

OK, yes, it took 3 of them to relay his order to the barrista. I heard him the first time, but for some reason the barista was playing into the ridiculous game of coffee telephone. No wonder the old man was wearing earplugs. Yeah, I'm serious.

"Anything else?"

Now by this time, there's a line forming behind me. Randy Newman has asked me if I'm indeed in line. Taking a half-step forward toward the absurdity ahead of me, I respond "I think so."

It would be 1o more minutes before I'd get to order, and I'd discover that the agitated, white-haired man behind me was no more randy Newman than he was an expert on coffee.

"Anything else?"

"Do you have any samples?"

"Samples?" I was as confused as the gay barista who shared my name.

"I usually get samples of the beans. you have any sample decaf beans?"

"I don't at the moment." Not that I believe he ever did or would.

"Well, I usually get samples of the decaf when I come in."

"That will be 10.79."

"What do you have samples of."

"She usually comes in to a different store," her daughter attempts to justify.

"Your drinks will be right up."

"Can I get a sample of the decaf?" The earplugged husband is now far enough away to be the 6th person back in line, and I behind him. No wonder Randy Newman questioned if I was in line.

"Mom, he needs us to wait over here for our drinks," the gay son trying to preserve his chances with the barista sharing my name.

"Any decaf samples?" Insistent, isn't she.

"We have the decaf we roasted today. It's ground, but I can give you a sample of that? Would that work."

"OK, but I could come back tomorrow if you're going to have something else. Here, this...", picking up a pound of Pike Place Roast, "is this decaf? Oh, no, it's not" No, Pike Place isn't decaf, nor are the pound bags generally given out as samples.

The barista bagged up about a quarter-pound of the house decaf, and passed it over the counter, hoping that might drag this gaggle of loons over to the left to wait for their beverages, so he could take orders from the rest of the line now transfixed with the spectacle before us.

"There you go," assured the daughter. "Now she has coffee to make in the morning."

So, now having time to be 100% certain on my order, and feeling empathy for the people behind me, I rattled off my order with as much speed and efficiency as anyone can speaking Starbuckeese, paid, and moved over to my left.

"Is this the decaf Americano?"

"No, that's the latté," replied a second very patient barista.

"Iced Venti Non-Fat No-Whip Mocha."

"No, I'm waiting for a Grandé Americano." I tried to gently slide by her to acquire what was actually the first of my two drinks.

Finally, her infernal Americano arrived, and her children were all-too-relieved to escort her, and the earplugged father, quickly from the store. I received my second beverage and headed out shortly there after. The coffee was good, and I guess in retrospect I have a funny story to tell along with it.

3,000 miles in 3 days - Epilogue - California and the trip home

"Ventura Highway, in the sunshine. Where the days are longer. The nights are stronger than moonshine! You're gonna go, I know." - Ventura Highway, America

Had the boys in America ever been on the Ventura Highway? My experience was much different. I've driven the 101, at night, in the day, in the rain, and the sunshine. It snakes up through L.A. County, into Ventura, up through the Hollywood Hills, through the woods and around the fields. Perhaps sitting in bumper to bumper traffic does make the days longer. It could be that driving 107 miles per hour makes the night stronger than moonshine. Having been, though, I do not intend on going... at least not again. And that goes for the PCH, the 1, the 5, and the 405 as well. "Nobody walks in L.A." This is true. And because of that, they're all out on the freeways, 8 lanes wide, 2 inches between cars, moving at speeds that would make Mario Andretti nervous.

The horrors of L.A. driving aside, I did get to enjoy a day of Southern California. We made it cross-country in 3 days, getting in about 11 p.m. Saturday night, and my flight home didn't leave until Monday morning, so Sunday was to be spent in and around L.A.

We started Sunday morning by sleeping in about as much as we could force ourselves, which translated to about 10 a.m. Pacific time. Back onto the 101 to Oxnard. The motel was already north of L.A., so the drive up wasn't so bad, winding west through towns from Newbury Park, through Rancho Conejo, Camarillo, Springville, and Nyland Acres. We delivered some of Tim's belongings to his station, and checked in with his co-workers, toured a couple of the boats, and headed out.

Unfortunately, we weren't met with the warmest reception at the station, but we weren't going to let a couple of off-tempered Coasties ruin our day, and programmed TomTom to plot us a route to see Beverly Hills.

The first leg of our little excursion put us on 405 into Brentwood, to Sunset Boulevard through Brentwood and the Pacific Palisades. Tree lined streets barely obscured the driveways multi-million dollar mansions, each housing at least 2 exotic cars -- Ferraris seem the favorite. Even the Student Drivers drive BWMs, and our late-model Nissan Sentra garnered far more looks than a passing Maserati.

From there we hit the Pacific Coast Highway, out to Santa Monica Pier. We had lunch on the pier, and generally poked around like a couple of tourists. The PCH took us to the 5, and from there we hit the heart of Beverly Hills. Wilshire Boulevard, Rodeo Drive, Cartier, Gucci, Lotus of Beverly Hills... we looped the palm tree lined streets of America's most expensive zip code. Then, when we we turned From San Vicente onto Fairfax, Beverly Hills abruptly ran into Little Ethiopia; opulence directly abutted with poverty. On one side of the corner was BMW of Beverly Hills, and within spitting distance, a thrift store; Cartier blocks mere blocks from Carl's Jr.

After our brief tour of L.A., we headed back to the motel. A 6:30 a.m. flight meant waking up at 3:00, and we needed to get a bit of rest, but not before grabbing some dinner. There were a couple restaurants within walking distance, and we wandered over to see our options.

I decided on this last day, after 3 days of truckstops out on the road, that our last evening should reflect our return to civilization. We chose a typically California restaurant, enjoyed a couple of cold California-brewed beers, and dined on California-Mexican. Dinner was excellent, and not served to us by a surly waitress named Flo. We sat, relaxed, sipped our beers. After dinner, we walked over to Starbucks -- mostly because we could -- sat in oversized armchairs, and sipped lattés -- the first cups of coffee all trip not brewed at a truckstop. Not to take anything away from the various roadside eateries we'd hit along the way, but it was nice to have one night of civilized fare.

3 a.m. came quickly. And that early in the morning, the trip down to LAX was as pleasant as one could expect for L.A. driving. Surprisingly, once the airline employees arrived at 5:00, the rest of the process was painful -- I even had time for a coffee and a smoke. Unfortunately, LAX was the last time travel would be smooth that day, and in the end, driving cross-country in 3 days was easier than flying home.

US Air's East Coast hub is in Philadelphia, so rather than fly non-stop to NYC for nearly triple the price, I had selected a flight with a short lay-over in Philly. The flight to Philly was smooth and quick, which was advantageous on a transcontinental flight that didn't even offer a meal -- excuse me, I could have had the cheese tray for $7 out of my own pocket. As I would have expected -- I seem to fly Murphy Air -- I was seated next to disrespectful-cell-phone-guy, directly behind woman-with-a-baby. By some stroke of luck, this child slept through the whole flight, and never made a peep -- in fact, the guy next to me slept as well, so I bought the $5 headphones and let the in-fight movie drown out his snoring.

We touched down almost an hour early, which added to my lay-over, but gave me time for a smoke, and lunch of classic airport Sbarro's. By 3:30 (East Coast time) it was time to catch my connection, so we lined up at the gate, by section number, and boarded what they dared call a plane. Buses have more seating. We were boarded in 5 sections -- patrons scolded for lining up out of sequence -- for a plane with 11 rows of seats. When I got to my seat, someone was in it, and after double-checking both tickets, we determined the seat was double-booked. Out of 44 seats, 8 were double-booked, and after the 3rd occurrence, we determined we would consider the flight "open seating".

So, there we were, the 35 of us, including the pilot and flight attendant -- whose pre-flight instruction consisted of "read the card" -- tucking bags under empty seats due to impossibly small overhead compartments, and wondering what the possible delay could be on situating the handful of us for takeoff. 20 minutes passed before the "captain" informed us of a 45 minute arrival delay in New York -- 45 minutes we would spend on the tarmac, impossibly loud propeller engines rattling in our ears.

By the time we did take off, I feared we wouldn't have enough fuel left to make it to New York. I might have feared that all the people using their cell phones would disrupt the plane's electronics... if I believed the plane had any electronics. A couple times mid-flight I thought I heard one of the engines cut out, but it seemed to restart, and after about an hour, we did land safely. Now in New York, I had to figure out ground transportation home. The first issue was my miscalculation on "Air-Train" -- an MTA operated connecting train between the airport and other MTA transit points -- operates out of Kennedy and Newark, but not LaGuardia.

I scrambled. Now about an hour late of my carefully laid out plan, I had to get to Grand Central in time to catch the right train to New Haven, to connect with the last local train home. That train wouldn't leave New Haven until 9, but that meant leaving Grand Central by 7, and it was now after 6. A local bus could take me into Queens, to catch the number 7 train to Grand Central... but time was not on my side. Finally, I discovered the Grand Central Express bus, and $12 and 45 minutes later, I made it.

Of all modes of transportation I'd utilized in the past week, train was definitely the most regular and reliable, and with even time to grab one more quick cigarette in New Haven, I arrived in Branford, Connecticut, from Los Angeles, California, at 9:08 p.m. EST. I was hungry. I was exhausted. I was home.

3,000 miles in 3 days - Day 3

If you haven't already, please read Day 1, here, and Day 2, here, before reading Day 3.

By the Saturday, most sense of urgency is gone. Not only have we already shaved the fourth day off the trip, but we're even ahead of schedule on the third. We've covered 2250 miles in 2 days; only 710 miles left to drive today. We check out and hit the road again.

We haven't even found a place to stop for coffee before we're in Arizona. My increasing need for caffeination leads us to stop at a Navajo Trading Post outside Lupton. The coffee is no better or worse than at any gas station or truckstop we've hit prior, but the availability of various native "artifacts" and Route 66 souvenirs defines this red-painted pueblo with the poorly spelled sign as a typical American roadside attraction of the 50's. I grew up on a healthy diet of these types of sights. US-9 from New York to Montréal is dotted with souvenir stands in the shape of teepees, amusement parks of 3 whole rides like North Pole USA, and quasi-historic attractions like Frontier Town. Having reached Route 66 -- or, at least the Interstate that was dropped on top of it in the 50's -- in New Mexico, much of the rest of the trip would be dotted with this manner of Americana.

The status of our fuel tank would dictate the next stop, and fate shined upon us in that instance. The Petrified Forest National Park sits in the now-defunct town of Adamana, between Holbrook and Chambers. We figured we could get gas and maybe lunch; stop in the gift shop. Well, that's not quite how things worked out. The gas about 20 cents above the 2.97 we'd grown accustom to paying, so we passed on that, but having already stopped, we figured we'd hit the gift shop.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our film is about to begin."

We looked at each other... what the heck. We filed into a small darkened theatre room, the kind they use at museums, and proceeded to watch the 20 minute film -- on 60" TV -- explaining the history, and prehistory, of the Petrified Forest, from its formation starting millions of years BC, to its history as a National Park and Route 66 attraction through the 1950's. We were sold. We had no shortage of time, the gate fee was only $7.00, so we decided we'd spend a bit of time in the Petrified Forest.

Following the Petrified Forest Highway -- well, that's what TomTom identified it as -- about a quarter mile North, we were overwhelmed by breathtaking views of the Painted Desert. We had to get out of the car and shoot about a dozen pictures. Every time you turn a mere 10 degrees you're faced with another view, different colors, and a greater sense of wonder. Words unfortunately cannot adequately express the beauty of these views, so what I can say is that out of the 35 exposures I had left between 2 cameras, I nearly ran out of film in the park, limiting myself to only 3 pictures that even contained any petrified wood.

After about an hour or so in the park, we decided to head back to the base camp, and see if we could get lunch at the restaurant attached to the souvenir shop. A Park Ranger's SUV followed us up the winding park road. Flashing lights. We were being pulled over by a Park Ranger.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" The typical law enforcement question, even in a National Park.

"Actually... no."

"You were doing 42 miles an hour as you came down that rise." We glanced at the speed limit sign to our right... 40. Wow, they're serious about speeding in the Petrified Forest.

Like a skillful veteran, Tim removed his drivers licence from his wallet, making certain the Military ID below it was evident to the Ranger, without being obvious or obnoxious. The entire demeanor of the encounter changed... and the duration likely doubled. Now dealing with fellow members of the law enforcement community -- he found out my affiliation shortly after Tim's -- and having no intent to issue a ticket, it became an opportunity to swap stories and talk shop. It was obvious this was likely the most interesting conversation he'd engaged in in weeks. He even had us get out of the car, so he could check for any stolen petrified wood -- probable cause for search in the Petrified Forest is indicated by mud on one's shoes.

After our friendly Park Ranger finally turned us loose, we headed back to the gift shop, but not before we were checked again for pilfered petrified wood, this time by use of a scale. We joked that there were a grand total of two crimes in the Petrified Forest, Theft of Petrified Wood, and Speeding. We were apparently suspected of both.

The restaurant didn't really impress us, and knowing that we had to stop for gas soon anyway, we decided we'd deal with both issues at the next town. So, after a brief perusal of the gift shop, opting not to pick up the $4000 petrified coffee table, we hit the road.

The next town big enough to merit a gas station was Holbrook. We filled up, and rolled down 66 for a place to eat. A classic Americana style Route 66 Diner popped up on the left, complete with decorative licence plate paneling around the front door. The perfect lunch stop... if it wasn't closed. About a half mile later, another classic 50's trucker restaurant... also closed. We ate McDonalds.

Back on the road, we continued West. The Painted Desert trailed off, and was replaced with sparse brush. The Santa Fe Railroad popped up to replace the Union Pacific as our companion and guide, and we drove on toward Flagstaff.

Between Holbrook and Flagstaff, I-40 runs through the southern part of the Coconino National Forest. Not what any of us in the Northeast would consider calling a forest, far south of the Ponderosa Pines predominant in the northern part of the forest, we drove through a Coconino National Forest that was little more than an arid desert, dotted with small shrubs and sagebrush; barely enough fauna to obscure the railroad tracks to our right.

A small mountain range popped up in the distance. Quickly we came upon it, the only evidence of the city of Flagstaff, and no sooner were we upon it, than it was in our rearview mirror. The map open -- to confirm the identity of the aforementioned mountains -- led us to plan a stop in Kingman. Unwilling to loose to the Mojave, as many have done before us, we elected to gas up, grab drinks, and switch drivers at the last town before the vast part of the desert.

The Mojave Desert, the few hours of it we had been in to this point once we left Flagstaff, had actually already done it's best to take us down. It is a living entity, and it does claim drivers. Stories abound of people runnning out of gas, or overheating -- trips ended by the vast stretch of nothing that straddles the Arizona - California border. For us, it wasn't the car that the Mojave preyed on, it was out minds, and our spirits. Late afternoon, for three hours, we drove -- Tim drove, and I sat -- motionless, silent, mindlessly watching the unchanging landscape of nothing. Three hours passed without conversation, without radio, without movement, and nearly without sanity. The arrival predetermined stop in Kingman snapped us from our comas, and the realization of what had occurred -- perhaps better, what had not -- scared us into a better focus.

A stretch of Business Route 40 / Historic Route 66, speckled with 2 motels, 2 gas stations, and 2 liquor stores, defined the town of Kingman, Arizona. A soda machine on the side of the building -- a far cry from the truckstop shops we'd grown accustomed to -- provided us beverages to keep us going until California. Barely 2 minutes to stretch our legs, we left the desolate little town but moments after we entered it, drove West, into the toughest leg of our trip, and did our best to force conversation for a while.

In time, the tension drifted, and again two friends were on a crazy road trip, with its goal very much in sight. Soon enough after that, the sun was setting over the Sierras, we crossed the Colorado, and we were in California... at an Agricultural Inspection Stop. Puzzled, we answered the officer's quick questions about foreign fruits and vegetables, and were waved on. And on we went, into more nothing; this time, liberal California nothing.

Although tracking almost due West, I-40 winds through the bottom of the Sierra, and by the time we emerged on the other side, it was time again to eat. I-40 meets the 15 -- all roads in California bear the article "the" -- in Barstow, and it seemed as good a place as any to stretch our legs and grab a bite. On East Main Street, just before the on ramp to the 15, we found Bun Boy.

The last little piece of Route 66 Americana, a little burger joint that hasn't changed much since 1955, made the trip feel complete, even if we were still 175 miles from Oxnard. We relaxed in the booths, with the 50's cars design upholstery. We read the pocket books of witticisms written by a local author. We drank our fountain Cokes, enjoyed our 1/3 pound burgers, and silently rejoiced in the near completion of our journey. We covered over 28 hundred miles, through the Appalachians, traversing the snow-covered Midwest, across the Mississippi, down through the plains of Kansas, across the vast Southwest, crossing the Painted Desert, the Continental divide, and the Mojave Desert, bridging the Colorado and winding through the foothills of the Sierras. In just a few short hours we would be in our motel; we had driven for three straight days, from sea to shining sea, and we had made it.

3,000 miles in 3 days - Day 2

If you haven't already, read Day 1, here, before reading Day 2.

10:00 a.m., we got up. It'd only been 5 hours sleep -- well, in addition to the naps we'd gotten in while driving -- but we were refreshed and anxious to hit the road again. A phone call from back home reported to us that the snowstorm we drove through in the Midwest buried Connecticut. That was worth a small laugh.

22 hours of driving the day before, over 1300 miles and through 10 states, had put us more than a third of the way through what was planned as a four day trip. Even cutting it to three days still gave us the luxury of a cushion of time; a cushion we decided to dip into to see either Tombstone or Dodge City. The pamphlet I snagged at check-in, along with a brief glimpse at the map, helped us plot a 30 mile detour to bring us into Dodge City around mid-afternoon. We'd later discover that the Tombstone detour would have been closer to 250 miles.

Driving was simply determined on a turns based system, so I got behind the wheel. South to Wichita. Northern Kansas -- ahh, who am I kidding? All of Kansas looks the same. Nonetheless, it really is beautiful country; fields, dotted with silos and windmills, maybe a cross-street every 50 miles. North of Wichita, there are still some rolling hills; something the break up the amazing flat plains. Plains, which along with daylight and clear weather, grant us an amazing 6 Million mile visibility. OK, it was probably 10 miles or something -- heck, I have no frame of reference -- but compared to the crowded and occasionally wooded Northeast, it was amazing.

By lunch time, we'd made it through Wichita, and to a new experience along the trip, the end of the interstate. Something odd happened in the route planning, when, as I'd stated earlier, Mapquest adjusted for the entirety of Interstate 64 being closed. The adjusted route came down diagonally through Kansas, instead of the straight shot to Oklahoma City; 410 miles of nothing but Kansas.

There are only 2 interstate highways in Kansas, I-35 and I-70, and since I-70 would have taken us right through Colorado, the planned route went I-35 South to US 54 West. I have to say I was worried; I expected US 54 to resemble US 1 in the Northeast, but I would soon discover that nothing in the middle of the country is like the Northeast. US 54 meandered west then southwest, 200+ miles across lower Kansas. But, unlike the familiar Post Road, this 2 lane country highway ran almost 50 miles at a time at a 75 MPH speed limit, slowing to 35 as it passed through town, then picking back up and rolling. Straight as an arrow, 10+ miles visibility, we shot across Kansas, at times the only car in sight. At was at this time, we picked up our third traveling companion.

The Union Pacific Railroad run parallel to US 54 -- actually, it might be better to say US 54 was built parallel to the Union Pacific -- for the entire 420 miles from Wichita to New Mexico. And as we traveled the countless flat, straight, identical miles, the Union Pacific became our guide and friend, the unofficial 3rd man. When there was nothing left to see, no more windmills to count, no more tracks left on the Best of Johnny Cash, there would be the Union Pacific, there to remind us we hadn't drifted off the road or fallen asleep. Personified, the Union Pacific became our companion, popping up here and there to add its own bit of conversation along the long, unchanging road.

But smack in the middle of US 54, we took our first real breaks from the road. In Greensburg we stopped for gas, and witnessed a sight that took us a bit to process. It looked like they were tearing the town down -- maybe to move it farther down the road or something. The trees looked weird, too. We just couldn't put our finger on it. It wasn't until we were leaving town, and saw the rows of temporary trailer homes, that we realized what we had witnessed. The entire town of Greensburg, Kansas, had recently been devastated by a tornado. Yet, to our amazement, the town went on. People filled up at a gas station with no cashier's building, simply paying at the pump; a sign outside another gas station convenience store advertised that they were now selling a particular grocery store's products out of their cooler, at the original prices. Buildings were reduced to rubble, but Greensburg marched on.

And we marched -- err, drove -- on. On, to Joy, Kansas, where we ate. I made an executive decision to stop at a Sonic. We'd been avoiding fast food, but this exception seemed warranted. For years I've been seeing ads for "Sonic: America's Drive-in", and wondered if perhaps then I didn't live in America. So when I saw one, I had to stop, and place my order are the individual drive-up stall, and watch the waitress try to hand my food in the window over the front bumper -- I guess I pulled to close on the left.

Stomachs full, and sipping the rest of my Cherry Limeade, we began our detour. Within an hour we were in Dodge City, Kansas. Dodge City, it seemed, has grown up a bit from the days of Wyatt Earp, but in some ways never changed. They called it a "cow-town" then, and now it's has a major facility for National Beef Company, and another for Purina's industrial feeds division. The Santa Fe railroad still rolls through the middle of town, and stops at a depot renovated to resemble it's 1880's self. A period steam engine sits outside the visitors' center, just diagonally across the street from the depot, on historic Front Street. Except Front Street has been renamed Wyatt Earp Boulevard, and along the 3 downtown blocks of Wyatt Earp Boulevard, and winding up on Central and into town, is the Dodge City Trail of Fame. 24" medallions dot the sidewalk every 10 feet or so, with the images and names of famous -- or infamous -- residents of Dodge City, and the stars of Western TV and movies who portrayed them. A rustic overhang, with rough-hewn posts, below western murals on the second story, disguises the storefronts of the nail salon, pet shop, insurance agency, and other perfectly 21st century businesses.

On the westernmost block of the Trail of Fame sits the Boot Hill Museum. Along a recreated 19th century block of Front Street, actors in 19th century western garb... well they do something. We didn't actually pay for the Boot Hill Museum experience... but it has an awesome gift shop. And there we bought our fill -- limited by the space in my carry-on bag for the flight back -- of western curios and Wyatt Earp bric-a-brac. So, after being accidentally assaulted with a tube of lip balm, and paying for our souvenirs, we strolled back to the car and -- sorry, have to say it -- got the fuck out of Dodge.

The rest of Kansas seemed to go by in a blink. A little bit of time outside the car and in the fresh air was just what we needed; we were refreshed and quickly approaching Oklahoma. Our old friend the Union Pacific was to our right, TomTom's compass pointed 235 -- due Southwest -- and US 54's unwavering track through the plains got shorter and shorter. And just before we'd reach Oklahoma, just a few minutes before sunset, we reached the last significant town we'd cross on my driving shift, Liberal Kansas.

Now Kansas has had some interesting town names -- we'd already passed through Coffee County, and eaten lunch in Joy -- and we figure in a state as big as Kansas
, it might have been difficult to come up with the best names as they went along, but the irony of Liberal, Kansas, was not lost. So now we're driving down Pancake Boulevard -- no I'm dead serious -- which is the street name of US 54 through Liberal, and driving past the last vestiges of what passes for civilization in Kansas -- 2 gas stations, a gun shop, a Burger Barn, and a Waffle House -- and we can see the Oklahoma border ahead, when, on the left, the last building on Pancake Boulevard, the last building in Liberal, Kansas, is Halliburton. I can't help but question Dick Cheney having a main office and facility in Liberal, Kansas... on Pancake Boulevard no less. I wonder how he feels about that.

Aside from a beautiful sunset over the plains, and a 2 minute glitch where TomTom thought we were driving off-road, we weren't in Oklahoma long enough to have have seen anything. We didn't even so much as cross a town big enough to appear on our map. I can tell you Oklahoma had two silos, as many auto graveyards, and the worst paved roads we'd been on since Indiana. Or so we'd have hoped. But just when paving technology had dipped to a low not seen since the Industrial Revolution, "Welcome to Texas, Home of George W. Bush".

Back home, as you enter Connecticut, we have a similar sign stating "Welcome to Connecticut, Birthplace of George W. Bush". A popular photoshop edit places "We're Sorry" on the line below it. No such apologies from Texas. But more signs. "Don't Mess With Texas". Not only a slogan of pride, but apparently also the state's anti-littering campaign.

The northern part of Texas was very dark. After a day's drive across the plains, the sudden introduction of trees and hill, coupled with a refusal to put any source of light on the highway, created a lack of visibility in stark contract to the last 8 hours of driving. Taillights, headlights, the occasional Don't Mess with Texas sign, and the smell of cow manure; TomTom indicated the Union Pacific 100 yards to our right, but it too was no longer visible. An hour of manure-smelling darkness, and we finally reached a town.

Dalhart, Texas, had both a court and a police station -- or so indicated the sign. One Chevron station -- where we gassed up and stopped to get a drink before switching drivers and rolling on -- one sketchy looking Mexican restaurant, and a burger joint that looked like it'd been closed for the last 20 years, that's all we saw of Dalhart. Before we could even find a place to eat, we were in New Mexico, a brightly painted, well landscaped little piece of civilization at the left edge of Texas. And as I said in day one, there had become one sight that defined civilization, the Flying J.

So after a down-home-style dinner of truckstop Shepard's Pie, we headed back to the road; this time Interstate 40. New Mexico was a blur. I was asleep for most of it, actually. Bit between sleep, and the dark of night, what I did see of New Mexico I liked. There's an odd sense of completion, like New Mexico was designed laid out, built, and finished; every once and a while somebody comes by with some Endust and gives it a nice polish. Every town has some large decorative item visible from the Interstate -- in Albuquerque it was a giant neon cactus -- every off-ramp has a "Welcome to" sign in a well landscaped traffic island, and just everything looks to be in its place. It's a hard thing to describe, but it's a stark contrast to the ever-present construction of the Northeast.

By the time I woke up we were gassing up at yet another Flying J, two thirds of the way through the state, and if it weren't for the Continental Divide, I'm sure Tim would have driven straight through into Arizona. Alas, nature would have different plans for us. Crossing the bottom of the Rockies, the elevation climbed sharply, until were at 7,000 feet, and with it came snow. Blinding snow slowed our pace to 35 miles per hour. Safe passage was reduced to the one lane the trucks ahead had cleared. Eventually, well past midnight, traffic thinned out, and even the tracks of the trucks ahead began to disappear. Before long the road disappeared. In a complete white out, crawling along at 20 miles an hour, each of us squinting to see the road edge on our own side of the car, trying to navigate by GPS alone like snowbound submariners, we clocked 40 more miles before we finally came upon lodging in Gallup, New Mexico. We were but 21 miles from Arizona, but the weather did us in. And so we checked into the Budget Inn -- across the street from the Econolodge -- a fabulous accommodation featuring a shower with a whole in the wall, a cafeteria lunch tray screwed down to the side of the sink, mustard yellow wallpaper, and two paintings that may have been salvaged from a Denny's that burned to the ground. We laid down on the 2 slabs that passed for beds, and no sooner did our heads hit the lumpy excuses for pillows, we slept.

3,000 miles in 3 days - Day 1

I've been back in Connecticut since 9 p.m. Monday night, and a week later, I'm still having difficulty knowing where to start this blog. Information overload, I guess. When in doubt, I guess it's best to start at the beginning.

The story really starts Tuesday, February 19, when I picked up SN Suraci at JFK airport. For a few months now, Tim's been in the United States Coast Guard, and stationed in Oxnard, CA. In an attempt to acquire housing off the station, it became obvious he needed his car. So really, this is the story of shipping a car.

Flying home and driving back, even when you account for the cost of food, gas, and lodging along the way, turns out to be cheaper, and of course much faster, than having his car shipped. So, with leave granted by his commanding officer, thus begins this epic adventure.

3:00 p.m., EST, I pick him up at JFK -- he needed a ride, and I generally don't pass up an opportunity to see Timmy since he moved to the West Coast. That's supposed to be the end of the plan. I drove out to JFK, drove him home, he came over for good New Haven style Pizza for dinner, and that should of been the end of the visit. So I thought.

Over dinner we were discussing his trip back. Still no word from the friend of his who was supposed to drive to California with him. He finally did get him on the phone, only to find out -- as we'd expected by this point -- that he wouldn't be able to make the trip.

"Too bad I didn't know sooner; I could have gone with you."

That's what I thought, at least. But, after a bit of encouragement from my beautiful and loving fiancée, I walked into work on Wednesday, asked for the rest of the week off, came home, packed a small bag, found a flight home for Monday morning, and that was that.

So it was 8:15 a.m., Thursday. Quick stop for gas, smokes, water, and a road atlas, and we were on our way. By 9:00, we were in New York. 9:30... New Jersey. 10:50 a.m. and we were in Pennsylvania. That was the end of the short states, and the last time I crossed a state I'd been to before. The road ahead was new, the country was spread out before us, and the adventure was beginning.

By about 1:30 we were in Harrisburg, PA, our first stop -- gas and food. A couple steak sandwiches at the Flying J truckstop -- a landmark that would define civilization over the rest of our journey -- and we were off into uncharted territory. This would be the farthest west I'd ever driven, the last stop in a semi-familiar place, and the beginning of a foreign part of the country, a land dotted with crumbling barns and rebel flags. I wonder how they forgot about Gettysburg. Wasn't this still Union Army lands?

Pennsylvania bled off into Ohio, passing briefly through West Virginia in between. Strip mines contrasted oddly against signs advertising coal as "Clean, Green Energy". Pastoral farms still dotted the hilly landscape every mile or so, many of them still bearing the Harley Warrick painted ads for Mail Pouch Tobacco. By now it had been 10 hours on the road, and a gas and coffee stop in Ohio signaled driver swap, and brought up the question that would nag us for at least the next few hours... What is a Buckeye?

So it's 6 p.m., we're about an hour into Ohio (that's about a 1/4 on your maps, for those of you following along), fresh gas, fresh coffee, fresh driver, and a fresh blizzard heading right for us. Our network of progress-tracking well-wishers had made contact to inform us of an impending Midwest snow storm.

"OK, so where is it?"

"Wait, it can't be the whole Midwest."

"OK, we'll be in Columbus at about 7:00."

"So the snow starts in Columbus... at 7... and moves East."

"Nope, we have to go through it."

OK, so it turned out not to be a blizzard... at least not for us. That system did continue East and dump 10" on Connecticut, snowing in my fiancée, closing my office at noon. But, remarkably, as I drove through it -- and I did drive straight through it, from mid-Ohio through Indiana and Illinois, for no less than six straight hours -- there was never more than 1" of snow; slushy in parts of Indiana, dry powder for the rest, but never more than an inch.

Missouri brought me two new challenges I'd never faced driving: freezing fog, and an angry TomTom. The former was an interesting anomaly. Now pretty much past the storm system, residual moisture has made it a foggy night. Not the worst of conditions after 6 hours of snow, and not so dense as to slow driving conditions, but the unexpected part was the freezing aspect. The well-below-freezing temperatures caused this fog to freeze directly on the windshield, making it near impossible to keep the view clear as the wipers tried in vain to act as ice scrapers. Defroster on full and wipers double-time, we pushed forward, nearly at St. Louis. When we did finally stop, we removed a 1/2" thick cast ice mold of the front grill and licence plate, perfectly molded.

But if the freezing fog wasn't discomforting enough, it was the angry TomTom that really made that last leg of the trip difficult. We based the trip on directions from Mapquest. Two options were provided, but given that it was February, we opted for the route that didn't go through the Colorado Rockies. We have the driving directions, we have a road atlas of the 50 states, and we have a borrowed TomTom GPS. When all is going well, the three tend to be in agreement. When Mapquest takes us on an Alt route around a major city, TomTom spends 30 seconds recalculating the route, and is soon synced up with the printed directions. But, when Mapquest starts us down a route into Kansas, because it knows that I-64 is closed for the entirety of the state of Missouri... TomTom freaked out.

For 300 miles I drove through Missouri, across the old US-66 bridge over the Mississippi, just north of St. Louis, and every time I passed a highway exit, TomTom barked at me to get off and turn around; go back the way I came, because it will still be shorter to double back and take I-64... which was closed. 300 miles of this. I wasn't worried that I couldn't follow the Mapquest directions without the aid of TomTom, but I had to wonder, how far out of the way are we going if TomTom still thinks turning around and driving 300 miles in the opposite direction is still faster.

Against TomTom's better judgement, I got us to Kingdom City, Missouri, by the end of my 10 hours. Pulled off at a Phillips 66 truckstop just of the highway, right about where Route 66 would have crossed Highway 54. A newly-awoken Tim gets out of the car in a vain attempt to gas up, while I proceed to walk laps around the store in hopes of fending of leg cramps. It's almost 4 a.m., and I see through the massive display of Confederate flags that the cantankerous old clerk is growing increasingly agitated with Tim's inability to pump gas from what we would discover to be a broken pump, and I -- now awake for 21 hours straight -- was becoming increasingly agitated with his comments. I wonder what the penalty is in Missouri for hitting an 80 year-old man. Not wanting to find out, I left it at "Lay off; he just woke up." His tone changed, Tim gassed up at an adjacent pump, I got back in the car, and slept until Kansas.

So it's 6 a.m. when I wake up up from my brief nap; Garner, Kansas. 22 hours in and the first day is over. Good to his word, perhaps steeled by his determination, Tim has gotten us to Kansas -- about 30 miles passed Kansas City -- before the road was too much. And so we walked up to the night clerk at the Super 8 Motel, there in Gardner, Kansas, and asked for a room for the night.

"Just tonight? Check-out's at 11."

"What's time zone are we in? It's 6? What's that, 5 hours? That'll be fine."

And so we slept.