One thing that I’ve really learned in my time in southeast Michigan is an increased appreciation for the blues.

You have blues played on the radio and blues festivals in the Bay Area, to be sure, although for historical reasons I don’t understand, the Bay Area, as anyone who listens to KFOG (the only radio station with any decent reception that regularly plays anything remotely resembling blues) knows, tends to idolize white artists like Stevie Ray Vaughan, Bonnie Raitt, and Susan Tedeschi and to either undervalue or ignore black blues artists (unless it’s BB King doing a duet with U2 on “When Love Comes to Town”). I mean no disrespect, because those artists have done a lot to help keep blues alive. But would it hurt KFOG to play more Leadbelly and Son House and Luther Allison?

Last year when Joss Stone’s album hit the racks the radio stations in Michigan played it to death for a while, but it was clearly the flavor of the month, because you don’t much hear her pathetic attempts at testifying anymore (though, unfortunately, she has another CD coming out next month).

Blues is not a religion in California (which is much more the land of the Beach Boys, Jefferson Airplane, Black Flag, and Dr. Dre). It is here. And if you’ve heard Otis Rush singing “Checking on My Baby,” which I did for the first time today, you would have to be made of stone not to understand why.

The students are definitely back. About the only thing that hasn’t happened yet is the start of classes, so the mad throngs of students filing across central campus haven’t materialized yet, but otherwise the “quiet” of summer is pretty much over with. The traffic on State is back to snail’s pace levels. A couple of undergrads were lazily sashaying across the intersection at State and South University last night when a cop car came roaring up State with its siren blaring. The students pretended it wasn’t there until the cop almost ran them over to get through the intersection. One of them covered her mouth and giggled as she bopped the rest of the way across the crosswalk, as though she’d just done something very amusing. It’s hard to believe they’re so self-absorbed, although the truth that I have to keep reminding myself is that we were all that way when we were teenagers, that I had more than my share of irresponsible, thoughtless, idiotic moments when I thought that every word that poured from my mouth and every sentence I set down on paper was the mark of genius and that any adults who tried to point out that I was only 17 or 18 or 19 or 20 and had a lot to learn were clueless dolts. I was paging through a Cole Porter biography recently and saw a 1912 photo of Porter in a Yale glee club. Of course, that was a very different time, but some of the cockier guys in that glee club had expressions on their faces that weren’t all that different from those on the faces of the strutting undegrads on campus now.

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

My second visit to Lexington, which I think is rather a pretty place …

Lexington, KY

Population 260,512 (2000 census). Seat of Fayette County. Second-largest city in Kentucky. Home to the University of Kentucky and Transylvania University.

Lexington was named in 1775 for the battle in the same name in Massachusetts (19 April 1775). In 1817, Lexington staged the first Beethoven symphony heard in the United States. Lexington’s public library is billed as the oldest library west of the Alleghenies and may be older than the city itself. The library became a “free” library in 1898, and Andrew Carnegie financed the building of a larger “free” library in 1902.

Horse racing in Kentucky began as a pastime of the frontiersmen who settled the area that became the state of Kentucky. Daniel Boone brought pack horses on a hunting trip to Kentucky in 1769. William Whitley developed the first circular race track in Lincoln County in 1780. In 1793, Lexington forbade horse-racing through the streets and confined it to the West Water Street part of town.

We didn’t see much of Lexington last night, and we left today before we could see much more of it. We were, frankly, in a hurry to get the last leg of the trip under way. What my main impressions of Lexington were: (a) It’s huge. It sprawls all over the place. The trip from one end of town to the other (where our La Quinta was) seemed to take forever. (b) It’s beautiful. © You’d need more than a day to do it justice.

—Posted by Frank at 13:40:00 | 21-Aug-03

The first time I met Bayley was the first time I set foot in Steve’s apartment in the Sunset in February 2000. Steve opened the front door and a beagle was on the other side of it. When Bayley saw the stranger (me), he looked at me, let out a loud, reproachful, prolonged howl of protest that this intruder was in his abode, and fled to David’s bedroom. I recall being concerned that he wasn’t what you would call a win-over-able dog. But I was used to big, slobbering, uncomplicatedly sunny and affectionate dogs like Rudy and Gracie, who I lived with for 10 and 5 years respectively (Rudy is a Lab/pit bull mix; Gracie is a mutt but predominantly Rhodesian ridgeback). Of course, I had never been a stranger to Rudy and Gracie, having gotten to know them almost from puppyhood, so I had an unfair advantage.

Beagles are different creatures: very affectionate, very trusting, very companionable, but on their own terms, and they need to get a chance to grow to trust you first. I suppose those traits could be said to apply to most dog breeds, but beagles seem to have those characteristics in sharper relief. I’ve grown to admire, respect, and love beagles because Bayley is such an exemplar of the breed.

He’s been through some scrapes, and he’s not the most social dog in the world—an entirely understandable defense mechanism, given that he had to live in the Bay Area, where a majority of dog owners seem to be just a few notches below sociopathic. Bayley was physically attacked several times by leashless dogs whose owners thought it was cute and clever that their dogs were not only unrestrained and untrained but were going rapaciously after a defenseless animal.

Despite those traumas, though, Bayley has remained an essentially even-keeled dog; unlike humans, dogs don’t hold and nurse grudges, and they don’t get capsized by inner demons. As Steve’s written, not much shakes Bayley. It’s good to come home after a long day and to see him waiting there or poking his nose out as I open the door, the same expectant expression on his face, a port in every storm. He still howls sometimes when I walk through the door, but these days it’s always a howl of happiness.

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

Memphis. Ugh. Tennessee drivers. Ugh. Maybe I shouldn’t have embarked on this journey down memory lane …

Day Seven

Day Seven — Memphis, TN, to Lexington, KY

Surprise! We were supposed to spend the night in Nashville, but instead changed our plans and elected to get to Ann Arbor a day early and take Friday as a rest day. So, we drove from Memphis to Nashville and looked at some sights, then drove up I-65 to Elizabethtown, KY, then over the BlueGrass Parkway to Lexington. From Lexington, it’s about 347 miles … to our new home. [gulp] Gosh, it’s getting close, and the last week has flown by. This time one week ago, I was having a panic fit trying to fit all of our stuff on a trailer. Right now, we’re approaching Bonnieville, Kentucky, at Exit 71 on I-65N.

Let’s get right to it, shall we? Today’s statistics:

We travelled 430 miles from Memphis, TN (including driving around to Graceland and Beale Street). Spent $46.00 on gas, $24.68 on food, $11.94 on miscellaneous expenses (okay, on Elvis souvenirs), and $138.53 on hotels (both in Memphis and Lexington). And we crossed our final time zone; we’re now forced to permanently adjust to the Eastern zone. Oh my.

First, some miscellany:

—Arnold Schwarzenegger’s candidacy for Governor of California is just as nutty when viewed 3,000 miles away.

— Speaking of politics, a woman named Janis Feelilove is running for city council in Memphis. I am not making this up.

— Speaking of Drag Queen names, the state of Arkansas has radio broadcasts along I-40 that you can listen to for construction updates (the entire state highway system is one large construction zone). On this channel, you can hear two people give you tips for dealing with the Cone Zones. One is named ‘Highway Guy.’ And the other? Anita Buckleup.

— There is an actual city park in Conway, AR, called Toad Suck Park. I am not making this up.

— On Memphis public radio, volunteers actually come in and read articles out of magazines on the air. We were treated to a man reading to us an article about Annette Bening out of the Ladies Home Journal. Who knew that she really loves Warren Beatty?

—There is a Gayoso Street in Memphis.

—Beagles like Kentucky bluegrass.

—There is a very chagrined woman in the Lexington, KY, LaQuinta who left her diesel-powered pickup truck running … and locked her keys inside. Locksmiths do apparently visit hotels at 11 p.m., however, so she’s just fine.

And here once again: All the boring, exhausting details, almost as they happened:

—I-65N, Approaching Elizabethtown, KY, 20:00 CDT | 21-Aug-04

Well, Frank is driving now, so I can update what’s happened in the last 24 hours.

The alarm rang at 09:00, and was followed shortly by a call from the front desk, inquiring how/when I wished to pay for the room. Since I handed them $65.73 in cash the night before, this question was a might puzzling. But given the … … … … … ability (I was searching for the right word) of the clerk last night, I wasn’t surprised. He told me he’d figure it out and let me know.

We got up and took and hour-and-a-half to get it together. As we get further east, we get more sluggish. Seven days and 2,800 miles on the road is a very long time/distance. Unloading the Jeep every night and dealing with the beagle (poor puppy) is very exhausting. And the heat this morning in Memphis was beyond oppressive. It was 103 when we left the hotel at noon; humidity must have been 150 percent. At least.

When I checked out, the manager had finished an audit and discovered my payment.

‘She’s new,’ he said, ‘and didn’t post it. She didn’t know what she was doing.’ Thusly went the biggest understatement of our journey.

The room itself was scary. There was a deadbolt, but the device (a metal bracket which is supposed to be better than a chain) was missing and the doorframe and door looked as if this metal bracket had been forcibly ripped apart. I won’t go into the rest of it, but let’s just say the whole thing needed a renovation. And leave it at that. If that’s the worst hotel experience we’ve had (and it has been), then, actually, we’ve been pretty lucky.

Before leaving, we made the decision to forego a night in Nashville and head on up the road to Lexington. This accomplishes two things: We’re closer to home, and we don’t have to do any traveling on Friday, the day before we have to start unloading the trailer. Frank felt that just a quick ride through Nashville was enough for him. So, I redid our hotel reservations.

After check out, we drove over to Graceland. First, it was obvious I wasn’t taking any tours. A beagle cannot stand the heat just walking around a park or something (and of course not the car – even with the air conditioner running, the Jeep engine gets too hot and the inside isn’t that cool) and we had checked out of the room.

We drove down Elvis Presley Boulevard.

Now folks, I know that EPB is a LOT different in 2003 than it was whenever the King built the thing. But this is a bad neighborhood now. And when I mean bad, I mean seriously skanky. We’re talking derelict buildings and trash. A strip of truly ugly strip malls and places where you just KNOW you’d get e.Coli if you ate in them. Tacky little Elvis souvenir shops. And an air of being worn-out and well past its shelf life and general seediness. But suddenly, on the east side of the road, is this pristine manse with trees and across the street is an aging DC-8. And then we’re back to seediness.

This is a neighborhood in which you not only should keep your doors locked and your windows rolled up tight, you should probably wear body armor and have all your shots up-to-date.

We paid $2 just to park, since parking on the street is not only dangerous, it apparently mobilizes an entire security force, none of whom seem to understand that Graceland is a tourist attraction of which people wish to take photos.

We were given a security warning, which stated that taking digital photos of any kind while on the tour was strictly verboten and then we parked in a vast parking lot, baking in the sun. Frank went into the visitor’s center while beagle and I idled in the parking lot and took a short nap.

On Frank’s return, he reported that this was, in his opinion, a ‘sacrilege,’ and, quoting, ‘It’s an obvious way for Priscilla and Lisa Marie to make lots of money.’ He said that people were standing in line to … have their photos taken in front of a mural, yes, that’s right, just a mural, of Graceland. Perhaps the tackiest place on earth, is, I suppose, our opinion of it.

But two things. Graceland is frozen in time, circa 1977. One can’t judge fat Elvis’ taste by the standards of 2003. I mean, I’m sure that by now, the Fab Five from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy would have been all over Graceland like white on rice and that what you pay good money to see now would have been relegated to the dump long ago.

Still, as I’ve said before, I’m not a very good Amurrican citizen/tourist. Even if we weren’t under the time/budget constraints we’re under, I still would have probably foregone a tour of Hoover Dam, a night in Paris Las Vegas or Venice Las Vegas (c’mon! I’ve been too the real cities!). We just flew by Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace, which one of our tour books reports is probably not the actual cabin where he was born at all. And so forth.

I don’t get very excited about where Abe Lincoln had his diapers changed. Where fat Elvis sat in a drugged-out stupor and listened to his old recordings does nothing much for me.

But what does excite me is listening to him sing and reading about the influences, from gospel, from African-Americans, from the south, from his mother, etc., on his music and how that music influenced and changed the very world and culture we live in.

And what does excite me is the simple and eloquent speech Abe gave at Gettysburg, that he had the chutzpah to free the slaves and send the nation to bloody war to preserve the union and that the man knew what was what. So he was born in log cabin, so what? What the man DID is what’s important.

[Steps off soap box]

The most important part of the visit to Graceland, even though we didn’t take the tours, was this: Frank accomplished something his mother always wanted to do and never had the opportunity. He’s glad he did it for Mom and I’m proud to have been there when he did. And that made it all worthwhile.

We drove up Third Street into downtown and took a short walk on Beale Street. I bought some postcards and a keychain for Frank, we took some pictures, the beagle transacted some business, and we popped back in the car to hit the road.

We stopped on the north edge of Memphis for gas and some Dairy Queen food, then headed out on I-40 to Nashville.

And it is here that I must say this: On this trip, we’ve been wondering if any one state has the worst drivers, or if it’s an individual thing or just what. A certain someone I know in Washington, DC, swears that Maryland drivers are the worst; after several visits there, I always tended to agree with him. I’ve always thought Oklahoma drivers were fairly decent, just slow. Texans used to be friendly and wave at you out on the lonely roads in West Texas. New Mexicans were middling, Coloradans tended to be aggressive and dangerous and REALLY don’t like seeing California-tagged cars in ‘their’ state. Around San Francisco, Arizona drivers I encountered tended to be cow-ish, Nevadans tended to be decent and Californians, well, Californians around San Francisco are just … basically a herd of deer. Always bunched in packs, sometimes skittish, sometimes mulish, always clueless. They do have, however, the ability to multi-task on the road: They can shave, read, watch a DVD, eat breakfast, poor coffee and smack the kids in the back seat while doing 80 mph on I-80. Arkansans were cool.

However, I’m ready to declare that we have an undisputed winner in the America’s Worst Drivers sweepstakes: Tennesseeans, the award is ALL very much yours. Tennessee drivers stand out head and shoulders above the crowd as champions of rudeness, aggressiveness, stupidity, cluelessness and just plain horrible, uncontrolled and anarchic ‘drivers’ and I use the term loosely.

I lost track at 12 the number of times we almost shuffled off this mortal coil. My mantra became, ‘Please, God, don’t let me die in Tennessee!’ I was almost run off the road, tailgated innumerable times, almost run over and then honked at while I was making a legal right turn having signaled well in advance; I was almost sideswiped by cellphone-gabbing women twirling their hair; I witnessed a girl cross five lines of interstate traffic during rush hour at 65 miles an hour in front of oncoming semis … in order to make her exit. I was waved at, laughed at and had not one, not two, not three, but four, count ‘em, four people run a red light while I was trying to cross an intersection on a green.

We’re now pretty deep in Kentucky, on the Blue Grass Parkway about 50 miles outside of Lexington. And the change between the states has been obvious. Perhaps Kentucky has better driver education programs. Perhaps It’s later at night and most people are home. Or perhaps Kentuckians know how to treat both horses and cars. But our experience in Tennessee over the last 24 hours was one of … I won’t say sheer terror, but complete amazement and sometimes a pounding heart.

Kentucky seems so peaceful, let me tell you.

Tennessee is pretty. It’s rolling hills and lots of trees. But I’m sorry, ‘them people is crazy!’

Still, we’ve had a good time. Seeing things for real that you’ve seen only in photos and books is always an interesting and fun experience. A carefully arranged photo in a glossy book can never do justice to the real deal. Photos of the Ryman Auditorium, for example, never show the neighborhood around it for context, and you can get its feel and sense of scale only by going there.

So, other than some road insanity, we’ve enjoyed most of the trip. Last night and this morning weren’t fun, but what’s a journey without a little adversity? Builds character, as they say. It’s been tiring, but a great trip. We’re now 30 miles outside of Lexington, which means we just have to do the final 350 or so to Ann Arbor tomorrow. This is good news and makes us quite happy.

I’m sure after this that the beagle will be quite displeased if he’s ever asked to ride in the Jeep ever again. He’s doing very, very well. Now that there are no steep and twisty mountain roads to negotiate, he’s pretty much able to lie down and sleep most of the time. He does not eat anything for breakfast; he’s even been refusing french fries during the day. He does eat dinner at the hotel rooms, though, as long as you do some coaxing and start him off with a beagle bagel. He’s currently even steadfastly ignoring my chocolate chip cookies. Obviously, this is a beagle who has decided on a hunger strike strategy to punish me for doing this to him. Even telling him that his couch will be in Ann Arbor all fixed up for him by Saturday night isn’t mollifying him. Oh well. Three more nights in motel rooms, then he can began to put his life and routine back together. And so can we all.

We’ve been hearing not nice things about the Gracie dog from home; she’s losing quite a bit of fur and wondering where Unca Frank has gone. We miss her and the Rudy dog and the Suki cat and the Artemis dog lots and lots and send them plenty of hugs and love and best wishes.

And, of course, even more so, we miss all the humans too, and send them the same hugs and love and best wishes.

It finally hit me last night, a little later than expected, the panicky sense that, once we rolled east of Oklahoma City, we have truly left behind the familiar, the loved ones, the home and routine and everything else we’ve always known. I’ve never lived east of Dallas/Duncan and Frank has never lived east of Oakland. We both have never lived north of San Francisco (which is roughly along the line of Kansas City). And we’ve now pushed those boundaries. The anxiety went on for awhile, but we talked through it and had a very good night’s sleep. It’s all a part of the experience and it’s all a good thing. We can’t wait to get home and get going. This time next week, Frank will have finished his first day of orientation; two weeks from now, he will have finished his first day of classes. It’s all fun and exciting. Even the first cold front and snowfall will be fun and exciting. But we’re not going to spoil the moment and talk about what happens in January/February, okay?

I’m sure some more anxiety will follow. Probably when we open the rear door of the trailer and are confronted with 80 boxes and a couch and a bigscreen TV and various and sundry other things, which, hopefully, are about to arrive in Ann Arbor themselves, and, again hopefully, intact. Not sure about Ann Arbor; they were part of the big blackout, so I have no idea what to expect when we get there.

I’m itching to unpack boxes and arrange furniture and hang pictures. These two chile ristras hanging in the back of the Jeep are going to look fabulous in our new kitchen, as will the ‘Elvis’ Favorite Recipes’ postcards I just bought on Beale Street when I put them up on the refrigerator.

Here’s today’s trip statistics:

• 11:00 — Left the hotel and saw some frightening things at Graceland; went to Beale Street and bought postcards; left Memphis — 0 miles | 2453 total

• 14:40 — East Memphis (gas) — 30 | 2483

• 15:28 — Jackson — 71 | 2554

• 15:45 — Nashville touring — 213 | 2696

• 16:23 — Kentucky State Line/Franklin — 250 | 2733

• 16:56 — Bowling Green — 272 | 2755

• 17:00 — Elizabethtown — 345 | 2828

• 18:04 — Lexington (hotel) — 430 | 2913

And now, we’ve arrived at room 247 at the LaQuinta Inn in Lexington, KY, and let me tell you, it’s fabulous. Just like a hotel should be. It’s wonderful. And I’m off to bed. I’ve had enough for today.

We’ll probably be talking to you tomorrow night from … Ann Arbor … MICHIGAN!

Oh, lord. Now I’ve scared myself.

Good night, y’all.

—Posted by Steve at 00:30 | 21-Aug-03

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

Thank god for this music … it distracted us from the homicidal/suicidal Tennessee drivers on I-40 …

Soundtrack, Day Seven

Between Memphis and Nashville, Emmylou Harris’s The Ballad of Sally Rose. Later, through Kentucky, True Love Waits: Christopher O’Riley Plays Radiohead. I tried Joni Mitchell’s first record, which is one of my favorite albums, but it just wasn’t working for me as driving music today for some reason. Sorry, Joni. You still kick everyone’s ass.

—Posted by Frank at 23:59:00 | 20-Aug-03

And here are the photos from Day Seven:

« Our Move to Michigan – Day Seven » Memphis, TN; Nashville; Lexington, KY

[It’s aSquared’s First Birthday … we’re celebrating by looking back at events from a year ago … skip these retro posts if you’re not into sentimentality.]

I kinda enjoyed Nashville, but we need to go back and spend more time there …

Nashville, TN

Population 569,891 (2000 census; figure covers Nashville proper and Davidson County). Official name Nashville-Davidson. Capital of Tennessee since 1843. Seat of Davidson County until the governmental functions of city and county were consolidated in 1963. Two presidents are buried in the Nashville area: Andrew Jackson (at the Hermitage) and James Knox Polk (on the Capitol grounds; the only other Tennessee president, Andrew Johnson, is buried in Greeneville).

The first Europeans in the Nashville area were French fur traders in the early decades of the eighteenth century. The area at that was heavily populated by Cherokee, Shawnee, and Chickasaw. A central figure in the settlement of the Nashville area was Richard Henderson, who bought most of middle Tennessee and Kentucky in a transaction with the Cherokee in 1775. Henderson sent a party to investigate the Cumberland Valley in 1779 and in 1780, Fort Nashborough (named after Revolutionary North Carolina brigadier general Francis Nash) was founded. Fort Nashborough became Nashville in 1784. Nashville was chartered in 1806. The city was occupied by Union troops in 1862, and the last major battle of the Civil War took place there on 15-16 December 1864 (Union troops under George Thomas defeated Confederate troops under John Hood).

In December 1925, George Dewey Hay’s “WSM Barn Dance,” renamed the “Grand Ole Opry” in 1927, started broadcasting “hillbilly music.” (Hay dreamed up the idea for the Grand Ole Opry and similar radio shows after a 1919 visit to Mammoth Spring, AR, where he attended a hoedown after covering the funeral of a World War I hero as a reporter for a Memphis newspaper.) The Opry became a live stage show at the Ryman Auditorium in 1941. The show moved to Opryland in 1974. It was Roy Acuff who, in 1942, after having become a national star on the Opry broadcasts, organized Acuff-Rose Publishing, the first exclusively country-western-oriented publishing concern.

However, Nashville became known as the center of country-western music in 1949, which was the year that Alabama-born Hank Williams (who, at the insistence of his wife, Audrey, had introduced himself — and Audrey — to Acuff’s publishing partner, Fred Rose, in September 1946) recorded the smash hit “Lovesick Blues” (against the wishes of Rose), which stayed at the pole position on the Billboard country-western chart for 16 weeks, cemented Williams’ fame, and got him a spot in the Opry.

Nashville seemed to be a wonderful place, and, it occurred to me, a livable place (although we spent maybe a total of an hour and a half there, and any judgments I make are naturally off-the-cuff). We drove around downtown and looked at the Ryman and the shops and sights of Broadway and Fifth Avenue. We jaunted over to the other side of town and looked at some of the sights of Music Row and the neighborhoods around Vanderbilt University. Nashville struck me as a lower-key and more elegant city than I’d pictured it, and I wish I’d had more time to spend there. It’s a place that deserves lengthy exploration and contemplation.

—Posted by Frank at 23:59:00 | 20-Aug-03