I wander America on a Harley Davidson motorcycle, sleep on couches and in fifty-dollar motel rooms, eat at Waffle House and Main Street cafes, and have conversations with people whose politics I might not agree with. These are our stories.
Sometimes, Luck is All You Need
I’d joined the Army. I was eighteen and I was hitchhiking from Solana Beach, California to Minneapolis to visit my mother before riding the big dog to Fort Knox for Basic Training.
Shelly
Shelly’s husband committed suicide thirty years ago that day.
God’s Tattoo
I went through Basic and AIT at Fort Knox with Cal and God
A Breakup Letter to a Former Friend and Coworker
You shouldn’t read shit from delusional people.
Legacy
On a Friday afternoon a dozen years ago, Ron Davis was sitting on the curb in front of a Subway sandwich shop; he asked me for money for something to eat.
Metaphor Racing
It could be that NASCAR is America at it’s finest, gentle, polite, accepting, funny, loud, oblivious and weirdly sexy.
Bye-bye, Bud
Busch Light has taken over…
Hannibal to Cairo via East St. Louis
At breakfast, I met Angela and Alijah, Alijah is Angela’s niece and has a week off from school. Angela delivers school busses for a living. They’re from Atlanta and are on their way to St. Louis. The bus has a gasoline engine and no governor and they’re doing seventy-five.
The Small Motel
You don’t meet interesting people at a Holiday Inn Express
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