Ghosts of the Civil War

Through a typically strange set of circumstances, I am right now, sitting in the grand ballroom of a Civil War era mansion in Vicksburg, Missisippi. My bedroom is downstairs and it's the place I will sleep tonight after I finish my work on my laptop. I sit here, typing away, connected via wireless to the internet, in a building that is now a bed and breakfast inn, but 145 years ago was the Duff Green Mansion, a home to a family encroached upon by the war between the states. They vacated their home, going to live in nearby caves, while the soldiers took over and converted their house to a hospital. In one of the rooms downstairs were stacked the amputated limbs of damaged soldiers. The room I will sleep in was once the operating room. In 1865, conditions for anesthesia were not ideal. I imagine much suffering took place here, and yet, here I am, typing away on the second floor, sending out this message. This place feels familiar to me, and I stumbled on it by chance, looking for a place to stay tonight. My great, great grandfather died in the Civil War. He was taken prisoner and died of cholera or dissentary I believe. Perhaps he was here for a time. Another thing I may never know.

How to save America

If we erected statues to all of our heroes, each and every town in America could have one.
In Illinois, Chester has Popeye; Metropolis has Superman.
Some people consider George Bush a hero. Now that, is a fantasy.

Happy Easter

This photo represents the sum total of all America. Look no further, you've seen it all. My eyes are bleeding.

I'm in St. Louis, MO, heading toward Memphis tonight. I suspect there will be more mansions, giant animals and roadside debris. I have gone back and forth across the Mississippi river 9 times so far. Whenever I see a bridge its too tempting to pass up. I stopped in Hannibal, MO to say hello to Mark Twain last night. He wasn't there but his hotel, hot dog stand, drycleaners, lube and oil garage, campground and lucky corncob pipe shop were all open for business. I said a prayer for him and left discretely.

Previously on Battlestar Galactica...

Time warp: Ripon, Wisconsin.
Cylons have infiltrated a small midwestern town and commandeered the national political process. Note the clandestined photo I obtained of their headquarters. I am not fooled by their Victorian architecture. Two Cylons from Barraboo approached me at one point. I took evasive measures and headed to Dodgeville. Through the cheap, alumunun windowsill of a Super8 Motor Port I can see their Spacecraft landing in the weedy lot next door. I have to get out of Dodge... fast.

Elvis has left the building

I love you all. You know who you are.

Almost...

Help!

I love the idea of somebody swooping in and coming to the rescue, but you and I know that ain't gonna happen. In the Batcave, a supercomputer analyzes the situation and spits out a real good solution. My solution is only based on instinct. My instinct tells me, "be a good man, love life, honor the ones you love". My idea of rescue now includes, me first. I think I'll give that a try, because the other way, didn't work.

Summer of Love

I have no comment here except to say, Spring is in the air and I've been In Wisconsin for over 3 months now. It's time to move on.

The Mad Potter of Biloxi

I haven't left yet, but like a carrot on a stick, I imagine that any road trip is propelled by its destination. Mine is west, yet first I want to head south. I've travelled the interstate highways across America far too many times and I'd like to see something more. For example, I'd like to go to Biloxi, to see the George Ohr Museum. Ohr was a prolific potter and his misshapen vessels are now revered as some of the finest folk art in America. Ohr was an original eccentric, like my dear, long gone friend Grant. I've learned to appreciate the precious few who walk a roundabout path to get where they want to go. That seems to be the road for me.