The Internet is failing to entertain me today.

Damnit.

So last night, I get home, I let the dog out, and then I hear this horrific rumbling/jiggling/cacophony of sound and I’m like “What is that?”

That is an old man pushing two shopping carts up the street at a quarter to one in the morning.

I live in a rather elderly neighborhood, so I called the cops to make sure no one had lost a grandpa. It’s a very quiet street, and seeing anyone up at 1AM is beyond the normal. Except for me. I’m never not up this late.

But I was tired, so I went to bed at 1:30. Jackson woke me up at 3 to puke everything out of his system. But not all at once, see. Slowly, between the hours of three and four, so that I had to keep getting back up.

I’d taken one of my sleepy pills so I was extra groggy.

This morning I am up at 10:30, still groggy, and take him on a 40 minute walk which depletes my water and I feel woozy. I get a salad and some water with SCIENCE in it and still, I feel groggy and woozy.

And that is why I am drinking a cup of coffee. Sweet, caffinated coffee.

This week, I managed to work 40 hours for the first time in… I can’t remember how long. I even racked in an hour of overtime. I love my new schedule.

I have just watched Mike Rowe make wine. Mike Rowe, if you don’t know, if the host of Dirty Jobs, and the narrator of Deadliest Catch. So you know how much I love him. I have just learned, on this episode of Dirty Jobs, that the hole in the barrel in which you deposit the wine is called: The Bung Hole. This is because the stopper in the hole is called The Bung.

The Wine Goes In The Bung Hole.

Before he was the glue that holds together the Discovery Channel (he narrates several other shows, including American Chopper, and hosts Shark Week) Mike Rowe sold crap to old ladies late at night on QVC. And it’s hilarious. My favorites are Mike Rowe vs Doll, Lava Lamps, Precious Moments, and Cherubs, the latter featuring two awesome quotes:

“There’s precious little cherubical information” and

“Cherubim and Seraphim falling down before me. Well, you don’t want to let these fall. They are made of earthenware and they won’t do too well with impact, I’m afraid.”

My cable box is on the fritz. It happened this morning, when a power outage occurred in the neighborhood at 6:30AM. Everything was restored at 9:30AM, but my cable box has been blinking like an epileptic ever since; random intervals, audio drops, screen blinks black, repeat whenever. I have a tech coming out Thursday, but that doesn’t fix the Senate Sleepover Filibuster I wanted to watch. Damnit. Filibusters are too few and far between and THIS is when my cable freaks???

I’ve been watching The Shield on DVD, instead.

Jackson and I have been playing his favorite game tonight, which is called Vacuum. Vacuum is where I pop a bag of popcorn, because I want about a handful of popcorn, and I throw the rest on the floor at random intervals for Jackson. He then runs around, like a vacuum, eating every last kernel. It’s a departure from his normal game of Destroy Everything The Humans Say My Teeth Can Come Across And Leave A Mess. In this game, he’s actually a force for good.

My friend Tom brought me a Beautiful Gift tonight. In addition to returning my Lost DVD’s and becoming a convert, which is gift enough, he brought me… see, we took Tom to Disney World with us in January. He brought me a pair of mouse ears with my initials embroidered, set in a beautiful mirrored display box. I about cried. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever given me.

Back to throwing popcorn on the floor….

My first day back at the office yesterday went well enough. There’s not much to say, except that by seeing it as a means to an end, and not taking everything so seriously, I think I can deal with it better than before.

Jackson refuses to leave my side, like he’s afraid I’ll go away again. I’m not going to give him up, although a wonderful woman at Camp Bow Wow offered to take him. I can’t part with him. He’s too cute.

Today I sent off for a copy of my high school transcripts, so I can start the college application process. I used to have a copy, but I don’t know where it went. Another $2, down the drain!

I was ungodly exhausted today and spent most of the day watching Mythbusters. I did take a break to get my job back, starting on Monday with a much better schedule than I had when I left. It amuses me that I had to quit for two months to get taken off of the early morning weekend shift. I partially blame this shift, because Josh and I never saw each other during the six months I worked it.

I noticed today that my underwear was made in Israel. What is Victoria’s Secret? Turns out it’s Jews.

Turns out two months away doesn’t make me like Ohio any more. Gilyan claims Nebraska doesn’t exist. I’m inclined to believe her, and assert that Nebraska is just a mirage of Ohio.

I pass no less than three incidences in Ohio and Indiana where polices are thoroughly inspecting cars parked on the side of the highway. Seats and belongs pulled out and litter the shoulder. Bomb sniffing dogs. I can’t see the drivers of the cars, so I don’t know if the drivers are in the cop cars or if the cars were abandoned.

What the Hell?

Ohio might do more road work than Pennsylvania. There will be 10 or 15 mile stretched where they close the road to two lanes around a major city and erect concrete barriers and expect everyone to slow down knowing full well that no one in Ohio will. It’s horrible.

In the last three days I have finished the audio books of “God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything” written and read by Christopher Hitchens and “The Assault on Reason” written by Al Gore and read by Will Patton. The former is amusing, because Hitchens gets more and less and more drunk as the book goes on, and slurs his words, which utterly saps the authoritarian perspective he attempts to enunciate. The latter is misleading, because it starts out as an excoriation of our media and quickly devolves in to a diatribe against the Bush administration.

Hitting West Virginia is nice, because you hit rolling hills again.

I reach my house at 5:30PM, EST. I have driven 7,923 miles, total, on this trip. I saw only 6 Walmart trucks today.

Josh scheduled me a message at 8:15PM, but I beg off. I’m not up to being naked and rubbed down today. I’m just tired, though this was my shortest drive thus far. Instead, I went to the liquor store and picked up boxes, to start separating our household in to his and mine. He’s taken down all our pictures, to “remove the reminders,” he says. This hurts me, but for the first time in these two months I realize he is hurting, too.

I just wish I understood why.

Oh man, he was soooooooooooooooooo worth it.

I discovered last night, after my update, that the phone in my room did not work. Like, I don’t think it had any insides. It was plugged in, yet devoid of any circuitry. So I walked to the front desk and asked for a wake up call, which is stupid, not having any calling ability.

Never-the-less, I asked to be woken at 7:30. At 8AM a small Indian girl knocked on my door, which, I suppose, was the next best thing. Showered and out the door by 8:30, I arrived at the Des Moines Area Community College at 9AM. I thought being an hour early would be advantageous.

I should have been here at 8. There’s a crush of people at the door, trying to clamor inside. I am asked if I RSVP’d (I had), have my name checked off, and am allowed entrance to another clamoring line, where I am again asked my name, checked off a second time, and made to sign in.

They don’t mind me having my camera, though. It takes about 20 minutes to get in and directed to a seat. The event is taking place in a classroom for auto mechanics, so there are cars hoisted up and a general industrial feel to the place, which is kinda cool, but obviously chosen for a reason. “Let’s talk about jobs with, like, MACHINES in the background!”

There is actually a wait list off to the side for people who did not RSVP online. This group of people is at least twenty of thirty strong, and I feel slightly guilty for usurping their position in their own state. But fuck ‘em; I got a crush on Obama.

I am seated to the left side of the podium, four rows back. Aside from the little old lady sitting in front of me – her white hair casting a halo in my pictures – this is a great seat. I can see the podium clearly. There’s a short old black lady sitting on my left, and a tall old white man sitting on my right. That’s how it seems to go across the room: old/young, white/black, in some sort of secret pairing off. We’re all very telegenic.

They are both adequate conversationalists, my fellow Obamalites, but my attention is distracted to the first Secret Service Agent I see – a young, doughy, way too pudgy guy. I know he’s SS because of those adorable little ear pieces they wear. Otherwise, he’s about as un-Harrison Ford as you could get.

Heard on the phone from the idiot college student behind me: “Hey, it’s me. Are you going to the Hilary or Obama event today? I’m at Obama. Give me a call.” Iowaians just do their politics differently.

I see four TV cameras and six professional still cameras. The room is packed, with 15 minutes to go. Eventually, they start lining people up, standing room only. There are over 300 people in this small automotive classroom. The air conditioner shuts off. It’s starting to get hot.

Ten minutes after 10, people are still filing in. Now I see two more Secret Service Agents, one a short woman, the other a tall thin man. They scope the audience and I refrain from photographing them.

Some guy does Obama trivia and, despite HAVING MY HAND UP FIRST BEFORE HE EVEN FINISHED THE QUESTION, he does not call on me, and I do not win the DVD. Fifteen minutes after 10, and it’s starting to get uncomfortably warm. Then I spy four more agents, for a total of seven, and I feel good that The Political Messiah is being so well protected.

A clapping roar starts behind me and in walks The Next President of the United States. You have to remember that I have never been to one of these things, and standing in the same room with any serious presidential contender turns out to be exhilarating. The crowd jumps to its feet, even the short woman next to me. We’re all clapping and exuberant. The chairs are arranged in a circle around a podium in the middle of the room, and he walks slowly, all the way around the circle, shaking the hands of all the people on the ends. Oh, to be on the end!

He’s wearing his dark blue suit and light blue tie. He looks exactly like he does on television. He needs no makeup.

Finally he reaches the podium, and begins his remarks. I am more interested in the fact that, in addition to the six professional photographers, two thirds of the audience have also brought cameras. We are all tourists to the Land of Obama. Flashes from a thousand different angles twinkle like Christmas lights.

Barack dives right in, well accustomed to the lights. People murmur affirmations to his exultations, just like a sermon, only calls of “yeah” and “uh huh” instead of “amen!” This town hall is about jobs and the economy, and he speaks of Americans competing on a level playing field. He want to enact a Patriot Corporation Act, where we give tax breaks to patriotic corporations who stay in America, pay American taxes, and keep the “sacred covenant” of promising their employees retirement funds they can’t reneg on.

Suddenly, a huge screeching WHIR sparks up from the back of the room. We all turn to look, Barack included. It’s the air conditioner coming on, but he wanted to make sure, he says, it wasn’t the elevated car coming down on its mechanical hoist. He improvises well and makes us laugh. We applaud. “You’re applauding for the air conditioner,” he jokes, and we all laugh, like old friends. He finishes his opening statement by begging us to call our congress people and demand they support the troop withdraw timelines.

Now it’s a Q&A session. Only a few questions stick out in my mind – one man was in a Diabetes society of some sort, stated that insurance companies don’t cover any pre-diabetes assistance, and asked what Obama would do regarding preventative care in his administration. The response was a renewed focus on preventing disease, starting with showing children how to eat right and exercise, with the memorable catch line “We don’t have ‘health care’ in this country – we have ‘disease care.’”

He’s asked about people he would appoint to his cabinet. Obama says he wants a White House ruled by reason and logic and science. He says he has three criteria for appointments: Are they qualified? Are they competent (here he cited Michael Brown of FEMA)? And are they independent? On this last, he explains why he voted against Alberto Gonzales, saying that he believed himself the President’s lawyer, and not the peoples. “I want someone,” Barack says, “who will tell me no. Other than my wife. And she’s pretty good at it.”

He was asked about cutting the nuclear arsenal; Richardson has promised to cut it by half. Obama has a long record on nuclear non-proliferation, affirmed that record, and said he would cut it, but he isn’t giving a number. This is because it is not up to one man to decide, he said. He’d need to talk to the joint chiefs and his cabinet and figure out what the magical number should be.

Very pragmatic and centrist, if I do say so.

The other one that stuck out in my mind was a guy named Bob, who was a Vietnam Veteran. He talked about the GI bill, which grants job training for, like, five years after you get out of the armed forces. Bob had never needed the job training, he said. Before now. So how come his GI grants weren’t indefinite? This, Barack said, was an excellent question. They ought to be indefinite, able to be used at any time. He said he’d see what he could do, nodded at a staffer, and even said “Maybe I can submit some legislation next week. Maybe even name it after you.”

I like this exchange a great deal. He’s listening. He’s paying attention. He recognizes that Bob is not asking for anything more than what he was promised when he went to fight for this country, and Barack promises, in turn, to get right on it.

And with that, it was over. But rather than dash off behind his gangly, though no doubt awesome, Secret Service protection, he wades in as we all stand and form a crowd. He shakes hands and signs autographs and gives hugs. The old lady who was next to me is digging in her bag for a pen, and can’t find one, so I offer her mine. “Stay close,” she says, “so I can return it.”

”I’ll stay close so we can both get signatures,” I smile.

When I say this woman is small, you must understand she came up to somewhere between my elbow and shoulder. Her hair was graying and she used a cane. When finally she and I have inched forward enough, Senator McDreamy reaches over and shakes my hand.

I think I just about died.

He shook my hand.

He… he touched me.

This is way closer than I ever got to David Bowie.

I said something I thought profound but was likely hackneyed and retarded. “I wanted to thank you,” I said, “for restoring hope in civil service.”

“Thank you so much for saying that,” he said, in a tone which I am going to believe, and you are never going to shake me of, a profound sincerity.

I put my hand on the old woman’s shoulder – look, I’m 5’8” and Barack is at least 6’, and this poor woman needs a booster seat in a car. I put my hand on the old woman’s shoulder and said “This young lady would like an autograph, sir.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

He’s left handed!

“I would as well, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I figured,” and he smiled – SMILED AT ME.

And I helped the old woman through the crowd.

Now nearly noon and high on happiness, I headed out on my drive, vowing never to wash my right hand again.

This route is horrible. It’s so dull, I feel like hitting other cars just for fun. It’s also overcast, again, which isn’t helping. I ended up having to stop and get one of those super caffeinated energy drinks because I was about to pass out on the road. It helped, so I got a second one. That’s where I draw the limit – only two methamphetamines in liquid form per eight hour drive.

Illinois is kinda windy. It’s not windy on the Iowa side, mind you, and thus I think I have actually proven that each state has its own weather force field. Or maybe it’s the energy drink making me imagine myself in a lab coat. Regardless, I hit a massive thunderstorm in Illinois, which completely ruined the experiment I was running with not cleaning the passenger side of the windshield. It’s a shame, too, because it had gotten impressively icky. It was nice to hit a thunderstorm, though. I’d missed them.

Then I hit a much stronger though much shorter thunderstorm in Indiana, and realized I don’t miss them quite this much.

I counted 19 Walmart trucks yesterday. I count 20 today. I’m in Greenfield, IN, about six hours short of Pittsburgh.

Dead God, eastern Colorado is…. so…. boring!

I left Paul and Cat’s at 9AM this morning and hit the open road. Which soon became the sleepy road. I had to take off my sunglasses in an attempt to keep my eyes open — at least squinting gave them a bit of a workout. The low and hazy cloud cover that persisted for the entire 11 hour drive today didn’t help matters any, either.

And if I thought that eastern Colorado was boring, it was nothing compared to the drawn out monotony that is Nebraska. In addition to the absolutely stupefying boredom of its countryside, the entire state smells of manure. A sign at a gas station proclaiming “You Are Nowhere” captures the spirit and sentiment of Nebraska perfectly.

While I have dutifully followed the numerously repeated edict to not pick up hitchhikers, even if I meet one named Aurthur Dent, I did make an attempt at Good Samaritanism. Driving through a construction zone at 40 miles an hour, I saw a car pulled off to the side of the road. I stopped to see if they needed assistance. It was a family of four in a late model purple monstrosity of a car, and they’d blown a tire, with no spare. They’d already called AAA, though, and they were fine, so I left on my increasingly dull way.

This insensate and ongoing road turns out to be The Oregon Trail. This knowledge in no way makes the drive more interesting. However, lured by a sign promising me espresso, I take an exit in to Gothenburg and find myself two miles from the (an?) original Pony Express Station. What the Hell, I’ll check it out. But I am not going to look at the Sod House Museum. Nebraska’s been hackneyed enough already.

The Pony Express Station is stupid. It’s a log cabin moved from its original home on a ranch west of the park where it now sits. It is nothing more than a gift shop. It’s not even a glorified gift shop. I suppose it could be remarkable in how utterly unremarkable it is, but that would be giving it far too much credit.

When I next stop for gas, I notice three yellow butterflies sticking out of the grill of my car. It’s kinda pretty, but mainly gross.

It takes me five and a half hours to cross Nebraska. I never thought I would be so glad to see Iowa in my life. In fact, Iowa is kind of pretty, with the way the endless corn fields roll along. I must be early in the season, as the stalks are not very high.

I wonder how quickly I will come to despise this landscape.

I drove for 705 miles today, landing in Des Moines. I refuse to pull this long of a hall again, and I hope The Next And Future Mr. President appreciates the exhaustion I have gone through to see him. He better be worth the hype. I am now holed up in a Days Inn, the kind of quaint little roadside stop that features a television remote where the batteries keep falling out and a toilet that barely functions. He better really be worth the hype.

The thing you have to learn about Denver is the pressure. I had a low grade pressure headache when I arrived on Friday, but I chalked that up to having to drive through Dick Cheney’s home state. And maybe allergies. But smoking a cigarette a mile up from sea level? It really does hit you a bit harder. And that’s on the plain. That’s nothing to say about the mountains.

On Saturday we made our way up the foothills, and eventually all the way up to Mt. Evans, which, having the highest road in North America, sits at 14,000 plus feet. We had lunch there. Needless to say, every time we got out of the car to walk around the trees and rocks, I felt… not so good. Every time I stood up, I felt dizzy and weird and it took several minutes to feel OK with being upright. It felt like my head way trying to force my brain matter out of my ears, which is funny, because that’s the “objectives” line in my resume.

Thinking that the mountain owed me, I took rocks. That’s right. I stole rocks from the Rocky Mountains.

It is absolutely gorgeous, though. There are areas where, even driving, you get an obscene sense of vertigo looking at all the wide open spaces. And there are no insects here. The only draw back would be all of the Bronco’s fans.

Denver is a new city. Everything here is new. The skyscrapers. The apartments. The houses. All the stores exist within strip malls, and they are all chains. It feels not quite like a city, but like a gigantic suburb. Eventually, they will run out of names for all these strip malls and apartment complexes.

It is also exceedingly clean. Toronto clean.

On Saturday night we went to see “Labyrinth” at a college theater downtown. Paul had never seen it before, though it is a childhood favorite of Cat and I. I decided not to tell Paul that the real star of the show is David Bowie’s cod piece, but he remarked on it himself afterward. He liked the film, though realizing objectively, as we all do, that it is not a good movie. Not by any stretch. But it’s enchanting none the less. In no small part due to the cod piece. And maybe the muppets.

Protests of “But you just got here!” are like my Kryptonite. It was on these pleas that I decided to stay an extra night. Sunday we went to breakfast, and to a used book store, where I purchased yet more P.J. O’Rourke. Then up in to the foothills again, which seems to be a Denver pastime. People actually bike all the way up these mountains. Because they are insane.

We stopped at Buffalo Bill’s grave, up on — is it Lookout Mountain? It’s neat, but the graves of Bill and his wife are incredibly small, almost child sized, which, in all honesty, detracts from their mythical allure a bit.

Cat and I went to see “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum” downtown while Paul had a game night with some friends. It was a terrific show, and I am discovering a like for comedy musicals in my old age. But “Fiddler on the Roof” can still go to Hell.

I’ll head out on Monday morning, around 9AM. My original plan was to drive 500 miles a day, putting me in Pittsburgh on Wednesday evening. However, I noticed I am to pass through Des Moines, and, on a whim, took a glance at Senator Pretty Boy’s schedule. I will, instead, drive 650 miles tomorrow, and be in Des Moines to see Barack Obama speak on Tuesday morning. This will mean needing to drive 150 miles less on Tuesday, and also, it will mean Barack Obama. It’s weird; I feel toward Barack like I did toward David Bowie: I must see the man in person once before I die. And take a lot of pictures.

Speaking of, pictures are available at The Road Home.