Well, it’s Sunday afternoon again and I think we’re all dreading going back to the ol’ tire plant tomorrow, but what we have left of this weather and daylight, we should turn into something wonderful. I move that we all stay indoors and spend our time on the computer. Sigh. What the hell will you ever do with me dear reader?

Anywho or anyway the jets are all fired up to take me to Denver this week. I’ll be gone Wednesday to Monday which means I’ll probably be jamming your telegraph line with all sorts of barely tolerable communiques about the mountains or the trees or the price of a Diet Coke in the Denver airport.

Always lamenting one thing or another, I guess.

But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. For now I am parked squarely in front of my desk at The Manor for Wayward Youth and I wanted to let you know by way of this computer that I miss you terribly and often think back to our autumn conversations with great fondness in my heart. That last sentence is bordering on being entirely overwrought, but it does not make it any less true.

How things have changed in the past year, two years, thirteen, seventeen years. Where have all those days and promises gone? I should like to dig through my scrapbook and my datebook and put together a present for you. If you only knew what I was really missing right now you’d simply roll your eyes and laugh. Surely this nostalgia is a curse of my old age.

But I am a fool for sepia toned memories of days spent running from one place to another or driving from A to B or late night phone calls about nothing at all. I’ve always had a problem remembering details–or, more accurately–I’ve never had a need for the minutiae when the sound of your laughter means so much more to me than where we were when I heard it.

Dr. Bertram Q. Diptheria–my own personal specialist and listener–once told me that I spent a lot of my time in the past, perhaps even too much of it. But if he’d spent all of the time I’ve spent with you, he’d do it, too. I suspect, quite secretly, that Bertram is awfully jealous of our shared photo album.

Well, like I said, seat 14 B from Madison to Denver has my name on it and I should probably start packing my things. I’ll be sure to wave to you from 34,000 feet. If I can manage to talk to the folks in the cockpit, I’ll ask them about maybe tapping the horn while we pass over your house.

Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

Love,

Ben LeRoy aged (31, 30, 19, and 15 respectively)

Happy belated Labor Day to those of you in the United 50.

Happy belated Monday to the rest of you.

Well, the world keeps spinning and we’re all getting older, and I’m ok with all of that as long as I have you to sit alongside me on the front porch, pointing at cars and making splinters out of rocking chairs. Who can argue about creaks in the bones when there are laughs to be had?

Maybe the best part of my life is the sheer amount of mileage that I get to log on a yearly basis. Sometimes I complain about it because I miss my own bed terribly, but if somebody tried to take away planes and the interstate from me, I’m pretty sure my will to live would disappear faster than I could hope to survive. That’s not me being melodramatic, that’s me telling you the truth. My heart to your heart.

Some people look forward to landing in big cities or exotic beaches on far flung islands. Other people want mountain air or the perfect golf course. But for me, the most important thing in the whole world is meeting people who I have no reason to meet. At all. And I’m madly in love with the idea of doing it in random locations where I believe towns are populated with real folks who I bump into on their way to 9-5 jobs in lumber mills or office parks or convenience stores or behind the counter at the diner or putting in an honest 8 for the county patching asphalt when it’s 110 in the shade.

I hate schedules. I hate being boxed in by planning that was done before I could know for sure what could happen. Seems perfectly reasonable to me that if a fella is driving down the interstate and he sees a sign for something he’s never heard of, but that sounds like it might be interesting, he should be able to swing his car over at the next exit and put on his best exploring gear.

How the hell am I supposed to know what it is? How the hell was I supposed to know that I’d pass a sign for it?

If I could, I’d fill up the tank with regular unleaded, and I’d never stop exploring. Little towns. Metropoli. Underneath rocks. Wherever the hell I could make it that’s where I’d go.

Because here’s the thing — no matter what they tell you on the news, no matter how hard they try to scare you with the threat of strange people in strange lands or the coming apocalypse — the worst thing you can do with your days is to waste them being afraid of very deliberately manufactured boogeymen. This world is a big phenomenal ball spinning through an unimaginably huge galaxy and the fact that you’re here reading this is kinda incredible when you think about all the things that it took to get here. I’m not just talking about the internet or the computer or even the damn electricity, but that there are people and there are words and that you and I can run into each other in a back alley or an open field and we can relate to each other on some level because here we are — two dots on a tiny ball.

And I guess if you were inclined to be cynical (and sometimes I am), you could think that maybe because you’re just a dot on a tiny ball that somehow that makes you or me or any of us insignificant. What’s any of it matter, right? The tiny ball has been around for a bajillion years and a day will probably come when we’re all gone and there’s nothing left to show for it except an overturned semi-truck full of Cabbage Patch Dolls  and a twelve pack of Fresca. And if all that’s going to happen, then what’s the point of anything?

Well, hell, how am I supposed to know?

But what I do know is that tomorrow is in just a few hours and I hate the fact that I have to sleep, because I’d much rather be sending you postcards from out of the way places. I’d scribble a note and an invitation and I’d finish everyone of them like this –

Love,

Ben

I’m gearing up for some more road adventures, and I figured it’d be rude of me if I didn’t at least stop in your driveway, honk the horn, and wave goodbye.

Those of you who have spent any real time with me may know that my patience for screaming children falls somewhere between very little and none. Please note that I specifically called out screaming children. I’ve met many little ‘uns that are quiet and a joy to hang out with in moderated doses. I definitely have no problem instigating my nieces and nephews to adopt a full on HYPER~! mode before I exit the scene to go home and nap, leaving the remaining responsible adults to deal with the mayhem and carnage.

Anyway, today I was walking down the driveway pushing my parents’ lawnmower (because I totally stripped the spark plug on mine and they’re close enough to steal from without causing too much of a scene) and I see this mother and her–I’m guessing here–three year old son. Here is a rough transcript of the conversation I had.

Little kid: “Hi.”

Me: “Hey. How’s it going today?”

Little kid: “We went to the park.”

Me: “Well, I’ll tell you what–it’s probably just about the best kind of day to go to the park. A day like this is best spent at the park. That much I know for sure.”

Mother: “It sure is beautiful.”

Little kid: “Are you moving your lawn mower?”

Me: “I am, in fact. Seems like a good day to move a lawn mower.” (pop the trunk)

Little kid: “Where are you moving it to?”

Me: “Now that part, I have to tell you, I’m not so sure. You know how it is–you get a day like this, beautiful that it is, and you get inspired to move a lawn mower. Can’t ever tell where you might end up. I might drive clear to the other side of the world with this lawn mower.”

Mother: (laughing, raised eyebrow, pushing the kid past my driveway)

Little kid: (nodding because it made sense to him in the way that it should make sense to all of us except that part of our brain has been shut off by The Man)

So then I go to pick up the lawn mower, and in back of me, I hear this little kid’s urgent plea to his mother.

Little kid: “I want to watch him lift it.”

Mother: “Ok, ok.”

I feel their eyes on me, and I imagine that they’re there in the spirit of the Olympics and I’m just one more American to cheer. I make use of the years of training I got lifting boxes in warehouses, rolls of carpet, furniture, and anything else I did to give myself a curved spine. Lifted with the legs and all of that, because I don’t want this kid to see the wrong technique. I get the mower in the trunk and I close it as best I can.

By this time they’ve made it across the street to their driveway and they’re still there, and I can still feel them looking at me as I backed the car out of the driveway. I waved as the kid yelled his goodbyes.

We all waved, really.

The weight of imaginary gold medals heavy around my neck.

I’ll be back in a bit. Remember how much I love you and keep a good thought.

b.

Ever wonder what I do during the day or why I do it? Here’s a brief interview that might shed some light.

I’ve missed you terribly. Imagine my absolute disgust with myself when I saw that I’ve been absent for more than a month. I am a failure of some sort, but I’ve got the ol’ Edsel washed and I’m on my way to your house for Sunday dinner. In the event that you won’t have me, I’ll leave this blog update by way of an apology.

With no attention to order of importance, here are some things that have kept me distracted the last few weeks.

(1) My Chicago Cubs are in first place in the National League Central (and currently have the second best record in Major League Baseball). There is reason to hope. But there is history, and it has never been kind. No matter, I love the game and I love to watch it played and nobody and nothing can take that away from me. Ever.

(2) I attended the Writing the Region writers’ conference in Gainesville, Florida. I had a good time hanging out with strangers and friends alike, including the absolutely wonderful Carolyn Haines–who may be the best storyteller I know. If you don’t know her or her work, I suggest fixing that problem as fast as you can.

(3) I’ve been transferring old VHS tapes to digital files. Never has so much of my poor and misguided youth been available for downloading and commenting. Most of it is kept in a super secret vault of terrible places and things, but this little gem gives you a glimpse. Me. 13 years old. Self-righteous rock n’ roll king of abandoned futures. What’s not to love?  Weep for us both, right here.

(4) After that, I’m not really sure what I’m doing or where I’ve been or what I think. Floating. All of these words are sheer ballast, buddy. (five points to the first person who tells me where I stole that from).

Anyway, what I mean to say is that I love you and that I’m sorry that you left a porchlight on until morning and I never even took the key from under the doormat. Your patience and your good charm are more than I could ever ask for in life.

b.

1. Playing baseball on Arkansas Avenue. Each time I drive by the old neighborhood I have no idea how we played on the narrow street, how car windows weren’t broken, and how come we ever stopped playing. Tennis balls. Pyromania. Video games for the Commodore 64. All of those things are jammed together. I don’t know why.

2. Spelling tests. Long before I gave up on school (especially math) I was infatuated with words (a habit I haven’t managed to kick). I was such a nerd that I routinely added words to the weekly test just to show how smart I was. Where did that little boy go?

3. The time I visited Roxy in Europe. I’ve been to Europe three times. Once to France. Once to London. One more time to London (with an excursion to Amsterdam). It was the last trip that was the most meaningful. Kerouac once said that the best way to see the world is to go with a photographer, and I’m convinced he knew what the hell he was talking about. I’ve logged more travel miles (ground covered) with Roxy than I think any other human being. In addition to England and the Netherlands, there was also a monumental across the American West road trip that resulted in a smidge under ten million photographs. My understanding of humans and our place in the world was significantly heightened during those trips.

4. The warehouse job at American TV. I’m pretty confident that my days of low paying manual labor jobs are over (I’ll knock on wood to be safe), but back in the summer of 1994–that soft space between high school graduation and the beginning of college–I worked in the warehouse of American TV, the electronics store in Madison before Best Buy and Circuit City sprung from what had previously been cornfield. My favorite story that comes from those days was when the store greeter came barging into the back yelling, “Somebody grab a fire extinguisher, there’s a car on fire out on the frontage road in front of the store.” Being a compassionate hero type, I replied quite simply–”That’s not in my job description.”

5. You. Saudade.

I posted this on Facebook six months ago. Now I’m posting it here. It’s an incomplete summary of everywhere I went and everyone I met in 2007 (when I had my video camera).

Quick plug–

Nathan Singer and I wrote a piece for Literary Fever analyzing the 32 Most Rock & Roll Songs in the History of Rock & Roll. The article will be available on June 30th at www.literaryfever.com.

While you’re waiting, watch this clip of Nathan discussing the theory behind the science.

How I miss you. It’s terrible, really.

I’ll give you the quick update from this corner of the globe (I’m fully aware that a globe has no corners, it’s not ignorance as much as it is a willingness to thumb my nose at convention). (Un)fortunately, things have been a smidge quiet on this front. My blood pressure is stabilizing, my battle against sleep rages on, and I’m relatively productive at life.

But what is all of it without your stories of the world?

I had a chance to see one of my favorite bands in the world — the Smoking Popes — last Sunday at the High Noon Saloon. As I could only assume it would be, the show was wonderful and went a long way toward recharging my batteries. Even though I went with Stomper and new intern Narco Polo, I was kinda in my own world, and that was fine. I needed that hour more than most anything in the world. I’m glad I had it.

On Tuesday I drove to Milwaukee with a full crew of interns to see Nathan Singer perform at the Muskego Public Library. As many of you know, one of my proudest professional moments is publishing Nathan’s work, starting with 2004’s A Prayer for Dawn and then 2006’s Chasing the Wolf, and finally this summer’s In the Light of You. I think the guy is insanely talented here’s a clip of Nathan reading from Chasing the Wolf I think you’ll understand why.

From left to right (back row, Intern Spy, Intern Narco Polo, Nathan Singer, Your Host — front row, Alison Janssen, Intern Pyro, Intern Killleroy, Intern Stomper)

After the event in Muskego we hung out with the Jordan family (Jon, Ruth, Jen, Diane, Paul), John Connolly, Jeffrey Deaver, and assorted accomplices and cohorts. It’s always good to be in the company of the extended family I’ve met over the years. That goes double for the Jordans and all the people associated with their ultracool magazine, Crimespree. It’s nice to be able to sit around and shoot the shoot with real people in the real world.

We left the Milwaukee area sometime before midnight (though I will confess, I don’t remember exactly how close to midnight it was) and headed back to Madison. Because I’m a jerk and I’m always up to no good, we made a detour on the way home. We ignored the ROAD CLOSED sign because clearly it wasn’t meant for us and drove to Aztalan State Park. At night, in the middle of nowhere on sacred ground, dogs baying in the distance, we got about three hundred yards away from the car before some people made it apparent that they weren’t up for late night hijinx. For your viewing pleasure, I’ve embedded a video of the whole trip below.

On the way back through Lake Mills we drove by a carnival that had closed for the night, but DID NOT HAVE A FENCE AROUND IT~! Some of the more sleep driven passengers vetoed the idea of stopping and exploring. That’s ok because the night was probably going to end in a small-town lockup with a funny ass story as my only offer of bail (until I could wake Jessa from her slumber to fix the problem).

The fishing is fine, but it’s boring as hell without you.

love,

b.

So, I’m in Atlantic City, 30 stories up in the haze of a late summer afternoon, overlooking fishermen and young lovers, speeding boats and the crumbling remains of an old city hurrying to be forgotten, and, predictably enough, I’ve got Bruce Springsteen on the ol’ iPod. And maybe I’m feeling a touch nostalgic for my youth and the country’s youth.

I set out with grand intentions on Saturday to write something that was going to kill me, but was so exhausted that I fell asleep before the wheels got much traction. For as much as I love naps, I hate when I can’t battle through them to do more important things.

I’m writing to you from one more section of this country (today it’s from 30 stories up in the hazy afternoon of Atlantic City) and the more I travel and the more places I find myself calling home for the night, the more I’ve come to this realization—American, ain’t dead yet, slim.

I wanted to write a love song to this country. No jingoism. No religion. No artificial patriotism. More like a roll up the sleeves and pull the plow ode to rock n’ roll, baseball, and the interstate system. The party was legendary, but now is the clean up and we’d be better off whistling while we throw out the trash and sweep the halls clean. There’ll be another all night get together with high fives and laughter, but first we need to put in an honest eight.

I’ve been here before. A decade ago. It felt tragic then. It feels tragic now. It’s the special kind of bleak that comes from past glories clinging to life support and the mishandled burden of upkeep. Some of the hotels are new and so is the outlet mall. Spend the money that you make, gambler, and keep it in the town–the medical bills are exorbitant.

Chin up. Fists up.

b.