Almondy!

We're just back from the incredible David Byrne concert -- more to come on that, including the terrific slide show Michelle is working on now -- but first I wanted to note the day's other highlight, an afternoon visit by Gina and Franny. They came bearing a cute birthday card and, better than a cake, my favorite treat from West Seattle's Bakery Nouveau, an almond croissant. Around here, those go by the shorthand nickname "almondy!" so when they arrived we all three shouted in unison: "Almondy!"

Very tasty with a cup of coffee. We also played four highly competitive games of Wii bowling. "Throw it hard and crash the pins," as my brother-in-law Manuel used to say at a real bowling alley. Those girlies crash the virtual pins pretty hard.

I'm having to resort to tricks to stay a few pins ahead. Look, over there, the Jonas Brothers!

President of Goofing Off

For Presidents Day today I took the day off, as usual, while Michelle went to work as usual. (I don't blame her; these holidays are good for getting some work done, and then you can save the day for another time.)

It was a pretty day here in West Seattle, and I was just getting ready to take the underused bike out for a spin when she called and suggested meeting at Than Bros. in the Junction for a bowl of pho. Yum, sounded good. I hopped on the ol' Giant, rode up the street and just beat her there by a couple of minutes.


Afterward, I coasted down California to Cupcake Royale, the girls' favorite hang, to see if they were around. I ran into Franny and Gina's friend Katy. They told me Gina had just left to walk down to the beach. They didn't feel like walking but were about to take the bus and meet her there.


By the way, Gina showed us a rough cut last weekend of "Stella," the not-quite-finished movie that she and Katy wrote and directed and that stars Katy, Franny and a bunch of their friends. Very impressive -- even better than I expected, and I figured it would be pretty good. Amazing the quality you can get with a regular video camera and the editing software that everyone seems to have now.

I can't wait for the final cut.

The great thing about Americans

I stopped at our favorite Junction bakery tonight before dinner to pick up some bread, and for the first time since it's been open I was the only customer. So I asked the guy at the counter how business has been.

Fine, he said. Really, the global economic meltdown hasn't crippled the croissant market?

"The great thing about Americans," he said, "is that they don't think. They just want to eat. I think we'll be fine."

Fish Nazi and The Unabomber

With Kaye and Val in town, we went yesterday afternoon to one of our favorite West Seattle hangs, Sunfish on Alki, for a lunch of oysters and fish and chips.

I love the cod there, fresh and flaky, and the simple atmosphere of the small beach-side space. But there's something about the brothers who run the joint that always has reminded me of that famous "Seinfeld" episode, "The Soup Nazi" -- about the demanding guy with the perfect soup who would punish offending customers by shouting, "No soup for you!"

Here's a sample:



Nothing quite that extreme at Sunfish, but the brothers (I'm sorry I don't know their names) are pretty stern dudes, and woe betide the poor newbie who whips out a credit card or asks for more than one tartar sauce.

The last time I was there, a month or so ago, the owner was unaccountably nice to me. Nothing unusual by normal business standards, but he smiled and asked how my day was going. I even mentioned it to Michelle that night, that's how out of character it was.

So cut to yesterday. As I put in our order, the Fish Nazi smiled again (what?) and asked if I like to go to Las Vegas and play in poker tournaments. Wowie, he's looking into my soul! But then I remembered I was wearing my gray hooded sweatshirt with the World Poker Tour logo. When I said that yeah, I do like to play cards in Vegas, he got all excited.

"You're that guy with the sweatshirt, on the TV. With the name ... what is it?"

Oh, I said, you mean The Unabomber? That would be Phil Laak, the poker pro known as The Unabomber for his standard getup of hoodie and sunglasses. Other than the sweatshirt there's really not much resemblance and I told Fish Nazi that I'm not him, but he got all excited and asked a bunch of questions about poker and pointed me out to his brother, busy cooking.

"It's that poker guy."

Weirdly, the little episode of mistaken identity made my day. That and the fish and chips and the nice company. I went out to the Muck last night, while Michelle and Kaye were having a girl date, and nobody there mistook me for a poker pro. If anything I was the fish with chips. I lost nearly $150, never really got close to winning.

No soup for me.

Martha Stewart living

The comedian Rob Becker used to have this bit about coming home from work one day to find his roommate scrubbing the bathroom. "What," Becker would say with concern, "we're moving?"

That comes to mind because I'm suspending the morning news meeting to spend a few minutes picking up crap and, if I get really ambitious, maybe break out a broom. No, we're not moving, but we've lived here for more than four years now so it's about time to tidy up.

Besides, our friends Kaye and Val are arriving tonight, part of the awesome Big Graze road trip they've been chronicling over at The Night Note. These guys, real foodies and high-life appreciators, could have their own show. They know how to travel.

The other night Kaye sent a note suggesting that Val, a tremendous cook, fix us dinner here at our house on Thursday. What, I said in my best Rob Becker imitation, you don't like Raisin Bran?

Stories and photos of their visit to come. First I have a few hundred newspapers to put in the recycling ...

Bedtime reading for the Raineys

At dinner tonight with my friend Jim Rainey and his charming family, I pulled out my camera to snap the above pic and Michelle mentioned that the Rainey clan soon would be appearing on M&M.

"So," Alison said after asking some questions about the blog, "we can read about you tonight until we fall asleep?" Sure, I said, that's what we do.

Ho ho.

The Raineys are visiting Seattle on a quick Pacific Northwest vacation from their home in Los Angeles -- South Pasadena, actually -- where Jim is a kick-ass reporter covering the presidential campaign and the media. Among his many excellent recent "On the Media" columns was this smart take on the "irony deficiency" in the hubub over The New Yorker's Obama cartoon cover.

Jim called in advance asking for Seattle tourist tips, which is kind of funny considering I never do anything here but go to the casino or the movie theater or the baseball park. But I mumbled some stuff about the outdoors -- kayaking, maybe, a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island, a walk around Seattle Center, possibly a tour of the Hendrix-inspired Experience Music Project rock museum. Amazingly, they're fitting all those suggestions and a couple others into their short stay.

I think that impressed Michelle, who opined tonight that Seattle's a boring place to visit. "What could you possibly do here for three whole days?" Has she ever mentioned that she grew up in Italy?

Anyway, the Rainey mob seemed to like it here. The weather's gorgeous right now, for one thing.

We were all going to meet for dinner at our new favorite West Seattle restaurant, Matador, but when the Raineys showed up -- including Cole, 15; Libby, 14; and Hank, 8 I think -- we learned that Matador is an adults-only joint. Cole, endearingly: "Too bad for them, they just lost out on some business."

True that. We just walked up the street to Elliot Bay Brewing Co., where we ordered burgers and beers and caught up on LA Times gossip, the downfall of the newspaper biz, presidential politics, and music the cool kids are listening to these days. Cole's suggestions were all bands I've never heard of and already have forgotten. Libby says she's into Carly Simon and Joni Mitchell lately. (Fine, kid, but when you're done my mom wants her record collection back.)

The evening's only disappointment was that we completed dinner too late, by 15 minutes, to finish off with an ice cream cone at that West Seattle institution across the street, Husky Deli.

Still, a fun night was had by all, I think -- even Hank, who fell asleep on Alison's lap. The Lake Washington canoe race this afternoon may have worn him out.

We couldn't catch a flight to Rome ...

... so my friend Carol Pucci and I settled for a nice lunch in Seattle's Belltown neighborhood at La Vita e Bella, the cool little Sicilian place where Michelle and McCumber and Mich and I all have enjoyed numerous great meals.


Carol and I decided to get together when she joined Facebook recently and we "friended" each other there. In real life we've been friends for more than 20 years, since I started working at the Seattle Times, although we haven't seen each other in ages. Carol's Facebook profile had a photo of her and some friends at a little restaurant that I thought I recognized from Italy. Sure enough, she confirmed, the restaurant was Orso, in Rome. It wasn't the place I was thinking of, where Michelle and I dined near the Spanish Steps, but it might have been the spot Kaye recommended -- renowned for its antipasti -- and it's located very close to where Michelle and I stayed on our recent trip.

Anyway, when Carol and I set up our lunch date we joked about meeting at Orso. I'll buy lunch, I said, if she picked up the cab fare. In the end, we were happy to meet yesterday at La Vita.

It was really nice to reconnect. When Carol and I worked together she was the Times business editor -- Mich's boss, in fact -- but she has since moved to what she must get tired of hearing is the greatest job in Seattle journalism. She's the Times' travel writer. For "work" she trots the globe meeting cool people, eating great meals and writing stories.

We talked about travel and work and our lives, and when I mentioned Michelle she said, "Hey, I've been to the town of Nicolosi!" Here and here are stories she wrote from there.

Carol loved it in Nicolosi, and all of Sicily, and encouraged us to go. One of these days.

Streeter

With apologies for the poor photo above, one of the highlights of last week was our dinner Wednesday night with Kurt Streeter, on the right, along with his cool mom Kathy, on the left and, next to Michelle, Kurt's wife Vanashree and our mutual friend Athima.

Kurt and I worked together in Los Angeles and he was one of my favorite reporters: curious, enterprising, incredibly hard-working and always striving to improve. But his best quality, as a reporter and a person, is his huge heart; he's just a great, great guy, one you feel lucky to count as a friend. Kurt grew up in Seattle, so we had the city as a common background, and his parents met at the University of Oregon, a second link. In fact, they had some celebrity there: Mel was a star basketball player for the Ducks -- the fourth African-American ever to play there, and one of only six black on campus at the time -- and he and Kathy were one of the first interracial couples to marry in Oregon.

Kurt grew up as a tennis prodigy, winning a Seattle City Champsionship and many junior events before becoming captain of the University of California tennis team and later turning pro. At one point as a junior he roomed with Andre Agassi at tennis camp. Read about that here.

When we worked together at the LA Times, Kurt was a beat reporter covering Metro, the public transportation system. He did a fine job, and also began spending "off hours" reporting an off-his-beat story that interested him, a feature about a young girl who was a boxer. Long after I left the paper, Kurt wrapped up his sidelight reporting and turned the story into a five-part series, "The Girl," that was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Largely based on that, Kurt landed what he calls a dream gig, as a sports columnist for the Times. He's very good.

Anyway, after our very enjoyable dinner at Bizzaro, an Italian place we'd never been in Seattle's Wallingford neighborhood, Kurt and I squabbled a little over the bill. He thought Michelle and I were contributing too much (we weren't), so I told him he could make up the difference by giving me three tennis tips.

Here's what he said:

* "First, read 'The Inner Game of Tennis,'" by Timothy Gallwey.

* "Try to finish," he said. Follow through. Don't check your swing.

* "Definitely keep your eye on the ball."

* "Stay centered and upright. Stay loose. Don't get all hunched over."

OK, great. I even got a bonus suggestion or two. And lord knows my still-unresuscitated game could use the help. So I went online and looked up the Gallwey book. I hadn't heard of it, but apparently this is a classic sports-psychology sermon, from 1972, and I'm sure it's useful for good tennis players.

"The problems which most perplex tennis players are not those dealing with the proper way to swing a racket," the book begins. "The most common complaint of sportsmen ringing down the corridors of the ages is, 'It's not that I don't know what to do, it's that I don't do what I know!'"

Well, actually, that's not the problem that most perplexes me. I'm still dealing with the proper way to swing the racket.

Until the next time I see Kurt, I'm keeping my eye open for "The Outer Game of Tennis."

The 2nd Most Awesome Lobster Roll in Maine

Mark picked up a magazine today that had a story on where to find the best lobster rolls in New England. The article was horribly written, but still we decided to follow the author's advice on where to get the best piece of bread stuffed with a half pound of lobster.

The number one place was too far away, so we decided to have lunch today at the number two spot, a place called The Fish Shack in Rockport, Mass.


If this was #2, I can't wait to try #1. Di-lish.

Tomorrow we're trying another lobster roll at this place:



We're going to get one roll to share there, then we're going to head further north to Wicasset, Maine, where the allegedly #1 lobster roll in Maine can be found at Red's Eats.

We shall see, my friends. We shall see.


Also today, we swung by the President's compound in Kenebunkport. The guard out front looked at me funny when I took a picture. We saw a lot of black cars in the driveway. Secret Service. Shh.

A slice of heaven

When we mentioned to Ronelle that we might stay in Mystic, Conn., since it's close to the giant Foxwoods Casino, she endorsed the idea, saying it's pretty there on the water. Yeah, and great pizza, I said. She laughed at the play on "Mystic Pizza," the movie, but said she wasn't sure that the film really was about this same Mystic.

Is it ever! The movie and the pizza joint that inspired it have practically taken over the town.

Well, that's an overstatement. It's still a quaint, picturesque little shipbuilding village on Connecticut's south shore, but Mystic Pizza the restaurant is a mini-shrine to "Mystic Pizza" the movie, which is 20 years old now, and in our short stay here we've seen several people out front taking pictures of the joint.

Cute story about the film's genesis. Amy Jones, an aspiring screenwriter, was summering here in Mystic in the mid-1980s and used to eat at the little pizza place. Back in LA, inspired by the lilt of the restaurant's name and the mix of tourists and locals, she set her story there and sold the film (take notes, Gina!).

Another story, in Mystic Country magazine, told of how an 18-year-old kid, a local, got the gig of location scout. She went to the Mystic Hilton, where the production crew was staying, and asked the manager where the movie people were. "He said, 'I can't tell you that,'" the woman, Bailey Pryor, told the magazine. "Then I put $5 on the table and he said, 'Room 103.' It was the best five bucks I ever spent." Pryor went on to become a documentary filmmaker herself.

Inside the restaurant, photos from the film shoot and of the stars line the walls ("Mystic Pizza" was Julia Roberts' first movie), and the flick plays nonstop on big TVs around the room. They still do a pretty good business on the "Slice of Heaven" t-shirts that the waitresses still wear.

The shocker -- and I sound exactly like one of the tourists quoted in one of the many newspaper stories framed on the restaurant's walls -- is that the pizza is really good. Like nearly four-glioma good, second on this trip only to the perfection of North Beach Pizza in San Francisco. We're planning on going back for lunch again today.

Four dogs on the fire!

Here on the Jersey shore, where my excellent cousin (and M&M regular) Ronelle lives with her great family, Michelle and I established our Shore cred yesterday as non-Bennies not only by going to the Windmill for a hot dog -- famous here -- but by ordering with the skill of a local:

"Four dogs on the fire!"


"On the fire." That means, to you Bennies, grilled. What's a Benny, you ask? That's a tourist, like someone from Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark or New York: Get it: BENNY?

We had a great day yesterday, following Ronelle's official summer kick-off tradition of getting some dogs on the fire and eating them in the car, then driving along Ocean Avenue to check out the Boardwalk and a new development there. Christin, pictured above with Michelle and Ronelle, even broke with tradition by jumping out of the car to throw away our trash (tradition dictates a round of rock-paper-scissors for the duty). And then we met my cousin Rick and his daughter Holley (below with Christin) to see the new Indiana Jones movie (so-so), and then had a terrific seafood dinner at Rooney's, down on the Boardwalk. Awesome day.

And all that was after getting here Friday night in time for a great baked ziti dinner, my favorite, and a night of playing games on Ronelle's new Wii machine with the same group, and also including Holley's brother Ricky and their friend Gary. Fun stuff.

Aunt Chickie, impervious to the passing of time, looks great and is as fun and funny as ever. It's been an awesome stop.

This has all been extra fun for me because this is where my mom lived back in the day when she and her brother Ron (Rick and Ronelle's dad, Chick's late husband) moved here from Southern California. Ronelle pointed out some spots where Mom used to live and hang out.

In longstanding Maher tradition, Rick, Ronelle and I jokingly bickered all day yesterday about who was going to treat for our various outings. I made the mistake of picking up the dinner check, which Ronelle apparently couldn't abide. This morning, as we were having coffee and a bagel and getting ready to leave, she surprised us with our own Wii machine, a gift from the entire Maher clan.

Too much, but I'm sure we'll get a lot of enjoyment out of it. Gina and Franny, you'll love it!

Here's Rick and Ronelle on the Long Branch Boardwalk.

OK then, back on the road this afternoon to visit Michelle's relatives in North Jersey (some real Bennies, I'm guessing). And then, who knows. More open road ahead.

Why do ...

... when you can overdo. That's one of Michelle's favorite expressions and it could be the official city motto of New Orleans, where it's almost impossible to say when. We've certainly had our fill here, and then some, during the excellent four-day New Orleans leg of Pie in the Sky II.

Oysters (lots of 'em), beignes (lots and lots of 'em), crawfish, music, alcohol, sightseeing, gambling, hanging out with friends, driving around looking for a parking place: We've done a lot of what this cool town has to offer, more than once. Very fun. But two weeks into the big road trip now and, honestly, we're kinda bushed.

Yesterday, Sunday, we spent another nice day at JazzFest. Totally different weather than Friday. Really hot, like 90, with huge crowds, pretty long lines and, still, people slipping around in the mud left over from the Friday and Saturday rains. We heard some good music. I especially liked the Rebirth Brass Band, the Raconteurs (Jack White's other band) and the excellent Neville Brothers set -- with a surprise guest appearance by Carlos Santana -- that closed out the festival to a beautiful sunset.

In honor of JazzFest and one of the big stages set up around the fairgrounds track, I've amended Michelle's expression to: Why do when you can fais do-do? That's funny to me, because I could never remember how to pronounce the Fais Do-Do stage (it's actually like "fay doh-doh," and named after a Cajun dance party). I've always said "fie dew dew," and Michelle teases me for being a know-nothing out-of-towner. So now I've made it official. Why do when you can fie do do.

This morning we played tennis with Freda and Sandyman (why do ...) before packing up and preparing now to hit the road for the next stop, Biloxi and Gulfport, Miss., where we hear there's good poker action.

Here are a few stray pics from the past few days.

Michelle at one of her favorite fast-food joints (this one in West Memphis, Ark.).

Entering Tennessee on Thursday morning.

We went to Beale Street, center of the Memphis blues nightlife scene, and both really liked it a lot. They had a big music festival scheduled for this past weekend and the lineup looked so good, including a lot of the acts from JazzFest, that we briefly considered putting off New Orleans and hanging out there instead. We both bought t-shirts from this Tater Reds place, and Michelle also picked up a cool painting from Mr. Red himself.

Memphis is also home to Stax Records, probably my favorite label. Instead of driving out to Graceland we made a short pilgrimage here, where Mavis Staples, Otis Redding, Al Green and many others made their classic recordings. Soulsville, USA! I loved it.

Crossing into Louisiana after a pretty drive south through Mississippi.

Michelle and her mom in the backyard of Freda's comfy home in Kenner, a New Orleans suburb. Freda's been a great host, putting us up for days and putting up with our late hours, constant eating and relentless search for neighbors' wireless connections. Also she cooked up some delicious crawfish etouffee, made her trademark Freda Salad and, just now, fried me up some post-tennis crabcakes. Hard to leave this place.

On Saturday Freda drove us out to a beautiful old plantation on the west bank of the Mississippi, Oak Alley. It was an interesting tour, full of history if a little detail-skatey about the whole slavery thing. The short version: In the early 1700s, some settler planted these 28 oak trees above in two long rows leading up to a little house. In 1836 some really rich dude bought the property, knocked down the house and had his slaves build the gorgeous mansion we toured to tempt his young party-girl wife out to the country from New Orleans. After the Civil War the place was abandoned and fell into disrepair. Some smart cat bought the whole shebang for $50,000 in the 1940s and spent another $60 thousand or so refurbishing it. When his widow died 15 years ago or so a foundation took the place over and now they maintain it by selling tours and doodads.

Also mint juleps, which I had never tried. But I figured how often am I going to be at a real Southern Plantation, with a veranda and a julep at the ready. Nice. I see why they got popular. We bought some bourbon and mint juice and made some more when we got home.

Pretty day yesterday at JazzFest. This was the Gentilly Stage, where we saw the Raconteurs.

The Neville Brothers (with Santana playing the red guitar), at the Acura Stage.


Last night we had dinner with Freda at Deanies, a seafood favorite hereabouts.


This morning's tennis group. Sandy and Freda let Michelle and me win two games before finishing us off 6 games to 2. I was shocked and proud, honestly, that we scored any points at all.

OK, time to go. See you on the Gulf Coast.

Very superstitious

If this superstition doesn't exist it ought to: When you're a big music star playing a giant open-air venue like the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, don't turn over the mic to let your daughter sing. Also, avoid long drum solos. And if you're somehow not with it enough to avoid Pitfalls A and B, at least have the sense not to make both mistakes consecutively. Very bad luck.

That's what Stevie Wonder did yesterday during a disappointing set at a rainy JazzFest, with the effect that by the time he got to one of his big 1970s hits, "Superstition," most of the energy had leaked out of the show. To only slightly rewrite that lyric: If you don't believe in things that you ought to understand, you suffer.

Midway through Wonder's set one guy standing next to us decided he'd had enough. "This is putting me to sleep," he said. "I've gotta go find something else," and he took off in search of another stage.

It was too bad, too, because the concert started off promisingly enough, I thought. Wonder began by introducing his beautiful daughter Aisha Morris, who is one of three backup singers with his band (she was the baby splashing in the bath in the 1976 hit "Isn't She Lovely"), and made a short, not overly ingratiating speech about the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, the recent loss of his mother and the state of the world. He then launched into a very good rendition of "Love's In Need of Love Today," followed I think by "Higher Ground," and everything seemed cool. The band sounded great, the sound mix was good, Stevie's singing was strong and true and there were none of the long, wiggly-voiced departures that he can fall victim to.


Somewhere along the way, though, he went off course. It might have been the way overlong, tedious version of the hit "Ribbon in the Sky," with lame requests for audience participation complete with separate sing-along parts for men and women. Ugh. He wiggle-voiced around that tune for about 20 minutes, and then let Aisha sing a song by herself -- double-ugh -- and then launched into another long song I didn't know that featured a five- or six-minute drum solo. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

I was a big Stevie fan as a kid and I'm still a big appreciator -- I own and still listen to four of his classic 1970s albums -- but I had trouble hanging in there. He kept saying, "Are you ready to go home," an invitation for the crowd to shout "no" and for him to keep playing, but I kept saying, "yeah, sure."

Michelle, characteristically, got even more directly to the point. "He better play some fucking hits or I'm outie," she said.

We were standing pretty far back in the huge crowd, in what must have been the unofficial "smoking" section; all around us the pungent smell of reefer was in the air. A 40s-ish guy behind us took a deep breath: "I'm getting fucked up just standing here and I'm not even smoking."

The weed, the rain and the waning music made for a strange Woodstocky scene back in our section: a bunch of little girls, maybe 9 to 12 years old, took turns running, sliding and falling down in the mud; a trio of stoned, skanky, college-age chicks, one with a giant gut exposed by her bikini, danced in the mud too, but somehow managed not to fall down. One by one, small groups of rain-soaked beer drinkers packed up their tarps and coolers and flagpoles (to help friends find them) and trudged off to competing venues before Stevie finished.

As the rain came in intermittent sheets, the music improved. He did play a medley of hits and the crowd got back into it, although I thought it was a little sad that the biggest response was for "Signed, Sealed, Delivered I'm Yours," recorded in 1970 just barely when he had stopped being "Little Stevie Wonder" and before the big artistic breakthrough of the "Talking Book," "Innervisions" and "Fulfilligness' First Finale" albums.

After my favorite performance of the set, "Boogie on Reggae Woman," Wonder brought up New Orleans legend and JazzFest regular Irma Thomas to perform with him. That should have been a high point but it fell short too. Irma wasn't in very good voice, and Stevie had to keep prompting her with the lyrics to his songs, including some big hits. She might have been the only person in the audience who didn't know the words.

Elsewise, though, it was a nice JazzFest day, despite the rain. The food is always delicious -- crawfish Monica, yum; trout Baquet, excellent -- and we ran into our friend and M&M regular, Sandy (yet another of the old Driftwood college paper crowd, pictured with Michelle and Freda at the top of this post). He had allowed us to park at his house, just blocks from the festival grounds, sat with us during a good Richard Thompson set, and invited us over to his place for a dinner of homemade gumbo, which I think we surprised him by accepting. Tasty.

A couple final thoughts on JazzFest: They've jacked the prices so high -- $50 per ticket -- that it's no longer the great bargain or all-inclusive party that it used to be. More like an upscale party for yuppies like us. And compared with the 2006 JazzFest that we attended, the first one after Katrina, the place didn't have the same inspiring mix of resolve and hometown spirit. Everyone seems tired of recovering from the storm.

Prices, weather and disappointments notwithstanding, Michelle and I plan on going back tomorrow to catch a tribute to Mahalia Jackson in the Gospel Tent, the Raconteurs at Gentilly Stage, a few minutes of Rebirth Brass Band at Congo Square and Preservation Hall Jazz Band at Economy Hall Tent, and the Neville Brothers, to close out the festival, at the Acura Stage.

With a nod to LaurieSue, who mocked M&M's easy grading scale and then promptly declared four "nurse caps" for a new kung-fu movie: Stevie Wonder's set, 2 gliomas; Friday JazzFest overall, 3 gliomas.

Another day, 2 more states (nearly 3)

I love all the travel advice in the comments. Thank you, M&M-ers.

Despite the apparent consensus, though, we decided to continue heading east out of Oklahoma City on Interstate 40, into Arkansas and toward Memphis, at which point our plan is to turn south on I-55 and make a straight shot to New Orleans.

Other than extremely strong southerly winds throughout Oklahoma, today was a beautiful day for driving, with clear skies and surprisingly (to me) pretty country in Oklahoma and Arkansas. We're both amazed at how much the landscape changes from day to day. Yesterday we saw hour after hour of high-mesa and red-rock desert; today we drove through the gentle hills of the Texas Panhandle, the wavy grass fields and red dirt of Oklahoma and the lush woods and horse country of Arkansas. Not a mesa in sight.

We thought we'd pull up somewhere around Little Rock for the night, but Michelle had an adrenaline rush and we kept on going -- almost all the way to the Tennessee state line. I don't know how she did it; I'm exhausted, and all I did was sit there. We're now tucked into a nice little EconoLodge in West Memphis, Ark., across the river from Memphis, and we hope to visit the Stax Records museum or maybe Graceland in the morning before we shoot south.

I keep meaning to post accounts of our poker adventures, or pics of lunch with Terry at Manhattan Beach and Miriam in South Pasadena, or our bitter riff on Starbucks' bungled marketing plan, or our cool new blog feature -- an "overheard" category -- but by the time we settle in for the night it's too late. That stuff will have to wait.

Here are a couple of quick pics from today's travels:


One of the first things you see when you cross from Texas into Oklahoma on this route is a sign advertising the largest cross in the Western Hemisphere. ("Exit for a spiritual experience you'll never forget.") Well, we got lucky. You could see the cross from the freeway, no exit required. I'm not sure how long I'll remember the spiritual experience, but I do recall that the actual cross, the one in the Bible, was in the Eastern Hemisphere, for whatever that's worth.


Oklahoma City. These are the bastards who are stealing the Seattle SuperSonics basketball team, and this Ford Center, on I-40, is where they'll play. I say "bastards" because people in Seattle are all upset about the team's moving. I couldn't care less, honestly. Good luck to the team and the OKC. I'm personally fine without either of them. The Oklahoman newspaper today was promoting a sports columnist who was taking great pleasure in poking the Pacific Northwest.


You're driving through Oklahoma, surrounded by cows, you ought to have a steak, is what I say. We finally found the perfect-looking joint, Big Jake's Cattle Co., although it was actually two miles inside the Arkansas state line. Sure enough, the menu featured a vast array of beef meals. Michelle ordered The Big Jake, a center-cut steak that the menu promised to be "the best eatin' of your life." I wasn't all that hungry. In fact I was going to order the "petite steak" but since they described it as "perfect for the ladies or the little fellas" I decided to go with a top sirloin instead.

They accidentally gave me Michelle's order, and I have to say that was one pretty tasty steak. But the best eatin' of my life? I don't know. I can think of quite a bit of eatin' this good or better on this very trip: the feast at Kaye & Val's, dinner at the awesome Bellagio buffet in Las Vegas, the Pete's turkey sandwich and Trieste cappuccino and Mama Matassa's manicotti ... and that's without even getting to the best Harley Dog in Kingman, Arizona.

More meals, wheels and photos tomorrow.

11 days, 7 states, and counting ...

We just pulled into a little roadside motel in Amarillo, Texas, called the Camelot Inn, styled sort of like the Excalibur in Las Vegas, only a fraction of the size -- and price. We got our comfy but flashless double for $43, which includes free donuts and coffee in the morning and, surprise, free wireless.

It's been a long day of driving for poor Michelle though. We realized that our leisurely sightseeing along Route 66 through Arizona yesterday set us back a bit on our mission to reach New Orleans by Friday's JazzFest lineup. So we pushed on tonight farther than we planned.

Good couple of days, though. Today began at the Motel DuBeau, pictured above -- really now a youth hostel, the DuBeau Hostel -- a vintage 1930s-era stop on old Route 66 and our cool Flagstaff, Ariz., find. We drove across Arizona, into the beautiful mesa country of New Mexico, with a quick walk around old downtown Gallup and a stop for lunch at the famous and picturesque Hotel El Rancho just east of town. We played cards for a short while at Route 66 Casino (everything here milks the name) outside Albuquerque and then crossed into Texas to Amarillo.

That makes seven states -- Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas -- since we left home on April 19.

Fun, but a long day. Tomorrow back on the road to Oklahoma City, and we're still debating the best route from there: south to Houston then east to New Orleans; or east to Memphis and then south to New Orleans. Thoughts, experienced travelers?

Here are a few shots from the past couple of days.

Michelle in Vegas:

Mr. D'z, the awesome roadside diner in Kingman, Arizona, on Route 66, which really deserves its own post. It caters to bikers, like a lot of places on this highway, and advertises "Best Harley Dog in town!" I ordered one up. "I hear you make the best Harley Dog in town," I said to our waitress, Ginger. "Well, it's the only one, really," she said. I figured. Pretty good hot dog, though:

The storied El Rancho, host to movie stars once upon a time. The sign says, "Charm of yesterday, convenience of tomorrow":


Typical sight on today's long drive: