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Wednesday, Aug 30, 2000
Stuck inside of Clarksdale with the Tunica Blues Again
August 23, 2000
In retrospect, it started before we got to Clarksdale. But in Clarksdale proper, we were thoroughly Tunica-ed. A friend of Jim’s said we could find old blues recordings, 78’s, in town. This was entirely plausible. This was the stomping ground of blues pioneer Robert Johnson and home of the crossroads of song and fable. And the town had an annual blues festival. Old 78’s, why not?
I got directions to a local record store while buying some food in Clarksdale. I found the Kroger’s described in the directions, but never found the record store. However, we came upon a musical instrument store. If anyone would know, these folks would. In response to Jim’s question about old ‘78s, they said “No, I don’t know where you could find any 78’s. But we have some old 45’s.”
I had spied the record bin, and was all over it. The first record was by some guy named Michael. I searched my memory for any blues musicians by that name. Hmmm ... Michael Bolton ... Michael Bolton ... DOH! As we dug deeper with the store owner, we got a few shreds of hope that someone, somewhere in town had at one time sold some blues 78’s. We wisely gave up all hope, and set off to the next stop.
The Las Vegas of Northwestern Mississippi
Now, looking at a map, you might think that Clarksdale and Tunica, two towns in northwestern Mississippi, are not along the most direct route from New Orleans to New York. And you would be quite right. Having veered hundreds of miles off-course on the basis of sketchy information about Clarksdale, we wanted to make the most of the diversion. Which brings us to Tunica.
Jim had heard about the big-time casinos of Tunica from a brother who had lived a few miles up the road in Memphis. Approaching town, we saw billboards, one after another, proclaiming the entertainers, buffets and other amenities offered by at least a dozen different casinos, including major names like Bally’s and Harrah’s. They had our attention. We were getting psyched up to cruise down the Tunica Strip and gaze in wonder at the decadence all around.
We drove down one road after another. There were acres of cotton and corn, so many billboards I lost count, and no casinos. I saw what looked like a hotel tower off in the distance, several miles away, but had trouble finding any roads that led in that direction. After a concerted effort to find any actual gambling establishment, we headed back to the highway.
On the way to the highway, we saw in the middle distance a place called the Grand Casino. It was situated on a parcel of about 200 acres, when a 5 acre parcel would have been more than adequate. We concluded that all the casinos must be situated like this –- well away from the road, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of acres of cotton and corn. Once your bus drops you off at the front curb of one of these places, that’s it. Your whole Tunica experience is encapsulated within that one establishment. That whole strip concept popularized in Las Vegas just never caught on in Tunica.
tunica --v.t. to persuade another into a useless adventure by offering false hope of some desirable outcome, example: Don’t you try to tunica me with your fancy talk about a tour of the Jersey Shore to see Asbury Park.
Shelton's Ride
August 22, 2000
Shelton’s level of frustration was growing. I could relate to the mid-teens disquiet of a young man who had no outlet, no outlet, no-fucking-outlet for his frustration. In addition to the normal adolescent male angst, Shelton had the baggage of the many years of drama he had lived through on Dumaine. He was doing his best to keep his cool, maintain respect for his elders, avoid injecting drama into the situation, but I could see the frustration building.
While Shelton became ever more restive, I was enjoying a relaxed evening conversation on the front porch with Mandy, catching up on the elapsed years. I could sense that it was one of few adult conversations she had in a house over-brimming with children and their unbounded energy. I wanted to continue that conversation, and I didn’t want to contradict Mandy’s maternal instincts with regard to Shelton. She has a tough time keeping balance between order and normal adolescent exuberance while maintaining this house as an oasis from the chaos of the streets. I didn’t want to upset that precarious balance.
Eventually I decided to grant the wish that Shelton could not bring himself to ask directly. It was time for a ride. Shelton, Jacques and I loaded up to drive to McDonald’s. I dialed in their favorite radio, Q93, and cranked the hip hop. Cruising down Broad, a genuine smile cracked Shelton’s hard demeanor.
I thought back to the adults who had done similar things for me as a youth -- steering a farm truck across a pasture, a rocket ship ride down an empty boulevard in a Mercury Cyclone, cruising in the back seat of a ‘72 Eldorado convertible. I was happy to be on the giving end this time.
While my BMW sedan had Chevy-like status in Silicon Valley, in the Treme neighborhood of New Orleans, this was a sharp ride. I deflected Shelton’s request to steer with “not this time”, but I’m sure the ride itself was enough to give him a good story for the first day of school the following morning.
Photo Gallery NOLA to NYC
August 27, 2000
Jersey City View
8/27/2000
800 miles of Appalachian Beauty
8/24/2000
Abe's BBQ, Clarksdale Miss.
8/23/2000
South of Clarksdale, Miss. -- Prelude to Tunica
8/23/2000
Mississippi Swamp
8/23/2000
St. Charles Avenue New Orleans
8/22/2000
Motel 6 in Wilcox
August 16, 2000
I had intended to press on into the night all the way to El Paso, making the trek from southeastern California to west Texas in a single day. But my energy dwindled along with the light of the day while still crossing Arizona. As I began to doubt my plan, the Eurythmic’s “Missionary Man” popped up on the CD changer. Annie Lennox’s strong and charismatic voice coaxed a burst of energy from some deep reserve. Her fervor was contagious. To prolong the sensation, I played the song three times running, but as Annie wound down for the third time, I realized I was tapped out, spent, done.
I sought lodging in Wilcox, a small town in southeastern Arizona, and transitioned to a nocturnal phase of writing and rest. New Mexico would have to wait for the morning. In the quiet chambers I rented from the fine folks at Motel 6, Inc., I was more prolific than usual, and have several disjoint snippets for your diversion.
Mojave Whoops
My strategy across the southwest is to move fast. I got a taste for the basins and ridges of this region during a previous journey to Las Vegas. Since the proximity allows me to revisit the area easily, I want to allow more time for the east. The basic line is I-5 to I-10, but I took a detour through Tehachapi, Mojave and Barstow to avoid the LA basin.
Leaving Barstow in the morning, the monotony of the interstate bore down on me. But the detour wasn’t quite over. To get from I-40 down to I-10, I took US 95, a small two-lane highway. An older road, it conforms much more closely to the terrain than the interstates do. The dips, bumps and curves gave me a visceral connection to the land I was traversing. These variations turned the chore of driving to the joy of driving.
My favorite feature of this type of road is the narrow arroyo. The road suddenly falls away, leaving the car light. Just as the suspension settles at the bottom of the dry river bed, the road shoves the car skyward while climbing the opposite bank.
In this desert road rapture, I came upon a couple truckers who didn’t quite share this same joy. While passing through some whoops (small, closely spaced dips and rises) I passed one of the trucks, and got a big honk. As I moved to pass the other, that driver aggressively swerved his rig to block.
I honestly try to avoid hassling truckers. They don’t come to my place of work and give me a ration of shit, so why should I mess with them? Driving my race car tow rig, some 45 feet and 12,000 pounds of truck and trailer, has given me an appreciation of the hardships of their profession. The first pass and the blocked attempt were perfectly clean from my perspective, but I had transgressed an unwritten rule of the road: no passing in the whoops section. Obviously these guys weren’t into motocross.
I had a few minutes sandwiched between these two trucks to ponder exactly how riled the drivers were. I’ve seen the film of truck-car terror Spielberg did early in his career. With some small slight, Dennis Weaver had triggered blood lust in an anonymous trucker. As he raced along a lonely mountain road in the barren southwest, Dennis could not get away from his tormentor. Every time he thought he had made his escape, that god dammed evil truck would reappear, shrouded with malevolence.
Back on US 95, I was biding my time. At the right moment, I made a squeaky clean pass, cranked the Babatunde Olatunje on the CD player, and left this mini-drama in my wake. I banished the tension, and savored the cognitive dissonance of listening to rich Nigerian drums while gliding across the desolate Mojave.
Marks near Barstow
Every traveler has a tale. One has fewer opportunities to share the telling when traveling by car. But there are intriguing signs. The vacation toys on the roof rack. The U-haul filled with furniture. These artifacts give glimpses into lives in motion.
Skid marks on a highway also reveal a few fragments. Having experience driving at and beyond the limit of control, I can’t help but hear the stories suggested in the details of the skid marks. Was it a truck, or a car? Did it go off the highway straight, sideways, or spinning? Was it slowing at the edge of the road, or did it launch into the desert?
The tracks left by passenger cars typically reveal the most confusion and desperation. Some marks speak of flashes of terror which dissolved in gasps of relief. Others speak of the brief silence of an airborne car, the graceful arc preceding a collision of horrific violence. In light of the Firestone tragedy, I wonder how many others on the hot summer highways are reading those marks.
Story Telling
As I think about how to write a travel journal, I think about how to share the details. How can one describe the differences between the Dead Sea, Death Valley and the Mojave? My guide in Jerusalem told me they have different words to describe the various deserts of the region, similar to the way the Inuit have a multitude of words to describe frozen water. In English, I often have to find my own words to describe the subtleties in sand, rock, cactus, grass and scrub.
With these thoughts about story telling fresh in my mind, and while making final preparations for the journey, I caught a few bits of Clinton’s DNC speech from LA. Man, this guy’s good. While describing how he had lived the American dream, rising from humble beginnings in a log cabin to president of these here united states, he mentioned that he was born in a summer thunderstorm near Hope, Arkansas. What in the world does the weather in Hope have to do with anything? It’s one of those details of place and time that anchor a moment, and make that moment more vivid and memorable. Bill slides in these nuances effortlessly, with no visible affectation.
I couldn’t help but contrast him to the current batch of candidates. His speech made George Dubya’s acceptance speech in Philadelphia look like one given by a gifted 6th grader at a school assembly, complete with admiring parents. The final touch would have been an Instamatic in Barbara’s hand.
What the country yearns for is a regular guy, who can spin a good yarn. Ron and Bill filled that need. To the peril of their careers, Jimmy and George didn’t. We want a chief executive, good buddy, and national spokes-model rolled into one. We all know that Dubya has a few tales to tell. That, and his practiced amiability may be sufficient. In these times of plenty, we want the amiable rogue, not the brainy nerd trying oh so hard to blend.
Wet and Naked
I’m highly appreciative of the fine air conditioning in the motels along my route. The cool air makes the nights more restful, and some mist from the shower can provide the right touch of humidity to soften the edge.
I had a different experience with climate control in Spain. In 1997, the summer heat lingered into September a bit longer than usual, especially in Madrid. A mountain range to the northwest blocks the cool, moist Atlantic breeze, leaving the high plateau hot, stale and dry.
When entering a hotel room in Madrid, I was usually seeking a dark, cool retreat from a long day walking in the sun. The dark was readily available, but the cool was elusive. After many minutes on full high, the typical hotel air conditioner gave scant evidence of working. But I found the formula for relief. After taking a warm shower to wash off the grime of the day, I turned off the hot water, and let the full cold water run over me. Then I walked over to the air-conditioner, placed a chair directly in front of the vents, and sat down – dripping wet and naked. As I leaned closer to the vent, I could be heard saying “Oh, yeah ... there, that’s it ... I feel a little cooler now.” And I wished it were possible to procure just one cube of ice somewhere on that continent, so I could rub it on my neck.
Two Yards of Tyvek
I bought two maps for the journey. One is actually a book of maps, a detailed highway atlas of the US. While I admire the detail of the atlas, the discontinuities can be awkward. Sometimes I want to see the flow of a route across a vast stretch of land. So I bought another map, a 6’ x 4’ map of the US similar to what you might find in a classroom. I wasn’t sure if I would bring it, but I found it useful in the planning stage.
In the days preceding the start of the trip, I misplaced the atlas. So my sole guidebook to the land, for the moment, is this enormous map of the 50 states. Despite it’s ridiculous size, it folds up quite well. It’s made of that space age material used for indestructible postal envelopes, Tyvek. I think it shall do nicely. Perhaps at some rest stop, I will remark to another traveler, “That’s no’ a map. Now this ... is a map!”
Waist Deep in It
I was hesitant to bring a camera on the trip, because the attention demanded by a camera can get in the way of the actual experience of the journey. A photographer once related to me a story of his mother’s visit to 19 Mile Drive on the Monterey Bay coast. This scenic road is a disneyfied version of the central coast of California. Each vista point is carefully numbered and labeled, with a sign to explain all the beauty one is supposed to appreciate. His mom dutifully snapped a photo of each explanatory sign, but neglected to photograph the actual coast. To steer well clear of that version of a photo journal, I decided I should strive to integrate the photography with the experience.
Before starting the long drive, I took a couple of shorter trips. One of these took me through the Pacific northwest. While driving east on I-90 in central Washington, I saw what looked like an interesting photo opportunity. I slowed the car, and pulled over to the shoulder. My plan was to drive down the substantial embankment to a flat spot near the edge of a small river. I wanted to capture an image of the river and its environs.
The gravel at the edge of the road was deeper than I expected, and the front right tire dug in as I slowed. Too late, I realized the gravel was deep intentionally, so as to slow cars that inadvertently left the road. Being a race car driver, I should have recognized a gravel trap when I saw one. Doh! I was not very happy with myself, and tried to free the car too quickly. This left the car with the left rear and the right front deep in gravel.
Luckily, I had my “track day” stuff in the trunk, including knee pads and long gauntlet mechanics gloves. This allowed me to dig the car out by hand without mussing myself too much in the process. The whole time, I was aware of the eyes of dozens of motorists, and the potential for a visit by a state trooper.
Within minutes, I freed the car, and rolled it down the embankment, as intended. I got out to take my shot. While I was stalking the right composition, another driver pulled onto the shoulder next to an emergency call box. Soon thereafter a state trooper appeared. Finished with my shot, I prepared to make a hasty retreat. But the trooper had completed his business with the other driver, and pulled forward to my vicinity. I thought it best to wait and see if he wanted to chat.
As he walked down the embankment from his car to mine, he passed through an area of freshly disturbed gravel. Hmmm ... what happened here? After a short talk about the legality of stopping on limited access highways, he took my license number, and sent me on my way. For that particular photo op, I fully succeeded in integrating the shot with the journey.
But what of the photo? It really didn’t come out the way I wanted. I was hoping to capture the movement of the water. Not just the current and turbulence of that particular moment, but the way the river flows from its source in the nearby mountains, and the way it continuously re-carves its bed on its way to the ocean. The pattern of trees, grass, rocks and water tell a story of a seemingly calm river that can move tons of earth in a spring flood.
Movement on many time scales, from the ephemeral to the geologic, is the fundamental nature of a river. Somehow I wanted to capture all of that time and movement in a two-dimensional still image. I might have been able to do it with the right composition. If I had captured the right combination of the surface of the water in the foreground, the flood plain of the river in the middle ground, and the mountains in the background, I might have gotten it. But from my vantage point, that composition would have required standing waist deep in cold, rapid water. I had enough trouble sweet talking the officer without having to explain that particular circumstance.
The Budget
It occurs to me, as I contemplate changing direction, that I should choose something I like to do, that someone else will pay a lot of money for. And, I should use the remaining time for things I like to do, that no one in their right mind would subsidize. Like many insights, it’s pretty obvious, but I have not recently framed the issues in that particular manner. I have to thank the author Nathan Englander (who recently published For the Relief of Unbearable Urges) for nudging me towards this particular distillation.
The Highway
August 15, 2000
After longer than expected computer tweaking, unexpected paperwork, and unscheduled vine thrashing, the car is loaded. The project from midnight to 2 was getting the CD player ready to go.
In addition to my normal road music (Eno, Miles Davis, Luscious Jackson, 90's techno, some alt rock), I've selected some tunes in honor of my home state -- Joe Ely, Stevie Ray and others.
And to recall the days of yore at UT Austin with the Nola-meister, and the other days of yore at Gimungous Corp with my friends in Boston, I have some early modern rock, Talking Heads and Elvis Costello.
I have over 100 hours of music for the road, and the song to start the trip is loaded and ready to go. An admonition from New Orleans triggered the selection. It's time to get my motor running.
Letter to Local Newspaper
August 6, 2000
Editor:
I have a modest proposal for solving the Valley's transportation woes. Now
that everyone in the Valley has at least one SUV, we can quit paving the
roads. The funds can be diverted into building a transit system similar to
that found in many major cities in the industrialized world. With concerted
effort, we may be able to catch up with the western Europeans in a couple of
decades. Perhaps by then the station-wagon-on-steroids fad will have run
its course, and we can resume paving everything in sight.
cheers,
-Mark
A Letter to a Colleague
August 4, 2000
John,
Thanks for passing along my name. One of the things I've been sorting out is where I want to go next. One of the things which interests me is the evolution of technology.
Here's an example of one evolution I've thought about. I bought a new digital camera for my travels. It's a digital still camera from a traditional camera company, Nikon, but it has some video capabilities. It can do 40 seconds of CGA resolution video, or a few high resolution frames at a slower rate. This got me thinking about HDTV. This consumer camera has resolution 4x of HDTV, and has real-time video capabilities, although not at the same time. The major limitation today is storage. However, over the next few years the convergence of still camera and video camera will continue, image compression will get faster and smaller, and solid state storage will advance. In a few years consumers will have capabilities outstripping NTSC by a long shot. I believe that capability in consumers' hands will provide the consumer pull lacking from HDTV today. That pull will have many repercussions in many markets.
This is an example of some of the thinking I've been doing over the past few weeks. In addition to my own thinking, I've been doing a bit of reading to understand where others see technology going, and how technology and culture will interact.
I think my single largest contribution to [DigitalVideoTechnology Inc.] was defining the initial architecture and feature set between November 93 and January 94. I did this on the basis of understanding how to fit the technology (digital video) to the customer, [BigSatelliteTV Inc.]. It took a while to sell to that particular customer, but the fit was there from the beginning. (Unfortunately, I didn't have the time to perform this role on the management system!!!)
Rather than a VP engineering position, I think a "technology direction" position would be better for me. This could be VP Eng. in a very small company, or CTO, or marketing or even an M&A position in a larger company. For the latter two position, I think it's very important to develop stronger communication skills, which is one of my goals in this sabbatical.
So that's where my head's at right now. How are thing's with you?
regards,
-Mark