As of this morning I’ve begun my training for the NYC marathon.  A week ago I was offered the opportunity to run with a number in the race, giving me 9 weeks to train and prepare.  The first week I spent on a beach in Mexico nursing angry blisters, created from my ambitious attempt to run barefoot in the sand.  I graciously accepted this as an opportunity to rest and relax before my real training was to begin today.  In the next 8 weeks, I will run around 200 miles conservatively to prepare my body and mind for the challenge of running 26.2 in a row.  I have already run two half-marathons, a couple of months apart, which in my mind adds up to one marathon with a two month rest at the halfway point.  So really all I have to do is reduce that rest period from 60 days to nothing.  That is quite a bit of math for an event that involves little more than mindlessly throwing one foot in front of the other for (gulp) 4 hours.  I know I can do this, but I have concerns about injuring myself in the process of training.  Thankfully I’ve been receiving great advice from friends, old and new.  Throw in some yoga classes, a good massage therapist and some incredible food and I feel confident I’m giving myself the right tools to pull this off.

So I’m in Prague, former Bohemian capitol, expat artist haven, and brooding existential capitol of the civilized world.   And in my short time here so far, it seems to be populated with reasonably content, western leaning Europeans, busy consuming cell phones and high fashion.  It is the home of the current European president after all.  This is good old Europe, not Western or Eastern.  Just Europe.  I suppose one day of walking the streets, and no real academic understanding of European culture of history to speak of, makes this assertion of mine a bit hasty.  But I’m going to go with it.  I’m not disappointed by what I’ve found here.  I am completely wrapped up in the mystique of this city.  I’ve never before felt so consumed by the architecture around me.  I’m just aware that I’m experiencing a city that has evolved and transformed itself so drastically throughout history.  And that now with the relative stability of global capitalism and a centralized Europe, Prague seems to be completely at peace with existing as a big comfy tourist attraction.  

It is easy to be a tourist here.  With my experiences in mainland China still fresh in my traveler’s eye, this city stands out in great contrast.  There is an easy dance between the tourists milling about monuments like insects to a porch light and the entrepreneurs with their animal like aggression.  We skirt their advances, avoiding eye contact and the unpleasant hustle of conversation.  I try to take on the look of someone who speak a language unknown, sheepishly shrugging and walking on.  This is acceptable to them and to me.  We quickly understand each other.  I’m not buying the boat ride, or a three course traditional Czech meal, or the ticket to Europe’s largest dance club.   And they are not interested in pursuing such a confused and unwelcoming foreigner.  In China, this plan was worthless.  Without enough tourism, our dance doesn’t work.  We step on each others feet and flail around until one of us leaves frustrated, rejected and confused.  And thus while I regret that I’m not seeing the Prague of the early 90s, full of raw angst and dark ambition, I’m glad to find a city so seemingly content in its role to passively exhibit what is arguably the worlds greatest collection of historical Western architecture.   I’m posting pics on my flickr site.  And I will write when I can.  

After two months of nomadic life, I’m installed in my new house at last.  This is my second night.  The furniture is in what I’m calling a relative arrangement.  Half of my boxes have been emptied and the frantic blur of moving day is being wiped clean by a well deserved break on my couch.  It is amazing how comforting a couch, a kitchen and the surroundings of a few precious possessions can be after a few months on the road.  It is more about control than comfort, really.  I just need control of my own space to balance out the road.  And looking around this new home, I feel so fortunate to be here.  

Although I’m not far from where I was living before, I’m entrenched in a new neighborhood.  And while I’m yet to meet any neighbors, I’ve been getting a feel for the place interacting with folks at the store and on the street around my house.  It might be a tad early for me to be making and grand conclusions, but it seems that this little chunk of Atlanta is full of that sweet southern hospitality that I relish.  But I’m sure time will provide me a better barometer of  the atmosphere over here.  

For the past 3 weeks, I’ve been living in exile, displaced from my home by my own doing.  I’ve temporarily rented out all the places I could possibly lay my head.  Thus I’ve been filling my days between shows with a little traveling and relaxing, trying to calm my untethered soul.  After island hopping through Hawaii with Sugarland, I returned to the majestic Royal Hawaiian in world famous Waikiki Beach, where I settled into a lounge chair on the beach, watched the sun saunter across the sky a couple of times and began what is likely to become a healthy obsession with surfing.  The following week, after driving through central Colorado and indulging in a Japanese come Southwestern spa in Santa Fe with Rose and her “dog is my co-pilot” Zoe, I spent a couple days on my own wondering through the streets of Santa Fe.  And now I’m resting comfortably in a former bordello turned bed and breakfast not far from the Grand Canyon, at the beginning of what I hope will be a fulfilling week of hiking in some national parks.  I drove over to watch the sunset over the canyon tonight, and I have to admit it is an undeniably big hole in the ground.  Tomorrow I plan on hiking some of the Grand Canyon before driving north towards Zion and Bryce.  

Tonight is my last night in my condo.  I’ve spent an enjoyable 2 and a half years here in this sleek modern man cave, with its wall of windows peering out across the treetops of the old fourth ward.  I’ve walked the length of Glen Iris, past the stoop sitters, crack dealers and scooterized church ladies to get to one of the finest breakfast places I’ve found anywhere.  And I’ve throughly indulged myself in the carefree ways of condo living while holding down a job (or two) out on the road playing music.  But all that has come to an end tonight.  I bought a house not far away from here.  And I’m going to try out the daunting world of home ownership for a while.  I’ll have a yard to mow, a roof to fret over and a new neighborhood to explore just as soon as I can move in over there.  Problem is, I’ve left myself a couple of months with no place to live.  I have renters moving into my condo in a couple of days, and renters in my new house for 2 more months.  So I’m putting everything in storage and living on the road.  Fortunately I’ll be on the road playing shows the whole time, leaving little time to feel the impact of my self imposed homelessness.  

I have a dog living with me.  It isn’t really my dog.  It belongs to my girlfriend.  And when she moved in, the dog gleefully took ownership of what I had mistakenly thought of as my condo.  Every inch of soft ground, every orphaned shoe and every dropped, and potentially dropped morsel of food has quickly become the sole possession of the dog.  The dog, named Zoe, is a black lab.  And she instinctively insists on bringing me anything that might resemble a fallen game bird whenever I get her attention.  Usually a shoe plays this role.  Sometimes it is a shoe with a sock and a dog toy.  Sometimes it is two shoes, the dog toy and a bone.  I’m yet to understand her complicated language of gifting.  And lucky for me, my condo isn’t typically frequented by game birds, which I think would add another layer of confusion to the situation.  

So as a life long self proclaimed dog person, who spent a brief few years exploring his cat fancy, I’m thrilled to have a dog around to at least pretend to be my best friend as I waltz across the room with her food.  I’ve introduced her to running, with limited success, as she is prone to fits of jealousy around other dogs.  And she will fetch a tennis ball with a depth of enthusiasm and mindlessness only a lab could embody.  But it wasn’t until today that I found myself confidently beaming with vicarious dog owner pride in the park.  I picked up a frisbee at the store, thinking she would enjoy a little change of the routine.  And, drawing on my high school varsity ultimate frisbee team skills – yeah it counted for a sport, I released my new Malibu model 110g frisbee disc into the afternoon gusts.  She gleefully took off after the prize, skillfully calculating its trajectory.  With a burst of athletic power and predatory determination, she leaped into the air, clamped down on the disc and gracefully returned to earth without breaking her stride.  She dutifully raced the captured token of her appreciation back to present to me at my feet and stood wagging her tail, awaiting the chance to do it all again.  She was a natural.  Just like the dogs on TV.  Hell, she could be on a Wheaties box with these skills.  Now my only task was to pace her so that she didn’t get worn out before enough people walked through the park to admire me and my frisbee dog, sharing our timeless and undeniable bond.  But of course, save for a couple of homeless men who didn’t seem in the least impressed, the only person who walked by had two greyhounds and clearly no interest in my leash-less dog’s achievements.  

But regardless if the Wide World of Dog Sports was there to witness or not, it happened.  And I was struck awe, admiration and I’m not ashamed to admit, pride.  

Give me a week off and what do I do? I hop on a plane with my brother and nephew and fly across the country to a Star Wars convention, of course. I don’t own a storm trooper costume (yet), and don’t really understand the plot of the last three movies, but I squarely belong to the generation that fell in love with the original movies. I was 5 years old when the first Star Wars movie came out. I have a pointed, if disjointed memory of my parents taking me and my older brother to see it in the old round cinema in Knoxville. I pined for the release of the next two movies. I had the action figures, the millennium falcon and even a Darth Vader mask that is rumored to be still hanging around in my brother’s basement. My 11th birthday party was at a showing of Return of the Jedi. And thus witnessing the festivities and curiosities of a Star Wars convention was a guilty pleasure. I tried to get my photo with as many costumed participants as I could, which I’ve posted on my flickr site. It wasn’t until after I returned to the Sugarland tour that I was hit with the incredible idea of inviting stormtroopers to work as security for us backstage. A missed opportunity that I’ll have to wait until the next convention to set right.

I enjoyed a rare, seasonably delightful day off in St. Louis this week. I was able to visit a few restaurants and haunts from my college days. Walking through the art museum, where I spent quite a few afternoons during my years pursuing my East Asian Art History degree (my fall back in case the whole music thing doesn’t work out…didn’t really think that one through, huh?) I was amazed at how many details I remembered, even though I hadn’t stepped foot in the museum in over 10 years. I could have led a tour through the Asian wing. Before we rounded the corner by the stairs, I could have pointed out that the 12th century bronze Siva has a crack in the ring. All stored away in there, taking up valuable cranial real estate. After a wonderful nap in the park, a stroll around the arch, a nostalgic dinner at my favorite Vietnamese restaurant and a satisfying and long overdue greasy diner breakfast, I headed back out on the road, leaving St. Louis behind once again.

Right now, I know where I am. I’m on a plane, fleeing Vegas for the second time in less than two weeks, on my way to St. Louis. I performed on the Academy of Country Music Awards last night with Sugarland (aka the ACMs, not to be confused with the CMA, CMT, or RMA award shows.) We spend a good bit of time backstage at every award show debating which song we played on which show, which year, never quite arriving at a definitive version of our own history.
It doesn’t help matters that a general disorientation has descended on me this week. Somewhere between Indio, CA and Grand Rapids, MI, I felt my conscious awareness of my location in both space and time start to slip away. It is a particular survival skill that I’ve developed for the longer runs. I just stop paying attention to the details, and just keep a vague eye out for a good breakfast spot or used bookstore along the way.
And it is at this point that I found myself entering the famed Mall of America. With our hotel across the street and a day off, this beacon of commerce seemed to draw me in like an Imperial battleship to the poor defenseless Millennium Falcon (I’m brushing up on my Star Wars analogies in anticipation of the Star Wars convention I’ll be attending next week. More on that to come.) After a few hours perusing all the same stores you can find in just about any mall anywhere in America, I finally got over my anti-consumerism smugness and withdrew my wallet to purchase a sweet belt decorated with 80’s style boom boxes (or ghetto blasters to use more historically accurate language.) The woman ringing me up asked if I lived in the area, and I looked at her stunned, realizing I had no clue what town I was in. Rolling back the days in my head, I remembered Indio, CA where it was 100 degrees. And Salt Lake City with the cool City Library and Japanese restaurant, then…nothing. We played some shows in Grand Rapids, but we left there the night before. So I replied “I’m not sure. Where are we?” Which must have seemed an improbable question to ask in the largest shopping mall in the world, which of course is located in Minneapolis / St. Paul, MN. She just smiled as if I was making a bad joke, took my money, gave me my belt and receipt. And I realized as I left the store that I was, at least temporarily unstuck in space and time once again.

Back in March, I flew out to San Francisco to continue work on my armful of tattoos. As you can see in the pic, it tickled. We added a dragon to the arm, which already has a koi and a tiger. The composition has been terribly out of balance, both spatially and conceptually since I added the tiger a few years ago. The tiger and dragon are often represented together in east asian art, usually engaging each other. My tiger has been poised there alone (and eyeless as we had to wait until the dragon head was drawn on to make sure their gazes were locked) for a few years now. We were not able to finish the entire dragon and background, but we made good progress for one day. Hopefully we’ll finish it up while I’m out in San Francisco for a show with Sugarland in July.