Destination: Los Angeles

So I will go to Los Angeles.

The beaches are behind me, I guess.

The aforementioned Thanksgiving weekend will involve sunshine, sand, saltwater, traffic, smog, earthquakes, taco trucks, live music, lots of pictures, some alcohol, valleys, canyons cornet  asphalt, palm trees, stereotypes, traffic, driving, running, hearing, smelling, tasting, thinking, lusting and writing.

I will find the taco stand where Q-Tip left his wallet. I will find the real "Seinfeld" apartment building. I will acquire a T-shirt that just says "The Beach." I will get judged for not being cool and detached enough. I will fall in love for a couple of minutes and ponder relocating. I will realize that I would miss the change of seasons and my pet sunflower too much. I will come home with a sunburned nose and blisters from walking barefoot on wet sand. I will be a tourist without apology, but I won't go to Universal, Disney or Hollywood. I will avoid sports. I will channel James Elroy and Mickey Spillane and Quentin Tarantino.

"Please don't leave me! I promise to return next August!"

Cabin fever

For better or worse, my parents instilled a bit of wanderlust in me. We always took trips every summer, and at least one of the end-of-year holidays we spent with extended family — Usually northern Indiana or Ohio, so no place really exotic. Once we headed to suburban DC for Thanksgiving, and that was my first time on a plane; to this day I consider air travel a treat, despite the airlines' best efforts to fuck it up.

Those summer trips often involved an International Harvester Travelall towing a small trailer, and sometimes I wonder how I still have regular contact with my sisters and how my parents didn't divorce or sell the three of us into slavery (not necessarily in that order). 

Ours was navy blue with the wood paneling
and my dad would never have tried to off-road like this chucklehead.

One summer we took about two weeks and drove to Idaho to see grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins. I was 3, so all I remember was losing my hat out the window of our car in the Badlands of South Dakota. Another summer we drove a loop around the South that included Disney World (pre-Epcot), Jekyll Island, Ga.; Smoky Mountain National Park, N.C./Tenn.; and Daytona Beach, Fla., my first time seeing the ocean (it rained that day. Piss on you, Mother Nature [juuuuust kidding]). The summer after that we made a loop around New England that included Penn State, Dartmouth, Harvard, Yale, Plymouth Rock, Acadia National Park and the National Baseball Hall of Fame (a colossal bore for my 13- and 17-year-old sisters, a massive thrill for your 9-year-old correspondent).

Long story short, by the time I got to high school I'd visited more states than most of my classmates could name. On some of those trips I was trusted with the Rand McNally Road Atlas, and thus the navigation, so I've always been a more-than-competent map reader. My 10th-grade geography teacher told my mom that I named the five boroughs of New York City before anyone else could figure out what a borough is ("Ah, the New York City Marathon goes through all five," my mom explained, my teacher nodding slowly).

About that same time, my parents got me two books that have done more for fostering my itinerant nature than any amount of childhood travel — John Steinbeck's "Travels with Charley," and William Least Heat-Moon's "Blue Highways." I guess when I first read these chronicles of long road trips I realized it's far more normal to want to see things, places, people and events than to grow roots and live in a state of inertia. OK, fine, one can also get paid for doing stuff like this, and that has weighed on my mind as well.

So it is with great disappointment that I chronicle the extent of my travels this year. I've left the city limits just 12 times for non-work reasons, and my work hasn't even taken me out of the state; not surprising given the Wyoming-centric nature of said occupation. Mostly I've had to catch up financially from a snafu a year ago today; I scheduled bills for the regular payday, forgetting that banks get Columbus Day off and that we'd get paid a day late without direct deposit. Long story short, the mistakes cost me hundreds in late/return/overdraft fees and I haven't had the capital necessary to skip town. That plus a new computer plus some medical issues equal Dave in debt and in house. And to be creative one needs frequent temporary changes of scene, be they familiar or otherwise.

March 29, The Toadies, Gothic Theater, Englewood, Colo.

Todd in the middle — just like old times.

On Thursday of this week, I heard about The Toadies touring again with sort-of the original lineup. I lamented my state of finances. On Friday, I bought a ticket anyway. On Saturday I skipped town after getting my writing done. On Sunday I woke up with my ears still ringing. Not as good as their show in Amarillo in April 2001 (after which I talked hockey with bassist Lisa Umbarger for 10 minutes and swooned the whole time), but it embodied the spirit of the spontaneous road trip I haven't indulged much during adulthood. Piss on responsibility.

April 14-20, Atlanta, family visit

Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia, looking northeast. I think.

I take a week off every spring and head to Georgia to see my family, mostly because I don't want to do it in the summer, because hot weather makes me homicidal. I watched my niece destroy her regional track meet, watched my nephew come up short in his, watched older niece's younger sister groove with her school jazz band and hiked Brasstown Bald, Georgia's highest point. Adventure!

April 27, lunch with a friend, Evans, Colo.

It turns out my friend Linda lives with her family about an hour south of here. So I had dinner with her and her kids as well as a few drinks. It was nice to catch up and awesome to skip town, as always, even if I'd been there before.

June 6, Jon Butler Trio with Frank Turner, Red Rocks Amphitheater

Frank Turner opening up and raging against machines.

I saw Frank Turner at the Ogden Theatre in Denver last fall and he just blew me away. So much fun anger that I felt like a punk for the first time in my life. Anyway, when I learned he'd open for jammy up-and-comer Jon Butler at Red Rocks, I jumped on tickets. He played an acoustic set for about 45 minutes and hit some serious highlights before Butler came on — and the douchebags came out. I got spilled on and the gentry couldn't be bothered to ice their conversations when the main act was on stage. First time I've ever left a concert early because the lardass posse with pastel polo shirts, cargo shorts, flip flops, receding hairlines and a beer in each hand wouldn't shut the fuck up.

June 9, Jamie Cullum, Arvada Center

He left me hanging on high-fives, but I will forgive him. This time.

For the second time in my life I sat front-row, and the elfin British song stylist knocked my socks off. Part of it was the seats, true, but Jamie hit all the conceivable high points in his two-hour set. There was my life before this show, and my life since.

June 16, Mount Elbert

Fucking 'ell, I'm cold, hungry and sleepy.

My friend Sarah and her friend Rachel joined me for my assault on Colorado's highest point, and the second-highest point in the lower 48. I got no sleep, had very little for breakfast and commando-crawled the final 50 feet to the summit. Trust me, I'm holding on to my sign for dear life, and I think it ended up slipping away at 50 mph before we headed back down. Three high points down, 47 to go; five Colorado 14ers down, 49 or 51 to go (depending on your source).

July 6, poetry reading at Coal Creek Coffee, Laramie

My buddy Adrian Molina speaks truth via hip-hop, slam poetry and educational opportunities. He did a reading at my coffee place of choice just down the road, and uttered profundities at great speed. He's very gifted and I recommend hanging with him if you get the chance.

July 17, Happy Jack Recreation Area/Laramie; July 18, Denver International Airport

My sister Diana came to visit me for a few days before the rodeo. We ate steak and brick-oven pizza, toured the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens and got horribly lost while on a hike. We ended up walking through ankle-deep swamp just to get to a road. Then I drove her to the airport; while not a serious change of scene, I did leave the city limits.

July 31, Laramie with Jenny

I took my friend Jenny on a little date to Laramie, where we strolled around the UW campus and ate at Sweet Melissa's vegetarian restaurant before having foo-foo coffee drinks at Coal Creek downtown. Laramie is my favorite place in Wyoming, and I make it a point to take any visitors there because it's sort of the anti-Wyoming — open-minded, sophisticated, artsy, intellectual, maybe a wee bit pretentious in its backwoods way.

August 5, Cubs-Rockies at Coors Field, Denver

The thunderstorm in the background precluded seeing batting practice.

A Denver-based Cubs blogger named Matt Clapp (The Friendly Blogfines) hooked me up with a free ticket to Cubs-Rockies — aka Javier Baez's much-anticipated big-league debut — via Twitter. To that point 0-for-5 with three strikeouts, he went yard in the 12th inning to lift the Cubs to victory. I've never been this excited for unproven prospects.

August 31, Phish at Dick's Sporting Goods Park, Commerce City, Colo.

I already documented this little jaunt. I won't waste time. It ruled, though not as much as Jamie Cullum.

So with two days of vacation remaining to burn, I'm nearly at the dart-at-a-map stage, though I would dig someplace warm around Thanksgiving weekend. Money is no object because I can't place a price on my sanity. I have credit cards (and massive amounts of debt) for this very reason. Maybe I'll just lick a finger and put it to the wind on the morning of Black Friday. Who knows?

"When Black Friday comes/I'll collect everything I'm owed/Before my friends find out I'll be on the road..."