Minnesota Some More

A good night’s sleep is a wonderful thing. You might say I found paradise. Or you might say I was looking for a good way to tie in that picture above…


What to do on a Sunday afternoon in Northfield MN? We opted for a trip down the road to bustling Faribault, where one can find a good breakfast buffet as well as scope out locations used in the movie “Grumpy Old Men”. Neither of us really knew about the “Grumpy Old Men” part until these bikers drove up next to us on the main street. Just as we were freaking out wondering what they wanted with us (urban paranoia, y’know…), they proceeded to put on their “Minnesota nice” and tell us about the historic ground on which we walked. Note to self: appearances can be deceiving.

We hit a cool thrift store/antique mall/flea market thing in an old Kresge store downtown, got shakes at the A&W (after admiring the “A&W Man” out front), and then headed back to Northfield to tour the Carleton campus. Carroll showed me the new computer labs where she works and we played with the T1 line for a while. What unrepentant nerds we have become…


Back in Minneapolis, Erik was still in Bob Vila mode, sanding cabinets, stripping hinges, and other harshly butch crap like that. I couldn’t stand it anymore, so we had sex on the couch for a while, and were interrupted (why yes, just at that pivotal moment) by Bil, who showed up to take me on a sleazy bar tour. Erik, being a tad hungover after a trying Halloween, as well as a tad sticky, opted for sleep.

Unfortunately, all the sleazy bars we tried to hit were closed, and we ended up at this strangely endearing Chinese restaurant and bar called the Red Dragon. I had a beer. Bil had some disturbing-looking orange thing in a fishbowl.

Back home, Erik hadn’t managed to get to sleep. We finished the “project” we’d started earlier. Then we both slept.


Bob Vila remained at home today while Bil and I toured the wilds of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, missing no White Castle, neon motel, nor thrift store which crossed our path. This was one of those mindless driving days, with no particular destination in mind. I love those.


We hit the ghost mall in Saint Paul (not as ghostly as it was a few years back, apparently). We visited this strange surplus store with funny signs. Bil bought used toys at the thrift store, so we went to K-mart for batteries. And then we ventured to the State Fair. Of course there was no fair in progress, so the crowds were a bit sparse, but the gopher was there in all his (her?) glory.


Monday night brought crappy pizza and Goth/Industrial Night at the Saloon. The Saloon was better. The Minneapolis version of this scene is not nearly as annoying as the versions on the coasts. These people actually seem to have senses of humor. And personalities. And lives. I even got hit on. Sort of.

More late food at the rock and roll Mexican place.

Jesse Ventura and Drag Shows


Dealt with some banking emergencies and last-minute thrift store runs in the morning and a few purchases in the early afternoon. Spent most of the afternoon and evening gazing at the four very purple chairs (my three favorites pictured above) which were delivered to Erik in the morning.

In the evening, Erik and I did the Saint Paul bar tour, including Trikks (stupid name but an OK place) and the Town House (unbelievably frightening place, especially since we were the only two customers). Election returns were coming in. Pro-wrestler Jesse Ventura was slowly but surely being elected governor. I felt like I was in the middle of a Simpsons episode.

I understand in some ways why many voters, particularly younger ones, opted for Jesse. He’s a complete outsider, and provided a unique opportunity to make a statement about the stagnant two-party system. A vote for Jesse Ventura was essentially a “fuck you” to the Democratic and Republican parties, a means of expressing dissatisfaction with their collective moral bankruptcy and lack of new ideas. But the fact remains that he’s basically an idiot. It will be interesting to see what happens now.

Anyway, we finished off the night at the always sedate Eagle and the Brass Rail. I am reminded that I don’t really miss drag shows.

Minneapolis MN – Kansas City MO

Odometer: 88061

Random “pro” thoughts on leaving Minneapolis:

  • It’s nice parking directly in front of your house.
  • Rents are cheap, people are nice, and there are neighborhoods with a pedestrian scale.
  • Surprisingly good local newspapers, which cover planning and urban social/economic issues well. Of course ANYTHING would look good after six years of the Chronicle and Examiner, perhaps the worst pair of “big city” newspapers in America.

And the “con” list:

  • Minnesotans are horrible drivers (among the worst I’ve ever seen) and the freeways are badly designed too.
  • It’s damn cold.
  • The queer bars suck, and they close at 1 (which might actually be a GOOD thing).
  • Not a decent burrito to be found in the entire city.

I managed to leave at a fairly reasonable hour and just in time to miss the predicted snowfall. I’m heading south, I thought, so it will surely get warmer. Yeah…right… By the time I hit the Iowa state line at noon, it was five degrees colder than in Minneapolis. But I was moving to the hot polka beat of 920AM in Faribault, so I was OK.


Iowa was no less boring from north to south than from east to west. I got through it as fast as the ridiculously low speed limit (and the proliferation of roadkill) would allow. Missouri was a welcome sight.

Until I got to Kansas City.

I had a great time in Kansas City last year. History did not repeat itself. I was never able to get in touch with the friend in whose house I was to stay. It’s my own fault for not getting in touch by phone first. I’m an idiot and I hated not being able to catch up with old friends. I decided to get a room. Two hours and about 50 miles later, I found a really skanky one which smelled bad. I was not in a good mood by this point.

When I went out for food, I realized I was in the absolute suburb from hell. There was no visible fast food. All the roads went to nowhere. I finally found a Burger King. Inside, five teenage stud wannabes were in line, talking on their cell phones as they ordered. One of them paid with a check. I now know what hell looks like.

Going out again was out of the question.

Kansas City MO to Oklahoma City OK

Odometer: 88593


A big benefit to not going out was being able to get on the road early and get the hell out of Lenexa KS. Today was an almost completely freeway-free day. I headed south on US71 through Peculiar MO en route to Joplin, the only town mentioned in “Route 66” (the song) where I’d never been. Pretty anti-climactic place, but at least I’ve been there now…

The most exciting radio moment on this stretch was an ad for a “mountain oyster fry” somewhere in Missouri. I’m hesitant to describe exactly what a”mountain oyster” is, but if you ask really nicely I may email you the gory details.


And as of Joplin, I was officially on Route 66. After Joplin, I saw the 12-mile stretch through Galena KS, and then crossed into Oklahoma, through Miami and Vinita, on a course for Tulsa. I managed to skip the Oklahoma Turnpike (I-44) completely and followed the old road all the way to the outskirts of Tulsa.


Tulsa was more impressive that I’d pictured. In retrospect, I’d really like to have spent more than an hour there. My friend Grant had recommened lunch at Nelson’s Buffeteria, which looked great but was, alas, closed by the time I arrived. So I pretty much just drove around downtown for a while and found my way to outbound Route 66 and Sapulpa. Never did get around to eating, and by the time I hit Depew, I was desperate enough to settle for KFC.

The stretch of Route 66 between Tulsa and Oklahoma City is great if you’re not in a hurry. It’s a two-lane road through a dozen or so small towns like Chandler, Bristow, and Warwick. There are diners and old gas stations and leftover tourist cabins from a bygone era. I can only imagine the generic horrors of the turnpike a mile away, with its franchised rest stops, etc. Glad I missed it…


Hearing “I Am the Walrus” while driving down a particularly deserted stretch made it all the more surreal.


Rolled into Oklahoma City about 8:00 and checked into the Red Carpet Inn off I-44. This was truly one of the creepiest motels I’ve ever stayed in, which is (of course) the reason I was so drawn to it. It was the quitessential “major chain gone to seed”, a once large collection of motels which has dwindled to about a dozen (my experience with the Red Carpets dates from trips to Atlanta in the 1980s). This one was particularly far-gone and was empty, aside from me and two cops from some small town.

The really nice Southern gentleman at the registration desk told me the attached restaurant had closed on Thanksgiving Day in 1996. It was now, he said, a really huge employee break room. The guest rooms were huge too, with tasteful pink tiles in the bathroom, a sink which was becoming disconnected from the wall, and a laminated Waffle house menu on the table. The place smelled, but I liked it.

After a nice dinner of fried okra, sweet tea (and other stuff) at Luby’s Cafeteria, I hit the frightening Oklahoma City bar zone. First was Levi’s, which I loved last year but was lukewarm about this time through. At least I scored free beers from a friendly bartender.

I met a guy named John at Levi’s. He knew Planet SOMA, which was just a little creepy. We talked and decided to drive over to the Habana Inn bars. In the car, John told me he was on trial in the morning for felony DUI. Needless to say, he was a little antsy, what with this possibly being his last night of freedom and all.

The “gay area” on Oklahoma City centers around this motel called the Habana Inn. It was as creepy this year as last year. I hit four bars. Two of them had drag shows. And somehow this year, I never made my way into the actual motel complex. I don’t think I missed much. I went back to the empty motel alone.

Oklahoma City OK to Albuquerque NM

Odometer: 89127


Nice full morning in the city, fueled by cheap gas and a Waffle House breakfast (the menu in the motel room worked). First stop on the “abandoned buildings and urban decay” itinerary (again courtesy of Grant, as were most of today’s highlights) was the abandoned Belle Isle Power Plant. Couldn’t get within a mile of it.

After Belle Isle, I found a veritable treasure trove of abandoned buildings in an area just north of downtown. OKC is an amazing place to witness the way cheap land and wide open spaces causes a city to develop (and decay). Particularly depressing (disturbing?) was the old Mercy Hospital, a huge streamilne building which sits empty and exposed just a few blocks from its replacement. Much like in Detroit, I kept wondering “how does this happen?”


Then I went downtown for a pilgrimage I missed last time through. I experienced the bomb site, where the Federal Building stood until a nutcase destroyed it (and most of its occupants) on 19 April 1995. It was much creepier than I expected: a fence covered with memorials surrounding a collection of stairs leading to nowhere. Underneath, a parking garage, which is astonishingly still in use. A memorial is under construction, but for now, the whole site is little more than a really eerie vacant lot.


It was time to hit the road.


Oklahoma City is a crossroads between the south and the west…a place which looks western but where you can still get fried okra. The “southern touch” continues through the Texas panhandle to Amarillo and ends shortly afterward.

More cheap gas before leaving downtown Oil Country and I headed west. Didn’t make many stops as I’d covered this ground pretty thoroughly on last year’s trip. Once in Texas, I hit some of the densest fog I’d ever driven through, which lasted for most of the 90 miles from Shamrock to Amarillo. I grabbed more fried okra at another Luby’s and shed no tears about skipping the rest of the town.


I didn’t spend the night in any of Tucumcari’s 2000 (or however many) rooms, but I did a drive-through, accompanies by “Born to Be Alive” on some queen’s “retro disco” college radio show. Seemed a strange enough way to experience Tucumcari, I thought.

Thanks to the end of Daylight Savings Time, I was finding myself doing more night driving that I really wanted on the return trip. A big disadvantage is that I was really beat every time I rolled into town. the one advantage was that I could scan AM stations from all over the place: news/talk from Salt Lake City, hillbilly music from Tulsa, and even traffic reports from LA. I purposely avoided any SF stations.

My time in Albuquerque was pretty uneventful. I hit a few bars, but was never able to figure out which was “the cowboy bar” of Albuquerque legend. There was way too much bad country music (which pretty much covers all country music of the past 25 years or so) and the one dive bar with “potential” smelled too bad to keep my attention. I went to a dance club and saw only one boy worth watching. He looked like a heroin dealer. He turned out to be one of the bouncers.


To top it off, most of the Central Avenue motels had their neon turned off. I was disappointed.

About the only excitement came when I was pulled by an Albuquerque cop. I’d only had one beer (being really anal, as I was, about not driving drunk), but I was still nervous. I pulled out my license as the cop called in my tag info. When he came to the window, he told me the license was unnecessary. Seems he’d pulled me because the glare from his headlights had made my validation sticker look blank. One he saw everything was OK, he APOLOGIZED for pulling me over.

I was stunned.

Albuquerque NM to Needles CA

Odometer: 89729


There is nothing quite so annoying as being in a huge thrift store in Albuquerque NM on a Saturday morning in the midst of a half-price sale. I was in and out in about three minutes and off to my final Luby’s Cafeteria, where there was no fried okra, but there WAS fried zucchini.

I stopped at a truck stop just outside town to get gas. Imagine my surprise at seeing an Oakland city bus in the parking lot. The driver said it was being delivered. I saw another one a few miles down the road, rolling along with its “West Oakland BART” destination sign out of place in the desert.

About this time, my odometer crossed the 90,000-mile mark.


This was another long day of driving with few stops. Once again, I was covering familiar ground, through western New Mexico and all of Arizona in one day. The only highlights were a devilishly cute gas jockey in Holbrook AZ and a brush fire in the median somewhere west of Flagstaff. I was completely worn out by the time I hit the California state line and rolled into Needles.

Needles CA has to be one of the most depressing places in the country. There was absolutely nothing there and absolutely nothing going on. And this was a Saturday night following a rodeo! OK…there ewre a couple of cute cowboys around, but they were on the way out of town.

I coped by going to the AM/PM, getting myself a 59-cent death dog, some Doritos, and a Foster’s Lager, and then settling in for “The People vs. Larry Flynt”. Slept like a baby, although I was a little worried that I was running the air conditioner while it was 50 degrees outside. Guess I’d sort of gotten used to the cold.

Needles CA to San Francisco CA

Odometer: 90273


Gas price in Needles: $1.29 a gallon. Gas price when I said “fuck that” and drove three blocks back into Arizona: 97¢ a gallon. Sometimes I hate California.

I hated it more and more as I crossed the Mojave into Barstow. Traffic got progressively worse and worse. By the time I hit I-5 west of Bakersfield, I was in the midst of a nasty automotive clusterfuck. I had a near-death experience outside Santa Nella, where I just missed being car number 16 or 17 in a 25-car pileup. Fortunately, no one actually collided, although two cars were forced off the road.

There were minor storms in the mountains west of Mojave. There were fairly intense ones (by California standards) just south of San Francisco.

When I crossed Altamont Pass, I was more or less home. I was also just about out of gas. I finally stopped in Castro Valley. At this point, I knew I was really home in the good old Golden State because I had to drive through this suburban strip for fifteen minutes before I could find a gas station.

Oakland. Bay Bridge. Home. After 7003 miles…

The Stats

Miles travelled: 7003

States visited: 16

Most states in one day: 4 (on two different days)

Most annoying song heard over and over again: “The Stroke” by Billy Squier

Obscure top 40 song from my past I was most surprised to hear: “Gemini Dream” by the Moody Blues

Strangest radio station: 920AM in Faribault MN (all polka all the time)

Best lodging: Renaissance Tower, Indianapolis

Worst lodging: Motel 6, Kansas City

Cutest boys in the rest areas: Nebraska

Strangest food substance: Frank’s Kraut Juice (Minnesota)

Most pleasant financial surprise: Free ATM service at Norwest Banks thanks to merger mania

Runner-up to above: Cigarettes for $15.00 a carton in Indiana and Wyoming

Best thrift store surprise: The missing piece of my McDonald’s Flintstones mug collection

Crappiest queer bar: Blazing Saddles, Des Moines IA

Strangest queer bar: C’est La Vie, Milwaukee

Most enjoyable felony: Oral sex in Michigan (I’d say Minnesota too, but I’m not sure if it’s felony there)

Most enjoyable misdemeanor: Public drinking in a creepy parking garage in Minneapolis

Most enjoyable infraction: 90MPH through large parts of Nevada and Wyoming

Most roadkill sightings: I-35 through Iowa

Best culinary experience: The King and I, Minneapolis

Runner-up to above: Luby’s Cafeteria, OKC, Amarillo, and Albuquerque

Number of people I met in bars who had seen Planet SOMA: 1

Strangest vehicular sighting: An Oakland city bus parked at a truck stop in Albuquerque

Cheapest gas: 80.9 cents in Oklahoma City

Runner-up to above: 84.9 cents in Des Moines

Most expensive gas: $1.55 in the middle of the Mojave Desert

Runner-up to above: $1.29 in Needles CA

Worst allergy region: Minnesota, hands down


I’m home. I’m not wildly excited about this fact. ‘Nuff said…

Is it possible to have jet lag when you DRIVE across the country? I sort of feel like someone hit me really hard with a big stick.

Anyhow, it was a great trip. The details and pictures will follow shortly. Thanks to Erik and Bob, Carroll and Scott, David and Davee, and Bil and everyone else who put up with me. And thanks especially to Luby’s Cafeteria for keeping me fueled with fried okra all the way home.

I’m going to bed now. My own bed. That’ll be nice…

Willie’s Pie

I know what you’re thinking, but I promise I had absolutely nothing to do with the protesters who hit Mayor Willie Brown in the face with a pie. Mind you, I completely support their protest against the “economic cleansing” of San Francisco. And I completely support anything which makes Emperor Willie the Pompous appear foolish.

I’m just pissed off that I didn’t think of it first.

There are, as yet, no pictures or journals from Road Trip 98. However, I have added a Statistics page, with some useless information, “best of” items, etc. Look for the real scoop within the next couple of days.

I’m going back to bed now.

The Idiot Factor

So I’ve posted the first couple of pages of journals from Road Trip 98, including the SF to Cheyenne and Cheyenne to Indianapolis pages, along with the trip “stats”. It is most flattering that so many people are interested in seeing my dusty old vacation slides…

I’ve been back in the rut known as San Francisco for two days now and I’m not enjoying it. I miss places with heat that works. I miss my friends from the road. I miss White Castle, dammit.

Still catching up on the email. Still catching up on the business. Still feeling like absolute shit, but loving the Count Chocula I smuggled in from Minnesota.

And, alas, still just as disillusioned with San Francisco…

Supreme Idiots:

In 1986, the US Supreme Court ruled that Americans have no right to privacy in their bedrooms in a case involving two consenting male adults in Georgia. This week, however, the Georgia Supreme Court ruled that Georgians do indeed have this right to privacy as they overturned the state’s sodomy laws.

Here’s the catch: this time around, the case involved an adult male who was fucking his 17-year-old niece. What this all means is that fags aren’t really worthy of privacy, but when the law won’t let Bubba pork his brother’s daughter, it’s time for some serious action!

Of course, the new ruling also makes us sodomites “legal” too, so it’s a good thing. I guess the “designated idiots” here are mainly the ’86 Supreme Court. But somehow, my impression of the state of Georgia isn’t enhanced all that much either…

Stripping Idiots:

OK…imagine you’re a Bay Area mother in with a 15-year-old daughter. Your precious progeny wants a particularly lewd male stripper at her birthday party. Even though he’s fondling the girls’ breasts and going in their pants, you allow it to continue. You don’t want to “embarrass” her in front of her friends, after all. At the end of the show, the stripper bares his willy, prompted by a big tip.

Now imagine you’re a judge who has to decide who’s the bigger idiot. Is it the mom for letting it happen? Or is it the stripper for thinking no one would get pissed that he was feeling up 15-year-old girls? Hard choice, huh?


Finally finished posting everything through the Detroit segment of Road Trip 98. There’s lots of pictures, including the disturbing but exciting demolition of the Hudson’s building in downtown Detroit.

Link du jour is Wishbone, where you will be treated to the job from hell and a really nice response to a crypto-capitalist.

Check out Webzine98 Saturday night at the Transmission Theatre. Look for a rare Planet SOMA – Schismatic convergence in a setting other than a greasy burger joint.

Webzine 98

Webzine 98 has come and gone, so the annoying animated gif is history. The biggest highlight for me was actually meeting a flesh and blood rendition of Larry-bob, after two year or so of web/email convergences. I also saw, but did not touch, the semi-legendary Justin Hall. He was dressed a bit like a Mormon missionary. I was mildly frightened by this.

I’ve decided now why I occasionally hit the neighborhood queer bars on Saturday night even though it’s traditionally my least favorite night to do so. I think that if I can make it through two beers amidst the Saturday night idiot fest on Folsom Street without killing someone, then I must have the strength to survive another week in San Francisco.

More Stuff

Link du jour: Infiltration, “the zine about going places you’re not supposed to go”. Great stuff. Great pictures. Great links. Truly a site after my own heart.

While I’m at it (and avoiding coming up with anything new of my own), check it this well-worded article on why Californians pretty much have no right ever to use the term “storm”. I think I said some of the same things last winter. I haven’t seen anything resembling a storm (or even a good rain) in six years here. It’s a little creepy.

Lastly, was Sunday night’s “Simpsons” (the hippie episode) thoroughly lame and a complete waste of George Carlin’s voice? Or was it just me?


I am dragging. I hate this; I’m not really sick, just worn out and feeling pretty unwilling and unable to do much of anything. I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or worse that my roomie says he just got over the same thing and that it’s “going around”.

I’m always amused by the way California food editors think Southern people eat. In this week’s paper, I read something about how to prepare a “traditional Southern Thanksgiving meal”. One of the most important dishes was something called a “beet and kumquat salad”. Yeah, right…

A congealed salad with canned pears, Cool-whip, and marshmallows maybe, but a “beet and kumquat salad”??? Give me a fucking break.

Road Trip 98 now includes the stretches from Detroit to Milwaukee and Milwaukee through my arrival in Minneapolis.

Gay Resource?

Wow…I’ve discovered that Planet SOMA is now linked by the Advocate as a gay resource. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified. I think I’ll choose “amused”, particularly given all the less than complimetary things I’ve had to say about the Advocate over the years.

Guess their marketing department wasn’t consulted…

Another great discovery today came as I looked for something in “the drawer”. Every house has one; it’s that place where stuff lands when you don’t know what else to do with it. Didn’t find what I was looking for, but we have masking tape. And chopsticks. Who knew…

Road Trip 98 now includes the first parts of the Minnesota story. Seems it’s going to take me as long to get the trip online as it did to actually take the trip.

$3.50 a Pack, My Ass…

$3.50 a pack, my ass…Since giving up smoking was not an option this weekend, seems the next best choice was a Friday night road trip to Reno to stock up on cheap Camels. It was a good excuse for an extra unplanned road trip anyway. And now I’m set through Christmas and my annual visit to Mom and Dad in North Carolina.


OK…almost anything is a good excuse for a road trip in my view. Cigarettes suddenly escalating in price from about $2.75 a pack to about $3.50 a pack in California (over the course of one weekend) is an incredible excuse. Throw in one roomie with a 4-wheel drive vehicle and all the ingredients are there. So this weekend, we braved snow-covered mountain roads, sleazy overpriced motels, and frightening Reno queer bars all (OK…mostly…) for cheap cigarettes.

We headed out about 1:30 on Friday afternoon. Traffic was a little heavy all the way to Sacramento, and we skipped the traditional Chick-Fil-A stop in Farifield. Malls, after all, are pretty damned unpleasant on the day after Thanksgiving. We opted for the Wienerschitzel located a few blocks from the State Capitol.

Things got intersting as we got closer to the Sierra Nevada. Three lanes of traffic were funnelled into one at Applegate for no apparent reason other than to make trucks stop and install chains. Seems a sign might have been just as effective since the trucks had to leave the road anyhow. Mysteries of the California Highway Patrol…

Actually, the drive wasn’t bad. We hit maybe five miles of light wet snow near Donner Summit and manged to pretty much avoid most of the cannibalism jokes. By Reno, things were pretty dry.


A nice room at an ungodly price right on the strip featured cable TV and a pretty spiffy pink and black bathroom. There was also a walk-in closet which Dan kept coming out of (and scurrying back into).

My apologies. Dan does not scurry.

Dinner at a dirt cheap casino prime rib kind of place. Then queer bars. I do not understand queerdom in Reno. There always seem to be lots of bars. There never seem to be any people in them. Friday night on a holiday weekend, thousands of people in town, packed casinos, yet there were no more than 10-15 people in any of the four bars we hit. Am I missing something?

Names of the bars (just in case): Quest, 1099, Bad Dolly’s, Five Star. And let me tell you there’s a lot of real estate invoved if you cover that circuit on foot. In the cold. And the rain.


Got to bed way too late. Got up not long after. I was prepared to be cranky all day, but the shower was too good. Much better than the wimpy trickle at home. There was hope. We went to Virginia City via some chain restaurant with a very bored waitress.

Virginia City is cute in that western antique and miner-kitsch sort of way. Dan looked at cute boys in Wranglers with big belt buckles. I looked in vain for boys who fit my definition of cute. Then I looked for falling snow. I got a little of that at least. I figured we’d see more on the way home, sinve the tops of the mountains were covered with clouds.


And the snow started around Truckee. I like Truckee. It’s much nicer than Needles, its southern “gateway to California” counterpart…probably has something to do with Needles being in the middle of the Mojave Desert…


After Truckee, we flew through most of the route to Sacramento, except when we sat in all that traffic which wasn’t moving through Donner Pass (again, for no apparent reason). Deciding to skip the I-80 nightmare from Sacramento to SF, we took the back road, through the Delta. Crawdad sandwiches at Ernie’s in Isleton. Mmmm…

Home. Bed.

Oh yeah…the cigarettes… I didn’t buy any in Nevada. I bought five cartons in Sacramento. Apparently, some uninformed merchant hadn’t gotten the word about the statewide markup. $15.99 a carton. Eighty miles from home…

Thanksgiving feasting at my traditional gathering of expatriate North Carolinians was a blast. There are no pictures, but I believe I have some leftovers from last year.