Author's Note: On to Chicago. I picked up my friend and former roommate, Tommy in Rockford, IL and we drove on to Chi-town
to meet Kevin, another friend and former roommate

October 10 - 9:12 pm
Chicago, Illinois
"Opening themselves up to pictures of my ass."

We meet Kevin at his apartment downtown. He's on the 31st floor and his balcony offers a view of the city that is incomparable. We have a few beers on the balcony while we all do some catching up. I have a hard time understanding why people aren't killed all the time in this town due to people throwing stuff off of their balconies. I've been on Kevin's balcony for five minutes and all I can think is, what would happen if I threw my full beer down there into the street?

The three of us go out, catching the subway near Kevin's overpriced apartment building. Ah yes - public transportation, this is where you meet the truly uncanny people. The people with imaginary friends that they feel the need to talk to all of the time. One man near us is talking to "Bill" - there is no one sitting near him.

Author's Note: An entire evening of carousing about the streets has
been deleted here at the insistence of those involved.

October 11 - 12:00 pm

Lunch at the House of Blues includes a beer for Kevin and myself. Tom would rather have open-heart surgery than drink
booze right now, so he abstains.

Afterwards, we visit the Chicago Art Institute. I would move to Chicago just to have access to this institution. We are only able to spend a couple of hours in there, as they close at 5:00pm. Even though our tour is brief, our collective opinions regarding humanity are definitely altered. We survey some impressive works and determine that we are now better cultured.

We also see some Modern Art that completely pisses us off. Imagine this: an 8-foot by 8-foot black canvas, with "Oct.18, 1972" in white 12-inch type in the middle of it. White block letters in the middle of a black background. That's it. That's the piece. That's in the fucking Chicago Art Institute. This is not the only ridiculous piece of work in here, though.

How about a nine-foot long metallic pipe leaning up against the wall? That's it... nothing painted on the pipe, nothing, nothing, nothing. You can find this hunk of metal lying around any construction site in America. It's called refuse. If it didn't have a little sign next to it, explaining that someone actually created this, I would think nothing of the Pipe Leaning On Wall, and kick the goddamn thing over just to hear a loud crashing sound.

By labeling some of these pieces "art" (well, this is what I assume, since these pieces are in the Art Institute) they are opening up themselves to pictures of my ass, which I will send in and demand several thousand dollars for. I assume that I will have to change my name to Picasso or Monet first, as it might be a necessity to have a proper art surname before the Chicago Art Institute will just slap your ass on the wall.

The highlight of the Art Institute for us is the Armor & Arms Section. Seven-foot long swords, jewel-encrusted daggers and hellish-looking flails and maces all command attention here. Tom and Kevin and I think it would be really spectacular if they would let everyone in the room (there were probably 25 of us wandering around in there) try some of this stuff on and just "go at it." Hitting people in the head with big 'ol flails, punching people square in the sternum with a big 'ol gauntlet, hacking people's legs off with big 'ol two-handed swords. Now that's what I want to see.

10:10 PM

We head over to the 95th Floor, which is the name of a bar on the 95th floor of the Franklin Building. The view is amazing and so are the drink prices. $8.00 for a martini, huh? Well, better just have eight of those. We met some acquaintances of Kevin's from work; Ben, a studious- looking young man; Jessica, a fiancée' of the studious-looking young man; and Mary, a studious-looking young lady from Washington D.C.

Kevin and Tom and I yammer on about how The Chicago Art Institute should try to be a little more reasonable about what they put on display, as we don't really consider a chunk of metallic pipe to be art. We bitch about some of the other pieces that we saw and proceed to verbally punish the "artists" for their "contributions" to society. Shortly after this tirade is over, we find out that Mary is currently pursuing her Ph.D. in Art History, and she has already earned her Masters in the same field. Ooops. Our inability to appreciate the modern art doesn't really bother her, as I think she's heard most of this before.

Mary lives in Washington, D.C., and since I'm going there in a couple of weeks, I ask her for her phone number. She gives it to me, despite her better judgment, and I plan on calling her when I get there to see if she'll take me on a tour of the town. She's lived there for twenty years or more, so I figure she'll be good for my research. While we're talking, the inevitable question
comes up "so what do you do?" I find that I can explain this in one simple sentence and halt any further inquiries.

"I'm drinking my way around the country." I smile wide. "For no reason."

5. NORTH CAROLINA

28 October / 1:38 pm
Outer Banks, North Carolina

I've found it. I've discovered paradise. Well, I'm not the only one here, so I didn't really discover it, but this is downright amazing. I haven't seen this kind of beauty since the Caribbean.

The outer banks are slender strips of sand (islands) separated from the North Carolina mainland by Pamlico Sound. The islands are no wider than one mile at their widest point. They are pristine and unfettered, except for the 96,000 cottages on the beach. The whole Outer Banks has only 5500 year-round residents, but that number skyrockets to a couple million in the summer season. Naturally, I've missed the busy time.

There's a nineteen-mile bridge and tunnel system that brings you here from Maryland's eastern coast. I drive the Jeep all the way down to Cape Hatteras, which is about 60 miles. Hatteras has the world's tallest lighthouse at 209 feet. You might remember hearing about Hatteras some years back when Hurricane Emily came through here and whipped it's proverbial ass,
reducing these cottages to kindling while sending thousands fleeing for their lives. I have no sympathy for hurricane victims here... you know what can happen if you build here. It's like building a house on top of an active volcano... it's just something you don't do unless you're ready to accept the consequences when you lose everything.

From a public beach in Hatteras, I fill out 17 postcards and then fall asleep in the soft sand that feels and looks like baby powder. Yes, this is just terrible. The waves are crashing in and the sun is cooking me ever so gently. There are only four other people on the beach, and they're about half a mile away.

I wake up and realize that I've missed my ferry to take me to Ocracoke, the next island down the chain here. This is so upsetting that I just lay back and fall asleep again. There will be other ferries. In fact, I think they have them every half-hour.

On the way to the ferry, I spot an off-road trail with a universal road sign that has a picture of a Jeep on it. Considering it more of a demand than an option, I take off down the road. I immediately scratch the doors and windows (plastic) on the Jeep with the trees. No matter. In fact, nothing matters here. I get stuck in the mud. Deep, swampy mud that smells like raw sewage. No matter. Just put it in 4WD and crawl right out.4:41 pm
Okracoke, Outer Banks

I get off the ferry and haul-ass down the island to try and make the 6:00 PM ferry to the mainland.

5:29:00 PM -- Oops, 4:29:00 PM (found out I forgot to turn back clock)

I purchased my 6:00 PM ticket. The lady tells me I've got to be here a half-hour before the ferry leaves. I think that's now, so I inquire further.

"What time does your watch say?" She quips.

I give her an empty stare for a couple of seconds.

"I don't believe in keeping time on my person," I say, fumbling with my wallet, "it goes against every principle I have of being on vacation."

So now I find out I've got an hour before I have to come back to the ferry landing. The nearby town of Ocracoke is a perfect little beach town. The lady recommends "Howard's Pub" for a beer and some food.

"Howard's" is spitting distance from the ocean. They serve all kinds of seafood and bar grub and they have over 170 different beers to choose from. This is insane. I've just discovered my nirvana and now I've got to leave.

6:14 pm

Traded in the ferry ticket for one tomorrow at noon. Secured cheap lodging at "The Island Inn" (which is an old plantation mansion, I think) for $25 a night. Made my way back to Howard's and ordered another oatmeal stout and some more steamed clams.

And like some dreamy teenage prom queen, I've got visions. Visions of myself sitting on this island (or one of the others nearby) listening to Jimmy Buffett, constantly battling a hangover while laughing so hard I need to have a diaphragm transplant. I could die here and that would be fine.

A couple of tidbits from Howard's: They serve raw clams, oysters and mussels, hence the name "Raw Bar" in the title "Howard's Pub and Raw Bar." On the menu there is a "note" (warning) that includes, "...individuals who suffer from liver disease, alcohol abuse..." [define suffer, please] "...should refrain from consuming RAW mulluscon shellfish. If you're in doubt, just have your order steamed."

I order a half dozen clams, steamed of course, as there's no indication on the menu regarding what degree of alcohol abuse constitutes a potential for illness. Steamed clams and a couple more oatmeal stouts. This is getting good.

Howard's has two menus, one for beer and one for food. Both have an abundant amount of choices. The beer menu explains that they really want you to enjoy their variety of beers, but the local "authorities usually won't share your enthusiasm." So it's nice to know they care. I think getting busted on Ocracoke Island for DWI is a bit like getting caught by your mother: they're justdisappointed, no harm done. At least, I hope this is the way it is, as I'm not leaving this place sober tonight. Actually, my room is only a 1/4-mile away, and if I have to, I'll walk.

10:04 pm
Howard's Pub

A local here has just informed me that I need to take my Jeep onto the beach for a little four-wheeling. Funny thing how people are allowed
to just drive around on these beautiful beaches and tear them up. The tides come in and clean it all up, though. This is sounding like a damn good idea... for tomorrow. I have another stout and ask for my
check. $30 in beer alone. This isn't the first time I've over-indulged and exceeded the budget, and it most certainly won't be the last. Howard's Pub - I salute you.

October 29 - 8:57 am
Ferry Landing, Okracoke

I've skipped the shower this morning for the first time in my adventurous six weeks. This is all in an effort to catch the 9:30am ferry to the mainland. This ride is over two hours, so I can
sleep in the passenger seat for this one. Two 500HP diesel motors propel the ferry to the continental US and lull me to sleep rather quickly. I actually hope I wake up and get sea sick, to punctuate a morning of nasty nausea.

6. ALABAMA and TENNESSEE

30 October / 2:10 pm
Huntsville, Alabama

The weather here is amazing. It's nice and warm (around 70) and the sun is blasting through a clear blue sky. I'm here to visit Tony, one of my brother's college roommates (and a friend of mine). I call Tony at work (he's on temporary assignment in Alabama, working on the Space Station for Boeing) and he meets me at his apartment, which is beautifully situated right off of a
lake. Now, this is just terrible, too. We open up the windows and the doors and let the cool breeze flush out the dreary doldrums of a closed apartment. I didn't think the weather would really affect me on this trip, but going from the mid-west to the south has proved that theory wrong.

Tony gives me the grand tour of the apartment. He explains that he just realized he had carpet on the floor when he cleaned up last night for my arrival. He shows me the whole place and when he opens up the doors to the laundry room he says, "And who needs a washer and dryer when you've got a drop-in freezer with an interrupter on it?" He opens the freezer to reveal
three shiny jewels draped in soft white satin, AKA - three containers of home brew (oatmeal stout (uh-oh) and two lagers). Two canisters of CO2 to push the juice through the taps and two barrels of brew are in here fermenting. This freezer is about the size of a Volkswagen. The interrupter keeps the temperature at a steady 46 degrees. This is just one of Tony's hobbies.

He's also got all of the makings for a full-fledged concert in his room. Four different guitars, all kinds of amps and rack equipment, a keyboard, a mixer, and some other equipment I can't identify all sit amongst a myriad of wires and pedals and other miscellaneous shit. The lost city of Atlantis might be in here, too, I don't know.

I told Tony that if his apartment were a child, the state would've already stepped in here and he'd be in jail. It's a little messy. No complaints from me though... there's beer to drink and that can pretty much solve any problem.

"I know how much you hate to drink alone, so…" Tony exclaims as he pours himself a murky stout.

Unfortunately, Tony has to go back to work to finish out his day.

"Don't do anything to get me evicted." He says over his shoulder on his way out the door.

Forty-five seconds after he leaves, the toilet overflows, water running all over the floor. I love it when that happens. I search around the apartment for a mop. This search ended quickly when I spotted the vacuum in the hallway closet. That thing must be broken, I thought, 'cuz it sure hasn't been used, and I'd have better luck finding Noah's Ark in the Gobi desert than I would finding
a mop in this place.

10:27 pm

On to "Crossroads," a local bar that offers live entertainment. Greg "Fingers" Taylor is playing here tonight. No one knows who he is, so they have to put a subtitle under his name: (Harmonica player for Jimmy Buffett). So we listen to him belt out a few shitty tunes and we realize that the harmonica is a great supplemental instrument, but as a lead, it lacks bad. Time to get out of here. On the way to the car, Tony says so very casually: "No wonder they call him "fingers." That's all he sees from the audience."

November 2 - 2:45 pm
Lynchburg, Tennessee - Jack Daniels Distillery

Jack fucking Daniels. It's raining. No matter, as it's time to see the place that created the concoction that made me jump off the roof of a house one drunken evening. The tour of the facility is quick and easy. The only problem is, the distillery is in a dry county, so drinking any of the product here is against the "law." I put law in quotations because I don't think that any agency (law-enforcement, theological or otherwise) could put a stop to the consuming of the goods once it got started. Not around here. I abstain from purchasing the Commemorative bottle of JD at the gift shop (they can sell a Gift bottle, but not the regular stuff -- whatever) as Tony still has a 3/4 full bottle at his place.

During the tour, we see the corn mash vats before they've gone through the whole fermentation process. The vats are wide open and some people are dipping their fingers in there to get a taste. Tony makes a fucking soup-ladle out of his index and middle fingers and pulls out a big glob of this junk. As he is working this yellow paste into his mouth the woman next to us says,
"Ewwww... gross." Tony just smiles and chomps away. Later I ask him how it tasted.

"Like shit."