Since 2003 I’ve not been on a plane. I don’t have fear of dying. Dying is afraid of me. But I have this sort of claustraphobic reaction when they close the big door. Sweaty head. Heart palpitations. It’s the same feeling I have when the freezer is out of Klondike bars, but I digress.

Since I was a kid, I’ve loved driving more than just about anything. I drove from Canada to Arizona when I went to college in the late 70s and just have driven like a madman ever since. The 2003/2004 trip around America – that I’ve been chronicling on these pages over the last weeks – was the high watermark: 20,000 miles at one time. Lovely.

I love the road, the highway, the big slab. I love the tiny towns and the great expanses. I love going fast and slow, weaving and straight. Driving through the night, or – like tonight – pulling off the the highway early, finding a Hilton, and getting room service. (I’m waiting for a rib eye as I type this in Little Rock, Arkansas.)

The people you meet, the things you see. The iPhone slamming one great song after another, randomly selecting brilliant tune after brilliant tune, John Hiatt, NRBQ, Rickie Lee Jones, even Bob Hate and John Hicks ripping through one of the post-2007 tunes we’ve been writing and recording over the last few years. (And available, I can’t stop myself, here.)

Anyway, I’m 1006 miles into a trip right now, just to see some old pals and play a little golf in the mountains of Tennessee. Here are a few pics out the window.

Bob was a rock and roll musician who had a short, failed career playing in clubs in and around Dallas, Texas. He was born in Bossier City, Louisiana in 1958, but then disappeared and was rumored dead in 1999 and later in 2014.

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