Maybe tomorrow I will clean the dishes that are starting to support life

I was so productive today it was stupid. I managed to not only switch shifts to accommodate the much anticipated band I wanted to see tonight, I got out early so I could run some errands.

I work a fixed schedule of 2:30 pm to 10:30 p.m. every Monday through Thursday. This presents an awkward schedule for someone that work best at dusk. My best hours are spent pretending be productive.

Getting out at rush hour presented some strategic difficulties, but I think I managed to take the most inconvenient routes due to traffic congestion and pit-stop locations. Still learning the ropes of the road around Los Angeles.

To heighten the suffocation of the all consuming traffic, I drove for blocks stuck behind a truck with a rusty metal pole precariously thrown into the bed. It looked ready for launch and impalement upon the nearest sudden light stop.

I think I’ve seen too many of those “I narrowly cheated death and now it lurks behind every corner in the aim to kill me suddenly and seductively” movies. Those movies were a hit with the kids for a while.

Taking another crowded side street in the vain attempt to find my bank and avoid death, I realized I was without gas. I tend to wait until the last minute and hope I don’t run out of gas in the process.

So far it’s been an efficient system.

My vehicle has yet to see a carwash under my ownership. The layers of dirt and bird poo can attest to that. Living in Southern California does not offer much cleansing rain either.

Moving here from a swamp land it never occurred to me to wash my car before. In fact, it was a known fact that if you wash your car then it automatically rains. Thus rendering your wash useless, leaving you with dirt on your car and mud in your face.

Standing there bored waiting for my tank to fill with precious fossil fuels inspired me to squeegee off my windows and even some unsightly dried on shit stains off the hood.
Close enough to a bunch of guys running around cleaning off your car.

Sister called upon me to supply the household, meaning her, with Q-tips or more generically called cotton swabs. This calls for the 99 cents store. Not only is it one whole cent cheaper than the dollar store, well actually that’s the only difference.

I must proclaim how much I enjoy finding random junk and sometimes necessary items to buy at the 99 cents store.

I found hair ties, bobby pins, paper towel, chewing gum, wire clothes hangers, because they were the best deal compared to the plastic ones, and managed to resist a bag of chips that was much too small for 99 cents, despite my desire for it.

I got to laugh all the way down the isle saying, “NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!” in my best Joan Crawford impression. Other patrons avoided eye contact. My sister used to claim it was one of her favorite movies growing up.

This always slightly disturbed me.

As it turns out, today was Teach Your Children How to Silently Walk Behind Moving Cars Day. That sure raised anxiety back to nerve shattering levels.

I even managed to grab my clothes from the fluff and fold ensuring clean undergarments for tomorrow. Having someone else clean your clothes is not a cop-out. When you don’t have time to sit at the laundromat yourself, I need someone to make sure creepy men with their hands down their pants stay away from my panties. Plus, they will match your socks and fold your panties into little swans.

Turns out, I could have bought a kidney on the black market for about the same price. It’s based on weight and apparently my clothes are heavy enough to sink a ship. Maybe not an oil tanker, but a least a fine yacht.

Alas, even if I would have come across my correct bank branch it was well past five when I retrieved my underthings. All those bank slackers had closed shop.

This being said, I worked at a credit union and remember almost having a nervous break-down and heart palpitations by the time 5 o’clock rolled around. I really do pity the fools.

To top it all off, I even managed to get some writing done. Not on the news assignment that got returned to me for “necessary corrections” due to my broken spirit, but writing none-the-less.

Of course this is all after eight hours of work, but who’s really counting.

This is Bat Country: IV Edition

We climbed out of the tent in the cool of daybreak. The morning view did not disappoint.



First thing we jumped into the lake enjoying our first taste of shower the entire trip. Clay slid between my toes and I sank into the foreign muck. Adam floated on the surface to avoid the squish.

Following suit, I watched the clear blue sky fade behind the jagged surroundings. My toes sparked with anticipation for salt water.

Driving in Vegas, there was not one Nevada license plate to be seen. Instead California plates repeatedly enclosed us on the strip. With a sea of tourists, I ignored my usual anxiety for blocking traffic to make a turn or one again taking the wrong street.

No one knows where the fuck their going.

We arrive at the expansive Venetian. This is Vegas on Labor Day weekend. The line to check-in looked like the wait for Magic Mountain. The entire place was crawling with people.

Avoiding the throng of people near the fountain, I go to a check-in booth off to the side. The woman informs me that we are in a VIP suite, would I like to follow her into the designated VIP check-in.

Yes, please.

Try to remain calm. Did I mention this is my first time to Vegas?

Inside are families sipping on coffee and perusing the snack bar. I wait for our bags to arrive via Adam and sip on iced tea. He and I giggle all the way up the mirrored elevators.

Vegas hotels are mazes to keep their guests trapped and confused. They are designed to keep you boozed and spending money, while you have no concept of time or location. I would proceed to get lost in my own hotel on several occasions.

The decadent hallway is suggestive of The Shining with blood-red carpeting and a sense of lingering debauchery. We arrive at the presidential suite.

We push through the double doors and I stifle a scream.



My sister’s entire apartment could fit in the living room. Floor to ceiling windows light the living room complete with full-dining table and grand piano. A remote powers the hidden television, surround sound music and the drapes.

I run into the master bedroom to find an overstuffed bed and more couches for lounging. This gives way to a marble bathroom, walls covered in mirrors. I stop to admire myself from all angles at once.

Vegas exploits narcissism.

The shower can easily fit eight comfortably with a perfect view of the action from all the mirrors.

This connects to the sauna and another dressing room with plenty of closet space for my bags. There are of course TVs in every, single room.

I am still screaming.



Running through the living room to the other bedroom, yes the other bedroom, I find Adam in disbelief. There are two double beds and yet another full bath with another Jacuzzi tub. The shower is too small for me, so I claim the master bedroom.

The space screamed decadence and sex in every way you would want it to.

Adam and I enjoy our separate rooms and the luxury of having a real shower. I laugh the entire time. Naturally, I utilize both shower heads and the steam just because.

I jumped on all of the beds for about twenty minutes wearing the provided hotel robe.

We counted five toilets, two showers, two Jacuzzi tubs, three beds, six TVs and one grand piano. I could have never left the room and been completely content.

The afternoon was ours for the taking.I took multiple showers and a bath.



We head up to the pool deck that spans across the roof of the Venetian connecting to the adjoining hotel, the Palazzo. Chairs cover the entire place literally stacking people on top of one another with wading pools scattered about.

Despite the heat people are piled into hot tubs. A suggestive blow-up doll is thrown into a tub crowded with children. After no personal success, a pleasant pool attendant finds us chairs to lie in. We got drinks to celebrate our luck.

It pays to have a sister with connections.

Due to the holiday weekend, none of the provided VIP passes would get us into the secluded pools for free. At least not Adam.

Tempted by the famed Tao Beach, I leave Adam to fend for himself and guard our things. Walking-up to the line I bypass a collection of bare-chested men waiting for entry.

“I can just get in for free?” I ask as the doorman straps a bracelet on my wrist.

“Girls get in free. Welcome to Vegas.”

If Facebook were an actual place, it would be the pool deck at the Venetian. Half naked twenty-somethings filter around cabanas staked with booze and bikini-clad girls dancing on their lounge chairs. It’s all about status.

Finding myself without any purpose, I go to find Adam and continue to soak in the sun.



Adam snoozed while I went to pick-up sister from the airport. I got lost both ways with sister getting very frustrated on her iPhone’s lack of help on directions.

I almost hit multiple pedestrians wandering about and sipping on tall souvenir drinks.

My favorite part about Vegas is you can drink everywhere, including the streets. At the liquor store the cashier asks if I want to open my beer before I leave, pointing to the chained down metal bottle-opener. Of course.

Back at the suite, Sister and I run around the room laughing and screaming some more.

We were to go to XS nightclub and had to be promptly ready at nine to get in. Sister’s client not only hooked us up with the room, but put us on the list.

It turns out that meant we could get in, but we would pay 50 dollars for girls and 200 for guys. Oh, hell no. We scramble for plan b.

Kelley, a friend of sister’s, entered the room disgruntled and stressed. She was our fourth in the room and had an entourage of antsy ladies that would be meeting us for the evening.

Adam and I got ready much too early, so he was sent out to get pre-drinks. Left to my own devices while the girls finished their faces, I dance circles around the piano, the furniture and end-up shimmying in front of the windows with a view the Vegas strip before my eyes.

We are about to pronounce Adam dead and leave without him when he finally gets back with the liquor. He explains his wild goose chase to a “nearby” liquor store down the street. He ended up going so far, a nice group gave him a ride back to the hotel.

We haven’t even started the night yet.



The front desk put us on the list for Tao, a nightclub inside the hotel. We wait in an impossible line outside in the heat. Looking at the crowd was like watching an elaborate still life painting melt before your eyes.

We get up to the front and the doorman scrutinizes Adam’s shoes. His black suede sneakers just will not do. He won’t be getting in with those things.

No one warned me you don’t bring boys to Vegas.

He of course has no other shoes, despite my no so subtly telling him to bring nice clothes to go out in. I didn’t even think about shoes and apparently he didn’t either.

I hate to say it, but we left the man behind.

Our herd of ladies, pushed inside. Rented sectionals flowed over with paper thin girls and muscle men too wide for their arms to rest. We were not allowed to even sit near the furniture.



While we danced the night away, Adam created entertainment.

He explored the casino prowling blackjack tables posing as an international Scottish music sensation. I must admit his accent is damn good. He actually convinced some girls that he was legit.

Bringing them up to the nicest room in the hotel didn’t hurt. He serenaded them giving the piano the most attention it’s probably ever gotten.

Us ladies got separated. I got blisters from walking the entire length of the Palazzo/Venetian. The trip ended with a locked room and me without a key.
The repeated doorbell failed to gain any attention.

Devastated, I started to walk back to the front desk in hopes to gain entry. Exiting the elevator on the main floor, I found a triumphant sister and Adam came stumbling my way. They had valiantly gone looking for me.

Our troupe lumbered down the gilded hall and back to our Tara. Adam and I watched the sunrise over the Vegas strip sitting before the immense windows in our hotel robes.

Morning came and Adam I go to raid the VIP lounge for food before taking him to the airport. Women overstuffed with collagen wearing string bikinis and stilts for shoes, saunter by.

Guests shift their eyes at one another like competitors at the craft table. A concierge brings fresh sandwiches out and the guests attack. I approach an empty display in a matter of seconds.

A petite Asian woman hobbles past me, plate overflowing.

Once more to the airport. Again I got lost there and back.

The strip is a feat of its own. One must fight through bodies and vendors to get anywhere. Drunken crowds stagger through the streets grabbing pamphlets about the best hookers in town. I secretly felt dejected for never being offered a flyer.

Massive complexes are themed to be exotic locations from around the world. Distraction and perplexity are key. Light shows over man-made lagoons stopped crowds in their tracks making it that much harder to get to your destination.

The girls waited for me a restaurant sharing a hefty salad that I mustered-up the courage to partake.

A slight girl to the right of us dined alone. She breathed in a salad, bread and an impossible bowl of pasta to our disbelief. She shouted at the shocked waitress for the bill before half of ours was enjoyed. Exchanging a look with the waitress, we finished our joint meal.

Another night of indulgence food, drinks and dancing. Confetti fell from the skies and bodies moved together to primal beats. Strobe lights cut movement into still photos.

We all fell in love at one point that evening, even if only a fleeting moment.

You know what they say about Vegas.



I managed to get back to the pool the last day and enjoy as much of the desert sun I could stand. Kelley and sister flew back together, leaving me to end the last portion of my trip alone.

This is way it always ends.

Exhausted and besieged by the strip, I drove towards the city of angels. Another life of success and decadence. Of sun and sand and surf.

Images of water danced behind my eyes as drove home.

Naked on the Edge of the World: III Edition

No one could have prepared me for the awe that is the Grand Canyon. The sheer size and depth is incredible. Sitting on the edge of a cliff I can feel clean air circulate around me and drop down into the chasm.

This is the perspective I have been waiting for.



Just imagine what settlers thought when they first stumbled upon it. How the hell are we supposed to get around this thing?

Adam and I woke up way after dawn despite our plan to see the sunrise. Apparently dawn comes earlier here. We packed up and went to the camp office to straighten out our not so welcomed arrival.

The pleasant ranger explained to me that we were to be expected this evening not last. I found this odd for I remembered distinctly choosing Friday not Saturday for our reservations, but ignored the computer glitch.

Tourists were abundant. Families clustered around the designated viewing areas posing little ones and taking pictures. A plethora of languages sprinkled about charged tension in the air.



Upon first sight, all breath dropped to my toes.

Leaning over the bars I noticed one squirrel sitting on the edge below, staring off into the deep. Who knows what thoughts of wonder, fear or connection he felt. Maybe his wife left with the kids and with this economy he’s a suicidal squirrel.

Adam also noticed the squirrel to the delight of all the tourists. Flashbulbs go crazy.



We watch tourists meander about. It’s our own personal reality show with a hell of a backdrop.

An elderly gentleman strolls over to the edge with his thumbs linked in suspenders. He tilts his hat with a smile on his face, “That’s one big rabbit hole.”

Wandering off to more secluded areas, we find trails and unrestrained bluffs.
Smoking a celebratory joint, we sit and marvel, legs dangling into the abyss. Outstanding.

We climb and explore all morning. Adam’s 6 foot 4 inch frame finds each cliff a challenge. He begins to conquer each bluff and explore every cranny.

I find the perfect view through careful examination. I stand at the edge of a smooth rock and let the wind embrace my skin. My cotton dress falls loosely to my ankles, not ideal for rock climbing.

Yet this dress is as good as naked at the edge of the world.



Sitting from my perch, I watch Adam slide around on loose dirt below.
I hear a couple approach. “Honey, I can’t stay here. I don’t want to watch someone fall and die. C’mon let’s go, c’mon,” a woman says diverting her eyes as she drags her husband away.



After basking in the wonder, Adam I departed to meet my sister in Vegas. The culmination of the trip will end in a luxurious suite in the city of sin.

Pulling out of the park Adam checks the map to follow our route. A smile spreads on my face as I think of seeing my sister for the first time in almost a year. This is going to be trouble.

“I can not wait. She is flying in tonight and staying until Monday. My buddy is getting married today, but I think we missed the ceremony. He went out Friday for his bachelor’s party, which must have been insane with a bunch of military guys in Vegas. I’m so excited.”

“Wait, you do know it’s Friday,” Adam says looking up from the map.
“What? No it’s Saturday.”
“No really, today is Friday.”

I grab my phone to confirm. I hadn’t gotten service throughout the mountains or at the Canyon, so I turned it off to save power. Adam’s phone died in the first two days.

I start to laugh. It’s fucking Friday. We got to the Grand Canyon an entire day early.

“Dude, we don’t have anywhere to sleep in Vegas until tomorrow. No wonder the reservations were off. I don’t understand what happened. I seriously planned the entire trip out. I’m such an idiot.”

“We’ll find a site to camp on the way. We’ll just hang out tonight. I’m on no time schedule. No worries.”

This is why I brought Adam. I figured if he can work as a caretaker for mentally disabled adults, he can survive a car ride with me.

We stop at a market along the road to buy drinks and snacks. I am still laughing at my stupidity. No wonder my mom almost had a stroke before I left.

The five hour trip from the Canyon towards Vegas can only be described as hot. Every couple of miles I scoffed in disbelief at our predicament.

Adam drove until we came to a barricade in the road. Unfortunately, we realized it too late to switch drivers. Adam has a suspended license. I though I was going to vomit and ruin the upholstery.

He drove through without a hitch, but sweating like stuck pigs. I naturally took over driving.

The Hover Dam seemed weak in comparison to the Canyon. Of course, we stopped and appreciated the sheer power of the structure, the epic design.

Lake Mead seemed a likely spot to find a campground. We found a perfect place that had lots for 10 dollars. We would be right by the lake surrounded by mountains. The perfect view to wake-up to.

The desert is hot. A storm ignited in the sky and almost took away my adorable little tent. Despite the lightning and Adam’s insistence that we would get rained out, there was no such relief. It only stayed hot and gave us a light show.

After a few beers, some champagne and a broken stoneware cup, we climbed into the humble abode. I dreamt of a shower and dancing the night away.

Scene Scapes: II Edition

Rolling hills have turned into jagged mountain ranges as far as my eyes can see. Pines are scattered along the Rockies making thin, crisp air inviting my brain to enjoy the scenery. Cotton clouds sat like pillars on invisible shelves in the pale sky.

Now three red bulls deep and 6,000 feet above sea level, this is majesty at its finest.



My usually cautious driving skills are twisted around winding curves and impossible declines. Warning signs show trucks barreling down seven percent declines. Adam attempts to rest while peppered hill-tops show signs of snow in August.

The original attempts to make Denver in one fell swoop failed miserably. Not a grand surprise since we tried to make the twelve hour drive from St. Louis to Denver after little to no sleep. After driving nine hours previous.

This is where things get hazy.

Adam admited defeat well after dark and I took over. Driving through the Great Plains, we both downed caffeine and took turns napping to get us by. Around three a.m. my eyes began to fail. A rest area in the distance shined like a beacon.

Ignoring the nagging suspicion that only the best horror movies start just like so, we parked beside many other weary travelers. Gratefully curling into my seat, I set an alarm for four hours later.

I awoke to dense fog encasing the surrounding landscape. Only a scattering of vehicles still lingered in the parking lot. Ignoring Adam’s slumbering body, I started off into the obscure blanket of clouds.

As daylight grew, so did the hills. I swallowed my panic as vehicles whipped past me ignoring the towering giants.

I stopped for gas and bought a Kodak disposable camera. Adam became photographer extraordinaire. Epic scene scapes surrounded our peripherals. The stacked clouds dropped dark mist onto the mountaintops. Adam explained that’s what rain looks like at these heights.

A smile lingers on my face.



I will never underestimate the usefulness of a road atlas. Who needs Tom Tom when you have a visual page-by-page representation of the U.S. of A?

It allowed us a sense of direction, location and purpose.

Denver could only offer Carl’s Jr. and a one-way ticket out of the city.

I became the paparazzi. Taking photos while driving is not as easy as it may sound. It is also dangerous and I’m sure illegal, so it is not recommended. I could not pass a scenic view of a crystal clear lake surrounded by peaks. Epic.



We forged on towards Utah. The towering Rockies gave way to broken plateaus. The earth became serrated, dry clay. Broken boulders were discarded and staked on the barren red countryside.

I had no idea about Utah. We landed on Mars.

Eventually we will become sick of majesty, Adam prophesized.

I am not so jaded as you, I said, eyes still wide.



Darkness crept back upon us.

Crashes of heat lighting exposed burgundy towers. My steadfast Saturn wheezed up slopes with signs labeled, CAUTION for the next 15 miles. The warning showcased a cow.

The Doors carried us through the desert. Thunder vaguely echoed in the distance. Adam promised to take us to our resting place. The canyon. My most anticipated destination.

We are gaining ground though the night forbids a scenic view. A nervous buzz reaches my gut thinking of the vague directions Google gave once we reach the South Rim.

I had checked and rechecked that our campsite reservations would be held for Friday despite our late arrival.

Although I warned the information helpline lady that we would not be there until midnight, she ensured me that the ranger would be able to point us in the right direction. The South Rim of the Grand Canyon is open twenty-four hours, 365 days a year, she said.

Still traveling down back road highways, road signs became promising. South Rim, take a left arrow. We have arrived.

Now you know how to get to the campsite, Adam asked, his confidence in me weaning.

There will be signs. The park ranger will let us know.

After a couple of miles, we approach the deserted entrance vestibules. We roll by the dimly lit ranger station feeling like we beat the system. No rangers mean no $25 entrance fee for this vehicle.

Jokes on us, who comes to see the Grand Canyon in the dark.

We follow down the road traveling around dark curves lined with pines of some kind. Spirits still high for getting to the site earlier than planned we contemplated how the canyon was just to our right behind all those trees.

Still traveling without any more reassuring signs, Adam then comments on the numbered highway signs still lining the road. One SUV passes us forging on ahead. My stomach getting in knots I realize that something feels off.

I don’t know if this is the right way, Adam says. We have gone too far.

I don’t what else to do. This does seem pretty far, I say. I figured there would be signs.

A car passes us in the opposite direction.

That was the same car, Adam says. Maybe we should go back to the ranger station. They might have maps or something.

Are you sure? I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing any maps, do you?

Well not really, but maybe we should turn around, he says.

I falter. So we do.

Traveling back another car passes us on the road. This causes more doubt. I finally suggest I take over driving. There is no point going back to the deserted entrance, I say. I am following the road wherever it takes us. Even if it’s nowhere.

We drive and drive and drive. I start to speed up and gain confidence on the dark road. More travelers join our search. After almost twenty minutes, I see a sign.
Campgrounds that-a-way.

Adam surveys the printed Google directions, yet does not find any familiar roads nor advice from the search engine. New sign: Tent camping, turn right. I start to laugh at our panic.

This park is so vast, the canyon is so vast, that we started to think we couldn’t possibly be going the right way. It really is just that big. We happened to come in on the wrong side.

Exhausted I pull up to yet another abandoned ranger station this one for the designation of campgrounds. I walk up to the building leaving my brave companion in the car.

Moths the size of Bic lighters fly around the information window. I examine the list of late arrivals conveniently posted, only to fail to find my name. I look again. No name.

Ignoring the fluttering bugs, I scrutinize the campground map and locate where all the open sites that are listed for late arrivals, such as us can go. I pull off the tab for site eighty-six and jump in the car.

Despite all my best efforts, I say to my counterpart, the site has not been reserved. We decide to drive past the spot to see if it is indeed occupied with site eighty-six as back-up.

I will explain in the morning to the camp ranger to avoid any cancellation fees and give them a piece of my mind. It’s too late for me to care.

We quickly set-up camp on the area with the least amount of rocks. I wrested out tarps, blankets, sleeping pads, pillows and towels for cushion. My car is packed tight enough for any Tetris aficionado to be impressed.

I set an alarm for dawn before we settle in. Stretching out in the cozy tent feels like Christmas morning. Tomorrow’s agenda, the Grand Canyon.

Manifest Destiny: I Edition

Size twelve shoes hang out the window while my body aches with back spasms that started 200 miles ago. We float along the highway through serene plains that stretch toward the sun in adoration. Normally I welcome silence. My ability to write almost depends on it.

Yet, when trapped inside a plastic Saturn going across the United States, silence can mean the difference between an epic journey and a plunge off the edge of an overpass.

Adam merely nods his sleeping head in agreement.

I pry out Pet Sounds while attempting to keep my eyes on the road and the car in its designated lane. After bumper to bumper traffic in Chicago then getting lost on the north side only to reverse gears and travel back through bumper to bumper traffic, Bat for Lashes lulled me into submission. I believe this is where the yes man began to slumber.

This is not to mention, though I must, departing from Kalamazoo, MI by turning the opposite way on the express way. You can thank yours truly. I turned to Adam to inform my imprisoned travel companion, “I warn you, I am not very good with directions.” He merely looked at me with a Cheshire grin.

“I sure hope you’re not expecting any help from me.”

This from the man with the map.

We carried on with The White Album Disc One and Two, followed by Violent Femmes, a remastered Led Zepellin compellation and too many burned mixes with witty names. My car doesn’t even have power locks let alone access to an Ipod. Thriller echoed in my ears as I travelled ever faster towards St. Louis, the first stop on our wayward journey. Despite all the sun, my eyes began to fog.

I decided to travel by car for many reasons, mostly due to my lack of travel throughout the west. This is my exodus from bleak Michigan winters, my manifest destiny.

In order to travel from Kalamazoo, MI to Venice Beach, California, with multiple exotic detours along the way, one must drive 2,506 miles. According to Google, that is about 1 day and 16 hours depending on traffic.

The real danger of traveling so far is not lurid rest stops or a busted carburetor in what can only be described as chainsaw massacre country, no it’s the endurance race. The very real, if not discussed, mental competition to match the previous drive time by your travel companion. To not buckle under the pressure of droopy lids and numb appendages or even to beat your own record or imagined time schedule.

Yet as I dreamed of cerulean skies and cotton clouds, Joni Mitchell sang Blue into my psyche. A silver arch loomed in the distance. I shook Adam awake. We have arrived two hours later than planned, but we have arrived.

Cursing my lack of a camera we headed straight to the St. Louis Zoo, known as one of the largest free zoos in the country. Adam’s six-foot-five frame towered over an endless sea of small children and weary parents.

Zoos are a much different experience than what I experienced in childhood. It’s like taking your kids to view the local jail with much more interesting inmates. A two-hundred pound orangutan sits against the viewing glass to our delight. Families crowd around the animal to let the three-year-old bang on the glass. With what can be as morose expression, the orangutan humors his apt audience.

Hell, you can buy beer at the zoo.

One can no deny the argument that where else can a person see a trio of hyenas, except to travel into the heart of the Sahara and perhaps your death. What with humans destroying their resources faster than we can admit, these animals are caged in a haven. Though it is indeed a cage.

Ignoring the sharp pang in my heart, I merely mutter insults to the couple that has parked themselves and their eight children in front of my view of the beast. This is poor zoo manners.

We amble around the grounds spending adequate time watching the hippos glide through their watery tank and those damn cute penguins. The animals stalk the feeding area of the cage. Grizzly Bears pace as though on a track.

If I had any one animal I could be friends with and it wouldn't kill me, I'd hang with a polar bear. Of course, he could behead anyone that I asked him to.

Finally hunger is overwhelming, so we leave for the arch. Bellies full we walk through a wooded park towards the giant infrastructure.

As my first time in St. Louis, I must admit it is a pleasant city. The skyline is clean and not flagged with too many flashy towers or giant ads. Sitting under the pristine arch we watched three teenagers run amuck and fling goose poop at one another. Dried goose poo is left throughout the green to crunch under your feet.
Again, very pleasant.

I wonder who keeps the arch so clean.

We devised a heroic battle between two foes that started under the arch in the neat green, possibly a Viking and a Samurai. It naturally would end with a daring stab and the victor walking away towards the mighty Mississippi, while the loser bleeds to his death.

Going up to the top of the arch seemed like a waste of money, so we ambled away.

My limbs screamed in recognition as we climbed into the car. Adam agreed to drive towards Denver, which we hoped to reach without a layover.

We first started the drive at an ungodly hour, not long after Adam finished his shift at the bar. Both of us with sleep still in our eyes, Adam informed me that he sleep about fifty minutes total.

Then turning east instead of west on our first leg of the trip, I still try to ignore the ominous feeling creeping up from my toes. Denver is twelve hours from St. Louis.

“Well,” Adam said putting the car in gear, “Let’s see how this goes.”

Cue the music

Kalamazoo's Dynamic Night Scene

This is a photo story about The Strutt Cafe and Bar in Kalamazoo, MI. I wanted to capture the allure of a venue that unites a flair for coffee with a dynamic night scene. I used a Canon Rebel to take all of the pictures.


8 DEC 2008 The Strutt Cafe and Bar hosts an array of musical acts daily at the 773 W Michigan location in Kalamazoo. Formerly known as Dino's, The Strutt offers a coffee house atmosphere by day and a music venue for local and national acts by night.


NOV 2008 Lauren Smolen and Katie Carter take time between rushes to clean-up behind the barista counter. Baristas are trained to create latte art in drinks, which produces designs in the drink such as a heart or rosette.


DEC 2008 Jennifer Heberger attends to a long line drawn by a WMU Third Coast Writing Project Reading event. The readings are hosted by the graduate-student group, which publishes a bi-annual publication and supports English teachers as they develop their own writing-style.


strutt 6: 8 DEC 2008 James Miranda standing far right, Melina Moustakis, Kristian O'Hare, Laura Donnelly and Adam Pasen, WMU graduate students relax before a Third Coast reading. Moustakis organizes the literature readings for the group that exhibits work by fiction, poetry and playwrights from the university.


DEC 2008 Jazz night brings established musicians together for jam-session performances each Sunday at The Strutt Bar. Phillip Kudlo-guitar, Jarad Selner-saxophone, Leonard Duke-trumpet, Tod Klosterman-bass and Tommie Lochett-drums (not visible) played together as a group for the first time at the now weekly show.


DEC 2008 Owner Darren Bain entertains a crowded bar during the Sunday performance. The intimate venue crowds in visitors into an eclectic and detailed performance area that is separate from the coffee cafe.


DEC 2008 Jarad Selner, right, and Leonard Duke wail Sunday nights when not performing in other local projects.

On the Verge of Something Big

A five-piece jazz band wails under red stage lighting, while two men compete in varied dance competitions in the center of the room. This is just another Sunday night at The Strutt Café and Bar.

The venue located at 773 W. Michigan Ave in Kalamazoo, MI has locals taking notice of the hybrid coffee shop and bar. Any given night, live bands along with ardent scholars can be found united in the café or the adjacent bar.

The smoke-free business, a rarity in Michigan, boasts a study atmosphere during the day and live music by night. The historic building fits little more than 300 people, but the space allows for intimacy between artist and audience.

The building has held multiple businesses. In recent years, many failed in rapid succession. Locals remember the former Oakland Pharmacy and legendary Boogie Records with fervor.

A monthly tribute show to the former Boogie Records features established singer/songwriters both local and national. The shows feel like an intimate gathering between friends, each viewer immersed in the music.

This is The Strutt at its finest.

The immense success of such shows is still overshadowed by the issues of being a small business in a failing economy.

Restaurants have the highest failure rates of any small business with a 20 percent chance of lasting two years, according to a Dun & Bradstreet report. A packed crowd is still a surprise to everyone involved.

The continuously remodeled space is unrecognizable from its predecessors.

The Strutt offers specialty coffee drinks that are distinguished by latte art, which place designs in the milk for added flair. Customers ask for their favorite by name.

Weekend brunches host bluegrass bands and a specialized breakfast menu. Guests can enjoy ample breakfast burritos, while listening to an acoustic set by two graying men wearing insect hats. This is part of a monthly act for kids designed to attract families.

The Strutt is fraught with inconsistency while balancing on the verge of recognition.

Originally named Dinos and strictly a coffee shop, the name changed when the liquor license was finally obtained after grueling financial and legal set-backs.

“A liquor license is very difficult to get and difficult to hold on to,” said owner Darren Bain. “Kalamazoo is the perfect town to start a music venue. I wanted a dirty dive, but it was too pretty.”

Bain traveled all over the country for work and found Kalamazoo in the process. Adamant to get off the road, he said the brick building offered exactly the charm he was looking for.

After the previous business partner left, Kelly Schultz got involved. Schultz became a financial backer after the two began dating.

“It was a real gradual process,” Schultz said. “He’s always here and that’s how it started. I’ve always wanted to own a restaurant and my kids love it.”

Schultz works behind the scenes to keep the growing business running. She explained that the two want to keep the coffee lounge feel, but was very supportive from the start concerning Bain’s music vision.

An experienced musician from Seattle, Bain wants to expand the venue to hold a larger capacity. With a bigger stage and room for more people, he hopes to attract more national bands. A blur of energy, Bain fires out plans for the crucial expansion and renovation to anyone who can keep up.

“I would start it tomorrow if I could,” Bain said. “Some of it won’t be possible and some of it will be very possible.”

Bain hopes to expand with a microbrewery and recording studio in the basement.

Dealing with historic building commissions and boards, Bain is no stranger to the red-tape involved in such lofty plans. Yet, he is not one to dwell on obstacles. As he races through the building involved in daily pet projects, one may wonder how anyone can keep up.


This piece was printed in the City Life publication that is distributed by The Kalamazoo Gazette. The original article can be found at the link below.

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