Giraffe Afterbirth

Now that I have your attention, here are a few words about California - beginning with Kansas City.

For about three minutes, I was famous and running. A late takeoff in Nashville left me with 10 minutes between flight - the setup at KC International required exiting one block of gates then passing through security at another, even though the planes were five gates apart. I sprinted toward security as the loudspeaker broke in with "Paging Passenger Bill Melville."

After a little frantic fumbling at the ID checkpoint, then threw my stuff on the security conveyor and cleared the plane down seconds before the pilot mumbled something ending in "secure for departure." I spent next hour watching Kansas' tiny lights passively mimic the star-crowded sky above. Flight 619 touched down twenty minutes early in L.A., helped in its fight against the Jet Stream by all its empty seats.

Lebowskisms
I've been to Ralph's already (didn't apply for the Frequent Shopper Card,though), with In N Out Burger to come, as well as a few frames at Fountain Bowl.

"Take It Easy" blared as I stepped outside at LAX, but Alicia has yet to pull over and drag me out of the car for defaming the Eagles. I know few people who would, and rarely see them.

About that Title
Rather than journey into San Diego and Balboa Park, we opted for the San Diego Zoo Wild Animal Park in Escondido, where the animals live in more natural setting and in family units when possible. Here's a sampling: Seven African elephants (two only a year old), five Asian elephants, a full pride (one male lion, two females and seven cubs), umpteen giraffes, wildebeest, rhinos and three cheetah sisters being scratched by their handler. As with anything in California, it was pricey but worth it.

To find the Wild Animal Park, we followed some rural road through the verdant mountains, including one that passed an ostrich farm with a herd of the giant birds. I already regret not stopping for avocados and fresh ostrich jerky.

During the WAP African bus tour, we passed a quarantine area with a giraffe mother and baby born only 22 hours earlier - the guide dutifully pointed the dark soil where it was actually born while explaining that giraffes give birth standing up, because the impact on the ground jumpstarts the baby's breathing.

Northerly Bastards
Escondido featured its own version of the two stops I wanted to make in San Diego - the zoo and the Stone Brewpub. The brewers of Arrogant Bastard just opened their new brewhouse here, and the heavy scent of hops enveloped the street - otherwise, it was another box on a bland industrial parkway. The rancid smell emanating from Columbus' Anheuser-Busch Brewery isn't in the same league as the complex floweriness that permeated the building and the road.

Inside, it was the opposite, stylishly designed to showcase the massive brew kettles and spacious restaurant. A one-acre garden surrounded the patio and gave visitors the chance to have a beer next to the koi ponds. I went with Levitation and an Oaked Arrogant Bastard, which tasted even smoother than its bottled brothers.

The beer was not strong enough to halt a nightly run. Alicia and I put down about three miles around Long Beach, much of it on the beach paths illuminated by bizarrely artful oil-pumping island in the bay. Vacation can't obstruct running with the end of April looming closer.

Tomorrow: Battling the back bay.

The horror ... the horror

Around metro Nashville, drifts of road salt piled higher than the actual snow. While it covered the grass in the first substantial snowfall of 2008, only the backroads showed anything more than a dusting.

Every school in the region closed for the day, and the weathermen talked as if the Storm of the Century punished Tennessee.

I debated whether to where a coat or not. Not because I’m a maniac – it was below freezing this morning, and I respect winter. Besides, my madness is rooted elsewhere.

But I doubt I’ll need a coat where I’m headed.

In eight hours I’ll be 30,000 feet above rural Missouri, land that I just finished writing about. After a plane change in Kansas City, I head west by southwest for LAX (“Don’t touch my bags if you please, Mr. Customs Man,” as Arlo once sang) and five days on the coast.

The might KW was here this weekend, and we hit the honkey tonks, the Greenhouse, breakfast at Noshville, a chilly walk along the Cumberland, a few panicked minutes when I thought I lost my iPod, and an improvised chicken cacciatore. The short good time worked well.

California is the last departure for a while, and for all the fun I’ve had traveling, I’ll welcome the slower road in spring.

Of course, I already know when the next road out of town will lead.

I just bought a ticket for Bonnaroo. I have to go once – it’s an hour away, and most of these days will skip Nashville on their regular tours. Without a good outdoor venue in Nashville, it will be the best chance to catch Iron & Wine, The Raconteurs, Gogol Bordello and even the acts I’ve skipped all these years – Metallica, Pearl Jam, Willie Nelson and B.B. King (I can’t miss the old guys - face it).

It will not impact my Comfest plans, however. They’re two weeks apart this year, so I have some time.

Then I’m going to haul ass to Lollapalooza in August to purge the memory of the worst-ever birthday with three days at Grant Park, and maybe a little Windy City vacation time/job hunt in the meantime.

Enough about summer – it’s freezing out there. But only until 4:50 p.m.

Music mea culpa

Dear Great American Songbook,

This past weekend I reached a moment of clarity, and understood how little I knew of your repertoire. A whole dominion of songwriters sat outside my musical sphere of knowledge.

What I disregarded as easy listening now sounds every bit as essential as Lomax field recordings and Harry Smith's record collection. This music comes from a tradition I'd had scant exposure to. I can listen to Leadbelly and the Gershwins - there's room in the harbor for all of them.

I blame Rod Stewart, the hack who tore you up and spit you out as best-selling garbage, just as he butchered Tom Waits in the 80's. Who thought "Tom Traubert's Blues" could be turned into sappily crooned arena rock? I had no interest in what he might do to favorites from the 20th century's first half, since I knew exactly how he'd do it.

With Stewart's dirty knives carving you up, how was I to know? You can't be a nowhere man if you know what you missing.

However, the remedy has arrived and I'm on the fast track to catching up.

Ella Fitzgerald worked her way through your songs, and every note she sustains sounds closer to perfection than anyone else. So now that I started my tour with the Gershwins, it's onto Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Duke Ellington Johnny Mercer and who knows else from there. I foresee some of her duets with Louis Armstrong on the horizon, since pairing unlikely voices often turn out spectacularly well (Waits and Crystal Gayle, Plant and Krauss, Lanegan and Campbell).

Most importantly, the ladies seem to dig all your pages has to offer. You can’t put a price on that.

Sorry for the delay in my immersion. We'll be in touch again once I've had the chance to root around a little more.

Sincerely,

Bill Melville
(Dictated but not read)

Border War Blues

People who view the South as one monolithic block of God-fearing, NASCAR-loving rednecks miss out on how much animosity brews between states at times.

This goes beyond mere SEC rivalries.

In Tennessee, Georgia is certainly on our minds, because of the shenanigans the Georgia Legislature has been pulling lately.

The two states have long argued about their border, and now the Peach State wants an

That extra mile they want drag in some new residents.

Not of all those legislators mention that the Tennessee River curls into that disputed strip. The wide, deep Tennessee River.

Everyone knows Georgia has a water shortage because of overdevelopment and a tiny watershed around sprawling Atlanta that cannot feed the thirst of millions. Lake Lanier, Atlanta's water source, dropped so low that marooned boats and docks litter the shores. Everything dumped into shallow waters for the past half-century is now exposed for all to see.

It doesn't take a long look at those acres of brown lawns to figure out what drives this land grab. They see a sliver of the Tennessee River as the solution to all their water problems - not slowing the pace of development, or (gasp!) halting the construction of those giant, repetitive shopping plazas. That, my friends, would be standing in the way of ... ahem... progress, and downright un-American.

Tennessee's biggest population centers all sit along deep rivers or dam-created lakes, so few suffer for water. The rural areas have been hit hard.

Now, unless we're talking to other Southern states about some swaps, I don't see this happening. A three- or four-team deal might be the only to broker this. If Mississippi took Memphis off Tennessee's hands (Nashville and Memphis don't get along anyway) or we split up the eastern frontier counties between Virginia and North Carolina, perhaps something could be worked out. Since Tennessee has no income tax and other states do, I doubt those displaced residents would be eager to switch states.

Tennessee legislators have already called them out as bullshitters, and won't approve it. Congress would also need to bless the border change. Georgia has threatened to sue.

Whatever Georgia does, I expect this rotten Peach won't get a drop.

Best ... Cat ... Ever

Yes, he's wearing a tie. It's part of his collar, but what else would you expect - his fur is formal wear.

In the picture above sits the gateway cat - I'd never been around them and in short doses, they stirred up some fearsome allergies. Not this one, though. He talked. A lot. Still does from what I hear. He belongs to a friend/old roommate.

I hoped The Orange and White Beast would be similar in temperament. But despite his chattiness, he offers the friendliness of a wolverine - always hungry and always biting, as the fresh twin gashes on my left calf will prove.

The Beast is on probation. After 18 months, he's only getting worse. The move and the fleas obviously rankled him. But I'm at the point of opening the door and letting him walk on out.

Why I Need to Check My Coat Pockets

I hadn't worn my green fall jacket since the fall, and digging around the interior pocket unearthed these relics:

* A receipt from Shell Station east of Prague, where the attendant cursed at me in Czech. At least I think he cursed - the mixture of Germanic and Slavic language just sounds angry.

* A parking slip from Salzburg, Austria.

* A receipt for cashing a traveler's check into Euros at the Munich train station.

* A torn luggage tag sending my bag from Columbus to Philadelphia to Munich.

All those receipts got shoved in my coat a year ago while racing through Central Europe. Even without the 9,000 words of blogging I dropped onto the Internets, I can guide you through every moment.

What I cannot do is clean out my coat one year later.

Seeking the respect of record company low lifes

At 4:30 p.m. yesterday I had no plans beyond uncorking a champagne bottle of Duvel and sending off the weekend in good fashion.

The Duvel never got popped. At 5 p.m. I was scrambling for a dress shirt that still fits me so I could go to a Grammy Viewing Party downtown. I ended up as Jamie's "Plus-One" for the party, because I can't turn down any chance to do something other than sit at home.

Global Cafe put on a nice spread of artsy finger foods, luscious desserts and free wine. I think the last one made the Grammys more bearable and surprisingly good at times.

The good was simple - as Jay would say, "Morris Day and the Motherfucking Time." Seeing a keytar on stage made sitting through the rest of the Amy Winehouse Lovefest more bearable. The Foo Fighters tore through "The Pretender."

However, I'm ticked at how they treated The Band - they talk about their musical achievement and give us a crowd shot of Robbie Robertson. Then it's immediately onto a Circe de Soleil performance of "A Day in the Life" from Love. Those bastards keyed me up for "Up on Cripple Creek" or "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" then dropped the ball. That's the Grammys for you.

I'm not feeling like recounting the bad. That's like the Friars Club roasting Chevy Chase ... oh wait, they already did that.

The party seemed to lose steam halfway through. Maybe all the awards handed out before the ceremony killed the momentum. I think the award for "Best Didgeridoo Solo" deserves as much screen time as top rock and country albums.

Political junkies might take some lessons from the Grammy fight But at least if Barack Obama gets cheated out of superdelegates by the Clintons, Audacity of Hope beat out two former presidents - Clinton and Carter - for the spoken word Grammy.

Go Ahead, Throw Your Vote Away

The primary results dropped before the lightning - Clinton won easily, once again proving that unless Ken Blackwell is on the ballot, I can't pick a winner.

Still mourning the spotlight that ignored John Edwards' fiery populism, I went with Obama. I am tired the Bushes and Clinton turning the American presidency into a Hatfield-McCoy feud, and expect I will never vote for a member of either family - unless Romney pulls off a miracle.

I even debated voting Republican to thwart Bullshitter Mitt, but all those Bible Belt conservative were a step ahead and picked a guy convinced the world is about 9,000 years old.

Not everyone in Tennesse got to the polls. You might accuse the weather of vote suppression.

A flock of tornadoes crossed the mid-South in the late evening, leaving 44 people dead and millions in damage. Their path ran directly through Nashville. Their strength faltered at the city limits and plowed on through its northeast suburbs.

In Nashville, I've seen rougher storms - my usual barometer, the Orange and White Beast, never once retreated to darkness following a thunderclap. However, his behavior was hardly normal. The tornado sirens that howled through the evening and again at 2 a.m. freaked him out.

The rain pounded the intersection beyond my window in heavy sheets and dime-sized hail covered the porch. But for all the calls, texts and e-mails I got last night and again this morning, it was a rather normal night, reading Michael Jackson's Great Beers of Belgium (the late creepy English beer guru, not the plastic surgery disaster/musician) to help plan for the Next Great Euro Vacation.

Yeah, western Tennessee and the area northeast of Nashville took a beating in lives and property. All those shots of the crushed Union University dorm, pulverized veterinary clinics and houses minus roofs came regions far from the Delaware Avenue Dive.

The storm's path was fortunate for West Nasville - my house would topple into kindling if those 100 mph winds even grazed its eaves.

Catch the Running Blues

With little fanfare except humming the first few bars of the Rocky theme, training for the Country Music Half-Marathon kicked off Sunday morning.

A spring-like Sunday morning helped as our little training team knocked out seven miles in suburban Brentwood.

I had run no more than four miles on road or treadmill in the year thus far. Ric and Al, the brothers who brought me into their long weekend runs, had just jumped from six miles to seven. They run regularly and usually finish 3-5 minutes before me in any given 5K. Visions of them disappearing on the horizon danced in my head.

But the pace worked for me, if not the pain I felt as we closed the loop. That is one joy of running - no matter how badly those last steps feel, the pain diminished rapidly. Two minutes after finishing, I felt functional again.

Downtown Nashville always punishes runners - it levels off in some places, but 3.1 miles of hills, bridges and a steep pedestrian bridge add up quickly. Brentwood's terrain stays relatively flat but sports enough little changes in elevation to make it interesting.

With about 10 weeks until the big weekend, training needed to start now. Barring injury, I will not walk this one nor repeat any mistakes from the October half-marathon that I ran/walked with little training beyond my weekend 5 and 10Ks.

Plus, the intimidatingly large houses along the route urged pedestrians to run rather than walk. Their owners might release the hounds if anyone loiters too long on the sidewalk.

At these distances, conversation makes all the difference. We
the makeover given to Brentwood in the past 20 years, Captain America, Clint Eastwood, 1980s-era wrestling, the decline of Three Stooges fandom ... pick a subject guaranteed to drive away women, and good odds say we found it.

I can't wait to see how we pass Saturday's seven miles. By then my legs might actually recover.

18-1: A Nice Way of Saying 'Second Place'

Forget all the heartache of Cleveland sports in the past year. Waking up an upset morning never felt so good, and Pouty Lil' Eli is one of my least favorite players.

With a perfect season near fruition, the villains of the NFL inspired more one-day Giants fans than at any other time in league history. Everyone in our office talked up the great game. Then we reminded each other that we shouldn't say a word to anyone from our corporate HQ in Massaschusetts -- if any of them were able to get out of bed this morning.

Belichick remained indignant in his post-game comments, never ceding an ounce of credit to the Giants. After all the success in Foxboro, he's still the gruff, distant man who turned off Browns fans in droves.

So the surly coach goes unrewarded -- what greater reward is there?

Here's one - I won't have to hear a word about the genius of Bill Belichick until September.