Fake mustaches never quite look real, do they?

Well, that's what I get for minimal effort on a Halloween costume - clothes from my own closet and a fake mustache.
















And since Earl can't keep his eyes open in any photo ....
















And of course, I forgot to take my glasses off before they were snapped.

Fair-Weather Fall Classic Fans

Who thought we'd have to listen to Joe Buck explain the catwalk rules at that monstrosity of a ballpark in Tampa Bay?

I've never heard so many baseball expert/analyst types gripe about a matchup no one predicted at the beginning of October, let along in spring training. Read between their lines and the message emerges: Because we're missing a team from New York, Boston or Los Angeles, it can't possibly be a good Series. They underestimated the two league champions, so now they'll be underwhelmed by their Best of Seven.

We've seen pitchers hit: Joe Blanton's home run beautifully rocketed from Citizens Bank Ballpark, the first time in 34 years a pitcher went deep in the World Series. Phillies hurler Brett Myers contributed three hits in the NLCS despite his .062 batting average in the regular season.

We've seen the young Rays finally answer the question, "When are all those high draft picks going to pan out?" If they don't rally for three straight wins, have no fear - they'll return to the playoffs. They have the talent to keep up with the Red Sox and Yankees.

But who thought to have Ken Rosenthal interview Ryan Howard? Next to the hulking first baseman, Rosenthal looked like a Lollilop Guild refugee.

Let the media call it a boring series because Philly has pulled away from Tampa Bay. Their boredom expanded as the White Sox, Cubs, Dodgers and Red Sox were eliminated from the playoffs. No one wanted this series.

Each game is what you make of it, and until last night's Philly slugfest, we had three games decided by a combined four runs. That's October baseball at its finest.

My break-up with presidential campaigning

Dear partisan friends,

Consider this a cease-and-desist. Early voting in Tennessee allowed me to cast my ballot today without a wait. Five minutes after entering the Bordeaux library, I affixed the "I voted" sticker to my shirt pocket.

That means I have no further need for forwards of any type regarding the election. The information blackout begins now and concludes 7 p.m. Nov. 4. I don't want to hear Word One until then, got it?

Biden bites tongue, leaving no room for him to stick his foot in it time and time again? Not my problem anymore.

McCain recasts the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" into a rationale for bombing Venezuela? Tell all the undecideds you see, just don't bother with me.

Barack Hussein Islama? Could care less.

Palin failin'? Forget it.

My civic duty is done. I can't vote again ... legally. Unless I pose as Mickey Mouse in Ohio. So any material related to the election will be immediately recycled with extreme prejudice.

Sincerely,
Your early voting friend
(dictated but not read)

Mountain Musings

A conference opened the door to Denver, and once it finished on Wednesday evening, I kicked it wide open. The wine at the closing reception didn't hurt my cause.

With a bellyful of Thai food and Great Divide American Pale Ale, my first destination remedied a missed opportunity from my last trip outside Nashville.

After missing them twice in Chicago and once opening for Blitzen Trapper in Nashville, I finally caught Fleet Foxes at a sold-out show at the Oriental Theatre. They reproduced their earthy sounds without a glitch, the four-part harmonies rich and resonant. Just hearing the vocals-only “Sun Giant” segue into “Sun It Rises” in person made the show worthwhile - they don't suffer lots of songs about the sun.

This great little theater that rarely drew national acts, according to the staff I met outside. Unfortunately, the full schedule for Thursday meant missing the end of the show. But the Foxes will tour again, and what I saw left me hungry for another show. They just won't book such small venues.

Breakfast in Cheyenne
The thought of waking up at 4 p.m. is often so unpleasant that I must play tricks on myself . I accidently set the clock ahead an hour, and scrambled to pack up for fear I'd blown my schedule. I hadn't.

Departing from the hotel around 5 a.m., the first inklings of sunrise shoved up from the plains near Fort Collins. I barreled across the plains, with the everpresent Rockies to my left for the 112 miles between Denver and the nearest state capital, Cheyenne.

Around 100 miles out, a cowboy’s silhouette announced the Wyoming line, home of Dick Cheney and the nation’s least populous state. Anytime I can knock off an new state, I’ll take it.

Cheyenne was quaint little cowboy town with historic neighborhoods, a business block with hotels and facades preserved with an 1880s atmosphere and the two biggest attractions at the same end of Capitol Avenue – the beautiful state capitol building and the old Union Pacific rail station.

The capitol’s cupola shone against the sunrise, which broke as I arrived. As the relentless sun pounded the capital, I hunkered down at the Plains Hotel coffeeshop for some eggs and the state’s finest coffee. Their sign boldly stated so, and there can’t be that many coffeehouses in Big Sky Country.

Tracing the prairie

With breakfast out of the way, the long haul to Rocky Mountain National Park was under way. Rather than jump back onto the interstate, I found a route through the Shawnee National Prairie that took me through Greeley, a straight shot to the park.

At the Colorado border, I passed a strip club and could not guess who it served – in the next 50 miles down to Greeley, few trucks rumbled past. And I’m guessing none of the women at that remote outpost resembled the shapely silhouette on the sign.

The towns along the route - Nunn, Pierce, Ault and Eaton – barely qualified as such. Anyone who took the advice of the water tower reading “Watch Nunn Grow” might be in for a long century or five.

Greeley itself a college town with a well-manicured main drag, but I barely gave notice, as the time to turn west approached. Through Greeley and Loveland the progression was suburban and slow until the road fell to two lanes between the craggy peaks.

Big Thompson River flowed swiftly over over frequent boulders. Entering its canyon just after Loveland, daylight nearly vanished on the winding road sharing it with the river. Signs urged motorists to get to higher ground if flooding occurred – it wouldn’t take much rain or melting snow; the guardrail sat flush with a tiny bank.

When the road widened at the canyon’s end, I was tempted to reach into the freezing water to see if I could pull out a six-pack of Busch, but decided such treasure had been removed long ago.

Besides, 11 a.m. neared, and I needed some quality mountain time – or so I thought. RMNP followed the template of Joshua Tree and the Grand Canyon – it was relatively remote and reached by winding highways. The land flattened for a moment at Estes Park, then curved toward the 14’ers.

Above 9,000 feet, a short walk along the observation point brought back every cigarette I ever smoked, received second-hand smoke from, or looked at. At two miles above sea level, the thinner air drove me to gasp as the wind shoved me back no matter how firmly I stood. Taking pictures at the second lookout, I felt its relentless push forced me against the guardrail, and urged me to try my chances further up, past the sign that warned of rapid, violent changes in weather ahead.

With more to see, I called it quits at the first major stop above the timberline, the lookout onto Forest Canyon. Without any trees to obstruct, the canyon and its companion mountains, speckled with light snow and populated only by lichen, created a new ecosystem.

Here my nerve wore out – I could go higher, but this was not a leisurely solo drive. It just produced trembling hands, an inability to look down and a healthier respect for geologic might that sprouted the Rockies. On the flight home, my row buddy assured me that driving through RMNP was not something he would consider, so getting above 11,000 feet was an accomplishment.

Upon the descent, I lounged around Sprague Lake, partially frozen in October but an avian sanctuary among the mountains. An attempt to hike run up against the thin air’s assault on my lungs. Even short uphill distances left me gasping.

A herd of male elk lounged in the share net to a small fenced area for the females, ensuring everyone entering tasted a little wildlife.

Tea time

After a gorgeous drive to Boulder along the winding U.S. 36, the only stop that would suffice after a day in the mountains needed an afternoon tea time. Fortunately, my iterinary passed close to the Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse. The only Tajik teahouse in the Western Hemisphere, I wouldn’t pass this chance for tea and some Middle Eastern cuisine. The Persian chickpea kufteh was as sublime as the surroundings - Boulder's hip and progressive character was on fully display.

After idling through rush hour, I made it down to Susan and Tres' house in Littleton. Littleton doesn’t rate a mention in the guidebook I bought, and no one remembers at as the home of South Park’s creators, just the location of Columbine High School. We chilled out over take-out and New Belgium that night, as the long day left me ragged and eager to turn south in the morning.

Gardening for fossils

Just outside of Colorado Springs, I hiked through Garden of the Gods, the massive red-rock formation just north of town. When traveling around Pike’s Peak, Manitou Springs seemed like the hippest spot to grab a room. The nation’s largest historic district sits immediately next to Colorado Springs and has a completely different character than its highly conservative neighbor.

Thirty-five miles later, on the other side of Pike’s Peak, I turned off the road in the tiny subsistence town of Flourissant to check out Colorado's redwood forests - or their remnants, at least. From the Flourissant Fossil Beds, excavations have produced dozens of fossilized species extinct for 30 million-plus years, plus fossilized stumps from an ancient redwood forest on the banks of Lake Flourissant. Covered by volcanic flow, the stumps survived.

I skipped Cave of the Winds and the Cripple Creek mining camp for a little time in downtown Colorado Springs – a city of nearly 400,000 must be accompanied by a happening downtown, right? Well, downtown Colorado Springs was easily the most vanilla place I encountered on the Front Range – three blocks of Nunn had more character. After a drive through the U.S. Air Force Academy, I found the highway and returned to Littleton for our night on the town.

Susan and Tres decided on the Sushi Den, which flies its specials in daily from Japan. This was by far the best sushi I ever sampled. I doubt I can ever grab a California roll from the grocery again.

We popped Downtown to the Cruise Ship Room at the Oxford Hotel, a narrow martini bar recalling a 1930s-era bar aboard the Queen Mary. There the red-coated bartender talked me into a Coors product sold only in Colorado, Herman Joseph's Private Reserve.

Produced by the stand-alone AC Golden Brewing Company, this crisp golden lager sparkled, the hop and malt mix almost on par with a Bohemian Pilsner. As it warms slightly in the glass, it takes on a gentle citrus taste that mingles well. Unfortunately, they only bottle 200 cases from each batch. If they bottled any more than that, Private Reserve might start to taste similar to the swill I expect from Coors.

A trip where even the Coors beer tastes awesome? Yeah, that was Colorado.

Now I'm left to scrounge for another conference out in Denver.

Fun With Airports

Fun with airports

Seventeen months later, do I look the part of a Nashvillian at the airport? With a mandolin gig bag to accompany my computer sack, the evidence mounts all the time.

With a twice-monthly lesson due upon my return, I can’t skip any chance to practice. Besides, the idea of breaking it out for a few fiddle tunes on a Rocky Mountain hike sounds so appealing. But I will practice. Inspiration will strike, or I’ll desperately need a respite from healthcare around 6 p.m. tomorrow.

Lightning observations:
A guy with the world’s largest Louis Vitton bag? That’s so g …. Nevermind. Sometimes my mastery of the obvious goes too far.

Teetotalers have taken over the terminal. Nashville International has finally banned to-go cups of beer within the concourses. I used that perk every time I’ve flown out of Music City this year, and now, the temperance movement has struck again.

We’re inching close to cell phones in the last cellular-free zone. The flight attendants had to hover over a few geniuses unwilling to end their calls as we taxied onto the runway.

No frills, no problem: I literally cannot remember the last time I looked at flying on any airline but Southwest. With flights to Los Angeles and now Denver turning up 30 minutes early, no fees for checked baggage and airline executives clever enough to buy their fuel at a fixed rate to preserve those low fares, why would I?

A Reporter .... on Vacation ... in October?!

Finally, I can leave work during the fairest of the seasons, and not worry about some Green Party candidate's information form has not arrived.

Admittedly, I could have done that last year, but the job was still too new to balance a trip.

Two years after my last general election, it's hard to imagine those times, when I absolutely could not have vacation from late August until the second week in November.

Work will play role, though - this time tomorrow, I'll be deeply embedded in the Colorado Association of Health Plans' annual meeting.

By tomorrow night, I'll be in line to catch the Fleet Foxes at Denver's Oriental Theatre. I missed them in Nashville, Chicago

By Thursday morning, I'll be driving the rental below the snowy peaks of the northern Rockies, returning from breakfast in Cheyenne, Wyoming (and coloring in another state on that map all us bloggers filled out).

I'll check in again off the road, probably somewhere in Fort Collins or Boulder Cafe Dushanbe.

Middle Half Thoughts

As the bodies passed toward the starting line of the Murfreesboro Middle Half, all sculpted or born for this course, I forced myself to look at my own in hope of comprehending why I run.

Spit duct tape and a band around my knee hold this stocky form together. Everything must align, or everything falls apart. It always finishes in a litany of aches and cramps, with knees and joints refusing to forgive a run so far.

Even as the miles stacked up, I questioned it repeatedly. A girl whose I estimated at 6 feet four inches walked faster than I ran on the last two miles. No matter how much I churned those legs, I couldn't catch her.

Even as I smelled the finish line, I had no answer for passing someone who was all legs.

I finished eight minutes faster than my Country Music Half Marathon time, 33 minutes better than the ill-fated Music City Half Marathon run a year ago. A day later, the soreness of those first few hours is barely visible.

I started running out of frustration with nearly getting run over while cycling on Columbus streets. but that purpose has evolved. I had no interest in running half-marathons, much less. I ran that first 5K with unbelievable trepidation. I ran the second a week later, and now fall has turned into an eight or nine week run of races. Since August, I have run three 5Ks, two 10Ks and a 15K. There's good fortune in races divisible by five.

Running wards off depression - psychiatrists might disagree, but as someone who has long battled the disease, I cannot argue with that sensation that overtakes the whole body as the brutality ends and the endorphins began to flow unencumbered. I might be bout to face the worse cramps ever to freeze my legs, but man, the moments before and after are pure bliss.

Plus, as runners know, the beating your body takes creates a beautiful exhaustion surpassed only by sex. it's true, non-runners. But as a person who always struggled with accomplishment as well, I can say that weekend always feels better after finishing off a few miles on Saturday morning.

The competition against myself began on St. Patrick's Day 2007, when I ran back-to-back 5Ks in Dublin. From there, the slippery slope grew unavoidable.

Two weeks later came the first 10K. Then a four-miler and a 5K in the same weekend. I originally hoped to build up to the Columbus Marathon, but tweaking my knee ended that training plan. Then my running buddy Ric handed me a $10 off coupon for the Country Music Half Marathon - with six months to prepare, I couldn't turn it down. I never felt fast, but I never stopped looking at the finish line.

I finished the 15K from two weeks ago in 92 minutes, second-slowest in the 30-34 age group. But finish without only a minor stop, ran efficiently and cut my time by six minutes over the previous year's 15K. Score: One for me, everyone else is irrelevant.

How fast the Kenyan cadre finished the Middle Half was irrelevant. They come to race, I just run. I kept my head down, competed against only myself and finished.

I left without a plaque, but they draped a medal over my head like that of every other finisher.

And when the Country Music Half arrives in April 2009, I'll run among 30,000 people, and still only have myself to compete with.

The Dan-Patrick Show: Black Keys Hit the Ryman

After spending most of this decade watching the Black Keys shred on their home turf before sold-out Ohio crowds, their inaugural Ryman performance begged the question, "Are they big enough to fill this place?"

Empty seats scattered among the pews hardly mattered - the Akron duo slowly poured out a bottle of Buckeye State blues, powering through brisk, compact set.

A few extended blues jams that never last long enough to turn stale broke up the march through the Keys's short, sweet songs. A duo immediately has more space to fill than a standard band, yet Auerbach and Carney had no trouble knowing when to bring the heavy lumber or to let the songs breathe a little.

These two possess a completely different dynamic than the White Stripes, to whom they're often compared. While they certainly share influences and Rust Belt credentials, the groups diverge quickly. To begin with, Carney can actually play the drums.

Auerbach's swampy, distorted blues paddles around the uptight cliches white guys usually summon from the blues. While the strobe lights got old within a few songs, Auerbach and Carney let their affable yet unyielding music ring out.

Thanks to a Danger Mouse production on Attack & Release, the new songs really stood out - "Things Ain't What They Used to Be" and the set-closing "I Got Mine" sacrificed nothing in stretching their blues away from its traditional song structures. They lined up nicely with "Your Touch" from Magic Potion and others.

At times Auerbach's stack of amplifiers strained against the Ryman acoustics, but their reliance on three-minute songs never allowed it to become a glaring flaw. His banter often felt forced, and they practically ran offstage at the encore's end. But once his slide hit the fretboard and Carney laid down a Bonham-esque bed of percussion, all was forgiven.

Royal Bangs provided a break from the standard indie rock opener, veering from Sonic Youth-inspired noise outbursts to keyboard-heavy fare reminiscent of the Boo Radleys at times.

As for Jessco White the Dancing Outlaw ... for all the people who said not to miss him, I wish I had. Thanks to a PBS documentary, the audience got a half-hour of tap-dancing to stock country tunes while Jessco rubbed his man-boobs and raving drunkenly toward the front row. In comparison, Daniel Johnston is a pillar of mental stability. I really wanted to root for him, but mental illness and drunkenness turned his appearance into an embarrassing freak-show spectacle before the roaring crowd.

Backstage, Jessco got booted from the Ryman, Auerbach reported later. Dwelling on their awkward choice for an opener was among their only missteps. The rest was a smooth travel through the blues of Akron.

Debates: Two, Interesting Moments: Zero

Presidential debates tease like nothing else.

For all the barricades erected around Belmont, all the rallies, protests and debate parties, no one walks away from these tightly choreographed ballets having learned new dance steps from the candidates.

Even in the over-promoted town hall setting, this script could have been cobbled together from the campaign trail. With the candidates covered 24 hours a day, who expected to hear anything remotely groundbreaking?

I think we watch solely in wait of a serious fuck-up on the national stage. We know where they stand on all these issues. But will McCain go ballistic, unleash a wave of profanity and headbutt Tom Brokaw? Will Obama turn toward Mecca and lie prostate on the ground, validating the Internet garbage espoused by evangelicals everywhere?

Amazingly, none of that happened.

Do any modern debate moments resonate, especially those that don't involve Lloyd Bentsen berating Dan Quayle, Admiral Stockdale sounding like an indifferent madman or Tina Fey with a flute? Bentsen and Stockdale both died in recent years. Fake debates offer up better memories than the real events.

Anyone hyped for Hofstra at this point? I'll be in Denver, listening to the Fleet Foxes after a day of bombardment by Colorado health plans.

Let me know anything mildly dynamic goes down. My money says, "Not a chance." Wait for the rehash on Saturday Night Live, when it's actually possible to conjure some enjoyment from it.

Why do people stop donating blood?

Exhibit A: Bill's arm.

Again I have no pictures or shitty raw video to replace my narrative

But suffice it to say, I've let a novice blood technician stick a needle in me for the last time.

All Raconteured Out

Mark it as official - The Raconteurs have played Nashville or near Nashville too much in 2008.

Too much live Jack White might seem an oxymoron, but after two warm-up shows in April and Bonnaroo, the Ryman revealed the band's limitations.

Even on the Ryman stage, they could not touch earlier shows at the Cannery Ballroom or Bonnaroo.

To the untrained eye, they came out, roared through some of their better material and saluted their adopted hometown audience. But this night, the band didn't stray far from the studio versions and rarely touched the frenetic stage presence from their summer festival stops.

Coming close to their tour's end, Brendon Benson, Jack White and company seemed to run on empty, going through the motions through a set barely passing the 90-minute mark.

Let's cut to the chase on the opener - The Kills' brand of screeching tuneless noise rock was awful. The Ryman should institute a "You must be at least this talented to play on our stage" policy after letting these two assault eardrums.

I don't know that what this duo (trio if you count their drum machine, which radiated more musical ability than the flesh-and-bone band members) spat out between cliched rock poses actually counts as music.

Of course, I believed the Raconteurs would soothe the wounds left by the opener.

They had to ... if not for their own energy issues. Lacking in spontaneity, they assembled some highlights from their two records, stitched in a swirling jam that threatened to go somewhere but dead-ended with "Rich Kid's Blues."

When they departed the stage after "Blues," just their eighth song in under an hour, people in my pew each flashed each other "Are you kidding me?" expressions.

Did the five songs they played upon returning qualify as an encore or a second set? Bringing The Kills back to play on two songs, including "Steady As She Goes," didn't earn them any favors.

But overall, the quintet brought a higher energy for the final five, with "Hold Up" and Broken Boy Soldiers" showing signs of life.

After mercifully dispatching The Kills, the Raconteurs tore into "Carolina Drama," White's excellent murder ballad, let the audience handle the closing lyric, bowed and that was it.

This show practically begged for an encore, but house lights never lie.

Maybe all the festival shows left the band gassed. Maybe Jack White already began plotting his next adventure in red-and-white color schemes.

Devoid of nearly anything dynamic, the Ryman show signaled might be time to get Meg White back to Nashville and let the Raconteurs rest till 2010.

You can read this review plus more about Nashville music at nashvillefeed.com