On The Road With Al & Ivy: A Literary Homeless Chronicle - Oct. 19, 2018

"Though frightening, your dream is a significant portent. You must know the Gods have decreed that the lot of the living is to grieve. Your dream ordains mourning for the one who survives."

- The Gilgamesh (Gerald J. Davis 2014 translation)

"I have heard it said that there are men who read in books to convince themselves there is a God."

- James Fenimore Cooper (Last Of The Mohicans)

"...I was playing the guitar but heard an orchestra in my head."

- John Fahey

As of this writing (of this opening section), this blog has reached a wonderful milestone; a half million visits, virtually all of it for the "On The Road With Al & Ivy" homeless literary journal that began on the Delta Snake page and was later split off into it's own blog. The half million figure is the total for the two blog pages.

The earlier blog was called the Delta Snake Review, which was intended to be a continuation of my 80s blues and jazz newsletter (and later website), and to continue writing the music instrument reviews that I had been doing for the ePinions site (before it closed down the review sections).

I've been writing since the 80s, back then for my newsletter and as a freelance who was able to get work in regional weekly papers and later on the Internet. I've always identified as a writer, among other things, but found that freelance work tended to make the end game all about money and the prestige level of the customer, and not writing as art. A process that moves art into the realm of sales, which creates the age old artistic dichotomy of expression and craft.

The circulation of the publication (and it's grand arbiter, the Editor) was seen as the writer's "audience," at least by conventional wisdom according to writer magazines and other experts. 

Any freelance writer with half a brain quickly realizes that the real "audience" is that one person who has the power to buy the piece. A person has a better chance of making a sale working at a jewelry counter.

That didn't make me cynical. I'd been a musician, I already knew the entertainment business was brutal, and had my own reasons for playing music in spite of that, and that went for writing too. Freelance did teach me some valuable skills that I'll cover in a future blog.

I self-published to be able to write about music without anyone's approval, and found my audience. Sometimes that was a relatively small number of paid subscribers like with the Delta Snake Blues Review, or a larger number like with my ePinions instrument reviews with 370,000 visits.

...what's really important...

My priority was always audience, or to have actual people reading my writing. If it was profitable, great, if not, fine. 

The thing is, although writing for one's satisfaction and growth is important, public expression is about reaching people. If not, I would just tap all this out on my iPad, enjoy the inner rewards and be done with it.

If I had been like that, perhaps I'd now still be out there in a car, struggling alone without my good pal Ivy and thinking it was all fate (or punishment, more on that later in this blog).

Instead, because I was a writer, i kept writing, I called out for help and was saved by that very audience that read my blog.

I called out for help in spite of every shame instinct because, among other things, writing had taught me that real art was expression and that included possibly looking bad. 

...Good writing is about truth...

Truth isn't some corny Hollywood movie line. It's the difference between a work that connects with people and one that's forgotten quickly.

The subject of truth in art is, of course, much larger than what can be covered in this blog entry, but in my case, it was all about how art is a connection to the real self.

The musical equivalent is being able to play the sound that's in your head, and not having it filtered by concerns like money or approval, or limited by technical ability. Which is why "practice" in any art is important. You're not training to be play lessons or sound like some legend. It's to develop the technique to be able to play what you want to play.

Another way to say it is if you can master music scales on your instrument, you can possibly master yourself. Those scales and etudes are nowhere near as difficult as the music in the mind that wants to come out. 

Technical skill is a tool or path. Some stay stuck in it, some can move on. Neither is better or worse actually, but if you want to become a Van Gogh, the path is beyond the technical.

In terms of writing, what I'm talking about is being able to honestly write what's in your head. "Being honest" is a common writing axiom, but way too many writers interpret that as simply being blunt about other things and people, or listing things that are really designed to titillate.

There's things that are comfortable to say, and others that aren't. Society has made it easier to come out and say that drug's caused one's fall, for example, but it's not so easy to admit to the deeds done because of that habit.

If I had tried to finish the book out there in the car, I'd have probably not mentioned pimps and drug dealers, even in my blog. For my safety if nothing else. Fear is an effective censor.

The homeless scene was a sprawling collection of people, some of whom caused trouble, could get you in trouble, couldn't help but get into trouble, or avoided trouble. It might seem tempting to treat them as a purely sympathetic huddled mass, and it'd be OK to do that if I saw it that way.

But it would be artistically dishonest in my case if I saw it differently. There was no Godfather movie type glamor out there, no tough guy mean streets, or anything that would fit in a Hollywood film.

...life on the streets...

The "streets" are all too often portrayed as a tough Darwinian world where "street smarts" and toughness are a virtue, and the enemy is straight society and the cops.

As I've said in past blog entries, it's true if it is and isn't when it isn't.

One of the things that hit me out there was how different the reality of street life was out there, as opposed to what it seemed to be in books, TV and movies. It was supposed to be a world full of bad cops, criminals who were really rebels with loyalty and heart, and a poor noble multitude who had been forsaken by a materialistic society.

The real "street" is very Darwinan (and very capitalist), and it's as repressive as any police state (and not from the cops). All the elements are there; from leaders who look out for number one, brown shirt type thugs, and most importantly for any police state to exist, a vast system of informants and commissar types who keep the faith.

Fascism has become a stereotype with Nazi images as the default portrait, but it is, and always has been really a modern ideology, an outlook concerned about power. It's about control and the use of force and can develop anywhere. George Orwell wrote that it was a development that came after the 19th century colonial/imperialistic period (in a nutshell anyway, it's explained a more complex way in his essays).

Put more plainly, it was a world with sharks and little fish.

You had to be selfish out there. My goal was to get Ivy and me out, to survive, and without committing any crimes if at all possible. I did manage to not commit crimes, and survive, but in all honesty, it was because I was rescued by a lot of good people, and not due to any heroic acts on my part.

I didn't rob anyone, but in the later drafts of the book, as my life began to return to "normal," it became apparent that for whatever reason, good or not, I had to not act on or report on a good many crimes out there.

There was a woman, for example, out there that everyone could see was getting too deep into drugs in the worst possible place, and was being cultivated by a dealer/pimp whom no one dared cross. Another young woman was cultivated by a man from respectable society who showered her with gifts then disappeared after using her. Another guy was almost certainly a sociopath who preyed on men, and the list could go on, other than the usual (and true) disclaimer that most of the people out there were good and decent.

Sure, I didn't see the actual crimes...no one can ignore that sort of thing unless absolutely heartless. I'd have had to take the risk of telling the police. But that possible male predator, for example, actually targeted me before another homeless guy. I sensed a trap and avoided any contact, but the next guy didn't and only then I realized what was happening and how lucky I was.

I also kept my mouth shut.

It happened in that awful period when my car was immobile for two months on a street, and there was good reason to not say say anything; the most obvious being that there was no way to leave and avoid reprisal. 

...the early drafts...

The early drafts projected a sense of abject fear, covered by a mask of bravado and street smarts. It was tempting to edit out the fearful ruminations and portray myself as a brave soul with a faithful dog that formed an indomitable team.

The reality was that the homeless life took a real toll, and I reacted in a variety of ways that showed strength, but also weakness and frailty. There was apathy around, as described in past blog entries, but the underlying element was always fear.

It even affected Ivy. She certainly grew into an indispensable hero, but also came to realize that I was the main link to safety in a life centered around a car seat, and experienced moments of fear and anxiety.

It wasn't doggie paranoia or separation anxiety. There was at least one attempt to break into the car to get her that was broken up by a homeless friend who intervened. It was by this seemingly well off couple that had been shadowing me for  couple of days. The attempt to grab her through a partially open window was traumatic.

It's part of a bigger story in the book, but in a nutshell, there were more than a few people who tried to get dogs taken away from the homeless for various reasons.

One reason that honesty is difficult in art is we all like to avoid criticism. We prefer to create work that people will like, to enjoy, and let's face it, to perhaps buy. No one buys things that makes them feel bad.

The fear described in the book wasn't cowardice. It was close to some things experienced as a child, but nothing I could say was experienced before, but in writing honestly about it, the chance has to be taken that people would consider it cowardice or not caring about those around me.

No one will learn anything new if I just get into a Grapes of Wrath trip (the movie version) and write about a glorious struggle in broad terms and beloved archetypes.

So the book has to be honest, and part of that means I have to risk readers seeing all that I did out there to survive, and being critical of me. A true writer can't be thin skinned.

...get out of town stranger...

Ivy and I did have to do many things to survive. Things I never imagined we were capable of, both good and bad. We were scared and at times frightened out of our wits, but pulled together and managed to create a life out there that sustained us until I was able to leave that car.

As we all know, Ivy didn't make it out, though I took her ashes out with me. I'll only bury her when we get home, and we'll know when that is. Like said in an earlier entry, we found out what home was out there, and I'll know it when I see it again.

Back to honesty; one thing that made me leery of leaving certain parts of the first drafts intact was how much I obviously depended on Ivy. The first thought was that it was projecting an awful lot onto her, but as the drafts were refined, it became obvious that she changed a lot and grew. 

That little shih tzu was indeed a sentient being that could comprehend things and learn. She was transcendent at times, but also did things that in one instance forced me to flee a city and never go back. No one was hurt, and in the great scheme of things in homeless life, forgivable, and if truth be told, ultimately my fault.

Plus in retrospect, it was pretty funny. Not so at the time, but now, it's funny to picture me and Ivy having to get out of town before the sheriff deputies, called in by a bunch of old ladies, arrived to arrest us.

My past analogy about having formed a pack, and its implications will become clearer to the reader after reading many of the chapters. It's not about friendship in the usual human ways, but how life itself responds to adversity.

By being honest about how I lived out there, and in expressing my often less than heroic thoughts, I think the book will be less about cardboard heroes and villains and more about things that people will recognize as real life. Life didn't end when I found myself living in a car.

Like I said earlier, the reality was that I was rescued, and the real heroes are those blog readers and friends that decided I was worth saving. The reason they knew about my plight was that I was a writer and that skill too saved me.

...getting back to the Delta Snake...

The blog started off as the Delta Snake, which by 2016 had drawn about 5000 visits. It was intended to be a "sequential magazine" that had features to be added as each was written and not in groups presented on publication dates.

The early "On The Road With Al & Ivy" entries started off under the Delta Snake banner but had to be split off into it's own blog after Twitter flagged tweets from the Google site, blogspot.com. By that time, traffic had grown to over 100,000 visits and I figured that growth would stop once the blog had to be moved.

Instead it kept growing, and it was a real source of pride and comfort out there.

Art, in this case writing, and the people it reached saved my life. That's as rich as an artist can get. This morning the blog reached a half million visits, Friday October 19, 2018.

I feel profound gratitude, and thank you all for the greatest gift a writer could get, an audience that reads his work.

...on the eve of a music gig...

I'm writing this section on the eve of my first live musical performance since the late 70s. Back then, I had played with the a punk band (first in my area) and later founded a blues band, The Delta Snake, that went nowhere but gave my newsletter (and now a music blog) it's name.

It'll be at the Central Illinois Pagan Pride Festival, and I was asked by one of it's organizers, author Melodie Ramone to play a couple of sets. I agreed as long as I didn't have to follow the Goth Metal Belly Dancers. No solo acoustic guitarist on this planet can follow that act.

I'll be performing a set of American and World "Primitive" music, a term that John Fahey used to describe his solo acoustic guitar music that influenced and inspired a generation of musicians that included Leo Kottke, George Winston, Robbie Basho and many others.

The first time I heard him play was in the early 70s at this place that eventually became the Mountain Winery in Saratoga, California. He was the opening act on a bill the included Robbie Basho and folk legend Dave Van Ronk. He played first because he had to be at a later gig up north, and needed to get off early.

I was a teenager then, and hadn't even picked up a guitar yet. My musical background was as a violin player playing classical and show tunes in school events.

Fahey came on, and seemed to go into a trance, then started to play a medium tempo fingerpicking piece and from there the set flowed from song to song, only stopping at times to change the tuning on his guitar or switch to slide.

It was a mesmerizing performance, covering a lot of folk and blues styles but in a way I hadn't been heard before. Even my classically trained (and maybe a bit rigid) mind could tell that much of the music was as improvised as a jazz piece.

By the early 70s, folk and folk blues had become pretty much set in how it sounded, almost on the level of an oldies show, though perhaps hipper. The tonalities were familiar and crowd pleasing.

Fahey's music was similar in ways; it was essentially a concert version of folk and country blues instrumentals with one major difference, it freely moved in and out of dissonance, which was as different to my ears as avant-garde classical was to Mozart.

What he did during the  break was interesting, and I never saw any other performer do it. Fahey put his guitar down, lit up a cigarette and just sat there, calmly looking at the audience. 

The ending was even more unusual. After the set, he stood up, waved to acknowledge the applause, then jumped off the stage and ran up the hill towards the parking lot and gradually disappeared from view. We watched him run all the way to the parking lot, and I later learned he was eccentric like that.

After that concert, I bought my first Fahey album, "The Dance Of Death And Other Plantation Favorites," which is probably still one of my favorite recordings.

The key thing that influenced the purchase of a guitar afterwards wasn't the music per se, but that Fahey showed me that a person could create and live in a universe with just one instrument. You didn't need a band or orchestra, you could say it all with a guitar.

I think anyone who writes, or loves books knows this already.

...music is life...

In the earlier drafts of my book, music didn't seem very important. In fact, one of the earlier conclusions was that my love for music had degenerated into instrument collecting for it's own sake and was just one of the layers of the material world that was shed during a time of painful rediscovery.

It took some time and distance to realize that the conclusion was actually fueled by a deep sense of loss. A little part of me went away as each instrument in my collection was sold off to survive.

My blog entries, which first started in the Delta Snake section, originally show a person who thought that music (and the original conception of the book, the epic poem) would be a key element in surviving homelessness. 

I still had my instruments then, which were in storage, and there was still optimism that homelessness was just a temporary bump in the road. As things got worse, the carefree entries continued and masked a growing realization that it was all no longer a simple road trip.

As said in an earlier blog entry, it wasn't losing the valuable pieces that was depressing. There was still plenty of stuff left in the collection early on. It was when the last instruments, the cheap ones, were sold for just a few more days of survival that it hit home that things weren't going to get better.

My narrative in the first drafts expressed disillusionment about music as a lifestyle, about it being part of a past that had to be let go. That it all went away.

But that wasn't true. 

For one thing, I did come out of it with some instruments; a charango that no one would buy, and two harmonicas. All of which I shipped to the Midwest ahead of my arrival. The charango was both a survivor and now a treasured instrument.

Plus I did play music out there. 

It had to be done discreetly, as it wasn't smart to let the druggies out there know that my car had instruments that were easy to covert into quick cash (and more importantly, that Ivy might be in the car at the time it was broken into). 

Which was ironic as the charango was, at least according to legend, an instrument built to be easily hidden from the Spanish colonialists who ran Peru and Bolivia and made it illegal for natives to own a guitar. Whether that's true, I don't know, but it gave the charango mojo, so I chose to believe it.

I also avidly collected music for Spotify playlists, thanks to their customer service who gave me free time after finding out I was homeless. Though oddly enough, I rarely listened to the music afterwards.

It became too melancholy to play and after a while to even listen to music. I thought it was disillusionment about living a life that revolved around music, but it really was a profound sense of loss over a love that went back as early as I could remember.

...arrival...

I arrived in the Midwest in 2017, shell shocked, and even now, still have moments that feel like flashbacks. There was so much lost out there, and as parts come back, like music, it feels like I'm recovering pieces that were left out there.

One of the key parts of the book, and this is perhaps a small spoiler, is this recurring vision or dream of me sitting playing a guitar. How that vision changes and develops is one of the threads that run through the book. 

I constantly saw it in dreams and was puzzled at how it changed, but it was consistent in one respect; it was me, sitting, playing guitar and seen from the back.

When author Melodie Ramone asked to play at the Festival, I agreed quickly without much thought. Normally I'd have said no, as my main interest is in recording music for my YouTube channel, but she asked on a day that was a milestone; I had bought this beat up old acoustic guitar from a pawn shop, and was going to play a guitar for the first time in a few years.

That was a couple of months ago, and on this day, whether I'm truly ready or not, or even intend to play live again isn't the point.

When I go on Saturday morning at 11:00 am, I'll have another piece of my soul back, and maybe that vision that kept coming to me out there will become clearer. If John Fahey was right, that music comes out of the unconscious, then all will be revealed then.

If not, I'll keep playing till it is. 

...give me that old time religion...

One of the elements of the book that took the longest to integrate into the narrative was spirituality.

There was plenty of the old time religion out there. There was at least one Christian cult trying to recruit followers and another church with well heeled parishioners who were heartless with the homeless when no one was looking.

That's an important point, what goes on when people aren't looking. In mainstream Islam, for example, it's said that God looks more kindly on those who do good works out of the sight of others. 

This can run counter to Western practice, where doing charitable work is a popular PR exercise, and donors walk around with T shirts or other merchandise to commemorate their support.

That's not bad per se, but like all human endeavors, engaging in symbolism often leads to a gap between belief and practice. People can maintain appearances and treat it as practice. What they do when no one is looking is revealing.

...there are no atheists in a foxhole...

There is that old saying that there are no atheists in a foxhole (during a battle), and plenty of people out there looked to God to rescue them. I think it's a more nuanced concept, in that when things seem hopeless, it's natural to look for someone or something to rescue you, to hope or wish for a miracle. 

God tends to be the default option because so many people over the centuries have said that a miracle will come if you have faith.

Other popular saviors include angels, drill sergeant or alpha hero types who'll kick your butt and make you man up, Uncle Sam, fairy godmothers, true love, Lady Luck, and the one that was often more popular than God out there, the handsome Prince or hero who comes to save you.

I can list all those out with a wry (and slightly sad) grin now, but all those symbols or psychologies were out there, and often used by some pretty tough characters who understood those as basic human psychologies that could be manipulated.

People reacted differently to the homeless life. There were the barely hanging in there survivor types, some who seemed to thrive, but most had to deal with a variety of demons that made some easy prey for predators.

One common denominator was pain, and the way out on any narrow path not only took patience and faith, but physical and emotional endurance. That last element, endurance, was the real test. At first there's optimism, then hope, and then as things drag on, wishing and asking for rescue, and finally any end to the pain. At that point, looking for a hero can be dangerous.

...faith is all you need, maybe...

A key element of faith isn't that it gives one physical strength or triggers endorphins, but that it's rooted in the concept that the mind can make a decision that's not based on physical symptoms or the apparent reality surrounding you.

In other words, if you believe that the pain is temporary or something that can be overcome, then a decision can be made to endure. Religion can add the possibility of reward for keeping the faith.

That's not just a religious concept; if there was no ability to view the mind and body as separate, then torture would be a sure fire way to make people talk or confess. People would quit at the first obstacle, etc.

Still, enduring is easier said than done.

 I once related in a past blog that many of the homeless have a neutral attitude towards the drug use of others. It wasn't that it was viewed it as an activity that should be legal or something like that, but a recognition that the druggies were self medicating.

I eventually saw it that way too, once I had one too many crappy desperate days. I'd look at a stoned person and not see some loser or sick person but someone who had probably reached the limit of their endurance and just wanted the pain to stop. 

...back to God...

My concept of God and spirituality went through many phases, as with many of the other common ideas that people believe in.

Whether my life in a car was God's will, punishment, karma, dark night of the soul, a temporal phase, necessary failure in a winner/loser system of capitalism, laziness, failure to get up and go, subconscious fear of success, or whatever, I explored every one of those notions.

I had to find myself. I did come out of it with a belief in God intact, but a lot of notions surrounding that central faith had to be examined and discarded. 

Holding on to a main concept, and examining the surrounding clutter isn't something that just relates to questions about God. It applies to any idea that mankind has taken and added the inevitable politics and frailties.

It would have been easy to dismiss God, for example, when I ran into that cult mentioned earlier. That church was certainly not about God, but about power and money.

But I didn't judge Christianity by that church any more than I'd dismiss democracy by the actions of corrupt politicians. The fact is that any concept that mankind touches moves away from principle and into politics and manipulation.

I should add, it isn't always good to judge a belief system by the behavior of it's followers either.

...reading the label...

Much of any group or belief system described in the media will be defined by outsiders. 

Examples include atheists who say that Christianity causes all wars are atheists, Christians who believe all Muslims are terrorists, Liberals who assume Conservatives are money grubbing fascists, and the latter thinking that the former are nanny state Socialists intent on destroying democracy, those are all definitions and labels imposed from outside of a group.

One can argue that groups or subcultures can't always be trusted to honestly define themselves, and that's true. However, that's why hearing both sides is such an important axiom in truth seeking. A lot of so-called truth is really opinion and riddled with self interest.

Most of what people think the homeless are is defined through the media in the same way, through viewpoints filtered by various biases.

There's a tendency to view the homeless as a herd, defined in this or that story as drug users or whatever. It creates a mentality that judges the group by the actions of an individual or individuals. Make no mistake, the homeless are a collection of subcultures, not a uniform mass.

...So, getting back to saviors...

As I said, people out there reacted to life out there in different ways, but all had to confront the various ideas we grow up with, from God to Darwin. As those "faiths," as you will, proved to work or not, people began their rise or fall.

One character in my book is a young woman that lived with a group of homeless, whose life has a tragic trajectory that affected me very deeply. Several people went at her with this or that faith or system, and she tried out most. There were a couple of Princes, who turned out to be just be horny males willing to take advantage of desperation, dealers who promised escape but really were in the business of drugs and prostitution, the drill sergeant leader who projected strength but was just another run of the mill alpha jerk, and respectable society that applied tough love to her and then dumped her back out onto the street.

The final one drove her mad, yet even then, she had a safety net that society doesn't, and can't provide. She had friends. It only saved her biological life, but as a young person with strong survival instincts, time is on her side and the spirit can still win, but I doubt she'll thank any savior. She's been there, done that.

...the biggest God of all...

One other element that can become a faith out there is luck. 

I once discussed a book by Phillip K. Dick called "Solar Lottery," which described a society that was convinced that luck was an ability or in spiritual terms, having a blessed life or a special connection to God that others didn't have.

I describe luck differently in the book, because it isn't an ability or gift. It's part of what goes on randomly in the universe, and it's called fate, luck or fortune.

That is to say, we try to understand an infinite concept by describing it with words and end up with only a snapshot that captures a section, which then makes it seem comprehensible. It's sort of a way of trying to control it, to reduce fears, like reducing the world to God and Satan.

Knowing that it's a flawed idea to use words to create a snapshot of an infinite concept isn't new.

The early Catholic intellectuals, called Mystics back then, wrote that trying to use words to describe God limited the understanding of his infinite power. They weren't talking about shooting off thunderbolts or destroying a city full of sinners. Super powers are a finite concept. The point was that a person couldn't describe infinity with words, that attempts to define it in words limited it.

Or, a cynic may say, control it,

One thing that did became apparent out there, is that as long as there's a God, there'll be men who will put words in his mouth. That's not a problem that only plagues the religious.

...be lucky...

So...I talk about the infinite nature of the universe, using limiting words for chrissake, but mainly I'm talking about one thing described in quantum terms, which is "chaos," or the seemingly random movement of the universe that actually has patterns.

The various patterns, or universes do collide among other things, and that collision is luck in a nutshell...when you think about it, it makes sense...or at least as much as any explanation of luck can be.

That's why one should keep trying even if the odds seem stacked against success. The odds that good things will happen is zero if you don't. That's the underlying principle that powers all faith, keep going and give life a chance to change for the better.

I say all this here in this blog because it won't be described that literally in the book. One by one I've been replacing (as intended) the various philosophical points and essays and putting in stories, conversations and vignettes that illustrate the points. 

Frankly, if you're not philosophically inclined, and that's perfectly OK, it won't be obvious in the book that there is any underlying heavy duty truths. My intention is to write a book that will reveal different things the more times it's read, but will be rewarding on any level you care to take it.

There is a practical reason; to avoid having people think the book is about this or that because of a chapter or passage taken out of context. 

Yes, the book is about the homeless life, but also about the larger issue of displacement, a phenomena that has occurred constantly throughout history. It isn't about gentrification, drug users, runaways, hobos, parasites, crusaders, or whatever per se, even if all show up in the book.

I'm avoiding easy answers. When you read that young woman's story as it threads it's way throughout the book, many emotions and thoughts will come to mind, from pity to admiration. Same with others in the book, none were one dimensional personalities, and after reading about them, you'll recognize that they are very much like the people around you now who were more fortunate than my characters.

It's written that way because that's what I saw. It's also written that way because I recognize that you may see the same thing (as described in the book) and think different. 

That's fine with me, because I know that's how the universe works.

- Al Handa

  Oct. 19, 2018

...cover reveal for Hide In Plain Sight...

This is the cover for the upcoming book, Hide In Plain Sight, hopefully out sometime in the summer of 2018.

-Al Handa

djboogieunderground@gmail.com

The Al & Ivy Homeless Literary Journal Archive:

There are earlier blog entries on the Delta Snake Review section of this site that aren't on the On The Road page:
http://deltasnake.blogspot.com