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Night before last, carbon payback for daring this kind of air voyage: after a five hour drive and a five hour connecting flight, a two hour layover, and three immobile hours on the tarmac we're informed something doesn't work, and at 2 a.m. we're off the plane, wandering aimless in an empty San Francisco airport, sleeping rough on the floors, curled in against the aircon cold of the place. Turns out a big airport takes about three hours off during the haunting time of the night, where the line marking night from dawn is smudged and gone. Then, as if a gate somewhere opens wide, and the steady stream of luggage-dragging moderns shuffles and strides, and the whole things groans up again to make the machine move on down the line. It's a haunted vision only the workers here - the grab and go clerks, the shoe shiners, the...

I've been a pulmonary refugee for some time, and have been obliged to join the geese and the butterflies and head to less acute climes when the native cold comes on. It's probably extended my days. I was ongoingly grateful for the respite, and uneasy about the clear disfigurement of the locale that mass migration of the seasonal kind inflicts. My reasons for going weren't any more noble or mandatory than anyone else's. I couldn't get clear of the tourism thing. I did two podcasts on the matter with Chris Christou's End of Tourism. The trouble of the thing doubled down. Half way through the pandemic, as I was writing A Generation's Worth, I saw a bit of graffiti in town, in foot-high letters: PUT ON YOUR FUCKING MASK GRINGO. I've toughed out the winters since then. Now an invitation has come to Kimberly Johnson and myself to bring our kind of reckoning in real time to Maui, in...

There are marvelous things about being on the road. There are the reminders that the world's a big place, that humans are a disparate lot, that life's not long, that you're often older than you think you are, that being right is more a coincidence than a plan, that being in the right place is at least as good as being right, that 'timing' is God's middle name sometimes, God's middle finger other times. It depends on severity, and on how you are with happenstance. The carbon complicates things, so it's a lot of work to make sure that a trip comes close to balancing out. Sometimes it seems to, but it needs the work. Planes are places where some movies go to eke out an existence, I suppose. That's what I've noticed. On the plane to Europe I watched one about Mr. Rogers, the American children's entertainer. I didn't...

When the end of my thirties loomed my mother play-glared at me on the eve of my birthday and half declared and half prayed as follows: "I don't have a forty year old son!" She did, though. And the current odometer would gall her still: she has a son who's all but seventy. Someone sent me a kind of psychic get well card a while ago. The text inside included the following bit of intolerance: "You don't stop playing because you get old. You get old because you stop playing." Honey, listen. It's more like this: you'll get old, or you won't. If you don't, it's because you died before the second act came around. Simple. 'Old' isn't 'just a number'. 'Old' is real, the way birth is real. Count on that. 'Old' isn't a failure of the will. It is - if you are standing in life's way - what stymies...

If you're in the mood for meme-length considerations, I'd move on if I were you. This is likely to be lengthy. It'll cover some ground. In the lobby after last night's show a man outwaited all the other patrons to offer me dramaturgical advice, to wit: the end of the festivities should not leave the paying public where it does, hefting a life's stonepile of regret. It should release them to the limit defamation of the stars in a night's sky - where it starts, in fact -  that they might revel without compromise, I guess, and break even on the evening, and perhaps be not afraid. I won't be taking up the rewrite. Nothing wrong with stoney ground. Nothing wrong with regrets. The chagrin and self loathing normally associated with them is optional. Today is another travel day. Evening has come. A bellicose loom of rain is gathering above, a biblical boil, a storm...

It's called 'a world tour', this thing of ours. Grand-sounding. Over the top for Canadians to say about themselves. And there isn't much agreement about the scale or range that makes up a 'world' jaunt. One thing's more certain than not, though: small places don't usually qualify for world tour inclusion. If you're on a world tour, you go to those places that have those 'I--whatever the place is' t shirts everywhere. You go to places whose names, even in short form, even in a couple of letters, prompt torrents of association, the kinds of places where if you can make it there you can make it anywhere. Nights of Grief and Mystery couldn't take the top-heaviness of those places. Once in a while, yes - I like them - but much more often than not we head for places not nearly so sure of themselves. People in these places don't...

Some days stagger to their conclusion. We're far from home, in someone else's land, holding out for a kindly reception for our heart's labours. The morning's day off has been spent not touring the haunts of my Harvard days, but in a hotel foyer, waiting on the repair of the rental van's flat tire, each band member after their fashion nursing the beginnings of what turns out to be food poisoning. You can guess this is not going to go well. By mid afternoon we're by the highway side, and the roar, door flung open, some of us doing what you can imagine, the rest of us wondering when our turn might be, whether we should even get the driving underway. We do, imperiling the van's interior. We find the motel, and counsel each other as to how this establishes road credibility. Within an hour we're delirious, and by nightfall the...

Torrid Tucson night   The second act of your three act play - if you get one - is there for you to find those with whom you'll live out the reasons for your birth and your persistence up unto the present moment. It's outrageous good fortune just to get one. It marks you for keeps as a citizen. It gets you up over the fence of your romance and your self-esteem, and out into the rolling fields of your people. A couple of days ago I'm standing in the arrivals concourse at the Albuquerque airport, and I'm waiting for my wife, who's in the bathroom. Waiting for someone to emerge from these bathrooms in these places mid-afternoon is waiting for Godot. So your mind drifts, and mine is. It drifts to the bookstore event in a few hours' time, to tomorrow's show, the gears of road life, the tariffs of travel. Without...

I know - or I'm fairly sure, and that's as close to 'know' as the circuitry of being modern and home-seeking and confused by freedom allows - that there are people out beyond my ken who receive, and sometimes read, and sometimes consider these things I compose and send. I know there's a daily avalanche of things to consider that compete for your give a shit. Here's one more. I did an interview the other day in which the host opined that perhaps the whole of my life's work came down to an attempt to make the case on behalf of an ordinary life. Generally I'm not compelled by these kinds of reductions, but that one stopped me. I hadn't seen myself in those terms before, but something about the observation was instantly recognizable to me. If I didn't thank her for it then, I'm doing so now. There's the first half of...