KNOXVILLE, Tenn. — Anywhere I go, whether it be down the block from my bedroom or miles far away from home, I usually end up talking about one of the things I love best: professional wrestling.

So when a polite couple invited me to join their patio table last night at Cool Beans Bar & Grill, we ended up talking about on wrestler in particular:

The mayor.

Glenn Jacobs, better known to the wrestling community as the demonic “Kane,” has served as the mayor of Knox County since 2018. Continue reading →

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. — Before I start making new memories here in Volunteer Land, I still have a few more thoughts on Nashville I want to get out.

They don’t have any particular theme or commonality, so I’ve decided to address all my final thoughts in the form of an imaginary interview with myself.

Like such:

Q: Say Moose, that’s a really good idea.

A: Thank you! We thought of it ourself.

Q: So, I’m sure the people want to know, did your impression of Nashville, Tenn., change after visiting?

A: Absolutely. Before I even stepped foot into Music City, I was mentally planning some sort of “oh wow, I really don’t know how I’m gonna stand all this country music” confession post, but the fact of the matter is this: Nashville is fully behind any and all music.

Country music obviously has the local flavor and heritage, as it came from the region, but Nashville has a rich history of hosting rock, R&B, soul, pop music, Motown, rap, hip-hop, electronica, the blues, etc. As Cameo famously sang in “Word Up:” If there’s music, we can use it — we need to dance.

Q: …In that song, his next line is that ‘we don’t have the time for psychological romance?‘

A: That’s right. Where’s the lie?

Q: Moving on. Did you try the famous Nashville Hot Chicken?

A: I did! I had thoughts about trying Prince’s, which our tour guide said was the place that started the whole local hot chicken thing, but I ended up settling on Hattie B’s because it’s the one every tourist who compares cities can recite, ala Lou Malnati’s (Chicago-style pizza) or Pat’s/Geno’s (Philly cheese steaks).

I even got the hot sandwich at standard “hot” spiciness to experience the real-deal. As mentioned in my birthday post, even medium-heat Indian food makes me melt and sweat. Hattie B’s was no exception, but I really liked it. It was less of an “acid chemical heat” and more of a “rich seasoning heat,” which is the same reason I’m drawn to Indian food but not like, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

My experience also came after spending the whole day walking around downtown, so I was starved by the time the sandwich finally got to me around 9:45 p.m. I don’t even like cole slaw, but I dumped part of it on the sandwich to get things cooled down, and that make the experience much, much better.

I won’t bullshit you: I’m not a tremendously educated foodie. I’m a simple guy who likes good food and can utter out a few noises as to why.

Hattie B’s hot chicken is something I’d love to have after a long day at the pool. Maybe as a late-night drunk meal. Getting the (great, zippy) potato salad as a side was another way to reduce the sandwich’s heat.

The chicken was big and juicy, too. Lots of food in addition to the “hot” gimmick. A solid time all around. Glad I stopped by.

Q: Do you think you’ll eat cole slaw by itself any time soon?

A: (Grabs microphone and puts it in mouth) No.

Q: Was there any aspect of Nashville that was totally predictable or otherwise exactly what you thought it would be?

A: The idolization of Dolly Parton is everywhere, but the place seems to hold up Minnie Pearl and Willie Nelson in the same regard. Maybe Johnny Cash or any other members of the Million-Dollar Quartet. If you were on Hee-Haw or Grand Ole Opry, you reach divination status in some form. There was a big ovation for Garth Brooks when he was mentioned on the tour bus, so I’ll count him too.

The tour guide also spoke highly about Eddie George and the late Steve McNair, the two Tennessee Titans fans most respect, so put that in your pocket if you need to chat 1990’s AFC football to anyone (or everyone).

Someone on Twitter also called Nashville “the unofficial bachelorette party capital of the world,” and I saw at least 5 in process just during my time around the hotel. The new trend, apparently, is to put your Venmo handle on the back of a massive SUV and ask folks to “buy the bride a shot.”

Q: Have you gained any road trip secrets this time around?

A: Use a local parking app instead of the hotel’s option, or at least check the neighborhood when you get there before giving up and paying premium prices — odds are, if the hotel is using a valet service, there’s cheaper local parking, but you have to find it yourself.

Here’s how my fate has fared in each city so far, compared to the what the nearby hotel charges:

• IOWA CITY: Parked in Graduate’s lot; validated due to ongoing construction
• MADISON: Parked 1.5 blocks north in a city garage; saved $46
• EVANSTON: Parked 1.5 blocks west in a city garage; saved $48
• BLOOMINGTON: Parked at my house (kind of cheating, but not really); saved $60
• NASHVILLE: Parked 1.5 blocks southwest via SpotHero; saved $90
• KNOXVILLE: Parked 2 blocks west by finding a municipal cheap lot app; in the process of saving $45

So far, this means I’ve been able to save a whopping $289 (before tax and tip!) to apply towards my travels. Three-hundred dollars is three-hundred dollars.

Don’t get me wrong — the valets at each location have been friendly and on-the-money everywhere I’ve gone. But I don’t mind spending an extra 20 minutes doing it myself if it means saving that much dough.

Q: Is there anything you regret not getting to do in Nashville?

A: Absolutely. My buddy Sveta who used to live in Nashville and used to work as a professional sommelier/wine server/local food extraordinaire, gave me some really tempting options to try, but I could only muster my fly-by-night bus tour and a few other quick-trip jaunts.

Here’s what she recommended, if you find yourself in Nashville:

“Henrietta Red has a great menu and wines, Attaboy is a speakeasy type place for a great pricey cocktail, and I really love Bastion (they have a tasting menu and a casual bar with good cocktails and nachos). For dive-y places, depends on how dive-y you want it. Dino’s was my go-to for drinking beer out of plastic cups and having a burg. There’s a place called Springwater Supper Club that’s like the oldest bar in the city I think? They’re beer-only and are right next to the Parthenon.”

(Thanks Sveta!)

Q: Would you ultimately go to Nashville again?

A: Absolutely. It’s a bit expensive, but not unlike any other major U.S. city. It seems like Las Vegas, if it were a little more suburb-aware and less “desert magic.” I’d really like to pop down there for a concert or Packers-Titans game at some point. But that will have to be a trip for another day.

Q: We’re in Knoxville now, yeah? Safe and sound?

A: Ah damn. Yeah. That’s right.We’d better get to seeing some stuff.

Until next time folks, thanks for reading.

###

-moose

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. — One of the unfortunate downsides about cramming so much travel into my schedule is that I frequently find myself pinched on time to actually “see” each location — especially the bigger cities.

So on Wednesday, when I only had about a few spare hours with which to actually get out of my room and see Nashville, Tenn., I chose to sign up for one of those token rooftop bus tours and hope for the best (well, the “best” that $39.50 can get you).

I’ll be honest with you: I always feel weird about tour-guided vehicle trips like these. There’s a lot of social implications at play between the tourist and the daily citizens they observe: You’re on vacation (and they are at work). You’re from out of town (and they are stuck behind your bus). Firetrucks and ambulances are screaming through every intersection because someone is about to die, God-damn-it, and you’re on a big dumbass double-decker bus trying to get an ironic picture of Kid Rock’s Big Ass Honky-Tonk Rock N’ Roll Steakhouse. You’re being chauffeured through city in a double-decker, 120-seat convertible while an open mic emcee reads you fun facts about just how much this unprecedently posh apartment costs while unhoused people are sleeping on the sidewalk below.

The tour itself begins about 1,000 feet from where a car bomb infamously exploded in downtown Nashville on Christmas Day of last year.

It’s a lot, man. Continue reading →

NASHVILLE, Tenn. — Greetings from The Volunteer State. I’m back on the road.

Between checking into the hotel approximately one-hour late into my 43-hour stay, leaving me a solid 42 to “see it all.” And then I wrote yesterday’s departure of a piece, where I flipped the tables on Bloomington and grilled its ugly side.

I’m tired. I’m drained. My serotonin bank got robbed by a lengthy birthday weekend.

But I have to keep going. I’m about to spend my Wednesday evening in taking in as much of actual downtown Nashville as I can.

But as for the Graduate Nashville? It’s an unapologetic, 12-story shrine to Dolly Parton, the color pink, advertising, and of course, music. I’m about to hope out of the hotel room and go see downtown itself, but you should take a moment to get a load of this sexy hotel along West End Street, which feeds into Broadway. This may be the wildest place I’ve ever stayed.

Enjoy.

###

-moose

NASHVILLE, Tenn. — Since the whole point of this Hall Pass journey has been to travel to new places, explore the campus/city, and report back with my findings, what exactly am I supposed to say about spending a weekend in my hometown of Bloomington, Ind.?

With most of these destinations, I’m staying 48 or 72 hours tops, then getting out alive with a story to tell. But I’ve lived in Bloomington for 12 years now: I’m beyond the honeymoon stage. (I may very well be in the “divorce” stage.)

I can’t (and won’t) pretend to write my usual, cheeky “oh, how quaint” story about B-Town from an outsider’s perspective. It would be a farce. I’d be kidding myself, and most importantly, I’d be cheating you out of an honest review. Continue reading →

BLOOMINGTON, Ind. — It was a weird 31st birthday. But what else could I expect from a bizarre trip like this?

You know, thirty-one is a prime number, and I’d like to think I’m having a pretty prime birthday!

(No? Okay. Sorry.)

Here’s the rundown of what I’ve been up to since I arrived back home again in Indiana on Saturday morning:

Saturday

After departing Evanston, Ill. at 11 a.m. local, I rolled into my Hoosier hometown on Saturday evening, absolutely exhausted. I wolfed down two gas station roller bites (“carne queso” and “breakfast scrambler”) during the 5-hour drive to Bloomington, Ind., as well as a 12-ounce Red Bull and two 20-ounce Pepsi Zero Sugars (again: they have double caffeine).

That, along with not having showered in the 3 days prior, made me feel like the scummiest person alive. Continue reading →

BLOOMINGTON, Ind. — The past 48 hours, including my departure from Illinois to Indiana, have been a whirlwind, and I’ve barely had the time I’ve wanted to chronicle my adventures here on Ye Olde WordPress.

Alas, I’ve been making incredible memories on the road, with best friends and strangers alike, and I hope to spend some time today on my birthday getting the words out.

Oh yeah. I’m 31 now. That’s something, I guess.

Here’s a quick rundown of everything else I’ve been up to, as I chill out in the top floor of my hometown Graduate Bloomington and recap the last few days:

Charles in Charge

There’s a fancy little bar/restaurant called “The Trophy Room” just inside the front doors of the Graduate Evanston. It looks like an old sportsman’s lounge (billiards, hunting, old-school football) with brass draft handles, green leather seats, and fine wooden tabletops.

Among all these treasures, though, is a larger legend: Charles Campbell, a lifelong bartender and kind soul who oversaw my beer pleasures on Thursday and Friday night.

When I say he’s a lifelong bartender, I’m serious. He’s proud to tell you that he’s been muddling cocktail ingredients and serving his parents Manhattans and Old Fashioneds since he was 3 years old. (A concerned school administrator showed up to the family house one day after Charles made his habits known in school, and ultimately left convinced and impressed that his parents were simply teaching him hospitality and a meaningful service craft at a developmental age — Charles merely served the drinks, and his own lips did not touch them until later in life.)

And now, a father of four aged somewhere between age 50 and 60, Charles holds down the fort at The Trophy Room, slinging out neon-bright cocktails and immaculate pours of beer.

Charles is a sophisticate. He’s classy. The cheerful server with a little salt and pepper in his hair wears a white dress shirt and a bowtie, and completes the look with leather suspenders. He wears round, mid-century glasses, and addresses everyone by their last name — a gesture which caught me totally stunned, until I realized he had purloined my surname from the credit card I used to guarantee my tab.

As such, I was “Mr. La-FAH-Vay” during my visits to the Trophy Room. It’s not how my last name is actually pronounced, but it sounds fancier than the real thing, so I embraced the upper-crust vibes.

On Friday in particular, Charles had a beaming smile on his face. He proudly told the bar patrons that one of his daughters had just gone into labor, and he was about to be a grandparent. He said, patiently, that his phone was off, he was focusing on work, and that he would turn his phone back on when closing time had come — he didn’t want to alarm anyone with his joy.

With an early departure set for Saturday morning, I bid Charles (“Mr. Campbell”) ado and wished him the best. I paid my tab and went back to my hotel room. I never saw him again, but if you’re out there Charles, I’m raising my glass to you and your family — may that kid know how to mix a hell of a Negroni.

The Friendly City

I met up with more friends in Evanston (and Chicago proper) than in any other city on the trip thus far.

On Wednesday, I had the privilege of watching AEW with Matt Tepperman, a friend I made through the IU improv comedy scene, as well as his husband Aaron and their cat Lailah (pronounced LIE-luh, after the Jewish word for “night”). We also got dinner at a grilled-cheese themed restaurant named “Cheesie’s.”

On Friday, I crossed paths with two longtime best friends — Nash and Hannah — who recently welcomed their daughter into this world. Nash and Hannah were the folks I Zoomed with most during the pandemic, and seeing them in person again for the first time in two years (with precious cargo in tow) may very well have been the most important evening of my planned 31-day itinerary. For dinner, we got deep-dish Chicago-style pizza from Lou Malnati’s, which was a delicious treat in itself.

I also spontaneously ran into high school buddy and perpetual laugh-haver Jim Banta, after I took a wrong turn from Nash and Hannah’s apartment and got lost en route to the Metra trains (life is weird like that).

And on Saturday morning, I got brunch with Anthony and Bea Sbelgio, two Twitter/gaming pals who drove an hour from the Joliet area to spend time with me during my last morning in Evanston. They even helped me pack up my truck, which was an incredible friendship maneuver.

I’m glad to have crossed paths with so many people in such a short period of time. It made me appreciative of the potential of creating new memories again in a post-vaccinated world, and I’m grateful their decisions to get the jab allowed me to pop and and write the newest chapter in our respective storybooks.

‘No entry. No third-rail contact.’

I was also privy to some absurd, briefly horrifying people-watching on Wednesday night, when a dangerous situation presented itself on the northbound Purple Line.

A group of teenagers — they were talking about their upcoming plans for college — were heading home from the Cubs game at Wrigley Field, when one male in the group slapped his buddy Danny’s iPhone out of his hands, as a goof.

The phone bounced off the platform and down into the dark railway pit.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Danny asked.

“I thought it was funny.”

“It’s not fucking funny bud. Not one bit.”

Danny paused and contemplated his options for retrieving his phone. He felt jilted that no security guards were on hand to help him.

“There’s no one awake!” he said. “I’m gonna go wake their ass up.”

“Danny, stop!” a tired girl called out.

Danny laid down on the grimy platform in his clean and sporty Cubs jersey, leaning over into the gap to try and reach his phone.

“It’s in the fucking tracks, Danny. Don’t go do that.”

“Somebody’s gotta!”

“Did you ask them?”

“Ain’t nobody here.”

The frustrated girl is becoming more and more impatient with Danny and his phone-slapping friend.

“You two need to sit down,” she said.

“YOU TOO,” Danny barked back. The girl walked away with her hands on her head.

“Do you see it, bro?”

“Nah.”

The group realizes they’re on the wrong side of the tracks, and need to go southbound instead of northbound.

“Now we’re not going in the right direction, AND my fucking phone is gone,” Danny said.

A female security guard begins to approach the group. She’s carrying a walkie-talkie in her hand.

The group begins to clap. She’s less than amused.

“Where is it? You fucking threw it,” Danny barks at his friend.

“It’s right there.”

“She’s gonna get it,” Danny said.

“I sure am not,” the woman said.

A third guy chimes in: “To be fair, I should have caught it.” The group shushes him and he pulls back.

A bright light comes racing down the tunnel. The train is coming.

Danny jumps into the tracks, complete with an electrified third rail.

“Oh my god,” the manager pleaded with them. “Why would you come down there?! You did NOT.”

Danny grabs his phone and his friends pull him back onto the platform. They applaud his bravery, and the manager sighs into her walkie-talkie.

“They got the train backed up now,” she said. “Guy in an 18 jersey, short, baseball. They’re drunk and dropped their phone on the track.”

The manager turns around and chastises Danny: “NO ENTRY. NO ENTRY. NO ENTRY. No third rail contact.”

The fellas once again applaud Danny for his bravery. The manager leaves to talk on the phone in private, and the train arrives to scoop me and the Cubbie-loyal teenagers to our next stop.

I get on the train heading the right way. They get on the train heading the wrong way, but they are too excited by the phone recovery to realize it right now.

“Danny, why the fuck did you do that?”

“Well, why the fuck did you throw his phone?”

“I dunno. Why didn’t you catch it?”

The frustrated girl again stands up and pleads for them to stop.

Danny turns and asks the phone-slapper: “Hey bro, still got your ball?”

The friend produces a baseball from his front pocket — “I can’t believe I finally caught one.”

Danny slaps it out of his hand, and it rolls down the train car.

###

-moose

PS: Here’s a few other notebook statistics, to give you some context on how the journey is going at large.

• Distance traveled so far: 960 miles
• Two wrong-way buses, 1 missed bus, 1 missed train
• ~$11: Approximate cost of leaving Chicago via toll roads
• Clean T-shirts left: 1

EVANSTON, Ill. — Contrary to my feelings of inadequacy by staying in an upper-class, expensive city, I’m finding great pleasure in exploring Evanston’s cheap thrills.

Specifically, I spent two days this week exploring Evanston’s natural diversity, including a picturesque day at the beach and a moody visit to a historic lighthouse.

Clark Street Beach

After my remote work session ended Wednesday afternoon, I took a short walk from the hotel to mellow out on Clark Street Beach, a petite strip of heaven bordering Lake Michigan, where the clean turquoise water ebbs lightly against pure-white sands. Some of Northwestern University’s most stunning architectural feats, such as the Biennen School of Music, butt up against the shore, creating a contrast of prehistoric bliss and post-modern capabilities.

A flock of seagulls stood to the far end of the swimming area, occasionally pecking around for stray food or to rest on an empty lifeguard’s chair, flying around and squawking with some degree of interest.

It only occurred to me, after kicking off my old-man Asics walking shoes and putting on my even-older-man banana bucket hat, that I haven’t swam at a beach in nearly 15 years. (My study-abroad trip through Normandy was, of course, somber and not a place where one is expected to take a dip.)

Indiana isn’t particularly known for its beach destinations — well, there is more than corn here — and the most recent chance I got to relax on a coastline would have come back around 2007, during my family’s last trip to Destin, Fla., which was our perennial getaway during better times.

Typically, beach admission costs $10 (Evanston residents get in for free on the weekends), but a neat little perk about the Graduate Evanston is complimentary beach passes for visitors — which are good for any public beach for as long as you stay.

With Wednesday’s modest air temperature of 78 degrees, the water pulsed at a chilly 68 degrees. It was enough to cause a little shock as I walked out into the waves, but not enough to dissuade me from going out entirely. I spent about 20 minutes just standing at the far end of the swimming buoys, staring out into the Great Blue Oblivion on the skyline, and admiring just how special it felt to be there. Some Graduate Hotels have pools (I’m considering shelling out $40 to try the Dolly Parton-themed one next week in Nashville), but nothing beats a real beach.

I eventually trudged back to shore to chill out on a white towel I borrowed from the hotel bathroom, letting the crisp breeze dry me off as I closed my eyes and basked in the sun (in retrospect, I wish I had put a little more sunscreen on my back, but that’s life.

I brought myself a small picnic to enjoy as I rested: my beloved Pepsi Zero Sugar, another Blueberry Crisp Clif Bar, and a fresh (plastic) jar of dry roasted peanuts.

A very important note: I do not recommend brining peanuts to the beach. If your hands are dry and clean, they’re just fine — but after becoming one with the sand, it’s only possible to tell what is peanut salt and what is sand after it’s in your mouth. (Crunch.)

After getting my fill of beachtime (and picking the grains of sand out of my teeth), I hiked over to the Lakefront Lagoon, which was restored in 2014, to dry off in the sun. It’s a historic little body of water with two stunning fountains, and it plays host to several families of ducks, as well as their duckling babies. I took a lap along the edge of the algae-filled water to get a closer look before it started raining, at which point I called off my beach evening and retreated to the hotel to shower any remaining sand off my body (and out of my mouth).

Gross Pointe Lighthouse

Thursday afternoon was a cold one in Evanston. With highs hovering around 64 degrees, and a cloudy skyline threatening storms on the horizon, I took the Purple Line north to hike a ways and find the historic Gross Pointe Lighthouse.

The 110-foot lighthouse was built by the federal government in 1873 to improve ship navigation around Chicago, which at that point was one of the busiest harbors in the United States. For 67 years, the beacon helped guide ships through the Great Lakes, Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic Coast.

The lighthouse’s beam is still visible at night, and can be used as a private signal for ships finding their way through Lake Michigan.

Something else I thought was neat is that the land of Lighthouse Park itself was given by the federal government to Archange Ouilmette, a Pottowatomie Indian, in gratitude for her father’s assistance in helping the U.S. craft a treaty between the Pottowatomie, Chippewa, and Ottawa tribes in 1829 — today, the only person who has the power to alter this gift from Archange and her descendants is the president of the United States.

The lighthouse itself is nice — I haven’t seen one before — but it’s not open to visitors except during the weekend. And even so, the vantage point at the top of the lighthouse itself has been closed since the COVID-19 pandemic began, so there really wasn’t a lot to see besides the exterior, impressive as it might be.

However, there was a pleasant little wildflower trail garden, and the adjacent beach was free to walk on. I spent a half-hour watching aggressive waters crashing against the shore, splattering and spitting across heavy rocks and boulders, on the gloomy and gray day. I stood under a heavy treeline and took in the raw, visceral power of the Great Lakes. As compared to Wednesday’s beach lull, Thursday’s trip to the shore brought a humbling sense of nature’s strength, and a subsequent sense of poetic calm.

While I stood there in awe, I couldn’t help but dwell on our society and much of the destruction we cause — against ourselves, against each other, and of course, against nature itself. No matter what it is we do to each other, even the planet, it seems as though the natural world is permanent, and will outlast even the most braggadocio Oxymandian figures of our era. We all came from the cosmic sea, and someday, we will all return to it.

Love him or hate him, the vista brought to mind lyrics from Morrissey’s “Every Day is Like Sunday.”

Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon, come Armageddon!
Come, Armageddon! Come!

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey…

When I had reached my fill of these melancholy depths, I got back on the Purple Line and stared out the window — all the way to my hotel — in complete silence.

###

-moose

PS: So not as to leave you readers with a sense of existential despair, here’s one of the duck families I was talking about earlier, to help cleanse your mental palate.

EVANSTON, Ill. — Once in a blue moon, I step foot into a city that’s somehow, someway, just too damn fancy for me to relate to.

Evanston is one of them.

Without again dwelling too long on my rural upbringing, I spent most of my childhood in a log cabin home — a quarter-mile off the road and with neighbors too far away to walk and visit. My town (“New Pal-es-TEEN”) had about 1,500 people when I moved there, and two, maybe three stoplights by the time I left. Our family home was surrounded by corn fields on three sides, and a horse farm on the other. My idea of a good time was shooting hoops on a $70 basketball rim from Wal-Mart, and hanging out in the abandoned school bus in our backyard.

Evanston, however, is a veritable Shangri-La on a crystalline beach on Illinois’ North Shore. The homes here are mansions and estates, and every piece of landscaping is flawlessly manicured. On one side of the road, a century-old cathedral. And on the other, the purest lakeside sands God could have ever dreamed of. Continue reading →