I once drove non-stop from central Wyoming to eastern Iowa before passing out at a highway rest stop for a couple of hours, waking up with a scrambled brain, driving the short distance to Illinois, then staring with confusion and regret at the chili cheese omelette I’d ordered at a pre-cell truck stop where drivers sat with piles of quarters in front of them at booths hard wired to pay phones. Read more »
The research end of the trip was very successful and I hope to return to South Dakota and Nebraska in the spring to spend more time in the archives.
On a more personal level, I must thank all of the friends and family who opened their homes to me during this grand voyage. Read more »
First I spent some time in the East River college towns of Vermillion and Brookings. A hop, skip, and a jump from the Minnesota border, this here is Prairie Home Companion country. It’s a land of hot dishes (casseroles) and Lutheran churches. Of sprawling horizons and “Oh, ya know.”
There’s lots of tall people. Lots of blond people. Lots of tall, blond people. I like it.
But after a week of researching and visiting old friends, I left behind the Scandinavian heritage and Minnesota-style niceties of eastern South Dakota. I made my way west across the Missouri River and then headed north. Actually, I crossed the line into North Dakota; Sitting Bull College on the Standing Rock Reservation is actually in the No Dak town of Fort Yates.
I’m happy to give the tribe some money, so I spent a night at the tribally owned Prairie Knights hotel and casino. I had a mind to play some poker, but when I went downstairs to investigate, I found the card room was already in the thick of a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament. So I bought a sandwich, returned to my room, and watch Derek Jeter’s last game at Yankee Stadium.
After Standing Rock, the plan was to go straight down the gut of central South Dakota to Rosebud Reservation, which sits near the Nebraska border, and then westward to Pine Ridge Reservation in the state’s southwestern corner.
If you were to plot my herky-jerky route across South Dakota, I suspect it would create an exciting new shape that mathematicians would get wide-eyed about. And then they’d come up with a cool name for this strange but essential new shape. Maybe something like an “akimus.” The akimus will shed new light on our understanding of trapezoids. And of course it will have some mysterious relationship to Pi.
I can imagine this because I haven’t passed a math class since the 10th grade. Read more »
It’s a massive research/conference trip. I’m on sabbatical. A full year at half-pay.
A single semester at full pay is the more common sabbatical leave. For a full year sabbatical, the typical approach is to get a research fellowship that makes up the lost salary and provides academic focus.
But I usually end up doing things my own way. I’m not bragging. It’s as much a blend of chaos and neurosis as anything else. But in this case the result is, no research fellowship.
Instead, I’ve rented out my house during the semester, and this past summer I took on a freelance writing project. I co-authored a coffee table book, which will come out next summer. More on that in future posts.
At the end of August I hit the road. And thus the journey begins. Read more »
While not terribly big, my father was nevertheless a super-stud athlete at his high school in Fresno, California during the mid-1950s. Captain of the football team (he played end on both sides of the ball), member of the track, field, diving, swimming, and basketball teams, he was popular enough to be voted president of the class of `56. And he was good enough, despite being only 145 pounds, to earn a football scholarship to Redding College in northern California, although he would soon lose it in a gambling scandal. True.
So you’d think I grew up in a household that paid attention to sports and that I learned it all from at my father’s knee.
Quite to the contrary, not only didn’t the old man watch sports, he didn’t even understand the appeal. To him, sports were something to do, not something you watch other people do. I think he looked at it like drinking: he liked drinking, especially with others and alone if need be, but why on earth would he turn on the TV to watch someone else drink? Or drive across the city and pay for parking and admission to watch people drink. It didn’t make any sense to him. Read more »
An early break came when someone recommended him to New York Times film critic Rex Reed.
Reed was by then one of the nation’s top critics and bestselling author, and had landed himself an apartment in The Dakota, the landmark Manhattan building on Central Park West. It would later become infamous as the home of John Lennon, when he was shot in front of it in 1980.
The Dakota is hard to describe. How many apartment buildings do you know that have their own Wikipedia entry, complete with a list of notable residents and cultural references?
It’s the only building I can think of that’s had the distinction of being jarringly out of place not once, but twice. Read more »
“Lemme know if I can help,” I told my sister.
“You wanna drive the moving truck across the country with Noah?” she asked.
“Sure, I can do that,” I said.
Monday, July 21
With luggage, I make the 20 minute walk to the light rail station. Train shows up, and the ride to the airport is uneventful. Not like last time when I had some drunk fool trying to pick a fight with me at 9:00 in the morning cause he thought I was “gay lookin'” at him. Goin’ on about how he did a dime in prison and he’d kick my ass, except he’s either about 60 years old or a very rough 50, and already lit, drinking tall boys out of paper bags, so no, he can’t actually kick my ass. After not engaging, I finally had to tell him to shut the fuck up already, but that didn’t help. Didn’t make it worse either. Just kept on prattling his belligerent, drunken shit.
Nothing like that this time. To the airport, all good. Until you walk in to find your flight’s been delayed two hours.
After what passes for a nice meal at BWI (decent beer, cured olives, mixed salad with goat cheese; actually, that’s a nice meal anywhere), I mosey over to the gate. My gate’s jammed, so I go to something a bit emptier. I open up Murdering McKinley by Eric Rauchway, a history prof up at UC Davis. He’s a good writer, which isn’t a given for a historian.
I mean, just look at this pablum.
About thirty pages in, this terribly annoying extended family sits next to me. Not a decent one in the lot.
I move on to a quieter spot. Then the guy behind me starts slurping the straw of his empty Dunkin’ Donuts cup. And he won’t stop. On and off for 20 minutes. I look behind me. He’s about 50 years old
Truly, there is no sense of decorum left in this country. Read more »