When I was working nights at 99X, I used to make fun of Steve Craig quite often. He was an easy target, with excessive banter about the Tiki bar in his backyard, his plane and his battle with gout. Okay, so maybe he didn’t have the gout, but that false story only followed suit. I used to make up fables about Steve fighting forest fires with his plane, saving countless Whitetail deer and wild rabbits with his efforts, and then retreating home to have a nice tropical drink out of a coconut shell.  More

When Roger Miller sings of smoking found stogies in the 1965 wayfarer ballad, “King of the Road,” his baritone swagger unapologetically weds the romantic liberties of Jeffersonian democracy with the providential urban blessings that would soon come to be known as ground score.

Coined by Deadheads who combed through trampled fields and parking lots after Grateful Dead concerts in search of left-behind drugs, food, money, and other treasures, the term “ground score” now refers to any trinket or token of value that one stumbles upon. For drifters in particular, such as the troubadour of King of the Road, ground scores comprise an object-based underground currency, replacing the spirit of Keynesian economics with the ragtag wonders of a Kurt Schwitters assemblage.  More

Napolean Hill was a bad ass, plain and simple. An American author who was one of the earliest producers of the modern genre of personal success literature, that’s right, self-help books.  More

Sept. 1
Cape Charles, Va
Bryan:
Today we where slapped in the face with a new sensation. Cold and rainy straight to the bone. We had a six miles ride to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel entrance.  We were not allowed to pass. They had to call a couple of vehicles to haul us across the 23 miles of unwilling roads. What a site the sea was choppy and the winds where calling. The tunnels where a experience. My heart jumped in my throat as we went deeper into the abyss.  More

Aug. 19
Charleston, S.C.
Bryan:
All I can say is it was nice to have a day off, even though we spent most of the day chasing down a room for tonight. For those who do not know we have been getting hotels donated along the way. Thanks to some really nice people we have a place to lay our heads and hopefully get some good sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a 60 miles day. US 17 here we come.  More

Two dear friends of mine from Chattanooga Tenn., Kathleen Vlodek and her husband Bryan Hensley, and another old friend of ours, Hector Victoria are taking part in a fundraiser to fight Huntington’s Disease. They are fighting by bike. They started pedaling in St. Augustine, Fla., on their “Slowing the Way” fundraiser, and their final destination is Central Park in New York City in 30 days. They will be bicycling 60 miles a day.  More

I’d been reading a bit and thinking a lot about old John Muir, that crazy fuck.  So easy to think of him as simply the wizened old naturalist, an Aldo Leopold sort of nature writer with a flowing white beard and a broad brimmed hat, sitting there under a tree with Teddy Roosevelt, mapping out a novel little plan to leave a couple of little green postage stamps of these esteemed states unlogged. And sure, if that racist old coot TR hadn’t liked camping so much, there would have been nothing left in just a few more years.  More

I had a fantastic time doing this and hope you enjoy it. I’ve been a fan of Peter Stubb for a minute now but I never thought we would do an interview. He was very talkative and very sweet. A true Southern gentleman.

Dry Ink sits down and drinks with the legendary Peter Stubb from Dalton, Georgia. He has put out over 100 tapes since 1992 about demons, wolves, Christmas, suicide, pussy and food. We drank Pabst Blue Ribbon, some whiskey and later sangria and talk women, food, songs and mental institutions.  More

I fell into a puddle and thought of my brother. We were in Jersey and I saw my reflection. It wasn’t pretty. Cuts and bruises on face and an ear half ripped. I walked and walked and thought and thought. I need money, food, drinks and ideas.
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Silence.

Thats all that I remember hearing as we walked back over the pedestrian bridge from Mexico, back from Nuevo Laredo (New Laredo in Spanish) to old Laredo, Texas. Well, there was chattering in Spanish around us and perhaps the noises of cars, but it didnt matter. It was all the same. We weren’t in Mexico. We got turned back from immigration.  More