As I sit at the very back of the stern of the S.S. Badger, a flood of thoughts and memories overcomes me. The Badger, an enormous car ferry, is a decades old National Historical Monument, but it is also a living, working, black smoke-belching way to cross Lake Michigan. As I sit with my big feet up on the back rail, watching the seagulls dive bomb into the churning waters and Ludington Michigan fade into the distant horizon, dozens of cars, trucks, tractor trailers, and motor

Oh I’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way! —Gordon MacRae, recorded from the movie, Oklahoma! So, there are a few different methods of going on extended motorcycle rides. Up until recently I've stuck to the leisurely, go slow, meander and explore, and never miss a roadside historical sign or a chance to smell the roses—way of seeing the U.S.A. I spent several days in Mississippi where most road travelers would spend a day or three at most, for instance, and

This fucking road is made to kill and maim. —Marcel du Cochon When my sister Rita walked toward me out of her house in Asheville North Carolina earlier this week my first thought was, she sure has aged well. If not for her silver hair, she would easily pass for a beautiful young southern debutante. My second, almost simultaneous thought was, I hope she doesn’t throw anything at me or shoot me. — My dear sister has many reasons why she could hold a grudge against her five-year

Back in ’82 I was given the gift of a visit to Destin Florida with some of my all-time besties: John, Marshall, and Robert Crenshaw, along with Chris Donato, and if I remember right, two guys named Hammy and Haggus. The reason for our visit was a tour stop for Marshall Crenshaw and his band, and it was quite a stop, with plenty of shenanigans and the band absolutely killing it. Robert Crenshaw described the visit better than I ever could on Facebook, and I believe, also in hi

After a few days reveling in Clarksdale Mississippi, I woke up the third morning in my downtown motel singing a song, but not just any song. As I lay in bed, still half asleep and more than a little bit hung over, I nonetheless happily, in my best 1968 Eric Clapton croon, hollered/croaked at my motel room ceiling; I’m goin’ down to Rosedale, tried to flag a ride… Except I didn’t need to hitchhike, because I had my trusty 2021/1969 retro Harley Davidson eagerly waiting outside

Come on back to Friar's Point, mama, and barrelhouse all night long Robert Johnson I was bleeding when I wrote this: It was later in the evening, more towards the middle end of the night when I made my way over to Red’s. I’d already had too much at my previous stop and struggled to park my motorcycle on the cracked up, lurching with old age sidewalk across the street. I could hear the music calling out a few blocks away, and as I approached the beat up, t

I was warned several times from people who care about me that I should stay away from Memphis Tennessee. They said it had the worst crime rate in America. They said it was dangerous and ugly. They made a big deal out of it—so much so that their dire exclamatives had the opposite effect on me. If Memphis was that terrible and horrible and filled with scary, vicious, murderous people who are hell bound train-bent towards preying upon me unto my own tragic, painful death, well,

I must interrupt my regularly scheduled ride Down the Mississippi River programming for this very important special announcement. I turned 69 years old today. I’ve been looking forward to turning 69-years-old since I was a little kid. 1969 was my best year of my life. I peaked in 1969 and it’s been all downhill ever since. I accomplished a bunch of incredible things for anyone, let alone a 12-year-old, and I got suspended from Hamilton Elementary School in Berkley Michigan, i

On the backroad going south out of St. Louis I stopped off at a 24-hour diner for an early lunch. I think it was called Pat’s Diner, but I can’t be sure because I am a member of the Satan’s Seniles Motorcycle Club but anyway, Pat’s, or Jerry’s (who knows?) is the kind of place where everything on the menu sounds like that’s what I want. Until you read the next item. Then it’s, no, that’s what I want. I didn’t know that yet, but from the road the place looked right enough to m

Man, I don’t want to make too much out of it. I know I’m prone to emotional outbursts. Sappy soliloquy. Excessive, and I do mean excessive hyperbole. I even lie and bullshit here and there. Some would emphasize, “A LOT.” But I’ve been dreaming about visiting Mark Twain’s boyhood home since I first read about Tom Sawyer. That must have been somewhere around 1969 or1970, and since then I’ve always looked at a potential trip to where Samuel Clemens grew up as a necessary pilgrim

Follow the mighty Mississippi River on a journey through American history, music, and flavor. From Mark Twain’s iconic river tales to the soulful roots of Delta Blues and the rich tradition of Mississippi barbecue, this tour blends culture, storytelling, and unforgettable Southern experiences into one epic adventure.

Why does death change the way you live? This honest, thought-provoking look at grief and loss explores how death reshapes your perspective, your emotions, and your understanding of life itself.