Galveston Island

Damn it was hot here.

The Swamps

Winnie just jumped right into it, thinking it be shallow and she freaked out when that was not the case.

Avery Island - TABASCO plant

TABASCO is supposedly a native american word for HOT AND HUMID - and that pretty much hits the nail on the head.

The good thing was we got free samples of prototypes of tabasco soda and ice cream, the bad thing was a 10 minute propaganda video we had to endure during the tour of the plant.

The beautiful Garden District.

St. Expedite

I think CPB just found its saint.

St. Louis Cemetery No.1

Blues on Frenchman Street.

Ok, i was a bit drunk and held the camera wrong, so just bend your head to the left to see the video correctly.

Beignets and Breakfast

Cafe Du Monde in new orleans is great for beignets and people watching.

Domestic Fighting in the Bathhouse

When a woman with a thick Southern accent begins to scream at her husband/son/lord-knows-who the only parts you’ll be able to understand are the curse words. Motherfucker and fucker tend to rise like cream to the top of the stew percolating out of her mouth in hysterical blasts. Like a child sobbing too hard to breath. “Godddamnyou-undescernable-my-job-asshole-lazy-somethingrhymingwithshoe?” —Then a wheezing pause. Punctuated with stomping. Like a horse counting to three with its hoof. Then as if words have lost their purpose she screams. Like an air raid siren, “IIII-EEEEE-IIIII-EEEE-UUUUUUU-come-on-i-ain’t-afray’d-ah-u-tired-o-ur-shit! I kill ya!”

And then the door slams and she’s quiet. And I’m stuck in the shower. My eye watching the door handle.

Hemingway's Dream

The photo just shows a regular absinthe, but our favorite version as of right now is Hemingway's Dream, since it tastes less like liquorice.

Ingredients:

1 ounce absinthe (or absinthe substitute)
1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice
3 sugar cubes
10 mint leaves

Shake vigorously over ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Obligatory Pirate and Literary Photo Opportunity.

Yes, I'm a dork. And now Anja has proof.

The French Quarter

Flaming Bananas

For Sunday brunch we went to Brannons in New Orleans, which turned out to be a three course breakfast, that ended with their famous Bananas Foster, which they invented.

In the 1950's, New Orleans was the major port of entry for bananas shipped from Central and South America. Owen Edward Brennan challenged his talented chef, Paul Blangé, to include bananas in a new culinary creation-Owen's way of promoting the imported fruit.


Ingredients:
- 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter
- 1 cup brown sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
- 1/4 cup banana liqueur
- 4 bananas, cut in half lengthwise, then halved
- 1/4 cup dark rum
- 4 scoops vanilla ice cream

Directions:
Combine the butter, sugar, and cinnamon in a flambé pan or skillet.
Place the pan over low heat either on an alcohol burner or on top of the stove, and cook, stirring, until the sugar dissolves.
Stir in the banana liqueur, then place the bananas in the pan.
When the banana sections soften and begin to brown, carefully add the rum.
Continue to cook the sauce until the rum is hot, then tip the pan slightly to ignite the rum.
When the flames subside, lift the bananas out of the pan and place four pieces over each portion of ice cream.
Generously spoon warm sauce over the top of the ice cream and serve immediately.

Going nowhere, fast.

Thanks to Brig and his wife for our GPS. It's probably saved our marriage. Nothing is better than having a computer to blame if we take a wrong turn. And neither of us has to remember was it a left, or a right at the Walmart to get back to the interstate. Spaceage technology hasn't been this useful since I had Velcro sneakers in Elementary school. The only drawback is that sometimes we camp in State Parks that are literally in the middle of nowhere. The good thing is the GPS gets use to the park with no problems. But once we're at the campsite, it's up to Anja and I to orienteer our asses back to the front gate. Fortunately, we've been putting Lewis and Clark to shame with our mad skills.

Trucks! And The Women Who Love The Men Who Love Them.

First off, I have nothing against trucks. I like them. They are very practical and unquestionably American. Like Jazz or the Electric-Slide. But it was sort of funny to be stuck in the pimped out truck convention traffic with a vw camper and to watch the people who watch those truck shows.

Mobile

Mobile is visibly still recovering from Katrina.

When you're in Mobile, stop by Wintzell's for some oysters. Carl was definitely defeated by the amount of oysters that came his way.

Ants attack.

FACT: Ants have a hard-on for dog food.
FACT: Our bus is overflowing with dog food.
FACT: Ants do not like to eat alone.
FACT: Ants have very large, extended families.
MYTH: Ants can't invade every inch of a car in one night.
MYTH: Ant Baits kill ants.
FACT: Ant Baits attract more ants into your van and even if they do bring the poison back to their queen no ants actually die until after your van has left the campsite.
FACT: Everything edible goes into a Ziploc bag. Including dog food.
FACT: Carl now has a sick fascination with scalding anthills with boiling water, or dousing them with lighter fluid and then sets the mound on fire.
FACT: Carl learned these tricks from his delinquent cousin at a young age. Carl's cousin is now in prison.
FACT: Carl feels no remorse whatsoever for the ants he's killed.
MYTH: Ant society is a microcosm of humanity and someday, something will pour boiling water all over the town Carl is living in.
FACT: Carl accepts the plausibility that he might die and return as an ant, but he continues fuck with ants. Especially red ones.

Big Lagoon

Carl's redneck driver tan.

A red moon at night.

Apalachicola

A quaint little fishing town with a cool ass bike.

Cold is the new Hot.

Manatee Springs just might be the most amazing spot in all of Florida. When the breeze settles the deep spring is filled with water that’s invisible. And you can see all the blues, greens, and white sandy patches that live 80ft below the water just as clearly as if you had your face in the weeds, only it’s the water that is practically invisible.

Tampa - Bush Gardens

Carl's grandma took us to Bush Gardens, an amusement park sponsored by Budweiser. Brilliant.

Cults and Hot Climates

The view from our pop-up roof.

Carl thinking about what went wrong with his guac.

Sanibel Island

Freaking amazing.

Salty Dog Shit.

Winnie definitely had the best spot on the beach.

The daily afternoon rainstorm. Thanks Rain-X.

Finally on the Road again.

The Infinite Bladder and the Amazing Medical Soccer Sock.

Winnie has begun licking her leg at night. She’s like a meth addict picking invisible ants off her skin. Only, her self-mutilation doesn’t make you feel pity or disgust. To be honest, it’s down-right adorable. Even if it results in an sickly looking island of welts on her front left leg. Her leg hair has fled the constant licking only to leave behind a long stretch of red, irregular shaped hills that crest and then recede into the ocean of black fur like some volcanic archipelago. Only without the hula girls or the helicopter tours.

This is not the normal topography of our dog’s leg. We’re worried. We’re clueless. We’re driving Winnie to the local vet.

Luckily for us, Winnie loves the vet. She couldn’t be happier than to hop into my Mom’s car and by driven to a sterile room occupied by men and women in white coats with pockets full of dog treats. Winnie is a very smart dog.

We know she’s smart because Vets have told us so. Vet’s are experts in these type of diagnosis. And today, our expert of dog aptitude tells us this as she shaves Winnie’s blemished leg and pumps her butt full of steroids, “The steroids will make her drink more water and that’ll probably make her pee more often.”

I applaud the fact this vet used the word “Pee.” Pee is real, it’s natural. As opposed to “urinate,” which occurs only in textbooks or legal documents. It’s not like she needs to hide the fact that our pet has bodily functions. The blue plastic bags tied to Winnie’s leash prove we are intimately aware of her bodily functions. We know what her farts smell like, almost as well as we know our own. And Kudos to our vet for respecting us enough to realize that. But I wish she were slightly more technical regarding terms like, “More often.”

Unless, “More often” is the medical term for “all-the-fucking-time.” Which it just might be. Because that’s how often our dog has to piss. Not once every four hours, not twelve-times a day, but multiple times each hour. Squatting every few blocks, not to mark her territory mind you, but to unleash solid spikes of liquid, like the grand finale of the Bellagio fountains. In fact, just like the Vegas waterworks, Winnie’s also attracts a crowd. Every thirty minutes or so, a group gathers at the front door of my parent’s house. Each of us, ready to take Winnie out—yet again—so she can go pee. So we can stand there, leash in hand, jaw slack in awe as the endless torrent of spray contained inside our dog’s bladder creates a flash flood in a neighbor’s yard. Our dog’s bladder is an endless reservoir, sunk in a vortex, housed in a bottomless pit, packaged snuggly inside the loins of the black hole that is our ever-thirsty pooch. The shear volume of liquid contained inside that bladder violates the laws of physics. Not to mention the current watering ban effecting lawns all across Georgia.

And as walking down the street and seeing three or four people struck dumb at the sight of a dog taking a piss wasn’t enough of a show. That dog just happens to be wearing a single soccer sock. Pulled up high on one leg.

Why?

It’s a simple, yet genius invention by Anja. Although our vet did not tell us the get one of those lampshade collars for our dog, it didn’t take long for us to realize we needed to restrain our dog from licking her leg until her welts melt back into the ocean of fur from whence they came.

Of course, a lampshade would not only look ridiculous, it’d be hard to maneuver in the tight space of our bus, and according to Anja and my mother, it’d probably give our dog self-esteem issues.

So, Anja invented the medical soccer sock. And it works amazingly well. Basically, if the sock is up, Winnie can’t lick at her wound. If it starts to slump down her leg, you just pull it back up.

We promise to have an entire line of Medical Grade Soccer Socks out soon. Available in festive colors, adorable patterns, and some that look like sexy, fishnet stocking-clad legs. Stay tuned.