People are nice. I mean, I know you don’t usually catch me saying that. The opposite is true so often I can’t go twenty minutes without saying people suck, people are a-holes, people are slobs, effin people…See? People make me curse but I’m not gonna do it, I’m not gonna do it, because….well, people are nice.

I come to this realization (which will have minimal staying power) because, recently, so many people have said if there’s anything they can do, I should just let them know.

Time for an oil change. 4,816 miles in the books. And, of course, the last 11 miles were the hardest. From wide open highways to the parking lot of the Belt Parkway. Nothing says Welcome home! more than stop and crawl on the Belt.

We hit enough stops for a Johnny Cash song: Elmira, Toledo, Frankenmuth, Mackinaw, Mackinac, Marquette, Minneapolis, we’ve been everywhere, man.

Fargo, Bismarck, Rapid City, Rushmore, Badlands, Custer State, Sioux Falls and ….Warren Buffet’s house.

Malvern, Iowa

Bismarck, North Dakota (RT) – September 21.

I always wanted to write a dateline. Like a real reporter. I guess I didn’t have to drive 2,000 miles to do it, but I never thought of it before.

When you drive 2,000 miles, you can think of a lot of things. Like how families don’t do drive vacations much anymore. They drive three or four hours, tops, to a single destination (Lake George or Windham) otherwise it’s all aboard the 747.

In the old days, kids would be jammed in the station wagon, and

It was like I busted out of the Rockaway State Penitentiary and hurried cross country as if bloodhounds were after me. I did both diddly-squat and doodly-squat this whole pandemic so when I finally saw an opening, I hit the road. I kept looking over my shoulder like I was being trailed, that I’d be called back, forced back to Rockaway.

Now, normally, I wouldn’t say anything about being forced back here but even Paradise can get a little old without a little change. Just ask Adam and Eve. They

Malvern, Iowa (RT) – September 26, 2021

I’m Cousin Vinny. I blend. I friggin’ blend.

There I was, sitting in a café in Malvern, Iowa, population 1,015, chatting with a guy biking his way through endless cornfields. An old timer gets up from another table to say hello to me because he thinks I’m a farmer.

I bend over backwards not to be a rude New Yorker, but I couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t seem to mind because he asked again, you work a couple of farms? He nodded his head to indicate

Counting, schmounting.  It’s so overrated.  Counting calories stops as soon as the weekend gets here. Counting steps lasts until the battery dies. Counting beers? I say stop counting at one and proceed ahead.

And don’t even start counting hot dogs. Did you see the news that eating one hot dog can cut your life short by 36 minutes? Yeah, some party poopers did a study about the murderous effects of wieners. And the nerve–they wait til the end of summer to drop that number on you. Man, I’m down