Ladies and gentlemen, as the TV show says: Greetings from Tucson.

Folks, let me introduce you to the Beast. The Beast is a Ford F-350 cab bolted to a rather large cargo area, which -- all told -- measured 14 feet in length. The Beast is not a pleasant creature. Its driver-side door is bent so it does not close all the way, making for an incredible amount of road noise and it also means that when it rains, the driver gets a bit wet. Once it gets above 50 miles an hour, its speedometer begins waving like a three-year-old saying goodbye to a close relative at the airport. (Or it's jumpin' jumpin' like Destiny's Child. You choose which simile you like best.) It rides so rough that even its mirrors are vibrating to the point where I can barely judge where the cars are around me because the mirrors wobble so much and looking at them for more than 3 seconds gives me a headache, but I need at least that amount of time to determine where the cars around me are. Mind you, I was promised a new truck that had been thoroughly checked out by U-Haul since they always save their best and newest for the cross-country trips. The Beast had 122,000 miles on it. Not exactly a spring chicken.

However, the Beast is a menacing creature -- one that I would've expected to strike fear in the hearts of the meek. The meek being the little old ladies in their tiny little cars doing just under the speed limit in the left lane, most of which were decked out in "I believe in the Power of Christ" bumperstickers (not to generalize, but it was mostly true in the cases I found). The Power of Christ compels you to be chaste and pure, but the Power of Ford compels you to get the hell out of my way.

I made good time in the beginning, at least. I stopped in Roanoke my first night on the road, Memphis my second -- where I saw the Angels take the Series and had some kick-ass barbeque. But Texas is where it all started to go to hell. I didn't mess with Texas. Texas messed with me. And I believe I lost.

I was honestly having a good time that night. I met up with one of my co-workers who works out of his house in Dallas, we had dinner together. The Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex is home to one of my favorite radio stations, so I was listening to it rather loudly -- not just because the road noise was so incredibly loud, but also because it's hard not to when you're on a road trip and one of your favorite stations is playing U2's "Where The Streets Have No Name." So what if it was 9PM and I still had 3 more hours of driving to do that night?

Then, as I passed the 30-miles-outside-of-Fort-Worth-beginning-to-enter-the-Middle-of-Nowhere mile marker, I noticed the temp gauge beginning to make its way up. Not good. I pulled off the road, and smoke began billowing from under the hood. Really not good. So I pulled out the cell phone and called the U-Haul Emergency Hotline, who put me on hold for 10 minutes. Not good when I'm heading into the Middle of Nowhere and I won't be able to charge my phone battery. They claim they're contacting people to help me. Half an hour goes by. 45 minutes. I start to call back to harass them. They put me on hold some more. They're locating a mechanic. They tell me to wait. I attempt to limp back to Fort Worth for the night because it's getting incredibly late and I'm incredibly tired, but 2 minutes into the trip and the temp gauge starts to soar again. No dice. Finally -- finally -- at 12:30AM... 3 1/2 hours after I'd made my first call to U-Haul's Emergency Hotline, the mechanic shows up. A quick fix, and it's done. A coolant line blew. Except now the transmission is giving me problems. Either way, I'm done for the night and I decide to take care of it in the morning. I found out later that the brilliant people at the Emergency Hotline Headquarters faxed a repair/mechanic order to the Fort Worth office -- despite the fact that since it was 9PM, they'd already closed for the night and wouldn't be re-opening until 7AM, which would've left me on the side of the road freezing my ass off all night.

Morning comes after a night of fitful sleep. I take the Beast over the local U-Haul repair shop, who tells me that the transmission is indeed in need of service, and they're going to give me a new truck. More lost time as all of my parents' worldly possessions are transferred from one truck to the other, and I'm on my way again with the assurance that this new truck that I'm driving -- despite the fact that it has 115,000 miles on it -- just came out of a maintenance inspection and should give me no problems.

Murphy's Law of Mechanics says that when the repair shop says there won't be a problem, there inevitably is. This one occurred 50 miles outside of Fort Worth, when the "Check Engine" light comes on. I pull over and call U-Haul again, who tells me to go to the nearest repair center in Abilene and they'll take care of it, but they close at 4PM and it's now 2:30. 90 minutes to cover 100 miles. Can we say "haul ass"? I knew we could.

I roar into the parking lot of U-Haul in Abilene at 3:50. I turn off the truck, lock it up and go inside to ask about repairs. They tell me that the repair shop is 500 feet behind the building I'm in now. So I run outside to the truck to pull it around back to catch them before they all leave -- and my key won't open the door. People, I don't have the time or energy to make this kind of stuff up. So I run all the way to the repair shop and thankfully, they're still there. I explain the situation. They come out, we all cluster around the truck, and it's determined there's something wrong with the fuel injectors and their sensors. It's a 10 minute fix. Except it's not that. It's something else. And the transmission on this truck is leaking fluid and needs to be worked on. A 10 minute fix turns into a 3 hour fix, and the deadline for cancelling my hotel reservation that night in Las Cruces, New Mexico passes. So I'm locked into it, whether I like it or not. The key thing couldn't be fixed, they tell me to jiggle the key in the lock (which is what I've been doing ever since then -- I feel like I'm breaking into this thing every time I try to unlock the door), but everything else was supposedly fixed and I'm on my way again.

I leave Abilene at around 7PM local time. I have 500 miles to go before I sleep. Go time. Except Texas decides to try and keep me in the state one more time by sending the Texas Highway Patrol after me. Literally in the middle of nowhere, about 50 miles outside of Midland -- where there is nothing except highway and desert and the occasional oil refinery and wellfield -- I got pulled over for speeding.

At this point, I'm at the end of my rope. My head is pounding, I'm nauseous from dinner, and I'm still hours away from getting to a bed for the night. And it really doesn't help that on top of everything, the cop asks me if I've had the engine on the truck checked recently because it smells like it's burning oil. As if I weren't paranoid about the truck breaking down in the Middle of Nowhere Where There's No Cell Phone Coverage already. Long story short, after an 19 hour day, I pull into the hotel in Las Cruces at just past 2AM local time -- only because I'd passed a time zone line a few miles before the Texas/New Mexico border.

Either way, I have made it to Tucson and I have unloaded the truck. 2767.8 miles later, my objective is complete. I don't have much to do tomorrow except go to U-Haul, raise holy hell and tell them that they are refunding my money for the rental and covering all of my expenses -- especially the $600 I've spent on fueling the Beasts because they suck up gas like an alcoholic puts away liquor. Then I'm turning in the truck because quite frankly, I've had enough of it, and I'm renting a nice car to get myself from here back to Los Angeles, where I have to go back to work on Monday.

Quite frankly, the expression "I need a vacation from my vacation" never applied as readily as it does here. I'm mentally and physically drained, man. I need some serious relaxation time, which I'm not going to get. By the way, have I mentioned that I've had to develop the annoying habit of asking people what day it is? I have lost all track of time. My time is measured in miles now, not days.

Texas did give me one small gift before I left the state, though. I was going westward on I-10 nearing El Paso when the thought occurred to me that the highway follows the Rio Grande. Off to my left as I glanced out the window, there was the river. And just beyond that, Mexico. I could see its lights twinkling in the night. Hey, when you're exhausted and it's 2AM, you get a little poetic when the thought runs through your head: Man, that's another country out there that you're looking at.

Well, readers, I've hopefully given you enough fodder to last you another day until the cable guy comes and installs my parents' cable and cable modem on Friday morning. Despite the fact that Kinko's charges next to nothing rates for use of their computers, I've somehow managed to rack up a $10 charge already.

After a night where I barely slept on the plane, it was fairly surreal to step into the airport in Cleveland at 6AM Eastern -- only to hear the Muzak system playing such hits as C+C Music Factory's "Gonna Make You Sweat" and Rick Astley's "Together Forever." Not exactly the kind of thing one wants to hear when one's time zones are screwed up and one is tired beyond belief. I had to restrain myself from making smartass comments to the TSA people, who pulled me out of line in Cleveland as I was boarding my connecting flight to Hartford to search me and my stuff. Do I really look that threatening? (Apparently so. I wonder if that's a good thing.)

So my parents' house is completely loaded into this monster U-Haul, which I've taken for a spin around the block to make sure I can actually drive the damn thing. I was jonesing for a 'Net connection so badly that while over at a neighbor's house having a final dinner here, I asked to use their machine.

I managed to sleep for 3 hours this afternoon, but I'm so beyond tired and jet lag that you could probably convince me it's somewhere around 3AM on a Monday night and I'd readily believe you. Someone told me that a good cure for jet lag is to do a shot of olive oil, but I think he was just trying to see if I'd actually do it.

Tonight, sleep. Tomorrow, the road. The day after, the world! Bwahahahaa... Just kidding.

So. I'll try and check in from the road if I can. But tonight, the adventure begins its final stage as I cut all ties from the East Coast. After next week, I will have no other home than Los Angeles.

Here's to wide open highways, good music and a kick-ass roadtrip.

'Cause I remember how we drank time together
And how you used to say that the stars are forever
And daydreamed about how to make your life better
By leaving town, leaving town...
-- Dexter Freebish, "Leaving Town"

I've yet to see a cartoon or comic strip character that does not have four fingers on each hand.

I stopped by the local Ralph's (supermarket) to pick up some dinner, since I'd made sure that I wouldn't be leaving any opened food packages or perishable items seeing as how I'm leaving tomorrow for 10 days away, so I'd eaten everything in the house and didn't want to open anything new. Trips to Ralph's are always an experience since I live in Brentwood, the hottest of the hot, the chic-est of the chic... well, except for Beverly Hills. But I don't think there's a Ralph's in Beverly Hills.

Anyways, one of my roommates firmly maintains that this Ralph's has higher prices than the others in the area, something which I've found not to be true. But he still insists that they're charging admission for the show. Because in Brentwood, you have to look nice no matter what. Even if you're going to the supermarket, you're still going to have to dress up. And the women especially -- they pull that "I'm trying to look like I'm dressed down even though I'm dressed up" look by wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, but a closer inspection reveals the outfit is from Abercrombie & Fitch or some other designer place, the hair is carefully done to look like it's a mess and the makeup has been painstakingly applied.

So I was all set to see what beautiful creations were roaming around Ralph's tonight when I pulled into the parking space, opened the door, got out of the car -- and stepped out right onto someone's pink panties that had been left on the ground in the parking lot.

People have commented that I'm always using such interesting sayings for saying that someone's not so smart. I don't know why, I guess I'm just creative that way. Here's a short collection of some of my regular ones. Feel free to add some of yours in the comments.

- He's not the coldest beer in the fridge.
- He's not running on all cylinders.
- He's not the sweetest caramel in the bag.
- He's not the swiftest ninja.
- He's not the coolest animal in the zoo.
- He's not the tastiest at 31 Flavors.
- He's not the best trail on the mountain.

Okay, well, you try to come up with a better entry after 2 glasses of Port.

Tonight I feel ambitious And so does my foot as it sinks on the pedal I press it to the floor... -- Eve 6, "Open Road Song" In 48 hours, I'll already have embarked on a rather ambitious endeavor. For those of you who are unaware, I depart Thursday night to fly back to my parents' old house in Connecticut -- which will be theirs only until the end of the month -- and then I load up all their worldly possessions in a U-Haul truck, which I will then proceed to drive all the way across the country by myself, dropping off most of their stuff in Tucson and proceeding on to Los Angeles to take ownership of some of their other stuff. All in the space of a week and a half. My parents will be trailing behind me by about a week. This is therapeutic for me. I dig the open road, and a week out there with only the music and the road will do me some good, I think. More than that, this whole ordeal of them moving and me giving up all ties to my past life back East will be the final act. I think the stress will finally drop off after I get back to L.A. Don't get me wrong. I'm scared to death of driving this 3-ton 14-foot U-Haul that the company keeps warning me can easily tip off and doesn't stop on a dime. At this point, I'm halfway convinced that I'm going to crash the truck at least once during this trip. But it'll be interesting, to say the least. At least this time around, I'll be able to enjoy the drive without the overarching thoughts about how I'm driving into a brand-new city where I only know 3 people with no place to live and a new brand-new job. Now if only I can get around the fact that I'll be without the Internet for more than a week...

Today, I was almost able to convince a co-worker that the line in John Cougar Mellencamp's song "Jack and Diane" was Let it rock, let it roll/Let the Taco Bell come and save my soul.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mallomars are back and in season. I am eating one right now.

Thank you. You may now proceed normally. Move along. Nothing to see here. Just a Mallomar fan indulging himself and participating in mass Mallomar hording.

There appears to be something in the water over there in D.C. which makes the officials hellishly dumb. I swear, it's spreading. It's like a bad horror film where there's some alien conspiracy to make everyone in our government stupid.

This from the Associated Press:
Authorities believe the Washington-area sniper left a message with a telephone number at the scene of the latest shooting in Virginia, The Associated Press learned Sunday. Police appealed to the person who left the message to contact them. "To the person who left us a message at the Ponderosa last night. You gave us a telephone number. We do want to talk to you. Call us at the number you provided. Thank you," Montgomery County, Md., Police Chief Charles Moose said in a televised briefing.

Okay, Chief Moose? (And pardon me if I snicker while I say your name.) Are you stupid, or are you stupid? I thought so. The guy left you a phone number and asked you to call. So, you're just going to sit on it and ask him to call you instead? Has anyone in your troop of geniuses figured out that the phone number could be a clue as far as whose line it is and where it leads? And on the off chance that this guy was dumb enough to leave his actual phone number -- which actually might not surprise me seeing as how there seems to be a rash of stupidity running rampant in our nation's capital anyways -- you'd be depriving him of his phone line if you commandeered it and asked him to call you on that line.

Chief Moose [snicker], this is not Hollywood, this is not a business luncheon arrangement. The words "don't call us, we'll call you" do not apply here.

After Moose's briefing, Officer Joyce Utter, spokeswoman for Montgomery County police, said the chief's statement "should make complete sense" to the person who left the message. "That is the only person Chief Moose wants to talk to," she said.

Excuse me? The chief's statement doesn't even make complete sense to me, and I'd like to think I've got at least an average modicum of intelligence! If this person who left his phone number is the only person who the chief wants to talk to, why isn't he calling the number this person left?! I mean, if I meet someone in a bar or something and she gives me her number and I really want to talk to her, I'm not going to go on television and tell her to call me instead. I'm going to call her at the number she gave me!

Between Chief Moose and the Caped Crusader running around in the White House, I'm very glad that I moved off the Eastern Seaboard. My tap water here in Los Angeles might be slightly yellow-tinged, but at least I know that drinking it won't make me stupid.

I noticed this tonight while I was watching the long-ass Angels/Giants World Series game and pointed it out to the people I was watching with.

You know those dumb-ass Radio Shack commercials? Specifically, the one where Vanessa Williams supposedly gets Ving Rhames back for screwing her out of trading his milk for her apple back in grade school by stealing his cell phone to take to Radio Shack for a rebate of between $50-100? (Okay, the product plug was unavoidable in trying to explain this commercial. I feel bad about it too.)

Well, in the final scene, if you look carefully through the car's windshield as Vanessa Williams is saying something along the lines of "I've been waiting for this moment for 30 years," you can see Ving Rhames just hanging out and leaning up against a shelf on the garage as he's waiting for his cue of Vanessa driving off to go running after her.

Yeah, I could use a new hobby, I think.

Excerpted from The Los Angeles City Manual For General Behavior and Living (issued to all residents upon birth or declaring residency within city limits):

- Do not say hello or smile at anyone you don't know if you're outdoors. They will shoot you.
- Famous people hang out in this town. They live here. This is their home. Do not gawk, and for God's sake -- if you see a director and an actor chatting, do not go home and post on an Internet chat board that they will be working together on a new major motion picture.
- Just like the Vatican is a holy city surrounded by Rome, so is Beverly Hills a separate entity -- a holy city surrounded by Los Angeles. You may genuflect at either the Beverly Hilton or the Regent Beverly Wilshire, the latter of which is conveniently located near Rodeo Drive.
- Since it doesn't rain here very much at all, the oil from all the cars on the road soaks into the streets and is immediately brought to the surface whenever it rains. Therefore, drivers are given license to do incredibly stupid things during any precipitation.
- Valet is a way of life. Accept it.
- Just because you are an out-of-work actor/screenwriter/songwriter/musician, you are not automatically qualified to wait tables. Waiting tables here is like any other career job. You need experience waiting tables, you need references, you need a resume.
- Yes, there's a pollution problem. Thanks, we know about it. They say the fucking smog is the fucking reason you have such beautiful fucking sunsets.
- There's no such thing as inexpensive earthquake insurance. If we have an earthquake that's big enough to cause damage in your house/apartment to the extent that you'd need an insurance company to cover it, you'd probably need a new place to live. And believe me, we're not just going to sit around waiting for The Big One. We live in blissful ignorance, knowing in the back of our minds that it will eventually happen, but it hasn't happened yet today.
- Plastic is encouraged. Use your plastic to pay for your plastic. You can take that statement in as many different ways as you'd like.
- Yes, we know the women are gorgeous here. This is the Land of the Beautiful People, remember? We have strict genetic regulations to keep it that way. See page 286 for a list of testing facilities in your area to qualify for dating and procreation.
- There really is a subway in L.A. You are not required to ride it at any time. It doesn't actually go anywhere useful.

My new favorite word is "expedite." I love saying it. Unfortunately, it's the kind of word that can only really be used when giving orders (mostly by navigators or air-traffic controllers or people of that nature) or in hospitals. I can't exactly walk into a restaurant and tell the waitstaff, "Get me a Diet Coke, expedite!"

Okay, so why do I keep subjecting myself to things I know I'll hate?

So, I finally watched Mulholland Drive. Part of the reason was that it's an L.A.-based film, part of it was that it was so wildly acclaimed as one of last year's best films, part of it was that I wanted to see what the fuss over Naomi Watts was about. And I hated it. I was bored to tears. It was formulaic to the point where I knew exactly what was going to happen because I saw Lost Highway, another one of David Lynch's supposed "masterpieces." Naomi Watts' "main" character was so smarmy and so overacted that it made me hate her and not think she was attractive at all. And all the people in the film overacted.

That's one of the main problems I have with both of the Davids -- Lynch and Mamet. They make their actors overact and their dialogue is so stilted, it's impossible to get into the story because you're just blocked by the fakeness of the acting. It's stilted to the point of being unnatural -- people don't really talk in real life the way they do in Mamet and Lynch films. And, in my opinion, if you can't believe the actor, you can't believe the scenario or the story. Would you take someone seriously in real life if they spoke in such measured tones and unnatural speech patterns?

I knew I shouldn't have subjected myself to another Lynch film.

I nominate this saying as the new slogan for SuperCuts: "Hey, what were you expecting? You get what you pay for." My new rule for that place is that if the person cutting my hair can't speak enough English to pronounce my name right and stumbles through asking me how I want my hair cut, they're not allowed to cut my hair. If they can't understand what I want, chances are they're probably not going to be able to give it to me.

I've never understood why they use Terry Bradshaw as their commercial spokesperson. I mean, the guy's annoying as hell anyways, but did any of the geniuses in their marketing department notice the guy's mostly bald? Yeah, using a bald guy to promote a haircut place -- that's really brilliant.