Practice

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For my entire life I have always prided myself as being a people person. I am a chameleon of sorts, able to make a home anywhere or maintain a conversation with anyone. As a daughter of Annie Hollowell I am able to instantly engage people with my humor, charisma, and genuine interest in their stories. While I am bursting with anticipation for that flavorful first breath that occurs when stepping off of a plane into a foreign destination, I mostly look forward to hearing the stories of the people we will encounter. So while I thoroughly enjoy the landscapes that we are navigating, snapping photos and making mental blog posts all along the way, I anticipate that my written entries will better capture the "people-scape" throughout our journeys.

There is the inevitable dilemma of how real to get, I instinctively rebel against self (or spouse) imposed censorship. But for the purposes of this blog I will attempt to avoid my usual scatological language, use code language where appropriate, and simply report how our encounters occur through my eyes (the rest I will save for my book). So taking a page from my community organizer friends in the Vietnamese communities of coastal Mississippi, I will apologize in advance for all of my offenses now and for comparatively delayed blog posts.

Ebony and I first met my Junior year (her Sophomore year) at Jefferson City High School in, you guessed it, Jefferson City, Missouri. She is the sole reason that on my ACT application I marked Xavier University as my second choice for a college, up until that point I swore that I would be a Spellman girl. So I have Ebony to blame for a lifelong love affair with New Orleans.

Of all of my friends, Ebony's marriage is probably the one that I most admire. She met her husband Alfred at Xavier as well, he is now a medical doctor specializing in pediatrics and adult medicine, he is in his final year of residency in Columbia, MO. It was Ebony who enrolled me in the practice of writing out a list of the qualities that I wanted in my future husband, being specific, and revisiting that list later. Years ago I took her advice, and after a few months of dating Hamilton I pulled the list out only to discover that all of the qualities that require the most patience of me (i.e. integrity and inquisitiveness) are the ones at the top of my list. Be careful what you ask for. Ebony and Alfred had 3 children at the time of our visit, as I am writing this post their newest addition Alexander Hezekia Johnson is only a few days old. My godchildren are Zachi age 6, Malachi age 4, and Mackenzie (their only princess) age 2. This is what they always said they wanted as far as the spacing of the children; they wanted 2 boys and 2 girls, however I suspect that Mackenzie will hold up quite well with 3 brothers. Ebony will be 29 in October a few days after my birthday.

I've really enjoyed watching and quizzing our friends about their parenting styles on this trip. Ebony is a professional, building off of years of experience in daycare centers back in high school, and is a natural mother--a mix of tenderness, respect, and discipline. Some of her best advice:

• Bedtime is at 7:00pm (7:30pm at the latest). This means she has cooked the kids' dinner, bathed them, and they've said prayers and are in bed. This leaves time for date night every night, which may consist of a separate grown up dinner for her and Alfred, or a movie night. These guys have the best nighttime ritual by far. After the children all say their prayers in unison, their silly parents breakout into a medley of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and other nursery school jams, complete with some soul clapping, beat-boxing, and an old school remix twist! It is the funniest and most unexpected thing to hear your friends doing through a baby monitor. The rendition ends with a short countdown of 3, 2, 1! And I promise you those kids stay in their beds and are down for the night. There are no fits, or manipulations to make mommy stay in the bed with them until they fall asleep, there are no tears. Only the Von Trapp family children could deliver a more soothing night-night departure, although I prefer the hugs and kisses of my beautiful god kids over that crooning bunch any day. They understand and appreciate that mommy and daddy need their alone time too, which leads to the next piece of advice.



• Respect: She maintains that she loves her children but she is not their best friend. She respects them and in return they respect her, when she and Alfred speak they listen, they don't talk back, and they are great about making eye contact to let them know mommy and daddy mean business.



• Spankings: I have to say that they have the most well behaved children I've ever seen at such a young age. And while Ebony happily accepts that compliment she is quick to say that she's had to spank them in the past to let them know she means business. During our 3 day visit I witnessed one such spanking with Mackenzie the 2 year-old, but it was literally a pat on the diaper (I had smacked her harder when we were playing around) and there were no tears accompanying the conversation about why she needed to listen to what mommy and daddy asked her not to do. I can't even remember her offense, and Ham was oblivious to the fact that a "whooping" had occurred. This was particularly relieving for me, I was spanked as a child and happen to believe that this will be a part of my own parenting strategy. But the truth is I don't have the heart for it and the idea of having to spank a rebellious child brings up fears of scarring a little person for life, and breaking their "will to power" (more on that later). However, in watching the Johnsons I saw that a spanking doesn't have to be painful, its more about setting a context which establishes that the children don't want a spanking in order for them to self correct their behavior.



• Practice! Ebony is unyeilding in her desire to have me join the mommy club (and have us living in central Missouri), and truth be told I think that we are almost ready to be parernts. Right now I consider myself a Prospect, gathering information and best practices, rocking badges of baby spit up from borrowed little people. Until Ham and I are ready to be some amazing little peoples' mommy and daddy though, Ebony advocates a regular practice routine. Her parting gift to us was an Ortho Evra pregnancy calendar that allows me to identify my missed periods, initial OB workups, weight of the baby by the week, all the way to the due date. It's small enough to tote with us so I may consider bringing this accessory along throughout our travels, although the idea of conceiving while coated in deet and on malaria tablets is plenty of contraception for now.



• Spirituality: Even at the tender age of 2 years-old Zachi was able to throw his hands in the air and tell you where God and Jesus reside. Little Malachi often shares his own theories of God, and the world and how many good people there are in it. Mackenzie in her husky vibrato can softly recite her prayers before every meal (although not as clearly as her brothers yet). A strong relationship with God has always been the center of Ebony and Alfred's relationship, and early on the synergy there has been comforting to me. While at Xavier they attended Rev. Pat and Tom Watson's premarital classes at Watson Memorial, their classmates were Tyra and Kyshun Webster, Ham's former boss and one of his closest friends. The Watsons married Ebony and Alfred, I held Zachi in my arms when he was baptized in their sanctuary. Ham has his own separate relationship with the Watsons, and while he's nowhere near declaring Jesus as his personal Lord and savior, he respects them as spiritual and community leaders.

Part of this trip for me is the exploration of a practice that fills the void that growing up without a strong religious practice has left. I have always identified with Christianity, I've been baptized, attended church sporadically throughout my lifetime, more engaged at certain stages in life than others. It is important to me as a parent to help my children to establish their own relationship with a higher power, one that gives them compassion, peace, and orients their moral compass. Ham and I don't really have any practices in place that achieves this or grounds our relationship. The closest thing might be the distinctions we've gotten from doing the work of Landmark Education, and while it is completely secular, it really has enabled me to see the God in everyone particularly myself and my power to create my world. This year long adventure of ours is a total creation.

Photos

Hey y'all. We have uploaded more photos from our time in Zion National Park. Check them out at:

https://picasaweb.google.com/108557557174771901911/ZionNationalPark?authkey=Gv1sRgCJb2-YjNr4vSJA&feat=embedwebsite

Duwayne Burnside

After a nice long weekend in Dallas and a few days in New Orleans packing up some of what remains of our life there (and making a special trip to Louisiana Music Factory for some good New Orleans music), we were North Mississippi-bound again.


Four years ago, the Hollowells started building Foxfire Ranch on their property in Waterford, Mississippi. "A great place for a gathering," the sign says at the turnoff from Route 7 to Hamilton Chapel Road. It is lettered in red on a white background, a horse cantering in the center. As you get closer to the house, the signs become more bluesy. Finally there is a sly looking dark blue fox and the words, "Hill Country Blues" with an arrow pointing to the pavilion on a yard sign.

They host Sunday blues shows every weekend. As Annette says, "it is like the old juke joints, except you don't have to worry about knife fights." It seems the most they have to worry about is an old broke blues man trying to talk his way in and drink and eat barbecue for free. Many of them are heirs to the fathers of Hill Country blues - R.L. Burnside and Junior Kimbrough.

My last couple visits to Annette's parents have involved one of R.L.'s son's - Duwayne Burnside. Turns out he is about 45 years old. Yesterday he came through Foxfire with a young white girl who couldn't have been more than 19 and their 3 or 4 month old baby - Duwayne Burnside, Jr., III. No, that's not a typo. Presumably, there is another son of Duwayne's somewhere who is Duwayne Burnside, Jr., the second. I didn't prod for details, so my imagination filled in the gaps.

When I first met Duwayne, it was at the Hill Country Picnic in 2008 on Flick Ash's farm in Potts Camp, Mississippi. He tilted his head to the side and looked at the ground when he played his guitar. His eyes seemed cloudy. It seemed like he was possessed, perhaps with the assistance of herion or some sort of PCP. The way he looked and talked at Annette left me with the impression that he was a dirty old blues man. Stories about how the Burnside clan fights over what little is left of R.L.'s royalties only fed my distaste for Duwayne.

That Christmas of 2008 when my father-in-law was just starting moving Foxfire from family reunions to blues concerts, we bought him a guitar. It was nothing special, used, a black and white Fender Squire. But it was enough for him to learn on.

When we visited this past May, he told us Duwayne Burnside had opened the Burnside Cafe on Highway 310, about a mile down the road from Foxfire. He got a call one afternoon while we were there from Duwayne, asking him to swing by later that evening. "And Bill, can I borrow your guitar for a little while?" Bill Hollowell obliged.

About 9 o'clock that Friday night, Bill, Annie, Annette and I went the back way down Old Oxford Road to Highway 310. There was a marquis sign by the driveway, lit up with an arrow pointing up the road. No letters or words were anywhere to be found. There were three or four cars parked next to a metal building. We parked on the grass.

The four of us walked in to find a bar with seven stools, six of which were occupied. There was a fridge with a 30 pack of Budweiser in it and a hot plate on the counter behind the bar. People were gathered on both sides of the bar, drinking beer and corn liquor out of a Boone's Farms wine bottle. Duwayne was in the midst of a heated conversation with some of the older guys at the bar. So I was greeted by Driftwood. He's the only other white guy in the place and Duwayne's "business partner" in this endeavor, or so I am told. He is wearing a dirty white t-shirt with sleeves cut off and has a bit of a mullet.

After we get a few three-dollar Budweisers, I check out the rest of the place. There are two pool tables. One looks broken down, legs uneven, some rough spots on the felt, stains all over. And the second one isn't exactly brand new. There are booths on the walls. Two on one side before a door opens up to a storage shed. About four on the other side, faded orange benches and stained tables. All of it has five years of dust. A few chairs speckle the middle of the room. At the other end, under a working disco ball, is a drum set, a bass, two amps, and no guitar.

Annette and I start up a game of pool, after finding the wall of the table removed to access the balls with out paying fifty cents. Meanwhile, Bill gets his guitar to Duwayne. The band goes to the front and slowly each band member starts tinkering with his instrument. The drummer could sleep comfortably inside the bass drum. He is maybe 5 foot 2, 125 pounds. The bassist makes up for it.  He is 6 foot 2 and at least 220 pounds or so. He is a stately guy with a commanding presence. He is clean cut with new carpenter jeans and a collared shirt. They call him Pinky. And then there's Duwayne. When he plugs in the guitar, he gets a childish grin on his face from the time he starts tuning it. The glow lasts even after he puts the guitar down. He starts playing a riff and the bass and drums follow.

They stop midway through the song several times. Duwayne keeps insisting for a funkier drum beat at one transition. After several stops and starts for about ten minutes, the drum finds that funky beat. It is clear to everybody in the room that Duwayne's musical vision is brilliant, despite his cloudy eyes. Everybody, that is, except the folks at the bar, who are now distracted by rising tempers and voices. Apparently Driftwood, now quite drunk, is offended by a not-so-gentleman who refuses to pay three dollars for a Budweiser - at least not without giving drunken Driftwood a hard time about it. Duwayne shouts incomprehensibly at both of them and they tone it down.

Bill, Annie, Annette and I dust off a booth near the band and set to playing spades with a deck of cards we brought. We are a safe distance from the riff raff and close enough to the band to hear Duwayne sing, even though he doesn't have a microphone.

That evening and well through the weekend, we make fun of Bill Hollowell for lending out his guitar, prophesizing that he won't ever get it back.

When we came back three weeks later after our roadtrip West, I was surprised to find the guitar perched comfortably in the corner of the Hollowell's living room.

This Sunday's line up was the Davide House Band - Southern rock and blues. They opened and closed with Lynyrd Skynrd. House is an overweight baby-faced 21-year-old who looks like he spends his days bailing hay. He's got tattoos on both arms and a wardrobe of t-shirts with sleeves cut off. One leg of his jeans is half-tucked into his cowboy boots. He started the show in a white Holly Springs t-shirt on lead guitar and ended it in a red t-shirt on rhythm guitar. They call him De De.

Duwayne by that point was on lead guitar. In fact, by that point, Duwayne's three-man band had taken over the stage, the Davide House band's instruments, even their lighting set up. De De, however, was allowed to stay on stage. But he gave up his white Les Paul with a wah pedal to Duwayne, while his friend/uncle/sometimes back up singer videoed the whole thing with his iPhone. Apparently, Duwayne is De De's idol. Word is Duwayne just got back that day from the Chicago Blues Festival, where, according to Driftwood and a few others, he wowed the crowd. And he is doing just that again at Foxfire. Everybody is on their feet dancing. And that childish grin is back on his face as he holds some high guitar notes and mumbles Dust My Broom into the microphone.

The moral of this story: If you run a blues joint, it just may pay to lend a Burnside blues man your guitar.

Duwayne Burnside and just about anybody who is anybody is playing next weekend (June 24th and 25th) at the Hill Country Picnic, which for the first time, will be at Foxfire Ranch. That will be our last weekend in the South and you are all invited for the party of the summer! Details can be found at: www.northmississippihillcountrypicnic.blogspot.com

West Texas

West Texas scares me. The emptiness, the thunderstorm always on the horizon, the trucks rumbling at at all hours, the border patrol stops. Dallas seems like little reward for facing the ghosts of West Texas.

Road Signs

We got a late and hungover start out of Phoenix on Friday with a good portion of I-10 awaiting us for the next two days. I noticed the various road signs. Truck trailers proclaim, "America stops without trucks" under a picture of an 18-wheeler with a stylized American flag in tow. A green Arizona road sign declares in all caps to suggest importance, "RODEO NEXT EXIT." "Maintain your vehicle," Texas instructs in its didactic and self-important style. A highway construction warning sign seems to belong on Twitter rather than the roadside: "B SAFE NO B4 U GO." I am not clear what is warning us of, but appreciate the public service announcement. "Don't pick up hitchhikers. Correctional facility in the area," seems to be the most grim of the warnings.

And then there are the billboard updates on what our old friend Jesus is up to. "Jesus is coming." "Jesus saves." "Jesus lives." "Jesus is the answer." I silently thank the billboards for answering the question, "what is Jesus up to, anyways?"

Texas Canyon in Arizona provides one mile of huge rocks and boulders amidst a desert of sand and sage brush. A glowing New Mexico red sky lights the land and makes it feel other-worldy, presumably from a distant forest fire. And then the entrance to Texas on I-10: "El Paso 22, Beaumont 852." That is just like Texas, always bragging about its size. And a string of national parks and monuments, from Pipe Spring to Saguarro to Guadulupe Mountains, provide a new mystery or adventure just off the highway every hundred miles or so.

Places with crooked roads, I have learned, are far more interesting. Any reason that causes a road to wind - be it mountains, existing structures, ocean - is a good one. Windy roads are superior to straight roads. 852 miles of straight Texas interstate awaits.

Arizona

We left Zion National Park Thursday for a seven hour drive to Phoenix that would leave us with stiff legs and sore calves. Utah's desertscape gave way to one of the most beautiful four hours of driving I have ever seen--Fredonia to Marble Canyon, northern Arizona. The road climbs about five thousand feet from barren beige desert to the thick ponderosa pines of the Kaibab National Forest. Occasional vistas reveal what seems to be hundreds of miles of undisturbed pine. Only occasionally are there bald patches from fire, making it look like the Kaibab underwent chemo and is recovering.

The thick pines provide a stark contrast to the red sandstone cliffs on the other side of the mountain. What took nearly 30 miles to climb takes only 4 or 5 to descend to a red desert landscape. The pines of Kaibab and sandstone cliffs form three walls around a basin 20 miles wide and 100 miles long or so. Presumably the southern horizon disappears into the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Towns dotting the perimeter of the basin capture one's imagination--Cliff Dwellers, Vermillion Cliffs, Marble Canyon, Gap. And the show culminates with the canyon. Amidst the red sandstone Vermillion Cliffs that rise 1,000 feet or more above, sits the the Navajo Bridge over Marble Canyon. 494 feet down is the beautiful blue green water of the Colorado River. The cliffs go down and up! Several older Navajo women occupy small stalls on the southeast side of the bridge seeking to sell jewelry and white clay figurines speckled with black horse hair to the tourists that route 89A brings, most of whom are en route elsewhere.

As we continue South on route 89, the red landscape turns beige again, then black briefly, then green as the mountains and forests of Flagstaff approach. It occurs to me that Flagstaff would be an interesting place to live. I had dog-eared it in my mind maybe a decade ago after my college roommates, Derek and Allen, spent a New Year's somewhere around there. There's a black and white photo that is little more than a silhouette of them on a cliff side on that page in my mind. Unfortunately, we were en route to Phoenix. All I got of Flagstaff was a cool breeze, the smoke of a forest fire, $3.69 a gallon gas and enough mountains and cliffs for my imagination to explore for weeks and months to come. Enough to keep the Northern Arizon page dog-eared a while longer. More mountains and forests silhoutted by the setting sun decorated our drive on I-17 south to Phoenix. Other places that capture my imagination -- Prescott, Sedona (energy vortex!?) -- would have to wait for another trip, much the same as hiking the Zion Narrows back in Utah.

We pulled into Phoenix earlier than expected, where Annette's friend Jason Bowers greeted us warmly in the parking garage of his apartment complex on Van Buren in downtown Phoenix. We talked of our travels and aspirations and washed off three days of backcountry Zion dirt before hearding out for food and drink. Jason quickly excused Phoenix from our list of potential places to live, expressing his disappointment with the city that has now been his home for five months. Long island iced tea was the only drink I could find appetizing and affordable on the menu. Annette and Jason spent dinner reminiscing about their shared experiences bartending at The Premiere in Memphis five or more years ago. We will save the stories for another time and format. Suffice it to say they are tales of Memphis' best.

While they talked, I ate and drank until the long islands set my head aspin. We moved on to the Rose and Crown pub where I switched to Guinness and the conversation moved to how to live a life social change and happiness and fulfillment. I espoused my long island iced opinions, got some amens and arguments. The details of the conversation are blurred, but my opinion is still clear, as it was before the conversation. I look forward to conversations and experiences that leave me with a different opinion than the one I started with. Travel should help me loosen my grip on my opinions. But to espouse it again, my opinion on the subject of living a fulfilling life of contribution goes something like this. Life is about making a unique and creative contribution in the world while maximizing one's own happiness and fulfillment. While the U.S. may have one of the most well-developed non-profit sectors in the world, Annette and I are interested in being in it in a different way, one that doesn't put non-profit leaders on a constant hamster wheel to secure more funding and keep funders happy. Funders often don't understand or appreciate the challenges of operating a successful and sustainable non-profit organization that really makes an impact. The ticket seems to be independent wealth built through an avenue that contributes to society and brings happiness. This journey is in part about Annette and I identifying our next expression of that life.

Los Angeles

We reached Dick and Val's place in Los Angeles in time to drop off our stuff, which now included some circa 1990 Dynastar skis, which we were relocating from my brother's garage in Crested Butte to the ceiling of the Fox Den at Foxfire Ranch in North Mississippi. The skis left no room in the back seat for people, which was going to be needed to go to dinner with my uncle Adam. After a Sierra Nevada and my first introduction to Addy Bell, we were on our way. Now I hear that there are ugly babies, but I have never met one. At five months, Addy is not only beautiful, but one of the calmest, good-natured babies I have met. She has her dad's blue eyes (and big thighs) and her mom's peaceful demeanor. We spent three days there and I don't think I heard the baby cry once.

Time with my uncle Adam required a bit more fortitude. He is my mom's younger brother by nine years, whom I haven't seen since 2004. He suffers from Parkinson's and Asperger's, although the diagnoses seem to periodically shift. I hadn't seen him since my mom died 15 months ago, almost to the day. My dad has been talking regularly on the phone with him, doing what he can to support him from New York. I was surprised both at my uncle's clarity of mind and his poor physical health.

He led us to Junior's, a Jewish deli with a disappointing pastrami on rye sandwich (the universal measure of quality for all Jewish delis). He ordered the Manhattan clam chowder and lapped it up while Annette and I struggle for conversation starters. As I fumbled for questions, Adam apologized for his one-wordiness, "sorry I don't have better answers to your questions."

He told me my smile reminds him of Vicki's (my mom's) and his face broke down like a two year-old who just fell down hard on the floor and realized it hurts. Before the tears flowed, he recovered, "I suppose this is no place to cry. I will save that for later." Once he had told me I sit at the table like my mother, I was able to muscle out a question that got some traction, "What do you do in your primal therapy sessions?" That led to a good 20 minutes of conversation with plenty of branches to talk down.

By the time we left him at his place on Crescent Heights in West L.A., we had committed our Memorial Day Monday to helping him unpack. He lives ina  room witha mattress on the floor and about 18 boxes spread across the floor. As we learned on Monday after seven hours of unpacking, decorating, cleaning, and setting up his phonograph, 85% of the boxes are 45s, 33s, CDs and cassette tapes. His collection is incredible - from Harry Belafonte records to Dirty Dozen Brass Band CDs to NWA's "Express Yourself" cassette single.

The weekend was punctuated by an L.A. crawfish boil in which LA folks ate crawfish like they were from Louisiana, and a Mary J. Blige and Prince concert at the Forum that kept me on my feet the whole evening. Prince is an incredible entertainer. He had Maceo Parker sit in on the sax and combined Hendrix-esque guitar with Michael Jackson dance moves and Lady Gaga stage theatrics. There were several costume changes - all of which included Prince's signature silk blouse/kimono/cape and a few sets of high heels and ample sequins and sparkles. We also got in a great barbecue with old friends and new friends. And a punch of fruit picking and fresh juice from backyard fruit trees - lemons, grapefruits, oranges. There were great visits with Dick and Val and Addy Bell and Sara and Ramin and Etan. And the periods at the end of the sentences each day were nights on Dick's porch sipping Maker's Mark on the rocks in rocking chairs. Porch sitting for hours. Dick has kept plenty of Nashville as he builds his family in South Pasadena.

We are having trouble posting photos to the blog. For photos, visit https://picasaweb.google.com/hsimonsjones/RoadTripWestMayAndJune2011?authkey=Gv1sRgCIOdr5XuxLbw0gE&feat=email#

Coming Home

At some point in a journey, you are no longer going out. You are coming home. All we can hope is that the territory feels new all the way to our driveway and doorstep. After two days of backpacking in Zion National Park, we are as far into the wilderness as we will get this trip. Tomorrow we hike back out of Kolob Canyons to return to the interstates of America, and in particular, Texas.

Enough of a breeze blows up the canyon to keep the flies away temporarily. As we prepare to head back east, I reflect on our trip west. There are lots of thinks I never did before, which I think is a sweet ingredient - like sugar or butter - to any journey, perhaps life in general. I learned all of the fancy settings on my new camera, held Adeline Bell Meyer, shook my booty at a Prince concert, traveled new trails, new roads, towns and cities. I saw Etan Medifar crawl for the first time. I talked shop with my borther about his mountain guiding business while helping him sort gear and clean out the "Guide Shack." The Guide Shack is an old miner's shack, maybe 100 years old, about 150 square feet, just off the main strip in Crested Butte. A lifelong bagel lover, he has a barter exchange set up with the bagel place, Izzy's, next door. He gets free bagels. When he racks up enough, a few times a year, he guides the owner of Izzy's out into the mountains. I need to make him a "will guide for bagels" or "fueled by bagels" bumper sticker. It was good to see my brother in his home. It had been nearly six years since I had visited him in Colorado. He is a business owner now and one of the best professional mountain guides around. Used to be, I could keep up with him, but 13 years of him living in the mountains and me in New Orleans has left me in the flatland dust. Despite the physical distance, we share a love for the mountains and outdoors, a laid back attitude and a Simons-Jones way of doing just about everything, as Annette has pointed out. I miss my borther and want a little more of the life he lives (and him along with it) in my life.

After Colorado, we continued west for an overnight stop in Vegas. Having spent only about 8 waking hours there, and all of them in the M Resort and Casino in Henderson, NV, my impression was something like this. Speedway, strip club, casino, resort, casino, resort, reminds me of Disney Land, who decided to build a city in the middle of the desert, topless pool Tuesdays, sex sells, so do all-you-can-eat buffets and people drive across the Mojave desert to get there. My Hyundai groaned at the drive, both directions. But Vegas had the nicest $95 hotel room I have ever stayed in and a nice long brunch with Tom Bailey and Jennifer Henderson that made it all worth it. We talked about Vegas - wherever we meet family and friends at home, we talk about the place where we live, just as people do when they visit New Orleans. We talked of work aspirations and travel. We had one of those conversations that just has you lose track of time. By the time we looked at a clock, it was 5 minutes to 1 in the afternoon and we were L.A. bound.