This is the End...

5 days.
1,565 miles

The Milwaukee skyline appeared as the Random Road Trippers made their way to their final destiation. Weary after days of travel and conversation running thin, the goodbyes were short, but the bond of the Random Road Trip had now been forever forged between them.

From the dirty streets of the French Quater, Blues legends in Memphis, back roads of Kentucky, and speedways in Indiana, the road trippers had managed to see much of this great country.

They also did a pretty admirable job of eating their way through it as well. The following is a list of the better establishments they encountered on their trip:

1. Felix's Restaurant & Oyster Bar - 739 Iberville St, New Orleans, LA
2. Cajun Seafood - 1479 N Claiborne Ave, New Orleans, LA
3. Burge's Hickory Smoked Turkeys & Hams - 510 Spruce St, Lewisville, AR
4. Boulevard Bread Co - 120 Commerce St, Little Rock, AR
5. Charles Vergos' Rendezvous - 52 S 2nd St, Memphis, TN
6. The Arcade Restaurant - 540 S Main St, Memphis, TN
7. Greener Groundz Irish Pub - 871 Broadway Ave, Bowling Green, KY
8. Nick's Chili Parlor - 2621 Lafayette Rd, Indianapolis, IN
9. Lincolnwood Lou Malnati's - 6649 North Lincoln Avenue, Lincolnwood, IL

The Beet, the Boot and the Blonde have finished their trip, but this is the end of just one Random Road Trip - there will be many more to come.

Leaning Tower of Pizza???

As the sun was slowly setting on the final day of the trip, the Random Road Trippers had two destinations left. As they pulled off the freeway, for a second it looked like they had somehow been transported to Italy, but the FIB heckling the Arizona license plates on Beet's car quickly made it clear that this Leaning Tower of Pisa was located in Chicago. Well techincally it is the Leaning Tower of Niles, located in Niles, IL, but who can keep all of those northern suburbs straight?

At half of the size of it's more famous Italian relative, the Tower of Niles was orginally constructed in 1934 to hold water for the recreational pools built for the Ilg Hot Air Electric Ventilating Company of Chicago. Soon after it was donated to their local YMCA, who now maintains it.

After the valiant effort to straighten the tower failed, the road trippers decided to tempt the heart attack fairy one more time by heading to one of the great deep-dish pizzerias in Chicago: Lou Malnati's. After eating their fill one last time, the road trippers headed back on the road to Sweet Home Milwaukee!

Full Throttle Randomness

Start your day with bourbon and you'll end up at the racetrack. That's what the Random Road Trippers learned living like Southern moonshiners today, as we concluded our progression through adolescent, testosterone-filled escapades at the only logical destination: the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

A place where pre-WWII racers topped 150 mph on the original brick-surfaced track and modern Indy car drivers round corners at 220 mph. Execpt for a few symbolic rows of bricks at the finish line, the asphalt now covers the rest of the original 2.5 mile track - built in 1909 as a place for car manufacturers to test their mechanical creations.

To satisfy our need for speed, we took a 5-minute victory lap in a nimble tour shuttle bus, climbing to speeds of an astonishing 35 mph. We could have shattered our PR before we left the grounds if only Jason had listened to Ben. When is it a good idea to listen to Ben's suggestions, you may ask? Well, when you want to gain access to a world-renowned racetrack, max out your Honda's engine, and gain rights to a small Marion County holding cell - that's when.

As usual, Jason tuned out the Siren of Cedarburg, and instead directed us toward the museum filled with old Indy cars, ornate trophies, and racing legends of olde. While in need of a serious update, the museum and racetrack tour were a great way for the Trippers to live out one of life's most important fantasies. Fast cars; check. Now where are the loose women?

Nothing Starts the Day Like Bourbon

After a night filled with country roads and delicious pizza the Random Road Trippers awoke to a fierce rainstorm. Although it would have been nice to wait for the weather to clear, the schedule simply would not allow it.

As the sheets of rain caused near white out conditions, one could only be reminded of the near miss of a tornado during the first random road trip. The only difference was instead of Beets driving Ben's car, Ben was now driving Beet's.

After thirty minutes of hydro-planing, the road trippers could use a stiff drink, luckily the Jim Beam Distillery was next on their list!

With quite the southern belle as a tour guide, the road trippers learned the storied history of both the company and the family. The highlight by far was the trip into one of the aging warehouses. As your eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, a bourbon paradise slowly came into focus. Thousands of barrels stacked seven stories high surrounded you. And the smell alone most likely raised each of the roadtrippers BA by a few points.

The tour was smart, because they knew the only thing that would coax the roadtrippers out of the warehouse would be the opportunity to sample some of this fine product, and so that is what they did.

Not to some, drinking bourbon before 10 AM may sound a little distasteful, but don't knock it before you try it!


As each of the roadtrippers carefully carried their armloads of "souvenirs" to the car, they took one last deep breath of the bourbon soaked air and headed to their next locale.

It’s a Bird. It’s a Plane, No it’s Metropolis!

Today’s theme focused on the pleasures of youth, and not to be out done by fire trucks and trains, Beet’s next location stayed in theme. Although the Metropolis of the comics looked more like Brooklyn, this small town on the southern tip of Illinois did Superman the right way.

Billed as the “Home of Superman” this small town has fully embraced all things super. Heading into town we passed the super museum, the super gas station and the super grocery store, until right in the middle of the town square a 25 foot statue of Superman appeared.

As the three road trippers soaked it all in, a 25ft statue of Superman took command of his stage. After doing our best Superman impressions we headed over the gift store/ museum. Although the museum would have cost us a few more singles, we knew the real action was taking in the collectibles for sale. If you ever wanted to experience the Comic Book Man’s shop in real life, this is the place to go.

After doing some shopping and getting some “super” gifts for both Yesh and Adam we headed back to the highway, because like the Pony Express we had many more stops to make!

All Aboard!

You've probably heard The Ballad of Casey Jones, but do you know the man behind the song? And even if you have heard of the lad, how does the legend of this locomotive engineer from the 19th Century Ohio River Valley make it to all the way to vaudeville, and into children's hearts even today?

Well the Random Road Trippers - a curious lot - needed to know more about such an American travel icon. And of course we wanted to see some big trains to match the big fire engines we saw in the morning.

Let's just get right to the point: John Luther Jones was a bad ass. As a boy in Jackson, TN he knew he wanted to ride the rails, and at the age of 15 he got his first job with the railroad. In his early years, he often claimed Cayce, KY as his home town and the name Casey stuck. By the young age of 26 he was promoted to engineer, and quickly gained notoriety for his punctuality, recognizable whistle cadence, and his need to quote time to the second from his pocket watch.

While a great engineer and a local legend along his routes, Casey gained immortality the evening of April 30, 1900 when his locomotive - carrying passengers cars and mail sacks - collided with a malfunctioning freight train stalled in his path. How could such a gifted and reliable engineer make such a horrible mistake, we asked? Ben suggested that he was an arrogant showboat, but Beets quickly dispatched such notions citing the fact that brazen behavior is a virtue.

Turns out Casey had to pull a double that day after the return trip engineer called in sick, and by the time the No. 382 train left the station they were a couple hours behind schedule. Not one to ever admit defeat - even on a foggy damp evening, - Casey was determined to arrive on schedule speeding along the route at speeds up to 100 mph. (aka Jason Lusk)

Only a few clicks from the destination and making up serious time (now only 15 MINUTES behind schedule), Casey had the train traveling at 75 mph when he spotted the stalled train ahead. He told his fire man, Sim Webb to jump and save himself. In the remaining seconds, Casey sounded the horn and pulled on the brake with all his might, slowing the train down to about half its speed. The locomotive crashed, tipped on its side and Casey was killed instantly. Miraculously, no one else was seriously injured in the accident.

While the actual crash garnered little national attention, fellow railroad man Wallace Saunders wrote a lyrical ballad to commemorate his friends love for the rails and his fateful last night. While inaccurate as all hell, the song was incorporated into a vaudeville act and a run near the top of the music charts, immortalizing Casey Jones as America's railman.

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

“At the age of six I wanted to be a cook. At seven I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.”

- Salvador Dali

Unlike Dali, the Random Roadtrippers never wanted to be cooks or Napoleon. Nor did we ever aspire to have crazy date-wax mustaches or consider paradise “lying naked in the sun covered with flies like a piece of carrion.

We did, however, all once aspire to becoming firemen. And what boy doesn’t? Firemen are big, brave, brawny, and drive awesome red trucks.

However, women take note. For most boys, the dream doesn’t die when we reach maturity. For we 20 and 30somethings, the lionization of firefighters post-9/11 is a recent and deep-set memory. And every time our girlfriends giggle about “walking past the fire station,” we cringe a little because we could all have been just as awesome if we’d just chased the dream.

That perhaps explains why – in the city of Elvis and Civil Rights – Ben chose the Fire Museum of Memphis as Day 5’s first stop. Located in downtown Memphis, the museum occupies two buildings of an old fire station. It is, also, as we soon discovered, exceedingly popular with school groups. Want to imagine the scene for yourself. Take 50 seven-year-olds, 200 pixie sticks, Barney the Dinosaur, combine and stir. The kids were so out of control that a kindly fireman suggested that perhaps we might enjoy the exhibits on the next floor until the group cleared out. Though, in fairness, Ben did a little shrieking of his own when we found Ol’ Billy, the life-size animatronic talking fire safety horse.

When in Memphis, go to the Fire Museum. They have fire trucks. They have toy fire trucks. They have a fireman’s pole that you can slide down. All nourishment for the inner boy. And after a thoroughly grown up evening the night before, eating racks of dry rubbed ribs and taking in a Beale Street blues act fresh off an appearance on the Voice, it was just the five-alarm call to our soul that we needed.

Down On Past the Old Mill

After a quick stop for lunch at the Boulevard Bread Company, home to the best pastrami in the state, Beets navigated the way through the streets of North Little Rock. As we continued to wind our way through the scenic neighborhood, a small reservoir opened to the right. Finally in front of a large stone wall, Jason was told to pull the car to a stop.

Still not exactly sure where Beets had led us, we walked through the wrought iron gate which revealed a scene half Lewis Carroll, half Splash Mountain, known as The Old Mill.

Nestled in one of end of the reservoir, a replica of an old mill stood, surrounded by oddly structured wood bridges and seats. Upon closer examination, what we thought was wood turned out to actually be made of cement, designed to look like wood by the secretive artist Dionicio Rodriguez. Known for mixing the coloring, bonding agents and other products in the trunk of his car (and would slam it shut if anyone came near) , his technique is so detailed you can identify the exact species of tree he was replicating.

The mill, although not a replica of any particular mill, is meant to represent the many mills that once dotted the Arkansas landscape. Surrounding the mill, two small footbridges allow visitors to wander through the manicured landscape, interspersed with Rodriguez’s work. Buttressing the far side of the park, a larger bridge crosses the water. The unusually high crown, along with stalactites hanging from the bottom gives it a very surreal look.

You may not know it, but you two have probably seen this mill, for it is thought to be the last remaining structure from the 1939 movie Gone with the Wind. It appeared in the opening scenes!

After getting our fill of this quirky spot, we once again headed back to road, heading east towards our next destination.

Spilsh, Splash!

Hope springs eternal in a quaint resort town nestled in the rural central hills of Arkansas, aptly named Hot Springs for the warm water emanating from the mountain side. Oddly enough, it is also the hometown of one William Jefferson Clinton - thoroughly discussed in our last post.

For centuries this forested oasis has been a place to relax the body and rejuvenate the soul by hob knobbing with your fellow man and woman. In pre-European settlement days, Choctaw and Cherokee tribes formally agreed to lay down arms in the valley to jointly partake in the healing powers of the warm water. Similarly, Hot Springs was rife with titans of organized crime in the early 20th Century, and stood as a neutral resort town for both Chicago and New York mob families. Sounds like a perfect spot for the Random Road Trippers to cleanse after fully immersing themselves in the comparatively sinful Louisiana lifestyle.

Known for its medicinal properties, the water gurgles from the ground at a sultry 140 degrees year round. The water is warmed by the radioactive decay of minerals deep in the ground and emerges 4,000 years after it fell on the valley as rain. Where the creek once flowed in the 1800s on the north side of town now stands a row of nearly a dozen ornate, Art Deco bath houses. Each has its own style - generally borrowed from a different European region - but as a group they stand testament to adoration for European decadence, elite American leisure, and the burgeoning medical treatment practices of the early 1900s.

Recognizing the region's cultural and medical importance and potential for private exploitation, local and national leaders proclaimed Hot Springs as one of the earliest reserved parkland in the United States, and it has been managed by federal authorities since the 1830s.

Open for tours, the Random Road Trippers couldn't resist trying out every amenity and room at Fordyce House. First to take the leap, Jason swattled himself in heavy linens and spent 45 minutes in the steam chamber proclaiming he had found his, "one true spirit animal, which shall guide me to…" before passing out in a heap of euphoria.

And in less than 25 minutes Ben had recorded and tagged every peephole peering into the woman's chambers. While momentarily amazed at speedy rundown, even someone with the low morals of Ben, he soon confessed his secret that while touring Bill Clinton’s bedroom in Hope, he had discovered a small notebook stashed by our former president in his old roll top desk that outlined each one of Billy’s favorite spots.

After being disappointed that the nude outdoor deck was no longer operational, Beets decided to instead try out some of the premier electro-mechanco relaxation devices known to the early 20th century. If you thought his eyebrows stood out before, you should see them now!

Did Jason choose this location for its healing powers, famous architecture or did he want to continue the lovefest for the 42nd President? One can only guess, but the road trippers were relaxed and ready to go on to their next destination.

A Place Called Hope

Say what you will about President William Jefferson Clinton. Orator. Playboy. Presider over the greatest economic expansion in American history. Disgraceful symbol of presidential excess. You cannot deny, though, that he personifies the American dream. His story is what Americans want our story to be. And he captured that aspiration in his 1992 nomination acceptance speech:

Somewhere at this very moment, another child is born in America. Let it be our cause to give that child a happy home, a healthy family, a hopeful future. Let it be our cause to see that child reach the fullest of her God-given abilities. Let it be our cause that she grow up strong and secure, braced by her challenges, but never, never struggling alone; with family and friends and a faith that in America, no one is left out; no one is left behind.

Let it be our cause that when she is able, she gives something back to her children, her community, and her country. And let it be our cause to give her a country that's coming together, and moving ahead -- a country of boundless hopes and endless dreams; a country that once again lifts up its people, and inspires the world.

Let that be our cause and our commitment and our New Covenant.

I end tonight where it all began for me: I still believe in a place called Hope.

“Hope,” in that instance, was a double entendre. It referred to our collective hope that Americans’ best days are still ahead of them, but it also referred to Bill Clinton’s humble boyhood home of Hope, a modest railroad junction town in southwest Arkansas.

The Random Roadtrippers pulled into Hope, Arkansas around 8:30 Monday night. We found a Best Western and unpacked. Then we took turns making up excuses – an evening constitutional, a phone call – to spend a half hour or so walking in the 55-degree pleasant evening air. We’d had dinner at Burge’s Smoked Hams and Turkeys in Lewisville, and we all looked a good 5 months pregnant with barbecue bloat. Burge’s has locations in Lewisville and Little Rock, and if you ever have the opportunity you should go. They cook up a mean Smoked Anything, and the ribs will have you sucking every last morsel of meat off the bones. Plus they’ll ship anywhere in the country.

Hope in the 1950s was a place of working class families making modest postwar livings. Other men of humble origins have occupied the oval office – Barack Obama comes to mine – but none have origins quite so humble as Bill’s. Tragedy struck early in the future president’s life when his alcoholic father widowed his mother Virginia in a car accident. Soon after Virginia decided to attend nursing school in New Orleans, leaving Bill in the care of his loving but stern grandparents.

That first home, Bill Clinton’s boyhood home and grandparents’ house, was our first stop Tuesday morning. A modest 1917 two-story country home next to the railroad tracks and in a now ramshackle neighborhood, the brand new National Park property (dedicated in 2011) is an easy place to miss. The visitors’ center has an unassuming gate off of a broken sidewalk, and two lonely park rangers occupy the sparsely furnished space. The upside, though, is that you get a very nice, very personal tour.

Our tour guide, a young African-American park ranger named Charles with a laugh just like Jay-Z’s seemed to have a genuine affection for the 42^nd president. And that’s a good thing. Ben and Jason have been on a sort of Bill Clinton kick lately, following PBS’s recent American Experience documentary. The man may not have been very good at keeping it in his pants, but he was one heck of a politician. And after 12 years of ho hum or negative economic growth it’s kind of hard for anyone who came of age during the 90s not to feel a little nostalgic for him.

Plus there’s the unmistakable fact that Bill Clinton’s grandparents’ home looks and smells an awful lot like our grandparents’ homes: the same outdated furniture and wall paper, the 1950s layout, the creaky wooden stairs. I defy you to walk directly from a tricked out urban loft condo with a big granite kitchen island and massive entertainment center into a home like that. Then tell me where you feel more relaxed. Me, I’ll take the yellowed pages of a few youth novels and a few old tin toy trucks on Grandma’s carpet.

It will be interesting to see what happens to the Bill Clinton Boyhood Home in the next few years. Will the visitor’s center get better displays than the cheesy vinyl popup tradeshow graphics that presently reside there? Will the grounds get better landscaping than the house’s weed-overrun law? Will the Park Service buy Vince Foster’s boyhood home, now sitting dilapidated, an eyesore, next door? Will it get better neighbors than the used car lot across the street and the farm supply store around the way? Time will tell. Us, we tend to believe that, like so many low points in Bill Clinton’s career, 2012 is the beginning of a renaissance for this weathered corner of Hope, Arkansas. If the Comeback Kid has anything to say about it, we believe in a place called Hope.

Every Man a King, but No One Wears a Crown

This was the iconic slogan used by Huey Long in his first successful bid to become Louisiana's Governor. But, if you thought he was the only colorful character in Louisiana's history, you would be quite mistaken. Nestled in the heart of the small town of Winnfield, LA ( home to three governors) is the Louisiana Political Museum and Hall of Fame.

Although it was hard to distinguish which politicians were in the actual Hall of Fame, rows of glass cabinets lined the walls, with each space profiling a notable Louisiana politico, such as the aforementioned Huey Long and his brother Earl, the Landrieu's (Both father and daughter), James Carville, Charlie Cook and Harry Connick (the senior, not the junior).

Some of the more memorable artifacts included:

• Rattlesnake boots and belts, worn by a State Senator
• Huey Long's golf clubs and dining room table
• The eye patch from a six-gun slinging, horse riding sheriff
• Earl Long's speaker-wagon (Pretty sure the inspiration of Blues-mobile)
• James Carville's business card reading "Pamphleteer and Raconteur"

This museum also is in the running for most well-worded placard:

Earl Long: ...but the campaign took a toll, as he began drinking heavily and dating strippers..

After a quick photo-op, we were off on the road again, with Ben navigating the way.

Here Gator, Gator, Gator

As we came up'on the outskirts of St. Martinville on a worn pea gravel country road, Jason toll'd us ta "keep a keen eye for a blue truck wit a gray sign." A country mile later thar stood the truck, fitted with the as-advertized "Swamp Tours" sign.

Our boat cap'n and guide was an supremely knowledgeable fellow named Butch. A Southern man, Butch had only nice things to say about northern Wisconsin where he lived for a couple years in the '90s. He said he'd seen nough snow to last him a lifetime however, and now has a baowl taking people 'round his favorite stomp'n grounds on Lake Martin in a 24-foot Louisiana crawfish skiff.

Thar wasn't a queshun 'bout the swamp Butch wasn't fit to answer, and I doubt we missed a single swamp creature due to his sharp eye. We tallied damn nea 20 aligators (from babies to 10 feet long), dozens of fowl (including giant blue heron, white egrets, several cormorant vryties, arsynth), turtles, snakes, and bugs. The noon-day sun shown through the groves of cypress trees and most cold-blooded an'mals was taking the opp'tunity to sunbathe while the get'en was good.

We learned about just about every plant and animal we saw, heard about the 20,000 pairs of mating birds that 'rive in the spring, got a look at some stately duck blinds constructed in the water (which are deeded as private property on a public lake), and got a lesson on the difference between a swamp and a bayou (genrly, bayou being the deeper channel that transports flood waters, and the swamp being the outlying area that floods).

In a couple hours we circumscribed the full lake and were astonished at the intimacy we got sitting right on the water, and depth of information Butch shared about his ecosystem. If you find yourself near St. Marysville and would enjoy a nice spring day on water, head on out and see Butch at the best dang'd swamp tour around.

You Boys Ain't From Around Here, Are You?

Plantation belles. Southern gentlemen. Cotillions. Slavery. Plantations conjure the South’s most graceful images and disgraceful history. Nothing on the Random Roadtrip is predestined, but I don’t think anyone gasped in surprise when Ben made our first stop the Houmas Plantation.

One of the region’s largest, wealthiest and, in more recent times, most visited and most photographed sugar estates, the Houmas Plantation is now owned by one Kevin Kelly.

We arrived just before 8:00 p.m., in time for the last tour. Mr. Kelly and his dogs Grace and Sugar Baby, who live in the old mansion, were just getting home. Our tour actually startled them. I couldn’t help wondering about this man, a kind and intelligent looking man with healthy cheeks, a jolly round belly and reading glasses hanging around his neck. I did a little homework and found out that Kelly, a native of New Orleans, is president of a company called Port Services that warehouses a great deal of the coffee entering the United States. What a gracefully old school way to make a fortune.

Mr. Kelly is less famous, though, than the house’s canine residents, especially the elder dame of the manor, Grace. In 2003, Kelly staged a publicity stunt to mark the plantation’s reopening to tours. In an elegant garden ceremony, Princess Grace (Kelly, naturally) wed the handsome Dutch labrador King Sam. ABC News and CNN both covered the event. Now a widow, Grace has aged as gracefully as any fine plantation mistress. Mr. Kelly gave us a moment to wish her hello and rub her belly.

As an old building, the mansion is every bit as elegant as other old buildings of the 18^th and 19^th centuries. Mount Vernon. Monticello. They all have the same historic curiosities: the bric-a-brac, the curiously low dining room tables, the perilously high four poster beds and the fine mirrors distorted with age.

The Houmas Plantation, though, is a living museum – home to Esquire’s 7^th best restaurant in the United States and Mr. Kelly’s home. Kelly has good taste and one hell of a private art collection. Turn around in the dining room, and you’ll spot an original Gaugin: an unsigned painting of the artist’s Tahitian mistress on Tahitian wood. Outside in one of the manicured garden’s pavilions is a Chillui chandelier. The plantation has all of the 19^th century charm one expects, but plenty of more recent attractions to surprise and delight the visitor who knows a little about art.

And the guide, George, was every bit as charming as you could hope. He casually dropped references to the “War of Southern Independence” like the best of them, and he had a fun anecdote about very little artifact in the house. All one had to do was ask. When one fellow tour goer asked about the status of house slaves (versus field slaves), all George had to do was point to the “Uncle Tom” painting hanging on the wall behind her. George also had a few thought provoking facts to share. This student of history was well aware that the Emancipation Proclamation did not free the slaves. (The 13^th Amendment did, which the Southern States were forced to ratify in exchange for readmission to the Union.) I did not know that parishes like the Houmas Plantation’s were allowed to keep their slaves until 1872, a reward for voting against secession.

After the guided house tour and Louisiana history lesson, George encouraged us to continue traversing the beautifully landscaped gardens, peppered with gazebos, fountains, flower and herb plots, and ponds. While dark, the gardens and live oaks allowed us to bask in the charm of a crisp southern spring evening.

Baton Rouge had few to none non-chain, cockroach-free lodging options which prompted our stay at the Magnuson Hotel (no presumed relation to world’s strongest man, Magnús Ver Magnússon). While we considered attending the U.S. Bowling Congresses Bowling Championship, being held that evening in Baton Rouge, we intelligently resigned to a quiet evening at the hotel, looking forward to our first hangover free morning together.

New Orleans - Our First Impression

This picture encapsulates our 24 hours in New Orleans:

More details to come...

Houston – At Least We Aren’t in Milwaukee

It seems the travel gods have taken a liking to the idea of a random road trip and have decided to play along. After one of the mildest winters in Wisconsin history, the first major snow fall of the season decided to coincide exactly with time of our departing flight, making the first night’s adventure a little different then anticipated.

As heavy, wet snow covered the trees and roads , original RRT’er Lish provided the transportation for the first leg of our trip. She deftly navigated her way through the storm to drop Jason and me off at the airport, wishing us all of the luck – which we would be definitely needing.

As the departures board slowly turned to red, we remained hopeful. Although no plane was at our assigned gate our flight continued to stay On Schedule. The snow grew heavier and still no plane, but no further information was forthcoming and the board mocked us – continuing to say On Schedule. We now knew we were trapped between knowing our flight was at least delayed, but having to stick near the gate, instead of the bar, to await more word.

At last an iced over plane appeared through the snowy fog. A blast of cold swept through the terminal as a new group of stranded passengers joined our vigil. At last an announcement was made! Our flight was to begin boarding – and only 30 minutes late! Giving us even more hope was the sweet twang of Texas accents coming from the pilot and crew. We both knew the last place they wanted to be was in the heart of a snowstorm. Seats were shuffled and optimism was still coming from the cockpit, but after forty-five minutes, fortunes changed and we were lead back to the gate.

Checking our timetable and with the weather improving, there still was a chance we could make our connection in Houston, but that window was closing quickly. The window soon slammed on our fingers as we were told the runway would be shut for plowing for 20 minutes, but we shouldn’t worry because we would be deicing for at least 35.

After the plane’s long rinse, we were at last in the air, but this is when we realized packing some food might have been a smart idea. Between the two of us we only had a package of gum a Caribbean rum sampler pack and a shot of scotch to supply some subsistence.

Saving the scotch for more desperate times, we both settled in with our Cuba Libres and cheered to at least not being in Milwaukee.

After the three-hour flight we arrived in the desolate Houston airport and checked with the gate agent. Although Ben was booked on a morning flight, Jason wasn’t scheduled to leave until 4:30 PM, with all earlier flights booked solid. This was disappointing, but hey – at least we are not in Milwaukee.

Hotel reservations were made and after the shuttle bus to the rental cars left without us, the decision was made to just call the shuttle from the hotel. But, hey – at least were not in Milwaukee

After being informed the shuttle driver had already gone home for the night, we decided why not splurge and take a cab – I mean let’s still remember – we at least made it out of Milwaukee.

After checking into the hotel getting some sort of food was our top priority. Luckily a 24-hour Jack-in-the-Box and Taco Bell was conveniently located next to our hotel, and the weather was perfect for a late-evening stroll. Finding the door to the Jack-in-the-Box locked, we walked over to the drive-thru window. After being awkwardly ignored by the teller for a good minute or so, she yelled through the glass no walk-thrus were allowed. Pleading our case did not weaken her resolve so we were forced to move on. Taco Bell was the same story so we headed back to the hotel, deciding on the way that although it would take awhile, our best option would be to order a pizza and hey, although we were hungry and tired and Jason was going to be stuck in Houston later than we thought, at least we were out of Milwaukee.

Back at the hotel the night manager informed us, with a little bit more glee than the occasion warranted, that all of the pizza places don’t deliver past 11, but there was a gas station that had some sandwiches. With our spirits low, we made our way to the gas station and brought back our dinner of chicken sandwiches, chips and water. After a quick nuke at the breakfast bar, we brought our meals up to the room. It was far from gourmet, but at this point it just didn’t matter, and hey – at least we were out of Milwaukee.

As Jason settled into a chair, I popped out my contacts to change into glasses. This trip, like the bully it was, handed them to me – broken into two.

After getting some tape from the front desk the glasses were repaired enough that I could at least see my food, which probably wasn’t for the best Jason on settled into our respective beds, watching Clerks and thinking at least we aren’t in Milwaukee.

Also, Beets made it to New Orleans – no further details were forthcoming.

The Beet, The Boot and The Blonde

“A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.” – Lao Tzu

Well, actually it is 1,013 miles between our starting destination of New Orleans and our home of Milwaukee. This, of course, is if you were to travel the most direct route between these two fine cities, but don't expect that.

After a two-year hiatus, original RRT'ers Robert Beets and Ben Butz, along with new addition Jason Lusk will converge into New Orleans by plane and car tonight. After two days in the Big Easy, they will squeeze in among all of Beet's worldly possessions and make their way back to Milwaukee by next Thursday.


The rules are staying the same with a few modifications:

1. Destinations can be up to three hours apart from each other
2. Each successive destination must be farther north than the previous
3. The interstate cannot be used, unless in extreme circumstances

How will three Midwestern boys handle the back roads of the deep south? What crazy attractions will they find? Will Beet's actually pick Jason and Ben up from the airport? The answers to these questions and more will be answered over the next week! Check back often as we will be blogging as we go.

Don't expect the road to be straight or the journey neat - the second random road trip is about to initiate!