Survivors Beach
There‘s not a whole lot to it, but it’s worth seeing if you’re a huge Lost nerd like me. It’s a little bit of a hike down the beach, so be prepared and dress appropriately. Also, since there is quite a bit of walking, take some water, even if you’re not Hurley-sized, you’ll need it.

To get there, take the Kamehameha Highway from Honolulu towards Haleiwa. Hit a left at Papailoa road and follow that around until you find a parking area and beach access. Once you get to the beach, hit a left and hike for about 1/2 mile. You’ll recognize the beach and trees when you see it.

The Others village
The Others village is a YMCA camp on Oahu’s north shore. You can see it very easily from the road, but it’s tricky because there is only one way in and out. I was on a tight schedule, so I didn’t explore too much, but there’s a big sign that seems to make clear that they don’t mind visitors, so long as they check in at the camp office.

To get there from Honolulu, head north on H2 toward Wahiawa and take that to the 803. Stay straight at Waialua (803 turns into 930) for another ten miles or so and the camp will be on the left.

Beach where the plane crashed
Across the street from the Others Village is the beach where the plane crashed. You can park in any of the pullouts along the side of the road and walk over the berm to see the wide-open beach. It’s actually quite striking.

Submarine dock, Dharma station, Hurley’s golf course
I actually missed all of these because I didn’t have the time (stupid work) but all the reviews say these are the best ones to see while you’re there (stupid, stupid work.) It’s worth noting that these are on private land, but you can take a tour that includes not only Lost stuff,  but places where they’ve filmed movies like Jurassic Park and others.

You can book a tour here. The Kualoa Ranch is off of Highway 83 on Hawaii’s North Shore.

Other areas to see for the true fanboy.
Windward Community College (Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute)
Sun’s father’s house in “Korea”
Rainbow Drive-in where Hurley and Sayid grab burgers (Get there for breakfast and try the Portuguese sausage)
Waimea Falls (Where the survivors gather water and Kate and Sawyer get all romagical)
Jelly’s Music

You can check out more sites on the Lost Virtual Tour

For lack of anything else to do in Norwalk, Conn., Schreiber and I went to Norwalk’s top tourist attraction (according to tripadvisor.com): Stew Leonard’s dairy store. Apparently once featured in Ripley’s Believe It or Not, it is the country’s biggest dairy store. I’m not quite sure what that means, but it was a shopping trip to be remembered.

We kind of scoffed when a search of things to do in Norwalk brought this up, but shit, we had to go grocery shopping anyway, so we figured we may as well do it some place interesting. Honestly though, interesting doesn’t really do it justice. If the folks who run Chuck E. Cheese built a grocery store, it would be Stew Leonard’s. Intense is the only way to describe it.

The path through Stew Leonard’s reminds me of IKEA, winding purposefully from department-to-department. It was kind of nice to avoid the awkward hokey-pokey you do with your cart when you nearly run into a distracted mother at the end of each aisle. Everybody was walking in the same direction and if they needed something, they’d just pull over to the side and grab it.

The controlled traffic flow also ensures that you get to see every attraction Stew Leonard throws at you, from the band of milk cartons to the talking broccoli and the overall-wearing, anthropomorphic pig trapeze artists swinging from the rafters. It sounds funny to say, but the people who worked there seemed as happy as their mechanical counterparts, well, with one exception, but I’m sure that his fleeting grumpiness was my doing.

I’m sure he’s usually nice, but you see, there’s this robot cow in the dairy department with a big, blinking, bright, red button on its chest. No kid could possibly resist it, so when they stand on their tippy toes, stretch their little arms as far as they can and finally get their their sticky little hands up there, they are rewarded with a bellowing MOOOOOOOO from the cow that seems to shake the shelves. This poor bastard must hear that cow moo hundreds of times a day. It must haunt his dreams. I can only imagine Santa bringing his kid the barnyard version of the See N’ Say and him getting so pissed off that he throws it through the window and out into a snow bank. WHAT DOES THE COW SAY NOW? HUH? DAMMIT!

But I digress. Where were we? Oh yeah, the button. So I thought about not pressing it for a second, but the kid in me couldn’t resist the draw of something so bright, shiny and, well, blinky. I just had to push the button and when I did, and the cow let out that MOOOOOOOOO, I had to push it again. If I were that guy stocking the shelf, I might have tried to run me over with the cart he was wheeling all those milk cartons around on, but to his credit, he just gave me a dirty look. That man deserves all the credit in the world for controlling his rage, he’s a far better man than I.

After annoying the guy stocking the shelves, Schreiber and I had to stop and take a moment to look at the dairy department. You can watch milk cartons being filled and see the cows that provide the moo juice on closed circuit tv. I’m glad they didn’t have a similar set up in the deli.

All the theatrics aside, they have a pretty good selection of fresh produce, dairy, seafood and meat. It’s a good thing there isn’t one in my town, I’d be broke. If you’re ever in Norwalk and looking for something to do, take a stroll through.

Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that they have reasonably priced lobster dinners, including corn and a drink at the restaurant out front. Get there early, it’s pretty popular and they tend to run out.

I spent a couple weekends there a little bit ago. Here’s what I saw:

Beale Street
I checked out Beale Street twice while I was there, the first time on a Sunday afternoon and the second on a Saturday night. Saturday night was fun, lots of drinking and craziness ensued, but going on a laid back Sunday afternoon was the best way to do it. I spent most of my time at Mr. Handy’s Blues Hall, which from outward appearances, seemed to be the last real juke joint on Beale Street. Everything else looked like it was catering to the same Crocs and jort-wearing schlubs I saw at Graceland the day before.

For the most part, it was just me, the bartender and a blues band. Every now and again someone would stop in for a moment, including at one point a group of Asian tourists. When they told the bandleader that they were from Alabama, the band broke into the bluesiest — and quite frankly the most tolerable — version of Sweet Home Alabama that I’ve ever heard.

I went back to Mr. Handy’s the following Saturday but it just wasn’t the same. For one, there was a cover (boooooo) and even if I had gone in, the place was so full of meatheads that it would have been nearly impossible to get a beer or enjoy the band.

That said, I was there with my buddy Ryan on Saturday night and it was fun if you are looking to party. Lots of folks out looking drunk and stupid, if you’re into that kind of thing. We weren’t, but we were definitely up for watching them act drunk and stupid. The people watching was great.

Sun Studio
Never heard of it? Well, ever heard of these guys? Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis? Yep, all those guys recorded there in the 1950s and ’60s. The studio’s claim that it is the birthplace of rock ‘n roll is hard to dispute.

Sun Studio is still active and bands like U2 and Matchbox 20 continue to record there. Hell, for a couple hundred dollars you can record there — and even borrow some of the instruments they have laying around if you’ve forgotten your own.

Sun Studio started out as the home for many famous blues musicians (like everything else in Memphis), so at the beginning of the tour when the guide was throwing around the names of all the famous blues artists who’d been there, I felt a little embarrassed that I didn’t recognize many of them. It made me feel better to look around and see all the folks in Harley-Davidson t-shirts and Git-r-done baseball caps politely nodding their heads hoping to God that the guy will start talking about Elvis soon.

Fear not, mouth-breathers, he gets there soon enough. Most of the tour takes place in the studio. It was spine-tingling to stand in the same spot where the greats recorded. The tour, which was $12 and takes about an hour was the best thing I did all weekend that didn’t involve live music.

Graceland
Graceland was intense and definitely worth seeing, most of all for the people watching.

For some reason Elvis still resonates with people like few other celebrities did. Our maintenance man at work sings (badly) Elvis tunes at the top of his lungs while he cleans the restrooms.

There are millions of fans out there just like him, and Graceland is their Mecca.

For them it’s a shrine to one of the greatest rock stars in history. For me, it looked like an outdated home that was decorated by a D student from the Donald Trump school of interior design. By 1960s standards, I’m sure it was baller.

It was fascinating to see a bit of history and the sad sacks in Crocs and jorts singing Can’t Help Falling In Love with You graveside made it worth every penny of admission.

Frankly, it was worth seeing just to say you’ve seen it. Admission is a bit steep, but if you do go pay the extra so you can see all of the other stuff that goes along with the house tour. The museum full of Elvis’ cars was particular fascinating.

Elmwood Cemetery
Call me morbid, but I’m a sucker for graveyards. For some reason, I think they are beautiful in their sadness. Elmwood cemetery is where all the society types from Memphis’ old days were buried. There are huge gravestones, mausoleums and even some controversial graves like former Confederate general George Gordon, an early leader of the Ku Klux Klan. It’s a beautiful place, but get there early, the cemetery closes its gates at 4:30 p.m.

Barbecue
The barbecue. The barbecue. HOLY CRAP THE BARBECUE.

Of course I ate barbecue while I was there. Do I look like the kind of person who says no to a meal? While there, among other places I checked out the Pig on Beale, Blues City Cafe and Neely’s and every place was amazing. I’m talking, meat sliding off the bone, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it amazing. I imagine it’s hard to find a bad meal in Memphis — and believe me, I did my best to try — but I didn’t have a single bad thing to eat while I was down there.

Ryan, who I had no idea is an avid Food Network-watcher, pointed us at Neely’s and holy crap. We couldn’t decide on what we wanted to order and so we went with the sampler, which included a little a lot of everything. We were audibly enjoying it so much that at one point the woman sitting behind us asked what we ordered because she wanted the same. It was like when Harry Met Sally but with dudes and barbecued meat.

If you like barbecue, Memphis is your place. If you don’t like barbecue, well, there’s always Chick-fil-A.

The Statue of Liberation through Christ
How could I forget about this. Apparently there is a church down in Memphis that thought it would be a good idea to build a replica of the Statue of Liberty holding a Bible and a cross. The statue represents what America is really about, the builders said. America is a christian nation and it needs to return to those values before it sews its own destruction.

*Sigh*

Welcome to the Bible belt.

If you ever happen to find yourself in Sheryl Crow’s hometown, eat at the town’s best restaurant — McDonald’s.

Seriously.

On our way to Memphis last weekend, Schreiber and I made the mistake of believing a review on Poynt and went to the Cotton Patch buffet as we passed through Kennett, Missouri.

The Cotton Patch used to be an Asian buffet, but was taken over by a southern-American family of mediocre cooks and their half-wit children. As you can see from the picture, the place hasn’t changed much since the previous owners were there, well, except for the sticky layer of grime that seemed to coat every surface in the place.

To be fair, some of what they served was pretty good, the meatloaf, catfish and fried chicken in particular. Then again, the fried okra was rock hard and the mac & cheese was so watery it may as well have been served in a soup bowl.

The food aside, the trip might have been downright forgettable if it weren’t for their dimwitted children. First, we were graced with a great conversation with the son.

Dimwit son: My neighbors brew their own beer. They make their own moonshine too.

Us: Oh, that’s neat.

Dimwit son: You know how they get moonshine to be the color it is? If you don’t know, you don’t even want to know.

Us: *poker face*

Dimwit son: No, I’m serious. You really don’t want to know.

Us: *eating faster.*

Dimwit son: They filter it through horse poop. I’m serious man.

The kid then sat there with a shit-eating grin on his face, waiting for our reaction. Instead, we hurriedly choked down our food and got to the register as quickly as we could to pay the bill. That’s when we came to realize the daughter, although less slack-jawed, was just as slow, as she, her mother and a customer in line in front of us had this conversation.

Talking about one of the workers at the restaurant

Customer: What language does he speak?

Mother: Cantonese.

Dimwit daughter: Nuh uh! He speaks Chaneese!

This goes back-and-forth like this for a few minutes, with the mother trying to explain that Cantonese is a dialect of Chinese, before my brain couldn’t handle it anymore.

Me: Cantonese is just one kind of Chinese. Like if I told you ‘if brains was grease, she couldn’t slick the head of a pin,’ you’d understand, but people up north probably wouldn’t.

She just stared at me and didn’t say another word. With that, we paid our bill and headed back on the road.

Lesson learned. When in Tennessee, don’t insist that bourbon is better than whiskey (even if it’s blended Canadian garbage.)

I spent a long weekend in Memphis, purposely driving around shady neighborhoods looking for cool sites. I had no idea that the most exciting — and potentially most dangerous — event would happen at the hotel bar.

There I was, Friday night at the Holiday Inn bar, glass of Maker’s in my hand, hanging out with some fellow weary business travelers, when one of the guys at the bar asks for some Crown Royal.

“Sorry,” the bartender says, “we’re all out. How about some Maker’s Mark?”

Now at this point you should know that the five or six of us at the bar, this guy included, had spent the hour leading up to this talking sports and making a lot of jokes about each others’ choice in fandom. This guy in particular was a Tennessee fan.

So I say “He’s doing you a favor by being out of Crown Royal, Maker’s is way better.”

“Fuck that, I want some real whiskey,” the guy says.

Everybody is laughing, I think the guy and I are still joking, so I say “C’mon, man up and have a big boy drink.”

Maybe the steroids finally kicked in (this guy was a total juicehead) or maybe he just really, really, really loved his home state of Tennessee, because at that point the guy gets up, gets in my face and says “Fuck you. I’m not drinking any of that Kentucky piss water. I want some Tennessee whiskey.”

Now at that point I had a choice: I could politely remind him that Crown Royal is in fact a Canadian whiskey, distilled on the shores of Lake Winnipeg, at which point he might have given me the kind of handshake that made Canadian Club’s hometown famous; or I could apologize and buy the guy a beer.

Deciding that I wasn’t really ready to die, especially not on the worn, floral print carpet of a Holiday Inn bar, I chose the latter option. Just like that, all was right with the world as if this guy hadn’t nearly torn out my throat just minutes before.

So there I was, daydreaming, driving the same route I’d driven every day for the past three weeks when I saw the most beautiful view. There it all was, the harbor, the rocks, the Atlantic ocean. Why had I not noticed this before? Well, because this was the first time in three weeks that I’d seen the sun. It was the first time in three weeks that the fog had lifted to the point where I could see for more than 50 yards in any direction.

Later that afternoon, after the sun went away, I was walking to lunch with one of the locals and talking about the depressing, gray weather.

“This is actually a pretty nice day for Newfoundland,” he said. “It’s not raining.”

I should mention, this was a man who’d moved to Newfoundland from California. It seems the fog had eaten his soul and crushed his spirit.

Can’t see the slideshow? Click here to check it out on Flickr.

Newfoundland protip #1: Newfie is not the preferred nomenclature, it’s Newfoundlander, please. According to locals, Newfie is the “n-word” up there. It’s all right for them to use it, but for an outsider, it’s considered derogatory.

There’s more to Newfoundland than the weather. If you ever make it there, there is some pretty good food. Find a fish and chips shop and get some fresh cod. Be sure to ask before you order whether it is fresh that day or frozen. It’s harder to find the fresh stuff in the winter, but if you hunt, you’ll find it.

There are plenty of great restaurants in downtown St. John’s, but if you can only hit one, get to the Yellow Belly brewery. The short ribs are unbelievable and most nights you can find good, local music.

Newfoundland protip #2: Newfoundlanders like to mess with tourists. If something sounds outrageous, be skeptical.

Much like the U.S., cultural norms vary widely from region to region. Newfoundland exemplifies this with their outrageous accents and bizarre cuisine. Don’t be fooled, cod tongues and cheeks (both of which you can get at many restaurants) are not delicacies, they’re the stuff the rest of the world won’t eat. Also, if you’re at a bar down on George Street and someone offers to make you an honorary Newfoundlander, graciously decline, unless of course you enjoy cheap rum and kissing dead fish.

That’s right, their ceremony, which is performed at a few bars in St. John’s, involves kissing a cod on the lips, drinking a shot of Newfoundland Screech (rum) and reciting the phrase Indeed I is a Newfoundlander, my old cocky. Long may your long jib draw.

Personally, I had no interest in becoming an honorary Newfoundlander, but I did try the Screech. I can see why Newfoundlanders like it, the burn of the cheap rum washes away the lingering aftertaste of cod tongue.

Newfoundland protip #3: Don’t waste time on paying to see attractions like the Rooms. St. John’s biggest museum is also it’s biggest waste of money. Why spend your time inside anyway, when, in spite of the gray skies, there is so much to see. Added tip from JoPo. The Rooms aren’t worth the money, but the view is unbelievable. If you can con them into letting you in just to take a picture from the balcony, it’s definitely worth your time. Thanks Jo!

Do be sure to go see the Battery. The colorful neighborhood literally hangs off the sides of the cliff overlooking St. John’s Harbour.

Also be sure to check out the basilica of St. John the Baptist and Point Spear, the furthest point east in North America.

Finally, if you’re really bored, you’ve seen it all in St. John’s, take a drive around some of the small towns that line the coast. I’m a huge Red Wings fan, so I made a pilgrimage to Harbour Grace, home of the only Newfoundlander to ever win the Stanley Cup, Detroit Red Wing Dan Cleary. On the trip out, we came across a few fascinating shipwrecks and some beautiful fishing villages.

Newfoundland protip #4: Drive cautiously and watch where you park.

The roads in St. John’s are brutal. A combination of people leaving their studded snow tires on too long and the snow plows literally scraping off the top level of the blacktop each winter and with it, makes for terrible roads and awful drivers. Without wasting too much time on it, let me just share a little story.

It was my last day in St. John’s and I was supposed to spend it relaxing. I got an emergency call from work and had to go in, suffice it to say, I was not pleased.

So as I was pulling in to the mall parking lot I thought I’d found a perfect spot, right near the newspaper’s door, only to find a man sitting in his car, which he’d parked crooked as all hell taking up two spots. As I rolled by I started yelling and swearing as only an American with a sense of entitlement can.

As I walked to the door from my spot down the road, I saw the guy straightening his car out so that he was parked properly, being polite, as only a frightened Canadian can.

Protip 1: Your mother was right when she said to be wary of strange men in vans.
We asked the guy at the hotel front desk to call us a cab.

“I’ve got some friends who can take you over there,” he said. “No problem, my friends.”

A few minutes later, two guys from Senegal pulled up in a white van and offered to take us to Bucktown. The guys were nice enough and they got us to where we were going. Heck, they even came back at closing time and got us back to the hotel without incident. Looking back, however, climbing into an unmarked van with two random dudes seems pretty shady.

Protip 2: If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
We started out drinking cheap beer at what looked like a Tiki bar, but what turned out to be part of a huge bar complex and dance club. It was early, so the place was empty, save for us and a very snarky bartender.

So we were about halfway into our beer when a trio of dudebros came in. These guys were the total package; fake tan, gel in the hair and half-buttoned, white linen shirts over wife-beaters.

The bartender waited impatiently as the guys huddled next to the bar for a few minutes, whispering to each other about God knows what, when one finally turned to order a drink.

“How much is a Red Bull and Grey Goose?” he asked.

“$10,” the bartender said.

The kid just stood there looking confused for a few moments, wondering how a drink he’d seen in so many rap videos could be so expensive.

“Oh, well I’ve only got $32 for the night,” he said dejectedly. “Got anything cheaper?”

“Well, we’ve got PBR in a can for $3,” she replied.

“PBR? What’s that?” he asked.

“Pabst Blue Ribbon,” she said. “It’s a beer.”

“Is it any good?”

“Well, it won a blue ribbon,” she shot back.

We learned all we needed to know about what that bar was going to turn into that night by that interaction. Here we had a group of young guys whose drinking experience was more than likely limited to beer bongs, jello shots and dropping roofies in cups from whatever cheap keg the brothers at the Lambda Chi house bought. More than likely this was one of the first bars these guys had ever been to that didn’t have a UGA flag hanging on the wall and Greek night specials.

In any case, when you’re in an unfamiliar bar and see groups of guys who look like rejects from the Jersey Shore, it’s time to leave.

Protip #3: If you’re going to chat up a guy’s date, bring someone for him too.
After wandering around a little bit we found the only bar in the area not charging cover, well, I should say, the only bar willing to let us in without paying a cover. We ended up on the quiet side of a noisy bar with the intention of watching basketball and splitting pitchers for the rest of the night.

That’s when the girl next to me decided to get friendly.

“So do you know anything about what’s going on?” she asked as she pointed at the tv.

I knew a little; who was playing, who was ahead in the series and so on. The two of us sat there chatting for a good ten minutes when she dropped the bomb.

“Oh, I guess I should introduce you to my date,” she laughed.

“You’re on a date?” I asked, surprised.

She leaned towards me, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“So how’s that going for you?” I said, smiling.

“Well, I’m talking to you,” she replied as she turned around the get her date’s attention.

It turns out she was on a blind date with a guy who was a bit older than her. He was wealthy, fond of dropping names, had an accent I couldn’t place and it turns out, loved to buy shots for strangers. My coworker ended up hanging out with him all night while I talked to his date. He ordered round-after-round of shots, which the date and I kept passing back to them. By the end of the night, my coworker and the old dude were practically catatonic.

Before that, though, the guy wrote down about five restaurants on a napkin along with the name of the owner of each.

“Go here and ask for so-and-so,” he instructed. “Tell them I sent you.”

As if free booze with a strange foreigner and his date wasn’t great enough, it turned out this guy knew one of the members of Parliament-Funkadlic.

I know, that’s kind of a random name to drop, but that one only came up because the guy walked into the bar. In my drunken haze, I couldn’t even begin to tell you who the guy was, what he played or anything else. I do know that we met him and that he was legit.

The night wrapped up at last call. Before I dragged my coworker out to a waiting, Senegalese-owned van, the date gave me her number and told me to call her the next day. She’d show me around Atlanta, she said. I didn’t call.

This was my second time visiting Gallup, which is in the high desert area of New Mexico along the northwest border with Arizona. There’s not a lot there, which of course is why I had to go there for work.

Protip 1: If you absolutely have to visit Gallup, do it in the summer
The best thing about Gallup is the weather, especially in the summer. High temperatures usually range in the high 70s to low 80s with lots and lots of sun. It’s like San Diego without Ron Burgundy, or the ocean, or the awesome zoo.

What Gallup lacks in attractions, charm and good cuisine, it more than makes up for in Juggalos.

The town is so rife with these clown rapper worshiping jackholes that the newspaper doesn’t even have to qualify the term Juggalo any more when it refers to them in a story. Everybody just knows that Juggalos are what can best be described as the unholy demon spawn of a Marilyn Manson groupie and Seth Green’s character from Can’t Hardly Wait.

My coworker and I went to a flea market on Saturday and got excited to see a stand selling Faygo. It was only when we got closer did we notice that the sign was covered in Insane Clown Posse stickers and the booth was manned by a bunch of rejects from a Korn video.

Generally, I’m proud to be from Detroit, but when I see how far ICP has extended its grease paint covered tentacles, I get embarrassed.

The flea market wasn’t a total loss though, which brings me to my second point.

Slideshow not working? Click here to see it

Protip 2: Get off the beaten path.
New Mexico is a gigantic state and there are countless things to see and do.

We started our day off with a trip to the aforementioned flea market and except for our encounter with the Juggalos, it was a great experience. I found some great pieces done by a couple local artists as Christmas gifts and of course, we had to have some fry bread. If you’ve never had it, find a place that has it and go there immediately.

No, I’m seriously, I’ll wait. Find it. Now.

Protip 3: Get an off road vehicle and use it (but use it wisely)
There are so many things to see and do in New Mexico, including countless National Historic sites and National Parks that you will never get them all. If you’re in northwestern New Mexico, be absolutely sure to get out to Shiprock.
We drove out to Ship Rock, which is an awe-inspiring geological landmark in its own right, but all the more impressive when you find out that it is one of the most sacred places in the Navajo culture.

This rock is sort of the Navajo Garden of Eden. They believe that their ancestors lived on top of the rock, coming down only to find food and water. One day the path to the ground was destroyed, stranding many on top of the rock where they died. The others became the Navajo tribe we know now. You can read more about it here.

We had a 4×4 vehicle that allowed us to drive right up to it. Be warned though, once you pull off the highway, it’s a really tough two-track, so if you plan on visiting Ship Rock, make sure you have a capable vehicle.

Besides Ship Rock, there are all kinds of national monuments, including El Morro, which was absolutely fascinating.

Protip 4: Don’t piss off the local newspaper publisher
I had a long rant about what a canoe the local newspaper publisher is, allegedly. Then I figured, why should I put myself out there when I could let a simple Google search say it all.

The only thing I have to add is that when something broke that had absolutely nothing to do with us, he sent one of his underlings in to deliver a message.

“Guys, I don’t feel this way, but the publisher wanted me to deliver a message. He said ‘Tell those fuck-ups to get off their asses and fix something.’”

Out of context, this seems like an outrageous thing to say. With context, understand that this is like yelling at your barber because your furnace is on the fritz.

Protip 5: Piracy is just what Johnny Depp does in eyeliner
As we were walking through the flea market, among the booths selling fry bred, used door knobs and dream catchers, sat a kid behind a wobbly card table with a gas generator, desktop computer, three-ring binder and a ream of blank CDs.

In an area where thousands of households don’t even have electricity, much less access to the Internet, this kid was their own, living version of the Pirate Bay. Just flip through the book, find the album you want and for a buck, the kid will burn you a copy.

It was highly illegal, but with all the alcoholism and meth labs, I think the police have bigger fish to fry than arresting the Navajo Shawn Fanning. Besides, who cares about those big record companies anyway? To paraphrase my coworker, “The RIAA doesn’t exist out here. Hell, to the RIAA, this may as well be Beirut.”

So Gallup was quite a culture shock, but entertaining. If you’ve been everywhere and seen everything and this area of New Mexico is all you have left to see, then by all means, head out to Gallup. The one really nice thing about it is that it is sort of in the center of a handful of amazing National Parks like Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, El Morro and Canyon de Chelly and many more. For that reason — and that reason alone — Gallup is worth visiting.

The T-Rex’s preference for the sweet, clap-ridden flesh of the wicked aside, carbon dating roundly proves that humans and dinosaurs roamed the Earth millions of years apart. Want more proof? Well, nobody has ever found the bones of a hapless cave man who for all we know, may have pissed God off by coveting his neighbor’s rock collection or something, inside a fossilized Tyrannosaurus.

The folks at the Creation Museum in Petersburg, Ken., where the wife, some friends and I visited a couple weeks ago would tell you that they probably exist, but God is just waiting for the right time to reveal them.

We went for a laugh, and in a lot of ways got exactly what we expected. There were a lot of modestly dressed Southern Baptist families pouring out of 15 passenger vans. There were dinosaur statues, dioramas of Adam and Eve interacting with a velociraptor and of course, a whole room filled with pictures showing us doing all the things we do these days to secure our place in hell, including, apparently, playing video games.

Then again, there were a lot of things I didn’t expect. For one, there was a noticeable absence of anything to do with Jesus, Moses or any Bible story besides the creation and the great flood. The idea being that they don’t want us to think they’re just a bunch of anti-science nutjobs. It wasn’t long ago, after all, that many of these same folks were telling us that dinosaurs never existed, but instead that fossils were placed in the ground by the devil to test our faith.

So here is a quick list of the “science” we learned at the Creation Museum:

• • The Earth is only 5,000 years old.
• • The Earth was flat until the great flood, the raging waters of which created the Grand Canyon, mountains, rivers, etc.
• • Noah took two of everything on the Ark, including dinosaurs (an animatronic Noah told us so.)
• • Dinosaurs are the same thing as dragons (also according to robot Noah.)
• • Until Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden of Eden, all animals were vegetarians and lived happily together.
• • After Adam and Eve discovered their love of applesauce, the animals started feasting on each other.
• • Tyrannosaurus Rex had a diet that consisted of leafy vegetation and the flesh of sinners (seriously.)
• • Cancer and other diseases didn’t exist while Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden.
• • Once the Earth dried up and all the animals left the ark, some floated across the oceans on trees that had uprooted during the flood. The “raft theory,” explains how all the wild turkeys and koalas and anacondas from Noah’s large wooden boat could make their way from the top of a mountain in Turkey to Argentina and Australia and Michigan.

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Of course this was all hidden behind a thin veil of “science.” These folks don’t dispute intra-species evolution, it’s the whole humans evolving from monkeys thing that they have a problem with. It blows their mind that something so complex as humans could come from something as simple as a single-cell organism. God put everyone and everything on this planet for a purpose, they argue, after which Adam flopped around the Garden of Eden pointing and shouting “Elephant, nectarine, duck-billed platypus!”

To take it a step further, their theology/pseudo-science jumble includes natural selection and helps them explain away the extinction of the dinosaurs.

I can only imagine that some of them are really bummed out about dinosaurs going extinct. If they were still alive, we could just turn them loose in Afghanistan and win this war once and for all. Hell, while we’re at it, why don’t we just let some eat up all those heathen, atheist, liberal elites up in New York and Boston. I wonder if we could train them to go after just Democrats. Hurry, someone call Steven Speilberg, I’ve got a great idea for a Jurassic Park sequel. I’ll bet we could get Kirk Cameron to star in it.

But I digress.

The fact of the matter is, I think this was all just a silly, ill-conceived way to explain away how many proven scientific theories conflict with stories told in the Bible. Then again, everyone is entitled to their own beliefs (unless you’re Muslim and want to build a religious building in New York.) In that spirit, on the way in to the parking lot, we even set some ground rules so as not to offend. My favorite was a ban on t he word “actually.”

Now, I knew we were on their turf, but when the displays started talking about all the hatred and violence that has come as a result of people’s belief in and teaching of evolution, I must admit that I got a little angry. The worst one was a video that strongly insinuated that World War I was not only started by the Germans, but that it was done because of the German governments decision to teach evolution to its schoolchildren.

In trying to cram their religious ideology into a modern scientific construct, the museum curators displayed a blatant disregard for historical accuracy. World War I was started by evolutionists in Germany and the Scopes-Monkey Trial set off the Great Depression were just two of the lessons they told. It seems the Texas State Board of Education aren’t the only people who don’t want history and science to get in the way of their narrative.

What makes it worse is that the people who gobble this stuff up not only believe it, but are so violently opposed to anything that falls outside of the belief system dictated to them by people like the museum founders that they will fight anyone who disagrees tooth and nail, regardless of the preponderance of evidence that contradicts it all.

In the end, we got out of it what we thought we would, and we had a good time. It was an amusing and frightening place.

Ponca City
Now, to be fair, when I say “rural Oklahoma” I mean by the standards of any of us who don’t live in a town whose tallest building is a grain elevator. By Oklahoma standards, however, Ponca City (pop. 25k) is downright cosmopolitan. They’ve got a daily newspaper, a Wal Mart and two Sonic drive-ins.

There’s not much more to be said about the town except that apparently, it used to be kind of a big deal. That, of course, was after they literally stole the railroad from a rival town. Ponca, as they call it here (because saying those extra two syllables is just too too much,) was a major player in the early days of the oil industry in Oklahoma, and corporate headquarters to Conoco for many years.

Because of that, this town is rife with huge homes, many of which are rightfully called mansions. The biggest of all is the Marland Mansion. In all seriousness, it’s more like a freaking castle.

All kidding aside, there are actually a few other attractions in this town worth seeing. There’s the Conoco museum, a moto-cross track and the Pioneer Woman statue and museum. Also, take a few minutes and drive by the Conoco refinery on the edge of town. If you’re going to spend time here, you may as well get a look at what makes the town smell funny.

Oklahoma Pro-tip #1: If you’re in this or any other small town in Oklahoma, the best restaurant is more than likely in a pole barn. In Ponca City, that restaurant is Head Country BBQ. It’s cafeteria-style and you eat off of styrofoam plates, but the ribs are un-freaking-believable.

Hugo: Circus City
When you think of the circus, you probably don’t think of southeastern Oklahoma, but Hugo (pop. 5,500, 6,500 on a Friday night in the fall when the local high school football team is playing) is the winter camp for several of them.

Driving around the east side of town, you can see the trucks, trailers and if you’re really lucky, Lobster Boy or the Bearded Lady. If you have trouble finding it, just drive towards the smell of the paper mill and away from the smell of the stockyards. I guess I could have said drive towards the elephant smell, but honestly, who knows what elephants smell like? Do you? Could you distinguish between them and the stockyards? I thought not.

While driving around, you can also check out the elephant sanctuary on the edge of town. The Endangered Ark Foundation, founded by the Kelly Miller Circus, aims to provide a safe place for circus elephants to retire as well as help to breed the next generation of Asian elephants in the United States.

Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the town is the cemetery that features a section reserved for the circus folk called, Showman’s Rest. There are many headstones shaped like elephants and circus tents, as well as many engraved with pictures of acrobats and ringleaders. You can view a photo gallery here.

If you’re looking for a place to eat, there’s a pole barn north of town called Fishtail’s that serves five different kinds of fried fish as well as the best fried corn you’ve ever had. Tell them you’re from out of town and they might hang a sign on the wall with your town’s name.

Oh, and while you’re down there, you may as well take a 20 minute drive south to Paris, Texas to see the mini-Eiffel Tower with a cowboy hat on top, because honestly, when are you ever going to be down here again? You may as well take it all in.

Hugo is a lovely town. I lived there for eight months and enjoyed it immensely. Coming from the north, moving to a town that prides itself on being part of “Little Dixie” was quite an adjustment.

There was the mutton busting, which is rodeo for youngsters in which they put children on the back of a sheep and let them try to ride it like a bull. Then there was the day time hooker who lived a few doors down from me. I’ll never forget the time she hauled her air mattress across the parking lot and asked me to blow it up for her with my air compressor. I soaked my entire apartment in bleach after having that thing in there.

Of course, one of my favorite things about that town was the Christmas parade during which Santa would ride down the street on the back of an elephant.

Oklahoma Pro-tip #2: Don’t be surprised when you drink beer all day (as I did with my friends on my first weekend living in Hugo) and don’t get drunk. Nearly half of Oklahoma’s 77 counties — including Hugo’s Choctaw county — are technically dry, not allowing “liquor by the drink” in bars. Instead, the bars, gas stations and grocery stores sell beer that is 3.2 percent alcohol, far less than in most other states. For liquor or real beer, hit the state store early and find a joint that allows BYOB. There are many such places out there in Oklahoma and Texas, including some strip clubs!

Oklahoma City
There are plenty of things to see in Oklahoma City. Definitely make time to see the Oklahoma City Memorial National Monument. Set in the footprint of the Murrah Federal Building, the monument is very beautiful and touching. It’s a wonderful tribute to the tragedy that occurred there in 1995.

The reflecting pool occupies the space where a road once ran and where Tim McVeigh parked his Ryder truck bomb. The field of empty chairs features one chair sculpture for each victim of the bombing. I know it’s kind of a writer’s cop-out to say this, but words can’t do the monument justice, it truly should be seen by everyone.

If you’ve worked up an appetite from all the sightseeing, follow the smell over to Stockyard City. I pulled up a list of local attractions and followed the directions with no idea what I was going to see. Turns out Stockyard City is exactly what it sounds like, a bunch of stockyards.

Alongside the stockyards are all kinds of tack shops, a theater and one of the best steakhouses you’ll ever visit.

The specialty at Cattlemen’s Steakhouse is the Presidential T-bone, the personal choice of President Bush and honestly the most delicious steak I’ve ever eaten. The service was great, the food was amazing. Heck, even the house dressing on the side salad was wonderful. All this, and it wasn’t even in a pole barn!

Oklahoma pro-tip #3: If you’ve had too much soda during lunch and need to stop at a truck stop to relieve yourself on the way back to your hotel, always knock on the door as you enter the restroom. If you don’t, you could end up interrupting a couple having a little afternoon delight. Welcome to Oklahoma! Meth is a hell of a drug.