Last night I stayed with friends Marcus and Amanda (and their two ferrets). We attended an intimate supper party at a historic mansion in the Hollywood Hills. The 150-year old house--with fish ponds, swimming pools, and a movie theater--is owned by a family of interesting and welcoming Australian-Americans. I was talked into reciting a few poems.

Roman Coppola was there. Word has it that he called my performance "amazing."

I'm currently at the LAX airport, courtesy of Marcus, getting ready to fly to Denver, where my car awaits me.

I have had a good time in L.A., but I'll be glad to get my feet back on North Dakota soil. The best part of this trip, so far, has been spending time with cousin Jeff and Aunt Jo.

Los Angeles is throwing me curve balls like Sandy Koufax. The videographer who was going to make a music video for my Obama song can't do it now. So only one of my three reasons for coming here might work out: recording with Willie.

I'm at sad Elizabeth's today. Her cast is very white and new. I brought a slew of old VHS tapes of old Sandman shows for her to sift through. We watched some last night with Warner, her husband, and their two wiener dogs, Jerry and Kaledo.

Tonight I'll visit my old Workhorses of Yesteryear pal, Asher David Dudley.

Never made it to the beach.

Orange County, CA, smells like flowers. I'm heading for the beach soon.

Elizabeth Lawrence, who is directing the Roll Out, Cowboy documentary, broke her foot two days ago. There will be no documenting anything for a few months, and she is very sad! Send her healing wishes.

Greetings from Hollywood. I'm killin' time at The Director's Bureau. My friend Marcus works here.

Easter weekend was heavenly; angels resurrected my wintry soul! Denver, thanks to Christy Miller, is suddenly an interesting city. Lady Miller combines a free-spirited joie de vivre with a no-nonsense businesswoman's approach to getting things done. If I could afford a manager, she'd be perfect.

Albuquerque continues to amaze me with its ever-widening circle of Sandfans. Last night's house concert, organized in three days by John and Gail, was jam-packed and awesome.

I stayed across the street at Jay's pad. Jay (see photo) is a monster truck enthusiast. For a living, he defuses bombs.

Happy Easter!

I've been trucking non-stop since Monday morning. Got home today at 8:00 a.m., threw junk in car, and hit the road for a 10:00 p.m. Denver show at Skylark Lounge tonight. I was twenty minutes late. Weirdest show ever, but great. The doorman gave me the hook after only five songs (I'll admit, I sounded like crap). Still managed to make $30 in tips.

Top o' the mornin', lads and lassies.

Luck o' the Irish to ye! Erin go bragh!

Letter of the Day:

Chris,

I love your music and listen to it all the time. I had been a songwriter all through high school and college and made my own albums and all that but had pretty much given up on writing anymore, thinking that everything I did all sounded the same and had been done. Then I discovered your music and Shel Silverstein and realized how much stuff there still was to write about and how I had just taken everything way too seriously.

The other day I gave some of your songs to a friend who was going through a very rough time. She said that everyone had an opinion for how she ought to live her life. I told her that my opinion was that she needed to listen to Sandman. She did and loved it but her little brother stole the CD from her.

Anyway, you are great, keep it up...

-John

Dunn Center was packed to the gills today with St. Patrick's Day hooligans. The Museum had a red-bearded bagpiper and young singers. Green beer flowed at Sadie's. Leprechauns threw out jawbreakers and salt shakers to rig pigs and law breakers at the Ninth Annual St. Paddy's Day Parade.

Between festivities, I textured my kitchen walls with a mix of drywall mud and sand. I spun records while I worked. Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA hit the spot; the kid's got potential.

Life has never been quieter for me. I find this peaceful and eery. I receive around three phone calls a week and one or two non-spam emails per day.

"Ballad of a Thin Man" by Bob Dylan (1966)

Turns out my wireless card crashed and burned. Now, $130 later, Lazarus has revived. To celebrate the event, I've dubbed him (the laptop) Lazlo.

I found a sweet leather belt with a Hopi-looking silver buckle at the thrift store in Dickinson today. Also purchased a vintage leather briefcase. Lazlo fits comfortably inside.

Played rudimentary banjo tonight at G & G's. Grandpa blew along on his harp, and Grandma sang. Songs like "Down in the Valley," "Blue Tail Fly," and "Good Night, Ladies."

Here's a playful Jackson Pollock link, courtesy of my good pal Nima "The Trash Talkin' Garbage Collector of Little Isfahan, USA" Samimi. If you visit Nima's blog, Poet of the Wastes, the website pic isn't Nima. He, like the Lone Ranger, prefers anonymity.

My computer is broken. It crashes every 30 seconds. No time to . . .

The website MySpace is amazing in how it can re-connect old acquaintances and family. Today my second cousin Robyn discovered me. I hadn't talked to her since the 80s.

Minutes later, my first serious high school girlfriend, Addie (left), dropped me a line. I surfed her page and viewed pics of her three sons, her friends, and former husband. It makes one nostalgic.

She wrote this in her message: "It's funny... even though you're certainly too adorable to be a truck driver...somehow it does suit you, being the free spirit/king of the road that you are."

Note to documentarians: If she's willing, we have to get Addie into the film. She'll dish dirt on my high school days on the Rez, back when I rocked a Montana mini-mullet and she sported 8"-high bangs. I grooved out to Terence Trent d'Arby while working on my rusty Datsun, and she did homework to Edie Brickell at her grandparents'. I wrote suicide poetry, and she painted sad geese. I was a honky farm kid; she was an American Indian beauty. Still is, no doubt. Yowza!

As I look into my crystal ball,
I see new songs, new CDs,
and a new website.

I see CHANGE!

I'm back in Bismarck, chillin' with Wicked Darling, drinkin' beer, recording rhymes.

This week's fish run was more slippery than usual, because it was my first run without Shawn as co-driver. He teamed me up with another good driver, though, so it went well. Greg hadn't made this particular trip without Shawn before either, so we faced some new experiences (border crossing rituals, paper work, driving over unfamiliar mountain passes, etc.).

By the way, Shawn and Lacy sent an email from Antigua saying that they're having the time of their lives. Their hotel suite is great, Lacy says, and they have "2 baloneys (sic) with a great view of the ocean."

I send birthday wishes to all the leaplings born today. In 84 years you'll be old enough to drink.

Big Boss Goodall is on the Caribbean island of Antigua at Jolly Beach Resort this week with Miss Lacy Lou Fischer.

I'll be trading turns at the wheel with another one of Shawn's drivers this run--Greg Synnes. I'm looking forward to the change of company. Big Bear Goodall has been growly of late. Sun, sand, swimming, snorkeling, and sailing should change his tune.

Last night I drove to Mandan to record some rhymes at my man Elija's crib. That was a nice change of pace, too. Cabin fever sets in about this time of year, making Dunn County feel a little too little.

Grandpa Herak would've turned 96 today.


Here's a poem Mom wrote for him in 1978:

Watching Dad Irrigate

My daddy is a dancer, a mover, a scrambler
He’s light on his feet, he’s a basketball boy
He’s a fencer, a farmer, a friend to his children
He’s a tablecloth artist, a giver of joy.

He’s (Irish) Croatian from Montana’s Rockies
He’s a grower of grain; he’s a clown for the Lord
He a life-giving, life-loving whistling gypsy
He’s a riverboat gambler with cattle on board.

He’s a dreamer, a seeker, a wit, and a worker
He’s a friend to my mama, his sweetheart and wife
He’s a deep thinker, a teacher, a learner
He’s human as human, and lovely as life.

I am now officially the Reverend Chris N. H. Sand.

I sent Rose Ministries, of Las Vegas, $90. In return, I received a certificate of ordination, two "how-to" wedding books, five ready-to-use wedding certificates, an "official business" clergy parking placard, a clip-on clergy badge, plus a few other things. I considered being Cleric or Pastor, but decided on Reverend.*

I took this step because my friends Autumn and Brian asked me to officiate at their wedding this June. They made the request via a cryptic cell phone text message, and I thought they were joking. I flippantly responded that of course I would perform the ceremony. The next day, in a long grateful email from Autumn, I discovered they were sincere.

So, as Paul Harvey says: "Now you know…the rest of the story."

*My old band, The Workhorses of Yesteryear, had two Reverends in it--Rev. Camo Davi & Rev. Asher D. Dudley. I was the only layperson.

During the tail end of Wednesday night's lunar eclipse, as I drove between Spokane and Ellensburg, WA, I witnessed a bright celestial phenomenon in the sky to the south. It left a fiery streak of green, red, and pink as it rocketed towards the prairie. It had characteristics of a shooting star, but it was bigger and more colorful than any meteorite I'd ever seen.

I just now Googled "Washington meteor" to see if there were any reports, and I found a slew of them, many accompanied with videos. This video looks a lot like what I saw, but the timing has it as a couple days previous.

Confusing.

Perhaps what I saw was not a meteor at all, but rather a piece of debris from the U.S. spy satellite explosion.

Whatever the case, my evening was filled with cosmic glory.

It was lovely watching Earth's shadow eclipse the moon through Pearl's* sunroof last night.

Photo credit: Cousin Jenny Sand.

*Pearl is Shawn's truck's name, not to be confused with my Subaru, Pearl Drop.

Grandma Viola broke her hip two days ago and had to have hip surgery today. The nurses say she's doing fine, if a little groggy from opiates. I am grateful for this news, 'cause there was worry that her body might be too frail to handle the trauma.

The Isley Brothers.

Just watched seven boxing matches in a row with Shawn and Alejandro. Five hours total. Brutal.

Home. We only lost three hours due to icy roads this last run.

Driving a Kenworth tractor-trailer is what I do now. I'm still a troubadour, though. I won't forget.

Sandman the Truckin' Troubadour.

It's more real than "Sandman the Rappin' Cowboy." But I'm no real trucker, either.

What am I then?

A little wave on the Big Sea.
Hungry for God.

. . . from the road (somewheres near George, Wa.).