New York City is sensory overload. Neither H. nor I really want to be there. But the hippies just drop…
The idea is to drive straight through to Massachusetts, stopping only to top off the oil, pump gas or get…
While we make our way to a full-service rest stop, the tramp falls into a routine. He takes a drink.…
South Dakota. The sun is a blank white fire rolling across the sky. H. and I are squatted at an…
I was a Boy Scout. Should have known better. Never pitch a tent on a slope. Gravity always wins. Your…
His name was Stein. Driving a Ford beater, he stops to pick up H. and I just outside Missoula, Montana.…
Travel is a central motif in my latest book, “Huck Finn is Dead,” albeit in the most exaggerated form: Carney…
I don’t thoroughly subscribe to the “write what you know” dictum. I mean, come on, does that mean I have…
In 1997, I started a book called “Huck Finn is Dead.” It made the rounds of the top New York…