Day two of our Great American road trip.

Our little white van rolls into the Walmart Supercenter in Raleigh, North Carolina. My wife and I step out and stretch our muscles in the parking lot.

“Sandwiches?” my wife says.

“Yep,” I reply.

My wife has been driving the last shift. She uses this opportunity to do yoga stretches while simultaneously catching up on missed texts. She does this, skillfully, by placing her phone on the pavement beneath her while performing a uniquely unflattering squatting pose, a position which I call “Bear in the Woods.”

Then she scrolls on her phone while random onlookers watch her, squatting and concentrating on the pavement. You can see looks on people’s faces. Bystanders are seriously wondering to themselves whether any public sanitation laws are being violated.

My wife and I have been road warriors for the last decade. We have traversed almost the entire US in our tiny Ford Transit, taking my one-man train wreck to various theaters, civic centers, campus auditoriums, and used car dealership grand

openings.

I doubt whether my wife envisioned marrying a man whose livelihood was showbusiness, but there you are.

We are a showbiz team. George and Gracie. Fred and Ethel. Mork and Mindy. She works behind the scenes, sending emails, fielding phone calls, and just generally making our whole lives possible. I am simply eye candy.

My wife, for example, drives the bus. She prefers to drive. I know this because whenever I get behind the wheel she grips the chicken handle with both hands and recites the Lord’s Prayer.

Mostly, we putter along the United States in our own mental zones, without conversing. She drives; I am the passenger-seat princess.

Often, I practice material for upcoming shows. I am usually playing a fiddle with mute affixed to the bridge; or a banjo with a sock stuffed inside. Likewise, my wife will be listening to an audiobook, ‘90s…

There is a double yellow line running down the middle of State Street, in Bristol. The line separates Tennessee from Virginia.

Passersby stand with one foot in each state and get their pictures made. People who do this look comical and downright ridiculous.

We pulled over so I could do this.

Namely, because this is Bristol. And American music still lives in Bristol.

The rest of the world has gone techno. Even country music has succumbed to the wiles of the “scrolling generation.” But in Bristol, it’s still the 1920s.

I have been playing music since I was 9 years old. And I owe a lot to Bristol.

In 1998, US Congress stopped shooting spitwads at each other long enough to officially declare Bristol the birthplace of country music. And yet, many Americans still don’t realize this is where it all began.

“A lot of people in this country don’t even know Bristol is related to country music,” says one local waitress, warming up my coffee. “But this is where the big bang happened.”

Today, most people travel to Nashville to pay homage to country music, only to find themselves caught in 24-hour gridlock traffic, non-stop outlet malls, and eternal bachelorette parties clad in white cowboy boots, custom T-shirts, operating giant pedal-buses down Lower Broadway.

But I choose Bristol.

It all began in the summer of 1927. Coolidge was president. Babe Ruth was a household name. Lindbergh was making headlines. Silent movies were no longer silent.

Ralph Peer, a freelance producer for the Victor Talking Machine Company in Camden, New Jersey, visited Bristol. He set up a temporary studio in Christian-Taylor Hat Company warehouse on State Street, beside the train station and the hotel.

The newspaper ran a story saying Ralph would record almost anyone who walked through the doors.

They came from all over Appalachia, all seeking their 15 minutes. They drove raggedy Model A’s along the jagged spines…

It was only an experiment. I wanted to see if I could change America in only one day by being the nicest person on earth for 24 hours.

I’m not talking normal-nice. I’m talking OBSCENELY nice. I’m talking do-you-need-a-kidney nice.

It should be noted, I’m not nice in real life. I’m just a regular person. Sure, I’d like to consider myself friendly—kind of. And, certainly, if a motorist on the highway has a flat tire I always pray for them as I speed by.

“But what if I acted differently today?” I thought to myself. I wondered, would niceness actually change this country?

“Being nice can change the world,” I’ve often heard it said.

So I conducted research.

And so it was, I started my day by forcing myself to smile. Not just sometimes, mind you. But ALL the time. For the entire day. When I showered, I smiled. When I drank coffee: smiled.

Because niceness starts with oneself, I’ve been told. Which is why when I combed my hair, I repeatedly told my reflection how handsome he

was.

Next, I took my dog for a walk and I smiled whenever I passed other dog-walkers who were solemnly on their potty-walks before sunrise, caffeine deprived and dismal, with right hands snugly covered by Little Blue Baggies of Death. I hope you never learn about Little Blue Baggie of Death.

I smiled bigly. I made eye contact. I’d like to think my smiling made these people feel good because many of them picked up their pace. In fact, some of them started walking so fast they were practically sprinting away from me.

The next thing I did to change America was offer to help people in public, even if they didn’t need it.

There was, for example, the old man at the store who couldn’t get his buggy unstuck from a mess of shopping carts. So I helped him.

When I…

We did not choose Otis. We let our oldest dog, Thelma Lou, pick him out. She was just a puppy. We felt strongly that Thelma deserved to choose her own brother since, after all, she would be the one stuck sniffing his butt for the next 12 years.

And so it was, one summer afternoon we took Thelma to the adoption fair at the local dog rescue.

Everyone had turned out. Families galore. Parents in work uniforms, holding the hands of excited kids. Lots of glee.

We walked inside. The first thing that hit me was that powerful bouquet of puppy breath, disinfectant, and urine. The dogs were barking so loud you couldn’t think.

We had a lot of dogs to meet. Jamie and I split up to cover more ground.

Of course, I fell in love with all the sick dogs. Jamie found me holding a little dog named Amber in my arms. Amber was about the size of a Beanie Baby, underweight.

My wife told me to put her down. She reminded me this

was not my decision. This was Thelma Lou’s choice.

“But,” I pointed out, “just LOOK at her.”

My wife removed the animal from my arms.

So, with Thelma on a leash, dragging me through the labyrinth of kennels, we interviewed all dogs. Thelma inspected each cage carefully. Rears were sniffed. But the multitude of butts had been found wanting.

At some point we passed Jamie, she was cradling a little white dog who was missing an ear. She was holding the puppy like a newborn, declaring her love to the animal.

“No,” I reminded her.

“But,” Jamie offered, “just LOOK at her.”

Thelma dragged me to the ends of the earth. But she found no suitors. Each puppy we encountered was either too yappy, too little, too weakly, too chill, too alpha, too excitable, or too whatever.

That’s when I noticed a pen in…

Dan Lovette became an usher at the Baptist church on Easter Sunday, March 26th, 1961. He stood at the door shaking hands, passing out bulletins. Nobody knew Dan.

Weeks earlier, Pastor Lovette had introduced Dan as his older brother.

Dan was a tall man with a soft voice and rough skin. He wore a brown suit that was too small. He hardly spoke. He sat on the front row during sermons. After service, he smoked cigarettes behind the church. People asked the pastor questions about Dan, but he was quiet when it came to his older brother.

Over the years, folks saw a lot of Dan Lovette. He could be seen pushing a mower, changing the church sign, painting clapboards, passing out bulletins on Sundays, or cleaning the sanctuary on Mondays.

Dan lived in a back room of the church. His earthly belongings were: a cot, one hot plate, a coffee pot, a transistor radio, shaving kit, and one brown suit.

Nobody can forget the Sunday that the pastor announced he would

be baptizing Dan after service. This surprised people. Most thought it was strange that the pastor’s own brother had never been baptized. But no explanation was given.

So, a few dozen church members stood near the creek, watching the tall quiet man wade into shallow water behind his younger brother.

It was a simple ordeal. Down Dan went. Up he came. Applause. Bring on the banana pudding.

But life was not all pudding and baptisms. Thirteen years later, tragedy hit the church. The pastor was in a car accident on his way home from Montgomery, doctors thought he’d had a stroke while driving. Dan sat beside his brother’s hospital bed without sleep or food. He lived beside his brother’s bed, taking care of his brother’s every need.

The next Sunday, Dan took the pulpit with tired eyes. It was a hushed room. It was the first time any…

Dear Self.

Pay attention to the little stuff today.

Things you usually overlook.

The seemingly insignificant.

Notice these things.

Things like short sentences. Or typoz. Smiles from strangers. The shape of an arbitrary cloud. The cardinal in your backyard birdbath that reminds you of a loved one. The scattered thought you’re having now about black licorice. Where’d that come from?

The red fox that sprinted across your neighborhood sidewalk this morning. The butterfly that randomly landed on you, for no reason at all. The song that played overhead in the supermarket at just the right time, which was your mom’s favorite tune.

Notice. Notice. Notice.

When you drink your coffee this morning, DRINK your coffee. Pay attention to EVERY SIP. Really taste it. The Norman Rockwell book that’s been on your coffee table since the Punic Wars so that it’s almost invisible to you. LOOK at it.

The near miss you had in traffic at the stoplight last night. The way the deer on the shoulder of Highway 9 peacefully looked at you when he saw your vehicle speed

by.

The random text you received from a person you were randomly thinking about during the exact moment you were thinking of them.

Pay attention, Self. Don't let these things slip by unnoticed.

Notice all little stuff that occurs. Not just some of it. Every tiny, perceivably meaningless thing that is going on in your life.

Because nothing is meaningless, of course. It all has meaning. Even the random semicolon that you use for no conceivable reason at all; it has meaning.

So say it aloud to yourself. “See the little stuff.” Say it when you’re driving. “See the little stuff.” Say it in the shower as you scrub your armpits. Say this a thousand times if you must, otherwise you’ll forget.

Don’t just look at the little things. Watch them happen. Honor them. Experience them. Hold a little bit of…

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away—actually, it wasn’t even a galaxy yet. This was a place before outer space. Before space-time. Before the universe.

Everything was formless and void. Pure nothingness. Emptiness. Absolutely blank, dark matter. Sort of like the inside of a celebrity’s head.

Then. It happened.

There was, suddenly, the beginning of all things. It started with light. And the light was good. And the stars and the planets and the galaxies and the solar systems fell into place and started spinning. And they were good, too.

Then God got to thinking about how He could make His wonderful creation a little better. He thought to Himself, “I know what I’ll do. I’ll make people.”

So that’s when He got to the drawing board. He started thinking about all the people He was going to make throughout the history of the world. Throughout the 300,000 years of humankind’s complicated existence. All 117 billion humans who have ever lived since the dawn of Homo

sapiens.

He drew up plans for all the kings and queens and peasants and saints and artists and composers and architects and mathematicians and scientists and music makers and inventors and painters and thinkers and revolutionaries and teachers.

He designed each one. Inside and out. He chose their hair color. Their shoe size. He selected their parents. Their circumstances. What kind of cars they would drive someday. What their health insurance co-pays would be.

He designed their childhoods. The street where they lived. The bike they would ride. And all their little friends. He chose their wardrobes. Their personalities.

He decided when, exactly, they would lose their first baby tooth. And when, precisely, they would need that emergency appendectomy. He planned it all.

And when all the preliminary plans for creation were almost finished, God sat back and looked at his drawings. He already had made…

The North Wind and the Sun were fighting one day after school. The North Wind was trying to bait the Sun into an argument over who was stronger.

The North Wind and the Sun argued a lot back then, during their high school years. After all, the Sun was VERY popular in high school, and this made the North Wind jealous.

Namely, because everyone liked the sun. The sun was friendly, quick with a joke, smiled often, and probably didn’t even need school since he already had a million degrees. Whereas the North Wind spent a lot of time listening to weird music, arguing on social media, and watching C-SPAN.

Finally, one day things came to a head. They started quarreling so fiercely they came to blows. And, trust me, the North Wind could really blow.

The North Wind took the Sun into a chokehold. “Everyone knows I’m stronger than you,” shouted the North Wind.

“Let me go!” cried the Sun. “You’re hurting me!”

“Admit it!” said the North Wind. “Admit I’m stronger than you!”

The

Sun could not break loose from the North Wind because the North Wind was indeed very strong. After all, everyone knows that 90 percent of the earth’s freshwater is contained in ice, if the North Wind ever decided to quit chilling the world, the ice would melt and global sea levels would rise by 60 meters. That’s pretty strong.

Then again, the Sun is strong too. Without the sun, we would not have tanlines, the Beach Boys, or—if you’re getting technical—ecological life.

It was about that time, the school principal saw the Sun and the North Wind fighting. The North Wind had the Sun in a headlock. A crowd of students gathered, shouting and jeering.

“Break it up!” shouted the principal, as he pushed them apart.

The Sun had a busted lip. The North Wind had a third-degree sunburn.

The principal devised a test…

This story was told to me. And now I am telling it to you.

The young man was boarding a plane. He was pierced with all manner of shiny rings, covered in a quiltwork of tattoos. His hair was long. He wore black leather. Lots of zippers. He looked like an outsider. And he went to a lot of trouble to look that way.

He stowed his bag in the overhead bin. He took his aisle seat next to an old guy who was looking out the window. Not reading a magazine. Not writing on a notepad. Not doing any work. Just looking.

The older man noticed the younger, and he smiled.

The young man smiled back, but it was an awkward facial exchange. The young man was not much of a smiler.

He’d been going through a hard time. He had just attended his mother’s funeral. He had been estranged from her for years. He’d been living in a way his mom and dad didn’t care for. A lot of issues there.

“That’s a nice leather jacket,” the smiling older

man said.

The young man said nothing at first. Was this guy being sarcastic? Nice leather jacket? Was this some kind of joke?

“Thanks,” said the young guy.

“That jacket has a lot of zippers, I’ll bet you have lots of compartments to store things.”

The young guy was still trying to figure this cat out. He just stared at the old man, trying to read his face.

“Uh, yeah,” said the kid.

“Zippers are so wonderful,” said the old guy.

“Right.”

The kid tried to retreat into his mental cocoon and disappear. He did not want to have a conversation with this guy. He put headphones on his ears and listened to his Walkman.

“That’s a neat cassette player,” the old man said.

The kid just ignored him.

“You can listen to music whenever you want,” the old…

I woke up looking for God. I always look for Him in the mornings. Sometimes, however, He’s hard to find. Sometimes He hides.

I went through my morning routine. I made the coffee. Let the dogs out to pee.

I turned on the TV news.

The TV headlines are shocking. Mostly, about wars, rumors of war, and celebrity mating habits. The news anchor doesn’t smile as he recites talking points.

I feel sorry for Newsguy. Even HE looks sorry he has this job as he talks about the shootings in Minneapolis, Minnesota; Evergreen, Colorado; and the killing of Charlie Kirk in Utah.

I pour coffee. I go to my laptop. Time to do some writing. I have deadlines. Open web browser.

The computer is bombarding me with more news. I skim headlines.

Today’s headlines are nothing like the newspaper headlines of yore. They are click-baity, weirdly worded, as if their sole purpose is to get me to click and nothing more. As if the organization behind each headline doesn’t give a flying fig whether I read the actual

story, as long as I click the title.

“Click me,” I hear the headline whispering. “Come on, handsome. You know you want to. Just click me. Me love you long time.”

Here are some actual headlines I read:

“7 Products I Stopped Buying Once I Realized They Were Silently Killing Me.”

“Study Shows Hugging Can Cause Cancer.”

“Pamela Anderson Speaks Out; She Has A Lot To Get Off Her Chest.”

That’s not to mention all the stories about AI. Robots, robots, robots. If ever there was a trending topic in the news world, it’s the rise of AI.

Humanoid robots with water powered muscles. Robot humanoids being developed to possibly become law-enforcement officers. Humanoid robots expected to be operating within most American homes by the year 2042.

In the same vein, there are throngs of articles about “smart glasses,” and all they…