Comanche name, translated as "he who travels alone but comes home". Dad here; after an epic three thousand mile trip through the American southwest, Charlie and I are once again ensconced in the relative safety of the Casa del Whackos. We determined long ago that time and money not spent on motels and campgrounds is time and money that can be spent on gas and mobility, so we would rather rough camp like the Comanches…

Dad and I were working on the 2019 calender, and seeing the pictures of past trips out west caused the wanderlust bug to bite, and bite hard. Whether the Ozarks of Arkansas or the Rockies of Colorado, neither are immediately accessible from the Casa, their prescence is still consoling despite the fact that they are many miles of flat, grinding interstate to reach their refreshing slopes. They comfort us with the knowledge, that should the…

Dad here; life never seems to slow down at the Casa. Time advances like a leaf floating in the current, seeming to be unmoving in the distance, then speeding up as it approaches only to vanish beneath your bow, never to be seen again. Such is the parade of characters that have inhabited this madhouse over the years; just since Charlie started this adventure, we have seen the passing of Stevie, Max, and Bull Taco…

Dad here; zero dark thirty at the Casa. Through my eye slits I can see mom's voluptuous figure silhouetted in the bedroom doorway; maybe if I lay still enough, she'll continue on her migration the Land of the Kitchen to create the elixir of life, that wonderful brew that miraculously replaces antidepressants, jumper cables, and industrial strength laxatives, all in one wonderful cup. Like motorcycles, if coffee were discovered today, it would never be allowed…

Have you ever felt like you're running from your calling? Dad here; when Charlie and I first met and she began to blog, we were determined that this would be a refuge from the constant negativity on the web. As the years have passed, we have unfortunately encountered unpleasant situations that needed sharing among the familial units, the loss of Stevie, Max, Bull Taco, the loss of my job, the decline of my dad, the…

When dad and I head west, we always seem to gravitate towards the northern New Mexico/southern Colorado area. One of our favorite things about the area is the multitude of small shrines that dot the high desert landscape, some beside the roads, others tucked away under a bluff or up an arroyo. We have to inspect each one and the seemingly random gifts and memorials that seem to always fill them. A sun-bleached hat, extinguished…