Funny & Delicious

Okay. 4 p.m. lull, New York City. Pissing down rain, can't even sneak out for a dollar-slice. Eyes getting heavy. What to do???

Pop in on my new favorite foodie website, Bon Appetempt! She is funny. Her husband is funny. Her baby is funny. And her whole premise is, "Who cooks like this???"

Please. Take a gander. I am guaranteeing a smile.

Next, last night's dinner. Kudos to sous chef Ben Carlton. The concept? Recreate Han Dynasty (3rd Avenue & 11th Street, NYC) "destination food" spicy fish dish. 

1. Two lbs Basa (a cheap white fish that reportedly has seen Vietnam, while I have not!)
2. Couple of tbsps extra virgin
3. Garlic, onion, jalapeno
4. Sriracha or chili sauce
5. Teenaged son who loves chopping

• Have aforementioned offspring convert thick firm fish into 1" chunks
• Season with kosher salt
• Heat oil to medium in wok (or similar)
• Sauté fish until browned on one side, maybe 5 minutes?
• Flip around like you know what you're doing
• Add garlic & friends and toss until soft
• Hot sauce to taste, a few good shakes and then some
• Stir fry total time: 10 minutes tops

The key here? Spicy, not-overdone, and serve in a bowl so the cooking juices keep the fish moist and hot. (TIP: Grab a few of those frozen leftover wonton soup or pho broth ice cubes you've been saving in the freezer and add at end. It's done when the wok is steaming and your whole house smells amazing!)

Uncharted Roads

One week ago today I was driving from Jackson, Mississippi to Roanoke Virginia, intermittently listening to a 19-inning Yankees-Red Sox game on AM radio when Ben was in the front seat, and sharing an in-depth conversation about music when Matty replaced him.

Four nights ago, having only set foot in NY for a few hours, I found myself in one of the prettiest spots in Carmel, CA savoring Hendricks martinis and meaningful dialogue with two of my favorite people on the planet. Friends, colleagues, dreamers. Sunset over the Pacific was sublime. The martinis did not hurt.

Two nights ago I was back in BKLYN making dinner for my boys, planning college tours for Ben and opening a new high school bank account for Matty.

Tonight I am ensconced in a delicious and challenging novel on the green chair in Chicago, as my beautiful wife works across the room from me, cross-legged on the couch, on a new grant. I marvel at her tenacity. I am thinking about my next project. Producing FOOD FOR MARRIAGE: the movie? Launching a new environmental social media project? Shifting The Ramen Blog more deeply into my undying devotion to all things food? Or perhaps jumping on a very long plane ride, the kind where, for me, new novels are born?

I know a lot of lost souls these days. Many brilliant friends & family churning about the tank in search of their next passion play. I get it. I know how scary that is. I also know it is where the best stuff ultimately comes from. Hard to create from a place of total comfort.

Time for a cocktail with my "smart, sexy, playful Ph.D." (her digital tagline when we met through the serendipity of the ethernet.)  Sometimes, when the answers are not obvious, I turn to her. Lean on her. Am inspired by her.

Here are a few words from two who always inspire. Nice to carry along on your journeys...

3 Boys and an Atlas: A Father's Journey

Somewhere around mile 2000 on Day 4, Ben noted that he had no sense of time since we left California. That might have been because on the first afternoon I taped a ripped piece of a DQ takeout bag over the car clock. It relieved any sense of anxiety that we had anywhere to be or any hurry to get there. 

Time and space morphed into one seamless experience. We measured hours by the next meal and space was wherever we pulled over to stretch our legs or snap a picture. In southwestern Louisiana we jumped off the interstate onto a road you can barely find on a map (we navigated the whole way by our shredded 2003 Rand McNally.) We opened the sunroof and rolled down the windows to the hot gulf breeze. "The air smells so sweet," Matty said. It's moments like that you don't forget.

Prada Marfa, we agreed, was probably the weirdest and best stop along the way. We might have seen aliens during an Arizona sunset. And Ben is now a po' boy convert, after sussing out Rusty's in Vicksburg on Yelp. I'm sure it was the only place for a thousand miles serving 'til 10 in Mississippi on a Wednesday night (you can take the NYers out of NY, but...)

The 747 parked in a field -- that nearly got us chased by a guy on a Harley on a rutted 2-lane gravel-top -- stands out as the most threatening moment. The back roads of Louisiana made us want to come back for more. Pretty much all of West Texas left us in awe. 

The trip was too long and too short. We needed more days, but we were happy to be home. We spent chunks of time off the beaten path and despite the 80 per speed limits, never made dinner before 9 p.m.  We covered 16 states and 3,100 miles and yet it struck us: we hadn't even been gone a week. 

In Sicily Island, Louisiana, a friendly guy in a pickup truck saw us studying the atlas on the hood of the car. He looked at our NY plates and asked if we needed help. We'd bisected the entire state on the back roads in about 6 hours. I told him we were looking to get back to the interstate. He hooked one thumb over his shoulder and said, "go north. You can't miss it." I asked him which road? He smiled and said, "any." Two days later we rolled into Brooklyn.

"All/come/to look for/America"

It's hard to start each day on this trip not humming that oh-so familiar Simon & Garfunkel song!

Writing this late at night, Ben & Matty sound asleep, the 3 of us basically stuffed into our room at a La Quinta Inn, downtown San Antonio. Day 2, we spent most of our time on the back roads and ranch highways of West Texas. So little out there, so much to see.

All my life I've wanted to publish an art book of my images of faded signs and ramshackle buildings, scattered across the most barren landscapes imaginable. Every last one, someone's dream long ago, no doubt. A few captures from today, all set against the insistent whistling of a hot prairie wind.

Road Trip!

It's not every day you can identify where something started. I've been lucky that way. I discovered rock and roll the day I heard a song called "Stairway to Heaven" on my Sony ball radio on WABC radio. Thank you Cousin Brucie!

Writing: stories, screenwriting, fiction, the whole deal? It all began with the scene in The Graduate when Ben meets Elaine's boyfriend at the Berkeley Zoo. Karl! Katherine Ross and Dustin Hoffman forever etched in my heart. When Elaine and Karl stroll off arm in arm and Benjamin Braddock gazes mournfully at the chimps in the monkey house to the heartbreaking refrain of "Sounds of Silence" (on the harpsichord! oh-so 60s), I was toast. You laugh, you cry, all at the same time. Hello writing career. Where do I sign up?

This is not the precise moment I discovered my passion for the road, but it is darned close.  

That's "the Barn" and me atop my first apartment after college in 1981. We're in Berkeley. I was living with my girlfriend Jodi. Larry came out to visit. We played tennis, smoked weed, and took Jodi out to dinner at a restaurant called Ciao on 230 Jackson Street in San Francisco that, for some odd reason, I remember like it's yesterday. I lost track of Jodi a million years ago. The Barn is, sadly, gone. But way back then, Larry and I somehow convinced our mothers to let us drive cross country in high school between our junior and senior years. We used my mom's Chevy Nova. My dad gave me a carton of Newports as a going away present. Our CB radio "handle" was Day Tripper. We logged 10,090 miles in 2 months.

I cannot embark on a road trip without thinking of The Barn. Tomorrow me and my boys set off on a 2,400 mile jaunt from Palm Desert, CA to Brooklyn, NY. Oddly enough, yet again, I am setting off in my mom's car, as we haul it back east after her winter away from the cold. The boys chose this trip eyes wide open. We love our road trips. The Barn and I kept a hand-written log in a scratchy blue notebook liner. I'll do the same @kennyrcarlton on Instagram. Stay tuned. We are wheels-up Tuesday morning, 6 a.m.

Eastern Nevada, 1981. 

Spring. Break.

Garfield Place, Brooklyn

Lost Classics

So you are probably wondering:  what to do if you still cherish your vinyl collection, but the belt on your Technics SL-BD22 semi-automatic turntable is shot? Simple. Go to turntablebelts.com, order up spanking new six-dollar replacement part, and eagerly await for it to arrive by U.S. mail in a hand-scrawled envelope. Tear open, stare at flimsy rubber-band looking thingie with great trepidation, then remove metal disk plate from turntable.  Frantically Google "replacing belt drive," follow world's simplest instructions, and complete. Replace turntable plate, slip any album out of the collected memory of your lost youth, and happily spin away. (Neuropsychology note to self: Research why you cannot remember the 3 items you went out to the grocery store to get, but can sing along to the precise skip from the original Broadway cast recording of "Jesus Christ Superstar" which you have not played since Reagan was in office!)

The greatest joy of all from this exercise? Discovering that all six songs from side 3 of long-lost favorite double album are truly classic, even if not a one has not been played on a radio station since Allison Steele (The Nightbird) left WNEW-FM.

Can Anyone Really Make a Difference?

That there is a school in the hills of Kigali where children ran for shelter and were hacked to death by machete in a genocide that killed over a million people barely more than 20 years ago. 

That there is a generation of women who were systematically raped and deliberately left to live with HIV.

That these women survived and bore a new generation, also infected by HIV and yet thanks to the determination of a people to move on, Rwanda has not only survived, but thrived.

Ten years ago a doctor in the states received a call that there was a population in Kigali infected with HIV who could not get the antiretrovirals they needed to live. Meet Mardge Cohen. She answered the call,  flew in, rolled up her sleeves and went to work. Today the clinic she founded, WE-ACTx -- a small NGO by anyone's standards -- provides not only the meds, but social and psychological services to thousands of women and children who might otherwise not have made it. It is estimated that 90% of the 11 million people of Rwanda are still touched by the genocide. That means, as a visitor like myself, 9 out of 10 people you pass on the crowded streets will have suffered, or know someone who has suffered atrocities too unimaginable to recount. Spend an hour in the Kigali Genocide Memorial.  The horrific becomes all too real.

My wife, like everyone else at this clinic who would never deign to garner recognition, brought her research skills to the project and collaborated on a grant that is advancing the field of living with HIV. It also brought funding -- the lifeblood that keeps grass roots organizations like this alive and viable.

It seems to me there is a groundswell movement afoot to do better. To give something of one's self toward a larger cause than the bottom line. But it is sometimes hard to visualize how anything can really help. That the world's problems are simply too large, too far away and too insurmountable. 

Thanks to the work of Mardge's NGO, beyond the medical services, a women's collective has banded together to create glorious, homespun products that are sold worldwide. They are building self-sufficiency. 

An afterschool program provides music therapy, counseling and family to a new generation of Rwandan kids. Many of the instructors are called peer-parents. They were the first class to receive care from the clinic. And now they give back. Not such a bad lesson for anyone. 

12 Hours in Central Africa

If ever there were an essay best expressed by pictures alone, this would be it. I arrived in Kigali after the 28-hour trip at nearly two in the morning and my wife greeted me with a surprise: an overnight stay and daylong trip through Akagera. The park is nestled between Uganda and Tanzania in eastern Rwanda, about 3 hours from Kigali. We were the only guests in the lodge and the only people in the park. Literally! Here is what went down.

Sunrise over Lake Ihema.

Our guide Yasin keeps unwanted company from joining us for our journey.

All eyes on us as we depart!

While I have been to Africa several times, I have never been on a "safari." I always felt the word implied glorified tourist site. I also had some vague notion that you drive around in traffic with dozens of foreigners (like myself!) in jeeps, hoping to see a lion. I stand corrected. On all counts. 

Never thought of myself as a birder. A boat ride on Lake Ihema changed that!

We love Godfrey, our Park guide.

The park is about 50 miles long and 20 miles wide, so about 1,000 square miles. Rwanda is known as 'The Land of a Thousand Hills.' The single track roads are rutted clay, broken rock or shifting sand. In other words, precisely what the Land Rover was invented for. Ours broke down midway through the afternoon.

Haven't seen another vehicle in 4 hours. Hmmm, wonder if these guys can help?

My extraordinary wife, as usual, is completely nonplussed.

And all Yasin and Godfey had to do was rebuild the gas pump, siphon fuel out of the auxiliary tank and into the spare tire cover, and fill 'er up. We were on our way again!

I'm writing this at midnight on the eve of our departure from Africa. The photos were all taken with a $99 single lens point-and-shoot. We didn't see another soul all day except for the guys with the guns and the only glitch in the program was when our Land Rover broke down again (!!) on the ride home. The road was pitch black and within minutes a car pulled up. Yasin told us it was his colleague and loaded our bags in for the final 50 kilometers. Moments from home we asked our new ride if Yasin had given him our address. The driver replied, "Who's' Yasin?"

Chicago Style Winter

It has been suggested by a good friend that I am "meteorologically insatiable." Alas, I have no defense.

The writer in me strives to avoid the cliche and of late, winter has been done. However, last weekend I weathered a tremendous blow in Chicago and sensed there is a story here.

"They don't call it the Windy City for nothing," said an ESPN announcer, as reported by the Chicago Tribune a few years ago. The nickname refers not to lake breezes but to Chicago's long-winded politicians. The story dates back to the 1870s, when Chicago, Cincinnati and St. Louis all "vociferously claimed the right to be called the greatest city of the Midwest."

A tornado struck Chicago on May 6, 1876 and as legend goes, the Cincinnati Enquirer coined the term "That Windy City" in its headline a few days later.  "They used the term for windy speakers who were full of wind, and there was a wind-storm in Chicago," observed the Trib. "It's both at once."

That's the scoop. Here are the pics. 

Spaghetti, Airplanes & Snow

One need only call my kid sister to understand what these 3 concepts mean to me. She gets it and I know she is smiling as she reads.  A bowl of spaghetti with red sauce ( canned is fine), take-off (any flight, any destination -- and yes, Karen, I still smile when that plane yanks down the runway), and of course -- yesterday's much talked about snowstorm. Any combination of the above still lights me up like a child. 

Unfortunately, technology has conspired to dampen the joys of a good nor'easter. By the first moment the white stuff starts to swirl, you have heard so much about what's to come that it cannot possibly live up to expectation. And as came to pass in this instance, the botched forecast in New York was measured in feet, not inches.

Still, snow is snow and I long for the times when it simply just happened. As a kid, it meant a day off from school and shoveling our steep driveway with my dad. At college in Middlebury, Vermont, I'm not sure we even knew what a "winter storm warning" was. It snowed, a lot. We were never warned. It was great.

So ever since the advent of Doppler radar and the precision of advanced forecasting, I've adopted new rules. Once I hear it's coming, I shut down all media and hunker down for a good blow. We got one of those last night. I couldn't tell you the snowfall totals. But it was a totally wonderful 24 hours.

It Falls from the Sky: Manhattan

West Village, midday.

6th Avenue looking a bit deserted. Still, people have to eat...

Time to leave the office!

Ahhh, home. Good ol' Park Slope.

Bring it on!

The Morning After

In keeping with my media embargo, I ignored the emergency message that mysteriously appeared on my cell phone (ALL CARS OFF THE STREET BY 11 P.M.) and settled in for the usual blizzard fare: Pan-fried sea scallops with bok choy and mushrooms sauteed in olive oil and nam pla. Goes well with storm-watching and single malt at 2 a.m. I awoke to the wonderful sound of the silence of snow. One has to live in the city to understand. There is nothing that alters New York more than the sound of no sound. It is a rare treat.

My kids were 4 and 6 when my wife and I parted ways. The boys and I nicknamed our new digs "The KMB Club." We bought a couple of plastic blue sleds and for years, every time the flakes flew we made tracks to Prospect Park. 

The boys are both 6' tall now and in high school. I hope they had a fun day off. It's their mom's week. I have no clue. Their sleds are tucked away somewhere here in the apartment, long un-used. But today I couldn't help but tie on my boots and head up to the old sleigh hill. Ten inches or two feet? Nothing beats a snow day. Still!

Destination Food: Xi'an

And so, with a very long work push and many miles, takeoffs and landings beneath my belt, it is time to return to my roots. The core. Why I started this blog in the first place. Food. Inspiring. Eclectic. Wallet-friendly and no reservations required. Stamping out hunger while fueling creativity. First stop? A mid-January lunch on St. Mark's Place.

Like every food discovery I have ever made, it begins with a clipping, usually a handful of sentences at best, ripped from the pages of the Times dining section, Food & Wine, New York magazine, or of late, the New Yorker, whose front-of-book writing and layouts are as tasty as some of the places they write about.

My older son and I discovered this place a few years ago on a father/son movie date at the Sunshine (a taste of indie heaven!). The flick was "The Spectacular Now" (the early work of Shailene Woodley and Whiplash's incredible Miles Teller). The noodles? They breathe life into the words "hand pulled."

The rest, as duly noted, is self-evident...

The Flavors & Places of 2014

Cheung Chau Ferry, Hong Kong.

Chez Ken.

Garfield Corner store dawn. 

Dining room table, 2 a.m. snack.

Gill's Rock, Wisconsin.

Chatellailon-Plage. 

Park Slope kitchen.

Chelsea desk.

Front stoop.

Home.

Here's to good friends...Happy 2015.

Why We Write

An Important Editor is reading my new novel and as 2015 comes rushing in, I am on tenterhooks. My wish list is short. This story is a personal heartsong. I am confident it will touch others. I so want it to see the light of day.

2014 has featured a lot of iffy news for lovers of books. Nook is on the ropes. Amazon has been making headlines right and left, though I suspect it is mostly writers who pay attention. Today's Times ran a big story about what is good for authors, but I think it missed the point. We are not about the business (in fact we mostly stink at it!). I don't know a creative soul who stares down the blank page, contemplates knocking off 80-100,000 words, and conjures up images of wealth. (We do however fantasize about the "By the Book" profile in the Sunday Book Review!) 

In reality, when the blank page looms, we write because we have a story to tell, a burning desire to share it, and probably figured out around 2nd grade that we were better at this than math or science. The rest is luck, tenacity and literary history.

The other big story that mostly authors care about is digital versus print. Digital is easy. I have sold plenty of instant downloads of Food for Marriage to a seatmate on a long flight delay. It's a fun conversation starter and a quick buck. The chats are still longer than the earnings reports, but that hasn't slowed me a bit!

However, my preference is print! One of the great retro joys of riding the New York City subway is seeing what people read. I am happy to report that libraries are still in business and used, dog-eared copies of Nabakov, Hemingway and Garcia-Marquez are still widely in circulation. One of the sweetest pleasures of all the book groups I did this past year was meeting new friends who asked me to sign their copy. I've adopted a cloying, signature Food for Marriage author phrase: "Stay hungry!" I know I am.

Do books matter? It's my fervent prayer they do, and for the millions who received the world's easiest gift to wrap, I hope the proverbial image of settling in for a good read by a crackling fireplace remains relevant. That's the reader in me talking.

But the writer is still at it because it is what I do and what I love. I am willing to turn the business over to the wise and experienced rainmakers who still cling to their passion for making good books. Me? Pull up a barstool. Have I got a story to tell!

Helloooo in there!

Yes, I have been missing in action of late and it's funny -- friends have actually noticed! Thank you!! Believe me, there's no greater compliment. And it's been nagging at me, too. Has the well run dry? Moi, out of words? Nope. I just realized I've been running the engine so hard that there hasn't been one second to sit, pause, and think. So, having flown nearly 30,000 miles in 4 weeks, touched down in 10 cities, celebrated Thanksgiving, lost a dear relative, made a few dozen lunches and dinners, done my day job, written a new book proposal, submitted a few novels, read a few more -- even thrown a dinner party or two! -- I'm back. And that is thanks to our dear ol' friend Charlie Brown, who reminded me this evening quite by accident, yes, it is the holiday season! Time to slow down, look back, reflect, and appreciate just a little bit how quirky and weird and fleeting and wonderful life is. No more, no less. 

Been to the desert.

Crossed a few mountains.

Woke up over Siberia!

Weathered a big blow in San Francisco!

But closer to home, we celebrated the first thanksgiving without my father. Something was definitely missing, but we soldiered on...

Time to slow down and reflect with a very serious academic.

Raise a glass to Blossom, who is brave and alone and going it with a smile. 

And say goodbye to Uncle Julius, who filled a room like nobody's business and left us a lifetime too early.

How about we raise our collective voices near and far, for a little peace and a little understanding in these incredibly complex times.

Wednesday Morning, 4 a.m.

I do not have the words currently, either due to less than 45 minutes sleep in the past 24 hours or the fact I am about to miss my plane! -- but later I will explain how I ended up on a 19,000 mile, 72 hour roundtrip to Hong Kong, culminating in watching dawn turn to day on Cheung Chau Island before ferrying and train-ing and racing to the airport. For the time being, the images will have to suffice.  

I'm Mad as Hell and I'm Not Going to Take it Anymore

With a nod to Paddy Chayefsky, of late, I've noticed a large number of people I know burning up with this desire to "do something good." Some of them are between jobs. Some of them are out of work. Some of them have just been at the same darned thing for too darned long. It almost feels like a groundswell movement. People want to do something that truly makes a difference. 

This week I spent two days at the World's Greatest Problem Solver's Conference in Boulder, Colorado. It was put on by the Van Heyst Group, a juggernaut of dialogue and debate whom I've worked with all over the world for the past 20 years years. This event was different for me. For the first time, I was a participant, not a worker bee. I got to drink at the receptions (okay, maybe I've snuck a wee dram while working, in the past), meet cool people, and sit in and listen to discussions on some of the largest ideas keeping us awake at night. What's on people minds?

Preventing terrorism by enlightening the mothers of extremists. Plopping censors down every water well in America to understand drought. Confronting violent crime like an epidemic (think Ebola) to apply science to reducing inner city murder rates. Treating crop data like a renewable resource to empower farmers. Harnessing wind to create untold power and create new jobs. Placing the safety of children in the hands of the community through the use of technology to keep our kids safe. 

I could go on and on. What linked this extraordinary group of people was passion to the Nth degree. Their views were out there: disruptive, controversial, futuristic, and unique. From entrepreneur to filmmaker, Ph.D. to impact investor, they all brought one shared desire:  to advance a cause that was not about themselves. 

The meeting was small, the presentations simple and powerpoint-gentle. It was not about showmanship, but heartfelt words and bold ideas. Conferences can be boring. This one was not. We sang. We hugged. We dined and drank. We listened. We pitched in. We worried about our collective condition and linked arms to make a 21st century difference.

I have been paid to write "takeaway reports" for a dozen years. I was off duty this week. The takeaway was the feeling in the room and the snow in the air. Early winter put no one off. The blaze of ideas sent us all home thinking, "Yes, maybe I can make a difference." My takeaway? Maybe we can.

Ships that Come In

When the New York Times review for Billy & Ray appeared in last week's paper, my heart sank. I had to wipe away a tear. That's how close to home its discouraging words cut towards my good friend's life's work. But let's be real. Those words might as well have been directed at me. Haven't I spent every day for the past (how many???) years, putting it out there, in books, in film, in TV, awaiting that hallowed moment of glory when the world weighs in?  I wondered how playwrite Mike Bencivenga could go on. So I did what I had to do. I went to the box office of the Vineyard Theatre and bought my ticket to survey the damage. 

Mike is married to my childhood friend, Jenny, with whom I used to play jacks with on the 2nd grade playground of the Concord Road Elementary School in Ardsley, NY. Mike and I bonded instantly. He was into plays and I into fiction, so we weren't even competing for the same prize. He was easy to like, with a day job as a news editor and a big effusive personality. Mike was the guy you wanted to hang with at the bar with and trade war stories. He had a singlemindedness of mission and a complete lack of doubt -- or at least it never showed in the countless years of struggle and heartbreak. 

I planned to fly under the radar for what I anticipated to be a train wreck of an evening. The reviews weren't a week old. I was surprised and apprehensive when it turned out both Mike and Jenny were in attendance for the evening's performance. I naively assumed Jenny would be anywhere but here, and Mike would be home nursing a bottle of Jameson's with his beloved cat. The lights went dark. I hunkered down. Cut to:

Applause. Loud and sustained. Many stood in the sold-out theatre as the cast took its curtain call. In the ensuing talkback, everyone stayed. The questions were intelligent and provocative. This audience was engaged. The playwrite and actors responded with relief, laughter and clever repartee. Maybe they hadn't read the reviews. Uhh-huh. Sure.

Associate Producer Ali Skye Bennet, Sophie von Haselberg, Mike Bencivenga and Vincent Kartheiser.

The Q & A went on until the producer had to bring it to a close. The stars vanished stage right. The theatre went dark. Mike, Jenny, myself and a group of his friends went next door for drinks. Jenny, who might as well been co-producer she did so much to shepherd this work to life, recounted every humorous miscue and gaffe from the past 4 weeks of shows. Mike unwound, content I sensed, with a good evening of theatre. A clever and meaningful story that never would have existed but for his vivid imagination and dogged perseverance. 

The clock passed midnight. We finished our drinks and settled up. We hugged on the sidewalk. Mike and Jenny jumped in a cab. Billy & Ray would go up again the next night. Mike would be in the booth, watching again for the 4,000th time since his brilliant seed of an idea became a reality. But first he had to get some sleep, because he had to be at his day job at 8 in the morning. Just like the rest of us.

The Dinner Party

The Commute

Out there.

Visitor's field.

The El.

The scoop.

Mobile office.