A Travel Day from Hell: A Recent Return Trip From Los Angeles

I'm not the kind of guy who expects things to go perfectly when flying. When you ponder the possibilities, there are thousands of things that can go awry to screw up a day of flying. I've had my reserved ride to the airport not show for a 5 a.m. pickup. I've had my baggage miss connecting flights. I was delayed nearly three hours in Greenville's airport once because the replacement equipment used for a broken plane scheduled into Greenville the night before couldn't be refueled by GSP's rapid-pumping fuel filler. An international flight I was on recently was delayed two hours because no one thought to cool down the cabin before the crew arrived. The temp was well over 100 degrees and it required more than two hours to cool to the approved-for-passengers 80 degrees. And on and on and on it goes.

Consequently, I am always pleasantly surprised when a day of flying doesn't include any, well, surprises.

A recent return trip from Los Angeles, though, was one of those travel days with a series of issues that, 20 years ago, would have sent me into a red-faced, screaming rage. I am older, calmer and have made peace with the fact that flying just doesn't always go as planned (See paragraph No. 1.). Although “inner Russ” was a bit crazed, “outer Russ” remained cool and collected.

My blood pressure began it's upward trajectory as I sat in the car assigned to cart me and another journalist to LAX for our flights home from the Mazda introduction of the redesigned MX-5 Miata and the all-new CX-3 crossover. This other journalist shall remain nameless; but once I learned who was delaying us, I wasn't surprised that by five minutes past our scheduled departure time, he had yet to put in an appearance. This isn't some clueless kid, but a seasoned (yet obviously somewhat oblivious) veteran of such press junkets. In other words, he is an adult and should be professional enough to be where he's supposed to be when he's supposed to be there.

We do have more than our share of self-absorbed asshats among the motoring media. These are the people who are consistently late for everything, such as shuttles to off-site dinners and so forth. In life, some people are always late because they are absent minded; while others are just inconsiderate jerks with an over-inflated view of their worth. I suspect most of my serially late contemporaries are among the latter rather than the former. The car companies are partly responsible. They do often treat us as precious snowflakes whose each and every utterance has merit. We are coddled and pampered like ladies in waiting at the royal court. Most of us can accept this attention without our heads swelling to the size of medicine balls, but a few can't.

Thankfully, the Mazda travel people had the good judgment to send my shuttle on without its second passenger.

Once at LAX, I had my worst-ever airport experience. LAX is a honking big place. Unlike the busier Atlanta airport that at least oozes some degree of warmth despite all the hustle and bustle, LAX always feels cold and uncaring, staffed with people who would all rather be somewhere else.

I arrived at Terminal 5, roughly 90 minutes before my flight's departure. Here Delta has installed a completely separate area for it's Sky Priority customers, far removed from the surging rabble devoid of any frequent-flier status. I printed my boarding passes for the day before leaving the Four Seasons where Mazda hosted us. I brought a bag too large to carry on the plane because I knew I would be transporting home a couple of bubble-wrapped 22-ounce bottles of Belching Beaver Peanut Butter Milk Stout. All I needed to do at Delta's desk was check that bag.

I approached the area, although unmarked, that appeared to be be the check-bag-only section of the desk. There a big guy stood speaking to a female Delta agent. He pretty much ignored me until I cleared my throat and said all I needed to do was check a bag as I held up my boarding pass. Barely acknowledging me, he pointed down the counter where two other Delta agents were helping people. I walked down there and stood in the short line. When my turn came to step up and be helped, the agent looked at my boarding pass and redirected me back to the area from which I had just come. Turns out the big guy was the baggage handler whose job it was to place bags on the conveyor belt. The agent he was speaking with – who didn't so much as look at me on my first pass – was the agent assigned to check bags for people with boarding passes. What I didn't know, because one must walk around to the back of the counter to see the sign, was that the appropriate spot to check a bag with a preprinted boarding pass is on the far side of the counter. She finally sprang into action when I divined precisely the exact spot and lined up there.

What are all these people doing?

With my bag finally checked, I approached the TSA “security” station. I have “Known Traveler” status which means I made a special 320-mile round trip to the TSA offices in Atlanta where I was interviewed, vetted, finger printed and photographed. As a benefit of being a Known Traveler, I always get PreCheck. This means I basically sail through security. I don't need to remove anything from my carry-ons; from my person I don't need to remove my belt or shoes or anything from my pockets, and my laptop stays safely in my bag. The only precaution I must take is to put my cell phone in my bag as it goes through the X-ray.

With PreCheck, you walk through the metal detector rather than stand in the hold-your-hands-over-your-head-and-cough X-ray contraption. My pass through the metal detector was met with a loud beep. I was instructed to step out and go through again, which I did. BEEP! The TSA agent asked if I had anything in my pockets. I answered that of course I did; it's the PreCheck line! He took all my pocket flotsam except for the cash and had me walk through again. BEEP! He handed back my pocket contents, had me step back again and then go around to the X-ray machine. There I was told to keep my pocket contents in my hands as I held them over my head. With the X-ray, he spotted the knee brace I wear anytime I'm dressed in long pants. This initiated a call for “back up.”

Despite there always being several agents milling around these security stations apparently with nothing to do, getting an agent over to give me some individual attention took about two minutes. In the meantime, I stood with the X-ray operator glaring at me. Finally an agent about my age shuffled over wearing surgical gloves and carrying a metal-detector wand. He asked which bags on the X-ray conveyor were mine and grabbed my backpack. Putting it off to the side, he had me sit down. He asked me to roll up my pants leg so he could see my knee brace. I was wearing jeans and that wasn't in the cards. He frowned and then told me he needed to feel the brace before running his hands down my knee. This is not a big, fancy brace. I paid $14 for it at CVS. It's more of a knee wrap than a brace. Not satisfied, he then wanded it. Although it doesn't feel as though it contains any metal, it must because it set off the wand. 

You may feel a little pinch.

Clearly stumped the agent stepped back to think for a minute. I had been in security now for roughly 15 minutes. I have passed through security unmolested at least 20 times since I began wearing the brace in December. But suddenly, I'm public enemy No. 1. Although I'm in no danger of missing my flight, I'm beginning to become a little ticked. I say, “I can't imagine you don't get at least 100 people a day through here wearing knee braces. I don't understand why it seems such a mystery to you, you officious dumbass.”

Well, I didn't actually say, “you officious dumbass.” It was implied.

His clipped response, “You shouldn't imagine things.”

What?

He finally calls over his supervisor and explains the threat I pose. “It's one of those damn knee-brace felons,” I imagine him whispering. There I go imagining again. I see his supervisor shake his head, no. The agent returns, hands me my backpack and sends me on my way. Apparently I dodged a trip to the TSA offices for a strip search.

Once through security, signs directed me through a construction zone in the bowels of the airport to reach my gate. At the appropriate time, we boarded. Pushing back from the gate, the plane taxied a few feet down the taxiway where it paused as the pilot fired up the second engine. Seconds later the pilot announces the right engine heat indicator isn't functioning and we must return to the gate. Because the pilot didn't fire up the right engine until we had pulled out into the taxiway, a tug had to be found and brought over to pull the plane gateside. This took nearly 30 minutes. More than another hour was required for maintenance to tighten a connection in the engine, which fixed the problem.

With only 80 minutes baked into my schedule to connect in Atlanta, I knew I wasn't going to make my scheduled flight to Greenville. From my seat, I called Delta's service center. I informed the agent I wasn't going to make my connecting flight and needed to know what my other flight options might be. There was another flight to Greenville leaving about three hours later with open seats, I asked to be backed up to that. No problem, I was told.

Arriving in Atlanta, I called the service center again to confirm my seat on the 4:49 flight. The agent informed me that I was only on standby for that flight and it was showing full. But I was confirmed on the 7:05 flight. Seething, I walked to the nearest Delta service desk where an agent confirmed what I was told on the phone. I go to the gate for the 4:49 flight where I see on the board that there are actually seven open seats and I'm first on the standby list. I am stumped why I'm not confirmed with seven open seats, but the gate agent tells me not to fret, I'll get a seat. As I sit waiting for my seat to clear, three non-Delta flight crew members approach the podium and are promptly issued three of the seven open seats. They are apparently deadheading back home.

Wait a minute, Delta issues open seats to deadheaders before it does to paying customers it's already inconvenienced at least once during the day? The two people on the standby list below me were also on my delayed flight from LAX. The three of us made the flight by the skin of our teeth.

There is something terribly wrong with this system. Not to mention, it's lousy customer service. It was a very long travel day.

After Two Days, Nothing to Complain About in the Florida Keys

I'm not the kind of guy who can find much to whine about when relaxing in the Florida Keys. Sure the relentless sun and heat usually turns my beer into the temperature of bath water before I manage to finish it, but it's just motivation to drink more quickly.

During my first two days in Islamorada, I've avoided getting sunburned; so, nothing to complain about there.

$200 later, a new prop.

The boat propeller took an unexpected dump on Day 1. I've decided that I am a jinx when it comes to Amy and Scott's boat. On two separate jaunts to South Florida earlier in the year we attempted to take the boat out. It's trailered by the side of their house most of the time. On one aborted attempt we managed to get the boat in the water before discovering it wouldn't run. The other time we didn't even get it that far. The boat had been performing brilliantly before my arrival, carrying several people out to a popular snorkeling spot. Before the prop went south, the boat had been dragging different kids around on a big tube. We headed to a sandbar for lunch – a trip cut short because we couldn't get the anchor to grab. As we motored away, the prop began slipping. We headed – at little more than idle speed – to the closest marina with a mechanic, who diagnosed the propeller as the culprit.

 I tell you all of this to emphasize the negative effect I appear to have on the reliable performance of this boat. If it could roll over and play dead when it sees me, it probably would. But I can't even moan about this because the mechanic showed up yesterday afternoon, as promised, and replaced the faulty prop. In fact, the repair was so timely that we were able to head out to a couple of joints for happy hour. How can I complain about that?

The "OV" for happy hour.

I don't always sleep well on the road, but not an issue on this trip. The beach-side condo my friends rented for a month has three bedrooms. The one I'm hogging for nearly a week has a queen-size bed that's as comfortable as any I've slept in. I've been sleeping like the dead. Nothing to bitch about there.

We've had decent sunsets both evenings I've been here. Neither was spectacular, but they were fairly colorful. No fodder for whining in the sunset department.

My good camera did give up the ghost, but I'm taking it's stubbornness to perform as an opportunity to buy a new camera. Most of the photos you see here were shot with my iPhone.

I don't have the energy to search high and low for something to moan about. I am on vacation after all. I may stumble across something in the next few days I'm here worthy of my animosity, but my optimism on this is waning. In the meantime, I'll just concentrate on trying to drink my beer before it gets warm. I'll have my hands full with that.

Italian Adventure Day 2: More Fish, More Bad Beer, Some Bocelli and Great Cars!

The all-new Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio unveiled at the brand's 105th anniversary celebration.

I'm not the kind of guy who always sees the glass as half empty. Usually I'm not...well, sometimes I'm not...oh, hell, all right already, the glass is nearly always half empty. As I rattled around in Milan's airport Sheraton Hotel on day No. 1 of my recent Alfa Romeo trip there, I was more than a little disappointed that we were staying some 30 miles from Milan. All I could see of Italy was the airport out one window and a crowded parking lot out the other.

Because my flight from Atlanta was delayed two hours (Click here to read more about this and some of my thoughts on the trip details.), I didn't arrive in Milan until about 11 a.m. I was all checked in and entering my hotel room by 11:30. The hotel is connected to the airport and its reception desk a brisk 5-minute walk from baggage claim.

I characterize my moving through the hotel as “rattling around” in it because it is absolutely huge. All I can imagine is that unlike the United States, where property surrounding airports is uber expensive, property around the Milan airport must be dirt cheap, or maybe Sheraton won it in a raffle. The amount of wasted space is nothing short of amazing. The guest rooms, as well as the reception area, are average size, but the corridors and walkways are immense.

Where I would expect shops, boutiques, and maybe a bar or two, there is just empty space. I tell you this as a way of explaining that there was simply nothing to do in the hotel except go back to your room, work, read or nap. I guess there is a train that runs from the airport into the city center, but I was worried that I wouldn't get there and back in time for the welcome dinner at the hotel that evening. I chose to hunker down in my room where I read and caught up on my sleep.

Dinner that evening was a sit-down affair in the hotel featuring Milan's favorite food: fish. When in Milan, don't expect to eat anything that didn't swim or at least dwell in the ocean. Despite being nearly 100 miles from the coast, Milan's main dietary staple is seafood. Hey, where's the lasagna; where are the meatballs? One must travel several hundred miles south to find that or just about anything else I think of as Italian food, I'm told.

The cocktail hour before dinner was a tease. There were no cocktails. In fact, the alcohol for this event and every other during this trip, consisted of Prosecco (an Italian champagne-like beverage), Italian wine and Italian beer. The Prosecco was fine as long as you like tiny bubbles in your white wine. The real wine was wonderful. The beer, however, left much to be desired. Italian brew is to beer what the accordion is to chamber music. I'd rather drink a Bud, and that's saying something.

The U.S. pavilion at Expo. Its examples of American cuisine were served from food trucks parked behind the pavilion. BBQ sandwich: about $12.

The next morning our Alfa hosts whisked us off to something called “Expo.” It's a world's fair-like event held in different European cities every few years. This year Milan happened to be the host. Alfa spent the equivalent of roughly $39 for each of us to gain entry to this event. Personally I would have preferred Alfa keeping its $39, taking us into Milan proper and setting us loose for a couple of hours instead. The Expo was basically country-sponsored pavilions showing off some aspect of their science or culture. After walking through each exhibit, visitors reached a gift shop and sometimes a little restaurant featuring the country's cuisine. Returning to the hotel mid afternoon, I broke into my stash of peanut-butter crackers that I always carry when traveling outside the U.S.

A couple of Alfas displayed at its museum.

By 4 p.m., Alfa had us on buses heading to its freshly renovated museum near Milan for the brand's 105^th anniversary celebration. It was more Prosecco and bad beer as we wandered around the joint. It was fun, interesting and educational. The collection of historic Alfas is truly fascinating. 

The Giulia.

Part of the evening was spent at the unveiling of the all-new Giulia (pronounced Julia) four-door that will arrive in U.S. showrooms in mid 2016 as a 2017 model. The version they pulled the wraps off of was the top-of-the-line Giulia Quadrifoglio. It will get its go from a 510-horsepower twin-turbocharged V6. It will be rear-wheel drive and a six-speed manual transmission will be available to turn those wheels. Alfa was pretty sketchy with the details, but did offer that it will accelerate to 60 miles per hour in less than four seconds. It's 3,400 pounds is equally distributed (50/50) across its axles. An all-new double-wishbone arrangement up front and multi-link setup in the rear provides the suspension. And, of course, the emotion of the exterior design is typically Alfa Romeo.

Sergio Marchionne delivering his remarks.

We heard Sergio Marchionne, CEO of Fiat Chrysler Automobiles (FCA), speak to Giulia's role as the kick-off model in Alfa Romeo's rebirth. FCA will invest around $5 billion over the next few years in new product aimed at building Alfa world-wide sales to 400,000 units. That would be about a 600 percent increase over 2014's 68,000 sales.

Andrea Bocelli belting out a tune.

We were also treated to the voice of Andrea Bocelli who briefly performed at the unveiling. All things considered, it was an incredible evening. Of course, it was more seafood at dinner, but after hearing Bocelli sing, who was going to moan about another meal of damn fish? Not me.

The Aerodinamica: What must have been Alfa's first attempt at an Italian Weinermobile.

My flight from Milan back to Atlanta was delayed an hour or so. Apparently weather in Atlanta the previous day had delayed the plane's flight sufficiently to cut into the crew's required down time. My first order of business once comfortably situated in my business-class seat, wearing my Delta-provided booties was to order a beer. It turned out to be a Heineken, but was delicious when compared to the meager Italian attempts at the brewer's art.

Once on the ground in Atlanta, a three-hour slog taking me through Atlanta's notorious rush-hour traffic brought me to my back door.

A bottle of Belching Beaver Peanut Butter Milk Stout and Chinese carry-out were the perfect cappers to my whirlwind, three-day Alfa Romeo Italian adventure.

Travel Update: My Italian Adventure So Far

The Milan airport as viewed from my hotel window.

I'm not the kind of guy who would turn up his nose at a trip to Italy. I mean, come on, who would? I had never been to Italy and it was prominent on my bucket list of countries to visit before I cash in my chips.

So, when AutoTrader asked me to attend the 105^th anniversary celebration for Alfa Romeo in Milan in June in its stead, I was all over it. That's the kind of highly motivated go getter I am.

I responded to FCA – what Fiat-Chrysler now calls itself – announcing my attendance. FCA's travel department contacted me, booking me round-trip, business-class tickets from Atlanta to Milan. I have no clue what the tickets cost, but I'm sure I'm worth of every penny.

My flight was scheduled for 5:50 p.m. I left Greenville around noon for my two-and-a-half-hour drive to Atlanta's airport. I knew my international business-class ticket included admittance to Delta's Sky Clubs, I figured I'd enjoy a stress-free drive to Atlanta and then hang out in a Sky Club drinking Delta's wine until my flight. Although my flight left from E Concourse, I wandered into the Sky Club in F Concourse. This is officially Delta's international terminal. The Sky Club there is quite an operation with a fully stocked bar manned by a couple of bartenders. I'm impressed by any bar anywhere proffering Pappy Van Winkle Bourbon and Don Julio 1942 Tequila. This Sky Club had both. The Pappy was $20 a shot. The 1942 wasn't on the liquor menu, but the bartenders thought it was $8 a shot. $8? I nearly bought a shot, but decided discretion was the better part of valor. I stuck to my wine. I headed for my gate about 45 min before my flight's scheduled departure.

Three other U.S. journalists, as well as a handful of South American media were booked on the same Atlanta/Milan flight. Things got off to a rocky start when the flight was delayed for two hours – in 15- and 20-minute increments, of course – because after two weeks of Atlanta sweltering in 95-plus-degree temps, it didn't occur to anyone at Delta to maybe cool down our plane before it was time to board.

Nope; they left it to the crew to do when they boarded 25 minutes ahead of our scheduled boarding time. It must have been 110 degrees in that metal tube. Even with an auxiliary cooling unit backed up to the plane, pumping refrigerated air into it, dropping the temperature to a balmy 80 degrees required more than two hours.

The flight itself was rather pleasant. Close to nine hours, it provided plenty of time for me to savor a steak dinner, several glasses of wine, watch a movie and catch some shuteye. Extending completely flat, the business-class seats actually allowed me to sleep for two or three hours.

Arriving in Milan, our appearance startled the Italian customs officials on hand to check passports. Because our flight was two hours late arriving, they weren't expecting us. Scrambling around to man their stations, they finally opened for business. I get hassled more flying into San Francisco than I did Milan. The official didn't even scan my passport. He opened it, looked at me and then stamped one of the back pages. No one asked why I was coming to Italy; no one looked in my bags; no one delayed me in any fashion. I didn't check a bag and from the time I walked into baggage claim until I walked into the non-secure area where Alfa representatives were gathered to meet us required all of 45 seconds. Welcome to Italy.

FCA put us up at the Sheraton Malpensa. Malpensa may mean “right next to the airport” in Italian because that's where it is: right next to the airport. After more than 18 hours in Milan, I haven't seen anything but the airport and the hotel; both of which are about 30 miles from Milan.

Dinner and cocktails last night were in the – wait for it – hotel. Cocktails consisted of beer and Italian champagne. The Italians do a lot of things well, but brewing beer isn't one of them. Whatever beer they poured at this event tasted like it was filtered through Mussolini's gym socks. We did have some tasty wine with dinner.

The view from the other side of our hotel. I'm assured that Italy lies somewhere beyond the tree line.

Although I thought I would be able to check “Italy” off my bucket list, I feel like a cheater doing it. I could just as easily be in Des Moines, except I don't see any corn.

We are heading to some expo this morning that has been described as the “World's Fair of Italy.” I guess we'll see. This evening we're heading to the Alfa museum for some sort of pageantry and dinner.

The glass-half-full guy that I am, I'm filled with optimism that I'll catch a glimpse of Italy on one of these outings.

My Last Month: Four Weeks of Nothing Punctuated by 36 Hours of House Cleaning

Company's coming? Crap, I've got to clean this joint! (Obviously this isn't me; he's wearing a tie.)

I'm not the kind of guy who can gin up enough enthusiasm about nothing to sit down and blog about it. And although I enjoy waking up to myself each and every morning, I'm not such a narcissist that I think anyone gives a rat's ass about my every-day life. Do you really want to hear about my day going to the gym, writing an AutoTrader piece, fixing lunch or dozing in my recliner? No, I didn't think so.

I have been anchored to Greenville the past several weeks. I haven't been anywhere in a month. My day-to-day activities the last 30 days have been restricted mostly to writing things for money or adding content to my GreenvilleInsider.com Web site. Just because I make money – calling my writing “earning a living” wouldn't be even remotely accurate – writing, doesn't mean I want to do it 24/7. Consequently Clanging Bell has suffered.

While on my little sabbatical from traveling, I have built, installed and painted a new ramp for the shed. The original simply wasn't sturdy enough to withstand the elements and my sporadic walking on it. I also leveled the ground on which the ramp rests when deployed, installed a border around it and added some river rock. In the meantime, I haven't put a minute into the spare bedroom project in more than six weeks. I did order the small hand-held circular saw needed to proceed; so, I anticipate moving forward with that project beginning in July.

I did enjoy some overnight out-of-town company a week or so ago. Friends for more than 35 years, they are the folks who harbor me on my annual Louisville excursions. On their way to Florida for a business-related retreat, they broke up their trip with a brief stopover in Greenville. That's been the sum total of my excitement for the past month. I basically live the life of a shut-in.

My friends' visit did prompt me to spring into action for a 36-hour house-cleaning frenzy. My house isn't designed for entertaining. It's small. And, although the main floor is one large – well, smallish, actually, – space, there is a fireplace and chimney in its middle, breaking up traffic flow. People who knew me in Kentucky or Florida know I enjoy throwing a party for no particular reason. Can't do that in Greenville; I simply don't have the space for it. I tell you all of this as prologue to admitting, my house isn't always visitor ready.

For 355 to 360 days a year, it's just me and my damn cat rattling around in my 1,000 square feet. Although I'm a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place sort of guy, keeping the joint basically clutter free, dusting, vacuuming, cleaning toilets and the confluence of all the other little chores that equal a “clean” house aren't a weekly or even a monthly occurrence. Every once in a while I will notice the dust buildup on the top of the unit holding my flatscreen. That will usually motivate me to do a little dusting, which leads to running the electric broom over the floor. Otherwise, cleaning the kitchen counter once a day or so is about as active as I get in the cleaning department.

Two or three times a year someone does actually visit. These aren't drop-ins, but out-of-towners like my Louisville friends who announced their arrival somewhat in advance. Whether they stay for a night, a weekend or a week, I have to engage in the same amount of preparation. Because I clean so infrequently, I am really an amateur at it. There's no mental checklist. I don't have a “cleaning routine.” I simply glance around and think to myself, if I was a female-type person, what would gross me out? I then prioritize my targets by gross-out degree and get busy. Clean sheets on the guest bed: check. Clean sink and toilets in the bathrooms: check. Feet don't stick to the kitchen floor: check.

I spent more time cleaning my abode than my friends stayed in it. The good news, though, my house is good and clean for another four months or my next overnight guests, whichever comes first.

2016 Nissan Maxima in Nashville: Stellar Car, Great Whiskey and Vince Gil!

The amazing Vince Gil.

I'm not the kind of guy who says, no, to an evening with Vince Gil. Truth be told, I didn't even know a side trip to listen to Gil play and sing with The Time Jumpers, a country swing group with which he has been affiliated for five or six years, was on the agenda when I eagerly accepted Nissan's invite to Nashville to audition the redesigned Nissan Maxima in May.

I have seen a raft of country artists in concert: everyone from Taylor Swift to Willie Nelson. Only two remained on my must-see-at-some-point bucket list: Vince Gil and Garth Brooks. I was obliged to enter a check mark beside Vince's name on this trip. 

Nashville is Nissan's North American home and a place I love to visit, especially when Nissan is throwing the affair. Nissan's events there always include an evening of dropping into a honky tonk or three to catch some great music. On the Maxima event, Nissan treated those of us who wanted to go to the show at a joint called 3^rd & Lindsley. The Time Jumpers play there most Monday nights. It's only $20 to get in – a bargain by any metric. 

"Ranger Doug" Green tips his hat to my camera.

Upon hitting the door, our little band split off into several smaller groups. A good buddy and I with a couple of Nissan PR types, blocking for us like a couple of pulling guards, hustled up the stairs, across the left-side balcony and then down the back stairs to come to rest just off the left side of the stage. We didn't have seats, but who wants to sit listening to country swing anyway? I was able to work my way around the front of the stage snapping photos as I went. At one point, “Ranger Doug” Green stopped in the middle of a song to tip his hat to my camera, to the glee of his band mates and the audience. A little red faced (well, more red faced than usual), I slunk back to our little stage-left conclave.

This isn't Gil's band; consequently, his vocals were only featured every fourth-or-so song, but he sang backup and played that magical guitar throughout the night. 

Good friends, a couple of PBRs and some great music: a special night, indeed.

Sinema's well-stocked bar.

It was the wrap to an evening that also included dinner at Sinema, a converted movie theater transformed into a wonder restaurant. The food was exceptional and it featured one of the most extensive whiskey bars I've seen. There were a few bourbons with which I was totally unfamiliar. It was difficult, though, to sample those when the list included Black Maple Hill Bourbon and two versions of Angel Envy Rye. Oh, Momma. 

Just a couple of the bourbons I'd never seen before.

 Oh, and about that 2016 Maxima – the actual reason I was in Nashville – it's brilliant. 

Here's the skinny....

With Maxima's redesign, Nissan is reviving its 4-door sports-car legend. This was its marketing tagline when first introduced in 1981 – seven generations ago. Near-luxury shoppers, however, need not despair, Maxima hasn't lost any of its high-end appeal with the redesign.

Nissan claims its exterior styling was inspired by jet fighters after the design team made a trip to Pensacola, Fla. to visit with the Navy's Blue Angels. It's always good to have a little lore tossed into your product development story. In any case, the exterior wrapper is beautifully sculpted. One of the notable styling updates is what Nissan is calling the V-motion grille. 

With 61 percent of its parts all new, the 300-horsepower 3.5-liter V6 delivers its output to the front wheels by way of a new continuously variable transmission (CVT). Nissan has been pretty much married to the CVT for the past several years and probably does it better than anyone. Product-planning types borrowed a gimmick or two from the GT-R's engine, like sodium-filled valves, to improve performance. Government estimates put fuel economy at 22 mpg city, 30 highway and 25 combined city-highway driving.

With a center stack angled toward the driver, the new cockpit, is clearly drivercentric. A generous eight-inch touchscreen, located at the top of the center stack, is the face of the navigation system, standard on even the $32,410 entry-level S grade. Operating with pinches and swipes like a smart phone, the touchscreen also honchos the NissanConnect with its apps, Google search and other functions. A noise-canceling technology helps maintain low noise levels in the cabin.

A rearview camera is standard. Other safety features available as you work your way up through the five trim levels are Forward Collision Warning, Driver Attention Alert, Forward Emergency Braking, Blind Spot Warning, Rear Cross Traffic Alert and 360-view camera.

Taking a page from the Honda play book, to gain more content, you must step up in grade; there are no factory options.

We spirited the new Maxima around the Tennessee country side. It handled well even when aggressively pushed. It's comfortable, quiet and fun to drive. All in all, it can go toe to toe with the entry-level cars of any luxury brand, offering a more sporty driving experience than several of them.

Saving a Little Money on Tree Removal May Have Cost Me Again!

The new shed is an expense I can be enthusiastic about.

 I'm not the kind of guy that relishes spending big bucks on crap that must be done around the house. I don't mean actual home improvements, but I refer to things that must be done for general upkeep.

I'm happy – almost gleeful, really – to pump bucks into remodeling and refurbishing projects that not only improve my home's usability and/or appearance, but add a little value as well. The $1,300 to $1,600 (My record keeping wasn't all it could have been.) my recent shed project cost me was money well spent in my opinion. Looking at it – let alone using it – always makes me smile. I have no buyer's remorse as I stroke out the monthly checks to American Express, the credit card on which I charged most of the cost. Not only am I pleased with the way it looks, it has proven to be everything I wanted it to be in terms of utility. The $300 or so I recently spent on a new water heater, however, doesn't provide me with the same warm fuzzies.

There is also a definite lack of warm fuzzies with regard to my current tree-removal escapade.

As I gazed out my upstairs bathroom window on Friday morning, I realized one of the huge (three or four stories high) pine trees in my backyard was dead – not dying, but deader than a doornail. How long had it been like that? No clue. Apparently, I don't spend a lot of time in my yard gazing skyward.

Almost overnight, it seems, the tree on the right died.

Originally one member of a cluster of three similarly sized pines – all leaning in drastically different directions – this pine took a big hit a few winters ago when a wet snow snapped off one of its major lower branches. I have no clue if this was the beginning of its end, but something sure as heck struck it a mortal blow.

One of its two siblings was felled by a door-to-door tree cutter a year ago last November. He did it as one element of a job that cleared the air space over my house of trees and branches that could come crashing down in a severe storm. That particular tree was leaning at a precarious angle over my house. I still have several huge logs in the yard that the tree cutter never returned to collect and remove. What do I expect for $250?

Logs left behind by my last bargain-basement door-to-door tree cutter.

The recently dead pine refused to be ignored. (Perhaps it's just sleeping, I briefly hoped.) No, it leans over the street that runs along the side of my lot. Figuring the cost would be much higher to have it cut up and removed from the the street if some part of it wound up straddling the pavement after a storm, I rifled through my papers and found a flyer from yet another door-to-door tree cutter who came a-callin' four or five months ago.

Discovering the phone number on the flyer was still in service was a positive development, I thought. Dialing the number I was connected to the person the flyer identified as the office manager. Possessing a different last name than the flyer-identified owner, I have no clue how she fits into the door-to-door-tree-cutting-company pecking order. I could barely hear her over the racket of a chainsaw in the background. She eventually strolled far enough from the din that I could hear she was turning the phone over to her son Joey. He took my name and other particulars and said they would be by later in the afternoon to provide an estimate. I'm unsure as to her field role with this little company. For the less than three hours they were at my house on Saturday, she and some guy sat on the hood of her car watching her son and Billy work.

Good to Joey's word – another positive sign – I got a knock on my door about 5 p.m. After throwing on a shirt and sandals, I stepped out into my carport to find some old faded-blue sedan of indeterminate make in my driveway with four or five people stuffed in it. Emerging from the driver's seat, Joey extended his hand and introduced himself. He and another guy – Billy, I later learned – walked with me around the house to the problem tree.

10:45 a.m.

Breaking their business-conference huddle, the two turned to me and Joey offered, “We'll take the dead one out for $500, or we'll take it and the other one out for $600.”

“That includes removing all the wood, right?” I questioned.

“Yep.”

“Will you remove those, too?” I asked pointing to the half dozen big logs left by the last tree cutter.

“Yep,” the ever eloquent Joey answered.

“How about grinding out the stumps?” I pushed my luck.

“We don't grind stumps,” Joey replied, “but we got somebody who does. It'll probably cost you another $100 for that. We don't remove the wood either, but I got a guy. I included the cost in the $600.”

“Sold!” I said. “When?”

“You're on the top of our list tomorrow,” Joey promised. “Billy likes to sleep in on Saturday; so, we'll be here around 10.”

“Works for me,” I answered. “Will you take a check?”

“Yep. Make it out to my mom.”

Long story, short, er, shorter: I got a call from Joey around 10 on Saturday morning telling me they were running a little late. Apparently Billy couldn't get his big ass out of bed. I had an errand downtown and returned home around 10:45 to find them preparing to start the job. By noon both trees were down, cut up and ready to be hauled away.

Noon.

 Joey told me the guy who hauls the wood away and does the stump grinding was on a job and probably wouldn't be by until Monday. No worries on my end, I told him, as long as he could wait until everything was done to get paid. He appeared cool with that.

We'll see what happens from here. I still have my $600 and a side yard full of downed trees.

Sometimes being a cheapskate doesn't make for smooth sailing.