By David Breithaupt

Upon his return, Buzzell reacquainted himself with his native country by undertaking a cross country journey beginning at his home in San Francisco and ending in Detroit. Equipped with whiskey, nicotine and a ’65 Mercury Comet, Buzzell prodded the under belly of our ailing nation. Scanning a panorama of forgotten towns filled with lost souls, juke joints and flop houses, he examined the mood and character of his fellow countrymen and wrote of his observations in his new book, Lost in America: A Dead End Journey. I spoke to Buzzell on the phone recently and discussed the places he went, the people he met and the ghost of Jack Kerouac.