66

THE SHADES OF:

THE MOTHER ROAD

CROSSROADS OF THE American Dream

JP WEIDEMOYER

 

A Gonzo Novel
Based on a true story

 

 

Greetings Friend,

 

Thank you for taking the time to read my book, regardless of where you are, or what platform or medium you’re engaging with it. Although, I didn’t write this book for you, dear friend. I wrote it for myself. See, this is my own little way of remembering the remarkable journey in which I embarked on. I had so much fun reliving all the moments and details that would perhaps one day be forgotten had I not jotted them down and archived the photos which I did my best to capture the moment, wherever it happened to be. It was truly a once in a lifetime journey, and I’m happy to share it with you. I thank you again, friend. And regardless of how you feel about the book (even if you agree with my own worst critic, PJ), please feel to reach out to me and let me know your thoughts at any of the following, below. I bought the ticket, and damn, what a ride! In five, four, three, two…

 

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“It’s truly remarkable…how this was ever published. It’s like staring into the sun, only instead of going blind, you go deaf. You’ll only wish you were blind too after having read this.”

 

-PJ Weisenheimer,
Infamous asshole “comedian”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Intentionally left blank, or whatever]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In loving memory…

Rufus

(?-2019)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO HUNTER, RALPH, AND ANTHONY –   I WISH WE COULD’VE ALL ENJOYED A FEW  BEVERAGES / JOINTS TOGETHER. I FEEL LIKE SOMETHING REALLY GREAT WOULD’VE COME OUT OF THAT. RALPH, LETS ENJOY ONE OF EACH TOGETHER REAL SOON.

TO GODFATHER DAN, THE GREAT PETER, AND PAUL – THANK YOU ALL FOR LISTENING TO MY CRAZY LIFE STORIES, AND FOR OFFERING YOUR WISDOM.

TO MATT, MIKE N, MIKE S., STEVE H, MARTY, DON, JAMES, AND KYLE. – THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND FRIENDSHIP. WITHOUT IT, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN EMPLOYED LONG ENOUGH THERE TO HAVE AFFORDED THIS TRIP TO BEGIN WITH.

TO STEVE AND EVERYONE ELSE AT ROCK CANDY – I COULDN’T HAVE DONE THIS WITHOUT YOUR AWESOME CO-WORKING SPACE. THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT.

TO CALEB – MY SON, I’LL SHARE THIS STORY WITH YOU WHEN YOU’RE A LITTLE OLDER. EVEN BETTER, HOPEFULLY, A SIMILAR JOURNEY, WITHOUT THE BAD TRIP PART.

TO MOM – THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS BEING SO SUPPORTIVE IN EVERYTHING THAT I’VE DONE THROUGHOUT MY LIFE

 

 

 

 

DEDICATED TO
HUNTER S. THOMPSON
1937-2005

 

 

 

 

“BUY THE TICKET, TAKE THE RIDE.”
H.S.T.

 

 

Pure.

Fucking.

Gonzo.

 

welcome
TO
california

 

 

We were somewhere around Barstow when we pulled over to the shoulder along the highway. The Unknown Bastard was already pulled over and was waving me down like the madman he was. We were supposed to meet up in Vegas, so I knew this trip was about to take a turn for the worse.

 

An hour earlier I was having the time of my life driving north from Needles to Barstow with a gorgeous sunset as my guide with a few beers still settling and some edibles to help balance the edge. But just a moment before pulling over, pure terror had set in.

 

I was on one of those trips I had read about in college. One of those where the person quite literally goes over the edge and doesn’t ever come back. They end up walking the streets mumbling about, and careful not to tip their head too much at any given time thinking they’re a glass of orange juice with the contents of their very being to pour out if they’d even dare trip along the busy sidewalks they traverse.

I was thinking of ways to pass the time, so with some DUB music blaring in the background and the windows down to complete the mood, I began pleasuring myself in a way that would be unnoticeable to passersby’s along the highway. I began thinking about all the beautiful girls I had seen throughout the day, most recently a few girls at Cocktails in Bullhead City.

 

The last girl that came to mind was wearing a devil hat to represent their local high school sports team. A big game was playing out that evening, so she was showing her support. In combining the thought of the devil while driving towards a fiery sunset, this would prove to be a grave mistake.

 

Sweet Jesus, God, no! Suddenly I was on the Highway to Hell. I was transported to a world of what can only be described as a mix between Middle Earth and Constantine with that one ghastly scene from Ghost. For those of whom not familiar, let me provide a quick grasp of the horror I’d witnessed.

 

This warped world had fire and souls, all floating in the same way those used car floatables do. The devils selling their heaps on the lot were nowhere near as evil as this, I assure you of that, however.

The valley was filled with torturous scenes, and the mountains had many fire-lit passages meandering down from this all-seeing eye type stretched out across the sky. Never. Look. Up. Not during a bad trip, at least. You’re liable to be pulled into the heavens and thrown back down, bypassing earth, and landing straight on Satan’s pitchfork. You’ll be spending the rest of your days as the third wheel to Satan and his bitch, Hitler, forced to watch reruns of Jersey Shore.

 

As soon as I stepped out of my vehicle, everything had closed in on me. There was now hurricane forced winds all around me, and I began floating out of my body as dark souls began reaching for me to pull me under. This is it! I’ve done it now!

 

As I was avoiding the souls from the Constantine world, I noticed that the sunset had been reduced to one fiery blaze, in particular, The Eye of Sauron. Sweet Jesus, God no! I’d never had such a reaction before. Had I had an accident and I was currently on an operating table, quite literally fighting my way through the afterlife like those Hade’s levels in the God of War series? I was off the major highway, but there was still some traffic coming by in the distance.

 

This is when I realized they were no longer vehicles from my world – they were, in fact, Ringwraiths looking for me and The Ring. The Ring, that’s it! I remembered making note of the ring on my rental car key earlier, so I quickly put it on. Now I was kept hidden from the Ringwraiths while ducking out of harm’s way alongside the Highway to Hell.

 

But then I remembered the eye would soon be on to me. I quickly took off the ring once I felt I was safe from the Ringwraiths. But during this time, I had lost track of the Constantine world, and I was pulled further into theirs. This is it, man – I’m fucking done for! Just another wanderlust Millennial to be dragged into the underworld passage in Death Valley.

 

Suddenly, I remembered some sort of way-finding sign a hundred feet or so back. I journeyed to the sign as quickly as anyone is able who is floating out of their own body while being pulled down by others. After at least one eternity, I made it to the sign. It was working! I hastily began kicking at the souls as I climbed further up the sign. Now back to Middle Earth alone as the portal to Constantine had closed. I realized my only chance of real survival was to phone for help and dial 9-1-1. My mouth had closed up from the edibles, dehydration and heat exhaustion had set in, and my voice was nearly gone from screaming at the souls to piss off. I had burnt my mouth and lip earlier in the week after trying some St. Louis pizza, a very thin crust with an excellent variety of cheeses. It was truly a miracle that the dispatcher could translate what it was that I was mumbling.

 

Had I just transformed into Dr. Thompson? Was he the one controlling me, getting me through this godforsaken trip in this godforsaken desert? Where was Rufus in all of this? And where the fuck did The Unknown Bastard runoff to? I could use all the help I could get.

[9-1-1 Call]

 

“Sir, it’ll be a while until help arrives.”

“Shit, a while?”

 

How long did that actually mean in the middle of the desert, let alone the middle of this trip? I couldn’t possibly outlast Middle Earth for much longer. Using what little battery remained, I wandered into the middle of the road waving my phone like the frantic lunatic I had become. I wasn’t completely honest with the dispatcher for fear they’d just assume I was a lost cause and would have called off any help.

For all they knew, I was having a panic attack/and or heat stroke. Finally able to signal for help, a man pulled over alongside my car. An overweight Jesus looking fellow miraculously appeared. Perhaps this was the second coming I’d foreshadowed earlier? In any event, he got out and asked if I was okay. Pushing him aside, I quickly clung to his door.

 

Sweet Jesus, God, yes! I might actually just get out of this fucking madman’s trip in one piece! He stated he was from Virginia and had gotten off the wrong exit on his way back from some museum tours. He kept talking about shit I had no intention about hearing about at that particular moment in time.

The souls were no longer a physical issue, but they were still tormenting me in an audible sense. I still heard their shivering shrieks. This fool had no idea the real danger he was in. After offering me some water, he kept mumbling about, and suddenly there were three of him. He’d just become the fucking hydra from the original God of War. Take out the heads first, I recalled. I was about to get violent, really violent. If I’d had my survival knife with me, I would have gutted him like a pig, taken what little gems poured out, and stolen his truck to leave him as the suspected victim of the drug-induced phone call. He turned on his truck and some music began playing, Highway to Hell came on. Just then a few bats flew across the moonlit sky. I had made it to Bat Country.

 

A California Highway Patrolman was the first responder. Although only hoping to see the ambulance I’d requested, I’d never been so happy to see a cop in my life. After doing my best Dr. Thompson impression to mutter out what details I could.

 

[Officer arrives on scene.]

“Where are you from, sir?”

“I’m from Pennsylvania, I just got here.”

“Welcome to California.”

CORNWALL
TO
STEEL CITY

 

 

Damn, what a dream that was. So vivid. So real. Standing at near full attention, a great to start to any man’s day. I check my phone, r/petitegonewild is what my eyes first meet. No wonder I had such a memorable sex dream. If only it was a vision. No time to relieve myself, I’m already running late to work, per usual. I’ll just have to take an “extended shit” in the “bomb shelter” this morning. Bombs away, indeed! Today started off like any other day, but I was longing to begin my adventure. It’d been about six months of on/off planning. Much like the on/off Reddit posts, it looks easy when orchestrated to perfection, but there’s a lot of behind the scenes that you just don’t see or truly appreciate unless you’re there. And I was there, baby! I was ready to fuck, let’s go!

My friends and co-workers were equally as excited. It was Friday, and most everyone was headed on a field trip of sorts, to tour a newly built future “legacy project” in Reading. I was left to tend to another large pile of mylars while they went out to play. This had become a usual task for me, and one that’d I’d really taken a liking to.

At first, I was using up PTO whenever my schedule would show much fewer than the 40 billable hours because I knew scanning would be involved and I felt my worth more than that, but it gradually became my favorite thing to do as it kept me standing all day, away from a desk, and most importantly – away from “The Asshole”, or Dave, as he’ll surely be known as in hell. This was a sign that I should probably be on my way out, whether voluntarily or involuntarily.

I was no longer happy doing what I attended college. Well actually, this wasn’t even what I went to school for. See, I went to college for the 3-D aspect of design. Now, that was cool. For my “senior project” as part of my Associate’s Degree, I took apart my Ibanez and using a micrometer, I meticulously created a scale replica using Autodesk Inventor.

I made some pretty wild design changes, including some very eclectic color patterns. I even sent some renderings to Ibanez, as a sort of cold-call resume inquiry. Ironically, I did a similar thing to my current employer. I should’ve sent out more resumes in college instead of taking a guaranteed job with my high-school/college sweetheart’s mother.

Two months later, my girlfriend and I had broken up; I lost my job, and got a DUI. All within a week period. My ex would tell you it was the worst week of my life, but it was quite frankly one of the best things that could’ve happened to me. I got out of a relationship that was in shambles for the better part of a year. Long-distance has a way of doing so. I got out of a job that I had grown to hate. Nothing was as promised, and instead of me drafting up some heavily detailed MEP plans, I became their glorified secretary, drafting up more reports than plans. And ever since, I’ve held positions not necessarily associated with what I really wanted to be doing – all because of a girl. The opposite would not speak true for her, however. To her credit, she continued her schooling and followed her dream of being a nature photographer. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic, with an emphasis on hopeless.

But I grew tired of feeling hopeless. This trip would truly mark a new chapter in my life. For this was a story not about self-discovery, or other inward philosophical venture. No. This was a story about creation and outward projection. I grew tired of the man I had become, the one I ignored as best as I could by going so far as to remove the only mirror left in my house. I sketched out a new version of myself which I wanted to see the next time I stood in front of a mirror. And the ink was beginning to dry, things becoming clear. For the first time in over a decade, I felt rejuvenated, a sense of purpose. Something that not even the birth of my son had offered me. I was in too dark of a cave for his light to have made it to me.

It’s 9:50 AM, and my Uber will be here any minute. My rental pickup is scheduled for 10:30 AM, and traffic can be a real bitch in this side of town, so I didn’t want to take any chances. After all, there’d be plenty of time for that later. Leonel rolled up right on time in his silver Honda Accord. Not much of a conversation artist, so I did all of the talking.  I’d prefer an awkward conversation than awkward silence any day of the week. I once road an hour and a half with an engineer back at my state position, where only one sentence was muttered during the entire trip -“Excuse me a sec while I move my Jesus tapes.”

Now, I’m not a religious man, but I’d much rather have listened to those than the sound of my own thoughts to keep me occupied. I tried making small talk, but he cranked down the window and gazed aimlessly out the window instead. Point taken, Eric. Point taken.

Leonel had two smartphones connected to his dash media area. The iPhone was running Uber while the Galaxy was running Lyft. This man had a pretty sweet gig. He also had an iPad pro serving as the primary navigation. He had a laminated instruction manual on the back of the front passenger’s headrest for how to connect to his mobile hotspot. Complimentary mints and a sanitary bottle next to a box of Kleenex? My man, what a ride-sharing experience, here’s a 5-star review and a 20% tip for you.

I’m dropped off promptly at 10:15 AM, and I make my way inside the terminal to the rental car location at Lancaster Airport (LNS). My interaction started off with the clerk, Charlie, asking me if I had another card, as mine was declined. I nearly shat a brick. Goddamnit, not again! I’d been using it more like a gift card lately. It’s easier to accept your poor financial decisions that way. But thankfully, he simply took the wrong one off the counter.

I have one of those fancy wallet phone cases, but with mine, I have to take out all the cards separately as it sits flush with the back of the phone. I can’t risk this nervous breakdown again, however. Time to switch back to my trusty wallet case! Mine has the anti-theft chip reader functionality. No matter. Mine don’t work anyway. Likely from how they were in my phone wallet case. I should probably get new condoms while I’m at it too…

[Charlie comes back to the counter.]

“You’re all set, sir. Enjoy your trip, sounds like it’ll be life-changing for you!”

2020 Toyota Corolla – nothing screams American Dream more so than a fuel-efficient Japanese sedan. No really. It’s now the most “American” car in the United States. I’d begin my voyage by testing out the features of the car, as this was going to be my home-base for the next two weeks. It needed to be fortified and accessorized. I needed to mark this baby as my own.

So, naturally, I searched out the music settings first. Upon turning the key my immediate thought was “more bass.” Thankfully, some nitwit had it turned down to 1/4 of the way on the touch-screen controlled “knob.” “There we go, now we have it!” I was going to need to feel every aspect of this voyage to get a true taste of it all. I select from the rock stations available. “Nope, no, nope, no, what the hell is this shit??? Is rock dead now, too?”

This combined with the heavy rain has brought down my hopes of finding the American Dream. But, fear not! The journey has only just begun! And we still have Vegas. According to Dr. Thompson, this is where it officially died. Perhaps there’s a bit of a renaissance resurgence to be found??? The fact that it was pouring down rain was no bad omen to me. No, ma’am. It just meant I was going to be in for a wet ride. Just the way I like it. Bareback costs extra, and I needed to squeeze every penny I had to make it safely to my destination, Santa Monica. I recommend getting a rental because when you’re doing 120 on the desert highway, you don’t want to take any chances in your own personal vehicle.

But it was back to “work” for a few more hours. Everyone but the front-desk personnel were on their way out to the field trip, so it was just me and Ol’ Kipper until it was time for my departure as well. I scanned a few more plans and tightened up some last-minute trip adjustments. I’ve always been a “here’s the plan” type of guy. Not a Plan A, B, and C. My belief is that if you need a Plan B or C, then your Plan A must not be very good. But I’d be traveling solo cross-country, so perhaps at least a Plan B was in order, so I made one. Any guess what that was? You’ve got it – “stick to Plan A.”

My trip was officially underway now leaving my home after letting my paranoid neighbor in that I’d be away for 10 days. She could care less, however. I didn’t necessarily blame her, however, as her small dog was only recently just swallowed whole by the weeds in my front yard. I quickly pulled over moments later to set up my phone with the on-board navigation and media center. I’d be cranking up some tunes on this journey, and I needed to ensure I’d at least have a general sense of direction whilst doing so. I started off with the album Roots Rock Riot by Skindred, a reggae metal band from Wales. Not only was I in search to see if The American Dream had died, but I was anxious to see if I would discover the same fate as Rock and Roll as well.

What better way of having hope than to start off with an album with a title such as this. I was quickly diverted on my way towards the turnpike. There had been a crash, and three telephone poles were taken out. “Holy hell!” I thought. This was the first time I’d had to put her in reverse. “Cool, a backup cam!” But then as I put it back into drive, I kept staring at the console, expecting the same view for going forward. “You have the windshield to look through for that, you goddamned fool!” I still had a long night of driving ahead of me, and I didn’t need to be dealing with this shit. At least not right away.

But alas, this detour had happened for a reason. I was directed right passed a Mennonite Yard Sale with a group of FREE items as well. After rummaging around for a moment or two, I stumbled upon Rufus. Ah, Rufus. This must’ve been their family dog’s name and I’d adopt this dog door sign as my very own for the journey ahead. This would be like my Tom Hanks’ Wilson. I knew I’d have some long stretches of driving away from civilization, so I’d use Rufus to help ground me in those dark hours.

I finally make my way to the turnpike entrance. I take the ticket and buy the ride later. “Time to see how fast this baby can go!” On the turnpike, 90 is the new 80, and I aimed to make plenty of use of that logic on the open road. Set the cruise at 85, sandals off, smooth sailing. Well, it would be without all of these goddamn potholes. Maybe without the toll-booth workers, you’ll be able to invest in some proper road maintenance for once, you embezzling bastards.

With a 20% increase year-to-year, and no physical benefit, or even visually appealing benefit for that matter, the money is undoubtedly being used to pay for one of the higher-ups sons’ college at some Ivy League school just so he can fall in love with another spoiled bitch, wed one another, have some stupid spoiled kids of their own, and the cycle continues. Some cycles should be shot in the goddamn temple.

Now, I’m not suggesting you steal your father’s magnum from his nightstand and go to some frat party in New England and take out a few of the aforementioned bastards, but a few good whacks with a stick of bamboo to the temple should work just as well. Hey, it’s more organic that way, and I’m a bit of a conservationist. And when you drag his corpse into the swamp, just like in Red Dead Redemption 2 (RDR2), he’ll be eaten by one of those monster gators, becoming one with nature once more. The circle of life has its’ moments.

Barreling down the turnpike, I was making excellent time. I imagined that everyone must be headed east towards Philly. Non-native Pennsylvanians often joke that all we are is Pittsburgh on one side, Philly on the other and a whole bunch of plain sects and plain people in between. They aren’t too far off with that suggestion, but I love Pennsylvania. Even with all the plain sects and plain people. We have beautiful landscapes, beautiful people, and beautiful towns and cities. I can see why so many Europeans settled here upon arriving in America. It must’ve reminded them a bit like home. For the majority of this trip, I’d be the farthest I’ve ever been away from home as well. But, I make friends easy enough, and I’d have plenty to keep me occupied along the way.

Blue Mountain Tunnel. A nice landmark, nearly halfway to Pittsburgh now. I’ve driven this route several times before, mostly for concerts and shows. Mostly to The Palace Theatre in Greensburg, just before Pittsburgh and to Mr. Smalls Theatre, just outside of Pittsburgh in Millvale. Roots Rock Riot had played through twice, with several favorites repeated several more times over; it was time to represent Pennsylvania for the rest of my drive to Pittsburgh. The first PA band that came to mind was Rosetta, an avant-garde metal outfit from Philly. Sorry, Pitt, I only saw after my visit that Anti-Flag is from your great city.

Ah, there it is. The Steel City. And what a beautiful city it is. About as blue-collar of a city as they come, with a very diverse heritage. Proud of their history. Proud of their sports, food, and culture. Some of the best people I’ve ever met are native Pittsburghian’s. And that unforgettable, perhaps even unforgivable, accent to some.

You’ll know when you’re in Pittsburgh. It’s unlike any other city in the world, and I too am proud of Steel City. Not quite Ohio, and seemingly not quite Pennsylvania, it’s almost a land of its’ own. I feel very much the same way about Philly. Sure, it’s technically in Pennsylvania, and as much as New Jersey would like to stake its’ claim in it, having to settle for Camden, it too is a almost a land of its’ own. This is why you have to pay to cross the Ben Franklin Bridge coming into Philly from Jersey and not vice-versa.

You might have a free pass from the Keystone State to the Garden State, but don’t you worry, friend, there’s surely a U-turn or roundabout just up ahead should you have mistakenly crossed into Jersey. My strong disdain towards New Jersey goes way back. I was brought up around die-hard Philly fans on both sides of my family, with most of them only living 20-mins outside of center Philly. And you’re taught early on to hate New Jersey. From sports to leisure. Instead, you vacation at Delaware beaches.

Talk about shitful – I now introduce a roommate I had during my first year in college, Rich. The biggest douche bag I ever did meet. Rich’s parents must’ve known he’d grow up to be a dick. My first girlfriend was from Jersey too. I broke up with her after she left our prom because she wanted to smoke up, went to the drug dealer’s party and slept with him, finishing up only minutes before I got there.

When I called her the next morning to let her know we were done, she defended herself by saying that prom was boring and that she gets horny while high. That’s not to say that New Jersey is a bad place. I grew up vacationing in South Jersey and spent time at Six Flags and the drag strip in Englishtown, about 30-miles northeast of Trenton.

But, it does, unfortunately, contain the highest population density of douche bags (male and female) in America. An easy way to tell the difference between a resident Jersey douche bag is how they introduce the fact that they’re from Jersey. If they go “Yo, I’m from Jersey! Party City, bitch. Come at me, bro!”, then they fall into category A. If they happen to stutter, perhaps with a little reluctance even to fully admit it, then they’re one of those who too recognize this trait and are searching for ways to defend themselves or offer some flattery about New Jersey.

Even central Jersey has its perks. It was good enough for The Sopranos, after all. And I do believe that I’ve completed my trash-talking of the state of New Jersey. But please forgive me if there’s more. I’ve done several edits by now, and I’m using Grammarly as my editor (see any reference to poor single father). And upon further edit, this is far from the case. Apologies, Mr. Governor of New Jersey.

Even before Rich unloaded all of his belongings he brought up recent videos of him at his house doing donuts in his parents’ humungous driveway with his Fox Body Mustang, bragging about how much HP it had and the work he’d personally done to it. “Newsflash, Rich!” There’s a reason they no longer use the Fox Body, it was the epitome of stupid is as stupid does.

The following year, he was no longer a roommate (because, douche bag), but we still had nearly identical class schedules. My fellow roommate, Andrew, and our mutual friend, Curtis decided it would be a great prank if we used a bunch of cardboard, and build this bastard a new hood scoop, spoiler, and side skirts worthy of any praise from the NFS Underground freaks out there. We needed a calm night to pull this off, however, as the dick had his alarm triggered so tightly that even a strong wind gust would set it off. My initial gut reaction once I learned of this told me that he’d been fucked with before. My roommate supplied the cardboard, did most of the build himself, and we got to work on the installation.

There was a full moon, with plenty of clouds providing coverage for a quick getaway. It was right near Halloween too, so the spookiness was welcome. I recall this because it was right near our school’s homecoming, which happened to be soccer as PCT is without a football program. But if they did, it would surely not be a successful program. But hey, it was a small technical school. Not much athleticism amongst all the nerds and geeks here.

I considered trying out for the baseball team, but I was too busy chasing girls, and maintaining a relationship back home (it was, complicated, to say the least). We were one of those off again/on again couples; sometimes confusing the two just for the sex, until that finally waned as well. Not even on our 2-year anniversary!? But I digress.

We pull off the install without a hitch, avoiding a few campus security fellas out on a midnight patrol sweep. Ironically, the giant hood scoop and spoiler provided us cover and avoided detection. Andrew added a few “window decals” via the kind of paint you would see for an event such as homecoming, using phrases such as “The bigger the spoiler, the more horsepower” and “Made in dirty Jersey”, and a giant phallic symbol, with an arrow pointing to the driver’s seat, accordingly so. We snap a few photos for our own amusement, share some laughs, and high fives as we headed back to our respective dorm rooms to celebrate the successful “heist.”

That was until the Physics class the next afternoon. “That motherfucker keyed my car! I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em! Come out and see. Motherfucker!” And holy shit did Rich key Andrew’s car. He had a puke yellow Hyundai Tiburon, so there was no hiding the damage.  Both the drivers’ side and passenger side doors were scraped to hell, as well as areas of the trunk as well. It was pretty screwed up, to say the least. But how did he know? Well, as I said, Curtis and I got to Physics class, and Rich walks right up to us “Tell Andrew I’ll key his fucking face next time!”, and then hands us a handful of mailing address stickers. Andrew had neglected to remove the mailing address stickers from the cardboard…

There’s a game tonight at PNC Park. What a sight to behold all lit up by the mouth of where the three rivers convene.  The crowd was cheering like something out of a movie. Pablo Reyes had hit a walk-off single to win against the Reds, and I had driven by right as it happened. Although I didn’t really follow sports since my own playing days, it was still a magical moment to witness as a passerby. You could feel the energy resonating throughout the entire city. I had goosebumps and was overcome by emotion.

My Airbnb was on Pine Line Drive, just outside of what most would consider being city limits. I had gotten there much later than I’d liked to, but with traffic and the initial diversion, I didn’t have much of a choice. But it was an easy drive after an easy day at work. I message my host, Javier, to let him know that I’d safely arrived. I’d run into Stevenson, from Haiti, another guest at Javier’s.

“Would you like help wit’ your bags, man?”

“No, I got it, man. But I appreciate it though. Nice place.”

“Yes, nice city too. Here, le’ me show ya in.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Kitchen is here, dining room is right der, and living room just over der. There’s Netflix, a PS1 and Xbox if you into any of that stuff at all. I’m off to bed ja, gotta get up at 4 AM, busy schedule!”

“Alright, man. Take it easy now.”

Stevenson mentioned he was studying at some secondary education school in Pittsburgh but didn’t give away as to where. The room was very clean, and just as advertised. I set my belongings down by the work desk, and head to the bathroom. This boy was ready to hit the hay. I brush my teeth, slick my hair back with water and my trusty comb (the only real time that I mess with my hair my natural bed head is kinda my normal look), and slip into something a little more comfortable, by removing my tank top and switching into my standard guest t-shirt. I was already wearing my trusty board shorts, so it was an easy switch into bedtime mode. I slide my survival knife underneath the pillow beside me; tuck Rufus in, and lights out.

That is until I’m awoken by all kinds of bright flickering lights, dancing across the bedroom. Reds, yellows, and blues. “What the hell is going on!?” I jump to the curtains to see what all the commotion was about. “Holy shit!” The neighbors’ house was smoking. I counted three fire trucks, an ambulance, and three police vehicles, as well as a half dozen or so other emergency vehicles. This was a beautiful and secluded suburban development, and they were clearly on top of their game when receiving an emergency call such as this from this neighborhood. Once I realized that these lights weren’t for me, I lay my head back down once more, falling back to sleep within minutes.

STEEL CITY
TO
CHITOWN

 

 

My alarm goes off as scheduled. 6:00 AM, and I’m up and at ‘em. At who exactly wasn’t clear just yet, but I didn’t care. I was ready to go. And with the realization that I’d be in Chicago later that evening, my adrenaline was pumping now more than ever.

I was hoping to get a coffee and a bagel for breakfast, but nothing was open at the early hour of 6:00 AM. I’d have to have headed back into the city for such a treat, so onward and upward, Chicago bound, baby! What a great film too. And boy would I like to have bound Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renee Zellweger. The reverse of that would be just as welcomed. Goddamnit, now I won’t be able to concentrate! Like fucking clockwork. Pittsburgh, we will meet again! Now in search of finding something to eat and drink, I have a difficult time finding anything open, so I cruise further along.

With Chicago on my mind, Chevelle is the first band that comes to play. An excellent live band (which I’ve sadly never witnessed), they were the perfect soundtrack to start off the first full day and one of the longest days of travel of the trip. I go to their Spotify playlist and hit shuffle. Hats off to the bull, yes. Full blast, hell yes. What gorgeous weather too. A great day to be alive, and to be in chase of the American Dream. My plan was to cut through Akron, and Fort Wayne, coming from the south into Chicago. But I messed that up while fumbling with my phone, still fixated on getting some much-needed fuel, and I missed my exit for 76, now traveling northbound on 80.

It was time to get out my man compass. As women know, we men have an instinctual sense of direction, with our missed exits, and our “shortcuts” making us late to damn near everything. Well, let’s see what I can get into going this route instead. I search for landmarks (all the while still driving, because again, man compass). Rock and Roll Hall of Fame shows up. They open up at 11:00 AM, right about my expected arrival.

Wow. It just dawned on me. That’s not their decision. It’s simply the only way they can beat facial recognition without having their account banned once again. So, if you see a bunch of dog profile pics on Facebook, tread with caution. You’ve been warned.

My father went to a diesel technical school years ago and had never spoken favorably about Cleveland. So, although having been exposed to big cities before, I was a bit skeptical heading into town. His schooling was in the 1970s however, and things were a bit different back then when compared to today’s current climate, so to speak. He spoke of cars driving on their rims; running traffic lights in large groups long after the light had turned red, and cops simply avoiding certain blocks in the city, often designated by blue lights. Much like you’d see a red light turned on in a house to let you know they were open for business, only these dimly blue lights indicated to “STAY THE HELL AWAY.”

In the 1970s Cleveland had lost 23.6 percent of its’ population. You can guess as to what that does to a city. A city much like Detroit or Buffalo, most think of an almost post-apocalyptic decay, although however eerily beautiful, showcasing the ruins of a city that once was, or yearned to be. No different than the famous Greek or Roman ruins, these were America’s ruins, and an ode to another time, another world even. I see the skyline from a great distance, from 80, now to 480. Coming in north on 77, ironically, a nice average speed as well. This goes for many interstates near me. Interstate 80, 81, and especially 95. on I-95 if you do anything less than 80, please just use an alternate route. It’s not safe for you otherwise.

Downtown will be on your left, and it welcomes you from a great distance. There was some construction taking place, but the roads were a nice welcome change since entering Ohio. This change is also welcome when entering Maryland, New York, and Delaware. Pennsylvania is notorious for our roadway maintenance, or rather lack thereof. You’ll notice I neglected New Jersey. There’s virtually no difference there, well except for all of the asshole drivers. Back in college in Williamsport, 9 times outta 10, you would see a dick-move maneuver, only to wait for them to pass by, only to see that blessed Yellow Garden State license plate. As for the 1 outta 10, you ask, well you come to learn that although PA plates, they grew up in Jersey, only recently having recently converting them to “fit in.”

Exit 163A, to E 9th St. Dissecting downtown, it’s a direct passage right to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I knew very little about this museum of sorts, other than the fact that it was worth checking out if in the area, and I just so happened to be in the area, if not slightly accidentally. It was a quiet Saturday morning in town, with very little foot traffic, let alone traffic altogether. Letting a few cute brunette joggers go by, as I suffer from “Nice Guy Syndrome”, more commonly known as NGS. Although I’ve been called an ASS by many women in my life, they must be referring to another acronym I’m simply not privy to.

A few moments later, I pull near the complex. I notice paid parking stands. “Oh shit! Not for this tourist, ya don’t.” I make a quick three-point U-turn (having practice from my own missed exits into New Jersey), and head back down the drag. Erieside Ave, let’s see where this bastard takes us. “Rufus. How ya doin’ boy?” Still no answer. Perhaps I picked up a mute dog? First Energy Stadium is right here as well. Quite a complex, indeed. The Browns have not been, well, the greatest team in NFL history. Certainly no bandwagon jumpers for joining the Dawg Pound. It was media day, and there were all sorts of media getting setup. I continue my way around the stadium, looking to get a little closer to the Hall of Fame area.

I look to a side alley, “PARKING WITH SECURITY PASS ONLY.” “Ah perfect. Nobody should mess with my rental here!” I thought. Besides, I was only going to be walking around to snap a few photos and get outta here. About an hour later, I had snapped nearly 80 photos, talked with some fine local Ohioans, and had a pleasant video chat with my son and parents, who were babysitting as it was my weekend to have him. What a gorgeous area of Cleveland, it reminded me a lot of Baltimore’s inner harbor area.

There was a security cart with his lights on waiting right beside my car, on his walkie-talkie. “Oh, great – I’ve tested my luck for too long! Damn you, you goddamn fool! They don’t know you out here yet, shit. Remain calm.” I casually walk over to the car, tip my hat to the security guard, whom immediately got off of his walkie-talkie, and jetted outta there. They must’ve had bigger fish to fry than my lone illegally parked rental. Cleveland Rocks by The Presidents of the United States of America now blasts through the speakers.

After that close call, I decided it was time to head outta Cleveland, and be on my way. Doubling back the way from whence I came, downtown was now flourishing. It was now twelve-noon, and people were out wandering on their lunch breaks on this spectacularly beautiful day. I snap a few more photos, of the main square, this time “drive-by” style. A style in which I developed as part of this journey. The key is to always have your camera app open on your phone, with Spotify, Pandora, or your favorite music app blaring in the background, and at the press of your fingerprint, you’re right back to the camera, ready to snap that photo. After a while, you get used to keeping your phone in such a mode, resting on your lap, as a constant reminder that you must be always present in the world around you. Life has a certain flair about it when you’re always in the mindset of viewing it through a lens, outside of your own eyes.

Since I’ll be traveling right by Toledo, I set this as my next target. Still in need of coffee for the long drive, “Toledo coffee shops” is entered into my search bar. Flying Rhino Coffee strikes my fancy. Into my GPS, just under two-hours. I’ll get some coffee, and hit up one of the other fine looking establishments within this historical section of town, on Broadway St no less. Contained within a circa 1859 hotel designed by Architect Isaiah Rogers, known as The Oliver House, this had become a social hotbed for the city. As a fan of both history and architecture, I was excited to check out some local history in a neighboring state. Fast-forward about an hour and forty-five minutes later (90 on 90, you make up some time), and my exit is just up ahead. 21 Pilots – Ride is blaring. Coincidentally, a native Ohio band. The perfect song for this drive.

“Alright, time to get over, help me out, Rufus! Wait, what the hell?”

[Seemingly outta nowhere, a group of modern American muscle cars fly on by. Charger, Mustang, and Corvette.]

“Goddamnit, Rufus! These bastards just gone done fucked us up! I miss the goddamned exit. But wait, Detroit north on 75. Hold on, Rufus. Alexa, how far is Detroit? Alexa, how far is Detroit? Alexa! How far is Detroit!? Ah hmm, Siri, how far is Detroit? Detroit is about 61 miles as the crow flies. Shit, Rufus! Looks like we’re headed to Detroit.”

Because when you’re only an hour away from Detroit, you take the fucking exit, or should I say the correct exit anyway. Being the self-decreed hippie anti-hipster that I am, I wanted to see the post-apocalyptic Detroit from after the housing bubble crisis, which resulted in stimulus packages to both America’s Automotive Industry and well as the banking industry, both prevalent employers in Detroit. And once they took their hits, so did the city and its’ people. But if Jack White still had a hold in the city, then surely not all hope was lost.

Sure, there were some abandoned buildings, but they had beautiful murals adorning their sides, with construction signs out in front, signifying a repurpose for these skyscrapers. I get off the 3rd Ave exit, with downtown locked in via the trusty GPS. Alternating between Apple Maps, Google Maps, and Waze. I’ve since abandoned using the onboard navigation as part of the media console area. I learned pretty quickly that this was pretty shitful, and not worth using. There were just simply too many steps to reconnecting it, and syncing it back up to the two necessary apps. As I said, it was shitful. Oh, and it nearly had me turn down the wrong way down a one way. Good thing my man compass was running smoothly at that time.

Now cruising towards downtown on Grand River Ave, I figure I better find a free place to park, as I was a man on a budget and I was already making an unintended detour, cutting into my GasBuddy Card budget. Which after the last fill, stopped working. It was only accepted at a few gas stations and seemed like it was hardly worth using as that too was shitful. The only positive is that it took on average about four days for the funds to process from your connected account. So, if you’re in a pinch nearing the end of your pay cycle, you can fill up, and still have a few days before your funds need to clear. The things you have to take advantage of as a broke bachelor. If only I hadn’t spent my entire tax return this year on strippers, escorts, drugs, and alcohol. But hey, a guy’s gotta live a little awhile, am I right? The Dude abides. The only reason I was able to afford the very trip that I was venturing out on is that I had a third paycheck in August.

“Ah, here we go, Rufus. Found us a great spot here, boy. Let’s get out and stretch a while. Detroit, here we are! Let’s see what you have to offer!”

Right in front of Nick’s Gaslight Restaurant. No longer hungry or thirsty as I filled up on some protein bars, and finished up the last of my well water which I’d brought with. I set the timer for an hour and a half. Not much, I know, but I needed to stay somewhat on course to make it to Chicago.

“Times Square, would you look at that? Would you just look at it? Who knew there was also a Times Square in Detroit?”

The things you learn when you travel! I continue down Grand River Ave on foot until I get to Washington Blvd. I see some lush green space so I make the right to see where it leads.

Lush Green islands to both my left and right now on Washington Blvd. I take the right and continue journeying further downtown. Damn, Detroit still has people here, lots of people. Doing seemingly normal things that one would do in any other city.  While yes, it is true that Detroit has been in population and overall decline since 1990, something about walking around here felt, well, different. I was used to historically blue-collar cities such as Philly and Pitt, but the sense of pride here felt remarkable to me. I was moved by the very notion of it all. Crystal clear blue skies, the sun greeting the afternoon with its warm embrace, birds just overhead, and the sound of a city still doing it’s damndest to not only just survive, but to flourish. I reach the intersection of Michigan Ave and get out my man compass. It’s clear to any local that I was clueless about where to head next. A group of four locals sitting along a scenic bench witnessed this and offered to guide a solo traveler.

“Good day, fella. Uh, could we help you out there youngin’?”

“Sure can, gentlemen, lady.”

“We’ll tell you anywhere you need to go. Where you headed?”

“I only have about an hour here, and I wanted to dig as deep as one possibly could with so little time.”

“Well, that all depends on what you’re looking to get into”

“Well, I suppose my limited budget will prevent me from soaking up some of the finer things that the Motor City has to offer.”

“But, I’d be happy to soak up some sun, if you could point me to any city parks or anything.”

“Why yes, of course! You’ll want to just keep heading straight away until you find Parc. It’s spelled P A R C, and there’s always something going on there. You’ll meet some really interesting people there, such as us.Good luck to you, son, you take care of yourself now. And be sure to enjoy the finer things in life! They cost even more once you get old like us.”

“You’re only as old as the man at the fair guesses you to be.”

“Alright, Parc it is! Wait!”

And right as their figures turn to silhouettes, I go back to ask if I can snap a photo for the novel I told them I would be compiling. The Shades Of: The Mother Road – Crossroads of the American Dream. This was the first time I’d ever uttered these words aloud to anybody. It just felt right. I’d developed my elevator pitch from the get-go. They each provided me with their nicknames at first, then chuckled some more, providing me with their birth-given names, even “The Mayor”, as he introduced himself as, but I told him he would remain “The Mayor”, as that seemed too perfect as a few other passerby’s had shouted out his name.

“Nah man, you’re “The Mayor”. I don’t care whose holding office. Thank you all again for helping this lost white boy from a small town in a strange city.”

I head east on State St, and I continue until I’m met with Woodward Ave. I make it to Parc, right at the heart of Detroit, which I later learned in Kalamazoo (of all places) that Detroit is the only major city where you can look south to Canada. Again, the more you learn as you travel! So much life to be found in this area. I was greatly impressed by the beauty of it all. But all good things must come to an end, and I didn’t have much time left now.

I’d texted my buddy Brian about a Pot Fest event featuring Method Man and that we should come back for it, half-jokingly he responded with a  resounding, “Yes, hell yeah man!” I messaged my brother shortly after my arrival that I was going to look for Eminem and Jack White while I was here. But I only had time to stalk one of them, so I chose the latter. I let my brother know that it was only a slight 1-hour detour, and he reminded me that yes, that may be true, but you have to account for both the way there and back. Shit, he was right. I really needed to abide by my timer. No messing about! I’d also messaged my mother, but she seemed unimpressed with this detour, completely on edge that I was doing this whole thing alone. I reminded her that my last cross-country trip to Colorado had started with five, and ended with two, well maybe just a combined one, because both of us had never fully recovered (see buddy Brian, above), so the worst that I could come back with would be zero. This did not ease her worrying, it only amplified it. Only half an hour left now. “Shit! What to do? What to see? Why yes, but of course! Third Man Records.”

Jack White, a living God amongst the rest of us mortal souls. He surely had his place in Valhalla if he chose to, but no. He chose Detroit (and Nashville) as the place (s) to truly leave behind his legacy. I was off to Third Man Records. Only seven minutes away, I’ve got this. I start jogging back to my car, snapping a few photos on my way back. Ground-level “drive-by” type stuff. I figured myself as a real gangster at this point. The Sicilian Mafia would surely have a spot open for me by now should I ever need one.

Walking up Griswold St. as I wondered what Clark would make of a street named in his honor (okay, not really). I turn and snap a few more and then I notice a sign that reads “CRAFT BEER SOLD HERE.” “Well shit, don’t mind if I do!” Lover’s Only? Again – “Don’t mind if I do!”

Right at the intersection of Grand River Ave, so a perfect stop along my natural route. I step inside, my camera still active, taking a few more snaps as I enter.

[I walk up to the counter, and I’m greeted by two super cute girls and a very handsome gentleman.]

“I didn’t realize I was in the Midwest Santa Monica.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“What can we get ya, sir?”

“I saw from your sign that you have craft beer available. That’s actually what brought me in here. I was only on my way back to my vehicle just a moment ago, but this seems like a wonderful pit stop opportunity.”

I get a red ale, as recommended by the gentleman, while the cute African American girl fixes the drink, and the cute blonde rings me up. All three of them seemed genuinely into me. I’d never been in a foursome before, but something told me if I hang out here long enough that I’d find myself in the back bumpin’ uglies with these three interesting humans. Now, I’m by no means gay, let alone bisexual, but I wouldn’t have minded sharing a few high-fives as we took turns split-roasting these two beauties that lay before us. “Lover’s Only, indeed!”

Disappointed that I was only staying for the single drink, and no food, I give a generous tip, and bid my farewell, assuring them that I’d be back again if ever back into Detroit. A big part of the American Dream was born in the Motor City, and that was still very much alive here. Let’s see just how far that stretches out from here.

I head a little further down on Grand River Ave, make a left onto Bagley St, and head north on Clifford St. until it meets with Henry St. A quick right onto Cass Ave, and then only another mile or so until I reached Third Man Records. Absolutely no parking in sight, a crowded area full of what seemed to be mostly locals. I circle the block looking for any spots available, no go Joe, or should I say Jack. As I nearly complete my loop, I spot a parking lot. “Shit, these are all reserved.” I continue until I get to some bank parking, Fifth Third Bank. I grab the last available spot. “Nice, this will do just fine!” Thirty-minute parking only, that’s plenty of time, I thought. The spot was shaded by The Whitney, a beautiful 1890s mansion, which now serves as a restaurant and event gathering space. It looked as though a wedding party was arriving. “So many skirts, good lord!” I shout out to who appeared to be the bride and wish everyone luck. Several cheers could be heard as they walked into the venue.

“Alright, the clock’s ticking, Rufus. Stay here, boy.” I was wearing a thermal long-sleeve shirt as it was chilly early this morning in Pitt. But it had reached the low 70s and I was sweating my ass off. Quite literally. “swamp ass” is nothing to muck around with. A few local girls had noticed my cautious walk, and gossip that I must be hurting pretty bad under there. If only they had any idea how much so. The brew from earlier had taken away some of the edge, but the pain was back now, most notably from the blisters that were forming due to my excellent choice in footwear, my trusty Clarks loafers.

But I had a plan. They were the comfiest shoes I owned, and I figured once I broke in a few blisters, that I’d be home free. “Damn, what a cool hangout spot!” I could only imagine how cool it must be at night when the freaks come out to play, all lit up with the lights just the same. My only knowledge of the Third Man Records store was via a tour featuring Adam Savage whom recorded a live vinyl pressed song. Some pretty cool shit, if you ask me.

There were a bunch of clearance racks outside on the sidewalk. The logo is really awesome, and the sun was in a perfect position behind it. It looked like a radio broadcast signal, beaming out to the universe. Quickly learning the full name here is Third Man Records Cass Corridor, my initial impression was “Wow, badass.” I felt like I’d walked into a quirky hipster-like museum, but with enough “cool factor” to wash away any stains that the hipsters would’ve left otherwise.

Memorabilia and merchandise were everywhere. There were only a handful of folks in here at this hour, and I felt no pressure from the sales staff to be in any sort of rush. But only having about 15-mins, I needed to make the most of it in here. So much cool shit, it’s really difficult to describe it all. You just need to be here. There’s no other way about it. Ya dig? Even the restroom had a certain class about it all. The mens room had an assortment of body sprays and lotions available for freshening up. I imagine the ladies room had a similar appeal. If this was Miami, there’d be designer drugs laid across this area, but this almost seemed cooler than that. Some vintage stuff here. Stuff I’d see my grandfather putting on for a special outing with my grandmother, kinda vibe.  “Jack White, you classy sonofabitch!”

I head to the very back to see the vinyl pressing area. A dozen or so workers on the floor, most were wearing headphones and seemed to be rocking out themselves. There was a schedule drawn in colored chalk on a sign with the current vinyl press schedule. I could hear some music jamming via a loudspeaker system. It sounded like some sort of Spanish EDM jams. It was a very diverse group of guys and gals working, and it looked like they were genuinely enjoying themselves, dancing as they worked. Heading back towards the front of the store, I stop at the stage area. Backlit in Blue, with some legends wrapped along the walls, The White Stripes strung up beside other rock and blues legends. Even the stage had a certain flair to it all.

A live schedule was posted nearby. “What a chill place this must be to catch a show?” Okay, the clocks ticking. With so much cool shit to choose from, I had to be cognizant that I’d be traveling back via plane, and it needed to fit into my current luggage, or I’d be out a lot of money for check-in luggage (a fine perk of flying with a cheap-ass airline). I decide on a coffee mug – the one with the three stripes. I already had plenty of mugs, but this would make a cool gift for my mother, I thought. They had a lounge area setup, and I sit down to get a different perspective of the whole place. Damn, I completely missed that there was a sort of mezzanine railing area. But I simply didn’t have time to check that out.

[Walks up to counter.]

“Is Jack here? I told him to expect me in the early afternoon.”

“No, he’s currently out on tour. You should know this as a fan!”

“With which band?”

“The Raconteurs.”

“Damn, that’s right.”

“Next time!”

“Okay, I’ll let it slide this time. But you need to see him live.”

She rings me out, and I begin to walk out of the store. “Hold up!” I thought. I go back and ask if either she or the gentleman would mind taking my photo. Another customer comes along, so the brunette is officially out of the picture and the gentleman snaps a few photos of me in the lounge. I’m acting as though I was having a conversation with Jack. A cute blonde employee walks on by, thinking she was getting in the way.

“You’re welcome to join me; I’m just talking with my pal Jack here.”

[Laughing, likely nervously, she gets behind a register and rings out some other customers.]

For some reason, I always get this “bro” mentality while traveling out of state thinking that all women would jump right into bed with me being a “foreigner with a handsome face and unique “Philly” accent.” I love women, and I’ve never been one to think that I’m God’s gift to women, but part of me wants to believe that women were God’s gift to me. They were getting busy now. Now, I know what you’re thinking, friend. Having an imaginary conversation with Mr. White himself? C’mon that can’t be any stranger than a guy talking to a plank of wood for the last day? Being cognizant of time, I thank them all for their hospitality and let them know that I’d be back my next time in Detroit. A brisk walking pace and I’m back to my vehicle in another five minutes or less, about forty-five-minutes later.

“No ticket or envelope. Great! Perhaps they round up by a half-hour in this great city? Rufus, buckle up, we’re on the road again, boy!” I throw on a mix of The White Stripes, The Raconteurs, The Dead Weather, and his solo stuff. A truly badass mix of some of the best rock music around. Having had the pleasure of seeing him several years prior at a headlining spot at Governor’s Ball in NYC. And as to how acclaimed of a musician he is, I still find him to be underrated. He’s right up there with MJK, Grohl, and Homme in terms of naming a favorite musician. Heading west on the I-96 expressway, I’m making good time, topping out at 96 on a few occasions (trust me, you should try and abide by my rule.) I learned that anything much over 80 MPH in the Corolla spells trouble. You need to hold on to the steering wheel with two hands, and you can forget about having the windows down at anything over 65 MPH. I nearly slammed into the median on the turnpike heading to Pittsburgh while attempting this.

I notice a sign for Downtown Ann Arbor, and when you see the exit for Downtown Ann Arbor, you take the fucking exit. Being raised only about two-hours from Penn State, Michigan was one of our biggest rivals. But I’d set all of that aside, as Michigan was extremely welcoming thus far, and I didn’t wish to be “that guy.” Although I did start a few “We Are” chants while out in Columbus earlier this year while staying at an Airbnb full of Ohio State students. This received mixed reviews, naturally, but surprisingly, only a single death threat from a fellow drunkard outside of a frat house on our way to a local bar. All this was while another spoke of performing extremely lewd acts on the infamous Nittany Lion mascot. Truly, one of the stupidest in the nation, so I took no offense. About a mile off of the exit, and I’m officially in beautiful downtown Ann Arbor. I set my alarm for 20-minutes, surely not enough time here, but it’s truly all I had. I find another free parking spot near some off-campus student housing. Four stunningly gorgeous girls step off of a balcony and head back into their home. You’d think I was in Georgia with their shapely peach bottoms. Yoga pants will truly be the death of man one day, lord have mercy. Wars will be fought over this natural phenomenon.

I’m parked on W Kingsley St, and I start walking further into downtown territory. Now, when it comes to music in Ann Arbor, there’s one band that should immediately come to mind, friend, and that is The Stooges. Iggy Pop is a living legend, and rightfully so. They started in Ann Arbor in the late 1960s, and have influenced more bands that I listen to than I believe any other band out there. After watching and reading countless interviews of my favorite bands, musicians, and artists alike, they all seemed to have one thing in common – they listed The Stooges and/or Iggy Pop as one of their own biggest influences. Nirvana would have to be the next band in this regard, and guess who they labeled as one of their influences?

That DIY punk-rock attitude seemed to still be carried in the atmosphere today. I could feel that even in the 15-minutes I spent actually walking around Ann Arbor. I was going to stop into Heidelberg Restaurant for a drink, but I figured I’d never make it out of Michigan if I did that. I get up to W/E Huron St., snap a few more photos, and head back on the road, exiting the same way as I came in. Now, with The Stooges being added to the playlist, throw in a mix of Motown classics, and I’d never felt so close to Americana before. I was a little over three and a half hours from Freehand, Chicago, and I was keen on getting there by my personal 6:00 PM deadline.

Traveling at a cool 94 MPH, cruising on I-94, and traffic is moving along smoothly. The day still as beautiful as it started, I hadn’t a single complaint to throw out to the universe at this present time. “Hello Operator” comes on. The first song I ever heard from The White Stripes, all those years ago. Although at the time, I was completely unaware who they were, coming across it via some YouTube curated playlist, only to come back around to them when they garnered their widespread critical acclaim around the time Seven Nation Army became a national anthem of sorts. The crushing riffs, the somewhat excitedly talking-vocal style throughout, and the minimalistic drums. What’s not to love? I get caught up in my hybrid air-drumming/riff imitating and I’m again abruptly reminded that I’m not in my trusty “Black Beauty.”

“Shit, off the shoulder, you goddamned fool!”

[Rufus was unmoved by this, still stiff as ever.]

“Sorry, boy! Won’t happen again. I, uh, at least I hope so anyhow.”

[Signs for Battle Creek, what a cool town that must be with such a name as Battle Creek, I thought.]

“Not now though, another time!”

I soon see signs for Downtown Kalamazoo. I’d promised myself years ago, if ever in the proximity, that this was a must-stop for me. And when you see an exit for Downtown Kalamazoo, you take the fucking exit. First impressions? Simply incredible! I’ll be honest, part of my reasoning getting off the exit was because I’d seen a sign for Déjà Vu Showgirls, and it was rated the best strip club in the Midwest. Also seeing signs for Western Michigan University, I knew exactly the type of girls who would be working here. The smart, cute and sexy girl who was paying off her tuition until too many professors recognized her, before turning to upscale escort services. But until then, at least you would likely see that cute quiet petite redhead from your introductory Algebra class who always seemed to have a certain glow about her.

But alas, if I couldn’t stop for a drink in Ann Arbor, I sure as hell couldn’t afford to spend any time in a fine establishment such as this, or surely I would never make it out of Michigan this day. But figuring I could do with something to drink as a well earned pit stop, I search for craft breweries. “Shit! How could I forget!? Bell’s is from here!” And I had been on a Two-hearted Ale kick as of late, having finished off my second 12-pack in as many days. But looking back, I definitely should’ve made a night out of it in Kalamazoo.

“Holy Breweries, Batman!” A quick search will provide around a dozen or more seemingly fine drinking and dining establishments, with many offering their own brews and gastro pub fare. I was immediately reminded of Rochester, NY. A very clean town, with plenty of beautiful architecture, and landscaping to boot. Everyone seemed to be rather fit, and as friendly as you could ask out of an American. It must have something to do with the proximity to Canada.

It was closing in on sunset on a Saturday night, and very little parking was available. There are a few spots right by the Arcadia Creek Festival Place, a really cool looking gathering place of sorts. On my way to getting parked, I noticed the Kalamazoo Mall, which stretched for several blocks worth of the inevitable red brick pavers. This destination was full of shops and other fine establishments. I was reminded of Boulder, CO. “Damn, Kalamazoo, the feels, man!” The furthest away I’d ever been solo from home, and I was made to feel right at home.

People were out and about, riding their bikes, walking their dogs, interacting with one another, like in person, and not through their respective technological devices, playing with their children, and just seemingly enjoying themselves on this fine summer evening. Now, if that’s not something every town in America should aspire to, I don’t know what else it could be. But like I said the sun was setting, and I was starting to set myself off course.

Now, I’ll begin the following interaction by prefacing that I am in fact, a blonde. I don’t even try to, but there are some very real instances in my life where the old adage is true as true can be. But, I do like to believe we do in fact have more fun. So Bell’s – there are several moving parts to the brick and mortar location in Kalamazoo. There is Bell’s Brewery, Bell’s General Store, and Bell’s Eccentric Cafe. Bell’s Brewery is as the name suggests the brewery piece. Bell’s General Store is as its’ name suggests, the swag piece of the operation, where you can purchase growlers, clothing, and other fine accessories.

Then we have Bell’s Eccentric Cafe, and perhaps not as the name suggests, is where you probably want to go. I ask the adorable brunette working at the General Store if I can get a quick draft, explaining that I didn’t have long to hangout. She smiled and said I could go right around the corner. Thinking I missed the entrance somehow, I go right back to the corner. Nothing here, as I suspected.

[A few employees witnessed my bewilderment and asked where I was headed.]

“I’m just looking to get a quick draft, gentlemen, lady.”

“You’re going to need to head back around the corner, there man.”
[Pretending like I somehow know more than the employees.]

“No, I saw that was the way to the Cafe, I’m looking for a draft of beer.”

“That is the way, you goddamn fool!”

Okay, so maybe I was hearing a bit more of The Unknown Bastard at this point. We were driving our separate ways out to Vegas, but it was nice to know he was still okay, at least in spirit. I make my way around the corner to where the cafe is found. “Shit, they were right! This is indeed, the place where I was intending to be.”

[A pair of beautiful bubbly busty blonde MILF’s were on the front stairs, taking a selfie. I asked if they wanted me to help, but they assured me, with plenty of laughter and signs of pre-gaming, that they thought they managed a few good ones.]

“Okay, I’ll see you inside.”

These girls were looking to bring home some college stud, likely a two-for one special type scenario. I snap a few of my own photos and head on in.

Wow, what an awesome place! Just as everything else that I’d come across in Kalamazoo, Bell’s Brewery was no different. Only that it was. I felt like I was in some oversized ice fishing shack in Alaska or somewhere just as remote. There was a hunting lodge vibe to the whole thing, only with more fishing and marine type memorabilia decorated throughout. Quite a diverse crowd and everyone here too seemed fit and attractive. There were a few solo seats left at the bar, and I make my way down towards the end. An older man was there at the bar. Noticing there were belongings next to him, I scooted my chair down a bit more for added room.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello there, good evening.”

[We engage in some more friendly conversation until his wife gets back from the restroom. She greets me with a smile and introduces herself.]

“Hello, I’m Sandy, and this is my husband, Dick.”

A lovely couple from the Carolina’s, who were out visiting family in Wisconsin, and were on their way back east, having just been in Chicago the night prior. They spoke of the traffic, and how the city was doing its’ annual major infrastructure maintenance, a necessary evil with such a major metropolitan area such as Chicago.

We’d shared a brew together and decide to each enjoy another, after confirming with each other via a friendly nod and a smile. We talked about life and the possible solutions to all of the world’s problems in a very layman’s terms kind of manner. They were both professors at a local college back home, and were clearly beloved by all of their students. They were both familiar with the area in which I now lived, notably Lancaster, PA.

They both thought it to be very beautiful as well, with all the rolling hills and countryside. They were on their way to stay in Toledo, where they had some more family located. I inform them that I had intended to stop there earlier, and ended up in Detroit instead. They made it known that I should indeed make it a point to stop on my way back, assuming I was going both there and back via my rental.

“Oh, no. I’m just going the one way and then I’ll be flying back out of LAX to PHL. I’d never make it back alive if I had to go both ways!”

We share a few more laughs, some handshakes, a few photos, and they were on their way as I finished up the last few swigs of my second Two Hearted Ale.

Some beautiful college-aged girls had just rolled in through the door, looking for their equals in male counterparts. Damn, if only I’d had more time here, I could’ve befriended a few gentlemen, and teamed up, an effective strategic tactic that I’ve learned over the years. I’ve been in cases where there’d be four of us guys and had all only met that night over some common bond. I pondered if women did the same thing?

Perhaps so, but surely they saw through this, and just admired our efforts. I make my way back through the park, this time a bunch of couples had swarmed the place, all seemed to be lying down and comforting one another. Unsure of what was really going on here, I made my way through without making eye contact. “Alright, Rufus, buckle back up!” This time we’re Chicago bound for real. I’m feeling pretty grand at this point. It’s been one of the most traveled days of my life, and I was in uncharted territory, a free man.

The buzz and high of a “new frontier” carried me all the way until I saw the cityscape of Chicago from a distance. I couldn’t tell you what exits I’d passed, or what tunes or thoughts otherwise occupied my attention and mind, but I recalled another beautiful sunset, guiding me safely to my evening destination. I had about two and a half hours to Freehand, and I only stopped once to fill up on gas.

[A kind gentleman saw me struggling with my card, so he came over to my side of the tank.]

“Here, let me see that a sec, sir.”

“Okay, no problem!”

He jiggles the fixture where you insert your card at, and sure enough, the fucker came right off. “Here, I’ll be pulling out in a minute, use my side.” I had learned that this was becoming a problem in Michigan, and these skimmers were being installed primarily by Russian gang affiliates. “More election meddling!” I thought. Even in the Midwest, Putin had shown his reach. Or should I say Put-in as a few Russians I know refer to him as, showcasing the corruption that is sadly engrained in much of Eastern Europe.

Unsure at this point, whether this man had installed it himself, and sought pity on me, I pull into his side of the fuel station, and leave the device just kinda hanging there, like an old telephone booth, not quite put back on its’ hook all the way, dangling in the wind. I had no trouble with his side of the pump, and I fill er’ up. Traffic was, well bad. Very bad. But everyone seemed to be moving well enough alone. They must be mostly locals, with this flow pattern simply engraved into their DNA as a Chicago native and/or transplant having a few years under their belt. The worst parts were right at the 55 and 290 junctions, where an influx of additional traffic took place.

I notice a pimped out Escalade roll up beside me, the driver had his window down, and his hand out waving like a magician, acting out the Hip-hop beats transmitting from his impressive speakers, tweeters, and subwoofer. I too had my windows down and my hands out acting out my usual hybrid drum and guitar riff imitations, Chevelle – Well Enough Alone blaring from this stock unit, as fluidly as ever.

“Nice ride, man!”

“Thanks, man. You too!”

“Oh, this little thing, this isn’t mine. It’s not stolen though!”

“Okay, brotha, whateva you say!”

His lane was merging, and I signal with my guitar hand for him to get over. “Thanks, man.” The lanes open back up, and now it’s my exit. He sees me signaling to get over, and slows up traffic by kinda riding the middle lane, much like a tractor-trailer would do, and waves me on over. I give him a friendly wave, he exchanges one back, and I make my exit, with him venturing off further into the Chicago night. He was as dark as the night itself and I was as white as a new day’s snow, yet we seemed to find an immediate bond with one another over music, and a mutual respect was formed once we recognized this.

Chicago was the first stop on The Mother Road, and this was my first encounter with the kind of hospitality I was expecting. A sort of Midwest/Southern hybrid charm that I’d read so much about Chicago and its’ surrounding areas. Now, to say I’m exhausted at this point would be an understatement. And if you happen to read the prequel to this story (found at the end), then you’ll understand why this is truly my middle name. For all intents and purposes, I’d been on the road since 6:00 AM, and it was now pushing 9:30 PM. One might consider that to be a long-ass day; especially when you’ve ventured into three large cities where traffic can increase one’s stress levels. I make it safely to where the address takes me to, but I don’t see the hotel. “Shit, is there another Freehand in Chicago? Was I even staying at the Freehand?”

I’d booked all of my Airbnb’s about two months in advance, and I originally made two prior selections for Chicago, before finding this hostel living situation that was being offered here. Loading up the app to see my reservations – yes this was it, but where was it?

I walk into the ACME Hotel Company and ask the concierge desk for some help. The man sees I’m under a bit of duress, thinking the worst and that my hotel had burned down such as one such occasion in New Jersey (ah, good ole’ Jersey). No seriously, my buddy Ryan and I were headed to the now-defunct Bonaroo Festival being held where the New York Jets played at the time, and made it to the Delaware Water Gap, only to receive a phone call stating that our hotel had burned down. He laughed a few times, thinking it was another IT friend of his, just fucking with him, only to have the man reassure him that this was no prank and to verify the phone number once he got off the line. I don’t even recall the hotel, but sure enough, that was the direct line to the hotel, and we had to drive back to Williamsport, PA after making it the majority of the way there.

“You’re right next door, sir. Almost literally right next door.”

[Nothing was lit, and my brain was fried, so my prior research of its’ location was out the window.]

“Ah yes, of course! Right, here we are.”

In my defense, there were no obvious wayfinding signs denoting that this was in fact Freehand Chicago. I guess that was left to the giant fucking vintage sign seen from across the street the next morning, but again the combination of being exhausted showcases a man on autopilot, with only his most basic of skills functioning. If I was a dolphin, I’d surely have drowned in my sleep that night.

I walk up to the concierge, of my hotel this time, and the hipster checks me in, nice enough hipster though. Not the judgmental vegan type that you find in NYC where they ask you if the dye used in your tattoos were harvested by cage-free Octopi. And if there’s one saving grace of New Jersey is that they don’t allow hipsters. They’re funneled in like days of the old of Ellis Island and are then shipped to Staten Island, where they’re blindfolded and driven cross-country in the backs of unmarked tractor trailers, finally being emptied out and dispersed in Portland, Oregon. I let the guy know that I’m parked in the parking garage next door and that I’ll be back with my belongings. He hands me a coupon and says that I’d get a 20% discount by showing this upon my departure. I’ll jump ahead for a brief moment. It was not the preferred garage, and I did not receive any sort of discount, having to pay $54 hard-earned American dollars for one night blasted night in a dimly lit parking garage. I should’ve just hired a fixer and parked it in an alley, covering it up with a tarp, while letting him keep the extra $4 as his tip, for Christ’s sake, man!

I come back into the lobby, and peek my head around the corner to what is known as The Broken Shaker lounge. A very hip place (yes full of more hipsters), and an otherwise extremely diverse crowd. Some were on their phones, their laptops, sipping on $20 martinis while admiring the beautiful architecture and artwork throughout, while others were engaged in serious discussion, likely solving all of the worlds’ problems as I’d done only a few hours earlier with Sandy and Dick. I make my way onto the elevator with a fellow group of guests, three stunningly beautiful girls, the r/chavgirls or r/nightoutgirls type. I say hello to this fine group as gentlemanly as I could gather myself to do in such a state as aforementioned. They all smile, and respond with a simple “Hi” back.

Wishing not to collapse, I gather back up my belongings and ironically follow the girls out onto the 3rd floor to my dorm. They are in the very next room. Now, normally I’d see this as fate, as a way “in”, but not tonight. I fumble for my card key, but the door is already sort of propped open. A bit worried, as the lights were off, I grab my survival knife from my backpack. Now I’m just standing there holding it in the manner in which my father taught me as a young boy, as to not have it easily ripped from your hands.

[I knock cautiously.]

“Hello, is anybody there?”

[I open the door slowly and have my phone’s flashlight active in my other hand. I hear another door open.]

“Oh Christ!”

[The girls emerge back from their room, as I turn to greet them with my phone and survival knife in hand. Complete. Awkward. Silence. All three of them just staring at my survival knife and  moving up to a crazed look on my face.]

“You might just need to open the door, they get stuck easily, and they probably just didn’t shut it all the way.”

With absolutely no chance of getting “in” now, I’m only concerned about them reporting this incident and being “out” of a room. I put more weight into opening the door, and it opens all the way, just as she said. None of the other guests were there in the room, but it was well enough lit with the street just outside and a few small lights turned on throughout for some sort of guidance. I pick the last remaining bunk and throw up my belongings with a huge sigh of relief and a “what the hell was that?” gasp. I gather what is needed for a shower before bed. Some “liquid sleep” should really help here. A phrase I first heard from watching Casey Neistat’s vlog on YouTube. I wondered if he’d ever been to Chicago? Certainly not like this, I thought. I got to thinking just how many celebrities were in Chicago at the same time as me. Who were those girls? They all seemed foreign? Eastern European even. Maybe they were daughters of the very Russian Gang affiliates that are putting those skimmers in all of the credit card slots at gas stations?

“Calm down, you goddamn fool!” He’s right. The Unnamed Bastard had thankfully rubbed off on me once more. “Rufus, what do you think, boy? Rufus?” Oh shit, I forgot to bring him in. Oh well, he’ll be alright in the space behind the rear seats. He’ll scare off any would-be criminals, surely. I finish up my shower and put on my sleepwear.

Hold on, you know what? Screw it. I’m in Chicago, goddamnit. I can’t just go to bed at 10:00 PM! I put on my only possible business casual gear combination, and head back on out, careful not to run into the r/tightdresses girls on my way out. I take the stairs, and they let out right near the Broken Shaker lounge. I pop back in to find a whole new mix of people, just as diverse as before, however. Nodding to a few that noticed me from earlier; I wander out onto the street.

Freehand is located in what seems to be the very heart of Chicago. You’re not far from all of the famous museums, world-class restaurants, pubs, and other fine establishments found throughout the Windy City. I do my best wanderlust traveler impersonation, and make my way a few blocks away from Freehand, ending up at AMC Theatre before I look to head back to unwind in the Windy City.

And here is where I meet Cody, a slender tall well-spoken and street-smart Chicago native, sporting a Chicago Bulls tee and dark jeans, living on the East Side. He noticed me doing this impersonation and asks if I want to take any other shots such as the one I was trying to capture. “Put your phone away man, and follow me. I’ll show you some great sights, just a few blocks from here.” He tells me about how much Chicago has changed since his youth, and how some things have gotten worse, while other things have gotten better.

I learn more about the great sports heritage here, and how he longed for another superstar such as Jordan to come to town, with Derrick Rose, a Chicago native, never fully living up to the hype, namely due to his major injuries. I learn that Cubs fans are not as ruthless as their counterparts, the White Sox and that the Sox will have no problem turning on you if you suck. This is something I have a certain appreciation for having grown up as a Philly sports fan, sans for football, where I was a Miami Dolphins fan, “brainwashed” as my parents would say, by my Uncle Mike, who ironically grew up in Philly. But he was a Dan Marino fan, who was a star at Pitt, and he’d continued to follow his career with the Dolphins, therefore the Dolphins connection.

But growing up going to Phillies and Eagles games alike, were always enjoyable. I had a few run-ins while proudly displaying my 13 Marino jersey, however. On one occasion a drunken Eagles fan walks up to me, with my whole family present at this altercation, asks to see my ticket, thinking he was going to kindly help guide us all to our seats. He says to me “It’s a good thing you’re not sitting near me; otherwise you’d have this entire fucking pitcher of beer poured on your head by the end of the first drive.” And this is why I love Philly sports!

We end up at Rock Bottom Brewery. “How about all these skirts, man? I told you!” “You’re right about that, man!” Cody then explains that he is currently homeless and that he was hoping I’d help him out. Truthfully not having any cash on me, I had to decline his earnest request. I gave him some advice to stay strong, and that I could see he was a person who would get through this seemingly dark time. We snap a few photos, and hug it out before wishing one another the best on our own separate journeys in life.

“How ‘bout them skirts out there, huh? My God. I’ve never seen so much pussy in one square mile in my life. You fellas like pussy, right?” asks Mike. The obligatory first question after meeting random dudes as houseguests to find out if you’re sleeping just feet away from any homosexuals, which would invite one to take precautions of covering up their asshole with duct tape. Just hope they don’t have any razor blades handy, or worse, a sharp enough utensil of their own. My temporary roommates and I had all ironically come back within a few moments of one another.

We have Mike; a middle-aged man who spoke with what I could only say was if you had Christopher Walken do an impression of Bernie Sanders. Diego, a smart looking student was from Mexico City, and was here for all of the museums and landmarks, as was Mike. Lastly, there was Jazz, who was what I could only describe as what I imagined a Dubai hipster to be. A nice enough fella from Kuwait. I let him know that I have an old college friend Amir, who stayed with me over a summer in between classes, was also from Kuwait. Seemingly unimpressed, he joked that the same as African Americans that they didn’t all know each other either. We all shared some more laughs and stories about what all brought us to Chicago.

With all of us traveling solo and all with different final destinations in mind. Mike was headed back to see his son in southern California where he lived for most of his life. Dave was headed back to Mexico City to be with his friends and family and to finish his studies in business. And Jazz was staying put, at least for now. He was staying at the Freehand in between his studies in Chicago, as he had just been evicted, and it was far more economically suitable than staying at a $250+ hotel each night, even if he was some sort of a middle-eastern prince, as he later proclaimed after coming back in a drunken stupor. Ironically, the same way that Amir had once proclaimed.

The bunk-beds were just as spacious as I’d imagined which to say is not very spacious. I stand at a little over 6’0”, and my feet if lying parallel to the bed, brushed up against the wall. You had to sit in a diagonal position across the bed, and I’d placed my belongings to my right as a protective way of not sliding down the back of the bunk bed. Believe me; you didn’t want to fall this way, as you’d be squished in a hurry. It would be better to just flop down like a fish from the front entrance than to be entangled in the back, helpless, and unable to call out for any help, ultimately succumbing to accidental asphyxia and dying the same way that teen did when he was crushed when his minivan seat folded on himself in the school parking lot. Scary shit to consider at any time, let alone on the second night of your cross-country road trip.  We all chat a little more, each talking about our favorite spots of Chicago, the history of what we all knew about Chicago, and about our respective projections on current global affairs.

I’d never had a conversation with anyone from southern California or Mexico City before, and it had been years since anyone from Kuwait discussed their opinions. It was fascinating hearing their perspectives on where everything stood. Mike, Dave, and I took to get to rest, while Jazz went out to meet some friends in town to partake in some bar hopping. We joked that he shouldn’t feel bad about bringing a girl back as long as he brought each of us one of our own. And speaking of, apparently a gorgeous girl, Rachael, was staying in my bunk before me, having checked out in the morning. They all spoke fondly of her, and I gave my sincerest apologies as I was not planning to walk around with a halter top, showing off my busty chest, and that I didn’t know how to put my hair up into a bun, nor did I own any cut-off athletic booty shorts.

And just before falling asleep, I’m hit with the fond memory that I grew up watching local Chicago news most nights. Now, I know what you’re thinking? How did you manage that living in Pennsylvania before YouTube and the like? Well, our giant-ass satellite dish (which my brother and I were often courageously tasked with cleaning off during the usual mid-winter blizzard apocalypse with an equally giant-ass broom) must’ve been pointed just right that we picked up a few of their local news channels.

During the ’90s, Chicago saw a heavy rise in violent crime. Most notably there was a large effort to eradicate the city’s most powerful gang, the Gangster Disciples, led by Larry Hoover.  Convicted in the summer of 95′, I remember seeing his mug shot photo like it was yesterday.

Oh, and we also got a few South African sports channels, so watching Rugby and proper football matches were quite entertaining as well. We also happened to have a family friend who once played for a South African national rugby squad. He spoke dearly of the sport, but one story in particular stood out to me. He was in the middle of a serious scrum, and a large chunk of his ear was ripped clear off by the cleats of an opposing player. He jogged to the sidelines, grabbed some duct tape, and wrapped it around his head and ear in a way as to stop the bleeding, leaving the cartilage right where it fell and continued on with the match. Rugby players are tough bastards, indeed.

CHITOWN
TO
BLUES CITY

 

 

Waking up a few minutes before my 6:00 AM alarm, I set off to capture some of what early Chicago had to offer. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and the streets were far quieter than I’d anticipated. Many were likely nursing their hangovers by taking it easy on a breezy morning. My only objective was to make it to the “Start of Route 66 sign.” Anything else was a bonus.  The sign, located on E Adams St was only about 1.3 miles from the hotel. It’s an easy walk, especially after a great night’s rest. The city just feet outside our windows may have been up late, but I was too exhausted to take too much notice. I grabbed my iPhone, put on a fresh set of clothes, and jetted out the door.

I’d forgotten to bring in my sunglasses, so I just needed to make a quick stop to my car. And each time I went to my car, I ended up going the long way, making the longest portion of a “U”, instead of just that straight bit in the middle. My man compass was working as expected, even three states away. “Low Power 20% remaining” displays on my screen, naturally. My USB end had fallen out of the AC adapter and didn’t make the emergency overnight charge. “Shit, I’d better hurry then!” Performing a slight jog in my trusty loafers, blisters hardening nicely, this would be a breeze. I snap a few photos along each block. Stopping to a halt for what I believed to be some of the more iconic shots such as capturing some romantic sunrise shots on the Bataan-Corregidor Memorial Bridge, with some brilliant skyline being highlighted as a backdrop.

I did not witness many homeless and most of the people I’d come across were either cyclists or joggers, starting off their day the right way, same as me, albeit they began theirs in a much more competent wardrobe and footwear decision. I make it down to E Adams St in no time. I stopped to share a few photos with my mother, which I’d promised to send her at least two photos a day, one in the other morning, a mid-day phone call at variable lengths dependent on cell phone service, and an evening message to reassure here that I’d made it (for all she knew) safely to my host city. I started in the habit of sending a sunrise and sunset photo, and the midday call would be during my longest stretch between exits, as not to avoid any unnecessary detours. I’d also sent my Brother a photograph right by E Adams St as this should be a familiar scene to him – it was like a screenshot taken right out of Driver 2, one of our favorite PS1 games from our childhood. I believe we’d done the iconic school bus escape scene before it was even a twinkle in Mr. Nolan’s eye. It was pulled off quite well during The Dark Knight’s opening scene over a decade later, and less pixilated too.

“Shit, there it is!” Right in front of the wonderful Art Institute of Chicago. the Historic Route 66 Begin Sign. There were stickers and writings from all over the world here. I had nothing to add; only a few selfie-shots would do. I was alternating between forward-facing and rear-facing hat my whole jog here, developing a tactic to defend against the sun and to decrease my drag while running, much like the flaps you see on the back of those tractor-trailers. The same principle applies to big men such as me. I snap a few photos of The Art Institute of Chicago and see a pair of pretty police officers walking on by. It would’ve made for a perfect photo. With the sunrise behind them, only capturing their silhouettes in front of the Art Institute, it was a beautiful moment.

But I enjoyed a brief friendly conversation instead, as I knew my phone would quickly be dying, and figured it’d be wise to conserve some energy in case I’d need it for an emergency on my way back. It was an easy enough return, running into some busier streets, with more than just cyclists and joggers. Some Chicago’s finest suits were out now. Likely the same guys who had the privilege of taking home some of the skirts I saw only six hours earlier. But hey, I imagine it’s a lot of work in the banking sector of Chicago, and who was I to take away some of their more luxurious benefits. My phone dies just a few minutes before arriving back at the hotel. I head back upstairs to the room, quickly pack my belongings, leave a little love note to the gang, who were out minus Jazz, still out cold from his debauchery the night prior.

There was a commune-like feel to this place, one which I’d never really experienced before, but something I could get used to. With my luggage in hand, I stop in the kitchen/pantry area and grab a few slices of toast with some butter, and drink a few cups of milk available. I probably looked like some Hobo who’d just stumbled off the street, but nobody seemed to mine. For all I knew, the others in here were the very hobo’s I spoke of. I had walked into the right area, hadn’t I? Seeing a few other familiar keycards on the tables, I knew I didn’t stumble back into the ACME Hotel Company, although that seemed like a fine establishment just as well.

Finally refueled with some “real” food, I figure it’s time to head out to see a bit more of Chicago. But one miserable word prevented me from truly exploring The Windy City. Traffic. Man, that traffic congestion. Now that it was daytime, I could really gain to get a sense of just how screwed things were for normal traffic flow. So many iconic places I wished to venture to kept on getting re-routed due to all of the bridges and other major roadways being closed. It would’ve probably been easier to get there on a bike or even on foot at this rate. And having already spent $54 goddamned dollars for measly overnight parking, I was in no mind to pay for more additional parking today. Now, I’m sorry if this seems like a reasonable price to you, but to me it was absurd. I’d only have to pay $35 tops for overnight parking in the cities near me back in PA, maybe $40. But $54 goddamned American Dollars? “I shake both my fist and dick at you!”

And as I’d mentioned, I’d have saved 20% if I’d parked at the right parking garage. The concierge told me to park at the Grand Ave parking garage, but I parked at the Hilton Garden Inn Valet on Grand Ave, as part of the same block as Freehand. To this day I don’t know which parking garage I was to park at. “The Bean, you bastard!” I was so close to you when I was at the Route 66 sign, I had no idea.

But I had my car now, and parking was quite scarce in the city, especially with all of the construction going on. Wrigley Field showed 1 hour 34 minutes. “Shit, I didn’t have that sort of time on my hands!” I wish I did, but this was one of my busiest travel days scheduled with so many cool and original spots along the way, and that wasn’t accounting for any extended stays at landmarks or unexpected detours like yesterday. One thing you learn is that the further you get away from the major cities along Route 66 is that things just seemed to have been lost to nature, and you wouldn’t know you were even near Route 66 without the memorial type informative signs at seemingly random places. And with so many restaurants and pubs to choose from in Chicago, I felt like a lost ship at sea for how to navigate to get to any of them.

Only one landmark, however touristy, seemed unaffected and that was the Navy Pier. My friend Ashley had spoken dearly of this place and told me I should check it out if ever in Chicago. So I figured it couldn’t hurt, especially since I needed to recharge my phone. I avoided the guided parking area and placed my four-ways on while pulled off to the side as far as I could get. I was greeted with a beautiful day and was able to snap a few really cool panoramas of the pier and surrounding area, with some skyline in the backdrop. It was now closing in on 9:00 AM, and not knowing how long it’d really take to get out of here, I figured I’d better say my temporary farewell to this great city.

Once getting back onto 90, traffic seemed to be uninterruptedly exiting the city. That was until I get to my exit for 55. I’ve never in my life seen so many careless lane-switching bastards in my life. I was doing my trusty 85-90 MPH, and I was quickly ushered to the shoulder in some cases. People were literally making drug deals on this stretch of the highway here. I was looking around for the film crew, because so much of this seemed unreal to me, that I could only laugh to myself. Chicago is a major hub serving the Midwest and there were a lot of major cities with their junctions in this area, so I suppose it wasn’t that big of a surprise of the chaos. And damn, I thought the Schuylkill Expressway into Philly was bad. That was like riding the train ride at Knobels compared to this shit show. Now, I’d created a lofty ToDoist task list for this road trip, having put in at least fifty hours of research. This was part of the reason I’d wished to do this trip solo, so I could stop whenever I pleased, and go just the same.

And I’m not one to normally be known for having lofty ambitions, or even lofty dreams. But a lot of that changed when I was around twenty-four years of age. One of the most inspiring people I’d look up to had passed away the year earlier. And one of the things that I’d read about Steve Jobs, is that it was his own mortality which drove him to do so much, particularly during his second run with Apple. He arguably accomplished much more during his second tenure, especially once he got sick. So when I turned twenty-four, it finally dawned on me – “Shit, I’m nearly twenty-five. I’ve (logically) used up over a quarter of my life, and on what?” I had no savings, no wife, no family, no career, no nothing which society told me that I should have by this age.

My life’s motto at this point was – “I don’t have any goals in life, that way whatever I do, I’m always exceeding expectations.” I would say this in a joking manner, as I very rarely took life seriously. I still don’t, but let me bring you up to speed a bit. As I turned twenty-five, I went into a severe depression. And for the first time in my life, I really took a good hard look around me, and I hated what I saw. I cried out to the universe, okay not cried, more like begged, for something good to come into my life, because I felt like I was already dead and what purpose was I to serve the living any longer. Not in a suicidal way, but in a forever “going with the motions” type mentality until my final days had greeted me.

Why so morbid? When you’ve been nothing but stoked this entire time, you might ask? Truth is I’m a few IPA’s in, and again I’m contemplating my life, and where I stand. It’s Thanksgiving Day, and I’m sitting here, alone in my room in the dark, only the backlight of my outdated laptop screen giving off just enough light to see the keys I’m not yet familiar with. I’m tipsy, and I’m listening through the entirety of the new Highly Suspect album, MCID (an album of which I initially had great hopes for, but alas).  SOS is playing though, featuring Gojira. And then it hits me, boom, like a right haymaker to the temple. I’m lying on the floor. Staring up at the ceiling, letting the vibrations of the music carry me to a distant, yet familiar place. Suddenly, I’m met back with twenty-four year old me, pondering his place in the universe, and if I’ll ever make a scratch, let alone a dent as Steve Jobs had suggested.

The same thing happened a year earlier. The BIG 3-ohhhh, as I called it. I felt a severe depression take over me, once more. I was supposed to be so much further along in life by now, even for a guy who made no such goals. Sure, I had a loving son, but I had no real family of my own, and few friends to confide in, outside of my usual drinking buddies.

You know, if I look back to when I turned 18, the same thing happened. Ever since I turned 16, I’d dreamt of traveling the world, in some touring band, making a name for ourselves with a devoted following. But I didn’t get my first guitar until I’d turned eighteen. It was my favorite gift my parents had ever gotten me, but I suppose I had some resentment towards them for never opting in to purchase a drum kit that I’d asked for since I wished to join the school band on drums. But my parents, wisely so, realized that there was no turning off of the drums. Fast-forward to twenty-one-year old, graduated from college, old me. And again I entered into a severe depression while comparing myself to where I expected to be at this time of my life.

But something changed in me. For the first time, I’d walked out into the woods, alone, and shouted out to the universe – “What do you want from me! What is it that I’m here to do?” And without getting too philosophical or spiritual here, a few ideas seemed to just come to me, as easy as the words which I’m typing now have come. This is where the original character is killed off, and where a new one begins. What? It’s worked surprisingly well in some of my favorite Rockstar games ever made? You get attached to a character (presumably), only to see through the eyes of another, less familiar, yet always there character.

The same is true in one of my favorite TV series, Vikings of History Channel.You see, from the moment I touched the start of the Route 66 sign, I became a different person. I fully embodied the character, IX, in which I’d written about prior to my road trip. IX was the very inspiration behind my trip, and I owe him my life. So without further ado, I introduce to you, for the first time in this novel, IX.

“Hello, friend. Thank you for joining me, in this truly wild journey. What a rare thing in such a civilized world in which we live, right? And don’t worry; we’ll meet back up with the Unknown Bastard once we make it to Vegas, just as we planned. Apologies, however, as I’m not quite sure where he has left off. He doesn’t keep the greatest of notes. Where shall our relationship begin? Ah yes, as JP said, if you’d like to read more, you can read about my very origin at the end of this story. But I won’t bore you as he has. I’m much less concerned with character development; so much as I am about the story. Hold on a second, he wants a quick word. Hmm, okay, okay. I see your point. Well alright, friend, he would wish to continue a bit longer, but I promise this isn’t the end. And hopefully, in good time, just as The Unknown Bastard, a bit of me will rub off on the poor lad. I do apologize for my dear friend here. He’s a good guy, which is why I and The Unknown Bastard do our very best to look out for him.  Because like most creative types, he has a very addictive personality, and that often gets him into trouble he wouldn’t normally get into.”

[Author returns.]

“Okay, I’m back, friend. I apologize for my friend, IX, back there. But he does have a good point. I’ll try to stay more shall we say, on task from here on out. I can’t promise there won’t be any more New Jersey quips, however. I just fired my editor. I can’t actually afford the premium version of Grammarly which I’d alluded to earlier. I’ve just spent the last of my budget at the local strip joint. Much is the case for a Friday night for me. Shit, it’s only Thursday. Thanksgiving. How could I forget? When you get used to spending major holidays such as Christmas and New Year’s Eve alone, Thanksgiving is no different. It’s mostly my fault anyhow. Drinking has always been a strong suit of mine, but one which you should neglect to include on a resume.”

Although, it doesn’t take an employer long to put two and two together to make one, and finally none. As in, thanks for your time, you were well-liked by everyone here, but you were never here. I’ve been fired from nearly every position I’ve ever held. Ironically, twice while submitting my two-week’ notice, only to receive a voicemail after the fact. “Oh, sorry no need for your two-week’ notice. You’ve missed your last scheduled workday with a no-call, no-show.” I even once submitted my two-week notice on an actual CLEARANCE sticker whilst working for SEARS. I checked the box for USED, and that it was DYSFUNCTIONAL from the time of purchase, and I placed the sticker on my boss’s workstation while she was away for lunch.

My friend Ashley had accompanied me to the special delivery of this notice. One of the other managers was busy, surfing the web (as usual), and asked how things were on the floor. “Better now”, I noted. Knowing that this was my last day of employment with the already sinking ship of this dreaded department store chain. When you no longer carry things in stock, and the managers are busy by 10:00 AM asking what all the other, shall we say morbidly obese managers wish to eat, there’s an evident problem here.

And speaking of eating, I’m starving. It’d been a full day since I had any real food, and I could do with a nice hearty meal. Enter Dell Rhea Chicken Basket Cocktail Lounge. One of the most iconic stops along all of Route 66. Well, as a forced vegetarian, this wasn’t a natural selection, unlike my vegetarianism. Sure, they had homemade pizza and a salad bar, but I could, as well as anybody, fill up on beer. And fill up I did. Quickly befriending the friendly women who were running the show here, before I knew it I had a pint of beer placed in front of me. The kind where you need to take a few swigs before carrying it back to your friends without risk of spilling it all over one’s self. They didn’t even have to ask, but I greeted myself as a wanderlust traveler, looking to travel the entire Route 66 trip, as a small-town boy from Pennsylvania. They must’ve connected with something because they provided the upmost of hospitality.

But perhaps that was normal around here? This was the Midwest after all, and I hadn’t gotten much chance to experience it back in Chicago. Now, this establishment was only about half an hour outside of downtown Chicago, but it felt like I’d been traveling for a good hour by now, much due to the insane traffic, and more insane travelers. I’m still trying to digest the fact I’d witnessed a drug deal take place in the middle of a highway.

Stephanie was not only a lovely hostess, bartender, and overall lovely girl, but a lovely spirit to surround one’s self with.  Excited by the fact I’d presented myself as some sort of author on the hunt for adventure. Only looking back can I see what sort of an appeal this might have had to a small-town girl of her own, living out of reach of the big city, but with big city dreams. Two pints in, of their specially brewed beer, and I was feeling good. Quite good actually. Good enough to recognize that it was time to hit the road.

Along with her boss, Stephanie brought over to me numerous memorabilia items, allowing me to capture some of what this restaurant once stood for, and more importantly stood beside. Small-town America looking to travel cross-country to California, making any expected and/or unexpected stops of their own along the way. Much like my very intentions, I immediately began thinking what the classic travelers must’ve felt like.

Thinking of how this was much less of a vacation, but a destination for them. Imagining them piling into their ‘55 Chevy Wagon, pre-purchased surfboard planted on top, ready to find a new life away from the one which fled them before they even a chance to settle down. The father in his door-to-door sales position, a bored housewife, and children, unable to make friends, struggling with their grades, because they seemingly were never able to fit in. The Oregon Trail may have acted as the original pathway to the west, but Route 66 acted as the modern revival in which this country needed, even if it hadn’t asked for it. And this was just the beginning.

There are some really cool Route 66 memorabilia adorned on all of the walls here. It has this 1950s meets modern diner vibe, and it was an empty room at this hour. I got the sense that this was more of a local joint with the historical flair and that it picked up around dinner when the drinks really started flowing. But there were plenty of other sights to take in, so it was adios to Willowbrook, IL for now.

But before I left, Stephanie and her cheerful manager handed me a bunch of swag to take with, and asked kindly if I could “check-in” on Facebook and share my experience. I informed them that I wasn’t about to give away the fact that I was away from my home, particularly as there had been a few recent break-ins on my street. We suspected that it was a former neighbor who was on another drunken bender, the very reason that led him out of his home, and losing custody of his two boys. Nice enough fella, but whenever I drove by the local bar in Mount Gretna, Hideaway, his truck was always there. Now, to any familiar, you don’t just drive on by, it’s surely an intentional visit. So, perhaps it less of a coincidence that I was there as well. But hey, I haven’t lost anything, just yet anyway. You get the idea. But I assured them that I would once I made it back safely and wished them well before heading on my way. Traveling with another gorgeous day lighting my way, I’m at the junction to continue south towards St. Louis, or to get off on 80 and head back east towards Indiana, or west to Iowa.

No offense to the latter two, but I think I’ll continue south for now, thank you very much. It’s nothing against either Indiana or Iowa, but I’d driven that route before. And it was not what I would present as a good time. It’s some of the longest, flattest, and most boring stretches of pavement that this country has to offer. You look forward to the windmill farms to break up the monotony of it all. It’s no wonder there are so many adult store billboards, for the lonely traveler looking to get some sort of kicks anyway. I bet they have some real glory holes there. But seeing how I’m not ready for my dick to fall off at this point in time, I’ll have to pass. So south it is!

Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery is at exit 244, and I do have some regrets about not taking it. Lincoln got his start in politics in Illinois beginning with the state legislature, then as a congressman, prior to leaving politics in 1849 to resume his law practice. But I was too fixated on getting to one of the most iconic spots along The Mother Road – Ambler’s Texaco Gas Station in Dwight, IL. Pulling up, I started to get goosebumps. This was the type of shit I was really looking forward to seeing along my journey. It takes you back to what it must’ve been like for those families looking to leave their world behind, in search of The American Dream.

There is so much history here and it is preserved very well via volunteers such as John and Keith, who talked off a fellow Texaco fan’s ear while I looked around. His wife and I looked around together and shared in a friendly photo shoot of one another. Reminded me of those pin-up style sets with her hair up with a bandanna, a workbench and some tools in handed, while I rub some grease on her cheeks to give off the impression she was working on the 1955 Chevy pickup outback. But it wouldn’t need to be faked. This girl knew her way around cars. My kinda woman. I’m not afraid to admit that I know next to nothing about them, so it’s great when you find someone who compliments your weaknesses. We probably could’ve gone around back for a more intimate shoot of sorts, but the moment came and went, even though her bedroom eyes suggested the thought would linger. I wished her and the volunteers a farewell, while the elegant and graceful wife tried prying her husband back to their truck, who coincidently was now talking the volunteers’ ears off.

I went to hop back into the rental, but I gave a second look to the diner across the street – Old Family Restaurant. I’m unsure of this establishment’s history (seeing nothing available), but its present was pretty remarkable. If only for preserving the past. Even prior to entering the restaurant, you’re greeted by a great example of such preservation. There are murals on each side of the visible walls and Route 66 is plastered right on the large light-up sign out front. But as soon as you walk in, you’re transported to another world. Even you begin to change.

You look not in an “attempting to recollect what it used to be like” way; only to be in that moment of what it is like. It hasn’t changed, at least not here. For here it is still 1955, in the golden era of Route 66. Built decades before, it found its’ true potential once families across America were able to obtain such a thing. Those aren’t classics in the parking lot, they are modern works of art, only to later be adorned by car enthusiasts, and the casual glances from the current generation, not wholly appreciating such beauty and designs. Imagine seeing in the parking lot on the regular as only what now would call for a meet up on a Summer Classic. A Sunday night at best, at the local Diner or Ice Cream shop willing to organize such an event? What another world that must’ve been like for all those to see it as part of their ordinary life. A bit tipsy off of my previous beverages, I figure I could use a hearty meal. And with the menu presented, an appetizer would’ve sufficed for a drunkard such as me. Being a “forced vegetarian”, allergic to meat and fish, I order the French toast as my meal. They provide plenty of goodness, with extra powder sugar and syrup on the side. Don’t worry, I’d asked if they served beer on the way in. A cold Heineken was on its way as well, to take off the edge of the extra powder sugar, of course.

I seated myself, and my waitress was a real natural beauty. She had a thick accent, definitely Eastern European. I noted that she was fit, and asked if she played any sports. The goddamned “bro” version of me was on point. Too much Jersey talk, it was rubbing off on me.

“I did ballet, as a child, not anymore though, sadly.”

[She’s a very reserved girl, one perhaps even unaware of her own beauty.]

“You’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever met. And no, I don’t say that to every girl I meet.”

“How’s everything, would you like another beverage, perhaps?”

[Ignoring my compliment, and presuming I was an alcoholic, I respected her dismissal as to not make any other presumed flirtatious remarking or movements.]

“No thank you, this is just fine. I’ll take the check whenever then.”

Now, normally whenever someone says “whenever” it usually means, now, especially if it is your wife, or boss. This is especially true if they’re calling your desk near the end of the workday, or at 12:39 PM on a Tuesday. It’s often just a passive-aggressive way of saying “Hurry the hell up!” But in my case, I meant it. I was admiring all of the memorabilia, even down to the chair upholstery, adorned in further Route 66 detail.

I asked her if I could take her photo, and things got, weird, really weird. So weird I thought that she was, in fact, one of those mail-order Russian Brides and that she had an eye on her, or at the very least they were listening in on her. We were also in the Midwest, and knowing my porn stars, this is where many of those fine beauties are picked up at. But surely my rental, my cheap clothes, unwashed hair, and even cheaper tip would’ve proven I was not indeed a porn producer, not even on the amateur scale. But she was extremely quick to get me the check and refused to make eye-contact with me again, even after I had to excuse myself right by her as I used the restroom, adjacent to the kitchen.

Figuring my time is well spent in Dwight, I head back to my car, and speed off. But not before I see a wonderful garage a few hundred meters ahead. I stop, immediately to get out, and snap some up close and personal photos. Getting this beauty from every angle, not a single one could be missed. 66 Tire Alignments. I’m not 100% sure what is original here vs. what has wished to capitalize on the Historical aspects of Route 66. Even so, this place is worth noting. A since disbanded Shell Station, with Ferrari all over this wall, quite a visually impressive mural. You quickly learn that it’s not just about the cars and trucks that made this passage, but it was indeed a special time for America.

The middle-class had an identity all of its own, and The American Dream consisted of everyone owning their own car, their own house with the white picket fence, and that they would leave behind a better life behind to their children. Now, I was born a beggar, so I learned not to be a chooser, but a few of these certainly seemed more important from their initial conception than others.  But I’m just a hopped up functioning hippie-druggie-alcoholic-storyteller, so who am I to judge?

This attitude seemed to ring true even back then from their unpretentious way of living. You drove a badass ‘55 Chevy, well hell, so did your neighbor. Ain’t nothin’ so special about that. Ya dig? But a ’46 Ford, hold on just one goddamn moment…damn, what a beauty she is. White walls and everything, huh? An “I got my kicks in my 46 Ford” signed Harr V. adorn the walls of this former garage. A seemingly working Coke machine worked outside, but I was in no mind for the bottled form. I was “cool” back from my cold brews from earlier, looking to keep as much of an edge as possible during this first pass through history. But my god, there she lay.

The first road sign indicating any sense that there was indeed still a Route 66 in existence – S. Old Route 66. Goosebumps hit me once again. Reading the plaque about 1930s to 1950s motel’s and you further realize just how special these places were, and still are to this day. What a relic of the past most would think, but at this moment you can’t help but think of the same person that you would reflect. Whether that be a teenager or a further stubborn twenty-something who worse yet, though he/she knew something. Let me tell ya a little secret, you don’t know anything. I still don’t know anything, and fortunately for the last nearly two years I’ve recognized this, and I’m doing my best to resurrect this problem in thinking.

“Hey, Virginia! What’s up, man? Wooohhh” Virginia? Why would he have, oh, I see. My license plate. These guys assumed me to be from Virginia. And just like that, your Mother Road name is bestowed upon you.

I’d never been so stoked on anything in my life. Grabbing a few more pre-prepared snacks on the go, and the mix of beer and protein/cereal bars provided for a balanced meal, of sorts, Although, I was approaching on the edge of “too tipsy to drive” so I thought it best to look out for any unexpected attractions which caught my fancy, to walk it off a bit. And dependent on which app (s), travel guide (s) you were using at this point, you wouldn’t have to go far in-between something of any sort of historical significance now.

But once you get on the open road, things take on a different life of their own, and you just sort of flow with it. And flow with it, I did. All the way until my next stop, marking another historical landmark of sorts. this is also the first time you see Historic Route 66 painted in white on the asphalt, most being as faded as the road itself. An unmistakable notification letting you know you’re on the famous Mother Road. Take a moment. Let it all soak in.

It was an emotional moment for me, and it surely will be for you. Go on, I’ll wait. There. Now we can continue on. The journey is only just beginning, friend. Odell, IL. What a town. I should say what a town it must’ve been. As is the case with most of these small towns along The Mother Road, they’ve been lost to decay and never fully recovered after the highway was decommissioned. It almost seems like the demographic which makes these towns up is those who were on their way through, broke down, and just never left.

Now, there is still plenty of small-town charm evident here, but it is sad to see these places, knowing what they once were, perhaps even worse, what they could be now. There are parts of the route in Odell which are being reclaimed by nature, found in old farm fields, looking like an old airstrip from the last World War. Some of these segments have been turned into a recreational trail. I didn’t bring my proper jogging gear, but if I had, this would’ve been a pretty cool way to further my immersion into the history of it all. One thing you begin to pick up near Odell is you’ll start seeing signs for different paths of Route 66, dependent on the time period in which you wish to travel. 1926-1940, 1930-1940, and 1940-1977 are just a few examples of these period segments in which you can choose to travel. I tried to stay as much on the original trail as I could. There is specific travel maps you can purchase to ensure you stay on as much of the historical trail as possible, but I went off of the wayfinding as much as I could, losing it at certain spots, and avoiding it at others to gain back precious time.

As part of the original trail, Odell has a few of the more iconic landmarks to see. There are abandoned buildings not even officially recognized as landmarks that I found just as, if not even more interesting. There are a few gas stations and historic vehicles still on display. And take a look inside them. Many have the inevitable gift shops inside, but they also have preserved things as they once were, the mechanics’ workstations still as it was back in the 1950s, some even earlier.

There is a downtown Odell Merchants sign, featuring locally-owned shops from everything to restaurants, landscaping services, to their local Lions Club. Also featured on this sign is something else you will notice along the way, a mileage marker showing how far you are from both Chicago and LA. At this time you will be only 87 miles from Chicago, but 2361 miles away from LA. I saw the sign earlier, and the truck is right on my way back. 66 Licks is a homemade ice cream food truck, and worth a pit stop. I got the banana split, big enough to share with a significant other, but Rufus was still resting, so more for me!

There is at first what I thought appeared to be an older sister and her two sisters, but then I overheard the two little’s thank her for the ice-cream, and that she was the best babysitter in the whole wide world! All three bleach blondes were sharing a banana split.

“Geez, I didn’t know mine was supposed to be three servings”

“Haha, not to worry. It’s really good, so I won’t judge.”

“Ever see Lady and the Tramp?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Enjoy your ice-cream and this gorgeous day, you two little sisters. My boy is out in the car”

Only now realizing how that must’ve sounded to anyone unaware that my boy was a pet plank of wood, in the rear part of the window ledge, on a hot summer’s day.

I thank the owner of the truck once more for the deliciousness that I quickly enjoyed so it wouldn’t melt, and head back to the car. “There’s much to see, time to hit the trail once more, old boy!” About fifteen minutes further south, I’m on the historic road, passing maybe two other cars from Odell to Pontiac. This stretch is a bit trippy, however, as you have oncoming traffic to your left and right.

They built the new highway system to the right of this particular stretch, as well as other stretches further down the line. I literally passed zero cop cars on any stretch of 66, so despite it being adjacent to the modern highway, in the segments in which it runs parallel, I found it to be a much faster route, but I’m the guy with a rap sheet nearly twenty-five violations deep, so it’s your call. Also running parallel to the historic route is the rail. These were some of my fondest memories of the journey. Cruising at a cool 90 MPH outrunning the train like you were about to pull a heist, just like in the old days with guns and wild horses, RDR2 style. And even before the famous song, people were indeed getting their kicks on Route 66. There are a few remarkably beautiful abandoned buildings along this stretch. Some of which may no longer even still be standing since summer. It’s depressing to consider how much that I too must’ve surely missed.

What other relics are long lost to history, only to be preserved by stories and whatever scrapbook photos are kept alive, hopefully, to be one day scanned in, and collected in some fashion. 1814 E  Livingston Co/Old Rte 66 signage snapped like a blur in one of my infamous “drive-by” shooting attempts. Hampsher Hotel sign out front, advertising another local relic, about 20 miles southeast of where I was headed. Some good times were surely had there by the looks of it.

I’m at the Log Cabin Inn, now seemingly a food and spirits store, but no signs of life on my day passing by. They had an updated St. Louis Cardinals schedule on the window, so it surely must be used by locals, and fellow wanderlust wanderers. There is a placard for a Route 66 museum, War Museum, Courthouse, and Lincoln Statue, veering off on a historic 1930-1939 stretch. As much as each had piqued my interest, I simply didn’t have time. I venture further into town to see more of what Pontiac has to offer.

Some creepy murals are the first thing that you see. For example, there is a Bensons “Pleasing you pleases us” mural where presumably Mr. Benson is seen smirking down at a little boy and girl in a most Catholic Priest kinda way. Like a “Hey, Jesus isn’t the only one who loves you” kinda way. Sickening.

Then there is The Humiston Heritage…a History of Giving mural. A much wider mural, but equally creepy vibes are felt throughout. On the left, it seems like a depiction of the opening Jaws sequence, but with families. There’s somehow an American Flag precariously positioned, with several that are either saluting the flag, or they’re drowning and are flailing their arms as if they’re having a stroke and calling for help.

Centered on this mural is a Native American woman who’s clearly been through some shit, and it’s projected in the same way those creepy portraits in old mansions in Scooby-Doo. She not only follows you with her eyes, but she visits you in your dreams.

Next, we move to the right, to perhaps the creepiest part of it all. At first glance, it’s just a beautifully painted forest. But then upon a second look, you realize that there is a tree almost dead center, which appears to be full of blood, with a woman carrying a basket, and appearing to be making an offering of sorts to this large tree.

The only normal-seeming mural is not so normal either, upon further investigation. It at first appears as though it has lost touch with all reality. And then after your own admiring it, you too will have lost touch with reality. A very basic of murals. Basic colors. Basic pose. Basic brushes. Basic case. And there it is, a not so basic CASE tractor, in its’ most basic form. Operational from one man and his son, just the way it used to be.

A way in such that many people I’ve come across around here would wish it to be. But, the fact of the matter is that it is quite simply, not. For better or for worse, things have supposedly evolved, and are no longer the way they were a decade ago, let alone a year ago, perhaps not even a month ago. And it was once again time to go. But not before I stumbled across the Strevell House. I’d missed two Lincoln monuments of sorts thus far, but alas, I’ve made it to one, even if it was as my GPS was jacked up and recalculating.

The house is named after its’ owner, fellow lawyer Jason W. Strevell, a close companion to Lincoln. There is a placard outside the home that describes “LINCOLN VISITS STREVELL”, and it begins with “WHILE SITTING UP LATE THE NIGHT OF JANUARY 27, 1860….” And well, you can read the rest upon your own visit. You will also notice a paver walk with particular inscriptions. This is a most basic “fundraising” tactic used to drum up some money and interest in such public relations projects. Although not limited to public, this is often used on college campuses to showcase “Who really has the smallest dick of them all?” by having their name scribbled on some brick paver, often at 24:1 scale to their member.

Few stretches of Route 66 are showcased as such on Google Maps, but these earliest stretches are one of them. Historic U.S. 66 is how it is displayed. And the brief stint from Pontiac to Chenoa is one of the coolest stretches of the whole goddamned thing. You’re riding along on the asphalt cracked route, with an even older route to your west, separated only by a swale or some other methodically labeled name to avoid permitting by those cheeky engineers. Getting into Chenoa, there are a few roadside attractions with pavilions to further encourage that you stopover for a break with the family. It seems as though I’d missed some sort of Red Carpet event for Route 66, back in May. There are sponsored signs hung on a fence. China Kitchen, Heartland Business Services, and Central Illinois Connection. There seemed to be a real sense of community out here, America’s Heartland. And I was driving right along America’s most famous artery, The Mother Road. It’s coming to places such as this that you realize why it’s not called The Father Road – it’s far too beautiful.

What is now a vast agricultural area; you can still picture what it must’ve been like, all those years ago, for all of those families. Even as someone who doesn’t like to admit when he gets teary-eyed (not even after watching the ending scene in Free Willy), I’m not afraid to admit that I felt overcome with emotion as I walked about 100 feet of this path. It was overcast, but a beam of light shined broke through and shined right on what remained of the centerline of this road. A magical moment, and one that I will forever cherish, as you should too.

Another Roadside Attraction marker, this time in Towanda. Another heavy agricultural area, with the historic road being reclaimed by nature once more. One of the coolest things to me was an unofficial attraction. I can’t promise that it’ll still be there during your visit, but you can’t miss it if it still remains. You will go right passed a home with nearly a dozen antique cars just setting out in a large front yard, with all kinds of signs and other memorabilia adorning a large wall-type structure behind everything. The other notable attraction seemed to be Kicks Bar and Grill, a biker bar type, with an antique sign out front of its’ own. It was nearing dinner time, and a crowd of bikers came cruising in as I played tourist. I gave the usual nod, and wave, and was off once more. The next town I stopped in was Normal, IL. I didn’t see much to note here, sans a few historical road markers, and some interesting historical architecture. The next town through was Bloomington, the corporate headquarters for State Farm, of all things. A loyal State Farm client, I’ve always enjoyed my meetings with my agent, still back home in Berwick, PA. Speaking of, shit I never rescheduled! I’ll get right on that, Sean!

Bloomington seemed like a bigger town in Illinois, with plenty of life as I was passing through. The only photo I captured was of a historic JOHNSON TRANSFER AND FUEL. CO, STORAGE, AND FORWARDING, which now was acting like a shameless makeshift advertising space. I won’t even highlight these here, because like, c’mon man. Next up was Atlanta, IL. Other than the historical significance, there seemed to be next to nothing here. This is probably why on Google Maps if you search from Bloomington, IL and insert Atlanta, it just assumes you mean Atlanta, GA, even though the two are less than half an hour away from each other. But I will say Atlanta, IL was one of the coolest stops I made. I mean how could it not be when it features one of the last remaining “Bunyan Men”? Now holding a giant-ass hot dog instead of his trusty ax, this Bunyan sure looked like he meant business. Even though that business of any kind did not seem to flourish here.

I now read that it was once known as Xenia, which I immediately thought Xena – Warrior Princess. A quick suggestion to the town’s leaders – change it to Xena, and add a giant-ass Xena statue, wielding her trusty sword, not a hot dog, and you could see a huge influx of business. Hold a yearly Xena/Hercules convention, and your town will be transformed, at least for a time. You can thank me later. But all my horned up pre-teen angst aside, I was the only person there in this section of town. Well aside from some fat-ass old dude riding his trusty “orange steed” aka Husqvarna riding mower, and another vehicle full of teens who greeted me with a “What’s up nigger!” Ouch, a hard “r.” I took no offense however (seeing as I’m white and have no idea what that feels like as a black person to be called that), as they too seemed as they were traveling through having Maryland plates, and were passing back and forth a brown bag of sorts. Who knows what sorts of goodies they may have had on them. Perhaps they too were from PA, and just happened to have a rental from another state as I. Or, perhaps they were on the other side of the Mason-Dixon Line, with the use of the hard “r” making more sense, sadly.

But it’s not like PA was like heaven for any slaves seeking freedom either. Right near where I grew up, KKK had a stronghold, with Catawissa having a particularly strong presence of such shenanigans. Having just recently finished RDR2, I took great humor in finding random KKK events, all of which end in disaster, and truly showcasing why they were always destined to go the way of the dodo birds. In one instance, they lit themselves on fire while burning the cross, while another I’d stumbled across, pun intended, featured another cross, only this time two guys were trying to lift it into position, with one of whom ends up being crushed, while the other is drug behind a horse, at least in the way I concluded this otherwise tragic event.

SW Arch St. features some extremely well-preserved buildings, including a ticket office in a small park, called Atlanta Park, as well as some really excellent murals (Pontiac, take note). A Midwest ghost town of sorts, it really transforms you into another world, and what it was like during its’ peak. Lincoln. Ah, here we are. If you search on Wikipedia, yes, I know, arguably not the most reliable, but it’s’ during their pledge drive, and I figured I’d throw them a bone here. All that aside, you will see a whole slew of towns named after Honest Abe. But Lincoln, IL is the only town in which it took its namesake prior to his presidency. It also seems to have been done so in a most peculiar way. I won’t spoil it, but it involves ninety lots of land, two watermelons, and one Lincoln. A historic version of 2 Girls 1 Cup?

There is a pretty cool historically preserved downtown area here, with a few beautiful classics presented as monuments as well. There was a gorgeous beige Caddy, a bright blue Chevy, and a cream white Lincoln, all parked adjacent to McEntire’s Appliance Sales. Land of Lincoln adorns Illinois’s license plates, and it’s easy to see how much of an influence this great man had on our country.

Even the very fact that you have the freedom to use a hard “r” shouted towards a harmless hippie by a car full of “bro’s” should stand for something. Still in the Land of Lincoln, only a little further south now I pass by Broadwell, one of the smallest towns in all of America with a population of 169 as of the 2000 census. To its’ credit, however, the population hasn’t really fluctuated much since its’ founding in 1870. But they do have a pretty cool Logan County Highway Dept. garage, which I was able to capture during one of my “drive-by shootings.” I also recall passing by a seemingly in-use motel, which I was unsure if it was a historical landmark or just a really rundown motel as a station for the usual which comes with small towns.

One frontier town after another and I’m in Elkhart. Now, please do pay very close attention here, or you will miss it as I nearly did. When cruising passed agriculture and agriculturally related businesses, you can get into a pattern of not looking out for anything in particular. But just passed the Elkhart Grain Company you will find one of (in my opinion) the coolest little sections of a ghost town on the whole journey.  Right at the railroad junction, you will make a left onto Governor Oglesby St. Now, as I mentioned I did a shit-ton of research for this trip, and nothing in my findings mentioned any of this. There are even still some really quaint shops still actively run on this street, such as Horsefeathers and Birdsong Books. And once again, you will be transformed back to another era, another world.

You will see how things were like when it was nothing but a dirt road dissecting a small trading town. A saloon, a barber, a doctor, all the small town essentials.  There is also a small park area with a commemorative war statue monument, right in the middle of the street. Only this time, I ran into not a single another soul. No “orange stallions”, no hard “r”‘s thrown out here, friend. It was the strangest mix of both feeling at peace and fear that I’d ever felt in my life. I couldn’t help but think that I was standing in the middle of some setting for a duel at sundown. This would explain why nobody else was around. They were hiding in the boarded-up shops, paying close watch to this poor fool who’d walked right into the middle of something he was in no mind to deal with.

The train whistle blew. “Shit, this is it!” I rushed back to my car, and I jetted outta there! “Rufus, what a close call that one was there, boy! Williamsville, here we come!” One of my most anticipated stops, and right around sunset too, oh boy! There are some really awesome spots to check out here along the route. It’s most famous likely being The Old Station, Route 66. This place has some really interesting memorabilia. You have both a classic Bel-Air and a Chevy work truck parked nearby, with a beautiful vintage GMC pickup as well. There is also a beautiful vintage pickup with a Deilkes’ Kustom Choppers and Rod Shop decal. Presuming they did all the work showcased here, they would most certainly be worth a look, if that sorta thing strikes your fancy.

Home to not only the coolest Route 66 signs but one of the coolest signs you will ever see in your life. Made by Sangamon Valley Wood Carvers, this sign features some extremely creative wayfinding and shows your distance and direction from not just the obvious Chicago and LA, it also shows you how far away and which direction from some of the world’s most famous cities. And it’s written so beautifully, featuring their flags and other notable markings to further embellish each destination. You will find Los Angeles, Berlin, London, Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Sydney, New York, Tokyo, Beijing, Prague, Toronto, Chicago, and St. Louis. It’s another one of those moments where you remember why it is that you’re doing this voyage in the first place. And another realization occurs – there’s a very real possibility that someone from each of these places has stood in front of this very sign. You brush away a few more tears, as you stare into a beautiful setting sun. And then you do further research on this very sign and realize that the dedication took place not even three years ago and that it is then likely that only a few of these cities have stood in front of this very sign…

You will notice a few other vintage vehicles stockpiled in farmers’ fields, laid out to pasture. It makes you kind of sad to know they are just rusting away out there, but it does serve as a nice reminder that there were hundreds of these things making their way on the very road as you.  Pasfield House Inn. Now, this was another “must-see” destination of mine from my pre-trip research. It reminded me dearly of another Inn, back home. The Cornwall Inn, based on a famous Inn back in Cornwall, England where the name of the town also takes its namesake. And although I recalled taking the Springfield exit, for some reason I thought that I must’ve wandered into Peoira, Ill, which I thought was not only some kind of a weird “kink” but that it served as Illinois capital. Something I surely got wrong on a fourth-grade test, and I’ve never truly gotten over.

It’s funny how certain things just stick with you being wrong for so many years. It’s like when I learn a new girlfriend’s last name. There’s a good chance I will not learn how to spell it, or worse, confusing it with a past partner. But hey, another plus of dating me is that when we break up, I won’t even be able to stalk you on social media. An 1896 Georgian-style bed and breakfast, even the website is similar to The Cornwall Inn. Perhaps these are all owned by the same “family”, and are just a way that the Mafia has become more modern? Oh, the things I ponder after I’ve had my third IPA before breakfast.

I snap a dozen photos or so of this elegant home, and make my way further downtown, stopping at the capitol building. Now, imagine a loafer wearing a hippie-like man jogging around with a camera and talking into his device leaving voice recordings for later. It didn’t take me long to get noticed by security, and a squad car was quickly sent moments after my “jog-by shooting” began.

Now, I haven’t been to many capitol buildings before, but Springfield, you guys nailed it. Great job. With sunset fast approaching, and my attempts at avoiding the squad car and on-site security running futile, I jogged back to the car and jetted out on the open road once more. I’d left the stereo off for a while now, just having the windows down, and enjoying some silence. But with no more stops, other than my Airbnb hosts’ home in St. Louis, it was time to crank up the tunes again. St. Louis, so much talent to choose from. There is a large Cajun presence here. It’s not just New Orleans that has the blues. The professional hockey team the St. Louis Blues should speak for itself. Chuck Berry (the king of rock, sorry, not sorry  Elvis), James Crutchfield, Teddy Darby, Walter Davis, James “Stump” Johnson.

I mean c’mon people, need I go on? And seeing how I was in search of America’s Rock Roots as well, why yes, a Chuck Berry Spotify playlist? “Yes please! Gravity Kills is also from here? Yes please!” I recall their music fondly since I first heard their music via the soundtrack to the nostalgic PS1 game, Test Drive: off-road. Truly looking back the best part of the game, but hey, I was only nine. I was just pleased to be smashing my younger brother into rocks with my Hummer against his. Story of the Year is also from St. Louis. A prominent figure in the post-hardcore realm. And so is Ludo, the quirky alternative rock band which I fondly recall seeing videos of on MTV2, because by that time MTV was already shit, and the reality madness starting spewing over into MTV2 as well. RIP Headbangers Ball.

It was no longer overcast; it began raining pretty steady moments after arriving in St. Louis. The directions were perfectly clear, and I would be staying in a beautiful area of St. Louis, with gorgeous architecture and what I would consider being row-homes, only much taller and larger than what I was used to in the areas I’ve lived back in PA. But my brain was fried. You could’ve put my arms in a deep fryer and sold them to the Colonel. This is why I had to phone my hosts to let me in as the pin for the lockbox didn’t seem to be working right.

“Hi, JP. This is Dori. How can we help? Do you need any help in finding our place?”

“No, I’m out front but my brain seems to have stopped working, and I can’t work the lockbox correctly.”|

“Don’t worry, I’ll send Bob down. He’ll be there in just a minute. Hang tight!”

Bob kindly opened up the door to let me in. But not before announcing the numbers aloud as he pressed them on the lockbox to ensure he had provided me the right combination. I immediately began laughing. “I thought the star was for something at the bottom of your memo that I’d yet to read, not that it was part of the code.” “Welcome to Blues City.”

I’d seen St. Louis before. No, not just from history class while learning about the whole “Gateway to the West” thing, or while watching one of their famous sports teams win another championship, or while reading about all of the famous blues musicians who either grew up or performed there. No, I’d literally been so close to St. Louis that I could see the arch and skyline from a distance. Along I-70, I “saw” St. Louis. Just the same way as I “saw” Indianapolis hours later as part of the return trip of my infamous Colorado Road Trip, mentioned briefly earlier. It’s truly a miracle that we made it back alive at all.

With only my buddy Brian and me, we made it back in two days, only stopping for a night in Salina, Kansas. Now sure, this might not sound like an impressive feat to most, but seeing how fucked up we both were from constant partying at Ride Fest, and the fact that our bloodstream was full of nothing but alcohol, marijuana, coke, molly, and an unknown substance that a former Amish girl from Lancaster, PA placed in our mouths (yes really), we really had no sense of reality.

We were sleep-deprived, drugged over, hung-over, and both needed to get home for our own reasons. Brian needed to see if all of his shit was thrown onto the front lawn for all of his neighbors to see, and I needed to potentially get home to my local urgent care because I couldn’t stop shaking, and severe vertigo symptoms set in, which I later learned was due to severe dehydration and pneumonia, ironically the second time I’ve had such a diagnosis. The first time being another bender over the course of a weekend in Atlantic City for a friends bachelor party.

As I was driving through Kansas there were severe weather warnings everywhere, and I tried waking up Brian who had essentially OD’d on his Adderall prescription, completely unresponsive. You could see for miles in all directions, each of the small towns’ weather systems going bat-shit crazy, and no other drivers on the road. It was a lightning storm that felt otherworldly, lighting up the vast view for seconds at a time. At one point I saw a twister to my right, seemingly about 10 miles or so away. I then looked to my left minutes later to see another twister to my left, seemingly a bit closer. I turned to my YouTube app and quickly searched for Powerman 5000 “When Worlds Collide” because this is exactly what it felt like.

And I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to be sucked up into a twister or two without some good industrial metal. I had initially searched for a strip-club out this way (finding The Shady Lady Gentlemen’s Club), and as I said I knew (from theoretical research) that some of the hottest pornstars come from the Midwest. I’m looking at you, Christy Mack and Bonnie Rotten. But seeing how they were closed as it was already passed 2:00 AM, I figured I should locate a motel and take some shelter. I had my foot down to the floor in Brian’s new Volkswagen mini-van which had the “Check Engine” light come on several times during the road trip, even smoking at one point during a dangerous pass in Colorado during a freak wildfire, which again we were sandwiched between, and no other travelers for miles.

This was at the very start of our return home, so it was likely an omen we simply chose to ignore. I recall settling on Ambassy Motel because it was the cheapest option and we both had blown through our budgets. It’s now close to 3:00 AM, and the front desk entrance had been blown wide open, likely due to the storm.

The wind must’ve been blowing at a constant 30 MPH, and I ran in to get us checked in. “Nobody here. Great, now what?” I ring the little bell at the front desk, and a young, cute, chubby Indian woman comes waddling over. Not even saying a word, and nearly falling backwards. This girl was gone. Her eyes glazed over, and she wore a faceless expression, alcohol permeating out of every pore. She gave me a room key, and I gave her my card. She got out one of those old-fashioned card swipes, but she tried swiping it instead and licked the other end of it like one would lick an envelope and handed it back to me. She then waddled back over to the door she entered from and signaled for me to follow her, which I absolutely would’ve done if not for Brian. Still unconscious, I had to unbuckle him and hoist him out of the vehicle, like a soldier would do for his injured comrade, to retreat to safety. I threw him onto the bed, and he abruptly woke up from the landing, and immediately grabbed the nearby light stand.

“Fuck off, what do you want!?”

[Swinging the lamp at nothing, his eyes not fully open.]

“Dude, Brian. It’s me, man. Fucking chill! I got us a room for the night. I don’t even think she charged me. There are fucking tornados out here man. We could’ve been killed, no thanks to you!”

We’d switched turns driving in half-hour shifts while the other attempted to drive. The only consumables we had were edibles and beer, and consume we did, which also likely didn’t help matters. And at one point Brian thought he was pulled into a rest area, only for me to wake up and wonder why we were pulled over directly in front of the sign, with the front bumper brushed up against it. The high beams and wipers were both on full blast, and if not for his seat belt, Brian likely would’ve died of asphyxia by neck decompression. Again, I had to hoist him out of position military style, and strung him into the passenger’s side, as I pulled us into the actual rest area.

And speaking of rest, it was about time I got some. It has been a very long day. Bob showed me to my room. It was advertised as a “quirky lair downstairs” and boy were they right. I loved it! They were both educators in the local school system, and they clearly had an eye for creative spaces. Shit, I could live down here. Comfortable bed, wonderful furniture, spacious, funky artwork, a nice rug (which truly tied it all together), and a nice work desk for anyone looking to get some work done. I lied on the couch for a few moments with the intention of perusing through some of the Airbnb magazines they had laid out, but my eyes were getting heavy as the rain. The best part about being both physically and mentally exhausted is that you don’t have time to think about things. And you aren’t even able to toss and turn. You just lay flat on your back, and within moments of your head hitting the pillow, lights out.

BLUES CITY
TO
TULSA

 

 

The best part of waking up sure as hell ain’t Folgers in your cup, but instead its’ feeling refreshed enough not to have to pile that shit into your mouth. Now, I’m not against caffeine, but I do prefer it to be in coffee, not whatever that rubbish is. “Time to explore St. Louis!” I’ve finally made it to the “Gateway to the West” after all. But the first order of business today is not to go exploring. No. You see, today is the first day of school for my son. I know. They truly grow up fast. I was there for his kindergarten orientation, so I got to meet his teacher, classmates, and some of the parents, but I wasn’t able to be there for his first big day.

This I blame on the poor communication between my son’s mother and I. We are both often at fault, but still. It was unfortunate that this was one of those times. I did get to video chat with my son before he left their home to head to school, however. I’d never seen such a smile from his face when he showed off his backpack and proudly exclaimed “It’s my first day of school, Daddy. I love you!” It was so awesome to see that he had a beautiful sunny day as opposed to the cloudy cool rainy day here. His mother sent a photo of my son, with each arm around a cute little girl. Ah, I’ve taught ‘em well!

My Airbnb’s stay was on Lafayette Ave, but there was no parking available by the time I’d arrived around 10:00 PM. Instead, I had to park on Michigan Ave, a completely acceptable public side-street, even mentioned by my hosts as an alternative. But this seemed to really upset one of the residents here. He saw me hanging out in my car, talking on the phone with my son’s mother and son, just staring at me the entire time. I began staring back at him, and he started throwing up his arms. “I gotta go, buddy. I love you. Have a great day at school!”

[I hang up and wave over to the guy.]

“What’s your deal, man. Can’t you just get outta here?”

“Listen, man. I was just on the phone video chatting with my son. I stayed right over here at my Airbnb last night.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, man. I, I didn’t know. We’ve had a lot of trouble on this side-street being so private looking and all. We get a lot of dealers and prostie’s hanging out.”

“Well shit, had I known that I would’ve hung out here late last night too.”

[Not fully appreciating my sense of humor, I thought it best to move along.]

Bob had given me some excellent recommendations for things to do around town, many in close proximity to their home, even offering his services as an Uber driver. Not a bad gig to have. Host an Airbnb, and be able to offer your services for a Lyft/Uber as well? Not bad at all. I might have to run with that one.

But with the rain still being fairly steady, this put a damper on some of what I was excited to check out during my time in St. Louis. I figured I’d best head to a local department store to pick up another wallet, forgetting to actually bring my smart wallet from earlier. With me losing at least a $20 which flew out of the window during my drive from Chicago to St. Louis yesterday, I thought it best to keep my cash out of the console, and in an actual wallet, seeing how my wallet case was falling apart anyway. Target was an easy, well, Target. Just a fifteen-minute drive away. Something I was curious to see how different one might be in a city. But it seemed to be a pretty standard Target (seeing how there are three now within a fifteen-minute radius near me), and I made my way with no trouble to the Men’s section with the belts and wallets being adjacent to the wardrobe area. But it was not as easy as it was getting into Target.

Now, I’m a clumsy bastard. No, like really clumsy. I was told to avoid ever even considering joining one of the armed forces as I would be the guy taking out the pin of the grenade only to fumble said grenade and kick it right into a friendly’s face, having it bounce back, with me finally kicking it straight into the air, and blowing us all to smithereens.  As soon as I got out of my car, I tried avoiding a large puddle, and in doing so, my sandal had flown off, right underneath the middle of the car next to me.

Now, based on what I just described, you can imagine how nervous I was attempting to retrieve said sandal. I thought “Shit, well this is probably how I’ll go out. Not in some military hero kinda way, but the MAN GETS RUN OVER FROM VEHICLE IN TARGET PARKING LOT WHILE TRYING TO RECOVER LOST SANDAL, as the headline kinda way.” I look around and wait a moment to make sure that nobody was coming. I get onto my belly, and in the prone position, I make my way to the middle of the car, grabbing the sandal with an outreached arm, and make my way out onto the other side (as I seem to be faster going forward).  My hair, clothes, and sandals are now soaking wet, but at least I’d avoided that horrendous headline.

I looked like a goddamn homeless man walking into the store. It looked like I didn’t even have any money to place into the very wallet I was seeking to purchase. But nonetheless, I found a suitable wallet, (the same one I still use today), and I thought I could do with some caffeine. And as you might know, all Targets have a Starbucks, conveniently located right by the entrance. Now, I’m not a huge Starbucks fan, but they do seem to be everywhere that’s convenient, and seeing how I was already here, and that it was pouring out, I figured I’d grab my usual. A large (there, I said it) frozen mocha, with whipped cream. The woman who rang me up heard of my story out in the parking lot from a cop who was just in. “Goddamnit, I’m not even here in this town for five minutes, and the cops already know who I am.” I was going to sip on the coffee inside, but seeing how I likely had an APB out for me by now, assuming I’d just planted a bomb or something as part of a Philly vs St. Louis mob hit, I figured I’d best be on my way. But alas, the weather started to clear up by the time I’d gotten to the Gateway Arch.

The skies had partially cleared, and it allowed for some remarkable photos of the Gateway Arch. I even took a selfie to where it looks like I’m riding in a sports car, and that the arch is my roll bar (yes, really). You can’t truly gather the sense of it’s’ scale until you get up close and personal with it. I spent a few more minutes greeting a few other visitors while wandering around the nearby park area. I was also parked in front of the Hyatt Regency in the 15-MINUTE LOADING ZONE ONLY area, and I had already exceeded that. Never overstay your welcome. Especially when hotel security is greeting the police officer they just called to forcibly escort your vehicle out of there. Just give a friendly wave, acknowledge that you had your blinkers on, and point to your out-of-state license plate.

With a quick nod to both hotel security and St. Louis’ finest, I was off once more. Oh, and try to do at least a “drive-by” shooting of the Old Courthouse on your way out. It’s a truly beautiful work of architecture, all right by the famous Mississippi River, the divide between Missouri and Illinois. It always fascinates me how states were divided, and how on one hand you can have a remarkable city, and to the neighboring state, they are left with something, shall we say not so wonderful. I guess St. Louis is to Philly and East St. Louis is to Camden. Can’t win ‘em all, I suppose! At least the latter two have pretty skylines to wonder in amazement by, right? If I had time, I would’ve enjoyed a Riverfront cruise on one of the famous riverboats, perhaps even pull off a proper heist RDR2 style, but I simply did not have the time or funds to cover such an adventure.

Next stop, however, downtown. By now, I’d gotten into a bit of a rhythm. Start off downtown, grab some coffee, see a major landmark or two, head back downtown, and find the locals’ Irish Pub, where you will find no room for the pretentious hipster tourists that try to gentrify everything. “Like, sorry, dude, I’m not interested in your quadruple filtered blueberry pie Hazy IPA with a hint of ghost pepper that will kill you in your sleep hours later.” A pint of Guinness is all you need here. But before I get there, the coffee I spoke of earlier was about to cut right through me. I could feel my insides turning inside out again as I type this. America’s Center Convention Complex, surely they would have restrooms available. They were shut down for some sort of maintenance going on, with no signs of life nearby to assist with directions. I open up the quite useful; Flush App. Starbucks is the closest. I still had my Starbucks cup too; maybe I could sneak inside there? But I remembered a recent altercation in Philly where police were called on black men because they were only in there to use the restroom. I didn’t need that shit, pun intended.

“So where to? Where to?” I pull off on the side, ah, a Marriott, 15-minute bag UNLOADING. I was greeted kindly by some sort of concierge person, and he pointed me in the way of the restrooms. “Second floor. Shit, this could be interesting.” MAN UNLOADS IN ELEVATOR AT MARIOTT HOTEL WHILE HIS CAR IS TOWED FROM THE 15-MIN LOADING/UNLOADING ZONE. Although, it was easier than using the stairs. I make it, with some time to spare. I’ve stayed at Marriott’s before, most recently visiting as a guest to see a regular escort of mine. Not quite Netflix and Chill, but Netflix and Bill ain’t bad either. This one seemed a bit more upscale than ones I was privy to. The bar area in the middle looking over the top from the second floor provided a nice view of some of St. Louis’ actual finest. I know a working girl when I see one. Especially at a hotel bar at 10:02 AM.

Refreshed and ready to explore, I head out the door. I walk around downtown for a bit before making a point to get to Busch Stadium, one of the most beautiful ballparks in America. The Cards, as they’re more casually known are one of the best sports teams in baseball, second in championships only to the Yankees, with eleven World Series trophies. The Rams had an excellent run in St. Louis at the turn of the century, and the Blues are one of the most respected teams in the NHL. Busch Stadium is impressive. During my visit, they were under construction building around what is called the Ballpark Village, featuring dining and entertainment. It reminded me a lot of Xfinity Live! in Philly, with some similar draws to get you to hang out and spend money rather than pre-gaming at your friend’s house before heading to the game or post-game.

That said, it’s an awesome way to meet your friends and befriend other die-hard and casual fans alike. There were some lovely beauties in daisy-dukes walking into Fox Sports Midwest Live! with two of their male friends. A stadium for the fans, of sorts. Now, normally I would’ve followed them in, waited for the girls to head to the bathroom together (which us guys could never pull off), and find an introduction with one of the gents back at the table. Always complimenting the alpha on his shirt, hat, or even a similar beard style or choice of beverage. Be careful, however, if you come off too strong you will be whisked away, assuming you to be some sort of gay cowboy (Bareback Mountain style), before the girls come back, eliminating any chances of infiltration into the group. Bye-bye daisy dukes.

But there was plenty else to see in St. Louis, and I was aimed to see as much of it as I could in my short time here. I planned on hanging out until around twelve noon and heading on the open road to be at my next Airbnb stop by 9:00 PM, maybe 10:00 PM at the latest. There is plenty of life around the stadium complex. I head down S Broadway, The Field House, a spectacular National Historic Landmark and childhood home of Eugene Field a famous writer (known as the poet of childhood), which fittingly is also the home of the St. Louis Toy Museum. Dissected by Cerre St is BB’s Jazz, Blues and Soups, featuring big band and swing shows with a cabaret-style seating and southern menu. Further south still, passed the train tracks is Hot Shotz, a restaurant featuring outdoor seating, and lastly, the Broadway Oyster Bar, a New Orleans themed haunt with live music. There appeared to be a hip-looking patio area with seating and an outdoor bar and lounge area of sorts.

But it is at The Field House where I met one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever met to this day. His name is Iwa, a medium thinly constructed man wearing a backwards hat and business casual outfit with a friendly face. He works for a local nearby company doing contracting work.

[He noticed me admiring the area.]

“You must not be from around here to be admiring these buildings the way I’ve noticed you doing?”

“That easy to tell, huh?”

“Welcome to St. Louis, friend. Anything I can point you to? Have you checked out the Gateway Arch yet?”
“Sure did, that was my first stop. This area seems pretty awesome too. Everything I’ve seen of St. Louis so far has been awesome. Everyone has been so friendly. The hospitality has been greater than I could ask for.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, friend. St. Louis sure has plenty of small-town charm in a big city. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I ain’t never plan on leaving.”

“I don’t blame you, man. I’m actually on my way to Santa Monica. I’m on a road trip, Historic Route 66, and I’m looking at writing a novel of sorts about my journey. I have no idea how it’s going to shake out, but I sure hope it looks like something when it does.”

“It’d be better if it doesn’t, friend. You don’t want it to look like anything else, do ya? You’ve gotta make it your own thing. Tell your own story. Heck, tell our story. About the people who you’ve met and will meet for the rest of your journey, friend. That’s what you’ve got to do. Man, it’s so great for you to take the time to even be talking to me right now. I’m nobody. I’m sure that you’re somebody though, writing a book like you are and all?”

“Actually, I’m really no one special. I mean, in my head, I have all of these ideas that I’d love to be able to implement one day. I’m not looking to get famous or anything, only just to get my name in front of people who can help me help others, ya know?”

“I know exactly what you mean. I’ve got ideas of my own, friend. So many ideas, you got no idea. We’ve all got ideas. Everyday people like me, doing everyday things are what makes the world go around though, ya know? Oh man, I’m just so grateful you’re looking to help out the little folk like me, friend. Oh God bless, you. God bless you, friend. I, I really can’t tell you how great it is to have met you. I wish you nothing but kindness, and God’s grace to watch over you, friend. You are well now.”

“You as well, my brother. You as well.”

“That’s it, friend. You’ve got it better than most. We are all brothers out here in this life. You don’t even have to believe in God to understand that. Life is easy, God created it that way. But it’s people who complicate things. Just look at the butterfly right over there that just landed on the bush. It doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a butterfly, friend. Why do people got to complicate everything by being something they’re not? But anyway, friend. I got to run. My break ends soon, and I only ran down this way because I forgot my wallet. God bless, and be well, friend.”
“Real quick – The butterfly might just be a butterfly now, but it didn’t start out that way. It started out as a caterpillar and it evolved. Maybe we’re people now, but we’re just stuck on fighting with and killing one another instead of evolving into something greater?”

“Heck, I never thought of it that way. Maybe you is right? God bless, friend.”

I walk down a bit further to Gratiot St on the backside of the Broadway Oyster Bar, CAJUN CREOLE, Cocktails. Damn, this place must really be popping at night. And then I noticed S 4th St. It looked like there were some fine establishments along that row as well. I see all kinds of well-executed graffiti and a few historic buildings on either side. This whole area must do well, especially on game day. All of this country grammar talk (lest we not forget about Nelly) has got me thirsty for beer. No really. I’m writing this at Rock Candy, and there is a keg of 3 LB IPA by St. Bonaface out of Ephrata, PA, originally named for the three pounds of cascade hops in every barrel.

An ex-co-worker, Drew, once mistakenly referred to it as “St. Butterface.” We nearly had a brawl out in the parking lot. And since I’ve stuck to IPA’s during the entire time I’ve written this, why stop a good thing, right? Alright, back to downtown St. Louis. I’m at the Steifel building, staring up. Way up. I start to get dizzy and notice a fantastic looking statue out front. At first glance it appeared to be a Minotaur fighting a Werewolf. “How cool is this statue!?” And then as I got closer I recognized that it was bull fighting a bear. Ah, I get it. This must be the financial district of St. Louis. The Bull (UP) vs. Bear (DN) markets. Way cooler than just the stupid Merrill Lynch Bull. Nicely done, guys.”  “Don’t get hit, look up.” is a sign on the ground in front of a detectable warning. Ironic, seeing how these are predominantly meant for the blind. Although, most forget about the wheelchair disabled as well.

Downtown St. Louis reminded me a lot of Chicago. Perhaps it was due to the proximity of one another, having the same Architects onboard a firm who had their hand in both cities, or simply the inspiration from around the time that the west was settled. Take example The Thaxton. A historic Art Deco event venue and speakeasy lounge, looking like something straight out of the Bioshock series. Just imagining a Big Daddy hobbling along inside its’ doors is oddly satisfying. Syndicate Condos and Apartments caught my eye as well, and surely the eyes of the more elites in St. Louis, offering a wonderful view of the city. And speaking of wonderful views, I sure could use one which involves me staring at some cute bartender while sipping down a Guinness in one of the local Irish Pub’s I’d mentioned earlier.

Jack Patrick’s on the corner of 10th and Olive. First off – this place is huge. And it surely fills in any night of the week, particularly on game day. There are Budweiser emblems everywhere here. And although I haven’t drunk one on purpose since I was twelve, if I had time, I actually would’ve liked to enjoy the famous tour, including the iconic Clydesdales, the famous horse breed named after Jake Gyllenhaal, although it’s spelling was “Americanized.” But ironically, instead of a Guinness pint, I order a Smithwick’s pint or “Smid-icks” for your first-timers. Boy did this ever go down easy.

“Would you like a menu, hun?”

“No, that’s okay, but thank you.”

Irish Pub with an Irish Red in front of me. And boy was she a beaut. No, not the Smithwick’s either, I ordered the traditional. But this cute redhead bartender in front of me made me think I was right in Kilkenny, Ireland itself. I begin patronizing with some of the local lads in the bar. It was only 11:00 AM, but the bar was quite fool, and the bartender was calling out most by name, already providing their brews without hesitation.

These were no doubt regulars. Right beside me was Dave, a former traveling businessman, local to St. Louis. He was a few in by the time I arrived, and was quite personable right away, greeting me with more of that southern hospitality I’d become so familiar with. I shared that I too enjoyed travel, and told him of my road trip, and prior road trip adventure out to Colorado. Turns out, he had quite an experience while in Colorado as well. He was driving a rental in the snow, low on fuel, and without one headlight, which had gone out he believes because of the sub-zero temperatures. He was trying to get to his hotel near Durango when the other headlight went out. He ended up crashing into a ditch, and woke up in the lobby of his hotel, with no recollection of how he got there, his rental parked out front, with a full tank of gas. Surely, this man had someone watching over him. Had it been me, I’d have ended up in the Rio Grande, found days later in Mexico, and buried as some suspected drug trafficker in one of those mass shallow grave sites.

But Dave had suggested I make a point to check out Busch Stadium, the Budweiser Tour, the Gateway Arch, Serra Sculpture Park, the Zoo, City Museum, and to make sure I got some St. Louis Pizza at Imo’s. After my second Smithwick’s to further even out the coffee buzz, a generous tip and farewell to Dave and his other compadres, I’m off to Imo’s.

“Wait. My car. Where was my car?”

[I had to drive around a bit to find parking here with all the construction and with no banks or hotels to steal spots from I’d parked somewhere I wouldn’t normally park, on the street.]

“But where? C’mon, think, man. Think.”

[I open up Apple Maps to get my bearings.]

“Parked Car. Holy shit! How had I never realized this beautiful feature before?”

I was a ten-minute walk away. How had I thought I was right nearby? I’d only stumbled in here after snapping photos of some buildings and turned around to see the sign outside. But when you’re in the moment, you’re in the moment, and time has a way of escaping you.

So I finally make my way back to Virginia and head on over to Imo’s, where I find a spot right out front. Now, on the front entrance reads “Original St. Louis Style Pizza” Imo’s Pizza. It sounds like a place you want to be. No. That you need to be. Right as I walk in, more of that southern hospitality from the hostess and server at the cashier area. I ask for just a simple pan pizza, with a soda, but the woman recommends that I get a combo meal instead. And to substitute beer for the soda, because that’s what she does. “Hallelujah, my kind of girl!” There is plenty to order to suit anyone’s fancy, but some pizza and beer sounded just fine. I take a seat by the window. St. Louis Cardinals memorabilia everywhere in here.

Not to take away from the Blues, but I got the sense that this was St. Louis’ team. I mean how could it not be when the great Ozzie “The Wizard” Smith played here for fourteen seasons, an all-star in every season minus 1993, in which he still batted for .288 with a .974 fielding percentage.

“Be careful, it’s hot, hun.”

[Sipping on my Budweiser Select, since I was in St. Louis and all, I reach for my first slice.  It falls apart instantly. This thing is thin, but it looks delicious.]

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and everything that is holy!”

I thought I’d literally burnt my lip clear off. It still hurts to even think about the burn that occurred that fateful afternoon. I reach up to my lip and feel nothing, like literally nothing. It was like I’d been given a shot of Novocain right on my lip. My lip wasn’t even bleeding. Probably because the pizza itself cauterized the wound. And for what? This pizza tasted like something my father would’ve made my brother and me while my mother was sick. It was like someone bought a frozen pizza from Dollar General, threw a couple of Velveeta cheese slices on top of it, whole oregano leaves tossed everywhere, and cut into squares because they were “too edgy for just three edges.”

But it was – delicious! It was unlike any pizza I’d ever tasted. And I had to be very careful about how to eat the rest of it. Using my cold Budweiser as a bandage, carefully sipping in between bites, I finished it with no problem other than that it was finished. I should’ve ordered a second one to go, but I was parked in a NO PARKING zone out front, right by a fire hydrant, and had to get outta there soon. But hey, I sat where I could keep an eye on Virginia. Ready to bolt outta there to confront the officer and/or tow man should things have gotten carried away. I said I found a spot out front, I didn’t say if it was legally parked or not. And besides, Rufus was there to keep watch as well.

But before I ventured back to my car, I wanted to see what was going on next door to Imo’s. Adjacent to the dining area in Imo’s is a brief corridor that opens up into a rather large dining area with a buffet and some elegant architecture and furnishings. This is part of Hilton St. Louis at the Ballpark. There was quite a spread ready at the buffet, with all kinds of food recently brought out. I walked around for a moment or two, clearly not a guest, but giving zero fucks, I walked around casually like, snapping photos and admiring the space. I grab a delicious looking apple and munch on it in front of staff, as I nod and wave hello as they smile back and continue working. Point being, if you look like you belong, people will (usually not) mess with you, or pronounce something such as “Hey, you can’t be in here!” I learned this several years ago while in Atlantic City for another “guys weekend” adventure.

[My friends and I somehow ended up in the kitchen area, again nodding and waving to the staff with smiles, sipping on our beers along the way, and finally being escorted by a guy to a private elevator to get back to the lobby area.]

“How did you guys even get in here?”

“We walked through an open door and kept walking as we belonged here”

“Fair enough!”

[My friend Brian, (same fellow abiding citizen as before), chimed in]

“We’re here to see The Don”, referring to Trump.

[Then I chimed in.]

“Fuck The Don, I’m here to see Ivanka. She should be expecting me. If you could please escort her to my quarters, that’d be swell.”

Now, I’m certainly not a fan of Trump. But I am a fan of his daughters, particularly Ivanka. She just looks like the type of girl who wouldn’t say no to whatever your wildest desires. And no, not in some “rapey” kinda way, but as in a whenever/wherever kinda way. It’s all in the eyes.

“Rufus, thanks for keeping guard. Good boy. Tulsa, here we come!” I drive back by Busch Stadium, which “Did You Know?”, sits adjacent to none other than Historic Route 66. After a few brews, I’m feelin’ good. No. Scratch that. I’m feelin’ great. I’ve met some really great people, saw some great things, and I was hungry for more.  But first, time to get some tunes at the ready. Tulsa. Oklahoma. Hmm, nothing really came immediately to mind. I’d be in the southwest by the end of the night. I was pretty stoked on this, and I wanted to cast out some good vibes along the way of getting there. I search on Safari – “Tulsa rock bands.”  Hanson was the first band that showed up. “Are you messing with me, Google? I did say rock bands, didn’t I?” There would be no Hmm Bop propaganda in this car. That much I was certain. They should’ve held tryouts for “all brothers band” like the Jonas Brothers. I scroll over until I see Pillar. Ah, yes. I remember these guys from my “Christian Rock” days as a tween. I was raised as what I now refer to as a hybrid Catho-Christian.

My father’s side was predominantly Catholic, while my mother’s side was predominantly Christian. I grew up going to a few different churches, but our longest “stint”, if you will, was at a Good Sheppard Lutheran Church. Trust me though, not much was good about it. Although there were a few cute promiscuous girls who I would take turns making out with during the annual Bible Summer Camps while the other boys and girls were playing dodge ball.

Back then, my parents were pretty strict about my brother and I’s musical listening. But throw in “Christian”, and it was immediately accepted. I listened to Christian bands such as Pillar, Switchfoot, Thousand Foot Krutch, P.O.D., Red, and the infamous Creed. Oh, Creed. They were probably the worst “Christian” band around when it came to be you know, actually Christian. Most notably their singer, Scott Stapp, who would often show up on stage both drunk and high, nearly tumbling down onto his fans. Maybe he should’ve spent his time giving high praises to Jesus, instead of getting high. But I digress. Pillar added to the list, what else is there for Oklahoma?

Back to my search for Safari, this time I type in “Oklahoma Rock Bands.” “The Flaming Lips, no way!” I’d often see their name and have heard many good things. But I’d never actually taken the time to give them a listen for some reason. “Okay, two down, how about a few more?” Hinder. Only ever heard one song from them which I despised, there’d be no murmurs of any lips of an angel today. I often wondered how a song based around cheating was so popular with women. Like what, do I just have to tell my girlfriend “I’m sorry babe; she had the lips of an angel. I couldn’t help myself as her lips swallowed my penis?” Perhaps these guys were onto something.

I was unfamiliar with any of the other bands mentioned. How about some metal in the mix?  I somehow stumbled on The Oklahoma Kid, whom I only now just realized is not from Oklahoma, but instead from Rostock, Germany. But they crank out some pretty awesome metal-core and are worth checking out regardless. Okay, I’ve got a few searches stored into Spotify; I’m ready to get a move on. I’m cruising down 44 West, The Flaming Lips – “Always there…in our hearts” comes in and sets the mood just right. I’m at the junction to continue towards Tulsa or to get off and take 270 for Chicago/Memphis. Chicago was great, and I’ve heard great things about Memphis, but straight towards Tulsa it is. This was one of the longer travel days, and I intentionally avoided some of Historic Route 66 here as it really meanders a bit after St. Louis until you get near Pacific, MO where it picks back up running parallel to the highway once more.

But driving through Pacific, I notice some really beautiful homes, atop of large concrete retaining walls. There were a lot of sheer rock faces here along the highway, covered in what looks like welded wire fabric, used for adding strength to concrete.

“Ah, there we are. “HISTORIC BYWAY Missouri Route 66.”

“We’re back on track, Rufus! How are you, boy? Quiet as ever I see. And how are you, friend? I trust you’re getting along okay. It’s been quite a trip so far. Thanks for riding with me!”

Time to fill up and fuel up. I pick up some Powerade (which is better than Gatorade, in my humble honest and factual opinion), as well as a pint of chocolate milk, which really fills you up, acting as much of a meal in of itself. This was a combo that I would continue throughout the rest of the trip. Now this, I hate to say, was the most depressing drive of my whole trip. Here is where you really get a sense of what will inevitably be lost to time, slowly decaying, dying in front of all to see.

This part I did not read on any Route 66 sites or blogs. But it is there. And it is real. So many Motels with their signs all mangled, falling apart, with random letters missing, likely stolen or simply discarded. The Gardenway Motel now has a car park of sorts across the street from it, used for ride-sharing along the highway. There are many other areas of rundown dwellings, most with shitty graffiti covering their fronts, and boards covering their windows to prevent further vandalism.

And then it starts pouring. Like I said, depressing. It is always fascinating going to a new state and seeing how things operate there. And since I was quite literally passing through, only dipping my toes in certain areas of each state, you never really get the opportunity to soak that part of it in. From the change in sign colors, changing from numbers to letters in some cases, even the noticeable difference in the number of police patrolling the highways in others, and where they are either hiding or not hiding in plain sight.

From a distance, does that say, Bourbon? It’s almost like a live-action eye exam, N C J Bourbon, 1 MILE. Now, this seems like my kinda town! 66 passes right through, still running parallel to 44.  When you search a town on Google, and the first five images are of a water tower, maps to show where it is in relation to the rest of the state, the same water tower, and more maps; one can only imagine there isn’t much to offer. But, I’m sure the people here would like to tell you otherwise. Now, I swear every person I passed while driving through gave me a friendly smile and a wave. And Taylor Louderman is from here. You might know her from the Mean Girls Broadway musical interpretation based off of the famous Teen movie of the same name. And the gender makeup of the city was last measured as 48.8% male to 51.2% female. The odds are in your favor, gentlemen.

This was not the case during my studies in higher-ed. We jokingly referred to Penn Tech as Men Tech, although the numbers have since been closer to even since graduating. But the few girls that were there were absolutely adorable. Just the super cute girl next door type. The kind you’d be proud to bring around to both your friends and parents and then back to your bedroom to throwing your clothes off while you fuck in every room of the place. And then you learn that the dental hygiene and nursing programs are expanding, and that next door to your open CAD room is a room full of extremely hot and fit dental hygienists and future RN’s. All with the extreme stress of making the grade to stay in the program. All of whom, presumably have strong urges and needs as an outlet for all of this stress. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.

“Ah, that’s better!” Sorry, I was too depressed thinking back to what I was describing earlier. Plus it’s raining here now as well. You’ll notice a number of roadside stores selling authentic moccasins and other general store items as well, such as the Rio Grande Boot and Levi Jean outlet, on the way out of Bourbon. Now, I thought I was on 66 here, but I happened to be on N Service Rd, which clearly does not have the word Route or 66 in it. This stretch is south of 44. You will also notice signs which state NO ACCESS TO 44 occasionally along your way. Please do pay attention to these. You will end up on somebody’s doorstep, and they may not take too kindly to a hippie fella driving a girl named Virginia.

How do I know this you might ask? Well, I ignored the sign and figured what the hell. I ended up on a no winter maintenance type road back in PA, but clearly a no maintenance at all type road out here in Missouri. If you continue on N Service Rd, which happens to transition rather roughly to N Hobbyhut Rd, then suddenly you’re doing an off-road test of your rental, learning that the suspension was not quite cut out for such a road and that maybe you should’ve turned around when you had your chance. But you keep going because you’re a curious wanderlust hippie from the East Coast on his way to the West Coast, and you’re like, going with the flow, dude. You see where this thing is taking you. You notice some nice secluded homes, and presumably, people who enjoy their privacy as they begin to take notice of a stranger coming down their road, which is clearly not a thru-way by any stretch of the word. They make heavy eye-contact with you and begin to phone their downstream neighbors to let them know a goddamned fool is on their way and to get their gun at the ready. By the time you reach the end of this road, all of the residents will be at their mailboxes, standing next to their vehicles, pretending to get their mail, while one arm is reached into the front seat of their SUV or truck, likely holding onto their weapon, prepared to draw should you slow down or make eye-contact in the wrong kind of manner. But then you finally make it through. You can breathe again. My palms had never been so sweaty behind a wheel before. I thought for sure Virginia was going to breakdown after running over some sort of foreign object, with both Virginia and me getting stripped for parts. Turn left immediately on UU to get back to 44. Now you’re back on N Service Rd, and you will see another NO ACCESS TO 44 sign. Please don’t ignore this one. Make the left, and get back on the goddamn highway. Better yet, go passed the highway junction and get back onto 66. Cuba is coming up, and it’s one of the coolest spots along 66.

But another storm is on its way. Overall, I couldn’t complain about the weather thus far. But today was pretty much shitful all day. The clouds did look beautiful from a distance at least. I didn’t have much time though. Cuba is famous for it’s’ murals and The FourWay (now I’m thinking back to Lover’s Only in Detroit again, goddamnit!), an iconic stop for any traveling 66. Now, it is repurposed as a Mediterranean Restaurant. The architecture of this little place is really cool. The best I can describe it is that it looks like one of those model village homes you’d only expect to see within the Swiss Alps. Just a fabulous place, with some awesome murals of its’ own. But moving quickly now, the storm would be here any minute. I zoom further on into town and stop to snap and admire some more murals. Pontiac, you really could learn something here.

And then boom. It hits with a thundering force. If you search “tornado alley map” online you will be met with many differences of opinions, but most of them resemble a giant phallic symbol. I’m unsure what it is about “the member”, but it is prominently displayed subliminally throughout our daily lives. From swimming pools, to the 2016 Iowa State Fair logo, to the original box art of The Little Mermaid, and carved into fields when Trump visits your town via a hot-air balloon tour. It’s inescapable. But, this part of Missouri was included in some of these maps, and I was in no mind to stick around to wait for any storm warnings blaring about. I get onto the major highway as I knew I’d be slowed down by the weather. Plus, it seemed a bit safer this way.

But the weather begins to clear up around Lebanon. A town that is seemingly pretty similar to Pennsylvania’s own Lebanon. Missouri’s Lebanon was named after Tennessee’s Lebanon which was named after the biblical cedars of Lebanon. Local residents there refer to the town as “Cedar City”, a nod to the abundance of Cedar trees in the area. “Ah, well this finally makes sense.” PA’s Lebanon was initially named Steitztown, which was changed to Lebanon as a nod to all of the cedars in it’s’ area as well. The local high school’s nickname is even called the “Cedars.” Which, I can only imagine how cool that mascot must be. “Holy shit, guys. No way!” There needs to be a grudge match against the Nittany Lion to find out who has the stupidest mascot in all of PA. Now, that would be interesting.

But anyway, there’s your The More You Know segment for today. Lebanon, MO is also home to the Route 66 Museum. Something I somehow neglected to learn until just now. But onward and upward, friend. Now in Conway, MO, I pull over for a well-deserved rest, and you should too.

It’s been a few long hours driving in some pretty horrid weather.  There are some cool artifacts of sorts available to check out here. But what first draws your attention is a crazy looking “Safety Cone Man” statue which almost looks like it comes to life after hours. And you thought the dinosaur from the Night at the Museum was terrifying? Another fifteen minutes or so and I’m in Marshfield, home to more abandoned motels and buildings left to ruin. One of the more eerily beautiful photos I’ve ever taken happened to be a “drive-by” shooting of a simple wayfinding sign in front of a utility pole, opposite the guard rail, which featured a large arrow and M O T E L labeled in red just below it. There was no motel, but the sign stood as a landmark of sorts. It stood for those who traveled this road before me, as well as those after me. I hope you notice this same sign on your journey, friend.

The weather comes and goes. You can see the storm clouds rolling in from all directions now. It’s beautiful country out here, and there aren’t many vehicles out now, even on the major highway. I’m in Sarcoxie, and I’m headed towards a marvelous sunset. There are some beautiful rock formations to the right and I happen to notice a True Value Hardware store as a repurposed gas station. They’ve stored a bunch of mulch and other landscaping products underneath the gas pump awning area. Pretty cool. But no, friend. This is not why you need to stop in Sarcoxie, Missouri. Let me explain why it is that you must stop here. You stop in Sarcoxie, Missouri for Ozarkland General Store, established in 1957. The fine ladies made it their mission on fattening me up at Ozark’s candies. I should’ve stayed away as I’d initially intended. If only I hadn’t tried to be a purist and drive on the original route, backtracking me to the very exit I’d avoided 10-mins earlier.

This must be one of those literal tourist traps. I was the deer who’d wandered too far. They were talking amongst themselves about how good this Pennsylvania boy would taste. “Holy shit, they’ve got knives! Shit, they’re coming right towards me, oh God this isn’t how I’d envisioned how I’d go out!” After reopening my eyes, they were simply preparing their next samples. I had already planned on buying some fudge, but now I was hooked. That must be how they get you. I didn’t even get the chance to explore the rest of the store. But it was time to hit the road again. And off with my two pounds of fudge I went. The weather was still come and go, and sunset would be here sooner than later.

Speaking of, I was guided by another beautiful sunset into St. Louis, and I was hoping the same for heading into Tulsa. A major junction for continuing west on 44 towards Joplin, 59 south to Diamond, or 49/71 North Carthage and Kansas City, respectively. Two famous cities seem to have fallen into Missouri, on opposite ends of the state. Plus the Ozarks? Missouri’s a pretty badass state. You better treat ‘er with respect or she’ll knock your goddamn teeth in quicker than you can spell out M-I-S-S-I- ka-boom!  I was reminded of PA and how we seem to have snuck in both Philly and Pittsburgh. There was likely some shots fired in all cases.

Now, I didn’t spend any time in Springfield, Missouri’s capital and third-largest city, and I’d like to have visited if given the opportunity. I felt the same way towards both Carthage, a badass looking small town with some real Wild West vibes, and some gorgeous homes with a truly beautiful courthouse, and Kansas City, a badass city that I only had the pleasure of driving through. Diamond, call me maybe? Although, after a quick Wiki-search, I see that George Washington Carver, of peanuts fame, not that Peanuts (sorry, Snoopy) was born here and featured is the George Washington Carver National Monument. I’ll be back with my son.

But for now, I’m headed straight to Joplin, a destination I was very much excited to explore. This city has some really cool 66 stuff, including some really well-done murals, a historic downtown, and just an overall chill vibe to explore. But I will say what I thought was a little odd – I ran into nobody while I was there. I’m looking back through my photos just to double-check. Zero, zilch, zip, nada. I mean there were a dozen or so cars parked on the street downtown, but where were they? I mean if you look on a map 66 literally cuts right through this historic city, and it seemed there was plenty to do in a small city, but where was everyone?  I peeked into several establishments, still nothing. Perhaps, Joplin, you can explain to me where everyone was on the night of August 26, 2019?

I mean I know it was a Monday night, but c’mon man, I need answers! I literally felt like I had the whole place to myself. Like Cartman in that one episode of South Park where he buys an Amusement Park because he was tired of all the bullshit and waiting in lines and such. But he eventually got bored and started inviting a few kids in at a time, until the business was booming once more from the anticipation of it all. Perhaps that’s what was going on here? Had I been one of the few lucky ones to be able to enter. Boy, I hoped I’d be lucky enough to leave as well. I mean Joplin, you seem pretty cool and all, but I’ve got like work and stuff to come back to, man. Well, at least I did. More on that later though.

Most of my photos, I’m literally walking in the middle of the street, because again, no one. I get to what appears to be the edge of town and find a really cool mural which very artfully done spells out JOMO WELCOME TO DOWNTOWN JOPLIN MISSOURI.

I half expected a man wearing a top hat and donning a monocle to jump out from behind the sign and give me my golden ticket, congratulating me on winning the prize to tour the Chocolate Factory. I’d have gracefully accepted, having always wanted to meet Willy Wonka, and I’d beat out that Charlie bastard and his fake cripple of a cokehead grandfather (just at his fingernails.) All this only to inevitably build my own Snowpiercer train as the only means to keep humanity alive, ultimately succumbing to Chris Evans in some alternate-reality, but not before I get to sleep with some cute Korean girls. But alas, no such thing occurred, and I was on the road again, with no expected stops until Tulsa. After all, nightfall would soon be here. “Blast! Maybe this is when people show themselves in Joplin? But Tulsa, here I come!” Err, sort of.

Shortly after Joplin, 44 becomes a toll road. Now, thank God for the QuikTrip in Claremore, Oklahoma. I neglected to fill up before leaving Joplin, and I became fatally close to running out of gas. My display showed I had 2-miles to go on the reading. Now sure, I know my Civic could’ve gone another 10 miles or so before actually running out of gas, but still. Not something you should try to pull so far from home in a rental.

As much as I enjoy a great Seinfeld episode, I was not looking to do my best Kramer impression with the car salesman on this day nor at this hour. But getting off of this exit was one of the strangest occurrences in my entire life. Not the actual act of getting to the QuikTrip, but the toll-booth operator. She was, how could I describe? Her eyes didn’t blink. Her expression didn’t change. She moved very much like a robot. I thought I’d entered an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Had I just entered some sort of fucking time vortex? Maybe this would explain the strange occurrence back in Joplin? The world I knew had ended, and toll-booth workers had finally been replaced by robots. I explained to the woman that I would be back shortly, as I was just filing up.

“Where are you headed, hun?”

“I’m headed to Tulsa.”

“Okay, hun it’s 35 minutes to Tulsa, 2-hours to Oklahoma City.”

“Uhh, thanks.”

I waved my hand to see if her stature would change. Nothing. Even her voice seemed too precise for a human. It’s like I was talking to Siri, but in real life. I wasn’t even sure she could see me? At least it didn’t feel like she could the way she was staring off into the distance. She then gave me back my much-needed change as I’d forgotten to fill up my wallet earlier as well, forgetting about the toll section out here. I’d made it to Tulsa, in exactly 35-minutes. Fucking robots, I told you, man!

“Uhh, hi. Is Chris around?”

“Yeah, hi. He’s right over here. He’s my brother. C’mon in. I’ll be out here for a bit. Do you need any help with your bags?”

“No thank you, I think I’ve got it. They’re keeping me standing up right now.”

[I could barely walk, but I stumbled my way to do the door, ready to attempt another lockbox code when.]

“Hey, what’s good man? Glad you made it safely!”
“Ah, thanks, man. It’s been a long day. It looks like a storm is coming, hard.”

“Yeah, let’s get you in. You alright with your stuff?”

“Yeah, thanks, dude. Appreciate it. I’m alright though.”

Chris – what to say about my Tulsa Airbnb host? Dude is a super chill guy, a talented artist, and is self-employed doing his own HVAC and appliance repair work. Ladies in and around the Tulsa area, holla at ya boy – chrisdebruynart!

I just received my Christmas “bonus” from work, so naturally, I spent it the best way I saw fit – a two song lap dance at the local strip joint by a new girl, Brittany. Our dance was very sensual – the kind where you get a good sense of what kind of lover the other is. And she just happened to be from Oklahoma too. And lord have mercy, was she ever cute.

I’d take a cute girl over a hot girl any day of the week. See, a hot girl is only one thing, hot. But a cute girl? Shit. A cute girl can look cute (obviously), sexy, and hot, all-in-one. So cute even that I would read her the chorus to Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz’s song Get Low, while on my knees, like that of a poet, looking to win over his potential lover.

 

 

3, 6, 9 – damn you fine
Hoping she can sock it to me one more time
Get low (get low) get low (get low)
Get low (get low) get low (get low)
To the window (to the window)
To the wall (to the wall)
‘Til the sweat drop down my balls (my balls)
‘Til all these bitches crawl (crawl)

‘Til all skeet skeet mo’fuckas, all skeet skeet god damn! (mo’fuckas!)
Til all skeet skeet mo’fuckas, all skeet skeet god damn! (I got down)

Upon the introduction, I could tell that Chris was one of the nicest dude’s around. And as I said, a very skilled artist, working with charcoal most recently, we chatted about his art and all things Tulsa. One thing you will learn about Tulsa is that people here are very proud to be here. Whether it is where they call home, or where their employer just happens to be located. Tulsa is located along the Arkansas River, within the northeast part of the state, running almost parallel to the weird panhandle thing Oklahoma has going on.

The former oil capital of the world, now as a thriving hub of commerce in the southwest, has since diversified into many different sectors. Sure, there is old money noticeable here, from the Italian Villa, themed mansions, and millionaire developments just outside of downtown limits, but there is a real sense of culture. It was described to me that locals view Tulsa as Oklahoma’s Austin, and it’s easy to see why after spending some quality time here.

Chris offered me a few suggestions of things to check out while I was here, with plenty of great food and sights to offer. One thing that stuck in mind was the Gathering Place. I would start there. But it was nearly midnight, and it was time for me to crash into bed so I didn’t crash on the road.

[Chris’ roommate, who happened to be a former Airbnb guest and they hit it off, had just gotten home.]

“Holy fuck, dude! It’s so gnarly out there! This storm is absolutely insane!”

They turned on the news as I tuned out.

 

 

TULSA
TO
AMARILLO

 

 

Up before my alarm once more, I was ready to start the day. Daylight was just peering through as I gathered my belongings and hit the trail. My stay was a short drive back towards downtown, and I was ready to greet the day.

I snap a few downtown sunrise photos, and send one to my mother, for my usual check-in. We usually spoke every day for about a half-hour, something that my father suggested during a pretty shitful period of my life. Ironically, only months after my son was born. I left a pretty good position with the state to join my buddy Brian and assist him with his small engineering firm as a designer/draftsman, but things didn’t go according to plan, and soon I found myself looking for another job. And when I say things didn’t go according to plan, I mean nothing did. I was working out of my apartment, with my son’s mother (already my ex), and son downstairs. It was a pretty tumultuous relationship between us at the time, and it was often difficult to focus on my new work with Brian.

Due to this, I was planning on moving into a house with Brian, as he too was in a rather tumultuous relationship with his wife (rent-to-own) to be both our bachelor pad and workspace, with a proper office area separate from the house to have clients over. But days, yes days, before we were supposed to move in, the owner of the home called to say that the pipes had burst and accomplished all kinds of unthinkable damage to the property, allowing Brian to get out of the lease.

This was the last straw for us both, and we went our separate ways, professionally anyway. Wishing to get out of the engineering field altogether, I searched for random jobs that thought might interest me. I did cold-applications from everything to sign detailer to general laborer at a local feed mill, before finally landing on my feet at a local golf course. I’d walked in and handed my application and cover letter to the first staff person I came across, whom just so happened to be the general manager. He was so impressed by my face-to-face efforts, that he hired me on the spot, without even glancing over my information. I was hired as a general cashier in the pro-shop and I was soon promoted to pro-shop manager, assisting with merchandise, and eventually with helping coordinate schedules and working closely with members.

After a few weeks of this, there was an immediate opening at one of their sister courses for the general manager. Now, the former manager of this said immediate opening would frequently come into the pro-shop at the course I was pro-shop manager at, and would complain a great deal about how much the course sucked, and how it was a sinking ship, and that he was jumping off to swim to shore while he still could. Plus, he was a retired navy officer and was receiving a pretty penny from his pension. So, wanting the experience, I said “Sure, I’ll captain this sinking ship. Bring me aboard, matey!” But what I didn’t know is that not only was it a sinking ship, but it was on fire, with its only chance of being put out was by continuing to sink. I did, however, learn an awful lot during my brief stint as General Manager. One takeaway is that there is always at least one asshole to spoil the fun for the rest. In this case, his name was Dirk, whom I called Dick intentionally on many occasions. On one such occasion, I suggested that my only months’ old son had a larger one than he.

And in my most recent case, his name was Dave. Dónde  Dave?, as he was known to a few of us as he was infamously turned into a “Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?” type character featuring a stupid-ass expression upon his face, photo shopped into historically significant places around the world. Dónde Dave could be found in such places as: atop the Pyramids of Giza, atop the Eifel Tower, at the bottom of Mariana’s Trench, floating outside the international space station, and my personal favorite, in Pamplona, Spain during the running of the bulls.

As general manager, my first order of responsibility was ensuring the members’ and guests’ needs were beyond satisfied. Some of the other responsibilities included the overseeing of over a dozen employees, scheduling of shifts, ordering of inventory, managing the daily tee-sheet, sales and budget reporting, and organizing and managing leagues and tournements I reported to the COO on a regular basis with questions and comments in an accurate and timely manner. I am very proud of my contribution to the course during my brief tenure. I had seasoned members (30+ years) tell me that it was the best and nicest that they’d ever seen the course run.

Sorry, I’m reading directly right off of my resume. See, friend – I was recently let go from yet another position. I know, right before the holidays too. This time I lasted four years, however. My longest tenure anywhere to date. And hey, at least they gave me a few weeks’ severance to help me get back on my feet, so they said. But for the first time in years, I don’t want to just get back on my feet. I want to be so high from life that I’m floating along, never quite feeling my feet touchdown again. I’m writing the rest of this crazy tale at Rock Candy, an incredible co-working space at POD 2 within the more incredible still campus of Rock Lititz. Known as the East-Coast Hollywood of the music industry, and yet there are many people who don’t even know about this place. But that’s kind of the idea.

There are some big wig types that roll through here on a regular basis, mostly in the music scene. Elton John, Madonna, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, and Ariana Grande, just to name a few. Oh, and chances are if you’ve been to a live concert or show of any kind, you’ve seen the handiwork of the men and women of Rock Lititz. From the Super Bowl to the Olympics to WWE and massively scaled production world tours such as U2, Pink Floyd, and Bon Jovi.

But like I said, friend, I’ve never been happier and I don’t plan on my feet ever touching the ground again. I’ve met some truly incredible people here already, and I don’t plan on leaving. It’s been truly motivating surrounding myself with other working professionals and creative’s alike, all at least as ambitious as I. Here’s to floating on, cue the track by Modest Mouse. I was fired, ironically, from the sinking ship set ablaze from the inside out, and simultaneously offered a position back at the course by which I started, only as a general laborer of sorts. I graciously obliged, not even having a paycheck skipped as I was still working for the same parent company.

My first order of business was to operate a small dump truck and to drop-off several dozen loads of fill a day for the snow tubing location which was being constructed just down slope of where the driving range was located. It made perfect sense from a company standpoint, as they’d presumably have people coming through their doors all-year-round, and into their clubhouse where they also ran a separate restaurant and pub, hosting live-music on the regular.

The dump truck was automatic, which obviously helped, but it had more broken parts than those working. The actual lever you needed to pull and put into a position to unload the rear bed was rigged in such a way that you needed to hit it with a wrench to work, but not too hard as not to knock it completely out of it’s’ alignment. The brakes didn’t work, and I was instructed to “Aim for a larger solid object, never members”, if I’d lost control. And the damn thing started maybe only a quarter of the time because it had a bad battery. I ran it out of gas on the first day, because naturally, the fuel gauge didn’t work either. On the second day, I broke the lever because evidently, I knocked it too loose and out of its’ alignment. On the third day, the excavator had me meet up a hill as he had dug what he could on a level field and had filled it up much more than normal, stating “I need to get outta here early today, I’m meeting the boys at the normal drinking hole for the game”, which must’ve broken something, because the whole truck made a horrible noise, and I couldn’t stop it because the brakes had naturally failed while going down the hill. I narrowly missed the CEO as he was out on his golf court checking in on things, and I zipped on by, eventually crashing into a tree, and narrowly bringing the whole goddamn thing sideways, which would’ve rolled down the steep portion of where the snow tubing was being placed. After three days of doing this chore, declaring that the truck was wildly unsafe, counter with the fact that this was the last thing I saw myself doing. I was college-educated, goddamnit!

But that didn’t matter in the least at this present moment of my life.  So I was between jobs for the second time in less than six months. I went back to more cold-call applications, but no bite this time. I was forced to look for immediate work and was picked up at a career day type event from a staffing agency who had openings at a local factory, where the only saving grace was the sheer number of beautiful Latinas I was placed beside. It was my first time doing factory work, and again, I, was college educated, goddamnit! I didn’t belong here. But belonging is a pretty funny word once you wrap your head around it.

Where does one belong? That sounds like the same argument as a right vs. a privilege. I’d venture to say that belong falls into the latter category, and you’re lucky that you belong anywhere, so stop being so pretentious. This is what I finally had to grasp as I would be here for nearly five months. The pay was shit, and the work was fast and hard, but I was making an honest living, even if the pay was dishonest. I befriended a number of people right away, as people were generally friendly there. And nearly everyone I met, they felt the need to inform me that this isn’t where they were supposed to be either, that they too didn’t belong. Yet here we all were, fitting into this crazy factory, even if we didn’t quite belong. I also learned that VTO means just that. It’s when all of the workers show up, and the earlier production crew overproduced whether intentionally or unintentionally due to smooth sailing of the assembly line machinery and crew, or that the demand has lessened, and again the earlier crew has overproduced.

The first time I signed up, I just figured that nobody else heard the call but the three of us. The second time, the supervisor asked are you sure you want to volunteer to have unpaid time off tonight again? “Wait, this is unpaid leave. Oh sorry, I’ve gotta step out of this line then.” I learned a lot here too, however. Mostly through observation during the few breaks on the floor that we had. Mostly when a machine was broken down, which was quite frequently when this one particular worker was involved.

They seemed to double-up the duties of the machine operators as floating machine mechanics as well. Now, I know what you’re thinking, or should be thinking. How the hell does this make sense, on any level? Right, like seriously? Not only are they responsible for their own assembly line operations, but they’re supposed to help fix/maintain their co-workers, or in this case, competitors’ assembly lines the same? So always with this one guy, he would fumble around acting like he had no idea on what was going on. It was almost always because the candy wrappers of a certain brand that shall remain nameless (rhymes with mercy because they had none), would get stuck, and bind up the machine. It seemed like an easy enough fix most of the time, and this would often result in the assembly line operator yelling at this floater to just fix it to get it back up running, as they were showing him what was wrong with the machine and where things got tangled up.

But another few minutes would go by, before throwing up his hands, and calling on one of the primary mechanics whom I can only describe as a cross between Eggman from Sonic and Wario from Mario. He would waddle his way over several minutes later, and after about a quarter of an hour, things would finally be back up and running. We also switched stations on the hour, every hour, to help break up the monotony of it all. Most of which required you to be fairly athletic and coordinated, as things moved quickly, with some operators dialing things up, gambling with the risk that the machine would break down more frequently as a result. We were given two fifteen minute breaks a day, not really enough time to accomplish anything meaningful, obviously. They had several large bins of surplus candy in the lounge area for the workers, which many would dig in.

My suspicion is that they laced these with crack, giving further incentive to come back to work the following day (s). I met a surprisingly high number of people who worked here seven days a week and had another full-time job outside of this one. I also met another surprisingly high number of gals and guys who were aspiring MC’s, Rap Artists, Clothing Designers, and models, all hustling to get to the top of their respective fields. And all of whom looked at least ten years younger than what anyone would’ve guessed their ages to be, even the crackpots at your local county fair. Having said this to several of them, they always smiled, laughed, and kindly responded with something along the lines of “It’s because it’s cold in here. We’re essentially half- cryogenically frozen.” And cold it was. It was often around a cool 45 degrees because the candy simply couldn’t be held in storage if it was any warmer. Mix this cold with lifting several hundred pounds of candy onto a conveyor within an hour, and you have a recipe for longevity, my friend.

But knowing this was not how I wanted to live out the rest of my days, I began actively searching for another job, reluctantly one back in my field of expertise. I was working from 11:00 PM – 7:00 AM, and I would drive straight to the library and work until twelve-noon on readily applying to jobs. I’d research the firm, and go through their staff sections to give a good sense if I’d even wish to apply if they’d be a good fit for me as I would be to them. I’d get to my apartment around 12:30 PM, eat a small dinner, and head to bed by 1:00 PM. I’d then wake up around 8:00 PM to try to catch my son before he went to bed for the night, enjoy a medium-sized breakfast with my son’s mother, who our relationship was and still is rocky. But we shared this adorable little boy together, and at the end of each day, we’ve always understood this much at least. After about two weeks of job searching, the interviews started coming in.

The reason I took the third shift position was so that I could have availability to go in for interviews at the respective potential employers’ offices. I’d hoped to get back into doing surveying, as I so enjoyed while working at my position for the state, but alas, none were actively hiring. I’d signed up to be on the “safety crew”, as it took me away from the assembly line which I was really beginning to loathe. But that turned out to be an extremely tedious job, cleaning out and disassembling/reassembling the machinery whenever using candies with peanuts due to allergies. I imagine they could care less if not for the huge potential lawsuits due to loss of life, the whole nine yards. Lord have mercy – that one seen nearing the end of the film, with Amanda Peet standing at the window, topless, holding the gun. Michel Clarke Duncan was right when his character said: “You know, I can’t think of nothin’ finer than a fine naked woman holdin’ a gun.” But there was nothing sexy about this job, and I needed out in a bad way.

Besides the $8.25/hour just wasn’t cutting it. The first shift was $7.75, second shift at $8.00, and another measly extra quarter/hour raise for the third shift. I knew that another factory was hiring on the spot as the holiday season was fast approaching, at presumably a higher wage than where I was at. Although, I was only making $10 an hour as General Manager at the golf course. Welcome to rural Pennsylvania.

I had several interviews scheduled, and I was confident I’d land something soon. I was invited to travel to an engineering firm out of Royersford, PA for a part-time turn full-time position. My in-person interview went quite well, but I let them know I was a bit uneasy at the part-time aspect of it, and their uncertainty as to a timeframe as to when it would become full-time. The manager drove up to visit me for breakfast and ultimately convinced me to take the leap. It’d be another week and a half by the time they got me settled in, and I needed money coming in.

That afternoon I drove down to the other factory I’d mentioned, and they hired me on the spot, pending a criminal background check and drug test, which was administered via my breath. I tell ya, what a pain in the ass that was. I was scheduled to work the following night for a training orientation. But then I received an email for another interview opportunity at a landscape architecture firm down in Lititz, PA.

What a strange position to be in. I had a full-time job waiting, a part-time offer I’d just accepted, and another interview, all within two days of one another. Sometimes life happens so fast, that it’s hard to tell which side is up. I go into the Lititz firm prepared, and after meeting with the one partner one-on-one, he asks what my current status is. I inform him that I actually had another offer on the table.

The tone of the room changes to become much more serious. He phones the other partner, as well as whom would be my immediate superior. Now it is the three of us in that room. The first partner gets the other two gentlemen up to speed, and they then each offer their own barrage of questions. Several minutes later, we wrap up the interview, with the one partner stating “We hope we can offer something the other can’t.”

The following Monday, I received an offer from them. Leaving the factory position was an easy call, but what about this new predicament I’ve found myself in? My grandmother had just passed away, and there was an opportunity for my father to buy out his two siblings and get the house in his name. This would’ve been a way for me to more easily accept the part-time gig in Royersford, as my grandparent’s home was in Perkasie, PA, so only about a 45-minute commute. About twice the national average, but still. I’d have my own place, and I had a number of family members in all directions within a half-hour radius. It would’ve made it difficult being there for my son, however. An obvious major drawback. But still, I was torn. I saw it as an opportunity to start a new chapter in my life, and I wanted to make sure I took the right one.

But it can be hard to see that you’re making the right choice when it’s right in front of you. Only in looking back retrospectively, is it easy. But even then, more “What if’s?” might arise by doing this exercise. My advice – stay in the moment. We’re all on this drive through life together. Yes, we are each responsible for steering our own wheels, doing the best to stay on course. But we are all sharing this road together. And to get to where you’re going you can’t keep looking into your rear-view, and you can’t just stay so focused on the road ahead of you that you miss all there is to see on either side of you either. I phoned up Godfather Dan to seek his counsel on what he would do. His wife also helped to share her advice, and both agreed with me, confirming what I was already thinking. I then phoned my father to seek his counsel, which again confirmed my thinking because it was completely the opposite of what he had suggested I do.

The next morning, I called the firm in Royersford to let them know I’d found a better offer, one which I simply couldn’t refuse. I could tell that the manager was pretty surprised to hear this news, yet understanding as to my wishing to stay in close proximity to my son. I was supposed to be out in State College that evening to meet him at a swanky hotel for dinner and to begin my training out of the office out there intermittently. It was one of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had to have because my future was truly on the line.

I once had a co-worker tell me that before he wed his wife, he had two girls to choose whom to marry, and he was so unsure on who to pick, that he flipped a coin. Flipped a coin? That’s crazy! But you know what he said – “I knew I’d be happy with either one, so I let it up to fate with whom to pick.” Now, that might sound crazy at first glance, and upon a second glance, likely even a third, but you can’t deny that it’s a pretty spiritual way to determine one’s future.

And here I am. My future. It’s pretty open right now. Much like the open road. Who I choose to apply for, who I choose to interview for, what word I place after another to convey the rest of this Gonzo-novel. Every single thing we do in life affects the future. But that is no reason to worry or fear. Let go of the past, and keep your eyes open in the present, and your future will take you further than you ever could’ve written down that it would be back in first grade when you wrote down what you wanted to be when you grow up.

You know, friend. That’s my only goal with this, this life. And you might wish it to be yours as well. It’s quite simple – here goes: My goal in life is to make that little kid cry during career day when they see a future-self presenting to the class as to who it is they’ve become. And my mission statement. Well, that’s quite simple too, and it aligns pretty well with my life’s goal. Ready? Here goes – My mission in life is not to change the world but I do hope that the world has changed because of the way I’ve lived my life. Here goes nothing.

“Greetings from downtown Tulsa, Mom! It’s a beautiful morning. Everything has been nothing short of incredible. This trip is holy. Love you.” I needed to charge my phone as I forgot again last night. It’s a good thing Rufus is a good chunk of wood because he’s a horrible assistant. I pull over just outside downtown to hang out for a bit while my phone gets some juice. Jamming on some more The Flaming Lips, formed in 1983, again how have I not given them a listen by now? I’m feeling pretty solid. I’m getting further into a groove, if you will, and things are really starting to feel like they’re coming together. “Damn, this is some pretty awesome artwork!” I pull over to investigate further, leaving my car on standby as I’m still charging my phone.  Phat Tire Bike Shop, you guys clearly know what you’re doing. You’re hip. You’re cool. You’re cultured. You’re everything that’s what’s right about Tulsa, and I’m not suggesting there is anything wrong either.

Tulsa has some really cool historical aspects to it, all highlighting the golden era of 66. Walking around the Pearl District, you feel something. You feel there is a real sense of purpose here. You can tell that this place was carefully planned out and that it really is a great use of space. I’m standing outside Mother Road Market, how fitting. But they aren’t yet open. It is only 7:34 AM after all. But this was one of the places that Chris had suggested last evening to make sure to check out.

There are some really cool murals to be found around here as well. One of my absolute favorite murals of the whole trip is here. It features some really trippy design features, and highlights a few of Oklahoma’s famed 66 iconic places, with a sweet muscle car in the middle and 66 prominently displayed as well. Even a local HVAC and Plumbing contractor has a super sweet mural. Pontiac, there’s still hope for you yet. And the food trucks. Good lord does Tulsa have them. If you don’t find one to your liking here, you don’t like food. It’s as simple as that.

But sadly, they aren’t open yet either. Fuel 66, you and I have some hanging out to do. Snapping some more nearby murals, I look for something more to explore. Let’s see. I thought I wrote them all down. What else did Chris say?  But alas, nothing was saved, and my mind was pretty fried by then to have remembered anything naturally. I was looking to head into 918 Coffee, but I narrowly got hit by a speeding Harley and saw my life flash before my eyes for a moment. I needed to walk it off a bit and ended up in front of Renaissance Square. There are some really cool hardscape items right out front. There is a really neat looking Route 66 Sign, some beautiful planters featuring Oklahoma US 66, and even some brick pavers featuring the same. I’m wide awake from the rush earlier, so no need for coffee at the moment. I head back on the road, venturing back to the other side of town. I see an elegant sign for Swan Lake as I glance to the right.

That looks like something I should enjoy checking out. I make the right on E 19th St. and head onto Swan Dr. This place is truly stunning. I felt like I was walking around some Key West bankers’ estate in Florida, not a community in Northeast Oklahoma. I stay on Swan Dr. and park Virginia, just on the other side of a worker’s vehicle. She was doing some general cleanup of weeds around the lake. Which I was skeptical of at first, calling it a lake, but it’s either you call it that or “big-ass pond.” There are a few people out walking their dogs, or out for a morning jog, all of whom were friendly as could be, offering a friendly smile and wave as we crossed paths.

I make a brief video call to my parents to show them how beautiful this place. Now, my only gripe is that I didn’t see a single swan. I did, however, see dozens of ducks. So, while I do agree that it is rightfully considered a lake, I would motion that you change it to Duck Lake. Although, that probably didn’t test as well during their marketing team meetings.

Regardless of the name, the homes and people here are gorgeous. A quick Zillow search brings up three homes for sale: 4 bds, 3 ba, 2,541 sq. ft. for $445,000; 3 bds, 3 ba, 2,783 sq. ft. for $585,900; and $3 bds, 4 ba, 2,189 sq. ft. for $539,000; with a few “Zestimates” as high as $659,000. But as I said, you wouldn’t necessarily know this otherwise with everyone here being so humble. These were all historic homes, huge, with plenty of detail and care put into them. And from these Zillow images of the ones for sale, they were just as elegant on the insides as well. Oh, and their back patios, all of whom seemed to feature a focal point, which was pretty tight too. But enough dreaming of Duck Lake, I mean Swan Lake. Perhaps Duck Lake can be a sister lake in PA? We’ll be in touch.

I hop back in Virginia and look for another spot to check out while my energy is flowing high. I then recalled that Chris had mentioned to check out the Philbrook Museum of Art, a quite sensible suggestion from a fellow artist. But, it seemed that even a non-artist could appreciate such a fine palace as this. Yes, palace. Because that’s what it feels like. This place is massive. The former home of Waite Phillips, a petroleum businessman, and his wife, Genevive. It was donated to the city and opened as a museum to the public on October 25, 1939. But they were closed for renovations while I was there, and I was unable to get passed the main gate. But then I drove up a bit further to the main entrance, where there is ample parking available. Yes, truly closed. But I did get to snap a few really cool photos of a ‘60s era candy apple red mustang in the parking lot, with the Philbrook Museum in the backdrop. I decide to (a bit aimlessly mind you) drive around a bit more around Tulsa, soaking up some of the further gorgeous homes by the Philbrook Museum, many of which are in the millions of dollars. I wondered who is living here now. Are these homes still being passed down from generation as trusts and inheritances from former Oil and Petroleum magnates, or are they being purchased by newer families who have furthered the energy sector in and around Tulsa or the prevalent banking sector as well?

Either way, Tulsa has some banging-ass homes for sale. Perhaps a home on both Swan Lake and the to-be-developed Duck Lake someday? But enough about the wonderful homes here. Let’s get back to the reason why we’re here. 66. Getting your kicks yet, friend? I trust that you are. #metoo. Sorry, that may have been inappropriate. But not like it stuck to its’ primary mission anyway. Seriously, #metooyouthree. Going back through all of my photos and notes, it’s been an incredible experience for me. Obviously not the same as being there again, but it’s oddly, pretty close. I open back up my ToDoist and flip to my Tulsa to Amarillo segment. Now, there’s a lesson to be found here, friend. See, I screwed up on my Tulsa to Amarillo segment. Everything I’d written down was actually supposed to be seen during my St. Louis to Tulsa leg. Oops.

That said, I actually had zero points of interest that I’d be able to checkout. So, I simply searched in Maps for landmarks. The first to come up was the Golden Driller: Titanic Oil Man. Ah yes, I do recall seeing this in a previously read Roadside America article. As I’ve mentioned, Tulsa has a rich oil history here. Very rich. So rich in fact that an oilfield supply company out of Texas set up the original Golden Driller for a trade show at the Tulsa State Fairgrounds. Two versions later, on April 8, 1966, we have the giant that stands before us today. Designed by George S. “Grecco” Hondronastas, a Greek immigrant, this became a staple monument in Tulsa.  But in 1979, the Texas supply company stopped any maintenance, ultimately abandoning their once prized statue. The city of Tulsa took ownership and repaired the bullet holes, somehow not surprisingly, as well as some other needed repairs. After this, it was declared to be Oklahoma’s state monument and quickly met with public outcry over this decision.

Apparently many had wished that he wore a shirt and that it was an overall eyesore. So there ya have it folks’. The whole notion today of “Not in my backyard”, was started by a bunch of Boomers in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1979. You’re welcome. But actual oil workers thought this notion to be stupid and quickly shot down their attempted shutdown. A quick fun fact about this giant – The Golden Driller stands as the tallest free-standing statue in the US. And yes, that is an actual oil derrick that he is resting his hand upon. Made up of steel and concrete, and weighing in at 22 tons, it is thought that it would survive winds exceeding 200 MPH. But I gotta say, as impressive as this beast of a man is, not much of a bulge from “The Golden Driller.” Perhaps that’s why it stands in Tulsa, and not in LA…

Empire Optical. You guys have one of the cleverest logos that I’ve ever come across. The way the glasses make up the “e” and “o” – genius. I truly appreciate the minimalistic design of your office as well, including the statue out front. Well done. Another thing you notice in Tulsa is that everybody seems to be fit. So many locals are out jogging, often with their dogs, and wearing warm smiles as they pass others by. We need more of this in the tri-state area. If you showed this same affection in some areas near me, they’d assume you were up to no good and signal to the cop across the street.

I’ve just pulled into Gathering Place. This place is rather incredible. I probably could’ve spent a solid day here, and still not had the chance to have seen everything. At approximately 66.5 acres, you’re again transformed into another world. This is a landscape architect’s dream playground. The architecture and engineering are equally as impressive.  A quick fun note – evidently there is a controversy over gun rights, as it is both considered privately owned, yet publicly funded, which constitutes that individuals with the right permits are fitted to carry their arms. On the grand opening, Tulsa police officers turned away a private citizen who was carrying a firearm.

There was a rally held the following day by the Oklahoma Second Amendment Association, and they made it clear that this shit would not stand. They simply said it would be allowed, and they wished them not to have to force them. And while technically still illegal, the city has said that Tulsa Police will not make any arrests against those who bring in firearms to the grounds, for fear of legal challenges. So all you cowboys and cowgirls, you may schedule all of your duels at Gathering Place. Just kidding, please don’t do that. I’d like to be welcomed back, and I don’t need my face on some wanted posters for causing an uprising. But a paintball match here would be insane! For future birthday parties, perhaps?

Anyway. You almost feel like you’re at what I imagine one of those fancy resorts are like in Aspen, but with a more laid back vibe throughout. It’s very family-oriented here, with the first main attraction being listed as the Chapman Adventure Playground, which seemed like a blast for the few families at the park during my stay. You are free to come and go as you please here as well. And as beautiful as everything was during the day, I imagine this place really comes its’ true vision at night.

Time for some coffee. I’d read earlier about Redbud Cafe, part of my remembering to come to Gathering Place. You almost feel like you’re at a zoo or some wildlife preserve while venturing around the park. I was half expecting to see exotic birds fluttering around just outside the windows while I waited for my iced latte. There were plenty of other beverages and food available here as well, but there was much to see, and I was getting mine to go. I was soon greeted by some very personable staff, and they noticed I was taking photos of pretty much damn everything at this point. They were having a press day featuring some of the primary people behind the very design of Gathering Place. But what about the contractors? I mean sure, it took some incredible vision for a place like this, but it takes some incredible skill to actually build it. Don’t worry guys, I got you!

Designed by the landscape architecture firm Michael Van Valkenburgh Associates, with Mack Scogin Merrill Elam Architects, and Crossland Construction. I walked around sipping on my beverage and wandered up to Vista at the Boathouse, a fine-dining area overlooking the rest of the park. And just like back in St. Louis, I walked around as I belonged. Everything was set up extremely eloquently, and the bar area looked like something I’d expect to see in a high-quality NYC upscale bar. I sit down at a table with a window view and finish the rest of my latte.

[A managerial figure walks out from behind a door by the bar]

“Oh, umm, hi. How are you?  Should I have been out here serving you? We’re not yet open.”

“No, I don’t think so sir, but thank you. I’ll be on my way after I finish this.”

“No problem at all, sir. Have a good day.”

And just like back in Atlantic City, if you act as you belong, people tend not to really give a shit. The door was open, and I walked through, having the best view in the park as I enjoyed a nice cold beverage on a warm summer’s day. It was really a perfect moment. I won’t go on any further, however. There is much else to see. Ranked as USA Today’s best new attraction of 2019, and included on TIME magazine’s World’s Greatest Places of 2019, and with the tagline of A Park For Everyone, it seems pretty obvious – just get here.

And if you’re in for the more chain-style experience, every city bus I saw that day had Hard Rock Cafe ads covering them. Time to take the edge off of my latte. I search for “Irish Pub” and see Kilkenny’s Irish Pub listed. Too perfect. I’d just had a Smithwick’s back in Chicago, and seeing how Smithwick’s was founded in Kilkenny in 1710, I couldn’t not go here. E 15th St. seemed to be a pretty happening area of town. From cafes to deli’s, to restaurants, and pubs. All seemingly locally owned too. My kinda spot. Except for Subway and Panera. Can’t win ‘em all!

I walk in as the staff is just getting things prepared for the day because I suspect not many are coming in just for coffee. A super cute brunette with glasses, which acted like a microscope highlighting her big beautiful brown eyes, is the first to greet me.

[I open the door with much greater force as needed, and it slams into the wall with a thunderous bang.]

“Hi, we don’t serve alcohol until 11:00 AM. Sorry. Also, wow! Breaking everything already, I see?”

How could she tell? How could she tell that I was fixing on getting a drink or two? Perhaps it was in my eyes, which were now dumbstruck in awe of this girl.

“That’s okay, I’ll be back. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. But I assure you, I’ll be back”

[Said in the terminator’s voice, mind you, making an already awkward situation further more awkward.]

I was right at home. But usually, my full awkwardness doesn’t open up until after sex when I really fall for a girl. After all, that’s how you really get to know someone. And if you’re with someone who has a “three-date rule” or some other bullshit, take them dancing. Everyone knows you dance like you fuck. But if I had a ring, I’d have gotten down on my hands and knees for her. Sometimes you just know, ya know? But, seeing how I just damaged their wall, came across as a tourist alcoholic, and my failed impression, perhaps I shouldn’t have come back?

I head back to Virginia, and charge my phone up some more, while I curate my playlist for the next leg. I’d be in Texas by nightfall, and this was perhaps my most anticipated stretch for the soundtrack. Just a legendary state for music. Some of the all-time greats of Americana are from here. And thanks to Austin, so many talented musicians and artists get their start here, officially identifying as an Austin band henceforth. Even back to the Texas Country Roots with the outlaw country movement with artists such as Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and David Allan Coe retreated out of Nashville back to Texas and choosing Austin instead. But it’s likely the legendary blues artists and bands that are my closely tied to Texas music.

Beginning with the Father of Texas Blues and Blind Lemon Jefferson to Lightnin’ Hopkins, Lil Son Jackson, T-Bone Walker, Robert Johnson’s famous two recording sessions of the late ‘30s took place in Texas, to Goree Carter who’s song “Rock Awhile” has been cited as the first rock and roll record ever, to Johnny Copeland, Albert Collins, and Freddie King furthering this new electric sound, to the Winter and Vaughn brothers. And obviously, there is one of the greatest trios of all time with ZZ top and more recently we have Gary Clark Jr. and Black Pistol Fire (originally from Toronto, Canada, before making the exodus to Austin like their contemporaries before the.)

I decided to park off the street to avoid getting a ticket as there was off-street parking available at Kilkenny’s. Along this alley, there is a really cool mural that simply states “Come as you are WELCOME to SOCIETY.”

[There was another super cute brunette cleaning the mural and touching up a few spots.]

“Reminds me of Nirvana.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

It’s exactly 11:01 AM as I re-entered. But it’s a slow news day Tuesday, and I’m the only patron in the bar. Which was fine by me, as I was free to walk around this fine establishment. Now, I’d never been to Kilkenny, Ireland, but I imagine it looked a lot like this. I’m unsure if anything was imported, etc. but it felt authentic. And I’m not the only one to think this. Voted as one of the 25 Most Authentic Irish Pubs in America in an MSN article, again you’re transformed to another world. A common theme I’ve experienced here in Tulsa.

I chat up with Patti, the bartender, and we learn that we are both Pennsylvania natives. Patti grew up near Reading and was quite versed with the rolling farmland in Lancaster County nearby where I worked at the time. The super cute brunette was nowhere to be found (a likely intentional move), but I enjoyed talking with Patti, Joey, and the other staff I ran into making my rounds photographing seemingly every nick and cranny found here. And seeing how interested I was in this place, they had recommended I checked out NOLA’s, just up the street from here. “If you like this, you’re going to love Nola’s!” I got a free beer thanks to our friendly conversation and for reminding her of home. I gave Patti a generous tip for her generosity, and I was on my way once again.  I notice Hideaway Pizza nearby, and that place looked quite cultured as well, featuring another really cool mural on the side, by KD Painted Illusions. And Google Maps might label it as E 15th St, but there are several indications that this was at least one time, Cherry St. Tucked in one of the worst parking lots designs ever constructed in the history of mankind, I finally make way into Nola’s.

There are just too many establishments in this square to have parking lots squeezed in like this. They must not have had to run turn-movements here, because nothing would’ve shown that it worked. Instead, they must’ve used little matchbox cars during their public meeting, making noises like little kids playing, drifting into each space as to distract the council for approval. But once you’re finally near the entrance, wow. You walk up to these large doors “Nola’s Creole and Cocktails” with the iconic Fleur-de-lis emblem. Oh, I get it. Nola’s as in NOLA’s, or New Orleans, Louisiana. Pretty cool guys, pretty cool. There is a banner hung on the side – “IT’S BIG, IT’S EASY, AND IT’S OPEN.” Now, fifteen-year-old me would’ve turned to my friend and said “Your Mom.” But I’m passed that. I’m thirty-one, goddamnit! I’m a mature adult now. Now I’d turn to a friend and have said “Your Mother.”

But the crew back at Kilkenny’s was right, this place is awesome. Now, I’ve never been to New Orleans, but again I’m transformed into another world. There are wonderful chandeliers found throughout, and the ceiling is beautiful as well with ornate details. And I’ve never seen such a beautiful tap area. They were all backlit, contained in chrome tubing, and even a pretty vase with yellow and white flowers was placed carefully in front of the tap area. Everything appeared to be handcrafted and custom made, just like over at Kilkenny’s. Like I said, otherworldly.

I’m really digging this common thread found in Tulsa.  I quickly chat with another gorgeous bartender, Amy. She asks where I’m from and I let her know that I’m most recently from Kilkenny’s and they sent me here. “Oh, I love it there! A lot of my friends work there. It’s owned by the same guy, Brett. A few of us will pick up shifts at both. That’s so cool you got to check out both!” Apparently, they must’ve phoned over that a famous author was coming over, and that my drink at Nola’s would be on the house as well. Funny, how fast a crazy thing can spread.

But half-truth or not, I graciously accepted the free draft as I continued to admire it all. But it was pretty busy, and I didn’t want to take up any more of her time. I thank her for the drink once more and for her kind service before leaving New Orleans back to Tulsa. But I’m leaving nearly an hour after my goal of heading out to each host city by noon. It’s easy to get caught up when you truly feel like you’ve been in another world for much of the day. That said, I didn’t get to some of the famous historical spots associated with 66 in Tulsa. But I wasn’t going to miss the famous entrance sign. No sir. Featuring the famous neon lights, it spans over the roadway, like wings. Held outright by the Crystal City shopping center, there is also a small paver area featuring some decorative bollards and a really creative statue, commemorating 66.

And then on I went. Amarillo bound. Oh, and look out for some specific Tulsa 66 painted markings. These are pretty cool. There are a few abandoned motels and other buildings along this stretch as well. Even the cities are immune to this. Another thing you learn about Tulsa and Oklahoma, in general, is how proud they are of their involvement in Route 66’s history. I later learned that Oklahoma has the longest-serving and active stretches of Route 66 among any other state.

Now, as awesome as Tulsa was, and the fact I’d loved to have spent more time there, I should’ve left at noon. An hour can go a long way on a road trip such as this. And there was so much to see this day. But alas. Next time. The next town I stopped in was Sapulpa, a town that is very rich in Route 66 history. I mean there’s the Heart of Route 66 Auto Museum here, featuring a giant replica fuel pump outside the gates. You can’t miss it. Seriously. Just about every business here has Route 66 at the forefront or is least a part of it’s’ name. Route 66 Ranch and Cattle, Route 66 RV Park, Route 66 Dog Ranch, Sapulpa Route 66 Blowout, Route 66 Electric, Route 66 Gun and Pawn, you get the picture. And there will be plenty of opportunities for those here.

Now, I felt like I was at a bit of a crossroads here, so to speak. It’s like the architecture here was not quite mid-west, not quite wild-west, but a blend of sorts. Either way, the architecture was quite strikingly beautiful here, as well as the few murals that caught my eye. Next, the town I stopped in was Bristow, another proud Route 66 town, with more businesses featuring that title in their name. It’s around here that 66’s landscape really starts to take shape.

From here on out, is what most people think of when they hear Route 66. It’s often the vast landscape vistas that come to mind before the motels, restaurants, ice-cream parlors, and the like. You begin to see some real-life ranches, not just like the ones in country-westerns of the ’50s and ’60s. And things just generally begin to really open up, with increasing distances between towns. Just set your own soundtrack, set your cruise control, and set your eyes on the road. Enjoy, friend. About an hour out of Tulsa, I come to Prague. Yes, I know what you’re probably thinking. And yes, you would be correct to think that it must be related to the Czech Republic somehow because it was founded by Czech immigrants, with an altered pronunciation of the name of ‘preig’ vs. ‘prag’. Did you know that last bit too? Don’t even pretend to pat yourself on the back, you lying bastard!

Now, this next part, I myself am very confused by how I managed to do it. “How did I end up here to begin with?” 66 is pretty far north of here, and it still paralleled nicely along 44. So how was I so far south, and going due south, mind you? My only guess is that I was going to check out Norman, as recommended by just about everyone I spoke with in Tulsa, which is home to the University of Oklahoma and seemed to be another really great town.

But was I going out on 377 then headed west on 9 into Norman? I really have no idea. But the fact of the matter is I was in Red Devil Country, a properly sounding town for me to be in. Especially with my heritage from my father’s grandmother’s side being from former Czechoslovakia, now the Czech Republic and Slovakia, respectively.  I snap a few selfies, doing my best Red Devil impression and move along, because truthfully, there was nothing there.

I saw no-one on the streets and passed no other vehicles during my brief time there. They do have some really cool historical buildings in their downtown area, with some really pretty murals to boot. One such mural advertised for their Kolache Festival, held the first Saturday in May every year. It featured very creatively a pretty girl in colorful traditional garb, while the rest of the mural is done in black and white. One might wish to stop by, if only for this festival.

There is also another mural that features a football player, some more traditional garb (another girl, not the football player), a railroad car, some hard-working men, and what appears to be their school. And then you’re reminded again that The Mother Road is what united all of these small towns together. Whether headed west or east, they would stop in towns like Prague, Oklahoma to fill up and fuel up, perhaps to gather around the local pub while the wife tended to their children back at the motel, while they prepared for another long day ahead tomorrow, ever closer to their final destination.

But people still live here, and even though it might not look like much, it might mean the world to them. And if you asked the locals here, they probably wouldn’t want to change a thing about it. I pass through Meeker, and it couldn’t have been any bleaker. I’m in downtown, and there are two cars parked. There appears to be only one store still open on either side of the street, with one car parked at each. Every other store with closed or for sale signs upfront, often hung over top boarded up windows to prevent vandalism and trespassing.

Okay, so maybe if you asked the locals, they would say they’d like a few things to change. But how? Towns like this didn’t even have the benefit of Route 66 connecting them. How do towns like this survive? Both of the people I saw eventually, must’ve been in their 80’s, and many of the youth going to places like nearby Tulsa, Oklahoma City, or Norman. What will these small towns look like a hundred, even fifty years from now? Time will tell. And speaking of time, I best get a move on. And boy, I really messed things up with my directions that day. I knew I wanted to see the famous Round Barn in Arcadia, OK, and so I was back traveling north once again, finally getting back into 66 territories starting with Warwick, Luther, then Arcadia.

Getting closer to the Round Barn, you realize the scale of this thing. It’s much larger than I’d imagined it would actually be, especially knowing that it was designed and built by just one person, William H. Odor, a farmer. To build this impressive barn, he purchased a sawmill, and used local lumber from Oak trees. And while still green, he placed the lumber into specially made jigs to bend them into curved shapes for the sides and roof rafters. He ignored his friends and neighbors who all said he was crazy, and what many to this day consider to be an architectural wonder. Originally intended to be used for livestock and hay storage, upstairs flooring was later upgraded to be used for dances and other communal events. Arcadia’s own Gathering Place of sorts. Ignore others, even yourself at times, and build your own Round Barn.

But once you do, don’t boast about it. Just let it speak for itself. It speaks much more loudly and profoundly that way. There are also some other historical buildings within walking distance you should visit as well. I got a few gifts at the gift store downstairs and went back to Virginia to get some spare change as a donation. Holy shit, I’d nearly forgotten to check upstairs! I placed my few dollars in the bucket, and head upstairs to see what I view as the most impressive part of this whole thing.

You really get a sense of scale while standing up top too. You’re in this giant room, with what must stand as twenty-plus feet from center to top of the roof, and it seems to be a perfect acoustical area as well. Even my light whispers reverberated perfectly around the room. To test this further another couple was there, and I asked them if they’d mind doing a quick experiment with me. I asked them to stand directly across from me on the other side of the room (something I probably got from MythBusters) and asked them to say something in a normal speaking voice. It sounded like they were whispering in my ear. “Testing – 1,2. Testing – 1,2.” They said the same thing as we joined back together in the middle, smiling at this truly remarkable space. I could only imagine how awesome it would be to record something here. One day, perhaps.

I snap a few more photos of the old farm working tools, and the historic Arcadia Farmer’s Market office building, and ready to hit the open road again. But not before I notice a billboard directly across the road for Southern Buds Cannabis Company, based out of Edmond, OK. Talk about history meets new. Speaking of history meets new, there is POPS Restaurant, opened in 2007 as another Route 66 attraction in Arcadia. There is a sleekly designed giant neon constructed sign (66 ft. tall, fittingly) in the shape of a soda bottle. The sign itself is lit by LEDs, providing a light show of sorts for those passing by at night. With over 700 kinds of soda and other refreshments available, so even your pickiest of little brats will find something they enjoy. But I’ve stayed here longer than I’d planned as well, with it fast approaching 5:00 PM, and I was still over four hours away to Amarillo.

I was going right through Oklahoma City, and I’d like to have explored Oklahoma’s capital and largest city. It seemed that many of Arcadia’s residents came to Oklahoma City as well, with nearly 30% living below the poverty line; they needed to find work in a city. Thankfully, they were only about a half-hour away. And I’m sorry, Oklahoma City, looking back at my timestamps, I was only there for twenty minutes. Yes, I know, I know. I said I was sorry.

But here’s what I did while I was there: I checked out the Santa-Fe Amtrak area, where there is also a conveniently located charging station for electric vehicles. Which is something I noticed along the way. It would seem that one was able to travel cross-country in their TESLA thanks to the number of charge stations. Whenever I was filling up, there was almost always a charging station, and if not at the gas station I was at, the one down the road had an area for them. Back to OKC: I saw a sign for Bricktown, which appealed to me. It seemed I was already in Bricktown, which is just south of downtown, and so I ventured further into this, Bricktown. And as the name suggests, yes, there are bricks. Thousands of them line several blocks in this very cool area of town.

Home to things such as Chickasaw Bricktown Ballpark, Brickopolis Entertainment, Rocky’s Bricktown Event Hall, and Bricktown Brewery, it seemed like this was the place to be in town. And look, its Mickey Mantle’s Steakhouse. Turns out, the Hall-of-fame Yankee center fielder, right fielder, and the first baseman is from Spavinaw, OK, about an hour northeast of Tulsa. Offered a scholarship to play halfback at Oklahoma University, he was kicked in his left shin and developed osteomyelitis in his left ankle, which is a crippling disease, incurable only a few years prior. Without penicillin to reduce the infection, he would’ve needed his leg amputated. No leg, no future Yankee. No Mantle, perhaps no such Yankee dominance in the ’50s and ’60s. The rest of baseball, you can thank the local Oklahoma City hospital circa 1949. You’re welcome. And what’s this I’ve just passed by? Flaming Lips Alley. As a newly devoted fan of the native OKC band, The Flaming Lips, it doesn’t get any cooler than that. I needed a drink. Time to head back to Bricktown Brewery. My timer showing about 12-minutes, plenty of time to enjoy a nice cold draft craft beverage. But alas. My plans are foiled.

[A breathtakingly beautiful blonde sees me outside taking photos as I make my way towards the entrance.]

 

 

“Hello hun, I, well I’m really sorry, but we’re, well, we’re closed. We just had a blackout in the city due to all the storms that came through last night, and none of our systems is up and runnin’ yet.”

[Insert perma-grin, and awkward silence].

I didn’t know what to say. She was the sweetest girl I’d ever encountered in my life. And that southwestern accent of hers. Oh.My.Goodness. What a doll. Hopefully, I muttered out something like “That’s okay, sweetie, I’d best be on the road anyway. You take care now!” But Lord knows what actually came out of my mouth other than my pearly whites in a surely just as awkward smile. But having about 6-minutes remaining, I figured I’d drive around a bit more to get in some last-minute sights. I head north towards downtown OKC, along Mickey Mantle Dr. There is a lot going on here.  The Mantel Wine Bar and Bistro (not to be confused with Mickey Mantle), TapWerks Ale House and Cafe, Skinny Slim’s, a sleek looking hotel of sorts known as Aloft OKC, just a lot of cool shit.

I decide to make a left on NE 2nd St as my time would soon be expiring. But not before noticing some shipping containers. And as I mentioned, I’m a self-declared minimalist. And as a minimalist, I love the whole concept of shipping containers. The whole “Repurposing, is good for the environment, man” is something I feel strongly about. And you should too. Just because it’s the right thing to do, regardless of which side of the political fence you’re on. And there’s hardly room to be in the middle, and who wants to straddle something every day of their life. This isn’t “Your Mother” we’re talking about here.

OK Sea as it’s called is a truly awesome project in a seemingly truly awesome city. Created and designed by architect Wade Scaramucci to prove that shipping container development is quick, cheap, and well, awesome. With five mixed-use spaces available, at the time of my experience, housing Belle Kitchen, Wheeze the Juice, Anchor Down, Stowaway Records, and Scott Group, LLC, as well as featuring an ATM. There is also Deep Deuce Dog Park, directly adjacent to the property. So go out to a ballgame, walk your dog before dinner, and enjoy a beautiful sunset looking back towards the city skyline. A perfect way to spend a day in downtown OKC. As for my sunset, I was planning on spending mine at one of my personal must-see destinations along 66.

And with exactly two and a half hours till then, I’d be counting it pretty close on making it there in time, also given there were a few more destination stops along the way. I’m at a major junction, and it’s the first time seeing signs for Amarillo, continuing west on 40, Lawton west on 44, or back east again towards Tulsa with 44 east. There’s always an adrenaline rush for seeing signs for your destination city, or even seeing signs for places you were near, yet not indenting to go to. You jot these places down and make a point of taking those exits instead the next time you’re on The Mother Road. And talk about open country out here.

When being immersed in such openness, it finds a way of really grounding you as a person. I’m traveling by Calumet now, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so small. Being so close to the Rockies several years ago was obviously grounding too, but for me, there’s just something about being able to look out into the horizon from all directions, that really makes you recognize that there is something larger than you. Regardless of your religious or spiritual beliefs, the fact is we aren’t so big after all. And we’re not at the top of the food chain as many claim. Mother Nature is.

I’m coming up on the heart of tornado alley, and one of these bastards would throw Virginia around like a $2 whore. I need to stop for fuel, however. I can’t make the same mistake I had last night. I’m traveling on 66, and I come upon a bunch of Cherokee themed places. Travel Mart, Trading Post, Restaurant. And there’s a Rock of Restoration Church across the street in case you need to restore any of your precious gems or something. And even if it’s a little gimmicky looking, there does seem to be some pretty cool authentic Native American memorabilia and merchandise. Right as you walk in, you see to your right, a large buffalo statue, with a beautiful headdress and other gems and items placed on each side. But no time to check out this travel post, I’m outta here! Rufus, how you holdin’ up, boy? And how about you, friend? Hold that thought. I’ll be right back. Ah, much better! I’m back drinking coffee again, and well, my body is having to make a few, adjustments.

But I figure it’s better than taking to strong drink as an alternative, given my current situation. But anyway, where was I? Ah yes. In keeping with the Native American theme, there are a lot of casinos out this way. As soon as you get near Tulsa and OKC, you start losing count at how many there are. And some of the names of the towns out here are quite water-themed. Bridgeport (no port to be found) and Dead Women Crossing (surely no dead women to be found). But that gets us to Clinton, another small yet historically significant town along 66. Home to Toby Keith, the country music star, as well as a well-known High School Football program, the Red Tornadoes, and featuring mascot “Tony the Anthropomorphic Tornado.” And no, he’s not disabled, it just means that it’s a non-human entity being attributed human characteristics. I can’t locate a photo of this mascot, but I’m sure it’s just as stupid as the Lebanon Cedars mascot. Point being, please stop making stupid high school mascots out of anthropomorphic objects. I know it sucks, but you’re better off just stick to the same twelve animals, and purchasing shitty logos based on professional sports teams.

It’s around Clinton that you begin to recognize that you need to be on the lookout for “Old 40” signs. It won’t always say 66, but this is to my knowledge, actually Historic 66. But as I said, Clinton is home to some pretty cool 66 iconic spots, most notably The Glancy Motor Hotel. You can even still rent out a room here, although I wouldn’t recommend using the pool unless shallow and green are two things you want to hear when diving in a public pool. There is also, Oklahoma Route 66 Museum. A must stop for anyone even remotely interested in the history of it all. Featuring the 66 Diner, a replica of what one of the once famed burger and ice-cream joints looked like, a beautifully restored Phillips 66 Fuel truck, and the museum resembling nicely, a historic motel, with a cool checkered winner’s circle of sorts proudly displaying Oklahoma US 66 in the middle.

I arrived after hours, but from peering in, there seemed to be some really neat memorabilia including classic cars as well. I pictured myself driving in one of the thunderbirds in the showcase area, pulling up with my family and ordering a few plates of burgers and some ice cream while we checked in at the nearby motel on our journey to California, where we would start a new life. But it’s getting late, and I’m not about to miss my sunset destination. So back into Virginia and further west we head. “But goddamnit. Sonofabitch. How did I not better prepare?” The National Route 66 Museum on Route 66 in Elk City, you marvelous bastard! One which I was somehow completely unaware of until passing through.

This was like its own mini-city, featuring so many different things that one would’ve found along 66. And not just 66 either. It very much showed what the way of living was like back in early America too. A small open room church, an opera house, an almost plantation styled motel of sorts, with other model homes and stores in Old Town Museum. There are also some extravagant statues featuring a buffalo, a longhorn, and a cowboy on his rearing horse.

But with the sunset ready to drop at a moment’s notice, it was time to get back on my horse, so to speak, and continue on. The whole vibe was rather picturesque in many ways. A gorgeous sunset to carry me home, beautiful weather, and some ZZ Top blaring with the windows down. What’s not to love?

The next town is another half hour to the west, Sayre, OK, and is exactly halfway between OKC and Amarillo. You might know Sayre from such things as what is considered to be one of the greatest American films of all time, Grapes of Wrath, released in 1940 based on the novel of the same name published in 1940, by the great American novelist, John Steinbeck. Sayre’s Beckham County Courthouse completed in 1911, and was used in the aforementioned film, is still used today. Back in the ’70s, Sayre and surrounding areas saw a boom in natural gas and oil development thanks to the Panhandle-Hugoton field, the largest volume-gas field of its’ kind in the United States, as well as having the World’s largest known source of helium. But today, at least for me anyway, I was simply just passing through, completely unaware of any historical significance it might have had until later researching it today.

This research is something I’d wished I had time to have achieved prior to the trip, but I’m at least presenting it to you today, friend. No need to thank me now though. You can thank me with a postcard of you visiting the places in this novel, and letting the people there know that I sent you. After all, it’s them you should truly thank. Still cruising along 66, with the closest town being Erick OK, you will notice more vast fields, with many containing classic relics of which you would’ve likely seen back in the golden era. Erick is another quaint small town with 66 cutting right through the heart of it. And speaking of Grapes of Wrath, evidently folk around here didn’t take too kindly to taking kindly to folk around here.

The novel was received very poorly by the locals, with a quote by Erick city clerk Nyla Tennery stating – “I can remember plainly when the book came out my parents and other people who stayed here were just really upset. That book gave all Missouri, Arkansas and Oklahoma people a shiftless, bad name, like that, was the only kind of people who were here.” But as we all know today, Grapes of Wrath is considered to be Steinbeck’s masterpiece as well as one of the finest pieces of American Literary canon ever written, selling more than fourteen million copies since it hit shelves, and spawning pieces of music, several films, and theatre plays. But only reading excerpts of the novel in high school, and never having seen the film, I can’t really offer my opinion on the matter.

However, perhaps this hit too close to home for the locals at the time. Or maybe they felt misrepresented? Perhaps if Mr. Steinback had himself gone into these small towns of Oklahoma in which he wrote about, instead of those who ended up in California, he might have painted a different picture of those featured in his novel.

But I digress, for I am here. My friend, I am here! We are here.  And we should be beyond stoked to be here. Exactly why, you might ask? Two simple words, but put together mean a lot to many. Ken Block. One of the primary reasons why I ventured along 66 to begin with. This past winter, I watched The Gymkhana Files via Amazon Prime. I’d seen many clips from the series before and was always impressed by his driving skills and overall laid back demeanor. I knew of Ken first through his and business partner Damon Way’s company, DC, having owned many DC shoes over the years, including the horribly stupid pair featuring Rob Dydrek’s bulldog, Meaty, as a pattern all over them. (Drugs may have been harmed in the making of that purchase).

But I was a fan, and I was stoked to see that there was an in-depth series behind the scenes of the making of Gymkhana 10, the final series. Gymkhana is an Indian term with the original meaning referred to as a place of assembly, later referring to denote a place where skill-based contests were held. Today, at least in America, most commonly refers to motorsport and motorcycle. In the first-ever Hoonigan Gymkhana, everything is filmed at a specific location, where skill-based contests or obstacles were held, and so Gymkhana.

Gymkhana had been around for years and years prior, however, going all the way back to Genghis Khan’s rule where horseback riders had to pick up small flags to win. But it’s undeniable that the Hoonigan team boosted its popularity to a household name. But it was the last location in the last Gymkhana that is my absolute favorite of them all. In what is unequivocally the coolest vehicle Ken Block has ever stepped foot in, the Hoonitruck. A 914 HP Ecoboost V6-powered beast of a machine. This is filmed on location in none other than Shamrock, Texas and other surrounding Route 66 areas.

Now, I won’t get into all the details of the video, but I’d recommend checking out the extended cut, available via Toyo Tire’s YouTube channel. The video starts off with Ken turning on the Hoonitruck via his Smartphone app outside of the Shamrock Country inn, breaking free of the chain holding the 1,400 HP AWD Ford Mustang Hoonicorn V2, and making a few hair-pin turns before drifting in front of the U-drop Inn, making another pass and drifting just feet away from the fuel pumps, before continuing onto accomplish other awesome feats in town. I was so inspired by this and was in awe of what I’d just witnessed. Especially watching the behind the scenes of it all to see how precise all the moving pieces needed to be to perfect these maneuvers.

I wanted to do my own version of this section of Gymkhana. So I started outside my motel door at the Shamrock Country Inn, and hopped into my front-wheel-drive 139 HP Toyota Corolla, and began the same course. I make a few hair-pin turns and line up the drift right on target through by where I need to be too, narrowly missing the fuel pumps as I witnessed Ken Block do months earlier.

[Riding on the e-brake ever so carefully, doing about 25 MPH, riding both the gas and brake pedal now, dust kicking up in the desert sun.]

“This is it! I’m really doing it! Ken Block, you handsome bastard, if you could see me now!”

[Unexpectedly timed phone call.]

“Hello son, just checking in on how your day’s going so far, I’m headed to bed soon.”

Now, I love my mother, but she has a habit of calling when I’m right in the middle of something. Especially when I’m in a relationship. I likely wasn’t really just running up the stairs…especially if my girlfriend’s place doesn’t have any stairs.

But I’d made it by my goal of before sundown, and managed to get some really beautiful photos with the U-Drop Inn in the foreground. There are a few other abandoned gas stations, motels, and other buildings nearby here as well. 66 is really quite something in this stretch. I spent most of it riding the yellow lines, glancing around all sides of my view. And instead of my usual “cool” 85-90 MPH, I slowed it down to a cool 66, and just enjoyed the moment under the Big Texas sky. It was only about an hour and a half from Shamrock to Amarillo, but it felt much longer, in a good way. Take a few stops along the way, and get out to stretch and truly admire where you currently are in the universe.

You should be pretty much smack dab in the middle of the Texas Panhandle by now, and the fire is on. The fire that burns inside you, that is. This fire for me, shined so bright I was able to turn off my headlights once again, and just hugged the yellow lines, keeping at a cool 66. Also, the nearly still full moon helps. You’ll notice that the road signs near here take inspiration from the Texas longhorns themselves, and show to historic 40 straight ahead, while East 40 is to your right. The sun is right in the middle of this signpost, and so you follow it. Because it’s the way to Amarillo, and with Bright Lights by Gary Clark Jr. on full blast as I enter downtown Amarillo, it’s the end to a perfect day, like a boss.

This place is awesome. Sure, Amarillo seems cool and all, but I’m talking about my Airbnb stay. Every place so far has been even better than I’d pictured in my head based on the photos and information provided. And just like most things (Tinder and Bumble dates as often notable exceptions), they are often better in person. Known as the Gallery on 7th – Art Gallery and Event Center, on 7th Ave in Amarillo, this is a live art gallery of sorts. It’s raining, so I don’t have any clear photos of what it looks like at night, but during the day, I recall that it was really quite something. And there was clearly some heavy forethought into this property because it looks like shit while viewing it on Google Maps. I haven’t tried Bing Maps, because fuck Bing Maps. They lost me when they bailed on their superior Birds-Eye functionality.

And although I never physically met my hostess, Penny, she was very cordial in our correspondences and provided plenty of local places and things to check out during my brief stay in Amarillo. There was also a guest book, full of dozens of former guests, some from in-state, but many out-of-state and even the country on business looking for a cool spot to stay. A few others were even doing the entirety of 66 too. Now, that was pretty cool to see.  I’d been getting in later and later to my Airbnb’s. Amarillo was no different. I’ve really found a bit of a rhythm by now. This was beginning to become a way of life for me, and it was one that I could very much get used to. Speaking of getting used to, I’d been used to a certain form of release every day, and I hadn’t had the time or place during my travels thus far. That was all about to change. My Amarillo Airbnb was a beautiful quaint cottage that doubled as an art gallery. The front lawn area at first glance looked like a farmer’s field, full of old and rusty items that had been lost to time.

But upon approaching the front entrance in the mist and dreary night, what I saw was magnificent. It looked like the front page of Etsy had exploded in this cottages front lawn but in a good way. The garden area gate is through none other than a vintage door. Pretty classy joint. There was a code to enter the door. “Shit!” My phone was nearly dead (per usual), and the rain was picking up. Fortunately, by now, I was screen shooting the important details of my hosts’ posts. Ah, there it is. Okay, great. I’m in. A desk lamp was on and the desk contained useful travel guides including the typical local eats, drinks, and hotspots for tourists to checkout. But I was no typical tourist. Oh no, my friend. As I touched on before, I’m what you might consider a hippie-hipster hybrid tourist. What is that you might ask? Well luckily, I’m of the non-pretentious hipster variety (a rarity, I’m told), so maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m into anything that screams “Look away, you yuppie tourist!”, only to find some hippie vibe hipster charm behind the curtain, so to speak. So again, no, as I said, I don’t need some $10 strawberry-mango gimmick IPA with cinnamon laced around the edge for dramatic effect. If it were laced with coke, then that may be another story. It may also require an extra digit tacked on as well, which was something I didn’t have the room for in my carefully planned budget anyway. No, I’m fine drinking out of the green or brown colored bottles, as long as it’s cold, and there’s a friendly bartender with an equally friendly crowd at my sides.

Okay, I’m getting off track again. There’d be plenty of time for drink come morning. I turned on a few more lights which guided me to the bathroom. It was cozy with the shower curtains of van Gogh’s dark and stormy night. How fitting. I laid my bags down beside the desk and threw my clothes on the bed as I made my way back to the shower. Turning it on was simple enough, the same would go for me. Besides an assortment of beauty supplies was a bottle of lotion. It glowed like Gandalf as he came back as Gandalf the White atop the mountain. This was fate.

I layered some onto my hand, careful not to get my dick wet at this point. I didn’t want to create any unnecessary friction. Being careful to avoid the spray of water, I began stroking away. Starting off nice and slow to get the blood flowing. You need to get to a more stiffened pose to allow for a firm grip. What a day – so many beautiful bartenders and patrons from my time spent in Tulsa. Was every girl this cute, I thought? Their bodies were tighter than the lid on this lotion bottle. Ah, that’s better. A replenished layer now. Just what I needed. Nice and stiff, you can go for longer and faster strokes, allowing you to move all focus onto the things that matter during such a state. The Gathering Place, Swan Lake, everything beautiful. When you’re drained like I was (before you’re completely drained), your masturbation takes a turn for the, well strange. You enter a phase of what I call “random jerking.” You still jerk like you were before, but instead of the lovely ladies entering your mind, now you’re just thinking of things such as architecture, the landscape, the weather, and even the travel guides you glanced at while setting down your belongings.

Then suddenly it hit me. This was a small cottage. “Shit!” I bet they have a small water heater too. I didn’t want to run outta hot water or to have to notify my host that she’d have to notify her next guest of such a thing. Back to basics. I’d had a thing for blondes lately. Okay, blondes…let’s see. That beautiful blonde I saw back in Oklahoma City. I’d tried to get in for a quick drink in Bricktown, but they’d just had a power outage and weren’t accepting customers just yet. At least not for another hour. I didn’t have an hour, but I did have a minute to speak with one of the cutest girls I’d ever spoken to in my life. A blue-eyed blonde beauty with a darkly branded bar shirt, and tight dark jeans to match. Those eyes. That smile. That hair. That face. That bust. That butt. That accent. That’s it.

Back on track. Now imagining she was pinned up against the very wall she greeted me at. Too cute to take her from behind, I’d need her eyes fixated on mine at all times. Propping her up, her arms now wrapped around me, pulling me in closer with every thrust. I wrap her hair around my hands while caressing her neck. She’s begging to feel every inch now. She starts making out with me right as she feels me reaching the edge. Pure Bliss. We both smile, sneaking in a few more kisses, our bodies weak and shaking. Damn – If only that was real. I’d dreamt about her later that night. It was in a different place, unrecognizable to me. Perhaps it was a vision. A man can dream…

AMARILLO
TO
ABQ

 

 

Ah, Amarillo. What’s there to say? I should start off by saying that Tulsa had a lot to say about you. That’s right.  I’d even met two transplants at Nola’s who when I said I would be staying in Amarillo, responded in sync with “What the fuck for. There ain’t nothin’ good there.” And once I announced at the Broken Spoke that I’d just stayed in Tulsa the night prior to last, several responded, again in sync with “What the fuck for? There ain’t nothin’ good there.”  Now, I’m unsure what all that’s about, but surely there’s a misunderstanding somewhere. You might even have a lot in common.

Now, let’s see – oh, well for starters, you both have large statues. Tulsa, you have your Golden Driller, and Amarillo, you have your 2nd Amendment Cowboy, both formerly riddled with bullet holes. See, right there is technically two things in common. And at Gathering Place, you rallied for your second amendment, and Amarillo has a statue in honor of this very right. There are three things right there. And although The Golden Driller is much taller, the 2nd Amendment Cowboy seems to be much more, well, endowed. But, he’s wearing a shirt and pants, so who’s really the bigger man? You both seem to have some excellent higher-education available to you, each with several colleges and universities to attend. You both have great attractions in/and around your cities? You’re both clean and beautiful, so why all the hate? There’s gotta be a connection – oh, shit. I think I see it. Yep. That’s gotta be it. Shit, this isn’t good. It’s even worse than I’d feared. Yeah, there’s no getting over this one, guys. Afraid not. It makes both perfect sense and practically no sense at all. Goldberg vs. Funk.

Now, I can’t locate whether the two had actually been in the ring together, but wrestling fans are the most hardcore fans of all-time. You think your boys down at the pub rooting for your local football club are “hardcore”, you ain’t seen nothin’, tough guy. Wrestling fans are fucking crazy. Crazier than the gals and gals out in the ring. I went to an underground style match in Philly back in college with some old high school buddies. I thought I’d pre-gamed hard until I got there. Forget jagerbombs, people were drinking that shit straight like it were an eight-year-old drinking freshly made Kool-Aid on a hot summer’s day after playing outside all afternoon. There were some very scantily clad girls in the ring as well as the crowd, so that part was cool. But the rest I barely have any words for. Most of the wrestlers were drunk as well. Not because they were alcoholics, but because they knew they couldn’t be sober and take the blows they were about to receive. They’d be thrown out of the ring after being whaled with an “aluminum” chair only to be hit with an actual aluminum chair that was provided to the fans. The rest of the crowd cheering as I’m looking around stunned, pretending to enjoy what I was seeing for fear I’d be next. And then it finally hit me – oh, my God. These guys aren’t even real wrestlers. They’re just regular fans who are thrown into the ring when they don’t cheer loud enough at the madness. The booze is passed around until the very last drop, and then you guessed it, is tossed into the ring at the unsuspecting victims. The Coliseum might have been out of commission for hundreds of years now, but there is still modern-day Gladiators and they fight in random venues across North Philly.

I also recall the time my brother and I attended an event on the beach at Wildwood, NJ. My parents had told us to take our time and to meet them back at the…oh, I see now. Anyway, I took my younger who was maybe ten at the time, and we went wandering around. We stumbled upon a different sort of “underground” wrestling event. There were bleachers set up in the sand, and there was a medium-sized crowd gathered for the match. There were no ropes or boundaries or anything, so my brother and I just walked right on in, and took our seats at the top of the bleachers.

But then I had to hop back down as nature called. We took advantage of the $1 beverages store, and we’d each finished up a Powerade on our walk over. Mine had gone right through me. So I excused myself to the restroom while making sure that my brother stayed put. There were outdoor showers right by the secluded restrooms, and the dressing rooms for the wrestling match were right there as well. I’ll never forget – there were two female wrestlers who were, shall we say, “assisting” one another, by making sure their boobs and ass looked good in their outfits and getting pretty familiar with one another, their hands wandering as far as their eyes in the process.

Then they notice me. I’d been standing in plain sight for at least thirty seconds just watching them feel each other up. I was pretty tall for my age back then, and I also had some facial hair at that time, so I always looked older during my “tween” years.

“Hey there cutie, why don’t you quit standing there and come join us? Come on, it’ll be fun. No one will see us. We promise.”

[This is one of those moments that really make a man. What twelve-year-old boy wouldn’t dream of entering the dressing room area of two twenty-something beauties? But shit.]

“I, umm uhhh. I’m sorry girls. I can’t. I’ve gotta get back to my younger brother. He’s watching the match out there with me.”

“Alright, cutie, enjoy the show. Sorry you missed our VIP special.”

[I walk by slowly and defeated to where my brother was seated. I slide back into my spot next to him.]

“You didn’t even throw your bottle away? Here, the trash is right there, let me.”

“Do not touch my bottle right now. I’ll throw it away later.”

One of the bouncers caught onto my brother and me not having tickets and politely asked us to leave. I walked with my bottle, precariously positioned the whole way back to the hotel. I don’t even think I said a word to my brother on that fateful walk back. For at that moment, I resented him.

I know I did the right thing (as me similarly going back for my friend Brian back in Salina, Kansas), but still. And I’m sorry, bro, but if you asked me to do the same thing all over again, knowing what I know now about women, well, you can probably guess that answer. But, twelve year old me probably would’ve only lasted the same duration as me standing there, and knocked one of them up, with her realizing I wasn’t even a teenager, leaving me with our child while she found her “sugar daddy” Ivy League Frat douche, and sticking me with the full child support, ruining me as a human being. Only to find out on his eighteenth birthday that he was never even mine because all we did was anal because she was a good Christian girl and that she was “saving herself for marriage.”

It’s 68 degrees and overcast, misting just a bit too fast for the mist setting, yet too slow for the first interval setting, first world problems. Wo Fat – The Conjuring comes on, ah hell yeah. Since I was starting off my day in the desert, I needed some tunes that would set the mindscape to the landscape. So stoner Rock playlist it is. One glance at the album cover for the album with the titular track blaring, and you should be terrified. And one second into this mammoth of a song, even more, terrified so. But it’s an absolutely perfect way to start the day. I’d also gotten into the rhythm of setting up any historical parks or landmarks before passing out in the host city.

For Amarillo, this meant the Palo Duro Canyon State Park. Now, you might be pleasantly surprised to find such a majestically inspired area in Texas of all places. I’d heard of this, but I assumed it was further west in the southwestern United States, and certainly not in the panhandle of this giant state. The second-largest canyon in America, behind the Grand Canyon, what a grounding experience indeed. Thankfully the fog had cleared up a bit as I made it to the canyon limits.

I arrived during the visitor’s hours and managed to avoid paying the parks’ entrance fee. Don’t worry, guys, I’ll get you back someday. I should have my own business cards printed out by now, individually numbered and signed by yours truly, so you can at least get a few cents back in the meantime. TODAY’S UV INDEX RATING – VERY HIGH (10- min burn time). With EXTREME being the only rating given higher, and as someone as fair-skinned as I am, this was a bit concerning to me. And also as someone who often has to buy his and his son’s sunscreen on the boardwalk, at $14 apiece because he removed the sunscreen bottle to make room for the “water” canteen filled with the last of his IPA growler only to forget to place back said sunscreen, I obviously did not have any sunscreen on me at the time. Because, priorities, duh.

So I would not be hiking along The CCC Trail today. But I did have ten minutes to enjoy this breathtaking view. The wide-open desert right there in front of those who dare enter. This place really is quite beautiful. Founded in 1887 where the southern plains meet the desert, the city of Amarillo means “yellow” in Spanish, given for the yellow sub-soil characteristics as well as the yellow flowers blooming here. I do not notice any yellow flowers, but I came up close and personal with some pretty cacti as I was bending down for a different perspective. Also, an actual longhorn skull. “How cool is that!?” Or maybe it was just a unique piece of petrified wood, with Palo Duro Canyon getting its name from the Spanish translation of “hardwood”, or more precisely “hard stick.” If I ever become a Lucha libre, I know what my name will be – Gringo de Palo Duro.

This will undoubtedly ignite fear in my opponents and generate profound lust from all of my beautiful senoritas. Of whoever catches my mask after my victory, like the flowers thrown by a bride, will be so lucky to join me in my chambers. And if several happen to catch it at the same time, well, the more the merrier! We can just build a sort of tower system if it gets too crazy.

But my ten minutes are up, so I venture onward. I don’t think anybody has cell service out here, so please know where you’re going before just venturing about like some small-town hippie from PA. At approximately 120 miles long, and up to 20 miles wide and 1,000 feet deep, you probably don’t just want to be wandering around, especially before any park rangers can save your ass. Again I was the only one there, and again I saw no other vehicles during my time here, so thankfully I managed to backtrack to an exit. Now sure, it seems easy enough to navigate back out, but the fog had come back through, thicker than before, and I was on E, as per usual.

Thankfully I’d set a few landmark reminders to myself on the way in to look out for, so I knew I wasn’t just driving around the park in circles. But not before I’d left to venture further down into the canyon. I could just drift on E to a nearby RV Campground to buy gas, right? I could again point to my out-of-state license plate and acknowledge I had my emergency blinkers on as well. Surely they’d pity me, and siphon out some of their gas into my empty tank? Pioneer Amphitheater looks like a pretty cool place for families. There are some more remarkable geological features as you drive down, and you begin to feel just inches tall, but in a good way once again. This area was once under Mexico’s territory so it was interesting to see a T E X A S sign featuring Mexico’s colors. Perhaps a nod to its origins? Perhaps it’s a coincidence and nothing more? Either way, it’s there, and it makes for a cool sign. I make it to a nearby gas station just fine, and I’m ready for another fun-filled day of exploration.

I’m at the Valero at the intersection of S Washington St and Claude Hwy. There is a food trailer of sorts set up nearby, Kountry Kitchen. There’s a really quaint dining area under shelter with some pretty lights and other decors to enjoy while you enjoy your Homestyle Kountry Kookin’. That’s what their trailer says anyway. They weren’t open, but I’ll take their word for it. There’s also another really cool sign out front. No words or ownership mentioned otherwise, just a creative outline of the state, with the lone star at the bottom of the panhandle, and faded blue and red paint throughout. There’s also what appears to be a mock oil derrick nearby as well. Either that or a really high high chair for an infant to dine at Kountry Kitchen. But boy was I glad I stopped here. I wouldn’t have “discovered” the next destination had I not stopped for gas.

I was curious to check out the extent of the canyon, and in doing so found – Amarillo Drag way. “Less than 2-miles away? Let’s go!” When you’ve already traveled close to 2,000 miles, what’s another 0.1 percent? And in keeping with things local, let’s check out some local roads while we’re here. I’m already in the parking lot and see a sign for Valencia Dr, so I do a quick accidental burnout in the gravel, and head on down in pursuit of the drag strip. But then as I pass Lisbon St I notice someone is on my tail. Surely a coincidence, I think nothing of it. I make the next right at Madrid St. The same truck makes the turn. “Okay, man keep your cool. I’m sure it’s nothing, Rufus! Just keep your head down, boy, in case I have to bring my knife to a gunfight.” I make the left onto Tangier. A dirt/dust road and holy shit is it ever kicking it up.

Now, I appreciate their being named after some of the most beautiful cities in Spain, Portugal, and Morocco, but these places I was not. I begin picking up some speed, hoping to lose the bastard, but he turns on his fog lights and keeps the same distance. Tangier becomes Burlington Rd and passes Ottawa Trail. And as much as I admire Canada and wish to travel to Ottawa, no time for that right now. Vermont is also on my travel list and it looks like I’m headed there early. And fitting, as I am now slaloming down this bitch, trying to kick up more dust, doing ironically a cool 66 now. Back to the E Farm to Market Rd junction. Shit. Of course, there’s a line of traffic. Wiping off my sweaty palms. Surely this guy can see me sweating it now.

I can see him grinning, all crazily like. If he’s going to cut me like a pig and sell me off to Kountry Kitchen, I might as well make it to my destination at the drag strip – another seemingly one way in/out kinda place. Finally a gap in traffic, I floor it, and for some reason, I wait when I get on the other side. Part of me almost wanting him to follow. Perhaps I already had an onset of Stockholm Syndrome. “Thanks for the race, Virginia! See you around, man!” That bastard was simply just screwing with me? “Cheers, man. That’s exactly something I’d have done back home. See you around, indeed.”

With that race over, I was ready to see what all was going on over at the drag way. With no signs of life, I trod very carefully down the pothole-ridden access drive into the race grounds. This place was pretty rundown. It was a far cry from what its heyday must’ve looked like. You can almost see it when you’re there though. Back in the ‘60s when the daily driver class would’ve crushed anything by today’s standards. Imagine, it’s the summer of 1969, and a Boss 429 is pitted against a Chevelle SS and Dazed and Confused by Led Zeppelin is blaring over the loudspeakers playing via the radio. America’s finest going head to head and Britain’s finest is released in a fine duo of their own with Black Sabbath’s eponymous debut following closely behind. Bryan Adams was right when he sang “Man we were killin’ time we were young and restless. We needed to unwind I guess nothin’ can last forever, forever, no! Yeah!” What an exciting time that must’ve been to be alive. Free love still going strong, beautiful cars, fast women, great music, and a real sense of community amongst one another.

The fans are piling in now. Hot dogs and hamburgers are piling on the grills. Beers are being poured just the same. The American flag is waving in the mid-summer night. The sundresses light up the night, with the bellbottoms looking to sway up all night. The tree begins its countdown. Yellow, Yellow, Yellow, – GREEN! The cheers fill the sea of people with the engines reverberating off of the cracked asphalt. They’re neck and neck, it’s going to be a photo finish, folks!

I won’t spoil it to who won, however. I want some of the action myself, so I look for a way in. But not before passing by some carefully placed signage “WARNING ALL PATRONS ARE SUBJECT TO RISK OF INJURY BY FLYING DEBRIS FROM THE RACE TRACK REMAIN ALERT AT ALL TIMES UPON ENTERING THIS FACILITY YOU ASSUME THIS RISK.”

I’ve ventured past far more dangerous signs than this, however, so it didn’t faze me in the least. There’s another rundown sign “DRAG WAY” spanning the full width of the access drive. What a sight this must’ve been on race day. The ticket booth and concessions area are rather rundown as well. And so is the stairway over top the raceway itself. A common theme for everything on the grounds. Well, almost everything. The bleachers still looked in decent shape, and the drag strip looked to be in half-decent shape as well. And the announcers’ booth area looked to be held in good enough shape too. There was a mower and other equipment sporadically placed around, so it did look like someone had been maintaining some of this place anyway. And then I got the bright idea to climb the previously mentioned stairs. This was probably the second dumbest thing I managed to pull-off on the whole trip. There wasn’t a square inch that wasn’t covered in rust. The treads were diamond plated, so it wasn’t slippery at least.

But forget about using the railing to hold on. You’ll end up squeezing too hard, cutting yourself on the rust, and falling into one of the deep puddles, and dying of dysentery. Just like you and your poor ox, Bill did in The Oregon Trail. And while you lay there in your own explosive diarrhea, blood, piss, and mucus, you think back to all the good days you and Bill had. Traveling along at a “grueling” pace to get there first so you could brag to all of your other shithead friends, fording across 52-feet deep rivers, inevitably tipping over your wagon, and killing your whole extended family, while you and Bill managed to escape in the nick of time, decimating the buffalo population singlehandedly because now it was just you, a banker from Boston, and Tom Hardy’s character in the Revenant, so you had to survive against that cold-sonofabitch while writing satirical headstones for your recently pardoned family members such as “Here lies Idiot – rest in idiot pieces”, exchanging your ugly Christmas sweater that Karen from HR knitted in another stupid secret-Santa exchange, and somehow you always get her stupid sweaters, but you’re able to exchange them with your Native American guide to help you navigate across the river (safely this time) only to go on an insane rapid-ride at the end of the game anyway, but not before stopping at Matt’s General Store in Independence, Missouri to buy some more oxen (named Bill II, Bill Jr. and so on), and ammunition to further thin out the buffalo population.

And finally just hit the space bar a few more times, and exchange another ugly Karen’s Christmas sweater to your Native American friend so he can finally scalp Tom Hardy as payback for all the unspeakable things he did to Leo. Poor Leo. I wouldn’t have let you go two seconds after promising I’d never let go, brother. Hopefully, you get your revenge one day in some frozen zombified sequel. Titanic 2: The Unkillable – It’ll take more than an iceberg to kill this zombie bastard.

Some of these plates are barely together, and the whole goddamn thing begins shaking. My phone flies out of my hands, and I catch it just as it began to soar over the edge of the railing. But I lost my balance, and I nearly went over the railing. If not for some basic survival coordination, I would’ve landed on my head, smack dab in the middle of the drag strip. Maybe they would’ve given me a cool headstone at the very least as an ignorant hippie-tourist. I managed to take a few panoramas before this near-fatal mistake, and I walk along the railing, shuffling as not to fall through one of the broken panels. Still holding onto the railing, I nearly flipped over the side of the stairs, which at that height; I would’ve surely died of dysentery.

Thankfully, I didn’t eat or drink anything that morning prior, otherwise I’d likely have needed to exchange out a new pair of briefs, at the very least. And after seeing my life flash before my eyes several times this day, all before noon, I needed outta there, and fast. After a quick jog, I’m back in Virginia, and ready to head back into the main part of town.

Amarillo has some very cool 66 stops. Known as the Sixth Street Historic District, there are some really cool local joints found here. With about a dozen places to kick your feet up and stuff your face with great food and drink, all in a very walk-able distance from one another. This would be a great place to enjoy a proper bar crawl. But instead of getting into a Wild-West styled brawl, why not get your drunken kicks at Panhandle Gunslingers, a nearby gun range, instead. And from Indian food to proper dive bars and pubs, you will find it here. I was here early, and it was mid-week, so not much was open. But if they were, I’d have checked out The Handle Bar and Grill to start, then over to Moe Dog’s Grill, and down the line as far as I could’ve made it in one piece. But I wasn’t exactly in one piece. I was feeling a little broken from my race and near-death experiences back by the drag way.

Ah. Broken Spoke Lounge. This place would be perfect. And at 9:30 AM on a Wednesday morning, they were indeed open. There are some really cool murals and other sights regarding 66 nearby. The mural out front was pretty cool in its own right. The door hung wide open to an enclosed outdoor area. Knowing Texas gets mighty hot, this would be a pretty cool place to cool off with some cold brews and hot friends. There are a few obligatory dive-bar signs hung in here, mostly domestic beer signage. But there is also a fine collection of lighters in a showcase of sorts. There are a few hundred to glance over, as well as an unknown quantity of pins and stickers as well. I could smell the smoke and mustiness from here. My guess was that this place would have a few regulars in here by this hour and this day. And I’d guessed right. There were about five gents seated at the bar, with two others just kind of wandering about the place. They had on the news. “Little Rocket Man” was thought to be building a sub capable of launching nuclear missiles. This guy is really overcompensating for something. And with a prick that small and that honey badger wig on his head (I swear I’ve seen it move once), you’d need to be a dictator to get laid.

This place was damn cool. A great selection of upper shelf liquors was neatly under-lit with an absinthe-like green, a few pool tables, and plenty of neon signage throughout. They even had a few slots as well. On draft was what one would expect there to be at a local joint such as this. Your regular domestics, a Mexican and European import, and surprisingly an IPA. And as you know by now, I’m a big IPA guy, so naturally, I went with it. big mistake, however. It was a Hopadillo from Karbach Brewing Co. out of Houston, TX. I’m not even saying it was their fault. It probably wasn’t.

[A strong look of uncertainty comes over her face.]

“You sure you wanna go with this one, hun? It tastes like dirty socks.”

“Not an IPA fan, I see. It’s okay, it’s an acquired taste. I’ve been drinking brews since I was 12, so I’ve got a few more years on me than most my age. I think they’re great!”

“Okay, hun, coming right up.” And holy shit is everything bigger in Texas.

[I’d ordered the “Big Boy” draft and holy shit. The bartender was a bigger girl, but the glass in which she poured it in; even she would’ve been able to hide behind it. It was basically a pitcher, but with a friendlier single-serve design. The gentleman who was playing the slot slides into the seat next to me.]

“Good day to you sir. Whatcha got there? That’s not that IPA or somethin’ or other is it? Tastes like dirty socks.”

“Good day to you too sir. And why yes, it is.”

I feared I should’ve gone with a standard domestic instead. I was afraid to ask if I could peak into the keg, for fear that there would actually be dirty socks in there. I was even more afraid to ask every guy there if I could compare socks, for further fear that one of them would’ve simply said: “Check the first keg over there.” Now, I’m not saying this IPA normally tastes like dirty socks, however. It might typically be great. But on this day and in this environment, it truly did taste like dirty socks.

Perhaps I was persuaded by the pressures of my peers into thinking this out of nothing. Perhaps Uncle Jimbo next to me truly set aside his dirty socks inside the keg. But all I knew was that I wanted no further part in this sham. I asked Sassy, the bartender, a name well-deserved, but necessary as a woman putting up with men such as myself and Uncle Jimbo next to me if I could get something else instead.

“Sure thing, hun. What would you like this time?”

“Let me just get a Budweiser, another Big Boy.”

“Sure thing, hun. Don’t worry about the dirty socks, I’ve got ya covered.”

Shit, they really did have dirty socks just floating in that damn keg, I knew it! Okay, not really, but seriously. Something was definitely a miss there. Some of the other gents were getting pretty lit at this time, and were kindly told they’d reached their limit, and that she’d see them again the next day. Regulars. Uncle Jimbo was getting a little plastered himself. And after a few more swigs of this Budweiser, I too was feeling it. It’s like you catch a contact drunk from being in a fine establishment such as this.

Especially being around other drunks. He was throwing fake stones at the reporter, telling him to drop dead, and that he was spewing out only bullshit. Uncle Jimbo really began opening up about himself, and the others that were in here earlier.

“Every one of us in here has been a runaway at one point or another. There are a lot of fugitives that find their way into Texas. Mine was for evading several DUI convictions back in Iowa. Some of the other guys you saw were for a bit worse than that. Texas is a big place to hide. People don’t ask too many questions here either. It’s one of the last places in America where you meet other outlaws. The Wild West is disappearing nowadays, though. Things ain’t what they used to be. My kids don’t want to visit me here anymore. Can’t blame ‘em though. So I gotta head back to Iowa. I’ve got two grandkids now. Both are doing really well in school. That’s where I fucked up. I never finished. I sure could finish a bottle though. But that’s why I had to leave the Midwest, and run down here. I’ve been in and out of prison a few times here. Mostly drunk-tank stuff. It’s almost more like a wellness check kinda thing. Look at this idiot. Ain’t none of that makes any sense. This country is going to hell.”

“I’ve noticed that about Texas. It seems that there are a lot of ex-cons here. I think it’s because there’s such a history of cowboys and outlaws here. It’s sort of romantic, even if in a hopeless sort of way.”

“Now, don’t get all gay on me or any of that shit. That one fella you saw by himself is a fag. He tried grabbing my ass at a party a year or so back. I warned him if he did it again, I’d break his fuckin’ skull in. And you know what he did. He fuckin’ did it again. So you know what I did? I fuckin’ hauled off on ‘em. He landed back on some guy who was with his chick. And a whole brawl started before Sassy here had to throw us all outta here. Weren’t allowed back for a few days after neither. But it was worth it. Fag never touched me again. Won’t look at me anymore neither. He knows I’d fuckin’ do it again too.”

“Alright, Uncle, I think I’d outta get ready to head on outta here. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you over a few cold brews. I just hope I can stand alright. Shit. These Big Boy bastards don’t just catch up to you, but they’re ahead of you the whole time. Thank you, Sassy. I appreciate the free brews as well. Much obliged. I’ve left you a fine tip here under the glass.”

“Aww, you’re most welcome, hun. Good luck to you on your novel. You come back to Amarillo, you stop back in and we’ll take care of ya!”Take care, ya’ll. Be well.”

Those drinks damn near went right through me. I needed to piss. And with not much open, I pulled off to a dirt alley. A small junkyard of sorts was nearby. Perfect. That was until a neighbor pulled back their curtains and spotted me. “Shit!” I made it look like I was taking some pictures, which probably wasn’t the brightest idea either. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just a hippie-tourist taking pictures on private property while pissing where your kids ride their bikes past. No worries. It’s cool.”

But in doing so, I managed to snap an interesting sign. “THE WORLD IS FULL OF SHIPPING CLERKS WHO HAVE READ THE HARVARD CLASSICS.” After a little research, I found this to be attributed to Charles Bukowski, a German-American poet, novelist, and short-story writer. “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.” Now, this man sounds like someone I’d have enjoyed a few more Big Boys with. And who would’ve thought – this was painted on an old sign, held up by old tires, in a dirt alley in Amarillo, Texas.

Now that I’m about 48 ounces lighter, I was free to walk around some more. 6th Street Massacre Haunted House. This place looked pretty damn cool from the outside. But I didn’t need any more scares for today, and they didn’t appear to be open at this hour anyway. Coffee Fixx was nearby too. Normally I was starting my days off with coffee, but my adrenaline was running mighty high, and I was just fine. A girl sees me snapping a few photos in town and after learning that I was at The Broken Spoke earlier, she informed me that it was originally a 7/11. “Holy shit. I can totally see that now!” With their origin and headquarters in Dallas, TX, it makes even more sense. Way to repurpose it into a fine drinking hole.

And then I make my way down to Deuces Wild Speed Shop. A hot-rod joint right on 66. Pretty classy. And there just so happened to be a 1966 Falcon right out front. I walk up to the two men standing around the car.

“What a beaut, huh guys. Is she yours?”

“Yeah, she’s this guy’s right here. I just stopped to check it out as you did.”

“Shoot, I’d have guessed you were father and son. You look a lot alike.”

“Dad!?” “Son!?”

We all share some more laughs telling stories about the day. They were both Texas natives and were just passing through town as well. Candy Apple Red, and giant racing wheels on the rear. This thing was gorgeous. Hardtop and all. But it was starting to rain, and we all decided to seek some shelter, wishing each other the best on our respective journeys.

There are some cool Texas 66 signs on this stretch. Try to get a few photos with the sun shining bright behind them. They are pretty awesome to look back and reflect on. Bosco’s Lounge. This place looked pretty awesome, but no more drinks for me today. Circus Room right next door. This area must be pretty happening at night. And as much as I’d like to pretend I was a local cowboy and mingle with the local cowgirls, I was fast approaching my twelve-noon deadline on leaving my host city. All Makes Body shop. There’s something about an old rusty Ford pickup with freshly painted wheel wells that gets a guy’s (and some girls) motor going. Another interesting sign – “THE WIND STILL BLOWS OVER AMARILLO.” Plenty of abandoned gas stations and buildings in this area too.

And speaking of gas, I needed to fuel up once more. And as I said, a lesson learned from my drive into Tulsa. I’d aimed to have only one fill-up between host cities, and this worked out quite well throughout the trip. Another Toot’n Totum. This was a local chain out here. Interesting name, guys. Interesting name. And so was Sharky’s Burrito Company, right across the way from Toot’n Totum. This place looked pretty rad. And the beautiful group of Latinas that were on their way in nearly prompted me to do the same. But, I had deadlines goddamnit! And I was a man of my word. I still had my must-see stop here in Amarillo.

Cadillac Ranch. I’d initially planned to get here by sunset to snap some of the same beautiful photos that I’d researched online months earlier. But, alas. The weather had cleared up again, and it was absolutely beautiful out. And no, this isn’t where Cadillac’s are raised and sold. They’re simply dropped off by storks to all of the annoying bosses in the world. That’s just basic birds and the bees biology, kids. No, Cadillac Ranch is a public art installation and sculpture of sorts. Created by Chip Lord, Hudson Marquez and Doug Michaels in 1974. They half-buried ten Cadillac’s nose first, likely to put them out of their misery after they found out their moms and dads are assholes. Each of them is now covered in graffiti, stickers, and other “art.” But what all the photos you see don’t show you is how far out it actually is from the road. The art installation is pretty damn far into the field, and you barely can tell what they are from that great initial distance.

Once you find a place to park, because it will be crowded with other visitors, you’re shuffled through like cattle, passed an artful gate system. And once you get close, you feel something almost spiritual take over you. There is definitely an energy source here. I feel that once you have someplace where thousands of people have visited, from all walks of life around the world, you’re going to find energy there. “America’s Stonehenge” is no different. There were about a dozen or so people already there snapping photos and selfies amongst all of the cars. Equally spaced, and aligned in the same manner, it’s a really cool installation.

I started chatting with a beautiful couple from Switzerland. They were doing Route 66 as well, only starting in LA then ending in Chicago and flying back to Switzerland from there. I’d never met anyone from Switzerland before, so I tried to impress them as any good ignorant American would.

“I love Switzerland! Vienna is so beautiful!”

“Yes, Vienna is really beautiful. But that’s in Austria. We’re just a bit to the left, however!”

“Right, of course. Sorry! Ignorant American here!”
“It’s quite alright! It’s really beautiful here too. Are you from here?”

“Ah no. I’m from Pennsylvania, so I’m a little far from home here as well. But not as far as you guys are, in Europe.”

“Yes, Europe. That’s right! So you do know where we are. Just joking!”

But of course. I knew Switzerland, but my word-vomit came out instead. Of course, I know Switzerland, with Henry Dunant and the Red Cross, Swiss Army Knife, Omega watches, Lindt chocolate, fondue, the Alps, Zurich, Geneva, Basel, Lausanne, Bern, Lucerne, Lugano, and St Gallen, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Roger Federer, and Reverend Fucking Beat-Man and his wonderful Voodoo Rhythm Records. So yeah, I know Switzerland. But you wouldn’t have known it at that moment. In my attempt to redeem myself, I complimented how they made a wonderful couple and asked to capture a beautiful moment of them together in front of this great attraction.

And right nearby is the 2nd Amendment Cowboy. I’ve already covered this hung cowboy, but there are also some cool non-buried Cadillac’s on display, in all the classic colors you’d expect to see. There’s also a novelty gift shop next door as well. I ran into a couple from Honduras. But I wasn’t about to show off my knowledge of Honduras. I didn’t know dick. I still don’t. It seems like a nice enough place though. They snapped a few photos of me but stopped abruptly once they thought I was flashing up gang signs. I tried to explain I was simply trying to illustrate the massive girth of this fine cowboy. They handed me back my phone and rushed back to their car with a sense of urgency. They spoke a few muttered words in Spanish and looked back at me nervously. I think they assumed me to be a gay cowboy chaser. Don’t worry, Uncle, I won’t grab your ass!

Then it was time to go. Back on the open road. The Mother Road, more exactly. Vega, TX. I owe you an apology. I’d meant to stop in. I really did. But I simply drove straight on through, and for that, I apologize. But, if I did stop in, I would’ve stopped at Magnolia Gas Station, Milburn – Price Culture Museum, Dot’s Mini-Museum, The Bee’s Knees for coffee, Hickory Inn Cafe for breakfast, Lucy’s Kitchen for lunch, and Rooster’s Mexican Restaurant and Cantina for dinner and drinks before crashing at Bonanza Motel. But, I did snap a cool photo of an iconic Old Route 66 sign featuring a classic rusted-out pickup in the backdrop. Please have me again.

This was one of my shorter drive days, but there was a ton of cool shit in between to see. And I aimed to see as much of it as I could. My next stop was quite a milestone for me. My mother freaked out, thinking I’d even missed it on my previous day of travel. But, I told her to calm her shit, and that I had not actually missed it. She was as excited about this next attraction as I was. Ladies and Gentlemen, MidPoint Cafe. And as the name suggests, it is truly midway between Chicago and LA along 66. It’s truly 1,139 miles to Chicago and 1,139 miles to LA.

And it’s not just a gimmicky themed dinner, my friend. It is indeed very ‘50s styled, and features classic American grub, including breakfast and pie, and features a gift shop area, but it is something more. There were a few couples dining here. All of whom seemed to be local. Now, maybe it was because their choices were limited to only two cafes in the whole town, but they all seemed to leave with a smile on their faces. And they all seemed to appreciate where it was they were, and were excited to speak with me about my travels. They noticed me taking it all in with a look of amazement on my own face.

I was nearly there! I was safe, and I was halfway to my goal. But this is also bittersweet, because it means that you’re just that, halfway there. You recall on your recent memories of the last few days, while still looking forward to your next days of travel ahead. Oh, I nearly forgot. Just before making it to MidPoint Cafe, look out for the abandoned saloon, and the cool shed which says “TEXAS BAR-B-Q” and a Texas flag painted on its end. This is right by a bunch of giant white storage containers. You can’t miss them. They’re quite big. Also right by MidPoint Cafe is the Fabulous 40s Motel, which features two more iconic 66 vehicles. And also right by MidPoint Cafe is Sunflower Station, a souvenir store featuring an old Ford pickup, with thousands upon thousands of signatures, drawings, stickers; you name it, all over the thing. Seemingly every square inch of the thing is covered from people like you.

There’s a real sense of togetherness, and you again ponder what stories everyone else who was here at this exact location has to tell. Perhaps you will meet some in the next town over. Looking back, I see that I had a classic burger with chips and a coke. Now, this shouldn’t have been the case. I’m allergic to meat. I guess I said – “To hell with it, I can’t not enjoy a classic American meal in a joint such as this.” I recall that everything was delicious. I don’t recall them offering a meat-substitute, and zooming in it definitely looks like a meat patty. Tomato, onions, lettuce, and cheese. Yeah. Definitely a juicy Angus burger here. Oh, and the pie was incredible as well. Most everyone I saw had pieces of pie at their tables as well. When in Adrian, TX, right?

A little further out of town, I stumbled upon an abandoned Santa-Fe rail car with pretty amateur graffiti. There’s a bunch of windmills in the background as well. It’s another “you can’t miss it” spots. And it’s definitely worth a quick stop. It’s quite a vast and beautiful spot. Another fifteen minutes later, “WELCOME TO NEW MEXICO LAND OF ENCHANTMENT.” You’re officially in the southwest now, friend! “Rufus, we’ve done great so far. We’re halfway there, boy!”

[Waitress chimes in.]

“Be sure to get off the first exit in New Mexico. Russell’s Truck and Travel Center. You can’t fucking miss it!”

Ah, a woman after my own heart. My waitress informed me to ensure that I stop here. I’m very glad I did. And you will be too. Not only is it a travel center, as the name suggests, but it’s also home to Russell’s Filling Station – Free Car Museum. You want to see 66; you’ve come to the right place. This museum has everything, and I mean everything representative of this golden era in America.

It’s got cars, motorcycles, fuel pumps, signs, pinball machines, lights, movie posters, magazines, model trains, model cars, puzzles, games, Marilyn Monroe (See Sabrina Nicole for a modern example), Elvis, The Beatles, Johnny Cash, James Dean, Buddy Holly, The Three Stooges, Lucille Ball, scooters. Like I said – everything. The classic fuel trucks were probably my favorite, however. Just badass. There was also a brand new Bowlus Road Chief parked outside the travel center as well. An all-aluminum design looking like a damn 1930’s spaceship. Oh, and brand new, they’re around $185,000. It must’ve been Mr. Russell’s himself.

It was a quite fitting end to my start in New Mexico. You’ll see some broken exit signs prompting visitors to get off to stay at the once operational motel or cafe from another time. But don’t linger here too long; you’ve got Tucumcari, NM up ahead, another forty minutes, plus or minus exceeding speed limit conditions of course.

Tucumcari. You beautiful handsome devil you. Starting with the name Six Shooter Siding due to all of the gunfights at the initial camp settlement, this is the first you will start to really feel like you’re in the Wild West. At least I did. I felt pretty damn badass rolling around here. And for good reason. There’s a lot of history here.  The very legend surrounding the town’s name is quite remarkable in its own right. Supposedly the legend reads with Apache Chief Wautonomah recognizing that his time was near and knew that he needed to find a suitable replacement as Chief. He fitted his two finest warriors against one another, whom already had a strong hatred towards one another, and both were vying for the Chief’s daughter. Haven’t we all been there?

And whomever the victor, would not only become Chief and ruler of the tribe, but they would also get to wed the Chief’s daughter. Not a bad payday. You kill your arch-rival, become a badass Chief of a badass tribe, and you get to sleep with his hot daughter. Not bad at all. Only (SPOILER ARLERT) it didn’t quite work out this way. Plot twist! As the two tribesmen battled with their knives, truly in mortal combat, the Chief’s daughter was hiding nearby. The one dude kills the other dude, and the victim was who the Chief’s daughter already loved, so she killed the other dude in a moment of heartbreak. Oh, and then in Romeo and Juliet style, she dug the blade into her own heart as well. And when the Chief was brought to this horrific scene, heartbreak overwhelmed him as well, and he dug the very knife that was used in all the slayings into his own heart, with his last words crying out in agony, “Tocom-Kari!” Now, how badass is that, right? I thought so too.

Several Clint Eastwood shows and films were filmed on location in Tucumcari including Rawhide and For a Few Dollars More. There’s also a scene from the cult-classic Two-Lane Blacktop was filmed here. There are also several scenes in the incredible neo-western heist film Hell or High Water filmed here. And most recently a segment from The Ballad of Buster Scruggs centered on a bank robbery in Tucumcari, gone wrong. Now, I’ve yet to watch this film, but I see it’s on Netflix. My free trial runs out in a few more days, so I’ll make it a point to check that out. It’s a Cohen Brother’s film, so obviously, it’s epic.

And with Jeff Bridges owning it in True Grit and Hell or High Water, it sounds like you guys need to work together again, on a different type of Western than the Big Lebowski. As great as that film is, I wonder what a prequel based on one of The Dude’s Wild West ancestors would look like? You could call it the Big Lebowski, and show how The Dude was a really inevitable creation. We’ll get together for lunch or something, guys. I’ll have my agent call your agent. Perhaps they’ve already been acquainted with one another. That’s how that sorta thing works, right?

But anyway, Tucumcari. 66 runs through the very heart, and most of this is still well preserved today. The Baca-Goodman House, a former single-dwelling home built by Benito Baca circa 1905 was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1973 as a prime example of the early 1900’s New Mexico Architecture, only to be removed from this prestigious list four years later. How does that even happen? You’ve got me. Either way, it’s probably still worth checking out. The Blue Swallow Motel is pretty badass. The Cactus Motor Lodge is also, pretty badass. Then there’s Historic Route 66 Motel. Here is where I met Matt, of Matt Deleo Tattoo, and his partner who too were traveling along Route 66. A chill dude and his girl was a sweetheart.

Perhaps you’ll meet some chill people in Tucumcari as well? I also met the owner of the famous 66 attraction, Palomino Motel. The Vegas-like sign is really the trademark of the place. And with room starting at what I think says $36.95 and up, then the sign reads “EAST WIFI HBO CINEMA.” And the number listed is missing a digit, so I’m not really sure what the working phone number is. But the woman was very kind, and she invited me into the front office area, showing me classic photos, and sharing local insights. She also assured me that the town was simply once known as “Six Shooter”, so we’ll have to check in with Wikipedia to see where “Siding” was later added. And then, of course, there is another famous landmark – Dels Restaurant. This place looks pretty tight all lit up. Really I’m sure that all of Tucumcari does. And the murals – there are tons of awesome murals to see. Pontiac, IL – I haven’t forgotten about you. There’s still time to redeem yourself of your creepy as hell murals.

But it was nearing 3:30 PM, and I still had much yet to explore along 66. So it was off and running once again. But not before snagging an epic “drive-by” photo with TUCUMCARI US 66 and a badass ornamental sculpture featuring the classic elongated taillights of the 50’s muscle cars. Just after Tucumcari, things really start opening up.

If you zoom out a few clicks on Google Maps, you see 40 dissecting New Mexico and simply the desert. That’s it. It’s vast. It’s open. And it’s wild. So after spending a good hour in town, you’re quickly reminded of where you’re at in the universe, and all is right with the world again. Especially on the stretch near Santa Rosa. 66 is pretty rigid here. There are more cracks everywhere, and you pass zero cars. You’re still running parallel to 40, but you’re not them. You’re on 66, and you’re back in the ’50s. You begin to pass all the classics with more coming up.

You’re suddenly pulling upon an old Woody. Both the surfboard and everything on the wagon. Bags tied to the board. The kids make faces at you as you make your move to pass. So you make a funny face back, only you’re passed the kids now, and onto Dad. Dad doesn’t take so kindly to this rude gesture, so you point back towards his kids who are now laughing at this point and you continue on, noticing Mom is also laughing, trying to hold it in as not to upset the old man.

Old Man Gloom is blaring at 11, and the crushing riffs make even more sense out here. A storm is seen from the distance and it’s one of the most beautiful moments of your life.

If I had the time, I definitely would’ve enjoyed checking out Route 66 Auto Museum in Santa Rosa, among other things. The Blue Hole and Power Dam Falls looked pretty cool and they were something I recalled reading about. I recalled passing by a few local restaurant types as well. I’d avoid the local Kingdom Hall, however, like the plague. But I see that there is a US Army National Guard located just upwind of the Kingdom Hall. A likely strategically placed position, to keep an eye on these cult bastards.

But enough on man-made conspiracy religions, for now, 66 cuts right through the heart of this fine town. But I’m only filling up the tank, and continuing through. This was the area where I’d warned friends and family that I would likely be without cell coverage for hours at a time even. Spotify, Pandora, YouTube – sorry guys, it’s been a wild ride til now, but it seems we will be losing one another for extended intermediate periods for awhile.

So, local radio stations it is. FM 101.5, Mariachi. This seems quite fitting. Now you’re driving along 66 RDR2 post-story style, on horseback. As a solo gunslinger in a mean, mean world. But it’s okay, because you’re at level four bonding with your horse, and you’ve actually held onto a horse reviver or two should you run passed any other fellas who don’t respond with a friendly hello back so you’re forced into another unintended duel, so it’s cool. We’re in this together, friend.  And it is right around here where decisions must be made. Do you continue along 66, straight to Albuquerque to enjoy your host city’s nightlife for a change? Or, do you make the hour and a half detour and head to a little town called Santa Fe?

Take a moment. I’ll wait. But friend, I need an answer soon. The exits coming up in a few miles. And if you miss it, the next stop’s Albuquerque. It’s already 5:30 PM, maybe it’d be nice to get to your host city early. Even relax for a bit. Maybe you don’t need to hit the nightlife. You can enjoy a sunset in your host city for a change. That’d be nice, right? But so is Santa Fe. And it’s a place where you’ve always wanted to go.

Alright, friend, our exits in a mile now. So what do you think you want to do? Albuquerque nightlife would be pretty awesome to enjoy. And you’ll be too tired if you head to Santa Fe. But Santa Fe is one of the coolest places you’ve read about all the way back in History class. Remember your model Santa Fe railroad cars. And that railroad place your grandfather took you to, they had a mock Historical Santa Fe set up and everything. Remember how cool the buildings and the train station looked? Remember? All right friend, what do we do? The exit is right there. What are we doing? Friend? Friend? Friend!?

That was close. You had me nervous there for a second. I didn’t think you were going to make the right decision. Sure, it said about an hour and a half, but you talk yourself into rounding down to an hour. And you think back to your decision to head north to Detroit, using the same logical conveyance to your brain from your heart. If it’s an hour “out of your way” to Detroit, you take the fucking exit. If it’s an hour (and a half) “out of your way” to Santa Fe, you take the fucking exit. Besides, 41 North is a gorgeous drive, with mountain ranges to your west in the far distance.  The desert on either side of you. Now you’re on 286 North, nearly there. And then you start noticing the homes.

My God, the homes. So beautiful. Eldorado at Santa Fe, you really are a city of gold. At two miles out, it almost looks like you’ve discovered a long lost ancient civilization, a historic tunnel system of sorts. But then you realize it’s a community, full of hundreds of homes, and those “tunnels” is the roadwork artery system connecting them all to one another. And as expected, this place isn’t for the faint of finances with many of the homes listed for Zillow in this area seemingly starting out at 500k. Oh, here’s one still under construction and listing for 1.2 mil. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this done on Zillow before, interesting. Let’s see – the classic pueblo-style found throughout the Santa Fe region.

3-bds, 4-ba, 3,484 sq ft. Rising now a true adobe classic pueblo passive solar design with all the bells and whistles. Quietly elegant with Santa Fe style smooth plaster walls, brick floors, and high beam ceilings looking out onto walled courtyards, long portals and sweeping mountain views on 12 ½ acres. Natural gas radiant heat, ductless a/c units, gas fireplace, brick flooring on all portals. The kitchen appliance package available soon. Estimated completion is April 2020.

Not bad, not bad at all. However, I’d make sure it did indeed come with those bells and whistles. Oh, and some cowbell too. You can never have enough cowbell.

Now you’ll be heading on 25 South, although you actually travel north for a good bit. Confusing, I know. Okay, now you’ll be coming up on Old Pecos Trail. Take this and ride this puppy all the way to Santa Fe. It transitions into Old Santa Fe Trail, and there you have it, friend. “We made it. Rufus, we’re here boy!” But my gas station meal is through settling.  There should be a “bowel tracker” for men, just like there’s a “period tracker” for women. Let’s remove the taboo amongst other men, how about it, fellas? Alright, time to bring back the old faithful, Flush app. Alright – Phillips 66. Pretty shitty ratings, but I don’t really have a choice in this matter. I’m on N Guadalupe St and take a right onto Paseo De Peralta. And like a fool, I get in the left travel lane. I need to make a right, but people in Santa Fe drive like goddamn animals!

For how beautiful of a town ya’ll have got here, you’re goddamn animals on the road I tell ya. Animals! I missed my turn thanks to you wreck less bastards! Shit, alright. I make a likely illegal U-turn at the intersection of Griffin St. But no coppers, no lights outside of the traffic signals. Everything is clear. Well, not quite yet. Okay, I’ll have to find another option. Let’s see. Let’s see. Market Street at DeVargas Center. Okay, locked, and loaded. Here we come! Back onto N Guadalupe St. Nearly there. Parking was even tighter than my puckered asshole. This was no prairie dogging event. That I could’ve solved another way. Unfortunately, it would be a much messier situation than that. I find a parking spot as a cute girl in a Jeep was vacating a spot, I’m telling you it’s some sort of unspoken code.

But here’s the tricky part. When you’re sitting down, it almost acts like a plug of sorts. My stomach sounding like Gizmo when he was fed after midnight. This was like some kid’s science project, the reliable volcano. Only I wasn’t in charge of when the baking soda was going to be released. I walk into the store, and a kind woman up front pointed me to the direction of the facilities. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. I’m quite certain I achieved liftoff. I was half-waiting for loud cheers from Houston for a successful launch. Only now, I was quite certain I really had come down with dysentery. But no blood, and no mucus. No moving parts. Good. But what a goddamn mess. It looked like – okay, that’s quite enough shit talk for one day.

Besides, we’re here in Santa Fe, friend. There’s plenty to explore. Downtown Santa Fe it is. Market Street is just outside of downtown. So just a few minutes’ drive, and you’re there, amongst all the eccentric people that make up Santa Fe. Santa Fe is New Mexico’s capital (the oldest capital in America, being founded in 1610 by Spanish Colonists), and is the fourth largest city. The city means “Holy Faith” in Spanish (you don’t want to know the original full name, trust me, its super long and ridiculous that it was ever named as such).

But it hardly feels like a city, in a good way. With just under 84,000 people, there is a real small-town charm to be found here. You’re truly transformed into another world. You think you’re walking around in some exotic Spanish Villa, but you’re surrounded by people from all walks of life. There was a real sense of art and culture while walking around. I parked near the Villagra Building. Something I would completely forget later on, and thankfully the Maps Parked Car feature saved my ass once more, pun intended. Parking seemed to be plenty ample downtown. It’s kind of crazy to consider that twelve hours earlier you were near downtown Amarillo, and now you’re near downtown Santa Fe.

Two completely different places in two different states in the same country. It’s pretty remarkable once you really sit down and think about it. But there’d be plenty of time for that later; we’ve got some exploration to conquer. Let’s head into the historic district. I hear some music, let’s check it out!

Santa Fe Plaza. This wonderful gathering place is square in the middle of Santa Fe. There are several musicians scattered about, as well as artists, and other creative types walking around. Just the kinda thing to put me in a mood for a drink. And with many different options had I actually searched, but I wanted to find something that struck my fancy organically. I wandered around a bit, with some great music and sounds as my soundtrack. W/E San Francisco St was a very happening area. This definitely seemed like a touristy area, but there also seemed to be plenty of locals looking to enjoy a beautiful night out as well. Ah, here we go. This place looks quite promising. Desert Dogs Brewery and Cidery Taproom. The name is cool. The logo is cool. The lights heading up the stairs are cool. Let’s stop in!

“Hello. I’m Flora. What can I get you, dear?”

“Hi, Flora. Uhh, let’s see. Just one moment. What would you suggest?”

“Well, as you see we’ve got quite a lot upon the board right now. Were you looking for a cider or beer?”

“Definitely beer. I’m a big IPA fan, but I’ll drink anything, so long as its’ good.”

“Oooh, well, I really like the Bellringer IPA.”

“Bellringer IPA it is then. Thank you for your suggestion. I’m from Pennsylvania, so I’m just looking to soak in as much of Santa Fe as I can.”
“No way! I’m from PA too. I moved from Reading, eight months ago, over winter. A great time to move out of PA, I know! So what brings you all the way to Santa Fe?”

“Well, I almost didn’t make it to Santa Fe. The Unknown Bastard made me take the exit at the last second.”

“Unknown Bastard?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m actually on a cross-country road trip. I’ll be in Santa Monica in a few more days. I started in PA, obviously, then I officially started in Chicago, and I’ll be going along Route 66 the whole way to the pier at Santa Monica.”

“Woah man, that’s really cool. That’s so awesome. It’s a small world, ya know?”

“No, I totally get that. This whole trip has been really grounding. Like, it’s been really spiritual for me.”

“Very cool. It’s been great living here so far. You know, Santa Fe is the third-largest art market in the US, behind only New York and Los Angeles.”

There are over 250 art galleries throughout Santa Fe, and all of them are different. No, really. I stopped into about six of them, and every owner said the same thing. That’s probably how they’re all able to survive. But if you like art, you’re sure to find something here. And the turquoise here is on a whole other level. Just simply gorgeous. Flora fell in love with Santa Fe the same way I imagine everyone does, overnight. Like that beautiful artsy nerdy girl with tattoos and a nose ring at the music festival who you befriend while waiting in line to buy drinks for friends, just like you, because it’s 50 people deep, and your friends are like “Screw that noise, man.” So they make you stand in line for them because you’re a good friend and all. Santa Fe is definitely worth waiting in line for. After all, you just might meet your beautiful festival girl.

Things are really picking up here. This is definitely a local joint. I’m noticing a lot of the waitresses and bartenders greeting the customers by name as they take place their orders. I meet “Santa Fe’s Most Wanted”, and one of his compadres who have now taken seats at the bar as well. Mr. Most Wanted is from Southern Cali, and he shares what it was like living there, and how different it is since he too moved here. Lionel is his friend’s name, who Mr. Most Wanted shares is an actor and touring artist. Lionel seems to be pretty modest about this, and just sort of shrugged off the notion, only briefly describing what his life looks like. And then a gentleman by the name of Mike takes a seat to my right. I see him hand over his ID to Flora.

“Pennsylvania license? No way! You’re from Pennsylvania too!? So is he. What a small night it is!”

“Hey, man, nice to meet you. What part of PA are you from?”

“I grew up near Philadelphia. I worked for my Aunt’s firm before moving to Minnesota, where I live now. I’m in town for business. I get to travel the world doing this, so it’s pretty cool coming to places like this, and meeting others from our home state.”

I should’ve gotten a photo of the three of us PA natives together, but alas. Perhaps another time in Santa Fe? After two more Bellringer’s and a few more good stories amongst the group, my own bell was ringing, and I had to bid you farewell (for now), Santa Fe. It’s nearly 9:00 PM already, and I knew I had another good hour and a half. It always takes longer when you’re dragging too. And when you’ve been on the road for fifteen hours, believe me, you start to drag.

Dude, where’s my car? Not the stoner “comedy” of the early 2000s. No, seriously. Dude. Where the hell is my car? Perhaps I’d had one too many, and I lost all sense of reasonable direction. My phone was nearly dead, naturally. I didn’t have time for this shit. And so just like I said, I’d use the wonderful parked car feature in Maps. But not before a wild goose chase. Thank God I had enough energy to jog around Santa Fe, desperately trying to get to Virginia. Annnddd my phone died. Great. Just great. My man compass would have to actually come in handy now.

I was within a block radius of where my car was. And like an idiot, I took a screenshot of the map location, for some reason thinking I’d be able to reference it later – once my phone died? I really have no idea. Three IPA’s (I think) and good conversation catches up to you. A bunch of government buildings. These I remember, but was this where I parked my car? “Dude, there it is! There it is. We made it after all, Rufus! Time to head home, boy. I should get one of those RFD chips implanted in you, so I can lock onto you at all times like a real dog would get.”

I made it a little over halfway, to Algodones before having to pull over to “drain the lizard.” Virginia was absolutely filthy from all the damn mammoth insects out here. This was the high desert, after all.

And speaking of bugs, the men’s restroom had an old-fashioned condom dispenser. However, the condom descriptions were hysterical, to say the least. I was right across the Black Mesa Casino, so it was quite reasonable why they would be available here via one of those quarter dispensers. I mean damn, I wished I’d had the time and money to roll around there. I couldn’t begin to imagine the skirts in there. Damn.

Hugger was on the left. Slimmer condom for a snugger fit. Then in the middle, we have Genuine Horny Goat Weed – Increases Sexual Energy, Enhances Desire & Performance. Right? I thought the same thing. Was this one some sort of hemp vs. latex condom? I’d never heard of one. Perhaps you’d both get an instant high upon penetration? Who knows? The creepy cartoon image of a male goat standing on two legs, admiring a much smaller female goat on all four legs was quite troubling as well.

Ohhhh. I see now. In the fine print, it says its two tablets. That makes way more sense. But still. Dude? And lastly was Rough Rider featuring RAISED RUBBER STUDS FOR EXTRA SENSATION. A little different objective than studded tires for winter, but essentially it’s the same principle. You get a little more, grip as the boat rocks. And for God sake’s don’t try to wrap these around your tires, dude.

And finally, Albuquerque. We’ve actually made it. It’s nearly 10:45 PM, and I’m just getting to my host’s Airbnb now. Well, at least I thought I had. You’ve gotta be kidding me! Am I not in the right place? This is where the directions led me to, isn’t it? But it doesn’t feel right. I phone Joe, who confirms, I was indeed, not in the right place. But, I was at least in the vicinity. I was essentially a zombie who himself was running on autopilot. I ended up walking into not one but two wrong courtyards, thinking I’d locked myself into the latter, only to realize you had to press a button to unlatch the lock device for safety.

Joe came outside on each occasion, getting noticeably a bit frustrated with me, and understandably so. So, I’d started wandering around the wrong apartment complex, found the right one, only to wander around more aimlessly still, only to finally be able to hear Joe’s voice as he stepped outside, knowing I’d finally made it to the correct courtyard area where his apartment was. He was very cordial and guided me to where I’d be staying. I remember he showed me the bathroom, let me know there was another guest, Rachel, and messaged me instructions on how to lockup if I was the first to leave, which I knew I would be. A lot of Rachel’s on 66 apparently.

But my phone died. Yeah, I know. Thanks for reminding me. I’d forgotten to plug it back in after stopping for fuel. So, no instructions. I could obviously go back to my car, but Joe had gone to bed, and I’d had no phone to lookup the instructions for his keypad. Christ. I fell asleep even before I was fully under the covers, my legs sticking out like some sort of dead sea creatures tentacles, who’d just washed ashore. One where there was a nuclear power plant nearby, all mutated and shit.

 

ABQ
TO
FLAGSTAFF

 

 

I woke up right before daybreak. Right on schedule. And thankfully there were also written instructions by the door, so I was all set for another day of exploration. ABQ let’s see what you’ve got!

Albuquerque, bitch! That’s right – home to the one and only, Breaking Bad. One of my all-time favorite series, ever. What a time that was to be alive. I binged the hell out of that goddamn show. Half of my free time was spent catching up on Breaking Bad and Mad Men, both originally airing on AMC. What a time to be alive, indeed! But I assure you, ABQ, as it’s called by the locals, is much more than a science teacher turned criminal drug lord being hunted down by his DEA agent brother-in-law kinda town.

Joe’s place is literally right in downtown Albuquerque. So I only had a few blocks to get to where Maps had suggested downtown be. And at quarter to seven in the morning, it was quite blissful. Very little traffic and the only people out and about were Latina joggers, and some city workers picking up any stray trash. I just sat up against Virginia for a few minutes (see aforementioned Latina joggers), and just watched the traffic lights as they worked their magic, while admiring the man-made scenery. It takes two to tango, baby! The downtown architecture was pretty hot as well.

Albuquerque just oozes sex. It’s cool, beautiful, smart, funny, and sexy. How could it not?  You’re in the high desert now! Well truthfully, you were even higher last night in Santa Fe as well, sitting at 7,199 feet. Whereas Albuquerque sits at 5,312 feet above sea level, and behind only Denver and El Paso, it is the third most populated city which sits at 3,280 feet at higher.  But I didn’t want to get into any of that blue stuff just yet. I had some exploring to do. And there is plenty to do in and around ABQ, trust me.

[At the Petroglyph National Monument.]

“Hey, do you know where I can get any of that blue crystal?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You know the park isn’t open yet. But you’re welcome to walk around at your convenience.”

“Sure thing, sir. I appreciate the heads up. I’m not exactly dressed for any hiking today, as you can see”, (points to flip flops).

[The park ranger also points out a sign that denotes a HIGH Fire Danger Today – Prevent Wildfires! Between my blue meth suggestion, my long shaggy hair, and un-groomed beard, and flip-flop wearing persona, he must’ve smelled stoner.]

“Don’t worry, Rufus. I won’t be burning down your family’s land today! Or is that Petrified Forest National Park? Anyway. Damn is it ever beautiful here though. And what is that over there? Holy shit, it’s a real-life roadrunner! Now, where is that coyote friend of his?”

No, I’m not watching classic Saturday morning cartoons, besides it’s only Thursday. No, an actual roadrunner. How badass is that, man? And with the sun cresting over the mountains over yonder, this was going to be a wonderful day! And speaking of, let’s get a move on. We have plenty more to explore. I was in the mood for some more sightseeing, so I traveled a half-hour across the city to get to Elena Gallegos Open Space Park. It’s a great way to get to know a place, driving with the locals during rush hour. And unlike the idiotas in Santa Fe, people actually know how to drive here.

Sure, you treat each segment of lights like you’re in Fast and Furious, but you’re not assholes about it. You know where you’re going, and you get there safely. I mean Santa Fe, you know I love you, right? But you’ve gotta get a grip on the sheer number of assholes on the road at the same time. Maybe work it in shifts or something. Something. Anything would be better than what I experienced. You’re currently in second place behind the outskirts of Chicago. But moving on!

“RATTLESNAKES – RATTLESNAKES MAY BE FOUND IN THIS AREA. THEY ARE IMPORTANT MEMBERS OF THE NATURAL COMMUNITY. THEY WILL NOT ATTACK, BUT IF DISTURBED, OR CORNERED THEY WILL DEFEND THEMSELVES. GIVE THEM DISTANCE AND RESPECT. Well alright then! Time to get my flip-flop wearing ass outta here!

But before I do, you might be thinking why a Park was named after a serial killer. But that was Charlene Gallego, along with her partner Gerald. And they terrorized southern California, not Albuquerque. They were known as the Love Slave Killers. They murdered ten victims, most of whom were teenagers, and many of which were kept as sex slaves before being murdered. Kinky. And while I’m certainly not condoning a rape and murder spree with your equally crazy partner, this does seem like a place where one would, in fact, dump a few bodies. It even has Open Space in the name. C’mon people! All this sex and murder has got me in the mood for – coffee.

Yeah. Let’s grab some coffee, shall we? It’ll be my treat, friend. Oh, and another park ranger pulled me over in the park. His friend must’ve put out an APB on me because he greeted me as a friendly. A tactic they learn in Park Ranger training.

“Good morning, sir. We usually have people pay the $2 fee, but seeing as you’re not really from here, I’ll let you on through. Just take some photos, enjoy the views for a few moments, and then please be on your way.”

“Yes, thank you, sir! By the way, you know where I can get some of that blue crystal?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

I snapped a few incredible panoramas get a few close-ups of cacti with the sunrise in the backdrop, and I was again on my way. I’d sent one of these to Joe and thanked him again for his hospitality and understanding of dealing with a mentally drained individual last evening.

Let’s see. I search for the nearest coffee shop and decide on O’Bean’s Coffee. This place is really cool. As cool as the high-desert evenings. Started out as a Volkswagen Bus Food Truck of sorts, now as its own store in Sandia Heights. A very cute, petite, curvy, and flirtatious redhead takes my order.

“Hi hun, what can I get for you?”

“Oh, man, I’m sorry. I wasn’t really prepared at all. Let’s see. Just a sec…Okay. I’ll go with an iced latte. That’s been my go-to so far.”

“Sure thing, coming right up!”

I nearly ask her out on a date, but what was I thinking? Surely this fine establishment received the APB about a traveling hippie foreigner who was trying to dig up some of that Heisenberg shit. This was Breaking Bad country, bitch!

And speaking of, the cast and crew would often come in here during the filming of the series. And they still do as Better Call Saul; the excellent spinoff is shot here as well. They even offer bus tours to check out the OG Breaking Bad spots, as well as current locations for Better Call Saul, including going to live shoots. “Quiet on set” type stuff. Pretty cool. The current love of my life’s shift must’ve just ended, as she walked out the door after fixing me my iced late.

“Bye, hun. Take care now!”

“Thank you, you too. Have a great day!”

[In enters Tony, the clean cut/dressed owner of this joints’ nephew.]
“Albuquerque is a really cool place. It’s really beautiful here too.”

“It sure is. I’ve only been here for a few months though. I just moved from Southern California and Mexico before that. Tijuana area. Now, that place is crazy!”

“Oh, I can only imagine. I’m not sure I’d be able to get away with my drive-by shootings there.”

“Fuck man, are you serious!?”

[Tony had ducked behind the counter and nervously peaked his head up again as he waited for an explanation.]

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry, man. No, I uh, with my camera and my phone. Damn, I’m really sorry. That was a stupid thing for me to say. Especially with this being Heisenberg Country and all, and with what you were just talking about coming from.”

“You had me worried for a sec, muchacho. Ai dios mio, man. Shit. How’s your iced latte?”

“It’s good. Really good. Thank you. Mi amor did a great job.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You know where I can get any of that blue crystal?”

“Haha, no, sir. But we do have ground coffee available for purchase right here. Here, let me show you around a bit since you seem so interested.”

Tony turned on a light in the store, illuminating an otherwise hidden room, visible through a piece of glass that I thought was only a mirror. “Holy shit! The blue crystal I’ve been after. This is where it is.” I was going to have a fine souvenir to take with me into Cali, no not Columbia (although that city has really turned around since Pablo and the Cali Cartel era). Sorry, speaking of drugs, I’d just finished the entire three seasons of Narcos, the fantastically made Netflix series. Narcos: Mexico, you’re up next.

[Tony turns the light on to a hidden room.]

“This is our roasting room. We have it right here on-site, made fresh daily. Just the way my Uncle did it when he just had his Volkswagen bus.”

Okay, not quite a secret meth lab on the premises cool, but it’s still pretty damn cool. He shows me an old photo of his Uncle’s bus in action. It looked like it was set up at a park location, in the parking lot. Magnetic chalkboard on the side displaying the Everyday Favorites, pop-up umbrella for shade, with more chalkboards popped up behind it displaying the Specialty Drinks, sweet swag available for purchase right where the door slides open, and the roaster pulled behind the bus, and a Route 66 sign proudly displayed right in the middle of it all. Pretty damn cool guys. Pretty damn cool.

After admiring a hot-air balloon mural inside, it was time to keep on this trajectory of cool by checking out the rest of ABQ. Time to head to Old Town. This is the OG section of Albuquerque. Spanning ten blocks featuring historic adobe buildings surrounding Old Town Plaza, it was originally laid out by Spanish colonists in the 1700s. San Felipe de Neri Church is the oldest building here, and it was actually built during the time of Spanish colonialism, being constructed in 1793. There are a lot of cool things here to checkout. And not just because it’s old either. It’s important to preserve and remember history, but not all history needs to be preserved, or even remembered for that matter.

My first Lincoln Log Cabin is pretty shitful, but just because it’s still in my parent’s attic, doesn’t mean it should end up on any National Historic Register’s List 100 years from now “Because it’s old”, right? You get the picture. And speaking of, there is plenty to take here. Let’s keep moving. I parked right by the Old Town Statue, in the shade, away from the other vehicles as not to draw too much attention to myself. This was a paid parking lot, and I was already fugitive in Albuquerque.  Hopefully, I won’t end up like Bugs Bunny, stating to myself “I knew I ‘shoulda’ made dat left toin at Albakoikie.” Although, I wouldn’t mind ending up in the Black Forest. Just as long as I’m greeted by a beautiful beer garden girl and not her intimidating large father, dressed in his lederhosen.

There is a lot in common with Santa Fe here. I’m not sure it’s fair to declare them to be sister-cities or such, but you do notice some similarities. Especially while walking around in Old Town compared with the Santa Fe Plaza. And just like everywhere else I’ve been in ABQ, this place is quite beautiful as well. Yes, it’s a tourist destination. And yes, there will be many other visitors walking around. But, it doesn’t mean you can’t still enjoy yourself walking around here. Go, mingle a bit. Pretend that you actually like people for a change and that you’re not just someone talking to themselves this whole time, using a piece of petrified wood as an excuse as a companion. But do hold onto it, friend. Your “Wilson” will save your life once you get near California. But for now, back to New Mexico.

There are a number of beautiful buildings, plenty of shops, and places to eat and drink here. Sister Blandina Convent. Hmm, what lovely senoritas must’ve passed through these halls? Now, as you know, I’m not a religious man, but I do wonder if I’d have made a good Padre during the Spanish Colonial days? And to have them call me Papi as they renew their sins in my quarters?

Ai dos mio, mi amor. No really. Sorry Red. I’ve already moved on. It was fun while it lasted. And she’s with her la madre too. Ai ai ai. Right in front of San Felipe de Neri Church too. Perfecto. I could get her mother’s blessing, and marry her on the spot. I pretend I’m only interested in the architecture as I follow them for a moment before making my move. Always compliment the mother first. She will make an introduction to her daughter if she is pleased with you.

“Hola. Buenas días señorita. ¿Cómo te pierdes?”

“Dios mío. Eres tan bueno con tu español. Me has sorprendido. Estamos bien gracias. Esta es mi hija, Ingrid. Mi nombre es María. Somos de México.”

Now, this is where I always go wrong. I start off with a nice phrase or two, which I’ve typically only just looked up moments before saying it to make sure I was right in my thinking, so the pretty girl (s) assume I know Spanish. And I do. But only un poco, or, a little bit. I had two years of Spanish in high school, but I didn’t really pay attention, because at the age I was too busy fixated on which girl I was going to ask for the next dance.

They tell you not the drink the Kool-Aid, but they ain’t ever said not to drink the Tequila. Ah, Tila, why’d you have to go far-right extremist on me. We could’ve made a great swingin’ couple. And this boy can swing once he’s liquored up. Even back in high-school. A perk of being a “nice, well-mannered, and innocent kid.” That and my Spanish teacher was a real putz. He was so dumb, I used to bring out my Algebra homework when he’d come around checking to see if we did our homework. I told this to a few of my friends, and they started to do the same. What gives? And then I noticed him, and what his real intention of walking around the class was. Bastard creeper would walk around, staring down all of the girl’s shirts, and checking out their asses as he moved onto the next one. I told you, a real putz. But my Spanish has improved significantly since then thanks to my dating preferences being Spanish beauties, so I was able to converse at least a little gracefully.

“Hola María. Encantado de conocerte también Ingrid. Los dos sois tan hermosas. Siento no hablar español con fluidez. Un momento. Permiso para tomar una foto de ustedes dos. Sería demasiado hermoso no demasiado.”
“Muchas gracias. Si. No problema. ¿Cómo nos quieres?”

[Immediately, my mind wandered to unspeakable places, at least they would be classified as such in front of Ingrid’s hermosa la madre. I gestured each to stand on opposite sides of a wonderful statue. And then politely gesturing and gently guiding them to a few more positions.]

“Gracias por su tiempo, lindas damas. Que tengas un gran día. Disfruta de Nuevo México. Hasta luego!”

[I reached for each of their hands, and gave gentle kisses to each, and bowed to show my true appreciation. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I was practically skipping out of there.]

“Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!”

Holy shit. I nearly walked right into a very stout pit-bull.

“Sorry dude. I didn’t see you there.”

[No really. It’s bright as shit out, and I was just inside an indoor courtyard area of sorts. I’m talking to the dog like he understands me. Maybe I have lost my damn mind? But, there was plenty of time for that later.]

“I’m sorry, folks. I didn’t mean to startle you all. Especially your dog here.”

“Haha, it’s quite alright. That was pretty funny, sorry.”

“Yeah, I tend to have that effect on people, and dogs, evidently. My life is basically a hopeless romantic comedy (strong emphasis on hopeless at this point). It’s quite alright. I’m used to it.”

They were a lovely couple, traveling on the road as well, from Texas. They travel in their van with their animal rescue business, which is primarily focused on rescuing dogs to give to Vets as companions. A noble cause indeed. They gave me their card. It’s, it’s right, oh shit. No. No, it’s not. I lost it. Along with a whole bunch of other shit. It’s somewhere in Ontario fucking Canada now. We’ll get to that later, however. Anyway – the gentleman wore a XSCAPERS Annual Bash 2019 tee, which seems like a pretty cool cause in its own right. With the help of the internet, I’ll look to locate them later. For now, there’s more exploring to do!

Sometimes Apple Maps is, well completely shitful. Remember when people were driving straight into lakes and shit? Yeah. Well, this felt kinda like that. Okay, maybe not that bad. But still. C’mon people! I wanted to check out some 66 sights while I was here, not drive into any lakes, man. Old Town, you were great, amazing. The best I’ve ever had. Shit, that didn’t actually happen, did it? No, of course not. Her mother was right there. It couldn’t have been real. A strong imagination can be a powerful thing. Sometimes you misleadingly distort your own reality a bit.

[But as Jobs’ said]

“The ones who see things differently – they’re not fond of rules. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the one thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… Because the ones who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do. Think different.”

[And Jobs’ was famous for his own “reality distortion field.”]

“So, there’s still hope for me yet, huh boy? Rufus?”

Maybe I should’ve taken you with me a few times. Got you your own leash and everything. Just kind of skimming across the ground behind me. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but they’re hooked up to one of those backpack leash things, so you just kinda drag them along, a few meters behind you, hoping nobody will notice or care enough if they happen to.

I’d better switch over to water. I’ve been pouring drinks from this bottle of wine left behind a Christmas party here at Rock Candy – Dark Horse Pinot Grigio. It’s quite good. It’s the 22nd now, Sunday at 2:57 PM, nobody’s here. Might as well keep things light, right?

This dry wine is making me hungry. We should stop for some food soon. But first, let’s check out this cool sign that Apple Maps tells us is here. It looks pretty cool, full of stickers, artwork, and signatures. Another great addition to the scrapbook, right? Now, where is this thing? It says it should be right here. It says I’ve arrived. So where is this damn thing?

“Ohhh, you. You come. Ohhh. Come. Come. Ohhh. Haha. Come”

Welcome in Chua Giac Hoa, a Buddhist temple on Isleta Blvd. A monk saw me wandering out front, where this bloody sign landmark was supposed to be. He escorts me to the grounds and signals that he’ll be right with me, presumably after he finished his phone call. He kept glancing at me while on the phone, smiling, and further gesturing to wait. This must be it. This is how I go out. Abducted by a Buddhist Monk, and sacrificed to be their meal for the next several weeks. Now aggressively pacing around, I wonder if I should make a run for it.

And then I notice something on the ground to my left. There is a hammer and an ax on top of a few pieces of wood. Something was completely destroyed here. I can’t tell what it is, but its’ remains were everywhere. There were charred pieces tossed off to the side as well. And then I notice something else – this man was missing all but a few teeth. “Sweet Jesus, God, no!” I’d be turned into some kind of a soup for this monk and the others, a Monday special. That must be what all is left here. They must’ve had a goddamn witch’s brew party here, and I’m the last guest to arrive or to leave for that matter. I’d be turned into some white chicken broth, while they danced around and said their morning’s prayers. I really couldn’t understand a single word that the man said.

He now brings me into the temple. I take off my flip-flops at the door and wander in. Incense is burning; some traditional oriental music of sorts was playing on a little boom box placed at the center of the room on the floor. Beautiful decorations adorned an altar, with several prominent Buddha statues, a few bouquets of flowers, and apples. Perhaps I’d be used as a pig roast instead? How favorable! I’m escorted to another room within the temple, timidly following the monk.

“Ohhh, come. Haha. Come, come. Ohhh. Come. Haha.”

[He brings me over to a large poster, “NAMO SHAKYAMUNI BUDDAH – THE HISTORICAL LIFE STORY WITH 32 PICTORIAL STAGES AND SYNOPTIC GENERALTIES OF BUDDAH SHAKYAMUNI’S LIFE.”]

“You. Haha. You. See. You. Haha. Son. Haha. See, see. You. Haha. Son. Haha.”

Now, it’s one thing to have a Messiah complex, but to have a Buddha complex is something I’ve never heard of nor even considered before. What in the bloody hell was this dude going on about? Was he saying that I was the next Buddha and that my son would follow? I’m not anywhere near stoned enough for this shit, man. He guides me to one last room and poses in front of a window.

“Here. Haha. Here. Come. Haha.”

He gestured for me to take his photo, as I’d been capturing as much as I could without him noticing me. “Shit. I’d been made!” He knows I’ve been capturing everything, perhaps even recording. “Shit. Shit. Shit!” I’d be hit upside the head with one of the Buddha statues by his cohorts soon enough. At least they too believed in reincarnation, although I’d be sent to another realm once they converted me moments before my sacrifice. I was handed some Buddhist swag and was escorted to the door. He gestured to my flip-flops, gave me a hug, a toothless smile, and kept waving quite enthusiastically, mind you. He was, letting me go? Perhaps I was too pale? He must’ve known I was a vegetarian, and that I was not as succulent as a tuna and truffles feed pig.

“You. Haha. Son. Haha. You. Haha. Son. Haha”

[He pointed to the pamphlets and book he had given me.]

I wandered out just as nervously as I was escorted in. Don’t. Look. Back. Just keep walking. You’ve just escaped your own potential Love Slave Killers situation. Keep walking, soldier! Good Christ, what was that? You need to sit down, friend. Let’s grab something to eat, and try to forget about whatever the shit that just was.

I remember passing a fine looking establishment on our way in. Let’s stop there. Lollie’s New Mexican Foods, you beautiful bastard. The lot was pretty full, always a good sign. Another classic. Nice! She was just rolling in behind me. A 1962 Thunderbird, Cream White, pristine condition. Bill, a Vietnam Vet (see, even Boomer’s got participation trophies), gives me permission to snap a few photos.

“Thank you for your service, sir. Beautiful car too”

“Thank you, young man.”

“I’m from out of town. Is this place any good?”

“The best. I’ll see you inside, kid.”

Bill was meeting fellow war veterans inside, all the way in the back room. They were definitely regulars, as they were escorted back to their table. There was even a wall featuring dozens of photos of war veterans and other memorabilia. Quite a mixed crowd here. Also, a good sign that you’ve found yourself at a fine establishment.

[Ariel, a beautiful Latina in her own right, hands me a menu.]

“Take your time, hun. I’ll be back for your order when you’re ready.”

“Don’t go anywhere now. I think I already know what I want. What is that plate of deliciousness at that gentleman’s table right there?”

Now, according to Dr. WebMd over here (if that’s even your real name), a deluxe burrito is ranked dead last on their list of Best vs Worst healthy Mexican Dishes. But what do they know? They just play a Doctor on the internet. That’s like the same thing as Chris Robinson saying “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV.” Wait a minute, I thought Neil Patrick Harris said that? Anyway, dig in friend, this messy plate is like sex for your stomach. Okay, maybe after all that Love Slave Killers talk, I should’ve chosen a different phrase. Point is – this dish is excellent. Don’t have any regrets about it showing up on any kind of list. Oh, and it comes with sliced potatoes, rice, shredded cheese and beans, and a tortilla with hot sauce. If this was my final meal, I’d have died a happy man. The other table is laughing at me. When I enjoy a dish a little too much, apparently I’m quite audible about it. I told you its like sex for your stomach, there’s going to be noises involved.
“I’m sorry, folks. I’m being too loud over here, aren’t I?”

“We’re just glad to see you’re enjoying your food. Hi, I’m Maria, this is my son, Gerard.”

“Hi, Maria and Gerard. A pleasure to meet you. Sorry again!”

“Don’t sweat, just enjoy it. This place is the best.”

“Yeah, that’s what I keep hearing. I tend to agree. I’m from Pennsylvania, so it was cool to stumble on to a place like this.”

“Oh my. Yes. It’s full of just us locals. No tourists here. You must’ve really stumbled your way to find this place then.”

“You really have no idea.”

Gerard had on a Day of the Dead styled Heisenberg tee, pretty badass. We chatted some about the show, and he’d asked me if I’d taken the tours yet. Apparently, each one is right around four hours long, and quite expansive.

That series has really done an awful lot for the city of Albuquerque. And it’s easy to see why. El Camino was absolutely badass too. I managed to squeeze that in last night. I only have a few more days before my free Netflix trial ends. I’ll try to check out The Ballad of Buster Scruggs tonight. After the Crobot and ’68 show of course. I wouldn’t miss either of those great bands when they’re in town. They’re playing at the aforementioned Chameleon Club, but I’m willing to give them another shot. We’ll see. And speaking of, there was plenty yet to see today. ABQ, it’s been a pleasure! I hope to see you again real soon. I’d be venturing further into the desert today. Time to tune to some desert rock. Queens of the Stone Age – Go With the Flow starts it off. And when that’s the opener, you know you’re in for a great ride.

You’ll want to make sure you’re on 66 from here to the very end, friend. From here all the way to Santa Monica, it parallels the highway. And things really start to open up. The geological landscapes are massive, and strikingly beautiful, as the hot desert sun’s ray’s beam down onto them.  You will come across numerous butte’s (small flat-topped pointed hill or mountain), mesa’s (medium flat-topped hill or mountain), and plateau’s ( big flat-topped hill or mountain) in this area of New Mexico, and continuing into Arizona. Now, how they determine if one is small vs. medium vs. big, you’ve got me. But, they are impressive to notice, and there is quite a volume of them along 66. Maria had warned me not to speak once I got into the Pueblo country. Or was that don’t speed? Either way, I’d do my best to get through this land as quickly as possible, without making an impression on the locals. But like so many things before it, it is quite something to admire. You will be able to see for miles and miles, many of which I drove right down the dashed yellow line, cruising down 66, all the while still envisioning what it must’ve been like “back in the day.”

This must be flash-flood country as well, as you will begin to notice signs such as “CAUTION WATCH FOR WATER.” Quite a foreboding sign to come across, so driver, beware!  We’re in Pueblo Country now, notably Pueblo Acoma, or Sky City, so be on your very best behavior. I’m not about to disobey any local customs or get pulled over by any of the vultures out hiding among the butte’s, mesas, or plateaus. Now, I didn’t get to truly explore the dwellings, but it was cool even just walking around one of the oldest continuously inhabited in America, along with the Hopies. Dating as far back to the time of Christ, the Pueblo sits on a 365-foot mesa, as they sought shelter avoiding conflict with the Navajo and Apache tribes. And although I made no contact with anyone here, I got a keen sense that I was being watched. With a population of approximately 30 still living permanently on the mesa, there was plenty of open space for them to be hiding out in, looking down and waiting for any unsuspecting victim such as myself. My recommendation – don’t act like an idiot, and you should get through just fine.

This can also be said for the small town of Grants, NM. I can’t triangulate exactly where from my photos, but I stopped here to take a few panoramas of the railroad and the vast landscape as the backdrop, only to be met with a swarm of aggressively loud dogs, and neighbors coming out with shotguns to investigate. I reckoned this was not the place for a tourist to have wandered. Perhaps I should’ve adhered to the “NO TRESPASSING – VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN” sign a 1/8th mile or so back. Sky City Travel Center Express “NO WEAPONS ALLOWED” as you enter the store.

Finally, I’m safe. Or so I thought. One of the neighbors had tailed me. He walked up to the entrance at the same time as I had, coincidently, I’m sure. He laughed, gestured down to his large pistol holstered by way of his belt buckle, looked to the sign, and brought his pistol back to his hillbilly truck. I got the message, buddy, don’t you worry! So, I would extend the no speaking rule to Grants, NM as well. Speeding should be okay, however. After all, you might need to. This area of the state bleeds so red, that they won’t hesitate to remind you of their 2nd Amendment Rights. Not letting the perpetrator know that they’re armed here. If you’re lucky, they’ll give you a few seconds warning by letting you hear them cock the hammer. After that, well, I think that goes without saying.

After filling up on the usual mix of chocolate milk and Powerade, we’re off again. “Rufus, you sure you didn’t want anything, boy? Alright, suit yourself.” Petrified Forest National Park. Welcome to Arizona, friend. Well, technically we’ve been in Arizona for the last 50 miles or so.

Wait, Arizona already? Shit. We forgot to stop in Gallup NM. Goddamnit. The largest city between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, there are many things worth checking out here. Some of the most famous westerns of our time were shot in and around Gallup. Some of these include Billy the Kid, Pursued, The Sea of Grass, Four Faces West, Only the Valiant, Ace in the Hole, Escape from Fort Bravo, A Distant Trumpet, and The Hallelujah Trail. Redskin and Superman were also shot here. Known as the Indian Capital of the World, with 1/3 of its population having Native American roots, it makes sense that the name would then be named in honor of the strong Native American culture in and around Gallup.

Hol’ up. Wikipedia, you’re contradicting yourself here, friend. I also see that the town says its name is derived from David Gallup, a paymaster for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. Perhaps this David’s name is derived from a horses gallop, and had a slight name variation? Anyway. But not all is “Cowboys and Indians” here. Violent crime is a pretty big problem, being at over five times the national average, and the highest in the state. In 2014, Gallup saw 463 violent crimes including murder, rape, and robbery, and aggravated assault. And back in 2003 the US and New Mexico Departments of Transportation renumbered US Highway 666 to Route 491 instead. This highway, with its high rate of casualties, was considered to be cursed by the beast himself. Perhaps this would explain the high violent crime rate here? Or, perhaps it’s because of all of the westerns in which Indians were portrayed in which the way they were? Christ, maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t stop here? On a brighter note, it seems that Gallup has a pretty lively nightlife culture downtown, with plenty of traditional Native American dances, art crawls, including stops at their numerous murals, and museum tours.

As a kid, I had a pretty impressive collection of petrified wood, geodes, crystals, and other minerals, thanks to my Uncle Dave. They’re not just rocks, friend. No, they’re minerals, Jesus Marie! So it was pretty cool to be at the gate at least of Petrified Forest National Park, but for someone who couldn’t afford the $2 entrance, I surely couldn’t afford the $20 entrance fee here.

So I was off once again. This time to Meteor Crater Natural Landmark in Winslow, AZ. A slight detour off of 66, it’s only a short 20-minute drive and you’re there. Now, I saw the attraction sign advertised a few times, and I almost didn’t take the exit, only at the last minute veering off, like a mad man who’d just lost his savings in Vegas, or worse, Atlantic City. Perhaps there’d be a good jumping-off point at the meteor, Thelma and Louise style.

At least in Vegas, it’s a short drive to the Grand Canyon. Where is a loving husband and coach to his daughter’s soccer team, who’s just bet everything against his car and house and lost, supposed to jump off near Atlantic City? Steel Pier? I think not.  But admission was $18, so sorry folks, no dramatic Thelma and Louise ending for this guy today.

The drive in/out was simply spectacular, however, so that alone was worth it. And again for much of the way, I drove dead center, straddling the double yellow line, like your favorite stripper at your friend’s bachelor party, straddling you like coins were going to come out if she wrapped herself any tighter. There are also cleverly written signs on your way in as if to ensure you’ll continue to your new destination. Speed Limit Motor Vehicles 50 MPH Meteors 26,000 MPH. As well as METEOR CRATOR – EXPERIENCE THE IMPACT! Which you will undoubtedly read in the voice of the guy who advertises the Monster Truck shows. Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! Get ready for the biggest crater event of the Millennia. Climb into your windows, snatch your people up, ya’ll need to bring yo kids, yo wife, and yo husband, cuz this show’s for errbody’ out here!

Walnut Canyon National Monument, you beautiful bastard. Now, I did not go in, because, $15, but again it was a beautiful drive in/out. And I’d gotten to Flagstaff plenty early. I think I might have been a little nervous about my disaster last evening to where I nearly ended up sleeping in my car. You’d consider it too, if you were in an affluent apartment complex, alerting neighbors to your own exhaustive zombified mental state. But what to do now?

I had given myself two choices once I made it to Flagstaff. A) Head to the Grand Canyon and do some hiking (in my prized loafers/flip-flops), or B) Make my way down to Jerome to mingle with Maynard James Keenan. I didn’t have an appointment or anything, however. I should’ve learned my lesson with Jack earlier. I’d located my Airbnb and I was ready to take in what Northern Arizona had to offer.

Every vehicle in Flagstaff seemed to be twice the size of my little Corolla. And every girl was driving a Jeep with the doors taken off. It’s a known fact that all female Jeep drivers are cute as hell, especially when they’ve got their hair in pigtails with a backwards hat and sunglasses. I’d fallen in love at every intersection so far. I’m telling you, as I said before, it’s gotta be an unwritten code!

I hadn’t even stepped foot in this beautiful desert town. But once I did, I ran into several transplants from Phoenix. I’m sure Phoenix is lovely, but I can see the allure of wanting to live here. I’d gotten used to navigating simply by my man compass (historically speaking, not very good), and following any legible road signage to get from place to place. But I was about to wander off the beaten path, so to speak.

This was to be my furthest detour from Historic Route 66, so I didn’t want to screw it up. Weather, check. Fuel, check. Money, check. Decker., check. Setting my phone’s GPS to Sedona, I was off in the cool desert evening. Cruising down 17 South at my normal rate of 20 MPH over the limit (26 and over you’ll lose your license, back in PA anyway), so I thought it best to give a bit of leeway. Especially not being from around here. I was unsure what kind of rivalries might be between Arizona and Virginia. Usually, this happens over sports, and I haven’t followed them for years, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

My GPS said to stay on 17 South, but I saw a familiar type of sign for 89A South. It had historic markings, and this trip was already nothing short of historic, so why stop now? I narrowly made my way off Exit 337 towards Sedona. Screeching off the highway, still doing my 20 MPH over the limit, like a drunken bastard, I regained control of Virginia. “Not on the off ramps, you fool!” Coming onto another roundabout. I personally enjoy roundabouts, but they’re very contentious in my tri-state area, especially when in New Jersey. It’s a good thing they’re doing away with ‘em because they don’t know how to use ‘em. New Jersey produces a lot of quality talent (The Boss and Bon Jovi, as two prime examples), but they no longer live in Jersey.

NJDOT seems to recognize this, however, with all the U-turns and roundabouts available upon first entering New Jersey. It’s like they’re really making sure you’re intentional about your destination and that you hadn’t made a wrong turn somewhere around Philly. New Jersey has often been called “The Armpit of America.” Some might even say it’s “The Asshole of America” with Trump just kinda bent over standing in front of his defunct casino’s row in Atlantic City, in a submissive position, his puckered hole getting moist as he awaits to be humped by Hilary’s monster cock, standing atop her balcony in NYC. Perhaps that’s a little harsh as well? How about “The Dick of America”? I mean at least then you could attract both pussies and assholes. The only thing assholes attract is dicks…Anyway, “Grab ‘er by the dick then, eh, Mr. President?”

But I digress. I for one have enjoyed my time spent in New Jersey, vacationing in the southern end for several years through my childhood. Although some of my time spent there was as a result of me making a wrong turn somewhere around Philly. Thank God for the U-turns and roundabouts!

Okay, back to Sedona. Slide Rock State Park is to the west, Coconino National Forest to the east. Beautiful town. Beautiful state. Beautiful country. Decker. playing on high volume now, increasing my speed to 25 MPH over now. The sun was beginning to set in the distance, and I needed to make up time after those goddamn roundabouts. In snapping some photographs, I notice a white figure in my rearview. It’s getting closer and closer now. A white pickup. Toyota from the looks of it. Now riding my ass. Yep, sure as hell a Toyota. Tacoma too from the looks of it. This dick was riding my ass. Must’ve been turned on from earlier. With me wanting to keep my asshole virginity, I step on the gas a little further down now. 30 MPH over the limit. I was about to show this prick how Pennsylvania boys drive!

I’d just competed at Lehigh Valley Go-karts, and my fastest lap time was only 0.91 seconds behind that of legendary NASCAR driver, Tony Stewart. Bastard didn’t stand a chance. We’re each moving along the apex of the corners now. Another Gran-Turismo fan, eh? Taking up both lanes of the road, winding our way down through the valley. I’ve never been to Japan, but I imagine it must feel like something close to this drifting down from the mountains, fog setting down over the closing sun through the forest, the smell of fresh rain was filling the air, completing the transformation to another world. There was no room for error here. You’d have to be a real pro to make it at the speeds of which we were now traveling. I glance down at my speedometer briefly, 82 MPH. Wooh, baby! We’re moving now! Sonofabitch is slowly fading back in the rearview from which he came. Just as I escape him, he’s right on my tail again. The race is over. Pedestrians just up ahead as we enter the camping area, now just outside of Sedona. What a beautiful vista.

I start looking for a place to pull over and rehydrate with a much needed cold beverage. There is ample parking in downtown Sedona, and I find myself pulling off to a public parking area. There seemed to be ample choices for dining and drinking here as well. I was proud of myself for how well I’d stuck to my dining and drinking budget thus far. I’d found a rhythm of a big breakfast, and snacks throughout the remainder of the day. It’s amazing how much your body is able to conserve once it gets into a routine of going without a meal for both long distances and periods at a time. I make my way into an obvious tourist restaurant, but I wasn’t expecting to find many locals in this part of town.

[The manager of Open Range Grill and Tavern greets me.]

“Hello sir.”

“Hi, how are ya. I was just looking to have a drink or two, I’m just passing through.”

“No problem, sir. Vanessa will be right with you, go help yourself to a seat at the bar.”

[Nobody seated at the bar, but the dining area was beginning to fill in, approaching dinner time.]

“Hi. I’ll be with you in one sec.”

[She says with a heart-melting smile.]

“That’s quite alright, what a beautiful town you’ve got here miss.”

“Oh, yes it really is. But it’s not my town, however. I’m from Phoenix, but I’ve lived in different parts of Arizona.”

“Oh, very cool. My Airbnb hosts are from Phoenix as well, but they live in Flagstaff now, where I’m staying tonight. Let’s see. I’ll just start off with an IPA.”

“Here ya go, enjoy!”

We make some more light-hearted conversation. I learn she’s a snow bunny, and has also enjoyed the amazing Telluride slopes. Wow, what a girl. A cute tanned brunette beauty with pretty hair, eyes to match, a gorgeous smile and a nose ring. The nose ring, ladies and gentlemen, is a universal signifier that they are chill. I believe this works with both sexes, as all guys I’ve met in the music scene with nose rings have been the most chill dudes as well.

“I can’t get over how beautiful the southwest is. Everything and everyone has been awesome. The food has been great, the beer has been cold. I don’t know what else a guy could ask for! I love it just as much as I did when I was in Colorado for a few days.”

“Cool! Yeah, they’re my kind of people too.”

“Right!? I was out with one of my best friends for Ride Fest, a festival in Telluride. I still keep in touch with several of the friends we made out there via social media.”

“Wow, that’s really cool! I love Telluride! I was just there last winter with some friends too. It’s so beautiful there.”
“That’s awesome. We should go together sometime!?”

“Yeah, of course!”

Now, this is the type of girl I’ve always fallen for, and I suspect that I always will. Much more than about the sex, although, yes please! Girls like this are just fun to spend time with. Whether that be in bed, the kitchen, dining room, or wherever the clothes happen to fall off, but even more important than that, the kind of girl you can enjoy a sunset with sitting at the bottom of a mountain slope after a long day of snowboarding, sharing laughs and smiles over a cold beverage, arguing over who beat who in the race back down to our lodge where we’d be warming each other up soon enough with loving kisses and a warm embrace by the fire.

We’d fall asleep by the dying fire, holding one another close as though our love would never die. I stay up all night dreaming about the life we could lead together while keeping watch on the fire, only a few embers burning now, just enough to light her angelic face. I pull her close and run my cold fingers slowly down her warm body. She begins to wake up from the gentle caress, and smiles, keeping her eyes closed. She arches her back and grips the sheets with her hands as my fingers make my way to the most sensitive, sincere parts of her body.

Her gentle deep moans breakup the crackling of the fire, and otherwise silent night. My fingers make their way back up to her face, taking their time from her inner thighs to her pelvis, up to her belly button, sliding them across her slopes, pretending I’m slaloming between them, another cute laugh. Finally making my fingers to her lips, as she bites them, and throws my arm to the side, and climbs on top of me. She puts her hair back up into a bun and leans in for a passionate kiss.

“Would you like another?”

[Holy shit, what a daydream, I smile again.]

“No thanks. I must be on my way once more, thank you.”

I don’t believe my smile ever left my face during our delightful conversation. We exchange our social media handle, I snap her beautiful photo and head out towards Cottonwood, a must-see destination per Vanessa. In particular, the State Bar. So, The State Bar, here I come!

More gorgeous landscapes, with a gorgeous sunset to guide me,  and seemingly floating in Virginia off of the high from earlier, I was in Cottonwood in no time. It wasn’t long into my visit to Cottonwood that I’d already made friends. I recognized the brewery of one gentleman’s shirt and complimented his buddy’s hat of the same brewery, Ballast Point, to be exact. They had just been to southern California, notably San Diego, and were proudly sporting their appreciation for a fine beverage as well. I was wearing an all Cyan themed outfit, with my trusty loafers. No branding here. I told them I was on my way to Jerome by the end of the night to checkout MJK’s Cadecus Vineyards tasting room.

“Good luck getting there right now, friend. Tool is hosting their pre-release party there.”

“Shit, that’s right.”

“We just came from there, man. People were lined up there since 5:30 this morning.”

It was now close to 7:30 PM. And with the storm drawing ever nearer, I made a decision to make Cottonwood my final stop before traversing back to Flagstaff.

Bonding over cold beverages and our mutual interest in Tool, and everything MJK, we shared a few more drinks. All three of us are feeling right in the zone, Matt and Eiron ask if I wanted to join them for a smoke. And when a new group of friends and fellow metalheads asks if you want a smoke, you nod your head yes, and respond with – “What are we waiting for? After you.”

Eiron was so kind that he even threw some cash my way after learning that I was on a solo cross-country road trip. He too had always dreamt of such a thing, but his family and work-life were preventing him from doing such a thing. Just do it. Just like Tiger. He may have taken it a little too literally with his assortment of million-dollar mistresses, but you get the picture. I follow my new friends back to their hotel room in town; they get the joint, medically licensed joint, mind you. Kept in a plastic container of sorts, they open it up, and the aroma gave me an instant high.

“Shit guys, that’s good stuff!”

“Thanks, dude. We both have our medicinal marijuana cards. They’re easy to get out here in Arizona.”

This got me thinking to do some research back in PA. I’d have better luck moving to a city, however, and quickly dismissed the idea. They offer me the first hit, and I’m a respectful guest, so of course, I oblige.

“Woah, that’s some good shit, guys.”

They suggest another hit. Like I said. Damn. It’s like puff, puff, puff, pass out here.

“More of that Southwestern hospitality! I like it, boys!”

It makes it’s a way around the circle. They ask me if I’d like another hit. And to not break away from my respectful guest reputation, of course, I oblige once more. The third one brought me up past Cloud 9, all the way to Cloud 69. Or perhaps I was still daydreaming of earlier? A few strikes of lightning light up the entire town for several seconds. CRACK! BOOM! Holllyyy shiitttt. That one was close! Our hairs were standing up on our arms and necks. “Alright guys, thanks for the hospitality, but I think I outta get outta here while I still can!”

We all wish one another good luck on our respective journeys, and I make my way back to Virginia as fast as I can. Luckily for them, they only had a short walk back to their hotel, as we were in the parking lot. I make it to my car right as the rains began coming down.

The desert heat was having the same effect on me as the high altitudes of Colorado did a few years back. Couple that with the fact I’d gone sober a month prior to this trip to save money as a cheap date. Two beers in and I’m out. Three hits and I’m, in?

The storm in Cottonwood was nothing like I’d ever seen. This outta be a fun drive back to Flagstaff! You could feel the energy from the storm. Traveling through my body sending shivers down my spine and goosebumps all over.

“I wouldn’t want to be caught out in this one”, I said to Rufus. And speaking of energy, he must be exhausted. I hadn’t fed him food or water all day. “Here you go, Rufus! Sorry fella.” I was in Petrified Forest National Park yesterday, and I nearly left him to be with his family. But something told me we would need each other later, a little farther along in this journey. With Rufus taken care of, we were ready to head home; as temporary as home would be for the night. After seven days of heavy traveling, you begin to associate anything that you’re there longer than an hour as home.

The storm now in full force, I turn on the radio. AC/DC – Thunderstruck. How pertinent. Volume 11, windows cracked ever so slightly to get in some of that cool desert air. It’s a damn shame I’d missed Maynard and the fellow music Gods of Tool. But, like much of my journey thus far, it was mostly just off the cuff. Now granted, I wasn’t wearing any sleeves, so it was even much looser than that.

Thunderstruck now ended. What a soundtrack to this night’s drive. Feeling the energy from the storm, the few extended hits, and the few beers I had back in Cottonwood, I needed some more. Something a little heavier. With Australia on my mind from AC/DC – Thy Art is Murder. The deathcore band. Between them, The Acacia Strain, Fit for An Autopsy, Whitechapel, and The Last Ten Seconds of Life, there wasn’t a whole lot left in this fledgling genre which held a special place in my heart growing up with nu-metal and all. Oh, and you can now include CABAL in this group (although they could be categorized by Djent, but don’t even get me started.)

Yes. This will do. This will do just fine. Now back in Sedona, I pass by an upscale looking restaurant with beautiful outdoor seating. These people could use a little deathcore in their lives. Windows down, as the rain had not yet made its’ way to Sedona. I got a metal horn thrown my way. Found the metalhead. There’s always at least one in a group, even among members of finer society. Here’s to you, brother \m/

Winding my way like a rattlesnake, I’m feeling the venom in my veins. The medicinal marijuana and few beers are settling nicely into a venomous cocktail. I wasn’t searching for an anecdote, however. No, friend. I’d pay to make this feeling last. But this wasn’t some street drug or even designer drug kinda feeling. No. This was something I could’ve only experienced at that exact moment with those exact conditions. A high for the ages. Now passed the tourist-driven section of town, I was making my way back to Sedona Raceway, as I’m now calling it. I was looking for the white Toyota Tacoma from earlier, but he must’ve been nursing his loss.

Or, he had just picked up one of the fine women I’d seen earlier, in for one hell of a high himself? Either way, mine was only just beginning. I was ready for another otherworldly adventure. And not in the kind of “space-weed” adventure either. I was intently focused on my objective. Having driven this section earlier, I could push the limits even further, being able to rely a bit on memory. A car just pulled out of a campsite. Shit. I’d have to wait it out before attempting this Pike’s Peak like race. One. Two. Three. Four!

Four minutes, that outta be enough. I punch it! This little car (surprisingly) still had some pep in its’ step from all of the beating I’ve already given it along the way. Windows still down, Volume at 11. Thy Art is Murder Spotify playlist. Speeding at over 70 MPH. I told you the high was just getting started. Gripping the wheel like I’m smack in the middle of an Indy Race. Tires screeching. The smell of burning rubber. Fresh rain still present. Cool desert air. I was elevated to another level. Speaking of level’s, I’d climbed several since last touching ground, and I was feeling the need for speed, baby. I’d only recently watched The Gymkhana series on Prime, and I’d picked up a few things about car control as a result. Time for “Redemption for Shamrock, Segundo Round.”

I wish I’d at least had my GoPro hooked up, because I was getting this bitch sideways, right up to the guardrails. There was something about being on the edge of death that has always excited me (most of which by accident), so it was that much more thrilling when I felt the one in control. Each corner, more thrilling than the last. Leaning in the turns like a veteran Moto GP rider. An unexpected twist in the desert, but a very welcomed one. I’m flying now, baby! Taking in all of my personal as well as Ken Block and Dirt experience. Tthe smell of smoke filled the air. But there were no smoke-signals to be found here. I was burning rubber. Tires screeching like the birds of prey ready to chow down on a twisting rattlesnake. Speaking of twists, as I reached the crest of the mountain, I’d welcomed back the same sedan in my sights that I’d let go ahead of me – over four minutes earlier.

I recalled reading a review about my hosts’ Airbnb which mentioned that their maid was careless in the cleanliness of the bathroom. So knowing they have a maid, certainly, they’d have cameras installed in the house to capture any; shall we say wrongdoings, right? My timestamp would be a dead giveaway upon entry. I’d scoped out the house earlier in the day. Though not in a heist mentality, I’m sure it was in a similar fashion. Verifying all exits, monitoring of nearby civilians, point of interest surveillance, etc.. All the good stuff in a heist film. At least in the Wild West sense of a classic bank robbery anyhow.

I’d just spent my days in Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. the definition of the American Southwest. And among many other things, that for me meant one thing. Beautiful towns/cities, beautiful landscapes/architecture, and beautiful guys/gals. The latest of the latter would be of the most significance to me upon another much-needed release. My body was full of further pent up needs, shall we say. And with all of the tanned beauties I’d interacted with in one way or another, they’d more or less taken up any last remaining memory resources available in my slowly rotting mind.

Again, I had the place to myself. A beautiful residence in a beautiful neighborhood, in a beautiful city, with a beautiful backdrop. Noticing a trend here? After a truly Wild West themed day, it was again time to hit the hay. But not before a much-needed shower to wash away my would be sinning. After finding my way to several locked doors, I found the bathroom. It was very quaint, and it reminded me of a recent ex’s, so I was metaphysically speaking, right at home. Thinking back to all of the tanned beauties I’d come across today, this was no longer just a time for cleaning.

Soon I’d found myself with the conditioner available, presumably the wife of my primary contact, a tanned beauty in her own right. Was it guilty to think of her at first? Why would I have even asked myself that? Of course, it was. But did I really care? This was a more important question. Already knowing the answer, I’d calmly moved onto another girl. Amarillo, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Sedona, Cottonwood? Any other time I’d need a session dedicated to each. With this being a one night in town kinda vibe, it was a bit more consolidated than that. My son’s mother is of Puerto Rican descent, so I’m certainly no stranger to the tanned beauty variety.

The southwest was like heaven on earth to me. My parents wished me safe travels. They’d obviously wished me a safe journey, but I knew what they truly meant. They’d wished not to be surprise grandparents, again. I’d received the “bedroom eyes” look from several girls in the last few days, in particular, but I truly didn’t have the time to act on those desires. All that said, I was at full attention now. My dick could’ve saluted the commanding officer for me. It all starts with the beautiful bartenders. This time was no different. Then enters the gorgeous patrons. The tight-bodied joggers that you let pass when you obviously could’ve made the light. The MILF type power-walking downtown with her other dissatisfied married friends. I’m not married, but I fully support pre-divorce therapy, in its highest form.

There are Native American girls out here too. My high-school sweetheart was 1/8th Cherokee and I’d been hooked ever since. I had no idea how I could contribute to a reservation, but I was willing to indulge in my fantasies. Harder than I’d been in months, my tired mind began to wander once more. Now the landscape and architecture began to take center stage. Back to the random jerking I’d described earlier. No big deal, I thought. This was a normal occurrence to someone with ADHD or some similar undiagnosed disorder.

My own house, I thought once again. Shit. If it’s theirs, they probably have cameras. I’d been in here for at least half an hour. How was I supposed to cover my tracks if they’d have some sort of timestamp system in place? My hair wasn’t even wet. But my hands looked like that of my 80-year-old grandmother before shed’ passed. Not like that could’ve been honestly explained. Alright, back to the business at hand. Sedona. What a beautiful town. There was a group of Mexican girls upon first entering. All of whom were perfectly accentuated in their attire.

Yes. More of that. Some more MILF types as I walked up the stairs. Some Native American girls stood at the top railing, admiring the sun, as I admired their sundresses. Another cute bartender. Excellent. A perfect cocktail, pun intended. Chasing the tail like never before. Stroke after focused stroke now. Nearly there. Thinking back to earlier. Always think back. Cottonwood. Sedona. Flagstafff. Ah yes. So many beautiful girls. Thinking back earlier still. Yes, of course. Albuquerque. I didn’t go a single block without falling in love there either. Ingrid from Mexico. Oh my God, with everything that is holy, yes! She was it. I’d taken her photo with her mother. Her mother could’ve stayed in the room. I didn’t care. Hell, she could’ve filmed it, and shared it at her youngest daughter’s Quinceañera. All I cared about was hiking up her dress and pressing her up against the very statue which I’d taken her portrait a day earlier. A smile that could cure cancer, and eyes that could cause wars. Rosy cheeks, and would be rosier ass-cheeks if it were up to me.

A tanned brunette I’d only dreamed about to now. Using what little Spanish I’d retained from my failed Spanish II in high school, I muttered out a few flattering words to her. She obliged and I got a little closer. She takes off my glasses, and we stare lovingly into each other’s eyes. Filled with lust, mine have surely changed color, like they often do in such a situation. My pupils now dilated. Goosebumps settle in. I prop her up onto the statue. She slides down her panties. I take them off with my mouth, as I slowly make my way up to her. She grabs hold of them, and places them around my neck, like a neckerchief. Our hands interlaced, like a magnet, I enter inside. She gently moans and smiles, whispering in my ear some dirty-talk Spanish. Most of which was familiar to me from other extracurricular experiences with Latinas outside of Spanish class. She moves my hands down behind her. My hands now wrapped like a scarf around her. She moves one of my hands to her voluptuous chest and slowly up to her neck. She begins getting more vocal, that beautiful Spanish tongue. I don’t have much longer now. Our eyes locked once more, we share some passionate kisses, feeding off of each other’s bodies, and we both finish at the same time. Both of us now frozen like the very statue where this all began.

 

 

FLAGSTAFF
TO
BARSTOW

 

 

I apologize if I haven’t quite seemed myself lately, friend. See, I’ve been really sick lately. And like Elvis said, I’ll have a blue, blue Christmas without you. So, it’s a good thing that we’ve reached the climax of it all. I suggest you take a seat awhile because your legs will be shaking after this one. It’ll be way better than your limp dick of a prick you call your man provides you, I can promise you that. And without further ado, I bring to you the day which for me will go down in infamy. The day in which I saw God in the Devil.

But, it started out just like any other day on this journey. Downtown. Sightseeing. Coffee. But NO BEER. I’d be in the extreme heat today. They’re calling for it to reach a scorching 125 degrees, and much of my drive would be without shade all the way to Barstow. I can’t risk making any mistakes out here. Not today. Flagstaff is a pretty great place to be. Plenty to see. Plenty to eat. Plenty to drink. Plenty to do. Beautiful people. Beautiful landscape. Beautiful weather. Did I mention beautiful people? Whatever your flavor, I can assure you that you can find it here. So, all that aside, it’s no wonder that this place is hot. No really, the place is a hotbed for young professionals and creative’s alike.

There are a number of higher education options here, but I wouldn’t quite call it a college town. It’s certainly more than that. I mean scenes from the cult-classic Easy Rider were filmed here. It doesn’t get much cooler than that. Trust me. There were also scenes filmed in and around Flagstaff from National Lampoon’s Vacation, Midnight Run, Forest Gump, Little Miss Sunshine, and Terminal Velocity, over 100 Westerns as well as one of the greatest films of all time, Casablanca. And if you fall in love with Flagstaff as I did, be sure to check out one of their sister cities, including Barnaul, Altai Krai, Russia; City of Blue Mountains, New South Wales, Australia; Xindian, New Taipei, Taiwan; Manzanillo, Colima, Mexico; and Tres de Febrero, Argentina. And if that’s not enough to make you wanna visit, I’ve got three words for you – Ted Fucking Danson. Although born in San Diego, he was raised in Flagstaff where his father was an archeologist and director of the Museum of Northern Arizona.

Okay, time for some more Desert Rock. Pelican – Lost in the Headlights comes on. A perfect tune to start off the day. Downtown Flagstaff contained some of the friendliest people you’d ever wish to encounter. Even at 6:30 AM, people were eager to say hello, and offer a friendly wave and a smile. And they all were out walking with their dogs. There are some really iconic and well-preserved items dealing with 66 that you’ll want to check out. But first, I’m headed to check out some beautiful landscapes. I decided to check out the Grand Canyon after all. I was only an hour and a half away, so I could easily round down, and abide by my simple detour rule, right? Alright, friend, it looks like we’re headed to the Grand Canyon after all! “Buckle up, Rufus, this is sure to be one hell of a ride!”

Yes, that’s it! I’ll simply forfeit my stop in Barstow and instead of backtracking to Vegas tomorrow, we’ll go there tonight. Pull an all-nighter, and head to my Airbnb in Vegas as soon as I can to get some rest before I do it all again. Perfect! I’m so glad I thought of this.

Since I’d be headed to Vegas, I put on the first band that came to mind, Molotov Solution, a defunct deathcore band that I had the pleasure of seeing years ago. Say what you will about deathcore, but they were one of my first tastes with that genre, and it led me to enjoy death metal, so there’s that. Oh, and I got to see nick Arthur, their beast of a vocalist, out on tour with Thy Art is Murder, while CJ made a brief exit from the band. Somehow it always gets back to those guys, having listened to them on every leg of the trip at one point or another throughout the day.

With a proper playlist set, I was ready for this improvised change of plans. Let’s do this! Vegas, here I come, baby! The sun was shining, and bright blue skies would guide me there, to the South Rim of the canyon where all the cool shit is.

I’d watched the film Due Date earlier this summer, and now I’d be there, taking in the same views as RDJ and Zach Galakafatass. We’re here, we made it – to Wupatki National Monument. I, uh, changed my mind again. I wasn’t prepared to head to the Grand Canyon. What was I thinking? It’s easy to get caught up wanting to do something, but you have to be reasonable about things, especially knowing it was going to get up to such extreme temperatures. “Sorry, Rufus, next time!”

Alright, back in Flagstaff. I hope I made the right decision? Let’s get some coffee to make sure I stay the course for the rest of the day now. Let’s see. There are quite a number of cafes here in Flagstaff. All of whom seemingly have near-perfect ratings on Google too. How the hell to decide this? Cedar House Coffee Shop, eh? Let’s stick with some hometown pride with the Cedar theme, shall we? This place is pretty damn chill. Plenty of local art available. An impressive swag section, quaint and cozy, and plenty of teas and coffee available, most of which I’d have a difficult time trying to pronounce for the first time, and a working fireplace?

I’m turning into a goddamn hipster, aren’t I? Sonofabitch, I think I might have. I’m sipping on some local coffee right now, wearing a man ban, and sporting my favorite cardigan while I type this. How in the hell did I let this happen!? Oh God. My brother was right. When were you going to tell me, friend!? But it’s also 2:21 AM on Christmas, here in Lititz, PA. And as we all know, hipsters don’t work past midnight, especially on major holidays. Something about them not working passed peak hours of posting stupid boring-ass shit to Instagram that only their hipster friends care about. Phew. I was worried there for a second. Alright. I’ve got my mind right about me once more.

Stephanie and Laura were two elegantly beautiful middle-aged beauties who rolled in a moment after I, but I was still undecided, so I let them jump ahead. I decided on my usual iced latte and took a seat by the large bay windows.

Time to check in on the news. CNN – The “entirety of Florida” could be hit by Hurricane Dorian when it makes landfall as a monster storm. This evaluation was nearly as far off as Trump including Alabama in his. You should probably start listing all of the facts in your “opinion” pieces as well. South China Morning Post – Hong Kong police arrest high-profile activists in anti-government protests. Try to get back to your run before being taken over by Alibaba. I understand that things have been much more “controlled” since then. HUFFPOST – Trump’s War with Fox News Heats Up As Neil Cavuto Delivers Fiery Takedown. Your. Punctuation. Practices. Offend. Me. HUFFPOST. And by the way, I’ve been taking screen grabs of all the news outlets that have common misspellings and grammatical errors; can you guess who’s on top by a landslide? Look, I’m happy you get the recommended number of hours asleep at night, but something needs to shape up here. And far too many of your pieces rely on anti-Trump feedback from Twitter users. Speaking of Twitter – Fox News – Anti-Trump host Donny Deutsch loses MSNBC show: reports.  Like the bully on the playground, handing out nicknames to people you don’t like. Cute. Real cute. Don’t worry, I’ve come up with my own little nickname for you. Slippery Little Lying of a Fox News. Alright, coffees finished.

Let’s check out some more of what Flagstaff has to offer. I still have a few more hours here, after all. Entering Downtown Flagstaff, it leads you right to Heritage Square. This place looks promising. What’s going on here? It looks like plenty to do. A bit of ABQ’s Old Town vibe going on here. And with a town with numerous higher-ed options, you can bet that it is well stocked with plenty of pubs and eateries. Speaking of, I hear music. Sublime – Santeria is on. The door is left wide open; a cute tattooed brunette gives one of the most heart-warming smiles a guy could ever ask for. And for about the 20th time, I’ve fallen in love while in Flagstaff. But no. You promised. No drinking. Not today. Not, today. Alright, let’s walk around a bit more than to burn off the edge of this coffee.

Man, there must be a storm coming in. A lot of the business storefronts have sandbags in front of them. These were not here earlier this morning. Stephanie and Laura were also kind enough to offer me a few suggestions as to places to check out while in town. They made sure that I headed downtown, and to head to see some of the famous 66 spots in town. As well as offering a few pubs and eateries.

So after walking around for about an hour, doing my best to become one with this town in a few short hours, I ventured to the Historic 66 part of town. Hotel Monte Vista and Motel Du Beau offer some really cool sign towers to photograph. And suddenly you’re in a ski village in the Alps, and you forget where you are for a moment, half expecting to see some snow bunnies laying their tracks near the chair lift. But you come to as the traffic begins to move, and instead of fitting in, you’re soon on your way out after narrowly getting run over whilst standing in the middle of the street snapping photos like a goddamn fool.

With my adrenaline at peak level again, I venture around on foot some more. Flagstaff is a very walkable town, and the drivers here are eager to abide by the whole “yield to pedestrians” thing, which is like, pretty cool man.

From sushi bars to a theater, there are plenty of ways to get your kicks. I was also told to make sure I made it to S San Francisco St, where Stephanie runs Sunshine Rescue Mission, Inc, as there was plenty that one could find themselves getting into. This appears to be one of the main arteries through Flagstaff, so there is definitely plenty here. There is a real sense of spirituality and religion here too, but none of it ever felt pushy. But it’s there if that’s your for you, with plenty of yoga studios, traditional tea houses, and other faith-based missions in town. The outdoors obviously play a large part in attracting people to Flagstaff as well, with plenty of Mountain and Outdoor stores to venture in as well. Like I said, plenty to fall in love with here.

But Flagstaff, this is where we part ways for now. I know, but what about the twelve-noon departure time I’d done with every other host city to now? It’s only 9:00 AM and I’m terribly sorry, but this was truly the stretch that you find when searching on Google for Route 66. The vast desert landscapes, not another soul in sight. Just you, the rest of the animal kingdom, and Mother Nature, with The Mother Road as your guide. There was just too much to see. I promise to be back! Besides, I still need to hit up Jerome.

Welcome, Williams, AZ. Known as the “Gateway to the Grand Canyon”, and the last city on 66 to be bypassed by Interstate 40, the historic downtown sector covers six blocks. If you want to experience where the west meets 66, then you’ve stopped in the right place. A few big Hollywood films such as Guns of the Timberland, Midnight Run, and Speechless were filmed in and around Williams. And much like Flagstaff, there is plenty to do here as well, although, with a very different vibe, as much of it’s’ livelihood is derived purely from tourism.

After walking around for a good bit, I thought it a good time to grab a big breakfast. Goldie’s Route 66 was the first place that caught my interest. A very ‘50s themed dinner, another classic throwback to the days of yesteryear. There seemed to be ironically a high number of locals in there, however. Always a good sight to behold. It prevents you from entering into any tourist traps. I ordered a large vegetarian omelet, home fries, toast, and a large iced tea. It was brought out in no time, and it went down even faster. Delicious. After a very filling meal, I was ready to hit the trail once more. Williams Cemetery. What a cool and likely haunted place that must be, with some pretty mean gunslingers being buried there. And to continue that mood, some more stoner rock. Queens of the Stone Age – Turnin’ on the Screw comes on. Ah, perfect.  A little Queens goes a long way.

Time to fill up Virginia now. I stop in Ash Fork. There is plenty of historical sites to visit here, but seemingly not much else. Perhaps it’s because of 66. While most towns benefited from this new divided highway, it had negative effects on Ash Fork as the construction meant the destruction of many storefronts, sidewalks, and residential streets which forever altered the once finer aesthetics in town. And then when the Santa Fe Railroad moved its mainline north, away from town, the town lost nearly half of its population. Progress does have its’ drawbacks, ladies and gentlemen. Ironically what brings so many communities together, it will simultaneously inevitably rip apart its fair share as well.

Between two developments, and several major fires destroying much of its downtown, Ash Fork would be left in, well, ashes. The Centennial Marker is a stark reminder of once was as well – ASH FORK, ARIZONA; 2012; THE PRIMARY TRANSPORTATION HUB WITHOUT WHICH THE STATE SOUTH OF THE 35TH PARALLEL WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SETTLED.

Iggy Pop – German Days, a track off of his latest album, produced by none other than Josh Homme of QOTSA and Them Crooked Vultures, recorded at the famous Rancho De La Luna. This man is everywhere. Right up there among my favorite musicians with White, Grohl, and MJK. And you were right, Matt. I’ve gotta hand it to you, friend. Arizona is breathtakingly gorgeous.  66 is truly something else out here. It’s easy to see why people fell in love with this thing and sought to protect it.

Bring in The Father of the Mother Road, Angel Delgadillo, known as the founder of Historic Route 66 Association of Arizona. This man saw it all when it came to the famed route. From the exodus of Okies via the dust bowl of the ’30s to the movement of men and materials during the Second World War. He established himself as a barber and merchant owner in town. The acclaimed animated film Cars was primarily influenced by Angel’s passion when it came to Route 66.

Now, unfortunately, I didn’t get to meet him that day, however, I did get to engage in a great conversation with his son-in-law who is just as passionate and whom helps to run the famed store attraction today. There are plenty of things to see in this little town. There were three large tour buses the day I was there, so you may need to wait a bit to see everything you want to, so just be patient, goddamnit! But like all good things, this stop too must come to an end.

I still had a few more famed stops today, and I hoped to do so before it reached the 125 degrees they were calling for. Making a brief stop in Peach Springs, which Radiator Springs from Cars is based on, I checked out a few of the historical sites including the Jon Osterman Shell Gas Station and Trading Post, but then I was headed for Kingman, another quite famous stop along 66.

And I’ve gotta say Kingman, maybe I picked a bad day, but I did not feel very welcome here. Perhaps it was due to the heat, but the few people I attempted to engage in conversation with simply ignored me like a ghost. At least if I were, I’d have gotten a reaction outta them.  Oh, and there is next to nothing between Peach Springs and Kingman, so please be on your toes out here. There was a pretty cool abandoned oil rig and truck back in Crozier, but I can’t make any promises it’ll be there for you.

Chasing after the railway cars was pretty cool. They really fly out here, and for another moment you wonder what it must’ve been like to ride up beside one of these bastards and perform a good ol’ fashioned heist on the bitch. Thankfully we have RDR2 to fulfill those desires, so please, don’t be out tryin’ to rob any trains and shit. Besides, they’re pretty far off the highway, and unless you’re in a goddamn dune buggy, Smuggler’s Run-style, you ain’t catchin’ up to ‘em.  COWBOY’S PLACE – WELL…COME ON IN.

So come on in I did, and the reaction I received was not quite what I’d had in mind. The hostess said nothing, only gesturing which way towards the bar and restaurant. The place was fairly busy for a Friday at 1:00 o’clock in the afternoon, and it looked like a nice enough establishment. But then I get into the seated dining and bar area. Every single person in the room stopped talking and just gazed at me like I had four heads.

Now, I’d been made fun of as a kid for having glasses, but I never felt so insecure about myself as this. But I’m here, might as well get a drink. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. But what about keeping a cool head today? Yes, friend. I know. But it’s already 120 out there, and I need to keep myself plenty hydrated. Nothing wrong with one of those green Imports though, right? Just like our typical domestics, mostly water anyway.

“I’ll take two please, the first one’ll go down easy.”

“Okay, hun. Sure thing, just a sec.”

She came back with just one bottle. Maybe she didn’t hear me? Anyway, I’ll finish this up in a minute or so, and flag her down for another right after. Now, there was only one other patron at the bar at this hour, and he had three shot glasses next to ‘em with his head bobbing up and down like he’d been cast out into a famed trout lake. I finished up my beer in maybe twenty-seconds. Damn, that hit the spot! And there she stood. Staring at me, acknowledging the empty bottle I set back down, as she turned around to get back to her phone. I glanced around me, and everyone was still looking at me like I was some kind of demon.

Kingman, whatever it was that I did to piss you off, I’m sorry. Perhaps word quickly got out that some homeless hippie from Virginia was making his rounds in town. Whatever the deal, let’s try to strike another one, okay? I couldn’t even get the bartender’s attention, so I sat a $5 down under my bottle, assuming that was a generous enough offer, and I was back on the road once more.

Maybe they’re just still old fashioned here, and this is the way things are done around here? Either way, I was on my way to Oatman now, one of my most anticipated stops along the whole route. And I’m sorry, Kingman, but I didn’t even stop at any of your famed historic stops after my beer. I guess I was a bit depressed at my encounter moments earlier. But a few legendary films were shot with scenes featuring Kingman such as Roadhouse 66, Two-Lane Blacktop, Universal Soldier, and my all-time-favorite film and novel (see dedication), Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which the famous airport scene was filmed at.

“There he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.” H.S.T.

But then I also now see that in an episode of Sacha Baron Cohen’s documentary, “Who is America?” showcased several proud members of your community making racist anti-Muslim and anti-black statements when told by a disguised Cohen that there was going to be a mosque constructed in their town. So maybe it’s just full of racist conservative assholes? But that’s just me.

And it is beginning around here where you really need to keep a clear head. So maybe it’s a good thing I only got the one brew. 66 begins to look like you’ve taken the wrong turn somewhere, plenty of cracks running across the asphalt, dirt shoulder, and no signs of civilization in sight for miles. But it is beautiful. Dangerous, but beautiful. The song She’ll be Coming Around the Mountain may just as well been written about Oatman, AZ.

Holy shit, what a winding corridor getting to this small town. There are literally abandoned vehicles that fell off into the ravines here, people died here. Let’s make sure that you’re not one of them, shall we? Even Rufus spoke up a bit here, although I’m not quite sure what he said?

Maybe the heat was starting to get to me? Better keep hydrated. Oatman – 2.2 miles, that away. A pretty cool sign featuring some decorative cacti and a stubborn ass. No really. There’s a donkey on the sign. Now, I might have missed the town of Jerome, but I feel like Oatman helped to make up for that fact.

This place is exactly what you think of when thinking of a Wild West town. The main street where a saloon, general store, barber, doctor, and other merchants once lined up. The town is named in honor of Olive Oatman who was a young girl from Illinois who was taken captive by Native Americans during her family’s pioneer journey westward in the mid-19th century, with six family members being slaughtered during an altercation. She was later forced into slavery and traded to Mohave Indians who would go on to adopt her, even going so far as tattooing her face as part of a customary tradition of their tribe. She was eventually released in 1856 at Fort Yuma, Arizona.

In relation, there is an Oatman Family Massacre site and grave of sorts, quite a chilling place, no doubt. You will hear some other creepy stories like this during your stay in Oatman. With all of the mining disasters, fires, gunfights, and shallow graves due to the volcanic soils in the area, there are bound to be some spirits about.

The town was founded after two prospectors discovered over $10 million worth in gold in 1915, so like a shit ton more than that now.  And after producing today’s equivalent of nearly $700 million, as part of the US Government’s war effort was forced to shut down its mining operations.

Thankfully, most everything still stands today, albeit with an emphasis on tourism, there is a really authentic feel to everything, with most buildings being from the late 1800s and early 1900s. You get a real feel for what it must’ve been like, living in a tough point in time, in an even tougher place. And there were plenty of tourists here, many I’d recognized from back in Seligman.

First stop, the Ore House. There’s a sleepy donkey standing outside, and he seems like a pretty good mascot for the town. People were giving him food and water every time I noticed him, so I think he was in good hands, and likely why he looked liked he’d fallen asleep standing up. Not like his tripod wouldn’t have helped him to keep his balance had he fallen over, Jesus.

I grab a few more souvenirs that I didn’t pick up back in Seligman. That should do it for the family. I even got my son’s mother a cute little custom owl statue to thank her for getting our soon so prepared for school, as I’d heard he was doing quite well already. Good job, buddy. Daddy’s proud of you! But you might not be so proud of me right about now.

This is essentially officially where the shit fan was being loaded, ready to turn on at a moment’s notice. Just like a shit wolf in a shit storm, Bubs, this would one would be no different. The proprietor at the Ore House was extremely kind and offered me a ten-cent tour of things, including photographs, and ledgers that she had purchased over time.

“You must head over to The Oatman Hotel while you’re here. Oh, it’s such a historical treasure in this town of ours. Thank ya for stoppin’ in, hun. Enjoy the rest of what we in Oatman got to offer ya. Bye-bye now.”

I’d met a wonderful Australian couple (The Byrne’s) on my way into Oatman, and they too said I should check out The Oatman Hotel. Alright, well you twisted my arm. Guess I’ll have to check this place out too.

Well shit. This must be what it was like, huh? A real proper saloon in a Wild West town. There are many things original about this place, and you feel it as soon as you walk on in. And for about the twelfth time on the journey, you’re again transformed into a whole other world. Dollar’s signed by people from all over the world adorn the walls, an estimate nearly as high as 600,000, to be approximate.

“Talk about a real proper heist. Thanks to Google Street view, and a little ingenuity we should be able to plan this heist no problem, Rufus. Rufus? You there boy?”

Damn. I’m really starting to lose my shit now. Better get my mind straight. Get a grip man. Stay hydrated. A break from this heat will be good anyway.

Hayley is one of the most adorable girls I’ve ever met. A cute, tattooed, pierced, brunette with a smile to melt Frosty the Snowman with one gaze. To hell with Medusa, this girl could turn you to stone in less than an instant with just a glance.

“Hi, how are you miss? What an awesome place this must be to tend bar in. Bet you meet a lot of interest people?

“Why yes, I think so too.”

[Shit. I definitely came on too strong. This isn’t a goddamn Tinder interaction. You can’t just get straight to rock’n-roll here. This ain’t Norway! Get your shit together, you goddamn fool!]

“Sorry, for my rambling. I think I need some refreshments. I’ll take another Heineken please?”

“Another?”

“What?”

“Never mind”

“Here you are, sir. My name’s Hayley. Let me know if you need anything else.”

[Enter the most badass woman I’ve ever met]

“Howdy, partner.”

“Howdy, miss.”

“And how are you getting’ on today? Damn hot there in this sun.”

“Yes, I’d certainly say so. Good thing we’re escaping in here then!”

“Haha, it sure is, partner. Name’s Shirley. I’m all the way from Texas, but this place is really somethin’ else, ain’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely! It’s like we’re back in the Wild West days. Real cowboys and cowgirls type stuff.”

“Hun, like I said. I’m from a little place called Texas. We still got cowboys and cowgirls there haha. You must not be from around this neck of the woods though, I reckon?”

“No miss, I’m from a little state called Pennsylvania. I live near Lancaster, PA.”

“Oh, I know about where you at. You got them Amish and other strange folk over there don’t ya?”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure meeting you, sir. I’m right here if you’re looking for some more friendly conversation.”

I chatted with both Hayley and Shirley over what I recall being around three Heineken’s before calling it quits. When it’s that hot and your body is that dehydrated, a few beers seem like nothing. It’s as if you might as well have had a few drinks from the water cooler.

Especially when it’s only light lagers such as the little green man bottles. Little green man? Shit. You’re not supposed to see him drinking from Heineken bottles, are you? Alright, time to get outta dodge before the sheriff notices anything suspicious.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

“Holy shit, Rufus, you do talk!?”

“Wait, this isn’t actually happening, or is it?”

“Well, of course, we are, boy. It says so right here on this very map. I bought it in the gift shop back there. The treasure should be just up around the bend here. Then we’ll come back tonight and take care of The Oatman Hotel heist while we’re here. We’re about to finally hit our big payday!”

[Driving near Los Lagos Golf Club.]

“Man there sure were an awful lot of shooting ranges back there, huh boy?”

“Off the shoulder, off the shoulder, Off the bloody shoulder!”

“Holy shit! Good lookin’ out, boy! I owe you one.”

Let me get my man compass out here a sec. Yeah, seems about right. Alright, let’s go this way. I’ve lost our GPS. And I appear to have lost my goddamn mind too. I’m talking to a bloody plank of wood.

Woah, what a ride! Modern American Muscle, white on black brand new Dodge Challenger, with some interesting vinyl work. Let’s check it out! Hmm, Cocktails, huh? Let’s go in, eh?

[Enters Cocktails.]

“Excuse me, whose ride is that out there? She’s a beaut!”

“Hi, hun. That beaut you’re referring to is mine. And yes she is. She’s brand new, so keep your hands off! Oh, I’m only teasin’. What can I get ya, hun?”
“Phew/ Well. Right. Okay, let’s see. I’ll uh, I’ll take another Heineken, please”

“Another?”

“Never mind.”

“Here you go, hun. Enjoy. She’s cold!”

It was blindingly bright outside, so it took half a minute or so to get fully adjusted.  This place is pretty cool. A nice cocktail bar, indeed. A great view. Plenty of seating. Nice aesthetics. The only complaint I could possibly make is the fact it’s located on such a busy highway. Good thing The Unknown Bastard was there to hold up traffic.

Wait a minute? The Unknown Bastard, here? We’re supposed to meet in Vegas. What’s going on, Rufus? Am I really beginning to lose my shit or what? Rufus? That’s right, you didn’t want to come in. Like always. No worries, boy. There were a few others in here, quite the gang, really. Regulars who seemed to be pretty close-knit friends. A large walrus-looking Englishman, a wiry Welshman, and a cute blonde Aussie girl.

[Turns to the group.]

“Quite  a gang of misfits you got here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, welcome to our little band of misfits then, we’ll find a way to welcome you to the club, won’t we haha? We’re only teasin’, lad. Calm yourself down. Have a few more nice swigs of that there beverage. Enjoy yourself!”

They introduced me, one by one, but my phone had died, unsurprisingly. So, I was unable to jot down any of their names, and my memory wasn’t saving much new information at that point. My “drive-by-shooting” technique certainly had its’ drawbacks. Such as raping the power supply the entire time. My charger seemed to stop working too. Just grand. My new gang of misfits and I shared in some fascinating stories over a few cold drafts. Great group of people, truly. I wish I’d gotten to spend more time with them. They even offered to hang out with me in Vegas. Vegas, tonight? Was that why I was going north? Did I decide on heading to Vegas tonight after all? It’s the only thing that makes sense. And before I knew it, I was exchanging hugs, shaking hands, and on my way out the door once more.

The gang I’d befriended back in Bullhead City suggested that if I was headed to Vegas that I needed to stop at Needles first at the dispensary for one of those good-time guarantee talks. So onward to Needles, I voyaged. I had one more beer than I’d intended (as is often the case), but I was feeling good. A little buzzed, a little high, and a little disoriented. I was in one of those “If I’m going up, I must be going north” mindsets again. Soon my GPS began redirecting me. I’d passed right by Cocktails once more. I even voiced that I’d entered some sort of strange time-warping zone. I’m now naming this The Desert Triangle, right where Arizona, Nevada, and California meet. Strange things happen here, as I was told, and presently seemed to be experiencing.

The sun was beginning to set along the horizon. I was only about a twenty-minute drive to Needles, but I swear I made it there in five, even with the backtracking that I’d done. The sun, still in the same position in the sky, if not even a little higher. What the hell was going on here? Well, I’d soon find out.

The Bud Farmacy was my next intended destination, but in no way would that be where I’d end up. Driving to the farmacy, I passed over a waterfront area where plenty of beachgoers were partying. Labor Day weekend. I’d nearly forgotten what day it was. The driving and day drinking in the desert was getting to me. I was disoriented, and I was beginning to panic. Civilians were searching up cops at one point. Where am I?

Some edibles outta do the trick. Ah, there it is. Are they even open? Literally zero cars in the parking lot. I park Virginia and check on Rufus once more. You can never be too careful in the desert. “Rufus, want any bud? Okay, suit yourself. More for me!” This place looks like a goddamn mental clinic. Perhaps it was? Perhaps the gang I’d befriended sensed something in me and sent me on my way to live out the rest of my days in a straight jacket. But unlike Chevelle, I was in no mind to try one on for fashion sake. At least not on this day.

The door pulls open. Okay, where to now? I murmured. The joint still looked empty. They had some basic wayfinding, leading me to where I needed to go. Okay, I’m in. The clerk was a nice enough tattooed fella with a bald head and bushy beard. Another metalhead. We did our standard head nod to signal that we were friendly’s. This goes as far back to our headbanging roots as cavemen. I hand over my ID, cautiously, however, as I’m still unsure if I’m checking myself into a mental institution of some kind. But then a second clerk appears, seemingly out of thin air. The Desert Triangle was working its magic again. Indeed. I was led to a room that seemed to have an angel’s choir as the door opener sound.

Alas! What I came here for. Weed. Edibles. When it comes to cannabis, you name it, this place had it. Cash only, I use my debit card to withdraw some cash. Another surcharge. My bank used to reimburse me, but I’ve had so many overdrafts over recent years that they must assume I no longer give a shit about my finances. After learning that a single tube of edibles was $20, I decided to take out $40 for two.

[Engages in drug talk.]

“This should make for an incredible day in Vegas, tomorrow! Are you from around here, man?”

”No man, I grew up in LA, but it got to be too much for me so I came down here for a slower pace of life, a slow burn kinda vibe, ya dig.”

“I dig ya man. But let me dig into these edibles first. I’m in need of something chilling me back down a bit after experiencing The Desert Triangle.”

“I know exactly what ya mean, dude. Be well, man.”

“You as well, man”

Then we shook hands like long lost ganja brothers, and I was on my way once more. Shit! I forgot to let my mother know that I’ve made it to California. “Made it to California, Mom. Love you.” If only she knew I was about to open up the portal between this world and the next.

Now, let’s open these bad boys up. “I’m starting off with two, Rufus. That outta take the edge off a bit for the rest of our drive.” We had about an hour and a half driving time, according to my GPS. Plenty of time to relax and chill, and to enjoy this beautiful sunset through the desert, following the mountains, Granit Peak in the distance. Yesssss. This is it, friend! I’m feelin’ it now!

Higher than a kite being flown atop of Everest, I could have just floated the rest of the way. Good thing I wasn’t driving The Great Red Shark, or I very much would’ve.  This mood deserved the most chill of soundtracks. DUB. Not dubstep. Some of those drops would’ve killed a man in such a state. Traditional DUB was what I needed. I switch over to Spotify and head straight to the Vibronics station. R.A.S.T.A.F.A.R.I comes on. A groovy tune to start it off. I roll down the windows to further enjoy the view.

Shades now off to really take in this gorgeous vista.  I place my arm out the window, and lightly glance over. The hairs on my arms were dancing, the red of my shirt began to bleed orange. Ah, a Flying Dog Blood Orange. I sure could go for one of them right now. Still peering out the window though, I notice the cacti dancing as well. Bobbing up and down to the music. Like thousands of boom boxes, they began to play the music as well. Feeling incredible. Perma-grin has set in. My whole body feeling weightless in my seat. This wasn’t the high I was after, but it was the high I didn’t even know I needed. It was the best trip of my life until it wasn’t.

[9-1-1 call.]

“Sir, I need you to remain calm. You’re really out there. It’ll take some time to get to you. Sir, I need you to remain calm. Help is on its’ way, but like I said, you are really far out there. It’ll take a while, so I need you to remain calm, okay? Okay, sir. I have to let you go. There will be other callers, and we need all available lines open to assist others. But please, I need you to try to remain calm. Help is on its’ way. Please call back only if its’ an emergency.”

I’d never had a bigger fucking emergency in my entire life, but I obliged and got off the call, knowing help wouldn’t arrive any faster if I’d have called right back. But I’m really freaking out, friend. I’m past the point of getting The Fear. The Fear had gotten me, and in a bad way. These goddamn things are everywhere. They’re going to take me straight to hell! I am not watching blasted Jersey Shore re-runs for all of this wretched eternity! I’d rather stay here in this hellish world than that pure hell!

[Officer arrives on scene.]

“Sir, please. What exactly is going on here? I was dispatched as part of your 9-1-1 call.”

“Yes, officer. Well, I, I uh. I took a few edibles, and I began to freak-out pretty bad.”

“Sir, do you realize the effects of edibles? How many did you take?”

“Two, maybe three (in going back through my notes and voice-memos, it was four. Four of those goddamn things!). The containers are still in my car.”

“Okay, do you understand the side-effects of using the substances you chose to use this evening?”
“Yes, officer. I’ve used them before in Colorado, a few years ago.”

“Alright, I’m gonna need you to do a few things for me, alright sir?”

“Yes, officer.”

“Okay, I’m going to be very thorough in everything, but please let me know if there’s something you wish me to explain or demonstrate again. Once you begin each series of tasks, you will be allowed no “do-overs”, is this understood, sir?”

“Yes, officer.”

“Okay, any questions so far, sir?”

“No, officer.”

“Okay, first I want to administer a BAC test. I need you to blow into this as hard as you can, for as long as you can.”

“Okay, officer.”
“Okay, now I want you to -hold on. Let’s move on over a little further so it’s level. Okay, now I want you to perform a straight-line test for me. You must do it exactly as I’ve demonstrated before you, and remember to turn exactly as I did.”

“Yes, officer.”

“Okay, now I want you to stand on each leg, with the other pointed out like so. And take your arms extended like so, and bring the tips of your finger to your nose.”

“Yes, officer.”

“Okay, now I want you to start saying the alphabet backward from letter Z to A as best as you can, stopping whenever you believe you’ve reached 30-seconds in time.”

“Yes, officer.”
“Okay, now I want you to hold perfectly still while I fellatio your pal, Rufus, here.”

“The fuck!?”

“Never mind”

[I’m really losing it now, friend. Help! Now is not the time to be tripping absolute fucking balls!]

“Okay, I want you to look straight ahead, keeping your head eyes forward, and follow my light with only your eyes. Shit, okay. Alright, sir. One more time. Okay, shit.”

The officer was now getting visually and audibly frustrated. I’d passed every single DUI test he’d asked me to perform. I think he thought I’d be handcuffed and into his cruiser by now. I will admit, however. I haven’t a fucking clue as to how I managed to pass these tests in my condition. I mean shit. Whenever the officer moved his head during the eye test, I could see Mount Doom in the background, Lord Sauron’s eye still fixated on me, and Constantine’s world ever-present again as well. The souls seemed to be watching us all, but I thought it best to keep quiet. Poor bastard would see them soon enough.

[Officer Interaction continued.]

“Wait here.”

“Yes, officer.”

He went to talk to Mr. Neck beard over there, and kept looking back at me during their conversation. Did I say any of that shit out loud to that guy? All that God of War, gutting him like a pig shit? God, I sure hope not. That’s gotta be at least a misdemeanor right there. Perhaps even a felony in The Desert Triangle.

This is not where I’d pictured myself to be fifteen-hours after this morning while enjoying myself in downtown Flagstaff. But alas, it’s where I’m currently at. Time to deal with it like a man. By now the EMT had arrived. About time, guys! I’d have been sucked into hell for sure if Mr. Chip hadn’t shown up. Hell, I’d probably be through the first episode of Jersey Shore with Satan and Hitler.

[The EMT crew and officer had talked a minute before coming back to me.]

“Sir, you’ve passed all of the field sobriety tests, but since you’ve admitted to using marijuana related substances, I’m placing you under arrest by law under jurisdiction of California Highway Patrol by the state of California for a DUI. But you’ll be riding in the ambulance to the hospital first. I’ll follow you over there. And then you’ll be riding with me. I’m going to try and have you booked at Barstow, however, since that’s where your car will be headed to impound.”

“Yes, officer. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s just a bump in the road.”

[I’m escorted back to my vehicle where thankfully I still had enough wits about me to grab my wallet. I was immediately helped into the ambulance.]

The ride in the ambulance is one like anything I’ll ever forget. A Chef Robert Irvine looking fella was the first EMT to greet me. He wasn’t too pleased to be out all this way.

“Do you realize where you’re at, young man? You’re pretty far out in the middle of nowhere to be doing something like this. Are you homeless?”

“No sir, I was just, uh, well, I. I’m from Pennsylvania. I’m an author and I thought I’d blend in with the locals. You know – when in Rome, right?”

“An author, is that right? Well looks like you’ll have one hell of a story, kid.”

“Yeah, assuming I make it back to tell it.”

“Alright, get in there. I’ll give you a hand.”

His male counterpart driver, a real doppelganger for Leonardo DiCaprio (or Rickie Fowler for you fellow PGA fans out there), made sure I was okay just the same. Seated already inside was an angel. No, really, that’s what she was to me. A face like Carrie Underwood, hair like a beautiful Irish Princess, and a smile that could’ve singlehandedly ended the last World War.

“Don’t worry; we’ll take care of you. You’re safe now.”

“Thank you, miss. That means the world to me right now. You have no idea what’s out there right now.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie.”

We talked the whole way there, well I mainly just listened, but she talked about her whole life story. How she met her husband, the fine young kids they have, how rewarding her career is, you name it. And from how I was seated in the back of the ambulance, it looked like she was floating there above me. As I said, like an angel. And I didn’t even mention that Mr. Chip could be Ryan Reynolds’ double. There were definitely some gorgeous people out here in California, but at this particular moment in time anyway, I was certainly not one of them.

I’ve been here before. I know that’s crazy to say, but it’s true. When I was six years old, I nearly drowned. I was out body boarding with my father, and we went out further than my mother had asked us to go. My father, being him, said everything was fine and that he had me, and that we would be okay. But a few moments later, everything went black. A large wave came and knocked my father and I’s grip away from one another, and I went underwater, getting crushed beneath the wave. I remember spinning and tumbling, not really knowing which way was up.

But then I recalled feeling a warming sensation, a notion that I would be okay overwhelmed me, and I followed the sun’s rays back up to the surface. I was knocked pretty far off course because once I came to the surface, I swam straight to shore. Only I didn’t recognize where I was at. I went to the nearest lifeguard and told them that I was lost. I ended up getting pushed down nearly a 1/8th mile along the beach.

Well, I feel the same exact way now as I did back then. Only instead of following the rays of the sun, I followed the headlights. Without Mr. Virginia, (ironic, right), even with help on it’s’ way, I’d surely couldn’t have survived in the desert in that condition. Call it what you want, but this was my “This trip is holy” statement back in St. Louis coming to fruition.

[Arrives at Needles Hospital.]

“Alright, sir, this way.”

I was able to walk on my own, so they waved off the need of me being brought in via a wheelchair. It was a new moon, but I swear I saw bats flying in the sky out front of the hospital. Were they the same ones from the desert an hour earlier? Had they followed us from the desert earlier?

[The Unknown Bastard enters.]

“Hey man, how ya holding up?”

“The hell, man!? How’d you get in here? They can’t, shit. Look. They can’t see you in here, man.”

“You’re the one who brought me here, man. I saved your ass back there. I blocked traffic for you so you didn’t have a head-on collision back in Bullshead, and I made sure you pulled your stoned ass over. You owe me!”

“We were supposed to meet in Vegas.”

“Yeah, so why exactly am I fucking here, in, shit where are we?”

“Needles?”

“Okay, in Needles?”

“Well, that’s easy. You’re stuck with me now, pal. At least until these effects of yours wear off. After all, they can’t see me, only you can. You’re the one who fucking created me, and there ain’t no leavin’ each other now. Like I said, you’re stuck with me, baby. Well, until we get to Vegas anyway. I’ve got some sluts I wanna play with.”

“Vegas? Are you fucking crazy. man? How do you suppose we get to Vegas now? I’ve just been arrested. The car’s been impounded. We’ll be lucky to make it in time for our flight, let alone make it to fucking Vegas. Christ, what a fucking mess.”

[Nurse enters]

“Sir, is everything okay? You seem to be mumbling about yourself just now.”

“What?”

“Never mind.

“No, uhh. I’m sorry. I’m just thinking about how fucked my life is going to be for a while.”

“No problem, sir. Happens to the best of us. The doctor should be in to see you shortly.”

The Unknown Bastard must’ve left me to hit on some unsuspecting nurses or something because I was once again by myself. My trip was slowly winding down, or so I thought until I noticed the wallpaper which looked like one of those page-flipping books, you know the one where the little boy flashes his huge uncircumcised member by the end of it? Just my childhood then? Okay. Well, these flowers and bunnies started screwing with my head a bit. The bunnies started eating the flowers, giving them superpowers of sorts and started jumping off the wallpaper.

[Nurse re-enters.]
“Well, this outta be fun.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“The doctor should be right with you momentarily”

Why do they always say this? The very statement itself is contradictory. Right with you and momentarily are two very different things.

[The Doctor enters.]

“Okay, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

“Oh God, look out!”

They nearly squished one of the, super-bunnies? This can’t be good!

“We need to draw a blood sample, sir. The officer over here informed of us everything. We should have you out the door right away momentarily.”

What did I just say? They also needed a piss sample from me, but the nurse was too busy admiring Mr. Chip over here, who himself seemed to be admiring someone. Wait a second. I recognized those very hand gestures. Mr. Chip is definitely on Reddit. Yes, no doubt about it. I can almost see the little alien dude reflecting in his eyes. Oh, he’s definitely on the NSFW of Reddit too. Oh, this is good, this is really good. Some common ground. It’s always good to establish a report with your immediate supervisors, even if it’s a temporary situation. Browsing r/bustypetite’s are you? Maybe r/petitesgonewild? Or r/festivalsluts, a new personal favorite of mine?
[Mr Chip calls over to the admin staff.]

“Look, how long is this going to take? My maximum shift is up in about an hour, and I still haven’t confirmed where I’m booking this young man yet.”

Now, I haven’t been referred to as “young man” since my son’s mother’s father beat me with a bag full of canned goods a few summers ago. So forgive me if I happened to experience a bit of a PTSD moment here.

[Staff and Mr. Chip interaction.]

“We’ll be right with you momentarily, officer.”

“Fucking kidding me?”

“I know, right? They said the same thing to me. I don’t think they have their shit together here.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that impression too. Wait right here.”

[The officer flagged down someone else to find out what was going on.]

“We still need to obtain the patient’s urine sample. The doctor should’ve had this to the lab by now. Where is he?”

[They paged the doctor.]

“Nurse. Nurse. Nurse! Oh, there you are. What’s going on here? Why hasn’t this young man given us a urine sample yet?”

[More PTSD flashbacks.  The doctor turned to a very cute Latina nurse.]

“Well, I need this right now, not momentarily.”

“Sir, I see you’ve already got the jug, so why don’t you just use it awhile?”

“What, here? I’m wide open here, miss. And I’m still hooked up to all of this shit.”

“Ugghh, fine. Alright, there you go.”

“Thank you. Over here?”

“Yes!”

Shit, people are too uptight around here. But its’ easy to see why. There doesn’t seem to be much going on here. And little miss Latina nurse here was still trying to get Mr. Chip’s attention, but he was far too fixated on Reddit. And the doctor, well, he was too busy impersonating his own patients. I could see him from afar the whole time they were calling for him to come over to attend to me. He was imitating the patient next to me’s cough, talking with office personnel and nurses, while mimicking the poor son of a bitch. He then had everyone put on masks. This is when things really started tripping me out. They all immediately looked like a mix between Joker and Venom. Talk about terrifying. And just then the super-bunnies began their attack.

[The Unknown Bastard re-enters.]

“Good Christ, what is this madness!?” I think I’ve had enough weird shit for one day.

“How ya holding up now, man?”

“Oh, funny you should come back just in time for the fucking super-bunny massacre.”

“You know me, I had to try and lay a few traps of my own on these nurses here. Quite a bunch they got here. A few fiery Latinas.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“So when are you getting me outta this fucking place?”

“I heard the doctor tell the nurses that you should be out right away momentarily.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Don’t worry, just close your eyes, and enjoy the show.”

[And then he was gone once again. The Unknown Bastard, in all his bastard glory.]

Apparently, Mr. Chip hadn’t given the right paperwork to the right person, and nobody was bright enough to let him know otherwise. This wasn’t his normal territory, and he was getting pretty pissed right about now, as anyone would who was closing in on a fifteen-hour shift, particularly being out of your normal jurisdiction.

But lucky for us both, it was just a short hop over to jail. I was, in fact, going to be booked at Needles Prison, literally right next door. The super-bunnies must’ve prevailed because everyone had taken off their masks by now as the officer placed me in cuffs. Although, he was kind enough to do so with my arms out front. Not like I couldn’t kung-fu that shit, and have my arms out front if they were indeed behind my back.

Mr. Chip and I were escorted back to the entrance by hospital personnel. But not before the same bats from earlier swarmed the damn place, like a palace siege in Arabia. They were everywhere. There must’ve been six or so that got in.

[Several bats swarm Mr. Chip and I.]

“Let’s get outta here. Fuck!”

I followed the officer as he swatted at them with his nightstick. We made it, barely. What a god damn zoo. Like Circus Circus in Vegas. I guess I didn’t need to see Freakmont Ave after all. Not with all that crazy shit back there.

[Mr. Chip and I are now by the sidewalk.]

“Wait here, I’ll bring the car over.”

“Alright, now’s my chance!”

I fake-ran for just a second, before stepping back onto the sidewalk.

“Haha, just wait there by the curb, man.”

Mr. Chip brought the car back over to pick me up, and kindly opened the front seat for me. And then – one of the funniest moments of my life occurred.

[Mr. Chip retrieves his car, and opens the door.]

“Are you fucking kidding me? Christ, I just had this thing cleaned!”

“Yep, about right there. Our sprinklers typically start up this time of day. Haha, well then. You boys have a good day now.”

Every single person at Needles Hospital was an asshole, even the cute fiery Latina, and that’s really saying something for me, as you know. Mr. Chip’s front seat was pretty soaked, staining documents he had sitting up there, as well as his all-important laptop and media area. He pulled a towel from the back seat to clean up the mess. And suddenly I wondered why he had a towel in the back seat? Anyway, at least mine would be clean for the 30-second ride over to booking.

[We pull up to the gate.]

“Another one? It’s like Christmas in here tonight. A bunch of fat-ass Mexican Santa-Claus looking motherfuckers. Who’s this you’re bringing in?”

“Just a young man who made a wrong decision. He’s come to join your Christmas party, but don’t expect him to sit on any of your Santa’s laps”

Okay with the PTSD flashbacks already!

“Okay, just bring your car around, we’ll take ‘em from there.”

“What the shit? Are you fucking kidding me? How’s this shit work?”

Nothing seemed to be going Mr. Chip’s way. I felt bad for the guy. A nice enough fella, after a long day and dealing with this bullshit. In a bullshit town at a bullshit facility. Finally, we were able to get into the booking area. Mr. Chip escorted me to the window.  I was told to sit in the holding cell, next to another young lad.

[I take my seat next to another young lad.]

“This is fucking bullshit, man. They entrapped me, or whatever that shit’s called. I was a quarter-mile from my house. God damn pigs, man. Greasy bastard pigs, man. I don’t trust ‘em.”

“Yeah, man. Most of ‘em aren’t too great, in my experience. Mr. Chip over here seems pretty cool though.” “Nah, man. He’s a fucking greasy pig too. They all are.”

Mr. Phillips, as he came to be known, was quite trashed. I’m not even sure we ever made eye contact during our initial greeting. I think he thought he did, but I assure you, we didn’t. Maybe that’s in part because I was still tripping, although thankfully not as hard. We were like the cobra and the flute, trying to engage with one another, at least make contact. I imagine once you get on the inside, this is not a place where one wants to be hopped up on drugs, especially coming down off of a bad trip like mine.

I had to relieve myself of the beers I had earlier, so I asked Mr. Phillips to kindly offer what very little privacy one was afforded in a holding cell. There is a single aluminum toilet in the corner. And as you pissed, it almost sounded like a musical instrument the way it trickled off the aluminum. No standing water. No toilet seat for comfort. If you have to shit, you better be in some sort of shape and be at least decent at squatting, or your balls will be rubbing on all kinds of nasty shit. Thankfully, I only had to relieve myself from what my urine sample was unable to relieve. I bet they never had such a full sample in their life by the way. They gave me a quart, and I nearly filled up the bastard.

They called us each up by name to receive our booking papers. The woman was the same one who told Mr. Chip about the “Mexican Santa’s” in here. She laughed after nearly every sentence.

I see they staffed this place full of assholes as well. Figures that a town named Needles that it’d be full of pricks. But Mr. Phillips cocked some attitude while he was called up, and was immediately thrown against a wall by a small stoutly bald man. Screaming at Mr. Phillips like his wife surely did to him after another dissatisfying sexual experience. I really see no other explanation for such aggressive behavior, but that could explain a lot.

[They called me up, but I have trouble hearing sometimes, especially while high, so the same prick officer got in my face. Henceforth, Mr. Impotent.]

“You wanna fucking go too, bitch? How ‘bout I throw you up against the same fucking wall where I did ya friend here, huh?”

“That sounds pretty gay, actually.”

“What!?”

“Never mind.”

“Just step up to the goddamn window, and do as you’re fucking told, geek.”

A likely reference to my thick glasses. What a bastard! Now, I gotta be honest, friend. This Airbnb experience was off to a pretty shitful start so far, I gotta say. But how are you holdin’ up? Better than myself and the Unknown Bastard I hope? Okay, good. I was escorted back to another room where fingerprinting was done. They placed my hand on a large round globe-like object. Picture one of those globes where the evil dude spies on the princess and shit.

[I’m ushered to another room for prints.]

“Ever see Minority Report?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I was going to make an attempted joke, but this doesn’t seem to be the right time.:”

“No worries, it’s just a bump. What is it?”

“Well, I was just going to joke how I felt like I was in Minority Report, and that I’d just burned off my fingerprints instead of providing them.”

“Ha, you know, you’re right. I never thought of that before. Nice”

[We’re rounded up back to the cellblock like cattle during our last moments. Mr. Impotent took the lead.]

“Okay shithead, you’re in Cell 4. And you, you’re in Cell 3.”

“Great, I always looked at number three to be a lucky number of sorts. After all, good things always come in three’s, right? Here’s hoping!”

“Just keep your goddamn mouth quiet, or I’ll quiet it up for you!”

“Grab a blanket. They’re there to the right. Now hurry up, and get in your cells, maggots!”

I obliged, as did Mr. Phillips. But we would soon learn, these were not intended to be blankets. No friend. These were instead to act as shields to the light that was protruding from the hallway. Making for an impossible sleeping position otherwise. The same small stoutly prick would come by, seemingly on the hour and bang on the bars with his nightstick, as he laughed like some kind of deranged hyena, completely unhinged. It suddenly dawned on me. These bars were to protect us from these animals. It might have been the desert out there, but it was a goddamn jungle in here. And much like Jumanji, things weren’t exactly what they seemed. All the players and elements were here. Mr. Philips and I had started this game, and we were going to finish it.

 

 

needles
TO
vegas

With what seemed like twenty-six years later, two more inmates were shuffled in, one into each of our cells. Mine announced himself as what I could only gather as Escuela. “School?” Surely that couldn’t be it, could it? A nice enough fella, he scurried up to the top bunk like a goddamn howler monkey, only he didn’t make a sound. A darkly tanned Mexican, not standing more than 5’5. This gent had been here before. Perhaps in this very cell. He seemed right at home, and the smile from his face had never left the entire time he was there with me.

At the time, it was a bit unsettling for me to know this. How could this guy be smiling in the bind in which we found ourselves in? But in looking back, it was probably this exact positivity that kept this man alive, even when being fed to the hyenas that were patrolling this goddamn place. Mr. Phillips again had asked for his phone call.

[Mr. Impotent aggressively responds.]

“Keep fucking quiet! There are no phone calls. This ain’t like what you fucking see on TV!”

By pictures, I knew exactly what he had meant. I’d just finished watching The Wire via Prime. This was no padded cell jail cell. There would be no phone call. Although, we were guaranteed three from the note which would later be presented to me to sign. Bullshit much? But one of the earliest lessons from my father taught me that life isn’t always fair. In fact, it rarely is. Not to count the chickens before they’ve hatched. Hell, don’t even count them until they’ve reached the plate of either yours or mine. Being allergic to meat, however, at least on some poor bastard’s plate anyhow.

I’d considered doing some exercises to pass the time, but I was too preoccupied trying to piece everything together and figure out what I needed to do next. Virginia was going to be towed, with all of my belongings in there. At least I had my phone and wallet with cards and ID. But what next? I somehow needed to find my way to the impound and make it to LAX before my flight took off. I did not wish to be stranded out here. I’d never felt more like a foreigner my entire life. During my first DUI, I was kept in an open room with much more personable officers than this place. That much at least is true.

[Another officer came back to the cell.]

“Back up a second, you’re getting released.”

The cafeteria workers had brought back some PB&J sandwiches with some whole milk about an hour earlier. They must’ve recognized I had no desire to eat the cold sausage patty and pancakes.  So at least I wasn’t leaving on an empty stomach.  But I couldn’t eat. I was sick to my stomach.

In retrieving my items, I had to go back and request for my loafers. They were taken off in an unusual manner. See, they ask you to remove your laces from your shoes (presumably so you don’t try to hang yourself), but mine were stitched to the soles of my shoes. My Clarks were of fine quality, and I wasn’t about to let them muck them up.

They provided me with these orange sandals. I quite literally felt like I was walking on needles, another fine gesture from this town. Now carrying the plastic bag with all my personal items, I also had a paper bag that contained said loafers. Nearly mocking me at this point, I was looking for an out.

[Mr. Impotent leads the way.]

“Keep a few paces ahead, you fucking maggots!”

Boot camp, this was not. They had no rules here. Nothing was being reported back to the outside world, for this was the inside of Hell. I’d made it after all. The name Needles surely originated made from someone in here, as there were plenty of pricks in here roaming about.

[Mr. Impotent had stopped, so Mr. Phillips and I had stopped as well.]
“I told you fucking maggots to keep on moving!”

“But sir?”

“Don’t you fucking sir me, boy! I aint’ your fucking fairy godmother.”

This dude definitely had his own set of leotards that he danced around in, no doubt about it. Why else would he have even said that? Then suddenly I realized he was just upset that his wife was no longer sleeping with him. Instead, his brother-in-law seemed far more attractive. He was a volunteer fireman. I hear they have far bigger dicks than cops, but that’s pure speculation on my part and my dealings with cops. Four inches of cold hard steel that is! Much different than letting down one’s fire hose…

[Mr. Impotent’s Last Stand.]

“Keep fucking moving, maggots! Don’t stop until the door hits your ass on the way out!”

Mr. Phillips and I were escorted out of this long dark highway, suddenly filled with light as the doors opened to the outside. We kept moving. No police escort. No looking back. No questions asked. No phone calls prior. We were left to our own demise. And suddenly, I was praying to the devil to end this cruel joke he had bestowed upon me.

Mr. Phillips and I readied our goodbyes, and offered our respective blessings to a future much brighter than the present. “The businesses are that away, and so is Motel 6. I suggest starting your path there. I’ve gotta take care of my own shit. My ma’ is gonna fucking kill me once she learns what happened.”

Suddenly my predicament seemed less a complicated matter compared to his. At least I didn’t have to do a walk-of-shame back to my worried mother. I know what that’s like. Only mine was a VIP home delivery on a Saturday at 3:00 AM too in the back of a cruiser. But that’s another story for another time.

And once I was out, I still didn’t have much hope left. 120 degrees, 3:00 PM, and no clouds to reduce the sweltering midday sun. We might have been freed from prison, but we were as good as dead men walking. They seemed to know this as well, as the doors quickly shut behind us.

Mr. Phillips and I bro-hugged it out and wished each other the best of luck. Vultures swarmed above. They must’ve sensed our impending doom. Circling above me, I nearly welcomed them. At least they’d rid me of this hell I’d since found myself in.

Released like carrier pigeons coming out of a shipwreck mirage in the middle of the desert. We were in much need of help. Especially me with my cottonmouth, burnt lips, scraped and dirty body, hair flowing as though I was a tumbleweed, red golf performance polo, pineapple Spongebob-like board shorts, and a paper and plastic bag carrying the only belongings in my possession.

I looked like a fugitive carnie who’d just stabbed his fellow carnie’s after a feud broke out over which clown was more gangster – Yucko the Clown or Pogo the Clown. It’s kind of like the feud between Biggy and Tupac. I literally witnessed a fistfight break out at a party a roommate and I hosted through between our two groups of friends. One was wearing a Tupac shirt, the other a Biggie shirt. I was unsure who won. They both looked like they’d gotten their ass kicked.

What a blistering sun. Back to reality, or what’s left of it. A prison bed is not the ideal place to come down off of a high. I barely slept. My joints ached. I hadn’t eaten anything since the edibles. And my mouth was more dried out than Hillary’s vagina. Speaking of – this place sure did look like it’d been snuke’d.

And since Mr. Phillips and I had already said our goodbyes, how could I ever do a future wellness check? I couldn’t understand what his first name was. It started with a Z that much I know. And he couldn’t understand my last name. Only knowing that it started with a W. Combined, we could complete a formal name at least. Perhaps this would be the new alias I would use? Maybe I was meant to start a new life out here all along? I figured this was how people got stranded out in LA, but not in Needles.

I needed to carry on. My phone was dead, so ordering a Lyft/Uber was outta the question. Hell. You’ve really done it to yourself this time. Now wandering around this strange town like a tumbleweed, floating lifelessly in the breeze. Only there was no breeze, it was midday, and nearly 120 degrees, thanks to a recent heat wave. I needed to ride it, all the way to Motel 6. Mr. Phillips had pointed me to the businesses earlier, but looking back, he had misguided me as I’d nearly circled back to the Sheriff’s Department. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to ask those pricks for any help.

I found a neighbor who was outside with his two small children. He was kind enough to guide me to the Motel 6. I ended up taking Bailey Ave when I should’ve just made a right on J St. Ironically, I ended up making an almost perfect “J” once getting to Washington St. and heading down the bowl as the man had detailed moments earlier. This “bowl” I believe contains a direct passage to hell. It was easily ten degrees hotter down there and there were several carcasses of wild animals and unidentified bones beside it. A fire just beside that was still smoldering. I stayed clear. I’d had enough hellish sights and dealings for one trip. Even the Devil himself wouldn’t have made a deal with me now.

Not in my current state anyhow. After literally crawling my way out of the bowl, I made it to the asphalt lot which connected to the Motel 6. The Motel 6 itself formed a large phallus. I told you this town was full of pricks. Making my way inside, the clerk recognized I was in trouble.

I mumbled through what had happened and asked for any assistance she could provide. They only had one room available, and it was locked in at close to $150. Money I really didn’t have if I was going to make it back home. She brought out the maintenance guy, Myron, and I retold my story. Myron turned out to be a savior to me. He was the light that Tom Bodett talks about leaving on in those commercials. The clerk let me use their phone to call to reserve another rental.

I was connected to someone with one of the most difficult dialects I’d ever heard before. I’m all for supporting international wages as much as here locally, but it’d be appreciated if I wasn’t connected with someone whom sounded like they were giving a blowjob underwater. I only understood every tenth word of what they were trying to communicate to me. I thanked her or him, I’m really not sure, and hung up. Maybe they were really giving a blowjob underwater. Indians were the creators of Karma Sutra after all. I’d never been with an Indian girl, but from research I’d done online, they seemed to be up for anything.

Fairing no luck, I asked if I could use Myron’s phone. I needed to search for another option. I was next connected with an American, although I had difficulty understanding him as well. Again, only understanding about every tenth word or so, with strange groans about in-between. Perhaps this guy was on the receiving end of the blowjob? Who hires these people? That required an answer above my pay grade. Confirming the reservation, we hurried out to Bullhead City/Laughlin airport. I was beyond grateful for the ride, but we needed to hurry. And fast!

It was now 3:10 PM and it took forty-five-minutes to get there. And we still needed to fuel up. Filling up $40 worth of gas, as a form of payment for his kind gesture, we were ready to go. Cruising down the highway, right back to where shit had first gone to hell for me. Again, I was disoriented. Thinking we were going north when we were going west? That must be something you’re just born without here. Everyone I’d met so far was locals. There wasn’t much for a tourist here like me, but it was a nice enough community to raise a family.

Further detailing my story, we were both cracking up about everything that had happened; as it made it easier to accept that way. Myron agreed that the Needles Prison was full of pricks, laughing at what I suggested to be the very namesake of the town. “Probably so, my friend”, he said with a grin. He’d spent some time in the jail as I, after a mishap when he was going through some things before ironing back out his life.

We made our way to the airport. I rush in via a mild gallop, with Myron trailing a few paces behind me. Can’t push this horse too fast right off the gate. With everything that’s been pumped into me over the last day, I wouldn’t even need a euthanasia kit. I’d just keel over without a final word coming from my lips beyond faint grunts and moans, and nobody wants that.

A smaller airport, I was immediately reminded of Lancaster Airport. Further out of the way where the wayfinding guided me to the rental services. I didn’t even realize which I had the reservation with. Myron just handed me his phone, and I provided some basic information, saying we’d be there before closing. I march right past the Avis/Budget clerk who had offered his greetings. I head straight to Hertz. The guy standing at the door did not look pleased. A small child (yes, really) climbed up onto a step stool and sat at the computer and asked for my information. Waiting for Ashton Kutcher to run behind the corner, letting me know this whole blessed trip was really just some solo Amazing Race adventure that I’d drunkenly signed up for. There was nothing amazing about this part of the adventure, but I was in a bit of a race. I’d offered to buy drinks for the “Light of Motel 6”, but understandably, he had to get back to work. I wanted to further show my gratitude, so we drove to a nearby convenience store. I took out some cash, bought him a beer, and we took a selfie while exchanging contact info.

Myron stated he kept getting goose bumps during our time together. I did as well. Not in a gay lover kind of way. No. This was much bigger than that. And not in a size queen kinda way either. This was…spiritual. As mentioned, I’d messaged my mother earlier in the trip that this trip was holy. Now, I’m not a religious man, but I do subscribe to the notion that there is something greater out there in the universe than us. It’s statistically probable that there are other forms of life out there, perhaps beyond our current means of contacting and understanding it. And it was statistically improbable that I’d even made it through this stage in the desert. I should’ve died out there last night. I should’ve died many times before now. So many close calls. I was unsure why, but someone or something was looking over me. That much I knew for certain. In retelling my last bit of the story to the convenience store clerk, I’d befriended a man in line. I came back after saying farewell to Myron as I’d forgotten to purchase a charger for my phone.

Matt is a kind-hearted bigger man, with a long beard and short hair. Another fellow metalhead. We instantly shared a bond. He too shared that he was experiencing goosebumps during his time with me. It was The Desert Triangle, man, I’m telling you. There was something out here. In retelling some stories of his own, Matt had told me that he felt a strange presence while working on the rail late at night in the desert. “Things you couldn’t explain without being there”, he said. More of a skeptic than a conspiracy theorist, it was very compelling experiencing similar things that I could only believe him that there indeed was something there not of this world for him as well. His wife was leaving for a shift at work, so he was caring for the kids. Kind enough to let me use their shower, I obliged and nearly fell asleep with my head resting against the wall. I was in no mind to relive myself on this day, and certainly not in this now holy house.

Although, he’d begin to think I was if I took any longer. Sliding back into the only clothing option I had, my soul at least felt rejuvenated. They’d ordered some pizza for lunch and had some leftovers sitting atop the oven. Three slices later, and several large glasses of water now rejuvenated me physically as well. Matt was indulging in some beverages as the kids began to wind down a bit with some TV. It was nearly six by the time I’d left. I decided to head to Vegas for my Airbnb stay in hopes of a better night’s rest than last.

I’d been rating my previous stays, but I didn’t see a place to rate Needles Sheriff’s Department. I will say that it would not have been five stars. The bed felt like one of those inflatable rafts you see at your neighbor’s pool. The blankets were stained and as rough as the bastards patrolling it. Between the lodging and accommodations, I had half the mind to have contacted headquarters directly about this godforsaken joint. But, as it still turned out, I had much bigger fish to fry. Sober as a man can be in this desert, in this state of consciousness, I make my way towards Vegas.

This was not the exciting time I’d imagined it to be. No top-down in The Great Red Shark. No bag full of every drug known to man, with a few invented exclusively for the trip. No money clips. And certainly no hitchhikers. If anyone was hitchhiking during this heat wave, they were certainly trying their best to reenact Natural Born Killers, and I wasn’t about to become their prey. With the very low expectations and with none of the above, Vegas for me was very boring. I had already made it to Freakmont Ave back at the hospital. And I’d made it to Circus Circus at the prison.

Before I’d left, I had friends tell me that Vegas wasn’t ready for me. Perhaps they were right? They’d need a six-month notice, at least. Shotgun-wedding capital of the world, but I was in no mind for violence. Not now. Not after all of this. I was daydreaming about holding my son again, tucking him in, and going back to a beauty of my own to tuck in as well.

And then I get to my Vegas Airbnb. A very cute petite hippie girl as the host. Holy shit, would I recognize her from r/petitesgonewild, maybe. I should’ve gotten CHIP’s Reddit username. We could’ve shared our favorite saves of the month with one another.  Would that be gay? It’d probably only be gay if we timed our jerk-off sessions at the same time. But we’d be on different coasts. That could’ve worked out just fine.

Back to the cute hippie chick! She was hesitant at first to address my request for her address. I gave her some quick info, and she stifled her way off the ground, and greeted me with a hug, asking if I needed any help with my bags. “Just bag, singular. It’s a long story.”

Welcoming me into her home, they had one of those extra security doors to close behind. Seemed like a safe enough street, but I guess you can never be too careful in the very place where the American Dream came to die. I was led to my room. Next, she showed me the bath and nervously led me to her bedroom.

“This is my sometimes husband.”

“Oh, umm, hi.”

Sometimes husband? What did that even mean? Role reversal? On/off relationship? Swingers? She took me back to my room, closed the door, and sat next to me on the bed. Oh, this was it. I was craving the real deal, and I did my best to pick the right briefcase. She was really cute. A little rough around the edges I can tell, but cute. Massaging my thigh at this point. I don’t say a word. I go in for a kiss. She gets up at the last second. I need to get the kids to bed, she says. Unable to fully process what just happened, my brain was too sexually frustrated to provide me with my normal racing thoughts. I think I even fell asleep before putting my head against the pillow. Just sort of falling like a feather in the breeze to the ground. I’d never had more vivid dreams in my life. It’s like my subconscious was playing back its’ own version of this crazy tale. Having visions of areas near my home back in Cornwall, I was left with high hopes of making it safely back home.

 

 

VEGAS
TO
LAX

 

 

I left at the usual 6:00 AM, only this time not to explore my host town/city. Instead, I was headed straight to Barstow. I needed to track down my rental car from the impound, and get part of my life back. But before I left, I needed another phone charger. I’d forgotten my recent purchase at Matt’s place. He had called and texted me about an hour after I left, but I didn’t have the time to turn back around. “Keep it for the next wanderlust traveler that comes through.” He laughed and wished me safe travels. I wished the same. Why do people do this? It’s like when the movie clerk says to enjoy the movie, and you say you too. Or when your girlfriend thanks you for the dick, and you say you too. It’s just plain awkward.

I was at least smart enough to search for a nearby convenience store before my phone parted with me, once again. I just needed to continue straight from the way I came in, about half a mile. The first place doesn’t have any, shit. The clerk was too damn stoned to have answered if they had drinks for sale, let alone a lightning connector. Lightning conductor, nah man. They ain’t callin’ for storms today, Ben Franklin. I was greeted by a friendly black man who was just starting his day as well.

[He was keeping guard as his son was pissing beside a dumpster.]

“Just teachin’ the boy early life lessons, ya dig?”

“Absolutely man! Wait till he learns to do the same, but with a girl outside of a dive bar.”

“He’ll have to learn that one on his own”, he said, again with a laugh. “Have a good day, brotha.”

“You too, friend.”

Finally, a fitting place for the phrase. I’d been afraid to use it much since the #metoo movement, since it bore so close to the very phrase that was so divisive. I’d researched a number of synonyms to use in its place. I begin to avoid the internet after times of public crisis. It tends to really bring out the stupid, and I’m a bit of an optimist, so I like to see my friends, family, and especially strangers in a better light. Even if some do not share close to the same values that I hold. But with some of the shit that I see online, I fear many would write in Hitler if given the chance.

You see, my theory is that the further right and the further left you stand, you eventually meet. You travel backward, so you might not even notice at first. But by the time you get there, you’re so far away from the very shore you started swimming from.  And instead of a Speedo and cap to match, you’re wearing military garb and a general’s hat to match.

I’d gotten the last lightning charger in stock. That’s a really good one there, the cute cashier said. It was a little dim in here. Perhaps that was just my eyes adjusting to the Vegas environment. But I soon noticed that everything off the strip in Vegas seemed to be dimly lit. That was until you made it to “the strip.” They must save all the power for here. It made sense.

This was the tourist trap they’d set, and they’d want you to go towards the light like the bugs around the campfire that become mystified by the bug zapper. Growing up, my family would keep the music on low during our open fires, just to hear all the bugs meeting their bright demise. Oh, the irony!  But I had no time to enjoy the strip, as it were. Another time, Vegas! We’ll both be ready, I promise. Hell, I might even buy dinner first!

Barstow bound; I headed back from which I came. Getting to see a glimpse of the strip, and all the early, or late, patrons stumbling about. Not many souls walking around at this hour. They were likely either too drunk, hung-over, or on their way to getting drunk. For those seeking the drug trip, well, they were likely still locked in their hotel rooms, trying to stab The Fear in the face with the sword from their 3:00 PM margarita that they’d spiked with their own components of flowers and assorted plants.

No plastic plants or umbrellas here, please. They’d be cold to the touch and needed out of the shade.  Like the parent buried in the sand by their kid and that weird neighbor kid who is always staring at you, only they’ve buried themselves in their own grave. With just enough room left for their head to remain free. Looking like something out of Beetlejuice, they move their tongue like a snake back to the straw of the margarita. With every sip, their mind begins to slip.

Barstow bound, I was just happy to be alive. I wasn’t quite alive and well, but hey, there’d be plenty of time for that later, at least I’d hoped. In my leaving Vegas, it was incredible to me how many opportunities one has to gamble here. It was almost as if instead of placing out those “Hiring, apply within” signs, they just presume you to be a gambler at the highest of addictive personality, and that you will indeed blow your life savings, pawn off your wedding ring, and end up working as the janitor in a nearby attraction. It reminded me very much of my time in Atlantic City. Vegas should take note of some of New Jersey’s U-turns to deter some of the aforementioned from jumping off The Grand Canyon. Or maybe offer some sort of alternate death in Atlantic City? It’s the least they could do!

Although, the desert atmosphere may have been further impacting the minds of said individuals here. Along the way, I’d thought I’d run into Casey Neistat. Not literally running into him, but pulling up beside him. I knew he had recently moved from NYC to Santa Monica, and that he drove a white Tesla per his YouTube videos. I was side-by-side with a white Tesla, New York plate, and I swear I’d seen the kind of hipster hairstyle that Casey had resorted back to.

Although I kid, this man was very much part of the reason for my road trip in the first place. I’d looked more into Santa Monica and its’ offerings, learning that it was the end of the road, so to speak of The Mother Road. Something I’d wanted to travel since I was a kid. Only back then, I’d have made the journey with the intention of moving out to LA or surrounding areas. I’d never leave my son behind, so I quickly dismissed any former rationale thoughts about staying in CA. Unable to visibly see if it was indeed Casey, I snapped a few photos with the beautiful landscape as the backdrop and zoomed on by. Between GTA, where the master of the vlog was headed, and Ken Block, that was enough to inspire me to do what I’d always dreamed about as a teen.

The same mountain range I’d seen Hell in only a day ago, should I say night earlier, as if a very different light right now. It was difficult to describe the natural beauty of it all. My exit was coming up. I’d seen several signs for Los Angeles, and I began to get pretty goddamn pumped full of excitement. After all this, I was nearly there. And as I said, I’d watched the series Vikings via Prime, based on History, as the first son of Ragnar wishes to indulge in a journey of self-discovery of his own. And seemingly as I’d find out, it was less about discovery as it was about creation.

See, he did his journey to prove to his father that he could, in fact, accomplish his goal, and return home safely. Mine was very much the same, only I had no one to impress but myself. At the end of the day, that’s really all that should matter. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The next piece of my journey would soon be in place. In needing fuel, I find my way to a local gas station, where I ran into a man and his faithful dog.

[While filling up this new ride of mine, he ventured out with a churro in hand and a friendly smile.]

“Hey man, how’s it going? What a fine day upon us.”

“Absolutely, my man. A fine day indeed.”

“I think it’s so cool how your dog just hangs out waiting for you like that.” “He’s always chill, just hanging out, but when the going gets rough, he bails.”

“Sounds just like someone else I know.”

[The man calls his dog back in.]

“Rufus, come on, boy!”

“Rufus?”
“Yeah man, that’s it; there he is in all his 90-lb glory, plump bastard.”

Not even needing to ask for the gentleman’s name, I knew who he really was. He continued calling in his dog. With a sort of groaning-like calling, his dog had come back within the vicinity. ‘70s dance music played through the mini-van. The one side door was kept open. I’d never seen so much random shit piled within a single vehicle in my life. Asking to take a photo, the driver looked at me as if I’d never asked.

Afraid to learn that this was, in fact, the real Unknown Bastard, I continued onward. California Highway Patrol. Interstate must’ve been removed from the one famous CHIP TV show. I walk in and pick up the phone. The door was locked. I know this because I tried to kick it in as you see on the very same cop TV shows. What a sure-fire way to draw attention to myself, I thought. Well, it would only make sense at this point.

I learned where Virginia was currently being impounded. I venture over to the impound. Sure enough, it’s right along the historic Route 66 bit of this town. And why wouldn’t it be? That was essentially my new motto for the rest of the trip. The impound was closed being the weekend. And it wouldn’t officially open back up until Tuesday because of Labor Day. The woman on the phone, although seemingly drunk and on drugs, stated that she could charge me $150 to open the first gate, but with no guarantee that my vehicle was there. Potentially requiring a second gate to be opened. Neither of which was guaranteed to me leaving with Virginia. With all of my possessions inside too. Damn. What choice did   I have? Well, I suppose I had several. But, in my mind, I had only once choice. I’d joked about to myself during the drive that I’d have my very own Chris McCandless story by the time I was through, for that was what it must’ve looked like for the crew who followed my emergency call.

But instead of a bus which was found at an old hunting camp, they’d find a small fuel economical sedan, covered in dirt, grime, and large insects, a rental no less, full of one’s belongings, trash/recycling, souvenirs, and which had truly been transformed into a home on the road. After snapping a few photos with the impound and Route 66 markings as the backdrop, I was once again on my way.

Once leaving the impound I was Santa Monica bound. Half-past nine, I gave myself plenty of time prior to my departure at LAX. California had so many local musical options to select from. I’d be going right past LA on my way to Santa Monica. The first LA band which came to mind was Silver Snakes. I’d had tickets to see them, but I missed them perform in both Chester, PA and Lancaster, PA. Their tour stop in Lancaster, PA with Combochrist headlining, was canceled, unfortunately. There were a few scheduling conflicts lately with Chameleon Club in Lancaster, which I’ve since (mostly) abstained from attending.

Their bouncers are complete tools there as well. Giving a great band a bad name. I once witnessed a bouncer shove a black woman up against a wall, as he searched her purse without cause because he claimed he witnessed her hideaway her bowl and weed. The real culprit who happened to be a white chick ducked and ran to the other side of the room, like a bitch, as she watched this innocent woman take the fall. With douche bag mode on full display, I walked out. I’d driven separately from my roommate, even though he had room in his car for me.

It was him, his girlfriend (who cheated on him constantly with lead singers in various local metal bands), and his girlfriend’s emo girlfriend and her emo boyfriend (who ironically both cheated on each other with lead singers of various local emo fronted bands). Suffice to say, I was happy to travel by myself from Williamsport down to Lancaster. I walked right into the show, while they were dumb enough not to have thought they could just walk right into a sold-out show. It was As I Lay Dying (before the whole lead singer hired a hit man to kill his estranged wife thing), Winds of Plague, After the Burial, and Free the Fallen. I had a few beers and intentionally ignored my gay roommate and his stupid friends. Okay, so he wasn’t really gay. But the previous night he’d left open his Facebook page on his laptop in the living room. Free game, bitch! Paraphrasing off of memory, the status went something like this:

“This is something that I’ve wanted to share for so long, but didn’t know how to say it. So I’m just gonna say it. It’s been far too cramped in this closet, so it’s time to finally come out. I’m sorry to all my closest friends and family for not saying anything before. Please don’t send me any PM’s, unless of course, they’re dick pics : ) Here’s to living my best gay life!”

Within minutes friends and family comments began pouring in such as “We always knew, and we’re so proud of you for announcing it to the world” “Your Uncle and I are extremely glad you felt comfortable enough to announce what we all suspected.” “Check your messages : )”

He had been stealing from me for weeks and doing other shady things around the apartment. I also saw him throw his trash into the back of my pickup. Oh, and his unfaithful girlfriend and another emo couple were living there without a legal means of doing so. They were also only subsidizing my roommate’s share of the rent, while I was still paying for half.

I decided during my drive back that I needed this piece of shit outta the apartment. I phoned up my buddy/landlord, and explained to him what was going on, and said that he’d evict him via his typical legal means. Learning of his eviction, he didn’t pay for his share of the internet or utilities for the current month and the previous two he still owed me. Everything was in my name since he had shit credit. A warning sign of a bad roommate #1.

Ironically, or perhaps not, he moved in with his girlfriend and the other emo couple. He learned of his girlfriends cheating by walking in on a threesome with the other emo couple. His girlfriend broke up with him because he was such a sissy bitch, and declared that his cock was far too small and that his oversized beard did not make up for it. His ex and the emo couple left the apartment, shafting him with the rent, internet, and utilities. Some people suck, but karma always seems to have a way of evening out the playing field a bit.

With Silver Snakes blaring at full volume, I was back to myself. A sort of air guitar/air drums hybrid mix, flailing my arms about like a madman. It’s incredible how people react when they think you’re having a seizure and or that you’ve simply gone mad. Either way, they tend to avoid you and drop back a few MPH, as they let you zoom on by.

Seeing LA along the highway was a pretty epic experience. But I was more psyched on knowing I was closing in on Santa Monica. I’d spoken with several people along the journey who had started in Santa Monica and were making their way East. They’d said how beautiful it was, including the people. Getting off fourth Street/fifth street exit, I saw exactly what they meant. Make a left at Colorado.

“There it is! Nearly there, Rufus! Oh shit. Rufus. I’m so sorry, boy. I’d wish you’d have been here with me to see the last leg of the journey. I’d hoped whoever found the car, would take good care of you. At least better than those pricks did to me in Needles.”

Narrowly escaping a few close calls as I’m staring at the beautiful blondes, brunettes, and redheads lining up each side of the street. But hey, I was Missouri now. Virginia was off the hook for any further damage. I make a right on Ocean Ave. Ah, Ocean Ave. So much to see here, yet so little time.

I’d given myself two hours to enjoy the moments and to soak in what little more I could of sunny California. Another right onto Santa Monica Blvd. Shit, I’m here, I can’t not take Santa Monica Blvd, right? Cruising down a few more blocks, narrowly avoiding a few more accidents (more blondes and brunettes), I find my way to 4th street. Excellent, a parking wayfinding sign.

It was Sunday morning, and I wasn’t finding anything for on-street parking. Although, I didn’t care if this car got towed. I only had a plastic bag within a paper bag, No Rufus. No luggage. No electronics. No iPad. No Apple Watch. No emergency backup phones (yes two). No battery backups. And particularly most important to me, no souvenirs from my journey to give to my loved ones back home. And dare I say? No Unknown Bastard.

I was close enough I could take a Lyft/Uber to LAX if I had to. Let’s stick to off-street parking though, shall we? Plenty of spaces available per the sign outside. It was a bit overcast, so that might have been deterring some of the more local crowds. It can’t be sunny and beautiful all the time, I suppose. I take the elevator down the parking garage, and make my way to Broadway and back to Ocean Ave. On a scenic landscape strip with some real characters. At first glance, I thought this was where the homeless congregated.

There was a bunch of people resting underneath the shaded trees, but they were in fashionable clothing. Or perhaps even the homeless had a sense of fashion out here? A few hundred yards left, music and food fill the air. I begin floating like one of those cartoon characters where they make their way to where the pie was cooling by the window. A few phenomenal street performers were busking as soon as I get to the pier. A diverse crowd of families, friends, and fellow wanderlust travelers, I felt right at home.

I make a phone call to my mother immediately after. Short of a message saying I was still alive, and that I was hospitalized, she knew nothing of what really happened, and I aimed to keep it that way, at least for the time being anyhow.After a few memorable photos, friendly conversation, more gorgeous blondes/brunettes/redheads, you name it, a frozen mocha, and a cinnamon roll monster, I was LAX bound. Although, had it not been for the kind cashier, I would’ve walked away without either my cinnamon roll or frozen mocha. The signs of a truly beaten man.

I go back the same way, along Ocean Ave and up Broadway. I noticed a few more sights I hadn’t seen from the other direction, some more gorgeous blondes/brunettes/redheads, you name it, and plenty of artists and musicians. This place must be a blast to hangout come nightfall. Not that it didn’t have plenty to offer during the day, but it seemed like a city that really thrived at night.

Only a block away from the parking garage, and some dude rides by on his bike, throwing out his elbow to the couple in front of me while yelling to get off of his side of the lane. We were on the sidewalk, and the dude on the bike was quite the asshole. This was the only unhappy Californian I’d met along the way. Then it hit me. The guy definitely resembled me, even the couple who he’d run into agreed. Did I just walk passed a future me from another dimension? Was this how I’d turn out if I’d end up stuck in CA?

This was further motivation to get to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I wasn’t going to be too careful at this stage in the game. Missouri on. Windows down. Tunes on. Head down. Time to change the tunes up a bit. After running passed that recent tool, ah yes, Tool. They’re based out of LA, which seems to be the case for so many talented bands. When you get such a melting pot of hungry musicians and artists from all walks of life, it’s really no wonder. I didn’t want to shortchange a city like LA, so I didn’t arrange any plans to stop in, not even to say hello. I knew I’d be back. The airport wayfinding was surprisingly easy to navigate, and traffic was a breeze.

Time to drop-off the rental. I pull into the Budget rental, not seeing the Avis signage. They’ve been paired together at every other airport I’d been too, but not here. I go to my GPS and discover that the Avis rental is about a quarter-mile away. I’m immediately reminded of the quote from Fast and the Furious (the first and only good one, not to be confused with the other dozen shitty sequels/spinoffs) about living a quarter-mile at a time.

Not having a Sedona Speedway moment as I did with Virginia. Missouri deserved her chance just as well. Turning off my GPS and cranking up Tool, I let her rip. Oddly enough, Eulogy was blaring in the background. This seemed like a fitting way to go out if I had to. Only one light stood between Budget and Avis. I waited for this to turn green. No cars on either side of me, or coming at me. This was my moment. The smile on my face growing as time began slowing, I felt like I was in one of those action scenes from the movies. I was in Fast and Furious. Revving up the engine while in neutral, ready to switch it to drive in three, two, one! 10, 20, 30, 45, 65, oh yeah, here we go! Ohhhhh yeahhhhh, ohhhh shiitttt! And like the Kool-Aid man slamming through another house, I slam on the brakes, as the light turns yellow. Missouri making strange car noises at me as I screech to a halt.

The light turns green once more, and I pull into Avis like a man who’d just prematurely ejaculated in his GF’s mouth when she was only trying to warm him up. And just like that, you go from hard to soft. And just remember kids, nobody’s happy when that happens.

After pulling into the lane for drop-offs, I come to another screeching halt. What the shit is this? It looked like one of those spike strips I’d been avoiding in GTA, just like the now ex-girlfriend as mentioned above. Screw it, what’s the worst that can happen? I make it over what I thought for sure would rip holes in my tires, and the spikes went down in such a way I didn’t expect. I follow the team of salespeople directing traffic like those at a county fair. Skilled enough, but they’re forced to direct idiots who shouldn’t even be on the road.

People were lining up like we were up next for a destruction derby heat. A few moments later, and I’m parked. I hand the guy my ticket, and he says I’m all set. I begin to inquire about the next steps for my other rental, but I figured now wasn’t the time.

[I was directed to the shuttle bus provided by Avis.]

“Need any help with your bags, young man?”

“Again, really?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Uh, no thanks, but I’ve got it from here.”

Noticing my only luggage being a paper bag, he jokingly asked if I’d just gotten out of prison. And I jokingly replied that I’d just shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. He got the Cash reference and said to take any seat I wished. I grab the seat nearest the exit. I learned from my military friends that it’s always best to be seated near an exit in case of an emergency as a strategic position. Just like I always back into parking stalls.

Oh, and by the way – Stan Lee isn’t dead; he just gained some weight and now works as the Avis shuttle bus driver at LAX in his spare time. He even had the glasses to match and everything. A dead ringer, if you will.

This bus was full of beautiful people, again myself not included. More beautiful blondes, brunettes, redheads, and some Asian women in the back. They looked to be Filipina. Tanned Asians are even sexier to me than Latinas. They’re just as exotic and it again comes back to the whole contrasting element I mentioned earlier. I wave and smile as I said hi. One of three responded while the one gave a neutral expression, and the other turned right back to her friends. So higher than my usual average rate.

The driver closes the door, and we’re headed to the departure side of things. I notice another beautiful girl sitting across from me. I see she has a Disneyland pin, and a Mickey and Minnie Mouse plush toy. I make some small talk, and ask if she’d just visited. Confused, she at first asks if I was talking to her. I said yes, and say Disneyland as I mouth it more articulately. She shakes her head no while laughing a bit and looks to others for help. She then raises her finger as an ah-ha moment and shows me her passport. Espania, see. Ah, okay. I got this. As mentioned, my son’s mother is Puerto Rican, and I was able to brush up on my Spanish I and II from high school. Although that was usually during sex and/or when she was mad at me. And the dialects are not the same. I repeat they are not the same. I tried to ask once more if she’d just visited Disneyland with Mickey and Minnie, but I probably called Minnie Mouse a dominatrix whore and Mickey her submissive BDSM slut or something…1/4 positive reactions from women.

[I enter LAX.]

This was more like what I knew. I was feeling a bit closer to home now. Wandering aimlessly for a few moments, I see a TSA check station. Okay, cool. I’ll do the whole pre-check thing, so I can just walk right on by later.

[A large, loud and in-charge type of woman asks me to keep moving, sir. I look behind me, there’s no one there.]
“Hold on, I’m just trying to read the signage here is all.”

“Please keep moving along, sir.”

[I point to acknowledge that there was still, in fact, nobody behind me.]

“I don’t wanna have to ask again sir. The next time won’t be so nice.”

[I murmured that none of the times she’d asked had been really nice].

“Ever see Meet the Parents?”

“What?”

“There’s this part near the end where a clueless attendant, oh never mind.”

“Okay, sir. Securi…”

[I quickly bail with my lone bag and even lonelier soul.]

I learned this was not the TSA pre-check as I tried to confirm earlier. Screw it. I make my way passed this line and into the official TSA line. I already felt ridiculous obtaining my ticket moments earlier. No luggage, however, this was quite fortunate for me as I didn’t have the funds necessary for the additional baggage that I would’ve otherwise accumulated. I received a number of free items along the way after sharing that I was an author writing a novel.

It’s amazing how differently people treat you once they think you’re famous or someone who is striving to be famous. I’d often joked that I was already famous, but the rest of the world just didn’t know it yet. I’ve always been known to be pretty full of myself. Not in an outward cocky manner, but certainly in an inwards manner. My front vanity plate had my photo on it for Christ’s sake. If I was a hermaphrodite, I’d probably attempt to screw myself, impregnating myself because it was my birthday, and managing to birth my own child. Family photos would be equally as disturbing. I’d wear a suit that was kind of half and half. Not in a two-face from Batman kinda way, but in a halter top and hairy legs with army boots kinda way. The upper portion would be more feminine, obviously for nursing purposes. The lower portion for nursing would just be, weird….I’d basically looked like one of those Mimes in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Or was that in the red light district in Amsterdam?

It’s now my turn in line to step through the invasive TSA line. I set my bag aside, and step through the gate into a chamber-like machine. It’s very futuristic, again in a Minority Report sorta way.

[Doing my best da Vinci’s man impression (short of being nude), I’m blinded by the bright scanner.]

“All clear, move ahead.”

[Another agent grabs my arm.]

“Not so fast. You’re not going anywhere.”

[Giving a stern look as he was extremely fixated on my bandages, asking what had just happened. Not wanting to obviously spill the beans, I only poured what little out I felt I needed to while being flagged by TSA.]

“I was released from the hospital yesterday. I was wearing these as a sort of souvenir, I’m from Pennsylvania.”

“Can you just take it off, sir? Wait! What’s under this one?”

[I begin taking my bandages off.]

“Slowly!”

[Now, it’s at this stage when people are beginning to look over and wonder what was going on, and why this hipster-hippie guy was taken out of line.]

“I just made it through that thing, I’m cool.”

[Ah, yes cool. The universal sign to let someone know you’re into drugs.]

“Yeah, I bet you’re cool. Now move along.”

No more unwanted advances outta this guy, he was done with me. I grab my paper bag and continue onward through the terminal area. I was in, no going back now. Half-past three, I had eight long hours in this place to kill. I could film my own layover episode within LAX. Wanting to wash my hands off from the TSA check, I find the nearest restroom.

I didn’t even look into the mirror at this point. I only laughed while grabbing a paper towel, and wondered what I’d do until my flight boarded. Knowing they board at least 45-minutes early, that made me feel a little better at least.

 

 

LAX
TO
PHL

 

 

What’s a poor boy to do who has eight hours before his flight takes off back home? Drink. Drink. And why yes, more drinky-time.  Checking in with any financial advisor, and they’d surely have advised me to save whatever I had left for what was sure to be a shit ton of a pile of debt coming my way all said and done (roughly $8-10k).

But I wasn’t about to stand around this place sober, not after dancing with the devil. My goal was to be slouched in a chair an hour before my flight, just sober enough to be aware of when my flight was boarding. There were three or four establishments that carried alcohol. And you’d better bet your ass that I tried each of them out. I figured I could sit at one for an hour or so, and then rotate. Kind of the way I presumed that those European brothels work where they just sort of have their lower halves sticking out, with a picture for you to imagine who it is that you’re actually fucking. I’ve never made my through to the end of one of those videos, so that’s really just my best guesstimate.

Turns out, things didn’t exactly go according to plan. I really should have just given up hope of any such thing until I was sitting back in my loft, typing this up. The first beer went down quick. It had primarily just quenched my thirst since that iced drink back in Santa Monica. I figured the water would be just as ridiculous in its’ pricing structure, so might as well get a buzz while I’m at it.

The first beer was $8.69, and I’d befriended a man by the name of Jose, a well dressed and well mannered business-savvy man. He’d been there for at least two beers that I could see in front of him. His eyes were a little glazed over as we made our introduction. I had excused myself to give back my glass as he was preparing to pay his tab. I asked him how his beers were. He asked how mine were. And a mutual bond was formed. Beer has a way of connecting people like few things in life does. Just look at any craft beer garden and you’ll see hipsters of all shapes and sizes, socializing and soon-to-be fornicating with one another. Right there in the beer garden! Okay, a guy can dream though, right?

But seriously, beer and alcohol do offer a special sorta connectivity to one another, allowing each other to open to one another they might not achieve on a sober level.  He decides to stick around for one more, as do I. We begin talking about life and all the good and the bad that comes along with it. Jose was a traveling salesman before settling down with his family, and he did a lot of reading while waiting around in airports and on the flights themselves. He’d learned that I was writing a book of my own, and was pleased to offer his insights.

“It needs to be gripping, and engaging. Your readers need to feel like they’re sitting right there with you, inside your head as you’re transcribing the words from your brain to your fingertips to the paper. You need an introduction that will grip them and a story arc that will be engaging enough for them to see their way through. That’s what makes a best-seller. That’s what inspires people to live out whatever it is in your novel.”

He was right. And that’s what I’d set out to do. Not caring if I’d make it to any sort of best-seller list. Hell, I thank you for even making it 4/5^th’s of the way, let alone passed the wild introduction of it all. Jose said he was excited to read what came out of this all, and we wished each other all the best in our journey. I mean the start and end are the same for every single person who’s ever lived, living, or yet to live.

But what we do with that in-between, no matter how long or short, is where a lifetime can live on forever. I mean do you really think anyone will ever forget about Jesus? Oh, here we go again, the hippie has officially lost his goddamn mind, comparing himself to Jesus again. Wake up from your trip already! No, it’s not like that. What it is like though is that Jesus has been documented to have lived a fantastic life and touched the lives of so many. Regardless of some of the fact vs. fiction of it all, it’s universally accepted that he was a great man. I guess what I’m trying to say is no matter what you do, aim to be great. Anything short of that, you will be lost.

Two drinks for us both later, and I’m feeling the buzz. In fact, I’m even hearing the buzz. Must be my tinnitus mixed with all this random chatter now that I’m not engaged in conversation. Not wanting to have an episode in here, I wander over to stop #2 along this airport bar tour.

[I flag over an adorable chocolate bunny.]

“I’ll start with two, how much?”

“That’ll be $13.69, please.”

“Fantastic! Not bad at all. I should’ve come here first.”

An Asian man was the only other individual at the bar, and was seated beside me. He was on the phone, speaking in a very calm manner. He’d be a while, I thought. Looking around for anyone to engage in friendly conversation, no-one else here. Sensing this wouldn’t last, I say to the bartender that I’ll just have the one beer instead. “$14.69”, she says. Not only did I mishear her of the price, but it was also only for a single bottled beer, are you crazy or what LAX? I nearly spit back up my last swig of beer. Jesus, I was used to spending that on a six-pack, not a single bottled IPA. For the tip, I wrote N/A (see above price). Two beers in, and I’d nearly spent my weekly budget set aside for two six-packs. The shock had worn off my buzz a bit, so I headed over to a third bar. Before I sit down, I ask the bartender the price of the beer, and she says $13.69. I laugh, say thank you, and begin to aimlessly wander around once more.

The only thing more suspicious than a guy who looks like he’d just woken up from a frat party is a guy who looks like he’d just woken up from a frat party while carrying around only a paper bag as his luggage at a major international airport. How the fuck wasn’t I flagged? Seriously? They’d surely be able to see I was only two days out of prison. Maybe they saw me as a lost soul and that I could do no further harm to myself or others. Maybe they knew my plane was about to crash? Either way, I was ready to head back home. This was my weekend to be with my son, so I was starting to miss him, and for the first time during this whole trip, feel a little homesick.

I was feeling in a weird state of mind, and I figured I’d get some food. There was this food court type area, with limited food options and a bar area beside it with some sporting events being shown. I order this flatbread vegetarian sandwich which seemed to only contain tomatoes and guacamole. I’ll take a Heineken as well, please. That’ll be $24.69, sir. I about dropped my bag and ran like the suspicious freak I looked like. Does everything end in 69 here, I wondered? Let me just go through two weeks of beer for three beers and a flatbread sandwich.

This must be how LA gets rid of freaks like me. Make ‘em pay, and send them on their way. It’d be a while before I could save enough to spend a night out on the town, let alone get passed the goddamn airport. I sit down at the bar and ask the bartender to open the bottle.

[She looks confused and asks where I got the beer from.]

“Over there”

[Pointing quite confusingly so.]

“Isn’t this the same place?”

“Yeah, it is, but we prefer you to buy them here.”

Not wanting to ask a good question to get a stupid answer, I simply nodded okay and thanked her for my beer while tossing what little change I had left her way. This is why I prefer strip clubs. The girls working the bar there are equally as beautiful, are wearing considerably less, and I don’t receive attitude. The sandwich was decent enough, and the beer was cold, but I was feeling hot knowing I’d just spent so much goddamn money in so little time. I was beginning to think it was a bad idea to get here so early.

After wandering around for a bit more, and relieving myself once again. You want to garner some weird looks, try placing your paper bag up on the counter by the sink in a men’s restroom at LAX. I found myself back to the first bar. A gorgeous bartender had arrived since I was here, and I began chatting it up with her while asking for the much more affordable $8.69 beer I started off with.

Sitting in the same seat as before, I turn to another guy my age, sitting where Jose was a few hours earlier. This fellas name is Mike, and he was from New York. We soon learned we each had a little boy back home. He was recently divorced after finding out his wife had cheated on him with a neighbor during the entire time he was on duty in Syria. Not knowing what to say to that, I let him continue on with his story. They were having a difficult divorce and child custody battle, and again suddenly my life seemed much less complicated. If you ever think your life is shit, just stop into a few bars and chat with some of the guys/gals sitting right by the bartender, ready to wave their hand up at any moment for another round. Mike had finished his story and asks what was the deal with my own story.

The bartender was equally curious and she listened in when she could. They were both very curious as to what was in the bag, as I’d learned to keep it up on the counter with me, having nearly forgotten it at the market area bar. It’s funny how quickly you forget just carrying around a stupid paper bag like it’s containing your milk and eggs or something. How many times have you left that bag in the car, only to realize it when you’re putting your kid in their child seat the next morning before daycare?

Leading them on to take a few guesses, for further intrigue, I open up the bag a bit, accidentally damaging some of the integrity, along with mine. I felt like the damn paper bag had had enough of this cold dark world, and I crumpled it up into a ball and asked the bartender if she could throw it away, or keep it as a souvenir. She laughed, as she shot it like a basketball into the garbage can. I liked this girl, and somehow, she seemed to like me.

This was the stripper bartender girl type I was used to and enjoyed. Desiree, a beautifully creamy caramel-skinned girl with dark eyes and even darker hair. And a smile that would brighten up anybody’s day. And definitely a stripper bartender girl’s body. Not wanting to offend, I kept that compliment to myself, although I think she could read it as plain as day on my face as well within the marginally higher tip I’d felt comfortable leaving on my card at the last several places.

Mike learns that he only has his connecting flight’s ticket somehow, and had no idea where his flight from LAX to the connecting flight was. He excused himself, and frantically hurried out of the bar area. I excused myself as well and wished Desiree good luck on her journey as she did mine.

I still had some more time before boarding, so I sat away from the bar and decided to do some people watching. And after a few minutes of staring aimlessly at the flow of people, two California blondes sat right beside me. They were both the busty volleyball type, and I was pleased to make more room for them. But they said that wasn’t necessary, and they both had clearly purposefully bumped into me while sitting down, smiling to reassure my ego’s imagination. They were both wearing sunglasses (which should’ve been a dead giveaway).

[Best one-liner opener I’ve ever had.]

“Hi, I just got outta prison. Can I get you ladies’ a drink?”

“Akskaksdf akadskfsf aksdfk”

“Whaa???”

“Haha. Never mind.”

These girls were all kinds of fucked up. I should’ve known. I can’t prove it, but I’m fairly confident I’d seen both of their “work” online too. I know a coked-out bitch when I see one, but these girls were on another level. But hey, all the power to ‘em. They’d have no problems adjusting to the altitude being that high already.

My phone was nearly dead (expectedly so by now), and I wanted to have it at least partially charged upon landing. I sit down at a crowded charging station and run into Javier. Another Mexico City gentleman, about my age with a soon-to-be family of his own. I learned he was a popular local chef, with a gorgeous wife, whom was pregnant.

Javier and I hit it off right away, so I joked if the expected child was his. He laughed and quickly responded asking if my son was indeed mine. A lot of my best friends in college were culinary students training to be chefs, so I knew a little bit about their world. And I learned a lot from talking with Diego back in Chicago about Mexico City. Not wanting to embarrass myself as I did in front of the beautiful/handsome couple from Switzerland back at Cadillac Ranch, I instead ask questions to learn more about Mexico City.

I’d recently watched the newest James Bond flick, and the opening sequence was shot in Mexico City during the Day of the Dead parade. Just a strikingly beautiful city. I’d been to Canada several times and had always wanted to go to Mexico to visit our neighbors to the south.

My grandmother once said, “You don’t want to go to Mexico, they’re dirty people.” Perhaps this is why my family always traveled north to Canada?  Not sharing the same view, I was further inclined to visit this city within the heart of Mexico. Javier did a video chat with his family waiting for him back home, as they celebrated during a soccer match in the background. He brought the phone over to me, and I said what little Spanish phrases I knew as a quick introduction. All laughing and likely wondering who the hell I was, Javier pointed the phone back to himself. Again, not the same dialect as Puerto Rican Spanish, but I made no mention of Minnie or Mickey in bondage this time at least. After hanging up with his family, I joked that I should’ve become a chef after seeing how beautiful his wife is. He laughed and simply responded, “Probably.” Javier excused himself as his flight was called over the intercom. We exchanged Instagram handles, and went our separate ways, again wishing each other well on our respective journeys.

My flight was to be boarding within the next hour or so. I check my phone to get an update on my finances. Low power, 5%. Sonofabitch!  Someone had taken out the USB portion of the cable and switched it out for their own without my noticing.  But before I get up to plug it in, I notice an extremely busty brunette in a mini-dress was staggering over to these two black studs and asked them for directions to her gate. She literally sized them up and put out her hand on the one guy’s chest to break her fall as she continued sizing up his co-worker. They seemingly both helped to guide her with simple and effective directions. “I hope you gave her your address”, I said with a grin and laugh, as I imitated her hourglass figure. She smiled at me and winked as she walked on by, presumably to her gate.

Did they have escorts working at the airport, I wondered? Seems to me anything goes out here in Hollywood. The guys just responded with a laugh and “Goddamn” simultaneously. My ass was getting sore sitting down, so I shut off my phone with the little power that remained, and I find my gate area to relax a bit before takeoff.

Now, I didn’t quite meet my goal of being all slouched over at the lounge by my gate (because the raping and pillaging by LAX), but I still had a good buzz going, and I was more alert should anything go awry. Now, I know we were all checked in safely, but I was watching out for another suspect such as myself. Another bastard, yet unknown.

They announce over the intercom that they needed eight volunteers to sit in the emergency section, and to be capable of assisting should there be an emergency. I was kind of betting on an emergency landing. At this point it seemed likely that we would drift off course and crash-land somewhere around the Gulf of Mexico, like another BP oil disaster. Maybe they’d life-flight me to a nearby hospital in New Orleans, and I could end up on Bourbon Street at least, I thought. I graciously trade in my ticket for one of the eight emergency aisle seats and sit back down in the lounge area. Some familiar getup around me now. Philadelphia sports teams and Pennsylvania colleges were represented here. Nearly home, I thought. Nearly home.

There were several cute blondes sporting PSU hoodies, and a few cute brunettes sporting Temple hoodies. They’re not just for California! There was a young Hispanic man playing with his adorable little girl, dressed in a pretty pink dress. The daughter, not the father. Although, who am I to judge what he did in his spare time, or in public for that matter. I once read that famous Mexican boxer Oscar De La Hoya used to wear dresses in dealing with a bout of depression. Did that make him any less of a boxer or a man for that matter?

I grab my paper bag and begin lining up for boarding. I greeted the stewardesses by the door, and they seemed to be in a very high state of bliss. Perhaps they were in fact, high. They must have known this was the only way to survive the flight. Shit, I should be high, not tipsy.  If only I’d had grabbed the edibles along with my wallet. Although, a bad trip up here would surely be fatal. Once we got near the Desert Triangle, I would’ve probably seen myself from above the clouds freaking out below, climbing the same wayfinding that arguably saved my life. Was I the one that was controlling my seemingly lifeless body? Was I waving over myself with a magic wand of some sort up thousands of feet? I was beginning to feel like this was one of those Harry Potter moments where Harry was able to accomplish something seemingly extraordinary because, in reality, he had watched himself do it before. My mind shouldn’t be racing like this while boarding. Calm down, man!

The pilots I had greeted earlier seemed intoxicated and incoherent enough, so it reinforced to me that I’d be just fine. I was flying Spirit Airlines, (it’s even in the name, goddamnit. How didn’t I see this before) which this particular flight had a 3.6-star average review on Expedia. I figured with the red-eye I could get some shut-eye. But holy shit, I’d never been more wrong about anything in my life. The aisle was barely large enough for two people to squeeze by one another, the cabin had that thrift-store musty mold sense about it, and the seat was like sitting in those cheap-ass plastic seats meant for preschoolers.

One of the cute PSU girls was seated behind me. I make some small talk about PSU and asked if she was out at main. That’s really the ultimate goal for any junior and particularly any senior student.  She was a freshman out at main, a very lucky girl indeed. She asked if I was out at main as well. She had a gorgeous smile, and I was captivated by her voice. She had one of those cute voices to match her overall cuteness. A rare combination of both made for TV and radio. Of course, she’d be nearly three-hours away from me. That seems to be the average for any potential match, however. My high-school/college sweetheart was just under four-hours away, and seemingly every girl I have fallen for since, whether it is at a beach, music festival, or event otherwise, is at least three hours away.

One day I’ll get my pilot’s license and own my own plane. That should help correct that curse which seems to have been bestowed upon me. I tell her that I went to PCT, which is a tech school affiliated with PSU located in Williamsport, PA. Her mother was seated next to her (a beautifully intelligent woman as well) and began asking questions of her own. Always look to the mother. Both for physical traits as well as personality traits. We had a friendly chat for several more minutes before the seat belt signs came on and shortly after we began charting the runway. One day.

Looking around, it seemed that every passenger was in zombie-mode, and in desperate need of rest. Some donned headphones, some were typing away on their laptops and tablets, while others were aimlessly scrolling away, probably not much different than their normal day around midnight. But for me, I just wanted to get some rest.

The engines at full-throttle now, like a rocket we were ready to ascend. This was only my fourth time flying, but takeoff had always been my favorite part of it all. Just the sheer power you felt as you’re thrust into your seat as you begin to feel the bird take flight. I can see why da Vinci was so fascinated by these wonderful creatures, and why so much is imitated in the engineering of planes.

The stewardesses went over the emergency pamphlet portion and ensured we understood the responsibility of sitting at the emergency aisle of the plane. I was the only one even remotely paying attention. An older guy just raised up his thumb as if to signify he didn’t care and to please keep quiet so he could get his rest.

About an hour into the flight and I begin to get a little restless. I began wondering if this would result the same as the wonderful series, Lost. Perhaps we were all already dead, and that this was our flight to hell? The smell of dank weed begins to fill the air, people are coughing and sneezing, no babies on-board, but I swear I heard one crying, and the person behind me kept hitting my seat. At no fault to their own, however. Things were so cramped that if even if you tried not being an asshole, you were automatically labeled as such because I too was hitting the person in front of me throughout the duration of the flight. As soon as I began to feel myself fall asleep, I got the sudden feeling that I was falling with the sensation of lights flashing, hypnic jerks, as I later found out. And not something you want to experience on an airplane.

My phone, still on low-battery from before, I couldn’t even read the news, surf Reddit, or view all the recent photos of my journey. I decided after all to browse the photos until my phone shut-off about eight minutes later. I wouldn’t need it right away anyway when I landed, I thought. The flight took nearly five hours, but I’d had work weeks which felt like less than this flight.

Turbulence the entire flight, the strange sounds and smells, and the restlessness of the passengers around me never let up, and the landing was the roughest I’d ever been a part of. It felt like we had touched down on multiple occasions, like a twister coming from sea to land. And when we finally have all wheels on the ground, we weren’t slowing down, at all. These poor bastards fell asleep! They should’ve kept on drinking to keep their edge going! The emergency evacuation won’t stand a chance against a runaway plane!

We should’ve just crash-landed in the Gulf of Mexico like I was prepared for. At least then I could’ve handed out some well-deserved beads on Bourbon Street. The pilot comes over the intercom, saying some bullshit about the weather and briefly apologizing for the landing. “Didn’t want you, folks, to think we fell asleep back there, aha. Umm, well, enjoy your stay in Philadelphia or wherever your final destination may be.”

Having watched a few of those Final Destination films, I figured well enough that if I’d made it this far, I should make it safely back home. But at which cost, remained a mystery. And there’s always the final credits scene possibility.

Before offloading the passengers, the stewardesses announced that one lucky flyer had a winning ticket underneath their tray. Literally, nobody moves. The stewardess announces it once more, this time with more coked-out enthusiasm. “One of you is a lucky winner for 3,000 free miles on Spirit Airlines! Do we have a luck winner today ya’ll!?” Again, literally, nobody moves. In a now threatening tone, one I would suspect a meth’d-out car thief would carry, she says to check our trays. “One of ya’ll is a winner, c’mon!” I hear only a few people move around now. Someone finally yells in a stoned-out manner “I got it.” I really should’ve grabbed the edibles.

Now offering some stupid credit card via Spirit Airlines, two more stewardesses come out with even more coked-out enthusiasm to advertise this scam. I’m fairly confident that nobody here was planning to fly on this airborne Greyhound deathtrap again. At least not in indulging in some more serious drinking and/or mid-drug binge. Part of me really didn’t care if the plane had burst into flames. At least there would’ve been a break in the sheer boredom that was the flight.

They cleared us to exit the plane, and not a single person said a word. Except this guy on the phone who said he was ready to pick up the package by the dock. Found the weed guy. There’s always a weed guy. I almost propositioned him for some drug or other to help me deal with this horrible mental and physical stated I’d found myself in. I’d officially been up for over 24-hours, and I still had a near two-hour drive back to Lancaster, and another forty-five-minutes back to my house. Happy Labor Day.

PHL
TO
LNS

 

 

[24-hours.]

I wander aimlessly a bit until I finally found someone who was kind enough to guide me to the Enterprise pickup. No strange looks here on the arrivals side of things with only my paper bag as luggage. They must’ve just assumed I’d lost everything in Vegas or something, which ironically was a pretty close bet. I make my way to the Enterprise rental pickup location. A young Asian man was working behind the desk.

My brother once worked for Enterprise, and he gave me some tips on how to deal with them. Basically, it’s a company who has never left the ‘50s, both in physical appearance and philosophy. You’d never find a shaggy tattooed bastard such as me working behind the counter of one of these, nor a woman for that matter. Women’s rights wouldn’t be acknowledged until the 60’s and that’s far too progressive for these staunch conservatives.

[25-hours.]

“Sir, I need a valid credit card please.”

“Yeah, I just handed you one.”

“No, this says debit card on it.”

“Yeah, but it can run through as credit as well.”

“Oh, well sorry, sir. We need a valid credit card, not a debit card.”

[Having maxed out my credit card along the way, I was faced with no way to pay for something that I’d booked already online via Expedia.]

“How was I able to book it using my debit card in the first place?”

[I ask. A little testy now.]

[26-hours.]

I quickly apologize, letting him know I recognize it’s not actually this poor guy’s fault. People often asked my brother if he was going to school; even though that was his first job after graduating with a bachelor’s business degree. This guy was almost certainly poor. Probably was in student debt up to his eyeballs, and just trying to survive in the world while beginning to payback what he could towards the principal. He says I’d need to go to the primary Enterprise office in Philly. He gives me the number. I dial it. Office closed. Shit. It’s the holiday. The only rental locations open would be the airport. Needing to charge my dead phone (not like I’d need it upon landing, right, I begrudgingly recall), I ask where I might charge my phone. He offered his charger, but alas, he had an Android. Wondering if I’d be stranded in Philly, I make my way to a nearby Marriott Hotel.

[27-hours.]

Another caramel skinned beauty offers me to use the bars charging outlet. It’s under the bar. I see nothing. I apologize, and ask for further clarification and state I hadn’t gotten much sleep as of late. She laughs, and points directly to the outlets underneath the bar, just like she said. It was near the bottom of the bar stools. There was a sports channel on, and I sat to watch it while my phone reached a reasonable capacity. To this day, I couldn’t have told you what sporting event or show was on. I was the only one in there, and nobody else was around. I was close to helping myself to the bar, but I figured I’d probably pass out and they’d throw me out assuming I was homeless, while throwing away my paper bag, assuming it to be leftover from a previous liquor bottle. And that’s exactly what I felt like I was carrying around. In fact, a medium-shelf liquor bottle would hold more value than what I was carrying in my bag. Hell, even a bottom shelf liquor bottle probably was at this low-point.

The first thing I do once I see that glowing partially eaten Apple is to check my finances. When you spend as frequently and as much across different states as I have, it takes awhile for things to process. I’d started an exact day-to-day budget reporting app, but I quit that after day two. It just seemed to get in the way of my overall experience. And I was moving far too fast to slow down for that. Phew. Okay. Settle down. I was doing better than the number following the dollar sign I had seen in my head, but not by much. After jotting down in my Notes app a potential step-by-step guide of how to dig myself out, I’d need to find a way back home.

That’s it! I’ll phone my mother! I needed to let her know I’d landed safely anyway. Perhaps I could break the news, and use her credit card as a placeholder for the rental. I phone up the same Enterprise location, but I’m directed to another Indian man, and again with about as thick an accent as they come. Just like dealing with Avis all over again! I wondered if they just had one giant warehouse full of these men and women, just doing their own best to survive, tasked with answering the phone for any company that lit up on the switchboard. No wonder they didn’t have a clue. How could they? The gentleman excitedly said I still had time to make my appointment and that I could indeed use my mother’s credit card as a temporary solution to this seemingly permanent situation.

[28-hours.]

[I march my way back to Enterprise.]

“Hi again. I’ve got a credit card I can use.”

“Okay, let me just swipe it, sir and you’ll be all set.”

“Swipe it? The guy on the phone said I could do that over the phone.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We would need the physical card here.”

“Sonofabitch. What do I do now?”

The manager could see I was in a bit of distress, and he offered to try to help. I told him I thought about taking the train, but that could be complicated navigating under my current sleep deprivation state. Plus, I’d still need a ride to and from the station once I arrived in Lancaster. He said that I should try one of the other rentals at the airport, and that they might be able to take my debit card. He suggested starting with Dollar Rent a Car.

[Having taken the shuttle from the terminal, and now back twice, the driver quickly recognized me.]

“Thought you said you’d never be back here?”

“I missed you too much Richard, I just couldn’t let go. You’re just like Jack in Titanic, when the bitch promises to never let go then only seconds later drops him like its Hammer time”

“Where to, boss?”

“I might regret this, but how about Dollar Rent a Car?”

“No problem, boss. Just a few moments, and we there.”

I explained my situation further, and he explains to me that the reason they don’t allow debit cards is because people were using burner debit cards, and boosting the cars from the lots, and immediately scrapping them at nearby dealers. Seems to me that the mob in Philly has never left, they’ve just gotten wiser with age. I arrive at Dollar Rent a Car. With a name that sounds even cheaper than Budget rental, r/whatcouldgowrong?

I walk in, nobody there. There’s an Asian gentleman who walks in a few seconds later, laughing and mumbling to himself, giving me a thumbs up of approval of sorts. Buddha, he calls to me. Good Christ, man! He must be a member of the monastery back in Albuquerque! Monday, special, here I come! Sweet, Jesus, God no! Suddenly, he leaves out the other door, as if only to stop in to tell me that. Simply ensuring that I would never forget that near fatal encounter. I was afraid to check where he walked to from there; for fear that he was only a premonition. Again with the Jesus and Buddha talk.

[Just then an older black woman steps up to the counter.]

“Can I help you, sir?”

I quickly explain my situation, but alas, she too is unable to help me out. Saying that they would need the full car payment, plus another $400 as a deposit since it was a debit card, only to learn they didn’t have any more vehicles because of the busy holiday (a usual record-breaking day of travel in America).

It felt like I was right back in the cabin of the Spirit Airlines flight. The same dank weed, a coughing/sneezing customer had just walked in, and the woman had more of that coked-out enthusiasm. They must be one-in-the same, I thought.

“Do you work for Spirit Airlines as well?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Okay, well take care, sir. Bye-bye now.”

[29-hours.]

[I head back outside and wait for another shuttle. Holy shit, its Richard to the rescue!]

“Richard, Richard!”

[He’s not stopping! He pulls over about fifty yards ahead of me, and opens the door, laughing almost uncontrollably.]

“Why if it ain’t Jack, back from the dead?”

“You know they made a sequel right?”

“Alright, where to this time, boss?”

“Back to where it all began, I’ll figure it out from there.”
[We head back to Enterprise over some more light-hearted conversation. I learn he was a die-hard Cowboys fan. Asking how that worked in Philly, he simply said it don’t.]

“I have to hide my Jersey underneath my hoodie, especially if the Eagles lose”

“Alright, Richard. If you see me standing waiting for you again, this time just keep on rolling, truly. It’d be best for both of us if you do.”

[Shaking hands once more, he wishes me, now forever Jack to him, well on the rest of my journey. I walk back into the Enterprise kiosk area. The manager waves off the employee, and asks if I’d made any progress.]

“Not exactly, sir. I’m really in a bind now. Do you have any way of arranging a vehicle for me?”

“Uber.”

“Uber?”

“Yes, why don’t you just get an Uber?”

[I thought he was crazy at first. An Uber or Lyft from here would surely be outrageous, I thought. Feeling I had no other option, I startup the app, and signal that I needed a ride.]

“$109.08, no fucking way! The rental car would’ve been nearly $175! Well, shit. That’s my ticket outta here, man!”

[I head back outside, and wait for another shuttle. I needed to be at the terminal to fetch my Uber. Another Enterprise shuttle arrives moments later. Presuming it be Richard once more, I am already smiling and laughing to myself.]

“Well if it isn’t Jack, back twice now from the dead. Even Jesus only resurrected once!”

[Again, more Jesus talk.]

“Where to, Jack?”

Ah, we were now like family. A truly first name basis from someone who probably saw dozens of people a day. I was moved. And so were we. We’d made our way back to the terminal. It was really picking up, and he had other clients to pickup.

[I grab my paper bag, and share one last farewell with Richard.]

“Now, Richard. If you see me standing out in the middle of the lane your next time through, just assume that I carelessly walked into traffic. Don’t slow down.”

[30-hours.]

[Shit. My Uber is calling! Maybe Kumar. I pickup. He declares that he was waiting at the terminal.]

“Impossible, friend”

“I’m out here and I don’t see anyone driving a Toyota Highlander. Where are you at?”

“I’m at the terminal, just like you said to be.” “Please, sir. Find out where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

“Look man, I’m at the terminal, but let me quick check with somebody. Departing flights? Shit, Kumar. I’m at the departure side of things.”

“Don’t move, I will come to you, just stay there.”

Now it was a race to who would get here first. Would it be Kumar or Richard. Which would be my fate. Staring at the app, I see Kumar closing in, no sign of Richard. 1-minute away, but what’s that! Another Enterprise shuttle. My legs shake a bit. I was only joking, but part of me was like what a story this would be…

[The driver slows down to drop-off passengers, it was not Richard. Seconds behind the shuttle was Kumar.]

“How are you, my man!? Do you need any help with your…bag?”

“Nah, I’ve got it man, but thank you. I’m glad you picked me up, you’re a lifesaver! Especially knowing how highly suspect I must look.”

“Got any tunes you want to request on your trip, man?

“Ah yes. Speaking of. How ’bout some Highly Suspect?”

“Haven’t heard of those guys.”

“I think you’ll dig ‘em, man.”

[Seconds into Lydia he was bobbing his head in the usual rock fashion.]

“I think you’re right, my man! Good stuff, indeed!”

We engage in some friendly conversation. I learn that he had just lost his job at Amtrak after making what he labeled as a mistake. He later tells me that it was due to drinking. He had a family and an expensive mortgage to pay for, and he was really in a low spot in his life. After hearing this, I figured this was the only reason he had even accepted my ride, let alone deal with the bullshit I’d put him through to locate me.

[Expressing my regards.]

“I’ll be sure to tip the highest amount”

“Thank you, my man. That would be very kind of you.”

[His wife was calling.]

“Sorry, my man. I have to take this.”

“Go right on ahead. I might try to doze off for a little myself.”

[31-hours.]

After browsing some more photos, re-checking my finances, and jotting down some more notes about my next steps, I put my phone on low-power mode, and rest my head against the window.

[0-hours.]

I awake as Kumar sounds nervous. Holy shit was it really coming down. We couldn’t see two car lengths ahead of us. The fog was as dangerous as the rain itself. I’d missed much of the drive. We were in back road farm territory, just south of Lititz now.

[As soon as I get my full senses and wits about me (or whatever yet remained), we’re nearly there, I see the Lancaster Airport sign.]

“We made it, my man!”

“Thank you for the safe travels, Kumar! Especially in this weather”

Asking how I felt, I was still unsure about everything. Sleeping with my head against the window, I realized that I should’ve at least pre-registered for a window seat with Spirit Airlines. At least if the next flight was as bad as the last, I could just slam my head into it until achieving unconsciousness.

Kumar was a little concerned being so far away from any ride-sharing activity, but I pointed him the direction to Lancaster. I inspired hope when I mentioned there might be some cute skirts downtown, just like back in Chicago, who needed a ride after day-drinking for the holiday. We shake hands, and wish each other luck in the rest of our respective journeys. I go into the airport, the office is closed. Motherfucker!

Knowing that I had until 6:00 PM to return the rental car previously arranged, they must just keep the drop-box portion of it all open. Kumar had already left and was headed into the city. I’d wait a few minutes. I didn’t want to bother him any more than I already had.

Okay, back to Uber. Safwat was on his way. I’d tip Kumar $16.36 along the way. It was the least he had deserved. A good man. A very humorous and intelligent man to chat with as well. $39.41 to head back home, not terrible. Not like I had much of a choice either. My nearby friends would surely be celebrating the holiday with family or other loved ones. And I’m not one to feel like he’s a bother. This was part of the reason I did this trip solo. I was able to be selfish without affecting anyone else.

Well, except for Rufus. “Oh boy, I missed you buddy. Perhaps we’d be reunited again one day. Until then.” Okay, back to planning. Knowing I didn’t have much to eat at my house, I’d need to grab a bit to eat. Shit! My house. How was I going to even enter my home? I’d lost the goddamn key with everything else. Sonofabitch. We’re nearly there to my home before I ask Safwat if it’s okay to make another stop first. He says of course. I add another stop via the app and help to guide him there. We were headed to Lowe’s and his GPS was giving shitful directions. Must be an Android, or he’s using an early version of Apple Maps, I thought. I continue to guide him straight there, no further stops, Collateral style.

I asked Safwat if he wished to come in with me, and that I’d get him something if he needed it for his time. He politely refused and pulled the car to a parking space as I headed into the store. He was much more reserved than Kumar, but still a nice enough fella.

I knew right where they were, and headed straight there, again Collateral style. Only getting subtle nods from the few employees, they knew I was on a mission, and knew to best stay outta my way. Ah yes, right where I last saw them. Several to choose from. This one looks promising. It’s got some weight to it, and the color really brings out my eyes. I lug the giant behemoth to the checkout area. The cashier is a real MILF type, beautiful redhead. With blue eyes. Just a real beauty. We make small talk about the day, and how better weather was on the way.

“Ever see Collateral?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Have a great day, hun.”

“You too, miss.”

Needing no bag, as it’d be put to work immediately, I look to locate Safwat. Shit, where is he? Fucker bailed on me!

[A moment later I see a waving hand from the distance as he pulls out to pick me up.]

“Ever see Collateral? It’s this great film featuring Tom Cruise and Jamie Fox where this hard-working taxi driver fella unknowingly drops of a hit man to different destinations so he can “collect payment from his employer. Don’t worry though; I lost my only weapon back in California. This baby could do some damage though, right? Don’t worry though, man. I’m cool. I’ll just keep guiding you back to my place for now.”

I felt like I had this evil grin crazily taking over my face. My eyes began to twitch. I began admiring my weapon, rotating it about in my hands. It’s best to become comfortable with your weapon, even giving it a female name to learn to really care for and appreciate what you hold in your hands. I shall call you, Valerie, in honor of the breathtakingly beautiful woman who sold me this gorgeous weapon.

[Safwat pulls over to the side.]

“Here is good. I’m a few houses down, but this will do.”

I thanked him and told him to forget my face. Just kidding about the last bit, or am I? I tip him as I leave, grab my bag, and Valerie and I head towards my home. I walk passed a few neighbors who stood and watched in horror as I walked on by with upright posture. Eyes forward. I had a job to do.

[My only neighbor friend neighbor Matt sees me.]

“Hey man, how was your trip? Alright, man. Catch ya later.”

There was no time to waste on a mission like this where the upmost professionalism and punctuality was involved. I set my paper bag down, and ready Valerie. In position now, here goes nothing! Crack, ding ding ding. That was easy. That lock didn’t stand a chance! See my home lock was, in fact, a master key, thus the need to purchase Valerie at Lowe’s. I walk back to Matt and remind him that he saw nothing on this fateful day, or did I?

A few days go by, and the dust was finally beginning to settle, so I thought. Then suddenly I noticed a large sum of money was withdrawn from my account without approval. Bastards caught up to me! I was hit with a $278 charge from Avis. I’ll just report my credit card stolen, I thought. Otherwise, I’d assumed they would continue charging my account that amount daily until they received the rental car back. My car was still in the impound, and somehow they were not yet privy to this information.

Evidently, never trust an impound manager, or Avis, for that matter. Barstow Automotive and Towing had said that they would make sure that Avis aware of it and that I would be dealing with Avis directly in regards to this matter. I head directly to a local PNC branch in Lititz to cancel said credit card. The most beautiful blonde I’d ever seen in my life. No, really, after all this love and lust, and even after visiting Beach Boys country and their whole “I wish they all could be California girls.”

And like Helen of Troy, wars would be fought over this girl. Shit, I’d fight to the death the next guy who walked in challenging me to a single date with this girl. Exchanging only a few nods and smiles between our business exchange. The large rock on her hand was a sign she was taken. At least in the hands of marriage anyway. She hadn’t experienced yet the hands of me. Nor would she, if I kept talking aloud, let alone after viewing my account!

“Ever see Tr…?”

“Sir, what is it that you’ve come in for today?”

“Ah yes, a woman who knows what she wants. A woman truly after my own heart.”

“Sir, please!”

I explain via a brief synopsis of what happened, and that I’d lost my card back at the Lancaster Airport, and that it needed to be canceled right away. New card in hand, I was in the clear. At least for another two days anyway.

And then boom! Hit right in the face like an unexpected punch from some drunk asshole aiming for another in a bar brawl. I’d only been in one of those types of said brawls, but I’d wished not to be in another, even if I was the promoter of said brawl. I’d been reimbursed the $278, thinking that I was officially in the clear from any unexpected expenses. Wrong! $2798 was charged to my card. Of which, I had zero of. In fact, I was now in the negative, and that meant overdraft fees.

Overdraft fees were ridiculous to me. I can’t stand ‘em! I’ve spent hundreds, hell, likely into the thousands on ‘em over the years. I just don’t get it? I’m charged $36 for every day my account has a negative balance. And after three days the price goes up to $75 a day? Hello, I’m broke! Thus the reason you don’t see any goddamn money in there, right? That’s worse than some loan shark asshole coming to your house, asking for the money when you clearly ain’t got anything of value. They’ll kick your ass and be back next week.

The bank doesn’t even give you that. They keep taking money that doesn’t even exist! If I had the goddamn money, I’d put some in there, and stop these bullshit overdraft fees. And when I finally do get the money into my account come payday, well now I’m depressed, because a quarter of it just went to your goddamn overdraft fees. And with depression comes drugs and alcohol, both of which conveniently are located near the local strip joint, which of course I’m stopping in for a lap dance. Clearly, I’m poor and/or bad at financial decision making. You’re now pulling out fake money because you ain’t seeing that goddamn real money from me anymore, ya bastards!

[I head back down to the Lancaster Airport. Reluctantly, like a Tiger with his tail behind his legs, I walk in. Charlie is there again. He’d been the clerk who had performed the initial transaction.]

“Hello again, sir. How was your trip? We’d been talking about it here at the office, and how exciting it must’ve been.”

“Yeah, about that, Charlie. I ran into a bit of an issue.”

[Putting my plastic bag onto the table.]

“Sir, why do you still have the rental car key I initially gave to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yes, it’s right there, I can see it.”

[Surprised as I was to see such a thing. Mr. Chip must’ve placed it in there, likely covering my ass. I had clearly missed it, knowing there wasn’t much in there to search for.]

“And that’s quite a crazy story you’ve just shared with me, but I ask again, sir. Where is the car you rented from this rental location?”

“We were somewhere around Barstow….

[Intentionally left blank, or whatever]

 

 

NI (IX) NE

JP WEIDEMOYER

 

A Gonzo Short & Prequel to TSOTMR
Based on a true story

 

 

IX.

I can’t fucking take another second of this, pathetic life. It’s about time that I get all this shit down on paper. To say I’m struggling would be an understatement. Hell, understatement’s my middle name. I haven’t necessarily disappointed everyone around me. But, quite frankly it’s only because there ain’t a lot of people around me. Half of that’s intentional. The other half – who the fuck knows? Perhaps it has something to do with the first half? Anyways, there’s much to be done here.   You see, I’ve got big plans moving forward. I mean hell, moving anywhere would be a fucking step up from where I’m at right now. Most of my life, I’ve dreamed big, wished big, even lived big. But none of that has equaled dick. Not until now. That was all before I had IX in my hands. Well, it’s still in my mind just yet, but you get the fucking picture. Well, at least you will in due time. I’ve failed eight times before now. Shit, who am I kidding? I’ve failed wayyy more times than that. But eight major times since I’ve been keeping track. It ain’t stopped me yet. Just because a stop sign has eight sides, doesn’t mean you’ve gotta stop after you’ve crossed all eight sides and are still standing in the same place. Fuck, even a stop sign itself hasn’t stopped me before. Just look at my record.

I digress. Instead, why not write my future? Right? It sounds all philosophical and shit, but why not? Why not literally write your own future? We all have the power to do so. It’s said the main difference between success and failure is that those who achieve success write down their goals. But why not take that one step further, and literally write out your life? Like a comic book, except its real life. Fuck, what’s real-life anyway? Might as well make the most of this physical space in which we live by dotting our own’ i’s and crossing our own t’s. All that bullshit said I introduce to you, IX. As I said, I’ve ignored all signs to stop so far. Signing off. – IX

 

 

 

VIII.

Hello again. A lot has transpired since we last talked. Hold on a sec. I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name? How rude of me not to have asked before. As I said, my name is IX. A pleasure to meet you. As I was saying – yes. Things are beginning to move along the path I’ve decided to create for myself. You see, I’m aiming to take a cross-country road trip towards the end of summer. A pilgrimage, of sorts. Ever since I was a wee lad, I’ve often wondered what it’d be like to wander around the desert. Truly, the middle of nowhere. Just to get lost. Not to be found. But it’s as I said – this is a story not about discovery, it’s about creation. Very much like the creation story we’ve all been taught, only I’m the one playing God.

 But what if we’re all wrong, huh? What if there is no afterlife? What if there is no heaven, or purgatory, or hell? What if there is no reincarnation for a second chance? What if, we do not just fall asleep forever? What if, we are all wrong? What if, none of what we have killed each other for, has been of any point but only pointing the blame towards others out of our own hatred towards ourselves? Hmm, what then? What God or Gods can protect you then. Not even from yourself will you be saved, let alone any damnation to follow…We are not ready to learn the TRUTH. For we are too busy being blinded by our own lies. The moment you are neither happy nor sad, neither sun or rain, neither love nor hate; is the moment you are truly neither alive or dead or anything in-between. You will just be simply, you. –IX

 

 

 

VII.

Hello, friend. Sorry. Is it okay to consider us to be friends already? I tend to bestow that word more quickly on people than most. It’s likely because I’m so trustworthy, that I assume everyone else is too – that is until they’re not. And isn’t that the main difference between a stranger on the street corner compared to your best friend? As I said, I don’t have many friends. But, the ones I do have I’d trust in a hostage situation with one bullet to take out the bad guy, and not me, their friend, IX. That is unless I’ve just recently hit on their wife or girlfriend. At any rate, I digress. Now, where was I? You see – you’ve got me thinking about sex again. These thoughts already consume about 9/10ths of my day, so it’s already rare that I have a clear head in between to get some real work done. Not that that work isn’t highly important, but it doesn’t pay the bills. I’d need to move out to California for that to happen! Ah yes, that’s it! I was going to let you know that I’ve decided on taking a cross-country trip out to California.

After being inspired while playing through GTA V recently, I decided I wanted to fully immerse myself in the real thing. Only why not journey to California using The Mother Road herself? Why not see what Americana has to offer? I look forward to stopping at all the major attractions and everything in between. I anticipate meeting some more friends from the cities to the ghost towns I visit. Perhaps there’ll be some fellow lone-wandering TRUTH seekers along the way? Not to worry though! I’ll keep you updated as I go so you feel like you’re part of it too. I’ll be leaving later next month, so excuse me. I need to get back to my planning. See you again next week, friend.-IX

 

 

 

VI.

Hello, friend. Hey, looking good! Have you lost some weight? I’m working hard at losing some weight myself. College-aged me would kick the shit out of me right now, quite literally. My son is only four years old, and I refuse to stay in the class of “Dad Bod” any longer. I’ll have plenty of time for that later. Speaking of time, the time has sure flown on by since our last correspondence. How have you been? Yeah, I’m doing pretty well. Still hard at work on planning out my road trip.

 Speaking of trips – I’ve been thinking a lot about my last trip. Man, what a fucking trip that was. Shit. I was up in the mountains at a music festival, and I was floating above everyone. The colors and sounds were so beautiful. Walking through the ski lodge, everything came to life. All the posters, signs, and people. Damn. The posters became animated with snowboarders and skiers leaping right off of the page. The signs all became 3-D neon fixtures as though I was walking along the Vegas strip. And the people. Man, the people. Well, they became almost caricatures of themselves. With whatever emotion they were exasperating became ultra-evident engaging with them. It was an almost Reptilian experience. Or at least what I would imagine one to be. It was all great until we had to cross the road to get to our car. Fuck, that’s where it all went wrong. Suddenly this rural road became a real-life version of Frogger. And the same caricature-like appearances the people had, the cars, trucks, and SUV’s received the same treatment. As I was making my way across the road, my legs began sinking in the asphalt, naturally. Add this with those grills that look like they’re smiling at you, and when fear factors in, suddenly these smiles turn into evil grins as they speed up trying to FUCKING TAKE YOU OUT, like the frogger bitch that you are! Couple this with the drivers now violently yelling at you to the point of fire and steam coming out of their ears. That country road quickly became my trip to hell. I’m fairly certain Hitler passed me.

Well, thank the universe that we’re not stuck in some Groundhog Day version of our lives. Unless of course, you’re stuck in some bad acid trip??? I’ve had a few close calls myself, damn. Shit man, I can’t imagine how fucked up my life would be if I hadn’t crawled back out of the rabbit hole on that last one. IX-tip – you only need one strip if they’re double-dipped. And don’t be one of only a few people tripping out of your mind at a cocaine and alcohol-fueled festival. It’s just not gonna end well – for anyone. See you in seven. –IX

 

V.

Fuck, fuck, fuuuck! Where is it!?!? Shiiit, fuck me, man. Where the fuck is it??? How could have I lost it? Damnit, man. Fuck it. Sorry, friend. You caught me at an awkward moment. Apologies. I’ll come back to that later. Well, how are you? Better than me I hope. I thought I’d written down an idea that just came to me in a dream, but it’s nowhere to be found. Fuck…

Still sticking to your diet I see? Great. You’ll need to from hanging around me with all the excess of drugs, sex, and rock n roll we’ll be partaking in. Some of which you’ve already gotten a taste of. Now that your taste buds are becoming acclimated to my way of life, let’s dive a little deeper.

Since reminiscing about that trip in the mountains, I figured I’d preface you a bit more to the scene that I left you with. It would’ve been easier for me to check the boxes of which drugs I wasn’t on than what I was on. Beer, liquor, coke, weed, shrooms, LSD, nicotine, caffeine, some more beer, and some unknown substance that the one hippie chick who “booped” me (poking one’s nose whilst saying “Boop”), and made out with me whilst transferring the unknown substance orally. She gave me one hell of a smile as she walked back to her group of friends including who I presumed to be her boyfriend, or if lucky enough, her husband. I think it was the additional brews at that point which put me over. But don’t worry, I wasn’t “tripping balls” per se. Oh no, my friend. Again, that would be an understatement. No, I was soaring so high that my balls, as big as they are, would most certainly have not gotten in the way. Suddenly I realized that the blinking red lights near tall structures and mountains were intended for me. Alright, yeah, there was one point near nightfall where I had “come to” and realized I was mid-sentence and everyone was laughing by my storytelling but I had no idea what I was saying prior to that, or what I did for the last five hours for that matter. But judging from the large group of people all hoarding around me, it must’ve been a great story. After regaining my wits, at least partially, and after losing another significant amount of time, I recall being startled by a fire-breathing beetle. Thank the universe it didn’t see me behind my invisible cloak of drugs, because it was at that moment I began wishing the trip would either end or that I would obtain some sort of a weapon that could’ve destroyed the magnificently beautiful bastard before it would inevitably end up massacring all of the festival-goers. And it was at this moment that things all fell apart for me. I began to wonder if I’d just entered into a trip that was never going to end or if I should simply be searching for the book from Beetlejuice of the recently deceased. Right after killing the fucker, I began to wonder something even worse – what if I was stuck between both worlds…???

 

IV.

Now that I’’ve reached thirty, it would seem as though my thoughts are much too, much too dirty for that of the mind of a child and far too, far too wild, while I sit here typing away wondering aloud as to what thoughts to them what will they, what will they say about the one who’s refused to grow up past the age of a child and is much too, much too wild.

In the name of everything that is holy…hot damn…what a night. I uh, I must’ve blacked out again. My rooms are completely reorganized, I have 24 unread messages who from after some slight research I’ve discovered are ladies of the night, and my manscaping is even tighter than your mother’s pussy : ) Anywho, how are you, friend? Looking good, looking good.

I need to process last night a bit more. Shit, man. What the hell happened??? I should purchase one of those home security systems. Not because I suspect that I’ll ever be robbed. I’ve got my guitars for that sort of shit. No. This would be so I could watch back my actions whilst under the influence of whatever substance was the flavor of the week. It’s much like spinning the wheel on Wheel of Fortune, only you’re tasked with doing whatever drug mentioned and whatever amount you roll with the dice I stole from my son’s board game. For some, you might just make it through the night. If you’re like me and are skilled at Wheel of Fortune, well you’ll be in for a rough day or two. Buckle up, friend. It’s going to be one hell of a ride. Now, back to retracing my steps last evening. The last thing I remember is getting into an argument with the strange-looking guy in the corner of my room. He kept on threatening me with his survival knife and yelling obscenities in a manner in which I’d never heard before. Bastard never even introduced himself. Funny though, I don’t remember letting anybody in…???

 

 III.

Man – what an exciting time to be alive! With so many fucked up people nowadays, it’s hard to imagine what the world will look like in fifty, hell even ten years from now. For better or worse, this country is headed in an irreversible direction. If the generation before thought it was headed in the gutter, then my friend, we’ re in the fucking sewers at this point. So best watch your step. This is Killer Croc territory, after all.

I’ve been away from comics for a while since selling off my collection to buy drugs and alcohol (a reasonable decision at the time). I thought about making my own as a way to dive back into the world I miss so dearly. Would you like to hear some of the concepts? Alright, cool. I have this idea for eight different strips if you will. Each one carrying its own unique taste. I’ve written about each of these before, but I’ve yet to follow-up on where I’ve left off. Each one will be written based on the essential categories of learning, which I’ve established at age twenty-four. They are as follows: DPD/MEN – SCI/MAT – PHI/PSY – REL/SPI – HIS/FUT – BUS/POL – ART/MUS – CRE/WRI – IX. I’ll get into these later, but as you can see, ironically I foreshadowed my own prophecy. This is the second coming, after all, folks, and nice guys do finish last.

I’ve accumulated some OT on my upcoming paycheck. I’m currently deliberating amongst the group whether we should head to a strip club before or during my road trip??? They say that patience is a virtue, and I’m looking to see it through. The old me would’ve blown all the additional funds in the strip club. The “NEW” me, is patient enough to wait until Vegas and really get into some strange times! It looks like I’m taking this strange-looking guy with me too. Bastard still never introduced himself though…

 

II.

[CBPD voicemail]

Sir, you need to mow and pull your weeds at once. We allow six inches for both. It’s called the six-inch rule. Your grass is nearly a foot high and your weeds are nearly 6 feet tall and we believe may have just swallowed your neighbor’s small dog whole. Some of your neighbors reported that they believe you are growing mutated pot plants in your front lawn. We just mailed the citation out to you. Please don’t bother calling back.

I figured it was something important, it sounded urgent. And I still don’t get my mail, so the voicemail acted as a form of a telegram letting me know I needed to at least inquire about it. It’s nice to know though that as long as I keep them under six inches I could be growing pot plants in my front lawn like they all assumed anyway. I recognized her voice. She was a larger woman, a redhead. She had visited my home for police calls before, ironically also involving a dog.  But it wasn’t her fault. They don’t have mailboxes out here in Cornwall, I can’t imagine they’d allow Redbox’s either. I was in the need of watching a film in the background as I attempted to sort out what was going on. YouTube it was. I had purchased Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas but had yet to watch it yet. This would be an important source material for the adventure I was about to partake in. After all, I was headed to Vegas and was planning to get weird. Or perhaps the weird would get me???

Weird had a way of finding me. Perhaps that’s because all letters can be found in my name? We lived together as one. There was a feeling of inseparability like that in which you would find with twins who do everything together. They develop an almost telepathic vibe to where you can see, feel, taste, and even smell what the other is doing. The latter is perhaps the weirdest of all because you begin to realize that life and death smell the same, we just give them different names.

 

I.

190907

It’s 12 AM and I’ve only just begun my day. I just tuned in to 580 AM, where the conservative talk show hosts live. I’d almost rather wake them up and hear what gibberish they’d have to say in their Ambien-like state would have to say. It’d likely speak for itself. And perhaps we’d get a little more truth out of ‘em. But this, what the ACTUAL fuck…they’re talking about fucking vampires, man. No, not like some sexy porn flick. This is much dirtier and grimier than that. I’ve just poured my first beer of the day, and I’m in no way drunk enough for this shit. People are calling in and saying they’ve been around for centuries. They’re calling in to say they wish they had a normal life like the rest of us. They’re calling out the fakes, and those giving a bad name to the REAL vampires of the world, notably American Vampires in particular. They wish they didn’t have to drink the blood of their victims, although many sacrificed themselves, so they could FEAL the power. There seemed to be a certain fetish among the victims, that they enjoyed having their neck bitten into and having the blood sucked out of them. But as far as I could tell, these were middle-aged white males phoning in, and the calls were a bit noisy. It was as if the reception in their Mom’s basement was giving out, but what was I to expect at 12 AM. This was the same channel who hosted conservative talk show hosts, after all.

190908

You want to talk about some real investigative journalism – try re-tracking my steps from a Saturday night. What a ride! It appears I had been pulled over. It wasn’t Jesus who grabbed the while, or I’d be pretty fucked. No, instead it was the Unknown Bastard. And thank God for that. The last I remembered was that I was trying to wave on the officer forward. I saw the guy he was really after, and he’d just turned the corner, and would soon be out of reach. He’ll think he’s safe, I thought. A little bait and switch action. Much like my Tinder date from Friday. But I was far too horny to give a damn. But as it turned out, the officer had found his man. The Unknown Bastard took off in some sort of UFO and left me to battle my own demons like he always does. Perhaps I’d get the MIB treatment. This had already been a rough weekend, so I was braced for the truly unknown to happen.

Judging from the last two entries in my journal, I knew I was in for one hell of a trip. I was all packed and ready to go. But something told me I wasn’t quite ready for what was waiting for me around the corner. This would be life-changing, I thought. And not the kind where you wake up in a holding cell, wondering who the strange, repugnant man resting on your shoulder was. No. But the kind where you wake up in St. Peter’s waiting area with all the latest magazines (not those outdated over overrated ones in your Doctors’ office), wondering if you’d be sent through the gates of heaven, shackled, and shuffled towards the gates of hell, or sent shockingly back to earth with no explanation of how you got there or if you’d ever be back to that particular moment in time. You begin to realize that you begin to fear life more than death. For death is merely predictable, but there’s really no telling what your life will be like. Especially after a trip such as this…and what a strange trip it would be.

.nulla

Well, my curse has struck me again. Or whatever it is that you wanna call it…You see, I have a problem. Shit, again that’s an understatement. I’ve got plenty of problems. But at least I’m able to write this. At least you’re able to read this. So it ain’t all that bad, I suppose. Speaking of online dating in my last message to ya’ll, I blew a first date tonight. No, not in some gay kinda way. But blew as in, I didn’t’t even get the chance to make a damn fool outta myself. I pre-gamed too hard and far too early. A tell-tale sign of an alcoholic. A functioning one, so give me some credit, at least. I’ve developed a two glass system even. I drink one up while the other has a chance to settle the foam. I’m a big fan of IPA’s (as stated before). And since a local gas station chain right up the road has opened up their beer cave, converting from their soda cave, I couldn’t’t be happier. $8.49 for a chance to alter my state of mind, count me the fuck in. I only drink on the weekend anymore, so maybe I don’t fall under the categorization of alcoholic any longer. But, I still think like one, and I don’t know if there’s any getting rid of that, my friend.

Speaking of, how you been? Another sign of an alcoholic. I’ve been too wrapped up in my own god damn shit to notice. I apologize, just like I did to my date tonight. I told her I had a medical issue come up. And well, at least I wasn’t lying. It does seem to be a bit of an issue. One that always lands me back here. I mean, who else am I going to talk to at 11:50 PM on a Saturday night? I almost wrote down Friday night. Shit, I don’t even remember what I did last night. I reckon it was more of the same as what I’m about to get into tonight. That said, I’m a let you go, and get back to it.

Oh, and I just got back from that road trip I was telling you about. I’m not even quite sure how it’s going to be categorized at this point. The truth I’ve told so far hasn’t been believed. FAKE NEWS, they’ll call it! But I promise you, it’s not. It’s often said that truth is stranger than fiction, and my entire life up til now has proven this hand over fist. and time after time again. What I am sure of is that I did my very best Gonzo-journalistic approach to getting the story. You see, the story was already there. I’m just the messenger, so please, don’t fucking shoot me. Not like I’d even flinch…

I’m a father, musician, artist, writer, photographer, model, and storyteller – among other things. I graduated from Central Columbia High School in 2006, and from Pennsylvania College of Technology in 2008. I’ve worked primarily as a CAD Design Technician since graduating, holding a couple of odd-jobs in-between employment in my field of study. I’ve lived in just about every region of Pennsylvania, having grown up in Berwick, my secondary education held in Williamsport, and then moving for work back to Williamsport, then to Jersey Shore, to Lebanon, and finally to Cornwall, where I live in my home with my son, part-time.

V1.1

www.jpweidemoyer.com

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