I don’t want to get up today. I want to go back to sleep. It’s got to be after noon already, but I don’t care. I check my phone for the time. It’s only 9:00. I try to go back to sleep until six in the evening, but my mind’s not having any of it. I keep thinking about everything I left behind. There was so much potential for a good life back home. Sure, I hated my job, which left me unhappy with my lot, but I was starting to agree with the idea of hating my eight hours of the day if it meant getting to sleep for the remaining sixteen hours. There was so much potential for me back home. Then I realized there is just as much potential for me in California. Sure, it’s only potential. But that’s all I had back home too. Nothing was set in stone--just a bunch of possibility. The same things that could work out there could also work out here.
Eventually, I secede and get out of bed. It’s now 9:20. The first thing I notice is how bad my feet and legs hurt. It wouldn’t have anything to do with the unexpected sandaled walking tour of L.A. I took last night, would it?
Climbing down the stairs out of my top bunk almost proved fatal when one of the rungs started spinning wildly like a dervish when I stepped on it. This is probably my roommates’ doing. Speaking of which, still no roommate. Good. It can stay that way.
Well, since I’m up, and I already hate California, and I haven’t even been here a full day yet, I decided to do something rash and unexpected. I tried optimism. I’m here now, I need to try and make the best of it, because I can’t go home already. “Give it at least a week before throwing in the towel, ya jackass,” I kept telling myself.
Not quite knowing how to handle an optimistic attitude, as I’m a cynic by nature and a pessimist at heart, I pulled out my computer and checked WebMD for what to do with optimism. Yielding no result, I started looking for other places to live, because living la vida hostel is not going to work for too long. After perusing the fruits of Craigslist, I looked up a few apartment renters that needed roommates and inquired more about them. I talked to some Russian girl on the phone about one, and would check the place out later tonight. Before noon, I had three places to look at over the next three days. Hooray! Leads! Yay, optimism!
I should also mention, while optimistically looking for apartments, I optimistically did a search for comic book stores in the Los Angeles area. I found a shop up on Sunset Boulevard. As it would seem, the apartment I was going to look at later in the evening was right up near Sunset too, and since Invincible Iron Man #4 came out yesterday, it would serve me well to go check out this apartment during the day so I don’t get lost at night when street signs would be hard to read. Although scared to drive, I knew this was something I had to do, so I hopped in the Cougar and we went exploring.
The drive to Sunset took forever. There were so many cars out and roads in Los Angeles weren’t built for motor vehicles to reach an optimal performance level, so there is a lot of stopping and waiting for other motorists to make left turns. But I don’t want to go into too much driving detail right now, as the upcoming California Driving Edition of Chicken Shits is coming. So sit on your socks for the time being.
Arriving at the comic store, I climbed out of the passenger’s side door because I got tired of waiting for cars to stop whizzing past me on the driver’s side. I don’t recall what the comic book store was called, so we’ll just say it was the Biggest Suck of a Comic Book Store That Ever Did Suck, because what they had was disappointing. Again, I won’t go into detail about the comic store itself, because no one really cares to read about it, not even me. And no, there will not be a Comic Book Store Edition of Chicken Shits for the already addressed reasons. But I will say it knocked my optimism down a peg. Defeated, I left the comic book store without buying the new Iron Man.
After driving around for two hours, I arrived back at the hostel. Why two hours did it take me to get back? Well, because I wrote down directions to get to the comic book store, but not to get back. After all, I’ve been in Los Angeles for approximately 23 hours at this point—of course I know my way around by now. Turns out the way back was different than the way there. Couple that with my absolute lack of navigational skills (North is whatever way I’m facing at the time), and it resulted in getting completely and utterly lost. Parking in the first open spot I found, approximately three blocks away from the hostel, I trudged back to my room. My optimism level was taking a beating the likes of which won’t be seen until Dallas is on his third or fourth marriage, or, in other words, it was skirting somewhere around my shins at this point. Worried I would run out of optimism, I decided not to leave my room until later that night.
Later that night came, and I had to leave my hostel room to look at potential apartment space. I called the Russian who I was to meet. If memory serves me correctly, her name was Anna, but she sounded more like an Olga. It was agreed I would call again when I got there so she could let me in to the complex. Leaving ample time for traffic and getting lost, I headed out to Sunset Boulevard again, this time with directions on how to get back.
Although time consuming, the ride went smoothly. I found the apartment, dialed Olga’s number, and got her voicemail. I left a message informing her I was there. I waited a little bit longer for her to call back—nothing. Being optimistic, I assumed maybe she was out of the room or taking English classes, and that she would call back as soon as she got the chance. Rather than stray too far away from the apartment, and needing to find a place to park, and having not eaten since last night’s Carl’s Jr., I went to the In-N-Out Burger down the block.
Ah, the In-N-Out Burger. Nothing says California quite like it. I’ve wanted to see an In-N-Out Burger since 8th grade, when a kid in my science class wore a tee shirt advertising the joint every three days. But it was Donny wanting to eat there so badly in The Big Lebowski that really pined me to for its fast food splendor. But before I got inside, a black man with a perm, cowboy hat, and sunglasses slapped a CD in my hand and started rapping at me for a good solid two minutes. Not understanding a damn thing he said, I’d occasionally smile and nod my head to make him think I was enjoying his freestyle performance, which I actually sort of did. Eventually, he stopped, and I complimented him. Then he started laughing and dancing around. I faked a laugh and started dancing around too—this time to amuse myself. Eventually, we both calmed down. He tried to convince me my car was dope. I told him that was whack—my car is fifteen years old and has rust damage. In response, he said it’s probably got some power underneath the hood. To that, I was not sure, but it did remind me I needed to check the oil. Pleasantries out of the way, we started talking shop. He wanted to know how much the CD of his rapping was worth to me. I said I was new in town and didn’t have a lot of cash on me. He said, “I’ll take whatever you think it’s worth to you.”
“I’ve got three dollars on me,” I said in response.
“Whatever it’s worth to you,” he reiterated.
I handed him three United States of America dollars and he let me keep the CD already in my hand. After that, he took off and started rapping at other people, which was really what I was trying to accomplish in the first place. To this day, I still have that CD. But don’t be surprised if someone gets it for a Christmas present this year.
But back to In-N-Out Burger, I’ve got to tell you, I like what they preach. I go in. I come out. I even get a burger. Simple. They tell me right up front I can leave. They don’t specify a time limit, so I can loiter all day if I want to, or I can leave as soon as I come in the door. Do I get that same guarantee from McDonald’s and the “I’m Lovin’ It,” campaign? I don’t care who this ominous person is that is lovin’ it so, but that doesn’t mean I’ll love it. I also don’t like Burger King’s “Have It Your Way,” spiel. It’s too commanding, too militant. What if I want to have it someone else’s way? Can I? And Wendy’s—the less said about you, the better. But more to the point, In-N-Out Burger did not disappoint. They made a tasty burger. Their fries were a little too soggy and lacking in delicousnessity, but I’ll forgive them. Even if I can’t cut it in California, at least I’ll be able to say I’ve eaten at an In-N-Out Burger—optimism level rising.
While eating and keeping an eye on my car to make sure my side mirrors weren’t being stolen, I got a call from Olga. She said her name was Anna and that I was to meet with her this evening to look at the apartment. I said I had called not even twenty minutes earlier and had gotten no answer. She apologized, said for me to finish my meal, and then come up. I’d planned on it.
Leaving the Cougar parked at In-N-Out Burger, I snuck past my freestyle rapper friend who probably sold me a blank CD, and went to the apartment complex. I punched in the code at the entrance Olga told me to (*36), and went up to view the apartment. Oh boy. Olga waited at the door, introduced herself again as Anna, and we shook hands. But trust me, she was definitely an Olga. For that matter, so was the apartment. It looked like a cat’s vomit had died there. The kitchen was a mess, as was the living room, where I would be sleeping, and the bathroom. I didn’t see Olga’s room, which for all I know could have been immaculate (that’s optimism speaking). It was also about 90 degrees Fahrenheit inside. Olga herself was very rude and not a pleasant person to be around at all. This was clearly not going to work out. We said our goodbyes (Olga said hers rather surly, as is her way), I promised I would call her one way or the other (I didn’t), and made my way back to the Cougar, still parked at In-N-Out Burger, fortunately. With all her power under the hood, we made it back to the hostel.
My optimism was just about shot at this point. I’m still without a roommate. But come tomorrow, I have to move to another room in the hostel, so I’m sure there’s one waiting for me there. All optimism depleted.
I called my friend Ben, a fellow I graduated college with who had moved out to California a year ago with similar pursuits and ambitions as myself. Maybe I sounded a little defeated on the phone, or maybe Ben was just speaking from experience, but he picked up somehow that I was in a bit of distress. He said it’s a tough town at first, but in no time at all, I would be zipping around here like a water bug. With my optimism reserves on E, I decided just to take his word for it. We agreed to meet up some time this upcoming weekend, and to hang in there until then. I’ll be glad I did.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Immigrant Song
War Journal Entry: 000003
Jean, NV to Los Angeles, CA
Distance: 270 miles
This morning I woke up with a start. After shoving the covers off, I saw that not one, but both of my kidneys had been taken. Since both are vital to living, I started to panic. I had dead-bolted the door the night before and put out the “Do Not Disturb/No Moleste” sign on the handle so as to not be disturbed/ not moleste’d. How could this of happened? My kidneys didn’t just get up and walk off, because that’s just silly, plus my kidneys aren’t known for their needlepoint work, and my stitch up looked like the work of a professional. It was at that point I realized it wasn’t my kidneys that were missing—it was the dead stripper in my bed’s kidneys that were missing. Whew, what a relief. By the looks of it, this stripper had been dead quite some time. Then again, she was a Las Vegas stripper. She might’ve only died an hour or two previous and still looked that decayed. How did I not notice that last night? I must’ve been too tired from the drive to realize she was stuck between my sheet and comforter. But now is no time to ponder. I have open road ahead of me. Tally-ho!
At the checkout counter, I looked over at the same row of slot machines where I saw the old woman last night. Lo and behold, she was still there. Same spot. Same routine. A man that worked at the casino stopped by and addressed her by name. She rudely responded back to him and she went back to her business. In turn, he went about his business as a Casino Walker Arounder.
On my way through the sliding doors, I heard other people complaining about strippers left in their bed. Apparently, the Golden Strike Casino and Hotel leaves dead strippers on your bed the same way other hotels leave complimentary mints.
Walking outside, I realized how hot Nevada gets. As someone who has tried to avoid sunlight for the past twelve years, this hit me hard. I considered going back into the hotel and waiting for night to fall before continuing on, but then I’d be late for my date with California. Tally-ho!
Back on the road, I saw more of the Nevada Desert. Given the heat and lack of shade anywhere, it wouldn’t take long for this flower to a wilt if he were ever to be dragged out there like Clint Eastwood was in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. It’s hard to imagine how anything survives out there. Small shrubberies dot the landscape, but no cacti, which was somewhat disappointing. My lifelong dream has been to draw water from a cactus, and unfortunately, it will have to remain a dream.
Before entering California, the Cougar and I had to battle up hills again. But on the other side—lay the California Border Patrol. They weren’t looking for illegal workers (they have plenty already) or drugs (again, plenty). Instead, they confiscated any fruits or plants that were not indigenous to California. Having seen the episode of the Simpsons where Bart introduces an American bullfrog to Australia’s ecosystem, I can see why they would want to keep people from bringing in foreign objects. Fortunately, I left my snake plant back in Iowa with Grandma for safekeeping, and since my body has adapted to eating only unhealthy foods, therefore never do I have fruits on my person, I was allowed through. Finally, I’d made it to California—the Godless Sodomite State.
Continuing on, the further into California I got, the more congested traffic became. Eventually, the freeway resembled gridlock at 70 miles per hour. It was car-to-car front to back, side to side. And there was the occasional motor scooter that would drive between cars down the dividing line. I don’t want to delve too much into California traffic at this time, because I’ve decided to dedicate a future blog to just that topic. It is deserving of in-depth analysis. All the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in California are true.
After missing an exit and finding my way off the freeway, back on, and then off again, I arrived at the hostel I would be staying at for the foreseeable future. My key was waiting in an envelope outside. The people that run the place left early for the day and I was to see myself in. Doing just that, I carried my bags inside to my dorm style-living space, consisting of a bunk bed, two desks, and two footlockers. I had arrived—back in college, apparently.
And that’s when I started feeling depressed. I was a stranger in a strange land, who had left my rote, mundane, boring job (albeit stable) and awesome apartment, not to mention friends and family, to drive across the country where in our current economic woes, no job was certain, the place I was staying could very well house any kind of Los Angeles reprobate imaginable, and no one would be able to bail me out. I was on my own, really truly on my own, for the first time.
I lay down on the top bunk (I may have felt miserable at the moment, but was still thinking clear enough to snatch that up before my mystery roommate showed up), trying to comprehend this chaos I’d thrown myself into. No answers came to me, so I started wondering how long it would take for my new living situation to turn into a prison movie. After running some figures, I determined it would be within 24 minutes of meeting my roommate, so I decided it would be wise to get off my duff and explore my new stomping grounds. Besides, a little exercise might get me out of my funk.
Wrong. Walking around the streets of L.A. lowered my spirits even more. First, it was still way too hot out. Second, other than knowing I wasn’t in Compton or Inglewood, I didn’t know what part of town I was in, and lastly, everywhere I went, people were speaking a fast language I associate with meat packing plants. I was ham sandwiched very much in a largely Hispanic community. In and of itself, this did not bother me. But drawing from my earlier fears of alienation, I became more aware of how alone I was. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Or maybe a powdered sugar donut mixed in with the cinnamon ones. I don’t know. Create your own damn simile to describe how white I am. The people were foreign, the language was foreign, and business signs and advertisements were foreign. Even buildings are built different. They don’t have that old fail-safe Morton Building look. Gone were cedar and oak trees. In their stead were palms. No, they were native. I was foreign. Stranger. Strange land.
I sympathize with anyone that is not of WASP descent in the Midwest. Walking into a classroom or workplace with nothing but Whitey staring back at you can be intimidating. Now here I am, Whitey, getting stared back at. It’s scary! Now I’m wanting not just my friends and family, but also for people like me. If there had been an English speaking person there at the time, I’d have immediately run up to them and become their best friend.
Returning back to my hostel, I crawled back into my room—still no roommate. Good. I don’t need prison loved right now. But I do have to meet with someone about a more permanent living situation. So I have to hop in my hooptie and dredge through L.A. traffic again. Fuck.
Traffic was busy and took about 30 minutes to drive five miles. The place I looked at was a shanty, at best. If I got the place, my “room” would be the living room. There would be little to no privacy, and if I needed to use the bathroom, I’d have to walk through one of the other roommates’ rooms. Whatever. This is what I was expecting. This was what I was getting. To it’s credit, the house was close to Dodger’s Stadium, though.
After another half hour in traffic, I returned to my hostel. Still no roommate. He must be waiting to show up late at night and get me when most vulnerable—while I sleep. Well, I’ve got news for you, future roommate: like Jean Claude Van Damme after doing too much cocaine, I sleep with my eyes open. You won’t get the jump on me. Unless my new roommate is a coked out Jean Claude Van Damme. Then I’m screwed.
Having not eaten all day, and not aware of where the nearest grocery store or Wendy’s was, I settled on a Carl’s Jr. eating establishment for sustenance. For the Midwesterner not in the know, Carl’s Jr. is what they call Hardees in the rest of the United States. Breaking through the language barrier by talking louder and slower, I eventually got my cheeseburger, ate, and proceeded to get lost walking around for the next two hours after dark in who knows what kind of neighborhood. Finally, I found my hostel again. If my roommate tried anything when I got in the room, I was prepared to throat punch him. Lucky for him he’d yet to show. I was ready to call it quits already. I went to bed wondering if I could brave the freeway again to make my way back to Iowa. Los Angeles sucks.
Jean, NV to Los Angeles, CA
Distance: 270 miles
This morning I woke up with a start. After shoving the covers off, I saw that not one, but both of my kidneys had been taken. Since both are vital to living, I started to panic. I had dead-bolted the door the night before and put out the “Do Not Disturb/No Moleste” sign on the handle so as to not be disturbed/ not moleste’d. How could this of happened? My kidneys didn’t just get up and walk off, because that’s just silly, plus my kidneys aren’t known for their needlepoint work, and my stitch up looked like the work of a professional. It was at that point I realized it wasn’t my kidneys that were missing—it was the dead stripper in my bed’s kidneys that were missing. Whew, what a relief. By the looks of it, this stripper had been dead quite some time. Then again, she was a Las Vegas stripper. She might’ve only died an hour or two previous and still looked that decayed. How did I not notice that last night? I must’ve been too tired from the drive to realize she was stuck between my sheet and comforter. But now is no time to ponder. I have open road ahead of me. Tally-ho!
At the checkout counter, I looked over at the same row of slot machines where I saw the old woman last night. Lo and behold, she was still there. Same spot. Same routine. A man that worked at the casino stopped by and addressed her by name. She rudely responded back to him and she went back to her business. In turn, he went about his business as a Casino Walker Arounder.
On my way through the sliding doors, I heard other people complaining about strippers left in their bed. Apparently, the Golden Strike Casino and Hotel leaves dead strippers on your bed the same way other hotels leave complimentary mints.
Walking outside, I realized how hot Nevada gets. As someone who has tried to avoid sunlight for the past twelve years, this hit me hard. I considered going back into the hotel and waiting for night to fall before continuing on, but then I’d be late for my date with California. Tally-ho!
Back on the road, I saw more of the Nevada Desert. Given the heat and lack of shade anywhere, it wouldn’t take long for this flower to a wilt if he were ever to be dragged out there like Clint Eastwood was in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. It’s hard to imagine how anything survives out there. Small shrubberies dot the landscape, but no cacti, which was somewhat disappointing. My lifelong dream has been to draw water from a cactus, and unfortunately, it will have to remain a dream.
Before entering California, the Cougar and I had to battle up hills again. But on the other side—lay the California Border Patrol. They weren’t looking for illegal workers (they have plenty already) or drugs (again, plenty). Instead, they confiscated any fruits or plants that were not indigenous to California. Having seen the episode of the Simpsons where Bart introduces an American bullfrog to Australia’s ecosystem, I can see why they would want to keep people from bringing in foreign objects. Fortunately, I left my snake plant back in Iowa with Grandma for safekeeping, and since my body has adapted to eating only unhealthy foods, therefore never do I have fruits on my person, I was allowed through. Finally, I’d made it to California—the Godless Sodomite State.
Continuing on, the further into California I got, the more congested traffic became. Eventually, the freeway resembled gridlock at 70 miles per hour. It was car-to-car front to back, side to side. And there was the occasional motor scooter that would drive between cars down the dividing line. I don’t want to delve too much into California traffic at this time, because I’ve decided to dedicate a future blog to just that topic. It is deserving of in-depth analysis. All the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in California are true.
After missing an exit and finding my way off the freeway, back on, and then off again, I arrived at the hostel I would be staying at for the foreseeable future. My key was waiting in an envelope outside. The people that run the place left early for the day and I was to see myself in. Doing just that, I carried my bags inside to my dorm style-living space, consisting of a bunk bed, two desks, and two footlockers. I had arrived—back in college, apparently.
And that’s when I started feeling depressed. I was a stranger in a strange land, who had left my rote, mundane, boring job (albeit stable) and awesome apartment, not to mention friends and family, to drive across the country where in our current economic woes, no job was certain, the place I was staying could very well house any kind of Los Angeles reprobate imaginable, and no one would be able to bail me out. I was on my own, really truly on my own, for the first time.
I lay down on the top bunk (I may have felt miserable at the moment, but was still thinking clear enough to snatch that up before my mystery roommate showed up), trying to comprehend this chaos I’d thrown myself into. No answers came to me, so I started wondering how long it would take for my new living situation to turn into a prison movie. After running some figures, I determined it would be within 24 minutes of meeting my roommate, so I decided it would be wise to get off my duff and explore my new stomping grounds. Besides, a little exercise might get me out of my funk.
Wrong. Walking around the streets of L.A. lowered my spirits even more. First, it was still way too hot out. Second, other than knowing I wasn’t in Compton or Inglewood, I didn’t know what part of town I was in, and lastly, everywhere I went, people were speaking a fast language I associate with meat packing plants. I was ham sandwiched very much in a largely Hispanic community. In and of itself, this did not bother me. But drawing from my earlier fears of alienation, I became more aware of how alone I was. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Or maybe a powdered sugar donut mixed in with the cinnamon ones. I don’t know. Create your own damn simile to describe how white I am. The people were foreign, the language was foreign, and business signs and advertisements were foreign. Even buildings are built different. They don’t have that old fail-safe Morton Building look. Gone were cedar and oak trees. In their stead were palms. No, they were native. I was foreign. Stranger. Strange land.
I sympathize with anyone that is not of WASP descent in the Midwest. Walking into a classroom or workplace with nothing but Whitey staring back at you can be intimidating. Now here I am, Whitey, getting stared back at. It’s scary! Now I’m wanting not just my friends and family, but also for people like me. If there had been an English speaking person there at the time, I’d have immediately run up to them and become their best friend.
Returning back to my hostel, I crawled back into my room—still no roommate. Good. I don’t need prison loved right now. But I do have to meet with someone about a more permanent living situation. So I have to hop in my hooptie and dredge through L.A. traffic again. Fuck.
Traffic was busy and took about 30 minutes to drive five miles. The place I looked at was a shanty, at best. If I got the place, my “room” would be the living room. There would be little to no privacy, and if I needed to use the bathroom, I’d have to walk through one of the other roommates’ rooms. Whatever. This is what I was expecting. This was what I was getting. To it’s credit, the house was close to Dodger’s Stadium, though.
After another half hour in traffic, I returned to my hostel. Still no roommate. He must be waiting to show up late at night and get me when most vulnerable—while I sleep. Well, I’ve got news for you, future roommate: like Jean Claude Van Damme after doing too much cocaine, I sleep with my eyes open. You won’t get the jump on me. Unless my new roommate is a coked out Jean Claude Van Damme. Then I’m screwed.
Having not eaten all day, and not aware of where the nearest grocery store or Wendy’s was, I settled on a Carl’s Jr. eating establishment for sustenance. For the Midwesterner not in the know, Carl’s Jr. is what they call Hardees in the rest of the United States. Breaking through the language barrier by talking louder and slower, I eventually got my cheeseburger, ate, and proceeded to get lost walking around for the next two hours after dark in who knows what kind of neighborhood. Finally, I found my hostel again. If my roommate tried anything when I got in the room, I was prepared to throat punch him. Lucky for him he’d yet to show. I was ready to call it quits already. I went to bed wondering if I could brave the freeway again to make my way back to Iowa. Los Angeles sucks.
Friday, August 22, 2008
If a Blog Falls In the Woods, and Nobody’s Around, Does It Make a Sound? (Part 2 of 2)
Previously on Chicken Shits…
“What are we dealing with, Army Doctor?”
“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Army General. It’s almost like it’s—out of this world.”
“Have we located the nuke, Scientist?”
“We have, Mr. President.”
“And?”
“And we’ve traced them back to this base.”
“Dear God.”
“Bruce, you can’t fly. Nature never intended man to fly. Come back to bed.”
“They said the same thing about pigs, Shannon. They said the same thing about pigs.”
“This is your last chance McStevensen. What’s it gonna be?”
“Noooooooo!”
*BOOM*
Nevada, as far as I could tell in hour fourteen of my trip (switching time zones complicates things. And math is hard), has very little worth mentioning. I’m sure that is a generalization. There is the Nevada Desert that probably deserves a mention at the very least—and that I made tinkle there.
Obviously, Nevada’s big attraction is Las Vegas. But before reaching Vegas, there are a bunch of little towns with lots of bright lights serving as fake outs. Either that, or they are the appetizers you eat while waiting for the entrée.
On a hot summer’s night, before you can even see Las Vegas, you can smell the sin excreting from the city. From the direction I was driving (left), I climbed over a hill, and on the other side waited a sea of lights. I always pictured Las Vegas to be somewhat small—usually consisting of the strip which houses all the big name hotels you’ve seen in the moving picture shows, and little else. But, no—Las Vegas is a sprawling landscape that cuts through the night sky like a knife through warm person. I was relieved to see Vegas has been rebuilt to its former splendor after the horrible attack made on her by Mars in 1996.
My time in Vegas was brief. I meant to stop and pay for my trip through roulette and VIP Room stripteases, but along the way, there were billboards advertising acts like Carrot Top and Kenny G, so I didn’t bother stopping or rolling down my windows. And here I thought they’d cleaned up Vegas (bah dum bum). Seeing Vegas at night is recommended. It has it’s own manmade grace—it’s a symbol of excess, greed, and nonsense. It’s American. Oh, and Siegfried and Roy are there.
This evening’s peradventures ended at one of those fake out towns on the outskirts of Vegas called Jean, Nevada. It was there I hung up my driving gloves and scarf for the evening, and parked my flivver at the Gold Strike Hotel and Casino. While waiting to receive my room’s keycard, through the landscape of neon lights and one-armed bandits, I spotted a single old woman, probably in her late-sixties, playing a slot machine all alone. By the way it looked, she had been there at least as long as I had been in my car driving across the country. This woman, probably someone’s wife, probably someone’s mother and another’s grandmother, sat at her stool, plunking coin after coin into that one slot machine over and over and over again. The scene was just as hypnotic for me to watch as it was for her to partake in over and over and over again. There is no anecdote or funny story to share. Of course, one can derive a lesson from this tale, but that’s not my intention. It was just one of those moments in life that occasionally pops up that captivates you for a few minutes and the rest of the world stops while you witness the human condition in action.
The clerk got me my keycard and I hauled my luggage up to my fifth floor room. The room was the average hotel room, with one exception—there were two chairs in the corner that had leopard skin print on their upholstery. It looked like someone skinned a stripper and used her pelt to create this chair. To be fair to the state of Nevada, I’m sure the stripper died of natural causes (AIDS or a barstool to the back of the head) and since Nevadans don’t believe in wasting any part of the stripper, they used what parts of the stripper they could on chairs for hotels the state over and their metal hips on slot machines, while the rest was rendered into hot dogs.
After roughly sixteen hours on the road and almost 1,000 miles covered, I hit the bed and didn’t hear or think another thing until the next morning. That’s not entirely true. Immediately after flopping out on the bed, I thought to myself, “How clean do you suppose these sheets are, me?” But before I could overreact, I passed out.
“What are we dealing with, Army Doctor?”
“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Army General. It’s almost like it’s—out of this world.”
“Have we located the nuke, Scientist?”
“We have, Mr. President.”
“And?”
“And we’ve traced them back to this base.”
“Dear God.”
“Bruce, you can’t fly. Nature never intended man to fly. Come back to bed.”
“They said the same thing about pigs, Shannon. They said the same thing about pigs.”
“This is your last chance McStevensen. What’s it gonna be?”
“Noooooooo!”
*BOOM*
Nevada, as far as I could tell in hour fourteen of my trip (switching time zones complicates things. And math is hard), has very little worth mentioning. I’m sure that is a generalization. There is the Nevada Desert that probably deserves a mention at the very least—and that I made tinkle there.
Obviously, Nevada’s big attraction is Las Vegas. But before reaching Vegas, there are a bunch of little towns with lots of bright lights serving as fake outs. Either that, or they are the appetizers you eat while waiting for the entrée.
On a hot summer’s night, before you can even see Las Vegas, you can smell the sin excreting from the city. From the direction I was driving (left), I climbed over a hill, and on the other side waited a sea of lights. I always pictured Las Vegas to be somewhat small—usually consisting of the strip which houses all the big name hotels you’ve seen in the moving picture shows, and little else. But, no—Las Vegas is a sprawling landscape that cuts through the night sky like a knife through warm person. I was relieved to see Vegas has been rebuilt to its former splendor after the horrible attack made on her by Mars in 1996.
My time in Vegas was brief. I meant to stop and pay for my trip through roulette and VIP Room stripteases, but along the way, there were billboards advertising acts like Carrot Top and Kenny G, so I didn’t bother stopping or rolling down my windows. And here I thought they’d cleaned up Vegas (bah dum bum). Seeing Vegas at night is recommended. It has it’s own manmade grace—it’s a symbol of excess, greed, and nonsense. It’s American. Oh, and Siegfried and Roy are there.
This evening’s peradventures ended at one of those fake out towns on the outskirts of Vegas called Jean, Nevada. It was there I hung up my driving gloves and scarf for the evening, and parked my flivver at the Gold Strike Hotel and Casino. While waiting to receive my room’s keycard, through the landscape of neon lights and one-armed bandits, I spotted a single old woman, probably in her late-sixties, playing a slot machine all alone. By the way it looked, she had been there at least as long as I had been in my car driving across the country. This woman, probably someone’s wife, probably someone’s mother and another’s grandmother, sat at her stool, plunking coin after coin into that one slot machine over and over and over again. The scene was just as hypnotic for me to watch as it was for her to partake in over and over and over again. There is no anecdote or funny story to share. Of course, one can derive a lesson from this tale, but that’s not my intention. It was just one of those moments in life that occasionally pops up that captivates you for a few minutes and the rest of the world stops while you witness the human condition in action.
The clerk got me my keycard and I hauled my luggage up to my fifth floor room. The room was the average hotel room, with one exception—there were two chairs in the corner that had leopard skin print on their upholstery. It looked like someone skinned a stripper and used her pelt to create this chair. To be fair to the state of Nevada, I’m sure the stripper died of natural causes (AIDS or a barstool to the back of the head) and since Nevadans don’t believe in wasting any part of the stripper, they used what parts of the stripper they could on chairs for hotels the state over and their metal hips on slot machines, while the rest was rendered into hot dogs.
After roughly sixteen hours on the road and almost 1,000 miles covered, I hit the bed and didn’t hear or think another thing until the next morning. That’s not entirely true. Immediately after flopping out on the bed, I thought to myself, “How clean do you suppose these sheets are, me?” But before I could overreact, I passed out.
Monday, August 18, 2008
If a Blog Falls In the Woods, and Nobody’s Around, Does It Make a Sound? (Part 1 of 2)
War Journal Entry: 000002
Ogallala, NB to Jean, NV
Distance: 984 miles
There I was, just Potts and me, back to back, rifles to our sides, six feet underground. We can hear the planes dropping napalm all around us. Above the sounds of incendiary grenades and the raging inferno that is sweeping across the jungle, we can hear Charlie screaming from up in the trees. Lullabies to Potts and me. Just lullabies for us to fall asleep to…
Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there. I was just thinking how I’d rather be in the Shit in Vietnam than relive the shit known as Nebraska. But since I’m not stationed in Da Nang, and Potts never came home, and since I was in Ogallala, Nebraska, preparing for the second leg of my trip, I’d best just write about that.
While right then in China they were just putting their underage gymnasts to bed, I was just awakening for Day 2 of open highways and busy byways. After finishing my continental breakfast, reading the Wall Street Journal, checking my stock options, and writing a letter in Bengali longhand to the child I sponsor for thirty cents a day (I know, I know—I spoil him), I left the Super 8 Motel and met with another day of ass kicking and name taking.
Let’s just be clear: Nebraska is just as boring during the day as it is at night. It’s flat, brown, and devoid of anything resulting in happiness. But by the time one gets to Ogallala, there’s not much more Nebraska to be had. In little time, I was crossing into Colorado, the South Park state.
The Nebraska-Colorado border is an interesting one. As soon as you reach the sign that says, “Entering Colorful Colorado,” it’s like someone flipped a switch. Gone are the Dust Bowl colors and in their place is a lush, vivid landscape with sights and attractions. Even the air isn’t as sad. Colorful Colorado indeed! It’s like a rainbow took a huge dump and some passerby, most likely Kane from Kung Fu, named the fecal matter Colorado. I can’t stress enough how much change there is simply by crossing that imaginary Nebraska-Colorado line, but think about the first time Dorothy steps out of her home in Kansas and finds herself in Oz. It’s kind of like that. I’d also like to state that I hate, hate, hate the Wizard of Oz, and a little part of me died by using that analogy. Remember, I did it for you, people.
But Colorado—it starts out with green prairies and pastures, which eventually transform into rolling hills teeming with vibrant color, and then transform into a giant mountain chain. They’re called the Rocky Mountains—perhaps you’ve heard of them. They’re named after a baseball team. It’s really something to be driving along a ledge where on your right you can see the top of a tree that is probably over one hundred feet tall. I also think I saw Tom Cruise’s Colorado home, the one most recently featured on Oprah, but can’t be for certain because it was far away and I didn’t bring my crazy binoculars with me to confirm it.
One thing I learned while driving through the Rockies is that certain vehicles don’t like high altitudes. Those vehicles are semi trucks and my car. While other vehicles--Pintos, Gremlins, assorted SUVs and the like--are passing me at 70 mph no problem. I’m jamming on the accelerator just to get my car to perform at 40 mph. But I more than made up for it on the way back down the mountains. My car was careening around corners and down straight-aways at 80 mph with my foot on the brake. It’s at that point you realize you are encased in a guided bullet. The only thing preventing your rag doll body from launching off the side of a mountain is your steering wheel and a not-high-enough guardrail. Pray both hold up.
After climbing and winding my way through the mountains, and just when I thought I’d seen all the Rockies had to offer, they threw another surprise at me. The rocky cliff sides you’ve grown accustomed to for the past hundred-some miles change into these red-like ziggurats that climb into the sky. They almost look foreign, like some tycoon flew them in from South America just to fuck with everybody. Eventually, the mountains taper off and Colorado resembles something more desert-like, but just as engaging as the rest of state. Traveling through Colorado is like visiting three different states because the terrain is so unique in the east, central, and west portions.
Utah was the next state to get ball gagged on my trip across Go America, and apparently it heard Colorado put on a pretty good show and did its best not to be outdone. To you, Utah, I say, “I can’t pick a favorite. I love you both equally.” Upon first entering Utah, the first thing I saw was tumbleweed. Tumbleweed! A staple in all the great Westerns! The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly had ‘me, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had ‘em, Feivel Goes West had ‘em, and now I’ve seen ‘em. Who knows—maybe one of the tumbleweeds I saw worked with John Wayne some time in its tumbling career, or maybe a sibling, parent, or grandparent was directed by the great John Ford on how to tumble into a shot?
Beyond the entertaining show tumbleweeds put on, Utah has its own geography distinctly unique to the ones found in Colorado. For one, everything has a tint of red about it—the ground, the sky, everything. The landscape is covered in large canyons you can’t see the bottoms of and plateaus that poke out of the ground like Lite-Brite bulbs. At one point in the late afternoon, after having already driven for about ten hours, interrupted only long enough to fill up on gas, I stopped at a viewing area next to the San Rafael Swell so as to prevent careening off the road and into one of the aforementioned canyons. I can’t do justice to the majesty of what I saw. I took pictures on my phone, and I’d upload them if I were good at stuff, but since I’m not, I won’t. But even pictures don’t get the job done. To truly appreciate the San Rafael Swell, one must go there. It really is a sight to behold. The Swell itself is a rock formation that looks like the back of a dragon peeking above ground. To it’s right was a chain of rock formations and valleys that stretched all the way to the horizon. It’s when you see these parts of the world that you really get what environmentalists are preaching when they talk about preserving the Earth. To think of an oil drill raping the countryside I saw seems downright sacrilegious.
However, all gushing about Utah aside, it was also the state that put me in the largest state of panic for the longest. Night was falling quickly and my car was still having troubles with altitudes more than two feet above sea level. And I had no cell phone service. And there was no radio. And I was in the middle of a severe thunderstorm. And the nearest gas station or rest stop was 100 miles in any direction—no exaggeration. If my car ran out of gas or blew a tire or any of a thousand maladies that could occur to my ’93 Cougar, it would be the end of my story. I tried to remember what my Dad told me to do in situations like this, but then it turned out my Dad only offered me one piece of advice my whole life, and that was:
“If a bird poops on your hand, are you going to wipe it off on a napkin or your brand new pair of blue jeans?” Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot. And to answer your question, there is no answer. It’s like, “If a tree falls in the woods and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” You’re deep, Dad, I’ll give you that. And you’re a snappy dresser—I can’t take that away from you. Come to think of it, you didn’t offer any advice at all. You just posed a question—and a rhetorical one at that. Fortunately, the Cougar is a descendant of the Millennium Falcon and Zeus, god of Olympus, so she held together.
The last Utah story I’ll imbibe on you is one that takes place at a Wendy’s. Normally I shy away from Wendy’s, because I don’t endorse red heads. But seeing as how I hadn’t eaten all day, I felt it high time to gorge at the next bistro. It just happened to be that little redheaded spawn of Satan. First, I stopped at a bathroom because I was doubled over in pain brought on by two Gatorades and a fistful of bottled waters. Whilst washing my hands, a Wendy’s employee came into the bathroom, went tinkle, and left. I probably shouldn’t bother complaining about an employee of a fast food restaurant not washing their hands. I am, after all, about to put fast food into my body. In fact, them not washing their hands probably give the cheap food that extra spice that makes it taste so good. But to be a snob, I left without buying any food, deciding to stop at the next place instead. Which just happened to be another Wendy’s.
After a junior cheeseburger, chicken sandwich, and chocolate Frosty, I left glorious Utah and made my way through the corner of Arizona, the John McCain state! Moving on.
Actually, no—we’re stopping there. You, the reader, need to rest your peepers, get up, do some calisthenics, maybe take the dog outside, or fix yourself a sandwich. The underwhelming second act to the second leg of the trip will be posted in a couple of days. In the meantime, may the moon always hit your sky like a big pizza pie.
Ogallala, NB to Jean, NV
Distance: 984 miles
There I was, just Potts and me, back to back, rifles to our sides, six feet underground. We can hear the planes dropping napalm all around us. Above the sounds of incendiary grenades and the raging inferno that is sweeping across the jungle, we can hear Charlie screaming from up in the trees. Lullabies to Potts and me. Just lullabies for us to fall asleep to…
Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there. I was just thinking how I’d rather be in the Shit in Vietnam than relive the shit known as Nebraska. But since I’m not stationed in Da Nang, and Potts never came home, and since I was in Ogallala, Nebraska, preparing for the second leg of my trip, I’d best just write about that.
While right then in China they were just putting their underage gymnasts to bed, I was just awakening for Day 2 of open highways and busy byways. After finishing my continental breakfast, reading the Wall Street Journal, checking my stock options, and writing a letter in Bengali longhand to the child I sponsor for thirty cents a day (I know, I know—I spoil him), I left the Super 8 Motel and met with another day of ass kicking and name taking.
Let’s just be clear: Nebraska is just as boring during the day as it is at night. It’s flat, brown, and devoid of anything resulting in happiness. But by the time one gets to Ogallala, there’s not much more Nebraska to be had. In little time, I was crossing into Colorado, the South Park state.
The Nebraska-Colorado border is an interesting one. As soon as you reach the sign that says, “Entering Colorful Colorado,” it’s like someone flipped a switch. Gone are the Dust Bowl colors and in their place is a lush, vivid landscape with sights and attractions. Even the air isn’t as sad. Colorful Colorado indeed! It’s like a rainbow took a huge dump and some passerby, most likely Kane from Kung Fu, named the fecal matter Colorado. I can’t stress enough how much change there is simply by crossing that imaginary Nebraska-Colorado line, but think about the first time Dorothy steps out of her home in Kansas and finds herself in Oz. It’s kind of like that. I’d also like to state that I hate, hate, hate the Wizard of Oz, and a little part of me died by using that analogy. Remember, I did it for you, people.
But Colorado—it starts out with green prairies and pastures, which eventually transform into rolling hills teeming with vibrant color, and then transform into a giant mountain chain. They’re called the Rocky Mountains—perhaps you’ve heard of them. They’re named after a baseball team. It’s really something to be driving along a ledge where on your right you can see the top of a tree that is probably over one hundred feet tall. I also think I saw Tom Cruise’s Colorado home, the one most recently featured on Oprah, but can’t be for certain because it was far away and I didn’t bring my crazy binoculars with me to confirm it.
One thing I learned while driving through the Rockies is that certain vehicles don’t like high altitudes. Those vehicles are semi trucks and my car. While other vehicles--Pintos, Gremlins, assorted SUVs and the like--are passing me at 70 mph no problem. I’m jamming on the accelerator just to get my car to perform at 40 mph. But I more than made up for it on the way back down the mountains. My car was careening around corners and down straight-aways at 80 mph with my foot on the brake. It’s at that point you realize you are encased in a guided bullet. The only thing preventing your rag doll body from launching off the side of a mountain is your steering wheel and a not-high-enough guardrail. Pray both hold up.
After climbing and winding my way through the mountains, and just when I thought I’d seen all the Rockies had to offer, they threw another surprise at me. The rocky cliff sides you’ve grown accustomed to for the past hundred-some miles change into these red-like ziggurats that climb into the sky. They almost look foreign, like some tycoon flew them in from South America just to fuck with everybody. Eventually, the mountains taper off and Colorado resembles something more desert-like, but just as engaging as the rest of state. Traveling through Colorado is like visiting three different states because the terrain is so unique in the east, central, and west portions.
Utah was the next state to get ball gagged on my trip across Go America, and apparently it heard Colorado put on a pretty good show and did its best not to be outdone. To you, Utah, I say, “I can’t pick a favorite. I love you both equally.” Upon first entering Utah, the first thing I saw was tumbleweed. Tumbleweed! A staple in all the great Westerns! The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly had ‘me, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had ‘em, Feivel Goes West had ‘em, and now I’ve seen ‘em. Who knows—maybe one of the tumbleweeds I saw worked with John Wayne some time in its tumbling career, or maybe a sibling, parent, or grandparent was directed by the great John Ford on how to tumble into a shot?
Beyond the entertaining show tumbleweeds put on, Utah has its own geography distinctly unique to the ones found in Colorado. For one, everything has a tint of red about it—the ground, the sky, everything. The landscape is covered in large canyons you can’t see the bottoms of and plateaus that poke out of the ground like Lite-Brite bulbs. At one point in the late afternoon, after having already driven for about ten hours, interrupted only long enough to fill up on gas, I stopped at a viewing area next to the San Rafael Swell so as to prevent careening off the road and into one of the aforementioned canyons. I can’t do justice to the majesty of what I saw. I took pictures on my phone, and I’d upload them if I were good at stuff, but since I’m not, I won’t. But even pictures don’t get the job done. To truly appreciate the San Rafael Swell, one must go there. It really is a sight to behold. The Swell itself is a rock formation that looks like the back of a dragon peeking above ground. To it’s right was a chain of rock formations and valleys that stretched all the way to the horizon. It’s when you see these parts of the world that you really get what environmentalists are preaching when they talk about preserving the Earth. To think of an oil drill raping the countryside I saw seems downright sacrilegious.
However, all gushing about Utah aside, it was also the state that put me in the largest state of panic for the longest. Night was falling quickly and my car was still having troubles with altitudes more than two feet above sea level. And I had no cell phone service. And there was no radio. And I was in the middle of a severe thunderstorm. And the nearest gas station or rest stop was 100 miles in any direction—no exaggeration. If my car ran out of gas or blew a tire or any of a thousand maladies that could occur to my ’93 Cougar, it would be the end of my story. I tried to remember what my Dad told me to do in situations like this, but then it turned out my Dad only offered me one piece of advice my whole life, and that was:
“If a bird poops on your hand, are you going to wipe it off on a napkin or your brand new pair of blue jeans?” Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot. And to answer your question, there is no answer. It’s like, “If a tree falls in the woods and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” You’re deep, Dad, I’ll give you that. And you’re a snappy dresser—I can’t take that away from you. Come to think of it, you didn’t offer any advice at all. You just posed a question—and a rhetorical one at that. Fortunately, the Cougar is a descendant of the Millennium Falcon and Zeus, god of Olympus, so she held together.
The last Utah story I’ll imbibe on you is one that takes place at a Wendy’s. Normally I shy away from Wendy’s, because I don’t endorse red heads. But seeing as how I hadn’t eaten all day, I felt it high time to gorge at the next bistro. It just happened to be that little redheaded spawn of Satan. First, I stopped at a bathroom because I was doubled over in pain brought on by two Gatorades and a fistful of bottled waters. Whilst washing my hands, a Wendy’s employee came into the bathroom, went tinkle, and left. I probably shouldn’t bother complaining about an employee of a fast food restaurant not washing their hands. I am, after all, about to put fast food into my body. In fact, them not washing their hands probably give the cheap food that extra spice that makes it taste so good. But to be a snob, I left without buying any food, deciding to stop at the next place instead. Which just happened to be another Wendy’s.
After a junior cheeseburger, chicken sandwich, and chocolate Frosty, I left glorious Utah and made my way through the corner of Arizona, the John McCain state! Moving on.
Actually, no—we’re stopping there. You, the reader, need to rest your peepers, get up, do some calisthenics, maybe take the dog outside, or fix yourself a sandwich. The underwhelming second act to the second leg of the trip will be posted in a couple of days. In the meantime, may the moon always hit your sky like a big pizza pie.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Here I Am/ Blog You Like a Hurricane
War Journal Entry: 000001
Waterloo, IA to Ogallala, NB
Distance: 589 miles
I always knew the day would come when I’d have to leave my homestead and set out into the over world with a little bit of money and some items I’d collected around town. But I always imagined doing it by wandering around the outskirts of town for a little bit, fighting Slimes and other low-level enemies, all the while gaining experience and gold. Slowly but surely I’d move from town to town, fighting stronger monsters and upgrading my weapons and armor, and meet some interesting characters along the way—many of whom would share a common goal with me and join my party. Eventually, one of our quests would have us raise an airship from its resting place beneath the desert’s surface, after which we would take to the skies and travel wherever need be much faster than any other form of transportation available. We’d do that until we prevented the crystals from shattering, and ending the lives of every living thing on Earth. After which, we’d part ways.
But that’s not how it happens. Instead, I am heading out solo. There is no wandering around because there are no monsters to slay, therefore, there is no gold to reap from their innards, so why wander? And besides, wandering is made possible by large sums of gold, which without monsters to slay, cannot be obtained. You see the vicious cycle this conundrum creates?
Instead, my trip gets to be a boring straight shot to Los Angeles. The trip will take me to exotic places like Nebraska. Before entering Nebraska though, we have to purge ourselves of Iowa.
Really, no explanation of Iowa is needed. Anyone who reads this already knows of its rolling hills, prairie fields, corn that grows as high as an elephant’s eye, and the really sad elephants they keep at the zoo. However, Council Bluffs, Iowa does need to be examined in depth, as even people that have lived their whole lives in Iowa have never witnessed the travesty that is the gateway into Nebraska (to its credit, Council Bluffs works well as a symbol of things to come).
Apparently, the people of Council Bluffs believe in constructing only half of their buildings. They get a good start by laying the foundation, hanging girders, and even a little bit of dry wall. But then like a child that has grown bored with a toy they are playing with, they quit what they’re doing and leave a mess right in the middle of the living room floor for people to step on. It’s an eyesore. These half-mast buildings are complimented by heavy machinery just lying around, furthermore cluttering the place. And we have company coming over in five minutes, Council Bluffs. And the table isn’t set and the meatloaf isn’t even finished cooking yet! I've got so many things to do still. Oh, there’s the doorbell! Someone zip me up in the back. Get this mess cleaned up right now Council Bluffs and don’t let me see you again for the rest of the night.
To top off my Council Bluffs experience, I saw a crane sitting on top of a bridge. What makes this special is that the crane was taking its bucket and smacking it against the underside of the bridge—the same bridge the crane was positioned on top of. I’m sure whoever was in the cab knew what they were doing, so I didn’t stop to tell him how horrible this was all going to end. I’ll assume the driver knew and was just trying to prove a point to a foreman that wouldn’t listen. Or that he was pouting because he didn’t get what they wanted, and I know better than to get in the way of a construction worker when he or she is having a hissy fit. I wanted to stay and see how this event would play out, but I have a lot of country to cover today and a finite amount of gold to work with, so tarry-ho!
Nebraska. What is there to say about the absence of everything? For anyone that has not trekked across the great expanse of nothingness that is Nebraska, be warned: every horror story you’ve heard of the place is true. When first entering Nebraska, there is something. It’s called Omaha. After Omaha, it’s a No Man’s Land because not a single, solitary other living, breathing thing awaits you. Whoever was supposed to prevent the Nebraska crystals from shattering did a terrible job--they're probably related to Dallas somehow. What is there is a straight road and brown all around—and that’s it. The one thing you will see on your trip through Nebraska is a bridge that crosses the highway. The thing that makes this bridge special is that no road crosses the bridge. It is just a lit up manmade growth that one can drive under. As far as I can tell, this structure has no value whatsoever. It’s completely worthless. Much like Nebraska.
While traveling through Nebraska, I heard “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for the first time on my trip, but certainly not the last. In fact, I heard it so many times that it became the official theme song of my journey. That’s big news to anyone that knows me because they also know “Born To Run,” by Bruce Springsteen is my official travel song. But not once in twenty-six hours of driving did I hear the Boss yell at me through my car speakers. But that’s fitting. In the West lies baby-eating hippie stoners like Tom Petty and his band of Heartbreakers, not working class Joe’s like you and me and Bruce and his E Street Volunteers For the Homeless.
I ended the evening stopping at a Super 8 Motel in Ogallala, Nebraska. Yes, Nebraska has a city named Ogallala. I was skeptical of its existence too, thinking it was just a ploy for my step-dad to finally get me out of the house. But I seen it with me own eyes. But like everywhere in this deprived state, not much there is to see in Ogallala. It’s just another manila envelope taped to the beige wall that is the Diarrhea Sandwich State. After checking in, I watched television in a different time zone, and went to bed, wondering what poor life decisions led me to spending the night in a Super 8 Motel in Ogallala, Nebraska.
Waterloo, IA to Ogallala, NB
Distance: 589 miles
I always knew the day would come when I’d have to leave my homestead and set out into the over world with a little bit of money and some items I’d collected around town. But I always imagined doing it by wandering around the outskirts of town for a little bit, fighting Slimes and other low-level enemies, all the while gaining experience and gold. Slowly but surely I’d move from town to town, fighting stronger monsters and upgrading my weapons and armor, and meet some interesting characters along the way—many of whom would share a common goal with me and join my party. Eventually, one of our quests would have us raise an airship from its resting place beneath the desert’s surface, after which we would take to the skies and travel wherever need be much faster than any other form of transportation available. We’d do that until we prevented the crystals from shattering, and ending the lives of every living thing on Earth. After which, we’d part ways.
But that’s not how it happens. Instead, I am heading out solo. There is no wandering around because there are no monsters to slay, therefore, there is no gold to reap from their innards, so why wander? And besides, wandering is made possible by large sums of gold, which without monsters to slay, cannot be obtained. You see the vicious cycle this conundrum creates?
Instead, my trip gets to be a boring straight shot to Los Angeles. The trip will take me to exotic places like Nebraska. Before entering Nebraska though, we have to purge ourselves of Iowa.
Really, no explanation of Iowa is needed. Anyone who reads this already knows of its rolling hills, prairie fields, corn that grows as high as an elephant’s eye, and the really sad elephants they keep at the zoo. However, Council Bluffs, Iowa does need to be examined in depth, as even people that have lived their whole lives in Iowa have never witnessed the travesty that is the gateway into Nebraska (to its credit, Council Bluffs works well as a symbol of things to come).
Apparently, the people of Council Bluffs believe in constructing only half of their buildings. They get a good start by laying the foundation, hanging girders, and even a little bit of dry wall. But then like a child that has grown bored with a toy they are playing with, they quit what they’re doing and leave a mess right in the middle of the living room floor for people to step on. It’s an eyesore. These half-mast buildings are complimented by heavy machinery just lying around, furthermore cluttering the place. And we have company coming over in five minutes, Council Bluffs. And the table isn’t set and the meatloaf isn’t even finished cooking yet! I've got so many things to do still. Oh, there’s the doorbell! Someone zip me up in the back. Get this mess cleaned up right now Council Bluffs and don’t let me see you again for the rest of the night.
To top off my Council Bluffs experience, I saw a crane sitting on top of a bridge. What makes this special is that the crane was taking its bucket and smacking it against the underside of the bridge—the same bridge the crane was positioned on top of. I’m sure whoever was in the cab knew what they were doing, so I didn’t stop to tell him how horrible this was all going to end. I’ll assume the driver knew and was just trying to prove a point to a foreman that wouldn’t listen. Or that he was pouting because he didn’t get what they wanted, and I know better than to get in the way of a construction worker when he or she is having a hissy fit. I wanted to stay and see how this event would play out, but I have a lot of country to cover today and a finite amount of gold to work with, so tarry-ho!
Nebraska. What is there to say about the absence of everything? For anyone that has not trekked across the great expanse of nothingness that is Nebraska, be warned: every horror story you’ve heard of the place is true. When first entering Nebraska, there is something. It’s called Omaha. After Omaha, it’s a No Man’s Land because not a single, solitary other living, breathing thing awaits you. Whoever was supposed to prevent the Nebraska crystals from shattering did a terrible job--they're probably related to Dallas somehow. What is there is a straight road and brown all around—and that’s it. The one thing you will see on your trip through Nebraska is a bridge that crosses the highway. The thing that makes this bridge special is that no road crosses the bridge. It is just a lit up manmade growth that one can drive under. As far as I can tell, this structure has no value whatsoever. It’s completely worthless. Much like Nebraska.
While traveling through Nebraska, I heard “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for the first time on my trip, but certainly not the last. In fact, I heard it so many times that it became the official theme song of my journey. That’s big news to anyone that knows me because they also know “Born To Run,” by Bruce Springsteen is my official travel song. But not once in twenty-six hours of driving did I hear the Boss yell at me through my car speakers. But that’s fitting. In the West lies baby-eating hippie stoners like Tom Petty and his band of Heartbreakers, not working class Joe’s like you and me and Bruce and his E Street Volunteers For the Homeless.
I ended the evening stopping at a Super 8 Motel in Ogallala, Nebraska. Yes, Nebraska has a city named Ogallala. I was skeptical of its existence too, thinking it was just a ploy for my step-dad to finally get me out of the house. But I seen it with me own eyes. But like everywhere in this deprived state, not much there is to see in Ogallala. It’s just another manila envelope taped to the beige wall that is the Diarrhea Sandwich State. After checking in, I watched television in a different time zone, and went to bed, wondering what poor life decisions led me to spending the night in a Super 8 Motel in Ogallala, Nebraska.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Preamble
Today I leave for Los Angeles, California, something I’ve been threatening to do for about six years now. I meant to leave last year almost immediately after graduating from college, but life has a way of intervening with even the rashest of decisions. I don’t regret waiting around another year. It was worth it in many respects, as I have some very fond memories from the time and it gave me a chance to grow up a little bit in the process. Benjamin Franklin once quoted, and I paraphrase, “Young men have to follow their dreams before they’re twenty-two or their fires will cool.” Mr. Franklin was right—in that year’s interim, I did lose a lot of the gusto propelling me towards California in the first place, my devil may care attitude giving way to me being content with working a shitty monkey desk job involving little to no actual skill, and then coming home, hoping to die in my sleep so I didn’t have to go back to work the next day. But guess what? Ben Franklin had syphilis. He couldn’t have gotten it from a toilet seat, because they didn’t believe in those back in the 1300s or whenever because Cesar wouldn’t let slaves vote. Through deductive reasoning, we can conclude Ben Franklin was a man whore. So why would I listen to him and his mouthful of sores?
The trip was delayed until May in this year of our Lord, 2008. That’s when the lease was up on my swank West Des Moines apartment. After quitting my shitty monkey desk job and bidding farewell to my awesome apartment, it was time to pack up and head out west like a migrating swallow. Well, then that trip got delayed because my good friend Jay was getting married in July and it didn’t seem plausible to drive to California where I have no job or housing waiting for me, only to spend money to fly back home for the wedding only to fly back out to California where no job or housing waited for me. So I delayed the trip again until after the wedding, believing that without doing anything, a job and housing would be waiting for me, along with a supermodel girlfriend, a key to the city, and a rocket ship made entirely of gold. Ironically enough, Jay’s wedding itself was delayed from a previous date, in turn delaying my exodus. Isn’t the universe funny? Somehow, I bet we stopped it from imploding on its self, though. Go us, Jay. Go America.
But the delays didn’t end there. The Dark Knight came out two weeks after the wedding, and since I’d thought of nothing but The Dark Knight for the previous two weeks (and wouldn’t stop thinking of anything but The Dark Knight until two weeks after its release), there was no way in hell I was going to be a stranger in a strange land watching what very well could be the best movie of the year. And now that time has passed, we know this to be true.
Which brings us to the present. About six weeks from the previously scheduled leave date, I have left. A little later than expected, but that’s okay--I was born six weeks early, so I’m just about right on schedule.
There are a lot of uncertainties waiting in California. No job, no place to stay--only prospects--and outside of a few people I know from stunt school and college, none of my family or best friends will be there to welcome me with open arms and shield me from the smog, the LA Freeway, and random stabbings. You don’t realize how important these people are as to you until you have to give them up. And since those are the same people that will take the time to slog through this blog, I’d just like to say, “Thank you, everybody. You’re the best.” [Note: Mom, please read this part out loud to Forehead (my cat). Or at least pull it up on the computer so she can read it herself. Not that she needs to—she already knows].
I’m not even sure if my ’93 Cougar is going to make the almost 2,000 mile trip. But I’m not scared. I was leading up to today. But now that it’s here, I guess it’s time to buckle down (allusion to a story about the open road? Maybe?), roll the dice (Las Vegas reference? Could be.), and show your cards (another Vegas reference? Now you’re just being lazy. True).
So here we go. The car is packed. The stage it set for an adventure I’d like to call—
CUT TO BLACK:
TITLE CARD:
RUNNIN’ DOWN A DREAM
CUT TO BLACK:
OPENING CREDITS
The trip was delayed until May in this year of our Lord, 2008. That’s when the lease was up on my swank West Des Moines apartment. After quitting my shitty monkey desk job and bidding farewell to my awesome apartment, it was time to pack up and head out west like a migrating swallow. Well, then that trip got delayed because my good friend Jay was getting married in July and it didn’t seem plausible to drive to California where I have no job or housing waiting for me, only to spend money to fly back home for the wedding only to fly back out to California where no job or housing waited for me. So I delayed the trip again until after the wedding, believing that without doing anything, a job and housing would be waiting for me, along with a supermodel girlfriend, a key to the city, and a rocket ship made entirely of gold. Ironically enough, Jay’s wedding itself was delayed from a previous date, in turn delaying my exodus. Isn’t the universe funny? Somehow, I bet we stopped it from imploding on its self, though. Go us, Jay. Go America.
But the delays didn’t end there. The Dark Knight came out two weeks after the wedding, and since I’d thought of nothing but The Dark Knight for the previous two weeks (and wouldn’t stop thinking of anything but The Dark Knight until two weeks after its release), there was no way in hell I was going to be a stranger in a strange land watching what very well could be the best movie of the year. And now that time has passed, we know this to be true.
Which brings us to the present. About six weeks from the previously scheduled leave date, I have left. A little later than expected, but that’s okay--I was born six weeks early, so I’m just about right on schedule.
There are a lot of uncertainties waiting in California. No job, no place to stay--only prospects--and outside of a few people I know from stunt school and college, none of my family or best friends will be there to welcome me with open arms and shield me from the smog, the LA Freeway, and random stabbings. You don’t realize how important these people are as to you until you have to give them up. And since those are the same people that will take the time to slog through this blog, I’d just like to say, “Thank you, everybody. You’re the best.” [Note: Mom, please read this part out loud to Forehead (my cat). Or at least pull it up on the computer so she can read it herself. Not that she needs to—she already knows].
I’m not even sure if my ’93 Cougar is going to make the almost 2,000 mile trip. But I’m not scared. I was leading up to today. But now that it’s here, I guess it’s time to buckle down (allusion to a story about the open road? Maybe?), roll the dice (Las Vegas reference? Could be.), and show your cards (another Vegas reference? Now you’re just being lazy. True).
So here we go. The car is packed. The stage it set for an adventure I’d like to call—
CUT TO BLACK:
TITLE CARD:
RUNNIN’ DOWN A DREAM
CUT TO BLACK:
OPENING CREDITS
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