dreamy magenta rocker summer time livin

30-31 Aug. 2010




easy-chairsurfing


There’s a tattoo artist offering up his easy chair in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. It’s a magenta rocker of the plushest foam. He also has a couch, but that Lazyboy was like God clouds after my 4 hours of sleep and zombie 10 hours of Bama and Ole Miss. road. I should mention that the guy sold me on the, “Yea, I’d just sleep on the easy chair it’s more comfortable.” So instead of wasting my precious energy, I picked where he obviously thought there was less giant, stoked to be going to the bar, madly texting on his ‘huckleberry’ roommate juice. Didn’t catch his name, but he was mighty talkative… to himself and 5.4.7.G phone, whatever… I can't be the only this happens to when couchsurfing.

As for your boy, well I guess he was right up there with the rest of my couchsurfing experiences. Now, before I slander the site, I’d like add that on the occasions that it worked the experiences were quite memorable.


(To get us straight about my couchsurfing feelings, I am appalled by it. In theory I love the idea, new vagabond hitchhiking, but in function it’s as practical as peeing on a forest fire if you travel as I do. That is, I don’t teeter around one place too long, I hate planning ahead and time is short and the road is long. This makes for soliciting couches a nightmare, I guess along with real lives, jobs, cars, houses, couches, wives, kids, and picket fences, schedules are also an issue of standard in the ‘real world.’ I, however, decide where I’m going the night before, ask 20 people in 4 different locations, apologize for the frenetic last-minute request and hope that at least one replies by morning. I don’t judge pages, or ‘mission statements,’ or even care if the person is 80 years old. In fact, the older the better because the ‘totally open-minded world travelling hippie/yuppie like personas’ making their ‘mission’ as philanthropic as possible usually reply late by weeks, months or not at all. I get the impression that the site is really a cover for lame way to meet female travelers for most of its male users and paranoia fueled selection process for women… “You have to explain to me in a 100 words or less why I should let you surf my couch.” In short, it’s really been ballocks for me to find couches and I feel like there should be a ‘douchebag o’meter’ so I don’t get another, ‘Sorry I missed you, I was out of town. Hope you had fun.’)


But then I wouldn’t meet people like Aspir'n n M’sippi; keen on Ron Paul politics, bumming on the lack of intelligence in Mississippi, and introduced me to the 2006 VICE Magazine documentary “VICE Guide to Travel” (definitely worth checking out). Besides thinking I was “L-7” for not smoking or drinking shots with him (He used “L7”), he was an interesting cat, who owned an interesting cat (photo). His ulterior motive for letting me stay: he needed someone to talk at… unfortunately and completely out of character, I did “L7” indeed, and hindsight has let me regret it, but not the straight vodka shot hangover, however, I did, of course, listen to what he had to say, and he seemed to need to vent his ideas, or was that the substances rattling him off?

Another ‘santa clause hour’ promise around midnight to show me a better local eatery than Waffle House the next day, we had only the simple proper goodbye of a handshake and ‘thank you’ and I left solo. I ate at Waffle House (you can’t take photos inside Waffle House, see photos), but I’m glad I did. It gave me another chance to listen to the nicest people I’ve met on the trip, Mississippians; always eager to find out where I’m from, then jaw dropping, in an incomparable Southern hospitality/curiosity accented by its genuineness, ‘Ohh wow! Whad’a ya doin rou’n he’a?’

Still waiting on the other 18 CS replies, but I’ll let ‘em know that, ‘It’s understandable, and I had fun.’


To Florida # 32.


.s.

jamming up

28 - 30 Aug. 2010




Travelling has taught me that I’m a foreign object jammed in between the rocks of a rushing stream; that is to say, I am interrupting the otherwise smooth ebb and flow of things. I buoy and bob my awkwardly gerrymandered position, trying to soak up as much water as I can so I can take a memory or so with me in my brief contra current blink of an existence… if I succeed, someone will remember I came, maybe even appreciate my visit, and that’s the art of friendship and the # 2 reason I travel (for #1 read last blog). So here I am, jammed up in the Tennessee current after stealing away from Dallas what memories I could.


On a weeklong trip to Scotland in July of 2009, I stayed in a house that had been turned into a hostel by a guy named Steve. Steve, a guy in his mid 30s? early 40s?, of grander proportions, and a tad horse race obsessed, is for another blog, but his hostel and its human bonding mantra (not bondage) led me to meet 5 crazy worldly cats, one of which lives just outside of Nashville and the reason “I’m ‘jammed up’ in the ‘Tennessee current.’”


This one ‘Stella Cat’ that lives out in ‘God’s Country’ Tennessee offered to stable my travels for a bit and, 11+ hours and 700+ miles from of Dallas, I am much obliged she did.




Highlighting my day of rest was a tick-infested grave search (photo) on an old plantation and a Tennessee-accented ‘grunt’ who was just a 'piddlin' bout. (see video, pardon the poor footage).


 

It was then, in Lebanon, Tennessee, that I met the Legend.




If you judge the Legend by looks then you got three hipster/mods ‘retro’ing’ up Nashville’s guitar twang country roots and confusing the hell out of the Lebanon’s local folkal with tunes ‘too-good-to-be-played’ by ‘three hipster/mod’ poster rockers. So not only looking their parts, they could better be defined as ‘three brilliant young musicians with good ol’ rocker souls transplanted to Nashville from out west somewhere, and Ringo, John, Pauling it up with enough heart and talent to see the future in expressing what they love, music.’ I’ll be damned if I wasn’t sold by Milwaukee’s best and 3 egg McMuffins to become their future tour bus driver, someone’s gotta get them to Red Rocks and if not music, then maps and navigation I do know (“Going East from Lebanon doing 75mph for 15 minutes down the I-40 you’ll come to exit 25B, turn right off the exit and left into the 1st gas station, there you’ll find beer 24-7”).




Legendbound into wee’morn hours, for sleep I hanker, but thru languid eyes I diverge the delta road hypnotically traipsing her pale line guides under my impetuous stare. ‘Oh feed me to the southern current, where I will divert the smooth flow of my next jam-up, Ocean Springs, Mississippi.’


Host: unknown, couch surfing for the 1st time on this trip.




(Alabama #30, Mississippi #31).




.s.

where you are from

27. Aug. 2010


Empa Mundo Empanada:


It’s not saying I went here or there, boasting about these places, escaping something nor any other ill conceived notion you might have about me that drives me to travel. It’s today. It’s going to Empa Mundo and eating empanadas as if I’d bought them at an Argentine bakery. It’s the weathered, white-haired (save the short dark strips running crescently along the outside of his ears ) Argentine owner that offers free conversation to those interested enough to delve into his life. It takes very little to get him to talk, and takes almost no time to tell he is one of the good guys willing to share something genuine. The conversation starts effortlessly as does with ‘place.’ This is the foundation of all travel. The beginning and often end in this more profound circular journey. Where are you from? And as it is a limitless and circular conversation for which I am guilty, but in no way an expert, and not had a drink tonight to start pretending. Neither will I dictate here our conversation because, like all, it was more brilliant than written justice will do it. I will write down the most striking point in my opinion and the rest remains where best we harbor all great experiences and relate them over many future pints.


At some point in our conversation, on an un-provoked ‘where’ on which he ‘tangented,’ he noted his own accent, as we were speaking in Spanish, his understandingly being Argentine. Argentines (or debatably Argentineans) have a unique and pronounced accent, especially those from Buenos Aires (Porteños). As he is from there, he, however, had neither the thick Porteño nor much of any Argentine distinction to note. It isn’t missing, just refined into a diplomatically invented neutral accent. The old proprietor is a living ambassador of good-will; a man well-worked that worked well in his 20 + years and countless grand opening all over the world for Nabisco. As he traveled the globe, speaking English where was due (with his phonetically honed “Johnny Carson” harmony), and Spanish where was done in his accent neutral, non-presumptuous tone. Reasons, as we are all well aware, being that an accent, before a hand shake, can make or break a first and sometime only impression in a relationship, especially in business. Most people never have to think about or deal with languages or accents but, for those of us that do, pronunciation is key. Simplified: If your words are easy to understand, people are comfortable talking to you, can get to know you better, and think you are smart (though conversation can steer that last one to think otherwise).


On the 2 night, 1 day Dallas halt:


Late Boston Market dinner with wine at house after to catch-up the times, witty banter recordings on my video camera during a Dallas city drive and Bush house search, Argentine Empa Mundo lunch, maté (Argentine tea drank through a straw) sipping afternoon study, late afternoon tour of the University of Dallas, and a wine/sake martini night cap and musically centered discussion (Highlight: 99 Red Balloons) with friend Kevin and roommates Nik and Anne


More than a stopover, I’d call it an ‘arrival;’ that calm, comfortable place/relaxing period between departure and return. For laymen the best part of travel and for me a sojourn from ‘windowscaping’ down another one of America’s trails. And now off to Tennessee state number 29.


.s.

discovering Pint'eries

26. Aug. 2010

Losing one’s self is chiefly due to poor navigational skills, poor directions, or poor attention span. Getting lost is inevitable if you are out shredding new routes to whereeverville. I am a pro now, but I used to be really ‘bad’ at it. That is to say, one can become lost or misguided at some point in a wander that results in panic, stress, anger… but an experienced wanderer shrugs his or her shoulders and becomes a fatalist. That is, there is no use black ‘thoughting’ the mishap that can have positive outcome anyway. Instead of dwelling, use it as a chance to discover more area and perhaps an interesting eatery or ‘pint'ery.’ Since I’ve done my reluctant 'get lost honing' I’ve: panhandled gas from a flu stricken, no screen door open’in kind soul somewhere near Heppner Oregon, met a happy to share with me his mother’s delicious dessert cookies Romanian, discovered that there is more to Edinburgh than the Royal Mile/missed a rendezvous dinner, and, now, I know where to pawn gold in the Dallas area.

I got lost in Dallas, which later turned out to be Fort Worth, when I listened too carefully to directions. “Get on the H-183 from I-30 and take the Ester exit.” No problem, but the 183 service road threw me for a bit before highway 183 (hence the ‘Dallas’ area pawn shop parking lot turn around just outside of Ft. Worth). I should mention now that I don’t use electronic guidance, only stars and maps for me. If I have to use the straight, boring Interstate and miss the Will Rodgers Highway/scenic route zigs and zags, I might as well not take all the romance out of the old road with a GPS too. I’ve turned around a lot on this trip… but never once complained to my passengers.

Took I-40 from Albuquerque to the H-84 junction, the H-84 to Lubbock the I-20 to Ft. Worth, and I-30 to Irving.

Besides seeing the Long Walk (see last post), the I-84 afforded me an intimate view of some towns on the two-lane highway. : long walk website in case one might think that because of my last blog the meteor crater was more important to me than the suffering of the Native Americans :

http://www.southernnewmexico.com/Articles/Southeast/De_Baca/FortSumner/BosqueRedondo-destination.html

where the grapes of wrath are stored

25. Aug. 2010


Driving the Southwestern U.S. isn’t bad if you like straight roads, hot weather (this time of year), and invariable landscapes. One might trade adventure for boredom, by choosing the I-40 instead of the more scenic Route 66, which unofficially no longer exists thanks to the straight, 75 mile per hour Interstate that hacked it apart as well as everything culturally interesting along-side. The 66 was once a haven for shops, good ole boy trucker cafes, and, relatively speaking, slow and scenic travel (I say relatively speaking because at 2 thousand + pounds a car going 55 miles per hour isn’t exactly slow, it’s just 2010 slow). The more mellow limit did, however, afford a casual view for back ‘seaters’ to click photographs of the dust bowl’s Mother Road and even front ‘seaters’ (we’ve all seen what happens when we get caught up with road scenery thanks to Chevy Chase’s offroad excursion in Vegas Vacation).


Because the 40 follows the snaky main street of America for a bit, I saw the old structures that once bustled along 66 in their now decrepit squalor state, boarded from the floor on up, and their contents now all conglomerated into one ‘Fort Courage’ “the biggest Indian Trading Post in the World.” With all the blessings of our more rapid Information Age, we have left the trip to the birds the only love for the modern road traveler is arrival.


Am I there yet?


I can’t stop on this 'speedway' to take pictures very easily so I won't ‘yuk you up’ about great views, no ‘kicks' on my Route 40. Instead, I fly through the Flying J rest stop and Casino with a Subway inside, make good time, and forget about the Indian Trading Posts (all evaporated along the 66 anyway). My two, sometimes three, lanes in each direction, monster eschews my ‘adventure’ and I’m dozing off at the wheel. I constantly banter at the window glass keeping myself awake. The new adventure: finding the best gas price.


Golden Road Rule #1: gas is always cheaper at the next stop, just when you think you’ve got the best price. It seems to work like this: Pass the 1st and 2nd exit, be wary of the 3rd but pull in to the 4th… or was IT the 3rd? It usually means the difference between $2.36 and $3.89. And the secret to this road is that Shell consistently beat the competition. That is to say, although the Shell stations don’t coincide even varying quite a lot, they always seem to cheaper than other stations, at least on I-40 & 20.


Cheapest gas bought: $2.36, just outside of Dallas, Texas; most expensive reluctantly bought: $3.89 in Needles, California, 5 minutes away from $2.79 at the border in Arizona… always cheaper just down the road (Rule #1).


Only 5 hours to Albuquerque from Flagstaff, I found reasons to stop more often and spent the day sifting through the treasures of the exits. Six miles off the I-40 one can find the illusive Meteor National Park, in case one was searching, and I wasn’t about to miss an extraterrestrial event of such immense impact (pun painstakingly intended) on this adventure… the site was fenced off so that they could charge $15 to see the crater:


http://www.americansouthwest.net/arizona/meteor_crater/

Worth reading up on if you have time, but worth $15? I passed it up. 

Further down the road (445 miles east on I-40), I passed up similar cultural enlightenment when I turned down paying $5 to see the museum of the Navajo ‘Trail of Tears,’ aka the less sentimentally invoking ‘The Navajo Long Walk to Bosque Redondo,’ which took place, ironically, exactly where people pay $15 to see a privately owned meteor crater on the Navajo’s land at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. Sadder than me not paying $5 was my not even being aware the ‘Long Walk’ existed. 


No, I stopped because I flew by a billboard on I-40 recommending that I see Billy the Kid’s gravesite. Only after having seen it and discovered that the public restrooms were out of order, was I forced a ¼ mile down my own trail (of bladder quenching tears?) to the Bosque Redondo State Park to use the facilities (effectively where I was not coaxed into spending $5). Happening upon these ironies just coincidence? I think not, but uncovering government cover-ups is for suckers that pay $5 to become culturally sound or who go to Roswell to pay to see a museum (and as I’ve been told by the locals ‘very little else’) so I headed straight to Dallas after my one night in Albuquerque (Billy the Kid's gravesite, behind a cage and mostly hype).

Once again, one night and one great time and I’d like to thank my host for putting me up and up with me. I enjoyed my first taste of New Mexican food and margarita (check off state #28 visited), which, from what I can tell, differs very little from the original Mexican food save the green or red chili salsa, which I am told, “they put on top of everything.” Either way my appetite was sufficed both in gratifying food and intriguing conversation.


.s.

sweet scent of summer

24 August 2010: 2AM

With a trunk full of ‘Beat’ literature and some clothes I began this morning on another American road trip, one of those famous soul searching journeys. I’ve been reading a lot of Kerouac, but only because I’m fascinated by his literary knowledge and prose. I’m not an ‘experimental’ traveler and that’s why I’ve got William Least Heat Moon with me as well. He writes, although somewhat less famously, about his road trips as well. His are more of the ‘real enlightenment’ kind. His is a literary trip filled with history and ‘calendar collecting diners’ that dot this land.

I’m sorry. You’ll have to read him to understand.

Still Jack’s poetry affects me, and so does the originality of his ‘beat.’ Like everyone, I’m dying for originality. Maybe filming myself alone on the road for a month as I travel across the U.S. in my own lose and find journey will fill that unoriginal void I’m feeling.

Not quite sure what I’m looking for, I’ll heed the advice of a student when she said, “Write all your plans in pencil, so that you can erase.” I will.

I’ve got my plans laid out in front of me in a discounted 2009 U.S. Road atlas. ‘Buyer beware, roads are an ever changing stream of human betterment.’ On account of not caring if I get lost, the only cement in my plans will be a mixture of graphite and conversation, blithely sketched in scribbles in a bar, on a couch or maybe in a hot tub nine months prior with a wintery Idaho backdrop. A conversation strummed thru steamy breath as it hits the cold air, slowly the ideas float from one head to the other. I had a car, co-pilot and an anxious writing hand.  

Fast forward to now, all minus the co-pilot sit with me on this couch seven desert hours of driving later. I’ve met a friend in Flagstaff whose conversation scribbled my first plan:

"...I'm in to 'this' and 'that,' but I never really got round to travelling much."

Years seep pass and the comfort of a stable home make it hard to leave. The job affords all the microbrews needed and a bike’s ride away is contentment enough to stave off the call of those thousands of untraveled miles. Maybe there’s some guilt of not having made good on a few invitations to venture off and visit some far away friends, an unscratched itch beneath the skin on the palm of your hand, but all that’s forgotten as you add on another hobby and life pens on.

Here I am, lemming-off [sic] towards the coast without a course, running my pencil, crossing off the names of towns on my last year’s Atlas. I don’t even understand what compels me. Is it to see the continent’s end or beginning? Could I not have taken another’s word for it?

We spent the evening in downtown Flagstaff, eating the all-you-can-eat Sushi special (to the dismay of William Heat Moon) and washing it down with a few conversation supplementing liquids.

My host matter-of-factly put it this way “…You know all those people we used to go to school with? I bet they turned into some really cool people.” And with that my journey developed a reason. I bet there are some really cool people out there. Some I myself told would come visit one day. So instead of sprinting to see the end of a continent, my sushi inspiration will go like this:

I know people and the people I know know people, and I want to meet them and see what inspires their journey, what they dream. To see their picket fence criteria, while I drive this fenceless wander to figure out my own criteria.

penciled plans

24 August 2010: 12:00PM

[sic]

Sitting in the living room watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I’m mustering the courage to leave LA. In the driveway sits my steed, a borrowed 1998 silver Honda Accord. I’ve wanted to have left for a week now, but it's intimidating leaving LA; the city devours like a black hole on the Pacific shore, slurping up the world’s attention. I don’t even know if I can drive on the freeway… I never have here. In fact, I’ve driven little more than 30 minutes in this city in my entire life (in my defense I’m not from here).

Still, I haven’t consistently driven a car for the past 7 years, living in Hawaii and Europe my transport has consisted of a moped and biped (that last one is to say, my feet).

It’s about noon and I don’t have the registration for the car, but, fuck it. If I don’t leave now I risk losing another day of America.