Our contact fell through on our way to Chicago. We drove betwixt the sky scrapers, the sheen from the sunset lancing our windows as it bounced amongst them. Still coming down from my New York success, I hadn't any worry of failure in Chicago. Driving to a bar seemed like the natural thing to do in a cooling metropolis. We found ourselves in a heavy metal themed bar chosen because loud music spilling from a single open door and lines of grungy adults are good indicators of a good time. To add to our glass clinking jubilance were fat, messy burgers named after heavy metal artists. Things couldn't be better. Until we left the bar and realized we had no where to go.
Choosing a direction, we walked in search of another bar, a questionable goal since we had just left a well stocked house of beer. We found nothing, no cold brew, no couch to crash on. The car was our best option for overnight passage. At least it seemed better than paying $80 each on a hotel room. I half slept in front of the bar we started at.
Sleeping in isn't an issue when sleeping in a cramped, upright position. We were the first people in the coffee shop that morning. We made calls and answered emails and found a place to stay the next night which is always a victory.
We rode our bikes into a small city park. City parks are places that cars aren't allowed. Cyclists have the most power because they control the next fastest mode of transportation. Stepping onto the green of a park changes how time functions. Things slow down. Breathing is easier and fuller. People smile at each other. I can turn around and see the hard edges and hear the strident howls of the city where I had just been.
In the center of a concrete refuge was a mirrored world shaped as a bean. I stared at myself. That self wondered how the other self felt about being in the real world. An alien bean, unnaturally smooth, splits my perception of the sky, doubles sky scrapers, and mimics the sun. I felt akin to the bulbous reflector except instead of projecting an image of Chicago I sponged it up. I gathered the sky scrapers and sun and park and commotion and pigeons and hot dog stands and ball caps and assimilated them into my growing reservoir of love. Almost bursting now.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Interim
Between two major cities - New York and Chicago - we stayed with two families. The first was in New York State. I still had New York City all over my skin. I felt like an overly highlighted text. The words have the same meaning but they take on a new importance under those neon colors.
Our break from city lights was a cult town called Chautauqua. Within the town exists a massive gated grounds called The Institute. During the summer months people, mainly older, come from all around to live in The Institute. The town is run by The Institute. It is a faceless machine that is fueled on and by the residents of the small town. The family we stayed with was not exempt.
Like gonzo spies, Dave and I infiltrated the guarded entrance to The Institute with the help of the kind family. The place resembled the port towns I had visited in Cape Cod. The houses stood out like snaggleteeth from different periods of time, giving the sense of a relaxed and lengthy development. Everything required for a self serving existence was present. The enclosed city was the closest I've seen to a working utopia. Single digit aged children rode bicycles on the dimming streets without peer or parental guidance. Adults were scarce like desert wildlife. We came upon an outdoor auditorium and an oasis of gray hairs formed around a speaker on the subject of race in our governmental system.
Chautauqua had a church for all the big religions and seemed more like a prestigious retirement home than anything else. I still don't fully grasp what goes on at The Institute with its themed weeks and grand monetary circulation, but I was ready to start forgetting it.
The second family we stayed with lived in Cleveland, Ohio. They were the wealthy parents of Dave's cousin and soon to be Los Angeles roommate. Mrs. Whitaker opened her house and refrigerator with the courtesy of the patron of a hard up five star hotel. Dave and I concocted sandwiches that could paint with all the colors of the wind due to the degree of condiments that were applied. I managed to read a small book on the drinking culture of the late preppy generation. They sure knew their liquor. Mr. Whitaker took us to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The architecture was the most interesting part. It was like learning about American history. Somewhat enlightening, mostly dull.
Our hearts were ready for Chicago. It was time for us to discover what all the hubbub was about.
Our break from city lights was a cult town called Chautauqua. Within the town exists a massive gated grounds called The Institute. During the summer months people, mainly older, come from all around to live in The Institute. The town is run by The Institute. It is a faceless machine that is fueled on and by the residents of the small town. The family we stayed with was not exempt.
Like gonzo spies, Dave and I infiltrated the guarded entrance to The Institute with the help of the kind family. The place resembled the port towns I had visited in Cape Cod. The houses stood out like snaggleteeth from different periods of time, giving the sense of a relaxed and lengthy development. Everything required for a self serving existence was present. The enclosed city was the closest I've seen to a working utopia. Single digit aged children rode bicycles on the dimming streets without peer or parental guidance. Adults were scarce like desert wildlife. We came upon an outdoor auditorium and an oasis of gray hairs formed around a speaker on the subject of race in our governmental system.
Chautauqua had a church for all the big religions and seemed more like a prestigious retirement home than anything else. I still don't fully grasp what goes on at The Institute with its themed weeks and grand monetary circulation, but I was ready to start forgetting it.
The second family we stayed with lived in Cleveland, Ohio. They were the wealthy parents of Dave's cousin and soon to be Los Angeles roommate. Mrs. Whitaker opened her house and refrigerator with the courtesy of the patron of a hard up five star hotel. Dave and I concocted sandwiches that could paint with all the colors of the wind due to the degree of condiments that were applied. I managed to read a small book on the drinking culture of the late preppy generation. They sure knew their liquor. Mr. Whitaker took us to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The architecture was the most interesting part. It was like learning about American history. Somewhat enlightening, mostly dull.
Our hearts were ready for Chicago. It was time for us to discover what all the hubbub was about.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
New York Chronicles: Never the End
I was in New York City for seven days. I could write about the daily scandal but I'm not going to. I want to preserve some of the mystery of New York. I'm going to keep up the oral tradition of story telling and I've reserved the best. Maybe these stories will be written someday. You'll just have to stay tuned and find out. Before New York is over I must pay homage to two more people.
Dave and I rode our bikes to a farmer's market. There we met an old friend who helped manage the market. Sarah Leonard raged with us two nights earlier and ate one of the most amazing dinners with us the night before. We each had some kind of hang over. Her friend Jack, who we had also met earlier, showed up at the farmer's market. Having to work, Sarah couldn't have lunch with us. Dave, Jack, and I went to a legendary Japanese restaurant. Momofuku works behind a couple different store fronts and each one sells different types of food. Because I'm always searching for ramen, we went to the noodle house. My ramen cost $16 dollars which is almost not okay. It was good but $16. Jack's girlfriend, a dancer, met us. The more faces the higher the chance of smiles.
Curiosity mounting we searched out another in the Momofuku strand. This time it was the cereal milk bar. There were strange ice cream flavors such as cereal milk, which is exactly what it tastes like, creamed corn, also tastes just like creamed corn, purple drank, grape kool-aid, and BBQ. All of our faces thizzed on BBQ. The gems happened to be the Momofuku cookies. I had a blueberry milk cookie and Dave had a compost cookie. We bought extras for later they were so good.
Before leaving for lunch, we left Sarah fifteen dollars to pick up supplies from the farmer's market. When we returned she had a bag full of locally grown plants and homemade bread and honey and had only spent a third of the cash. She's a saint.
We all converged again that night but that dips into the aforementioned mystery.
Dave and I rode our bikes to a farmer's market. There we met an old friend who helped manage the market. Sarah Leonard raged with us two nights earlier and ate one of the most amazing dinners with us the night before. We each had some kind of hang over. Her friend Jack, who we had also met earlier, showed up at the farmer's market. Having to work, Sarah couldn't have lunch with us. Dave, Jack, and I went to a legendary Japanese restaurant. Momofuku works behind a couple different store fronts and each one sells different types of food. Because I'm always searching for ramen, we went to the noodle house. My ramen cost $16 dollars which is almost not okay. It was good but $16. Jack's girlfriend, a dancer, met us. The more faces the higher the chance of smiles.
Curiosity mounting we searched out another in the Momofuku strand. This time it was the cereal milk bar. There were strange ice cream flavors such as cereal milk, which is exactly what it tastes like, creamed corn, also tastes just like creamed corn, purple drank, grape kool-aid, and BBQ. All of our faces thizzed on BBQ. The gems happened to be the Momofuku cookies. I had a blueberry milk cookie and Dave had a compost cookie. We bought extras for later they were so good.
Before leaving for lunch, we left Sarah fifteen dollars to pick up supplies from the farmer's market. When we returned she had a bag full of locally grown plants and homemade bread and honey and had only spent a third of the cash. She's a saint.
We all converged again that night but that dips into the aforementioned mystery.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
New York Chronicles: Old Friends
Central Park wasn't as weighty as I had imagined. It resembled just about every city park. Dave's incessant mistake of calling it Golden Gate Park added to the normalcy. There is a horse track-esque one way loop that allows for overly fast bicycling. I often went the wrong way.
There is a small Japan, smaller than actual Japan, under Central Park. Time Square is America's highest point of advertising and technological distraction. Instead of walls, buildings are constructed of screens with provocative pants models and snack food mascots. Turning slowly in the center I try to take in the brutal coupling of boisterous retail and the throbbing hum of the subway.
Night is when New York shines. The clouds are bleached with 1930's detective mystery. Darkness exists only when you black out. Though I'm just beginning. To recall an earlier adventure in spirits, I started with margaritas. Dave and I were being guided by New York natives and Sarah, the daughter of a friend of my mom's. Next, I'm in a living room. The Living Room where bands croon and jerk because it just can't be helped. The soul in the room is maxed out. There is a one drink minimum per set. I'm too lulled by the Western infused shoegaze to buzz off the hanging waitress. These people are really living in this room.
I feel the wetness of the never-night long enough only to rouse me back to sensing. Somehow my beer snobbism is exposed and Corey has "just the place." Arrogant Bastard.
Saved by all night subways again. After walking with little direction, Dave and I found all night udon. I'm awake but I was dreaming about ramen. Udon will do. Giddy with my love for Japanese noodles and by drink I slurp up my bowl of just cooked udon with unimpaired determination. My mouth, I'd discover in less than twelve hours, had suffered nth degree burns. I pretended to taste the next day.
There is a small Japan, smaller than actual Japan, under Central Park. Time Square is America's highest point of advertising and technological distraction. Instead of walls, buildings are constructed of screens with provocative pants models and snack food mascots. Turning slowly in the center I try to take in the brutal coupling of boisterous retail and the throbbing hum of the subway.
Night is when New York shines. The clouds are bleached with 1930's detective mystery. Darkness exists only when you black out. Though I'm just beginning. To recall an earlier adventure in spirits, I started with margaritas. Dave and I were being guided by New York natives and Sarah, the daughter of a friend of my mom's. Next, I'm in a living room. The Living Room where bands croon and jerk because it just can't be helped. The soul in the room is maxed out. There is a one drink minimum per set. I'm too lulled by the Western infused shoegaze to buzz off the hanging waitress. These people are really living in this room.
I feel the wetness of the never-night long enough only to rouse me back to sensing. Somehow my beer snobbism is exposed and Corey has "just the place." Arrogant Bastard.
Saved by all night subways again. After walking with little direction, Dave and I found all night udon. I'm awake but I was dreaming about ramen. Udon will do. Giddy with my love for Japanese noodles and by drink I slurp up my bowl of just cooked udon with unimpaired determination. My mouth, I'd discover in less than twelve hours, had suffered nth degree burns. I pretended to taste the next day.
New York Chronicles: Making Friends
The darkly clothed blob didn't make it as a broadway sensation and didn't want to go to jail. Not for that. Time and weather have avoided my face, it's not my fault I look young. Air expelled, he skulks heavy with sulking back to servile reality. I'm back in control. I remember I'm always in control. Before I'm yet fifty percent quenched another engages me. This time for my voice. An opening. I feel like a kid again, unable to deny. It's blown slightly out of proportion, a hand grenade detonates, a focus shrapnel shower. And everyone has friends. Sometimes friends are taken advantage of. It feels like a pussy wants attention near my feet. Better to ignore it. If you give them an inch it's not gay. Containers graduate on a muggy New York stoop. Martini glass to forty ounces to growler. To ensure the presence of guilt at dawn, I eat famous carbohydrates and I taste a little blood.
Monday, August 30, 2010
New York Chronicles: Daedelus
On the first day of New York my true love gave to me hot rain so people couldn't tell I was sweating. Laurence, Dave's old boss in a way, arrived in New York city about the same time we did. We walked with bikes and backpacks, shook Laurence's hand, and synced strides to his fifth story apartment. I never saw her with my own eyes but I was asked to dampen my sense of sound around Laurence's landlord's rooms. Much like a limited god, she occupied the first two floors and was always present, never seen. I prayed to never meet her. It came true.
Television and other reputable sources told me New York was a safe haven for Italian chefs to hole up and devote their lives to the perfection of pizza. After the usual host-traveler initiation we acquired a half and half pizza. The pie, although not exactly the Brooklyn style, was a taste celebration. Again I exceeded my preconceived limit of two slices. I wouldn't have survived Prohibition.
After over-eating Dave and I took to the streets we so recently came from. Our feet glowed with new movie-star-chomper-white shoes. Dancing shoes. New York City is go big or go home and home is very far away. I would have liked for my honeymoon with my Reebox to not be on a rainy night but this is how life enduring memories are created.
New York subways are the 21st century version of the river Phlegethon. There are rats. Many of them. Exiting the subway I am baptized in cool air. The marquee on the club would have read 'Daedelus' if it had been a classy joint. Classy places don't have five dollar beer and well shot specials. For this I am glad Santo's Party House was not a high end club.
Dave and I throw as many drinks back as our feet would allow before stomping off to the dance floor. No one dances for at least the first hour or two at dance shows unless, of course, Dave and I show up, a little bit late and a little too excited to be in New York at an underground break-through show. We invent the party. Like a shallow idea that squirms around and eats until it grows into an action, we affect people with the notion to dance. Dave talks to a girl, they are fond of him. I don't let love get in the way of my work. My business is gettin' down with myself.
The black light loves my shoes. If moths had been admitted there would have been two more parties at my feet. My legs had elongated brains of their own and I could do nothing but lean back with arms crossed and marvel at their Burlesque performance.
The late 19th century follows Daedelus around like pox. He is dressed for the Victorian age, sweating with dedication. He looks like a wealthy man on his death bed. Before him sits some kind of religious antique filled with square lights like an apartment building full of insomniacs. He puts them to bed and ushers them awake. The misery induced moans ring out in a speaker pounding chorus. "I've developed a sweet tooth for tempo" is all he says before the musical onslaught is unleashed. We scramble to keep up with this cherished maniac. He plays decapitated pieces of his well known songs. No time for full-lengths.
I lost track of time. My world was reduced to sound and movement. If Daedelus hadn't walked away from his Pandora's box I may have been enslaved in that world for eternity. With this kind of afterlife I could have a religion up and converting in no time. Daedelus returned for an encore. I had appointed myself the first prophet of musique concrete. Daedelus asked with his hands to go faster or slower and, leading my people, I pointed toward the sky. My offering was received.
Trains in New York City run all night. I have too much power. To conserve energy we ride that dirty combustion chamber to Laurence's fifth story apartment and sleep in his massive bed.
Television and other reputable sources told me New York was a safe haven for Italian chefs to hole up and devote their lives to the perfection of pizza. After the usual host-traveler initiation we acquired a half and half pizza. The pie, although not exactly the Brooklyn style, was a taste celebration. Again I exceeded my preconceived limit of two slices. I wouldn't have survived Prohibition.
After over-eating Dave and I took to the streets we so recently came from. Our feet glowed with new movie-star-chomper-white shoes. Dancing shoes. New York City is go big or go home and home is very far away. I would have liked for my honeymoon with my Reebox to not be on a rainy night but this is how life enduring memories are created.
New York subways are the 21st century version of the river Phlegethon. There are rats. Many of them. Exiting the subway I am baptized in cool air. The marquee on the club would have read 'Daedelus' if it had been a classy joint. Classy places don't have five dollar beer and well shot specials. For this I am glad Santo's Party House was not a high end club.
Dave and I throw as many drinks back as our feet would allow before stomping off to the dance floor. No one dances for at least the first hour or two at dance shows unless, of course, Dave and I show up, a little bit late and a little too excited to be in New York at an underground break-through show. We invent the party. Like a shallow idea that squirms around and eats until it grows into an action, we affect people with the notion to dance. Dave talks to a girl, they are fond of him. I don't let love get in the way of my work. My business is gettin' down with myself.
The black light loves my shoes. If moths had been admitted there would have been two more parties at my feet. My legs had elongated brains of their own and I could do nothing but lean back with arms crossed and marvel at their Burlesque performance.
The late 19th century follows Daedelus around like pox. He is dressed for the Victorian age, sweating with dedication. He looks like a wealthy man on his death bed. Before him sits some kind of religious antique filled with square lights like an apartment building full of insomniacs. He puts them to bed and ushers them awake. The misery induced moans ring out in a speaker pounding chorus. "I've developed a sweet tooth for tempo" is all he says before the musical onslaught is unleashed. We scramble to keep up with this cherished maniac. He plays decapitated pieces of his well known songs. No time for full-lengths.
I lost track of time. My world was reduced to sound and movement. If Daedelus hadn't walked away from his Pandora's box I may have been enslaved in that world for eternity. With this kind of afterlife I could have a religion up and converting in no time. Daedelus returned for an encore. I had appointed myself the first prophet of musique concrete. Daedelus asked with his hands to go faster or slower and, leading my people, I pointed toward the sky. My offering was received.
Trains in New York City run all night. I have too much power. To conserve energy we ride that dirty combustion chamber to Laurence's fifth story apartment and sleep in his massive bed.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Preps, Ports, and Pots
I violated nature in Massachusetts. I have family living on Cape Cod, famous for summering, the birthplace of a beverage, and an out of control mechanical shark. Cape Cod is built on two layers of complaint. In the summer, residents whine about tourists and the traffic and naivete they bring. The winter brings piles of snow and sour faces.
It being summer, my only nutritional sources are seafood and ice cream. Thank god I love both. There are approximately three creameries per port town and approximately everyone visits them.
Like when Jesus walked on water or when everyone stopped listening to Fall Out Boy or like the after taste of chocolate above 70% cocoa, my mom arrived, without collective plan, on the East Coast. She is the day bringer. The Aztecs would have loved her. She is like that group of stretched and smiling people that double fist cups of water smack in the middle of the race. This long sojourn. My path. Rendre hommage a Twain.
We stayed with a friend of my mother's who lives in a spiral staircase. Robin, like my mom, enjoys life and doesn't consider inhibition a balk. She graced my ears with one of the only accents I've heard on my trip. It is in her house that my transgression was to take place.
In her sink, acting like a cell before the gallows, four brown and blue lobsters sit. The South Western corn bread is cooling. The clams have been consumed. The linguica and potatoes are soft. Judgment day is upon us. I am suddenly thrust into the eternal moral dilemma of Christian thought. I harbor infinite omnipotence but my glowing hands are slow with apprehension, for with power comes the deep and basic caring of a shepherd. In a moment I feel like the Sistine chapel is painted in my skull. A silent "fuck it" escapes my lips as I force the head of a crustacean into boiling water. I suppress kicks and squirms and, becoming misty eyed from a friendship only war could cultivate, I end the misery of a fallen comrade. He was motherfucking delicious.
It being summer, my only nutritional sources are seafood and ice cream. Thank god I love both. There are approximately three creameries per port town and approximately everyone visits them.
Like when Jesus walked on water or when everyone stopped listening to Fall Out Boy or like the after taste of chocolate above 70% cocoa, my mom arrived, without collective plan, on the East Coast. She is the day bringer. The Aztecs would have loved her. She is like that group of stretched and smiling people that double fist cups of water smack in the middle of the race. This long sojourn. My path. Rendre hommage a Twain.
We stayed with a friend of my mother's who lives in a spiral staircase. Robin, like my mom, enjoys life and doesn't consider inhibition a balk. She graced my ears with one of the only accents I've heard on my trip. It is in her house that my transgression was to take place.
In her sink, acting like a cell before the gallows, four brown and blue lobsters sit. The South Western corn bread is cooling. The clams have been consumed. The linguica and potatoes are soft. Judgment day is upon us. I am suddenly thrust into the eternal moral dilemma of Christian thought. I harbor infinite omnipotence but my glowing hands are slow with apprehension, for with power comes the deep and basic caring of a shepherd. In a moment I feel like the Sistine chapel is painted in my skull. A silent "fuck it" escapes my lips as I force the head of a crustacean into boiling water. I suppress kicks and squirms and, becoming misty eyed from a friendship only war could cultivate, I end the misery of a fallen comrade. He was motherfucking delicious.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Greatest City In America
There's a place called Baltimore. It's in Maryland. You've probably never heard of it. It's the greatest city in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. I stayed in a house of accents, some South African, some German, some a concoction. I was immediately enveloped by a weird warmth and a crayon-drawn welcoming picture. Genuine generosity feels a little wrong. It doesn't follow most American relationships in the their infancy. Being in a European household is like being in your parent's house, eating dinner in a reunion with only the cherished members of your extended family. The food itself reflects equality and happiness on a small, intimate level. A Matisse painting of dishes brighten the table. Colors swirl as plates are passed. Health and well-being play a central role in the food choices and everyday activities. Dinner was vegetables, a simple meat, bread and butter. Dessert was fruit salad.
Boys will be boys. We went to the best bar in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. Home brews are consistently shadowy. An IPA doesn't taste like an IPA. Their amber looks opaque. No one makes bitters. Merry making made its way to a new bar with new people. I shook hands with an almost caricatured variety. A ghetto resistant black man, light in the trousers and a bit too much finger in his greeting. The pretty girl that just doesn't want to admit it yet. Holding on to some sense of self worth. Dave set his teeth into her before introductions were completed. There was also the larger girl. Over compensating knowledge so that her brain would feel at ease in that corpulent prison. I was left to jab with the less beautiful. Something I'm used to. A fine experience because this girl was smart and witty. Her banter was like a dry riesling that pirouetted on the palate. Without her, the night would have been fraught with sober ennui.
I went to the bar to talk to a famous underground musician. Before I could permeate the fan girl wall I was waylaid by a stripper. She was one of those bitches that always has a nostril staring at you and can't keep that couple of run away strands out of her face. I drew attention to them by saying she had a lovely haircut. "I wouldn't be talking to you if your hair was bad," she managed to add to the conversation. She told me she would take me to all the hip spots of Baltimore, suggested I come see her dance. She would have promised me undying love if we had stayed at that wet counter any longer. Someone became bored and walked away. My acquaintances wouldn't believe that I had been hit on by an exotic dancer. Exotic doesn't have the same meaning anymore.
Boys will be boys. We went to the best bar in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. Home brews are consistently shadowy. An IPA doesn't taste like an IPA. Their amber looks opaque. No one makes bitters. Merry making made its way to a new bar with new people. I shook hands with an almost caricatured variety. A ghetto resistant black man, light in the trousers and a bit too much finger in his greeting. The pretty girl that just doesn't want to admit it yet. Holding on to some sense of self worth. Dave set his teeth into her before introductions were completed. There was also the larger girl. Over compensating knowledge so that her brain would feel at ease in that corpulent prison. I was left to jab with the less beautiful. Something I'm used to. A fine experience because this girl was smart and witty. Her banter was like a dry riesling that pirouetted on the palate. Without her, the night would have been fraught with sober ennui.
I went to the bar to talk to a famous underground musician. Before I could permeate the fan girl wall I was waylaid by a stripper. She was one of those bitches that always has a nostril staring at you and can't keep that couple of run away strands out of her face. I drew attention to them by saying she had a lovely haircut. "I wouldn't be talking to you if your hair was bad," she managed to add to the conversation. She told me she would take me to all the hip spots of Baltimore, suggested I come see her dance. She would have promised me undying love if we had stayed at that wet counter any longer. Someone became bored and walked away. My acquaintances wouldn't believe that I had been hit on by an exotic dancer. Exotic doesn't have the same meaning anymore.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Eastern Philosophy
Reaching the East Coast has a feeling of completion. It feels similar to home except caressing a different ocean. This is our half way point. A symbol of ongoing progress.
Washington, DC is one of the dirtier places I've slept and I've spent nights lying on dirt. City sanitation isn't in shambles. My opinion grew in the house of Dave's friend Tony like a bacteria in the mire of the place. Being in his home was akin to watching Animal House on repeat. Or if a heavy MDMA user developed Alzheimer's-like symptoms immediately after his golden fraternity years. Given that I did my best to avoid this type of environment in my college years, I didn't feel at peace in this den of partying.
I could breathe easily when outside. My much needed aerial respite was silently snatched away, however, by the monumental sights my eyes drank up in the heavy-with-humidity air. The Washington phallus thrusts towards the willing solar ovum, visible throughout the Capitol as an everlasting marker of patriarchal exuberance. The White House and Capitol building tug back at an age when gaudy structures, white hot via monetary and social monopoly, headed vast fields of cash crops that were maintained by black slaves. The stark white of the monuments seems as out of place as most of the rules and laws in the Bible in current time. This nearly stultifying chagrin is due to the African American population being DC's majority. What a significant shadow president Obama can cast upon the interior walls of the Oval Office.
The most placid of the monuments was Abraham Lincoln's. Even though its size is overwrought, the sense of awe cascades from the cool marble over everyone present who cares about anything (maybe there are fewer of these individuals than I believe). Inscribed on the two adjacent walls are the famous words from the famously bearded hawk of a man. Like a demure fawn in a sun nestled patch of meadow, a Japanese girl of indeterminable age throws up two V's and shows a slightly crooked but not at all unattractive smile. Abraham would have probably shared the almost overly cute grin in the presence of such signed victory no matter the superficiality of its intent or how long he's been dead.
At the bottom of the marble steps a sweating park ranger stands next to a ghetto blaster that shouts the words of Martin Luther King Jr. When King closes, the ranger begins a proclamation of his own. With dignified sprezzatura the moist man lifts our spirits and encourages literacy so that we too can be less bearded Abraham Lincolns. This speech is one of the more inspiring things I've heard from a man's mouth.
Washington, DC is one of the dirtier places I've slept and I've spent nights lying on dirt. City sanitation isn't in shambles. My opinion grew in the house of Dave's friend Tony like a bacteria in the mire of the place. Being in his home was akin to watching Animal House on repeat. Or if a heavy MDMA user developed Alzheimer's-like symptoms immediately after his golden fraternity years. Given that I did my best to avoid this type of environment in my college years, I didn't feel at peace in this den of partying.
I could breathe easily when outside. My much needed aerial respite was silently snatched away, however, by the monumental sights my eyes drank up in the heavy-with-humidity air. The Washington phallus thrusts towards the willing solar ovum, visible throughout the Capitol as an everlasting marker of patriarchal exuberance. The White House and Capitol building tug back at an age when gaudy structures, white hot via monetary and social monopoly, headed vast fields of cash crops that were maintained by black slaves. The stark white of the monuments seems as out of place as most of the rules and laws in the Bible in current time. This nearly stultifying chagrin is due to the African American population being DC's majority. What a significant shadow president Obama can cast upon the interior walls of the Oval Office.
The most placid of the monuments was Abraham Lincoln's. Even though its size is overwrought, the sense of awe cascades from the cool marble over everyone present who cares about anything (maybe there are fewer of these individuals than I believe). Inscribed on the two adjacent walls are the famous words from the famously bearded hawk of a man. Like a demure fawn in a sun nestled patch of meadow, a Japanese girl of indeterminable age throws up two V's and shows a slightly crooked but not at all unattractive smile. Abraham would have probably shared the almost overly cute grin in the presence of such signed victory no matter the superficiality of its intent or how long he's been dead.
At the bottom of the marble steps a sweating park ranger stands next to a ghetto blaster that shouts the words of Martin Luther King Jr. When King closes, the ranger begins a proclamation of his own. With dignified sprezzatura the moist man lifts our spirits and encourages literacy so that we too can be less bearded Abraham Lincolns. This speech is one of the more inspiring things I've heard from a man's mouth.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Options
To the people supporting and encouraging me,
If you email me your email address I will alert you when a new post is submitted. This way you don't have to refresh my page every fifteen seconds. If you like the suspense and excitement of not knowing when the next post could be up, just keep on doing what you're doing. My email, if you didn't know, is slvangilder@gmail.com.
Incredibly yours,
Samuel Lee VanGilder
If you email me your email address I will alert you when a new post is submitted. This way you don't have to refresh my page every fifteen seconds. If you like the suspense and excitement of not knowing when the next post could be up, just keep on doing what you're doing. My email, if you didn't know, is slvangilder@gmail.com.
Incredibly yours,
Samuel Lee VanGilder
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Mouth Off
Man! Who made this blog? It is never updated! But wait? What's this? A new... MOUTH STUFF!
Last I left off I was still in Atlanta, Georgia, which seems like quite a long time ago. Before leaving sticky Hotlanta, however, we visited another notable place of feasting: Vortex. Vortex is your typical bar and grill type restaurant and because of the common stereotype they felt it necessary to make some additions to the experience. Once being generally ignored and seated, a glance at the menu taught us some basic rules about being in a bar. Because I've never been in a bar before, I read through the list. There was a whole page of rules that were described with a vitriolic attitude. Rules such as "if asked to show your ID don't pull any shit! We WILL kick you out," "know what you're gonna drink when ordering from the bar and DON'T ask the bartender questions." The restaurant's claim to fame was, apparently, being rude and ambivalent to customers, a 'too cool for school' type of feel. Our waitress kept her eyes at half mast and her hip seemed to be perpetually popping. Not that this bothered us, it just seemed like a desperate attempt at being different. Their selling point should have been having savory burgers because they really were some delicious piles of meat and bread. It wasn't the best burger I've ever had (because I've been to The Counter in the Los Angeles area) but not being the best doesn't mean it isn't good. The portions were smaller but that didn't bother me since I always over eat anyway. I feel like I just wrote a Yelp review.
I was in the South. The dirty dirty South. I wanted a pulled pork sandwich. Dave was on a tight schedule to get to West Virginia to see his parents, leaving little time to dilly dally in search of the most succulent pork in the land. Finding an award winning sandwich a couple miles off a freeway exit would be tough, I decided to take what I could get. We stopped at King's BBQ in North Carolina. It was a drive up or in; there were individual trays and speakers for each car. The sandwich was small and felt like fast food but the vanilla shakes Dave and I got made up for the near disappointment.
Linda Whitaker, Dave's mom, cooked for us in Wheeling, West Virginia. Her cooking is always good. I learned, or at least wrote down, her recipe for chocolate sauce.
Dave and I had fish sandwiches at Coleman's in downtown Wheeling. They are small but pack a flavor punch. We had enough tarter sauce and ketchup to open a face painting kiosk in the market. Coleman's was proof of my mind's disorganization. My ability to recall is almost never efficient. It is a somewhat harrowing experience when you realize that your memory of an event is entirely incorrect. I had been to Wheeling once before with David to visit his grandmother. I also have family in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Up until biting into that fish sandwich I believed that I had once enjoyed it in Massachusetts. Is it possible to be self conscious about one's capacity to remember?
Tony, Dave's friend, took us to a dive bar where I ate a buffalo chicken sandwich and had my first Natty Boh. The sandwich was standard but the beer was great. It a Maryland beer that all the hipster equivalents drink. I'm glad that Natty Boh and Pabst Blue Ribbon exist because I wouldn't make it through life with Natty Ice and Coors Lite as my only choices.
Coffee is still off the endangered list around me. I miss the taste of coffee like a hat misses Mr. Wonka's head but what results from me succumbing is terrible enough to keep me at bay. Dave, on the other hand, can still bathe in the murky pleasure. On recommendation from a barista in Atlanta we visited Peregrine in Washington, DC. I had a scone, I am a fan of the triangles, and Dave had coffee. The scone sank to the mire of mediocre scones in my belly as Dave was saying the coffee was great. Peregrine did have a note worthy gem. The chocolate bars available were tops. I finally tried a Vosges chocolate bar. The bacon seemed too cliche so I tried the Oaxaca. It was okay, spicy chocolate but not a mouth sensation. Being a part of the chocolate choosing, the barista offered us a sample of a chocolate that I can't remember the name of. It was heavenly. Someday I will learn the origin of that delicacy.
In DC we also ate decent pizza, decent Greek food, and probably the best malted shake I've had. Dickey's Frozen Custard. I don't know what frozen custard is but goddamn, it was good. They only have two sizes, huge and obese. Needless to say (which always perplexed me, if it says "needless to say" then why am I saying it?) I couldn't finish the smallest size.
South Africans cooked for me and Dave in Baltimore, Maryland. It is very clear why Americans are so overweight. Everything we ate in that loving house could have been on the Weight Watcher's food list. Vegetables, meats, fruit as desert, yogurt, mousli. All delicious.
Passing through Philadelphia I needed to get a Philly Cheese Steak. I've never been particularly enthralled with a cheese steak but I've also never been to Philadelphia, the food's birthplace. As far as a sandwich with meat and cheese goes, the cheese steak we had was amazing. We stopped at Chink's Steaks, a place I'd stop if only for the name. A T-Bone steak sandwich to fill my belly, it was. It was also not T-Bone steak. If you were wondering, orange flavored malts are pretty much the best orange thing a person can consume.
We ate at a tiny place in a residential area called BSF which, of course, stood for Burgers, Shakes, and Fries. It was a privately owned business and thoroughly tasty. It must have been exciting when burger joints were all family owned.
I've been in Massachusetts for some time which means I've eaten at many places. As a conservationist I will portray these places as such:
Eggplant parmesan - made by my cousin Todd and my Aunt Pat. Yum.
Enchiladas - made by Todd. Not Mexican in the slightest but good.
Smitty's Ice Cream - Love it. I'm on a chocolate peanut butter craze.
Bar Louie - In Foxboro, by the stadium. Probably the best sit down meal I've had on this trip.
Tony's Clam Shop - Next time I get fried seafood I will have to ask a neighboring table to stifle me via tranquilizer.
I had a cabinet in Rhode Island which is what they call a shake. It's mostly ice cream but all delicious.
Fun Fact: Everybody in Massachusetts loves Dunkin' Doughnuts. It's their Starbucks. Their doughnuts suck.
Last I left off I was still in Atlanta, Georgia, which seems like quite a long time ago. Before leaving sticky Hotlanta, however, we visited another notable place of feasting: Vortex. Vortex is your typical bar and grill type restaurant and because of the common stereotype they felt it necessary to make some additions to the experience. Once being generally ignored and seated, a glance at the menu taught us some basic rules about being in a bar. Because I've never been in a bar before, I read through the list. There was a whole page of rules that were described with a vitriolic attitude. Rules such as "if asked to show your ID don't pull any shit! We WILL kick you out," "know what you're gonna drink when ordering from the bar and DON'T ask the bartender questions." The restaurant's claim to fame was, apparently, being rude and ambivalent to customers, a 'too cool for school' type of feel. Our waitress kept her eyes at half mast and her hip seemed to be perpetually popping. Not that this bothered us, it just seemed like a desperate attempt at being different. Their selling point should have been having savory burgers because they really were some delicious piles of meat and bread. It wasn't the best burger I've ever had (because I've been to The Counter in the Los Angeles area) but not being the best doesn't mean it isn't good. The portions were smaller but that didn't bother me since I always over eat anyway. I feel like I just wrote a Yelp review.
I was in the South. The dirty dirty South. I wanted a pulled pork sandwich. Dave was on a tight schedule to get to West Virginia to see his parents, leaving little time to dilly dally in search of the most succulent pork in the land. Finding an award winning sandwich a couple miles off a freeway exit would be tough, I decided to take what I could get. We stopped at King's BBQ in North Carolina. It was a drive up or in; there were individual trays and speakers for each car. The sandwich was small and felt like fast food but the vanilla shakes Dave and I got made up for the near disappointment.
Linda Whitaker, Dave's mom, cooked for us in Wheeling, West Virginia. Her cooking is always good. I learned, or at least wrote down, her recipe for chocolate sauce.
Dave and I had fish sandwiches at Coleman's in downtown Wheeling. They are small but pack a flavor punch. We had enough tarter sauce and ketchup to open a face painting kiosk in the market. Coleman's was proof of my mind's disorganization. My ability to recall is almost never efficient. It is a somewhat harrowing experience when you realize that your memory of an event is entirely incorrect. I had been to Wheeling once before with David to visit his grandmother. I also have family in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Up until biting into that fish sandwich I believed that I had once enjoyed it in Massachusetts. Is it possible to be self conscious about one's capacity to remember?
Tony, Dave's friend, took us to a dive bar where I ate a buffalo chicken sandwich and had my first Natty Boh. The sandwich was standard but the beer was great. It a Maryland beer that all the hipster equivalents drink. I'm glad that Natty Boh and Pabst Blue Ribbon exist because I wouldn't make it through life with Natty Ice and Coors Lite as my only choices.
Coffee is still off the endangered list around me. I miss the taste of coffee like a hat misses Mr. Wonka's head but what results from me succumbing is terrible enough to keep me at bay. Dave, on the other hand, can still bathe in the murky pleasure. On recommendation from a barista in Atlanta we visited Peregrine in Washington, DC. I had a scone, I am a fan of the triangles, and Dave had coffee. The scone sank to the mire of mediocre scones in my belly as Dave was saying the coffee was great. Peregrine did have a note worthy gem. The chocolate bars available were tops. I finally tried a Vosges chocolate bar. The bacon seemed too cliche so I tried the Oaxaca. It was okay, spicy chocolate but not a mouth sensation. Being a part of the chocolate choosing, the barista offered us a sample of a chocolate that I can't remember the name of. It was heavenly. Someday I will learn the origin of that delicacy.
In DC we also ate decent pizza, decent Greek food, and probably the best malted shake I've had. Dickey's Frozen Custard. I don't know what frozen custard is but goddamn, it was good. They only have two sizes, huge and obese. Needless to say (which always perplexed me, if it says "needless to say" then why am I saying it?) I couldn't finish the smallest size.
South Africans cooked for me and Dave in Baltimore, Maryland. It is very clear why Americans are so overweight. Everything we ate in that loving house could have been on the Weight Watcher's food list. Vegetables, meats, fruit as desert, yogurt, mousli. All delicious.
Passing through Philadelphia I needed to get a Philly Cheese Steak. I've never been particularly enthralled with a cheese steak but I've also never been to Philadelphia, the food's birthplace. As far as a sandwich with meat and cheese goes, the cheese steak we had was amazing. We stopped at Chink's Steaks, a place I'd stop if only for the name. A T-Bone steak sandwich to fill my belly, it was. It was also not T-Bone steak. If you were wondering, orange flavored malts are pretty much the best orange thing a person can consume.
We ate at a tiny place in a residential area called BSF which, of course, stood for Burgers, Shakes, and Fries. It was a privately owned business and thoroughly tasty. It must have been exciting when burger joints were all family owned.
I've been in Massachusetts for some time which means I've eaten at many places. As a conservationist I will portray these places as such:
Eggplant parmesan - made by my cousin Todd and my Aunt Pat. Yum.
Enchiladas - made by Todd. Not Mexican in the slightest but good.
Smitty's Ice Cream - Love it. I'm on a chocolate peanut butter craze.
Bar Louie - In Foxboro, by the stadium. Probably the best sit down meal I've had on this trip.
Tony's Clam Shop - Next time I get fried seafood I will have to ask a neighboring table to stifle me via tranquilizer.
I had a cabinet in Rhode Island which is what they call a shake. It's mostly ice cream but all delicious.
Fun Fact: Everybody in Massachusetts loves Dunkin' Doughnuts. It's their Starbucks. Their doughnuts suck.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
French Connection
The Whitaker family had dinner guests by the names of Joel and Cynthia. The Beefeater gin I bought on our way back to the farm was accepted with open mouths. With determination through the assistance of gin and tonic I kept up conversation. Over crackers and micro quiche I gathered that Joel was an erratic actor and his wife Cynthia his Filipino superego. Notion of our progressing odyssey found its way into words, as it often does, and travel was settled on as a key topic for the evening.
The couple had been to a substantial portion of the United States but more importantly to me they could speak of their time in France. I felt enlivened and wanted only to eat their tales and assault them with questions. They had survived Cognac and infiltrated dinner parties so private that shades were drawn as not to alert a wandering eye.
It was agreed that there was no reason to work in France. This bit of information was to my ears like a conflagrant Black Dice, the equivalent to a symphony to a harmonious mind, I'm sure. There exists no legislation to remove the homeless from private or commercial property. Layabouts were not referred to with admiration but simply knowing that the artist may still wander the streets of France rekindled the blue flame in my being. I became so frantic with jubilation that I invited David and myself to Joel and Cynthia's house for dinner and drinks.
Swimming in a buttery, fishy meal, the fluidity of the talk (and the alcohol) continued. Recalling my disappointment with New Orleans' French Quarter, I asked Joel how it compared to its French father. My concern was mollified by his shared sentiment. Joel and Cynthia highly recommended Chicago as a place where a person like me could thrive; it was by far their favorite U.S. city. The day grew tired and night shooed the guests away, allowing me and David to stay.
Country life is rather simple. Not a derogatory simple but a truer definition, one having few options. My days in Wheeling, West Virginia were spent with a feline leisure. Because I excluded myself from two of the primary activities, swimming in the pond and manual labor, I spent my time figuring out the possible orders in which I could eat, sleep, and read. My research suggests eat, read, sleep, repeat to be favorable. Lazy excitement was added to the routine on the day of the dinner arrangement.
David's aunt Maria, a very kind and patient woman, elected to be our designated driver for the evening. I'd be Thanks Giving thankful if I was able to predict vomit.
Joel and Cynthia wanted their dwelling to feel more French so they had the English torn out. The house grinned, boasting its French lustre. The dinning room was like a museum in which pictures were allowed. I secretly shared Cynthia's fondness of snails; they were whiling around antiques and decor. We sat at a table where I could see every face and pre-dinner margaritas were poured. A Mexico/California theme was decided on by our hosts, who flew their red, white, and green colors. The margaritas were hand squeezed, the pico de gallo and guacamole were hand chopped, and these things overwhelmed my nervous hands. Our drinks before dinner were to last all night, which we each knew and intended.
After consuming what felt like the majority of the Mexican favorite, Dave and I inquired about a liquor on display in the dinning room. The child sized Otard XO cognac was extracted from the pregnant liquor cabinet and Napoleon's snifter was placed earnestly in front of me. The amber liquid passed my nose, touched my lips, and entered my greedy mouth. Not only was this the best cognac I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, it was the best adult beverage I've ever sampled. Not only that, Napoleon winked on my devilish satiation.
Because moments last only that long, the Tour de Gin began with a polite clatter. We started at home and made our way toward and through the exotic. Bombay Sapphire, Bluecoat, G Vine, Hendrick's. As far as gin goes, which is further than you can see, Hendrick's was bliss. Somehow a section of the quarry of my mind remained intact so Ty-ku sake, Zubrowka vodka, and Vieux Carre absinthe were prepped. The absinthe must have been the final stick of dynamite for I don't recall drinking it.
Sitting else. Where? Dinner for breakfast, the most important duality of the day(s). "I can't" or "I'll...", "stay." I was painting the parking lot red. Or yellow. Ochre. I passed on green, I'm allergic to avocado. Never stop sitting/spinning. Mostly on a bed, I pull the light sheets over me to keep out the flies and the mo(u)rning.
The couple had been to a substantial portion of the United States but more importantly to me they could speak of their time in France. I felt enlivened and wanted only to eat their tales and assault them with questions. They had survived Cognac and infiltrated dinner parties so private that shades were drawn as not to alert a wandering eye.
It was agreed that there was no reason to work in France. This bit of information was to my ears like a conflagrant Black Dice, the equivalent to a symphony to a harmonious mind, I'm sure. There exists no legislation to remove the homeless from private or commercial property. Layabouts were not referred to with admiration but simply knowing that the artist may still wander the streets of France rekindled the blue flame in my being. I became so frantic with jubilation that I invited David and myself to Joel and Cynthia's house for dinner and drinks.
Swimming in a buttery, fishy meal, the fluidity of the talk (and the alcohol) continued. Recalling my disappointment with New Orleans' French Quarter, I asked Joel how it compared to its French father. My concern was mollified by his shared sentiment. Joel and Cynthia highly recommended Chicago as a place where a person like me could thrive; it was by far their favorite U.S. city. The day grew tired and night shooed the guests away, allowing me and David to stay.
Country life is rather simple. Not a derogatory simple but a truer definition, one having few options. My days in Wheeling, West Virginia were spent with a feline leisure. Because I excluded myself from two of the primary activities, swimming in the pond and manual labor, I spent my time figuring out the possible orders in which I could eat, sleep, and read. My research suggests eat, read, sleep, repeat to be favorable. Lazy excitement was added to the routine on the day of the dinner arrangement.
David's aunt Maria, a very kind and patient woman, elected to be our designated driver for the evening. I'd be Thanks Giving thankful if I was able to predict vomit.
Joel and Cynthia wanted their dwelling to feel more French so they had the English torn out. The house grinned, boasting its French lustre. The dinning room was like a museum in which pictures were allowed. I secretly shared Cynthia's fondness of snails; they were whiling around antiques and decor. We sat at a table where I could see every face and pre-dinner margaritas were poured. A Mexico/California theme was decided on by our hosts, who flew their red, white, and green colors. The margaritas were hand squeezed, the pico de gallo and guacamole were hand chopped, and these things overwhelmed my nervous hands. Our drinks before dinner were to last all night, which we each knew and intended.
After consuming what felt like the majority of the Mexican favorite, Dave and I inquired about a liquor on display in the dinning room. The child sized Otard XO cognac was extracted from the pregnant liquor cabinet and Napoleon's snifter was placed earnestly in front of me. The amber liquid passed my nose, touched my lips, and entered my greedy mouth. Not only was this the best cognac I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, it was the best adult beverage I've ever sampled. Not only that, Napoleon winked on my devilish satiation.
Because moments last only that long, the Tour de Gin began with a polite clatter. We started at home and made our way toward and through the exotic. Bombay Sapphire, Bluecoat, G Vine, Hendrick's. As far as gin goes, which is further than you can see, Hendrick's was bliss. Somehow a section of the quarry of my mind remained intact so Ty-ku sake, Zubrowka vodka, and Vieux Carre absinthe were prepped. The absinthe must have been the final stick of dynamite for I don't recall drinking it.
Sitting else. Where? Dinner for breakfast, the most important duality of the day(s). "I can't" or "I'll...", "stay." I was painting the parking lot red. Or yellow. Ochre. I passed on green, I'm allergic to avocado. Never stop sitting/spinning. Mostly on a bed, I pull the light sheets over me to keep out the flies and the mo(u)rning.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Dave's Blog
http://thiswitness.org/category/places/unitedstates/
Dave is doing a picture and excerpt style blog. Hopefully this will give people a more rounded view of what we are doing.
Dave is doing a picture and excerpt style blog. Hopefully this will give people a more rounded view of what we are doing.
An Hourglass World
Finally the moon is full. This means time is passing during this trip. The world turns under our Circadian tires. West Virginia is like a demure African America, quiet and dark. With the moon on its side the sky is brighter than the earth. The trees bow in obsequious humility creating a humble silhouette. Up and Down trade roles to see how it feels and they enjoy it more than they probably should. Lightening bugs flash under the moon in the black area that once was scenery. The cosmos has never been so close. Their forces are tangibly near. Sharing an awe that spans mans' entire sojourn in existence, I pray to the infinite.
How I Cope
There are people
like me,
not unlike
you.
The same people
like you
occlude me.
Use our mouths-
tequila,
talking-
to smile.
like me,
not unlike
you.
The same people
like you
occlude me.
Use our mouths-
tequila,
talking-
to smile.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
I Touched Brock
My presence in Atlanta, Georgia and the performance of Nero's Day at Disneyland aligned like stars. As it happens, a significant portion of my Berkeley friends were with me. The venue was an umbrella art studio with large empty rooms and hospital corridors cured with hanging, splattered, chalked art. In the center of one of the miscarried wombs of the building stood a keyboard burnished by orgiastic fingers and a pile of wired boxes. The sound from the single amplifier could have been made by a rabid Jackson Pollock pleasuring himself with an anachronistic 15th century AC powered vibrator.
We lingered as do the indifferent souls on a clouded day in the Elysian Fields, our brains trying to repair and make sense of the sonic battering they had just endured. A large chalk covered wall fulfilled its role as a conversation piece as we fell in with an adjacent couple. Being super-charged by A. the music, B. the beer, or C. the combination platter, we both declared a dance party and invited the nearby strangers in a single excited breath.
In a house that I didn't live in, with people I didn't know, and with a sound system I wished I owned, I handled the digital turn tables with glistening zeal. By two or three a.m., bodies had disappeared or lay prostrate in little pools of sweat around the premises.
We lingered as do the indifferent souls on a clouded day in the Elysian Fields, our brains trying to repair and make sense of the sonic battering they had just endured. A large chalk covered wall fulfilled its role as a conversation piece as we fell in with an adjacent couple. Being super-charged by A. the music, B. the beer, or C. the combination platter, we both declared a dance party and invited the nearby strangers in a single excited breath.
In a house that I didn't live in, with people I didn't know, and with a sound system I wished I owned, I handled the digital turn tables with glistening zeal. By two or three a.m., bodies had disappeared or lay prostrate in little pools of sweat around the premises.
Mouth Stuff
Alright, I'm going to do it. I'm going to tell you what food I've been eating.
At first I ate lots of stuff just in the car (granola bars, fruit and nut bars, trail mix, Wheat Thins) but I have switched over to real meals, probably because we have been through states with cities in them. Crazy thing.
In Austin, Texas I ate pizza that was paper thin and pathetic looking but had a surprising flavor impact. To follow it up I devoured ice cream of which Cold Stone's business model is based. I also ate Whataburger, which is a fast food burger place in the South. It is not good but is probably better than say... Burger King.
Still in Texas (it's a large place) I visited Salt Lick. This was boasted by many as the best BBQ. By my standards, it was delicious. I had a sausage sandwich. Their sauce is quite unique and Dave and I couldn't get enough of it.
In Houston, Texas I had what I was told is traditional Texan BBQ. I only tasted Dave's because I was experiencing my typical stomach discomfort. I wasn't too thrilled with Good and Co. BBQ, mainly because of their tomato based sauce, which tasted like marinara sauce to me. If you know me, you know why I wasn't pleased. The meat was still really good.
In Louisiana I tasted my first Cajun/Creole food. It blew my mind. I had been drinking and that has been known to skew one's perception of the quality of a meal, but this food was amazing. I had jambalaya and Dave had gumbo, my first time trying either and both were really good. We had bread pudding with a whiskey sauce for dessert, an excellent finish to our already stellar meal.
In one day... I had my first beignet, which is a French doughnut. The wait was stupid long and the beignet tasted like a burnt funnel cake. Not the best. Immediately after, we walked across the street and ate breakfast. I ordered a Cajun omelet, which had some of the same things I had the last night but wrapped in egg. It wasn't the same mastery of the food so it was merely acceptable. I also had grits, pretty good. Only around two hours after, we went to the apparent birthplace of the muffaletta. Dave and I both had half (they are gigantic). It was probably one of the best sandwich shaped things I've ever had in my mouth. For those of you who don't know, a muffaletta is an Italian sandwich that has salami (maybe another meat), gruyere, and the best goddamn olive spread ever. It was almost unreasonable. I almost took it back and spat in the chef's face, it was so good.
After arriving in Atlanta Georgia, DT took us to a bar (this is the same day, mind you). We ate fried sea food and drank beer.
In Atlanta I ate breakfast at The Flying Biscuit. It was tasty but I was feeling stomach sick. The grits here altered my perception of grits forever making me believe I love them.
DT took us to a pizza place called Antico. This was one of the best meal experiences in my life. It seems unfair to rate it so highly because I had only one slice of pizza (again, stomach issues) but the atmosphere of the place heightened the experience. After ordering, we squeezed by seated people and found the kitchen. The kitchen felt like an Italian wedding party. The chefs were making pizzas, people were carrying around six packs and bottles of wine, and the large tables were full of large portions of food. The place was bursting with convivial harmony. Before our pizzas were ready, the older woman, the matriarch of her rosy cheeked family, told Dave that if he kissed her on the cheek, she'd give us a bottle of wine. Obviously, we gained a bottle of wine. The food was by far the best pizza I've ever had and the wine was an added bonus. For one of the first times, I felt connected with the people around me through a simple love for food. It had that European glow that I pathetically long for.
Ate breakfast at West Egg. Good but not great. DT claims he knows the where abouts of the best garlic fries in the world. I shall see and report back to you.
Fun side note: Subway is everywhere. I've seen it every state. Sonic is a big deal in the South. People actually go to Dairy Queen. Chili's is the most common sit-down restaurant. In the South East, Carl's Jr. is called Hardee's.
P.S. If you want to comment on any of my entries, please do. It makes me feel like people are actually reading and I'd like to know what people think.
At first I ate lots of stuff just in the car (granola bars, fruit and nut bars, trail mix, Wheat Thins) but I have switched over to real meals, probably because we have been through states with cities in them. Crazy thing.
In Austin, Texas I ate pizza that was paper thin and pathetic looking but had a surprising flavor impact. To follow it up I devoured ice cream of which Cold Stone's business model is based. I also ate Whataburger, which is a fast food burger place in the South. It is not good but is probably better than say... Burger King.
Still in Texas (it's a large place) I visited Salt Lick. This was boasted by many as the best BBQ. By my standards, it was delicious. I had a sausage sandwich. Their sauce is quite unique and Dave and I couldn't get enough of it.
In Houston, Texas I had what I was told is traditional Texan BBQ. I only tasted Dave's because I was experiencing my typical stomach discomfort. I wasn't too thrilled with Good and Co. BBQ, mainly because of their tomato based sauce, which tasted like marinara sauce to me. If you know me, you know why I wasn't pleased. The meat was still really good.
In Louisiana I tasted my first Cajun/Creole food. It blew my mind. I had been drinking and that has been known to skew one's perception of the quality of a meal, but this food was amazing. I had jambalaya and Dave had gumbo, my first time trying either and both were really good. We had bread pudding with a whiskey sauce for dessert, an excellent finish to our already stellar meal.
In one day... I had my first beignet, which is a French doughnut. The wait was stupid long and the beignet tasted like a burnt funnel cake. Not the best. Immediately after, we walked across the street and ate breakfast. I ordered a Cajun omelet, which had some of the same things I had the last night but wrapped in egg. It wasn't the same mastery of the food so it was merely acceptable. I also had grits, pretty good. Only around two hours after, we went to the apparent birthplace of the muffaletta. Dave and I both had half (they are gigantic). It was probably one of the best sandwich shaped things I've ever had in my mouth. For those of you who don't know, a muffaletta is an Italian sandwich that has salami (maybe another meat), gruyere, and the best goddamn olive spread ever. It was almost unreasonable. I almost took it back and spat in the chef's face, it was so good.
After arriving in Atlanta Georgia, DT took us to a bar (this is the same day, mind you). We ate fried sea food and drank beer.
In Atlanta I ate breakfast at The Flying Biscuit. It was tasty but I was feeling stomach sick. The grits here altered my perception of grits forever making me believe I love them.
DT took us to a pizza place called Antico. This was one of the best meal experiences in my life. It seems unfair to rate it so highly because I had only one slice of pizza (again, stomach issues) but the atmosphere of the place heightened the experience. After ordering, we squeezed by seated people and found the kitchen. The kitchen felt like an Italian wedding party. The chefs were making pizzas, people were carrying around six packs and bottles of wine, and the large tables were full of large portions of food. The place was bursting with convivial harmony. Before our pizzas were ready, the older woman, the matriarch of her rosy cheeked family, told Dave that if he kissed her on the cheek, she'd give us a bottle of wine. Obviously, we gained a bottle of wine. The food was by far the best pizza I've ever had and the wine was an added bonus. For one of the first times, I felt connected with the people around me through a simple love for food. It had that European glow that I pathetically long for.
Ate breakfast at West Egg. Good but not great. DT claims he knows the where abouts of the best garlic fries in the world. I shall see and report back to you.
Fun side note: Subway is everywhere. I've seen it every state. Sonic is a big deal in the South. People actually go to Dairy Queen. Chili's is the most common sit-down restaurant. In the South East, Carl's Jr. is called Hardee's.
P.S. If you want to comment on any of my entries, please do. It makes me feel like people are actually reading and I'd like to know what people think.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Draw and Quarter
New Orleans has been repeatedly suggested to me from friends, acquaintances, and books alike. From the names of the streets and places to the assumed cultural presence, a remembrance of Europe, like an intoxicated vein in the body, fills the avenues of the French Quarter. It has been described to me as a consented marriage between America and Europe. I can't quote directly, but Henry Miller proclaimed this area as the last hope in the U.S. The only remaining piece of inspired living.
Within me lies a passion for Europe. A dormant longing, wishes to express my human need to stumble drunkenly, although not necessarily from drink, through streets and alleys made with stone, and to absorb a transcendent level of peace sitting in outdoor cafes, enjoying sentences and grammatical acrobatics without grasping the meaning of paragraphs. I want to watch on with awesome laudation as two chess masters battle for the board in the prime of their lives. Europe envelop me. Welter me in common courtesy and let us drink until dawn when the only things left open are the harlots.
My expectations come to a boil and brim through a glassy eyed state of excited pleasure as I take in my first dose of New Orleans. The streets teem with people. I'm drinking a beer as we walk by people already at the threshold of inebriation. Houses and shops line my peripheral vision that help my mind construct a truer picture of France. My elation grows with my belly of beer.
A tinge of distaste is crawling up the dark side of my tongue. A sickness begins to make its way from my heart to my cognitive cogs. As we hack our way further into the Bourbon Street jungle, I notice novelty. A pathetic tourist attraction, like a sibling of wicked Las Vegas. It feels like the French Quarter is in chains, being flogged and forced to birth the product that is expected from many years of advertisement, whether malignant or benign. Nothing can stay pure in America. We choke anything that has any significance. The Grand Canyon has become a quick stop and "ooh-aah" on the way home. Carlsbad Caverns is lined with railings and suggestions colder than the cave itself and a gift shop poisoning its innards. The French Quarter of New Orleans is just a place to make money off the people who want 'the experience.' Everything in our land of liberty is a roadside attraction.
Perhaps this is the basis for the artist's desire for Europe. They've all ran to her. The only thing I can think, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal on the stage of my brain, is if Europe has become like America. I shudder but play it off as a chill from my sweating Perrier so that hope is not jinxed.
Within me lies a passion for Europe. A dormant longing, wishes to express my human need to stumble drunkenly, although not necessarily from drink, through streets and alleys made with stone, and to absorb a transcendent level of peace sitting in outdoor cafes, enjoying sentences and grammatical acrobatics without grasping the meaning of paragraphs. I want to watch on with awesome laudation as two chess masters battle for the board in the prime of their lives. Europe envelop me. Welter me in common courtesy and let us drink until dawn when the only things left open are the harlots.
My expectations come to a boil and brim through a glassy eyed state of excited pleasure as I take in my first dose of New Orleans. The streets teem with people. I'm drinking a beer as we walk by people already at the threshold of inebriation. Houses and shops line my peripheral vision that help my mind construct a truer picture of France. My elation grows with my belly of beer.
A tinge of distaste is crawling up the dark side of my tongue. A sickness begins to make its way from my heart to my cognitive cogs. As we hack our way further into the Bourbon Street jungle, I notice novelty. A pathetic tourist attraction, like a sibling of wicked Las Vegas. It feels like the French Quarter is in chains, being flogged and forced to birth the product that is expected from many years of advertisement, whether malignant or benign. Nothing can stay pure in America. We choke anything that has any significance. The Grand Canyon has become a quick stop and "ooh-aah" on the way home. Carlsbad Caverns is lined with railings and suggestions colder than the cave itself and a gift shop poisoning its innards. The French Quarter of New Orleans is just a place to make money off the people who want 'the experience.' Everything in our land of liberty is a roadside attraction.
Perhaps this is the basis for the artist's desire for Europe. They've all ran to her. The only thing I can think, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal on the stage of my brain, is if Europe has become like America. I shudder but play it off as a chill from my sweating Perrier so that hope is not jinxed.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Inside Earth
Comparing Carlsbad Caverns to Hades, with its spacious, dank rooms where souls could while away or to an under water diving adventure with the coral-esque formations and blue-black crevices or to another world altogether, one where the ceiling could be the floor, where faces seem to pop out of stalagmites, a carnival fun room, would be as repetitive as a cat call off the sonorous walls of the cave, so I won't.
The rooms of the cavern are more like the lonely rooms in a castle where an only daughter of some passed and forgotten king stays. The big room, cleverly its actual title, would have been the girl's quarters. A mansion room characteristically too large for just one person, with specific areas for daily solitary living. Many of the walls are hidden by luxurious curtains; draperies to give the bare and neutral color some essence of wealth, so that any onlooker could say to himself, "impressive."
As I stroll around the deliberate paths I have the distinct impression that I am taking an evening walk in a French or English park, narrowing the possible locations of our castle. There are stone formations that remind me of trees, shadowed in dramatic lighting that act in my imagination as streetlights. It is a chilly night and I can feel it in my numbing fingertips.
I re-enter the equally cold castle. For entertainment or, more likely, a distraction from solidarity, there are the remains of stages for puppets. A grand place where shows of doll escapades in fairyland and exotic Chinese and Arabian frame tales were once enacted. The auditoriums are pink, white, orange, giving brightness to corners of the cave and rising edges of mouths.
The whimsical attractions of the derelict theaters die away as I enter the damsel's bedroom. A sense of warmth hangs in the room like a mist resting on the cavern's floor. The surely opulent bed cannot be found but there are hundreds of candles in its place. In different stages of size and therefore life, the candles creep everywhere with waxen tentacles, exploring their frozen environment. There are large piles, skinny strands, and millions of years of naturally flowing build up that give the area a dangerous yet enchanting aura.
Seeing signs for 'elevator' and 'gift shop' is like getting a 44 ounce glass of wine thrown in my face. The tourist's necessities are like pollution in the exclusive magnificence of the caverns. I stare at the floor of the elevator, wishing to project myself through sight back into that magical and mysterious place my mind had roamed.
The rooms of the cavern are more like the lonely rooms in a castle where an only daughter of some passed and forgotten king stays. The big room, cleverly its actual title, would have been the girl's quarters. A mansion room characteristically too large for just one person, with specific areas for daily solitary living. Many of the walls are hidden by luxurious curtains; draperies to give the bare and neutral color some essence of wealth, so that any onlooker could say to himself, "impressive."
As I stroll around the deliberate paths I have the distinct impression that I am taking an evening walk in a French or English park, narrowing the possible locations of our castle. There are stone formations that remind me of trees, shadowed in dramatic lighting that act in my imagination as streetlights. It is a chilly night and I can feel it in my numbing fingertips.
I re-enter the equally cold castle. For entertainment or, more likely, a distraction from solidarity, there are the remains of stages for puppets. A grand place where shows of doll escapades in fairyland and exotic Chinese and Arabian frame tales were once enacted. The auditoriums are pink, white, orange, giving brightness to corners of the cave and rising edges of mouths.
The whimsical attractions of the derelict theaters die away as I enter the damsel's bedroom. A sense of warmth hangs in the room like a mist resting on the cavern's floor. The surely opulent bed cannot be found but there are hundreds of candles in its place. In different stages of size and therefore life, the candles creep everywhere with waxen tentacles, exploring their frozen environment. There are large piles, skinny strands, and millions of years of naturally flowing build up that give the area a dangerous yet enchanting aura.
Seeing signs for 'elevator' and 'gift shop' is like getting a 44 ounce glass of wine thrown in my face. The tourist's necessities are like pollution in the exclusive magnificence of the caverns. I stare at the floor of the elevator, wishing to project myself through sight back into that magical and mysterious place my mind had roamed.
Action/Location Two
Forgot to mention that I hiked into the Grand Canyon and explored a cave. Very physically taxing.
Visited Roswell, New Mexico.
Went to Carlsbad Caverns.
Stayed with some more friends of David. Very awkward for an awkward me.
Went to White Sands. The nuclear bomb was test very near. It was blinding.
Drove across half of Texas. Don't let the map fool you. That place IS its own country.
Spent a day in Austin. Exciting city, wish I knew people here.
Stayed with Rebecca, Dave's ex, the first night.
Stayed in a hotel by myself the second night because I couldn't deal with being around people I didn't know and I wished to be alone and catch up on writing. I hope this benefits you.
Currently: Sitting in a coffee shop called Once Over, waiting for Dave's call so we can eat the BBQ that everyone suggested and move on.
I should not have had coffee. I can't resist.
Visited Roswell, New Mexico.
Went to Carlsbad Caverns.
Stayed with some more friends of David. Very awkward for an awkward me.
Went to White Sands. The nuclear bomb was test very near. It was blinding.
Drove across half of Texas. Don't let the map fool you. That place IS its own country.
Spent a day in Austin. Exciting city, wish I knew people here.
Stayed with Rebecca, Dave's ex, the first night.
Stayed in a hotel by myself the second night because I couldn't deal with being around people I didn't know and I wished to be alone and catch up on writing. I hope this benefits you.
Currently: Sitting in a coffee shop called Once Over, waiting for Dave's call so we can eat the BBQ that everyone suggested and move on.
I should not have had coffee. I can't resist.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Endless Endless
Begin with the sunset.
It is red. A hue of red found more commonly in fantasy stories. A color that doesn't really exist, until you see it yourself from the side of highway 66 in New Mexico. As the sun disappears it leaves in its wake red cursive strewn across the lower sky, portent but hardly legible.
I woke up near the Grand Canyon for the last time. Breakfast eggs were accompanied by homemade biscuits and gravy. We packed up and shipped off. Flagstaff is the small town that the surrounding small towners visit. The coffee shop we stopped at belonged in a culturally rich city such as San Francisco or New York and I felt both out of place and at home. There was a new brand of hipsters there. These held onto the hippy part of the word and had a dirty biker native American feel. Somehow, we managed to also eat passable Greek food.
We drove. Driving has become less a choir or boring interim. It feels more natural and Dave and I have immersed ourselves in the system. Despite our familiarity with the task, we weren't going to make it in time to our next destination, Santa Fe, New Mexico. We phoned the people we were supposed to camp with and meditated another day long venture.
Night driving in rural areas is more absolute than its urban counterpart. Once the moon, or lately lack of moon, takes over, the world changes dimensions. The once expansive landscape where an eye can be lost in a glance is reduced to about the vicinity of one's vehicle and the occasional retro reflective sign. This produces Indian ink darkness and a milky bright sky. The stars are everywhere above the horizon instead of just up. They can be seen while peering straight ahead.
Due to this visual and mental fog, I had no concept of my surroundings except in relation to what I had seen during sunset. We arrived in what signs told was forest but I had qualms against camping. I'm still uncomfortable with the idea of insects on my skin. I convinced Dave to push deeper into the night to Roswell, our next point of interest.
The sky between us and Roswell, New Mexico was lightning. Far off thunderheads rumbled and glowed like a faulty night light. My predisposition toward the famously kitsch town was of particular eeriness. I'm not convinced in the slightest of the existence of extraterrestrials but a place can take on extra sensual properties entirely through word of mouth. It wasn't a fear I felt, rather a readiness for something unexpected. The hour of day may be in part blamed, but my impression of the town upon entry neared disappointment. It was small and scarce.
Endless Lakes. Another example of how the name or reputation of a place can affect perception. This was the only nearby camp site and our place of repose. The site seemed empty. Endless lakes, endless sky, endless. All we could see while driving were pools of black water that rivaled the sky in color. The road seemed to be endless and the campsite areas were hidden by the mere suggestion of the site's name.
We parked the car on what felt like the side of a dirt road. Dave, rugged and determined, vanished into darkness to sleep under the stars. He returned as I was calculatedly hunting mosquitos that were let into the car, my chosen place of rest. He reported that his skin had been ambushed by the insects and could no longer persist.
It was a hot night but we left the windows to their erect vigil so that our only defense against the blood hungry bugs remained in place. I perspired more than slept. At some unknown hour, a truck's headlights pierced our windows. My body locked and my eyes followed the truck. It parked directly behind us on the opposite side of the dirt road. I felt like my heart could be the still running engine of the truck. Two men exited the large thing and began walking toward our dead car. They stopped and had some sort of interaction in the glow of their rear lights. I couldn't tell what they were talking about nor which direction they were looking for they were silhouettes against the red. After a seemingly endless period, the dark beings walked back to their respective places in the cab. I lowered the hand that hovered over Dave's shoulder.
Sweating from the musty heat of breathing bodies and my sympathetic nervous system, I sat wide eyed in the darkness. An endless, sleepless night.
It is red. A hue of red found more commonly in fantasy stories. A color that doesn't really exist, until you see it yourself from the side of highway 66 in New Mexico. As the sun disappears it leaves in its wake red cursive strewn across the lower sky, portent but hardly legible.
I woke up near the Grand Canyon for the last time. Breakfast eggs were accompanied by homemade biscuits and gravy. We packed up and shipped off. Flagstaff is the small town that the surrounding small towners visit. The coffee shop we stopped at belonged in a culturally rich city such as San Francisco or New York and I felt both out of place and at home. There was a new brand of hipsters there. These held onto the hippy part of the word and had a dirty biker native American feel. Somehow, we managed to also eat passable Greek food.
We drove. Driving has become less a choir or boring interim. It feels more natural and Dave and I have immersed ourselves in the system. Despite our familiarity with the task, we weren't going to make it in time to our next destination, Santa Fe, New Mexico. We phoned the people we were supposed to camp with and meditated another day long venture.
Night driving in rural areas is more absolute than its urban counterpart. Once the moon, or lately lack of moon, takes over, the world changes dimensions. The once expansive landscape where an eye can be lost in a glance is reduced to about the vicinity of one's vehicle and the occasional retro reflective sign. This produces Indian ink darkness and a milky bright sky. The stars are everywhere above the horizon instead of just up. They can be seen while peering straight ahead.
Due to this visual and mental fog, I had no concept of my surroundings except in relation to what I had seen during sunset. We arrived in what signs told was forest but I had qualms against camping. I'm still uncomfortable with the idea of insects on my skin. I convinced Dave to push deeper into the night to Roswell, our next point of interest.
The sky between us and Roswell, New Mexico was lightning. Far off thunderheads rumbled and glowed like a faulty night light. My predisposition toward the famously kitsch town was of particular eeriness. I'm not convinced in the slightest of the existence of extraterrestrials but a place can take on extra sensual properties entirely through word of mouth. It wasn't a fear I felt, rather a readiness for something unexpected. The hour of day may be in part blamed, but my impression of the town upon entry neared disappointment. It was small and scarce.
Endless Lakes. Another example of how the name or reputation of a place can affect perception. This was the only nearby camp site and our place of repose. The site seemed empty. Endless lakes, endless sky, endless. All we could see while driving were pools of black water that rivaled the sky in color. The road seemed to be endless and the campsite areas were hidden by the mere suggestion of the site's name.
We parked the car on what felt like the side of a dirt road. Dave, rugged and determined, vanished into darkness to sleep under the stars. He returned as I was calculatedly hunting mosquitos that were let into the car, my chosen place of rest. He reported that his skin had been ambushed by the insects and could no longer persist.
It was a hot night but we left the windows to their erect vigil so that our only defense against the blood hungry bugs remained in place. I perspired more than slept. At some unknown hour, a truck's headlights pierced our windows. My body locked and my eyes followed the truck. It parked directly behind us on the opposite side of the dirt road. I felt like my heart could be the still running engine of the truck. Two men exited the large thing and began walking toward our dead car. They stopped and had some sort of interaction in the glow of their rear lights. I couldn't tell what they were talking about nor which direction they were looking for they were silhouettes against the red. After a seemingly endless period, the dark beings walked back to their respective places in the cab. I lowered the hand that hovered over Dave's shoulder.
Sweating from the musty heat of breathing bodies and my sympathetic nervous system, I sat wide eyed in the darkness. An endless, sleepless night.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Sun
Dave knew someone who worked for the Grand Canyon giving tours. That person wasn't in Arizona so he pawned us off on friends of his. These people, small town people, canyon people are a people of their own. Everything is Grand Canyon. They bounce facts like puns and exchange hiking stories instead of drinking stories.
In this place, the sunset is entertainment. It is referred to as such, "we are going to sunset at 8." It is spoken of as if it were a fond friend. I couldn't tell if they wanted to show us the sunset of our lives or if they were genuinely excited but plans to see sunset were discussed and planned like Thanksgiving. A sack of beer was packed and the Subaru Outback was filled. Head nods and casual hand gestures got us through the toll entrances to the park; tourists sat in lines, the futility of their endeavor rising sharply with the sun's decent. The Subaru carved curves of tour bus exclusive roads and was parked at a harsh angle: a warning to any approaching buses.
We sat at the canyon's edge on blankets made to look like those of her native keepers. A Tecate in one hand and a camera phone in the other, I was prepared for a sunset to be burned into my skull. The sun slid slowly down a foreground of corpulent clouds in horizontal lines, thinning their dimensions by lining them with gold. Clouds not touched by the sun's benevolence dropped virga like cowhands dusting off their bandannas at the end of the day. Jess, the only girl but seemingly the most canyon acquainted of the group, was so afflicted that I thought she'd fall off the crest in her bemused bustling about.
As a finale to the sunset, rain began to fall. We made our way to the car, cameras held tenderly to chests and a bag of empty cans where once were full. We faced the tourists on the road ledge like the winning team does to its defeated but with almost no respect.
In this place, the sunset is entertainment. It is referred to as such, "we are going to sunset at 8." It is spoken of as if it were a fond friend. I couldn't tell if they wanted to show us the sunset of our lives or if they were genuinely excited but plans to see sunset were discussed and planned like Thanksgiving. A sack of beer was packed and the Subaru Outback was filled. Head nods and casual hand gestures got us through the toll entrances to the park; tourists sat in lines, the futility of their endeavor rising sharply with the sun's decent. The Subaru carved curves of tour bus exclusive roads and was parked at a harsh angle: a warning to any approaching buses.
We sat at the canyon's edge on blankets made to look like those of her native keepers. A Tecate in one hand and a camera phone in the other, I was prepared for a sunset to be burned into my skull. The sun slid slowly down a foreground of corpulent clouds in horizontal lines, thinning their dimensions by lining them with gold. Clouds not touched by the sun's benevolence dropped virga like cowhands dusting off their bandannas at the end of the day. Jess, the only girl but seemingly the most canyon acquainted of the group, was so afflicted that I thought she'd fall off the crest in her bemused bustling about.
As a finale to the sunset, rain began to fall. We made our way to the car, cameras held tenderly to chests and a bag of empty cans where once were full. We faced the tourists on the road ledge like the winning team does to its defeated but with almost no respect.
Action/Location One
Start: Lancaster, California.
Passed through Las Vegas, Nevada (that place is hell)
First stop: Hoover Dam
Rode bicycles across Hoover Dam and sweat all the water out of my body.
Cooled off in Lake Mead which wasn't all that cool.
Passed into Utah and slept at an unofficial camp site near a river. All of the roads and much of the soil is red.
Went to Zion National Park.
Dave and I hiked the most difficult trail available. This was my first hike.
Saw the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in the same day. I didn't cry because I'm a man.
Drove through some of the night because the Canyon is reservation only for campers.
Camped in Lees Ferry, Arizona.
Woke up in a beautiful desert that we had never seen before.
Drove to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.
Saw tourist sites.
Rode our bikes along the rim.
Made sandwiches with supplies from the only store
Met friend's of Dave's friend.
Stayed with them for two nights.
Currently posting in Flagstaff, Arizona.
Passed through Las Vegas, Nevada (that place is hell)
First stop: Hoover Dam
Rode bicycles across Hoover Dam and sweat all the water out of my body.
Cooled off in Lake Mead which wasn't all that cool.
Passed into Utah and slept at an unofficial camp site near a river. All of the roads and much of the soil is red.
Went to Zion National Park.
Dave and I hiked the most difficult trail available. This was my first hike.
Saw the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in the same day. I didn't cry because I'm a man.
Drove through some of the night because the Canyon is reservation only for campers.
Camped in Lees Ferry, Arizona.
Woke up in a beautiful desert that we had never seen before.
Drove to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.
Saw tourist sites.
Rode our bikes along the rim.
Made sandwiches with supplies from the only store
Met friend's of Dave's friend.
Stayed with them for two nights.
Currently posting in Flagstaff, Arizona.
Begin
Introductory post engage.
I want you who want to know what I am doing to know what I am doing. For this purpose I will make a bullet list of activities and locations. I'm not going to write journal entries because that would bore me. But you will have the pleasure or discomfort of reading about particular incidents. Introductory post power down.
I want you who want to know what I am doing to know what I am doing. For this purpose I will make a bullet list of activities and locations. I'm not going to write journal entries because that would bore me. But you will have the pleasure or discomfort of reading about particular incidents. Introductory post power down.
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