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22 December 2023
AIN'T NO FOOLIN' AROUND WITH THIS - DAY ELEVEN & TWELVE
By the time we actually left Minnesota, we had all established that we were glad we came so close to the North Pole. And, if you ask me, that’s the way it ought to be. How can you live without looking back? Not only should you be able to look back, but you should be able to do it with a lopsided smile.
Well, we had two days to get from Minnesota to Austin, Texas to see the White Stripes perform. We could feel the trip coming to an end. It was like facing a lonely dessert out on an otherwise empty table. Kind of sad, but kind of a good feeling, because whenever you find yourself staring at dessert, you know two things: 1. It’s not over yet, and 2. Whatever’s in store for you is bound to be sweet.
1:38PM
“You’re supposed to be passing in this lane, ass-fuck.”
By nighttime we had made it all the way to Wichita. We dragged our luggage up the stairs of a motel that looked like a college dorm. Then we watched an old silent western on TV that seemed never to end. It was one of those things where the girl was always getting into trouble and being kidnapped by some man with a beard, and the cowboy with the blonde hair who never had to shave was always running off to rescue her.
I wish I could tell you of how we witnessed a bank being robbed the next day and just nearly escaped the bullets, sliding over the hood of the car and ducking for cover. Or of how we were converted by a small group of religious fanatics that we gave a ride to. Hell, I wish I could tell you that we robbed a bank or converted a small group of religious fanatics. But if I told you that, I’m afraid I’d be lying.
We did pass a dead tree in an orange-colored field that made us feel like we were passing an Edgar Allan Poe story, though.
“Oklahoma City - 94 miles”
“Oklahoma City - 84 miles”
“Oklahoma City - 78 miles”
By the time we turned onto 8th street in Austin, it was dark.
THE BEES WILL FIND THE HONEY SOON - DAY THIRTEEN & FOURTEEN
Quite frankly, the temperature down there should be illegal.
The sun was evil. The clothes on our bodies felt like hot tar, and our faces were on the verge of falling into a puddle around our feet. I’ll never think of heat the same way again.
I’ll also never think of Texas in the same way again. Austin really does it credit. I had ideas of it being an endless wasteland, inhabited by a whole population of egotistical rednecks, convinced they should be their own country, and that there’s no need ever to leave the state line behind-– or, God forbid, venture into another country.
To begin with, there were streets of old brick buildings, reminding you of how the towns used to look in this country. Then there were the people. I believe they were better mannered than the populations of most East and West Coast cities. They were sincere, and willing to dig you out of any hole you might have gotten yourself into. Except the guy behind the counter at our motel-– he looked like he needed to hit something with a fly-swatter to feel better.
SWIMMING
We’d been dying to jump in a lake since the day we left L.A., and now our chance to wear bathing suits had come. We went to a natural spring right before the concert, and spent about 40 minutes of precious time just getting into the water,.. it was cold. After a hearty swim (roughly about ten seconds), we took a break. While Alex was commenting on the shape of her ass, a group of little boys walked by, who all cracked up laughing like there was no tomorrow. Needless to say, she made their day-– and they followed us around for the rest of the afternoon.
ART
We went to two different museums. The most impressive artwork was a television set with a muted newsreel that we had completely overseen the first time we walked through. Only when I was done with the whole exhibit and on the verge of walking out did it dawn on me that usually there aren’t any newsreels playing in art museums. So I approached it and realized that the news reporters' solemn frowns were accompanied by a text that came from some 15-year-old fat kid who had just been dumped by his girlfriend. It was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. We stayed about a half-hour longer, reading the text that went along with the muted images of reporters. I dubbed the artist a genius. I mean, these texts were so immaculately random-- so incredibly stupid, wonderfully inept, and beautifully primitive-– that you would have to place the author on the level of Bukowski to do him justice. It was beyond me how someone could have thought up this stuff; and then we read the label beside the TV which explained the texts were live off Internet chatrooms.
BARS
The first one we went into was filled to the brim with hippies who met out in the back to smoke pot. The second one was empty because we’d come too early, but we stayed there until it was full-– by that time there was a live band playing, and we had become soul mates with the bartender, who refused to make us pay for the drinks.
AFTER THE CONCERT
After we got home from the concert, we were probably dead. It’s hard to tell, because my brain went into hibernation as soon as we stumbled out of Stubbs BBQ.
"BELIEVE ME, DADDY. I'VE GOT A CADILLAC FRAME." - DAY FIFTEEN
The next morning we all felt like we’d been out drinking past 6AM. Really, we’d all been in bed by 2AM, sober. But my head was pounding, and every joint in my body hurt. We were drained. The heat and the trip had slaughtered us. This was the road trip hangover. I sat with my fingers clawed around a cup of tea, my mind shattered into millions of little bits. It’s unfair that you are forced to feel like shit after you drink; it’s even worse when you feel like shit after not drinking.
I’d lost track of what day it was, and stopped taking notes in my book at this point. All I knew was that it was a Thursday, and that we were going to drive back to L.A. without stopping for the night-– and, most of all, I knew that I wanted to die in peace.
We left the city on the 290 West, and, for some reason, got into a terribly deep discussion on why Carson Daly works for MTV. (You really can’t rationally account for half the conversations you have on the road.) My headache disappeared soon afterward, and suddenly the trip seemed satisfying again.
1:26PM
A cop pulled us over and told us we were five miles over the speed limit, which meant he was just bored out of his wits and wanted to use his sirens. He ceremoniously let us off with a warning, and then listened with blank little eyes as Beth pulled out her camera and asked if she could film him: “We’re on a road trip, and I like your hat and stuff.”
“Well, hurry up, because we have to get to work.”
It was funny. He acted like the people he pulled over asked to film him every time, and, quite frankly, it was becoming a drag to him.
3:00PM
We hit the 10 West, and became officially homeward bound. It felt bizarre after all this time. There was just as much thrill as there was nostalgia.
5:18PM - TORNADO WARNING
I was in the middle of being overcharged at a gas station when the sirens went off. The clouds outside were green, and it looked like the friction of the sky was ready to send us a masterpiece of a tornado. I know I should have worried more about it, but my attention was diverted by the fact that the lady behind the counter had charged me two dollars for a cup of hot water. And when I walked out of the store, I felt like I’d been robbed of logic. Why would someone charge two dollars for water? Thank God I had friends to explain it to me: “Well, you’re bound to run into one dikey asshole on the road.”
By 6:25 in the evening we began to have serious doubts about whether Texas would ever end. And by 7:44, Beth had decided to give us a heart attack by yelling out: “Oh, shit! A tornado!”
9:43PM
We hit a mysterious traffic jam that brought a whole freeway of cars to a standstill. People began to turn off their engines and just sit with wide-eyed apathy. Beth and Alex were saying they saw strange, white, little creatures walking around on the median. Geese? Aliens?
“Maybe this is a government conspiracy, and they’re trying to divert our attention with geese.”
Whatever the reason, we panicked without really knowing what to panic about. It’s that vague feeling of unrest that you get when the person in the driver’s seat is the one with the revoked license. The traffic wasn’t moving, we smelled cops up ahead, and eventually Beth said it was a better idea for her to take over the wheel again.
What followed should have gotten some kind of award. Beth got out in the back, while Alex ran around the car to change seats with her. Then Beth’s dress flew up in the air, she screamed and jumped back in the car. Alex, for lack of a better thing to do, ran back around and jumped into the driver’s seat, laughing until the tears came dripping down her chin. Besides Alex, there was also the truck driver next to us laughing, whom Beth began to call nasty names. We were in the midst of the aftermath of embarrassment when the traffic began moving again, and Alex was still behind the wheel. So, folks, I jumped out one side, and Alex and I crossed around the front of the car on a freeway in full swing. I jumped into the driver’s seat, tried starting up the engine, everyone screamed, “THE CAR’S ON ALREADY!”, so I pushed the gas pedal, and we jolted into motion. We lived happily ever after-– with our hearts pounding like rabbits staring down a shotgun barrel.
When 5AM came ‘round, we were listening to a new Blind Willie McTell compilation we found in Austin.
“...Come here, mama, with that can of booze / I’ve got the dyin’ crapshootin’ blues,...”
We just listened to song after song while the night went by, and my stomach was up in my mouth somewhere. Blind Willie’s voice is black magic. I’ll never figure it out.
By the time the desert sky turned pale purple, we were vegetables.
Beth took over the wheel with her two hours of sleep, and I crawled into the backseat. It was definitely the most delicious way to fall asleep. When you’re so thoroughly exhausted that just the thought of being allowed to black-out gives you goose bumps, then the torture was well worth it. And the actual sleep that follows will be hardcore. I was not even on this planet for a few hours.
By the time I woke up, the others were already staring out at the L.A. smog dangling far in the distance. Home sweet home.
DAY SIXTEEN
Everything was suddenly over. It was time for the music to swell up and close an era. Somebody should have probably looked wistfully into the distance and said something profound, but it’s really hard to be profound when you haven’t showered in two days.
Back on our doorsteps, a new “day one” began. It was nice not to be in a confined moving space for a change, but it was also weird. Felt like we had to adapt and figure out how to breathe this kind of air again. We’d become foreigners, and it only took two weeks. That’s kind of impressive, if you ask me.
THANKS TO MR. DEVIL DOWN BELOW
For making this a pretty 16 days, despite the perfect right you had to wreak havoc. Thanks also for showing us your hometown in Mississippi, and for letting us come unscathed through the accident on the freeway that sprawled out all the little, white aliens over the median. And, of course, thanks for keeping the bartender in Clarksdale from following us with a sawed-off shotgun under his seat (he was a serial killer).
And thank you, Jesus, for that mural in Elk City.
PS: There’s probably a moral in this story somewhere, folks. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a whole horde of morals, so you might wanna take a look around and read between the lines and all that. You have my permission to interpret freely, of course.
By the time we actually left Minnesota, we had all established that we were glad we came so close to the North Pole. And, if you ask me, that’s the way it ought to be. How can you live without looking back? Not only should you be able to look back, but you should be able to do it with a lopsided smile.
Well, we had two days to get from Minnesota to Austin, Texas to see the White Stripes perform. We could feel the trip coming to an end. It was like facing a lonely dessert out on an otherwise empty table. Kind of sad, but kind of a good feeling, because whenever you find yourself staring at dessert, you know two things: 1. It’s not over yet, and 2. Whatever’s in store for you is bound to be sweet.
1:38PM
“You’re supposed to be passing in this lane, ass-fuck.”
By nighttime we had made it all the way to Wichita. We dragged our luggage up the stairs of a motel that looked like a college dorm. Then we watched an old silent western on TV that seemed never to end. It was one of those things where the girl was always getting into trouble and being kidnapped by some man with a beard, and the cowboy with the blonde hair who never had to shave was always running off to rescue her.
I wish I could tell you of how we witnessed a bank being robbed the next day and just nearly escaped the bullets, sliding over the hood of the car and ducking for cover. Or of how we were converted by a small group of religious fanatics that we gave a ride to. Hell, I wish I could tell you that we robbed a bank or converted a small group of religious fanatics. But if I told you that, I’m afraid I’d be lying.
We did pass a dead tree in an orange-colored field that made us feel like we were passing an Edgar Allan Poe story, though.
“Oklahoma City - 94 miles”
“Oklahoma City - 84 miles”
“Oklahoma City - 78 miles”
By the time we turned onto 8th street in Austin, it was dark.
THE BEES WILL FIND THE HONEY SOON - DAY THIRTEEN & FOURTEEN
Quite frankly, the temperature down there should be illegal.
The sun was evil. The clothes on our bodies felt like hot tar, and our faces were on the verge of falling into a puddle around our feet. I’ll never think of heat the same way again.
I’ll also never think of Texas in the same way again. Austin really does it credit. I had ideas of it being an endless wasteland, inhabited by a whole population of egotistical rednecks, convinced they should be their own country, and that there’s no need ever to leave the state line behind-– or, God forbid, venture into another country.
To begin with, there were streets of old brick buildings, reminding you of how the towns used to look in this country. Then there were the people. I believe they were better mannered than the populations of most East and West Coast cities. They were sincere, and willing to dig you out of any hole you might have gotten yourself into. Except the guy behind the counter at our motel-– he looked like he needed to hit something with a fly-swatter to feel better.
SWIMMING
We’d been dying to jump in a lake since the day we left L.A., and now our chance to wear bathing suits had come. We went to a natural spring right before the concert, and spent about 40 minutes of precious time just getting into the water,.. it was cold. After a hearty swim (roughly about ten seconds), we took a break. While Alex was commenting on the shape of her ass, a group of little boys walked by, who all cracked up laughing like there was no tomorrow. Needless to say, she made their day-– and they followed us around for the rest of the afternoon.
ART
We went to two different museums. The most impressive artwork was a television set with a muted newsreel that we had completely overseen the first time we walked through. Only when I was done with the whole exhibit and on the verge of walking out did it dawn on me that usually there aren’t any newsreels playing in art museums. So I approached it and realized that the news reporters' solemn frowns were accompanied by a text that came from some 15-year-old fat kid who had just been dumped by his girlfriend. It was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. We stayed about a half-hour longer, reading the text that went along with the muted images of reporters. I dubbed the artist a genius. I mean, these texts were so immaculately random-- so incredibly stupid, wonderfully inept, and beautifully primitive-– that you would have to place the author on the level of Bukowski to do him justice. It was beyond me how someone could have thought up this stuff; and then we read the label beside the TV which explained the texts were live off Internet chatrooms.
BARS
The first one we went into was filled to the brim with hippies who met out in the back to smoke pot. The second one was empty because we’d come too early, but we stayed there until it was full-– by that time there was a live band playing, and we had become soul mates with the bartender, who refused to make us pay for the drinks.
AFTER THE CONCERT
After we got home from the concert, we were probably dead. It’s hard to tell, because my brain went into hibernation as soon as we stumbled out of Stubbs BBQ.
"BELIEVE ME, DADDY. I'VE GOT A CADILLAC FRAME." - DAY FIFTEEN
The next morning we all felt like we’d been out drinking past 6AM. Really, we’d all been in bed by 2AM, sober. But my head was pounding, and every joint in my body hurt. We were drained. The heat and the trip had slaughtered us. This was the road trip hangover. I sat with my fingers clawed around a cup of tea, my mind shattered into millions of little bits. It’s unfair that you are forced to feel like shit after you drink; it’s even worse when you feel like shit after not drinking.
I’d lost track of what day it was, and stopped taking notes in my book at this point. All I knew was that it was a Thursday, and that we were going to drive back to L.A. without stopping for the night-– and, most of all, I knew that I wanted to die in peace.
We left the city on the 290 West, and, for some reason, got into a terribly deep discussion on why Carson Daly works for MTV. (You really can’t rationally account for half the conversations you have on the road.) My headache disappeared soon afterward, and suddenly the trip seemed satisfying again.
1:26PM
A cop pulled us over and told us we were five miles over the speed limit, which meant he was just bored out of his wits and wanted to use his sirens. He ceremoniously let us off with a warning, and then listened with blank little eyes as Beth pulled out her camera and asked if she could film him: “We’re on a road trip, and I like your hat and stuff.”
“Well, hurry up, because we have to get to work.”
It was funny. He acted like the people he pulled over asked to film him every time, and, quite frankly, it was becoming a drag to him.
3:00PM
We hit the 10 West, and became officially homeward bound. It felt bizarre after all this time. There was just as much thrill as there was nostalgia.
5:18PM - TORNADO WARNING
I was in the middle of being overcharged at a gas station when the sirens went off. The clouds outside were green, and it looked like the friction of the sky was ready to send us a masterpiece of a tornado. I know I should have worried more about it, but my attention was diverted by the fact that the lady behind the counter had charged me two dollars for a cup of hot water. And when I walked out of the store, I felt like I’d been robbed of logic. Why would someone charge two dollars for water? Thank God I had friends to explain it to me: “Well, you’re bound to run into one dikey asshole on the road.”
By 6:25 in the evening we began to have serious doubts about whether Texas would ever end. And by 7:44, Beth had decided to give us a heart attack by yelling out: “Oh, shit! A tornado!”
9:43PM
We hit a mysterious traffic jam that brought a whole freeway of cars to a standstill. People began to turn off their engines and just sit with wide-eyed apathy. Beth and Alex were saying they saw strange, white, little creatures walking around on the median. Geese? Aliens?
“Maybe this is a government conspiracy, and they’re trying to divert our attention with geese.”
Whatever the reason, we panicked without really knowing what to panic about. It’s that vague feeling of unrest that you get when the person in the driver’s seat is the one with the revoked license. The traffic wasn’t moving, we smelled cops up ahead, and eventually Beth said it was a better idea for her to take over the wheel again.
What followed should have gotten some kind of award. Beth got out in the back, while Alex ran around the car to change seats with her. Then Beth’s dress flew up in the air, she screamed and jumped back in the car. Alex, for lack of a better thing to do, ran back around and jumped into the driver’s seat, laughing until the tears came dripping down her chin. Besides Alex, there was also the truck driver next to us laughing, whom Beth began to call nasty names. We were in the midst of the aftermath of embarrassment when the traffic began moving again, and Alex was still behind the wheel. So, folks, I jumped out one side, and Alex and I crossed around the front of the car on a freeway in full swing. I jumped into the driver’s seat, tried starting up the engine, everyone screamed, “THE CAR’S ON ALREADY!”, so I pushed the gas pedal, and we jolted into motion. We lived happily ever after-– with our hearts pounding like rabbits staring down a shotgun barrel.
When 5AM came ‘round, we were listening to a new Blind Willie McTell compilation we found in Austin.
“...Come here, mama, with that can of booze / I’ve got the dyin’ crapshootin’ blues,...”
We just listened to song after song while the night went by, and my stomach was up in my mouth somewhere. Blind Willie’s voice is black magic. I’ll never figure it out.
By the time the desert sky turned pale purple, we were vegetables.
Beth took over the wheel with her two hours of sleep, and I crawled into the backseat. It was definitely the most delicious way to fall asleep. When you’re so thoroughly exhausted that just the thought of being allowed to black-out gives you goose bumps, then the torture was well worth it. And the actual sleep that follows will be hardcore. I was not even on this planet for a few hours.
By the time I woke up, the others were already staring out at the L.A. smog dangling far in the distance. Home sweet home.
DAY SIXTEEN
Everything was suddenly over. It was time for the music to swell up and close an era. Somebody should have probably looked wistfully into the distance and said something profound, but it’s really hard to be profound when you haven’t showered in two days.
Back on our doorsteps, a new “day one” began. It was nice not to be in a confined moving space for a change, but it was also weird. Felt like we had to adapt and figure out how to breathe this kind of air again. We’d become foreigners, and it only took two weeks. That’s kind of impressive, if you ask me.
THANKS TO MR. DEVIL DOWN BELOW
For making this a pretty 16 days, despite the perfect right you had to wreak havoc. Thanks also for showing us your hometown in Mississippi, and for letting us come unscathed through the accident on the freeway that sprawled out all the little, white aliens over the median. And, of course, thanks for keeping the bartender in Clarksdale from following us with a sawed-off shotgun under his seat (he was a serial killer).
And thank you, Jesus, for that mural in Elk City.
PS: There’s probably a moral in this story somewhere, folks. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a whole horde of morals, so you might wanna take a look around and read between the lines and all that. You have my permission to interpret freely, of course.
artid
1807
Old Image
6_3_mercedes.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 03 (nov 2003)
section
pen_think