Hatin' on Halloween

     As a child, October 31st was one of my favorite days of the year. I loved dressing up and hitting the streets in search of candy and adventure. I'd scurry home from school, and rush out with a pillowcase and high hopes of getting enough Halloween loot to potentially rot out all of my teeth that very night. And that's what Halloween is, a holiday for children. I've grown to hate it, however, as an adult. Costume parties, horror movies (a guaranteed Saw sequel released, whether anyone wants it or not), and themed sitcom episodes - I care for none of these.

Kiss it, Halloween.

     Costume parties especially get under my skin. Women, who the rest of the year are respectable, admirable members of society, debase themselves by dressing like Atlantic City hookers under the guise of Halloween fun. Normally, I have no problem with ladies opting to show cleavage, ass cheek, or the lower third of their pudenda. I just hate seeing it from women who wouldn't do that the rest of the year, but on this particular day decide to entice every red-blooded male by dressing as a "sexy nurse", a "sexy devil", or the (god help me) perennial favorite, "sexy kitten." All I can say is, "Sweetheart...you look like a fucking whore. Mission accomplished."

Gives a new meaning to the term, "Beefeater."

     Don't even get me started on grown men dressing up. Their costumes are usually "suspicion-confirmers" for me. The guy done up as a girl? I knew he was a closet transvestite! The dude wearing a Star Wars costume? He's a geek all year, he just tries to hide it the other 364 days. The gentleman dressed as a giant penis? I always knew he was a dickhead! Grow up, men. I can absolutely guarantee painting your entire body blue and attaching pointy ears and a tail a la Avatar is not going to get you laid.

Dude, you're not even trying...

     Truth be told, most of my hatred for costumes and the like probably comes from being too lazy to bother picking one out a clever one for myself. In past years, you might have found me at the mall, on my way to a party, rooting through the remaining costume scraps left at 7pm on 10/31. I'd end up getting some ill-fitting piece of shit for $19.99, and would look like a bozo (unfortunately, it would be nothing like a clown costume). Some might say this reveals bitterness and jealousy on my part regarding everyone else enjoying this holiday. Some might say that my retirement from Halloween parties coincided suspiciously with me not being invited to any Halloween parties this year. To those who might say such things, I might say (since this is my blog, after all), "Nope, sorry, you're wrong...and you look like a douchebag."

Cereal Offenders

     I'm fascinated by advertising, in particular, television commercials. Actually, "fascinated" probably isn't entirely accurate. That would suggest that when my favorite programs cut to commercial, I scoot forward to the edge of my seat in rapt attention, meticulously noting all the not-so-subtle nuances Madison Avenue throws our way in attempts to get us to buy boner pills and cheese graters for our feet. No, this is not the case, I'm merely amused by the tactics they employ, and the strange generalizations posited by these ads.

Pondering a new way to market edible underwear to Mormons...

     Breakfast cereals are especially prone to these types of strange associations. Certainly, I understand the need to market these "glucose disguised as grain" products toward children. They see a colorful cartoon mascot, and badger their parents to buy crate-loads of the crap. Brilliant. What intrigues me more is how the cereals for adults, the ones without the "Corn Burglar" and "Ibex Lex" adorning the boxes pigeonhole themselves into images directed toward specific groups. For example, Wheaties and Special K. These two cereals are practically identical, as far as I can tell. They're both compressed brown flakes of a wheat-like substance, yet their approach to marketing couldn't be directed in two more different directions.

Hell, add your own caption for this.

      Wheaties, of course, is aimed at men. With a powerful simple orange background, and the world's greatest athletes on the box cover, Wheaties practically scream at the potential buyer that they'll grow more hair on your dick, increase testicle density, and give you the pep you need to kick the shit out of that guy trying to hit on your lady. Special K, on the other hand, has a lily white background with that iconic red K that looks suspiciously like the curves of a girl with a slamming body. The information on the sides tells all the ladies that by simply eating these bland little chips, they're sure to drop at least 20 lbs, and snag a rich husband.

      Also, I just thought of another wheat flake marketed at a specific group - Total. That stuff is strictly for seniors...I believe you have to produce ID proving you're over 65, an AARP membership card, and at least one pair of soiled Depends in order to purchase Total.

If you don't remember this ad campaign, you MAY NOT eat Total.

     I experience the reverse reaction that these Mad Men are hoping for when they typecast cereals. Instead of feeling warm and comforted knowing there's always going to be a brand of crunchy breakfast goodness made just for me, I actually become a bit anxious. If there's a cereal made just for my demographic, what kind of repercussions might there be if I were to cross party lines and dabble in somebody else's bowl? Like, what happens if instead of a hearty, manly bowl of Wheaties (which I so clearly need for my active, outdoor lifestyle), I opt for a serving of Special K? Am I instantly going to worry about how my butt looks? Will I start menstruating by the next lunar cycle? God forbid someone catches me unaware and slips me some Total. My prostate might blow up to the size of a tangerine, and I'll begin paying for small items in exact change.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Stop giving the elderly patients Wheaties!"

     All these thoughts and worries are a bit heavy for a time of day when I already have enough trouble simply trying to get out of bed and wrangling my morning wood to a socially acceptable position. That's why I always skip breakfast. For that matter, I skip dinner as well. With all the Hungry Man Dinners and Lean Cuisine out there, it's enough to make me sick, worrying if I'm going to turn into some sort of she-male if I pick the wrong meal. I'll stick to nice, androgynous lunches of turkey and cheese sandwiches. At least you know where you stand with those.

The Return

     Well, after a brief hiatus, the blog is back! I've had a few weeks to recover from my time on the road, and woke up this morning with an intense desire to regale readers with more of my biting wit and enlightening insights. Hopefully, there will be more fanfare and general rejoicing about this than there was upon my return to New Jersey.
   

"He's home! He's home!"

      By my own admission, I do have an overactive imagination. I fantasized of returning to NJ to a reception fit for an astronaut coming back from the first manned trip to Mars, or perhaps a triumphant medieval king returning in glorious victory after years of fighting off the barbarian hordes. A few days after my arrival, the town would throw a parade in my honor, led by my high school marching band, and with me perched atop the crown jewel of the marching celebrants, a giant Chevy Cavalier made out of dyed green gladioluses (gladioli?). Alas, instead of returning to my home state to find the trees adorned with yellow ribbons, my only welcome was a $230 ticket I received for littering when I flicked a cigarette butt out the window just after crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge. I admit, it was a callous and douchey thing to do, but the penalty seems steep. At those prices, you'd think I'd dumped an old sofa on the A.C. Expressway instead one measly cigarette butt. Oh well, I digress...

The cause of the most expensive ticket I've ever gotten...

     As Shakespeare once said, "the blog's the thing," which I have found to be true after talking to readers. A typical example of what I've heard from people who've followed it is such:

"Gee, Frank, I really enjoyed the blog. Your humorous style of prose, and excellent grammar and vocabulary are quite appealing; clearly your powerful mind is the perfect complement to your rugged good looks. I do have a question for you, though. After traveling 10,000+ miles through 27 states, I thought there would be, well...more. You've teased at other adventures and sure-to-be hilarious anecdotes. Other than taking you out for the evening and plying you with drinks, how can I hear these intriguing tales?"

     Well, there's good news for the many who asked the preceding question. I'm currently working on a full narrative of the trip, a book titled, Frank, American Style: The Incredible Journey of Two Young Men and How They Found Themselves, Redemption, Awe, Grief, Wonder, The Hidden City of Gold, Sorrow, Love, Joy, Happiness, Indigestion, The Meaning of Life, Each Other, Bison Burgers, and A Really Nice Comfortable Pair of Socks For Under $1. (Title length pending). This will be a complete and comprehensive (buzzword alert!) volume including all the as-yet-unheard adventures you're surely salivating for.

Mmmm...more blog...

     Of course, writing this is going to take some time, so in the meanwhile, I plan on blogging much like I did on the trip, but on more mundane and day-to-day topics. Check back soon, and often, for I already have a few knocking about in my cerebrum, and almost ready to be penned, such as: "Words You Don't Hear So Much Anymore," and "Notes on the Sub-Dioecious Pine." They sound like literary home-runs already!

A Lifetime of Lents

     There's a bit of a milestone coming up the day after tomorrow: 40 days on the road! It's the longest I've been away from home, and a hell of a long time to be on a road trip. I've had to sacrifice a few things, and it has reminded me of Lent. I'm not religious whatsoever, but I think I've fulfilled many Lents' worth of going without. Let's take a look:

     40 days without pork roll.
     40 days without video games (this feels, sadly, like a much greater sacrifice than it actually is).
     40 days without real pizza.
     40 days without using a jughandle to make a left turn (OK, I don't miss this at all).
     40 days without the comfort of my foam bed.
     40 days without bagels.
     40 days without a solitary sleeping arrangement (although with the amount of tent farts I've produced, this may be more of a sacrifice for JZ than me).
     40 days without Buck and Spanky!
     40 days without the repose of pooping on my own toilet.
     40 days without a stroll in my favorite park, Double Trouble.
     40 days without the touch of a woman (ah, who am I kidding? That would probably be the case whether I was on vacation or not).
     40 days without Wawa (it hurts to even type this!).
     40 days without any income whatsoever (It's amazing and disheartening to watch your bank account tick down without even a minimal deposit to bolster it a bit).
     40 days without video games (did I mention that already? Good, it serves to illustrate how painful it is).
     40 days without canoeing or kayaking.
     40 days without a fully proper shower (I'm very specific about my temperature and water pressure, my home shower is the only one I really like).

      Of course, the thing that hits the hardest is 40 days without my friends and family. There's so much I miss from you all, I couldn't list everything. From Mom's cooking, to Torey's hearty laugh. From crikshitting (don't ask) with Bender, to chats with Pat. From beers in the backyard with Dad, to Scrabble with Grandma. These things and so many more call to me, and make me smile at the thought of homecoming. Don't mist up with sentimentality yet though, Reader. This homecoming of which I speak is fast approaching! I estimate that in less than two weeks, this smiling face will be back in Jersey and eager to reunite with YOU! Of course, I expect the requisite amount of fanfare and ticker tape upon my return, so start shredding your confetti now!
    

People Are Strange, When You're a Stranger

     Far be it for me to judge anyone on looks, especially on this trip. I'm a disheveled mess more than half the time myself. But we've encountered some strange looking and behaving folks out here, and I'd be remiss in my blogging if I didn't chronicle at least a few of them.

Mr. Mojo Risin had it right...

     The first one that springs to mind was a homeless man we encountered in San Francisco. It was a sunny weekday around 3pm. We were walking along, taking in the sights, unknowingly about to stumble on a sight we wouldn't soon forget. As we approached, the man looked up at us with the bleary, red eyes of a bloodhound. He had set up blankets between some shrubs and the fence surrounding a parking lot. I disengaged eye contact as swiftly as possible, to avoid a request for change. As my eyes darted away from his, I noticed quite a lot of commotion underneath the blankets. Riskily, I looked back as we kept walking and verified what my brain initially assumed. He was masturbating furiously under those blankets. I mean, really having a go. If I was more naive, I might have thought he was trying to pull-start a little lawnmower in there. The blanket pumped up and down with such ferocity, I have to admit...I was more than a little impressed with his determination. Broad daylight? Right next to the busy sidewalk? No worries, he's getting it done!

Didn't think you could do this on a city street, but proven wrong once again...

     Another fella that caused us to do a double-take, certainly less bawdy, but no less fascinating to peer at, was driving across the Mackinac Bridge in Michigan. This man was a member of the Canadian Army, dressed in full regalia, driving a cargo truck (I'm pretty sure it was an M925 A1 5-ton, but as I only saw it briefly, it may also have been an M813 with Super Singles...forgive my embarrassing lack of attention to detail). Now, an officer in the Canadian Army isn't something you see every day. What was especially interesting though, was his uncanny resemblance to Popeye. Not Robin Williams as Popeye, but the actual cartoon character. Eyes squinted, face puckered in, and that chin; my goodness, what a chin! Hyperbole aside, it seriously jutted out at least 4 inches. I believe JZ said it best when he declared, "You could hang a coat from that thing!"

Protecting Canada's borders since 1929.

 

 

     While driving through South Dakota, before we reached the Badlands, we spent many hours traversing what I call the "Mediocrelands." This is a vast expanse (most of the state, to be frank) where there just really isn't anything of interest. Lonely country roads, broad plains, and a tumbleweed here or there to add some spice to the landscape. It was here in the Mediocrelands that we saw the third specimen we'll examine in this blog. On the side of the road, dozens of miles from any sort of civilization, was a Native American man, just...standing. He had nothing with him, no pack of any sort, and didn't appear to be heading in either direction. He was just...standing. How he got out that far, what he was doing, how he got back, all of these questions still haunt me. His face was expressionless, but as we whizzed past, (and it very well may have been my imagination) I could swear I saw a single tear streaking down his face like in that old commercial...

This guy was actually Italian.

      There's dozens of other odd characters we've seen - Park Ranger Gypsy McFelter, the woman who we suspected was really the Three Stooges on each others shoulders under a bedsheet, Ma and Pa Kettle, and of course, the man from Alabama who liked to brew coffee in the shithouse. It'd take days to detail all their quirks and stories, so I leave you with just a taste of these American Characters.

I've Never Depended On the Kindness of Strangers

     My brash and bold individualism is something I've always prided myself on. No quarter requested, no quarter given, that sort of thing. The mother of an old friend said she immediately knew I was quite a character after one incident when I was seven. During an afternoon playdate, she asked if I'd like to stay for supper. My response? "Oh no, I couldn't impose!" Rather precocious for a second grader, wouldn't you say? So after a lifetime of this sort of attitude, it's come as quite a surprise to me the ease at which I've come to accept the hospitality and graciousness of people I've never even met before.

Sort of how I picture myself, except without even Tonto, or Silver.

     Why, just yesterday we met a lovely waitress at a Chili's in Carlsbad, New Mexico who was all too eager to provide us with a small measure of succor in our quest across the country. Upon delivering our drinks to the table, she noticed we were poring over an atlas, planning our next stop. After asking us where we were headed, she was quite impressed at the scope of our journey. Once the meal was finished, our stomachs full and contented, she brought over, unbidden, a care package of sorts. "OK boys, I've brought you a full bag of chips and a container of salsa, you don't have to worry about refrigerating them, and there's plenty there. Can I get you some drinks in to-go cups?" We've been out and about for well over a month now, and we know better than to turn down such a generous (and free!) offer.

Breakfast of champions...

     Even if people aren't throwing free starters at us, they're often intrigued and fascinated when we tell them what we're doing. Folks are always ready to talk our ears off about their hometown, whatever place it is we're visiting. Screw Google when it comes to finding out the best kept secrets of a city. Just ask any random person, and they'll provide you with a two-hour dissertation on where the best burgers are, or which bar makes the most delicious margaritas. I'm not sure if this is so much generosity aimed toward strangers as it is them loving to have something to talk about which they're extremely knowledgeable, but either way, it's quite nice.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!

     There is perhaps no greater example of the hospitality we've encountered than the Jablonskis of Missoula, Montana. Connected to JZ by the most tenuous of threads, they opened their home to us, and graciously prepared a home-cooked meal for a couple of weary travelers. It was a situation where someone knew someone who knew someone who lived out there, and they had some land. We thought at most, we might be able to camp for free on someone's spread. No no no. Instead we were welcomed like kings! A guest room had been set up for us, and would we enjoy fresh salmon for supper? After eating, Their daughter and her boyfriend took us out for a night on the town, showing us all the local hotspots, and everyone having a lot of laughs and getting a little tipsy. Kindness like that can never really be fully repaid, and our appreciation for that time still has not waned 4 weeks later.

     After all the wonderful things people have done for us as we've made our way across this country, there is perhaps nothing we can do but "pay it forward." It would indeed be logistically impossible for us to do something nice for all the people that have gone out of their way to help us, many of whose (who's? whom's?) names we never even learned. So I begin paying it forward here and now, today. This blog entry you're reading? It's on me. No charge, no obligation. Consider it my treat and my gift to you...

Smugglers and Trespassers

     Now, I'm normally a law-abiding citizen...for the most part. I had no intentions of becoming a criminal on this road trip, but it seems I've already broken a couple of laws in my travels. Both breaches occurred within California, so I imagine right now CHiPs has APBs out on me and are frantically scouring the state, unaware I'm happily typing this blog entry in Texas.

They won't be smiling when they catch up with this scofflaw...

     My first foray into the world of vice (at least on this trip) was when we crossed the border from Oregon into California. JZ and I were thoroughly engrossed in what I'm sure was a riveting conversation as we approached what I assumed to be a toll plaza. As we pulled up to the booth, I had a fiver stuck between my fingers to give to the attendant. She waved my money away and asked if I was transporting any produce. I must have been taken aback by the question because she repeated, "Any fruits or vegetables in your vehicle today?" Having never been asked such a thing, I dazedly shook my head "no," and she gestured me through, muttering, "enjoyyerstayincalifornia." 

     It was only about a half-hour later, when we stopped for a light roadside brunch that I realized our transgression.

           

          Myself: "Hey JZ, there's a banana in the cooler!"

          JZ: "So?"

          Myself: "Didn't they ask us if we had any fruits or veggies when we crossed the border?"

          JZ: "Oh yeah, I think so..."

     Suffice it say, I immediately glanced around furtively, waiting for the Fruit Patrol to swing in on zip lines, knock us to the ground, and quarantine our smuggled banana (gosh, that sounds gay!). Fortunately, no tactical teams were deployed, and the banana was enjoyed fully. I can only assume the banana's brief existence within the California borders did no lasting agricultural damage...

24 hours after our entering California with a foreign banana...

 

     Our other brush with the seamy criminal underbelly occurred a few nights later. We were weary from our adventures in San Francisco, and arrived quite late at a desolate campground in the middle of nowhere. Oddly, there was not another soul present anywhere. Every other campground we've been to has had at least one sorry-looking tent or banged-up RV parked in a slot. Regardless, we followed the usual process of checking out the information board, taking a self-pay envelope, and noting the price. Most campgrounds across the country charge between $15-$20 a night for a tent. California, however, ups the ante considerably by asking $35. $35 a night for campgrounds that often don't even have a shower! The miser in me cringes at such an outrage.

...I ain't.

     Once we had selected a site, we filled out the self-pay envelope, and returned to the info board to pay our dues. The envelope was rather bloated, since the majority of our payment was tendered in singles (No, we didn't just come from a strip club, we were saving that trip for Vegas). Try as we might, we couldn't get that envelope to fit in the deposit slot. It just wasn't going to happen. So we decided to hold on to the envelope and give it to the ranger stationed there in the morning.

     Rise and shine six hours later, and we're still the only ones there. No campground host, no friendly rangers, no maintenance men. We drove out, stopping at the info board once again. There didn't appear to be anywhere to safely stow our envelope. We looked at each other coyly. We'd honored the honor system of camping for well over three weeks, but this... I mean, California did overcharge ridiculously...and we were really only there for a few hours since we arrived so late...and it's not like we even used any water or anything... We looked around one more time to make sure no one was watching, jumped in the car, and sped away, fees unpaid.

I don't want to go back there as anything other than a tourist!

     So you heard it here first! The shocking true confessions of a scofflaw and ruffian. I certainly won't be returning to California anytime soon without a fake mustache and glasses. I can only imagine what "Ten Most Wanted" lists I must be gracing. 

    

Morlocks

     Ordinarily, I don't spend too much time in cities. An occasional drunken romp in New York, a rare trip to Philly to get wasted...I'm noticing a pattern here, that I usually only go to cities to get wasted. Well, this trip is certainly no exception. I've stumbled and fallen on my face in Minneapolis, upchucked in Seattle, and peed my pants in Las Vegas (technically inaccurate, as I was not actually wearing any pants when that occurred). But this entry isn't about my drinking problems (we'll have a separate entry for that!), it's about the...other people in the cities. The ones not there to party or confidently stride to their executive offices. The people I call The Morlocks (read your H.G. Wells', people! Or at least watch the shitty movie with Guy Pearce.)

A finer role model, I know not.

     Now those of you familiar with your 19th century sci-fi will know that the Morlocks inhabited the dystopian underground of a distant future. Above them, small, frail Eloi lived in a lush and wonderful paradise. How is this paradise possible? Well, the good ol' Morlocks run all the underground machines to power this Eden the Eloi live in. The Morlocks are portrayed as the villains in The Time Machine, but I always felt the Eloi were the real bad guys. Lounging around, loving life while ugly people toil underground for your benefit? Sounds villainous to me. Sure, the Morlocks would occassionally eat one of the Eloi, but hey, they had to get their energy somewhere, right?

Not so bad, really, just misunderstood.

     I use the term Morlocks to refer to the people that make the city living I've witnessed and experienced possible. The janitors, the cooks, the garbagemen, all the anonymous blue-collar workers it takes to power a city. I realize that may sound mean, or derogatory, but I don't think of it that way. Remember, I sided with the Morlocks when reading that book; the Eloi were the bad guys to me. Instead of being small, androgynous children, the Eloi are now the tourists, the businessmen, and disappointingly, myself, I suppose. The Morlocks come to a downtown they'll never live in to pick up our trash, sweep our streets, and prepare our food. If they're lucky, their specific industry may encourage tipping, so they'll get a little something extra, at least. If tipping is not a part of their profession, they probably won't even get direct eye contact from us Eloi.

     It makes me sick, really. And there's nothing I could do about it anyway. Somebody has to clean up dogshit. Even if I had a winning smile, wink, and a warm handshake for every service worker, they'd only eye me with suspicion. "Why is this strange Eloi engaging me? Highly unusual behavior for one of their ilk..." they'd think. So, I support them silently. I always throw my trash in the proper receptacles, tip well when appropriate, and generally clean up after myself as much as possible. I suppose if it really bothered me, I wouldn't stay in hotels or visit tourist traps at all, but I do anyway, of course. It's impossible to avoid in this day and age. Shit travels downstream, and I've swallowed my share of it as well. To be honest, I'm not much more than a Morlock living the Eloi lifestyle for a while, myself. This fantasy vacation will have to end at some point, and I'll return to my place in the chain, eating a larger portion of shit than I produce for the ones beneath me...

Disparity

     I met a man in Washington state near the Oregon border that was quite different from me. Our impromptu rendezvous occurred in a McDonald's parking lot. Mickey D's has become one of our favorite spots to stop because of the free wi-fi and dollar iced teas. So there it was that my path and this man's crossed, and we couldn't have been headed in more different directions.
    
     It was late afternoon, and we had stopped to try and figure out our night's accommodations. We sat there in the parking lot, maps spread open, atlases dog-eared, laptop up and running and jacking into McD's wi-fi. The man walked past us and did a double take. He glanced at our NJ license plates, smirked, and said to his two kids, "Now they look lost!" He walked inside, and we continued our search.

     15 minutes later or so, he and his offspring sauntered out, bellies full. He stopped by my window, and the following conversation took place:

          Man - "You fellas still here? Where you headed?"
          Myself - "Oh, hi! We're driving across the country."
          Man - "Well, you made it, haha! So, where you headed now?"
          Myself - "Um...south..."
          Man - "Hmmm...where in particular south?"
          Myself - "I dunno. Somewhere on the coast, probably."
          Man - "Huh. Well, good luck to you, boys."

     At this point, the man walked away, shaking his head to himself and looking slightly perplexed. He was trying to be helpful, and while I certainly appreciated the attempt, I could tell he just didn't understand. Here was a man who probably had every day of his life planned out until he died. I judged him to be a "soccer dad." He had a perfectly coiffed hair, a hip windbreaker, and loafers to go with his pressed jeans. I assume he was taking the kids to McDonald's after one of their sports practices or dance recitals. After their fast-food dinner, I'm sure it was off to home, for a few hours of TV while the kids did their homework. Perhaps one beer if the mood struck him.

      I, on the other hand, was wearing the same clothes for a third day in a row. My Chevy Cavalier was dirty, dusty, and splattered with countless dead bugs. All my possessions that mattered were stuffed in the backseat, and the trunk was not too far from busting at the seams. I was in dire need of a shower, and my hair stuck out wildly like a mad scientist.

     He was in the midst of his normal weekday routine, and I was poring over maps on the roadside trying to figure out what was next. He had his retirement carefully accounted for and planned out, while I didn't even know where I'd be spending that night. As I lay on the hard ground later, under the stars, I thought of that man. He probably just put the kids to bed, and he and the wife were on opposite ends of the couch reading, with the TV quietly droning in the background. The weekend was coming up soon, and maybe they were discussing which Applebee's in town to go to with the kids on Friday. Also, the fiscal year was coming to an end soon, and he might be thinking about upping his 401k contribution this year to 15%, to make sure he and the wife would definitely be able to afford that place in Boca Raton when he retired in 17 and a half years.

     So I drifted off to sleep that night, thinking of the differences between myself and that man, and also wondering if maybe he was thinking of me as he drifted off. Thinking about that wild-haired, grimy, 20-something from across the country he ran into while taking the kids for a treat. That devil-may-care wanderer without a thought for the future, off to unknown destinations and adventures.

Pasties & Pasties

     Two favorite heteronyms (look it up or puzzle it out yourself) that I've experienced so far this trip are pasties (pah-sties) and pasties (pay-sties). One is delicious, and has meat folded up inside of it, and the other is a food item. Rimshot! In all seriousness, I'm talking about the regional food favorite, pasty (rhymes with nasty), and the pasties which were found covering up the ladies at a burlesque show I took in while in Seattle.

It's delicious, it's good for me...

     First, since I like dinner before my show, let's talk about the meatalicious treat. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is famed the world over (well, at least a small surrounding area) for their pasties. Cross the Mackinac Bridge from mainland Michigan, and you'll immediately start seeing signs for this delicacy. Also popular is smoked fish, something I passed up this go around. Thankfully, we happened to have a book handy that informed us of the proper pronunciation, or I would have been quite embarrassed to be corrected by a local. We stopped at a roadside place (see below) and waited patiently after placing our orders.

Looks enticing, no?

     Our steaming plates were delivered to us shortly, and I devoured the crust-wrapped beef, pork, onions, carrots, and rutabagas. Also included was some of the best coleslaw I've ever eaten, and a small bowl of brown gravy for dipping. I highly recommend to all of my brethren who enjoy gorging themselves to the point of exhaustion.

     Now let's get to the really good kind of pasty. While looking for some nightlife in Seattle, JZ and I noticed an advertisement for a burlesque show at a local bar. It just happened to be every Thursday, we just happened to be visiting on a Thursday, and we also just happened to really enjoy mostly naked ladies. So we paid our $12 and waited eagerly for the show to start.

Now those are the pasties I'm used to eating!

     I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew it wasn't going to be like the trashy strip clubs I've visited sporadically. How sexual would it be, though? Was it more comical than sensual? My brain was filled with wonder and excitement. Throughout the course of the show, I came to find out it really wasn't that sexual after all. Sure, the audience howled and hooted when one of the girls lifted a hem or lowered a strap, but it seemed to be done more in jest. I wouldn't have felt at all uncomfortable if I had taken a date there.

The only photo I was allowed to take that evening.

     It may sound like a pervert justifying, but I really have to say, these girls were talented! Not only excellent dancers, but creative choreographers as well. Their acts were quite entertaining, and we saw ones that followed the history of dance, imitated Tokyo Rose from the 1800s, and a finale that included an Egyptian goddess eating a raw heart and blood squirting everywhere. You know, good old-fashioned family fun.

     So there you go: a tasty meal from the upper Midwest, and a live show from the largest city in the world named after a Native American chief. If you get the opportunity, I recommend treating yourself to either. Or both at the same time if you manage to find a burlesque show in the U.P.

Terror at Twin Lakes!

     Let's revisit something from earlier in the trip that has stuck with me. I've had my share of discomfort so far, and then some. Trying to go to sleep, and noticing a bump of a root underneath you that mysteriously popped up after you inspected the ground for a flat place to sleep. Waking up and finding the temperature, which was in the glorious upper seventies the day before, has now dropped to the twenties and the tent is covered in ice. None of this compares with the sense of foreboding and sheer doom I felt upon arriving at a place that's name still gives me the shakes when I hear or see it: Twin Lakes State Recreation Area.

Even the internets don't like this place.

     This eerie locale is not too far from the intersection of 395th Ave. and 236th St. I noticed this trend of street naming once we reached Ohio. You'll be driving through fields and fields of corn, or miles of empty grassland, and a small, pitted, dirt road will pass by. You glance at the name out of curiosity, and you'll do a double-take because it'll be something like, "849th St." Now you haven't seen shit in hours, and this road seems to go nowhere, and you're left wondering how the hell the number got up that high. Perhaps you nodded off briefly, and missed Streets 1 through 848?

This doesn't really apply to the blog, I just liked it.

      Outside of the oddly-numbered streets, the drive to Twin Lakes is...unpleasant. It seems the area used to be mostly cornfields, but at some point, they all became flooded. The whole area is a stinky, muddy marshland. And this is not something that happened recently either. Water fowl have moved into the area, and skim over the low, brown water. At one point we passed an old billboard sinking into the mud, and the old-school smiley face on it that once shone out with beaming yellow was now faded, and stained with years and years of brown-black high water marks. It was, to say the least, an ironic visage.

     After this journey through the wastelands, you finally come to Twin Lakes. They use the term "lake" extremely liberally, it seems, in South Dakota. I would have called it "Twin Piss Puddles State Recreation Area," but hey, I'm a stickler for accurate names. The grass was actually nicely manicured, and the half dozen or so campsites that faced the "shore" looked perfectly fine. Also, it's free to camp at, which was a first. Things were looking OK for us and Twin Lakes. That lasted for about 6 seconds, and then the bugs struck. A swarm of biting blackflies descended on us, and we scrambled back to the safety of the car. Which turned out not to be so safe, since (and we counted them as we killed them), 5 of the fuckers flew into the car in the time it took us to open the doors and get in.

Imagine Twin Lakes as this, but smaller, and marshier.

     As we sat in the car, scratching our fresh bites, I noticed a little community across the lake. Seeing as how the lake was only about 50 yards across, I got a pretty good view. Ramshackle houses and dingy trailers lined the opposite shore, about 10 in all. There were no cars, and while not boarded up or anything, it appeared to be a ghost town. I believe they were actually summer homes for people who wanted to boat on the lake. Which I imagine would be entirely possible, supposing your boat was made of folded newspaper and wax. Staring at those houses, though, I experienced something I don't think I've ever felt before. That would be the doom and foreboding I mentioned earlier.

     In the pit of my stomach, something started tingling, and not in a good, getting-a-boner kind of way. Something inside my head that wasn't a voice, exactly, but more like a repeating alarm clock going off, kept saying, "GO. GO. GO. GET OUT. GO." Panic overwhelmed me, and I'm not entirely sure why. I've seen shitty houses and creepy marshlands before, all the elements that made up my view. We've now camped almost 20 nights out here in the hinterlands, many of those places isolated and deep in the woods. But at none of them did I get the incredibly bad vibe that I did at Twin Lakes. I don't know if I thought some deeply inbred, nocturnal hicks were going to come out of the crawlspaces of those dilapidated houses once the sun set, paddle across the lake, and barbecue us...or maybe I would wake up to a mud-stained, mutated heron pecking out my eyeballs and swallowing them like grapes. Whatever it was I envisioned, it prompted me to get the hell out of there, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind my car as it hurtled away from that dark, evil place.

Yellowstone National Park, Brought to You by Disney

     What I'm about to say here probably breaks some cardinal law of campers and nature lovers everywhere, but to hell with it, I'm saying it anyway. Yellowstone kinda sucks. Now, now, settle down. I'm not talking about the environment or natural splendors there. They are quite beautiful, and wonders to behold. What sucks is the fact that while there, I was continually reminded of Six Flags, or Disney (which I've never been to, but feel I can imagine well enough).

     Much like Great Adventure, your visit to Yellowstone is kicked off with a line of cars waiting to drive through the entrance booth. Everyone has to pay their entrance fee, and of course, question the ranger there with a fervor normally reserved for a Mike Wallace interview on 60 Minutes. JZ and I had invested in an annual National Parks Pass, which I thought would allow us to bypass this clusterfuck much like the Fast Passes at Six Flags do, but I was mistaken. We waited our turn in line like everyone else, which irritated me to no end.

Welcome to Yellowstone!

     Another aspect of this national treasure that reminded me of a large-scale amusement park was the wildlife wandering by the roadside. It was very reminiscent of the drive-thru safari all us Ocean Countites know and ... love? While it was extremely gratifying to witness a buffalo up close, the behavior of my fellow motorists left much to be desired. When one merely saw someone standing in the shoulder of the road holding a camera at their side, they would proceed to slam on their brakes, kill 6 people behind them, and careen off the road in an attempt to snap a photo of whatever wildlife MAY be nearby. Downtown Manhattan has less gridlock at rush hour than Yellowstone does if an elk happens to wander anywhere near the roadside.

A more dangerous traffic hazard, I've not encountered.

     The congestion and claustrophobia continues once you exit the car and walk to gain a glimpse of one of the park's many natural geyser formations. Remember the line for El Toro the year it opened? Well, that has nothing on Old Faithful. Hundreds of people mill about, eating ice cream (handily sold at nearby concession stands), telling their kids, "shut up, it's gonna go off soon, then we can go back to the RV and watch TV," and preparing their cameras for the imminent eruption. If you're lucky, you get a spot behind two vertically-challenged Asian tourists and can view Old Faithful's mighty spew over their shoulders.

     Now I deride Yellowstone, but I do it in jest. It really is a beautiful, mind-blowing place that's enormity is amazing. I was there Labor Day Weekend, and I waited in line like all of the other cattle (people, I mean, not the actual cattle). My cynicism for "wholesome family adventure" didn't stop me from feeling like a kid again myself. Just not the kid stuffing ice cream in his maw and waiting to go back to the RV to watch Dora.

Wyoming's Rock Hard Protrusion

     In northeastern Wyoming, there's a natural wonder tucked away in the woods that is truly awe-inspiring. I never thought I'd type that sentence with sincerity, but alas, I've been proven wrong again (I could have sworn it was Kurt Russell in Point Break and Patrick Swayze in Tango & Cash!) Devil's Tower National Monument is a monolithic igneous intrusion, which is geologist talk for "huge rock that looks freakin' awesome." It's older than dirt (ha!) and humans have flocked to it for thousands of years for all kinds of reasons.

"Heh heh heh, hey Butt-head, check it out, the Earth has a boner."

     Clichés be damned, pictures really don't do it justice. The tower stands alone in a copse of serenely quiet pines. Wandering through those woods, craning my neck up to gaze at this marvel, I was overcome with a sense of peaceful calm. I tend to look at most things with a rather cynical eye, but even I couldn't restrain my wonder. I definitely understand why Richard Dreyfuss made a mashed potato replica of this thing in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Filmed on location...somewhere else.

     As you wander around the tower, you see little cloths tied to tree branches, or rock pyramids scattered about. Devil's Tower is a place of great religious importance to several Native American tribes, and they worship there. Unfortunately, this comes into conflict with the other group of people that flock to Devil's Tower most frequently - rock climbers. For years, these two groups have battled over who's entitled to have their views on the Tower respected. The Native Americans believe it is a place of worship, and see it as a Catholic might if a guy in Speedo shorts and a yellow helmet started flinging ropes onto the roof of the Vatican and scaled it to take pictures at the top. The climbers believe they're entitled to climb the Tower because...well, I'm not really sure what gives them their sense of entitlement, aside from, of course, their fancy belts with lots of metal loopy things hanging off. 

"Next summer, I plan on scaling the Taj Mahal."

     The matter was finally "settled" in the early 90's by Wyoming courts. They decided both sides had a legitimate claim to the Tower; the native people who have worshiped there for tens of thousands of years, as well the trendy yuppies who have climbed it for a few decades. Their ultimate ruling? Nothing. Since then, the Park Service has asked people not to climb during a few weeks in June (more specifically the summer solstice, an important time in Native American rituals) in a kind of voluntary ban. This compromise has been the status quo ever since, and studies indicate 85% of climbers honor the moratorium on climbing. Seems like a shitty "compromise" to me, but hey, I guess the Indians are used to that kind of thing...

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

     Somewhere around Ohio, you start to notice something. It's almost imperceptible at first, but quickly the realization strikes. You're a time traveler. It starts with the cars. You're zooming down the highway, and you pass a 1987 Chevy Astrovan. It makes you do a double take, because you haven't seen one since middle school. Then you see a soda machine (excuse me, POP machine) outside of some dinky gas station, and the outdated logo that adorns it triggers a memory in your brain of your first trip to McDonald's. The farther out west you go, the more the years tick backward.

The official state vehicle of South Dakota

     Now clearly, I don't believe in time travel. If I did, I'd go back and undo all those drunken texts I've sent to ladies at 3am. But all this retro stuff begs a question: Where did it come from? Have the citizens of these states merely meticulously kept up on their regularly scheduled maintenance? Even if that were the case, everything is a minimum of 25 miles away out there. It's highly implausible even the most cared for Ford Festiva would last several hundred thousand miles. Which brings up another point: It's never an old BMW or Mercedes you see cruising around, it's always cars that were pieces of shit from the moment they rolled off the assembly line. How do these anachronisms stand? It's a mystery worthy of Mr. Owl from the old Tootsie Pop Commercials. Which are now airing for the first time in southeastern Minnesota.

Is There Anybody Out There?

     Once you make it to the heartland of the country, you discover something: There ain't shit out there. The open space can be quite overwhelming for a born and bred Eastern Seaboarder. What appears to be only an inch or so on the map can turn into several hours of drive time. Naturally, your mind wanders in these wastelands. Whether it's gigantic expanses of corn, gigantic expanses of rock, or gigantic expanses of grass, you'll spend a lot of time staring through the windshield without much variation to stimulate your brain.

I've seen about 17 of these signs so far.

     Where I come from, one town ends, and then immediately thereafter, another town begins. There's a border, and theoretically, you could stand in two towns at once if you straddled it. This is not possible in most of the country. You leave one town, and a road sign informs you there isn't another for 34 miles. It's much like I imagined space travel to be as a boy. Propelling your way across the infinite void, random planets and outposts are encountered extremely rarely. I'm like a modern-day Captain Kirk, minus the hairpiece.

These are the voyages of the USS Chevy Cavalier...

     Instead of green-skinned alien babes, however, the only life forms you might encounter between towns are cows. Brown cows. Black Cows. White Cows. Brown and white cows. Black and white cows. It's a veritable rainbow coalition of cows out there in the abyss. The sad thing is, after a while, you're glad to see the cows. It's a sign of life, and something that is actually variable, as opposed to the endless, symmetrical rows of corn. You see an oddly colored cow, or (you gotta be real lucky for this) one doing something other than standing still and eating grass, and it's like you won the Powerball Lotto. An example:

          Me: "Holy shit, JZ! Did you see that cow over there?"

          JZ: "No, damnit, I missed it! What was it doing?"

          Me: "You wouldn't believe it, man- it was drinking some water, then it stopped and walked away!"

          JZ: "Wow! Ugh, I can't believe I didn't see..."

     And just like that, we have something to talk about for the next two hours until we reach a town.

Highway is a Life, I Wanna Ride it All Night Long

     Life on the road is a far cry from the comforts of a nice house in a nice part of town with nice neighbors. Life on the road is not nice. It takes a lot out of you. It can chew you up and spit you out if you don't adapt. It's not nice, but I was sick of nice. I wanted an adventure. A dirty, smelly, dangerous adventure. Boy, did I get what I wanted! But I wouldn't want it any other way. I've already started to conform to this new lifestyle, and I have to say, I like it.

Nope, life on the road is nowhere near this hip, or sexual.

     The thing you don't realize about a road trip like this is that your car becomes not only your mode of transportation, but also your closet, dining room, staging area, and in rare instances when you're in the middle of nowhere and a plastic bottle is handy, your bathroom. Take your life, and all the places that accomodate it, then compress them into a 2-door, 4 cylinder coupe. Oh yeah, and then halve that, because there's two of you traveling in this mobile apartment.

     

     Everything becomes a process. You finally make camp for the night, are enjoying the space and open air outside of the car, and realize you forgot to get your spoon out of the "gear bag." Open the car door, move the bag of dirty laundry to the left, the backpack full of electronics to the right, and throw the tote bag full of maps and books into the dirt because its just really been annoying the shit out of you all day. 

Here, jam this in your back seat.

     Success, gear bag located! Unzip it, dig past the cook set, the rain poncho, the windproof lighter, and there it is - the utensil bag! Open the plastic bag, shift the tongs out of the way, shove the spatula down farther, and toss the ketchup packets. Finally, you've reached the goal of your search, the spoon, which will allow you to enjoy baked beans like a human, and not a bear scooping them into its mouth with its paw. Walk back to camp, and prepare to enjoy....

     ...until you realize you need a fork and knife for your steak.

Newsflash---Mythological "Small-town America" found!

     I could hardly believe it, but I've found something in my travels I thought to be a legend. Something lost to the pages of history long ago, much like the fabled continent of Atlantis. Out there, away from the Wal-Marts and the Burger Kings, lies something so well hidden, many thought it extinct.

     Small-town America.

     It's real, everyone. I've seen it with my own eyes. At first, I thought it a trick, but no, it was there. Not the glorious mirage I thought at first, but tangible - concrete, wood, and glass.

This photo is not doctored, and taken today, 8/28/2010

     The spirit of Mayberry exists, and lives on in such places as Breezewood, PA, Sheffield, OH, and Manistique, MI. Driving down Main Street, you might see a kindly old man in bib overalls and a John Deere cap making his morning constitutional to the post office. Or perhaps you might espy little Janie Jones on the sidewalk, playing hopscotch, her braids flapping with each jump. Passing the old movie theater (usually The Majestic, but sometimes The Royal), you'll notice they turned it into a cute antique shop after it closed back in '86. The cops (or should I say, "cop") hangs out down at Irma's diner between patrols, and Mrs. McKeller is out on her porch every morning to make sure her red-white-and-blue bunting is hanging evenly.

The homeowner's association recommends at least three per each porch.

     It's a throwback, and an oddity to me, a child of suburban sprawl. To be honest, it made me a little nervous. Every smiling neighbor, every general store, I became more unsettled. I was convinced I had wandered into a Twilight Zone episode. At any moment, these Middle-Americans might turn, eyes glazed over, and haul me off to be sacrificed to their corn god. I searched frantically for something familiar... a Taco Bell, a 7-11, anything owned by a good old-fashioned corporation. Safety lie beneath their fluorescent lights and neon signs. Thankfully, once I got close to any interstate, my old friends welcomed me with open arms. Nice, homogeneous, corporate arms. 

Ahh, sweet relief!

      Soon, the corporations will expand their influence even farther, and these small towns will be swallowed up and the locations of the former Community Halls will now be toilet aisles in a Home Depot. The fudge shoppes will be gone, replaced by the tweens' clothing section of a Target. What I thought was only a legend will eventually become just that. Except for in old episodes of The Andy Griffith Show. Which you can buy in the TV on DVD section of your local Best Buy.