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.