I finally managed to break free of the icy grip disguised as a warm hug of the Wood Family.
Of course, having been spoiled rotten, I have to start all over. I am far too soft for the harsh and rugged life of a vagabond.
I drove across the Continental Divide and landed in Farmington, NM (population:whatever; temperature: a two-digit number beginning with a 1…that’s the stat they should post).
I drove for a couple hours without anyone looking me straight in the face and saying how glad they are to have me as a friend. Made me feel lonesome.
I glanced over at my new painting, the one that now allows me to describe the EM-50 Phantom Rambler as “Stately Appointed” (pic related)
This was presented to me by the scion, Quincy, upon meeting me. It was her masterpiece of the day and given freely when I admired the bright and cheerful colors.
I could not accept it without sacrifice. I bought the young artist a 99 cents bean burrito. Then Laura gave me a dollar coin. Drat!
My feet stay cold. And, there is no one around to nag me about “getting off the hooch” (diet sodas) or badgering me with questions like, “is there anything you need?” and, “are you comfortable/hungry/thirsty,etc”
Being alone again, I don’t get nearly as many riveting discussions/arguments about the world, politics, and, whether or not society is broken and if so, how to fix it. It really is fascinating to me how a person as supremely intelligent as Laura could be wrong about so many important subjects. One of life’s mysteries, I guess.
I tried to get back into my routine and headed straight for McDonald’s, but when I found myself asking the drive-thru speaker box about “vegan options” I knew I had a problem reentering society.
The sleeping area of the the Rambler suddenly seemed cramped and drafty. I thought of Trixie and was warm all over.
I get to see her in three weeks. You know, if I’m tough enough to survive that long.
I was gonna title this one, “Tommy Gets Lost in the Woods” because I am thinking about changing my name, moving in and sending for Trixie.
My hosts, the Woods (Irby, Laura, Baxter, Cayden and The Q) are way too warm, loving, supportive,inviting and naive. They can’t seem to tell when some freeloader is taking advantage of those positive qualities.
Laura has been my guide this week. She has taken me in and around Albuquerque (and, for you Bugs Bunny fans, we made plenty of left turns while doing it).
Yesterday she took me north, up along Historic Route 66 to an empty stretch of road. Nice, right? I had no idea what was going on and didn’t even notice these signs (pics related)
…on the first pass. She swung around and we went at it again.
Rumble strips in the roadway along Historic Route 66 cause your car to belt out “America the Beautiful” when you drive at the correct speed. (I shit you not)
We continued north to the state capital, Santa Fe.
We went to the the famous staircase in Loretto Chapel (gallery related)
Word around the diocese was that, Loretto Chapel was run by a bunch of nuns, who, being sissy girls, couldn’t really use a ladder to get to the loft and do whatever is was that needed to be done on the upper level.
Installing a traditional staircase wouldn’t be a good solution because it would cost money and take up too much floor space. So, they thought about it. Nothing.
Finally, when common sense prevailed they took action in the only form that would make for a good story – they prayed.
Now they were getting somewhere. Legend has it (and, seriously, would a nun lie?) a mysterious stranger just showed up. A carpenter. You know, just like St Joseph and his boy were (hint hint).
He brought with him a hammer, a saw, a carpenters square (whatever that is) and wood.
He toiled for 6 months, remaining a mysterious stranger the whole time. He used water to shape the wood.
Then he left without presenting a bill for either labor or materials.
The stairs (pictured above in the gallery) were built without a central support. It is held in place by the precision of its craftmanship and is visited by architects and engineers alike from all over the world who come to stand at the base and scratch their heads in disbelief.
When sightseeing, it is kind of tough to top “staircase built by God himself” so we headed back to Albuquerque.
It wasn’t enough that I was being housed and fed and chauffeured around the southwest, there was still something missing – education.
I know nothing about wine. Irby, though he won’t say it, is an actual expert. He does wine for a living. I would say what he does exactly, but over the years has spent time mastering each stage of the business and only then chose his specialy – sales.
I said I wanted to drink as much free wine as I could hold, under the pretext of learning about it.
After dinner he broke out wine, glasses…charts, diagrams and other assorted documents including a map of the world.
I love it when someone who is extremely passionate and knowledgeable about their field tries to explain the complexities to a complete noob. It’s funny!
He was slinging info to Patrick and Shelley (a cute couple/family/dear friends type thing who decided to attend the tasting) and me about the history, social importance and various properties of different wines.
He dispelled misconceptions, instructed how to belittle pretentious snobs and encouraged the enjoyment of the fermented fruit of the land – all while the underagers, animals and Laura had a jam session in the adjecent area. Everyone in the family has musical talent.
I was given morsels of different flavors of food (like dark chocolate and Fig Newtons, but not really Newtons, some vegan, wholegrain mutation of the actual junk food) and shown how different foods can alter the physical properties, and thus dining experience, of different wines. Irby showed us what to look for and, ultimately we learned that there is no wrong answer when it comes to wine. If a certain bouquet triggers memories associated with certain parts of your human experience then go with it. Enjoy what you like.
I asked questions and got immediate and easy to understand answers. It was so cool! If I am traveling about looking for new experiences, I found one last night for sure.
When I couldn’t really drink any more wine, Irby took up his guitar, Laura her Ukulele and even I was handed a muffled (so as to not make too much of a racket) drum thing (pic related)
And we played and sang. This is what these people do instead of watching TV everynight. Kinda makes me feel sorry for them. You know, if I hadn’t had so much fun.
In Albuquerque, even non-TV weirdos are not immune to the influence of the best show to ever air – Breaking Bad. I told Guide Laura I wanted to see some of the locations. Off we went.
She explained to me that the shows creator, Vince Gilligan, in a blatant act of un-Americanism, has allowed the enterprising folks of New Mexico, to use his intellectual property free of licencing royalties. It is like everybody out here has lost their goddamn minds. They are all way to friendly. I don’t trust them. I decided to not make any sudden moves around Laura just in case.
We went to Walt’s house (pic)
Within 15 seconds another group of gawkers approached. I thought, “what are the odds of getting here at the same time on some random Thursday afternoon?”
Then 15 seconds later, another group (pic related)
A crowd was forming. We rambled on.
We saw Pinkman’s house (bitch!), Crystal Palace, the Dog House, the Car Wash, DEA Headquarters (gallery)
…and Rebel Donuts. They weren’t in the show, but they sell blue crystal meth donuts. But, most of time it is just rock candy sprinkled on it. I can’t be sure because they were sold out and I had to settle for a couple of lousy “pancake & bacon” ones – an actual strip of crispy bacon on a maple donut – my GAWD! I will take these over a lousy staircase any day and just use a ladder. I would include a pic but my camera’s shutter speed was no match for how quickly I scarfed them down.
If I had known that this is how friends treat each other, I would have been nicer to most of you bastards over the years.
I have been on hiatus recently. As real life has unfolded on those important to me, I considered suspending my life’s work of travelling about making sarcastic comments. After much rumination I decided that I am, in fact, what I am and, for better or worse, life, does go on. So, I sought the quantum of solace in the friendliest faces within 500 miles – I drove to Albuquerque to meet up with the Woods. Irby, Laura and (counting children, pets, extended family and stray houseguests) 8 or 9 others welcomed me into their hearts and/or homes. A much needed break from the road. It was so warm and homey. Then Laura tried to kill me.
As an itinerant spectator, I seek out that which is unique. Laura Wood graciously offered to show me around town. I got to see the Crystal Palace (the motel where Windy Wendy did her thing in “Breaking Bad”). I got to see old town ABQ, and the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe – the smallest privately owned Church (whatever that means) in the known New Mexico. (pic related)
She got me drunk at the High Noon Saloon, among other things. But, first…
Where it all went to hell is when she asked me what I wanted to see.
Well, as the three fervent followers of my adventures could tell you (that’s me, Trixie, and you, dear reader) I am a solo adventurer. However, there is one mission so cloaked in mystery and potential danger that I thought it best to employ a local Sherpa-type guide – Laura – to lead the way.
My destination was Hidden Mountain in Los Lunas, NM and the much-touted Mystery Stone therein.
Because people always need to argue, the Mystery Stone is highly controversial. It was discovered in the 1880s inscribed with the decalogue (10 Commandments) in some kind of Phoenician/Hebrew/Greek amalgam thing.
The controversy comes in as some argue that it is living proof (living? Really? It is a rock.) that the lost tribe of Israel wandered their asses through America during what is obviously, pre-Columbian times, while opponents say, “Come on! You call that art? My 5 year old coulda done that!”
Tommy pauses to get his cape and save the day.
As with any adventure worth embarking, this one began at the county landfill. The way was blocked to prevent the faint of heart from proceeding by a narrow iron passage (pic related)
I climbed over.
I researched the location of the Mystery Stone until I lost service (pretty much right away). But, read enough to know that the way was marked with ominous arrows (pic related)
pointing the way.
I vaguely recall reading that if we achieved the summit of Hidden Mountain we had gone way, WAY too far, but at least could observe ancient encampments.
The trouble came when my inner ear thing acted up and I couldn’t tell what “straight” was according to the arrow and was forced to make a choice (pic related)
Against my Sherpa’s advice, I chose to go left to find the Mystery Stone.
In my defense, I wasn’t thinking straight because I had just found evidence of the legendary Bigfoot symmetrical rock stacking. (pic related)
No human could stack rocks like that
I went here…
elevation – 8,000 ft
Now, I know what you’re thinking – Walking straight up a mountain isn’t so bad, right?
Right. Clearly it wasn’t difficult. I mean, my guide, a direct decendent of Legolas the Elf (as evidenced by footfalls so light that they wouldn’t leave prints even in freshly fallen snow) just bounded right up without effort at about the same speed as swarming locusts. I followed behind with my nose no more than 14 inches from the path and my tongue lightly bobbing off of my shoes.
At least she had the decency to pretend to need to stop to catch her breath every minute or so (which wasn’t often enough for me). Once she even said in a sing songy tone (and this is a quote), “Whew.” I replied in kind with a sound you might expect from someone who is gargling with sandpaper.
Once we achieved the summit we scurried about looking for the damn blasted rock. Our inability to find it caused a member of our party (me) to suggest that it was probably blown away by the incessant fucking wind. After all, it only weighed 80 tons – no match for the blast that was robbing me of my precious core heat and trying to steal my hat (purple porkpie) in the process.
Once on top of the mountain I discovered that only the curve of the earth itself could block celly service. I Googled for pointers and discovered that we are supposed to seek a permit and pay $25 each for the privilege of looking at this rock (pic related)
Oops!
Though the spirit remained willing while the body was spongy, aching and bruised, I decided that it was time to descend humiliatingly unsuccessful.
I sought counsel from my guide. While I dont remember her exact words of encouragement, they were something like this,
“You know, walking down a mountain is WAY fucking harder than walking up. You’ll probably die. Follow me.”
And, while we may not have discovered the Mystery Stone, we had discovered, I decided, fossilized, feathered dragon eggs (pic related)
I wasn’t leaving with nothing
Then I got hungry and wondered if this fossilized pumpkin pie was still any good…
When I decided to sit down to think about it, I realized that my chosen cushion was the elusive Mystery Stone… (pic related)
Ta Da!
Some asshole had vandalized the first line…which, I guess if you think about it was vandalization also. I dunno. Someone scratches a rock and it is history. Someone else scratches the same rock and they are a criminal. Go figure.
I’ve seen and done some pretty astounding things since I launched my Goodwill Tour 2015, but the most amazing happened last night in Alamagordo, New Mexico – I lost one of my shoes.
Now, I know what you’re thinking – “Uhm, Tommy…that’s not all that amazing, I lose one of my shoes ALL the time.”
Yes, well, dear friend, me too. But, this time was different. I lost one of my shoes while in the “living” area of the EM-50 Phantom Rambler, whose cubic capacity is roughly equivalent to my volume. There isn’t much room for something to get lost.
I found the shoe after only 10 minutes. I didn’t even panic. I was too busy being amazed that I could do that.
I did panic yesterday when I lost my wallet. In the 15 minutes that it took me to find it, I had gone through 6 of the 7 stages of grief (I always skip GUILT and go right to anger).
When, I finally did locate it, I then had to go through it all again for my celly…and then my keys.
I hadn’t planned on being in New Mexico yet, but that’s another story. While here I might as well put my thing down – you know, see the sights and sites.
I checked my GPS, the nearest Planet Fitness was a lousy 185 miles away in Roswell. I’ve been to Roswell. Hell, I was there in August with Trixie. I motored.
It turns out that the Planet Fitness is more of a Plan It Fitness – they are just signing up the soon-to-be resolute clientele in time for the New Year, and haven’t actually opened yet. Drat!
Here’s the thing, if a UFO hadn’t crashed in Roswell in 1947 then there wouldn’t be much to it. It is out in the middle of nowhere, far from a water source. It’s previous claim to fame is that I’m pretty sure that the Roadrunner cartoons were drawn on location there.
However, that wasn’t enough desolation for me. I wanted to be where no one in their right mind could provide a reason for living where they do. This took me to Fort Sumner, home of the Vixens (I’m not kidding. The high school mascot) and final resting place of New Mexico’s most famous resident, Henry McCarty. You know him as Billy the Kid. I don’t know where the William or the Bonney comes from, and, hell, I toured the museum and can’t actually tell you why it is he is actually famous. Everything I thought I knew about him was dismissed as incorrect by the curators. They insist he wasn’t a gunfighter, or an outlaw…not really. I mean, sure he murdered a fella in a gunfight, but, hell, everybody did.
He was a something of a prominent figure in the Lincoln County War, but, you’ve never even heard of that. Hell, there is a lot of wars you’ve never heard of. People are savages. Always fighting. Did you know Ohio went to war with Michigan over which one of them would get stuck with Akron? It’s true.
Yet, this kid from New Mexico (who is actually from New York if you can believe it) went on to become a household name that erroneously represents the lawlessness of the old west.
I stood over his grave (pic related)
They are taking no chances with headstone rustlers
and pondered life, death, the universe and uttered the only words that came to mind…
“Dust. Wind. Dude.”
I strolled over to one of Billy’s eternally-resting neighbors, to find that he was the largest landowner that ever lived or something. (pic related)
a map of that which he couldn’t take with him
A little further down, and in complete contrast, the grave of someone shot by Billy…
But, still, I was nagged by how well “remembered” Henry McCarty is.
Trixie’s buddy, Tolkien, said, “History becomes legend. Legend becomes myth.” But why this otherwise obscure character?
I decided it had to be the nickname. At some point in every young man’s life he tries to give himself the sobriquet, “The Kid”. It almost never takes. But, Billy the Kid had it first. We envy that and give him his due – immortality.
Dust. Wind. Dude. And, for a little while, rememberence.
I slept in Liberal,KS. I had a big surprise to spring on Trixie. They have built Dorothy’s home from “The Wizard of Oz”. She was gonna plotz!
But, I can’t keep a secret and I told her about it. Her response was, “Oh yeah. I’ve been there. I went during the festival about 20 years ago.
Ok. Nevermind that. I pressed on.
I was a couple of hundred miles from the nearest PF, so I made for Amarillo,TX, so I could shower.
It was hot and windy. Keeping the EM-50 Phantom Rambler on the road meant wrestling the steering wheel like it was a crazed beast.
When I finally made it to the city limits, I saw some fellow wayfarers, holding up a hand-written sign that read, “Living on Love”. They were seeking a ride.
Ian, Ashley and their three dogs (pic related)
…we’re as close to that couple from, “Me & Bobby McGee” that I was likely to meet.
I drove them and their packs and guitar to the New Mexico border.
Ian has been on the road for 10 years, Ashley for 3 years.
They hitchhike, ride trains and arrange for “Rainbow Rides” (no homo).
Rainbow Rides are ride-sharing things that leather tramps get from fellow attendees to make it to “Rainbow Parties”.
Rainbow Parties are hippie gatherings. They meet in undisclosed (until the last possible minute) locations in National Forests. The location is spread by word of mouth only until the day of the event (which can last up to 3 weeks). It is kept secret so that locals don’t have time to organize a way to interupt the festivity.
There are several regional Rainbow Parties each year and one national gathering.
Ian and Ashley were en route to Albuquerque to meet up with former road dogs (travelling partners).
Naturally, I asked Ian how he makes money on the road. I mean, now that all potential applicants for all jobs are regarded as terrorists and must undergo an extensive and invasive 6 week long background and credit check One cannot simply wash dishes at a diner for a week and then move on.
He says he plays guitar on the street but that only pays about one quarter of straight up panhandling.
He sells jokes for 25 cents a piece at bars. He can make a couple hundred bucks a night on a good night. He sells the first couple. Then after he has made some folks laugh, they call him over and give him a twenty.
He told me about the 100 and 200 kicks – they are more common than you would believe…according to him.
As the name implies, this is when a citizen kicks him 100 or 200 dollars.
Sometimes while hitchhiking, folks will pull over and apologize for not being able to give him a ride and give him a handful of cash. Good work if you can get it.
I left them at a truck stop off of I-40 in New Mexico. I gave them a shot of whiskey and a rawhides for the dogs.
Freedom is still there to be had, I suppose. But we all have our own definition.
And, remember, nothing, don’t mean nothing, honey, if it ain’t free.
You people with your fancy indoor plumbing and private bathrooms have no idea what we Kings of the Road go through.
This morning, bleary-eyed and drowsy, maybe even a little hungover, I stumbled from the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and shuffled into the Wal-Mart for my morning constitutional.
It was early. I had the room to myself. Smelled a little funny. Oh well.
I sat perched on the throne, nodding off, hoping I could take advantage of this opportunity when someone else entered the men’s room.
I heard a little kid jabbering on nonstop, the way they do.
The kid was going a mile a minute. His parent was assisting him in his endeavor and told him, in Spanish-accented English, to hurry.
I shook my head. His stupid ass mother had brought him into the goddamn men’s room. Some people have no sense of decorum, I swear.
Still undeterred (haha…un de-turd…haha…nevermind) another guy entered and sat in the stall next to mine. In my less than alert state, I remember noting that he had really small feet.
In no hurry…yet, I just lolled there, enjoying the free warmth.
The guy next to me gave sharp little cough.
My head snapped up, my eyes popped open and I pricked up my ears. That sounded like a woman’s cough.
As I was simultaneously wondering if it is racist to say you can tell the sex of a person by their cough and what the hell this little box was that was mounted on the wall, a thought occurred to me.
(Editor’s note: We were gonna say sexist instead of racist, but sexist and sex in the same sentence hits the ear funny. We went with racist. You get the idea.)
Is there any chance I bumbled into the cootie-filled ladies room?
Then another thought…why is it “ladies room” instead of “ladies’ room”? I mean, we say “Men’s room”, right? It’s not “Men room” or even, “man’s room”. Weird. I know.
Fully awake, I was now trying to remember if I had passed any urinals when I entered. Cripes! I couldn’t recall.
On the verge of abject panic, I sought council from my life partner, Trixie. She’ll know what to do! (text related)
The restrooms open out to the registers…good thing they are never staffed (zing!).
I raced out of there, like a posse was on my tail, it was indeed, time to get the Hell out of Dodge….just like I said I wanted. I was wrong.
Without a plan, I jumped onto the nearest open road and made a run for the border.
Once my heartbeat slowed to an easy staccato, I got another (albeit different kind of) thrill. On the outskirts of Dodge City I stood witness as a tumbleweed broke loose and, well, tumbled across the road in front of me!
Flouting the local ordinances, I snatched up my phone to call Trixie and tell her about it. I mean, what are the odds?! A tumbleweed! In Dodge City! That is so western!
She didn’t answer. Gift wrapping her office, I think. But, just then, holy shit! Another! Soon…another. It got so I had to swerve to avoid the constant barrage.
It was like playing a real-life version of Asteroids.
I wasn’t always successful. I hit one square with the grill of the Rambler. The tumbleweed exploded into confetti.
Eventually, the road took me to Garden City, Kansas – home of the world’s largest, outdoor, municipal, concrete swimming pool. That is way too many modifiers.
I went looking for a Bison refuge that is supposed to be here but got driven back by the smell. I passed a pasture. My wild guess would be…oh, 50,000 head of cattle jammed in pretty tight. And, that’s no bull.
Don’t think I didn’t notice how she laughed at my predicament. Imma get her for that.
Children are amazing. Their imaginations and energy levels are such that they can find ways to entertain themselves in any setting. Provided, of course, they are not given the admonition to behave themselves in anyway whatsoever.
Hi. I just came from the laundromat.
While there, I considered opening my own coin-op laundry when I return. But, only because I hate to let the perfect name for such an establishment go to waste. I will call it…Riff Raff’s!
I’ve spent the day in Kansas, on a mission tonight to watch MNF – The Cowboys vs. The Redskins, in the best imaginable setting. But first…
I began my day in one of the most nicknamed cities in the country – Peerless Princess of the Plains, The Air Capital of the World, and Doo Dah, to name but a few.
No one is sure why they call The ICT, Doo Dah, but the best guess seems to be that someone there once thought that, “Witchita Doo Dah” sounded enough like, “Zippity Doo Dah” to make it stick.
It is called ICT because of its airport code, which it got back when the fledgling FAA, who people kept confusing with the FCC, tried to distance itself from that agency by banning codes that start with K and W…because of radio station or something.
It is “The Air Capital of the World” because it has built more airplanes than any other city and the marketing department thought “air” was much more kickass than “aircraft”. Whatevs.
There was nothing happening in that town, so I got outta Dodge.
Naturally, once I did so, it occurred to me that everyone talks about getting out of Dodge, but no one ever does it. I decided I would shut the posers up, once and for all by making good on that promise for all mankind.
In order to do that, I had to first get INTO Dodge. I saddled up the ol’ EM-50 Phantom Rambler and drove west into the sunset. Actually, I drove directly into the sun long before it had set and got quite a headache from it.
Yes, what better place to watch Washington beat Dallas than, “The Cowboy Capital of the World” – Dodge City, Kansas.
If there is anybody at all out there who has read all of my posts, then they may have noticed that I have visited many places and added, “…Capital of the World” to it. For the record, those are all genuine appellations (nicknames, dipshit).
It is a long, straight, flat trek west from Witchita to Dodge City – I don’t know how the pioneers did it. I mean, I stopped several times for supplies along the way and to rest my weary eyes and bones. Back when they did it in covered wagons, all they had was the occasional Stuckey’s.
But, I’m not doing this to make a straight shot anywhere. I stop to see the sites that make this land great! Things like, the Hot & Cold water towers of Pratt, Kansas. (pic related)
That’s actually pretty much it. It is only 153 miles between the two cities and nothing else of note to see.
In fact, it is that lack of things to see and do that gave us these marvels. They don’t really have hot & cold. They just have water. The townsfolk painted them that way as a joke because there was nothing else to do. Apparently, the cows had already been tipped.
So, when I stopped to snap this pic, I also did my laundry.
And, in case you are looking to save a few bucks, kids – Pratt has the 15th cheapest college among those colleges polled. (pic related)
The sign changed messages. I sat there for a while. No mention of its academic ranking.
Pratt also has brick streets. (pic related)
because, apparently, in a town this small, folks can spare the time it would take to install.
I fluffed. I folded. I moseyed on, pardner.
I made it to Dodge City with time to spare before the game started.
I went to Wyatt Earp Dr and wondered why they named the main street after a black-hatted pimp instead of a white hat like Marshall Matt Dillon. I mean, “Gunsmoke” is one of television’s classic shows. It ran almost as long as “The Simpsons” has…so far.
Wanting to fit in, I walked bow-legged to the local druggist (Walgreen’s). I ambled in and drawled to the pharmacist, “I need a new toothbrush…yella.” Don’t worry, I smiled when I said it.
He just gave me a funny look and pointed to aisle 5. A sign read, “Dental Care”. I moseyed over and got me one.
I now reckoned it was pert near time for the game. I quickened my pace into something of a mosey/trot to the nearest saloon, which is also a comedy club on the second Wednesday of every month.
The bow-legged gait was starting to hurt my upper, inner thighs, so I switched to Chester-style limp and went inside, not taking the time to be disappointed by the lack of swinging doors.
As a joke, I ordered a diet coke and asked the barmaid, who told me right away to stop calling her “Kitty”, to put it in a dirty glass. I got a chuckle out of this. But, my soda tastes funny and I’m afraid to drink it.
The game is 3 to 3, like Trixie on our wedding night – all tied up.
My goal for tomorrow is to make enough trouble that the sheriff tells me to leave but not enough to get tossed in the hoosgow. Wish me luck!
If there’s one thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been on the road, it’s that, when one is on the road, one tends to notice a lot more stuff than they otherwise would.
I think it has to do with not being bombarded by adverts all the time.
No TV, no radio, no news. I listen to recorded books as I drive and just notice stuff. Maybe a lot of it is because Trixie isn’t around. When I am with her on a daily basis, I have to focus all my noticing energy on her hair so that I can remark positively if she changes it, or else suffer the consequences.
I left Planet Fitness at about 1:45 this afternoon and noticed that, at that strange hour on a Saturday, all the surrounding eateries were devoid of customers except one – Taco Bueno. They had a line at their drive-thru that wrapped around the building and their lot was full. Weird.
In case you’ve never noticed, ever since my discharge from the army, I don’t stand in line to eat. The paranoid kook in me…ok, that IS me…thinks it is some kind of ploy. I won’t eat at, say, Cracker Barrel unless they seat me right away, which they never do.
I am suspicious that there is plenty of seating but they make everyone wait in the gift shop to get them to spend money.
Also, I won’t buy a pair of shoes from a shoe store that doesn’t have their wares all on display because I have never asked a salesman to get a pair from the back without him returning to say they don’t have it in my size and he then wants to show me something else. Not sure what he is up to, but I just leave. Of course, I notice that this has put me way off track.
Anyway, I broke my own rule and queued up. The tacos were great! I ate my fill then cussed Taco Bell for being. Just being.
Enough about noticing stuff. I’d rather go back to being oblivious.
I was in Broken Arrow, OK today and I thought to myself, “That’s kind of an awful name for a place in the heart of Cherokee Nation.”
So, I checked my sources and drove to somewhere more American – meaning, based on a television program from my youth.
The truth is though, the TV show was based on a book – maybe a series of books. I don’t know. I never read it. Or them. Or whatever. But, that’s ok because I never watched the TV show either. But, I do have the home version in game form. (pic related)
I don’t feel bad for not watching it. Recently, when I was at Graceland, in the King’s TV room they listed his favorite shows (pic related)
and he didn’t watch it either.
Curiously, they also listed his favorite movies…
“Smokey and the Bandit” came out, like, a few minutes before E allegedly died. No way there would have been enough time for it to make it onto his all-time great’s list. Busted.
The problem this left me with is, when I got to this prairie in Kansas, (pic related)
I didn’t really know what I was looking for…you know, other than a little house. So, I took pics of everything.
Here is the childhood home of Laura Ingalls Wilder…
It really is tiny. But, I don’t know if it was featured in the show or not. And, that is the history that matters.
Here is a post office…
And a schoolhouse…
And a wagon…
They have a sort of a museum here, but they close for the season on October 31.
There really aren’t any neighbors to speak of. I wandered around and finally found a young girl with curly blonde hair. She was Amish or something, I’m guessing because she was dressed kind of funny. She looked like a sneering version of the kid on packages of Blue Bonnet margarine. Anyway, she wasn’t helpful at all and rather unpleasant actually.
Though she looked nothing like her, I got the sense that this is what good ol’ Trixie was like when she was 10 years old or so.
The Natural State doesn’t get a lot of attention. It pretty much stays beneath the radar when one tries to call to mind places they would like to visit. Or, when one considers the origin of anything important; or even, when you want to make fun of people based on stereotypes associated with their locale, Arkansas doesn’t readily leap to mind. It is just quietly there.
Odd, when you think about it since Arkansas has given us a U.S. President – Bill Clinton, country music legends like, Johnny Cash, Conway Twitty, Glen Campbell, and Lefty Frizzell. And was even the starting place for huge corporations Wal-Mart and FedEx, which opened for business in Rogers and Little Rock, respectively.
Then there are the Ozarks – not high, but really old. Modern estimates put parts of the Ozarks at 1.5 billion years old. But, back in the day of William Hope “Coin” Harvey, they were thought to be the oldest on earth.
Harvey was a financier who chose a spot on the White River in Arkansas to build a resort called, “Monte Ne”. He built a couple of hotels, (the ruins of only one still stands) an amphitheater with carved stone furniture (now submerged by the building of a dam to create Beaver Lake) and marvels of technology like the first indoor swimming pool. (gallery related)
Monte Ne was even the site of the 1932 Liberty Party’s National Convention. Harvey ran for president that year, but he never really had a chance. His hopes and dreams had been dashed long before then. The stock market crash of 1929 was really what finished him, though.
You see, ol’ Coin Harvey was something of a myopic visionary. Like so many of his time, W.H. was convinced that the human race was done for because of bankers. According to him, they manufactured debt by charging interest, which devalues money, the only fair representation of a person’s labor. Eventually, all the money would end up in their hands – specifically, The Rothschilds. Haha. What a crackpot! Right?
So, Harvey, acting on the principle that, “a man can’t just sit around” took action.
He began construction of Monte Ne in the early 1900s, to raise funds for his big project – The Pyramid.
You see, he was going to build this 130′ tall obelisk here at Monte Ne, with this capstone pyramid thing and fill it with all the collected knowledge of mankind and some modern wonders of technological advancement like, a Model T automobile, and a phonograph. Sort of a modern day Library of Alexandria.
He chose this spot because, according to his calculations, when the Ozarks finally crumbled to dust they would fill the area with silt, dust and debris and put his pyramid right at eye level for future archeologists.
Things were humming along nicely when in 1922 Howard Carter cracked open the tomb of King Tut. A pyramid frenzy swept the nation. The masses flocked in droves to Monte Ne to throw cash at Harvey. (pic related)
Construction began and then…the Great Crash of ’29 brought it to a halt.
Thus, Monte Ne became…the Greatest Thing that Never Was.
And, in the immortal words of an anonymous artist, “I was here fuckers”
I awoke in Springfield, MO and decided that when it comes to being healthy, I would fake it until I make it.
So, I pretended I felt fine. I did not.
Everyone agrees that superlatives are the greatest, so I went to find me one. How does the World’s Largest Fork grab you? (pic related)
I don’t know about you, but it made me hungry. I considered for quite some time going to this place that I vaguely recalled hearing about – World Famous Lambert’s Cafe, “Home of Throwed Rolls.”
I researched to try and figure out why they were familiar…world famousness aside.
It turns out this place chucks dinner rolls across the room at its customers. It’s quite a hoot!
In the course of my research I found out that a lawsuit was filed against them this year by some guy who took a dinner roll to the face and he claims that he almost lost an eye.
I set out to find why I love America. Unfortunately, it is during this time that I also find what I hate.
I’m not cussing this asshole who somehow managed to get his retina detached by a flying bakery item, soft though it may be, during what is supposed to be a night of family fun and frolic. I mean, what would I do if I was in his place and faced with a hospital bill of $25,000 that I couldn’t pay?
Everything costs too much. Medical care is through the roof, of course. And, Obama Care was just a blank check to the insurance companies, I dont care what anybody says…And, there are more lawyers than there is work to support them, so they go about suing the crap out of everybody and everything…and the legal system is comprised of lawyers, so they encourage that everything be brought in for them to decide on and…the whole thing is exhausting. Soon we won’t be allowed to leave our homes, let alone engage in madcap antics like this throwing bread across a room.
I didn’t want to go to Lambert’s anymore.
I went to Marionville, Mo instead.
Marionville is a small town (pop 2,000). And they are involved in a fight with some other towns in Missouri (and one location in Tennessee, but frankly they dismiss the Volunteers as frivolous wannabes) over a title they claim is rightfully theirs – “Home of the White Squirrels.” I shit you not. I mean, yeah, they have white squirrels, (pic related)
but I am serious about arguing over the title.
I pulled over to consult my map and decide my next destination. I eventually chose to see everything in the 50 mile stretch between Marionville, MO and Eureka Springs, AR (spoiler alert – there’s nothing. Farmland after the harvest and before the planting).
I chose Eureka Springs because it claimed to have a Guiness Book of World Records record holder.
The World’s Largest Musically Tuned Wind Chime!
The “musically-tuned” part is important, otherwise your run-of-the-mill dipshit could just hang a bunch of clanging metal scrap and declare himself a winner.
I’ve been on the road for a couple of months. And, I have hunted down some pretty obscure stuff. I tell you now, nothing gave me more difficulty than this one. My GPS dumped me off at an intersection about three miles away. I checked the internet for clues and, still didn’t come close.
I drove all over that town. By the way, Eureka Springs is a mountain resort town that first came to prominence because the local Indians claimed the many natural springs had healing and rejuvenative powers. So, we took it from them. Then, Daniel Boone camped there. Now, it is Swiss Alpine-themed village thing with TWO haunted hotels. Including one, The Crescent Hotel, that calls itself “The Shining of the South”.
I was learning all kinds of stuff as I drove around looking. This “Windchime of Destruction”, as she has been called by those who have stood directly beneath her when a breeze picked up, was proving quite elusive.
It was said to be in the parking area of some hippy joint called, “Celestial Windz Bizaar” but, damned if I could find it.
When I finally gave up and decided to press on, I shot right past it, hooked a quick U-ey and whipped into the lot. (pic related)
The place was closed.
Until further notice
Oh well. I didn’t want to buy anything anyway. I came for The World’s Largest Musically Tuned Wind Chime!
This is the tree is was hung from…
You know, back when it was still on display and whatnot.
Here is the bumper from a car that was kind of buried in leaves…
And, here is a trippy, windchimey kind of thing that is on the porch…
Ok, truth be told, I was a little disappointed that The Windchime of Destruction was no longer there and all the other pics of their stupid crap was not going to make up for it.
I needed something to save the day. I needed to rally.
I didn’t have to go far before coming upon Razorback Tower. (pic realted)
My first thought when I saw it was, “I’m gonna tackle this bitch.” (text to Trixie related)
The tower was completely unattended and, by means of inserting 4 quarters into an ancient coin slot, one can get the turnstile to spin. The above referenced problem came when I got stuck in said turnstile. It was quite snug.
Sheer panic gave me the squirt of adrenaline needed to allow me to buck and wriggle sufficently to make it through, but then I remembered I am sick and have to get back through again to exit. I had no more adrenaline. I was caged.
Oh well. Might as well check out the view from the top. (pic related)
I came up here to show Trixie how high my love for her is…and to spit
When I made it back down to ground level I was feeling the full force of whatever it is that is ailing me – rasping and wheezing. But, I made it back through the turnstile without having to call an EMT with a cutting torch.
