February 8th marked the “Year of the Monkey” on the Chinese calendar, but I keep writing, “Year of the Goat” on all my checks.

I meant to make that joke when I was in San Francisco but forgot.

I’m in The Beaver State, home of the Ducks.  I was in Eugene, so I asked someone why the mascots  weren’t the same for the state and the university.

He explained that the University was called the Ducks before Oregon was called The Beaver State.  The state adopted that nickname the same year the school started allowing co-eds to matriculate and some thought it might be in bad taste to switch at that time.  Makes sense.

One of my first stops in Oregon was a gas station.  California fuel prices are a good buck higher than everywhere else because of high state taxes.  Also, it benefits all of us, ecologically speaking, because those high taxes keep many poor people off the roads. So, negligibly  cleaner air for all!  Except those poor people who suck down bus exhaust on their daily commute.

When I pulled into the station a young man came charging at me intent on doing me harm.  I squared my shoulders and struck a Marquis-of-Queensbury pose and started bobbing and weaving. He immediately started back peddling and skidded to a halt.

“Warning: I fight dirty!” I said, ready to defend myself.

“Uhm…I was just coming out to pump the gas, sir.” He said pointing to the station logo on his shirt.  “Did you need any help with that?”

“Oh.”  I said. “Nah, I’m good.”

After a moment of awkward silence I said, “I didn’t know there were any full-serve stations left.”

He explained that it used to be mandatory in Oregon.  They just changed the law this year to allow folks to pump their own gas if they want to.

When I asked what brought about the change he said, “People kept saying we were like New Jersey. Nobody wants to hear that.”

I continued north, redwood forests gave way to evergreens.

Redwoods

The views were quite spectacular.  The road meandered parallel to a series of emerald green creeks.  I passed Lower Finger Creek, and Upper Finger Creek.

Somehow, the mythical and metaphorical “Shit Creek” has come to represent the difficult situations in life we sometimes find ourselves in, with or without a paddle.  We should look back on those situations with loving fondness as times of high, decadent living when compared to what fate deals out when one finds themselves crossing “Middle Finger Creek”.  I was braced for anything.

Road construction brought the scenic route to a halt while I waited for a flag man to tell me I could proceed.  While stopped, the driver of the vehicle behind me, a 19 year old girl, came bouncing and flouncing up from the rear and approached my window. I rolled it down.

“Yes?” I said.

She halted and dropped her smile. She looked slightly embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

I nodded knowingly, “Brad Pitt? Yeah. It’s the tinted windows. Happens a lot.”

“No. My friend, Brittany.” She said.

“What made you think I was your friend Brittany?” I asked, slightly miffed.

“Your Maryland plates.” She said pointing.

“Does your friend Brittany drive a 1993 Ford Van?” I asked.

“Well, no, but she is from Maryland so I figured there was a 50% chance you were her.”

“50%? Where did you get that figure?” I asked.

“Well…” She said, “…you were either her…or you weren’t her. 50/50. I figured I better check.”

And, just like that she bounded back to her car. Good thing, too. I couldn’t punch a hole in her math.

Along the latest leg of my journey I went here…

I’m thinking about getting “Exit 542” tattooed on my knuckles.

…because You Only Live Once, you know.

The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is old and weak. I considered making a break for home.  But the lure of the Pacific Northwest was too strong to not yield to its call.  I want to find Bigfoot.

Well, I havent…yet. but I did find something just as rare…

There can’t be too many of these still standing.

Tonight, I dream of Trixie.

I may have no choice, actually.  The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is sick again.

I drove up The 101 north to Eureka because I thought this is where Ronald Regan went to school. It was Eureka, Ill. So, I have not found it.

I detoured to the scenic route known as the Avenue of the Giants and weaved my way between giant redwoods.  It was quite pleasant…until I stopped.  That is when my trusty steed purged all of its coolant.

I took it to the shop straightaway. Honest Engine. It has the kind of name that implies they are trustworthy while also making a wildly racist play on words. Everybody wins!

Unfortunately, like all auto shops everywhere, they were booked solid. They referred me to another shop that was booked solid til Thursday.  They to another…and so it went.

Eventually I found my way to Olde Town Auto Repair and they said they would take a look.

It has been several hours now.

My rig is old. If I can get it back on the road, it may be time to try to make it home.

If there is ever a new plague that wipes out 75% of the population,  I think I would move to California. Other than being too crowded, this state has it all! Well, the plague thing AND they would have to lower gas prices…ok, and provided you with bags to carry your purchases out of the store. And, I guess it would be nice if it rained once in a while. You know what? Fuck California.

I made my way to the coast, drove through Big ol’ Sur…

where I fed a chipmunk a little chocolate cracker…

Whereupon a much larger chipmunk came charging out of the underbrush and attempted to wrestle it from him with standard human bully tactics.  The little guy made a break for it and got away with the bounty.  The larger chipmunk then turned to look at me.  He knew I had the goods. I dug my fingers in the little foil pouch to get him one. But, apparently I was not quick enough and the cheeky bastard advanced on me.

When I failed to extract the tiny cracker quickly enough, and the advance of the wild animal did not slow, I had no choice but to jettison the entire package and beat a hasty retreat to The EM-50 Phantom Rambler.   I never would have guessed I was afraid of chipmunks. I am learning so much on this trip.

I stopped for the night in Monterey.  Sleep came fitfully, interspersed as it was with dreams of crazed, plague-carrying, attack chipmunks.

When I finally arose and checked my map, I discovered that I was not far from the town of San Jose. Cards on the table, I might never have heard of this place were it not for that old Burt Bacharach song.

I Googled “things to do in San Jose” and, shockingly, there was something – the fabled and gabled, Winchester Mystery House.

The widow Winchester, whose husband had been William Wirt Winchester, rifle manufacturer, had inherited his fortune, lock, stock, & barrel (heh) that left her rich beyond the dreams of avarice.  So, she did what we all would do if we ever came into such a windfall – she consulted a psychic.

Brief detour for a second…remember Dionne Warwick? She sang all of Burt Bacharach’s songs, then later did the Psychic Friends Network thing.  One of her hits was, “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” that I referenced a short while ago. Connection? Certainly. Creepy? Without a doubt. Coincidence?  Please.

For those of you who may not know, the psychic told Sarah Winchester that, tough break, she was being haunted by the spirits of all who had ever been killed by a Winchester rifle.

You must understand that spiritualism was very big during Victorian times. People really believed this stuff.  To give you an idea, they looked upon it then the way people nowadays look at, oh say, Climate Change – it all fit and anyone who went against the grain was a heretic of this wholesome religion.

Mrs Winchester, for reasons unknown, decided that she would fool the ghosts by building a weird house.  She had a team of carpenters work round the clock for decades adding on to some old farm house she had bought.

There are 160 rooms, 13 bathrooms, 6 kitchens…and some other stuff.  Like, stairs that lead to nowhere. Doors that open to a wall, or to a straight drop of about 10 feet, windows built into the floor, cabinets that open onto a whole room or into nothing at all, and, my favorite – secret passages.

I paid way too much for a tour of the mansion (no pics allowed, naturally) and for a behind the scenes tour of the grounds.  Besides the prohibition on photography in all its forms, they also do not allow food, drink, or gum chewing. But, they do make a really big deal about how they deign to allow BOTTLED water on the tour, like they are doing you the biggest favor in the world. Personally, I think they used to ban that too, but, when you take the tour, just on the inside of the house you walk about 1 mile. I think somebody stroked out from dehydration and this is their attempt to limit liability.

For me, the big mystery was not why some eccentric old rich lady built an odd house – clearly she was trying to confuse the ghosts that were following her. The big mystery was the maintenance guy that I followed…

If there is this big deal about not allowing any food, where the hell did he sweep up all of these orange peels from? Why oranges?  Why so many? And, why doesn’t he look more perplexed by the appearance of this giant mound of orange peels?

Also, why do they sell little Eiffel Towers in the gift shop?

Mysterious indeed.

The day was still young enough for me to make my way up the coast to Fog City – San Francisco.  I drove through the city to the world famous Pier 39 at Fisherman’s Wharf. ..then drove a couple more miles looking for a parking space.

I took to my feet and hoofed it back to the pier…

I saw boats and sea lions…

…and people. Gobs and gobs of people.

I wandered the pier, the big attractions are:

1. The aquarium. A showcase of the wonders of the denizens of the deep and how God’s creations extend and adapt to reach every square inch.
2. Seafood restaurants, where they cook said denizens and serve them with butter.

Anybody who knows me, knows that I don’t like seafood.  Grosses me out. Except tuna fish.

What they don’t know is why. I blame science.

A teacher once made me look at a drop of water under a microscope.  Ever since that moment, when I look at the ocean I see a giant drop of water, teeming with oversized bacteria. From flounders, to sharks…just weird bacteria. Gross.

I kept going and finally found The Chart House Restaurant. Way too fancy for my tastes, but, what the hell, I could treat myself and make some snobs uncomfortable.  In I went.

I sat at the bar. Apparently, rich folks can better enjoy their status when given some scale. The restaurant provided an excellent view of Alcatraz. ..

I found it to be in poor taste. Suddenly I felt conspicuous.  The bartender came over and did a little kow tow before taking my order.

Not wanting to appear to be a tourist, I played it cool while my mind raced about what the most San Franciscan thing I could think of was and how to incorporate it into my order…China Town? No. The Golden Gate Bridge? Nope. The 49ers? Nuh-uh. Homosexuals? Not even close. Hippies? I was getting lost here.

Finally, I blurted out, “I’ll have an order a Rice-a-Roni, my good man.” in my best rich-guy voice. I have discerned, from hours of television as a child that, “my good man” is how wealthy folks say, “please”.

I think he was a transplant. He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about and recommended the prime rib. I nodded. He asked how I wanted that cooked. I said, “Chicken fried, my good man.”

A few minutes later he came back and said that the chef would not do that and, it actually got ugly when he mentioned it.

My first beer had taken hold and I was much more relaxed. I decided to throw out all my old ways and embrace something new.  I ordered the lobster bisque in a bread bowl and slurped it while gazing out at the prison.

My thoughts were of the lovely Trixie and how very much I wished she was here.

Once sated, I stumbled drunkenly back to my home on wheels, crawled into the back and napped until I felt the panic of sobriety wash over me. I drove until I was clear of the city, then slept some more.

And so I ramble on.

“Death is another story. I will never make a joke about death. It is beyond my powers.”

Mario Puzo, Fools Die

I drove today through miles of rolling green hills down California Hwy 41, a road that meanders between land owned by the famous Hearst Family, to where it intersects with Hwy 46 near Cholame.

There isn’t much here now. One kilometer east and you will find the Jack Ranch Cafe.

Cattle grazing

…which is also owned by the Hearsts.

I assume there was even less back in 1955. Certainly fewer cars.

In September of 1955, at this intersection is where James Dean died in a car accident.

He only made 3 movies – he was 24 when he died, after all.  And I have never seen any of them.

There are running arguments about who is the smartest person to have lived – Newton, Einstein, et al…arguments about greatest artists…arguments about greatest boxer….any superlative, really.

But there does seem to be consensus in one unquantifiable area. James Dean was the embodiment of cool. Long before The Fonz, was striking juke boxes,  the restlessness and angst of the Silent Generation gave way to the rebellious spirit of the Baby Boomers, thanks, in  large part to being provided with a unifying beacon that was James Dean.

Many will argue that The King was cooler, and, ok…sure…but he is “God-tier” cool. Elvis is who young men wanted to be, Dean is who they were.

Legend tells us that, one week before he died, he met fellow actor Alec Guiness.  He showed him his new Porsche, that he had nicknamed, “Little Bastard”. Little Bastard had been customized by George Barris, the same fellow who would later give us The Batmobile.

Obi Wan is said to have responded, “If you drive this car, you’ll be dead in a week.”

And, to show that the universe is not without a twisted sense of duality, the personification of cool collided with and was killed by a man with a name so cartoonishly respresentitive of “hick” that it is hard to believe – Donald Turnupseed.

In 1977, Japanese artist, Seita Ohnishi, fulfilled what he he called, “a life-long dream” by completing construction of a memorial to James Dean and presenting it as a gift to the American People.

I never knew James Dean – he was before my time.  When I looked up, I looked up to my father…my uncles, my older brother…each represented a standard for me to strive to achieve at a different stage of maturity. So, I have never gone in for celebrity culture. But, standing here, under “The Tree of Heaven” reading the words on the memorial, I admit I was quite moved.

I don’t always know where to draw the line, but I can usually tell when I’ve crossed it.

Back in the salad days of our couplehood, when the attraction was purely physical and Trixie and I were still getting to know one another, I lived alone in a small condo that had a washer/dryer combo in the kitchen.

Somehow, and this in itself is amazing, my dirty laundry still piled up to the point where I had to get creative, sartorially speaking, in order to answer a knock at the door. And, since “delivery” was my primary means of acquiring sustenance,  that happened with some regularity.

Only after I had soiled beyond the sniff test, every piece of cloth large enough to drape across my frame, from fitted sheets to a BBQ apron that read, “Boy Meets Grill” would I gather them all up and make a weekend-long assault on my small-capacity combo unit.

It was during one such engagement that I invited my then girlfriend, Michie, over to “Netflix & Chill”, figuratively speaking. Netflix wasn’t a thing yet.

That weekend we had a deep and meaningful, get-to-know-you conversation in which the only words she uttered were, for the most part, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”.

I know what you are thinking – she phoned it in. She wasn’t really THERE. I carried the convo. Not true. Each time she said those words, offensive though they may be, she said them with a little more emotion – passion bordering on panic, really. And, each time she emphasized a different word in her question, giving the sentence a completely different meaning from the same one she let fly only 30 seconds before.

We really got to know each other on a level I didn’t know existed. And, bonded, I think, for all time.

It is funny, the associations we have that can trigger certain memories. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Scene: I carry the last armload from the dryer and dump it on the pile already on my bed, not really thinking through my plans should I happen to get her into the sack.  Fortunately, sort of, that was not to be a concern this time.  The dryer is still running of course, on what many would call the “last load” but, I have no intention of removing that stuff until I pick through it later in the week. I collapse into my recliner and say,

“Whew! You have no idea how good it feels to be done with laundry!”

Trixie, looking up from a crossword puzzle: What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Me: just that it is a chore for normal people. So, it feels good to be done with it.

Trixie: What the hell is THAT supposed to mean.

Me: You know, women enjoy busy work like laundry. Normal people don’t.

Trixie: What in THE HELL is that supposed to mean?!

Me: What? It’s a compliment. It’s like packing lunches and wrapping gifts. Women are just better at it than nor…uh…men.

Trixie, crossing her arms: And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?!

Me: Look, I think I’m being misunderstood here. All I meant is that men and women are, you know…different.

Trixie, nodding vigorously while pressing her tongue hard into the inside of her cheek creating a small bulge:

What the hell does that mean?

Me, back on my heels a little: It means, uh, that women are better at some things than men are. You know, like nesting. Throughout the animal kingdom, the males hunt and the females, you know, nest…

Trixie: What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?

Me: Well, sure there are exceptions, like sea horses and lions and stuff but for the most part, you know.  And, I’m not calling you an animal, per se…

Trixie: What. The. Hell. Is. That. Supposed. To. Mean?

Me: Well, you know, Homo Sapiens are animals…and, you are a Homo S…

Trixie: WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!

I don’t really remember how I got out of that one, but we are still together and that should mean something.

Missing my girl.

Dogs have such a highly attuned sense of smell that, if a human had an equivalent sensory receptor, he or she would be labeled a super hero or super villain,  depending on their political views and the current ruling party. YET…I have never seen a dog give even the slightest indication that whatever it was they were smelling was in any way unpleasant – no matter how god-awful.  They would make the best scientists if they weren’t so stupid. They just want the information.  The truth. They just want to know.

Speaking of God, I recently saw some graffiti that read, “God never fails”. Either I don’t know what that means, or don’t see how it is helpful.   I mean, can you really grade an entity in a pass/fail system when you don’t know their goal? If every confounding happening is allowed to be explained away with, “He meant to do that” then maybe somewhere along the way, somebody is making shit up. We should have a dog look into this.

But, enough about that stuff, let’s focus on the important stuff – me. I finally broke free from the oppressive yoke that is the warm, loving, nurturing embrace of my lovely wife’s company.  I may have to ban her from travelling until my mission is complete. Wherever she goes, I rush right to her. It is too difficult to keep tearing myself away.  We stick to each other like Velcro. We even make the same sound as velcro when you pull us apart.

I drove along a stretch of highway that had a sign saying that this particular section of the road was dedicated to the Veterans of The Spanish American War. That struck me as…odd.

No more than 100 yards further was another sign honoring the veterans of WWI. Mmm’ok. Less Weird.

Shortly thereafter was a new sign..WWII – the Big One.

And, so it went. After a period of normal wars, it got weird again. It honored the vets of (and, I am not making this up) “The Cold War Era”. I think that means me. I sat up a little straighter. There were others. The final sign in the chain had the chilling salute to the vets of “The Global War on Terror”. And, once again, I didn’t know what that meant.  Terrorism has always confused me. Back in my day, it was the tactics used to disrupt order by striking fear into the hearts of civilians. Now, that has come to mean a second-grader who chews his Pop Tart into a vaguely L-shaped pattern.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all about the soldiers. Hell, I never met one who actually wanted to fight. They avoid it at just about all costs.  But, all this over-the-top honoring of said soldiers seemed to have the intended effect of never questioning the orders of those who actually pick the fights while they and theirs stay safely in the rear.

So, there I was, alone again…naturally. And, all this thinking about God and Dogs and superheroes, and politics had me thirsting for mystery and elusive truth. I went to Area Fiddy-One. (Translation: Area 51. Explanation: I’m trying to skew younger to attract a wider audience).  The immediate vicinity around Groom Lake and Area Fiddy-One, is noticeably different from the other wide-open spaces of the great outdoors that is the American West – it isn’t fenced.

All of the rest of the country has barbed wire fences. Believe me, I have been all over and have been disappointed up until now. When you think of the West, you think of cowboys. And, if you are anything like me, when you think of cowboys you think of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. But, that makes you think of other great cowboys songs like, “Home on the Range” and “Don’t Fence Me In”. And that disappoints you because, they fenced the whole thing in. Except The Extraterrestrial Highway…

It is an open range, as is indicated by an official road sign depicting a cow being abducted by a traditional-looking flying saucer (pic related…)

I don’t have any pictures of Area Fiddy-One. This is mostly because the whole thing is hidden behind The Groom Mountain Range. But, also a little bit because they have signs posted saying they will shoot your terrorist ass for taking pics. Seriously.

Since I was already in the neighborhood, I went to the World Famous Little A’le’Inn…

It is a Bar & Grill/gift shop that really is in the middle of nowhere (Rachel, NV).

I bought Trixie a T-Shirt and then moved on. I didn’t really have a destination in mind. But, I find confidence in the notion that, since I haven’t an agenda, goal or schedule, each moment is the adventure. No matter what happens,  I really can not fail. I think it is giving me a god complex.

…with a pocket full of mumbles such are $20 bills. Thanks mostly to the generosity of Trixie and her uncanny winning streak. In fact, the gaming commission should prolly look into it. She won too much.

That is not to say I didn’t have a little luck of my own. I got to spin the wheel on Wheel of Fortune…

Those are pennies

…and some dressed up game of three-handed video Deuces Wild Poker, that also allowed for wheel spinning…

Those are quarters

So, I’m back on the road. Destination: Unsure. And, I mean that.  Might have to go get to the bottom of this whole Area 51 fiasco. So, if you never hear from me again, that is where I went. Don’t come looking.

Because of the stately and statuesque stature of The EM-50 Phantom Rambler  (it is too tall to fit in the parking garage) I had to lug my luggage (lug…luggage…hey! I just put that together! Nice) a fairly good distance. The route took me past the Mob Museum. They actually have one. I had never considered going to it. Just not that interested.

After passing it, I am going to make a point of REALLY not considering going. Look at this shit…

It is kind of shady…heh heh…get it?

Alright, I just included that pic so I could make the shady joke.

I had to take a panorama shot to make sure I got all the mfs in…here is more…

Click it!

I don’t do lines if I can avoid them. I can avoid this one.

I have a lot of places I want to hit, and it is time to get rambling.

Boy, I sure miss my Valentine. It was quite a week.

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There is a fine line between being a free man and a completely uncivilized savage.

I wear that line like a jock strap – figuratively speaking…since I haven’t worn pants in something like three days.

That is not to say that I have been running around stark naked or anything. Please. I have worn an Oxford shirt that I cut the sleeves off and leave unbuttoned.

I have been dressed, not unlike, a member of the 70s cartoon, “Help! It’s the Hair Bear Bunch!”

Anyway, Trixie informed me that someone noticed that I haven’t been posting much lately and was curious if I was still off doing whatever it is I am off doing.  Wow. I had no idea I had a loyal reader out there. Frankly, I haven’t done much but hide from winter. But, out of a sense of noblesse oblige, I herewith present a run down of how I have frittered the time away recently:

As you may be aware,  The EM-50 Phantom Rambler broke down last week.

It is up and running now, but it took 5 days. This is partly due to the fact that I have no understanding about how anything in the modern world works and people can read that on my face.

Just like this

I stayed in a motel room while the mechanic thought up more things he could claim needed to be replaced.

In that time I became…civilized. A tenderfoot. Completely unprepared to resume life on the road.

I mean, I was living like a Viking before the Rambler threw a shoe. Five nights in the luxury of the Barstow Travelodge left me spoiled and a feeling a bit entitled.

I’m ok with hardship – hell, I prefer it. But, I had gone soft.

The only thing that has kept me from going all Jerimiah Johnson – I can’t stand wearing dirty clothes – especially dirty socks.

One of the only things that has kept me from becoming completely domesticated, of course, is that I hate doing laundry – any household chore, really.

The eye of the needle between these two hates is the path I am fated to wander.

When I was finally sprung from the fix-it shop, my first stop was the local laundromat.  The Barstow coin-op, like all coin-op laundromats, is in a bad neighborhood.

I carried my mountain of soiled clothes in, and stuffed it into an oversized washer, then sat down to begin a crossword puzzle.

Presently, a thugish-looking black fellow with several tattoos on his throat came sauntering in all a-panic.

He struck up a conversation with a thugish-looking Mexican fellow with several neck tattoos who was preoccupied with trying to look dangerous and unpredicatable while sorting his delicates. They became deeply engrossed in the subject of which of them the cop who had been circling the parking lot for the last several minutes was after.

The black fellow insisted that the cop was waiting for him to leave. He seemed certain that the cop knew that his license was suspended and wanted to nab him driving. All because that very cop had arrested him for that same infraction just last week. It did not help that his vehicle was a conspicuous orange and black mustang.

The Mexican fellow, not to be one-upped, insisted the cop was after him because he had four outstanding warrants.

Feeling left out I offered, “He might be after me. I just got my vehicle repaired down the street and he might want to know if the work was down to my satisfaction. You know, community good will. That sort of thing.”

They stared at me. I gave them a reassuring nod.

I went back to my puzzle.

After a couple of minutes the room went eerily silent. Not a sound. The machinery seemed to pause.  It was a loud and ominous silence.  I looked up from my puzzle. The police officer had entered the laudromat and everyone went next-level non chalant. Of the 35 or so people in there, it was like there was a contest to see who could draw the least amount of attention to themselves.

The cop scanned the room with an angry glare. Then, his eyes met mine and locked on.

“Afternoon officer!”, I said cheerfully.

He pointed at me and said, “May I have a word with you, sir?”

I had a pretty good idea what was going on. I rose, excused myself and followed him to a corner, well away from the prying ears of the others. The crowd seemed to relax but just a notch.

When we got to the corner he asked to see my ID. I handed it over.

Staring at it, he said, “I’m not really after you…”

I said, “I know. This is a ruse because you figured I am your best bet for a cooperative citizen in the crowd. You’re after the black guy with the neck tattoos. Suspended license. You are waiting for him to drive. He won’t.”

He gaped at me.

I said, “He knows.”

He pretended to write down my information. When he handed me back my license he said,

“If anybody asks what this was about, just make something up.”

“Wilco.” I said.

He did a quick double-take to see if I was being a smart ass. I was.

The cop returned to his car and sat there. Watching. Waiting.

The two gangster types raced over to me.

“What did he want?” One of them asked.

“You.” I said, pointing to the black fellow.

He displayed a moment of elation that comes when one is right. Then deflated again.

“I knew it!” He said, almost happily. Then added quickly, “Shit!”

“Yeah, he didn’t even know you were in here…or anything about ANY of your outstanding warrants.” I said, good-naturedly, to the other fellow.

As you might expect, he looked fairly taken aback upon hearing this. When he finally found the proper words of outrage at my NARCishness, I cut him off.

“Relax. There is a 65% chance that I am kidding. The odds are in your favor.” And, I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder to show solidarity.

Everybody pretty much left me alone after that.

When I left, all fluffed and folded (well, rolled, actually), the cop was still in ambush position and no one, not a single person, had dared exit the laundromat.

I guess this is what they mean by “white privilege.”

I still needed to get my funk back on and, after that experience, was none too keen about hitting a laundromat soon. My best hopes for delaying that task and getting road ready again lay in the conservation of clean clothes by the wearing of none.

And, this is how I have managed to find myself back in Slab City. The Last Free Place in America.

The people are few and far between and pants are optional. I guess. They are to me anyway.

But, all is not necessarily well. I just noticed that The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is leaking coolant at an alarming rate. (pic related)…

Maybe it’s no big deal. I have the same reaction when I see Trixie.

I went to the 99ç Store yesterday.

All Hostess products were on clearance.  33 ć a piece.

There had been a run on their stock.

Really the only things left (and there were plenty of them) were powdered donuts.

This should shut up the powdered donut apologists once and for all.

When you can’t give these things away to poor folks, then you know these things suck.

Case closed.