Playing the Name Game, Leaving Porkopolis (Again)

I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long... -- Walt Whitman



Here, have another cup and forget about the dime
Keep it as a souvenir, from Big Joe and Phantom 309. - Red Sovine



After a nice visit with My Dear Sweet Ma, I'm on my way to Chicago, having caught a ride with my friend Paul H. He makes a weekly run up to Bloomingdale, which is about 27 miles from the Ogilvie Transportation Center


View Larger Map

-- where I'm meeting someone else who will help get me to Mount Carroll late Monday night.

Once I'm back in Mount Carroll, I plan on visiting some friends, finding some way to build up the Travel Fund*, and get my Southbound excursion planned. By the time I get there, or soon thereafter, a copy of birth certificate will arrive at my as of yet un-relinquished P.O. Box address there, and I will be able to trade in my recently arrived OFFICIAL TEMPORARY DRIVER'S LICENSE (that, according to the large type double bold capitalized notification at the top of the page... just below the Official State of Illinois page header... IS NOT VALID FOR IDENTIFICATION PURPOSES) for an actual photo identification.

I can drive right now... but I don't have a car, having signed (somewhat happily, somewhat sadly) the blue station wagon... the appearance of which, I believe, foretold my soon to be divorce. So I will have an ID with the moniker My Dear Sweet Ma bestowed upon me during that blizzard in the Year of Our Lord 1973.

Several people -- friends, family -- have asked me about my name changes on various social networking sites. I have tried explaining. I have had to explain the reference to Ozymandias. And here... for you all, Dear Readers, to see... it is:

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.' 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (published 1818)

There. Now you know. It's one of my favorite poems. It's always made me smile, just a little.

My reasons for getting another state sanctioned official (for the purposes of Identification) ID are two fold: I want to be able drink when some child working in a bar or restaurant would otherwise deny me booze without some proof that I'm nearly twice his or her age; and I want to be able get a passport for next year's anticipated European Jaunt. 

I'm still not sure what's in a name. Echoes of the father, the grandfather. The obligations of a son. The identity attached to that name by The State, by marketeers, by the various institutions that have been digging into us from the moment we're even let out of the house to get on a school bus. Once you start unraveling and tearing off the cultural appliques, you begin to realize that most of the reductive nouns people use to self-identify ... cultural, ethnic, political, religious, spiritual, philosophical... and all the ontological delusions begin to crumble and you begin a journey through the world without the apparatus that binds you to those self same rotting institutions that nothing more than the crumbling visage of some megalomaniac with a bank roll and a need for psychotherapy.

The Three R's (Rest, Relaxation, Reflection)

Diligence is a good thing, but taking things easy is much more -- restful. - Mark Twain



There's something about being back in the Ohio Valley makes me comfortable and jittery all at the same time. I'm relatively comfortable here, know my way around. Although I don't quite remember all the back roads -- I haven't actually lived in the area since 2006 -- I can get around pretty well in Cincinnati, and if I wander back out towards Bethel, Mt. Orab, and Georgetown, I find that I know more roads intuitively than I can recall and describe very well.


Not that I do wander out there that much. Although I do have an affinity for small town life and for being as far off the map as possible, visiting my old hometown has never been something I've felt an overwhelming urge to do. And while I can no more deny my small town roots anymore than I can deny that my eyes are blue or that I'm left-handed, there's never been much of an urge in my to return. It's not that it's small. Or that there's nothing to do. It could be that Tate Township, where Bethel is located, was -- and still is, as far as I know -- dry.  

To be honest, I haven't checked. And to be further honest, even if I could walk down Plain Street (The street that runs through the center of town) wearing nothing but my oilcloth hat carrying an open jug of cheap blackberry wine -- from which I would take liberal chugs and offer to anyone I met on the street... being sure to tip my hat and smile, of course -- I probably would not be induced to visit unless I had a really good reason. Hiding from the law comes to mind; but then again, half the people I went to high school with would turn me in (They never liked me much anyway.) and the other half is in some stage of past, current, or future incarceration. (They were never all that fond of me, either.)

Cincinnati is a city I have a love-hate /hate-love relationship with. Downtown was the first place I ran to when I was able to indulge my itchy foot. I love the Cincinnati Bengals (in spite of and probably because they are steeped in an inferiority complex so deep that it rivals Greek Tragedy in it's epic scale) and I love The Cincinnati Reds. (INDUCT PETE ROSE INTO THE HALL OF FAME,  YOU GRUBBY BASTARDS. You let in that roid taking balloon head, Barry Bonds.) I have an affinity for Skyline Chili. I love walking around downtown and around Over-the Rhine -- in spite of the gentrified ruination being wrought upon it. I'm annoyed by the casino being built downtown, but only because I know it's Hamilton County Sheriff Simon Leis's retirement plan. I hate the corporate nature of the city, and that between the multitude of corporate headquarters and the pull of the ruling class in Indian Hills, the cold and hard corporate heart of the city will never change. This city's only saving grace is that it's soul is far more beautiful (Ah, Losantaville, here my song!) and it probably has something to do with the inherent kinetic nature of things here. The cold h heart bristles up against the beaming beautiful soul of the place and creates a space in which Art might happen. I love talking about this place. I love complaining about this place. Once upon a time I tried to lend to hand... in as much as I could, given my limited skill set... to improve the place.

But what all of that really means is this: I can (probably) never live here again.

My plan, in as much as I had one, was to come back here, get off the road for a bit (no more than a month), and plan my next leg -- which will take me back up into Northwest Illinois for a visit and to file for divorce; then back out to Colorado for another visit with Cousin Mary and to hopefully interview and record my 95 year old Uncle Dan; then back through Kentucky for a visit, and then down south, to Port Charlotte, where it will be warm, and the sun will shine, and there will be NO SNOW. After that, maybe bump over to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and to celebrate my 40th turn around the sun, and maybe even to Austin to visit friends there. 

Part of the the plan (such as it is) was to go back over my notes, transcribe poems, and start putting together the ideas for what turn out to be a much longer writing project... an outgrowth of traveling and this blog. Another part of the plan is to finish the EFL  (teaching English as a Foreign Language) certification as part of the preparation for THE EUROPEAN JAUNT.

But, after a few days in -- even though I am planning on staying in the area for at least a month -- I was itchy to get on the move again. It's a terrible thing sometimes, realizing that for all the comfort to be found in a comfortable place among people who care about you, that you'd rather be out, enduring whatever the road has to offer; and considering the fact that what is offered isn't always kind, or comfortable, or friendly, that's saying something. It's the sort of realization that stands on the border between profundity and absurdity.

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Eastward-ish: (Another) Whim of the Great Magnet

If you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there. -- Lewis Carroll


Sometimes it's necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly. -- Edward Albee

As you might recall, I walked into the Little Six Casino Mick Parsons and walked out divested of him. Nice enough guy, I suppose; but on the upside, I figure his identity is being used by some undocumented worker to stay in the country. On about the same level of an upside, part of my psyche hopes that some poor stupid bastard is, at this very moment, trying to acquire a hefty bank loan for an extravagant house, car, boat, or some other overpriced tinker toy, based on my credit history.

The peels of laughter from the loan department will be audible in a five state area. Really.

Beyond losing my ID, I lost my journal and my mode of travel. The loss of my notes and the bits of poetry hurt. The loss of my mode of travel -- the Discovery Pass that allowed me to travel from Ashland, Kentucky all the way to San Francisco, California, and had enough time on it to get to Cincinnati, Ohio before it expires on July 5th -- was more that problematic. Not only was I worried that I might be stuck, indefinitely, in Minneapolis, but I was pondering what that meant for the end of this particular jaunt. If it meant anything at all.

I was trying to figure out a way to get moving again, worried that I would overstay my welcome with my dear friends here, worried that future traveling might be complicated by my new minted non-person status, and worried that I would have to depend on my friends in a way I did not want to. I depend on them enough for a soft landing shelter, and food, and a ride to and from the bus station; they seem willing enough to help in these regards, seem to enjoy my company, and most of them even want me to visit again. In no way did I want to mess any of that up.


But it turns out, I stressed out all last week for nothing. I finally called Greyhound's Customer Assistance line to see if there was anything I could do short of waiting for a new picture ID to come in the mail or hitchhike.

DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER UNLESS YOU WANT TO LISTEN TO SCOTT JOPLIN.  I LIKE SCOTT JOPLIN AND EVEN I THOUGHT I MIGHT GO INSANE WAITING TO TALK TO A REAL PERSON ABOUT MY REAL PROBLEM.

I found out that all I needed to do was set up a password when I purchase my ticket online. When I pick it up at the ticket counter, that password will work as an ID.


Perfect. Absolutely perfect.


Add to that a kind donation or two to the travel fund, and I was able to purchase a ticket. I'm headed out of Minneapolis at 1 AM July 5th and arriving in Cincinnati at 8:40 PM that same day. All in all, just shy of a 19 hour burn to get from here to there.


And I have enough money for a bottle of water and even (gasp!) a cup of coffee.

Gawd Bless America. And Gawd bless those of you who contributed. May your children grow up smart and good-looking and not at all resembling the mail carrier.

The universe smiles on me yet again. A little crack of a smile, to be sure. But a smile nonetheless. And I'm grateful for it. As last minute changes in plans, go, it could have gone a lot worse. For example, I could've had the experience of the Roving Northern Englander and been mugged In Omaha, Nebraska.

I'm still unclear as to how that happened. I'm not blaming the victim, but I do suspect, based on talking to him for several hours, that he said something to someone and got unwelcome attention. Maybe he was talking loudly about how thieves should have their hands cut off, and how Americans don't know how to spell color. (He prefers "colour" even though I pointed out it was a French influence after the Norman Invasion. I thought he was going to spit at me. Talk about a grudge.)

There have been more than a few last minute changes. For example, the shift in Louisville that led me to St. Louis, then to Hannibal, Missouri and inevitably to Minneapolis on my way west... and though South Dakota, Wyoming, and Montana, some of the most beautiful and heartbreaking landscapes I have ever seen.

Truthfully, I could have done without the bedridden wildlife in Billings. But otherwise

I was planning a quick stop through San Fran and onto Oroville; but lingered in on the wharf a day longer and saw a wonderful city that I very much want to spend more time in.

Then there was the ill-fated trip to Salt Lake City, which led me to Colorado, meeting Cousin Mary and my Uncle Dan for the first time, and getting a glimpse into a side of the family that know next to nothing about. And I am planning on going back in October, Dear Readers, to learn more. I also got to see Cripple Creek, drive through Victor, and see the beginning of the Waldo Canyon Fire.

At every turn where I turned control over to the universe, I was not led astray. The trip became more interesting, took on additional dimensions.

A significant part of traveling -- of truly traveling -- is being prepared to adjust, being open to new roads, new possibilities. To be prepared for the unexpected. This most recent bit of the unexpected has not only freed me in some very important ways, but it reminded me that instead of moping and going into panic mode, that I need to follow my own advice. It showed me that instead of trying to re-establish control over event I may not have any control over to begin with, I need to breathe.

Simply breathe. And let the universe do the work. It may not always turn out so neatly. But a wise man -- which is what I hope to be one of these days many, many, many years from now -- will be steady,  live in the present, keep on walking, and be consistent whether his fortunes are good or bad.

I have so much to learn.

But I'm working on it.

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Eastward-ish: Farsickness

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door," he used to say. "You step into the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." - J.R.R Tolkien

I used to have a friend. Well, I believe he's still my friend, so there's no reason, I suppose, speak in the past tense. It's just that I haven't seen him in going on 8 years or so, and even then it was accidental. I don't remember the context of the conversation, only him laughing, the way he did at everything, and saying

"You're exactly like Bilbo Baggins!"

"In what way?" (I hadn't read The Hobbit  yet.)

He just laughed and shook his head. "You just are. Trust me."


This was long before I even aware of the itch that has since taken hold. My Dear Sweet Ma, and others, often refer to my itchy-footedness as wanderlust, which is loosely defined as "a predilection or desire to travel." The word itself is from the German, a turn of the (20th) century term that means "to enjoy hiking." There's another word... another German word, Fernweh -- which means "farsickness" or, more directly translated, "an ache for distant places" -- that might seem more appropriate. Maybe. 

Though to be honest, it's not so much far off places I am sick for as much as I am sick for traveling for it's own sake.

This is often a difficult concept to explain to people, and one that, even when they grasp it, few people really understand. And to be fair, I'm not sure I completely understand it myself. There's a certain amount of fluidity in the way I live, that's true. As time goes on, it becomes increasingly fluid and separated from general expectations of culture. And though my Dear Sweet Ma, and a few select of my closest friends who worry about my future, my safety, and (maybe) my sanity, keep telling me that I have to stop sometime... if even to make more money in order to keep traveling...

I keep thinking about how much more expensive it is to settle down than it is to keep on the move. To stay someplace, for more than a few days (a week at the most) requires:

1. A Domicile. That usually means paying rent, unless you're effective at squatting.
2. A Job. To pay for said domicile, and all that may entail.

Both of those things require an inevitable perpetual maintenance, a tithing, if you will, which means that the travelsickness becomes something altogether more malignant, cancerous. It becomes a TRUE sickness, a dissatisfaction that plays out in any number of ways. For me, I get mopey, I get surly, I become a lousy drunk. I quit jobs. I get fired from jobs.

In short, I begin to work against myself -- in spite my own intentions, which, believe it or not, are sometimes noble.

These are things on my mind as this particular jaunt, the Westward Expanse, comes to a close. In short order I'll be returning to the Ohio Valley for a bit, and then up to Northwest Illinois. It will be good to see familiar places and friends whose warmth and company I've missed. 

I'm not sure though, whether the road hasn't spoiled me, to some degree. And recent events, which include losing my ID, and the weighty thinking about identity, and what a name truly means -- not only to me, but to my friends, my family, and in the larger context of a culture in which people's lives are expected to be transparent so that The State doesn't have to be -- make me think that the only place for me is everywhere.

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Eastward-ish - The Denver Bug Out, Part 2 (Little Man)

This is the culture you're raising your kids in. Don't be surprised if it blows up in your face. -Marilyn Manson

Age does not make us childish, as some say; it finds us true children.  -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Front of the line at Door 16.

The bus leaving Denver was going to be full, there was no avoiding that. Summer is, naturally, the most common time of year for people to travel; and while I managed to get a good place in the line because I took my spot at the font nearly an hour before anyone would normally line up -- a full two hours before the bus was scheduled to leave at 7:05 that evening -- I fully expected to have to sit next to another person. My scruffy looks tend to frighten people off until the bus fills up and some poor soul is left no choice but to take the aisle seat next to me. This usually means I get to sit next to someone similarly scruffy, sometimes, smelly, who, unlike me, was not quick-witted enough to get a place in the front of the line. I have learned not to take it TOO personally that the seat next to me is almost always the last one on the bus to fill up, even when I've just had a bath and my laundry is clean. And in many cases, being thoroughly avoided does make for more comfortable traveling...

... though I will always give up the empty seat next to me if someone asks. 

I choose to behave as if there is a certain etiquette when traveling, even if I end up sitting behind someone who has to put their seat all the way back even when I can't /don't/ would rather not. I do this for the same reason I don't shop at Wal-Mart. All lines being arbitrary -- because a lot of them are -- I'd try to live from what I consider an ethical standpoint. And for me, this means a certain amount of politeness on the road.

For a minute, though, as the bus was loading, I thought I might escape having to sit next to someone. Everyone seemed loaded,and there was no one next to me. I managed to get what I thought was a good seat, even though there were at least 10 people who got in ahead of me because they could afford the $5 for Priority Seating. (I was still operating off the same 19 cents.) 

Then Little Man plopped down holding a backpack that clearly weighed almost as much as him.

He was 5, maybe 6 years old. I didn't remember him in the line, or getting on the bus. There were some kids int he line, of course. You ought to expect that when traveling in general, not to mention traveling by bus.  It's one of those rules, especially on an overnight bus ride. There are always kids. And you might as well except the probability that at least one of them will cry. Luckily, Colorado Cousin Mary gave me some ear plugs... the kind most often used by gun enthusiasts and factory workers to keep from damaging their hearing. I fully expected to use them, since the ride from Las Vegas had been sleepless due to one motion sick little girl would would puke into a bag ... loudly, cry (understandably) and scream things like

"Mommy, let's get off this tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny, TINY bus! PLEASE!!"

The repetition of the word "tiny" was a nice touch.

Little Man didn't look like a cryer, though. And while I was not happy about having to sit next to someone... after I was hoping that maybe I didn't have to (That's what I get for hoping!) I figured that someone who didn't take up a lot of space.. he could, in fact, curl up into a near ball in the seat he had a mind to... wouldn't be all that bad. I just hoped his mother was somewhere near in case the crying and puking  began.


I was settling in, getting ready to read Rumi until daylight quit.

"What is that?" He was clearly talking to me, pointing up at the reading light.

"It's a light, I said, friendly, informative, but still..."

"Turn it on!"

I reached up and turned it on. He looked up at the light briefly.

"Ok," he said. "Turn it off."

I reached up and turned it off, wondering whether this would be what the entire ride would be like.

Little Man pointed up at the circular air vent next to the reading light. "What's that?"

I told him.

"I want some air!"

Take a deep breath. He's only a kid. And, in comparison to the people around me, he wasn't bad. Actually, he stood out as the night went on as the one of the better passengers around me.

In front of me there was the ghetto diva in front of me who leaned her seat all the way back even when she wasn't asleep and her seatmate the Black Nationalist who eventually mistook me for black. Yes. Really. I guess Pasty white blue eyed dude with wool like beard = equals pale black. Good to know. Guess I can try for that Black Panther membership.  Then there were the two guys behind me... one a long haul trucker riding back to his rig and the down on his luck kid who was riding the bus to go to a job with no clothes, no gear, not even a jacket and who stumbled on the loquacious truck driver and became his travel companion / insult target. They traded jabs and near fights all the way to Kansas City.

But since none of that happened yet... I was determined to start the trip off establishing a basic understanding of traveler's etiquette... understanding that since he was a kid, he didn't know any better.

"Can you say please?"

Little Man paused. "Please."

Not phrased as a question, but you have to start somewhere. I reached up and opened the air vent, making sure to show him how it worked. He was too short to reach it while seated, but I thought the bit of information might stave off some bit of his curiosity.

As the bus pulled out he asked me where I was going.

"Minneapolis," I said.

"I'm going to Florida."

"Cool."

"Who you going with?"

"No one," I said. "I'm traveling alone." I pointed behind us with my right thumb. "Your mom back there somewhere ( I hope)?"

"Yeah," he pointed behind his shoulder. Mom was starting to pass out with another kid in the window seat next to her, who was already asleep. She looked exhausted, even with the excessive make-up and drawn in eyebrows. Not long after we were on the road, Little Man woke his mom up and asked to talk to Dad. She gave him the phone. Dad was the destination, Florida the geography. Little Man lied about getting a window seat, and said he was comfortable and that he was on his way.

I kept reading Rumi, sometimes looked out the window to catch a glimpse of downtown Denver. As we rolled out of the city, I thought about how I was reading the conclusion of this jaunt, about my life since January. Nearly half a year, more or less, on the road. I was looking forward to seeing my friends Dave and Jamie again. I was looking forward to a short respite, putting together my trip back out to Colorado to interview my uncle, and then south to winter on a beach in Port Charlotte. I was a little road weary, but worried that I would not be able to stay off the road long. I still had my bus pass and my driver's license.

"How long are you going to read that..." Little Man was looking at the back cover my my edition of The Essential Rumi ".. that bible?"

"Huh?"

He must've taken hid cue from some of meant to look ornate and middle-eastern font on the back cover. He revised his question on the repeat though, probably figuring out that it wasn't a bible. Still, I was amused.

"How long are you going to read?"

"Until it's too dark."

"Are you tired?"

"Nope."

"Me neither."

He let me read a few more minutes.

"Where are we going?"

I pointed forward. "That way."

"I know that," he said. "What's... the street address?"

I told him I didn't know for sure, but that my transfer point was in Kansas City. I was really hoping his next question was not going to be Are we there yet?


Eventually it got dark and Little Man fell asleep.He had trouble getting comfortable, and wasn't big enough to be able to recline his seat. At one point, he was leaning on me, asleep. At first, I tried to wake him, shake him off.

"Hey, Kid," I said. "I'm not a pillow. Hey."

He shifted temporarily, but it didn't last long. I let him be. Mom didn't seem to give a shit as long as Little Man left her alone. He wasn't really bothering me. And... he was quiet.

The obnoxious driver behind me... who had just narrowly avoided being punched by his kid companion for making a comment about not letting his masquera run... told me I was a nice man for letting the kid sleep on me.

He didn't wake up until we got to Kansas City, and then only because I shook him a bit to wake him up. I knew from past experience that he Kansas City Station would be unbelievably crowded, since it was built for a much small capacity than actually runs through it. I also knew I'd pretty much only have time to find my line and wait to board the bus to Des Moines, Iowa, the next transfer point. I was beginning to double back on myself.

There wasn't a chance to tell Little Man goodbye or even ask his name. Once Mom was awake grumpily dragged him and his slightly older brother along to the next line, the next bus that would take them to Florida, to their Dad. I thought of the various times my daughter's mother and I had to engage in the exchange... The Kid visiting, having to meet often in the middle when state lines were involved...though the distance tended to favor my ex's dislike for long distance driving. From her perspective, I suppose it was better that The Kid be grumpy with me... no doubt, in her mind, part of my penance for leaving when I got tired of dodging frying pans.



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Eastward-ish - The Denver Bug Out, Part 1 (End Times Polka)

The Moving Finger writes; and having writ

Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.  - The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Go here for media photos.

I sort of felt like I was getting out of Colorado Springs ahead of something terrible. The fires on the other side of Pike's Peak were slowly being contained -- in as much as they could be, given dry weather -- but there were reports of two fire bugs out setting fires on top of the ones that were already happening. The view of Pike's Peak had been hazy most of the time I was there, primarily because of smoke. As Cousin Mary was driving me into Denver so I could catch a bus to Kansas City and eventually, back through Minneapolis, heading eastbound into the Central Time Zone, the first wisps of smoke from the Waldo Canyon fire -- the first evidence of fire on the Colorado Springs side of Pike's Peak -- came into view. Her daughter Gabrielle lives there, so of course Mary calls her to make sure she knows about the smoke. 

Eventually, Waldo Canyon had to be evacuated, and Gabrielle, her boyfriend Zach, and their two cats had to spend the night at Mary and Ted's.  But I understand, as per Cousin Mary, the evacuation order has been lifted. The fire is moving closer to Woodland Park, a mountain community we drove through in the way to Cripple Creek. At this writing, as far as I know, there's been no definite evacuation order.

And while the rain that had been chasing me would have been a welcome boon, instead, I was pushed out by higher than average temperatures instead. 

Killing time in the Denver Station, I found myself watching one of the several televisions. They were all on the Weather Channel... which is at least tolerable and sometimes informative television.

I have images of my dad, sitting in front of the TV in the house in Pinhook, watching the the satellite maps. I remember thinking "What does it say about someone who can stare at something so BORING?" This, Dear Readers, is what becomes of you as you approach middle age. And the truth is, most television is insipidly useless anyway... and at least the Weather Channel isn't. Mostly. Though it doesn't replace knowing how to read the sky for rain.Or an arthritic knee.

In addition to the fires on the mountain, there was rain on three corners of the continental U.S., including a storm off the coast of Florida that might turn into a Hurricane. This was of particular interest since My Dear Sweet Ma and The Kid were off on some touristy adventure in the Bahamas.

The best part of the time spent in the bus station, though, was listening to the interpretation of events by other people waiting in bus station.. or in any case, they were hanging out there, having formed a circle of chairs near some tables in front of the restaurant, near the 19th Street Exit. Originally, the conversation started with politics: the merits versus the mendacity of stockpiling for the coming apocalypse. One of them. One favored stockpiling. Another favored the time honored approach of waiting on the Second Coming. Another, a younger one, ranted about the Mayan 2012 calender and the impending doom that will befall the Earth on December 21st, claiming that neither gun hording nor praying will save anyone.

"Look at that," he said, pointing at one of the televisions. "It's on the four corners of the Earth. What do you think THAT means? Huh?"

Other than you clearly didn't pay attention in geography class and don't realize that the Earth encompasses more than the continental United States? 

So much for youthful optimism. Then again, maybe it's like being relieved that you don't have to do laundry because the washer's broken. There's a sick blind optimism to hoping you're not responsible for the mess you've help make.

Personally, I think all this Mayan Calender business is a ploy by the Marketeers and Purveyors of Crap We Don't Need to get us to buy early Christmas presents. Fuck that bidness.

I finally got tired of listening, and of being within eye shot of the television. There was no point in me watching the screen, tracking whether Hurricane Debby would move east towards Florida and become a hurricane or move west towards Texas and become a tropical storm. Just like there's no point in worrying about meteors flying towards the Earth or whether the volcano that's under the western U.S. (Hello... geysers, people... think about it.) Will erupt someday. 

And they will... probably. Eventually. But worrying never fixed a damn thing, anyway. For now, breathe. Drink a beer. Eat a taco. Do something nice.

Eastward-ish - Up on Cripple Creek (Colorado)

Up on Cripple Creek she sends me
If I spring a leak she mends me
I don't have to speak, she defends me
A drunkard's dream if I ever did see one - The Band (1970)


...these adventurous characters, going out into a new country...where it would seem that at last all men would stand on equal footing, have suddenly discovered that amid these primitive surroundings the modern industrial system is... found at its worst. -William Hard, writing about 19th Century Colorado miners.

When I met my 95 year old  Uncle Dan  for the first time a few days ago and gave him the short and sweet version of what I've been doing -- pointing out, as I do whenever possible, that I am continually struck by the beauty I find as I travel -- he remarked "There's a lot of beauty to see. A lot that's ugly, too."

Leave it to a Parsons to say so much in so few words. 

Those of you who understand the irony of this statement, now is the time to guffaw. That's right. Guffaw.

This cell was used to house up to 6 men, sleeping on hammocks.

And Colorado is, like a lot of this part of the country, is simply stunning to see. Mary, my first cousin, drove me up into the mountains, up through the City of Woodland Park, towards Cripple Creek -- which has been wrested from decay by the legalization of casinos and the subsequent tourism which has swelled as a result. You lose  (or win) at a casino, you can look for free range donkeys, you can walk up and down the main drag, look at the plaques on the buildings, buy ice cream, trinkets, toys, take a tour of the old jail... which really isn't that old, since it was last used in 1994. That's the year my daughter was born. She is 17 years old. I suppose it could be argued that metal boxes never go out of style and that prisoners should'n't be spoiled too much. I mean, after all, it's guilty until proven innocent, right? Make the bastards suffer. And the bitches, too, for that matter. The women's cells were upstairs... only two of them, along with a room for the Matron and a separate cell for children who were arrested. The women prisoners -- who, as far as I could tell, were mostly arrested for prostitution or other unladylike behavior -- did get a window view of the street, as well as a private  toilet and access to a bath tub. Still a metal box, though. with no heat in the winter, no respite from the heat in the summer.

The other thing that stuck out to me -- probably because the plaques describing them were included in the jail tour, is the labor history in Cripple Creek: like the 1894 Miner's Strike and the subsequent Colorado Labor Wars.  The 1894 Strike started because miners were fighting an enforced 10 hour work day. It was a violent strike, and it cemented the reputation of the Western Federation of Miners as a violent group. During the Labor Wars, which ran from 1901 to around 1904, were also violent, and included both the use of state militia, the National Guard under the command of Adjunct General Sherman Bell (who has a building with his name on it) and mercenaries like the Pinkertons, and the Baldwin-Felts. 


If you're a student of history, you might notice that the Haymarket Square Bombing -- for which four men, including Albert R. Parsons, were unjustly hanged -- occurred a few years prior the Cripple Creek Strike. (The Pinkertons were there, too. Notorious fuckers, the lot of them.)


I tend to get stuck on stories like this. Stories like that tend to be glossed over for the sake of tourism, and for the sake of revising some corporate entity's sense of guilt. And by corporate, I mean the government, I mean any governing body empowered by The State,  I mean the mining company that put profit above the safety of workers, and I mean anyone -- including the WFM, long defunct -- who resorts to violence. But mostly I mean the government, governing bodies, and mining companies.

I tend to get stuck on stories like this because there are always stories that aren't being told, that aren't being exploited for tourist dollars, that aren't left to history books that no one except historians read.

I actually had a nice time wandering around the town, because 1) I'm a history junkie and 2) I love small towns with a sense of character, some sense of self. And, as my cousin Mary pointed out, there's more history there than can be learned in one visit. I'm finding that for the most part, that's true of every place I've been since January. There is never enough time, and always more stories to hear.

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Eastward-ish - Whim of the Great Magnet (Rocky Top, You'll Always Be)

Live in the nowhere that you came from
even though you have an address here. - Rumi

Ask the dust on the road!. -John Fante

After buying a $1 cup of coffee from the Mcdonalds in the Plaza Hotel -- which cost me $1.08 with tax -- I had exactly 19 cents to my name. Sitting in the Las Vegas bus depot... which is shamefully void of slot machines -- I had to consider my options carefully. In addition to that 19 cents I had a 12 ounce bottle of water, and a partial bag of trail mix that I knew would see me though.

I hoped.

Of course, the reason for my presence in Sin City's bus terminal... which, contrary to what people might think, has none of the glamorous odor of piss and astroglide (I FINALLY figured it out!) parfume of the L.A. bus terminal... instead of being on a bus headed for the Mormon's version of Eden on Earth, Salt Lake City -- was because Phoeinx simply did not want to let me leave.


No. Really.

The 10:15 pm bus leaving Phoenix was full. The bus driver, Carlos, informed us that if we closed the air vents located above the seats near the reading lights that the bus would catch fire. To be fair, it was an older bus. Since heading west from St. Louis, I have given up expecting a ride on one of the newer, glimmering buses they advertise with more leg room, electric outlets and free WiFi. (And while the outlets are great, the WiFi is spotty, the seats are actually a little less comfortable, and the overhead storage compartments are smaller.) Other than the possibility of fire, the air didn't work and the bus creaked like it was held together by duck tape.

All I wanted to do was sleep. For all I cared, the bus could've been made of duct tape and plastic wrap.

My planned destination: Salt Lake City. Why? Why wonder why? I wanted to visit the state that killed Joe Hill. I wanted to see if I could see any trace of the myth that Utah Phillips spoke of in his stories and songs. I wanted to scare some Mormons. I wanted see if I could snag some of that magic underwear, since I thought it might come in handy.

Why the hell not?

The bus made it as far as Glendale before Carlos pulled the bus over. Not a good sign. He puts the bus in park, hops out, and walks around the back of the bus. A few minutes later, he comes back.

"I've just spoken to Dallas," he said. The tone was ominous. Official sounding. Or, attempting to sound official sounding. "The back lights on the bus aren't working," he went on. "So we're turning around and going back to Phoenix Station to resolve it."

People were muttering, annoyed, guffawing. People are on their cell phones. I hear various versions of the same one-sided conversation. "This is SOME KINDA BULLSHIT!"

Then, as if we all didn't know it, he said "You can consider this schedule [pause for what? Dramatic effect?] delayed."

Walking back into the station was anti-climactic, but I wasn't too worried. I'm in no particular hurry, really. Whether I sleep on a bus in the dark then, or an hour from then, didn't matter to me. I was sure there,d be a bus to Salt Lake City in Las Vegas. I mean, Mormons gamble too, right?

Two hours later, the bus was apparently repaired, and we reboarded and headed out into the darkness. It still creaked like it was held together by tape and I was mindful of the vent, to avoid any fires.

By the time we reached Vegas, the sun was up and I was only slightly rested. The bus had managed to fill up, my phone battery was dead, and the air... which is supposed to be cooler when the engine is hot... wasn't. It was already hot, and I had missed the 7:55 to Salt Lake by nearly 2 hours. The next one would not leave until 9:30 that night. Not quite 12 hours. But close enough to be annoying.

Then I noticed there was a 3:15 to Denver.

My cousin Mary lives around there, somewhere. She's the daughter of my dad's older brother, Daniel, who is still alive, and who, up to that point, I had never met face to face. The Parsons' are an independent, quixotic lot. At least, my branch of the family is. And from what I can tell, from those I have met, and from the research -- genealogical and otherwise -- we tend to chose our own way through the world, regardless of whether it's the easiest, or seemingly the wisest.

I had thought I might make my way through Colorado on my Westward Jaunt, meet my cousin and my uncle. What had kept me away up to that point was a series of direction changes and ... to be honest ... the fact that every time I  saw a television report about Colorado, it involved apocalyptic fires and floods.

Considering my options, I plugged in my phone at the barely adequate charging station and sent a message to my cousin. A change in course didn't bother me. But I didn't want to make it a last minute one that would annoy or inconvenience  family I barely knew and had never met.  The possibility of meeting my Uncle Dan -- who, like my father and my Grandpa Parsons, had reached near mythic heights in my imagination -- stuck in my mind. To shake the hand of a man who was as close to my own father as I could meet as an adult, to get a glimpse into his life... his real life... was worth risking the apocalypse that seemed to be hitting The Centennial State.

I heard back from Mary in short order. She told me I was more than welcome to stop through for a couple of days.

I checked the schedule to Denver, and made sure of the exit gate and time. It would leave Vegas at 3:05 and arrive around 7 the following morning.

It was at that point that I wandered out into the street, and found my way to a cup of cheap, but welcome, cup of coffee.

Eastward-ish: Dennis the Menace and The L.A. Bus Station

Transcending life and death is leaving home. - Bodhidharma , "The Waking Sermon"


It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story. - Native American Proverb

It was somewhere around the time that Dennis finished telling the story about how he and his dad had to help a stumbling drunk then President Jimmy Carter to his limousine -- much to the annoyance of the Secret Service suits who were, at the moment, looking at a long semi-retirement in Georgia having to babysit an ex-president -- when it was announced that our bus was boarding.

I was sitting on the floor in line at Door 14 in the Los Angeles Central Bus Depot, waiting. There is an established etiquette in most bus depots that says you can leave your bags and hold your place in line; naturally, this unofficial rule runs contrary to the official rules as set down by Greyhound Bus Lines, which state that no bags should be left unattended. There is also another common courtesy among most bus travelers -- bag watching. Which is to say that if you're holding your place in line at the gate (This does NOT apply to the ticket counter... ever.) and if you need to run to the restroom without losing your place in line, you can ask someone to watch over your shit while you're taking one. As the person watching, it's your responsibility -- if you chose to accept it, Mr. Phelps -- to move the other person's stuff forward if, for any reason, the line should move. It is NOT your responsibility to load someone else's crap on the bus, or to make sure it gets put under the bus.

Naturally, Greyhound Bus Lines has a rule EXPRESSLY FORBIDDING you from watching any bag that isn't yours or belonging to anyone you don't know well enough to have either changed their diaper or helped them through the trauma of a body cavity search.

I watched Dennis's stuff when he went off for a smoke, and when he got back, he hobbled and sort of fell -- he later told me he was suffering from a sciatic nerve -- next to me on the floor, telling me about he and his dad and Jimmy Carter. He also took care to point out that his mother was already in the limo drinking with then Presidential Family Prize, Billy.

Dennis and I left San Francisco on the same bus, changed buses in Sacramento, and were now waiting for the bus from Los Angeles to Dallas., where he would change buses again and head south for Miami, Florida. I was getting off the bus in Phoenix, where I hoped to visit friends and see some old stomping grounds.

The availability of a friendly couch or piece of floor was also a determining factor. My stay in San Francisco, while cheaper than it certainly could have been -- the city has a 15.5% surtax on hotel rooms -- still depleted my travel fund to the point that I had to either go someplace with friends, or go someplace and hope there was an open bed at the men's shelter.  I had been promising friends in the 480/602 that I would stop through my Westward Jaunt. My original plan, prior to being waylaid in St. Louis and ending up in Nashville, was to circle south and visit The Valley of the Sun while it was still almost kinda sorta comfortable. But the timing was good, anyway... being low on funds and knowing I'd at least have a place to crash -- not to mention being able to see friends I hadn't seen since the eventually-to-be-ex and I left the desert for the four seasoned tundra of Northwest Illinois -- was all the incentive I needed.

And of course, coming from the West Coast that meant going through L.A.

Now, as much as I've said I don't have much interest in seeing L.A., I have to admit I kind of wish I could have. The problem, as far as I can tell, is that I'm not quite sure how to wrap my head around a place like Los Angeles. Most other cities -- even the horrible gray ones like Norfolk, Virginia --  have a sort of personality. Sure, most cities are diverse, and have all kinds of stuff; but even New York -- which is by far one of the more diverse conglomerates of buildings, neon, history, and twisted metal that I have ever seen -- still has a sense of itself. Even Cincinnati, which has very little sense about anything, especially among the people who are typically elected by Indian Hill residents to keep the keys and turn the lights on and off, still has a unique personality. L.A., it has always seemed to me, is more of a Choose Your Own Adventure City. Is it the punk/rock/goth/music scene that's the backdrop of such shows like LA Ink? Is it Bukowski's North Hollywood? Is it all glam and slam bam thank you ma'am like it looks on the Oscars? Is it Watts? South Central? Compton? Seems to me like whatever you want out of the City of Angels you can get.

The bus station in L.A., though... that was a world unto itself. The first thing I noticed -- besides throng of people and the near impossibility of getting around without having to almost run people over -- was an underlying and (as of yet) undetermined smell. I am (sadly) familiar with smells fine and foul, from expensive bourbon to 3 day old cooked puke and piss in the gutters of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. The odor of the L.A. station wasn't sweat, or body odor, or garbage. It wasn't gasoline. It wasn't piss or old mop water.

Luckily, the bus we were on from Sacramento was about an hour behind schedule. That cut the 2 1/2 hour layover time down, at least.

Dennis was worried that the bus would be too full. He had managed to avoid having anyone sitting next to him by essentially setting up camp. He put his bag in the seat next to him and didn't move it. Lucky for him, neither of the buses was so full that he would be compelled to move it by the driver. I didn't fair that lucky...though the bus leaving Sacramento had been, at least, a modern bus with electric outlets and a spotty WiFi connection. I didn't expect any of the West Coast buses to NOT be full. And as much as I would like to have Dennis's tenacity, I still adhere to some simple rules of bus travel... that include watching somebody's bags in line when they go off to the bathroom for a quickie with a bus station hooker.

Sorry. Lady of the Evening. Lady Thanks to Duck Tape. Lot Lizard. Depot Deepthroater. Hand Job Sanitizer. Whatever. I'd hate to get someone's job title wrong. What do you call it when someone pays you for sex in a bus station bathroom?

Being a Republican.

And NO, I don't really care. I just think it might be better to have this shit out in the open. Set up Hooker and Coffee Kiosks. You can have chaise-lounge and a privacy curtain, order it all up like at Starbucks:


Cashier: Welcome to Coffee and a Piece. What would you like?
Customer (Male) : I'd like a medium half-caf no foam latte with a twist.
Cashier: Anything else? [Wink Wink]
Customer (Male): How about a Caramel Honky Delight?
Cashier: Blonde, Brunette, or Redhead?
Customer (Male): Uh...  (Looking over the menu) I had a Blonde last time. Nice but a little foggy. How about we go with the Red head.
Cashier: Very good, Sir.
Customer (Male): That's a natural Redhead, right? A friend of mine tried one at another location and she was strictly out of the bottle.
Cashier: All Natural all the time, sir. Will that be all?
Customer (Male): Does this location have the Hump Day Pre-Op Tranny Special?
Cashier: Yes sir.
Customer (Male): (Reaches into his wallet for his credit card.) Let's go with that, then.

The thing about Dennis's Carter story, which ended, improbably enough, with a statement that he liked Carter just fine until he gave away the Panama Canal ... after which he never forgave him ... was that while I almost certainly didn't believe him -- Ok, I was almost certain that I was certain I didn't believe him -- it didn't much matter to me whether I believed him or not. I liked Dennis. He looked rough. Looked, as a matter of fact, like he'd spent some time out, and was running with his tail between his legs. And as we talked, I discovered that this was probably closer to the truth. Before he got on the bus in San Fran, a suspiciously plain clothed cop type person handed him a bus ticket to Miami and $40 -- $10 a day for every day he would be on the bus. I found out later, among Dennis's story telling about being a master mechanic, carpenter, and about how he had to leave the West Coast because there was no work for him, that he had come out San Fran to see his wife, who is apparently brilliant, with multiple university degrees, and is absolutely gorgeous to boot.

"So I come all the way out here," he says. "And you know what she tells me?"

"No. What'd she say?"

"She says 'Dennis, you're a distraction. I can't work with you here.'"

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking the same thing I did. You're thinking "If you are married, there has to be a reason she moved to the other side of the fucking continent to get away from you." He was a small guy, though, a bit older... older than his age, since he told me he was born in 1957 but he moved like a much older man... and didn't look like he could hurt anybody. His big red suitcase with the duck tape handle weighed more than he did. He told me it was full of tools.

It was heavy enough to be full of his wife.

The thing I liked about Dennis, though, other than his stories, was that he was constantly excited about the landscape outside the bus windows. He'd never been across country by bus, he said, he'd flown out before but couldn't afford to fly back. (I don't think he realized I saw where his ticket came from. I didn't tell him.) But he was always calling over to me, whether I had someone sitting next to me or not-- I had a window seat on one side and he on the other -- about something he saw out of his window. At one point he was on the phone with someone who told him the highway we were on was directly over the San Andreas Fault.

And to be honest, I thought that was actually kind of cool.

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