BethanyRambling

Protocol

We stared at each other through the heat waves and dust. My hand was tensed, ready by my side, but it never wavered. My eyes were glued on him, waiting for him to make the first move. My eye began to twitch. Through the distance, I saw his fingers reach, almost imperceptibly, and I responded like lightning. My hand leapt up, and as our cars sailed past each other, we saluted each other with matching friendly waves.

I really, really love it when folks wave. That's always been my favorite thing about riding a motorcycle; that little salute that fellow riders always give each other. In small towns, especially those in the west, I've been seeing more and more waves. Maybe it's because I'm in a truck, therefore I look like a local, but whether it's a case of mistaken identity, or just small town friendliness, I love it.

The hard bit lies in knowing the protocols. Alway wave in return, never initiate outside your home turf. That goes without saying. But what happens when you are going 70 on a little back highway? There's no time to think, no time to react. You must choose your action before you know what they are going to do. If you decide not to wave, and the local does, you've committed an unpardonable offense, and you must immediately flip your truck around and chase him down in order to return said wave. Otherwise, you will never make another friend, and will always be known as "that rude person", no matter what town, state, or country you are in.

If you decide to go ahead and wave, and the local doesn't, then you are again in a bind. Folks around town will start wondering just who this uppity gal from elsewhere thinks she is, and why she is waving to complete strangers, and before you know it, they will have decided that you just robbed the bank, and are attempting to blend in. A lynch mob will be dispatched forthwith.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. So you may as well wave cheerfully. I have decided to do a whole aerobic routine, and I incorporate the wave into a series of flailings to whatever Christian rock/ country ballad/ farm report is on the radio at the time. The nice little old men in big trucks that wave probably can't see me properly anyway, so they just think I'm being nice, and the younger folks have eyes sharp enough to read my plate and know I'm just some loony from California. We elected Arnold, you know. Nothing's strange for us. So it all works out.

It's hot as hell in Laughlin, Nevada, and I'll be home tomorrow.

Cousins

Yep, still on the road. I have just days left. Days, through temperatures as high as 107 degrees. Days that can feel like years.

Actually, it hasn't been that bad so far. I was ready to book it on home on interstates, when I realized I was literally minutes away from my aunt in New Mexico. Whumpy as I was, I didn't want to inflict myself on anyone else, but I hadn't seen her in almost 10 years, and I'd never visited her home. I pushed myself on down the hill, and forced myself to slow down, once again.

And I'm so glad I did. For the first time ever, I had good timing. They had the weekend off, and were able to take me around, show me Colorado mountains, rivers, waterfalls, and mining towns. And they had a hot tub. And they fed me, and gave me a cool place to sleep with much head room. It was the first time I had spent any serious time with them, and it was neat seeing all the similarities.

I was always jealous of my friend in highschool that was related to half of the town; my family was always off by ourselves. Our closest relatives lived about 8 hours away, so contact was pretty limited. I used to fantasize about having cousins. That's it, just having cousins. I even liked the word. It sounded exotic. Well, I know a cousin now. With an aunt and uncle to boot. It's strange how they have such similar interests, despite lives led hundreds of miles apart.

My uncle has a business putting finishing touches on cars, vinyl pinstriping and such. He kindly took a look at Tach (who is just fine, I think it was just my whumpiness rubbing off on him), and noticed my Hot Wheels flames steering wheel cover. He asked me if I wanted a few more flames.

Yessir, Tach has silver flames and pinstripes on his sides now. He's so vain. He's been strutting his stuff all morning. I probably don't help anything by purring and petting him every time I see his outside. He's just so cute!

We visited another uncle in a nursing home nearby this morning, and then I headed out towards the desert. I only made it as far as the Petrified Forest. It was cool and rainy, and I couldn't help but linger, taking a couple hikes, and stretching the day as far as I could. Tomorrow will be soon enough to hit the serious desert. I am going to enjoy one more night in a cool truck before then.

Whump

Don't wanna write. Don't wanna wander. Just wanna go home.

I spent a buttload of money on my sweet Tach, just because everything was due, nothing was wrong. Oil change, tune up, coolant flush, the whole nine yards. Now he can't barely get up hills. What did they do to him?! Wah!!

I had an elaborate plan for the rest of the trip, involving multiple backroads and mountains. I'm rethinking now, and may head for flat desert land soon here, which means I'll be home in days. That feels good. Sort of. I'm just kinda whumpy today. When Tach's not happy, I'm not happy.

Seriously. There was this one time, after leaving him alone for a short time in an airport parking lot, that really creeped me out. I am a very mellow person. I can't remember the last time I got truly upset, I tend to just go with the flow. Five minutes after getting in, I went a little nuts. I was pissed, and mean, and depressed, and let it all out on my unfortunate sister. Five minutes later it was gone again. Weird. I think Tach was letting me know how he felt. And he's not happy now, either.

So let's talk of happy things. Last night I hit my last state. I think it's time for another map.

create your own personalized map of the USAor write about it on the open travel guide

You may have noticed the little white spot roughly the shape of Louisiana. I could have dipped down and touched it, but I felt the state didn't deserve that. Louisiana was at the very top of my list when I left. I kept putting it off, for one reason or another, and now, it's just too late. I left it as the sole white state as a mark of respect, and as a solemn vow that I will be back. Oh yes, it will be mine.

Then there's Alaska, but I'm not even going to think about that right now. My mind will explode.

I celebrated with a nice meal, a couple margaritas, and an evening in the Movie Manor, in Colorado. I watched the new Harry Potter movie from my bed through the window, and loved it. Just because I could, I was completely naked. When's the last time you did that in a multi-plex?

My camera is amazing. After battling with it for an hour, trying to wrestle the almost fully exposed film out, I was about to send it off to the morgue. Then I noticed that the battery was missing. Just for kicks, I threw in another one, and lo and behold, the power came on, and the film popped out. That is one tough ass camera. How many of us could jump out of a rapidly accelerating car (I think I was going about 40), and walk away with barely a scratch? Oh well, I guess I didn't need a new one anyway.

Time to go consult my maps. Interstate 40 could get me home by tomorrow, if I let it. We'll see. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go that far just yet.

I think I've done more since last we spoke, but I can't remember what or where, and I don't care. I told you, we're whumpy today.

A - I

I have been singing since I hit Oklahoma. No real reason, except that it feels like the west. No, not the west, the West. I feel like I'm coming home.

I'm trying something new this time, memory wise. I hadn't been able to get to a computer in a while, so I was listing things in my head that I wanted to talk about. So here we go, the ABCs of How My Day Was.

A is for Animals. As in the sad, pathetic little guys at Prairie Dog Town, in Oklahoma, home of the world's largest Prairie Dog (a big block painted to somewhat remind you of a prairie dog), and living 6-legged cows. They just looked hot. Not very exciting, and kinda sad.

Hmmm. Are they just cows?

No, look! Right there... An extra leg!

B is for Boxdots. Does anyone get a furious thrill out of running over the little temporary flag boxdots?

C is for Camera. I lost a friend today. I've already gone through all the stages: denial (that wasn't my camera flying off the hood of the car, was it?), acceptance (yes. yes it was, you moron), and grief, which lasted a whole 30 seconds until I realized that this was my chance to upgrade to a brand new sparkly digital camera! Smarter! Faster! Shinier! This was followed by 2 hours of camera shopping online, while I should have been blogging, because I definitely can't afford one right now, and the idea of uploading pics at library computers is a little mindboggling. If they won't let me take a quiz on lipsticks because they think it's about sex, I really doubt they will let me plug my camera in. No, really, it's art...

The last picture ever taken by my valiant friend.

D is for Dog. In Nebraska I saw the best use of an Aussie ever. I was filling up at a station just off the main street, when a dusty truck with an old hay bale in the open bed pulled up. Before it had even slowed down, a gorgeous Australian Sheep dog had launched herself off the back, and shot under my car. I was worried, until I realized my car was just the beginning. She proceeded to run laps around the entire station. I finished up, and just before I left, I saw the truck taking off down the street. With no dog in the back. I was about to jump out and check under my truck, when I saw her racing down the middle of this mid-west Main street, happily in pursuit. The farmer didn't even slow down; I just assume she caught up to him eventually. Absolutely the ultimate in herding; she must lead a blissful life.

E is for Eden. As in the Garden of, in Lucas, Kansas, the Folk Art Capital of the World. Wonderful cement sculptures depicting the creators political views surround a small house, but the real... strangeness, I suppose, lies in the yard, where said creator's body is on display in a glass case inside a cement mausoleum. He's pretty mummified by now, and it was a jarring sight. I guess he really, really wanted people to see the message in his art, and he figured a dead body would be a huge pull. I guess it worked. Although for once, I wasn't the morbid one. I just came for the cement folks, I didn't even know about the body.

F is for Flat. Kansas is Flat. Very, Very Flat. I've been through some flatlands on this trip, but I don't think I had seen anything like this. It was a hot summer day, not a cloud in sight, clear to the horizon, and just... flat. No other way to describe it.

G is for Gnats. Due to the temperature, my window has been down for the last two weeks. As a result, I have had many unwelcome insect types come visiting. The spooky thing is that I haven't found a single little corpse yet, except for the guy that ended up in my hair (and I'm convinced I only found him because he was the size of a golf ball). Where are they? Are they really dead, or just injured? I bet they are all huddled together somewhere, waiting to jump out at me at the right moment.

H is for Hand. I have a callous on my hand, that can only have been caused by my steering wheel. Even cooler than a road tan (which I am working valiantly on).

I is for... iiiit's Texas! Okay, I didn't have an I, but I wanted to talk about Texas. I'll only be here a couple days, it looks like. It's sad, because Texas just feels good. Not physically; I'm sweating my own little river here, but in some other way. Mentally, psychically, whatever. It just feels nice.

I wanted to do a little medly that included all my favorite Texas songs, in honor of the Lone Star State that I must leave so soon, but since I'm trying to not sound like American Psycho again, I'll just leave you with the knowledge that...

...that's right, you're not from Texas
That's right you're not from Texas,
That's right you're not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway.

It's a soothing thought.

Geographic Center

Just realized how freakily "American Psycho" I was sounding; jumping from mind numbing musings on music and musicians to my accessories of death. I'm sorry. At least it wasn't five pages about Whitney Houston.

I flew through Nebraska, pausing just long enough to appreciate some Willa Cather-esque scenes, and miles and miles and miles of corn fields. Which are strangely beautiful. Early in the morning, when the light and shadows of the stalks stretch on to the horizon... I restrained my urge to photograph, though, as I realized that no one would most likely agree.

I did not restrain myself so well at the Geographic Center of the US, in Lebanon, Kansas. Despite the fact that there was pretty close to nothing there, I still snapped picture after picture. Mostly of me and Stripes modeling our wax lips, next to the rock cairn, next to the empty motel, next to the tool shed filled with three pews and a cross.

Right now I feel like I am on an "American Gods" pilgrimmage. Last week I only hit religious sites, this week it's only wacky roadside stuff. My trip tends towards waves.

On to Oklahoma!

Highlights

Okay, I'm back. You can click on the link below for House on the Rock for the general information; I'll just give you my highlights.

The Carousel Room. I sat in there until I was so dizzy, I thought I may get sick. Even then, I just turned away for a while, then looked back. It was amazing. Thousands of lights, hundreds of hand carved creatures, including pirates, mermaids, and a mini-Napoleon, with carnival music blasting over everything. The spinning goodness in the middle drew my attention at first, but when I could finally look away, I noticed that the walls were lined with antique horses that didn't make it on the ride, and the ceiling was lined with mannequins that had angel wings. Hmm. Not sure why, but I liked it.

I thought nothing could top that, but then I wandered into the Organ Room. Lots of, well, organs; large, small, and huge. They were surrounded by whiskey sills and old jugs with leering faces in dim light. The path you were led on went around and over and under and back around everything twice, and yet you still didn't go up a fraction of the red carpeted spiral staircases, whose only purpose could only be decorative. Or perhaps for dusting the lifesize wooden figures that dotted the landscape, all vaguely religious and medieval looking. In a few spots, they lined a bridge directly over your head, and you couldn't help but wonder if there was a real person or two hidden in the shadows.

What made it amazing was the order that it was in. There was a purpose. He had a plan when making this. There's no way I could ever figure out what that plan was, or even what direction he was heading in, but you can sense that somewhere, under the madness, there is a reason. It's deliciously frustrating.

Also in this room were the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. You could almost reach out and touch Death.

Tach took a shower today. A week ago I noticed that I had accidentally butchered a butterfly, and his black, iridescent wings were perfectly centered on the front of my hood. Somehow those delicate little things made it through a week of high speed driving looking barely even weathered. It was a little morbid, but they looked so damn cool, I put off the carwash until today. Death shouldn't really be an accessory, but it was such a perfect touch.

I found another perfect church sign combination, in Flint. End-Of-Days Church and Happy-Time Preschool.
These people are confused, aren't they?

I crossed over the Mississippi for the last time on my trip. It felt like beating Oregon Trail; it's the last river crossing, and I still have all my oxen, and no scarlet fever. At the beginning of my trip I had decided that I hadn't seen enough caves, rivers, and waterfalls. I've definitely had my fill of caves, I'm a little burned out on waterfalls, but I don't think I'll ever get tired of rivers. I am going to make friends with some fishermen in Montana, so they will take me out to stand in the middle of a river in hip-waders. Oh shoot, they don't do that in the winter, do they? Dang. Ice fishing, perhaps?

Waits Distance

It's these late nights and this freeway flying, always makes me sad.
Shoot, I just looked that up, and I've been hearing it wrong this whole time. It's "always makes me sing", but that just doesn't work for me. Ah, well, I'll leave it in the way I hear it.

I just have to say that I really love Tom Waits. Rachael and I were talking about what makes a song really great. We didn't come up with the answer, of course, but one element is a building, a progression. Kris Delmhurst does it vocally, building from a gentle breeze to a storm, just with her voice. Tom Waits does it with his lyrics, either in the course of telling a story, or just by changing a single word in a chorus. He's... well, he's just freaking cool.

If I exorcise my devils, well my angels may leave too. When they leave they're so hard to find.

and she's lucky to be alive
the doctor whispered to the nurse
she only lost a 1/2 pint of blood
$29.00 and an alligator purse

And the radio's gone off the air
Gives you time to think
And you hear the rumble
As you fumble for a cigarette
And blazing through this midnight jungle
Remember someone that you met
And one more block; the engine talks
Whispers 'home at last'
It whispers 'home at last'
Whispers 'home at last'
It whispers 'home at last'
Whispers 'home at last'

Home at last. Just two more weeks.

That last line was me, not him, in case you were confused.

So. What have I been up to. I was freeway flyin' through Indiana and Illinois, and then back again, and never really saw a thing. I flew into Michigan, and Flint slowed me down a bit.

It just so happened that I was there for what was supposed to be the release of Fahrenheit 911. There was no sign of it in town, so really it just turned out to be a nice bit of coincidence in my head, with nothing to show in reality. I wandered around town for a few hours, and saw... just what I expected, I expect. For the first hour, I found myself in not so happy parts of town, where the only things flourishing were titty bars and potholes. I've never seen so many empty buildings, outside of the fifties ghost town of St. Marie in Montana.

I called all the theaters, searched for the movie, found nothing, and was ready to leave, but I felt a bit guilty, like a tourist to San Francisco who never finds his way out of the Tenderloin. So I searched a bit harder, crossed a river, and found the part of town that still had some money. I didn't go to a show, or search for any art museums or anything, but I felt that I had given the city a fair shake, so I headed back to the freeway.

Nothing else in Michigan pulled me. I passed through Irish Hills on a race day, or else I may have lingered at the abandoned amusement parks. Those got me thinking, actually. How cool would it be if we lived in a less litigious society, and someone could open up "Abandoned Theme Park!", charge a few bucks to let you crawl over crumbling plaster mountains, and see empty rides swaying in the breeze? I really think it could work; there's several generation now that were raised on Scooby Doo, and who doesn't want to search for a ghost through cobwebby corridors? Maybe in Nevada.

Onwards to Wisconsin! By this point, the freeway flying is making me physically ill, so I slow it down a bit, spend one afternoon in Barnes and Noble, the other in a movie theater. I would like to formally acknowledge the two things I couldn't have done this trip without: free internet access in libraries, and big chain bookstores that let you sit and relax for an entire day without buying a darn thing. Bless those corporate retail associates that really don't care one way or another.

Yesterday I stopped by Art Park near Baraboo, to see the Forevertron. It was beautiful. All the pictures and stories just don't do justice to how this man has made rusty junk into beauty. They all focus on the strangeness (and it was strange), and ignore how gorgeous everything was.

Today was saved for House on the Rock. All day. And I needed it. It's fabulousness can not be described. Actually, it really can't, since I've just been kicked off my computer. See the link, read American Gods, and just end up going yourself. It's worth whatever distance you have to come.

So. I don't remember where I left off now. Crap.

Oh yeah, Connecticut.

It seemed like every 5 miles you went there was a huge, ancient complex. About half of them were military schools (and they looked just. like. military schools.There was even one poor kid running laps for punishment, and another cleaning the windows on what looked to be the headmaster's house), and the rest were psychiatric hospitals. One of them was particularly perfect. There was what looked like an old brick mill, or factory on one side of the road, and about a mile square of decrepit, creepy looking matching buildings on the other side. Some of the buildings were being swallowed by greenery; the roads leading into the complex were all pitted with weeds coming through. One engulfed building had an old sign in front, proclaiming it a psych hospital. Off in the distance you could see the high security portion, with layers of mile high barb wire and guard towers.

I was a little shocked to see cars in between two of the buildings further down. The place was active! At first I thought maybe someone had bought it out and was using it for other purposes, but then I saw a smaller sign that repeated the information on the first. Wow. That is almost enough to make me want to commit myself. Who knew places that looked like that still existed? I assume the inside is modern and nice, and they don't use EST anymore, but with a facade like that, you can never tell.

Missouri Roads

Another reason to love backroads: sometimes they're just really... fun. I've never used an emoticon in my life, but that needs a little smiley :)

The border of Arkansas and Missouri is one of those abrubt ones, where you instantly know you're in another state. Arkansas was beautiful, and the roads I had been driving through the Ozarks were nice and windy. When I crossed over, though... woo! No road has ever made me laugh or yell so much. Rolling hills, dips, curves... It felt like the Big Dipper in Santa Cruz! A little slower, though; I'm not that crazy. Tach took it quite well, I think he had a good time, but I couldn't help wishing quietly that I had a Maserati, or a Ducatti, or something Italian anyway. Still... wow. Good, good roads.

Has an interstate ever made you laugh? In joy, I mean, not a sarcastic snort at a billboard. And that's the last I'll say about it.

Arkansas was fun, and not scary at all. Hot Springs was a great little town, with rows of old bathhouses from the glory resort days. One of them is still in use, and another has been renovated by the parks system, and you can wander through. That, actually, was a little spooky. It has the look of an old sanitarium, complete with strange mechanical devices, including big metal steam boxes where only your head sticks through. There were sculptures and stained glass windows, but without people, they didn't warm the place up much.

I filled up my water bottles from the city fountain, so I could take some restorative with me, and headed up to Eureka Springs. This is the home of New Holy Land (closed on Wednesdays, but really, I wasn't sure I wanted to sit through that anyway), Christ of the Ozarks (huge, white Jesus on a mountain - what else can I say), and Tiny Town.

Tiny Town is run by the son of the man that built it, and he starts you off with a nice little speech, cute little jokes, and directions to a little Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and Mr. T. Then you are left on your own to tour the largest automated town, pressing buttons at will. My favorite was the button that made a little cowboy with an Indian's arrow in him writhe. I pushed that one a few times.

You go through the wild west, see mines, Mt. Rushmore, bears and elk migrating, Rock City's suspension bridge, Pennsylvania farms, several railroads, an Arkansas small town, complete with school, bank, firehouse, and homes, and much, much more. Plans are underway to make the hot air balloon go up and down, but the plane already circles the airport. Most everything is hand carved, including Willie and Dolly, and if you look very close, you can sometimes see the tin cans used for materials. You've gotta look very close, though.

On to Missouri... shoot, what have I done in Missouri? Really have to start taking notes. I'm in Hannibal, right now, boyhood home of Samuel Clemens, and home to the Mark Twain Caves. Amazingly, I think I've had enough of cave tours. I didn't think that could happen, but I may have seen enough stalag-things on this trip to last my life. I saw Ha Ha Tonka State Park, beautiful. Caves, sinkholes, and ruins; the perfect park.

How could I forget? Precious Moments Chapel. I was really hoping to find a crucifix, but it was not to be. Although they have the largest Precious Moments store in the world, they were strangely light on figures from the end of Christ's life. There was a slew of Christmas figures and ornaments, but the closest you could get to Easter was a cheery little boy sitting on a rock outside a cave, with the words "He is Risen!" underneath.

I suppose it makes sense. The company was started by a man in pain, after losing his oldest son. These are figures to inspire and cheer up. A sad little doe-eyed boy with stigmata would probably not be the ticket.

I'm afraid this wasn't as interesting as I had hoped for. It was a little spooky in its cheeriness and cuteness, and the blindness to the darker sides of life was interesting. There was even something strange and stifled about the outdoors; it was hot and quiet, with a single bird singing on the manicured lawns. The "Fountain of Angels" show was kind of a joke. Go see the Bellagio in Vegas, much more impressive. Of course that could be because I prefer Sinatra to saccharine gospel, so maybe I'm being unfair.

The strangest thing was when the gospel singer came out to intro the lights show, and sing a few gospel tunes, in a fabulous baritone. I couldn't help but think that he was evidence of PM going a bit too far to keep everything small and cute; he was a dwarf. I know I'm being completely un-PC, and anywhere I else I wouldn't even have noted it, but this is Precious Moments. He matched.

On to... I don't know, Michigan? Sounds good to me.

Believe it or not, there is a method to my madness. Memphis to Flint may seem a bit extreme, but... well, it made sense at the time.

Walking in Graceland

.... there's a pretty little thing, waiting for the King, down in the Jungle room...

When I was a kid, thoughts of the jungle room entertained me for hours. I heard it was added on below the the main house, and that spurred all sorts of additions to my dream house. Suddenly I had a grand basement with 20 different themed rooms, many with shag carpeting on the floor, ceiling, walls and windows.

I think my imagination was a little more expansive than reality can accomodate. Graceland was fabulous, although nothing like the dream mansion, castle really, that existed in my head. It was actually quite reasonably sized. No Hearst monstrosity here, just a nice old house with a couple additions. And so seventies. So, so, so seventies, it kinda defies belief. Pictures don't do it justice. You just can't conceive of that level of... seventies, without it being in front of you.

It rather brought the house down from its pedestal for me. You can't really be overawed by a place with mirrors on the celing and lemon yellow upholstery that would make the Fab 5 cringe. I was suitably impressed by all the memorabilia, and the displays were all just perfect.

I was most impressed by the organization. (Well, that and the white fur bed with mirrors. Mmmm.) The house brought you in the front doors with stories about a fresh-faced Elvis, glowing with his success, moving his family up from the two room shack in Tupelo. Through the beginning of the tour, images of a baby faced Elvis jump at you. He grows older through the house, and through the trophy room, untill you finally reach the last room that contains enough rhinestoned jumpsuits to blind. From there, all that's left is to go out the door to his gravesite.

It was amazing. Whoever organized this did it perfectly, so that all who passed through were led inexorably to that point. Even if you didn't love Elvis, you'd be tempted to through yourself wailing on his grave by the end. I saw many women wiping the tears from their eyes, the same women that had been grinning in the bus ride there, and vaulting over each other to get a shot of the scratch on the pool table at the beginning of the tour.

Something has to be said about the crowds. I expected it, of course, but it was still amazing. I went on a Tuesday morning, and yet it was still full to capacity. My first, and favorite, shot was of the back view of 50 heads gazing at a dining room table that you can barely see.

And that was Graceland. Ahh, but I haven't talked about the Jungle Room. It wasn't the tropical oasis of my dreams, but it was a fabulous bit of Tiki heaven. Still... what with the green shag everywhere, it kinda reminded me of my family's rec room, except with a wee waterfall in the corner. Like I said, seventies decorating is the great equalizer. Who doesn't have memories of an avocado stove somewhere in their past?

From there, I caught a free shuttle (yay free!) downtown. The shuttle was supposedly for the Sun Studio tour, and Beale Street Gift Shop, but it's just a short walk over to the Peabody Hotel. I sipped a cocktail in the lobby lounge, right next to the duckies in their posh fountain, and watched the crowds form. By 5, the time for them them to walk the red carpet to their elevator to the penthouse, there were so many people, I could barely see the floor. These ducks are pros; there was nary a quack as thousands of flashes went off all around them. Quite a show.

And that was Memphis. Much fun. Beale Street looked like a cool, hip place to be after dark, but as I am neither cool nor hip at the moment, I headed back for the highways.

Enough of the happy traveler shit for today; time to rant against interstates. Driving down a beautiful blue highway, I was able to finally put into words what I have against them. Interstates don't say anything. From sea to shining sea, they are all exactly the same. They have a kind of uniform dull roar, with no words at all. In the country, it's a low hum, as you pass through lots of nothing. In cities, the hum is magnified as it bounces off retaining walls and skyscrapers, but it's the same boring hum.

Backroads will talk your ear off. Not just about the area that you are passing through, although they are well versed in culture, food and history. They speak to you of every person that they have nurtured, every man and woman that was once a child in their province. They can tell you about everyone that was ever influenced by them; artists, authors, musicians, even actors. James Dean may be quintessential Hollywood, but the Indiana backroads can tell you a bit about him, and every midwest boy that wants to be him.

This is why I am always so obsessed about fitting the soundtrack to the road. This is why I describe every place in terms of books and movies that it reminds me of. The back roads have a direct link to a mountain of creativity. They should; they still speak to all those artists.

Cities are like that as well, I'm forced to admit. It's just much harder to tap into that source. You have to find someone that knows their way around, or rely on blind luck to find the corners that speak. You also have to spend much more money to get them talking, it seems.

Okay, think I've run that metaphor to the ground. Have fun, and go hug your backroad today.

Planning

Our post today comes to you from historic New Harmony, home of the Harmonites, amongst others. Angel Gabriel himself once touched down here, intent on destroying the world. But he saw the loveliness around him, his heart softened, and doomsday was averted. He left his footprints behind, in a large stone that looks suspiciously like the cement outside the Chinese Theater. The stone is in a private yard, but, armed with a little bit of local knowledge, I was able to peek in and see them from afar.

Yesterday was not so good a day. I woke up, determined to head south, based on a somewhat fuzzy decision I had made late the night before. I set out early, cruised, hit a library, sat for a while, cruised some more, and then looked at a map. And realized I was hundreds of miles away from anything I actually wanted to see.

With time running out on me, this was not okay. I got fed up with myself, and super cranky. All this was fixed by a little truckstop dinner, and a couple of hours of bonding with my maps. I now have a serious itinerary, I mean road by road, town by town, from here to home.

I know, I have yelled loudly about the dangers of planning. My favorite way to drive is with no maps and no destination, taking whatever road looks good. That worked fine for the beginning of the trip. But my mind is needing some order now. Without a destination, my brain screams, "I wanna go home!" I say, "But look at that pretty-", it goes, "NOW!" So I humored it. And boy, does it feel good. I know exactly where I am going to be tomorrow. And I don't mind, because that place is Memphis.

That's right, baby, Graceland. In Memphis, Tennessee. I'm going to Graceland, Graceland. I think that is why I headed south. I knew, subconsciously, that I had to go to Graceland before coming home, so that's where my wheels took me. I can deal with that.

Besides Graceland, Memphis is home to the Pink Palace, a Piggly-Wiggly museum, and the Peabody Hotel duck parade every evening at 5. Oh yes, there is something to be said for planning. I do miss my old way of travel. Up until this point, I would completely turn a state inside out before I left, poking in every corner, until I was satisfied (except for Nevada, but we're not going to go there). Now I am zipping in and out of states, looping back, veering off... I think I've hit 5 states in the past week. My last shower was in Connecticut. How odd.

The Falls

The Jell-O musuem was a pretty interesting little room. I got there late, but the nice lady let me wander around anyway. It was probably good I was there after hours, because it stopped me from buying any of the cool shwag they had. And they had some cool stuff. Every kind of mold you could imagine, Jello boxers, hot wheel cars, the list goes on and on. The museum itself consisted of old ads, oil paintings, and various molds and recipes. Nice little place.

I was on my way out of New York when I realized that I had forgotten Niagara Falls! I wouldn't forget the Jell-O museum, but THE Falls? How embarrasing. I ran north, and got there just as the sun was setting. Pretty incredibly amazing. I have never seen anything even close to those. No one really survived going over the edge in a barrel, did they? Before it was just an abstract, but having seen them, I can't even imagine.

It was even worth the five billion little bugs that attacked me while there. I thought still water bred mosquitos. There wasn't much still water that I saw around there, but plenty of buggies.

Not much on the agenda today, just cruising.

I hate it when I don't have anything to say. I feel like I shouldn't even post on those days, or it'll just distract from the good ones. Look 2 entries down, that one's interesting! Really, I'm not usually this boring.

Thunder

The weather heard me complaining yesterday, and decided to humor me. I was sitting in Borders, waiting for the heat to ease up before I tried to go to sleep, when the entire building started shaking. In case anyone doesn't know, every Borders building is a huge, solid cement block. It takes a lot to get it shaking. In this case, it was the thunder and lightning that was making the lights flicker.

I've always mocked people afraid of thunderstorms. Every time we would get one in SF, that one magic night out of the year, I would pull a chair up to the window and sit and sip hot cocoa and stare. I've lived through supertyphoons, and relished every minute. Yet I don't think I had ever really seen a thunderstorm before. I understand now. Those things can get crazy! I still love them, but I definitely understand the people that run and hide now. There was a little more fear mixed in with the awe on this one. Anything that has the power to shake 500 square feet of cement and steel has my respect.

The rain has been coming and going, which is perfect for me. It means that the temperature stays down, and my bed remains dry. Hurray for dry sheets!

I've pretty much just been cruising north all day. I stopped in Seneca Falls, NY to pay my respects to my foremothers, and to peruse the multiple history museums devoted to women. Inspiring, and yet, a little depressing. Did you know that the first African-American female millionaire made her fortune by selling beauty aids like hair straighteners and skin bleachers? I want to do something to subvert standards, but it seems like in order to have any influence at all, you have to sell and praise those messed up standards. Otherwise, you're just a loony yelling in the corner, that all the cool kids laugh at.

Like the Green Party. There is an image that has haunted my political thinking for years now. During the last presidential race, Nader and his running mate Winona LaDuke came and spoke at SF State. They were both eloquent, with incredibly valid points, and their speeches went over great with the liberal, hippy audience. Some time later, I saw a bit on the news about a Bush speech in California. There was a brief mention of a small group of unnamed war protesters outside, accompanied by video footage. Right in front was LaDuke.

How sad is it that a well-spoken political activist who ran for frickin' VP is not able to get her name even mentioned on television? Nader only got mentioned so often because of the closeness of the race; up until that point, even he had been relegated to the "also ran" section, maybe mentioned once or twice on national television. Anyone railing against the way things are doesn't seem to have a chance against the massive machine that is called media.

Sorry, just venting. I don't get worked up often; it's just that right now, I don't have anyone to let it out on. Back at home, I have a fabulous conservative friend, and we regularly engage in shouting matches. I like to think that she is a little more liberal now, due to me. Of course, I'm probably a little more conservative as well. Still, it's the only way for me to work out my beliefs. So if there are gaping holes in the above vent, it's just because I have had only my own brain stewing on them.

How did I get here? Oh yeah, loony in the corner. Speaking of loonies, I am now on my way up to the Jell-O museum. I hope it's still there. I read in a more recent book that the nut museum lady was thinking of taking her show on the road. I do hope that is what happened. I can't stand to think about all those nuts lying alone, despondant somewhere.

Hot as Hell

Bleh. I hate heat. 93 degrees today. 100% humidity. Feels like 104 degrees. Bleh, bleh, bleh. A fitting day to visit hell.

Unfortunately, hell wasn't quite where I thought it would be. In Centralia, PA, there has been an underground mine fire raging for years. It's slowly eating up the town, and is impossible to put out. When I first heard about this, I had visions of ragged holes in the ground with smoke pouring, or at least drifting out. I imagined blackened scorched earth, swallowing houses whole, and trees spontaneously bursting into flames as their roots caught.

It's not really that dramatic. It's still a tragedy, no doubt, but all you can really see is a few sunken areas where the trees are dead and the ground is a bit rubble-y. There where some pretty noxious fumes, and the signs warned of toxic smells. Still, not really hell at all.

I started off the day in the air conditioned heaven of Chocolate World. Mostly it's a really big shop, with every Hershey product you every imagined. They must have had 30 different ways of packaging Reeses. The best (and only free) thing was the Chocolate Ride. A chocolate colored seat on a conveyer twists you through all the different steps of chocolate making, from the beans to the wrappers. You get to see the little pipettes squooging out Kisses, and a mechanized giant Kiss frolics on a mountain of little silvery kisses, while wonderful aromas fill the air. Lovely.

There was also a nostalgic trolley ride, and an Amazing 3-D Movie Adventure, but those weren't free, so not for me. Besides, how could you top the Chocolate Ride? They even snapped your picture, so you could have a nice little souvenir.

Sign of the day was in front of the East Pennsylvania Mennonite Church: "The best thing to do behind your friend's back is to pat it." Awww.

Last week's sign of the day, which I forgot to mention, was also church related. They had a double billing of The Church of the Crucifix and Precious Moments Preschool. Not really amusing, untill you imagine one of those little doe eyed boys playing Jesus on the cross. Oh lord. I think I need to go google and see if that exists!

Enough blasphemy for the day, I'm on my way north to the Great Lakes. Maybe it'll be a tiny bit cooler there. Funny, the thought of a winter in Montana only gets me excited, but 2 days in a Texas summer terrify me. I'm going, though. I can't finish this trip without at least putting a toe in. Even if it kills me.

I'm Not Even Supposed to Be Here Today

Oh geez; I meant to give a big yay to my sister for running a marathon and all, but Jersey distracted me. So, Yay! Rachael rocks! Run, girl, run! Oh wait, that sounds kinda threatening. Jog on, baby.

Jersey was everything I hoped for and more. At the Secret Stash, they had something like 20 issues of a magazine entitled "New Jersey Weird", that talked about all the strange stuff that I've been looking for on this trip. I didn't get a single one. I barely even looked at one. I just couldn't, it woulda broken my heart. Someday, Jersey, I'll be back. I know most people don't consider the Garden State to be a hotbed of tourism, but I could easily spend weeks there, roaming from strangeness to strangeness. Sigh.

I started my tour at the Marina Diner, the spot from where Silent Bob gives his mega speech in "Chasing Amy". I was appropriately awed by the green plastic booths, and sipped my lima bean soup while listening to the staff (apparently all from the same Greek family) finish up their shifts and shoot the breeze. Apparently I missed Bon Jovi by one day. He had been in just yesterday morning; they had several signed napkins.

I need to take a time out from my Jersey tour to come out of the closet. I love Bon Jovi. I mean really. No other band makes me rock so hard. I still headbang like crazy the instant I hear one of his songs starting, and a big goofy grin comes over my face, and I'm instantly a rebellious teenager again, just living on a prayer. And he's cute. Moon. Sigh.

Anyway, now that I have completely ruined my street cred with y'all, back to Jersey. My next stop was the Quick Stop, right next to RST Video. It's just a little convenience store, but it's... it's the store! I couldn't decide what to get. I wanted to sit on the floor and spin all the eggs, or attack someone with red vines, or... the options were limitless. I got gum.

On to the Stash, where I picked up supplies for my super secret shrine project, as well as just a few comic books. I've been so good! I deserved a few... or five.

My last stop was Asbury Park, right on the coast. This was where God was attacked after a skeeball game. I was drastically disapponted that there weren't any skeeball places open, but it was a Monday morning, and that was the only thing about the place that disappointed.

It was beautiful. A slew of old buildings, many of them abandoned or condemned, or just looking that way, many of them looking like they were built for a World's Fair way back when. The board walk was completely empty, with shutters covering all the ice cream stands and videogame parlors. As I was approaching the railings, a man staggered out of the convention center. Remember the really freaky hockey minion with the long hair and wicked eyes? This was him, 20 years later, wearing the same outfit. And very down on his luck. He must have pawned his stick. He was asking for change, because he'd been stuck 'here' for days. Here, as in Jersey? The shore? This dimension?

I was certain the convention center had been abandoned years ago, until I took a closer look. Turns out the Miss Gay NJ Pageant had been held there just this weekend! That would explain the 30 foot pride flag covering the front of a fabulous deco hotel. The back of the hotel was missing, actually, semi-covered in plastic.

Everything has this strange empty look to it that is only dispelled if you look closely. I would love to come back on a weekend, and see if it really gets hopping. I only saw a few locals, and a pair of tourists that looked frightened and confused, like they wandered onto the wrong metro line. They gamely shot a few pictures before retreating, probably to the safety of Caesar's in Atlantic City.

Which was exactly where I was headed. What I wouldn't give for a chance to go back in time to the days before the casinos. The best thing in Atlantic City was the free historical museum, packed with souvenirs and pictures, and even a few remnants of sand sculptures. The worst things were the casinos. I have a gambling problem. I know this. Still, I thought I could handle a half hour in a casino Long story; the gist of it is that I had to spend a half hour there in order to park for free and to win a 12 pack of coke. I also ended up winning $5. Unfortunately I lost $20. That's like a whole day of travel! Grrr. Oh well, I'll enjoy that coke for weeks to come.

The only reason the museum is the best thing in Atlantic City is because Lucy the Elephant is just down the road in Margate. He's a beautiful big beast, wonderfully renovated. I was able to sneak onto a tour, even though they weren't officially open today. The inside was painted Gastronomic Pink, and you could look out windows in his eyes and butt. A family lived there once, in 1902. I found myself fantasizing about washing my undies and hanging them from his tusks, or sliding my outgoing mail down his tail. The other half of the time I wanted to start singing the Love song from "Moulin Rouge". Quite possibly the best bit of roadside americana I've seen so far.

On to Philly. It's a beautiful city, and I would have loved to spend more than an hour there. I didn't even get to the Mummer's museum. And I found the church with a body entombed in glass, but it was locked up today. Poop. But time is of the essence, and at this late date, I've found I don't have much patience at all with city driving and attempting to park. On top of that, cities are places that you have to plan out careful, decide what you want to do and how to get there, where to stay... nuts to that. Down with planning. (Sorry Christy, just kidding!)

So on to Hershey, and Chocolate World. Much more my speed. I'm on my way there now, but I had to stop in Intercourse. For one thing, I haven't been getting lucky much recently, and I thought this might... shoot, parents reading. Just kidding! Ha ha. Really I stopped because it is the center of Mennonite life in Pennsylvannia. There seem to be more horse and buggies than cars, and every second farm sells strawberry pies, or quilts, or ice cold watermelons.

I haven't been able to figure out exactly what their beliefs are. There's the whole dress code thing, which is a little startling when you see 20 little boys lining up to get on a bus to a baseball game. Do you think they play like that? How would you slide in suspenders? They don't do cars, but are John Deeres okay? And I saw a few with sunglasses. Hmmm. Are they averse to photos? I tried to be surreptitious, but the busfull of baseball boys in straw hats was impossible to pass up. I guess I'm going to hell. If not for that, then definitely for lusting over the cutey mowing the lawn down the road. It was so hot, he had to open his shirt a bit, and he'd hung his hat on the fence... don't let anyone tell you suspenders can't be sexy.

Well, it's getting dark outside. Looks like I'll have to spend the night in Intercourse. I'm so easily amused. It's almost as good as I-da-ho. Tee hee. Pleasant dreams, y'all.

Running

I'm terribly frustrated right now because I don't have time to respond to anyone's comments! Please, don't feel left out; I am just on the run right now, and everyone's notes will remain in my box until I can do some serious maintenance.

Actually, I am just too full of anticipation to write much right now. Do you know where I am? New Jersey, baby. Just minutes outside of Red Bank and Leonardo. Which means that in just a few short minutes I will be in movie geek heaven. I have a list of directions to all the Kevin Smith sites; the Quick Stop, Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash, and on and on... I'm getting all sweaty just thinking about it.

Allright, calm down. I've got days of backstory to fill you in on first. Must take deep breaths. Okay.

After looking at multiple maps, my bank account, and my patience, I have realized that I just don't have enough time to do everything. 10 months on the road, and now I have no more time. I have decided I am going to be home by the 4th of July, and I've got miles to go before I sleep. I've had to cut some juicy states. North Carolina, I barely knew 'ya. Texas... oh, Texas. I am going to touch each state, and do at least one strange thing in each one, but that's it. I'm done. Kaput.

I finished New England in record time. The nut museum in Old Lyme seems to be no more, which made speeding through Connecticut easier. Gillette Castle was much fun; I put in my wax fangs from Yummies and posed behind ornately carved wood doors. The man who envisioned it was a famous stage actor; he wrote and starred in "Sherlock Holmes".

The woods in Connecticut are fabulous; I swear I've seen 30 horror films that must have been filmed there, as well as one film about filming a horror film. The rainy days helped; it was beautiful and dark with huge mansions lurking beneath the trees.

Strangely, those woods did not scare me nearly as much as upstate New York. There, for the first time in my life, I got that oogy stomach feeling, the kind that normally is only brought on by extreme terror, just from a smell. It wasn't a particularly bad smell, even. Just a sort of... wet, industrial odor that triggered some sense memory somewhere. Later, driving through cities and towns and villages, I realized that I was getting the same strange feeling that I had in NYC, a knowledge and memory of places I had never been to before. Except this time, instead of memories from movies and books, the memories were from my nightmares. Right there, that's where a scary man chased me and my 2nd grade class up the stairs and out into the woods... there's where I found myself alone in an empty ramshackle mansion... and so on.

I don't mean to insult the area. It's really quite beautiful, and the lock system was fascinating. It's just that somehow, that area is the landscape for my nightmares. Ughh.

So I ran away. Up into the Adirondacks (still a little freaky, but only because of the masses of tourists), and back down towards Pennsylvania and (yay!) Jersey. On the way I stopped at Howe Caverns. It was almost worth it, just to see the Most Boring Tour Guide in the World. Every 50 feet or so he would bring the whole group to a halt, stand and silently count for a while, then say something like, "We call this the White Horse formation, because it resembles a white horse." Wait for admiration, then walk on, only to repeat the procedure in 50 more feet. "This we call the Tower of Piza, because it resembles the famous tower of Piza in Italy." Or my favorite, "We're about to go into the Narrows. This is the best part of the tour." Walk on. The rest of the time, he was completely silent. He was so bad, I think I'm kinda in love with him.

That's enough, I've gotta get going. Dante is calling me.

Stash

I have good news and bad news. Bad news first. Due to heightened security issues, Cheyenne Mountain, the giant underground NORAD complex in Colorado no longer gives tours. Bummer. The good news is that I just found Boye's interchangeable knitting needles for under $50! Life is good again.

Wrights, the company that owns Boye, has a factory store on Route 20 in Sturbridge, Mass. They had lots of cheap ribbon and good stuff, but nothing compared to the find of the kit. Amber, a Boston blogger, had visited, but every other knitter in the area I had mentioned this too had responded with a blank stare and a request for a phone call if it turned out to be true.

Let this be my call: an entire set of interchangeable needles, from 2 to 15, for $47.50 plus tax. And let this be my warning: they won't last. The friendly knit maven there told me that when this bunch is gone, they won't be getting more. Or at least not reliably. Factory stores, you just never know. But right now they have them! Run, don't walk. I bought 3 sets.

No, just kidding. Only 2.

I have done no knitting recently. I got really excited about a tank top pattern that I am working with this gorgeous Stacy Charles Venus that is the color of abalone, mixed with cream cotton. I've never done lace before, so I am exceedingly proud of how fabulous it looks. Still, I haven't picked it up in a week. I shouldn't be admitting that here, in this forum, should I? Y'all must be thinking, "Well what's wrong with her? Are her thumbs broken?" No, just lazy.

I still plunge my hands every day into the Wings that is waiting for the perfect Aran pattern. My stash is getting out of control. It falls on my head every night. I was so good for so long! And then my sister just pushed me off the wagon, and now I'm waddling after it with 6 bags full of yarn around every arm.

I spent the last couple nights with my friend Noah, de San Francisco, de Boston, ahora de Berkshires. We had a fabulous time, sipping G&Ts on the wide front porch of the Red Lion Inn and waving at strangers. I left the land of Norman Rockwell this morning, although this area of central Mass is just as cute. I saw Smith University in Northampton, and stopped at a Saint Anne Shrine where statues wept. Not while I was watching, though.

I was going to put in a paragraph about where I'm off to next, but I don't rightly now. And it feels marvelous.

Places

I've found that the perfect soundtrack for New England is not a soundtrack at all. My radio has been set to NPR for the duration. News shows for Vermont, the car guys for Boston, antique shows for upstate anywhere. In a spot in Vermont that was virtually unpopulated, where there's only trees and rivers, I found a hip-hop station and three NPR stations. In a spot that sparsely populated in California, you'd have a spanish station and three christian stations.

This tells you a few things about New England, and Vermont in specific. First of all, did you have any idea that there were any empty spots in the east? I was under the impression that they were packed like sardines out here! You know, Westward Expansion and all that jazz. We pushed west because there wasn't no more room back east. I suppose if I really thought about it, I knew there were vast logging areas and national forests and such, but I still subconsciously thought the entire eastern seaboard would be as dense as fruitcake.

Secondly, Vermont is a very crunchy granola state. Even in the far reaches of the darkest woods, houses have Tibetan prayer flags and rainbow windchimes, and all the dairy farmers supply Ben and Jerry's. I was having fantasies of a New Zealand-ish type state, left-leaning, clean air, and cheerily neutral, when I noticed all the big signs saying "Take Back Vermont". Turns out there was a conservative backlash to the state's liberal gay partnership laws. Well, no state can be completely perfect.

I stayed with a friend (hi friend!) in New Hampshire with a nice big comfy apartment. I was feeling lonely on Memorial Day, really craving friends, barbecue, and beer, and Aaron provided all three. Well, there was barbecued chicken on the pizza, anyway. We reminisced about San Francisco, which seems to be my favorite subject when talking to anyone, and asked each other Baby Boomer trivia. I used his place for a base for some exploration.

Looking at the maps, I decided that Salem wasn't that far away, and I never had gotten to any of the witch museums. It was a wee bit further than I thought, like two or three extra hours, but it was a lovely drive, with the world's largest chair on the way. I think it was the world's largest chair; there were two towns having a showdown for the title, building larger and larger chairs, and I think Gardner won in the end, but I'll compare my photos using Stripes as a measure.

Salem is beautiful, and the Witch Dungeon had a fabulous re-enactment with appropriately creepy wax mummies serving as townspeople, and even creepier wax witches in the basement dungeon. I'm afraid I didn't get to any of the other 20 or so witch related sites, but I was satisfied.

The fog in the mountains here is really something; I haven't seen the like, even in Daly City. I wandered back roads all day today. At one point, a gift shop and restaurant appeared suddenly about 15 feet to my right. In a few more feet, I was able to make out the sign. "Sightline Cafe - See 3 states from our observation deck!" Yeah, not today.

At lower elevations, it was just drippy and dark. A perfect day for wandering through the Berkshires. Here are the New England small towns I was looking for! Small clusters of big gorgeous old houses, just set back from the street far enough to have vibrantly green lawns with kids frolicking, a corner store where everyone meets, maybe one historic B&B. A doctor's office right out of a Rockwell painting.

Speaking of Rockwell, even though he spent some time in Alhambra, CA, many of his paintings were inspired by and created in the town I'm in tonight. There is a Rockwell museum I plan on hitting tomorrow, and a cafe that is the setting for at least one of his more well known works. This area is as familiar as New York City to me... in a very, very different way.

I like places. I decided that today, after great thought. Places are good. All of my favorite novels are ones that have an intimate knowledge of location. Characters are all well and good, but if an author really knows and loves the area he or she is writing about, a book is made. Don't tell me "Gone With the Wind" is such a bestseller because we all love Scarlett so much. The good ones make me want to travel; the best ones just jump to mind just when I see a particular slant of tree, waters edge, or type of motel. From "American Gods" to "Chesapeake", I love 'em all.

What else... It's been so long since I've written, I feel like I've seen so much, but I can't remember anything! I actually bought a tape recorder at the beginning of my trip, so I wouldn't even have to stop to write a note. The last time I used it? Idaho. Yeah, that's right, about 7 months ago.

Okay, fascinating conversation about constipation. You really don't need to know, but must go now. No, not that kind of go. Go, like the conversation is more interesting than blogging, so I must leave the virtual world. Not go go. As if I'd tell you if that was why I was signing off. Actually I might. In case you didn't notice, I don't edit myself too much.