the face that launched a thousand ships

I was standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona, etc., and such a fine sight to see, Death Cab For Cutie, slowin' down to take a look at me. Reason tells me to gun it and get out of town without further delay. I don't.
Poker Alice Tritter lives in Winslow just above the 24th Street drainage basin in a house full of cats who have obviously lost their GPS coordinates on the litter box. The fridge shut down a week earlier and Alice has yet to attend to the rot and decay. I stop because I'm told she welcomes guests who smoke cigars and that she rolls her own from a tobacco cultivated in the rocky outcrop behind her Guatemalan guest house. She claims they are Cuban stock from seeds given to her by Fidel Castro in the Sierra Madre in 1954. She was running a bordello for the Cuban revolutionaries and claims to have acted at as a field nurse during the Bay of Pigs invasion.
Who wouldn't want to meet this lady.
I pull up after dark, traverse a rickety pedestrian bridge over an ancient, dry Hopi-built canal and hike up the slope to her guest house where I've arranged a night's stay through a friend who's familiar with peyote and Poker Alice, usually at the same time or in close order.
Alice meets me at the door with a mostly toothless grin and a wet-lipped cigar which she offers and I decline. A plate of tamales, rice and beans is proffered but I'm not that hungry and I wonder if the cat hides I saw pinned to the exterior also inhabit the tamales in carcass format. I do accept the fuzzy little peyote bud she offers and nibble away at the foul tasting hallucinogen.

NEXT: Poker Alice gets prettier and I commune with Carlos Casteneda.

red pork tamales with cilantro

Las Vegas, New Mexico. Late August, elevation 6345 feet above sea level. It's cool, almost chilly and wet with puddles full bore and mud on the trucks far above the wheel well. I check another Motel 6. No ground floor, no smoking. So I leave and try the Super 8 across the street. No vacancy.
I drive a few hundred feet south and lock on to the Imperial. The lot is half low rider, half SUV. Smoking is allowed in room. Price is 50 bucks. The Motel 6 was nearly 80. And the dude behind the counter is cool. Pizza is a call away. A bathroom sink full of Bud on ice is quickly arranged. There's free coffee in the office until 10:00 AM every morning, even Sundays. I bring the iPod inside and tune up with the Sennheisers. Old Gang Of Four.
The pizza ain't bad but the name of the place is Buba's, not Bubba's. Still pronounced Bubba's though. A skinny, juvenile Latino brings the feast and explains that the cool temps and rain are not typical. I guess my luck is improving.
Anyway, like usual, the sun comes up the next day and I'm back on the road headed towards Sante Fe, Albuquerque and Flagstaff. My plan is rage full on across I-40 and down I-17 into Phoenix that day. Just north of Santa Fe I stop for gas and buy four red pork tamales from a roadside (or parking lot) vendor. I will be lucky if I make it to Holcombe. Easy come, easy go, these tamales were like wild animals - dangerous when cornered.

9/12

it's a long way to the top

As I exit Nebraska on I-76 to Denver my iPod queues REM's 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It' and as the song says, I feel fine. My night in North Platte was otherwise uneventful with the exception of the hijab brigade and the toothless hooker that lived under the bridge and cadged a buck from me on my way back from Wal-mart to my motel.
The road quality worsens noticeably as a I cross the state line and is pretty rough until I hit 473, the toll road that skirts Denver and, according to the tollbooth attendant saves a lot of time. I have no way of verifying this fact but I also have no need to see Denver close up so I pay the eight bucks total it costs to avoid it. A bargain, I conclude. Last time I was in Denver, I recall, was 1997 and there were a lot of shiny shoe wearing tassel loafer lawyers. I assume they're still there, unless they're out in the hills skiing or snorting coke or something.
Just south of Denver is the US Air Force Academy based in Colorado Springs. I didn't plan on stopping, but the most evil and devious of road construction projects required me to do so. Over and over again. For about 50 miles. Stop and go. All of the time I saved by paying to avoid Denver I lose here. I take up swearing like they do on HBO's Deadwood but it doesn't help.
Colorado is a mean spirited, worthless outcropping of rock, evergreens and rednecks. I meet Cletus and Bobbie Pam at the rest area north of Pueblo. I don't really meet them so much as that Cletus is so intrigued by me washing my hands in the restroom that he strikes up a conversation and like an idiot I answer. Cletus and Bobbie Pam hail from Trinidad, CO but work the Wyoming oilfields 'in their spare time'. I suspect they are high on methamphetamine.
Note: For future reference, in all of southeast Colorado, gas stations won't take credit cards at the pump! Have I traveled back in time? Before the era of science and technology? Hell, every single gas station positioned on a highway takes credit cards at the pump, don't they?
To further the indignity, in Pueblo, I had to 'pay before purchase'. I don't know how much it will cost to fill the tank. I can't see into the future as easily as others, apparently, knowing just how much I will need. Seeking some sort of retribution, I decide on $20 and pay with small bills and change which I deliberately count out as slowly as can be imagined. Oddly enough, or not, I should say, this doesn't seem to faze the eight year old bearded boy behind the counter, so short he can barely see over the petrified beef jerkey or out from under his Skoal cap.
Before I'm allowed to leave Colorado, I am forced to drive through two torrential downpours. Actually, I hydroplane at 80 mph into northeastern New Mexico. The first sign I see at the border crossing rest area reads 'New Mexico, Cleaner Than Old Mexico' and it seems to be true even though I'm not really familiar with Old Mexico and can't say it's a fact.
I'm planning on motoring boldly on until I reach Santa Fe but I begin to see signs announcing the exit for beautiful Las Vegas. The signs say Vegas is closer than Santa Fe! Even though I haven't been smoking dope, I'm confused. I know in my mind that Vegas is way over by Idaho or something but I'm also hoping I'm that close to the Emerald City.
Turns out I am. It's just that it's the New Mexico version of Las Vegas.

NEXT: Finding a smoking room and Buba's Pizza.

grow up to be a debaser

the pixies
from boston
song: where is my mind

song: debaser

way cool

maybe the heat is getting to me

scott weiland (STP) and velvet revolver cover nirvana's negative creep
negative creep was on nirvana's first full length LP BLEACH
i bought a copy in Rome

coheed & cambria

blood red summer

just an interlude from an old new jersey band
we'll get back on topic later

motel 6 hijab

In town, Pimpleton drops me at the Motel 6 and departs into the fading day with the rental and the majority of my twice-stranded belongings promising to bring the truck back that evening. My mood lightens when I see that the Motel 6 is well positioned between a liquor store, a 24 hour Super Wal-mart and a Pizza Hut. The Motel 6 is owned and operated by Arnold Biffton if I am to believe his name tag. He a kind and efficient fellow, carefully noting the motel highlights such as ice, vending and the complimentary use of washers and dryers.
The room is typical and entered through an interior hallway. True to 'motel form', there is no iron and ironing board. That doesn't bother me because I have no need for pressed shirts on this trip. What does bother me is the size and picture quality of the TV. I think it was a 13 inch or at least it seemed like it was. It received approximately 40 channels with varying degrees of clarity and, of course, the channel carrying pre-season football got the worst reception. Clearly, my Nebraska luck was holding.
The liquor store carried my brand of beer and a bag of ice was free with purchase so I began to lighten up a bit as my fortunes improved. A secondary expedition to the Super Wal-mart rendered a rotisserie chicken, a pasta salad with grape tomatoes and three ripe peaches. Things were definitely taking shape in old North Platte.
I arrived at checkout where I was swarmed by three hijab wearing women who I recognized (clothing-wise) from the lobby of the Motel 6. They clucked and chattered, brandished a toilet brush, a small charcoal grill and several bags of plastic flatware. They abruptly cut in front, surprising me and causing me to drop the pasta salad which exploded on impact. Spiral pasta and grape tomatoes flew. Amazingly, a tomato bounced up into the air ricocheting off the debit card swipe nailing one of the ladies squarely between the eyes.
What are the odds? Nearly entirely covered in cloth, this errant fruit hits the jackpot. For a second, nothing but silence and then uproarious laughter breaks out from under the hijabs. I nearly peed my pants.

NEXT: You must pay to avoid Denver.

north platte

I am towed into North Platte, Nebraska around 6:00 PM Central Daylight Time by James "Skip" Templeton the Rat Boy. He introduced himself to me by blurting out, "Most folks just call me Temple Rat 'cuz I look like that rat on the Muppets". I try, but I can't make the connection and of course I initially thought he said Pimpleton. That would in fact have been appropriate considering his oily complexion and volcanic sebaceous glands.

On close observation, Pimpleton resembled a young Dustin Hoffman with exaggerated features. Nose, mainly, but including pursed lips and the twitchy eyebrow syndrome of an Indian milk rat. Worse, like Rain Man, he didn't stop talking all the way into North Platte.

As you can imagine, this only heightens existing stress levels and eventually I snap, remarking, too the milk rat, very cruelly, "I am from the City and I have absolutely no use for your conversation." Pimpleton is momentarily confused/stunned and I use the opportunity to turn the radio volume up so far only an idiot would try to speak over it. As it turns out, Pimpleton is an actual living idiot and he goes on to scream over the music to tell a story about his "run-in with Van Halen" at a Happy Cheff Restaurant in Rapid City, South Dakota. Amazingly, he has actually met Eddie Van Halen.

Desperate at this point I pretend to fall asleep, but brainless Pimpleton sees the ruse for what it is and moves on to a story of his days poisoning prairie dogs for the National Park Service in South Dakota. Uncharacteristically, I make a fatal mistake and mention I'm originally from South Dakota and the Zitface Rodent Man (you might notice I really hate him now) proceeds to deliver a 15 minute lecture on the history of South Dakota's tulmultuous statehood fight with neighboring North Dakota. Just as I'm getting ready to open the door and leap to a certain, painful death, Pimpleton announces the North Platte exit. It felt like I'd just had a tumour removed.

NEXT: North Platte residents are diverse.

nebraska

I'm going straight to a discussion of the drive through Nebraska because southern Minnesota bores the hell out of me and nothing caught my attention in Iowa. Reaching the Iowa-Nebraska border at Council Bluffs-Omaha meant I was finally making some progress towards my day one goal of Denver, Colorado. Alas, I didn't even make it out of Nebraska that day. The truck went down and Budget couldn't get me a new horse until the following day. As that situation resolved and new promises were exchanged - me to pay and they to provide a drivable vehicle - I resumed the I-80 trek across southern Nebraska, determined to make Denver and continue on to Santa Fe or at least Pueblo.

I saw the remnant of the truck tire before I hit it, and being forced into the lane by traffic I had nowhere to go to avoid it. It made a hell of a thump and as I looked in the rearview mirror I saw it hurtle skyward and out of harms way.

Then, it was just a little wobble in the wheel. Seconds later, it was a full bore blow-out. Left front. Just east of North Platte, Nebraska. The folks at Budget were incredulous. Me? Again? In friggin' Nebraska?

The state "Highway Helper Patrol" rolled up on me before Budget's tow truck and quickly determined the truck wasn't carrying a spare! I'm astounded. Is there not a law or something? Jeez.

Since the situation did not at that time contain the requisite amount of drama, a Highway Patrolman pulls up with his grill and roof rollers on - apparently to secure the perimeter from someone with even more flashing lights. And, to ensure our awareness of his authority, he initially barked at us over his external radio. Then I'm thinking he's asking me to walk slowly towards him, but as I do he begins waving frantically for me to stop and abruptly speeds away. The Helper, concluding enough people knew of my predicament and that I would likely survive, decides to cut and run. "Childbirth at the primitive rest area north of Oglalla, gotta get there quick.", he says in a no-BS, take charge kind of way.

It is now about 5:00 PM Central Daylight Time and I am alone on the side of I-80 in southern Nebraska just east of North Platte. I have seen complete weirdness in the form of two Nebraska State employees and I have not been helped. I began to wonder if I stayed out there, would they continue to report my progress but never actually help? As I passed on from dehydration and starvation, would they continue to stop by, reporting back to HQ, "I don't think he'll make it much longer. Wish there was something we could do to help. Poor bastard."

So I call Budget again on the cell and confirm the tow truck has been dispatched and they say they believe it has but they have no way of knowing since they are in a call center in Muncie, Indiana. They seem concerned but hell, they're going home tonight. I'll be lucky if I make it to North Platte.

NEXT: A Night in North Platte

gilbert arizona welcoming committee greets newcomer

I arrived in Gilbert this evening, Saturday, August 19, after a boring/memorable drive through parts of Minnesota, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, New Mexico and, finally, Arizona. 99.7 gallons of gas at approximately $3.00/gallon or $300.00. I could fly Sun Country from Minneapolis to Phoenix round trip for that much.

The rental truck was another $600.00 and meals and motels around $175.00. (I slept and dined on the very cheap.) Moving is more expensive than I thought it would be. Of course, the last time I moved was shortly after leaving college and at that time I hadn't accumulated more than 600 pounds of paperwork and and nearly a ton of furniture, electronics and clothes. Then, I needed about 40 square feet to contain my entire portfolio of property - both personal and otherwise. Now I need a freight car.

Somehow, I crammed it all in and headed to my brother's house to spend my last night in Minneapolis. He wasn't around so I conned my nephew into driving home from a friend's to let me in. I grabbed a six and sat out on the back deck. Later, the neph and I watched an action flick on the plasma. The Rock's version of Walking Tall.

Brother got home and we proceeded to smoke cigars and regale each other with tall and exaggerated tales until 3:00 AM. I got up at eight and left.

NEXT: nebraska: gateway to, ummm, colorado

expect bigger and better things

BushTex, Inc. clears the back 40 for Hootenanny 2006.

Hootenanny is teaming up with a superhero satellite uplinker to create a big company that makes money by the fistfull and gives most of it back to the local business community in return for special favors, etc.

Our business plan envisions world domination with plans on the drawing board to acquire the US, Mitsubishi, China and Australia. Our 2009 projections include big money makers like Singapore, South Korea and Hong Kong.

We will also create a multi-media conglomerate initiated with our band called Not Bad Oranges. All music and all video will be free for viewing and download all of the time. Eventually, we'll broadcast from the Moon, just like MTV.

Finally, we'll host North America's most robust distance learning program. Early on, we'll focus on the Retard Right because they need help now and we need to help them before they destroy democracy and the planet. And because their mental challenges make them distant and unyielding - like wood or rocks - they're perfect candidates for distance learning.

Please join us in celebrating this merger of might, media, logistics and intellect. It will be the best decision you have ever made.

already full gilbert gone

Hoot Photo Library copy of "Western Horned Toad on my left thumb in Gilbert AZ".

Had a nice flight back to Minneapolis last Friday night. Grabbed the First Class upgrade at the gate. Only a few bumps climbing through the monsoon that dropped heavy showers on parts of the Phoenix metro area. There was some scattered turbulence on the way in to the Humphrey Terminal where I lost five bucks on a bet with a guy in a Twins cap wagering on 'whose checked bag will come down the baggage claim ramp first'. I've still got a lot of work to do on calculating those odds for future reference including check-in time, booked passengers, location on the baggage train to and from plane side and baggage handler preferences. It's a complex set of interacting factors and I will have to fly more often to have any hope of developing a crude probability algorithm.

Flying back and forth as a commute is weird. I lose my sense of direction and sometimes don't regain for the entire trip. It makes driving fun - what did people do before Mapquest and Google maps? Handwritten directions as passed on by someone who does or does not know, I think. Of course, I spend time in airports, hotels, restaurants and friends' homes and load up on hygiene products (I'm not from France). I drink in airport bars and meet and talk to people I otherwise wouldn't. I buy magazines I wouldn't read anywhere/anytime except in an airport or on an airplane. Everyone I talk to is a stranger. I tell a lot of people that I'm in latex sales for VanDelay Industries based in Secaucus, NJ. Most miss the joke and resume talking about themselves while I plot my escape. Unfortunately, there's only one bar in Terminal 3.

After several trips, I know the airport both here and there and pass through without even thinking, usually daydreaming my way from station to station, bookstore to coffee shop or bar depending on whether I'm coming or going. I joke with the Travel Security Administration officers. I take my laptop out and put it in a tray of it's own. I remove and put my shoes back on which requires I be sure my socks are matched and clean, not something I would normally give specific attention. And, since the recent threat, shoes have to be placed soles down now - another rule to be absorbed and accepted. Then, I wait to board, and later, I wait to deplane. At both instances, I'm already on the phone with work. Still on the phone while taking the shuttle to the rental and the rental to work.

This week I go back. I've rented a small set of rooms from a friend in the countryside with a peach tree grove, chickens and horses. It is an acre of green in the middle of the desert. I'm driving an SUV full of technologies, PCs, peripherals and clothes on Wednesday this week. I'll drop into Iowa, hit I-80 through Nebraska to Denver to drop in on a friend then head straight south skirting the Rockies until I cross at Santa Fe and shoot west to Arizona. All reports indicate the road is paved for the entire distance and I won't have to open/close any cattle gates (which should save time).

I'll periodically update Hootenanny readers on the location change and it's consequences. I am looking forward to the move and the new job that is taking me there. Keep reading Hootenanny!

tapes n tapes

big new band from minneapolis
tapes n tapes
insistor
this video is a live performance of 'insistor' at an independent music store in the pacific north west

be your own pet

from nashville, be your own pet

adventure

Gilbert, AZ

I'll try to get a good post up soon. Heading over to Gilbert tonight to grill steaks with an old South Dakota cowboy. This resort style living is gonna be tough!

ali farke toure

if you've got time give it a listen

toronto

broken social scene

castro

Fidel Castro, the Cuban Dictator. He was, Goddamn-hands-down the toughest Communist ever. Never gave up. When old Fidel jumps to the far-far left for the long sleep, I believe I'll travel down to Cuba and sit by the wall in Havanna with a Montecristo and a chilled Mojito and toast his memory. And I'll wonder where Che is.