With the valuable assistance of Nostradamus himself, Hootenanny makes the following predictions for 2007.
1. The North American Sasquatch will reveal himself. 2. Computers will get faster. 3. TV's will stop growing at 61 inches. 4. The Himalayan Yeti will challenge the authenticity of the North American Sasquatch. 5. A Yeti/Sasquatch bidding war will develop between Old Navy and Abercrombie & Fitch. 6. Computers will get more faster. 7. The Pine Ridge Indian Reservation will secede from the Union. 8. Pigs will remain flightless. 9. Clothes will learn to wash themselves. 10. An additional 16 NCAA football "bowl" games will be created. 11. Bowls will become scarce in America. 12. Computers will get smaller. 13. Girl's basketball will be outlawed. 14. Man will establish a way station on Mars on his way to the sun. 15. The price of ice will climb as global warming continues. 16. Gas will cost more than bottled water. 17. The internet will be invented by a Democrat. 18. A Republican will ruin it. 19. There will be nothing but idiots left in North Carolina (excluding Pete). 20. The glacier covering North Dakota will recede.
Here comes the New Year fast on the heels of the last. Hootenanny has decided to continue posting in 2007. We can't say what you might encounter here, but we wish you would comment every once in a while. Let us know what's up. What? Don't have the time? We'll keep the time for you. We'll remember Woodie Guthrie, the train and the Stronghold. Peace.
The goose has been cooked. The foosball table sits unassembled in the corner. The guests have fled. The loveseat has been relieved of it's 350 lb. burden. It (the burden) flew out this morning from Terminal Three at Sky Harbor. The plane at an odd tilt fighting the additional weight. The loveseat will recover, the meat thermometer will not. Old yellow-dog left the day before, a mumbling mess of trembles sporting new boots and plaid shirt. A 4:49 flight to Houston International to be picked up by warden and returned safely to the detention center. Yes, Christmas 2006 has come and gone. There are a lot of left over candy and cookies, cards and bird carcasses littering the neighborhood. The feral cats will eat well into the New Year. Hope you will as well.
Hootenanny checks in with Santa. The Hootenanny editorial staff enjoys a long, cordial history with Santa and recently touched base with The Yuletide Dude as he scouted western routes for Christmas 2006. After running 87 Southbound out of San Antone, TX and El Paso de Robles, NM, Santa veered north to Riverton, WY before dropping south to chase the North Platte route through Nebraska. Chances are this year he'll blow up through Valentine, Pine Ridge and Hot Springs before spider-webbing Kadoka, Phillip and Wall. He is one clever logistical SOB! The Reindeer powertrain is the same. Aging like Santa himself but still quite capable of transporting booty near and far. Rudolph is still the Ops Manager, flies the craft and navigates Santa's chosen path. It's all as it always was and always will be. Just a couple of changes. Rather than cookies and milk, leave a vegetable tray with lowfat dip and maybe some yogurt or granola for the ride. Like you and me, Santa is watching his cholesterol. And maybe just a small glass of red wine for the heart and the cold. It's brutal at 35,000 feet.
This is Gilbert Steve the Copper Penny Kid. Gilbert Steve runs Main Street Gilbert with a fast gun and a bad temperament. He bags groceries at the Liberty Market, schools at Gila River East Navaho Day School and does IT for my company on weekends. He's touchy and troublesome, like a black rattler or a white scorpion, but he keeps things in order. He's Microsoft asp.net certified, writes C ++ Javascript applications in his sleep and set up my wall-mounted HDTV system for $75 on a weekend with six illegals and a gallon of Sunny-D. Gilbert Steve is a Renaissance Man. He listens to Enrico Caruso on an old 78 rpm single tube player/amp. He can find the best prosciutto in the Valley and cooks his brown eggs with pancetta, not bacon. His cinnamon ricotta custard will blow your mind. Yet, Gilbert Steve lacks a BB gun. That's right, a proper BB gun. Gilbert Steve can't down a quail, dove or duck with his pathetic little cap gun. Rabbits infest his pepper patch. Hootenanny would like to enlist your assistance on behalf of Gilbert Steve. Send your prayers to the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in Mesa or just send one dollar to Gilbert Steve c/o Hootenanny in Gilbert, AZ. You will be glad you did because we're telling Gilbert Steve if you didn't.
I wrote late into the evening over a lead bottle of India blue ink. Considering the speed of the publisher and his late, intestate equipment, was there any choice? My days as a bottle-black were numbered. Someone called me Pip. Out across the tide flats of the lower Thames and up just a bit from the tide-pool where the garbage collects itself. Someone called me Pip. As Pip, I stood among the reeds of the Thames floodplain, wondering. So much for the Broken Social Scene.
Hootenanny Hiatus. Hootenanny posting may be few and far between over the Holidays although we'll make an effort to get some stuff up from time to time. Please bear with us and join us in 2007 for another year of toil and trouble, hijinks and happenstance.
Nature Girl is the story of Honey Santana, a mildly deranged single mom who is so infuriated at being insulted by a telemarketer that she lures him from Texas to Florida with the intention of giving him a stern dressing down. But her quest is complicated by her decent but crooked ex-husband, a dope-runner; the telemarketer's girlfriend, a bombshell whose five minutes of fame were in writing a fake tell-all sex memoir called Storm Ghoul; a half-blood Seminole who goes on the lam after a tourist drops dead on his fanboat tour; a lecherous fishmarket owner whose amputated thumb and forefinger have been swapped by an incompetent surgeon; and the telemarketer's wife and the private eye she sends to spy on her wayward husband.
This is vintage Hiaasen -- filled with convulsively funny comic situations, grave ruminations on the state of the Florida Everglades, lovable and detestable characters, and keen suspense. A great holiday read.
Hootnenanny Editor in Chief Douglas Teever (HEC) has many friends but few are so delightful as Pat. Pat worked at Wall Drug same time as HEC. She'd come by, flash a big smile full of perfect teeth and curly hair and make me feel special. Not special like a retard, but special like a friend. In a short time, Pat and I connected in a way that few people do these days - like a couple of dingleberrys attached to the same damn dingleberry tree. I was funny, she was funnier. I was serious, she was still funnier. If I got angry, Pat walloped me upside of my over-sized head. I hope Pat reads this and I hope she knows that if she ever makes it down to Gilbert Arizona I will make a space for her in the garage. She can stay as long as she likes. Even if I have to move the recycle bin.
We have all seen this picture before. I just finished watching Episode Six of "Into The West". They did a good job of chronicling Big Foot's run from the Grand River to Wounded Knee after the murder of Sitting Bull. We all know what happened when they got there. Pretense led to combat. Carefully positioned Hotchkiss fifty cals raked the encampment. More than three hundred were murdered. All to avenge Custer's mistake on the Greasy Grass? Arizona Senator John McCain has suggested we posthumously award Congressional Medals of Honor for the US soldiers that carried out this dirty business. While I respect Senator McCain, I can no longer support his agenda. This is a pivotal issue. And he is dead-ass wrong. So, like you, I'm left wondering. In all this time, has our government gotten any smarter? I really don't think so ... Actions are louder than words.
my nephew alec passed away on thanksgiving day in texas small plane crash he was way cool this one of his favorite artists - elliot smith he turned me on to him at thanksgiving in wall, SD in 2005 i'll miss alec
Sunday in Gilbert is all about borrowing a ladder from my neighbor Peter and his wife Bobbie so I can put up some Christmas lights. It was nice here today - cool but about 70. It feels even warmer in the sun. I particularly like driving down the wide streets of suburban Phoenix with the windows down in the truck - palms line the road, mountains in the background. But heck, it's Sunday and I'm sleepy. I'm gonna grill a rib eye, watch some football (go Broncos) and tuck it in. See you tomorrow.
broken social scene toronto, ontario canada it's a good idea to keep track of the Canadians don't be shocked by the man-love connotations of the following video this isn't brokeback mountain not that there's anything wrong with that stay above the fray appreciate artistic license drama is for free in the new world please
Hootenanny returned today from Morongo Valley, California where the Hoot visited and observed a tribe of Morongo Valley hominids during their traditional Thanksgiving Holiday festivus. Tapping the knowledge of the famous Phd., Edgar Hollingbass of Southwest Missouri State College, an expert on Morongo Valley hominids and catfish, the Hoot blended right in though ultimately failing to remain unnoticed. A refusal to sample the oyster based dish drew a sharp rebuke and consternation from the assembled elders, including the patriarch of the clan, Marty, a single malt and cigar type with a learned fondness for raw and otherwise inedible seafood. The resulting unease gave way, thankfully, to an exotic feast of turkey with Italian sausage stuffing, skin-on mashed potatoes, assorted related gustatory accessories and a mack-daddy pecan pie. Following this feast there was a great calamity of washing, watching of football and a lot of witty banter before a simple, comfortable stupor seemed to envelope the group, including the attending Hootenanny staffer. The stupor took hold of the male hominids mostly, and a few began to smoke tobacco and regale the others with tales of daring braveness and amazing accomplishment. Much of it was apparently questionable in fact, but altogether likely the perceived course of events in the mind of the story-teller. If the question was of any event, a wager was inevitably placed. But, more often than not, due to the dubious nature of the propositions, no real evidence could be adduced in favor or against. Eventually, the majority of the wagers were suspended. As darkness fell, an unease permeated the tribe as both individuals and small groups, family and otherwise, began their gradual preparations for departure. Most notable, kindness and good cheer defined this point in the activities of the day. There was a profound sense of well-being and accomplishment as the tribe set the emotional stage for the year to come. The extended family had extended itself again. The bonds tested by the forgoing year had been amply renewed.
Still two days out from the Holiday and I'm setting in supplies for my trip to Morongo Valley, California. Most important, I was told, was a supply of "emergency drinking water". Pictured here is Bob Keen of Gilbert, Arizona. Keen distills his own "emergency drinking water" and I plan on taking a flask or two with me in case I'm cornered by Federales for trying to smuggle psychotropic green produce across the Colorado River. It's both a pharmacological safety net and a topical analgesic.
I was heading up to Prescott to check out the old west bars with an old friend and I didn't know what to do with my parrot - a Guatemalan Green. A touchy bit of feathers and beak. After an intensive Google search, I found this parrot sitter right here in Gilbert. She's a bird nanny. Highly specialized. When I first met her, she was tending a red throated sap sucker, a white beaked hummingbird and an Anderson Scott blue-necked buzzard. She had an old Golden Eagle. And, most amazingly, a Sawtooth dream catcher from Omaha, Nebraska. What are the odds?
When you find yourself with little or nothing to do on a sunny November Saturday in Gilbert, AZ, hop on down to the Gilbert Street Liberty Museum and check out Mildred Stinnett's antique toothpick holder collection. It's a stunning collection and there's a tale to tell about each piece, says Mildred, a retired Marine aviator. "I got this piece in 'Nam back in '69. Just after the Tet Offensive. We was lootin' in Old Saigon.", a mildly distracted Mildred mentioned offhandedly to several passersby as she fumbled with a fired glass toothpick holder from the early Ming Dynasty. Another piece is hand carved North Sea pyrite. Mildred picked up several on her frequent trips to the Danish pyrite fields where she also raised caribou and gill netted Patagonian Toothfish with the natives under the endless summer sun before retiring to Gilbert in 1986. Mildred enjoys a more relaxed pace these days. She's at the museum on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Joe's Real BBQ on Wednesday and the Gilbert Whist Club on Friday. Some days she plays shuffleboard or ping pong and practices her ballroom dancing with her imaginary partner, Dave Stinnett. "And, I just like to kick back and chill with a couple of virgin margaritas and some good reefer. Life is simple here in Gilbert."
Sorry. Posts have been somewhat scarce while I moved into my new Navaho Hogan in north Gilbert, AZ. Hauled in my new sleepin' mat from over in Tempe. That took my Titan and Barry's Superduty to get the job done. Then down to Chandler for the desk for the den. Still need to haul my electronics and a queen bed for guests. My readers are all welcome to test it if they make it out this way. Up to Glendale on Saturday for the kitchen table and then I think I'm done. Well, excepting the foosball table I'm buying myself for Christmas. Come on down and get yer butt kicked!
Like a crockpot dialed up way too High, Steven Hairgrove, son of the Methodist preacher in Wall, SD was a leaker, aka a bed-wetter. He wasn't shy and he was not deterred by public appprobation, and so, he continued wetting the bed well into Jr. High. Two days ago, Steven called. He was at a Cingular Wireless franchise in Romeoeville, IL picking out a new phone. "Something waterproof" he stated. I could only guess why.
Pelosi, Bush and Cheney at the White House after the election.
The political paradigm has shifted. Whether you want to believe it or not, the American public wants to get out of Iraq.
I have a friend that suggests we're there to build and maintain airstrips to maintain control over the reserves - and that the boys who signed up should have known what they would inevitably encounter. I guess he's right, but I think he's wrong.
We're not in Iraq to build Democracy. We're there to support global capitalism - that's the long way to say OIL.
In the meantime, a whole bunch of goof folk are being treated worse than Indians. And young men are provided with the guns to they need to kill them.
I was nine when the American Indian Movement occupied Wounded Knee.
All this to secure a Rumsfeld resignation? What a bash the Dems had last night beating up the Republicans. It was a well deserved and long in coming beating. The arrogance of those numb-headed-horse-eaters had become intolerable. The Dems had nothing to do but sit by and watch them disassemble 12 years of shame and excess in a spectacular display of self-destruction. But now, the legislative branch must resume function. Democrats must put aside their bongs and beer and get at the task. Which is governing and protecting and serving and road building. Right here, right now. There will be no more stiff collar quail hunts, no more drinking sessions with the Chief Justice, no more unmanned flights over the desert to catch the mobile applicants for janitorial and landscaping positions in the backyards of the better off. The chickens have come home to roost. They'd better provide a few eggs for their feed and water cost, scratch about and kill the meaner bugs and act happy to see us whenever we approach. They only have two years to prove themselves. The revolution starts now.
When he was ten, Hootenanny's Doug Teever met George McGovern. It was after the failed Presidential election, but George was still out stumping for the right and the good. It wouldn't be long before we discovered that the Republicans had stolen (almost literally) the election through a process of intimidation and crime, including burglary of the Democratic HQ at the Watergate in DC. Much of that activity, including infiltration of peaceful student organizations, is back in fashion among the religious right dominated Republicans of today.
We're not saying Republicans aren't good folk. They are. Nearly all of them. But too many are misguided and mislead. It's like watching a car wreck, we want to look away but we can't. We don't want to see the damage and the carnage but then again we do.
We have to ask the question - what do they have against peace? And, when they throw our boys in harm's way, why the lack of real support? Like equipment and machinery and troop levels, not platitudes about staying the course, or that we're actually "winning" when a situation goes from critical to chaos. Take a look at the linked editorial to your right. It's to be published in The Army, Air Force and Marine Times. It regards Donald Rumsfeld, your Secretary of Defense. A good, thought provoking read. Or maybe just a reiteration of the obvious.
VOTE!
Hootenanny welcomes your comments. If you don't like what we're saying, let us know. We will publish your comments.
And, almost forgot. Get out and vote on Tuesday and think about it, if you had a choice similar to '72s Nixon vs. McGovern, how would you vote today?
the arcade fire from montreal the singer is from austin tx U2 opened with this song last time i saw them in minneapolis (they didn't perform it they just played it as they took the stage)
here's a link to a great story about airline security from a fellow blogger You can't wear sunglasses at LAX great story made me think of franz kafka's 'the trial' how does a government protect me by reducing me to an endless waiting room and stripping me of my dignity on false premises of safety and security with a group of low wage misfortunates that could care less i am not afraid of terrorists i will take my chances i can protect myself like dude in the article linked above says - how will checking my boarding pass three times protect me or anyone else when one can easily generate a boarding pass with readily available computer software and i don't suspect it's all that hard to forge a drivers license THE 9/11 BOMBERS HAD LEGITIMATE BOARDING PASSES AND REAL STATE ID why are we looking for forgeries - they've already established they're smarter than that next time i'm in LAX i'm keeping the sunglasses on so as to not draw the attention of the neo-republican templars the same old idiots responsible for fast food, jack-ass religion and the abuse of the elderly and feeble if it's profitable
"He was exactly five feet six inches in height, and six feet five inches in circumference. His head was a perfect sphere, and of such stupendous dimensions, that dame Nature, with all her sex's ingenuity, would have been puzzled to construct a neck capable of supporting it; wherefore she wisely declined the attempt, and settled it firmly on the top of his back bone, just between the shoulders. His body was oblong, and particularly capacious at bottom; which was wisely ordered by Providence, seeing that he was a man of sedentary habits, and very averse to the idle labor of walking. His legs were very short, but sturdy in proportion to the weight they had to sustain: so that, when erect, he had not a little the appearance of a beer barrel on skids. His face, that infallible index of the mind, presented a vast expanse, unfurrowed by any of those lines and angles which disfigure the human countenance with what is termed expression. Two small gray eyes twinkled feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser magnitude in a hazy firmament; and his full-fed cheeks, which seemed to have taken toll of everything that went into his mouth, were curiously mottled and streaked with dusky red, like a Spitzenberg apple. His habits were as regular as his person. He daily took his four stated meals, appropriating exactly an hour to each; he smoked and doubted eight hours, and he slept the remaining twelve of the four-and-twenty."
Biscuits. Remember fresh melted butter on a hot "Bisquick" biscuit. I do.
We're coming up on two years now since Mom passed. She didn't make biscuits three times a day, but she made them often enough on cold fall nights. Sometimes with a beef short-rib stew over rice that I'd cut off my leg if I could get some today.
She was a real mom as most mom's are. Standing in the kitchen when she wasn't washing clothes or going off to work to get money to feed me, my brothers and sister. Biscuits and cornbread and johnnycake. Chili, gumbo and Spanish rice. Pollywaddles, holup sea and great northerns with smoked hamhocks. Chef Boy-Ar-Dee pizza with added hamburger and pepperoni. Sunday was best. On Saturday, Mom would set her self to baking. She was a baker at the top of the baker food chain. No one in the five state area could even qualify as a competitor. Across the street lived a Renner clan. Luckily some of the cleaner ones. Mother Renner tried to cook, and she tried very hard, but she still ate stewed cow brains for lunch and still couldn't microwave a potato. It never came out right. She preferred margarine to butter and Miracle Whip to mayonnaise. She won a valuable award when she successfully chilled an entire stalk of celery on ice in a cooler at Canyon Lake Park. Ouch.
But, Mom had to move on. She'd done all she could. Taught those that took to teaching. Gave books to the book-less and took care of six feral root-hogs in the meanwhile. And, every minute of every day, no matter how things were going, she always looked on the bright side of life. And now, I do too.
Hootenanny is working on a big deal with a former SD boy to open a string of fast food joints in Afghanistan before the Taliban resume control in about a year or so. In the photo here, you see our man on the ground in Kandahar readying our initial marketing push. We'll be posting a menu in the near future, but since you can't get B's Place food in America (though we do have plans to move into northern Pakistan in late 2007 and Kashmir in 2008 if India lays off the nuclear threats), you probably don't care unless you like goat and mutton, rancid butter and Pepsi. We are hiring! Your own vehicle and stinger missile ensemble preferred. Prospective applicants who bring a ball of black hash to the interview will receive fast track consideration.
Here we go again, shilling for true artists. If you've heard of Howe Gelb, you might have heard of his new side project Arizona Amp And Alternator. A must have item. I met Howe in Minneapolis and he was very cordial. He had but two questions for me. "Where's that Thai restaurant that used to be on Nicollet? And "Where's the nearest liquor store?" Well, the King and I Thai had moved to Grant and LaSalle and the liquor store was right around the corner on 7th, a few blocks from where we stood. As he ambled off into the cold, damp night, me and my buddies headed downstairs to the 7th Street Entry to see an old reunion show with Cop Shoot Cop and the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Cool, huh?
Hootenanny opposes the MPA and RIAA, thus we are making this movie available in four minutes snippets to avoid their cyberbots which search the internet and seek to destroy freedom of expression and, more importantly, piracy. Hell, we like pirates. Why would we want to put them out of business?
WHATEVER YOU DID UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST, YOU DID UNTO ME kill the least the poor nobody is looking nobody cares
Seems like a lot of people are dying in the deserts of Africa and the middle east. Hootenanny tries to stay out of it - the dialogue is shitty. Folks have strong points of view. But if you look at the picture you might realize that many are more likely to die or get killed than others.
So, to be blunt, from here on out, Hootnenanny is anti-war. Absolutely, all the time.
Love the sun. Love the heat. The Salt River used to run free across the valley. It doesn't anymore. It sinks into the ground before it gets to Phoenix. What was once a river bed is now just a wash. A trash filled, pollution capture basin on the way to Sky Harbor. On in to Tempe and Tempe Town Lake. The ugliest fucking lake I have ever seen. It's a frickin' washbasin carved out under a series of high traffic and highway overpassses. Sweet. But don't rely on me. Go check it out yourself. My friends in Tempe will be mad. Don't mention that you know me.
This is a video from Connor Oberst of Bright Eyes a band from Omaha, NE. I thought it was gay at first (not that that would matter!), but towards the end I don't know. Much more importantly, it's a great video. Actual artisitic quality. Fuck!
i talked to jim the other day. morning actually. he was heading into town to buy a jeep which i believe is a foreign vehicle now. he was buying an older jeep. american made for about 400 bucks. shit, you can't get a good bag of weed for 400 bucks these days. just old penn county schwag. jim will have his jeep. and t-rex will play jim's new theme song - just click on the right-pointing arrow but remember to vote democrat ... because that will piss jim (bush lover) off
jim i heard you dissed me to a close friend. are you running with stuart now? may i introduce you to charles daley the 12th. bugger off, fisheater.
We wanted to go hunting. We agreed on a time and day. I was awake and ready, Art and Casey showed up on time and Barry had a pot of coffee brewed up. As our appointed time of departure neared, we discussed birds, buzzworms and bag limits. Todd was running late. So while we waited we threw some beers in a cooler and debated leaving without him. But the delay resulting during the cooler stocking gave Todd just enough time to pull into Barry's driveway in Gilbert. Todd was 15 minutes late. We mentioned that to him, subtly and with concern. See, we needed his Yukon to get to Queen Valley. In five minutes we'd transferred all our gear into the Todd's Yukon. It took us a while to get out of town. New roads confuse Todd and Barry was worse than hired help when it came to directions. Art finally got us on track to Queen Valley and the state trust lands teeming with rocks, sand, eye-level cactus, mid-section cactus, thigh and lower leg cactus and of course, foot cactus. And damn few birds! But since Todd is willing to risk his vehicle, we're willing to ride along. We almost overdrive the QV exit. Then drive right into town. We go too far, then turn around to search the fenceline Todd and Barry remember from last year. Todd seems to have a clue, Barry is lost. We pull in anyway. It's barren. It's rugged. We all jump out and start gearing up. Plans are discussed. This draw, that flat or down that dry creek bed. Water here, food there and cover in between. Is that gun plugged? No. It's not. What's the liabilty? That day the birds flew well fast, fiesty and dodgy. They avoided lead like they figured they'd need to do to stay alive and escaped us the greater part of the time. Todd did get a bird but I think he may have coaxed it's death rather than killed it outright. That or it was Casey's bird and Todd bogarted it. Two hours in and we had two. Two birds. Art got the other. As we circled back around to the truck for the second time, Barry remembered the beer and the hunting came to an abrupt end. It was, after all, nearly 10:30 AM at that point. Well into daylight and the hotter sun. Time when the snakes get hinky and move about with madness on their mind. Time to go. Todd drove us all home after that. Taking the long way home, so to say. And even though he gave me the brochure, I don't think I'll buy the insurance. I'm pretty sure it's not bonded.
see how many native americans you can talk to today and extend a hand in thanks for the welcome you've received in their land notwithstanding columbus and the others who came later who were as much if not more destructive
look at a map today and read the names of states, counties and cities ohio, indiana, michigan, kansas, oklahoma, iowa, wyoming, montana and the dakotas ... mankato, owatonna, oacoma, tulsa ... home to all of us
A lot of historians overlook this dude. He directed the battle - the Lakota and affiliates including the Southern Cheyenne that held Reno's first charge and pushed his men back up into the trees. Where they stayed. Until long after Custer made his fatal mistake. Looping in from the east. Thought he would head them off just like he used to do when he was killing reservation Indians in Kansas and Oklahoma. As history tells us, he hit the middle of a camp full of human beings. Custer figured they'd run. HA They didn't.
Gen. Crook, who lost the skirmish on the Rosebud, got a new commission after the Little Bighorn fight and chased American Horse and Man Afraid back towards the Red Cloud agency. There was a skirmish on the east side of Slim Buttes between Crook's troops and the people. I don't think things came out well for the people.
About 100 years ago, Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce foresaw the result of the same brand of fundamentalist ass-holeism that is prevalent today and decided to cash out. It's a heartbreaker. We could learn something. This is the start of Hootenanny's coverage of Columbus Day 2006. We're going to continue to call it that because it brings the issue up front. Columbus didn't discover America, Big Bat Pourier did. Anyway, here's one of the best oratories from a powerful person, Old Chief Joe as Marty and I used to refer to him ...
"Tell General Howard I know his heart. What he told me before, I have it in my heart. I am tired of fighting. Our chiefs are killed; Looking Glass is dead, Too-hul-hul-sote is dead. The old men are all dead. It is the young men who say yes or no. He who led on the young men is dead. It is cold, and we have no blankets; the little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills, and have no blankets, no food. No one knows where they are?perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my chiefs! I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."
In case you didn't know, Fox News referred to Congressman Mark Foley (R-FL a/k/a the page-molester) as a Democrat more than once recently when in fact he's never been anything other than a Republican page-molester. But hey, his party affiliation and weakness for pages is neither here nor there. For his problem, he needs help outside of politics. But, jeez. What a screw up. The six-term Republican congressman has never been a Democrat. Wonder why they'd make that mistake. That Fox News would "inadvertently" change his party affiliation during airings of the O'Reilly Factor is another thing altogether. Probably just a glitch. Ooops. They are, after all, the retarded right. Word is, many, many more are morally dyslexic. God's cruel answer to the Loopey Left.
When Rodeo Clowns Go Bad I bought my first box of Sugar Smacks from Dan Standard at the Gilbert Liberty Grocery and Wholesale on South Gilbert Road on Saturday. I was hankerin' for a sugar coated toasted wheat puff cereal to go with some cactus berries I'd culled from the irrigation trough behind the garage I've been living in. Usually the chickens skim these berries before I even see 'em so I was pretty happy to get my hands on a few. You see, they're psychedelic and a handful in the morning will keep you tripping through the day - for free. So I got a few and ate 'em. And then, and only then, I realized that clowns were not only running our government but posing for pictures pasted on the front of otherwise conservative oriented cereal boxes. After a little more digging, I learned these were mostly retired Rodeo Clowns. The toughest, meanest poly-drub abusing group of clowns since the donkey-loving, mini-bike, go-cart Shriners. As I searched through the box of wheat puffs looking for the listening device, I realized that the security system I was installing in my new Nissan Titan wasn't designed to protect me so much as to keep constant track of my whereabouts. And to think it all started with a box of sugared wheat puff cereal.
A bat is beautifully soft and silky; I do not know any creature that is pleasanter to the touch or is more grateful for caressings, if offered in the right spirit. I know all about these coleoptera, because our great cave, three miles below Hannibal, was multitudinously stocked with them, and often I brought them home to amuse my mother with. It was easy to manage if it was a school day, because then I had ostensibly been to school and hadn't any bats. She was not a suspicious person, but full of trust and confidence; and when I said, "There's something in my coat pocket for you," she would put her hand in. But she always took it out again, herself; I didn't have to tell her. It was remarkable, the way she couldn't learn to like private bats. The more experience she had, the more she could not change her views.
I think she was never in the cave in her life; but everybody else wentthere. Many excursion parties came from considerable distances up and down the river to visit the cave. It was miles in extent and was a tangled wilderness of narrow and lofty clefts and passages. It was an easy place to get lost in; anybody could do it--including the bats. I got lost in it myself, along with a lady, and our last candle burned down to almost nothing before we glimpsed the search party's lights winding about in the distance.
"Injun Joe," the half-breed, got lost in there once, and would have starved to death if the bats had run short. But there was no chance of that; there were myriads of them. He told me all his story. In the book called Tom Sawyer I starved him entirely to death in the cave, but that was in the interest of art; it never happened. "General" Gaines, who was our first town drunkard before Jimmy Finn got the place, was lost in there for the space of a week, and finally pushed his handkerchief out of a hole in a hilltop near Saverton, several miles down the river from the cave's mouth, and somebody saw it and dug him out. There is nothing the matter with his statistics except the handkerchief. I knew him for years and he hadn't any. But it could have been his nose. That would attract attention. - Mark Twain's Autobiography
Dan Standard, Proprietor, Gilbert Grocery Store in Gilbert, AZ. This grocery store is truly keen. Owner Dan Standard wears old 50s grocery gear and holds corn chip promotions once or twice a week. Corn dogs are still six to a dollar and Dan's crack crew in the bakery hand batters them daily. Alas, there is no fresh ocean fish here as there was no fresh ocean fish in Arizona in the 50s before the advent of refridgerated trucks and fish-hauling airlines. I got over it when I saw the canned, smoked oysters for 17 cents a can. Them buggers and one 39 cent box of Zesta Saltines is a meal for a whole crew of landscapers.
Camper Van Beethoven saw them open for REM in lincoln, nebraska in late fall of 1987 And in anticipation of National Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19, 2006, a language lesson. Read, study, remember!
In which ye'll find words submitted by many pirates o'er the years, an' which comprise a loose piratical dictionary.
* Ahoy: Hey! * Avast: Stop! * Aye: Yes * Black spot: to be 'placin' the black spot' be markin' someone for death. * Booty: treasure * Buccanneer: a pirate who be answerin' to no man or blasted government. * By the Powers!: an exclamation, uttered by Long John Silver in Treasure Island! * Cat o' nine tails: whip for floggin' mutineers * Corsair: a pirate who be makin' his berth in the Med-...Medi-...that sea 'tween Spain and Africa, aye! * Davy Jones' Locker: the bottom o' the sea, where the souls of dead men lie * Doubloons: pieces of gold... * Fiddlers Green: the private heaven where pirates be goin' when they die. * Furner: a ship which be yer own, not one ye steal an' plunder. * Gentlemen o' fortune: a slightly more positive term fer pirates! * Go on the account: to embark on a piratical cruise * Grog: A pirate's favorite drink. * Jack: a flag or a sailor * Jolly Roger: the skull and crossbones, the pirate flag! * Keelhaul: a truly vicious punishment where a scurvy dog be tied to a rope and dragged along the barnacle-encrusted bottom of a ship. They not be survivin' this. * Landlubber: "Land-lover," someone not used to life onboard a ship. * Lass: A woman. * Lily-livered: faint o' heart * Loaded to the Gunwales (pron. gunnels): drunk * Matey: A shipmate or a friend. * Me hearty: a friend or shipmate. * Me: My. * Pieces o' eight: pieces o' silver which can be cut into eights to be givin' small change. * Privateer: a pirate officially sanctioned by a national power * Scallywag: A bad person. A scoundrel. * Scurvy dog!: a fine insult! * Shiver me timbers!: an exclamation of surprise, to be shouted most loud. * Son of a Biscuit Eater: a derogatory term indicating a bastard son of a sailor * Sprogs: raw, untrained recruits * Squadron: a group of ten or less warships * Squiffy: a buffoon * Swaggy: a scurvy cur's ship what ye be intendin' to loot! * Swashbucklin': fightin' and carousin' on the high seas! * Sweet trade: the career of piracy * Thar: The opposite of "here." * Walk the plank: this one be bloody obvious. * Wench: a lady, although ye gents not be wantin' to use this around a lady who be stronger than ye. * Wi' a wannion: wi' a curse, or wi' a vengeance. Boldly, loudly! * Yo-ho-ho: Pirate laughter
This reminds me of a time back in the old Hillcrest neighborhood when the Klingbile Gang was making real-toad ashtrays. These were not your run-of-the-mill toads either, but the kind that would emerge from the Badlands clay after a heavy downpour; groggy, grayish-green and putrid. Inedible. Unlike field toads which we spit-roasted unwashed and ungutted every time we got the chance.* As for the ashtray toads, we generally avoided them until we learned they made excellent "life-like" ashtrays that could be sold to a taxidermist in Omaha, NE for top dollar.
Fair warning: I may not post for the next few days as squirrels are few and far between here in Arizona and I need to get some more pellets for the air rifle. The hunt will be long and arduous, but when I get my squirrel, he'll make a fine lamp, I'm sure.
*Just kidding about the field toads, though. We didn't spit-roast field toads. No one in their right mind would. We boiled 'em just like normal folk.
Who remembers the old days of SoCal hardcore punk? Here's Black Flag's TV Party, made famous in the flic Repo Man. I first heard it when Gary Hanson was a DJ at SDSM&T. Be sure to notice the early incarnation of Henry Rollins before he went straightedge.
I was appointed head critter boss this evening. It was only a temporary battlefield promotion. Three young men needed watching, chickens needed the lock up and I had nothing else to do. So I managed the evening setback process for Lars, Brock and Swen and watched a bit of the Cartoon Network. Like a good Uncle, I added a half hour to their appointed bed times, regaled them with stories of my days as a pirate during the Spanish Civil War and made them a huge chocolate chip cookie. It was all good.
The owner and principal partner of The Hustead Law Firm is a big fan of reggae, Elvis and Led Zeppelin. Much like the firm's creative capacity to handle just about any legal claim imaginable and profit from it, THLF convinced an un-named senior associate (aka Tortelvis) to produce this interesting take on Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" Enjoy and call The Hustead Law Firm if you're in Colorado and need to know how to avoid the toll roads and other legal liabilities or if you've just got the bucks and want to "stick it to the man". On or off reservation. Just remember, this video does not constitute an offer of services but you may send a donation anyway and we'll put it towards guitar lessons for the principal partner. He tries, but he's just never gonna be Bob Stinson good. Video courtesy of The Hustead Law Firm Denver, Colorado
Maybe I should have just kept my old driver's license. The Arizona State Department of Motor Vehicles in Mesa was a scary, desolate, flood damaged building planted firmly in the way of all progress. I got there early and the place was deserted except for the stray tweakers watching the trash and contemplating identity theft. Of course, it wasn't long before one of these English-mouthed, black-toothed freaks made a move on me. All frantic and herky-jerky like. Luckily, I brought an epi-stick with me and if you've ever seen a tweaker on a full shot of epinephrine and residual methamphetamine, you'll fully understand the saying "chicken with his head cut off." Squawking. Fluttering. Deranged. It was a laugh riot. For about five minutes. I'd pulled a number from the red number machine and though the LED on the wall was off by a power of ten, apparently I was up. Her name was Wanda. She was of the golden accented beehive clan. I would bet she couldn't enter a parking ramp with that hairdo. She had surprisingly well developed jaw muscles which I attributed to the wad of gum she was masticating. Shamelessly. Loudly. Pop. Pop. She clutched a pen like a weapon and used it to point out my deficiencies, both administrative and real. I left emotionally scarred and without the coveted 35 year AZ driver's license, but like General Douglas MacArthur said regarding the Phillipines in WW2, I too remarked, "I shall return". And I will.
In the back yard at Richardson's in Scottsdale, they keep a tea tortoise as a working pet. I'd heard about it since hitting town but didn't really believe it would add up to the bugger it was in reality. Originally crafted by the British in Colonial India, these wack beasts generate sufficient body heat to brew tea in a bio-engineered shell and tea caddy carried, as per the photo, on their back. If one could or even should complain about any aspect of this contraption it would be related to the slowness with which this tortoise actually brews and serves. And, why didn't they think of adding a crumpet broiler or even just a simple tray to carry scones, jam and butter?
Anyhow, my first two weeks in the Desert have been interesting to say the least. Cruel heat and vicious critters abound. The heat of the day keeps the critters from view for a few hours but they emerge each evening to feed and frolic. Large, hairy bats with four foot wingspans and nasty, pointy teeth. Roving herds of rabid garbage skunks. Recently, the discovery of thick clusters of Sonoran pit vipers in the trash receptacles at Fyre's Food Market. Ruby-red-dino-birds with jet black eyes and flaky scales instead of feathers. Large, bulbous, festering canal toads oozing malathion absorbed from the cotton field pesticide treatments. A complete absence of small pets and squirrels.
It's no wonder that Valley residents live in fear. Snipers hunt joggers in the early evening for sport. Mel Gibson's Road Warriors rule the freeways and charge exorbitant prices for 12 ounces of gasoline - the largest amount you can acquire in a single purchase (so you make several over the course of the day). There is no food here except what you can procure from the Mormons who smuggle beef and sugar cane in across the northern border. Some Mexican food filters north out of Old Mexico, but even still, a microwaveable burrito costs me eight dollars and a pair of flip-flops at the Navaho burrito stand on 32nd over by the university of Phoenix on Tuesday. Phoenicians survive largely on a diet of rock badger livers and cactus pulp. At this point, I'd trade my neighbor's first born for a potato or a turnip.
All in all though, it's alright. I'm sure some folks have it worse. At least we've escaped the rodeo-clown press gangs and that range down out of Las Vegas, home of the PCRA National Finals. What kind of a life is that, the life of the rodeo-clown? Running ass and elbows in order to survive. With face paint.
Other than that, the place is pretty cool (figuratively speaking).
Home. Gilbert, AZ. One block south of Ray Road four miles south of the I-60. Peaches. Oranges, Grapefruit and lemons. Lemon frogs. Here's one we caught crawling in our lemon basket last Tuesday.
Flagstaff Frank stands on the corner of 7th Ave and Pine Road with a cardboard sign he flashes at passing motorists. Jesus Saves! And I guess he probably does, but what he's saving Frank for I haven't the slightest idea. I don't stop in Flagstaff. Rather, I take a left off I-40 west onto I-17 south which will take me straight into Phoenix in just about three more hours. I am dropping into the Valley of the Sun in a high speed cargo van full of what I thought was important enough to keep. In the right lane, trucks and elderly blue hairs fight the steep grade and smoke their brakes, but I let the van fall and gather speed until I hit the first sharp turn and I learn that here, unlike everywhere else I've ever been, a posted 55 mph turn IS a 55 mph turn. I get the truck under control just in time to avoid hitting a lizard as big as a healthy chihuahua, flexible looking and obviously psychotically vicious. But I've got a road that needs focusing on and the lizard can't and doesn't penetrate the truck's metal exoskeleton. This evil road includes 6% grades that go for miles. There are runaway trucks ramps all over hell (which I suspect it would be like to actually use one). You don't hit the desert floor until just outside of Phoenix. As I do, traffic begins to build and out come the meth-smoking freeway cowboys who all have to be somewhere else RIGHT NOW. Flabbergastingly high four wheel drive monster trucks with spiked metal rims and copper plated spit cups. The dryest pork rind of a woman looked out and grinned at me as she and her pie-eyed duster sped past. Of the four teeth I could make out, two were black, one green and the last spiky like a vampire tooth. I was reminded of the chihuahua lizard.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
