Suzie & Kat Versus America: The Epic Odyssey In Two Parts, This Being The First Part
This is a bit of a photo-journal I put together to share & immortalize the adventures & misadventures across our fair country. I dedicate this work in memory of the Volvo 740 station wagon that was gruesomely sacrificed for this trip.
This photo was taken moments before departure. I blame the photo's blurriness on Billy McGovern, who was stewed in whiskey at this ungodly morning hour. Not that Suzie was particularly sober either, and hadn't slept. Not that I had slept either, after the awesome Kat-B-Q, thanks to Mel. Not the best way to begin a 5-state day. Not that we cared. I picked up some coffee and gave every bum along the way my change to make up for any karma I may have been lacking. But Billy made up for any photographic shortcomings when we tried to leave without directions to Arkansas and he had to retrieve them for us.
Documenting the said ungodly hour, mileage, gas status, etc. of our departure. Approaching NJ Turnpike, speeding straight to Not Jersey. My disloyal travel companion slept through Pennsylvania, W. Virginia, Maryland, and through a good portion of Virginia. It's rewarding how many states you can pass through quickly on the East Coast. I took up smoking to keep myself alert.
The scenery was not particularly exotic, but potently green, the sun was very hot. Immediately after crossing the border between Pennsylvania and Jersey, people got nicer. Here's some pictures from the road:
Sadly, something beautiful had to die for our trip down I-84:
We drove under this thing and then promptly got very lost in the parking lot. Typical Middle America.
Roanoke lunch time:
We left soon after that, and I cleverly left my digital camera on the roof of the car and didn't realize until we pulled out on the highway and it slid off at about 30 miles an hour. I panicked, leapt from the moving car and ran barefoot on hot asphalt into traffic to save it. It survived, this time anyway.
Totally clueless on the self-pump gas thing. I had to ask some old guy with a truck how to work the thing at our first gas stop.
I was looking for a can but I found a can't:
We stayed at the campground at Davy Crockett's birthplace. Neither of us had any idea what Davy Crockett did for like, American history, so we texted Billy McGovern. He came up with some answer that I don't really remember, I just know that Davy Crockett wore a coon-skin hat and may or may not have been an animal rights activist. Anyway, so we set up tent at dusk after a grand total 14 hours' worth of driving. I totally swindled the stoner camp hosts for the campsite fee and a large man showed up at our campsite in a golf cart asking to see my receipt repeatedly.
We were armed with a bottle of Four Emu merlot and some Kentucky whiskey to combat the hard earth we were to be sleeping on.
I had forgotten how uncomfortable and damp poorly-planned camping could be. Though I had packed the station wagon with everything I owned, somehow I didn't have the foresight to bring anything along the lines of a sleeping bag. Though I at least brought a flashlight, which was a total accident. It came in handy.
Here's us with the flashlight. Sorry Chuck, I think it may have been yours.
Chapter 2: Nashville, Memphis & Tender Reminisces Of The National Insect Preserve
After sleeping on the uneven, unforgiving ground, we woke up at dawn only to be harassed again by our adversaries, the campsite hosts, this time lamenting about the difficulties of camp hosting, and campsite rules & regulations. They were dangerously excited, so we treated them very gently. We packed our shit and sped off slowly down the winding road formerly inhabited by Davy Crockett. We only made it a quarter mile along before stopping again to take pictures of the hazy dawn on the dewy fields. The farmlands were rich with this state, we realized.
I-40 led us towards Nashville, which we planned to arrive at around mid afternoon.
We also narrowly avoided a dangerous semi attack as seen here.
Here's some documentation of downtown Nashville, as we parked directly on the pulse of this cowboy metropolis.
It was high noon and live country music could be heard from a bar called Rosie's, right next to the Second Fiddle Tavern. Cowboy boots and hats were plentiful, we learned; very little searching would render many a boot and/or hat. We made a pact to purchase hats in Texas, feeling it would be most appropriate.
This ice cream cone provided at least 15 minutes worth of entertainment. Suzie looks like she is in the Royal Tenenbaums here:
Here is photo proof of how they talk over there:
By then, we had had enough chortling over cheap souvenirs. We moved on to aforementioned bar playing live cover songs and ordered up some cheap domestic beer and took in the sights and the noise. It was dark inside and bright outside, and the only photo that was taken is as follows:
The scrawl on that bill looked a bit wistful, a bit lonely; the word arrangement difficult to follow. We were the youngest people in the bar, it was dark, cluttered, smelled of wood encrusted with layers of old beer, but the air conditioning was refreshing. We stayed for a few songs, but the road beckoned; our goal to get to Memphis before dark. However, a man wearing Acapulco shirt, lurking near the car prevented us from leaving. He was of dubious standing, though he claimed employment with the Nashville Chamber of Commerce, and was insistent on our staying in town to properly appreciate Nashville, and our protests went unheard. He stood over a smelly sewer repeatedly telling us how great Sun Studios would be, and that there was a beautiful view over the nearby river. We negotiated with him and ended up having to go investigate said view over the river to make him happy. Here is the picture of that view:
I know, right? Not that fucking great, is it. "Fuck that asshole" in the words of my crude assistant, Dr. Suzette.
So, Memphis. We got back on the interstate, Suzie drove because I had self-medicated with some miller lite or whatever they had put in front of me at Rosie's. The scenery was similar to the rest of Tennessee: lush greenery, some hot hot heat, bugs liquefying instantaneously on the windshield. The heat was extreme, even more notably inside the car, sitting with the sticky tan leather seats against my skin. My level of discomfort was high, and I was advised to jump in a lake as soon as possible.
It was late afternoon when we arrived, and some dark clouds began to cluster along the horizon, though the sun shone brightly elsewhere. The camp host very literally moseyed over to where we parked and had begun to put together the tent. He was the pinnacle of a slow southerner, I don't think I've ever witnessed anyone move slower in my life. While he slowly took $14 site fee, meticulously thumbed out the change, I asked him how we could get to Lake McKellar for some swimming. A very long delay ensued, making me question if I had even spoken, if he had heard me, or if he was ignoring me. Finally, probably 20 minutes later, he said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why not?" I asked. A loooooooooooooooooooong pause.
"Gators," he said. He went on to explain that some were about 12' long, and hungry. He gestured to the edge of the wilderness that lined our campsite, perhaps 15 feet away, "They've been seen all the way up to the treeline," he said. It probably took him about 10 minutes to get the words out. This man was not joking. It was a stern warning. Suzie documented this sobering conversation, note the concerned look on my face:
The bug population was a force to be reckoned with as well, they were of prehistoric size and plentiful. I saw something that looked like a giant bright red wasp, an enormous Jurassic-sized dragonfly, a superfast evil white jumping spider which had to be coaxed out of the car, and I could only wonder what the nighttime would bring as far as insect life. We referred to the campsite as the National Insect Preserve from then on.
We reasoned that the camp shower would be a gator-free place to cool off. I went first, and my attitude improved greatly, then Suzie went, while I tried to reorganize my hastily packed belongings in the station wagon. Thunder could be heard in the distance, but it still looked deceivingly like a sunny day. The dark clouds continued to gather, and the thunder sounded a bit closer. I was predicting rain and began take down the tent, considering our lack of tarp. Suddenly, lightning cracked directly above me, connecting with the ground not too far away, the sound like a cannon or a shotgun going off next to me; I leapt into the trunk, curled up in fetal position, shuddering in fear, and hid in the safety of the car. Thunder continued to crackle and echo above, in surround sound, though the lightning was unseen due to the bright sunlight. Suzie returned and we sped away just as the deluge began, and it came down so heavily for a few minutes that we had to pull over and wait it out. In the distance, we saw plumes of smoke rising from near our campground, and fire engines screamed by.
Here is the storm cloud, as seen over Wal-Mart, about ten minutes later:
I found this bug in the car. It was about 2-3 inches long, and if anyone has any idea what the fuck it is, I would really like to know:
We bought produce at a massive Wal-Mart, I know, how Middle America of us. Then, we went on a hunt for a vendor of spirits. Now, being experienced campers, we knew how important getting loaded before curling up on gravel would be. After questioning the locals, we found an appropriate liquor store, which had this hilarious neon sign in the adjoining strip mall:
While Suzie was taking this picture, a local walked up and laughed at us taking pictures and commented about its uncanny likeness to the male organ. It inspired us to search out 11 more sign peen pics and make a calendar of them which will be given out at Christmas.
Back at the campsite, armed with dinner, a bottle of cheap wine, and some leftover whiskey, we dined at a covered picnic table in the light of a mosquito candle, smothered in bug repellent, while enormous-sounding bugs dive-bombed us in the darkness, and rain continued to fall. Blackness surrounded the picnic table, I was sure a coyote or alligator would emerge from the darkness and menace us at any moment. It was very savage, indeed, this campsite.
Even more savage was our intoxicated state back in the tent after throwing back wine & whiskey, and where this picture was taken:
Chapter 3: The King, Important Matters Concerning Tropical Fruit, Air Guitar Jim & Johnny Cakes
Despite all the fears I'd had of becoming a tent sandwich for a Tennessian gator, I surprisingly slept very well; the night's rain served as a soothing white noise to drown out the sound of Suzie's raucous snoring. No thanks to Billy McGovern for any forewarning on that.
The plan was Graceland. But first, coffee. We were a bit sluggish, and unusually quiet. Here's us at the Elvis Presley cafe:
That shitty burnt coffee at the Presley cafe fixed us right up. We were markedly excited for the ultimate American kitschy Elvisery, for Elvis freaks and born-agains, for believers in the King and in the Church of Rock 'n Roll. We bought (expensive) tickets for the mansion tour and wandered cluelessly through the velvet ropes that led us to the Elvis Presley Express, a short bus (literally) that drove us and about 10 other alarmingly overweight tourists across the street to the mansion (literally):
They outfitted us with these electronic tourguide contraptions that looked like cell phones from 1984 that were to be dangled around our necks, and we were supposed to put on the attached headphones. We were so loaded down with bulky tourist gear, armed with audio guides, cameras dangling around wrists, headgear, it was as if we were going to tourist war. There were many buttons to push on the audioguides, and boring narration emitted from the headphones. It was so stupid that it was almost awesome:
Almost, I said.
Here's Suzie attempting to look dignified in front of Graceland proper:
And, inside Graceland, note the King's eye for design:
This hallway ceiling mirror provided us with at least 10 minutes worth of hilarious entertainment and photo-ops, and we held up the whole tour, bottlenecked in the narrow reflective stairway:
Totally hilarious oilpaint rendering of the King's likeness:
Here's proof that Elvis was an advocate against fun-burgling:
And on a more somber note, here lies the King, alongside his parents and twin brother:
We were considering orchestrating a dramatic/sarcastic photo next the grave, but quickly realized that there were people there who would probably have us executed on behalf of the King if we did.
Enough with the King, we had to get to Little Rock, AK, home of Bill Clinton and a lot of gravel. Or maybe sand is like considered the smallest of rocks? Onward with the noble quest!
But first, apparently, we took a detour through Egypt and the Old Testament, before reaching the Arkansasian border:
Words cannot describe how hilarious I find this -- I am assuming this has been on display at Texaco since 1986:
Is it an ad for hot dogs & Saved by the Bell??? Or awesome shades & Walkman???? Note the flawless squiggle of mustard!! And the fanfare of nacho flavored cornchips!!! A work of art, should be immortalized in a museum somewhere, a true iconic representation of the opposite of burgling fun.
A friendly reminder from God country:
But we were running about an hour early and our gracious host hadn't gotten out of work yet, so we found a liquor store and decided to hang in front of it.
It ultimately proved to be poor foresight. We didn't blend well with the locals; within minutes we attracted attention. A gentlemen, named Antoine, walked from across the street to inquire whether we were twins, lesbians, where we were from, whether or not we would like to "get freaky" and be pimped out. We graciously denied his offer of being pimped out, despite his promises of how lucrative it could be. At least he was wearing shoes.
Referring to the 2 bottles of wine we'd bought, a woman trudging through hot asphalt and broken glass with no shoes and hot pants exclaimed, "you girls gonna git to' up!!!" and laughed maniacally at us.
I hadn't seen my friend Jonny from Ohio for about 4 years, but looked him up for a place to stay. Turns out he had a huuuuuuuuuuge beautifully furnished house, more room than he could ever need, and we were allowed to stay in our own tastefully decorated room, with a fireplace, and in-room clawfoot bathtub. After nights of sleeping on the ground and fighting the war on bugs, we were truly in the lap of luxury. We allowed Jonny-gullible-cakes to remain under the impression that we had driven from Memphis drunk.
So Jonny got right busy and squired us around Little Rock, seeking out ingredients for the dinner he was going to make for us. We were both about ready to die of hunger as he drove from grocery store to grocery store in search of the right mango. Frustrated after several produce sections that Jonny rejected, I asked the produce section employee, who looked like the 5th member of Kings of Leon, for help finding mangos. Jim, as his nametag claimed, said he would look in backstock for us. He disappeared for a while, then returned empty-handed. My crude assistant, Suzie, commented on how he probably just went in back to play some air guitar. Air Guitar Jim had failed us and we had to move on to some more grocery stores. I was getting crazed & impatient.
After finding the appropriate mangos at the very last store in town, we arranged all ingredients in Jonny's spacious, classical-yet-futuristic kitchen and received a lesson in cooking, as he showed us step-by-step how to make The Best Guacamole You've Ever Had. I will not publish the ingredients, in case it gets into the wrong hands, but if you ever have a barbecue, I will bring it. Here's Jonny (and I):
Here's some pictures of us having beers later at a place called Pizza D's. Pitchers in Arkansas are dumb cheap by the way.
It was extremely exciting because none other than Air Guitar Jim made a guest appearance in our beer drinking bonanza. Upon recognition, Suzie & I shrieked his name out and we were reunited with our rock & roll produce non-producing friend. He invited us to his house for some stoner-related activities but Jonny poo-poo-cakes put the brakes on our fun and feigned fatigue. Here is photo proof of Air Guitar Jim (in the plaid shirt of course):
Suzie harassed this unknown guy into taking pictures with both of us, despite his protests:
At this point, Suzie was uncontrollably running amok & spraying filthy comments at the locals and we were taken home at an inopportune time, just when things were started to get interesting.
The Lonestar State: Take Another Shot of Courage, And A Quaff of Tequila (Jimador, please)
Despite all the rowdiness from the night before, we were on the road at 7 am. This portrait really captures bleary-eyed early morning fatigue, along with the crap flavor of the coffee.
It was such a long drive I kind of don't remember exactly how we entertained ourselves on the ride. The drive was south through Arkansas, over the border to Texas, and all the way south to Austin.
We definitely did not take this exit, though neither of us fear the reaper:
Our first stop all day was Waco, TX. We kind of cruised through the "downtown" of which was pretty much a flatliner at 3 in the afternoon, though another car did nearly ran us off the road due to a staring problem at our exotic Jersey plates. We happened upon a bar that had just opened, featuring a monster truck parked out in front, and many pool tables to choose from. We sidled up to the bar and demanded the coldest beer they had, as the heat outside was very unreasonable that day. Suzie beat me both at pool and at darts. We decided to mingle with the sparse bar crowd, and learned from the bartender that the "Waco" cult incident was actually closer to Crawford, TX, but Waco had to take the bad rap due to the President's association with Crawford. We learned that Fernando, the mexican line cook, entered his monster truck by "yumping." It was very easy to convince him that New Jersey was pronounced "New Yersey." And we also met the thinking man's bouncer, who read scholarly novels while checking IDs at the door, who challenged Suzie to a drink-off. Suzie won, of course, pounding several Irish carbombs on his tab, while I looked on, realizing the drive from Waco to Austin would be very savage, indeed. I hid in the bathroom for awhile, fearful of her inevitable belligerence:
We wanted to arrive in Austin at a decent time and said our goodbyes to our new friends in Waco. They begged us to stay and hang, warning us of ominously bad traffic. We literally had to fight our way out of the bar, in which Suzie sustained some injuries:
And here is Fernando's truck, I guess more of a jacked-up SUV rather:
The approach into Austin was suddenly very messy, a thunderstorm met us there, creating some treacherous driving conditions, slowing our arrival. I think it was the same storm that menaced us in Memphis, that son of a bitch.
Our host in Austin was a high school friend of Suzie's, of whom she hadn't seen in years. He greeted us with a bottle of Jimador tequila, some limes, salt, and we immediately bonded and gave each other a tri-five.
Here's a picture of the three of us (note beer all over ethan's shirt hahahaha):
Some advice offered in the ladies' room:
We got kicked out of said bar after a deluge of tequila; Suzie wrote a bad check for our tab and used me & Ethan as references and we were all tossed. On the walk home, Suzie advised me to get in this dumpster and I blindly obeyed:
The blurriness of this photo is directly related to their obvious double vision:
Two snarls & a shart:
I was so wasted I tried to share some snacks with my shirt:
In retrospect, not much could be recalled thereafter, but we have some photo evidence that unfortunately cannot be narrated; and many of the photos that were taken were in Polaroid form, which was confiscated the next day:
Helplessly Depraved & Irresponsible on Shiner Bock a.k.a. I Was Dancing in a Mexican Lesbian Bar
We went the Greatest Thrift Store EVER aka the Family Thrift Center on 208 East Oltorf St. We were extremely successful in procuring two amazingly similar high quality straw cowboy hats for 99 cents each. Their actual retail value was four times that, we later found out. What a steal!!
Ethan had finally woken up properly by the time we returned and demanded that we leave again so he could practice keyboards for his band Ethan Frederick Greene. It is unknown if there are other members in the band. So we went to a bookstore to go figure out where we were to go the next day; the trip thus far had been directed only by our mapquest directions from 16 Erie St Jersey City to 201 Live Oak St Austin. And we didn't know what else to do except for end up in Portland.
Ethan called us right about then, after less an hour of time with his electric piano turned up to eleven, most likely tapping out the melodies to Mötley Crüe. He was lost without our entertaining company and wanted to know if we could all go swimming. Not much negotiation was necessary to get us to agree, as it was obscenely hot outside.
Ethan is legally blind and that's why we asked him to drive:
This glorious swim pit was called Barton Springs. There was a grassy knoll, some railings and concrete stairs paired up with each other along the water's edge for ... wheelchair access?
As you can tell, the natural environment of this springs was covered in algae, making walking in waist-deep water only temporary; it was like walking on a bed of leeches.
Here's Ethan trapped in a box, his emokerchief dually noted:
Here's us spanning time after our swim, mapping out our plans for a barbecue dinner and most likely talking about sharting:
Here's the proud parents before we sacrificed their firstborn:
Ethan's roommate David even joined us.
We had so much fucking fun barbecuing and talking and Jimador-ing together that it became obvious that we should not leave the next morning, as originally planned. We asked to stay another day with our gracious hosts and they said we could! We were so happy, Ethan & David & Austin, TX were our new best friends.
The happening scene in Austin that night was that a local celebrity, name deleted by the insistence of his agent, possibly known for his work in Dazed & Confused, was having a party and we were sort-of invited. We didn't go, but instead entertained ourselves with flash-photography in the back of Ethan's car for as long as it was funny:
I was trying to channel Blue Steel from Zoolander. It was really hard to do without laughing:
We found ourselves at a bar usually known for its relative hipness on the outside patio, but tonight, there was a mexican lesbian dance party. We hung back like wallflowers at first; intimidated by the sheer numbers and sizes of the mexi-lezzies, one of which was celebrating a birthday. Here's an example of what we were dealing with:
Whoa, right? There were dyke mullets aplenty and even some cameltoe thrown in for a good measure (no joke!!!!!), and one preposterously large woman wearing a tight red dress that said 'Hot To Trot' as well. Conversation ensued about cut-off jean shorts, in order to avert our eyes from the mexi-lezzie dance floor:
Soon, however, combination of the menace of a tree roach at our feet and Ethan's shameless Shiner Bock belligerence made us leap into action.
We began dancing at an incredible speed!
This fan provided quite a bit of entertainment:
Later, we crashed a party that we were totally not invited to, disposed of all their liquor and were ready to move on. Here's Suzie & Ethan in front of the house number. I was most likely slurring through a conversation about cut-off shorts still, but there is no way of knowing at that point.
At that time, not only was Ethan legally blind, he was also viciously drunk. So we made him drive us home.
Here are the final two pictures from that night, unless you count all the polaroids later destroyed in a sober cover-up attempt:
Chapter 6: Bird Gets Bird; The National Air Guitar Championships; When Aliens Invade, Remember the Alamo
We decided to have brunch on a patio to celebrate our additional day in Austin.
However, there was a mean-spirited goddamn vulture that swooped down and pooped right in front of Suzie. Here's us giving that bird the bird:
The bird lingered while we dined, squawking occasionally, and when we left, it divebombed our abandoned food scraps. All birds are treacherous, I find.
This dog was ordering a milkshake:
My friends looking relatively dignified for once:
I love this:
Apparently you can rent the rock, as opposed to BRING IT:
Ethan is a big nerd and demanded that we go to the Alamo theatre to watch X-Men with him. Read this sign:
It's true; beers loves dogs loves beers:
I love the Alamo theatre because you can order buckets and buckets of beer and heckling was encouraged. Also we learned that the National Air Guitar Championships was going on that evening at another location. Yes, THE NATIONAL AIR GUITAR CHAMPIONSHIPS. Unfortunately, we were not allowed in due to circumstances beyond our control. Also, we had just missed the National Pun Championships by two weeks, what shit luck, man.
It just so turns out that both a biker rally and a gay parade were going on during the same day on Austin's main drag.
Here's Ethan reenacting the incredible speed in which he consumed a sandwich earlier. I had to set adjust the shutter to a very high speed in order to avoid blur; it was like trying to photograph a hummingbird.
I have some bar napkins from that night in which the following things were scrawled on:
"I'll yo la tengo with you in hellllllllllllllll"
"Ethan's so un-give-a-fuckie"
The night pretty much ended with us obsessively trying to gain national recognition by beating the high score of the erotic photohunt. Sadly, we failed, though our teamwork was awesome.
We got kicked out shortly afterwards for trying to vandalize the Megatouch thing because it burgled all of our quarters. Outside was an awesome sight to behold; hundreds of bikers and drunkards weaving though the street; it was like a leatherclad block party with chopped hogs rumbling all around. I reluctantly/accidentally saw several large women with like assless chaps & a bikini bottom under them and decided it was our time to make an exit from this debaucherous street scene.
Fear Itself: Funnel Clouds, The Texas Broil, Bat Country!!!, That Goddamn Scorpion Almost Rocked Me Like A Hurricane
Here's the face of six am, two expressions of ... well, I wouldn't say extreme fatigue but rather a healthy curiosity of the nearest place to get coffee. We were moving slowwwww ... that is until we got into the car. The Volvo wasn't tequila-weary, at least.
Two burned labeledlled "Mixed Greenes" had appeared next to us. We quickly remembered we'd demanded them night before and were surprised that Ethan had actually made them after we went to sleep, especially in his state of mind. It was pretty hilarious to actually listen to what our generally impaired dear friend had drug onto that cd, and the tracklisting of his corrupt logic. But you have to actually go on a long roadtrip to appreciate the invaluability of a new mix cd.
The first driving shift was in my hands, and there was much ground to cover. The plan was to arrive at the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico before dusk for the local bat performance. We were to head back north again, and log over 500 miles. We were driving through smalltown Texas, and it was really very quaint and cute; it made me think of ladies who had hobbies like making embroidered oven mitts and men who worked their entire careers at one job, instead of the confederate flag bible belt hillbillie propaganda I had expected. Hello, America. It was a very nice morning drive.
There is definitely a story there, but it is not mine to tell:
There was a whole lot of nothing to be seen; it was really quite exotic.
I was having a particularly good driving shift, calmly meditating through my hours & miles when I was interrupted by an enormous bug that did a faceplant right in my field of vision, which is rude, if nothing else, and I tend to take rudeness personally. Of course windshield wipers obscured things even more.
We didn't realize how road-cramped and crazed we felt until leaving the car for the first time for hours. I had left the car running for a fast getaway but instead it served as a soundtrack for the awesomest dance party ever that occurred on this highway exit. The intense Texan sun made us lightheaded I think.
I made Suzie drive. The scenery was so desolate and vast, the heat so fierce, combined with some extremely appropriate driving music that I put on, the passengeering that I did for the next few hours were the best of my life. I think it was an ultimate kind of happiness that only a roadtrip can appropriate. The music was good, the jokes were locked and loaded, we were in agreement on things like not getting pulled over, sharing cigarettes on intervals, cackling over burptalking, not getting menaced by truckdrivers, among other priorities. Who knew that such inner peace could be attained at 80mph in obscene heat along a ltraveledlled highway in the Lonestar State listening to Tom Petty? It was a beautiful thing. I reflected on this for miles. I'll stop describing this before I sound too sentimental.
And we saw about 20 miles' worth of these windmills, they were huge and silently rotating.
More photos from the road:
We also learned that we were in something called Tornado Alley. We took turns keeping a lookout for funnel clouds and discussed what to do in the event of one: park under an overpass? find high ground? stop drop & roll?
These two pictures were taken nearly in unison:
Fort Stockton, TX was a rather soulless and topographically boring town eternally cooking in far western Texas. We stopped at a grocery store and saw this in the freezer section and it totally redeemed itself:
How rad is that! Coach fudge bar!!! whoa ...
These two assholes from Jersey were a sight to behold in the grocery store. Suzie's "I Met My Next Ex at the Trailer Park Lounge" wifebeater was a point of interest amongst locals. We also put on a impromptu slapstick performance of trying to open our non-twist-off bottles of water without a bottle opener on any surface we could find in the parking lot, ultimately creating a puddle.
We found this picnic bench further down the road, miles of nothing on either side. I'm not sure if the oven breeze made the heat better or worse.
Even worse than hat-head: headband head.
Closer to the New Mexican border, we drove nearly 80 miles with absolutely nothing in either direction. Then we started driving through some real ghost towns, you know, with abandoned buildings and boarded up windows and so forth. We stopped here and it looked like prime territory for rattlesnakes. We weren't exactly sure how to scare off snakes and figured our flip flops didn't offer much protection against bites. So, we yelled "SNAKES!" and threw pebbles in case that helped. I was a little scared.
We were wondering if mirages showed up in pictures:
New Mexico:
We arrived at Carlsbad Caverns a few hours before the cavern bats were scheduled to perform, so we went into the main attraction which was the caverns themselves. There were several miles' worth of underground walking to be had, so we descended 60 stories and had a look:
The caves are the result of the interactions among water, rock, and air within caves. As water seeps through cracks in rock, it dissolves certain compounds; for caves, these compounds are usually calcite and aragonite (both calcium carbonate), or gypsum (calcium sulfate) things like this are created:
Here's us next to stuff:
After we had our fill of spelunking, we took in the view of the desert. This is where we witnessed someone freak the fuck out upon sighting a ferret: "Hey look! A Ferret! Guys! Look! It's a Ferret! Guys! Hey, Guys! A Ferret! Look guys! Ferret! I saw a ferret!! FERRET!! Guys! Guys!! FERRET!!" etc.
We thought seeing 400,000 bats fly out of a cave at the crack of dusk at an incredible rate of 6000 bats per minute would be TOTALLY METAL. We imagined that a frantically flapping, chirping tornado of solemn darkness swirling up from the canyon over our heads & divebombing us would recall Hitchcock, or maybe Sabbath. We were not allowed to photograph the bats unless we were far away, so if you look very very closely you can kind of make out the bat cloud:
The bats were instead peaceful, like a delicate funnel cloud of black butterflies fluttering into the colorful sunset, silent, fragile, peaceful. I still wore a VaHa shirt.
The sun seemed to set for nearly an hour straight, and it wasn't even completely dark until we turned on Capitan Beef Road, where a national campground was situated. This was a very interesting drive: we were listening to the hilarity of Foreigner, driving down a very dark road in which rabbits & deer shot out the bushes on regular 10-second intervals. Seriously! It was almost scary, the sheer numbers of animals that would emerge from the bushes and scamper across, Suzie had to keep hitting the brakes and drive real slow. I like bunnies and deers but was thinking ahead to all the other animals that might be out there as well ... like mean snakes or desert wolves or kit foxes.
10 miles later was the campground, and we were both totally beat. We walked over to brush our teeth together, tired, draggy and exhausted from the day's miles, heat & events. There were some extremely menacing bugs swirling around the orange lights, and it made me even more wary of discovering gross bugs in my shoes and/or snakes curled up under the tent. That was when Suzie said, "Kat, don't move," and grabbed me, pulling me towards her. Where my foot had been there was a large scorpion with what looked like a clear/white/gross exoskeleton looked back at us, obviously up to no good. I screamed like a girl and was traumatized. If you think I'm a total weenie, I've been LIVING IN NYC FOR 7 YEARS, and cockroaches don't bite or hide in your shoes armed with poison darts.
Putting the tent together using the light from the car's headlights was nerve-racking; I was terrified of scorpion/snake discoveries, bugs would aggressively divebomb you if you tried to use the flashlight, it was incredibly dark and we were not far from Roswell. We put the tarp on the gravel underneath the tent in hopes that if a snake or bugs decided to collect, maybe they would at least be inclined to do so underneath another layer of plastic.
In the tent, we chugged some Texas Red as shown. The wind picked up and noisily abused our tent. We had to weigh the tent corners down with rocks, which was another ordeal. The tent/tarp flapping in the wind, the stuffy heat combined with my fear of opening the window in case a deer tried to stick its head in the tent, the likelihood of UFOs hovering above, gravel and presumably snakes underneath; all of this made for an extremely unproductive night of sleep. For reasons apparent over the next 2 days, I think New Mexico is the least trustworthy of all 50 states & even Puerto Rico.
Chapter 8: Today's Pig Is Tomorrow's Bacon, A Closetful of Gila Monsters, Breakdown on Paradise Boulevard
The day started off with strange noises outside the tent, and it was apparent that flock of large desert gulls were communing on our camp site, squawking and flapping and pooping. The night had provided only minutes of sleep on intervals and I was in no mood to be menaced by flora and/or fauna.
It so turns out that our nightdrive had put us right on the edge UFO crash site. The good news is that there was nothing scary to be found under our tent i.e. mean snakes or gross bugs.
And we were aadjacentcent to beautiful lake.
We drove to Roswell, NM, assuming it would be one of the epicenters of American kitsch. I don't really have much to say about Roswell because it was a highly disappointing town of shitkitsch. Here's all you need to know:
Back on the road. The clouds were extremely decent that morning, and the sand was markedly more reddish:
Cline's Corner provided at least one hour's worth of air conditioning, and particularly entertaining interactions with locals and also with souvenirs.
We also met some local celebrities:
Fireworks were strongly encouraged in this part of the country:
Back on the road, en route to Albuquerque, following the Route 66, or so the souvenir shops told us.
We thought it would be hilarious to stop at the Rattlesnake Museum, which boasted the largest collection of rattlesnakes in North America.
Look! A real snake (as opposed to imagined):
Oh look! News from back home!
I am laughing because I was being heckled at that moment:
We went in search of the giant wrought iron dinosaurs that were supposed to be a few blocks away, and found some public art along the way:
I remember having a conversation about how cute and pleasant Albuquerque was, and that we were a bit sad to see it go. About 20 miles down the road, the Volvo quit shifting gears. Here's the last picture on the road before the partial breakdown:
The drive back into town was a stressful one with the hazards on. The hour was too late to talk to a mechanic, and we would have to wait till morning.
We got a hotel room very cheap via one part sob story two parts stranger kindness. It had air conditioning a pool which were both immediately taken advantage of.
The goal was to enjoy ourselves at all costs due to the delay in our road trip. We went out to a fine dinner, tried to sneak into a concert and ended up at a bar across the street and promptly made friends with this guy who got busy recommending a trustworthy mechanic to us:
After a Boilermaker Surprise, and a master's degree in belching, we asked the barkeep where we could hear some Motley Crue. The bartender actually left his beer pouring post and walked us over to a radder bar a few blocks away, introduced us to the bartender there, who introduced us to his friends and sent us drinks. How's that for red carpet treatment/stranger kindness??!!?!!
Here's some of our new friends:
Here's an example of Suzie's new bathroom cleanliness rating system:
This was to indicate that the bathroom was not acceptable.
Pub closing time came earlier than we wanted; we still hadn't met everyone or taken every shot of tequila in town yet, so we were receptive to the invite made over the loudspeaker to the "party at hotel room #202" from the touring band.
Upon arriving at said room #202, the entire band was curled up in their beds, watching a war movie, sipping the only beer present. It was really quite pathetic, to extend a bar-wide invitation and not even be ready to provide any entertainment, much less an auxiliary beer or something. Scotty had stolen a bottle of Jack Daniel's from his work, which riled a few troops out from under their covers, but the damage had already been done to their reputations and Suzie immediately went to work humiliating them -- especially the one with the "I heart NY" shirt.
Suzie, sensing impending doom based on the number of shots of Jack Daniels, multiplied by a bottle of wine, several beers and some tequila that we'd had, decided to get some sandwiches for us from a 24-hr diner next door. She brought the so-called band with her and somehow got the cops called on them by our hotel (even though they were not on hotel property). I let Scotty use our hotel phone to call a cab home and the hotel manager threatened to call the cops on me too, for having an unauthorized guest. No cops actually showed up (apparently empty threats), however our fun was thoroughly burgled.
Chapter 9: All Hell Breaks Loose, The Waterworks, The Volvo Transforms Very Unmagically into a Buick Le Sabretoothtiger, New Mexico Has Officially Burgled My Fun
The previous night's consumption levels had proved far too serious for us, and we are two serious motherfuckers, both being seasoned bartending professionals in top form with much practice. The morning was all pain. The plan was to take the car to be checked out right when the auto shop opened, so that we wouldn't loose too much time, but we'd slept 3 hours throug6 amur 6am alarm. It was a tough lesson to relearn: 1 bottle wine+tequila+beer+tequila+beer+beer+whiskey+whiskey=pain, poor organization, and crap attitudes, and that alarm clocks don't set themselves:
My nerves were frayed and I sought out some continental breakfast to stabilize my sugar levels:
A few frantic calls to some very busy auto repair shops finally yielded a possibility of getting the car worked on by a certain Jim Dearholt Auto Repair.
The car was in even worse condition than before; it wouldn't shift about the 2nd gear at this point. We were going extremely slow along the Albuquerque strip, with the pick-up being slim to none.
Suzie learned about the extreme temperatures that her ass can withstand i.e. hot coffee in the lap. Her's her soaked ass:
The car was so dysfunctional at that point, we nearly called AAA. Finally, we arrived at the auto repair shop, I filled out a form in which I was supposed to write my name, my car's name, and what was wrong with it, which i did, and added that I wanted "only good news please, like an oil change."
The weather was incredibly hot and clear. Suzie had to perform a costume change in the parking lot and ditched her coffee-stewed mini-shorts. After joking with the employees and explaining our cross-country journey, we returned to the car and reclined the seats for a nap in the shade to nurse our matching hangovers & mechanical stress. It was over 100 degrees outside already, and it seemed that both the sun and our luck was angry at us.
We were invited into the air conditioned waiting room by the nice folk at the repair place and so we sidled up, ready to nap there too.
The auto repair man sat down with us and said "Here's the good news, it will cost less for you to buy a new car than to get this one fixed." The transmission was on its last dying breath, and was not interested in taking us the rest of the way across America. The repairguy recommended that I sell the car, sell my stuff, and buy a ticket on Greyhound. Tears were shed (by me) and phonecalls were made (by Suzie). I ended up saying fuck all, this crazy trip would go on at all costs, I was not going to take any buses anywhere. A lot of phone calls were made, in fact, more than 3 hours' worth of trying to sell my car to junkyards and Volvo repair places, trying to get a cheap deal on a rental car and arranging for them to pick us up.
Man, this sucked! Here's me kissing that Volvo title goodbye:
The sky had turned from clear blue to angry grey when this was all happening. The locals were shocked by the rain, it was extremely unusual weather for the area to have rain apparently.
I must add that the people at the repair place didn't charge us a dime even though they diagnosed the car and we used their phones and ate their candy and created some bad vibes in their lobby. They were so nice. And some people who were also in the waiting room offered to let us crash on their couch. They even prayed for us.
It gets sadder. Here is the coolant stain left by the Volvo before it was taken away, along with the license plates which they allowed me to keep. At this moment, I had just given up the last key I owned; I don't remember the last time I had no keys. The vessel that was supposed to take me and everything I owed from here to there had failed me and this is how lost I felt:
Check that bicep! That's some tough love!
Anyone who thinks I'm a crybaby because the car died, well double fuck you, dude. It was extenuating circumstances.
I had managed to procure nearly the same amount of money for the Volvo in parts as the rental car costed. It was still a lose-lose situation, however. This is was what I saw at Budget car rental when I was waiting to get the car. That's a cockroach.
Back in action at very least. I was behind the wheel of a silver Buick Le Sabretoothtiger. Not much for style points but it had some A/C that worked gooooood. We pitstopped at 7-11 and I bought smokes, gum, and a lottery ticket, thinking it would be the luckiest moment of my life immediately following the shitastic horrificprecedingeeding it. Yet another loser. F that ticket:
As soon as we hit the road, the weather lightened up along with our moods, we were in motion again, and the sky looked beautiful on our second attempt across New Mexico.
We treated ourselves to a super cute kitschy hotel called El Ranchero in Gallup, NM.
And we treated ourselves to some serious martinis. The tone was both jovial and somber.
And we were stupid tired.
I love this picture of us equally as much as I hate New Mexico:
end, part 1
This photo was taken moments before departure. I blame the photo's blurriness on Billy McGovern, who was stewed in whiskey at this ungodly morning hour. Not that Suzie was particularly sober either, and hadn't slept. Not that I had slept either, after the awesome Kat-B-Q, thanks to Mel. Not the best way to begin a 5-state day. Not that we cared. I picked up some coffee and gave every bum along the way my change to make up for any karma I may have been lacking. But Billy made up for any photographic shortcomings when we tried to leave without directions to Arkansas and he had to retrieve them for us.
Documenting the said ungodly hour, mileage, gas status, etc. of our departure. Approaching NJ Turnpike, speeding straight to Not Jersey. My disloyal travel companion slept through Pennsylvania, W. Virginia, Maryland, and through a good portion of Virginia. It's rewarding how many states you can pass through quickly on the East Coast. I took up smoking to keep myself alert.
The scenery was not particularly exotic, but potently green, the sun was very hot. Immediately after crossing the border between Pennsylvania and Jersey, people got nicer. Here's some pictures from the road:
Sadly, something beautiful had to die for our trip down I-84:
We drove under this thing and then promptly got very lost in the parking lot. Typical Middle America.
Roanoke lunch time:
We left soon after that, and I cleverly left my digital camera on the roof of the car and didn't realize until we pulled out on the highway and it slid off at about 30 miles an hour. I panicked, leapt from the moving car and ran barefoot on hot asphalt into traffic to save it. It survived, this time anyway.
Totally clueless on the self-pump gas thing. I had to ask some old guy with a truck how to work the thing at our first gas stop.
I was looking for a can but I found a can't:
We stayed at the campground at Davy Crockett's birthplace. Neither of us had any idea what Davy Crockett did for like, American history, so we texted Billy McGovern. He came up with some answer that I don't really remember, I just know that Davy Crockett wore a coon-skin hat and may or may not have been an animal rights activist. Anyway, so we set up tent at dusk after a grand total 14 hours' worth of driving. I totally swindled the stoner camp hosts for the campsite fee and a large man showed up at our campsite in a golf cart asking to see my receipt repeatedly.
We were armed with a bottle of Four Emu merlot and some Kentucky whiskey to combat the hard earth we were to be sleeping on.
I had forgotten how uncomfortable and damp poorly-planned camping could be. Though I had packed the station wagon with everything I owned, somehow I didn't have the foresight to bring anything along the lines of a sleeping bag. Though I at least brought a flashlight, which was a total accident. It came in handy.
Here's us with the flashlight. Sorry Chuck, I think it may have been yours.
Chapter 2: Nashville, Memphis & Tender Reminisces Of The National Insect Preserve
After sleeping on the uneven, unforgiving ground, we woke up at dawn only to be harassed again by our adversaries, the campsite hosts, this time lamenting about the difficulties of camp hosting, and campsite rules & regulations. They were dangerously excited, so we treated them very gently. We packed our shit and sped off slowly down the winding road formerly inhabited by Davy Crockett. We only made it a quarter mile along before stopping again to take pictures of the hazy dawn on the dewy fields. The farmlands were rich with this state, we realized.
I-40 led us towards Nashville, which we planned to arrive at around mid afternoon.
We also narrowly avoided a dangerous semi attack as seen here.
Here's some documentation of downtown Nashville, as we parked directly on the pulse of this cowboy metropolis.
It was high noon and live country music could be heard from a bar called Rosie's, right next to the Second Fiddle Tavern. Cowboy boots and hats were plentiful, we learned; very little searching would render many a boot and/or hat. We made a pact to purchase hats in Texas, feeling it would be most appropriate.
This ice cream cone provided at least 15 minutes worth of entertainment. Suzie looks like she is in the Royal Tenenbaums here:
Here is photo proof of how they talk over there:
By then, we had had enough chortling over cheap souvenirs. We moved on to aforementioned bar playing live cover songs and ordered up some cheap domestic beer and took in the sights and the noise. It was dark inside and bright outside, and the only photo that was taken is as follows:
The scrawl on that bill looked a bit wistful, a bit lonely; the word arrangement difficult to follow. We were the youngest people in the bar, it was dark, cluttered, smelled of wood encrusted with layers of old beer, but the air conditioning was refreshing. We stayed for a few songs, but the road beckoned; our goal to get to Memphis before dark. However, a man wearing Acapulco shirt, lurking near the car prevented us from leaving. He was of dubious standing, though he claimed employment with the Nashville Chamber of Commerce, and was insistent on our staying in town to properly appreciate Nashville, and our protests went unheard. He stood over a smelly sewer repeatedly telling us how great Sun Studios would be, and that there was a beautiful view over the nearby river. We negotiated with him and ended up having to go investigate said view over the river to make him happy. Here is the picture of that view:
I know, right? Not that fucking great, is it. "Fuck that asshole" in the words of my crude assistant, Dr. Suzette.
So, Memphis. We got back on the interstate, Suzie drove because I had self-medicated with some miller lite or whatever they had put in front of me at Rosie's. The scenery was similar to the rest of Tennessee: lush greenery, some hot hot heat, bugs liquefying instantaneously on the windshield. The heat was extreme, even more notably inside the car, sitting with the sticky tan leather seats against my skin. My level of discomfort was high, and I was advised to jump in a lake as soon as possible.
It was late afternoon when we arrived, and some dark clouds began to cluster along the horizon, though the sun shone brightly elsewhere. The camp host very literally moseyed over to where we parked and had begun to put together the tent. He was the pinnacle of a slow southerner, I don't think I've ever witnessed anyone move slower in my life. While he slowly took $14 site fee, meticulously thumbed out the change, I asked him how we could get to Lake McKellar for some swimming. A very long delay ensued, making me question if I had even spoken, if he had heard me, or if he was ignoring me. Finally, probably 20 minutes later, he said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why not?" I asked. A loooooooooooooooooooong pause.
"Gators," he said. He went on to explain that some were about 12' long, and hungry. He gestured to the edge of the wilderness that lined our campsite, perhaps 15 feet away, "They've been seen all the way up to the treeline," he said. It probably took him about 10 minutes to get the words out. This man was not joking. It was a stern warning. Suzie documented this sobering conversation, note the concerned look on my face:
The bug population was a force to be reckoned with as well, they were of prehistoric size and plentiful. I saw something that looked like a giant bright red wasp, an enormous Jurassic-sized dragonfly, a superfast evil white jumping spider which had to be coaxed out of the car, and I could only wonder what the nighttime would bring as far as insect life. We referred to the campsite as the National Insect Preserve from then on.
We reasoned that the camp shower would be a gator-free place to cool off. I went first, and my attitude improved greatly, then Suzie went, while I tried to reorganize my hastily packed belongings in the station wagon. Thunder could be heard in the distance, but it still looked deceivingly like a sunny day. The dark clouds continued to gather, and the thunder sounded a bit closer. I was predicting rain and began take down the tent, considering our lack of tarp. Suddenly, lightning cracked directly above me, connecting with the ground not too far away, the sound like a cannon or a shotgun going off next to me; I leapt into the trunk, curled up in fetal position, shuddering in fear, and hid in the safety of the car. Thunder continued to crackle and echo above, in surround sound, though the lightning was unseen due to the bright sunlight. Suzie returned and we sped away just as the deluge began, and it came down so heavily for a few minutes that we had to pull over and wait it out. In the distance, we saw plumes of smoke rising from near our campground, and fire engines screamed by.
Here is the storm cloud, as seen over Wal-Mart, about ten minutes later:
I found this bug in the car. It was about 2-3 inches long, and if anyone has any idea what the fuck it is, I would really like to know:
We bought produce at a massive Wal-Mart, I know, how Middle America of us. Then, we went on a hunt for a vendor of spirits. Now, being experienced campers, we knew how important getting loaded before curling up on gravel would be. After questioning the locals, we found an appropriate liquor store, which had this hilarious neon sign in the adjoining strip mall:
While Suzie was taking this picture, a local walked up and laughed at us taking pictures and commented about its uncanny likeness to the male organ. It inspired us to search out 11 more sign peen pics and make a calendar of them which will be given out at Christmas.
Back at the campsite, armed with dinner, a bottle of cheap wine, and some leftover whiskey, we dined at a covered picnic table in the light of a mosquito candle, smothered in bug repellent, while enormous-sounding bugs dive-bombed us in the darkness, and rain continued to fall. Blackness surrounded the picnic table, I was sure a coyote or alligator would emerge from the darkness and menace us at any moment. It was very savage, indeed, this campsite.
Even more savage was our intoxicated state back in the tent after throwing back wine & whiskey, and where this picture was taken:
Chapter 3: The King, Important Matters Concerning Tropical Fruit, Air Guitar Jim & Johnny Cakes
Despite all the fears I'd had of becoming a tent sandwich for a Tennessian gator, I surprisingly slept very well; the night's rain served as a soothing white noise to drown out the sound of Suzie's raucous snoring. No thanks to Billy McGovern for any forewarning on that.
The plan was Graceland. But first, coffee. We were a bit sluggish, and unusually quiet. Here's us at the Elvis Presley cafe:
That shitty burnt coffee at the Presley cafe fixed us right up. We were markedly excited for the ultimate American kitschy Elvisery, for Elvis freaks and born-agains, for believers in the King and in the Church of Rock 'n Roll. We bought (expensive) tickets for the mansion tour and wandered cluelessly through the velvet ropes that led us to the Elvis Presley Express, a short bus (literally) that drove us and about 10 other alarmingly overweight tourists across the street to the mansion (literally):
They outfitted us with these electronic tourguide contraptions that looked like cell phones from 1984 that were to be dangled around our necks, and we were supposed to put on the attached headphones. We were so loaded down with bulky tourist gear, armed with audio guides, cameras dangling around wrists, headgear, it was as if we were going to tourist war. There were many buttons to push on the audioguides, and boring narration emitted from the headphones. It was so stupid that it was almost awesome:
Almost, I said.
Here's Suzie attempting to look dignified in front of Graceland proper:
And, inside Graceland, note the King's eye for design:
This hallway ceiling mirror provided us with at least 10 minutes worth of hilarious entertainment and photo-ops, and we held up the whole tour, bottlenecked in the narrow reflective stairway:
Totally hilarious oilpaint rendering of the King's likeness:
Here's proof that Elvis was an advocate against fun-burgling:
And on a more somber note, here lies the King, alongside his parents and twin brother:
We were considering orchestrating a dramatic/sarcastic photo next the grave, but quickly realized that there were people there who would probably have us executed on behalf of the King if we did.
Enough with the King, we had to get to Little Rock, AK, home of Bill Clinton and a lot of gravel. Or maybe sand is like considered the smallest of rocks? Onward with the noble quest!
But first, apparently, we took a detour through Egypt and the Old Testament, before reaching the Arkansasian border:
Words cannot describe how hilarious I find this -- I am assuming this has been on display at Texaco since 1986:
Is it an ad for hot dogs & Saved by the Bell??? Or awesome shades & Walkman???? Note the flawless squiggle of mustard!! And the fanfare of nacho flavored cornchips!!! A work of art, should be immortalized in a museum somewhere, a true iconic representation of the opposite of burgling fun.
A friendly reminder from God country:
But we were running about an hour early and our gracious host hadn't gotten out of work yet, so we found a liquor store and decided to hang in front of it.
It ultimately proved to be poor foresight. We didn't blend well with the locals; within minutes we attracted attention. A gentlemen, named Antoine, walked from across the street to inquire whether we were twins, lesbians, where we were from, whether or not we would like to "get freaky" and be pimped out. We graciously denied his offer of being pimped out, despite his promises of how lucrative it could be. At least he was wearing shoes.
Referring to the 2 bottles of wine we'd bought, a woman trudging through hot asphalt and broken glass with no shoes and hot pants exclaimed, "you girls gonna git to' up!!!" and laughed maniacally at us.
I hadn't seen my friend Jonny from Ohio for about 4 years, but looked him up for a place to stay. Turns out he had a huuuuuuuuuuge beautifully furnished house, more room than he could ever need, and we were allowed to stay in our own tastefully decorated room, with a fireplace, and in-room clawfoot bathtub. After nights of sleeping on the ground and fighting the war on bugs, we were truly in the lap of luxury. We allowed Jonny-gullible-cakes to remain under the impression that we had driven from Memphis drunk.
So Jonny got right busy and squired us around Little Rock, seeking out ingredients for the dinner he was going to make for us. We were both about ready to die of hunger as he drove from grocery store to grocery store in search of the right mango. Frustrated after several produce sections that Jonny rejected, I asked the produce section employee, who looked like the 5th member of Kings of Leon, for help finding mangos. Jim, as his nametag claimed, said he would look in backstock for us. He disappeared for a while, then returned empty-handed. My crude assistant, Suzie, commented on how he probably just went in back to play some air guitar. Air Guitar Jim had failed us and we had to move on to some more grocery stores. I was getting crazed & impatient.
After finding the appropriate mangos at the very last store in town, we arranged all ingredients in Jonny's spacious, classical-yet-futuristic kitchen and received a lesson in cooking, as he showed us step-by-step how to make The Best Guacamole You've Ever Had. I will not publish the ingredients, in case it gets into the wrong hands, but if you ever have a barbecue, I will bring it. Here's Jonny (and I):
Here's some pictures of us having beers later at a place called Pizza D's. Pitchers in Arkansas are dumb cheap by the way.
It was extremely exciting because none other than Air Guitar Jim made a guest appearance in our beer drinking bonanza. Upon recognition, Suzie & I shrieked his name out and we were reunited with our rock & roll produce non-producing friend. He invited us to his house for some stoner-related activities but Jonny poo-poo-cakes put the brakes on our fun and feigned fatigue. Here is photo proof of Air Guitar Jim (in the plaid shirt of course):
Suzie harassed this unknown guy into taking pictures with both of us, despite his protests:
At this point, Suzie was uncontrollably running amok & spraying filthy comments at the locals and we were taken home at an inopportune time, just when things were started to get interesting.
The Lonestar State: Take Another Shot of Courage, And A Quaff of Tequila (Jimador, please)
Despite all the rowdiness from the night before, we were on the road at 7 am. This portrait really captures bleary-eyed early morning fatigue, along with the crap flavor of the coffee.
It was such a long drive I kind of don't remember exactly how we entertained ourselves on the ride. The drive was south through Arkansas, over the border to Texas, and all the way south to Austin.
We definitely did not take this exit, though neither of us fear the reaper:
Our first stop all day was Waco, TX. We kind of cruised through the "downtown" of which was pretty much a flatliner at 3 in the afternoon, though another car did nearly ran us off the road due to a staring problem at our exotic Jersey plates. We happened upon a bar that had just opened, featuring a monster truck parked out in front, and many pool tables to choose from. We sidled up to the bar and demanded the coldest beer they had, as the heat outside was very unreasonable that day. Suzie beat me both at pool and at darts. We decided to mingle with the sparse bar crowd, and learned from the bartender that the "Waco" cult incident was actually closer to Crawford, TX, but Waco had to take the bad rap due to the President's association with Crawford. We learned that Fernando, the mexican line cook, entered his monster truck by "yumping." It was very easy to convince him that New Jersey was pronounced "New Yersey." And we also met the thinking man's bouncer, who read scholarly novels while checking IDs at the door, who challenged Suzie to a drink-off. Suzie won, of course, pounding several Irish carbombs on his tab, while I looked on, realizing the drive from Waco to Austin would be very savage, indeed. I hid in the bathroom for awhile, fearful of her inevitable belligerence:
We wanted to arrive in Austin at a decent time and said our goodbyes to our new friends in Waco. They begged us to stay and hang, warning us of ominously bad traffic. We literally had to fight our way out of the bar, in which Suzie sustained some injuries:
And here is Fernando's truck, I guess more of a jacked-up SUV rather:
The approach into Austin was suddenly very messy, a thunderstorm met us there, creating some treacherous driving conditions, slowing our arrival. I think it was the same storm that menaced us in Memphis, that son of a bitch.
Our host in Austin was a high school friend of Suzie's, of whom she hadn't seen in years. He greeted us with a bottle of Jimador tequila, some limes, salt, and we immediately bonded and gave each other a tri-five.
Here's a picture of the three of us (note beer all over ethan's shirt hahahaha):
Some advice offered in the ladies' room:
We got kicked out of said bar after a deluge of tequila; Suzie wrote a bad check for our tab and used me & Ethan as references and we were all tossed. On the walk home, Suzie advised me to get in this dumpster and I blindly obeyed:
The blurriness of this photo is directly related to their obvious double vision:
Two snarls & a shart:
I was so wasted I tried to share some snacks with my shirt:
In retrospect, not much could be recalled thereafter, but we have some photo evidence that unfortunately cannot be narrated; and many of the photos that were taken were in Polaroid form, which was confiscated the next day:
Helplessly Depraved & Irresponsible on Shiner Bock a.k.a. I Was Dancing in a Mexican Lesbian Bar
We went the Greatest Thrift Store EVER aka the Family Thrift Center on 208 East Oltorf St. We were extremely successful in procuring two amazingly similar high quality straw cowboy hats for 99 cents each. Their actual retail value was four times that, we later found out. What a steal!!
Ethan had finally woken up properly by the time we returned and demanded that we leave again so he could practice keyboards for his band Ethan Frederick Greene. It is unknown if there are other members in the band. So we went to a bookstore to go figure out where we were to go the next day; the trip thus far had been directed only by our mapquest directions from 16 Erie St Jersey City to 201 Live Oak St Austin. And we didn't know what else to do except for end up in Portland.
Ethan called us right about then, after less an hour of time with his electric piano turned up to eleven, most likely tapping out the melodies to Mötley Crüe. He was lost without our entertaining company and wanted to know if we could all go swimming. Not much negotiation was necessary to get us to agree, as it was obscenely hot outside.
Ethan is legally blind and that's why we asked him to drive:
This glorious swim pit was called Barton Springs. There was a grassy knoll, some railings and concrete stairs paired up with each other along the water's edge for ... wheelchair access?
As you can tell, the natural environment of this springs was covered in algae, making walking in waist-deep water only temporary; it was like walking on a bed of leeches.
Here's Ethan trapped in a box, his emokerchief dually noted:
Here's us spanning time after our swim, mapping out our plans for a barbecue dinner and most likely talking about sharting:
Here's the proud parents before we sacrificed their firstborn:
Ethan's roommate David even joined us.
We had so much fucking fun barbecuing and talking and Jimador-ing together that it became obvious that we should not leave the next morning, as originally planned. We asked to stay another day with our gracious hosts and they said we could! We were so happy, Ethan & David & Austin, TX were our new best friends.
The happening scene in Austin that night was that a local celebrity, name deleted by the insistence of his agent, possibly known for his work in Dazed & Confused, was having a party and we were sort-of invited. We didn't go, but instead entertained ourselves with flash-photography in the back of Ethan's car for as long as it was funny:
I was trying to channel Blue Steel from Zoolander. It was really hard to do without laughing:
We found ourselves at a bar usually known for its relative hipness on the outside patio, but tonight, there was a mexican lesbian dance party. We hung back like wallflowers at first; intimidated by the sheer numbers and sizes of the mexi-lezzies, one of which was celebrating a birthday. Here's an example of what we were dealing with:
Whoa, right? There were dyke mullets aplenty and even some cameltoe thrown in for a good measure (no joke!!!!!), and one preposterously large woman wearing a tight red dress that said 'Hot To Trot' as well. Conversation ensued about cut-off jean shorts, in order to avert our eyes from the mexi-lezzie dance floor:
Soon, however, combination of the menace of a tree roach at our feet and Ethan's shameless Shiner Bock belligerence made us leap into action.
We began dancing at an incredible speed!
This fan provided quite a bit of entertainment:
Later, we crashed a party that we were totally not invited to, disposed of all their liquor and were ready to move on. Here's Suzie & Ethan in front of the house number. I was most likely slurring through a conversation about cut-off shorts still, but there is no way of knowing at that point.
At that time, not only was Ethan legally blind, he was also viciously drunk. So we made him drive us home.
Here are the final two pictures from that night, unless you count all the polaroids later destroyed in a sober cover-up attempt:
Chapter 6: Bird Gets Bird; The National Air Guitar Championships; When Aliens Invade, Remember the Alamo
We decided to have brunch on a patio to celebrate our additional day in Austin.
However, there was a mean-spirited goddamn vulture that swooped down and pooped right in front of Suzie. Here's us giving that bird the bird:
The bird lingered while we dined, squawking occasionally, and when we left, it divebombed our abandoned food scraps. All birds are treacherous, I find.
This dog was ordering a milkshake:
My friends looking relatively dignified for once:
I love this:
Apparently you can rent the rock, as opposed to BRING IT:
Ethan is a big nerd and demanded that we go to the Alamo theatre to watch X-Men with him. Read this sign:
It's true; beers loves dogs loves beers:
I love the Alamo theatre because you can order buckets and buckets of beer and heckling was encouraged. Also we learned that the National Air Guitar Championships was going on that evening at another location. Yes, THE NATIONAL AIR GUITAR CHAMPIONSHIPS. Unfortunately, we were not allowed in due to circumstances beyond our control. Also, we had just missed the National Pun Championships by two weeks, what shit luck, man.
It just so turns out that both a biker rally and a gay parade were going on during the same day on Austin's main drag.
Here's Ethan reenacting the incredible speed in which he consumed a sandwich earlier. I had to set adjust the shutter to a very high speed in order to avoid blur; it was like trying to photograph a hummingbird.
I have some bar napkins from that night in which the following things were scrawled on:
"I'll yo la tengo with you in hellllllllllllllll"
"Ethan's so un-give-a-fuckie"
The night pretty much ended with us obsessively trying to gain national recognition by beating the high score of the erotic photohunt. Sadly, we failed, though our teamwork was awesome.
We got kicked out shortly afterwards for trying to vandalize the Megatouch thing because it burgled all of our quarters. Outside was an awesome sight to behold; hundreds of bikers and drunkards weaving though the street; it was like a leatherclad block party with chopped hogs rumbling all around. I reluctantly/accidentally saw several large women with like assless chaps & a bikini bottom under them and decided it was our time to make an exit from this debaucherous street scene.
Fear Itself: Funnel Clouds, The Texas Broil, Bat Country!!!, That Goddamn Scorpion Almost Rocked Me Like A Hurricane
Here's the face of six am, two expressions of ... well, I wouldn't say extreme fatigue but rather a healthy curiosity of the nearest place to get coffee. We were moving slowwwww ... that is until we got into the car. The Volvo wasn't tequila-weary, at least.
Two burned labeledlled "Mixed Greenes" had appeared next to us. We quickly remembered we'd demanded them night before and were surprised that Ethan had actually made them after we went to sleep, especially in his state of mind. It was pretty hilarious to actually listen to what our generally impaired dear friend had drug onto that cd, and the tracklisting of his corrupt logic. But you have to actually go on a long roadtrip to appreciate the invaluability of a new mix cd.
The first driving shift was in my hands, and there was much ground to cover. The plan was to arrive at the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico before dusk for the local bat performance. We were to head back north again, and log over 500 miles. We were driving through smalltown Texas, and it was really very quaint and cute; it made me think of ladies who had hobbies like making embroidered oven mitts and men who worked their entire careers at one job, instead of the confederate flag bible belt hillbillie propaganda I had expected. Hello, America. It was a very nice morning drive.
There is definitely a story there, but it is not mine to tell:
There was a whole lot of nothing to be seen; it was really quite exotic.
I was having a particularly good driving shift, calmly meditating through my hours & miles when I was interrupted by an enormous bug that did a faceplant right in my field of vision, which is rude, if nothing else, and I tend to take rudeness personally. Of course windshield wipers obscured things even more.
We didn't realize how road-cramped and crazed we felt until leaving the car for the first time for hours. I had left the car running for a fast getaway but instead it served as a soundtrack for the awesomest dance party ever that occurred on this highway exit. The intense Texan sun made us lightheaded I think.
I made Suzie drive. The scenery was so desolate and vast, the heat so fierce, combined with some extremely appropriate driving music that I put on, the passengeering that I did for the next few hours were the best of my life. I think it was an ultimate kind of happiness that only a roadtrip can appropriate. The music was good, the jokes were locked and loaded, we were in agreement on things like not getting pulled over, sharing cigarettes on intervals, cackling over burptalking, not getting menaced by truckdrivers, among other priorities. Who knew that such inner peace could be attained at 80mph in obscene heat along a ltraveledlled highway in the Lonestar State listening to Tom Petty? It was a beautiful thing. I reflected on this for miles. I'll stop describing this before I sound too sentimental.
And we saw about 20 miles' worth of these windmills, they were huge and silently rotating.
More photos from the road:
We also learned that we were in something called Tornado Alley. We took turns keeping a lookout for funnel clouds and discussed what to do in the event of one: park under an overpass? find high ground? stop drop & roll?
These two pictures were taken nearly in unison:
Fort Stockton, TX was a rather soulless and topographically boring town eternally cooking in far western Texas. We stopped at a grocery store and saw this in the freezer section and it totally redeemed itself:
How rad is that! Coach fudge bar!!! whoa ...
These two assholes from Jersey were a sight to behold in the grocery store. Suzie's "I Met My Next Ex at the Trailer Park Lounge" wifebeater was a point of interest amongst locals. We also put on a impromptu slapstick performance of trying to open our non-twist-off bottles of water without a bottle opener on any surface we could find in the parking lot, ultimately creating a puddle.
We found this picnic bench further down the road, miles of nothing on either side. I'm not sure if the oven breeze made the heat better or worse.
Even worse than hat-head: headband head.
Closer to the New Mexican border, we drove nearly 80 miles with absolutely nothing in either direction. Then we started driving through some real ghost towns, you know, with abandoned buildings and boarded up windows and so forth. We stopped here and it looked like prime territory for rattlesnakes. We weren't exactly sure how to scare off snakes and figured our flip flops didn't offer much protection against bites. So, we yelled "SNAKES!" and threw pebbles in case that helped. I was a little scared.
We were wondering if mirages showed up in pictures:
New Mexico:
We arrived at Carlsbad Caverns a few hours before the cavern bats were scheduled to perform, so we went into the main attraction which was the caverns themselves. There were several miles' worth of underground walking to be had, so we descended 60 stories and had a look:
The caves are the result of the interactions among water, rock, and air within caves. As water seeps through cracks in rock, it dissolves certain compounds; for caves, these compounds are usually calcite and aragonite (both calcium carbonate), or gypsum (calcium sulfate) things like this are created:
Here's us next to stuff:
After we had our fill of spelunking, we took in the view of the desert. This is where we witnessed someone freak the fuck out upon sighting a ferret: "Hey look! A Ferret! Guys! Look! It's a Ferret! Guys! Hey, Guys! A Ferret! Look guys! Ferret! I saw a ferret!! FERRET!! Guys! Guys!! FERRET!!" etc.
We thought seeing 400,000 bats fly out of a cave at the crack of dusk at an incredible rate of 6000 bats per minute would be TOTALLY METAL. We imagined that a frantically flapping, chirping tornado of solemn darkness swirling up from the canyon over our heads & divebombing us would recall Hitchcock, or maybe Sabbath. We were not allowed to photograph the bats unless we were far away, so if you look very very closely you can kind of make out the bat cloud:
The bats were instead peaceful, like a delicate funnel cloud of black butterflies fluttering into the colorful sunset, silent, fragile, peaceful. I still wore a VaHa shirt.
The sun seemed to set for nearly an hour straight, and it wasn't even completely dark until we turned on Capitan Beef Road, where a national campground was situated. This was a very interesting drive: we were listening to the hilarity of Foreigner, driving down a very dark road in which rabbits & deer shot out the bushes on regular 10-second intervals. Seriously! It was almost scary, the sheer numbers of animals that would emerge from the bushes and scamper across, Suzie had to keep hitting the brakes and drive real slow. I like bunnies and deers but was thinking ahead to all the other animals that might be out there as well ... like mean snakes or desert wolves or kit foxes.
10 miles later was the campground, and we were both totally beat. We walked over to brush our teeth together, tired, draggy and exhausted from the day's miles, heat & events. There were some extremely menacing bugs swirling around the orange lights, and it made me even more wary of discovering gross bugs in my shoes and/or snakes curled up under the tent. That was when Suzie said, "Kat, don't move," and grabbed me, pulling me towards her. Where my foot had been there was a large scorpion with what looked like a clear/white/gross exoskeleton looked back at us, obviously up to no good. I screamed like a girl and was traumatized. If you think I'm a total weenie, I've been LIVING IN NYC FOR 7 YEARS, and cockroaches don't bite or hide in your shoes armed with poison darts.
Putting the tent together using the light from the car's headlights was nerve-racking; I was terrified of scorpion/snake discoveries, bugs would aggressively divebomb you if you tried to use the flashlight, it was incredibly dark and we were not far from Roswell. We put the tarp on the gravel underneath the tent in hopes that if a snake or bugs decided to collect, maybe they would at least be inclined to do so underneath another layer of plastic.
In the tent, we chugged some Texas Red as shown. The wind picked up and noisily abused our tent. We had to weigh the tent corners down with rocks, which was another ordeal. The tent/tarp flapping in the wind, the stuffy heat combined with my fear of opening the window in case a deer tried to stick its head in the tent, the likelihood of UFOs hovering above, gravel and presumably snakes underneath; all of this made for an extremely unproductive night of sleep. For reasons apparent over the next 2 days, I think New Mexico is the least trustworthy of all 50 states & even Puerto Rico.
Chapter 8: Today's Pig Is Tomorrow's Bacon, A Closetful of Gila Monsters, Breakdown on Paradise Boulevard
The day started off with strange noises outside the tent, and it was apparent that flock of large desert gulls were communing on our camp site, squawking and flapping and pooping. The night had provided only minutes of sleep on intervals and I was in no mood to be menaced by flora and/or fauna.
It so turns out that our nightdrive had put us right on the edge UFO crash site. The good news is that there was nothing scary to be found under our tent i.e. mean snakes or gross bugs.
And we were aadjacentcent to beautiful lake.
We drove to Roswell, NM, assuming it would be one of the epicenters of American kitsch. I don't really have much to say about Roswell because it was a highly disappointing town of shitkitsch. Here's all you need to know:
Back on the road. The clouds were extremely decent that morning, and the sand was markedly more reddish:
Cline's Corner provided at least one hour's worth of air conditioning, and particularly entertaining interactions with locals and also with souvenirs.
We also met some local celebrities:
Fireworks were strongly encouraged in this part of the country:
Back on the road, en route to Albuquerque, following the Route 66, or so the souvenir shops told us.
We thought it would be hilarious to stop at the Rattlesnake Museum, which boasted the largest collection of rattlesnakes in North America.
Look! A real snake (as opposed to imagined):
Oh look! News from back home!
I am laughing because I was being heckled at that moment:
We went in search of the giant wrought iron dinosaurs that were supposed to be a few blocks away, and found some public art along the way:
I remember having a conversation about how cute and pleasant Albuquerque was, and that we were a bit sad to see it go. About 20 miles down the road, the Volvo quit shifting gears. Here's the last picture on the road before the partial breakdown:
The drive back into town was a stressful one with the hazards on. The hour was too late to talk to a mechanic, and we would have to wait till morning.
We got a hotel room very cheap via one part sob story two parts stranger kindness. It had air conditioning a pool which were both immediately taken advantage of.
The goal was to enjoy ourselves at all costs due to the delay in our road trip. We went out to a fine dinner, tried to sneak into a concert and ended up at a bar across the street and promptly made friends with this guy who got busy recommending a trustworthy mechanic to us:
After a Boilermaker Surprise, and a master's degree in belching, we asked the barkeep where we could hear some Motley Crue. The bartender actually left his beer pouring post and walked us over to a radder bar a few blocks away, introduced us to the bartender there, who introduced us to his friends and sent us drinks. How's that for red carpet treatment/stranger kindness??!!?!!
Here's some of our new friends:
Here's an example of Suzie's new bathroom cleanliness rating system:
This was to indicate that the bathroom was not acceptable.
Pub closing time came earlier than we wanted; we still hadn't met everyone or taken every shot of tequila in town yet, so we were receptive to the invite made over the loudspeaker to the "party at hotel room #202" from the touring band.
Upon arriving at said room #202, the entire band was curled up in their beds, watching a war movie, sipping the only beer present. It was really quite pathetic, to extend a bar-wide invitation and not even be ready to provide any entertainment, much less an auxiliary beer or something. Scotty had stolen a bottle of Jack Daniel's from his work, which riled a few troops out from under their covers, but the damage had already been done to their reputations and Suzie immediately went to work humiliating them -- especially the one with the "I heart NY" shirt.
Suzie, sensing impending doom based on the number of shots of Jack Daniels, multiplied by a bottle of wine, several beers and some tequila that we'd had, decided to get some sandwiches for us from a 24-hr diner next door. She brought the so-called band with her and somehow got the cops called on them by our hotel (even though they were not on hotel property). I let Scotty use our hotel phone to call a cab home and the hotel manager threatened to call the cops on me too, for having an unauthorized guest. No cops actually showed up (apparently empty threats), however our fun was thoroughly burgled.
Chapter 9: All Hell Breaks Loose, The Waterworks, The Volvo Transforms Very Unmagically into a Buick Le Sabretoothtiger, New Mexico Has Officially Burgled My Fun
The previous night's consumption levels had proved far too serious for us, and we are two serious motherfuckers, both being seasoned bartending professionals in top form with much practice. The morning was all pain. The plan was to take the car to be checked out right when the auto shop opened, so that we wouldn't loose too much time, but we'd slept 3 hours throug6 amur 6am alarm. It was a tough lesson to relearn: 1 bottle wine+tequila+beer+tequila+beer+beer+whiskey+whiskey=pain, poor organization, and crap attitudes, and that alarm clocks don't set themselves:
My nerves were frayed and I sought out some continental breakfast to stabilize my sugar levels:
A few frantic calls to some very busy auto repair shops finally yielded a possibility of getting the car worked on by a certain Jim Dearholt Auto Repair.
The car was in even worse condition than before; it wouldn't shift about the 2nd gear at this point. We were going extremely slow along the Albuquerque strip, with the pick-up being slim to none.
Suzie learned about the extreme temperatures that her ass can withstand i.e. hot coffee in the lap. Her's her soaked ass:
The car was so dysfunctional at that point, we nearly called AAA. Finally, we arrived at the auto repair shop, I filled out a form in which I was supposed to write my name, my car's name, and what was wrong with it, which i did, and added that I wanted "only good news please, like an oil change."
The weather was incredibly hot and clear. Suzie had to perform a costume change in the parking lot and ditched her coffee-stewed mini-shorts. After joking with the employees and explaining our cross-country journey, we returned to the car and reclined the seats for a nap in the shade to nurse our matching hangovers & mechanical stress. It was over 100 degrees outside already, and it seemed that both the sun and our luck was angry at us.
We were invited into the air conditioned waiting room by the nice folk at the repair place and so we sidled up, ready to nap there too.
The auto repair man sat down with us and said "Here's the good news, it will cost less for you to buy a new car than to get this one fixed." The transmission was on its last dying breath, and was not interested in taking us the rest of the way across America. The repairguy recommended that I sell the car, sell my stuff, and buy a ticket on Greyhound. Tears were shed (by me) and phonecalls were made (by Suzie). I ended up saying fuck all, this crazy trip would go on at all costs, I was not going to take any buses anywhere. A lot of phone calls were made, in fact, more than 3 hours' worth of trying to sell my car to junkyards and Volvo repair places, trying to get a cheap deal on a rental car and arranging for them to pick us up.
Man, this sucked! Here's me kissing that Volvo title goodbye:
The sky had turned from clear blue to angry grey when this was all happening. The locals were shocked by the rain, it was extremely unusual weather for the area to have rain apparently.
I must add that the people at the repair place didn't charge us a dime even though they diagnosed the car and we used their phones and ate their candy and created some bad vibes in their lobby. They were so nice. And some people who were also in the waiting room offered to let us crash on their couch. They even prayed for us.
It gets sadder. Here is the coolant stain left by the Volvo before it was taken away, along with the license plates which they allowed me to keep. At this moment, I had just given up the last key I owned; I don't remember the last time I had no keys. The vessel that was supposed to take me and everything I owed from here to there had failed me and this is how lost I felt:
Check that bicep! That's some tough love!
Anyone who thinks I'm a crybaby because the car died, well double fuck you, dude. It was extenuating circumstances.
I had managed to procure nearly the same amount of money for the Volvo in parts as the rental car costed. It was still a lose-lose situation, however. This is was what I saw at Budget car rental when I was waiting to get the car. That's a cockroach.
Back in action at very least. I was behind the wheel of a silver Buick Le Sabretoothtiger. Not much for style points but it had some A/C that worked gooooood. We pitstopped at 7-11 and I bought smokes, gum, and a lottery ticket, thinking it would be the luckiest moment of my life immediately following the shitastic horrificprecedingeeding it. Yet another loser. F that ticket:
As soon as we hit the road, the weather lightened up along with our moods, we were in motion again, and the sky looked beautiful on our second attempt across New Mexico.
We treated ourselves to a super cute kitschy hotel called El Ranchero in Gallup, NM.
And we treated ourselves to some serious martinis. The tone was both jovial and somber.
And we were stupid tired.
I love this picture of us equally as much as I hate New Mexico:
end, part 1
posted by kat | 3:06 PM
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