Greetings!
You have arrived at this blog via an outdated link. In an effort to feign professionalism, the intrepid Reverend Gonzo has moved his vim, vigor, and vitriol to Gonzo 2.0
Sorry about the extra mouse click, but it is well worth it.
See you there.
- Rev.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Zelazowa in the Lizard Lounge: Lancaster Rocks
Introducing Gonzo 2.0.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
"I Could Never Get the Hang of Tuesdays" - Arthur Dent
" Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism." - Hunter S. Thompson
I read that quote at least a dozen times a day. I scrawled the words onto a scrap of notebook paper. Its tacked next to a silkscreen picture of the Good Doctor I have hanging in my cubicle, just to the right of the old Dell CRT monitor I stare at every day of my internship.
The whole setup is pretty cool, I mean, the internship as a whole, as well as aforementioned cubicle.
I'm not sure how comfortable I feel saying who I blog for just yet. I might wait until I start a new blog (can't we think of a nobler word for the thing?). Anyway, I intern at a newspaper, and, one week into it, everything is pretty awesome.
Expect fun things to be happening soon. I bought a Webbie and I have too much time on my hands.
Updates:
I'm living elsewhere th
is summer with some good friends. By day, I'm either a gas station clerk or a lowly Features intern tapping away at a keyboard. By night, I run, make music, or kill copious amounts of Nazi Zombies.(By afternoon, I just run errands, have brilliant ideas, or take naps.)
Cigarettes haven't been a problem lately. We'll see how long I hold out this time, I'm going for the gold this time.
The internship is pretty clutch. Cubicles aren't that bad, for now at least.
My roommate and I are embarking for the North Country in a little over a month. One week up at the lake, maybe tackle Marcy. Hopefully, one of us gets to wrestle a bear.
That's what's going on for now. I don't know why, but I felt compelled to do so.
Point. Narf.
- Rev. Gonzo
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Case for Cannabis
Published in the 4/22 edition of La Vie (Lebanon Valley College's weekly rag). I wrote the case for cannabis, the perspectives editor wrote the case against. Yes, I schooled her. I schooled her good.
***
There is no other way to say it: marijuana prohibition is the dumbest, most harmful thing America has ever done to its citizens. It is the culmination of American legislative stupidity - placing the welfare and pocketbooks of every taxpaying citizen in jeopardy.
To legalize or not to legalize is not even a question. The defense for prohibition formulated in the 30s has been debunked by the magic of science and mathematics. Crazed reefer addicts aren’t cruising our streets looking for helpless virgins to rape. Drugs sold by Pfizer wreak more havoc on the brain than the finest Moroccan hashish.
It is time for America to face the music: the slew of prohibition laws are stupid. There is no shame in admitting to the mistake; oversight happens all the time and people make stupid mistakes everyday. Now it is high time for the mistake of marijuana prohibition to be corrected. Are these swine going to acknowledge the harsh truth that they were, and still are wrong?
Ah, the truth. A rare and dangerous commodity in this day and age. The truth of the $150 billion we spend per year on enforcement and court costs, with 50% of arrests being marijuana related. Or the truth of the $68 billion per year we spend on prisons, with 33% of those in jail there on marijuana charges.
No, President Obama, perhaps legalizing marijuana won’t help us “grow our economy”. Maybe it would save us, the taxpayers, the billions we lose annually on this waste of a war. Maybe it would help trim the profit margins of the Mexican drug cartels that make $25 billion every year off of American drug habits. On that note, if drugs were legalized, would there be violent drug dealers at all?
This isn’t just about the Mike Phelps and Andy Goetz’s of the world anymore. Marijuana legalization is no longer a case of “fight the power, man.” Our economy is hurting, and while legalization marijuana wouldn’t be a cure-all it would certainly be a boon. Mexico is burning, and the reason why there are violent drug dealers is because America created drug laws. Prohibition has created more problems for the US and the world, in terms of money as well as quality of life, than will ever be worth it.
***
I think I could have done better, but I'm happy with what I had. With a 400 word count limit, I couldn't lay down as much as I would have liked, but I think I got the point across.
- Rev.
***
There is no other way to say it: marijuana prohibition is the dumbest, most harmful thing America has ever done to its citizens. It is the culmination of American legislative stupidity - placing the welfare and pocketbooks of every taxpaying citizen in jeopardy.
To legalize or not to legalize is not even a question. The defense for prohibition formulated in the 30s has been debunked by the magic of science and mathematics. Crazed reefer addicts aren’t cruising our streets looking for helpless virgins to rape. Drugs sold by Pfizer wreak more havoc on the brain than the finest Moroccan hashish.
It is time for America to face the music: the slew of prohibition laws are stupid. There is no shame in admitting to the mistake; oversight happens all the time and people make stupid mistakes everyday. Now it is high time for the mistake of marijuana prohibition to be corrected. Are these swine going to acknowledge the harsh truth that they were, and still are wrong?
Ah, the truth. A rare and dangerous commodity in this day and age. The truth of the $150 billion we spend per year on enforcement and court costs, with 50% of arrests being marijuana related. Or the truth of the $68 billion per year we spend on prisons, with 33% of those in jail there on marijuana charges.
No, President Obama, perhaps legalizing marijuana won’t help us “grow our economy”. Maybe it would save us, the taxpayers, the billions we lose annually on this waste of a war. Maybe it would help trim the profit margins of the Mexican drug cartels that make $25 billion every year off of American drug habits. On that note, if drugs were legalized, would there be violent drug dealers at all?
This isn’t just about the Mike Phelps and Andy Goetz’s of the world anymore. Marijuana legalization is no longer a case of “fight the power, man.” Our economy is hurting, and while legalization marijuana wouldn’t be a cure-all it would certainly be a boon. Mexico is burning, and the reason why there are violent drug dealers is because America created drug laws. Prohibition has created more problems for the US and the world, in terms of money as well as quality of life, than will ever be worth it.
***
I think I could have done better, but I'm happy with what I had. With a 400 word count limit, I couldn't lay down as much as I would have liked, but I think I got the point across.
- Rev.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
More Empty Promises
Updates coming soon! I promise. Its sort of a "yes, but not now" type of thing.
The harsh rigors and realities of Academia leave me disheartened and drained, so writing has been a challenge. LVC... W.T.F.?
I'm on Twitter now, bt-dubs. RevGonzo19. Check it out. There was a time when I would have considered this selling out, but I'm realizing I was born on the cusp of a generational gap that I have to bridge if I want success.
Too young to be a proper journalist, too old to have been raised on this Web 2.0 carp. I remember a time when there was no Internet in my home. We had to beat each other with sticks for fun.
Anyway, here's an excerpt from a blog I did for PennLive.com that didn't get published. (The Friday Post was published.)
***
To make matters more interesting, there was a nice drunk lady named Barb sitting next to me during the set and we struck up some conversation.
“This is the happiest Ring of Fire I’ve ever heard,” said Barb. “Do you come here often?”
“Zounds,” I thought to myself. “It’s only eight o’clock and she’s already a sheet or two to the wind.”
“Oh sh*t!,” she exclaimed, nearly falling out her seat. “Could you just forget I said that?”
This was getting weird. But she seemed to be having a good time, and I didn’t want to ruin it for her. It was a good thing I’d only had one drink, otherwise the urge to burst out laughing would have won out over my better judgement.
“Oh no,” I said, smiling back at her. “I’m flattered, really. So what do you think of his cover of Bob Dylan...”
She mumbled something unintelligible and made for the bathroom. I signaled the bartender, held up three fingers, and said “whiskey, rocks.” Thank god for Kentucky’s finest.
It was my original intention to interview Stu Huggens after his set, but things were about to kick off at the Chameleon, and the scene was getting too weird for my young blood. I had stepped outside for a cigarette and when I returned my seat next to Barb was taken. It looked like some yuppie scum looking for a quick lay, and who was I to stop him? Huggens was also playing his rendition of Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars. It was all a blaring message that it was time to go...
***
And that's all folks.
- Rev.
The harsh rigors and realities of Academia leave me disheartened and drained, so writing has been a challenge. LVC... W.T.F.?
I'm on Twitter now, bt-dubs. RevGonzo19. Check it out. There was a time when I would have considered this selling out, but I'm realizing I was born on the cusp of a generational gap that I have to bridge if I want success.
Too young to be a proper journalist, too old to have been raised on this Web 2.0 carp. I remember a time when there was no Internet in my home. We had to beat each other with sticks for fun.
Anyway, here's an excerpt from a blog I did for PennLive.com that didn't get published. (The Friday Post was published.)
***
To make matters more interesting, there was a nice drunk lady named Barb sitting next to me during the set and we struck up some conversation.
“This is the happiest Ring of Fire I’ve ever heard,” said Barb. “Do you come here often?”
“Zounds,” I thought to myself. “It’s only eight o’clock and she’s already a sheet or two to the wind.”
“Oh sh*t!,” she exclaimed, nearly falling out her seat. “Could you just forget I said that?”
This was getting weird. But she seemed to be having a good time, and I didn’t want to ruin it for her. It was a good thing I’d only had one drink, otherwise the urge to burst out laughing would have won out over my better judgement.
“Oh no,” I said, smiling back at her. “I’m flattered, really. So what do you think of his cover of Bob Dylan...”
She mumbled something unintelligible and made for the bathroom. I signaled the bartender, held up three fingers, and said “whiskey, rocks.” Thank god for Kentucky’s finest.
It was my original intention to interview Stu Huggens after his set, but things were about to kick off at the Chameleon, and the scene was getting too weird for my young blood. I had stepped outside for a cigarette and when I returned my seat next to Barb was taken. It looked like some yuppie scum looking for a quick lay, and who was I to stop him? Huggens was also playing his rendition of Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars. It was all a blaring message that it was time to go...
***
And that's all folks.
- Rev.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
On Transition Points, New Adventures, and Marijunana
Somewhere between getting on board the plane at the ring of hell that is LAX and tonight, I lost the impetus to write. I possessed a drive to do well with my studies, but there was little inspiration to actually write. Tonight, however, is different.
I suppose for me inspiration and motivation are like a freight train. It only takes one leap to grab on to it, but it requires some serious god damn gumption and diligence to ride the mother fucker to the last stop.
There have been some hastily scrawled notes in my cellphone, left over from the past two weeks. I've been meaning to put them down into the semi-legible genius I make readers choke down. On that note, I am finally announcing my first little project. A lot of my faithful readers have told me the Highways on Fire series should be put into print, and I (humbly) agree. After I get all the jumble in my head from the first few weeks of school, I believe that there will be something pseudo-worthy of ink and paper. The working title is going to be Transition Points. Comments, suggestions, and insults happily accepted.
In other news, I'm planning a new adventure with Rev. Hartman up to the North Country of Pennsylvania and New York. He started a blog and everybody is encouraged to check it out.
News aside, here's some content:
On January 11, Andrew Carroll stood in downtown Keene, New Hampshire with some marijuana in his hand. While surrounded by 30 protesters and several camera crews, he was arrested by a couple of Keene police officers. The two part video can be found here on Current.com.
Very interesting stuff.
I would like to commend Andrew Carroll on being such a brave soul. His peaceful protest is one of the things we should be doing to garner a greater public scrutiny of the War on Drugs. There are a few things I found surprising and/or upsetting about the video.
First of all, props to the cop who spoke to the cameramen in the police station. He handled the situation exactly as he should have (in the eyes of the law) and did not lose his shit for even a second. The officer calmly explained the situation, both without lying to the camera and without comprising himself. He was just doing his job, after all. I agree that this may not be a valid defense, but for the sake of realism I am sticking to it.
I found the protesters heckling the arresting officers to be nonconstructive and annoying. Yes, they are enforcing ridiculous laws, but if they didn't, especially at such a publicized event, they would get fired. And the economy is bad. Let's be real, people. Please.
In the end, I do not think that it was a question of Carroll's protest being the "best" way to protest marijuana laws. In reality, it was A way to protest marijuana laws in a peaceful fashion, and that's what counts. This won't get changed going directly through the legal system, because we first have to show the legal system that the public will not stand for this.
Anyway, enough of sounding like a revolutionary hack, and more of getting to the point. If you have made it this far, you now get the "hidden track". The most offensive picture that I could find today:
I suppose for me inspiration and motivation are like a freight train. It only takes one leap to grab on to it, but it requires some serious god damn gumption and diligence to ride the mother fucker to the last stop.
There have been some hastily scrawled notes in my cellphone, left over from the past two weeks. I've been meaning to put them down into the semi-legible genius I make readers choke down. On that note, I am finally announcing my first little project. A lot of my faithful readers have told me the Highways on Fire series should be put into print, and I (humbly) agree. After I get all the jumble in my head from the first few weeks of school, I believe that there will be something pseudo-worthy of ink and paper. The working title is going to be Transition Points. Comments, suggestions, and insults happily accepted.
In other news, I'm planning a new adventure with Rev. Hartman up to the North Country of Pennsylvania and New York. He started a blog and everybody is encouraged to check it out.
News aside, here's some content:
On January 11, Andrew Carroll stood in downtown Keene, New Hampshire with some marijuana in his hand. While surrounded by 30 protesters and several camera crews, he was arrested by a couple of Keene police officers. The two part video can be found here on Current.com.
Very interesting stuff.
I would like to commend Andrew Carroll on being such a brave soul. His peaceful protest is one of the things we should be doing to garner a greater public scrutiny of the War on Drugs. There are a few things I found surprising and/or upsetting about the video.
First of all, props to the cop who spoke to the cameramen in the police station. He handled the situation exactly as he should have (in the eyes of the law) and did not lose his shit for even a second. The officer calmly explained the situation, both without lying to the camera and without comprising himself. He was just doing his job, after all. I agree that this may not be a valid defense, but for the sake of realism I am sticking to it.
I found the protesters heckling the arresting officers to be nonconstructive and annoying. Yes, they are enforcing ridiculous laws, but if they didn't, especially at such a publicized event, they would get fired. And the economy is bad. Let's be real, people. Please.
In the end, I do not think that it was a question of Carroll's protest being the "best" way to protest marijuana laws. In reality, it was A way to protest marijuana laws in a peaceful fashion, and that's what counts. This won't get changed going directly through the legal system, because we first have to show the legal system that the public will not stand for this.
Anyway, enough of sounding like a revolutionary hack, and more of getting to the point. If you have made it this far, you now get the "hidden track". The most offensive picture that I could find today:
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Highways on Fire: The Beginning of the End
It's a strange day in a strange land, here in Arizona.
Last night, as I stood outside drinking in the cool desert air mixed with a camel cigarette, pondering Scorpio's never ending pursuit of Orion, it struck me that we were on the eve of the last leg of this great journey. Run on sentences abound.
Today, we face one last trip until reaching our destination. One final burn through the Mojave desert, and then into the heart of Los Angeles traffic. While this is the shortest part of our trip, I feel that LA alone will make it the most arduous. I've mastered Harrisburg, and Philadelphia, and even Jersey... but the convoluted traffic system of LA seems a little daunting, even to me. And all the bastards have guns.
After today, my sister will as far away from home as possible without needing a passport, and I will have completed this little pilgrimage. To be quite honest, I could give two shits about Los Angeles. From what I've seen, it is noisy, polluted, and big. If I never cared for New York City, how will I feel about the City of Angels? No, my friends, this trip has never been about my personally getting to California. It has been about going west, and seeing what this great nation has to offer. It has been about getting as far away from the insignificant toils and snares as possible... those little things that distract me and weigh heavy on my mind, while in the end the answers are simple, and the problems small.
This has been about whiling away the long highway hours deep in thought. Just set the controls, son... let the on board computer take care of the speed while you untangle your brain and your sister sleeps.
And, above all, this has been about getting my lovely sister safely across the country on her way to her own great adventure... hopefully teaching her a thing or two about loosening up in the process. She needs this California thing, just as much (if not more) than I needed the trip itself. A change of scenery, a change of mind? This will be good for her, through all the good and bad it may produce.
And so, we ready for the last dance. All that lies between us and Los Angeles is 380 miles of open road, a lot of sand, and the most high strung, cracked out, traffic jam of America.
It's a good thing I brought my crowbar, folks, because this is Bat Country, and there's no stopping now.
- Rev.
Last night, as I stood outside drinking in the cool desert air mixed with a camel cigarette, pondering Scorpio's never ending pursuit of Orion, it struck me that we were on the eve of the last leg of this great journey. Run on sentences abound.
Today, we face one last trip until reaching our destination. One final burn through the Mojave desert, and then into the heart of Los Angeles traffic. While this is the shortest part of our trip, I feel that LA alone will make it the most arduous. I've mastered Harrisburg, and Philadelphia, and even Jersey... but the convoluted traffic system of LA seems a little daunting, even to me. And all the bastards have guns.
After today, my sister will as far away from home as possible without needing a passport, and I will have completed this little pilgrimage. To be quite honest, I could give two shits about Los Angeles. From what I've seen, it is noisy, polluted, and big. If I never cared for New York City, how will I feel about the City of Angels? No, my friends, this trip has never been about my personally getting to California. It has been about going west, and seeing what this great nation has to offer. It has been about getting as far away from the insignificant toils and snares as possible... those little things that distract me and weigh heavy on my mind, while in the end the answers are simple, and the problems small.
This has been about whiling away the long highway hours deep in thought. Just set the controls, son... let the on board computer take care of the speed while you untangle your brain and your sister sleeps.
And, above all, this has been about getting my lovely sister safely across the country on her way to her own great adventure... hopefully teaching her a thing or two about loosening up in the process. She needs this California thing, just as much (if not more) than I needed the trip itself. A change of scenery, a change of mind? This will be good for her, through all the good and bad it may produce.
And so, we ready for the last dance. All that lies between us and Los Angeles is 380 miles of open road, a lot of sand, and the most high strung, cracked out, traffic jam of America.
It's a good thing I brought my crowbar, folks, because this is Bat Country, and there's no stopping now.
- Rev.
Highways on Fire: Of Cacti, Aliens, and Other Green Things
If I scared anybody by not posting last night, deal with it. The muses were travel weary.
After burning across the vast expanse of New Mexico and crossing into Arizona, we arrived safely in Tempe to the home of Miriam Turney. Our wonderful hostess is a friend of our parents from Millersville, and has been kind enough to put us up for these couple of nights as we recover from our travels and ready for the last leg of our journey. She has five chihuahuas and one bichon. Their names are Fernando (aka, Fat Baby), Vaccarro (Spanish for cowboy), Fluffy, Angelica, Tanner, and Chubbs. This is about 58 pounds of dog.
We had been planning on arriving around 8 or 9, but got held up in Roswell due to a severe bout of ADD.
I had mentioned yesterday that Pete, a biker I met in Texas, had suggested we go to Bottomless Lakes State Park just outside of Roswell. The detour was worth it.
Bottomless Lakes is a series of sinkholes in the New Mexico desert caused by underground springs eating through the salt and gypsum strata, first forming caverns, which eventually collapsed, forming "lakes" that are about 40-50 feet in diameter, but anywhere from 17 to 90 feet deep.
Nature is a weird thing.
We happened across two men fishing in one of the sinkholes, Carlos and Arthur. Apparently, the lake water is salt, not fresh, and you can find some pretty sizable rainbow trout in some of the lakes on a regular basis.
Carlos is a tattoo artist who runs a parlor in Clifton, AZ called Forever Tattoo. Arthur was sporting some of his work, which was good enough for me to feel obliged giving Carlos a plug here.
After checking out the largest sinkhole, Lea Lake (as deep as lake Chateguay and a fraction of its size) we went back into town to check out the International UFO Museum and Research Center. Erika said it left her thoroughly unconvinced, and that it was boring because there was "too much stuff to read". I felt it was interesting, and provided an unbiased overview of the Roswell incident back in 1947, and did a good job of documenting how many times the government changed their story on the event (a bunch). First it was a weather balloon, then it was some sort of radar device, and then they argued that the "bodies" seen by witnesses on the scene were, in fact, glorified crash test dummies. I don't know about you guys, but I believe. I even bought a bumper sticker saying so.
After going through these touristy motions, it was on the road again. Nothing of note, just more of The Big Empty.
I've never been in this region of the United States before. In fact, most of this journey has been through uncharted territory, and every minute of it has been a joy (save for the occasional obligatory tiff with my lovely sister). I find myself now in a region of the country that has wide open spaces and big horizons. As I travel through this strange and beautiful land of friendly people and cheap cigarettes, I find myself going through a bit of a location-identity crisis. After all, in this part of the country the speed limit is 75 MPH and its 70 degrees outside in the middle of January...
But enough musings on that. The writing is constipated today, so instead of continuing this rant I'm just going to tune in, sign off, and veg out.
A demain, mes amis.
- Rev.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Highways on Fire: The Big Empty and Safe Landings in Roswell
I had some pretty good shit written. Then I pressed a wrong button and lost it all. Stuff was thrown around my hotel room, I'm sure I said a lot of things that would have made my father roll his eyes, and I'm slightly annoyed with myself. Fuck it, I'm tired. The big question that faces a writer in this situation is should I try and reconstruct some facsimile of what was written, or just say blow the whole load and go to bed? Fortunately (or unfortunately) for you, dear readers, I am nothing if not stupidly stubborn. Consider this Ballistic Editing.
After a long drive that was equal parts boring and uneventful, we landed safely in Roswell, New Mexico. We set up shop in Room 202 of the local Best Western, and then I made a bee line for the in house bar. I felt the need for a strong drink to dampen the thoughts knocking around in my travel weary head. Driving these distances for that long creates a sort of hum in your cranium, a condition brought on by the combination of repetitious scenery the zoned out/zenned in thinking that comes with the territory. Paid 5.20 for a Wild Turkey, which is a heaping bag of horse shit in any situation, and yet desperate times equal desperate measures.
We made it through the home state of our Malevolent Overlord relatively unscathed. There stands a sign on the border between Texas and Louisiana that reads "Proud Home State of George W. Bush". How any state could be proud of some a claim to the "infame" is beyond me. Although, Bush did make it possible for Lancaster to stop shamefully hiding that whole Buchanan thing.
The journey from Louisiana to New Mexico is a long one. Nearly 11 high speed hours, burning down I-20 through Forth Worth, and then hooking up with US 380 somewhere below the panhandle. This is the Big Empty. Nothing but oil derricks, cacti, and cotton fields to see as we blew down the highway at a healthy 80 MPH. Terry Pratchett once wrote (or rather, one of his characters once said) something about how all the great ideas are thought of in the desert, on account of there being so much space and nothing else. This certainly makes sense now.
To while away the long hours of driving while my sister dozed, I started to play a game in my head where I likened the open road to the deep blue sea. Porsches and Beamers were like dolphins: assholes of the sea who flit about as they please and play catch with baby seals, all the while sporting that stupid grin. Truckers were like whales, lonely and nomadic. Once in awhile you would happen upon a pod, and if you piss them enough enough you can hear their eerie songs... I wonder what they're saying...
Enough of this madness already. Snow blindness of the brain from too much travel.
It's also Big Sky Country in these parts, and all my friends who told me I would love it were right. Horizon stretches out in all directions, and I finally find a space that is big enough to be called comfortable. All the high buildings and choking pollution of PA get to me, I need a big horizon filled with sky blue sky.
The sun was starting to set just as we crossed into New Mexico. It was a breathtaking sight that would have brought even the most accomplished of artists to their knees, overcome by a wave of "holy shit, I don't have the colors to paint all of this."
First, the sky was a brilliant cerulean hue as Apollo began the downward curve of his journey. As the sun neared the horizon, the firmament darkened and deepened into more regal tones. It transformed into a layered iridescence. Above the setting sun, a stark navy pigment crowned the sky. Gradually, it bled down towards the horizon into a lustrous azure, which in turn bled into a resplendent salmon and apricot which crowned the just set sun... As the painter lacks the paint, I lack the words. But let me tell you, it was god damn beautiful and I'll leave it at that.
Anyway.
I met a man by the name of Pete at a gas station on 380 this afternoon. Failing to get a picture, I can only describe him as big, friendly, smokes Marlboro Red 100's like a trooper, and the proud owner of a bad ass mustache. He's a former trucker and a motorcycle enthusiast. We share a love of the open road, and flying by the seat of our pants down the highway at as many miles per hour as we can achieve. We had a brief conversation over cigarettes about where I was heading and where I was coming from. Pete suggested that we stop by the Bottomless Lake just outside of Roswell. After I get some swim trunks, we're going to go and visit before heading to Tempe, AZ.
Roswell is a pretty sweet town, from the looks of it. Aliens and UFOs run rampant, but there are no god damn bars open because its a Sunday night. We're going to briefly check it out tomorrow, if we don't get anal probed that is. Ha ha ha. What would a Roswell post be without probing jokes, eh?
That's all for now folks, somehow I managed to recreate most of what I lost. Consider yourselves lucky, and my hotel room a mess.
- Rev.
Tomorrow: What the Hell Are We Doing in the Middle of the Fucking Desert, Man?
After a long drive that was equal parts boring and uneventful, we landed safely in Roswell, New Mexico. We set up shop in Room 202 of the local Best Western, and then I made a bee line for the in house bar. I felt the need for a strong drink to dampen the thoughts knocking around in my travel weary head. Driving these distances for that long creates a sort of hum in your cranium, a condition brought on by the combination of repetitious scenery the zoned out/zenned in thinking that comes with the territory. Paid 5.20 for a Wild Turkey, which is a heaping bag of horse shit in any situation, and yet desperate times equal desperate measures.
We made it through the home state of our Malevolent Overlord relatively unscathed. There stands a sign on the border between Texas and Louisiana that reads "Proud Home State of George W. Bush". How any state could be proud of some a claim to the "infame" is beyond me. Although, Bush did make it possible for Lancaster to stop shamefully hiding that whole Buchanan thing.
The journey from Louisiana to New Mexico is a long one. Nearly 11 high speed hours, burning down I-20 through Forth Worth, and then hooking up with US 380 somewhere below the panhandle. This is the Big Empty. Nothing but oil derricks, cacti, and cotton fields to see as we blew down the highway at a healthy 80 MPH. Terry Pratchett once wrote (or rather, one of his characters once said) something about how all the great ideas are thought of in the desert, on account of there being so much space and nothing else. This certainly makes sense now.
To while away the long hours of driving while my sister dozed, I started to play a game in my head where I likened the open road to the deep blue sea. Porsches and Beamers were like dolphins: assholes of the sea who flit about as they please and play catch with baby seals, all the while sporting that stupid grin. Truckers were like whales, lonely and nomadic. Once in awhile you would happen upon a pod, and if you piss them enough enough you can hear their eerie songs... I wonder what they're saying...
Enough of this madness already. Snow blindness of the brain from too much travel.
It's also Big Sky Country in these parts, and all my friends who told me I would love it were right. Horizon stretches out in all directions, and I finally find a space that is big enough to be called comfortable. All the high buildings and choking pollution of PA get to me, I need a big horizon filled with sky blue sky.
The sun was starting to set just as we crossed into New Mexico. It was a breathtaking sight that would have brought even the most accomplished of artists to their knees, overcome by a wave of "holy shit, I don't have the colors to paint all of this."
First, the sky was a brilliant cerulean hue as Apollo began the downward curve of his journey. As the sun neared the horizon, the firmament darkened and deepened into more regal tones. It transformed into a layered iridescence. Above the setting sun, a stark navy pigment crowned the sky. Gradually, it bled down towards the horizon into a lustrous azure, which in turn bled into a resplendent salmon and apricot which crowned the just set sun... As the painter lacks the paint, I lack the words. But let me tell you, it was god damn beautiful and I'll leave it at that.
Anyway.
I met a man by the name of Pete at a gas station on 380 this afternoon. Failing to get a picture, I can only describe him as big, friendly, smokes Marlboro Red 100's like a trooper, and the proud owner of a bad ass mustache. He's a former trucker and a motorcycle enthusiast. We share a love of the open road, and flying by the seat of our pants down the highway at as many miles per hour as we can achieve. We had a brief conversation over cigarettes about where I was heading and where I was coming from. Pete suggested that we stop by the Bottomless Lake just outside of Roswell. After I get some swim trunks, we're going to go and visit before heading to Tempe, AZ.
Roswell is a pretty sweet town, from the looks of it. Aliens and UFOs run rampant, but there are no god damn bars open because its a Sunday night. We're going to briefly check it out tomorrow, if we don't get anal probed that is. Ha ha ha. What would a Roswell post be without probing jokes, eh?
That's all for now folks, somehow I managed to recreate most of what I lost. Consider yourselves lucky, and my hotel room a mess.
- Rev.
Tomorrow: What the Hell Are We Doing in the Middle of the Fucking Desert, Man?
I need like... a brazillian megapixels for this one.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Highways on Fire: Fast Times in Memphis and the Louisiana Hustle
I have to talk to that Driver's Union. I logged 9 hours today, Erika logged none. It's like Driving Ms. Daisy, but I think I'm lacking something that Morgan Freeman has... hm.
We left Nashville around 9:30, had some problems with inflating one of the tires. There were a brief ten minutes of panic that we wouldn't get out of Nashville alive, but then we crossed the streams and it all turned out ok.
Somewhere between Nashville and Louisiana, we decided to stop in Memphis for lunch. In the first note of the series, Uncle Andrew suggested a place for us to eat in Memphis. It was both way out of our price range, and closed for some heathen holiday season that I've never heard of. They say that if you can write sports, you can write anything. I would like to propose an "except travel guides and pornos" addendum.
Left without a plan or place to eat, we started walking down Second Street, looking like a couple of gummo tourists. We happened across a sign that proudly proclaimed "Voted Best Burgers in Memphis Since 1984" and I made the executive decision to eat lunch at whatever establishment was making so bold a claim.
"Best burgers?" I thought. "We'll see about that."
Huey's was the name of this fine bar/dining establishment, and they did in fact have the best burger I ever had in Memphis. While it was the only burger that I have ever eaten in Memphis, it was still damn tasty, and if that wasn't the best than I don't want to know what is.
The highlight of our dining experience was our waiter, Matt "Shaggy" Herring (like the fish). I am voting him the least douchiest waiter in all of Memphis, if only to assuage his fears that I am an undercover journalist for "Douchebag Waiters Weekly".
He was a kind soul, and a great waiter. He thought I was a girl at first, but quickly covered up by saying that he could empathize with my situation, as he too boasts a manly ponytail. His impressive beard however would suggest less confusing in his gender, but perhaps it has something to do with those Tennessee mountain girls...
Anyway, he was a pretty awesome guy and even let me take his picture for the blog.
We left Nashville around 9:30, had some problems with inflating one of the tires. There were a brief ten minutes of panic that we wouldn't get out of Nashville alive, but then we crossed the streams and it all turned out ok.
Somewhere between Nashville and Louisiana, we decided to stop in Memphis for lunch. In the first note of the series, Uncle Andrew suggested a place for us to eat in Memphis. It was both way out of our price range, and closed for some heathen holiday season that I've never heard of. They say that if you can write sports, you can write anything. I would like to propose an "except travel guides and pornos" addendum.
Left without a plan or place to eat, we started walking down Second Street, looking like a couple of gummo tourists. We happened across a sign that proudly proclaimed "Voted Best Burgers in Memphis Since 1984" and I made the executive decision to eat lunch at whatever establishment was making so bold a claim.
"Best burgers?" I thought. "We'll see about that."
Huey's was the name of this fine bar/dining establishment, and they did in fact have the best burger I ever had in Memphis. While it was the only burger that I have ever eaten in Memphis, it was still damn tasty, and if that wasn't the best than I don't want to know what is.
The highlight of our dining experience was our waiter, Matt "Shaggy" Herring (like the fish). I am voting him the least douchiest waiter in all of Memphis, if only to assuage his fears that I am an undercover journalist for "Douchebag Waiters Weekly".
He was a kind soul, and a great waiter. He thought I was a girl at first, but quickly covered up by saying that he could empathize with my situation, as he too boasts a manly ponytail. His impressive beard however would suggest less confusing in his gender, but perhaps it has something to do with those Tennessee mountain girls...
Anyway, he was a pretty awesome guy and even let me take his picture for the blog.
After lunch, and meeting a new Facebook friend, we went to the Lorraine Hotel where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was shot.
In the video blog, I say something about how weird it is to stand at that spot, looking at that balcony, and think about who our President will be in a short while... and it is weird. But I'm not sure in what way.
Is it awe inspiring? Is it some sort of analogy for "how far we have come as a country"? I don't think so. Racism still exists en force in America, and I don't believe that we've grown up completely just yet.
Tony Gorrick made a point about my profile picture that Obama ran his election based on skin color... and I feel that that is completely wrong. Are you trying to say that Obama purposefully made himself black in order to win the election? Or that, had he been a white man, McCain would have won? Did you stop to think that maybe Obama was elected because he represented a different heading than the one America was tacking on for the past eight years? This is not to say that Obama's course is going to be the right one, whether his solutions work or not will be revealed later, but I think that my friend missed the point.
Or maybe Obama won because he didn't pick a complete and utter twit for his running mate. Sure, she's easy on the eyes, but not on the brain cells.
Pardon me, my brain is fried and I digress.
After Memphis, we flew down the highway towards Tennessee and arrived safely somewhere in Louisiana.
We are being put up for the night by parents of on of Erika's friends, Dani Garza. Their names are Alfredo and Areta Garza, and they gave us stew and cupcakes, which was pretty much like heaven at the end of our day. Big props to them.
I can hear New Orleans calling my name... but unfortunately we won't be going there anytime soon. One day, I'll return to my love.
But that's all for now folks. Burnt out and brain dead on this Saturday night, but spirits remain high. Thanks for reading, and your comments are all read and duly appreciated.
- Rev.
Tomorrow: ... in which we head West.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Highways on Fire: Nuts in Nashville
Deciding to spend a whole day in Nashville was one of the better decisions made on this trip. I'm beginning to realize that America is a big place, and that there's lots to see, and you should see them. If you just end up being stuck in Lancaster... fie upon you.
We had a full day today, and it was allll good. The morning started off with a jaunt to the nearby McDonald's for a healthy lunch. This proved to be a cultural experience in its own right as the franchise looks different in these parts than in our parts.
It was over lunch that we decided it was necessary to buy tickets to see the Grand Ole Opry in the evening. When else would we get the chance to see Loretta Lynn perform live? Also, after Googling "things to do in Nashville", we decided to check out the Nashville Parthenon in Centennial Park.
Before hitting the park, we went downtown to purchase tickets for the Opry show. I decided at the start of the trip that I would allow my ADD to run free and wild in my travels, and that if something struck my fancy I would investigate until I was satisfied, or otherwise distracted. This led to me sipping a beer in the Legends bar on Broadway at 2 PM, listening to Robert Burgeis and his country rock band.
It was the music that drew me into this particular establishment. I have always been a sucker for country music... like Ray Charles, I like the stories. Also, country is like emo music... but for Southerners instead of scene kids, and I like Southerners better. The highlight of his set was the part where he asked for requests, and was met with a wall of "Freebird!". Mr. Burgeis stood his ground and, like any self respecting musician, promised that they would play anything and everything but. At one point, he told the clientele that he would play Freebird if they could muster $100.
"Is it really worth it?" I asked, playing the part of the belligerent Yank heckling the band.
"Hell no," he said, and launched into some country song about lost love and beer.
The Parthenon was impressive. I never knew that Nashville had a replica of the Parthenon, complete with a towering statue of the goddess Athena. If you ever get the chance to go to Nashville, check it out. It was built for Nashville's centennial in 1897, and can be found in Centennial Park... go figure.
Nashville is apparently called "The Athens of the South", supposedly on account of all the colleges in the area. I think that the Bureau of Tourism just made this shit up so that they would have something to put on an informational plaque in their sweet Parthenon replica, but who's keeping track?
We at dinner at the Merchant's Restaurant on Broadway. Our waitress was Caritta and she was very pleasant, which netted her a good tip. She's either really nice, or knows how to work a table. Either way, I had a good time and the food was excellent. The back of the menu gave a brief history of the building the restaurant resides in. Apparently it used to be a pharmacy that sold a miracle drug full of opium and alcohol.
"...although it probably never cured anyone, it made the consumer unaware of their problems."
Damn straight it did. Dinner also got a little awkward when Erika started to loudly talk about her views on people who are anti gay marriage. I love being a Salomon, and it took our check a little extra time to get to our table.
The Grand Ole Opry was definitely a worthwhile experience. Little Jimmy Dickins hosted a segment, and told some dirty jokes between songs.
"There's a pill they prescribe for old gentlemen like myself... but if you don't swallow it the whole way it makes your neck a little stiff."
Now that's what I call Southern comfort.
Seeing Loretta Lynn perform Coal Miner's Daughter live was awesome, to say the least. She may be old, but god damn she still has a full set of pipes... and I don't mean breasts.
Well, that's all for today folks. Yes, today's post was mundane and not as Gonzo, but sometimes the truth is what the truth is... boring to all save for those experience it.
Side note: Why are we so uptight in the Northeast? People are so pleasant down here, traffic flows at a smooth, leisurely, non-ulcer inducing pace, and everybody says hello. It's like Cheers, but with a background in slavery.
Tune in tomorrow for Louisiana. Now with wings to prevent flooding.
- Rev. Patrick P. Salomon
We had a full day today, and it was allll good. The morning started off with a jaunt to the nearby McDonald's for a healthy lunch. This proved to be a cultural experience in its own right as the franchise looks different in these parts than in our parts.
It was over lunch that we decided it was necessary to buy tickets to see the Grand Ole Opry in the evening. When else would we get the chance to see Loretta Lynn perform live? Also, after Googling "things to do in Nashville", we decided to check out the Nashville Parthenon in Centennial Park.
Before hitting the park, we went downtown to purchase tickets for the Opry show. I decided at the start of the trip that I would allow my ADD to run free and wild in my travels, and that if something struck my fancy I would investigate until I was satisfied, or otherwise distracted. This led to me sipping a beer in the Legends bar on Broadway at 2 PM, listening to Robert Burgeis and his country rock band.
It was the music that drew me into this particular establishment. I have always been a sucker for country music... like Ray Charles, I like the stories. Also, country is like emo music... but for Southerners instead of scene kids, and I like Southerners better. The highlight of his set was the part where he asked for requests, and was met with a wall of "Freebird!". Mr. Burgeis stood his ground and, like any self respecting musician, promised that they would play anything and everything but. At one point, he told the clientele that he would play Freebird if they could muster $100.
"Is it really worth it?" I asked, playing the part of the belligerent Yank heckling the band.
"Hell no," he said, and launched into some country song about lost love and beer.
The Parthenon was impressive. I never knew that Nashville had a replica of the Parthenon, complete with a towering statue of the goddess Athena. If you ever get the chance to go to Nashville, check it out. It was built for Nashville's centennial in 1897, and can be found in Centennial Park... go figure.
Nashville is apparently called "The Athens of the South", supposedly on account of all the colleges in the area. I think that the Bureau of Tourism just made this shit up so that they would have something to put on an informational plaque in their sweet Parthenon replica, but who's keeping track?
We at dinner at the Merchant's Restaurant on Broadway. Our waitress was Caritta and she was very pleasant, which netted her a good tip. She's either really nice, or knows how to work a table. Either way, I had a good time and the food was excellent. The back of the menu gave a brief history of the building the restaurant resides in. Apparently it used to be a pharmacy that sold a miracle drug full of opium and alcohol.
"...although it probably never cured anyone, it made the consumer unaware of their problems."
Damn straight it did. Dinner also got a little awkward when Erika started to loudly talk about her views on people who are anti gay marriage. I love being a Salomon, and it took our check a little extra time to get to our table.
The Grand Ole Opry was definitely a worthwhile experience. Little Jimmy Dickins hosted a segment, and told some dirty jokes between songs.
"There's a pill they prescribe for old gentlemen like myself... but if you don't swallow it the whole way it makes your neck a little stiff."
Now that's what I call Southern comfort.
Seeing Loretta Lynn perform Coal Miner's Daughter live was awesome, to say the least. She may be old, but god damn she still has a full set of pipes... and I don't mean breasts.
Well, that's all for today folks. Yes, today's post was mundane and not as Gonzo, but sometimes the truth is what the truth is... boring to all save for those experience it.
Side note: Why are we so uptight in the Northeast? People are so pleasant down here, traffic flows at a smooth, leisurely, non-ulcer inducing pace, and everybody says hello. It's like Cheers, but with a background in slavery.
Tune in tomorrow for Louisiana. Now with wings to prevent flooding.
- Rev. Patrick P. Salomon
Friday, January 9, 2009
Highways on Fire: 16 Hours to Nashville
We arrived safely in Nashville, TN exactly 16 hours after leaving hearth and home. There was a bit of a hold up in West Virginia due to a significant stretch of I-81 being closed off for reasons unknown. By "bit of a hold up", I mean 4.5 hours of sitting in traffic that was reduced to a dead crawl. See my posted videos for some rough documentary of the ordeal.
Parts 1 and 3 will be posted, Part 2 is reserved for friends only as it contains some questionable content. Don't worry, you aren't missing out on much.
West Virginia is now officially my least favorite state in the country. It was neck and neck with New Jersey for awhile, but I have now spent far too many minutes of my life in that wretched land and will avoid ever setting foot there again with the same diligence I apply to not getting herpes. At least New Jersey has something to look at (the girls).
Traffic must be some sort of purgatory that the Gods put us through once in awhile, just to get our attention. All we do is rush rush rush around all day. And then we're rushing to some destination, and BOOM some tractor trailer tries to pull off a triple sau cow and doesn't quite stick the landing. Now that freeway you were supposed to be tearing up at 80 miles per hour is closed for maintenance, and you and the million other poor fuckers who were going exactly where you were are stuck on the macadam, with nothing to do but sit and wait.
At first, I passed the time by conversing with my sister, increasing my risk for lung cancer, and walking around outside my car pretending in my head that this was the start of the Zomb0colypse. I would've teamed up with the other guy who was standing outside of his car, he knew what was up.
As time went on, however, my sister grew more agitated and my ADD began to take hold. Naturally, I threw up some 3OH!3 and started a dance party in my car. While Erika didn't smile that much, the old guy in the SUV next to me thought it was great. Dancing in your car during a traffic jam is a great civil service, I feel. It serves to alleviate the tension. Either the people around you enjoy your dancing, or they think to themselves "who is that dancing fool?" and laugh anyway, mostly because they feel better about themselves. Either way, people smile. This helps to cut down on the Stationary Highway Shooting. This is an elusive cousin of the Drive-By Shooting, only without the quick get away.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is what 16 hours in a car does to you. Moving along...
We crossed into the Central Timezone around 12:30 AM EST. Woo. Hoo.
The driving responsibilities were equally divided, with Erika sitting behind the wheel for 3 hours, and me driving the rest of the way. I'm sure there is a union for this sort of thing, and I want to join it for the sweet picket sign benefits.
Upon arriving at the hotel, the first thing I noticed was a tour bus parked outside of the hotel adjacent to the Best Western we are staying at. It was sponsored entirely by Gibson, surely this must be a good omen. It was like God's rainbow after the flood... I'd like to think that it was a sign from the Powers that Be saying "sorry about the traffic thing, we won't do it again." If only the dove turns out to be a '67 Les Paul...
Anywho, it's bloody late (early?) and time to upload pictures and videos, then call it a night. Please refer to my photo and video posts for a treasure of visual delights.
For great justice,
- Rev.
Tune in tomorrow for our Adventures in Nashville.
Parts 1 and 3 will be posted, Part 2 is reserved for friends only as it contains some questionable content. Don't worry, you aren't missing out on much.
West Virginia is now officially my least favorite state in the country. It was neck and neck with New Jersey for awhile, but I have now spent far too many minutes of my life in that wretched land and will avoid ever setting foot there again with the same diligence I apply to not getting herpes. At least New Jersey has something to look at (the girls).
Traffic must be some sort of purgatory that the Gods put us through once in awhile, just to get our attention. All we do is rush rush rush around all day. And then we're rushing to some destination, and BOOM some tractor trailer tries to pull off a triple sau cow and doesn't quite stick the landing. Now that freeway you were supposed to be tearing up at 80 miles per hour is closed for maintenance, and you and the million other poor fuckers who were going exactly where you were are stuck on the macadam, with nothing to do but sit and wait.
At first, I passed the time by conversing with my sister, increasing my risk for lung cancer, and walking around outside my car pretending in my head that this was the start of the Zomb0colypse. I would've teamed up with the other guy who was standing outside of his car, he knew what was up.
As time went on, however, my sister grew more agitated and my ADD began to take hold. Naturally, I threw up some 3OH!3 and started a dance party in my car. While Erika didn't smile that much, the old guy in the SUV next to me thought it was great. Dancing in your car during a traffic jam is a great civil service, I feel. It serves to alleviate the tension. Either the people around you enjoy your dancing, or they think to themselves "who is that dancing fool?" and laugh anyway, mostly because they feel better about themselves. Either way, people smile. This helps to cut down on the Stationary Highway Shooting. This is an elusive cousin of the Drive-By Shooting, only without the quick get away.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is what 16 hours in a car does to you. Moving along...
We crossed into the Central Timezone around 12:30 AM EST. Woo. Hoo.
The driving responsibilities were equally divided, with Erika sitting behind the wheel for 3 hours, and me driving the rest of the way. I'm sure there is a union for this sort of thing, and I want to join it for the sweet picket sign benefits.
Upon arriving at the hotel, the first thing I noticed was a tour bus parked outside of the hotel adjacent to the Best Western we are staying at. It was sponsored entirely by Gibson, surely this must be a good omen. It was like God's rainbow after the flood... I'd like to think that it was a sign from the Powers that Be saying "sorry about the traffic thing, we won't do it again." If only the dove turns out to be a '67 Les Paul...
Anywho, it's bloody late (early?) and time to upload pictures and videos, then call it a night. Please refer to my photo and video posts for a treasure of visual delights.
For great justice,
- Rev.
Tune in tomorrow for our Adventures in Nashville.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Highways on Fire: A Savage Plunge into Living the Dream
Today I, I embark on a journey that will knock of number 3 on my "List of Shit to do Before I Die" list: Drive cross country.
My sister is moving out to Cali, and I'm taking her. I've been stoked for this trip ever since she asked me to go, and god damnit it's go time.
The first leg of our trip will take us to Nashville, TN. There we will spend an extra day to see the sights and enjoy the vibe.
From there, we head down to Bossier, Louisiana and stay with a friend of Erika's for the night. Alas, nowhere near New Orleans. I'll get back there some day.
After Bossier is a 567 mile burn across the Texas panhandle, ending with a crash landing in Roswell, New Mexico. I'm thinking that it is here that I will find my real family, and finally figure out why I never seem to fit in.
Tempe, AZ is next in line. There we will stay with Miriam, an old family friend, for an extra day. Laundry and fun will certainly be had by all. I almost went to ASU, so finally getting to Arizona will give me a taste of what could have been. I'm sure it will taste sandy.
Finally, we will take the last leg of our trip to Los Angeles, CA. A 300 mile burn down I-10 W, just barely grazing the southern tip of Nevada (sigh... I'll make the run to Las Vegas one day), heading towards the sunset like a mother fucking cowboy. There, I bid farewell to my sister which I feel is going to be difficult to do. Especially considering she is going to be living with the only Mormons in California.
Farewell for now, we leave soon. Updates will be as frequent as possible, and they will also be on my Blog: http://fearandloathinginthe21stcentury.blogspot.com/
This is for several reasons. One: I have the digital camera and want to put pictures up next to the words. Two: a shameless quest to up my post count past 6.
So, read on my friends. Enjoy this chronicle of "The Salomon Children Go to Cali", as I am sure it will only be interesting to me. But I expect you guys to be nice and lie about liking it.
Love,
- Rev.
My sister is moving out to Cali, and I'm taking her. I've been stoked for this trip ever since she asked me to go, and god damnit it's go time.
The first leg of our trip will take us to Nashville, TN. There we will spend an extra day to see the sights and enjoy the vibe.
From there, we head down to Bossier, Louisiana and stay with a friend of Erika's for the night. Alas, nowhere near New Orleans. I'll get back there some day.
After Bossier is a 567 mile burn across the Texas panhandle, ending with a crash landing in Roswell, New Mexico. I'm thinking that it is here that I will find my real family, and finally figure out why I never seem to fit in.
Tempe, AZ is next in line. There we will stay with Miriam, an old family friend, for an extra day. Laundry and fun will certainly be had by all. I almost went to ASU, so finally getting to Arizona will give me a taste of what could have been. I'm sure it will taste sandy.
Finally, we will take the last leg of our trip to Los Angeles, CA. A 300 mile burn down I-10 W, just barely grazing the southern tip of Nevada (sigh... I'll make the run to Las Vegas one day), heading towards the sunset like a mother fucking cowboy. There, I bid farewell to my sister which I feel is going to be difficult to do. Especially considering she is going to be living with the only Mormons in California.
Farewell for now, we leave soon. Updates will be as frequent as possible, and they will also be on my Blog: http://fearandloathinginthe21stcentury.blogspot.com/
This is for several reasons. One: I have the digital camera and want to put pictures up next to the words. Two: a shameless quest to up my post count past 6.
So, read on my friends. Enjoy this chronicle of "The Salomon Children Go to Cali", as I am sure it will only be interesting to me. But I expect you guys to be nice and lie about liking it.
Love,
- Rev.
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