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.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment