Past Adventures Dredged up from the Scrapheap
January, February 2012
Rita, part deux:
Rita nailed HB 1867. Now the government can round us up with impunity, or
it can’t; depends on which clause is enforced. No worries. A left-leaning blog
assured me that the constitution trumps all, when politically expedient (the
latter being my humble interpretation).
But the big news is that Secretary of Defense Panetta, according to a
report I heard over the radio, is going to“deploy 80,000 less troops moving
forward.” Admittedly, I was a REMF* in the Army, but why mothball the term
“retreat.”And since we’re building a green defense doesn’t the word “retreat”
save the taxpayers 1/6th
the cost of ink, and decrease carbon emissions by 83%?
Meanwhile, Arab countries keep attempting brazen missions on our home
soil. Last fall Iran attempted to assassinate Saudi Arabia’s ambassador, and
just days ago Qatar improvised some cloak & dagger moves. A lingerie
shopping spree is pretty flimsy cover for promoting democracy though, so neither
FLOTUS** or Queen Sheikha Mozah*** brought anything
home.
* Rear
Echelon Mother-
**
Mrs. POTUS
***
QueenSheikha Mozah likes
the sound of democracy, but it just doesn’t fit her country. (I don’t think I
have any Qatari readers, so I’ll probably sleep
ok.)
Weather machine, fracking earthquakes in
Ohio….Methane hydrates are found in environments
with high pressure and low temperatures such as the ocean floors, often near
continental fault lines, where the gas crystallizes on contact with cold sea
water. SOAP – 70’s soaps HAARP earthquakes
December,
2011
Knowing you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you Rita.
“The movie last night wasn’t what I thought it was about,” Cowboys
and Aliens. “I thought maybe they were using cowboys to soften up the
message for that generation that grew up watching John Wayne, and those type of
westerns. Most people have no idea. They’re either watching TV, or they’re
wrapped up in the bullshit of this company. It goes far beyond that. You know
what I mean?”
I haven’t a clue. And I
probably let that show through on my face, a face more than ready for the
mind-numbing cleansing of
whatever-the-hell was on TV, a face thoroughly ready to forget that
mechanics and pencil pushers were engaged in a fix or sell debate over my
truck. So, no I wasn’t prepared for a full out assault on my
intellect.
“The concentration camps.”
“Concentration camps? What concentration
camps?”
“Don’t you keep up on what’s going on? FEMA. FE-MA. F
E M
A. What do you do when you’re not driving, or watching TV?” That
hurt, Rita (who was already sharing the room with Dr.
Phil, who disparaged stupid people who needed Dr.
Phil, who had control of the remote, changed channels, and then disparaged
people like me for watching shows that she picked.)
“And they have guillotines,” and my blank face provoked her into chopping
motions, “you know, GUILLONTINES,”
more chopping.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”
“You know why they’re pushing flat screen TVs don’t
you?”
“Uh, no?”
“So the government can watch us. They can watch you through the TV. I
took mine out of my truck,” she said solemnly of her
sacrifice. “Are you a spy?”
“No.” Maybe I am though, maybe they’ve gotten to me. I should have
confessed this possibility to her.
“Here watch this,” as she cued up her iphone, and had me watch a clip of Rand Paul
giving a speech against House Bill 1867. And indeed it was a persuasive,
chilling speech warning that SB
1867
would suspend due process and other protections under the constitution for
American citizens, on American soil. It
passed the Senate 97-3. On to the House; it is now HR
1540.
Well, I pretty much cleared all the commies out of the parks. Pooh pooh
me, but they were gone by the time I hit the Big Apple. Got some nice pics, but
not of commies.
Ok, maybe I’m a little unfair; not all of the people that occupied the
parks were commies. Some were hooligans, some were thugs, some were anarchists,
some were homeless, and some were rich college kids.
Next
Week:
“Gee
willikers, Batman! They didn’t even try!”
“No,
they couldn’t give a….hang on Boy Wonder, let’s switch metaphors. I’ll hold this
football, and you run up and kick it.”
Tick,
tock, tick, tock….BLUE
WIRE? RED WIRE? WILL THE SUPERCOMMITTEE CUT THE DEFICIT IN TIME?????
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK!!!!!
Semi
Tourism for Dummies Stinking Geniuses
Most truckers are pretty damn smart, a fact lost on the general public
because who wants to stand downwind of a trucker, if you get my drift. But an
awful lot of us are also corpulent, and some of us are morbidly obese. Who
cares. Go somewhere else for weight loss advice*. The only thing I’m advocating
is to get out of your truck and see America. (Side effects may include nausea,
but that usually goes away once you’ve cleared the stench coming from the
parking lot.)
So,
here are the essentials:
1.
A
truck. If you don’t have access to a truck, an RV might do in a
pinch.
2.
A
bike (or a trailer full of money for cab fares). If you are serious about seeing
America a bicycle is the only effective transportation for a trucker. There are
two storage options; a) behind the tractor. Remember to secure it to DOT
standards (your bike chain and a few bungies should be just fine). This is the
easiest, and quickest method, but the weather and road grime (salt especially)
can be harsh on the bike. I use a platoon system: a good bike for summer, and a
cheap bike for winter; b) many drivers with lighter road bikes use cargo bags
and put their bikes onto the top bunks (or, elsewhere in the cab).
3.
Cross-country
skis. (Optional.) XC skis are pretty handy for beating back cabin fever. Snow,
of course, has the power to transform ho hum into beautiful. Unspectacular
biking destinations, for instance, can be pretty amazing when blanketed with
snow. Also, you don’t need nearly as much acreage for a decent adventure. Some
of the same bike paths/trails make fine XC ski trails; Pole mountain, Wyoming
and Chemult, Oregon are two prime examples.
4.
A
camera. Technically not essential, but having one often generates an itch to put
it to use.
5.
A
computer to pull up www.semitourist.com, naturally. How to use this site: I have
made the site pretty redundant. You can look for things to do by state,
by map (either the Google map, or state maps), or by highway. The
highway format lists the exits in the order you would see them driving past
(except where I entered them dyslexically, which I may, or may not have fixed).
Entries vary from true destinations, such as Moab, Utah, to glorified rest
areas, such as exit 52, Nebraska. Most entries lie somewhere between those
extremes. The few places that lack “B,” or “MB” abbreviations don’t require a
bike to get to their destinations. All others do.
6.
Plan
ahead, but be flexible. Look over your route early enough to be aware of
possibilities. Mentally, it’s pretty hard not to keep pushing on, so it helps
enormously to be looking forward to a particular destination. Don’t forget that
you have three hours of screw off time before you start eating into your driving
time. When I’m under a tight schedule I still can usually get a solid hour of
playtime in, eat, and take care of the three Ss.’
7.
Explore
strange civilizations: take the bus (or train). Use Google Maps to find the
nearest bus/train stops into the major cities. A lot of buses/trains allow bikes
too, so do a little public transportation research.
8.
That’s
it.
*
But, if you’re really interested, I lost 30 plus pounds immediately after we
quit team driving (it was nice to see my wife again). And bicycling toned up
some of the remaining flab.
Slight
Revisions:
1.
I
changed my mind: there’s some weight loss advice on the next page, Weight Loss
for Stinking Geniuses.
2.
RE:
Point 6. Our company has changed its business model to shorter, regional runs. I
still get out, but I don’t have a pattern yet.
October
I rode to Cesar Chavez Park looking for photogenic freaks occupying
Sacramento. There were none to speak of, so I crept in to listen. A Ron Paul
supporter waded into the Occupy Sacramento tar pit and was holding his own. When
he commented on military spending as a percentage of the budget, I couldn’t help
saying, “but that’s the one thing the federal government is
supposed to do.” And just like that I was alone in the tar pit and struggling to
spit out coherent arguments.
I
am not articulate, and soon discovered my debating style to be that of your
average three year old, “how(repeat)?”For instance, my rebuttal to
“free (or maybe it was affordable) education, healthcare, housing, food” for all
the children of the world, was “how are you going to pay for it?” Once I
realized I had a viable formula, I threw out “who’s going to administer it?”
And, “give me a practical example?” Followed by mantras of “how are you going to
pay for it?” I lost, of course. But then again it was about 20 to one against
me, and they kept substituting in fresh voices, all experts in navigating Wonderland’selaborate warrens. Details
later, maybe.
September
A
few days ago Senator Patty Murray sent me an email asking me for “practical”
suggestions for cutting the deficit. Here is my reply
(rough draft).
Dear
Senator Murray:
Congratulations on heading up the Joint Selection Committee for Deficit
Reduction! Deficit reduction through joint selection is brilliant! After all,
why should our Mexican neighbors profit from hard toking Americans, such as
congress? Hell, no need to pull bennies from Americans mired on their couch when
you can make them happytaxpayers.
With the new flood of pot taxes into the coffers we might even have a little
cash leftover to throw at that other deficit thing. I heartily support your
imbalanced approach to deficit reduction! (I knew something positive would
eventually come from those (dope) smoke-filled congressional rooms.)
Anyhoo, Washingtonians across the entire state are glad you’ve finally
ditched those tired “mom” shoes and slipped on fuzzy slippers and a terrycloth
robe. (If you got it, flaunt it.) Back here in Washington we’re all glad to
stand behind someone who has enough sense to know that continued support of our
governmental addictions requires an imbalanced approach, meaning, for those
hardheaded conservatives, libertarians, economists, and dumbasses who balance
their checkbooks, more revenue. (Duh! When rent and cable goes up, it’s time to
get some more checks printed up. Sheesh, Economics 101 people!)
So,
“Eat our peas?” ha! Healthy eating is no solution to creating jobs. Pizza and
Cheetos are the key; more middlemen. (Don’t worry, you still need your Okies,
or whatever state migrant workers come from these days, wink, wink, to shake
the olives from the trees in California.) With legalization though, I am
concerned about crime rates remaining high enough to keep criminal justice
workers fully employed. Don’t suppose we could criminalize passing detrimental
laws for the purpose of re-election?
Disclaimers
1.
Content on this site is a work of nonfiction, except in instances where I'm
quoting politicians, or other newsworthy criminals.
2. Every attempt
is made to ensure factuality. (Ha! Spellchecker claims that’s an actual
word!)
3. All entries are self-edited. a) at times with the unfortunate
influence of alcohol; b) all other
times with the unfortunate lack of alcohol; c) although English is my native
language, I really no nothing about it
4. Sometimes I explain my
jokes.
5. I try hard: a) not to be offensive; b) to be
offensive.
6. I have a style manual somewhere, but finding it is not one of
my priorities.
Political access, warehouse
prices!!!
(for
serious inquiries send me an email: Karl@semitourist.com)
August,
2011
Dear
family, friends, (enemies), and total strangers: thanks for reading (and/or
looking). And when my loyal bots, webcrawlers, spiders, and other cybernetic
organisms attain consciousness I’ll thank you too (I’d better, I’ve watched The
Terminator.)
So,
back to work. Got a nice load to Southern California. Park for a minute at
Bishop, visit the tourist info center, pick up a few supplies, and head out
again. Relaxing trip, no rush. An hour and a half down the road: This
is the_____ Health Clinic, did you lose your wallet? Huh? Uh no, I had it
this morning. Sir, the Bishop Police
Department claims to have possession of your wallet. Do you consent to our
giving them your phone number? (Ah, crap.) Yes, please.
So,
a nice relaxing load turns into Oh shit,
if traffic through Victorville craps on me, I’m out of hours, done for. But,
I made it. Next morning, dream route: through Las Vegas, Utah, and the best
of Colorado. Problem is it’s all
Nixon’d-up (expletive-deleted). Sure it’s a dream route, but the load is
high-value, no-playtime, until Kansas. KANSAS!!! What the hell’s left after
Kansas?!!! (PLENTY, according to the signs advertising hometowns of notable
escapees such as: Walter P. Chrysler, Bob Dole, President Dwight D. Eisenhower,
and more astronauts than were actually in the space
program.)
I
think I digressed. I got another
high value load, which again
rendered my bike impotent. But after delivery a day off is forced upon me, so I
get to explore Cape Girardeau, Missouri: the land of Limbaugh. Which I do. CG is
a quaint little river town with a good looking bridge, an interesting rock
quarry, and a mural so pleasing to the eye that I actually read the informative
plaques. But all that reading made me thirsty, and
hungry.
So
I stepped into Buckner’s where Mike was hard at work brewing some beer. He must
have known I was coming, ‘cause there seemed to be plenty of it already brewed.
July,
2011
Soylent
Green
is peas!
“Eat
‘em!” Obama warns, “or we’ll rip the band aids off your
scabs!”
Resist!
What’s wrapped up in the genetic strains of those little round legumes? And
why’s the government pushing peas all of a
sudden?
It
wasn’t all that long ago that our leaders warned us against the dangers of
eating healthy. Bush the First prudently stated, “I don’t like broccoli,” then
pounded the hell out of Iraq to prove the point. And Reagan subtly kept a jar of
jelly beans on his desk.
Coincidence? Ha! That practically screams,“BEWARE THE VEGTABLE-INDUSTRIAL
COMPLEX.”
Back
to the Soylent Green program. Soylent Green was a diabolical health care system
that fed on the feeble, and elderly. In the famous documentary from the ‘70’s,
Charleton Heston famously cried out, “Soylent Green is people!”
Well, duh. How else do you expect the government to feed it’s social programs
(and populace) without a little creative cannibalism?
Eat your peas.
But
what the hell’s that got to do with the debt crises,
you ask? I’m not sure yet, but I swear to you that the homeless ranks are
swelling (and being fattened). In Reno I saw a homeless gentleman toss bread to
more geese than I could count. The next morning the line of homeless folks
outnumbered the geese. In the Silicon Valley I stumbled into the closet space
of a band of San Jose homeless (I nearly tossed coffee grounds onto sleeping
bags and other living essentials stowed in the branches of shrubs).
Side
note: Within hours of Obama telling us we must eat
our peas, radio in the Reno area kept playing adds for SAM, Smart About Money. The website counsels us on how to manage
our money responsibly (not making this up).
To
be continued…
While
our elected officials in Washington were playing with their food metaphors
(Obama talked turkey about the debt
crises, so Baynor** called him a “puddin’head” – actual words, after
careful deconstruction/reconstruction of speech content*) I did some passive
research. Wyoming radio reported that Pepsi, while not quite Soylent Green, is
channeling Doctor Mengele via Senomyx
Corporation
for their taste research. Semonyx slices and dices what it needs from HEK293,
aka human embryonic kidney cell 293,
originally obtained in 1973 from an aborted fetus (generously donated).
They then subject the franken-cell to endless taste tests. But
HEK293 is not a part of Pepsi’s secret recipe, ergo Soylent Green isn’t
Pepsi.
But Fetal ghosts,
in the form of several vaccines you probably stood in line to get, almost
certainly course through your blood stream. Yup, about six of the biggies. About
the same process as described above, near as I’m willing to understand. The barn
door on that practice was closed in the seventies. Except for stem cell
research. Courtesy of nih.gov:
On August 9th, 2001, Former President
George W. Bush announced that federal funds may be awarded for research using
human embryonic stem cells if the following criteria are
met:
The
derivation process (which begins with the destruction of the embryo) was
initiated prior to 9:00 P.M. EDT on August 9, 2001.
The
stem cells must have been derived from an embryo that was created
for reproductive purposes and was no longer needed.
Informed
consent must have been obtained for the donation of the embryo and that
donation must not have involved financial inducements.
Very forward thinking of President Bush. Wouldn’t want an embryo
created for destructive purposes.
“Take your jihadii embryos elsewhere, thank you very much.” But, in 2009,
’s
executive
order countermanded President Bush’s executive order. So, brace yourselves for
an onslaught of exploding embryos. I
jest only ‘cause I’m not sure where to stand on this slippery slope.
Oh, yeah the budget crises. It looks like our elected officials are going
to cede our economic sovereignty to China. So, we must swallow our Soylent
Green, like it or not. David Bowie/Iggy Popp saw this coming back in the
eighties, and offered these reassuring words: and
when I get excited, my little China Girl says, ‘oh baby, just you shut your
mouth.’ She says, shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
*
“Dealing with the President is like dealing with a bowl of
jello.”
**
I realize he spells his name in a phonetically irresponsible way, I just refuse
to condone it (hypocritical, but so what).
June,
2011
Ding-Dong,
the Witch-hunt’s done! For 72 hours the DOT (Department
of Overzealous Tax-collectors) focused their nation-wide collection efforts
on the trucking industry. Last year nearly one in five (19.6%) truckers were
put out of service for safety violations. Wooohoo!
you’re tempted to shout. But seriously, you honestly believe every fifth
trucker is a menace to the driving public?
OK,
fine. Punish the driver. Clean out his pockets for the day, at least. Heap
points upon his license, threaten his livelihood. Recruit armies of
inexperienced drivers to replace the ousted veterans. That should make the roads
safer (and goods cheaper).
But
honestly, I love the concept. It should be applied vigorously across all levels
of government: an annual 72 hour auditing blitz
(the DOT’s actual word). Inspect governmental agencies for balanced budgets,
cost overruns, bloat. Deficit? Immediate pay freeze ‘til remedied. Dole out
points, pink slips.
Fantasy.
Unfortunately, reality is the opposite: the economy
has been put out of service. (Google real unemployment rate and discover
that one in five of us is, at most, underemployed.) Apparently, being a
productive member of society is unsafe. Safety
first.
Ooops,
toyed with site as you can see. Hang on, I got a photo for
that:
May,
2011
“Baked,
mashed, or fries?”
“Mashed.”
“Brown,
or white gravy?” And such is the
state of fine dining in rural Eastern Colorado.
Bears, pigs, and badgers, oh my! Louisiana floodgates were opened to ease
downstream flooding of the Mississippi river. Motorists on I-10 were warned that
critters flushed out into the open might cross onto the freeway. I was nowhere
near. But, I did see a badger in Oregon waddling towards the deluge. (I didn’t
know Oregon boarded badgers. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a badger
before, anywhere.) Of course, it
could have been an obese raccoon, chopped off at the knees, like a Corgi gone
wild.
Again, I’m a lucky SOB. I missed the floods and the tornados (please give
generously). But, flooding did catch up with me and due to I-90 closure at the
Wyoming/Montana state-line I was forced to take the scenic route to Montana. As
I understand it, the whole point of Wyoming, dating back to the Oregon Trail,
and probably nomadic Indians before that, is to avoid going up and over the
mountains.
But I’m all about adventure, so up the mountain I went. US-14 is a six
percent grade that winds through Bighorn National Forest. (I didn’t see any
bighorns, but I exchanged glances with a large moose on a switchback.)
Impulsively, I pulled into the Sibley Lake cross-country parking area and wedged
myself between a car and the snow bank. In front of a pair of cross-country
witnesses, and a parade of detour traffic, I dug a path around the car and
parked. Thus limbered, I went skiing.
All told it was a 67 mile detour. Scenic as hell, and I was really glad
to strap on the skis one last time, but it sure bled my hours dry. At the time,
I felt pretty smug detouring around all those trucks parked on the interstate.
In the winter, patience usually pays off as closed roads often reopen in a
timely manner. So, that evening, though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep; I had to
know. Montana DOT’s recorded voice said, “go to sleep, you were right. I-90 is
still closed at the Wyoming state line.” Hee hee, I
win.
Bzzzzz, open wide! Here comes a yummy planeload of Sp_m! (Buy a vowel?)
So, I cut & repasted some html Facebook code and erased a bunch of you.
Sorry. And, I can’t tell if the Thumbs-up counter is rounding off to the nearest
ten thousand, or hundred thousand. Doesn’t matter, let’s push it to a mil. So,
please re-spam (share, I mean; especially if your friend list tops mine, ie.,
all of you.)
Update: The new owners have met with the talent. Signs are
positive.
April,
2011
Romantic
Getaway, Epilogue
So,
my dispatcher of over three years defected on me under the haze of breakdown
time. No worries, as he himself might have said. And when the company merrily
announced our takeover (mercifully, as rumors have it) my wife & I joked at
his replacement’s conspicuous “appointment.” “Embezzlement, bankruptcy:” I
simply won’t participate in perpetuating those ugly words (so, reread them if
necessary).
Ahhhhhhhh,
crap. Good thing I severed all ties to my previous
life.
Anyway,
my brother gave me a ride to Hermiston, Oregon, to pick up my truck. Thankfully,
Obama is working overtime to make sure we’re fully employed. The stool at the
Hermiston parts counter, for example, is staffed at 100% on weekends! As for
the service department, well, the parts stool is staffed at 100% on weekends!
So, we jump the truck. Then, some idiot (me, maybe) switched off the ignition
and we couldn’t get it started again. (Close, but cigars are not politically
correct as of this writing.) So, we waited for a technician to come out and
apply current to approximately the same contacts.
All’s
well that ends well though. My truck drove just fine from Yakima to Portland.
Then it quit. At least we have a shop in Portland (too bad we fired all the
mechanics to keep our head above water for a few more days).
So,
I have all the time in the world to Google
“online-moneymaking-schemes-for-broke-down-truckers.”Amazingly I found, and got
accepted, to a legitimate site. My first assignment: stalk a celebrity and write
about their proclivities. (Well, steering my search results away from porn sites
proved to be tougher than I’d have ever imagined. It was/is a legitimate
website, & a legitimate topic, but…) Hey, did I beg you to click on the
advertising yet? PLEASE, don’t make me resort to the cardboard&
magic-markers.
Happy
May Day? Yes, I guess it is. My wife is safe & sound at home. (And I’m safe
& sound.)
This
site’s not about me. Well ok, that illusion is easier to pull off when I
actually go places. So I let my old friend, bike, take me to the nearest country
bar. Not that I have a predilection for country music, but it was closest. I
plugged in my laptop, and amazed myself with the number of cyber friends, and
acquaintances I’ve acquired. And then, I stumbled across a friend who had
passed.
Sucker
punch to the happy memories! OOOF!! POW!!! Factually, my friendship with Randy
postdated the Batman craze. Still, that’s how it felt. Multiply those feelings
times country music and it’s a miracle my beer was potable. A leeetle salty, but
drinkable. So, I passed a note to the band. They responded by playing upbeat
country songs– had no idea there was such an animal.
March,
2011
Romantic
Getaway (or, Dream Vacation Update)
Pre-trip
preparation: To ensure a clean start to our upcoming journey, I left the truck
with the shop, and had my wife take me home. We detoured 180 some miles to get
home, but it was our anniversary, so we did some sightseeing. We took in
Multnomah Falls and half a dozen others before making it home. After plenty of
good beer and bad dancing it was time to go back to work. The car rental
thieves planned on taking an extra $75 for a one-way trip (but only after
pretending that none of the cars in the lot were available, and putting us on a
waiting list). So, I did like any mature grown man would do – I asked Mom for a
ride.
Departure
day: I faxed the passenger authorization form to my dispatcher earlier; it
didn’t arrive. No problem, there was enough time to resend before leaving the
yard. And there was enough time to resend it again from the nearest truck stop.
O for three (I assume the fourth got there). Finally, we were on our way. I
hoped like hell the big horn sheep would show themselves for my wife. And they
did, herd after herd.
Rest
stop: We were making nice time. We pulled into a rest area and failed to pull
out. The truck wouldn’t stay in gear. No need for panic, it gets these hiccups
on occasion. So, I disconnected the battery for about half an hour while we had
dinner. It worked like a charm. We pulled out of our spot, slipped out of gear,
and coasted to the shoulder. I called our breakdown services and they
commiserated with me, but all the same, I had to pull out the fuses in the
battery box. To get to that step I had to take down both bicycles, set them
aside, pull off the large metal catwalk, set that aside, unscrew the cover to
the battery box, set that aside, find and pull all the fuses, and remember to
set those aside logically so they
could be reinserted into their properly assigned slots. And wait an hour. Then
put everything back together (because you must assume, even though your gut
knows better, that this will fix everything, so you need to be ready to roll).
Another call to breakdown services, another helpful mechanic. More
commiseration, but try disconnecting the fuses again. Repeat. Add another shift
change. Eventually the shifts made a complete rotation and a tow truck was
ordered. It promptly arrived the next
evening.
Tow
truck: I’ll call him Tom, ‘cause I didn’t ask. Tom’s gait was purposeful, but
leisurely and you had to look closely to notice that he wasn’t moving all that
fast. He had a kink in his neck, a crook in his shoulder, and they met halfway
in between. Tom didn’t really
work, but rather performed. Tools were carefully eyeballed. Chains were placed
meticulously except for the flourish of throwing his arm up as he let go of what
was left in his hand. Making conversation, I opened with, “That’s quite a
physical job you got.” I strained to understand what Tom said, ‘cause I’m not
sure he believed in vowels. I think he said that once he got knocked out by the
heavy equipment and woke up hours later under the vehicle he was towing. Or
maybe he called me names. Who knows. So, we lurched down the highway (vehicles
take after their drivers, apparently) as Tom towed us to the shop; which was
closed for the evening.
Shop: “We have to drop the transmission. Call
your dispatcher, we won’t get to it until Tuesday at the earliest.” So, Motel 6
for the weekend. This could have happened in Nebraska I keep telling my wife
(but mostly myself).
Dispatch:
After five days and no progress, we learn that our transmission is being shipped
from our yard in the LA area, and who knows when it will be ready to drive.
“Call a taxi and get a price from Hermiston to the Pendleton airport. Call me
back with the exact amount.” So, off to Pendleton to rent a car to go to
Spokane. Waiting for us in Spokane is a loaner truck, “You know how to drive a 9
speed, right?”Sure, learned on them a few years ago. So, race back to the truck
in Hermiston and cram as much into the “economy” size rental as we can, as fast
as we can, cause for some reason it has to be checked back in by 8:00.
Heading
to Spokane: What a luxury to have someone else prepare and inspect the car. Or,
not. They neglected to replace the oil filler cap. We neglected to wipe the oil
off the side of the car. However, we did add some oil and held up the line at
the return counter trying to get reimbursed.
Loaner
truck: We find our loaner truck, toss out the dog stained mattress, and fill it
with what we could fit into the rental. No bikes, skiis, etc. My patient wife
returns the car, and I dutifully pick her up and grind our way through the
passenger loading/unloading zone.
Finally,
a truck to drive: We even got a load. Unfortunately, the driver handing off the
load to us broke down on the other side of the border. So, we waited. And
waited. And got a different load.
Montana:
Smooth sailing. Woke up buried. Fortunately, eastbound lanes were open. Skated
on through.
North
Dakota: Nasty, snowy, windy, slippery. Slept late – no truck noises. I called
511, the road info number, and sure enough the interstate was shut down. So, we
go inside, I start writing this novel and my power supply craps out. So we’re
stranded without my skiis, bike, computer, but I had my lovely wife. (This
isn’t a country music song, I still have
her.)
Nashville:
We pulled off a day in Nashville shopping, eating, and singing for the tourists.
Ok, just a few lines when the lead singer jumped off stage and shared his
microphone with us. (He learned his lesson though – he didn’t offer his
microphone to anyone else after that. Or, maybe we’re just a hard act to
follow.)
Dream
Vacation
I
talked my wife onto the truck for another month-long dream cruise. We made it
two hundred miles before breaking down. Frankly, I think she’ll be happy to be
leaving Hermiston, Oregon –too much excitement, too
early.
Subsidy
Generation Farms
“How
do you feel about windmills?” Dennis asked, initiating a morning-long seminar on
wind energy production.
“I
hate them. They dominate the landscape and blot out the scenery,” I replied,
even though I sensed this was the wrong side of the coin flip.
“Yeah,
most people either love them, or hate them,” he said. (I doubt you could find
anyone outside the industry more in love with windmills than Dennis – he takes
his grandson on vacations to the various wind farms. To his enormous credit, it
sounds like the teenage grandson
enjoys the educational vacations.)
“I’m
happy for the truckers who get to haul the things,” I said. “I just wish they
were put somewhere where I didn’t have to see them.” And soon enough we were
into the Columbia River Gorge Scenic stretch, an aesthetic refuge off-limits to
the monstrous mechanical weeds.
“Power
generation is going to be ugly no matter whether it’s coal, gas, hydro,
nuclear, wind, solar, or whatever,” one of us said somewhere near
Celio
Falls, a 10,000 year old fishing hole flooded/obliterated by the
Dalles dam in 1957. But like everybody else, I love my cheap electricity and
suck it up like a certain conflicted vampire of the area. (It bothers me.)
Wind
farmers are drawn to the Columbia Gorge because it is already home to a massive,
firmly entrenched power grid thanks to the Bonneville Power Administration’s
system of dams. On top of that, Dennis explained, the wind farms contract with
the dams to produce a certain amount of energy. Pretty slick stuff, really. As
wind energy kicks in, dams shut down storing water (potential energy, revenue).
Wind-win, as long as the weather forecast is
accurate.
Cool,
fascinating. So, why not take it a step further: shield the earth with a solar
parasol and reap unlimited wattage. Huh? What? You heard me. Screw the
environment, we need green energy! (And maybe some (Soylent)
green snacks, please.)
Sidetracked.
Sorry. Where was
I…
Wind
farms are for our own good. That’s why we taxpayers are shelling out, according
to the Sunday
Oregonian,
1.2 billion in subsidies to one (just one!) wind farm in eastern Oregon. But
hey, we gain 34 jobs. Without those subsidies those jobs would have gone to,
uh, nowhere. The gorge has wind, and you don’t have to run the extension cord
very far. The bottom line (financially, not anatomically): wind farms would be
profitable in the gorge regardless (again, according to the Oregonian). Sweet
deal, surely, but layers upon layers of corporate welfare must be making
somebody sick?
February,
2011
Colorful
trip this month
Colorful
trip this month. Caught a train to LA, and then a bus to the beach. On that
particular day I was asked to be photographed, asked if I was a musician (by a
drummer from Maine whose drums are somewhere in the Midwest with a friend), was
accused of being the devil (because I was Bill Gates), and discussed jazz/blues
on the train-ride back with a Korean War medic originally from Memphis,
Tennessee.
Four
separate bald eagle sightings, evenly spaced throughout the state of Iowa, is my
new personal best. Later that same evening, in the dark night of rural Indiana,
a swarm of giant red fireflies revealed themselves to be actually horse-drawn
Amish buggies. The clip-clopping gave them
away.
I
spent a blustery day in Des Moines where everything was grey. Then a visual
symphony burst forth. First a bluebird happened by, then a few blue jays quickly
followed by many strikingly marked birds I can’t name, and finally, the most
vivid cardinal I have ever seen.
Big
horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge chaperoned each of my three trips through, and
finally favored me with a nice family portrait.
At
a paper mill in Longview, Washington I swapped Mount Saint Helens stories with a
guy who was in search and rescue at the time. He knew people who went camping
that weekend. That morning one couple got knocked into the lake by the shock
wave thereby escaping the following heat wave that cooked the other couple in
their tent. In my story everybody lives.
A
Little Behind
(No,
I’m not referring to the lizard.) I’ve been successful lately. The weather has
cooperated at the right times, at the right places: sun when I wanted, snow
where I wanted. So I was able to do some biking and skinny skiing in Postcard
Land (maybe I got a few). Updates coming as soon as I can crank them out.
Grapes
Epilogue
Finished
The Grapes of Wrath a few weeks ago.
Fine story, but it bears little similarity to my life. Those poor Okies lived
out of their truck, moved frequently, ate poorly, struggled with good hygiene,
were hassled by cops, and were viewed negatively by the townsfolk. Still, for
some reason the more the story fades from memory the more upbeat I
feel.
The
Gates of Graft
Editor’s
note (as if one exists, but thanks for playing along): If you’re a stickler for
accuracy, this is January stuff.
“There
are four, or five foreclosures on our street,” I remember Nelson saying, but
then again he might have said five or six. I had just finished off an
It’s-It
(an ice cream-cookie sandwich) and in all the excitement, and over time, I’ve
kind of lost track. Pretty sobering stuff, this mortgage crises (unless it
drives you to drink).
Anyway,
heading through the San Joaquin valley early one Sunday morning, a community
service radio program discussed the scourge of dustbowl era Okies. (Seems
California had trouble back then controlling it’s borders.) Coincidentally, I
had just started reading The Grapes of
Wrathin which Steinbeck recounts the mortgage crises that uprooted legions
of farming families. Once proud, these families were treated worse than dirt,
according to the ladies of early morning radio (and Steinbeck, not to be
confused with Glenn beck).
Fast
forward a few weeks, and a several decades, respectively, and late one afternoon
a local Oklahoma radio program is asking, “should we allow states like
California, that are deep in debt, to file for
bankruptcy?”
“No!”
was the overwhelming consensus, “they still don’t get it. They keep voting in
these irresponsible, pandering politicians who won’t stop spending,” “Let ‘em
fall off into the ocean,” (paraphrased & summarized, please forgive me, but
I think I got the tone about right; verbatim about falling into the ocean).
I’m
not sure how the logistics of this metaphor work, but big labor, big business,
and big government are all in bed to screw the little guy. For some reason, jobs
have dried up. So, hordes of Californians have fled,
looking for greener paying jobs. (Surprised California hasn’t imposed tough
emigration laws on itself.) And as California goes, so goes the rest of the
nation. But, I’ll cut myself off before I subconsciously start parroting talk
radio.
Too
bad Steinbeck isn’t still around – there’s a lot of Pulitzer prize material to
write about these days.
January, 2011
At
the Guard Shack
“Let’s
see, you’re going to Goodard? Godard? Is that how you pronounce it? I
don’t know. I do know God is good.
Do you believe in God?”
“I believe 06:30 am is too early for a
religious discussion,” I thought, but said
“sure.”
“You
see I don’t believe in God, I know,
if you know what I mean. Do you?”
“Uh
huh,” but a polite uh huh.
“I’m
just waiting. With all the things going on in the world today and if Jesus
comes down and takes me I’m waiting, or if I live out my days I’m waiting.
Either way is ok with me. I’m just waiting. But actively
waiting. Do you know what I mean by
actively
waiting?”
“Again, I know 06:30 is too early, and it’s
kinda cold; in fact I believe Arkansas has frozen over,” I thought, but
replied “yes.”
“God
bless you. Let me shake your hand.”
“Well ok, but I haven’t gotten around to
reading the contract yet.”
Atypical
Day in Oregon
A few weeks ago on a crisp, clear Oregon day I spotted four bald eagles,
in three separate sightings, all within Klamath Falls. Further up the highway
near Chemult a coyote, with it’s head bowed in concentration, pounced it’s front
paws into the sparkling snow. Then he did it again. And again. My deer whistle
broke his concentration and he scampered into the treeline. Near Rufus, high up
on the basalt cliffs of the Columbia gorge, a herd of bighorn sheep marched
single file. Shortly afterwards, I crossed into
Washington.
December
‘Tis the season. In Oregon, elves (of Hispanic decent) stuffed my trailer
full of Christmas trees which I in turn dropped off in the evergreen state
(Washington, of course. This is not a trade violation since severed trees are
not expected to stay eternally green). The shipper’s neighbor, and fellow tree
farmer (not to be confused with logger) was happy to explain the business. He
taught history for thirty years in a previous life, so I dutifully interrupted
and asked how they shaped the trees. He didn’t disappoint. Reaching high, he
swung his arm down hard and slapped his thigh. He did this a few times. Due to
the violent follow through, workers wear special chaps on their legs to protect
from the 16-20 inch blades.
Still curious, I Googled and oggled these knives on the internet. Bruce
Lee could have franchised several Kung
Fu ChristmasSpecials with these
babies. I could see Chuck Norris (pre-Walker, Texas Ranger) and Kareem
Abdul-Jabbar muscle in on Bruce’s girlfriend’s aging uncle’s family Christmas
tree farm. Chuck and Kareem would sell a few unsightly trees, break a few
ornaments, and before you know it everybody is Kung Fu slicing! Da-da da-da
dump-dump dump dump da! Just as things start winding down throw in Andy
Williams (literally, for effect), a fireplace, and end with a round of Deck
the Halls.
I am, as my father pointed out, “a lucky mother…” Shut
your mouth! (But I’m not talking about Shaft!)
I seem to be dancing around the major weather systems. When Colorado closed it’s
passes and Wyoming switched off their Welcome sign, I was skipping through
the southwest. When snow caved in the Minneapolis Metrodome (it’s a stadium, not
a gay hairstyle) I did see a few skiffs in Missouri, but nothing to write about
(o.k., maybe the last half of that sentence, but that’s it). I entered Indiana a
day after they were rescuing stranded motorists.
Then finally, the weather caught up with me. Everything outside was
safely tucked under a thick blanket of snow on the day I awoke to go back to
work. I had to shovel to get out of the driveway. Cars slid down the hill, many
sideways. Snow berms not only bounced cars back into the field of play, but gave
them an interesting spin as well. It was an adult version of the birthday
bowling alley party. There was no sign the snow was going to stop (probably
because it wouldn’t stop until after dark). I dreaded getting on the truck.
Turns out I was a day early. Back to bed! Unfortunately, no;
responsibility reared it’s annoying head and said, “You know, if you don’t get
those holes patched and those walls painted you won’t get your damage deposit
back.” So, we stayed up late patching, painting, and getting ready to move.
Weather wins (underhandedly, as usual).
November
In central Washington (State, of course) a radioactive
rabbit
was captured
near the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. Coincidentally (probably not), this
happened a week prior to Obama’s trumpeting of the START treaty. A few days
later a Chinese submarine let loose a ballistic missile off the coast of San
Diego.
Rabbits are nearly the perfect covert weapon: light, quick,
rapid reproducers, and disarmingly cute (see previous). Least you think I’m a
crackpot, remember the brilliant Soviet assassination plot* against President
Carter. Thankfully, the Prez valiantly fought off the water-bourn
commando.
Obviously the gist of a rabbit-based offensive is to let a few
of the guys loose (or better yet, let Hillary present a pair as a gift!)
then watch the little guys drop their little radioactive presents throughout
the country. (Perfect. And Green!)
The DROPPINGs program (Defense Radioactive Operational Plan for Placing
Irradiating Nuclear Gutbombs) itself is enough to keep those pesky Russkies in
check. It’s a START anyway.
UPDATE: The race has escalated. According to the Seattle Times
radioactive mouse droppings have been found at Hanford. Little critters got into
the cesium (Gesundheit!). So, the cheese stands
alone.
THEY (The Hegemonic
Enlightened Yetis, of course) ok, ok, I don’t know who, but someone is
trying to silence me. Out of the gray skies of eastern Colorado today, a brown,
feathered missile came screaming into my windshield. Sure, go ahead and believe
it was just a nearsighted bird of prey using bad calculus. That’s what THEY want
you to think.
UPDATE: Obviously Kim Jong Il could use something soft and
cuddly. This might backfire, though; he’s starved his people into eating
anything that moves (or doesn’t, radioactive or not). A zombie war is the last
thing we need.
Moving
on (that’s how I roll, L sorry,
couldn’t stop myself, agh! and again!) Wyoming was typical Wyoming, maybe a bit
milder,‘cause the official weather gage (the number of overturned trucks) was in
the low single digits. And Utah was uneventful, other than losing my brakes at
the top of the 10 mile, 6% grade near Park City. Had the warning light not
worked properly, then I would have had something to write about (assuming I
survived without brain injury); it would have been an Olympic spectacle to rival
the luge.
Going through the back highways of California, the sky was
unnaturally blue, the snow was fresh, and the air smelled alpiney. I couldn’t
get California Dreamin’ out of my
head. If I got the song correct some guy is whining about winter, instead of
doing something about it. Well, I couldn’t leave my load, so maybe I whined a
little, too.
* While canoeing President Carter was allegedly attacked by
rabbit.
October
Breasts were bared at me in Idaho. I missed nearly the entire show. No
matter, I know the plot: curtain goes up, a couple of boobs take center stage.
Nevertheless, I’ve been paid homage. Now I must come to grips with being a rock
star. (Poor, misguided woman: get thee to a
concert!)
In New Mexico I had to swerve to avoid hitting a tarantula (he was in the
crosswalk, after all). He was headed for the meat market; it’s mating season in
the Southwest.
Twice in Davenport, Iowa bicyclists rang their bells: once to announce
their presence, and once to warn of my presence. Verbally, they warned me that
the Mississippi is swollen because the neighbors up north can’t rein in their
precipitation (groan, sorry).
An El Paso funeral stopped me dead in my tracks: or, it would have if I
had adjusted my brakes properly. I had planned to tour/photograph/absorb Ysleta
Mission, but to do so during a funeral would have required an all-out National
Geographic impersonation. I let the dead guy have his day.
Road (out)rage! Little America truck stop in Flagstaff, Arizona, is now
off limits to our company. It made our list of restricted truck stops because of
security concerns. Flagstaff is one of my favorite destinations.
This stinks more than all the truck stop parking lots combined! In the
spirit of CSA 2010, maybe the nearest DOT jurisdiction should be put out of
service (without pay, like us) until the truck stop is made safe again.
In Mississippi, late one night, I listened to gospel music (according to
FM radio). It rocked circles around the Christian rock stations. No surprise;
Christian rock has driven more kids to Satan than all the strains of rock and
roll combined.
In
Louisiana I had my first “boudin,”
a sausage looking thing stuffed with rice, vegetables, and critter du jour,
(pork, alligator, shrimp, or, crayfish in my case). Tasty. Stuffed with boudin,
I went to my pick-up. I was a little early. A gentleman there asked me to spot
him while he backed onto the country highway, which I cheerfully did. Then he
backed another pickup truck to the first, attached a tow-rope to the front
bumper, and asked me to steer his truck and trailer for him while he tried to
pull the stuck truck and high-centered trailer off the middle of the highway
which I had just spotted for him. Good times.
Speaking
of ditches, which we missed, I must give a last minute political pitch while
gently correcting the President’s analogy: President Obama is spot on –
republicans drove the car into the ditch (deficit & debt). Those republicans
need to be fired (if not prosecuted). President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Harry
Reid are pushing hard, to the left, so they can get the car out of the ditch and
into the abyss (or, bottomless pit, which any kid can tell you leads to China).
Please vote for those with enough sense to hook the car to a
tow-truck.
September
Muslims in Salt Lake City? You can bet the Mormons aren’t taking that
lying down. Or, maybe they are – there are a disproportionate number of small
children and pregnant women for a city this size. God bless ‘em. One of the most
interesting (or salacious) conspiracy theories is that in order to preserve our
culture, and offset our negative birthrate, Bush, Obama, et al, put out the
welcome mat for our southern neighbors (because working class Catholics can be
counted on to replenish the population, or buoy voter count. Win/win).
But, a predominantly middle-class religion whose childbearing beliefs and
practices don’t crash the infrastructure? Where are the votes in that? (Sorry.
We haul a lot of soap out of here. Trip over the boxes from time to time.)
Elsewhere, near the Army’s Yakima Training Center (Yakima, Washington), a
load of target silhouettes littered the side of the highway. Ummm, maybe we’re
taking this“we’re not at war with Islam” a little too far?
But,
who is John Galt? I think I know,
but my ipod ate the final chapter.*
This is no small tragedy – it’s akin to driving across the United States, seeing
the New York skyline, and then laying over in New Jersey. And this was no small
book - if you stood on this baby you could touch the top of a giant sequoia.
But, I agree with President Obama: maybe we should tax the hell out of those
greedy, capitalist bastards.
Really, how much is enough? Think what we’re paying them in interest!!
(Huh? He’s not talking about the Chinese?)
Enough
of politics. Big horn sheep are out along the Columbia Gorge again (east of
Rufus, mile marker 126 +/-). They’re easy to miss; look for their big white
butts (I just can’t lie, an M.C. Hammer joke I can’t contrive). Anyway, one of
them spoke to me. He caught the sunlight, looked over his shoulder (in the
classic pose) and said, “Pull onto the shoulder, set your four-ways, put out
your triangles, and capture this.”
Smart ass sheep.
“Like”
button UPDATE: I figured it out (or more likely stumbled onto the correct html
sequence). You can now “Like” Semitourist.(Thumbs-up icon is located
on the homepage.)
 %3
January, February 2012
Rita, part deux:
Rita nailed HB 1867. Now the government can round us up with impunity, or
it can’t; depends on which clause is enforced. No worries. A left-leaning blog
assured me that the constitution trumps all, when politically expedient (the
latter being my humble interpretation).
But the big news is that Secretary of Defense Panetta, according to a
report I heard over the radio, is going to“deploy 80,000 less troops moving
forward.” Admittedly, I was a REMF* in the Army, but why mothball the term
“retreat.”And since we’re building a green defense doesn’t the word “retreat”
save the taxpayers 1/6th
the cost of ink, and decrease carbon emissions by 83%?
Meanwhile, Arab countries keep attempting brazen missions on our home
soil. Last fall Iran attempted to assassinate Saudi Arabia’s ambassador, and
just days ago Qatar improvised some cloak & dagger moves. A lingerie
shopping spree is pretty flimsy cover for promoting democracy though, so neither
FLOTUS** or Queen Sheikha Mozah*** brought anything
home.
* Rear
Echelon Mother-
**
Mrs. POTUS
***
QueenSheikha Mozah likes
the sound of democracy, but it just doesn’t fit her country. (I don’t think I
have any Qatari readers, so I’ll probably sleep
ok.)
Weather machine, fracking earthquakes in
Ohio….Methane hydrates are found in environments
with high pressure and low temperatures such as the ocean floors, often near
continental fault lines, where the gas crystallizes on contact with cold sea
water. SOAP – 70’s soaps HAARP earthquakes
December,
2011
Knowing you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you Rita.
“The movie last night wasn’t what I thought it was about,” Cowboys
and Aliens. “I thought maybe they were using cowboys to soften up the
message for that generation that grew up watching John Wayne, and those type of
westerns. Most people have no idea. They’re either watching TV, or they’re
wrapped up in the bullshit of this company. It goes far beyond that. You know
what I mean?”
I haven’t a clue. And I
probably let that show through on my face, a face more than ready for the
mind-numbing cleansing of
whatever-the-hell was on TV, a face thoroughly ready to forget that
mechanics and pencil pushers were engaged in a fix or sell debate over my
truck. So, no I wasn’t prepared for a full out assault on my
intellect.
“The concentration camps.”
“Concentration camps? What concentration
camps?”
“Don’t you keep up on what’s going on? FEMA. FE-MA. F
E M
A. What do you do when you’re not driving, or watching TV?” That
hurt, Rita (who was already sharing the room with Dr.
Phil, who disparaged stupid people who needed Dr.
Phil, who had control of the remote, changed channels, and then disparaged
people like me for watching shows that she picked.)
“And they have guillotines,” and my blank face provoked her into chopping
motions, “you know, GUILLONTINES,”
more chopping.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”
“You know why they’re pushing flat screen TVs don’t
you?”
“Uh, no?”
“So the government can watch us. They can watch you through the TV. I
took mine out of my truck,” she said solemnly of her
sacrifice. “Are you a spy?”
“No.” Maybe I am though, maybe they’ve gotten to me. I should have
confessed this possibility to her.
“Here watch this,” as she cued up her iphone, and had me watch a clip of Rand Paul
giving a speech against House Bill 1867. And indeed it was a persuasive,
chilling speech warning that SB
1867
would suspend due process and other protections under the constitution for
American citizens, on American soil. It
passed the Senate 97-3. On to the House; it is now HR
1540.
Well, I pretty much cleared all the commies out of the parks. Pooh pooh
me, but they were gone by the time I hit the Big Apple. Got some nice pics, but
not of commies.
Ok, maybe I’m a little unfair; not all of the people that occupied the
parks were commies. Some were hooligans, some were thugs, some were anarchists,
some were homeless, and some were rich college kids.
Next
Week:
“Gee
willikers, Batman! They didn’t even try!”
“No,
they couldn’t give a….hang on Boy Wonder, let’s switch metaphors. I’ll hold this
football, and you run up and kick it.”
Tick,
tock, tick, tock….BLUE
WIRE? RED WIRE? WILL THE SUPERCOMMITTEE CUT THE DEFICIT IN TIME?????
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK!!!!!
Semi
Tourism for Dummies Stinking Geniuses
Most truckers are pretty damn smart, a fact lost on the general public
because who wants to stand downwind of a trucker, if you get my drift. But an
awful lot of us are also corpulent, and some of us are morbidly obese. Who
cares. Go somewhere else for weight loss advice*. The only thing I’m advocating
is to get out of your truck and see America. (Side effects may include nausea,
but that usually goes away once you’ve cleared the stench coming from the
parking lot.)
So,
here are the essentials:
1.
A
truck. If you don’t have access to a truck, an RV might do in a
pinch.
2.
A
bike (or a trailer full of money for cab fares). If you are serious about seeing
America a bicycle is the only effective transportation for a trucker. There are
two storage options; a) behind the tractor. Remember to secure it to DOT
standards (your bike chain and a few bungies should be just fine). This is the
easiest, and quickest method, but the weather and road grime (salt especially)
can be harsh on the bike. I use a platoon system: a good bike for summer, and a
cheap bike for winter; b) many drivers with lighter road bikes use cargo bags
and put their bikes onto the top bunks (or, elsewhere in the cab).
3.
Cross-country
skis. (Optional.) XC skis are pretty handy for beating back cabin fever. Snow,
of course, has the power to transform ho hum into beautiful. Unspectacular
biking destinations, for instance, can be pretty amazing when blanketed with
snow. Also, you don’t need nearly as much acreage for a decent adventure. Some
of the same bike paths/trails make fine XC ski trails; Pole mountain, Wyoming
and Chemult, Oregon are two prime examples.
4.
A
camera. Technically not essential, but having one often generates an itch to put
it to use.
5.
A
computer to pull up www.semitourist.com, naturally. How to use this site: I have
made the site pretty redundant. You can look for things to do by state,
by map (either the Google map, or state maps), or by highway. The
highway format lists the exits in the order you would see them driving past
(except where I entered them dyslexically, which I may, or may not have fixed).
Entries vary from true destinations, such as Moab, Utah, to glorified rest
areas, such as exit 52, Nebraska. Most entries lie somewhere between those
extremes. The few places that lack “B,” or “MB” abbreviations don’t require a
bike to get to their destinations. All others do.
6.
Plan
ahead, but be flexible. Look over your route early enough to be aware of
possibilities. Mentally, it’s pretty hard not to keep pushing on, so it helps
enormously to be looking forward to a particular destination. Don’t forget that
you have three hours of screw off time before you start eating into your driving
time. When I’m under a tight schedule I still can usually get a solid hour of
playtime in, eat, and take care of the three Ss.’
7.
Explore
strange civilizations: take the bus (or train). Use Google Maps to find the
nearest bus/train stops into the major cities. A lot of buses/trains allow bikes
too, so do a little public transportation research.
8.
That’s
it.
*
But, if you’re really interested, I lost 30 plus pounds immediately after we
quit team driving (it was nice to see my wife again). And bicycling toned up
some of the remaining flab.
Slight
Revisions:
1.
I
changed my mind: there’s some weight loss advice on the next page, Weight Loss
for Stinking Geniuses.
2.
RE:
Point 6. Our company has changed its business model to shorter, regional runs. I
still get out, but I don’t have a pattern yet.
October
I rode to Cesar Chavez Park looking for photogenic freaks occupying
Sacramento. There were none to speak of, so I crept in to listen. A Ron Paul
supporter waded into the Occupy Sacramento tar pit and was holding his own. When
he commented on military spending as a percentage of the budget, I couldn’t help
saying, “but that’s the one thing the federal government is
supposed to do.” And just like that I was alone in the tar pit and struggling to
spit out coherent arguments.
I
am not articulate, and soon discovered my debating style to be that of your
average three year old, “how(repeat)?”For instance, my rebuttal to
“free (or maybe it was affordable) education, healthcare, housing, food” for all
the children of the world, was “how are you going to pay for it?” Once I
realized I had a viable formula, I threw out “who’s going to administer it?”
And, “give me a practical example?” Followed by mantras of “how are you going to
pay for it?” I lost, of course. But then again it was about 20 to one against
me, and they kept substituting in fresh voices, all experts in navigating Wonderland’selaborate warrens. Details
later, maybe.
September
A
few days ago Senator Patty Murray sent me an email asking me for “practical”
suggestions for cutting the deficit. Here is my reply
(rough draft).
Dear
Senator Murray:
Congratulations on heading up the Joint Selection Committee for Deficit
Reduction! Deficit reduction through joint selection is brilliant! After all,
why should our Mexican neighbors profit from hard toking Americans, such as
congress? Hell, no need to pull bennies from Americans mired on their couch when
you can make them happytaxpayers.
With the new flood of pot taxes into the coffers we might even have a little
cash leftover to throw at that other deficit thing. I heartily support your
imbalanced approach to deficit reduction! (I knew something positive would
eventually come from those (dope) smoke-filled congressional rooms.)
Anyhoo, Washingtonians across the entire state are glad you’ve finally
ditched those tired “mom” shoes and slipped on fuzzy slippers and a terrycloth
robe. (If you got it, flaunt it.) Back here in Washington we’re all glad to
stand behind someone who has enough sense to know that continued support of our
governmental addictions requires an imbalanced approach, meaning, for those
hardheaded conservatives, libertarians, economists, and dumbasses who balance
their checkbooks, more revenue. (Duh! When rent and cable goes up, it’s time to
get some more checks printed up. Sheesh, Economics 101 people!)
So,
“Eat our peas?” ha! Healthy eating is no solution to creating jobs. Pizza and
Cheetos are the key; more middlemen. (Don’t worry, you still need your Okies,
or whatever state migrant workers come from these days, wink, wink, to shake
the olives from the trees in California.) With legalization though, I am
concerned about crime rates remaining high enough to keep criminal justice
workers fully employed. Don’t suppose we could criminalize passing detrimental
laws for the purpose of re-election?
Disclaimers
1.
Content on this site is a work of nonfiction, except in instances where I'm
quoting politicians, or other newsworthy criminals.
2. Every attempt
is made to ensure factuality. (Ha! Spellchecker claims that’s an actual
word!)
3. All entries are self-edited. a) at times with the unfortunate
influence of alcohol; b) all other
times with the unfortunate lack of alcohol; c) although English is my native
language, I really no nothing about it
4. Sometimes I explain my
jokes.
5. I try hard: a) not to be offensive; b) to be
offensive.
6. I have a style manual somewhere, but finding it is not one of
my priorities.
Political access, warehouse
prices!!!
(for
serious inquiries send me an email: Karl@semitourist.com)
August,
2011
Dear
family, friends, (enemies), and total strangers: thanks for reading (and/or
looking). And when my loyal bots, webcrawlers, spiders, and other cybernetic
organisms attain consciousness I’ll thank you too (I’d better, I’ve watched The
Terminator.)
So,
back to work. Got a nice load to Southern California. Park for a minute at
Bishop, visit the tourist info center, pick up a few supplies, and head out
again. Relaxing trip, no rush. An hour and a half down the road: This
is the_____ Health Clinic, did you lose your wallet? Huh? Uh no, I had it
this morning. Sir, the Bishop Police
Department claims to have possession of your wallet. Do you consent to our
giving them your phone number? (Ah, crap.) Yes, please.
So,
a nice relaxing load turns into Oh shit,
if traffic through Victorville craps on me, I’m out of hours, done for. But,
I made it. Next morning, dream route: through Las Vegas, Utah, and the best
of Colorado. Problem is it’s all
Nixon’d-up (expletive-deleted). Sure it’s a dream route, but the load is
high-value, no-playtime, until Kansas. KANSAS!!! What the hell’s left after
Kansas?!!! (PLENTY, according to the signs advertising hometowns of notable
escapees such as: Walter P. Chrysler, Bob Dole, President Dwight D. Eisenhower,
and more astronauts than were actually in the space
program.)
I
think I digressed. I got another
high value load, which again
rendered my bike impotent. But after delivery a day off is forced upon me, so I
get to explore Cape Girardeau, Missouri: the land of Limbaugh. Which I do. CG is
a quaint little river town with a good looking bridge, an interesting rock
quarry, and a mural so pleasing to the eye that I actually read the informative
plaques. But all that reading made me thirsty, and
hungry.
So
I stepped into Buckner’s where Mike was hard at work brewing some beer. He must
have known I was coming, ‘cause there seemed to be plenty of it already brewed.
July,
2011
Soylent
Green
is peas!
“Eat
‘em!” Obama warns, “or we’ll rip the band aids off your
scabs!”
Resist!
What’s wrapped up in the genetic strains of those little round legumes? And
why’s the government pushing peas all of a
sudden?
It
wasn’t all that long ago that our leaders warned us against the dangers of
eating healthy. Bush the First prudently stated, “I don’t like broccoli,” then
pounded the hell out of Iraq to prove the point. And Reagan subtly kept a jar of
jelly beans on his desk.
Coincidence? Ha! That practically screams,“BEWARE THE VEGTABLE-INDUSTRIAL
COMPLEX.”
Back
to the Soylent Green program. Soylent Green was a diabolical health care system
that fed on the feeble, and elderly. In the famous documentary from the ‘70’s,
Charleton Heston famously cried out, “Soylent Green is people!”
Well, duh. How else do you expect the government to feed it’s social programs
(and populace) without a little creative cannibalism?
Eat your peas.
But
what the hell’s that got to do with the debt crises,
you ask? I’m not sure yet, but I swear to you that the homeless ranks are
swelling (and being fattened). In Reno I saw a homeless gentleman toss bread to
more geese than I could count. The next morning the line of homeless folks
outnumbered the geese. In the Silicon Valley I stumbled into the closet space
of a band of San Jose homeless (I nearly tossed coffee grounds onto sleeping
bags and other living essentials stowed in the branches of shrubs).
Side
note: Within hours of Obama telling us we must eat
our peas, radio in the Reno area kept playing adds for SAM, Smart About Money. The website counsels us on how to manage
our money responsibly (not making this up).
To
be continued…
While
our elected officials in Washington were playing with their food metaphors
(Obama talked turkey about the debt
crises, so Baynor** called him a “puddin’head” – actual words, after
careful deconstruction/reconstruction of speech content*) I did some passive
research. Wyoming radio reported that Pepsi, while not quite Soylent Green, is
channeling Doctor Mengele via Senomyx
Corporation
for their taste research. Semonyx slices and dices what it needs from HEK293,
aka human embryonic kidney cell 293,
originally obtained in 1973 from an aborted fetus (generously donated).
They then subject the franken-cell to endless taste tests. But
HEK293 is not a part of Pepsi’s secret recipe, ergo Soylent Green isn’t
Pepsi.
But Fetal ghosts,
in the form of several vaccines you probably stood in line to get, almost
certainly course through your blood stream. Yup, about six of the biggies. About
the same process as described above, near as I’m willing to understand. The barn
door on that practice was closed in the seventies. Except for stem cell
research. Courtesy of nih.gov:
On August 9th, 2001, Former President
George W. Bush announced that federal funds may be awarded for research using
human embryonic stem cells if the following criteria are
met:
The
derivation process (which begins with the destruction of the embryo) was
initiated prior to 9:00 P.M. EDT on August 9, 2001.
The
stem cells must have been derived from an embryo that was created
for reproductive purposes and was no longer needed.
Informed
consent must have been obtained for the donation of the embryo and that
donation must not have involved financial inducements.
Very forward thinking of President Bush. Wouldn’t want an embryo
created for destructive purposes.
“Take your jihadii embryos elsewhere, thank you very much.” But, in 2009,
’s
executive
order countermanded President Bush’s executive order. So, brace yourselves for
an onslaught of exploding embryos. I
jest only ‘cause I’m not sure where to stand on this slippery slope.
Oh, yeah the budget crises. It looks like our elected officials are going
to cede our economic sovereignty to China. So, we must swallow our Soylent
Green, like it or not. David Bowie/Iggy Popp saw this coming back in the
eighties, and offered these reassuring words: and
when I get excited, my little China Girl says, ‘oh baby, just you shut your
mouth.’ She says, shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
*
“Dealing with the President is like dealing with a bowl of
jello.”
**
I realize he spells his name in a phonetically irresponsible way, I just refuse
to condone it (hypocritical, but so what).
June,
2011
Ding-Dong,
the Witch-hunt’s done! For 72 hours the DOT (Department
of Overzealous Tax-collectors) focused their nation-wide collection efforts
on the trucking industry. Last year nearly one in five (19.6%) truckers were
put out of service for safety violations. Wooohoo!
you’re tempted to shout. But seriously, you honestly believe every fifth
trucker is a menace to the driving public?
OK,
fine. Punish the driver. Clean out his pockets for the day, at least. Heap
points upon his license, threaten his livelihood. Recruit armies of
inexperienced drivers to replace the ousted veterans. That should make the roads
safer (and goods cheaper).
But
honestly, I love the concept. It should be applied vigorously across all levels
of government: an annual 72 hour auditing blitz
(the DOT’s actual word). Inspect governmental agencies for balanced budgets,
cost overruns, bloat. Deficit? Immediate pay freeze ‘til remedied. Dole out
points, pink slips.
Fantasy.
Unfortunately, reality is the opposite: the economy
has been put out of service. (Google real unemployment rate and discover
that one in five of us is, at most, underemployed.) Apparently, being a
productive member of society is unsafe. Safety
first.
Ooops,
toyed with site as you can see. Hang on, I got a photo for
that:
May,
2011
“Baked,
mashed, or fries?”
“Mashed.”
“Brown,
or white gravy?” And such is the
state of fine dining in rural Eastern Colorado.
Bears, pigs, and badgers, oh my! Louisiana floodgates were opened to ease
downstream flooding of the Mississippi river. Motorists on I-10 were warned that
critters flushed out into the open might cross onto the freeway. I was nowhere
near. But, I did see a badger in Oregon waddling towards the deluge. (I didn’t
know Oregon boarded badgers. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a badger
before, anywhere.) Of course, it
could have been an obese raccoon, chopped off at the knees, like a Corgi gone
wild.
Again, I’m a lucky SOB. I missed the floods and the tornados (please give
generously). But, flooding did catch up with me and due to I-90 closure at the
Wyoming/Montana state-line I was forced to take the scenic route to Montana. As
I understand it, the whole point of Wyoming, dating back to the Oregon Trail,
and probably nomadic Indians before that, is to avoid going up and over the
mountains.
But I’m all about adventure, so up the mountain I went. US-14 is a six
percent grade that winds through Bighorn National Forest. (I didn’t see any
bighorns, but I exchanged glances with a large moose on a switchback.)
Impulsively, I pulled into the Sibley Lake cross-country parking area and wedged
myself between a car and the snow bank. In front of a pair of cross-country
witnesses, and a parade of detour traffic, I dug a path around the car and
parked. Thus limbered, I went skiing.
All told it was a 67 mile detour. Scenic as hell, and I was really glad
to strap on the skis one last time, but it sure bled my hours dry. At the time,
I felt pretty smug detouring around all those trucks parked on the interstate.
In the winter, patience usually pays off as closed roads often reopen in a
timely manner. So, that evening, though exhausted, I couldn’t sleep; I had to
know. Montana DOT’s recorded voice said, “go to sleep, you were right. I-90 is
still closed at the Wyoming state line.” Hee hee, I
win.
Bzzzzz, open wide! Here comes a yummy planeload of Sp_m! (Buy a vowel?)
So, I cut & repasted some html Facebook code and erased a bunch of you.
Sorry. And, I can’t tell if the Thumbs-up counter is rounding off to the nearest
ten thousand, or hundred thousand. Doesn’t matter, let’s push it to a mil. So,
please re-spam (share, I mean; especially if your friend list tops mine, ie.,
all of you.)
Update: The new owners have met with the talent. Signs are
positive.
April,
2011
Romantic
Getaway, Epilogue
So,
my dispatcher of over three years defected on me under the haze of breakdown
time. No worries, as he himself might have said. And when the company merrily
announced our takeover (mercifully, as rumors have it) my wife & I joked at
his replacement’s conspicuous “appointment.” “Embezzlement, bankruptcy:” I
simply won’t participate in perpetuating those ugly words (so, reread them if
necessary).
Ahhhhhhhh,
crap. Good thing I severed all ties to my previous
life.
Anyway,
my brother gave me a ride to Hermiston, Oregon, to pick up my truck. Thankfully,
Obama is working overtime to make sure we’re fully employed. The stool at the
Hermiston parts counter, for example, is staffed at 100% on weekends! As for
the service department, well, the parts stool is staffed at 100% on weekends!
So, we jump the truck. Then, some idiot (me, maybe) switched off the ignition
and we couldn’t get it started again. (Close, but cigars are not politically
correct as of this writing.) So, we waited for a technician to come out and
apply current to approximately the same contacts.
All’s
well that ends well though. My truck drove just fine from Yakima to Portland.
Then it quit. At least we have a shop in Portland (too bad we fired all the
mechanics to keep our head above water for a few more days).
So,
I have all the time in the world to Google
“online-moneymaking-schemes-for-broke-down-truckers.”Amazingly I found, and got
accepted, to a legitimate site. My first assignment: stalk a celebrity and write
about their proclivities. (Well, steering my search results away from porn sites
proved to be tougher than I’d have ever imagined. It was/is a legitimate
website, & a legitimate topic, but…) Hey, did I beg you to click on the
advertising yet? PLEASE, don’t make me resort to the cardboard&
magic-markers.
Happy
May Day? Yes, I guess it is. My wife is safe & sound at home. (And I’m safe
& sound.)
This
site’s not about me. Well ok, that illusion is easier to pull off when I
actually go places. So I let my old friend, bike, take me to the nearest country
bar. Not that I have a predilection for country music, but it was closest. I
plugged in my laptop, and amazed myself with the number of cyber friends, and
acquaintances I’ve acquired. And then, I stumbled across a friend who had
passed.
Sucker
punch to the happy memories! OOOF!! POW!!! Factually, my friendship with Randy
postdated the Batman craze. Still, that’s how it felt. Multiply those feelings
times country music and it’s a miracle my beer was potable. A leeetle salty, but
drinkable. So, I passed a note to the band. They responded by playing upbeat
country songs– had no idea there was such an animal.
March,
2011
Romantic
Getaway (or, Dream Vacation Update)
Pre-trip
preparation: To ensure a clean start to our upcoming journey, I left the truck
with the shop, and had my wife take me home. We detoured 180 some miles to get
home, but it was our anniversary, so we did some sightseeing. We took in
Multnomah Falls and half a dozen others before making it home. After plenty of
good beer and bad dancing it was time to go back to work. The car rental
thieves planned on taking an extra $75 for a one-way trip (but only after
pretending that none of the cars in the lot were available, and putting us on a
waiting list). So, I did like any mature grown man would do – I asked Mom for a
ride.
Departure
day: I faxed the passenger authorization form to my dispatcher earlier; it
didn’t arrive. No problem, there was enough time to resend before leaving the
yard. And there was enough time to resend it again from the nearest truck stop.
O for three (I assume the fourth got there). Finally, we were on our way. I
hoped like hell the big horn sheep would show themselves for my wife. And they
did, herd after herd.
Rest
stop: We were making nice time. We pulled into a rest area and failed to pull
out. The truck wouldn’t stay in gear. No need for panic, it gets these hiccups
on occasion. So, I disconnected the battery for about half an hour while we had
dinner. It worked like a charm. We pulled out of our spot, slipped out of gear,
and coasted to the shoulder. I called our breakdown services and they
commiserated with me, but all the same, I had to pull out the fuses in the
battery box. To get to that step I had to take down both bicycles, set them
aside, pull off the large metal catwalk, set that aside, unscrew the cover to
the battery box, set that aside, find and pull all the fuses, and remember to
set those aside logically so they
could be reinserted into their properly assigned slots. And wait an hour. Then
put everything back together (because you must assume, even though your gut
knows better, that this will fix everything, so you need to be ready to roll).
Another call to breakdown services, another helpful mechanic. More
commiseration, but try disconnecting the fuses again. Repeat. Add another shift
change. Eventually the shifts made a complete rotation and a tow truck was
ordered. It promptly arrived the next
evening.
Tow
truck: I’ll call him Tom, ‘cause I didn’t ask. Tom’s gait was purposeful, but
leisurely and you had to look closely to notice that he wasn’t moving all that
fast. He had a kink in his neck, a crook in his shoulder, and they met halfway
in between. Tom didn’t really
work, but rather performed. Tools were carefully eyeballed. Chains were placed
meticulously except for the flourish of throwing his arm up as he let go of what
was left in his hand. Making conversation, I opened with, “That’s quite a
physical job you got.” I strained to understand what Tom said, ‘cause I’m not
sure he believed in vowels. I think he said that once he got knocked out by the
heavy equipment and woke up hours later under the vehicle he was towing. Or
maybe he called me names. Who knows. So, we lurched down the highway (vehicles
take after their drivers, apparently) as Tom towed us to the shop; which was
closed for the evening.
Shop: “We have to drop the transmission. Call
your dispatcher, we won’t get to it until Tuesday at the earliest.” So, Motel 6
for the weekend. This could have happened in Nebraska I keep telling my wife
(but mostly myself).
Dispatch:
After five days and no progress, we learn that our transmission is being shipped
from our yard in the LA area, and who knows when it will be ready to drive.
“Call a taxi and get a price from Hermiston to the Pendleton airport. Call me
back with the exact amount.” So, off to Pendleton to rent a car to go to
Spokane. Waiting for us in Spokane is a loaner truck, “You know how to drive a 9
speed, right?”Sure, learned on them a few years ago. So, race back to the truck
in Hermiston and cram as much into the “economy” size rental as we can, as fast
as we can, cause for some reason it has to be checked back in by 8:00.
Heading
to Spokane: What a luxury to have someone else prepare and inspect the car. Or,
not. They neglected to replace the oil filler cap. We neglected to wipe the oil
off the side of the car. However, we did add some oil and held up the line at
the return counter trying to get reimbursed.
Loaner
truck: We find our loaner truck, toss out the dog stained mattress, and fill it
with what we could fit into the rental. No bikes, skiis, etc. My patient wife
returns the car, and I dutifully pick her up and grind our way through the
passenger loading/unloading zone.
Finally,
a truck to drive: We even got a load. Unfortunately, the driver handing off the
load to us broke down on the other side of the border. So, we waited. And
waited. And got a different load.
Montana:
Smooth sailing. Woke up buried. Fortunately, eastbound lanes were open. Skated
on through.
North
Dakota: Nasty, snowy, windy, slippery. Slept late – no truck noises. I called
511, the road info number, and sure enough the interstate was shut down. So, we
go inside, I start writing this novel and my power supply craps out. So we’re
stranded without my skiis, bike, computer, but I had my lovely wife. (This
isn’t a country music song, I still have
her.)
Nashville:
We pulled off a day in Nashville shopping, eating, and singing for the tourists.
Ok, just a few lines when the lead singer jumped off stage and shared his
microphone with us. (He learned his lesson though – he didn’t offer his
microphone to anyone else after that. Or, maybe we’re just a hard act to
follow.)
Dream
Vacation
I
talked my wife onto the truck for another month-long dream cruise. We made it
two hundred miles before breaking down. Frankly, I think she’ll be happy to be
leaving Hermiston, Oregon –too much excitement, too
early.
Subsidy
Generation Farms
“How
do you feel about windmills?” Dennis asked, initiating a morning-long seminar on
wind energy production.
“I
hate them. They dominate the landscape and blot out the scenery,” I replied,
even though I sensed this was the wrong side of the coin flip.
“Yeah,
most people either love them, or hate them,” he said. (I doubt you could find
anyone outside the industry more in love with windmills than Dennis – he takes
his grandson on vacations to the various wind farms. To his enormous credit, it
sounds like the teenage grandson
enjoys the educational vacations.)
“I’m
happy for the truckers who get to haul the things,” I said. “I just wish they
were put somewhere where I didn’t have to see them.” And soon enough we were
into the Columbia River Gorge Scenic stretch, an aesthetic refuge off-limits to
the monstrous mechanical weeds.
“Power
generation is going to be ugly no matter whether it’s coal, gas, hydro,
nuclear, wind, solar, or whatever,” one of us said somewhere near
Celio
Falls, a 10,000 year old fishing hole flooded/obliterated by the
Dalles dam in 1957. But like everybody else, I love my cheap electricity and
suck it up like a certain conflicted vampire of the area. (It bothers me.)
Wind
farmers are drawn to the Columbia Gorge because it is already home to a massive,
firmly entrenched power grid thanks to the Bonneville Power Administration’s
system of dams. On top of that, Dennis explained, the wind farms contract with
the dams to produce a certain amount of energy. Pretty slick stuff, really. As
wind energy kicks in, dams shut down storing water (potential energy, revenue).
Wind-win, as long as the weather forecast is
accurate.
Cool,
fascinating. So, why not take it a step further: shield the earth with a solar
parasol and reap unlimited wattage. Huh? What? You heard me. Screw the
environment, we need green energy! (And maybe some (Soylent)
green snacks, please.)
Sidetracked.
Sorry. Where was
I…
Wind
farms are for our own good. That’s why we taxpayers are shelling out, according
to the Sunday
Oregonian,
1.2 billion in subsidies to one (just one!) wind farm in eastern Oregon. But
hey, we gain 34 jobs. Without those subsidies those jobs would have gone to,
uh, nowhere. The gorge has wind, and you don’t have to run the extension cord
very far. The bottom line (financially, not anatomically): wind farms would be
profitable in the gorge regardless (again, according to the Oregonian). Sweet
deal, surely, but layers upon layers of corporate welfare must be making
somebody sick?
February,
2011
Colorful
trip this month
Colorful
trip this month. Caught a train to LA, and then a bus to the beach. On that
particular day I was asked to be photographed, asked if I was a musician (by a
drummer from Maine whose drums are somewhere in the Midwest with a friend), was
accused of being the devil (because I was Bill Gates), and discussed jazz/blues
on the train-ride back with a Korean War medic originally from Memphis,
Tennessee.
Four
separate bald eagle sightings, evenly spaced throughout the state of Iowa, is my
new personal best. Later that same evening, in the dark night of rural Indiana,
a swarm of giant red fireflies revealed themselves to be actually horse-drawn
Amish buggies. The clip-clopping gave them
away.
I
spent a blustery day in Des Moines where everything was grey. Then a visual
symphony burst forth. First a bluebird happened by, then a few blue jays quickly
followed by many strikingly marked birds I can’t name, and finally, the most
vivid cardinal I have ever seen.
Big
horn sheep in the Columbia Gorge chaperoned each of my three trips through, and
finally favored me with a nice family portrait.
At
a paper mill in Longview, Washington I swapped Mount Saint Helens stories with a
guy who was in search and rescue at the time. He knew people who went camping
that weekend. That morning one couple got knocked into the lake by the shock
wave thereby escaping the following heat wave that cooked the other couple in
their tent. In my story everybody lives.
A
Little Behind
(No,
I’m not referring to the lizard.) I’ve been successful lately. The weather has
cooperated at the right times, at the right places: sun when I wanted, snow
where I wanted. So I was able to do some biking and skinny skiing in Postcard
Land (maybe I got a few). Updates coming as soon as I can crank them out.
Grapes
Epilogue
Finished
The Grapes of Wrath a few weeks ago.
Fine story, but it bears little similarity to my life. Those poor Okies lived
out of their truck, moved frequently, ate poorly, struggled with good hygiene,
were hassled by cops, and were viewed negatively by the townsfolk. Still, for
some reason the more the story fades from memory the more upbeat I
feel.
The
Gates of Graft
Editor’s
note (as if one exists, but thanks for playing along): If you’re a stickler for
accuracy, this is January stuff.
“There
are four, or five foreclosures on our street,” I remember Nelson saying, but
then again he might have said five or six. I had just finished off an
It’s-It
(an ice cream-cookie sandwich) and in all the excitement, and over time, I’ve
kind of lost track. Pretty sobering stuff, this mortgage crises (unless it
drives you to drink).
Anyway,
heading through the San Joaquin valley early one Sunday morning, a community
service radio program discussed the scourge of dustbowl era Okies. (Seems
California had trouble back then controlling it’s borders.) Coincidentally, I
had just started reading The Grapes of
Wrathin which Steinbeck recounts the mortgage crises that uprooted legions
of farming families. Once proud, these families were treated worse than dirt,
according to the ladies of early morning radio (and Steinbeck, not to be
confused with Glenn beck).
Fast
forward a few weeks, and a several decades, respectively, and late one afternoon
a local Oklahoma radio program is asking, “should we allow states like
California, that are deep in debt, to file for
bankruptcy?”
“No!”
was the overwhelming consensus, “they still don’t get it. They keep voting in
these irresponsible, pandering politicians who won’t stop spending,” “Let ‘em
fall off into the ocean,” (paraphrased & summarized, please forgive me, but
I think I got the tone about right; verbatim about falling into the ocean).
I’m
not sure how the logistics of this metaphor work, but big labor, big business,
and big government are all in bed to screw the little guy. For some reason, jobs
have dried up. So, hordes of Californians have fled,
looking for greener paying jobs. (Surprised California hasn’t imposed tough
emigration laws on itself.) And as California goes, so goes the rest of the
nation. But, I’ll cut myself off before I subconsciously start parroting talk
radio.
Too
bad Steinbeck isn’t still around – there’s a lot of Pulitzer prize material to
write about these days.
January, 2011
At
the Guard Shack
“Let’s
see, you’re going to Goodard? Godard? Is that how you pronounce it? I
don’t know. I do know God is good.
Do you believe in God?”
“I believe 06:30 am is too early for a
religious discussion,” I thought, but said
“sure.”
“You
see I don’t believe in God, I know,
if you know what I mean. Do you?”
“Uh
huh,” but a polite uh huh.
“I’m
just waiting. With all the things going on in the world today and if Jesus
comes down and takes me I’m waiting, or if I live out my days I’m waiting.
Either way is ok with me. I’m just waiting. But actively
waiting. Do you know what I mean by
actively
waiting?”
“Again, I know 06:30 is too early, and it’s
kinda cold; in fact I believe Arkansas has frozen over,” I thought, but
replied “yes.”
“God
bless you. Let me shake your hand.”
“Well ok, but I haven’t gotten around to
reading the contract yet.”
Atypical
Day in Oregon
A few weeks ago on a crisp, clear Oregon day I spotted four bald eagles,
in three separate sightings, all within Klamath Falls. Further up the highway
near Chemult a coyote, with it’s head bowed in concentration, pounced it’s front
paws into the sparkling snow. Then he did it again. And again. My deer whistle
broke his concentration and he scampered into the treeline. Near Rufus, high up
on the basalt cliffs of the Columbia gorge, a herd of bighorn sheep marched
single file. Shortly afterwards, I crossed into
Washington.
December
‘Tis the season. In Oregon, elves (of Hispanic decent) stuffed my trailer
full of Christmas trees which I in turn dropped off in the evergreen state
(Washington, of course. This is not a trade violation since severed trees are
not expected to stay eternally green). The shipper’s neighbor, and fellow tree
farmer (not to be confused with logger) was happy to explain the business. He
taught history for thirty years in a previous life, so I dutifully interrupted
and asked how they shaped the trees. He didn’t disappoint. Reaching high, he
swung his arm down hard and slapped his thigh. He did this a few times. Due to
the violent follow through, workers wear special chaps on their legs to protect
from the 16-20 inch blades.
Still curious, I Googled and oggled these knives on the internet. Bruce
Lee could have franchised several Kung
Fu ChristmasSpecials with these
babies. I could see Chuck Norris (pre-Walker, Texas Ranger) and Kareem
Abdul-Jabbar muscle in on Bruce’s girlfriend’s aging uncle’s family Christmas
tree farm. Chuck and Kareem would sell a few unsightly trees, break a few
ornaments, and before you know it everybody is Kung Fu slicing! Da-da da-da
dump-dump dump dump da! Just as things start winding down throw in Andy
Williams (literally, for effect), a fireplace, and end with a round of Deck
the Halls.
I am, as my father pointed out, “a lucky mother…” Shut
your mouth! (But I’m not talking about Shaft!)
I seem to be dancing around the major weather systems. When Colorado closed it’s
passes and Wyoming switched off their Welcome sign, I was skipping through
the southwest. When snow caved in the Minneapolis Metrodome (it’s a stadium, not
a gay hairstyle) I did see a few skiffs in Missouri, but nothing to write about
(o.k., maybe the last half of that sentence, but that’s it). I entered Indiana a
day after they were rescuing stranded motorists.
Then finally, the weather caught up with me. Everything outside was
safely tucked under a thick blanket of snow on the day I awoke to go back to
work. I had to shovel to get out of the driveway. Cars slid down the hill, many
sideways. Snow berms not only bounced cars back into the field of play, but gave
them an interesting spin as well. It was an adult version of the birthday
bowling alley party. There was no sign the snow was going to stop (probably
because it wouldn’t stop until after dark). I dreaded getting on the truck.
Turns out I was a day early. Back to bed! Unfortunately, no;
responsibility reared it’s annoying head and said, “You know, if you don’t get
those holes patched and those walls painted you won’t get your damage deposit
back.” So, we stayed up late patching, painting, and getting ready to move.
Weather wins (underhandedly, as usual).
November
In central Washington (State, of course) a radioactive
rabbit
was captured
near the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. Coincidentally (probably not), this
happened a week prior to Obama’s trumpeting of the START treaty. A few days
later a Chinese submarine let loose a ballistic missile off the coast of San
Diego.
Rabbits are nearly the perfect covert weapon: light, quick,
rapid reproducers, and disarmingly cute (see previous). Least you think I’m a
crackpot, remember the brilliant Soviet assassination plot* against President
Carter. Thankfully, the Prez valiantly fought off the water-bourn
commando.
Obviously the gist of a rabbit-based offensive is to let a few
of the guys loose (or better yet, let Hillary present a pair as a gift!)
then watch the little guys drop their little radioactive presents throughout
the country. (Perfect. And Green!)
The DROPPINGs program (Defense Radioactive Operational Plan for Placing
Irradiating Nuclear Gutbombs) itself is enough to keep those pesky Russkies in
check. It’s a START anyway.
UPDATE: The race has escalated. According to the Seattle Times
radioactive mouse droppings have been found at Hanford. Little critters got into
the cesium (Gesundheit!). So, the cheese stands
alone.
THEY (The Hegemonic
Enlightened Yetis, of course) ok, ok, I don’t know who, but someone is
trying to silence me. Out of the gray skies of eastern Colorado today, a brown,
feathered missile came screaming into my windshield. Sure, go ahead and believe
it was just a nearsighted bird of prey using bad calculus. That’s what THEY want
you to think.
UPDATE: Obviously Kim Jong Il could use something soft and
cuddly. This might backfire, though; he’s starved his people into eating
anything that moves (or doesn’t, radioactive or not). A zombie war is the last
thing we need.
Moving
on (that’s how I roll, L sorry,
couldn’t stop myself, agh! and again!) Wyoming was typical Wyoming, maybe a bit
milder,‘cause the official weather gage (the number of overturned trucks) was in
the low single digits. And Utah was uneventful, other than losing my brakes at
the top of the 10 mile, 6% grade near Park City. Had the warning light not
worked properly, then I would have had something to write about (assuming I
survived without brain injury); it would have been an Olympic spectacle to rival
the luge.
Going through the back highways of California, the sky was
unnaturally blue, the snow was fresh, and the air smelled alpiney. I couldn’t
get California Dreamin’ out of my
head. If I got the song correct some guy is whining about winter, instead of
doing something about it. Well, I couldn’t leave my load, so maybe I whined a
little, too.
* While canoeing President Carter was allegedly attacked by
rabbit.
October
Breasts were bared at me in Idaho. I missed nearly the entire show. No
matter, I know the plot: curtain goes up, a couple of boobs take center stage.
Nevertheless, I’ve been paid homage. Now I must come to grips with being a rock
star. (Poor, misguided woman: get thee to a
concert!)
In New Mexico I had to swerve to avoid hitting a tarantula (he was in the
crosswalk, after all). He was headed for the meat market; it’s mating season in
the Southwest.
Twice in Davenport, Iowa bicyclists rang their bells: once to announce
their presence, and once to warn of my presence. Verbally, they warned me that
the Mississippi is swollen because the neighbors up north can’t rein in their
precipitation (groan, sorry).
An El Paso funeral stopped me dead in my tracks: or, it would have if I
had adjusted my brakes properly. I had planned to tour/photograph/absorb Ysleta
Mission, but to do so during a funeral would have required an all-out National
Geographic impersonation. I let the dead guy have his day.
Road (out)rage! Little America truck stop in Flagstaff, Arizona, is now
off limits to our company. It made our list of restricted truck stops because of
security concerns. Flagstaff is one of my favorite destinations.
This stinks more than all the truck stop parking lots combined! In the
spirit of CSA 2010, maybe the nearest DOT jurisdiction should be put out of
service (without pay, like us) until the truck stop is made safe again.
In Mississippi, late one night, I listened to gospel music (according to
FM radio). It rocked circles around the Christian rock stations. No surprise;
Christian rock has driven more kids to Satan than all the strains of rock and
roll combined.
In
Louisiana I had my first “boudin,”
a sausage looking thing stuffed with rice, vegetables, and critter du jour,
(pork, alligator, shrimp, or, crayfish in my case). Tasty. Stuffed with boudin,
I went to my pick-up. I was a little early. A gentleman there asked me to spot
him while he backed onto the country highway, which I cheerfully did. Then he
backed another pickup truck to the first, attached a tow-rope to the front
bumper, and asked me to steer his truck and trailer for him while he tried to
pull the stuck truck and high-centered trailer off the middle of the highway
which I had just spotted for him. Good times.
Speaking
of ditches, which we missed, I must give a last minute political pitch while
gently correcting the President’s analogy: President Obama is spot on –
republicans drove the car into the ditch (deficit & debt). Those republicans
need to be fired (if not prosecuted). President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, and Harry
Reid are pushing hard, to the left, so they can get the car out of the ditch and
into the abyss (or, bottomless pit, which any kid can tell you leads to China).
Please vote for those with enough sense to hook the car to a
tow-truck.
September
Muslims in Salt Lake City? You can bet the Mormons aren’t taking that
lying down. Or, maybe they are – there are a disproportionate number of small
children and pregnant women for a city this size. God bless ‘em. One of the most
interesting (or salacious) conspiracy theories is that in order to preserve our
culture, and offset our negative birthrate, Bush, Obama, et al, put out the
welcome mat for our southern neighbors (because working class Catholics can be
counted on to replenish the population, or buoy voter count. Win/win).
But, a predominantly middle-class religion whose childbearing beliefs and
practices don’t crash the infrastructure? Where are the votes in that? (Sorry.
We haul a lot of soap out of here. Trip over the boxes from time to time.)
Elsewhere, near the Army’s Yakima Training Center (Yakima, Washington), a
load of target silhouettes littered the side of the highway. Ummm, maybe we’re
taking this“we’re not at war with Islam” a little too far?
But,
who is John Galt? I think I know,
but my ipod ate the final chapter.*
This is no small tragedy – it’s akin to driving across the United States, seeing
the New York skyline, and then laying over in New Jersey. And this was no small
book - if you stood on this baby you could touch the top of a giant sequoia.
But, I agree with President Obama: maybe we should tax the hell out of those
greedy, capitalist bastards.
Really, how much is enough? Think what we’re paying them in interest!!
(Huh? He’s not talking about the Chinese?)
Enough
of politics. Big horn sheep are out along the Columbia Gorge again (east of
Rufus, mile marker 126 +/-). They’re easy to miss; look for their big white
butts (I just can’t lie, an M.C. Hammer joke I can’t contrive). Anyway, one of
them spoke to me. He caught the sunlight, looked over his shoulder (in the
classic pose) and said, “Pull onto the shoulder, set your four-ways, put out
your triangles, and capture this.”
Smart ass sheep.
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