Author: jeff

I threw away one Las Vegas update already.

Those of you who know Vegas and enjoyed my Nashville update were probably looking forward to this; Vegas is far riper a target for someone looking to make fun of people.  And that was pretty much what the first update looked like.

But everything came down to the same joke:  people are stupid.  And saying “people are stupid” over and over gets tedious, even when there’s just _so_ much going on here that needs to be ridiculed.  I mean, _every_ casino advertises having the “loosest slots in town.”  The only joke I’ll make is to point out they all seem to be very proud of this…

But beyond being merely tedious, Las Vegas strikes me as vaguely sinister.  I mean, in Nashville, people come to hear the music, and the leeches have gathered around and put up wax museums and overpriced gift shops and whatnot.  Basically, they’ve dug holes for visitors to throw their money into.  People go to Myrtle Beach for the sun, sand and ocean, and the leeches have dug holes for them to throw money into.  It’s the same everywhere that people gather:  the leeches dig holes for you to throw your money into.

But it’s different in Vegas.  Here, the “attraction” is the biggest, deepest money hole of all.

Hey, if you enjoy the slots, or the dice, or whatever, that’s fine, but let’s call a spade a spade (note entertaining use of playing card lingo!): you’re just throwing your money into a hole.

There will be those who argue “but I won!”  Look, _somebody_ built that volcano out there.  _Somebody_ paid for the Eiffel Tower, for the pirate ships, for the white tigers.  The houses do not lose.  If you think you can beat them, have a blast.  Math will kick your ass a lot quicker than I can talk sense into you.

And about those white tigers…

I’m really conflicted about this.  Although I have not, and sincerely doubt I ever will, paid $90 to see Seigfried and Roy, you can see some of the tigers for free at the Mirage (not the Circus Circus, despite the clean, implicit logic of having tigers at the circus.  As a matter of fact, I can pretty much guarantee that asking “where are the tigers” at the Circus Circus information booth will get you an extraordinarily disparaging look from the cute booth chick who you’d swear was just checking you out mere moments before.  Don’t ask me how I know… let’s just say I got it from a reliable source).  So, back at the Mirage, I found the tiger display.

An incredible, magnificent animal.  The one cat who’d condescended to come out of hiding was a particularly large male.  I don’t think many people appreciate the size to which these cats can grow.  Check your encyclopedias, lions are not the biggest cats.  Like many “white” tigers, this one was palish orange in places, particularly across the back.  He plopped around in the water for awhile, which entertained a lot of plebes who assumed tigers were just big, stripey housecats.

I watched his muscles move under his fur for awhile (in some ways, I guess he _was_ just a big stripey housecat: I watch Scout the same way.  I’m too busy trying to stay unscratched to watch Kato for long…).  All this time, there’s a video running about Seigfried and Roy, and all they’ve done for the tigers.  It talked about the tiger matings they’d done (mating them with other tigers, you sickos), and came to a summary something to the effect that they’d “ensured the survival of this species for decades to come,” with pictures of tiger cubs rolling around with one of the boys (I’m not sure, but I think Siegfried is the pansy and Roy is the fairy).  I couldn’t help feeling that “that’s not a real tiger, at this point.”

I mean, on one level, I’m obviously glad that we’ll have these animals around in the future… but what if it’s only to gawk at?  How seriously can I take their line about respecting the majestic animals when it’s only to put them behind a window in the desert… or make them disappear in a puff of fire for 90 bucks a head?

I applaud the preservation of the species, but at the same time, I’d really like to see Seigfried with half his left buttock bitten off, Roy sporting three parallel scars from neck to groin, with a tiger muttering “I’m a _wild_ animal, you dipshit.  What the hell were you thinking, I’m Tigger, now?”

But then again, if I had the means, can I honestly say that I’d never try to get a tiger for a (for lack of a better term) pet?

Like I say, conflicted.  I guess I’ll try to be happy with the fact that they’re alive (the tigers.  I could give a rat’s butt for S&R) and here where I can see and appreciate them.

By the way, the pansy/fairy line popped into my head when I overheard two blonde girls with a charmingly tenuous grasp of the language wondering which of the boys was which.  I would have said it to them out loud, but I didn’t know how well Bigot would translate into Nordic… so I thought I’d inflict it here… hope none of you pansies take offense…

Some more by the ways, because as I reread what I wrote I realize I didn’t hit on a couple things I wanted to (those Nordic girls, mostly.  Just kidding.  Okay, I’m not).  First, I just had to mention the fact that this Kampground offers a free shuttle to the Riviera casino, on the strip.  The free shuttle costs two dollars.  But, oh, it’s really free, because once you get to the Riviera, show them this stub and they’ll give you two dollars in nickels!  Great.  When I get home, I’ll put them in a sock and give them back to you, just to complete the circle.  And there’s a tip jar on the shuttle bus.  I was half tempted to just sit on the sidewalk with a jar that said “THANKS” on it, and watch the loot pour in.

I saw a place that was called STRIP LIQUOR, and I realized it was just a liquor store on the strip only after I mentally acknowledged that that was the finest cross-promotion I’d ever heard of.

And, that volcano.  Should you ever decide that you’ve more money than you need, and have chosen the Las Vegas area as the recepticle into which you wish to throw most of it, do stop at the Mirage to watch the volcano erupt.  I recommend doing the geeky tourist thing and getting a spot right up as close as you can, with a good view of the volcano and one of the side waterfalls.    From there, you can really feel the heat when that lagoon bursts into flame…

Back in the desert again.  It was a chilly 110 in Barstow today, and the locals are breaking out the wool and flannel as nighttime temperatures are expected to plummet into the high 80’s.  Honestly, I have no idea how people live here, much less seem to be able to look at it as being “normal.”  I do notice more casual tequila consumption than I’m used to; perhaps that’s the explanation.  I’ve had tequila nights where twenty-foot piranha bats seemed perfectly normal to me…

First, let’s get the bitching and moaning out of the way.  If you’re tired of this kind of stuff, just jump to the next paragraph.  Even though I did get here alive, Roberta Verona is still making those squealing sounds, which is no big surprise ( I can’t remember _ever_ having an automotive issue disappear all on its own), but as I came into Barstow, she was having trouble taking gas (what I would call “missing”), losing power, and backfiring, parfticularly on uphills, which is an all-new symptom.  But I get here, get set up, and decide to unhook the Tracker and it’s brand-new, state-of-the-art braking system and go have some dinner.  As soon as I turn the thing on, the big red CHECK ENGINE light comes on.  AAAAHAHHHHAHAHAH!  Why do mechanical things go all haywire around me?  I’ve actually heard of people who have very powerful electro-magnetic fields and can cause eletronics around them to fail, but I have no idea how I might be causing machinery to fall apart.  The sucky thing is that my repair bills have now gotten to the point where I have to take my bankroll in account while planning.  The odyssey may be coming to a quicker end than I’d originally hoped…

On the positive side of things, I just had one killer patty melt.  When you’re in the mom ‘n’ pop truck stop restaurant, go for the patty melt.  New heights of grease.  It’s difficult to type, my fingers keep slipping onto the wrong keys.

Yes, I have the laptop on the table here in the truck stop.  Some people read magazines while waiting for patty melts, I write updates.

Okay, I was in positive territory… Las Vegas should be less than three hours away, so I should be there before noon tomorrow.  I might be able to call a Geo place to see how worrisome this CHECK ENGINE message really is.  The odometer just rolled, so it might just be a mileage indication.  Unlike San Diego, I should have some free time in Vegas.  Most of the day Thursday and Friday will be free (Friday’s festivities are all reception type issues in the evening), and I haven’t decided when I’m leaving, Monday or Tuesday.  I need to be in Reno the 26th… Ooops, that’s 2am the 26th, better make that the 25th.  So apparently I _will_ be leaving on Monday…  If Roberta feels okay all the way in, I think I’ll set up the recording equipment when I get to Vegas.  If she doesn’t, I’ll probably check into it.  Sigh.

Hey, where’d my positive stuff go?  Actually, it’s sorts hard right now.  I’m trying to drive early in the morning while it’s cool, and that’s screwing up my sleep schedule even further.  I haven’t even recovered from San Diego yet.  So I’m _really_ tired, and I’ve got a headache from the heat.  I keep trying to drink a lot of water, and that’s making my feel real heavy.  The greasy patty melt was great tasting, but isn’t exactly helping in the feeling-like-a-lard-ass department…

Okay, I’m running a low-level depression, so I’m going to stop writing now.  Hopefully, I’ll sleep right tonight, roll into Vegas on time and with highly-performing vehicles, and get several song masters down.  Then I can write a more positive update.  Too bad that after so long without an update, when I get a chance to write I feel crappy.

Well, it’s eleven pm here, and it doesn’t really feel like two am, my time.  I must be getting acclimated to the time change.  Man, the East Coast’s going to be a right bitch when I head home…

I’d really like to get to sleep soon, because I want to get up at six to get on the road tomorrow.  I’ve got another bout with the Mojave, and I’d just as soon do it before the sun fully wakes up.  One night in Barstow, then hopefully another early morning sprint into Las Vegas.  I’m expecting about four hours of driving each day.

San Diego.  I suppose I should do some kind of wrap up here.  It’s a really great city.  While the Comic-Con was running, my life kind of revolved around the convention center, Seaport Village, and Horton Plaza, and the several blocks walk between them.  Seaport Village I’ve already mentioned, it’s the kind of place where you can spend five bucks on an ice cream cone (I know I did), twenty bucks for lunch (did that too), and the sky’s the limit on dinner (I kept mine under sixty, but only just barely).  Horton Plaza is pretty much like every other mall in the world except for the fact that the stairs and escalators were laid out by M. C. Escher.  You can see where you want to go, it’s just right over there, but just try getting to it.  There’s a place there with the best, and quite possibly biggest, cinnamon rolls in the world, and a burger grill called Wichita’s, that I foolishishly assumed to be after the Kansas city until the dark complected girl who took my order told me to make out the traveler’s check to Wuh-CHEET-uhs.  We did giggle, but managed not to do it in her face…

I saw a little bit more around here (“here” being Chula Vista, which I think translates to “View of the shoe,” but I could be wrong.  Chula Vista is just south of San Diego, yet not quite Mexico, and is where the KOA Kampground is located) today, now that the show is over.  I saw the inside of a Midas brake shop, for instance, but, bucking the trend present in my recent history, after I handed over all that money, I found they had actually fixed the problem I asked them to (the Tracker’s braking system apparently grew old and died all at once.  I think I replaced most of the underside of the car, but the brake light now goes out, the brake pedal reacts before it gets within an inch or so of the floor, and the squeaking, scraping noise emanating from the passenger side front wheel is gone gone gone).  I found another great Mexican food joint (when you’re eight miles from the border and you find the Mexican restaurant where you’re the only customer not ordering in Spanish, you know you’ve hit gold) and had more fantastic enchiladas (despite a recommedation from a native I happen to know, I refused to have a “fish taco.”  Where I come from, “fish taco” is a dirty joke, not a lunchtime treat).

The Comic-Con was incredible.  The other time I came out, it seems like I got here later and had to leave earlier.  I know I had to fly out Sunday afternoon, which stunk.  Sunday is the best buying day at shows like this.  Dealers who had bad shows need to make table money, and dealers from far away would rather tote home cash than comics, so low-balling goes a long way on Sundays.  I actually had spent all I intended to spend, and Richard and I were just walking around, not wanting the show to end (the less hardy Sean and Jonathan had already retired to the floor of the lobby area for blister relief), when I practically stole a Tales To Astonish #27 (first Ant-Man) for $200.  I know that $200 for a comic book sounds nuts to a lot of people, but there’s something about a thirty-six year old slab of paper, designed to be thrown away (in that day, you were just supposed to read them and get rid of them, not plan on financing your kids’ college education with them), and yet it’s survived until now, and, actually, is in noticeably better shape than I am at only 32, thank you very much.  And besdies, even with the Overstreet Price Guide’s devaluation of low grade books, this one guides at about $400.  Not that I’m intending to sell it, but it’s nice to know when you got a deal.  I mentioned yesterday my theivery of a $550 X-Men #1 for $250 earlier in the day.  Sunday at San Diego rules.

So now, the big books I have left are Journey Into Mystery #1 ($260), Incredible Hulk #1 ($650), Strange Tales #1 ($255), Tales To Astonish #1 ($120), and Tales of Suspense #1 ($116).  All the prices given are for “good” condition books, which basically means all the pages are there, the cover is still attached, and the thing can be read.  Other than that, it can be pretty beat up.  That’s the kind of book I like, at least books of this age.  By the way, for comparison’s sake, Hulk #1 in “near mint” condition (looks like a brand new copy, fresh off the press) guides for $11,000.  That’s another reason I like low grade books…  Actually, as far as most people are concerned, the Hulk book is the only one of the above that’s really “major.”  I just defined the others as major because I consider them important to my collection.

Other nifty things I got: 2 more Carl Barks library sets (Carl Barks was the guy who wrote and drew the Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge stories most of us and our parents grew up with.  In the eighties, Russ Cochran reprinted _every_ Barks Duck story in ten slipcased sets of three hardbound editions.  When I left home, I still needed half of them.  Now, I only need 3 more… and I know where to get one of them, I just need to see if I can afford it after this trip is over…), _A Game of You_ hardbound (Neil Gaiman’s Sandman was one of the best story books ever published, in any form.  This volume reprints a story that ran about eight months in the regular comic series.  I’m now missing only one of the Sandman hardbounds…), 8 or so paperbacks (my current “these things aren’t worth much, but, _damn_, they’re cool” collection is my Marvel paperback collection.  There are three main series:  Lancer’s late 60’s reprints of comics, Pocket Books’ early 80’s reprints of comics, and Pocket Books’ early 80’s novels based on Marvel characters.  I’ve also found both novels and reprint editions from oddball publishers at weirdo times.  I think I’ve completed the reprint editions [I need to find a resource on exactly what was printed.  The numbering system used, particularly on the Lancer series, suggest there’re more of these things out there, but I’ve got everything I’ve ever heard of being published.  Perhaps the “missing” numbers are simply not Marvel reprints], and I just need one more of the novels [which I swear I owned at one time.  Probably in some long forgotten box at my parents house, assuming mom didn’t sell it at a garage sale…].  By the way, the comic world has a way of following me around on this kind of stuff.  No one ever wanted the Marvel Masterworks hardbound reprints until after I started picking them up when they got discounted to half cover.  Now that I only need a couple more, they’re the hot, popular collectible, and it looks like the last couple volumes are going to set me back a couple bills each.  Three years ago, I got into collecting Marvel Treasuries, comics printed in a totally impractical and inconvenient 18 inch by 12 inch size.  I thought they were cool because they were reprints of normal comics blown up in size, so the art was just huge.  I used to pick them up for a buck or two each at shows, because no one wanted to have to store the damn things.  Guess what was on all the displays for 15, 25, and 50 bucks this year?  All my damn Treasuries.  So you heard it here first, Lancer and Pocket Books paperbacks will skyrocket in price over the next few years), 5 Seven-Eleven cups with superhero pictures on them (I have no excuse for this, I just thought they were way too cool to leave laying around), and 4 more of the 60’s Marvel cartoon videos (these things are truly atrocious.  They were apparently “animated” by cutting up comic books and sliding the pieces around in front of a camera.  Think low tech South Park, and you’ll be in the right neighborhood.  I really have no idea what attracted me to these things.  I do remember coming home from school to my grandmother’s house, when cable had just started to hit [you thought it was tough explaining vinyl albums to kids today, try explaining three channels accessed through an antenna].  Lipton also had some of the first big improvements on the Cup-A-Soup idea, and I remember eating mugs full of instant Macaroni and Cheese or Chicken Ala King and watching these pieces of crap on Turner’s fledgling empire all afternoon).

And actually, I got a lot more cool crap too, it’s just that I’m getting into things whose purchase completely defies justification.  Even my geek friends were looking at me funny about the Gear Cloth Dolls (if you have to ask, you don’t want to know).

The San Diego show is fantastic for a reason completely aside from the massive amounts of useless pop culture available for your spending needs.  It is still _the_ show for the industry to come out and shake its own hand, do a little insider business.  _Everyone_ is there.  The great part about this is that you often just run into heroes of yours, wandering the aisles, buying the same crap you are, looking in amazement at that which amazes you.  There was a small fire at the DC booth one afternoon when the wiring for their huge video display apparently heated past the combustion point of the fabric used to hide it from public view.  As I stood and watched the minor debacle, I found myself standing next to Grant Morrison again, and we talked a while more.  I think in the next couple years I’m going to stay at one of the hotels downtown, so as to run into these folks after hours.  I imagine Grant and I would have even more to talk about after dozens of Black and Tans…

And the sheer number of creators is overwhelming.  People who would be featured guests at shows back home, where there would be lines hours long for a quick autograph, are literally just sitting around at San Diego.  I talked with people whose work I’ve admired since I understood that there was someone “in” there, someone on the other side who wrote and drew so that I might get the message.  I got sketches in my own little notebook from people whose work you see on book covers in every Waldenbooks and Barnes and Noble in the world.  I talked philosophy with Neal Adams (I know, his name means nothing to most of you.  But if you know the name, you know he’s a living legend.  And he drew me a Batman sketch), I talked shit with Evan Dorkin (who deserves to be a legend, someday.  And he drew me a Milk and Cheese sketch: “No murder today, very sad!”).  So many artists and creators that I got to talk to, that drew a little something (in some cases, substantially more than that.  Let me show you my William Stout sometime…), that I got the chance to tell how much I’d enjoyed their work.

Well, I’ve probably spouted off enough about the show.  It’s another in a long list of things that I don’t feel I can explain to you unless you already know what I’m talking about.

I really enjoyed it.  I hope to be back next year.  I need to go to sleep.  Of course, I’m currently wired all to hell…

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Comic-Con International 1998 is now over, and perhaps my life will resume some semblance of its former self.  In particular, perhaps updates will get written more than once a week…

And actually, you’re not going to get much in this one, either.  I’m working against a for real deadline: in about half an hour, the office at the Kampground is going to close and I won’t be able to get this in tonight.

So first off, thanks to everyone who wrote me email, and thanks for waiting patiently while I spent all my time, energy, and money on funnybooks and their associated paraphernalia.  Actually, I haven’t even picked up email in several days, I’m only assuming at this point that everyone’s being patient about it…

The show was incredible, past even what I remembered from being here three years ago (I’m struck simultaneously by the thoughts “wow, has it been that long?” and, “wow, that seems like a lifetime ago…”).  I bought four, FOUR “big” books.  Without getting to lost in arcane comic trivia, I collect Silver Age (late fifties, early sixties) Marvel (the major comic company in the last several decades) books, both superheroes and “monster” books (the most popular comics of the fifties, wherein aliens or muck monsters or lava men or stone gargoyles lurch around eating everyone).  The “big” books in this realm are #1 issues and first appearances of major characters.  At this show, I got Avengers #1, X-Men #1, Tales Of Suspense #39 (first Iron Man) and Tales To Astonish #27 (first Ant-Man).  Okay, so you’ve never heard of Ant-Man, he was big stuff (no pun intended) in the early sixties.

Historically, I get maybe one big book at a show.  The prices forbid me any more.  But, like many markets, comic prices are undergoing an “adjustment.”  In particular, lower grade books (the more beat-up ones that I actually prefer) were “de-valued” in the most recent Overstreet (the bible of comic book price guides).  See, prices of high-grade books have skyrocketed as more people realize that they are about the safest, surest investment you’re likely to come across.  And low grade books were always priced at a fraction of the high grade prices (say, one-sixth).  Unfortunately, sales of low grade books were stagnant because the huge price increases were only an issue for the highest grade books where the investors play.  Low grade books are for collectors and readers, and those prices rise more linearly.  So Overstreet (wisely) changed the fractions they used.  Instead of “good” books being worth 1/6 of “mint” books, they became worth 1/10.

Basically, an instant fire sale on low grade books.  Add to this the hair-trigger nature of certain comic dealers (they got de-valued in the guide?  Oh, shit, nobody wants ’em anymore!  Sell, sell, sell!), and I got four big books for what I expected to pay for two of them (and I’m a brilliant shopper, by the way.  With all of the above going on, and my going back to a certain dealer two or three times to look at the same book, just to shake my head and hand it back, _then_ go back Sunday afternoon, when they’d rather sell it at a loss than ship it back home, I ended up with an X-Men #1 that had been priced at $550 for $250.  Ah, it’s good to be the king…).

So if you’re looking for investment advice, buy low grade Golden Age (1940’s) ans Silver Age comics.  Right now you can find great deals on them, and the collectors are always there.

Anyway, I ran off at the mouth longer than I’d intended, there.

Most importantly, I am alive and well, and I expect to have more time to write in the near future.

Thanks for being patient.

Last night I wandered around Seaport Village, an upscale clump of shops (“clump of upscale shops” also works, but somehow “upscale clump” sends a more accurate picture of what’s going on here) nestled between the bay, the hotels, and the convention center.  It’s a short walk from the convention center, and it’s climatically perfect at about the time the dealers room (comic term: the big part of the show’s display floor, where people try to sell you things) typically shuts down, so I’ve been there about every day of my life that I’ve spent in San Diego.  There’s an excellent little bookstore there (“real” books.  Surprisingly, I’ve not yet been to any of the actually comic shops around here), where something jumped out and caught my eye (_Time Management For The Creative Person._  I thought I’d give it a shot.  It’s not like any other method has worked, I’ve always had more things going on then time for them to get anywhere.  I’m still looking for a book to help me cut down on my use of parentheticals and ellipses…) for to read during dinner.

I have to have something to read during meals.  I’m getting to the point where I’m really comfortable wandering around as a party of one (although here in San Diego, you can get paranoid.  The English language is rather a rare thing.  You hear some Spanish, but mostly it seems to be Nordic languages, for reasons on which I will not even speculate.  So whenever I walk by somewhere, I keep hearing mutterings in strange languages behind me.  I have chosen to assume they’re all just wondering who that stunningly beautiful bald man is, and, so far, no one’s bothered to prove me wrong on this), but there’s just nothing to do while you’re waiting for them to grill your Thresher Shark.  Which I can’t recommend, by the way.  I suppose it was okay, but after some of the shark I’ve had (and now I wonder what flavor it was), the Thresher was kinda tough and chewy.  The German Chocolate Cheesecake is a winner, though.

After I ordered, I was curious about it.  I love sharks, sharks and tigers are my favorite animals.  And whenever I’m in seafood restaurants, I’m always attracted to eating shark.  Now, I’d never want to eat tiger meat (although the endangered species _do_ taste the best), so why the fascination with eating shark?  I rationalized it to be because I’ve always had this fantasy where I’d run across a real tiger, and, rather than disemboweling me, he and I would end up being friends. This, at least partially, explains all the cats around my house.  So it comes to how could I eat something warm and fuzzy.  Sharks, on the other hand, would just as soon eat me as look at me, so mesquite grill that sumbitch and slice me a lemon.

Well, I find I’ve run ahead of myself (nothing new there) so let’s reset: I’m in a restaurant at Seaport Village on San Diego Bay, eating an extravagant meal and reading my nifty new book.  I’m sitting here thinking how perfect this is when I look up.  The entire wall I’m sitting next to is glass and looks out over the harbor.  It was pretty when I walked in, but between then and now, it had gotten dark.  So I look up and bam, the bay is gone, replaced with a shimmering image of the lit buildings on the other side, the boats in the harbor, the bridge over it all.  Even the cars going over the bridge are nothing but red and white twinkles, darting around in what used to be the bay.

Even when life is perfect, if you look up for a minute, you’ll see it’s better than that.

I got back home completely exhausted, and failed to write this update then.  So you get it jumbled on top of today’s.  Now, today starts getting involved with comics, so here’s what I’m going to do.  The more general parts of the update with (theoretically, anyway) wider appeal will always be first, and although comics might be mentioned to a certain extent, all the truly turbo-geek stuff will be separate, at the bottom.

Technically, this is the first day of the dealer expo, where store owners and workers (or just goobers who went and got their own business license, like me) go to be seduced by the publishers of comics and manufacturers of toys and purveyors of associated paraphernalia.  They try to earn space in our shops for their cheap crap, typically by giving us free autographed versions of their cheap crap.  And don’t be misled by the derogatory language, mostly what I’m here for is the free autographed crap.

I say “technically” because, even though you could register (or pick up your badge if you’d pre-registered, like me) as early as 8:30 (I was the second one there.  I doubt that counts for anything, but I think it was kind of cool), nothing, I mean absolutely nothing else occured until 12:00.  And that was only the publishers presentations, where the three major publishers got up in turn and all said we’re going to have the best stories and the best art next year (More detail on this in the geek section).  I considered just going back to the RV park, but when I got back to where I’d parked my car, the gates were down.  Now, I’d apparently gotten there before they started charging for parking that morning, so the gates were all up, I just drove in.  Now, you’d have to take a ticket to get in, which would indicate how much time you spent in there.  It was plastered all over the place that “lost tickets would be charged the maximum.”  That meant twelve bucks for about forty minutes.

I tried to explain this to the woman at the exit booth; clearly there was no way that I could have been there very long, and actually I might stay a while longer, could you just issue me a ticket that says nine o’clock, since that’s when you just told me you start charging for parking in the morning?  When she answered, I realized something I hadn’t during her first, shorter answer.

She was slow.  Several years ago we would have simply called her retarded and everyone would know what I was talking about, now I don’t know if even “slow” is the acceptable word, and I doubt anyone gets as accurate a picture with that terminology, anyway.  Screw it, my update, she was retarded.

It was sort of frustrating.  This is something that should be able to be worked out, but there was a difficulty.  And it was a difficulty I didn’t know how to resolve.  I wasn’t able to get her to understand my point (at least I felt she didn’t understand.  Maybe she wasn’t retarded at all, perhaps she was just a bitch with a speech impediment.  Can I say speech impediment in the 90’s?), and I had no clue how to take it to a higher authority without making it look like I was raining on this “differently abled” person who was doing her best.

I’m getting more frustrated as I write this.  I’m not a jerk (anymore, at least), and I appreciate people doing the best they can with what they’ve got.  But I’m not even able to tell this story adequately without stumbling over terms, defending the use of what were once perfectly good words.  Why?  Because the nameless faceless “they” decided that if I use that word, then I clearly hold that person in some sort of contempt.  How the hell do they know for whom I hold contempt (although I suspect it’s becoming more clear precisely for whom)?  Excuse me, I was having trouble communicating with the retarded woman in the booth.  Hey, your differently abled dipshit is fucking up.  Which of those shows contempt?

Sorry about that, I really didn’t intend to go there when all this started.  It’s just something that bothers me because I don’t know where and why it got started, and I don’t know who it benefits to perpetuate.  And it gets in the way of communicating.

Coincidentally, that’s where we were in my day, with something in the way of communicating.

So I decided that I had no choice but to pay twelve bucks for parking.  So, damn it, I was going to stay there all day.

And although it took a long way to get here, what with my little rant, everything worked out great that I stayed.  Although most of the presentations were crap (and, sorry, it’s too late for a geek section tonight.  I’ll cram it in with tomorrow’s), DC’s was well done, and, more importantly, involved Grant Morrison.  Grant writes several fantastic comics, including _Invisibles,_ which has been one of my favorites for years now.  He’s one of the rare, truly gifted people that sees connections where the rest of us don’t, and can tell stories that help bring those connections into focus without making us feel stupid for missing them in the first place.  Well, they also gave out t-shirts, and, thanks to my stereotypical position in the back row next to the door, I was the first guy with a t-shirt and time to kill.  As the exits were blocked with masses of flesh (this is one of those “myths” that’s probably not a myth: comic shop owners are, in fact, fat.  DC had snacks; fruit, those really big cookies, and sodas, for us just before their presentation, and as we lined up, I noticed a truly prodigious gentleman up ahead.  And I’ve fallen for a lot of this stuff on TV about how we [and by “we” I guess they mean anyone that doesn’t actually affect the tides] abuse fat people, particularly because so many of them just can’t help it, their genes have spoken.  So I’m watching this guy, and I can’t help wondering how hard it must be for him [I’m tall, and there’s a lot of stuff out there that sucks because of that.  Going to a movie is actually a physically painful experience for me.  I can only think of two showers I’ve ever been in that I could actually stand up under.  Things like that].  Then he gets to the front of the line, grabs EIGHT of these five inch across cookies, and had a ninth hanging mostly out of his mouth as he walks away.  And gets a Diet Coke.  I found it a lot more difficult, suddenly, to generate any sympathy whatsoever) scrambling for their t-shirts, Grant Morrison is just standing there waiting for a chance to leave.  I went over and we talked for awhile, about the comics we read when we were growing up.  I was a Marvel reader, he, DC.  We talked about how that kind of rivalry (I mean, DC was just pure evil when I was about twelve years old) can be so important both to those on one side or the other, and to the industry as a whole.  It was great.  _And_ he kindly started off my 1998 San Diego sketchbook with a really nice Superman (when he asked me what I wanted him to sketch, I asked him to do anything he wanted.  I almost always do that, just to see what’s going on in their heads.  To be honest, I _never_ expected Superman).  He draws quite well for someone who is such a great writer.  I guess he just knows how to take himself out of the way, and let the message come through.

Great start to the show.

08/09/98 1:23pm PDT

San Diego, CA

Greenville SC to San Diego CA

3132 miles

14 days

11 campgrounds

4 mechanics

1 belt squeal that still won’t go away

0 air conditioners

And some other numbers that have stuck with me:

20 Tour Updates

115 degrees in the Mojave

56 degrees in the Caverns

6 rolls of film

2 cans of iced tea mix

4 bags of Double Chocolate Milanos

9 cheese enchiladas

2 pre-paid long distance calling cards

1 new song finished, 1 new song started, 2 old songs finished, 3 songs taped

3 rocks purchased

3 Denny’s meals (okay, I’m not real proud of this one.  And they were all roast turkey…)

72 emails from wonderful people

Musical references:

At some point on this trip I was:

“Goin’ to Graceland”

“Walkin’ in Memphis”

“Standin’ on a corner in Winslow, Arizona”

“Drive (ing) out to Barstow on the weekend”

Thanks to everyone who’s come with me this far, and particularly those who have been sending email.  For the next 9 days I will be homesteading here in San Diego for Comic-Con International, the single longest stop on the tour.  If you collect comics, you already know what it is, and if you don’t, I can’t explain it.  Just know that, whatever it is, it’s the biggest and best one of them there is.  I got to go a couple years ago, and it completely spoiled me for any other comic show.  I can’t tell you how excited I am to be back.

I’m still going to do regular updates, but they might take a decidedly geeky slant (although the Las Vegas/World of Atari ’98 updates might surpass these in that arena…).  Just another facet of my intriguing personality…

I’m going to go have a blow-out of a dinner.

Tonight’s update brought to you by the numbers 145 and 115, and the letters A and C.

You’ll get it later.

Well, New Mexico and Arizona had both been nothing like what I had expected: flat, brown, and hot.  Why should California go according to plan?

The bad part is, I thought California was going to be nice.  You hear “California” and you think of the north part of the state where there are mountains and forests and nice weather, or you think of the southern coast, with the beautiful beaches and nice weather.  I should have paid more attention to what all those little black dots on the map meant…

California threw me a curveball called the Mojave.  One hundred and forty five miles (there’s one) from Needles to Barstow.  I had stopped on the outskirts of, well, we’ll call it “town” for the sake of argument after driving through Needles because Roberta Verona was getting cranky about the heat.  Actually, I was kind of glad to see that gauge actually worked, it hadn’t offered up much information until that point.  I had been hoping to find a mall to kill a couple hours in so that I could drive on in the cooler evening, but Needles is another stop on Route 66 (I’ll tell you more about this later, for now realize it means the “town” is six gas stations, four restaurants, two hotels, and eighty four “Route 66, America’s Main Street” gift shops), so I desperately grabbed at the last gas station before the interstate got cranked up again.  It had a Dairy Queen sign, so at least I could have an ice cream for awhile.  I pulled behind the station and parked the RV between a couple tractor trailers, hoping to defray as much direct sunlight as possible.  I got out and singed the back of my leg on the door frame.  It was far past hot.  I always think it’s hotter than it is, but I knew it was high 90s if not a hundred.

The Dairy Queen was just a counter inside, I guess they didn’t want you hogging up all their air conditioning by sitting down to enjoy your Dilly Bar (I wanted so bad to put a joke here, but for the sake of my mother, I refrained), so I went to the restaurant next door to see if they just had dessert or something, ’cause I was still full from breakfast (again, more later).  I just wanted to sit somewhere for awhile to let myself and the RV cool off a little (did you remember I have no air conditioning when I’m driving?  There’s that A and C I mentioned…), but in a restaurant I feel obligated to buy something.  Luckily, they had ice cream, and even more luckily (don’t read this, Suzy) an absolutely stunning waitress.  She had to be over six feet.  So I ordered my ice cream and iced tea, and, being a guy, started talking her up a bit.  Now, as an educated, well-travelled man of the world, I dusted off one of my best lines: “So, how hot do you think it is out there?”

Apparently, my scheming was too subtle, for she seemed to take this as meaning I was curious about the weather.  She went off to find out, and I was going to take another tack when she returned and said “It’s a hundred and fifteen degrees.”

115 degrees.  One hundred, then fifteen more… ELEVENTY-FIVE DEGREES.

Wow.  My new record.  To be fair, there is something to that “dry heat” thing, like I said, I thought right around a hundred.  Roberta Verona didn’t like it any more than I did, after sitting in the shade for almost an hour, on start-up the temp gauge showed higher than it had all trip, up until today.  But it was a bit lower than when I had pulled over.

Three hours through the Mojave.  If I never see a more desolate, dead, altogether unappealing strech of geography, I’ll die most pleased.  _This_ is what I thought Arizona and New Mexico were going to be like: sand, scrub brush, sharp, black, forbidding-looking mountains completely bereft of vegetation… and millions and millions of little black rocks that, from the driver’s seat, anyway, looked like charcoal briquettes.  For a hundred and forty five miles.  At a hundred and fifteen degrees.  In a couple places, I saw a motor home parked, with, presumably, people living in it.  And even one house, off in the distance.  The motor homes I could almost understand (the engines explode, you push it off the highway and put out a mailbox), but I have no clue why anyone would build a house out there.  Maybe those rocks _were_ charcoal, and that was the old Kingsford place…

Just to connect with something I said an update or so ago, I wasn’t actually unhappy about all this.  I mean, it was damn hot, and I could have been miserable if I’d wanted to.  But I had to drive through it, no choices here, so turn up the CD player real loud and drive.  I’ve surprised myself with how fast three hours of driving can go by (although I must confess that this wasn’t one of the fastest, or anything…).

The day started out much better, though.    I had breakfast at this little Route 66 diner, and learned some things (things that I had begun to suspect, but now I knew for sure).  I-40, for much of its distance, parallels or simply runs right over top of the old US Route 66.  All these weird, tiny “towns” I’ve mentioned that have two exits on the interstate (the exit become the main drag which ends in the other exit) are where I-40 bypassed the busy parts of the route.  Pretty much everywhere that I’ve stayed, eaten, bought gas, or used the can for the last three days has wanted to sell me “Historic Route 66” t-shirts, mugs, and shot glasses (pretty ironic: all these “Don’t Drink And Drive” signs everywhere out here, and they’re selling Route 66 shot glasses).  So I’m sitting in this diner being waited on by a girl in a Route 66 t-shirt (mine for $17.95 [the t-shirt, not the girl]) drinking a tea in a Route 66 glass (a bargain at $5.95) and eating a composition of scrambled eggs, chilies, onions, and cheese wrapped up in a big flour tortilla with salsa, sour cream, refried beans, and hash browns.  I mooshed everything up and poured hot sauce on it and it was great, even though it had no direct correlation to Route 66.

I decided to change my plan for my morning stretch of driving, and go ahead and follow this, the longest surviving stretch of the original Route 66.  Yes, I got some kicks on Route 66.  One reason was because Grand Canyon Caverns was there.

And I really wanted to go somewhere that had “Grand Canyon” in the name, because it looks like I’m not going to make it to the real thing this time around.  I passed within 90 miles of it late last night, and there was a huge electrical storm off that way.  I could only imagine what it might have been like.  For a minute my mind wandered back to a wasted day in Salina Kansas, to five hours in a Wichita repair shop, to…

Then I mentally tipped my hat to the Canyon in a “maybe next time” gesture and drove on, realizing that sometimes, that’s all you can do.

But anyway, I found myself at the Grand Canyon Caverns, and went on a 45 minute tour about 220 feet below the ground.  I had a blast, took a lot of pictures (we’ll see how well they come out), and just generally enjoyed the 56 degree temperature (little did I know my afternoon weather would more than double that mark).  One thing I thought was kind of funny, in one of the bigger “rooms,” there were stacks of boxes and cans, Civil Defense food, water, and emergency equipment that the government “convinced” the family who owns the Caverns (I forget their name) to leave there in case of nuclear war (this was, like, in the fifties, or something).  Two thousand people could live for two weeks on this stuff.  The only problem was that the relative humidity in the Caverns is 6% (carbon-based life needs about 18% to not dehydrate and die):  In two weeks, everyone would be dead and well on their way to mummification, food and water or no.  There was a mummified bobcat that had apparently fallen in and died there.  I really hope the picture I took came out.  The cat had been found in the highest reach of the cave, which, unfortunately, turned out not to be the exit.  But in pitch black (not even cats can see without _any_ light), with a broken hip from the fall, in less than thirty-five hours (the guide says this he how long it takes for vertigo to set in when there’s no light at all), the cat found what, logically, _should_ have been the exit.  I was standing there, about to cry in public again over the (in my mind) heroic efforts of some long dead cat.

After that, Route 66 headed down the mountain, hit I-40, and we had a desert.

My computer thinks it’s two thirty in the morning.

I can’t say I blame it, that’s about what it feels like to me, too.  That’s what it would be if I was at home.

Turns out it’s still eleven thirty last night here.  Arizona doesn’t believe in Daylight Savings Time.  Except on the Navajo reservation.  Makes you wonder if they celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. day on the reservation…

It has been brought to my attention that some of my updates rather imply that I’m not having a good time.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I’ve seen things that make me think of myself differently, things that have inspired me and humbled me, things that have fascinated me and terrified me.  I’ve met wonderful people that make me think about others differently, people who have impressed me and helped me, people who have angered me and entertained me.  I now better understand my life as a journey to some destination I’m constantly defining, and better understand the role I play in the journeys of others, and they in mine.

I don’t think anybody really know exactly what we mean by “finding” ourselves, but I’m willing to bet I’m on the right track.

Those parts don’t always come across in the updates.  For instance, this morning.  I was sitting at a picnic table, in the shade, beside the pool with a cool breeze behind me.  I was eating breakfast that they cooked right there beside the pool and talking to a couple who I camped beside in Santa Rosa, who ended up having breakfast next to me in Gallup.  We just talked about all kinds of crap, laughed and joked, then wished each other luck on whatever came next.

What a fantastic way to start a day.  But it’s not the kind of thing that would normally make it into an update.

I’ve thought of several kinda flip reasons for this: I like writing funny updates and it’s easier to be funny when there’s something or someone outrageous going on, I can’t (and you wouldn’t want me to) talk about every little thing that happens, it really wasn’t that big a deal.

But I also thought of a real reason.  That breakfast is a part of me now.  I want to hold onto it and see it, smell it, twist it around in my hands and rub my face it in sometimes.

Then there are some other, oh, let’s call them situations, which I’m not so interested in ever taking out again to play with.  There are some situations I want to get rid of, to push out there away from me.

I want to get them, literally, out of my system.

I’m out here surrounded by people who’ve known me for nine minutes.  And that’s assuming we have a particularly intimate relationship, say, server/patron.  The normal outlets people have for blowing off steam are denied me.  So I sometimes do it in these updates.

I don’t mean to harp on bad stuff, but sometimes when I’ve driven for four hours at thirty-seven miles an hour not knowing if I was going to be walking before I got to the next exit and wondering if I was going to be letting down friends who were counting on me to be somewhere at a certain time or if I was destroying something that belongs to someone else and being thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I’ve ever turned to when I needed help…

Well, sometimes when I feel like that I write an update.

I don’t mean to overlook the good stuff, but sometimes when I’ve stood on top of blues mesas and looked out to where the world ends and picked up something that has made it through millions of years just to be here with me right now and I can see details of color and light that go smaller and smaller and then look around at those same colors spilling out in every direction for as far as I can see and everything is magic and wonder and possible…

Well, sometimes when I feel like that, writing an update doesn’t seem so urgent.

Don’t worry about me.  I’m having the time of my life, in every sense of the phrase.

Although I did, in fact, stand on the corner for a moment, just to be able to say I’d done it, right now I’m sittin’ in a Denny’s in Winslow, Arizona. Let Glenn Frey write about _that_…

Embarrassingly enough, this is not the first time Denny’s has come to my culinary salvation.  I suppose it’s not so odd, they’re always within spitting distance of the interstate, and they always have parking lots designed to accomodate semis, so I can wheel the RV around pretty good.  I think I’m going to stray away from my safe, secure, roast turkey dinner, though, and try the pork chops.  If this ever gets posted, I survived the experience.

My lips are chapped and my neck is sunburned, because I spent the sunny part of the day wandering around Painted Desert and Petrified Forest.  Once again, I fear I’m about to be humbled and frustrated at the limited extent of my ability to describe the day.

First things first.  If you enter the park (it’s two, two national parks in one) from the 40, you’ll go through Painted Desert first.  Now, I had an idea what to expect, the name pretty much says it all.  And besides, I had already been through some incredible scenery all the way through New Mexico.  So I expected the same, but on a grander scale.  I expected reds and pinks and browns of every description, towering, tumbling, and stretching all over the landscape.  What I didn’t expect was blue and purple.  There was white, too, but that was less shocking.  After all, you leave just about anything out in the Arizona sun for long enough and it’ll turn white (except, of course, my face and neck, which opted for red).

A quick interjection: Don’t bother with the Mozzarella Sticks at Denny’s.

Back to blues and whites.  I shot more than three rolls of film today, and was kicking myself for not bringing more.  Yes, yes, there’s more in the RV, but I parked that at the entrance and unhooked little Geo (’cause little Geo is a friend of mine… we get some money and we buy a cheap wi-ine…) to navigate the park.  I’m glad I did, too, although there were a lot of motor homes going through, I felt more comfortable in the Geo.  So anyway, I grabbed my camera bag, which had the film in the camera and three more rolls, and, like I said, I shot all of it.  At first I was cranky I hadn’t brough more, but then I realized that any finite amount of film would not have been enough.  It’s the kind of place where everything you see is the most incredible thing you’ve seen.  Whatever I just took a picture, just let me turn one more corner, and bam, there was something bigger deeper wider clearer, and with more colors, to boot.

If you’re ever out this way, the park is basically a 28 or so mile long road, between I-40 and some state highway (180, maybe?).  Going east to west, you can go through the park one way, then get on the state highway going west which comes back around to the 40.  Not knowing about this little feature (and, besides, I really did prefer driving the Geo in the park), I had parked, unhooked, loaded the Geo and paid to get in when they handed me a map.  Not wanting to have the long drive back through the park to the parking lot without any stops on the way, I did something I do when I killing time in a mall… I only turned right.  With the scenic overlooks and trails pretty evenly spread out left to right, I’d have to drive less than eight minutes at any one time without stopping to see something cool.

NOTE: my turkey dinner is here.  Yes, yes, I know what I said, but I changed my mind right as the server was standing over me.  So sue me.

Biggest disappointment in the park:  Agate bridge.  A petrified tree fell across a sandstone plain that became a wash.  The soft sandstone eroded far more quickly than the hard agatized tree, leaving what apparently was once (according to the plaque there) a one-hundred and ten foot span.  These days, the span looks more like forty feet (they might have built up around one end of the span to provide the walkway and railing), and, even worse, it’s now supported by a concrete construct about twice as bulky as the tree itself.

This kind of “preservation” really sorta pisses me off.  I mean, from a preservation standpoint, what precisely is it they’re preserving at this point?  It’s not a natural wonder anymore, the natural wonder would be whatever beautiful things nature would show us as she tore the tree down.  From a conservation standpoint, there are signs everywhere warning you not to stray from the path because we’ve got a fragile ecosystem, here, and the damage you might do will be multiplied over the eons.  Well, what the hell effect will a fifty foot slab of concrete have?  For that matter, what effect does _paving_ the trails have?  There were several places where the trails were eroding away, tumbling down the inclines to rest beside million year old fossil trees.  Let future archeologists puzzle _that_ one out.

You get the feeling that the only thing they’re really “preserving” here is their ability to sell “Agate Bridge” t-shirts for $19.95 plus applicable sales taxes.

The highlight of the park was the area called Tepees.  Apparently, I was more impressed with them than most people, because there was no where to pull over and park and marvel or take pictures.  (Note: my mother and Bill [who owns the Geo] are not permitted to read the next sentence)  I ended up taking pictures out the window as I drove past.  Hopefully, they’ll turn out okay.

As you might expect, the Tepees are conical rock formations.  But it was the colors.  Brick red at the top, fading to white in the middle, which darkened to an incredible slate blue at the bottom.  Fantastically beautiful, and patriotic to boot.

The Tepees weren’t the most impressive thing at the park, but I absolutely wasn’t expecting anything like them.  The Crystal Forest and the Badlands were the most eye-popping and awe-inspiring, which is precisely waht I expected.

Badlands is a generic terms for areas where erosion behaved more like a vandal than a force of nature.  You can imagine what the Painted Desert Badlands looked like, and you’d be right, but you still can’t prepare yourself for the sight of them.

The Crystal Forest is the area where most of the petrified trees were agatized in such a way that the quartz is very pure, almost a milky translucent.  I tried to get a couple pictures of this effect; I’m afraid they won’t come close to capturing the essence.

But I’m okay with that, and I’m becoming more comfortable with my inability to adequately describe in words what at first seems to be a viewing experience, but, on closer inspection, turns out to be a spiritual one.  No one could have described Painted Desert, or Petrified Forest, to me in a way that captured the effect of seeing them, of being in that place.  And, ultimately, that’s as it should be.  The wonder in not in the spectacle, but in the spectator.

I guess the best way for me to describe the experience is to say this:

You really should go.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, wouldn’t you?

Heading out the 40 I am, feeling pretty good about life (Santa Rosa provided me with two of the best meals I’ve had on this trip.  A spanish omelette for breakfast, cheese enchiladas for dinner, both in family-type restaurants where the staff knew just enough English to take your order, as long as you didn’t get too fancy ab-libbing off the menu.  Both buried in green chilies, not the canned stuff, but brightly colored and crisp like they might have been attached to stems as recently as that morning.  Green chilies are _so_ much better than the harsh, sharp tasting bell peppers you get at home.  But I digress…), when I notice a billboard for a Chevy Truck dealership and service center in the next little town (by the way, remind me to tell you about the billboards out here).  Now, I’d already come to terms with the idea that I was going to be driving all the way to San Diego while alternating between 45 and 60 miles an hour, depending on whether or not the engine fans were running.  But it crossed my mind that a small town place like this might have a quick opening for me, and I had already discovered that no one uses I-40 except to get their RVs and semis to the West Coast, so I could safely bet someone there had seen these things before…

By the time I’d decided that the billboard was a sign, in the higher sense, I realized that this upcoming town must be at least three times bigger than any New Mexican town I’d yet come across… because it had three exits leading to it.  Being used to one exit per town, I hadn’t paid enough attention to the billboard to know where to turn.

Well, apparently that particular shop wasn’t my destiny.  Because if I was truly meant to turn off, surely I would have noticed where…  Have you ever heard the voice in your head actually trail off? As I was thinking this, there was the Chevy place, big as life just off the next exit.  So what the hell.

The service manager did someting that no one else had yet taken the time to do: actually come out to the RV and listen to it.  A good sign.  He said he had someone who knew these things (another good sign), but they had started their lunch breaks.  I said fine, where should I go eat, and he told me.

I had my third excellent Mexican meal in a row.  Freshly rolled blue corn enchiladas with cheese (the taco may be more popular, but the enchilada is the true Mona Lisa of Mexican cooking).  And the one woman there, who appeared to be hostess, waitress, cook, busser, and cashier, didn’t seem to mind that I kept asking for more iced tea while I read my magazine until time to head back to the service shop.

Everything sounded plausible.  His best RV guy worked on it a while, it was a bitch to figure out what it was (which fit with the fact that the problem had stumped the best mechanical minds in the Mid-West, who for some reason now appear in my head looking like the “See No Evil…” monkeys), but it seemed to be the air compressor (which fit with a known problem that Sue and Bill tried to get fixed before the RV ever left North Carolina).  Parts couldn’t be had for a couple to several days, which we both knew meant I was just going to head to San Diego with it the way it was.  Cool, he’d have them close it up.  I asked if I was doing the right thing by backing off the gas when I heard the squeal.  He said actually, let it squeal, it’s not going to hurt anything any more.  A minute later he was back, with the suggestion that they just cut that one belt off.  I wouldn’t be able to use the air conditioner (which I haven’t been, out of sheer fear, anyway), but the squeal would go away.  I reiterated what he told me, to make sure I heard right: no AC, and no squealing, and I can make it to San Diego.  Bingo bango bongo, seventy bucks later it’s a done deal.

Hopefully, by now you’ve all made your side bets on how many miles up the interstate I got before it started again.  Well, you all lose.

I was still on the on-ramp.

I made those noises that sound fakey in movies, where someone is doing something that’s not quite a guffaw-type laugh, but not quite an out-and-out sobbing cry.  I got myself under some kind of control by the next exit (hell, I had almost 30 miles to do it.  I had to use 1 and the area code to call the place from one exit up the interstate), and called and asked for Freddy, the nice service manager who’d been so helpful.  I politely told him “It’s doing it again,” and even more politely refrained from adding “YOU FUCKING JERKOFF FROM HELL.”  I mean, that wouldn’t have helped anything, right?

Guess what he said.

“Son of a bitch.”

I haven’t laughed that hard in quite a while.  He, apparently having missed my last update, probably thought I was nuts.  Boy, is he gonna laugh when he reads it…  After talking with his RV guy again, he concluded that it was those belts (and here he went into some gobbledegook that could have been a valid point concerning belts and air compressors or might possibly have been the original recipe for my enchilada lunch, for all I knew) and that I could just not worry about the squealing.  Again, I reiterated to ensure I heard correctly (because this process had served me so well, only minutes before, no?), “I can just drive as fast as I want, even with the squealing, and it’ll be okay… I’ll make it to San Diego?”  “No problem,” sez he.

So, here’s where I’m at.  I have done everything I could find a way to do.  I have left a trail of credit card vouchers winding through the heartland (you know why they call it the “heartland?”  Because the brain isn’t there…) as I did my best to buy Susie and Bill a new RV, piece by greasy, icky piece.  I’ve hit the wall.

At this point, I’m just driving.  If I explode in a huge fireball that scatters debris for miles and miles, well, Susie and Bill, you’ll just have to get reimbursed from my estate.  If my ashes end up randomly scattered across the desert states, well, Jonathan and Suzy, I hope you find vacation pastimes aplenty in the fine international airports of San Diego and Reno, respectively.

Sigh.  You would have thought I would have learned by now.

What’s that?  Oh, yeah, the billboards.  I’ve already alluded to the fact that the majority of square mileage in this time zone serves no other purpose than to keep RVs and tractor trailers away from the West Coast for another several days, although I’m not at all sure that the West Coast is using this extra time wisely.  Back home, I’m used to seeing the same kind of billboards over and over, because every couple miles there’s another exit that has a BP station, a Cracker Barrel, a fireworks stand, and a Tanger Factory Outlet Stores mall.  Out here you get similar billboards, for hundreds of miles, advertising the ONE McDonalds in the state, located at some remote exit number that looks more like it might be a zip code (the exceptions to this are the fireworks stands, which seem to occur every fourteen feet on every interstate everywhere except North Carolina.  And, oddly, each one is the largest one in the world).  I’ve seen stuff advertised as far as two hundred and ninety-five miles away (it was a campground in Arizona, lest you think I’m making this stuff up).  Groups of hotels and restaurants have banded together to sell you on Exit 236, the Greatest Exit Anywhere!  And as far as I can tell, the exits only exist so they’d have a place to build their hotels and restaurants.

Okay.  I can tell when it’s time to go to bed when my paragraphs start looking like, well, like that last one there…