Fan’s Complaint

And so it ends. I would like to thank everyone who helped me out along the way, whether it be showing me around town, or giving me a place to crash, or buying me food/drink, or updates on baseball scores, or even just listening to me hold forth on topics as varied as politics, getting old, or the similar geographies of Iowa and Nebraska.

To those of you who did not help me out, fuck you.

Yes, that’s right, I’m talking to you, Oregon. When you die, I’m going to piss on your grave.

***

As stated earlier, I will resume work on Tuesday. That means about 26 hours from now, I am going to wake up, put on the ol’ slave collar, and drive 50 miles west in heavy traffic. No coast to reach, no girl at the end of the road, no new destination.

***

Earlier today, I experienced the old I-80 blues. It happened pretty much as soon as I left Chicago. Gary, The James Shocknessy Turnpike, Toledo, Youngstown (NEW YORK CITY 390 MILES), Clarion, Clearfield, DuBois, Kylertown, Bellefonte, Sapp Bros. Coffee, Mile Run, Emlenton, Loganton, Mifflinton, Mifflinville, Pocono Exits: Tannersville,…, Stroudsburg, Buttzville, Hope NJ, Blairstown Township, Fines Double in 65mph Zone, Slow Down My Mommy Work[backwards S] here, Patterson, New York City, Main St.

I’ve driven the 800 miles or so of I-80 between Chicago and New York 10 times now. When I was in college, my being on that road signaled the beginning or end of something. I guess this time was no different. It’s the end of my vacation, the end of something I had looked forward to for months, the end of having anything at all to look forward to.

***

There is something about I-80 in Pennsylvania at night. The endless line of trucks are swaying between the lines barrelling through that Susquehanna fog. Gas stations tend to be either closed or packed with an unlikely number of customers for the time of night. If there were anywhere in the world where I might truly believe in ghosts and the supernatural, it would be I-80 in PA at night.

***

Somewhere in PA, there is a sign that says “Highest Point of I-80 east of the Mississippi” and it gives the elevation as being two thousand something feet. Now that I’ve gone west, I know how unimpressive that sign is.

***

On Monday morning, a week ago, I was in Sunny Southern California. On Tuesday morning, I saw snow flurries at an elevation of about 8000 feet, in Utah. On Tuesday night, I drove through snow in the Rockies on an unplowed highway. On Friday and Saturday I saw a feed lot (smelled it more than seeing it, really), and endless fields of corn. On Saturday night I got drunk in Chicago. On Sunday I drove that same old 800 miles in 13 hours and 42 minutes, including three bathroom and gas breaks, one of which was extra long because I wanted to consult the map, even though I know the route by heart.

***

On Signage:

Most states treat truckers (commercial vehicles) differently than cars. Some signs say “Route XX, No Commercial Vehicles Allowed.” Other signs are specific enough to use the word “Truck,” saying something like “Trucks stay in low gear.” Some states go so far as to enforce different speed limits for trucks and cars, forcing trucks to go 10mph slower.

In the Rockies, I saw the most personal signs directed towards truckers. There is a steep grade that lasts about 7 miles on I-70, just west of Denver. I do not remember all of them, but they go in a series, about one every mile.

“Truckers watch out! 7 miles of steep grades ahead.”
“Stay alert, truckers, 6 more miles of curves and steep grades!”
“Don’t be fooled, truckers, 5 more miles of winding hills.”
“You’re almost there, just 3 more miles of curves and steep grades to go!”

I don’t know whether they are friendly or condescending, but I liked those signs.

***

When I got into New Jersey, I decided to take the route that I’d normally take coming home from work. I don’t really know why. It is possible that I wanted to make myself feel worse, even though I told myself I wanted to see what it would be like to drive that route without any traffic for the first time. For the record, it took me 40 minutes from where I get on the highway after work to my house. During rush hour, it takes anywhere from an hour to two and a half.

***

To the residents of Moab, UT and the Southeastern United States: Due to time and budgetary constraints, my appearances in your town or region had to be cancelled. There are no make-up dates scheduled. The 2004 Fan-tastic North American Tour has ended. Please accept our sincerest apologies.

***

Next:
My gastronomical and physical journey across America, in (or with) pictures!
More Angst!
Despair over the Unknown Future!
And a special guest appearance by Joblactus, Devourer of Dreams!

Still In the West, but I’m pretty much in the home stretch now. Currently in Denver. I’ll leave either tomorrow or the next day, spend a night in Nebraska or Iowa, and then Chicago, and home.

Utah was just gorgeous. Don’t really have much else to say about it.

The problem with touristing is that you have to make choices. I’ve never been good with choices. Should I spend more time in Utah or Colorado, taking in nature? Should I go to Arches National Park or Zion? Should I eat now or later? Faced with having to make a choice, I fall into paraliysis, avoiding the choice by trying to do everything, or in the case of eating, avoiding eating altogether.

***

South of Santa Barbara on 101 in California, I saw consecutive exit signs for Summertown and Santa Claus Lane.

In Colorado on I-70, I saw an exit that just said “No Name.”

***

Asian American Issues:

None to report. Everyone I’ve run into has been friendly. Especially the server at Denny’s in St. George, Utah, who offered to bring me a second coke without my asking.

***

Have more to say, but I don’t like the keyboard on this laptop.

***

New York on Sunday night or Monday night, Scrivening on Tuesday.

I guess I never really expected to get here. I never had any idea of what I would do once I got here. If I could spend the rest of my life driving up and down the coast, I think I would do it. As long as I never have to go east.

Not that there’s anything wrong with New York. In fact, I’ve been rather looking forward to getting home, catching up on all the “intrigue” that must surely have occurred during my absence.

What bothers me is driving east.

I feel like I’ve written this entry before, except I was staring at 1200 miles of road east of the Mississippi then, as opposed to the entire width of the American continent.

What bothers me is driving east. There is no adventure in it. It feels as though there would be nothing new, even though I have not yet driven through the Southwest.

Yes yes, the mythical westward pull. Old news.

***

Earlier today, I was asked whether I’ve yet to become disillusioned with California. My reply was no.

I love it here. It’s just so chill. Granted, I am on vacation, and all I have to do is walk the dog three times a day, and water some plants every other day. Even so, I think I could like it here, even with more responsibilities. Driving around with the windows rolled down, listening to the Beach Boys, palm trees gently swaying in the breeze, a never-ending parade of California Girls.

I wonder if I’d like it here more if I actually got out of the car and walked around, if I went to the beach, if I took up regular exercise, so as to fit in with all these attractive people, instead of spending all my time reading.

No, I don’t suppose I could ever live here–I would never feel comfortable enough with anything to wear shorts in public.

***

I’ve quoted this before, but I don’t believe there is such a thing as too much On the Road.

“It was remarkable how Dean could go mad and then suddenly continue with his soul- which I think is wrapped up in a fast car, a coast to reach, and a woman at the end of the road- calmly and sanely as though nothing had happened.”

***

In conclusion, I half-wish I could have taken advantage of my time in Sunny California more, I am ambivalent about heading back east, and I really wish I had a girl at the end of the road (I’ve got the fast car and the coast).

Upcoming Dates:
9/20 - Barstow, CA
9/20 - Las Vegas, NV
9/21 - Moab, UT
9/21(?)-9/?? - Denver, CO
9/?? - Chicago, IL
9/?? or 10/??-Rest of My Life - NYC

If you asked me how long I’ve been talking about just dropping everything and heading to California, I would not be able to answer. I asked Mr. E. Sloth, and he said, “like six years or something.”

Six years ago would have been 1998. I was a junior in high school at the time. So maybe Mr. E. Sloth was just remembering places that I was considering for college.

I really only remember talking about California for the last four years or so. It had to have been when I first started listening to the Beach Boys, in my second year of college.

Or maybe it was when I first read On the Road, which would have been around 1998.

Probably, to figure out the allure of California to me, one would have to go past the Beach Boys, and the hot rods, and the bikini girls and palm trees, and even the beats. Past all of these things that have been a huge part of my being for the past few years.

I’m not from here, so my understanding of the place is different. This place, along with New York, I guess, is what immigrants imagine America to be. Sure, there’s also Mom and Apple Pie, the white picket fence, all those wholesome heartland things that you can find in the Midwest, but California has that stuff too.

I’ve been here for a few days now, and I’m still a little amazed and proud and happy that I’ve finally made it here. The Golden State.

***

Asian Issues:

I stayed in San Francisco with a friend of my father’s. They’re such nice people. I was treated like royalty, and I really wish I could have spent more time there.

My father’s friend had two kids who were about my age. They showed me a very large and involved community service project that they run. It is a kind of musical dance show that they put on every year. For free.

I said to them, “Being from New York, it is very hard for me to understand the concept of putting so much effort into something and not getting compensated.”

Eventually, the conversation came around to my trip, and they said, “You may think we’re crazy for putting on our show, but we think you’re crazy for driving all this way. People just do different things.”

Now here is the ASIAN AMERICAN AWARENESS IDENTITY POLITICS part of it. I asked them facetiously, “I don’t mean to be facetious, but how does this show of yours tie in to the whole ASIAN AMERICAN IDENTITY POLITICS AWARENESS dealie?” They did give a straight answer, but I guess I’m too much of a jerk to have paid close enough attention.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t think what they’re doing is stupid. I fucking admire them so much for being able to put so much of themselves into something that doesn’t pay. And I do think that if more Asian Americans were like them instead of twinkies like me, I wouldn’t have to feel uneasy in the small towns of America. I know that I am the one who is “wrong” here, and not them.

But then this conversation happens.

Me: “You know, most people in this country just stick to the coasts, the big cities. They fly over the middle part of the country, and they don’t know what they’re missing out on. A lot of it is really breathtakingly beautiful.”

guy: “But if you think about it, the middle part of the country is just a lot of white people.”

Now that’s something that I’d say, maybe a few years ago, or months, or maybe even next week. But man, I’m trying to explain why I’m doing what I’m doing, the majesty of the land, etc, etc, and this kid doesn’t even bother to listen.

ASIAN AMERICANS and dreamers do not mix.

***

I left Olympia on Saturday morning. I arrived in Crescent City, CA on Saturday night. Drove all the way down here to Goleta, next to Santa Barbara, on Rt. 1, with a stop in San Francisco on Sunday night, and a stop in a little place called Lompoc last night.

Even if I were not a lousy writer, my words could never do the scenery along Rt. 1 justice. The word “Pacific” just about says it all. When the water first came into view, I pulled over and stopped for at least half an hour. I called Isaiah at one point and said, “I’m happy, I think. I could spend the rest of my life here.”

Pictures (seven to ten thousand words’ worth) will be posted eventually.l

Rt. 1 when it gets gross is a different story altogether. The story of my night in Lompoc will probably be my next project. It captures so perfectly the flavor of my life, what it feels like to be me, and have things go wrong.

Funny, isn’t it? I spend so much of time talking about how great California is, and then I declare that I will devote an entire “story” to my one bad night here.

We must have Conflict! Und Ordnung! SCHNELL!

***

I will be here, in Goleta, right next to Santa Barbara, until Monday or so. That’s six days from now. I have not yet decided whether to continue my original plan of seeing the southeast. My next free stop will almost certainly be Denver. From Denver, I’d be putting a lot of extra miles on the car if I decided to head back south to Texas and then east to Florida, and back north. It would be easier to head north a little bit to I-80, and then do a striaght shot home, with maybe a quick stop in Chicago.

I’ve also made a few of those awful North-South I-95 trips in my life, so I know that I won’t miss much go home after Denver. The only thing holding me back from deciding right now that my trip ends after Denver, is the fear that there will be some backroad in the south somewhere that is even more amazing than the ones I have seen already.

Scratch that. Two things. I’d also worry that I’m being cowardly by cutting the trip short, just because I’m short on cash. That never stopped Kerouac, you know.

***

I’ve decided that I have a bit of Dean in me after all. The maniacal driver part anyway. Around Montana, I started shutting off the engine and coasting down hills. It’s not as easy as it sounds, because brakes sort of stop working the same way. Anyway, passing people at 80mph on a two lane road without using gas is just about the best feeling in the world. I bet it’s what bicyclists feel. I’m not using any gas and I’m still going faster than the fat guys in their fat SUVs.

In addition, in Washington, my driving made someone nauseous, and I responded to criticism of my inability to remember directions by intentionally sliding the car in the rain, which quieted my critics real quick.

Now I just have to steal twenty cars when I get into Denver.

***

What a long, strange ride it’s been (this entry, of course. My trip has been utterly normal and not very long). It’s been a while since I’ve pounded out a thousand-worder. Maybe I’ve turned a corner.

Or maybe I’ve just lost it, went over the edge, if you will.

And now, I need to walk the dog (her name is Karma).

The Badlands

Devil’s Tower at Sunset

Isn’t it sad that I update more often when I don’t have a computer right next to my fucking bed?

Yesterday I arrived in Olympia Washington in one piece. I hid in my car during a party, as I was tired and not feeling up to putting on the social face. During this time, sitting in the dark, I tried to give Katie N. a call, to confirm my plans of staying with her friend in California.

“Hi, Katie?”
[sounds of a loud room. possibly a bar or a party]
“Yes. Who is this.”
“It’s H.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“H. From New York.”
“Huh?”
“H. From New York.”
“Where do I know you from?”
“Macalester.”
“Which one?”
“Macalester College. This is H. from Macalester College.”
“I don’t know anyone who went to Macalester College.”
“Is this Katie N.?”
“No.”
“Oh my, I’m sorry.”
“That’s weird. My name is Katie too.”
[awkward silence]
“Sorry again. Bye.”

It turns out I dialed a 7 instead of a 6. One digit was the difference between a Katie at a party and a Katie changing diapers.

***

In Montana I saw two feral dogs eating roadkill in the median. No deep English Major analysis of that. I wish I could, but I got nothin’.

***

Funny sign spotted in Olympia yesterday, for a tanning salon:

TANFASTIC
Electric Beach

***

Ate a late (3:00am) dinner with Harald last night at an all night diner. There were two kids in the non-smoking section, which Harald naturally gravitated towards. I insisted we sit in the smoking section, which was hidden from view at the entrance. Turns out the smoking section was filled with real beat characters. There was an old man asleep at his table. There was an older woman chain smoking and repeatedly playing pull-tabs (which is this lottery scratch-off type game they have here). There was an old man who looked like he had a career as a salary-man at IBM or something, until he was laid off some time in the eighties. There was an older man with long flowing hair and an unironic trucker hat.

Our table lacked an ashtray. Harald took the ashtray from the sleeping man, and I started to freak out. The booth next to us (two younger guys) started doing impressions of what the sleeping (possibly crazy) man would say if he woke up to find his ashtray gone.

“WHERE’S MY ASHTRAY YOU FILTHY [UNINTELLIGIBLE NOISES] I GOT A KNIFE”

Harald promptly replaced the ashtray.

***

After years of seeing stickers advertising Wall Drug on bumpers, I finally made it there myself. It sucked. Wall Drug is the Pedro’s South of the Border of the West. Now I just have to make it to Pedro’s.

***

Asian Issues:

I went to a truckstop in the town of Mitchell, SD, home of the Corn Palace. I ordered a Chicken-Fried Steak and a beer, trying my best to fit in. (A lie, as I would have ordered the Chicken-Fried Steak even if I were wearing a leather gimp outfit. I just love that stuff, it has nothing to do with fitting in.) Mitchell was when I first started to see men in cowboy hats. This lasted through South Dakota, Wyoming, and Eastern Montana. As I sat there smoking my Luckies and drinking an MGD (a-ha, I was trying to fit in. I did not ask for my normal “blue collar” Stella Artois.) I could feel the stares of all the white people in that joint, which was everyone aside from myself. A kid even had to be scolded by his father about his staring.

In Wall, an older man in a cowboy hat was handing out Wall Drug literature to all the tourists that were walking by. All except me. Me no reedee engrish I guess.

***

Tomorrow I leave the Pacific Northwest and head into Sunny California. It seems as though I have been talking about this my entire life. What will I possibly do with myself after I have been to Sunny California? How much farther could I possibly run?

Tune in next week, same crap time, same crap website.

I am currently in Minnesota. It has been odd, revisiting my old haunts. I don’t hate it nearly as much now as I did when I was at school here, but the scene kinda sucks. I went out with S. McCarthy tonight, and we went to a couple of bars. The first bar was like one of those 3rd Avenue NYU joints, except worse. There was a fat man in a Minnesota Football t-shirt and a cowboy hat who thought he could sing.

As an aside, one thing about New York that I really missed while I’ve been here was the people’s sense of restraint, or a sort of dignity, if you will. That is, we would be mortified to be one of those chaps at a chain restaurant where the waitstaff comes out and sings you that stupid happy birthday song that they have to song on account of the real “Happy Birthday” not being allowed to be used for profit. It is never good to make a scene in a public place.

Then I went to some joint that Mssr. McCarthy called “the hipster bar.” There, I saw several faces that I recognized from college, which caused me to say several times, to myself, uncontrollably, “well sheee-it.”

I have not done much else here. I went on the old campus, and felt, at the same time, a sense of not belonging and a sense of belonging. Yes yes, the dichotomies once again.

I am now transitioning into a new phase of the road trip. Till now, I have had people to see in Chicago and here. The next week or so, I will have no clear destination for a day’s travel. I will have to Humbert it (pick some town a day’s drive away, some roadside tourist trap to see, some enchanted lodge at which to stay).

Chicago was a very cool town. Incredibly cheap rents. If I were smart, and not a New York snob, I would move to Chicago.

I will probably leave the Twin Cities on Monday morning. I’m nervous about being on my own, but I’ve gotten a bit sick of being here. I probably should have spent more time in Chicago instead. The novelty of nostalgia can only last so long. Case in point, I went to the old Dairy Queen where I used to sit on the hood of my car, a chocolate cone in hand, and watch the blonde girls go by. This time, I could not sit on the hood of my car, and there were no blonde girls, only a fat woman with fat children who came alarmingly close to hitting my table with her fat SUV.

I must go, I feel Guilty Quilty on my tail.