the boys of summer

It's been a little quiet around here. I know. It's a little stark too. I'm planning on putting up a fresh coat of paint to make things a little more lively, but the ambiguity works for now, I guess.

Last Saturday, I went to go see my first Mets game in a couple years. I was meeting up with a couple friends who were arriving on the train. I'd gotten the subway before them, and I wanted to get their early to check out the new field, Citi Field, which will open in 2009.

It looked beautiful. It's going to be weird to watch the Mets play in their. Shea's kind of a dump, but it was home for so long. I have a lot of memories there (mostly bad...I've seen them lose a ton in that building), and it does have a kind of boxy charm to it. There's no fancy awnings or rotundas. The outfield doesn't have all the irregularities that have become so en vogue in the newer parks. Shea is just big and round and blue and symmetrical. And it has a giant light-up apple that pops out of a top hat when the Mets hit a home run. I love that thing. I'm happy they're bringing it over to the new place.

I walked around the exterior of Citi Field, which is almost entirely completed, and then tried to find a bodega to get a six pack to drink with my friends in the parking lot. I eventually ended up in a tiny shop inside a gas station that sold either giant cans of Foster or single 12 oz. cans of Bud. There was only one Foster left so I had to opt for the King of Beers.

I brought them up to the register, and the man behind the counter was clearly Middle Eastern or perhaps Pakhistani in origin. He seemed like a pleasant fellow and he had a robust, gray beard. I placed the beers down clumsily and went for my wallet. He smiled.

"No no no no," he said.

I was confused. Maybe I just didn't understand him.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"No no no no," he answered as he put the beers in a plastic bag and tied the loops in a knot.

"I'm sorry," I said. "How much are those?" I opened my wallet and looked up at him.

He said, "No. No," and pushed the bundle of beers toward me, smiling.

I grabbed the bag and thanked him and walked out.

I would never question free alcohol, so honestly, I don't care why he did it. Maybe ever 10th customer gets free Budweiser. That seems like a bad business practice, but maybe he's not in it for the money. Maybe he just wants to get Mets fans drunk. Maybe he was something of a mystic and realized, just by looking at me, that I've fallen on hard times. The money in my wallet was all I had for the weekend. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. Even though I'm the pastiest Sicilian-Italian-American dude of all time, I have been mistook for an Iraqi, Egyptian and even Indian (not the American kind) on more than one occasion. This has happened even before I started wearing a beard, but now that I do, this has happened even more regularly; so regularly, that I'm thinking of changing my answers to future racial/ethnicity questions on future surveys and censuses. Maybe, he saw me as a kinsman, and as such, extended to me the hospitality he would have a relative. That's admirable, I think, that kind of selflessness, especially in the distribution of alcohol.

Like I said, I have no idea why, but it made my day--especially since the Mets got reamed --but I'm keeping the beard just in case.

this isn't very comfortable

Well, I'm home. The last two days of the trip had me back in civilization. The mileage between places got smaller, and on the last day of driving, I passed through five states in six hours. I also encountered traffic for the first time--in West Virginia, where I had an awesome morning through afternoon walking around Morgantown during orientation weekend. There were students and parents everywhere. I ate and had a few drinks at a bar called Gibbie's and then walked down to the river where I sat on a dock underneath a bridge and watched the ducks swim around. I was pretty toasted, but all that uphill walking sobered me up pretty fast.

The night before, in Chicago, I ate. A LOT. Korean barbecue on Thursday night and Chicago-style hot dogs and "Italian beef" on Friday morning. I sat in traffic for two hours trying to leave the city and briefly considered just staying there. That might be the next stop if New York doesn't prove welcoming.

It has so far though, obviously, because I've been here before. It's good to see everyone. They've all got grown up jobs, but are still at about the same maturity level as they were when I left--kinda like me--so that's refreshing. I've already eaten my weight in White Castles (not really, but I'll get there) and had a decent slice of Sicilian (though I've had better).

In the short time I've had between meals, I've been trying to find jobs, which isn't going very well so far. I keep trying to tell myself it's only been two days and I'll get something, but I feel like I've been off the horse too long, and I have a tendency to get too comfortable with things, no matter how bad they are for me. To be honest, being unemployed is kind of nice. I get to go and do things when everyone else is working, like going to the batting cages or playing Wii. Being broke sucks, though, and so does feeling like a bum. But as long as the Mets keep winning, I'll get over it.

The one thing I'm really trying to overcome is all the fucking nostalgia. Every day I hear myself saying, "Remember that time when..." or "What's so-and-so up to..." and other nonsense. I have a lot of good memories of this place, but I'd like to get on to the "what's next" portion of my 30s already. Still, all my stuff is in boxes and crates in various rooms around my parents' house, and it feels like I'm still visiting and that I'll be getting on a plane soon, though at this point, I'm not really sure where I'd go.

On a related note, tonight on the news they had a story about two kids who were arrested for weapons possession and harassment. They wanted to clean up the drugs in their neighborhood, so they decided to arm themselves with bows and arrows and other such implements and dress as ninja. The infographic behind Chuck Scarborough's head was a cheesy stock photo of two ninjas with the words "VIGILANTE NINJAS!" stamped across it. You know, I really did miss this place.

cops and cornfields

Driving on flatland proved to be a big relief. Last night, climbing through the Rockies was stressful upon both me and Kimiko. I think we had our first fight. But leaving Denver (and Colorado) behind smoothed things over between the two of us.

I'm sure Colorado is pretty by day, what with all the mountains and whatnot, but at night it's not the most welcoming of places. If it wasn't the mountains imposing their authority, it was the cops. Driving through Utah and Nevada, I saw a total of three police officers. In Colorado, within minutes of crossing the border, I saw two plus a DEA agent.

There were police everywhere. As I descended into Denver, the steep grade and curves caused the speed limit to drop from 75 to 55, and right at the apex of the descent sat a state trooper. I didn't have anything to fear. I was keeping within the posted speed, but as the slope became greater, Kimiko had a tendency to speed up. God forbid she did that going uphill, but I don't want to get into that right now. Like I said, we worked it out. And of course, the state trooper followed close behind the whole way. I had to ride the brake. I couldn't afford a ticket. Plus, you know, the registration expired last month, so...

The trooper peeled off a few exits later and I was able to breathe easy, or as much as the climate up there would allow.

Denver was nice enough, though I only spent about four waking hours there. My host was very nice to take me in at such a late hour and showed me around her neighborhood the next day and even bought me lunch (thanks, Lisa). I got lost on my way out of town, but some dude in Brighton helped me back to the Interstate. It went something like this:

Me: Uh...I must've gotten turned around or something. Do you know how I can get to...

Guy in Brighton: 76, right?

Me: Yeah!

GiB: It happens to everyone.

Me: Is it really that hard to find?

GiB: It splits. You were probably in the left lane.

It should be noted that I was so lost, that I wasn't even on track enough to get lost in the place where he mentioned. He directed me to follow the road the gas station was on for five more miles to get there. He was right, and I was elated.

But not so elated that I could get over the desperation of being completely broke and having my cell phone turned off. You see, I have a check, that I can deposit, but as it turns out, there aren't any Bank of Americas in Colorado, nor any, as I discovered, in the entire state of Nebraska. The closest one is in Des Moines, Iowa, about two or so hours from where I am now in Omaha at a Motel 6, working on a spotty Internet connection. Tomorrow I'll have money and a phone again, and I'll be off to Chicago, where I think I'll do some partying. After that, I've added a stop in Morgantown, W.V. (go Mountaineers!), so I don't have to get stuck paying tolls in the shitty state of Pennsylvania. Plus, I hear Morgantown is lovely place for walking, which is something I really enjoy. Should be in New York by Friday night. I want to talk about Utah, but that's going to have to wait for another time. All I want to do is drink a warm beer and go to sleep.

Trip Rule #3: No Pink Floyd. Ever.

Best Radio Station Thus Far: An all-rock station out of North Platte, Neb. that played Nirvana, A Perfect Circle and MONSTER MAGNET! in the same hour.

Best Thing That Happened Today Other Than Sharing Drinks With a Friend in Denver: I didn't get stuck in the most raging severe thunderstorm I've ever seen. Luckily for me, it was only doing 40 and I was pushing 80.

Most Epic In-Car Sing-a-long: "When You Were Young" by The Killers. I own that shit.

america is way too fucking big

I'm alive. Mostly. And in Denver. It was a long day of driving...about 14 hours in total, and I'm really tired. Listened to more "mainstream modern country" than I'd care to admit. I climbed rocks in Utah and chased lizards. I'm just happy to not be in the car, and I'm sure Kimiko's pretty stoked that she's done for the night. Tomorrow, me and my Denver buddy are going to wander around the city for a bit before I'm off to Omaha, where I'll probably just get tanked at the Motel 6 and write all night or go to a strip club. But who knows. I may be industrious and do both. Tomorrow should be an easier day of driving, because I think it's all downhill from here...at least it better be. If I ever see another mountain again, I'll kill myself. More later.

Most Epic Sing-a-long of the day: "Angel of the Morning" by I'm not sure who...There are about a million versions. I don't know what came over me.

Trip Rule #2: Singing along to country music is fine as long as you're drinking a road soda.

the lonliest road/western hospitality

Sometimes things don't live up to their names, but that's not the case with "The Lonliest Road in America." I figured that in this age of Internets and Walmarts and strip malls, that there weren't many places in the country that were untouched by the swift hand of progress.

I'm big enough to admit when I'm wrong.

I pulled into a town called Fallon in western Nevada. It contained--from what I could tell--nothing but fast food restaurant that looked as if they were built just an hour ago. One of which was a KFC/Long John Silver combo that employed around 10 kids, half of whom were sitting in the dining room area bored out of their minds. They each sat in different booths creating the illusion that the restaurant was busy. I had a $5 gift certificate to KFC, so I got a two-piece with some corn and the worst potato salad ever (I only took a bite). The young woman beind the counter was very pleasant and confused by the gift certificate. After about five minutes and consulting two other employees, everything was set and my order was entered into The Matrix.

I had just about over a quarter tank of gas in the car, so I asked her if she knew how far away the next town was. After all, if I was about to embark upon the Lonliest Road in America, running out of gas would create a certain amount of distress. She asked which direction, and when I answered, "East," she started as if to say something, paused, smiled and said, "Oh, I have no idea."

That was enough for me to opt for gassing up in Fallon. I pulled into a Native American-themed MegaGas stop on the edge of town, just a stones throw from Fallon's biggest attraction: a cemetary. And then I hit the road.

Within a few miles, the strip mall town had faded into obscurity, the speed limit on the two-lane highway inflated to a whopping 70mph, and I was quite literally in the middle of fucking nowhere. But I'd found a pretty sweet classic rock station on the radio, the sun was setting over the high desert and everything seemed right with the world.

But then it got darker. The scan function on my car's stereo ran through the FM dial without settling on a single station and I was stuck listening to Helloween's "Keeper of the Seven Keys" over and over again because it's on the CD that's stuck in the radio. Wildlife lurked in every corner, mostly of the benign type, and by benign, I mean dead. I was actually surprised there wasn't more roadkill strewn about this ghostly Autobahn. The few cars on the road zipped by me doing 75 as if I was in neutral and wildlife warning signs included cows, deers and Horned Gods. However, most of the carcasses were just unidentifiable forms of rodent matter.

I did see a few living beasties. One rabbit thought it would be a good idea to launch itself at my rear tire (luckily its aim was off), and outside the town of Austin, climbing to the top of a summit, I encountered two deers in the middle of the road. Since I was only doing 35 at the time, I was able to slow down to a stop. One of the deers quickly slinked into the surrounding brush, but the other dawdled on the road for a little while and walked along side of me as a I rolled to a stop before it darted away.

The bugs weren't so lucky. As my high beams shone across the dark, high desert night, hordes of flying insects swarmed toward the sweet embrace of death. But I pressed on, plowing through the bottom rung of the food chain, because I needed to get to Ely, which as I found out this evening is pronounced E-lee and not E-lie.

The first leg of the trip ended around midnight local time, and I'm currently holed up in the Historic Hotel Nevada, which has also played host to the likes of Mickey Rooney, whose suite is just a few doors down from mine. When I got my room, they handed me a heavy brass key and a coupon to a free drink at the dive bar across the street. When I went to redeem my prize, the bartender filled up a 10 oz. mug. I figured I'd have another, but when I asked her if the place took plastic, she said that it did, but the machine was acting all hokey and she wasn't sure if it would work. She then asked me what I wanted and said she'd fix it for me free of charge, so I got a Jim Beam on the rocks. When I was done, I said good night, and she came out from behind the bar, shook my hand and said, "Hey, enjoy your stay in Eeeleee." When I got back to my hotel/gambling hall, I redeemed my other ticket for a free margarita, and won $6 on the video poker machine built into the bar top. Enjoyment guaranteed.

Best Lonely Road Sing-a-long: "Here I Go Again" by White Snake, which came on as soon as I left Fallon.

Trip Rule #1: If Tom Petty comes on the radio, you must listen to it. One drink must be taken for every instance of "Free Fallin'" (I heard it twice).

[insert song title referring to california here]

I feel that I've done all I can in California, because on Friday, I learned how to Frisbee golf (or disc golf, or, as I like to call it, Frolf, which sounds sort of sounds like a hobbit). You wind through the forest and drink beer (or smoke weed if you're so inclined) and toss discs at little poles with baskets on them. Exactly the sort of things hobbits would do. It was a blast, even though it was really hot. Like really hot.

Last night was my last night in the state as a resident, though I've kinda been homeless for the past week or so. We went to some oonch oonch yuppie party at a local hotel. We had $400 in free booze. I got obliterated. The bartender had spectacular cleavage, and there was a bongo player and a fashion show. I missed the fire dancers in lieu of getting booze, but the go-go dancers were tearing it up inside. Well, one was; she really knew how to shake it. The other one was kind of bland. Thumbs down, go-go girl. Anyway, the good thing about drinking Jameson all night (and I mean all night) is that I never wake up with a hangover, though sometimes it makes me act and speak in a way that's unbecoming of an upstanding gentleman. I think I did OK last night. I looked that bartender in the eye and everything.

Thanks for seven good years, California.

so...this is awkward

Uh.

Yeah.

So I haven't done this in a while. In the past six months, or so, I did a bit of this, a bit of that, got fired and am somewhat homeless...though not the type of homeless that keeps you from accessing the Internet. All of my stuff is in the back of my lovely Scion Kimiko who will be my only accompaniment in yet another misguided journey across the Lovely United States of America.

Starting next Sunday...or Monday...or something, I'll be on my way over the Rockies and through the Great Cornfield on my way back to New York where I probably belong.

My CD player is dead and I'm pretty sure my money will run out. So in hopes I don't go crazy, I'm going to try to write about it along the way. And take crappy pictures on my cell phone. For prosperity.

In the meantime, I'm held up here, in a lovely duplex in Sacramento, which gets a pretty bad rap for sucking balls. It probably does for most people, but I think it's pretty neat. There are a lot of trees and friendly squirrels, and you can ride your bike everywhere as long as you don't live in the Big-Box clusterfuck that envelops the smallish capital like a pox-infected blanket. I hope I get back here one day. In the meantime, I'm sure there'll be time to drink a few car bombs. You should probably join me.