Traveling Mercies

Made it home.

We Got Just What It Takes

Liken this Jakob Dylan but there's a reason I mostly listen to Latin music when I'm driving. The Latin melodies are pretty enough to make me happy but I can't understand the Spanish lyrics so they can't take me to the sad place -- like this pretty Dylan always seems to do.
No vague longings for me!
Anyway, it's summer so I'm road tripping.
The places I usually go in Arizona and New Mexico are aflame this year, not suited for tenting, so I headed east a few weeks ago.
Heading home now.
About to cross the Mississippi one more time, going west, at Vicksburg, then up through the delta, some Louisianan, mostly Arkansan delta, and on over to the Ouachitas, lakes and home.
Left arm red.
This kind of day has no night.
Birds flying low.
Window opened wide.

Next up:
All beloveds this way come for time under the loblolly pines in
Lake Ouchita State Park.

Earlier Today

Okay so I'm back in Californy, on the 15 heading west-southerly, north of Barstow at a rest area, shirtless in the windy desert deserty wind -- sun so bright I cannot see what I type -- sun so bright and heat so hot that my genetically youthful face wrinkles uncharacteristicaly -- it's that 110 degree baking dry heat that I seek out and love.

Rest Area Aside: I know there's a subculture of men who have sex in public bathrooms, and a subsub culture of those who specialize in rest area bathrooms. The bathrooms at this rest area, like most rest area bathrooms, stink. The excretory odors of bodily waste. Stranger stank. How is that a draw for sex? I never get it.

Anyway, here at this multicultural southern California rest area in the August heat numerous Asians are smoking; boy and girl Asians all lit up and puffing in the 110 degree shaded area.

When I get to Barstow I will take a right over to Mohave and then a left down toward LA and the Valley, stopping in Rosamond for a grilled cheese in loving memory of  Mrs. Contento. She loved getting her grilled cheeses there at the Foster Freeze. One for me, two for her. Just the buttery smell of the toasted cheesy goodness would temp her to wolfsnap at me as she waited to dine with me in the Escapay. Though rolling solo now, I still punctuate most of my trips with this gustatory ritual.

Speaking of fragrances, I've washed up, of course, on this trip, soaping and scrubbing appropriately -- I know how to keep it all clean while camping -- but no deodorant in weeks. My own fresh desert scent just now reaches my nostrils, teaching me what pheromones are all about. Fragrant like dat, no wonder I'm an object of attraction. Would I do me? Asked'n'answered.

Satelite oddities: GPS is showing the Bun Boy Motel merely 27.6 miles ahead. I knew of the Bun Boy Restaurant, but never noticed the motel feature. Wonder where they got that name? What's a Barstow bun boy? I'll have to look that up.

I'm back in the Escapay now. Let's see if I can post this sad homeward-bound message from the hot trip road.

Take It Easy

Well, I'm running down the road
tryin' to loosen my load
I've got seven women on
my mind,
Four that wanna own me,
Two that wanna stone me,
One says she's a friend of mine
Take It easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels
drive you crazy
Lighten up while you still can
don't even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
and take it easy
Well, I'm a standing on a corner
in Winslow, Arizona
and such a fine sight to see
It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed
Ford slowin' down to take a look at me

Frenchie, or Little Sparrow, or Yard Art

Saturday morning. Been to the gym, did my little workout, very little, some back work, some delt work, 1000 crunches, but face it, no, really, face it, it's about burning fat now, not crunching or lifting, burn off the fat, loser. Or take out a loan for some lipo.

Went to Target, picked up some stuff for the road trip, including acoupla itty bitty gifts for my poolside Texan host, and some soaps that might work if I'm washing my face in the Colorado River. Icy, clear water north of (Viva!) Laughlin, cool, brown water south of Blythe. Been there? Just asking. Picked up my meds at PXRX, then home to breakfast: cup of coffee (not because i want it, more to keep away the headache), hardboiled egg (1), carrots, lettuce (iceberg), slices of orange pepper, cottage cheese (with salsa, hot), slice'o'bread (fresh, whole grain, from Panera) with cheese, slice'o'bread (fresh, whole grain, from Panera) with peanut butter (desert). Had some celery on the plate too, but it was so bad even Annie (BitchBitch) wouldn't eat it, so I had no hesitation tossing it.

Breakfast reminded me of Jerusalem. This was my daily breakfast in Israel -- was that just two summer ago?: salad and hb egg/s and cottage cheese and toast and coffee. Not my idea, that's what they serve over there in the Middle East. Then hop on the bus & sightsee 'til midnight. Sure I want to get back to Israel, but today I'm glad to be sitting in my driveway at my picnic table with my macbook.

Mach 1 Plumbing. The plumber's here now. Happy, friendly, talkative, not afraid of dogs, about 6'2, muscled, except at belly level, shaved head beneath his cap, long-sleeved t-shirt, olive drab shorts with a superman tag, black skin. Wait, there're two of them. James and Aaron. Them's Biblical names. Plumber's crack squared right before me on a Saturday morn.
At last we'll be able to shut off the driveway hose and at last I'll be able to wash my face in my bathroom sink again. Been a while.

Frenchie has fired up his music behind me, next door, this a.m. J--- F and J--- M always call it his Gypsy music. Really it's just French popular music. Having grown up in Milwaukee, where Poles abound, I've always liked the accordian, so while no two-stepping (Mexican) or polka (Polish) tunes waft this way, ever, this French squeezebox accompaniment to my repast is okay by me. Even, or especially the Edith Piaf. Sure I recognize her voice. Watched some movie recently where the soundtrack included La Vie en Rose by: Grace Jones. Hate to admit I'm so low-brow that I prefer Miss Jones' version to Miss Piaf's, tho Frenchie's played acoupla Piafs already today, and tho I may go see the new Piaf movie on the big screen. Oh, be honest, I'll wait for the dvd. I'm much more likely to be at DH4 -- Die Hard: Live Free or Die -- on opening day than I am a Piaf biopic. Did see P. LaBelle on YouTube recently doing a Piaf song. It always comes back to her, don't it? Yes it do. Yippee Ki Ay, m----------r.

Still, the real deal for this summer is Travolta playing Edna Turnblad in Hairspray. If I hadn't given away -- misquided magnaminity, to be sure -- my collection of Divine dvds some time ago I'd be toting Divine with me on this roadtrip. Rosie Valez and Organ Pipe Cactus National Park and Lust in the Dust, indeed.

This morning I'm sitting on J--- M's side of the table here on the veranda (driveway) so rather than gazing toward Larissa on the other side of the rat border I'm looking away from her and I can see our back yard (no pool). Been watering plenty this month, mostly to get rid of the stench of Annie's (BitchBitch's) drying urine, but the plants and grass are green ("lush" says J--- M) for that now too. Mostly what's drawing my eye this morning is the yard art:
Speaking of Annie (BitchBitch), J--- M told me I could take her camping with me, take her on my road trip. Then, channeling Sy----, she barked out "Ha. Take BitchBitch along and you'll be back on Cantura Street in a week."

Got that right, sister.

Among the (few) things I hate, one of 'em is the word blog. That I despise the word is one reason I've never had one. That and that I have nothing to say. Other day when I mentioned I'd be emailing to J--- M from the road she barked again in that quick, always funny, Squirrel Hill way of hers: "Email? I want a blog." Ta dah.

Here's your bonus Yard Art:

Get 'Em Up, Scout

You know who you are:
Heading to Texas any day now.
Didn't tell you about the firearms, did I? They arrived. Acoupla Airsofts. An American-designed, history-endorsed Colt 25 pistol and some German-designed/EU-endorsed M41A rifle. They're not electric or gas fired. They're simple spring actions. Basic. Low cost. Plastic. Entry level replicas. The Colt shoots bbs about 25 yards. The rifle shoots them farther. Or as the box proclaims [bbs]: Fly More Farther. Thought these'd come in handy on the road, along the borderlands, in west Texas, at Big Bend. We could play Cattleman and Rustler or Border Patrol and Dope Smuggler or American Psychopath and Hapless Camper or Walker, Texas Ranger and Bad Guy or Cowboy and Indian.

Not that I'm into role play.

Or, speaking of Indians, June is Ida Lupino month on Turner Classic Movies and I TiVo'd many and was watching some one of her old movies the other night -- Lust For Gold -- takes place in Arizona in the 1940's with flashbacks to the late 1800's -- with the same lust in both centuries -- and along with the ageless, ever-flawless Lupino there was a never-ever-looked-better Glenn Ford playing a handsome, if conflicted, b-a-d man and a very very young Jay Silverheels playing an unconflicted and handsome good man. Uncredited, I think, was Mr. Silverheels. Didn't see him in the rolling credits anyway. Figures.

I didn't recognize Silverheels' young face at first, but the voice was unmistakable, bearing tidings from my childhood. Hey, that's Tonto. That's Jay Silverheels. Was fun to see him there sans buckskin, sans aboriginal garb, pre-Ranger, pre-Clayton Moore, pre-sidekick, pre-Scout with a decent sized cinematic part as a supporting player with no big deal made of his nativity. Silverheels sported jeans and a shirt (that is, nothing to indicate otherness) throughout the movie and with the scripted, Anglo, Gringo, pale-faced, round-eyes, Christian name of Walter, worked -- as a Deputy -- in the 1940's Tuscon sheriff's department -- so he probably carried a gun onscreen but truly I don't remember.

Anyway Kemo Sabe, back to you heading west and me heading east and the twain meeting up in El Paso and heading down the rio (Americano side) and being armed: this Colt's not much use for target practice with these little yellow or green, breeze-buffeted 6mm plastic bbs. Spring action velocity is so slow you can pretty much watch the trajectory and the ricochet and then go scoop up the just-shot shot out of the dirt or the lawn and re-magazine it. Don't want to waste any ammo, having only 8 or 9 thousand rounds to fire. Uh huh.

If you don't meet me in El Paso Del Norte, not to worry, I'll still be armed when I roll into your driveway. We can shoot at each other around the pool, no doubt. Going from memory now, but as I recall your derriere -- even poolside, even moving, even speedo'ed up -- will make a better target than that dart board tacked to my back fence just beyond those plants. And I know you've wanted to zero in on me since you were a kid back on the isthmus aiming your sure shot rough at all your elders. That inter-generational warring never ends, sonny. I'm betting these pellets will sting good and leave some nice bunz welts. Watch the eyes, hey.

The Airsofts weren't the first purchases I made for the road trip, but they're the one's I'm using the most before packing up and heading out. Practice may make perfect but not yet. I aim for but never hit the pots holding the plants here in my back yard but I do hit the fence behind those plants every time. Wonder, does Airsoft replicate the appropriately west Texasy road trip-worthy Winchester -- better yet, do they replicate that modified repeater Lucas McCain used in The Rifleman? Guess I got more shopping to do.