When I was 17, I figured things would eventually fall into place and I would retire as a millionaire playboy by the time I was 35.

When I was 35 I had become wiser and realized that if I was to retire by the time I was 50, I would have to hit the lottery.

Now, math being what it is and all, at 50 my dreams have dwindled to the point that I have to hope to go blind so I can draw social security before the age of 70.

Nose to the grindstone and shoulder to the wheel have never been anything remotely resembling my motto.  There is nothing wrong with hard work, you know, if viewed from a suitable distance, but the hard, cold truth is, the American Dream has changed and I am going to have to work until the day I die.  But, not today.

I took a hiatus from the thing I hate about 6 months ago to do a thing I loved. I traveled the country on my faithful steed The EM-50 Phantom Rambler.  And, I only returned when I did, because one member of this unlikely pairing became a bit long in the tooth,  and the other wanted to return to the loving arms of his sweetheart, Trixie.  I will let you figure out who was who.

A month has passed now as I sit, stirring only  to reach between the cushions and retrieve the TV remote.

I have been mopey. A lingering sense of unfulfillment.   It is not in my nature to leave a job unfinished – nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel…that’s what I always say. Ok. No, I dont. But, in this case, maybe a little.

Recently, I was zoned out, staring at the television,  wishing it was louder, but too comfortable to shift my weight to feel around for the clicker, when I said to my wife, with a heavy pout,

“Well, I guess I will go back to work until I die.”

She rolled her eyes so far back into her head I was worried they would get stuck and I would have to be the one to dislodge them. Then she said,

“Why don’t you finish the trip?”

I did my best Eeyore voice and replied,

“The Rambler’ll never make it.”

“Take your new car” She said.

I sat bolt upright and said brightly,

“The Scooty Puff Jr. class shuttle: Yukon Klondike Tydirium?…seriously? It’s too small. I’ll be like one of those Japanese businessmen. Wow…maybe…Hmm…do you think I could?”

“Well…” She said mockingly, “…If that is what you are calling your Jeep Renegade then…we may have to grease your hips to get you in there, after that you’re on your own. But yeah, that is what I meant.”

Suddenly, I was reinvigorated and enthusiastic. I made a mental note to get her back for that last crack, but, you know, she might be on to something here.

True to my nature, I have kept the planning and forethought to a minimum but, tomorrow I make my way up the eastern seaboard – destination: New England. If, and, haha, believe me…that is a big IF – The Scooty Puff Jr class shuttle: Yukon Klondike Tydirium turns out to be a viable travel option, I ramble on to Alaska.

Stay tuned.

If you twisted my arm and made me come up with a complaint about my lovely bride, Trixie, I would resist for as long as I could, then probably confess that, perhaps…maybe…she could take a smidge more pride in her work when it comes to keeping house.  In fact, I have always thought that one of the things that made us work so well together was how gracious I was in terms of tolerating this shortcoming of her’s.  It is a rare instance that I would even mention it.  That’s just how I roll.

It is not that she is a slob, per se, but there just always seemed to be more to do, houseworkwise.

I was so gentle and understanding on this issue for several reasons:

1. She is only human.  I can’t expect perfection in everything.
2.  There had never been an official division of labor that expressly assigned her certain tasks – just a general understanding.
3. Not only does she work full-time, but she works very hard.
4. She did seem to be trying.  Like she wanted the house to be organized and neat but, it just wasn’t her bag.  I couldn’t, in good conscience ask for more than that.
5. I enjoyed being magnanimous about it.  Felt good to be the bigger person, so to speak.
6. Frankly, neatness is not high on my list of priorities.  Truth be told, I could have probably worked on this issue within myself.  And, I didn’t want to be a hypocrite.

So, through my silence, patience and understanding, we have made it work.

But, now, after 5 months on the road, I made it back home. I hadn’t bathed since South Dakota.  But, that’s O.K., she was away at the beach, for work.  Yes, this tireless life partner of mine has given up her weekend, without complaint, to work a booth at a trade show or whatever.  I knew this.  And, because she has been working ’til 8 p.m. every night lately, going home and collapsing in bed, I was braced for the old homestead to be a disaster.  Oddly…it wasn’t.  In fact, it was neat as a pin.  Weird.

Years ago, someone wrote an article entitled, 15 Life Hacks to Make it Look Like You’ve Got Your Shit Together where the author tells you to do stuff like,  ‘…get the biggest bowl in your house and fill it with some fucking lemons.”  And, “…cover your couch with a bunch of throw pillows with some meaningless words on them” to my favorite, “…pretend you can’t remember what wine you have.  I think there is some Cab Sav in the cupboard”  Anyway, it was like Trixie had read this article like it was an operator’s manual.   She had even removed the doors to the kitchen cabinets.  There was nowhere for clutter to hide.  I was impressed.  I had no idea what brought about this change in her otherwise…I don’t want to come right out and say “lazy nature”, so I will leave it out.

Because I fancy myself to be a humorist, I briefly entertained the notion of claiming that maybe she was always like this but that I had personally added so much to the workload that she couldn’t keep up.  Haha.  But, I find the funniest stuff comes from true-to-life stuff.  I couldn’t just go making shit up just for a laugh.

Besides, now that I have been home for a whole day now, as I look around, I see the place isn’t nearly as tidy as I had initially thought.  In fact, yeah, kind of a mess.  My eyes must have been playing tricks on me.

After several hours this morning of waiting for a meal to magically appear before me (like it used to when I sat in my big chair in the old days) I figured I would have to take matters into my own hands.  I went to the kitchen and opened a can of tuna.  Theretofore invisible felines suddenly appeared before my eyes. I don’t know how many cats she had when I left, but I am pretty sure it wasn’t this many.  They started moving about frenetically.  They were jumping and rolling as they circled me.  It was like a feeding frenzy in a shark tank.  I yelled and swatted at them.  They hunkered down and continue to swish their tails sinisterly as they circled me.

I drained the water from the can and they leapt up onto the sink and started lapping at the run off.  Even that asshole Binx was in on it.

Eventually, I managed to give them the slip and eat my lunch.  I had to leave the kitchen in disarray , but that is Trixie’s fault for having cats.  But, I am sure I will get around to cleaning it up after my nap.

What’s Happening?  Good Times. 

It takes Diff’rent Strokes and The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is starting to look and sound like the truck from Sanford & Son, but…

That’s My Mama…

…and, Baby I’m Back!

Look, I don’t want to get into a whole thing about how truck drivers see a seedier side of the American interstates that most people aren’t aware even exists, so just trust me on this…

The Minnesota Department of Transportation needs to rename this rest area.

Sometimes I troll the science board on certain social media web sites.  These are places where smart people ask questions about science and even smarter people answer them.  I occasionally chime in with innapropriate, off-topic jokes and end up getting  banned.

In my time there, I noticed one of the most common questions goes something like this:

If the universe is comprised of vast nothingness and is said to be still expanding, what, then, is it expanding into?

The really smart people try to explain how the universe is expanding like a balloon being inflated and that our primitive minds can’t really visualize “nothingness” and then they post some equations that have a lot of Greek letters and some hieroglyphics that looks like it would be more at home in Hangar 13 at Area 51 than on this board.  That’s when I get lost and make a joke about Uranus.

I’m ready for them now, though.

Here is how it will go:

Smart person: If the universe is comprised of mostly nothing and is expanding, what is it expanding into:

Me: North Dakota. (pic related)…

I drove across central South Dakota just to scratch North Dakota off my list.  It was like making the Kessel Run….you lose track of space and time and which one is which.

It is devoid of…stuff. there is just nothing here.

Some might say they have different priorities in the Dakotas…

I like that they included a cute cartoon fox in this PSA

We have all heard of Fargo..right?

I mean, even before Steve  Buscemi got fed through that wood chipper in that movie with the pregnant cop, we had heard of Fargo.  Big city, right?

It is about the same size (though has a smaller population than) Edmonston, Md.  Not Hyattsville – they are dwarfed by Hyattsville. Edmonston.  Unless you are from there, you’ve never heard of it.

But, I had to come here. The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is old, and tired and may not finish the trek, but North Dakota was a must.  In my time I have rambled through 47 states now – 32 just on this road trip so far (with more to add before I’m done). The only ones left are Alaska,  Hawaii and, for some reason Vermont.

This was my one chance to achieve North Dakota, and now it is done.

My next destination is South Trixie (heh heh, that’s a dirty joke.)

I’m in South Dakota, which I’ve never been able to figure if it is in the west or the midwest. Technically it is “Midwest”, but it is far enough north to be considered “West.” But that makes no sense…except it does.

It is like an oxymoron, a type of phrase I’ve been thinking about since I passed Little Bighorn, the site of Custer’s last stand. There is a themed custard stand there and they have reenactments of the battle, you know, for the kids.

I’ve never understood reenacting blood fests like Gettysburg, the gunfight at the OK Corral, Little Bighorn,  etc and turning then into a madcap, family-friendly event that is fun for all ages! (Except grandpa…he might have been there to witness the real thing and still has nightmares).

It is not fair of me to single out the Custer thing without showing that the folks in Montana don’t have depth to their entertainment and culture.

You don’t have to be nuts to attend, but you should have some balls.

Upon leaving Montana, I cut through Wyoming, intent on making a run at Devil’s Tower, but The EM-50 Phantom Rambler started acting up so I turned east.

Instead I went for the smack dab center of the country…

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right…

If that sign was at all legible in this pic you would be able to read that Belle Fourche, SD overtook Smiths Center, Kansas as the geographic center of these here United States after the inclusion of Alaska and Hawaii to the union.

The sign goes on to say that the real exact center is 20 miles north of here, but there is nothing there really. It is just a field. And, they already had a visitors center on this spot so they dug a hole and planted the sign so spend some money in town…dicks.

With Trixie on my mind, I ramble on.

I stopped at a diner in Somewhere, Montana for the sole purpose of eating a slice of huckleberry pie.   I have always wanted to try it because it is one of those foods that sounds fictional.

I sat at the counter.  Service in the diner was slow, but I wasn’t in a hurry.  However, it did seem to cause some distress for the fellow seated two stools down who had been waiting for his check.

Sensing a brotherhood-like bond with me, and that we were somehow “in this together” based on the idea that we were both “counter people” He initiated conversation by turning to me and saying, “Man, I wish the waitress would hurry – I’ve gotta take a shit like nobody’s business.”

I replied, “I don’t want to alarm you but, that actually already is nobody’s business each and every time you have to do it.  You could have kept that to yourself and I would not have felt you were holding out on me.”

The waitress brought the man’s credit card and receipt, he scrawled his signature and bolted from the eating area.

The pie was good.

That morning, I had crossed from Washington, through the Idaho panhandle and into the land of the Big Sky…

Along this route I had stopped for gas. While fueling I met a stray dog.  I didn’t know there were any left in America.

He is an ugly little fucker. But, even still, I gave him one of the doggy treats I keep in the side pouch of my door for just such an emergency.

He was skittish, but scrappy. Eventually, he took the chunk of meat and ran from my sight to enjoy it. Soon, he darted back and peed on my tire, like a hobo marking a house that gives a free meal.

This is a big country. And, no stray dogs to speak of. I wish we had channeled that energy into rounding up mosquitoes instead.  But, people are weird when it comes to pet-like animals. You included.  And, I’m not just talking about you lunatics who take them on vacation, or shopping, or even you, personally…YOU incorrigible bastards that drive with them on your laps.

We as a society have lost the ability to call each other out on outrageous behavior.  I’m speaking about the use of service animals.  Back in the day, that meant an extremely well-trained dog that assisted blind people. See, that is actually a good thing. Now, unscrupulous MFs have taken advantage of this little loophole in the rules of civilized society in which there is a restriction on dogs.

Some assholes claim they and their furry little mop of germ-ridden stink are exempt because having their dog with them relieves their anxiety.  Their presence increases my own anxiety, but I don’t matter in their world.

Nevermind that folks with that level of anxiety should not leave the house, the real truth is that it is bullshit.  Sometimes a prescription should read (and, I’m not just saying this because I am in Montana): Cowboy the fuck up.

Instead we coddle the weaklings and encourage their weakling behavior.

I am aware that there are people who have endured great trauma and suffer from PTSD and can resume some semblance of a normal life through the assistance of a professional, non-human companion.  But, more common are the fuckers who usurp their suffering and use it as an excuse to bring their pekingese into a smoke-filled casino while they play the slots. That is who I am bitching about.

I don’t hate animals, but it has taken a lot of work and training to keep myself from going to the bathroom on the living room floor. I am not up to the task of attempting to domesticate another.

Look, I know I have offended all of you. But, that’s ok because, fuck you.  I am aware that I am the last animal non-lover left.  Hell, if this was a different time, even my own lovely Trixie would have been institutionalized for her unnatural fondness for those idiot cats of hers…especially Binx. He’s awful. He hasn’t a single socially redeeming quality. If he was a movie he would be rated NC-17 and people would still walk out.

But, even you folks, twisted though you might be, have noticed that there is something about folks who like pit bulls that is a tad off. Right? You can’t put your finger on it, but, the way their eyes get big and they grin malevolently when they start talking about how they are the sweetest, most loving creatures on God’s green earth and are always genuinely shocked when one mauls a toddler. They then go on to blame the owner.  You see that crazy in these folks.

Well, that is how we (me) animal non-lovers see the rest of you. No offense.

My latest reason for losing faith in my fellow man came today when I decided to make my way to the quaint little town of Zillah, WA.

I don’t even know if it is a “quaint little town”. It could be Gomorrah for all I know. It certainly has its own little band of religious zealots just like Gomorrah did.  And, they are the reason I turned around 17 miles short.  Well, that, and a dashboard warning light illuminated to let me know there is a problem with the alternator.   I pointed the EM-50 Phantom Rambler due east and crossed my fingers.

The reason I was going to Zillah, was to see the Teapot Gas Station. Click on that if you want to see what it looks like.

The reason I got disgusted and turned around is the local religious fellowship.  They’re Christians.  Manipulative judgemental hatred aside, I have no problem with Christians. But, how ate up with a dogma do you have to be when you name your congregation, “Church of God – Zillah” and then proceed to worship anything other than a 150′ nuclear mutant lizard monster that terrorizes big cities? Enough is enough. The God I grew up believing in would have understood and waived the 1st Commandment to green-light the project.

So there I am, 3,000 miles from home and my battery isn’t charging. Not good.

I took advantage of the daylight and drove to Spokane. I parked at a Wal-Mart and went inside to buy a portable jump start kit thing in case that will come in handy later.

Of course, while I was inside, little did I know that these mechanical problems would soon take a back seat to more pressing issues. Namely,  I had locked my keys in the EM-50 Phantom Rambler.

But, as yet, unknowing, I was happy as a lark. I didn’t realize I was happy as a lark. In fact, I thought I was kind of bummed. But, in a few minutes, I would look back on my little shopping trip as carefree good times.

The portable charger I bought weighs about 20 lbs, so I had it propped on a shoulder while I gave myself a one-handed pat down to determine which pocket my keys were in.  I switched shoulders several times before ultimately cussing like Trixie.

I peered through the window at the wire coat hanger I carry just in case I have to bail out some dipshit who manages to lock his keys in his car… (pic related)…

I actually formulated the thought, “if only I could get in there, I would have the coat hanger and this would be so much easier.”

I’m at a Wal-Mart. Retail joints abound – including a dry cleaner. Getting a wire coat hanger would not be a problem…except, of course, that I would have to admit to another person that I had locked my keys in my car.  I wasn’t about to do that lightly.

I walked around the Rambler.  I discovered a back window was partially open…

I yanked out the screen, then discovered it would have slid to the side. Reached into the back door and lifted up the knob. Success!

Sort of

The only items that come out are the microwave and the cooler. That table and rack are bolted and glued in, respectively.

If you know anything about black holes and compressing matter to a singularity, then you will see that I could fit. I would have to buck and wriggle and tear my flesh in the process. Fortunately, I just spent a week in Vegas with Trixie, so it was like I had been in training for this moment.

I managed to snake my way in and recover my keys. Ta da.

After the day I had had, most people would say I needed a drink but, hell, I was gonna do that anyway.  The treat I gave myself came in the form of a no sugar added raspberry frozen yogurt.

Now, I had never been in one of these places. This was new for me. You all probably have, but I will walk you through it anyway.

I entered. The place is empty. They have a couple of beat-the-hell-up mismatched couches like it is Central Perk or something.

Alerted by the chime of the door, a college-age girl comes out, pretending to be friendly, and greets me. Clearly she was in the back doing homework or social media or whatever.

I say hi, then read the chalk board. It instructs me to take a cup, select a flavor, pull the handle to dispense froyo, go to the fixins bar to add toppings, place my cup on the scale, swipe my card to pay then leave.

Ok. I can do all that. What got me was the tip jar. Seriously. I’m doing all the godzilladamn work here. Why the hell am I tipping her?

But, somehow I look like the Jerk if I stiff her.  Alright. I’ll tip. But, she is gonna earn it.

While I was still reading the chalk board she asks, “Do you have any questions?”

In my best deadpan I say, “Why do you never see orange pie?”

She said, “We have orange sherbet.”

I said, “Yes. But, I’m talking about pie. You see all kinds of fruit pies…apples, bananas, pumpkin…coconut. Why no orange?”

She said, “Uhm, maybe because it is citrus…”

“But, there is lemon and key lime.” I counter.

She didn’t give up, she was earning whatever coins I had on me. “Maybe it is too sweet?” She inflected upward.

Me…”I dunno. You ever have Shoo-Fly pie? It is so sweet that it wasn’t really meant for human consumption. People eat it anyway.”

She said, “In that case, I don’t know. I had never really thought about it.”

That was good enough for me.

I crossed the 45th parallel recently. That’s the imaginary line of latitude that marks the halfway point between the North Pole and the Equator. I capitalize them because they are kind of a big deal.

My search for Bigfoot has brought me to the Pacific Northwest.  Originally I had planned to hike deep into the forbidding forests – to be gone for days, maybe weeks at a time, enduring hardship, hunger, and damp socks in my quest for the truth.

But, as loyal readers could tell you, through extrapolation I learned a couple of days ago that there is a 50% chance that he is sitting on a barstool at Bob’s Burgers & Brew in Yakima. So, I went there instead….pic related

He was not.

Speaking of mysteries, the conspiracy boards are all a-buzz now that the PTB has tipped their hand, so to speak, and let slip the outcome of the upcoming presidential election.

For those of you who don’t own a tinfoil hat, Senator Ted Cruz is the predetermined winner, as is evidenced by displaying the Masonic “Hidden Hand Gesture” during the most recent GOP debate…pic related…

If you don’t believe me, Google it. They are going nuts about this.

From Napoleon to George Washington, Karl Marx, Stalin…the list goes on.

And, the weird stuff doesn’t end there!  I drove along the Oregon Trail and crossed the Columbia River. (The video game was right, by the way, I would have died of dysentery).  It is weird territory.  You (me) will be driving along, minding your (my) own business and there will be a goddamn waterfall, like, RIGHT THERE! for no reason whatsoever. Like, it’s no big deal…

Anyway, I crossed the Columbia River, which is fucking huge – wider than a mile and all that Moon River shit – when off in the distance, I could swear I see…Stonehenge?

Could it be?

I detoured from my route in an attempt to try to get closer.  Being an intrepid investigator of all things paranormal,  other-worldly, and just plain strange (smooch to Trixie) I was able to follow subtle hints and clues to zero in on it…

Diligence and literacy pay off once again!

Stonehenge is like the Applebee’s of the Unexplained Mysteries.  Every town has one.  I have visited, five, I think, since I took to the road.

Nonetheless, jaded though I might be, I got out and snapped some photos…

This one is a full-scale replica of the one on Salisbury Plain in England.

Construction was completed in 1930 and it is dedicated to the Veterans of WWI who were killed. Apparently, the leading theory of the day was that Stonehenge had been used for human sacrifice.  The fellow who commissioned this one drew a corollary between that and drafting soldiers to fight in wars or something.

With all these hidden hands and Stonehenge sightings and the idea that Sasquatch was probably lurking around the next bend,  it makes perfect sense that my Weird-Shit-O-Meter was in the Red Zone.  I was on high alert when I got to Bob’s Burgers & Brew in Yakima.

I approached the restaurant from the rear and was struck by something odd on their sign. Look at the pic above. I know the glare is harsh and the pic is blurry. But, it doesn’t matter because, I couldn’t tell what I was looking at anyway.  It had this weird logo. I’m not sure how to describe it.  It was not entirely unlike a cat-o’nine tails. But, that would be a different choice for the logo for an eatery.

I was determined to get to the bottom of this.  I stood outside in the drizzle for 20 minutes and just…studied it.

Why would this “Bob” person include this thing on his sign? Most of you sheeple will just breeze right by it and not give it a second glance.   No, this mark was put there for those that would recognize it – just like Cruz and the hidden hand thing.

And, then there is me. I don’t breeze by, yet, I don’t know the secret. But, I want them to know, I know that something is going on. I notice.

Eventually I admitted defeat to myself and continued around to the entrance at front of the building.

The logo was there and I was able to get a more clear shot.  I made a silent vow to myself to keep an eye out in my travels. I’m thinking Illuminati.

Ok, ok, ok…after all that effort, it ends up this “Bob” puts a decorative lamp post in front of all of his restaurants and even  uses it as his logo. Who knew? Dick.

Instead of the American Yeti, I spent the evening chatting with a fellow named Kevin. He ate a burger with a hot dog on top.

I drank my beer and reflected on the most baffling mystery of them all and wondered what she was doing.