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.

February 8th marked the “Year of the Monkey” on the Chinese calendar, but I keep writing, “Year of the Goat” on all my checks.

I meant to make that joke when I was in San Francisco but forgot.

I’m in The Beaver State, home of the Ducks.  I was in Eugene, so I asked someone why the mascots  weren’t the same for the state and the university.

He explained that the University was called the Ducks before Oregon was called The Beaver State.  The state adopted that nickname the same year the school started allowing co-eds to matriculate and some thought it might be in bad taste to switch at that time.  Makes sense.

One of my first stops in Oregon was a gas station.  California fuel prices are a good buck higher than everywhere else because of high state taxes.  Also, it benefits all of us, ecologically speaking, because those high taxes keep many poor people off the roads. So, negligibly  cleaner air for all!  Except those poor people who suck down bus exhaust on their daily commute.

When I pulled into the station a young man came charging at me intent on doing me harm.  I squared my shoulders and struck a Marquis-of-Queensbury pose and started bobbing and weaving. He immediately started back peddling and skidded to a halt.

“Warning: I fight dirty!” I said, ready to defend myself.

“Uhm…I was just coming out to pump the gas, sir.” He said pointing to the station logo on his shirt.  “Did you need any help with that?”

“Oh.”  I said. “Nah, I’m good.”

After a moment of awkward silence I said, “I didn’t know there were any full-serve stations left.”

He explained that it used to be mandatory in Oregon.  They just changed the law this year to allow folks to pump their own gas if they want to.

When I asked what brought about the change he said, “People kept saying we were like New Jersey. Nobody wants to hear that.”

I continued north, redwood forests gave way to evergreens.

Redwoods

The views were quite spectacular.  The road meandered parallel to a series of emerald green creeks.  I passed Lower Finger Creek, and Upper Finger Creek.

Somehow, the mythical and metaphorical “Shit Creek” has come to represent the difficult situations in life we sometimes find ourselves in, with or without a paddle.  We should look back on those situations with loving fondness as times of high, decadent living when compared to what fate deals out when one finds themselves crossing “Middle Finger Creek”.  I was braced for anything.

Road construction brought the scenic route to a halt while I waited for a flag man to tell me I could proceed.  While stopped, the driver of the vehicle behind me, a 19 year old girl, came bouncing and flouncing up from the rear and approached my window. I rolled it down.

“Yes?” I said.

She halted and dropped her smile. She looked slightly embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

I nodded knowingly, “Brad Pitt? Yeah. It’s the tinted windows. Happens a lot.”

“No. My friend, Brittany.” She said.

“What made you think I was your friend Brittany?” I asked, slightly miffed.

“Your Maryland plates.” She said pointing.

“Does your friend Brittany drive a 1993 Ford Van?” I asked.

“Well, no, but she is from Maryland so I figured there was a 50% chance you were her.”

“50%? Where did you get that figure?” I asked.

“Well…” She said, “…you were either her…or you weren’t her. 50/50. I figured I better check.”

And, just like that she bounded back to her car. Good thing, too. I couldn’t punch a hole in her math.

Along the latest leg of my journey I went here…

I’m thinking about getting “Exit 542” tattooed on my knuckles.

…because You Only Live Once, you know.

The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is old and weak. I considered making a break for home.  But the lure of the Pacific Northwest was too strong to not yield to its call.  I want to find Bigfoot.

Well, I havent…yet. but I did find something just as rare…

There can’t be too many of these still standing.

Tonight, I dream of Trixie.

I may have no choice, actually.  The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is sick again.

I drove up The 101 north to Eureka because I thought this is where Ronald Regan went to school. It was Eureka, Ill. So, I have not found it.

I detoured to the scenic route known as the Avenue of the Giants and weaved my way between giant redwoods.  It was quite pleasant…until I stopped.  That is when my trusty steed purged all of its coolant.

I took it to the shop straightaway. Honest Engine. It has the kind of name that implies they are trustworthy while also making a wildly racist play on words. Everybody wins!

Unfortunately, like all auto shops everywhere, they were booked solid. They referred me to another shop that was booked solid til Thursday.  They to another…and so it went.

Eventually I found my way to Olde Town Auto Repair and they said they would take a look.

It has been several hours now.

My rig is old. If I can get it back on the road, it may be time to try to make it home.

If there is ever a new plague that wipes out 75% of the population,  I think I would move to California. Other than being too crowded, this state has it all! Well, the plague thing AND they would have to lower gas prices…ok, and provided you with bags to carry your purchases out of the store. And, I guess it would be nice if it rained once in a while. You know what? Fuck California.

I made my way to the coast, drove through Big ol’ Sur…

where I fed a chipmunk a little chocolate cracker…

Whereupon a much larger chipmunk came charging out of the underbrush and attempted to wrestle it from him with standard human bully tactics.  The little guy made a break for it and got away with the bounty.  The larger chipmunk then turned to look at me.  He knew I had the goods. I dug my fingers in the little foil pouch to get him one. But, apparently I was not quick enough and the cheeky bastard advanced on me.

When I failed to extract the tiny cracker quickly enough, and the advance of the wild animal did not slow, I had no choice but to jettison the entire package and beat a hasty retreat to The EM-50 Phantom Rambler.   I never would have guessed I was afraid of chipmunks. I am learning so much on this trip.

I stopped for the night in Monterey.  Sleep came fitfully, interspersed as it was with dreams of crazed, plague-carrying, attack chipmunks.

When I finally arose and checked my map, I discovered that I was not far from the town of San Jose. Cards on the table, I might never have heard of this place were it not for that old Burt Bacharach song.

I Googled “things to do in San Jose” and, shockingly, there was something – the fabled and gabled, Winchester Mystery House.

The widow Winchester, whose husband had been William Wirt Winchester, rifle manufacturer, had inherited his fortune, lock, stock, & barrel (heh) that left her rich beyond the dreams of avarice.  So, she did what we all would do if we ever came into such a windfall – she consulted a psychic.

Brief detour for a second…remember Dionne Warwick? She sang all of Burt Bacharach’s songs, then later did the Psychic Friends Network thing.  One of her hits was, “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” that I referenced a short while ago. Connection? Certainly. Creepy? Without a doubt. Coincidence?  Please.

For those of you who may not know, the psychic told Sarah Winchester that, tough break, she was being haunted by the spirits of all who had ever been killed by a Winchester rifle.

You must understand that spiritualism was very big during Victorian times. People really believed this stuff.  To give you an idea, they looked upon it then the way people nowadays look at, oh say, Climate Change – it all fit and anyone who went against the grain was a heretic of this wholesome religion.

Mrs Winchester, for reasons unknown, decided that she would fool the ghosts by building a weird house.  She had a team of carpenters work round the clock for decades adding on to some old farm house she had bought.

There are 160 rooms, 13 bathrooms, 6 kitchens…and some other stuff.  Like, stairs that lead to nowhere. Doors that open to a wall, or to a straight drop of about 10 feet, windows built into the floor, cabinets that open onto a whole room or into nothing at all, and, my favorite – secret passages.

I paid way too much for a tour of the mansion (no pics allowed, naturally) and for a behind the scenes tour of the grounds.  Besides the prohibition on photography in all its forms, they also do not allow food, drink, or gum chewing. But, they do make a really big deal about how they deign to allow BOTTLED water on the tour, like they are doing you the biggest favor in the world. Personally, I think they used to ban that too, but, when you take the tour, just on the inside of the house you walk about 1 mile. I think somebody stroked out from dehydration and this is their attempt to limit liability.

For me, the big mystery was not why some eccentric old rich lady built an odd house – clearly she was trying to confuse the ghosts that were following her. The big mystery was the maintenance guy that I followed…

If there is this big deal about not allowing any food, where the hell did he sweep up all of these orange peels from? Why oranges?  Why so many? And, why doesn’t he look more perplexed by the appearance of this giant mound of orange peels?

Also, why do they sell little Eiffel Towers in the gift shop?

Mysterious indeed.

The day was still young enough for me to make my way up the coast to Fog City – San Francisco.  I drove through the city to the world famous Pier 39 at Fisherman’s Wharf. ..then drove a couple more miles looking for a parking space.

I took to my feet and hoofed it back to the pier…

I saw boats and sea lions…

…and people. Gobs and gobs of people.

I wandered the pier, the big attractions are:

1. The aquarium. A showcase of the wonders of the denizens of the deep and how God’s creations extend and adapt to reach every square inch.
2. Seafood restaurants, where they cook said denizens and serve them with butter.

Anybody who knows me, knows that I don’t like seafood.  Grosses me out. Except tuna fish.

What they don’t know is why. I blame science.

A teacher once made me look at a drop of water under a microscope.  Ever since that moment, when I look at the ocean I see a giant drop of water, teeming with oversized bacteria. From flounders, to sharks…just weird bacteria. Gross.

I kept going and finally found The Chart House Restaurant. Way too fancy for my tastes, but, what the hell, I could treat myself and make some snobs uncomfortable.  In I went.

I sat at the bar. Apparently, rich folks can better enjoy their status when given some scale. The restaurant provided an excellent view of Alcatraz. ..

I found it to be in poor taste. Suddenly I felt conspicuous.  The bartender came over and did a little kow tow before taking my order.

Not wanting to appear to be a tourist, I played it cool while my mind raced about what the most San Franciscan thing I could think of was and how to incorporate it into my order…China Town? No. The Golden Gate Bridge? Nope. The 49ers? Nuh-uh. Homosexuals? Not even close. Hippies? I was getting lost here.

Finally, I blurted out, “I’ll have an order a Rice-a-Roni, my good man.” in my best rich-guy voice. I have discerned, from hours of television as a child that, “my good man” is how wealthy folks say, “please”.

I think he was a transplant. He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about and recommended the prime rib. I nodded. He asked how I wanted that cooked. I said, “Chicken fried, my good man.”

A few minutes later he came back and said that the chef would not do that and, it actually got ugly when he mentioned it.

My first beer had taken hold and I was much more relaxed. I decided to throw out all my old ways and embrace something new.  I ordered the lobster bisque in a bread bowl and slurped it while gazing out at the prison.

My thoughts were of the lovely Trixie and how very much I wished she was here.

Once sated, I stumbled drunkenly back to my home on wheels, crawled into the back and napped until I felt the panic of sobriety wash over me. I drove until I was clear of the city, then slept some more.

And so I ramble on.

“Death is another story. I will never make a joke about death. It is beyond my powers.”

Mario Puzo, Fools Die

I drove today through miles of rolling green hills down California Hwy 41, a road that meanders between land owned by the famous Hearst Family, to where it intersects with Hwy 46 near Cholame.

There isn’t much here now. One kilometer east and you will find the Jack Ranch Cafe.

Cattle grazing

…which is also owned by the Hearsts.

I assume there was even less back in 1955. Certainly fewer cars.

In September of 1955, at this intersection is where James Dean died in a car accident.

He only made 3 movies – he was 24 when he died, after all.  And I have never seen any of them.

There are running arguments about who is the smartest person to have lived – Newton, Einstein, et al…arguments about greatest artists…arguments about greatest boxer….any superlative, really.

But there does seem to be consensus in one unquantifiable area. James Dean was the embodiment of cool. Long before The Fonz, was striking juke boxes,  the restlessness and angst of the Silent Generation gave way to the rebellious spirit of the Baby Boomers, thanks, in  large part to being provided with a unifying beacon that was James Dean.

Many will argue that The King was cooler, and, ok…sure…but he is “God-tier” cool. Elvis is who young men wanted to be, Dean is who they were.

Legend tells us that, one week before he died, he met fellow actor Alec Guiness.  He showed him his new Porsche, that he had nicknamed, “Little Bastard”. Little Bastard had been customized by George Barris, the same fellow who would later give us The Batmobile.

Obi Wan is said to have responded, “If you drive this car, you’ll be dead in a week.”

And, to show that the universe is not without a twisted sense of duality, the personification of cool collided with and was killed by a man with a name so cartoonishly respresentitive of “hick” that it is hard to believe – Donald Turnupseed.

In 1977, Japanese artist, Seita Ohnishi, fulfilled what he he called, “a life-long dream” by completing construction of a memorial to James Dean and presenting it as a gift to the American People.

I never knew James Dean – he was before my time.  When I looked up, I looked up to my father…my uncles, my older brother…each represented a standard for me to strive to achieve at a different stage of maturity. So, I have never gone in for celebrity culture. But, standing here, under “The Tree of Heaven” reading the words on the memorial, I admit I was quite moved.

I don’t always know where to draw the line, but I can usually tell when I’ve crossed it.

Back in the salad days of our couplehood, when the attraction was purely physical and Trixie and I were still getting to know one another, I lived alone in a small condo that had a washer/dryer combo in the kitchen.

Somehow, and this in itself is amazing, my dirty laundry still piled up to the point where I had to get creative, sartorially speaking, in order to answer a knock at the door. And, since “delivery” was my primary means of acquiring sustenance,  that happened with some regularity.

Only after I had soiled beyond the sniff test, every piece of cloth large enough to drape across my frame, from fitted sheets to a BBQ apron that read, “Boy Meets Grill” would I gather them all up and make a weekend-long assault on my small-capacity combo unit.

It was during one such engagement that I invited my then girlfriend, Michie, over to “Netflix & Chill”, figuratively speaking. Netflix wasn’t a thing yet.

That weekend we had a deep and meaningful, get-to-know-you conversation in which the only words she uttered were, for the most part, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”.

I know what you are thinking – she phoned it in. She wasn’t really THERE. I carried the convo. Not true. Each time she said those words, offensive though they may be, she said them with a little more emotion – passion bordering on panic, really. And, each time she emphasized a different word in her question, giving the sentence a completely different meaning from the same one she let fly only 30 seconds before.

We really got to know each other on a level I didn’t know existed. And, bonded, I think, for all time.

It is funny, the associations we have that can trigger certain memories. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Scene: I carry the last armload from the dryer and dump it on the pile already on my bed, not really thinking through my plans should I happen to get her into the sack.  Fortunately, sort of, that was not to be a concern this time.  The dryer is still running of course, on what many would call the “last load” but, I have no intention of removing that stuff until I pick through it later in the week. I collapse into my recliner and say,

“Whew! You have no idea how good it feels to be done with laundry!”

Trixie, looking up from a crossword puzzle: What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Me: just that it is a chore for normal people. So, it feels good to be done with it.

Trixie: What the hell is THAT supposed to mean.

Me: You know, women enjoy busy work like laundry. Normal people don’t.

Trixie: What in THE HELL is that supposed to mean?!

Me: What? It’s a compliment. It’s like packing lunches and wrapping gifts. Women are just better at it than nor…uh…men.

Trixie, crossing her arms: And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?!

Me: Look, I think I’m being misunderstood here. All I meant is that men and women are, you know…different.

Trixie, nodding vigorously while pressing her tongue hard into the inside of her cheek creating a small bulge:

What the hell does that mean?

Me, back on my heels a little: It means, uh, that women are better at some things than men are. You know, like nesting. Throughout the animal kingdom, the males hunt and the females, you know, nest…

Trixie: What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?

Me: Well, sure there are exceptions, like sea horses and lions and stuff but for the most part, you know.  And, I’m not calling you an animal, per se…

Trixie: What. The. Hell. Is. That. Supposed. To. Mean?

Me: Well, you know, Homo Sapiens are animals…and, you are a Homo S…

Trixie: WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!

I don’t really remember how I got out of that one, but we are still together and that should mean something.

Missing my girl.

Dogs have such a highly attuned sense of smell that, if a human had an equivalent sensory receptor, he or she would be labeled a super hero or super villain,  depending on their political views and the current ruling party. YET…I have never seen a dog give even the slightest indication that whatever it was they were smelling was in any way unpleasant – no matter how god-awful.  They would make the best scientists if they weren’t so stupid. They just want the information.  The truth. They just want to know.

Speaking of God, I recently saw some graffiti that read, “God never fails”. Either I don’t know what that means, or don’t see how it is helpful.   I mean, can you really grade an entity in a pass/fail system when you don’t know their goal? If every confounding happening is allowed to be explained away with, “He meant to do that” then maybe somewhere along the way, somebody is making shit up. We should have a dog look into this.

But, enough about that stuff, let’s focus on the important stuff – me. I finally broke free from the oppressive yoke that is the warm, loving, nurturing embrace of my lovely wife’s company.  I may have to ban her from travelling until my mission is complete. Wherever she goes, I rush right to her. It is too difficult to keep tearing myself away.  We stick to each other like Velcro. We even make the same sound as velcro when you pull us apart.

I drove along a stretch of highway that had a sign saying that this particular section of the road was dedicated to the Veterans of The Spanish American War. That struck me as…odd.

No more than 100 yards further was another sign honoring the veterans of WWI. Mmm’ok. Less Weird.

Shortly thereafter was a new sign..WWII – the Big One.

And, so it went. After a period of normal wars, it got weird again. It honored the vets of (and, I am not making this up) “The Cold War Era”. I think that means me. I sat up a little straighter. There were others. The final sign in the chain had the chilling salute to the vets of “The Global War on Terror”. And, once again, I didn’t know what that meant.  Terrorism has always confused me. Back in my day, it was the tactics used to disrupt order by striking fear into the hearts of civilians. Now, that has come to mean a second-grader who chews his Pop Tart into a vaguely L-shaped pattern.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all about the soldiers. Hell, I never met one who actually wanted to fight. They avoid it at just about all costs.  But, all this over-the-top honoring of said soldiers seemed to have the intended effect of never questioning the orders of those who actually pick the fights while they and theirs stay safely in the rear.

So, there I was, alone again…naturally. And, all this thinking about God and Dogs and superheroes, and politics had me thirsting for mystery and elusive truth. I went to Area Fiddy-One. (Translation: Area 51. Explanation: I’m trying to skew younger to attract a wider audience).  The immediate vicinity around Groom Lake and Area Fiddy-One, is noticeably different from the other wide-open spaces of the great outdoors that is the American West – it isn’t fenced.

All of the rest of the country has barbed wire fences. Believe me, I have been all over and have been disappointed up until now. When you think of the West, you think of cowboys. And, if you are anything like me, when you think of cowboys you think of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. But, that makes you think of other great cowboys songs like, “Home on the Range” and “Don’t Fence Me In”. And that disappoints you because, they fenced the whole thing in. Except The Extraterrestrial Highway…

It is an open range, as is indicated by an official road sign depicting a cow being abducted by a traditional-looking flying saucer (pic related…)

I don’t have any pictures of Area Fiddy-One. This is mostly because the whole thing is hidden behind The Groom Mountain Range. But, also a little bit because they have signs posted saying they will shoot your terrorist ass for taking pics. Seriously.

Since I was already in the neighborhood, I went to the World Famous Little A’le’Inn…

It is a Bar & Grill/gift shop that really is in the middle of nowhere (Rachel, NV).

I bought Trixie a T-Shirt and then moved on. I didn’t really have a destination in mind. But, I find confidence in the notion that, since I haven’t an agenda, goal or schedule, each moment is the adventure. No matter what happens,  I really can not fail. I think it is giving me a god complex.

…with a pocket full of mumbles such are $20 bills. Thanks mostly to the generosity of Trixie and her uncanny winning streak. In fact, the gaming commission should prolly look into it. She won too much.

That is not to say I didn’t have a little luck of my own. I got to spin the wheel on Wheel of Fortune…

Those are pennies

…and some dressed up game of three-handed video Deuces Wild Poker, that also allowed for wheel spinning…

Those are quarters

So, I’m back on the road. Destination: Unsure. And, I mean that.  Might have to go get to the bottom of this whole Area 51 fiasco. So, if you never hear from me again, that is where I went. Don’t come looking.

Because of the stately and statuesque stature of The EM-50 Phantom Rambler  (it is too tall to fit in the parking garage) I had to lug my luggage (lug…luggage…hey! I just put that together! Nice) a fairly good distance. The route took me past the Mob Museum. They actually have one. I had never considered going to it. Just not that interested.

After passing it, I am going to make a point of REALLY not considering going. Look at this shit…

It is kind of shady…heh heh…get it?

Alright, I just included that pic so I could make the shady joke.

I had to take a panorama shot to make sure I got all the mfs in…here is more…

Click it!

I don’t do lines if I can avoid them. I can avoid this one.

I have a lot of places I want to hit, and it is time to get rambling.

Boy, I sure miss my Valentine. It was quite a week.