My buddy Craig and I hit up Las Vegas yesterday. He is an insider and knows the good spots. Plus he gets the “Locals” discount.

Breakfast buffet at Palace Station where I ate way too much plus 1 donut.

Down the strip and to The Spy Store. I had never been in one and didn’t know what to expect.

What I learned is that they make cameras so small and have them integrated into every conceivable everyday-looking item that I am convinced that there are numerous hidden cameras in every place that you might take your clothes off. So, yeah, that footage exists. Might as well just go with it.

Also,  all small items that people carry are loaded with pepper spray and mini daggers. Trust no one.

Hidden safes are another thing. They make them to look like everything from a Bible, a can of coffee and nasty, stained underwear. So the next time you need drug money and decide to rifle through your neighbor’s house after he carelessly left for work, search those things first.

Next we went to the Pinball Museum. It isn’t so much a museum as one guy’s collection. Of course, he needs a warehouse to hold all of his machines. And, it is open to the public to play just like an arcade.

Hundreds of games going back to the inception of Pinballing. I recommend it to those who come to Vegas.

Those who know me, know I am pretty much all business. I gave up kid’s games in the third grade. So, we didnt stay long. And now, it was time to get down to it. We went to the Atomic Energy Museum. This place is made possible through association with the Smithsonian Goddamn Institute.  This is the big time.

We narrowly squeaked in ahead of a high school field trip. Whew. The museum takes you through the whole process of splitting an atom and the development of The Big One. This is not a reference to my manhood. Stay focused, please.

“Scientists” claim that when you fire a neutron at an atom of uranium (they use uranium because of its high rate of decay, or “radioactivity”, makes the whole thing easier or because the atom is fucking huge…I can’t remember. They were going pretty fast) which causes atomic fission  (cuts the bitch in half like a Vegas stage magician) but also creates a brand new neutron out of thin air (just lIke God used to do). Now the two neutrons keep going and hit two more atoms. The process keeps on like those shampoo commercials from the 70s where they say, “I told two friends, and they told two friends…” (pic related)

This is called a “chain reaction”.

It was all very educational and such. And, I felt ready to take a shot at building my own nuclear device but the prices of the yellow cake uranium in the gift shop were pretty outrageous. That’s how they getcha. I’m no sucker.

Still, what is the sense of learning if you can’t have a practical application of the knowledge you have gained, right? I mean, think of the kids. This museum is for them.

Well, the good people of the Atomic Energy Commision, The Smithsonian and the great state of Nevada wouldn’t do that to us. That would make them a tease.

But they know that deep down (or in my case right there on the surface) people want to channel their Grand Moff Tarkin and know how it feels to blow up a planet. Hell, I know that I would sleep better at night if MY finger was on THE button.

They have an interactive display that allows you to live out that modern-day fantasy. I shit you not.

They let you watch a film strip of the detonation of an atomic bomb. They cue you when to start your audible and dramatic countdown and even give you the big, red button… (pics related)

Sleep well people…I got this.

Learning to, step-by-step, build and detonate a doomsday device is a hoot and everything and, we were encouraged to take as many pictures as we wanted.

However, the next, and only other, exhibit on the grounds is serious business. No pictures allowed.

It is the Area 51 Museum (held over by popular demand).

I went in a little pre-pissed off because of the wheel barrow of bullshit they were gonna unload on me about weather balloons, swamp gas and conspiracy kooks. I was surprised.

They displayed artifacts and replicas that explained that the alleged UFO crash at Roswell was not such a big deal because of all the other sighting, aerial battles and crashes that were big deals.

They had quotes from U.S. President’s on the walls in which they say stuff like, “Yep. All True.”

Film strips of interviews with the engineers of the famed Skunkworks where they pretty much confess like it is NBD that “Stealth” technology was developed through the arduous task of reverse-engineering alien space craft. And that MiB is real.

Of course, I don’t have any pictures to back any of this up. You’ll have to pay the 5 bucks and tour it yourself.

When it comes to proof of alien visitation, I need look no further than Trixie. She is truly out of this world.

In recent years, I have become aware that, instead of the stately mein and pensive countenance that I thought I wore, I project an air of bewilderment, an expression of complete befuddlement and a sense of helplessness.

I first became aware of this change in my bearing when I got a job working as a floor supervisor for a large retail store.  I would be standing at the ready, my legs coiled springs – able to leap to assist any who needed my service.

Instead, the most frequent question I got from customers was, with a concerned look on their faces, “Can I help you somehow, sir?”

“I work here.” Was my defensive reply.

Ok, so I don’t emit showers of confidence anymore. I get that. I think the Amish got it right. Maybe they should be my new role models.

About the time Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation,  thus ending slavery in America, the Amish held up both hands at chest level, pumped them three times and said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…things are starting to move too fast. We declare the end of advancement. If it ain’t been invented by now, we don’t recognize it.

That system would work out pretty good for me, I think.

There was a time, when I was a knucklehead kid, that I knew the address, phone number, vehicle make, model, color & tag number of everyone on the block whether I ever had contact with them or not.

Now, when I exit a mall, I have to concentrate to remember if I drove or rode the bus.

When I was a kid I felt caged by the lack of choice of television programming. Three lousy networks.

Now, I have 500 channels but only watch reruns of “The Big Bang Theory” on TBS.

It takes too much effort to watch anything else.

I have forced myself to memorize one phone number – Trixie’s.  I call it from a borrowed phone to ask her to call my celly so I can find it or to get her to tell me the three-digit combination of my padlock so I can retrieve my stuff from my locker at Planet Fitness.

I suppose I should be upset about having lost a step or two, but to be honest, I enjoy the break.

There are so many good-hearted people out there who just couldn’t live with themselves if they stood idly by and watched while “that poor man” struggled with tasks ranging from something as simple as trying to get two grocery carts unstuck to something very difficult like, living in a van and driving across the country on his own.

Compassion, kindness and hospitality have so many different faces – Jo in N’awlins, The Woods in Albuquerque and now, my newest BFF Craig in Las Vegas. He and nephew Brad have welcomed me into their home while I hang tough and wait for my wife to get here and take over babysitting duties.

I’m no stranger to Vegas, of course. I have been many times. I have seen and done all the touristy stuff, namely, drinking, gambling and hookers.

But, Craig is a local. He has promised to show me all the hidden gems, like: the Atomic Energy Museum, The Spy Store…the casinos…the bars and the hookers.

Somethings transcend all layers, I guess.

Well, I’ve never been to England.

But, I kinda like The Beatles,

Well, I headed for Las Vegas,

Only made it out to Needles.

Written by Hoyt Axton

Performed by the greatest American band of all time, Three Dog Night and unofficially accompanied at the top of his lungs today by T. Edward Long.

I call 3Dog, the greatest AMERICAN band because those British Invasion folks are odd. The Beatles fans are too sensitive to learn that the Fab 4 can’t hold a candle, and The Rolling Stones followers, well, I’m not sure what’s wrong with them but it is pretty serious.

I’ve never understood the success of The Stones; they’re awful. It’s not even that they are ugly – and they are ugly.  I kind of respect that trait in a man – it is just that they suck.

But, aside from that, I am in Needles, California. At the Taco Bell. Ok, which is another thing I don’t understand. Taco Bell is the culinary equivalent of The Rolling Stones.

Since I have been out west, I have stumbled on a little place called Del Taco – The Beatles of Mexican fast food.  Taco Bell is its poor country cousin.

Secretly, I am hoping for corporate sponsorship to help fund the rest of my expedition. I took a shot.

It is raining in Needles. Which isn’t even the poor country cousin of Las Vegas.

If ol’ Hoyt only made it this far he didn’t make it very far at all. They don’t even have a Del Taco here. And, that name – Needles. What they hell were they going for there? A cactus reference? Trying to draw the heroin addicts? What?

When we talk about names that lack finesse, though, we don’t need to go much further than Death Valley. I’ve been. I almost went again.

They didn’t try to pretty it up, or put the best possible spin on it that they could. They went nuts & bolts.

It is a valley. You come here, you die.

This is not to say that the people in charge of naming places lacked imagination – not at all. They showed their range when naming certain features of the area.

You got:

Badwater Basin

Dante’s View

Devil’s Golf Course

Manly Wilderness

Funeral Peak

Furnace Creek

Devil’s Hole (and, we are pretty sure which of the Devil’s holes they were thinking when they named it.)

And, Last Chance Mountain

They all seem to play to the same theme. Death by Hellish means.

The one that gets me, though is (pic related)…

…Scotty’s Castle.

That one sounds like something you would find at an obnoxious 8 year olds birthday party.

One where you take the little bastard a nice gift – something your mother wouldn’t even buy for you, and now you have to give it to him and he insults it anyway.

Then, he doesn’t want anyone else bouncing in his castle so you have to stand around and watch him, hoping he tears an Achilles or something. Yeah, that party would be pure Hell.

Yeah, so I nixed Death Valley and headed for Las Vegas.

On pins in Needles waiting to see Trixie!

When you are on the road, time is a blur. But not as much for me as this dude I was stuck behind in traffic. (pic related)…

Recently, whenever that was, I went out looking for adventure. Funnily enough, at the same time, adventure, claiming it had a score to settle,went out looking for me. We met somewhere in the middle.

I drove to Cleveland National Forest just to see what was there. Winding roads and a hill. I climbed the hill and snapped a pic…

They call this a “vista”

Feeling my work here had been done, I chose to leave CNF (Cleveland National Forest…I used initials to save a bunch of unnecessary typing. We call this “abbreviating”. Spares my thumbs a lot of work)

I wanted a shower. I plugged Planet Fitness into my GPS (heh heh, this reminds me of a joke I saw outside of a bakery. As a New Year’s thing, they wrote on a sign in chalk,

“We are into Fitness!” Then drew an image of a treat and wrote underneath. ..

“Fitness whole cupcake into my mouth.”

And, I just laughed and laughed! It was great!) and saw that I was only 7.8 miles from one. It was in a town called Lake Elsinore. I was geeked and drove further into the mountains. The road got windy and the air got windy. I had to slow.

I got to a turn and the pavement ended. I was on a dirt path. I pressed on.

It got worse. The EM-50 Phantom Rambler was shaking violently. Deep channels, gouges, and sharp rocks appeared on the path. It was a very narrow, one-laner that was abutted on one side by the sheer rise of the mountain and on the other by a sharp drop off to certain doom. In fact, I was pretty sure that at any moment the “road” would give way under my left tires and send me tumbling down the mountainside.

Years of spring run off had sliced through the road causing it to be, what any other cartographer would call, “impassible”.

But, I had faith in the good people of Garmin (also, no way to turn around and “reverse” was not an option. I had picked my way through carefully). With no alternative , I pressed on some more.

If you can believe it, the road got worse. Then came hope, of sorts. Two dirt bikers motored up behind me.

I stopped to let them pass. Hell, if I did get stuck, and it was looking increasingly likely that that would happen, at least I could send them for help.

They stopped next to the Rambler, flipped up their visors, pulled down their face masks and gawked at me.

“Hey man, what are you doing way back here?” One asked.

“Communing with nature.” I deadpanned.

They went on to inform me that, as far as off-road motorcycle, X-Game, enthusiasts or whatever, go, this trail is like a Triple Black Diamond or something and were genuinely curious how I even got a van back into here.

When I failed to provided a satisfactory answer, they shook their helmeted heads and moved on.

“Punks”, I muttered. And, watched them go.

I was focused on keeping the tires away from the deep crevasses and still trying to hug the mountain wall, all while the “road” rose and fell sharply and unevenly, threatening to puncture my gas tank.

Several minutes later, I passed the dirt bikers. One of them had gotten stuck. I shit you not. An off-road motorcycle, designed for this terrain was stuck. I waved as I slowly rolled by.

I came around a bend and, for about 40 feet, the “road” smoothed and flattened out, relatively speaking. It was enough to allow me to snap a quick pic…

Also, since my fingers were already pried loose from the steering wheel, I called Trixie to let her know this might be ALL for good ol’ T-Moose. A chance to say my goodbyes and give her an idea of where to find my body…stuff like that.

She stayed on the line, and somehow, The EM-50 Phantom Rambler made it down off of the mountain. I was now in a neighborhood of mansions/horse ranches. I wondered exactly how many rich MFs live in California.

I decided I had earned a prize. I went to Wal-Mart but could not decide between a device that allows you to make you own poop and a bottle of Gorilla Snot…

So, I got neither.

In the morning I thought it would be neat to have a sharp contrast to how I began the week, you know, in The Slabs, so I went to Malibu.

I drove the Pacific Coast Highway – it’s nice if you like that sort of thing – and settled in at Duke’s Barefoot Bar.

Shit is right on the water.

I engaged conversation with the couple seated next to me, Rob and Michelle.

She, like so many women named Michelle, was very friendly.

Rob, for whatever reason that I did not uncover, had recently been to The Slabs.

When I asked about things to see and do in California, the first thing he recommended was Big Sur, which is weird because my cousin Jen, when she found out I am in Cali, said the same thing. I mean, it is a big ass state, yet that is the recommendation from both. Weird. I might have to find out what that is all about.

I left Duke’s. My plan was to camp on the beach.  I needed ice. I stopped at the Circle K in Malibu and paid 6 bucks for a bag.

I tell you, there is something about carrying a $6 bag of ice to your car that kind of makes you feel like a big shot. You know, you got that kind of cash to toss around.

I drove north to Mugu Point and parked the EM-50 on the sand. It is along PCH, wedged between the mountains and the ocean.

The salt air, the crashing waves, the spray. Nice enviroment.

The temperature dipped into the fiddies (50s) at night.

In the morning, I drove to Oxnard and couldn’t find a gas station. But, I did find Boskovich Farms. A goddamn radish farm, of all things. (No pics. It’s not interesting enough) who knew such a thing existed.

Trixie on Friday!

Headline of the day: Baby Swallows Fly!

If this made you conjure an image of an infant eating a bug then you are WAY off.

If you got a picture of a small bird leaving its nest then you have most likely figured out that I am in San Juan Capistrano.  Home of the Migrating Swallows. I’m just kidding.  I don’t know what the local high school mascot is. Prolly, though.

Before I marvel you with local wonders (don’t hold your breath) let me tie up a few loose ends.

Before my ill-fated attempt to visit the Jack Dempsey Museum, the one in which I was driven back by a scary storm,  I mentioned to Trixie, so casual that I was fit to bust mind you,  that I had driven by the “World’s Largest Arrows or Some Such Shit”.  No big. Except to her. She insisted I backtrack and find them. I did, but I don’t think I ever got around to posting them. So, live (not really) from Colorado…

World’s Largest Arrow!

World’s Largest Head Getting Shot by World’s Largest Arrow

EM-50 Phantom Rambler Getting Shot in the Butt With World’s Largest Arrow. ..we goof around sometimes. Heh heh…He’s a good sport.

Back to business. As you should be aware, I spent a few days at The Last Free Place in America. I was there for NYE. In the morning, I broke camp and got outta Dodge (just an expression this time).

But before I left, I drove around for a few minutes with my celly set on VIDEO mode and gave a brief tour so that the curious among you could have a real-time visual of Slab City.  To make uploading a breeze, I broke the video up into 5 parts.

I have been jacked in to the Capistrano Public Library free wi-fi for several hours now and am only 25% through part 1. Don’t count on success. (screencap related)

Back to the Miracle of the Swallows.

Back in the day, (sometime prior to 1812) an angry innkeeper took a broom handle and smashed to smithereens the mud nests the white-breasted cliff swallows had manufactured in and around his establishment. He was quoted as saying, “Fuck dem boyds.” We think he was from Brooklyn.

The swallows got the hint and sought summertime shelter elsewhere.

Construction of the famous mission in Capistrano began in 1776. It was finished in around 1812. It was impressive as hell (pardon the expression).  But, God, showing that he is not without a mischievous side, brought down a massive earthquake that year which caused several walls to collapse.

Father Johnny Juniper, for whom San Juan Capistrano is named somehow, who was tired of construction, as anyone would be after 36 years, said, “Fuck it. God wills it. I ain’t fixing it”

The swallows ducked into the mission and started building their mud nests.

When someone pointed out that this could make quite a mess,  the Franciscan said, “Shut up. It’s God’s will.” And, so the swallows were welcomed!

Some of this stuff might not be historically precise because Fr. Johnny Juniper died in 1784 before the mission was complete, but you get the idea.

Anyway, they turned it into a real celebration. Parade and balloons for the kids, all that stuff. Souvenir shops on every corner.

Every March 19th (St. Joseph’s Day) the cliff swallows return from their winter homes in Argentina, and go to their nests in the mission. Swarms of them! Like gnats! It is quite a spectacle! People come from all over the world to boost the local economy and watch them blot out the sun! Haha! Yay!

Even The King sang about it…

Elvis Presley-When the swallows come back to Capi…: http://youtu.be/caYaNd5rICc

Except…

Well, I hate to break it to you but, the swallows don’t come back here anymore.

About 10 years ago, some genius, who may have been an innkeeper in a previous life, decided that the old clay (mud) nests in and around the mission were looking kind of tired and ratty and, in the name of preservation, I shit you not, had them knocked down and swept away, figuring the swallows would just build nice, new clean, mud nests. And, he or she was right. They did. But they built them in the I-5 overpass that runs through the middle of town – several miles from the Mission.

So, every October 23rd (San Juan Day) the swallows leave town. And, every March 19th,  The Chamber of Commerce organizes an event and gets everyone to pretend that nothing has changed.

It is all very festive, I am told. With or without the birds.

One more thing about California. I have always heard that the people are weirdos. Even the weirdos is southern California call the people of northern California “Real weirdos” like they know it is true but still want to be distanced from their upstate brethren.

And, so far, it is true. For instance,  they preface interstates with “the” like they all attended Ohio State or something.

“Take the 10”, or “Get on the 5” they say.

What’s up with that? I would never tell someone to take The 95 or the 495 or even the 70.

Trixie might, tho. She’s kind of a weirdo.

He was an old man who lived alone in a van in the Slabs of a desert wasteland and he had gone 84 days now without taking a dump.

The problem, when you get right down to it, with being in a remote and uninhabitable, scorched-earth setting like I am, far from the prying eyes of your fellow man, is that there is no privacy.

I mean, sure, I am a good distance from my nearest neighbor, but the only geological feature on this godforsaken terrain is the curve of the earth itself.

If I want to enjoy a moment of personal indulgance, or a brief timeout from the judging eyes of an audience who will gladly become spectators of literally any happening so they can break up the monotony they call “every day”. Then I must walk beyond the horizon, where I will be greeted by an entirely different studio audience that I didnt even know was there.

This wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if I wasn’t just like them. And, I know I find myself judging/shouting encouragement and advice to others based on their technique at various duties.  As with all things, I prefer to be on the giving end of that exchange.

All in all, it has left me a bit…hesitant.

It is surely strange here in my hermitage.  I have been in self-imposed isolation since my arrival to The Slabs. I was hoping the experience would be more cathartic than it has so far, if you catch my drift.  But with a new day, comes new hope.

I have read that there is a gathering spot, an amphitheater,  where each night the people of Slab City gather to listen to live music. Perhaps I will join those that have left the world behind and wring out the old year so I can ring in the new.

But, last night, I sat outside in the dark and stared at the night sky. For my whole life, I had always wanted to stare at the stars more often than I have.

I gazed across the vast void to tiny pin pricks of light. There is so much space and so much going on and all are things that I will never know.

Occasionally I would see a satellite or an airplane. Rather than interupt my awe, each added a new level of marvel. Like all times, this one is full of wonder.

There is something happening everywhere all the time and I don’t want to miss a thing. And, for a brief moment, there under the desert sky, I was everywhere all at once. It was sublimally sublime and I was god.

But, right now, the only thing I am missing is Trixie.

Living in the desert, soon you’ll learn,

There ain’t much to do but get a sunburn,

And before you know it you’ll be fairly bored.

Right when I thought I’d go outta my mind,

I took a stand and got off my behind.

I decided to clean out, my trusty Ford.

Cleaning and such have never been my way,

But I figured, “Hell, I got all day…”

“…what’s the worst that could happen if I take on this chore?”

I went at it – started pokin and proddin’,

about two feet in, I smelled something rotten,

And…whew!…it was coming from the core!

I dove right in and moved a large pile.

I held my breath and swallowed some bile.

I knew it was risky but I’ve always been a gambler.

I took my time and used my legs to lift,

Careful of the stench and any sudden shift,

That might cause a landslide in the EM-50 Phantom Rambler.

I knew my boredom wouldn’t be sated,

Until I’d emptied the van (pic related)

So I sallied on like it was a mission from The Almighty.

The smell got worse but I kept going.

And the floor of the Rambler so was showing…

…signs of progress but still wasn’t what you’d call… “tidy”.

Mike Rowe himself woulda turned down this job,

Given two helpers, they’da just formed a mob,

So, I did it myself and saved on the cost.

I found some things I didn’t know we’re missing,

Like, this Louisville Slugger, Dave Parker edition,

And three cups of unsweetened applesauce.

Ol’ Trixie McDish would have sure been proud,

Of the way I was cleaning, but then I swore real loud.

When I realized there was no way it would all go back in.

So, I took a break and drank a beer,

And, even though there was nobody around to hear,

I cussed a blue streak ’til I was out of wind.

So,  here I sit surrounded by things.

Like, all my belongings and sand and hills and rings.

(That’s from “A Horse with No Name”)

Maybe it’ll take a miracle,

Or help from whiskey – one really long pull.

Either way, it’s all a part of the game.

I tell you what…I get disappointed so often on my journey that, if it wasn’t a completely ludicrous notion I would start to think there is something wrong with me instead of everybody else.

I came to the end of civilization for a glimpse at the post-apocalyptic world so that I could have a reason to root for humankind. I do not. All is lost. The end is nigh. I really wanted to abandon all hope ye who enter and all that shit so we could finally start over but instead the road to despair doesn’t come equipped with a primrose path.

It started off ok. I drove along the coast of the Salton Sea.

California is weird. In normal places we have combed golden beaches. In far off places that you will never go to, they have black sand or white sand beaches. In California they have the desert setting from the Road Runner cartoons that go right to the edge of the large body of water. Something about that doesn’t make sense.

The Slabs are located about 4 miles from the town of Niland, CA.  I am not insulting the good people of Niland (and from what I saw, they really are good people) but it is not what one would call a thriving community by today’s standards. But, then again, fuck today.

Niland has a Mexican restaurant, a gas station and a couple of small grocery stores. They sell liquor, but just the basics. I had stopped as far back as Mecca (about 30 miles away) when I began my hunt for a bottle of Jameson. I was told each time that I probably would not find something so exotic in this part of the state. Ok. Whatevs. I snagged a bottle of Seagrams.  (pic related)

Norwalk, Connecticut! Trés Cosmopolitan!

I can rough it in the wild.

I stopped in Niland to goose the economy and take another look for Jameson – my downfall will surely be my need to be certain.

The streets appear dirty and neglected because of the desert’s incessantly blowing sand. The buildings are washed of color by the unforgiving sun. Off to my right was a fire truck and the cadre of emergency personnel attending to a shirtless, grubby, thickly-bearded, fellow who was in some sort of distress. Clearly he was a denizen of The Slabs, but yet, when needed, the on-call folks responded and gave aid just like he was a human being. That is very encouraging.

I stepped out of the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and was immediately greeted with a friendly, “Hey! How you doing today?” by a large, black man who was filling a jug at the Glacial Water vending machine on the porch of the store.

I smiled, answered and continued hesitantly – waiting to see if his greeting was a prelude to asking me for something. It was not. He was just being how people should be. I was being suspicious as fuck. Hmm.

No Jameson to be found.

I drove out past the county landfill, across too many railroad tracks and was just about to assume that I was on the wrong road when I saw the hill.

I knew to look for it.

It is inscribed with messages of love and other mumbo-jumbo.

Presently, I saw a shack…

You have never played the video game Borderlands. You are too old. You have never even seen it played because you are a decent person who would never let their children or grandchildren play a game with such gratuitous violence and mostly unnecessary sex. So, when they  play it – and they do play it – they make sure you remain clueless. The game, like all today, is played on-line and involves competing against 12 year olds across the world who, via in-game headset communication, clear up any lingering doubts I may have had about my sexual identity while simultaneously informing me of how often they engage in coitus with my mother. It is amazing living in the future.

Aside from that, the game takes place on the fictional planet of Pandora (before that awful “Avatar” movie was a thing). Hardy fortune hunters brave the wastelands and strange snarling creatures in search of alien artifacts, from which, powerful weapons can be made.

I tell you all of that because I am guessing that The Slabs served as an inspiration for that setting. It is quite harsh indeed.

I continued my drive along the dirt road. I passed clusters of derelicts, hand-painted signs and vehicles of all kinds…

It was about what I expected. But, then I saw some mobile homes that had to go for in excess of 100k…

Looking around I saw cars. You know, just regular cars.  Something seemed off.

I made my way to East Jesus…

And that is where it all went to hell.

East Jesus is this art-work-in-progress that employs all manner of detritus as its media. Pieces are made from discarded bottles, plastic shopping bags, junk cars, etc.

They set fire to a 1985 Mercedes Benz.  The charred remains are entitled “Car-B-Que”.

Heh heh…get it?

Tracy, a good-looking man of about 40 and resident artist who has been on site for three years, gave me a tour. He was neat, clean, fit and well-spoken. A glaring contrast to the bedraggled and dreadlocked squatters I had driven by on my way to East Jesus.

Tracy showed me the Time Machine and Apocalypse Playground  (complete with cheese grater sliding board) and several other pieces… (gallery)

His practiced deadpan delivery of the tour was peppered with punchlines and witticisms that would be easy to miss if not paying close attention.

He spoke of upcoming events and plans to buy the land when the state puts it up for auction – a clear attempt to evict the dregs, whom they view as a liability.

Along the tour Tracy pointed out some Japanese tourists. He told me people come from all over the world to see The Last Free Place in America. Hell, Playboy Magazine was out last month and did a feature on the place.

National Geographic landed at their helipad, which is right next to the Naked Gun Range…and, that’s when it became clear. The cars, the pretty people that didn’t fit in. East Jesus is a theme park.

He mentioned that he isn’t concerned about them sectioning off the land and evicting the folks of Slab City – he just wants to preserve East Jesus.

He is a nice guy, but, I started to think he was just another capitalist who saw an opportunity. Good for him! I guess.

He took me back, behind the scenes to the artists living quarters.

Tracy bragged that there are no rules, but they live behind a wall with plenty of KEEP OUT signs.

And, it was pretty nice back there. Sleeping quarters, bathrooms, a full kitchen, living room, music room with functioning grand piano, generators, solar panels even a full bar with a bottle of goddamn Jameson sitting right out in view…mother fucker.

The patio has a fire pit and looks out onto the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range, where they sit, drink goddamn Jameson, and watch the tracer fire.

I’m no hobo. Not really. I came here because real-life wayfarer, Chris McCandless, aka Alex Supertramp, spent time here, as was featured in the Jon Krakauer book and Sean Penn movie, “Into the Wild”. And, I, just like the other tourists, flock here to pretend and try to get a sense of his spirit.

So, like any good tourist, I bought a T-shirt from Tracy for $20 and wished him success in his business venture.

I made my way back to The Slabs and found a remote plot of wasteland and set up Camp T-Moose (pic related)

and toasted the end of the Last Free Place in America.

I can’t wait to see Trixie  (she got three bottles of Jameson for Xmas)

Slab City. Some say it is The Last Free Place in America. A Utopia built on all that is good in humankind. Free of restriction and regulation.

Others say it is Mos Eisley meets Thunder Dome. Nowhere will you find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. Anarchists,  bandits, drug addicts, and all-purpose weirdos.

Here is what both sides agree on: Jugheaded Marines built Camp Dunlop in the godforsaken Sonoran Desert then, when done with it, abandoned it in the 50s. They tore down and hauled away the structures so that all that was left was the concrete foundations. The Slabs.

The Feds issued a quitclaim deed and ceded the land to the state. The state didn’t really have any use for it so they pretty much declared it a “No Man’s Land”.

Some enterprising capitalist paid meager wages to hard-working peasants to harvest creosote leaves that he didn’t really have any claim to. Rather than transport these workers daily to “East Jesus” (a cleaner, albeit more sacrilegious term for “West Bumfuck”) he parked trailers on the concrete slabs to house his serfs.

Soon others came. The winter months see thousands of RVers, hobos, transients, retirees, the disenfranchised, and the fed up. The homeless have made a home in Slab City.

Although there is no electricty, running water, sewage, trash pick up, taxes or rent, and the summer temperature can top 120°F,  The Slabs have about 150 permanent year-round residents.

They have built an amphitheater and a giant, living, evolving piece of concept art out of trash and junk. This mountainous piece is called, appropriately,  “East Jesus”.

Of course, that’s what they tell me, and all I ever know about anything is what I am told. Hell, even my personal experiences are dismissed by “experts” as anecdotal.

Nonetheless, I go see for myself.

I assume that my celly will be out of range. It’s a good thing I have about a thousand pics of Trixie to keep me company.

Tommy goes…off the grid.

The three most common entries on everyone’s Bucket List are:

1. Skydive
2. Visit the Pyramids
3. See the Grand Canyon

(Note how I had the class to omit:

“Be with 2 chicks”

so that readers of all ages could enjoy the story. Sure, it’s disingenuous of me, but that’s just how I was raised).

I was Airborne in the army, so…SKYDIVING: CHECK

I’ve even been to Egypt – they have Big Macs made with chicken patties there – so…CHECK

Xmas Day, 2015 I tackled the Exalted Poobah of the National Parks – THE Grand Canyon.

I have been kind of bummed for the last three days. I lost my hat. I have several hats – a black porkpie that is getting old, and, my most recent additions: a kind of a salt and pepper tweed sort of hat that I use for cold weather and a purple porkpie that I reserve for fancy dress. I lost the purple one 🙁

I turned the EM-50 Phantom Rambler inside out searching for it. Nowhere to be found. Yet, there was a nagging feeling, like a hoarse whisper in my ear. Something about a hat and Xmas.  I held out hope that it would inexplicably materialize today then I could post, with genuine emotion, “A Festivus MIRACLE!”

I was half right. Starting today, I can’t find my cold weather hat either.  It has vanished. I’m doubly bummed.

I really needed that purple one today so I could pose for pics standing on the corner in Winslow, AZ. I’m just another face in the crowd without my purple porkpie.

I went anyway. (pics)

I suspect everyone

She got out and ran for it when I approached her

There should be shoe store on this road with the slogan, “Get your kicks…”

With great anticipation, I made for…duhn Duhn DUHN!…THE Grand Canyon!

I have spoken to many people who have been there and they ALL have assured me of two things:

1. It is spectacular!
2. It will exceed my expectations – There is no way to build it up too much.

I went. Standing in line to pay $30 to access one of nature’s greatest wonders is not unlike being stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Don’t get me started – this stuff should be for everyone. Charging admission really chaps my ass!

And, I don’t even want to know what the lines are like in the summer. Untold throngs of you fuckers out there on Xmas Day. Shouldn’t you be at church or taking the kids to see their grandparents.

This Xmas actually reminded me of one several years back. Poor planning left me with no other option than to be at Columbia Mall on Xmas Eve. I vowed never to do that again. Anyway, it was easier to find a parking spot at the mall then, than it was today at…THE Grand Canyon.  I couldn’t believe it.

But, I hung in there. Kept my eyes on the payoff. Yet another “Been there;done that” to allow me to be even more insufferable.

It was snowing (Hey! My first White Xmas!) I slipped on my Yak Trax to give my feet a grip – I was parked a long way from the rim. I bundled up, and off I went.

Folks, if you are standing, you might want to sit. These pics, taken with the camera on my celly, are an actual representation of what I saw. For a moment, allow me to be your eyes… (pics related)

I swear this isn’t shopped…except for the word balloons

And, a panorama. ClIck on it to appreciate its splendor…

Amazing the level of detail my phone can capture

Another angle…

It’s hard to believe a river carved all this

I am in Arizona, the desert, where there arent supposed to be clouds, but I would swear I am back on Clingman’s Dome in The Great Smoky Mountains.  And, because it is Arizona, I have extremely limited data service.

My first thought? “Good ol’ Trixie will save the day!”

I sent her a text and asked her to Google images and describe them to me. She did.

Her exact words were…”OMG! It’s…it’s…INDESCRIBABLE!”

Man with that kind of imagery it was almost like being there myself. I got swept away.

Grand Canyon: CHECK