if you post one more fucking "airliner-shot-down-by-missle" story, I'll tie you up in a device like Paul Snider tied Dorothy Stratten into, grease you up, and personally wheel you into the Lone Star on a beer bust night. -- Flesh
Our team of crack journalists went insane, and made the
drive from Concord, California to Concord, New Hasmpshire
on Interstate 80. Read the insightful observations of our
intrepid travelers made on their journey into the
To: Editor's Desk
c/o Tjames Madison, Editor at Large - Pigdog
SMRL- Broomfield, Colorado Offices
We are now on day two of our continuing journey, similarly last taken by the
likes of Neil Cassady and dear old & sadly misunderstood Jack Kerouac. I must
admit that this particular trip is far more luxurious than the trips our early
mentors experienced or, for that matter, anything that I myself endured while
hitchhiking all over the Northwestern United States. But then, this crusade
through the United States is not about self discovery through hardship. What
is this about? It's about travelling through the heart of America with my wife,
three cats and a carload of disposable materials (half of which will probably
be destroyed in unknown but certainly ugly ways) and 52 compact disks (which
may also face a horrible demise).
Then there are the observations I have made, and brother, do I have a lot of
First, I must say, that aside from Reno or Las Vegas, Nevada is one miserable
place. I have never seen so many people with their eyes set so far apart.
One has to wonder whether this is due to radiation, inbreeding, or a botched
top- secret government experiment involving cross-breeding some unknown
amphibious creature with the locals. I would lay my money on a combination of
the aforementioned scenarios.
Nevada has put at least three of its prison's alongside the I-80. The
frustration level for the prisoners must be incredibly intense.
Research Note: I've noticed that there are less than the usual amounts of Covenant Transport trucks on the
road. Covenant is a fundamental Christian trucking company. I must do more
research on this company. There is just something fundamentally wrong with
"Trucking for the Lord."
There is also something deeply wrong with the state of Utah the way it
currently can be found. In my opinion, the Mormons have really fucked it up.
This is no surprise, considering we are referring to a religious group who's
teachings include the beliefs that people with dark pigmentation are evil and
you get your very own planet when God calls you home. If you were to give a
description to a person on the street not familiar with the LDS, they certainly
would think you were describing another new-age religion from Southern
California. Is it any wonder that every person I've met from Salt Lake City
was screwed up in one aspect or another? I blame it all on that early sci-
fi/fantasy writer, Joseph "Crazy Joe" Smith.
So far, what I've seen of Wyoming has convinced me that the chief industries
are selling refuge (as well as refuse) to people who are getting the hell out
of Utah. This economy includes offering, in the form of commercial
transaction, anything that cannot be bought in Brigham Young's hellish paradise
- such as pyrotechnics, liquor (including beer with more than a 3% alcohol
content), and bulk tobacco.
I wish I could have been at the motel this morning after we checked out, just
to have seen the look on the face of the maid assigned to clean our room. I
wonder what she thought of the bottles of Wild Turkey (750
ml), Skyy Vodka (1.75 l) and a bottle of
cheap Vermouth (is there any other kind?) - all emptied. Not to mention the
container of grapefruit juice, an depleted case of Mountain Dew, patches of
sand (cat litter), and a dry green leafy substance spread all over the carpet
(catnip looks very suspicious to the uneducated). I ran into the maids in the
hallway as I was making repeated trips to the ice machine, muttering off a list
of things to pack up. Dressed black jeans, a black T-shirt with the famous Man
Ray/Dali skull photo and a black movie gaffer's utility vest, I must have
been an exotic freak of nature to these women born in and destined to die in
the small railroad town known as Evanston, Wyoming.
Before leaving Evanston, we stopped off at Jolly Jaks Fireworks and purchased
as many pyrotechnics as we could fit into our already overloaded trunk. Much
like the rest of the country, the fun explosives are now also illegal in
Wyoming, but they still offer a startling array that you simply cannot get in
other states. Some of this stuff can do serious damage! We settled for high
gauge skyrockets equal to a half-stick of dynamite each (easily modified), two
rows of Whistling Pete rockets, a case of roman candles two bricks of Black Cat
Thunder firecrackers, and two cases of M88's, which are not M80's, but more
powerful than M90's.
The words that I now write are being penned from the passenger seat of our
Honda Civic, doing an average and easy speed of between 85-95 MPH. We are just
outside of Rawlins, Wyoming. This is the best way to see the country.
Far better than flying. Sure, an airliner will get you to your destination
quicker, but a lot of unknown nuances are lost when you are stuck in a metal
cylinder cruising above the cloud ceiling. They can only be discovered via
ground transportation. My only real complaint is the lack of radio
reception. Not even AM radio is available in this remote Wyoming wasteland.
The CD player will hold six compact disks. But we are forced to keep our
selections limited to Delirium's Karma,
and some Underworld, which seem to have a
narcotic effect on the cats. It's a fair tradeoff, rather than having them
yowling (or worse) for the entire trip, but it will be a long time before we
willingly listen to these CDs again.
Greetings from Ogallala, Nebraska, home of lots and lots of nothing, and just
as much to do. No wonder half of the Cornhuskers are busted on various
charges ranging from date rape to aggravated assault. Myself, I would risk
violating the strict anti-hitchhiking law, or hopping the first freight train
out of this place. There is only the usual crap beers made mostly with
inexpensive rice & corn sugars. There are liquors such as Schnapps, but no
whiskeys. The people here are afraid of it. I don't blame them, considering
the reaction their Collegiate football players have when drunk on Budweiser or
Coors. The lack of stronger drink is probably a good thing. This city was
once known as the "Gomorrah of the Plains." We could find no current evidence
to support that claim, much to our disappointment? Unless we're talking about
Gomorrah after God destroyed it. We wonder where Sodom is.
A new business has sprung up along this major freighting truck route, called TA
Travel Center, which claims to offer everything a trucker may need in one
convenient stop. From past experience working a summer on my uncle's seafood
truck, I know the preferred taste in women the drivers of these rigs have on
the road - fast, cheap, and easy. Looks aren't important. And from the looks
and outfits of the waitresses in the diner, I wouldn't doubt for a minute the
validity to the "one-stop" claim. This was confirmed when a perky female voice
came over the intercom to announce, "Joe, your 'shower' is ready."
Welcome to Iowa, first city, Council Bluffs. A city which woke up one morning
to find most of it's population gone, when they decided to follow Brigham Young
into the unexplored wilderness.
Research note: We have seen several signs advertising and promoting skiing in
Nebraska and Iowa. Where?!?!?!?
Based on the commercials and announcements heard on the over-abundance of
"proper" Christian radio stations, death and dying seems to hold some sort of
unhealthy infatuation for these people. Announcements of the deaths of
residents of the area, and special "deals" being offered by the local
mortuaries being the norm every 15 minutes or so during broadcast hours. It
was morbid listening, but kind of amusing too. Anyway, we lost the signal
fairly quickly. It just kind of "died" off.
Our stop in Iowa was in a small town called Grinnell, founded by J.B. Grinnell.
This was the gentleman who was told by one Horace Greeley to "Go west, young
man". Ironic that we would find ourselves in the community he founded, heading
in the opposite direction. The motel we are staying in is of a strange
Dutch-American architectural hybrid. All the doors are hung incorrectly, in
doorways of slightly trapezoidal shape. The big festivals in this area are The
Tulip Festival, and Ridiculous Days. The first is a festival of flowers and
pseudo-Dutch culture, in which people dress up in horrifying stereotypical
Dutch outfits, do clock dances in wooden shoes, and race large wheels of cheese
up and down the main street before eating them. The other festivity, Ridiculous
Days, is when the good people of Grinnell dress up in clothes that even St.
Vincent De Paul's would reject, and behave in public in a manner that they
normally wouldn't consider even in the safety of a windowless basement on a
moonless night. There should be a law to institute this behavior year round
simply for the amusement of travelling Pigdogs. Fun at your expense, and all
Our departure from Iowa and arrival into Ohio was greeted with a combination of
tornadoes, staggeringly humid thunderstorms, and flash floods. We decided to
get the hell out of there as soon as possible, hitting the road around 8:30,
with tornado warnings and generally nerve-wracking conditions everywhere. Even
the State Troopers were allowing travelers to speed along without hassles, just
to get everyone out of there in case the "big blow" decided to hit.
Did I mention the dead animals? The I-80 in Ohio has more carcasses than I've
ever seen on the road anywhere. Ranging from raccoons to deer, the average
count is one animal corpse per quarter mile. Some parts of the freeway are
permanently stained with mind-boggling large spots of a sickening, reddish
black matter with chunks of rotting meat interspersed in the grotesque carnage.
These aren't your typical instant road pizzas either. If the tire marks on the
cement are to be trusted, it appears that some vehicle drivers intentionally go
out of their way to run down any creature that happens onto the concrete
borders of the Interstate. After viewing several freshly killed and mutilated
carrion that once were deer, I concluded that this is the work of nocturnal
truck drivers with heads full of speed, which is the drug of choice in these
The popularity of this substance with people other than truckers trying to make
a fat delivery bonus will not make much sense to an outsider. But this is farm
country. Farmers and their hired hands, contrary to popular belief, do not
work from sunrise till sunset. The average day usually begins around 3:30
AM and ends around 9:30 PM. This is to insure that their crops receive the
maximum amount of water with the minimum evaporation possible. The faster you
can move, the more fields you can cover. The more fields you cover, the better
the crop will be come harvest time. The better your crops are, the more money
you can make. And if snorting a cheap nazi-invented substance helps you
accomplish this, so be it.
Manufacturing amphetamine is not too much of a problem here either. The wide-
open spaces, and surplus of abandoned buildings means that there will never be
a shortage of labs being set up. Remember this if you happen read about some
mysterious fire on the outskirts of some flyspeck place like Walcott, Iowa.
Welcome to Illinois, home state of Chicago Blues, Joliet Prison, and the site
where Ronald Wilson Reagan emerged into our world from the womb of an imported
Egyptian Wild Dog. The morning was spent listening to a typical lackluster FM
morning show team as they interview an 86 year old male stripper named Disco
Ernie. Later, we stopped for a brief breakfast at a truck-stop, called Gramma's
Kitchen. As I ate my morning meal, I quietly listened to the two men in the
booth behind me talk. The subject of their discussion was cell phones, and how
more and more truckers are using them rather than pay phones on their route, or
even CBs in some cases. A curious fact arose in their conversation -
professional truck drivers never check their cell phone bills. They just
pay them. This is partly due to the various roaming charges and not having the
time to verify the calls placed along the routes driven during a billing
period, and partly because some trucking companies will reimburse cell phone
charges. A phone jacker with good scanning and capturing equipment could make
a king's ransom spending a week at any of the major truck stops along this
ongoing highway project given to us by Eisenhower.
Research note: We are in Cheap Trick country. Why in the hell do all the radio
stations around here play such bad music? Are there still enough people
purchasing White Lion to warrant their radio play?
We have now entered Indiana, current home of Bob 'Chokehold' Knight. We need
more people like him in sports. Years ago, I predicted that professional sports
would slowly begin imitating the antics of professional wrestling. Now, as
fans begin hurling snowballs with batteries concealed in them at players, and
the players themselves sporting bizarre outfits, makeup, and tattoos; it was
only a matter of time before the coaches would want a piece of the action. I'm
rather disappointed though. I was expecting to see tactics last used by the
legendary wrestling manager, Jim Cornette. A university coach beating a player
with a tennis racket, or throwing powder in the opposing team's eyes would have
a harder time explaining those actions to a Board than grabbing a player by the
throat or threatening a spinster secretary over a cup of cold coffee.
Especially when he's a winning coach. They'll keep him, but only if he attends
anger management classes or some nonsense such as that. This is basketball
country, and they aren't about to let someone who wins hit the road over some
minor infractions. Bob would probably have to sodomize near-death co-eds in
front of the hearing board before they'll terminate his contract.
Some of my favorite performers come from Ohio, specifically the Cleveland/Akron
area. I also know why so many of them got the hell out of this state. What
we've seen of Ohio is pretty, scenery wise. Because the roadways are lacking
any kind of accurate signs indicating where cities are located (including
billboards), we weren't able to stop anywhere for fear of losing our way out.
We theorized that they do this on purpose to keep the tourists out. This is,
in retrospect, is a good thing. Ohio charges a thirty cents per exit fee to
drive on the interstate. The toll is much higher for trucks. It can cost as
much as eighty dollars for a semi to drive through this state. Abby
suggested that we stop in Cleveland and visit The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
The only contact I want with that overpriced (admission price - fifteen
dollars) tourist trap, is to get monstrously drunk on cheap beer, and piss all
over the various exhibits. John Lydon put it best, "it's not what the artists
wore or the paper they wrote on that matters, it's what they did that's
important." I tend to agree. Seeing Joe Walsh's football jersey or a piece
of the plane Otis Redding died in means very near to nothing to me.
We made the doomed decision to cross into Pennsylvania from Ohio in hopes of
putting ourselves closer to our final destination and possibly in a cheaper
zone of accommodations. We had been warned not to stop in Ohio, because of the
hotel price gouging along the Interstate due to the aforementioned exit tolls.
There will be more on this, later.
The first thing that struck me about this region, are the remnants of a once
thriving industrial-based economy, which now lies in literal scrap heaps of
ruin. The leaders of Silicon Valley and the surrounding areas would be well
advised to tour this area to see what the future has in store for them. This
kind of local economic collapse has happened many times, and will happen many
times again. All parties have to end sometime, as the saying goes.
The other item of note in this area is that this is the beginning of the area
inhabited by Mountain People - know as hillbillies to the outside world. You
really get a feeling for the songs recorded by Sixteen Horsepower up here. The
downside is this: we just passed by a local driving a car displaying the Klan
logo in the rear window. Simplicity runs deep, but ignorance runs deeper here.
As I said, our entrance into this state was predestined for disaster. As the
sun set, we figured that all other Interstate travelers would be stopping in
Youngstown, Ohio for the night. We thought that we would probably have better
luck down the road in one of the small Pennsylvania towns just over the border.
What we did not know was that most of the signs pointing to Motels were
advertisements for inns that no longer existed. We drove for hours down way
too many back-roads in search of these voided accommodations. To make matters
worse, all motels and hotels that actually were available were filled to
capacity with people attending a bowling convention. The hotels had jacked up
their rates for people coming in without reservations beyond even a reasonable
gouge. The only benefit to our wanderings is finding an open liquor store.
All we wanted were a couple of six packs of beer, which were not available
anywhere - including the state-controlled liquor store. There was, however,
plenty of bottles of bourbon in handy 'who-want's-to-be-the-first-in-
jail-on-Friday-night?' (as Abby called it) 350 ml size bottles, Jack
Daniel's Kool-Aid flavored coolers, and plenty of moonshine - some made locally
in the area.
Eventually, in exhausted frustration, we made our way 50 miles further down the
road, where we found a motel that had rooms, and was charging a third of the
rate the other places we had stopped at had wanted.
The next morning, I woke up, and quietly left the room in search of a cup of
coffee, letting Abby sleep. The motel was a beehive of activity; mostly
strange people wearing suits and ties. What kind of a person wears stuff
like this on an early, and quite humid, Saturday morning? It was then I
spotted the copies of The Watchtower and Awake spread about here and there.
Jehovah's Witnesses had descended our out hotel in the middle of the night,
filling every room. Now, at 7:30 AM, they were leaving. Their destination - I
do not know. Some secret gathering in the mountains somewhere, I suspected. But
if Bowlers can have a convention, why not Witnesses?
I met our maid. She was a bit older than myself, but had obviously seen a lot
of hard times. I guessed by her appearance that she had at least three kids.
I would not be surprised if this was her second or even third job. She smiled
at me as I passed her, revealing one upper, and two lower front coal-black
teeth. Yea and for true, this was the domain of the people of the mountain, and
I had just met their spokes model.
From our borderline Pennsylvania motel, we drove directly to our New Hampshire
destination, only slightly hampered by rain and fog. We had both seen and had
enough. To hell with safety and laws. There is roadwork every ten miles,
and it's getting really fucking annoying travelling at only twenty miles per
hour when we are so close to our final destination! We are also surrounded
by the second worst drivers in the world - people from Massachusetts. First
place belongs specifically to the drivers of Boston, where driving a car is a
fast moving contact sport.
New Hampshire at last and the sleep of the dead. The next time we do this kind
of driving excursion, we promise to ourselves to be sans cats, and to pick a
more intriguing route than the alternately lifeless and/or terrifying I-80
corridor through the United States.