I guess this’ll be the last post. Goin’ out with a whimper instead of a bang. Not sure what a bang would be, maybe somehow sending a virus to anyone who’s ever read this blog. Not going to do that.
I’m in Somewhere, Montana. I hate whoever invented Montana, this state is too big. I’ve been driving 7 hours a day alone to make it to Minneapolis in time to find an apartment, so my mind is kind of… dislocated, or discombobulated, or something like that. I found myself seriously thinking about the cars that they drive in the movie The Minority Report — they drive themselves, are really small, and go at insane speeds — and wondering why we haven’t done that yet. Also last night when I got into bed in Elsewhere, Montana I felt like I was still driving, my body was still humming, and when I closed my eyes and dreamt I was wrapped around a tire wheel like a cat, round and round, round and round until I was nautious. Somewhere in there my friend Ted Turner was chuckling. Not sure what any of this means.
In the last five weeks I’ve slept in some regular beds, a couch-bed, two air mattresses, a few futons, the floor, two couches and my car.
Y’know those lines and sentences that, for no discernible reason, pop out and remain in your mind for years and gather significance due to their prolonged existence, like an avalanche, until they seem like the legitimate peroration to some speech you might someday give in your dreams? For me, one of those is “Who be ye smokers? from Moby Dick. Most of you who might read these words are friends or second-degree friends of mine, but some poor souls come to this page by searching Google, and when that happens I get to see what they’ve searched. Today the most exciting two were “beard insults” and “lyndon johnson long face.”
I don’t know why they even make “drinkable yogurt.” You can drink regular yogurt in a pinch if you need to, it’s just a little messy…
There’s something about being accused of pedophilia that makes you feel dirty and immoral, even if you’re innocent. Come on people, the pool at Econolodge is open to everyone. Just because I’m in my mid-20s with a beard and am stumbling does not mean that all the kids need to inch toward their parents.
I got off the highway to take a nap by a stream near the road today, and a guy pulled up next to me in a pickup, wearing pretty faded, messy overalls, maybe mid-40s, lots of stubble, and starting mumbling something I could not understand and walking towards me like Frankenstein, and only when I got in my car with the motor on did I realize that he was deaf-mute and was asking me where the town of Garrison was. I apologized and told him I didn’t know. No way I was getting back to sleep though. I wonder if he ever found Garrison.
The Song of the Day is End of the Line, by The Travelling Wilburys, the supergroup of Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison, Tom Petty and Bob Dylan. When I worked at Walgreens, it would come on like clockwork at 7:51 AM, which just happened to be the end of my shift. And now, with Minneapolis nearing, I can hear it once again…