New Additions to the Postcard Map Collection

I am pretty sure these aren’t repeats, I was just in California a year ago but they take their postcard map output very seriously. Just look at how serious the last two examples are. They aren’t even trying to make it cute. They are just like: Here is a postcard map of the place you are vacationing, the map is indeed functional up to AAA specs so if you need to send a plea to be rescued from a small highway in Death Valley, the recipient of this postcard will only need a decent vehicle, water, and this postcard. 

That is what the last card said to me anyway.

The Road is The Same: A Stand Still Story

The I-40 that stretches east-west across mid America (it is actually at some points a similar route to old Route 66) belongs to big business-hauling rigs, wide-load 18-wheelers, and big, tweaked-out truckers, especially, it seems in the section running from Memphis to Little Rock.  That part in particular features shrunken lanes with crumbling edges, cracked overpass bridges, and not a single light. So with the recent time change, by the time I get out of class it is as dark as a Yucatan highway.

I know I’m just a little speck of tin on four wheels and a guest of these truckers when I drive my weekly route to Forrest City, but I am an ungrateful guest, especially after last night.

My first mistake was that I stopped at my pre-class stopping point again after class so my brain was on auto-pilot when I got on the highway because, ok, I was on the phone with my sister. I spent a good thirty five minutes rapping with her and even made a comment about passing the well know XXX Adult Truck Stop place a couple exits from Forrest City.

Everything was rolling along smoothly until I came to a stand still in the middle of nowhere, stuck in between giant semi-trucks, and lost cell reception. I’m used to it dropping here and there since Arkansas is spotty in certain country areas so I tried to just wait it out. After fifteen minutes I realized we were on a overpass and I could feel the road underneath swaying and shaking with the idling rigs and the cars passing under. Because I had no other entertainment I made up stories about the bridges collapsing and me getting out of my car in time to jump on top of a truck cab to ride it safely past all of the other vehicles smashing into the concrete after a 100 foot fall. I had another scenario where the bridge cracked right beneath my vehicle and the semi in front and behind me smashed me into the road and/or alligator pit below.

When thinking about my death was no longer entertaining I turned to self pity; I couldn’t help but think how unjust it is to get caught in a nighttime traffic jam after coming home from a twelve hour work day. We started moving forty minutes later before I could start texting people these thoughts. We were down to one lane, sure, but we were moving. I drove for another oh I don’t know? Thirty minutes before I noticed something on a highway sign that said: Little Rock 35 Miles

I had totally and completely been driving, not just driving but suffering, in the opposite direction of home.

Little Rock is a two hour drive from Memphis and it was almost 9:30pm and I hadn’t had but a touch of gross falafel from Kwik Check at lunch.  The highway exits off the 40 in daylight aren’t places where you want to hang out at, let alone after 9pm when everything around, except the XXX shops and the truck wash places, is shutting down southern style and you’re in a mentally imbalanced hypoglycemic road raged state.  I knew I had to toughen up and just get some gas, get some chemically-based fast food, and get on the road. I decided that I would pee my pants  instead of stopping at any trucker-shower Valero to risk an attack in the women’s bathroom.

Once the car was turned around in the direction of Memphis I felt less frustration and more blame. I studied the road for landmarks and signs that would prove I was a total idiot and had to have known I was going the wrong way for miles!  But all I noticed was the road is dark and the road is the same. The reason I thought I saw the XXX Adult Booty Palace marker was because there was another XXX Adult Booty Palace looking place going the other way. Same curves in the road, same lack of orienting signs like “Hey you are on I-40 WEST!!”, same delta casino advertisements, same Motel 6 signs, same some-times-marked lanes, same trucks riding my ass. I was riding the lost highway.

On my way back I was able to see the people heading west stuck in the traffic jam I had been in. Watching it from the other side I was pissed that the traffic flow seemed to be going much smoother than when I was stuck in it. I don’t know why I had to suffer and the worst thing that happened to those drivers was they had to break their cruise control.

But it is a metaphor, see? When you turn around and pass back over your memories of pain and despair it looks different, it looks like something you can handle. Something you did handle.  And you are happy to continue even on the dark, semi-truck-clogged narrow road ahead, because you are just happy to be moving.

A Good Reception

My lands! I haven't had decent cell or internet for days. The central coast is connected to nature and livestock and wine and not cell phone towers. I wouldn't have been able to call anyone anyway since I had laryngitis and y'all would have just hung up on me when all you could hear is raspy breathing.

But I'm back in Los Angeles with my voice and a bunch of photos of Hearst Castle (here's one below - I'll post more when I have my computer). The best part about taking that tour was hearing all the old ladies gasp and "oh my" when the tour guide said either how old something was or how much it cost. 

The castle was full of old dusty gothy stuff that I didn't care much for (except the theater) but the swimming pools were the bees knees!  I don't know why some place in Vegas hasn't recreated the Roman Pool. Many mysteries of life remain I suppose.

Sunset over my Voice

Update: Made it to Los Angeles. I'm on the mend but in the voiceless phase of recovery. The dust storm has made its move into my voicebox. It is maddening to be involuntarily softspoken and I vow to never take a vow of silence.

Good thing my voice can be heard here.

It is good to be at the edge of America.

Dust Storm in My Head

I strongly dislike the android blogger app because it smushes my great photos into lowpixeloblivion, but I have a few minutes to update and no proper computer around.

The take away lesson from this post will be: never underestimate an Arizonian Dust Storm. We got into Phoenix early Friday and putzed around for a bit before heading out to Tucson even though we heard some panicked parental warnings about a deadly dust storm heading our way. 

It wasn't that bad to drive through - in fact we were treated to a beautiful sight of a lone wild horse doing its mustanging thing and kicking up dust in the dusty middle of nowhere -  and that was after seeing a newcaster and newcasty truck broadcasting from an especially dusty highway exit which is a beautiful sight in its own special ridiculous way. Because we made it without anything happening to the car I figured everything was good.  That was until my throat and face started to freeze up with poisonous dust mucous within a couple hours. It kind of had a sandman effect too, because my whole respiratory system had been injected with sleep dust! Let me tell you that business did not go well with my wedding attendee outfit.

It is almost two days later and I'm just now recovering but I'm really rethinking dust-mask fashion. Why wouldn't I have thrown one on as soon as I got to the desert? I mean knowing how dangerous this place is?  If only the cacti knew how much I loved them, this wouldn't happen.

I wonder how the newslady is doing.

Busting Out of Here

Just for a little while. I am headed west for a week and some change. I’ll probably be posting pics on my tumblr so check it!

In the Mirror

And my interpretation:

Appropriate, no?

Happy Halloween!

A Beer & Burger Joint, An Ol Brothel

B and I went to Earnestine & Hazel’s after the show last night. It is ranked #40 of 57 things you must do in Memphis.  So you can see why I lived here for a couple years before finally making it to the upstairs. I had to get through the first 46 things.

Animals At Night

  

 

I made B go with me to the Zoo Boo last night, for research of course. I just had to see what the place looked like after hours. It was packed with kids in costumes, the cutest being a little toddler boy dressed up like a cowboy (classic). Pushing these kids around in strollers and by hand were plenty of adults in costume. Sexy Dorothy above is just a mom in white tights, not a hired hand of the Zoo Boo. We also saw a sexy mom teenage mutant ninja turtle (think green metallic spandex) and a sexy pac-woman mom. But hey, if you can’t unleash your sexy beast at the zoo, where are you going to do it?

More Delta Driving

On the road to Helena-West Helena, AR

More Mich

Spicer Orchard in Hartland, MI

Seasons Change With the Scenery

Traveling and season changes are key ingredients for two disastrous things in my life: losing sh*t and getting migraines.

Somehow in my packing and unpacking I lost a couple things that have nothing to do with my trip:

1. A cute and colorful zippered pouch holding a couple business cards, a band-aid wrapper, and two flash drives that have extremely valuable documents on them.
2. A stack of index cards with all of my script scenes – you can imagine how valuable those are as well. Millions?

I found the flash drives but I can’t confirm that someone didn’t take them overnight, copy all my files, and then submit them to The New York Times or The Paris Review or something. We will know soon enough.

As far as the index cards I can only imagine the places one could misplace a stack of index cards because index cards are only used for one of three things:

1. Recipes, Recipe boxes
2. Hopeless GRE vocabulary practice
3. Screenplay scenes for people that don’t like Final Draft or the Index Card ipad app.

I’m no technophobe but I like a mix of hard copy items mixed up with my digital stuff, unfortunately you can see that me losing index cards AND flash drives proves that you can be equally screwed.

As for the other thing, the migraines, I won’t elaborate because sometimes migraine stories are like other-peoples-dream stories and sometimes they are incriminating. This one is a splash of one and a dash of the other, so I’ll leave it out for today.

But speaking of incriminating, on my way to work the other day I got caught behind two cop cars having a red-light steering wheel dance off.  Their windows were down and they were blasting some kind of music (from their cop radios?) and they were definitely bobbing their heads and waving their hands all about like they just didn’t care. I couldn’t believe my eyes but there they were – cops dancing like bacon in a frying pan, I mean like popcorn over a hot fire, like corks on waves, like no one was watching. They even kept it going for quite a while after the light turned green but what was I going to do? Honk my horn and remind them that my tags are due for renewal?

I grabbed my camera when it was a bit too late, but here they are, the dancing policeman – if you get pulled by ‘em just see if you can groove your way out of it:

Out For A Bit

Posting will be sparse for a week. I’m gone.

Tools of the Mind

I was looking through my book of completion pics and I saw that I had skipped a photo! Somewhere between a boat and a beach walk, there was this pair of pliers. You can analyze my “forgetfulness” after you analyze this:

Original:

And my interpretation:

Ok before you get too excited you should know that this is a very literal interpretation because I have actually removed a broken corkscrew from a bottle of wine (the last bottle of wine in the house on a Sunday – in Tennessee that means you are S.O.L unless you know how to 1)use pliers or 2)use a machete) with a pair of pliers. Just know that pliers are a symbol of victory for me.

Too Late For Us, Too Late for the Tigers

I had to mail a package yesterday and I stepped up to the counter and said, “I’d like to send this package priority with delivery confirmation…” and the clerk sighed, SIGHED with the wind of a million annoyances. I said, “I’m sorry? Is that not possible?” She was wiping her forehead and said, “Oh no you’re fine….whew…you have no idea what I am going through right now.” And even though I gathered she was having some kind of hot flash, she was right, I had no real idea – well until she said, “Don’t ever get old.” I was like, “Too late. It is happening to everyone.” And then she rang me up after selling me endangered species tiger stamps (they were better than the Gregory Peck ones).

Re-do and Three Cherry Pickers

I posted the Waffle House picture from yesterday using a Blogger app for the ipad and it looked awful. I don’t know why an app would smash and pixelate a perfectly good photo, but I guess they say there is an app for everything.

On the drive into work I saw a triple-cherry-picker situation. I mean I have never seen one before:

And you probably can’t see it too well either. As much as I try and try, no matter how much risk to my life, my shooting and driving skills still have room for improvement.

Maybe this will help:

Good Day For A Delta Drive (and a waffle)

Today there was an ambulance and a cop car in the Waffle House parking lot off Highway 61 in Tunica. I imagine a waffle-butter-induced heart attack. Not necessarily a bad way to go.

I also read that the fella that invented Doritos recently passed away and will have the glorious orange-powdered snack chips sprinkled on his grave.

We will be judged not by the foods we eat in life, but by those we take with us.

Don’t Mess With My Henson

Did y’all notice the Google search page this weekend? It was to celebrate Jim Henson’s birthday. He would have been 75. That is not so old - it is a shame because he really could have had a least another decade of puppet-making.

In true form, I can‘t help but relate everything I encounter online or in my daily routine, to my travels in Mississippi. Mississippi applies to everything, everyone, and every situation and maybe that is the direction this blog will take in the future.

Seeing all of the Henson stuff reminded me of B and I stopping at the Jim Henson Delta Boyhood Exhibit in his hometown of Leland, Mississippi.  You can imagine how much traffic they get (not much), so when we showed up on hot, late summer day the woman working the information counter/sign-in book/tour guide stand was stoked to see us. So stoked she told us about her son and his girlfriend who might make a good wife but she wasn’t sure but they are so in love and he is in the army and they see each other on Tuesdays and Fridays and and and oh my lands! It was so distracting that we didn’t notice another older woman lurking near the original Kermit replica. So when the museum woman finally got around to showing us the actual museum, we were startled when the older gal started heckling her.

“Now this is the original puppet that Mr. Henson…..”

“THAT’S not the original O-R-I-G-I-N-A-L, I have a picture of one from the Smithsonian…”

“Well technically there are several….”

“Not this one.”

“We -

“Nope.”

And so on and so on – you got the feeling that this was either a mother and daughter situation or an old Leland rivalry between the two gals up for the one Jim Henson Museum job because the woman trying to show us around was clearly trying to ignore the heckler and since there was only four people in the room it was quite, uh – uncomfortable.

I think if Jim would have been there he would have made a couple puppet characters based on the ladies. Kind of like a cross between Janice, Miss Piggy, and those movie critic dudes – called Museum Rivals. It was that bizzaro.

Visual of the Week: The Baggie Connection

Subway is the only food service establishment in my entire office park and everyone from the polo shirt and khaki pants set is there from 11:30 am – 1:30 pm. I like it because when you drive down the winding shrub-lined office-park-y road there is a parade of doughy men dressed in three-button shirts and florescent-light weary women wearing ill-fitting business casual, walking like four years olds in their mother’s high heels, all carrying those clear subway bags full of torpedo-shaped loaves swinging back and forth near their sides. It reminds me so much of seeing people walking in Central Park or Runyon Canyon running with their dogs holding flailing bags of dog doo in their hands.  I call it The March of the Footlongs because the women always get the footlong so they can “save the other half for later”.

Manhunt

Completion drawing numero diez:

And my interpretation:

Thank you.

Arkansas Delights

From my regular pre-class joint:

The Arkansas sky is always falling:

Dear Everyone in Line For Whatever

Dear Mary — Please make sure all the errands are done before you go on vacation, as I do not want to be bothered with insignificant things. Thank you. J.D. Salinger

Compare the two interpretations of the “casual short” above. One is clearly superior, I’ll let you decide which one.

A couple things: 1) Not since the Umbro craze of the early nineties has an athletic short infected the public domain as much as these disgusting bright-color-on-the-side-swoop things. 2) When you wear athletic clothing in public to do anything other than athletic things you are saying to the world “world – you are my dirty wrestling mat” and you are asking for a fight. 3) Unless you live in Hawaii,  just got a pedicure, or are drying off from an intense Mississippi River surfing session, you should refrain from wearing flip-flops or someone could think that you just escaped from a hospital, ESPECIALLY if you are standing in line at a cheap mall clothing store huffing and puffing through your beaky bird nose letting everyone around you know that you have been waiting forever!!!!! Especially if you have the nerve to complain to the manager that you have been waiting forever and can’t they open another register because you only have one item. And people will know for sure that you are completely crazy when you do finally get up to the register and you pay for your one item with a check. A check. 4) If you are under 70 years old and are paying with a check, then maybe you should keep wearing those shitty shorts so we can all keep assuming what is true – you are a thoughtless twerp.

And those, Mr. JD Salinger, are the type of people you would have been bothered with had you ever stepped outside.

(I was looking for a way to tie in my favorite news item of the day with my favorite picture of last week)

Two Boats, One River

Another completion picture from my teeny book of mind tests.

Here is the original number nine:

The funny thing was that this time I had to do two drawings to clear out the first thing that came to my mind which was:

I feel like a movie reference does not really offer any true psychological insight so I pushed myself to come up with an original interpretation:

And here you can see that I envisioned a tragic leprechaun dock accident. Will the gold fall in the wrong hands? Will the rainbow disappear? Nothing lasts forever.

See?

My 9-11 Post

I thought about posting something about the tenth anniversary of 9-11 but I figured all of the networks and radio stations and stuff covered it. You don’t need to know what I was doing that morning (tae-bo-ing). You might need to know that I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that against the backdrop of a video loop showing planes crashing into the World Trade Center, all of the newscasters kept repeating as if answering to a CIA mind control directive, “Just like we all remember where we were when Kennedy was shot. We will remember this day forever.” Thank you for the news. What a non-thing to say. Anyway, I caught a few moments of Diane Sawyer forcing the children of 9-11 to talk about their dead parents and I had enough. 

Even in all of our boundless memorializing, there was still an underdog. How American is that?  Poor Flight 93, your tragic fate ended in  a lonely field in Pennsylvania so you could never stack up to skyscrapers in New York City. NYC got the big guy, you got the Vice President.

So that’s it. Ten years and a couple Toby Keith anthems later. The newscasters weren’t wrong, I just don’t need any help in remembering.

If You See Me

Three years ago around this time I left Los Angeles. Whenever I complain about Memphis I have to answer to “Well if LA was so GREAT why did you leave!!?”  I never have an answer for that and I always mean to keep my complaints to myself but that never works out because complaining to yourself leads to depression. SO I slipped again the other night, heard the typical annoyed response but this time I answered, “Because I like to move.”

The night before I moved, my little sister flew out to LA to help me pack up. I had spent the month before selling most of my stuff on Craigslist and was planning only on taking a few things in the move, but I still had a bunch of stuff I had to deal with. So I had a garage sale (at J & B’s house thankyouverymuch) and later my sister helped me pack up what was left to go to the goodwill. We ran out of time and ended up leaving a stack of crap, calling a St Vincet DuPaul truck or something, and leaving the keys behind to set off on a cross-country road trip.

Sure I knew I had made the right choice to sell all of my stuff and not put furniture in storage like some people suggested, but the road trip was haunted by the memory of things I did not mean to leave in the give-away pile. Like, I did not mean to leave behind my vintage crewel tropical sea kit that I spent the lonely Christmas of ‘06 making. But this is now either in a landfill, hanging on someone’s wall, or collecting dust in a Angelview Thrift:

Other things I left behind (and thought about at various points as we retraced route 66) included: Vintage quilt, allergen-proof pillowcase covers, a sack of pens stolen from hotels and restaurants and people, a vacuum cleaner, books, industrial shelves, pots, pans, buckets of paint, handmade sawhorses, and several small framed dried flower thingies.

Business Man Means Business

Time for more dazzling insights into my mind.

Completion picture #7:

And my interpretation:

A Bridge Post

My sister-in-law gave me these postcards when I was in Michigan over the Fourth of July. I could not remember where I put them but I just found them (I’m spending most of Labor Day Weekend laboring around with some long-neglected house chores) in an unpacked bag. Yep, sometimes I don’t unpack bags for months. AMERICA!

The Great Lakes and The Manckinac Bridge in particular are some of my favorite favorite postcard topics so I am so stoked she gave these to me and since I thought I lost them it is like the gift has been given all over again.

Here are the backs: