8/14 Ken II: Ft. Smith to Nashville

We were back on the road at about 8:45 after our coffee & hygiene routine. The night before, we had missed that the Cherokee Truck Stop had a full Internet kiosk, complete with full- computers, and charged only $2 per hour. Had we noticed that, things would certainly have turned out differently!

We immediately crossed into Arkansas where of course I tried, and failed, to get my silly little picture. There was nothing of note worth talking about in Arkansas. It was Arkansas. I was again struck by how green every thing is out here. I have grown accustomed to New Mexico and Colorado’s lack of vegetation, and the brown texture to everything… even where it IS ‘green’! Also, the humidity. I am no longer conditioned to deal with higher humidity levels, and as soon as the truck’s windows went down or I stepped outside, it felt damp. This will take some adjusting.

Little Rock came and went. From there it was 150 miles or so to Memphis. I was stationed near Memphis, in Millington, during my brief fling with the Navy eons ago. Memphis triggers funny memories whenever I drive through, and it struck me how long it has actually been since I have lived there! Ugh!

"I’m still only 25... I’m still only 25... I’m STILL ONLY 25!!"

From Memphis it’s 200 miles up I-40 to Nashville. I had called Kim the night before to tell her that I was indeed coming, I was arriving Thursday, and I would call her when we were close enough to know when we would be in the city. I thought Memphis would be that point, but Ken had more time than he originally thought thus he was less stressed about arriving late. I put off the phone call until we were almost IN Nashville where we had stopped at a Petro truck stop which had a shitty little “Quick Skillet” restaurant. “Quick Skillet” is like “Iron Skillet” (my favorite restaurant), but… shitty. No buffet, just a … shitty… salad bar. We decided mid- meal to forego “Quick Skillet” in favor of whatever awaited us at the T/A in Nashville where we were meeting Kim. It was that bad. The two plates from the salad bar wound up costing us $13. We won’t be visiting your neighborhood Petro again, unless they rename "Quick Skillet" "Shitty Skillet".

The "Shitty Skillet"was a quick 20 minutes from the Nashville Sprawl, and after navigating rush hour traffic then hunting down the hidden T/A off I-65 next to the football stadium, we were finally here. The ride from Denver had taken 49- hours.

Ken parked the truck; I called Kim to give her directions, and bought Ken dinner as a token “thank you” for the ride. We chatted about other possible connections, and he again said that anytime we were in proximity, I was welcome to tag along. I told him, again, how appreciative I was for the rides then he actually thanked ME, saying something to the effect that it was nice to have someone intelligent to chat with on the road. The fact that HE was thanking ME for anything astounded me.

We had dinner, and Kim predictably called saying that she too was having trouble finding this poorly- placed T/A with no visible sign! I guided her in, by phone, and for the first time since 1995, I was hanging out with my broadcasting school- pal Kim. I introduced her to Ken, we retrieved my pack from the truck, I said goodbye to Ken, and we were off. Time to see exactly why I am in Nashville. That was a mystery to me; for about 45 minutes. And, oh! how that mystery was solved.

8/13 Ken II: Oklahoma

The alarms went off as planned, and we were coffeed- up & on the road by 5:30 am headed down US-287 (that damn road again!) toward Hugo, Kit Carson, the Sand Creek Massacre site, and Oklahoma. I had a twinge of missed- opportunity as we passed the turn- off to Sand Creek; it's a place I have wanted to visit since I first read about it. You REALLY should Google it, but I'll help you out: Sand Creek Massacre.

The first part of the day was a bit difficult. Our turn- off/ go- east point was Boise City, OK which, I quickly noticed, is VERY close to NE New Mexico. The second guessing began, and didn't cease. I saw that I could hop out of the truck and probably be to I-25 near Springer or Clayton within a few hours, or the next day. “Home free-- for free“ I thought. I attributed much of this mental ping- pong to the fact that I was exhausted. I may be a grizzled, salty, skanky- smelling road- dog, but getting up at 5am still sucks! I decided to sleep a bit more as we passed through the rest of Colorado, to see if it would pass with a bit more rest. I slept for about an hour, and awoke just before we passed from Colorado into the Oklahoma panhandle.

The sleep helped a bit; not much. I began looking more closely at the map plotting how long, and through what sort of terrain, I would have to hitch to get to I-25. Then, again, I thought back to California. The Marin County Epiphany where I sat on the hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and the San Francisco Bay/ skyline while fighting the impulse to return home, then coming to the realization that I would not have sacrificed ANY of the experiences to date, and if I stopped then I would be doing EXACTLY that. I was proven right, time and time again, through the rest of California, Oregon and Idaho. These thoughts, along with the realization that summer is quickly coming to an end and that I would have PLENTY of time to work come October, kept me in Ken’s truck. They kept me in the truck, but did NOT stop the second guessing.

The drive through the Okalahoma panhandle, on US-64, US-270 and ultimately I-40, toward Oklahoma City was quiet. I was consumed by my own self- absorption, and we were mostly kept company by Ken’s Sirius radio. I grew weary of hearing some retarded song that repeated over and over again “I kissed a girl and I liked it… hope my boyfriend don’t mind it…”

Shakespeare. Pure fucking Shakespeare.

The last real test for me on the way to Nashville was just west of Oklahoma City when we stopped at a gas station that doubled as a Greyhound station. I asked the older- guy behind the counter to fire up his dial- up and get me a price to Albuquerque. $89. Nope… not spending that when I could have spent $59 from Denver.

“Hey, dumbass! Remember San Francisco!” I got back in the truck, and forgot about returning to New Mexico.

I had sent an email off the night before to a guy I had worked with at a radio station in St. Joseph, MI in 2003. He now lives in Ft. Smith, Arkansas which is on the Okalahoma border. Ken was planning on stopping for the night there, so I thought I’d have a little fun. Corey has always been one of those types of ‘friends’ that irritate me. Especially the ‘radio friends’ Flighty. They remain just enough of a ‘friend’ to keep the ‘networking‘- channels open (never burn bridges, Todd!) in case they need work sometime and you would be in a position to help further their descent into Hell. Usually, when they find out I’m no longer in radio and how I despise seeing them whore themselves out, they disappear. With Corey, there was no real ‘disappearing’ to do. I hadn’t talked to him in at least 4- years, and I knew exactly how this was going to go. He had called me while we were in Boise City, and we did the generic ‘whatcya dooin now’ stuff while he complained about his latest radio- gig, and I told him I was ‘done’ with radio- while trying to avoid the ranting for which I seem to have become famous.

I told him we’d be in Ft. Smith, and to call if he wanted to get together to catch up. I knew full well I wouldn’t hear boo from Corey, joked with Ken about it, and we proceeded on. We both laughed quite hard later that night when Ken said “Hey… you never heard from your boy!”

Oklahoma City was as boring as ever, although we did pass Tinker Air Force Base which has an old Air Force One on display next to I-40. I was happy about the fact that I was actually traveling a stretch of Heartland Highway I had yet to see: I-40 between Oklahoma City and West Memphis, AR which includes Bill Clinton‘s personal harem: Little Rock. (woohoo!)
Little Rock would have to wait until Thursday however, as difficult as dealing with THAT anticipation was.

We finished off Oklahoma, and stopped at a T/A just before the state line, got showered, parked the truck, and set off to find something at least resembling food.

We found a little diner called the “4 Star Diner”, which wasn't, and featured a seemingly cracked- out redneck waitress. ENTIRELY too much freakishly- energetic southern hospitality oozing from this middle- age woman! Ken’s pork chop sucked, although I thoroughly enjoyed my greasy mushroom- swiss burger.

From the ‘Four Star’, it was off to the Cherokee Casino next door where we spent $3 to win $1.75. Funny how that works; glad I’m not a gambler.

I wrote in the journal trying to process the mental- turbulence from earlier in the day, and got to bed. Ken planned to leave a bit later on Thursday, so we would get to sleep in a bit. He’s a madman I tell you!

8/12 CHAPTER 3 Ken II, 2 Months

Eric and I were up at on our way at 9:30, running all over the Denver metro basically tying up loose ends. We stopped at a Sprint store so I could get a car charger for my cell phone so as not to repeat the events in northern California with Eric and Marine. The damn thing cost me $25 and I knew I would live to regret buying it.

The work- day was uneventful, and I heard from Ken at about 2:00 letting me know that he was in Laramie, WY as we’d arranged the day before. Laramie is maybe 2 ½ hours from Denver, and now that I had a good idea of when he’d be in town, I could begin to plot a place to meet him.

I had hoped to be able to get to a convenient place on I-70, so he would only need to exit momentarily to pick me up, and then return immediately to his route. I was leery of that plan when, not knowing that part of Denver well, I couldn’t pinpoint locations that I was certain would be hassle- free. I decided on I-25 and 20th St., up the street from Coors Field, because it was maybe just ½ mile past the I-70 interchange, had a stop light, and he could just re- enter I-25.

Once that was set, I repacked again, foolishly eliminating food and rearranging the pack’s balance for the hike, via Light rail, to 20th St. Eric and I settled up on money, and much to my dismay I was forced to evaluate just how much money I had spent while in Denver. It isn’t a pretty picture. After the rain- fly, I was leaving with significantly less money than I should have been. The beer wasn’t THAT good.

Eric and I said the goodbyes; I loaded the pack on my back, and set off. For the first time in nearly a month, I was traveling again. Officially back on the road. There was no euphoria this time; no excitement for the unknown. I KNEW what to expect. In that sense, this phase, Phase #3, felt MUCH different. I was no longer the adolescent exploring the woods. I knew what was in the woods, how to handle it, AND I knew how what I would see from the woods would effect me. The lack of that excitement was a disappointment, and the fact that I was not experiencing the same energy- lift I had at the tracks after the Rockies game was surprising. It felt like I had just woken up in the bushes somewhere and was resuming the trip.

Go figure.

I decided to forgo paying the $1.50 fare for the ride to Union Station, remembering Thoreau’s “get what advantage of her” line in Civil Disobedience. I felt like quite the Anarchist as I rode the familiar route downtown. I was in a bit of a hurry, having spent more time chatting with Eric than I’d planned to and concerned about missing Ken in case he was early.

I got to I-25 & 20th without issue, and planted myself back in the old- familiar spot. The ramp. I arrived at about 4:00 and as I waited, a panhandler returned with his handy little sign pronouncing his abstinence from both drugs and alcohol, saying he just needed “a little help“. Todd was skeptical. The bum was NOT pleased with my presence. I wasn’t hitching, holding a sign, or ANYTHING; just sitting there. He must have thought that made him look bad, because after five minutes or so, he shouted across the exit ramp “Are you just sitting there for the Hell of it, or waiting for a ride?” I answered that I was waiting for a ride, but by now this guy’s demeanor and blatant stares were bugging me. He was acting as if his urine- soaked Jansport book bag had marked his “turf“. He apparently didn’t hear me, or was feeling belligerent, because he asked again. This time I replied “I LOVE the fucking views here… I might just have to stay here all night. Is that OK with you?” Again, I must have had a sinister look in my eyes because suddenly my presence seemed less important to him. Funny how that works.

At 4:34, four minutes after he predicted, Ken pulled off I-25 to 20th St. Our plan had worked perfectly. As I climbed in the cab, I saw my new ‘friend’s’ look of utter amazement. Here was a guy who had just been sitting there now climbing into a semi. Not so astounding, I know. But HE seemed to think it was. I just waved as we drove off.

Ken and I shook hands, I explained the situation with Dufus, and we quickly settled back into our roles from last month. We got re- acquainted as I settled in for the ride to Limon, where he was going to stop for the night since he’d been driving from Idaho since 5am.

Shortly after I got in the truck, the indecision concerning my destination was resolved. Ken has a friend in Chattanooga, TN who wanted a ride to Tampa. I could ride to Nashville and see Kim, and he could pick Jay up a couple hours down the road. Simple. Easy. Go with it Todd… go with it. I went with it.

We did stop at the Flying J on the far- east end of Aurora, and the cashier asked Ken to take a box of urgently- needed fuel tickets with him to Limon, since they were running out. She told him that we’d get free dinner in exchange for their box occupying his floor. Quite a deal.
The ride to Limon was typical eastern- Colorado. Not a lot to see save some dramatic storm clouds on the horizon that got more intense as we moved further southeast.

We arrived in Limon at about dusk, and feasted on Steak and Salmon. The manager in Limon had apparently only intended to give us the soup n’ salad bar, but had neglected to tell Ken this before hand. That led to some mini- drama when we went to leave, but the acting manager handled it diplomatically.

We settled into the double- bunked cab for the night and watched “10,000 BC” on DVD player while I also wrote in my journal. The dominant themes as I reflected on the past couple of days were the ‘coincidences’ and the fact that I was feeling very little emotion about being back on the road. I also was encountering Che’s 'split- moment' phenomenon; feeling slight melancholy about not returning home, and also fleeting, inconsistent excitement stemming from the recall of past experience, experiences that were precluded by similar circumstances and emotions. In short, I was having trouble unplugging from The Matrix, and re- establishing a solid connection with… you choose the term! It also dawned on me that today was the two- month anniversary of leaving Santa Fe for Santa Barbara, and I was heading even further away this time. Maybe the # 12 is lucky for me!

Ken and I set the alarms and got to bed ready for a day full of Oklahoma.

8/11 Denver V: "'Plans' of Mice & Men"

Monday morning and early afternoon was spent working and trying to figure out this next step. Eric offered to let me stay at his place for the night so I could catch the 10:30 am bus to Santa Fe on Tuesday, if need- be.

Some people may be a bit confused, and with good reason. I had a plan when I arrived in Denver from Idaho almost a month ago, but somewhere along the way, the inspiration and motivation to go to New York City and Maine had left me, if it was really ever there at all. I have never been a big fan of NYC, and have already spent a small amount of time there, in Brooklyn during the anti- war march in 3/03. I have no interest in enduring a “San Francisco on Steroids” experience. In retrospect the idea was probably a temporary sedative to allow me to focus on the real purpose of this interlude. I DO want to see New Hampshire and Vermont, and I will. I just don’t feel a compelling urge to do it now.

So, on went the day. I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I was returning to New Mexico for lack of a better plan, figuring that I could get to work on stashing money for this winter’s trip south.

The problem was that there was only ONE bus from Denver toward Albuquerque per day, when there used to be FOUR, and I‘d missed it. That meant I had to hang out at Eric’s, or in the woods, until morning. I tried to contact Greyhound to inquire about the AAU “Americanos Americana” line that they list on their website. It goes to Albuquerque, with a stop in Santa Fe, at 6:30 every evening. However, that route does NOT seem to offer the option of getting OFF the bus in Santa Fe! I got no answer during the entire 40 minutes I tried to contact them. This coupled with Greyhound’s blatant disdain for ANY other kind of customer service, AND the fact that they were raising their fares AND cutting their routes … I began to become irritable. (Shocking I know) I used to enjoy Greyhound, despite the fact that I seem to be the ONLY one! Now it just seems like cattle- car service.

I finally gave up and decided to try to call my trucker- friends, Ken and Cesar, to see if by chance they were near, or would be near, Denver. I got a hold of Ken and was amazed, shocked, and floored by the fact that he was back in Idaho, and on his way back to Tampa. Through Denver. THE NEXT DAY. He told me that he was headed through Nashville to drop off a load, and that I could either ride there, or all the way to Tampa if I liked. I had no clue what to tell him; he said to get in the truck and decide on the way.

I was NOT returning to Santa Fe. This phase of the trip would continue.

The term coincidence was mentioned, and then brutally mocked. This made this Denver ‘experience’ feel like a longer, drawn out rerun of McCammon, and not just because it would again be Ken that I was leaving with. Denver was a bit of a struggle this time, mostly of my own cause. I spent the day stressing about ‘what I’m going to do’, and again, the solution presented itself- in its own time. I didn’t talk a lot about this, but it occupied my mind for most of the night. A lesson I just can’t seem to learn.

Ken set into motion a strange, quick moving chain of events. I had already finished packing and arranging a ride with Eric to his house, then Chris and I devised a plan where I would serve as a Bivy Guinea Pig. For those that don’t know, a bivy is essentially a waterproof sleeping bag cover that also covers your head. They usually weigh about a third to a quarter that of a normal tent, and take MUCH less space. The downside is, of course, that you can’t sit up, nor can you place the pack INSIDE with you, meaning that a more elaborate rain- fly system is needed to keep it from getting water- logged in the inevitable downpour.

We walked down to REI and put an Outdoor Research ‘Alpine’ 4- season bivy on his credit card. REI’s got the best return policy possible. If you’re not satisfied for any reason at ANY time, bring it back for a full exchange or refund. (I pity the price- gauging ’local’ outdoor- store in Santa Fe when the REI finally gets built!) I could take it east, get rained on, and if my review was satisfactory we would get another before South America. If it blows, return it with no damage done. A fine plan indeed.

I had called & sent emails to two friends: Kim in Nashville and Nikki in Tampa. I had a pretty good indication of how this was going to go after I called Nikki and someone, who sounded an AWFUL lot like her, answered but said that they weren't Nikki and didn't know who she was! I had left Kim a voicemail, and she returned the call on the walk back from REI. She said I could stay with her for a day or two on Nashville, and to just let her know if I decided to. Nikki emailed me back later claiming that her number had NOT changed, yet no one had called and she didn't know what I was talking about! O...K then.

Removing the tent made a huge difference. Suddenly the backpack was not only lighter, but suddenly cavernous! I could now downgrade the pack, but thought it’s better to have too much room than not enough. Also, I could add another pair of pants and STILL be lighter. As I was about to leave for Eric’s, we weighed the pack in at 43#. Considering I left Denver on May 20th with the same pack weighing 55#, I’m quite thrilled. I also discovered that, for the first time since HIGH SCHOOL, I was below 160# myself! I have dropped 45 pounds in the last 15 months, and 30 in the last 4 alone. Yes… I AM proud, thank you.

Chris and I said our goodbyes and it was off to Eric’s place after a trip to McDonald’s and to the Skylark Lounge on Broadway for some PBR and a final rant- fest. This is in the neighborhood we lived in when we left Denver last summer, and it was nice to be back there hanging out. I love Capital Hill too, but it’s a bit ‘hip’ for me.

We got back to Eric’s place, and since Ken wasn’t going to be arriving until 4:30- ish the next day, I had one more day to work. I slept on his floor… and like a stone.

8/10 Denver V: Coming to an End

Today was a day of preparing to move on. Not alot to mention other than a quick trip to REI and a decision to leave... for somewhere... Monday evening, rather than Tuesday. As things stand right now, I still have NO idea where that may be! There are 3 options as I see it: Santa Fe, toward the eastern seaboard, or perhaps Florida. The thought of another 8- hour Greyhound rides takes me to the brink of nausea, but I'm not so sure I want to head all the way out east at this point and Florida? Ugh...

The Mexico/ South America trip has been consuming me a bit more over the last week or so, and I'm seriously considering sucking it up for the next few months to gather everything that's needed for it. I've decided to lighten the gear for this trip and eliminate the full- tent in favor of a bivy- tent, which wont be cheap. Neither will the added water purification equipment that will obviously be needed down there, especially in Mexico. It's not lost on me that my Spanish... well, WHAT Spanish?! ? Need to work on that.

This is just a consideration however, and I detest the idea of returning to Santa Fe so soon. There's a very good likelihood that I'll just walk or ride out of Denver... wherever. Maybe I'll pay a visit to the rail yard. Maybe I'll just hitch it toward Ft. Morgan or Cheyenne again. Maybe Kansas. I CAN say this for certain: it will NOT be toward Utah! I'm going to try to contact Ken and Cesar tomorrow to see where they are; if they happen to be this side of the Mississippi, it could get quite interesting.

Where will I go? I guess I really don't care. That's the bitch about freedom: deciding. I've said that too many times. I could flip a coin, or maybe I'll dig the dice out of my backpack again. I'm open for suggestions. Leave a comment, or shoot me an email if you have one; I'd love to hear some ideas.

I feel compelled to put a bow on this trip to Denver, but I don't know that I can. It's been humbling, frustrating, eye- opening, educational, disturbing, encouraging, invigorating and tedious (and too often intoxicating) all at once. I'm sure that some of the insights I've gained here will be useful in time; I hope so. I never intended to stay in Denver two full weeks, and that's frustrating. However, the point was to alleviate the money issues, and I've exceeded my expectation in that regard. I said I stayed too long with Florian, then Eric & Marine, and then Dave too. Is anyone surprised?

I want to thank Friar Chris for his extended hospitality. He is a great friend and was a wonderful host. We had some great times while I was here. The conversations and insights we exchanged were remarkable, deep, intense, AND exhaustive! It's these sorts of exchanges that really work a mind. The kind that are two- sided and original, rather than dictated from quotation and interpreted.

Eric deserves a thank you also. Working with him isn't 'work'; the days filled with the same kinds of observation, debate, and insight from a unique perspective are priceless. The fact I get paid mildly astounds me when I think about it, although I shouldn't say that until he DOES pay me tomorrow! Eric's been a great, loyal friend to me over the past few years, and I'm sure he's calling me a 'homo' for saying so, but it's true. I appreciate it, and it needs to be said more often.

Redneck!

Also, for those of you who are getting the email updates and maybe haven't been to the homepage lately, I've added a few more things including links to Kinga and Chris's travel pages, as well as a few other little nicknack's, so stop by and poke around once in a while... and sign the damn guestbook!

I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again; MAYBE Monday if work ends early enough. I'll let you know what I decide then, if possible. If not... stay tuned!

8/7- 9: Denver V

Thursday August 7^th was yet another fascinating day, with glimpses of a possible future that is beyond comprehension both physically and metaphysically. Unfortunately, I cannot elaborate right now and will have to attempt a literary tap dance.

Eric and I worked until about 2:30, then it was the now familiar routine of chatting with Chris until he was off to work at 4:30, then writing and chatting on the phone with Shalain until he returned at 10:30. Eric had called off work for Friday, then it was off to Barracudas to discuss the significance of this new possible course- change.

Things got VERY strange while we were there. One of the regulars, an acquaintance of Chris’, was driving out to Santa Cruz, CA the next morning and asked me if I wanted to ride along. She was venturing out to visit friends, and said I could ride if I would simply keep her company and try to keep her awake. She had also committed to taking a guy from Craigslist’s Rideshare toward Jackson Hole, WY and said that someone else in the car would put her at ease. We discussed this for a short time, and decided that she’d drop me off at Hwy. 1, and I’d start south toward Big Sur, Cambria, and San Luis Obispo; the same route I’d JUST traveled! The plan would then involve her picking me up on the return trip and taking the PCH toward LA, then to I-40 and I-25 in New Mexico, then back to Denver.

What an odd plan this was! It seemed to be an alternative however because at this point I was all but certain that I would be leaving on Saturday, and had not really decided on a destination. I had been wavering between heading east, my original plan, or returning to Santa Fe to begin to prepare for this winter’s South America trip. This would seem to accomplish a bit of both; a bit more traveling and getting me home to settle in gathering nuts, (both kinds!), for this winter. And, I loved how it came out of nowhere!

She sent her friend Drew over to size me up while she chatted with Chris, and that’s how we closed the bar. I drank a bit more than I wanted to, and got rather lit up! I drunk- called Shalain to let her know what had developed and got to bed about 3:30.

Chris’s friend was supposed to call at about 9am, and if she didn’t I was supposed to call her. When I awoke at 10:15, hungover and second- guessing this plan, I decided I would leave it up to her. If she called, she called. If not, I would probably be better off. Just in case she DID call, I got up and gathered my gear then went back to sleep. Had I heard from her, I would have gone, but the more I thought about it the less I wanted to retrace old steps. The thing that appealed to me was possibly going to see my friend Amber in San Diego when she returns from WWOOF- ing in Italy, but I don’t even know when that is. As the day went on, the happier I was that she had apparently changed her mind.

The afternoon sucked. I felt terrible, and actually slept most of it away. I guessed that I had drank more than I had realized because THIS hangover was entirely excessive for what I remembered!

Chris had the day off and had spent part of it with Angela, and the rest by himself at the park reading. I finally woke up at about 6:45 when he returned and by then I felt human again.

As we sat there chatting about the night before, with me learning that his friend was ‘kinda freaking out’ about me riding along, and that in turn leading me to wonder “why bother to suggest it then?”, we noticed that it was getting radically darker and that it was beginning to sprinkle with these HUGE drops of rain. Sweet!

Over the last month or so, Denver has been sweltering. There was a record set for consecutive days over 90- degrees; something like 24; and next to NO significant rainfall over the last couple of months as evidenced by the dead lawns Eric and I had been maintaining for the banks.

Tonight Mother Nature would begin to restore her balance.

As it began to pour, both Chris and I commented that this reminded us of those storms we had both been used to out east. REAL thunderstorms, where you lose power for a few hours. While the power didn’t go out, I began to notice that more and more people across the street were flocking to their windows to take pictures. That seemed a bit odd, even for this. When we looked out the window to see why: 10^th St. had turned into a raging river flowing west toward Lincoln/ Broadway and the S. Platte River! Sweet!! It was quite remarkable in that not only was it flowing, but also the curb-sides were completely submerged.

We watched for a few minutes only then realizing that it would be great fun to go out and play in this! Not only that; this was a perfect opportunity for me to test a lighter pair of rain pants that I was considering using. We quickly donned the gear and stepped outside to survey the flood. Great fun indeed. We got some neat pictures, talked to some of the neighbors, and even found a guy selling a kayak that would have been useful!

The weather did not last long enough to suit us however, and while we were trying to decide where the most dramatic scene would be, it began to stop. We set off for the coffee shop to get coffee, decided to rent ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ , then went to King Soopers to grab some food, since we were already there.

As is typical for Denver, the street was almost completely dry when we returned.Water, and snow for that matter, does not seem to hang around long. When we got back to The Friary and prepared to watch our movies, I checked the 9 News website and learned that Cherry Creek had flooded to the point that 6 people, who were on the bike path at 6^th and Broadway, had to be rescued! Just 6 blocks from here! We should have gone that way! Rats.

The rest of Friday was eating pasta and watching movies.

Saturday essentially did not exist! I talked with Eric and Chris and decided to stay in Denver through Monday, and work one more day. Chris has guests coming in this week, and quite honestly, I feel like I have already long- overstayed. The extra two- days even felt like a bit much.

I felt human again, but spent the entire day writing and trying to figure out where I was going on Tuesday. Road or Santa Fe. I called Shalain, spoke with her for about an hour and a half, but got nowhere. I did get some inspiration from the writings of Kinga Freespirit, a young woman who, with a friend, arrived in New York City in 2000 with about $600 between them. They took the attitude that they would just ‘follow destiny’, and it took them all over the world during the next six years. Quite a remarkable story that, like Chris McCandless and 'Into the Wild', does NOT have a happy ending. She contracted cerebral malaria in Africa and died in 2006. A waste you may say, but I would rather die like that than in an Assisted Care Prison wishing I had done something.

Chris had to work, and when he got home, we made popcorn and watched Max. I went to bed with still no clear idea of what I am doing Tuesday morning! I just know I’m doing it!

8/5-6: Denver V- Scalped

Tuesday was a defining day, although I am not sure of the definition provided.

Work was fine, and I had emailed my people at Coors Field to arrange tickets for the game against Washington. If I were to pick ONE team I would LEAST like to see… it would be the Nationals, but ya can’t beat free.

I really did not feel like going to the game once I had relaxed after work, but knew that would change once I got there. Eric picked me up at about 6:00 and since he parked about 10 blocks up the street, we had time to chug a beer or two before we reached the “$6.25 Beer Zone”.

I had two extra tickets, so rather than let them go to waste we decided to find people in line to try to save them some cash. I never sit in these seats anyhow; I have a good friend who is the usher in the section behind my old camera and he seats me in some of the vacant box seats behind the dugout whenever I go.

I thought it would be nice to hook up a father/ son with these Row- 5 tickets as a nice surprise… if Eric couldn’t find his‘hot 30- year olds’! We had gotten there late, so there were very few people to fit the bill. The last thing I wanted was to hand these out to some drunken fool, or some backward- hat wearing Frat Monkey, in case we HAD to sit there for whatever reason.

We were about to give up when I looked across the street and saw a guy from suburbia trying to buy scalped tickets across Blake St. The scalpers had always driven me batshit when I worked at Coors. Whenever I would walk toward the stadium, they’d pounce. “Got any extra tickets man?!?! You work here dude… you can get me some tickets, brawh” (‘brawh’ is ‘scalper’ for ‘bro’ apparently; they all say it)

This was my opportunity to piss them off just a small fraction of what they had annoyed me. I bounded across Blake St., and asked the suburbanite if he wanted two free tickets in Row- 5. The look on his face screamed “Hell yeah!”, but before I knew it this Peruvian- looking scalper was in my face saying “I do!! Duuuude! I want em!!”, and in the process reaching across my body, in front of my face, trying to grab these tickets! Oops.

Remember The Greenpeace Affair?

Ron?

Yeah….

This was much worse however. I have no recollection of exactly HOW I got in this guy’s face, yelling, screaming, and completing a full time- warp back to Hillsdale and my Redneck Youth. However, there I was… none to nose with this idiot telling him to “back the f**k up”, “Stand down motherfu**er”, and “step the f**k back”. Lots of ‘f**ks’; NONE with upward inflection.

I could see the mental evaluation process in his eyes. Should he lip back, or let this one go? First, it was amusement because, apparently, he thought I was kidding. Then there was “oops, I messed up”. I believe he saw A LOT of rage in my eyes, because then I could see much fear in his. I had him. Todd was an Honorary Redneck again.

When I saw his fear and realized how close I actually was to fighting this guy, I regained control of myself. I literally have very little connective- memory of this exchange, until I heard his fellow scalpers, who wanted no part of me themselves, egging him on. They used the time- honored trick of questioning his manhood. He was a “pu**y” if he didn’t… get his ass kicked! PURE Hillsdale! Then his posturing changed.

All of the sudden he appeared to WANT to fight again, and told everyone so, as he was running away from me! Sprinting. Can you picture the comedy of a grown man talking trash WHILE he is running away from you? My blood was still boiling rapidly, so I began to pursue him. My agitated reptilian mind was telling me that this would be a WONDERFUL way to release some pent up frustration, but common sense got the better of this inner- debate. Either he did not want anything to do with me, and this was how he could save his “Scalper Cred”, OR maybe there was a weapon stashed wherever he was running. Whatever. Both scenarios told Todd to turn around and go to his ballgame. Therefore, he did.

The suburbanite/ gentry- type man had a look of shock on his face when I walked back across the street and asked him if he still wanted the tickets! Unfortunately, so did his kid. He was probably eight or nine, and I had completely forgotten he was there during all of this. Eric not-so- gently reminded me by informing me that “Well, you FREAKED that KID out dude.” I felt like an ass. In all honesty, the kid (and dad back at the office) now has a hell of a story to tell his friends later, but still…

The adrenaline rush was astounding, and familiar. I was literally shaking like a leaf in anger as we walked toward the gate, and Peruva-punk followed, still running his mouth… on the other side of the street. I blew a kiss at him as I obnoxiously waved my tickets high overhead. He reminded me of the dog behind a fence who WANTED to do SOMETHING, but just couldn’t quite climb it.

I said hi to a couple of friends I had worked with, more or less just to calm myself down. That helped a bit, but now the realization had set in that I was REALLY in a precarious mental state. Telling a Greenpeace Puppet to fuck off is one thing, and some might even say admirable. THIS however was something else. Dangerous. Foolish. Immature? All of the above?

Eric had yet to see that side of me, and I expected him to either laugh, smack me in the head, or never speak to me again. He knew about the other things that had happened however, and had some remarkable insights to offer: the same insights as Chris. I had no tolerance for any unnecessary hassles associated with being ‘plugged back in’. I’d been literally in survival mode for over a month, and apparently I liked it. I literally felt like I was short- circuiting when I tried to re- adapt to contrived priorities. I felt caged. As Veronika had put it in California: I’d “tasted the blood”.

As we sat there and watched the game, it began to dawn on me that I really needed to move on. It had been three weeks since I’d ridden in to Denver with Ken, and it was obvious that I was seriously disturbed by being there. I concluded that it did not really matter WHERE I went, but it had to be soon.

We finished watching the Rockies beat the Nationals, and then walked adjacent to the train tracks back toward the truck. The parking lot spans 12 city blocks, so we had ample time to survey the yard, and chat. A funny thing happened during that long walk, and something that is not so surprising. My energy level skyrocketed, my mental awareness sharpened, and I felt… oddly… at home. Everything I had been missing since I had returned from the road. Smokers will get the metaphor that this was to my brain like the first cigarette after going 2- days without. That was telling in the sense that it seemed apparent all of the sudden that I was seeing a mental manifestation of what Chris and Eric had been telling me: get the hell out of here!

On the way back to The Friary, I decided that I really needed a drink. Eric had decided not to work Wednesday, so I called Chris and we arranged, against my better judgment, to head to Barracudas. I just needed to chat about this stuff and did not want to be in the house caged for the night.

Remarkably, the night was rather uneventful, but productive. We discussed alternative ideas about the temper- flares, and even talked about the possibility that tonight’s example may have been The Road’s way of tapping into something a bit more primal than I am used to thinking about: a return from the Laws of Man back to the Law of Nature. The Anarchists in the audience will LOVE that! When I thought of it in that light, it didn’t seem so bad.

Much of the debate leading up to this trip had a lot to do with talk v. action, and killing duplicity by living YOUR ideals, as opposed to those imposed upon you. I will post a lot of that when I get more time, but these three weeks has seemed to bear that fruit.

Another series of discussion went along these lines in that the common theme with these outbursts have centered on manipulation. I was not yelling solely at the Greenpeace Puppet; I was yelling at the puppet master as well. The scalper had gotten to the brink of violence because he had gotten physically in my space by reaching in front of me, and was trying to protect his ‘Manipulation Zone’ as I saw it. There may be a tad bit of rationalization in there, but as is usually the case, there are probably elements of truth in all of this. Either way, it was becoming clear that it was time to move on.

Remember the two- day (week?) rule? HA!

We went from Barracudas to the Park Tavern for a couple of drinks, just because I’d never been in there- even during the year that I LIVED in Capital Hill. Amazingly, considering my initial mental- state, we did not drink much and got to bed relatively early.

Wednesday was a chill day. Not much of anything outside of walking to Office Depot to get business- card paper for the next leg of the trip. While there, I decided to buy Chris a stick of RAM for his laptop as a ‘thanks’ for letting me stay here. That took an extra trip, but it was worth it. His computer really needed the added memory! I spent the rest of the night writing, and dwelling some more on the previous night.

8/2-4: Denver V- Ron

Saturday it felt nice to just chill out and do nothing. Chris and I finally managed to get to the grocery store for food in the afternoon, thankfully without incident! On the return, we crossed paths with a friendly homeless guy hanging out in an alley with his little dog. We both commented that he seemed like a decent guy and noted that he was one of the few who will chat with you without the conversation turning to what we could give him.

Chris worked, and I wrote, until 10:30 then it was off to Barracudas to relax and have a bit of fun. So much for not drinking. It was an enjoyable night highlighted by a conversation surrounding the definition of ‘art’, on which I won (!), but we agreed to disagree.

After the bar closed, we were outside chatting with some people we had met and gawking at what appeared to be a souped- up hearse, driven by some characters from a Gothic novel. Quite interesting. As we were about to leave, we saw the homeless guy from earlier. Chris began chatting with him, and before I knew it, he had offered him a place to stay for the night. The Friar has a way of doing that! He had offered Catfish a place the week before as well; it is his way of returning the generosity he’d found on his cross- country walk. I didn’t think anything of it. Sounded like a nice thing to do, and a good way to generate some good will in the universe. I also remembered the alley earlier in the day, when he was content to chat with us and not expect anything. I had a good feeling about the guy. Ron was 50, seemed to be pleasant, didn’t reek, and had an ornery little dog. A perfect combination for a house guest!

We headed back to the Friary with Ron and Bella (the dog) in tow, and broke out the remainder of the Jim Beam gallon Chris has had since May. We all drank up, chatting, while Chris and I were getting to know Ron. He was from Raton, NM so I felt a kinship to him in that regard and he seemed to have a Christian background; spoke of “Jesus” quite often. We asked him why he was living on the street, and he said it was because he was ‘tired of all the bullshit’. He did not seem to be an addict of any kind, but did like his Jim Beam.

I began to notice some things that seemed odd however when I began to press him on some of his opinions. He would not elaborate. Just rattle off the same answer again. I pictured Eric’s analogy of the punks selling speaker boxes with no guts inside! That was enough for me, and I essentially shut myself down, and let them chat until it was time to pass out. Then...

I had been giving Ron cigarettes since he had been there. No big deal, but then out of nowhere he decided to reach over, grab my pack of Pall Malls, and start to put them in his pocket. I asked him, “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my cigarettes?” He responded that these were HIS cigarettes, Goddammit! I took them out of his hands, forcibly, let him know that he was full of shit, and asked him what kind of idiot he took me for. Again… he couldn’t elaborate. Just to further explore what he was all about, I reached over and picked up the glass of Beam & Coke Chris had poured him. Christ on His Throne! “Hey, that’s Fuckin’ MINE!” I had my answer.

Chris didn’t see any of this going on. I was going to let it go, to try to practice a new policy of forbearance. However, after I laid down, I realized that if this guy were going to try to steal my cigarettes with me SITTING there, what the hell’s he going to take when we’re asleep? My backpack and everything else I had brought with me was at the foot of the couch! I pulled Chris aside, told him what had happened, and he agreed that Ron had to go.

Chris, being the Friar he is, gave Ron a shot at redemption. He asked him about the cigarettes and, of course, he said he did not try to take them. When I told him to look me in the eye and say that, of course he could not. It is about here that my blood began to boil. Ron had been lucid all night, standing and walking just fine, then suddenly he was too drunk to talk! As this little exchange continued, my voice steadily got louder and I was getting angrier by the second. The one thought I remember having is that THIS is the EXACT stereotype I was fighting on the road. I was assumed by many people to be THIS character! I heard echoes of Eric’s sentiments on the welfare state, how people will gain a sense of entitlement. Then I heard the hippies saying ‘Oh, they’re ALL just down on their luck and need a second (or thousandth) chance’ with the upward inflection on ‘luck’ and ‘chance’ of course. The longer he sat there, the angrier I was getting.

Chris finally told him he had to leave. It was HERE that Ron mysteriously lost all use of his legs. When he tried to stand, he crashed into the makeshift bookshelf and onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud. Then he couldn’t stand up from there! Chris gave him the benefit of the doubt, but to me this was all too convenient and I began to tell him so. I believe my response to this was “Oh, just get the fuck up, and get the fuck out of here.” Upward inflection on ‘fuck’.

After some effort, Chris finally got him out the door, down the steps, and outside where Ron, again, mysteriously lost all motor- functions. He crashed onto the sidewalk, and refused to move. His dog was not any too pleased about any of this, and I tried in vain to get her back on her leash so she wouldn’t run off in what was left of the night.

Ultimately, we decided that if we left him there at least we could keep an eye on him from the window. That solution lasted maybe 3 minutes before Chris decided to go back down and try to get him back to his couch. I declined to take part.

Chris was gone quite a while, and I began to get a bit concerned to the point of getting up to go looking for them. When I heard the door open, and just Chris walked in I was quite relieved. Apparently, Chris had gotten him to the couch when Ron’s motor- functions just as mysteriously RETURNED, and he decided that THIS couch was not quite the proper place to be. He set off for a few different places, and Chris in his concern stayed with him until even HE was fed up and had come home. Thus ended the Saga of Ron.

I had no idea how to digest this, but it occurred to me that many of the conservative- leaning friends were correct. At what point does a person have responsibility for themselves? When does ‘I need a little help’ turn into entitlement and a get- everything- I- can mentality? How many of the ‘homeless’ people we see are simply looking to exist solely on handouts in an effort to avoid personal responsibility? Charity has its place, but so do common sense and the ability to see through a swindle.

Chris and I discussed this for a short time before we passed out with the sun already in the sky. The only conclusions we came to were that we are probably a good counter- balance to each other, and that Chris was right when he asked Ron “How many people try to help you out after you try to steal from them?”

Sunday consisted of nothing but recovery. We talked a bit more about Ron and a few other things including more about South America. I touched base with Eric regarding work on Monday and that was it.

Monday was again mostly uneventful. We worked almost all day, then Chris and I walked to a video/ CD store where he bought, then we watched, “What the Bleep Do We Know”. One of my favorite movies, and one that inevitably triggers deep discussions! However we both, and Eric too, had been noticing a type of mental fatigue. Chris and I spend most of our time in discussions, and Eric and I do the same thing, all day. It seemed that it was starting to wear all of us out! A good thing I guess.

Despite the fatigue, we talked about the movie, the Latin America trip, and began to do some research on what to expect once we got to Mexico. I also had arranged tickets for the Rockies/ Nationals game at Coors Field for Eric and I. THAT would turn out to be quite eventful, and even more eye- opening than the weekend had been, and it would begin to show the door out of Denver!

Ron was obviously the Event of the Weekend, but over the past couple of weeks as you have probably noticed Chris and I have been having more in- depth conversations about this winter’s trip south. I have neglected to detail much about this intentionally; I wanted to see how the ideas developed and rather we would have second thoughts. It is a much bigger decision for Chris because it means abandoning some of his plans and expectations in favor of the nomadic lifestyle again. Over the last 2+ weeks, it would appear, and he has stated, that this open- ended adventure seems to have almost set itself in stone. It feels right; synchronized. The “Rest of the Americas” trip outline and philosophy deserves its own space—like hippies, only it will not be a special place in Hell!

7/30- 8/1: Denver V

Wednesday thru Friday was all pretty much the same. Up and to work at 8:00, chatting between jobs with Eric about society etc., then going home to sleep, then chatting with Chris, or just playing Risk until 2am. We each noted that it was rare these days that people would rather prefer human contact and conversation to sitting in front of a television, computer, or video game. We wondered aloud if this was similar to the time before the mass- media invasion when people would sit on their porches and chat with neighbors, or something akin to the old- folks you used to see just chatting in the café.

Chris and I made came to the conclusion that we would rather hang out at The Friary and chat rather than sit at the bar, burn through money… and chat. We can do that at home, spend nothing, and avoid the inevitable hangovers. Over the years, these conversations were what I was ultimately looking for when I drank; intellectual exercise and a need to exchange ideas rather than mental masturbation! (yes, I like that term)

There were a couple notable events, especially on Thursday. A familiar event and one I am not proud of because, by then, it was not unexpected. It was a replay of the incident at King Soopers, but this time on the 16^th Street Mall downtown. We had walked down to Barnes & Noble so I could get a re-fill for my written journal, and guess who was ‘activisting’ at the door. Yep. Greenpeace. Same hippie uniform. Same billboard posing as her T- shirt.

I saw her a mile away, sizing us up to see if we were promising targets, and when she took her first step toward us, I said “Don’t even bother!”, in a rather threatening tone. She stopped dead in her tracks, and gave me the same line Hippie McDouche had given: “Wellll, you have a nice dayyyy.” I rather loudly told her to ‘Fuck off’, much to Chris’s dismay!

I got my refill and began to feel bad about this one. It was not her I was yelling at; it was the invisible hand pulling the marionette strings. I still needed to figure out how to deal with this, but remorse was a good start.

Chris and I chatted about this stuff on the way home and it became apparent to me that he was indeed correct a few days earlier. I indeed am much more focused. I now have a much clearer sense of what I thought was wrong with society: the illusion of choice in politics, and these little doe- eyed liberal pawns thinking that they are really making a difference. When I see them, I now have neither tolerance nor interest in accommodating the social tumors.

The problem for me is that these ‘pawns’ are not the problem at all and can be forgiven in that at least they think they are doing the right thing. The real source of my rage is higher: the Agenda Architects on BOTH sides, who hitch their wagons to an ideological horse, then use these naïve, idealist- mules to haul whatever ‘intellectual’ garbage their selling… for profit. The young deserve patience for not knowing any better, thus my new- found remorse. The puppet masters, however, deserve every ounce of venom that can be mustered, especially if they were once the young, naïve mule! These Stealth Capitalists (see Santa Fe post) are in no way ‘Progressive’, and no more noble than Pat Robertson or Focus on the (or for me, your own damn) Family. If they advertise themselves as ‘activists’, yet have highly paid CEO’s and lawyers on the payroll, they’re simple hypocrites only different from the extreme right Social Fascist in packaging: Pepsi or Coke. It is still agenda pedaling, and exploiting/ profiting on the idealistic; selling an intensely marketed product: ideas. I’ve worked for a couple of these organizations, only for a couple hours each after answering the ads reading “Work for social change!” That was a significant step in me leaving Camp Liberal; these ‘activists’ reminded me of the sales- cults I’d been exposed to in radio.

This is particularly personal to me because of my exposure to a few of the left- elites. I’ve been briefly invited inside their little circle; at least long enough to sniff around, gather some first- hand information and experience, and learn some of the tactics used to disguise this new capitalism. It never set well with me that these elites preached Nuevo Liberalism while living in opulent homes, driving the same SUVs, and consuming the same products, and with the same voracity as I imagine William Randolph Hearst had. The Left love to build monuments to themselves, their ‘Hearst Castles’ too. Are you listening Al Gore?

What you have just experienced was, for all intents and purposes, my entire week! I was concerned while I was on the road about my perceived lack of the socially/ politically- based anger you have just witnessed, and to which I have grown so accustomed. This week, I reintroduced myself to it. With a new ferocity and accuracy. It would seem that the lack of the frustration on the road stems from the fact that I wasn’t plugged into it; existing outside of it as a simple spectator. When I returned from the trip, that disconnection and discomfort I have written about was my mind telling me “NO!” I had a 5- week furlough and now I was back in the mental and spiritual prison.

Friday I wrapped up the week working with Eric, got paid, and decided to work a couple days next week to raise more money, and to continue to process some things. Chris had a date Friday night, and I had a rather enjoyable evening writing… all night long.

Quite an interesting week, and Saturday would be almost as interesting AND enlightening. A true test for the new epistemology was coming out of nowhere!