Notes from the Road

I recently took a week-long (and well-deserved) vacation, and made an eighteen hour jaunt from Oregon to Southern California. Rather than write an extensive travelogue about my trip, I jotted a few quick notes whenever I had time. Most of them don’t make any sorta of coherent sense. This is the result:

January 12, 2009

-Traveling the Siskiyous late at night is scary as shit. Visibility due to fog is travailing at best.

-A pick-up did a u-turn in front of me then flipped and cap-sized into a ditch. I would’ve called 911 for the poor feller, but I was too busy shitting my pants.

-A car passed me going 90, then sped off. Said car had a Christian dove on the back. Something tells me that is not what Jesus would do.

-I was originally going to stay in Santa Nella. I already traveled fourteen hours at this point, but the usual Holiday Inn Express backdrop plan was $94. Eff that! I called a Marriott. Too bad it was in Merced.

-The road to Merced was like encountering every redneck stereotype on a conveyor belt. I even encountered a “Gun Club Rd.”

…If this is the Heartland of ‘merica. Then Lady Liberty needs a quadruple bypass and a pacemaker.

-I thought of a new story. The night prior to my departure, my brother and I were discussing a Harry Potteresque/steampunish teahouse. He was thinking of a real place with a Ragdoll cat and a St. Bernard on a carpet…something straight out of Hobbiton. I was thinking of a teahouse run by a Ragdoll, and the St. Bernard (as a sammich maker).

The title? The Tearoom of Tally Furrowbrow. A collection of wholesome fantasy short stories with the tearoom as the reflective backdrop.

I need a life.

*End of Line*

January 13th, 2009

-Sometimes working for a hotel is awesome. NOT often. But sometimes. King bedroom…to myself…$39.

…Now if only it came with a prostitute.

(Wait, nevermind. This is Merced.)

-This is one weird town. Hickville is to the left of me. New Jack City is straight ahead of me. Barrio is to the back. The cosmopolitan nature of this gives me tears and candy dreams.

Shut up, I voted Obama.

-The only place within walking distance to eat was a friggin’ Carrows. Uh…no. So, I looked up microbreweries. FOUND ONE!

-The brewery. Oh lord. It’s called “Big Bubba’s”, it’s a steakhouse, and all the beertaps have ornaments. The IPA had a howling wolf. The Irish stout had a bear. At least I think it was a bear. There were cowboys and and a pistol thrown in there somewhere.

-The brewery sampler. Six HALF-PINTS of beer – served in a wooden thingy shaped like a gun revolver. I only finished three.

Verdicts? The IPA and the red ale were excellent. The Irish stout was good but not thick enough. The rest were ass…blame it on the Belgian yeast.

-Just got done drinking my Prostate Tea, while watching Blades of Glory…in green tennis shoes.

I’m livin’ the dream.

*End of Line*

January 14th, 2009

-California drivers have this little habit. They will ride your ass for twenty miles before they pass you. The behavior is akin to canines mating. I wonder if there’s a correlation.

-Driving in Pasadena sucks the testicles of a polar bear.

-Visited the Girl from Boat Trip. She bum-rushed/tackled me with a hug. Awesome.

-Saw this house on the outskirts of L.A. County that looked like a British cottage on a patch of green. I think a wormhole sent it here.

-Angeles Forest has, maybe, ONE tree. L.A. must be really proud of that tree.

-I really do wish they all could be California girls.

*End of Line*

January 20th, 2009

-I learned a new term for “vagina”.

…Ready for it?

“Apostle’s Grove”.

Soooo using that for a book title someday.

-While driving up I-5 North, I noticed a woman jogging on a bridge. She was wearing a sparkly halter top. *sigh* Only in SoCal.

-You know you’re karaoke-ing with a bunch of geeks when they start yelling “FOOT-FOOT-FOOT!” during the base drum hits to a song…as if they were playing Rock Band.

-Orange County states a very strong case for moving southward.

-California has more geek girls per capita than the whole of the Northwest. Yes, that includes Idaho.

-Everything begins and ends with Del Taco.

-Everything I need to know in life can be summed up by Flight of the Conchords.

-XXX Vitamin Water rocks my arse, and not just for the porno name.

-I knew I was back in Oregon when someone pumped my gas…and the gas station bathroom smelled like patchouli.

*End of Line*

*End of Trip*

(Best Vacation…Ever…)

January 21st, 2009

I’m finally home, and I’m sick.

“Welcome to Oregon, here’s your influenza.”


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Wednesday, January 21st, 2009 Musings No Comments

My Trip to Ireland…In Limerick Form

In early 2006 I went on a vacation to Ireland. Several people – mainly relatives – wanted a detailed play-by-play of my adventures. I promise I would concoct something, but no matter how many times I tried, the task seemed too daunting.

So, I took the easy way out.

I put it to poetry.



I got off work at seven in the morn.
In two hours, I would be heaven borne.
I could not find sleep,
Where were those damn sheep?
I sat in my small seat forlorn.

My derriere started to give way
Due to my fifteen-hour day.
With all of that sitting
One felt like shitting,
But on a plane toilet, I will not lay.

MARCH 4th:

Dublin is a really odd town,
Where tourists flock on the ground.
If you’re tired as hell,
You will not fair well,
And seek to be homeward bound.

Thank God for the drink that is stout,
It alleviated my continuous pout.
The tour of Guinness
Got rid of my grimace.
Now I’m stumbling around like a lout.

MARCH 5th:

I gallivanted around Dublin City,
No longer feeling quite so shitty.
I hopped on a few tours,
And avoided the lures,
Of pubs that looked far too gritty.

Since I have no internal compass,
I got lost in the Temple Bar fuss.
As if spotting rare jewelry,
I stumbled upon a brewery,
And donned my crafted beer truss.

MARCH 6th:

Ah, the wonderful city that is Cork,
Irish-ness I could eat with a fork!
Now free of Dublin,
My trip could begin.
And finances, I would not bork.

I sampled a stout they call Beamish,
Not once did I feel a bit squeamish.
It went down quite smooth.
A thirst, it did soothe.
In contrast of Guinness’ ream-ish.

MARCH 7th:

Before you, my highlights of the day:
A butter museum, a gaol, wa-hay!
I got lost but felt swell,
Saw the Franciscan Well;
A microbrewery I found on the way.

A small note ’bout how the Irish break fast,
Pudding, eggs, and rashers at long last!
Oh, the food I did try,
Brings a tear to me eye,
How I wish the time had not passed!

A quick anecdote about my time in Cork, one that would be quite difficult to put in limerick form. I went to a church called St. Anne’s and rang the bell. However, to ring the bell, one has to go up a very narrow flight of stairs…in a small tower. I did so.

After pulling the ropes and hearing the loud chimes, I figured “what the hell,” I’d continue up the rest of it. The view of Cork from the top of the tower was breathtaking. Pictures were taken, but getting back down was a chore.

A flock of green-clad schoolgirls herded their way up the tower stairs, blocking my egress. When I finally made it down, the doorman looked at me oddly. I nodded in return.

“Enjoy the sites?” he asked.

“Yeah, but getting back down was tough,” I said. “My path was blocked by schoolgirls.”

“Oh, so you were in your element, eh?” he replied, giving me a knowing grin.

“Oh, nononono! To young! To young!” I countered frantically.

“Suuure, they are.”

Mind you, this conversation happened in the MIDDLE OF A CHURCH!

End of anecdote.

MARCH 8th:

Killarney was my third destination,
And a product of my procrastination.
I was in a bit of a bind,
For tours, I couldn’t find
To a castle in another part of the nation.

I visited a tower house called Ross,
I must admit I was at a bit of a loss.
My tour guide was British,
And I was quite skittish.
She was hot, and my heart turned to sauce.

March 9th:

I took a tour of the grand Ring of Kerry,
And our tour bus had a guest oh-so-merry!
A dog had stowed away,
In the back seat at play,
And away from sheep, him, I did ferry.

March 10th:

I made it to that damn castle in Blarney,
Three full hours away from Killarney.
I kissed that damn stone,
Upside down with a groan,
And my bus ticket fell out of my harnie*

* Made-up word for harness actually a jacket pocket. Couldn’t find anything that rhymed with Killarney.

The rest of my trip was a bit of a blaze;
Galway, the Midlands, Dublin in a haze.
I visited relatives,
And no superlatives
Will be made of my joy for those days.

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Saturday, November 22nd, 2008 Poetry No Comments

I work for tea money.


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