Wild Side Walk: Pt 23.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

The journey soon developed into fairly boring landscape, the rest of Nebraska and all of Iowa seemed to be fertile farmland with the same solid, farm buildings, vertical bullet shaped silos, and green crops: not much else. As we came into Illinois, the ride got real bumpy. Almost exactly as soon as we crossed the Mississippi River, the road surface changed into large concrete slabs with some sort of grout in the gaps between each slab. Over the years the slabs had sunk in various corners, and the transition from one slab to the next gave a steady rhythmic wump wump wump and at times seemed like the tyres were going to rip open. I figured someone should write to the Illinois Roads Board, and just as I was thinking that the two lanes became one and I could see that work had already started on repairs. It sure was going to take them some time.

We had driven down about sixty miles of the worst road ever, and then we had to pay for it on the EastWest Tollway. I was driving and the closer we got to Chicago, more and more cars appeared, we were still in one lane, and there was flyovers, ramps and turn-offs more and more often. Ken was navigating and it seemed that up ahead we should turn-off, but I got in the wrong lane, and ended up taking the wrong exit, which doesn't sound too bad, except that we had to drive about ten miles to get back to where we were. Eventually I pulled over in an entrance to a big oil plant, and surrendered the wheel to Ken.

I looked around at the concrete flyover above us and the spiral ramp coming down from it and curling around us, and the surface of the road was inlaid with tear tabs, crinkled aluminium cans that had been buffed shiny by thousands of tyres driving over them, and on the apron of the road was long, low banks of fine black dust, rubber, lead, sand and dead insects and animals, and occasionally bits of retread, and even whole tires that people had dumped. It was a strange thought that nobody in their right mind would get out of their car here, which is the only way you'd ever be able to get here. Just like Bel Air, LA, this environment was for cars, not for people.

Got it together and arrived in Chicago June 7. Rang Dios Fresco, a US Navy navigator whom I met in New Zealand 1979, and he came over to the motel that Kid had booked for himself, a white building that had Queen Anne decorative turning stuck all over it, and plastic carnations blooming in all the gardens. I farewelled Kid, and wished him happiness in his married life, then Dios and I jumped in his Scirocco and cruised off to downtown Chicago, Michigan Ave, where Dios had an apartment on the 6th floor of a tower at Illinois Institute of Technology.

(To be continued).

Stumble It!

Wild Side Walk: Pt 22.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

I didn't fancy my luck to try any of the soda cans that were on sale, it looked like nobody had bought much for sometime, and I thought the insides may be rusted out. I ordered a black coffee which was good, and before I could tell the woman who had made it for me, I heard the door bang and she was gone. The door between the counter and the kitchen swung open, and a younger woman ran out. swung the exit door open and hollered at the exiting woman, "Where the hell are you going? If you're leavin', wait for me!" 

Pretty soon Ken made it clear he wanted to leave. It seemed that Ken had been through some pretty weird scenes in North Carolina with the local hoons, bodgies, red-necks, whatever you wanna call these dudes who live for their cars, guns, beer, pills, dope, and after all that go home and get into the ol' woman. We had certainly seen some real classic cowboys and heavies, and ran into more as we drove through the other side of a spectacular electrical storm into North Platte, Nebraska. The surrounding paddocks were intermittently lit by fists of fork lightning which lunged at the ground and tried to grab it in fingers of gnarled electricity. 

On the main street, jacked up cars full of guys jacking off, sped off at green lights, then braked early and screeched into the red at the next set. One bunch of these boys seemed to be following us as we drove around town checking out the scene and the motels. Ken was convinced we were doomed, so we pulled in for gas and when we got out, some other guys were throwing bottles at each other in the side street. It was real dark and I couldn't see much, but there was an audience of girls sitting on the bonnet of a big yank-tank with their backs against the windscreen hoping their men would come out of the rumble in one piece no doubt. 

Chalet Lodge, North Platte, NE

image from found postcard

The gas station attendant seemed unfazed by the din outside, and told us of a motel called the Chalet Lodge. It had kelly-green astro-turf on the verandahs, king size beds, and whiter than white towels and flannels all arranged vertically in a chrome hoop rack with the smallest at the top ranging down to the biggest at the bottom. The whole room was incredibly tidy and clean, the sheets crisp, white, and cool, and not a scrap of dust inside, or trash outside. It was quite freaky, out of character with the rest of the town.

Stumble It!

Wild Side Walk: Pt 21.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Hell's Half Acre, Wyoming (2004)
image source: cbsoftwareengineering.com

Wyoming was another outer-space state; the soil was weird colours that changed all the time. For a while we were driving through a scarcely populated and equally scarcely vegetated stretch, and the dirt was blue, green, purple, and the landforms were like toadstool shaped rock formations, the lower strata being softer had worn away and eventually the whole structure would collapse like some of the piles of rock scattered around. Occasionally we would pass a mobile-home park, a few acres of dirt covered in a neatly arranged mosaic of caravan like homes with lots of dirt bikes and four-wheel drive small trucks - Dodges. Chevs, Fords, not too many Jap machines out here- this is real redneck territory. I couldn't figure out what these people would be doing out here, except fixing up the little woodpecker rigs that we passed from time to time, or hunting; some of the men were wandering around with handguns and rifles.

Neither Kid nor I felt much like stopping, but we knew we'd have to soon - the fuel gauge was sliding towards 'E'. A new kind of sight started to appear, long wooden frameworks that stretched from the road back at angles across the paddocks. Up ahead was an Amoco station, and we pulled in. As I opened the car door all the paper trash I had around my feet was suddenly sucked out as if by a giant vacuum cleaner. I looked up and noticed a giant of a man looking down at me, asking me, "You want that bag that just blew out over the road, if you do it's too bad 'cos its gone now". I couldn't believe he was real; his skin was like deep-grained leather, and out of his ears spread a strange growth over his face like some kind of leprosy. The wind had not varied since I got out of the car, it just remained a constant force, more like it was being sucked, than blown, and hot. Real hot. It suited the red dirt around us, and I wondered what it would be like on top of Mt Olympus, Mars.

Kid organised the gas, and I went inside to peruse the postcard rack and check out the liquid refreshments. I really felt like a beer, was becoming strangely fascinated by this place and wondered what it was called. According to one of the postcards, "Hell's Half Acre, Wyoming". (The following poem was printed next to a photo of some of the rock forms I had been looking at earlier on).

THE 'HELL' YOU SAY!

Just what is meant by this word ‘Hell?’
They say sometimes, “It’s cold as Hell."
Sometimes they say. "It's hot as Hell."
When it rains hard, “It’s Hell," they cry.
It's also "Hell" when it's dry.
They "Hate like Hell" to see it snow,
It's "A Hell of a Wind" when it starts to blow.
Now "How in Hell" can anyone tell
"What in Hell" they mean by this word "Hell '
This married life is "Hell" they say.
When he comes in late there's "Hell to Pay.
"When he starts to yell, it's a "Hell of a Note."
It's "Hell" when the kid you have to tote.
It's "Hell" when the doctor sends his bills,
For "A Hell of a Lot" of trips and pills.
When you get this you will know real well
Just what is meant by this word "Hell?”
"Hell, yes," "Hell, no," and "0h, Hell" too.
"The Hell you don't," and "Hell you do,"
And "What in Hell" and "The Hell it is."
"The Hell with yours" and "The Hell with his,"
Now "Who in Hell" and 0h Hell, where?"
And "What in Hell do you think I care?"
But, "The Hell of it is," "It's as sure as Hell,"
We don’t know "What in the Hell" is "Hell."

-Author Unknown.

Another postcard had a distant view of Interstate 80 with a sign to locate it, sweeping up the side of a Martian mountain.

Stumble It!

Wild Side Walk: Pt 20.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Billboard, Wyoming (1982)
image from found postcard

Nevada soon became Utah, and almost as quickly the hills under the Interstate became perfectly flat, the road now elevated like a railway line atop a raised bank of metal chips, straight as a laser beam for as far as you could see. The colours around us changed from sandy grey into white as we drove through the Great Salt Lake Desert, a brilliant white dried ocean stretching either side of us for a hundred miles. Now more than ever before I experienced a feeling of intense self-insignificance, and had many thoughts about the greatness of the Universe: I was merely a grain of sand rolling along this infinity of salt-flat. As the day heated up, the solid ocean floor started to melt and become water complete with waves that actually reflected the distant mountains, huge expanses of mirage turning approaching vehicles into melting amphibians sailing through a throbbing ocean of heat and silence, exquisite stillness and serenity. Again I felt like a space explorer, bathing in the unscreened energy of the great sun, sailing through the Sea of Tranquillity. The only other inhabitants were an endless parade of Mack and Kenworth space trucks, their captains invisible behind mirror lenses and tinted windscreens. Great Salt Lake soon came into view, a huge sea in the desert, as if the oceans had been trapped when America returned from the depths of Atlantis. I started to wonder if perhaps America (L'Amerique) came from La Mer, (The Sea). While in California, someone had expressed some anxiety regarding the significance of water on the west coast. If there was to be another large earthquake, a strip of California from Eureka in the north, down to Los Angeles could conceivably slip into the Pacific Ocean. And Los Angeles is nothing but a chunk of desert that is watered from canals that stretch south 500 miles from Sacramento River above San Francisco. In fact Los Angeles is full of water storage, sprinkler systems and swimming pools; it really makes you wonder!

Beside the lake is a gold-capped Mormon structure, it reminded me of a building I saw in Santa Monica, also a Mormon structure with a gold plated roof that had been converted into the Santa Monica Police Station. The walls had either copper or bronze sheets wrapped around them, and the most beautiful turquoises and emerald oxide patinas contrasting with the glaring warm glow of the gold caps. Later in Salt Lake City, I became more aware of the majesty of the Mormon Church. Dead centre of Salt Lake City is Temple Square, a whole block enclosed by high walls and containing a huge temple and other equally impressive buildings and statues of Joseph Smith and his cohorts. Carved into the walls in huge Eric Gill designed masonry fonts are the Constitution of the United States of America, and Mormon creeds of equally patriotic flavour. At night, I walked the empty streets of the city; there was no litter, and hardly any people about. I remembered that someone told me the Mormons are pretty racist, and so was surprised when a black guy came up to me outside Howard Johnson's, and offered to sell me something to smoke. I was also surprised to see groups of vagabonds huddling around bonfires by the Amtrak station, under the Interstate flyover. They called me over and I noticed they were all men in their mid 30's, some dressed in Vietnam uniforms, and sleeping in the long grass in blankets and cardboard cartons. I was still hungry, having refused to eat my steak at Diamond Lil's Steak House, it tasted bloody awful, and I wondered whether it was horse or kangaroo? I eventually found the legendary Jean's Cafe, the only place open south of Salt Lake at that time of night, (according to Gary Gilmore). Out of Salt Lake after a night's sleep, and by this time I was getting pretty damn good at sneaking into motels unseen, to avoid paying double room rates.

Stumble It!

Wild Side Walk: Pt 19.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Truck & trailer,
Great Salt Desert, Utah (1982)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

A little while later I was driving along the edge of the Trinity Range, it was starting to get dark, (I had just swallowed down a mysterious looking mushroom, real desert dessert, and a bit more snow), and it occurred to me how beautiful the desert was becoming. The greyness of the daytime had transformed into a wide range of olive-tones, while a giant orange "not quite" full moon floated across a sky of lilac rose parfait amour. The moon was the only source of light apart from the car headlights dotted out in front of us, but the moonlight was sculpting the desert surface into weird shapes like skulls and dinosaurs, the ground was alive with a peripheral animal kingdom and then I noticed the sky coming alive as well. The road ahead was alive with thousands of racing snakes, and pursuing them were large winged pterodactyls and other large beasts from the heavens surrounded by geometric colours and shapes filling the sky, and it all seemed to be connected to the mighty moon, the huge balloon.

The interstate highway consists of a pair of two-lane freeways, with about 25 metres of dirt separating the traffic moving in opposite directions. There were mostly large truck and trailer rigs on the road at night, and I could see them coming towards me, each one having a distinct personality, it's face highlighted by small orange lights, and rows of red and green navigation lights down port and starboard. I grew very fond of the trucker’s who were exceptionally courteous drivers, and they created such a spectacle, skull-like faces that grew bigger and bigger as they approached and then whooshed past consuming the whole car. All the road signs were coated in an emerald green glass mixture, the surface of which was incredibly reflective and seemed to fluoresce from within as they too swept past like burning asteroids. Wow, what a space voyage.

Kid was all this time sleeping, but I didn't even feel like stopping when we reached Elko, Nevada at some early hour of the morning. It must have been early, cos the Motel proprietor was squinting through sleepy eyes when he gave us our room key. I really could have stayed up all night, so I went for a walk and noticed all these trucks parked up around town, several of them with sleeping drivers perched in front of their steering wheels. What a lifestyle I thought, driving continuously back and forth between Los Angeles and New Jersey: East West, West East, a distance of almost 3000 miles. And en route, stopping at little truck-stop diners in the middle of nowhere for eggs, bacon, coffee and flapjacks. A moving community with friends and contacts spread out right across the continent.

Elko, Nevada, was one of the towns that I'd read about in Mailer's Gary Gilmore tome. GG's girlfriend spent part of her tragic teenage motherhood here, and in the morning I could see it was a small town surrounded by mountains, the air was so fresh and clean, and the sound of clip clop cowboy boots and various farm vehicles filled the air. I felt surprisingly fresh, despite a night full of Technicolor dreams and my mouth tasted good having just cracked a vial of Kid's Ginseng Royal Jelly.

(To be continued).

Stumble It!

Wild Side Walk: Pt 18.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Tobacco advertising,
San Francisco (1982)
©1982 www.stuartpage.com

Kid was an A.A.A. member, and had been outfitted with a complete package of maps and directions, accommodation guide, points of interest, and his car was all set for the journey. We were taking Interstate 80, a route that took us through the Nevada desert, Utah desert, the wastelands of Wyoming, cowboy country Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, and I was to meet up with a friend in Chicago. I had absolutely no idea how long such a trip would take, and it was only when Kid plotted our probable day to day mileage, that I realised we were about to travel for five days, a distance of 2300 miles!

From San Francisco, we drove north-east through Sacramento, then climbed up the Sierra Nevadas and at a place called Truckee, appropriately enough there was a truck-stop full of cattle tracks, and the drivers were walking around jabbing long sticks through the gaps in the truck sides. I figured they must be some kind of tranquillisers, and I walked off into the thick snowy park behind the comfort kiosk. The air temperature had dropped from around 30°F in Frisco, to around zero in a matter of hours. Somewhere over beyond Truckee is Lake-Tahoe, a well advertised and talked about ski-resort. Part of its attraction is that just over the border is Reno, Nevada, a mini Las Vegas stuck out amongst the Nevada mountain desert.

We cruised into Reno late afternoon, and decided to check out Harrah's Casino. I only took $5 with me, and cashed it in for 20 quarters. I had just sampled my first 'snow' and when I entered the casino, everything sparkled, and the sound of coins dropping into slots, alarms, bells and whistles accompanying the clatter of a bingo win as coins come raining out of someone's machine, was enough to get my pulse racing. It was just like an adults only video parlour, except instead of armed laser-bases and rockets, there are random selection playing cards, staring out at mainly middle-aged women staring back. Some of them had games going on several machines and little bags full of quarters and dimes. The other popular machine is the one armed bandit; you just stick any coin in or any quantity of coins and pull a vertical lever down, and try to get three drums that rotate in the window to stop on the same pattern. The more you bet, the more you win! I had a few minor wins on the poker machines, but ended up leaving with nothing left.

I flagged down one of the Harrah's bunny girls and ordered a coffee. I should have realised that there'd be a built in service charge and I was expected to give a tip as well. 15% is apparently a reasonable tip,) so my coffee cost .75 Plus .75 service charge, plus .25c tip = 1.75). Kid said, "Lets get the hell outta here," and we drove out of the car-park building and straight away got lost. A friendly local pointed out 'Route 80' and we were off.

(To be continued).

Stumble It!

Wild Side Walk: Pt 17.

(Unexpurgated) 1982: Report from the astronaut

Wasted, Stoned, Confused
San Francisco (1982)
©2004 www.stuartpage.com

For a whole day from sun-up till long after the stars have appeared, a hundred thousand people can be found between Golden Gate Park and the adjacent ten blocks of Haight Street. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, lines of humans like lanes of traffic inch their way past taco stands, fortunetellers, natural soda stands, earthy art exhibitions, and all kinds of street theatre from jugglers to a human jukebox. Groups of West Indian and African conga and bongo drummers, with beer can percussionists join in and provide a soundtrack. The sun lashes down on the windless streets and low flying clouds of cannabis smoke permeate the mass spirit. It's an alternative shopping mall, with all of the trappings, a total barrage of enticing smells, an underlying urge to spend, and ankle-deep trash, but it goes unnoticed, the heat, volume of sound, and claustrophobic conditions anaesthetise everybody: "...take it or leave it, get out of it and get into it man..."

A few blocks south over the Buena Vista Park hill, is a more contemporary phenomenon, an equally clearly defined cruising strip in Castro Street, headquarters of the Gay Capital. The shops on either side of Castro St stock everything that the uninitiated male homosexual needs to "look the part". Menswear boutiques with all kinds of black leather trap-door trousers with domed bum-flaps, sailors' caps, bondage gear, whips, studded straps and synthetic sex organs galore. And there are also some of the best food stores in San Fran; a great Pizza Bar, real Chinese take-aways, bookshops and suppliers of records, postcards, hardware, and booze. This is where my next Discount Travel driver lived.

Kid Strychnine lived with three other guys in a second floor walk-up apartment; a long narrow abode like a railway wagon. They were all trying to break into theatre, and one of them Sammy sat glued to his colour TV, anticipating an audition for a local production of "Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." Kid had moved out to Frisco six years previous from a small rural city in North Carolina. After living six years in Castro St., he was now returning to his loved girlfriend in North Carolina, and was to be married in a few weeks time. I was surprised at the apparent switch of sexual persuasion, but Kid hadn't hidden anything from his fiancée and figured it was time to get serious and settle down. He was sad to leave all his buddies, and the tastefully decorated Castro Street, with its dark shop interiors, interesting lighting and abundance of glimmering jewellery and cut glass everywhere. Chrome and glass, the cool, cold, hard and sharp aesthetic was prevalent in most of the buildings I entered.

The morning before we were due to drive off in Kid's Fiat towards the East Coast, a tragic accident occurred a block from his apartment. A large lorry's brakes failed, and the driver steered the rampaging beast into a line of parked cars - one of which contained some passengers and was flipped over in mid-air before exploding in a fireball across the intersection, the runaway lorry finally coming to rest in the guts of a hydraulic garbage-truck. Just before nipping down to the Canton for some take-away sweet and sour, I was able to watch the extraction of some deep-fried bodies from part of the wreckage in glorious SONY color on Sammy's TV.

(To be continued).

Stumble It!