The Southwest - Part 7

August 24 - Road Trippin'

With the wedding concluded, we packed up our gear and drove up to Grand Junction, which, while it is a junction where I-70 meets hwy-50, it isn't "grand" as such.  But we shouldn't hold that against it.  The people of Grand Junction are actually very friendly and helpful.  In fact, it recently occurred to me that people are very friendly and helpful pretty much everywhere and so I should stop remarking on how friendly and helpful they are.

One local was a little too friendly and tried to recruit me into a pyramid scheme.  Having already had two run-ins with cults (seriously, is it me you guys?) I could smell the scam coming a mile away and politely but forcefully refused.

After an afternoon getting supplies/experiencing the inevitable time sink that is an outdoors store ("you know what, I could use some ice-climbing shoes!") we checked into a quaint little motel which had all the charm of an ashtray (minus a few amenities).  There was a pool which my dad bravely took a swim in, whereas I opted for the shower.  Unfortunately, the shower only had one setting: sandblaster.  It wasn't so much exfoliating as it was literally flaying the skin from my bones.

The next morning, we took off for Utah, land of cowboy hats, pick up trucks, and teeth that play by their own rules.  Flipping through the radio stations, you inevitably come across a number of religious broadcasts (or as we came to refer to them "Godcasts") featuring a hilarious line-up of unwitting comedians, including my personal favourite: Glenn Beck*.

*you know, if you listen to Glenn Beck long enough, he totally starts to make sense.  This is when your driving companion must, literally and forcefully, smack some sense back into you.

Before leaving Grand Junction, the locals informed us of a "scenic" route into Utah that was not on the map, but definitely worth taking.   And totally, unmistakably real.  So amidst a sea of four-wheel drives, pickups and semis, our little Prius took a little-marked exit off I-70 and into... nowhere.

Seriously, this lonely road was unmarked, unpaved and utterly unimpressed with our paltry little hybrid.  Think Cormac McCarthy here.  And these seasoned vets forgot to bring a map.  Or water.

The thing about dehydration is that it does more than just make you thirsty.  It makes you cranky.   By this point, our respective crank meters had moved from tantrum, to "this town ain't big enough for the two of us" to "if I have to, I will eat you".

A few miles further on we saw signs for a town called Cisco.  Relieved, we figured one of the undoubtedly friendly locals would take pity on us and point us back to the highway.

Well we found Cisco.

Evidently so had Father Time.  Not only did Cisco lack residents, most of the buildings lacked roofs.

It was at this point that the fuel light came on.

The Southwest - Part 6

August 22 - The Big Day

This was it.  The wedding had finally arrived.  However, seeing as how it wasn't until 4:00, we had most of a day to kill.   So my aunts and I headed off to the nearby town (read: tourist mecca) of Telluride.

This place has a tourist info "center" (sic) the size of a city block.  Inside is a woman who knows everything about Telluride and is determined to prove it to you. 

For the record, Telluride was beautiful.  We took a free gondola ride up into the Mountain Village -- a town so artificial you half expect to round the corner and see a pack of munchkins breaking into song.  You know, like in those strangely erotic dreams you keep having.  Just me?  Nvm.

Narrowly escaping an immediate return trip, we leaped from the gondola and were immediately handed a fistful of coupons for various drink specials at the local pub.  Telluride, you just get me.

Being a devout Adventist, my one aunt doesn't drink, smoke, or even talk loudly.  The other, being our driver, had to maintain at least the semblance of sobriety.

I was not so burdened.  That day I learned a valuable lesson: wine at 10,000 feet is considerably more potent than wine at sea level.

On our way back we decided to stop by the nature centre, because what the hell, I like nature.  Also, I could feel some "nature" stirring in my insides and desperately needed to answer that call.

Ignoring the fact that the nature centre is inside, we entered, optimistic. 

Now, it would be impossible to describe the whole nature centre, without vowels.
But here goes: Fckng Smll.

Seriously, the "nature" centre consists of a map, a man, a concession stand, and some baggies of authentic animal droppings which, being situated way too close to the Mars bars, could only be hurting their profit margin.  Did you see a bathroom in that list?  Neither did I. 

Needing a place to make some "authentic" droppings of my own, we hightailed it back down the mountain. The rest is between me and the Telluride septic authority.

Now the part you've all (both?) been waiting for: the Wedding.

After "suiting up", we drove up the same mountain from my fateful run the day before.  (The llama farm was real you guys!)

The wedding took place on this plateau called Top of the Pines, which had a beautiful, panoramic view of the mountains.  Simply stunning.  This was nature; the kind you don't find in "nature" centres.

It was a lovely ceremony.  The reading from the bible (there was a lot of this) was made significantly more dramatic by the rumblings of the storm brewing in the distance.

Luckily, the weather held out.  Rachel didn't show up to tell Ross she still loves him.  To the best of my knowledge, there were no shotguns involved. 

We finished the family pictures (wow we have a lot of family) as the first raindrops fell.

I'd call that endorsement from on high.

Update: Yes I did end up writing and performing a song.  I was drunk inspired.

The Southwest - Part 5

August 21 - The Bachelor Party (Rated PG-13)

Okay so this was my second bachelor party.  Once again Hollywood had deeply misled me as to what a bachelor party looks like.

Now, according to my extensive research (read: Girls Gone Wild) the USA does in fact have naked girls.

There were, however, no girls.  And little to no wildness.

Now before you get all concerned let me lay your fears to rest.  Yes, there was some nudity.  Mostly my own.  I'll let that image nestle into your brain for a moment.

So thoroughly buzzed on black bean burgers and decidedly un-spiked punch, we left the barbecue to go celebrate my brother's last day as an unmarried man.

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Interlude: No, Bridgehead.  I am not going to buy another coffee just for the privilege of using your internet for another hour.  Deal with it.
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First stop was the Orvis Hot Springs.  Just what this party was missing: sweaty dudes.

This (clothing optional) facility was actually pretty nifty.  The sun had just set, so here we were floating on our backs looking up at a night sky replete with stars: the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the Big Dipper, George Clooney and Alderan.

Of course, no clothing optional establishment would be complete without Mr. Rotund-I-should-be-ashamed-of-my-body-but-I'm-not-so-now-it's-your-problem-not-mine.  Luckily, once you moved away from the lights, his portly form was mercifully shrouded in darkness.  You couldn't see him, but you knew he was out there.  Somewhere.

In some kind of vague tribute to my brother's new-found love, I decided to take off my swimming trunks.  What? you don't have to look.  But I like it when you do.

On a completely unrelated note, can you still blame a hot spring for shrinkage?  I'm asking for a friend...

At 10:00 they gave us the boot.  Apparently the springs were now for "overnight guests only".  I can only imagine what scandalous things go on in those pools after hours. 

Thoroughly regretting having put my head under the water, we headed back to the house to play "cards".  As it turns out, "cards" was actually code for "cards".

We ended up playing a game called Dutch Blitz, which, I shit you not, is literally Amish.

That's right, we partied like it was 1899.

The Southwest - Part 4

August 21 -  The Day Before the Day After Tomorrow

I don't remember the rest of the trip into Ridgway.  Free booze will do that to you.

So waking up in a foreign bed (or as I call it, saturday) I decided the best cure for my hangover would be to go for a run.  My reasoning can only be explained by a) still being drunk and b) altitude sickness.

The problem with this plan, aside from the obvious, is that in Ridgway there is only one direction of travel: UP.

Not to be deterred by simple things like common sense, aversion to pain or the instinct to survive, I tore up the nearest hill (read: motherf***ing mountain.  Colorado doesn't do hills).

Passing by   the conjurings of my booze-addled oxygen-deprived mind  a llama farm I soon realized (the full extent of) my mistake: there is no way to gently descend a mountain while running.  My return trip was more of a (un)controlled plummet.  Don't even think about   petting that llama  tying that shoelace!

That afternoon I  was carried  went to what my Seventh Day Adventist kin call a "devotional".  A devotional is basically like a wedding but without booze, cake, music, booze or cake.

This was followed by a group hike (still no booze) and then a barbecue (no meat AND no booze).  Can you even call it a barbecue if there's no meat?  That's more like a stir fry.

I don't know if you've ever attended a family barbecue sober, but those things are long.  It's amazing how slowly time goes by without social lubricant.  Where's the classic after dinner entertainment: those two uncles who can barely contain their hate for each other long enough to unwrap presents, whose animosity needs only a sprinkling of eggnog to erupt into a (hilarious) showdown?

This was going to be a long weekend.

Still Alive

Hey Reader,

First off, I owe you an apology.  No post yesterday.  For shame!

I have been sorely busy, pulling 13 hour days at the university.  Somehow, after a whole day studying terrorism, I don't feel like coming home and making funnies.

This hectic schedule shouldn't last much longer.  Well, that or I'll just off myself.  Either way.

Keep your eyes glued to your google reader / the obituaries because there is more pie coming your way!

The Southwest - Part 3

Still August 20 - So this is how the other half lives...

Part 1
Part 2

Boarding the plane from Chicago to Denver, the flight attendant looked at my ticket and immediately sequestered me away from the other passengers.  Suspicious, I followed her to the forward cabin.

Oh Em Gee you guys, it finally happened.  I had been bumped up to FIRST CLASS!  I had stepped through the looking glass and into a better world.

Taking my seat, I was enveloped in plush, leathery softness.  It was like sitting on a cloud.  Stretching my legs to their full extension, I reclined in the comfort of the good life.  Suddenly, I was a winner.

Cradling the remains of my deep dish pizza (you try and finish it in one sitting!) I sunk blissfully into my seat.

Shortly after takeoff (I had left the ground long before that) I was awoken from my revelry:

"Do you prefer red or white?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your wine, sir.  Red or white?"

"Is it... complimentary?"

"It's all complimentary, sugar."  Yeah, she went with sugar

"..."

Regaining my composure (what little I had), I requested the Shiraz, because I could pronounce it.  She filled my glass.  All the way.  Evidently there was no need for the pretense of moderation.  This was the good life, baby.

I decided to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Feeling like one of the old boys, I engaged my neighbour in some sophisticated, big man talk.

"Where are you coming from?"  Stronger opener, I know.

"China.  Yourself?"  *Blink*

"Dubai."  Don't judge me.  You weren't there.

Our brief conversational duel was cut short by the arrival of the in-flight meal.  All.  Three.  Courses of it.

The common folk didn't even get pretzels. 

This was followed by a hot towel which I was thoroughly confused as to what to do with.  (Did I just end a sentence with a preposition?  Erin this is why you are my official editor.)

Determined to make me as "comfortable as possible", the flight attendants made it their personal mission that my glass never even approach empty.

I floated the rest of the way into Denver.

You get what you pay for...

Dear Readers,

Part 3 of the Southwest will have to be postponed until monday, as I am leaving shortly for a tournament in Sherbrooke (yes, I know, Ultimate is back!)

It's a camping tournament (no interwebs!!), so I've spent the last while packing and have run out of time to give you the delicious pie we all know you crave.  Rather than try to rush through the next part of the story I decided to save the goods until I have time to do it right.

It's going to be dastardly cold this weekend and yet they decided to make the tournament theme "the beach" which is obviously code for "nipples".

See you monday!  I love all (three) of you.

The Southwest - Part 2

Part 1 found here.

August 20 - En Route

You know what happens when you book your flights four days in advance?*  You get five hour layovers in Chicago.

*see travel tips 1 and 2

We landed in O-Hare with several hours to kill (thank YOU expedia). 

Rather than make forced conversation with the 'rents (No, I still don't know what I'm doing with my life) I decided there was only one thing to do: eat an authentic, Chicago-style deep dish pizza.  

Now we had a plan, all that remained was to set it in motion. 

There was only one problem.  My father (travel tips 1 and 2).  This is a man who finds every single airport employee, piece of art and ikea lampshade undeniably interesting.  Seriously, he is attracted to random shit like a moth to a flame.  A moth with a heavy duty (4 piece set) Nikon camera who needs to take 80 shots of a bottle-shaped recycling bin (I wish I was making this up).

I am now thoroughly convinced that the digital camera is the most heinous invention of all time.  With these new 8000 gigabyte memory cards, one could snap away for hours if one were so inclined.  And he is so inclined.

But fear not, Readers.  There is nothing that can stand between me and delicious pizza(seriously I will bite through your calf, just try me).  As we exited (you fall behind you get left behind) I quickly ascertained that the airport is apparently an hour away from everything.  Way to go, Chicago.  You're on notice.

Undeterred, we jumped onto a subway train where a drunk man was positively assured that I and everyone else on the train were somehow racists, and told us so emphatically.  Which reminds me, I haven't been to Toronto in a while...

While on the train my father politely suggested we go visit the Sears Tower instead of getting pizza.  I politely suggested he leap from the moving train (tuck and roll!).

An hour on the subway and a short cab ride later we arrived at Pizzeria Uno, where we were informed it takes an hour to cook a pizza.  How deep is this dish?!

That's two, Chicago.

"Bag it!" I said.  "We'll eat it at the airport."  My father again proposed we check out the Sears Tower.  I proposed that he "sit down before you fall down."

We got our pizza to go and jumped back in a cab, then the subway, finally arriving at the airport with less than an hour to spare before our flight (uncanny).  In line for security we scarfed down our culinary treasure and let me tell you, it was SO. Worth it.

Chicago has officially ruined pizza for me.  I may never love again like I loved this deep-dished masterpiece.

As we reached the metal detectors, the security woman "randomly" selected me to go through the body scanner (read: naked machine).  She totally digs me.

The Southwest - Part 1

Ok Readers, due to popular demand (and my own crushing guilt) I'm going to actually follow through on my promise and put my adventures through the Southwest into print.

Apparently   the unwashed masses  the lowly plebs  my esteemed readership will not be satisfied with incoherent ramblings, toaster elves and toilet humour.  Who knew?

The strange thing is that I feel somehow obligated to reward this mutinous behaviour.  And there are like what, five of you?  God forbid I ever get famous!

So without further ado, I shall play to the gallery.  More bread, more circuses, and more pie. 

August 20 - The Departure

Travel Tip #1 - Never, ever travel with my father.
Travel Tip #2 - No, seriously.

My family (or elements of) have a very special gift.  They can bend the space-time continuum.  They exist in some kind of temporal bubble such that no matter what time it is in the rest of the world, it is perpetually an hour later in their little piece of the universe.  I try not to think too hard on it.  It is a paradox for greater minds than I.

Let's just sum up by saying that my parents* live in a world where being late is a competitive sport, and they play for keeps.  How they survive in a world with deadlines, last calls and (this is important) airplane boarding times is beyond me.

*my parents on my father's side that is.  Yes, for those keeping score I have backup parents.  That means twice the presents (just kidding, hippies don't do presents) and having to justify your life choices to four different people. 

So an hour and fifteen minutes before takeoff we decide to head to the airport.  Then an hour before takeoff we actually head to the airport.  Dashing through the airport lobby (something security generally frowns upon), we get bogged down in a customs line longer than a Soviet toilet paper queue.  Apparently getting into the US these days requires everything short of some seminal fluid and a stool sample.

Our actually catching the flight can only be explained by  my step-mother literally standing in the doorway like some civil rights activist forcing them to wait for us  divine intervention.

You GUYS! *shoe stare*

So it's come to my attention that there are people actually reading this blog!  For that, I'm sorry.

You know what this means don't you, Reader?  This means that when I don't post people notice.   

Real people.

And here I go around making grandiose promises about travel stories (um, hello?  I still haven't typed up my stories from Turkey and Italy yet!)

This can only end in KY wrestling disaster.

I am actually in the office right now, "working".  I feel like  I officially have no purpose in this office  a blog NINJA!

  That's how much I love you guys.  I'm risking upgrading to a higher income bracket by a) collecting EI   b) panhandling   c) whoring myself out getting fired just to keep you all (both?) in the loop. 

So here's the deal.  You keep reading, I'll keep writing.  Sound good?  Great.

ps. I love you guys.  Comments always appreciated and rewarded with money   sex but lights off and no kissing  gratitude?

Return of the Jedi!

Yes, in this scenario I am the Jedi.  Deal with it.

I have finally returned from my travels in the southwest, and I have tales to tell.  After two weeks spent camping in the desert (and the desolate hellscape that is the site of Burning Man) I got in last night and had the most satisfying shower of my life.  I can't describe to you how dirty I was.  There was dust in... places.

Much vigorous scrubbing later, I finally managed to remove the layer of sediment caked onto my skin. From there I fell into bed and slept for twelve glorious hours.

I missed you, Reader.  You're looking good.  Have you lost weight?  Sorry I haven't called.  I was busy   really really drunk   stranded in 1885    out of range of the internet, telephones and people who know how to spell "centre"   thinking of you.

Lots of travel stories in the works.  For now, I have a big paper due tomorrow for my NGO* contract. 

*If you've never worked for an NGO, picture all the stress of a high-up government job except with the pay/benefits of a line cook.

It's good to be home.