The Southwest - Part 20

So a few minutes ago I lined up to get my usual triple-crack macchiato - I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM I CAN STOP ANY TIME I WANT TO - and guess who lines up behind me?

The fuggin' BLIND GUY.  Oh my gawd he can smell me.

As I waited for my order to finish, I was frantically trying to decide which fist to throw first: Lefty, or the Widowmaker?  You know, to hit the blind man with.  I told you your honor it was self defense! 

Thankfully, he ordered a brewed coffee (how plebeian) then walked right past me toward the bathroom. 

Crisis averted.



Annnnd we're back.


August 30th until ??? - "Welcome Home."

Driving well into the night, we arrived at the middle of nowhere.  Pulling up to the front gate, we were approached by a girl dressed as some kind of bunny-dinosaur.  I didn't ask.

She only had one question: "This your first time?"  What did the Prius give us away?

As we quickly learned, all "virgins" to Burning Man must go through the same ritual: we were ordered out of our car, and told to lay down on the playa.  Then, make dust angels.

With this essential task completed, we were each handed a length of steel rebar and told to hit a giant bell as hard as we can, yelling "I AM NOT A VIRGIN ANYMORE!!!"

Pleased with our offering, she hugged us with a genuineness that is all too rare in this world and said "Welcome Home."

----------

As it would turn out, the dust bath was very liberating, but hardly necessary.  Five minutes on the playa and you are caked with layers of sediment - like a spray on tan.  Made of desert.

I'm gonna be honest with you guys, this is actually where my travel notes end.  Evidently I was  way too intoxicated  having too much fun to be scribbling down observations.

Also, there's nowhere to keep your pen, when you're naked. 

So here's the deal, I'm just gonna wing it, piecing together what I remember between the blackouts and the stuff there is no way in hell I'm telling you about.

We followed the sound of techno music into the city.  And it is a city.  By this time there were already over 40,000 people in Black Rock, with hundreds more arriving at all hours of the day. 

The official 2010 census from Black Rock City counted 51,454 citizens, 293 Bureau of Land Management citations, and 8 arrests.  A good year.

Black Rock City is laid out in a semi-circle "C" shape, with The Man in the very centre.  Around him is an open space, known as the Promenade, and behind him a vast expanse of nothingness.  They call this the Playa.

Also, there's an airport.  Just because.

The airport offers free plane rides, sky diving, and membership in the mile high club.

Let me see your pilot's license again...

The city itself is made up of circular avenues, bisected by streets named after the numbers of the clock.  Every clock numbered street leads straight to The Man, making a system that even a drunk (or 50,000 of them) can navigate with ease.

The Man, in all his glory

-----------

We set up camp around 8:30 and Kyoto, which at the time was the edge of the city.  By the next day, we were practically the downtown.

No strangers to setting up camp in the dark, we decided to half-ass it and hit up the party while it was still kicking.  As it turns out, the party literally never stops.  When I awoke the next morning, only half inside my tent, which was only half assembled anyway, the music was still playing.  Loudly.

What struck me about my first night in Black Rock was just how bright this city gets.  Everywhere are strobe lights, spot lights, disco balls, and multi-colored lasers.  Everyone is wearing LEDs.  And sometimes only LEDs. 

Black Rock at night is like watching Tron on E.  Actually, for many Burners, that's probably the case.

I have SO many pictures, some of which are actually SFW.  Here's a taste of Burning Man by night:

Today's show is brought to you by the letter E

Don't lie.  You're a little turned on right now.

I don't even know, you guys.  I don't even know.

This thing is actually interactive.  It plays music, changes colors and spits fire (of course it does), all of which is controlled by three stations spread out around it and free for anyone to use.  What could possibly go wrong?


In case you didn't know, the theme at Burning Man is always FIRE.  

This is where the party at.

 This is the second story of the Heart Machine.  A mobile club (you read that correctly), that roams around the playa and sets up in a different place every night.

These guys are from Toronto and are waaay more normal than they have any right to be.

One group, Nexus, deserves particular mention:

This is what happens when pyros get engineering degrees

If you only knew the power of the dark side...

 For those of you wondering, yes, that is a Tesla coil.  And they're playing with it.

--------------------

 By day the experience is a little different.  For starters, it is hot as hell.  There are those who say yes but it's a "dry heat".  I hate those people.

While many of the hardcore party-goers spend the day hibernating, a whole different breed of Burner emerges during the day.

These are the types who attend the hundreds of yoga classes, workshops and other events I'm not sure how to classify, such as "The Human Car Wash".  Exactly what it sounds like.

Of those workshops, about half of them are sex education.  The other half are technique.

Just like we have Remembrance Day and Black History Month in the real world, Black Rock has its own holidays and traditions.  For instance, the million bunny march.

Again, this is exactly what it sounds like:

Yeah.  Why not?

Wabbits!

Other festivities include "Critical Dicks", a parade of penises for which nothing can adequately prepare you.  Also, Wednesday is "Official Shirt-Cocking Day".  You've been warned.

As I mentioned earlier, it is fuggin' hot in Black Rock.  Getting around during the day requires a great deal of effort and a lot of patience.  Luckily, there are home-made bars (some with home-made booze) on every corner.  The "Playa Surprise" is pretty much the only drink on offer.  Never the same, it usually involves some kind of exotic liquor mixed with much-needed gatorade.

You get used to it.

Many of these fine establishments also have their own greeters, encouraging you to come in out of the heat, take a load off, and keep drinking til dark.  The end result being that you are typically smashed before you even reach the port-a-potties. 

The heat, however, only partly explains the public nudity which is endemic throughout the city.  What makes Black Rock City so special is that you can pretty much do anything you want.  The only rules are: no cars on the playa (with some notable exceptions which I will explain later) and no money can be exchanged inside the city's limits.

Black Rock City is a gift economy.  Everyone contributes something to the community, whether it be booze, art, music, booze, food or booze.  It is a remarkable experiment in human nature.  And it works.  It really does.

The other mantra of Burning Man is self-sufficiency.  Everyone is responsible for bringing their own food and water, and this is an integral component.  Self-sufficiency means no dependency.  Everyone is equal.  The Black Rock Rangers, the medics, the firefighters, the guy who drops you out of the airplane, everyone is a volunteer.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  Free booze?!  Where do I sign?

Besides the bars, there are also many fine-dining establishments, some with gourmet menus.  Of course, whatever you order almost invariably comes back as a grilled cheese -- a Black Rock staple.

And the price is always right.

This was my favorite place.  Because it had soft-serve ice cream.  And free refills.

I took this picture before I knew what pedo bear was.  Now it's that much better.

------------------

 Seeing as how it takes several hours to circumnavigate Black Rock, most citizens travel by bicycle.  In fact, if I have one word of advice for potential Burners it's bring a bicycle.  Also, don't order the Playa Surprise.

There are exceptions, as I mentioned above.  These are the Mutant Vehicles.

I've never been so tempted to steal a car

"All units, suspect is driving a red... nevermind."

Believe it or not, those are two of the smaller mutant vehicles.  Others are two stories tall, and look more like massive land yachts than actual cars.  Some of them actually ARE yachts. 

And of course, the vast majority of them spit fire.

-------

The best part of Burning Man is the Burners themselves.  As Black Rock City is a lifeless desert 51 weeks out of the year, the city really is what people make of it.

I made some great friends in my week at Burning Man.  To protect their identities, I can't give their real names, so let's just call them Pippy Longstocking, Colonel Sanders, and Claire.  You know who you are.

I had a ton of fun roaming the Playa with you guys (Colonel Sanders and I got mistaken for a couple on more than a few occasions).  Probably because we were biking around naked.  And because he totally digs me. 

Also, I want those pictures deleted.

One day a bunch of us played Ultimate on the Playa.  Because you just have to.  The organizer, we'll call her Wonder Woman, gets special mention.

Though I ended up coughing up black stuff the rest of the evening, it was totally worth it.

Why you ask?  Well, Black Rock Mesa has no trees, and no moisture.  Thus, the ground everywhere is covered by a thick layer of dust.  Dust which quickly becomes airborne and then finds its way into your tent, eyes, lungs and most sacred places.

Sometimes there is so much dust as to allow near-zero visibility.  This is called a whiteout.  In case of a whiteout, veteran Burners advise that you put your thumb over your beer, slip on your gas mask and man up. 

This was my first whiteout.  Also the last picture of me in pants.

There is one tradition at Burning Man that does not involve sex and intoxicants.  Probably.

This is the Temple.  The Temple is a different structure every year, always unique, which acts as the unofficial soul of Burning Man.  Every year, Burners come to the Temple to reflect on the struggles that have defined them.  Some pay their respects to those they've lost.

Many write notes and slip them into the Temple walls, others sign the Temple itself.  Messages range from "I miss you, Robert" to "I'm still here, rascals!"  (Okay, it didn't say rascals).

Then, you guessed it, they burn the fugger down.  The result is a real cathartic experience.  Something about arson has a finality to it.  A feeling of putting the past behind you.

It is powerful.


---------

Honestly, trying to really explain Burning Man is next to impossible.  It reminds me of that scene in Contact, where Jodi Foster tries to tell NASA what she's seeing: "No... words... should've... sent a poet..." 

Lack of special effects budget aside - seriously, the alien was her father?!  Come on - I am in a similar predicament.  The only way to truly understand Burning Man is to go there, something which I highly recommend.

All this is also to say that I'm skipping to the end.

The burning of The Man is a truly unique experience.  I mean, it's a giant bonfire with 50,000 people, all decked out in LEDs.  The mutant vehicles surround the crowd, competing for who's DJ is  better  louder, and blasting fireballs into the night sky in what is now really starting to resemble a pagan ritual.


There's even a pregame show:

As always, the theme is FIRE

Then come the FIREworks.  Because you can never have enough fire.

I'm sure they've got a permit for those

Then, they light him up.

It Begins

By this point, the crowd is positively delirious, with 50,000 people cheering and dancing amidst stirring renditions of "The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is ON FIRE".

"Let's burn this motherfugger down, Pookie!"

PS. if you get the the Pookie reference, post the movie in the comments and you win a prize!

Then The Man (seen above, defiant to the last) finally falls, and everyone rushes his still burning remains.

After a whole week of partying, the 50,000 Burners draw on their reserves of sheer willpower to go crazy for one last night.

--------

The next morning is surprisingly civil, given an entire city is experiencing a week long bender induced hangover at the same time.  We drove to the airport in Reno, stopping at a Dunn's for our first cooked meal in a week.  You can tell the Burners in the establishment, mostly because they look like they walked out of a post-apocalyptic movie.  Which in some ways, they did.

I caught my flight, where I was again bumped up to first class.  I could get used to this.

This turned out to be especially fortunate, since they offered me hot towel service.  When the flight attendant came back, the towel was black.  Keep em comin!

When I finally arrived home, I had memories to last a lifetime, a powerful but satisfying hangover, and the best godam shower of my LIFE.

The Southwest - Part 19

August 30th - Pilgrims in an unholy land

This is it guys.  The moment you've been waiting for.

Today, we left for Burning Man.

Leaving Las Vegas one is struck by the utter desolation that is the state of Nevada.  Seriously, no one lives here.  Not even Mormons.  Nothing grows, except the burning realization you should have topped up on gas before you left.

This is bat country.

The road to Black Rock Mesa took nine long hours.  Along the way we passed all of five cars, two houses and incontrovertible proof that the Pentagon has too much money  a naval testing base.  In the desert.

For the first time in the entire trip, we found ourselves out of range of NPR.  Hold me I'm scared. 

As always, one could tune into the station that only plays Glenn Beck.  Desperate to listen to anyone's voice but each other's, we did just that.  Now my soul hurts.

Arriving in the first town for like, a bajillion miles, we were wondering how we managed to get lost in a state with only three highways.  Remembering the Cisco incident, I was skeptical.

Thankfully, it was inhabited.  As we drove toward what was surely the last gas station on Earth we wondered how we were going to find a place that doesn't exist 51 weeks out of the year.  Pulling into the station, we found this:

Property of Washington Inner-City School Board

Yep.  We were definitely on course.

Apparently these guys (all 30 of them) had driven in from Michigan.  This was actually their second bus, as the first one had broken down somewhere in Colorado.  Naturally, they had to take a few moments to pimp out their new ride.

They gave us the final step of directions: turn right, then drive 70 miles into nowhere.

Sounds good to me.

The Southwest - Part 18

Totally still August 29th - "You know what we need man?  Some rope."

I'm told that after the Double Down Saloon, we headed over to eat at the Pink Taco.  I'm told this, because I don't really remember.  Apparently the food was delicious.

The next thing I do remember is staring at a wall of assault rifles in the sports store.  We had walked in to buy a low-profile tent, since the wind had nearly stolen ours a few times in Utah. 

So the "camping section" consisted of two tents, a cooking stove, and enough firepower to invade a small country.

Apparently, when Americans go camping, they make ready to defend the Alamo.  Cause that worked out so well the first time.

In front of me was a dizzying array of fully automatic weapons, each boasting about its considerable "stopping power".  You know, in case the deer is wearing body armor. 

Over forty high-powered rifles to choose from.  And two tents.

I couldn't resist inquiring.  The nice lady behind the counter informed me that a customer can walk in, choose something particularly lethal, and - after a cursory security check which amounts to little more than a literacy test -  walk out with their assault rifle the same day.  Ammo is by the register.  Next to the gum.

There was something in her voice I couldn't quite place until afterward, me being intoxicated and all.

It was pride.

The Southwest - Part 17

STILL August 29th - Will you still respect me in the morning?

Now that we were flush with cash, we decided to go for food.  Beer is food right?

A friend, or should I say former friend, of mine had insisted that anyone visiting Las Vegas just has go to the Double Down Saloon.

I don't know about you, but to me a name like Double Down Saloon sounds like a quaint little tex-mex restaurant.  This being Vegas there would probably be some video poker machines scattered around.
 
Well friends, this is not tex-mex.  

For those of you who have been there: shame on you.

For those that haven't, the Double Down Saloon is the self-described "happiest place on Earth".  Greasier than the KFC sandwich named after it (and far more guilt-inducing), merely crossing the threshold immediately drops you three rungs down the social ladder of polite society.

The Saloon is located in a nondescript building, with no signage anywhere.  So the paramedics will never find you.  Walking in from the hot Vegas sun you squint into a nearly impenetrable shroud of darkness.  As it turns out, this darkness is a metaphor; for your soul.

Seems legit to me.

Once the door had slammed shut behind us, I found myself instinctively reaching for my  rape whistle   wallet.  From somewhere to the right I heard a voice: "You want a drink?"

I couldn't see him, but he promised booze.  I had to risk it.

"I'll take your finest beverage, drop-shotted into your second finest."  I'm all class.

As it turns out, there are two specials at the Double Down.  The first is the notorious "Ass Juice", sold to unsuspecting newbies with the slogan "from our ass to your glass".  The second, the famed the Bacon Martini.  Which is exactly what it sounds like: awful.

I got one of each.  At the barman's advice, I also bought two beers as chasers. 

So I have good news and bad news.  The good news is, despite their best efforts, the Ass Juice is fucking delicious.  The bad news is the Bacon Martini is concentrated evil. 

It is literally made of vodka with pieces of bacon floating in it.  Thankfully (most of) the bacon bits are strained out during pouring.  The result is a salty, alcoholic monstrosity that will not only put hair on your chest but your head on the floor and someone's hand down your pants.

Stubbornly ignoring everything my mother ever tried to tell me, and a very determined gag-reflex, I managed to finish the Bacon Martini.  

At this point, I had consumed four drinks in the span of about half an hour and had completely abandoned all thoughts of breakfast (and being a responsible adult).  

Had I not been mercifully tanked at this point, I would have gone home to bathe in hand sanitizer. 

My mom would be so proud.

The Southwest - Part 16

Still August 29th - It's not gambling if you KNOW you're going to win...

Believe it or not, we did not go to Vegas for the oxygen bars.

Having never gambled before, I decided to give it a spin.  You know what they say, "When in Rome  Caesar's Palace..."

So buzzing on my oxygen high, I decided the only sane thing to do was hit the gaming floor.  And hit it hard.  That's when I discovered the craps tutorial taking place.  I decided to attend.

The tutorial was as overwhelming as it was incomprehensible.  After a half hour of intensive study, I now knew you played with dice.  Seven's were good, except when they weren't.  I figured that was enough.

Determined to lose my money in time for lunch, I approached the nearest craps table and put down my twenty bucks.  First lesson: twenty bucks buys a surprisingly small stack of chips.

Undeterred, I moved to put half my chips down on the loneliest square I could find.  Immediately, the grizzled vet to my left grabbed my wrist and said: "Don't play the field.  That's just the casino bending you over a barrel."  Thanks guy who's been gambling since last night.

That was lesson two.

Intrigued, and only slightly in fear for my life, I put my chips next to his.  Then something amazing happened.  We won.

Like an eager child presented with the cookie jar, I reached for my winnings.  Again, the man grabbed my wrist and said "Let it ride."

Note to self: wash wrist.

Then something even crazier happened.  We won again.  And again.

I started getting into the swing of things.  The free drink lady (slash my new best friend) was making the rounds and I got a White Russian.  Because you have to.  And "The Dude" is my hero, yo.

My vet and I kept winning for the next half hour when he said "Whelp, it was good to meet ya son.  I'm-a go hit the bar."   (Read: "You got a purdy mouth, boah").

As my good luck charm, and what was left of my comfort level, were about to disappear, I picked this moment to cash out.  With over a hundred bucks.

Lesson Three:  Apparently I am good at gambling.

The Southwest - Part 15

August 29th - Marketing 101

So after a thoroughly gluttonous night in Vegas, I awoke, bleery-eyed* and made my way to the lobby of Luxor.  At least I think it was the lobby.  This pyramid is built like a maze, either to confuse potential grave-robbers or trap the elderly. 

*According to dictionary.com "bleery" is not a word.  "Did you mean beery?"  Yep, that'll work.

As last night I had experienced the buffet to end all buffets, the last last thing I wanted was more food.  So I settled for the next best thing: the oxygen bar.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, it's that machine in the hospital that pumps oxygen directly into your face via tubes up your nose.  Like much of the medical industry -- the ass-less gowns, nurses who are mildly attractive at best, and DISCOUNT BRAND JELL-O -- the purpose is to make you as uncomfortable as possible so you'll fake your recovery enough to get you out of there. 

However, unlike the hospital, the oxygen bar in Luxor is administered by a pretty girl and not a doctor who thinks he knows better than you.  I told you it's athlete's foot NOW GIVE ME THE MORPHINE!

So the girl hooks me up and immediately proceeds to give me a back rub.  Oh Luxor, I've misjudged you.  She busts out all sorts of crazy and wonderful massage devices and begins telling me about how she's "balancing my chakras" and "restoring my chi". 

Between her skillful manipulations and what was by now a pretty serious oxygen buzz, I am purring like a kitten with a fresh saucer of liquid cocaine. 

And that's when the pitch came.  In an instant she went from "me love you long time" to late night infomercial.  In practiced fashion she begins to list off the various benefits and payment methods for each of the little devices with which she had seduced me into this stupor. 

This goes on for twenty minutes.  And of course, I can't leave as I am literally attached to the bar by my face.

All I know is that when that sweet sweet O2 stopped flowing, there was an array of  mythical creatures  tacky little products arranged in front of me and a very expectant looking masseuse.

You are good, Vegas.  You.  Are good.

The Southwest - Part 14

August 28th - Viva Las Vegas!

Barley able to move, I dragged myself into the car and we headed for Sin City.  I'll spare you the details of the drive, save that it was very well documented.

We arrived in Las Vegas that night.  Well, whatever passes for "night" in Vegas.

OMG, we made it you guys. We had stumbled out of the desert and into the (un)holy land.

After spending the last week in a bad post-apocalyptic movie  camping in Utah, we decided to splurge.  Cruising down the strip in our lonely Prius (seriously guys, where are the rest of the hybrids?!) we settled on the gaudiest hotel we could find: Luxor.

See that pyramid?  I lived in there.

Walking into the casino, a couple things grab your attention.  For starters, Criss Angel appears to be the main attraction, as there are giant posters of him everywhere.  All of which show him shirtless.  To be honest, I am skeptical of any performer who's main credentials are his abs. 

You can tell his career is booming, as he shares the stage with several other luminaries, most notably Carrot Top.  I'm pretty sure Luxor is where careers go to die.

Also, you can smoke indoors.  In fact, it appears there are very few things you can't do in Vegas.  Want to shoot an AK-47?  Ask the concierge.  Sex a panda?  One phone call.  Yeah, he knows a guy.

There is a strip club INSIDE the casino.

It seems the only rule in Vegas is that food must come in buffet form.

The Southwest - Part 13

August 27th - On the Road

Today we said goodbye to our Moab campsite, Arches National Park and the black widow which had taken up residence in our latrine (I named her Bertha).  

The plan was a straight drive to the Grand Canyon, stopping only for gas, water and Subway.  Oh my youthful optimism.  My father, avid photographer and ADHD poster child that he is, decided we needed to stop at every bend in the road to take pictures.  The resulting photo album reads like Google Streetview.

Packed into our claustrophobic Prius again, I began to appreciate why Kerouac took so many drugs. 

As the sun set, we finally reached the Grand Canyon.  Wow, they weren't kidding you guys.  This thing is HUGE.

I photographed this squirrel for perspective.  Okay it was because he's adorable.

The Grand Canyon is so deep and so touristy that you can throw a rock into it, get an espresso and be back in time to watch it land.  Also, it was carved by the Colorado River - which means it's a death trap.

I'm not kidding.  Everywhere you go, there are signs warning the "young and invincible" that any deviation from the main path will result in certain and protracted death.  I guess the BLM shoots to kill. 

August 28th - Challenge Accepted

OMG!  Today's post is a two-fer!  

On a completely unrelated note, it has come to my attention that people outside of Ontario don't call cases of beer "two-fours".  Then what do you call the May Two-Four long weekend?  Victoria Day?!  So you don't drink a whole case of -- FIREWORKS?!  Get out of my sight.

Okay we're back.  So we set out early the next morning to tempt fate again  tackle the canyon.  Before we began our descent, we encountered the Big Scary Sign.  It read:

1) Do not hike down to the river and back in one day.  How about half a day?

2) Do not hike between 10 am and 4 pm.  You're not my mom.

3) Take breaks every 30 minutes.  If you're a wuss.

4) Bring plenty of water.  Dude, water is HEAVY.

5) Eat plenty of snacks.  If I have to eat another Cliff bar, people will DIE.

Pausing only to take in the beautiful vistas, and dodging (with minimal success) the minefield of mule poop, I took off for the basin. 

Well I made it to down to the cursèd Colorado River and had a victory pee.  Just kidding, I hadn't peed in days.  

Unfortunately, the ease of the descent and the cool morning shade belied the perilous return trip.
Lumbering back UP the switchbacks, in the full heat of the sun, I learned a very valuable lesson.  There is a profound difference between miles hiked horizontally, and miles hiked vertically.

The canyon, which hours earlier had seemed so beautiful, now began to look something like this:











Those damn mules had made it look so easy.

The Southwest - Part 12

So now that  the booze has run out   the semester is finished, it's time to return to our regularly scheduled programming.

I'm back at my local coffee shop and it feels good (I found my old butt groove).  Unfortunately, writing in public means I no longer get to type away in my underpants.  Or as I call them, my "brainstorming briefs".  Alas, Bridgehead has a strict pants policy (I asked).  Stop smothering my creativity!

Misunderstood artistic expression aside,  I now proudly present the triumphant return of The Southwest!


August 27th - Back on the Colorado: this time it's personal

For those of you who remember the Duckie Incident you know that the Colorado River and I have a history.  By that I mean it wants to kill me.  Probably because I kept peeing in it.

Still alive against all odds, we decided the best thing to do was tempt fate again by going whitewater rafting in a place called Westwater Canyon.

You may know it better as the River Styx

THIS is Westwater Canyon:

















Now most people opt for the raft where the guide paddles for you (pictured above).  As should already be evident by now, we are not most people.  Most people, as it turns out, are sane.

We opted for the DIY approach: a bunch of untrained tourists wielding plastic paddles that I'm almost certain said Fisher Price on them somewhere.  I was scared to check.

There were eight people to a boat.  At first.  And guess what?  We were randomly teamed up with the French guys!  Who by now were clearly spying on us.

So we plunged into the Colorado with reckless abandon.  I don't remember much else after that, although my vocabulary of French swear words has now vastly expanded.

Afterwards, the survivors all cracked open some Coors (Regular Coors guys!  It's real!) while we floated back to Moab. 

Along the way we passed some Canada Geese.  In August.  As our guide informed us, apparently these guys have figured out that it's actually always warm there and that that whole migration thing is for suckers. 

Which I guess means they're just geese now.

The Southwest - Part 11

So I was up at four a.m. this morning.

Because I'm AWESOME that's why.

Had you asked me last week about the dawn I would have told you it's a myth, like dragons.  Or gravity.  But lo and behold, it exists.  I have seen it.

After plugging away at french homework for a while (I'm awesome, remember?) I decided to catch up on some long overdue sleep writing.  Because that's what sane people do.

So in order to please my adoring fan base assuage my conscience, I present to you the Southwest Part 11!


August 26th - The Road Less Traveled (because it's not a damn road)

Remember travel tips 1 and 2?

Allow me to explain.  My father is the kind of environmental crusader who, when he went to empty our trash bag, came back with all the bottles and cans that had been misplaced, tragically, into the Moab garbage bins.  This actually led to a net gain of refuse in our tiny hybrid car.

If I wanted to rebel, all I'd have to do is fail to compost an apple core.

It should here also be noted that, whatever else he is, my dad is the kind who will drive across the country doing dangerous things with his son because he loves him.  So he gets a pass.

But I digress.  Today was a day I'd been looking forward to.  Today we went trail riding.  And I use the term "trail" lightly.  The barren hellscape that surrounds Moab just goes to show why everyone but the Mormons had the good sense to keep moving.

Nevertheless, it is absolutely stunning.  Observe:

"I can make it."

Note: that picture is actually me.

Also Note: I look hawt in bike shorts.  (Thank you for noticing)

Now I thought I knew mountain biking.  Evidently, I was wrong.  If you want to know what riding around Moab is like, picture corporal punishment.  That's it.  You're done.

My butt cheeks still aren't speaking to me.  

The views were, as per usual, spectacular.  We also ran into a charming group of french guys along the trail.  We compared maps, bruises and last will and testaments exit strategies.

After the ride we decided to explore the town, since the last thing we wanted to do was sit down. 

It is around this part of the trip that I came up with this:


The Four Stages of Adventure Trips

1) Finally!  An excuse to eat cliff bars again.

2) Another cliff bar?  Why not!

3) I'd kill you for a salad.

4) I can't remember my last bowel movement.

The Southwest - Part 10

August 25 - Can you say "Viking Funeral"?

We awoke (against all odds) the next morning to the sun rising over the canyon wall of the Colorado River.  Little did we know we had set up camp in a National Geographic photograph.  Alright Utah, we're even.

There's something you should know about camping in Utah: it is an almost capital offense to urinate in the desert.  Seriously, these guys aren't messing around.

Now before you start wondering what the Mormons could possibly have against urinating, it turns out there is actually a good reason for this.  Evidently the desert ecosystem can't process the nitrogen in urine, so that if you pee your name in the desert it will stay there, permanently.  And they tell you this to discourage you from doing it.  Silly Mormons.

Now, normally this would be a problem except that you never, ever have to pee.  The rule of thumb for desert camping is that if you are not drinking water (note I said drinking, not sipping) right now, you aren't drinking enough water.  And still, you never have to pee.  It's actually a real time saver.

Our first day in Moab we decided to hit the Colorado River rapids.  We rented two inflatable kayaks, deceptively referred to as "Duckies" (ducks don't float upside down), and launched a few miles upstream.

"Duckie" is actually spanish for "Death Trap"

From the road, the Colorado appears very calm, even tranquil.  This is a trick, designed to lure unsuspecting mariners to their doom.  The current is very, very strong. 

This being my first experience with white water rafting, no one had bothered to inform me that, once the rapids take you, your paddle becomes little more than a placebo.  Clutching my (at this point purely ornamental) paddle in a death grip, I flew (usually right side up) all the way back to Moab with all the grace of a piece of jetsam. 

Heading back into town  to explore my options for legal recourse  for a much needed, if barely qualified, beer (or ten) we found one of the few restaurants with a highly coveted "liquor" license.  As you can likely guess, getting a liquor license in Utah is a Herculean task, making such establishments very popular indeed.

Long story short: getting drunk in Utah is not just a chore.  It is an accomplishment.

Mission Accomplished.

The Southwest - Part 9

August 24 - I am the night

So not the type to waste time (you can sleep when you're dead) and clearly making good decisions on account of dehydration, we decided to go night hiking in Arches National Park.

Arches, at least the small cone of it illuminated by my headlamp, was beautiful.  Also, headlamps are a truly amazing invention, except for one flaw: they attract bugs.  To your face.

As it turns out, Arches is very aptly, if not creatively, named.  There are dozens of naturally-formed arches scattered throughout the park, some of which you can walk right under.  One in particular, the Delicate Arch, is a beautiful and precarious formation cleverly hidden away up a mountain.

With the last rays of sunlight we read the sign describing the route to Delicate Arch: four miles.  Ha! we thought, ain't no thang.  However, as it turns out there is a world of difference between miles hiked horizontally and miles hiked vertically. 

Determined to catch the moonrise at the Arch (because we are  going to get ourselves killed one of these days  hardcore) we took off at a march for the summit.  The "trail" was marked only by rocks, cleverly hidden among other rocks.  Our ascent turned out to be not so much a "hike" as some kind of penitence for our sins.  And evidently our sins had been numerous and flagrant.

Reaching the summit (totally worth it guys) we found a number of other similarly suicidal foolish hikers.  In particular a family of Belgians who had found themselves stranded atop the mountain without  a horde of flesh-hungry insects around their face  headlamps.  The daughter approached me in the earnest hope that we could escort them to back to safety.  Spitting in the face of Darwin Because I'm a gentleman, I agreed.  (Okay, she was totally cute you guys.  We're facebook friends now!)

The hike back was quite pleasant.  We chatted, en français, with the Belgians (who by the way speak much better french than us Canadians, sorry guys).  The daughter was really quite  patient with us while we bastardized her language  charming, while her father was somewhat less charming (but considerably more racist).

Getting back to the car in the twilight hours, we took off for a nearby campsite because we're cheap crazy.  For those of you that don't know, setting up a tent in the dark is like running through a forest lathered in honey, in that it should never be attempted again.

It was also around this time that I discovered that mankind's greatest invention is not the wheel, the alphabet or even penicillin, but rather the pillow, and if you don't believe me try laying your head down anywhere in the state of Utah without one.

Also, do not travel with perfectionists.  Don't even befriend them.  They're bad for you.

The Southwest - Part 8

August 24 - Yoo-TAW!

I know you were all worried, but yes, we survived.   Evidently the highway we wanted was a few miles past Cisco (still unmarked, what the hell Utah?)

While it was still two hours to Moab, and my father felt compelled to take photos of every bend in the road (urge to kill... rising...) we made it without having to refuel.  Hybrids, guys.  They're a thing.

You guys remember the roadrunner and coyote show?  Utah actually looks like that.

We pulled into Moab just as the sun was setting.  I thought I'd seen what a sunset looks like.  Evidently, I was wrong:

Some things you guys should know about Moab, Utah.  First off, Moab does not belong in Utah.  It is a glaring cartographical error.  Moab is filled with trendy shops with anti-establishment slogans like "Coffee: Still Legal in Utah".  It's the one place in the state where dreadlocks outnumber cowboy hats (though both are equally unfashionable).

Now some things you should know about the rest of Utah.  Not only are the people of Utah very friendly, they are related.

And you know all those jokes about American beer?  À la "What do American beer and sex in a canoe have in common?  They're both fucking close to water."  (Canada, I love you.)

Well in Utah it is actually true.  It is state law that no establishment can sell beverages above 3.2% alcohol.  The effect being that a beer in Utah has the potency of watered-down baby formula. 

So between the wedding and the mormons, I have not had a real drink since the airplane.  I know, I'm scared too.

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.

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.

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.