Road Trip, April 2002

So here we are in 2002, and the trip I have just returned from has been dubbed "California Solo Mission 2.0". It has occurred to me on many occasions that the cross country road trip I took in 1994 was a seminal growth experience in my life, so I decided to follow a similar route on this trip, but backwards, making a counterclockwise circle from Chicago to California and back to compliment the clockwise trip I took eight years ago.

In early 2002, a wide array of harrowing circumstances in my life had more or less put me in a position where I had to completely rethink my entire future, and to reappraise everything that is important to me. After spending most of March and early April in bed, I decided that a good ol' road trip was just what I needed to clear my head, figure out what I wanted to do for the next few decades, and cheer myself up.

Financial resources would be limited. I budgeted two weeks and about $1000 in cash (half of my savings) and hit the road in my Nissan jalopy (the Mobile Exploration Lab), which had recently enjoyed it's 100,000th mile on the pavement. I had no guarantee that the car would make it to Iowa, let alone Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, California, Nevada (again), Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and back into Illinois. A credit card would bail me out of minor emergencies or the eventuality of a slightly over-budget trip.

I spent a big chunk of 2001 and 2002 writing a new book, Tiki Road Trip. For those that don't know me well, I have an affinity for the history, art, and culture of the South Pacific islands, as well as an appreciation for the culture, design, and aesthetic style of America in the 1940's and 1950's. These two seemingly unrelated interests have conveniently merged, taking the form of an ongoing quest to document the remnants of the faux-Polynesian 'Tiki' craze which was extremely popular in America from about 1934 to about 1970. In almost every city, one can find remnants of Polynesian themed bars, restaurants, apartment buildings, bowling alleys, home basement rec rooms, and so on. Some are intact, others have been demolished - but evidence often remains. My book, among other things, functions as a travel guide for kindred spirits who are also seeking these artifacts out when they travel to a new city. Yes, there are a lot of us, believe it or not.

So, I thought I might look up a bunch of my widely scattered fellow aficionados of Polynesian flavored kitsch, and have a few Zombies under the watchful eye of phony Lono effigies across the country. In other words - a real Tiki Road Trip. It would give me a chance to 'road-test' Tiki Road Trip, to add a few things to it, and to keep myself occupied while I continue to move through this transitional phase of my life. Of course, the trip was as much about doing a lot of thinking and planning my future as it was about the urban archaeology I expound upon in my book, but I will spare you most of that emotional drama, since it is rather personal, and probably not very interesting to read anyway.

I left on Monday, April 15th with a vague itinerary, but no real plans, other than to do a lot of thinking, to see some friends, to have some adventures, and to seek out any and all remnants of mid-century design and architecture (with Tiki being a priority) for inclusion in my book. It goes without saying that I was also prepared with the equipment to accomplish some photography, and to try to collect some interesting sounds for use in my ongoing multimedia CD-ROM series (Left Orbit Temple) since these two artistic endeavors are things I am continually working on no matter where I am....

There is a Tom Waits mix tape in the cassette deck of the Mobile Exploration Lab. It is the same one I have been more or less ignoring steadily for the past two weeks. Wherever I have driven lately, I have just let it run on and on, not really paying much attention to it. Permanent gin-soaked muzak. I brought lots of tapes with me, so perhaps it is time to retire this mix and get something fresh happening.

I plan to head towards the Loop (Chicago's business district), which will be murder at this time of the morning. I-94 is always jammed, so I am prepared to spend my first hour on the road moving very slowly. When I get to the Loop, I will pick up I-290, and head out to I-88. This is a toll road, but it is a more direct route to my first destination - Cedar Rapids, Iowa - than the free I-80. Also, I have driven I-80 many times, but I have never taken I-88. That said, I'll miss the Tiki Truck Stop on I-80, but it is pretty dull anyway, and not a highly rated spot in my book.

I want to do 'redlines' on this trip as much as I can. Redlines are the old US Highways and/or state routes that were the main roads across the states before the interstates were built. Looking at a road map, the interstates are thick blue lines with black borders. The US highways and state routes are red - or really magenta - lines on almost all maps. For the most part, the speed limit is the same as on the interstate, but you have the advantage of being able to pull over whenever you want. You also really get to see a lot more because the roads go right through towns, and are not elevated and isolated like the interstates are. All in all, a better way to travel, if you have a little more time, a little more sense of adventure, and don't mind having to slow down to 35 MPH when you pass through the odd town.

So I'll grab US 30 from I-88 about halfway through Illinois, and ride it all the way in to mid-Iowa. When I get to Cedar Rapids, I'll stop to investigate Brucemore, a mid-19th century mansion. It is now a park, featuring tours of the mansion. The reason for this stop? Do I need one? It sounds cool! Oh, also, there is a "Tahitian Room" in the basement of the mansion!

9:52 AM
First wrong turn of the trip, three minutes into it. Missed Petersen. Turning around on Thorndale...

10:14 AM
Heading onto I-290. Made amazing time! No traffic heading into the Loop at all! This is the fastest I have ever made it to this part of the city.

10:31 AM
Already on I-88. Making outstanding time. Just made the first expenditure of the trip, a forty-cent toll. I now have $999.60 in cash remaining.

Yes, you heard me right. I have to admit this to all of you who had pictured me cruisin' down the interstate with some punk rock music or some hot Dizzy Gilespie bebop jazz on the cassette deck: audio books are your best bet on a long road trip. They make the time FLY by in a way no music or any radio ever can. If you get going with a good 12-cassette unabridged edition of your favorite author, three states will whiz past in the blink of an eye (six if you're on the east coast). So I've got a stack of audio books from the library with me (in addition to the expected music tapes, natch), and I am ready to get literate as I head west.

12:26 PM
Just passed 90 degrees west longitude. On Route 30, near Castle Rock, IL. Stuck behind an RFK Transportation truck. It is really hot today!

12:42 PM
Davenport, Iowa. Pulled off the road to check out the Seven Seas Lounge, the first surprise on the trip, for possible inclusion in Tiki Road Trip. Doesn't open until 4:00. Decent 1960's architecture, but I can't see inside - no windows! Still, stumbling across previously unknown potential new candidates is always a thrill. I would never have found this place if I was on the interstate.

I eventually made it Brucemore, which of course is closed on Mondays. I had called ahead to see if they would let me take a quick peek at their Tahitian Room, but I got no answer and therefore left a message. Turns out they got the message, and were awaiting my arrival. As I waited for the curator of the estate to meet up with me, I spent some time in the lobby/gift shop looking at wall-sized photos of Victorian era residents of the mansion. My hostess eventually led me down a winding tree-lined garden path in the warm sunshine to the gorgeous old mansion. After running me through an abridged private tour of the usual points of interest, she led me down to the cool and dark subterranean Tahitian Room.

Full data on this wonderful and obscure treasure is available in Tiki Road Trip. Let me state that the trip to Brucemore is a worthwhile sidetrip when heading west, with the Tahitian Room being an excellent bonus. The grounds are well maintained and the mansion is spectacular.

I bid farewell to my tour guide, who loaded me up with Brucemore literature - pamphlets, maps, and even their souvenir color booklet. The full tour is something that might be fun to do sometime in the future. In mentioning that I was headed back to I-80 to continue on to Omaha, she looked worried for a bit, and then decided that I'd be all right. I was puzzled. It was still a few hours to rush hour, so I inquired as to the nature of her concern. She told me that the president was in town today, and she was worried I might get stuck in all kinds of traffic delays.

The day was growing hotter, and as I got back into the car, I was baking. My air conditioner had died on the eve of a previous road trip (to Kentucky and Tennessee last summer), so I began to wonder exactly which parts of the country were going to be experiencing this much hot weather. Driving all day and sleeping in the car in temperatures in excess of 90 degrees was going to be uncomfortable to say the least. Hmmm... it was 90 degrees at 90 degrees (Fahrenheit/latitude respectively!). And?

I knew I'd have to be hauling down the road with the windows open, and to do so made things pretty loud. Being a sound engineer for a living, I need to conserve my hearing - I wear earplugs constantly, and I am very conscious of long exposure to extreme sound levels. You don't really notice it, but unless you are in a luxury car with good soundproofing, it is pretty loud out there on the tar plains. With the windows open, it is even worse. Twelve hours of freeway driving per day for two weeks could end my career pretty quickly. Of course, to hear my audio books or my music, I'd have to crank the volume level of the cassette deck up above the sound of the road and the wind. That's a lot of volume there. The only way this was going to work was to fish out some earplugs, crank the cassette deck up to the ridiculous level of amplitude needed to get the sound to a level up above the sound of the road and the elements, and then bring the whole combined din back into a reasonable realm with some -33dB earplugs.

It actually works really well. To anyone standing next to the car (assuming they could do so while it was moving at 75 MPH), they'd hear some guy reading Joseph Conrad's tale of his trip up the Congo at a level of amplitude that would easily rival any inner city bass bomb rap-mobile. It needs to be this loud to compete with the road. But then you drop the whole thing - road, wind, and Conrad - by 33 decibels (a fairly substantial amount), the whole racket ends up at a pretty comfortable place - for the driver.

Granted, if the engine starts grinding as it prepares to throw a rod (whatever that means), I wouldn't hear it...

Anyway, as this master plan went into fruition, I noticed that there was no traffic whatsoever in the opposite lane of I-280, the one leading back into Cedar Rapids. I also noticed a matte black helicopter with no markings on it hovering above the road. Then I saw a squadron of State Police cars, sirens wailing, cruising up the northbound lane. Behind them was a big gap of nothing, and then some unmarked black sedans. Then four limos. Then more local police cars, followed by Country Sheriff cars, followed by State Highway Patrol cars. The gang's all here. The whole motorcade was probably a mile long.

I waved at the limos... I had done sound for Bill Clinton when he gave a speech at my erstwhile place of employment a few months back. Even though I was actually in direct contact with the man while doing my job that day, I doubt he even cognated or remembers my existance. My wave towards Emperor Bush's limo was equally ineffectual, I am sure. I don't think he wants any foreign policy advice from some shirtless tattooed yahoo in a battered Nissan listening to Joseph Conrad audio books at high volume on the interstate.

It occurred to me that the timing for criminal activity was perfect - all the cops in the state, it seemed, were occupied guarding the charlatan who thinks he's running the country. Response time to the site of any other crime would be sluggish at best.

Alas, I was too unaware of Davenport's geography to locate a jewelry store to knock over.
And why the hell is the president in Davenport, Iowa, anyway?
I guess he couldn't get a booking in a larger town!

Passed Little Amana, a quaint Dutch Amish replica town, where I once had dinner with an ex on our way back from visiting said-ex's daughter (not mine) in Kansas.

Stopped for gas, and checked out the Golden Armadillo antique mall, one of a chain of massive antique malls to be found all up and down I-80. I think I stopped at this same one when I drove to Denver in 1999. On that trip, I treated myself to a rare and expensive vintage action figure for the collection of such things that I once maintained, but there will be no frivolous treats of that nature on this trip. The various occurrences of the Golden Armadillo chain are all huge. To wit: they are all size of a Wal Mart, but full of old junk of every description, rather than new identical junk of every description. I dare say they are also not as guilty of the heinous infractions against decency and small town economies that Wal Mart perpetrates, either. One could easily spend an entire day rummaging through a Golden Armadillo, but in the interest of time, I systematically cruised up and down the isles, rotating my skull to and fro as I whizzed past displays of you-name-it, looking to spot some interesting treasure that I would admire for a few moments and then not buy. Speed-browsing.

Two more antique malls. Did well for myself in finding two Tiki mugs and a Coco Joe Tiki statue for a grand total of $10. Not bad. The mugs are pretty lame, but in these days of $25 Ebay Tiki Mugs (as opposed to the forty nine cent thrift store Tiki Mugs of five years ago), this was something of a bargain. One of these items was fated for doom farther down the road; read on if you dare.

7:54 PM - 523 miles into the corn.
"Nebraska - The Good Life! - Home of Arbor Day!".

The only customer in the Mt. Fuji Inn (aside from myself) was a sixty-something gentleman who overheard me talking to the waitress about my book. As unlikely as it may seem, this old queer was a Tiki Bar aficionado! He claimed to have been to 60 countries in his life, and had been to many legendary Tiki bars all over the world. He knew all the lingo. He wanted to hear about Tiki Road Trip, and he took down the title and my name in his weathered little black book. I had to put the kibosh on his enthusiasm when he asked for my phone number. Sorry pal, it's swell you're into retro-kitsch like I am, but I'm not into older men. Or any men.

After a mediocre meal and a decidedly unsatisfactory trip to the longed-for Mai Tai Lounge (I had been there before and was no more impressed with this visit than I had been the previous time), I made for downtown Omaha to see if my friend Peggy was still working at the Dubliner bar. She wasn't. But I did find out that she was working at the Rose and Crown... but not tonight. So I hung out in the mostly deserted tourist neighborhood, contemplating a large gang of skate punks on the corner. Eighteen years and seven hundred miles away, they'd have been my pals. Here and now, they were deciding whether or not to thump the old square who was looking their way too many times.

I eventually decided to make for the Rose and Crown, simply because it sounded like a nice English pub, comfortably out of the tourist neighborhood... which in fact it turned out to be.

And guess what... Peggy was working after all. I didn't pay for a drink all night, between Peggy wanting to hook up her old friend, and the locals buying rounds for the new face. Dropping a $10 tip on the bar, I moseyed out of there just after the 1:00 AM closing time, when Peg's boyfriend showed up to drive her home.

1:47 AM - 550 miles into nowhere
Leaving the vicinity Lincoln, Nebraska. Passing a Budweiser factory. Bottled piss refinery.

I was just doing like 60 to try to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself...

2:56 AM - 627 miles away from nowhere
356 miles of Nebraska remain. Will it ever end?

Time to find a suitable and relatively safe spot to pull over for the night. Getting a motel every night is out of the budgetary equation, so I'm snoozing in the car tonight. I'll grab hotels when I am in larger towns (where a good night's sleep and a hygienic appearance is necessary), but tomorrow is all about making time across Wyoming. The bed and shower at the western end of this road will seem that much better after a bit of denial.

The restaurant across the parking lot looks homey.
"God bless America - have a good day - gifts and beanies".

Pulled over shortly after 3:00 AM last night to catch a few winks. I took all the stuff that was in the trunk and put it on the front seats. Then I folded the back rest of the back seat down, so that I could lay with my torso on the back seat, and my legs in the trunk. I took a thin blanket (stolen from LAN Chile airlines two years ago... those of you who read my Easter Island journal have doubtlessly been spending the past two years wondering what became of this particular purloined coverlet, and will be relieved to know that it is still in good use) and spread it from the head rests of the front seats across to the little shelf perpendicular to the rear windshield. I had now covered the back seat at an altitude of twenty-some inches above seat cushion level, forming a little tent above my head. This arrangement is far from comfortable, but it is inexpensive, and better than trying to sleep in a mostly vertical position in the front seat. The ersatz tent above me was fairly effective at providing insulation against cold weather, keeping early morning light out, and giving me a modicum of privacy. I refined the arrangement over the next few weeks, and was almost comfortable by the final night I tried it.

It is windy as hell, and a lot cooler than yesterday. I brushed my teeth and peed behind the Inn, got some gas, and hit the road again. For some odd reason, motel parking lots seem to be safer places at which to squat than interstate rest stops. Perhaps because they are well lit and there are people about, even if I am semi-hiding from them. The Hamilton, my stolen home for the night, seems like a decent enough place. Wish I could have afforded a room! Walking behind the long and isolated building to relieve myself, I noticed a spacious lawn of green grass behind it, ending some distance away where a small forest appears. Although I was enjoying this particular expanse of greenery (even as I was peeing on it), I found myself somewhat surprised that no one had built something here. I have truly been in the city too long when a vacant patch of greenery strikes me as odd.

Good to be on the road! Plenty of open spaces ahead!

Later...

"War Axe State Wayside Area" next right.

What the fuck is that?

Man, it is windy as hell today...

War Axe?

Later still:

"Pioneer Village... Nebraska's #1 Attraction... As Seen on TV!"

Three miles from here. We'll skip this one.

But wait! There's more:

"Monument ahead - Do Not Park Or Slow Down"

Well, how the hell are you supposed to see it?

Don't even look at it!

11:01 AM - Nebraska, mile marker 276 - heading west on I-80.
I am hurling at insane speed towards said monument (for which I will not slow down) at 75 miles per hour. It slowly comes into focus...

It is a big brick arch with a turquoise roof, built right over the freeway. It's got to be six stories tall. It's got some huge silver eagles on top, and as I approach, I can see that it is made to look like a pair of giant log cabins.

"The great platte river road archway monument".

What the hell does that mean?

"Glad you asked! That monument, The Great Platte River Road Archway Monument (www.arcchway.org), opened in the summer of 2000. My mom's cousin and his wife work there, so we (my mom and I) stopped by on our way to Colorado last year.
According to the website, the "Lobby escalator is the longest in the state of Nebraska." I guess it is pretty long, now that I think of it (the longest one I've ever been on was in the Prague subway, but I digress...). Inside, a museum spans the arch that crosses the Interstate. You walk across on the west and turn around and come back on the east side. Wandering off the preassigned path is useless as well as impossible. The accompanying audio tour is mandatory--or at least necessary--because there are almost no plaques to read. As you walk, you experience a chronological depiction of life along the "Great Platte River Road" -- which started as a wagon path and later became the "Lincoln Highway"--sort of a contemporary of Rte. 66. There are lots and lots and lots of unnervingly-realistic human figures populating intricately detailed diorama of pioneer life. And of course at the end of it all, you have the obligatory gift shop, stocked with a generous assortment of prairie-themed gifts. Oh, and there's a food court too, which may be the only Krispy Creme donuts you can get in Nebraska."

Bought a loaf of bread for 88 cents. Coupled with the jar of peanut butter I brought from home, and the little restaurant jelly packets I have been hoarding while eating out lately, this will form the basis of my nutritional intake for the next few days. Gotta thank my late Grandma Minnie for teaching me the trick of keeping the little cracker and jelly and butter packets from your restaurant table. If they put it in front of you, it's yours.

Upon pulling off the Interstate, I failed to find my way to the Antique Mall that I had spotted from said freeway, adding further fuel to my argument that US Highways are the way to go. Were I on a US Highways rather than the Interstate, I would have simply had to pull over whe I saw it.

I did find a great dilapidated googie motel (googie = popular name for architectural style commonly seen in 1950's diners, coffee shops, movie theaters, and motels) - the Hollingsworth Motel, and also the LR Ranch Motel. The Ranch has six Eames style chairs in the playground (very valuable), two each in red, white, and blue; I bet they're original too. If only I had a truck, a crowbar, and a ruthless and obedient minion or two... East Pacific Ave., in Lexington, Nebraska... I'll be back...

Man, those old 1950's motels are so great to look at, but staying in them is usually a nightmare - stinky old dumps for the most part. Still, as an architectural trend, you can't beat 'em. They don't build them like that anymore... we've got to appreciate them when we see them, photograph them, preserve them, before the few that remain submit to the call of the wrecking ball and we are left with more generic Motel 6 and Holiday Inn franchises. Why don't people build things with any artistry anymore?
Bland is in.
There should be a law... some sort of aesthetics clause in building codes...

1:50 PM
Ogallala looks exactly like Lexington. It's like the same guy designed both towns, right down to the bridge to the north of the interstate going over the railroad tracks and the stock yards, taking the weary traveler into the downtown area. Motels on the right. Grain silos on the left. Main street is just ahead.

Cowboy's Rest, advertised so colorfully from multiple Interstate billboards, turns out to be a strip mall, decorated to look like an old-west town. This is about all Ogallala has to offer to the weary tourist. If you go into any of the doors on the strip, the businesses inside are all actually one big complex featuring a cafe, a saloon, a gift shop, a small club between them (with an old-west floor show), and my new favorite type of roadside stop, the obligatory 'Free Museum'.

You have to love Free Museums. These are generally a way to get you to buy something at the inevitable adjoined gift shop, but the array of weirdness they sometimes pack into these things is astounding. Much of it seems designed to creep out the kids. My two favorites are Marsh's in Oregon, and Ship Ashore in northern California, but the very term 'Free Museum' spotted on a billboard usually promises some really weird and hilarious ephemera, cheaply displayed in a dimly lit room.

In this case, the hastily assembled array of artifacts documenting the settlement of Nebraska (and the displacement of the native peoples who had lived there) was almost scholarly, and not at all macabre, bizarre, or kitschy - and was therefore disappointing as Free Museums go. I'll take Ship Ashore's 50-year-old decaying mannequins dressed in Pirate garb over this wagon train crap any day!

Next to all of that is Ogallala's Petrified Wood Gallery; I decided to have a peek.

When I walked in, an old man was already standing in the hallway in front of me, as if he had been expecting me. He was stooped over, wearing a flannel shirt. A woman was sitting next to him in a wheelchair, eating something. Neither of them said anything to me at all. I nodded at them politely. They didn't move out of the way when I stepped inside, and I had to excuse myself and manouver around them to get it. The first room on the left is a gift shop. I walked around, admiring the various geodes and the cheap souvenirs made from them. It was as silent as a tomb in that shop, and the new-looking building (in contrast to the faux-crusty old west decor of the rest of the block) was stuffy and unventilated.

I walked out of the gift shop, but in order to get to the main exhibit chambers of the Gallery, I would have to step through back through the narrow foyer, which was still barricaded by the old man and the woman in the wheelchair. Neither of them had spoken. Finally, as I said 'excuse me', the oldster croaked out a grumpy "Do you want to see the gallery?".

Somewhat intimidated by the less than enthusiastic reception I was being subjected to, I said that I would like to see it. The man disappeared. I entered the gallery, to find the lights off. A few windows provided some dim illumination, and I began to explore. The gallery is housed in a single medium sized room, bisected with a display case in the center. Further display cases line all four walls. As I perused, fluorescent lights began to flicker into life, one by one, and the old man reappeared. He trailed me suspiciously as I examined the treasures in his display cases.

In spite of the tense atmosphere, I was glad I had stopped by. The array of artifacts on display was amazing. Polished cross-sections of petrified trees are the predominant focus of the collection, but there is also an impressive assortment of spectacular geodes, some Native American artifacts, fossils, and a series of handicrafts, skillfully made from petrified wood, such as music boxes and little houses.

The curator warmed up a bit when he noted my genuine interest in his archive, and began to tell me that he and his brother had personally collected all of the objects on display. The collection was begun more than 45 years ago. He lamented the fact that pretty much all of the petrified wood collecting sites have 'pretty much been picked over'. In his opinion, there is no more petrified wood to be found anywhere, outside of protected caches in National Parks. By the time I had marveled at all there is to see, he was positively talking my ear off, perhaps glad to find someone who seemed to have a real interest in what he was saying. I did. He gave me a card, and I promised to 'tell all my friends' about the Petrified Wood Gallery in Ogallala. Done.

Not bad for free. The nondescript building is easy to ignore next to the elaborate facade of Cowboy's Rest (which takes up the rest of the block), and it just goes to show you that a flashy front doesn't guarantee a quality experience. Cowboy's Rest was pretty lame, but the Petrified Wood Gallery is worth a stop.

I grabbed a large soft-serve ice cream at the Dairy Creme next door for $1.33 (chocolate/vanilla combo swirl, natch), and it made me feel like a little kid. For some reason, that, in turn, made me sad.

Even more tragic was that the ice cream ran down my hand when I tried to eat it while driving. The bottom of the cone sprung a leak too. It was a shambles. This made me feel even more like a kid, except for the fact that I didn't have an adult complaining about the mess. I licked the ice cream from my wrist with a big slurp, simply because there wasn't anyone around who was going to tell me not to.

I stopped at two more antique stores; one of them was run by two big fat hillbilly women, who were too busy staring at Ebay on a computer to pay me much attention. There was a huge stack of variously sized Priority Mail boxes by the door, ready to ship out the lucky high bidders of the Ebay auctions. The second store (Bargain John's) was run by a too-friendly oldster who positively wouldn't let me leave. He asked what kind of stuff I was looking for, and when I told him mid-century, he replied that he "didn't see much Victorian stuff anymore"! Wrong century, dude!

Businesses in Ogallala with notable mid-century (20th, that is) architecture include...

The aforementioned Dairy Creme, plus Daylight Donuts, Lazy J Liquor ("best beer selection - bar none!"... and no bar...), Corn Husker Lanes and Lounge, Hotes Cafe, and a strip of beat up googie motels even better than Lexington's. Driving down East First Street, we find... Lazy K Motel, Midwest Motel, Oregon Trail Motel.

Back to the highway, I spotted the American Legion Hall #135, which advertised "Bingo and Pickles, Friday at 7:30 PM".

I am almost out of Nebraska. Finally! Nebraska is 456 miles of farms, and is quite dull. Iowa isn't much different. At least I am getting the dull part of the drive out of the way. From here on, it is alternately mountains, deserts, oceans, forests, and just about every other type of landscape you can imagine. Here in western Nebraska, the corn fields start to wind down, and we get into rocky and somewhat hilly terrain. I was able to see storm clouds in the distance, and it grew quite windy again.

I saw a tumbleweed go bouncing across the road, propelled by the steady and strong wind. I guess I never really paid attention to tumbleweeds before; if I have ever seen any, I can't recall it. I thought it was kind of funny. It almost looked like some sort of little animal, in that it went rolling across the highway, animated, and intent on it's own mission. One isn't used to mobile plants. Like a cartoon, or a scene in a Western movie, it just moseyed across my path, and disappeared into the scrub. Git along, little doggie.

Later, I saw another, and then a few more. Then a cluster of 'em. After I while, there were so many that I ran a few over. They were all going in the same direction, exactly south, perfectly perpendicular to the westbound road I was on. Tumbleweeds aren't soft like leaves. They are essentially a small and roundish bush with the leaves gone, and the roots abandoned. Rootless balls of crunchy sitcks. Free of roots, these are plants in motion. Not something we are used to seeing. Plant life is supposed to stay in one place. Not these tumbleweeds. Rebels of the vegetable world, they are sticks on a mission. After a while, there were hundreds of them, all racing south. They came in many shapes and sizes. Like some sort of wild stampede, they were hurrying across the road. Like lemmings racing to their doom. It got a little scary. I wondered how much damage they might do to the Moblie Exploration Lab. They were flying up and smashing against my windshield, crunching under my tires, and I could hear them getting stuck in the underside of my car, where they were dragged along for a while before breaking free.

Tumbleweed corpses littered the Interstate. Soon there were thousands of them, all rushing mindlessly south, from one empty plain of scrub land to another, a destination blocked only by the endless stripe of the freeway. They bravely crossed it, and many died.

Finally, their numbers began to diminish, and after an hour, I was back onto clear road.

Climbing up towards the Great Divide, I am moving steadily, inexorably upwards. Unlike the mountains, where travel consists perceptibly of navigating up and down large hills, the trip through western Nebraska and eastern Wyoming is a continual, gradual, and steady ascent. You don't see hills, valleys, canyons, and peaks all around you like you do when in a mountainous region; it looks as if you're on a large, flat plain. And you are, except for the fact that the whole thing is tilted slightly, imperceptably, upwards.

It was only after feeling the car straining to maintain velocity that I even began to think about this.

At first, I thought the transmission was slipping, and I was losing fifth gear. I couldn't get any acceleration, and the cruise control (set at 80), could barley deliver 60. It was only later that I realized what the real situation was. I would have to be patient, go into a lower gear, and let my little car pull me up as best it could towards the 8600 foot altitudes I would eventually reach. But before I thought about all of this, I had some worries... read on!

3:56 PM - 989 miles.
There's a big rock sculpture of a howlin' wolf on top of a red mesa. We are definitely out of farm country, and into just a few more obvious mountains here. Wyoming looms near.

The land here is so big and wide and flat, that I can see a thunderstorm way off in the distance, but the weather is just fine (ok, maybe a little grey) where I am. It looks like that little thundercloud that follows Charlie Brown around in the old Peanuts cartoons... only it is bigger. And there is no Charlie Brown. And this is real, not a cartoon.

I pulled over and took some pictures that didn't end up being nearly as interesting as I thought they might be.

I was cruising along in the left lane, he was in the right, my car was right next to his cab, and he pulled into my lane without even looking, signaling, or anything. I laid on the horn big time, hit my brakes as hard as I could, and pulled towards the shoulder. He kept coming! I went off the shoulder and into the grass. The trucker just kept going. Did he even see me? What the fuck!

If I were on a bridge, a construction zone, in the hills, or whatever, I might not have had a place to go! I could have been crushed, driven off a cliff, smashed into a wall, hit an obstruction...

Due to the Mobile Exploration Lab's lack of ability to accelerate on this incline, it took a long time to catch up to the truck. I could barely get 60 MPH out of my car; the truck must have been doing at least 75. He disappeared onto the distance, but I pressed on. Finally, I got to a relatively flat section of the upwardly sloping plateau, and was able to generate some speed. By that time, other trucks had appeared.
Which one was it?

Missouri Plate 977725. Phone number (800) 345-0289, Prime Inc. It was a dark green cab.

When I called to report this fucker, they told me that I had notated the trailer plate number, but I needed to have the truck plate number. I asked if they kept records of which trailer was attached to which truck on any given day, and they started to give me a run-around. Figures.

5:00 PM
Pulled into Cheyenne to catch my breath, calm down, and regroup. Pulled into the amazing Fleetwood Motel, picked Tumbleweed sticks out of various and sundry parts of my car, and popped the hood. I was still concerned about the transmission at this point, not having consulted my topographical map just yet. I'm no mechanic, but everything looked hunky dory to me. It was close to being time for an oil change anyway, so I figured I'd have them check my transmission fluid too. Most of those Jiffy Lube guys are dipsticks, but maybe I'd get one who would actually say something constructive if he saw something amiss.

6:24 PM - Elevation 8640 ft.
Cheyenne has the usual (for small towns in this part of the country) array of googie motels, a serviceable crporate chain auto-lube joint, and any number of gas stations that will get the job done. The car is running smoother since the oil change, but I'm not getting any more horsepower out of it. The guys said that the transmission fluid looked fine, so I think I have a bigger problem. This could be very bad. Stranded in Wyoming for (how many days?) while some podunk garage gets the parts I need... I don't want to think about it.

Just passed a big ass statue of Abe Lincoln up on a hill.
Heading towards Laramie.
Me, not Abe.

Made sort of crappy time today, I stopped quite a lot. I need to drive into the night, at least into Utah, but I am unsure if I will make it. I am driving in 4th gear, and if I have lost 5th already, I could be in really hot water.

7:17 PM - 1159 miles and counting (for now).
Passing a long, tall, narrow ridge, partially rocky, partially covered with (stationary) plant life. The burial mound of a great serpent. An ancient hilltop snaking through Wyoming, winding it's way nowhere, unconcerned with whether or not it is in the way of a freeway that would be built thousands of years after the hill's own creation, it is daring the road to maintain it's steady western progress. Atop the hill, lined up in a long, long row like spikes on the spine of this great earthen dragon, are a hundred windmills. These are the sleek and modern kind, efficient steel and plastic constructs made for generating windpower to electrify some unseen local community. These are not the quaint whitewashed wood of the classic Dutch windmill, nor are they the like the rickety Spanish monstrosity so gallantly fought by Quixote. This steel garden is made up of dozens of identical pinwheels, and they are all about business. On their windy mountain top home, they are all in motion, and are all brilliantly lit by the setting sun.

It is really beautiful out here right now. After hours of traveling gradually upwards, struggling against the subtle gradient of the huge flat plateau, these scattered serpentine hills are begining to show themselves. Proto-mountains. The newly blue sky (after an afternoon of windy grey), is turning all sorts of colors. Yesterday's heat has subsided, and although the earplug/open window combo is still in effect, two open windows suffice rather than yesterday's necessary four.

7:31 PM
The whole world has begun to wrinkle, the landscape is morphing into rolling waves of plant-covered grey rock. A herd of wild antelope is grazing on the hills a hundred yards from the road.

Eventually made it to Utah, got a second wind, and cruised through Salt Lake City around 1:00 AM Considering my slow start today (and my apparent transmisson difficulties), I ended up doing something like 900 miles. Not a bad day's driving! The sky was clear as can be, and I wanted to find a good spot to get out of the car and look at the stars. When I found a rest stop, the parking lot was illuminated brightly enough by blinding halogen that my view of the cosmos was fatally obscured. It was also very cold and windy. So much for the cosmos-navel gazing. Instead, I made my tent-trunk-bed again, and sacked out for a few hours. There were two other parties sleeping in their cars, so I felt rather safe. I had a 66.6% chance of NOT being the target for any potential thieves or psycho-killers.

Sleep is not easy to attain while sprawled between trunk and back seat of a Nissan Sentra. I managed several hours however, and then got back on the road after a brushing of the teeth. This would be my second morning without a shower, and I hadn't bothered to change my clothes either. If you are going to rough it, then rough it. I felt disgusting. I am sure I must have been pretty stinky too. The plan for the day was to make it as far as Reno, get a room, clean up, and then go have some fun.

Less than an hour into the drive, I started to nod. It was clear that I hadn't had enough sleep. It was very cold and drizzly. I would have to pull over. I was passing through amazing salt flats. I found a scenic view/rest stop near the Nevada border and pulled in. I dozed on and off in the driver's seat for a couple of hours, and then got out of the car to look at the salt.

The most puzzling thing, for me, is trying to figure out why these miles and miles of salty earth, stretching as far as the eye can see, are perfectly flat. Why isn't is lumpy, or hilly, or rocky? Does salt naturally form this way? It looks like some sort of fantastic lake, but perfectly still and calm. A pure pool of undisturbed milk. Old milk. In the distance, mountains jut up abruptly from the sleek white plain. The effect is as if someone took a great salt shaker, and filled up all of the valleys, hills, and topographical imperfections. Then they smoothed the top of it over, and packed it down hard enough to walk on. There wasn't enough salt, however, to completely bury the tallest mountains. Miles and miles of perfectly flat, off-white landscape are only interrupted by the sudden appearance of a purple-brown peak far in the distance.

And why are there salt flats here, in partucular, and not in - say - Illinois? Why are there diamonds in South Africa and not in South Carolina? Why is there turqouise in Arizona and not Arkansas? Makes a fella want to become a geologist.

Near the edge of the paved observation area, there is a structure that looks like the high-dive at a swimming pool. Climbing up, one can see the same creamy expanse of nothing from a slightly higher angle. I imagined diving off and interrupting the stillness of the sea of rotten milk laid out in front of me. Probably not a wise fantasy to make real. Salt is harder than the curdled milk that this expanse reminds one of. Signs back at ground level explain that these salt flats are where land speed record trials are held. Apparently, there is a ten-mile track out there somewhere, and on that track men have driven cars at nearly the speed of sound (which this engineer can tell you is 1130 feet per second - or 726 miles per hour - at sea level at 72 degrees Fahrenheit... changing the temperature, humidity and altitude will modify this speed).

So, rested up and feeling salty, I resumed the trek to Reno. On the Utah/Nevada border there is a town called Wendover. It isn't much more than three or four medium-sized casinos, twice that number of police speed traps, and a few gas stations. The only place to eat that isn't a fast food chain (which I avoid) is in the casinos. I selected one at random, and sat my grubby bottom down at a buffet. I marveled at the locals, all sitting at slot machines, dutifully feeding their meager incomes into these one armed bandits, and before noon. Hasn't anyone told them that these things are set up so that there are just enough winners to give the endless parade of losers hope?

Ah well, at least it is cheap to eat in a casino! A surprisingly good Denver omlette with hash browns and rye toast set me back less than $7 after tax and tip. Not bad.

2:44 PM
Off in the distance, there are a bunch of holes in the ground with steam pouring out of them. Geysers? Underground missile silo vents? The result of an alien child playing with a magnifying glass somewhere up in the Ionosphere?

This is awesome. There are still patches of salt (or is it sand) breaking up the otherwise darker color of the ground here. Naturally, the lighter colored patches of earth draw one's attention to themselves, when contrasted with the darker earth. Some of these patches are on small foothills, and some of these foothills face the road. So, given this prime natural advertising space, some enterprising person got out of the car, and used darker rocks to spell out their name on one of the elevated, conviniently angled, and road-facing portions of sand.

Moving down the road, it is clear that other people liked the idea, because the frequency of this naturalistic graffito increases. Here are several miles of highway peppered with messages to the traveler, spelled out in dark rocks carefully placed in tan sand, not dissimilar to the way a child would arrange chocolate chips on one custom cookie, before allowing mom to pop it into the oven with the rest of the randomly-chipped batch.

Into full-on mountains now. The colors here are amazing. Each rock is a variegated wonder. Turquoise, brick red, charcoal grey, all shades of green, salmon-pink, light brown, dark brown... it's amazing.

Salt flats, hot springs, polychromatic mountains, cheap but tasty omelets, and nature-friendly graffiti. Lots to see in 400 miles of Nevada. Casino Town Jr. (Reno) is next...

Sparks is a little town next to Reno, and essentially functions as an addendum to the overflowing sub-Mecca for gamblers that is Reno. There is one major casino in Sparks, and that is John Ascuda's Nugget. The only reason for stopping into the Nugget is that they have a decent classic eatery there, Trader Dick's. I have been to Dick's once before, and found it worthy of inclusion in Tiki Road Trip. I felt that it was worth another look, however, and I also thought that if I could ingratiate myself with the management to enough of a degree, I might get comped a meal or some drinks (I am giving them free press in my book, my web site, and this travelogue, after all).

I called the hotel, and after being transferred no less than four times, I spoke with the food and beverage manager. I didn't get the feeling that he cared about having their establishment included in my book one way or another, and I certainly didn't get the feeling that I was going to get a red carpet treatment; a free room was out of the question. You win a few and you lose a few. So I passed Sparks and drove into Reno, three miles away, and found a room at the Savoy. It is right near the freeway, and at the tail end of the Reno casino strip. It was a good location.

The sign on the scary looking roach motel claimed that it was $26 per night plus tax. In the lobby, I was spied upon by a fellow customer, a burned out and sodden old woman, a septuagenarian still trying (with little success) to look like she is twenty. Too much makeup and an ill fitting dress that might have been sexy on someone else in 1974. She was diminutive, frail, and sad. She smelled of booze and mothballs. The woman running the hotel looked upon my admirer with scorn. I had no sympathy for either woman; the bloated innkeeper had a mean look about her, with cold and hard eyes that didn't seem to care about anything but extracting a few dollars from anyone she could. I didn't trust her on any level. I expected to be robbed by her maids, if she had any.

I plunked my cash down on the counter, and when I was told that I needed to produce a driver's license, I remembered that I had left it in the car. As I turned to go, I reached for my money. The corpulent fist of the grouchy old woman at the desk shot out and collected it before I could retrieve it myself. Whatever. I got my ID, came back in, and was told that I needed to come up with some more cash - a total of $35. The harridan running the hotel cited tax as the reason for the additional expense. Sure, lady. Nine dollars tax on a $26 room? It didn't seem really feasible to back out at this point, so I plunked down some more money and made my way to the stinky room I was assigned to.

It is cold up at this altitude, and I was surprised to discover snow flurries as I left the room (after taking a much needed shower, shave, and a change of clothing). I made my way back to the Nugget, and had a decent but somewhat expensive meal at Trader Dicks, followed by a couple of drinks at their bar. At the bar I met two very drunk middle aged couples who were in Reno from Idaho for the purpose of attending a farm machinery convention. They were very impressed that I had been to their home town of Idaho Falls. I was there in 1999 to do a show with Royal Crown Revue, and I remembered the specific theatre and the downtown area well. I was their new best friend, since in their minds, it was a big deal to have met some guy from a major city like Chicago, who works in the music biz, who was driving cross-country writing a book, and who had bothered to spend any time in Idaho Falls. If you ask me, I will tell you: I'm just an idiot from Cleveland. But if my resume makes me seem cool to you, then so be it. I'll go along with it. I ordered a drink, which arrived with great spectacle, since it was on fire. My fan club was even more impressed. They asked me how it tasted, and I said it tasted like piss, which it did. A moment later, the bartender came back and asked me how I liked it. Trying to be polite, I said it was great, and my tractor-sales buddies just about lost their minds with laughter. To my dismay, they weren't buying the next round, and after I realized that the Nugget (aside from Dick's) is pretty lame, I headed back to Reno proper.

After parking at the Savoy, I walked down the cold, snowy, and mostly deserted Reno casino strip, popping my head into various casinos and looking for some adventure to come into my path. I am not really much of a gambler; it is my position that these giant fancy casinos are not built as charity - they are paid for by the losers, and it is also the losers who pay the salaries of all of the people it takes to manage, own, and run these places. The overhead on owning a casino has to be outrageous, and of course, the owners also want to make as big a profit as they can. Therefore, most of their customers must lose. They let just enough people win to give the rest of the suckers hope.

Not me. I'm hip to their game, and I ain't playin' it. Gambling isn't fun, unless you're talking about a half dozen pals sitting around someone's house playing poker and drinking cheap beer. That's more about the camaraderie than the gambling. But in a casino? No way. Taking a look around, examining all of the people, I don't see anyone really having fun. I see a tired, glazed look in people's faces, I see despair, loss, and hopelessness. I see the grey visages of poor folks who spend a year working hard, just to take their two weeks vacation in a town like Reno or Las Vegas, thinking all year long that when they get here, they are going to be the one who beats the odds and - in one night - will break the bank and make enough to retire. I see desperate losers trying to parlay their last few bucks into enough cash to pay some debt. I see cold, hard faces in the Poker rooms, joyless in their determination to cash in. No camaraderie here. I see small town sheep herded here by advertising and the propaganda disseminated by the media, really believing that it is glamorous and exciting. It isn't...

But there is fun to be had. There is fun to be had anywhere, if you are in the frame of mind to let some unknown quantity sweep you up and take your night into whatever place destiny wants to take you. Unfortunately, this philosophy is hard to reconcile on a Wednesday in Reno when it is snowing. It was pretty dead everywhere I went, and I seemed to be the only person in the 10% capacity crowds who was under the age of 50.

Eschewing the relatively large casinos for a tiny dump a little ways off of the main strip (the Old Reno Casino), I chatted with the ancient bartender, an even older waitress, and two business men from Chicago. The 28 oz. beers were well within my budget at $2.25, and the hot dogs were fifty cents. Both suds and dogs were disgusting. You do indeed get what you pay for. The Old Reno Casino is decorated with a macabre array of old taxidermy and other incongruous crap covering all of the walls. It was stinky, and small, and old, and dirty, and wretched, and I liked it.

I eventually landed in a plain old bar, which I chose for four reasons: first, it was not a casino, just a 'neighborhood' bar. This was a place where I was more likely to encounter someone interesting or entertaining. Second, there were none of the ubiquitous video poker machines sunk into the bar at each bar stool like you see everywhere else in the state of Nevada. Third, it was called Shooters, and since I used to work in a miserable shithole of the same name in Cleveland (circa 1989), I thought that I might like to torture myself with the memory. Fourth (and most important), they were playing Patsy Cline on the jukebox as I walked by.

There was a nature show on the televison, featuring two giant tortoises having sex. I had seen an almost identical sex act perfomed live at the San Diego Zoo in 1995. I could swear that they were the same horny tortoises (yes, maybe I am a tortoise husbandry fiend, what is it to you?). Many people come to Nevada to see or experience weird sexual perversions that they can't get at home, but giant tortoises probably aren't what most people have in mind.

I made friends with the bartender, Jen, who didn't have many other customers on this snowy Wednesday night. After chatting with her for a bit (and taking a silly picture of her guy friend wearing a ridiculous hat), she directed me to a nightclub inside of the casino across the street, where she predicted most of the people who were out and about that night would be.

Walking through the casino towards the club (Brew Brothers), I heard 'Lies' by the Thompson Twins playing on the muzak sound system in the casino. Oddly, it seemed surreally appropriate. Brew Brothers was miserable. It was full of poseurs in their early 20's who were clearly over enamored with the band. The band were poseurs in their early 20's who were clearly over enamored with themselves. Everyone looked like they were trying to look like money. It was lame. I was the only person there not trying to impress someone, and I was the only person there who was succeeding in my goals. I tried the local ale (Lucky Lady Lager), which was unremarkeable. A guy next to me - who looked like the actor Charles S. Dutton - had very astutely pegged the two girls at his other elbow as call girls, and advised me to avoid them. I wryly thanked him for the advice.

I saw two nerdy looking goth types leaving (no, not all goths are nerdy, just these two), and I decided that maybe they were going somewhere cool (nerdy = not cool, goth = maybe still bound for a potentially interesting destination). They were my best and only hope. I decided to trail them to see where they went. At the time, this didn't seem as creepy a plan as it does when I read what I have just written. They passed a huge mermaid fountain in the lobby, and then headed outside. I followed at a discreet distance. A mohawked punker joined them on the corner. I was reminded of my youth. I would probably be the oldest person at whatever destination they were headed towards, but at least it would be a crowd I was comfortable with. Or had been comfortable with, at some long gone point in my life... anyway, they were hopefully going to be better than the yuppie poseur retards at the club I had been in.

I could not have predicted, no matter how imaginative I may have been feeling, where these kids were going. I ended up on the second floor of a sports bar, watching these goth kids sing Karaoke! This was, without a doubt, one of the more Lynchian moments of the entire trip. I really loathe sports bars and the people stereotypically associated with them, and these goth kids were clearly not going to lead me somewhere more fun after all, so I made plans to head back to Shooters. Before doing so, I ended up in a conversation with a waitress named Dagny (christened after a character in an Ayn Rand book), who actually had quite a few interesting things to say. I hadn't expected to really find any intellectual giants in Reno (the two foul women in my motel lobby were de rigeur), but Dag was pretty on the ball. I was really interested in everything she was saying, and we talked for quite a while. So there you go - a waitress in a really lame Karaoke sports bar in Reno on a Wednesday provided me with the best conversation I had all week. So be it.

She kept impressing me, but I was so exhausted by that point that I wasn't replying with 10% of the enthusiasm I was feeling. Her shift ended at 2:00. She wanted to show me some all-night vintage bars on the other side of Reno (they genuinely sounded like they were right up my alley), but I was too tired to accompany her. It figures that there was something fun to do after all, but by the time it presented itself to me, I was too tired to indulge. Dagny took off for parts unknown, and I hit the sack...

I woke up at 11:00 to find that the snow flurries of last night had turned into a full fledged storm. There was an inch and a half of snow on the car. One doesn't really think of Nevada as being a snowy place, but Reno is at a fairly high elevation, being right at the edge of the Sierra Nevada mountains. I had been told by at least four different parties the previous night that there was a very good chance that I-80 would be closed if it snowed. Somewhere around Donner's Pass, the freeway might become impassable. I was also told that there was a chance that I might have to buy chains to attach to my tires IF the state road service people let me continue at all.

I remembered that Donner's Pass is the place where the Donner Party became stranded while looking for a path through the mountains back when the west was still being explored. They spent the winter freezing and dying at Donner's Peak, and eventually resorted to cannibalism. It is odd but sort of comforting that time and technology have not yet made this peak completely passable all the time. We still have not conquered nature. As it should be.

The snow grew worse as I made my way into the mountains. I was no longer worried about my transmission; I had finally discovered that the real nature of my problem (as described above) was simply a lack of horsepower, and not a disastrous mechanical failure. Now, between the snow and the steep hills, I was barely doing 40 up the mountain, and I knew that there was a very good chance that I would have to turn back and spend another night (or several) in Reno. This was not good. Just as I became comfortable with the idea that my transmission was intact, I faced another indefinitely long delay in this unexpected blizzard.

Fortunately, the pass was open. Reaching the summit, I was able to enjoy the trip down the other side of the mountain range. The snow had stopped falling, and it was covering the trees and hills. Now, at the summit of the Sierra Nevadas, I no longer had rock walls all around me, but rather, I now had the whole world laid out in front of me, and I was literally near the top of it. It was beautiful. The weather cleared up completely, and in the thin and cloudless air, I saw the bluest and most perfect expanse of uninterrupted sky I have ever seen. The contrast was amazing. One minute I faced grey skies, blinding intense snow, bad roads, steep upward gradients, and nothing but rock ahead of me. The next it was sunshine, blue skies, and a downhill trip into California with picturesque landscapes, snow coated trees, and majestic waterfalls that Ansel Adams needed to have come back from the dead to capture. Regrettably, I was too stressed from the trip to this summit to try to do good by Ansel's ghost, and another photo op was regrettably passed up.

It warmed up as I made my way across California. I rolled through Sacramento and eventually made it to San Francisco (at 2279 miles into trip). I had Emailed some of my pals, and arranged to meet some of them at Tonga Room at 5:00, and then migrate to meet more people at Trader Vic's in Emeryville at 8:00. My cousin Matt had set me up with a hotel room (he has connections with some people in the hotel business), so - like my previous trip here - I had a good deal on a room at the Triton. Located right near the entrance to Chinatown, and within easy walking distance from a lot of the art galleries, it is in a perfect location. I'd check in later, since I was running late, and didn't want to stiff my friends at Tonga Room.

As it turned out, my rushing around was unjustified, because not too many people made it out to Tonga. I felt a little bad, but I just relaxed, took full advantage of the happy hour buffet, and then headed back across the bay bridge to Emeryville. I stood near the bay watching the sun set. It was spectacular. The previous time I stood by this bay, last August, the sunset was even more impressive, and I had taken some astounding photos. Good to know that there's always one place you can count on for a decent sunset.

I was the first to arrive. Before long, five of my pals arrived, and they were soon followed by Rene, an old friend from when I lived Cleveland, and her main man Cameron. The eight of us consumed a wide array of Trader Vic's amazing rum drinks, and after I made friends with the General Manager and told him about Tiki Road Trip, he bought us a round on the house. Trader Vic's closes early (about 10:30), so we were soon booted out.

Most of the posse ended up at the home of Bruce and Enid, who have one of the most architecturally spectacular pads you will ever see. Said pad also happens to be stuffed chock full of every sort of bizarre collectible you can imagine. The living room contains a huge display case full of plastic Norfin Trolls. The bedroom sports four long shelves containing hundreds of sock monkeys which dominate an entire wall. A study is full of vintage pulp paperbacks. The kitchen is kitsch'n. The basement is divided into two rooms, one of which is Tiki land, and the other contains the largest single gathering of smiley faces I have ever seen. Granted, I haven't seen many smiley face collections... or any at all really, but if I had, this one would certainly put the rest to shame. It is massive. The room is painted white and brightly lit. Walking into it through a narrow doorway obscured by beaded curtains, one is somewhat blinded by the relative brightness. And then, yellow smileys come into view... hundreds and hundreds of them. Any sort of product that someone could possibly put a yellow smiley face on is represented in the Woodbury basement.

Their Tiki Room is pretty impressive too...
as is the sound of Bruce blowing into a conch shell...

I managed to find my way back to the Triton without undue mishap. I circled the block for quite a long time looking for parking. I couldn't find anything that was remotely legal.

Pet peeve: I loathe paying to park my car. I will feed a meter with no problem, but I really have a strong and unreasonable aversion to paid parking lots or garages. I don't know why, but I will go to any length (as long as there's no risk of ticket or towing of course) to not pay to park my car.

This night, in the heart of San Francisco, I had to bite the bullet. After finding the valet in the nether regions of the hotel, I committed to thirty dollars, and let him drive my dusty jalopy, covered with the dirt of this trip's 2500 (and counting) miles - and full of my worldly possessions - to parts unknown. Up the elevator, the room was cozy and plush, clean and arty. Completely first class, but in a hip way, not a stuffy way. A real contrast to the stinky Savoy in Reno. I watched a little telly and got something that almost resembled a good night's sleep.

The most beautiful women in the world are in San Francisco. People will tell you the same thing about southern belles, Parisian supermodels, the bimbos in LA, or some exotic Brazilian women, but every time I walk the streets of San Francisco, I end up with a self inflicted case of whiplash.

Today's plan was to walk around the neighborhood of the hotel, looking at the galleries and museums that are clustered in this part of town, while hopefully avoiding a neck injury. I also hoped to see the Museum of Modern Art. I was told that the Cliffhouse at the end of Geary St. has a museum of turn of the century arcade machines on display, and that it is quite impressive. Thus, an itinerary for a walking tour of San Francisco presented itself to me.

The day was sunny and warm. Compared to the morning of snow and uncertainty I had experienced only the previous day, today was bright and optimistic; adventure awaited me. The streets were full of people. San Francisco! Within half a block of the hotel, I passed a girl on the street. She was likely headed to her job in one of the fashion boutiques nearby. Her little black dress and high heels were tasteful, chic, and sexy, and the reflection of the California sun on her golden hair set off her dazzling blue eyes. She looked sweet, charming, and devastatingly beautiful, in a natural, wholesome, and uncontrived way. Nothing fake, plastic, or exaggerated. She was a miracle. I managed to refrain from staring, and without noting my existance on any level, she passed in and out of my life in a matter of seconds. Whoever she is, wherever she is, she is without a doubt not thinking of me... but there you have it. San Francisco. Told you so. I always remember that scene in Citizen Kane, where Joseph Cotton relates a similar tale...

I went into the Weinstein Gallery, attracted to the art of Anne Bachelier displayed in the window. Stylistically, her work reminded me at first of a less morbid Francis Bacon. Upon further viewing, and after being shown around the gallery by a middle aged woman with a sexy European accent (San Francisco), I reversed this opinion. There are too many fairies and harlequins in Bachelier's work to have anything to do with Bacon. Bachelier's work is far too innocent to compare with Bacon's intensity. Some of it has a great dreamy quality to it, but some of it is a bit trite - it is almost impossible to use angels and marionettes effectively without losing credibility. The gallery was also showing the impressive work of Lu Jian Jun, and I was excited to see a few small original works by the untouchable Salvador Dali and his almost-contemporary, Joan Miro.

I gave the work of Gregory Kurasov the once-over at the Nevska Gallery, and then I came across the San Francisco Art Exchange. This is the gallery licensed by the estate of Alberto Vargas to create lithographs of Vargas Girls. These sell for up to $4000 in limited editions. Sometimes this gallery has original works for sale, but they are usually unfinished roughs, sketches, and studies. Finished works by Vargas almost never appear on the market, since most of the surviving original Vargas Girls paintings are in a private collection in Kansas (of all places). This archive is curated by a group of feminists who see Vargas Girls as positive female icons and role models, figures that empower women. Good for them. This is as it should be.

Whether or not an illustrator who specialized in pretty girls (how appropriate that this gallery is in San Francisco!) can be legitimized as fine art is open for debate, but the cultural impact of the Vargas girls in the 1940's is beyond question. This gives his work a cultural value equalling the work of any so-called fine artist.

I guess I looked like I had some money (ha!), because without much effort, I got the gallery owner to take me into a private room upstairs, and show me about twenty-five original works of art by Vargas. They were awesome, even if they were only pencil sketches. A few were partly painted, and a couple were just about finished pieces. This little collection of unfinished ideas are currently the only Vargas original works available for sale in the world. I wanted to buy one for my art collection so badly, and I knew that it would be an excellent investment. Vargas has been dead for more than 20 years, and these unfinished works are going fast. When they're gone, they're gone. No more available, ever.

My favorite was a girl kneeling casually, with her head tilted back, singing. Her eyes are closed and she looks joyful in her silent song. It is a Vargas girl that almost no one has ever seen - the piece that this sketch was a study for was never actually completed. Her face, arms, and legs are fully painted, but her dress and hair are just pencil. The page is about 24" tall. It is gorgeous. It is also a real bargain at $11,500 (negotiable). I actually found myself trying to figure out how I might come up with that much dough, when I realized that we are talking about more money here than I paid for the Mobile Exploration Lab.

Art is art. It is one of a kind. Vargas was a master. The Vargas girl was nothing less than a major icon of the middle 20th century. Often imitated, never duplicated. Even this sketch that I was contemplating would likely quadruple in value in just a few years. It was a serious investment, one I would enjoy looking at in a nice frame on my wall for a number of years before deciding to cash in on it. Or, perhaps, if I end up wealthy (yeah, right) I'll just keep it and let my heirs decide what to do with it. But still... I'm unemployed right now... and twelve grand for a piece of paper is really asking a lot when my car is about to die and I am worried about making my mortgage payments. There was no way. And yet, I kept thinking to myself... I could max out my credit cards...

The other people working in the gallery came over to say 'hi'. The owner was a really nice guy, and I could tell that he could tell that I knew my stuff when talking about art. We had a great conversation about both illustration/pin-up art and about more serious art, particularly the dada and surrealist movements of the early 20th century. He spent some real time hanging out with me, showed me more exceedingly rare Vargas pieces, and after an hour, he figured he had me on the hook. He did... but I am broke. The other two sales people were already practically congratulating me on my fine purchase. One of them looked like the actor Ned Beatty.

I asked my new best friend the gallery owner about the Museum de Mechanique at the Cliffhouse on Geary. Since I was already on Geary, I figured it must close by. I was told that it was at the other end of the city, but that the Geary bus would get me there, if I wanted to 'meet some of the locals'. Their snide tone at the end of the sentence indicated that they felt the idea of taking the bus wasn't something I really wanted to do; these theoretical locals were clearly lower life forms according to the gallery staff. I thanked the owners, and left the gallery with the owner expecting a phone call from me after I 'slept on it' (permanently), and decided that I wouldn't be going to the Cliffhouse - or buying a Vargas Girl. Just then, the bus pulled up right next to me, so on a whim, I jumped on. Thirty minutes later, I got off the bus at the opposite end of Geary, near the ocean.

There was a beach ahead of me stretching off to the south for quite a distance, and the road next to it sloped upwards, from sea level up to the top of some hills to the north. The beach terminated at the foot of the cliffs. It was beautiful out there. The waves were rolling in, and it was sunny. A few people were on the long expanse of beach, but not so many as to make it seem cluttered or uncomfortable. Everyone had space. There was a couple laying in the sand, apparently asleep, with their arms around each other. The dregs of a picnic and an empty bottle of wine lay on the sand next to them. A beautiful woman (San Francisco) sat on a rock writing poetry in a journal. A flock of joggers hit the end of the beach, rested at the base of the giant rocky cliffs towering above them, and headed back from whence they came.

I walked away from the beach, up the hill. A grumpy middle aged yuppie guy told me where to find the Cliffhouse, grumbling "it's up the hill... or at least what's left of it is". His wife sheepishly explained that the man was a native who had seen the structure in better years. He was OK for a yuppie - a preservationist, like me, and a grouch, like me! I walked up the road, found the building, and I thought it looked fine - a big old complex built into the cliffside, overlooking the ocean. I found the Museum de Mechaniques and spent an hour there.

It was pretty cool. They had a collection of turn of the century arcade amusements that easily outdoes the (still impressive) collection at Marsh's Free Museum in Oregon. These old wooden penny arcade attractions are lovingly cared for and painstakingly maintained. Some of them are cute, others macabre, and many are truly amazing in the engineering that went into having so many mechanical parts all working so cleverly together, given the technology of the age.

Unfortunately, the museum is closing in autumn of 2002. I am glad I got to see it. I wonder what will happen to this amazing collection?

The Cliffhouse also has a restaurant, a gift shop, and a bunch of other stuff, but none of it looked interesting enough to stick around to see. I did spot some photos showing the history of the building, and I could see why the yuppie guy who gave me directions was so upset. What was once a beautiful and very large miracle of engineering on the cliffs had been shrunk and 'modernized' in recent years, becoming a shadow of its former self. As is so often the case, the people who took it upon themselves to 'restore' this place ended up ruining it. The committees who continually diminish great and beautiful things probably think that they were doing the right thing. People just don't get it...

The bus got me back to gallery land, and I had time for a quick run through the Cartoon Art Gallery. It is located in the same space where a photography gallery (with a great Ansel Adams exhibit) had been when I last visited San Francisco only eight months ago. This new gallery was sort of disappointing. They didn't really have many interesting pieces, or many that I would consider truly important in the history of the medium. I also popped my head into a mall nearby the gallery where they have an astoundingly cool video arcade designed by the genius French illustrator Moebius. I don't play many video games anymore, but I love checking this place out when I am in San Francisco - Moebius's art, his design skills, and the space-ship interior architecture created from it are too cool.

I decided to head back to the hotel to relax before meeting my cousin, aunt, and uncle for dinner. Another gallery had some original Dalis on display. I hiked up to the fifth floor of the hot and stuffy gallery (with no elevator) to see them, as the indifferent girl attending to the premises more or less ignored me, her face buried in her computer screen. The Dalis for sale were a series of amazing pen and ink drawings that I had never seen before.

Back at the hotel, I took advantage of the free wine bar in the lobby (yeah, free! - told you this was a class joint!), and headed up to room 602 to put my feet up after a long day of walking around San Francisco. I kicked back for a while, checked my messages, and received a phone message that was sufficiently depressing enough that I decided to have a second glass of wine. No further comment on that. I walked through Chinatown to Broadway. I felt quite like Kerouac, strolling the streets of San Francisco on a cool spring evening, just as the sun was starting to set. I was in a big city after a week on the road, I was not entirely sober, and I was writing poetry in my head while admiring the pretty girls. We'd've been pals, Jack and me.

After a quick stop in the City Lights bookstore (more beat poetry on the brain), I found myself near the Bamboo Hut. I sampled their happy hour, and met (completely by random chance) someone who is a regular reader of my web pages. I also had a lengthy conversation with three fellas who were interested in my book. The web page guy totally knew who I was, he knew my name and everything. I thought he was going to ask for an autograph or something. He called out to me, loudly, from across the bar, as if we were old friends or something, and then came over to chat. It was freaky but also flattering. I used to get recognized as a musician once in a while for a few years after my stint playing keyboards with Pigface (circa 1993-1995), but that hasn't happened for quite a while. Anyway, I think I prefer being a 'famous' writer over being a 'famous' rock star! ha ha.

It was time to meet the family for dinner, so I crossed the street and made my way just a block or two to the agreed upon restaurant in little Italy. Finding that my family hadn't arrived yet, and still smarting from that phone message, I walked across the street to Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store Cafe (corner of Columbus and Union), where I wrote down the poem that had been forming in my head. I had a third glass of wine. I spoke with a hippie girl sitting next to me; she was writing in a journal too. I was stuck for a word, so I told her to tell me the first three-syllable word that popped into her head. She said 'dynamite'. This lead me to 'destruction', which lead me to 'renewal', which was just he word I needed. We had a few laughs, and then I ran back over to the restaurant - Firenze By Night - where uncle Alan, aunt Janie, and cousin Mat were just arriving.

We had a good meal, more wine, and a nice conversation. I went with Mat to another really nice place around the corner where a friend of his was celebrating a birthday. I met a half dozen of Mat's friends, and then left by myself, bound for Club Deluxe on Haight St. One of my pals the previous night had suggested that I might like to see the band who were playing at Deluxe, Cari Lee and the Saddle-Lites. Rene and Cameron also said that they might show up.

On my way to Deluxe, I drove by a theatre with a huge crowd of black-clad hipsters milling around out front. Turns out Nick Cave played that night. Damn! I missed it! Cave, one of my favorite recording artists, would be in Chicago the following Thursday, but I knew that I would be somewhere near the bottom of the Grand Canyon at that point.
Read on...

None of my pals made it to Deluxe. This made me feel bad because I had left my cousin Mat (whom I rarely get to see) to get there by an appointed hour. Otherwise, I wasn't too heartbroken. Although I would have liked to see my friends again, clearly I don't mind spending time on my own, and I was still too depressed to feel very social. Being upbeat and charming to my family had sapped all of my strength.

The band were great, and of course Deluxe was filled to it's small capacity with amazing women (San Francisco) dressed in vintage clothes. I was talking to a few gals, but they were about 20, and they just made me feel old. They didn't quite have the retro look nailed down - one was in jeans, tennis shoes and a polo shirt, but with a very elaborately created Veronica Lake hairdo. Of course, she was wonderful and charming and completely gorgeous (San Francisco), but so, so, so young... I couldn't truly relate to her on any real level.

She and her friends told me that the swing / retro / rockabilly scene in San Francisco was more or less divided into two factions, and older and a younger. As evidence, I was directed towards a woman sitting a few feet from us. She was certainly older - she had about fifteen years on the kids I had been passing the time with. That put her at about my age... 'older' indeed. She ended up being the drummer's girlfriend, and when he came over between sets, I had a much more worthwhile conversation with the two of them than I had been having with the 'kids'. I guess that by talking with a member of the older generation (which the younger apparently didn't see me as a part of, being a newcomer and all) I had became a traitor, and was therefore tacitly un-invited to an after-hours party hosted by some 'youngers' when the people I had promised a ride to slipped out without me. No loss.

Back to the hotel, I was able to secure a metered spot on the street (now that it was the weekend), without fear of having the Mobile Exploration Lab towed come morning. I wasn't ready for bed, so I walked through the deserted Chinatown, back to Broadway. The only person on the entire street was an old woman badly singing in Chinese and begging for change. I kept dumping change into her receptacle in exchange for her continued warbling into my tape recorder. Here was prime material for a future sound collage project. A bit down the street, I ended up in a truly disgusting diner, eating some pizza before making the trek back to the Triton and slumberland. It had been a very long day.

I hit the road for Los Angeles before noon. I am always hesitant to leave San Francisco, and this time was no different. The day was gorgeous again, and there is so much to do here. I missed the Museum of Modern Art for the third time in a row (also in August 2001 and in the summer of 2000), but I still saw and did plenty considering the brevity of my stay.

I was tempted to take Rt.1 down the coast, but that is a two day commitment. It is an amazing drive, but I wanted to make some time and get to LA in time to see some more pals by dinner time. The I-5 and the 101 are both speedy options, and having taken the I-5 and Rt. 1 in the past, I decided to try the 101. Time-wise, it seemed to split the difference between Rt. 1 and I-5, and it also fell somewhere between them in terms of scenic beauty as well.

There were many tempting places to stop, particularly when 101 linked up with Rt. 1 and they ran together by the ocean for a while. The day remained gorgeous, but I tried to make time and didn't stop as much as I might have been tempted to. The town of San Louis Obispo is nice too, but I pressed on. I did spot an abandoned and decaying old diner from the road, and I decided to stop and do some photos. I had a roll of black and white in the camera, and I had been swearing to myself the entire time I was on the road that I was going to do some art photography on this trip. Having missed opportunities in the Sierra Nevadas, I owed it to myself to do some pictures now. The texture and the sense of melancholy present in certain dying buildings makes them ripe subject matter, but I wasn't feeling quite inspired enough to truly find any of the aesthetic appeal hidden in plain sight before me. The trick of being a photographer is in seeing things in a way that brings out an intrinsic beauty that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. If this erstwhile eatery had anything to offer, it remained hidden on this Saturday afternoon.

I stopped in Santa Barbara to gas up, check some Email, and to try to reach my friend Samantha. I am slated to crash at Sam's for the next couple of nights, but she doesn't seem to be around. She was in Argentina last week, and arrived home on Thursday. I imagine she is still recovering. Jet lag to South America isn't bad at all - the time zones are pretty close to the ones in North America (here's some trivia - Easter Island is in the same time zone as Chicago!). But still, the travel will wear you out, regardless of chronological adjustments. I also poked my head into a place called Chuck's of Hawaii, to see if it warranted inclusion in Tiki Road Trip. It is not precisely Polynesian, despite the name, but I may give it a sentence or two anyway.

Entering Los Angeles area... passing quite a few signs for Mulholland Drive.

The real street, not the movie.

Made it to Tiki Ti by nine, and after five attempts to see this classic Tiki bar (all on previous excursions to LA, natch), I finally had a chance to experience one of the world's most notorious Tiki hot spots first hand. I called Sam again; still no answer. I tried my pal Jim Woodruff, but he was unable to make it out. One fella from my internet circle of pals did show up, so we knocked back a few $10 rum drinks and talked to the owner's grandson for while.

As much as I was digging the Tiki Ti, there is too much to do in Los Angeles to sit in one place all night. The traffic in Hollywood was miserable on this Saturday night, and of course I got turned around once or twice trying to get my bearings. After a quick stop at the Lava Lounge, I made for the Derby, hoping to run into some of my pals from Royal Crown Revue. I haven't seen any of these guys since the last time I did a show with them; that was at least two years ago. The kid at the door was unimpressed with the fact that I am/was affiliated with the band that put the Derby on the map, and I had to fork over $10 to get in. The band playing that night were decent, but nothing special. I chatted with the sound man for a while; he and I remembered meeting back in 1999.

It was pretty dead in the main room, which is a gorgeous plush lounge with a small stage in the corner (seen in the movie Swingers). I went back to the dancing room in the rear. For the sake of the dancers, they pipe the music of the band playing in the front room into some speakers in the dancing room in the back, which is large, wide open, and brightly lit for serious dancing. This is opposed to the more cozy, subfusc, and crowded front room. It was a little more lively back in the dancing room, but not being much of a dancer, I was content to simply observe all of the amazing Lindy Hoppin' going on. I chatted with a middle aged woman who has appeared (she claims) in "the swing dancing scene of just about every movie made in recent memory that featured a swing dance scene". She sheepishly followed that grandiose statement up with a disclaimer that you can't really recognize her in most of them. Ah, Hollywood.

I decided to pronounce last rites on the LA Swing scene, and then made for Los Feliz. I knew of a cheap-ish motel there, which also happened to be right across the street from the Bigfoot Lodge, an amazingly cool place to end the night. The motel wanted $100 (not so cheap-ish), so I got a burrito at Del Taco and made for less pricey pastures. I found a place on Western that only wanted $55, and thinking that this was the best deal I was going to get in Hollywood on a Saturday night at two thirty AM, I took it. The remote for the TV didn't work, nor did the replacement they gave me.

Fuck it. Good night.

People who enjoy the art, design, style, and architecture of the middle twentieth century period are snobs when it comes to authenticity. That said, people who are into baseball cards, Victorian antiques, modern dance, custom cars, or fine cinema are all the same way. You've got the real goods, the quality examples, the awe-inspiring bits of genius that aficionados of whatever drool over, and then (more often and more commonly), you have the cheezy, artless, unimaginative, and embarrassing imitations that are eventually mass produced for the lowest common denominator to consume. Unfortunately, it is likely that the latter becomes what the public at large imagines when the afficiando of 'whatever' talks about their particular passion, as the recent mass-produced knock-offs exist in greater numbers, and have been marketed more recently to the masses.

Sometimes the imitators are so crass that the fans of the real goods are hesitant to discuss their passions among the clueless masses for fear of being colossally misunderstood.

Here is what we hate about so-called 1950's diners: purposefully rude waitresses chewing gum, black and white checkerboard tile floors, pictures of Elvis, Marilyn, and James Dean, neon-bordered picture frames, excess chrome, excess red sparkly leatherette, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" in any manifestation, 45 RPM records stapled to the walls, life-sized model cars 'crashing through the wall', and poodle skirts. If you think that any or all of these things need to be present in order to qualify as 'retro', you don't get it. Sorry. You loose. If all of these things make you want to vomit when you walk in to a joint for a shake, but you can't always exactly quantify what does make a place exceptionally cool, then you might indeed 'get' googie.

If you fall into the later category, you need to visit Pann's in Los Angeles. It is a temple of the atom in disguise as a coffee shop. It is the greatest remaining Mecca of googie left surviving. From the angular slanted roof, right down to the tile on the walls in the men's room, Pann's is a lovingly preserved, all original American classic. Somebody, at some point, realized that they had something unique on their hands. Rather than ruining the place with a misguided attempt at remodeling to try to recapture a classic feel (an enterprise always doomed to failure) they just kept it the way it was, but with a clear attention to maintenance and preservation. Absolutely worth a stop.

The burger was mediocre, but the apple pie would have impressed no less an authority than Agent Cooper.

I took a drive out to Santa Monica on the advice of the manuscript for my own book; there were a few leads there to inspect. Traffic was a nightmare, but once again the day was gorgeous. The park and the beach parallel to the main drag by the ocean were jammed full of people recreating in every possible way. Countless sailboats broke up the cerulean expanse of the Pacific. There are quite a few fancy hotels on the other side of the oceanside drive, facing the water. Were the speed limit a bit higher here, this street would remind me of Lakeshore Drive in Chicago - a long strip of park by the water on one side of the road, and a long strip of hotels on the other. Of course, Lake Shore Drive doesn't have an amusement park on a long pier jutting out into the ocean... oh, wait, Navy Pier. No roller coaster in Chicago's version, though.

I had been in the car for quite a while, and I was getting antsy. It is worth contemplation that I can drive on the highway for six hours without a break, but get me into city traffic, and I am fatigued after an hour. I stopped into Chez Jay, a dumpy little bar a block inland from the ocean. The bar was old (but not in a cool way), and run down (but not in a cool way). I didn't care. I was out of the car. Two glasses of iced tea and a leisurely read through the local entertainment papers restored my humanity. Chez Jay was the only dive bar in the neighborhood, which is why I picked it. I don't think the ritzy hotels and their adjoining restaurants would have been much fun, and I probably would have paid quite a bit more than $1 for the iced tea, had I tried to slum with the rich folks. Jay's clientele were mainly tourists complaining about the cigarette ban (you can't smoke at all in bars or restaurants in California). I didn't want to put myself on the unpopular side of their argument so I kept my head buried in the paper. I like the anti-smoking law!

I wanted to head back to Los Feliz to check out the Jesus De La Luz gallery, so I hightailed it (as much as I could in the traffic) across town. I stopped to check out a great comic book store (called Hi-De-Ho) and a mediocre purveyor of Tibetan artifacts (Tibetan Arts). The woman keeping shop at Tibetan Arts was glued to a TV and chain smoking. I wanted to try playing a few of her Singing Bowls (I own five), but she seemed loathe to have her program interrupted. So I left pretty quickly.

The corner of Sunset and Hyperion seems to be an alternative hipster nexus for LA - lots going on there. Jesus De La Luz is in the back of a large store called Wacko, located right around the corner from Tiki Ti, and a few doors down from the Good Luck Bar, which I regrettably didn't have a chance to visit on this particular visit to LA. Wacko is a giant store carrying every manner of pop culture iconography imaginable. An unprecedented selection of books takes up the front half of the store, and every manner of chotchkie you can think of fills the rear - stickers, posters, toys, action figures, neo-Tiki Mugs, t-shirts, etc. etc. Beyond that is the gallery, who were featuring a show by Owen Smith that month.

Owen Smith's work is pretty nice, but nothing I would rave about. Essentially, he is a magazine illustrator with a good sense of retro style. I am a fan of illustration art. Some people don't consider it to be worthy of consideration as 'fine' art, but I think illustration has it's own validity, and is certainly worth (in some cases) consideration as 'real' art (perhaps as in the aforementioned example of the work of Alberto Vargas). Smith's paintings (seen most often in the New Yorker) remind me stylistically of the pin up artist Peter Driben, but with more fully realized backgrounds and situations than Driben painted. One should not take my comparison to Driben as a statement that Smith paints pin ups; his work represents a wide range of subjects. However, the painting style is similar.

Smith was asking $1500-$4500 for his pieces, many of which have appeared in national publications. I was tempted to plunk down my credit card and drop $2200 on one of his best pieces, which inexplicably remained one of the only unsold ones. There was no way I am ever going to be able to afford the $11,500 price tag for an original Vargas study, but were I employed, the Smith painting (fully rendered and framed - unlike the loose onion paper that the Vargas was presented on) would be more within my financial grasp. That said, I am not employed, and Owen Smith will never be in a league with Alberto Vargas as either a talent or an investment. So I passed. As I type this, I wonder if Smith sold the painting, and if he'd take $1800 for it...

I also checked out Ragmop, where the owner showed me his tattoo, done in Moorea (Tahiti) by Roland Peruto (Puruto?). Very nice work. I showed him my Maori-influenced honu design, done in Cleveland by Atom Bomb! Mr. Ragmop beats me to the punch for the authenticity award...

I got a phone message from Samantha; she had remained a few extra days in Argentina, and had only just arrived back at home. She said I was still welcome to crash at her place. I tried to call her again, but I was unable to reach her.

As the sun set, it was time to head over to my pal Sven Kirsten's pad. He was hosting a small gathering of friends, some of whom I had met, and others whom I had only heard of. Within the Tiki community (as is the case in any 'scene'), there are certain names that most people know, and with the coincidental appearance in LA of myself, and Otto von Strohiem (editor of Tiki News, a Tiki fanzine from San Francisco), it seemed that a sort of Tiki Summit was being held. Sven wrote The Book of Tiki, and had invited the well-known artist Shag to his home that night, as well as Otto, and Beachbum Berry, author of The Grog Log.

A half dozen other people were there too, including a woman who's job is to decide what bonus features get put onto DVDs (drool...), and a fella who had done some rotoscope work on the original Star Wars. I shoved the sci-fi fan-boy part of my personality into a closet, kicking and screaming, and did my heroic best not to gush at the sheer coolness of being at a party with the "DVD-extra lady" or the "Star Wars rotoscope guy". Plenty of people have made asses of themselves in my presence after finding out that I have (pick one or more): played keyboards in Pigface, worked as a tech for Ministry, conceived and created Left Orbit Temple, founded the Tiki Bar Review Pages, engineered 700 shows at the Park West Theatre, mixed about 50 shows for Royal Crown Revue, wrote Tiki Road Trip, visited Easter Island, or (fill in some other 'cool' accomplishment in my life at your leisure). After dealing with the uncomfortable position of being put on a pedestal just because of one's job, one learns quickly not to reciprocate this embarassing and annoying behavior. But it was hard not to ask all sorts of embarassing and annoying questions about sundry upcoming DVD's... Color me a geek.

After Sven treated us to a slide show about his search for Witco products (a Tiki bar decor manufacturer, and the subject of Sven's next book), I remembered that I had to leave so as to meet some friends at Trader Vics in Beverly Hills. It was hard to leave Sven's - there were a lot of interesting people there - but there were people waiting for me at Trader Vic's.

I crossed the city very fast - I might have set a new land speed record for getting to Beverly Hills from Silverlake (let me on those salt falts, and I'll show 'em a thing or two about speed!) - and arrived minutes after Al and Shelley (a couple from San Diego) had left. Fortunately there were three other people waiting there, patiently, and we had a pretty good time. One guy was doing card tricks, and his parents own a winery that he will eventually inherit. "Buddy! Pal! My new best friend!".

Afterwards, I realized that I still hadn't reached Samantha. It would be very tricky financially to justify another motel this night. Sam's place was in Hermosa Beach, a good 15 miles south of Hollywood. Without a better idea, I decided to head out there. I was sure that I had gotten lost (and that I was going to get shot at) when I passed through an industrial area with halogen lit factories belching their filth into the sky. I wondered about the condition of this Hermosa Beach... clean for swimming, or rotten industrial death zone?

I found Sam's place by 2:00 AM or so, and I was very hesitant as to what I should do next. A week earlier, she had told me I could crash on her couch, but we had been undergoing this miscommunication (or really a complete lack of communication), and I was unsure as to whether she was truly expecting me. Also, the night had grown late - it took more than an hour to find my way from Beverly Hills to Hermosa Beach. I timidly rapped on the door, which yielded to my tentative knock and swung slowly open. I gingerly stepped into a short hallway, and was confronted with a steep staircase. I quietly crept upwards. I entered a beautiful, silent, and barley lit apartment. I crept past a few doors that might have been bedrooms. I stalked through a kitchen and into a living room. The light of the full moon flooded the room with a deep blue, just enough to make out the shadows of furniture and other things I ought not bump in to. I whispered softly: "Sam?". Finally, I became unnerved. I didn't even know if I was in the right place!

I tiptoed back downstairs, and sat in the car for a moment. What would I do? I didn't mind sleeping in the car in certain rural areas, but doing so in Los Angeles was asking for a sort of trouble I didn't want to get into. I hadn't spotted any motels nearby, and in fact Hermosa Beach was fairly isolated from the rest of Los Angeles. It was dark, it was late, I was very tired. What to do?

I crept back upstairs. I selected a bedroom door at random, and softly knocked. No answer. I made my way back into the living room, and found a set of French doors. I rapped softly. Someone stirred.

I poked my head tentatively into the half open door of the adjacent room. Sam stirred... somewhat surprised to see me, she directed me to the couch and graciously provided some blankets. I sheepishly accepted her hospitality, and apologized for any part I may have played in the mix up. She trudged back to bed, understanding that I was going to move my illegally parked car, let myself back in, and then gratefully pass out on her couch.

I did just this... but after moving my car, I took a short detour (on foot) to the beach, which was less than a block away. I contemplated the cool evening, the infinite stars, the cold wet sand, and the insane week I had just been through. The trip is only half over.

Samantha and both of her roommates are early risers. Therefore, when I dragged my ass off the couch at 10:00 AM, they had all been gone for several hours. I found my way around her place, cleaning myself up and admiring the wonderful design of the apartment. Whomever the architect was had been a stickler for cool little details, and all of the previous owners of the building had seen fit to impeccably maintain its unique charm. I estimated it to have been built in the 1910s. What a great place to live - and only a block from the beach.

I left a note explaining that I'd call during the afternoon, and it had been sleepily agreed upon the night before that Sam and I would have to spend some time together that evening. After all, two of my three nights in Los Angeles had already passed by, and the time we'd spent together had amounted to nothing but a sleepy glimpse of each other the previous night.

I headed back across town to the Silverlake/Los Feliz area once again. Sven and I had agreed to meet during the afternoon. We hadn't had a chance to talk one-on-one during the gathering at his house, and being the author of books on a nearly identical subject matter (although presented very differently) there was much interlocution that needed to occur. I had a few hours to kill before our meeting, so I found an outdoor cafe, and had an omlette in the sunshine. I watched all of the local hipsters doing their thing, and I wrote a letter on the back of a flyer advertising a Hank Willimas III concert. I'm more of a fan af his granddaddy, personally.

Then I walked around to a few of the vintage shops that had just been closing when I was here the previous day. I thought I might like to get a new pair of 'going out' shoes; the pair I had been wearing on any marginally dressy occasion for the past year were starting to look sloppy. I am also always on the lookout for vintage shirts, but due to my size (six foot four and not as skinny as I used to be), I have trouble finding good authentic vintage. I usually have to settle for retro-looking modern clothes; the less cheezy selections from the (often cheezy) BC Ethic, Steady, and Johnny Suede brands usually fit the bill.

As hep as this neighborhood is, I was sure that there must be a bigger, longer, and more active area of town for cool shopping. Beverly Hills is not what I had in mind (me on Rodeo drive? Hell no!); but I was sure I had seen a more substantial 'middle class hipster-area' during previous trips to Smogville. Turns out that the corner of Melrose and La Brea is where you want to start; from there you have a solid mile (at least) of stores ranging from very cool to very lame. Which stores fall into which categories is strictly a matter of personal taste. Clothes, music, food, etc...

I didn't get to see even half of it, due to time constrictions - I had to meet Sven. Largely as a result of the current bad economy, I was offered a few great deals, all of which I passed up (largely as a result of the current bad economy). One teenage girl was so desperate to sell me pair of GBX shoes that she knocked another ten percent off the price every time I made for the door. I think she would have paid me to take them if I had held out a little longer. Her dad, the owner of the store, was all but barring the door, preventing me from leaving, calling out cheaper prices as I hit the pavement. The deal was good; I simply just didn't like the shoes that much! Another shop seemed to have nothing but 500 copies of the exact same shirt, in about 10 colors and five sizes. It wasn't a particularly noteworthy shirt. The girl keeping shop was ready to give me 2 for the price of 1, and once again, I practically had to shove her out of the way to get back to the street. Unfortunately, after perusing a half dozen vintage shops, there were no such deals to be had on vintage shirts, as I expected. As a matter of fact, there were no vintage shirts at all (in my size), to be had... as expected.

Sven's amazing house awaited me. What is it with my pals in California all having amazing abodes? This weekend alone, between Bruce in San Francisco, Sven in Silverlake, and Samantha in Hermosa Beach, I saw three of the best residential edifices I can imagine. People who visit me tend to like my place, but I guess the grass is always greener...

Sven and I had a good toungewag for a few hours during which he offered to write an introduction for Tiki Road Trip. Eventually, I needed to get back to Hermosa to have dinner with my elusive hostess. I called Sam to tell her I was on my way, and she informed me that she was going to hop a plane for Las Vegas to see her boyfriend (who is there for his job for a few weeks). Okay... I made it to Samantha's in time to help her pack. While she assembled an overnight bag, I made myself useful by burning her Argentina photos onto a CD-ROM for her man. We ordered a pizza, and ate it in the car as I drove her to LAX airport. A tragedy was narrowly averted when we realized she was not going to make her flight, but fortunately there was another leaving only 50 minutes later. We had spent a hectic hour and a half together at this point, and as I hugged her and thanked her for her hospitality, she ran off into the airport, reminding me to lock the door to her house after I left the next morning.

Since LAX is really close to Hermosa Beach, and since the rest of LA is really far from Hermosa Beach, and since I had been out engaging in all manner of revelry all weekend, I decided to head back to Sam's and get a good night's sleep. I briefly met one of her roommates, Tara, who oddly enough had just returned from Chicago, where she was visiting a gal named Ellen, who is a mutual friend of Sam and I.

The pier at Hermosa Beach sits near a few dozen shops and restaurants on the block leading up to it, so I decided to walk over and see what was going on. It was cold outside and this entertainment zone was pretty dead, so I walked a third of the way onto said pier, which was barricaded at exactly the same point where sea meets sand twenty feet below. It was chilly out, but I found a bench and sat there writing a few postcards as the chilly Pacific breeze gusted just hard enough to send me looking for shelter and warmth. Poking my head into the intriguingly named Mermaid Restaurant, I was welcomed with the same hungry enthusiasm I had encountered while shopping on Melrose that afternoon. Everybody is really eager for my (few) dollars. The Mermaid looks like a good place to eat, but I didn't stay, although the owners were very nice. Some other time.

Walking past a truly obnoxious Karaoke bar (what's with all the Karaoke bars on this trip?), a truly corpulent goth chick (another goth in a Karaoke bar!) waved me over from her seat on the patio. I was really tired, and didn't feel like making new friends at the moment. My admirer's name is Juliet, and her business card reads: "Rodeo Expert, Midget Owner, Dominatrix, Elvis Impersonator, Hollywood Mogul, Camp Councilor, White Trash Expert, Schwankster". Juliet, more or less, looks like the B-movie star Devine. You either understand that statement completely or you don't. Do a web search if you need more. She and the people she was with wanted to hear my whole life story. They were buying rounds, but even faced with their offers of freebies, I resolutely nursed a single beer for about 45 minutes before deciding that these people were less entertaining than being asleep at Samantha's would be. Probably just because I was tired. But, still.

Walking back to Sam's, I was talking into my tape recorder. A crazy homeless man was on the other side of the street, going the same direction as me, at roughly the same pace, talking to himself. The only difference between he and I? The tape recorder.

Time to get the hell out of Los Angeles. I have never been fond of this town, and three days here is enough. That said, meeting with Sven and his entourage was excellent, and seeing Samantha (however briefly) is always a pleasure. She and I have been friends for about 12 years now, and she never ceases to amaze me with her kindness, her intellect, and her motivation. What a great friend!

The previous night, I had seen a store called Aloha-Cruz a few block's from Samantha's house. They sell an astounding array of vintage Hawaiiana and Tiki stuff. I stopped in, and was extremely impressed with the quality and quantity of their merchandise. However, their prices were comical; typically 500% of the going rate for most of the items they were displaying. I am truly a bargain hunter, and I like to get a deal when I can, but I will pay a fair current market value price for anything worth having. The Aloha-Cruz price tags, however, were so over inflated, that I wondered who their clients are and how they stay in business. I was completely dumbfounded at the ludicrous extremes of lucre they were asking for.

The next order of business was the holy pilgrimage to Oceanic Arts in Whittier. This is where, for the past 40 years or so, Leroy Scmaltz and Robert van Oostenberg have been making the majority of the decor for Tiki bars world wide! The showroom is open to the public. I didn't expect much, although I had been told that the trip would be worth my while. I expected to find an industrial building without much to offer to a casual visitor.

I was completely wrong. Although the building (located in an industrial park near a boy's correctional facility) was much as I had imagined it, there are enough artifacts on display to keep an aficionado of fake Polynesian art busy for quite some time. I wandered in at about 11:15 AM, and was disappointed to find that they close for an hour at noon for lunch. I felt a little rushed; there was a lot to see. Ever since their inception in the 1950's, this company has been responsible for bringing a kitschy faux taste of Polynesia to every small town in America, and they're still going strong. Leroy and Bob have become cult heroes (to a degree) in the past few years. Wandering around the warehouse, open to the California sunshine, was an amazing experience. The sheer quantity and equal quality of the wooden artifacts on display was mind boggling. Tiki Poles, statues, masks, and all manner of ephemera is packed into every square foot of extra space. Items modeled (sometimes faithfully and sometimes very loosely) after the art of Hawaii, Easter Island, New Guinea, Tahiti, New Zealand, and places not yet discovered face the visitor at every turn. Amazing.

I tried to talk to Leroy and Bob, but I think I came off as being a total dope! I work with rock stars for a living, and they have long since stopped impressing me. I could give a rat's ass if some joker plays a guitar - just get on with it and let me do my job. But these two old guys, their hands covered with sawdust from carving Tikis all day, made me feel like a 12 year old girl meeting the Backstreet Boys. I don't think I screamed or giggled... no, I might have...

I had thought that I might buy a Tiki for my home Tiki lounge, but the ones I liked were either too expensive, too big for the car, too out of stock, or all of the above. Bob and Leroy seemed occupied with other business, and didn't seem interested in chatting. I didn't want to wait around for another hour (through their strictly enforced lunch hour) just to ogle some more, so I took off. I wanted to make it to Las Vegas at an hour early enough in the evening to relax for a bit and then go out. And I had one other stop to make, somewhere in the middle of the desert...
Read on!

1:16 PM - 3092 miles away, and looping back for the rebound.
Here's a sign at a truck weigh station -
"Loaded: 3 MPH"
Good advice.
If you must dive while loaded, try not to do more than 3 MPH.

2:15 PM
My friend Mig in San Francisco had told me that I absolutely MUST stop to see Exotic World. Located in Helendale, CA ("halfway between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, and halfway between Victorville and Barstow"), Exotic World is a must visit.

The story...
Driving through the afternoon heat, way too close to the Mojave Desert for my own good, I pulled off the interstate and into the dust. Following Mig's directions, I made my way to a desolate section of Route 66, one with absolutely nothing interesting to see on it. I drove some 12 miles into the desert, passing no signs of civilization save for the tiny town of Helendale. Helendale was once a one-horse town, but now it simply reeks of glue. Turning right at the town's only intersection, I made my way further from civilization - if such a thing is possible. It wasn't pretty out there, it wasn't picturesque, and it wasn't interesting. It was just flat, hot, dry, wasteland. Desert. Far from 'downtown' Helendale, I eventually came across a tall wraught iron gate with the words "Exotic World" bent into an arch above the driveway. Contrasting this impressive portcullis was a hand-lettered sign on posterboard tacked to an ancient wooden pole. It was somewhat weather-worn, and it might have said something about Exotic World's new stage and banquet room.

I drove cautiously through the gate, down a ridiculously uneven dirt road. I simply couldn't do more than three miles per hour (loaded or otherwise) without risking breaking something important, or even possibly damaging the car. There is an abandoned motorboat half buried in the sand next to the so-called road. Not much use for a boat in these parts. Some archaeologist is going to find it in 1000 years and deduce that there was water here in the 20th century. Wrongo-wrongo. The driveway ended a quarter mile later. I found myself in a small compound of whitewashed buildings. There are three or four camper trailers, a wooden two-story house, and a single story ranch style structure. There were some dogs wandering around, but they looked fairly benign. Looking at my directions, it said "park by the first trailer and honk three times".

Before I had a chance to do so, an extremely thin man walked over, a suspicious look on his face. Shirtless, he was so tanned that he looked as dark as some Aztec, although his features were clearly Caucasian. He didn't have a ounce of fat on his body, and a few wiry muscles provided the only topographical features on his impossibly thin frame. He took off his dirty baseball cap as he cautiously approached the car. I got out and said that I was here to see Exotic World. His dark countenance brightened, and he suddenly became very friendly. He was named Jim. He led me towards a shady porch between the two buildings, where an elderly man sat drinking coffee with a similarly wizened woman. They were glad to see me, and I was thusly introduced to Dixie Evans.

Dixie is a sweet and personable lady who looks no different from any other somewhat affluent woman of her age. Dressed in white slacks and a white blouse with brightly colored geometric patterns on it (think 1980's) she could have been any of a thousand of her peers, gracefully retiring in California. In fact, she was (along with Tempest Storm, Lili St. Cyr, and a select few others) a legendary burlesque queen of the 1950's, and is making her way in the world by giving people tours of Exotic World - the burlesque museum she has set up in the ranch building next to her desert home.

Jim showed me around the compound while Dixie meandered off to prepare herself for the grand tour I was to be given. I was shown a large, clear blue swimming pool (luxurious in the surrounding desert), and a red-carpeted outdoor stage beyond the far side of the pool. I wondered how they kept the pool from instantly evaporating on a daily basis. Jim told me that he had just finished spending a week cleaning the pool, which had turned to mud after a dust storm. I wondered aloud how often this sort of thing happened, and he told me that they had about two storms per month. I didn't want to offend him by suggesting hey invest in a pool cover or something... The stage, I was told, is used for an annual neo-burlesque show held here on the Exotic World compound once each summer. From there, I was led into a building containing one large single room, with another stage in the far corner. This is their private banquet hall. The walls are covered with all manner of memorabilia from the burlesque era. By way of providing a further introduction to Exotic World, I was shown a fuzzy third generation video tape of part of last year's annual show. As expected, the ventriloquists, comedians, musicians, singers, fortune tellers, and floor show seemed to have all but vanished from this version of the burlesque revival; all that remained were the showgirls, some of which seemed to be veterans of the original era. I'd recommend having them attend as special guests next time, rather than participants. Let the younger girls take over on stage, please.

Finally, Dixie was ready. I was escorted by Jim (still shirtless) into the main building, where Dixie was waiting. Her little frame - barely more than five feet tall (they always look bigger on stage!) - was leaning on a cane. She had teased out her white hair a little, and applied a fresh coat of bright red lipstick. Otherwise she looked the same as she had twenty minutes earlier. Suddenly, she was 'on stage'. She ceased to be a kindly old woman sipping coffee on the patio in the hot California desert sunshine, and became a show business superstar. She stopped leaning on her cane, and began to wave it around theatrically as she welcomed me to Exotic World in a grand and dramatic voice. Her eyes, if not the rest of her, were suddenly young again. She was performing. This is what she lives for, even if it is for an audience of one. Continuing her dramatic shtick, she led me through the first of the eight or so rooms that make up her museum. Never faltering in her award-worthy histrionics, I was presented with her version of the rise and fall of the burlesque show, from it's Vaudeville roots to it's eventual and complete degeneration into porn.

Seeing that I was already aware of the considerable differences between the 'wink and tease' showgirls of a half century ago and the wretched demimondes who work the seedy strip clubs of the modern era, she warmed up to me quickly, and spent at least an hour giving me a detailed accounting of the history of her profession. It occurred to me that I was probably the only customer she would have all day, if not all week. There was no admission fee (although there is a donation box). I was amazed at Dixie's level of energy and of the enthusiasm clearly present. It can't be easy maintaining this sort of venture. Sure, this real estate is not exactly prime (desert acreage in the middle of the Mojave is probably cheap) but maintaining this compound - and being continually prepared to give an enthusiastic and spontaneous tour to the occasional wayward obsessive who may happen to make the pilgrimage to this unlikely destination - requires a real commitment.

This was truly a moment for a reality check. I was standing in a small building in the middle of the desert on a Monday afternoon, being given a private tour of a museum devoted to dead showgirls by one of their surviving peers.

Right. Back to it. Dixie's collection of nostalgia is truly awe-inspiring. Hundreds of 8x10 glossy photos of her fellow performers (each in a little frame), line every available inch of wallspace. Dozens of mannequins display astounding costumes, truly splendorus in their design, detail, and construction. I was reminded of some of my lady friends back home who have an appreciation for vintage clothes and costuming of all sorts; I wished I could have shown them these exquisite garments. Most of them were full-length dresses or gowns; however there were also a few of the 'smaller' items preserved in display cases. Remember, this stuff was from back in the day when this sort of thing was far less coarse than it is now, and there was real effort made to provide the audience (which consisted of as many women as men) with a quality show. Some of these habiliments seemed, to me, to be museum quality.
Oh wait - this is a museum!

I might also note that this museum - even given the subject matter - is strictly G-rated. The women in the photos and clippings may be scantiily clad, but in every single image, the naughty bits are all safely stowed away behind feathers, sequins, and fans.