Take a look, gentle reader at some of the exploits of the Way Out West Gang, on the road to San Diego!
Click here for pictures!
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Overheard
Ah, Motel 6…I didn't realize I'd get to become such a regular, but this trip has been The Motel 6 Trip. The reasons are two-fold:- Pets are welcome. Hello Charlie Brown and Olivia!
- The rates, they cheap
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
TT's here!
Through some odd weird confluence alignment-of-the-stars up above, tarasita done got her ass out here to NM! Now it's a celebration! righton!©
More about the Eaves Movie Ranch
Today, i unhitched the Woomobile from the u-haul and, with mapquest screens from my laptop, motored into the quickly setting sun, searching for some lost bit of my childhood. Across I-25, down state road 16, right on SR44, I found it: There was the dustblown, sunbleached sign: Rancho Alegre. Rancho Alegre, longtime home of my regionally famous cousin, J.W. Eaves and his family. I was overcome by a delight to return here, more than 20 years after my last visit.
Driving along the paved road (wasn't it dirt before?), I passed the house. I'm sure this was the house, right? A sprawling adobe manse, so foreign to these southern eyes, and so familiar to these childhood eyes. It sits low on a rise or desert red and brown, dozens of yards behind the running fence and the road. It looked unoccupied. That was the house. And down the road farther, on the left—there it was. The movie ranch. I was tingling at the sight of those fake buildings, that contrived western street, so well-situated out here among the dust and lizards, yet so absolutely anachronistic. this is a western town. No, this is not a western town. this is a movie set, a tribute to countless western towns on TV and in the movies for decades.
There seemed to be an "office" now, and fencing and a gate. Several signs claiming "set is closed" looked neglected as did a sunbleached sign warning of a guard dog. Since I could easily step through the ornamental gate, I decided that probably there wasn't a roaming attack dog.
Decades ago, I come here in a dune buggy, reeling in my good fortune. A dune buggy. JW's dune buggy, that he told me I could drive around. I was maybe 13 years old, and i had the keys to a dune buggy and permission to wander far and wide around a kingdom of scrubbrush and fake wild west buildings.
I can see two cars, but don't see any people. Is this what it's like "out west?" …You just wander around because everything is great big and nobody's really around anyway? I chew on that, as I amble as innocently as possible around the side of a building. Are there voices?Or is that the sound of movies by-gone taking a break between shots? No it's voices, I'm sure. As I come around the corner, I see a couple kicked back on a driftwood porch, drinking in the sunset. This has potential to be tense, so I send out a "hello there!" not too loud, but not too soft, either. They're actually so relaxed that they don't notice me, so I speak up a little: "HI THERE. Um, I know I'm trespassing, but…"—Such a story, how do I tell it?— Trying to get right to the point, I summarize: "I am a distant relative of JW and Ermalee's, and I used to come play here when I was a little kid. I've come all the way from Kentucky and couldn't be this close and not try to stop by." The guy on the porch seems to scoff and says: "Oh, we've never heard that story before!" I think he's giving me shit, but in fact, he means it. This leads to a sprawling conversation and recollection about JW and Ermalee, the Movie ranch, the house and more. Suddenly these things I've remembered, these near myths are made real, restored like a faded movie print. This guy, Thomas, knows everything I'm talking about. He knew the Eaves, he knows Mel, the grandson who inherited the ranch, he knows Trish, the daughter who was Miss Rodeo America in 1969 and he knows about the room that was full of nothing but her trophies. He even mentions The Cheyenne Social Club, a western that I only think of in terms of the Movie Ranch and may or may not have ever seen. Thomas is the first person I've ever talked to who knew these things other than my mom or my brother. It's a relief, a joy, kind of a dream, and it almost chokes me with emotion.
I remember JW took us on a tour of the property, a pickup truck on a rutted out road. He drove us down into a box canyon, telling us about how the just-released The Lone Ranger did some filming here. I want to see it immediately. In the bottom of the canyon, the walls rise up and JW hands me the keys. "Why don't you drive us out of here, Mickey?" he suggests with a sideways grin. The truck is a manual "column shifter" and they road out is about a 20 degree incline.
Thomas is as nice as he can be. He's a burly, shaggy headed cross between a cowboy and an actor. He's an actor who plays cowboys, but also seems to actually be a cowboy. He is the caretaker on the ranch, feeding the several horses, and doing I-don't-know-what. But he says he's quite busy and isn't especially tolerant of uninvited visitors, it seems. Luckily, I seem to be an exception. "A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning at 8am, I hear a knock on my door…" he says, with obvious irritation. "I get up, open the door, and there's this man and this lady, and he grins and says 'We came ALL THE WAY DOWN from Santa Fe! I thought I'd show my wife the ranch!'" Thomas pauses, reliving his disbelief. "'All the way down from Santa Fe,' huh?" he snorts. "Santa Fe is 25 minutes away, if you drive slow!"
The sun goes down, and we talk and talk some more. I'm certainly not being hurried off, and in fact eventually excuse myself, after getting clearance from Thomas to come buy tomnorrow "for the morning light" to take some pictures. I drive off with the most remarkable warm feeling, as if I've been granted an audience with a beloved, but long-dead relative. Which I have.
Click here for some pictures of JW Eaves' Movie Ranch.
Driving along the paved road (wasn't it dirt before?), I passed the house. I'm sure this was the house, right? A sprawling adobe manse, so foreign to these southern eyes, and so familiar to these childhood eyes. It sits low on a rise or desert red and brown, dozens of yards behind the running fence and the road. It looked unoccupied. That was the house. And down the road farther, on the left—there it was. The movie ranch. I was tingling at the sight of those fake buildings, that contrived western street, so well-situated out here among the dust and lizards, yet so absolutely anachronistic. this is a western town. No, this is not a western town. this is a movie set, a tribute to countless western towns on TV and in the movies for decades.There seemed to be an "office" now, and fencing and a gate. Several signs claiming "set is closed" looked neglected as did a sunbleached sign warning of a guard dog. Since I could easily step through the ornamental gate, I decided that probably there wasn't a roaming attack dog.Decades ago, I come here in a dune buggy, reeling in my good fortune. A dune buggy. JW's dune buggy, that he told me I could drive around. I was maybe 13 years old, and i had the keys to a dune buggy and permission to wander far and wide around a kingdom of scrubbrush and fake wild west buildings.
I can see two cars, but don't see any people. Is this what it's like "out west?" …You just wander around because everything is great big and nobody's really around anyway? I chew on that, as I amble as innocently as possible around the side of a building. Are there voices?Or is that the sound of movies by-gone taking a break between shots? No it's voices, I'm sure. As I come around the corner, I see a couple kicked back on a driftwood porch, drinking in the sunset. This has potential to be tense, so I send out a "hello there!" not too loud, but not too soft, either. They're actually so relaxed that they don't notice me, so I speak up a little: "HI THERE. Um, I know I'm trespassing, but…"—Such a story, how do I tell it?— Trying to get right to the point, I summarize: "I am a distant relative of JW and Ermalee's, and I used to come play here when I was a little kid. I've come all the way from Kentucky and couldn't be this close and not try to stop by." The guy on the porch seems to scoff and says: "Oh, we've never heard that story before!" I think he's giving me shit, but in fact, he means it. This leads to a sprawling conversation and recollection about JW and Ermalee, the Movie ranch, the house and more. Suddenly these things I've remembered, these near myths are made real, restored like a faded movie print. This guy, Thomas, knows everything I'm talking about. He knew the Eaves, he knows Mel, the grandson who inherited the ranch, he knows Trish, the daughter who was Miss Rodeo America in 1969 and he knows about the room that was full of nothing but her trophies. He even mentions The Cheyenne Social Club, a western that I only think of in terms of the Movie Ranch and may or may not have ever seen. Thomas is the first person I've ever talked to who knew these things other than my mom or my brother. It's a relief, a joy, kind of a dream, and it almost chokes me with emotion.
I remember JW took us on a tour of the property, a pickup truck on a rutted out road. He drove us down into a box canyon, telling us about how the just-released The Lone Ranger did some filming here. I want to see it immediately. In the bottom of the canyon, the walls rise up and JW hands me the keys. "Why don't you drive us out of here, Mickey?" he suggests with a sideways grin. The truck is a manual "column shifter" and they road out is about a 20 degree incline.
Thomas is as nice as he can be. He's a burly, shaggy headed cross between a cowboy and an actor. He's an actor who plays cowboys, but also seems to actually be a cowboy. He is the caretaker on the ranch, feeding the several horses, and doing I-don't-know-what. But he says he's quite busy and isn't especially tolerant of uninvited visitors, it seems. Luckily, I seem to be an exception. "A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning at 8am, I hear a knock on my door…" he says, with obvious irritation. "I get up, open the door, and there's this man and this lady, and he grins and says 'We came ALL THE WAY DOWN from Santa Fe! I thought I'd show my wife the ranch!'" Thomas pauses, reliving his disbelief. "'All the way down from Santa Fe,' huh?" he snorts. "Santa Fe is 25 minutes away, if you drive slow!"
The sun goes down, and we talk and talk some more. I'm certainly not being hurried off, and in fact eventually excuse myself, after getting clearance from Thomas to come buy tomnorrow "for the morning light" to take some pictures. I drive off with the most remarkable warm feeling, as if I've been granted an audience with a beloved, but long-dead relative. Which I have.
Click here for some pictures of JW Eaves' Movie Ranch.
Santa Fe!
Finally. Santa Fe.
but, you know, it's not really like that.
We have had the most leisurely drive out west, I think.
We've driven plenty, no doubt; weathered zillions of delays; got started late; drove until later. All of it, no prob. But I think there was round after round of public and private woot! when we crossed over into New Mexico. At that point, the landscape changed, the tenor changed… we were somewhere else. Finally, irrefutably. And that is the goal of a trip for me: to be somewhere else.
Today, from the second we got into NM, the weather started fuckin' with us, I will say that. The morning in Amarillo brought glorious light and a breeze; by the time we pulled over to see The Cadillac Ranch, the mercury was climbing but the breeze (wind, even?) was hanging in there. Later, in NM, right across the border in Tucum for an internet break (ah, the new world), the mercury wasn't climbing, it was soaring. As we hunkered down for the final 3-4 hours to Santa Fe, things got a little dicey, since the animal contingent (have I mentioned Charlie Brown and Olivia?) were seeming a little withered and the Woo machine (the Crown Vic) was inching towards too-hot-under-the-hood. So we abandoned AC, swapped the pets into the more—ahem—moderne Tif and Troy-mobile and rolled down the windows. This was a welcome broiling, in my opinion—caravanning up and up, among the mesas, under big skies with a loud sun. And then just when this seemed like the new norm, storm clouds started boiling on the horizon. and we eventually sailed into a rattling bout of lightning and and miniature rainstorm thrashing. Jules said: "Iit was like the raindrops were being thrown down at us." Then, cool… then hwy 285 rolled out for us and we drove the final hour into Santa Fe under total glory: cloud littered skies, rainbows, and air, delicious air in the mid-70s.
that was some kind of welcome…
but, you know, it's not really like that.
We have had the most leisurely drive out west, I think.
We've driven plenty, no doubt; weathered zillions of delays; got started late; drove until later. All of it, no prob. But I think there was round after round of public and private woot! when we crossed over into New Mexico. At that point, the landscape changed, the tenor changed… we were somewhere else. Finally, irrefutably. And that is the goal of a trip for me: to be somewhere else.
Today, from the second we got into NM, the weather started fuckin' with us, I will say that. The morning in Amarillo brought glorious light and a breeze; by the time we pulled over to see The Cadillac Ranch, the mercury was climbing but the breeze (wind, even?) was hanging in there. Later, in NM, right across the border in Tucum for an internet break (ah, the new world), the mercury wasn't climbing, it was soaring. As we hunkered down for the final 3-4 hours to Santa Fe, things got a little dicey, since the animal contingent (have I mentioned Charlie Brown and Olivia?) were seeming a little withered and the Woo machine (the Crown Vic) was inching towards too-hot-under-the-hood. So we abandoned AC, swapped the pets into the more—ahem—moderne Tif and Troy-mobile and rolled down the windows. This was a welcome broiling, in my opinion—caravanning up and up, among the mesas, under big skies with a loud sun. And then just when this seemed like the new norm, storm clouds started boiling on the horizon. and we eventually sailed into a rattling bout of lightning and and miniature rainstorm thrashing. Jules said: "Iit was like the raindrops were being thrown down at us." Then, cool… then hwy 285 rolled out for us and we drove the final hour into Santa Fe under total glory: cloud littered skies, rainbows, and air, delicious air in the mid-70s.
that was some kind of welcome…
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
THIS JUST IN!
the fabulous, the mega, the super-dee-duper Tessie T is joining us! Flyin' in, she is!
Okay, gotta git. We gotta tear ass for Santa Fe.
Okay, gotta git. We gotta tear ass for Santa Fe.
J.W. Eaves Movie Ranch
Okay, I've become once again enchanted by the EAVES MOVIE RANCH. As I may or may not have made clear, I played here as a child, and was so in love with the place. More on this to come.
This morn, from our remote outpost at Holiday Inn, Tucumcari, NM. The fine folks here opened their internet to us, and for that we are grateful.
Whilst blogging, I've discovered that since I last investigated, they got them one of them fancy fancy websites. Yee-haw!
I'm really curious about how this is working, since my 2nd cousin (once removed) JW, and his wife Ermalee passed into the Great Beyond a number of years ago. Who's runnin' the show??
I hope I get to visit somehow. but I wonder about the real influence of approaching Rancho Alegre and buzzing the buzzer and saying "I'm JW's 2nd Cousin (once removed)! Can I come in?"
but you never know.. I'm gonna at least try.
Breakfast in Amarillo
Quick breakfast tip: If in Amarillo, look for Stockman's Home Cookin', off of I-40. Be sure and get a side of their home-made hot sauce for your eggs and—well—just put it on everything.
A warning though: The pancakes and waffles have officially gotten the gasface from Tif and Woo.
A warning though: The pancakes and waffles have officially gotten the gasface from Tif and Woo.
Mick, so what are ya listenin' to?
I'm glad you asked. You know I never tire of the music thang—
Zap Mama, Brazilian Girls, Bebel Gilberto, Carl Henry Brueggen, Bossacucanova, some disco, Mosquitos, stories from "I thought My Father was God—The Best of NPR's National Story Project," and a Kurt Vonnegut collection.
Today, I predict Beck, Squeeze and Herb Alpert.
Note: the musical views represented herein do not necessarily represent those of the Toyota Landcruiser that is frequently seen in our company.
Zap Mama, Brazilian Girls, Bebel Gilberto, Carl Henry Brueggen, Bossacucanova, some disco, Mosquitos, stories from "I thought My Father was God—The Best of NPR's National Story Project," and a Kurt Vonnegut collection.
Today, I predict Beck, Squeeze and Herb Alpert.
Note: the musical views represented herein do not necessarily represent those of the Toyota Landcruiser that is frequently seen in our company.
Tuesday Morning, the sun shone down
Amarillo TX—I'm sleepin' less than my travel partners. I don't know why, just am. I suppose I'm just too excited to sleep. I haven't been "out west" in so many years, and really so little as a whole. It's kind of like boats: When I was a kid my family had a boat, but it fell out of favor (another story) early on and so I never got to be a "boat person." Not so much. Nor have I gotten my preferred dose of the American southwest. And I do listen to a lot of Calexico, yes, in fact.
So back to the morning—sleeping, not sleeping and here we are in Amarillo, an hour and a half from New Mexico. I did my quietly-get-up-and-shower-and-find-breakfast thing, while the slumberin' continued (7:30am) Here's the magic then: I opened the door and—hear the heavenly angels sing?—the southwest texas morning sun rinsed me clean. Oh, the glory of the southwestern morning light. White, white light, accompanied by a cool calming steady breeze. What a way to greet the day.
So back to the morning—sleeping, not sleeping and here we are in Amarillo, an hour and a half from New Mexico. I did my quietly-get-up-and-shower-and-find-breakfast thing, while the slumberin' continued (7:30am) Here's the magic then: I opened the door and—hear the heavenly angels sing?—the southwest texas morning sun rinsed me clean. Oh, the glory of the southwestern morning light. White, white light, accompanied by a cool calming steady breeze. What a way to greet the day.
"...St. Loo-ee, Joplin, Missouri..."
"You'll see Amarillo…"
It's hard not to be humming and singing "(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66" most of the time when driving along 44 and 40, the highways that have outmoded Route 66, "The Gateway to the West." I heard the story of the song once—popular myth has that it was written by a grateful GI returning home from abroad—and have always loved it. So to get to spend time even next door to this old road. Which is lucky, since that's what we've been seeing on this day of driving. Missouri, Oklahoma—a whole lot of OK, and some Texas panhandle, cowpokes! Which brings us to Amarillo, which Julie seems determined to pronounce with a hispanic flair: "ah-mah-REEE-lo." I say: "Julie—say it like a redneck…that's better."
The nighttime air here is glorious. A constant breeze seems to billow by, the stars boom down from overhead, and it's ever so slightly cool once the sun goes down. Not the case during the day; earlier we hit the upper 90's south of Oklahoma City. By the way, can't really call Oklahoma City "mighty pretty," but aside from that basic truth, I still like the road and am content to sit and let my eyes roam across the diminishing landscape. The trees grow lower, the scrub brush spreads and the dust starts to take flight. And something happens to franchise food service. I can't exactly explain it, but it was irksome. A lackadaisical putter that seemed to localize in line right in front of me. The kind of glacial transaction that takes the "fast" right out of food. Rude or not, just passing by, sorry pal—but can you make me a sandwiich soon? I gotta go.
We ate at a nice little scrubby diner with a huge neon EAT sign out front. Home made fries, yum. The men's bathroom made me laugh twiice; once for the framed picture that I recognized from the farm of two incredibly old looking toddlers in overalls, with the quote "So how long you been farming?"; and two, for the lectern that apparently is stored in the men's bathroom when not in use by who-knows-what ciivic group that holds their regular meetings at the EAT diner.
We're Motel Sixin' it for night number 2. I don't expect the wonder of yesterday's Airstream caravan in the morning, but soon we'll be in New Mexico (an hour and a half away) and there'll be wonder a plenty. I haven't been to NM since—I'm not sure—maybe since I was about 15. Over 20 years. My memories of it have always reigned supreme. New Mexico is another planet, different, haunted. We're all excited about it.
Santa Fe. I'm thinking of a special thing, but it may not happen. The odds are against it. Sometime, I'll tell you about JW Eaves Movie Ranch, also known once upon a time as Rancho Alegre, the home of my 2nd cousin, once removed, and the most wonderful place I ever played. JW and Ermalee Eaves are gone now, and I miss them even if they only met me a few times.
It's hard not to be humming and singing "(Get Your Kicks On) Route 66" most of the time when driving along 44 and 40, the highways that have outmoded Route 66, "The Gateway to the West." I heard the story of the song once—popular myth has that it was written by a grateful GI returning home from abroad—and have always loved it. So to get to spend time even next door to this old road. Which is lucky, since that's what we've been seeing on this day of driving. Missouri, Oklahoma—a whole lot of OK, and some Texas panhandle, cowpokes! Which brings us to Amarillo, which Julie seems determined to pronounce with a hispanic flair: "ah-mah-REEE-lo." I say: "Julie—say it like a redneck…that's better."
The nighttime air here is glorious. A constant breeze seems to billow by, the stars boom down from overhead, and it's ever so slightly cool once the sun goes down. Not the case during the day; earlier we hit the upper 90's south of Oklahoma City. By the way, can't really call Oklahoma City "mighty pretty," but aside from that basic truth, I still like the road and am content to sit and let my eyes roam across the diminishing landscape. The trees grow lower, the scrub brush spreads and the dust starts to take flight. And something happens to franchise food service. I can't exactly explain it, but it was irksome. A lackadaisical putter that seemed to localize in line right in front of me. The kind of glacial transaction that takes the "fast" right out of food. Rude or not, just passing by, sorry pal—but can you make me a sandwiich soon? I gotta go.
We ate at a nice little scrubby diner with a huge neon EAT sign out front. Home made fries, yum. The men's bathroom made me laugh twiice; once for the framed picture that I recognized from the farm of two incredibly old looking toddlers in overalls, with the quote "So how long you been farming?"; and two, for the lectern that apparently is stored in the men's bathroom when not in use by who-knows-what ciivic group that holds their regular meetings at the EAT diner.
We're Motel Sixin' it for night number 2. I don't expect the wonder of yesterday's Airstream caravan in the morning, but soon we'll be in New Mexico (an hour and a half away) and there'll be wonder a plenty. I haven't been to NM since—I'm not sure—maybe since I was about 15. Over 20 years. My memories of it have always reigned supreme. New Mexico is another planet, different, haunted. We're all excited about it.
Santa Fe. I'm thinking of a special thing, but it may not happen. The odds are against it. Sometime, I'll tell you about JW Eaves Movie Ranch, also known once upon a time as Rancho Alegre, the home of my 2nd cousin, once removed, and the most wonderful place I ever played. JW and Ermalee Eaves are gone now, and I miss them even if they only met me a few times.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Up and Atom!
That's a joke, people, about Atom RSS, the method by which some of you subscribe to this blog. Get it? Up and Atom?
(oy, vey)
"Woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer." Okay, another joke alright? Actually, woke up this mornin' and I got myself a mess of scratchy towels for my Motel 6 mates. After a peculiar night of us packed into our beds, Olivia the kitty, meowing incessantly (all of us too pooped to care, I reckon), I cracked my eyes at the crack of 8:30 CST. Springfield,, MO. Check.
The word is that TT is gonna meet us in Sanfa Fe, but who can say, baybay? Never say nay with TayTay…
First thing, I did, I grabbed the ole powerbook and headed to the nextdoor Waffle House. Getting my wallet out of the car (that was a doh! moment; haven't I learned yet not to leave my wallet in the car, ever?? This has, after all, been a banner year for People Stealing Mick's Stuff). Anyway, I got to have a swell momentary conversation with the trucker who's Peterbilt was pointed at the side panel of Julie's Crown Vic. The conversation starter was his gi-mongous mesh grill bug catcher, emblazoned with the words: "Miss B Havin"
What's not to love?
Next, Waffle House, where I see my first truly memorable trip event: A departing caravan of Airstreams—100 or more—makes their way past the window, and all I can do is moan at more of these great campers than I've ever seen at one time. Turns out, right next door is one of the biggest Airstream events on the planet, right now! All I can do is watch and I feel kind of helpless because it's so enchanting to me. Airstream after airstream, all different ages and sizes, and pulling vehicles. My favorite: a convertable early 70's cadillac. It's all I can do not to call the hotel room and wake my sleeping comrades to witness. Hell, I want to jump on board, or talk to these folks or something! Instead I get to talk to an old farm couple about the Airstream phenomen, noting for myself too, how Wally's dream is in full tilt, people congregating and driving around in his iconoclastic, legendary camper. Amazing.
(oy, vey)
"Woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer." Okay, another joke alright? Actually, woke up this mornin' and I got myself a mess of scratchy towels for my Motel 6 mates. After a peculiar night of us packed into our beds, Olivia the kitty, meowing incessantly (all of us too pooped to care, I reckon), I cracked my eyes at the crack of 8:30 CST. Springfield,, MO. Check.
The word is that TT is gonna meet us in Sanfa Fe, but who can say, baybay? Never say nay with TayTay…
First thing, I did, I grabbed the ole powerbook and headed to the nextdoor Waffle House. Getting my wallet out of the car (that was a doh! moment; haven't I learned yet not to leave my wallet in the car, ever?? This has, after all, been a banner year for People Stealing Mick's Stuff). Anyway, I got to have a swell momentary conversation with the trucker who's Peterbilt was pointed at the side panel of Julie's Crown Vic. The conversation starter was his gi-mongous mesh grill bug catcher, emblazoned with the words: "Miss B Havin"
What's not to love?
Next, Waffle House, where I see my first truly memorable trip event: A departing caravan of Airstreams—100 or more—makes their way past the window, and all I can do is moan at more of these great campers than I've ever seen at one time. Turns out, right next door is one of the biggest Airstream events on the planet, right now! All I can do is watch and I feel kind of helpless because it's so enchanting to me. Airstream after airstream, all different ages and sizes, and pulling vehicles. My favorite: a convertable early 70's cadillac. It's all I can do not to call the hotel room and wake my sleeping comrades to witness. Hell, I want to jump on board, or talk to these folks or something! Instead I get to talk to an old farm couple about the Airstream phenomen, noting for myself too, how Wally's dream is in full tilt, people congregating and driving around in his iconoclastic, legendary camper. Amazing.
Headed Out!
Well, i haven't been talking about this, but…I'm headed to california! And here's what that means for you, gentle reader: A Mick Travelogue, which is a tradition that predates blogging. This medium was, of course, made for the travel narrative, so rest assured I'm going to take great joy in this. Entriies will probably be light on the "linkiness" (thanks, Rona), but I'll install links and pics as the opportunity (i.e.: wireless access) presents itself. Thanks for reading!
A longtime dream is in the process of being realized as I travel cross-country, escorting Julie Woolie to her new home in San Diego. Also along for the journey, intrepidsters, Tif and Troyboy. The mission: See the Bestus of the Westus, festus. We departed on sunday, somewhat later than expected, which is to say exactly when predicted. (ETD: 8am. ATD: 3pm).
But what ya gonna do? Hang out like it's vacation, that's what. And it is. My idea of a vacation— one where I got nothing really to do besides stare out the window or drive. Nice decision, methinks! This, after the several months grind of completing several major projects for the Ket.
So we got away late, then busted tracks. First stop: Louisville, to drop of my car at the Jamer's, prepped and parked for the return flight form san diego next week. then, onto the road in earnest, we get busy for san diego.
A favorite stop thus far: the trucker oasis north of evansville (hello aunts and uncles!) at 41 and I-64, provider of a wide range of fried delicacies, all nicely dehydrated from the heat lamps. Still, I couldn't pass up a small portion of jalepeno poppers (why, poppers?) and a corn dog. Also, I was momentarily horrified at the sight of Chicken Gizzards, which I used to be fed as a kid, but still have no idea the exact nature of. Gizzard?!?
Eventually, we cruised through the highway spaghetti of St. Louis about 10pm, which was good—those roads, kinda nutty puling a u-haul trailer. did i mention that part? two vehicles, each with a uhaul? that would be me and jules in the Crown Vic and Troy and Tif in the Landcruiser.. uh-huh. It's all good.
Have to say we made our goal, to my surprise, that being Springfield, MO. We had to concede Oklahoma City, but I'll settle for Springfield. Tomorrow will be a day of magnificent changing landscape as we make across Oklahoma (land of my people), Texas' panhandle (just skirting Pampa, former home of some of my people) and then into wonderful New Mexico, and our goal Santa Fe. Hopefully some Route 66 along the way!
More to come…
A longtime dream is in the process of being realized as I travel cross-country, escorting Julie Woolie to her new home in San Diego. Also along for the journey, intrepidsters, Tif and Troyboy. The mission: See the Bestus of the Westus, festus. We departed on sunday, somewhat later than expected, which is to say exactly when predicted. (ETD: 8am. ATD: 3pm).
But what ya gonna do? Hang out like it's vacation, that's what. And it is. My idea of a vacation— one where I got nothing really to do besides stare out the window or drive. Nice decision, methinks! This, after the several months grind of completing several major projects for the Ket.
So we got away late, then busted tracks. First stop: Louisville, to drop of my car at the Jamer's, prepped and parked for the return flight form san diego next week. then, onto the road in earnest, we get busy for san diego.
A favorite stop thus far: the trucker oasis north of evansville (hello aunts and uncles!) at 41 and I-64, provider of a wide range of fried delicacies, all nicely dehydrated from the heat lamps. Still, I couldn't pass up a small portion of jalepeno poppers (why, poppers?) and a corn dog. Also, I was momentarily horrified at the sight of Chicken Gizzards, which I used to be fed as a kid, but still have no idea the exact nature of. Gizzard?!?
Eventually, we cruised through the highway spaghetti of St. Louis about 10pm, which was good—those roads, kinda nutty puling a u-haul trailer. did i mention that part? two vehicles, each with a uhaul? that would be me and jules in the Crown Vic and Troy and Tif in the Landcruiser.. uh-huh. It's all good.
Have to say we made our goal, to my surprise, that being Springfield, MO. We had to concede Oklahoma City, but I'll settle for Springfield. Tomorrow will be a day of magnificent changing landscape as we make across Oklahoma (land of my people), Texas' panhandle (just skirting Pampa, former home of some of my people) and then into wonderful New Mexico, and our goal Santa Fe. Hopefully some Route 66 along the way!
More to come…
Saturday, June 25, 2005
To Blink, defined.
I want to propose a 21st century additional definition for the verb "blink." The suggested addition is intended for your supermarket and mega-shopping experience, to ease communication with the harried check-out person. "Blinking," then, is the act of running something over that barcode scanner, most especially, the handheld "gun" version that some stores use. "Blinking" is where they take that scanner gun and "blink!" your purchases.
Rationale: Sometimes you buy something—say, a bag of ice—that you don't actually have in your cart but that you will grab after checking out. This is a prime opportunity to use the verb "to blink."
So you could say, "Oh, will you blink me a bag of ice, too? I'll get it on the way out."
I'm-just-sayin'- is-all…
Friday, June 24, 2005
Me and Sophie
My friends the Dos Vatos were visiting for the debut of their movie about The Kentucky Theater. Afterwards, Sophie and I got to talk about what to do with rabid chinchillas.
The Experts!
Well, kids there's a new comic on the block, around the block, all over the place, from our pal Kenn Minter! Kenn's worked really hard to give birth to The Experts. I think he's gonna have stretch marks, if you want to know the truth… You want to know the truth? Kenn's gone so far as to form his own publishing company, Near Mint Press, to bring you, gentle reader, a little further into his hipster brain. How many y'all got yr. own comic books, huh? HUH?!
The Experts—which has been co-hatched with Kenn's diabolical colleague Clarence Pruitt—is vintage Minter, showcasing some of his most endearing themes like—you know—neurotic superheros with dubious powers, a plethora of emotional hand-wringing and no shortage of curvaceous females. I said it was vintage Minter, right? The Experts is kind of a small-town suburban version of the X-Men, with half the superpowers, and double the super egos. It also reminds me of The Tick. Heck, pal, you don't have to believe me about the coolness of The Experts—take a look for yourself. Besides, I'm no comic genius. I just know the goods when I spot'em…And thanks to Ye Olde Internet, it's a snap to get yourself a copy of Kenn's new book from ComixPress. If you're in Lexington, it's available at your finer comic book shops. Or if you want to deal directly with Mr. Minter—His Comixness—himself, just email him.
Hurry up and buy it so he can get himself cleaned up.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
It doesn't get more claustrophobic than this…
Welcome to the latest way to spend the money you have too much of, you super-rich so-and-so. Let everybody know that you don't die like us little people with a crazy custom coffin! (note: even more arcane than their coffins is…their web site!)
TomKat?
What is with this "tomkat" shit? I don't pay attention but got the lowdown from my knowing pal Lara to fill me in. Mostly, I like the Scientology angle.
Anyway, this is a good way for me to shift the focus back to me and … a little story!
Once, while living in NY, I was walking home, and passed a Scientology location. They had this poster that showed this blockbuster looking sci-fi sort of image and it said "free movie about scientology." So I thought: "this'll be fun.." I mean—what other "religion" has their own holy cruise ship?
I went in and approached a lone figure seated behind a hotel-like counter. She was brief and receptive, leading me back to what I hoped to be some sort of outrageous mini-THX plush theater (this being based on the production value of the poster I saw out front). Instead I was taken to this blank, empty room, with maybe a couple of chairs and a TV on one of those rolling carts. The person said: "So and so will be with you in a moment to start the film." So I waited.. and waited... and waited.. okay, I waited for maybe 6 minutes. That was all the time I had for Scientology nutjobs. Then I strolled out the front door without saying 'bye.
Kinda wanted to see the film, though...
Anyway, this is a good way for me to shift the focus back to me and … a little story!
Once, while living in NY, I was walking home, and passed a Scientology location. They had this poster that showed this blockbuster looking sci-fi sort of image and it said "free movie about scientology." So I thought: "this'll be fun.." I mean—what other "religion" has their own holy cruise ship?I went in and approached a lone figure seated behind a hotel-like counter. She was brief and receptive, leading me back to what I hoped to be some sort of outrageous mini-THX plush theater (this being based on the production value of the poster I saw out front). Instead I was taken to this blank, empty room, with maybe a couple of chairs and a TV on one of those rolling carts. The person said: "So and so will be with you in a moment to start the film." So I waited.. and waited... and waited.. okay, I waited for maybe 6 minutes. That was all the time I had for Scientology nutjobs. Then I strolled out the front door without saying 'bye.
Kinda wanted to see the film, though...
Friday, June 17, 2005
Gallery Hop, non-stop!
I want to thank everybody who came to my show at Isle of You. It was a great turnout and plenty of you decided to slide Mick a tenner for Instant cheap art! Thank you—both for the Hamiltons, and—more importantly—for owning my photography!If you didn't make it down, you can still check out the snaps online.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Recent snapshots by Mick Jeffries
Snapshot Renaissanceby Mick Jeffries
June 17, 2005 Gallery Hop, 6-8pm
Downtown Lexington
Isle of You, corner of Jefferson & Short
Friends, I'm proud to announce my 4th Photography Show!
These pictures are up at Isle of You, for your viewing, even for your buying! They're unframed, unmatted, un-anythinged. You want one? Just slide Mick a tenner and it's yours. Instant cheap art for you!
This show is a simple collection of snapshots, blown up to mini-posters. I don't know what the difference between a "photograph" and a snapshot is, but I think we're living in a Snapshot Renaissance.So it's time to put some of them up.
Hope you can come down for the meet-and-greet, but if not, hope you'll check out the snaps online. And if you're in the neighborhood, you can stroll up the street to see fabulous tile work by Isle lovely Melissa Muir at Kentucky Mudworks.
Also, after Gallery Hop, be sure to head over to Mecca for Re:Arrangements, an amazing evening of performance art with Auk Theater, the soiled weirdness of Super-Toilet Brush, Super bendy Alyssum Pohl, and more!
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
My favorite hair mechanic
Oh, Amy Leigh— you so money! Girlfrien' cut my hair and she cut you's too. I ain't lyin'... Get her to cut yours, right now!
Thursday, June 09, 2005
New Career direction
All of a sudden, trapped in my home office, I thought: Wouldn't it be nice to be a Moss Farmer. Well, wouldn't it?
Still, this ought not be confused with becoming a floss farmer.
Still, this ought not be confused with becoming a floss farmer.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
"The Secret Ladder Tree"—a recollection
I've been meaning to publish this story, for Anessa, but I can't remember why for her. Maybe it's for Lori-Lyn. No, no, no! It's for JT!
============================
Once there was a tree, and it was a great tree.
I think it was my favorite tree ever.
JT called it "The Secret Ladder Tree." In my mind, it didn't have a name, but I can still see it, leaning skyward, a hulking bent-over pine in a grove of hulking bent-over Eastern White pines. Towering over a matted down bed of fallen needles, these trees stood away from the assorted paths, a shaded brood of sentinels. Most people bypassed them for the more obvious glories the garden, full of tulips and herbs, rich with manicure.
The pines had branches that groaned out from their sides, caked with sap. The bottom-most branches—those that hadn't been pruned—were nearly on the ground in the ten to fifteen feet that they ventured on the perpendicular, away from the trunk. But even these branches seemed just intentionally out-of-reach to the casual would-be climber.
Which was fine. Because the casual climber didn't merit the Secret Ladder Tree.
A friend showed me the tree, in the quiet dark, probably, one Ashland night, in the '80s. Showed me how, with a little foot-up, a purchase could be transacted. With a foot-up, you could climb up into The Secret Ladder Tree. Once up, even a seat on that first torso sized branch incited a pinch of vertigo, a tightening of the grip. Looking up, it was more than a pinch as the giant exploded skywards, arcing madly out of sight though a vortex of branches.
And it was easy to sit still there and think, "That's good for me. Right here," legs dangling, heart mildly racing, eight feet off the ground. But the next branch was right there and if you held on, and hoisted yourself to standing… and if you made a couple well-placed steps, you were 15 feet up. And that was certainly enough… But after the second landing, there was something you didn't notice. Now, as you looked up the trunk into that dizzying regress, it seems like there's a spray of branches, fanning up and around, up and around.
And so you can't help it.
That basic curiosity overrules the preternatural fear, and you start: One foot, and then one hand, and then the other, and then the other.
Every time I climbed this tree, whether alone or with a friend, I thought the same thing: I can't do this. My heart would be pounding and I didn't have to weigh the merits of not looking down. That was a no-brainer; anyway, down was farther and farther away with every step up.
Soon though— Tree World. The ground dissipates and becomes more abstract, obscured by cone and needle. As I approached it, every time, I could hardly believe it. Safety. Destination. Quietude. The Landing.
The Landing. Way way up in a tree, once upon a time, there was a cradle, a recline, a purchase. Way up above Ashland, there was a special place where two people could sit and talk, and forget about the world 50 feet below. Talk about "step into my office…" Way up there was a place that one person could actually lie back and go to sleep, as I did on many treasured occasions, dozing safely in the cradling arms of a great tree.
============================
Once there was a tree, and it was a great tree.
I think it was my favorite tree ever.
JT called it "The Secret Ladder Tree." In my mind, it didn't have a name, but I can still see it, leaning skyward, a hulking bent-over pine in a grove of hulking bent-over Eastern White pines. Towering over a matted down bed of fallen needles, these trees stood away from the assorted paths, a shaded brood of sentinels. Most people bypassed them for the more obvious glories the garden, full of tulips and herbs, rich with manicure.
The pines had branches that groaned out from their sides, caked with sap. The bottom-most branches—those that hadn't been pruned—were nearly on the ground in the ten to fifteen feet that they ventured on the perpendicular, away from the trunk. But even these branches seemed just intentionally out-of-reach to the casual would-be climber.
Which was fine. Because the casual climber didn't merit the Secret Ladder Tree.
A friend showed me the tree, in the quiet dark, probably, one Ashland night, in the '80s. Showed me how, with a little foot-up, a purchase could be transacted. With a foot-up, you could climb up into The Secret Ladder Tree. Once up, even a seat on that first torso sized branch incited a pinch of vertigo, a tightening of the grip. Looking up, it was more than a pinch as the giant exploded skywards, arcing madly out of sight though a vortex of branches.
And it was easy to sit still there and think, "That's good for me. Right here," legs dangling, heart mildly racing, eight feet off the ground. But the next branch was right there and if you held on, and hoisted yourself to standing… and if you made a couple well-placed steps, you were 15 feet up. And that was certainly enough… But after the second landing, there was something you didn't notice. Now, as you looked up the trunk into that dizzying regress, it seems like there's a spray of branches, fanning up and around, up and around.
And so you can't help it.
That basic curiosity overrules the preternatural fear, and you start: One foot, and then one hand, and then the other, and then the other.
Every time I climbed this tree, whether alone or with a friend, I thought the same thing: I can't do this. My heart would be pounding and I didn't have to weigh the merits of not looking down. That was a no-brainer; anyway, down was farther and farther away with every step up.
Soon though— Tree World. The ground dissipates and becomes more abstract, obscured by cone and needle. As I approached it, every time, I could hardly believe it. Safety. Destination. Quietude. The Landing.
The Landing. Way way up in a tree, once upon a time, there was a cradle, a recline, a purchase. Way up above Ashland, there was a special place where two people could sit and talk, and forget about the world 50 feet below. Talk about "step into my office…" Way up there was a place that one person could actually lie back and go to sleep, as I did on many treasured occasions, dozing safely in the cradling arms of a great tree.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Kitty on the prowl
My kitty, she don't want to stay inside this time of year.
Much hunting to be done. Most of the year, there's a fairly even division of inside and outside time— If she wants out, I let her out. If she wants in, I let her in. This time of year, she just comes in for some Cat Chow. Then it's back out to do cat things. Here, she's accessorized by the fabulous Bassett Rose Bush, which is draping the house (and nearly the lawn) with floral wonder.
One of my favorite things, incidentally, about outside kitty is that the inside litter box is kind of neglected. A habit that I endorse and adopt.
Much hunting to be done. Most of the year, there's a fairly even division of inside and outside time— If she wants out, I let her out. If she wants in, I let her in. This time of year, she just comes in for some Cat Chow. Then it's back out to do cat things. Here, she's accessorized by the fabulous Bassett Rose Bush, which is draping the house (and nearly the lawn) with floral wonder.
One of my favorite things, incidentally, about outside kitty is that the inside litter box is kind of neglected. A habit that I endorse and adopt.
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