Ferocity Mill

The One Who Can Spell originally requested that I refer to him in print as “Roger” – to which I obviously replied, “Welease Wogew!” in typical supreme dork-o form – but since I just can’t bring myself to bestow that name upon anyone (this from someone who named her new car “Jimothy”), I will call him “Eric.” That is his name, more or less, and it is partially because of him that I have decided to live in northern California. Because the story of how this came to be is far more interesting than anything else I have to say at the moment (without going into Too Much Information Zone, that is), I might as well share it.

When I fled the Portland house and all the madness which lay therein, I did so accompanied by a fellow traveler whose acquaintance I had made only a week prior. I ultimately had to ditch the traveler in Denver on account of his becoming something of a liability, but during the four weeks we spent together, he introduced me to some bands I’d never heard of. And by “introduced me to some bands” I mean “played three or four songs by each artist while we were driving, over and over and over and over again until I threatened him with physical violence because seriously what are you, THREE?”

Ahem. Anyway, I thought a couple of the bands were fairly enjoyable, based on those three songs (which I had, by that point, memorized), and decided I’d check them out on my way back east. One, it turned out, was scheduled to play in my hometown just a couple weeks later, so I bought tickets and invited my mom to join me.

That, my friends, is where I met Eric. Because, the thing is, he was in the band. Between sets he was standing outside the theater, and my mom was out there, too, and she was chatting with him about how much she was enjoying the show. I sauntered around the corner; my mom said to Eric, “Have you met my daughter?”, yada yada yada, now I live in California. Thanks, mom!

All right, a bit more explanation won’t hurt.

He and I hit it off that first night pretty well, and we discovered that due to a chain of coincidences, we each had roughly the same travel plans for the next week. He and the band were touring, I was wandering aimlessly, and we both had very similar itineraries, inasmuch as I ever have an itinerary these days.

There was obviously only one course of action to take …

“Come to New York City on our bus!”

“Sure!”

… because that is how we roll.

The ride to The City became a ride to another city … and another … and another. Five or so days later their tour was over, and in Hartford, Connecticut, I saw him off at the airport. We planned to meet in Denver for New Year’s Eve, where each of us had already decided to spend the holiday months earlier. He boarded a plane home to Berkeley. I hopped a Greyhound for Ithaca. It was a few days before Thanksgiving.

Over the course of the next couple weeks, we both decided that it would be much more fun to see each other before December 31st, and – wouldn’t you know? – there were some really cheap flights headed out to San Francisco this time of year. I went to California for a week, a good time was had by all, and I decided that since I was going to be moving somewhere anyway, why not here?

And now, the entire story – from Portland in early October to New York on Thanksgiving – in pictures:

I left Portland with this guy. His name is Emery and he owes me money, so if you see him, please gently remind him that I never forget.

We drove east, through Montana, where this sight convinced me that maybe those long winters are getting to people there.

While we were in Billings, I got a tattoo. If you don’t know me, I will inform you that I get tattoos fairly regularly. It’s kind of my Thing. Hulk smashes; I get tattoos. It’s my superpower.

Also while in Billings, we picked up a third traveler – Tana (from Montana. No, I am not even kidding). Luckily, my iPod was equipped to handle all of our personalities.

We drove through Wyoming. Whee.

We stopped in Denver for roughly a week, during which time we explored Red Rocks …

… went to a couple shows …

… and made some meatballs.

After that, Tana went home, and Emery went … somewhere. I didn’t really care, as long as he went, since I was Not Pleased with him at that point. At last sighting, he was in Coos Bay, Oregon – not that I am suggesting he be hunted down and beaten, or anything.

I continued east, through the inevitable and much-dreaded Kansas.

It looked like that for, oh, eight bamillion hours. Seriously, Kansas, what the fuck? I don’t think you’re even trying.

I made a stop in Lawrence, Kansas, to visit my friend Rory, whom I last saw next to a pool in Baghdad.

Bones was exhausted after the long car ride, what with all the obsessive-compulsive moving from back seat to front seat while shoving his nose in my face and butt-bumping the GPS for 575 goddamn miles.

I arrived in St. Louis at sunrise, which was pretty rad. It definitely made up for the delirium I’d been dealing with during the all-night drive from Lawrence. Although, one of my Rideshare passengers helped me stay awake by way of the Cheesy ’80s Music iPod Showdown, in which the driver and passenger attempt to drive each other mad by playing – and singing along to – the most teeth-grindingly horrocious songs they can find on the driver’s iPod. Brilliant? Yes. Astoundingly annoying for the other passenger(s)? Yes.

I went to a Halloween party in Urbana, Illinois, which was made all the more festive with the help of a very special breath mint. It’s hard not to be entertained when you’re surrounded by creatively-costumed college students and the walls are rippling.

Did you know that a down mattress fits in the back of a Subaru station wagon? I never have to pay for a hotel room on the road EVER AGAIN.

Then I went to Ann Arbor, Michigan, where my friend Nicole

bought me beer

and fed me leftover Halloween candy.

Nicole also directed me north to Ypsilanti, a college town which was apparently designed by frat boys:

Either that, or it was just really happy to see me.

I caught a glimpse of Niagara Falls as I cut through Canada on my way to Syracuse, and am pleased to inform you that customs officials on both sides are not targeting green Subaru wagons for drug searches. AND WHY SHOULD THEY?

A few hours later, I made it back to Syracuse – only three and a half weeks after leaving Portland.

I took a day to go tromping around in the woods with my parents, then hit the road again, this time southbound …

Have I mentioned more than a thousand times that I love New York City? Even though the traffic situation there makes me want to beat my fellow drivers with a bat and a pack of American Spirits costs NINE ENTIRE DOLLARS, I love it. I love wandering the streets aimlessly with a fierce look on my face, daring other visitors to ask me for directions. I love the fact that the subway will take me anywhere, even waaay up to watch out for that puddle of piss. I love that there are still viable secondhand bookstores all over the place. I love that I have so many friends living there, upon whose couches I may slump. And I love the pizza.

However, after a few days, I was ready to kidnap my friend Craig and abscond to Vermont, where snow had not yet fallen, and do some end-of-the-season camping.

There was always just the slightest chance of rain. As in, it rained for the entire weekend.

But that didn’t stop us from climbing a mountain!

With my mountain-climbing completed for the season, I went back up north, just in time to take my mom out for a night on the town. Little was I to know that she’d turn out to be the best wingman I’d ever had …

I won’t tell you which one he is. You’ll figure it out soon enough. (Oh, I am SUCH a tease!)

There were four days between the night Eric and I met, and the night we agreed that he would drag me, kicking and screaming with pleasure, onto his band’s bus. So to fill the time, I got a new tattoo.

The tattooist happened to be an old friend of mine, one I hadn’t seen for something like ten years, so when we bumped into each other at the tattoo shop where he worked, I assumed it was the universe telling me it was time to get that fractal flower on my arm, by gum.

Later that night, my arm still aching (as it tends to do for a while, after having been repeatedly penetrated by a needle for an hour and a half or so), I met up with Eric. We discussed our favorite Bob Dylan songs over a bowl of stew, he did his whole “playing music on stage” thing for a while, and then our first official week of acquaintanceship began – on the bus.

Day One:

Spotted somewhere in upstate New York. The best part is that there was a different cruiser there when we first pulled up, and I missed the photo-op due to laziness. When the second one drove through, though … I mean, come on.

Back to New York City, and this time? Traffic is NONE OF MY CONCERN.

Day 2:

Methinks East Hartford has just about had it with people forgetting where they are.

Albino squirrel! Holy shit!

My knight, and his steed.

Day 3:

A tour of the Equal Exchange factory. It was Wonka-like. I would elaborate on that, but this entry is already going to be loading on some of your browsers well into the next administration, so we’ll just leave it at that.

Kerouac’s hometown is somewhat confusing to walk through late at night. Luckily, it is also the home of some first-class chowdah.

Day 4:

The Electric Factory in Philadelphia leaves no room for error. There will be no Hello, Cleveland moments here!

See that forty-foot bus on the right? If you’ve ever been to Geno’s, you will know why this is a sight to behold. If not, I will tell you: it is a big fucking bus, and those streets are almost wide enough to sit down in. Almost.

Day 5:

By the time we got to Connecticut, the bus was getting slightly messy.

So we ignored it, and took a walk down to the beach. And yes, I realize that I am something like twenty feet shorter than he is.

So, that was my first adventure with Eric, and luckily he did not turn out to be a killer disguised as a banjo player. Although that would be a pretty ingenious disguise. And now I live ten minutes away from him, and we are continuing the adventure-having, and neither of us have gotten tired of it – or each other – as of right now.

Anyway, after that, I went home for Thanksgiving. There was turkey. I am probably just as tired of sticking pictures on this page as you are of waiting for them to load, so I’ll wrap it up now. I don’t think I even feel like proofreading this one, so please forgive any glaring errors and/or missed opportunities for profanity. Any further blanks can most likely be filled in by a quick visit to the ol’ Flickr page, so from now on, it’s nothing but news, baby!

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you – I’m learning to play the ukulele! Plink plink plink, motherfucker!