Ferocity Mill

In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t exactly been keeping my word about the cross-country travel updates. I have, however, been jotting down bits and pieces here and there as I’ve gone along, so rather than be a dirty rotten non-blogging liar, I thought I’d just offer those up as a teeny tiny peace offering until I can stop the momentum long enough to compose something more substantial.

First stop: Asheville, North Carolina

There’s nothing like driving along a winding North Carolina back road in the dead of night as your windshield is pelted mercilessly by raindrops the size of grapes and your brand-new GPS system (which you have named “Darlene”) struggles to locate you.

“Dammit, Darlene!” you say, casting the blame for your navigational failures on the only other vocal presence available. “This is a U.S. HIGHWAY, for fuck’s sake, not the fucking RAINFOREST or anything. Find me!”

Then you sputter along until Darlene gets her shit together and leads you back to I-26, where the torrential rain finally slows down long enough for you to make your way to a small hostel in West Asheville, North Carolina. You are greeted at the door by a friendly girl in her twenties who introduces you to some of the other guests and offers you a mug of the finest box of Franzia wine, a bathroom and a bottom bunk. You are satisfied.

–

I stayed in Asheville for five days - a bit longer than I had intended, but my poor car (”Bruce,” as some of you may recall) was writhing and moaning on his deathbed, according to the mechanic to whom I brought him for a simple oil change. The repairs (for which I have since been informed I was wildly overcharged, big shocker there) took a couple of days, so I hung around, vagrant-style, until he was roadworthy once again.

Of all the places to be stranded while a mechanic is ripping your car apart and putting it back together again very shoddily, Asheville is, to my mind, right up there with the best of them. The people are friendly (can someone say “free herbal supplements”?), the climate is temperate, the mountains are ripe for hiking, and the beer, it is good. The hostel I stayed at was cheap - $13 per night if you sleep in your tent in the backyard - and the staff and guests there were generally of the Give You The Shirt Off Their Back persuasion, personality-wise. A couple of them taught me how to roll my own cigarettes (no, I haven’t quit yet, blah blah bad for my health blah I KNOW), which is an excellent skill to have if you are trying to be a smoker who can also afford to buy food. One girl, a wilderness survival expert, good-naturedly dispensed a metric fuckton of useful camping/hiking knowledge to me (which included a much-needed lesson on slipknot-tying, as it relates to making sure one’s tent does not collapse upon one in one’s sleep). Another guy had recently broken his foot while rock-climbing, which afforded me the opportunity to use nearly every nickname I know that includes the word “gimp” and all its various synonyms (i.e., “Hey, CRUTCHY! Why the fuck are you so damn slow?”)

One traveler there, to whom we all simply referred as “Creepy Naked Guy,” was an unending carnival of wackiness. From his initial standard weirdness while checking in (”I think he’s on something, or at least drunk,” one of the staff whispered to me) to his unexpectedly nude emergence from the back porch hot tub (of which I was the only one to bear witness) to his 7 a.m. beer runs, he never ceased to inspire. Although I don’t think it really took him much effort to get me to mumble “What in the ever-living holy fuck …” at least once per hour throughout his short stay.

Shortly after Creepy Naked Guy was diplomatically asked to take his empty tallboys and leave instantly, my car was - to the naked eye, at least - ready to go. I emptied a week’s worth of trash and other miscellaneous debris from its floorboards and hit the gas. I drove west.

At Sliding Rock, NC, a hostel friend captures the ingenuity of our makeshift beer cooler.

Having gotten packed and ready, I was officially ready to hit the road. Except, my car? Wasn’t.

This was one of the many views from the top of Max Patch Mountain in northwestern North Carolina.

Third stop: Gilbert, Arkansas

There is a cuckoo clock in this house, and it is trying to make me throw something at it. The method it’s using to achieve this goal is one in which, every fifteen minutes, it goes SQUAWK and rings a bell. I don’t know who in the hell first imagined that “SQUAWK bonnngggg!” would be a good sound to hear as one is drifting into a sigh-heaving sleep, but whoever that person is, he ought to look into having himself beaten with a mallet.

I shouldn’t complain (however: watch me), because the offending clock is probably the only even semi-annoying thing about my current location, other than the fact that wireless internet seems to exist only in dreams here. But even that ceased to be annoying after about four seconds, when I realized that the internet can be a distraction of Hulkish proportions, without which I am finally able to gather my thoughts and write something.

My body is presently resting for a few days near the Buffalo National River in Gilbert, Arkansas - a town which proudly boasts a population of thirty-three, plus their dogs and trucks. I’m staying at a hostel run by a local man in his late fifties and his wife, a sweet Filipina woman who seems to know more Arabic than I do. I am their only guest this weekend, which means that I have the loft to myself.

The house is rustic and has that old-wood smell that I learned to love as a tiny, young, tattoo-less child, before I went through my Vacations in the Adirondacks are Lame phase. There are hundreds of books stacked on shelves that wrap around nearly every visible surface - if I had fifty years and a few key provisions (hint: peanut butter, meatballs and quality marijuana), I could possibly get through the ones upstairs. (“Upstairs,” by the way, is accessible only by climbing a narrow, twisted, wrought-iron staircase, of the sort on which I have been known to sustain injuries. Let us pray.) I am momentarily torn between spending my time here exploring the house, or stomping jubilantly through the woods, water and mountains that surround it.

–

After an Ambien-fueled nap (hey - you try driving fourteen hours by yourself and then abruptly sleeping. Your brain will not allow it), the urge to Be In Nature pulled me about 400 yards down the road to the banks of the Buffalo National River. I rented a kayak, packed my tent and sleeping bag inside it, and requested to be dropped off ten miles up the river.

It took me a minute to get used to kayaking again, and to remind my arms that, no, this was not a joke, but after the initial struggle (Me: “I will paddle down the river!” My arms: “But wouldn’t you rather just float?” Me: “No, I’m going to paddle. Wheee!” My arms: “Um, no.”), I moved along at a fairly brisk pace.

That day, a Sunday, the river was full of canoes and kayaks - most likely due to the previous day having been the sort of wet and rainy type that spawns activities like Moping Around and Finishing That Pint of Ben & Jerry’s. I was one of the only solo floaters (ha ha! Like a turd!), so I attracted a bit of attention - although this could also have been due to my excellent paddling method, which made me look somewhat as though I was punishing the water for stealing my man. Either way, I made several new friends along the river. It was a good thing, too, as all I had brought with me, sustenance-wise, was food and water. My new friends provided the beer and bowl, and a pleasant time was had by all.

Oh, and my arms had their revenge the next day, when it hurt me to lift a fork to my mouth. Luckily, all I had on my schedule that day was a three hundred and eighteen-mile drive to Oklahoma City. Onward and westward!

Who says a town can’t have a little healthy self-esteem?

I couldn’t stop staring at the gorges along the river … which is probably why my kayak is turned in not exactly the right direction.

Early morning fog on the river made it look like I had passed into another dimension.

Fifth stop: Albuquerque, New Mexico

Whenever I hear “Albuquerque,” it makes me think of those old Looney Tunes episodes - the ones where Bugs Bunny pops out of a hole in the middle of Siberia or somewhere and announces, “I shoulda taken that left at Albakoikey.” For the longest time I thought it was a fictional place, like Narnia or Middle Earth or a store where you can buy jeans that compliment both your ass and your hips, but eventually New Mexico seeped into my consciousness and lodged itself firmly there.

That’s how I found myself speeding down I-40 early Wednesday morning, giving my speedometer the shits at 112 miles per hour, heading toward - of all places - the desert. I inexplicably had no idea what northern New Mexico looked like, but I knew it had three things with which I wanted to get better acquainted: excellent Mexican food, American Spirit cigarettes … and Albuquerque.

As the sun rose behind me that morning, my thoughts went something like this: “Fucking interstate is a soulless bastard … only 45 minutes to go … why is there no food except CHEETOS in this car … tangled up in bluuuuue holy SHIT look at that mountain.”

Ahem. Why did nobody tell me that northern New Mexico is full of giant, hulking, take-your-breath-away mountain ranges? For shame, people. By the time I pulled into the Route 66 Hostel in Albuquerque, I was practically delirious with glee. You can see them from everywhere in the city. Getting ice cream at Dairy Queen? Look outside, there are mountains. Sitting on the front porch of the hostel? Oh, hey, mountains. Walking around pretty much anywhere? Perhaps you should turn your head slightly, because did I mention that if you do, you will see mountains?

I wasted no time getting up close and personal with the mountains (which, you may recall, are everywhere), and probably would have wandered around in them forever, had it not been for the fact that all the trails up the slopes were closed due to an “extreme fire hazard” warning. Pshaw! So I settled for meandering around the foothills, dodging cacti and swatting unfamiliar insects away from my face.

Albuquerque did not disappoint. Now, on to Utopia … or maybe Santa Fe.

That mountain took me fully by surprise.

I took the Sandia Peak Tramway to the top of the Sandia Mountains - an elevation of 10,378 feet. All I can say is … DAMN.

Like my new hat? The designer is Texas Gas Station. Also note: MOUNTAINS.

Oh, and if you want to see the rest of the photos (for I have been taking them by the hundreds), go to my Flickr site here.

More to follow …

Damn, and I was doing so well for, like, a week. Anyway, hi! I am back now, sort of. And in the words of Inigo Montoya, I will sum up.

My feet hit American soil on May 4. The trip back was not as arduous as it could have been, considering there were some groups stuck in Kuwait for several days, and we managed to get in and out of there in less than 48 hours. During that time, which was spent in a desolate place called Camp Virginia, I began the unceremonious disposal of my excess military and military-related possessions - uniforms, tan t-shirts, green socks, granny panties, etc. - and skillfully avoided a case of dysentery by staying right the hell away from the Chinese take-out “restaurant” on the base.* My group was a small one, comprised of the Division Band and a handful of others who, like me, were returning early to hurry up and get out of the Army. The general vibe of the entire trip was a mix of “WOOOOO!” and “Screw you guys, I’m going home.” After a couple of stopovers, we finally arrived in Georgia, where the drinking commenced - in some cases even before the showers.**

*Seriously. Chinese food is questionable even stateside, so I assumed any sesame “chicken” I bought in Kuwait would start barking at me as soon as I poked it with a fork.

**I showered first. What do you guys think I am, a fucking savage? GOSH.

The “S” sign is for “Stop-loss.” Notice the smiling? You cannot break our spirit, Uncle Sam!

We are happy to be back! Bring on the real chicken! Also: BEER.

After a couple days off, my group was thrust into what the Army calls “reintegration” - a series of classes and briefings intended to gently nudge us back into civilization and remind us that we should not shake our babies, beat our spouse, operate our motorcycles without eighteen pounds of protective gear, and so on. This was mind-numbingly boring, with the exception of the briefing on Why You Do Not Want To Contract A Venereal Disease, which featured a detailed slideshow and this actual quote by an Army physician: “I see all these soldiers coming back from deployment going to sick call. I ask them what’s the matter, and they say ‘IT BURNS, IT BUUUUURRRNS!’”

Then it was time for me to accumulate about a rainforest’s worth of paperwork and bounce around Fort Stewpid until I had all of the signatures required to allow me to get myself finally, finally out of the Army. All I had to do was attend a few more briefings (I swear, the word “briefing” alone now triggers a tiny twitch in my eye, along with the sudden urge to puncture my own eardrums with a toothpick), visit a dozen offices, get a physical, swear not to divulge any confidential information, and turn in all of the gear I’ve been issued since 2002.

It was all fairly simple until I got to that last part. Here’s why: the Central Issue Facility on any military installation is - and I am not even shitting you here - a tiny subdivision of Hell. It is run by demons who have been spat onto the earth and made slaves to The System. It is governed by rules which change constantly, and its hours are noon to 3 p.m.

This is how it works: you gather every piece of equipment the Army has bestowed upon you since your arrival at the base - which, in my case, was 2002. You bring it to CIF and are given a printout that lists all of these items (plus, sometimes a few extra ones that you swear you have never seen before. Surprise!). Once you’ve turned in everything you have, you are given another printout listing all the things you’re missing, for which the Army will make you pay cash money unless they magically turn up. Keep in mind that some of these items are obsolete, or in Iraq because you lost them there, or perhaps never in your possession to begin with, but such is the way of The Man. I am not going to take you any further along this dark and harrowing path, but let’s just say that by the time the process was complete, I was ready to hand CIF the rights to my future children’s stem cells just so they would sign the fucking paper already. Luckily, such extremes were unnecessary (turns out all they would take was the money), and the paperwork was eventually signed. Which means … ahem …

I AM NOW OUT OF THE ARMY.

Let the celebrations begin! I have actually been celebrating for roughly three weeks now, since the event took place May 24. I have yet to paint my face blue and run around waving a sword yelling “FREEEEEDOM!” but there’s plenty of time for that.

Here, for the record, is the last photo ever taken of me in a uniform (I had just undergone dental torture, and half of my mouth was still numb):

Fitting, eh?

In honor of my new emancipation, I am embarking on a massive road trip, which will take me from Georgia to California, up the west coast and ultimately back to the Frigid Northern Homeland in upstate New York. I’ll be passing through North Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Those Middle States, New Mexico, Arizona and Nevada (Vegas, baby!) on my way west. Then there will be California, Oregon and Washington, and my return journey, which is not yet determined.

I have gone all out in preparing for this trip - I am even taking special care of my kidneys in the event that I have to sell one of them to pay for gas. There will be hiking in the Appalachians, Ozarks and Grand Canyon, camping in random places, sightseeing wherever the hell there are sights to be seen, postcard-buying, hostel-staying, food-eating and beverage-consuming.

So! Have you any recommendations for me? Where must I go? What must I see? Who must I blow in order to get the cost of gas to go back down to fathomable levels?

I look forward to hearing from you all, as always, and I will make a commitment to you here and now that I will do my best to hammer out at least one update in each state I visit. My heart aches to think of all the writing I should have been doing all this time, and indeed wanted to do, but was too preoccupied. As Bob is my witness, the slacking will END.

P.S. I am also jobless now. Whee! (Shudder.)

From a recent e-mail to a friend:

“I have gotten NOTHING done today. Nothing. At all. Am like sloth on vicodin.”

This pretty much sums up the past year for me, writing-wise. The immense pleasure I get out of seeing my own words, written down, laid out for the world to see, has not made much headway in its ongoing battle against The Drive to Vegetate.

I mean, seriously — for fuck’s sake. I have been in Iraq (AGAIN) for more than a year now. The possibilities are endless, when it comes to blog fodder (which term, incidentally, makes me think of the internet as a giant, slobbering cow, chewing relentlessly on its anecdote-cud), yet for some reason, the stories I write in my head never make themselves into any concrete form. And I am too lethargic to do it for them.

So, I thought I’d start over. I’ve “maintained” a couple of different journals around town, and I think that subconsciously, they were beginning to intimidate me. They were all “UPDATE ME” and I was all “OKAYYY SHUT UP” and one of them was all “BUT DON’T FORGET TO TAKE THE DIRTY WORDS OUT FIRST” and the other was all “AND MAKE SURE YOU FORMAT ME CORRECTLY OR I WILL TAKE A DUMP ON YOUR CHEST” until I finally just decided it was all just too much and fuck it, I’m going to sleep.

But then I realized that I was composing all of these stories in my head, and they were being forgotten and I wanted to write them down, but so much work blarrrgh and now I am Resolved. I am going to give this one more try, with a new site and a new name and the same old insanity — because some things never change.

The new blog is named Ferocity Mill because it is a partial anagram of my name (Anagram Generator! It helps you waste time! Or, A Wheelie Tips My Touts!), and I thought it suited my overall tone: I manufacture strong emotion, which is then used to generate words for people to read and think Has she, perhaps, Lost It? And perhaps I have. But at least It is now visible, which makes me feel much, much better.

Stay tuned.