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thehefnerSo I've been putting off writing up the rest of my adventures in photos, simply because the truly formative and personal stuff that happened... well, I can't write about it for a number of reasons. Not yet, maybe not ever. Not enough time has passed for me to really get any kind of perspective. And I hate that.
For someone who tries to use stories as a way of making sense of life, this is always a frustrating realization. I want to be able to take control of it, to instantly understand any situation and then press forward. It's like trying to write about Dad in any capacity. Has enough time passed for me to really try again? I don't know. The proximity to nervous-breakdown-dom that I was flirting towards last year is enough to keep me scared of trying again. But I know I must.
Not that Seattle was nearly that rough. I'm still just trying to parse it all out, especially in light of what happened when I got back to DC. Ugh, all these fucking allusions, insinuations, and cryptic bullcrap! I need to just shit or get off the pot.
...
Getting to Las Vegas from Seattle in January was a tricky prospect, especially in the light of that region getting hit with record snowfalls. Heck, here's a picture from my brother Edd's neighborhood in Seattle:
The whole city was shellshocked. People were coming up to each other on the streets and asking, "How is this possible?" A newspaper's headline ran, "WILL IT EVER END?" Snow plows were only used for the interstates, to keep commerce going, which meant that major city streets went totally unplowed for the week until it melted away, then snowed again two weeks later when I was on my way to leave.
Edd and my sister-in-law (my "slaw") Phoebe thought it would be a bad idea to try and brave the mountain passes of Washington to diagonally cut through the state toward Twin Falls, ID, my junction to Vegas. I had no chains for my tires (I'm from Washington DC! I had never actually SEEN so many people put chains on their tires for snow!) and while Mgnolia had some traction capabilities, her lack of snow tires made us not want to take any risks. Instead, they thought it would be safer to follow ROAD TRIP USA's suggested Oregon Trail route along Highway 26, starting in Portland. Which is what I did.
I only made a brief stop in Portland to visit the legendary Powell's Books, supposedly the largest new-and-used-book shop in the world. Oh lordy, folks. If I ever do become undisputed monarch of the world, I'm not gonna do that standard supervillain thing of stealing National monuments to populate my Island of Doom. Really, just give me that bookstore, and I'm good.
But as I was on a schedule, I couldn't stay and really experience Portland. Maybe in the Fall, once I'm done with Vancouver Fringe. So I was off through Oregon, and for the rest of that day, the drive looked pretty optimistic. Nothing too compelling, but there were occasional sights like this:
Hardly Big Sur, but it broke up the monotony. There was nothing to see at all, really, nothing worth carving out a chunk of time on my already-tight schedule (Vegas by Wednesday! Vegas by Wednesday! I have the hotel and everything!), although that might have changed if weather conditions improved.
Unfortunately, in my attempt to avoid Washington's mountain passes, I faced something pretty much just as bad: Oregon's fucking mountain passes.
By the time I really hit Mount Hood, I discovered that I was in pretty damn well near over my head. RTUSA-recommended stops like the Huckleberry Cafe (where I could have Huckleberry pancakes with Huckleberry milkshakes and a big ol' slice of cherry pie, just to fuck with 'em!) were completely snowed in, and there was no way I was willing to risk the one-mile uphill climb to visit the Timberline Lodge, the real-life Overlook Hotel from Kubrick's THE SHINING (the outside, anyway; I've also already visited the Overlook used in the made-for-TV remake!).
Ironic, that SHINING-like weather kept me from actually seeing the real Overlook! It's just as well. If I'd made it there, I'd probably have gotten an axe in the chest for my trouble.
So I drove on, praying for safe passage. The miles were nerve-wracking, the road often just a blanket of white, with barely a single car or truck coming or going for hours on end. Only I was foolish enough to take this on, it seemed. A Maryland boy and his Mom's minivan, with only an audio recording of a live performance of Eugene O'Neill's ANNA CHRISTIE starring Stacy Keach for company. It helped.
By the time the snow ceased and the roads cleared, night had fallen. There seemed little point in braving such dangerous roads if I couldn't even enjoy scenery, so it was time to start looking for a place to hunker down. But signs of life were few and far between, and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in Mgnolia.
Finally, a town emerged, a little place called Mitchell. I pulled in, hoping for food and lodging. Instead, I found a ghost town, and dear lord, do I wish I had a proper night-vision camera, because being there at night was downright eerie. A single picture with flash of one of its structures does not do Mitchell justice.
The only sign of life was a dog, barking continuously from a yard nearby. It was only about eight o'clock, but there were no lights on in any of the buildings. Save for one, near the end of the street, on the edge of blackness. "Hotel."
Today, I searched for photos of this place on Google, and came up with this one from someone else's Flickr account:
Now, imagine seeing that at night, amid a silent (the dog stopped) ghost town. Even assisted by the oil-black darkness, the sign's glow was very faint, flicking as if hanging onto its last threads of life, unsettlingly similar to one of those bug-zappers.
I would later discover that RTUSA actually had a section on Mitchell, and recommended this place in particular, celebrating its "comfy front porch." But at the time, I thought to myself, "Y'know... I should be adventurous and stay here. It's perfect for the stories alone. But if I were watching this in a movie, wouldn't this be exactly one of those situations where I'd yell at the screen, 'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! DON'T STAY THERE! IT'S SO OBVIOUSLY A BAD IDEA, WHY ARE YOU BEING SO GODDAMN STUPID?! FUCKING IDIOT! Ugh! Y'know what, you deserve to be carved up by a slumming Gary Busey."
So to hell with it! I'm not gonna be like those dummies! No, I'll go to Vale, OR, and stay here instead:
Much better idea!
Next time, we completely bypass all of Idaho and Utah (for the best, really) and get right to the big one: Las Vegas, pallies.
For someone who tries to use stories as a way of making sense of life, this is always a frustrating realization. I want to be able to take control of it, to instantly understand any situation and then press forward. It's like trying to write about Dad in any capacity. Has enough time passed for me to really try again? I don't know. The proximity to nervous-breakdown-dom that I was flirting towards last year is enough to keep me scared of trying again. But I know I must.
Not that Seattle was nearly that rough. I'm still just trying to parse it all out, especially in light of what happened when I got back to DC. Ugh, all these fucking allusions, insinuations, and cryptic bullcrap! I need to just shit or get off the pot.
...
Getting to Las Vegas from Seattle in January was a tricky prospect, especially in the light of that region getting hit with record snowfalls. Heck, here's a picture from my brother Edd's neighborhood in Seattle:
The whole city was shellshocked. People were coming up to each other on the streets and asking, "How is this possible?" A newspaper's headline ran, "WILL IT EVER END?" Snow plows were only used for the interstates, to keep commerce going, which meant that major city streets went totally unplowed for the week until it melted away, then snowed again two weeks later when I was on my way to leave.
Edd and my sister-in-law (my "slaw") Phoebe thought it would be a bad idea to try and brave the mountain passes of Washington to diagonally cut through the state toward Twin Falls, ID, my junction to Vegas. I had no chains for my tires (I'm from Washington DC! I had never actually SEEN so many people put chains on their tires for snow!) and while Mgnolia had some traction capabilities, her lack of snow tires made us not want to take any risks. Instead, they thought it would be safer to follow ROAD TRIP USA's suggested Oregon Trail route along Highway 26, starting in Portland. Which is what I did.
I only made a brief stop in Portland to visit the legendary Powell's Books, supposedly the largest new-and-used-book shop in the world. Oh lordy, folks. If I ever do become undisputed monarch of the world, I'm not gonna do that standard supervillain thing of stealing National monuments to populate my Island of Doom. Really, just give me that bookstore, and I'm good.
But as I was on a schedule, I couldn't stay and really experience Portland. Maybe in the Fall, once I'm done with Vancouver Fringe. So I was off through Oregon, and for the rest of that day, the drive looked pretty optimistic. Nothing too compelling, but there were occasional sights like this:
Hardly Big Sur, but it broke up the monotony. There was nothing to see at all, really, nothing worth carving out a chunk of time on my already-tight schedule (Vegas by Wednesday! Vegas by Wednesday! I have the hotel and everything!), although that might have changed if weather conditions improved.
Unfortunately, in my attempt to avoid Washington's mountain passes, I faced something pretty much just as bad: Oregon's fucking mountain passes.
By the time I really hit Mount Hood, I discovered that I was in pretty damn well near over my head. RTUSA-recommended stops like the Huckleberry Cafe (where I could have Huckleberry pancakes with Huckleberry milkshakes and a big ol' slice of cherry pie, just to fuck with 'em!) were completely snowed in, and there was no way I was willing to risk the one-mile uphill climb to visit the Timberline Lodge, the real-life Overlook Hotel from Kubrick's THE SHINING (the outside, anyway; I've also already visited the Overlook used in the made-for-TV remake!).
Ironic, that SHINING-like weather kept me from actually seeing the real Overlook! It's just as well. If I'd made it there, I'd probably have gotten an axe in the chest for my trouble.
So I drove on, praying for safe passage. The miles were nerve-wracking, the road often just a blanket of white, with barely a single car or truck coming or going for hours on end. Only I was foolish enough to take this on, it seemed. A Maryland boy and his Mom's minivan, with only an audio recording of a live performance of Eugene O'Neill's ANNA CHRISTIE starring Stacy Keach for company. It helped.
By the time the snow ceased and the roads cleared, night had fallen. There seemed little point in braving such dangerous roads if I couldn't even enjoy scenery, so it was time to start looking for a place to hunker down. But signs of life were few and far between, and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in Mgnolia.
Finally, a town emerged, a little place called Mitchell. I pulled in, hoping for food and lodging. Instead, I found a ghost town, and dear lord, do I wish I had a proper night-vision camera, because being there at night was downright eerie. A single picture with flash of one of its structures does not do Mitchell justice.
The only sign of life was a dog, barking continuously from a yard nearby. It was only about eight o'clock, but there were no lights on in any of the buildings. Save for one, near the end of the street, on the edge of blackness. "Hotel."
Today, I searched for photos of this place on Google, and came up with this one from someone else's Flickr account:
Now, imagine seeing that at night, amid a silent (the dog stopped) ghost town. Even assisted by the oil-black darkness, the sign's glow was very faint, flicking as if hanging onto its last threads of life, unsettlingly similar to one of those bug-zappers.
I would later discover that RTUSA actually had a section on Mitchell, and recommended this place in particular, celebrating its "comfy front porch." But at the time, I thought to myself, "Y'know... I should be adventurous and stay here. It's perfect for the stories alone. But if I were watching this in a movie, wouldn't this be exactly one of those situations where I'd yell at the screen, 'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! DON'T STAY THERE! IT'S SO OBVIOUSLY A BAD IDEA, WHY ARE YOU BEING SO GODDAMN STUPID?! FUCKING IDIOT! Ugh! Y'know what, you deserve to be carved up by a slumming Gary Busey."
So to hell with it! I'm not gonna be like those dummies! No, I'll go to Vale, OR, and stay here instead:
Much better idea!
Next time, we completely bypass all of Idaho and Utah (for the best, really) and get right to the big one: Las Vegas, pallies.
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-29 04:10 am (UTC)And a real life Bate Motel?! I must add that on my list of places to go.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-29 06:04 am (UTC)Oh, you're in Georgia? *check userinfo* Ah, so you are! Yeah, I didn't go through Savanna on my way back North a couple weeks ago, just blazed up through Atlanta and Athens. Yeah, I envy you your 60 degree winters on days like this. Ah, DC: we have teh suck of both extremes!
If you go during the non-winter months, you can go to their cafe and try a slice of Bates Pizza too!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-15 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-15 04:02 am (UTC)One of these days, I'm gonna finish chronicling my return trip, particularly my Vegas adventure. But that'un will require a webcam.
Also, :)
no subject
Date: 2009-02-16 01:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-16 01:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-16 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-16 02:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-16 01:16 am (UTC)