Before it's out of your minds for another 11 1/2 months...
Some of you have heard this before, but when I become King of the Forest, we are going to abandon the title "Fourth of July" and go strictly with "Independence Day."
It'll be on the first Thursday in July. That's right, Thursday. Fireworks will be on that Thursday night. Most people will have an unofficial day off on Friday. We Americans will have two four-day holidays per year, instead of just one.
Thanksgiving Friday is one of the best days of the year for commerce and consumption. I hope Independence Friday will be one of the best days for swimming, hiking, family picnics, etc. An unofficial "nature day," except for those parts of the US that are forced indoors by July weather.
The air will be cleaner for a short while, as it is in late November. More people will be with family and friends for one more day. There will be more mini-vacations. The world will not go to pieces if there is one fewer US stock market trading day.
This schedule is far better than having fireworks on a Monday or Wednesday night, no?
I have been advocating this for some years now, but somehow the US government hasn't taken this up yet.
Let me know what's wrong with this idea.
Otherwise, spread it around?
Thanks, and happy Bastille Day (which is going to be the third Thursday of every July, non?)
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Empty, New Mexico
We left Amarillo before the wind changed again, and headed to Phil's trailer in Nara Visa, my home for as long as I could stand it.
Nara Visa, population 112 and dwindling, ain't much of a town. There's no commerce any more: three gas stations, two auto mechanic shops, one antique store, one little market, and good ol' Ira's Bar and Package Goods, all closed decades ago.
So the main road - the only one that's paved - is littered with empty, broken buildings, all rusting and rotting, missing a door here, a window there...
Smack-dab in the middle of town is a privately-owned auto junkyard: About twenty cars and trucks, ranging from old to ancient, lined up two-deep.
The oldest is the shell of a Model T, the newest looks like it was a 1970 Ford Fairlane. All rusting and rotting, missing a door here, a window there...
On each car, the owner sprayed "Keep Off," "Get Out," and "No Trespassing."
The guy who owned all these cars died, without heirs, two decades ago. So the cars are still there. Due to deterioration, some now just say "No."
Actually, the theme of Nara Visa seems to be "No Trespassing." Without all the discouraging signage, there would be sooo much homesteading at these prime properties...
The only place where money still exchanges hands these days (unless you count the churches) is the Western Star Motel, which is open on an as-needed basis. You want a room, you call the number on the sheet of paper taped to the window, somebody'll come buy and get you a key. Cash only, please.
Despite the sparse population, there are three active churches -- well, two and a half. The Methodists are in full throat every Sunday morning, the Assembly of God assembles regularly, but the Catholic Church, easily the most beautiful building in town, actually the only nice-looking building in town, stands empty most of the time. The priest comes by and unlocks the doors twice a month, in order to hold mass in Spanish. I wonder if God'll forgive me for going to Mass just to brush up on my Spanish. I wonder then if he'll forgive me for being an atheist...
While on the subject of that which god has forsaken, I present some photos of the trailer I find myself trying to live in. It ain't easy, I gotta tell you. This crappy little oven, baking in the sun, overrun with rodents, shower not working, flooring missing in places, is my reward for working on Phil's book. Woo-hoo, I am so lucky.
But I'm here anyway, I decide to give it a try. Phil is so earnest. He seems to be able to live in this shithole. So I'll try to keep an open mind. Plus my motorcycle is still strapped down in the van.
While we were in Amarillo, Phil picked up an old evaporative cooler. and installed it in the living room window the day after we returned. Did I mention that it was 100 degrees outside, and god knows how hot inside the uninsulated metal box?
The cooler wasn't. If you stood in front of it, you got the benefit of air circulation, but there was something wrong with the water circulation. Phil worked on it for a few days, but...
I had two fans in my bedroom, and by midnight it began cooling off. I started taking walks in the middle of the night. Kinda spooky in the land of decrepit buildings, a ghost town in the making, but at least I was out of the trailer. As I become used to the heat, I start taking my walks at sunset, when it's only in the 90s. Anything's better than just sitting in that damn trailer. You can study only so many hours in the day. There's no radio reception, the internet connection is too slow to download any entertainment or use Skype, there's no TV, there's no cell phone signal. There's just the couch, and the evaporative cooler.
And then there's the flies and bugs at night. They gravitate toward light and warmth, so when I retired to my room, it was attack city. Phil said that he learned long ago, on his solo trek on foot across the Australian outback, that the key to bugs and flying things is just to let them do their thing. Get used to it, and you'll sleep like a baby.
I haven't gotten used to it. I don't think I ever will enjoy having some tiny winged creature crawl all over me, in my eyes and nose and elsewhere.
We put screens up, but it's a lost cause. In this trailer you could let the cat out without opening a door.
So I wait each night for the light of day. The bugs stop attacking when the sun comes up. I generally sleep from 6 to 8 am, before my south-facing windows turn the bedroom into my private oven.
And in the daytime in my fog of no sleep, I look cross-eyed at Phil's book material and try to make heads and tails of it. I don't get too far.
We get my bike out of the van. I take it for a test run. It feels good to be back on the bike, even in the 100 degree weather. I start looking at maps of New Mexico, plotting my escape.
Phil's landlord brings in an actual working evaporative cooler, I think from an airplane hanger. It's a bit noisy - in the 80 or 90 decibel range - but it cools like a jazz band. I sleep in front of it, or try to. The bugs...
Phil's also made some improvements around the house, mouse traps and such. He put up a kind of shade for my bedroom windows, to cut down the sun, but it blew away that first evening (It's frightfully windy here). He's really trying, because he knows I'm disappointed. And if I leave, he's on his own in this shithole. I think he'll see it as a personal defeat.
Our agreement was that I would work on his book in exchange for housing. But in a month, I've slept about two nights. And in the daytime, I'm a captive of the 100 degree nothingness outside and in. So I'm thinking - Thanks but no thanks.
I can work on his book anywhere. In fact, in order to do the supporting research,I have to go elsewhere, since the internet connection at the trailer is so frail.
But I try: I think if I can get some exercise, maybe I can sleep, and all would be well (enough). At a church social event, I met two kids, ten-year-old Chet and big sis Kaitlin. We played basketball, Kaitlin kicking our butts. I promised to bring my frisbee the next day that isn't windy.
A few days later, it was calm at sunset, so I rushed over to the kids' house, to get some throws in before it gets too dark. They're home but they don't answer the door. Frustrated, I walk around town, twirling my frisbee, begging with my eyes: "Bring out your children. It's not too windy!"
People see me walk by. They're not used to someone walking around, so they just stare. I realize now that this last entire month, I never saw anyone walking anywhere, ever, in Nara Visa. That's why god invented trucks, I guess, so you could go four blocks, (which admittedly is clear across town) to get your mail and your gossip at the post office.
I finally saw Chet at the post office the day before I left. I told him I stopped by to play frisbee and was sorry I missed him and Kaitlin. He said yeah, well, gotta go. Spooked, he was. You know, I met their mother, their stepfather, shook their hands at the ice cream social. When I stopped by their house, and they peeked at me through the curtains, I had a frisbee in my hands.
But I guess they couldn't reconcile the fact that I was an adult with wanting to get exercise. They knew I only had the motorscooter. I wonder if they thought I was going to abduct their children on foot, somehow get them on the scooter, using the frisbee as a weapon...
Never can tell what cityfolk are likely to do, I guess. They also knew I am from California. I downplayed San Francisco, I am ashamed to say. No need giving anyone an excuse to load the shotgun and/or get the rope.
At the end of one month, I got the fuck out of town.
Next blog: Liberation!
Nara Visa, population 112 and dwindling, ain't much of a town. There's no commerce any more: three gas stations, two auto mechanic shops, one antique store, one little market, and good ol' Ira's Bar and Package Goods, all closed decades ago.
So the main road - the only one that's paved - is littered with empty, broken buildings, all rusting and rotting, missing a door here, a window there...
Smack-dab in the middle of town is a privately-owned auto junkyard: About twenty cars and trucks, ranging from old to ancient, lined up two-deep.
The oldest is the shell of a Model T, the newest looks like it was a 1970 Ford Fairlane. All rusting and rotting, missing a door here, a window there...
On each car, the owner sprayed "Keep Off," "Get Out," and "No Trespassing."
The guy who owned all these cars died, without heirs, two decades ago. So the cars are still there. Due to deterioration, some now just say "No."
Actually, the theme of Nara Visa seems to be "No Trespassing." Without all the discouraging signage, there would be sooo much homesteading at these prime properties...
The only place where money still exchanges hands these days (unless you count the churches) is the Western Star Motel, which is open on an as-needed basis. You want a room, you call the number on the sheet of paper taped to the window, somebody'll come buy and get you a key. Cash only, please.
Despite the sparse population, there are three active churches -- well, two and a half. The Methodists are in full throat every Sunday morning, the Assembly of God assembles regularly, but the Catholic Church, easily the most beautiful building in town, actually the only nice-looking building in town, stands empty most of the time. The priest comes by and unlocks the doors twice a month, in order to hold mass in Spanish. I wonder if God'll forgive me for going to Mass just to brush up on my Spanish. I wonder then if he'll forgive me for being an atheist...
While on the subject of that which god has forsaken, I present some photos of the trailer I find myself trying to live in. It ain't easy, I gotta tell you. This crappy little oven, baking in the sun, overrun with rodents, shower not working, flooring missing in places, is my reward for working on Phil's book. Woo-hoo, I am so lucky.
But I'm here anyway, I decide to give it a try. Phil is so earnest. He seems to be able to live in this shithole. So I'll try to keep an open mind. Plus my motorcycle is still strapped down in the van.
While we were in Amarillo, Phil picked up an old evaporative cooler. and installed it in the living room window the day after we returned. Did I mention that it was 100 degrees outside, and god knows how hot inside the uninsulated metal box?
The cooler wasn't. If you stood in front of it, you got the benefit of air circulation, but there was something wrong with the water circulation. Phil worked on it for a few days, but...
I had two fans in my bedroom, and by midnight it began cooling off. I started taking walks in the middle of the night. Kinda spooky in the land of decrepit buildings, a ghost town in the making, but at least I was out of the trailer. As I become used to the heat, I start taking my walks at sunset, when it's only in the 90s. Anything's better than just sitting in that damn trailer. You can study only so many hours in the day. There's no radio reception, the internet connection is too slow to download any entertainment or use Skype, there's no TV, there's no cell phone signal. There's just the couch, and the evaporative cooler.
And then there's the flies and bugs at night. They gravitate toward light and warmth, so when I retired to my room, it was attack city. Phil said that he learned long ago, on his solo trek on foot across the Australian outback, that the key to bugs and flying things is just to let them do their thing. Get used to it, and you'll sleep like a baby.
I haven't gotten used to it. I don't think I ever will enjoy having some tiny winged creature crawl all over me, in my eyes and nose and elsewhere.
We put screens up, but it's a lost cause. In this trailer you could let the cat out without opening a door.
So I wait each night for the light of day. The bugs stop attacking when the sun comes up. I generally sleep from 6 to 8 am, before my south-facing windows turn the bedroom into my private oven.
And in the daytime in my fog of no sleep, I look cross-eyed at Phil's book material and try to make heads and tails of it. I don't get too far.
We get my bike out of the van. I take it for a test run. It feels good to be back on the bike, even in the 100 degree weather. I start looking at maps of New Mexico, plotting my escape.
Phil's landlord brings in an actual working evaporative cooler, I think from an airplane hanger. It's a bit noisy - in the 80 or 90 decibel range - but it cools like a jazz band. I sleep in front of it, or try to. The bugs...
Phil's also made some improvements around the house, mouse traps and such. He put up a kind of shade for my bedroom windows, to cut down the sun, but it blew away that first evening (It's frightfully windy here). He's really trying, because he knows I'm disappointed. And if I leave, he's on his own in this shithole. I think he'll see it as a personal defeat.
Our agreement was that I would work on his book in exchange for housing. But in a month, I've slept about two nights. And in the daytime, I'm a captive of the 100 degree nothingness outside and in. So I'm thinking - Thanks but no thanks.
I can work on his book anywhere. In fact, in order to do the supporting research,I have to go elsewhere, since the internet connection at the trailer is so frail.
But I try: I think if I can get some exercise, maybe I can sleep, and all would be well (enough). At a church social event, I met two kids, ten-year-old Chet and big sis Kaitlin. We played basketball, Kaitlin kicking our butts. I promised to bring my frisbee the next day that isn't windy.
A few days later, it was calm at sunset, so I rushed over to the kids' house, to get some throws in before it gets too dark. They're home but they don't answer the door. Frustrated, I walk around town, twirling my frisbee, begging with my eyes: "Bring out your children. It's not too windy!"
People see me walk by. They're not used to someone walking around, so they just stare. I realize now that this last entire month, I never saw anyone walking anywhere, ever, in Nara Visa. That's why god invented trucks, I guess, so you could go four blocks, (which admittedly is clear across town) to get your mail and your gossip at the post office.
I finally saw Chet at the post office the day before I left. I told him I stopped by to play frisbee and was sorry I missed him and Kaitlin. He said yeah, well, gotta go. Spooked, he was. You know, I met their mother, their stepfather, shook their hands at the ice cream social. When I stopped by their house, and they peeked at me through the curtains, I had a frisbee in my hands.
But I guess they couldn't reconcile the fact that I was an adult with wanting to get exercise. They knew I only had the motorscooter. I wonder if they thought I was going to abduct their children on foot, somehow get them on the scooter, using the frisbee as a weapon...
Never can tell what cityfolk are likely to do, I guess. They also knew I am from California. I downplayed San Francisco, I am ashamed to say. No need giving anyone an excuse to load the shotgun and/or get the rope.
At the end of one month, I got the fuck out of town.
Next blog: Liberation!
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