For now, here are two entries covering Trip Day 3. First, this is an "on the road" entry I wrote in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nebraska.

August 18th, 2004

"Hi-dee-ho, net people--or whatever they use around these parts.

As we speak (so to speak), I'm sitting on the hood of my car, facing a not so gently swaying stand of tall brush, the flat plains of eastern Nebraska sortof snuffling in the distance. Ah Nebraska: it looks pretty much how it sounds. The I-80 highway rattles off drunken old man stories off in the distance, with BP station at my back and the wind looking over my shoulder. There's a good 40 feet of sandy lot right outside ye olde BP, so I'm pretty much invisible. I say pretty much because people driving through Arby's--conveniently conjoined to the gas giant--might think I'm a light floating in space. Triptastic.

What a difference a day makes seems to be the theme of today, Trip Day 3. I think Trip Day 2's message was "go fuck yourself" or something comparable.

Right now we have a cluster of fat fucks, with Fat Fuck Senior, Fat Fuck Junior and Fat Fuck the III, I think, standing over near their respective big-rig hauls and looking all CIA-esque, talking into their cellphones, looking entirely too important for the attire stretched around their taut white bellies. So so stretched, yikes.

So, where did I leave off? Right, my 'king' hotel room back in Brush, Colorado. Now Brush isn't what you'd call a hamlet, but anything bigger than a village and you'd be stroking the place's ego. I woke up, shuffled downstairs, resigned my room and called up Brush Repair and Stuff. They said they'd have no problem picking me up, so I waited around in the lobby. The woman there was a kindly late middle-age sort, with too white teeth, lots of fat and a very sweet and gentle disposition about her. She was in the back of the lobby, and I was sitting on one of those hotel wicker chairs while the hotel cat was doing a happy coma in one of the travel magazine baskets; 'at least it's getting some use' was my first thought.

After awhile the woman asked me where I was from, why in the hell I'd be driving clear out to Wisconsin, etc. I lied and told her I was just beginning college. This is funny, y'see, because I look like I'm 30. Even so, with scruffy beard on top of goatee beard, she warmed up to me and began asking all the sorts of questions you ask scared-nervous 18 year old college-bound people. I smiled and enjoyed the delusion for about 15 minutes, then got mighty pissy when the repair people hadn't shown. 'What the fuck could be keeping them?" I thought.

As it turns out, the pick-me-up-person was getting fuel for her old red covertible. It really was ancient, and she was a tad aged herself, but in that sortof mid-west charming way. We smiled, I awkwardly said a thing or two (since small talk ain't my thing), and we schlepped over to Repair Villa. Inside the place was a young assistant, the country boy sort who looked like he'd rape your cousin if he was just a bit less inhibited. We'll call him Bud. I started talking with Bud about all the things Ma had mentioned: could it be the alternator fucking up, or the transmission fluid being low, or this or that, etc. I could tell he didn't have clue one what the fuck I was talking about, so I petered out none too long after that.

It was around 11 right then. I was waiting to get the Delieverance treatment, where they'd tell me to squeal like a pig and bend over for their manly repair prices, like a mighty pork sword from God itself/himself/herself/etc. I'd planned on having Scott--Mom's boyfriend--on the phone to help me negotiate through any mechanic-babble or weird computer read-outs. Trouble was, by some bizarre coincidence, I couldn't get cell phone reception. Anywhere. Not in the store, not two blocks this way, not two blocks down the street where I had two of those 1/4 big bite cancer dogs with a 16 oz Sobe energy drink (i.e. the official drink of Daath during trips).

Eventually, magically, cell-phoneness was restored and I called Ma and Scott to get the skinny on some of the computer read-out shit I'd gotten. That wasn't much help, but at least I got to keep them apprised of the situation. Next up I called Dr. Crisco and told him that I was having car trouble. He was really sympathetic and genial about it all in his joking way, saying that one day, I could tell my own graduate students the harrowing story of my cross-country adventure! He told me to relax, enjoy the show, and that we'd meet up when he got back from vacation on the 30th. We also yakked some about classes and all that good jazz. It felt really good to let him know what was going on--and even better to hear the 'when you have grad students of your own' comment. That was nice.

Anyway, so I get back to repair place, wait, read the newest Newsweek article on Dreams, wait more, read a chapter or two of Gibson's 'Neuromancer', and then the head repair dude signals me over. He was a white Moses, with a still blonde moustache and short whitish beard, sporting two blue eyes that pierced as much as weighed heavy like boulders on a mountain. He told me he couldn't find anything wrong with the car.

I blinked. I scrunched my forehead. I looked suitably confused. Because I was confused.

He asked me again what the scenario had been that precipitated the whole car dying thing. I told him the very story I told you, he starred on at me, then said he could check a few things he hadn't checked. About 40 minutes later--after some other cars, of course--he signaled me over and said he couldn't find anything wrong at all. The first time we talked, I thought I'd pissed him off. I could tell now, though, that it was not being able to find any problems that was eating at him. He repeated about 3 times or so that he just didn't know, couldn't find anything. I was sympathetic. The Los Angeles people who'd looked over the car said everything was cool, so barring some major disaster, the car should have stayed that way. He even mentioned, though, that the transmission sounded great--just like the LA guy. I was to find out later that the transmission really wasn't so hot, but not before I paid a very reasonable inspection fee (for two sets of diagnostics!) and went on my merry way.

Yeah, about my car's transmission. It'd acted up twice on Travel Day 2: once in the morning going up-hill with a high-temp. coolant thing going on, and another time on the flat sections of eastern Colorado after I'd scaled the fucking Colorado rockies. Around this time--5 or so hours ago--I noticed that after 30-40 miles, my car's RPM gauge would suddenly start going up and up..and stay up, only dipping back down a little while I took my foot off the gas. It'd get to the point where accelerating would push it into the VERY NOT GOOD engine rotation zone. So I'd stop the car, wait 10 minutes, then get back on the road. It happened again about 15 miles after the first time, and I was starting to think this would get to be a regular thing.

I was stressed as fuck, frankly. I had--still have--no idea what's wrong with the transmission, and the car was acting up without any real reason. I mellowed out some, though, when I had fish and chips over at this Applebee's in North Platte (i.e. western Nebraska). But I gotta say: Applebee's sucks vast tracks of ass when it comes to making margaritas. I got a jumbo blue midnight moon thingy margarita and the fucker didn't even give me a buzz. It was weak, yo, just damned weak.

As I climbed back into the car, I thought about what Mom had suggested: call AAA, ask where the nearest--

Shit, someone turning my way with headlights.

{close notebook}

{open notebook}

Oh good, just another Arby's cancer customer.

Anyway, she said call AAA, ask where the nearest transmission specialist was, yak at them, find a motel of some kind, and camp out. That was pretty reasonable, I had to admit, but I was so close to Madison and I figured that I could figure this transmission thing out somehow.

As it is, I think I've got a good system down: stay around 75, gun the fucker to 85 or 90, then decelerate to where the RPM gauge reads only 2000 revolutions per minute...then go back to 75. It seems to have worked for the last 70-80 miles. By my estimations I've got 480 miles left until Insanity. That's a sneeze in the bucket considering the terrain I've gone through, and the fact that Nebraska is sporting an AAA-cup (i.e. smooth) as far as flat lands go.

Well, I've been typing on the hood of my car long enough. I want to drive out at least until 2-3am, and find a place just outside of Madison. There isn't a chance I can get there and contact Bill to get my apartment keys, after all.

So pretty soon the trip ends--but not just yet. I'll keep you posted when I get to a motel or my car explodes--some excuse to stop and smell the flowers for awhile."

I know it's a stretch, but I wanna close out Day 3, so here's the second "on the road" entry for Travel Day 3.

August 18th (19th, technically), 2004

"Laying here, temperately warmed, slid between what feels like 100% regular cotton hotel sheets, like lukewarm ham for some old dude's sandwich. How did it ever come to this: willingly paying 75 bucks for a room? Well, thank God, I have an excuse this time, too.

So, like I detailed in the past entry, I'd been driving along the flat confines of Nebraska. Without any fanfare, I suddenly found myself in Iowa. If I'm remembering my 2004 election maps like a good politico-slut, I think Iowa is either a swing state or Republican. From what I've seen so far, though, this place may as fucking well be Texas on that count: 2-lane highway speed limits of 65, highway PD pulling over truckers, and very reasonable gas prices due to low state tax. The most amusing part about Iowa are its 'rough roads'. So I'm doing a respectable 75 in a 65 zone just like any red-blooded pig-dog American ought to, when I notice a sign advertising a 'rough road' ahead. I'm intrigued. My mouth almost drops open as I suddenly speed off of the regular road--and land 7 inches below, onto stripped-bare asphalt, and then back up a 4 inch ramp dip thing.

And for a more sound effecty experience:

Hum Hum Hum fwoopTHUNK (squeaky) grtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrtgrt fwoopThip Hum Hum Hum..

To be fare (sic) the stripped road was kinda fun, but that drop probably made my car's suspension wet itself.

Ok, so the state has some good aspects to it, but I get the impression Iowa just has a giant stick up its ass. Take West Des Moines. Now I respect that Des Moines is a major city and all, but you'd think that 20 miles outside of the proper city, you'd have some smaller motels, cheap eateries, you know, for destitutes and alcoholic rovers and poor bastards like me. Coming off the freeway, though, I noticed at least 5 different hotels. Yeah, actual hotels with spas and work-out rooms, charging 125-350 a night. Being me, I laughed at the thought for a good 10 minutes, then looped back around to find the alleged Motel 6 along the strip--and laughed again. The hotels really do look that ostentatious, especially this Fairview Inn and Suites place. You cannot call yourself a fucking 'Inn' and be 15-20 stories tall. No room for argument, case damned well closed.

I drove along the hotel strip one way, then the other, talking to myself about where the fuck they could have hidden the Motel 6, and how I'd been lured into West Des Moines on false pretenses, and if the fuckers didn't show me a Motel 6 in 10 minutes, I'd go straight to Des Moines proper. Funny enough I noticed the Motel 6 out of the corner of my eye and had to loop back around. Well, maybe not so funny considering the Marriott that blocked it from view and (of course) had a parking arrangement completely and annoyingly separate from Motel 6.

Apparently, after having found the right parking lot, this was a Motel 6/Candlewood Suites value block of power, where drifters and just plain practical one-nighter people had decided to go on the premise that, "Hey, y'know what, I just want a room--preferably with a bed in it. Maybe some of that soap wrapped in paper. No fridges, no seats, no writing desk, no video rental archives, just a fucking bed and house-keeping not knocking at 6am."

This was an Iowa Motel 6, though, and it was a foreign bastard to me. The place looked like a damned fortress, more of a squat townhouse Hyatt than anything. I was used to my Motel 6's being these squat two-story traditional motel arrangement deals, where everything looked cheap and felt right that way somehow. But this was different: no night window, a 'use your room key to get in' inner lobby door, and a swimming pool. A Motel 6 with a swimming pool. To make matters worse, every single parking space was taken at the Motel 6 section, which meant (likely) all the rooms were booked solid.

So I decided to go for Candlewood Suites. Somehow, at 3am, paying 75 bucks for a room sounded reasonable. If I drove to Des Moines, after all, I doubt I'd find anything more reasonable and it'd be at least an hour later.

Still, I vaguely feel very cross about paying something besides the rock bottom of the barrel price for a hotel room. I'm going to go to bed now and feel justified about renting out this room.

The alarm clock thingy even has a CD player. Excesses of western civilization, you moral-less expensive hotel rooms!"

To be concluded...finally...soon...really...I mean it.

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