Tripy McTrip

Part 3

So there wasn’t a part 1 or a part 2; I was lying. But this is day 4 of our trip westward to the place known as California, or “Arnoldsville.” I’ll give a little recap of what’s happened so far. We began on Wednesday morning in Northfield and had a pretty uneventful drive through the rest of the Midwest. Iowa was flat and depressing because everything is either brown, grey, or filled with shit. Nebraska was even worse, as there came many a point when we felt ready to break down and cry for a spell. After traversing the vast, vast entirety of Nebraska, it was onto Colorado, the state of love. This crossing occurred on the second day. Through the mountains we drove, ever dogged by winding roads and distracted by some of the tightest scenery ever conceived. The car had a bit of trouble going up hills, since it is a Nissan Sentra, the cheaper and uglier cousin to the Civic. However, we did not get stuck on Vail pass, as has been the case with my family and were able to get in and out in less than a day, sort of like Michael Jackson and a local preschool.

While Colorado may be a beautiful state in terms of scenery and environmental feng shui (which, I’ve been told by a reputable source [every Chinese person ever] is fake), it is NOT known for its beautiful women. I swear, every town we visited was worse. I am now led to believe that Colorado is populated by small ugly children, ugly teenage girls who smoke too much and may or may not be pregnant, middle-aged women who have already been divorced 5 times, and old women who are alive either because they don’t have to pay for water (snow is plentiful) or because the cold mountain air preserves their wrinkly-ass bodies. However, I can’t knock this state too much because I used to live there. Oh, the good times, playing all kinds of sports my friends didn’t know asian people knew how to play, looking for crayfish in the river by my private (read: Lutheran) school and getting beat up by people 5 grades ahead of me so I would stop macking on their girlfriends. It was a good life. I also knew this kid named Kory Katsimpalis. He was probably some sort of greek, but I’m not sure. In any case, he would always come to school with a cream cheese and jelly sandwich, a liking to which I took almost immediately. I asked my dad to make me one, a practice which continued until I realized that I was lactose intolerant. The sandwiches, by default, became the ultimate panacea for my every ailment. I stopped being bloated and farting all the time (not), I had better breath and therefore was unable to go around pretending I had the “breath of death,” and I became mentor to a young girl who, strangely enough, followed me around because I told her I was going to teach her how to be a “Judi.” Now that I think of it, she was a bit on the retarded side, because she totally believed me when I told her it was possible to levitate shit and read people’s minds and such. Also, she had obviously never seen Star Wars.

Anyway, on day two, we also went to the Grand Canyon, which I’d seen before (both literally and in my tormented dreams) and bummed around there for a bit. The number of Japanese tourists was mind-boggling. I have never seen so many happy little asian people romping around a national park taking pictures, screaming with joy, or lying on the ground. A few of them looked at me with lust (or was it disdain and then nausea? Who knows…) but then they all got called to the bus. I have decided, in the meantime, that it is inevitable that I will marry a Japanese person, because they are the just the right size. And no, this does not have anything to do with anybody I know. A quick anecdote, tee hee: when we were trying to pull into a parking spot at one of the overlooks, this old dude in the van right next to our would-be space got out of his car and, looking away, stretched for a full 50 seconds before rubbing his eyes and turning to yell at his ugly wife. By this time, I was getting kind of pissy, as I had been driving all freaking morning, and shouted “move your ass, you old coot!” I didn’t really mean for him to hear it, but…he did and looked away shamefully. When we pulled in next to their van, I thought I saw him checking his insulin levels. Actually, that’s not true. I made that last part up. It was -actually his AIDS-O-Meter.

On Friday, we drove though Utah and into Nevada, where we were inaugurated into the ranks of the thousands touched by the gaudiness and mindless shithole that is Las Vegas. Driving the Strip was probably the least fun I’ve ever had in my entire life. The amount of gambling that goes on in that place is made even more pitiful by the many loan shops hiding in between each subsequently flashier casino. I can’t even fathom how anyone would want to come to a place where their money will soon be lost to the owners of giant vaults 200 feet underground (Thank you, Ocean’s 11) and where no amount of gambling will bring it back. Las Vegas is one of the most puzzling oases in the desert wasteland that is middle-western America, a fact due mostly to its draw. I guess that at the core of human nature, there is an instinct that says gambling is ok. It is amazing that the human race has progressed so far, for Vegas is the most decadent example of decadence I have ever witnessed. For those of you with gambling addictions, I would strongly urge you to never, ever, ever set foot in this city. It will ruin you without regard for your age, race, social status, sexual orientation, religion or political preference. The hotel that we stayed at was just a mile way from the Strip, but it was still $65 a night for a shit-tastic room with carpet from the seventies and running water that I swear I had just seen leave the toilet. Also, worst cable selection ever. Well, it wasn’t as bad as our hotel the second night. All we got was this funky British comedy with Norman Lovett (RED DWARF!) and some other fat, ugly folk that I have come to associate with these dry, colorless and mostly unappealing shows. It was either that or watch Richard Simmons as a much more homosexual (and not nearly as talented) Russ Petrika. I miss that bald, spandex wearing man.

Today, day three, I have officially run out of money. I am becoming a bit angry with my co-pilot, because he keeps insisting that we go to SoCal or that we make these detours to see the sights and sounds of California. This would be well and good if I weren’t so broke and if he didn’t know I was so broke. The only reason I agreed to go on this trip was because I couldn’t let my friend down, as he had been planning on this trip. Oh well. At least I can say that I took a real road trip (although there are fewer hot ladies carrying guns and smoking weed in Cali than I had previously imagined). And I’m having a lot of fun being away from school and getting to know this fool better. I just wish I had more money, because that would make shit a lot easier and I would probably less ornery and less ready to kill something/someone/my appetite.

Tonight, we stopped for gas in one of Central California’s mostly Hispanic towns. Gas was cheap (ooh, a measly $2.59…thrills, loves) but the looks that we got were bloody priceless. I went inside the store and put on my best angry asian look, which most of you know to be my every day look, and asked where the pooper was. Surprisingly and to my immediate delight, the bathroom was fully stocked and, for the most part, clean. This much I cannot say for the Starbucks at which we stopped earlier: they were out of toilet paper and the bathroom itself smelled like Trent Lott’s soiled panties: acrid and indicted. In other news, my head has begun to shrink downward, a phenomenon due to the analgesics I’ve been using to get rid of my acne. Something about the drying process, I think. Speaking of drying out, we have been using generously the air conditioning while driving though the abscesses of Utah and Arizona and my lips have become more parched than then the actual seabeds through which we ride. I’ve gone through two things of chapstick and my nalgene has curiously developed a Burt’s Bees-type flavor. It’s terrific.

Because I’m running out of money, my eating habits have been curbed. We have a halfway decent supply of carrots, applesauce, triscuits and flatbread (WASA, Bitches!) but I’ve been constipated to no end for the last two days. I guess that’s what happens when you eat lots of applesauce and toast. I don’t think I’ve had much protein, so I’m becoming slightly anemic (which also makes me constipated for some reason). I swear, constipation is the menstrual cramps of the less-fair sex.

Ok, that’s it for now. I think I’d like to go to sleep now.