I-40 West, Milepost 315: My Impromptu Vacation Spot (HTP Lovefest)
Written: Sep 09 '01 (Updated Mar 18 '04)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: Fantastic acoustics!
Cons: Inadequate restroom facilities.
The Bottom Line: Let the love flow.
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| Sordid-1's Full Review: Arizona |
Green Acres is the place to be
Farm living is the life for me
Land spreading out,
So far and wide
Keep Manhattan,
Just give me that countryside.
Thus went Eddie Albert’s rallying cry for a simpler, purer “country” way of living in the theme song of the 1960s situation comedy “Green Acres.” Well, after living in a town virtually filled with Hank Kimballs and Eb Dawsons, a town whose most intelligent resident very well MAY be someone’s pet pig, I have determined that backwater, redneck-haven, hick towns are vastly overrated and that Green Acres is NOT, in fact, the place to be. Nor is my current home.
Green Acres, you ain’t got nuthin’ on Piggott, Arkansas.
And Eddie Albert, you can kiss my a.
As some of you know, I am in the process of escaping my own personal Green Acres and heading west until I have distanced myself no less than 1,500 miles from Piggott. That’s not to say that Piggott is without merit. Ernest Hemingway once lived in Piggott (I honestly don’t know if that fact had anything to do with his eventual suicide.) An Andy Griffith movie (“A Face in the Crowd”) was once filmed in Piggott. And, hey, Andy Griffith is only one step removed from Don Knotts, so that can’t be bad (I don’t know if Piggott’s deputy sheriff carries one bullet in his shirt pocket, though.) But I’m ready for a change, my wife is with me on this, and we’re relocating to Phoenix.
I took my initial relocation-related foray into Arizona a couple weeks ago. With just me, my pickup, a full load of personal possessions, one small black dog, and a handful of B.B. King tapes, I hit the open road. We made it through Arkansas (dull), Oklahoma (boring), Texas (dull and boring), and New Mexico (dull, boring, and not-really-very-exciting) with minimal distraction. After only 20 hours on the road, we hit the Arizona border. My small black dog glanced at me knowingly, “Yeah buddy,” he commented to me in his telepathic canine way, “We’re heading down the home stretch. I get allergic smelling hay. I’m a city dog, through and through. It’s all smooth sailing from here. Now excuse me while I lick my wiener.” I think his arrogance was our downfall.
About an hour into Arizona, I heard a terrible engine whine (the sort of engine whine one might hear if he floored his accelerator while the car is in neutral) and noticed a total loss of acceleration. Fuck. The oil pressure was fine. The heat gauge showed me in the normal range. I had plenty of power; the truck just didn’t know what to do with it. It had to be the transmission. Fuckity fuck fuck. Give me a flat tire. Give me a split radiator hose. Give me a busted fan belt. Just don’t give me a blown transmission! Son-of-bitch. Shit.
I took my foot off the accelerator, threw on the emergency lights, and coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the interstate. My small black dog started wagging his tail in anticipation, knowing that he would soon get the opportunity to sniff around outside and pee on everything. “Well, where am I?” I thought to myself when the stream of mental profanities momentarily subsided. I remembered paing a town called Navajo about 15 miles back, but got the impression that it wasn’t so much a town as an interstate exit and a Quickie Mart. I knew I was at least 60 miles east of Winslow (which is a real shame, because breaking down there would have afforded me the opportunity to stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona with seven women on my mind - four that want to own me, two that want to stone me, one says she’s a friend of mine.) After checking the map, I determined that I was probably about 25 miles east of Holbrook, Arizona. I looked at the small black dog and audibly muttered, “Navajo to the left of me, Holbrook to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle of nowhere with you.”
I popped open the hood and took a look at all the truck parts under there. Yep, the engine’s still there! Oh, there are those other metal things! Hey, that’s the battery, I recognize that! I think that’s the manifold! What the hell am I doing? I am not the least bit mechanically inclined, and, even if I were, I don’t think I could rebuild a transmission on an interstate shoulder with darkness impending and nothing but a crescent wrench, a pliers, a screwdriver, and a small black dog to help me. I ain’t freakin’ MacGuyver, after all.
I took the small black dog for a short walk to sort out my thoughts and let him sniff and pee on everything in sight as huge semi-trucks whizzed past us at 70 miles per hour. I saw a milepost definitively locating me at mile 315. “Piss on the milepost, dog. Piss on everything.” He did. Good boy.
I attached a small chain to the paenger door and hooked it to small black dog’s collar, allowing him a little room to roam, then dug through my backpack looking for my wife’s cell phone which she had the foresight to urge me to take on the trip. I only hoped it was fully charged since my truck’s cigarette lighter didn’t work. It was. I dialed home and got an “Out of Service Area - $2.75 per minute” message on the display. Hmmm, it was only 25 miles to Holbrook and I did have my good walking shoes on. Nah, I set aside my cheapa ways and let the call go through.
“Hello?”
“Hi honey. I need your help.”
“Is that you, Ken? I can barely hear you.”
“YEAH, IT’S ME! I NEED YOUR HELP, PLEASE!”
“Why don’t you call me back when you’re further down the road? This is a terrible connection.”
“FuCKITY FuCK FuCK FuCK! ”
(I apologize to the readers for my abundant use of profanity, but, since this is an account of actual events, I feel they need to be included for the sake of historical accuracy. When faced with pressure-laden circumstances, I swear a lot. That night, I probably muttered, stated, or screamed “fuck” at least one hundred times, and thought “fuck” no less than 1,000 times. However, to avoid redundancy, I will try to limit this essay to approximately 20 fucks. 30 fucks max. That is my promise to you, the reader.)
Eventually, I was able to triumph over the technical difficulties, convey my message and location to her, and secure a promise that she would call our insurance company and have them send a tow truck. So all I had to do was wait. I decided to just walk along the shoulder and sing as loud as I could. That seemed like a good, healthy therapeutic, tension-relieving type of activity. So what if everyone paing by thought I was a crazy dude walking around in the middle of nowhere singing to myself? Nobody was going to stop and help me anyway, I looked far too scummy and dangerous. I commenced with the singing.
“Gloom, despair, and agony on me!
Deep dark depression, excessive misery!
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all!
Gloom, despair, and agony on me! ”
Hey, I sounded pretty good! Normally, I’m not much of a singer. Oh sure, I’ve got really drunk and stupid and sang at karaoke bars a few times, but I just thought I sounded good then. Now I was stone cold sober and cranking out some professional-quality tunes. There is something about the acoustics around Milepost 315 of I-40 West that lends itself perfectly to my voice! I continued to sing.
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a partner
Sometimes I feel like my only friend
Is the city I live in, the city of angels
Lonely as I am, together we cry. ”
It was working. My lingering feelings of anger and frustration were slipping away. I then realized that I was really, really hungry. Damn if biology doesn’t get in the way of long road trips. I had driven through a McDonald’s in Paragould, Arkansas, for a Quarter Pounder, but had only snacked on some Pringles since then. Four states separated me from my last meal. I looked over at my small black dog, and I swear that I started to salivate. I saw him transform into a fully dressed roasted chicken, just like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons, and had survivoresque visions of “Alive” floating through my head. I sang some more.
“Tried to amend my carnivorous habits
Made it nearly seventy days
Losin' weight without speed, eatin' sunflower seeds
Drinkin' lots of carrot juice and soakin' up rays
But at night I'd have these wonderful dreams
Some kind of sensuous treat
Not zucchini, fettuccini or bulgur wheat
But a big warm bun and a huge hunk of meat
Cheeseburger in paradise
Heaven on earth with an onion slice
Not too particular, not too precise
I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise. ”
A cool breeze was flowing through the air, I was still in the high country so it wasn’t unbearably hot, I had my small black dog, and the acoustics were just fantastic. I loosened a couple bungee cords over my load, peeled back the tarp, and pulled a chair out of the bed of my truck. Figured I might as well lounge in comfort as long as I was stuck in the middle of motherhumpin’ nowhere. The small black dog jumped up on my lap. More singing.
“Jeremiah was a bullfrog
Was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine
Singin' joy to the world
All the boys and girls, now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me. ”
As I started into the second stanza of “Joy to the World”, I noticed one of the paing motorists giving me a real strange look. “What the fuck are you staring at, lady?” I screamed, “Haven’t you ever seen an Arkansan sitting on a chair on the shoulder of an interstate singing at the top of his lungs next to a broken-down pickup with a small black dog in his lap?” She didn’t answer. She was half a mile down the road.
Still no tow-truck.
The small black dog shifted on my lap, and I noticed an intense pressure in my very full bladder. Much like the dog, I felt a nearly irresistible urge to pee on everything. Thoughts of Hard_to_Please rose in my mind. “Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “What would my buddy, Mark, do in a situation like this?” Clearly, I think the first thing he would do is leave a whole slew of encouraging comments on every review in sight, misspell the word “porcine” a few times, then fantasize about Lovie Howell in sheer lingerie. But after that, I was certain he would whip that bad boy out and paint his name on the road with a torrential downpour of urine. So that is exactly what I opted to do.
I walked back to the paenger side of my truck so I would be partially obscured from the traffic, released the necessary apparatus from its constraints, and breathed a sigh of relief as the pressure in my bladder subsided. But what roadside whiz would be complete without a little musical accompaniment?
“I’m singing in the rain!
Just singing in the rain!
What a glorious feeling!
I’m happy again!
I'm laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun's in my heart
And I'm ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I've a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Singin', just singin' in the rain! ”
Apparently, I was so involved in my boisterous rendition of this claic Gene Kelley tune (along with the aociated “rain-making”) that I did not hear the cop car pull up behind me. I did, however, hear the highway patrolman’s footsteps when he was no more than six feet behind me. I did my level best to cut off the stream of urine and “reconstrain” my tackle back in my shorts, but was less than successful in the “cutting off the stream” portion of the task at hand. As I cut my song short and turned to face him, large wettish stains soaking through my gym shorts, the best I could muster was a sheepish grin and a, “Hiya, Officer! How the hell ya doin’ tonight?”
Oddly enough (and contrary to some other experiences I’ve had with Arizona law enforcement officials) he was a good-natured fellow and just wanted to lend a hand (figuratively speaking.) After ascertaining that I was neither stoned, drunk, nor any danger to society at large, he asked what he could do to help. I told him I was set, had a tow truck on the way, and was just enjoying the fine, fine Arizona evening. I thanked him for his concern, and he continued on his merry way. As soon as he disappeared from my vision, I dug some different shorts out of the backpack and changed by the side of my truck. My small black dog eyed me suspiciously.
Sometime that night, I had figured out that all the fussing, fuming, anger, and resentment I could muster would not change my circumstances one iota, so just decided to enjoy myself instead. It was an expensive lesson, though:
Tow Bill: $161
Replacement Transmission: $1320
Mechanic’s Labor Charge: $350
Trip to Flagstaff to Pick Up Transmission: $90
Two Night’s Stay at Fleabag Hotel: $54
Not Having Cancer: PRICELESS
It’s easy to get caught up in the minutiea of life and forget to be thankful for the true blessings we experience every day – things like friends, family, and good health. If one lets the little things drag him down, all the good things in life can be obscured by the details. For a stellar example of how to handle problems with grace and courage, take a look at our friend, Mark (Hard_to_Please.) He’s not dealing with a little thing, he’s dealing with a big thing. He was recently diagnosed with metastasized renal cell carcinoma (cancer of a particularly nasty sort), yet he has maintained his extraordinary sense of humor, optimism, and thankfulness for the blessings that he has. I wish his attitude could be bottled up and distributed to the world, I wish I could get a dose of that. I am by no means in a position where I can be seen as a spokesman for the Epinions community, but I honestly believe I can speak for everyone here when I say that we all wish, after all this time being entertained and encouraged by you, Mark, that we could give you something substantial in return. And you have all our love, hopes, and well wishes that you will fall into the 10-20% that walk away from this type of cancer.
Despite the fantastic acoustics, I cannot endorse Milepost 315 of I-40 West. I can, however, wholeheartedly endorse Hard_to_Please.
This review is part of the Hard_to_Please Love Fest, organized by diverpam, for our friend Mark (Hard_to_Please) who was recently diagnosed with advanced cancer. All funds raised in this write-off will be donated to Mark to help defray some of his expenses.
Although Mark has his own wonderfully unique style we are each attempting to honor him by writing in our best Hard_to_Please fashion. We hope you will enjoy the entries.
Following is a list of participants:
jankp, jkkelley,29th Candidate, Sunkah, Dr_Steph, bwyckoff1, jo.com, AinsleyJo, Lady Cynic, frazzledspice, mcmaster, roxymarie, LordAngel, sherrylee, brendametcalf, pambo, NoMattrWht, Sordid-1, nwinston, SLOW, Suzer, Biggs219, melissasrn, MattJoe, ifif1938, DiverPam, GinaHill, grandgram, Hikini, pogomom, bops_mom, purplewiz, movielover123, repulsemonkey, Redhotleigh, gonow, hypotenuse, blackcat2, mkp51, Kevlog, flamepillar, PSobel, Taurusmoon, nathsmom, daddieo, Zenhues, cldoss, 2buzy, Lizf, gransurfer1, Deaser26, Auldbawl1, Michiman1, prfstars, BARNZ, fransbebe, Granniemose, ggrimes1221, ginzo, eplovejoy, michealhead, Arthur.Rubin, lisa_j, cripper, Hadaahchana, teddiec, mtbat, momsworkinlate
Recommended:
No
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Epinions.com ID:
Sordid-1
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 - Top 1000 |
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Member: Jeffy
Reviews written: 62
Trusted by: 418 members
About Me:
You wouldn't notice a muddy elephant in the snow, would ya?
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