I don't want a Pickle.
Saturday in southern New Mexico in June, and it's muy calido. Time to bustamove. Make like a bakery truck and haul buns, or a hockey player and get the puck out of here. It's already afternoon, but the days are long, so I drop the hound off at a friends' place, and fire up the motorcycle. Just putting the plan in motion begins to cool things off a bit, and once the bike and I are rolling yo estoy fresco. It looks like it's raining in the mountains, but I just don't care. It's got to be a bit cooler up there, and I've got my rain suit in the saddle bags. Within 20 minutes I've gained over 4000 feet in elevation and am into the clouds. Now it's raining and I'm a little too cool. Stop at a minute mart and don the rain gear. Five minutes later I'm on my way through a light drizzle. My temperature's good and I'm dry in my goretex cocoon. Since it's raining I decide to ride a direction I don't normally go, which will take me back down the eastern side of the mountains, and theoretically away from the rain showers. Twenty five minutes later. my decision seems sound, as the rain clouds dissipate, and the sun begins to peek through. What a beautiful corner of the world this is. Rain or shine, there's no denying that. Starting to get hot now. Stop. Doff the rain gear and keep riding. Not too far. If I keep going this direction, I'll be entering the Permian Lands. Kinda like Mordor, with it's oil and gas infrastructure everywhere, only it's sunny.
I turn North, and man, it's hotter on this side of the mountains than the one I just left. Brutal heat. But there's nothing here, and the roads are straight and long, and all I can do is just keep riding. And my ass is getting pretty sore. It's been two hours and my circulation is impaired. How far to that next town? I'm riding fast, but the miles are passing slowly in these flatlands. Finally I enter the town, and gas up the bike. Days like this you appreciate the canopy over the pumps for the shade. I need a break, and keep my eyes peeled for a cervezeria, but I'm not seeing any Budweiser™ signs anywhere. I'm starting to worry that I've wandered into one of those anachronisms here in the southeast part of the state, the dry county. I'm almost out of this ratty little town when I pass a tattoo parlor with a bunch of motorcycles parked out front, and about 15 vatos hanging out on the porch. I recognize kindred souls when I see them, and double back around the block, pulling up beside them, and ask, "Is there a place to get a drink in this town?". One of them asks, "What kind of drink?", and for a moment I'm confused, then rejoin, "A beer.". They all chime in and direct me to a local bar just a few blocks away. I thank them and we all wave goodbye. I can't help but wonder what most of middle America would decide if they needed directions, and this motley crew was the only option available. My guess is that most would keep driving and hope for the best. Damn shame.
I pull into the bar's parking lot and dismount, and as I'm taking my helmet off Goober and Gomer walk out from behind the bar and Goober says, "Hey, it's Evel Knievel!", and guffaws. And I know in my heart that there are way too many cousins marrying cousins in this great land of ours. Inside the bar, the clientele is salt of the earth, not overly friendly, but not hostile either. This is however, not the 21st century version of a fern bar, so I select Budweiser™ as my drink of choice. It's very cold, so I have no complaints. Behind the bar are hand written signs reading, "Beer. It's better than a breakfast drink", and "In God we trust, all others pay cash". We get in a discussion of Michael Jackson's degree of freakitude, and what a great musician he was with a minor digression into how to control ants inside the home, and on the ranch. These are OK people in my opinion.
Time to hit it. It's good to be on the bike again. The road is 4 lanes through rolling hills, there's no traffic, and I'm mellow. For some reason, Michael Franti's 'Yell Fire' is stuck on 'repeat-play' in the mass of synapses I'll call for lack of a better term, 'my brain'.
Now, I'm thinking about healthcare reform. Wondering if we'll ever wake up from the corporate induced narcolepsy that has overtaken all of us. Will we ever stand up for what is rightfully ours, as did M. L. King and Mahatma Ghandi? And suddenly I'm thinking of my mother, may she rest in peace. Tears are flowing down my face as I storm down this rural byway at a speed I'd rather not admit to here. I'm coming to terms with her death as I ride a motorcycle, on a highway, eight years after she died. She suffered at the end, and I convinced myself at the time that it was a good thing she finally passed. 'Real life' sucked me back in pretty quickly following her death, as I had a national cable station coming to film me in my studio the following week. It was pretty apparent to those close to me, there was more to be said than my words at her memorial. Now. Here. On this desolate western road, I'm really missing her. Sad and beautiful, and a little scary. But like life intruding after her funeral, I'm entering the foothills, and eventually the mountains again, and the twists and turns of the road are guiding me back to the present. It's a blessing really. How much of this pathos can anyone take really? My eyes are dry as I lean into one corner after another, and I'm more focused than I've ever been on my bike, as I guide it home, again, at unmentionable speeds, with the ease with which I would pick up a book from the table.
Eventually I take a second break, for dinner, this time with no significant personal contacts. There's a television on low volume near my seat and the media is tilling the soil of a pop star's legacy, rehashing what is known of Michael Jackson's life. I'm wondering what the exact role of MJ's perception of race played in his decision to have his face sculpted into a visage so foreign to his original face and the face of his family's. Meanwhile, he's still there, on the screen in front of me. Moonwalking his way backward to the future. To reality. And I'm thinking, maybe life is just messy. You pick and choose as best you can, but there's no telling where those choices will lead you, and there's no one who can really say whether you did it right or not. You just do the best you can.
Cross posted at Annals of the Hive.
I turn North, and man, it's hotter on this side of the mountains than the one I just left. Brutal heat. But there's nothing here, and the roads are straight and long, and all I can do is just keep riding. And my ass is getting pretty sore. It's been two hours and my circulation is impaired. How far to that next town? I'm riding fast, but the miles are passing slowly in these flatlands. Finally I enter the town, and gas up the bike. Days like this you appreciate the canopy over the pumps for the shade. I need a break, and keep my eyes peeled for a cervezeria, but I'm not seeing any Budweiser™ signs anywhere. I'm starting to worry that I've wandered into one of those anachronisms here in the southeast part of the state, the dry county. I'm almost out of this ratty little town when I pass a tattoo parlor with a bunch of motorcycles parked out front, and about 15 vatos hanging out on the porch. I recognize kindred souls when I see them, and double back around the block, pulling up beside them, and ask, "Is there a place to get a drink in this town?". One of them asks, "What kind of drink?", and for a moment I'm confused, then rejoin, "A beer.". They all chime in and direct me to a local bar just a few blocks away. I thank them and we all wave goodbye. I can't help but wonder what most of middle America would decide if they needed directions, and this motley crew was the only option available. My guess is that most would keep driving and hope for the best. Damn shame.
I pull into the bar's parking lot and dismount, and as I'm taking my helmet off Goober and Gomer walk out from behind the bar and Goober says, "Hey, it's Evel Knievel!", and guffaws. And I know in my heart that there are way too many cousins marrying cousins in this great land of ours. Inside the bar, the clientele is salt of the earth, not overly friendly, but not hostile either. This is however, not the 21st century version of a fern bar, so I select Budweiser™ as my drink of choice. It's very cold, so I have no complaints. Behind the bar are hand written signs reading, "Beer. It's better than a breakfast drink", and "In God we trust, all others pay cash". We get in a discussion of Michael Jackson's degree of freakitude, and what a great musician he was with a minor digression into how to control ants inside the home, and on the ranch. These are OK people in my opinion.
Time to hit it. It's good to be on the bike again. The road is 4 lanes through rolling hills, there's no traffic, and I'm mellow. For some reason, Michael Franti's 'Yell Fire' is stuck on 'repeat-play' in the mass of synapses I'll call for lack of a better term, 'my brain'.
Now, I'm thinking about healthcare reform. Wondering if we'll ever wake up from the corporate induced narcolepsy that has overtaken all of us. Will we ever stand up for what is rightfully ours, as did M. L. King and Mahatma Ghandi? And suddenly I'm thinking of my mother, may she rest in peace. Tears are flowing down my face as I storm down this rural byway at a speed I'd rather not admit to here. I'm coming to terms with her death as I ride a motorcycle, on a highway, eight years after she died. She suffered at the end, and I convinced myself at the time that it was a good thing she finally passed. 'Real life' sucked me back in pretty quickly following her death, as I had a national cable station coming to film me in my studio the following week. It was pretty apparent to those close to me, there was more to be said than my words at her memorial. Now. Here. On this desolate western road, I'm really missing her. Sad and beautiful, and a little scary. But like life intruding after her funeral, I'm entering the foothills, and eventually the mountains again, and the twists and turns of the road are guiding me back to the present. It's a blessing really. How much of this pathos can anyone take really? My eyes are dry as I lean into one corner after another, and I'm more focused than I've ever been on my bike, as I guide it home, again, at unmentionable speeds, with the ease with which I would pick up a book from the table.
Eventually I take a second break, for dinner, this time with no significant personal contacts. There's a television on low volume near my seat and the media is tilling the soil of a pop star's legacy, rehashing what is known of Michael Jackson's life. I'm wondering what the exact role of MJ's perception of race played in his decision to have his face sculpted into a visage so foreign to his original face and the face of his family's. Meanwhile, he's still there, on the screen in front of me. Moonwalking his way backward to the future. To reality. And I'm thinking, maybe life is just messy. You pick and choose as best you can, but there's no telling where those choices will lead you, and there's no one who can really say whether you did it right or not. You just do the best you can.
Cross posted at Annals of the Hive.
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Makes me wish I once again had ownership of that 750 Commando of my younger years just so I could accompany you on one of these travelogues. Thanks for the ride!
June 28, 2009 1:14 AM | Reply | Permalink
You can ride with me anytime Hey Zeus!
June 28, 2009 1:16 PM | Reply | Permalink
Miguel, I love it when you write these freehand-style posts of your adventures and thoughts. Muy recommended.
June 28, 2009 1:20 AM | Reply | Permalink
It's sure a lot easier to write a travelogue than exposition Lis, and the 'research' is the most fun of all.
June 28, 2009 1:13 PM | Reply | Permalink
Ah, your writing is so smooth and lyrical, I could feel the vibration of the bike and the hot wind in my hair and the dried tears on my face. Thanks for weaving so many different thought threads into one coherent whole. I've been there.
June 28, 2009 1:20 AM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks Molly!
June 28, 2009 1:17 PM | Reply | Permalink
Oh, and thanks for the song. I just bought it for my iPod. The video is awesome.
June 28, 2009 1:29 AM | Reply | Permalink
Do yourself a favor and buy the whole album.
June 28, 2009 5:17 AM | Reply | Permalink
Thus ends our first installment of "Uneasy Rider", or "Paco muy Caliente". I'm just sitting here watching the ruedas go round and round. I just love to watch them roll. Tell me when you get to the land of Tecate, slept all night in a car by the brewery, have the smell imprinted in my nostrils for life. I think you should print up a bunch of t-shirts for this blog run, beer bottle with "Negro Miguelo" on it. Think it'd sell?
June 28, 2009 5:15 AM | Reply | Permalink
Who cares if it'll sell or not. I'm copywriting it anyway, as we 'speak', so to speak. Negro Miguelo ©. See? I'm pitching the screenplay to Spielberg first thing Monday morning. There's gonna be a 'killer' scene with rabid deer attacking Miguelo and his vegetarian Portuguese 'friend' Desidero, as they traverse the bayou country circa 1967. In the face of imminent starvation they must grapple with ethical questions such as is it 'OK' to eat the meat of a rabid animal in situ or should they wait to come down from their acid high first? Bear in mind this is pre-internet/google, so researching the rabies virus won't happen from the side of the road with an iPhone.
June 28, 2009 5:34 AM | Reply | Permalink
I already referenced the fire swamp, bloggus patheticus and ROUS in another post. But it looks like the bastards at Corona are buying it up, better grab the label while it's still available.
And PS, if we're going to do this right, only Datura will stand as a legally convincing excuse in court, or at least Burrough's elusive Yage (that's good for getting you off shooting your wife, I think). Though if you're willing to step slightly out of character and play a fat Samoan attorney, we can have all the ether we want. All we need now is an Italian spouting words of wisdom such as, "If looks could kill, you dead".
June 28, 2009 8:22 AM | Reply | Permalink
While we're grabbing labels, perhaps you should up your participation along that the Trantorian vein by securing the rights to 'Magnifico Clara', una cerveza con la patada de una mula. And if the bar is set so low as avoiding prosecution for spousal homicide, then a gallon of paint thinner should do. Not to ethnically profile, but aren't all Samoan's fat?
June 28, 2009 12:46 PM | Reply | Permalink
Yes, but not all Mexicans are, sabes? However, with a bit of Robert De Niro dedication to role, I'm sure you can put on the 150 lbs. or whatever it takes to pull it off.
Regarding things with a kick of a mule, ever since my early music listening days it's been a passion - is there concrete all around or is it in my head? Toxic Gunk fumes? Man, that's cold - and I thought hacking Pam was bad.
Okay, here's the original now:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BkD_fI_lH-A
I'm not *that* young.
June 28, 2009 1:17 PM | Reply | Permalink
I'm working on channeling a raging bull as opposed to mules, or piglets for that matter. The real trick to avoiding prosecution is to avoid the arrest.
June 28, 2009 1:30 PM | Reply | Permalink
No disponible aquí, assume something about psychic kick-boxing to bring it all together, time to head to the Buddha Bar.
June 28, 2009 1:36 PM | Reply | Permalink
Try this.
June 29, 2009 12:38 AM | Reply | Permalink
Better in your car than in the local hotel. (It's a brothel)
Was your stay in Tecate the result of AAAs guidebook calling it, "a charming Mexican Village?"
June 28, 2009 12:21 PM | Reply | Permalink
It was the result of a border dispute as to whether we could enter Mexico at all, "it's the land of milagros, the lame walk, the blind see, the...." border guards getting wealthy, as somewhat left unstated, and somehow I doubt my traveling companion would have appreciated the brothel in that fine Mexican village (a similar importunement regarding a potential stay at a Swedish girls' youth hostel met with adamant refusal, and I thought the fact that it was free would have brought some appreciation, but nooooo....)
June 28, 2009 1:25 PM | Reply | Permalink
=D
Smart traveling companion. As for me I didn't know anything but that it was cheap, and that the constant knocks on the door bewildered me and my traveling companion, (who had to shove a few back out the door.) When the bedbugs started to bite us in the wee hours, the adventure was abandoned, and the truth explained in an all night, open-air cafetería, by a kind and wise taxi driver. We headed out to Ensenada and slept in the car out on the cliffs after that.
Adventures rawk, so long as they turn out well. It is not a trip I would attempt nowadays...
Miguel is a muy brave peeg.
June 28, 2009 1:37 PM | Reply | Permalink
Great Miguel. A lovely lyrical sunday ride! Thanks. I've got the Franti blowing out my speakers now...
June 28, 2009 8:16 AM | Reply | Permalink
Cheers Pug!
June 28, 2009 1:18 PM | Reply | Permalink
A pleasure as always. Thanks!
June 28, 2009 8:38 AM | Reply | Permalink
No, no, thank you CVille, for what is a writer without readers, but a man shooting blanks at the firing range?
June 28, 2009 1:21 PM | Reply | Permalink
Or a swimmer blandly taking the summer sun with no fear of Great Whites or komogators. Where's the fun in that?
June 28, 2009 2:17 PM | Reply | Permalink
where indeed?
June 29, 2009 12:44 AM | Reply | Permalink
And while I like the song, didn't we disabuse ourselves of the mistaken notion that a bunch of hippies at a festival will turn into a sustainable peace movement and ecological/socially conscious way of life?
The revolution will not be televized I think was one way of putting it. The revolution has to come in the brain, but most brains seem pre-programmed for the reptilian channel. Bring on the fear, I'm starting to lose the adrenaline rush.
June 28, 2009 8:39 AM | Reply | Permalink
And here's an interesting and disturbing Michael Jackson freaktitude article to hijack your thread with:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1196009/Im-better-dead-Im-How-Michael-Jackson-predicted-death-months-ago.html
June 28, 2009 10:17 AM | Reply | Permalink
Komodo brains: see the image at 1:07 in the video. The revolution will definitely not be televised.
June 28, 2009 1:08 PM | Reply | Permalink
Komogator brains was too busy dancing the Macarena with his long forked tongue lashing about in ketamine-enduced fog. Somewhere around 2:43 he got tired and hungry, and had to stop to swallow a medium-sized peccary.
June 28, 2009 1:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
*belly laugh* (and I truly am trying to emulate Di Nero's commitment ala Ragin' Bull in the belly dept... Guess that makes it a *big belly laugh*)
June 28, 2009 2:08 PM | Reply | Permalink
Oh no, now I have a vision of Nacho Libre, save me...
June 28, 2009 2:28 PM | Reply | Permalink
No. Save me. From myself.
June 29, 2009 12:46 AM | Reply | Permalink
Refusing to sleep again Miguel. hahaha I would give you ten more rec's but I know it would not matter to you. These personal travel logs of yours are precious.
I hereby render unto you THE DAYLY BLOG OF THE DAY AWARD, for this here TPMCafe Site given to all of you from all of me.
If we wished to be dry all the time, WE WOULD NEVER VENTURE OUT. And we would become dead inside.
Tell me though, does your puppy forgive you upon your return?
June 28, 2009 11:47 AM | Reply | Permalink
*refusing to sleep* ... my diurnal rhythms are kind of like the rhythm of a mosh pit Dick. Random and spastic, that is. Thanks for the award. I'm gonna have to mentally construct an imaginary shelf to store it on. :)
June 28, 2009 12:53 PM | Reply | Permalink
Love your writing style on this one.
I am first noting how fear of the unknown and sticking with what's comfortable can get us 'lost'.
Thank you for the intimacy in sharing your loving memory of your mom and the challenge of her passing.
We need a leader in healthcare reform. A single payer champion that will see the fight through until it is won. Someone that all of the people and organizations can rally around. If you have some idea who that might be, let us know. We've got to find a solid leader that people across the board can embrace. Our clear desire for single payer is more easily muted because we are too scattered with our voices. Until we nominate a leader or one arises I don't see our representatives actually feeling that they need to represent us.
June 28, 2009 2:39 PM | Reply | Permalink
"Love" M Franti, got to see him at Red Rocks, most excellent:)
And I live at the foot of the Rocky's spoiled rotten by the beauty outside my front door...
June 28, 2009 4:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
Yes we do need a leader in the healthcare debate. Have you considered that perhaps the rush to pass healthcare legislation this session may be to do so before organization/leadership can be found amongst those supporting a single payer system or even a strong public option?
June 29, 2009 12:34 AM | Reply | Permalink
Excellent point.
I have not been paying so much attention to what they are doing because of that very point. Congress is not going to try to do what the american people want them to do. They are going to do what they think will make us just comfortable enough that we will be appeased and let the status quo continue.
Better that we pretty much ignore whatever gifts they offer us to shutup and go home and keep moving forward.
Beware politicians bearing 'gifts'...
June 29, 2009 1:10 AM | Reply | Permalink
Were the mountains you speak of the Sacramento Mountains?
Whether they were or not, your story took me back there.
thanks porcine biker dude.
June 28, 2009 4:06 PM | Reply | Permalink
Yes, they were the Sacramentos. Cheers, moat!
June 29, 2009 12:35 AM | Reply | Permalink
Mh20:
Thanks for the day's out log. No problem scraping the bugs off my teeth when the pay-off was vicarious wind and rain, highs and lows and people rarely encountered and still more rarely properly appreciated.
and I don't know who the Henry James of TPM might be, but you are definitely in the running for TPM's Anthony Trollope, about whom, our yet to be designated James would say: ""His [Trollope's] great, his incontestable merit, was a complete appreciation of the usual...he felt all daily and immediate things as well as saw them; felt them in a simple, direct, salubrious way, with their sadness, their gladness, their charm, their comicality, all their obvious and measurable meanings..."
Thanks for the ride.
June 28, 2009 6:18 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks for your kind words, and riding along w, and I believe this may be the first time anyone has likened me to a trollop. ;)
June 29, 2009 12:39 AM | Reply | Permalink
I love these wanderer’s rides.
Your freeness is what gets me
winding the thoughts around.
And the music, much appreciated.
Yell Fire!!!
And no ordinary pickle.
And so the Arlo:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvLtNBm1yyA
June 28, 2009 6:23 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks for the tune and your kind words, Strat!
June 29, 2009 12:40 AM | Reply | Permalink
Nice, thanks Miguelito... I saw Michael Franti, Patterson Hood, Laura Cortese and Eric Weissberg sing Yell Fire at the Pete Seeger Tribute a few weeks back. Awesome!
June 28, 2009 9:00 PM | Reply | Permalink
Cool Bronx. I haven't seen him live, but sure would like to. Cheers!
June 29, 2009 12:41 AM | Reply | Permalink
Funny how memories of those you love come back at surprising moments without care of time elapsed. Your travelogues are like poetry to read; real, thought provoking, sad, raw and non-pretentious. You are a person who can describe life as it is. thanks
June 28, 2009 9:29 PM | Reply | Permalink
Such flattery. I'll try to not let it go to my head!
June 29, 2009 12:44 AM | Reply | Permalink
Nicely done and nicely described, Miguel...
June 28, 2009 10:18 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanx Grouch!
June 29, 2009 12:45 AM | Reply | Permalink
Beautiful. Spent a few years in scenic NM, and when my ship comes in I'm going back.
When I was in Taos, Arlo Guthrie made his annual trip there, and some local guys apparently had a tradition of riding their motorcycles to the show and incessantly shouting "Pickle!" until Arlo said, "We'll get to it."
Bueno.
June 29, 2009 12:10 AM | Reply | Permalink
Gracias XJ!
June 29, 2009 12:47 AM | Reply | Permalink