A Letter Home from the Road
July 2, 2005
Communication with the rest of the world has been quite difficult of late. I still have the electronic leash, yet the putrid service does not extend to many of the locations the fates have taken me. Time is of the essence as the Bellingham Public Library closes in 34 minutes and my narrative will remain brief as a result. As you well know I left Ohio via Greyhound bus some two weeks ago. The trip was full of the sort of adventures for which I had hoped.
St. Louis and its famed arch. Kansas City and the rusted urban decay of the dying Midwest stockyards, and then west across the vast plains of Kansas. A glowing orange sun set over the prairie as we made our way along I-70 to Denver. Came into the Rockies at night - kind of a pisser. Sunrise in Wyoming. Dick Cheney country, but beautiful rock formations and prong-horned antelope along the way to keep your mind off the war.
Met a fellow running out on his wife from Ohio and coached him through Hobo 101. He was quite new to the game. Set him up with a hostel in Portland and got him squared away with the hippies out there in Old Town with the hope of getting started on a new life in the West. Kind of exciting. The mountains of Utah - Park City and Salt Lake City - were damn amazing. The Mormons picked a dandy spot to set up shop.
Set foot in Seattle on Sunday afternoon. Like Beavis said "Everyone in Seattle is cool." Stayed at the Green Tortoise (stay there if you are in Seattle or San Francisco as it is a peach of a hostel) and worked cleaning rooms until Friday evening. That town is truly the end of the line. The new American frontier. All of the good drifters end up at the Tortoise. Met a fella from Sacramento on the run from a hit and looking for a job tending bar in any gay club that would hire him without a background check. A toothless old Cajun who grew up above a titty bar looking for the most homeless-friendly city in the country. And Mark.
Mark grew up in the south of Arkansas and became a Baptist Preacher at the age of 16. I learned a great deal from this man. Mark hated the clan. He also hated the war that was poised to kill his baby sister. He has fished the waters of Alaska for the past six years and then taken to the road seeking adventure and singing old Johnny Cash songs throughout the rest of the year. You do not often meet humans as real as this man. Kind of a Dean Moarity vibe to him, without announce of premonition.
In Seattle I beat the docks looking for a job on a seiner - type of salmon boat - headed for Alaska but to no avail. Interviewed for a job as a slave laborer on an off-shore processor, yet thought the better of it and passed. North I figured. I must move the story along as the cursed library now closes in 14 minutes. Took off north to Bellingham via Greyhound after a grand ole day with the gang of fishermen and castoffs from the Tortoise. Got off the bus at midnight - somewhere near the BC border - and set up camp on the beach in Bellingham Bay under the cover of darkness.
Terrible dreams followed of having my teeth kicked in by junkies. I was awoke throughout the night on a continuous basis by both the drunks staggering along the train tracks and the freight trains just feet from my head. The sleep was far from restful as the nightmares raced through my head. I awoke the next morning to the clang of a large hammer driving in an iron stake. A large festival - Ski to Sea if you want to Google it - was being set up in the park where I constructed my hoboabode. I gathered the earthly belongings in haste and made my way to the docks to look for work on a boat. Lugged 66 pounds of shit from boat to boat with no luck and collapsed in the shade to rest.
It was here that I met Scott, a friendly old fisherman, who had no job to offer me but was kind enough to take me under his wing and stay at his home. Since that first afternoon in Bellingham I have been living in his cabin east of town and working long hours in the shipyard with the hope that a spot opens up on the crew. With any luck I will find myself heading north with Scotty in two weeks when he heads off to Southeast Alaska. I have food to eat and a place to stay. Yes, it is fair to say that life is treating me well.
Communication with the rest of the world has been quite difficult of late. I still have the electronic leash, yet the putrid service does not extend to many of the locations the fates have taken me. Time is of the essence as the Bellingham Public Library closes in 34 minutes and my narrative will remain brief as a result. As you well know I left Ohio via Greyhound bus some two weeks ago. The trip was full of the sort of adventures for which I had hoped.
St. Louis and its famed arch. Kansas City and the rusted urban decay of the dying Midwest stockyards, and then west across the vast plains of Kansas. A glowing orange sun set over the prairie as we made our way along I-70 to Denver. Came into the Rockies at night - kind of a pisser. Sunrise in Wyoming. Dick Cheney country, but beautiful rock formations and prong-horned antelope along the way to keep your mind off the war.
Met a fellow running out on his wife from Ohio and coached him through Hobo 101. He was quite new to the game. Set him up with a hostel in Portland and got him squared away with the hippies out there in Old Town with the hope of getting started on a new life in the West. Kind of exciting. The mountains of Utah - Park City and Salt Lake City - were damn amazing. The Mormons picked a dandy spot to set up shop.
Set foot in Seattle on Sunday afternoon. Like Beavis said "Everyone in Seattle is cool." Stayed at the Green Tortoise (stay there if you are in Seattle or San Francisco as it is a peach of a hostel) and worked cleaning rooms until Friday evening. That town is truly the end of the line. The new American frontier. All of the good drifters end up at the Tortoise. Met a fella from Sacramento on the run from a hit and looking for a job tending bar in any gay club that would hire him without a background check. A toothless old Cajun who grew up above a titty bar looking for the most homeless-friendly city in the country. And Mark.
Mark grew up in the south of Arkansas and became a Baptist Preacher at the age of 16. I learned a great deal from this man. Mark hated the clan. He also hated the war that was poised to kill his baby sister. He has fished the waters of Alaska for the past six years and then taken to the road seeking adventure and singing old Johnny Cash songs throughout the rest of the year. You do not often meet humans as real as this man. Kind of a Dean Moarity vibe to him, without announce of premonition.
In Seattle I beat the docks looking for a job on a seiner - type of salmon boat - headed for Alaska but to no avail. Interviewed for a job as a slave laborer on an off-shore processor, yet thought the better of it and passed. North I figured. I must move the story along as the cursed library now closes in 14 minutes. Took off north to Bellingham via Greyhound after a grand ole day with the gang of fishermen and castoffs from the Tortoise. Got off the bus at midnight - somewhere near the BC border - and set up camp on the beach in Bellingham Bay under the cover of darkness.
Terrible dreams followed of having my teeth kicked in by junkies. I was awoke throughout the night on a continuous basis by both the drunks staggering along the train tracks and the freight trains just feet from my head. The sleep was far from restful as the nightmares raced through my head. I awoke the next morning to the clang of a large hammer driving in an iron stake. A large festival - Ski to Sea if you want to Google it - was being set up in the park where I constructed my hoboabode. I gathered the earthly belongings in haste and made my way to the docks to look for work on a boat. Lugged 66 pounds of shit from boat to boat with no luck and collapsed in the shade to rest.
It was here that I met Scott, a friendly old fisherman, who had no job to offer me but was kind enough to take me under his wing and stay at his home. Since that first afternoon in Bellingham I have been living in his cabin east of town and working long hours in the shipyard with the hope that a spot opens up on the crew. With any luck I will find myself heading north with Scotty in two weeks when he heads off to Southeast Alaska. I have food to eat and a place to stay. Yes, it is fair to say that life is treating me well.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 7:21 PM
7 Comments:
This would not happen to be Ken O'Donnell would it? If so, good to hear from you. If not, how the hell you stumbled onto this two-bit operation I do not know, but I am glad you are reading.
good stuff...take care.
Newton
Nice to hear from you old friend. I managed to see Dashboard Confessional yesteday in Seattle. It was a good ole' fashioned time. Take care.
HaHaHaHa
You saw Dashboard Confessional.
Did you hook up with any fourteen year olds girls or were they all
pre-pubescent boys?
Uuummm...just curious.
I hope all is well ol'friend.
fag.
Listen. The kid said he was 18. How am I supposed to know?
I feel further clarification is necessary in this case, if my valued readers are willing to scroll down this far. The musical group in question was one act at the Bumbershoot Arts and Music Festival in Seattle, WA. Other artists who may or may not make me a fag who played while I was there on Monday were The Decemberists, The Brazilian Girls - who interestingly enough are neither Brazilian nor girls - as well as Michael Franti.
Fair enough...just as long as you were willing to admit that.
Anywho...eeehhh...gotta go.
And you really aren't the "f" word I called you before.
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