Category Archives: Jer’s Homeless Tour

Chez Buggy

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Location: Buggy’s house, San Jose, CA (map)
Miles: 1378.1

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and already it’s hot outside. Had a little work to do, but now it’s time to go splash in the pool. This isn’t bad.

While I’m thinking about it, I added a photo I took in Oakdale to the album (photo). Signs say the funniest things. I think for the rest of the day I’m going to put the blog down and do some actual writing. (I’m still waiting for the message from SiteMeter that says, “Dude, you can’t go checking the stats every time you get a hit. Chill.”) We’ll see how that goes.

Thanks!

Oakdale Dawn

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Location: Best Western Rama Inn, Oakdale (map)
Miles: 1271.8

I can just picture Mom, shaking her head with a look that says “I’m being patient, but I really shouldn’t need to be” as she says to Dad, “I told you not to give the boy caffeine after 6pm.”

Now the morning is here, like there’s some big damn rush to get the day started. The sun’s shining and there’s traffic outside the double glazing. I’m as jittery as a field mouse at a hawk convention, buzzed on green tea and Froot Loops to carry me through the ante meridiem despite the profound lack of sleep. On the desk next to the ol’ powerbook is the remains of a loaf of bread, the last of the soft cheese, getting softer and cheesier as I watch, and empty coke and beer bottles. Poor Man’s Speedball.

In the tiny freezer is a package of frozen potstickers. Don’t go shopping when you’re hungry. At least I’ll be able to take the fresh fruit with me, and the leftover beer will be appreciated tonight at Buggy’s place, I’m sure.

I cleaned up a little before I thought to take the pic, but it would have undermined my journalistic integrity to put the junk back.

I was taking some of my crap out to the car this morning and checking the mileage when some guy asked me, “Were you driving through Yosemite yesterday? With the top down?” They had been behind me in the line to get into the park.

My lower lip is twitching, the maid is knocking, I have packing to do, and checkout is in an hour. Then, it’s out into the world, on a quest to get to the bottom of the Oakdale Enigma. I’ll let you know what I learn.

Thanks!

Yosemite

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Location: Mariposa Grove (map of approx. location of parking lot ) (album)
Miles: 1148.1

Groveland on Sunday morning is dead. D-E-A-D dead. Even the breakfast places are closed. I wandered the main drag, hungry and alone, looking for someone to make me some toast. That’s all I wanted, toast. And Eggs. And Potatoes. Maybe some bacon. Mmmm, bacon. And Tea, of course. That’s all I wanted.

I found a place, of course, with all those things, right across the street from where I started. Oh, well, I got to see the town.

Right, then. On the road. Beautiful day and all that. The speed limit in the park is 35 mph in most places, which makes going pretty slow, but I turned off the music and with the top down I could hear birds singing, so I just rolled along, stopping often to take pictures. The valley really is spectacular, and the trees are big. The signs on the hiking trail giving the distances to various points of interest were complete fiction. At one point I had 0.8 miles to go. I walked for a little while, dragging my sorry butt up a hill, and passed another sign. Distance to go: 0.8 miles. I’m slow, but not that slow.

There were people from all over the world there. There were some French people arguing with each other; when I passed them on the trail I said “excusé moi” (which I later realized was the wrong thing to say), but it sure made them self-conscious. On the way back down I passed two chinese women walking with their little girls. One of the women was talking animatedly to them, at length, and all were obviously having a good time. I understood only one word, but it was used more than once: Cinderella.

On the way back down the hill I took more small roads, and found my way back here, to the enigma that is Oakdale. Geographical schizophrenic. Last time through I spotted a billboard for a hotel that had free DSL and here I am now, DSLing away and watching late night TV. I thought I’d save some money and go to the grocery store for tonight’s vittles, and spent more than I would have in a restaurant. I am eating better food, though.

Sorry, I have to make a call now to make an appointment with a mobility specialist.

Thanks!

Groveland

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Location: Groveland Motel (map)
Miles: 1076.3

I’m sitting on the porch of my little cabin. I can see the moon, and it seems happy enough, happy as a slot car on an oval track. None of that figure-8 nonsense where you bash into another moon and your doors fly off. The highway is reasonably quiet now, but the occasional Harley does raise a ruckus. Overall, there’s not much to interfere with my peace. There’s a cricket chirping nearby, but far enough away that it’s therapeutic; any closer and I’d want to stomp the noisy little bastard.

I suppose, for those of you glued to your seats back home, that I should tell you something about my trip. It was a good drive.

The normally reliable California highway signage let me down, but I dealt with it. Had I studied the map a wee bit more closely I would have known that 280 south became, without announcement, 680 north. Goddamn number bastards. Even numbered highways aren’t even supposed to go north and south anyway. I had been looking for the junction with 680 as the cue to start looking for signs for the wee road I intended to take over the mountains. Goddamn road was long gone before I even realized I was on 680, dammit. [Note – I’m feeling fiesty tonight. There will probably be some more gratuitous dammits.]

One pleasent side effect was that I took a shortcut off the freeway that put me right through downtown Livermore, which looked like a pretty cool place. My fondness for the old downtown was profoundly (and not kindly) affected by the series of housing developments I passed on the outskirts of Livermore that looked like apartment complexes but were actually single family homes. Castles might be a better word for these things. Castles crammed together in a ‘Castle Zone’. Yes, sir, my kind of livin’.

So havig missed my ideal highway, which I will find on the way back to the bay area Monday, I struck West on I-580. Until is was 205, or something like that. Driving through California’s central valley I reflected on the fact that I was passing through the most productive farmland in the world – so productive that the ground water is poisoned by nitrates from the fertilizer.

In the valley is a town called Oakdale. I have appended it’s name – It is now “Oakdale, city of irony”. First, there was the huge sign, which said something like “Dammit! Oakdale is the bomb! Love them oaks!” I may not have that exactly right. What made this sign special was the enormous pile of firewood stacked nearby. I wonder what kind of tree that wood came from.

Second, there was the sign welcoming me to Oakdale. It showed a string of paper people like you cut out in preschool. The sign said something like “Welcome to Oakdale, a community united against drug abuse.” Admirable, I’m sure you’ll agree. 25 feet past that sign was one that said simply “cocktails”, with a picture of a martini. A few feet farther on was Whiskey River Saloon and Cocktail Lounge. Let’s all fight it together.

The trip according to music:
Scotts Valley to Freemont: Fluffy
Freemont to Livermore: X
Livermore to Tracy: Mary’s Danish
Tracy to ranger station: Havana 3am
Ranger station to hotel: Stiff Little Fingers

If you look to the west of Groveland (map), you will see a twisty, twisty road. I followed a stinkin little toyota mile after mile up the road as it crept along. Finally, at the very top of the road, it pulled me over to let me pass. I went through the last few corners and got onto straight road, only to have the goddamn little red car riding my ass. Yearrgh.

Had dinner at the Iron Door, and stayed for the band, the Wingnut Adams Blues Band. They were pretty darn good. I was impressed on the first song when the drummer did the singing. The guitarist was awesome, but the Spinal Tap facial expressions and some of his other histrionics were pretty silly in such a small place. It’s a fine line between showman and dork.

While waiting for the band to start, I was sitting at the bar having my buffalo burger and I managed to kick up a conversation with the guy next to me. OK, he kicked it up. He was taking a break from studying for the bar exam. When I told him what I was up to, it was almost embarrassing how much he gushed at first, but he proved good at asking questions and it occurred to me that I am very fortunate to be able to do my tour. Not many people will ever have the option to do something this dumb.

I’ll get some pics up here pronto, dammit!

Ooo! John! one more thing! There’s a company up here call Zoo-phonics. You could get a job there and move to the middle of nowhere!

Thanks!

Heading Out

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Location: John and Janice’s house
Miles: 900.9

Everything’s packed except the laptop, and I’m ready to head out. Big, big thanks go to John and Janice for putting me up for as long as they did. I’ve had a great time here and I don’t care who knows it.

One trumpet lighter and with Winnebaggo (I had been calling my giant suitcase my mobile home, but John coined this much better name) looking more svelte as I redistributed my load somewhat, I’m feeling footloose and fancy-free. I honestly have no idea where I’m going to stay tonight. Not even what state I’ll be in. Work looms again on Monday, so I’ll have to find an Internet connection by then – most likely at Buggy’s place.

A little parting anecdote about life chez John. Changing the names to protect the innocent would be pretty useless. Yesterday John had a Job interview for a little educational publishing outfit in Santa Cruz. He spent the afternoon boning up on the company and he got all gussied up. Before he left, Janice made sure he had a little portfolio with working pen and paper, and asked him, “Do you have any resumés printed up to hand to people?”

What followed was well over half an hour of formatting, checking, and printing resumés, until John was properly armed to Janice’s satisfaction. John was getting increasingly antsy to leave during this process. Finally, time running short, he got himself together and out the door.

Janice turned to me and said, “He’s never going to make it in time. He should have left half an hour ago – traffic on Friday afternoons is really bad.”

Thanks!

Sports Bar?

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Location: Charlie O’s (map)
Miles: 845.6
Padres magic Number: 152

My fourth, and probably last, time here on this visit. Wednesday is cheap you-call-it night, and there are a few more people here. The bartender knows me well enough now to not need to ask me what I want. I have never had to correct her on the “need vs. want” question. I would not be in tonight except that the deadline was moved for the project I’m working on. I decided to allow myself false complacency and come and write rather than work late.

In the bar area there are four small tables, and I have sat at the same one each time. When The Fish or The Monster Within sells a bazillion copies they can put a plaque here. Over at the bar, they are talking an older lady into trying Patron, a better-than-average tequila. I get the feeling that it could be Tequila of the Gods and she’s not going to enjoy it. There is only a tiny bit in the glass. Her friends are saying things like, “you don’t even need a lime.” I don’t think that will be the issue.

Wait for it…

“It burns my lips,” was her judgment. Fair enough. If the others are disappointed, it is outweighed by their appreciation that she tried it at all. On the other hand, I suspect that any discomfort she suffers over the next week will somehow be the fault of the tequila.

I believe that the Padres are playing the Giants right now. Barry Bonds is threatening the all-time record for consecutive games with a home run. The Giants are worshipped locally. This is a sports bar – it says so right on the sign. The game is not on. I’m not complaining, mind. I could ask them to put the game on and I’m sure they would. It’s just an observation, is all. They’ve got Jimi Hendrix playing right now, and I’d hate to interrupt that.

…

The game is on now, but the music still takes precedence. Playing right now is “The Golden Age of Rock ‘n’ Roll” by Mott the Hoople. I’m pretty sure that the only time I’ve ever heard that song in my entire life has been when I was playing it. I threw away that tape, along with almost all my cassettes, April 2th, the day I began the tour.

…

Addendum:
Holy crap, what is it with dudes and cologne in this place?
Padres magic Number: 151

Thanks!

Suicide Squirrel Death Cult

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Location: John and Janice’s house (map)
Miles: 805.3

I got my first inkling of the seamier underside of this quiet town a few days ago while a passenger in John’s car as we headed up the Glenwood cutoff toward Highway 17. It was a peaceful morning; we had a few errands to run – I needed ethernet cables, John had an item to drop by the tailor’s in preparation for his upcoming Polkacide gig. The sun shone down through the branches high overhead. Visibility was excellent, and the day quiet. Not even a Metro was going to sneak up on a woodlands creature on that day.

Yet, inexplicably, as we approached a tree (map) a squirrel leapt out of the foliage directly in the path of the car. John stomped on the brakes, but it was far, far too late. The squirrel vanished out of sight beneath the hood. John looked in the mirrors while I turned around to see the aftermath, but there was no obvious body. Perhaps he had got lucky.

John and I laughed about it, imagining the other squirrels on the side of the road egging that one on, but John must know. He’s been around here too long to not know about the Suicide Squirrel Death Cult. People keep their dark secrets to themselves in small towns.

It was today that the truth became obvious to me. Driving peacefully up Glenwood from the main town (map), two six-packs of beer placed carefully so that the side-to-side forces of the upcoming twisty road would not dislodge them, a squirrel came dashing out from the far side of the road and ran full-tilt to intercept me. I hit the brake, dumping bottles of beer out onto the floor on the passenger side, but as I slowed the squirrel changed course toward me. I cringed as my car passed over the squirrel. Once again, however, when I looked in my rear-view mirror, there was nothing. No squirrel guts, but no squirrel scampering to safety.

“Who trains the squirrels here anyway?” I asked the sky, as if every municipality had a squirrel trainer and the one for Scotts Valley just wasn’t very good. But after my initial innocent outburst, the terrifying truth began to dawn on me.

A hundred yards farther on lay the body of another squirrel. This one clearly had lost his bet with the gods of steel and rubber.

Yet there are eerie parallels between the two squirrel encounters, the most sinister being the complete disappearance of the mad rodents. Ghost squirrels? Perhaps it is an auto-matador squirrel club, keeping points among its members, who try to get as close to the car as possible without buying the acorn stash. Perhaps. But if had been something that innocent, then the locals would have been able to talk about it. No, the secret must be darker. It must be the Suicide Squirrel Death Cult.

5

Thanks!

Now With Pictures!

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I’ve started going back through the posts and linking to pictures where appropriate. There aren’t many links yet (you can find a couple of them in the sisters of perpetual indulgence entry), so if you want to see all of them you can just link on over to here;. I encourage you to take a look. I think you can leave comments there as well.

I’ll try to do a better job linking them up in the first place as I go on, and I’ll try to make it more obvious what is a map link and what is a photo link. We will all be much happier then.

I’m getting used to iBlog, but I must say that the way it handles links is most inconvenient. Still, I’m getting better at it, and before long I will only mutter under my breath as I create the links, rather than my current practice of cursing.

Thanks!

Lunch

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Location: Rosa’s Roticeria, Santa Cruz
Miles: 734.1

Thanks for the suggestion, Lee and John!

Thanks!

A Big Day, part 3: Charlie O’s

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Location: Charlie O’s
Miles: 691.5
Padres Magic Number: 159

I was going to make this part of the previous post, except for three things. Three things would just dilute the other entry.

Thing 1: When I walked in, Jake Peavey of the Padres was dominating the Giants, making them look like weak little sissy-boys. I sat down and made myself comfortable, estranging the rest of the bar by commenting that Peavey was making the Giants batters look stupid. No sooner do I open the Powerbook and start typing when I notice that Jake is not pitching and the Giants have baserunners. They intentionally walked the tying run, Barry Bonds (damn few hitters would get walked in that situation), and paid the price. Barry scored, as well as several other Giants. Padres lose.

Meanwhile, on the television in the middle, between the two showing the game, is a show that must have been called something like “Rodeo’s most horrible injuries”. Bull riding has the unique feature that when someone gets hurt, they keep on getting hurt, over and over, until someone else distracts the bull. In that, it makes perfect television.

Thing 2: A couple came in and sat at the next table, and one of them is so scented up it’s making my eyes water. I think it’s the dude. Someone needs to give him lessons on the difference between cologne and after-shave, and the sparing use of each. His girlfriend is showing no inclination to correct her man’s ways. I just want to smack them both.

Thing 3: I am sitting in a very comfortable bar, and the people seem friendly, but it’s not really a sports bar, even thought it says “Sports Bar” on the partially-obscured sign. The baseball game is over, and there’s been no attempt to find other soprts – like hockey playoffs. Offsetting that is a friendly atmosphere and I just had a nice conversation with the owner, who seems like a good guy. The staff is happy and the service is good. If there’s not some particular sporting event that you just have to see, and you happen to be in Scott’s Valley, then this is a good choice.

Plus, both the waitress and the bartender are cute.

Still here, still writing, and now there is a thing 4.

Thing 4: Stinky and Bride of Stinky just left, and I saw a couple of things that may be interesting only to me. They are more significant because it seemed that this was one of their first dates – everything was funny and everything was new. First, when the (quite attractive) woman got up from the table she did a little stretch that definitely put her best assets on display. I appreciated that as much as her boyfriend, I’m sure. The second and more subtle thing I saw was the tip check. On the way out she looked over her shoulder to see how much dough was lying on the table. Let this be a lesson, lads. don’t be a cheapass when you’re on a date.

Thanks!

A Big Day, part 2: Highway 1

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On the way up to the city, the sky was clear and the air was warm most of the way up. I was hoping for the reverse on the way back down, but I didn’t see the sun until I was almost to Santa Cruz. No matter, it was a great drive.

At the top of the route, the road clings to the side of a cliff as it winds its way down from the city. There was some traffic, but not too much and I really felt the connection between me and the machine I was controlling. It’s not that uncommon that I feel the car shift and move as I apply throttle or brake, but today everything was there; I was finding the right path through the curves, and as I pressed the throttle I could feel the push increase in exact proportion. I was shifting without thinking, and everything felt very smooth.

After the winding road, I got stuck in traffic, which was probably a good thing, as there were police everywhere. Just then “It’s Not a Race” by Gwenmars came on the CD player, and that helped me relax and enjoy the ride. South of Half Moon Bay the traffic disappeared, but for the rest of the trip it was I who pulled over to let others pass. I was cruisin’, the scenery was lush, good tunes were playing, and I was alone with my thoughts.

Rolled into Santa Cruz still unfed, grabbed my computer and headed here.

Thanks!

A Big Day, part 1: Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence

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Location: Mission Dolores Park, San Francisco
Miles: 595.1

For those of you who are as little in the know as I am, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence (photo) is a community organization of gays and lesbians. But that’s not the half of it. today was their 25th annual Easter bash, which featured, among other things, the Easter Bonnet contest, the first Hunky Jesus contest, and music by Polkacide. Aside from all that, there was world-class people watching, as the sisters are out to put on a show.

This was truly an “Only in San Francisco” kind of event. I will do my best to get pictures up as soon as possible. Many of the sisters were in flamboyant costume, but as this was outdoors in a public park most of the costumes were not terribly risqué. Just as well for my own comfort.

The Easter Bonnet contest was a lot of fun; I thought the guy with the huge feathered headdress (think Vegas) with the bunny tied to it with leather straps was going to be the winner, but then I realized that the dude with the hat made entirely of chocolate had a basin of melted chocolate in the middle in which he was dunking strawberries. After he won he let the kids in the crowd devour his creation. In the words of the MC’s: “Martha Stewart couldn’t do that!”

The Polkacide gig was very good – a better sound mix than they usually get despite the hasty setup – but short. The crowd was definitely getting into it, there was much twirling of partners and shaking of booties. They had another brief set later, but I left. I was getting hungry, as all I had eaten today up to then was an ice cream sandwich. It was starting to get blustery as well, and I wanted to take a top-down flight down the coast before it got too cold. (Remember the days when there was no such thing as too cold? Those days are over, my friend.)

Right. Back to the Sisters. The drive is the next entry. I spent a lot of time around behind the stage, both because I was hanging out with John and the Polkaciders, and because that is where the most interesting people were. Neil, the clarinet player for Polkacide had a basket filled with the traditional fake grass and the not-so-traditional painted beers. In honor of the event, the band dressed up more than usual, which for some of the members is saying a lot. One guy (I’ll fill in the name later) was in a red sequin body suit. Yikes.

Before I left, one sister, dressed in white, face painted white with absurdly long eyelashes, patted me on the ass and said “Somebody better put that to use.” I think he did it just because I had been around the backstage for a while and obviously was keeping my space. That or he thought I was hot. Nah. I was taken by surprise, and I have no idea what my expression was like when I turned to look at him. Hopefully honestly surprised rather than fearful, or, worse, blank. Of course, now I have thought of several things I could have said, each one better than the last.

Soon thereafter I left, leaving forever the mystery of the White Sister’s intentions, and leaving unsaid all the cool things I could have said. Strangely, I spent the day slightly worried that some man would ask me to dance of just be too familiar, yet if straight women never hit on me, why should I think a gay man would? In point of fact, there were Sisters carrying around buckets for donations for their causes, and I swear they were avoiding me. Finally I had to chase one down and practically tackle him to make my meagre donation. I’m guessing it was my fashion senselessness. Or maybe the sheer power of my personality intimidated them.

It was the fashion sense.

Thanks!

Plans Taking Shape

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I’ll be here in beautiful Scott’s Valley and environs for a few more days, maybe ten. Then I’ll head over to Tahoe, and from there down to Yosemite to catch Old Faithful and all that stuff. After that I’ll spin through Death Valley on my way to Vegas, then down to San Diego to take care of all the odds and ends I need to close. Then a drive over to New Mexico, dispose of the car, fly to San Angelo, fly to Durham, then from there to Prague.

Plan your parties accordingly!

Nothing is in stone, and you will notice a distinct lack of dates. If the road is friendly and the sun is shining, A visit to Bob is still very much an option.

Thanks!

A Day in the Life

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Miles: 528.7
Location: John and Janice’s house, Scott’s Valley, CA

Just spent the evening talking with John about all the old stuff – music, beer, and ideas. It’s funny that after all this time the conversation still seems fresh. (I reconsidered using ‘fresh’ because I understand that the kids have worn it into a cliché these days, but dammit, it’s the right word. No-good kids.)

I will backfill this entry with the names of the bands that we listened to, but one of those bands was Polkacide – the raw takes from a recent studio session, and I thought it further proof that those boys were born to do a live album. The raw takes demonstrate that they’re better when they just go after it without thinking so hard.

I heard a couple of new stories from old Polkacide gigs, and I heard music by the Polkaholics, which everyone must experience before they die. Which means that before tonight, I did not need to fear death. Had I only known! My life could have been so carefree until now, when the shadow of death has become irrefutably real. Curse you, Polkaholics!

We also drank several beers. I’m going to sleep now.

Thanks!

Big Sur

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View JHT – Big Sur in a larger map

Miles: 518.5
Location: Santa Cruz Diner, Santa Cruz, CA.
Number of RV’s I got stuck behind: 0(!)

The morning was cloudy and came an hour too soon, but the smell of bacon finally pulled me out of hibernation, and it was just what my poor stomach needed after I sent so much wine down my gullet yesterday. After breakfast and a quick game of Scrabble, I said my goodbye-but-hopefully-not-forevers and hit the road, heading north up Highway 1.

By the time I passed the Madonna Inn the sky was clearing and the day was looking promising. I passed a cool-looking cemetary in Morro Bay, just to the north of San Louis Obispo, and I turned around to get some pictures. Many of the fancy graves had occupants named Madonna. Coincidence? Unlikely. I’ll put some pictures up at my Web site and link to them here – as soon as I figure out the best way to do that.

The drive up Big Sur was excellent. There were actually times I was not stuck behind slower-moving traffic and could really drive. When I did come up on a line of cars, I would pull over for a few minutes and let them get ahead again. If the line wasn’t too slow, I would just putt along with them and concentrate on sightseeing instead. Eventually most people will pull off the road to let the Mario Andretti wannabes pass.

Got here with a case of Exploding Bladder Syndrome, so rather than go looking for John and Janice’s house, I stopped here for relief and a bite to eat. Some guy just threw some coins at a waitress – apparently he had tried to leave without paying and was mad because she wouldn’t let him. That’s her story, anyway, and he’s not here anymore to tell this reporter his version.

Thanks!