I went back to Minnesota last weekend for the opening of my joint show with Paul Armstrong: un/dead. It was pretty awesome. Sarah busted her ass to do all the things that I should have done were I there. Paul busted ass to get more than his half of the show done. Really, I just showed up, hung some of my stuff, and drank a couple of beers. No big deal.
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I awoke in Cody, Wyoming and asked some locals if my intended route to the north end of Yellowstone would be scenic and fun to drive. The hotel clerk responded in the affirmative, noting that he would sometimes drive the route just for a fun drive. I set out on 120, skipped onto 296, which climbed and fell to ludicrous extent before meeting 212, which would carry me through Cooke City (where I had a hot dog, met a fellow Minnesota expatriate, and mailed several post cards.
Here’s the view from Dead Indian Pass, which is a ways into 296.
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Jay is in town for ZendCon, but on Sunday we had nothing to do. I suggested taking the long way to Santa Cruz, forgetting that he had been sitting all day. An hour and a half of white knuckle mountain roads later, we were at the beach. I really have to thank Jay for going with and patiently gripping the “oh shit” handle without complaint while I tried to drive us off of cliff after cliff.
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I was listening to local station 89.7 KFJC and thinking about the midnight scenery strolling past my car windows. Hangar 1 at Moffett Field grew and shrank as a shadow. I had just dropped off Jay at his hotel — I’m just freshly Californian and already I’m the host. How long, I mused, until the things around me lose their newness, and my eyes relax their fervent attempts to catalog everything they perceive? Sign. Tree. Exit. Building. Sign. Tree. The radio was playing some out there hip hop based sound collages, and I wondered if I could call in and request Doomtree. I have the CD. I could just listen, but what if, I pondered, I could drag a little bit of my hometown out for someone else?
I turned on to Rengstorff and crested the overpass. “The Wren,” by Doomtree, came on the air. I got home. Engine off.
The car cooled and ticked arrhythmically, but I couldn’t hear over the song fading to a hissing hush.
Last night Donald Webster and Mary Ann Baik, who are married, but are not the Websters, came over so we could go get tacos at a local taqueria. Don texted me from his blackberry:
Coming over soon. TACOS!
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Day two broke across the Black Hills of South Dakota. I awoke and reloaded the car, eager to start the next leg of my journey: South Dakota to Yellowstone, or parts thereabout.
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On Friday, work took the day off to go to the beach. Since work is infested with hardcore cyclists, some of us chose to bike from Los Gatos to Santa Cruz. Since I enjoy cycling and am generally up for anything that won’t kill me, I jumped on the bandwagon and drove myself to Los Gatos with my bike wedged into the back seat.
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Recently, I moved from Minnesota to California. You might already know this. You might also know that I drove my car and a load of my stuff myself. (the other four thousand pounds came via professional movers. Noah drew me a map, and drew a heart on the back of one of my hands and a smiley face on the other.
I called Radio K to request “Minneapolis” by that dog, but I didn’t get to hear it. So long, city.
I made it a point to call my mom and let her know where I was every time I stopped, and sometimes in between. I called the Keathlys, too. Sometimes I called and left messages on Sarah’s voicemail, even though it would be weeks before she would get back from Norway to hear them. The green fields of Minnesota gave way to golden South Dakota. I made it to the Badlands and called again.
“It’s beautiful here. I feel better,” I said. Both things were true.
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