I Love Lamp

Greetings! Dispatching live, from the unbelievably rank confines of Room 205, Days Inn, Wheeler, OH. Why, you ask, does this broadcast come from bumf&$*ville? Well, mainly because having a smart phone doesn't mean that you're still not an idiot.

This report is dedicated to Momma Herms, who somehow let all of her eggs fall into the same motorcycle road trip basket. All is well, and there's a deep, 'meta' lesson to be learned from this, Mom: dudes will be dudes. 

Two of said triumvirate of dudes (Father Wolfi and I) piggybacked our way toward Chicago, in order to round up a second steed for this gander West. We're pretty much hauling ass. Or at least that's what we were doing until we drove into what looked like a squid thrashing black ink down from the sky, aka West Virginia's dramatic piss festival of rain. Up until that point, we had been laying rock n roll flames on the straight shots and cutting curves like butter. I hate to press pause on the humor, but dammit, it was beautiful. There was this definitive moment at the border of the storm, where the wind had flipped all of the leaves onto their backs, turning all of the tress white. It was like a double rainbow moment, but just to ruin the visual, it could have also been described as 'nature ballin' outrageous.'  


Virginia (and maybe even the entire US) tends to brown paper bag WV with stigmatisms like, “coal,” “litter,” and “just because your cousin is the easiest score you can find, doesn’t mean…” Yet WV was amazing. I witnessed the American gradient begin, as glimpses of Colorado peeped from beneath bridges and between ridges. As we pushed through the final wave of the storm, the darkness a cape in our wake, the setting sun paved a yellow brick road for us to cruise on. I shit you not, the road was actually golden. So, I'll have you know that today I heard Busta Rhymes' "Do My Thing," in which he so eloquently quips, "I will endanger your species like an ostrich / hold you hostage, and crazy feed you swine sausage / HAH!" You hate me, but that's probably what you feel like right now, is all I'm saying. 


Just to completely contradict myself on the whole 'sticking up for WV' thing, I have to anecdotally mention our waiter at this Mexican joint who struggled to keep the massive wad of dip in his lower lip from bubbling up and slurring his words, and also the cashier fellow who, while giving us 'directions,' was barely able to recognize our location on a map because he was so completely shit faced. Not to mention my butt is already sore, and that doesn't even take into consideration future crusty truck stop bathroom escapades did I just type that out loud?

This trip has been pre-emptively titled "So America." I'm still in cheap joke mode, but I assure you that it has been of a revelatory nature thus far. Future ramblings will include what Matt (quick shout out to Gadfly! Everyone go read it now!) has dubbed 'prosaic ball shots.' Yup, that just happened. The realness awaits, as Pops and I, sucking our mental thumbs, hurtle towards it's presence. I'm ready.