Travelogue #27 (You would pay money for a book, why not buy me a McChicken on Paypal?)
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!!! Bang.. bang-bang...BANG!!! Down goes Kodie-bear, keeling over. Paws tucked in, and then a rub on the belly. "Good Kodie-bear," says Christopher, and I join in the rubbing of her chubby body.
Its the last days of the Reel to Real Ranch, tucked away miles from Palm Springs, CA. What once housed rich refugees like Sinatra and Monroe now hosts streets with novelty dedications: Sinatra Way, Monroe Boulvevard (I'm too tired to fact-check; just agree that those names are legitimate, k?). Old people are here, sold on the idea, sucked in on the celebrity, but its a hollow venture. Celebrities are long gone to unlikely places like Wyoming? Wy--oming? Why not.
We're in Anza, CA, at a ranch of surrounded by dust fields. No crops and its dark. What was going to be a classical dressage arena is now vacant soil. And what would display Gambler, a fine horse in his own right, but a plywood stage, illuminated with small-Mexican-village lights around a miniature stage. The slabs of wood are painted brick-red, and in the night sky, blackness terminating into far-off hills of darker-black that rejects the moonshine, Chris, his dog Dakota and I are drinking beer, toasting the last days of The Reel to Real Ranch. We are smoking weed and it is US. Ourselves, three of us versus zero. You don't exist, and if you're reading this now, well, you're a paradox and should severely question your reality.
"The beauty of the country is that you can pee anywhere," says Christopher. He walks a few paces and relieves himself.
A few more beers, later, my city-boy shame converts to the Church of Pee Anywhere. I walk towards the greying edges past the radiant stage. Opposite of Christopher. Could you remember every time you've used the bathroom in public? My thoughts will be wrapped in lackluster memory attached to Tinkle # 27,330. That's math for 9110 days I've been alive x 3 times per day low-ball average of urination. Again, you're a figment of my imagination with you having me as a figment of your imagination while reflecting off of a mirror to another mobius strip bullshi--
With the stage lighted up, we are visible from space.
I'm enjoying the story as it develops, living it and thinking, "my this would be good for a story...". (Paradox #2) I had shucked off some honest work in Portland, OR to come here with the excuse that my car had broken down in Idaho. Idaho? You 'da ho.
"I'll pay you $100/day" promised Christopher. I agreed. I asked what kind of work. "Farm stuff. You'll help me take this ranch apart." It was quicker money, untaxed, and there was a danger of not being paid at all. That danger would turn me towards crime, and I'd be banging out windows in Ford Tauruses for a laptop. Really, win-win is just normal if you're an optimist.
I am an optimist.
Over the course of three days, we did relatively little. I absent-mindedly stroked the belly of Kodie-bear despite her being shot with finger-blanks. The dog's face is caught in a smile. Christopher has been trying to seduce me and is thankfully failing. Optimists are frequently thought to be homosexual--maybe I smile too much. Christopher, smiling up and toasting the good times in the darkness, makes the absence of the characters more apparent--no one came tonight because there wasn't any food. "I'll buy some steaks tomorrow and we'll show these hicks some real culture. They really are just morons..." he says.
Until then, there are no bridges here in any direction. Only ashes of flimsy bridges built by old efforts remain. The closest ranch is a few miles away. There are empty liquor bottles in his house from friends who raided his house when he was out of town in Phoenix. Christopher says what it was like meeting Bruce Springsteen in a bar. I tell Christopher what Maryland and Delaware would wear? A New Jersey.
It is cold outside.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!!! Bang.. bang-bang...BANG!!! Down goes Kodie-bear, keeling over. Paws tucked in, and then a rub on the belly. "Good Kodie-bear," says Christopher, and I join in the rubbing of her chubby body.
Its the last days of the Reel to Real Ranch, tucked away miles from Palm Springs, CA. What once housed rich refugees like Sinatra and Monroe now hosts streets with novelty dedications: Sinatra Way, Monroe Boulvevard (I'm too tired to fact-check; just agree that those names are legitimate, k?). Old people are here, sold on the idea, sucked in on the celebrity, but its a hollow venture. Celebrities are long gone to unlikely places like Wyoming? Wy--oming? Why not.
We're in Anza, CA, at a ranch of surrounded by dust fields. No crops and its dark. What was going to be a classical dressage arena is now vacant soil. And what would display Gambler, a fine horse in his own right, but a plywood stage, illuminated with small-Mexican-village lights around a miniature stage. The slabs of wood are painted brick-red, and in the night sky, blackness terminating into far-off hills of darker-black that rejects the moonshine, Chris, his dog Dakota and I are drinking beer, toasting the last days of The Reel to Real Ranch. We are smoking weed and it is US. Ourselves, three of us versus zero. You don't exist, and if you're reading this now, well, you're a paradox and should severely question your reality.
"The beauty of the country is that you can pee anywhere," says Christopher. He walks a few paces and relieves himself.
A few more beers, later, my city-boy shame converts to the Church of Pee Anywhere. I walk towards the greying edges past the radiant stage. Opposite of Christopher. Could you remember every time you've used the bathroom in public? My thoughts will be wrapped in lackluster memory attached to Tinkle # 27,330. That's math for 9110 days I've been alive x 3 times per day low-ball average of urination. Again, you're a figment of my imagination with you having me as a figment of your imagination while reflecting off of a mirror to another mobius strip bullshi--
With the stage lighted up, we are visible from space.
I'm enjoying the story as it develops, living it and thinking, "my this would be good for a story...". (Paradox #2) I had shucked off some honest work in Portland, OR to come here with the excuse that my car had broken down in Idaho. Idaho? You 'da ho.
"I'll pay you $100/day" promised Christopher. I agreed. I asked what kind of work. "Farm stuff. You'll help me take this ranch apart." It was quicker money, untaxed, and there was a danger of not being paid at all. That danger would turn me towards crime, and I'd be banging out windows in Ford Tauruses for a laptop. Really, win-win is just normal if you're an optimist.
I am an optimist.
Over the course of three days, we did relatively little. I absent-mindedly stroked the belly of Kodie-bear despite her being shot with finger-blanks. The dog's face is caught in a smile. Christopher has been trying to seduce me and is thankfully failing. Optimists are frequently thought to be homosexual--maybe I smile too much. Christopher, smiling up and toasting the good times in the darkness, makes the absence of the characters more apparent--no one came tonight because there wasn't any food. "I'll buy some steaks tomorrow and we'll show these hicks some real culture. They really are just morons..." he says.
Until then, there are no bridges here in any direction. Only ashes of flimsy bridges built by old efforts remain. The closest ranch is a few miles away. There are empty liquor bottles in his house from friends who raided his house when he was out of town in Phoenix. Christopher says what it was like meeting Bruce Springsteen in a bar. I tell Christopher what Maryland and Delaware would wear? A New Jersey.
It is cold outside.
