Sailing — Taos, Espanola and Santa Fe, NM

When I was a 12, I lived down the street from a kid named Tom Saul who repeatedly tried to hypnotize himself by staring into a mirror. His mom found him on the bathroom after one such attempt in a wet pair of jeans sucking and sucking on his fist. I wasn’t allowed to play with Tom after that. Something similar happened to me while driving from Sedona, AZ to Taos, NM. My little experiment involved attempting to listen to Christopher Cross’ Sailing 201 consecutive times just to see if it was possible. I am here to report that it is indeed possible, but now when I hear violins or wind chimes I find that I have to pee.

It’s not far back to sanity
at least it’s not for me

Once in Taos I sailed on into the Adobe Room at the infamous Taos Inn and took a few tacks with a top shelf margarita before mooring for the night at the Taos Valley RV Park. The next morning I headed south on a tip about some wicked neon outside a liquor store in a town called Española. This tip did not disappoint. Saints and Sinners along with the Taos Inn will soon have t-shirts on the Destee-Nation tables. (more…)

Mystic Wagon — Prescott, Jerome, Sedona and Fort Verde, AZ

Most of what I know about the southwest, I learned from watching The Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour as a kid. Who am I kidding, more like as an adult. Strange how much of it holds up to my first-hand impression as I traveled from the blight that is Vegas to the cool elevations of Prescott, AZ (pronounced Preskit under penalty of being branded a soft-knuckled tourist). Once the capital of the Arizona territory, Prescott is home to the infamous Whiskey Row, which took an overdue and much welcomed toll on this weary traveler. From there it was a windy road to the hillside mining town of Jerome and the bar stool of the newest Destee-Nation member, The Mile High Grill and Inn. If you’re ever there, stop in and say hello to Jet. She’s groovy.

The next day it was north through the valley to the towering red rocks of Sedona, where crystal merchants and ancient vortexes scheme against the non-believers. I wasn’t in town five minutes before that mystic wagon welcomed me. Read on…

Not Your Father’s Vegas — Las Vegas, NV

Driving through the California desert west of Las Vegas, one wonders how anything could live here for a sustained period of time without turning all Kalifornia on its nearest neighbor. But then you crest The Spring Mountains and there she is, Las Vegas, Nevada. A megalopolis of sprawl and glitz that has absolutely no business being there. The need to Sin away from one’s own backyard spawned this desert outpost in the thirties, and for a good forty years it seemed that Vegas had found its rightful place in Americana.

But something happened when Sinatra left town. The impeccable stylings of the original sins have have been replaced by the boorish celebration of all that is painfully obvious in America. This town may be a good place to spend 36 hours trying to erase a painful memory, but it’s no longer a place to shoot the cuffs and hang regal. I think The Rig and I are twenty years too late. Read on…