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Trip Post-mortem

Home again. Bags unpacked. Clothes put away. Car stowed in a relatively legal parking space. Ears still popping from the flight.

Coming shortly, essays and photos related to:

  • Squirrel shit.
  • Raccoons.
  • Okra, collard greens, and sweet tea.
  • A party in Dennis Hopper’s place which Linda Lavin and I were at.
  • Sleeping in the same motel room with my parents.
  • Condos, apartments, and even houses I could afford.
  • Thoroughly adorable Bosnian young’uns.
  • The Raleigh-Durham airport and the evils of air travel.
  • A 50-year-old supermarket on Walker Avenue.
  • Mom and Dad’s anniversary party.
  • The iMac.
  • Tearooms (or lack thereof).
  • Cheap cigarettes.
  • How much I don’t want to live in San Francisco anymore.

But I’m tired, so all of this will have to wait. I wouldn’t count on a lot of email responses for a couple more days either, but I’ll be working on it. Soon…

To Redding

 

Most people just sort of assume it will get cooler as you get closer to the mountains. Most people haven’t been to Redding in August. It’s a great place, but it’s hot as hell there. When I arrived on Friday afternoon, it was 100 degrees. It got even warmer on Saturday. This was the first two-night road trip I’ve taken in a while, and it was much more fun. I had plenty of time to see everything and even do a little reading.

Friday afternoon’s drive took me through Farifield (Chick-Fil-A) and then Williams and Willows (just to see what was there). I was beat by the time I arrived in Redding and I checked into the first Motel 6 off the highway, which was an expensive mistake. But I figured it would be a good weekend when “Keeping Up Appearances” just happened to start as I turned on the TV.

 

After a quick dinner, I went exploring in an old Safeway, marveled at the neon motels on old highway 99, visited California’s only ShopKo, and drove through what was left of downtown.

 

Heading down old 99 south of the city, I made a wrong turn from hell and ended up on some godforsaken winding road to nowhere. Being a guy, I didn’t ask directions. Not that there was anyone or anyplace to ask anyway. After a while I got out of what I later learned was something called “Churn Creek Bottom” and headed back for the Motel 6. On the way, I passed not one, but two sobriety checkpoints which convinced me I was way too tired to go out that night, so I read my book and went to sleep.

In Redding

 

I woke up early Saturday and did more exploring after moving from the expensive Motel 6 to the cheap Americana Lodge downtown. It’s a nice enough place, even though that the air conditioner smelled funny, the TV was in the closet, and one of my night tables was a dorm-size refrigerator.

My new digs only set me back thirty bucks and provided the twin benefits of being a block from the queer bar and next door to a skateboard shop. This would, I figured, allow me to get sexually frustrated in the afternoon and to pick up a willing outlet for it that night. Redding is full of scruffy, adorable, lost-looking boys. I like that in a town.

 

I covered a lot of ground Saturday, from Red Bluff to Anderson, from Shasta to Shasta Lake City to Shasta Dam, and from one end of Redding to every other end.

 

After driving around a lot, I decided to walk some, and I visited the creepy Redding Mall. This was one weird place. Essentially, the city put a roof over about three blocks of Main Street downtown, a misguided act which other small towns (Rock Hill SC) also committed in the 1970s. If “saving” downtown was the goal, it didn’t work. The mall was almost empty save for a half-stocked Rite-Aid (which hadn’t even bothered to take down its old Payless Drugstore signs inside) and a collectibles store.

 

I had dinner at a place called Buz’s Crab, which might be my favorite restaurant north of Sacramento now. It’s a cheap place specializing in (surprise) seafood. Loved it. Reminded me of Libby Hill in North Carolina, which is a good memory to have.

 

I tried to take a nap. I didn’t succeed and I watched The Seven-Year Itch instead. Hit the Club 501 on Center Street at about 11:00. There were about 10 people there, which I guessed was about half the queer population of Redding. The bartender, who was nice and bought me beers, told me the sparse turnout stemmed from the fact that every Sodomite in town had been at the pride festival in Chico all day.

It was a nice bar, tiny and (legally) smoke-filled. There was a juke box with the requisite sucky faggot disco which I often forget is so common outside the city. The crowd was friendly and some of it was even attractive. The bartender told me that the building housing the bar had originally been Redding’s first hotel, and later its first brothel.

Getting laid seemed less and less worth the effort by 1:00, so I went home and slept. I stand by my decision.

Redding, Chico, Paradise, and More

 

I checked out of the motel by 10:00 on Sunday, checking carefully for lice, and grabbed a quick breakfast before heading south toward Chico. When I left I-5 at Red Bluff, I left freeways behind for most of the day.

 

Chico was less exciting than I wanted it to be. I expected there to be cute college boys (like the one from the Doggie Diner) everywhere, especially since classes were starting Monday. There weren’t many, so I drove to Paradise, which proved less idyllic than I’d imagined. It wasn’t a bad place, just not a terribly exciting one. Ditto for Oroville. I wanted to look around Marysville and Yuba City some more, but it was getting late. I’d been there before anyway.

 

For some stupid reason, I decided to take I-80 home rather than my usual Sacramento-SF route through the Delta. I realized it was a mistake as I found myself doing about 15MPH through Vacaville. I finally got off in Fairfield and just drove through town. Things got better south of Vallejo and it was alarmingly traffic-free through Berkeley and Emeryville, until I hit the Bay Bridge. But by that time, I was so glad to be enshrouded in fog that I didn’t even care.

 

Random thoughts on Redding:

  • It’s a very white place and people sound like they’re from Minnesota. Fortunately, it’s more white trash than white yuppie.
  • I love the fact that there’s only one Starbucks downtown and it looks a little seedy, housed as it is in a former Long John Silver’s.
  • “Fast food” is an oxymoron here.
  • Redding and the surrounding area should be sort of a resort destination, but there didn’t seem to be any tourists anywhere, even at Shasta Dam (which was basically deserted).
  • Housing is just as cheap as you imagine it would be.
  • It sure is nice to see some trees scattered about, not to mention a landscape which isn’t quite so brown. Oops, I meant “golden”…

I wouldn’t want to live there, but I’ll probably go back to visit. It probably won’t be August when I do so.

 

Gone Visitin’

In less than 24 hours I will disappear for three weeks. I make no promises that there will be updates until I get back. I make no promises that I’ll be answering any email until I get back. On the other hand, I also make no promises that I WON’T be doing either of these things…

What I will definitely be doing is visiting Mom and Dad. And eating well. And visiting numerous supermarkets and thrift stores, and the occasional roadside diner. And hopefully seeing Duncan and Rick, PJ, Becky, and assorted other people without websites. Not to mention Stan and Eugene in San Diego, one of whom will have temporary custody of my car.

Apologies to anyone whose email remains unanswered as I depart. You can’t possibly imagine how much the past three weeks have sucked…

Note to cyber-stalkers: look for me in Greensboro, Charlotte, Raleigh, Chapel Hill, Atlanta, and maybe DC. I’ll be travelling US 29 rather than I-85, just because that’s what I do…

Note to potential thieves: the apartment is being watched. Please don’t throw any wild parties while I’m gone. Lock the doors. And turn off some of those lights, dammit…

SF to Fresno

 

The idea to do twin road trips on the east coast (North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia) and the west coast (ummm, California) started with the very practical issue of where to put my car while I flew back east for three weeks. I had the brilliant idea of visiting a couple of friends in San Diego, leaving my car with one of them, and then flying east from there. I figured I could have an extra road trip which would basically pay for itself in saved parking fees. Brilliant, yes?

I completed finishing touches on a few projects this morning (notably this one) and finally left the house about 3:00. Rush hour traffic was not bad, until I got to the grade between Castro Valley and San Ramon. The next fifteen miles of my trip took about an hour. I was (even more of) a ball of stress by the time I stopped for food and gas in Tracy.

When I finally arrived in Fresno and checked into the Motel 6, my first order of business was another phone call to my friend Stan in San Diego. As had happened for the past three days, I was unable to leave him a message because his voice mailbox was full. Which seemed a little odd. Stan and I have been friends for almost 20 years, and he knew I was coming this weekend. I’d been promising a visit for about five years.

Anyhow, I called Eugene next, to warn him I might be taking him up on his offer of lodging for me and the car. Then I went to Vons to get a snack, came back to the room, watched a movie, and went to sleep.

Fresno to San Diego

I woke up feeling really calm, as if I were jut dumping all my stress in Fresno. It was great. I had breakfast and hit a few thrift stores (two cool shirts), and then headed south on the highway formerly known as US 99 for Bakersfield, where I had lunch and didn’t do much else.

I wasn’t much in the mood for LA, so I took I-210 almost to Riverside and went south on I-15 through the surprisingly traffic-filled wilderness of the “Inland Empire”. The great thing about LA freeways is that, even when they’re choked with traffic, they very often still move at about 80 MPH.

I really didn’t stop much, as I was in a hurry. But one thing caught my eye. First I saw a sign reading “Champagne Boulevard”. At first, I figured it was a vineyard, but then I realized I was close to the Lawrence Welk Resort. It was just too perverse not to be seen, so I pulled in. I was amazed that (a) it was not as tacky and pink as I expected, (b) there were far more golf carts than actual old people driving them, and (c) the convenience store had Funyuns on sale.

 

I tried Stan again (no luck) and proceeded to Eugene’s house in San Diego. We had dinner at the Chicken Pie Shop (four courses for about four bucks), toured the wonderfully dowdy El Cajon Boulevard, sneered at the plastic gaydom of Hillcrest, and hit a few bars.

First was Pec’s, a great dive I’d found rather by accident on an earlier San Diego trip while looking for a cab. Turns out Eugene likes the place too; it has a lot less of the terminal preppy and circuit-type idiots so common elsewhere in the city. Then we hit the Hole, near Ocean Beach, with its tropical tiki patio and three customers. I liked it.

After a few minutes of the “Get Smart” marathon on TV Land, I settled in for a semi-insomniac night, the first of many to come.

San Diego to Greensboro

Groggy morning. Breakfast at a diner (whose name I forget) with a cute waitron (not working our table) who teetered between skatefag and ravefag. I probably would’ve done him.

Eugene dropped me at the airport very early so I could get a good seat in accoradance with Southwest Arilines “first come, first served” boarding policy. I was number 13. Ran into some friends from SF in the airport.

The flight was uneventful, and was much less crowded between Austin and Raleigh than it had been between San Diego and Austin. I arrived in scenic Raleigh about 10:00, tired, cranky, and wanting a cigarette. Mom and Dad were waiting, and very accommodatingly drove me to Waffle House on the way back to Greensboro. I slept like a rock and adjusted to the time change almost immediately.