Dearest All,
Though most of the unpopulated regions in The Land of the Coffee-Free Polygamists are to die for (maybe literally if you’re on foot, there’s not much water out there), as we approached the station in Salt Lake City and I took in long stretches of profoundly ugly buildings, I had a creeping suspicion that I might not want to move there after all. I wondered if perhaps a brief wander would increase my enthusiasm for the place but I wasn’t holding my breath. I wasn’t breathing hard either, but I knew I could fix that by attempting some physical therapy exercises for the ankle area. I felt less than confident that in my worse for wear and tear shorts, Timberland boots, Bill Murray socks, and Sun Ra Arkestra t-shirt I’d be mistaken for a tai chi master. When I had concluded my perfunctory (as usual, I did my best to put the fun back in perfunctory) p.t. regimen on the blazing hot platform I wasn’t surprised that no one had called me grasshopper. Soon enough I was back in my compartment and Mormon Town was receding from view. Another retirement locale to cross off the list, I thought with relief. Just because proto-punk bass wrangler Arthur “Killer” Kane spent his sunset years there (for more on that see the cautionary yet inspirational documentary New York Doll) it didn’t mean I had to. I did feel a little remiss in not saying hi to Mitt, though.
One thing to keep in mind about Amtrak is that only a delusional masochist plans to get anywhere on time via train in the U.S. The greed is good logic which allows big money-backed freight lines to take priority over passenger rail also consigns passengers to second or third class status when it comes to timely arrivals. On my train, hours of waiting for freight cars to pass combined with a derailment down the line and a wildfire that damaged a bridge in Oregon (not exactly analogous to the butterfly in Europe that disrupts the salaryman’s routine in Dullsville, USA, but you get the idea) resulted in our cross-section of humanity being nine hours late by the time we got to the Rockies.
Due to the messed-up schedule it was dark not long after we passed through Grand Junction, CO, and when an announcement that we were approaching Denver prompted me to bash my head against the low ceiling and awkwardly crawl from my coffin-like bed it was 3:30 am and Mile High City sprawl was the only thing visible for miles. We had passed through the best stretches of Rocky Mountain wilderness while I was asleep. Feel free to shed a tear as you picture me unsuccessfully attempting to remember all the lyrics to “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.”
Yes, but what about the parts of this stolen land between Denver and Chicago, I hear you asking so loudly that it drowns out my tinitus.* You’re right to feel impatient, and more power to you! Skipping ahead to the eastern edge of Nebraska, as we approached Omaha I used the trusty flip phone keyboard to tell Noah that the city in question didn’t look to be Thrillsville. He set me straight by reminding me that at the city line of said burg there’s a sign that reads “Omaha, Nebraska: Thrillsville, USA.” Ha ha ha, I thought, until I recalled that Mikey Coppertone had told me one of the most appreciative crowds he played to with the garage/punk wild men The Teenage Harlets [sic] when that outfit toured the U.S. was in a gay bar in Omaha. Clearly cool stuff happens everywhere, despite what coastal city slicker wiseasses might assume.
Noah claimed to recall a sign which read “Iowa: Home of High Corn and Low Expectations,” and hundreds of miles of corny flatlands did indeed make it easy to go back to reading. Alas, the fiction ingestion was cut short by my maskless neighbors blasting a Louis Lamour audio book. Asking them to turn it down would have necessitated more unwanted interaction so I double-masked up and headed for the observation car.
Riding the usually friendly rails has for decades exposed me to all kinds of people, and I dig the whole talk to a stranger if you feel like it, stay mum if you don’t thing. It’s an organic, unhurried setting in which interactions occur naturally and staying quiet is just fine too.
Before 2016 I could usually deal with rednecks; when they rubbed me the wrong way I could tell myself that they were giving me material for some probably imaginary writing project down the road we call the boulevard of dreams deferred. But in the era of MAGA maggots I can’t control the fear and loathing that fills my heart and mind when I’m in proximity to anyone who remains worshipful of the orange beast from Mar-a-Lago. So I’m much less likely to interact with strangers of caucasian origin these days (I do realize non-caucasians voted for you-know-who as well but that’s too much for me to wrap my head around).
It’s also useless to argue with MAGAites, at least for me. After our train missed its connection to the New York-bound line out of Chicago and I was loaded with scads of other passengers onto a bus to a night at the world-famous Swissotel (how continental!), my seat mate nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the tower her husband was filming as we drove by it. “Trump!,” she yelped enthusiastically, and I responded, “I liked it better when it was the Sears Tower.” She then asked me what I had said and I replied, “It used to be Sears Tower,” while thinking, “you’re dead to me.” Perhaps someday she will be pulled back from the dark side but I certainly wasn’t going to take a crack at it.
I’m running over my self-imposed word count so I’ll get to parts east of Chicago next time. Believe me, it’s going to be exciting! I hope your eager anticipation of my next thrilling installment of vacation ramblings can be sustained for another week or two. If not, read some Dorothy Parker and keep your chin up.
*Many thanks to Joey, DeeDee, Johnny, Tommy, Marky, and C.J. for said affliction.
NOTES
Amtrak is dreamy but it needs help: https://www.railpassengers.org/
Tom Tomorrow (aka Dan Perkins) helps us break down the MAGAVERSE: https://thenib.com/new-perspectives/
Arthur “Killer” Kane explained: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7j89-oIszO0