Slouching into Oblivion

I found Big Joe in the south L. A. Greyhound bus terminal in 2008. It’s a long story and one I will tell. Since then Joe has been my constant companion, a thug with no excuse for anything, my bodyguard who wants to do nothing except stomp the shit out of anyone I feel deserving. I began writing about Big Joe shortly thereafter. It’s time to begin again and bring you up to date. I returned from Las Vegas last night and a series of late night discussions with those in know about the endgame -- recession, depression, and hyper-inflation all shot through a fine whiskey-prism. For most, being right on how we lose will determine the few who will win and whether one orders steak tartar or waits in a soup line and fights a toothless hag for their one meal that day. For me it is about posturing correctly to haggle over the ruins. Big Joe was waiting outside the Leon airport in a no parking zone idling the flat-black Suburban he uses for high-speed airport runs. The beast has a 454 with

I just finished a week that seems more like a month being flogged and pissed on with pointless stories, meaningless anecdotes, and inaccurate and self-serving accounts of “the good old days.” And I feel stupider for the experience. Speaking has a place, of course. There are some things that need to be said, or asked: “Don’t step out in front of that bus.” “I need another drink.” “Put on your fucking mask.” “Would you like to go to dinner now?” Speaking can be effective to transfer valuable information when there isn’t time to write. Yet, I sense most disagree, evidenced by the uninterrupted vomitus of vacuous, needless sounds spewing from wide open mouths, either incorrectly recounting history with no point or expressing their beliefs, opinions, but mostly their prejudices and self-serving fabrications: “I believe (insert something heard on TV.) ” “You know?” “I like/hate (insert something heard on TV.) ” “You know?” “I want/own/have (insert something seen on TV.) ”

If I read another travel article touting the wonders of folding myself into an extruded aluminum tube and shot across the skies to see an ever smaller and more homogenized world, I am going to, well, write an essay like this one. Travel isn’t wonderful. It is an escape. It’s an addiction, no different than drugs, sex, and alcohol. I know. I traveled almost every week for 42 years. I waited in endless lines at ticket counters, security checkpoints, and in baggage claim areas for bags that were perpetually late or didn’t arrive at all. I sat in cheap plastic seats in airport concourses, feet stuck to filthy carpet waiting, waiting. And waiting some more. I drove rental cars in deep nights to places I couldn’t find. I was felt up and had my property seized by security for no other reason than they could. I ate food that tasted like dog shit smells or had no taste at all. And, I was lied to relentlessly. But . . . I was paid well to do it. To travel, that is. I wasn’t