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Travel Log - Hunting, Hitchhiking, Painting & Getting Dirty: Traveling Across America


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Are you at Fisherman's Wharf or Pier 40? I almost moved onto a boat at the Wharf until I realized I'd have to get rid of damn near everything I owned. Did spend a little time on a 30' houseboat at Emeryville last year...all I can say is the tide changes are a trip.

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Yes! My knife came the next day.


Up in Colorado, I kicked it with Mister Fister 666, who was nice enough to fix up my bike, among other ameneties, such as buying me a fucking ridiculous reuben sandwich, beers, and a wicked hike up in the foothills of Mt. ...?? And a couch to crash on. If you make it out to SF area, hit me up. Thanks again. I have yet to be let down meeting people off the oz. Always a good time.


Now for some flicks...










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(I spent a couple weeks in Wyoming after meeting up with Fist666 in Colorado - but I have yet to sum it up. Long story short I got in some trouble and can't go back.)


-- S drives out from Cali to pick me up in Wyoming & we head back to our boat in SF in late february --


We made it about three hours from Jackson before we had to pull the car over and fuck somewhere. Jesus..., we were fucking all the time now. Two months on the rails and on the road, alone... it does something do your groins. “Pull over, we’ve absolutely got to fuck” “OK where looks good? There’s a hill!” Park, get out the camera, scramble up a hill, hop a barb wire fence, and start screwing like the last two wild rabbits on Earth. I liked fucking S-. She was on the pill, she was versatile, and she was the only girl that could make me come from a blowjob. I liked coming on her tits and then giving her a big bear hug, smearing it in like a whitebread mayonnaise sandwich. I didn’t like when it dried in my chest hair though, and I had to pull cumcrust off my chest while driving down I-94 in the middle of winter.

Two hours later we met her cousin in Las Vegas, a tall, long haired, manly looking Jew of about 35. His nose came out like Easter Island style, and he knew a lot of ju jitsu. Once, drunk, he’d knocked S- down on the floor and choked her to the brink of unconsciousness. What was the cause? Who knows. I was not in the most delightful moods of meeting the fellow, but he had a decent pad and was apparently “much more calm.” Yes, well, lay a hand on her again and my friend Mr. Ruger will have about six hollow-pointed things to say about it.

Nightfall. Dusk in Las Vegas. We’ve been in his apartment for eight minutes and as many shots of whiskey. He asks what I do for a living and interrupts me to tell me what he does, again. Now it’s time to black out. I open his freezer and stuff airplane bottles of vodka and rum in my coat pockets. Why? He’s buying the booze all night anyway. Well, why not. Walk the streets and sip tiny little bottles and feel like a giant. Vague memories of whores and street cleaners yelling at me to stop doing… something. His disappearance. We lose him but gain a vehicle. Now his girl is here, driving us around to various excesses. We take in a plate of something dipped in oil and discharge it in the bathroom. Where was the cocaine? There was no cocaine. But there was the little pills, how many had I taken in the bathroom, the little bathroom with piano concerto sifting from the ceiling holes?


Now we’re on the rooftop, spouting rain-wine down on passing taxi cabs. Her skirt is crimped up and I slide my hand up to her little pink pocket and feel the soft smooth colors of her skin. I can feel the colors change, like warm glass, ivory pink becomes salmon, fish-like, becomes silk blood, dark and slippery like mouth-feel. We’re in a hot tub now, both naked, and it’s four in the morning with wine in plastic cups, so you don’t break them on the concrete and put blood in the water. Well now there’s white cum in the water and voices from above the balconies. We slip off, dripping through the hallways and slide into the room, curled up on some half-couch till dawn splits two hours later…


“Let’s go to the buffet. My treat!” OK, man, where the fuck did you disappear to. “Food poisoning. Both ends, erupting and disrupting the whole scene.” I had noticed some crusted vomit in the bathroom this morning. Hm. I guess it was his after all. We check in at the casino for the breakfast buffet. The omelette man is Italian and asks to see my I.D. when I ask for jalapenos. Ha, ha. Then he does the same joke on the girl behind me, and the guy behind her. Fuck, man! Too much, this town. We all eat a fuckload of bad food and feel like shit but the orange juice is free, so we linger a while. My head is beaten in but I can’t take a Vicodin now cause I’ve got a shit ton of food in my belly and it would be wasteful. Better wait till I’m hungover and don’t have any food to spoil it.

We go to some antique stores out in some desolate area without neon, and I see the beginnings of an MSK production. But only it's... dissapointing. There’s an Elvis character with a hamburger for his head, and that wacked out spongebob character with the long nose and zombie skin. It looks like Ewok did it. I buy a 1969 Playboy from the store for $3 and when I come out I see two guys in a slicked out Charger unloading paint from the trunk in front of the wall. A lady is swarming around them taking pictures of them unloading the paint and looking at the wall. Wow! I tell S- I am going to go say hello, and I walk over to the wall. “Hey, what’s up – you guys painting this?” No response. Hm, maybe they’re absorbed in some sort of strained mental congress. I repeat, “Yo, are yall painting this wall?” The darker skinned one looks up, and for a moment seems to conjure up some well of inner strength, which is just enough to emit a small “mhm” sound. Alright, there's progress. I gesture to the wall - “Okay… so let me guess… this looks like an Ewok character, and this one….Sever?” The white one muffles a laugh and keeps sorting paint. A quiet murmer, “you half right.” Then, half scuffing, walks off to the wall. Neither have even looked up and are obviously ignoring me. What am I, a fucking 10 year old asking you to sign my blackbook? Jesus man, learn some fucking manners. Look someone in the eye when they’re talking to you, form whole sentences, go out on a limb and shake someone’s hand when they offer it to you instead of half smirking and looking away. You remind me of myself when I was 16, the self-appointed king of graffiti at my high school. And your background looks like runny shitwater by the way.


Back at the car, S- asks how it went. Fuck meeting people you think you admire. Look up to the dead. At least they can’t be an asshole to you personally. She makes fun of me and buys me an ice cream cone and I feel better. Anyway, S- has to work that night, and SF is 7 hours away. It’s noon, and she’s got to be there at 9. So we say fuck your job and take a three day detour through Death Valley. Fuck her job! Fuck all jobs! She calls in and said she was lost in the desert and didn’t know when she’d be back (hint: she wouldn’t).


Death Valley, where nine months before I’d broken down three times in 120 degree heat, pouring beer on the engine because I didn’t have enough water and I was already drunk in the middle of the desert driving out to see this girl I was here again with. Fucking Zonker. It’s noon and we’re trying to scheme out a place to stay. There’s hot tubs and a pool at this place, a resort, but man, it’s got so many fucking people. So we say screw it, we’ll head south to the Devil’s Golf Course, and figure it out from there. The lowest elevation in North America. You come around a corner and all the sudden it’s just…. White. Powdered sugar salt crystals flashed out for miles. We park the car and take a shot of airplane whiskey and S- gets our shit while I scramble around pulling up dead bushes to burn. Fuck the tent! We hike out three or four miles till we’re surrounded in hot snow, crunching like clay pots and stopping to taste the ground.


Sunset. A thousand billion stars and the moon is waxing gibbous. It’s so bright out we don’t need a fire but we make one anyway, piled up in salt plates, and the ground is one big cutting board of seasoning salt. You scream and suddenly you’re underwater – no reverberation – no echo, it’s death and it feels wonderful. Wine by the bottle and fireworks, raw meat and thousands, uncountable thousands of stars peeking and poking and glistening your eyeballs. Don’t leave, the stars say, this is your home now… and you are just a shadow in the valley of death.

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goddamn it dude.


here i was all happy w myself for getting out yesterday and painting something i didnt totally hate... now this!?

back to my boring life lol



keep on keepin on. headed back to san diego soon?

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Nice update, thanks again for sharing all this!

A lot of good flicks also, though

2nd shot is awesome


Nice man...

Consider getting a proper film camera as well if you can be bothered?



By the way, you asked about a blog kind-of thing where you can post about your journey besides on here.

Is there such a thing now?

Sometimes 12oz is inaccessible to me.



Enjoy & rock on...

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  • 4 weeks later...
  • 3 weeks later...

Thanks all.... good luck tatanka. Just got back to the Estados Unidos, about time for an update of the last two months. Guatemala, Belize, and Southern Mexico on a (used, rotting, thrift-store) shoestring budget.


Uploading flicks now. Only thing I can say right now is that it feels slightly guilty but really satisfying to actually flush used toilet paper instead of balling it up in a pile in a tiny trash bin!


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