Of Waffle House and Porn

While the drive from Duncan to Shreveport was mostly eventless, there were two happenings of note.
We ran into the first Waffle House of our trip outside of Dallas.
You know what they say, “You’re not in God’s country until you see the big yellow Waffle House sign.”
OK, nobody in the world has ever said that, but Waffle House is amazing. Despite fulfilling every stereotype you’ve ever had about the South and/or diners, it’s a Southern mainstay, cheap, and guess what’s really good there?
I screamed “Waffle House” as soon as I saw the yellow sign appear on the side of the road, which my parents didn’t understand at all (until we ate at one in Baton Rouge the next day and they actually liked it).
The other big thing that happened was the frequency of neon-signed adult stores and arcades that sit at just about every exit.
Seriously, I’ve started calling them Texas Wal-Marts.
There’s no legal prostitution in Texas, but you can sure as hell buy a novelty dildo every time you stop for gas.


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Day 4 - Duncan, OK, to Shreveport, LA

I suspect the word “mature” doesn’t come up often when my friends describe me to other people, but I feel downright juvenile when put in direct comparison with Sonya and Jim.
We are the oldest grandkids on our moms’ side of the family and roughly the same age, with Sonya being about two years older than me and me being a few months older than Jim.
Well, Sonya is finished with college and has three kids, with a fourth on the way, and Jim is married and expecting (his wife is, anyway).
I have trouble making relationships work for more than a month, I can’t imagine loving a small, pooping, dependent creature of any kind more than myself, and I will completely not date a girl if she has poor taste in movies.
If this little existence thing we’re all doing actually were a game of “Life,” I’d be like five turns behind.

I don’t even have a job yet and my parents still pay some of my bills.
I usually don’t feel too bad about this because, you know, the job thing should work out really well for me, except for the pay thing, and I’ve been out of school for about three months.
Actually, I still don’t feel that bad about, but I’m not going out of my way to compare myself with my cousins.
These thoughts came about because I was at my Aunt Shelly’s house today and Jim and Sonya both drove in to see us.
Jim and I spent a few minutes during the morning swimming, which we did growing up pretty much every minute we were together but hadn’t done in about 15 years.
Jim and I are a lot alike. We’re articulate, good-looking, affable fellows, although Jim uses distinctly less-profane language than I do. He was also a quarterback in high school while I was on the golf team.
Anyway, we had a good time joking around while the wee ones were at school, until Sonya showed up with her kids.
I thoroughly enjoyed goofing around with her children, mostly because I’d never seen them before.
I’m still not sure about the whole dad thing, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be a cool uncle.
Sonya just came down for a few hours for lunch before taking off, at which point we discussed whether or not to stay another night or drive some.
Originally the plan was to spend another night in Duncan, but my mom was worried about being in a car for 13 hours tomorrow to get to New Orleans.
It took us about two hours to decide because dad hates makings decisions, mom wants to do what makes everyone else happy, and I just don’t give a shit.
Ultimately we left and I found the energy to take the wheel for six hours to get all the way to Shreveport, Louis.
“But Garrett, you missed Texas by driving at night?”
No, I didn’t. Texas isn’t nearly as cool as Texans think it is, and now I’m one day nearer to the Big Easy.

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Day 3 - Garden City, KS, to Duncan, OK

After spending a night in the ironically named Garden City, Kansas, we peaced out early this morning and took off for my Aunt Shelly’s house in Duncan, Okla.
I think it’s Monday, although I’m not really sure and I’d really prefer not to check.
The drive took like eight hours and swung through Northern Texas.
At one point my dad took a photo of the Texas countryside, which I thought was redundant.
If I’ve learned one thing this road trip, it’s that there’s no place Kansas, except for Eastern Colorado, Wyoming, Texas and Oklahoma. Seriously, they all look pretty much the same.
I’ve also decided it’s fun to play a new little game called “Blindly follow the GPS voice and hope you don’t end up in Butt Fuck, Egypt.”


I realize that’s sort of the point of a GPS, but I usually at least take a quick look at either Mapquest or an Atlas because I naturally assume the GPS is part of the machine’s plot to lull humans into a false sense of security and then direct us all to a predetermined site for easy slaughter, probably in Albuquerque, N.M.
As a result of this blind faith, we spent approximately zero time on major interstates, instead opting for rural roads and cow towns.
Apparently this guy/girl/supreme being named God is sort of a big deal in this part of the country, because every single town has a church sign welcoming people.
I didn’t mind the rural roads and small towns much because I didn’t have to drive, so I kicked back listening to music and reading “Catch-22.”
For those who care, the mix was extremely heavy on RHCP, Sublime, and Tom Petty, which works well while mowing through the plains of the Midwest.
We finally got to Aunt Shelly and Uncle Robert’s house just in time for dinner, which was just fine with me.
It was nice to see that part of my family, because we only get together about once every two years, or every other year for those in favor of brevity.
My family in Wells is extremely close on my mother’s side as my grandparents and three of their four kids live within about a 20 minute drive. My Aunt Shelly is the only one who moved away and my mom really misses her.
So I’m glad we got to spend time.
Aunt Shelly still has three kids at home, Bruce, Ben, and Sam, and Jim, who is my age, drove down with his wife from Stillwater to spend the night and hang out, so there was a full house.
It was also balls hot with the humidity outside, but I can’t really complain because it will only get worse tomorrow.

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Day 2 - Fort Morgan to Garden City, KS

We didn't drive a ton today so my mom could spend time with her family.
We spent most of the morning in Fort Morgan at Norma and John's. After visiting with them, we headed over to visit one of my grandma's other sister, Nanny, and her husband, Dip.
Dip has a kickass remote control helicopter that is probably best left out of my hands.
We then went to see a few of the cousins mom grew up with before hitting the road.
Norma sent us off with a cooler full of food and a bunch of snacks from her floral shop. She's exactly like my grandma, which means that I will be spending extra time jogging on the beach when I arrive in Miami.
After leaving Fort Morgan we headed for Stratton, Color., where my mom grew up.
Stratton is about about 2/3 the size Wells for a comparison. My mom hasn't been back in about 20 years, so it was really emotional for her to see the ranch she grew up on and the place she went to school through about 16.
I'm glad she got to see it and I'm glad she could share some of her childhood with me.
Here are the highlights:
Highlights:

Stratton has a drive-thru liquor store called the Libation Station. I (sort of) wish I could buy malt liquor in a paper bag, pull around the corner and get drunk next to that sign everyday for the rest of my life.

The main drag of Stratton...not a lot of traffic.

The American Legion has Bud AND Bud Light ON TAP...

What do you do if you build a house, run out of money after the basement is finished and live in a tornado-prone area of the country? Build an entryway, slap a roof on that bitch and call it finished.

The restaurant where my Grandpa used to take the family every Sunday after church. We had to wait like 30 minutes to have our orders taken. The reason: the lady in front of us ordered pie and ice cream and the restaurant was out of ice cream, so our waiter had to literally run up the street to the grocery store. Hilarious.

The ranch where my mother grew up.

The view from my mom's old ranch.

The road where my mother honed her considerable driving skills.

The church my mom's family attended.

Mom mom's old elementary school.

In other news:
- I was napping and reading so I'm not sure exactly where it is, but somewhere just into Kansas on I-70 exists the absolutely best rest station in America. I have a general policy to not get out at rest stations, which I was not going to change even here, until I saw two hot chicks walking their dog as they drove back to college. I was not successful in acquiring their attention.

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Trip Day 1: a live blog from Wells to Fort Morgan, Colorado.

We're driving about 12 hours today, so I think I'll kick off this trip log with a some live-blog action. Enjoy.

12:01 a.m. – Go to bed. We’re supposed to leave at 3 a.m. so we can make it to Fort Morgan, CO to have dinner with my mom’s Aunt Norma.

4:27 a.m. – wake up. Shower. Pack PS3.

5:40 a.m. – Take a few minutes to look at the house before hitting the road. I’m feeling a little sad about leaving, and I sort of wish my dog were there.

5:48 a.m. – leave Wells only to realize that I have left electric razor at home, turn back and get it while parents wait at gas station.

5:55 a.m. – Attempt to leave Wells again only to realize that mom forget to put important letters in the mail. Turn back again to go to post office.

6:00 a.m. Finally leave Wells, three full hours behind schedule.

6:15 a.m. - Mom is driving five miles below the speed limit. I am annoyed. On another note, I have made a 583-song playlist to accompany me on the trip. It’s an eclectic mix of country, classic rock, new rock, 80s, hip-hop, straight oldies and electro/club. As is my custom, we’re starting with “Back Where I Come From” by Kenny Chesney. All you country haters can fuck right off.

6:30 a.m. – We’re a little country heavy on the shuffle right now. Nothing kills a good playlist faster than an uneven mix. This concerns me.

6:37 a.m. – “Start Me UP” by the Rolling Stones starts…three minutes of head shaking and pelvic thrusting ensue.

6:58 a.m. – Alright, the iPod just sandwiched “Big Papa” between “Stairway to Heaven” and “When the Levee Breaks” and then followed up a couple songs later with “In the Evening” (best Zep song ever). We’re good to go.

7:00 a.m. – We just drove through Wendover, meaning I’m officially out of Nevada. There’s a trailer park on the right, which makes me think about what my intro song would be if I were a professional wrestler. My song would have to have some sort of dramatic intro to announce my presence with authority, then get heavy. But I’m also not a big metal fan, so that creates quite the conundrum. I think I’d go with “Welcome Home” by Coheed and Cambria or Blue Orchid by the White Stripes. I’m also a big fan of "Lux Aeterna" from "Requiem for a Dream," perhaps with some sort of electronic remix beat. “What If?” is playing on the iPod, and it actually has the proper dramatics. But, you know, it’s Creed, so it wouldn’t really work. On a similar note, how the hell did a Creed song make my playlist? That must be corrected.

Trailer parks also make me think about NASCAR. I’m not a big fan of the Super Left Turn Circuit, but I have to wonder why there’s no No. 69 car. With the NASCAR crowd being what it is, I’d the think the merch sales would be ridiculously lucrative.

7:03 - the mountains disappear, a general malaise befalls me.

7:07 – Mom starts signaling to pull off at a rest stop approximately one hour into trip. Consider continuing on without parents before grudgingly hitting the brakes and pulling in.

7:15 a.m. – decide it’s in my best interests to be drunk by the time my parents drop their car off at the airport in Salt Lake City. I will drink every time there is a tree.

8:45 a.m. (time change) – realize there are no trees west of SLC.

10 a.m. – ACDC's “Hell’s Bells” starts playing just as I pull into SLC and the Temple is coming into view. It is unquestionably obvious that my iPod and I are on the same page.

10:05 a.m. – We have consolidated cars, meaning my mother and I are in close quarters. I love the women, but bitter arguments are now inevitable. I predict they will center on my ability to operate an automobile.

10:06 a.m. – Dad’s driving….nappy nap time.

10:30 a.m. – Scratch the nap, mom needs socks so we’re stopping at a factory outlet in Park City, of 2002 Winter Olympics fame. I have to pee anyway. On a bright note, there is a new Ralph Lauren outlet. If I had the time and space in my car, I would go nuts.

11:01 a.m. – Nap time – engage.

12:06 p.m. – My nap is over and we are driving through Wyoming. Dad is holding it down at the wheel. Mom informs me that she packed fruit for the road. Damn, she’s smart. I’m glad I slept through most of Utah. After looking at the Wyoming terrain, however, I have nothing to report.

12:15 p.m. – ham sandwich and fruit for lunch.

1:20 p.m. – Pee stop No. 3. We have stopped in Rock Springs for gas. $1.85/gallon. I’ve been wondering all morning who Obama’s running mate will be, so I run into the store to see if it’s on TV. Sure enough, it is, and what’s more, there’s almost nobody in front of this TV as most of the truckers have congregated in front of TV showing some sort of racing. Obama picked Biden. I’m sort of surprised. I like Biden. My parents actually love Biden. I was sort of hoping for the rockstar pick of Caroline Kennedy. I like Biden, but I wonder how much added appeal he’ll add at the ballot booth. Then again, We’re talking about Barack Obama. He doesn’t need any more appeal.

1:25 p.m. – There’s any extremely plus-sized woman two pumps over trying to get something out of her pickup bed. She has one of those hardtops for her bed and she’s trying to crawl under it, except that she gets stuck right about the hips. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry.

1:30 p.m. – My turn to drive…time to put the hammer down.
2:05 p.m. – Argument No. 1. We made it a whole half hour, but mom finally gets annoyed about my staying in the passing lane too long. I point out that there is a stream of semis in the right line pretty much all the way to the horizon. She tells me that in some states it’s legal to stay in the passing lane for more than a half mile. I tell her I think she made that up. Bad decision.

2:12 p.m. – Argument No. 2, although this one is decidedly more playful. This times we’re arguing over what constitutes a mountain. My mom says that Elk Mountain’s elevation makes it a mountain. I argue that it’s height from the valley floor makes it Elk Big Hill.

2:15 p.m. – “Satisfaction” starts playing, more pelvic thrusting ensues.

3:00 p.m. – We pass an adult arcade in the middle of nowhere. It is advertised with a tarp hanging from an old school bus that says “Adult Arcade 1 mile. No kids allowed.” I want to explore what I’m sure is a high-class establishment, but I can’t get over in time to make the exit.

4:20 p.m. – Pull over in Laramie so mom can stretch out her back.

4:25 p.m. – Mom takes the wheel, let the mayhem begin.

4:40 p.m. – We just entered the foothills of the Rockies. Now the landscape is incredibly beautiful. The plains have turned into rolling hills with forested outcroppings poking up here in there. Gorgeous.

5:20 p.m. – THE DARKNESS….I Believe in a Thing Called Love. Initiate backseat hair metal sequence.

5:24 p.m. – complete backseat hair metal sequence with great satisfaction. Parents appear both puzzled and disturbed.

6:30 p.m. – Make it to Fort Morgan. Time for dinner and sleep.

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The Trip Itenerary

For those of you who are interested, here is the schedule of events for this little road trip I'm taking.

Saturday, Aug. 23 - Wells to Fort Morgan, Colo.
Highlights - nothing on the road. Anybody who has ever driven through Utah and Wyoming understand it's about as exciting dyslexia. We are, however, staying with my mom's Aunt Norma and Uncle John's farm in Fort Morgan. Should be a good time.

Sunday, Aug. 24 - Fort Morgan to Garden City, KS.
Highlights - My mom grew up in rural Colorado before moving with my grandparents to Wells in high school (a decision that infinitely helped my coming into existence) and she hasn't been back in almost 20 years, so a big part of the reason we're going on this route is so that she can visit family and see where she grew up. So we're going to spend part of the day catching up with Norma and John and the go tour the metropolis of Stratton, Colo., where my mom lived until she was 16. Then it's all corn fields and small towns to the GC.

Monday, Aug. 25 - GC to Duncan, Okla.
My mom's sister Shelly lives in Duncan and we only see them about once every two years. We're visiting them.

Tuesday, Aug. 26 - Chilling in Duncan
We'll be catching up with Aunt Shelly, Uncle Robert and kids while mom recharges for the second half of the trip.

Wednesday, Aug. 27 - Duncan to New Orleans
After a year and a half, Garrett will make his triumphant return to the Big Easy. Screw Texas, this day is all about getting back to the Deep South.

Thursday, Aug. 28 - running amock in New Orleans
Will we go on a boat tour of the bayou, check out NO's beautiful cemetaries, or just explore the French Quarter? Nobody can be sure, but one thing is certain. Garrett will be drunk on Bourbon Street, possibly riding the mechanical bull at the Bourbon Cowboy in his underwear, come Thursday night.

Friday, Aug. 29 - NO to Jacksonville
As the trip nears it's end, we'll cruise along the Gulf, check out Biloxi, where my dad spent time in the Air Force, before arriving in the pissing rain of Jacksonville. Depending on the water level, I may or may not commence alligator wrestling training on this night.

Saturday, Aug. 30 - Jack to Miami
Finally, after eight months of anticipation, I'll get to Miami, where I'll be spending the next 12 weeks. We're staying on South Beach one night before I move into my place, So I'll be getting acquainted with my new home and hopefully taking in some of the scant beachwear.

Also, if anybody wants to visit let me know so I can clear it with the woman I'm living with. I'm also taking applications from anybody who would like to accompany me on what should be an awesome cross-country roadtrip home the week before Thanksgiving.


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The coolest story ever told and why my ass should now be considered a national treasure

I may have sat on a bar stool last night that was once occupied by Earnest Hemingway.
My life is now complete.
The came about as I was making the rounds saying goodbye to my grandparents (gets harder and harder everytime) other family.
After a rather stimulating conversation with Ty and my Uncle Mitch and Aunt Sue about the future of journalism, I headed back into town to hit up my Uncle Grant and Aunt Jamie.
We were talking about popping over to the Bahamas and down to the Keys when I mentioned that I wanted to explore some of Hemingway’s former stomping grounds.
Then my Uncle Grant told me a life-altering tale.

As my literary friends out there will know, Earnest Hemingway was living in Ketchum, Idaho, when he killed himself.
Well, back in the day my dad’s (Grant is his brother) parents opened a trailer park, gas station and depot outside of Wells at Crested Acres. When my papa opened the bar, he bought the actual bar, back bar and other wares at an auction for a place in Ketchum that was going out of business.
Turns out it was the bar Hemingway, that notoriously skilled drinker, used to frequent.
When my papa sold his ranch in Idaho just before he died, my uncle nabbed a couple of the bar stools that originally came from Hemingway's watering hole.
When my uncle told me this, I was more than a little bit excited. In fact, I had to go downstairs and sit on them and make Uncle Grant write me getting the stools into his will.
Of course they both have had their seats redone over the last 50 years and there’s a good chance that Hemingway never sat in them at all. But there’s a chance he did.
Hemingway and I are now cosmically connected by our buttox.
I'm pretty much guaranteed a Pulitzer Prize now, right?

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Working at the parts store

When I knew I was coming home from Reno for a month before heading to Miami, I didn’t want to sit around and wait for the boredom to set in.
Let’s be real, as much affection as I have for my hometown, there’s just not much to do, especially when my cousin/best friend/drinking partner Ty is off fighting fire.
Luckily, Ty’s dad, henceforth known as Uncle Mitch, saved me by letting me work at his store while I was home, allowing me to be occupied for most of the day and make some cash for South Beach imbibing.
The only problem is that he owns a hardware store.
And no, my friends, the irony is not lost on me either.
I have nothing against hardware, but I don’t think there’s anything in the world that I know less about.

Yesterday was my last day and, for the most part, everything went really well. My primary job was to help my grandparents check in freight and inventory, which I enjoyed a lot. I got to spend time with my grandparents every day, I think me being around helped them because they don’t get around quite as well as they used to, and I got to move around a lot of heavy stuff (yeah, I was the muscle of the operation and no, it’s not funny or farfetched, Teal).
Moving around five-gallon buckets of oil, car batteries, and bags of concrete was a little bit like getting paid to work out, which is always a good thing
The customer service part, however, didn’t always work out quite as well.
I’m good with customers and I like the interaction, it’s just that I’d probably be more helpful recommending a complimentary eyeliner or rocking handbag than finding the right gauge of wire, which is to say that I’m pretty much no help out all.
This deficiency led to some interesting exchanges:

Customer No. 1: “Yeah, I need a couple rat traps and one of those gopher catchers that you put in the ground.”
Me: “Can I interest you in a steel pipe?”

Also, I learned that when somebody says “I gotta broken water pump and I need a 2-inch galvanized reducer, a plastic elbow and a tee fitting with hose clamps,” they get a little pissed when you come back with a roll of duct tape.

Despite hardly ever knowing exactly what customers needed, I was always able to get one of the guys at the desk to help me out and get the job done.
I also wasn’t a huge fan of the hours. Because I was helping out my grandparents, I had to come in when they did.
This led to an epic clash of lifestyles.
My grandparents usually get to bed around 8 p.m. and wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning (I played golf in high school and we used to have leave balls early to get to our tee times. The lights were almost always on at my grandparents house when I passed).
I, through a combination of college, working nights, and partying, usually go to bed around 3 or 4 in the a.m. and wake up somewhere in the vicinity of noon.
The result was painful (my coordination skills are somewhere in the area of zero when I’m forced to move before the sun is up).
Those things were utterly negated, however, when Uncle Mitch started letting my drive around the fork lift.
It may not have been the wisest thing he’s ever done, but nobody got hurt and I felt the power of lifting things and moving them sort of like those old school computer games where you push stuff out of the way to solve a puzzle and move to the next level.
Oh, and now I know the difference between Grade Eight and normal screws.

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Don't lower the drinking age

I was browsing the day’s headlines a few minutes ago, trying to be a good journalist, when I came across a story on CNN.com that could effect millions of Americans.
Several colleges are jockeying lawmakers to lower – LOWER – the legal drinking age from 21 to 18, like back in the day when a high school kid could take the edge off a tough Trig test with a few cold ones at the bar with the teacher.
I literally almost choked on a piece of honeydew melon when I read it.
What’s more shocking, it’s not party schools like Arizona State, Penn State, or Florida doing the pleading.
It’s not even universities like Nevada that could rake in the concessions cash by charging the entire undergrad population $7 a beer at football games (not to mention actually enticing students to show up in the first place).
The movement comes from institutions like Duke, Syracuse, and Ohio State.
At first, this excited me.
Such an argument from those schools pretty much validates the logical sense of the argument I’ve been making since I was 15.
It just made sense to me for the drinking age to be 18 – for starters because it’s absurd that you can be a legal adult in this country and yet not have full rights, but mostly because I wanted to be able to incorporate no-hassle tutoring from Jack Daniels into my academic routine in high school.
After thinking about the rule again, I must adamantly oppose this suggestion for both petty and practical reasons.

First off, the logic is flawed.
The school administrations say that the current laws encourage binge drinking, which is sort of true.
But what they overlook is that the college lifestyle in general encourages binge drinking.
Lowering the drinking age is like telling me it’s OK to drink Guinness at the DC for breakfast after getting bat-shit drunk on a Tuesday night.
Kids will drink whether it’s legal are not. I couldn’t have cared less about the repercussions of drinking underage. Sure, I was sneaky about it, but it didn’t stop me.
Most of my friends had some sort of MIPC sort of citation, so it obviously didn’t stop them either.
Now imagine the dorms with no checks or balances.
Impressionable co-eds. Close quarters. Raging hormones. Terrible decision-making skills. Tons of unsupervised free time. Now throw alcohol into the mix and you get one giant party.
Sure, you might prevent some of the supposed 500,000 drinking injuries suffered by college students each year (with the cause of 87 percent of those injuries going unrecollected, according to a statistic I just made up), but what would happen to the pregnancy, STD, drop out and arson rates?
I’m assuming that colleges would keep their dorms dry, but then what would be the point of this business to begin with?
Mostly, though, I’m just angry that I missed out on that gigantic party I mentioned earlier.
While the logic of the argument for lowering the drinking age doesn’t make sense, I also don’t really care. Again, when you’re an adult you should be able to do whatever you wish (except listening to Nickleback with any feelings of satisfaction).
I just don’t think it’s fair.
It’s bullshit that college kids won’t have to go through the same hell I went through to get drunk when I was a youngster.
When cops came around and we were drinking at apartments, I used to have to hide the can in my pocket and then pretend like I pissed myself when it spilled.
I had to hide in a friends close for 3 hours once while a rather excitable cop screamed and ticketed my friends downstairs.
All undergrads should have to go through those struggles. They are a right of passage.
Lowering the drinking age would also stifle creativity.
For instance, I figured out on my own that stuffing my backpack full of beverages and bringing it in during the day was the best way sneak alcohol into the dorms.
I had to experiment before learning that an empty office chair box a great way to sneak in a keg.
By lowering the drinking age, we’re just robbing our country’s children of valuable life lessons.
Finally, I don’t want to deal with the little bastards when I’m out at the bar.
Have you noticed all the18 year old tool bags running around these days?
I don’t need to be sipping down a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale at my local bar and have to listen to a group of young inebriates trying to discuss the artistic merits of Dashboard Confessionals or the kids from High School Musical.
I’ll admit that throwing a bunch of young women with already questionable self-esteem and logic into a bar would vastly improve my “action with disproportionately hot women to regrettable intimate experiences” ratio, but I’d rather not deal with all the other crap.

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An ode to the Biggest Little City

I should be heading back to Reno today.
For five years I capped my summers by making the drive home to give myself a week to relax before the beginning of school.
Right about now I should be cruising up Virginia Street past the U, feeling the energy in the year of a new carefree school year and preparing to drink my ass off.
I wish I were heading back to Reno, and I'm sad that I'm not.
Turns out that graduating thing sort of prohibits it.

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited for Miami. It's just that a big part of me wishes college weren't over.
Most of my friends are already gone, but a few of my absolutely favorite people are still in Reno. I think I'll miss spending time with them more than anything else.
At the very least, I think my head is in the right place for Miami.
As much as I love Reno, there's nothing there for me. If I want to write, it's time to move on and find a new home.
I'd sort of lost my edge over the last few months, but it's back now.
It doesn't matter whether I'm writing sports or features or fiction, I want to be the best.
Now I'm ready to go to the Herald and do what I do.
Still, even as I chill in the office and watch the boats pass by on the Bay of Biscayne or as I listen to the tide roll in as I read on South Beach, a big part of me will yearn to be in Reno.

Other shit:
-My family keeps raving about the new haircut. I also know that it looks like crap. Translation: "Garrett, keep your short."

Sorry fam, the mop is coming back as fast as I can grow it out.

-Little Miss Sunshine is hilarious. I think it's one of my favorite movies.

-I'm reading Catch-22 and Confederacy of Dunces at the moment, but my next priority is His Dark Materials. If anybody wants to loan me a copy while I'm in Miami, contact me.

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Garrett and dad hike to Winchell Lake, pain and agony follow

Today was the first time I’ve had consecutive days off since getting back to Wells.
I thought for most of the week about how I would spend this day. Should I watch movies or should I read and write? Should I play video games or write thank you notes.
“No,” inner monologue voice No. 1 said to inner monologue voice No. 2. “Let’s do something really fun. How about we go on a nine-mile hike above 8,000 feet to Winchell Lake?”
Always one to think things through, inner monologue voice No. 2 quickly replied “Brilliant.”
So instead relaxing at home or getting ready to go to Miami, I decided to walk halfway across a fucking mountain to see a lake roughly the size of a soccer pitch.
Let me take a moment to reiterate that I am a dumb ass.
In case anyone out there was wondering, I am not a hiker. Sure I like being outside and I’ll gladly trek a reasonable distance for the sake of beauty, peace, or calorie burning.
I am not particularly adept at going up and down for any kind of extended period of time (except for in the bedroom, hey-o).
Despite that incredibly relevant piece of information, my dad and I decided to make an almost 10-mile roundtrip from the Angel Lake road to Winchell Lake, a smallish little snow pond tucked back in the mountain.

This involves rising a couple thousand feet over the course of 4.5 miles.
We meant to start this little trek at 8 a.m. to beat the heat, but it was about 10:30 when we hit the trail.
I had to coordinate my gray bandanna to match my backpack, what’re you going to do?
As a result of all that, I managed to piss off a new part of my anatomy.
My liver and I have had an estranged relationship for the last half decade, but today my quads were about ready to explode when we finally got off the mountain.
For the record, my lungs weren’t all that happy with how the day unfolded either.
On the bright side, I did manage to make it with extremely relative easy.
I couldn’t have done it at all three years ago.
So yeah I saw a lot of the mountain and the scenery was beautiful. My dad, who is in much better shape than me, and I had lunch and relaxed for about an hour on a rock hanging over the lake, and the views of the valley were spectacular, but that was mostly outweighed by a lingering desire to lay down in a ditch and cease to exist in order to overcome the pain in every muscle of my lower body.
So the best part of the day was simply finishing.
I also got a little burn going on both my upper arms, so the farmer’s tan is now going to be more of a wife beater’s tan.
I’m moving up in the world.

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Alright, so my hometown might be a little redneck

All through college, I defended Elko County.
“It’s small, rural, and a bit boring,” I would say to people when they cringed after discovering I’m from Wells, “but it’s not that bad. It’s not just a bunch of rednecks.”
I still have great affection for the area, but I can longer make that claim.
My dad had to go to Elko (50 miles away) today because a high school friend’s mom died and I had some things to do before going to Miami, so I accompanied.
I ran to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things while my dad was at the funeral and I happened to have the local country station on the radio when I pulled into the parking lot.
There’s a daily feature called “Talkin’ NASCAR” on the station.
And it’s not even a nationally syndicated show that the station picks up.
It’s two local dudes getting on the air talking about extremely fast left turns.
Needless to say, I was astonished.
One second I’m listening to Carrie Underwood and imagining the conception of our first child, and the next second two guys are going bat-shit crazy about restrictor plates and laughing about the dining quality of regional roadkill.
I couldn’t think of a single thing that qualified as a greater example of redneck living.
Until I entered the Wal-Mart.

As I walked toward the electronic section I passed what I thought was a walking, talking manatee rumbling down the aisle. It turned out to be a 500-plus pound gas station attendant with a fu Manchu. Obviously he was wearing sweat pants.
The man was maybe 35, and yet he had a walker propped up in his cart. Only instead of having the rubber protectors on the ends opposite the wheels he had two tennis balls cut and shoved on.
What did he have in his cart, you ask with great enthusiasm?
A bucket of frozen chicken, a watermelon and five 32 oz. cans of Steel Reserve Malt Liquor.
Oh, but it gets better.
Generally appalled by the previous half hour, I went about my business without paying much attention to my surrounding.
I was getting by just fine, too, when I hear a strange but familiar hum coming from the aisle next to me.
As I wheeled around to get a look, I discovered a man with a cutoff sleeveless t-shirt and a rattail mullet singing a Kid Rock song.
Kid Rock was not, NOT, playing over the loud speakers – which I suspected because I didn’t have to throw up – which means Mr. Mullet likes Kid Rock so much that he not only hears the song in his head, but he feels the motivation to actually sing this song out loud in a public place.
As I stood there judging this man, I realized that even though he was singing this song, I had recognized the lyrics.
My face turned a shade of blue usually reserved for hypothermia.

OTHER, BETTER, STUFF THAT HAPPENED TODAY:
-I got a haircut, which I’m not all that stoked about. My stylist cut it the length I wanted, but I clearly underestimated the shortness. My family digs it. I hate it. Way, way, way too short. Oh well, it will be shaggy again in the a few weeks.

-My dad took me to lunch at The Starr, which is pretty much the best restaurant ever. Elko might be small, but it is like the Basque capital of the world (excluding, you know, Euskal Herria). As such, it has kickass Basque restaurants, including The Starr. Best crab sandwich ever.

-I bought Madden 09.

-My passport came in the mail. I’m going to be about 80 miles from the Bahamas while I’m in Miami, so I’m hoping to jump over to some of the islands during my stay (not literally, of course. I’m sure I’ll either fly or take some sort of homemade flotation device).

This is also cool because I now only need to present employers with one form of ID.

On a sidenote, I may have taken the worst passport photo in the history of international travel. You’re not allowed to smile, but I definitely could have whipped a little more smiley straight-faced look. Instead I look like a criminal. The beard and long hair don’t help.

- My family BBQed at Angel Lake, which is absolutely, stunningly peaceful and beautiful. The lake sits in a crater of a mountain more than 8,000 feet high. It’s surrounded by thick forests and backed by the rocks of the mountain. It’s only about a mile around, so it’s no Lake Tahoe, but it’s one of my favorite places in the world.

I kept the family laughing with discussions about the etymology of the “Fuck”, my habit of parading about with no clothes on, why I should be allowed to teach English in Prague, and, mostly, my propensity for urinating on vehicles with poor emissions (namely Hummers).

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