title
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cunty roads

July 29
Los Angeles

"Leg of cat is considered a delicacy in this country", said the voice of Julia Child, as I drove down a shady side street in Maryland, "as is roasted head of cat." This was the type of road I wanted to travel all the way back to LA, little traffic, lots of shade, pleasant farms where I could pretend only vegetables were killed.

"And finally, the shank of cat," I was trying to get used to the new sneakers I bought to replace the ones stolen from the men's room at the KOA in Dutch Pennsylvania. My first morning out, and surrounded by klepto Amish. After many very cunty (that means 'cute' for those of you not familiar with NYC ball children vernacular) twists through farmland I found a mall, and in a risky move, left all my belongings, piled high atop Bruno, to dash into a Footlocker and grab a pair of cheap, made in repressive China, shoes. I picked black, as I figured these would get dirty along the way.

"We stick whole branches of rosemary into the camel hump before burying it in coals", riding for hours alone, your mind tends to get creative. I had packed a tape recorder so I could dictate creative brainstorms and song melodies, but the act of eating animal crackers was taking me into darker realms.

"And then there is the famous shank of camel", perhaps this fascination with specific directions for devouring carcasses grew out of being vegetarian for so long. The order would go like this: tail, legs, head, neck and for the finale, the shank. Every animal had a shank that could be chomped in one bite, even Mr. Elephant Cracker, though for him we had an extra menu item, blackened trunk. Oh yeah, sometimes for variation I'd do away with Julia CHild and pretend to be a t-rex and just crunch with my mouth open. And I hadn't even hit the Central Time Zone yet.

KOA came to be my home from home. Each night I'd take out stuff from the Bruno's shell and sleep on the mattress I had stored at my mom's while I was in England. And I'd keep my shoes with me. Each morning I'd clean up and head out for another full day of driving in 90 to 100 degree temps with no airconditioning. And yet, I'd do it again, and little did I know how soon...

Since I had seen so little of The South, and since I was born south of the Mason-Dixon, and since I had to end up in southern California, I tried to take a southwest slice through the US. But it wasn't all cunty roads. Sometimes I had to travel evil I-numbered interstates and after a spell of manic SUV drivers and undiluted solar flares, I got a hankering for another calmer route. In Tennessee I saw a little meander that would take me out of the state and through at least three I'd never visited before. It was a no brainer.

And was I glad I did, for Bruno was starting to make unfamiliar noises and I wanted to go a little slower. Then, on the outskirts of Huntsville, Alabama, I discovered my truck had no power in first or second gear. I pulled into the nearest gas station and they somewhat directed me to the nearest auto repair and mercifully, it wasn't too far away.

"Well," said the somewhat cute mechanic, "your clutch is out."

I suspected as much, I had been warned about the clutch, but hoped it would have held up until I got to LA.

"Let me call around," he found a clutch that would fit, but wouldn't be able to work on it until Monday. Today was Friday. Well, an unexpected vacation in Huntsville. The mechanic called a taxi and suggested a hotel. I unloaded my necessities and left the rest of my Beverly Hillbilly truck wrapped up in tattered blue tarp. I got on the phone with the cab company.

"hallloow," he said.
"hi, I'd like a taxi at blah-blah auto shop."
"whaaare is that?"
"something something John Street."
"Whut?"
"something something John Street."
"could you spell that?"

Had this happened earlier in my life, I might have freaked, but as I had been writing out my mission every day, I remembered one particular phrase: 'endure tests with grace' and repeated it over and over, sometimes in my head, sometimes just under my breath.

My driver turned out to be a former city employee who just drove a taxi for something to keep him busy until he runs for mayor. He suggested I not stay at the hotel near the shop and instead drove me to the other side of town where the 'cheap 25 dawler hotels are' and dropped me off at the Red Carpet (formerly a Motel 6) where the rooms weren't twenty five but thirty three dollars but I didn't much care, I had to get on my laptop and find out what to do in Huntsville.

I sent out what I thought was a muted yet earnest request to just about anybody I though might know someone in the area. After all the time driving and before that, all the time spent with family, I needed some gay company. I found out of date sites about Huntsville and two bars that might still be in business. I called the French one, Veux Carre.

That night, there I was, walking four miles along a highway, in a tee shirt and jeans and a baseball cap (Kings Cross Steelers! yah!) drinking a quart of milk out of the carton, looking in any ditch hoping to see alligators, on my way to a boner-fide gay bar.

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