Geez, I hate America. Fuck this place with the freest of speech. Folks, I bought a couple of baking potatoes from Walmart up in Fairbanks, Alaska. After crossing the border into Port Angeles, Washington, the soul less border and customs officials confiscated my American bought potatoes. Essentially, it's starting; the US government justifies doing whatever the fuck it is they want to do with impunity. What a massive injustice.
The worst part is driving across this land. It is vast, varied and beautiful but the people rival the worst on Earth. I picked up a couple of hobo children in Portland, Oregon and these kids garnered nothing but stares all across the country. The sheriff in Podunk West Yellowstone, Montana had the nerve to tell one of the girls that he doesn't appreciate her "kind" around town and he offered to arrest her for vagrancy. The gas station attendant in Buttfuck, Oregon, when asked how he was doing insisted that he had no idea. I made a purchase and offered the most delightful of pleasantries and he couldn't even look me in the eye. The lady at the pizzeria/Internet café in West Yellowstone was a complete bitch and barely acknowledged my futile attempts to get some traveling information. Luckily, the Firestone service station in Northwestern Chicago, Illinois was filled with helpful, swift technicians who had me out the door in an hour. And the delightful woman walking to work in Portland also was very genial and pointed me and a travel mate in the direction of Voodoo donuts, of Anthony Bourdain fame. Also, the T-Mobile in Portland also facilitated my request to waive the account activation fee to set me up with cellular service. Whatever, we shotgunned it from Seattle to Brooklyn in three days, 4 adults, 3 dogs, no showers, barely any sleep and one blown-out tire. Fuck America.
I'm in a nasty mood because, well, I've seen better. In Alaska, your neighbor is the ONLY thing you have. The place is so vast, so remote, so brutal that you do anything to lend a hand, if even just to smile at your fellow warm-blooded oxygen breather. You don't buy Mercedes, French Connection, or care about Bluetooth connectivity. You get quilted flannel, 4 wheel drive, and red meat. And it makes you all the more practical and humane for it. In Canada, you light up a bowl before you lift a fist in anger. You puff a "j" before you huff and puff. The police even seem to respect you for it. In America, they confiscate your belongings and tell you you aren't wanted. They barely look you in the eye. Canada, adopt me; I'll love you more than the Queen.
"Oh, I'm longing to be out in the sweet unknown.."
Heartless Bastards on Be so happy.
Summer of 2009, I opened you mowing lawns somewhere in West Mount, I'm sure. I closed you on the shores of Vancouver near Stanley Park watching the sun set and snapping a photo or two. I went North toward the future. I urinated under the northern lights. I went to Whitehorse and didn't get drunk. I saw Tegan and Sara back stage and they said "hey" to me about 7 separate times. I watched Gentleman Reg rock out. I got zooted in the woods and made fried bread in the bush. I got completely wasted, then drove off-road to entertain two Louisianans. I burnt coffee on purpose and had people praise it. I had hippies pass me joints. I met a hundred + new faces. I rediscovered a deep seated/seeded hatred of my motherland. I got fed free beer and bar b que. And I learned that I can't wait to do it all over again... because nothing's stopping me.
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