war of relocation

Let's go back out into the wasteland, eh? If you've been reading this blog for a while you've seen (and no doubt enjoyed) some of my "Adventure Days," little road trips I, along with various crew members, like to take to weird, interesting, historic, abandoned, etc. places within relatively close driving distance of the home office in Salt Lake. A region I've spent a lot of time in is the West Desert and Great Basin area to the Southwest of where I am right now. When I say "spent a lot of time" I mean, "have been out there three or four times." Nevertheless, I feel like if you needed a guide for an adventure of your own there's no one better than me.

On a recent Saturday I sure as heck needed to get away, and though I can't speak for my traveling companion Elin, I would have to assume she needed to get away as well. I was feeling antsy, the air in the valley had been unbreathable, I needed a reason to update this blog again, and some dudes were looking to wail on me so a road trip seemed prudent. We decided to go the Eureka-Delta route and see what we could see.

Eureka has been blogged about here before. We breezed right through it this time but I turned around and went to gasoline because I would have been really embarrassed if we ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere. This gas station is also a motel, but I kept poking around inside and couldn't figure out where the motel part of it would be.


The road from Santaquin (which is just off the main stretch) to Delta (nowhere near any sort of stretch) is a long one dotted with small loosely organized communities, tipped over sheds, and swampy woodland areas with dead twisted trees, beautiful in their astounding ugliness. Delta is an oasis, such as it is, floating out there in the desert. It exists mostly for it's noteworthy Alfalfa and concentrated Berilium.

We got into town and just bumped around a bit. We were on our way down one road when a barking dog chasing after two barking dogs in a truck changed our course.

When you're in small town and you see a goofy little dog chasing after two goofy big dogs, and those big dogs are in a slow moving pick-up, it's best to stop whatever you're doing and follow that scene. Because maybe that little dog is leading you to something interesting? Like this!

The ooooold schoolhouse.

The front door was locked but it seemed like something we should go inside. Luckily the back door was open. In fact the back door was missing.

It's normal for a school to have a toilet, but there was also a bathtub in their. It was filled with dirt.

Check out this awesome revolutionary wallpaper. Everything you need to know, right there.

The floorboards were creaky and covered in tetanus bearing nails, and there were dead birds everywhere. Not the most inviting of environments.

A ways out of town, down a lonely dirt road is an interesting site. It's guarded by this message on a rock, maybe a thousand years old. They think the message is from one tribe giving another tribe permission to hunt (on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Wednesday)

Hiking! We headed up a mountain to get a look at a weird rock. The vastness of the scenery below was hard to comprehend. Aside from that poor excuse for a road there were no signs of human life, literally as far as the eye could see.


This here, is a big pile of rocks.

I'm just trying to give you a sense of atmosphere.

So get a load of this rock. It's called, appropriately, the Great Stone Face.

Whaaa! It looks exactly like Joseph Smith, the inventor of Utah!

The face was found by Mormon pioneers exploring the area in the 1800s. You can imagine their surprise. Got to admit, the resemblance is striking. I'd imagine that the Native cultures of centuries ago held a certain reverence for the rock as well.

So! Let's shift gears a little bit. Imagine you're just chillin' in the country you call home. You were born there and you've carved out a little niche for yourself and in your free time maybe you just like riding your bike around and playing baseball. Then the country your parents were born in go and bomb your new country, and you're like "Not cool, dudes!" but no one cares for your not-cool sentiments and they figure, well, despite your Schwinn and your baseball glove you're probably no different from the guys that bombed us. Why don't you come with us, they say. And then they put you on a truck and put you on a train and put you on a truck and drop you off in the Topaz Internment Camp.

Where the scenery is flat, the summers are hot and the winters are cold, and you're behind tall barbed wire fences watched by guards with machine guns. Kind of a bum deal yeah?

Topaz War Relocation Center covered 31 square miles and housed about 9000 Japanese and Japanese-Americans during WWII. An interesting tidbit from Wikipedia about the name:

Topaz was originally known as the Central Utah Relocation Center, but this name was abandoned when administrators realized that the acronym was naturally pronounced "Curse." The camp was then briefly named for the closest settlement, until nearby Mormon residents (with their own heritage of forced relocation) demanded that their town name not be associated with a "prison for the innocent." The final name, Topaz, came from a mountain which overlooks the camp from 9 miles (14.5 km) away.

The 442nd RCT of the 100th Battalion was a military unit made up entirely of Japanese-Americans and became the most highly decorated combat unit in the history of the U.S. Army. Many of the boys in the unit returned from the war and were sent straight back to Topaz. WTF?

There's not much of anything left out there, but the stillness of the air and the disinterested landscape gives off a real eerie feeling.

Don't try to step on those holes, you'll fall.

Shot and killed by the guards for standing too close to a fence.

Topaz.


Further reading: Topaz Museum.

Topaz was a long way from the town of Delta, through a gridwork of roads playing home to cluttered farms and fields of sagebrush. There's a post-apocalyptic feel to the place. Everything is feels recently abandoned, and even though there is evidence of mankind everywhere you can't help but feel isolated. To see what I mean, look at this house.

It just tipped right over! Why did it tip over? Why was it there in the first place? Why did the owner leave a perfectly good case of tampons and plastic cups sitting inside?


It feels like something out of Cormac McCarthy's the Road. Everything out there does. I wonder how long that tipped over house will be there. In fifty, a hundred years, will it have been cleared to make way for bright new houses and man-made lakes? Or will it's decay continue unchecked, a forgotten relic of a forgotten person, reclaimed by nature, as it will reclaim us all? Ah I'm freaking myself out.

Shortly after examining the house, we discover the fate of its owner. Quicksand.


It was time to go home, but one perilous obstacle stood between us and the highway. Desert Pirates!

These people were very clear about us keeping out of their stuff. They do not suffer trespassers lightly! And they fly the Jolly Roger so who knows what they're up to? Again, the questions plague me: why are those people out there? What are they hiding? Why are they so suspicious of me and my doubloons?

Well the good news we made it through sans incident.

When we got back to civilization Elin and I celebrated with some snacks. I had a Charleston Chew. I'm not sure what she had.

The Past

I wake up in a bed that's not mine.

I don't know where I am. This is all too fancy. This is not my baroque brass lion!

The view from the window. Judging by the growth pattern on those leaves, I'm in pre-Dutch Manhattan.


Oh hello! So as the year wound down (you remember that, it was last week) I felt compelled to compile a few Best of the Year and Best of the Decade lists. I always get nervous about those things. What if I screw up? What if I list my eleventh favorite movie as my eighth favorite movie? I battled anxiety for a while and finally made some lists. I don't know why. It's like if I don't document things like that I'm not really alive.

When making those lists I joked (quietly, to myself) that I should make a list of Best Days of the Decade. Then it occurred to me that my own stupid life is well documented enough via pictures, blogs, twitters, e-mails, texts, and internet message boardings, that I probably could make a list of my best days. I didn't actually go that far, but I did quickly conclude that January 4, 2004 was my official Best Day of the Decade.

Now, was that really my Best Day? Probably not. I've oft contended (and I stand by that contention) that the best times are the ones you can never describe. Crazy adventures out of '80s movies rarely happen in real life and when they do they're usually disappointing. The best times can't be captured and put into a jar.

That said! January 4, 2004 was a really good day. It was a good time in my life, generally. I was as carefree as a boy with a falcon.

Yes, it was perhaps the last time I was truly carefree for an extended period of time. No one in my family had taken ill yet, I wasn't involved in any sort of relationship (or attempted relationship), which... you know, relationships are great but come with their own variety of stressors, I really liked my job, I thought I was some sort of big-shot award winning film student, I really thought I had it all figured out. Looking back, I was really just a know-nothing kid. But to a know-nothing kid marching around New York City with no regard for anything outside of your immediate sphere is pretty great.

So this was the real view from my window that morning. Back then I worked for a luxury hotel chain. This occasionally allowed me to stay at five star hotels for cheap (free). It was a pretty sweet gig. This was a work trip, where a group of us went to learn all about the hotels in Manhattan, in theory to allow us to sell them better.

The first three nights were a lot of fun. Big-deal dinners and fancy-pants hotel suites. Treated like royalty we were! After that the party of co-workers went home but my friend SeanE and I stayed behind for three more days.

Pouring rain that morning, my favorite kind of weather. I decided to go for a walk through Central Park. The doorman was asleep at the wheel so I had to push the door open by myself (like common gutter trash). As I did that a damp and scowling Natalie Portman pushed her way passed me, pausing only long enough to give me a real dirty look. Here's an accurate recreation.

Central Park was great.

I wanted to try to find out where the ducks go in winter but it turns out the ducks were still there. Stumbled my way into Bethesda Terrace and it's lovely angel fountain.


She stood under an umbrella. Her expression betrayed nothing.

"Bryton-" she said, choking on the N. Struggling to say it, to say the words she found so hard. "I'm... I'm sorry."

Her face, her impossible face, twisted into a wince, a dam holding back tears. I wrapped my hand around hers and lowered the umbrella.

"Just this once Natalie, just this once let yourself feel. Let it rain my darling, just let it rain."

I don't know how long we stood there, embraced. No matter how long, it wasn't enough.

"It's time." I said, releasing her from my arms.

"Don't." She said.

"I have to." I turned my back to her, to make it easier for both of us. When I turned around, she was gone.

I looked up to the heavens, where the clouds seemed darker than before.

"You take good care of her Zach Braff. You take good care of her!"

Then a bunch of hippies came along and ruined my moment, as usual.





The rainy day gave way to night, which made the bright lights of the city that much brighter, the colors that much deeper.

The city had the romance and mystery to it that it's supposed to have, if the endless pools of ink and miles of film devoted to New York are to be believed.

It also had Beeker.
I love this neon sign. I think this is the third time I've bl'gged it.

I'd heard tell of a bar called Pravda in NoHo.

It's underground, and to get to the room you pass through a steel door and a velvet curtain. I was like, "oooooh!" I guess at the time it was a real hotspot with the local douches. When me and SeanE were there it wasn't very crowded at all, which was really nice. Maybe it wasn't a hot spot at all. Maybe some New York scenester is reading this and thinking me a hayseed. Well whatever. They have a great martini there called the Nolita. And I fell in love with the bartendress (I got over Natalie pretty quickly I guess). Look, I know you don't believe me but we had a special connection, me and that barkeep. A special connection!

Fine.

Pouring rain and, several drinks into it, we decided to walk the empty streets to McSorley's Old Ale House, the oldest continuously operating bar in the U.S. (1854) and one of my favorite spots on earth.

Hey look it's in comic books!


Soaking wet, we warmed by the coal stove.

The place smells like beer, sawdust, and mustard. Just like any Irishman. It's covered with the ephemera of bygone days (auld lang synes) and nothing has been removed from the walls since 1910.

That's John, he's a great server. He knows me, tell him hello.

These dust-covered wishbones were hung up by doughboys on there way to fight the Huns in the green fields of France in the Great War. Legend has it the returning soldiers would come back to claim them, so the remaining bones belong to the fellas cut down in the trenches.

In the '60s "Honest" Abe Lincoln gave a speech at the nearby Cooper Union (a speech that established him as a legitimate candidate for President) and afterward celebrated with an ale at McSorley's. Woody Guthrie staged a few union rallies there, Theodore "Ted" Roosevelt was known to pop in from time to time. John Lennon liked it there and Elvis once drunkenly sang on top of a table. Also I've been there.

In the entire history of the bar there has always been a set of two cats living there, always a red one and a grey one, and always named Red and Minnie. Also, they're camouflaged!


The cheese platter. Best meal I had that entire trip.

They only serve two drinks there: house-brand dark and house-brand light. At the time it was two glasses for $2.50 but I hear it's now up to $4.50. I think we can blame George W. Bush for that one.

So we um, had a lot to drink and were on the verge of going under when some regular named Jerry came in and threw a rolled up newspaper at one of the cats. Turns out that Jerry guy is the night watchman. He'd had a rough day. The commotion gave us a second wind and we ended up staying another few hours. Eventually we ended up in Times Square. Somehow.

The first thing I remember is giving a couple bucks to a homeless because I thought he was Aragorn. Then we asked a cop for directions to the liquor store.

Gay.

It wasn't even that late but Times Square was totally abandoned and eerily quiet. So I took pictures like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky.




Good day.

Christmas 2009

Days of Peaches, Nights of Thunder

Well, that was something wasn't it? The whole Twilight thing. I spend four hours one night making my silly little lolcats and next thing I know everything blows up! I went viral, so I guess that's one more thing I have in common with bird flu. It's all been quite fun, but I think it's time to press onward and get back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Oh, and I know I've been plugging this a lot, but if you've missed it my new website is http://www.popsuede.com. Lolcats movie reviews and other pop-culture shenanigans will be taking place over there, so head on over and become a follower. Bookmark it. Send me money and snacks.

Back to what this blog does best: Adventure! This was a fine Saturday back in September, where Lady Elin, TR, Terrence, and I went on a trip to Ferron, Utah for the annual Peach Days festival (not to be confused with Brigham City's own Peach Days festival, which I'm sure is inferior) (and in turn should not be confused with Hurricane's Peach Days festival, which may or may not be inferior but is probably pronounced all weird).

Where is Ferron? Nobody knows. It's not on what anyone would consider a beaten path, though it does have a claim to fame: in the '90s it produced three champion bull riders.

It's a ways into the desert, past the Viking burial mounds.


Peach Days was packed with big events. Starting with the soapbox derby race.


Yeah, I would have thought the one on the left would have done better too. Seems more aerodynamic. Probably didn't want it bad enough.


The lil' tykes would race down hill and then get towed back up by four-wheelers.

After the races we went to find the town's social hot spot.

Then lunch at the (shudder) Grub Box.

I didn't want to eat there. Growing up "grub" was a slang term meaning that someone had touched your food with their damn dirty hands. As in "Looks like someone grubbed the chicken. Better throw it away."

Rich guy like this means one thing...

...high stakes horse racing.

That's a good picture, that one there.

Some of the racers had themselves fancy racing pants and flamboyant silks, while some had t-shirts, jeans, and bike helmets. The fancy guys always ended up winning.


Adjourned to a park for some grass layin'. A horrible crime took place in that tree.

Just outside of town is a canyon leading into the Manti-LaSal National Forest. That is some stunning scenery up there.


Something eerie about this partially dry lake bed.



The final event of the day: DEMOLITION.

Then the sky exploded and it got dark.

I think I've said this before, but the best part of the Demoliton Derby is when the cars crash into each other.
You know what? At no point during Peach Days did I consume a peach. I didn't even see a Peach. Huh.

disorder

My insomnia has been real bad lately. Wait, I don't like the term insomnia. That sounds like an infection. I ain't been sleeping so good lately. I can be as tired as a day laborer but as soon as that light goes off every thought a person is capable of having charges through my head. I do come up with a lot of good blog ideas, twitters, and chapter titles for my novel but I forget them by morning.

Morning! Morning comes too early. I wake up long before the alarm is set and can't get back to sleep. My heart is pounding and my thoughts are upturned. Not cool Zeus!

More interesting than not sleeping though is Hypnogagia. Look it up! Basically it's a disorder where your brain and your body don't wake up at the same time. Maybe your brain wakes up but your body is still in sleep paralysis. So you lay there awake, but can't move. Also, you hallucinate monsters. Fun!

This has happened to me four times, most recently last night.

The first time I was a kid. Just four or five. I woke up and perceived that Star Wars aliens were in my room staring at me. Like three Nien Numbs or something.

No seriously, monsters. See, your brain is awake, but not completely, and for whatever reason you conjure up hallucinations of usually unpleasant things. I'd wager most alien abduction cases can be explained by this.

Anyway, shortly after the Nien Numb incident I was told that there had been an earthquake. That's an important fact.

The second time I was older, late teens. This time I woke up to a vampire at the foot of my bed. a large one. Guess what? There was also an earthquake that night. So apparently an earthquake shakes my bed with just enough force to wake me up halfway.

I should point out, these hallucinations, you don't actually "see" them, you just kind of know that they're there. Like how right now you know that maybe there's a wall behind you or whatever even though you can't actually see it.

The third time was the scariest and longest incident. I had fallen asleep with the tv on and woke up to find myself watching the Simpsons, even though I didn't want to be. I couldn't move and it lasted long enought that I could actually think "I can't move. I can't close my eyes. I shouldn't be looking at the Simpsons right now but I can't close my eyes." I perceived, just off the side of my bed, a large goblin creature. It was horrible and malicious. This lasted an estimated 45 minutes (probably 10 seconds in actuality) before I noticed that my bed was shaking. Aha! I put it all together and realized that earthquakes caused these bizarre dream things.

Except there actually wasn't an earthquake that night. Huh.

Last night I woke up and there was an (imaginary) intruder in my room. I responded like I would if it was a real intruder. Cooly and calmly. My exact words, out loud (I think) were "Huh? Huh? Huh? What? What do you want? What is it? Oh my god. Ohhh my god." Finally I was able to move and flipped on a light. No intruder. Felt my bed rattle, but no earthquake.

Well, that's today's story.