Hotel Congress is the place to be.
Criminal livin’ is the life for me.
Jail spreadin’ out so far and wide.
Keep that freedom, just give me John Dillinger.
So it doesn’t much rhyme, so what. It was the first jingle that came to mind and I’m not about to give any considerable time to writing the opening to a blog entry that really just needs to tell you that we stayed at Hotel Congress where John Dillinger was arrested along with his gang and sent back to Indiana. Eventually he broke out of jail there and continued his crime spree never to return to Tucson.
The day started with coffee, from the same cup John Dillinger drank coffee from back in 1934. We sat at the same table Dillinger ate breakfast at before shooting the place up. I had my eggs, bacon, and toast the same way Dillinger had them fixed, and then I took a much needed leak in the same toilet Dillinger did before he shot it too. I went back for more coffee and decided to shoot up the place myself then left for a bank and robbed it – Dillinger style. After returning to the hotel it caught fire, I leapt from the window but the coppers nabbed me and sent me back to Indiana where I escaped from jail to grab a coffee at a local coffee shop at a nearby hotel before shooting my cup of coffee while eating breakfast, pissing, shooting, and robbing in a cycle that had the feeling of a déjà vu. Then I had a coffee.
Lenny…..a guy who should inspire us in our dumber moments to not make characterizations of people we have no idea of who exactly they are.
Free hugs, now there’s something we need more of. Suppose I wouldn’t have had to turn to a life of bank robbery hanging out with people like Pete had I known more hugs but today is not a day for hugs. I’m fueled up on coffee and ready to look into the eye of mankind and tackle issues larger than the petty emotional needs of love and acceptance. I’m on a quest to answer questions that take things to the next level.
I’m in alternative-ville Tucson and this is Biker Claus chilling while his stable of Harleys get outfitted with his sleigh before delivering spark plugs to all the good bikers on his naughty list.
Back to my quest. I have been looking for that thing, that essence, that characteristic of non-conformity called real character. It’s apperance is fleeting and rarely found. The 1980’s gave way to generic Wal-Mart and Republican defined total-conformity. The majority of people around me are little more than reflections of some popular TV show, their favorite sports team, and the vernacular of idiots created by media to be used by morons little equipped to find their own voice. Defining one’s style is out. Finding your mind, the meaning of life, or exploring new frontiers is the domain of 60’s sci-fi reruns but not of any interest to the current age. I often find myself lamenting the American people’s rapid trajectory to nowhere and ask, “what happened to individuality?” But today I figured it out, it is dead and that’s really no problem. Months ago I may have found this troubling, turns out that my trip to the Grand Canyon helped provide sense to the tragedy. You see, what was wrong with my search for signs of the individual looking for unique self expression is that this was a nostalgic desire from a guy who has never had much patience for all that nostalgic stuff. I was looking for the inspiration that I felt when I was much younger; today it just does not exist for me anymore. Here’s where the Grand Canyon comes into play, people are like individual grains of sand and instead of these folks growing and evolving to form new sand castles, they have in a sense – been extincted. They are becoming part of a new layer of sandstone, a part of a fossilizing conglomerate where an individual grain is of no real interest. Each grain is part of the bigger object needing to be seen as a whole that is being eroded, weathered, aged, stained, and reformed as a monolithic representation of a time past, lost in the historic record. So I am now left with the task of changing my focus to learn how to see anew, to not search for life in stone, or to expect the petrified remains of what was, to find reanimation.
As I shared my new found vision with Caroline she doubled over nauseous that I should see my self so elevated above the mass of humanity. Retching uncontrollably my wife stuck her fingers down her throat and like a priest of a whacky backwoods religion who reaches into the body to remove a tumor, she began to pull out god-knows-what from her mouth. WTF! Oh wait, this might be the picture of her eating a burrito, my bad.
This is Joe Cunningham who was smart enough to not be shoving food into his mouth when I’m hovering with the camera just inches from his face. The same cannot be said for Ms. Rainy Heath who knows how to slurp and gobble like a surly wench – as she’s doing in the background. Of course these three had like totally different experiences than my much cooler adventures. They did things like shop for stuff, browsed the arts and crafts from the vendors of the 4th Avenue Winter Street Fair, talked with the sellers, and drank Whoopass while I had all the fun.
And then there was sunset. We drove home. Night came. Rainy and Joe retired to their respective homes that are not ours. Caroline and I then teleported to a galaxy where we sought out alien life, explored and traveled where no man had gone before. It was the final frontier and Caroline’s 43rd birthday.