And I even saw a roadrunner
Enough about Vegas (I'll finish it and post a link at some later time). Now I've seen the real desert, the part with no casinos or, god forbid, fountains.
I spent the weekend in the general vicinity of the Joshua Tree National Park, which is now high on my list of my favorite places anywhere, ever. I scrambled up some rocks, felt all the moisture sucked out of my body, and, at night, remembered what 35 degrees Fahrenheit feels like. Especially if you're somewhat falling-phobic, there's nothing quite like standing on top of a big-ass rock outcropping (after minutes of stalling from your psyche and encouragement from your peers) and looking out bizarro lunar desert landscape. Nothing like an unpolluted desert sky after living in LA.
The trip was organized by some of Rick's classmates, who I'll now even go out on a limb and classify as my friends, too. Grad students aren't supposed to have a life, so it's glorious to have fallen in with a work-hard/play-hard crowd. Wouldn't you know it that, among six intelligent people (five of whom are pursuing PhDs) we all forgot something. This ranged from minor things to soap all the way up to "Shit, I left my bag in my apartment," followed by a trip into town for some supremely cheap and ugly closeout garments. Ah well, we had the important things, like enough gas to get us there, enough water to not die, and the gargantuan 10-person tent later christened "The Condo." We even figured out a way to get six of us into one small car for the trip from the campground to the park (not recommended).
That night, as we got wasted around the campfire (sshhh), a big RV (or was it a bus?) labeled Three Doors Down drove up and settled into a campsite near ours. It took us forever to identify a single one of their songs, and when someone did, we decided they were a crap band and we should harass them. Sadly, we never did -- it was probably the crew, not the band, anyway -- but among the better suggestions were, "Aren't you the guys who sing that song, 'If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends...'" and "Aren't you the guys who sing that song, 'doo doo doot, doot doo doo doot..'" (Who can tell those crappy prime-number bands apart?) When not engaged in this puerile activity, we had other puerile activities to keep us busy, such as attempting to belch the name of Rick's grad school program and trading embarrassing fart stories. Maturity is for wusses.
In other music-oriented news, we tried to replicate and photograph this album cover. The results were inaccurate but funny, as they all put on their most thoughtful, arty facial expressions and tried not to laugh.
Part of me now wants to piss off to Bumblef*ck Nowhere Desert Country, work at a bar, and go hiking every day. Not gonna happen, but nice to ponder. Everyone, to the desert. Seriously. Preferably with a big pack of freaks.
Enough about Vegas (I'll finish it and post a link at some later time). Now I've seen the real desert, the part with no casinos or, god forbid, fountains.
I spent the weekend in the general vicinity of the Joshua Tree National Park, which is now high on my list of my favorite places anywhere, ever. I scrambled up some rocks, felt all the moisture sucked out of my body, and, at night, remembered what 35 degrees Fahrenheit feels like. Especially if you're somewhat falling-phobic, there's nothing quite like standing on top of a big-ass rock outcropping (after minutes of stalling from your psyche and encouragement from your peers) and looking out bizarro lunar desert landscape. Nothing like an unpolluted desert sky after living in LA.
The trip was organized by some of Rick's classmates, who I'll now even go out on a limb and classify as my friends, too. Grad students aren't supposed to have a life, so it's glorious to have fallen in with a work-hard/play-hard crowd. Wouldn't you know it that, among six intelligent people (five of whom are pursuing PhDs) we all forgot something. This ranged from minor things to soap all the way up to "Shit, I left my bag in my apartment," followed by a trip into town for some supremely cheap and ugly closeout garments. Ah well, we had the important things, like enough gas to get us there, enough water to not die, and the gargantuan 10-person tent later christened "The Condo." We even figured out a way to get six of us into one small car for the trip from the campground to the park (not recommended).
That night, as we got wasted around the campfire (sshhh), a big RV (or was it a bus?) labeled Three Doors Down drove up and settled into a campsite near ours. It took us forever to identify a single one of their songs, and when someone did, we decided they were a crap band and we should harass them. Sadly, we never did -- it was probably the crew, not the band, anyway -- but among the better suggestions were, "Aren't you the guys who sing that song, 'If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends...'" and "Aren't you the guys who sing that song, 'doo doo doot, doot doo doo doot..'" (Who can tell those crappy prime-number bands apart?) When not engaged in this puerile activity, we had other puerile activities to keep us busy, such as attempting to belch the name of Rick's grad school program and trading embarrassing fart stories. Maturity is for wusses.
In other music-oriented news, we tried to replicate and photograph this album cover. The results were inaccurate but funny, as they all put on their most thoughtful, arty facial expressions and tried not to laugh.
Part of me now wants to piss off to Bumblef*ck Nowhere Desert Country, work at a bar, and go hiking every day. Not gonna happen, but nice to ponder. Everyone, to the desert. Seriously. Preferably with a big pack of freaks.
Labels: travel
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