something seriously wrong with folks who undertake the chalROAD TRIPS & ROCK SLIDES There’s lenge of driving across country through the great plains and Rocky Mountains in mid-November. To put it simply, they’re all fucking mad. The web of interstates and highways that stretch the nation are uncertain terrain, full of potential perils and hazards. Suicidal deer and elk leap from the darkness on a routine basis, their bloody limbs and torsos pepper the pavement every few miles. Then there’s the potential for destructive weather, the snow, ice and blizzard-like conditions that put cars and tractor trailers upside down in ditches and over cliffs. And if you think it can’t get any worse, consider being buried alive in a rock slide on I-70 outside of Denver. Rock slides and blizzards and suicidal creatures of the night are only a few of the worries that can haunt the weary and worn road traveler. With every blink of the eye and nod of the head the potential to be run off the road by a half-sleep trucker, swerving back and forth across the dotted white lines, increases dramatically. There’s only so much that uppers can do for the trucker traveling thousands of miles a day. And chancing the short cut or scenic route by venturing off the interstate can put you in deserted territory, where gas stations can be hundreds of miles apart on any given day – and then there’s no guarantee that any will even have gas. Finding yourself on empty in the middle of a snow storm in the middle of nowhere can put you six-foot under as quick as any doped trucker can. There’s the potential for breaking down on a barren strip, too, that stretch of desolate freeway where serial killers and madmen roam free, abducting weary and helpless travelers at will. Above all threats to consider on the road, a far more dangerous culprit rockets down the pavement daily, Obnoxious Moronous. He or she is the jackass behind the wheel in a hurry to get nowhere fast, to shave a few minutes off a trip to grandam’s house at your expense. Obnoxious Moronous will soar past you, cut you off, and nearly cause you to rear-end the slow moving vehicle in front of you, only to gain one car length. Common sense or concern for safety are not part of his or her thinking process, only selfish thought and will. You find the remains of their destructive behavior down every road, usually marked by a flower-covered white cross. The cross country road trip is for the mad, those of unsound mind. And that’s certainly the indy publisher. There’s no budget for first-class airfare nor Amtrack, unless you’re living off a trust fund or settlement or one of the 1% – and if so, you’re nothing more than an indy poser. For this indy publisher, our road trip was the one back home to Seattle to celebrate our 10th year in indy publishing. With day jobs being our first obstacle, and another late print being our second, time quickly became our enemy. And the only way to beat time on the road is to drive hard and fast, and sleep in shifts. With two-thousand miles down in twenty-seven hours passed, these kind of road trips aren’t for the weak or spoiled, they’re dirty and greasy, unsettling and nerve wracking – fucking mad. Maybe I was mad before indy publishing, or maybe indy publishing made me mad. I’m way beyond the semantics of this debate now. The woman not only knows my madness but has become to accept it over the years. Whether it be me publishing this forum of free speech and rants or spending the weekend on the streets of St. Louis, panhandling for money and food, really not matter to her anymore. And after we visited Occupy Seattle last month while on vacation, I think she even expected for me to ask to camp with protesters for the night. And that’s what I did. Destination Occupation started with me rolling up my sleeping bag and turning down a bag of weed from a friend to take to the Ben Hills’ Memorial Show at the Comet, accepting only few nuggets instead. I didn’t have a pipe, but was confident that I would find another smoker with one, especially on Capital Hill. This kind of venture takes serious thought, sober thought. I gave the woman my bank card and all my cash except for $49 and my ID, leaving all my other valuables, including my camera, in her care. Worst case scenario, I get rolled for whatever cash I have left after The Comet show, which normally wouldn’t be much, if any. But this wasn’t a typical night, even more so with sober thought and behavior. To make sense of this ramble, the following details must be noted, accurately: I met Guitar Doug and his friend Belinda inside The Comet. While I could have slipped past the cover of $7 as the publisher of The Sinner, I proudly paid, leaving me $42. I immediately bought one bourbon at $5, which was $6 after tip, leaving me $36. I then switched to a $3 PBR, leaving me $32 after tip. Belinda bought my next round of PBR, so I bought her next vodka and cranberry, leaving me $23. All three of us then headed to Occupy Seattle to shoot a few photos with Doug’s camera and talk occupation with the folks weathering the freezing temperatures. We returned an hour or so later to catch the end of the show, where I bought my last PBR of the night, leaving me $19. Doug and Belinda left; I went and created a mosh pit to the last act. I left very unusually sober, especially for this sinner.. This is where Destination Occupation takes a weird twist. After the show no one outside The Comet had a pipe for me to share my Kind Bud. Across the street, underneath the streetlight, I noticed a couple 420-friendly youngsters, at least young to this 40-year-old sinner. Upon approaching the group of four, three males and one female, I noticed an array of artwork laying upon the sidewalk – nothing mind-altering or earth-shattering, but art nonetheless. One of the guys, sitting amongst the art, said he was asking $5 a drawing. I agreed, as it’s an honorable barter system, not a handout. I then offered to pack a bowl of weed, if they had a pipe to pack. Instead, one of the other males offered his pipe, already loaded. I humbly accepted, as any sinner would. Upon my first and only toke, I felt the street beneath me shift, like a slight tremor. I then heard the request for $5. I reached in my pocket but found myself unable to pull my remaining $19 and ID out to pay for the art. As I did it hit the ground, and the group of strangers attempted to reach for it, but I regained enough composure to grasp it from the trembling ground. Then I heard the guy sitting with the art as he handed me a piece say, “ No man, it’s $10!”, after he had saw the ten-spot I dropped. As I grabbed the art and threw the $5 bill to the ground in his direction, the lights of the cars driving down Broadway began to morph with the street lights, becoming one psychedelic beam of light. I then stumbled, trampling the remaining art displayed on the sidewalk. One of them quickly grabbed my shoulder and mumbled, “Hey man, why don’t you just hang with us?” Instinct took over as I knew what evil laid ahead if I stayed, so I scrambled away, across the street towards the occupation. It was at the occupation that I found safety, at least the comfort to ride this unwanted trip out at 2am with my sleeping bag over my head and body. There were no parties or orgies at 2am nor 4am when I came out of this mad trip, as the national media often portrays the group. And at 6am when I finally regained my composure, the protesters woke and began cleaning and sweeping every piece of debris from the area, and regroup for the next day of survival, which is what the occupation is about every day and night, surviving this lopsided economy. And that, is just another tale of fear and publishing in two cities....
DESTINATION OCCUPATION
WRITERS, RANTERS, OPINIONISTS & OTHER ALL-OUT FREAKS: Mark Taylor-Canfield Paul Blow Lucifer Saab Lofton Malice Henry Nicolle
Stu Kimberly Peters Emily Eufinger The Surley Gourmand Guitar Doug Rajkhet Dirzhud-Rashid
Kendra Holliday Joe Motor Gina Simon Thom Bone
Publisher: Chuck Foster Layout: Terri Daniels Cover Art: Chris Gomez Cover Model: ViVi Louise
The Sinner is a group of contributing writers. Their opinions, rants and ideas do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sinner itself. The Sinner encourages contributions from its readers but retains the right to edit material due to content or length of submission.
FOR ADVERTISING OR SUBMISSION INFORMATION, CONTACT US AT CHUCK@THESEATTLESINNER.COM. SUBMISSION DEADLINE IS THE 25TH OF EVERY MONTH.