For some bizarre fucking reason, I allowed a couple of my dear friends to pursuade me that driving to C5 would be a good idea. We can stay with my partner who lives around the halfway point, we could make a detour to Graceland to visit the King, and it would be fun, right? So the Wednesday before Convergence, Casper and I get up at 4 in the morning, pack the car up to the rafters with clothes, black nailpolish, and two pounds of chocolate-covered expresso beans, strap the snoring Axel to the roof-rack and head for the grand old US of A like some weird-ass Canadian version of the Mod Squad.
Our first delay was encountered at the border. Apparently Casper, the only member of the crew who was actually born in Canada, doesn't have any ID. The border guards were convinced he was a FLQ terrorist, and we had no choice but to run for it. Armed only with an outrageous French accent and an expertise in martial arts gained by an in-depth study of John Woo films, our intrepid hero battled his way into the waiting get-away car, and we sped off into the night under a hail of bullets.
Once in the country we wasted no time in getting to our first hideout. (In fact we were in such a hurry, we didn't even stop at the Dan Quayle Museum -- yes this place really does exist.) Travelling deep into the woods of central Indiana, guided only by an arcane map scratched into the tanned hide of some extinct beast, we finally came upon the pick-up truck that marked the forest dwelling of the Naked Armed Redneck™. Clad only in a corn-cob pipe and holding a goat under his arm, he helped us camoflage the car with tree branches -- not easy to do when you are holding a goat -- welcomed us into his cabin, showed us where the outhouse was, and fed us dead things. Finally, exhausted by our close call with the authorities, we fell asleep.
Getting up at 4 in the morning, (Is anybody sensing a theme here?) we dug out our car and prepared to make the remainder of the trip. The NAR™ offered to give us the goat in exchange for Casper, but we were able to distract him with a gift of the black nail-polish, and fortified with several hits of the now somewhat mushy chocolate-covered expresso beans, we once again we hit the road.
It was at this point that the windsheild wipers fell off.
We had figured on an approximate arrival time of about 10 pm, since the triple-A maps estimated that it was about an 18-hour drive from Indiana to New Orleans. Somewhere in the middle of Alabama, (or was it Kentucky?) we crossed into the central time zone, and I completely lost track of what time it was. Shortly after what-I-think-might-have- been-about-noonish we pulled into a gas station just short of the Louisiana border in search of fuel for both car and driver. Pumping the gas required climbing the stilts that held the gas station up above the swamp, and Casper and Axel went off in search of something solid to sit on so they could enjoy a smoke. I decided against buying anything snackable there, mainly because I couldn't actually identify anything that might be food, and I couldn't understand anybody's explanations of what things were because I can't make head or tail of southern accents as spoken by people with no teeth. Finally I gave up, settled for a couple of handfulls of chocolate-covered expresso mush, retreived Axel and Casper from the back of a passing alligator, and we headed into NOLA.
It was at this point that the battery fell off.
Driving into the city sans electricity meant the car was going slower and slower as we got closer and closer. By the time we found the hotel, I was actually doing the speed limit. Once at the Bienville, I pulled into the parking lot, threw the keys at the valet and bolted for a shower.
At the magical hour of 4 AM, when I am full of alcohol and sugar-covered things that I can't pronounce and I was actually preparing to go to bed, I got a phone call from the front desk. They can't start my car and they want it out of the driveway before people start to check out in the morning. After several attempts involving gradually increasing numbers of drunk people in black, we finally manage to push my car into an out-of-the- way parking spot, pick up and dust off those who were run over in the process, and go back to our drinking/sleeping/snogging/etc.
The wonderful, talented, and extremely well-equipped
Macross agreed to help me
out with my car. By virtue of synchronizing our watches and then immediately going into
daylight savings time, we manage to lose each other for most of the rest of the weekend.
Finally, however, we link up and Mac and Art repair my car armed only with some
fishing wire and a clean sock.
The weekend was... fucking amazing. I never stop being amazed at how cool my friends are, and I think my ribs still hurt from all the laughing I did. I'm not going to itemize everything I did all weekend, because other people are doing a much better job of describing the chaos that was C5, but suffice it to say that it was well worth the effort to get there and back.
(This is code for "I don’t actually remember much of it anyway.")
So finally Monday rolls around, and much to my chagrin I actually have to leave all this wonderfulness and head for home. After packing up the car, getting lost, getting found, hugging everybody good-bye half a dozen times and finally climbing into the drivers seat, we head for home.
It was at this point that the parking brakes fell off.
Well, OK, they didn't fall off, what they did do was sieze shut. The dufus who couldn't start my car at the hotel decided that since it didn't move, it would be a good idea to put on my parking brakes. Which now wouldn't let go. So once again Mac, Art and Mac's friend-who's-name-I-don't-remember come to my rescue. After Mac's friend-who's- name-I-don't-remember lies in the gutter with a cable cutter and Art actually picks up my car, shakes it once, and puts it back down again, I have had the living fuck impressed right out of me and the brakes are fixed.
So we got back in the car, took a long swig of chocolate-covered expresso soup, and headed west through the swamps.
It was at this point that the rear brakes fell off.
Y'know, getting to Tennessee is a lot faster when you don't have to worry about slowing down.
We are just short of Memphis when we decide it would be a good idea to get off the highway and find a place where we could spend the night. Amid the green hills and the faint sounds of distant banjo music we tracked down something that was kind of like a campsite but with bigger mosquitoes, parked as far away as possible from the trailer where they still had their Christmas lights up, and set up the tent.
We had just finished throwing the sleeping bags into the tent when the rain started. And got heavier. And heavier. Lightening sizzled around us in all directions, and tree branches crashed to the ground at our feet. We had to shout into each other's ears to be heard above the continous thunder. The rain fell so hard that I couldn't blink fast enough to keep the water out of my eyes, and I finally gave up and climbed into my sleeping bag. The last time I saw Casper he was standing on hood of the car with his arms upraised, a rum bottle in one hand and his trench-coat flapping in the gale while he cursed the elements in Quebecois french.
Come morning, we cautiously unzipped the tent and found ourselves floating down-river. Fortunately we were able to harness several ducks that had roosted on the roof and were towed safely to dry land. After bribing the ducks to also tow the car into shore, we wrung out Caspar, made a careful detour around the blasted remnants of the trailer where the buzzards were picking through the bodies of our former neighbours, and set off for Graceland in a flurry of feathers and damp cigarettes.
Graceland was... unique. I have no
other way of describing it. It
was decorated in the style of early 70's cracker, complete with
animal-print faux fur upholstery on the furniture and shag
carpetting on the ceiling. I have never seen that much white
wrought iron in my life, and I live in an Italian immigrant neighbourhood.
After purchasing several Elvis movies for Axel and some miscellaneous souveniers for the ducks, we headed north again. Somewhere in Alabama (or was it Kentucky?) we crossed into the Eastern Time zone and moved our watches an hour ahead. After many more hours of driving we crossed into Indiana and set our watches an hour back. (Or was it ahead?) Once again we made our way to the refuge of the Naked Armed Redneck™. It was long after dark when we got there, so we turned down his gracious offers of squirrel stew and possom pie and climbed back into our sleeping bags. In the morning he offered to give us his pick-up truck in exchange for Casper, and although we gave the deal careful consideration we finally decided to distract him by giving him the ducks instead, and once again we hit the road.
It was at this point that the exhaust system fell off.
Upon leaving Indiana and entering Ohio we once again moved our watches ahead an hour. Or was it back? Anyway, sounding like a garbage truck going up a hill and with absolutely no clue of what time it was, we made a short detour to Cincinnatti and stopped at the house of Blacklace and Jack. They were both wonderful people and gracious hosts who never once mentioned the fact that we were all covered in dried clay and smelled remarkably like barnyard fowl and swamp water. Unfortunately we didn't get to stay long because we were actually under the illusion that if we left early we would be able to get home within a reasonable amouint of time.
Ha.
It was at about Toledo that the alternator fell off.
By virtue of turning off anything electrical, coasting down the hills, and saying a lot of the magical four-letter words, we were able to make it all the way to Detroit before the car finally conked out for good. On the off-ramp leading to the Ambassador bridge into Canada. Axel and Casper pushed the car up the ramp and onto a side-street and we put the hood up, carefully cleared a space among the needles and condoms, and sat on the sidewalk waiting for the CAA to arrive.
For some reason, going into the duty-free on foot was not ok, but going through in a tow-truck was. And the attendents made fun of the truck for being small. (I mean really, it's not the size of a man's truck that counts, it's the weight he can haul with it.) With Axel and I squished together over the stick-shift and Casper spread out over our laps, we thankfully returned home to the land of killer moose and maple syrup.
This makes the second time I have crossed through customs in a tow-truck. One more time, and we can call it a tradition. On the plus side, it did distract them from asking Casper for his ID again.
By the way, Windsor sucks. Don't go there.
Axel had to make it in to work in the morning, so we stuck him in a
cardboard box with a few air holes punched in it along with some
pieces of carrot and some left-over chunks of chocolate-covered
expresso brick, a couple of bottles (one for drinking water and
one making water) and a head-set with a selection of Elvis tapes
and then shipped him off home by bus.
Finding a cheap place to sleep was accomplished with the aid of the first person who hit us up for change. (Amusingly enough, he was one of many people we met who were stuck in Windsor (don't go there) and trying to get back to Detroit.) Finding a place to get food proved a little more difficult. We were refused service at PEPPERS BAR AND GRILL for being somehow less desireable customers than the rest of the under-age looking drunken greaseballs that made up their clientelle.
Cadillac Jacks were nice to us and gave us food and drink. The folks at The Days Inn were even nicer and took care of our luggage while we wandered the streets looking for something to do while my car was being repaired. We were so bored we ended up in an internet cafe, and figured we would tell the rest of alt.gothic where the hell we were; (hint: Casper speaks entirely in titles)
