Perfect Day, Infinite Gist, part 2: Bus, City, Desert, Vaginas…

Bus full...

Bus full…

(continued from previous)

1500 Hours: If travel is an addiction, then buses are the junk that courses through your veins. By American standards this is one step above homelessness, the ragged and wretched and the too-afraid-to-fly queuing up for bumpy-road jaunts to familiar locations where unnamed relatives live in uncertain symmetry, silence only occasionally interrupted by the rat-a-tat of gunfire and the backfire of Mexican low-riders…

Of course it gets boring in a bus station after a few hours, but this is what happens when you go ‘next available’. In any city outside the USA, there would likely be huge crowds, if not actual throngs, of people watching and waiting expectantly to see if their bus will be on time, and if not then why not. People would be shifting body weight from foot to foot over some imagined fulcrum that merely hides the tracks and traces of boredom.

Bus Station in Thailand

Bus Station in Thailand

There is nothing here at all—nothing to eat and nothing to do, this in a city of a half million, Tucson, AZ, 33rd-ish by population in the US, and growing, but hugely overshadowed by its larger neighbor only a hundred miles north, and this in a country addicted to gasoline, autos, and houses on wheels—Hell on wheels. There are no espresso machines, no tacos, no nothing…

So I eat ‘road food’ that I brought along with me, chamomile tea in a used peanut butter jar, to which I add years-old Nescafe that I’ve been saving for the perfect occasion. Hi. That should give me a buzz. Funny, but no one seems to notice. I mean, here I am shooting up in front of God and everyone and people could care less as a methy little grin creeps across my face and my legs start twitching while I try to stay in place…

Bus in Thailand

Bus in Thailand

I eat from a bag that contains cookies, bread, carrots, and an avocado spread that some might call guacamole, ‘guaca’ as in ‘aguacate’, Spanish for ‘avocado’, and ‘mole’, pronounced ‘mo-lay’, like the moles negro, rojo, y poblano that Mexico is famous for, variations on blood and chocolate ladled over chicken, especially, and dipped into liberally with tortillas (editor’s note: guacamole has neither blood nor chocolate)…

Some call me cheap-ass, but I take solace in the idea that the world would be a better place if everyone did likewise. That’s the universalist principle, secular style, top universalize your actions. Re-brand frugality as ‘sustainability’ and it might just catch on. This is America, going nowhere fast, in large unadorned buses, to parts unknown, and arriving there handily, i.e. nowhere. So I continue reading Wallace’s ‘Infinite Jest’, specifically the “Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment.” Now we’re getting somewhere!

Product Details1800 Hours and it’s time to board. Scenery passes by of the Arizona landscape, fitting since it was David Foster Wallace’s, too, for so much of his life, and I’m reading his masterpiece ‘Infinite Jest’. Tucson fades out into desert before gradually becoming Phoenix, one of my least-favorite cities. If Phoenix were to be someone’s favorite city, you would have to wonder what it says about their character. As I said many years ago, while living in Flagstaff, “Phoenix doesn’t MEAN anything.” It still doesn’t, unless the meaning in your life comes down to money.

As one of the ten largest—and newest—of the major cities on America’s urban landscape, it is a bright spot financially, i.e. lots of room for growth. Growth! That’s the American mantra; endless growth! Let us expand out into the skies and the heavens beyond and infinite space beyond that, all to sustain our gluttonous lifestyles here on Earth, and the capitalist system that sustains it! This is God’s plan for us humans, divinely ordained, God’s plan for us who can only find communion with our pets, since we are are increasingly unable to live with each other…

Image result for welcome to phoenix sign2000 Hours: The bus pulls into Phoenix right on schedule, bus station location unusual in that it’s right by the airport, which itself is not so far from downtown, something like the center of that sprawling malling metropolis named after the φοῖνιξ ‘phoinix’ bird that re-births itself by arising from the ashes of its former self.

We Tucsonans and Flagstaffians consider that a bit of overkill, and Phoenix to be a bit of a mess, maybe best symbolized by its notorious sometimes-Sheriff always-Fascist Joe Arpaio (Maricopa County, whatever, same same). I’ve got an hour-and-a-half layover here. The station has a crapper; I’ll give it that, and sometimes that’s all you need. Yes, you can quote me on that, prescient that I am…

From Phoenix it’s miles and klicks through vaginas and dicks, the tracks and traces of civilization and its fortifications. Picture it: vaginas and dicks! A sea of body parts and reproductive organs populate an otherwise empty desert landscape, proof of Darwinian success in the most unlikely of places, a place where no self-respecting lower ape would go, the higher-ups in love with their industrial successes, too, cowboys and engines inhabiting a desert landscape that air-conditioners facilitated, successors to automobiles and autos-da-fe…  

(to be continued)…

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