desdenova

6 Days and Counting

Scott's trip to Hobo Heaven, also known as Eastern Washington: the land of 1001 cheap wineries.


The trip began as all expeditions leaving Seattle do: With heroin. I mean coffee.


I had a plan. I was going to leave in the early afternnon to avoid the I-90 clusterfuck.
Look how well that plan worked out:

This was at one o' clock on a Thursday afternoon. What the fuck is wrong with you, Seattle?

Passing Issaquah with a rumvle in my stomach I decide to veer off the highway and into Krispy Kreme.
A friend of mine once described this particular device as the ever-flowing semen waterfall. I smell a new marketing campaign:


See this face? This face says one of two things. It's either "Why does everybody make such a big fucking deal out of these things?' or, "Somebody farted on my donut."


Welcome to Indian John Hill Rest Area. Providing a convenient drop off point for that dismembered transvestite in your trunk since 19fiftysomething.


Part of a series that I like to call "Photography at Eighty Miles Per Hour." Not to be attempted by amateurs, or people who don't enjoy being trapped in the burning wreckage of their car.


Taken from the top of Manatash (Manastash? Mansatash? Manmeat Hash? To tell the truth I don't have the faintest idea of what the name was. Luckily, I don't really care, either.) Ridge.

All the smoke is made by villagers burning witches. Or sacrificing goats to Cthulu. Anything other than the boring agricultural explanation that is probably closer to the truth.

I've managed to avoid the irrtating habit of constantly quoting Napolean Dynamite that seems to have afflicted so many others but if I was ever going to start, this would have been the perfect opportunity:

Why the hell do people raise Llamas, anyway? I wracked my brain for hours trying to think of an answer yesterday.
We don't eat them. I've never seen a Llama skin jacket. Never had a burger with Llama cheese. I'd imagine thay make piss poor mounts. Maybe they put out better than other livestock. Is every Llama farm just a secret den of perversion?

We in Seattle think we're so damn cool with our abandoned Hat and Boots gas station. Well guess what, Seattle? We're outmatched. If you want dignity and refinement in your abandoned filling station you have to head over the mountains. All the way to the motherfuckin' Teapot Dome.


Before turning around and heading back to Seattle I stopped for a plate of fried chicken(and a case of food poisoning, as it turned out). This is how you create ambience in your establishment when you live in Prosser, Washington:

The only patron of the restaurant was probably completely convinced that I was insane by the time I left. Between the picture taking, reading a book while waiting for food rather than watchin the talkin' box, and pulling out a laptop he could just tell that I was most likely one of them city fellers. Every time I glanced up and caught his eye, I could see him straining not to say " We don't want your kind round these parts!"

I must say, these hillbillies and their Interstate multitasking have inspired me.

Coming soon! Desdenova's Roadside Falafel/Underwear stand.