We woke up on Jon’s floor and, after putting on some laundry and having a shower, we walked into Flagstaff central to grab breakfast/lunch. I bought another Navajo ring. This one isn’t turning my finger green much.
We wandered around town all day, and at about 6pm we said goodbye to our new best buddy, Jon, and booked it for Kingman to pick up the car. Unfortunately for us–and you, dear reader–the car wasn’t ready, and we had to spend another mother-fucking night in fucking Goddamn fuck shitty fuck fuck fucking Kingman. We checked back into the same room at the same Motel 6 (Rm. 420. Joe couldn’t be happier with that) and then we went to the Sportsman to get horribly drunk, play pool, and load the juke box with music that the locals would find grating. I personally put on 30 Nick Cave songs. 30 of them, and most of them were off his first three records. The bar hated me but I didn’t care; and I sang along and did Rowland S. Howard impressions with my pool cue, even though Rowland didn’t actually play on any of the songs. Like I said, I didn’t care anymore. None of us did.
Joe really didn’t care. He smeared his face with pool chalk war-paint again and behaved in a manner that should’ve got our asses kicked. But everyone left us alone; I’m assuming they were familiar with the signs of early onset Kingman Madness and knew to stand clear.
I couldn’t be beaten at pool last night. Normally I lose, and not because I suck, but because I never really put a lot of effort into winning games because they’re completely pointless and their victories are hollow. Last night, however, I made the decision that I was going to win, and I did, over and over again. I got really cocky, actually. This middle aged lady named Beth challenged me and I let her get almost all her balls in before pocketing all of mine–and the eight ball–in a flurry of perfect shots. How you like them apples, Beth? You thought you had me, but I fixed your wagon, didn’t I? Suck it, Beth.
Everyone is still absurdly desperate for female attention. Goth Frog (Warren) was eyeing off this one blonde girl who seemed to be single (everyone is spoken for in this town after age eight), but then he was cock-blocked when this crazy meth-head lady hit on him: ‘you sure are a handsome feller, aintcha. How old are you?’ She was terrifying. I hid up the other end of the bar until she slithered away. At around 1am we were completely assholed on Scotch, so we staggered back to the Motel and fell fast asleep.
I’m writing this from the backseat of the rental car on Day 9. We’re parked at the gas station where Brenda is getting her new tranny put in. We’re all staring at her right now, waiting for the mechanic to finish up. I was going to tell you about the mechanic because initially we liked him; however, we’ve been in Arizona for almost a week now, and we are very, very unhappy about that. The mechanic is not getting a mention. I will tell you that if he stalls us another day I will put Brenda’s transmission in his ass. He swears we’ll have it back in a matter of minutes, though.
I was out voted on driving to Austin. We have a bunch of friends meeting us in New Orleans this Sunday and Austin is too far out of the way. I can’t wait to get to New Orleans. I’ve been told a feller can have himself a good time there.
Next stop: who knows.