The (Long, Long, Long, Long) Voyage Home: My Trip to Texas Part IV or III or Something

Last time I wrote about my trip to Texas I wound up on a long tirade about Albuquerque’s gay pride parade, which apparently caused many problems in spite of the fact that I wasn’t there and am not gay. Period. I am absolutely completely not gay at all in any way. My friend Dessabrina the Pagan Lesbian Skunkette Transformers Slash Fanfiction Author is but I am not.

Glad to clear that up. Now, first I mention this only because Shrimporee, the large and incredibly obnoxious celebration of shrimp I attended in Texas, was gayer than a gay pride parade, in that it sucked far more dick than the guys at said parade, and you were more likely to get screwed over by the price of shrimp there (approximately $4.59 a piece) than you were likely to get screwed by a twink wearing spandex at the parade. Look, I’m not saying Shrimporee sucked, but I’m saying that I think my going on a fishing trip in which the only thing I caught was a sunburn was considerably more fun than Shrimporee.

(Also, to appease my mother and conscience, which never shuts its mouth: Thank you guys again for accepting my dirty New Mexico blood into Texas.)

So anyway, like I was saying last time, we left Texas as fast as we could. It was hot, it was humid, it was San Antonio, with the ugliest highway overpasses in America bar absolutely none, it was Texas. We were going so fast I didn’t even have time to take a picture of a giant cowboy boot in front of an upscale clothing store in San Antonio. You’re going to have to take my word on this. It was huge.

Like, this big. For serious.

By the time we were within a hundred miles of the New Mexico Border, my mother, my grandmother and I had decided that we were going to make it to New Mexico before nightfall. At that point, we would rather stay in Artesia–site of an oil refinery, smell of an oil refinery, proud home of the only elementary school slash nuclear fallout shelter in the United States–than wind up staying in the Lone Star State. I’m saying if there were a nuclear war that started as we were driving that night, and we were a hundred miles from the border, and the bombs fell and we were still a mile or so away, we would mutate our way across the border, just so we didn’t wind up dying on Texas soil. The locals would probably tell us about the benefits of a John McCain presidency until our ears literally fell off if we didn’t anyway.

So, long story short, we made it there, and started cheering and hooting and yelling and thanking God that we finally got out of Texas alive. First stop was Carlsbad.

(Note: There is a large hole here.

Do not drive into it, it is not a tunnel. If you try to drive into the hole, bats will attack you and National Park Rangers will scream at you and possibly beat you to death with their walkie-talkies. I know this by experience.)

There were no rooms in Carlsbad. Well, okay, there was one, but it was at a hotel called “America’s Number One Value Choice Hotel” or some other ridiculously long name, and as you hotel conoisseurs know, a hotel is only as good as the number of syllables in its name. Three syllables generally are good, such as “Best Western”, unless there is a number behind them, such as “6”. Any more than that and it’s a fleabag, any less and the owners couldn’t afford three syllables. Remember that tip next time you go on vacation, it could save your life.

It was ten o’clock, and next up was Smellville, also known as Artesia. My mother lived there only six months, and it was still enough to give her flatulence, because of the oil refinery they have there. I was weary of staying here, because this would be too easy. Also, their only hotel was named the “Artesia Inn,” which was about as nice sounding as “Cockroach Alley”.

It was eleven o’clock.

Next, we wound up in Roswell. Now, Roswell is a large city, but apparently, there was a freak influx of “tourists” (READ: ALIENS) when we went here, so there were no rooms in Roswell, either.

Let me put it this way: The next town was three hours away.

It was twelve o’clock.

At night.

At this point my mother’s screaming and threatening to crash her vehicles into other vehicles, my grandmother’s on the verge of crying, the car’s almost out of gas, I’m afraid of being anally probed by the Roswell aliens, and it is dark and the mean streets of Roswell, New Mexico are filled with seventeen-year-old deviants with tiny foreign-made cars blasting punk rap in a desperate attempt to seem kind of cool while living in possibly the most white-bread part of all of America, where the only non-corn-feds are the hippies who come here to look for aliens and get pierced in vital organs.


Yes, we found a room, although I believe my mother would not have minded a nuclear war, at this point. (Hell, we could have stayed at the Artesia Elementary School Slash Fallout Shelter.) The room was at a Holiday Inn, which I do realize has four syllables rather than three, but we figured, screw it, it’s good enough. It cost us $150 for one night. And the damndest thing is, we were happy to get it.


Our trip back to Albuquerque was “fun”, in that we were well rested and my mother was no longer wishing death on passing vehicles. The soundtrack was Dire Straits’ “On Every Street”, which contains such tear-jerking lyrics as

We would like to thank the following for their

Invaluable contributions:

Danny Cummings, Paul Franklin, Vince Gill, Manu Kache,

Phil Palmer, Jeff Porcano & Chris White.

Dire Straits, “Calling Elvis”, 1991. Uploaded to Youtube by the user Bosstrack. No, I don’t know what’s going on in the video either.

Oh wait, those are the liner notes. Nevermind.

On this particular trip, I never bought any wolf shirts. I did get one with imprints of bare feet on it, apparently from a man named “Seaside Sam” who has some kind of “Barefoot Adventure” I never went on. This was given to me by my uncle Kevin, who also plays the guitar really well.

(Just so you know: I do not want to know what this “Barefoot Adventure” is. Please do not enlighten me if it has anything to do with any kind of perceived “romance” with this Seaside Sam. Also: TOTALLY NOT GAY)

What I did do on this trip home, however, was fun. It included:

  • Drinking lots of water
  • Urinating a lot
  • Driving (well, okay, my mom drove and I talked about pickup trucks the whole way home)

This pretty much summarizes the rest of the trip. As with many of our trips, we concluded at a restaurant named Gardunio’s, which, in addition to not sucking, has chocolate tacos.

I can think of no better end than that.