Dozed off while trying to write that last episode in the cross country adventures. Seriously. I am one, fucking bone tired buckaroo out in the Arizona desert.

Sleep.

Turns out it took a full week and over 2,000 miles for my true self to break my easy streak and cause a little, dopey problem. Today, I drove my car straight into a mud puddle and embedded it firmly in a ditch.

How? Well, I’m not sure really. One minute, I’ve safely exited the highway and am reading the Holiday Inn Express marquis with a mind to enter its driveway. I lean into the very dark driveway, and boom it ain’t no driveway. I undershot it and eased right into the embankment bordering it. Just as I realized my folly, the mud inhaled the front tires of my front wheel drive sweet ride.

Two guys stopped while I was dialing Triple A, both convinced I must be injured in my stunt. (I wasn’t. It was an easy slow roll into sucking mud.) One guy even handed me his business card insisting I call if their were any issue with the tow truck. His card says he’s a “Surveillance Officer” for the county probation office. Also a very nice cop came by and we chatted while the guy came with a winch to yank me out.

Jesus Christ, I just realized I must have no rock and roll edge whatsoever. Two different legal authorities, in the deepest darkest corner of the Southwestern desert, happy to shoot the shit and consider me a lady in distress. Massachusetts plates in a sky blue VW, and I am no fucking threat at all. Goddamn the “fuzz” and their not bashing my head in. Thanks to them, I now know with uncomfortable certainty I am OLD.

A picture’s worth at least a buck-fifty in words on this one, so tomorrow I’ll post the ditched car photo of the veritable shitload I’m trying to upload right now.

The weather is indeed conspiring against me. I really want to see New Mexico, but with all of the snow still falling, I might just have to get the hell out of here.

I just mapped out a route to Truth or Consequences and Alamogordo to see the fine workings of our fine, fine government, which nuked part of its own country. But, I checked the various weather web pages, and it looks like heading either north or south on I-25 is ill-advised.

The best road is I-40 right now, considering the weather. From the maps it looks like the snow is worst behind me east and above and below me north and south. Fucking A, it looks like the cool stuff I want to see in NM is off limits. (Also kind of a problem is it’s cold and wet, and I’m a big pussy.)

So, if I head due west to Arizona, I might get out of the snow. Tough decision: logic and caution versus desire. Historically, not my best scenario choice-wise.

Unrelatedly, what the fuck is up with parents these days? I woke up at 8 a.m. or so to a fucking little girl just randomly screaming outside my room. Literally just outside my room. By far this is the nicest place I’ve stayed, but my room is right on a balcony area at the top of some stairs. Apparently, that real estate is the place to go for rugrats with snowballs and smokers.

Anyway, so these three kids have been playing there last night and then this morning, and they are completely oblivious to their being rooms with strangers in them. Specifically, me, who really isn’t on a kid friendly schedule. Fair enough, they are fucking children after all.

But, there were their parents miles away enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee in the breakfast room, I realized when I got the fuck up myself. Back in my day, the sentence prelude of many a curmudgeon like myself, those kids would not have been allowed to play directly in front of a strangers door. Pat would have had us inside so quick, we would be too scared to scream randomly.

Tonight, maybe inspired by some very tasty magaritas and chile-rich food, I was burning for adventure. A quick flip through the local free paper (which I’m pretty sure are mandatory in any city), and I saw some bar featuring “Comedy Night” on Monday night.

I says to myself, “Self, you’ve done some comedy, you should check out the local action.” I donned my Gortex-lined hiking boots aiming to hike on downtown (maps telling me a mere mile’s journey).

I walked into a friggin’ blizzard, and cursed as I am with no sense of direction, I wandered blindly. An hour or so later, I managed to never find the bar, but I saw the beauty of night snow falling around the backroads of Santa Fe.

Eventually, I found a liquor store that sold batteries, reloaded the power on my handheld GPS and defeated and dejected tromped back to the hotel for a hot shower.

The question is: Was it a cosmic force keeping me from a comedy scene, while I’m busy enjoying life? Or, was it just another fucking snowstorm in a seemingly endless winter?

One last thing, just to keep those cosmic whammies at bay, today, 3/15, would be my mother’s birthday. I can only imagine what Pat would say about my trip.

And, I know that what she would say and how she would feel would quite likely be contradictory. On the one hand, she would tell me to my face that I was being crazy and risky (only it would be through some wickedly pointed wisecrack).

But, I think deep down, in that weird secret smile kind of non-conformist space she occupied, I think she’d be proud. Mostly proud that I managed to avoid a complete and total royal reaming from my former employer, thanks to a lawyer and some cards close to my own vest. And, proud that I’m picking myself up, dusting off and doing something new.

Of course, there is no actual way to know what she would think of the man in whose direction I’m heading. But, I’ll slip out on this limb and say that I think she’d be OK with it. Apart from anxiety of race and culture, I believe she would like him. Ultimately, her only gauge might be if he treats me well. And, for the most part, he does. (Note the qualification, if your initial is “M” and you’re reading this post. There’s always room for improvement in this life.)

Fortunately, I guess, my sister has taken on the role of excessive worrier teetering on the edge of complete insult. When I first learned to drive, Pat would point out every tree bush or grassy knoll (including manicured shrubbery adjoining front porches far from the road) and advised me not to hit them. My sis has been helping in the same vein, especially as it pertains to whether or not I should drive in any level of snow.

So, with the spirit of the road, and the spirit of adventure of which Pat would probably be a bit envious, Happy Birthday to her soul, her spirit or, in the secular world, memories of her.

Yeah, so I was a little cocky when I mocked the New England snow. I’m in Santa Fe, NM, there’s quite a storm and I’ve decided to hang out to see whether the touring conditions will be more favorable tomorrow.

It’s a cold and rainy snow, much like the snows of my New England memories. (What a dick, I haven’t been gone for a week and I’m reaching for nostalgia.)

Anyway, since the road between Tucumcari and Santa Fe was treacherous enough to bring trucks to 15 mph, I figured might as well sit back and be leisurely about a city that heretofore has been mythologic. Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll check out the Georgia O’Keefe Museum, and then if the snow lets up check out some of them real live, Native American pueblos that got up in these parts.

Meanwhile, there’s no reason not to check out what are supposed to be some of the best eats and margaritas in the neighborhood. Imagine now me writing something shitty/corny, like when life gives you sour citrus, make margaritas.

The other night in Missouri I accidentally ended up on a stretch of the old Route 66. Today, I drove some of the “Mother Road” intentionally. You know, you just gotta live some of your rock star, hippie, freedom-loving fantasies.

Too bad I was stone cold sober and not looking to score weed or ass. Part of the legend might be some free-wheelin’, free loving, hazy with drugs adventuring on the road. Or maybe just getting drunk and beating my poor wife and children as failure and the Dust Bowl grinded my spiritless soul down. Either way, I was just another middle-aged broad sightseeing.

Desperately holding onto my rock and roll fantasy, though, I’m now sitting in Tucumcari, NM. I decided to stop here, when I started hearing Lowell George’s voice in my head and remembered the Little Feat lyrics:

I’ve been from Tuscon to Tucumcari
Tehachapi to Tonapah
Driven every kind of rig that’s ever been made
Driven the back roads so I wouldn’t get weighed
And if you give me: weed, whites, and wine
and you show me a sign
I’ll be willin’, to be movin’

Kind of feeds into my other (mucher newer) fantasy. After cruising so far and feeling pretty fine, I’m thinking my next job is long-distance trucker. Putting the hammer to the metal and all sorts of other cliched jargon I don’t yet know.

Maybe tomorrow if I find a good Internet connection, I’ll write about all of the hackneyed spiritual, road trip, journey cliches zipping through my head. Really, though, it’s a pretty damned good way to transition to a new coast, new life and all that.

By the way, I woke up in Tulsa, OK and am going to bed in Tucumcari, NM. Thanks to a certain chimp in the Whitehouse, I decided there was no way I would linger in Texas.

Oh, yeah, and one last thing. With all of the time to think and the necessary self-involvement of so much travel, I fear that I may be neglecting my relationship. I heard from M. today, and apparently my showing up in California a hundred pounds heavier with knotted, ratty hair and a leather face is a deal breaker.

Anyone know anyone on the West Coast interested in a bloated and dirty road warrior?

Or whatever the song says.

Hey motherfuckers in the cold and snow of New England — Today was top-down, wind in my hair and sunburn on my cheeks. In the Ozarks, it was about 80 degrees. (I checked out Branson, MO. Frightening mix of Vegas and “wholesome” family “values.” Scary. By the way, I’ve been to Iceland, and I have been to Utah and Branson may in fact be the WHITEST fucking place I ever saw. Bleach white. Chubby white. “America.”)

By the way, being as I’m “middle-aged” I’ve been using a daily moisturizer with alpha-hydroxy. The fine print tells you that AH will make you more susceptible to sunburn. They got that fucking right. I totally forgot, until a couple hours into my convertible highway groove. I think I’ll need a veil to protect my skin for the rest of the trip.

(Add to my list of surprises for M. In addition to gaining 200 lbs. from road food, I’m going to have a lovely cracked baseball-mitt complexion.)

Oh, and I thoroughly enjoyed “Thelma and Louise” when it first came out and on subsequent viewings. However, now I realize what a piece of shit Hollywood lie it was, and I think Ridley Scott should be ashamed. There is just no fucking way in hell those two chicks with their medium length hair could look like that after riding that far in a convertible.

Just one day, with no intervening plot twists and killing and whatnot, my hair was knotted and dredded. I checked into Day’s Inn looking like a homeless chick who’d lucked into a wallet packed with credit cards.

My sad attempts at controlling my locks, forced ponytail holders, scrunchies, a baseball cap and a scarf in various clown-like appearances. I looked like shit, and eventually everything tried blew off, and I looked worse for wear.

Thelma and Louise tossed their hair around with a couple of rubber bands, a hat and a cap, none of which blew off. I cry “Bullshit” against Ridley and all the Scotts.

I did finally get a decent meal, though. If you are not an octogenarian, you might want to be a bit wary of Triple-AAA recommended places. The food was good, but I was the youngest person in the place save for the waitstaff. Yeah, life is good when you are dining among the ROCKING Saturday night life of Tulsa’s blue hairs eating and dancing.

Today’s big questions are:

Should I detour about an hour and a half to see Branson, MO?

Top down?

How long will my white T-shirt remain unstained?

Unrelated to physical travel, but completely related to mental separation, Jesus God, am I happy to be away from Boston Comedy.

Not my friends, mind you, who I am very happy to know and to have heard from since I’ve been gone. And, there were some seriously cool connections in my last days in Boston.

I mean the dinks. Like the ones who have sent some shit to Kathy Madigan’s website with my now dead email. Fucking idiots apparently don’t realize that in addition to acknowledgements being sent by the site, I’m redirecting my email.

And, likely the same person, the humorless, completely insincere douchebag who posted on the Comedy Studio site about a pool as to when I would come back east, as well as his pussy anonymous sidekick. (You know, the loser who’s too sensitive to discuss his debts.)

My apologies to hbeeinc.com and reverendtim.com. At separate times I defended that wanker. I guess I should have figured it out somewhere around the time he kept defending Joplin, even after Joplin had already apologized to me.

I can’t even remember one reason I ever wanted so badly to be part of the Comedy Studio “family.” It’s probably no coincidence that the people most nasty about my moving and the reasons for it are the ones with the dimmest futures (if future is measured by success and well-adjusted living, rather than, say, mastery of bitterness.)

A lot of shit was kind of almost today.

Like I went to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and I took the bus tour that goes around the track. Only it didn’t, because they are still resurfacing.

It was OK, though. Just me, the bus driver and the tour description on the tape deck. The driver was a friendly old guy, and we talked a bit about Fenway.

He was sorry he didn’t get to see it when he visited Boston, and he hopes it never gets torn down to make way for a new stadium. We agreed on that, and I guess when you are in the middle of a big track built in 1909, it makes sense.

Later, I detoured to see where Abe Lincoln’s famous, boyhood, Illinois log cabin was. There’s a new log cabin there (Well, not “new.” I think it was built in the ’20s or ’30s.) It turns out the original was moved around for some state expos and whatnot, and then went missing. How the fuck do you lose a house?

(Coolest, yet spooky road moment — As I was leaving Abe’s family farm, I had my iPod on shuffle. The song that came up as I pulled from my parking space, “Abie Baby” from the soundtrack to “Hair.” (Yeah, I fucking know. I like showtunes.))

Then, I figured I’d try to get a bite to eat in St. Louis, since a lot of barbecue places back in the Northeast seem to have St. Louis-style choices. But, I could not for the life of me find a place that looked tourist safe enough to park my loaded car AND had restaurants.

Seriously, I saw only four restaurants at all in that city and two of them were goddamn Irish pubs (or facsimiles) with names like Maggie O’McHarp’s. Fucking hell, not what I’d be looking for out here.

I looked for my usual city scene to spot the high-rent district and good, if not over-priced eats, name-brand hotels, twinkly lights in the tree and horse-drawn cabs. What I think of as the Newbury St./Back Bay look. I saw the horsies and a few lights, but no fucking food.

Although one almost thing that didn’t happen in St. Louis I’m happy about. I didn’t run out of gas while lost along the Missippi hard by the Illinois strip joints and adult bookstores.

I got detoured around a closed bridge, deeply lost and the one gas station I found had handwritten notes on the pumps, “No Gas.” I seriously considered stopping at a “gentleman’s club” for directions, but I made it out of the detour and into a Shell Station.

Never did get any dinner. (The plus side of no meal is that there is no plus side. Apparently, M. doesn’t want me to gain a couple of hundred lbs. on a road diet. Bwahaa.)

I almost made it to Springfield, MO but bailed when the trucks were making me too jumpy, and I realized I was a bit confused by crossing a time zone earlier in the day. I type this from a Drury Inn, which advertises free high-speed Internet, in some fucking place called Rolla.