Black-footed Ferret
Reports: The Cure
Dispatch 5 from
DumbFuck Nation, United States of Absurdia
Well, I wiped myself
up, and with much gratitude to a fellow human being, I went off finding my
salvation somewhere in Louisiana. A Reverend, Pastor Spell as going to challenge the Federal Government. Riiighht,
Rev. Spell…
My destination was
New Orleans. I was heading there with all good intention. My old friend Tom was
wintering there and when I called he said, “C’mon down”, without hesitation on
his part. I, on the other hand, was
grateful but worried.
It took most of the
morning get out of Santa Fe. I was headed south on Highway 258. I came onto
Clines Corners, a tourist trap now a ghost town. Feeling well rested, with a destination and
looking at hundreds of miles of desert, I thought it was a good idea to
purchase two Foster Oil Cans for the ride. I had been good riding under the
radar, maybe I didn’t give too much of a shit anymore.
About 10 miles south
of Clines Corners, there is a hermit/crazy man camped on the side of the
road. As I went by he was yelling and
waving and having an interest in interesting human beings, I turned
around. As I pulled into his encampment,
he chastised me, told me to “Go Back To California”. I had no intention of doing that, but I
wasn’t interested in a dangerous man. The thought I better take of my front
plate occurred to me.
I was heading to
Corona, New Mexico to see what all the fuss was about. Pretty much right smack in the middle of the
State, a thirty mile detour, the radical in me wanted to go to the source.
Corona is in Lincoln
County and those Wild West historians know this is the land of Billy the Kid,
the Hole in the Wall Gang, and any other outlaw that wanted to get away from
people. I felt a kinship.
I needed to
constitute myself and with the Fosters’ gone, I pulled into a rundown
convenience store in Vaughn at the turn off to Corona. They had no refrigeration with the result I
purchased a 12 pack of warm Budweiser. I
was zooming into the Death Star just up the road, I needed supplies.
As I pulled into town
it was dusk. There are no street lights in Corona as there is only one road
into and out of town. The Main Street is parallel to a railroad track and while
there saw the longest freight/coal/oil tanker train in my life, just guessing,
it seemed like 5 miles longer chug by.
It was sleepy, deserted, and somewhat ominous, or so I thought. As I was
slowly driving looking for a place to spend the night, a turbaned man, Sufi
perhaps, standing in front of his empty motel with a petrified look on his face
wanted to give me a room for 60 bucks. I
politely declined, tried to have a short conversation but his English was
limited. I just pulled over on the side
of the road and intended to sleep in the van right there.
The alcohol was doing
its inspirational magic. As the sun went
down in desert glory, I sat on the back of my van and played my guitar with
abandon, singing like I never did before.
I probably did “Bunny Hutch” half a dozen times. I did some drunk dialing and informed those
of the cure I was proposing. The warm
Budweisers were purifying my bloodstream; the cold desert night didn’t deter me
from my mission. I sang on. No one was
around, a car passed by every once in a while.
Truly down and alone, I reached the point I was working towards. With one great heave, I puked all over the
streets of Corona, New Mexico and went to sleep in the van. I was cured and will never catch that rascal
Corona Virus.
