Subject: Nova News #59
Date: Wed, 09 Feb 2000 18:21:29 +0000
From: M/S <bluenova@pocketmail.com>
M: Periodically,
ya still bounce into those bumper stickers that read, "God
Is My Co-Pilot." I've got nothin' against this
concept and, in fact, don't mind those of the 12 step persuasion
exhorting, "Easy Does It". Yet, after giving the
decal deal considerable thought, I gotta go with the idea while
God is doin' ITS thing, and The Big Easy tends to a few others,
Stephen King is most certainly ridin' shotgun with us.
I have my reasons for saying
this. They tend toward a Weird that makes ya "Go Whoa"
and keeps me humble when I think I've got the whole thing figured
out. Because I sense SK’s had a Near Death Experience,
I feel compelled to pay particular attention to any synchronicities
(metaphorical or otherwise) that may present whenever I read or
hear tell of his stuff. I do the same with other NDErs I've
met, and look for similarities in their Return from The Life After
Death Experience. It's sorta an independent research project
of mine.
I have no proof Stephen
King has had a NDE nor do I have any knowledge he's ever publicized
the fact, if, indeed, this is true. It's more a gut feeling
I have about this guy and if anyone should ever get an opportunity
to ask him please let me know what he says. For what it's
worth, I did have an empathetic ache in my ankle when I heard the
dude got nailed by a car last summer. Once ya get your own
batch of broken bones, I suppose ya empathize with most any compound
fracture rolling down the pike.
Susan and I are figurin'
out this knew found lifestyle as we go along. We've discovered
Less...Can Be More...if ya appreciate what you've got. Elements
of The Strange go hand in glove when ya jump in a Ford truck and
begin pullin' 34 feet of travel trailer down the road. Neither
of us recall a how-to course being offered in the public schools.
Instead, we were told to worship the upwardly mobile move as if
it were the only one. Perhaps, fore now, it's time to go diagonal
and…so…during those times when the outer limits breech,
Mother Abigail chants "Weasels in the Corn", and The Walkin'
Dude whistles in on a western wind, I think of ol' Steve King and
mutter, "Thar She Blows."
As some of you know, in
October of '87 I hit ground zero in the Sevier Desert of South Utah.
In short, a tire blew at 82 and the car I'd hitched a lift with
careened wildly off Hwy. 50, somersaulting into the sunset---the
vehicle didn't bother stopping until I was tossed out like a bad
dream. The Silver Lining came when I decided to write about
this incident and submit it to a newsgroup of rather eclectic kindred
spirits; Susan was lurking. I entitled this posting The
Wastelands (this was before
I knew SK had already written a book by this name, so I’ve
since changed the title of my story to The
Outlands) and followed it,
shortly thereafter, with The
Emerald Dragon…and…once again, Sue watched. A lotta
cyber-courtship stuff was emailed back and forth before we got to
where we are now (which is, in and of itself, a weird ol' tale),
and I reckon we'll be talkin' bout our walkin' as Nova News rolls
along.
When we arrived in Yuma, it was impossible to find
a RV Park that wasn't full up. Considerations have been made
for the likes of us in such situations with what the industry calls
dry camping. In a nutshell, this means every square foot of
real estate that can make a buck, will make a buck. Campgrounds
accomplish this feat by stickin' folks in adjacent fields, allowing
use of the facilities (showers/pool/laundry/phone) and charging
slightly less because electric/water hookups aren't included.
Our arrival in Shangri La RV Park started with these accommodations
and several days of dry camping preceded full-fledged entry into
the main complex.
The vacant lot posing as
"dry camp world" for this particular resort does double
duty as the place dogs do their doodoo. The Management calls
it a pet walking area and plastic bags are offered at the gate where
a sign intones "please clean-up after your animal."
Additionally, our dry camping environment includes (at no extra
charge) an area which serves as a makeshift burn pit, and so, when
ya factor in watchin' snowbirds fingering plasti-wrapped dog shit
coupled with a refuse heap smoldering in the night, I gotta tell
ya, there've been moments of the surreal.
I've got no problem with
this; we've seen far weirder at Wayside.
Yet it was what I saw when lookin' across the Interstate bordering
this dirt field that got me in my Mr. Mumble's mode. Especially
was this true since I'd just dropped by the park's library and picked
up a Stephen King book I never knew existed. The song and
dance plays out like this:
I was mindin' my own business
and wandered into the used book cranny after a soak in the hot tub,
dip in the pool, and a personal system's check indicating everything
was right with the world. Sure, my shoulders were a bit tight,
but that's what one gets from luggin' 10,000 lbs. of stainless steel
thru the southwest…it's a goes with the territory kinda thing.
I sensed somethin' was afoot when I read the jacket on a SK paperback
entitled Desperation.
According to the introduction,
the scenario takes place in the desert lands of the southwest on
America's Loneliest Highway.
In reality, there actually is a road bearing this name and it's
been posted as such on those reflective State Hwy. Dept. historical
markers, bragging said slogan in fluorescent letters that glow in
the dark. It reminds me of a town we drove thru named Hope,
AZ, which is comprised of an RV Park and General Store. This
establishment clips a buck by sellin' picture postcards featuring
what's written on the back of the town's sign---which one reads
upon departure, proclaiming, "You Are Now Beyond HOPE."
Sorta catchy, isn't it? Kinda like sayin,’ "Howdy,
thanks for shopping…sure wish you'd catch a dose of the clap
and burn in hell forever...have a nice day."
America's Loneliest Highway
is designated State Road 50 AND SR 50 just happens to be the same
cinder stretch I was ditty boppin' down in October of 1987 when
my whole day went to hell in a hand basket. I did a double
take (or three) when I noticed the Master of the Macabre had decided
to write about this particular span of american asphalt and couldn't
help but hear the theme song for the Twilight Zone filtering once
again thru the ethers.
I grabbed the book, went back to our rig, and figured
a quick review would clear out whatever synchronistic ghostings
might appear. I parked my butt in our living room, watched
smoke rise from the burn pit and wondered, "What's THIS All
About?" The hand of God didn't immediately slap me upside
da head, so I read for awhile and found myself startin' to get a
little nervous when ol' Stevie wrote about some fictionalized RV
gettin' it's tires' blown while cruising down America's Loneliest
Highway.
After reading this section
of the book, I figured to shake off the heebie-jeebies by taking
a walk around Nova, case the perimeter, and smoke a cig. I
remember thinkin' it'd be a good idea to remain watchful and see
if I could read any Signs indicating a present minded course of
action. Glancing over the Interstate, I looked across the
four laner and snap rolled a “Heads Up Alert,” because,
THERE---in plain view and living color---stood the main outlet for
Big O Tires. I began whistlin' thru the graveyard as it occurred
to me this was the same company that’d sold the rubber to
the guy who’d picked me up hitch hiking in the high desert.
It made me "Go Whoa"…a lot.
We've noticed some cracking on Nova's tread lately,
even talked about replacing a few of those more worn. Based
on what is known, we aren't plannin' on buying them at Big O.
Afterall, the one that detonated back in '87 was only ten days old.
Before rollin' south into Mexico tomorrow afternoon, we’ll
be gettin' six new 8 plys in the morning…wouldn't you?
