The Tour Continues

More of nothing. More of nothing. More of nothing.

Still No Communication From The Expidition

New News Is Good News, so they say, though when it comes to people traveling deep beneath th surface of the Earth, you have to wonder about that. Still... we retain hope.

Finally, the Journey Properly Begins

This is the hole in which we finally made our descent after countless setbacks and false starts. April 1 was the official departure date, but being both superstitious and antsy, we decided to shove off a few days early. Heavy rainclouds threatened to burst forth at any moment, besides; an event which could fill the hole to the point of being impassible.

Upon finding our way into the fissure, we pulled in the aluminum ladder in case we needed it later. I lost my grip on it, however, and it went skittering down the slick hole, echoing into the distance and then gone. This was the first instance I felt of the impending terror of the descent, which I kept, however, to myself.

Feeling much more confident because of the store of Pep-O's I had recently purchased from the Manilli service station, I was soon once again thrust into doubt when the Professor remarked that we only had water enough for 12 days. It was necessary to begin rationing at once! The early part of the journey revealed that all aqueous resources were incredibly toxic-- most likely a result of ill-conceived sewers or factory farming.

My phone reception, which was insufficient at best at the outset, was soon non-existent. So far, however, we are able to find wireless internet service in at least one location every four hours or so, which helps to keep the crew's sprits up and allows me to post these periodic travelogues. I am afraid, however, that the laptop's batteries won't hold out much longer. Any of these journal entries could easily be my last.

I Can't Remember Now

Did anyone remember to pack the Pep-O's?!?

My Real Identity

I have been above ground for some time now, after a lengthy journey below the surface. I had to come into work and pay the bills, after all. I would like to record my experiences here, but right now I am finding myself on the verge of a new adventure. A large hole has opened up just outside the window of my office. I will include a picture of it later, if I decide to investigate. I feel that I can't afford to travel once more beneath the earth's crust, but on the other hand, can I afford not to?

Oh… another bit if news. I am not really Ray Speen, I have just been using his login name in order to keep this online journal. My real name is Randy Ingersoll.

An Astounding Discovery

I was heading into town on my way to the office, recently, on a sunny Saturday morning, when I noticed a hole in the road that seemed to be widening as I looked on. Some might call it a POT HOLE, but I felt that SINKHOLE did it more justice.

I locked my bike to the nearest condo balcony and inched my way to the edge of this definite traffic hazard. I was thinking of finding some of those orange cones and putting them on the OTHER side of the street, thus directing unsuspecting motorists into the deadly chasm. But I decided against it, thinking, why ruin a perfectly good miracle of nature with man-made garbage?

I was afraid if I left the spot I wouldn't be able to find it again, or might return to find emergency road crews tarring over the hole. There was nothing I could do, then, except make my way down into the pitch black cavern, and feel my way along an underground passageway with nothing to light my way. I had my backpack, but no lighter, no matches, no knife, no nail clippers, no toothpaste, no bottle of water, no deodorant. Why was I carrying my backpack anyway, if I couldn't take anything with me? I had some Altoids and my notebook, and more than one pen, of course.

Cell phones don't work down here, apparently, not that I have one. I've been walking for days, weeks, perhaps months. Without the sun's cycles to guide me, my sleep patterns have become erratic. Or perhaps very regular. I finally have come to a smooth slab of rock next to a small underground stream. There is light from some phosphorescent fungi, and free WIFI. So at least I'm getting this update in before continuing on.

Underground

Residents of my home town may have noticed the nasty smoke rising like an industrial accident from a horrible gap in the earth across from my usual hangout, The Wicked Hop, in the Third Ward area, right by the Public Market, last month. Sure they tried to cover it up with a tent, which only seemed to draw attention to it. Didn't they ever hear of the CIRCUS?

The worst thing about it, however, was the horrible chemical smell, obviously deadly toxic, like a burning pile of cell phones, and I don't need a health department analysis to tell me that. There was one thing to do, as far as I could tell, and that was to venture deep into the sources of the offending material. So I took my flashlight, a quart of Gatorade, and little else, and that's where I've been, I guess. It's hard to tell, because once you get a good lungful of that stuff, you start to remember things that never happened.

Run-ins with the Prophet

I've been seeing Prophet Blackmon regularly at the post office-- he's there nearly every day-- and lately I've been stopping to talk a bit. I first ran into him when he was selling his religious paintings outside of the East Library, and I bought one of his church magazines. He asked me how my health was, and if there was anything wrong with my respiratory system and my knee. I had bronchitis at the time, and a bad knee, so I was impressed. Maybe he could hear the rasp in my voice, and maybe I was limping a bit, though I wasn't aware of either one, but even so, if those were his clues, I was impressed by his powers of perception. But I preferred to believe, right then, that he was a Prophet, as he claimed to be. He offered to help me heal.

I had not thought about him in a few years, so I was glad to see him at the post office. He said that his 86th birthday is coming up in April. Each time I see him he doesn't seem to remember me, but he always seems glad to see me and talk a little-- usually he tells a joke, or some odd story. He mentioned my knee again, and I was wondering if maybe he just has these standard questions, the knee, the chest. I hate to doubt him, but it's the detective in me that makes me want to get to the bottom of things. But then, after, on this day, going on with stories for quite awhile, he asked me about my head, and I told him I do suffer from a lot of headaches. You won't anymore, he assured me.

By this time, anyway, I was ready to believe him completely, because a couple of weeks ago I was talking to him, just briefly, and then as I was about to leave he looked at me as if something suddenly came over him and asked, "Are you a writer?" I said yes, and he seemed pleased, but not at all surprised. I left then on that day, feeling kind of crazy, but also a little guilty, because I could also sense that he knew I wasn't a Christian. But then, if he could tell that, I figured, thinking about it, I'm sure he can also tell that I have respect for him, and his beliefs, and the unknown, and that I'm willing to accept anything, and I will gladly admit that, about this universe we live in, I know absolutely nothing.

How many good Americans does it take to clean up the World?

We had some really nice snow in the past few days, and that's really cheered me up. What's weird about snow, however, in Milwaukee, is that the people here act like it's a terrorist attack or something. They freak out, get up at 5am on Saturday morning and are out running around with pick-up trucks with snowplows, and really loud snow blowers. Any other time you get up on a Saturday morning, it's the quietest time of the week, but when there's a snow it sounds like there's a war going on outside.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain so much, because it's nice for me when the sidewalks are cleared-- it's easy to walk. (Though they aren't ALL cleared.) Plus, it's nice for the older people, and the disabled. But what gets on my nerves is all this gasoline powered equipment to clear the snow, which then adds to the amount of black sludge frozen in the streets, not to mention spewing shit in the air, and all the noise. And the big reason that they are out clearing snow is to clear the ROADS, because people can't go ONE DAY without using their cars. And the few people who DO choose not to drive get their vehicles packed in by snowplows, and ticketed or towed if they're on snow emergency streets.

If it was simply up to the residents to clear the sidewalks in front of their houses, in a house like where I live with seven people, we could conceivably clear the sidewalk with a teaspoon. But on Sunday, I saw a pickup truck with a snowplow DRIVING ON THE SIDEWALK, plowing. I could only think such desperate measures had to do with the urgency of residents to get to church. Or maybe it's the German heritage in Milwaukee. I don't want to pick on ethnic groups, but since I'm more German than anything else, at least I'm acknowledging that I'm a little like this too. My neighbor in Ohio, a German lady, used to freak out about the trees dropping leaves in the fall, like it was someone throwing McDonald’s wrappers in her yard or something. She eventually cut down most of the offending trees.

I heard people referring to the snowstorms as "being hit" like we were being attacked in a military strike. Then they kept talking about "cleaning up" after the big snows. Hey-- it's frozen water! The snow is clean, it's pretty, it's nice, and it's going to melt in no time. It isn't something you have to clean up. After "cleaning up" all of this snow we're left with black sludge everywhere, and no one seems to worry about cleaning up that.

Blue Skies

Blue skies blue skies blue skies blue skies. Blue skies make me want to puke. The sun is out, making a mockery of warmth. The streets are encrusted in salt, or whatever chemical they use to melt ice on the pavement. One interesting thing about a long deep-freeze is you see how much black sludge cars emit from exhaust and off their tires and engines, and along the side of the road where the cars are parked the ice and snow is totally black. Where does this go in warm weather? Into the grass, and into the ground, in the sewers, and into the lake. The lake I was able to swim in when I moved here six years ago, but no longer can.

Maybe I should go back underground. I was much happier there. I wouldn’t have to necessarily find the mysterious tunnel down at the end of the block, or the gold mine, or the passageway to the center of the earth. I could simply head down into the deep tunnel. There is a manhole to it, marked with fluorescent spray-paint over on Kilbourn, I've noticed walking by there. I could hang out down there with "The Family" whose aversion to the sun, while not for the same reason as mine, is no less as strong.

Back on the surface...

I finally, after several months, emerged from the same hole that I disappeared into, several days earlier. I finally, after several days, emerged from the same hole that I disappeared into, several months earlier. Nothing was changed, nothing was the same. Everything was different, nothing was changed. Everything had changed. Nothing was different. All evidence of the men who had dug the hole was gone, including their tents, their trucks, and their warning signs. Even the hole was gone. I mean the one I had gone into was gone. There was a different hole, the one I emerged from, though it was in the same place. I found no gold. All I found was gold. All I found was shit. It wasn't a sewer, it was a mine. It was a mine, it was a sewer. It wasn't a mine, it was my mind. There was nothing there but gold. There was nothing there but shit.

...and this

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more...

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From my notebook journal:

Dubuque Iowa, Alte Glocke Restaurant, Julian Inn

I’m at the Alte Glocke Restaurant, in the basement of the Julien Inn, Dubuque, Iowa—it’s a German themed place—a cute little “U” shaped counter is where the regulars sit—old guys. I order “American Fries” with cheese and onions, and I ask if there is a choice of cheese, and the waitress says, “American, or cheddar cheese sauce, or sliced…” and then she pauses, not sure. Classic. It’s—let’s see how the food is… I’m staying at the Canfield Hotel—it’s great—it’s the place Andy and Karen recommended. It’s pretty amazing—like $32 a night (plus tax)—and it’s pretty spectacular, weird, and old—and just plain weird. I can’t write about it now—I’ll take some pictures and try to remember—and come back later, some day, hopefully.

Started out today by turning on the TV—big mistake! I saw on the scrolling TV guide, “Fox and Friends” and I thought, Fassbinder, cool!—but it’s Fox News right wing commentary—a woman talking about Colin Powell’s statement: “The world is beginning to doubt the moral basis of our fight against terrorism.” And this woman says, I know he’s a smart guy, but I don’t understand… doing her best Rush Limbaugh imitation, being totally flabbergasted, like somebody just said something completely bizarre. Why is “I don’t understand!”—the expression of total ignorance and relative stupidity—always used as a tactic of the extreme right wing’s expression of moral superiority?

The one way The Canfield Hotel could be better is to have no TV whatsoever, becaue I personally have a weakness when it comes to hotel rooms and TV—I turn them on. Last night I saw “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” on the listing, and I said, that’s cool, I’m always jumping at any chance to see James Mason. I turned it on and it’s a TV SHOW! I mean, maybe it’s not that bad, but I wanted the movie—I couldn’t watch it.

I’m eavesdropping on the guys at the counter now. One guy’s talking about his friend who was really particular about keeping the books somewhere, I guess. “Keith died 20 years ago—looking for that dime…” I guess the guy was obsessed with perfection, and that’s what killed him. That makes me think of MY friend Keith, who died almost 20 years ago. Could it be that long already? I guess it is. When you start thinking about people who have died, you think about all that time, and what they have missed, the good and the bad. There’s been a lot of bad, that’s for sure. But a lot of good, too.

Canfield Hotel, Dubuque, Iowa

Donuts: The Motion Picture

Sandusky, Ohio. I’m at Markley’s, early, but the donut machine isn’t going, and there are no donuts. I’m afraid to ask about it and find out the donut machine is broken beyond all repair, retired, or gone, and make everyone there sad, myself included, just by bringing it up. What would REALLY make me sad, though, is to be able to eat donuts again and THEN find out they’re not making them anymore. It’s a weird kind of backwards, convoluted way of looking at things I have, I guess. Hey, I just thought of something! This is a great metaphor! A great metaphor, overall, for life or something. Well, maybe not for life. But for something.

Hunting For Hidden Gold (last part)

So I went down to investigate, this was about a month ago, while the workers were taking their dinner break and left the hole unguarded. I climbed down the ladder, and what I found there astounded me! I don't know if I should write about it here because no one will believe me. I'll just say that there was no gold, but there was an underground world that was as vast as an entire continent! There I discovered a utopian society and a community of people who worked together without conflict or self-interest. I was introduced to a new kind of sex with no reproduction or disease, a delicious but healthy diet, and music that is composed and played with the human mind.

When I returned to the surface, just this morning, I found out that I had missed the election (though fortunately I had voted by absentee ballot through the free but efficient and reliable underground mail system). I emerged from the earth to find the president gripping, Rumsfeld had gotten the axe, and the Wisconsin's love nazis had voted that gays and non-christians had no right to exist. I felt like the groundhog-- I didn't know whether to come out of the hole or stay down there. But like the groundhog, I realized that no matter what I did we'd still have an ungodly amount of bitter, miserable winter left.

Hunting For Hidden Gold Part II

I went to look at the excavation site, and this guy came out of the tent all aggressively and asked me what I was doing. "I'm just looking at what's going on here," I said, and then he told me to get lost. "You guys aren't digging for gold are you?" I said, taking a chance. His reaction told me that I had hit the nail on the head. He came at me with a large metal object that resembled the "Jaws of Life" and I had to run off. He wasn't really trying to catch me, but just scare me, I think. Anyway, when I said that about the gold, his eyes clouded over and he drooled a little. When it comes to gold, even when you bust someone, they are still in a state of being overcome by gold lust.

Hunting For Hidden Gold

They started digging a hole in the middle of this intersection outside of my office a few weeks ago. I can't remember when, exactly. Each day they bring in more equipment, some of it really strange. There are some big machines out there now, like nothing I've ever seen. Recently it came to me: They've found gold under the streets of Milwaukee! Once I realized that, I started to look at the workers as I walked by, and, sure enough, I could spot the gold lust in their eyes. You can just see it, you know? Men who are digging for gold look like no one else you've ever seen.