Date: 2004-07-16
From: Georgia

To: Maine
Miles today: 20.0
Weather: light rain

Port Clinton, PAJuly 16, 2004Mile 1203I try to get ahead. I really do. But the inherent flaw in any attemptat gonZo journalism is that life is ALWAYS happening. Now, perhapsthere are those out there in the world people who can BE gonZo AND taketime out to rest and WRITE about the experiences they just had. Me, Idon't have that luxury. Especially not now, moving as I am at 20 milesa day across the stony Eastern seaboard. Pennsylvania, anyway. Stony as a kidney preparing to avalanche down some poor bastardsurethra. Fuck Pennsylvania. Fuck it especially hard given that ITgave birth to the X girlfriend, the too-lovable just-add-whiskeyschizophrenic who¢s Mr. Hyde-side gave me the boot, and now IT gives menaught but fields of stone over which to stumble and curse.Here at the town pavilion of Port Clinton, PA, Cyberdine paints withfound paint, a broken ink pen of black, and a tampon. Not theapplicator, the tampon. They are fuzzy, you know, like a brush. Veryhandy in a use-what-you-got situation such as this. Cyberdine is an artist and computer genius, who, thanks to the lattertalent, has made a fine living in the new world order of LANs and WANsand other wireless web networks simply by employing his vast knowledgeto locate and point out holes in corporate security systems. Amazing,really. To hear him tell tales of his past life is to be inside theMatrix, to be Neo hearing it for the first time from Trinity that theworld he thinks he lives in IS NOT THE REAL WORLD. I knew this wasn't the real world, this trail world I'm in. But Ihadn't thought much about how unreal was that other world, theso-called "real."Cyberdine paints now with ketchup and mustard. They are the onlythings left here at the pavilion with any color. Beck plays on a tinypocket pc, a thing no bigger than my Palm Pilot but 20 times the priceand 20 times the upgrades. It's power comes from the sun, channeledthrough another little miracle, the Brunton SolarRoll 14, a four footroll of solar energy captured in plastic. Astounding. Cyberdine finishes his masterpiece with a liberal sprinkling of seasalt. His license-plate sized canvas features rolling hills, clouds, ahiker and a bunny rabbit, all under a swirling sky of sea salt whichsmells vaguely of McDonalds. If it sounds like I'm being sarcastic,I'm not. I do in fact think it brilliant. Here is an artist andthruhiker like myself, working with nothing and making art. It is thebest sort of art. Call it outsider folk art. Call it tasty. Call itsmelly. ( Just give it a few days) He titles his piece, "I saw abunny.""I have to say, this is the first time I've ever painted with atampon." We drink quarts of Yuengling premium, a beer I've only everseen in PA. Cars roar by on PA 61, and the sirens squeal off inpursuit every six minutes or so, a speed trap if ever I've seen one. Must be a freeway of sorts, but it drops to 35 mph in town, and boy arethe boys reeling them in today. Sitting in the bar at the Port ClintonHotel, it sounded like there was a fire every five minutes. What acountry. Most folks speed now and again. Some people suffer withspeed. Some people benefit by it. Me, I hear the sirens and am damnglad I'm walking for a change. Twelve hundred miles as of today. Out front of the pavilion stand two centurion-like castle columns. They look like stone things drawn by Maurice Sendak.   Cyberdine and I sit here at Port Clinton's public crash-pad likevendors awaiting customers. And at last one arrives. Boo-boo. "Mountain Hardware sent me the wrong gators!" he says to us, a cellphone at his ear awaiting customer service. It takes Boo-boo awhile tosay hello. He's just come from the local outfitter and he'sfit-to-be-tied.   Oh, Jesus. Cyberdine has taken up with ketchup and mustard again. It's a good thing this pavilion is huge, plenty of air space. TheMcDonald's stink is everywhere, and I'm about out of beer.But as I was saying, I try to get ahead. But the miles are flying. And then there was New Hampshire, seven days or so of major beerconsumption with my cousin Justin. And church with Dad. God. Beer. Major distractions from.. um?From the woods! Yes, this was about the forest, wasn't it? Anymore,it feels as though I hike with naught but the towns in sight. Descending into Harper's Ferry, Chef said: "Funny, after six days outon the trail we equate the sounds of traffic with beer and food."   And showers. Amidst the siren scream of some young buck cop with ahard on for speeders, I walk into the Port Clinton Peanut Store and pullfour Andrew Jackson¢s out of the ATM. The mini-ATM company makes itstwo buck off me. Paypal already took their percentage. I am gratefulfor the $80, although I'd expected $100. God Bless America.I drop a twenty at the Port Clinton Hotel Bar. It's worth it. I chargemy mp3 batteries from a wall socket, eat a hamburger and bail.-RSMFor the full story of Rick's journey, visit Jigglebox.com