DAY 2: FEAR AND LOATHING

THE FOLLOWING WAS WRITTEN IN THE POCKET-SIZED notebook in today's photo. On the morning of July 9th I noted:

Day 1 has come and gone. A quick screwdriver at the Swashbucker in the casino at Treasure Island. After all I went through to get here, the only bar I wanted to sit in was one attached to a casino. Pulled an all-nighter. Bars in casinos are strange. We'll elaborate more. But, basically, the point is—who but the conversationally challenged would opt to sit in a casino bar, pay for drinks and throw nickels in the video poker machine? More tk...

.
..
...

Every other page of my Road Trip Journal (RTJ) featured a travel-related quote. Here's today's dollop of wisdom:

"Travel seems not just a way of having a good time, but something that every self-respecting citizen ought to undertake, like a high-fiber diet, say, or a deodorant." ~Jan Morris

.
..
...

DAY 2
Destination: Las Vegas, NV to Prescott, AZ
Date: 7.9.97 (Wednesday)
Mileage: 19,327 to 19,602 (275 miles)
Bar(s): Lyzzard's Lounge
Imbibed: 1 Miller Genuine Draft

Left Dennis at Western VW [outside Las Vegas] at just this side of 5:00 [p.m.]. Arrived in Prescott at about 11:45. Checked into the motel on Beaver Street (I think), run by a toothless Uncle Joe-from-Petticoat Junction lookalike. I made it safely only due to the jolt of coffee and quart of peach Snapple, procured at the HWY 66 Exxon in Seligman, AZ. Had I not become infused with the stuff, death surely awaited me, thanks to a tragic moment of falling asleep at the wheel. Ah, sweet Snapple. Nectar of the gods.

I was a little too into channeling Hunter Thompson during the opening 24 hours of my adventure. No, I wasn't popping pills and sucking down ether with my attorney. But an all-nighter at the blackjack tables on my 1st night? I had another 99 nights to get crazy.

I remember thinking as I drove out of Las Vegas — dozing off at the wheel a growing possibility — these kinds of irresponsible decisions were gonna get me killed.

After a quick shower, I hopped a ride with a cabbie, who'd just been pressed into pizza delivery service by the outfit that employed him, which also doubled as a karaoke bar. But that's where I didn't go. The bar which I'd driven long into the night to have a beer at was closed. After Jim the Cabbie gave me about five walkable options that weren't his place of employment, I settled in at his #5 option: Lyzzard's Lounge. I was alone. But I was alive. As I sipped my three dollar Miller Genuine Draft, I rejoiced in the knowledge that I'd dodged a bullet. I'd avoided becoming road hamburger. Oh, yeah. I won $400 bucks in Vegas. And I had a marijuana growing ex-con work on my van, telling me, "I've had two of 'em myself whose engines I blew out pulling a hill." Great.

.
..
...

Many a night I sat alone in a bar, scribbling intently in my Pocket-Sized Notebook (PSN). Observing the bar culture and jotting down my thoughts while the barflies and lonely hearts looked at me like I was nuts. Here's a record of my 1st such experience:

Made it to Prescott, AZ. It's 12:30 and I've just checked out five recommended bars. I've decided to park it at number five—Lyzzard's Lounge, just off the main drag in picturesque—at least at night, anyway—Prescott. I've come here with the intention of visiting The Palace, which I was [recommended] by Dennis the Mechanic today in Vegas. He said I have to go. "It's the oldest bar in America," was the direct quote, I think.

So I haul ass to get here. Driving six hours from Vegas—actually, I left Vegas at 5:00. By the time I reached Prescott, got a motel room ($42.00), showered and jumped in a cab, it was 12:15. And I'm on my first real barstool. So here we are. Sitting alone at 12:40 in a town you've never set foot in. Bowie's singing "Young Americans," pro soccer plays on ESPN.

This place is very cool. High ceilings, with ornate detailing, like something you'd see in a Newport, Rhode Island mansion. Behind the bar, massive mahogany pillars frame the giant mirrors. My first beer is a Miller Genuine Draft. I pay two bucks for it, three with tip. And of course, seconds after I've ordered my first of several hundred beers this summer, the bartender—a stern young woman with a Janet from Three's Company haircut—announces last call.

I'm gonna need to ease into this. A hundred bars in a hundred nights is gonna be an odyssey of Homeric proportions. At least it's not too crowded now. I nearly passed out on the road before I resorted to an insta energy boost from some coffee and a pint of peach Snapple. There will be days when I don't feel like talking to anybody. That's when I can write all the other shit that's gonna be in the book...

I refuse to get into watching soccer on ESPN this summer...

The people I really want to talk to are the lonley solo guys at the bar, the ones in John Deere hats sitting a little too high on the head, with 20-year-old tattoos running down their forearms. The stories these guys could tell. There's one such character down [the bar] now. But tonite is a night of acclimation. Of mentally preparing for what's to come. Bar people. Will they drive me fucking insane?!

The first real night—night #2 in the consecutive barflying streak—is about to end. Time to call a cab. Get a real night's sleep. Then take care of business—the van is the wild card. And if it works okay, the trip will be awesome. But so far, the thing has been a headache.

Waiting for the cab I just got out of less than 45 minutes ago. Never again (hopefully).

Share