(In which Job enjoys theatrics at a new West End.)

Posted by Job O Brother, June 2, 2007 06:11pm | Post a Comment
We were maybe fifteen minutes outside of LA when Carrie first chirped, “Are we almost there yet?”

Logan shot a look that said, “I love you and you’re very dear to me but so help me God I will cut you open.”

The drive to 29 Palms was mostly uneventful. Bathroom breaks inevitably took us to greasy spoon diners, where guilt over utilizing the facilities without purchasing food caused us to orchestrate elaborate, timed infiltration.

“Okay, you and Carrie go in first. We’ll hold back a few minutes then enter.”

At some point it was decided that Logan should be nicknamed “Blimpie”. [In the original writing of the trip's blog, Blimpie was the name used, until Logan found out and used a tone of voice that caused me to subsequently re-edit everything. -Ed]

We had been at the 29 Palms Inn almost five minutes before we agreed it was love at first site. Ours is the most isolated cabin, located at what they call the West End, which I guess makes Carrie and Logan “West End Girls” for the weekend.

 We've got no future, we've got no past; Here today, built to last.
Amidst a constant stream of jokes about the many, grisly ways in which we would all meet our doom in the desert (snakes, sunstroke, redneck slashers) we staked out our bungalow and heartily approved.

Next, we trekked the walk across the desert sands and brush to the pool and restaurant. After a quick dip, we settled into a dinner table.

Feed us.

We were soon being served by a complete and total psychopath.

As psychopaths go she was very nice. We’ll call her Naomi, but that wasn’t her name. I’ll keep that confidential out of respect to her and because I’m scared she will hunt me down and turn my cracked-then-dried skull into a commuter mug.

Logan was hungry and was doing what she always does when hungry: planning to order enough food to provide relief to the continent of Africa. …With leftovers for Indonesia. Carrie wasn’t having it, and insisted they share a plate. I noted that sharing a plate would incur a $5 fee, as stated on the menu. Being raised, as I was, in the Great Depression*, this struck me as crazy talk.

“Order individual dishes and we can take the leftovers home where I can turn them into another meal… or maybe a pillowcase.”

But Carrie won, and she and Logan ended up splitting plates. As predicted, Logan didn’t even finish hers.

Over the course of the banquet, Naomi informed us of the bulk of her personal life. Before we even heard the dessert menu, we knew where she’d lived the last two years, the ages of her children, her plans to grow marijuana, her tragic physical background and battle with pesticide-related illness which led to a heated dissertation on the wickedness of everything from pesticides to Chanel No. 5. As she spoke she became increasingly agitated and loud until a speech relating an argument she once had with an architect culminated in her indignantly raising both her hands and, as I was putting the last bite of salmon in my mouth, yelling:


All I could think was, “I am so putting this in my blog.”

Moonrise over the desert.

By the time we were lounging on the front porch of our cabin, hypnotized by the beauty of a perfect moonrise and the warm nighttime breeze, my comrades were dropping faster than the cast of a Donner Party documentary.

Corey, as y’all know, is still recovering from his appendicitis surgery. Carrie and Logan had been infected with a cold virus from a friend, and were both quickly succumbing to it. I prescribed fresh lime wedges for vitamin C, and both patients ate some, buffering it with shots of tequila. West End Girls, indeed.

Logan, being the rugged survivalist she is, went out from the cabin on a hunt for the much prized and medicinal wild Nyquil, and returned with the green variety, the flavor of which I can only assume is meant to be “minty gym sock”.

Corey was already in bed, but the girls stayed on the porch, waiting for the Nyquil to coax them into sleep. I sang them the lullabies I had heard as a child, most of which contained threats of child abuse and the occasional racial slur. Ah, history.

I finally crawled into bed myself, where Corey read to me excerpts from his yet-to-be-completed novel, until I fell asleep.

I dreamt that I met Björk. She looked like the gay dude from “Little Britain” and was very sweet.

Back off girls, this one's mine: Corey is his element.

*The Great Depression I'm referring to is my
childhood, not the more famous one initiated by the Stock Market Crash of 1929.