PART 1: Heading West!

Greetings to all! What an interesting 2 weeks it has been. I am sitting here in a hotel room in Flagstaff, Arizona stranded until Friday. So, what better to do over a sixer of Girls Light and a pack of cloves than to take to the blogs. Let me start at the beginning. I arrived at the Dayton, Ohio Super Aids (8) motel at 9:00PM. The "fancy" Quality Inn was $70, so I scoffed at that idea like unprotected sex with a transvesite. We slid over to the promising yellow signed establishment, where I am convinced the 8 in Super 8 represented the minimal amount of cum stains on the sheets. I guess they can save money on housekeeping, since the sheets could walk themselves down to the laundry room. Upon check in, I was greeted by a fine fellow with one of Ohio's prize-winning hairstyles that made me respect the mullet and Brooklyn fade that much more. I asked the rate, he replied $54. I asked for the triple-A rate, which he replied $54. Ohio math was not my course of study, so I signed my night's stay without further questioning. The nice man also told me breakfast would be served in the morning, if I cared to join him. By breakfast, he meant stale muffins and outdated orange juice. No thanks, I would sooner urinate in a cup and choke on cigar butts. The room was standard motel issue complete with the above-described linens. Luckily, the window didn't shut totally, so the noise of wind provided me with a gentle lullaby. My next mistake was to use the hotel's hot tub. By hot tub, I mean an oversized bath tub just off the lobby that featured jets so weak that a team of asthmatics could blow harder in straws. Hey, at least the water was hot, so it would burn off any disease from entering the premises. This was one of those hotels where it was faster to use the stairs than wait for the elevator. Now, on my floor there were a fine cluster of ethnics that used the hotel for marijuana inhalation. After the climb up three flights of stairs, and through the weed festival, I was ready to turn in. I laid on the mattress and let the wind take me to bed. By mattress, I mean they went to Home Depot and got some inch thick plywood and stapled a few old egg crates. Hell, at least I saved the $16 from the other Quality Inn! We left on schedule in the morning, with 2 showers completed. This shower had a feature of 2 settings. Your water temperature was either balls cold, or mystery. I opted for mystery, since I liked the scorching hot to Alaska cold water pattern.

After making really good time, we landed in Waterford, Oklahoma for the second nights stay. We did the same pricing game of the three hotels in this city. This was the kind of city where everyone knew and performed oral sex on everyone. The first two fancy dumps charged over $70 for a nights stay. Meanwhile, the parking lots had 3 cars, so I guess the rooms were in high demand that night. We found a nice motel, the kind that are in murder movies. You know, all outdoor, and you park your car directly in front of your room. This way, after you are murdered and raped (in that order in Oklahoma) the rapists can easily use your car. This time I sent my friend in to do the bargaining, and the dot lady arrived at $55 for a nights stay. Yes, that was with triple-A discount. At least there was a Sonic 2 lots up from the hotel. I could have my last supper of tater tots and a Sonic burger. This mattress resembled a mattress just slightly over the Super 8, kind of the same way a 380 pound woman is slightly hotter than a 400 pound one. This hotel was quiet, almost too quiet. The kind of quiet where you lay and ponder shit that you never would think about under normal circumstances. I began to think about what I would do if a male rapist came in the room, or how I would handle waking up to not having my car there. Then I began to wonder about my life and the national defecit. Wow, that place got to me. Fortunately for me, the heater/AC had 2 settings. I could choose between off, or Florida in August hot. Needless to say, I woke up in a puddle of my own sweat. The sheets weren't too soaked, so I guess the cum here acted as a repellent. This shower's temperature worked, but it had the kind of shower head where spitting would provide a faster flow of water. Once again, we left Oklahomo on schedule in the morning.

Finally, at 3AM NJ time Monday night (Tuesday morning), I arrived in Los Angeles, California. California might as well be a different country. I am not going to get into all the details, but it is close to NY/NJ except for the beautiful weather. Obviously LA has Hollywood and all that to it, which is huge, but it doesn't do much for me since I hate celebrities and do not follow them. LA has traffic, more traffic than I could ever imagine. There are 6-lane freeways, on top of each other, for a total of 12 lanes heading in the same direction. Any time of day, those 12 lanes are a parking lot. It took me 30 minutes to go 2 miles just in Culver City where I was staying. Now, taking mass transit is not an option, because public transportation is for old people, tree-huggers, and people at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder. I took to Venice Beach my first full day out there. It was beautiful, just like in movies. Homeless people were there, who I gave classified ads to instead of money. There is a city-run gym on the beach itself! Now meat heads can work out, and surf in one visit! Somehow, I can imagine Greg T. living there. For being in LA, it was really well kept and clean. As you can see in my picture, people were busy surfing on a Tuesday instead of working.

Thursday was Price is Right day! Monday, February 20th will be the air date of my taping. I did not get on, but you can see me in the 3rd from the last row in the section behind contestants row. I am wearing a green shirt, so look for me! The pre-organization system of the Price is Right is about as efficient as Helen Keller giving driving exams. You obtain a "ticket" a month or so in advance. By ticket I mean a piece of paper that lets you onto CBS property. The paper says to arrive between 6AM and 8AM for a first-come, first-serve arrival pass. I stroll in at 6:30 AM and see a few people around, thinking I won one in life. Wrong, I am number 183, which means 182 scumbags have been here before me. You overhear people talking, and you hear shit about how they got there at midnight. That made me wish the bloods and/or crips had a turf war at that time, and all the stupid fucks with no life camping out on the sidewalk got caught in the crossfire. So, now the name of the game is waiting. You sit and wait until 8AM when they hand out tickets. There are 380 seats in the audience, yeah I know it looks bigger on TV. So, normal math would have you think I am safe at 183. Wrong again! Perhaps Ohio math comes back to haunt. When I was about 40 people to the front line, they said all remainders are on stand-by and we can come back at 11AM to see if they had room for us. Meanwhile, there are assholes all around with their stupid handmade Bob Barker shirts. Who gives a shit if it is your birthday, anniversary, and if Idaho loves Bob! Fuck you all, I should have made a shirt that said I am a failure at life and have not had sex in over 2 years. Then maybe I would have been moved to the head of the line. Rule of thumb here is the bigger the douchebag or stupider the shirt, the better chance you have of getting on. So, the stand-bys come back at 11, and at 11:30 they give out the rest of the numbers. I made it to the audience, at number 324 in a 380 seat stage. Then you sit more, you sit on high-school locker bleachers until 2:30 when they move you to another line! You are forced to sit here, and listen to mindless babble of fellow hopeful contestants. They all ask the same shit like "Where are you from?" and "Have you ever been on the show before?" I chose to stare at the ground, use my cell phone, and smoke cloves with the other outcast smokers just to ignore some inbread shitbag from Kansas asking me about how NJ is. Now, once 2:00 hits you begin to think if winning a fucking Chevy Cobalt or new washer-dryer worth this torment? We stuck it out, since we suffered all morning. I thought to myself, Bob Barker himself better suck my dick on national TV to make up for this hell on earth he has put me through. If I saw one more cute shirt with felt hearts around Bob's name I was going to lose my mind. My only reprive would be if the public toilets had some kind of communicable disease and wiped half these tools out before taping. Finally, 2:30 hits and we line up on the side of the building as if they were handing out food stamps. They "interview" everyone to see if they are worthy of Bob's time. There is NO randomness to the contestant selections. The producers know who is going to be selected based on your answers, looks, shirt, and doucheness. Remember the numbers you have, well you keep them on your shirt with your name tag. When they call your name to "COME ON DOWN" the camera knows where to go because they have your name and number pre-selected. They ask where you come from, and what you do. The producer makes some cute remark about your city and/or occupation which reminds me why he earns his $200,000 salary. Some other guy writes shit down, probably just drawing a huge dildo which he hopes finds its way to his ass later on. After the tough pre-screening process, you move to more bleachers. This time, you check in your cell phone and head into the studio. Once you are seated, they go over the whole show rules. The announcer goes over when to applause and when to yell shit out. Meanwhile, that theme song is playing the whole time, just in case you forgot where you were. They even make it a point to tell the audience not to ask the audience for help if you are picked as a contestant. You know, when Bob wants to know if the price of a toaster is higher or lower than $200, the assholes have to look at the audience for the answer. Then Bob comes out and suddenly you are not angry anymore. I admit it, when Bob came out, I was suddenly smiling and felt better. The show lasts a full hour, and Bob chats with the audience during the pauses for commericals. He actually lets you ask him any question, and they are not pre-approved. Some kid asked if he trained under Chuck Norris, and others asked the moronic what is your favorite game on the show. But, theoretically one could ask how many of the beauties he fucked. Ask towards the end of the break though, so they can't remove you in time. Then, that is it, the show closes and you leave. So, to sum it all up, it is definately worth doing once in your life. If you choose to do it, arrive piss early, and wear a shirt that says you are dying of AIDS and want to kiss Bob before you die a miserable death. Hell, even put a picture of that prostitute you fucked without a condom on front, and tell him to neuter and spay AIDS patients. If you do it, make sure you have a whole day to devote, and bring books!

With all this said, I had a wonderful time. I really like Southern California, and hope to return soon. Hell, if I don't get a job in NJ for September, I might spend a year or so earning money and experience in LA. I do not think I could live there, I still love NJ.

Originally Posted: 15 February 2006

PART 2: The Ride Home from Hell

Well, for everyone who has been waiting since our last discussion, here is the closure to my trip. I have been home a full week today, and my car is still dirtier than a black teen hooker. California was amazing, that was the focus of my trip. One could aesthetically compare Southern CA to NJ/NYC easily except for their beaches, palm trees and traffic, but that would have all the So. Cal. poster children getting their panties in a ruffle. California is wonderful, the idea of warm to hot weather with low humidity creates a perfect condition to live. I like some winter however, it kind of freezes the disease and stank out of the air. The suburbs of Los Angeles are just like the suburbs of NJ, overpriced and filled with stuck up white people. Southern California is the world capital of entertainment, hands down. New York has the financial control, but LA owns what YOU listen to, watch, and read. Movies are made, songs are recorded, and books are written all here. But, celebrities don't just hang around, like you would believe. I mean, I don't recall seeing Ben Affleck or Steve Guttenberg sitting next to me, eating a Jumbo Jack, and complaining about not getting laid at 9 AM. LA has a huge gang problem, huger than NYC I believe. These fine outstanding youths grafitti everything, from elevated highway signs to your own dick if you stand around long enough. It is so bad, you see 10 year old ethnics with blood or crypt colors. Perhaps they would fight a rival gang member about who's mother fucked the most guys in the project. It would be a wasted effort, since a DNA test would prove them being brothers anyway. This lends me to think of starting my own gang, I would call it the "Meats". Sure, at first I would have to fend off some homosexual interests, but in the long run, people would see my gang's real purpose. Myself, and my gang members would just stalk people who are vegetarians. We would hide outside salad dumps and organic markets, and just as you came out with your faggy food, we would strike. WHAP, a 16 ounce New York Strip right to the face. Then, in true Silverton style, we would run away from the veggie-sissies tossing vegetables and soy products at us. On parade days we could ride into town on steer. Oh well, I digress, but if anyone wants to join the Meats, you have to go through a tough initiation. You have to swear off fruits and vegetables for a year, and poke fun at Jim Moriarity's poor choice of eating habits.

LA doesn't have any real landmarks like NY has with the statue. I mean, LA has that HOLLYWOOD sign, but that has no real meaning behind it. Legend goes out there the sign was put up to advertise real estate in a new section of town called Hollywood Land. The land fell off, and they never replaced it. Not much of a landmark, an over-hyped billboard. A more useful section of town could have been HOOKER LAND. That way, enterprising youths won't have to venture into the perils of downtown, and could fuck assured that it isn't one of those waste-of-taxpayer-money prostitution stings. Hooker Land could have drive-through blowjobs. Imagine pulling up to a speaker and ordering how long, and from what broad. The value menu would be some gay guys behind a glory hole, so if you were strapped on cash you could still get your rocks off and not be gay. For the more cash-savy, one could invest in a full evening of intercourse. By full evening, I mean foreplay, intercourse, and clean up, which for the average guy is 5 minutes. Unfortunately, we live in a society that likes to play moral police, so hard working, hopeless romantics like myself are stuck using the internet for its' only real purpose, whacking off. LA is more expensive to live than NJ. A gallon of regular gasoline was considered cheap if you could find it for $2.50/gallon. That price included a free raping in the ass however. After a week of driving, I am sure you couldn't walk very well.

With all that said, I would love the chance to live in Southern California for a little while, to expand my culturing. I still love New Jersey, and would move back here after a few years of experience and earning money. But, unlike others, I cannot up and leave for a new state without a solid job offer and place to live. It is like a completely different country out there. The first thing you have to get used to is whites are the minority. Chinks rule, you would assume you are in downtown Tokyo if one forgot that you were in Los Angeles. Chinks everywhere, talking and looking chink. And I mean they talk that shitty chink language right in your fucking ear, either to another chink of equal annoyance, or on a chinese cellular phone. I was not aware American cell phones could work in the chink language, but I am not aware of many things in life. I guess they all are calling Tokyo, which is on tomorrow's time. Maybe they are asking their fellow slants for the winning lotto numbers, since they are on the other side of the date line. That could explain how they always win the lottery. That language is so irritating, it is the kind of noise a person who has ADD would make if they were getting a blow job on coke. Chinks are so popular in LA they have their own fast food dumps. I refused to eat there, but my friend told me they serve bowls of beef with other shit. By beef, I mean shoe leather and dead cats I assume. Mix that with chinese vegetables, which would probably make American's eyes close slowly over time, and you got Chink Fast Food. Wow, imagine how bad that drive-through speaker would sound? You cannot understand a white kid on a speaker in Ohio, let alone a chink talking about chink meal deals. For an extra $0.99 you might get a fast happy ending, instead of a happy meal. When you think about it, they can keep the shitty food, that ending would make any meal happy, even if they served shit on a shingle.

Now, onto the ride home from hell. To answer all your questions; NO, I will not fly next time, save your breath and comments. I left Culver City, CA early Monday morning, with hopes to see scenic Toms River, NJ late Wednesday evening. I got about 50 miles outside of Flagstaff, AZ when I saw some smoke coming from under my vehicle. I blew this off, assuming it was some random act of the desert. About 20 miles later, I saw it, and when I stopped to get gas I saw my undercarriage soaked in tranny fluid. By tranny fluid, I mean from a transmission, not the cum from a person whom bears penis and breasts. Since I visited Flagstaff, AZ 2 years ago, I knew it was the only major city between Barstow, CA and Albuquerque, NM. I headed into town, annoyed like it was nobody's business. Found a Ford dealer, dropped off the piece of shit, which made me realize that nothing good still comes out of Detroit, and searched for a hotel and supper in a rental Ford Focus. Knowing an extended stay was possible, and most likely eminent with my luck in life, I wanted a clean and accomodating place. I found a place for $65/night which offered wireless internet, jacuzzi, and heated pool. I asked for the smoking floor, and for some sheets that had a sperm count less than mine. After a meal of Del Taco, soaking in the hot tub, and doing the ever-so-treasured "hotel jerk", off to bed I went. I awoke Tuesday morning to learn some major parts in my transmission have failed, and this is the same transmission that was rebuilt about a year ago. Good news is it was covered under warranty, bad news was the parts wouldn't get there until Thursday, and the truck would be ready Friday evening around 5PM. Back to the hotel to inform them I would be using their facilities through Friday at noon. I also had to tell the hot broad at the rental dump I would be using the Focus for another few days, and luckily the demand was low on that vehicle. The gay convention had come to town last week, so the car was mine for this week. Flagstaff is a college town, so there were at least normal looking people around, and they had all the standard retail and fast food dumps. I had a few choices here, and they were limited to seeing the Grand Canyon again, cruising the campus of Northern Arizona University in a Ford Focus looking like a child molester, hanging at the mall, or calling for escorts in the hotel room. The Grand Canyon Park System would charge me $50 to see a big hole, which I could see for free if I called someone, but we will omit her name, since I am done burning bridges. Aside from the cash, the only difference would be me putting my dick in the Grand Canyon and actually feeling something. So, I ate well and spent a lot of time at the mall. This was an old school mall, with some new floor tiles, but with mainly younger-reaching stores. I ventured down the food court, where there was a two-screen movie theater and an arcade. The movies were Capote, or Brokeback Mountain. I had no information about Capote, and I sure as shit wasn't sitting in a movie theater alone in mountain country seeing the latter film. When I walked into the arcade, I lost my mind. I even called Sir Fatness and the Pussy to tell them about the classic games they offered. I pumped $10 worth of quarters (which was all I pumped the whole trip) into Ms. Pac Man, Sega Monaco GP, yeah the sit down one with Hi & Lo gear, After Burner, Arkanoid, Lethal Enforcers, and The Simpsons. The newest game that was offered was Dance Dance Revolution, and at $0.50 a clip I was almost lured in. However, seeing me dance gives off the same element of disgust as seeing a 60 year old man doing anal on a 13 year old boy. What makes this game so popular anyway? It is a stupid game created by chinks so they can further laugh at American children. Yeah, we get it, your schools run circles around our moronic, outdated, education system, your cars run for hundreds of thousands of miles beyond our Detriot steel, and now you need to make our kids look like a bunch of faggots on speed. I am done with you chinks, go back to your cell phones, chopsticks, and paper walls. So, the rest of the time I spent eating and relaxing in the hotel room/hot tub. I watched daytime TV, and read a lot of magazines. I also smoked my share of cigars and cloves, and was not too worried about where the ashes landed. Hotels are the best for that reason alone, you do not have to give a fuck. You can spill drinks, food, ashes, cum, or whatever other fetish you are into on the sheets and carpet, and not care. Hell, you could even sleep naked and wet the bed to bring back your troubled childhood! This is why hotel sex is so popular, but yet we still get mad when the sheets can walk themselves down the laundry chute.

So, Friday night, and I am back on the road. I pull an all nighter, taking advantage of the dry weather and my awakeness. I stop for a quick half hour rest at a truck stop around 6AM. I locked my doors, but wasn't too worried. I think I am repulsive enough to turn off broads and men. Once I hit Oklahomo the ice started. I made it through that, and got into Arkansas. I stopped at a highway rest area to brush my teeth, the kind of rest area that are ripe for pedophiles to be lurking. No such luck on scoring a blow job, but the locals hanging around the men's room wondered what I was doing with a brush and a tube of paste in my mouth. I departed, and came across a place to eat a half hour later. Rumor is in Arkansas that you get a half-off supper if you can prove you have a full set of teeth, and are NOT related to anyone else in the state. Extra 20

Originally Posted: 27 February 2006