Mykel Makes it to THE Fredericton NB

April Fool's Day +3

I write this at 12:30 PM April Fool's Day + 4. I'm in the Fredericton Public Library, a boring red-brick building near the river, right next to a beautiful “Masonic Church” or something that should be the library. I'll have to run out and move the car in an hour or so. There's a 2 hour time limit on each parking place. It's a nasty little rule that prevents people from freely enjoying the library... But it's punishment for having a car, I guess. Something that needs to be punished, I guess. It's my fault the air is so foul... driving my rental car, I guess.

BACK TO YESTERDAY:

The hotel sleep is a good one. First time on this trip I sleep right through the night. Maybe it's that I only had one glass of the IPA. Despite the sleep, I feel groggy all day. I down a MOCA LOCA MONSTER (not my favorite-- too milky), but that doesn't help as much as it should.

On the three hour trip from Orono to Fredericton. NOTHING HAPPENS! Once, my MONSTER- induced hunger pangs become too much to bear. Can I find a decent place in small town Maine? Turning off the highway, I stop at the first restaurant I see. I long for a place to eat home cooked food.

Three hours later:

I'm a nervous customs passer. Strange since I've passed though so many customs so many times. Maybe not so strange. In any case, I know that if I'm a tourist coming for some stupid reason, I'm fine. If I want to do anything serious, I'm in trouble. Right now, there's a line of about 10 cars at the single open lane at Canadian border.

I've strewn the front seat with CDs and guidebooksbooks. The customs officer, a muscley crewcut guy in his 30s asks me where I was born.

“Noo Yawk,” I tell him.

“And what is the purpose of your visit to Canada?” he asks.

“I want to write, relax, visit local bookstores and see what I can find.” I tell him.

He repeats my words. I nod. “Okay, you can go,” he tells me.

“Ah, excuse me,” I say. “Would you mind stamping my passport? I collect the stamps and...”

“No problem,” he says with a smile. “Any particular page you'd like me to stamp?”

“Anywhere there's a space,” I say. He stamps the passport and waves me through.

From the border, it's about 45 minutes to Fredericton. The capital city of New Brunswick, it has about 140,000 people, none of whom has ever heard of me. (“Sorry, punk rock's gone from Fredericton,” says the owner of BACKSTREET RECORDS, where I try to peddle my CDs the next day. “I'll buy one from ya' for $7. Just to help you out.”)

I turn off the highway on the approach to Fredericton. It looks like one big strip mall from the highway as far as a drunk could stumble. I stop to call Sarah, my couch-surfing hostess. I want to let her know I'm in town.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“I'm at the mall,” I joke.

“Which mall?” she asks. “The one on the hill or the one up North?”

Holy Hicksville, Batman. Only two malls in the capital city? How do they know when one ends and the other begins?

First impressions are wrong. The ugly strip mall on the way in to town gives way a rustic houses, looking even nicer covered up to the pupik with fresh snow. A thick white comforter. Some places over my head. A joy to the eyes, even if it's a bit treacherous to the driving hands.

Sarah is a Fredericton native. An attractive twenty-something, she's set up a reading for me in the bar she works at. At the last minute, the reading was changed from Friday to Saturday. Something about Friday being too raucus for a reading. At her house is a pal (boyfriend?), Nathan. He's a tall skinny blond who's very friendly, but talks very little. He smokes-- usually a good sign.

Sarah knows everything there is about the city. She tells me about the two malls. She takes me on a driving/walking tour. She knows all the interesting statistics.

I ask her if there are Indians in town. She asks me what kind I mean.

“The feather,” I say, “not the turban.”

“Oh,” she says, “there's a reservation right in the middle of town. But there's been so much trouble here. We can't call them Indians. We have to say aboriginal people or Native Canadians.

“Oy vey. In Australia, aborigine's a taboo word,” I tell her. “How do you keep it straight?”

“We don't do straight here,” she says. “This year, Fredericton passed San Francisco as the city with the highest percent gay population in the world... well, in North America.”

“Does that include lesbians?” I eagerly ask.

“Everybody, gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual... you name it.”

I don't. Instead, I ask, “Where do they hang out? Is there a particularly homo part of town? Is there something in the water that turns people gay? Do you bottle it and ship it abroad?”

“Oh,” she says, “they hang out in the gay bar.”

“THE gay bar?” I say. “Homoville USA... er... CDA, and there's THE gay bar? I don't get it. Is that like THE Gambia?”

Or course, she doesn't get it. Who would?

“Well it's the right location,” she says. “It's on Queen Street. But EVERYTHING is on Queen Street. The gay bar is right down the street from THE sex shop...”

I don't ask.

“Hey,” she says. “We're right by the sex shop right now. You wanna go in?”

“Naw,” I say. “I don't like those kind of places.” Yeah, right, I say that. “You bet!” I tell her.

Inside there are a bunch of videos, dildoes, and a few magazines. No books. On a hook on the wall is the absolutely largest buttplug I've ever seen. It tapers outward from a point as wide as a ten year old's fist to a base the width of a pillar in the Greek Colosseum. It's about a two feet long and called THE CHALLENGER. I'll bet... but the real challenge is the price: $59.95.

“Excuse me,” I ask the bored-looking young man behind the cash register. “Can I return this if it doesn't fit?”

He doesn't even smile.

After leaving THE sex shop, we continue our tour.

“I bet there's a huge turnout for the gay parade every year,” I say.

“There is no gay parade,” Sara tells me. “It's illegal. It's the mayor of Fredericton. If some concerned Christian writes a letter, he passes a law. Somebody complained about gay parades destroying the character of THE CITY. He passed a law against gay parades. A couple years ago, a woman walking home from church was offended by someone walking down Queen Street with a snake. Now it's illegal to walk down Queen Street with a snake... on Sunday.”

“You're shittin' me!” I say, smelling a prank.

“No, it's true,” she says. “You can look it up.”

I do... and find the law. A by-law actually. http://tinyurl.com/3hqago. But it doesn't say Sunday. You can't have an open snake any day of the week.

“I'm hungry,” I tell Sara. “And I could use a beer.”

“Sure,” says Sara, “let's go to...”

“Don't tell me,” I say. “THE restaurant.”

She laughs. (Great laugh, by the way: easy, friendly, showing lots of teeth.) “Nope,” she says. “It's an organic food bar. Best food in Fredericton... and the worst service. Molly's is the name. Molly is the owner.

Molly turns out to be a thin boomer woman, her long gray hair braided into Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm pigtails. She is not sunny.

From the cashier, a gray-haired man who should be Molly's husband, I place a beer order from an interesting beer menu. I order an Irish Red, made locally. Sarah and Nathan order herbal tea. Then we go to a table and sit down. We talk awhile. No one comes to take our order, or bring the beer and tea. Sarah goes off to have a word with Molly.

“Hi Molly,” I hear Sarah say. “Could we have a couple menus? We already ordered drinks.”

There's a grunt in reply. Sarah returns to her seat. The man behind the cash register brings the tea and the beer.

“Could we have some sugar and cream?” asks Sarah.

“Sugar and cream with herbal tea?” squints the server/cashier/husband. He speaks like a hoity toidy bartender might ask, “Pabst Blue Ribbon with Dom Pérignon?” But, much to his disgust, Sarah and Nathan insist. He goes off to get them.

Within the hour, Molly comes to our table with the menus. Looking at her features, seeing her personality, I then look at the menu. It's expensive. It's vegetarian, but considering the... er... company... I can't resist.

“I'll have the Mega-witch,” I say, maybe little too loudly. Molly nods grimly. Maybe she gets it. Sarah and Nathan order something slightly cheaper. Good thing too. I pay for the kit and caboodle. Couch-surfing guests should always buy a meal for their hosts. The same decade as the order, comes the actual food. Molly brings it.

“Thank you,” says Sara. Nathan and I echo.

Molly walks away.

“You're welcome. No problem. It's my pleasure.” says Sarah to the empty space where Molly stood.

I record Sarah actually talking about the place, but I don't yet have a program that can edit video so you'll have to wait to see it.

After we leave, we discuss the rest of the day. “I have to go to work,” says Sarah. “I work from ten to two in the morning.”

“Where do you work?” I ask.

“At the gaybar,” she says, “where you'll be reading tomorrow. Come and visit me tonight. So you can see what it's like.”

I do.

Of course, they have an amazing beer menu. I order a blueberry ale, and it's not bad. I settle back to watch the dancers, gyrating on the floor, in a box next to the bar, and on a stage. I can't say I feel comfortable in the place, however. A few things creep me out a bit.

1. Except for a silent skinny lesbo in a red wool sweater, I'm at least 3 times the age of the oldest person in there.

2. Except for a hugely fat, hugely entertaining Negress, throwing her body around like she doesn't give a shit, having a great time, (I'm in love!) everybody in the place is white.

3. Everybody except me, is fruging on the disco floor.

4. Among the dancers is a tall skinny guy barely twenty. From the neck up, he's a one of those nerdy-sexy guys, with glasses, blonde hair (dark roots), and an asymmetric emo haircut. From the neck down, he's wearing a narrow black top that reveals enough midriff to melt the heart and harden the cock of anybody but the most backward het. Plus: tight low rising jeans, and high heels. Yowsah! (I'm in love!)

5. Among the dancers, is a skinny girl in a loose t-shirt and Bermuda shorts. She wears a baseball hat and sunglasses. She dances just like a guy. Body and limbs flailing independently, her small breasts rebellious against her t-shirt and her butchitude. An air of coolness covers her self-assured body, like the Johnson's baby oil will cover my accompaniment to future fantasies of this goddess. (I'm in love!)

Needing to... er... adjust myself. I leave BOOM! And head back to Sarah's place. Tomorrow is the show.

(more later)

Mykel Visits GG and heads to Fredericton

APRIL FOOL'S DAY +1 PART 2

NOTE: YOU CAN GET LARGER (and other) pix contained
in the blog, by clicking on the link below:

Fredricton Trip

I'm in Quizno's in Manchester NH, trying to contact Jason. I have 40 minutes before they close. I'll be out in the cold. Manchester is VERY cold.

Jason's supposed to be my couch-surfing host for the day. I called a couple times on the way from Boston, but just got voicemail. I wouldn't be surprised if the bitch-goddess (see my previous post to learn my religious views) threw his grandmother out a 12th story window, so he'd suddenly have to leave town to attend the funeral. BUT, I imagined it, so it doesn't happen.

What does happen is some kind of electronic tornado. The vortex of the e-storm is Quizno's in Manchester, New Hampshire. Telecommunications is nigh on impossible. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. All cellphone communication blocked. I walk outside Quizno's to try again. I pushed the JASON button.

“Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. Hello youSsssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr. nally.”

“Hello Jason? It's Mykel. I don't know if you can hear me. But I'm in town, at Quiznos on Elm Street. They're going to close soon. You know where Quiznos is?”

“Ssssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr, I do,” he says. “I'll see ySsssshhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrr.”

“Yeah,” I say, “see you.”

Then I return to type these words. During the next 20 minutes, 3 people enter the empty sandwich store. One is a very street-looking kid: big, black, dressed in loose jeans, baseball hat with a perfectly flat brim tilted up and slightly to the right. Something about the guy doesn't seem authentic. Like he's a dean's-list student from the local university, trying to look ghetto. I don't know what it is. His lack of swagger. Some deep intelligence that shows through his walk. The way he doesn't swing his shoulders. I donno. As I puzzle this out, two blond really dumb-looking girls walk in, almost as if choreographed. Both chew gum. Both wear skirts much too short for the freezing weather. (Did I mention that there's snow on the ground? And it's colder than a witches twat... and twice as windy.)

“What can I get you?” asks the vaguely Hispanic girl behind the counter.

“We'd like an application,” says the girl with the higher hair. “We want to work here.”

The hispanic worker looks pleadingly at her boss. He's also behind the counter, a mop in his hands. He shakes his head.

“I'm sorry,” says the counter-worker. “We're not hiring at the moment.”

“That's okay,” says the other one of the pair. They shrug in tandem and walk out of the store.

Passing them on the way in, is a guy wearing jeans, a pink shirt, a maroon tie, with the best chin since Ai... the Drink Club goddess. I don't know what it is, but there's something about chins. Everybody I know who has a really strong chin also has a really strong personality. It's a good sign.

And yeah it is. It's Jason. He takes me from Quizno's to a great brewpub. Another to add to the list. It's called MILLY'S TAVERN, and, like everything else in Manchester, is in an old mill. (Well, a few things are in old factories.) Jason wants to take me to the river, like Al Green. But it's just too cold. I'd need another jacket.

We go inside and check out the beer menu. Neither of us have eaten dinner, so we also check out the food menu. The food is nothing special. Burgers, quesadillas, bar food. But the beer menu well....

Usually a good name suckers me in. But for some reason I order the boringly named John Stark Porter. Clearly the best name is Hopnoxious IPA, but I'm not a big IPA fan.

An IPA is supposed to have: high hop bitterness, high hop aroma, and high alcohol content. At least according to the internet. But mostly, you get the bitterness, and not much else. Sometimes IPAs taste SPOILED... so I usually avoid them.

The porter is excellent. Dark, not quite as thick as Guiness, but still filling enough to make sure I can't finish my quesadilla! I have two of 'em. Porters that is, not quesadillas. So far, they're the best new beer of this trip.

Over dinner we talk. Jason has just come back after teaching 4 years in Egypt. He loved Egypt and the Egyptian people. That's quite a different point of view from my guests from Lebanon! But that's how I like it! And why I like traveling. After a few days you learn that everybody is wrong about everything... including (especially?) you!

After Milly's, we go back to Jason's place... a condo that used to be a shoe factory. They kept the girders, boiler oven door and the smokestack. A cool place to live.

Manchester skyline--
next to the smokeless smokestack
the churchbell doesn't ring

Jason introduces me to his roommate whose name I forget. I'll call him Shasta. He's a tall thin guy, about 20. Now he bends over a computer looking intently at a photo of what looks like himself.

“Admiring yourself?” I ask.

The guy turns to me with a face splitting smile. The kind people fall in love over.

“No,” he says, “it's my brother.”

I hear a faint twinge of an accent. Like he's from Africa, but an English speaking part. Later, Jason mentions that he's from The Gambia.

Yes! Now I'll have the chance to solve one of my life's great mysteries. Why is the Gambia THE Gambia? I know why The Bronx is The Bronx. It used to be plural. Broncks. Plural places use THE: like The Bahamas, The United States, The Philippines. But Gambia??? That's not a plural.

By the time I turn think to ask him about THE, Shasta is off to bed. Me too, I'm ready to go... then it hits me. NO! NO! NO! I am in New Hampshire. I MUST go to GG's grave. I cannot leave the state without a visit.

I quickly check the internet. It's 103 miles away--- in the wrong direction. From there, it's 7 more hours to Canada. Fuck-it, I'm going anyway. I'll pay for a motel one night-- in Maine. I saw an ad for one in a free magazine. Around $60 a night. In a town with a brewpub. Orono Maine. That's tomorrow. I'm gonna do it.

Right now, it's off to get rid of the day's beer, and then hit the sack.

G'night.


APRIL FOOL'S DAY +2

I actually type this on APRIL FOOL'S DAY +3, sitting in Sarah's livingroom in Fredericton New Brunswick. No, that's not in New Jersey. But before I talk about today, I need to finish yesterday, from GG's grave to Orono Maine.

I have great fantasies about visiting GG's grave. There'll be one person-- a beautiful skinny punk girl there. She wears a used white wedding dress-- just starting to fall apart. The dress is a strong contrast to her jet-black hair. She'll have flowers in her hand, white roses, laying them on GG's grave. I'll walk up to her. She'll be startled.

“He.. hello,” she'll say shyly. “Are you here to visit GG?”

I'll nod.

“I'm Mykel Board,” I'll tell her, “I was a pal of GG's. I produced his two ROIR CDs. I played with him in New York. I wrote...”

“Mykel Board!” she'll say. “Of course I know you. You're famous. Let's pay our respects then go back to my apartment and have wild anal intercourse.”

Jason wakes me at 8AM. He offers me some fruit, breakfast cereal, tea. But he DOESN'T HAVE COFFEE. Oh no. It could be deadly. When I wake up, I NEED COFFEE. I'm a caffe-betic. My body is incapable of producing the coffee enzyme on its own. If I don't get it from the outside, I will DIE! I don't mention this to my host, but strain against the pain and have a banana.

Jason's got to go to work, and his roommate has early classes. Same university. They ask if I'd mind driving them.

“It's on the way to GG Allin,” says Jason.

Of course, I don't mind, though I'd rather someone else takes the wheel. I haven't had my coffee yet. I hand Jason the keys. He'll drive. Bags packed, the three of us navigate the factory corridors to the car. As we walk, I talk to Shasta.

“I hear you're from The Gambia,” I tell him.

“That's right,” he says.

“Could I ask you kind of a weird question?” I say.

He looks at me warily, as if I'm going to violate some kind of taboo. Ask him about strange tribal rituals. The length of his body parts.

“Why is The Gambia, THE Gambia? I mean I know why The Bronx is THE Bronx, but Gambia, I don't get it.”

He smiles.

“Well, it's hard to know exactly. There are rumors... stories,” he says. “But what I heard is that there are other African countries. Like Ghana, and Zambia. The English colonialists put THE in so people wouldn't be confused. Gambia, Zambia, it's almost the same. You know the British. They love THE.”

Is he pulling my leg? For now I've got to believe him.

After we hit the university, say our good-byes and it's off to Littleton: the birth and final resting place of GG Allin. Then, an afternoon of wild sex with a goth punk in a wedding dress. Then, back on the road to the special Brewery in Orono and the discount motel. Finally, on to NEW BRUNSWICK, which, according to my guidebook, is home to a soap museum. Something I sure don't want to miss.

Up until today, I thought GG was born and buried in Hooksett Massachusetts. When we pen-palled in the 1980s, all his mail came from there. Too bad, Hooksett, is just north of Manchester. Littleton is a hundred miles away. And I need some coffee!

Early in the drive, I pass a huge mansion looking building. A rambling brick structure that looks like a summer house for the Van der Builts. A beautiful old structure, it's visible from miles away. When I get close I can see the sign out front. Hooksett Public Library! Yowsah! Maybe I can find an internet picture. I can't take one from the moving car. Besides, it's after 11, and I still haven't had any coffee!

[LATE NOTE: Despite having a sign in front that said Hooksett Public Library, the building I thought was the Hooksett Public Library was not. I checked the internet, so it must be true.]

Ah, here's a place. A little country Inn. Rustic with a capital R. Nice, but it could be Mr. Donut... as long as they have COFFEE!

I'm the only person in the place. The waitress hands me a menu and turns to leave.

“Er...” I say. “Could you bring me some coffee? Right away? Please?”

I guess it's the look of severe need imprinted on my face. In a few minutes, she's back with the coffee. I inhale it. What would the world be like without coffee? On this trip I'd been doing coffee more than usual, plus a Monster Energy Drink everyday. Someday they'll combine the two and heaven will lose its appeal. Why die, when you can drink heaven right here on earth?

This little roadside place doesn't serve breakfast. Lunch starts at 11:30. I'm there for openers. I order a salad. To drink? Just water. And more coffee!
                    On the table I notice a beer list. Wow!

A little place in the middle of who-knows-where, with an every day beer list like that? Woodstock Station Red Rack Ale? Old Thumper? Holy He-Brew, Batman. These folks got something here we don't get down south where I come from. Yowsah!

I don't sample the Old Thumper or any other brew. But it's nice to know that folks around here care! A roadside place in New York would have, Bud, Bud Light and maybe a Coors. I pay the bill and head back toward Littleton.

My Neverlost doesn't have directions inside the town. I guess the town's too small to bother with a street map. I'll have to find GG myself.

I pull into the first gas station inside the town limits. I did my homework. I know GG's in the Saint Rose Cemetery. I ask the guys in the gas station office. The Indian guy doesn't know. The other guy tells me, “There are two cemeteries in town. One just up the hill here, and the other down the road about two miles. That's the big one, down the road.”

I thank him and walk out. Then... I'm really pissed at myself. Why didn't I ask? Why didn't I just say, “Which one has GG Allin?” Wadda wimp! I should be ashamed. I'm ashamed.

I head toward the big cemetery, still annoyed at myself for not having the balls to ask. What would they have done to me? Called the sheriff? Yo sheriff., There's another one of those creeps looking for GG Allin. I think you better throw him in the clink where he can get gang raped by unemployed lumberjacks.

I don't think so.

The cemetery is right where the non-Indian gas station guy said it would be. There's a large statue at the entrance. Something to do with some war. Then there's a small driveway. At the end of driveway is a shed with a few gardening trucks parked around it. I get out of the car. Is this the right place? There are no signs anywhere... Saint Rose or not. And there are no people. There's snow, a ton of gravestones, some recently planted American flags. but no people. No mourners. No punkette in a white dress.

I wander around, looking at random tombstones. No GG Allin. Wait! There are a couple people over there. They look like gardeners. I WILL ASK!

I trudge across the remains of dozens of locals until I reach the guys. One is about my age, blond and husky. The other is in his twenties, lanky, kinda handsome. As I get closer I realize they're digging a grave. I've never talked to gravediggers before. They're a little scary. But I will NOT wimp out.

“Excuse me,” I ask.

They stop their digging and stand up, looking at me. Not sardonic, exactly, but not Laurel and Hardy either.

“Is this the Saint Rose cemetery?” I ask.

“Nope,” says the older one.

“Do you know where it is?” I ask.

“Yep,” says the younger one. That's all he says.

“Umm...” I say.

“We were just jokin' with ya,” says the older guy, suddenly breaking into a smile. “It's right over there, next to this one.”

“Do you know were GG Allin is?” I ask.

“Oh sure,” says the young guy. He gives me directions to the tombstone, making a little map in the snow. It's weird he knows, I think.

“I guess people come here and ask you all the time,” I say.

“Yep,” he says.

“Has a punk rocker in a white dress...” I don't ask.

GG's grave is a couple rows in from the street. It's a good size stone, easy to find. Who could miss ROCK'N'ROLL TERRORIST among the YOU'RE IN A BETTER PLACE NOWs? Next to the tombstone is a huge EMPTY bottle. The label is mostly gone. I'm guessing Jim Beam, GG's favorite. There's also a full airline-size bottle of JB, and an empty can of MONSTER! Hubba hubba! There is no goth woman in a white dress. There's no nobody.

I take out my camera, put it on the headstone across from GG, set the auto-timer and run around for the picture of me and GG.

Then I notice that the tombstone is double duty. I've never seen anything like it before. It must be a discount brand. Half as expensive for half as much tombstone. Usually one side is blank anyway, right? Why not make a few bucks and sell the back to someone else?

On the front of the headstone is: GG ALLIN Live Fast Die! On the back is a picture of a praying Jesus and the name GUNTHER with the inscription Till We Meet and Never Part. Poor guy. Little did he know who he was gonna never part with. Meet? I doubt it. Unless Gunther was a nasty guy, GG and he are in very different places.

[Last minute addition]. I got a message from GG lover and guitar play, Justion Melkmann. He visited GG's grave as well as his (GG's) mother. He was making a comic book about his obsession with GG. Suddenly it hit him after seeing what I wrote. Gunther, he says, is GG's mom's maiden name. So the tombstone must be a place-holder for her to be buried by her son. Too touching for my taste. I've got the better story. Justin has THE TRUTH. Which do you want?

I spend about half an hour with GG and Gunther, then head back northeast. Somewhere between Littleton and Orono, I stop for gas. There, in the window of the gas station office is an advertisement.

Wowee!! GG was listening to me. Reaching up from hell he manipulated the minds at Monster and they followed my bidding. Thanks, GG. But why couldn't you have done it with the girl in the wedding dress?

Next stop, University Inn. Hopefully, my only motel of the trip. It's pretty standard fare. They


want to let me know they participate in this new environmental program. A co-op of “mid-priced hotels.” It's promoted with laminated brochures with pictures of pandas and parrots. And the great way the motel is saving the world? They don't wash their linens.

That's right. In order to save the world's resources of soap and water, they use less of it. Of course, you can decline to participate. It's right there on the brochure. But if you don't participate, you're personally responsible for the destruction of the Amazon rainforest. You're personally wasting hundreds of gallons of water and fouling thousands of acres of wetland with the soap used to wash YOUR bedclothes.

Look Mr. Hotel, if you want to save money on water and soap. That's okay. It's a business. If you want me to help, pay me for it. Give me a discount. But PUL-EASE, don't ask me to sleep in my own filth and then YOU go take credit for a hotel program to save the environment. Maybe the environment around the your bank account.

The girls at the front desk are helpful, but lack some kind of spark. I donno. I guess at a hotel you see everything, so nothing is funny anymore. All those spy cams behind the mirrors in the rooms. Not much left to joke about, is there?

“You a beer drinker?” I ask the chubbier of the two young deskgirls. “I'm looking for a famous brewpub around here. They make their own beer, and I wanna try it.”

“Oh,” she replies, “you're talking about the Bearmarket Pub. You can walk there from here. It's just over the bridge.”

“What's good there?” I ask.

“Oh, I don't like dark beer. But they make a great Peach Ale.”

“Thanks,” I say and head out the door, across the bridge to the pub. It's cold, so a nice thick stout (pleonasm?) will do perfectly.

As I enter, I see the attractive waitress speaking with some guys at a table.

“We're out of stout,” she says.

The place could be any country bar in any country college town. Lots of 20-somethings... kids saying hi to their friends, ignoring strangers. (Especially strange guys who look like Dick Tracy sitting by themselves at a table for four, writing on tiny cards.) There are more beards and wool caps than you'd see in New York. But in New York, they'd make you take off your hat. It's redneck protection, I guess.

The waitress brings me the menu. “I overheard that you were out of stout,” I tell her. “So I'll take your Tuff End.” (I love the feeling of saying I'll take your Tuff End to an attractive waitress.)

“Sorry,” she says. “We're out. We're out of all our Bearbrew Beers... except the IPA.”

One drink later, I'm back at the hotel. I climb into one of the two twin beds... with my boots on. Then I take a shower and use every towel in the bathroom to dry myself. Next, I take care of my ... er... personal night-time needs, cleaning up with the same sheet I wiped my boots on.

Then, since I'm only staying for one night, I hang the “I will participate in the Hotel Conservation Program” sign on my door, and go to bed. I sleep through the night... best sleep so far this trip.

[Oh yeah, a note on the beer: Nice brown color by no head to speak of. Tastes just like the first beer of this trip. Very simple. Okay bitter bite with no front of mouth taste. As for the restaurant, there's only one waitress for the place. The food takes awhile (only one cook?) even for a sandwich.]

(More in the next few days)