11:08 AM, 100 miles west of Las Cruces, NM on Interstate 10
We pulled the U.S.S. Griswold into Justin’s Diamond J RV Park parched and on empty stomachs. The slogan on their pamphlet reads “An adult RV Park.” I don’t know exactly what owners Doc and Christine Justin mean by that, and perhaps I don’t want to know. It was a park in every sense of the word, complete with mini-golf course, dog run, and a pickleball court. The lots were full. Judging by the stillness, most of the occupants were in bed by 8:30. Make of that what you will.
We were jokingly saying RVs are a lifestyle more than a vehicle, but one pass through the Diamond J proved our joke to be true. There were some serious rigs in the lots. Some of them bore a closer resemblance to tour buses than RVs. Jeff-the-intern, who spent 5 months on an RV in Vallejo, CA, gave us more insight on the subculture. Turns out there are daily, weekly, monthly, and even yearly rates. Doc and Christine must be making a mint on their plot of dirt on the far outskirts of Tucson.
After polishing off two pizzas in about five minutes (delivered to the RV!), we cracked open the brews and sat on the roof. The stars and silhouetted mountains were more than enough to keep us up there as the tempeture dipped.
Aside from the occasional steer and the snow-dusted boulders of Saguaro National Park, the landscape remains the same today. I assume that will hold true for the duration. Jamie rode shotgun for my morning turn at the wheel. The ever-sentimental Cat Stevens blared as Fernando and Jeff-the-intern slept in. We sang along. It’s what you when you’re 1,000 miles into a 4,000-mile road trip.
I don’t know what affects the other more—a song or your state-of-mind—or if it’s a matter of sequence, but it’s a complex relationship defined by psychological subtleties. I wasn’t feeling sentimental this morning, and initially we were laughing at the songs (the echo on the vocals in “Hard-headed Woman” is hilarious), but then I got into it, and beneath the sarcasm in our singing was a sincere effort to hit the notes and remember the words. We cursed when we screwed up.
But music doesn’t have to be taken seriously to be profound. Sometimes I think the real serious songs are a lay-up. Too easy. Most every musician wants to be taken seriously, and in an effort to be profound they write serious songs that are uninteresting. Dylan’s “All I Really Want To Do” is funny any way you look at it, but there’s an emotional truth to it, too (hell, if relationships aren’t funny, then nothing is). My life experiences make that song more profound song than, say “Blowing In The Wind.” Maybe that’s why Rolling Stone’s “Top 100” this or MTV’s “10 Best” that never interested me. The only top lists I care about are those of my friends’.
I’ve sunk into a tangent. Straight, unending roads have that effect.
-Phil, Captain of the S.S. Griswold
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