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| As soon as I got the car out of the shop, I decided to drive to Gillette, Wyoming to visit my sister. I chose to, fully aware that a 1986 Volkswagon Golf with a quarter of a million miles, poor quality tires, and no insurance or registration, had little chance of getting me there and back without any complication. However, it was time I actually followed through on something for once. I've made plans for backpacking Europe, touring in a band, visiting far off friends or relatives. Each and every time I stay home and play it safe, breaking my word and looking more idealistic to others around me. More and more turning into my father. So what was I going to do, be smart and not go? | ||||
| With Fargo in my rearview mirror, I set sail west on an amazingly boring drive to Bismarck and beyond into Dickinson by nightfall. I took the 85 south into the outskirts of the Black Hills and west on 94 towards Gillette. The radio turns off and on as it pleases, provoked by bumps in the road. Drowned out by the deep vibrato of the engine. I pulled into town around 4:00 in the morning and knocked on my sister's door, hoping to find a warm bed waiting inside. Unfortunately my sister and I had a breakdown in communication and she is in a town 4 hours away, unable to make it here to Gillette. I slept in my car at the Flying J last night. It was cold and people kept walking by my car and looking at me through the window like I was a zoo animal on display. I stared back at them, yawning, bored. In the morning I was eventually able to climb through a window to get into my sister's house. I paced around like a junkie looking for fix. It's a 600 mile, 9 hour journey back home. | ||||
| Dad called and invited me to Douglas for the weekend. I declined, telling him my car wasn't running good. He said he would visit me in the morning, but never called or showed up. I found out later that he went to the bar instead. | ||||
| I received an email from Allison explaining that my good friend (Lane)'s father was sick and not expected to make it through the weekend. So I have decided to collect my things and leave first thing in the morning. | ||||
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| Its 4:00 am and I'm going through pictures at my sister's house and watching home videos. I had recorded one of the few punk shows that I put on circa 1999, but the audio doesn't work. Too bad, because it was a great show (The Lillingtons, The Gamits, Chesterfield, and some other locals). Jason, the guitarist of the band Chesterfield, who was a friend of mine, died in a plane crash shortly after this was recorded. I have been told that it is the last footage of him alive. The video is also spotted with ex-girlfriends and buddies I no longer communicate with. The weight of this film is utterly devastating on all accounts. | ||||