By the end of the week, the ‘Sube had HAZARD INSTITUTE emblazoned on each door. My required phone number was incorporated into two large bar codes, which suggested scanning when entering or exiting the Institute’s ‘compound’. HLV, for Hazard Land Vehicle, and 127, my parking slot at my apartment complex, was visible from every angle, including the roof of the cab and backwards on the hood. I enjoyed free parking in the Greater Boston area at least ninety-percent of the time. Life as an over-taxed New England motorist was good.

During the cusp of the ‘93-’94 winter, I decided it was time to attack California again. I had once before been to Los Angeles, but it had been in a weeklong alcoholic stupor, and having been somewhere drunk can be the same as not being there at all. Guardian Angels and Muses look after drunks and tormented artistes respectively, but the price is not getting much of a view.

Hazard’s Law #1: It’s not where you are, it’s where you’re at.

I spent all my free time in the underground parking garage, probing and poking and purging every inch of HLV127 for the upcoming launch. The still gaping NO RADIO cavity gave access to that Tolkian world between the steering wheel and the engine firewall. By the time I was done, ninety percent of the dashboard, the adjacent transmission hump furnishings and the entire interior lining was gone.

After sanding and refilling rust holes, I primed over everything in flat black and I really liked the way it looked. I proceeded to tape over the windshield, the lights and the few remaining gauges and went nuts with black spray paint, inside and out. The result was stunning, in a flat black sort of way. It was the closest thing to a four cylinder, eighty-six octane, unleaded stealth bomber that I had ever seen. I feared that it might be a little too invisible, so I applied black and yellow danger tape to the bumpers and running boards. The final touch was a single, cyclopian rally light on the roof. It was right out of Mad Max. It was ready. I held an apartment furniture liquidation sale and moved into a motel for a couple of weeks. Motel rooms are a great way to figure out how much is too much stuff for a cross-country drive.

MENTAL SIDE ROAD #3: ESCAPE FROM BOSTON

It seems like every time I try to leave ‘The Hub of the Universe', the city itself rises up to impede me from reaching an interstate. A plethora of closed streets, astronomical traffic jams and classic Boston drivers tempt me to detour my trip into a murder trial. There is a reason for such phenomena.

For every intention you have, there is an equal counter-intention. Any new venture into unmarked waters, be it a blind date or impersonating a brain surgeon, is tugged at by an urge to stay home and play it safe. As I’ve alluded to before, the trick is to figure out which voice to act out upon, and quite a trick it is, because sometimes the roles are reversed.

On top of that, there’s another plot thickening additive. We are all connected to the Universe by some kind of wacky energy cord that starts in our soul and extends in all directions, linking us to everyone we’ve ever met, will meet and every tidbit of dirt, water, air, electromagnetism and whatever else is out there. The Martial Arts call this Chi. Obi-Wan Kenobi called it the Force. You have to recognize it when you see it, be it another aisle opening up while you’re in line at the market or a magazine-selling zealot at your door when you’re late for dinner with a movie star. It always changes, otherwise we’d either be a species of abrasive, confrontational nomads or a species of fetal-positioned agoraphobes.

Hazard’s Law #2: Confusion is the link between harmony and discord.

For example, I accidentally erased this chapter twice. It took me a week to once again approach the demon keyboard.

The original title for these cross-country notes was to be No Radio 2: The Quest for Fire in the Sky. My intention was to find some new spiritual level somewhere across the mighty sandbar between the Atlantic and Pacific. I was open to anything, from a UFO encounter to getting struck by lightning while simultaneously getting stung by a scorpion.

In retrospect, I should have called it The Quest for the Perfect Cup Holder. While gutting the interior of HLV127, I also jettisoned every possible surface to which I could anchor a coffee cup, as well as the ashtray and cigarette lighter. I attempted many solutions. Those holders that slide into your window slot aren’t very good. There’s those little bean bag devices, but I didn’t trust them to centrifugal force.

My transmission hump had become a living tapestry of parking brake cables and stick shift underworkings and left no place to adhere a cup’n’tissue caddie. I ended up tying a bungi cord around the lower four inches of the passenger seat backrest and inserting coffee cups into the gap. Leaving a half-inch of coffee in the preceding cup created an ashtray and the next coffee was placed right alongside. Blah, blah, blah, the circle of life.

My first twenty-four hours included Cleveland and the St. Louis arch in moonlight. With the exception of the need for a new ignition wire in St. Somewhere, Missouri, the ‘Sube was performing admirably.

Hazard’s Law #3: Never drive a vehicle that you can’t push. Hazard’s Law #4: Never push a car that you can’t stop. Hazard’s Law #5: Never stop a vehicle that you can’t start again.

During my trip in the two-seater, I amended: Hazard’s Law #6: Never drive cross-country in a vehicle that you can’t sleep in.

Before setting out, I had taken out a membership with KOA, the Kampgrounds of America. Despite the fascistic choice of consonants, they seem to be just a chain of Mom’n’Pop campgrounds splattered across North America. My original plan included taking advantage of these hostels, throwing a tarp over the truck and camping out on the poop deck. When I checked a couple of these KOAs out, my heart just wasn’t in it. They seemed okay, retirees and RVs and such, but that was the point.

No matter what I do, I always end up leaving the house looking like a fugitive. I’m surprised by the variety of people that I’ve met and conversed with, but I know it takes them a few minutes for their third eye to open up to my smarter-than-the-average-teddy bear charm.

I like to drive to the point of near-exhaustion and I was always too tired to deal with how the Bundys would respond to a lone Cro-Magnon pulling into Apple Pie and Hot Dog Land in a 4WD Batmobile. I was too tired to test the milk of human kindness, especially when it was dark out and the cows probably had axes. I formed a contingency. Every seven hundred miles equaled one cheap motel room. My odometer was a game show, with a couple of hours asleep as a prize.

MENTAL SIDE ROAD #4: EVERYTHING I NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN MOTEL ROOMS:

Well, not everything, but here’s a few travel tips I’ve devised:

1) Natural fibers! Cotton! Wool! Linen! Muslin!

Not only can you roll these into tight packages like your Uncle in the Navy showed you, but I’d be hard pressed to find a wrinkle that didn’t come out when you hung your clothes in a steamy bathroom. Shake them out afterwards and you should be fine.

2) Hey! How can I hang my clothes in the bathroom when those useless motel hangers can only be used in the closet, huh? Sniff? Whine?

Okay, listen up. Most of those hanger racks come off the wall with a couple of undone screws. Do so and remove one or two of the hanger tops and keep them forever. After replacing the clothing rod, snip a section from one side of the hanger top, bend back the sharp edges and presto! you now have a personal and universal motel hanger device. Chuck the decapitated and superfluous hanger bottoms into in bureau drawer and let someone else figure out the discrepancy. They’ll probably just think it’s a hanger from another room, if they even give it that much thought.

3) The Charles Kuralt Memorial Drain Plug.

I don’t know who thought of it first, but I’ll credit St. Charles with the idea of having your own sink stopper. I actually recommend the flat and floppy kind. They’ll fit the sink and tub. Sometimes even a Cro-Magnon likes a bubble bath.

4) Bubble, Bubble equals less toil, less trouble.

I think the most valuable piece of road equipment I have is my electric coffeepot. Not a Mr. Coffee, not a percolator, just a simple maker of boiling water. Get one with a removable lid. I used to put opened soup cans into the boiling water to create a double boiler effect, but the labels and gunk get all over the place. I now place wider cans on top of the coffeepot, and allow the scalding steam to act as a burner. If you really want get serious, just get a tiny little sauce pan. No matter how tempted you get, never put food directly into the coffeepot. It will instantly burn and set off the fire alarm. I’ve also found that instant rice or Ramen noodles and condensed soup will cook fairly well when sealed into a small Tupperware-type container with equal amounts of red hot water. Don’t forget there’s always Cup of Soup, instant oatmeal and instant coffee for mere mixology in a mug.

I’ve gone so far as to saw off the handle and the spout of the coffeepot, for easier packing, and then saw the handle off of my thermal mug and store it in the coffeepot. But, as I said before, I’m an extremist.

5) Swiss Army Knife. Make sure it has Flathead and Philips head screwdrivers.

Missouri gave way to the Oklahoma Turnpike, where I saw a guy running east with what looked like an Olympic Torch and followed by cop cars a media trucks. At this point in time, the Atlanta Games were still two and a half years off. Maybe he’d just stolen some town’s only source of fire. Guess we’ll never know.

A straight, flat line eventually injects you into that smaller part of Texas that herniates out of the top of the Lone Star State. I’d been to Texas twice before. At least that’s what the ticket stubs say.

The first time was while visiting Bill Marcellus Dwyer, who lived in the French Quarter of New Orleans. We drove to Arlington, Texas, which is the bedroom community of Dallas/Fort Worth, to visit some friends.

The only thing I remember is the phrase ‘Speed monitored by Orbis’. For hours, Bill and I drove with our heads craning out the windows, scanning the vast Texas night sky for some alien traffic enforcement spacecraft.

When we got to our friend’s house, we forwent any salutations with, “What the hell is an Orbis!”

It turns out than an Orbis was just a little mailbox-looking device on the side of the road that let off a buzz when you passed them faster than the posted speed limit. I hear most of them have been shot.

My second visit occurred during a binge, and I was magically transported from Fenway Park, Boston, to the mechanical bull at Mickey Gilley’s, outside of Houston. I read somewhere that Texas is as big as Australia. I keep meaning to fold a world map together and compare. I also keep meaning to someday return to these two demon towns.

As I pass through Amarillo, I see a restaurant billboard that challenges anyone to finish a humongus steak. Apparently, if you can finish the steak, it’s free. Okay, now I have three demon towns on my list. Cool. I let out a courteous ‘YeeeeeeeHah!’ and continued into the night, my sights set upon a New Mexico motel room and some much- needed sleep.

Trucker graffiti at a rest stop, ‘Wake up, drive all day, still in Texas.”

Another trucker’s reply, ‘Get a faster truck.’

I also owe the good people the good people of New Mexico a return visit. Rumor has it that there’s extraterrestrials ensconced beneath the mountains and that’s reason enough for me.

I’ve been to Arizona twice before, and both times to visit former High School of Art Design crush, Becky. We’ve stayed in touch over the years, allowing me to observe her personal vision quest that led her to become a nurse/midwife in Tucson. It amazes me how a Jewish girl from Brooklyn ended up speaking fluent Spanish and delivering babies in the desert.

She once took me to the Grand Canyon. Grand and Canyon are both understatements. It’s the biggest freakin’ hole I’ve ever seen. It’s simply mind-boggling. I think part of its visual incongruence is the fact that your eyes have never focused on so distant an object, such as the far wall of the canyon, without it being in the sky. The canyon’s length is equivalent to the distance between London and Paris. It is as deep as ten Washington Monuments and its maximum width equals the length of the Boston Marathon. I learned these facts from a cartoon in the information kiosk, where a mouse explores the canyon in a Dixie cup attached to a helium balloon. Hey, knowledge is power, even if you get it from an animated rodent. In addition, one or more of the Park Rangers put on an informative talent show each evening. Power, Ranger.

Like Houston, Dallas and the Monster Steak of Amarillo, however, there was no time for the Grand Canyon or Becky Freeman this trip, but the signs for the giant meteor crater outside of Flagstaff were irresistible. It was no Grand Canyon, but it was a fitting companion piece that showed the difference between the patient erosion of the Colorado River and the temper tantrum of the Cosmos. It looked like some pharmacist of unfathomable proportion had ground his pistil into the Earth and, therein, lay its message. Try to be a good person, ‘cause you never know when some immense rock is going to fall on you.

My Komplimentary KOA road map informed me that I was also close to the legendary region of Sedona, the land of wind sculptured hoodoos and focused pillars of energy. If I was going to find a simultaneous lightning bolt/scorpion sting, this was the place. I set out for enlightenment.

Instead, what I encountered was a twisting mountain road lined with Winnebagos and clotheslines. Could KOA be in the paranormal power business? I doubted that and persevered. The far side leveled out into a very trendy, terra cotta tourist trap town. There would be no venomous electrocutions in this Mudville, Edgar Cayce had struck out. Maybe the zeniths of positive polarity were just around the next bend. Maybe they weren’t. It was a classic example of Schrodinger’s Cat, but it was I who turned tail. I was off to Las Vegas.

At Kingman, Arizona, you make a forty-five degree right turn, cross over the Andy Devine Highway and you will eventually become a flea on the serpentine camelback spine that is the Hoover Dam. You don’t come across many things in the Southwest but, when you do, they’re huge. It must be some Law of Spatial Conservation.

My only previous experience with casinos had been a couple of junkets to Paradise Island in the Grand Bahamas. If Paradise Island was a poodle-sized dog biscuit, Vegas was a twenty-four hour buffet for the Hounds of the Baskervilles.

I crashed with some former Boston friends, Soobie Doobie and DeMoulas. Soobie was the former lead singer of the Swinging Erudites. DeMoulas was the former model sprawled over the Lincoln-Mercury sign in the ‘Sign of the Cat’ commercials. They had been living in Hollywood, but the ’94 quake freaked them out and they had pulled back to future beachfront property.

It was good to have a friendly base of operations from which to explore. I sensed that Lady Luckville could quickly turn uglier than praying mantis on her honeymoon. Fortunately, the only card game I ever learned to play was five hundred rummy and I get can get as many kicks as the next guy from nickel slots. Still, gambling fever was all around me and it was always a thin layer from my bloodstream.

I learned a line dance at Sam’s Town and I sang Wichita Lineman at a karaoke bar. All Las Vegas tourist magazines have tons of coupons in them and a half-hour with a scissors will arm you with a day of frolic. A free pull at a slot machine here, a free coffee mug there, it’s a cheap way to spend some time and you return home with an armload of kitsch to bestow upon your hosts. They’ll graciously accept them and then open the cupboard to reveal ten times as many trinkets. After all, they live there.

I never got to see the guys with the white tigers or Melinda, the first lady of magic, but I had one more mission in mind. I wanted to observe an all-nighter in a casino. I chose the Excalibur as my arena, dug in and held my ground. It was a bunch of old Black ladies and myself entrenched around a nickel slot carousel. We yacked all night as I played and people-watched. Attendants are few and far between in the wee hours, so we kept making change for each other.

Just before dawn, my eyes were suddenly drawn down the midway. Long stemmed legs rose into an impeccably tailored, pinstripe business suit. Tastefully revealed cleavage was the launching pad for perfect neck, jawline and cheekbones. An entourage of auburn hair flanked piercing green eyes. Her Italian leather handbag swung in counterpoint as she strode towards the exit.

For a brief moment our eyes met and, in that nanosecond, the message came across loud and clear, ‘You can’t even afford to look at me.’

There was no animosity, no hatred, just cool, cool fact. Mission accomplished. I had searched for, and found, the specter of the Las Vegas night. It was time to head for Los Angeles.

Do you know the way to San Jose? Maybe I do and maybe I don’t, but I do know that the only way from Las Vegas to Los Angeles is Interstate 15.

Dwight Eisenhower is credited as the father of the Interstate Highway System. From what I hear, around 1919 he was part of a convoy of military vehicles that was traveling from Washington, D.C., to the Presidio in San Francisco. At one point he must have said, “This sucks, there ought to be a highway. I’m gonna marry Mamie, become President and build me a highway or two!”

So, next time you see those Army trucks rolling along the Interstate, say, “I like Ike!”

FAQ: Why do Army trucks drive with their headlights on in the daytime? Because they’re camouflaged and non-reflective, theoretically making them a hazard to other drivers.

Old Ike must have delegated the design of I-15 to either Rod Serling or Federico Fellini. On route to the City of Angels, you’ll encounter the World’s Biggest Thermometer, the Gateway to Death Valley and upgrade climbs so steep that road side signs advise you to shut off your air conditioner, lest you overheat your engine. All that’s missing are the scarecrows from The Planet of the Apes.

Throughout the Southwest, and especially on I-15, you’ll come across some of the most deliciously eerie sights I’ve ever encountered- abandoned gas stations.

Most are sun-bleached and bare-boned carcasses but take the time to check one out. These are the Ghost Towns of our times. The stories they must hold. Many were eyewitnesses to the dust bowl struggles of the Depression. All were stopping points in the pilgrimage to the Promised Land and, like many a pilgrim, they fell through the cracks.

How many dreams passed beneath those collapsing canopies? Take the time to look upon these oasii of the internal combustion wagon train. Patchwork quilts of Coke signs and auto part pin-up girls, brandishing the compelling and cryptic ‘Last Chance’. They were the prey of modern desperadoes, the foot soldiers of gas wars and the graveyards for many a horse-less carriage. So, give ‘em a nod, cowboy. The dinosaurs are watching us from heaven.

LA is a great big freeway. Dionn Warwick was right. That’s why she became a psychic. There were plans to make and people to call, but the hour was getting late. At 7:30 p.m., I checked into a Van Nuys Motel 6.

An hour later, I was ‘distracted’ by what seemed to be the biggest truck in the world rolling past my window, in spite of the fact that I was on the second floor. The TV was immediately interrupted by a Special Report. There had been major aftershock.

It wasn’t a lightning bolt and it wasn’t a scorpion, but I had never felt anything like it in my life. I had arrived.