Daily Gism. Almost never actually Daily.



Somewhere outside of Reno



And so, He found Himself in front of the screen of His be-stickered Macintosh Duo 2300, slowly typing out words. Where they came from, He did not know. Why He felt the urge to write them; well, He had a vague idea of that reason.

Since the reunion, He had felt a strange longing for a more stable diet of literary outbursts. After all, a writer writes because He has to, not because He feels like it. Originally, these feelings had begun to spring up even before the tragic gathering at Founder's Hall. He had first decided long ago that as soon as His tenure at CGW had ended, He would most likely attempt to write a book. He had only remembered this idea a week after the actual termination of his career, and scurried to make up for lost time by curling up on his bed and writing long into the night. There He lay prone for several hours, all the while recounting those events which were the most readily remembered from His days at Saint Andrews.

At the end of this lengthy session of mental masturbation, He felt no closer to his intended goal of begining a book. None of the words he had written came near capturing any of the emotions whirling around inside of Him. They were mostly rough sketchings of events that were slowly vanishing from His mind due to excessive marijuana use and age. The well of His creativity had run dry.

Perhaps, He wondered, the muses that had once inspired Him now fled at the thought of not being paid. Or perhaps it was simply hard to write a novel. He didn't know which theory He would prefer to be true.

Meanwhile, outside the small purple/redish Mazda, the flat prarie land of mid-northern Nevada flew by at a steady 80 miles per hour. The last stop in Winemucca had proen to be fairly grim: Kim had spent her last dollar on gasoline leaving the two of them penniless. Well, not entirely penniless, as the Mazda was positively awash in loose change: more appropriately they were to be categorized as dollarless.

Now, the plan was to hot-foot it to Reno and pray for a Bank of America ATM. For Kimberly, it would mean more spending money; for Him, a chance to withdraw from his now nearly depleated savings account. His first order of business upon arrival in San Francisco was to change banks.

Just a few days earlier, He had damaged His hand while punching a BoA ATM in Easton. The thing had refused to allow Him access to any of the money in His savings account, and had deemed Him worthy of $80 from the checking account which He knew was empty. He was dreading the next bank statement: "$20: checking account overdraft fee." He hated Bank of America , almost as much as He hated Sprint Wireless.

Were it not for the fact that Kimberly's only cell phone was, in fact, from Sprint PCS, He would never have touched anything the company produced ever again. But as it stood, He had little choice in the matter; His parents salivated over his daily calls from the road.

The trip across the continent had actually been pretty easy, so far. The orignal plan had been to take around 5 days for the entire journey, sparing one day for the grand canyon, and another for liesurely driving along some backroads in the middle of nowhere. that term had gained new meaning during the second day of the sojourn. Halfway between Lincoln and Ogallalas Nebraska, it dawned upon Kim and He that Easton was by no means in the middle of nowhere. It was in a small pocket of somewhere amidst a high-speed byway to somewhere else. In fact, the middle of nowhere was in Nebraska. Or, more accurately, it was Nebraska. For hours they had driven through an absolute void. It was flat, covered in wheat, corn, or soy beans; and was divided up by thin lines of trees and disintigrating farm-houses. The horizon was dotted with grain silos and elevators. Plus, it was almost at the center of the continental United States.

But now, Kim and He were in another sort of nowhere: a nowhere populated with scrub brush and emerald tipped mountains. To the left, a long spine of the world rose to the sky, nearly a mile off the raod they currently traversed. To the right, the sun had just tucked itself behind a much further ridge. Behind lay a winding stretch of Interstate 80 and countless gawdy billboards proclaming extremely loose slots.

Ahead lay 400 more miles of open road.

And San Francisco.

So on this, the third and final (they hoped) day of their cross-country trek, they subsisted on a steady diet of Red Bull and bottled water. He found himself wishing his metabolism were a bit slower, as this trip would have afforded him an easy chance to lose a great deal of weight. Instead, His speed-addicted metabolism had probably taken his weight down from 135 to somewhere around 125 or 130. He hoped not. He needed every pound he could get. He got cold. A lot. A lack of fat did that to a person.

The odometer now read 100154. Almost two hours earlier Kim popped open two Red Bulls, and the pair toasted as the Mazda (codenamed Fred) sped into it's 100000'th mile at a cool 90 MPH. This feat would not have been possible were the road not downhill at the time.

A cavalcade of white ringed orange traffic barrels flew by Fred's starboard doors. Often, during their travels, the normally bivalved I-80 was squeezed down to a single vein so that the opposing side could be reworked and re-tarred. It was a constant annoyance, esspecially in Wyoming where the local workman seemed to enjoy placing both directions of traffic onto a single side of the highway. Still, they had been sensible enough to keep the speed limit at 65, assuring Kim and He wouldn't have to dip below the necesary 70 MPH. At that speed, they were assured an expedient trip.

Again, a troup of orange barrels flew by, just off the side of the road. They seemed to be waiting for the perfect time to pounce on unsuspecting drivers who might not be expecting a time wasting lane squeeze.

Reno crept ever closer, beconing the travelers with its promise of ATM's, Citgo stations, and more Red Bull.

Every few miles, a small cluster of trailers and mobile homes popped up on one-side of the road, usually accompanied by a large derelect farm house or automotive graveyard. Each one offered more comfort to the pair of Easton-fearing 20-somethings. With the passing of every trailer, they're apprecation of their hometown grew exponentially.

The Wolfman's Brother now clicked out of Fred's constantly wheezing speakers. Trey Anastasio crooned about the lycanthrope's sibling and conjured up images in both Kim and His mind. For Him, the song brought memories of His sophmore year roommate: Dan Wolf. Obviously, Wolf's occasional nickname suited the song, but it helped that Dan did in fact have a younger brother. More-over, this brother had once broken both arms falling out of a boat which was moored in the family driveway. Thus, whenever He heard Phish play "The Wolfman's Brother," He immediately thought of a small boy chasing Trey with both arms in casts proped up at direct right angles to his body.

He looked down the road from the passenger seat, the Duo hot in his lap. The sign ahead called Reno at 69 miles. A good thing for the both of them, as Kim was hungery, and He had to poo.























































































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