Random Sticker.

Rocks.

Guilt is a powerful motivator but not a rational one.

The Bad Lands to Rapid City.

The car was disgusting and I took out at least 5 butterflies on 90 west. For four hours, I read signage for an upcoming historic gas station/store. That was pretty much the only thing there was to look forward to other than the actual park.

Stopped at looked around the Bad Lands, which to me, described every part of South Dakota. There were scenic views that wowed me largely because there was nothing there. It was the kind of trip that made me think, 'if I die here and now, how long before someone finds me?'


Interesting fact, but I'm sure Tommy's ice cream was weak. 1780's ice cream? Hard pass.


The entrance was full of mostly 80+ year old white people. I was 1 of 4 blacks, which was 2 more than I anticipated. After reading the exhibits, I found myself more concerned about how engineers preserve the monument and not why it was built. The cracks kill. Cracks is whack.


The road back was picture perfect. I'm sure there are a million more stars in the sky out west. We ended up right back where we started, in the middle of the Garth Brooks welcoming party. Minnesota? Iowa? Not sure where I'm headed, next.

Omaha and Sioux Falls aren't much.

Omaha, Nebraska. The quietest city on earth. It was odd, really. There were people, cars, animals...but nobody made a sound. I even turned down my music because I just felt like a disruptive negro. It was pretty, but seemed like a terrible place to spend life. However, I got a belly full of red meat from Dovers Steakhouse, because #OmahaSteaks. I was not disappointed.

It was hard getting it together to leave Omaha. We were exhausted from lack of sleep at tiny house and fought ourselves to even come to Sioux Falls. We tried to get day rates at hotels....fail. So, we had to make the 3.5 hour trek which produced some stereotypical sights on the road. Horses, grass, construction, hitchhikers, etc.


Sioux Falls was the landing spot. Butter. That's about it. We rode passed a pickup basketball game and there were no black people on the court, just to give an idea of what kind of place this is. There was a black working at Wing Stop, however.

Being in South Dakota confirmed my belief that there is no reason to be South Dakota. Moving on to these stoned white men.



Kansas City and the Middle of Nowhere.

Putting all his business out there. I got hit at the gas station by a man who I believe had dementia. As we pulled in, we saw a car pulled in perpendicular to the pump. It was all wrong and should've been a clear sign something was about to go down. It was pouring rain and everyone was looking for some sort of reprieve, bringing the crowds to a gas station/rest stop. Completely unaware, I was inside buying coffee. Because white people love to snitch, a man came rushing in to tell me he stopped the car and got his license plate. I dipped out and this man is waiting by his car, cigarette hanging from his lips, already making excuses. The damage was minimal, but I got the info just in case something develops.

The gas station sold hard liquor, by the way. I've never seen Cuervo and Jim beam on a BP shelf-- that seems like a bad idea.

Moving along, we finally crossed into Kansas. Straight to my favorite place on earth:


Naturally, I won every game and impressed Kansas bystanders with my golfing abilities. A younger white guy to the right swung and accidentally threw his golf club over the ledge. He 'joked' that he was going to take one out of my rack, so I had to snitch like my man at the gas station because I have zero time for extra charges. I stopped at 37 gas stations and none had souvenir shot glasses- WTF. So, I'm 3 parts salty I missed that one for my collection.



We pressed on to Gretna, Nebraska. It definitely wasn't the smartest idea to get there at midnight. We drove an unpaved road for about 3 miles, without a single person, light or settling feeling. These were the directions we got from the owner. Of course, his name was Chad.



Not one, but TWO goat pastures. We got an AirBnb that was a tiny house. A legit tiny house:



You walk in and you sit down. Dassit. Why do white people love tiny houses? They had a 'compost' toilet. AKA a hippie indoor outhouse. I boycotted the toilet and fake shower and the first hour was spent killing flies. I'm writing this from a coffee shop in Omaha, because we had to leave at sunrise. I couldn't hold it anymore.

I just want a steak before I leave.





Nope.


It was a joke until it wasn't. We were watching the live stream on the news then it made it to the security cameras. A white lady ran into the establishment talking bout 'the cops are shooting rubber bullets for no reason! I got hit in the f#$%in' leg!' ...that's when I realized these bullets are for everybody.

The crazy thing is the casual demeanor the residents have. They're just used to it. 'This has nothing on Ferguson,' I heard a million times. The bartender told us to wait a while before leaving, but we say a window of opportunity and had a local with a plan. Lord knew if anything happened to my mama's borrowed car that was parked on the street, there would be another RIP post to share.

From safety, we again streamed the crowds and watched the happenings of where we once were. Rosalita's, or 'rosie-la-tatas' as my friend who can't read says, the home of the mediocre enchilada-- swarmed. I'm so glad I moved my mama's car.

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Last time I had it, I wasn't impressed but figured I need to try again. I rode to the top of the arch and back down and thought Murphy Lee would be waiting at the end but apparently that was a myth.

In 2003, I started at Purdue and meet 6 other kind hearted randoms. Being lame, we called ourselves the Magnificent 7. I got to catch up with one of the magnificent and her two offspring which solidified the fact that we're old AF. It's amazing the twists and turns friendships can take and still keep on course. Done with the visits, now off to the wild. But first...

TOP GOLF. I got hooked in Denver and now I'm the Maya Moore of golf (I don't know any golfers).


Oh, Broad Ripple.


I had to touch it to see if it was real. Every time I'm here it's the best night of my life that quickly turns into the worst once that perfect vision having ass hindsight kicks in. Driving the 'shortcut' (read: same ass time, you just speed) from West Lafayette at midnight, to catch the bars before they close leads to engrained memories tied to 'lick' by Joi. I passed the exact spot I failed that night and got by unscathed like Mario after getting a green mushroom and another shot.

Hmmm...another shot. The crew looks different but much is the same. Left ring fingers filled to match their phone galleries with pictures of middle school faces. Gray hair cutting through the black like white women who 'didnt see you standing there.' The jokes and drinks are endless.

I would list attendees but that just sounds like a recitation of lives lost due to unjust police killings. Instead, I'll reserve the BLM content for the riot ridden next stop:

St. Louis.

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I woke up to the sounds of a 4 and 6 year old living their life like it's golden. The 4 year old told me I was only allowed to drink out of a plastic cup, so I followed directions. I have to earn his trust before I can get glass. He ran the house. While showering, I heard the door open and 'who's in here?' heavily echoed through the soaking wet bathroom.

(Apparently, there was a bath time gone wrong moment that morning)

The boy is 4, but he sounded like a grown man. I said my whole name before realizing I was talking to a child.

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I Quit My Job Cuz Fck Dem Hoes.


The best quote of the morning. Invited over for breakfast, I was treated to an accidental gourmet meal because they were out of everything but eggs, cheese, guac and Brussels sprouts.

Protein.






Odometer set.

Road Trippin'

I'm taking off. I'll be documenting it all right here. 


YG.

The evolution of Andre


In progress commissioned piece.