Blogjerseyssale

Okay, so we're really not spontaneous people. We're the guys who plan to make plans. But, one labor day weekend, one would've thought we were the true adventure-seekers we knew we always were deep down inside.

Labor day weekend was fast approaching and my friends Kim, Dave and myself were without plans. There was talk of driving to Vegas (a staple trip for any Los Angeleno) but we quickly came to the conclusion that this could be the weekend to break us of our fear of the unknown. We would pack up my Neon for a three day journey and choose the direction we would drive only once we set food in my red car aptly named “Lucy.”

So, there we were on Friday night, geared up and ready for anything. We chose the direction – we would travel northwest to discover what the desert region held. The Grand Canyon seemed like a place we could eventually land and we were excited at our successful non-planning planning. It was about four hours into our journey that our spontaneously-planned trip took a different turn. Lucy popped a tire so we were forced to the right side of the road. Pulling the baby tire from the trunk, we felt lucky that we HAD listened to our fathers and were able to change the tire on our own. We used our AAA resources to point us toward a tire store so we could get the tiny tire exchanged for a real one. No baby tire would've ever made the journey to the Grand Canyon at 50 miles per hour in the dark desert. AAA instructed us to continue a few miles and we get off at a town named “Blythe.” We were told to find Michael, a local mechanic, who would give us a new tire so we could carry on towards the Grand Canyon.

We roll into Blythe, a forgotten desert town. Dirt roads, one restaurant, a few chain hotels and one mechanic. Of course, as our luck would have it, Michael was not open and wouldn't be open until the next morning. We toyed with the idea of carrying on but we were nervous to travel further in the dark desert with flailing cellphone signals, the risk of overheating in the 100 degree desert heat and the infamous baby tire. It appeared we were patrons of Blythe for the night. We spontaneously embraced the forgotten town and set out to find a hotel room.

The more we searched the main drag, the more we realized that something was abuzz in Blythe. All the hotels were booked solid – which baffled us. It wasn't until the last hotel we thought to ask what the deal was. Since the town was mostly filled with men as we could tell, we wondered – Was it a Playboy shoot? Nascar racing? Motorbike convention? The motel owner, dressed simply in a stained wife-beater and tattered jean shorts, explained that it was the start to dove hunting season in Blythe. (I'm sorry, what? People hunt the birds of peace?) He then told us we were in luck – he did have one room available for the bargain basement price of $150.00. Stunned silence from all three of us. He's clearly insane. We looked at each other and realized we had no other option. We could sleep in the car, but it would be tight quarters for the three of us, and with the extreme heat and humidity of the desert, it would be miserable sleeping. Although Kim and I were ready to slum-it in the Neon, Dave insisted we be smart and take the room.

On the way up to our motel room, we passed numerous open grills in the parking lot. Men were gathered around them, sitting on folding chairs and drinking beer. The smell of whatever they were cooking was disgusting. I am a true carnivore and I knew they weren't grilling up steaks, hotdogs or burgers. It was something unsettling. Yes, that's right – it was doves. These people were grilling doves on little bird spits over the open flames. Unbelievable. I was learning something new – people not only kill the birds of peace, they eat them. All those times people set doves free at their weddings, someone (maybe from Blythe) was there to shoot them down and grill ‘em up for some summer BBQ. Nauseous by the smells, but still oddly hungry, we put our stuff in the room, and walked over to the only diner in town for some non-dove grub.

Inside the diner, which pretty much was like the one in TV's beloved “Alice,” there were glass cases filled with hunting garb, dead stuffed doves and big banners made on Printshop that embraced the Blythe tradition with simply stated: “Welcome, Dove Hunters.” We quickly ate our soup and salads and decided the sooner we get to sleep the sooner we can leave this place.

Back in the no-tell mo-tel room, we discovered that the air conditioner wasn't working and that the sheets were disgustingly stained. We took our clean tshirts and covered the pillowcases with them. We then sprawled on our backs and each put a washcloth doused in cold water on our faces to try and cool down a bit. Kim, in her infinite wisdom, opted to sleep with her hand in a cooler filled with cold water.

4 am, our phone rings. Dave answers it to hear the man at the front desk proclaiming “Time for huntin'. Good luck.” Apparently everyone in the motel was getting a friendly wake-up call to go kill the symbols of peace and happiness. We just lay there in our beds. 15 minutes later there's a loud knock at our door “Time to go huntin'” the voice behind it said. Unbelievable. These people are relentless. Maybe we should just go hunting to shut them the fuck up. A few more door pounds and telephone calls, and the noise died down outside. Clearly all the hunters had left the motel. It was our chance to escape.

We got back in Lucy the Neon and drove down the road to Michael's to wait for him to open at 7. Our spontaneously-planned road trip only took us a bit further to Scottsdale, Arizona where we pretended to be college students for the night. Then, back to LA through the hot desert we travelled. Still, to this day, none of us have ever been to the Grand Canyon.