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Or don't pick, because you can have your cake, eat it, and drink until you forget your name, too, at Austin's Carousel Lounge. But if punk rock, clown-centric murals, and old men aren't your bag, by all means, do not go.

 

Okay, so I have once again neglected this blog, but cut me some slack -- I've been on the road for 23 days, mostly in Utah and California. In the absence of a compelling overarching narrative – aside from a guidebook author doing rounds on the Wasatch Front and the Sierra Nevada -- I give you a few of the top snapshots from my trip. And, yes, that is Joseph Smith as a sphinx.

As a sort of an early Mother's Day expedition, I hired Mom on as an unpaid intern  (well, I conned her into paying for gas) for a couple of days and took her up to Ventura, California, and Santa Cruz Island in Channel Islands National Park. And we got to see the first blue whale of the season. Awesome. Here's a close-up:

I spent most of the last week in the desert wilderness that spans vast tracts of space between Las Vegas and L.A. working on a new edition of Frommer's National Parks of the American West. After a night in Utah, we had lunch at the Little A'le'Inn in Rachel, Nevada (the only business in the gateway to impenetrable Area 51) on the first day of the trip. We got burgers and an earful from the owner's daughter how she was going to sue the pants off the producers of the movie Paul for unauthorized replica of the Little A'le Inn used in the movie. No word on any recent strange happenings at Area 51, or lack thereof.


Then we (my father and I) hit Death Valley National Park for two days and hiked Gower Gulch Loop (where I shot the lead photo up top), visited Harmony Borax Works (Death Valley is full of borax, primarily used to get your clothes cleaner), and drove to both Badwater (282 feet below sea level) and Mahogany Flat (8,200 feet above sea level). Just below the latter, I banged my head on the doorways of not one but two of the Charcoal Kilns (below) that supplied the local smelters with fuel a century ago.


After exiting Death Valley through Shoshone, California and eating breakfast at the famous Crowbar, we drove through Mojave National Preserve, stopping in at the fabulously restored Kelso Depot, now the preserve's visitor center. There I listened to old radio ads from evangelist Curtis Springer, exhorting people to come and be saved at his spiritual center in Zzyzx (ZIE-zix). I also got a gander at the old, dinky, and open-air Kelso Jail (below).


Next up was two days in Joshua Tree and vicinity, bunking at the Joshua Tree Inn, the deathplace of the late, great Gram Parsons (see shrine below). They are planning to gild all of the doors here in honor of his "Sin City" lyrics referencing a gold-plated door on the 31st floor, despite the fact that the inn is just one story high.


Then we hit the park. The wildflowers were in full bloom, putting on an especially dazzling display this year. My father claimed I tried to kill him by taking him on the 6.2-mile Lost Horse Mine Loop, but his spirits were boosted by this dude near the end of the trail.


Next up: Channel Islands National Park. I leave you with a few of Joshua Tree's finest wildflowers.

Buck was one big dog. The late  St. Bernard's head was mounted and now hangs on the wall of Utah's oldest and flat-out best bar: the Shooting Star Saloon in dinky Huntsville. While the Beehive State will never be known for its debauchery, the Shooting Star is undoubtedly one of the greatest watering holes in the West.

Located just east of the city of Ogden in sublime Ogden Valley -- home to three ski resorts (Snowbasin, Powder Mountain, and Wolf Creek Utah) -- the bar is said to have poured its first drink in 1862. It hasn't stopped serving since -- the place pretty much ignored Prohibition. The Shooting Star is still the place to go in the Valley: Bedecked with signed dollar bills, rubber chickens, frying pans, and all sorts of other whatnot, the joint is packed after the lifts stop turning at the local hills and the bartender is equally apt at serving beers and discussing quantum physics.

Then there's Buck. And, in the men's room, this:

I can think of no other bar in the West - no, make that the world - with more oddities, gimmicks, and antique sex toys tucked into its nooks and crannies than Tucson's incomparable Meet Rack, thanks to owner Jim Anderson (a.k.a. God). Beyond the gallery of weird art and  snapshots hanging on the walls and bras and panties dangling from the ceiling, there's a museum/dungeon with antique sexual devices and chastity belts. The bar's motto: "Something to offend everyone." Jim's credo: "I'll ruin your life." The condom machine in the women's restroom is wired to a buzzer in the bar that rings loudly when coins are inserted. And I'm just barely scratching the surface here.

Like most people nicknamed after a deity, God has pretty much seen and done it all. He drove Elvis to a concert. He ran for mayor of Tucson several times. He hung out with Schwarzenegger before he was anybody. (Schwarzenegger that is - God has always been somebody.) He's owned bars all over the hemisphere, but it seems the Meet Rack is the best fit.

Beyond the presence of God, the Meet Rack's best feature might just be the branding iron featuring God's silhouette on its business end. If you'd like, he'll get it all red-hot on the stove and treat you to a brand pretty much anywhere on your body. (One guy got his tongue branded.) After the pain subsides, you can show that brand to the barkeep here for a 50-cent discount on drinks for the rest of your days. (Nothing like getting a $2 Bud in exchange for a speech impediment.) Ask Jim how one brandee took him all the way to the People's Court.