A tasty brew for manly men

Meet Betty (the Gas-Whore)

I unscrewed the bottle and took my first swig of the night. Betty the Gas-Whore, my brown camperized Van, was being towed away. I loved that Van. It was my faithful, completely unreliable 1978 Chevy power-to-the-max off-roading adventurous little go-machine. With fold-out bed, gas stove, electric cooler, sink, table, storage friendly it was wired for sound, beer and good times: Betty was leaving tonight for good. I’d promised to give it to Laura the Sailor, a Canadian I met on walkabout. She never returned my email though, so I didn't give it to her.

Taking a swig beside me is my gorgeous love bunny wife Janine. Straight from the bottle, just like me, she apparently doesn’t fuck around with the hard liquor. Her and I took Betty to Drumheller in freezing -20°C cold and visited Pony Canyon. The land sung to us a song of incredible beauty and fun. On our wedding my cousin presented us with a picture of Drumheller, unaware of the significance. The Universe conspired to send us a memento. Shortly we took it to wine country B.C., on our honeymoon. My wife shudders in the cold of our garage and passes the Tamdhu back to me. She hurries her hot ass back inside.

In the cab of the tow truck, hauling Betty away, is a fellow I met on freecycle. I originally bought the Van for $3000 (no tax if I paid cash) from a shifty used car salesman who wouldn’t let me take the old clunker off the lot to have it inspected. Karma connected me to a traveling inspector instead. The fellow hauling her away, meanwhile, had just recovered from a years long bout of cancer. Now in remission, the mechanically inclined fellow planned to take his wife and kids camping. I swore to Betty she’d be given free to her next owner; someone who could take care of her. I would tell them straight about what worked and what didn’t. No slimy salesmen. Within days of my driving away, Betty developed fatal electrical problems. It leaked gas if parked on a slope. All four tires exploded on the first trip out to the Grand Canyon; thankfully not all at once.

Anorexic me in Zion, days later I'd declare myself a willing instrument of the Universe.

That first trip Vlad, Kyle and Erron led Betty and I to Las Vegas. Kyle got food poisoning and was delirious for three days. Erron christened the van “Betty” after winning the “Name The Van Contest” requiring her to find Dixie cups of a correct size. We boys quickly appended the honorific “Gas-Whore.” We camped in Zion, one of the most majestic, radiant places God has blessed this planet with. After Vegas and an overnight hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, we bid a hasty return so I could attend the funeral of my beloved Heather. The first girl my soul was truly connected with had now passed away from this world and I was truly and forever saddened by the loss. Heather: My heart still aches and I thank you for spending some of your brief time here on this world with me.

I smoked Crystal Meth on the first day of my trip to Chicago. I was on a solo journey and indulging in an addiction I’ve long since given up. I got all sketchy tweaking out learning to tie knots. During a subsequent night driving, nothing but Red Bull in my system: I thought back to first deciding I wanted a camper van. Back to an evening driving my first car, on the way to a party to meet my friend Michelle. She and I spent years as best friends and confidants. Time I treasure. She helped me deal with some of my crippling depression and was someone I could turn to when sick of facing the question: What should I do with my life?

Answers finally came to me, on that long drive to meet her, all those years ago. A thought: I should get a van, drive around America, live by the river and never pay for more than gas. Years later, on my way to Chicago, I realized I’d done it. I’d changed my ways. No longer depressed, I had Betty and was driving free, living on roadsides (though not every day as I’d once imagined). My past self heard more from the future: I’d meet people, our lives intertwining. Oh yes, I’d thought: great way to get laid! My future self now corrected: well, not nearly as much as we hoped, and The Van was never quite the aphrodisiac I’d hoped. Yes! Getting laid all. the. time. Future me just sighed, I’d figure it out the hard way. My past self was told: If you do these things, you will follow the one thing you know you love: other people. You will be less lonely because you will be less alone. My future self now knew this to be true. My past self made it to the party and felt suddenly lighter. From that day forward things took a permanent turn for the better. The conversation over, I drove even further into the black night, Manson blaring over the speakers, ready to take the world by storm, trusty betty the Gas-Whore at my side, conquering anything in our path.

YEAH!      I traveled in time, _baby.

I am a mystical motherfucking wizard of insanely varied powers when I have the Spirit of St. Betty welled up inside. I will camp in the Scottish highland and fly to the Moon. I will burn with radiant energy and

              I kick ass.