PulpLit.net

not the only one

Consider myself pleased as punch as my fellow bloggers have at last returned in full glory. My computer monitor is doing an alarming occasional quick off and on which does not seem like it can be particularly good for it; if it blows out, I might not get around to posting this blog entry.

First things first, let this be the main point of my blog: Jasonian, my dear, since you have now conquered your fear of flying, I feel the time has arrived for a mammoth trek across to this side of things...what sayest thou? I encourage all of you dear readers to send Mr. Jasonian a few emails on the topic.

The main point of this here blog is to provide some more scintillating updates on the situation of being in Kentucky/Tennessee/Georgia last week. Because really, it's a pretty funny place to be, even if you spend half your time dealing in red tape. I'm a native New Englander, and after being in the Sowwwth, I feel that I am really, and most truly, a native New Englander, because outside that there comfort zone, the USofA sure seems like a bizarre place to live.

Allow me to make a list of things I would like to remember (or maybe, to forget) about my jaunt:

1. Holy Christian radio. How can there be that many choices? Who actually listens to these people prattling on about being saved? And on the same topic, who are these people that believe, as their giant yellow and black billboard suggests, "Sunday is the mark of the devil". What is going on?

2. Fireworks. On the stretch from Nashville to Atlanta, the number of fireworks stores is unbelievable. It is not as though you are driving through strip mall land; there is just this two-lane highway (noted, by myself, as though "this stretch of highway is just for people to drive on" which sounds like the Department of Redundancy Department but in fact contains a little grain of truth; there are these little tiny towns made up of McDonald's, Cracker Barrel Restaurants, Shell, BP, and Cumberland Farms equivalents--though missing the French vanilla capuccino maker that we all know and love). Anyway, off this highway, there are these massive, WalMart-sized fireworks shops with funny names like "Big Daddy's Fireworks" or, more regularly, "Fireworks: Tennessee's Biggest Choice". How do these places stay open? Who actually buys fireworks?

3. Cracker Barrel Restaurants. I know I mentioned this before, but I am hereby mentioning it again. This was the greatest meal of my life. Well, in kitsch value at least. It was hilariousness. We were there Easter morning, and the place was packed. It is attached to the Cracker Barrel Country Store, which sells funny things like butterscotch sticks, pecan brittle, and Good 'n Plenty. C-diddly-dawg and I both had eggs and toast, and I had some roasted apples which is apparently some kind of delicacy, and we slurped down huge glasses of orange juice and buckets of diner coffee. The restaurant was a big open room with greyish beamed ceilings and various old-time mementos hanging around every which way. Our waitress had this fabulous Southern drawl and was happy as a clam to be dealing with us. It was too great for words. The thing is, the food was even quite yum, though the apples were alarmingly sweet. But C's fried eggs weren't drippling with oil, and my poached eggs were done to perfection. The toast wasn't pre-buttered and nasty pasty. I'll be back.

4. Atlanta, my friends, is perhaps the suckiest place I've been (though Knoxville was alarming in several very different ways). We stayed in Marietta in a cheesey chain hotel, on the recommendation of our Georgian native Brodie, and drove out to the venue which was in this horrible outskirts area, with big yucky walls every which way. You drive through the "city" on six-lane highways, with ugly big buildings looming in every direction. Egads. Sprawling, urbany, dirty blech messiness. Lexington, on the other hand, was greatness. Very arty, very tiny, very pleasant indeed.

5. Jonny Neyman at Studio V in the Victorian Shoppes in Lexington. This guy in and of himself just about made the trek worth the $2500 the whole thing ended up costing me. In dire need of a haircut, I dragged Christina around Lexington seeking out a decent looking salon. Gina's Special looked promising, but Gina didn't answer the door, and when I called, her answering machine asked God to bless me. Hmm. We at last settled for the swanky looking salon in the swanky Victorian Shoppes plaza, and there took place the greatest haircut of my life, with the all-time greatest hairstylist known to this fine world. Anyone who wears baggy jeans, a plain normal button down plaid shirt, wholly normal hair and not an ounce of pretentious hairstylese---but who studied hair styling in Paris and Marseilles and clearly just loves the whole activity so much it is inspiring, is bound to be a good stylist. Add to this the Kentucky accent, a confusion of Bad Radio with Mr. Bungle, and ongoing gushing about the quality of my hair, and you have Mollie's greatest haircut experience of all time.

And that might do it for now. Work calls. Emm is back today for two shakes before picking up and conferencing in Minneapolis tomorrow. Sometime we better get to travel together. That would be good stuff. Alack, we've hardly overlapped here at all.

Steve's parental units have departed, much to his momps' traumatized dismay. You will all be glad to know I came out as a big giant fan of them both. They crack me up to no end.

About to be playing: Lucinda Williams, World Without Tears. One of four new purchases while in the states. Will report back on its quality.