00664 km

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

This illustrates something about academia in the 1990s, I think: of the five people in that picture below, four eventually got PhDs. Yet only one (the handsome bearded gentleman on the far left) works in academia today. The others have all done very well for themselves, mind you, make more money than I do, and have no regrets. Just saying.

Joe and Renee are married now and just had a baby! There’s photographic evidence of this, and other ravages of time, at Joe’s website.

Booger

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

The Senator, while insisting he was not intoxicated, could not explain his nudity.

We didn’t actually do anything in Cincinnati: just twisted the dial around in search of a station we could pretend was the legendary WKRP. I was going to write a big appreciation of that seminal sitcom here, but figured it might be boring for those of you who “don’t know any Chad.”

Kentucky: The Cheap Fireworks State

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

At klick 868 we entered Kentucky, and were almost instantly rewarded with the trip’s first non-ironic usage of “y’all,” painted in giant letters on a watertower, no less. Surely a portent of fine things to come…

You-Had-To-Be-There Moment #17

We’ve been listening to a lot of 70s funk and proto-funk in the car: Parliament, Sly and the Family Stone, Ike Turner. Today, Pete rechristened James Brown’s extra-sweaty groove “(The Big) Payback” as “(The Vic) Tayback. Once I regained control of the steering wheel I swore I’d never listen to the Godfather of Soul–or watch Alice–the same way again.

01290 km

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

Oh yes, we really were that easily amused.

Tennesee: The All You Can Eat State

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

“I don’t think you comprehend the full import of that statement,” I said, slurring my words slightly. “All. You. Can. Eat. Catfish.” I can’t remember which of the two yuksters returned with the inevitable, “I got all the catfish you can eat right here.”

Hicks, Licks, N’ Chicks

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

Brown Jenkin rolled into Nashville just as the sun was going down. Saturday night in the shiny silver buckle of the Bible Belt! We paid too much for a motel on the outskirts of town, and then piled back into Jenkin to cruise the strip of Music City, USA. (It would take us a few more nights to learn the secret scat of motels in our particular price range: poorly spelled and painted signs, tall grasses in the parking lot, and whenever possible, the word “Lodge” in the name.

Our heroes bounced up and down the saloons and honky tonks of the Music City all night, drinking Bud and playing cowboy until bowlegged and barely coherent. Supposedly, we were looking for a “genuine” Nashville country bar, but each place we found was more ludicrous and touristy than the last. But finally we ended up in a place that didn’t serve cola (”Hmm, never heard of it. Mr. Pibb?”) but did offer all you can eat catfish, and we knew we were truly a long way from home.

“I don’t think you comprehend the full import of that statement,” I said, slurring my words slightly. “All. You. Can. Eat. Catfish.” I can’t remember which of the two yuksters returned with the inevitable, “I got all the catfish you can eat right here.”

We tried to make ourselves presentable as possible, but there was no way we were going to blend in seamlessly with the boot-scootin’ boogie set. Pete loved the stares he got for his multiple piercings and striped candy pants, but Derek maintains it was “do you have any dark beers on tap?” that really blew our cover.

Even the acts on stage pegged us as carpetbaggers. “You boys are from L.A., right?” said the low rent Garth Brooks singing Kountry Karaoke at Lefty’s. One of the singers at The Steel Guitar called us “those three desperadoes in the corner” and dedicated a song to us called “I’m The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised.” “Story of your lives, am I right, fellas?” he asked afterwards. “Ariba ariba!” we shouted in response, whooping and firing our pistoles in the air.

Ride of the Minibike Twins

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

There’s no really nice way to say this, but here goes: Boy, there sure are a lot of fat people in this country! I don’t think there was a woman in Lefty’s who didn’t weigh at least two of us put together, and a couple of the fellas could have given Brown Jenkin a run for its money. “You know, if those two were riding minibikes, I’d say they were twins!” Pete said (referring to the classic Guinness Book of Records photo), simultaneously creating a new catchphrase for the trip and causing a fountain of Mr. Pibb-and-Budweiser boilermakers to spray out of our collective noses.

2006 Update: Where Are They Now?

The original “minibike twins” were Billy and Benny McCrary, shown above at their peak fighting weight of 743 and 723 pounds. What I’ve always loved about these photos is how much fun the boys seem to be having. Massive morbid obesity isn’t going to slow these fun-loving brothers down, no sir. They also seem to have anticipated the “kids these days, with their big baggy pants and their tiny little bikes” craze by about twenty years. So, where are Billy and Benny McCrary today?

( Read the rest of this entry » )