Since there were at least two aborted audio posts on my work-related road trip on Friday, I figure that the least that I could do is re-enact a few of the things that snagged my attention while pretending to be driving.
The drive south was rather uneventful. I think that is largely due to the fact that I was legally asleep and what better thing to do than to drive. Hell's bells, I've done my best driving while nearly asleep. Well, my most creative driving anyway. There was once a time while driving back from Cincinnati to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers/Smashing Pumpkins/Pearl Jam in 1991 where I literally remembered nothing between Cincinnati and Louisville. We stopped in Louisville for refreshments and a porcelain-chipping urination, which seemed to be the key element in the rejuvenation process. I was good the rest of the trip. I drove like a damn champion.
And speaking of champions, where else would I park once arriving at my destination but the Avenue Of Champions. Yes, it's a rather shitty photo, but how much did you pay to read this hogwash? So the price is just about right.
After attending a meeting (which was the official purpose of my trip) where I got to use my fancy ass planner/organizer thingy for the first time. I felt like a complete douche even owning it (it was provided by the university...I didn't buy the shit)and even
more so, actually using it. I guess it adds to the air of professionalism, especially when one is wearing a skull ring and
Motorhead necklace. Hopefully I won't suffer the indignity of having to use it again.
The real reason for me going on this hayride to hell was getting to stop at
Great Escape for the first time in a long, long time. Since I was on the clock and had no real reason to hotfoot it home, I took my time to really scour the shelves for musical goodness within my price range. It was a treat to score a couple of
Bottle Rockets discs that my collection was lacking and which provided a nice soundtrack to the drive home.
On the highway, the faithful YPS!! readers should have had the privilege of hearing takes one and two of the 73 mph audio post. However, it appears that the dickhead in the Verizon commercials with his network has yet to sufficiently staff the Natcher Parkway as my calls were aborted and trying to check email via phone was a lost cause on the entire trip. Thank you, boys!
Along the way, I saw a big ass tour bus with the haunting words "Visit Owensboro" painted on the side. First of all, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to visit Owensboro, Kentucky. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. As soon as most Owensboro-wegians are ripped from the hotel womb, the goal is to get out of this no-horse, suck ass town. It's just the way that it is. Those of us that don't make it out will suffer in this geographical purgatory. I did find it mildly amusing that the "Visit Owensboro" bus was headed away from Owensboro rather than going to the city that puts the "ass" in "bluegrass."
By the time I got back to town, I was pretty ripe for the picking and recuperated in my office for a while until the time was right for me to make a jailbreak. The best part of said time was when the newly-appointed office manager had some internet radio station going as the head honchos were also out. When I heard the Who's Who Are You commence playing on her computer, I sat in my office just waiting for the magic moment when Roger Daltrey dropped an F-bomb. When it occurred, a disembodied voice spoke from my office and said "I heard that!" At which point, the panic seemed to rise in her voice. "Why didn't you say anything?" Why would a noted vulgarian such as myself intervene in the transmission of an F-bomb? After a recap meeting with the local non-Springteenian boss, I used my stone cold serious voice and told her that we'd discussed her vulgar music and quite frankly, neither of us was happy about it. About the time that she started to squirm, I assured her that similar language spilled out of my own speakers on a near-hourly basis. Ah, the fun of being a wiseass.
After shooting holes in the "Visit Owensboro" slogan, I was reminded of the old radio jingle that said "Owensboro has it!" Whatever Owensboro has, I can only hope that it can be cured with a stout dose of penicillin. If Owensboro has it, I don't want it and neither do you. Trust me on this one.
On Saturday, I returned the
Gimme Shelter DVD to the library before they sent someone to break my knees or whatever it is that the library cops do these days. Since discovering that the
Owensboro-
Daviess County Public Library actually has a great deal of cool shit on their shelves, I've made semi-regular trips to check out the goods. This trip's haul seemed to focus on my current musical discovery--
Townes Van Zandt. I regret not checking him out sooner as his songs are filled to the brim with sadness and to a melancholy jackass like myself, it's
hellaciously good shit.
The sabbath is a day of rest, so I did.
On Monday, I did the decent thing and went to the funeral home since my former guitar teacher's father died. Although I was a wee lad when I took those lessons, I've literally known the dude 75% of my life. When I got there, he seemed shocked that someone so indecent would do something so decent. Maybe he was offended by it. I really don't know. As I told him, "I've known you damn near 30 years and you taught me how to play Back In Black." That seemed to put things in perspective and for the record, I've never been able to play the diddly-diddly bits of the song to this day.
While at the funeral home, something grabbed my attention and after asking around if it was immoral to take a photo at a funeral home, I went out on a limb and snapped away. I guess this one is rather self-explanatory. Mind you, I didn't actually see any food and I really didn't want any food since funeral homes and cuisine really don't seem like a winning combination to me. It's another of my personal quirks. Of which, there are many. I know that will come as a shock to many as I surely seem like a well-adjusted kook.
The only thing baffling to me is why anyone would get a vanity plate that said "38 SPCL" or some form of fucked up spelling of "38 Special." I can only hope that it was a tribute to the gun and not the band. This being Kentucky, I could guess that it could go either way. However, I have a feeling that it's all about the band. Sad. I guess paying homage to Dexy's Midnight Runners would require way too many characters. In theory, it would be much easier to just get a plate that says "DOUCHEBAG", because that seems rather accurate with no offense intended to producers of said feminine hygiene product.
Speaking of crappy music, I have always wondered why those people with the worst musical taste always seem to have the loudest car stereo systems. They just seem hell-bent on sharing the fact that they have absolutely no musical taste with the rest of the world. It's bad enough that Kanye West (or any of those pseudo neo-R&B/hip hop fecal artists) walks the same planet as myself, but I shouldn't have to hear the shit. That is a prime example of cruel and unusual punishment.
I'm still waiting for the hip-hop thugs to try and corner the religious market with gangsta gospel. That might be kind of cool in a completely uncool way.
