Yeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaw!
It was a split second decision over three months ago to book return flights to Nashville from Chicago. This decision was made even easier by the fact that Morrissey was playing in Alabama on the weekend in question, and I would be able to visit Dave’s sister Jess in Cookeville and Wes in Nashville. I knew it would be fun just to visit Jess and Wes, but I had no idea how much I would enjoy my time in Tennessee. If someone told me I would be weeping at Nashville airport when I boarded the plane back to Chicago, I would have been as shocked as a red-blooded female at a Morrissey concert after his third shirt removal for the evening (but perhaps slightly less aroused).
Arriving in Nashville, I was greeted by Wes at the airport, who I recognized instantly despite having never met. This disappointed me a little, as I was looking forward to a bit of suspicious eye narrowing when trying to recognize each other. Wes made me instantly feel welcome and proceeded to give me the drive by tour of every fast food outlet in town, just as I had requested. Before I knew it, I was being whisked to Sonic for dinner, where I supped upon not but the finest cheeseburger, and imbibed not but the most exquisite Route 44 sized cherry lime soda. The beauty of Sonic is that you can just pull up your car and order through a microphone, and the staff brings the food to you. The only energy you burn before eating is the single joule required to power your hand into your wallet and pay for your food.
Dinner.
Second Dinner.
After our classy dinner, Wes, his wife Megan and I hit some of the local bars. It was here that I was introduced to drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, the VB of the southern states. Wes and I had the bright idea that by taking Chaser pills (supposed hangover preventing vitamins from Walgreens) we were immune to things like extra shots and nightcap margaritas in the backyard at 3AM.
Turns out that the chasers do nothing!
The following morning we both felt a little worse for wear, so we decided to head to the Waffle House for a greasy breakfast. Upon hitting the interstate, we were immediately trapped in traffic that soon came to a complete standstill. The reason? Dubya was in town, and apparently this was more important than our need for waffles this instant. It was at this moment that I realized freedom isn’t free. Osama Bin Laden would have been overjoyed at the site of us trapped on the exit waiting for Bush to pass us by. If Wes Robinson cannot eat waffles at the exact time of his choosing, then the terrorists have already won.
Waffle house is one of those places that hasn’t changed in any way since sometime in the early eighties, and should be protected like an old growth rainforest. There is always a waitress on her break at the end of the counter, and she is always, always, smoking. Our waitress was fantastic. For those of you who worked at the cinema with me, think Pat from the candy bar. Everything from her coral eye shadow to her amazing southern accent was brilliant. She was 150 years old if she was a day, and she still had the patience to fetch me a paper Wafflehouse hat on request. When she found out I was from Australia, she walked over the jukebox and used her own quarter (or did she just punch it, Fonzie style?) to play me the official Wafflehouse theme song.
Wes insisted on dining in style.
Unfortunately, even a greasy waffle with a side of cheese-covered hash browns wasn’t enough to fix our little red wagons of nausea.
So once again, I spent the following day sampling the best restrooms to vomit in that the interstate had to offer. At least this time I had a fellow passenger to join me on the porcelain express. We had a three-hour drive to Alabama for Morrissey, and despite vomiting blue Gatorade for most of the day, we made it to Birmingham intact and were able to enjoy the show. Morrissey was fabulous, and so was his support act Christeen Young. The three of us decided to stay over in Birmingham and were upgraded to the honeymoon suite, so made the most of it by eating a wide variety of potato chips in bed later that evening.
Hello, Breakfast.
The next day, Wes drove me to Cookeville to stay with Jess and her husband Holly. I’ve heard so much about Cookeville as Dave lived there for three years before we met. It really is a lovely town, and I was soon taken on the driving tour, including the rotating cowboy, pink elephant and Dave’s old house (Taco Bell). Jess was the perfect host, taking me to all of the cultural highlights I requested, like the Walmart gun section and the Dairy Queen. The highlight of Cookeville has seeing Holly’s band Fatmandrool play at the Hawg Barn. Again, just like Waffle House, there wasn’t a single visual clue at the Hawg Barn to tell me that it wasn’t 1982. I did hear someone say the word ‘ipod’ early in the night, but otherwise, we were in some kind of glorious time machine. The Pabst Blue Ribbon was icy cold and $1.75 a bottle. The band was great too, and should totally tour Australia, setting red ‘long John’ wearing trends as they go.
Trying to capture the background scene.
Fatmandrool!
Anyway, now I’m back I Chicago, and will be flying out to London in a couple of hours. London – where I have just been informed Pabst Blue Ribbon is no longer available.
SIGH.
Arriving in Nashville, I was greeted by Wes at the airport, who I recognized instantly despite having never met. This disappointed me a little, as I was looking forward to a bit of suspicious eye narrowing when trying to recognize each other. Wes made me instantly feel welcome and proceeded to give me the drive by tour of every fast food outlet in town, just as I had requested. Before I knew it, I was being whisked to Sonic for dinner, where I supped upon not but the finest cheeseburger, and imbibed not but the most exquisite Route 44 sized cherry lime soda. The beauty of Sonic is that you can just pull up your car and order through a microphone, and the staff brings the food to you. The only energy you burn before eating is the single joule required to power your hand into your wallet and pay for your food.
Dinner.
Second Dinner.
After our classy dinner, Wes, his wife Megan and I hit some of the local bars. It was here that I was introduced to drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, the VB of the southern states. Wes and I had the bright idea that by taking Chaser pills (supposed hangover preventing vitamins from Walgreens) we were immune to things like extra shots and nightcap margaritas in the backyard at 3AM.
Turns out that the chasers do nothing!
The following morning we both felt a little worse for wear, so we decided to head to the Waffle House for a greasy breakfast. Upon hitting the interstate, we were immediately trapped in traffic that soon came to a complete standstill. The reason? Dubya was in town, and apparently this was more important than our need for waffles this instant. It was at this moment that I realized freedom isn’t free. Osama Bin Laden would have been overjoyed at the site of us trapped on the exit waiting for Bush to pass us by. If Wes Robinson cannot eat waffles at the exact time of his choosing, then the terrorists have already won.
Waffle house is one of those places that hasn’t changed in any way since sometime in the early eighties, and should be protected like an old growth rainforest. There is always a waitress on her break at the end of the counter, and she is always, always, smoking. Our waitress was fantastic. For those of you who worked at the cinema with me, think Pat from the candy bar. Everything from her coral eye shadow to her amazing southern accent was brilliant. She was 150 years old if she was a day, and she still had the patience to fetch me a paper Wafflehouse hat on request. When she found out I was from Australia, she walked over the jukebox and used her own quarter (or did she just punch it, Fonzie style?) to play me the official Wafflehouse theme song.
Wes insisted on dining in style.
Unfortunately, even a greasy waffle with a side of cheese-covered hash browns wasn’t enough to fix our little red wagons of nausea.
So once again, I spent the following day sampling the best restrooms to vomit in that the interstate had to offer. At least this time I had a fellow passenger to join me on the porcelain express. We had a three-hour drive to Alabama for Morrissey, and despite vomiting blue Gatorade for most of the day, we made it to Birmingham intact and were able to enjoy the show. Morrissey was fabulous, and so was his support act Christeen Young. The three of us decided to stay over in Birmingham and were upgraded to the honeymoon suite, so made the most of it by eating a wide variety of potato chips in bed later that evening.
Hello, Breakfast.
The next day, Wes drove me to Cookeville to stay with Jess and her husband Holly. I’ve heard so much about Cookeville as Dave lived there for three years before we met. It really is a lovely town, and I was soon taken on the driving tour, including the rotating cowboy, pink elephant and Dave’s old house (Taco Bell). Jess was the perfect host, taking me to all of the cultural highlights I requested, like the Walmart gun section and the Dairy Queen. The highlight of Cookeville has seeing Holly’s band Fatmandrool play at the Hawg Barn. Again, just like Waffle House, there wasn’t a single visual clue at the Hawg Barn to tell me that it wasn’t 1982. I did hear someone say the word ‘ipod’ early in the night, but otherwise, we were in some kind of glorious time machine. The Pabst Blue Ribbon was icy cold and $1.75 a bottle. The band was great too, and should totally tour Australia, setting red ‘long John’ wearing trends as they go.
Trying to capture the background scene.
Fatmandrool!
Anyway, now I’m back I Chicago, and will be flying out to London in a couple of hours. London – where I have just been informed Pabst Blue Ribbon is no longer available.
SIGH.
posted by FEMBOTanist at Thursday, July 26, 2007
2 Comments:
It was a pleasure calling Raplh on the big, white porcelain phone with you. I also think you left an important part of the trip out...The fact that you'd love to bury your face in Moz's near 50 year old man boobs.
"overjoyed at the site of us"
dare I suggest you have been in the states one week too many?! a true spellbound moment.
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