three notes, music
Jason posted on July 3, 2008

Three quick things before we get to the music:

- Wordpress is giving me fits. Big time. Apparently, Wordpress, the platform for this here blog, has rolled out its newest version. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why every single thing I post is just one giant blob of text with no line or paragraph breaks. I’ve been posting the same way for years and have only had this problem recently, so I have no one to blame but the new Wordpress template. I feel terrible for Site Guy Brendan, who has more important things to deal with than me emailing him with subject titles like “Not a fan of Wordpress” and “Grrrr…” So apologies for any tech difficulties that you might experience.

- Netflix users: Please help me help a dear friend out by adding the movie “Pool Party” to your queue. You don’t need to actually rent or even watch the movie, just add it to your queue. I won’t get into the specifics of how this can help (since I don’t really understand it), but the whole process took me less than 40 seconds and, as mentioned, would really, really help out some friends. Thank you.

(And if you want to watch the movie, by all means, go ahead. Lots and lots and lots of bikinis, which means it automatically gets a 7 out of 10 in my book.)

- The only blog I read on a daily basis was Slack Lalane, a blog started by my dear friends Don Fiedler and Ace Cowboy but run mostly by Ace (Donnie sorta took on a consulting role). When it died in May of 2007, a little part of me died with it. Right up there with ESPN, CNNSI, the NY Times, and CocksForMeAndYou.com, it was not only a daily read but a toehold in the blog world – reading Ace’s posts provided me a forum for commenting but also reminded me to, well, post on my own damn blog.

But now, Slack’s been reborn! Many of the original commenters have returned too (except me, since I don’t remember my blogger ID or password). If you’re looking for additional ways to help pass your work day, check it out.

God I’ve missed you, Ace, you magnificent son of a bitch.

************

Six Songs

(Once again, this week’s Six Songs can be heard on muxtape)

“Are You Lonely For Me Baby” Freddie Scott Excellent, excellent soul song that I can’t help but listen to at top volume. I really hope his lady meets him in Jacksonville. The poor guy sounds pretty broken up.

(Really, nothing else to say. A terrific soul/oldies song. I don’t know too many of them, so thought I should share.)

“The Jaunt” Poets of Rhythm Excellent, excellent cruising song if, say, you happen to regularly drive a black ‘96 Lincoln Town Car through Hawthorne and Inglewood, California (neighbors of Compton and Watts, and only slighter nicer neighborhoods). There are a number of bad things about my car - the $65 a week in gas it consumes, the ginormous size that makes parallel parking very difficult in a parking starved city, the fact that it’s a conversation starter in bad way - but I feel pretty fucking bad-ass driving around in it, especially with a song like this blaring out of the windows and sunroof. With this song and that car, all I need is a pair of furry dice and a parole officer and I’ll be exactly like 97% of the Hispanic people in Southern California!

“Wake Up Alone” Amy Winehouse I downloaded this album when it first came out but them immediately disregarded it, basically to spite all the acclaim that it was getting from critics and my friends alike. My general rule is if something’s widely considered to be great, it’s probably actually crap. After a while and once the hype dies down, I will revisit this “great” thing and make my own determination. Usually, I’ll have been right the first time and the much-hyped album/movie/book/tv show will be crap. But I rediscovered this album a few weeks ago and boy, is it good. Not crap. Not crap at all.

And goodness gracious, this is a very, very sexy song. I’ve never thought of Amy Winehouse as particularly attractive; big black hair and tattoos usually send me running and hiding from a woman like a dog during a thunderstorm. But the part about 1:23 in when she sings “This face in my dreams…”, wow. For real, wow. I kinda swoon a little bit when it comes on, get all goosebumpy when those background singers chime in, feel all giddy and warm she trails that “…by the bed.” Very, very intense. During that part, and the whole song, really, I get simultaneously turned on and intimidated, like I’m scared, but I’m also hard. It is a very confusing feeling and one that I can’t recall ever having, but I can tell you this much: about five of my female friends have gone out as Amy Winehouse for Halloween over the past few years and I remember seeing them in person or later seeing pictures of them and thinking, “Bleeech.” But after listening to this song, you can bet there’s been some beyond creepy/borderline alert-Benson-and-Stabler perusing of various Facebook albums entitled “Halloween 2007!” Just a lot of confusion, and a lot of riled up. No one wins with that combo.

Man. I think I need a drink. No wonder she’s a drug addict.

“Tim I Wish You Were Born a Girl” Of Montreal Ok – this takes a bit of the edge off. There really aren’t enough songs about wishing your best buddy was a chick so you could marry him.

(For further listening, Of Montreal’s “Requiem for o.m.m.2″ is also highly recommended, and one of the cornerstones of a new playlist of mine called “Dance, Hipster, Dance!”)

“Tops” Rolling Stones I have no idea how I feel about this song: work of genius or complete fucking joke. Mick’s spoken word intro, following by singing – often in a high-pitched voice – about how he’ll take a girl to the top (not a euphemism for sex, I don’t think, but more like he’ll make her famous), perfectly matches the utter redonkulousness of the early 80’s Stones, when this song came out. If this wasn’t the very song that made people stop taking the Stones seriously, then it’s close. And yet still I’m recommending to you as a song you should listen to. Joke’s on us, I guess.

“Sucker” John Mayer You know, I’ve experienced first-hand the sexual peak of Jimmy Fallon, the sexual peak of The Strokes and the sexual peak of Justin Timberlake, but I have to think that John Mayer is blowing them all out of the water. Let’s discuss:

- People forget that Jimmy Fallon was just about the biggest thing in NYC in 2002-2003 (seriously, I can’t believe it either, but it’s true) and was the object of nearly every female’s desire. And yeah, I could see how he was kinda cute because he was funny and self-deprecating and all that, but he just wasn’t all that good-looking.

- The Strokes had two waves of hugeness in NYC - when I very first moved there and they were at the peak of the “undergroundness” and then once again when they hit it big with “Is This It.” And while few things like a hip rock band will so lather up a 20-something girl in the big city, like Jimmy Fallon, these guys don’t exactly strike me as lady killers. Also, six months after they were the awesomest, they were a sell-out, and have since been replaced by a half-dozen bands de jour (though admittedly, none were nearly as big as they were).

- Justin Timberlake: now here’s our first legitimate piece of man-meat. And while no doubt he’s a good-looking guy, fit, can dance and sing, and came out with one of the most incredible Upper Hands in history after his break up with Britney, c’mon - the guy was in the Mickey Mouse Club and N’Sync for Christ’s sake. Nice perm, dil.

- And in this corner, John Mayer. While no doubt he’s written his share of vacuous pop rock songs, there’s also no denying he’s a very talented blues guitarist. He gets bonus points from me on this because apparently his band in high school was called “Villanova Junction”, which is the name of a bluesy instrumental that Jimi Hendrix performed at Woodstock and one of my most favoritest songs ever, not to mention one of the most reliable arrows in my quiver when someone says, “play something on guitar for us, fatty!”.

(Don’t ask me how I know about the “Villanova Junction” thing. It’s not like I masturbate to John Mayer’s wikipedia entry or anything.)

Speaking of masturbating, as someone who’s over 94% straight, I have enough confidence in my masculinity to say that John Mayer’s a good-looking guy. Edgy with giving off any dangerous/strangle-you-during-sex vibe, cool without seeming contrived, seemingly comfortable either having a draft beer during a game or eating $200 sushi at Nobu. And yes, this is getting kinda creepy. So let’s just keep going.

Finally, he’s funny! (”If I can’t get the girl, why don’t I just tell her I’m John Mayer?”). And girls love funny! At least, that’s what they say on their match.com profiles! Yet when you send them a hilarious message introducing yourself, they don’t respond! Probably because you’re chubby and have a beard! And you’ve misspelled the word “queef” in the message! Twice! They’re probably lesbians anyway! Fuck it! You’ll see them in hell!

For these reasons, I have to think that John Mayer’s having the greatest sexual peak of my lifetime. I was pretty sure he could get any 18 year old piece he wanted after that “I want to scream at the top of my lungs” song, but now he’s playing more blues and banging Jennifer Aniston (or was – I’m still 94% straight, so despite now living in LA, I can’t keep up with celebrity gossip), so he’s pretty much indestructible right about now.

(I mean, I don’t think he was one of People’s hottest bachelors, but still, he’s not doing too bad for himself.)

duys
Jason posted on July 2, 2008

Consider this your official (and perhaps final) reminder: The 10th Annual Flood/Mulgrew “Drink Until You Shit” Tour is Saturday, July 12, starting at 6pm at Casey’s at Third and New York in North Wildwood, New Jersey .

Yes, this is the big one: ten glorious years of shitting and drinking along the Jersey shore. My co-founder David and I believe the tour has come a long way since its inception. We wanted to create a different kind of pub crawl, one that best encapsulated the neighborhood that we grew up in (Second Street in South Philly). So we thought, what do Second Streeters like to do? Well, drink, of course. That is first and foremost a hobby of those in my ol’ neighborhood, right up there with Eagles, greasy food, and a slightly more than casual racism.

We envisioned the pub crawl being a night of extremes, of celebrating and drinking until we physically could not any longer. So then we thought, when or under what circumstances do Second Streeters stop drinking? Unconsciousness first came to mind, but “Drink Until You Pass Out!” is neither funny nor original. “Drink Until You Puke!” was another idea, but that, frankly, is kinda disgusting (and also seldom stops people from drinking). Then we figured it out - the pub crawl would be “Drink Until You Fight!” The idea of getting so drunk and rowdy that people would erupt in fighting like in those old-time Westerns was appealing, but practically speaking, it was extremely dangerous: 50 drunks walking around in t-shirts that boldly said “Drink Until You Fight!” would probably lead to some trouble. I’m not a cop, so that’s just a guess.

And now here we are - ten years later*, keeping the tradition alive on Saturday, July 12. I don’t expect any of y’all to attend, but last year we had about 150 revelers, including readers from up and down the east seaboard and as far away from Oklahoma (provided, he was in PA on business) attend, so if you’re down the shore and looking for something to do, come on down. As usual, commemorative t-shirts will be on sale and each bar will have drink specials (except the Number One tavern, since they never give us any breaks). Shitting is not required or even encouraged, but drinking sure is. Hope to see you there.

[* This is technically the fourth year we've done this, since we started at seven. Just roll with it and shut up and drink.]

[And shit. Of course.]

p the t
Jason posted on July 1, 2008

Last night I had dinner with my agent, Joel.  Having dinner with your agent is a very LA thing to do, but I assure you, this was unlike most agent-client dinners.  First and foremost, we did not speak about business or “the business” at all, since there is no business to speak of.  Right now, I have about as much of a chance of getting an endorsement deal with Summer’s Eve than I do of getting a development deal with a network (and probably more desire to nail down the Summer’s Eve gig than the sitcom deal).  So no bidness with the agent at this dinner.    

 

(Just kidding, sitcom development deal givers!  I work for cheap, so that email address is jason_at_jasonmulgrew.com!  Also willing to take random household trinkets in exchange for cash!  And I can be zany in a family-friendly sense and won’t write any dialogue liberally using the word “cockblood” this time!  Thanks for your consideration!)    

 

Second, this “business” dinner was different because my agent is my friend.  I mean, though we started with an agent-client relationship, we have since grown into gen-u-ine friends.  “C’mon, dude,” you’re probably thinking, “the guy’s an agent, so of course he’s going to make like he’s your best bud.  I’ve seen ‘Entourage’.  Agents are schmoozers.”  Yes, that’s true - many agents are schmoozers.  But here’s the thing: many agents are schmoozers because their clients make them and their agency a lot of money (see: “Entourage” example).  I have been with my agent since December of 2004, only ten short months after I started this here blog, and I promise you that the money I’ve made him and his agency (UTA) is far, far less than the money he’s spent on me by taking me out to dinner and getting me boozed and once paying for something that he said was an STD test but was really some middle-aged guy taking pictures of me while I did jumping jacks without my pants on (I’m not sure if he expensed this, as I personally saw him hand the doctor/gentleman cash - I think there was also some sort of awkward high five involved, but I was pretty drugged up at the time).  As a matter of fact, if Joel and UTA are not actually in the red for having me as a client, I would estimate that Joel has made approximately 13 cents an hour over the past three and a half years as my agent.  Which is good hourly wage for most inmates, but not so good for most individuals with liberty.   

 

So we went to this place called Rock Sugar in the Century City mall, which is located close to both our offices.  It’s from the geniuses behind the Cheesecake Factory (I mean, have you tried their fried mac and cheese balls?), but it’s some sort of pan-Asian type place, which is fine with me, since I still long for Sea Thai in NYC (which I will destroy at approximately 7pm on Thursday, July 10, when I’m back in the city - God help those little Thai party boy/girls).    

 

Anyway, one of the appetizers we got at Rock Sugar was these little short ribs, maybe slightly larger than my thumb.  I picked one up and threw it back, apparently forgetting that ribs have bones in them.  But, averting a crisis (and my possible death), I caught myself before the rib was jettisoned down my throat, removed the small bone from it, and repeated the throwing back process, sans bone.  Delicious. 

 

After a few of those (ok, only when there were none left), I started sucking the little stuck strands of stray meat out of my teeth.  This sounds like a gross process, but I was discreet; it wasn’t like I was half-sitting/half-standing at the table, panting, and sucking my teeth so hard that I threw my head back over and over again.  Real gentleman-like, I cleaned my teeth with my tongue.  Delicious.

 

And then I realized something strange: didn’t I have more teeth than this?  You know, back there, right side, upper row of teeth?  Was I…missing one? 

 

Sure as shit, I was.  Because there was now a fairly sizeable hole in my mouth where a tooth was previously, I surmised that I did, in fact, loose a tooth.  I looked down at my plate, at the small bones of the spare ribs, and it wasn’t there.  I fished around in my mouth, and it wasn’t there, hiding in some dark crevice.  Stranger, I wasn’t bleeding or in any pain.  Stranger still, even when I (gently) bit on that first bone, it was on the side of my mouth opposite the missing tooth.  This tooth had apparently had enough, said its goodbyes, and went gently into that good night, without nary a fight nor whimper.   

 

Joel was amazed by this, and more than a little disgusted, but I carried on through the dinner unperturbed.  As I said, there was no pain or blood, so as long as I chewed on the left side of my mouth, I was fine.  We enjoyed the rest of the dinner and by the time I fell asleep that night and had grown tired of playing with the hole in my gum, I had pretty much forgotten about the lost tooth. 

 

Fast forward to today: I’m sitting on the toilet, reading an article from the NY Times about a federal agent impersonator during my afternoon defecation (I read the Sports Guy’s latest during my morning defecation).  It was a good poop: solid and hard, but not difficult to pass; my urine in the bowl a bright yellow-gold-green Colorado sunset color due to my multivitamin and omega-3 pills.  I wiped a few times and, satisfied that I had met my standard quota of 80% clean, stood up and pulled my pants up.  As I zipped up, I turned to admire my handiwork when I saw what looked like a piece of corn in the poo.  I thought, ”I haven’t eaten corn lately.”  And then it hit me:     

 

I pooped the tooth.

 

Sure as shit (literally), what was before me, nestled snuggly in my otherwise unspectacular lil’ monkey tail, was not a piece of corn or any vegetable, but the tooth that I had lost, swallowed, digested and now, finally, gloriously, excreted.

 

I pooped the tooth. 

 

I pooped the fucking tooth. 

 

As you can imagine, my first impulse was to take a picture.  To this end, I did not flush, leaving the poo in the bowl, thinking that I could quickly wash my hands and return to the scene with my cell phone, and no one would be the wiser.  However, while washing my hands, I realized: I’m at work, I just shit a tooth, and I’m leaving the shit in the toilet bowl so I can take a picture of it?  Really?  This is not exactly something that you want coming up in the annual review (”Well Jason, you prepared a number of successful pitches for the firm, but there was that one time in July when Mr. Smith caught you taking a picture of your feces…”).  Dejected, I returned to the toilet bowl, gave the tooth-poo one last look, and flushed.  It was a bittersweet moment, but truly there was no other way.  There was just no other way.

 

I’ve done a lot in my (almost) 29 years, but now I can finally say it: there has been human teeth in my feces.  I have shit teeth.  I have actually shit teeth.  Finally, gloriously, I am a Man.

 

************

 

I’m going to try to post a something, even if it’s a little something, every day in July (that is, every day in July that I’m not on vacation).  Blogging is unlike riding a bicycle or sex, activities one can never forget how to do (and in my case, still require help from my uncle to last longer than a few seconds and most of the time result in a skinned knee and some sobbing).  Instead, it must be regularly practiced, lest one lose his or her touch completely.  These two months have been transitional, busy, discombobulating, saying goodbye in May and settling in in June.  So now I gotta get back on the wagon. 

 

We’ll see how this works out.  

 

day four
Jason posted on June 20, 2008

Day 4: Tuesday, May 27      Maumelle, AR – Tucumcari, NM
Total Mileage: 694 miles

Having driven only 600+ miles the past two days, this morning we made a decision: no more fucking around. 

And boy, we weren’t joking.  Maybe it’s because I’m out of driving shape (and general physical shape, for that matter), but today was a true test - staring at the odometer, pouring on the miles, racing through Arkansas and then Oklahoma and then Texas and finally New Mexico.  A four state run - and not a shitty four state run like PA-NJ-NY-CT, which you can pretty much walk - in one day.  Holy shitballs.

The reason for this sense of urgency is that my brother needs to fly out of LA on Friday night to return to Philly for a bachelor party.  And while originally we planned to arrive in LA on Friday (Dennis doesn’t have to fly out until 10:30pm), the more we thought about it, the more it might be nice to have a day to spend in LA without rushing to get him on a plane.  So we changed our ETA from Friday and are now aiming for Thursday.  Thus, four states and nearly 700 miles in one day.  Considering professional truck drivers drive between 600-800 miles a day, 700 miles is not too bad for a bunch of pasty white guys who have seldom traveled west of West Philly.

Today we reached another important travel milestone: the comfortable silence.  The first few days we felt the need to make small talk or listen to the radio or otherwise occupy ourselves with something other than driving or sitting.  But no more.  There was a 2.5 hour stretch that my dad drove while my brother slept in the backseat where he and I didn’t say a single word.  Didn’t turn on the radio.  Hell, I don’t even think I thought anything during this time.  And this wasn’t road weariness or negative in any way; I was totally ok with it.

Because today was such a blur of miles and road, only two notable things to report:

1) 500+ miles in, just as night fell, we stopped for dinner in Amarillo, Texas at the famed Big Texan Steak Ranch.  Conservatively two dozen of you guys wrote in recommending this as a near-mandatory stop along I-40, the road we’re taking for approximately 44,132 miles.  But you needn’t tell me stop at something called the "Big Texan Steak Ranch", which was the inspiration for the restaurant in one of my all-time favorite movies, The Great Outdoors, staring the gone-too-soon John Candy.

(Actually, I’m not entirely sure the Big Texan was the inspiration for the restaurant in the movie, because in the film John Candy attempts to eat the old 96er, a 96oz steak, whereas the Big Texan’s steak is "merely" 72oz.  So maybe there’s a place that offers a free, if eaten completely, 96oz steak.  Whatever.) 

Despite a month-long stint with vegetarianism undertaken only to prove friends wrong, I am a celebrated meateater who’s had many poems and songs (odes, really) written about his love of meat (seriously, google it).  As the Town Car pulled into the parking lot, I felt confident about my chances, ready to dance.  

That is, until we walked into the restaurant.

Just as you walk up to the area to be seated, there before you in a glass case sit a cellophane-wrapped plate with the 72oz steak on it.  "Steak" is not really the word to describe it; "section" or "mass" or "shelf" is probably better.  I’m 6′1" and about 210 pounds - not gigantic, but not small by any measure.  This steak, the shelf of warm red meat, was larger than the mass that is my stomach.  Honestly, if you "scalped" my stomach, shaved it down, covered it butter and grilled it, it would still be smaller than this steak.

(Is anyone else hard?)

So that was all it took for me to say "No thanks" and pass on the challenge.  But as we were seated, I was given another reason to say no.  If you want to try to eat the 72 ouncer, you have to sit by yourself at a raised table in the middle of the large restaurant, with a giant clock counting down from one hour (the time limit in which to eat the steak).  If I could have attempted it quietly at my table, I possibly would have given it the old college try.  But there was no way, after sitting in a car for nine hours, my fat ass was going to sit in the middle of the restaurant while everyone looked at the fat guy with the beard eating the steak.  Good lord.  Up until three years ago, when I finally became rich, I didn’t eat at all in front of women, and to this day I won’t touch a buffalo wing or go anywhere near a ham if a woman is around, because of self-esteem issues related to my weight and unkemptness.  And you think I’m gonna eat a 4.5 pound slab of meat in front of a 100 people like the goddamn marshall of the fat chops parade?  No thanks.

(Incidentally, the food was pretty solid.  Unable to decide, I got a bbq combo with ribs, sausage and beef, whereas my dad and brother got steaks.  Nothing spectacular, but reasonably priced, very filling, and I didn’t immediately shit myself.  What more can you ask for in a restaurant in Texas?)

2) For all of you who wrote in to encourage us to stop at the restaurant, there’s one thing that none of you mentioned.  After leaving Amarillo, heading west on I-40, there is nothing for a long, long time.  After dinner, at which my brother and I had beers, my dad said he’d drive for another 30 minutes or so before stopping for the night.  It took us another nearly two hours before we found a hotel, and by that time we had crossed state lines into New Mexico.  It wasn’t a bad drive - the land was flat, the road well-lit, and there were many other cars around us - but we were surprised at the sheer desolation when we were seemingly coming across hotels every 20 minutes up until this very stretch of the drive.     

So my advice: stay the night in Amarillo.  Get drunk at the ranch.  Possibly hit it up for breakfast the next day (the offer some sort of breakfast buffet that I can’t begin to contemplate, lest I repeatedly and continuously pee my pants, resulting in my death).         

Tomorrow, another 600+ miles.  Bring it on. 

day three
Jason posted on June 13, 2008

Day 3: Monday, May 26       Nashville, TN – Maumelle, AR
Original Departure Time: 12:00pm
Actual Departure Time: 1:30pm
Total Mileage: 358 miles

The amount of cigarettes that my father smokes is astonishing.  It’s incredible.  And when I say “incredible” I mean it in the most literal sense of the word – not believable.  After spending three full days with him, I would guess that he spends 35% to 40% of his not-unconscious time smoking cigarettes.  If it were not for restrictions in hotels and restaurants, I have little doubt that this number would rise to around 80%.  If it were not for restrictions such as real life, my dad would drive a cigarette car, live in a cigarette house, and marry a cigarette woman.  Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes.    

Certainly, while in the car, he is smoking over 90% of the time.  In a way, it’s so impressive that it’s hard to be mad.  It seems like he’ll finish a cigarette, count to 100, then light another.  Repeat.  Like, sixty times a day.  Every day.  On and on and on. Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes.

While not a medical doctor, I cannot comprehend how a human being could inhale so much cigarette smoke over such a consistent basis and be able to actually live, let alone eat and drive and converse.  I have probably smoked five cigarettes in my life, most of them at strip clubs (back when you could smoke in strip clubs) out of nervousness and fear of boobies.  If I were to challenge my dad to some sort of smoke-off in which we’d go cigarette for cigarette, I would be dead in fifteen hours.  And this trip is not some smoke binge for my dad – he’s smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day since he was 12.    

I think it’s because I grew up with him smoking so much that I now despise smoking.  I just don’t understand it, how someone can regularly put something that is essentially tar-flavored poison into their body – and become addicted to it (and yes, I know booze is poison too, but at least when you’re putting that into your body you’re getting better-looking, more charming, and much more likely to wake up with a semi-naked and ashamed lady next to you; all you get with cigarettes is yellow teeth and yellow fingers and a tremendously off-putting scent similar to a garage in your mouth, skin, hair and clothes).  In a woman, I find cigarette smoking the second most undesirable characteristic after having a penis.  I once casually dated a girl who, in the middle of making out with me, would stop to take cigarette breaks.  Provided, making out with me is a stressful experience for anyone and I’m sure the whole time we kissed she thought and hoped and prayed for that cigarette until she couldn’t take it anymore.  I did notice that on these breaks she’d shake while smoking, puff hard on her cigarette, and they say, “OK – I’m ready” before continuing with the unenviable task of making out with me.  But still.  Not cool.       

Today, the cigarettes got to me.  After last night’s looooong night in Nashville, both my brother and I were very hungover.  Making matters worse, once we checked out of the hotel we drove to a nearby Cracker Barrel for breakfast, where I got the “Country Boy Breakfast” – a big slab of ham, eggs, home fries, grits and sausage gravy and biscuits.  I could have saved the effort for all parties involved and immediately walked my plate into the bathroom and dumped it into the toilet, and then punched myself in the stomach three times.  I had to stop to poop twice, and neither time was it a measured “Hey, let’s grab the next rest stop – no rush” but rather “Things are happening near my butt and they may happen to the car, so we should stop – now.”   

And the weather did not cooperate.   We had hopes of a high mileage day, but had to cut our drive short because it started raining sheets in Arkansas, heavy, deadfall rain hitting the car with such vehemence that it nearly shook the Lincoln.  This rain and the fact that we’re spending seven hours a day driving 70+ miles per hour is now causing the cloth top of the Town Car to start to peel off.  We attached three yellow cargo tie-downs (“the ratcheting strap-kind”) over the roof and through the car to hold the cloth top on.  The car now looks like some giant bumblebee.  Or just a hooptie.  Whatever.

We pulled off of I-40 in a random Arkansas town called Maumelle to grab dinner and wait out the rain.  We ate at a “sports tavern” called Razorback Pizza (which was actually quite delicious, in an Arkansas kinda way) but the rain did not cooperate and kept coming down.  So we called it a night.

So the hangover, the pooping, the weather, and, of course, the cigarettes.  Not my favorite day, but when you want to party in Nashville and eat the “Country Boy Breakfast” and drive a cloth top car in the rain and at high speeds, you have to pay the piper.  The cigarettes, I could live without. 

(Until, of course, I’m addicted to them by the end of this trip.  As a matter of fact, I kinda want one right now.)