day three
13 June 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.)
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.)
