jesus, etc

I was crammed in to about a 6oo square foot space breathing the recycled air of about 700 sweating people at Le Bon Temps Roule—one of New Orleans’ famed locales for underground jazz. The ‘House of Dues’ (a rip off of House of Blues) as it has been dubbed, is a pretty big scene for new musicians on the jazz circuit in the city. Upon entering the place with a friend from college, it seemed like a normal bar to me with some pool tables and cheap beers. No big deal. But crawling in to the sauna through the back was where you had to go to see the music. This room appeared as though it crawled with a small army of cockroaches and other militant spiders. Hordes of sweating bodies swayed to the brass sounds of a five piece that was crammed on to a stage roughly the size of a surfboard.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I felt like I was a part of something special. The music was good and it just felt genuine. Those guys were working hard on stage as the sweat exploded from their bodies. No, I wasn’t seeing Miles Davis or anyone famous for that matter, but in my mind it felt like I was. Either the music was that good or I was just hallucinating from the dehydration.

A bar fight got off to a roaring start as I was leaving the bar with my friend. It was nice to witness a bouncer that was actually effective in thwarting the mischief. The man was probably the size of Paul Bunyan and he threw the little band of rag-tag warriors to the side as he sifted through the mess to retrieve the poor fellow that was getting the snot beat out of him. Mission accomplished. On the way out I told him I was impressed with his tactics to which he outstretched his arms and clenched fist saying “at least I didn’t have to use these.” I am pretty sure I pee’d myself a little bit because the man’s fists were easily the size of my incredibly large head. I shook his outstretched bear paw and felt the crunch of my knuckles as pain shot up my wrists.

Jesus.

And speaking of Jesus, it was Easter two days later.

I think I happened upon the sweetest of Easter celebrations I have experienced thus far in my 25 years. Well, I take that back. This came in just short of the year when we did an Easter egg hunt visiting some friends in Naples, Florida. Practically the whole neighborhood came over. I was high and far the oldest one in the group clocking in at ten years old and immediately took advantage of this fact. I had scouted out the entire front and back yards earlier in the morning so as to understand the positions of all eggs. When the whistle blew to begin the contest, within minutes I held at least ten dozen more plastic eggs than any child within a 5 mile radius.

There were no Easter egg hunts this year, but I was invited to join the same college friend for an afternoon at his friend’s parent’s house. The home cooked meal tasted like euphoria—if euphoria even has a taste. The ham was…well… delicious. The salad reminded me of my Mom’s workings. I ate about 92 stalks of grilled asparagus and nearly fainted from the smell of my urine an hour later. The day was a much-needed break from the standard inconveniences of the open road complete with the comforts of a friendly home.

Days later, I was still getting light-headed as I stood in a truck stop still pissing day-old asparagus fumes at the urinal. I was headed back to Charlotte from New Orleans to pick up the Crocs truck that was still in the shop. Of course upon arriving back at the service counter at the Charlotte Truck Center to pick up the rig, James was still smoking a cigarette, still wanted free shoes and still didn’t have the truck fixed. “It’ll be anutha day, Phiiiil.”

Awesome.

When I was at the Langerado Music Festival a month or so back, a ton of people I met were from a town called Asheville, North Carolina. Completely baffled by the sheer frequency of hearing that city thrown out when asking people where they hailed from, I decided it was absolutely necessary that I thoroughly investigate the place for myself. So there you have it, I burst out of the Charlotte Truck Center and dialed in Asheville, North Carolina on the GPS.

Done.

What greeted me that afternoon as I rolled in to Asheville town felt like my cutoff jean shorts— dangerously comfortable and just a goddamn delight, really. I circumnavigated the streets, passing a bar called the Jack of the Wood where a friendly group of twenty-somethings tossed me a casual hello. One thumb up. Galleries, used book shops, happening clothing stores and a just a sexy artistic sensibility about the place told me this was more than just a sleepy little southern town. I didn’t get an electric feeling as I walked around, I just felt the gentle, calm, welcoming pulse of the place. It had a beat. There was something to it. Leafing through the Mountain Xpress (the free local weekly periodical ala Metro Times, Chicago Reader, etc) it became very clear to me that there was more than just a welcoming aesthetic. A little place called the Orange Peel books great live music and there are plenty of exciting events going on. I looked up from the paper at my patio stoop with a black coffee and the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance were like a nice bear hug of comfort that balanced the overall delivery of the place.

Two thumbs way the fuck up.

Sign me up, Asheville. I am a believer. You can count on me heading back to this little sweetheart of a town. Pulling out of the city wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do. Pulling out of the city headed back to the Charlotte Truck Center for what seemed like the 78th time made it even worse. At least the truck was ready when I got there. James’ cigarette still dangled playfully from his lips, but I didn’t want to hang around long enough to karate chop it from his face. And so we left immediately.

After a quick stop in Georgia for the Georgia Marathon, it was time to head back out west to California for a full-on, coast-to-coast journey… in less than 3 days. Given the restrictions on commercial drivers— you can drive no more than 10 hours individually or 14 hours between two drivers and you cant do more than 1,000 miles per day—making these drives becomes a strategic chess match of plotting out how you will make it point-to-point given the event deadlines.

In pursuit of our California goal, Katie had a case of the lead foot while we were driving past the Halls Ferry Road exit off of I-20 through the state of Mississippi. And then all of the sudden she slammed on the brakes so hard I thought I felt my pancreas flatten from the pressure of my seatbelt. Nearly devoid of my next breath, I realized there was a cop behind us and Katie didn’t want to get pulled over. But we did.

Of course we did.

Seeing the flash of another pulsating blue light from the side mirror and a red-headed officer get out of the car, I was reasonably sure that things were about to take a turn for the shitty. Katie looked as though she was going to burst in to flames and I realized there was one minor issue: Katie didn’t have a valid driver’s license on her that particular moment. She had lost it and the DMV in Oregon was in the process of sending her a new one.

Awesome.

Officer Billy approached the vehicle from the passenger side of the which meant I was no longer going to be able to act like I was sleeping. I rolled down my window. Officer Billy’s moustache was the same strawberry color as his hair and was just plain awkward. I couldn’t stop staring at it. He was either trying to grow it out, or he trims his whiskers to about one-quarter of an inch long. Every time he spoke, I was trying to fixate on something other than his pink hued moustache.

“You two having a conversation about something other than the speed limit?” Officer Billy was not playing games. Another butthead officer of the law. We were fucked.

Well, Katie was fucked.

I scrambled to get the registration out of the glove box.

“Uhhhh, probably,” replied Katie nervously to the officer

“See, when you slam on your brakes like that in this town, you are likely to have your shoes scattered all over the highway cause somebodies gonna hit you. I don’t know how people drive where you’re from, but drivers around here aint that good.”

Awkward chuckles. The kind that trail on for about 15 more seconds than they should.

Hmmmm.

Officer Billy continued to stare in to the vehicle for about another 15 seconds, not really moving his eyes at all and definitely not saying anything. His eyes weren’t really looking at anything. Suddenly, he jerked his head up, gave a three-tap with his knuckle on the side of the truck door and then walked away back to his patrol car. I was confused and totally unaware of what the hell was going on. He hadn’t asked for Katie’s license or the truck registration and didn’t even really say “drive safely” or anything to suggest that we were now done with the interrogation session. Unsure of what to do, we opted to get back on the highway. As Katie hit the accelerator, Officer Billy darted out in front of us, flipped on his blue flashers and gave a wave. Still confused, Katie continued driving. Officer Billy wasn’t the last of the oddities as we continued through Mississippi.

A few towns to the west of where we got pulled over, I discovered perhaps one of the more interesting names for a city I have ever seen: Chunky.

Yep.

Chunky, Mississippi.

I think it would have been interesting to sit in on the town hall meeting where they developed that lovely name. Chunky housed a truck stop that had a jerky section that was roughly the size of a modest home. I have never seen Pineapple flavored beef Jerky, but they had it in Chunky. There was another section of the shop devoted to hats that was awfully impressive. The majority of the glass display cases were devoted to two things: Nascar and the old Confederacy. There were a few random hats tossed in their with interesting sayings like “Thunder God” or “Don’t F*#! With Me.” I think I spent about 20 minutes in Chunky marveling at the pointless items that passers-by were apparently purchasing.

Texas beckoned and I can happily announce that Christianity is alive and well in that monstrosity of a state. Billboards talk about Jesus, GIANT crosses are erected in the middle of barren fields, bumper stickers tell you that its God’s way or the highway, truckers have spritual sayings painted across their cabs, strangers in small towns shout about divine intervention, candy in stores even have wrappers with Jesus on them. It is amazing really. And I mean its fine and dandy, I am not complaining about the spiritual messages throughout the south, but more just marveling at the ubiquity of it all. Night was falling and I was at the wheel. Jesus was telling me to keep that truck moving through Texas, so I continued onward.

California was only a day or so away.