So, Iíve been listening to ďLonesome Crowded WestĒ from Modest Mouse, like, obsessively the past couple of days and I donít even like Modest Mouse. (another rant for another day, kids.)
So, why do I have it? A friend burned it for me this past summer. I was supposed to review it for his web site. I was to be the opposing point of view. But I never got around to it. The review I mean.
But if anything, the album reminds me of summer now, and I could use a little bit of summer right at this very moment.
I am stressed out and burnt out on work. Itís just that time of year where the deadlines are fierce and the work keeps piling on and I just keep on keeping on. The long hours and taking work home on weekends starts in November hits itís high note right about now and doesnít let up until first quarter is over in April.
Then, itís vacation time. And Iím going on a road trip. Iíve just decided. I donít know where. It may be short. But I just have to get my going on. Hell, I could fly any weekend to over 18 different cities in the U.S. and Canada for work during first quarter, should I choose to, but thatís like Ė work travel.
I want the open road. My travel.
I want hot truck stop coffee and those stupid little creamers spilling all over. I want bad classic rock from small town radio stations that broadcast out of trailers. I want to lay on the horn every time I cross a state line. I want to get lost and have to stop at a honest-to-god filling station where some antiquated fella in overalls and an oily rag in his back pocket laughs and shakes his head at the stupid Midwestern girl with the Midwestern twang who canít DEE-cide where she made her wrong turn.
I just need April to get here.
And I need a partner in crime.
Donít get me wrong, I love my own company, but truth be told Ė this shit is a whole lot more fun if youíve got an accomplice Ė like my best friend Jen.
Together, we are lethal on the road.
No, seriously. I donít even need to go into the ďRolling wheel of DeathĒ incident on I-57 on our way to Graceland, do I?
Iíll only say, it took us like, a million years to get there because do you know how many cool truck stops there are on the way to Memphis?
Well, that, and we have to stop like every 25 miles to buy more scratchers.
Scratchers! You know, lottery tickets!
You buy $10-$20 bucks worth when youíre filling the car up before you start the trip - then you make an entire game out of scratching those fuckers off during the trip.
If you win any cash, you keep it for gas money or any ďKeep on TruckingĒ kitsch purchases along they way. The only catch is, you wind up winning a lot of free tickets which means youíve got to stop and cash those darlings in before you cross the state line. Because you never know, man, a free ticket could parlay itís way into a shiny new ďLIVE FREE OR DIEĒ license plate holder, and who wants to pass that up?
Just donít spend too much time in Arkansas because we learned the hard way Ė theyíre a dry lottery state. But yet, the lady working at the rest stop was going on and on trying to entice us to stay for the dog races.
Theyíll let you throw down some coin on a malnourished pooch chasing rabbit tail, but thereís no scratching! No maíam, thatís like, sinning.
And the trip to Toronto? Forget about it. I spent every last loonie and toonie in my pocket on the way back buying out as many Kinder Eggs as I could get my grubby little hands on at any gas station I could find before we crossed the line back into the states.
Kinder Eggs are wicked fun. Itís not, of course, the chocolate - itís the damn toys! We made ourselves sick because we just had to know what was inside of each oval of goodness. Plus, they are a natural road trip choice because you can pass the time assembling and applying the appropriate stickers to those tiny little crappy plastic toys .
By the time we got home, my í87 Dodge Raider (god rest her soul) was filled with wrappers and like, 2nd rate Hot Wheels with misapplied stickers.
I know you Canadians are snickering right now but you donít know how good yíall have it. As far as I can tell, they are not for purchase here in the U.S. because of our litigious ways.
And as far as I can tell, we are not allowed chocolate eggs with plastic toys inside because Iím sure someone somewhere along the way choked and sued someone and now we all suffer. Iím sure one of you all will fill me in, ok?
At any rate, damn you Mister Bee and your diary all filling me up with road lust!
p.s. speaking of wicked Canadians, that fellow old and resident funny-lady Ms-m had forwarded my latest anti-shopping rant to a site I didnít even know existed. Diary Rants!. Fun! Stuff! Have a look!