I spent the night in Clarksville, IN.  Just across the river from Louisville, KY.  I am not sure which river it is.  Traffic was so dense I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off the road long enough to read the sign.

I only went to Clarksville, to “clip the toenails” of that state, as it were – to be able to say the EM-50 Phantom Rambler rambled through Indiana.   In the morning I returned to Kentucky.  They have a fast food joint in Louisville called Dizzy Whizz (pic related)

where they sell something called a “Whizz Burger”.  Well, maybe “sell” is too stong of a word.  I certainly didn’t buy one.  I didn’t even stop.  Hell, I didn’t even take that pic — I found it on the internet.  But, I did see a billboard advertising their signature sandwich.

It kind of reminded me of that time in the 70s, when the first “eat healthy” craze began.  The industry giants wanted to get in on the fad so, one of them marketed a new line of diet TV Dinners called, “Fresh & Light” then promptly went out of business because it sounded more like the name you would give a feminine hygiene product than a meal.

Hey, I love people with a whimsical side but, come on, this is your livelihood, buddy.  “Whizz Burger” is like a social experiment to see where the general population will draw the line.  And, you just KNOW that at some point, one of the cooks just thought it would be hilarious to somehow work his urine into one of the burgers — insisting he is just giving the people what they want. So, yeah…No.

Appetite successfully spoiled, I got on with my BIG plans for the day.  Mammoth Cave National Park!  The longest cave in the known galaxy!  240 feet below the ground.   To put it in perspective for you Baltimorons out there – that is the same distance that the Ravens drive down a football field to get to the Red Zone, whereupon they turn the ball over.  That’s pretty deep.

I was so geeked about Mammoth Cave that I intentionally avoided looking up pictures of the park.  I wanted to be wowwed when I got there.  I had visions of Castle Greyskull dancing through my mind (pic related)

by the power of Greyskull…

And, (fingers crossed) if we should be lucky enough to have a massive earthquake while I was in there, this would be my big chance to go all Indiana Jones in there, just to survive (pic related)

I seriously considered putting a bullwhip in my backpack

I went to the Visitor’s Center, bought my ticket (15 bucks.  They took all the caves, put ’em in a cave museum…) for the “Drips & Domes Tour” and reported to Shelter B where the shuttle bus would transport us to the entrance to …MAMMOTH CAVE.  

I thought I might faint from anticipation.

Somewhere in the back of my mind a small voice cautioned me to be prepared for the entrance to not live up to my expectations.  But, I have to admit, the reality of my disappointment exceeded anything I could possibly dream up (pic related)

Seriously.

Ranger Jeff explained two things

1. The Department of the Interior doesn’t do refunds.
2. We will be exiting from a different opening than we enter.  That way “we get to see twice as much cave.”

Haha.  OK, you got me!  But, heck, at least I get to see another opening to the cave.  Haha.  It couldn’t possibly be lamer than this stupid doorway. Haha. (You feel it coming, don’t you?)

I was about to spelunk!  I had wanted to do that ever since I heard The Professor on Gilligan’s Island explain that it wasn’t a dirty word. Nothing could dampen my mood!

Well, except maybe that that doorway opened to a metal staircase that ran down and through the entire length of the tour.  Complete with handrails.

MAMMOTH CAVE was as dimly lit as a movie theater during the coming attractions and had only one real rule: NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY! So, no (pics related).

Haha!  I’m just kidding!  There was a second rule – we were’t allowed to have bring a flashlight with us either.  I guess this was to make sure we would panic and trample each other in the unlikely event there was a power failure.

Ranger Jeff explained a bunch of stuff as we went.  For instance, prior to July 1, 1941, which is when the Parks Service took over, the folks who conducted the tours encouraged visitors to write or scratch their names onto the cave walls.  As of July 1941, it is a federal offense and he will happily write you a citation for doing it 🙂

The cave path wasn’t always this passable. The govt brought in the CCC to bore it out and smoothe the floor, install staircases — stuff like that.

We got to the showpiece of the park — Frozen Niagara.  Meh.  It looked like the stucco walls of my first apartment

Frankly, it was like taking $15 and throwing it into a hole in the ground.  Heh. I mean, I got to walk through a tunnel in the ground but it lacked adventure.  It was assisted nature.

There was a little bit of a workout to it, what with all that up and down, and as we approached our point of egress, all things considered, I was glad it was coming to an end.

So, the cave exit was a sweet sight for sore legs (pic related)

And, scratching my name on the wall will spoil the natural beauty? They installed a goddamn revolving door!

I left the park and drove to Cave City.  I wanted to find WigWam Village — the coolest motel in the country.   But, it got dark, I got hungry and I couldn’t find it.  I pulled into an awful little eatery that had an All-U-Can-Eat buffet.  But, without Trixie there to assist me I got confused. Nothing was labeled. I ended up having mashed potatoes and fish.  That’s an awful combination.  In my defense, I thought it was chicken.  And, you know how they say everything tastes like chicken?  Fish does not.  Imagine the look on one’s face when he takes a bite of fish that he is expecting to be chicken.  Probably the same expression as when he bites into a Whizz Burger.

One week ’til turkey with Trixie!

Everytime I have heard someone rant about how they are not a racist, invaribly, they say two things:

1. I am not a racist – I hate everyone equally.
2. I don’t care what color you are; white, black, brown, yellow, red, GREEN…

They always throw in that green to make it seem like they were just listing off random colors and not skin colors and just so happened to land on green. Unless you want to count that time that Trixie was hungover and I asked her if she wanted a raw herring with a scoop of ice cream on top, I have never seen a person with green skin. That hot chick in Star Trek doesn’t count. That was make-up. Sometimes they add purple for emphasis.

You wanna know what else I have never seen? A living person with blue skin. But they have them. In Clayhole, KY of all places.

“The Blue Fugates of Clayhole” they are called. I’m serious. I mean it. Not just a blue tint. I am talking bright Smurfy blue.

I haven’t seen them because these folks did not sign up for the attention of sideshow freak status, so I did not investigate further. Google them. You’ll see. And, don’t forget to not adjust your monitor.  That’s how they look.

It all started when some fellow named Fugate, who carried the recessive gene for iron-deficient or oxygen-deficient blood or whatever, in a “one-in-a-bazillion shot” married and had children with a woman who carried the same recessive gene.

I’m not so sure that in the hills of eastern Kentucky that the odds of him marrying someone with the same hereditary gene is all that coincidental, if you know what I am saying. But, as soon as you Google it…there you have it.

Other things in Kentucky are blue as well. The bluegrass. The bluegrass music. The uniforms of the University of Kentucky Wildcats. Now that I think about it, when Christian Laetner of Duke hit that jump shot at the buzzer against U of K many of the fans looked decidedly green.

I am in Lexington, home of that same university. And, boy did I have a day ahead of me. So much to see and do here in the Horse Capital of the World.

There is a Confederate soldier cemetery. There is the home of Henry Clay, who famously said, “I would rather be right, than president.” And, it turns out he was neither. It is a short drive through the scenic hills of the thoroughbred farms. Or, in the other direction, the birthplace of Lincoln. I am spitting distance from Daniel Boone National Forest. There are museums and historical markers littering the land. There are the distilleries of Jim Beam, Maker’s Mark, Four Roses, Wild Turkey and several other bourbons. I didn’t go to any of these.

I am in the Bible Belt, so there are some things that lean that way. There is a nearby shop called “Bibles & Tires”. They sell two things and two things only. Guess.

There is a highly-acclaimed miniature golf course here that is Bible themed. But, to be frank, mini-golf is stressful enough. I straight up can’t handle that much Jesus. I took a pass on that as well.

The hard truth is, I can’t see them all. I chose two. In the end, I went with my heart and the choice was easy.

The water tower shaped like a Dixie Cup (pic related)

Georgia Pacific wouldn’t let me get closer

And the bitterly disappointing Bondurant’s Pharmacy famous for being shaped like a pestle & mortar. But, with the decline of the neighborhood it is now a discount drive-thru liquor store. They painted it shades of Jetson car green in the weak hope that it would resemble a martini with an olive sticking out. It does not. (pic related)

I hate to end things on a sour note, so I saddled up the EM -50 Phantom Rambler and headed south…or west, maybe both…along the Bluegrass Parkway to the Famous Trappist monastery, Gethsemane. (pic related)

A note on the gift shop door invites you to celebrate Mass with them at 3:15 am. I shit you not.

As any of you who were raised by my father already know, Gethsemane is the hermitage home of writer and self-flagellation enthusiast, Thomas Merton.

For whatever reason, my old man is fascinated by those who choose the monastic life. Whereas, I am fascinated by Bill Murray movies.

In fact, there is a relatable quote from his movie “Stripes” that I have always kept with me as an inspiration when times were tough.

The character, John Winger, had lost everything; his job, his girlfriend, his apartment, his car, his pizza. The horizon was bleak. His best friend Russell Zisky remarked that John’s only options were to join a monastery or join the army.

Winger replied, “Did you ever see a monk get wildly fucked by some teenage girls?”

That’s powerful stuff.

Compared to those monks, I’m living the dream. With or without those teenage girls!

… it’s without 🙁

…but I have Trixie. She’s like…three teenagers!

Back in the gift shop, I  bought some unGodly overpriced Monk’s Bourbon Fudge made by the monks…with bourbon….and it’s fudge.

I bought some really, REALLY, unGodly overpriced Monk’s Bourbon Fruitcake for the Old Man. But, I used his credit card, so it’s all right.

I asked the helpful lady who works the register if I could see any more of the grounds.

She said I could not. But, if I want to come back at 3:15 they would let me into the church to kneel and pray and stuff.  I told her I would think about it.

Something is going to happen, I don’t know what, but mark my words – something will.

By now you have put it all together and figured out that I am in West Virginia.

I began my trip through the Mountain State by staying with the Dodgeballs. Zach & Kayla. Of the Ridgely, West Virginia Dodgeballs. I’d like to say they took me in because they are like family, but the truth is they had to take me in because they actually ARE family.

It is always wild, if not wonderful when I get the chance to hang with them.

I overstayed my welcome as little as I could and soon rambled on.

West, By Gawd, VA is a state of seriously rolling hills. It is commonplace to be driving along, minding your own business, and the ground 15 feet to your left rears up dramatically into a peak, then back down again.

I stopped at a rest area and noticed what appeared to be a sharp drop off at the edge of the parking area (pic related)

this is gonna be good!

Since I am almost always up for a breathtaking, spectacular view, I hoofed it on over to survey the majesty of those purple mountains and belt, “…’Murica!” into the land of the free!

However, just like in real life, I was left feeling uneasy with the view (pic related)

A  sweeping view of a state prison doesn’t have the same “let freedom ring” kind of feeling.

I went to the state capital,  Charleston.  Nothing to report.

And, eventually to Point Pleasant to visit The Mothman Statue (pic related)

In 1966 a couple had gone to Inspiration Point Pleasant for a little alone time when they had the bejeezus scared right out of them by a 9 foot tall, winged creature with glowing red eyes.

I was 2/3rds of a horny, young couple back in the day, so I can tell you, that kind of thing can take the edge off of your desire.

Shortly after the incident, folks claimed to have ominous premonitions and precognitove dreams that they couldn’t quite piece together until the Silver Bridge (pic related)

Since rebuilt

collapsed.

Given that it went all “London Bridge” at one point and just started falling down, I was a tad nervous as I crossed it while looking for the Mothman Museum.

Moments later, upon crossing, I was even more nervous when I realized I was now in Ohio and had to go back. But, eventually I found the place I was looking for.

The museum has newspaper clippings, recordings of TV shows about the Mothman, eyewitness accounts and an original Space Invaders machine (pic related)

Jeremy,  the fellow working the register told me that they have the difficulty set to HARD so he can’t get past the first wave.

Point Pleasant is a genuine small town and is what one would expect of something carrying that title. You can cross the street without having to sprint and get a seat at the diner without standing in line. I did both.

I ordered a burger at Harris’ Steakhouse.

While eating I spoke with John and Russ. Like me, they were passing through on a drive across the country. They gave me some great suggestions about other things to see in the area. Specifically, an abandoned army supply depot that is heavily haunted! I made right for it. But, I got turned around and found myself  crossing the rickety  Silver Bridge again. Drat!

I was 30 miles from Lesage, WV. There is a roadside eatery that was featured on that show, “Diners, Drive-In & Dives” hosted by that fellow who looks like one of the Heat Miser’s minions (pic related)

It is called, “Hillbilly Hotdogs” and it is quite unique.

It is constructed out of old school buses and bare lumber across from the bank of the Ohio River. View the gallery.

I was still pretty full from the burger I got at Harris’ but, this was a place worth seeing even if I didn’t eat. So, I sent Trixie a text to tell her of my intentions.

Supportive as always, she pulled up their Web page, reviewed the menu and suggested I order a 12 lbs, $30 hot dog, called “The Homewrecker” that she felt I should scarf down as quickly as possible in order to get a free Tshirt.

I will back this up with a screen shot of the convo in just a moment, if for no other reason than it can be submitted as evidence at her trial when they find me choked out on beef by-products and fillers soon. But first, I would like to remind everyone what she does for a living. She sells tshirts.

Exhibit A

I did get the Tater Soup. With cheese, bacon and onions. It was wonderful.

And, just to show that I, in fact, have no intention of living forever, I got a deep fried chili dog. It was pretty good actually.

I wake in Kentucky with absolutely no idea what the day has in store for me. I’m starting to kind of like that.

I saw the new James Bond movie last night. It was awful.  As with most things, I blame women.

Women didn’t ruin the movie, per se – men did. Probably. I can’t be bothered to delve deeply enough to find out who is to blame exactly,  so once again, women have to take one for the team.

James Bond movies used to be the exploits of a man’s man running around shooting bad guys and seducing gorgeous women who could not help but succumb to his charms. That and being Batman is every guy’s dream.

Now when he goes to bed with them it is because they pretty much ordered him to and he is left a simpering lovesick chump with real feelings. It’s tough to watch.

And, killing bad guys? Forget it. Now he shows mercy. MERCY! For crying out loud!

The movies are supposed to be an escape…hell, the theater in Charleston, WV that I went to last night is called, “The Great Escape”!

I don’t go to see some brooding nancyboy questioning his life’s work and doing what he has been tricked into believing is the right thing – I get that all around me all the time.

The problem with the movies is the same as the problem with everything else anymore – women. No offense.

You see, there is a lot of power and influence that comes with the voice of authority that any industry that large gets to speak with. So, no longer do talented or brilliant  people rise to the top – this kind of power brings out the sociopaths. They crush the talented good people by crossing all lines and stooping to any level.

It is true in entertainment, sports, news, charities…everything. it is all run by people with no conscience because it is all just business.

Not content to be rich fatcats, they strive for more. Enough is not enough. If there is more to gain, they want to rake that in as well.

Let’s take football, for instance. No one in the NFL front office was going hungry. And, it was no longer enough to stand toe-to-toe with God for ownership of Sunday, their experts determined that women weren’t watching the games. Instead they were off shopping, or playing bingo or gardening or…I don’t really know what it is women do when the game is on….that’s not the point. The point is, it was not enough for men to be mindless zombies, they needed women to be as well. So they started doing things to attract female viewers.

The problem is, just like in the movies and real life, NOBODY, not even women, know what the hell is going on in the mind of a female. And the next the you know they have the players wearing pink cleats in the hopes that will do it. What the hell?

Violence is ugly, but the ones who pull the strings have somehow convinced men that they should be entertained by watching women in the MMA. Who wants to watch that? Ask yourself how you got led down that path then do sone serious introspection about how the media is manipulating your mind and made you the suckers that you are.

Hell, they have even convinced women that they should be allowed in combat. Trust me, you dont. As a former infantryman, let me let you in on the reason women aren’t allowed on the battlefield. It isn’t that you aren’t capable of squeezing a trigger; it is that men do not act right when women are around. We will get everyone killed when we start playing the White Knight in front of y’all.

But can I really blame women for ruining James Bond? Yes. Yes I can.

You see, men, just like sociopaths, have no idea what it is that women want, so we guess and hope for the best. All we know is what we want and most of the time the answer is: women. But, how to get them?  So we ask them out on dates. True, we would just like to have sex and maybe have them make us a sandwich. However, through trial and error we have found out the direct approach almost never works so we came up with the concept of courting. Going out on dates so they will have sex with us and make us a sandwich.

We have no idea what to do on dates. We don’t really want to hang out with women in a social setting. We have to dress in real clothes and not cuss or burp or fart or let our eyes stray to appreciate the view of other passing females, let alone refraining from commentary. We don’t have that kind of self-control.

Out of ideas, we take them to the movies. At least we can sit in the dark and be quiet for a couple of hours to ensure we don’t say something wrong. And, naturally, we let the girl select the movie. And, therein lies the problem. Women never want to see James Bond running around shooting bad guys and seducing chicks. Weird, right?

This was ok when Albert Broccoli was running things over at Pinewood Studios. He was making all the money. But, he died or retired or whatever, and now a bunch of people have to split the profits. Each one of them wants to make as much as Cubby Broccoli did. The only way to do this is to get women to start selecting 007 movies on date night. The only way to do that is to ruin the franchise. Incidentally, this is the same reason Chic-Fil-A will suck within a year. The visionary died.  Cost-cutting will come in to boost the now split profits.

I may be all over the map on this one, but, deep down, you know I’m right.

Now that I think about it, I’ll bet I would have enjoyed the movie more if Trixie had gone with me.

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It was with great anticipation that I planned my trip to The Great Smoky Mountains.

I’m pretty sure my parents took me there when I was a kid. Hell, for all I know they took me three blocks away and we stayed in a hotel while they told me it was The Great Smoky Mountains. What did I know? I was a kid.

Further, I am pretty sure I remember having a wonderful time. The details are a bit sketchy, though.  One of those details was swimming in the communal pool and my father turning to me and saying with grave earnestness, “I’d pay a thousand dollars for a Tuck’s Pad right now.”

I remember wondering how much a thousand dollars was and what, exactly was a Tuck”s Pad.  The blissful ignorance that is youth prevented that anecdote from spoiling one of my fondest childhood memories. The Great Smoky Mountains.

Since the only kind of returns I know how to make are of the triumphant variety, I decided this one would be grand.

To heighten my exquisite anticipation,  I avoided making a straight shot. I drove west, south, and east.

When the time came, I continued to make excuses to extend the delay. I went to Pascagoula, Mississippi just to take a pic of a squirrel (pic related)

But, I couldn’t find one so I took this shot of a cotton field instead.

From there I made a stop in Anniston, Alabama because it was down the road a ways from Jenifer, Alabama (pic related)

And I wanted to see if they had noticed. They had. I wonder if Jennifer Aniston knows.

Everybody loves a Guiness Book of World Records record holder, so I drove to see one that made the book in the 80s, the only decade that matters (pics related).

I went at night to beat the crowds.  It worked. I had the thing to myself.

I was getting antsy for The Great Smoky Mountains.  I drove to Pigeon Forge.  It is full of manufactured hillbilly charm. Dollywood, dinner theaters that feature the Hatfields and McCoys fueding it out every night, themed mini golf out the wazoo, country Xmas festivals and The Hollywood Wax Museum (pic related)

You got King Kong climbing the joint and Mt Rushmore reconstructed with John Wayne, Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and, for some reason Chico Marx. I dunno, maybe that isnt him. Either way, that building had to cost a fortune!

The Great Smoky Mountains, by the way, get their name from a perpetual haze that hangs about the ridgeline (pic related).

I slept in Gatlinburg that night so I could get an early start and be refreshed for my glorious return to The Great Smoky Mountains. By comparison, I was gonna make that MacArthur chump look like he was going to the market to return a piece of fruit…or something. I dunno. I was excited.

I rolled outta the EM-50 Phantom Rambler at the crack of 10am and made straight for Clingman’s Dome – the highest point in the mountainous state of Tennessee  (pic related).

Look at that altitude reading on my trusty GPS

The view is breathtaking  (pic related)

Or, so Trixie tells me. Since I was in a cloud I sent her a text and asked her to Google some images and describe them to me. Just…WOW!

But, this is a first hand account of what it’s like so, I will describe the smell atop Clingman’s Dome!

Kinda woodsy. Some pine. And rain. You know that smell that you smell when it is about to rain? It smelled like that. I’m not really sure what we are smelling there. I’m pretty sure it’s not water. Anyhow, yeah, it smelled like that.

But The Great Smoky Mountains isn’t all kitchy tourist traps and obstructed views. It is the crown jewel in the treasure that is our National Parks – receiving way more visitors each year than the rest combined…or something.

I went for the nature. I went for the hiking. Trails with names that capture the majesty  of the wild (pic related).

All in all, I think I picked me a winner.

Recently,  I stated my position as an opponent to world peace.  Today, I had an epiphany moment. I did like the bumpers stickers say and…visualized it. It was fleeting. But,  I got enough of a glimpse to trace it back to where we are now – a sorry and divided lot – and saw that the path to unification was due largely, to the most unlikely of characters.

So far in my journey I have visited 12 states.  Well, it is 12 if you count Tennessee and Kentucky as different states even though they are really the same place, just like Vermont and New Hampshire are the same place, if you know what I mean. But, the Tennessee/Kentucky thing is weird because Kentucky and West Virginia are the same place, but West Virginia and Tennessee are not. I know. Strange.

Anyway, even though we are so divided, every place has its similarities – the same stores, the same restaurants, the same strip malls, the same movie theaters, the same traffic patterns, we drive the same cars. We all have the same accent because we all watch the same TV shows and, life really does imitate art. Or the medium is the message or…whatever. but, because of that, those are MANUFACTURED similarities.  There is nothing organic about it. We are programmed. Dammit, the zombie apocalypse is here and now. I’m pretty sure that’s why that Mexican company brought Twinkies back (I don’t expect anyone to get that reference).

The differences that exist are vague and subtle. It pretty much comes down to sports. Which team the locals cheer for. Now, I’m a Redskins fan…sorta. I’m not really a fan of any team. The old bastards were right back in the day – free agency did ruin the game. Now, instead of cheering for the home team, we all sit around and watch as billionaires play real-life fantasy football. It is sort of like watching Mel Brooks play chess in “History of the World part 1”.

So, yeah, we select our favorite billionaire and cheer for him to make the best trades and stuff. I don’t really waste my time with it.

In Georgia, they cheer for the Falcons owner, in South Florida, the Dolphins owner, in North Florida the Buccaneers owner in Louisiana, the Saints owner.

In places like Mississippi and Arkansas they wait with bated breath in the hopes the NFL will recognize their state and sanctify them with a franchise. Until then they cheer for college teams.

We are similar in that we all gather at Buffalo Wild Wings and watch our team lose, even though we enter into it swearing that our billionaire made the best moves and thus, WE are number 1.

The whole thing leaves me sour frankly.

And, even though we cheer for different billionaires, there is one who shines like a beacon…one BASTION to integrity left in this country and he is everywhere…Georgia, Florida…even Arkansas and Mississippi. Is he in D.C.? Yes especially in D.C.  Ubiquitous is the word. He is tireless and cannot be defeated.  If you destroy him, just like the mythical Hydra, two more ugly heads will rear up in his place. Through him we find a common ground for disgust and hatred, and therein lies our route to peace.

I am speaking, of course, of that asshole who makes it clear, through every garment on his body that he is, a Dallas Cowboy fan.

It is not enough for him to root for billionaire Jerry Jones, even tbough he has never so much as set foot in the great state of Texas, he needs the world to know it no matter what angle you see him from.

He wears the blue, gray and white and has that one big ass star embroidered and emblazoned on every article of his raiment.

I don’t know why…maybe his mother didn’t hug him when he was a child. Maybe for the same reason people worship the devil. When you don’t stand out in any way, shape, or form maybe you just want desperately to be noticed.

I thought that he was hated only in the Washington metropolitan area but, it turns out that people consider him a douche no matter where he is. And, no matter where, he pretends to not care.

So, when you see him – and you WILL see him, that fucker is everywhere – give him a little nod of approval or maybe a friendly smile, for, that simple son-of-bitch is our only hope.

Missing my one-of-a-kind, Trixie.

“Big Fish” is one of my favorite movies. If you haven’t seen it, you should go watch it now cuz I’m gonna spoil the hell out of it here.

It stars Albert Finney and Obi Wan Kenobi. They both play the same character at different points in his life.

The character, Edward Bloom, is dying and his adult son has returned home to make one final attempt at getting to know his father.

The son, William, is played by actor Billy Crudup. This is distracting because for the first 10 minutes of the movie, one finds himself having the internal conversation in which he keeps asking, “In Hollywood, where name change is so common, how do you land on ‘Crudup’? It’s like you are given a task and you just, you know, crud the whole thing up.”

Then eventually you settle down and get into the movie.

The boy, like most, has anger toward his old man. He feels that his father has never been genuine because all he does is tell tall tales.

His outrageous lies involve a giant, a witch, Siamese twin spies, a small town called “Spectre” that is paradise itself, one really big ass fish that may or may not be living in the family swimming pool, the extreme lengths he (Edward) has gone to to win and keep the love of his life (including shoveling elephant dung at the circus for a month for the payment of a tidbit of personal info about her, e.g. she likes music) and other forms of ridicularium (I just made that word up).

The movie takes place in Alabama. I am in Alabama. Spectre, if it exists at all, is rumored to be as difficult to find as Shambala. Today I found it. It cost me $3 (pics related)

When Tim Burton made this film, he came to a private island near Montgomery, Alabama and built the small town (more pics related).

The film came out in 2003, I think. And, though serene and pastoral then, it is merely a goats town now…

HAHA!

Though so much of the sets were constructed out of plywood and styrofoam, they are still standing today.

The town’s idyllic simplicity was represented by the practice of the townsfolk taking the shoes of visitors and slinging them high out of reach onto a cord strung between poles (pic related).

Just like they do in the’hood

Of course, that angry son eventually learns the truth – that truth is subjective and…”A man tells his stories so many times that he becomes the stories. They live on after him and in that way he becomes immortal”

But, you see, Edward Bloom wasn’t lying – not really. Maybe he was doing some exaggerating or maybe, just MAYBE he was telling the honest truth about events the way he saw them with his own personal flair and panache.  And, perhaps that is why I identified so strongly with him.

The greatest poet who ever lived, Norther Winslow, put it best when he wrote:

The grass is so green,

The sky is so blue…

…Spectre is really great.

I’ve spent the last seven days in the backwards backwoods that is Mississippi,  Arkansas,  and Louisiana. I could feel normalcy return as soon as I crossed the border into Alabama.

Ha! I’m just kidding. I had to push through to Florida!

Double Bazinga! I loved Mississippi,  Arkansas, and Louisiana. ..even Alabama…a little. The people are wonderful.

I would love to keep seeing the sights, but my laundry isn’t going to do itself like it does at home.  One of the reasons people stay put, I suppose.

I am sitting in Sudzy’s laundromat in Pensacola, FL.

I had a little excitement last night in the form of having a Blue Angel buzz/photo bomb me last night (pic related).

I stopped to take a pic and…WHOOSH!

Of course, you, a reasonably normal and suspicious human being called shenanigans almost right away.

One of things I love about Trixie (and the main reason a chump like me was able to land her) is, she will believe anything. (Convo related)

We are perfect together in so many ways.

With my entry into Florida, I have technically knocked out the entire southeast. After I fluff & fold I will really need to get back to that laundry then decide where to go from here.

Trixie is cringing. Because of the title…she knows what’s coming…anyway…

If you’re normal, like me, when you hear “Mississppi”, you think, “Rocket Scientists, for sure”.

So, as soon as I crossed the Louisiana border back into The ‘Sip, I went straight to The NASA Infinity Space Center (pic related)

I’m just kidding. I had to pee and this NASA Space Center is part of the Rest Area.

They say you can put the rocket scientist into Mississippi,  but you can’t take the Mississippi out of the rocket science. They have a remote submersible that they named “Rufus”…and they even misspelled his name (pic related)

They have a boat used for military infiltration by elite SEAL teams painted in woodland camouflage like they are on a coon hunt (pic related)

I tease Mississippi because I’m bored.  I’m on the Gulf coast and it is raining (pic related).

But the truth is, I love the rain. I also love the fog, the snow and twilight – any period of limited visibilty, really. It quiets my mind and the world – gives it that “kind of hush” Herman and his Hermits sang about. I also love the ocean for its power and enormity. And, when rain meets the ocean – it is nature meets nature – so meta.

A chilly, autumn rain is the most romantic setting. It helps you to appreciate warmth and makes you focus on beauty that is close at hand. For a moment you have to take your eyes off the horizon and look at what is here.

One of my favorite memories is standing with Trixie in a shelter on a hiking trail in Shenandoah. The world was subdued and gray. The air was cold and wet. Her hand was warm and dry. And we stood there until the end of time just appreciating the solace.

So, here I am again. Cold autumn rain. No Trixie to reach to anywhere but in my thoughts.

Eventually my thoughts drifted to another of my favorite memories. Most of you know this story – I like to tell it every couple of years lest I be doomed to forget. But, this time I’ve brought visual aids.

Early in our relationship, we were still getting to know one another, she told me that when she graduated high school she moved to Ft Lauderdale.  While sharing her memories she mentioned that she might have been in a movie once when she was 18. She was at the beach when a film crew showed up to shoot a scene and they needed extras. If they were interested, they were to dance a Conga while the female lead sang a song entitled, “We Go to the Beach Because It’s Fun”. And it is.

She didn’t know the name of the movie or if was even released. It was just an anecdote told in passing. No big deal.

It became my life’s mission to find that movie (aaaand…pic related)

The beach extras were given two instructions:

1. Have fun!
2. Don’t look at the camera.

Yes,  she is in it for a quarter of a second. Yes, she has fun.  And yes, she never takes her eyes off the camera. The movie is rated R. But wait! It gets so much better!

First, let’s watch. She is in the shot at about the :17 second mark. She is not in the rest of the scene.

Ok, so there was that. After they shot this scene, the film crew packed up and left.

The rest of the movie was filmed in L.A.  I have no idea why.

And, it (the movie) is awful. Truly. The acting, the editing, the writing…awful. Unwatchable on all levels. The only reason to see anymore after Trixie’s big scene is because of…The cameo.

Let me set it up. Our young hero is in search of his dream girl (ha! Should have stayed in Lauderdale). He is about to make it with a hot young prospect but needs a bottle of Dom Perignon to get her to come across (this was before date-rape and “alcohol=no consent” was a thing). The only bottle in town is held by a drunk in an alley…let’s watch…

Did you see that thug on the motorcycle!?

That was Ron F.N. Jeremy! The Hedgehog himself! Greatest artist of his kind! The hardest working man in show biz!

So, now when you hear me talk about the time Trixie made a movie with Ron Jeremy when she was 18, you will know I did not make it up.