A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream
Monday, December 31, 2007: I was sitting in the comfort of my old Kentucky home when the phone rang. My upstairs roost has only a cordless set to access the landline, which was at that point downstairs, so it was Dad who answered the call. Moments later, I heard “Boy, you've got a call,” or something to that effect. I answered the summons to find at the other end of the line that living legend, Lynn Alan Mason. Al was in one of his traveling moods, and wanted me to accompany him and Aaron Reside to Nashville to visit a club or two. While I have no prejudice against travel, my wanderlust does require more of a lure than dimly-lit places filled with strangers and throbbing bass to strike out on a four-hour round trip, so I said no. As it happened, however, Al was already in the area, and he offered free lunch, which was a much more appealing idea.
Al pulled into my driveway minutes later, and I boarded his lauded vehicle armed only with a cup of tea, fortified by some rum candies I had bought four summers previous in a German town called Tirschenroeth, along the Czech border. We hit the open road with gusto. When Al turned right onto the interstate, however, I was perplexed - such a maneuver from my home means going to the Land of Lincoln. Well, I thought, there's nothing wrong with eating in Metropolis. We passed Metropolis, however, and Joppa and Brookport with it. My wonder at our destination steadily increased until, somewhere around Harrisburg, or about two hours later, Al exclaimed that he hadn't meant to go this far. Being then not too far from a place called Shawneetown, Al decided to take me there while we were in the neighborhood.
Ten miles to the east of Harrisburg, and not altogether very far from Indiana, lies the small burg of Shawneetown. The story goes that, in the days of yore, the mayor of the newly-founded Chicago asked his Shawneetown counterpart for a loan to help the struggling northern town. Shawneetown had refused, saying that no town could prosper so far to the north. As I'm nearly certain that you've not heard of Shawneetown, you can begin to imagine the irony experienced while passing through it.
Heading back to Harrisburg, the weather was apocalyptic. The clouds were massive and ominous over the expansive Illinois landscape, blown about by driving wind, and the sky was almost peach-colored. It was under these conditions that Al spotted a quaint little shop on the side of the road...a shop called “Wild Things II.” My vote was to continue on back to Paducah, as I had designs on heading to Murray, but Al decided that we couldn't pass this one up. Going inside, we met “Chastity”, the woman in charge of things around there. Her wares were ones that I could've passed. Al was motioning at something when he inadvertently knocked one of these off the shelf. It wasn't long after that that we left again for the road.
Al offered to get the promised food while we were passing through Harrisburg for the second time, but by that point I was more interested in getting back home, collecting Spurlin, and heading to Murray. Needless to say, the conversation was as interesting as always; it was by no means a boring trip. We whiled away the miles with all manner of topics before getting back to my driveway, where I bade him farewell and we went our separate ways. As best as I recall, Spurlin and I went to Murray soon thereafter. I brought in the New Year with a small crowd of theatre-types at Vitello's, visited Gibson's place, and stayed up until not long before dawn in the hospitality of Mr Trump. While at Vitello's, I drank a vile concoction called a Prairie Chicken. They give these out for free there if asked, unless it's very busy. Don't accept one, no matter who says you're not a man. It's composed of tequila, Tabasco sauce, and a raw egg. I gagged. Sometimes, to trick you, they might call these drinks “Care Bears.” Know thine enemy!
Al pulled into my driveway minutes later, and I boarded his lauded vehicle armed only with a cup of tea, fortified by some rum candies I had bought four summers previous in a German town called Tirschenroeth, along the Czech border. We hit the open road with gusto. When Al turned right onto the interstate, however, I was perplexed - such a maneuver from my home means going to the Land of Lincoln. Well, I thought, there's nothing wrong with eating in Metropolis. We passed Metropolis, however, and Joppa and Brookport with it. My wonder at our destination steadily increased until, somewhere around Harrisburg, or about two hours later, Al exclaimed that he hadn't meant to go this far. Being then not too far from a place called Shawneetown, Al decided to take me there while we were in the neighborhood.
Ten miles to the east of Harrisburg, and not altogether very far from Indiana, lies the small burg of Shawneetown. The story goes that, in the days of yore, the mayor of the newly-founded Chicago asked his Shawneetown counterpart for a loan to help the struggling northern town. Shawneetown had refused, saying that no town could prosper so far to the north. As I'm nearly certain that you've not heard of Shawneetown, you can begin to imagine the irony experienced while passing through it.
Heading back to Harrisburg, the weather was apocalyptic. The clouds were massive and ominous over the expansive Illinois landscape, blown about by driving wind, and the sky was almost peach-colored. It was under these conditions that Al spotted a quaint little shop on the side of the road...a shop called “Wild Things II.” My vote was to continue on back to Paducah, as I had designs on heading to Murray, but Al decided that we couldn't pass this one up. Going inside, we met “Chastity”, the woman in charge of things around there. Her wares were ones that I could've passed. Al was motioning at something when he inadvertently knocked one of these off the shelf. It wasn't long after that that we left again for the road.
Al offered to get the promised food while we were passing through Harrisburg for the second time, but by that point I was more interested in getting back home, collecting Spurlin, and heading to Murray. Needless to say, the conversation was as interesting as always; it was by no means a boring trip. We whiled away the miles with all manner of topics before getting back to my driveway, where I bade him farewell and we went our separate ways. As best as I recall, Spurlin and I went to Murray soon thereafter. I brought in the New Year with a small crowd of theatre-types at Vitello's, visited Gibson's place, and stayed up until not long before dawn in the hospitality of Mr Trump. While at Vitello's, I drank a vile concoction called a Prairie Chicken. They give these out for free there if asked, unless it's very busy. Don't accept one, no matter who says you're not a man. It's composed of tequila, Tabasco sauce, and a raw egg. I gagged. Sometimes, to trick you, they might call these drinks “Care Bears.” Know thine enemy!