good times on the road: Your House Review

Perhaps meditation works.

While enjoying the hospitality of Photo Lady, my last downstairs neighbor in Memphis, I had time to relax and be alone. Eventually, in a state of out of body calm, I realized I should continue east to NC.

I arrived in Greensboro yesterday. Saturday morning, I guess. My old friend, Joel helped me set up camp at Hagan Stone Park south of town. He's not set up for temporary roommates at the moment. I wouldn't change a thing. This is a good place for tent life and I'm glad to be here.

We saw Dave, my all time favorite drummer last night. It was a long day and I got lost on the way back to the park late last night. It turned out to only be a detour because I found home shortly before midnight.

We had a tasty meal at a diner named Your House. Like hell, it is. They will not take a debit card. I do not do credit. OK. We had cash, but the attitude toward this policy was mildly offensive so I agreed with my friend that a scathing review was in order. What made matters worse was that the food was good, and I was plenty hungry. Which bring me to some CSR tips.

Do not say to a patron, "I cain't believe you ate all that." Or when the subject of the card comes up and you say, maybe they ought to rethink that policy, don't roll your eyes and say, Yea, right". We were not only polite but the best looking and most famous people in the place. I don't think they know who I am!

So, if you go to Your House, which is not my house and probably not yours either, pay in pennies and tell them it is for refusing a perfectly acceptable alternative means of exchange.

While I'm at it: If your are grossly obese, as is your mate of dubious gender and species, don't go to a quiet wooded area where people pitch tents, play your radio way loud, sing along from time to time, and leave your fire untended. Your arguing is OK. It portends the marvelous prospect that you may kill each other.

Also, when you get tired of singing Free bird and decide o listen to NASCAR on radio, do you have to add to the commentary? And when you go to bed do you have to keep the race on even though your snoring sounds like a bull moose in heat?

Seriously, the McFatenlouds set up camp at the next place over from me and seem to fear quiet like the plague. It seemed futile to tell them to shut up. Besides the alleged female of the pair looks mean enough and big enough to be dangerous. The only words I heard which resembled any language I know were from her yelling at her husband regarding his lack of some sort of awareness after $%^&* thirty one years of marriage. Something about underestimating her. I doubt it was in reference to her weight or ability to make paint peel with a look or word.

Other conversation seemed to consist of a private language which sounded like, "Gitchumcainerrumpa, gurroh? Yebbadinassoh." I ruled out he missing link to explain this pair. Just don't think the material is there supply any evolutionary building blocks. Another reason I opted not to discuss their noise. That damned race is still screaming from the boom box in the tent. The snoring stopped though. I do not want to imagine the scene inside that dwelling. I feel better that the tent is large, which I guess necessity dictates.

But don't think I am not enjoying myself. I am. Joel came out here and enjoyed some of my Cuban coffee today and we had great discussions about whatever crossed our ADD minds. He's a wealth of knowledge and you can't have these discussions with just anyone. We hardly touched on political matters at all. That may surprise some who think I discuss everything I write about. I'm just a freedom lover, that's all.

I saw some videos of my friend playing bass, and I should say, Joel is a purely natural and highly funky player. He hasn't been playing all that long, but he's surpassed many who have been at it since they were kids. It's an obvious talent.

We also saw the owner of Somewhere Else and I endured bear hugs. That's where Dave the drummer was doing sound. For a small tavern they have first class sound and stage. What a waste. The band was playing angry white boy music. The singer's favorite lick is an extended sound reminiscent of that which I used to make when I used to drink and found myself hugging the toilet for hours, sure I would soon upchuck my entire stomach and other organs.

I'd hate to have an 18 year old child who was into self mutilation. That appeared to be the standard of the crowd there. Some of that stuff cannot be undone. Oh well. Not my kids. I guess peer pressure and baby boomer parents without any gumption yield bizarre and unpleasant results.

Good God!! Now the race car radio is playing some preacher. These people are nuts. I think they just can't take silence. I'll bet they'd leave it on if it were in Latin or Japanese--just to avoid being alone with their version of thoughts. And to avoid talking to one another.

Being attacked by bugs out here.

The end.