Not many people truly understand what a car actually does. You dear reader, are soon to be one of the lucky few.
With even a halfway decent automobile and a few hundred dollars in gas money any American is at their liberty to enter the drivers seat and demand their iron chariot fuck haphazardly with the rotation of the earth.
The uniformed will tell you that it doesn’t work like that, but they are wrong. A car does not transport you across the earth, what a car does is command the earth to rotate at an advanced rate of speed under your tires, bringing not you to your destination, but your destination to you.
Thinking about it like that really takes the edge of paying $3.50 a gallon.
Recently I joined forces with Nancy Reed, entered my beat to shit Saturn, and commanded the planet under our tries to spin in such a way as to bring us Craig Colorado. The penalties for such a belligerent assault on the laws of physics are of course nothing to sneeze at. One can easily demand their local grocery store or mall be rotated to under their feet as often as they like with little consequence, but when you order America to shift beneath your drag below your tires Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado in the space of just two days…bad things start to happen.
Our arrogance has called down upon us a blizzard, which intends to lay down an unseasonable wall of snow and ice between us and our next gig. Once we are out of that maelstrom our fate is a solid week of dodging category five tornado’s and hoping that the universe’s fury for our conceit doesn’t extend so far as to take our lives, or worse, rip our next gig off it’s foundation and put it not in Kansas anymore.
Wish us survival. Here is some of the eye candy we demanded the earth scroll past us as it rolled our proper destination under us.
From the Hangover Blogfile:
October 30th 2006 • The Wayside • Mudlake Idaho
The Legend Of Old Man Doc
The population of Mud Lake Idaho is a thriving 270 people, and we were booked to play the Wayside. Richie, who has a k-9 phobia, had issues immediately as the bar was affectionately known to locals as “The Dog House”. A large black lab sent Richie running for the bathroom as soon as we entered. Aside from us, two patrons, and a bar tender the joint was empty. Of the two customers one sat on a bar stool, the other merely stood in a corner and stared at us. That’s just how it is sometimes.
Management was worried about the show and made it known. Pre-sales had been slow, and they had just had a big party. The concern was that the town might be a bit too burned out for comedy. Luckily the room was set up well and the sound system was top notch as far as gigs in small town Idaho go. A couple nights before we’d played on nothing more than a guitar amp that was feeding back the entire show, so the three of us were more than happy with the set up and did our best to put the owners at easy about the show. Then we bolted for the hotel to get some much needed rest.
This didn’t turn out to be very easy as the combination hotel/mobile-home-park had no manager on duty, so back to the bar we went. Luckily, the bar was close enough to the “hotel” to walk to.
About an hour later we got checked in, and waited nervously for the show.
Exactly 13 people showed up, and we got rolling.
To everyone’s surprise the show was an absolute riot. Richie killed as the MC, as did Scot as the Feature act, and Jeremy as the Headliner. The show went for a solid 2 hours.