A few months ago it was suggested that Tijuana Hercules book some southern shows around the time of Chicago’s impending NATO chit chats.
Athens and Atlanta bit.
So off we went to Georgia.
The Tijuana Hercules Runnin’ From The Riots Tour consists of:
John Vernon Forbes – 12 string acoustic guitar, vocals
Alan Scalpone – electric guitar, horns, percussion, vocals
Greg Norman – horns, percussion, vocals
Tony Mendoza – drums, percussion
We ate breakfast at a Chick-Fil-A in Indiana. I had a fried chicken bagel. Someone awarded me a medal for “Most Sensible Breakfast”.
Not much later and still in Indiana, I decided to try the new Dorito Loco Taco from Taco Bell. It’s the most blogged about taco in the history of blogs and tacos – a pretty impressive accomplishment for a fast food item that’s just essentially been airbrushed orange. Kind of like a homely girl getting attention for using bad tanning creme.
Last week a nine-member version of Tijuana Hercules played a local memorial for Alan, who’s moving to Nashville in a matter of days. Alan led us to his new digs in East Nashville, where he and his wife won’t have to share any walls, floors, or ceilings with anyone. They’ll have a yard, and rent will stay the same while the cost of living will be a lot lower.
When John honked at strangers here, instead of sneering and flipping the bird, they smiled and waved.
Maybe I’ll move to Nashville.
Open up a fireworks stand and put those hee haws at Hee Haw Fireworks out to pasture.
Sometimes it can get real sick in the van. One thing we like to do is turn on a New Country station and come up with revolting American lyrics to further the singer’s point of view. Our version of that new Chris Young song about neon made references to tampon teabags, shitting into spinning motorcycle wheels, cumming into the jowls of daddy’s dog, and waking up with your niece’s severed finger in your butthole.
Horrific maybe, but it sounded good and authentic when sung with a defiantly extreme redneck accent.
I riffed on the idea of a Klansmen who fondly recalls his great great grandaddy’s barbecue recipe, made from slave-meat slow roasted over burning crosses. I thought I could pitch the idea as a patriotically racist Sweeney Todd to the Tea Party. Like I said, it can get pretty sick in the van.
17 hours is a lot of hours, and around the 14th the sick turned to silly. For five straight minutes we only said “yup” in a variety of speeds, pitches, and cadences.
“Yup” “yep” “YUP” “Yip” “Yup” “yup” “Yep”…
The topic of Satisfaction came up, that movie where Justine Bateman fronts an all-girl rock band. Julia Roberts was the bass player.
“I forget what Julia Roberts looked like when she was young.”
“She had a mouth like a catfish.”
“Yeah, with whiskers.”
“And she was breaded.”
“Tasted good with a beer.”
So that’s what Julia Roberts looked like back then.
At a truck stop in Georgia, one of the cooler doors had been boarded up.
“HARRRRR!!!! We be hiding Mountain Dews in this here Treasure Chest!!!”
Sure enough, it was brimming with Mountain Dew.
Meanwhile, a New Country song about walking around with weapons and listening to the voices in your head played lightly in the background.
Yikes man, maybe that racist Sweeny Todd idea has legs after all.
“Nope” “nope” “nyope” “nep” “Nerp” “nooope” “n’pe” ….
The four surprisingly married men pulled up to John’s sisters house, out there in the Georgia fog. A lavish spread of sandwiches, snacks, and beer awaited our fast-food-force-fed mouths while Popeye tooted on the TV. Popeye was welding a ship and accidentally seared off an important part of it. Bluto’s far away laugh echoed, and we all laughed with him.
We were as far away from NATO as one could get.