So. I’m a full day in recovery and I’ve managed to only take backward steps. My favorite puppy still harbors resentment that I played the coffee can game with BJ’s dog Ruger; the fucking cat shredded my favorite ash gray knitted shirt; my Mother keeps saying; “I raised you better than that,” and “What will I tell my friends at church?”; I get a stiffie whenever I hear the words pork, pig, hog, sausage, ribs, pulled, bun, vinegar or sauce; my Gram is still “dating” the same college kid as when I left; and I’ve got a stack of paperwork to do out to Mooner’s Compost Plant.
All I want to do is write about everything that happened on my trip to BlogCon2011, but all I seem to be able to do is mend fences and make amends. Stories of my life.
But here’s the deal. I had as good a time as ever I have on this trip. Wait. Maybe I should have said “…as I have ever had…”[?]
Howeverthefuck I might should have said it, I had a remarkably good time. I need to leave to go take care of some business soon, but I insist on telling you a few things:
- Quincy was the first of my blogger buddies I met and I have this to say about the Q-man. He might be the most wholesome, well-balance man I have ever met. He has peaceful eyes, a bright smile and the calmness possessed only by men who are certain they know who they are. Thanks, again, for buying dinner at the Bulldog, Q, and thanks for trusting that I was mostly harmless.
- Next I met BJ, from Dumb Perignon. He met me at the McDonalds near his home in Murfreesboro and likely just before my arrest. I had gone inside to pee and wash the ride off my face, and when I finished I went outside. And stood beside the kiddie play area to watch the children throw French fries at each other. BJ drove up just as I noticed the manager standing at the window punching three numbers into his cell phone. As for BJ himself, I reserve conversation for a later date other than to say that we became fast friends before we got to the first BBQ joint we visited on the way to his house.
- Then Bob from Squatlo—he came over to BJ’s to eat BBQ and drink beer with us. Bob is as nice and smart as you would think from reading his stuff. He talks more than Gram’s best buddy the P-cubed, but just like Penelope Paxton-Parades, he’s got interesting shit to say. His sweet and oh-so-dangerous wife, Cindy, has learned to raise her hand like a school girl about once an hour so that she can hear the sound of her own voice. His pork BBQ made in the spicy vinegar method was KILLER, and I ate three full sandwiches and two halvsies on Friday night at the big wing-ding. Bob is one of the good ones.
- I met Michelle, the Reckmonster and my future twelfth wife, on Friday night. My heart is still up-ticking and my sides ache still from laughing at her stories. This woman can move through dialects in mid-word, and she can rip a story like a seasoned comedian. The big heart you see from reading her bloggie is bigger in person. I’m proud to say that I didn’t get slapped a single time for any untoward actions.
Never before have I taken a cross-country trip to spend time with people I have never met, and never have I had such a great time. Seriously. I did have several “Ah-ha” moments, each as I was peeing in the sink. The first was over to Bob’s when we were watching our two UT football teams getting the snot kicked out of them.
Each time I walked into his bathroom I had to move this giant bottle of mouthwash on the floor to close the door. We were drinking icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, or at least I was, and in copious quantities at that. I was in the bathroom for maybe the tenth time when it hit me like a sack of curing salt. I laughed my ass off at myself and almost peed on Bob’s mirror when it dawned on me that the mouthwash was a door stopper, and that Cindy was following behind me to put it back in place each time I returned to my seat.
But I must go now as my first stop of the day is for a psycho therapy appointment—the first in over a week. I hope I can remember how to do therapy. Manana, y’all.
Oh, yea. Go to:
and buy my fucking book. Thanks.