Blogs
November 25, 2009
The Canadian Blog, eh?
This is the first blog in a series, which shall attempt to chronicle the various Absentstar hijinx which have occurred in the last 12 months, give or take.
I find it altogether fitting and proper to start this blog at what was a real “point” in the touring history of Absentstar. Not necessarily high or low, but in general a point worth noting in history, if for nothing else it will be recognized as one day having far-reaching and severe administrative and procedural implications in the Department of Homeland Security, specifically as it relates to the general attitude and training of the border patrol agents who fearlessly and heroically attempt to prevent a vanload of miscreants, some cold pizza and $270 dollars from potentially perpetrating humor on American soil and BP gas station toilets.
It all started when we were asked if we wanted to play a couple of shows, including a Halloween date with our friends Lifehouse. I feel very comfortable in calling them friends, because we had played a couple of shows with them in the past, because we have at least three instances of mutual friendship with no less than 3 degrees of separation, and because we are electronic friends on no less than four internet based social networks (otherwise known as the websites where I post my bloggies…)
Sitting in Chicago in mid-October, contemplating the prospects of general rehearsal interspersed with loads of laundry, we said HELL YES. Time to knock the dust off of ole’ Brimley and head out. I can’t speak for the rest of Absentstar nation, but my bags were conveniently already packed and conspicuously sitting by the door, and pretty much had been since we’d come home from our last road stint, which must have been a while back because not even my cats would go near that duffle. But hey, being home is a time for relaxing, not tedious tasks like laundry, bills and flushing.
But definitely laundry is #1 on that list. Absentstar actually has a long and storied career fighting against the evil forces otherwise known as “doing laundry”. We are famous laundry fighters from way back. Hotel laundry services are sketchy, and you can’t always count on Price Lining a 1-star establishment that has a washer and/or dryer, or systems that actually perform the function that their name implies. We traveled with a 2 gallon tank of Gain Color Safe detergent that Andy picked up from some discount place, and it was like the “just in case” condom that a high school kid carries in his wallet but A.) never gets the opportunity to use, B,) doesn’t know how to open the package, and C.) Once or twice I tried to use that Gain in the bathroom sink and ended up ruining a pair of new black jeans and most likely overloading the Birmingham, Alabama Water Reclamation District purifying system. Once I tried hanging a couple of my V-necks off the back of the trailer with zip-ties, thinking a nice “airing out” would solve the issue of offensive pungent aroma. All it did was give me t-shirt that was once called “fitted” but now had a neck hole roughly 17 feet in diameter and an overall length of 28 feet. Undeterred, we exhausted all options. Once in a while we’d send one of the fellas down to the front desk to coerce the night shift concierge while two of us perpetrated a covert operation, whereby we would sneak into the underbelly of the hotel and run one massive load of dirties in the comforter washing tumbler, a process that would take two hours. On a side-side note, I have to tell you, weird things are afoot in the official hotel laundering areas, where blankets and sheets go to be tortured and die. It’s like the scene from the final Lord of the Rings movie where the Orcs have created that huge cavern and they are down there assembling an army out of mud….or whatever, I wasn’t paying attention. In a desperate attempt to save our wardrobe we began piling up the clothes into an under-utilized space in the back of the van, but eventually the clothes congealed and morphed into a living, breathing entity that closely resembled the gelatinous blob that the older brother Chet became in the Weird Science movie. I called him Gomer, as in Gomer Pile, spelled incorrectly I know. But Gomer talked to us, weighed in with opinions about directions and where to get the best cheese burgers (Noel calls this a “food douche”), 401K investments and girl problems. We tried to make him earn his keep by learning to play keyboards for the live show. But ultimately it was not to be, because Gomer had terrible BO, snored, used overtly profane language around children, and shat on our tour manager’s parent’s lawn. It was getting so bad that we nearly opted to just throw our clothes pile away. But eventually, its something that’s so bad, you get used to it, like school food.
Where was I? Oh yeah….
So we said HELL YES, before even hearing where the shows were, only to be informed that one was in Grand Forks, North Dakota, and the other in Regina, Saskatchewan. That’s in Canada, which is a far northern suburb of Chicago. Like really far. Not really a quick jaunt to Starbucks by any stretch of the imagination.
Grand Forks isn’t exactly a brisk walk away either.
But we are a committed people. The actual North Dakota portion of the trip, at least the trip up, was fairly standard and non-descript. We did get “Garmin’d” somewhere in northern Minnesota hunting for a CVS where I could get some of my hair gel, having lost the quantity I’d packed on a practical joke the night before. The closest thing we could find was a Kroger, which does not carry my brand. I opted for the generic Kroger brand hair gel, which was a plain white tube (push-pop style), with black letters on the front simply stating GEL.
The show at the University of North Dakota was great…….FAST FORWARD.
After the show we had to drive a few hours and get across the border, stopping in Winnipeg, Manitoba to sleep for a couple hours and get back on the road in order to get to Regina in time. Yes, it was that far away.
Plowing across the dark barren landscape, we could see the flashing lights of the border crossing up ahead. We had never crossed a border before in our van, so we didn’t know what to expect, but immediately all of our thoughts turned to Andy’s baggage, and the probably 8 to 12 cans of beer that had been squirreled from the back stage fridge after the show. We thought it best not to try and cross with all that beer, as Canadians are defensive about their national brew and wouldn’t take kindly to us trying to traffic some of Milwaukee’s finest into their territory. Word was the Molson people had stationed spies at all the crossing, looking for offenders just like us, waiting to cause a fuss.
So, being behind the wheel, I decide to pull off at the very last highway exit in North America, where Noel and Andy proceed to have a good ole’ Absentstar beer shotgun festival to alleviate the contraband. I’m not even sure why that exit was there, as there were no stores or gas stations. Then we proceeded to relieve our bladders in unison. Many a trucker thundered by, blowing their horns. I figured the jig was up, the truckers trying to avoid their own hassles by outing us to the waiting border agents. You see, Brimley has a bit of a history (and not a good one) with the 18-wheel shipping industry, but that’s another story.
Four minutes later we roll up to the gate.
I’ve already rehearsed all my lines for Derek (who is riding passenger) 5 times since leaving the show, as not to say anything suspicious that would get us searched and seized. All Noel, Andy and Marshall have to do is stay quiet. I have our passports in a neat little stack. I comb my hair one last time, toss in a breath mint, clean under my finger nails, and pull forward. The boys are in the back smiling quaintly. Derek is reading the latest copy of Martha Stewart’s Living magazine.
I roll down the window, making strong but polite eye contact with the border guard. I say, “Good evening sir, how are you feeling on this splendid night?”
In curt response he says, “Please pull the van forward, turn off the ignition, exit the vehicle and have everyone wait inside.” Not even a please or thank you.
Once inside though, we are greeting by a much friendlier gentleman. I think to myself that all we have to do is act nice, say very little, smile, and we are golden. I look down the row of chairs where we are seated, and I see Andy and Noel wearing the blank expression of two men who had just destroyed a case of beer, and were feeling the effects wash over them like a sunset tide. Please Lord, let this end good.
Marshall is called up first. The kindly agent checks his passport, asks some simple questions about his destination and how long he is staying, stamps the booklet and waves him through. Maybe three minutes total of light interrogation. Derek is up next, with the same result. No big deal, almost half way home!
Noel is called up, and for whatever reason he starts talking with a Scottish accent, mixed with a bit of Dallas cattle rancher. He is standing on his tip toes. The agent asks him the simple questions, with Noel responding that he is in fact actually half Canadian, and proceeds to try and stump the agent with his knowledge of regional cultures, and Canadian college sports trivia. He points to his left ear lobe and then inexplicably turns his right pants pocket inside out. All he needs to do now I think, is his famous Elvis impersonation. Out of sheer fear or annoyance, the agent amazingly passes him through. That took at least 25 minutes.
I look at Andy, his face is purple. We are doomed.
Andy stands up and moves towards the checkpoint desk as if he is floating or being carried by Keebler elves, and stands there with a half smile, red cheeks and saggy eye lids, arms folded over his chest. The agent asks him the same series of questions. Andy doesn’t respond, to any of them. At all. He just smiles. The agent turns to another man in back, I think it’s the shift captain, he has a gun. The agent says something I can’t hear, but is obviously speaking to the other man. Andy shakes his head and says yes. I put my head in my hands. Next thing I know, the big stamper comes out, and Andy is through the gate. Viola!
My turn. I’ve got my wits about me, I know the correct answers, I’ve studied the agent’s mannerisms, I notice the picture of his children and think up tidbits of small talk to relate to him. I have fresh breath and a good attitude. What I don’t have is an updated passport photo. There was a time when I wasn’t so healthy, when I drank more beer than water, and only ran to get the first slice of pizza. Things are different now, but the passport photo does not reflect my current state of health awareness. The agent doesn’t even bother to ask me questions. He looks at the photo, looks at me, looks at the photo, looks at me, motions to the man with the gun, who ambles over. They hunker over my passport. Up, down, up, down, photo, me, photo, me. Things start moving faster in my mind, light speed. My core temperature is rising. I’m panicking. I look around the room for help. Andy is asleep. Noel is swinging an imaginary golf club. Marshall and Derek are waiting in the van. The agent tells me to hold very still and look at him. He says “There, I see it, it’s your eyes. Yeah this is you, eh? Well, that’s amazing. You know, me and Bill here have been trying to lose some weight, eh? Tell us your secrets there, eh?” Nearly 45 minutes later, after some stringent cardio workouts with the two agents, they stamp my passport. I wake Andy up. I pull the flag for Noel, who has just eagled on the 16th hole.
Absentstar is in Canada.
We stop at a non-descript hotel with, not amazingly, no laundry. I get up in the morning and go for a run, part of my job in the band to scout for Starbucks, which I always find. We spend the next hour at the Starbucks autographing coffee cups for some kind people that think we are Radiohead.
Quick Math: A van travels from Winnipeg, west on the only East-West highway in Canada, at an average speed of 85 mph (Brimley don’t do metric…) How long does it take for them to reach Regina? Answer: 19 days.
The trip from Winnipeg to Regina is the longest known to man. Shakleton gave up after 4 attempts. We had 10 hours to do the feat. Were we up to it? Shoot, does Burt Reynolds have a mustache comb-over? (Yes.)
Stops would be few and far between. Not because we were trying to save time, but because there was only one stop, and we were miles from there. For men of appetite, such as we are, things looked grim. Our stomachs quaked in anger. Near death, I checked our food cache that is conveniently placed under the bench seat that Gomer occupies. It wasn’t substantial, just the remnants of riders from various shows over the previous year, which entailed 6 cases of Ice Mountain water, two mostly-eaten bags of stale Quaker snack mix (Cheddar flavor), a leaking mason jar concoction filled with half salsa and half peanut butter (Chunky style, for both…), one granola bar past it’s expiration (Chocolate Chip flavor) and one unopened can of Enfamil (Saline Augmented Breast Flavor). Don’t even bother to ask why we had a granola bar, I don’t know. Things can get crazy on the road. We decided that if it was all together , we could create a hobo stew, the kind of fare that even starving families in the Great Depression would have gagged at.
Just then an oasis was spotted on the horizon. The first sign of life we had seen in hours. One of our favorite Kentucky Pizza Bell combo pukeries, the YUM! corporate homologation of KFC, Pizza Hut, and Taco Bell, which you might be interested to learn was the only restaurant in 250 square miles (I don’t do metric either) and is family owned, operated and lived in. Three generations proud. They were the only ones in this town. The funniest part was a billboard out front that said "Rent this billboard for exposure to millions!"
I find it altogether fitting and proper to start this blog at what was a real “point” in the touring history of Absentstar. Not necessarily high or low, but in general a point worth noting in history, if for nothing else it will be recognized as one day having far-reaching and severe administrative and procedural implications in the Department of Homeland Security, specifically as it relates to the general attitude and training of the border patrol agents who fearlessly and heroically attempt to prevent a vanload of miscreants, some cold pizza and $270 dollars from potentially perpetrating humor on American soil and BP gas station toilets.
It all started when we were asked if we wanted to play a couple of shows, including a Halloween date with our friends Lifehouse. I feel very comfortable in calling them friends, because we had played a couple of shows with them in the past, because we have at least three instances of mutual friendship with no less than 3 degrees of separation, and because we are electronic friends on no less than four internet based social networks (otherwise known as the websites where I post my bloggies…)
Sitting in Chicago in mid-October, contemplating the prospects of general rehearsal interspersed with loads of laundry, we said HELL YES. Time to knock the dust off of ole’ Brimley and head out. I can’t speak for the rest of Absentstar nation, but my bags were conveniently already packed and conspicuously sitting by the door, and pretty much had been since we’d come home from our last road stint, which must have been a while back because not even my cats would go near that duffle. But hey, being home is a time for relaxing, not tedious tasks like laundry, bills and flushing.
But definitely laundry is #1 on that list. Absentstar actually has a long and storied career fighting against the evil forces otherwise known as “doing laundry”. We are famous laundry fighters from way back. Hotel laundry services are sketchy, and you can’t always count on Price Lining a 1-star establishment that has a washer and/or dryer, or systems that actually perform the function that their name implies. We traveled with a 2 gallon tank of Gain Color Safe detergent that Andy picked up from some discount place, and it was like the “just in case” condom that a high school kid carries in his wallet but A.) never gets the opportunity to use, B,) doesn’t know how to open the package, and C.) Once or twice I tried to use that Gain in the bathroom sink and ended up ruining a pair of new black jeans and most likely overloading the Birmingham, Alabama Water Reclamation District purifying system. Once I tried hanging a couple of my V-necks off the back of the trailer with zip-ties, thinking a nice “airing out” would solve the issue of offensive pungent aroma. All it did was give me t-shirt that was once called “fitted” but now had a neck hole roughly 17 feet in diameter and an overall length of 28 feet. Undeterred, we exhausted all options. Once in a while we’d send one of the fellas down to the front desk to coerce the night shift concierge while two of us perpetrated a covert operation, whereby we would sneak into the underbelly of the hotel and run one massive load of dirties in the comforter washing tumbler, a process that would take two hours. On a side-side note, I have to tell you, weird things are afoot in the official hotel laundering areas, where blankets and sheets go to be tortured and die. It’s like the scene from the final Lord of the Rings movie where the Orcs have created that huge cavern and they are down there assembling an army out of mud….or whatever, I wasn’t paying attention. In a desperate attempt to save our wardrobe we began piling up the clothes into an under-utilized space in the back of the van, but eventually the clothes congealed and morphed into a living, breathing entity that closely resembled the gelatinous blob that the older brother Chet became in the Weird Science movie. I called him Gomer, as in Gomer Pile, spelled incorrectly I know. But Gomer talked to us, weighed in with opinions about directions and where to get the best cheese burgers (Noel calls this a “food douche”), 401K investments and girl problems. We tried to make him earn his keep by learning to play keyboards for the live show. But ultimately it was not to be, because Gomer had terrible BO, snored, used overtly profane language around children, and shat on our tour manager’s parent’s lawn. It was getting so bad that we nearly opted to just throw our clothes pile away. But eventually, its something that’s so bad, you get used to it, like school food.
Where was I? Oh yeah….
So we said HELL YES, before even hearing where the shows were, only to be informed that one was in Grand Forks, North Dakota, and the other in Regina, Saskatchewan. That’s in Canada, which is a far northern suburb of Chicago. Like really far. Not really a quick jaunt to Starbucks by any stretch of the imagination.
Grand Forks isn’t exactly a brisk walk away either.
But we are a committed people. The actual North Dakota portion of the trip, at least the trip up, was fairly standard and non-descript. We did get “Garmin’d” somewhere in northern Minnesota hunting for a CVS where I could get some of my hair gel, having lost the quantity I’d packed on a practical joke the night before. The closest thing we could find was a Kroger, which does not carry my brand. I opted for the generic Kroger brand hair gel, which was a plain white tube (push-pop style), with black letters on the front simply stating GEL.
The show at the University of North Dakota was great…….FAST FORWARD.
After the show we had to drive a few hours and get across the border, stopping in Winnipeg, Manitoba to sleep for a couple hours and get back on the road in order to get to Regina in time. Yes, it was that far away.
Plowing across the dark barren landscape, we could see the flashing lights of the border crossing up ahead. We had never crossed a border before in our van, so we didn’t know what to expect, but immediately all of our thoughts turned to Andy’s baggage, and the probably 8 to 12 cans of beer that had been squirreled from the back stage fridge after the show. We thought it best not to try and cross with all that beer, as Canadians are defensive about their national brew and wouldn’t take kindly to us trying to traffic some of Milwaukee’s finest into their territory. Word was the Molson people had stationed spies at all the crossing, looking for offenders just like us, waiting to cause a fuss.
So, being behind the wheel, I decide to pull off at the very last highway exit in North America, where Noel and Andy proceed to have a good ole’ Absentstar beer shotgun festival to alleviate the contraband. I’m not even sure why that exit was there, as there were no stores or gas stations. Then we proceeded to relieve our bladders in unison. Many a trucker thundered by, blowing their horns. I figured the jig was up, the truckers trying to avoid their own hassles by outing us to the waiting border agents. You see, Brimley has a bit of a history (and not a good one) with the 18-wheel shipping industry, but that’s another story.
Four minutes later we roll up to the gate.
I’ve already rehearsed all my lines for Derek (who is riding passenger) 5 times since leaving the show, as not to say anything suspicious that would get us searched and seized. All Noel, Andy and Marshall have to do is stay quiet. I have our passports in a neat little stack. I comb my hair one last time, toss in a breath mint, clean under my finger nails, and pull forward. The boys are in the back smiling quaintly. Derek is reading the latest copy of Martha Stewart’s Living magazine.
I roll down the window, making strong but polite eye contact with the border guard. I say, “Good evening sir, how are you feeling on this splendid night?”
In curt response he says, “Please pull the van forward, turn off the ignition, exit the vehicle and have everyone wait inside.” Not even a please or thank you.
Once inside though, we are greeting by a much friendlier gentleman. I think to myself that all we have to do is act nice, say very little, smile, and we are golden. I look down the row of chairs where we are seated, and I see Andy and Noel wearing the blank expression of two men who had just destroyed a case of beer, and were feeling the effects wash over them like a sunset tide. Please Lord, let this end good.
Marshall is called up first. The kindly agent checks his passport, asks some simple questions about his destination and how long he is staying, stamps the booklet and waves him through. Maybe three minutes total of light interrogation. Derek is up next, with the same result. No big deal, almost half way home!
Noel is called up, and for whatever reason he starts talking with a Scottish accent, mixed with a bit of Dallas cattle rancher. He is standing on his tip toes. The agent asks him the simple questions, with Noel responding that he is in fact actually half Canadian, and proceeds to try and stump the agent with his knowledge of regional cultures, and Canadian college sports trivia. He points to his left ear lobe and then inexplicably turns his right pants pocket inside out. All he needs to do now I think, is his famous Elvis impersonation. Out of sheer fear or annoyance, the agent amazingly passes him through. That took at least 25 minutes.
I look at Andy, his face is purple. We are doomed.
Andy stands up and moves towards the checkpoint desk as if he is floating or being carried by Keebler elves, and stands there with a half smile, red cheeks and saggy eye lids, arms folded over his chest. The agent asks him the same series of questions. Andy doesn’t respond, to any of them. At all. He just smiles. The agent turns to another man in back, I think it’s the shift captain, he has a gun. The agent says something I can’t hear, but is obviously speaking to the other man. Andy shakes his head and says yes. I put my head in my hands. Next thing I know, the big stamper comes out, and Andy is through the gate. Viola!
My turn. I’ve got my wits about me, I know the correct answers, I’ve studied the agent’s mannerisms, I notice the picture of his children and think up tidbits of small talk to relate to him. I have fresh breath and a good attitude. What I don’t have is an updated passport photo. There was a time when I wasn’t so healthy, when I drank more beer than water, and only ran to get the first slice of pizza. Things are different now, but the passport photo does not reflect my current state of health awareness. The agent doesn’t even bother to ask me questions. He looks at the photo, looks at me, looks at the photo, looks at me, motions to the man with the gun, who ambles over. They hunker over my passport. Up, down, up, down, photo, me, photo, me. Things start moving faster in my mind, light speed. My core temperature is rising. I’m panicking. I look around the room for help. Andy is asleep. Noel is swinging an imaginary golf club. Marshall and Derek are waiting in the van. The agent tells me to hold very still and look at him. He says “There, I see it, it’s your eyes. Yeah this is you, eh? Well, that’s amazing. You know, me and Bill here have been trying to lose some weight, eh? Tell us your secrets there, eh?” Nearly 45 minutes later, after some stringent cardio workouts with the two agents, they stamp my passport. I wake Andy up. I pull the flag for Noel, who has just eagled on the 16th hole.
Absentstar is in Canada.
We stop at a non-descript hotel with, not amazingly, no laundry. I get up in the morning and go for a run, part of my job in the band to scout for Starbucks, which I always find. We spend the next hour at the Starbucks autographing coffee cups for some kind people that think we are Radiohead.
Quick Math: A van travels from Winnipeg, west on the only East-West highway in Canada, at an average speed of 85 mph (Brimley don’t do metric…) How long does it take for them to reach Regina? Answer: 19 days.
The trip from Winnipeg to Regina is the longest known to man. Shakleton gave up after 4 attempts. We had 10 hours to do the feat. Were we up to it? Shoot, does Burt Reynolds have a mustache comb-over? (Yes.)
Stops would be few and far between. Not because we were trying to save time, but because there was only one stop, and we were miles from there. For men of appetite, such as we are, things looked grim. Our stomachs quaked in anger. Near death, I checked our food cache that is conveniently placed under the bench seat that Gomer occupies. It wasn’t substantial, just the remnants of riders from various shows over the previous year, which entailed 6 cases of Ice Mountain water, two mostly-eaten bags of stale Quaker snack mix (Cheddar flavor), a leaking mason jar concoction filled with half salsa and half peanut butter (Chunky style, for both…), one granola bar past it’s expiration (Chocolate Chip flavor) and one unopened can of Enfamil (Saline Augmented Breast Flavor). Don’t even bother to ask why we had a granola bar, I don’t know. Things can get crazy on the road. We decided that if it was all together , we could create a hobo stew, the kind of fare that even starving families in the Great Depression would have gagged at.
Just then an oasis was spotted on the horizon. The first sign of life we had seen in hours. One of our favorite Kentucky Pizza Bell combo pukeries, the YUM! corporate homologation of KFC, Pizza Hut, and Taco Bell, which you might be interested to learn was the only restaurant in 250 square miles (I don’t do metric either) and is family owned, operated and lived in. Three generations proud. They were the only ones in this town. The funniest part was a billboard out front that said "Rent this billboard for exposure to millions!"
You might also not that KFC in Canada does not serve biscuits or grilled chicken sandwiches and they do not know what a tomato is, Pizza Hut in Canada does not serve breadsticks, Taco Bell in Canada does not serve tacos. I made the mistake of ordering tomato on my chicken sandwich, causing a family meltdown, because I’d grabbed the wrong order when I left, leaving a sandwich with the dreaded tomato on it, untouched; unwanted. Picture this: The grandmother accusing the grandson of irresponsibly pushing “the button” (tomato option), and the juvenile boy who is a dead ringer for the son from TV’s Family Guy program yelling back “You are the one who makes the damn order so don’t give my no shit, eh?” Horrified Canadians in line gasp!
We got the hell outta there, fast.
FAST FORWARD………
The show in Regina (not pronounced Regeena as we had sensitively thought, but in fact pronounced like the female anatomy, which no Canadian thinks is humorous.) is at a Casino which comps us some awesome rooms and dinner, and recoups it when I throw away $4500 (Canadian) on the Roulette wheel. It’s attached to a Sears. We all run in and buy some last minute costumes for the show, because it’s Halloween. Noel buys a witch hat. Marshall, Derek and I paint our faces. Andy goes as Andy Dixon from Absentstar. The people we met in Regina were interesting. They all sit, rather politely, through our show, except for one drunk woman that rather enjoyed cart wheels during our show. But we played great and were well received. Later I had a nice conversation with a girl whose legal name was Bear who was convinced that I was Lifehouse. I did not seize the lobbed opportunity to convince her that I had two brothers, Pink Floyd and Lynard Skynard. I had another conversation with a man that wanted me to pass his cassette tape demo to Lifehouse, which confused Bear, since I am Lifehouse.
The next morning we roll out for the long long long loooooooooooooong trek back to Chicago. Thank goodness this time we are crossing the border back in to America, with our American Passports. No more of this interrogation hullabaloo. And to help us avoid added hassle, the Garmin routes us to a border crossing that’s off of the main interstate, a small highway, where there is less traffic, mostly just semi’s hauling meat and produce back and forth.
MISTAKE.
We pull up to the gate, just like before, and just like before, they tell us to pull over, stop the car, and go inside.
It’s a radically different scene, much more gritty than the Canada crossing, and with an over-riding sense of good ole boy “yee haw”. Frankly it looks like an abandoned gas station that has been converted into the first line of defense in homeland security. All the agents are large, and look angry. The ALL have guns. And not a one of them likes rock bands. A couple of kids have tried to cross the border for whatever reason. Well, the agents were on to their little tricks to be sure. One of the kids was being one-armed out of the interrogation room, slouching and had tears in his eyes. The other was visibly shaken. A toothless trucker hauling a load of undocumented vodka is turned around at the border and told to never come through here again. He complies. We are up.
Let’s call the agent in charge Big Red. Our passports are confiscated. Our van keys are confiscated. One by one we are called into a back room, me first, and given the tough guy bad-cop bad-cop routine. Big Red actually does the cliché little rubber glove snap after closing the door. He, and a back up officer have me empty my pockets and turn them inside out, take apart my wallet, take off my wrist bands and sunglasses (yes I wore them into the room. Score one for Johnny Cash!!), They have me yank my pants down and my shirt up. I try to joke a little and act offended when Big Red tells the other officer “there’s nothing here”. The joke goes no where. I’d standing there, pants over my boots, shirt around my neck. Big Red says “You got any marijuana in that van?” I reply no. He says “I think you do. And you know what, I’m gonna go out there and find it. And when I do, your van is mine, because you are lying to me. And everything in it is mine. All your gear mine. I’m gonna drive it home and park it in my front yard. What instrument do you play?” I reply drums. Big Red says, “Those are my drums. I’m going to have the neighbors over and watch me play my new drums.” I nearly laugh. I’m sure my face is red at this point. He says “If you are lying, that’s what is going to happen. What do you think about that?” Knowing there is no contraband in the van, I say “OK”. Trying to pull up my drawers, they usher me out to the waiting room. I hear Derek snickering. I assume all the guys are getting the same treatment. When we are all through, we are sitting in a holding pen area, papered with hysterical photos of people wanted for various crimes. Big Red knows we aren’t taking this serious, so they ratchet up the scare tactic rhetoric.
“We are going out to search your van. We are going to take it apart and everything you have in the trailer. This is your last chance to confess.” We shake our heads no. He says “OK.”, and he slams a heavy wooden door and saunters outside like a pro-wrestler.
I don’t panic, and looking around, I wonder if the other guys are thinking what I’m thinking….that when Big Red goes out there to tear the van apart, when he goes out there with the big man act, preparing to make a major bust on a bigtime rock band, when he goes out there to find what in his mind is crates filled with every known illegal controlled substance in the universe and make a but that will get him on the cover of Soldier of Fortune, the headlines of CNN, a 6 figure book deal with TV movie option, what he is actually going to find is going to blow his mind….
GOMER.
Two minutes later, or less, he comes back. He looks gaunt and is wretching. He throws our keys and passports at us, and tells us to get out. Derek apologizes. Judging by the state of Brimley’s innards, Big Red didn’t get far past the side door before realizing that he had stepped into a world, nay foulness, that all his training had failed to prepare him for.
As we rode down that lonesome highway, we had many hours for contemplation. We did not go to jail. Big Red did not get his big bust. Gomer had saved the day.
We stopped for a victory feast at the nearest Kentucky Pizza Bell, an American one, where we could get biscuits, breadsticks, tacos and tomatoes.
And at least on this one night, all was right with the world.
posted by Derek Ingersoll on 11/25/2009 1:31:03 PM