South of the Mason-Dixon

I returned from Nashville late Sunday night/early Monday morning. I think I'm finally recovered from the weekend, it took me a minute but I've finally put the pieces back together. So here is my somewhat hazy reflection on my time spent in the Dirty South!

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(From a phone call on the way back North)

"How was Nashville?"

"Fun."

"What did you do?"

"Got drunk, rode bikes."

"So pretty much the same thing you do here?"

"Yeah, just eight hours away."

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I had gotten off of work around noon on Thursday, took the half day as we had planned on leaving around 2:00 in the PM. I was beat, as I am in a constant battle with insomnia. When I got home I had a quick bite to eat and attended to some final business before leaving the homestead behind. I changed out of my work clothes into a black t-shirt and black jeans, with my gas station attendant Rat Patrol shirt on over it. I packed a pair of shorts and another t-shirt to make it through the weekend. I packed a couple of notebooks, my iPod and a copy of WiRED for to break the monotony of the road. Smoked a bowl and was out the door.

I arrived at Michael and Michelle's house in Ukrainian Village. The crew was complete following Whiskey Joe's arrival, a few minutes after I showed up. Michael and Michelle, formerly of the Hell's Satans, and Danny Madness filled out the car and we piled our bikes up and made way for Nashville post-haste.

As we crossed the Illinois/Indiana line I saw anti-evolution sign and a shiver went down my spine. Indiana smells bad, I don't know why exactly, but every time I find myself their I am always taken back by the smell. We stopped for coffee and cigarettes, goodbye Cook County taxes! Adding fuel to Michael and Michelle's vehicle we returned to the open rode.


We passed the time on our way down to Nashville smoking hitters and bullshitting. Michael and Michelle are in many ways the perfect couple, they're older than the rest of us, sometimes acting in an almost parental role to the Chicago Rats, sometimes a bit more like an older brother and sister. Whiskey Joe don't smoke the reefers, but we did crack open a bottle of Early Times to make the time go by a little easier. People grabbed naps and we stopped for food and to relieve ourselves a few times. Around midnight we pulled up to the Rat Trap in Nashville.

We were the second car down from Chicago that made it in. Earlier Jessie's car arrived with Rachel, Yannis, and Danarchy in toe. We were greeted by Steve-O and Daniel, owners and operators of Nashville's Rat Trap flophouse for transient bike punks. Joey Jello and his girlfriend, Dotti, emerged from the backyard and greeted us.

We made our way into the backyard, which had been turned into a shanty-town with blue tarps erected as makeshift tents (the threat of rain all weekend made this a necessity.) But that was not the only questionable structure in that backyard dear reader, they had also built a Thunderdome. Well, dome might be too generous a description of the shape of this monstrosity, but for brevity's sake let's just call it the Thunderdome. It was built out bikes welded together with chicken wire surrounding the enclosure. We sat around a pit fire, drinking beers and whiskey until late into the night. Slowly people made their way into the house, calling it a night, until it was only Whiskey Joe, Danny Madness and myself left. We finished our whiskey and smoked some weed, and discussed our opinions on psychology. Rat Patrol philosophers circle.

We arose the next day to more out of towners arriving. Biggles and Kat made it up from southern Illinois, representing the Klunkers. We elected Tori to be the Mayor of shanty town, having erected another building and a tent in a short amount of time.
A group of us spent the morning watching the director's cut of Highlander. It was decided that at the conclusion of bike games there would be shouts of "There can only be one!" We bought forties and the day swirled away from us. The kegs arrived, a party was at hand. Rock n Roll was committed in the laundry room, by the far the smallest space I've ever seen a band play. The name of the first groups escapes me, but the second group on was Daniel's very own Heavy Cream. Garage rocking with chicks. I liked it, but passed out not too long after. The booze will do that to you. A rodeo-do.

Ah, sweet sweet Saturday. Any morning that begins with fresh keg beer is a good morning indeed. An observation; Nashville kids smoke shitty weed, but they smoke a ton of it. The Nashville girls are cute, and everyone is friendly as hell. Today would be the day that Moon Bounce was to be delivered. We waited in hot anticipation to see if they would let us even keep it. When the moon bounce people arrived Daniel went to go and talk with them. They explained the rules, no sharp objects, no shoes, no more than four of us in the moon bounce at a time. I think that they were banking on us destroying the moon bounce so that they could get a new one. But there would be none of that! We made an addition to their rules; NO PANTS IN THE MOON BOUNCE!

But the day wasn't all drinking and moon bounces friend, today was going to be about bikes. Nashville is a very hilly place. I found out later that the Nashville Rats had purposely picked out the hilliest routes possible to torture us flatlanders. None the less I tackled the hills with gusto, huzzah! Perhaps a little to much gusto (gusto means whiskey- but you should have already guessed as much). Following the first round of tall-bike jousting we made our way to the Halycon bike shop for whip lash. This is were the story turns tragic, gentle reader, for in my drunken state I ate shit coming down a small incline and scraped my right side into the gravel at the end of the parking lot.

From than on my recollection grows hazy. There were several more rounds of jousting, foot down was played in a large parking lot that covered in glass. Dotti threw flour on everyone as they rode by. Jousted under an underpass in the heart of Nashville, picked up some Red Bull girls and brought the back to the party. Party, party, party, pass out.

Sunday we had Mexican food at La Hacienda, it was amazing. 45 ounce margaritas were $8.49. We packed up, said our goodbyes and made our way back to Chicago.

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ME: Man, I think I got a mosquito bite on my dick.


JOE: At least someone got their dick sucked in Nashville.