Archive for January, 2009

There’s something mysterious when you pull into Louisiana…even if you know it or not. We got up and  – thanks to the disapproving looks of the locals, who no doubt heard Tim & I last night singing along to the newest Darkness album around 3am – found the way through our haze to unplug that which needed to be unplugged and dump that which needed to be dumped and get on the road.

Louisiana, as mentioned, seems to carry it’s own blanket of both old-fashioned mystique and an even more-rooted general dislike of things different to what has become the norm. The gas station we pulled up in not only did not carry my new found favorite cigarettes, but met my fancy request with a raised eyebrow. Tim fought back with his own form of vigilante by winning $4 on video poker. Had it not been for the dilated stares of the No-Doz chewing truckers, he might have stayed longer.

While it might seem repetitive, this rewarding backdrop with the characters that want to make you work for it, it’s simply how things seem to work around here.

Another problem that we’ve faced, and will continue to face, is the fact that while my friends trust me, they don’t believe me. For example, I’m sure Collin trusted me when I said that the photos of the bus do not do justice to the actual size of the bus, which resulted in us not only saying more than one prayer for the satellite mounted on top while driving through his neighborhood, but Collin and I having to pull out the both the ladder and hacksaw from his Father’s garage [photos coming] to make room. T&R fell prey to this problem as well. They’ve been warned about Collin’s love of food, even laughed at the previous story of his, but didn’t believe me enough.

The meal helped them understand.

12 pounds of crawfish, 12 crabs, 4 pounds of shrimp, 4 links of boudin and the fixin’s that come with it. And beer. And bourbon. And dirty martini’s made with Tom Olives – something of a delicacy. Now, you might have eaten any of the aforementioned, but until you’ve been taught how it’s supposed to be done from a Cajun, you’re most likely only eating about 60% of what you should be. Crabs are first turned upside down, the membrane mixed together with the juice and then slurped. Crawfish, along with their heads, can be separated with one hand, the other either holding a beer, or in my case, bleeding profusely from initial attempts.

We ate. We drank. We laughed. Repeat. Collin’s Father, Jim, walked out of an old novel and into the kitchen to join us and then start a bonfire a few hundred feet from his very-Southern porch, complete with a few rocking chairs, swing and hidden spray valves that, in the summer, released chrysanthemum to ward off ‘skeeters’.

More drinks down on the fire, with the damn-near full moon poking her head from the bottom of the bayou. Jim brings down oyster chowder and we eat some more. The dogs chased imaginary night chickens and we drank some more. Think about the last time you huddled around a bonfire with more beer than you can drink and 2 sets of amazing friends you just got to introduce and you’ll start to understand the occasional chuckle I had.

More food? You betcha. A neighbor turned up with a King Cake (taking our total to 2) and we quietly asked our stomachs for a little understanding while we chewed gingerly – not out of fear of getting the baby, but for the crawfish leg Tim put in when we weren’t looking, claiming ‘I thought the point was to hide things’.

Back to the pub, a little Wii, a few more bourbons and we all responsibly went to bed around midnight, knowing that tomorrow held the French Quarter – never kind to anyone.

[Photo of a whole lotta 'mud bugs'. And Robin's reaction.]

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Robin knew she had to go out and pick up the possum she just hit. This was a law in the state. But before she could even get out of the car, a man ran from across the road and shouting ‘I can grab that for ya!’ through her window. When you’re 16 years old in the backwoods of a place that thought the show ‘The Amazing Race’ was about white people, you say ‘okay’ and drive off as fast as your little Jeep Wagoneer can take you.

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Oklahoma actually seemed to feel bad about it’s constant fluctuating weather, low alcohol-pointed beer and its inability to win a bowl game and offered up a gorgeous 6am sunrise for us to leave to. Nice – but not nearly enough to keep us. It was time to go. There lies, in returning home, a certain pressure of responsibility, and this just doesn’t include time spent with friends and family. It’s strange, but it’s there, something hangs over the reunions, a need to be that person you were. Which is hard.

I slept a few more hours and woke up in Arkansas. I knew it was Arkansas before asking if it was Arkansas because the angle of road went from 0 (Oklahoma) to about 15 (Arkansas). Now – I mentioned that I thought this state was gorgeous, but that was just the Ozark area. Everywhere else is…let’s just say there are few States in the U.S. that one feels almost blessed to come from the Panhandle and this one was leading that list. In nowhere is this more obvious than a quick stop at a local gas station. While Robin took the dogs for a stretch, Tim pumped gas into the bus that barely fit into the station and I answered questions from camouflaged-hatted men-children:

‘No, we’re not in a band’.
‘I’m not sure what the mileage is.’
‘There’s no one famous ‘een thar’’

We pulled into El Dorado (population 20,000 and important that you pronounce it ‘dor-A-do’ and even more important you don’t point out that that’s wrong), as Robin lived here years ago. Now, this was to be my first ‘R.V. park experience’ and I had been warned that while these folk are the salt of the earth, sometimes the lack of foresight could end in injuries. Oh, and whatever you do, forgo the Melanie Griffith in ‘Bonfire of the Vanities’ line. (‘Oh my gawd! Natives!’).

Same questions, same stolen kids on dirty bikes, but…authentic. And absurd. Keeping to Tim’s rule of ‘no beer before workouts’, we lifted heaving things and changed the kitchen + trashcan into a place for dips and an hour later, we were all in the Jeep where Robin gave us a tour of her old haunts. The town looked like it was in the final days of a ‘Going Out of Business Sale’. Empty boarded up previous K-Marts, liquor stores proudly advertising Wild Turkey and even more churches (proving the old adage that ‘for every 4 Baptists there’s a fifth’). We found Robin’s old home and Yelp being no help whatsoever to find a bar, we followed directions to ‘The Square’. Now, T&R have seen more of backwoods U.S.A. than anyone I know, so when they told me to ‘not expect anything’, I wanted to believe them, but when in the middle of a border town, a quaint brownstone town center pops up, you get excited. El Dorado had, surprisingly, a very cute downtown. A handful of restaurants with laminated menus and a few bars surrounded the courthouse, with Christmas lights still joining them all together. If you didn’t have to go through Arkansas to get to it, I’d halfway think of suggesting it. We ate sub par nachos and washed it down with bottled beer (because ‘the draft man ain’t been in this week’). Walked across the street to the Mink Eye Pub who’s underground locale would rival any old speakeasy you could find with an even more colorful cast – the best being the bartender who, hearing that T&R were based in Oregon, shared his thoughts on Seattle. And when I say ‘shared’ I mean loudly proclaimed that he ‘didn’t appreciate hearing about homosexuality on the news’ and ‘where he puts his dick shouldn’t be public’.

We made shots out of our drinks and left quickly.

Back to our favorite bar in the world, The O’Sisney Pub, where we drank for free, watched OU beat UT in basketball (it’d been 6 years). Robin went to bed, leaving Tim & I to continue our nearing-20 year competitive streak by playing Galaga (I set the on-going record of 90,200) and occasionally taking a smoke break to laugh about the absurdity of being the poorest 2 kids in the school we went to.

[Photo of an open-minded gas station somewhere in southern Arkansas]

 I came in tonight and had an email that someone had linked to a show I did called ‘pilot’. Now, if you know anything about me, I’ve produced more ‘pilots’ than I care to admit. Mainly because only about 5 of them ever ended up going farther than their initial offering. That being said, this was one I was proud of. Not for the video production, or the hosting – but for the simple fact that this was the first thing I had ever produced outside of the old ChinesePod shows. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking – I feel bad about calling them out a week ago. No. I don’t. I would hate to think my speaking my mind would compromise the Jedi/Padawan relationship I have with Ken, but that’s all. It’s just had me thinking about the past few years…

Anyway, yes. This was a scary thing to put out there. I had walked from CPod and was on my own – with the small few who followed me. I liked this for that reason and for the fact that this was before I had really soured on Shanghai. Kind of like looking at photos of you and your ex a year or so after the breakup.**

So here it was, the pilot to The Shanghai Show. Watch if you want, I just liked writing about it.

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* ‘Jai you’ (ji yo) meaning ‘come on!’ in Mandarin.

** which is why you should take photos the next time you and your sig. other fight. This makes said picture experience easier.