Tijuana Hercules Sings "Get Out Gus" And Other Fast Food Delights

The van was full of gear and John's family.
Specifically: A guitar, two drums, one sister, an amp, a niece, one grandmother, and two bags of percussion.
It was tight.

We arrived at Hendershot's Coffee Bar in Athens.
A converted old gas station now serving quality coffee, fresh beer, and ancient malt liquor.

Word in the wind was that Beverly Babb was coming to see us.
I didn't recognize the name.
"She was one of the Urge Overkill stalkers."
Whoa!
I hadn't thought of the Urge Overkill stalkers in years.

In the mid-90's Beverly and Karol Cooper devoted their lives to tarring and feathering Chicago's martini-affected megalomaniacs Urge Overkill, bombarding dives like Rainbo in enormous Noh Theater smoking jackets and hippie-cancer wigs.
"Just because our new album sucks doesn't mean you shouldn't spend $15 on it."
Their muckraking zine The Stalker was a comically cruel vivisection of the big, dumb rock band.
The band retaliated with buckets of water at Delilah's and actual wife-beating techniques (shoving, backhanding) at Lounge Ax.
Eventually the band imploded and The Stalkers split town.

Now Beverly makes steel sculptures in Carlton, Georgia.
Population 233.
She was excited to be out of the house.
So excited she hired a driver.
At the bar her steel partner Helen sipped a Colt 45 tall boy.
A gaunt figure in a big sweater, she spoke politely in a thick rural mush.
She asked to join us for a song.
"What kind of song do you want to sing?" John asked.
"Some Ike & Tina Turner" came the reply.

Tijuana Hercules took the stage.
John jumped and howled while I kicked out quarter notes in a racket of pots, lids, and ratchets.
A call and response was established.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!"
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!"
Helen leapt on stage and took the microphone.
The only microphone.
She warmed up with some heys and whoas of her own, then went into a blues about her father.
Gus.
He's still alive.
He lives in Carlton.
With Helen.
He's 107 years old.
He doesn't sound very pleasant to be around.
He used to beat his wife.
Helen's song focused on this and Gus's other crimes.
And how she wished he would just die.

"Get out! Get out, Gus!"

For 30 minutes she boogied and yowled.
Like a Nina Simone weeble wobble.
Eventually somehow the song ended.
Helen went to get another Colt 45.
The small crowd of 11 made noise for 77.
We jumped into another number.
And Helen jumped back in with us.
I found a real fun offbeat on my blender bowl.
Helen aimed a nod at me and shimmied.
She tore into another stack of lyrics about ???.
Beverly howled and danced.
And everyone drank.
And that was our set.

Afterward, Beverly and I bonded about bike messengering in Chicago.
Certain street names jostled the nostalgic part of her brain.
"Ohhh, Kimball!"
She remembered the address for The Reader.
(11 E Illinois)
"That job gave me a work ethic!"
I liked Beverly.
Her lush twang reminded me of an old flame.
"She is a wild child," John's mom noted.
Yeah, those were/are good times.

I joined Helen at the bar.
An assortment of shots were assembled.
Helen said she always wanted to sing but didn't think she was any good.
"Get that shit out of your head," I slurred with pie-eyed charisma.
Beverly's driver arrived.
Bottom's up!

We were all starving.
But man, everything was closed.
So.
Wendy's.
While John's family ordered, I eyed the $1 Value Menu.
The drive thru girl clung to her southern congeniality during our sloppy order.
I decided on a plain Cheesy Cheddar Burger.
"You want that plain?  Well, um...a Cheesy Cheddar Burger is a cheeseburger with regular cheese and liquid cheese."
The van exploded with laughter.
"Oh no no no!" I revoked.
Her headset rang with our cackling.
Georgia peachiness had turned into icy silence by the time we met at the pay window.
I should have told her that she saved my life telling me what that burger was about.
Instead the analog echo of mocking laughter would haunt her remaining hours.

Tijuana Hercules & The Magic Van To Atlanta

Today Tijuana Hercules drove from Chicago to Atlanta.
Tijuana Hercules is a band led by John Forbes.
A gifted cartoonist with refined tastes in bygone American sleeze.
These days, Tijuana Hercules is a duo with an ellipses.
John on a 12 string acoustic guitar and me on a 2 piece drum kit augmented with junk and jollies.
And then whoever else wants in.
At our last Chicago show, we were joined onstage by a man on a stool eating fried chicken.

I wasn't sure if the same ellipses applied to the trip.
But I was game.
I've always wanted to mingle with highway nomads.

Here are some highlights from our 16 hour scar down America's face:

Chicago
It took us longer than it should to leave Chicago.
Sometimes a bully just wants company.
I'm always excited to flee Chicago.
It means I'll be somewhere else.

Indiana
A state only its mother could love.
Who is Indiana's mom anyway?
The sad slob passed out in her own potato chip crumbs or the scratchy skeleton scoring meth at the bar?
Hard to tell.
Southern accents suddenly and mysteriously existed.
"The Mississippi of the Midwest", John announced.
Then he honked repeatedly at a plot of McMansions.

We stopped for gas.
Behind the counter a cute tramp texted in a trance.
She pointed like a zombie to the guy behind the counter.
He was a new hillbilly.
Shaved head, white T-shirt, and a "fuck you" face.
"Is there a men's room?"
"No," he said, but what he really meant was "fuck you".
So we went to the gas station down the way.
The one that smelled like burning hair.
John wondered what kind of piece of undergarment they were cooking in there.
The urinal said:

PARKING LOT 8PM-11 SUCK DICK EVERY NIGHT

At least they're organized.

I suppose I'm being a little hard on The Hoosier State.
All accurate observations aside, Indiana has its merits.
We just didn't have time for them.
It was already afternoon.
We scarfed down some drive thru Chick-Fil-A.
It was so delicious it narrowed my views on who should have their love acknowledged by local, state, and federal governments.

Kentucky
Some excerpts from WLLV 1240AM, Louisville:

"Amen, went to the barbershop, Amen, got a shave on, Amen."
"Two churches, Amen, one location, Amen."
"Thank God for Jesus, Amen for yourself, the needy not the greedy."

WLLV, where "Amen" is a comma.
Like a burnout's "fucken".

"Fucken, went to 7-Eleven, fucken, got a Big Gulp, fucken..."

Over on FM:

"A FIVE POUND FAT DADDY BURGER!"
"THIRTEEN FOOT HD TV!  OLYMPIC SIZED POOL!"
"THE SUMMER NEVER ENDS!"

AM is Heaven.
FM is Hell.


Tennessee
The cold, Kentucky rain followed us into The Volunteer State.
At a rest stop, the security guard kept his toupee dry among the Elvis leaflets and cardboard cut outs of Dolly Parton.
He begrudgingly returned our hello.

We had lost the sun hours ago.
It was time for Waffle House.
We chose the one with the waitress sitting on the cement, smoking in front of the door.
John treated me to fried eggs with diced and peppered hashbrowns.
I repaid him with selections from the jukebox.
A Waffle House jukebox always come equipped with songs about Waffle House.
I played "Sauce Master", which if I recall, was weird and might have mentioned bananas and hamburgers.
For the second selection, I wanted to play "The Meat Lover", but the 2 button on the jukebox was stuck.
It seems someone had loved their meat all over the jukebox.
I ended up playing "There Are Raisins In My Toast", a painful Frankie Valli send up.
The short order cook shot me a nasty look and disappeared into the back room.
I guess he didn't appreciate a machine that mocked his life in song.
The check came before the first chorus.
John smothered and covered it with small bills.

Alabama
We were never in Alabama.
But we did visit the Tennessee Alabama Fireworks Shop, a few miles from the state border.
It was closed.
So much for our tribute to Great White.
I guess we'd have to rely on our a cappella rendition of "Once Bitten Twice Shy".

Georgia
Georgia was nothing but thick fog and the rumblings of a bad day's diet.
The slick mountain roads behind us had scuffed up our nerves.
We added craned necks to the list of stiff limbs, as we tried to locate John's sister's house, tucked away somewhere beyond Atlanta.
It was after 2am.
The deer were up.
Partying in the streets.
Instant Venison®.
But we found the house.
John's mom offered us beer and fried chicken.
Southern hospitality rules the land, even at 3am.
It was good to be in Georgia.

Shopping Spree In Financial Purgatory

So yeah, the wedding/honeymoon combo cost money.
Imagine that.
After rent, we had enough to cover groceries and little else.
But we still had a bunch of gift cards to Macy's, Crate & Barrel, and Bed, Bath & Beyond.
So we went on a shopping spree.
We got towels!
And an air mattress!
And a spatula!
We got a clock!
And an air humidifier!
And a pastry masher!
Lauren got a big chef knife!
And I got a Michael Kors designer coat!
Being poor and buying lots of merchandise.
It was the most American we had ever felt.

Back at home it was a mess.
Boxes and bubble wrap everywhere.
The brutal reality of a prize wonderland.
Pat & Vanna never tell you about this shit, man.

I did my best to help Lauren organize.
But I had to be up early.
Tijuana Hercules would begin a week long tour of The South in the morning.
So we stacked all the empty boxes in front of the back door to create a fire trap.
Just like they do in America.

Mid-Life Ethiopian Restaurant Talking Blob Blues

The honeymoon was officially over.
We woke up in a wig-wam, drove across Kentucky and Indiana, and returned our books on CD to a Cracker Barrel in Hammond.
Chicago mocked us with rain.
It pissed all over our Southern adventure.
Our adventure of silence and solitude.
Cabin living in the Smoky Mountains.
We read, drank, watched movies, watched the sunrise, cooked, sang, danced, hot tubbed.
It's been our dream lately.
To leave Chicago.

Ideally, I'd like to live somewhere quiet and hilly, where I can write and make music.
Hooray for me.
Lauren would like something along these same lines.
Hooray for us.
So how do we do that?

The ethiopian restaurant was BYOB.
We brought an assortment of leftover beer from our wedding.
I drank mine in a hurry, and then zoned out.
I went to that place again.
Somewhere between Overwhelmed and Defeated.
Between How and Can't.
Between Drinking Aimlessly and Getting Fat.

Here are some facts:
I am talented.
I play drums.
I play piano.
I can write, I have a voice.
I can write music.
I am funny.
I can make an audience laugh.
I have taught comedy.

Here are some more facts:
My talents don't generate income.
Just pocket change and debt.

So I've always had to have a job.
These days, I'm freelancing as a production assistant on commercials.
I get coffee, take out the garbage, run errands.
It's an opportunity to break into a larger department in the industry.
Camera, art, grip and electric, vanities, production.
I've kinda sorta considered getting into the locations department.
Taking pictures, getting permits, making people turn off lawnmowers during shoots.
But I don't have any real desire to do that.
And right now I don't have money for a camera.

Oh yeah.
Money.

Let's say we did move.
Into the woods or whatever.
What would I do for a living?
Become a panhandler bear?

More fun facts:
I did not graduate from college.
I took one semester of community college and majored in philosophy for no reason.
Then I dropped out and moved to the desert.
A few years ago, I considered going back to school to get a teaching degree.
The reason: Summers off.
Not exactly Stand And Deliver.
My mom keeps pestering me about becoming an air conditioning repairman.
"Those guys make good money."

A few weeks ago, I thought we had the solution.
We would run a B&B.
The idea came to us in Door County, Wisconsin.
A troll themed lodge was for sale.
The owners suggested we buy it.
We looked around the property.
We took notes.
We talked about it like adults.
It would be ideal.
Lauren would cook.
I would do housekeeping and front desk.
We'd work for eight months, and travel and write during the off season.
I was really into it.
We got the paperwork.
They wanted $600,000.
It didn't sound like a lot.
Until we wondered how we would come up with it.

Right now I have no savings.
The wedding was expensive.
Even after financial help and gifts, we have less than %2 of the %10 down payment to get a loan.
If every year I saved the amount of money I spent on the wedding, it would take close to ten years to come up with the down payment.
When I'm 46.

My second beer perspired with neglect.
I must have been wearing a real garbage sniffing look.
Lauren waved the fog from my face.
"Where did you go?"
I spoke in a labored, self-aware putty of descending circles.
Oh boy.
My wife married a blob.

Lauren's good.
She knows how to focus.
And while I'm tearing myself apart in a medieval wheel of failure, she knows how to breathe.
With a few words, it was decided.
We'll just save money.
For whatever's next.

My whatever's next didn't look too promising.
It was November and production work would be slowing down.
Which means I would find myself in the unemployment line.
My sighing was interrupted by the arrival of our food.
Shuro and duba wat and shrimp tibs and...
It was delicious as always.
But man was the honeymoon ever over.