If You Have Any Poo, Fling it Now...

News from the underground: Weekend notes.

The weekend started out a little strange for me because The Cap'n and I switched cars so that I might transport portions of a large bed to its new home in Frankfort. If I had spent the weekend with my nineteen ninety three Mercury Sable wagon, my traditional misfiring mode of transportation, with all its bells and whistles, its bottle caps and love stains and old socks and Vonnegut books on tape and ten minute ab videos, this would be a more standard tale. So much class is my familiar prerogative. Having to look up the correct spelling of a word supposedly mastered by the likes of Britney Spears and Bobby Brown is also an ironic privilege of my slackerhood / stupidity. So of course for my trip up north I was startled to find myself the operator / field marshal / mayor / Commander in Chief of a late model Canyonaro Ford Excursion, all shiny and red and two lanes wide and costing more (not really) than my education (which, let's face it, was woefully overpriced. I mean shit, have you seen my grammar?). So much excess is foreign territory, even for me, a man who consumes alcohol the same way our judiciary excretes justice... by the case. Lucky for me, the vehicle smelled vaguely of cigars, which somewhat eased my transition from leaky sloop to galleon, and before long I had adapted nicely to most of the land-barge's many absurdities and was driving it very fast towards that town that ends in "zoo" to intercept a train. If you've never driven an eleven foot tall automobile very fast on a busy expressway like I-94, there are a couple of things to look out for. First, get used to looking down rather than forward. There is one thing on the road that is taller than you, and that's a semi-truck, and even then it's only by a few feet. That means everything else, even other trucks and SUVs are somewhere far below you, and therefore might be accidentally squashed. Secondly, wind. It likes you. It thinks your are a Spanish Galleon, and it thinks it's cute how you veer wildly into the next lane whenever it blows at you in the slightest. This will become annoying almost immediately. Third would be blinding torrential downpours. These are a pain when driving anything, but just remember that in a pinch your truck is about sixty-five tons of American pride and will not even think about stopping in any distance under a mile and a half. And lastly, if you have a penis, say goodbye to it, because anyone who sees you driving such an outlandishly large truck will instantly assume that you are overcompensating for what must be no penis at all. Luckily, your girlfriend, which you have just picked up off a train in that zoo town, already knows you are a filthy bum that drives a crappy early-nineties Mercury station wagon. She will be pleased to not be riding in said wagon.

Anyway, adventures in jumbo motor driving aside, the trip to re-stock the Frankfort outpost with beds rather than mattresses randomly littering bedroom floors was a success. Despite the fact that this is truly the ugliest time of year, it was still far prettier up in Benzie County than it had any right to be, and so Heather and I exploited this by spending much of Saturday touring around in the Canyonaro to various points of interest or scenic splendor, including the beach, the entire circumference of Crystal Lake, Point Betsie, Elberta, The legendary Hungry Tummy, Upper Heron Lake, Gwen Frostic's, and the Cabbage Shed.

The Cabbage Shed, as I'm sure you know, is my favorite bar alive. And in addition to the delicious food (in Saturday's case, a wet burrito the size of a marmot), good beer, dive-deluxe atmosphere, and bay-side viewing pleasures, it had an extra-special surprise in store... the return of the fabled BiZANGO. BiZANGO being the most ballinest ragtag cover band in the United States of All That is Holy that Kyle, Heather, Mara, and I had the honor of witnessing at The Shed last July. Don't let the bongos and the keyboard fool you, people. These dudes are doin' it and doin' it and doin' it well. One of them plays guitar and the keyboard and sings and shakes his jowls and leans on crutches all at the same time. He does this in front of The Sexy Bassist Known as Nash (so dubbed by Mara, aka "Nash's Woman") and next to Much Younger Bongo Vocalist and Forgettable Redundant Drummer Dude. Collectively they are BiZANGO and they most definitely kick your ass. At least when you are drunk... and don't put up a fight...

man...

Nash...

He's a lover AND a fighter...

He'll cut you...

Better watch the fuck out.




Anyway, The Shed was certainly a highlight. Defintely much better than that whole raking leaves part I was forced to do. Sadly though, it ended all too quickly, and Sunday came and it was back to The Zoo and the train and the Saline and the Captain's announcement of, "I'm taking over your car... because I like driving it... you can drive... uh... my bicycle. Oh yeah, go get the timing on your car fixed so I can take it over. Did I mention I'm taking over your car? It's kinda awesome not being eleven feet in the air. Sucker. Feed the dog."

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