Though when you don’t actually know how to ride, it’s the crashing part that’s easy.
So, uh.. Hello there. Welcome to Monday and stuff.
Just so we’re all on the same page, today’s post is about what I did this weekend, which was awesome and also horrible.
All told, I spent something like 23 hours of total travel time so that I had the opportunity to spend five hours in the speck of a town called Kennett down there in the boot heel of south east Missouri. And the reason I did this was to pay my final respects to my dear aunt.
Anyway, my mom and I made the long trip to Little Rock, where I initially noted the minds behind the Bill and Hillary Clinton International Airport, Architectural Alliance International;
-wanted little more than for me to ride a skateboard all over their building;
After doing the Lenny and Squiggy palm-bite for a few minutes;
(For those too young to remember, or perhaps living in a place without American television in the late 70s, Lenny and Squiggy were characters on ‘Laverne and Shirley’, which was a spin off from ‘Happy days’, and whenever a pretty girl would walk by, they’d bite their hand. At the time of posting, I’m not sure if they ever did in regard to skateable spot but it seemed like a reasonable enough gesture.)- I eventually greeted my mom and we made our way to our hotel for a bite of food and a night’s rest.
Now this is a pretty trippy part of the story- In 1998 Hurl from Cars-R-Coffins was wrenching for a mountain bike team who was sponsored by the (then) new Cadillac Catera. After having been pen pals for some time, Hurl and I ended up crossing paths in Canmore, Alberta, and he extended an invitation to continue on with his journey. As the NORBA circuit zig-zagged all over America, we drove all across it that summer, and at one point as we made our way through Little Rock, we peeled off the side of the road to get lunch at a random hotel restaurant called ‘Bobbisox’, (that played 50s music, had a ’57 Chevy parked in the middle of the room, and had waitresses that if memory serves, who were dressed as cheerleaders, or wore poodle skirts or something.)
Fast forward to ten years later, and my dad and I were on a road trip back to Arkansas to float the Spring River, and eat a bunch of fried things. Lo and behold, of all the restaurants in all of Little Rock, where should we happen to stop again, but Bobbisox?
“Well, that’s quite a coincidence“, I thought to myself back then in 2007. So I was kinda out of my mind when upon entering an eatery off the freeway two days ago called Boston’s, I asked the waitress if this place happened to used to be called something else when she pipped up and said “YEAH! BOBBISOX! I heard things used to get pretty wild in here….”
So for some reason, every eight years or so, I randomly wind up in the same restaurant off the side of the freeway in Little Rock. When I die, sprinkle my ashes there.
Or dip your pizza in them and eat me.
With that request being made, let’s continue on.
We bailed out early the next morning without ever having a chance to lounge in the hotel’s, er… Lounge;
I’d also like to mention that the ‘airport carpet sock project‘ has nothing on my forthcoming ‘hotel carpet sock project’;
It was a drunk’s nightmare.
After a solid three hours of road time, we made it to my mom’s hometown, and after a Waffle House re-fueling with my uncle, my cousin, and his impossibly beautiful family, my mom and I killed some time before the memorial to take in a few random sites.
The bank my grandfather ran;
The church where my folks were married, and I was baptized (yeah, you read that right);
As well as the house where my great, great grandfather lived then;
And the house where he lives now;
We made it to the memorial in time for me to catch up with cousins I haven’t seen in 30 years, and for little old ladies to tell me how much I look like both my dad and my grandfather. We listened to stories about my aunt, and I reflected on how much she truly loved to laugh. There was a lot of hugging and laughing and crying and more laughing, and as my mom and I emerged from the air conditioned environs of the memorial, she said “I need a drink.”
We met up with her brother (my uncle) who happens to also be the husband of my dad’s sister (my aunt), plus my cousins, and we shared stories, and drinks, and hugs until finally it was time to hit the road again to take in more of this;
It was brilliant, tragic, and affirming, and with hours and hours of travel under my belt, very little sleep, and my nostalgia kicking into overdrive, I thank you for your time, as I will now ready myself for a crash of an entry different kind.