Idle highway chit-chat and Elvis in Raburn, Ga.

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It’s been a long, cold week. I’m not going to rehash all the traffic and weather nightmares — everyone knows by now we’ve had a sucky winter and it’s going to last for two more months. I will say that’s it’s been pretty seriously cold everywhere — when it snows in South Texas you aren’t going to be able to totally stay out of the cold weather and run back and forth between the oceans, even on 10. This was our grand plan (well, not exactly all the way to Cali, since the Precious is old and not allowed there), but like every other plan we’ve made since George started trucking, outside elements have forced changes.

Of course, if you’re allowed into the Republic of California, you can run over to L.A. and enjoy some 75-degree weather. If it gets hot and you need to idle, suffer. Unless you’re in the truck keeping the outdoor ice arena frozen for the hockey game this weekend. Then you can idle 24/7, no problem. They have magic fairy dust they sprinkle on the exhaust fumes of a truck keeping a venue open that generates a great deal of revenue. They don’t harm the tenuous atmosphere at all. Neither do the copious amounts of chemicals they spray on every living thing through Grower’s – cows included. Sorry, do I sound bitter? Because I could actually be more sarcastic if I need to. The only thing I miss about Cali is 75 degrees and the Tejon Pass. And George doesn’t miss Tejon Pass at all.

We’re back to idle chit-chat in the truck. Idle chit-chat is an art, developed by the elders of the tribes and passed down as a method to pass time until the great ship comes to take us away. The elders also ate a lot of peyote, so idle chit-chat may also be the ramblings of mad men. Our own idle chit-chat often takes such turns, and we don’t even eat peyote.

ElvisSome nutty folks from Hollywood have become intensely interested in our idle chit-chat. We’ve had Skype interviews with them, I think they found it hard to believe the things I wrote about were true. I told them these experiences aren’t unique to us, that anyone who has been on the road in any capacity can relate to the rampant weirdness out here. I don’t make the stories up — I just tell them. Seriously, when you travel the highway on a daily basis, where they allow all manner of freak and weirdo to operate a potentially deadly projectile at 75 miles an hour, you have no choice in the matter. You see weird things. You can be a normal human being and just carry on with life, or you can be me and dwell on the weirdness until you have to tell people about it or it will consume you.

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Sometimes it’s hard to be me. Everyone give a collective “Well bless your little pea-picking heart.”

Thank you. Thank you very much. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Elvis in Raburn, Georgia?…

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