Amplified Ramblings on roadtrips, the Heartland, mixtapes
by Nick Dukes

What the hell is that? I bolted upright and enraged because of a God awful racket, a loud blast of some of the worst music known, that bleeding heart country crap. Instantly, I slammed my Walkman back into play and swigged a warm, flat Coke. Grabbing pen and paper and leaning close to the door to perform my service to you: writing this trash.

Somewhere in West Virginia now, the new Foley demolished like the box of Charleston Chews- which begs the question of what happened in that case as everyone else in the car claims them as nasty. Nothing else to do, not with my head still spinning from being halfway through the March entry of Campaign Trail 72, except to watch the scenery, the same its been for hours, mountains and trees. Then the lock on the door catches my eye. Im thinking of the door flying open from my weight leaned against it. What would go first- this paper. Ive got the nylon or whatever-the-hell-it-is-seatbelt holding me in, so then goes my discarded Pumas, followed by my CD player, all at 90 miles an hour in a Durango with shoddy breaks right onto the newly paved road. When I see a half-rig driving on the side of the road next to us, I slam the lock down hard.

You see, I am not nearly ready for a roadtrip, especially one as oft-delayed. First it was supposed to be Friday afternoon, then night, then Saturday at dawn. We finally got off around seven or eight or so. According to the dash-clock (I dont wear watches) its nearly two, and I need to wait for another exit sign or mile marker to give a relative position- there we go. Five miles to Wallback, forty-one to Charlestown. We still have time. Lots of it. With one book devoured and the new one looking like what might happen in 2004 without anyone remotely electable this time, I am not good to go, having spent Friday night stealing from the RIAA out of spite while playing computer games lasting well into the technically Saturday. EWR, Delta Force 2, Lemmings, anything that makes you feel like a God. Then I spent four hours half awake and half dreaming of everything. Time spentin Kentucky wasnt part of it, but school was. Ive got maybe less than twenty days, six in this hellhole so lets say a round week of non-consecutive days of no requirements. And here I was thinking Id get laid this summer. Several times, and still enough time to try for that goal, with the keyword being try, but hey, Im not too pressed on that.

But Im blasting this Kyuss straight into my brain while some honkey on the radio is raving about how well put a boot in your ass its the American Way. And thats what I have to deal with on this strange trip; people who believe that, and then go one step further and put it all the in up to the hip and Im just talking about the people in the car with me. So Im ignoring all of that and try to take in the scenes again. The somewhat-fog-shrouded trees complement these great jutting hills and it is a sight. Of course the road itself is a beast, so I think I need a laptop or something, the bumps in the road teaming up with my naturally sloppy writing are gonna make editing this a bitch, and besides, this shit isnt exactly what you say out loud into a tape recorder on a family trip for Chrissakes. Screw it- I need a new column name thats more what Im doing besides trying to rip off the good doctor, which I do horribly, and Ive got lots of time think.

So I pull this pad out once again because a shanty was on fire, just tucked inside the woods on the upslope of one of these hills. Smoke was going up, lots of it, which is what drew my eye to the burning rubble. Barely two miles up the road is a shiny McDonalds and Wal-Mart complex with gas stations. All around nestled in little hamlets, groves, and valleys are nice big houses. The juxtaposition works for me, especially just the kind of mad scene it was. It looked like the house had been torn down and only a small part was sending up smoke. For the sheer volume I thought it was a brushfire, when I saw the house frame it clicked, but nothing looked fire damaged except the two small piles of burning home. It was enough smoke to match this time when a fairly sizable house got gutted with fire and burned for around two, two and a half hours- when I went to lunch and when I came back, still smoldering and tossing up the gray stuff, lining the trees around it Now theres a Dire Straits mix on the car stereo and I dont have those damn headphones on anymore. Speaking of phones, I still havent gotten desperate slash bored enough to use mine yet. I know the bridge were over but cant place the city, and its bothering me. Charlestown, right. Finally. Five hour mark for E-town. Ive blitzed through maybe six albums, not counting the one on now. I havent cracked open my other book again because we all know what happened in 72, and frankly I see some startling parallels to this upcoming election, to be fair though, it is only August. Then again, theres talk of Hillary running and Gore running, and that could doom the Democratic Party. But seeing how I dont want to swim in heavy politics right now and dont want to make idle speculation either, theres nothing left to do and tapping out crude messages on the phone seems more and more inviting.

Public radio- thirteen year old girl talking about under the radar bands like AFI- I almost asked to pull over so I could puke. The overall vileness of that situation, the ignorance of the interviewer and interviewee, and just the outright nonsense of a non-prodigy kid on public radio is just appalling. Radio lesson number one0 if its on the radio then its not under the radar. When its pushed by MTV and Infinity and Clear Channel into our ears clear to the brain then youre just an idiot sheep in training. I thought public radio broadcasted symphonies and did politics, but now I stand corrected: they air whatever the hell makes them move in the name of All of Us.

Shit, and here I was thinking the only way to get idiotic opinions out was on the internet. And before I can live that down, this is number five of front-only loose leaf sheets, and is more than just disjointed and badly segueing thoughts and commentaries, so if youd kindly respect the difference and realize that I have to type this up eventually, so maybe have some pity: I have to actually read this garbage while you folks have that lovely back button. Time till destination: 30 minutes. And here I am without my copy of the Green Album.

Amplified Ramblings on Nashville and the Heartland

Sorrow is better than laughter, because a sad face is good for the heart. -Ecclesiastes 7:3 as taken from the Kentuckianna Thrifty Nickel If you use drugs, do not apply. sign at Home Depot Nashville looms closer and the thought of going even further into this strange and foreign place instead of out of it is a bit saddening, but when this current place (of writing and sleeping) is a posh suburb that isnt much different than Crofton, I think I may be exaggerating it just a bit. Obviously though the attitudes are different. I mean look at that Home Depot sign. Drugs? Its so safe and conservative that I wish I had walked in with a tourniquet set and a syringe sticking out of my armdrugs? What pigs, total and utter. Everyone knows that you dont put alcohol and your precious cigarettes in that category when they belong there more so than some of the things classified that way. Look at the word and what it implies- heroin and marijuana, life taker and life enhancer, in the same sentence. Pigs. It was an early morning run for a bathroom fan and shelf, and seeing that sign I cursed myself for not having my satchel (which I have gone without the past two days) and not owning a camera. Especially ironic is that there are almost as many ex-stoners at the local Home Depots to suspect theyre building a commune. But not here. This is the Heartland dammit! and we arent gonna put up with no drugs.

For the past twelve hours I continued the work of another twelve plus hour day before that, doing odd jobs to clean, maintain, and slightly remodel the restaurant. Which is in a place that screams hick. Tobacco fields, drive-thru liquor stores, lonely country roads with lots of accidents prompting motorists to break into closed businesses to call the police who take their sweet time to get there if no one is fatally hurt. And the radio! While it isnt Clear Channel garbage its more unprofessional than the stoners shift at the liberal arts college station, just with the latest gear being here than there. The throes of Almost Nowhere gives us a lot of country, one or two rock, and more rap than youd think. A lot more. So out of the three- three is right, one is classic, one is modern, the other is a hodgepodge, we were tuned to 101.5, the Point (hodgepodge). In what I guessed was the usual reflex to playing Zep they put on the White Stripes, then some of that awful Van Halen (as opposed to that good Van Halen?) and then Yellow Ledbetter the Pearl Jam song. Except they cut it off right after the first chorus, and repeated from the Stripes onwards. Easily the shitiest run radio station ever- or at least the most incompetent jock since DC 101s Elliot. I feel like sleeping, but what Ive already said about the 04 campaign having some comparisons to 72- forget it. That was absolutely fucked, and the Demos dont have a chance to take out the incumbent this year, as far as it looks right now. Then again, McGovern was a miracle That makes something like four ellipses so time to wrap this little two pager up to get my thoughts more organized. Strange Ramblings? Amplified Monologue? Ignorance (Yours) is Bliss? I have more time to think about it, Im sure.

Jesus, I exclaimed, I heard about people doing that kind of thing, but I didnt know that it actually happened.

Miss Minnesota looked a bit put off. Where are you from anyways?

South enough to know better.

Earlier in the day after securing my cheap Sixties knock off guitar, at lunch in the Wild Horse Saloon, I had seen that kind of thing happen: line dancing. Of course I had seen it before but later on at Opry Mills- a mall where an amusement park had been, even if the two are basically the same goal wise- squeeze the most money out of the poor sods who decide to spend the while providing the most minimum, spartan services. And in a place like Opry Mills you half-expect to find the ghost of some geek killed by capitalism telling you, nay, warning you to piss off if you actually come in.

Or at least someone like me would expect that. I felt out of place the whole time. Granted I never really feel accepted, it was worse there. Dangerously worse. I felt like I had a sign on that Bin Laden Supporter or Husseins Other Son. Actually, that last one could marvelously as a mass produced t-shirt sold in Hot Topic, then eight months out of style at Kohls. Maybe I didnt illustrate myself clearly: I felt like I was walking around Harlem in a Klan sheet with a swastika armband and a bullhorn shouting things about David Duke. Good things. No, thatd be a bad trip, but I definitely was shooting out some sort of steer clear vibe. I probably shouldve kept that in check- the people are nice enough, in the city, I thought, and it wasnt until I got to Opry Mills that the people I were really afraid of seeing started becoming frequent observations. Shit, that was a big tangent. Wild Horse Saloon, Teen Line Dancing Competitions. Right. Of course it wasnt the first time I had seen that, the first being in the Relay and the Jesus Freaks, but thats another story entirely, but it was more shocking to see the type of prissy Isnt she the best lil girl you could have chicks doing this than middle aged chain smoking South County geeks from the last dam. Real damn shes the best teen ever type of shit too. On the way in, one of them was on her way out, with an entourage. I guess a friend or cousin or two, an aunt, a mom, a mulleted older brother, and a mustachioed, NASCAR hated dad. The last two had my up to my mouth to shoot the princess in her sash the International Pussy Eating Sign, but the sense of my company stopped me, unfortunately. And relax these are the ones that make high school suck, so I can be liberal with the bitches and hoes and what not. But walking in they were all over the damn dance floor. It bugged my eyes out something fierce and a lump hit my throat. It was just damn surreal. Of course I was warned that something like that could happen, but just seeing a hundred some teenagers doing that killed my hopes for the generation.

Christ! The people in charge of the radio are playing more of that country shit. Craig Nicholls is already screaming into my brain at a loud enough volume- on Mary Jane no less0 that it hurts to turn it up louder. On a sidenote, Ive been cursing myself for not putting Sympathy for the Devil onto a mix tape, since it is the best song, at least in the top twenty, to write to. Now I still have my goal of listening to all the CDs I packed before I cross back into Maryland, so just popping in a writing mix every time I rip into this would kill that, Ive put maybe four hours, which is practically four CDs worth in so far, and I on more writing being only to Looseleaf Sheet Ten, but still, I just need something with a bit more of that to get started. And there goes another tangent, along with the last bit of daylight so I have to step this up for the time being to be picked up again in my makeshift headquarters- a little family room above my uncles garage- later. Shit, maybe I might even read what Ive wrote. Then agin, screw that.

I just made a grievous mistake. On the way back after the dark had forced me to stop writing, I put on a mix tape. Songs You Should Know by Heart. Of course these songs remind me of a girl I used to like- silently, then desperately- and now Im wanting another girl knowing that I can never tell her how I feel for fear of breaking a few things other than just my heart when she says Thats so sweet but youre too young and just like a little brother. So I dont feel like writing about line-dancing cheerleaders, the Confederate flag, and more about drugs, or like writing at all. I picked up Freud earlier since the journalism section was foot and half long shelf with no Hunter S. Thompson and they didnt have any Lacan either. So Ive been reading about Dreams as Wish Fulfillmentdense as anything else. Then again, some of it is common sense- no, all the stuff that doesnt sound like bullshit is common sense. Then again, Im not exactly Mr. PsychoanalystAnd now Im making it worse, Im listening to the whole CD all the way through. Separate these songs cant make my knees buckle, but together theyre doing quite the job. The only one that can get me on its own is California Stars a nice little Wilco song. It was such a good day too, but now Im sick of writing and being interrupted (first darkness, then relatives leaving) so Im gonna go back to Freud and hope my tear drops dont hit the page- I just got it.

Of course none of that took place- I sat in the dark and waited for sleep. Its funny how when I try and say something final, it never ends up like that. Just one of those quirksIm almost ready to deal with Nashville, even after spending all day in a bad way, just looking at the numbers in my phone over and over, seeing no one worth calling. Im still in a bad way, but I need to write, I need to get my thoughts out somehow, and besides, I want a nice even page number, which means one more casual observation and then onto Confederate flags, stompings at Hot Topic, bad bookstores, hippies, line dancing, and then maybe, maybe, more of Nicks Laments- shit, that makes me want to dive right in, like its my own Castrated Fear and Loathing in Nashville. Almost. But as I was planning on saying, driving on these country roads at night is fucked, in that weird way. You constantly see big moths and those lightning bugs just coming right towards you. And then when you pass another car, you can tell they did damage and can count at least five new smears on the windshield from the glare. Not exactly a good time.

And now, spurred on by my music blasting straight into my brain while my sister watches something on the local news about an old lady in Louisville writing to the born again Dave Berkowitz, and I guess theyre the only news without a correspondant at the Kobe trial. So now, four pages back, I was about to explain how seeing all those Abercrombie geeks in their sashes ruined any expectations I had of my generation achieving greatness, and now Im trying to remember what I was thinking and have no clue. That should make typing this thing fun. Actually the really fun thing should be trying to submit this to my schoos Lit Mag. Then again, I should circumvent that and get it published in a format that could make me money. Which brings up the question of how its getting put on Our Favorite Website, as I finally got access to a computer long enough to email Mr. Ownes about how long this beast is. I dont think people are gonna have this one sitting, so I think Ive got some parts wherein it can be broken up, maybe. And that leads me to forgot to remember, or rather to remember I forgot to bring up the copyright issue with him. Right now hexorb.com owns all my work, so essentially he has the rights to it, which means I dont, but thatll be sorted without caps lock, Im sure (internet joke). Also, he needs to make it under my real name, and damn, I guess I just dont want to write about Nashville or something- theres a lot of tangents and Im sure I wont stay on topic very easily. Just seems like a big undertaking, and it probably will be. Maybe not though. You never know.

So all those girls eventually stopped and were standing around waiting for their busses. The floor cleared out to a solid group of cheerleaders who started playing red rover. Of course, red rover is a game much to my liking: spastic action encouraged, full contact, and lots of running. I was much too busy keeping my chicken sandwich from falling apart and the fried pickles nowhere near me to actually participate, so I just watched. And nothing exciting happened until this one chick about seventeen or so busted through the line and into a table, having it and a few of the other girls fall on her. By then I was well eased and any concerns about the South being full of hicks and nuts were just about gone, leading me to be calm, happy, and tireade-free until we ventured into the Charlie Daniels Museum, apparently just an endorsed gift shop.

My jaw was down to the floor. Everything was plastered with that God damnned flag. Everything. And right next to a fucking shrine- a flag and swords on the wall, coffe mugs, shot glasses, mini flags, and among other things a rigurine of Robert E. Lee- were porcelain Sambos. It was then that I knew the South wasnt a thing of the past or movies or TV. It wasnt a punchline to some comedians jokes. It wasnt something refered to by Midshipmen Third Class Blake as some thing that will rise again in an offhand manner. People believed in that shat. A t-shirt I saw there was later seen on a man at Opry Mills: it had a picture of the Good Ol Stars and Bars and underneath stated If this flag offends you, you need a history lesson. No sir, you need the history lesson! That flag was flown by a nation that withdrew from its sovereign. It was defeated in this countrys bloodiest war and rejoined. Its a defeated flag of a defeated nation and should be considered at least in bad taste to fly it, like the Nazi flag in Germany. ts a shit stain on our country. And the thing that really gets me is how the same die-hard patriots screaming for the death of Sah-dahm Whoo-sane are also waving that blue-barred shitrag. Get a damn clue you pigs. So I didnt buy my friend her keychain at the Charlie Daniels Museum, the only gift shop we went to, because of that bullshit. So, yes, Ive had my history lesson, would you mind getting yours now, you fucking pig. And from there we move on to Opry Mills, an outlet mall. Im just gonna give the barebones here, I already explained it. Big chain of outlet malls, those Mills people. One by me, Arundel, another in Virginia, I think Potomac. I figured it couldnt be too bad. I was far from wrong. The first thing I looked for was Hot topic, but I got the straight vibe while cruising for the vinyl I wanted. I kept getting glared at.

Finally, I had enough and turned to leave when I feel this hand pushing me out. I meekly glanced over my shoulder to see a pale and heavily marred by ink arm giving me a little help towards the door. I guess I was only missing a buddy for a tossdown with some metal-lovin rednecks hot for my blood after an offhanded and outloud Fuck this honky metal bullshit, wheres my faggoty weezer vinyl? Then again, I didnt see any weezer shirts either, so maybe they got pissed when Rivers called all his fans little bitches. Which is true. So while not exactly a stomping, you can imagine that it couldve been. Now Ive gone from feeling like some righteous sonofabitch because of the flag rant to James Knipfels psychic breakdown from renal backlash. Great. Its 12;02 and still no one worth calling. If I had Seans number, maybe. Then again, no. I just need to talk to a sympathetic ear or something, Im off the writing high and back into the funk with no comedown- there was nothing actually to write about, I guess. Sums up all of this pretty neatly. Oh, the conversation with miss Minnesota. It started with I caught your act at the Wild Horse today. She looked put off. And? she questioned, not hoping for a conversation. Well fuck that I thought. Jesus! After my south enough remark she askwed where, I said Maryland, she said how nice, and walked off, the pretentious bitch. Rent-boy, Rent-boy whats the score

There's barely light- so Im trusting myself- not a good thing- to make this legible enough to be type up after a strong cup of coffee in the morning. I came here with a pretty biased opinion of the people here, but now Ive got a better grip- the people here are the same as anywhere else, and that scares me. Everything is so homogenized that no real local character remains anywhere, just a shadow of it, a little hint. Then again, maybe Im being too harsh; they still dont have 7-11s around here. SO now Ive got nothing else except three CDs to complete and waiting for the purple lights of PissNet- Im sorry, M&T Bank Stadium, the normal road trip wake up call.