What a bunch of bull.

So let's just get to the heart of the matter--no, I did NOT ride a mechanical bull in Nashville. The group was together, we went downtown, we found the bar--and was told the bull was being used by a private party and was not available for the general public. Heartbroken and frustrated, I nonetheless perked up when i discovered that right next door was a karaoke bar--not a bar WITH karaoke, but an establishment whose entire reason for existing was to allow drunk people to pretend to be rock stars for a night. Ah, redemption. But then, just as quickly, my euphoria was turned to dismay when the group decided against such an outing, partly because Levitt didn't want to go, but also Alice was concerned about doing karaoke in Music City, USA. Cowards. I tour with cowards. I have performed Elvis in a bar on Beale Street in memphis. I have no qualms about breaking out the Hank Williams in Nashville. Live life big or go home. That's my motto. (Actually, I've never said that, but I felt this situation warranted something macho and mindless) So instead we went to Ernest Tubbs' bar and watched a local country band play. It was enjoyable, though I was for the most part stuck at a table listening to Levitt yammer on to Alice and Carol and Flo about how she had met Kato (her husband remember?) as Bob and Schneider were elsewhere, wisely keeping a wide berth of a table full of women drinking. They however did not give me the memo.... Ted was back at the hotel, as he was broke. Never before have I envied poverty as I did last night. But still, there were plenty of laughs, and since there was alcohol, Levitt was something roughly akin to human. We left early, about 10:30, since we had a 7:00 call this morning. So no mechanical bull. But fear not, gentle readers--this is now my quest (feel free to start humming "The Impossible Dream") To find a mechanical bull and ride it before the end of tour. Considering the fact we're touring heavily through the south for the next month or so, I feel reasonably certain this goal will be attained.

When we returned to the hotel, the group splintered, most people going back to their rooms to get sleep, while Alice, Flo and I headed off down the road to the nearby Waffle House in order to get something to eat. Alice also had relationship woes to vent, as she had, in her whiskey-induced state, made comments to Schneider which caused him considerable emotional distress, and he was working through that distress by staunchly ignoring her. Ladies, ladies, ladies. PLEASE, for the love of whatever you consider holy, do NOT discuss relationships when you are drunk, unless you are willing to stand by the comments made after the sun comes up the next day. Thankfully for her, she played the "Oh boy was I soooooooooooo drunk last night and obviously couldn't have meant a thing I said," card, so all is well today. And considering her particular form of stupid statement was of the I'm-going-to-emotionally-distance-myself-from-you-now because-otherwise-when-tour-is-over-I'll-be-miserable-so-instead-of-being-happy-for-now-and-seeing-what-happens-I'm-consigning-us-both-to-being-miserable-for-the-rest-of-our-time-together variety, she needed to do something to fix it. That is all I'll say about that. But oh my dear lord, the Waffle House. Now, I don't expect much from Waffle Houses, I really don't. They are pretty low down on the evolutionary scale of restaurants, but still, I do expect them to meet AT LEAST the very low standards I have for them. But from the word go, this one promised to be the most amazingly bad Waffle House experience I have ever had. The fact that we got there at about eleven at night and waited at least half an hour until we even got menus shows you what kind of night it was. And the waitress comes over, apologizes for taking so long to get us drinks, then once she's taken the drink order, asks if we're ready to order the food, even though we've told her twice that we don't have menus. Then she looks at the table and says, "Well, you don't even have menus!" Apparently she had just gotten off of school and walked into what was considered a chaotic night. That apparently meant that half of the 16 tables were full. Oh, and there was another waitress working as well. Yep. Chaos. So she brings us the menus, then disappears for a good long time getting the drinks--3 waters and 2 coffees. When she brings them, she takes the food orders. I order a bowl of chili, which on the menu states that it comes covered, chopped, chunked, and peppered. Meaning, it is filled with cheese, onions, ham, and jalapenos. This is on their menu, and yet she looks at me with the expression I imagine is on the face of an armadillo right before the car hits it. I show her on the menu what I mean. She writes it down, dubious whether or not the cook will know how to make it. The two girls order, basically, eggs, sausage and hash browns, though Alice also has a waffle coming. That's it. What follows is something which, while I will try to recreate it for my readers as best I can, should really be seen to be believed. So please, once I'm back off the road, come to me and ask me to tell you the story of the crazy Nashville Waffle House waitress. You will not regret it, I promise.

So our very sweet, dumb as a box of hair waitress leaves us to put in our orders, and we fall into conversation, mostly revolving around the aforementioned drunken relationship issues. Then we realize it's been a good long while since we ordered. In this time, our waitress has passed us by two or three times, apologizing for how long it's taking because everything is just so crazy. Then we hear her utter the words that strike fear into any traveling actor--"No more credit cards." Now, we have all requested separate checks because we all have cards and no cash. She tells us that the credit card machine is broken, so they can't take any. We look around, desperate, and see that there's an ATM machine in the corner. Crisis averted. So we settle back in. Then she comes back and asks me what it is I want in my chili. "Mushrooms and what else?" I quickly remind her of the four ingredients--cheese, onion, ham, and jalapenos (none of which, I wish to point out, sound at all like mushrooms) and she (again) apologizes and goes back to whatever hovel she does what she does in. Shortly thereafter, I hear the other waitress telling another customer that the credit card machine isn't broken, it's just out of tape, so no receipts can be printed because there's no-one who knows how to replace it. Now, I'll admit that I may be a little more worldly than the average Waffle House waitress, even one in Nashville, but it seems to me that the act of taking an empty spool out of a machine and placing a full spool into it really shouldn't be beyond your powers, especially considering YOU WORK THERE! PLus, both of them were women, and they're constantly harping about how they're the only ones who know how to change a roll of toilet paper and really, isn't it the same concept? I mean, it's not like you need specialized training. So I thought that perhaps we would be able to run the cards and just forgo the receipt. As I was thinking this, our waitress brought Flo and Alice their food--well, Alice got all her food, whilst Flo received the hashbrowns and sausage. Her eggs were, she was assured, "on the way." Considering Alice also got eggs, I could only wonder where Flo's eggs were coming from and how they had gotten sidetracked. Oh, and she asked me again what I wanted in my chili--"I'm so sorry, baby, but what was it again? It was peppers and what else?" Dutifully, and somehow still with a smile on my face, I reiterated: cheese, onions, ham and jalapenos. "Okay, baby, I'll have that soon I promise."

So we sit. And sit. We decide a little later, just for a change of pace, to recline. Then we go back to sitting since reclining isn't as easy as it sounds in a booth at the Waffle House. After we return ourselves to a full and upright position, the waitress returns, with the cook in tow, saying (can you guess?) "I'm so sorry, I just can't remember--what was it you wanted in that chili again? Mushrooms and what else?" Speaking directly to the cook at this point because I have no idea what sort of strange wind tunnel my words will go through if they have to be filtered by our waitress' brain, I speak very slowly, as if speaking to a five year old, a someone of foreign extraction who understands no English at all and repeat, (Say it with me, just for shits and giggles) "Cheese, onions, ham and jalapenos." He nods and returns to his grill. She apologizes again, saying it's impossible to work like this, and how can they expect her to do her job if nothing's done when she walks in, cuz she just got out of school and already her shift is going crazy. I really shouldn't blame her, I guess. I mean, she was running straight from class, and let's face it, 3rd grade's hard. Five minutes laer, she returns to the table and hands me a plate which contains two eggs, four pieces of white toast and an order of hashbrowns, and says, "here you go, sir." I am speechless just long enough for her to turn and remove herself from earshot. When I regain some semblance of composure, and Flo and Alice have gotten their astonished giggling under control, I call her back over, saying, with less sarcasm and derision than she rightly deserves, "I got the chili." 

"Oh I know," she says. "That's for her." pointing at Flo. Flo at this point has caught my astonishment and is speechless for a time, but recovers quickly enough to keep The Tennessee Twit from escaping and points out that all she was waiting on were two eggs, not an entire other meal. The Dixie Dingbat gets incredibly flustered and assures Flo, "It'll all be free, don't worry--her got confused, but it'll be free." (Yeah, HE got confused.... ) She then disappears and ten minutes later, finally returns with my chili, which I am convinced has three out of the four ingredients, missing only cheese. I consider (briefly) calling her back over to rectify the situation, but decide against it, since I believe to do so would overload her to the point where she would simply dissolve into a puddle of southern fried tears. The chili is good, and we manage o get through the rest of the meal without any major mishaps. Then comes the bill(s) She hands me mine, which all checks out, then starts in on the girls'. First she charges them for two of the same breakfast, even though Flo's was cheaper than Alice's. She then claims that the check is for all three of us, so I hand back my check, then am told, no, it's just for the two girls. When the error in the girls' order is pointed out to her, she tries to convince Flo that by charging her for the breakfast she did not order, it is actually cheaper for her than the ala carte way she did it. Once Flo does the math using the menu, I can actually smell the waitress' gear box starting to smoke as she attempts to do all this addition. This requires her to disappear again and use whatever abacus she has in the back to figure out what the total actually is. She returns and goes through our order with us. First question, "Who had the grilled cheese?" We very politely tell her no-one at our table did, but I do seem to remember someone in the corner ordering something like that back when we were still young. She admits her confusion, and moves on: "Now, we had the milk..." No, we say, in unison, and I believe, harmony. No-one had milk, just three waters and two coffees. "Oh right." At this point, I was willing to gnaw my own arm off to get out. It was almost midnight-thirty, and we had been in this Waffle House longer than anyone should ever be in any Waffle House. Once she finally figured it out, it turns out she decided not to charge me for my chili, since she had taken so long to get it to me. I forgave her everything. But then she said that the credit card machine wouldn't take the cards, so Alice and Flo head to the ATM. Which of course, doesn't work. We tell her this, and she says, "Oh yeah, that's broken. The ATM is over there." She points to a gas station across the parking lot. I rescind my forgiveness.

The girls return and pay the bill. Flo is given a five dollar bill as change, and asks for singles. She is then told that can only happen when someone else comes along to ring something up, since they're not allowed to make change. I pull out three singles, throw them on the table and bolt, thus ending the worst Waffle House experience on record.

Which brings us to today. We performed today at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center War Memorial Auditorium, which sounds far grander than it is. First off, we had to raise our lift gate and bridge from that to their dock, which is really more of a small porch. But we get everything in there, and discover there's no way onto the stage that doesn't involve stairs. Oh, and there are NO WINGS. At all. I don't know what they usually put on in this space, but it ain't theatre. So all f the props and costumes are set up in small rooms behind the stage, which effectively increases the amount of time all the changes will take. And everything has to be lifted up onto the stage. Thank god we had crew. The kind of crew that feel it's perfectly okay to just jump on the truck and start removing things, regardless of what order it's in. Oh yeah, we started out well.

BUT we got everything in, ad set up, and we had over an hour and a half to relax before the show. And the show itself went very well--the crowd, small but not as small as the six people we had yesterday (I exaggerate--it as 137 in a house that seats about 2000.) seemed completely disinterested in the show, but we ascribed that to the two announcements threatening them with bodily harm and social ostracization should they utter a single sound during the performance. Thankfully they loosened up and were thunderous at the end. Then the load-out started. It seemed to go off well, with the crew being helpful and swift, but not intrusive. Levitt, as usual, forgot how the pack is to be called even thoug she has a list, but by now, we don't even comment on it anymore, since really, it does no good. The woman has said on ore than one occasion that regardless of whether she's right or not, we should listen to her. So we get the truck packed up and all seems to be going well, until we are told by Levitt that Ted will not be driving the van as planned because he hurt his toe. It turns out that in their eagerness to help us one of the crew ran over Ted's toe with the cart containing all the deck platforms, both lighting tree bases, and a monitor. In other words, the same piece of equipment that broke Levitt's finger. As I type this, Ted is still at the hospital, being checked out. We pray it's not broken, or if it is, it still allows him to be mobile, otherwise, Schneider goes on Monday. It's bad news, but all in all, not horrible. It's handleable, and while the injury is severe (or could be) it's not life-threatening. So I close up the truck, and start putting the lift gate away. Then--horror. The lift gate stops moving. It is in the lowered position and will not budge, no matter how many times I press the button. I inform Levitt of this, and she, Schneider, and the crew come to look at it. The crew, having seen problems like this before, check it out, then ask me to try again. Sparks come from the mechanism. They pull off the housing for the hydraulics, and there's wiring all messed up. Levitt is on the phone with Ryder, while the crew discuss what could be done. They've dealt with this problem before, they say, and could probably fix it pretty easily. Levitt say no, she called Ryder and is waiting for them to call back. The crew continues to discuss it as Levitt receives the call to get her info for the local Ryder maintenance. At this point, the crew has deduced what the problem most likely is and they have the wires to fix it. They start to go get them, when Levitt says, and I quote, "No, I don't want the truck to blow up. I'm calling people, THANK you." They look to Schneider, who can do naught but shrug in Levitt's direction. So the crew leaves. Levitt who is scheduled to drive the truck today, attempts to get Schneider, or anyone else to switch with her, claiming she needs to take Ted to the hospital. Schneider refuses, and offers to take Ted himself. This leaves Levitt waiting at the truck with Bob for the repairman as we head off to Kodak, TN. About an hour away from our destination, Bob calls and informs us that they had just left Nashville. Kodak is a four hour drive. I guess she shoulda taken the chance on the truck "blowing up." Couldn't happen to a nicer gal.