I love that everywhere I go, I seem to find the ‘other ones’ out there. By other ones, I mean the freaks of the world. Thank you freaks of the world for always finding me. I love you. We gotta keep this would-be straight-edged world just a little skewed.

We arrived to the Charlotte  North Carolina International Airport last night to find that our connecting flight was delayed. So doing what any good traveler would do,  we headed straight to the airport bar. Just as we order beers and get settled, I notice a tiny little old lady with a sparkle in her eye and a rather glitzy hat sitting at the table next to us, picking at chips and salsa like a little bird and looking around at everyone.

She caught my gaze and yelled, “I love your hat!”

“I love yours too!” I called back. Her purple hat was covered with little Vishnus and glittery gold trim.

“Wanna trade?” she asked.

“OK,” I said. And I was serious. I would have traded, was ready to trade, was about to jump off my stool and grab her hat. It wasn’t that I liked her hat better than my own, it’s just that a spunky little old lady asking if you want to trade hats is a special and uncommon occurence worthy of a no-questions-asked swap.

“No,” she answered. “I can’t really do that. But you can still give me yours!”

Bobbie is her name. She hangs out with us for awhile, flitting around between our table, the piano player and sometimes, she traipses behind the bar to hug the bartender, who is clearly nervous about the patron-grandmother.

“I missed my plane on purpose!” she exclaims with the glee. “I want to stay here and party! You know, I come from a small town where all they do is tell you what you are doing wrong . . . ”

Indeed. “What makes you different than all of them you think?” I ask.

“My grandmother,” she said. “I’m just like her. My grandmother never would tell her age to anyone. She marked out her birthday in the family bible so hard that she ripped the page. And do you know, my adopted grand-daughter always tells me ‘Bobbie, you are too old. You need to learn to act right.’” She erupts in tinkling little giggles that float up into the air like the toasting of wine glasses.

Bobbie runs off to dance near the piano again. The bartender comes over and explains her concern about the little old lady. “I mean, I love her spirit and all,” the bartender said, “But I’m scared that she’s a little nuts. If something isn’t right with her and something happens to her, they are gonna blame me. She’s told everyone in the bar that she missed her plane on purpose!”

The Charlotte airport is close enough to Columbia that Matt’s parents came and picked us up. By then, Ms. Bobbie had already flitted on, partying in her own way.

God bless the freaks, every one, young and old. And especially the young at heart. I love you, Ms. Bobbie.

Election Day – Morning. It’s a gorgeous sun-shiney day.

So, I just got out of the acupuncturist’s office and I’m all zen and shit, ’cause I just got poked with needles in my feet, neck and third eye chakra in an attempt to de-stress-ify myself and I’m walking to the polls to vote for CHANGE. I did my research. Not only was I ecstatic about voting for the new president, but I also knew how I wanted to vote on every single California Proposition on the ballot. I had a cheat sheet with me just so I would get it right.

As I said before, this year I chose not to work the polls. When I do not work the polls, I am a bit of a polling-place watchdog because I know that most people are not familiar with polls, having never worked them and have no idea what to expect. And since I do know a bit about polling place law, I keep an eye out in an effort to keep the process as pure as possible – because when dealing with the public, you get all kinds of folks with all kinds of passions – especially during this election.

As I walked up to my polling place, a lady with an anti-Prop 8 t-shirt tried to give me a flyer endorsing a “no” vote on Proposition 8. For those living outside of California (or under a rock), Proposition 8 was a church sponsored measure to overturn the same-sex marriage law and to legally define a marriage as a union between one man and one woman. Of course, I’m not a bigoted asshole, so I already had plans on voting “no” on Prop 8. But I was afraid that the activist was within 100′ of a polling place, so I stopped to tell her that she needed to be outside of the 100′ range of the front door. She informed me that the yellow signs on the hill above where she stood marked the required 100′. I smiled, gave her a thumbs up and went on my merry-zen way.

Then some crotchety, bitter, older woman on the verge of being elderly stomped up in line behind me. She was withered, her mouth set in a perpetual sneer,  with bleach-blond hair and a nose so crooked that she could have drowned had it been raining too hard. The only reason I noticed her was because after she got in line behind me, she began yelling toward the anti-Prop 8 woman on the street. I felt, and still feel, like I may have jumped the gun a lil’ bit and maybe have been too over-zealous about my self-appointed polling watchdog duties. But did I hear the tone in the older woman’s voice coupled with the angry sneer and then the words came out of her mouth.

“No, you have to listen to me,” she shouted at the anti-Prop 8 activist who was standing where she legally had to be, on the sidewalk, over 100′ away. I was NOT going to listen to this angry woman have any sort of screaming match over this issue, not while I was in line and not within that god-damned 100′ of pure voter safe haven. No, not on my watch,  I didn’t care if this insidious woman was my neighbor or not. Besides, hey, isn’t this Venice, California, the sanctuary of freak-dom?

“You know what?” I said to the sneering, screaming, finger-pointing woman. “If you want to have a conversation with her,” I pointed toward the anti-Prop 8 lady on the street, “then by law you have to do it on the other side of these yellow signs.”

The screaming lady turned to me and said, “You have a real attitude, you know that?” My zen began to melt. I guess I pointed my finger in her face when I repeated the mandate, “You have to go speak to her from over there,” I said. “Because right now you are within 100′ of a polling place and I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to get your finger out of my face.” The old biddy shouted at me. She got within inches of my face, definitely violating my personal space and repeated her plan of attack on me. “You have to listen to me . . .”

I cut her off, because yeah, I have an Annatude all right and I don’t have to do anything, least of all listen to her nonsense. “Actually, I refuse to listen to you.” I said.

She countered with a furied stutter. “C-c-an I just . . . ask you one-one question. God, you have real attitude, you know that?” She looked like she wanted to spit, she was so angry.

“I do not wish to have a conversation with you.” I said, and turned my back. And thankfully, those zen-melted words were enough to keep her quiet or else it could have gotten real ugly, real quick because I was for-real angry. And people in line all around the two of us were dead silent. No one dared speak to or look at either one of us the entire time. The line wasn’t very long, but the 15 minute wait seemed like hours to me. The crazy lady left the line more than once, mumbling to herself, each time asking the lady behind her if she’d hold her place in line.

Each time she returned, much to my dismay, she claimed her rightful place in line, right behind me. I couldn’t believe how different this line was than the other precinct down the street. I went to the incorrect polling place earlier in the morning and was met by hordes of cheerful people with wide grins who were as ecstatic about voting as I. We all merrily chirped about the fact that together, we were all about to make history.

This polling place experience was turning out so much differently. Much to my chagrin, she would be right there in line behind me, potentially listening as I gave my name and address to the roster clerk. And because we live in the same precinct, she was more than likely a neighbor of mine. As soon as I gave the clerk my name and address, I kept an open ear in order to hear hers. (And you know what? I found out where that bitch lives. And I caught her last name too. She’s a couple of streets over.)

So, I voted. Right as I started my monthly cramps. Right as some guy who was next in line for an open booth answered his cell phone and said in a booming authoritative kind of voice, “Oh, I can’t talk. I’m in line next to vote,”  and proceeded to negotiate some sort of business deal over the phone for what seemed like a fucking eternity. I glared at him as I stabbed the ballot with my inky stylus, re-read the questions so I would make no mistakes, and felt another cramp in my lower belly. Ahhh, it made so much more sense now as to my state of mind!

When I exited my precinct polling place, the bitchy ole blonde was nowhere to be found, thankfully. But I did approach the anti-Prop 8 lady for a little bit of gossip. “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry I started any shit with that crazy old woman. I just didn’t want to hear her heckle you.” I should mention that at this point I still wasn’t sure if I was just an off-the-wall, crazed PMS-ing troublemaker or if I had any reason to be justified in my poll line actions.

“It’s OK,” the anti-Prop 8 lady smiled. She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Someone told me that while she voted, she mumbled, ‘Jesus is watching me vote right now.”

It pains me to say that all of those Christian people are at home smiling right now, patting themselves on the back, because although as a country we all have a victory in the White House, Prop 8 did in fact pass in California with a razor-thin margin.

I still can’t believe that crazy old woman is my neighbor and I still can’t believe that she thinks that Jesus was watching her vote, sitting on his cloud, halo on his head and smiling down at her. And most of all, I honestly can’t believe I got so bent out of shape by the entire incident.

Many times over the summer, Matt and I would venture down to the Cardinal Cafe in Adairville, Kentucky for a cup of their .25 cent coffee and air conditioning. Unfortunately, due to the ‘economic downturn’ of our country, the price of the Cardinal Cafe’s coffee skyrocketed to .50 cents, but we kept going anyway. I’d want to go so I could get some writing done, but I was never able to because the owner, who is also the cook, would constantly engage us in conversation.

Monday was our last foray to the Cardinal Cafe and when Mike, the owner, found out, he insisted that we all give him our autographs. He lined out three kitchen tickets on the counter – one each for Matt and Hardy and I. We each obliged, writing a little ‘thank-you’ blurb and signing our names. Mike beamed as he thumb-tacked each one to the cafe wall underneath the daily menu board.

Then Matt and I headed to the Adairville library, a place where the hours actually shorten when school begins. There’s only one librarian, Barbara. When we walked in, I said, “Hey Barbara, how’s your son doing? I heard he was in a really bad car accident. I hope he gets better soon.” She thanked me and after our chat I said good-bye and informed her that our summer in Adairville was over and we were leaving the next day. She tilted her head and then said, “Hey, are you all the ones that Dick Dickerson wrote about in the county paper?”

Dick is our neighbor down the road. He’s the local politician, writer, historian and all around civic guy. We ran into him constantly all summer and almost every time, he’d mention how he believed that someday we’d all be famous. He’s a really nice guy. We liked having him around to chat with.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “What did his article say?”

“Well, the headline was ‘Movie Stars on State Line Road.’”

“Ha!” I laughed. “Yes, that’s us!”

Welcome to country life!

We are lucky that we live next to Mr. Joe. He’s like the honorary mayor of Adairville. He’s 80 years old and has lived here his whole life. Everybody knows him. The first thing anyone asks when they meet us is “Ya’ll ain’t from around here, are ya?” The second thing people ask is “Where do ya’ll live?” Then we tell them that we live in the house just past Mr. Joe’s.

It’s like Mr. Joe is our ticket to being an insider. Any air of suspicion that we are regarded with melts away the second that they hear we live near Mr. Joe. They just nod their heads and say, “Oh yeah, I know where that is!” Suddenly, it’s like the locals know we’re all right. We’ve passed the first test.

Word about everything gets out quick around here.

Somebody said the quilt-pattern art on the barn at the Tenn-Tucky Tavern was a swastika. Within days the owner of the place heard that word in the hills was that she was running a Neo-Nazi biker bar, so the art, even though it was just a quilt pattern and not a swastika, had to come down. Tenn-Tucky is a real community resource for us. One of the bartenders made a crock pot full of gumbo for us. The Kentucky side is dry and we’re in the middle of nowhere, so everybody comes by to nab $4.95 6-packs of Busch to go. We’ve met half the town with the hours we’ve logged in there.

I’ve met some interesting characters. I had to tell the girl at the coffee shop the other day, bless her heart, that her continuing references to church were making me uncomfortable. A mexican farm hand tried to openly buy me by asking and offering money to my boyfriend. There’s the self proclaimed heavy metal guitar player from hell who quickly added in that he believes in god. And I can’t wait to try the “Okra Man’s” pickled okra.

I’ve been noticing nature, too. Finding snake skins, spying deer in the front yard and noticing that when the lightning is crackling before a storm that the lightning bugs flicker at twice their normal speed. We were flying down a back country road the other day and I almost ran over about 20 wild turkeys. That was cool. I’m trying to get tours of local dairy and tobacco farms with some of the farmers I’ve met at Tenn-Tucky and planning on reporting fully.

So last week after we got back to the farm from our Memphis excursion, we decided to check out a bar in Springfield, Tennessee that the locals call the ‘Stop ‘N Stab.’ We’d heard lots of tales and warnings, but wanted to check it out for ourselves.

We couldn’t find it at first and stopped at a local liquor store to get directions.

First, we inquired about Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. I’m here to tell you that it’s the BEST stuff. It’s made in South Carolina and kind of hard to find outside of the extreme Southeast. We’re running low and need to special order some more. Then we also asked for directions to The Piggy Pit – the real name of the ‘Stop ‘N Stab.’

The liquor store saleslady’s eyes got really wide when we inquired and she said, “Oh, I’d never go there unless I knew somebody. People die up there. People get shot and stabbed ‘n stuff.” Perfect! That’s just what we heard too!

“Well,” we said, “we want to go anyway.”

“Hey Mike!” she screamed to the back of the store to the her manager, “How do you get to that shootin’, stabbin’ place? They wanna know!”

We got directions and headed out. I’m not gonna lie, we were scared. We were even worried about where we parked. But when we got inside, it was just another normal community beer joint. People didn’t smile at us. They looked at us. We looked at them. I think we were lucky because it was still daylight. We ordered one round and then left. The place is in a bad neighborhood, so I could see how it might get rough at night.

Ha! We’re going tomorrow.

Yes, as in also.

Trust me on this . . . 5 bucks and a 6-pack of Coca-cola gets you a lifetime membership. Oh, and the stain, ask about the stain. Make sure you see Elvis’ report card from where he failed Music class. Holly Springs, Mississippi – Graceland Too . . . if you are ever remotely near Memphis, you have to go . . . and preferably with a whiskey buzz.

This Temple dedicated to The King is open 24/7 and is known 100% by word of mouth. We rode up to the mansion built in 1853, turned all-time #1 Elvis Fan shrine, all excited and between the four of us we had two cases of Coca-cola. With it’s rows of barbed wired cement lions covered in white rope lights, the place did indeed look strange enough to be the final destination for our goofy pilgrimage . . . We knocked on the duck-taped door. No one at home. So, we decided he must’ve walked down to the Piggly Wiggly for groceries and that if we waited around awhile, he’d be back around nightfall.

We went up to the square and found a little diner. When we asked the waitress about Graceland Too, she just smiled and said in her Southern motherly voice, “Well, now, ya’ll will have a good time, no doubt. I mean, I’ve never been myself, but I cannot guarantee that every little thang that comes out of his mouth is the truth . . . He’ll be back prob’ly after ya’ll have time to eat dinner. I bet he walked down to the Piggly Wiggly.”

Two elderly ladies with canes came up to our table and said, “We saw ya’ll standing outside of Graceland Too. Neither of us has ever been, but he sure is an interesting fella. You’ll have a good time.”

We went back, just as a carload of frat boys pulled up too. This time he opened the door. Every surface of every wall and ceiling are covered with some sort of Elvis picture or printed out comment from people who’ve visited. He tells lots of tall tales, but I can’t remember most of them because I was so fixated on his floppy false teeth slipping around in his mouth. I do remember that he named his own son Elvis Aaron Presley McLeod and is absolutely convinced that Elvis and his son Elvis look 100% alike. He sang for us, told lots of stories and after the first room, we were all openly cracking up at him, not with him – but the best part is, he doesn’t care!

He’s a dirty old man and says that Cokes make him horny. He has a pink Cadillac and lots of other strange items, like a fake electric chair and fake ball and chain props made with black spray-painted basketballs. He talks about raking in the money and shows pictures of a rake and alot of money (I saw 1′s and 5′s in with those 100′s) taken from his front porch. Most All of the stories he tells are about himself, but it’s a trippy little delight.

I think Elvis would be proud . . . and really that’s all that matters. And don’t forget to ask about the stain.

And on those aforementioned BAD days, sometimes some people forget to use their turn signal, K? Hang with me, I know this sounds ugly even though it’s posted in the ‘Dwell in Positivity’ category . . .

So, Mister Silver Beamer in the parking lot of Union Station in Champaign Illinois tonight who gave me MAJOR attitude for not using my blinker, I’ve had a bad fucking day. I woke up this morning on a couch in a nursing home, smelling cranky old ladies’ feet and worried sick about my granny who will be 90 tomorrow. I was awake all night long last night listening to her choke and cough and gag on the half-clotting blood from her endlessly bleeding nose.

The reason, Mr.-Heartland-Do-Right-Perfection-of-Driving-Beamer-Man, that I could not use my fucking turn signal is because I had clasped in a death-grip in my non-driving hand my Granny’s spare oxygen tank. I’d just dropped her off at the on ramp of the nursing home located across the street and had offered to carry her spare tank up to her room for her. In case you don’t know, apparently oxygen tanks cannot tip over, or something really bad happens, at least that’s what Granny’s lecture to me implied. (Or whether something bad truly happens or not, my granny seems to think it to be so and therefore completely freaks out about it, and that just makes me not want to know what happens, quite frankly.)

I turned the corner to go into the parking lot and this asshole who could not have turned anyway (because I was driving on the road perpendicular to him) totally gave me an incredulous WTF shrug instead of the less eloquent middle finger. And you know what? I probably would have responded better to an obscene hand gesture instead of a patronizing shrug and the wifey’s smug looks.

I kind of lost it. I stopped right then and there as I pulled up right next to his BMW and I took the time to hand crank the window of my rental car down . . . (yah, I didn’t spring for the luxury rental car with the power package) . . . and I lifted the oxygen tank up into the air. I think Mr. Aged Fuckwad and his family thought I was about to pull a gun or something.

“Hey,” he said as though he were lecturing a teenager, “All I ask is that you use a blinker and tell me what you’re doing.”

I shot fire from my eyes and said, “Look. I’ve had a bad day, OK? I hope,” I paused, “that you have a good night.” The wife made some kind of righteous comment that I did not hear, but her tone reeked of mockery.

And I rolled on. And I really meant it in that moment. And still do. I truly hope they have a better night than the day I had. And of course, this event was just the proverbial last straw . . . there was much more that contributed to a collectively difficult day.

(Deep Breath.) All I am attempting to illustrate is that sometimes you just never know what others have been dealing with during a typical day. Remember that the next time you feel the need to be a dick and I will try to do the same and maybe all of us on this rock can get along a little better. Compassion. Try it.

My friend Smack and I went to one my favorite Nashville used booksellers, The BookWoman, the other day while I was in town. We spent hours perusing the endless dark aisles of books while thunderstorms boomed outside in Hillsboro Village. My perfect definition of a way to spend an afternoon.

She pulled a book off the shelf. It was Siddhartha, a book that’s on my reading list.

“Banana,” Smack said, “have you read this yet?”

“Not yet.” I said.

“It’s only a dollar. You need this.”

She is correct. I do need it. It is, after all, on my list. When the BookWoman tallied up my spoils, the price seemed more than I’d calculated in my head. I asked her to go over the receipt with me. Turns out Siddhartha was $6.95.

“I thought this one was a dollar.” I said, pointing to the book in question.

The BookWoman took a deep breath and a long pause and peered at me over her the top of her bifocals. “Honey,” she said, “That one is never a dollar.”

Fair enough. I’ll be reading it this weekend. Obviously I agreed with her because I purchased the book. I’ll let ya know what I think.

Everybody knows everybody in small towns.

Yesterday, we went to grab some food at Green Acres diner – home of the monster burger – in Adairville, Kentucky. As we waited for our burgers, I perused the community bulletin board. On it, I found a business card for The Ghost Hunter.

As we entertained ourselves with speculation about The Ghost Hunter, I thought to myself, “Hmm . . I wonder if that person is sitting in here right now or if someone he knows is.” I felt as though the chances were slim since there were only four other patrons in the restaurant.

Our top questions for the Ghost Hunter are:

Does he investigate crop circles? What is his stance on aliens? How ’bout ghost-aliens? Ghost-robots? And where did he find the clip art for his card?

After we finished the last of our tater tots and onion rings, we got up to pay the bill just as the two now remaining customers were also getting up to check out. I thumb-tacked the Ghost Hunter’s card back up to the cork board. The man in line said, “You got a kick outta my card, huh?”

“Do you do aliens too?” I asked.

He just laughed and pointed to his wife. “Naw, that’s her territory.”