So, I don’t like to get into discussing politics too much, mostly because I feel like all sides are in it for themselves first. I generally believe in voting for the lesser of all evils. But dammit, I just have some things to say and some observations to share from the various communities I’ve encountered during this campaign debacle . . .

McCain’s campaign posted ads this morning claiming McCain’s victory in this evening’s upcoming presidential debate. What??!

It’s been interesting being on the road during the pre-election time. I don’t know what Kentuckians are thinking because we didn’t talk too much about any kind of politics. Those folks are just trying to keep food on their tables mostly. I saw disturbing signs of economic turmoil out in the country – restaurants slashing their operating hours, unemployment, fuel unavailability – all in an isolated area without alot of money or prospects to begin with. They do, however, really like tractors and Jesus. So, I bet I know how the voting will go – at least for those who will vote, and you can bet that many will not.

Texas, where our current village idiot in the White House is from, actually has a broad base of Obama support – at least in Austin where I’m staying, so that’s nice to see.

In Illinois, the heart of Obama’s campaign, my grandma said, “Hey, how do you like our upcoming lady vice president?” I just grumbled a response and she followed with a surly reply of “Well, then I just won’t talk about how I’m voting.”

As my friends and I sat around last night drinking beer and living the good life and seriously discussing the crumbling economy, someone piped in that the bailout is basically the current regime’s plan to spend all of the upcoming administration’s funding before they have a chance to use it. That made sense to me. Someone else suggested that since Congress wants to bail out America with $700 billion, that they could just cut a check to every single American. I think that’s a nice idea.

If you’d like to read quite possibly the only instance of The Onion newspaper telling the truth about something, check out their editorial expose on Palin. Lots of laughs, but unfortunately, it is all indeed true.

All of you folks who joked four years ago about jetting to Canada – did you ever think it could possibly get any worse? I thankfully don’t watch the idiot box  TV, but every once in awhile I’m in a room with it and this morning I heard a reputable news channel playing in the background and the circus and sensationalism sounded more theatrical than a movie trailer – because my dears, that is exactly what it is. Oh, what we are being sold.

Yes, there are real problems with our economy. The enormous growth we’ve seen in the past decade plus has been built upon a hollow foundation. A market will always correct itself. Problem is, our growth was way too fast to ever be sustainable. Kinda like every facet of what’s happening on our planet. The current trend of humanity is to think in a linear way, ever wanting to grow and expand, never thinking of the circular nature of things. Kind of like the whole concept of when you pick flowers, you never pick them all, you leave some behind to re-establish the population for the next time you gather. Well, not only have we picked every single flower, but we also have over-extended the credit of many years of flower-picking, if you get my metaphor.

I have a real bad feeling in my stomach these days. A feeling that in one year, two years, twenty years . . . who knows . . . that the truth will come out and it will stink even more than Enron . . . and that the pockets of many on the top of this giant pyramid scheme will be fattened yet again at the expense of everyone else.

And so it goes. Status quo. We’re all still kinda fat and mostly happy, and this is enough to keep us hooked in to allowing them to do . . . whatever . . . they . . . want. And the Republicans basically think/believe/want to bring about the second coming of Christ. Seriously, it’s part of their version of Manifest Destiny.

So, I say in the spirit of my friend Kurt Vonnegut, let’s go ahead and let the excrement hit the air conditioning. Because one of these upcoming days, it’s going to anyway, so let’s see how we all can deal with hard stuff . . . ’cause I sit and listen to my grandma (yeah, the one who’s voting badly) talk about growing up during the Great Depression. We don’t know what hard times are. I don’t want to see them per se, but I’d really like to see more Americans with the testicular fortitude to see beyond what we’re being sold and to do something about it instead of simply allowing the circus to perpetuate.

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!”

It’s tobacco harvest time. There’s an air of anticipation every minute of every day out here right now for me as I drive through the back roads and look out at the fields. The tobacco looks good – giant broad-leafed dark green plants. I wonder what a tobacco field smells like.

I’ve thought about just walking into someone’s field and checking it out, touching the plants and getting some good pictures. And I’ve gone so far as to drive deep into the country in order to do just that. I’ll find a good field and then realize that I cannot just traipse into someone’s field and start fondling their crops.

I tried to meet some farmers and go out into the fields with them as I am fascinated by seeing the tobacco harvest come in. But something in my gut says to let it go. The men who work these tobacco fields, at least the ones I’ve met in the only local bar for 20 miles in either direction, have their own culture and pace and ideas about things. I’ve met many kind souls and I’m not trying to say otherwise – it’s just that they simply don’t understand why in the world I’d want to come to the fields and see what it is they are doing. So I don’t press the issue.

And apparently, lots of illegal immigrants come here to work the fields, so if I showed up with a camera, everybody would disappear because they don’t want their pictures taken. No, you just don’t go around shooting snaps in the fields around here. So, I’m watching the tobacco harvest come in from an outsider’s perspective as I drive past in my car. One day a field I’ve been watching will be full and the next day, just bare red clay. Trucks loaded with crews amble down the back roads with sticks of tobacco leaves tied and stacked. Then they hang the tobacco up in barns to dry and smoke it.

As I drive along, I know when I’m coming up on a barn – I can smell it before I see it.

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.

So this morning we were in town, searching for internet options. We decided to hit the drive-thru at Arby’s and ask them, my logic being that some Arby’s restaurants do have Wi-Fi. “What’s tha-a-a-t?” exclaimed the girl on the drive-thru headset. She actually thought we were trying to redeem a coupon.

There’s alot going on out here and alot of nothing all at the same time. I won second place at the Tenn-Tucky karaoke contest last week despite the fact that I haven’t had much of a voice since arriving here due to going out every night and yelling and screaming and smoking. This is tobacco country. Everybody smokes. It’s just what you do here. But Baby Got Back won me second place and $50 bucks.

We hang out alot at the local cafe where coffee is only a quarter. A quarter! Then there’s always burger night at the Truck Stop. Don’t let the name fool you, like it did me. This ‘Truck Stop’ is a tiny little restaurant with one gas pump that just happens to also offer diesel and a roof over the pumps that’s tall enough to accomodate a semi. But I’ve never seen a trucker there.

I’m finally beginning to get into a rhythm. I’ve kind of been a beer-guzzling sloth lately and catching up on sleep the past couple of weeks. But within the past few days, I’ve found out who is in charge of the barn art I’ve been seeing in Adairville and I’ve actually been commisioned to do a piece, which I’m very excited about.

It’s about the beginning of harvest time. They’re starting to cut the tobacco and hang it in the ‘baccer barns. After it hangs for a couple of days (?), then they smoke it. I’ve seen several smoking barns within the last few days. The smell of the tobacco wafts across the fields and is the herald of autumn. I’ve driven around with the hope of getting pictures, but people here are very guarded. I don’t blame them. It’s difficult to just rock up and start snapping pix.

The fresh food we’ve been getting is divine! Our neighbor Joe gives us a bag of tomatoes just about every day. Some one down at Tenn-Tucky gave us two boxes of fresh corn. Cantaloupes and peaches are in season right now . . . as well as zucchini and cucumbers.

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, I’ll admit it.

I glamourized the country life just a little bit in my head. I am having a great time out here, I love it. I love walking through the soybean fields, seeing the new plants poke up from the wheat that was harvested last month. I love the solitude. The old house I’m staying is like a grandiose time warp, the calendar in the kitchen is dated August, 1963. I can be as loud as I want. I love the fact that I am reposing in a part of the country that’s so unique and that few people ever get to know about. But . . . there are a few shortcomings to country life that I hadn’t thought of til I got out here.

Fuel Dependency is a big issue. You pretty much have to have a car to leave the property. I thought I’d be able to walk to town and putter around. Town is only a few miles away, but the main problem I have with using my ambulatory abilities is that every neighbor has at least one mean farm dog. I get to the end of the lane and they are already barking and tearing across the nearby property, heading my way. I carry a tobacco stick for protection, but I don’t want to take on three strange dogs by myself.

And oddly enough, safety is a bit of a concern. Not a worry, so much, but a concern. I was walking through one of the fields the other day, when I noticed a car coming down the road. Whoever was in the car saw me and then slowed waaay down. I didn’t like that. Also, I’m not the kind of person who is intimidated by going anywhere by myself, but I can honestly say that around here, I feel safer when not alone. There are alot of drunk, obnoxious men with an air of lawlessness in their eyes who don’t know how to act when they see a hippie girl in flowery dress and floppy hat who is obviously not from around here. (Whoa, just wait til I roller skate the square in Adairville.)

A friend asked me today what happens when the newness of living in Tenn-Tucky wears off and we all stop having a good time. And honestly, that’s part of the reason why we’re all leaving when it gets cold. It’ll be time to move on. And I’ve been meeting alot of locals around here who very much feel stuck. They regard us as novelties – as much as we regard them in the same way. So, this is a great adventure for me, but this place is a bit like summer camp as I know it will have an end. And that makes any short-comings bearable.

I’m eating tons of bacon and drinking PBR daily, so when you get right down to it all of my complaints about country life have to do with my magical expanding ass coupled with a lack of viable exercise. I might have to (gasp!) start doing yoga or some such shit. Sigh. I suppose them’s the brakes. Bacon is worth it. So is beer.

I drove 20 hours straight from ABQ to the farm in Kentucky to live with my new boyfriend Matt and his friend Hardy. I don’t think that driving 20 hours straight was the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but I wanted the experience. Plus I was paranoid that someone would see all the boxes in my car and try to rob me. And the bulk of what I had with me was every shred of writing I’ve ever done in my whole entire life, so it was more important to me than anything and I didn’t want to chance losing any of it.

While on the road, I encountered two dudes who were robbed at gunpoint and their truck had two bullet holes in the driver’s door. They got held up in Oklahoma City. It made me feel like my choice to drive all night long was a correct one. Arkansas smells. Stinks like a combination of manure, moth balls and skunks. My arrival in Nashville greeted me with rain and crazy fast drivers during morning rush hour. Perfect and typical Nashville greeting. I got to the farm just when the rain started to fall really hard on the tin roof of the farmhouse. Perfect.

I don’t have internet on the farm, but plan on trying to update this blog at least twice a week. So stay tuned!

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.”

I left East Nashville on Monday and headed up to visit my friends Matt and Hardy at Hardy’s farm, which sits right on the Tennessee-Kentucky state line. I stayed only two delightful days, but packed alot of good times inside of 48 hours.

I had a bit of trouble finding the place and cell signals don’t work so well up there, so I stopped in for a respite at the Tenn-Tucky Tavern, located on the state line between Tennessee and Kentucky. I knew they’d wonder where I was and eventually find me, so I wasn’t too worried.

“Do ya’ll serve food here?” I asked the bartender, who just shook her head and laughed. “All right then, I guess I’ll just be having a PBR tallboy and a pack of smokes.” Turns out that bartender was one of my customers when I used to be a traveling sex toy saleslady in those parts. Such a small world.

After Matt and Hardy collected me from the Tavern, we went to the farm and visited two completely different ends of the culinary spectrum. First we cracked open a wheel of brie and a nice bottle of red wine and then followed that up with lots of PBR and some boy-scout style open pit cooking using nothing but hot coals and shovel.

We waited til dark, grabbed some tobacco sticks to use as hiking poles and then tromped through the woods, exploring a long abandoned one-room schoolhouse and a pre Civil War graveyard. We ran through fields of mist. We hung out for a bit on the state-line road. I stretched out with my head on the Tennessee pavement as my legs dangled into Kentucky’s border. Why that was so much fun is beyond me, but it was.

We stayed up all night long listening to music. I played some air banjo. We danced our asses off to old records – my favorite in particular was The Crazy Water Barn Dance. When the sun rose, casting a golden sheen on the cut wheat fields, I finally went to bed.

I love unemployment.