Where in the World Is Wylie O'Rylie...Adventure 1...Act 2

            I woke up the morning after St. Patrick’s Day…my mind was usurped with fragrant memories of a distant past, different world.  For fifteen long weird, strange, and nostalgic seconds…I was stuck on stupid, and had no idea that I was, where I was, or how this happened to be…

            The damp cold air assaulted my nostrils, like Indian food on a Tuesday morning…after getting drunk the previous night.  It appeared that I was in a two man jail cell, complete with the latest of prison designer apparel.  With a stunning vista of the yard, garnished with steel fence, seasoned lightly with razor wire and axel grease, my new home had me wonder…WHAT THE FUCK HAD HAPPENED???!!!

            I had been warned my whole life that eventually, I’d get so fucked up on drugs and alcohol, I would do something completely ludicrous, illegal, unethical, retarded based on principals, and just plain irresponsible…like shoot a goofball in my arm, after consuming a fifth of vodka, by myself, at 438am…at some scandalous down town, seedy and shady motel, and decide I wanted to go see my ex-girlfriend on a whim to see if she will still let me suck her tits, while I dry fuck the shit out of her (YUP…IM BRINGING IT BACK!!!) , I hop into a stolen car, proceed to crash into a Mexican, a boat, and a tree…all in one collision, and serve the rest of my life in prison…but that’s not what just happened…oh shit…now I remember…(FLASH BACK MUSIC INSERTED HERE!!!)

            Bobby Lee had kept me under his aegis, seven out of the twelve days, I was marooned in this little cottage town called Knoxville.  Bobby Lee was a southern chief from Louisiana, who looked and sounded like Dave Chapel.  With spontaneous attitude toward the bible, drinking booze, and an unrealistic fear and loathing toward the Ku Klux Klan (which I had assumed to be a ferry tale, like the tooth fairy, the boogie man, or Michael Jackson) and since Bobby Lee had hooked me up with a place to stay, I had to get his back, until he asked me that question…

            “Hey Cali Man???...” Bobby Lee asked as he looked from one side of the room to another, a sign that did not bode well.  He continued “To keep our electricity oh-on, we's needs $102 dollaz…and’s in’s eye’s was a think’in, we can pawn yo bass for a moment.  I know of a shop where we’s a-can put it on ice.  I know…” he continued, as if he had premeditated this tirade, “it won’t take long to get it out, but…”

            “Hold the fuck up man!” I interrupted, “That’s like my tool, you know, i am on the road, like Jack Caurack, I need that!” 

            So it was understood at that point, that my bass would have NO PART in this $102 crack deal.  I immediately made plans for Nashville.  Since I was unemployed, and clueless as to where my pilgrimage would lead me (other then to California, Texas, or Colorado) I was in no rush at all.  Everyone suggested I check out Nashville, since I am a musician first and foremost.  My new destiny conjured images that rivaled a tempest over the sea…Nashville, the dirty little cowboy town I would fall in love with!

            Having successfully burned the locals, scammed the tourists, and made local law enforcement look retarded, I could sense that the jig was up!  I remember leaving Washington D.C. with $60 in my wallet, my electric 6-string bass, two backpacks full of clothes, boarding a buss with no issues other then having no bear for the ride.

            I had now been rejected three consecutive nights in a row, exactly at 1130pm.  The bus would continuously reject me, not due to lack of finance resources, but lack of monetary instruments to utilize.  I had no credit card on hand, so no reservation was made in my behalf, and the bus drivers were dicks.  I called a contact on the west coast and had a reservation made for the following night, St. Patrick’s Day.

            “Yo Chris? What’s up?”

            “Nothing dude…so how’s Virginia, or Tennessee…or where ever the fuck you are?”

            “It’s rotten!” I began to protest.  “I’m fucked, and I need your help!  Just listen…the whole town is going to lynch me tomorrow at noon if I don’t get the fuck out of here right now!” I paused and waited for Chris to reply.

            “So…what do I have to do?” Chris asked.

            “I need you to order me a bus ticket to Nashville.  It like twelve dollars or some shit!”

            So Chris agreed, and I then proceeded to make the unwise decision of spending the rest of the day in Market Square, getting drunk and burning shit!

            The Saga Continues….