PHST Day 3

For some reason small towns think that the best form of communication is to find the biggest boulder within 100 miles, plant it in front of a building, and then continually coat it with random shades of paint, thus serving the purpose of a multi-colored landmark, and extremely ugly advertising.

For full effect, download "Home" by Michael Buble, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. To get the extreme feeling of what today has been like, just get a trio of baritones and start singing the chorus one line before the bridge has actually ended on the radio.

Along with the rocks, these small towns have their own feel about them. And I think what defines where we have been for the past few days is the throngs of tourists that seem to blanket every nook and cranny south of I-70.

Tourists are an interesting attraction to gawk at in open public. Even better is trying to figure out what kind of gossip they are spreading amongst themselves, despite the fact that they're speaking Danish or Swedish, or some other language that has the symbols # and % in its known alphabet.

Tourists are their own breed. They have their own standards of grooming that for some reason seem suitable for a pet shelter in the projects. You know what I mean, a lack of deodorant, the throngs of tie-dye capris, the lack of bras and bros providing support, both moral and literal.

Frank Costanza: "Manziere!"

For a minute back there, I was starting to warm up to country music. But that one Kenny Chesney song "Come Over" seemed to put a bad taste in my mouth, almost like gargling a mouthful of scope followed by a chaser of orange juice. I would rather listen to the white static that is coming from the unending scan cycle over non-existent FM stations out here.

Have I mentioned before that this part of the country smells worse than a dead horse in my morning sheets? It's like a turd covered in burnt hair (LTT). Between that and the fact that the word "girth" has been mentioned more than five times in conversation this afternoon. Who says the word girth anyway?

Keith Tronic: "It smells like Arabian Donkey Tuna!"

It has been a long day. As I looked over at the Rhinestone Cowboy this afternoon, both of us sat bewildered that the calendars on our phones only said the word "Tuesday". Will we make it to the end of this week? Who knows. All I know is that the rest of my night is going to be spent at my hotel bunking up with the Rhinestone Cowboy.

Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get to be the big spoon.