Leg 4 to 5: Birmingham to Abingdon aka "No You Can Not Sit in the Back of the Cop Car"

I awoke, head pounding, to see a coffee next to my bed. Thank God. I shotgunned my Starbucks and set sail for our destination: Abingdon, Va. Our thought process on picking this place is explained in the next post. Let's just say it was not because of the large number of attractions in Abingdon.

We waved goodbye to the last big city of the trip and exited for the interstate. Now, there are two roads out of Birmingham: I-20 East and I-59 North. I don't know if you're familiar with the layout of our country, but Virginia is actually north of Alabama, not east.



Two hours into I-20 East, Marc once again had a navigator-seat epiphany. We were lost. We needed to get to I-59 North or risk ending up in Atlanta. A quick peak of the map, and a stop at a local gas station pointed us to 77 North, a connecting road heading straight north. To be fair, Marc picked the absolute perfect place to find out we were lost. The next exit from our current one was the junction for 77 North, meaning a quick detour through an Alabama back road was next on our agenda. "Just when I think you can't get any dumber, you go and do something like this...AND TOTALLY REDEEM YOURSELF."



77 North is a long, bumpy road with scenic views and condemning billboards. We drove over our fair share of bridges and stared longingly at endless stretches of still water. We even passed through Rainbow, Al. before finally reaching our destination. It was, as per usual, a pleasant departure from the norm. Marc took tons of pictures while fighting off the nausea induced by his pork rinds (which actually have less calories than a bag of Doritos).



Lunch was next. We stopped at Collinsville, a random departure from the highway, to try and find a lake and hopefully a spot to eat some country cooking. Collinsville was a town where they may have filmed "The Crazies." The only two things in the one-horse town were a Mexican grocery store and a kaboose. Marc made one of the few astute observations in his lifetime by pointing out that we had little chance of finding a lake if we were headed uphill. Elementary, my dear Watson. We never did find that damn lake.




Before hooking up with the highway, we stopped at a small eatery called Smokin' Joes. We opened the door and heard the screech of a record needle. You'd think it was the first time two Pittsburghers on a road trip stopped in there...err...nevermind.

I ordered a cafeteria tray full of sweet country goodness, and Marc took his chances with a barbeque sandwich. Rule of thumb: if you see this written in the bathroom:


"This is a real s*** hole. And your a real bastard"

You can be sure it's going to be a good meal. For something like 4 pieces of eight, I ordered a country-fried steak, fried okra, fried squash, a baked potato, and two pieces of cornbread. If it was possible to fry an entire baked potato, they would have done it. The okra (probably one of the first times I had ever eaten okra) was soft and had a taste similar to fried zucchini. The country fried steak was drowning in white gravy, and although it wasn't the best I had ever eaten, I could safely say that it was fried in the country. The biggest disappointment was the corn bread, which I half-expected to change my life. Instead, I got a dry piece of salty bread. Bummer. Luckily, Marc's sandwich made up for this. The beef was tender, and the sauce had enough bite to startle my taste buds for the ride ahead. Before we left, we got a picture with arguably the two most intimidating men I had ever laid eyes on (despite the appearance, they could not have been nicer).




The final stretch of road from Alabama, through Tennessee, and into Virginia was fairly mundane. Tennessee, based on my observations from the interstate, is known for two things: fireworks and having the most unoriginal city names of all time. This was the first time in the trip that I felt like the destination was more welcome than the journey. I wish I could say stopped to go skeet shooting with Santa Claus, but sometimes it is what it is.




Our Virginia sign pic leaves something to be desired, (no) thanks to a slow trigger finger. We passed through Bristol, hoping that the racetrack somehow intersected with 81 North, but were disappointed. As we passed through the outskirts of the outskirts of Bristol, we noticed the small sign for our destination: Abingdon, Va.




Wait, that's not the Puerto Rican flag,

CPS

Eric Clapton Concert: "My Daddy Named Me After This Song!"

In lieu of depleting funds, we decided to pass on the ethanol we purchased earlier in the day and drive to the concert. Fresh off a blog post from the McDonald's parking lot, I scurried back to the Rest(less) Inn and prepared myself for the fourth Eric Clapton concert of my life. Marc threw on his Clapton/Winwood tee, and we hopped in the car and made way to the FedEx Forum.

First congrats go to the venue. The FedEx Forum is a vast, 18,119 capacity hall, and home to the Memphis Grizzlies. The inside is a combination of nostalgic blues paintings and contemporary design. We set up base camp and started out on a two-mile journey to the summit, also known as our seats. Seats 3 and 4 in row Q of section 215 are flush with the back wall, literally as far from the stage as possible. I think my ears popped on the way up.



Of course, being a half mile from stage didn't bother us from cheering as loud as the lucky fans in the front row. We made it to Clapton, and by God, we were ready.

The opening act, Roger Daltrey, was a blast. He played a a bunch of classics - Baba O'Riley nearly blew the roof off - as well as a Taj Mahal cover...a welcome surprise. The only thing that threw me for a loop was his Old School-esque interpolation of f*** during a few songs. Frankly Roger, I don't want to tell you "Who the F*** I Am."

As the house lights came back on the roadies masterfully recrafted the stage, anticipation grew. Several minutes later, after - in a show of Southern hospitality - I struck up a conversation with a 71 yr. old woman from Tennessee, the lights once again dimmed and the man himself walked on stage. Thousands of people were perched on the edge of their seats, prepared to go nuts upon hearing the first note.

Note: much of the following is based off of co-pilot/"Undisputed Clapton Expert" Marc's professional opinion.

This tour showcased Clapton alone. No other guitarists joined him on stage; instead, he was flanked by two keyboardists.



The night started, well, slow to say the least. Some rhythmic inconsistencies interspersed his usually flawless playing. Clapton seemed off his game for most of the opening songs, but really found his groove in "Old Love." Soon thereafter, the show exploded as Clapton unleashed all hell on a crescendo-ing solo during "I Shot the Sheriff." Marc and I were convinced: for a 64 yr. old recovering heroin-addict, this man knew how to shred.



Clapton really came in to his element during an acoustic set, where he delighted the audience with such classics as "Running on Faith" and "Layla." During "Layla," a beaming Southern girl turned around to share how she was named after this song. Simply adorable Layla, simply adorable.

The show predictably closed with three staples: "Wonderful Tonight," "Cocaine," and "Crossroads." Sure, it was nice to hear these favorites, but I have to ask...when did the encore become such a foregone conclusion? I would have liked to see a little bit more of an unorthodox set, but with so many people assigned to so many jobs, I guess a concert can sometime become a mechanical process.

Nevertheless, the show was a hit. Memphis loved it, we loved it, and I hope Clapton loved it. This could very well be the last time we ever see him, and we're happy to end on a high note.



Pentatonically yours,

CPS

Leg 1.5 to 2: Shepherdsville to Memphis

Elvis, eat your heart out, because we somehow made it.

I napped as we left Kentucky and ventured in to Tennessee. For those who have never been to Tennessee, well, what you see is pretty much what you get. Endless stretches of beautiful forest border both sides of the highway. Other than that, Tennessee is a fairly lonely drive. Our only stop gave us the opportunity to wash the old chariot – likely adding 100,000 more miles to the car’s life.



Perhaps the coolest part of the trip was a Doc Brown-esque trip into Central Time. I looked down at my phone, and then quickly to the speedometer to see if we clocked in at 88mph. Without even realizing it, we gained an hour of time – a welcome surprise, given that we could now take our time instead of trying to beat check-in.

As we passed through Nashville, we eagerly anticipated our arrival to Memphis. Nashville, from the road atleast, is a nice looking city. Maybe the next road trip will lead us through the home of the Predators.



Probably one of the few exciting moments of the drive happened along a quiet stretch somewhere in Tennessee. I took a peek up from my duties as navigator to check the road, and noticed the cars in front of us suddenly parting ways from the center lane. Fearing the worst, I told Marc to get over as quickly as possible. My worst fears were confirmed: someone in a pickup truck had dropped a box of individual serving cereal containers all over the road. Crushed Cocoa Puffs interlaced with Trix across the highway; it was a damn breakfast club massacre. Luckily, no one was hurt, although Toucan Sam was reportedly, "a little upset about the whole thing."



Eventually, after several hundred miles of bleak trees and intimidating state troopers (we must have seen 20 between Shepherdsville and Memphis), we finally made it. I currently sit in a McDonald’s parking lot (thanks for the WiFi McDude), typing this out while residents sit in their cars and idly stare.

A few words about the Ritz Carlton where we are staying – remember in Vacation when they check in to the campground and realize it is, to say the least, not what they expected? It’s kind of like that. The Rest Inn is complete with two shady clerks, a few shady neighbors, and almost enough towels to take a shower. OK, it may be a little bit what we expected, given that we only paid $30 a person, but hey, would it kill to throw a few mini bars of soap in there

(Editor's note: we did find a mini bar of soap. Shortly thereafter, we turned on the TV to discover three...ahem...adult-themed channels among the 20 channels. There's nothing worse before bed than seeing heavily-graphic amateur footage of two overweight "performers." These channels confirmed my fears that this was actually an "hourly rate" motel, if you catch my drift.)



There were two things for us to look forward to in Memphis: barbeque and Eric Clapton. We satisfied one of these cravings in a nifty little joint called Payne’s Barbeque. Dear Lord - I know you’re up there - please send more places like Payne’s. Payne’s is everything we hoped it could be: a dilapidated, family-run shack complete with some of the best meat I’ve ever tasted. Six dollars was all it took to receive a platter full of chopped pork, spicy barbeque sauce, mouth-watering beans, and yellow coleslaw (mustard I guess? Who cares it was delicious). The meat tasted like it had been surgically cooked for the past 8 hours, while the sauce’s actual ingredients are likely under lock and key at Fort Knox. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking some up (thanks Ferris).



As much as I would love to continue, I have a date with the night. Clapton would hate if I stood him up, so until I find a faster WiFi connection than “GebrileOwnsAll,” it’s adios for now. Next update will have pictures of downtown/the concert.

Walking in Memphis,

CPS