I’m Goin to Gourdland

While I was driving to NashVegas for my gourd appointment with Dr. Brain today, I noticed what everyone else may have noticed but never commented upon in literary form.  Once you hit the Tennessee state line, there is at least one Waffle House per exit.  Some exits have both a Waffle House and a Cracker Barrel.  So people in Tennessee either wake up early and hungry, or, late and confused about what meal time it is.  I bet there are people in Tennessee that use a waffle iron to cook breakfast, and to get wrinkles out of their clothes.  Based on the prevalence of Houses containing Waffles and Barrels full of Crackers you see once you cross the line, I’d have to surmestigate – that’s a mix between “surmise” and “investigate” all rolled up into one little word that makes no sense – Volunteers’ blood has a heavy concentration of butter, bacon grease, and lard.  You can’t be eating that much breakfast food without being banned from every blood drive for which one could Volunteer.  Hell, if you thought transmitting the AIDS, STD’s and the first three letters of the alphabet hepatitis style was bad, you should take a look at a motherfucker after they’ve been transfused in between Kentucky and Alabama.  Anemia can turn into hyperobesity within 2½ bags of that rich, over-calorated, high-cholesterated, life saving A, B, AB and O goodness (+’s contain a ½ ounce of either syrup or gravy & -’s are lacking in any type of jelly or preserve content whatsoever). 

It’s almost like there’s a civil war going on between breakfast food and any other type of fair in TN.  Cracker Barrel and Waffle House have seceded from the Union of non-breakfast eateries.  They believe in the viability of living purely off the fruits of the hog, flour-based pastries, and all strains of cow squeezins.  They also believe in terrible music on the jukebox, paper hats, promoting smoking, the selling of corny trinkets, and candy so fucking hard there is usually a dentist’s office within’ horse and buggy range.  Mickey D’s, King of Burgers, Arby’s, Hardee’s a/k/a Carl’s Jr. and other of that ilk believe in a variance of meal styles depending on the time of the day – some say they cook with sundials.   They believe in the power of assigning numbers to their various concoctions and connecting them to some other sort of signature dish.  W.H. and C.B. believe in using “words” to describe their food, and it is assisted by pictures when necessary.  Literate or not, you know the words “wavvle”, “baycan”, “sauwsugh”,  “buhhtur” and “miwwlk”.  You know a straight from the creek, one strap off the overalls hayseed couldn’t figure out what they wanted at any of the Union eateries.  “Welcome to McDonald’s.  Would you like to try an extra value meal?”  “What kindly you speakin’ of ma’m?” “Would you like any of these meals shown behind me?” “Uhh, Eye’d jest likes me sum brekfust.”  “Well sir, it’s past 11:00 a.m. and we’re serving lunch now.  You can choose anything from menu but, if you order a extra value meal, you get a drink and fries with it.”  “I want tree peesuss of baycan, a wavvle and sum miwwlk“.  “Uh, sir, No. 3 is a Quadruple Quarter Pounder with extra cheese, a pound of fries and a 3 gallon Mickey McDrink glass.  Is that what you want?”  “I jest wahnt some feekin’ brekfust hussy.  Either you gets it fer me, or I’m rightly gonna double back and take my silver dollars wit me.”

Any you, the area surrounding the hospital in Vanderbilt has a dreary, old school castle-type vibe.  By the looks of most of the apartment buildings round them parts, Schneider would have his hands full – I’m not talkin’ about him just havin’ to deal with the shenanigans of them Cooper girls either.  After all the pub I’d heard about the place, prior to spending a week tethered to one of its rooms’ walls last March, I thought it would be the crème de la crème of hospital accoutrements and technology.  My room had a type of film or grime on it that you usually only find in a museum exhibit about the history of not brushing your teeth.  The technology looked outdated.  I swear, one of the things on the wall had a crank the nurses would have to wind up prior to it doing something neurological to me.  They had to get a stationary bicycle up to 37 mph before my blood pressure could be taken.  I was waiting to be leached and plied with some sort of shitty whiskey or high quality moonshine whenever something painful was about to be performed.  There was actually a tornado warning, and they merely took me and my tethered head out into the hallway to hang out with a bunch of other neurologically unsound motherfuckers joining me in a game of tether head.  I guess the point was to have all of our wires twisted together so we could be kept up with if a tornado did rip through the freak out farm.

Today we returned to the skyscraper-like medical building that houses the neurology and involuntary dancing department at Vandy.  They do have valet parking, which is both nice and very smart considering any of us coming there could lose consciousness and run over a gang of other fellow retards waiting for their short buses, short minivans or whatever tardmobile they arrived in.  The building itself is a mix of dungeon, with an “you’ll be poked and prodded” type vibe.  It’s got new parts too, like a “walkthrough” pharmacy, a multi-staffed bloodsucking room, and one of those indoor aortas with the fancy pebbles, plants and a waterfall.  You couldn’t get to it because it was sealed off in pixiglass, but you could see it nonetheless.  I’m sure it is comforting for all the people with terminal illnesses to sit and look at a phony, glassed-in garden while they are waiting for their diseased blood to be removed and ran through yet another Cuisinart to ensure that they are indeed still dying. 

Well, I am being called to yet another part of the hospital’s hood, so I’ll be back later in the day to regale you with more observations…