Off-color Cross-country Rant, Vol. the Next

Wednesday night, Oct. 12, anno domini 2011.

Loitering outside Flying J truck stop, Winslow, Arizona, such a fine pile of shit to see.

First: If A&W and goddamn McDonald’s can provide the hoi polloi with free access to the Internet, how come the big truck stops can’t? Why can’t Pilot LLC give the goddamn truckers a break? Maybe if they got a break every now and then, maybe if they could surf the Web without going deeper into debt, maybe if they could access pornography for free, just maybe they wouldn’t terrorize the interstates like a rolling army of suicidal banshees.

Two bucks for 60 minutes, $4.79 for 24 hours?  Fuck you.

Truckstop magnates want to bleed poor, suffering, pill-popping, log book-falsifying, overweight Joe-Bob Trucker dry before the next tire blows and sends him careening back and forth across the highway, plunging through a guardrail and nosediving into the bottom of Rattlesnake Wash. The goddamn Haslams of Tennessee, old-guard Republicans and Pilot kingpins, know they must get every cent out of the 18-wheel wretches before their number comes up and their miserable existences end in a jackknifed, fiery heap.

Cocksucking, motherfucking, assraping bastards! (Sorry. I apologize for the gratuitous punctuation.)

Maybe I’m just pissed I had to pay $1.99 at the Travel America in Kingman this morning to get online so I could transfer money in order to pay my bill to fair-and-balanced All-American Tires of Kingman, Ariz.

Ich bin ein trucker!

Speaking of truck stops, here’s a little-known, underappreciated band from Portland I stumbled upon recently, Truckstop Darlin’. The video doesn’t really do them justice, but that’s OK, since they’ll probably run out of money soon and go to working at Walmart.

Second: Inside the Winslow Pilot, with vile epithets rattling about my brain as fatigue and coffee buzz fight for control of my weary soul, I spot a rack of discount CDs. It’s amazing the breadth of consumer goods you can find at the average American mega-truckstop emporium.

First thing my eyes fall on is a 30th Anniversary collection for … Billy Fucking Squier?

This is hardly an anomaly. Rumbling down the soulless interstates and listening to bullshit classic radio, I was discomfited to discover that KC and the Sunshine Band’s absurdly titled “(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake your Booty” has achieved classic rock status. I mean, that piece of bovine dreck isn’t doesn’t even rate KC and the Sunshiners’ most memorable hit.

The American weakness for nostalgia is troublesome enough without the world going braindead ga-ga for 35-year-old music that was absolute horseshit  in its prime. I saw Billy Squier once, so I know what I’m talking about.

It was somewhere in New Jersey, god knows where, and it’s probably the most embarrassing document on my concert-going resume. Billy Squier opening for Pat Benatar. At least Pat Benatar had a viable commodity to offer an 18-year-old boy. Billy Squier? He should be in some musical gulag now, ankle-deep in ice water and engaging in degrading acts with Bryan Adams.

It’s one thing for the classic rock, Clear Channel cockfucks to play the Rolling Stones, the Who, the Beatles and Led Zeppelin ad nauseum.

At least those bands produced badass, classic rock and roll with an unimpeachable pedigree. That I can understand, though I think old fucks like me would be better served trying to listen to something different every now and then, if only to pretend that we’re still alive.

But Billy Squier? KC and the Sunshine Band? Last night I heard John Waite’s “I Ain’t Missing You” on the radio. How is this possible in 2011? Are we really that far gone?

Stupid question, I know.

It’s a goddamn miracle this world still mangages to revolve on its axis.

The end.

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