mind of mencius

Getting back on the road after three nights of inflatable comfort hurts my ass before I get in the car. Over 800 miles from Houston to Chattanooga, east through Louisiana on I-10 before turning north in Baton Rouge on I-55 to Jackson, MS. Then east on I-20 to Birmingham, where 20 meets 59 and then straight on ‘til morning.

Louisiana maintains the best interstates in the country[i], the greatest being I-10 over Henderson Swap, fifteen miles of pylon-supported pavement sunk into wooded fens. The road to Henderson from Houston is lined with Sin and Salvation—on billboards and busses, on radios and bumper stickers, in casinos and chapels. An RV’s rear panel tells me “This Ain’t No PRACTICE Life”, and as I drive by this reminder I pass an oil refinery on the interstate’s north side. If this living isn’t practice, we are surely losing.

Wisdom graces LA’s billboards in fits between parishes, but at least the advangelists pose interesting questions:

Your flesh will die but you will not… where will you spend eternity?

Hmmmm. I’ll get back to you after digging around for a good deal on the interwebs–best not to commit to a particular package until research your options. And then my personal favourite, brought to drivers in 100% analog by Francis Drilling Fund:

Need directions?… Jesus Christ.

The ambiguity is priceless. I prefer to think the fellows at Francis hate being asked for directions. Not that directions in LA are necessary–signs point toward anything a driver might fancy, from boudins & cracklins to all-you-can-eat catfish, and then a gentlemen’s club for some post-meal relaxation.

Advertisements for crawfish restaurants are particularly cruel, each depicting one or more cartoon crawfish whose smiles practically beg to be wiped off with a shelling fork or large mallet. Cruel because crawfish, unlike cows or pigs, do not emote well[ii]. The crayfish, one of the marine community’s most stoic denizens, must (invisibly) cringe when faced with its own hokey caricature moments before being boiled alive for roadside consumption.

After a faceless drive through MS and AL, powered only by a bag of Corn Nuts, some salt & vinegar chips and three bottles of Powerade[iii], Chattanooga TN burns a signal fire in the night. Lantern-lit bridges span the river that splits northern suburbs from southern downtown. Over one of these bridges is a couch Kate’s made up for the night… just a few miles before sleep and a day out from behind the wheel.

1. I am personally convinced.|↩|
2. while I might be able to imagine a cow or pig grinning, the exercise is impossible with the crawfish given their rigid facial structure. Maybe its pure regional bias, having grown up with Charlotte’s Web but no cartoon tales of creole crawfish heroics.|↩|
3. when did Powerade lose its slightly carbonated quality? Am I the only person who remembers this? When it first emerged as a competitor to Gatorade, I recall Powerade possessing some kind of terrible carbonation, not in the same vain as beer or soda, but a feeling in the mouth hinting at bubbles. A few years ago I purchased a Powerade over Gatorade, willing to endure the discomfort in order to save $0.60 , and found (to my delight) no carbonated taste whatsoever. So now its all Powerade and savings.|↩|