I’m heading for Reading.
The Outsider Folk Art Gallery there is including my carvings in an upcoming exhibit and I am driving out to deliver my work.
I love road trips and today is a perfect day for one: the sun is shining and the temp is in the sixties. I’ve loaded my old Volvo wagon which I had to do by climbing over the front seat because the tail gate is broken.
I’m taking Route 78 west to Allentown and 222 east to Reading. It’s a 90 mile trip each way. I’m rolling. Got the Eagles cranked up and away we go:
“I’m runnin down the road tryen to loosen my load, got seven women on my mind.”
Seven? I don’t think I know seven women, and if I did I forgot six of them. And if I did know them, I sure as hell wouldn’t have them all on my mind at the same time. I’d mix up a name and be down to six in no time.
Oh, hell. There’s a cop. I poop my pants every time I see the fuzz because my speedometer is broken. Normally, I track my speed with the GPS but I left it on the dining room table on my way out the door.
Whew, guess I’m okay. Glad to be off 78 and driving through rural Pennsylvania. Things are a lot greener here than they are back at home. I guess I’m in farm country because I just passed the Barn Dance Boutique. And there’s a store called Cash for Guns. Wait a minute. Let me think about that. I walk into your store with a gun and you give me cash? Isn’t that a stick-up? Heh, heh.
What’s this? Kutztown University. Looks like a big layout. I guess I heard of it, but it didn’t appear on my kid’s radar when they were college shopping. Their name must really hold them back. You know the kids who go there have to call it Klutztown University.
Ha, ha. There’s a sign for a town called Virginville. I’ll bet nobody lives there anymore. Heh, heh. Well, you know what they say out here in Pennsylvania Dutch country: if you’ve come to Virginville, you’re practically in Blue Balls.
These are real town names. I read that back in the 1920’s or 30’s the National Geographic Service cleaned up most of the racy place names in the US. There were a lot of them because most places were named by lonely, horny trappers. They got rid of Tickle Pussy Creek and most of the Big Tit Mountains. They missed the Grand Tetons because it was French.
Ah, here comes Hendrix singing “All Along the Watch Tower.” I usually bellow along to this one, but can’t because my windows are open on account of the air conditioner being busted. My mechanic says this car is tired. Funny, my doctor says the same thing about me. I guess that’s why the Swedish Nightmare and I have bonded.
Damn, it’s starting to pour rain and I left my umbrella on the table next to my GPS. Seven women my ass, I can’t even remember my stuff.
Oh, no. The road split and, according to the sign, I am heading toward Lancaster, the heart of Amish country, and not Reading. Damn, I’ll bet I get stuck behind a horse and wagon. Sure enough. MOVE IT, YOU SCRAPPEL EATING SCHMUCK!!
Whew, I passed him. HERE’S YOUR BIRD OF PARADISE, YOU QUAINT BASTARD!!
I am heading for Ohio and starting to get really rattled. I need my Third Man.
I watched a show last night on NatGeo about how many people who survive harrowing escapes attest to being aided my a mysterious stranger who suddenly appears and leads them to safety. It’s called the Third Man Phenomenon. The religious say it is proof of guardian angels, but scientists think it is some kind of neurological defense mechanism.
What they didn’t get into though is whether you should listen to this guy. They only interviewed those who survived. Perhaps the ninety percent who didn’t got lead over a cliff by this dude. Good point, huh?
And nobody was surprised by the fact that no one claimed to be saved by a Third Woman. Maybe none of them made it out because she kept stopping to ask directions.
Look. There’s sign for downtown Reading, the rain has stopped and the sun is out. Maybe my Third Man did weigh in. I’d buy him lunch, but I only have eight bucks.