Viva Nashvegas (Conclusion), by Rosicky Jones

For Part I of the Viva Nashvegas saga, go here.

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 12:00 pm

We were in a foreign country and we were hungry.  I didn’t even bother washing off the bar stamp that was now imprinted in my cheek due to the adorable way I sleep.  I rushed to the lobby of the hotel to talk to the guy at the desk.  I noticed that he was very fat, so I asked him where the best food joint was in town.

Neely’s!

We walked into Neely’s and I was sold.  All the patrons were obese.  The grill master was a 6’6, 320 pound black man with Al Sharpton-y hair.  The tables and chairs were stained a barbeque sauce red on account of all the residual rib sauce over the years.  And everyone had the meat sweats.

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 2:00 pm

Food Coma

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 4:00 pm

Phil was dead set on purchasing a cowboy hat, so we took a stroll down Main Street and began walking into stores at random.  As we made our way into store #1 a car passed by bumpin’ Drake. I turned around and longingly whispered ‘Detroit,’ but the car was gone.  I was shocked that rap music was allowed to be played in Nashville, and I told Steps as much.  Then the owner of the shop, dressed in Wrangler’s Fall Johnny Cash line heard me and responded – “We’d rather they didn’t.”

I came back with, “whaddya mean they?”  The hilarious joke was lost on him, but I don’t give up easy.  He told us that boy hats and boots were on the right and girl hats and boots were on the left.  I asked if there was a section for girly guys such as myself, and he literally swallowed the toothpick he was chewing on.  Phil led us outta the store because he was worried that my hilarious gay innuendo would get us killed.

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 4:30 pm

We found a shop with some smooth-ass cowboy hats.  Everyone but Phil looked stupid in the hats.  I think I may have been deported had I kept mine on any longer.  Phil on the other hand became a completely different guy.  If Atlanta is where black people’s dreams come true, then Nashville is the white equivalent.  He morphed into a man before our eyes.  He was cool normally, but suave, debonair, and rugged were words never spoken in the same breath as Phil.  Cowboy-hat-adorned Phil got hit on by a shit-ton of birds.  We walked outside post hat purchase and this fox walked up to him and asked “are you a busy cowboy?” We later found out that that was how Nashvillians flirted: with weird cowboy infused non-sequiters.  He was able to wink without shutting both of his eyes.  He actually lit the proper end of the cigarette.  He spit and it didn’t land on his shirt.  He was the most confident human being in the world.  I was beside myself; this was the same guy that once got into an argument with his ex because she stared at an Abercrombie and Fitch mannequin too long.  Let that last sentence set in.

(That being said, his ex probably fucked the mannequin since she was a colossal whore who smelled worse than Hitler’s conscience, but still).

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 5:00pm

All the eating and walking really did a number on my sobriety, so we walked into the emptiest bar we found.  We shimmied past the blowing tumbleweed and sat down.  There was a nondescript girl setting up on stage.  I ordered a round of shots and sent her one – I was in Nashville, I might as well take down a mediocre looking country singer.  The bartender was also kind of cute, so I decided to woo both the singer and the ‘tender; at the same time – which is not as hard as you think, girls are dumb.  But then my plans were ruined when the singer sung.  I was transfixed; we all were.  She was amazing.  And I am sure that Nashville is littered with the musical corpses of many talented singers, but she was our soon-to-be corpse.  Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson described it as one of life’s few truly sublime moments.  I would have stolen that line outright, but I had to ask him what sublime meant.

For the rest of my life, I will never forget the name Riley Rose or her heartbreaking voice.  She went from beneath me to out of my league within a few chords of a song.

*Correction – Her name was Kinsey Rose. Somehow I forgot.

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 12:30 am

Watching a curly haired cowboy try and fail at covering Michael Jackson songs in a bar is a lot more fun than it seems.  And do you know why it was more fun that it seems – because I was drunk at the time.  My friends and I were sitting around a table enjoying the entertainment.  Steps was growing drunk with booze and insecurity as Phil’s cowboy hat confidence grew to a Kanye West level of bravado.  Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson and I were talking to a couple birds who loved our accents – yeah, they loved our Michigan accents, what a fuckin world.  Deve was drinking empties off random tables because nobody really likes him.

I took a stroll to the bar to get more confidence (alcohol) and this black guy struck up a conversation with me.  He was happy he wasn’t the only person drinking Tanqueray at the bar.  A bit of insight – guys love me. I don’t know why, but guys adore me, and yearn to befriend me – I think it’s due to my pronounced cheek bones.  He happened to be sitting at the table right next to ours.  He had just been transferred down to Nashville for work, and didn’t know a soul.  He moved to our table, and instantly our property value dropped.  He was a handsome black man full of extra leg muscles – how were we supposed to compete?  The guy was also a genius.  He was the only black guy I ran into all weekend, and he had Tyrese good looks.  He was gonna make a killing with all the little country girls that wanted to piss off their fathers.

Saturday, August 31^st, 2010 3:30 am

We were walking out of the bar when this bird invited us to go back to her place for an after party.  Steps was not on board, because she was dating Phil, and After-Party Whore was definitely staring at Phil’s penis.  Nashville Tyrese had reason to be concerned since a guy in After-Party Whore’s posse was wearing a confederate flag-emblazoned shirt.  Phil was too busy admiring his reflection in his iPhone.  Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson had somehow acquired a bottle of Brandy de Jerez and was alternating swigs with a hand puppet and a red-head that may or may not have been a prostitute.

So I had to make a decision.  And by now you guys know me well enough to ascertain the outcome – but there was twist – a fucking hotdog stand.

I yelled “hotdog stand!”, and we all skipped, hand-in-hand, towards it, leaving After-Party Whore to ply her whorish ways somewhere else.

That hot dog was the single greatest thing I had ever put in my mouth.

Sunday, September 1, 2010 3:00 pm

As we left Nashville we were all a bit sad; sad because we were leaving, sad because Deve was with us, and sad because we had a million-hour car ride ahead of us.  Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson and I were cuddling in the back seat as Steps tried to get Phil to take the cowboy hat off at least while he drove.

Sunday, September 1, 2010 5:00 pm

We pulled off the highway to a gas station slash Dunkin’ Doughnuts slash Subway slash daycare.  The South is fuckin’ amazing.  I walked into the gas station to steal a Gatorade.

Stolen Gatorade in hand, I decided to take an obligatory piss before we hit the road.  As I stood at the urinal trying to ignore the burning, I heard my name.  I ignored it, chalking it up to after effects of a glorious Saturday night.  Then I heard it again.  I dropped to my knees and proclaimed Jesus Christ as my lord and savior, assuming God was beckoning me for some cool Ethan Hunt style mission.

“Muaz, it’s Deve, is that you?

Fuck, it was fuckin’ Deve. Thank God my liberal friends didn’t hear me accept religion into my life.

“What do you want, Deve?”

The first thing he said to me was that I had to promise not to tell anyone or write about it in my column.  Of course I accepted, knowing that I was pulling a Foghorn Leghorn with whatever he was about to say.

“Can you grab my gym bag? I accidentally shit myself.”

I lost it.  I am having trouble writing about it now

I did feel bad for him, so I grabbed his gym bag.

I also told Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson, Phil, and Steps about it.

I also Tweeted it.

I made it my Facebook status.

I sent out a mass text and email about it.

I slipped the gas station clerk a twenty to announce – “Do not use the men’s bathroom for 10 minutes, Deve Staly pooped his pants, and is changing. Again, bathroom closed due to Deve Staly pooping himself.”

And now I am writing about it.

Sunday, September 1, 2010 6:00 pm

We were now in the car and Deve’s poo-stained clothes were in the trunk.  The guy felt horrible and it was a bit sad.  No one was really speaking; we were all drained. (Deve figuratively and literally).  So I decided to lighten the mood by talking about cartoons.

“Hey Deve, was your favorite cartoon Winnie the Poo?”

And the shit hit the fan.  Everyone had poop jokes for days.  We literally spent the next 6 hours making poop jokes.  Poor Deve even tried to sleep away the misery, but every time he fell asleep Phil slammed the breaks and we pretended we were crashing to wake him up in the most frightening way imaginable.  We were worried that the fear would induce further incontinence, but that was a risk we were willing to take – for comedy.   Once awake he experienced an onslaught of poo-isms.

“Don’t be mad at Deve, guys – it is Shart Week”

“Hey Deve, are you a Repooblican or a Democrap?”

“Deve’s favorite car is a Lincoln Incontinental!”

“Deve’s favorite rap group is Poo Tang Clan.”

“At least Deve gave a crap about this trip.”

Five hours in we were running out of jokes, and then the song parodies started.  We threw poop and poo and Deve into every song that came on.  I realize that we were extremely childish – but it was fun.

Sunday, September 2, 2010 1:00 am

We were half an hour outside of Detroit when everyone had to pee.  I took this as an opportunity to plagiarize Best Living Writer Michael Vincent Gibson.  He has been working on this novel for some time, and he loved it, so it was probably way too good for this column, which is all the more reason to steal it.

“Or maybe she’d overdose, and what then? The idiot housekeeper would find Annie starved and melting in her wheelchair like a troubling memory, foul and rotten, her odor burned irrevocably into the wallpaper. She wondered if this were the best afterlife she could hope for, and couldn’t stop herself from stealing a bitter smile.”

I, like you, have no idea what that passage means, or how it fits into this epic column.  I can, however, relate to Annie and her bitter smile, because I was doing the same.  Bitter, because I am now sitting in an empty apartment far away from my friends and my fun, but content enough smile.