You know how I can always tell when we get in Georgia? The dirt turns into bright orange clay. That and of course the license plate all have peaches on them.
Spent the day combing through junk stores in Valdosta Georgia with Rich. That wasn't very interesting though. The interesting thing happened to us later that night at a bar-b-q joint/ redneck bar. It was karaoke night and once the beer started flowing the locals started a singing (I guess you could call it singing, it kinda made my ears feel all funny).
The highlight of the evening's entertainment was this one guy who got up and brought a mandolin on stage with him. First off he didn't want any of the canned music to accompany him. Everybody hooted and hollered at this guy but he just ignored them and starting strumming on that thing like he was Georgia's answer to Eric Clapton. The problem was he was not in any long stretch Eric Clapton. Hell he wasn't even Georgia's answer to Sid Vicious. It was awful. Then he put down the mandolin and picked up this battered old guitar. And he played that with the same intensity. Played it just as bad too.
And then he started singing . . .
Oh me, oh my, he had a voice fit to chase coons up a tree. (don't you love it when I go all southern on you?) He sang this old religious song called "Bringing In the Sheaves" and I have never heard anyone sing so badly.
I mean it was bad. Real bad. Bad with a capitol B and that rhymes with T and that stands for treeing coons He was so bad, we bought him a drink after he was finished. He thanked us, declined the drink and then sat down and told us how he got his musical gift. (I swear to you he kept calling it his gift) by shooting the sun with his shotgun.
The rest friends and neighbors will be chronicled in a new Freakopedia entry. We're going up to his home tomorrow morning to do a photo shoot with him and his gun. Wish us luck.
How's that for a bedtime story?