Author Archives: timcushing

Myrtle Beach. What is there to say about such a seasonal debaucherous town. Beautiful beaches lined with cheap bars, bountiful hotels with pools two hundred feet from the Atlantic, and smoke filled clubs that could trigger an asthma attack in a marathon runner. Strip clubs line the highway beckoning to unfortunate and lonely travelers who need to pay for unfamiliar, scantily clad attention. Myrtle beach is like the geographic equivalent of dousing oneself in cologne instead of taking a shower. Or covering a dirty face with glitter instead of cleaning it. But with all the glitter and axe body spray, polo shirts, dubs, bros, and two dollar pitchers, there is something about this area that ensures you that its okay to be loud and boisterous. Its alright to swear across a crowded bar to a friend and to hang out on a beach all day even though its only 60 degrees. And we got a brand new Sebring for a couple days so I suppose my baller status is up to par with the local bros. Lets go jump it off speed bumps.

Louisville was much fun. Tommy and Katie were at the pinnacle of hostiness and they have two awesome cats. We went for a hike with Tommy on some mole hills called Scott’s Gap and encountered a boy scout troop the leader of which was smoking a cigarette during the group’s reprise. We also went out to some bars including The Back Door (a bar that provided a cross-section of some of America’s finest) and another dive where we saw a great band called The Young Republic play.

The next morning Tommy made us some farewell breakfast burritos and we found ourselves hurtling down the highway toward Asheville. It was a grand day, and we were unfazed to find that I-40 East was closed right outside of Asheville due to an enormous rock slide. We decided on a mountain pass detour that brought us down 25 through Marshall smack dab into Asheville. Our plan was flawless and our resolve has never been matched by any other travelers. Upon entering the lovely town of Hot Springs, the Subaru began her ascent up a particularly large mountain. We were within 30 miles, and anticipatory of our arrival. Billowing hood smoke was the last thing that we would have expected. But sure enough our radiator had suddenly began smoking like the caterpillar in Alice In Wonderland. We were suddenly at the mercy of the Gods of car repair.

While waiting for the flatbed driver Chris played some guitar, while I attempted to get my camp stove started. A kind man of Hot Springs pulled up in a truck as big as his heart, and was kind of curious about the two hobos that had shown up suddenly in his town.

Our flatbed driver was a man by the name of Wayne. He possessed one of the thickest accents in Appalachia, and over the course of our 45 minute ride, told a long-winded story the content of which was cloaked in his mysterious tongue. Chris sat directly next to him and understood enough to fuel Wayne’s gab with agreeing phrases.

And so we found ourselves in Asheville. We brought our Subaru to the Organic Mechanic the next day, only barely getting it there before the temperature gauge hit the dangerous red. The whole day we anxiously anticipated a quote on repair costs, and were discouraged to hear that it was a broken thermostat that they were going to have to fix the next morning. We waited patiently overnight, and showed up to collect our glorious ride. The mechanic confronted us with news for which we were unprepared. We had a blown head gasket.

For the first time in our trip, it seemed like the bottom had fallen out. Chris staggered back a step as the news hit him and my jaw dropped. Seeing the crazy look in our eyes, the mechanic stepped back a little. We had no choice but to go for the expensive repair.

The only other problem at hand was that we were due to be at Myrtle Beach in five hours. A rental place was decided on and we were set up with a Sebring. The rental place had free popcorn and soda, a hospitality which we took full advantage of. As he watched the fees pile up, Chris gave the woman behind the desk increasing amount of grief. After a painful swipe of the credit card, we were on our way to Myrtle Beach, and that’s where we are now missing our Subaru which should be fixed by Friday.

We’re in Louisville with little time to type, but it’s been a while so here goes. We went to a few bars in NY, gave 7 dollars to the Delaware bridge troll, spent a night in DC and saw to a fiery jazz trio, drove 10 hours through beautiful mountains, and last night gambled on a riverboat. We just got back from breakfast at a great establishment called Barbara Lee’s and we’re headed to a hike. We’ll give more details soon, but darnit we’re just having too much fun. Also, maybe some pictures up tonight.

Today we took one last stroll down Church Street before getting in the car for Connecticut.

Here are some pictures from Mardi Gras. It was a great day of transvestites, pin stripe suits and feathery masks. Oh, and Jimi Hendrix was there.

Today is the day of Burlington’s Mardi Gras. The parade is at 3, but people are already pouring into the city for celebrations. Our time in Burlington has been pretty low-key so far. We’ve been getting our bearings and resting up.

The first night here was spent scrambling for a place to stay. I had a radio interview to do in Colchester which wasn’t getting out until 1 in the morning, and it was tough to find a night owl to put us up for the night. Our one hopeful fell through, and so we found ourselves on the lap of luxury at a Super 8 watching “The Secret To My Success” (one of Michael J. Fox’s most under-appreciated movies.) We slept through the free continental breakfast, but convinced the nice girl behind the counter to reopen it for us. After waiting exactly 30 minutes we hit the pool and hot tub. From there we drove around until we arrived at Ethan Allen park. We walked around for a few hours and saw his tower and his gazebo. Apparently his homestead is also somewhere on the property, but it managed to elude us.

Our second night was spent at trivia at Nectar’s (the bar where Phish got their start). Our team didn’t win, but we did get a t-shirt that says “SOCO and Lime” which Chris was pretty excited about. From there we went to a bar called Esox. All of the bricks in Esox’s dive atmosphere have been written on by patrons. The furniture was sparse – a few rickety tables and chairs thrown haphazardly into dark corners. The bartender was a weathered middle-aged woman who was exceedingly polite. For a few hours we played pool and picked classic rock songs to play off of the juke-box. My brother decided to break the atmosphere by picking the juke-box’s only Avril Lavigne song, “Skater Boy.” This was immediately vetoed by the entire bar, as the bartender quickly moved to turn the song down. It was as if our cover was blown but we were past the point of caring.

Last night Chris and I parted ways for the evening. I stayed in and watched the Olympics with my brother and his friends. After some Bob Costas heckling and a lengthy discussion about the nature of curling, the five of us found ourselves watching the biathlon in complete silence. It was generally agreed that we had no idea what was going on in the sport, but it was mesmerizing nonetheless.

So now it’s off to Mardi Gras.