Travels - via Vienna

I had an eventful drive from Dallas to Nashville today, but before I relate the story let me recap with what happened on the same route three weeks ago, which is a nice story by itself.

I'd worked in Nashville all day before heading out for Dallas. It was early evening when I stopped to find a hotel in Memphis, coming up empty due to the influx of refugees from Hurricane Ivan. Not being too alarmed, I continued on I-40 to Little Rock, driving late into the night, but hotel after hotel had posted "no-vacancy" signs. One helpful clerk tried to send me 30 miles north, and I figured he had some deal arranged with one of his buddies. As the night wore on I realized he'd been serious, as all area hotels were indeed booked. Exhausted, tired, and frustrated, my alarm increasing with each new failure, a clerk finally told me that there were a few rooms left in Hot Springs, about a half-hour off I-30. In despair I drove to Hot Springs along a twisty road, found the Comfort Inn, and literally begged for a room. The girl at the desk said "We're booked up, but there's a king-smoking room downtown. Calling the other hotel, she said, "Hold that king-smoking! I'm sending someone over for it." She gave me the directions and off I went. I got to the other hotel without incident, meeting a very happy woman leaving the lobby.
The girl at that desk asked with a big smile, "Are you from the Comfort Inn?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I just gave that lady your room!"

It seems she booked the room before asking if the woman had come from the Comfort Inn. Apologizing profusely, she gave me directions to yet another downtown hotel, and I left dejected, thinking of buying a tent and sleeping bag at a Wal-Mart. Fortunately I did find a hotel, though the baking room, creaking floors, and lack of any conceivable internet access made me think, "Every day Charlie squats in the bush he gets stronger, and every minute I sweat in the miserable room I get weaker." Finally exhaustion took its course, and after many hours of unconsciousness my journey to Dallas continued uneventfully.

Once in Dallas I had a room at Comfort Suites, Irving, but on the third night they moved me to another room while I was at work. Unfortunately that night I found that they forgot to move my internet cable, unseen to this day, and they'd just given away the last cable they kept at the desk. I was once again fated for a dial-up existence. That was fine with me, because instead of blogging I spent Friday evening with Serenity and the Du Toits, then on Sunday picked up Serenity for an evening out. In case she was worried about some strange blogger driving her around in Dallas traffic I mentioned that I'd never had an accident that bent metal.

Finally I left Dallas early Monday morning, my work complete, getting to Arkansas before I realized that I'd left my drivers license at the plant, but had a nice warehouse access badge still adorning my shirt as a sick sort of compensation. Unfortunately Warehouse Pass #91 doesn't pass for an ID in Arkansas or any other state, but I found a hotel in Forest Springs that didn't seem to mind as long as the VISA was good. I'd been tempted to forge onward through the night to make it to a nice Holiday Inn Express, located just east of Memphis, which has nice rooms and broadband access, but the horror of my adventure on the way down left me gun-shy about late night hotel quests. Settling in for the evening I shockingly discovered that none of my dial-up ISPs had a local access number for Forest Springs. I dialed a long-distance access number time and again to search for a number or alternate ISP, hoping I could log-on and blog something that evening. It was to no avail, so I gave up, irritated and perturbed. In the morning I was greeted by a $40+ long-distance phone bill. It would've been cheaper to sign up with yet another redundant ISP for three months.

I got home Tuesday and went to the DMV on Wednesday to get a new license, since I had to return to Nashville on Thursday and there was no way I'd get the license left in Dallas back by that time. I got my brand new license after an hour standing in line and a couple quests out to the car to find anything that could be described as my "official" signature. The still warm plastic in my hand I joyously got in my car, started it, and had my foot slip off the clutch. I shot forward a couple feet, killing the engine, and hid my head in utter embarrassment. Recovering my wits, I popped it into reverse, backed up, and "Thump!" I'd backed right into a lady in an SUV who was backing out directly opposite, right in front of the door to the DMV office. I got out of the car, saw no damage, and after a brief exchange we both fled before someone official came out to take our licenses back. Not many people can claim a wreck in the parking lot of the DMV, but now I'm one of the chosen few. Yet no metal was bent, so my driving record still stands, pristine and unblemished.

I got back to Nashville without further incident, worked like a madman for almost three weeks until last Thursday when one of our electricians pick me up at the hotel at 9:00 AM for the return trip to Dallas. I was looking forward to it, since it would be a vacation compared to what I've been going through here. He was rigged for long-distance highway travel with his Fuzz-Buster mounted in the middle of the windshield. I figured I'd have an easy ride, snoozing half-way to Texas, but instead he slept and I drove.

Once in Dallas things went well, although the Comfort Suites again was going to toss us out on Saturday. This time the hotel nightmare was caused by several football games, so after the first Holiday-Inn Select came up with no vacancy we went to the Red Roof Inn without much complaining. Unfortunately I was once again without broadband, a coffee pot, or much of anything else, but I was also coming down with a severe cold. Sunday was my first "day off" in over a month, and it was just my luck that I was curled up in a pain-filled ball, my head stuffy and my body aching.

My cold felt better by Monday morning and after making sure our new changes were running fine we lit out for Nashville. Once again I drove while the electrician got some shut-eye, and we were faced rain the whole way to Nashville. Just short of the Arkansas border I got this nice note from a Texas gentleman.

Coincidentally, upon arriving in Nashville a man from Tennessee gave me a similar one. He said I'm supposed to mail money to this address.

Again, I've bent no metal and retain an unblemished record. However, there's a larger story in all this. At a pit-stop in West Memphis Arkansas I stumbled across the Holy Grail of crap food, and more than that, a potential source of truly mind-bending crap food power. And all this was at an innocuous gas station. I suppose it could've been a cemetery, but my life is much more ordinary than that, at least aside from my egomaniacal love affair with Vienna sausages.

Innocuous gas station with a horrible secret

Inside I wandered the aisles of junk food when the potted meat section caught my eye. This was no ordinary display, but something truly amazing. It was there Vienna sausages. Let me first note that Vienna sausage is pretty obligatory in gas stations, even though no one will admit to ever actually eating the nasty little pancreatic treats. Yet they're ubiquitous, just like the coleslaw that comes with almost any meal, even though nobody seems very fond of it. It's simply there because you always expect it, and you expect it because it's always there. It's a mysterious cycle that defies all attempts to break it.

What stood out about the Vienna sausage at this exit to nowhere was the staggering variety. I've been to some stations that had two brands, where giants like Armour and Hormel are locked in competition for market share (though lord knows why they'd want to distinguish themselves in a food that they UN should ban), but this station had five, yes FIVE, different brands of those delightfully bad sausages. I didn't even realize there were five brands. As proof I bought all five and lined them up on the truck's tail gate.

The horrible haul

None of these photos were photo-shopped. There really is a gas station in the US that for some unfathomable reason stocks FIVE brands of Vienna sausage. Maybe the locals are finicky, or maybe they're just brand conscious. Judging by the dust on the lids of some of these maybe it's really just one brand that changed labels over the course of the ensuing decades. One can always hope.

But strange as this sounds, I actually had a SIXTH brand in my luggage, from Libby's.

Six brands down, one to go

As I stared at these six, it occurred to me that Viennas always come seven to a can, some sort of magic number. If I get a seventh brand I wonder if inserting it into the middle of the others will unleash the powers of Satan? It's really spooky, if you think about it deeply enough. But then thinking deeply about Vienna sausages is always spooky. The world may be just one Vienna sausage away from culinary Armageddon, the powers of putrid pancreas unleashed in my hotel room to spread itself across the world.

I'm just one brand from bring about Viennese Armageddon. When the final can is inserted into the center it will complete the pattern. It will unleash the powers of, well, really bad meat.

I have a few choices for the next can, Hormel, Goya, or Hereford.

It's simply chilling, isn't it? Oooo… Vienna chili… Hmm…