I’ve fallen a bit behind on the travelogue. Whether that’s good or bad is open to debate. I am in Columbia, California, in a nice place nestled in the forests at the foot of the sierra nevada. There was gold here once, and perhaps there still is. A large stretch of land nearby is still reserved for destruction should more gold turn up. This is also a place were Emus used to live, though none live here now. (The emu pens remain.)
Before this I was staying in a nice house nestled among the redwoods north of Santa Cruz, California. Camels used to live there, though none do now. (The camel shed remains.)
Before that I was in Ripon (rhymes with hippin’). I do not think any domestic livestock ever occupied the backyard of that house, though it is the dwelling of a renowned ornithologist. (He has also written a lot of other stuff.)
I have seen, over the last few days, rain, sun and fog, a band covering Do You (Feel Like I Do) by Peter Frampton, and a pair of chickens that did not look both ways before crossing the road. For a few hours I had a four-year-old attached to my leg, but I have recovered.
And there you have it. Today I point the car south, south, south.
If I was in charge of NASCAR, there’d be an 8-track in every car, with a sound system equal to the task of being audible in that environment. Race officials would randomly monitor what drivers were playing, and would penalize drivers for tunes that were not appropriate for the event. ZZTop, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the like would be expected. Perhaps different race tracks could have different lists of acceptable bands, but ideally all tapes would be certified yard sale purchases.
Actually, that wouldn’t make a bad advertisement…
INT RACECAR
Out the windows we see that the car is in the middle of a big race. Things are jittery and the driver is twitching the steering wheel, pushing things to the limit. Cut INT/EXT and back to give perspective and excitement. BTO’s “Let it Roll” is blasting, then gets garbled and stops.
Driver pulls the tape out of the 8-track, the tape is hanging in a ruined mess.
Driver tosses the tape into a battered cardboard box filled with 8-track tapes with barely-legible labels. He begins to rummage around with one hand.
EXT RACETRACK
The car swerves a bit going down the straightaway.
INT RACECAR
Driver pulls a tape out of the box, glances at it, then throws it back in frustration.
EXT RACETRACK
INT RACECAR
Driver pulls out another tape and holds it up. With a nod he slams it home. There is a click and .38 Special begins to blast from the speakers. Driver pumps his fist and mashes the gas pedal to the floor.
EXT RACETRACK
With the music blasting, number 8 begins passing all the other cars.
Of course, you’d have to sneak some product in there somewhere so someone will pay to make the ad.
