(The following has the bombastic distinction of being an incredibly long blog and Picture Sunday all in one. Acro will return next week. Now, I know most of you are only interested in the acro, maybe one or two in the pictures, but please - please, if you ever liked me at all - read the blog. I went through a lot creating it.)

The Road(s) Less Travelled, or I'm a Big Girl Now, or It's Not Quite My Birthday Yet, But Fuck Off Anyway, Because I Just Saw The Hackensaw Boys

As last week was wrapping up, Betland mentioned the stress it had been under lately. But there was hope - an outing that was hopefully just the fun occasion Betland needed at this time. And that outing was a trip to the tiny, unknown Thomas, West Virginia, to see The Hackensaw Boys. This was to be my birthday present from Mr M, delivered a week early.

I travelled to B'burg Saturday. Saturday night, I made mention to Mr M that maybe we should get out my TheCompanyIWorkFor road atlas and map our trip. "We don't need that," Mr M replied, "We'll go to Mapquest." Mr M also replied that my idea of staying overnight was out, because he had to be back in Maryland for work Monday afternoon.

Sunday morning at around 10am, Mr M replied some more. He replied he just didn't see how he could make the trip. Too much time and travelling would be involved. And now, in my heart, I didn't blame Mr M. This is not to say I wasn't upset, or hurt, or that I didn't lay on the couch and cry for a good time. And though I would blame him later, in fact vehemently, but that's on down the page, I didn't at that time.

And so I dried my tears, gathered my pluck, and decided, hey, I wanted to see the Hackensaw Boys in Thomas, WV tonight, and by fuck, I'm going to see them. After all, I travel by myself. I've been lost in hundreds of lovely cities across our great land by myself. I've been driving by myself when my steering wheel came off, for God's sake! And I've survived. And so I packed up my things and hit the road.

I set the Mapquest directions out in front of me, which looked to me to be very roundabout instructions, but according to Mapquest they cut the time from about 5 hours if we'd take the route I was thinking about to "4 hours, 40 minutes" if we'd take theirs. Notice those quotation marks - they come into play later. This route had me travelling the Betty Bet Bet Inspirational Highway a bit, to I-81 130 miles to Harrisonburg, VA, then to Highway 33 77 miles to Highway 32 25 miles, then voila, Bob's your uncle, easy as piss, I'd be in Thomas.

Right before Harrisonburg I got off the interstate for my second cup of coffee. I stopped at a little mart, got my coffee, and had - and I swear to you this is true - a man tell me his life story. See? I told you. Anyway, I was feeling happy, and knew the coffee I was holding would make me happier in a short time, and, well, he was very nice, and so I listened and headed off with a cheery wave.

Highway 33 took me right through Harrisonburg out to the edge of the city. And now, here's the first problem I encountered. Apparently, sometimes they name things "highways" that I would not personally classify as such. Because Highway 33 looked suspiciously like the two-lane boonie road right in front of my house. But it was sunny, and I sped along, podmobile2 dutifully hugging the curves.

Until I started going up the mountain. This would be Mountain One. During Mountain One I almost wrecked. This is because - well, you know those signs with curves on them and a "suggested" speed limit? I always thought they were silly, suggesting to me what speed I should take a curve at. But these guys knew what they were talking about. And so after nearly driving off Mountain One to my death, I started taking their suggestions a little more seriously. Which was a good thing. For pretzels, dogs' hind legs, and the wires snaking around my computer had nothing on what Highway 33 had become.

I rounded the top of Mountain One and two things occurred. One made me laugh, one didn't. What made me laugh was the sign as the mountain started going downhill, not a suggested sign, the actual white one we all know, telling me the speed limit down the mountain was 55 mph. The downhill side of the mountain was as curvy as the uphill. It was ludicrous. All I could think of is that it was a joke, someone had sneaked it out there, or that the sign was in fact sponsored by the Hall and Johnson Funeral Home. "Yes! Go 55 here, and have your loved ones bring you to us at the bottom. If they find you."

The thing that made me not laugh is that as I was beginning my descent of Mountain One, I realized I had an urgency to, well, not to be distasteful, pee. And as some of you know, a mountain, almost wrecking, and two cups of coffee are not a laughing matter. I was uncomfortable, but surely there'd be something up ahead.

And then I started up Mountain Two. It was as curvy and remote as Mountain One. And for that matter, so were (remember, I'm not making this up) Mountains Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, and Eight, with Mountains Seven and Eight having that added attraction of ice and snow upon them.

And so, there I was. Driving along, now near tears, going up and down mountains, nothing in sight, not even a house whose owners' door I could knock on with a request to use their bathroom. Just up and down, curving this way and that, and yes, this is where I started not liking Mr M very much, halfway for the fact that he wasn't there to enjoy it all as well, but mostly for that "We'll go to Mapquest" remark, and with every curve that led me to another expanse of nothing but countryside, I cursed him. I'd decided that when I did in fact pee my pants I was going to send them, soiled, to him in the mail. It really was the only thing that kept me going. And believe me, I was just barely going by this point.

Oddly enough, I also found myself thinking, more than once, "Boy, wouldn't this have been the place for me to lose my steering wheel."

(Oh, and as a quick aside: I'm not a highway peer. I cannot pee on the side of the road, in a cup, or out of doors in any way. I pee on my clothing, and even though I was still considering it at this point, seeing as how I was going to pee my pants anyway, I couldn't - because had I stopped and gone behind my car, I'd have fallen off a fucking mountain!)

Just as I was entertaining myself somewhere around Mountain Five with the fantasy of having a penis, that I could just whip out the window and have at it, I saw something. It was a state park-looking kind of building. This is because I was at the scenic Seneca Rocks. It was a very inviting stone "come in and look at our brochures" kind of place, and so I pulled in and ran to the building. It was locked. I kicked its door. And headed back out to my car, where, before starting back onto the Highway from Hillbilly Hell, I snapped this photo.



Folks, you have no idea the mortal pain I was in when I took this picture.

"At the point where Highway 33 turns off to Highway 32, there has to be something," I kept telling myself. "Jesus, it's an intersection, there has to be at least a gas station." There wasn't. And that's when I realized something. That back there before Harrisonburg, when I was buying my coffee, that man telling me his life story actually murdered me. I was dead, and this was hell. I was to spend my eternal damnation having to pee so bad it hurt, going up and down mountains, with not a store, house, or person in sight. There actually was no Thomas, WV, it had been some sort of pre-death psychic vision I'd had, and I was indeed caught up in my own episode of "The Twilight Zone," with no one to come and rescue me from it. Yes, going down Mountain Five, my dear friends and readers, I started to abandon hope.

And it was starting to get a little late. According to Mapquest, I should have been in Thomas by 4:00. It was about 3:30, and I hadn't even reached Highway 32. And I had to pee. Sorry, you already knew that, but it slipped into my thought processes as I was starting to worry about time.

Like I said, Mountains Seven and Eight were snow-covered. And I noticed something about them. Mountains Seven and Eight only went up. I had only reached the top of Mountain Seven and driven a small expanse of land before Mountain Eight began. And I came to a stark realization. I was in the fucking mountains.

It was odd the way this all came to me, but I guess with the having to pee so badly and all I hadn't really noticed it before. You know how when you're driving you can always - I mean, unless you're in Nevada or something - look around and see some mountains in the background? I couldn't do that anymore. I was someone else's mountains in the background! And it wasn't long after I noticed this, there at the top of Mountain Eight, that I saw the Canaan Valley Ski Resort. I was in ski country now! And you know what? Ski people are rich! Ski people spend money! Ski people - go to stores and gas stations with bathrooms in them!!

But you know what? Apparently rich ski people stay in little rich ski communities that have their own bathrooms. Because now all I was seeing was snow, and signs for ski areas, and, well, the only thing that kept me from crying was the fact that I knew if I did so I'd lose control over my bladder, not that it mattered anyway, because I was in hell, and I guess if God sends you to hell, he doesn't care whether or not you spend your time there with wet pants.

But finally it happened. About six miles past the ski resort - a gas station. With a little store attached. I whipped in and ran in as fast as I could, careful not to slip on the snow-covered parking lot for I knew a fall would be pee city, and finally got to go inside and relieve myself. This was, ladies and gentlemen, approximately three and a half hours after my first urgent need to pee. And yes, I'll pause while you applaud.

And you know, once I peed, I was OK. "Let's get this mother on the road," I said to myself, and though the road still sucked, and I still had a way to drive, I finally - yes, finally, a full six hours after starting off - reached the tiny burg of Thomas, WV. Thomas, WV is one street. Well, actually, it's two. The west side of the road goes back behind the few buildings on that street, and the east side goes in front of them. So I'm calling that one street. And on that street was the venue for the show, The Purple Fiddle.



See that white house with the green shutters there beside it? That was where I'd planned to stay after the show, it's a bed and breakfast. I parked, and walked two blocks to the B & B. And you know what? Them mountains is cold, man. After about a block, the cold had whipped up my blue jeans legs and I was all but numb.

I got to the B & B. The sign on the door said, "Check in at the Purple Fiddle." So I went to the Purple Fiddle to check in. They had no rooms.

Now, the Purple Fiddle is a great place. I knew it from the minute I walked in the door. It's small and cozy, a restaurant with a stage at one end of it, and, in fact, a purple fiddle on the wall. It's also run by hippies. And you know, I like hippies, and I was glad to see some. Because I was, this being ski country and all, expecting yuppie scum, but hippies are nice. They don't think they're better than anybody else.

When Heidi at the Purple Fiddle told me there were no rooms, I had - now, listen to this after reading what I've written about my trip - I had about 2 seconds of this thought in my head: "I'm going to turn around and go home. It wasn't meant to be." But instead I took off my gloves and got honest. "Could you please help me? I'm a lost lamb here." And Heidi, true to her hippie nature, took me in. She made calls, to two other B & Bs a few miles off, both were filled, and to another hotel about 3 miles away. They could take me, she said. I was so happy that before I left (remember, time was a-wastin') I paused and asked her some questions about the place, and what time I needed to be there, how it all worked, la-la-la, and she was just so incredibly nice I wanted to kiss her right on the lips. But I didn't, a fact for which I'm sure she'll be eternally grateful. (Hey, maybe she was destined to be nice because her name was Heidi.)

So it was a quick trip to check into the hotel, drop off my bags, and high-tail it back to that street (or two) known as Thomas.

I got there about 6:45 and it was still fairly empty. I ordered a nice curried chicken salad and finally started to relax. And from the corner of my eye saw some Hackensaw Boys milling around. They were doing their setup stuff, no roadies for these guys, and during my chicken salad I got to hear them do a soundcheck. And folks, this is where it all changes. I knew this was going to be great.

After eating, I ordered a beer and walked over to the stage area. There was the stage, a circular couch in front of it, where some kids were sitting, and a couple of rows of chairs and church pews behind them. Then tables. I took a chair on the second row, and I was close. I was really, really close. And I sat there, sipping my beer, and waited.

By 8:30, when the show started, the place was filled to the rafters. Yuppie scum skiiers, townfolk, hippies, all hanging there together waiting for the Hackensaws. And when they took the stage...well, I've never seen anything like it. There they were, right in front of me, all six of them, playing and singing and screaming and whooping and performing like a freight train about to go off the rails.

The Hackensaw Boys play music faster than any band I've ever seen in my life. I swear to you some songs were so fast that it was impossible for me to tap my foot along. And the fun they have when they play. It just fills them up, they pour it out into the room, and everyone is filled with such joy, it's amazing. Even the yuppie scum family beside me seemed to be happy, save for the two teenaged girls with them who were too cool for it all, but they were promised by the band that "The Green Day songs are in our next set."

And yes, they did all the ones you want to know about, well, those of you who've taken my advice and listened to them. They did my very favorite, "Alabama Shamrock" (seeing it done live still didn't help me decipher the words), the naughty "Kiss You Down There," "Cannonball" (how in the hell did they sing that one so fast?), "We Are Many," "Jonah," "Miner," and "Gospel Plow." No "Cluck Ol' Hen" or "Cumberland Gap," but damn, who could complain?

They took a break after one set, and the four kids who were taking up one end of the couch ambled off for good. I was helping a girl on the couch get some seats for her friends, and told her they could have mine if she didn't mind my coming to the couch, and she said come on up. So her friends, nice folks, came up, and another girl, a newbie to the Hackensaws but a local, came along and sat by me, and was incredibly nice. I was making friends! I was at the end of the couch, and I threw my coat onto its arm, pulled Sherman out of my bag, and nestled him in my coat so he could see the second set.

And the second set was as good. It was also, with me there on the couch, a bit like seeing the Hackensaw Boys in my living room. And I have a small living room. I may have actually been closer at the Purple Fiddle. And at one point, both of Four Hackensaw's fiddles had broken strings, so he pulled the purple fiddle off the wall and played it. It was later confirmed that the Hackensaw Boys were indeed the first band to ever play the purple fiddle at the Purple Fiddle.

The energy level never waned, the songs never got slower, and the guys never lost their love of playing. No one wanted them to leave, but after the second encore of a really sweet and lazy version of Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere," it all had to end.

And now we get to the warm and fuzzy section of our blog.

You know, I guess it's human nature to want the people you admire or idolize or put up on a pedestal to be nice people. This used to be more important to me when I was younger, say, in my 20s, but it's still so heartening when you find out they are nice people. The Hackensaw Boys are nice people.

I figured this out early on when the guitar player, when stringing his guitar before the gig, spent about 20 minutes talking to a boy who appeared to be about 9 and who said he played the guitar, too. They talked and talked, then after the guitar was strung, it was handed over to the boy to play. He played something (I couldn't hear over the sound system), and was given great compliments and encouragement by the band members around.

Right before the second set started, as the Hackensaws were getting their stuff ready to play, a guy who was celebrating his 21st birthday walked up to them and asked if he could have his picture made with them on this big occasion. They brought him up with them and gave him a guitar to pose with.

Then as Baby J Hackensaw, the most adorable Hackensaw Boy, was talking to someone - he caught sight of Sherman. He pointed at him. I pointed at him too, saying, "You know, he loves you guys." "He loves us?" Baby J replied. "I love him!" And he waved to Sherman. He waved to Sherman!

After the show I was gathering my stuff, and Salvage Hackensaw (I guess it's no secret he's the charismo - or bunch of junk - player) was talking to the girl beside me, telling her about how they got started, just conversation. And he was showing a little girl the charismo and how it worked, and then I thought, "Oh, shit, why not, I spent over three hours today thinking I was dead." So when he looked over my way, I told him what a great show it was, and he seemed like a nice person, and would he have a picture taken with Sherman. And the charismo. He was impressed. "Hey! I've seen his cartoons!" And so as he was getting the charismo up, I joked about it not being Sherman's first time, that he was at Rocktoberfest in Winchester back in October with me as well, and Salvage was most impressed. So impressed, in fact, that he yelled over at Mahlon Hackensaw to tell him such. And Mahlon was impressed, and so they all joined in a photo.



Mahlon wanted to see the results. "Yep, that's me. I look confused," he said. "Is that the look you were going for?" I asked. He thought, and said, "Yes, it was." "Then it was perfect," I replied.

And on my way out, there was banjo player extraordinaire The Kooky-Eyed Fox (don't ask me, they gave each other the names), signing a t-shirt for someone, and I thought, why not? Why not indeed.



May I just say here that I didn't want to be in the picture, because I was sure that after my day I looked like hell, but it was suggested by a bystander and so I did it. Kind of glad now I did. Even though I do look like hell. It was OK though, seeing as how I'd driven through it and all.

And then it was back out into the cold to the hotel, to do one very important thing. Map out a new direction home. I got out my handy-dandy TheCompanyIWorkFor road atlas and came up with a plan. Going the way I'd originally thought about seemed to be the best deal. The stretch of road out of town was the same single red line drawn for Highway 33, so it was kind of "the devil you know vs the devil you don't," but in this case the devil I didn't know was only 35 miles long, and I didn't care if it was 35 miles of two mud ruts down the mountain, it couldn't be worse than the devil I knew.

And it wasn't. It was 35 miles of two lanes down a mountain that led quickly to four lanes, then two interstates, and home in 4 1/2 hours. And by the way, today, before I left, just to prove that I was indeed someone else's mountain background....



See? Look at those mountains - they're below me!

So, that was it. Two days, 600 miles, a trip through hell, but it was worth every mile and minute. Thank you, Hackensaw Boys. You're the best present I ever gave myself.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Fuck the Olympics. I just saw the Hackensaw Boys.
* Actually, I must admit, I watched a little back at the hotel. Watching all those ice dancers, I kept imagining them skating to fiddles and banjos.
* Oh, and Mapquest? Fuck you right in the eye!