Hey --
Welcome to tour. We're in Nashville. I spent most of the afternoon nodding in and out of sleep while reading Charles Bronson's (not that Charles Bronson) instructional tome "Solitary Fitness." -- This is an account of one man incarcerated in the UK who has developed a work out routine completely independent of formal equipment, relying on your own body, and things one can have access to in prison. As soon as I heard about this book I new that not only had I been beaten to the punch on trying to keep fit in less than ideal places (also probably ten times over by every health and fitness magazine to ever exist), but also feel like a huge wimp for skimping on tour every now and then.
All literary pursuits have consequences, of course. It may be the heat of the American South or the long drives, but when the mind starts comparing the idle time in the van to what Mr. Bronson faces in the slammer, it sadly may be time for a reality check. Truthfully, I am living what otherwise is no doubt the life of riley, and using down time for neither intellectual or physical activity...just lunch. How dare I! Of course, in the grander scope of developing positive routines on the road -- as outlined in the 2nd last chapter of "Solitary Fitness," Solitary Cleanse -- I have little desire to suck water up my own butt with my anus muscles (but you never know what you'll need in the apocalypse) so i'll cut myself some slack for now. Living up to the challenge of making this account an interesting one, though, is thoroughly on me.
Part of this diary was supposed to be about the great failures of fitness on the road. Those times when no matter the dedication, or how great you feel after doing kettlebell in a vacant lot in 100 degree Georgia heat, you just need to ingest the most neglegent, delicious meal possible, and chase it with a cold beer. That is what I did.
This morning, I awoke from a solid sleep at a Days in somewhere outside of Atlanta, powered three runny eggs down my neck care of Waffle House, and let the highway do all the talking. Upon arrival in Music City, some of my bandmates and I dined in a crumbling little shack in East Nashville: The Award Winning "Bolton's."
The actual place is tiny. It's a single level hut, divided in to two sections: dining room and kitchen. The halves are spearated by a giant door with an iron knocker, and a small tinted window, where every now and then a face will pop out and ask if you're doing alright. The chicken itself is a substantial hock of bird, suffocated to a blissful spicy death in some kind of dry rub. The pieces themselves are dutifully prepared by a single man slaving over a single (humungous) cast iron pan. Such magic behind that tiny window. Each dinner comes with two sides. I ordered that famous souther sludge: "Greens," and corn on the cob, though I think i'd have been better off having the mac and cheese, since the corn ended up a bit spongey. Anyways. The chicken itself was pretty hefty, and the spices immediately sent us into sweats and colour matching the decor.
The heat compounded with every bite, and seemed to be most intensified by eating the corn. Each mouthful of maize and my face melted like a wax candle on the set of Dracula. Nothing could really penetrate the heat, including the mercifully basic Wonderbread, or the no doubt useless Sprite. I eat like I was raised by Yeti's and Jackals so I managed to ingest the whole thing in a few minutes, but the whole project posed a great challenge:
According to Bronson's book and many others, as long as your body can properly process and account for its intake, eating otherwise rotten stuff is mostly relative. Tell it to your colon in twenty years, maybe, but for now we're alright. SO how does one face up to Bolton's Tennessee Hot Chicken? Indeed a work in progress.
NOTE: I DIDN'T TAKE ANY OF THESE PHOTOS
No comments:
Post a Comment