THE
MIKE
DURRETT SHOW
ON THE ROAD
Hi, and, pardon me, I have to say it.... Let's get this show on the road.
I finally received the photographs back from the drugstore. The ones of our recent trip to the beach. Our favorite beach, The Great American West.
Oh, sure, it's desert NOW; but a bahjillionquadtrillion years ago -- before our lifetimes, before Columbus, before Charlton Heston, a whopping portion of our country was under water. You might have owned beach front property in Oklahoma, spending your days grabbing the big waves and eyeballing bikini-clad buffalo. Oh, I know, we've all done that in Panama City or San Diego; but I'm talking Tulsa.
To be factual, it was a primitive beach. No beer. No Spring Breaks. No pups biting the bottoms off the Coppertone girl. And just try to find a blow-up ducky life preserver. Them ducky preservers were scarce, I'm told.
I don't miss the ocean around Arizona and Utah, because ever since 1975 I won't go into the water anyway. That was the year Jaws entered my consciousness. I shunned swimming instantaneously. I no longer bathe; I have myself dry-cleaned (extra starch in the pecs). I pre-stir beverages with a harpoon. I will only enter rain on the Buddy System. And if I must use a moist towelette, I get a note from my Mom.
Being a boy of the male persuasion, I never cared much for sightseeing. We aren't allowed to like nature's beauty. It's discouraged. Read our job description some time.
I slowly cultivated interests for scenery and my tolerance evolved throughout multiple decades. I learned there is astounding beauty all around me. I find I enjoy traveling more and more to experience new vistas; because around home, here in Georgia, our environment consists of repetitious red clay, repetitious kudzu, and repetitious pine trees.
We also have a lot of Chick-fil-As.
Grandeur is everywhere! And the waffle fries are mighty beauteous at the Chick-fil-A, too. Those li'l ketchup pouches are havens for pulchritude. Simply open one up and put the innards on the waffle fry of your choice, and, lady or brother, you got yourself a splendiferous view and a brightly colored tummy festival to boot.
I discovered man cannot live on fries alone; so I bought me some maps, a road Atlas, and a medical dictionary. I dove into a frenzy of research.
Guess what? Man can live on soft-serve ice cream and Mexican food alone. It's a scientific fact. As the saying goes: "A cone and burrito a day keeps the doctor at arms length."
It follows in reasoning, if there's a doctor nearby, you can eat pretty much whatever you'd like. He'll be right there to patch or plunge you as needed. Beauty. Beauty. Beauty.
Further study, including several phone calls to fellow edibles aficionados, and my uninvited voodoo mental telepathy poltergeist visits to Hank Ketcham, creator of Dennis the Menace, made me see my destiny. Travel -- I must travel west. In the west, there are Taco Bells and Dairy Queens on every corner. If no corners are available, there's a Taco Bell and Dairy Queen on every cactus.
I discovered this hitherto unpublished revelation in 1992. We, your Guide and Mrs. your Guide, made our first quest west that summer. Donna and I recently returned to the Guide's Estate and Hyperlinks Compound from our third extensive automobile tour of Dilly Bars and hot salsa. It was good 'til the last chalupa.
Along the way, I noticed, hey, they've got scenery out west, too. Bonus!
They've also got Sandwich Artists. I was in a Subway -- Moab, I think -- cleaning my palate between p'nut butter parfaits and beans and there on the server's shirt was the proclamation "Sandwich Artist." I will never look at shredded lettuce and 'maters the same way again. In fact, I look at shredded lettuce and 'maters on my wall now. I had that sandwich shellacked and framed. It's authentic western American art, you know.
The nice artiste took time out for me from her busy schedule creating never before eaten arrays of banana peppers. She was kind enough to autograph my lunch in the lower right corner. She used the mustard squirter. The coveted yellowmustard squirter -- not the spicy. Woo-hoo!
So, I'd like to tell you about our trip. I've got stacks of pictures to share from the most amazing darn beach ever. We'll get in the car and go next week, okay? Sorry, but now, I really must wrap up this show for today. Thank you so much, as always, for reading -- uh...
Oh oh.
BUR-WURPPPPPP!!!
'Scuse me.
About Your Guide: Mike Durrett only travels by land. He has not been airborne since 1974, when he accompanied his grandmother's body to her final resting place. In life, she had never flown. If she knew she was flying that day, it would have killed her.
Photos used by permission:
Monument Valley & Arches copyright 1998 by Donna Durrett
Chum copyright 1965, 1998 by M. S. Durrett
Mystery Valley arch copyright 1998 by Stan Malone
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