Genre buster

When Kid Rock's "All Summer Long" hit radio this year with its catchy sampling from "Werewolves of London" and "Sweet Home Alabama," I could have sworn it was a rock song. After all, it was played often on Columbus' Rock 103. But in the past few days I've heard it on Q107.3 (Top 40), Kissin 99.3 (country) and even Sunny 100 (adult contemporary ... think songs like Daniel Powter's godawful "Bad Day"). I'm sure I'll hear it on Georgia Public Radio this weekend, maybe right before "A Prairie Home Companion."

I'm all for busting labels, and I'll be danged if I ever let anyone put me in one of society's confining boxes. But I've had this song on MP3 for a while, plus I heard it at my sister Laurie's luau at least 14 times last month before I had to jump in the pool at 3 a.m. just to get away from it. But I guess that's the sign of a good song -- when they play it 'til you hate it. And I can't begrudge any success that comes to good old-fashioned white trash. Even if he's from Michigan and not the Dirty South.

Then again, the guy did get arrested for fighting outside an Atlanta Waffle House. If that ain't grounds for getting your Southern citizenship, I don't know what is.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Interstate pit-stop

"What'll it be, hun?"

This is the sound of music to me at 2 a.m. on some forgotten exit along the interstate. Not only will this sweet lady keep my cup filled with hot coffee and bring me a plateful of eggs, grits, sausage and toast, but she calls me "hun." Even my wife won't call me "hun" unless it's accompanied by "Atilla."

It's one of my favorite guilty pleasures, stopping at these 24-hour breakfast joints far away from home. You know the place by some name — Waffle House, Huddle House, Omelet House, Coffee Kettle, etc. As Shakespeare said, "A Waffle House by any other name would smell just as much like cigarettes and grease."

I like sitting here alone, a total stranger that no one will remember one minute after I walk out of here — though they do steal glances at me as I jot down notes in my reporter's notebook. What kind of freak stops in a Waffle House to write at 2 a.m.? "If that's sober," the man staring at me from three booths away is thinking, "I'll stay drunk, thank you."

The crowd in here is the same as it is every 2 a.m., though this is my first time in this particular Waffle Huddle Omelet Coffee House. A few stools down sits an old man with his coffee and Camels. When one goes out, he lights another. I figure he's been sitting there awhile, probably since the Beatles split.

Behind me is a table of teen-age boys discussing graphically — though unrealistically — their exploits with the ladies before Saturday evening turned into the wee hours of Sunday morning. Nothing wrong with a little macho fantasy talk, I guess. Been there, done that. Besides, when they're ready for reality and have $50 to spare, there's always that lady over there by the pay phone.

In the corner booth sits a couple laughing and pumping quarters into the jukebox, which, thank goodness, has a slew of Merle Haggard songs. I don't think these two folks knew each other too well before tonight, but I get the feeling they'll know each other all too well by morning.

And, of course, there are the two ladies waiting tables. Linda's in her 40s, Sally Ann's in her 50s. Linda is happy to see me. Everybody else in here is simply riding out the night and probably spent most of their money before coming here. I'm a sober stranger who might actually leave a decent tip. And I always do — a least a quarter per "hun."

And there's the intense cook, who seems to be cooking for 500 customers instead of the dozen that are here. He can't stop to breathe while Linda and Sally shout out, "Number three, scattered and smothered, over easy, scorch it with extra cheese!" Where he found time to get those four dozen tattoos, I have no idea.

"Here you go, darlin'," Linda says as she delivers my meal. "Darlin" — that's worth two quarters. Linda looks at me funny as I sample the grits and say, "My compliments to the chef." The "chef" glares at me briefly, wishing it weren't too late to spit in my cheese grits.

I drop two bucks on the table as I leave — two "darlins" and four "huns" — and then stick two quarters in the jukebox and request the same song ("Achy Breaky Heart") three straight times. They're gonna remember me for more than a minute after I leave, by golly.

Waaay-back Wednesday: Adventures in Insomnia

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'll be posting old columns once a week for a while. Here's one from last millennium.

Adventures in insomnia

Lately, I've been suffering from insomnia. And I mean "lately" as in since I was about three and couldn't sleep because I was worried about what was gonna happen to Brer Rabbit in the next bedtime story.

And you normal people miss so many wonderful things by going to bed early at night. To illustrate what you're missing, here's a moment-by-moment account of my night on Thursday.

12:31 a.m. — Get home from work. Close garage door. Check for Boogey Man in storage room.

12:32 — Thank God there is no Boogey Man in storage room.

12:33 — Make supper: 12 stale saltine crackers, a jar of olives and meat in bowl found in bottom of refrigerator (Could be taco meat. Or maybe chili). Scrape green, fuzzy stuff off discovered meat.

12:38 — Put olive on ceiling fan blade. Cut on ceiling fan. Run around living room in circle. Catch olive in mouth. Bow to imaginary audience.

12:39 — Realize ceiling fan blades really need dusting.

12:45 — Pick up guitar and sing "Margaritaville."

12:47 — Tell sleepy wife when she stumbles into the living room, "No, I don't hear anything that sounds like a hound dog run over by a garbage truck."

12:48 — See what's on TV.

12:50 — Flip through those 63 channels one more time just in case I missed something important. Stop on MTV. Pray for future of universe.

12:57 — Cut on computer and check e-mail. Learn how to be my own boss and earn $1,000 a day selling state-of-the-art toothpicks from the comfort of my own home. Check fantasy baseball statistics, see that I have firm grip on last place. Check stocks and mutual funds, make alternate plans for retirement.

1:01 — Put in subliminal tape to help me sleep.

1:11 — Tell myself, "I am a strong woman." Realize this is wrong subliminal tape.

1:28 — Flex muscles in front of bathroom mirror. Ask reflection, "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?"

1:55 — Deep thoughts: If Elvis really staged his death, why would he have done it by dying on the toilet?

2:18 — Notice frog hopping on patio. Wonder what would happen to a frog in a microwave.

2:30 — Finish cleaning microwave.

2:36 — Call telemarketer at home and tell her I've reconsidered. I would indeed like to know more about how I could save on all my long distance calls.

2:41 — Make note to self: Tell folks frog-in-microwave item was just a joke to avoid getting hate mail from angry amphibian lovers.

2:45 — Drive down street to home of teenie bopper with loud car stereo and one rap CD. Play Ernest Tubb song at 150 decibels.

2:56 — Enter Waffle House. Ask for nonsmoking section.

3:35 — Tell drunk man at Waffle House, "I'd really like to hear more about your alien abduction, but it's getting late."

3:42 — "Really, I must be going."

3:47 — "Look! It's E.T.!" Run like the wind.

4:15 — Crawl into bed. Warm cold feet on wife.

4:16 — Check in bathroom mirror to see if nose is broken.

4:17 — Strike Incredible Hulk pose again to see if muscles grew in last three hours.