simple man

Jeez. Three days back at work and I'm already going into the weekend like some Nascar yahoo yelling out the classic rock station's call letters over the radio for a free sixer on his way home from work. It will indeed be one of those weekends. I will get the remaining hair on my head buzzed down to a half inch and I will do things in the yard with my shirt off. I will not shave. I will squint a lot and wave at the neighbors and talk about how hot it is. I will even say that it is a dry heat for Tennessee. I will say this with my shirt off and the radio blasting from the porch and a PBR tall boy in my hand. I will be a simple man. Yes, I will listen to Skynyrd. I will listen to Skynyrd because I have it and it should be listened to, and because Skynyrd was a damn good band. Don't you dare deny it, not this weekend. This weekend I will pop in some Drive By Truckers. They hail from my hometown back in Alabama and I will tell people that if they ask. I will tell them that if their music collection does not include the Truckers' Southern Rock Opera, then their music collection is woefully inadequate. I will tell you the same thing. It is that kind of weekend.

Oh, shit.

I just remembered that this weekend was the big neighborhood meet and greet cookout. The creepy strangers around me will no doubt be wanting to socialize and for a lot longer than my "dry heat for Tennessee" observation will cover. Plus, if it rains between now and then the comment is no good, and I damn sure won't talk about the humidity.

Last week was the neighborhood yard sale. I hid in the house and watched the old people, chain smokers, and heavy set girls in puff paint and sequin adorned home-made t-shirts walk down the street from garage to garage. Perhaps hiding in the house for two weekends in a row will put me just over that crazy neighbor line. I don't mind if it makes me eccentric. That I want. But crazy neighbors get no Girlscout cookies or leftover squash. Neighbors are not so quick to call the fire department when crazy neighbor's house is seen flickering across the street. It is just sad when crazy neighbor stands in his yard shirtless and half-drunk, talking about the weather and wondering where his Girlscout cookies are.

Looks like Uncle Rex needs to make it two cases of PBR, as it is not the weekend for the brand of confidence and set of social skills one finds in a martini glass. It is the weekend to sweat a bit and hate Jeff Gordon while eating barbecue. It is that kind of weekend.