Turtle Soup and the Perfect Timeless Blog Post

During the year I spent back home in Ohio during college, I worked at a crazy redneck bar situated in the middle of a trailer park, nestled up on the shore of a huge manmade lake.  Someone in the park regularly brought us turtles from the lake with which we made turtle soup.  It was quite the delicacy (no, really.)  The bar was run by a man named Larry, a big garrulous old country boy who had made his living driving 18-wheelers before he bought the bar; his new second wife, a ropy bowstring of a woman with stiffly permed hair who’d spent her life turning tricks in the parking lots of truckstops (the common tern is “lot lizard”); and Larry’s flamboyantly gay son Keith, who was still in the closet, looked like Liberace, and took out a lot of his daddy issues on the waitresses by micromanaging sidework and trying to make rules.  Have you ever tried to school a 50something career greasy-spoon waitress about the best way to refill a sugar canister, or the correct side from which to clear?  I don’t recommend it, particularly if you are a pompous and confused 20 year old arriviste whose dad recently bought the joint.

Other staff included Red, the gaunt and severely alcoholic cook who frequently disappeared on days-long benders; Margarita, an incongruous Indian woman whose calm competence and western accent were totally out of place in the hectic kitchen; Margarita’s alcoholic diabetic one-legged son, who did odd jobs and  wore a lot of fringe to announce his Indian heritage; Bev, the trainwreck druggie bartender who slept with anyone who moved, including, for a confusing span of time, gay Keith; and Matt, the 30something bartender with mild Tourette’s who had a poorly concealed “affair” with the lot lizard’s 14-year-old daughter.

And I must tell you, in all honestly, there was someone else there named Mike Hunt. And yes, he did pass that name on to his son.

As the only non-alcoholic on staff, I was frequently called in to cover shifts or forced to stay very late.  I worked about 70 hours a week, on my feet, and in the sun (huge patio).  None of these folks were generous tippers, and everything was cheap to begin with, but with that kind of volume I made a lot of money anyway.

The bar was separated from my dad’s house, where I was living to prove to my mother that I was going to be furious forever, by 30 minutes worth of twisty, lonely country roads.  I drove a lime green 1978 Pontiac Bonneville with a hole in the floor under the gas pedal, and I could basically turn it toward home and let it guide us there like a trusted horse, its eight-cylinder engine whickering companionably.  I was always footsore and sweaty and exhausted, ripped loose from a life I’d loved and thrust into something strange.  The night air that came in through the windows (and the floor) often did double duty, cooling my body while it dried the tears on my cheeks.

The bar had live music three or four days a week in summer, and the jukebox played ceaselessly.  The music was the best part of it, and I still love what I think of as “bar songs”, the kind that all of the drunk sweaty people would shout along with, holding aloft their humid cans of Bud Light.  Of these, the one that transports me instantly to that hot, sad summer is David Allan Coe’s “You Never Even Called Me By My Name“, which must be shouted along with whenever its played.  It’s some kind of universal law.

So, lately I have been listening to just a tiny little bit of country music on my long weekly drives, and during said drive the lyrics below arrived in my head.  I was thinking what would make for the perfect blog, as far as attracting readership.  Wouldn’t it be funny if I could come up with a whole song?  Alas, I have an exam to take and a speech to write and oh yeah, that job thing.

The Perfect Timeless Blog Post (to the tune of “You Never Even Called Me By My Name”)

It was all that I could do to keep from whining
Checking Statcounter like a crack-monkey every daaaaay
What’s a girl s’posed to do to get some
Traffic spikes
Write a long post about Jesus being gaaaaay?

So I’ll post twice as much as you will read me
I’ll Facebook and tweet and Tumblr, all in vain
You don’t have to invite me to Blogher, or buy ads
You never even linked to me by name

I like fashion
I’m on Etsy
I’m a home cook
I garden, and knit, and post pics of my daawwwg
But you don’t have to call me “the new Finslippy” any more
You never even linked to me by name

(Blah blah spoken word part about what elements the perfect blog post would contain)

I was dating and infertile when I got pregnant
And I was stunned to find out that it was twiiiins
But before I could even poll for clever hipster names
I got dooced for a tweet ’bout working while drinkin’ giiiin

So I’ll post about as much as you will read me
I’ll Facebook and tweet and Tumblr, all in vain
You don’t have to invite me to Blogher, or buy ads
You never even linked to me by name