I have done a lot of drunk driving in my day. Like, A LOT. Let me put you in the right ballpark: One time a girl that I was dating was having a bad time with her friends so I left the bar and went to pick her up. She was in Nashville, and it was 412 miles away. So I think I've said this before, but after I've enjoyed every last thrust this DUI has left to offer, I'm going to take my ankles from behind my ears, limp up to Karma and give it a handshake and slap on the ass, and then we're going to walk our separate ways and never again speak of this whole affair. We'll be even. Until that day, it will continue to play soccer with my scrotum. Yesterday I found myself telling a story that I would like to share with everyone, about a little roadtrip I took to Nashville.

Somewhere in 2004 I talked my best friends Jon and Kyle into going to Nashville to see Tim McGraw. Our friend Bobby lives in Brentwood, about 45 minutes away from the venue, so we talked him into going and letting us stay with him. Friday night we went out on the town in Nashville - if you went to Vanderbilt you probably know Lonnie:

The next morning we got the pleasure of helping Bobby dig a fence. If you've never dug one before, it's exactly as much fun as it sounds. You hang onto this contraption shown below while it shakes your arms to Jello. If you're not sweating, it's not working.

Once we were done digging holes and pulling up live wires, we piled into Bobby's Land Rover and drove to the concert. Over the next 4 hours we spent $300 on beer between the four of us. The only things I actually remember of this expensive memory are when Faith came out and they sang "It's You Love" while I got misty eyed and screamed like a schoolgirl, and challenging a girl to race me up the climbing wall. And then talking shit to her when I destroyed her, and having a dog tag made with the name "Kyle Z. Gay." Hi, I'm 28.

Halfway through the concert we lost Bobby. He just vanished. We waited for him and then walked back to his car where we found him passed out. We put his body in the back seat and I, being the best drunk driver in the group, took his keys out of his pocket and got behind the wheel.

We just followed the mass of cars as they left the amphitheater. Before I realized it, we were driving alone down some freeway with no idea where we were and more importantly, no idea where we were going. There was no way we could coax the address out of Bobby. So, logically, I got his cell phone out and called his mom.

"Hi Miss xxxxx. Where do you live?"

"Perry, are you drunk?" she asked.

I turned around to see Bobby and Jon passed out in a pile behind me.

"ehhhhhh... I'm ok." I replied.

She convinced me to take the next exit and tell her where I was, and she would send a cab. That sounded like a good idea. Plus, I was getting sleepy; drinking that much is exhausting. About an hour later Bobby's phone rang, and it was his mom asking where I was because the cab driver couldn't find us.

"Ok now I am next to a Wendy's somewhere." As it turned out, she wasn't having nearly as much fun with our game of hide and seek. Her voice changed tone. "Perry, I'm beginning to lose my patience with you." The use of the full name burned straight into my soul. That's about the time I realized that I was her living nightmare: a college man-boy driving around drunk in the middle of the night with her son in my back seat. With this and all the food places closed, I promised to stay put. The cab driver came about 40 minutes later and drove us back down to Brentwood.

As we were pulling into view of Bobby's house, and his mom waiting outside, I tried to think of some good excuse for why we were going to have to drag her son inside by the feet. At about that exact moment he sat up attentively and made an announcement.

"I have to throw up."

Perfect. I don't think the cab driver even tapped the brakes as Bobby leaned out the door and covered about 50 yards of gravel with Bud Light. I thought it was impressive, the cab driver did not. Neither did his mom. When I got out of the cab and opened my mouth, she just said, "Go to bed." There was no better time for a, "Yes M'am." You want to talk about an awkward morning? We woke up and his mom had breakfast waiting for us downstairs. I felt like a complete piece of shit, waiting all morning for someone to bring up the elephant in the room with, ".....Sooooo. About last night" but it never happened. Things did get more interesting on the way home though.

A sign on the way home from Nashville caught my eye spelling the magical word "Casino." I worked out a deal with Kyle and John where if we got to stop at the outlet mall, we could also go to the casino. We almost stopped as we passed through Dollywood and went on a helicopter ride, but figured that it would take too long and be too expensive. It would take much longer than driving through the Great Smoky Mountains and into North Carolina...

To end up almost 3 hours out of our way at the biggest Shithole Indian Casino I've ever seen in my life. That sign pretty much sums it up, that's some high priced neon.

If you're ever thinking about visiting the Cherokee Indian Casino in Cherokee, NC, let me save you some time. Flush a thousand dollars down the toilet and then sit down on the plunger; that's the experience in a nutshell. I got out $300 and sat down at the video blackjack table. Kyle went to get some coffee, and by the time he got back I was already at the ATM again. Here's how it would work. There were no physical table cards, just like 7 electronic screens and one for the dealer. He would hit the "deal" button and the cards would pop up on everyone's screen. Before I could even count my two electronic cards I looked up and he was pointing at me to hit or stand. I said "hit" and during a blink my chips disappeared. I looked down to make sure I still had my pants on, and thought I heard laughing in the dealer's earpiece.

If you had made a phone call, you could have completely missed us at that casino. That sucked, because we had driven like 3 hours out of the way. Jon and Kyle were not too happy about it.

I gotta say that I've missed the roadtrips recently, no matter how much like a plunge into hell they were. Variety, after all, is the spice of life.