Getting some smack in RI

As I grew so did my urges for the cheap and shabby. I was innately compelled to seashell sculptures and back scratchers embossed in state names. I was strangely attracted to coconut animal fetishes and refused to learn how to write if not with a floaty pen. I found myself smuggling paper umbrellas out of Chinese restaurants. There was not a shelf in my room that could not fit just one more snow globe.

I was sick. I felt Kafkaesque, but much to young to even know what that feeling meant. At times my heart would race. My palms grew sweaty in the spaces between family vacations. I had a need for cheese.

The wander years

Stoned in NH

I was deep in the clutches of a force I could not control and it was only accelerated by a drivers license in my hand. The search for tack started small (it always does), but as the initial road buzz of my home state of RI wore off, I shifted gears and slid head-on into unfamiliar territories.

I began to find kicks on Route Six but the once sweet allure of the salt water taffy shores of MA soon wore off into a taste of disdain for the north. Endless hours of driving in the dark led to faint recollections of how I had arrived at hot sheet hotels in NJ the next morning. Something nagged at me that there were bigger rewards waiting around the next bender.

Southern discomfort

Smoking tea in MA

I needed a safe haven for my tack addiction. I wanted to feel secure in the notion that gaud was watching over me. As the wheels of my disillusionment sped out of control I knew there was only one way to go and that was down.

The south enticed me with a promise of high grade junk. It only took a small street sampling of NC, SC and TN and I was bible belt whipped. Why stop now I asked myself as if looking for a reason to get off this mullet-go-round. I was within a track marked arms reach of the promised land. Without further hesitation I drove old Dixie down to FL.

I settled into the key location of Temple Terrace adjoining Tampa. I was in the heart of all the major paved arteries. It gave me easy access to a quick fix of all that I craved. To my left sprawled the Tamiami Trail. To my right I-75 and 301 mainlined the state. Through them all stabbed I-4 into the heart of Orlando before continuing on to the spaced out east coast. All roads led to tack.

Just say go

I am often asked, just how does one live with a tack addiction? The simplest answer I can give is acceptance. Realize that there are no imaginary twelve steps to elevate ones self to status quo when born with a condition that gravitates toward the garish. Ignore the naysayers and proudly partake of your poison.

It is true that tackaholism is hardest on the other family members. To them I say, be understanding. Though 700 mile drives to what may seem like tourist traps can cause friction in the front seat, feel proud your loved one has the valor and testicular fortitude to appreciate the unpretentious.

The allure of tack is strong but it does not have to be debilitating. Sometimes the best solution is to just sit back and enjoy the ride. See you on the road!

Steve