Jammin' Chicken.

What a long, strange trip it's been, and boy-howdy am I glad to be back.

The road-trip to South Carolina with The Mister was quite the way to set the tone for weirdness.

I am fully aware there are a few strange quirks that make me Super. One of these quirks has to do with taking care of business while on the road. Sometimes you just need a Safe Place. A Safe Place is deemed by meeting 3 specific requirements: 1) the restroom must be located INSIDE (not outside and around the back corner of a gas station; as I have alluded, I was once locked inside a gas station bathroom WITH NO LIGHTS at the impressionable age of 14 -and people wonder why I can't watch Law & Order); 2) the facilities must be clean; and 3) it must afford a least a little privacy lest somebody hear something unseemly.

Never in a million years did I expect searching for a Safe Place a bit North of Richmond, Virginia would lead me to a Chick-fil-A at 10:30am on a Saturday. I gotta hand it to them, this particular establishment met all requirements AND exceeded all hopes for Safe Place Requirement #3. There was no way in the world any person could have heard any noise coming from their restroom.
"Why?", you may ask.
The answer is simple. There was a Bluegrass band playing in the dining area.
I tapped my toes, gave a little "woo-hoo" and snapped a picture on my way out just as the banjo player motioned to a little blue-haired lady and said, "C'mon Momma, make us proud." She stepped up to the mic and I made my exit.

Chick-fil-A should have the new motto: We may be closed on Sunday but come Saturday, we jam.