"You big fat woman get your fat leg off of meYou feel so goodScare the hell out of meYou got a great big legGot a whoppin' thighYou big fat woman get your fat leg off of me" So wails bluesman -Homesick James-his tortured voice lilting from my car's right hand speakers (the left unfortunately were blown out to Deep Purple or something - can't remember). He's singing his classic "Big Leg Woman". I'm pulling out of Forysth Park, downtown Savannah in my big 'ole barge otherwise known as a Cadillac Deville on a glorious Saturday morning, and I croon along with Homesick:
"big leg wooooooomannnnn,keep me warm in the Wintergive me shade in the Summer" The song ends and ole Theron "Ike" Carter the voice of "Nothin' but the Blues" on Savannah State University radio, regales us with some obscure facts about Homesick James. He lovingly names every musician on the album and finishes with his signature
"yessir - shaw nuff!" The caddy glides down Drayton Street past the old ante bellum houses overlooking Forsyth Park and a blues song about fooling around with married women is about to start. Old Ike murmurs
"dangerous occupation- shaw nuff!" And this is how a Saturday should begin.
I've just run ten miles including the Savannah Bridge, and I'm feeling good. Well that's a lie. I'm actually knackered. I feel like my liver has been dislodged and my piehole has a faint glow of something fished out of a heron's throat (not that I know what that's like you understand).
"Savannah babe magnet"
But aside from the perpetual dire warnings from the caddy's diagnostic computer "SERVICE RIDE CONTROL" or the more apt "YO HOMEY! CHANGE OIL SOON" I'm cruising in my caddy circa 1994 model lovin' life. It has a bloody great gouge down the passenger side, cruelly inflicted I might add after an argument with a downtown tourist tram. Devastating pieces of angle iron on wheels that's what they are and every local hates them. Especially me. The drivers are all nutters, and, I'm convinced, secret card carrying members of the "extravagantly bearded Muslim fanatic club" wearing T shirts under their neat company uniforms that say “Death to the Infidel Cockroach Scum” With white foam dribbling down their chins and several numbers from the Waziristan region logged on pay-as-you-go Nokia mobile phones, they casually announce into their microphone to gormless plates of jello jiggling about in the back of the tram "we are now approaching Pulaski Square so named for Count Casimir Pulaski the highest ranking foreign officer to die in the revolutionary war" all the while resisting the urge to maniacally scream "I would have shot him in the back of the head and fed his scrotum to the wolves!" followed up with an equally fascinating "you are all decadent snail piss!" while gleefully driving into the turgid waters of the Savannah River. Which actually is not a bad place for the dreaded trams. Although it's rumoured the drivers hate to run over a tourist because the paperwork is hell.
The caddy glides on past the old burned out location of Churchills Pub destroyed in a grease fire when one of their famous battered rubbery fish decided to emulate the origins of life and climbed out of the deep fat fryer onto a pile of hideous soiled something and up she went.
"Last orders please!"
The caddy's right door doesn't lock but will set off the alarm if opened, and the trunk motor refuses to perform its only purpose in life and gently pull down the trunk the last few inches. But hey who cares! not even the homeless laying around on park benches will bother this old brute. Unexpectably the change oil warning goes radioactive and begins to spit CHANGE OIL NOW! then I PITY YOU FOOL!
I'm half expecting a boxing glove on a spring to shoot out through a hidden door on the dash and wallop me in the mush. I've had this car for six years and still discovering things about it I never knew. Although I'm probably half way through the six hundred or so dire "check this" warnings that flash up on the dash with a few others like SKIMPLY DRESSED FEMALE APPROACHING - 200 YDS AND CLOSING! I've never discovered where this particular warning sensor is although I've had a few suggestions.
You feel so good
Scare the hell out of me
You got a great big leg
Got a whoppin' thigh
You big fat woman get your fat leg off of me"
So wails bluesman -Homesick James-his tortured voice lilting from my car's right hand speakers (the left unfortunately were blown out to Deep Purple or something - can't remember). He's singing his classic "Big Leg Woman". I'm pulling out of Forysth Park, downtown Savannah in my big 'ole barge otherwise known as a Cadillac Deville on a glorious Saturday morning, and I croon along with Homesick:
"big leg wooooooomannnnn,
keep me warm in the Winter
give me shade in the Summer"
The song ends and ole Theron "Ike" Carter the voice of "Nothin' but the Blues" on Savannah State University radio, regales us with some obscure facts about Homesick James. He lovingly names every musician on the album and finishes with his signature "yessir - shaw nuff!"
The caddy glides down Drayton Street past the old ante bellum houses overlooking Forsyth Park and a blues song about fooling around with married women is about to start. Old Ike murmurs "dangerous occupation- shaw nuff!" And this is how a Saturday should begin.
I've just run ten miles including the Savannah Bridge, and I'm feeling good. Well that's a lie. I'm actually knackered. I feel like my liver has been dislodged and my piehole has a faint glow of something fished out of a heron's throat (not that I know what that's like you understand).
"Savannah babe magnet"
But aside from the perpetual dire warnings from the caddy's diagnostic computer "SERVICE RIDE CONTROL" or the more apt "YO HOMEY! CHANGE OIL SOON" I'm cruising in my caddy circa 1994 model lovin' life. It has a bloody great gouge down the passenger side, cruelly inflicted I might add after an argument with a downtown tourist tram. Devastating pieces of angle iron on wheels that's what they are and every local hates them. Especially me. The drivers are all nutters, and, I'm convinced, secret card carrying members of the "extravagantly bearded Muslim fanatic club" wearing T shirts under their neat company uniforms that say “Death to the Infidel Cockroach Scum” With white foam dribbling down their chins and several numbers from the Waziristan region logged on pay-as-you-go Nokia mobile phones, they casually announce into their microphone to gormless plates of jello jiggling about in the back of the tram "we are now approaching Pulaski Square so named for Count Casimir Pulaski the highest ranking foreign officer to die in the revolutionary war" all the while resisting the urge to maniacally scream "I would have shot him in the back of the head and fed his scrotum to the wolves!" followed up with an equally fascinating "you are all decadent snail piss!" while gleefully driving into the turgid waters of the Savannah River. Which actually is not a bad place for the dreaded trams. Although it's rumoured the drivers hate to run over a tourist because the paperwork is hell.
The caddy glides on past the old burned out location of Churchills Pub destroyed in a grease fire when one of their famous battered rubbery fish decided to emulate the origins of life and climbed out of the deep fat fryer onto a pile of hideous soiled something and up she went.
"Last orders please!"
The caddy's right door doesn't lock but will set off the alarm if opened, and the trunk motor refuses to perform its only purpose in life and gently pull down the trunk the last few inches. But hey who cares! not even the homeless laying around on park benches will bother this old brute. Unexpectably the change oil warning goes radioactive and begins to spit CHANGE OIL NOW! then I PITY YOU FOOL!
I'm half expecting a boxing glove on a spring to shoot out through a hidden door on the dash and wallop me in the mush. I've had this car for six years and still discovering things about it I never knew. Although I'm probably half way through the six hundred or so dire "check this" warnings that flash up on the dash with a few others like SKIMPLY DRESSED FEMALE APPROACHING - 200 YDS AND CLOSING! I've never discovered where this particular warning sensor is although I've had a few suggestions.