28 | June | 2009 | Tiny Cat Pants

Still on the fence about “Hung.”

Is Suky just butt-ass stupid? And that minotaur thing was, um, yes, well, let’s hope it improves from here, shall we?

Oh, I kind of love foaming at the mouth version of Suki.

I love Erik. Good lord, he’s hilarious.

Oh, Eddie. I’m glad to see you again, too. Even if you’re just a dream. And it was surprisingly hot to watch you bite Jason.

Terry, talk some sense into this moron.

I find this Jason stuff kind of boring, especially because it’s moving kind of slow.

I don’t believe Mrs. Reverend’s sister is actually dead, which is too bad, because it would be nice if it were a little more complex.

I really love what a good screamer Ginger is. She seems to be having the most fun of anyone on this show.

Tara and Eggs are so beautiful, so I fear it’s going to go horribly wrong.

I am really, frankly, tired of every fight between Suky and Bill going exactly the same.

Okay, where does Jessica have any money to go to the bar? Is that too stupid a question?

Oh, these guys would be a cute couple. Don’t eat Hoyt, Jessica!

I think the sexual tension between Suky and Erik is kind of already thick. Poor Bill is a little clueless.

And the wink at LaFayette?!

I’d like to see a semi-smart Jason.

Smooch her! Smooch her!

She smooched him!

Keep your eyes on the road, Bill! Whenever Bill’s driving, he spends half the time looking at Suky. If they were in Tennessee, I would petition the state legislature to enact a “no melodramatic fighting while driving” bill, because those two are a menace.

I may be lacking an important prudish gene but what is it exactly about the orgy that made Tara so uncomfortable?

So, are we guessing that the thing in the woods first tried to scratch Suky to get to Sam and has now scratched Daphne? And what would a minotaur want with Sam? I’m a little intrigued but also a little disappointed because I was hoping it was going be that Daphne was also a shape shifter like Sam.

The evening ended with me flipping over playing cards and telling fortunes to my hosts in the kitchen. Everything has an opinion on the future, if you know how to discern it. Cooks can get a feel for a burning fire long before the milk scorches just by reading the flames. A farmer can tell a future crop by rolling his dirt through his fingers. Mrs. Coble can tell the rain long before it comes by reading the aches in her body. And I, the girl of the long vacations full of rummy and squeak and euchre and solitaire and the school years full of flashcards can read the general outlines of a person’s worries in a deck of cards.

We had spent all day touring dead towns and cemeteries.

What’cha gonna do when the State runs dry? Drive back roads watchin’ small towns die. Honey, pretty baby mine.

And there was the river, that muddy god who lays in between the middle of the country so easy you can almost imagine him sliding his tributaries up Illinois’ shirt and singing softly, “… them men don’t know but the little girls understand.”

We stopped in a cinder-block box full of bearded bikers and their cigarette smoke. On the wooden railing was a small stack of Avon catalogs. I didn’t notice anyone taking any, but I was distracted by my admiration for all the kinds of facial hair on display.

The bulk of the evening, though, was spent at the bar sponsoring a dog’s gubenatorial candidacy. And it’s difficult to explain when the mood in the bar changed from one of bored folks sitting around drinking to one where someone–and I’m not mentioning any names–was flashing her bra at the camera. Though it may have been the camera flashing, in both senses of the word, that changed the mood.

Suddenly, an ex-Army Ranger arrived at our table, eager to slip out of his shirt to show off his tattoos. More beers arrived. Out of nowhere, an ex-Memphis cop and his girlfriend arrived. With little warning, the ex-Army Ranger was putting music on the juke box and he began to slowly and rhythmically slither around a pole in the middle of the bar. Then, he came back to the table and humped his chair in time to the music. And then, he danced over and repeatedly pushed his hips into the cigarette machine.

It was, of course, hilarious, but it was also surprisingly graceful and awesome and charming. Maybe it was all the beers, but it was a treat to see a guy take such joy in his body.

We kept waiting for the recipient of the picture full of my bra to respond and as we waited, one of the girls at the table said, “Well, if he says anything about the picture, just tell him that’s nothing. He should see what happens when we go to Cooterville.”