And that's just a little bit more than the law would allow.

I Just got back from Nashville. Working for Arizona Bob with the Hooligan Crew, we were in residence for the weekend at The Gaylord Opryland. This place is a mind blowing absurdity of indulgent waste. Example: at the burger joint they individually wrap each veggie so you can build your mediocre meat burger yourself and then discard the custom made plastic box that previously encased each pickle or tomato slice. The whole place, in fact, is in a giant box made of glass and steel. A huge, individually wrapped, self contained model of life on the moon, or some sterile fabricated future of climate controlled outside inside world. Seriously weird. I really wanted Pauly Shore to be show up, somehow thinking an appearance by the Weaz would ease my mind and take the reality out of this all too real place. It was not to be.
After two days in the dome we started joking about the "outlands" and told tales of something called fresh air. Our destiny was to stay, however, four nights and three days in the Gaylord, where I never saw this Gay Lord, by the way. I could only sense his presence hovering above somewhere, ensconced in one of the inaccessible glass turrets that topped each of the four humongous atria, watching the plump tourists mill about in his perfectly manicured little world of wonders.
The smallest atrium was about two acres, surrounded on all sides by the walls of the hotel room wings. Each atrium was filled with plants and waterworks. One had a giant island where we found a glorious buffet. This impressed me dearly, as I personally regard the concept of the buffet in very high esteem - if managed correctly that is. It is one of the crowning achievements of modernity, after all, though also often one of the most poorly executed.
Another atrium was home to what I could only call the Degobah of Nashville, a bubbling steamy lily pad laden soup where Cirqe du Soleil cast-offs played bizarre cantina band covers to imbue the atrium with an ambiance that bordered on jungle madness. I dared not linger here, lest my sanity be lost.
Our work was dirty and thorough. We fixed about 200 rigging points to the ceiling of a massive event room, a space where one could have assembled a life size replica of Red Square. Apparently the convention business is alive and kicking in Music City. We rocked out the job in under three days, and on Sunday night we hit the town, leaving the safety of the Gaylord for the first time since our arrival.
Contrary to our fears, none of us were afflicted by the so called "outland syndrome," another purported danger of leaving the enclosure. A few pitchers of the local Yazoo, and our anxieties relaxed. Life was just the same as ever. We could come and go from the glass house at Opryland as much as we pleased, with no ill effects. They must put something in the air in that place, the way they do in Vegas, to keep the guests inside and in a docile state of mind. No wonder so many of the other Gaylord denizens were so well endowed of girth. There was little more to do there than breathe the sweet air and sup from the buffet, the burger joint, the pizza place, the many breakfast nooks, the sushi bar, the Old Hick'ry manor house where one evening's tab was in excess of $900.00, or the Jack Daniels tavern where the band faithfully covered Waylon Jennings - to name just a few of the available feeding troughs.
A few days outside the glass and I can see the place clearly for what it is; a well disguised factory farm, where humans are the livestock and the end product is a stupendous amount of cash in the pocket of Mr. Gay Lord, whoever that may be.
During my stay I felt always a degree removed, as a true outlander along with the rest of our crew. We were often dirty and unkempt from the efforts of our labor, roaming about in a pack like coyotes, indulging ourselves in pleasures we would not normally enjoy.

Yes, I'll go back. Wouldn't you?