Cafe 113

Well I caught the Brightsides Suicides again this past Friday. It was an excellent show hands down. For the few strangers in the Southeast who may actually read my blogs, you should check them out. They performed at Cafe 113 in Decatur, Alabama. A folk band and a blues musician came on before them. I had a blast. Shot the shit with a few friends, watched the zaniness that is Micheal Quattlebaum. After the show we went back to Seth's the lead guitarist of the band who happens to live in Decatur. We watched a music video they cut, I got on the C harp and performed a few numbers with a variety of musicians. I also played my tune 15th and Grove on the guitar, for a few folks who'd never heard it before. They were impressed with the overall folkiness of the sound. I however, have ambitions far greater than folk, I want to play alt. country. At the end of the night I met a fellow named Brennan. He and I jammed out a Johnny Cash tune and had discussions on everything from Uncle Tupelo to Whiskeytown. He gave me his number and expressed interest in putting something together. Sure has been awhile since I was in a rock band. I'll keep ya'll posted. Don't be a stranger you hear. On next time I'll try to write the blog when the conversations are still fresh on my mind.

Georgia

Well I've returned from the land of peaches and magnolias. I left for it just last Thursday to embark on the great American adventure that is traveling. Now as any good road warrior knows its best to have a solid night's sleep before you embark on a four hour trip to the urban jungle of Atlanta. I had none to little. I felt like a wasteoid in a David Lynch film. I tell you it's not fun being exhausted on the road. I had guzzle gallons of caffeine(well maybe not gallons). I of course naturally hit a large hail storm in the middle of downtown Atlanta during rush hour, I so enjoyed navigating through it. It took forty-five minutes longer then it should've but eventually I arrived at my destination. I went first to a science fiction convention that was showing the film A Genesis Found. A Genesis Found by the way is an entertaining piece, an unexpected southern indie film about the possibility of life being created at the Mississippian mounds in Moundville, AL. Anyways my brother and occasional accomplice on my notable misadventures wrote and directed the film. It was good to view, unfortunately the entire convention was comprised of English professors and Science Fiction authors, not a looker among them. Main reason I went was I was expecting that Comi-Con type atmosphere; you know geeks dress as Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk, hot babes wearing Leia's metal bikini, a couple of wookies; that sort of thing. Shows what I know. After the two hours of watching a film I've already seen I embarked to a suburb twenty minutes away known as Duluth. It was boring as most suburbs are. But I got to see my pals Seth and Pat and I had not seen them in awhile so that was cool. They are in a cool garage rock style band called The "Blank"(for identity protection). It has a uniquely Replacements sounding twang too them. They had a gig at the honky tonk known as Sweetwater. It was a rocking good time. Forty-five minutes of pure adrenaline. Of course I was hammered by the end of the set off of Bud Light and Wild Turkey. We went back to their house and their Romanian fiddle player named Gabe taught us how to play "Amazing Grace", it was delightful it was the first time I'd ever sat on a git-jo before, how the sweet the sound it was. That night I had a political conversation with their rhythm guitarist Greg. Though he was more liberal and contrasted my libertarian stance it was most definitely civil, no blood was spilled.
The second day I found myself asleep on the floor with the hangover of the damned. Took a couple of Aleve to clear it up. It was quiet most of the damn, the boys rocked out for a few hours. By evening they decided to watch the film Gran Torino. Pat and I decided go out to a pub, it's name escapes me. This place was cool, not for the music or the top shelf booze, but the atmosphere. It was like getting drunk at Hooters(granted a strip joint is fun too but far more expensive, plus strippers are rarely as pretty as Hooters gals). Anyways we drank two pitcher's and a couple of shots. I went out of my way to hit on a brunette barkeep with a nice set of double D's. It was working until three old men went up to the bar, evidently they tipped far better than I, so despite a sense of physical attraction we had towards one another; economics and greed prevailed. On the way to another bar Pat was stopped by the law. It was not pleasant. For thirty minutes a cop harassed and generally abused his authority. Pat argued that he was a law student(a blatant lie) and knew his rights. His rights were violated, the officer had no probable cause the cop claimed he pulled him over for making a wide left turn, the two places the officer might have seen him Pat had made a right turn on both occasions. Finally after much debate Pat agreed to take a breathalyzer on the condition that if he was barely above the limit he'd allow a friend to come pick us up. I of course was unaware of this and was texting Seth the whole time worried about what was going on. I thought Pat was busted and I was going to be spending the rest of my play money on bailing a friend outta a Georgia jail. He blew an 8.1, the officer let him go. Why I do not know I guess because he agreed to Pat's conditions and might be liable for it in court. Either way Seth came back and got us and we bitched about the law got drunk off beer and watched Gran Torino.
The third day was slow, they practiced most of the day and got hammered. I drank less than I did the two previous days, I had to travel home the next day and I did not want to hangover. I got a kick-ass steak with the right seasonings made by their drummer Ben.
The fourth day I returned home from Georgia listening to mostly alt. country bands like Whiskeytown, Uncle Tupelo, Old Crow Medicine Show. It was a soothing ride. And I was so inspired by the band I came home and wrote a kick ass hard rock tune on my Gibson. Course I tuned it a half-step down like I do all rock songs I write, so it was actually much heavier then anything the "Blank" played. Still a muse is a muse isn't it. This might strike some as odd considering I have a tendency to write folk/country/bluegrass songs. But if you know me then you know I'm a rocker. How do I merge folk/country songs I write with grunge songs you ask. Well that's a question for another day. Trust me it works;)

Sunday Morning

            

            Wandering, wandering, wandering through the wastelands of the American highways. John and I traveled. We were the essence of the classic highwaymen. The kind young dark haired women fell for in old Irish romance tales. A modern day Viking cruise straight to Valhalla that was the goal of our journey. Isn't that goal of most men.  Just exactly why we were traveling neither of us could say, we simply traveled.

            There's a rather unique disenchantment to the open road. Maybe it was failures of wannabe beatnik dreams. Maybe it was John's 57 T-Bird; faded from cherry red to golden wheat, engine roaring with the pride of many a teenage victory behind her wheel. Maybe it was the lack of modern amenities, AC doesn't come outta old dragsters to well. Perhaps it was the never ending travel Death Valley to the Everglades and back and forth.  Or maybe it was America. A dead soul with ancient crows guarding the true Garden of Eden. Who cared. I sure as hell didn't.

            John and I met in the army. Served in the gulf together. We didn't see shit, but I glorified stories of my father so much that we'd practically written our own war experiences via Vietnam rehashing. I never saw Nam. But I liked to talk about it. I just always remembered the stories my father told me. And I'd share them with John who in turn would always give that slight sardonic grin. He loved the stories as much as I loved telling them.

            "Secretly inside the border of Cambodia or so the memory goes. On recon for my platoon. A Gook village burning. NVA's punishment for a V.C. folly. The animals tied to their stables burning alive. The aroma of bacon biscuits and sausage dogs fills the air, blistering the hairs at the end of the nose. Burning and hollering, horrendous sounds coming from life. Like a child pulling one to many times on his toy, a Cow says... I wondered if those screams were human or just animal. Upon the hill, through my field of bayonets. Soviet technology being put to good use."

 

“Man every time you tell that story. You romanticize. How and the hell can you romanticize war man?” asked John.

“Just do.” I said.

“Well do me a favor lay off the T.S. Eliot routine will you, it gets old. Next you’re going to be telling me about Father McNutt.” John said.

“That’s pastor McNutt.” I said.

“Whatever.”

            Pastor McNutt was a GI in the Second World War. He served with my granddad overseas in the Philippines. My Grandfather told me that he used to walk around picking up papers off the ground saying. “That’s not it.” After about a year of the man doing this the officers got concerned and sent him to a headshrinker. The shrink was unable to decipher the cause of his lunacy and gave him his release papers. Upon returning to the barracks Pastor McNutt proudly waved around his paper saying, “That’s it.”

            Just south of Dothan Alabama we stopped at a truck stop. It was one of those older seedier joints, which served grits and bacon bits to any local yokel that bothered to stop in. A sordid place that contained useless hi-way junk for sale, over priced caffeinated drinks, glowing signs of neon Budweiser, a well-traversed place intended for riff-raff only.

In the restaurant munching on salty burgers and moist French fries we saw her. A child nearly, was pestering the clientele for a ride. A little Sue Lyon if I ever saw one. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen well formed well developed. She wore a pink and red flowery dress, her blonde hair draped down her neck in a ponytail, with a blue ribbon holding it up.

            “Hot damn,” said John. “I haven’t seen a piece of ass look that good since I saw Rita Hayworth in Lady from Shanghai.”

John had a penchant for old movies. He always said the forties had the best looking broads. Sometimes I believed he was right.  I nodded at him with memories of Hayworth in Gilda.

“Hey little sister, need some help?” John asked.

She smiled very innocently. Her blue eyes darted our way. I could only imagine what she thought. Two men, pale, dark glasses on one, Marlboro smoking type cats.

“Hiya.” She said. “Where are you going, boys? “

“Nowhere and everywhere all at once darlin.” John said.

“Cool. Mind another passenger?” she asked.

“Come on little sis, come on.” Said John.

And with that we had one more companion on are ever stretching spiral across America.

When I was a little boy my favorite movie was Shane. I loved Alan Ladd. I watched it every time I could. I always wondered if Shane would be a good father for me. Or would he abandon me just like he did that little boy. Just like dad.

 

            We rode, and rode, and rode. To the Everglades to New York then took ol’ Horace Greely’s advice and went west.

            Our trip consisted of stops for food, sleep, and drugs. Never a permanent residency. We stay in a big city long enough to score and take off. Racing in competitions along the way to make bread. We carried very little, a few articles of clothing and toiletries. John carried a small black leather bag that was aged over a century. Inside it was his father’s one gift to him. As a boy, John once said, he loved playing with his bowie knife.

Just outside of Tucson. A memorable moment took place. John, Cordelia Valentine, yes that was the name she gave us, and myself were smoking a joint and staring at the city from off a rocky cliff.

 

“So I left the firm for the road, I was a lawyer ya see. I never looked back.” John said.

John was never a lawyer, just another yarn for a pretty girl.

 

“Why’d you leave the firm?” Cordelia asked.

“To rekindle my dead youth.” John said.

“Did you?”

“Damned if I know. Hell I never knew what my youth was about in the first place.”

“So darlin,” John asked, “Why are you running?”

Slowly taking a drag off the joint. Cordelia replied.

“I was the youngest of three daughters. My dad got tired of me, abandoned me a few months back.”

“He abandoned me, could you believe it?” she said oddly suggestively.

“No,” John said, “I can’t.”

 

            We had just got thought the shit when John found her. Look at this he said. And I did. A Gook girl, thirteen who knows, who cares. He had pulled out his knife He cut her clothing from her. He had his way with her. Then he gave her to me. I stared down at her tan naked ice-cold body. An eternity of peeping. Lifelessness. John asked if I wanted her. I shook my head no. He then pulled out his knife and cut her throat. We returned back to the platoon. I loved that story

 

“Man your dad had some crazy adventures.” Said Cordelia.

            “Yeah, they’re a gas. Real far out.” Said John.

             “Yeah they’re kinda groovy.” Cordelia said.

“Yeah, groovy.” I said.

 

            We traveled John and Cordelia fucked. Then we’d travel some more. It was kind of like a family trip to Disneyland, minus the screaming brats. Once we reached Las Vegas, we bought a decent amount of smack. Enough to satisfy all of us for a few weeks. Unfortunately things never turn out as they’re planned.

            I remember sitting with my children watching A Fistful of Dollars. My boy in particular, loved the movie. He wanted to be “The Man with no Name.” I asked him why. He said because. He said the little boy in Shane was actually “The Man with No Name”. He said Shane’s abandonment caused his darkness. He said “The Man with no Name” though basically good would forever be a rogue, an outlaw torn. I smiled and patted his head and said sure thing son. Sure thing.

 

“Heavy memory man.” Said John.

“Is that one about your dad?” asked Cordelia.

“Yes.” I said.

 

            It was on Sunday, just south of Reno, I believe when John up and left. He didn’t do this often. John and Cordelia had been fighting, over what I can’t remember. We’d all just banged up. And then the fight broke out and he left. We were in a dank and moldy Day’s Inn. Cordelia sat weeping dazed on the ground from a potentially lethal hit, she passed out. Where John was going he didn’t say, not that it mattered a whole lot. The ancient leather bag was John’s only presence in the dismal motel room.

            As Cordelia lay I stared at her vacantly. Heroin kicking in hard, I stared at her. At her pink red flowery dress aged a darker tint from rain, dust, and living. Her skin no longer healthy but pale, pale as my face and John’s. Her golden locks died jet-black. It was on Sunday that she got up off the dark mildewy floor.

“Where’s John?” she asked.

I shrugged and lit a Marlboro, pinpoint eyes protected by my shades of black.

“He left me, he left me!” she cried.

I stared at her, not knowing what to say to her delusions.

I nodded toking at my cigarette.

Cordelia then went through John’s leather bag and found the bowie knife. With daddy’s gift in her hand she turned and looked at me.

“Goodbye.” She said.

            I stared unmoving, still taking drags off my cigarette. I watched as she slit her wrists. She bled and bled. I put out my cigarette. Her dying body writhed and landed in Christ’s pose on the ground. I stared at the second coming no more. I stared for hours.

            When John returned he freaked but eventually we cleaned up the mess. We ditched the body in the deserts of Nevada.

            Wondering, wondering, wondering down the interstate John hummed a Velvet Underground tune.

“Sunday morning, something something.” John hummed.

At that moment I thought of Cordelia.

“Its nothing at all.” John hummed quietly.

            And we continued towards Valhalla and all her heavenly glory.

 

A Trip to Nashville

Late night wanderings across the Tennessee state line

“Let’s go to the burlesque”

He muttered beneath Hank Williams honky tonkin’

Into the nightly, the flathead rumbled

The 51’ Henry gnarled on the pavement

Scratching the air with her satin black paint.

 

“Why are we going what’s the occasion”?

“No occasion” he replied

With the pines whispering in a southern dialect

As mountain land appeared.

He held a bottle Old Crow

“Want a shot for your belly”?

 

At the club, it was closed of course.

“Hey man they’re closed” said a stranger.

“Whooeee I’m geeked, just spent 400 on one gal. She shouldn’t’ tease so.”

Hollered the stranger into the nightly cold.

“What’s next”

“Nashville son, where the beer tastes like gold” he replied.

“Of course you realise we’ll have to stay the night.”