I'm not sure how to sum up Florida. I will say that Cape Canaveral is not your normal full-on Florida. It's not as humid and there's usually a nice breeze coming off the Atlantic. The mullet ratio is smaller than one would expect. And the racial overtones are a lot less blatant than what I've experienced on the Gulf coast. But ya know, it is still Florida.
Cape Canaveral is kinda like the cool uncle at a family gathering. You know the one. Has a few drinks, comes out to the garage to smoke your cigarettes, doesn't care if your also smoking some pot, will tell you stories about when he used to smoke pot in the 70's, will tell you the same story every time about the Ramones concert in Jersey in '78 that he went to with a stripper he used to date. But then when you take a ride with him to the store for an extra can of gravy, the Best of the Eagles is in the CD player. He's only cool when compared to the rest of the dysfunctionally uptight simpletons that are milling about your great aunt's house telling stories of how well their kid is doing at the dog food factory, and spewing their take on the horrors of today's youth, which might directly stem from them rocking rockers, the Eagles. So Cape Canaveral is Uncle Steve. Which is to say, tolerable given the circumstance.
And what really made Florida cool was one Rachel M. Decker. Upon arrival, I was poured a whiskey and shown where the unopened 1.75 liter bottle of Jameson was located. Throughout my stay we finished that bottle. She also treated me to some fine food - fish tacos, crab legs, BBQ pulled pork. And never expected me to put out. Sadly, not even once… And the fact that I stayed at her house for a full six weeks and she didn't stab me in my sleep, might just qualify her for beatification. Seriously tho, she's pretty fantastic. Chill, drinks whiskey, likes punk rock, easy on the eyes, redheaded with a nice figure. And somehow, she's still single. It's quite baffling. So, if you're reading this and know somebody who looks like James Dean with rockabilly sensibilities, point them toward Rachel. They won't be disappointed.
Rach was gone half the time I was there. And that afforded me the opportunity to get some writing done and sort my thoughts on this ill-conceived life I've carved out. And while I didn't get as much done as I would have liked, it was nice not having to worry about the things that normally clog my head like finding enough work and paying bills and such. I also used this time to get in a little better shape. Unfortunately, I haven't lost any weight. But I also didn't gain any, and people would be surprised at how many push-ups and sit-ups my fat ass can do now. I'm not going to win any contests, but it does make me feel better and my body is not as angry with me anymore.
All in all, my trip was pretty great. All my hosts were fantastic. And because of their generosity, my adventure came in at $5 under budget. I couldn't have hoped for a better outcome.
And now I'm back in Chicago and it's time for Corn 2.0. I'm not sure how that's going to work out, but I faith that it will be alright. First things first, make some money. I already have some work lined up and hopefully there's more to come. The sooner that happens, the sooner I can get out of Mindy's basement in Jefferson Park. I'm hoping a situation that I can afford will come about by Memorial Day. That's the plan at least. We'll see what the universe has in store. But it's been pretty good to me as of late, so I'm not too worried about it.
Rachel's backyard at night
These things were everywhere
These would walk right up to the door
Rachel in a mock up capsule at the Kennedy Space Center
Rachel took me to a couple of worthwhile bars down here. One was called Surfer's, which sort of resembled a VFW hall for skate punks. Bonus points for cheap beer and somehow being able to smoke inside. There was a young trio of hardcore punkers playing that night. I affectionately referred to them as Husker Don't. With amps turned to 13, they banged out short numbers they may have well written earlier in the day. Don't get me wrong, I wore a big smile. The dense wall of sound coursed through the room, while a throng of about a dozen milled about in front of the band. I smoked a cigarette at the edge of the bar with Rach and the other non-kids who were too drunk to move or too apathetic to give a fuck. We talked to the bartender/owner in-between the bursts of ear shattering noise. He made sure we didn't go thirsty. All was good.
The other place is called the North End. It's connected by a doorway to a BBQ joint that I have yet to try. The bartender there is fantastic. And he's pretty much everything you would want in a bartender. On the ball, witty, great taste in music (a rarity in these parts), and the tab at the end of the night is maybe half what you thought it would be. The joint itself is on the smaller side of pubs, but there's a tiny stage in one corner where they have live music throughout the week. The first night we were there, the only entertainment came by way of dart league. They drank a little, threw their darts, laughed and hollered, and then got the hell out of the place immediately upon finishing their games. That left just Rach and myself, and a couple other whiskey-faced cretins, to shoot the shit with Tom while he made sure our glasses were never empty for more than a few seconds at a time. Good vibes, good times.
I made it back to the North End the following weekend and checked out some live music. They were serving up some Appalachian foot stompin' by way of The Bloody Jug Band. Good ol' boys and one gal from the big city of Orlando. There was banjo, a washtub bass, mandolin, a washboard that hung around the lead singer's head, and of course, a jug - presumably bloodied. While having a smoke on the back patio, I met a young man who was excited about the show that night and informed me that his band was playing there in less than a week. I asked him the name of his band, and he almost sheepishly replied, "Destroy North America." I smiled and promised I would return for that show. He also said they were playing with a band who he was really excited to be on the bill with called, Dirty Spliff. I said, "All the better, but you had me at Destroy North America."
The Bloody Jugband
Rachel ended up still being out of town that night, so I decided to take the bus/trolley 5 miles down the road to the North End. It's always strange taking the bus in a small town where almost everybody drives. It's usually a mix of crazies, addicts, crazy addicts, DUI casualties, kids, and the poor. But it was almost 10p when I got on, and there were only a few other riders. An old guy with a back pack, a fanny pack, and a duffel bag, a drunken beach bum wannabe, and a strange smelling fat lady who sat behind me and poorly hummed to the shitty dance music that was being pumped through the sound system. A couple more people wearing corporate polo shirts (hotels?) got on along the way. But by the time the bus was nearing the North End, I was the last rider. And being as such, the bus driver dropped me right in front of the bar, despite the fact there's wasn't a bus stop there. First rate service, all for a buck and a quarter. Suck it, CTA!
As I walked in, the door guy took my $5 and said the show had just gotten underway. I ordered a beer from Tom and made my way toward the edge of the small slam dance circle that had generated in front of the band. The guy I had met a few nights earlier (His name might have been Greg, but their band page just lists him as Dudeman.), now donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a George Bush t-shirt, all the while howling and thrashing around like an deranged epileptic, mid-grand mal. And that energy filtered into the crowd. Midway into the next song, Fuck Religion, one of the more impassioned patrons started to seriously amp up his bumping and shoving in the circle. I noticed his eyes, which seemed to impart a look so contemptuous and mean, a rabid pitbull would've backed away. I scanned the tables, looking for a plastic bag with personal effects, figuring he had just been released. Coming up empty, I wondered if he was merely in the midst of a tense aldermanic run at the Shady Palm trailer park and needed to vent. At that point, I decided to take a couple of steps back toward the bar. Not because I was afraid, or felt too old to be in up close with all the kids. While both of those things were true, the fact was I needed another beer - 5 minutes into the evening. Yeah, it was going to be one of those nights…
Destroy North America
DNA played for another half hour or so. The music itself was a bit sloppy. But what the hell, it was punk rock. And it all tightened up when they did their slower ska infused material. One of the most interesting facets of their evening was due to the fact that we were in Florida and not everybody in the bar was there for a night of hardcore. So it became necessary to sort of explain between songs that they weren't against Americans, they were after all Americans themselves, and loved Americans, they just didn't agree with American policy, etc. It was kinda charming and yet wholly unnecessary. And while not everybody agreed with their message or completely dug the music, I don't think anybody was capable of denying the power and conviction they infused into the entirety of their show. And whatever, they didn't give a fuck anyway. They'll give you a cd for free or tell you where to download their songs. And I don't think they took a dime from the door proceeds. They didn't give a mad fuck about the money. They just came to rock. And that they did…
The next band on the bill was, Dirty Spliff. Musically, these guys were the shit. The rhythm section was tight as hell. A big beast of a man played the bass so deftly, you could almost see dense fractals spilling out of his cabinet. His hyperactively picked, melodic bass notes combined with the spot-on power chords of the guitar player to create a wave of sound that sought to physically enter one's body like a sonic speedball. Raw, hard, and fast, yet inviting and warm around the edges. I found myself murmuring, "Whoa," and wearing a sugary grin. Their front man was of a different breed. The mic mostly stayed on its stand while he stood back, clad in dark sunglasses, waiting patiently with his hands folded until it was time to step up and commence wailing. And while I was never quite sure what he meant when he got down to it, there was no doubt that he fucking well meant it. If ribbons were handed out that night, Dirty Spliff would surely have walked with the blue.
Dirty Spliff
I'm not sure who the final band of the night was. But there wasn't much to say about them, anyway. I recall noting their technical proficiency, but beyond that, nothing. It was as if the bar was already raised so high, they kinda said "fuck it" and just plowed through their set. I dunno. Maybe I just didn't get it, or maybe I was just too 7 or 8 pints into the evening. In any case, I decided to spend a good chunk of their set outside shooting the shit with members of the previous 2 bands. The bass player and singer from Dirty Spliff were none too pleased with things. They were super salty about the lack of a bigger crowd and the financial implications therein. They were vowing to never play Cocoa Beach again. And that decision was partly based on the perceived hate thrown their way simply because they were from St. Cloud. I kinda figured that it had more to do with a lack of marketing and the fact that it was a Wednesday night. But whatever, they deserved to have an ego about things. They were pretty badass. It's just that they could have learned a thing or two from the ethos of DNA's frontman. It's not about the money, dig? But then again, they weren't the ones who were penniless and bumming smokes off me like Dudeman from DNA. Bottom line - the people who were there dug the shit out of it, and I had a fresh pack of smokes…
One more week in Florida. Time to do whatever it is I want to do before I go. Rachel has a few days off in a row at the beginning of next week, so game on…
Peace out, my monkeys.
Husker Don't - Betcha can't make it thru with the sound turned up...
Portland is my kinda people. My first time in the rose city was the July before last. What I remember most was that I didn't have to deal with 'uptight' the entire time I was there. Having lived in Chicago for so long, it just seemed commonplace to always have my guard up. It never hurts to front, because you just may need to do some extreme posturing in order to evade whatever madness gets thrown in front of you. In Portland, there's just no need for it. In fact, if you do that, somebody will most likely approach you in a calm manner and ask if something is wrong and offer their assistance. It's just that kind of place.
The air is clean, as is the water, which is also delicious. The trains are super clean and quiet. And the transit stations are devoid of turnstiles because it's free to ride through the downtown area and otherwise exists on the honor system. Many of the city's public trash receptacles sit adjacent to recycling bins. It's a very progressive city. And its citizens reflect that notion. Tattoos, piercings, loudly dyed hair, and bearded weirdos. And that all seems less of a non-conformist stance and more of a celebration of individuality.
I kinda regret not making into this place as it seems it's my style
Portlanders are a friendly bunch. And the relaxed vibe gives way to instant conversations. This is especially true if you run into the same person more than once. And it's not a taxing situation where you HAVE to talk to the person, but if you do, you'll have made a friend. Just about every time I stepped out of a bar or cafe for a smoke, I met somebody and had a nice chat. And I never once endured a hard luck story that ended with, "Can I have a dollar?" It's truly a refreshing change of pace being in a city that embraces the Bill & Ted ethos of being excellent to one another.
I rolled into town late at night. I arrived sometime after midnight on the doorstep of Lizzy and Cam, the dynamic duo brainchildren of Portland's newest hit makers, Radiation City. I was greeted by Lizzy with a big hug and a compliment about how good I looked with a beard. And before I finished blushing, she told me the tea kettle had just been cleaned and was waiting for me on the stove. Man, I love it when women know what I like.
Did I mention that I was staying with musicians?
Lizzy and Cam were both working as much as they could before they left on tour down to SXSW the following week. So I didn't get to see much of them aside from morning and late evening pow-wows. However, I did have the privilege of hearing an advance copy of the new EP, Cool Nightmare, that's coming out on April 10th. It did not disappoint in the least. I was also invited to a pre-tour rehearsal, where I was witness to a brand new song that was so full of win. OMG - It was like the Feelies were covering the Turtles, but with gorgeous female harmonies.
Lizzy on bass, rockin' it in the "rehearsal space."
Radiation City practices at the bass player's house that he shares with 5 or 6 other people. They actually rehearse in his bedroom in the basement - without a PA. Lizzy mentioned that if people knew how they existed and how they do what they do, they wouldn't believe it. But this too speaks to another facet of Portland, and that's its' DIY ethic. In fact, the night I was at the rehearsal, somebody was doing a photo shoot upstairs for another local band. They couldn't seem to get enough light on the band, and there was a shortage of lamps around the house. So somebody went and dug up an old overhead projector and shined that on the band. It was harsh as hell, but they figured out a way to work with it. It's what they had, and nothing was going to stop the shoot from happening. That's the Portland way.
Above the sink in the band house.
Most days, I just roamed around their neighborhood in North Portland. Cafes, Thai food, record stores. But I kicked around downtown on a couple afternoons. I ended up having lunch with an old friend who grew up down the street from me in South Bend. The last time I had seen him was 10 or 12 years ago when were both home for the holidays. He helped push my van out of the snow. Otherwise, it had been over 2 decades since we had an actual conversation. It just so happened that this year he sent my folks a Christmas card and my mom informed me he was living in Portland. So I figured why not? We had a nice lunch at a somewhat upscale place called, Veritable Quandary. We ate at the bar, which made me feel more comfortable in my ironic t-shirt and shitty cardigan. We caught up over burgers, and I was pleased to learn that he was in the arts as well. Although, now that I think about it, I wonder why we didn't just get some street meat, seeing as he's as poor as me and most artist types. I guess maybe he just thought I had turned out normal and you know, had money, and wouldn't want to eat from a food cart. Anyway, he had to get to a meeting afterward, so I headed over to Ground Krontrol and played some pinball. Somewhat ironically, I did very well playing a game called Theater Magic. Then it was onto a French bakery for some of the most scrumptious pastries I've every tasted.
I wanted to get out of Cam and Lizzy's hair while they were prepping for tour, so I headed a little further north for the last few days to stay with my friend, Phoebe. It's always good to see her. She's super cool, and simultaneously super dorky. To know her is to love her. And this visit, I finally got to spend some quality time with her man, Andrew, in a nice little house they bought in the Kenton neighborhood. He's pretty awesome too, and they make a great couple.
We all went to see some music on Friday night at a weird little venue called, the Bunk bar. Once the sound douche sorted things (without me punching him - seriously, 10 seconds of full blast insane feedback is like 9 seconds too many), we were treated to some good old time foot stomping railroad, and heartbreak songs by an older gentleman that I'd imagined lived above a diner in crappy little pad he rented by the week. His name is Michael Hurley, and he's kinda the real deal. Not only does he have the endorsement of Phoebs and Andrew, but his fans also include Lucinda Williams and Yo La Tengo. The praise was not unjustified. Then the headliners took to the stage, and that was totally worth it too. A trio called, Breathe Owl Breathe, who were all multi-instrumentalist and sounded larger than life in the most quiet and intimate way.
Phoebs took me to a pub on that Sunday called The Laurelthirst, to see the Freak Mountain Ramblers. It's a standing gig for them and Phoebs said people referred to it as church. And if I ever find myself living in Portland, this is the church I would attend. Cheap beer, great music, and good vibes. If I'd been harboring any blues, they certainly got shook loose that evening.
The Freak Mountain Ramblers preaching to the choir
The next evening brought Alden into town. (Phoebe's old college roommate and my ex-girlfriend.) She'd been having a rough go of things and it felt great to give her a big hug. We all sat around and drank and smoked into the night. The next afternoon we all went out for Thai food, and then Alden and her sister took off. The following day Phoebs dropped me off at the airport and I made my way down to Florida. (Not before a layover in what might be the shittiest airport I've ever experienced, Kansas City.)
And now I'm down in Cape Canaveral, where the weather is gorgeous. But it's also extremely pleasant weather-wise in Chicago. And I think that may be a result of me not being there. So take that into consideration for next year. You wanna have a nice winter? Send my ass out of town. Start saving your money now…
(New Rad City song. It's my favorite at the moment from the new EP. Listen or be stupid...)
So let's see, what's happened since I've last written? Oh yeah. I got married in Tucson. It was a real whirlwind of a romance with a pretty little filly named Louise. It was truly love at first sight. She had the shiniest coat I'd ever seen. And an ethereal whinny capable of calling all the sailors to port. I just had to have her. And 90 minutes after meeting, we were married. Or so I believed. Fortunately for me, my friend, Liz, had decided to remain sober that afternoon. She said that I became infatuated with an old wig tied to a broom handle that I had fished out of a dumpster. Apparently I was dancing around with it and swooning in what she thought was Germanic gibberish. After some time, I stopped and engaged in some bizarre ritual in front of a mailbox for several minutes. And now that I think about it, that minister was a bit short and stout, and blue. In any case, I'm glad that it wasn't a legal ceremony. I don't have no lawyering money. And I sure couldn't afford to pay any ponimony. Let that be a listen to you kids. DMT is a helluva drug…
So, I did make it out of Tucson alive. Liz was a lovely host. And I got to meet her beau. A guy who goes by the moniker, Hadji Banjovi. I almost HAD to like him because of that. And I got to see him perform in a puppet show. At least I think it was a puppet show. It's hard to say as I had ingested the DMT right before that was supposed to start. Anyway, later on, we all hung out in the grand backyard where Liz was staying. Hadji played the banjo, I beat a drum, and Liz sang along. It was a wonderful night underneath the desert sky.
Liz's backyard
When I made it back to Phoenix the next afternoon, Jeff had returned and was already several vodkas into his day. Ann was not far behind - she never is… I played catch-up until the Grammys started and then we all played drunken Grammy picks. I think Ann won, simply because all she kept saying was Adele, Adele, Adele. I picked the Starland Vocal Band a few times, even though they hadn't been nominated. Stupid rigged Grammys… And fuck them for not remembering Gil Scott-Heron. Sure, he was no Whitney Houston. But his influence on the hip hop community can't possibly be overstated. Could have at least thrown his picture up there on the screen for a second. I guess he was right about important events not being televised…
Santo, my Phoenix bunkmate
San Francisco. What a trip. I saw a play called "52- Man Pick Up" the night I rolled into town. I couldn't recommend this show more. I almost went back and saw it again the next night, as the show changes on a nightly basis from a random draw of cards. It's poignant, gut busting funny, and if you bring a date, you will get laid. Absolutely fantastic. I also had the pleasure of spending the night with the star and her friend, as we were all staying at the artistic director's place. We drank until the wee hours of the morning and then I passed out on an air mattress for a few hours. Then I got up, re-inflated the mattress and slept for a few more hours. We all ventured out in the late morning to a cafe fittingly called, Brainwash. Desiree and Brady got some food which looked delicious. I had a peanut butter/oatmeal/chocolate chip cookie, which was delicious and the most my stomach could handle at the moment. Afterward, I ventured forth into the city on foot. Unfortunately, it wasn't until a bit later that I recalled all the movies I'd seen that were set in San Francisco. All the cool car chase scenes came rushing back to mind as I traipsed up streets at a 45º angle. All of a sudden, a mile and a half seemed a bit more than I had bargained for. But I wasn't on any schedule, and my legs weren't broken, and I need the exercise like a fish needs water, so…
I made my way to the cable car museum, and after a quick tour inside, just wandered about. The sights were just amazing. The architecture, the grand cathedrals, the epic amount homelessness. I still can't pinpoint just what it was about the homeless situation that struck me so. But these folks carried themselves in such a way that was unlike any other urban center I've ever witnessed. There seemed to be a strong sense of unity, and most definitely dignity, among these masses. Their faces so rich with character as to bely the scarcity of folding money in their pockets, extruding an air just short of pride and settling into a bold matter of factness. It just floored me to the core. And now I'm hardly getting over it. They're hardly getting by…
This was a makeshift domicile, assembled the night I'd arrived and photographed the morning of my departure.
I took a fair amount of pictures, but too often the brilliant moments in time slipped by before I could click the shutter. Aside from life itself moving so quickly, the constant weather shifting altered the brilliant scenes of just moments prior. I think it would take a solid decade to properly photograph San Francisco. And if I had a pile of money and a reason to go there, I would do just that.
The Grace Cathedral. By the time I got into position for a good photo, the moment was lost. But the bells were spectacular.
My friend, Courtney, drove down to the city from Santa Rosa. We spent the day, along with her boyfriend, Jared, shuffling about town. We took in the Haight/Ashbury district with all its record stores, smoke shops, and bookstores. Then we headed over to the infamous City Lights bookstore. We all got lost in there for a good hour. Somehow I came out empty handed. We attempted to do the wharf, see the seals thing. But what a touristy fuckhole of a mess. They both were willing to endure it for my sake, but I wasn't about to subject them or myself to such a scene. So we headed toward the Golden Gate and made the journey back north to Santa Rosa.
Leaving San Francisco
I stayed with them for a few days. They've been a couple for quite a while, but this was the first time I'd actually met Jared. And we quickly bonded over, I dunno, kinda everything. He cooked some amazing meals, and we all drank some quality beers. And he let me beat him at bocci ball before I left. As they were driving me back down to Oakland to catch a flight, I started to realize that although I'd come this way specifically to see Courtney (one of the few people capable of talking sense into me), I think it was Jared I was supposed to spend time with. Hopefully, we'll all cross paths again before too long. Good people are good…
Jared, with Harold on his lap. Maude is in the background at the table, along with a small portion of Courtney's head...
And now I'm enjoying Portland. I haven't run into Fred Armisen yet, but there's still time…
In the middle of my Freshman year of high school, my mother finally came to the conclusion that after having spent K-9 attending parochial schools, I may have had enough of the "religion thing" and relented to let me attend the public high school which was exactly 3 minutes from our front door. However, tuition had already been paid for Freshman year. So I was forced to endure one more semester of pompous rich kids, rampant drug dealing, and an art teacher who seemingly abhorred God's creation of the feminine form and thought all good art emanated from precisely duplicated bowls of fruit.
I met Jeff my first week in the big old bad public school. He was in my Geometry class alongside Ron, who was the only person I knew at the school when I walked through the door that first day. Ron introduced me to Jeff and a few other screwballs sitting around us, and the shenanigans started brewing. Around this time, Ron and I had watched some bad horror flick that featured a weird demonic voice. It was something in the vein of Froggy belching hardcore prose. Ron and I started goofing on one another in that voice and were getting some good laughs. It wasn't a hard voice to mimic and a few others joined in the chorus of stupid. Unfortunately, the teacher turned around right when Jeff finished saying something and issued a stern warning directed at Jeff, that he didn't want to hear that voice ever again in his class. Even more unfortunately, before the teacher's head fully snapped back around to the board, I let loose a full throated, demonic, "Fuck you." The room fell silent for a split second, and then the teacher turned around and started a tirade against Jeff about how he never wanted to see his face again in his room and expelled him from the class right there. All Jeff's cries of, "It wasn't me," fell on deaf ears. Well, I had made it nearly a week in the new school, and if the look Jeff shot me on the way out the door was any indication, I was about to get into my first fight in the very near future. However, I did manage to avoid Jeff for a few days, as Geometry was the only class we "used to" have together. When we finally did end up at the same place in time, I wasn't sure what to expect. I figured I'd just take the punch. After all, if you dissected the situation far enough, or really even just a little, I completely deserved it. But instead of a crack to the jaw, I just got a, "Hey motherfucker," accompanied with a chuckle and a grin. Fortunately for me, when Jeff was sent to another Geometry class, he was seated next to a girl named Andi, whom he quickly began dating within those few days. Unfortunately for him, she was early on in a string of bad decision making as far as dating was concerned. But that's a story for a different time.
Not too long after this, I found out that Jeff had his license and a car. And not just any car, but a beast of a car that went by the name "Blort." A '76 Vista Cruiser wagon, the color of bad mayonnaise, replete with fake wood paneling and a Delco tape deck mounted on the hump. Well, that marked the end of campus lunches for me, and the beginning of a life-long friendship. Jeff and I became thick as thieves. And the Blort became our weapon of mass destruction. Mailboxes and street signs were taken out with precision fish tailing technique. Well, most of the time. Eventual miscalculations led to the removal of all the handles on the passenger side. But in the end, that sort of balanced out the fact that you couldn't get out on the driver's side. Man, if that car could talk, the stories it would tell… But mostly it would probably just say, "Ouch."
Jeff and I ended up going to Columbia College together. But then I bailed after the first year and went back to Indiana because I stupidly thought Business school was a good thing to do. I lasted for a year at IUSB. I realized quite quickly that I could no longer live in Indiana. Growing up there, I had nothing else with which to compare. But living in Chicago for a year had exposed just how much South Bend was devoid of culture and filled with overt racism. I got out the following summer as soon as I could land a job in Chicago. However, being young and desperate lead me to agree to a wage of $5.50/hr. But Jeff let me stay with him in a shitty little studio apartment for 6 months until I could get on my feet. And we still didn't hate each other. Well, at lest he never showed it…
Eventually, Jeff moved out to Phoenix. His girlfriend, now wife, had inherited a house out here, and he decide that he'd had more than enough of Chicago winters. And said house, is now where I find myself. I've been hanging out with his wife, Ann, for the past week and a half. Jeff is a freelancer and had to take some work, something I understand all too much. But he'll be back on Sunday, so we'll get some quality hang time. We've already been reminiscing on the phone during his nightly calls to Ann. But for every two or three things I can remember, there's one that just sounds like a movie I've never seen. But Jeff just shrugs it off by saying, "Well, we were mostly high at the time…" Indeed…
Ann has been lovely. I think she get's lonely without Jeff, and enjoys having somebody here. Fortunately for me, she doesn't seem too picky about who that somebody is. We went to Jerome this week, which is a quaint old copper mining town up in the mountains a couple of hours north of here. Last week Friday, I went to an arts walk event that happens every month in downtown Phoenix. I saw some amazing work at the various storefront galleries. And I had some delicious street meat at an open-air market. Right next door to that was an independent record store that had a band playing out front. I spent a solid hour in the store and mustered enough restraint to only spend a little over ten bucks. It was no small feat. There was some good stuff there. An original Superfly soundtrack, a German pressed Peter Gabriel III (Melt), and a pristine best of Funkadelic from '75. But then I spotted the half price bins and found some things that I wouldn't feel compelled to take with, and instead just add to the collection at the house here. Purchased items: Jethro Tull - Stand Up (original press with pop up gatefold), Led Zeppelin - Presence (the forgotten Zep album), and the first New Order 12" single of Ceremony on Factory Records.
The bonus factor of not having Jeff around is that I have use of his car. I'm about to get in it and drive to Tucson to hang out with my friend, Liz. She and I are musical compatriots. (Her old band used to open up for the band I was in with Sean.) She's another Chicago transplant, and an amazing artist. It should be fun. And it's time to change the pace from just Ann and I watching cooking shows in between watching each other get drunk.
In other news, Santorum. Ha, haahaahhaa haahahahah... Shit's funny…
PS. That tweed blazer I'm wearing there did indeed have the obligatory patches on the elbows.
First things first. Thank you, Sean and Amy. You were wonderful hosts. I did not want for anything during my visit. Especially food. Steaks, burgers, chili, and the wonderful fish I had at the fancy joint for Amy's birthday. I could not hope for better friends, and I thank from the bottom of my colon.
I finally made it to the casino last week. I didn't do as well as the last time I was there, but I can't complain. The first hand was dealt before I was even in my seat. The action was coming around as I looked at my first card. Ace of spades. Underneath that, ace of hearts. Yeah, I think I'm gonna raise this up a bit. A little over $20 in the pot at this point as it was raised up to $5 to go by the guy across from me with a few callers. I raise to $20 and the initial raiser pushes his stack of $50 into the pot. Everybody folds, except me of course. And my aces hold. First hand up about $75. I played for a while, the dude across from bought in a couple of more times. But then he started getting lucky. And he was gunning for me. A couple hours later, I lost $50 to him in what I believed to be a good fold. I looked at my stack and realized it had doubled exactly plus a dollar. And I thought it best to just call it a day. No use in feeding my money back to Mr. fast and loose.
For my last weekend, we traveled into the Jemez Mountains. It was a gorgeous day filled with gorgeous views and picture taking. Also of note was the lunch we had at the Los Ojos Restaurant Saloon in Jemez Springs. It had a real "out West" feel. The bar stools were all carved out of logs and I was surprised to not find sawdust on the floor. We took our seats at the bar. While we were eating our food, a guy who said he was from Pennsylvania sat down near us and struck up a conversation with the bartender. It seems he was a bit unhappy, as his buddies "out East" had said this was supposed to be a rough and tumble biker-type joint. And now he's here and it's too tame and ordinary. Sean was shaking his head, and it would have ended with that simple yet vague derision, but this guy kept going on and on. Finally, Sean locked eyes with the guy and said, "I'm sick of listening to you. You want a fight? Really? Cuz I'll cave your fucking head in, even if only to shut you up." Amy was mortified and trying to quietly calm Sean down. I put my sunglasses on and smiled for a second as I looked the guy up and down. Sean railed on, "Ask my wife here. I'm a helpful guy. You want a fight? I have no problem lending you a hand, or a fist. I believe in working together to make each other happy. It would seem to me that punching you repeatedly in the face would make us both happy." The bartender then quipped to the man to be careful what he wishes for, and backed away from the bar. Now Sean was on his feet and bellowed, "So what it's gonna be, huh?!" Up until this point the yank hadn't spoken a word to Sean. And when he did, the backpedaling was so fast it was nearly impossible to understand. This, of course, just infuriated Sean further. "What the hell are trying to say here? Are you familiar with concept of enunciation?!" As Sean kept repeating, "E - NUN - SEE - A - SHUN," Amy was quickly settling the tab. After which, she tugged on Sean's arm, and pleaded, "Let's go. Please." Sean turned toward the door and replied, "Alright baby. How was your sandwich? Mine was fantastic." And then it was over. Well, there was a moment of contemplation in the parking lot after Sean eyed the guys car and said he should key it with the words EXCITEMENT BOY. Amy quickly shot him a look accompanied by a, "Don't you dare." She even used his middle name so he knew she was serious. Sean quickly changed his tune, but then asked with a smirk, "What about Excitable Boy? You know, get this guy thinking about Warren Zevon." Amy gave her final, exhausted, "Seanny..." and we were on our way. We got out of the car a couple miles down the road at a scenic rest area. We all kicked back and looked for shapes and faces in the rockface in front of us. Sean and I both saw a pony eating a soft serve cone. We were so mesmerized I forgot to take pictures. Anyway, we decided to head back. Once we began to leave the Mountains, we checked the radio to see if we could pick anything up. We could. And just then, "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" started playing. Sean turned it up and we all sung our hearts out. Especially the "huhs..."
We took a trip to Sante Fe this weekend. It was my first visit there. Not knowing what to expect, I was a bit surprised by all the cowboy culture. Plenty of Stetsons and "y'alls" to go around. We had a nice lunch at the Cowgirl Bar, where I injected even more beef into my ever clogging colon. Then we stopped by a place called, Cowgirlz. It's a southern fried heavy metal strip club, just outside the heart of downtown. All the girls wore pasties that were shaped like cowboy hats and danced to Toby Keith songs covered by the likes of Metallica wannabes. I drank Shiner bock from an old boot. Amy, being a more traditional and proper lady, was a bit miffed by the whole experience. But we kept her liquored up just enough to keep her eyes from rolling out of her head every 30 seconds. Sean's communication skills gradually devolved into a series of emotive "yee-haws." I got a lap dance from a gal named, Mabel. She was the elder matron of the place at 50+. She asked me how I liked it, and I told her to tell me that I was special and ever so good, and that father was coming home soon from his extended trip to the gas station for cigarettes. She was a good sport about it, so I tipped her an extra sawbuck, which I tucked into a pastie that hung near her waist. Eventually, we emptied the majority of our wallets and left. Which was a good thing as Amy was starting to enjoy herself a little too much in there. At one point, I overheard her asking for an application...
We also went to a flea market that was full of arts and crafts, and clothes, and a bit of everything. Unfortunately, everything that I really liked was way out of my price range. Amy did find a nice little painting tho. I'm regretting that I didn't get one or two of those, as they were quite lovely @ $22 and would have made great gifts for a couple of friends. But I did decide to pick up a souvenir on the way out of town. I've never been one to get a shirt with the name of the town emblazoned on the front. To me, that's like getting a tattoo of somebody's name or even worse, your own. Anyway, I'm not one for sentimentality in the first place, so I picked up a lighter which I will give to a certain friend when I get home.
Still haven't gone gambling yet, but that's on the docket for tomorrow. (I just need to sew one more ace in my sleeve.) I've got one more week left here and then I'm off to Arizona, where it's even warmer...
After spending every single miserable winter in the midwest for the last 43 years, I decided it was time to get the fuck out and visit all of my friends that live in warmer climates. A 3 month tour. I wasn't sure how it was going to happen, but I was determined to make it go. Somehow, the stars aligned just short of winning the lottery and afforded me the opportunity.
First stop, Albuquerque, visiting my good friend, Sean, and his lovely wife, Amy.
I first met Sean over 20 yrs ago. He was brought on as second percussion in a band I was drumming with. We hit it off, and a few months later started our own band. Sean turned me on to lots of good music, and possibly more importantly, introduced me to the Gallery Cabaret. Sean's a hard man to sum up, but suffice it to say, he is one of the most good-hearted and generous people I know. He and Amy moved out to Albuquerque a couple of years ago for work. Previously they had been living in Kouts, IN, where Amy had grown up. A move they decided to make to be close to her family and buy a house with some land that they could afford. Sean had been a Chicago native all his life and I tried to warn him what a racist shit-hole Indiana was, but he had to learn that on his own. And learn it, he did. Work was what brought them to New Mexico, but everything about this place suits them well. They have been lovely hosts so far during my stay. Possibly a bit over-doting, but that seems hardly a thing to moan about. I only mention it because I'm getting the urge to don a cape and scepter and I think that it's related.
Not much on the docket. Just enjoying the good weather and sunshine. We've done a little thrifting and are going to do some more later today. I'm hoping to make it to Santa Fe and check out that scene. But before I attempt that, I will be doing some gambling at one of the casinos here. Last time I was here, I profited about $100/hr. I'm hoping I will be that lucky again and there will be similar chumps at the poker tables.
-corn.
PS. The other night we all watched a movie. I can't really remember right now what it was, but Sean and Amy and the animal clan didn't make it through, so I snapped a couple of pics. I especially like the one of Sean that startled him with the flash. There's a 1000 words quality about it. I promised Amy I wouldn't post them on Facebook because they are most unflattering. But this isn't Facebook, now is it?
