When I Listen to Howlin' Wolf

When I listen to the slow blues of Howlin' Wolf, songs like Spoonful and Back Door Man, I recall nights when Dad would cook bratwursts for dinner, wearing a tank top and white half-apron, smoking a cigar. The stereo volume would be up high, since Mom was out. Dad would flip the sausages with tongs and sing along with a raspy voice:

"Every morning, the rooster crows,
Something tells me, I gotta go."

I'd sit at the table and just watch him. Moving his feet in rhythm, singing to himself. Now that I'm older, I find my feet doing the same thing.

Of course, Dad quit smoking when I was born. And I can't recall nights specifically when he would cook bratwursts for us, when Mom was "out." The stereo system was barely ever turned on. But, Dad always loved the blues, and I thank him for it, stepping in rhythm.

It's pretty entertaining to watch two motorcycle policemen sitting in an empty parking lot, in their boots, spandex, racing stripes, straddling their "hogs," give each other a high five after a long chat about God knows what. Believe me, it will make you smile.

"Hey Phil, you see they got a 'CHiPs' rerun on TBS?"
"Oh, you bet I did!"
*HIGH FIVE*

Day One

"'Greg' is fine. 'Mister' is something reserved for when I'm at a fancy restaurant and my credit card's been declined."

You have to plan where you'll be in ten minutes, twenty. You have to plan where you'll be in ten minutes when every room down here has a long space heater. Turn clockwise for "Warmer" air.

I'll be in the kitchen, making pasta. Better tun that heater on. I'm going to shower at some point. No, the hot water will keep me warm enough. I need to shave, too.

The days here are hot, dry, and everyone rides bikes and gambles in the casino/gas station/laundromat. Do I still have to capitalize Laundromat? How do you carry all your laundry on your bike?

The biking citizens in a biking town.

Nights have been in the 40's. It's about ten degrees colder about ten feet below. And ten minutes away, I might be in the living room, figuring out whether or not I should buy a couch, sitting Indian-style on the carpet.

Joe Biden? Really?

I live in a basement

And I teach in an attic. I was not destined for the mortal plane.

There is a dormer. I'm across the hall from the vice president's office. This should be interesting. My classroom:

Sure,

I can probably get used to wearing a coat when it's cold
Using chapstick (cherry flavored)
Rubbing some moisturizer into my normally greasy skin so it doesn't dry out
Drudging through feet of snow
Wearing "layers" because everyone knows that, by God, "wearing layers is the key."
Putting on pajamas (pyjamas for ye English) when I sleep
Getting my car "winter-ready"
Thawing my fingers over a hobo fire
Ski masks
Walking around with socks on at all times
Huddling around the space heater
Having my face turn a very petrified red
Everyone being sick, coughing all the time
Sure,
I think I can get used to all that.

BUT, I will always be a little shocked when I put my bare ass on a cold toilet seat.

Mountains Apart

He has to be tired of me, Leonora thought. Ever since Montenegro came back from the war, his mind's been elsewhere. He stares at the clouds all day and doesn't move.

It was true. The two didn't move much in their old age. A valley is now between them.

M. was dashing some time ago. He'd wear a matador's cap, and gesture wildly, drunk, speaking of things no one cared about. L. adored him, bought him a sword from Spain.

"I tell you," M. would say, pointing at the sky, "third person narration is stale."
"I think you're wrong," Leonora said, sitting on a wooden swing.
"What do you know?"
"Lots."
Montenegro would grin, say something in Italian. He'd fall asleep on the wet grass. L. would stain her dress lying next to him.

Before his regiment shipped out, they made love in the back of his car, slowly and carefully. He whispered "I love you" into her ear. Leonora began to cry immediately. The windows had fogged over. He wiped the hair off her forehead before handing her the keys to the car, knowing he would never drive again. He was gone fourteen months.

Leonora could not imagine what he saw in battle. Necklaces made of human ears. A bayonet being plunged through a comrade's ribcage. A truckload of soldiers catching fire. No one knew. Montenegro came back a quiet man.

He moved all of their belongings northwest. It would be safer there.

After he lost his speech, he lost the will to move. He grew wider, sat around naked. The matador cap was now locked away in a distant room. L. wished to see him drunk at least one more time. She wanted M. to fall asleep next to her.

Montenegro delivered birthday flowers to Leonora a month late. A handful of lilies. "Sorry," he whispered down toward his shoes, "the time." Leonora went back to her knitting. She examined the threads in her hands. M. went back to his own spot. He thought about calling her "bella" like he used to, but thought otherwise.

Instead, he looked at the sky. It never rains here like it did overseas.
_________________
Note: All based on the pictures, nothing personal. I'm madly in love, mind you.

Happy Birthday, Fidel!

If you're still alive, I hope you celebrate in class.

Iowa.

South Dakota.

Georgia is to construction as Tennessee is to __________.

A) Fireworks.
B) Huge bottle rockets.
C) Roadside supermarkets dedicated solely to fireworks which are considered an annual festivity.
____________________________
The Arby's in Tennessee is a little different. You open the door, they say "Welcome to Arby's!" with their twang, and jealousy for much more successful restaurants (e.g. Moe's).

There is a man in the corner, perhaps age 22, perhaps age 35. He has a buzz cut on the top of his head, and the sides have been shaved clean. I'm sure he asked his mother to "Bic" his hair. He will sit in this corner, while you eat curly fries, and he will talk about clubbing in rural Tennessee, how "it's only natural to feel up on a fuckin' girl when she's drunk and yer drunk, and fuck, why not?" and you'll dip your fries in ketchup and anticipate the next time he'll say "fuck."

You'll guess wrong, too. And so will the old couple sitting nearby. They'll discuss how inconsiderate he is for using such bad language around so many kids. You sit, and you dip your fries in the ketchup, and you hear this man talking away, saying fuck, fuck, fuck, and you chew your food, and you listen to the old couple discussing how this man is saying fuck, fuck, fuck, and you come to the conclusion:

I wish I had a firework right now.
_____________________________
p.s. I'm exhausted, 850 miles away, wishing there wasn't a blue guitar in my passenger seat. I only saw four HHRs on the road today. One was a violent purple color.

p.p.s. I'm pretty sure Georgia was known for its continuous carriage road construction back in the colonial period when only assholes, Oglethorpe, and prisoners lived there--much like today. "ROAD WORK NEXT 28 MILES"?? You've got to be shitting me.

Sunday,

I leave for Montana and begin to use this blog as a life preserver, a telegraph relay.

Need confidence?

Put on some waterproof boots. You'll feel like a Green Beret.
Rambo taught me to always blouse my pants over the boots.

Neil Young, I hate you

There are good dreams. Dreams where I'm flying around, holding on, blowing hot air.

Then there are nightmares, like the one I had last night. Follow me on this one, if you will:

I'm backstage with Neil Young. He's wearing a blue mechanic's coverall, with a bottle of gin in his hand. He keeps referring to me as "his asshole" and grinning devilishly. I know he's Neil Young because his coverall name tag has "Neil Fuckin' Young" sewn onto it. When he sips from his bottle, he turns into Neil Diamond for a few seconds, and then back to Neil Young. Sometimes, I get the two confused.

We go on stage, and the crowd (I never see) roars. He starts playing "Cinnamon Girl" and then hands me his guitar, so I can do all the work, while he just sings along drunkenly. Into the microphone, he says: "My asshole can play the rest of this song."

I begin playing but notice there are no strings on the guitar. How am I supposed to play the song--which I barely know to begin with--without any strings? I panic, and then I collect myself. I breathe in, and think: "An asshole can do this." And I start to play. My fingers glide on the fret where there should be strings, and move along, and everything sounds great. My chest is exposed to the crowd the entire time.

After the song, I walk off the stage as Neil Young looks back. His eyes say that he's ready to go all night. He has a lot more singing left in him. I put on a jean jacket and leave the stadium. I don't want any more, Neil.

This is just to say

This past month
has been
excellent

and the last few days
were picture
perfect.