It all starts and ends with Jimi. When he began doing those hard crust rolls in 1967, nobody was doing shit like that. – Fletcher Morgan One time he came into my boulangerie in Marseille and you just knew that this cat had a…
It’s Friday the 13th and we’re all gonna die.
In the time-honored, slasher-movie tradition, those of us smoking pot or having sex will die first.
Okay, okay. These two things aren’t really connected, not in this piece, anyway. I just noticed my regular Friday post would be going up on the 13th and I thought I might sucker a few more people into reading it. (By the way, I’m a total wuss when it comes to filmic gore. I actually cover my eyes when the ominous music starts pumping and the knives, guns and chainsaws come out. Also, in terms of superstitious beliefs, the Friday the 13th thing is about as dumb as they come. Boatloads of bad things happen on Friday the 12th and Friday the 14th. You can look it up, Mookie.)
I hate to be the one to break the news that we’re all gonna die, because I’ve worked hard to establish my rep as B2L2’s Pollyanna-in-residence.
Human beings are born in much the same way all warm-blooded mammals are born. If you’re not clear on the concept, ask mom or dad for details.
Terry Gilliam’s 1985 film, entitled Brazil, comes to its conclusion soon as the protagonist Sam Lowry informs his girlfriend, Jill Layton, that he has reported her dead to the authorities. As a result, she no longer has to fear detention. Relieved, she kisses her would-be…
- we ate out of cans
we let the grass grow
we lived at the end of the street
we wrote earnest and pretentious poetry
we played records late
we painted on the backs of cardboard boxes
we drank on weeknights
we worked low-paying dead end jobs
we shared weed like it was significant
we romanticized the sixties
we were certain Reagan would blow up the world
we did not plan for retirement
The channels flashed by brightly, shadowing Richard’s watching figure up against the wall behind him. A small boned man selling knives and a cheery middle-aged man with a way to multiply huge columns of numbers. Richard went back and forth between 45 and 47 for…
For the last eight years, I’ve lived on a farm in rural Alabama.
In the movies, when city people arrive in the country, all kinds of funny, wacky things happen.
The other Hollywood default, of course, is best typified by John Boorman’s film of James Dickey’s tremendous 1970 novel, Deliverance. (Dickey’s cameo as a redneck lawman is superb. Watch for it near the end of the movie.)
Before I became a resident of Coburn Mountain, it was college towns and big cities. Culture and nightlife were always around the corner, or a short drive away. As a writer and musician, I never had to look far for work or inspiration.
More importantly, wherever I went I made new friends. I enjoyed the estimable pleasures of belonging to a community of people who also appreciated the thrill of walking the thin line between soul-crushing poverty and bohemian splendor.
It took me a while to figure out how to be happy here on the farm. I might as well have parachuted into the Amazon basin.
When you’re used to living life at a certain tempo and volume, peace and quiet can be disorienting, daunting. Complete solitude requires a kind of mental toughness I’d never had to cultivate.
After a year on the mountain, I was ready to leave. I’d always wanted to live in New Orleans, and my NOLA friends made sure I knew the welcome mat was out.
So one sunny weekend in August of 2005, I loaded up about half of my worldly possessions and delivered them to the Uptown apartment of an ex-girlfriend, who had graciously offered me a place to stay during the transition.
I returned to the farm to finish packing. I wasn’t in a hurry. I felt like I’d already pulled the trigger. I was doing something I’d done a dozen times before, picking up, moving on. C’est la vie. Despite New Orleans’ semi-deserved rep as a cruel banana republic, I knew I’d find a way to make it there.
My crimes were mostly clerical, and I readily admitted to them with a shrug. No broke weeping widows showed up at my sentencing hearing. No mothers with suckling babies, either, screaming, “You stole my life’s savings!” No press. No one showed up but my court-appointed…
But my remote control victory was short lived. The Electro-Doggy-Shock crushed your Alpha-male ego and it produced so much anxiety that you developed a rash, a skin condition that manifested itself with little suppurating boils and lesions on your back. My wife freaked and called…
Check out this video my friend Trey Deark shot of the Hot 8 Brass Band circa 2002-03. If I remember correctly, the Hot 8 were playing at a party for someone in Mystical’s family. If you know the Hot 8, you know you’re going to dig these 6 minutes, 17 seconds. The rest of you, you’re invited to join the party.
I was up early, filling water bottles and charging batteries. I checked out a few maps. It’s always a good thing to know where you’re going in my corner of Alabama, especially if you live in the middle of nowhere and your destination is even more remote.
Chance of rain, according to the forecast. I was ignoring the gray skies. Given the vicissitudes of 21st century weather, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had started raining locomotives and Gummi Bears.
Does anyone really know what the weather is going to do these days? I keep waiting for a TV weatherperson to tell it like it is:
“Right now it’s pretty nice out there. Last time I looked out the window, anyway. The forecast for tomorrow is … (shrugs). Hey, your guess is good as mine, Einstein! It might be a beautiful spring day, or we might experience a meteorological event straight out of the Old Testament. My advice, folks, is have a few drinks and don’t worry about it. I’ve been into the Absolut since lunch, and, frankly, I feel great. [Expletive] the [expletive] weather. Back to you, Todd.”
Dear Dog, It finally happened. Three weeks ago, the men in the white coats came in and took you away. They separated you from us, and they separated you from yourself. You lost your manhood, or at least your dog-hood. Never again will the world…
she remembers the last five seconds
of what she knows of me
forgetting all the high price cheese
that came before
The mowers had been idle in the shed for months, but they cranked right up.
There is a long list of maintenance rules for the mowers, which I ignore in much the same way I ignore everything that stands between me and noisy fun.
Oil? Check. Gas? Topped off. Let’s rock!
One must also believe the mower will start. It is very important to have faith in the machine. Do not assume there will be trouble. Do not let doubt cloud your mind. This angers the machine gods.
If you had to mow the Ponderosa every week, you would indulge in some magical realism, too.
Bob Johnson loves the riding mower. He stays about ten yards ahead of me in order to convince himself he is being chased, which is always more fun than not being chased.
This is not Thunderdome, Bob Johnson. I don’t ever catch you because I’m not chasing you. I am making the grass shorter, you dope. The only thing you are winning is best supporting goober.