Tag Archives: music

Tour Theme Song

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After the now-infamous scratch-n-sniff screen debacle (I left the episode about potted meat out of the refrigerator for a few days), I have been pondering how best to muddle the masses by appealing to senses other than sight. Today the secret underground laboratories have produced an innovation that is sure to rock the Internet: Music. Yes, you heard it here first; modern technology will make it possible for people to share and distribute their favorite tunes. Mark my words, once news of this leaks out, everyone will be doing it.

Somewhere around here you should be able to find a button which, when clicked, will cause the song “All For Me Grog” to come out of your crappy little computer speakers. The song is by Harold’s Craich Band — or at least that’s what they called themselves back when they recorded this for the soundtrack of Pirates of the White Sand. Those of you who have been waiting for the movie can think of this as a sneak peek.

This is my first time posting up tunes, so let me know if you have any trouble.

All For Me Grog!
Play All For Me Grog
(right-click to save file)

Thanks!

Wow

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I’m sitting at the Cheap Beer Place, my first time in this august establishment for a few months. As I write this I’m listening to a woman sing “When the saints come marching in”, slowly, in Czech, to the accompaniment of a single synthesizer. That in itself, is enough to warp one’s sense of reality.

At the table in front of me, her back to me, is a woman with a she-mullet. Curly hair towers over her head, and is pulled back behind her ears. I’m pretty sure this was a big style in the ’80’s. I can’t think of any specific actresses or pop stars, but I know I’ve seen the she-mullet before. It’s still not flattering.

There’s a guy punching numbers into the juke box now. He seems ordinary enough. In his non-number-punching hand is a plastic bag with a single roll and a tub of potted meat. This man came prepared.

So now, presumably, the songs he requested are beginning to play. Wow. It’s some sort of children’s choir, accompanied by electric bass and countless people whistling. Oh, and now an electric piano. Thank god, it’s fading out, giving way to We Are The Champions. Sing it, Freddie.

Time passes, the music changes. Now I think I’m listening to Blink-sto osmdesat dva (182, in czech). There’s no mistaking the rhythm, and the accordion is subtle.

***

Never did finish explaining what was so dang surreal about that day – the following day I had a fever and I now have recollections of conversations that could not have actually happened. I’m better now, but I won’t be able to finish the above episode today, either.

Thanks!

You Wrote a Bad Song

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There’s a pop song in the heavy rotation over here, called “Bad Day”. I suspect it is popular over on the other side of the pond as well. It is an inoffensive little tune, a bit on the catchy side, and were it not played so often I would have never even noticed it. There’s nothing wrong with catchy little tunes; that describes much of the Beatles’ output, and now they are considered one of the greatest pop bands ever.

So while I don’t hate the song, I woke up with it in my head this morning and soon thereafter some alternate lyrics blossomed in my caffeinated cranium:

You Wrote a Bad Song
(to the tune of Bad Day)

You wrote up a pop song and you knew it was crap,
A helping of saccharine and whole lot of sap,
The artist within you said ‘no way’,
Throw that piece of crap away,
But that’s not how how you earn your paaaaaay…

You wrote a bad song,
You pushed it too far,
But now it’s on the charts
and it’s made you a star

You wrote a bad song
You made some new friends
but now they want to know
when you’ll do it again

Because you’ve known it all along,
You wrote a bad song.

You sit at your keyboard and play with some notes,
But all of the lyrics stick in your throat
Everything that you write that blows
Will be played on the radio,
But that’s now how you want to be knoooooooooown…

You wrote a bad song
You pushed it too far,
But now it’s on the charts
And it’s made you a star.

A million people CAN be wrong,
You wrote a bad song.

Sometimes when you’re thinking late at night,
You wonder what went wrong,
You remember how happy your were the time
The radio first played your song
They played your song…

So where is dispassion when you need it the most?
Why can’t the artist just give up the ghost?
You know if you do it all your way
Play what you really want to play
All your brain-dead fans will saaaaaaaaay…

You wrote a bad song
You pushed it to far
We came to hear candy
And you’re giving us art

Yeah, You wrote a bad song
You pushed it too far
But now it’s on the charts
And it’s made you a star

You wrote a bad song…
You wrote a bad song…
You wrote a bad song…
[Repeat many, many times, fade out]

2

Thanks!

Back to the Central Ave. Grill

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There aren’t many places to go in Los Alamos when one wants to sit and write, but the Central Avenue Grill is one of those places. Jojo wanted to join us for a writing session, and we agreed to meet there.

The place has big garage doors that open onto Central Avenue (the name of the place, while not terribly creative, is certainly descriptive), and they were wide open to let in the fresh mountain air and a handful of flies. I chose a table right by the windows, we ordered pricey beers, and quickly we set to work, fuego and I on laptops while Jojo had some sort of tool that applied ink to flat sheets of some material based on wood pulp. Very interesting technology – it doesn’t even require electricity.

I was working on revisions to a longer short story based on some excellent feedback Jojo had provided on a previous draft. I needed some pretty big changes to take advantage of the opportunities I had missed in the first draft. fuego was working on the new, bigger Pirates screenplay.

Outside, it began to rain. At first it was just a few big, fat stray drops, but eventually it grew into a real storm complete with thunder and lightning. We sat and enjoyed felt the mood of the entire town lift (or maybe it was just me). You know you’re in the desert when rain is cause of great celebration. Perhaps the overdue cycle of afternoon thunderstorms was finally revving up.

Jojo had other things to do and left, but fuego and I persevered. We had to vacate our first table because it was reserved, then we were chased from the next by the sound man. Yes, a band was beginning to set up. We found another table, this one near an outlet, so we could continue to work. I think things were going better for me than for fuego that day, but that’s how it goes, sometimes.

In the end we listend to a band with an enormous amount of new equipment do passable covers of Dave Matthews and people like that, and an occasional song by bands I liked. The singer had a sweet voice and played piano well, but she was not angry enough on some of the songs. She was also very, very, attractive. I wrote through much of the gig, finally finishing another draft of Old Town. I probably should have read it over the next morning before sending it to Jojo, but it’s too late now. I’m thinking now I may have succumbed to three-beer sappiness in a couple of spots.

All in all, a good day in the Atomic City, with beer, friends, music, writing, and even a little bit of dancing.

Thanks!

What would pirates have on the 8-track?

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We started before we knew we had won the contest, brainstorming what sort of music to use and who could provide it for us. We sent out feelers to musicians we knew and people we knew who knew people we wanted. The initial response was strong, with people from New Orleans to San Diego expressing enthusiasm. But while we heard “count me in” often enough, time passed and we didn’t hear anything else.

Specifically, we didn’t hear any music. As the deadline loomed, my emails to musicians asking for status went unanswered. One of the guys out in New Orleans, Mr. Neato, was working on some stuff and making progress, but so far I haven’t heard it any of it. I was starting to worry. fuego was calm, though. We had a lot of lines in the water; one was sure to get a bite.

While we waited, we also sent pie-in-the-sky messages to major bands (and actors) we thought would be ideal. Neither Flogging Molly nor any of the others ever got back to us. No surprise, but hey, a guy can dream.

Enter Genie, owner of the Wild Horse Mesa Bar. “My nephew’s in a band,” she said, “and he was wondering if you needed any music for your movie.” It took her three more days to relay the word “yes” back to the guy, and in the meantime we missed a chance to hear him play. Finally she gave Rudy the musician’s number on the back of a business card and Rudy passed it to me. “Cloud,” the card said, followed by a number.

It turns out Cloud is his middle name, which led to some confusion in phone messages, as he called himself Eddie. Once we got that straightened out, we agreed to meet up so we could hear the stuff he and his buddies were working on. Sunday afternoon we met Cloud and his squeeze and followed him to his friend Martin’s house. They rummaged around for a bit and found some tracks martin had been working on, and they were pretty good. One was definitely usable. fuego and I explained a bit more of what we were looking for, and Cloud thought of a piece they had just been working on, with a punk beat, strong rhythm guitar – and slide guitar on top. They couldn’t dig up a recording of it, so they set up and did the drums and rhythm guitar live and they were rocking, and I was imagining just how the the opening titles would go with that music. They also do country music, and fuego and I discussed how to move from the raucous highway music to the interior of the bar before the pirates arrive, and if these cats can put those things together we have music that is not just good enough, it’s downright tasty.

Not all the music issues are solved, but we’ve got music coming in from other sources now as well, and anything they don’t cover I’m confident my man Cloud and his friends can fill in.

Rock on, Scurvy Dogs!

1

Thanks!

Nobody else in the bar knows how foul the lyrics are

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It’s a rap song, hip-hop as the kids say. This bar plays the music loud, which is fine by me. When I got here it was good ‘ol AC/DC, and I was rockin’. It moved on to Cher, her overproduced later work, a bit of a letdown after the shameless guitars and lyrical shouting. I didn’t notice the music that came on next; it just wasn’t memorable.

Next came this. Let’s get it right out there that I don’t consider rap to be music. Music has to have music in it. Rap is a poetry recital. I’ve got nothing against poetry. In fact, I like the stuff. Sometimes.

Our modern urban poets don’t do much for me, at least not the ones represented by major record labels. Maybe it’s a language thing. Maybe I just don’t have the vocabulary to feel the nuances of the lyrics. I suspect, however, that it is they who lack the vocabulary. Instead they use the few words they own for shock value.

The bit playing when I started writing this episode is a case in point. The woman chanting has found her niche, and it is sexually explicit. I can see how the marketing of this crap would be pretty easy, young masturbators would eat it up. Musical porn. Rather sick porn at that. I’m in a bar in a mall, people coming and going, and blaring from this place are descriptions of acts I will never, ever, do. The place is emptier now, so perhaps I’m not the only one who could understand the lyrics.

As I am packing up to leave, the music has changed. It sucks less now, but I think I’ll be going anyway.

Thanks!

A brief musical rant

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I’m hanging at Roma, feeling my life return to normal. fuego was here earlier, but he needs a little more decompression time before he is able to breathe normally again. So now it’s just me, and I’m doing all right, as long as I have the cash to cover the tab.

So over here MTV plays music, and that’s what’s on the tube right now. The TV is at 5 o’clock high, back over my right shoulder, where the glittering lights can’t eat through my optic nerve and into my brain.

One thing I have noticed however, is that much of the music they’re playing I have heard before. A few minutes ago there was a quartet of singers, two male, two female, covering Super Trouper by Abba. For part of the time I thought they were merely lip-synching to the original tune, only taking the trouble to superimpose a tiresome disco beat. In the end they were so shamelessly self-promoting (finding any excuse to get the name of the band into the video – “We’re not ABBA!”) that I had to conclude that however misguided the project was, no matter how shamelessly exploitative the marketing, these people really did wish they had talent that even approaches the annoying band they are trying to emulate.

Which brings me to my little rant. My rantito. My rantček. If your goal is to make music that sounds exactly like someone else, why bother? I’m still not sure the group I saw tonight wasn’t just playing the original record and wagging their lips. The whole thing lacks courage. It’s ruled by cowardly record executives who get paid piles of money to do the same shit over and over. The sad part is people still buy the crap they’re dishing up.

Just say no, kids. Save your music-buying dollar for musicians.

Thanks!

for a.k.s.

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for a.k.s.

I hear her voice in my headphones
And I remember
Like an Engine, she played
The crowd thinned
The Jack, which I had bought for her
dwindled
We stood, ssssh! outside her bedroom door
and almost, not quite.

1

Thanks!

A Good Show

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It’s been a couple of days since the show, but I have been thinking about it ever since. We got there a little bit early, but the good tables were taken. No biggie, there were three barstools along the wall next to the dance floor that wee pulled into a circle and so wound up with the best seats in the house.

The setup on stage was promising. On the left, right in front of us, was an upright piano, its face open to expose its insides to a pair of microphones. There was a small drum kit and an array of other Mysterious Devices, and a hollow-body bass guitar. Add microphones and speakers, and you’ve got yourself a concert.

The first act was Filip Topol (pronounced Philip Toepole – see how much simpler czech spelling is?), a piano player and singer. He was a skinny guy, tallish, and he carried with him a folder which he placed on a stool next to his as he sat. He opened the folder to reveal a pile of tattered sheets. He took the top three and placed them on the piano. I saw that around the edges of each sheet were dozens of little stickers. He pulled the mike closer and began to play.

At first he played only with his right hand and I thought to myself, “Holy Crap! He’s the guy I wrote about in Moonlight Sonata!” It’s wasn’t hard to imagine him talking to Cowboy Bob in some dark shadow-place. Eventually the left hand joined in and things really got going.

Filip Topol was just plain good. He had that Czech way of singing, attacking the words even as they ate him alive. I couldn’t understand the words, of course, but I was OK with that; the sound of them was mesmerizing. Usually when I go to a show I drift off in my own bubble, letting the music carry me to some of my most abstract and disconnected places. With both these acts I was rooted right there with the musicians, an active participant in the performance.

I had no idea what to expect from the headliners. We had gone to the club to hear Filip Topol; none of us had even heard of 4 Walls. They played jazz. real jazz, not the watered-down Kenny G. elevator music crap people call jazz these days. I don’t go looking for jazz often, and when I do I rarely find it. This was a 4-piece band: piano, percussion, bass, and vocals. In this case “vocal” is not limited to singing. These guys were all over the map and left me reeling. Everything they did felt slightly dangerous; Rather than marching in step they were held together with bungee cords, flying apart and snapping back, bouncing off each other, but somehow in that chaos they stayed together and the result was music.

Alas, Filip Topol had no CDs for sale. The 4 Walls CD just doesn’t convey the experience of the live performance. So it goes. I had included a cut from the CD in this episode, but end the end I took it out. As much as I enjoyed the performance, I’m not likely to be listening to the recording very often. It all goes to show that sometimes you have to be there with the musicians to really understand. Or at least I do. I’ve gotta get out more.

The trams had stopped by the time we got out of there, which meant a long walk home. That was fine, the night was cold but quiet. I considered popping into an all-night bar, but only for a moment. I like walking in this city.

As a post script, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Picture Boy. There were two guys up front with their digital cameras, and one of them in particular was really annoying. He would climb his fat ass right up on the stage, take for frickin ever to take one damn shot, then get back down the look at the result, then back up he would pop for another attempt. Dork. Still, he’s good for mocking.

Thanks!

Music I can’t write to

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I was sitting, staring at the work I should have been editing, and I was humming “Anesthesia” by Brenda Kahn. Why hum it when I can play it? I fired up Epiphany in Brooklyn and until it’s done I won’t be getting anything creative done. In the pauses between songs a thought or an idea might sneak in, but as soon as the words start I’m there in the scenes she paints with her words, an impressionistic sketch of a lonely landscape filled with lost people. In only a few words she builds whole people. Of course, all the detail comes from my own imagination, which is what makes it so powerful.

The same thing happened a couple of days ago with Tom Waits. I rationalize indulging in these pleasures when I should be working by telling myself that it’s emotional food I’m eating, that I can digest and turn into… uh, I think I’ll leave the metaphor there.

Often, you can tell if I’m being productive at the moment by looking at the the “Now Playing” section over somewhere to the right. The better the songwriter, the less productive I am at that moment. (Of course, just because I’m playing music doesn’t mean I’m writing at all, and if I’ve gone to a bar to write that section won’t update at all.) I’ve turned to Internet Radio lately to enhance my productivity; there are stations that play forgettable ambient electronica 24 hours a day. It’s nice, but it doesn’t get into the verbal part of my head. I’ll be switching over to that – after I play through this album a second time.

Thanks!

A Very Merry Christmas, Indeed!

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While all you across the big pond yet entertain cavorting sugar plums, here in Old Europe the day is under way (I hear my two Japanese readers scoff). I woke earlyish this morning, and actually felt a little of the season creeping into my curmudgeonly old soul. On a whim I pulled out a CD that I’ve been dragging around with me, wondering why the whole time. It’s called Tierra Santa. Tierra Santa is a suburb of San Diego, and this is a collection of original Christmas music by San Diego musicians. Many of those singer/songwriters have gone on to vanish into obscurity, but a few of them are plugging away ten years later. I haven’t listened to this CD in years, but for some reason it was in my CD case when I hit the road, and here it is. This morning it’s justifying itself.

Most years Christmas is just like any other day for me, but not this year. Last night Marek (an aspiring photographer and bartender at Roma) gave me a really nice card featuring one of his prints. It’s beautiful. And later today, I will be published.

Now, before you get too excited, this is a fairly small deal. It’s a little online publication, but it has actual Editors and standards and stuff, so it is a little bit of a big deal. Most of you that read this will already be familiar with The Cowboy God. Today readers of The Piker Press (www.pikerpress.com/) will see a slightly edited version.

No white Christmas here in Prague, but that’s OK. It’s snowing somewhere. And my sincere thanks go out to all of you who have wished me well. I hope the season finds you happy and prosperous, and closer to your dreams. And when I say I’m a writer and people ask, “Have you published anything?” I can answer “yes”. I guess it is a big deal.

Thanks!

Get Your Motor Runnin’

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On any TV show, in any language, when cops get on big motorcycles, they play “Born to be Wild” by Steppenwolf.

Thanks!

Odds and Ends

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Shreveport to Chattanooga was mostly freeway. I saw the white stripe flash past in a hypnotic rhythm mile after mile, and wrote stuff in my head. I’m still working on getting the chapter of The Fish written as I felt it within my skull, but it could turn out to be really cool. The rest of the stuff I thought up I can’t start writing until November 1, but my 30-day novel is starting to take shape in my head, and I’m pretty stoked about it. More and more I feel confident that when people ask me what I do I can say, “I’m a writer.” That’s true enough, anyway, even if it does imply that I get paid to write.

Meanwhile, I crossed the 15,000-mile mark outside of Birmingham, Alabama. Safety Dance was playing on the radio. During the day I had been searching for a decent radio station as I moved along from state to state. I heard Turn the Page twice—once as a cover and twice the original version. Here I am, on the road again…

Speaking of radio stations, the best one I know of on this continent is 91 1/2 in Chattanooga. It’s a college station. “We guarantee sixty minutes every hour!” They played some good, good stuff, and quite a variety. I was sorry to pass out of range as I passed through the Appalachians this morning.

Lots of other things happened, the kind of mindless details I do my best not to burden you with. Raccoons should learn to look both ways. I didn’t hit any, but I think I was the exception.

It’s getting harder and harder to keep my hair from blowing in my eyes as I drive. Perhaps a mullet is in order.

On the way over to Asheville today the storage thingie on my fancy camera filled up. I guess that means I really do have to do something about processing all those pictures you guys have been moaning about not seeing. I’ll see what I can do in the morning. I think I got some pretty nice ones today. Highway 64 in Western North Carolina has to go on the list as one of the best drives ever. Honestly, though, I’d recommend driving it on a weekday. Once the camera was maxed out, I wanted nothing more than to enjoy the sinuous asphalt as it wound through the late October headless horseman forest, sending leaves flying in my wake.

Alas, much of the time I crept along behind people doing well under the conservative speed limit. These drivers had no clue whatsoever that they should pull to the side, even when they saw other drivers doing the same thing. I relaxed and enjoyed the drive anyway, but the rare taste of real driving left me yearning for more.

Reading over the last episode I posted, I see a serious omission. The sleeipes caught up with me before I finished, I supposed. I was in the lounge at the hotel, which almost had wireless Internet. No matter, really, I could post when I got back to the room. The bartender was Shelly, who was back after a month and the regulars were all very happy to see her. Slender with long straight dark hair, she had a ready smile and a sense of humor. I sat at the bar where I was advised the signal was strongest with my laptop open and lamented the intermittent, weak signal. There were a couple of other friendly regulars and overall the quiet bar was most congenial. Eventually I was the only customer, and after I talked to Shelly for a while I headed back the room with one last beer. I was enjoying the chat, but I’m in love with enough bartenders already. I decided to get out while the getting was good.

Now I’m at Jesse’s house, and it’s nice. I’m in the nursery, so I better be ready to get the hell out of here if the baby arrives.

2

Thanks!

Caught between a rack and a hard body

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So much, so much, so much. Driving back from the bar tonight, after spending the whole evening composing what I was going to write, Bill said, “Don’t forget the Lolita factor.” Damn Bill. Damn all who have heard him laugh. Damn me.

Shae, our waitress for the evening, was about the friendliest person I have ever met. She had a way about her that made us feel right at home.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you all know already that I have a soft spot for any woman who brings me beer. Shae was, honestly, different. She made me feel really special until I saw how she made the regulars feel even specialer. Still, before she was busy she pulled up a seat at our table and we had a chance to chat. Here’s a way I thought of to describe myself that won’t come as a surprise to those who know me: while I am verbally gregarious I am physically introverted. While I can (on a good day) engage strangers verbally, it takes far more than a good day for me to relax and allow familiar touches. Shea uses her hands to reinforce the contact she makes while she talks to you, or just walks past your table. With her, for whatever reason, I was comfortable. One time when she came up behind me she ran her hand up my spine. Boy that felt good. We talked about stuff, Bill making my aimless mission of drifting around the country sound much more important than it really is. We talked about itchy feet. Shea has difficulty staying in one place for a long time.

Shae is an attractive woman. “I don’t normally dress this way,” she said. “Well, I certainly appreciate it,” Bill replied. I must agree with Bill. There was another waitress there as well, young and cute smiley and all, thin and fit and generally hot, but our hearts and minds belonged to Shea. And to the Big-Ass Beers. (They actually call them Big-Ass Beers on the signs around the bar.)

But I’m racing ahead of the story. I’m sitting here now, aware of the smoke in my clothing, trying to figure how to tell you all the things that happend tonight. Triage is clearly in order; just because it was interesting to me doesn’t mean I should write about it.

We were there for a band. The No Dern Clue Mystery Family Revival Band. Bill knows the guy who put together the band, but this was their first public performance. We didn’t really know what to expect, but the guy’s previous bands played what Bill described as “eclectic country rock”. Not this band. I could see it was going to be a pretty big band when we sat down and I started counting microphones. Then the band members started to show up wearing black suits.

We sat and listened to the music, to grumbly growly vocals by the guitarist, to smoky raspy songs when the organ/acoustic/cornet player stepped up to the mike, sometimes singing with the cigarette still hanging out of his mouth, and to the clear tones of the bass player’s voice. The trumpet player could wail, and when he put a little growl into a riff the guitarist would spit right back with a grumble of his own. All the players could solo.

The core of the band was the horn line, however. The trumpet player, a little guy, middle aged, the one in the band that wore the black suit like he belonged in it, could quite simply wail. The sax and the flute were kicking ass, and the trombone wasn’t bad if a little more sterile than the others. Trumpet guy did a plunger solo, and it reminded me of a time when I was listening to amateur jazz in Scotland with Jesse and we were discussing the subpar plunger work. “You gotta feel like there’s a string from the plunger to the audience,” I said, or something like that. You’re trying to hold it shut, but eventually the drag it open.” This guy had that feel, that connection with us.

The band was at it’s best, however, when they were all grinding away together, getting big and ugly at the ends of songs, the red light shining on the bass drum jumping and throbbing like a vampire’s heart as the sound built to a train wreck where all the engineers were Picasso.

The only reason I know I got the name right is the flyer I pulled off the Men’s room door. Just below the name of the band it said “Saturday the 16th”. Half of October is gone. Time sure flies. My trip is almost over, or at least this part of it. I’ll have to come up with another name for the next part of my life.

Shae brought us another round and stopped to chat for a while. The tamale guys came through, and challenged her to a game of pool for some tamales. “Not tonight, hon,” she said. “He just wants to see me bend over,” she said to us, “I don’t need to in this outfit.” She was right about that. Ample amounts of ample chest were exposed. “My daugter saw me in this and said I must be going for the tips tonight.” Shae has a sixteen-year-old daughter, and in defiance of stereotype they get along. And that is the Lolita factor Bill mentioned on the way home. I imagined dating Shae, easy to do when a pretty woman is sa dang friendly with you, and I imagined meeting her daughter, who it only stands to reasin is every bit as pretty as her mother, while saying to myself “Look at her eyes look at her eyes only lookathereyeslookathereyes…” ’cause the last thing you want is for you date to catch you checking out her daughter, or even to think you were.

Oh, but the story gets better – even better than I realized at the time. While the band was playing two very attractive girls came in. I was concentrating on the band, so I paid them little heed. I did notice that they looked pretty young, but sad to say they all look young these days. Shae went over and talked to them, and they left. Here’s the thing I didn’t know at the time. Bill picked it up, but I was oblivious: Shae said to one of the girls, “Don’t call me Mom in here.” Shae then kicked them out. Yikes! That girl I was checking out was Shae’s kid. Luckily for all concerned, I found the mom to be more attractive. She came back over to our table and she said something like “Well, I got to be the bad guy tonight.” Not realizing that she had just kicked out her own daughter, I simply nodded sympathetically. At that point I was much more interested in the band and Shea’s breasts. But her daughter was cute, I’ll grant that. It’s the Lolita factor. When Bill first mentioned it, I had no idea how appropriate it was.

Bill said, “That’s the friendliest waitress I’ve ever met in my life.” Shea was that, hands down.

Thanks!

Through the Valley of Fire to the Bosom of Bobbi

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Location: Stateline Motel, Mesquite NV. (map)
Miles: 12,804.4

Here’s all I’m going to say about Vegas: I stayed up till 5 a.m. with Amy the night before I left. I slept two hours while I was there. I left Sin City with a nice lump of dough in my pocket and no venereal diseases. Overall, a success. I have not slept since, so much of this will probably make no sense.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds accompanied me on my drive over to check out Hoover Dam (that will become a link when I have the pictures ready). That’s a nice bit of work. Another place on my journey that seems to be on the “must see” list for foreign tourists that is just a historical curiosity for Americans. For all the “No Trucks or Busses” signs as I approached the dam, there sure were a hell of a lot of trucks and busses crossing. (Though to be fair the trucks all seemed involved with the major construction project to redo highway 93 from a road that twists around the hills to one that blasts through the hills. That makes the road better, somehow.)

I walked around the dam for a bit. While the enormous sweep of concrete is impressive, I wish there was a way to help people understand the enormous force that structure must oppose. It is that force that turns on all the lights in Las Vegas, and more than just one or two elsewhere.

Move on, Jerry; move on. Sleep is catching up. After the dam I played K’s Choice and doubled back to Boulder City to pay way too much for gas. There was a gray road on my map heading north along the lake that looked interesting, but I didn’t want to try something like that out there without plenty of liquids for both me and the car. I also thought to confirm with the Gatorade salesman that the road I was about to take did indeed go through. He was effusive and earned the high gas price for his employer. I learned that I was about to drive through the Valley of Fire, that it cost five dollars, and that Captain Kirk was buried there.

It doesn’t happen every time, but on occasion I make the right choice. For those of you keeping score at home, the Valley of Fire (map) is a fantastic drive. Iggy and the Stooges were cranking. I really want to describe the geology for you. I want to describe how the ridges broke from the valley floor like dog’s teeth, black except where something had broken the surface to expose the blood red stone underneath. I could tell you how I drove past a basaltic dike into a section of twisted and folded white ridges standing over the red and undulating floor. I could speculate on life and death and heat and iron and blood. I just don’t have it in me to write stuff like that right now.

At the top of the lake, the road passes through the MOPAR valley. (No, silly, it wasn’t really called the MOPAR Valley, but daddy is a little dotty right now. It was something like that anyway) I had an Idea to stay in MOPAR, get up really, really early in the morning, and go back while the light was good to take all the pictures I didn’t take today. They would be much better when the Sun was low to bring out the features of the landscape. So I kept telling myself as I drove past photo ops. We all know the real reason I didn’t stop was because the road had me and she would not let me go. But this story gets squirrely enough without the new pantheon pulling my strings.

Title of my first nonfiction book: The New Pantheon.

Right, then. MOPAR valley. At the north end of Lake Mead is a lush and fertile valley. As I was driving into Overton a train tooted at me just to say hello (or so it seemed), and while there were people crawling up my tailpipe as I drove along at the absurdly low speed limit, overall I got a good vibe from the place. At least I did at first. The MOPAR Valley is an orderly and tidy place. White church steeples are visible across the valley, looking over their flocks and watching one another. I had started to look for a hotel next to an interesting bar, but then I realized there were no bars that I could identify. The only reference to alcohol I saw was a political banner for a guy named Tom Collins.

Onward, then! North to I-15 and up to Mesquite. I drove down the main drag in town looking for a likely motel. I saw a couple of promising ones, but then I passed an interesting-looking sports bar/pizzeria. Soon after that was the Stateline Motel, where I sit now resisting my inevitable journey into the Land of Nod. Ah, sweet sleep, you shall have me soon enough.

The motel had its own casino, if by casino you mean a smoky bar filled with slot machines. I was very thirsty from my travels, so I moseyed on in to catch some baseball and drink some water with a beer chaser. Drinks were free if you were actively playing video poker, so I put some money in the machine in front of me. I have read that if you play the simple, straightforward video poker exactly perfectly the payout is actually over 100%. I don’t think I played it perfectly, but I did end up with enough money to pay for my room, plus I got several free beers. When I hit the payout button the message came up “hopper empty” so the bartender had to reload it. When he closed up the machine it still didn’t work. Thus began my career being a pain in the ass for the bartender. I won’t go into all the details, but when I moved to another machine I had more troubles, and this time they were my fault.

Of course, I was not the only one at the bar. They had a promotion going that night and the place was filling up. As I sat down a man was tellin his credulous friend Buck about the SR-71 Blackbird spy plane. He seemed to know what he was talking about. Things started to get out of hand when their conversation turned to rattlesnakes. I almost did a noser with my beer when he explained that if you wanted to eat a rattlesnake you had to be careful how you caught it or it would bite itself and poison itself, making the meat deadly to eat. Riiiiiight. And watch out for those Mojave greens! They don’t rattle and if one decides to bite you it’ll chase after you until it catches you.

But my long tale is not over yet, boys and girls. To my right, beyond the machine that had broken, were two women in the 50ish age range. We’ll call them Katie and Norma. Slowly I was drawn into conversation with them. My story came out, as it must in a situation like that. When I mentioned that I had considered going back to take pictures in the Valley of Fire, Katie said, “Well, if you’re in town tomorrow, you can crash at my place. That would be no problem.” I was already pretty sure I’d be heading east, but I thanked her for the offer. Not long after that the bartender told me to go back to my poker machine or give it up. I went back to the machine. I’d built up quite a few credits on it, and the conversation was getting into more dangerous territory.

An indeterminate time later, as I watched baseball and bet on the poker machine, Katie was at my elbow. “You understand,” she said, “that when I say you can crash at my place I really mean dinner and a fuck?” I failed to disguise my shock. “It’ll be good, I promise,” she said.

“Hammina hammina hammina,” I said, or something equally as eloquent. Which was better that what I thought, which was “GAAAAH!” She continued the hard sell. “Think about it,” she said. “Just a good time then goodbye. No tomorrow. You’re just my type, that’s all.” She proceeded to be very complimentary. I didn’t say no to her face—which she would have taken well, I think—but I had already decided to move on the next day. If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. The drawing occurred, the other of the two women won a disappointingly small prize, and it was time to go get some food. I skipped out and went to Playoffs Sports Pub and Pizzeeria.

OK, we all know about Jerry and bartenders. Bobbi more so than most. I won’t discuss the behavior of the assholes to my left in detail (although there was one chick who sat down next to me for a few minutes and burned through ten bucks on a video poker machine with an intensity that verged on madness but was probably only drug-induced), just know that Bobbi handled them with style and grace. They were all in love with Bobbi (except, perhaps, for the tweaker chick). So was I. Rose once said. “Boobs are men’s kryptonite.” Bobbi is kryptolicious. When she let her hair down, that was it. To quote pL, “Dang.” I had an excellent burger along with my Sierra Nevadas, and the bill came out quite reasonable.

I met the new owner of the place (he had bought it three days ago), and when he heard that I would be writing about Playoffs Sports Pub and Pizzeria (map) on the Web he was excited. I tried but failed to impress upon him just how insignificant my opinion is, how few people will ever read this and of those how many will find themselves in Mesquite looking for chow. But if by some miracle that describes you, dear reader, then trust me, Playoffs is a good place to go. It’s right on the main drag. (Sorry, Marc, that’s the best I can do. The rest is up to you.)

Back to Bobbi. Bobbi, Bobbi, Bobbi. Tonight I will dream of Bobbi. Tonight is now. I must sleep. I am becoming transparent, not really here at all. That my eyes are open is only a formality. Good night, dear readers. Thanks for sharing my day with me.

Thanks!