Ham on Rye and a Corvette Death...Pt One

The bar stunk of Death and stale beer and Gospel Blues and the girl with the hibiscus hair said Hello over the top of her Gin and tonic. I smiled at her but told her to stop wasting her time. I do not Sleep with women with tonic on their breath. She told me to Fuck off. I don't blame her. I am Damaged and will Sleep with anyone. She saw that in my eyes and was appropriately insulted. I do Not care.

I am Damaged and an Asshole and that is all there is too It.

The bar still stank of Angry hibiscus and stale Death and praises to a god I no longer believe in when Sally puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me about The Race. Sally is a new Friend and nuerotically Damaged and a Good Guy. He talks too much and has panic attacks but is always ready for irresposible Weirdness when the occasion calls for it.

The Race, he explained, was an illegal road course set up in the Wild back roads around Miami near the Glades and far removed from the prying eyes of the Man. Suped-up Hoopties and over-sexed sports cars would be Screaming around coned tracks set up on the one and a half lane, barely paved serpentines winding through the mangrove marshes between the Indian casino and Nowhere Special. The Grand prize was 100,000 dollars and a sponsorship from, one can only assume, an auto parts concern or Hooters. There would be Drinking and hookers and Danger and possible death by dismemberment.

__________________________


Like a moth to a Flame....


____________________________________________

Stops for gin and to cash a Bad check notwithstanding, we made pretty good time. Along the Tamiami Trail, Sally fell asleep. Just as well. I had Lyle Lovett on the stereo and a fat joint crunched between my teeth as I barrelled along the flat stretch of humid Nothingness and imagined myself in a race. A race that I was finally winning. A race that could not be lost or Squandered carelessly. My foot jammed nearly through the floorboard, singing Bad karaoke about a pony on a boat, and smoking that shit, I raced no one. The fetid swamp on either side whipping past with hardly a Whisper, the black shapes of Nightmares fading as quickly as Hope and youth and it was Good.

Somewhere near Shark Valley we broke out the Gin...

_________________________________________________________


Gin is Baptism and god and everything right with the world.

Gin is a reason.

Gin makes me happy.

When Sally brought out the green bottle of Tanqueray, I smiled a crooked smile and backed my foot off the gas pedal. We were almost There and too fast and Sally looked frightened as a bunny. I pulled over gravel quick within sight of two Fat alligators and an egret on lunch break. I poured a Huge wash down my throat, letting the botanicals burn away my Sins and remind me that we were on a Mission. Sally lit two cigarettes and handed me one. He is a Good guy.

Some Saturdays just lend themselves to the gods of Gin, manic driving, and gashes in the fabric of the cultural Norm. This particular Saturday afternoon, as it turns out, was one of Them. I knew we were in Trouble when Sally insisted upon getting close enough to the Largest of the two gators to piss on its head. I completely understood the Temptation. It is quite the Manly Thing To Do. With the second shot of booze already coursing in the general direction of my ears, I watched helplessly giggling as Sally whipped It out, pinched the head of It and try to spray the Sleepy beast in the eyes from a distance of about nine feet.

The funniest part about watching your Good friend being chased by a pissed-off, pissed-on alligator is that there is absolutely Nothing funny about it. It is terrifying and crashing and wet and Loud.

Shaking and soaked to the bone, fly undone, laughing, Sally returns to the car and grabs the Gin from me. I have never seen a man drink so long from the neck of a bottle. It was beautiful to watch. Complete Abandon. Like cake to a Fat kid. Like sweat on a Preacher. Like rubber to road...

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There is some shit you just Do Not do.

Marry a thick Blond with pink toenails and a drug habit. Snort aspirin. Drop acid at a Pentacostal revival. Laugh at a friend's Cancer diagnosis. Have sex with the widow AT the funeral. Piss on an Alligator. Show up Gin drunk for a High speed clandestine road Race and offer to officiate Turn 3.

They said Yes.

While waiting for transport to our station, we wandered aimlessly through the pit area and the starting line. Porsche, Lamborghini, Lexxus, BMW, Lotus, and Corvette were represented, as well as a few Ghetto-mean VW's thrown in with sullen moods and bubbletops. A gaggle of drivers and mechanics encircled a glass topped patio table astrewn with the accoutrement of the Seriously Deranged. Empty bottles of scotch, half empty paper cups of Colada and Massive lines of crushed Oxycontins mixed with SoFlo cocaine. The drugs were bad enough,jesus, but the Colada, high-powered Cuban coffee strained, Presumably, between the legs of Blessed Virgins and whores, was just damned irresponsible!

Sally, affable Gentleman that he is, introduced Us to this caffeine and painkiller addled bunch of adrenaline junkies as Helpful Volunteers and Race Fans. One of the Race organizers saw us eyeing the table and drooling like pedophiles at a playground.

"Help yourselves, boys. Just remember to keep your eyes open out there in Turn 3. Its a bad one and we wouldn't want Ya'll to get Hurt. Its easy to do out here."

Face buried in Illegal substances and Scotch, we offer our assurances that we are Professionals when it comes to mind-altering chemicals and we would rather Die than see anyone get Hurt.

"Well, just don't turn your backs to oncoming cars. You should be fine."

Mosquitos swarmed the site where we were unceremoniously deposited with a walkie talkie,a flag, a fire extinguisher and two sheets of paper. One with the Rules printed upon it, and the other slathered with the itinerary of the weekend.

1pm tech inspection and hot track
2pm lemons and hoopties division
3pm smoke joint with large woman
4pm hear the monster in the swamp
5pm sports and muscle division
712 huge wreck involving tiny rutting deer, a little red corvette, a poetry reading by a dead man, and lethal doses of a bug spray that may or not be legal in this country.
8pm end of race
9pm pitch nylon tent behind car
905pm contract dengue fever
10pm uncomfortable banquet hosted by the devil and anthony bourdain.
1130 be escorted to the door of the overpriced neo-cajun restaurant and asked to politely fuck off.

It all seemed pretty straightforward...

We were to stand in the Painful arch of Turn 3 with a red flag and a fire extinguisher and the mosquitos and watch the track for Obstructions of dubious Nature, radio HQ when track was clear. The rest of the gig consisted of resetting the rubber-scuffed orange cones whenever the drivers knocked them over in their Desperate clawings through the Slalom directly before the Hairpin that Turn 3 wrapped around laughingly.

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Corruption and South Florida lie around like Old lovers in comfortable shoes, bolstering and consuming at the same time. It is a way of life. Like subtle Racism and cornbread, corruption is just an accepted thread in the fabric of daily existence. So with the backdrop of Little Milton playing in my head and gin soaked flying bloodsuckers buzzing in my ears, I did not even flinch when I saw the Sheriff's car roll around the hairpin, going the wrong way on the track. The race had not begun yet and there was no danger of a head-on collision but I red flagged him all the same.

A Grizzly bear in a pressed brown uniform rolled down the passenger window.

"How you boys doin' this fine afternoon?"
"Good, and you, Sheriff?"
"Oh, just fine. Say, you boys do know that this race is for Members Only, dontcha?" He smiled yellow and sanguine and knowing.
"We are not racers, Sheriff. We are only working the track today.
"Doesn't matter, fella. Still gotta collect your membership dues. It's the rules."

After a brief interaction involving our cash and the Sheriff's huge paw, he was gone, leaving nothing but a bad taste in our mouth for authority figures and half of a can of DEET bug spray with a faulty nozzle.

We were now Members of an exclusive club.

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski...My Favorite Poem

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Cliff Cody...Homegrown Talent!

A woman will make a man do crazy things. Bathe, get married, cut his hair, buy a boat, sell his Volkswagen, and wear pink toenail polish. Ok, maybe that last one is just me, but the fact remains the same; men will do a bunch of silly stuff for love. Cliff Cody sang karaoke.
The result, unlike most of the insanities I have committed in the name of unadulterated lust, was not only did he impress the girl but also got a job as lead singer in a West Texas band and a recording contract. I only got to spend the next morning smelling like polish remover, an empty wallet, and shame.
I met Cliff Cody a few months ago through Art Levin, the general manager of the Hog’s Breath Saloon, who thought that it was important that we be introduced. I am very glad that he did. Cliff took the time to graciously remove himself from his adoring fans, and there are many, to give me his CD and other swag (I love swag!) and to tell me his story. He was a Registered Nurse for a long time. He is a friend of and has shared a stage with Jamey Johnson. He has been happily married to Amy for over a decade and they have a daughter, Veronica. He smiles a lot.
Not only is Cliff Cody one of the nicest men that I have ever met but is also one of the most incredible new singer/songwriters out there today. He can cover a song like no one else but as most of you know, a performer’s originals are what pique my interest. “Homegrown” has been adopted by certain friends of mine as their personal pot-smoking anthem. “Back Home” is one of the most poignant and beautiful songs about the war in Iraq ever written. “Tractor Tattoo” is an ode to the best kind of country girl and a guaranteed country hit. His entire cd is full of fantastic cuts already getting a ton of play on southern radio stations!
He is from Odessa, TX and for any of you out there familiar with the movie “Friday Night Lights”, you will recognize the name and the small nowhere town that is portrayed. Cliff grew up there and must have absorbed his talent straight from the dusty fields and jack rabbit trails around his hometown. It is the only explanation that I can offer to you. You see, Cliff did not even know that he could sing until one night, trying to impress a waitress at the bar where he worked as a bouncer, he stepped up on the karaoke stage and belted out a tune that destroyed the place. As fate would have it, there was an off duty band drinking at the bar looking for a lead singer…
Sometimes life happens like that.
The country music world will never be the same. Although Cliff is not yet a household name, I have no doubt that he soon will be. If I have anything to do with it he will! Most of you have a Facebook page by now, I am sure. Go to my page and you will see that Cliff Cody is all over my profile. I believe in this guy and want all of my readers, country music fans or not, to do yourself a favor and come on out to one of the best bars in the world, the Hog’s Breath Saloon, and listen to Cliff this weekend! Very few performers can evoke the emotion, the memories, and the smiles that Cliff Cody can. His easy going style makes it appear so effortless. Maybe it is, for the truly talented. You will not forget him, his infectious smile and incredible talent drawn, seemingly, from the Earth.
Don’t forget to tell him that Stan sent you! You can thank me later.

Scarlet Bouganvillias

I hear familiar sounds. Loving, lovely sounds. Complete with flashing colored lights, tie dye, and a fresh-faced stoner couple flailing enthusiastic, but clumsily flailing nonetheless, enjoying the freedom, the joy, of movement among wafting clouds of patchouli and sound…

Huh? Where was I?

Man, I haven’t heard tasty grooves like this since Woodstock! Wait, I wasn’t at Woodstock. Bonnaroo, maybe? Hell, I don’t remember. I’ve been doing this “following the band” thing for so long it is a “miracle” that I can remember anything.

Up on the stage this night at El Alamo is a groovy little group called That Hippie Band. In true jam band fashion, the band is comprised of members of several other bands around town. Russ Cavelli plays and records with the Paul Cotton Band and also with his wife in Black and Skabuddah. Pete Jarvis has played for years at Sloppy Joes in a great duet named Pete and Wayne. Gary Hempsey and Will Hoppey are both terrific solo artists and Terry Whitmore and Tom Conger are the bassist and drummer, respectively, for the amazing Cory Heydon Band.

I am hearing “Up on Cripple Creek” and “Scarlett Begonias”. The Allman Brothers and Pink Floyd are both done well. Add a little “Friend of the Devil” and some Byrds and I am in long haired hippie heaven!

They do not practice together. They do not need to.

These are no spring chickens and they have no aspirations to fame with this incarnation. They all just have a love for the black light-strobe light stoned midnight music that we, in my generation, grew up on, rebelled with, and reminisce over. The music itself is a feel good flash to the past when nitrous oxide was harmless fun in a balloon, peace and love weren’t just t-shirt slogans, and we were just figuring out that we would never be able to trust those we put in charge again. A music that deserves our recognition.

I spent a year one weekend following the Dead around the country jammed and magical in the passenger seat of a VW bus, singing horribly off key to The Band and Joe Cocker songs pouring from tinny speakers and an 8 track player rescued from a dirty pawn shop in downtown San Francisco. It was an incredible time in my life. I was young, I was handsome, and I was on my way to a miracle. These guys take me back to that place, effortlessly.

That Hippie Band is playing this night amidst smiles bouncing around the room like beach balls at a Phish concert. Tattooed blondes and headbands, clove cigarettes and facing spaces lend a backdrop to a genuine outpouring of love for a band mate’s sick daughter and even more love when the doctor says that she will be fine. There is a feeling here among these guys I never expected. Guys old enough to have lost children, minds, and marriages. Guys with a passion for the music that brought them to this stage in their life and defined them. Defined a generation.
There is nothing at all wrong with a little rebellion now and then, between mortgage payments and unruly children, between 40 hour weeks and bad knees. Because here tonight at the El Alamo, between tequila breaks and good news, something kind is happening. Something family. Something fun and beautiful. Something worth checking out.

It should be easy. That Hippie Band plays at Cowboy Bill’s on Duval St. every Monday through March, 9pm til Midnight. Bring your tie dye, your incense and flailing and don’t forget to tell them that Stan sent you.

Keep on truckin’…

True Stories...part uno

One night, I was sitting at a river party near Eastport, Mississippi on the banks of the Tennessee River, on a cooler full of cheap beer, smoking a joint of the dirtiest weed I have ever had the displeasure of inhaling, when the curly-haired meth head sitting crosslegged in the pine needles next to me pulled a gun.

He raised it slowly, as in a movie, and aimed it directly at my head. I stared incrediously at him but before I could protest, he calmly said, "Move out of the way. This is gonna be loud and messy."

I moved.

He was now aiming directly at the face of an asshole we had all grown up with and hated, although most of us were too afraid to tell him so. He always carried a gun, was infamous with a knife, and sold dope to everyone from the sheriff to the serf. Including myself.

The last words that I heard before the shot cracks out were, "Go ahead, cuzzin. I think you're scared but, who knows..."

He wasn't.

I ran. I am not ashamed to admit it, I ran. I felt that I had no need to involve myself in a homicide on a Saturday night on a creekbank that I held no deed to. I ran like a cat with turpentine smeared on it's ass. Like a scalded ape. Like a...well, you get the point.

The shots continued to pop, the wind kept blowing pine chaff past my face, and my balls continued to draw into my stomach as I ran. By the time I ran full frontal into the local sheriff, I was winded beyond the 2 packs of cigarettes I had smoked that day.

"Whatchoo doin', boy? Ain't you had enuff trubble tonite without assaltin' an occifer of the law?"

to be continued....

Chris Cook... Accidental

Wearing a denim work shirt, sandals, a new haircut and gnawing on his gum like it owes him money, Chris Cook growls out gritty, someone just had sex with your woman, back porch blues with a voice like an empty stretch of highway, a heartache, a dream unfulfilled.
Some artists play for the money, some play for the groupies, some for the love of the music; I get the impression that Chris Cook plays, and writes, because he needs to. That there is something deep and hidden inside this incredibly talented troubadour unexpressed that begs to be birthed into the blatant lights of the stage. There is genuine pain behind his voice and his words.
His singing voice sounds like Delbert McClinton and Keb Mo had a curly haired baby boy born with the ability to rip the roof off a joint with R&B classics, funky pop, and spine-wrenching blues licks. But it is his songwriting that sets Cook apart from the herd. He writes of the roads he has travelled, the life he has led, and the One that got away. Listening to his original songs leads me to believe that, because of a romantic soul, the women who have broken his heart fuel his music. Songs such as, “Rock and a Romance” and “The One That Got Away” are testimonials to love gone bad. Even when he covers “Ain’t No Sunshine” there is a funky darkness to the way he strokes it out that tells the listener that he has felt every word of this classic Bill Withers’ tune of loneliness.
I, apparently, am awfully conspicuous standing next to the Hog’s Breath stage with a small spiral notebook, scribbling. Chris immediately recognizes me as the guy bugging him on the phone for two weeks, begging for an interview. He finishes his set and we step outside into the parking lot. We discuss life, bad love, and his European tour. We smoke cigarettes and have a drink or two. He strikes me as a very nice guy, if a little melancholy.
I comment to him that I appreciate his style. We discuss the blues. I appreciate, as a blues aficionado, that there is a huge difference between “Statesboro Blues” stroked out in a hundred dark bars across this country, the way every other barfly plays it, Allman Brothers-style and playing it the way it should be played, Blind Willie McTell-style; dirty, gutter, and experienced.
As he begins his next set, I wonder how many people in this unusually subdued crowd realize what a talent is standing on the other side of their Sauzabombs. I mean, even myself, who does this for a living, keeps trying to be blasé’ and walk away. I have friends waiting to buy me drinks at the Green parrot, for Pete’s sake! But I cannot seem to remove myself from this barstool.
The music is intoxicating, the words sublime. The delivery is impeccable. I find myself wondering why this guy is not a multi-Grammy winner by now. And then I really listen…
There is no apology in Chris Cook. There is only the heartache, the many years on the dusty road, the music. He has paid the dues, he has beaten the odds, and he has been the minstrel for you and the jester. Now, it is about the music and the words and the night.
Chris Cook would love to be a star, but at 40yrs old, this man plays because he has something to say. Something to express. Something to deliver to the masses. Something beautiful and ballsy and powerful.
Hog’s Breath Saloon continues to amaze me with its seemingly never-ending set list of original and exceptional songwriters and performers. On top of that, the drinks are strong, the food is palatable(if not above average), and the wait staff are not only cordial and professional but fun!
Do yourself a favor and come out to the Hog’s Breath Saloon Monday the 24th and listen to an exceptional performer pouring out his heart and soul to you. Chris Cook is not all about the blues. But the blues are what you will hear if you listen and it will be well worth the trip.