I seldom buy recorded music, but recently I purchased a cd by country singer Chris Stapleton. Seriously, this is good stuff. If you like your music with an infusion of whisky, I highly recommend Chris.
http://youtu.be/4zAThXFOy2c
I don’t think there’s a bad cut on the cd. Tennessee Whisky is my favorite, though. Won’t you pour a glass of your favorite beverage and join me? Care to dance?
I’d just left Chicken Salad Chick where I’d enjoyed the Cranberry Kelly and a side of grape salad. The day, sunshiny and Forida-perfect, insisted that I take a stroll and pop into the shops in a strip mall on Market Street in Tallahassee.
With no agenda, no cash, and all my credit cards gone to live with a bunch of nasty thieves, I truly was merely window shopping.
I was dressed casually–cropped jeans and a soft white tshirt, flip flops. As I headed back to my car I saw a well-dressed woman walking toward me on the sidewalk. I smiled. I always smile, I can’t help it.
She began laughing. Not a happy laugh, an insulting laugh, like, “Lady, who do you think you are?”
As she passed, close enough to touch, she looked me up and down. Now I’m wondering if I have food on my face (it wouldn’t be the first time) or a breast exposed (it could happen) or perhaps I’ve developed a unicorn type appendage between my eyes (not likely, but might be worth a snicker).
As soon as I got to my car I flipped the visor down to check my image in the mirror. Ok, I’m no beauty, but I couldn’t see a thing to laugh about. Well, my hair was a bit Dumb and Dumber-ish, but still….
I needed to stop at a grocery store for a couple of items on my way home, so once I entered the store I made a beeline for the ladies room. Again, America’s Next Top Model isn’t going to be calling any time soon, but I looked like an average 59-year-old grandmother with a touch of hippie grunge.
So why did this stranger feel the need to laugh at me? I want to track her down and ask. Why does it bother me that she laughed? Insecurity? Curiosity?
Regardless, it was unnerving. Like that Denzel Washington movie, “Fallen,” where the devil keeps possessing different people, jumping from one host to another, singing The Rolling Stones’ Time is on My Side.
https://g.co/kgs/OnH8N
Hope she wasn’t possessed! That seems a good spot to end this.
Peace, people!
I had so much fun bumming around the Word of [South] festival on Saturday that I couldn’t wait to return on Sunday. Pre-festival I stopped in at one of my favorite eateries, the Crepevine for breakfast and then once at Cascades Park I was immediately handed a free mimosa. Life was good!
Part of me was a little nervous that Sunday wouldn’t be able to compete with Saturday, but that free mimosa totally erased my doubts. I’m uncomplicated that way.
My first stop was to the stage where an act billed as The Sonnet Man was already in progress. http://www.thesonnetmannyc.com 
This young man has set Shakespeare’s sonnets and soliloquies to music, creating “Hip-Hop Shakespeare Fusion.” He was incredibly fun. I loved watching the kids in the audience head bobbing to Sonnet 130.
Next up on the same stage was musician Jim White, whose debut album, The Mysterious Tale of How I Shouted “Wrong-Eyed Jesus” was the inspiration behind the 2003 doucumentary “Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.”
http://www.jimwhite.net
I became an instant fan of Jim White who bills himself on his website as “songer/songwriter, author, fine art photographer, crackpot philosopher, folk artist, record producer, film maker, dad.” He’s quirky, immensely talented, and might be a little addictive.
Jim’s set made me thirsty. There might’ve been alcohol involved, but I had decisions to make. Did I want to listen to Grant Peeples and Tom Franklin or Chatham County Line? Ultimately I flipped a coin and ended up at Grant Peeple’s gig.
Pictured below is Grant. He’s the bald guy. I didn’t catch his guitarist’s name. A self-described “’vegetarian that watches NASCAR, and tree-hugger with a gun below the seat,’Grant Peeples is known for his axe-sharp socio-political tunes, raucous humor and heart-gigging ballads.”
Watching the crowd as Grant performed, it occurred to me that many in attendance weren’t quite grasping that his lyrics were hitting close to home. He poked pointed fun at the GOP, racists, homophobes, etc., and they loved him.
http://grantpeeples.com
Trading off with Grant was author Tom Franklin, who read aloud excerpts from his novel, Smonk. https://g.co/kgs/uCw4M
I didn’t get to the book tent in time to purchase his book, but it quickly was added to my wish list on Amazon. He writes the south as he sees it, and he sees it clearly.
Next on my impromptu itinerary was author Adam Johnson. Adam is an FSU graduate with some serious writing credentials. According to Wikipedia “Adam Johnson is a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist and short story writer.
“He won the Pulitzer for his 2012 novel, The Orphan Master’s Son. He is also a professor of English at Stanford University with a focus on creative writing.”
Adam read his short story, Nirvana, and had the audience in the palm of his hand. Check out this man’s work. He is amazing. https://g.co/kgs/ZdTev
You’d think I could’ve gone home happy after all I’d experienced, but like a glutton I stayed for one more author, renowned columnist Leonard Pitts, Jr. Having read Mr. Pitts’s column in the Miami Herald for years I could scarcely believe I was sitting just a few feet from him as he read excerpts from his latest novel, Grant Park.
I was in awe, and pray that I didn’t sit there on the front row with my jaw hanging open like a beached fish during his talk. He also offered his keen insights on the current political climate in the U.S. and accepted questions from the audience.
As soon as the applause died down at the end of the presentation I sprinted to the book sellers’ tent and bought a copy of Grant Park.
Best of all, I made him laugh when he signed my book. Leonard Pitts, Jr. has a great laugh. Here’s the link to his website:
http://www.leonardpittsjr.com
What an awesome day. I cannot wait to dig into the books I purchased, and I’m already looking forward to next year’s festival.
Peace, and happy reading, people.
Hold my hand,
Say the right lines.
Give me something,
Solid to believe in.
Scramble my brain,
Realign the stars.
Make me question
Heaven and hell.
Parade my intellect
Along with my form.
Chastise my tastes
In music and art.
I’ll sip discreetly from a
Chalice of champagne,
Inhale collitas rising
Through the refrain.
Loosen the bindings
My soul in a slow burn
Chafe my wrists
Until feeling returns.
Don’t be surprised
If I don’t reappear
Even if I do
I won’t be the same.
http://youtu.be/lrfhf1Gv4Tw
peace, people!
he plays a little club on tuesday nights, a seedy little place off main
the voice, still strong after all this time; yet he never did sell his name.
his songs, sad and sweet, sift through my soul transcending time and tomb
my lonely heart answers the way it knows best; i feel i must call home.
invoking the loss of my family, of my false securities
his songs call out my every conceit and bring me to my knees.
home will you take me back? i’m so damned tired of this road
i thought, oh i thought i could make it, until i heard his songs.
There are songs from my youth that take me right back to a certain time and place. Foghat’s Slow Ride returns me to a concert at the Amarillo Civic Center in 1976, and perhaps the wildest night of my life.
My roommate, C, and I had won tickets to see Foghat on a call-in radio contest. I’m going to confess that I wasn’t really into Foghat. I was more of an Eagles fan–mellow country rock. But C was a huge Foghat fan, and rather than let her go alone I gamely put on a t-shirt paired with a pair of faded and flared hip huggers and let her lead me into that den of iniquity.
C and I carried in bottles of Boone’s Farm Wine underneath our jackets–her idea, and by the time the opening act came onstage we were already pretty tipsy. The Marshall Tucker Band opened for Foghat that night. I’ve often thought that was an odd combination, but it worked.
When Foghat took the stage an electricity like nothing I’d ever experienced lit the air. My good girl self got lost in a barrage of pounding drums and heavy metal guitar. Joints were passed. I might’ve inhaled. We passed our wine around. The whole night swam in front of my eyes like a fuzzy psychedelic movie. All the time my good girl self kept saying, “Just for tonight, kiddo. Just for tonight.”
Some random male in the crowd kept touching me inappropriately. Even in my out of body frame of mind I knew I needed to find a safer spot to stand. I elbowed C and motioned to a spot where we could have our backs to the wall. We began systematically making our way to the safe spot, but somewhere on our route we were separated.
I didn’t panic at first. We’d driven my car to the venue, so I knew I could get home. But there was no way I’d leave my roomie. As the band played their encores I began hunting actively for her. No luck. I stood around as the concert hall emptied. Still no C.
Nowadays we could just text or call, but back in the olden days that wasn’t an option. I feared the worst. Maybe the guy who’d been targeting my delicate femininity had grabbed my friend.
Finally I went to my old Ford Galaxy and stood there, hoping she’d meet me back at our starting point. I saw an old boyfriend. He suggested I go home and wait for C to call. And that’s what I did.
Sure enough, around 5 a.m. the phone rang. C had gone partying with a group she’d met and needed a ride home. I was relieved. And pissed. Did she have any idea how worried I’d been?
On the ride back to our rental I chewed her out a bit. She just grinned. She might’ve said, “Sorry MOM!”
I never had another night like that. Fun and crazy and a little scary. My good girl self knew she’d had quite enough. But oh, it was fun to be out of control for awhile.
Being out of control–that’s what I remember when I hear Slow Ride.
Sometimes in the early morning
after my man has left for work,
but before I have left our bed,
I hear a melody playing behind
my eyelids, soft yet insistent.
Instantly, though, once I open
my eyes, the sweet strains are
dissipated, music diffused all
throughout the greater cosmos,
and in vain I seek the source.
Creeping stealthily from covers
I tiptoe through our quiet home
pausing with held breath hoping
to surprise the makers of music,
but at hide and seek they excel.
The tiny musicians, for they must
be faeries, or related small folk,
lurk just outside of my eyesight’s
range, giggling giddily of that I
am sure; mischief is their nature.
So I return to bed, to the comfort
of my blankets and snuggle down in
a cloud of cool cotton and fleece.
My breaths lengthen, my eyes close,
and the music begins playing again.
I actually do hear phantom music, and have my entire life. Until I mentioned it to someone else I just assumed everyone heard it. While that used to freak me out, now I just accept the music as a quirky blessing. It’d be nice, though, if I could get a number one hit out of it.
Peace, people!
After driving over 1100 miles I reached our daughter’s home in Rapids City, IL, a small town situated on the banks of the mighty Mississippi. I always think I’ll come up with a better adjective for this father of American rivers, but nothing suits it quite as well.
I guess we could say HUGE, but thanks to the current presidential elections the H word is so overworked. And it fails the alliteration test, so there’s that.
Last night I stayed at a dump of an inn in Nashville, Tennessee. I might’ve slept for three hours. But earlier in the evening I did get to go visit with my cousin, singer/songwriter Effron White who hosted a songwriter’s round at the Millennium Maxwell House. It was the first time in a decade that we were able to hang out.
The evening’s company and entertainment more than made up for a poor night’s rest. In fact, since I couldn’t sleep I just played all the songs back in my head.
More photos from the evening. I was blown away by the level of talent in the room.
Check out one of Effron’s songs as performed by Phil Lancaster. I just love the French introduction!
http://youtu.be/A1YVPWqsJc0
Peace, people!
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
Never Again
Have you ever gone to a new place or tried a new experience and thought to yourself, “I’m never doing that again!” Tell us about it.
Last year Studly Doright and I accompanied friends to a contra dance. Here’s that tale:
Praying for Eyebrowz 