Delta notes

Well, it was another successful trip to Clarksdale for the Juke Joint Festival, which is to say, we all survived despite little sleep, Crown and Bushmills for hydration, and barbequed ribs for breakfast.

We ate two meals at Wop’s after closing Annie Belle’s Friday and Saturday. If there is a better burger in this ol’ world I have not tasted it as yet. We did not see the devil woman while dining on the hood of our rental car, which frankly, was fine with me.

It wasn’t all ribs and burgers. We had an awesome dinner at Hick's Hot Tamales where Bill Clinton once ate.

Musically we saw many of our favorites from last year including Big Jack Johnson, Big George Brock, Terry “Harmonica” Bean, KM Williams (with Washboard Jackson), Cedric Burnsides and Lightnin’ Malcolm. And lots more of course. We were immersed in music from 10 a.m. until 1 a.m. every day. We also saw the venerable T. Model Ford and Honey Boy Edwards. It’s always fun to see these links to the past. Honey Boy learned to play guitar from Robert Johnson, but they are both around 90 and their playing is not what I’m sure it once was.

A big pleasant surprise was the appearance of Watermelon Slim (above), an Okie who mostly writes truck driver songs, who recently moved to the Delta. There was a flat board set on sawhorses on the stage. First he got out a mojo bag filled with various talisman – a feather, a little stone figure, some glass pieces – it was mostly too small to make out; then he laid out his steel acoustic guitar and played it horizontally with a slide in a style all his own. Slim’s voice is also something you’re not likely to confuse for anyone else. Plus I had a chance to chat him up for a couple minutes before his set. Great. I gotta get me a mojo bag.

Biggest surprise: Mark “Porkchop” Holder, a singer, guitar and harp player. You can watch him play here for now, but I plan to tell a little story about seeing him at the New Roxie in a later post.
Man in audience: “You awesome ‘chop!”
Porkchop: “You should talk to my old lady. (pause) Hell, I should talk to my old lady.”

Second biggest surprise: that we could stay in a motel that made the Uptown look like the Clarksdale Ritz Carlton. We stayed at the Budget Motel this year. Buzzard had to brush a cockroach from my hat at breakfast yesterday. But during the festival you have to take what you can get. Big Jack’s entourage stayed there Saturday night – or at least his mini-bus did. There were some new shacks at Hopson’s Plantation, but it’s too far out of town.

Clarksdale is home of “The Bigs.” Big Jack, Big George, and now two Big Reds: the owner of the juke joint of the same name, plus a big lady singer with a wild mane of red hair and a voice like Sapphire. She was really good.

There were a lot more people there this year. Oxford is just 45 minutes down the road and a couple hundred Ol’ Miss kids came over on Saturday. They added a little energy and eye candy to the festivities, but made it tough to get into the most popular venues, so Buzz, Rocket* and I worked the smaller joints as much as possible.

A young, white, wannabe bluesman, in a hat, shirt and soul patch supplied by central casting was in line ahead of us for breakfast at Big Red’s rib wagon Sunday morning. He got the rib platter.
Red: “$11”
YWWB: (disbelief in his voice) “$11!?”
Red: “Where you from?”
YWWB: “Memphis. Atlanta. Denver. Miami.”
Red: “See, that’s your problem. You from too many places.”

We spent a lot of time in Tricia’s this year. They have a high tolerance for flasks. Last year it was an empty shell with sheetrock walls. Now it’s an Italian restaurant with plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling. I think I liked it better last year, but Action Jackson and her band were great, especially the big ol’ farm boy on harp who could move like a man half his size.

We had perfect weather. The beverages of choice were Crown Royal Black (who knew), Bushmills and $2 Buds, but you can only drink so much beer.

They are building condos on the top floor of the old Woolworth’s Five & Dime downtown. I’ll try to get a price point for those of you interested in having a second home in the Delta.

Our record is intact: we are still the only white people we’ve seen in Annie Belles. While waiting in the Memphis airport yesterday we stopped in the Blue Note Café for an eye-opener. Our waitress grew up in Clarksdale so we had a fun time relating the event of the weekend. She couldn’t believe we visited Annie Belles: “You mighta danced with my mama!”

We couldn’t get Rocket’s cousin’s Imperial this year but we rented the ultimate bluesmobile – a Ford Flex. That’s how we roll baby.

It takes a while to learn to speak Delta.
Lady on the street to us: “Hey how yall?”
Buzzard: “We’re good. How yall?”
Lady: “Ain’t nobody but me but I’m good.”

Well, that's the news from Clarksdale where all the music is great and the ribs are all above average.
There picture on the right are still good. Clarksdale doesn't change much year-to-year.


* The artist formerly known as McRik. I had to further disguise him so as not to totally cripple his square life.

Goin' to Missip

I’m leaving for Mississippi tomorrow and I’m just too excited and focused on that to think about much else. Thank you all for your kind words and encouraging comments on “Taxi driver.” I’m spending a lot more time trying to write that sort of thing these days. Plus, Coach Lou and I have our weekly Life 3.0 post for What’s Next. Once those are done I find the DB competing more and more with my loafing time, and loafing is going to win that one every time. I’ll try to do better when I get back from Clarksdale. Maybe the trip will provide a good story or two. Perhaps I’ll even see the Devil-woman again – although I hope not.

You may recall that I was wishing I had a demographic picture of the Tea Party (not the tea-baggers which I recently discovered is something completely different!). Well, just this morning the New York Times obliged with a New York Times/CBS News poll that shows that they are older, wealthier, and better educated than the average American, and they really don’t like President Obama. It’s pretty interesting reading.

By the way, the Indians have been officially eliminated from the American League playoff picture, the first time this has happened prior to May 1st.

Taxi driver

It was the summer of 1971, and I needed a job. I had just graduated from college but had made no effort to find one until the last party ended. There was a nasty recession, and I looked like a roadie for an unsuccessful rock band. My prospects were limited.

I had a line on a government job, but that was going to take some time, and meanwhile, I had to have beer money. I had the proletariat spirit, but a series of jobs over the previous summers -- digging ditches, spreading hot asphalt, painting houses and shucking steel -- had me longing for something different. I wanted one where I could talk to someone other than the mope standing next to me, breaking rocks in the hot sun.

A couple of high school pals had driven cabs the summer before and that sounded right up my alley. First of all, the job was performed sitting down. That was a major plus right there. I imagined myself driving businessmen to the airport in Youngstown, or maybe even Cleveland. I’d probably be picking up divorcees at cocktail lounges and taking them home to their little apartment someplace, where they’d invite me in to…oh well, just a young man’s fantasy.

The reality was somewhat different. First of all, the full-time, older drivers got all the airport runs, and they also worked the night shift when business was brisk (and the divorcees were at play). That left me to sit and bake in an un- air-conditioned Checker under the summer sun.

This was in Warren, Ohio, a city of 65,000 people; 30,000 of whom worked for General Motors. The only people who didn’t have cars were communists and the truly poor. Most of my trips were to take older women to the grocery store or the beauty parlor. The fares were small and the tips meager. Carrying six bags of groceries up to the top of the duplex was an expected part of the service, which might win you an extra quarter.

The cab stand was on Park Avenue, across from Courthouse Square and in front of Vogue Records, but I can’t remember anyone ever walking up to the cab and asking for a lift. All our rides came from the radio dispatcher, a gruff, middle-aged woman named Joyce who weighed about 250 and smoked two packs of Chesterfields a day. She was the one who decided what driver got which rides and respect had to be paid.

A measure of how much Joyce cared for me can be taken from an account of my most memorable day behind the wheel at Yellow Cab. It came late one very hot August afternoon when she radioed to send me to Coleman’s, a working man’s bar down in the flats next to the Republic Steel open hearth. Coleman’s was a legendary joint, but I’d only been inside a couple of times. I’d turned 21 the year before, and prior to that could only legally drink 3.2 beer. Colman’s wasn’t the kind of place that served piss-beer, or the kind place to get caught underage either. Truth-be-told, I was more than a little intimidated by the place.

I walked in the front door and looked down the long bar for my fare. The place was crowded with mill hunks just off day turn. About 40 faces, mostly black, turned to look at me. The bartender was black, about 35, and processed NFL proportions; his neck was the size of one of my thighs, and his biceps looked like someone had hacked a bowling ball in two and glued one half to each arm. There was no hint of humor on his face, or in his voice, as he looked me in the eye and asked, “You the cab driver?”

“Yeah.”

“Down here,” he replied as he pointed with his massive head towards the far end of the bar.

A few drinkers glanced up from their shots and beers as I made my way deeper into their world. About half way down the long bar I saw him: a scrawny, pathetic-looking little man passed out face down on the bar, motionless, silent and drained of color.

“I’m not taking this guy anyplace,” I said with much more confidence than I felt.

“The hell you say?” the bartender responded. “The only way you leaving here is with this white muthafucka in the back a your cab.”

There were no further negotiations.

The bartender and a customer lifted the little man under his arms and carried him out to my cab. His feet never touched the ground. They opened the back door and tossed him in. The bartender turned to me and said, as he slammed the door closed, “Have a nice day friend. Be careful. He’s a mean one.”

I looked down at the little man passed out on the floor of the Checker, which was the size of a double bed mattress but not nearly as soft. I tried to get him to tell me where he lived but all I got were some mumbled incoherencies.

I rode around the block past the hulking mill, trying to decide what to do. I called Joyce to explain the situation. The ever-sensitive Joyce instructed me to, “Throw him out, and if he won’t get out take him to the nearest police station.”

Neither option was compatible with my recently acquired liberal education. I rode around the block again, talking over my shoulder to him, asking him where he lived. After a few minutes he mumbled, “Niles,” which is a mean little mill town about five miles downriver. I updated Joyce.

“Outta town is a flat rate – ten bucks to Niles. Collect it in advance.”

I already knew that, and I knew just as well that I wasn’t going to get ten bucks in advance from this guy. The Coleman bartender wouldn’t have thrown him out if he still had money to pay for drinks. But he was mumbling that his wife would pay me when we got to Niles so I decided to take a chance.

“Hey buddy -- where in Niles?” I asked repeatedly over the next ten minutes as I headed south on Main. I kept making unnecessary turns to keep him rolling on the back floor, which was bringing him closer to being sober enough to answer me. He couldn’t tell his address, but he managed to pull himself up to the seat and wave me left and right until we arrived at a run-down duplex near the glass works. At which point he curled up on the back seat and went back to sleep.

I went up to the house and rang the bell at the downstairs apartment. A middle age woman with a thick eastern European accent took a quick look in the cab and said, “Dats Mrs. Connelly’s man.” As she pointed to her upstairs neighbor’s door.

I got Mrs. Connelly to come down, but reluctantly. “He ain’t my husband no more,” said told me. “Not for five years.” She was probably 50 but looked older. Very thin. All bone and sinew. A tough woman with sad eyes. She looked like the subject in a Walker Evans photo. Her dialect gave away her mountain origins, and the sad carcass in the back of my cab hinted at the kind of life she’d lived.

“Thomas please get out of the cab,” She pleaded. “How much does he owe you?”

“Ten bucks ma’am.” I backed away and let her talk to him in privacy for ten minutes, imagining how many similar conversations she must have had with him over the years. I was struck by the tenderness in her voice, but I suspect she never had much success with talk. I didn’t know him well, but Thomas was clearly not the kind of man who responded well to kindness.

Ten minutes stretched to twenty. Mrs. Connelly gave up. “I don’t know what to tell you to do. He’s a very stubborn man and he says he won’t get out.” She was crying.

Joyce knew exactly what to do. “You didn’t get any money upfront? You big sucker. That is theft of service. Take his ass to the nearest police station now, and then get back here. You’re already late to turn the cab over to the next shift.”

So, off to the Niles Central Police Station I went. The cops had a good laugh over my story. Two of them walked out to the parking lot with me to fetch Mr. Connelly.

“Come on Murphy,” the first cop shouted as he opened the cab door and stepped half way in to grab Connelly by the collar. Before he could get a grip, Connelly gave the cop a sharp kick in the face with the bottom of his foot while bracing his back against the nexus of the floor, seat and door.

The cop flew back out of the cab holding his bloody, broken nose. This was the day I learned that it doesn’t pay to hit cops. They run in packs and quickly got reinforcements. Connelly fought like a demon, screaming unintelligible epitaphs, holding on to anything he could grab in the cab. It took four cops several minutes, but they eventually extracted him. “Oh God, he shit himself,” I heard one say as they dragged him away, giving him repeated shots to the ribs along the way.

The always compassionate Joyce greeted my return: “What the hell took you so long?”

“I had to stop to clean the back of the cab.” I told my tale as Joyce looked at me like a sap who had just rescued a sack of feral kittens from the river. I didn’t just fail to make any money for the last couple hours of my shift; this adventure had actually cost me money. Yellow Cab and the driver split the fares 50-50, and I paid for the gas from my half. I’d called in the trip to Niles, so I owed the company their five bucks even if I hadn’t collected the fare in advance, as Joyce had warned me to do. I dreaded telling her more than losing the money.

I handed her my ride log and the money bag and stood sweating in the airless office while Joyce checked the math and counted the cash. She handed me back a five dollar bill.

“Next time don’t be a dumb shit.”

That was the lesson I learned. I tried not to be a dumb shit from then on.

What’s going on?

I recently discovered that I always put my left leg into my pants first, and find it nearly impossible to put my right leg in first. I nearly fell over trying this morning. This is the kind of thing that one only has the time to discover in retirement.

The Republicans are taking their donors to lesbian bondage/strip clubs, the president of Afghanistan is threatening to join the Taliban, Tiger Woods is allowing Nike to use his dead father’s voice in an ad in a counter-productive attempt to rehabilitate his public image, John McCain has declared he is not, in fact, a maverick after all, people are threatening to kill their Congressmen, Butler’s last second shot did not go in…and yet, I have nothing to say right now. I think I’m paralyzed with sensory overload.

Here’s another example. I just read a terrific new book, “The Age of the Unthinkable” by Josh Ramo, only to discover that Glenn Beck thinks it’s the most important book of the year. Now what am I supposed to think?

Mostly I’m now in training for a return to Clarksdale, Mississippi and the Juke Joint Blues Festival, which starts April 16^th. It’s like training for anything else; it this case that means I need to be drinking more liquor in the coming days, because if I go straight from my rather ascetic Florida lifestyle to drinking corn likker, in quantity, from old Pepsi bottles, it could get ugly early. McRik and Buzzard will be there too.

I left last year’s festival hat (purchased from the Super Soul Shop in Clarksdale) in New York, but have purchased something new for this year’s event from Gus’ Clothing & Collectables here in DeLand. I hope to have pictures soon.

Of course I’ve been listening to a lot of blues. “Champaign and Reefer,“ by the Mannish Boys, is my new party anthem. “Treat Me Right” by Peter Karp and Sue Foley is another good one. Ruth Greenwood singing “Happy on Top” will make your blood boil. I’m lovin’ Nick Moss, Watermelon Slim, and the new Joe Lois Walker CD, “Between a Rock and the Blues.”

Can somebody tell me why the blues make me feel so good?

Thanks to the Schu for introducing me to P.D. James, a middle aged Englishwoman you might call the thinking man’s mystery writer. I recommend “Devices and Desires.” Here’s a quote I can’t get out of my head: “We need, all of us, to be in control of our lives, and we shrink them until they are small and mean enough so that we can feel in control.” Not something you’d expect from this genre.

Thanks also to Birdman who lent me “My Losing Season” by Pat Conroy. I’ve loved his books and really enjoyed this one as well; it’s an account of his senior year basketball season at the Citadel, but that’s just the framework for a deeper exploration of his coming of age.

It’s funny how generations flow one to another. Conroy is only four years older than me, and while I recognize the world he describes it made me realize (not for the first time) that someone my age probably has much more in common with someone tem years younger more than he does with someone three or four years older. (Except in the case of certain socially precocious older readers of this blog – of course.)

I would really like to offer you something more relevant today, but not nearly as much as I would like to finish this quickly and go to the beach.

Adios.

Dumb jocks, the NCAAs and my fear of glaucoma

Let’s start with sports. Who is stupider? Ben Rothlesburger or Shawn Rogers? Hanging around college bars trying to pick up 19-year-olds when you are 27 and a famous, rich athlete is pretty damn stupid but I’m going with the Brown’s Rogers for trying to bring a loaded handgun in his carry-on bag onto a flight out of the Cleveland airport yesterday, for the near 100% chance of getting caught.

I’m going with Michigan State all the way in the NCAA Tournament. I see an MSU v. WVU final, and I can live with either as the victor in that one. If it is a Butler-Duke final I’d say the over/under on percentage of people rooting for Duke will be about 10. Feel free to get your opinions in before tomorrow’s tip off.

Sticking with the NCAA, which I have always believed was the third most evil, self-serving and stupid NGO in America (after the Democratic and Republican political parties); leave it to them to decide to radically change the tournament for next year immediately on the heels of the most exciting tournament they’ve ever held. It’s all about the jack – Jack.

I see Astra-Zeneca is permission to market Crestor to people who don’t have high cholesterol, with the goal of keeping them from developing high cholesterol. I never worry about cholesterol, but I have a deep and abiding fear of developing glaucoma. If only there was something I could use daily to prevent me from developing glaucoma I’d be a happy camper. Any ideas out there for a palliative?

Are you guys familiar with Prizm Clusters? It’s a marketing research tool that divides people into 66 social segments with names like “bedrock America,” “shotguns & pickups,” and “urban achievers.” I’d really love to see a Prizm analysis of Tea Party members. I have a feeling the segments would be a lot different than the stereotype. It feels like the U.S. is being slowly, but unstoppably pulled into two camps that are only able to shout at and call one another names. I find this both sad and frightening. It also provides a daily reminder that half of the population is of below average intelligence.

I want to go on record as not needing an i-Pad.

A big shout out and thank you goes to our recent guest bloggers, Ken Whitaker, Hank Schiffman and Bill Brent. They did a great job and I’m hoping a few more of you will take up the challenge. We could use some diversity, which reminds me…where are the women? We need the female point of view. All you have to do is pick a topic of interest to you and write between 500-800 words, which is less than a full page. Let me know if you are interested: dennisblank@hotmail.com.

Health care reform -- the next day

Our guest blogger today is Bill Brent (Birdman) who has some clear opinions about the political parties.

d'blank

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The healthcare/health insurance reform bill has passed. There are a couple of issues brought up in the senate that will require a revote in the house but, by all accounts, this won’t be a particularly onerous road block. Polls are starting to turn in favor of the bill and Obama. The stock market didn’t crash. The sun came up the next morning and conservatives have not found themselves in liberal gulags doomed to a future of lectures on the joys of Mao’s little red book and reading William Burroughs “The Naked Lunch” in Esperanto.

Republicans and their Tea Party shock troops have responded with death threats and bricks through the windows of democrats offices. A dozen or so republican (and one conservative democrat in LA) attorneys general have filed suit in federal court claiming the bill is unconstitutional. Senate republicans are blocking committee meetings on everything from military readiness to the environment.

Every state in the union is dealing with financial troubles to the pointing of cutting education funding and other vital services. Wasting limited financial resources on legal arguments settled in 1832 is irresponsible to the point absurdity.

I can only hope that the patina of respectability that these hard right conservatives have enjoyed in the past, has worn off. And, yes, the Republican Party that has encouraged and nurtured them falls into the same category.
I've had it with these people who tear up when they hear the national anthem, declare their love of country to point of pugnacity, and drape themselves in the flag but have no sense of a larger community and shared sacrifice for the greater good. They appear to be saying "this is my country, not yours", I've got mine, f**k you." Just as the recent threats and acts of violence are not isolated, I don't think this is an isolated view either and certainly not limited to the south. If right-wing republicans don’t want to participate in government they should simply go home and leave the job to responsible adults.

This is a big opportunity for democrats but I’m sure they’ll squander it if for no other reason than tradition.

Living the goodlife, low on the food chain

The second guest blogger on The Daily Blank is Hank Schiffman (Hankster). If you doubt what he has to say, bear in mind he is still running very impressive marathon times at 60. If more of us followed his advice perhaps the health care debate would have been less contentious.

d'blank

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I’ll be the first to admit that I am over-the-top. Unlike Dennis, I haven’t yet crossed the line to retirement. That’s not to mean approaching the top third of my life has escaped without a point of view. The ideal thing would be to integrate both financial and health strategies. Had I been more diligent on the former, I probably would be spending more time in snow sports right now. Did I mention skiing deep powder is better than sex?

On to the topic of health: it isn’t just about turning up the sweat. You are what you eat. If you eat like a pig, you might end up looking like one. But if you eat pig, perhaps too much pig, you might be risking your health.

Michael Pollan, in his book, “In Defense of Food,” advises to live by this mantra: “Eat food, not much, mostly plants.” He makes a rational appeal to avoid eating those foods your grandmother wouldn’t recognize (by which he means “natural” food as opposed to processed “food products”), eating low on the food chain, and not going overboard on quantity.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a monk and I too have an aversion to “thou shalt not” commands. There is a certain logic to looking at the hourglass running out and choosing prime rib over bean curd, not wanting to deny oneself pleasure while on the deck of the Titanic. However, bean curd might actually slow the sand flowing down the glass. If you think eating tofu is reprehensible, perhaps you might remember your first taste of hooch or drag of cigarette. Some things need time to accommodate. Discounting your great uncle, who died at 95, smoking 3 packs a day while thinking anything green was spoiled meat, it might be time for change.

A friend once said that the very thing, which kept us healthy and alive in the past, will probably end up making us unhealthy and dead in the future. He was referring to our immune system. In health, our bodies work flawlessly, keeping out germs while we go about our lives. In sickness we are a Prius with a broken accelerator pedal. As we age, our systems tend to go out of tune. We need to concentrate on doing everything we can to help keep them running right. We naturally lose our reserve capacity so we need to exercise to build it back up. Our body has a hard time dealing with metabolizing/excreting complex foreign chemicals. We were always designed to make use of natural chemicals in our foods for our immune system and to rebuild cells lost due to natural attrition. Eating complicated, unnatural chemicals confounds our immune system and may deprive our bodies of those nutrients, which we need to thrive.

Logically, eating natural foods, lower on the food chain, allows our bodies to maintain a steady course. One of my teachers once said, “There is a storm blowing out there. The older we get, the more we feel the wind.”