SAINT PAUL AND LAFAYETTE

Baltimore in the early 70's was the same one that John Waters mythologizes in interviews and films- same thrift stores, same bizarre characters. It was the first city I had ever lived in. I rented a hardword floor slum of an an apt. at the corner of St. Paul and Lafayette streets, infested with cockroaches and crawling with rats in the back alley. One of my roommates was an ex Coast Guard sailor a little older than myself and the other a young acid head just out of highschool. I hung with the sailor. The three of us attended art school on Mount Royal Ave.
I got a dog I named Shawna, a little female labrador pup whom i took everywhere with me. I didn't take to the city immediately but did like that fact that all i had to do at school was draw. I had learned stone lithography in Knoxville and continued working in that vein. In the fall two friends from up north showed up on their motorcycles. They were on their way south to Florida. One ended up as Milawyer. The other disappeared without a trace. We hunted rats with broomsticks in the alley and smoked copious amounts of pot.
In the spring i got a job at the local track, mucking out race horse stalls and cooling them down. I was Hotwalker. The job started at 4 am and ended by 10 am. Sometimes I'd just stay up all night, go to work, then class, and sleep in the afternoon. I liked the horses and my fellow workers- a trainer as young as I and a crazy Irish jockey who was always drunk by noon. I moved to the Overly, just outside the city limits, with a vegetarian hippie couple in an old farm house surrounded by suburbia. It was all that was left of the McCormick spice family estate. The trip to Florida with Sweets put the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. On the last day of class I met Luscious. Within a week we'd moved in with one another. Nixon had just ended the draft. I worked hard on my art and didn't really need teachers to tell me what to do. With the draft over there wasn't any reason to stay in school. When the horses moved on to the northern tracks of Jersey, Lusious, Shawna and i packed up the '49 Ford pick up truck and headed for NY. Within six months we'd be married. I was finally a Hippie and it looked a whole lot like my parent's life.

BIG ORANGE BLUES

It didn't take long for that tiny diamond ring to go from my pocket to Sweets' finger and back to my pocket. As the Knoxville sky greyed and the roads iced up I pawned the ring for 20 bucks on Cumberland ave. I should've recognised the pattern by now. The shorter the days became the lonlier I got. Barry (my giant dicked roommate) tried to cheer me up. He even let me borrow his motorcycle for the day. That's when I ended up in that Sevierville jail. By Xmas break I was a mess. Then only reason I'd applied to UT was because of Sweets. Without her in the picture I had no reason to be in this giant, fraternity and football-centric institution. The freaks i found in Tenn. weren't the LSD hipsters of Cullowhee, but hardcore Quallude and heroin junkies. A whole bunch of them lived next door. I sublet my apartment and dropped out of school.
I went north for the winter and worked as a roofer in Ct. In the Spring I returned to school with a hardon for education. The Selective Service office was hot on my tail. That winter breathing roof tar and freezing my ass off, worrying the army would come knocking, made school (even without a girlfriend) look pretty good. The junkies next door kind of adopted me. Heroin was never my drug. It made me sick and I didn't have the patience to get beyond that point. Qualludes on the other hand.... Sweets and I remained friendly but it was obvious we ran in different crowds. Skeezy, arm scratching, nose dripping, .38 spec. packing drug addicts with attitude didn't fit in at the sorority house.
There was a big overhang porch on our house. When the weather warmed we set up some ratty lawn furniture on the roof of the porch, ate 'ludes, drank 40s and sunbathed. As our pastey white skin turned lobster red, Neil Young blasting, we cut class and peroidically rolled off the roof into the bushes. Scratched, but unhurt, we would climb back up, pop another 'lude, crack another beer and stare at the sun. As much fun as this all was I knew i couldn't keep up the pace. I applied to The Maryland Institute in Baltimore once more and this time got in. It was 1972. Forget college. I'm going to Art School.

DIMPS' SPRING

The mountains 50 miles south of Ashville, NC are much like upstate NY. Geologically speaking I guess they would be considered the foothills of the Smokies. Cullowhee was no more than a post office and coffee shop engulfed by a college campus. WCC was what was known as a "suitcase school". It was a place where the parents of Chapel Hill, Hickory and Greensboro could send their kids who weren't bright enough to get into Duke or UNC. On the weekends everyone packed their bags and went home to mommy and daddy. Mommy and daddy were 1000 miles away for me, so when i could pin down Sweets I headed for the stateline and crossed the mountains into Tenn.
From the beginning Sweets and I had this propensity to periodically break up. It was always a mystery to me. Like I said I followed her lead. Recently she told me it was a seasonal thing, that she always broke up with me in the winter and we got back together in the spring. I have a hard time believing i was just a victim of lack of sunlight. But I don't have a better theory.
UT was a sea of orange cowboy hats and umbrellas and Sweets shined there. She pledged at Phi-Mu and was some fraternity's "sweetheart". The whole scene gave me the creeps but I tried to hide my disgust. "GO VOLS!" Football was a religion and I went to a different church. During the week in NC I went to class, smoked pot, hung with what few "freaks' i could find and worked very hard at getting rid of my virgin status. My hair grew. My politics shifted farther to the left as Nixon hammered Cambodia. I ate way too much LSD one night and pissed myself, laying against a propane heater in a shack up in the hills. When I hit that dog with my car and brought that girl back to the trailer I busted my cherry. Romantic, huh?
Since high school Sweets had called me "Dimps". She still does. I hated that nickname coming from anyone's lips but hers. Still do. The love we had for each other couldn't overcome the obstacles and different directions our paths were taking but you couldn't tell me that.. Nonetheless we remained in touch (through that winter break up) and in the spring i applied to UT. I went back north for springbreak, left my VW on the side of the road in Va., got in a car wreck with Milawyer (then just Mifriend), and like clockwork Sweets and I got back together in April. In the summer I bought a 1951 Ford pickup and an engagement ring for my love and we headed for Knoxville together. Big mistake.

CHRISTMO'S COMPLAINT

The period of time between my grandfather dying and hooking up with Sweets wasn't that long, but as emotionally dry as a sack of lime. I felt abandoned- lost. In fact thinking back on it, outside of beating up on my little brothers I'd had no physical contact with anyone in quite a while. It's a puberty thing. Once those years start to encroach it's hands off. You can't remember the tickles and snuggles you enjoyed as a sprout. It's all part of the maturing process but no one informs you of that. If your parents do touch you it's as punishment. Toughen up son. Here comes the real world.
Sweets and I were hot for one another from the git go. She'd had other boyfriends but she was my first girlfriend. That fact alone gave her the upper hand. A little bit of experience goes a long way when you're 15. I was always playing catch up and trying my damndest to get in there. High school was a bitch. I was smart but it was a different kind of smart. The bells, regimentation and even the architecture of the educational system in 1960s America alienated me. I didn't want to play along, so I didn't. I was always kicking the slats of my cage. Sweets on the other hand was smart in a way that fit in. She got good grades and didn't mind playing along with all the bullshit. We were just wired differently. We made a pretty good team most of the time.
As I got older i kept doing my little drawings and even became captain of the wrestling team. After school I got a job as a janitor at the local elementary school. It was the same job my grandfather had before he got too sick to clean the toilets. Because I was tall and skinny wrestling was the one sport I didn't suck at. Then one night sitting at the Howard Johnson's I lifted Sweets' Tarryton from the ashtray and took a deep drag. Then I looked up to see the assistant coach glaring at me. He'd always had it in for me and this gave him the excuse he needed to get rid of my ass. That ended my wrestling career. I really didn't care. Now I could eat.
By the time we graduated Sweets had been accepted at UT Knoxville and i got in WCC Cullowhee, NC. The only reason I applied there was it was 100 miles across the Smoky mountains from my girlfriend. That, and the fact that in order to stay out of the Army I had to attend college somewhere. In 1970 the draft was in full effect and my number was 33. If I blinked Uncle Sam would have my ass. NC was a helluva lot better than Saigon. I got in my 1959 VW, waved goodbye to the family and headed south to the world of higher education. I was still a virgin.

BOB'S YOUR UNCLE

After a week home the post-trip depression is starting to wane and I'm beginning to move from the couch. The illusion of accomplishment that you get from driving 500 miles a day is a bit harder to achieve surfing 250 plus channels. You sit on your ass either way. I know I have to go back to work and dread the prospect. A friend called yesterday to inform me- "You're in the Whitney." I asked in what respect? Seems some collective hung an old poster of a welcome home party for Chuckles the Clown when he was sprung from a Mexican prison after doing six months on a peyote charge. I was one of the MCs. My name is on a piece of paper in the Whitney Museum would be more accurate. I get no satisfaction from the information. Maybe that depression hasn't quite gone away.

My grandfather's youngest brother Bob was an artist. He was also gay. No one in the early Christmo family could be considered an intellectual but divorce and homosexuality was a start. Bob was a friend of Helena Rubinstein- the makeup queen and worked in Provincetown, Cape Cod- a traditionally gay bastion. My father said he never wore socks or underwear. I met him once and can't remember much about him except the dirty tennis shoes and lack of socks. He painted Pennsylvania Dutch designs on furniture for Peter Hunt. I guess you could call that art.
In the last few years of his life the Docs carved up Gramp pretty good. He had a colostomy that gurgled and stunk and caused him much discomfort and embarrassment. I can still remember that smell masked by cherry pipe tobacco. He'd fall asleep in his chair and i'd do my homework at the dining room table. I was too young and oblivious to realize just how sick he was. When he took to his bed I stopped going over to his house. He didn't want me to see him so helpless. When he died I didn't go to the funeral. It was about this time i started to draw and began to think about being an artist. I took off my socks and underwear in order to get in the mood.
My parents were very encouraging of my artistic attempts. They knew with Gramp gone i needed something to occupy my time. I was shy and insecure. The praise I recieved for copying Mad magazine cartoons and travel brochures was much sought after. I wasn't athletic and too young for girls. When I wasn't drawing I spent hours in the fields behind my parent's house or walked the Wallkill river banks daydreaming. We lived on the edge of what today is suburbia. To the left were new houses to the right was farm land and holsteins. I gravitated to the right.
If you do the math I've been an artist for 40 years. Eventually i put my socks and underwear back on and by the time I was 14 or 15, girls began to fascinate me as much as racing that '49 Chevy through the corn fields. The only problem was i was so painfully shy I would never have the balls to talk to one. If Sweets hadn't talked to me first history would have taken a much different turn. And man that girl could talk. In no time love was in the air.

MAKING SENSE OF THE SPACE TIME CONTINUIM

After calling my plumber and finding out that his uncle, with 13 patents under his belt and a bad case of alzheimers, has died and he can't fix my pipes because he has to go to the funeral in Rochester, I switch off the cold line and turn on the hot. Then i run out of propane. Now no hot. I can still flush the toilet from a bucket filled in the bathtub. I go to make coffee and the pot crumbles in my hand. I have to heat water to wash and make coffee on the woodstove. I also have to cook my food there. I decide 12 years is long enough to go without TV and in my sorry cold water state order satellite TV with my credit card. No heat, hot water, coffee maker, or gas stove, but 250 channels are coming. I turn on the radio. This still works.
Earlier in the day i went to the drugstore to get my latest disposable video camera developed and as I waited I picked up a copy of Jane and Essence magazines. The editor in chief of Jane is an old friend Brandon Holly and the editor in chief of Essence is mother of my god daughter Eleni, Micheala Angela Davis. Both magazines are complete crap but the ladies look good. It bugs me all day how they can be so successful, look so good, and produce such garbage. If I hadn't of gone to the drugstore i wouldm\n't have given it a second thought. I order more propane and get in a giant argument with Dawn (the evil shebitch who works for the propane company CES). This does nothing but delay my delivery. I stink and am beginning to itch from lack of a shower.
On the radio is an interview with McCauley Caulkin. I remember my sixth degree of separation to Mac is Geoffrey Mayo the producer of Caulkin's first film- ROCKET GIBRALTAR- with Kevin Spacey and Kirk Douglas. I did a lot of work for the Mayos back in the day. A kid in the drugstore said "Back in the day." And the girl at the counter said "The day is over." On Friday I call about the propane. Dawn tells me the truck has broken down. I swear I hear giggling in the background. Then DirectTV calls informing me that their installer is sick and I'll have to wait a day for my TV. The plumber is still at his uncle's funeral. I hear no giggling.
On Saturday morning Mercury begins to slide out of retrograde and The propane, plumber and TV guy all show up at once. Within an hour I have hot water, fixed pipes and a stove that works. I bought a coffee maker at the drugstore instead of the magazine so I make coffee, sit down and pick up the remote. It's tuned to channel 547. I give you one guess what movie is on. That's right. ROCKET GIBRALTAR. What gives?

THE TREE

Wray Christmo's parents Andrew and Elsie divorced when he was barely out of short pants. This just wasn't done in those days, so you know Andy must've been a bit of an asshole. Elsie kept the kids- Wray, Otto, Bill, Maime, and little Bob. That's as much as i know about Great Grandfather Andrew. Far as the rest of us Christmos are concerned Wray is the beginning of the line. That family tree was planted on a shady tree lined street in Montgomery, NY. Everything else was cut up for fire wood.
As I said I bonded early with my grandfather and kept that bond until he died when i was 13. We were inseperable. He taught me how to fish, work with power tools without cutting my fingers off, butcher a deer, drink coffee and drive before I was 10 years old. When Maude died we became even closer. I was his mini-me. He was my escape from my parents, three brothers and one sister. If he had lived we would've ended up in jail together.
He always had some scheme going to make a buck. During deer season we butchered all the local's deer. In the summer we raised nightcrawlers in his basement and I sold them to the fishermen who pulled carp out of the Wallkill. He gave me his old '49 Chevy when I was 10 and I sold it to a friend for $12. We put the car in a corn field and used it like a tank blasting through the stalks and running into trees. I feel sorry for kids sitting in dark bedrooms clicking away at video games and smoking joints. They should be outside driving junk cars into things and smoking joints.
Wray and Maude had four kids- Wray, June, my old man, and little John. Wray fought in WWII and came back a stone cold theif and junkie. June never got along with Gramp and sided with Maude in all things. My old man idolized Wray almost as much as I did. And John? That's another story in of itself. I'll get to him later. If the term had been used in those days the Christmos would have been considered classic dysfunctional. As the term wasn't used they were just considered normal.

THE CHRISTMO NARRATIVE

The earliest mention of any Christmo on the tree is found in A HISTORY OF THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS. This book traces grandpa Jeisbert Christmo during the French and Indian War and through the Revolutionary War. JC was what today would be called a civilian contractor. He worked as a horse wrangler, boat builder and Indian killer. By all accounts he was a colorful character. "He was a large man, with a powerful frame, and resolute and determined in all his actions. The negroes and domestic Indians recieved no mercy at his hands when they had given him provocation." I assume not much provocation was needed for JC to kick some negroe or Indian ass.
History is written by the victors. The "American Hero" mantle laid on old JC is well deserved only if you figure the extermination of indiginous people and the enslavement of Africans is a small price to pay for eventuual manifest destiny. Here's another account of JC's grandmother in a little tiff. " There was a clasp knife in her pocket, hanging on the chair. Just as she laid hold of it the negro sprang upon and seized her. When she screamed a large dog she had rushed in, seizing the negro by the throat. At last he got loose and rushed down a ravine, followed by the dog, urged by the voice of his mistress. She then climbed the ladder to the second floor and sat there with a child in her lap and a cutlass in her hand." Seems like like those quarrelsome negroes and indians were causing trouble everywhere.
More than 200 years later I live in the same neck of the woods as JC and his grandma. The only Indians left are moving back from Oaky exile and trying to put a casino at the racetrack. And the negroes? Fucked as always. Grammy Christmo's crys of encouragement as Fido goes for Black throat still echo off these ridges. Some things never change.
But these are the infamous Christmos of literature. The earliest family members I can report on were born at the beginning of the 20th century. They would be my grandfather Wray and grandmother Maude. Regarding this branch of the tree i have I have nothing bad to say. True, they both died when i was still young, but the time I spent with them is filled with fond memories; espec. regarding Wray. My grandfather and I bonded on a deep and profound level. It probably had something to do with my father going to Korea two days after my birth and not showing up again for 14 months. Far as I knew that skinny, bald old man (of 52 years) was my daddy.

THE STORY

The story goes back all the way to the beginning of Luckymike.blogspot.com. That's when I finished Lucky Mike (the memoir) and realized no one was going to publish it and started re-writing the whole thing in public. So if you haven't read Luckymike in its entirety, now's a good time before I get back into the narrative. This is the format for the complete narrative- Luckymike is the first part. So if this was a book Luckymike would be the front. Now turn the book over and upside down and Christmo is part two. So it ends in the middle.
The various plotlines i will pick up again revolve around past relationships beginning in the late sixties up to the present: Sweets in highschool and early college, First wife Luscious in Woodstock and later California, Honey in Berkeley, Cookie in the Mission and later Brooklyn, Julie 3 in the EV, Baby-Baby- in the EV and Upstate, Dr. Stripper also in the EV, Second wife Mrs. Yummy in the EV and Glen Wild, and Friendly and Shewhocannotbenamed wherever and whenever. Ya follow?
But before all that I think it's only right to go back to the very beginning with a little family tree. Stay with me now. We're almost done with all this.

THANKS TO THE PEEPS

I yanked and yanked on that Neon's reins but the pony smelled her stall and headed straight for Glen Wild. One broken pipe, two meowing cats and a pile of bills waited for me. GNJohn and Carlito, a guy who wanted to photograph the church and another who wanted to buy Ray Gilkey's trailer showed up during the day. Everything seemed fine and I have to say it was good to be back in the sugar shack. I started a fire and soaked it all in.
This trip wouldn't have been half as much fun without staying at people's houses and reconnecting with many I hadn't seen in years. Here's the list. Special thanks and an open invitation to all of them if a port in the storm is ever needed.

1. Greg- Costello, PA. A special fund for bail money has been set up in your name. Vera has the key to the strong box. "Com'on GREG! Why'd you stop?"
2. Milawyer, Mrs. Milawyer, Rocky, Blondie and Mr. P., Wheeling, W. Virginia. This family gets the award for the most comfortable and gracious digs on my whole trip. Don't worry I won't tell any of my other friends your address.
3. Al Bunetta- Prez. of Oh-Boy Records, Nashville, Tenn. Watch WALK THE LINE for a recreation of my meeting with Al. It's exactly the same except for the listening, and ensuing successful music career.
4. Sweets, Yoko and Little Dog- Dallas, TX. Proving once and for all your first love never leaves your heart. Feed those dogs some steroids and move back north. We promise not to make fun of your draaaaaaawl.
5. The Family Rock- Don, Leanne, Tiberious, and Aris- Austin, TX. Tiberious is the only other person I've ever met who has a fear of fruit like myself. That alone will bring me back to TX. We have to stick together.
6. John, Mark, and Perry- Houston, TX. These guys are a lot of fun. Even the gay one- Perry is cool. Thanks for the eye medicine.
7. Miguel- Mexico City. Take away Ray Pettibone's girlfriend, the smog, the traffic, and fear of getting my car jacked and MC was a groove. Donde esta bano? Next time I'll stay more than a day.
8. JW- Yucca Valley, Ca. For a man who doesn't eat cooked food and lives in a litter box he's surprisingly healthy. I WILL tell all my friends your address. Paris and Nicole are very excited about coming to visit.
9. TR, Thu, Calder and Miller. Somewhere, Ca. 210 bpms and a certain pose and your morning crap comes out like a warm sticky bun. These people are visionaries.
10. El Prof. (Miestro) and Monasita- SF, Ca. The Simon Cowell of academia, I once asked him how Monasita could grow up so well adjusted? I seemed to be such a disappointment to him, I wondered how Mona survived his criticism. "She never disappointed me." was his simple reply. I'll try harder.
11. Pepe Duzades- SF, Ca. The current resident of The Bunker who graciously let me stay while I was in town. I think I left some Chinese food in the fridge. Help yourself. Does the Dean know you're down there?
12. Paul and Sarah- Chicago, Ill. My most recent chance to be an uncle. I hope it's not a pony.

So that's it. I'm home safe and sound. Now back to the story.

WAIT A MINUTE.

The skys were clear all the way from Chicago to Erie, PA. Then, just as I hit the NYS border down it came again. More snow. So much for the Vernal equinox being less than 24 hours away. I wanted to make it home. I really did. But as it got dark and that road iced up...well 150 miles west of Binghamton I found a motel. Then I thought- what's the hurry? What was waiting for me but a cold house with all the water disconnected. Why hurry? In fact I could turn right and head south if I felt like it. I still had a little money. Who would care?
So I sat on that motel bed and took stock. I poured some of that homemade tequilla in a plastic cup and picked up the guitar. HBO. A hot shower. Nice big bed. In my pocket was a card with my fortune I picked up in SF. "DON'T BE SO IRRITABLE. BE MORE OPTIMISTIC, FORGET YOUR FEELINGS. YOU WILL FIND LIFE HOLDS MOST THINGS YOU DESIRE. YOU HAVE POWERS OF ATTRACTION." In the other pocket was a 88 million power ball ticket I bought in Iowa. I could of already won. Should I continue home in the morning or head for Florida?
In the morning there was that omipresent inch of snow on the car and the wind was whipping. I had purchased a warm thrift store coat in Chicago for $1.50. I pulled up the fur collar and started the car. Well? Which way? I never did tell you about the virgin de Obregon did I? First I have to look up the Iowa lottery. Then I'll decide what direction to take. Happy Spring.

THE HORSEY SET

The mountains and plains of Wyoming eventually give way to Nebraska corn stubble and the landscape once more becomes familiar. Tunnel vision is taking hold and I had to harness the momentum in order to head north into Chicago.Traffic and forward motion almost caused me to bypass my friends Paul and Sarah in Chi town. But once I parked the car and humped my guitar and bag up their three flights of stairs I was glad I stopped. Paul pulled out the good whiskey and I twisted one. Sarah demured and informed me "We're trying to get pregnant." I told her she didn't have to stop drinking until she WAS pregnant. Before you could say "The stick is pink." she burst into the kitchen with the good news. Now she had a legitimate reason not to drink. More for Paul and I.
The next day we drove up to the stable where they both work and keep their horse Nico. They are serious horsey people. Both are experts and Sarah cuts an amazing figure on top of Nico. And I have to say Nico is a step above your average glue factory nag. I stood there freezing my ass off as Sarah put Nico through her paces and Paul critiqued Sarah. It was like American Idol on horseback. It's certainly not the rode hard and hung up wet scene. The horse and rider are amazing athletes and Paul quite a good coach.
This is my last stop before heading for home and I have to admit I'm getting homesick. I miss the cats and my woodstove,and all the kin and of course Shewho. The trip has been incredible and 9000 miles in I'm itching to park the car and give us both a rest. But I don't want to let down my guard just yet. At least another days driving to go and a lot can happen in a day. I hope Paris and Nicole remember me. Daddy's coming.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN WHITEOUT

I'm sitting at the coffee shop counter in Little America, Wyoming waiting for my hot turkey sandwich and ease dropping on the guy next to me, as he talks on his cell. "Now, how am I gonna get there for the weekend? I got to fly to Baton Rouge and if I get this job...." (silence). "No I'm not worked up. It's GQ. I'm cool as the other side of the pillow." That's a new one on me but I like it. He snaps the phone shut and stares off into space like the rest of the single men at the counter. That's the road these days: truckers and workers away from home. No one looks happy but me. This turkey sandwich rocks!
I had to wait for 80 east to open the other side of Salt Lake, so I got a late start. It was closed due to snow slides. Once I got through the pass the road dried up and except for some flurrys it was an easy run into Wyoming. The radio is bleak in America. A steady diet of classic rock and Christian format has beaten down even the most stalwart hipster wannabe. If ipods didn't exist the youth would think Bauchman Turner Overdrive was still playing sold out arenas and Jesus was selling tickets. I flip it off and travel in silence.
About 100 miles west of Cheyenne the road turns suddenly slick and in an instant I'm in a cloud traveling 80mph down a mountain. Then it starts to snow and blow. I touch the brakes and the car swerves. There's a semi to my right and to my left? I can't see a thing. The closest I can come to describing this is imagine traveling inside a cotton ball at 80mph, knowing if you touch the brakes you're a goner. Ever so carefully I drop in behind the semi. Duelies with horse trailers wizz by. If I get more than a car's length behind the truck I can't even see his flashers. "GQ. Cool as the other side of the pillow." keeps running through my head.
Somehow I made it out of the cloud in one piece. All I saw of the Rockies was the that truck's blessed bumper. If he had gone off the rock I would have obediently followed. Just above Cheyenne the road iced up again and one of those trucks and horse trailers didn't make it. The truck had flipped and the trailer was on top of the truck. There's already a dozen cars stopped, so I go by. Today was uneventful (thankfully) and I should hit Chicago just in time for St. Paddy's day. The ides are behind us. Clear road ahead.

SPRING BREAK- RENO

After breakfast with DI at Jim's in the Mission I left SF on a cloud of nostalgia and old friend groove. Typical of Mr.Ireland he has a hot caregiver-Nurse Rebecca to help him remove the wad of bills from his pocket.He looks and acts much better than previously reported-not too much worse for the wear.I closed up shop at the Toot (now on spring break) and headed for Reno. Just that little taste of Academia gave me a hankering for a vacation. I hear all the kids go to Reno for break so why shouldn't I?
The candy coated Sierras loomed as I got close to Tahoe. Per El Miestro's advice I didn't get chains. The roads were clear but a good foot of snow covered the trees and more was coming. If my timing held I could slip east between storms. I figured on making it a light day of driving and stay over in Reno. I picked the Stardust Motel for it's name and lack of crackwhores in the parking lot. Reno is all you've ever wanted in sleasy underbelly cowboy casino town. The mullet is the haircut of choice and those pesky crack hos are everywhere. Mabe it was Can Cun the kids go to. I always get the two mixed up. Anyways I stashed my gear and went for a tour of Reno's pawn shoppes fo used guitars. No luck. Then I went to The Legacy to eat,drop $20 in the slots and catch the old people vibe.The locals are scary but the tourists are one step out of the grave. They make DI look like he's ready to run the marathon.
All the glamour wore me out. Bob Dylan's coming on April 1 to play. I want to believe it's an April Fool's joke but I don't think so.I hope he stays at The Stardust. I highly recommend it. $30 a night with coffee.By morning there was an inch of snow on the car and and I headed for Salt Lake City. Driving was foggy and slick but the speed limit is 75 mph so I made up some time. It's spring break here also, but I don't see many kids here either. Looks like another lonely night of jelloshots out of my own belly button. Anyone got a goldfish I could swallow?

I'D RATHER BE....

After a week in SF I'm thinking where I'd rather be. Not too many places. But then again... The easy going vibe here is decieving. I know if I stayed much longer old issues would raise their ugly heads. I'd have to find a strip of barbed wire to wrap around my middle and put the pebbles back in my shoe. My east coast wiring needs an adapter here. That plug just don't fit.
A friend of mine back home has a stock response when his wife wants him to go antiquing with her: "I'd rather stay home and scoup out my eyeballs with a dull spoon." I picked up a couple such phrases on my trip. "I'd rather be watching a bad Korean movie in Mexico City with Ray Pettibone's girlfriend yacking in my ear." or the timeless "I'd rather be staying on Jerry William's four foot long, cat piss soaked couch, drunk on homemade tequilla." And the trip's not over yet.
I still haven't found David Ireland, but I did pay my respects at the Kerouac shrine. I remember reading and liking ON THE ROAD. As literature it's timely and a helluva lot of fun. As an object, all fragile onion skin and coffee stains, rolled out in a hermetically sealed box, it trancends the word and enters into something religious. The place was packed with the devoted, talking on their cell phones and checking their Blackberrys. The closest most will come to "the road" is the morning commute. That is the "vicarious" stick of responsibility that El Miestro (he paid me for the name change), keeps beating me over the head with. My road is your road. I'll try to remember that.
Yesterday I also paid my first visit to HOOTERS in Fisherman's Warf. Our large busted waitress paid little attention to us, expertly sizing up our limited budget and concentrating on a table of three college boys with credit cards and a thirst for pitchers of draft. It's family oriented sleaze served up with onion rings and a deep bend over the table. I'd rather be digging into the free buffet at The Babydoll. But that's just me. I prefer my sleaze well done and my hamburger rare. If I had kids I'd take 'em to Hooters for Sunday dinner. It's that wholesome. Tomorrow I turn the ship to the east. Cinch in that sail. Open water ahead. There's nowhere I'd rather be.

IT'S SNOWING IN SAN FRANCISCO

On the agenda for today: visit Kerouac shrine in the basement of the public library, where ON THE ROAD is displayed like the Shroud of Turin. Find out where they've stashed David Ireland, brilliant artist, white hunter, and old friend whose health is letting him down. I can not leave town without visiting the old man. Then? I don't know. This town is as comfortable as an old pair of faded, ripped jeans, with KEEP ON TRUCKING appliqued on the knee. If I wasn't so entrenched on the east coast I'd seriously consider packing up Paris and Nicole and heading west. Hell, I could find a storefront and open up Christmo Gallery again. If I could only hunt turkey in Golden Gate park I'd be here with camo on.
Last night it snowed downtown. We had just stepped out of the Apple Store where Monasita had showed her short HECKA SLIDE SHOW to a packed house when the tiny ice crystals filled the air. It was magical. The last time I saw snow in SF was 1976 in my backyard on Green St with Luscious. That time we went up to Mt. Tam and sledded all day. I made a crusty snowball and winged it at El Prof. (who now wants to be referred to as The Miestro). I wish I had a dollar for every time someone wanted a name change in this blog. Sorry Prof. Maybe if the price was right. We'll talk.
Well, we continued towards the car, El Prof., his girlfriend- the statuesque Scrumptuous, and myself, tongues out catching snow flakes. Then it was back to El Prof.'s place for a little TV, fine wine and take out. It's all so fucking civilized here. I like it. On the way back to the Bunker I gun the Neon and catch air on Leavenworth St. The car fishtails when it hits the wet snowy pavement and heads instinctively towards North Beach. Alcatraz twinkles out in the bay. The Transamerica Pyramid pierces the night sky, a monument to 70's optimism- like Bush's rug. I pass a trolley car and the tourists, huddled against the cold, look on with dropped jaws as I speed by. My NY license plates bear witness to my driving ability, splattered with pure SF street slush. I'll show you how to drive in the snow mutherfuckers.
In the morning the sun is shining once again. There's no evidence of the previous night's blizzard in town. The bells of the churches of North Beach toll. The young hipsters and old beats share the same sidewalk. It could be Amsterdam or Brooklyn or even Austin on a cold day. If it wasn't for that flock of bright green parrots dive bombing towards my head, I could be anywhere clean, urbane and politically aware. Then I see a face from the past coming towards me, pulling a shiny saucer, no bigger than a pizza pan on a frayed string. It's the artist Dale Hoyt. We make eye contact and both stop dead in our tracks. "Dale?" "Christmo?" After some catching up I ask where he's going. "Mt. Tam." he says with determination. "sleigh riding." Maybe the cats can fly out to meet me. That's me hugging Dale's neck on that saucer rocketing down the mountain into Mill Valley. Just like old times. Maybe I should look up Luscious.

THE BUNKER

Due to a fortuitous turn of events a well known little piece of real estate in beautiful North Beach SF became available to me for the remainder of my stay here. I can't tell you exactly where it is, but I can say I've been here before. In fact the ghosts that walk these floors are many and usually half drunk apparitions. My stint here was way back in the 80's. I set up a striped circus tent on the front lawn, brought all my firearms, had my students paint a mural, oraganized a S&M costume party and counted the minutes until the landlord changed the locks. This time it's different. I'm different. What was that saying? Quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton. That's me these days.
I know some of you are going to find your knight errant a bit of a let down for not meeting up with Carlito in El Sal. And Carlito will also be disappointed, but after weighing all my options I decided it was time to head east. I can always fly down next year. I'm itching to get home and I still have a lot of driving ahead me with stops in Salt Lake City, Chicago and PA. Look, it's my decision. You think you know me? YOU DON'T KNOW ME. OK, maybe you do know me. You could've guessed I'd wimp out and get cheap and cautious just when you thought I could get in some real dicey shit. Let me remind you, I'm the one at the keyboard. You want to drive? I'll gladly read about you.
But enough of this defensiveness. It's been an incredible roadtrip and it ain't over yet. The Bunker is a port in the storm- phone, shower, internet, DVD player, Coffee shoppe, room service, library, a dip in the pool, dial up girls....or boys. (This is SF.) and a movie screening room.I couldn't ask for better digs. All they ask of me is to stay below the radar- no tent churches, sex clubs, or murals. I can do that. I've become a much better guest. Look, another mint on the pillow this morning. Motel 6 has got nothing on these guys.

IN THE COMPANY OF MEN?

First the news: Hugo Chavez has decided to redesign the Ven. flag to have the horse "trotting freely to the left". Up until now the horse has galloped to the right. Obviously not the direction that HC wanted it to go. Above the fold on the same page of the SF Chronicle is an item informing us that the Oval office rug was designed by Laura Bush in order to give George a sense of optimism throughout his hectic day. Seems to be working. Or was it obliviousness? Oh, and the little Asian girl won on Project Runway. Santino? Santinowho?

The past few days have been spent shadowing El prof. through his rounds in The Institution. I lend my expert opinion when appropriate, but most times just stay silent and observe the interesting cases. I'm an old hand at this and enjoy the chance to see people deal with issues I've long since stopped caring about. "Signifiers" and the gaze of the "other" lead the pack in catch phrases. What the hell are they talking about? It's tiring, so at the end of the day we twist one, crack a beer or Cuba Libre and head over to The Poker and Pool Palace on Ceazar Chavez St. Another Chavez heard from.
There's nothing more gay than a bunch of straight men getting together for a night of cards away from the wife or girlfriend. And I don't mean Gay in the man or man, same sex, you stick it here, now over there, now in here, sense of the word. I mean it in the lame, mincing, prancy, bitchy, you know you've let your parents down...sense. Straight guys are way more gay there. The Lizard, Purple Dick, Four Aces and Poker Face are all there. I'm The Mustard. Add to this the fact that poker is now very popular on TV and you get some idea how it really is without the estrogen. These guys would look immature in a sixth grade playground recess. But what the fuck. I can be just as immature as the next guy. The Mustard can play that.
We sit down at the green felt and Poker Face immmediately lives up to his name by being as transparent as a Tom Cruise "relationship". Are you sure you want me to know all that? Four Aces is gloomy and sullen until Poker Face's wife calls to check in and he perks up enough to pounce, ragging on him for being soooo PW'd. The Lizard, obsessed with Texas, all in, no hold 'em, high ball, low ball, ring around the fucking rosy draw, keeps the game alive long enough to take Poker face for a big pot right out of the box. Purple Dick sips wine, eats finger food and trys to throw fuel on a feud between Aces and Poker. It's an easy toss. As they bicker and bitch I calmly win a few hands and put money in my pocket. The Mustard is spreading.
I rarely play cards. The Palace is one of the few places I do and I always come away flush. It looks like tonight will be no different. By the time the coo-coo clock tolls ten I'm up a thousand. Looks like the house will once again comp. me with a suite for the night and maybe even tickets to a show and manicure. In the end it was easy pickings. When the rest of them left with their tails between their legs, The Lizard and I had one last drink before I took the elevator up to the penthouse. Tonight I'll sleep like a baby. I don't even know why they call it gambling with this bunch. You want hot mustard on that dog?

THE TOOT

After a night in the canyons of Tecumah just east of LA, in TR and his beautiful Vietnamese wife Thu's tricked out mountain lion hunter's shack, I headed north for SF and my old buddy El Prof. Their two boys hug me and I'm back on the road. SF is where I spent the late 70's and early 80's, getting my art and theology degrees, developing my drug taking and drinking habits, refining my thought patterns that would allow me to get where I am today...back at the Toot in Studio 9. So many full circles on this trip. My highshool girlfriend Sweets in Dallas. The horror of Nashville. And now the same classroom where El Prof., Karen Finley, Debora Iyall, myself and so many others broke rocks under the tuteledge of the enigmatic Howard Fried. Most of the class of students sitting before me in cold folding chairs weren't even born when were starting fires, dropping acid and refining our conceptual chops in this room. Dig it. Where's my beret?
The SF Art Institute is the grandaddy of all fine arts schools in the US and it's showing under the strain of 21st Century globalization. The intuitive, thumb in front of the canvas, illiterate savant working off the spark of genius, so reverred by this institution, is about as relevent as a pile of BETA video tapes at the Apple store today. The old guard is holding on by their broken finger nails, trying to perpetuate the myth of the unschooled, poorly read, genius with the paint brush. Luckily there's a new sheriff in town- Okwui Enwezor. He's the new Dean and shit is about to change. Time to teach the dumb artists to read. It's a new world mutherfucker.
I love this place and think this is all for the good. I left alot of brain cells in this town and would hate to see the Toot get left behind in the rush to modernize. The soul of the place will always be the wack job, the outsider, the confused kid who just took apart his Fisher Price video camera and wants to make a movie by throwing it off the Pyramid. But we must teach the youth to read, know their history (art and otherwise), good table manners, proper speech, as well as te ability to paint with a single hair brush plucked from an ermine's asshole. It's the whole package the Institute should strive to graduate, not just a few geniuses ready to sell out in NYC.
In the mean time I'm eating good, catching up with my god daughter Monasita, soaking up the SF vibe, drinking good wine and plannng my next move. Carlito is in El Salvador and I'm thinking of flying down there on Monday. My conjones that shiveled at the prospect of driving through those jungles are breathing easier at the thought of a flight. I'll let you know. I have to get back to class. Today we're working on sentence conjugation. "See Chris shoot. Shoot Chris, shoot."

E CLAMPUS VITUS

I called Christmo senior and Star this morning. It's Star's birthday today. She was out getting a facial and pedicure. Little brother Duke just flew off to Oslo to visit his spaun E-sak. Star was so concerned that her youngest and eldest would be out of the country at the same time. She's very relieved that I'm back on American soil as Duke flew out. The folks are getting on and they seem to worry more with age. I worry less.
Yesterday TR, JW and I recorded two new songs "Robert Johnson style" in a motel room in Yucca Valley with a casette recorder. I hope Greg can separate the guitars back in PA. He assured me it wouldn't be a problem. I think if we just remove the tape and carefully cut it with a razor blade it will be cool. I like it here but it's way too brown and dry. The snow caps mountain peaks lay to the west with the green valleys. I'm spending the night at TR's with him and his wife and two kids. After JW's cat box digs and motel living it will be a pleasant change. For those of you keeping track I've put over 5000 miles on the Neon and I'm just east of LA. I can almost smell the salt air. Tomorrow I head for SF. Blog note: The round house was the INTEGRETRON. And the society the looks after it is The E Clampus Vitus Society.

THE DESERT INN SESSIONS

JW and another old friend TR are waiting for me in a granola like Cali lunch place so I have to make this quick. I've getting the dime tour of Joshua Tree by JW and these are the highlights: Jonathan Winters Hill (the one from It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. The motel where Graham Parson's died, The Mentalphysics Institute designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, The Noah Parifoy Sculpture garden, the E Vitus ? round house with statum and circulum and The Desert Inn Motel. This is where we a recording this afternoon. I'll let you know how it turns out. Lunch is coming. Gotta go.

WHAT I GAVE UP FOR LENT

Ash Wed. started with a license plate sighting as I headed to Joshua Tree, CA from Phoenix. There it was plain as day- LGM- 666- Minnisota plates. A retired whiteman with his wife in a Continental looked at me as I passed. Hmmmm? By the time I'd reached JW (THEGUITARPLAYER) in Yucca Valley I'd forgotten all about the plates. JW lives in a cinder block shack high on a rise, surrounded by moutains in the distance on all sides. It's a big sand bowl of desert plants and critters. Once inside it's like a 1940's bum shack with ten cats crawling all over everything and pissing on the pillows. One electric hot plate serves as range and the dishes were stacked in what remained of the shower. Crude? You could say that. Filthy? You could say that too. He feeds the cats like chickens, tossing cat chow on the floor.
I bought a six pack and opened a plastic jug of homemade tequilla I scored in Mexico, fried up some salmon and fresh asparagus and taters on the hotplate. JW doesn't eat meat or cooked food. Neither does he drink alcohol. He does smoke massive quantities of herb. I drank. I ate. We watched TV and caught up. A couple phone calls were made and I began to feel a bit queasy. By the time I had realized the tequilla was catching up to me it was too late. I hit the front door at a dead run and cats scattered. OUT WITH THE BAD! It was then I realized it was Ash Wed.- the beginning of Lent.
I don't remember much after that until I woke up with my nose buried in a cat piss soaked mattress four foot long. All motor skills needed to open the mattress had abandoned me. My tongue was swollen and as I smacked my parched lips the cats peered down at me from all sides. JW was sound asleep. The desert was dark and silent yet bore witness to what has passed in the night, there in the dust of the driveway- one very nice fish dinner given up for lent. Tonight I get a motel. I can only give up so much.

NAFTA JAM

By the time I got to Mexico City.....it had turned into New York City. The first thing I did was call Miguel- an ex-student of El Prof. He was gracious and invited me along with his girlfriend and a friend of their's to see a Korean movie. Like Mel Chin in Houston a Korean movie in Mexico City seemed appropriate. They all spoke english and I was warmly welcomed. They were all young, urbane and smart as whips. The movie sucked. Their friend (Ray Pettibone's girlfriend) chattered nonstop in a charming speedfreak way and by the time I got back to the hotel I was about to have a nervous breakdown. Gringo viejo es loco?
Mexican roads run from the superhighway to the speed bump infested cow path in the blink of an eye. I looked at the map and saw what lay ahead down into El Salvador and how far I would have to drive back and El Norte was looking better and better. Maybe it was the ice cubes in my whiskey or my poquito cojones but I flinched and the car headed for Guadalajara.
Another spanish lesson- Libre- free. Cuota? It took me a while before I figured out this one. Cuota means toll. And Mexicans take this word very seriously. The tolls can run as much as $10 for a 50 mile run. Your other choice is to go free over the mountain behind that donkey cart and 18 wheeler with the driver about to fall asleep. $150 pesos? OK (pron. "O ca".
Heading north on the west coast you get to experience NAFTA in action. Thousands of trucks line up in the left hand lane of a two lane road waiting to be inspected. Two opposing thoughts run through my head. I hope the Mexican government is checking every truck thoroughly to protect America from terror and why don't they let everyone through so I don't die of old age here in Hermosilla? The line of trucks was 5 miles long. If one had stalled I'd still be there.
On I went towards Nogales. I had tunnel vison at this point. I hid my last spleeve cleverly and pulled into the US frontier before a stern old Immigration officer. I explained that all I had was a jug of Tequilla in the trunk as he franticly ran my plate number and asked questions. He frowned. Then he stuck my passport under my windshield wiper and directed me to four smiling border patrol agents. Note: You don't want to see your passport under your wiper or La Migra's smiles. They politely asked me to get out of the car. Then the fun (for them) began.
Those conflicting thoughts started up again. I'm glad these guys are doing their job and please don't find anything that will land me in jail. The mirrors went under the chasis. Everything came out of the trunk. Rubber gloved hands went through my dirty laundry. I asked if I could video them. The female officer wagged her finger disapprovingly at me. The lead guy was a jokester concerning my tattoos and guitar and holy water. They kept passing a little slip of paper between them that the first guy had stuck in my passport. I asked what it said? Finger wag again. I waited and sweated on a metal table. They really thought they were gonna find something but finally gave up in disgust. Then the passport was returned and they bade me farewell. Phew! Let those NAFTA trucks roll through.