Answer #61 - Yes. As long as my demographic includes Glenn Beck.

We have sallied forth and sallied back.  And now we're back and I am within my semi-usual frame of reference and I can't help but think of Glenn Beck.


But first - the back story - I'm nearing the end of the 31 hours of drive time from this weekend's short tour - a great romp through the Great Plains - to visit great friends and do some shows with Arbutus and Adventure Boy - and it's just Arbutus and I, down to the wire, as we've put Adventure Boy on a plane in Wichita, Kansas because he's got to get back to the studio to record SNC for Atlantic. (Straight No Chaser.  Google them..)

We are buzzing on espresso & lemon bars that Jane packed us in Madison and chocolate that La Shara packed us in Giltner - and cider that Valetta packed us in Moundridge... and we stop in McDonald's just outside of Terre Haute, for more caffeine, because we're desperate (and jonesing) and they have some sort of 'lattes' now - and I walk back to use the restroom, and there it is -

The lounge.  Like Starbucks.  McDonalds, along with its hoity-toit coffee line is now installing faux-leather arm chairs and coffee tables.

Not kidding.

Ah, but here's the rub:  faux-leather arm chairs are not accompanied by the NY Times and an array of college-educated, coffee-connoisseur-sanctioned Hear Music releases - but rather, with a large, flat-screened TV featuring - TA DA!  Glen Beck.  Glenn Beck.  (Oh, bugger that, I refuse to learn the accurate spelling of that jackass's name.)  Thing is - McDonald's had a damn Starbucksesque lounge and a flat-screen TV covered in the pasty mug of the new Rush Limbaugh.

I was fascinated... but.. he was... really... making sense... somehow... he was telling us that unless we keep the poor poor and the rich rich there'll be NO MIDDLE CLASS!

"WHAT!?"  I yelled at the McDonald's flat screen.  "NO MIDDLE CLASS!?  THE HELL YOU SAY!"

"Krista Detor," said Arbutus, as she sidled up behind me, McDonalatte in hand, "step away from the shiny object and make your way back to the vehicle.."
"Man.  I used to hate that guy... but.. he's really making sense!"
"Krista Detor," she stated flatly, "Glen Beck is comprised solely of tallow and goat shit.  Do not make me elaborate further."

"Yeah.. of course..", I realized.  Shocked at the implication. "I... I must be road-worn, I'm tired... what am I thinking? Wow!  Get me out of here!  Get me to a Starbucks!"

"Ah.. and there will you be safe in the bosom of your demographic?", she asked, non-plussed.
Yes.  Wait.  No. 
Er...

"Shut up and take me home," I say, as Terry Pratchett hits my ears and Terre Haute hits my eyes and the McDonalatte hits my veins... "No middle class..," I mutter, "..the hell you say..."

Answer #60 - It's absolutely grand. May the crocodile be with them.

Last show of the weekend, and I realize I didn't blog yesterday.

The hole in the ozone layer is more than likely bigger because of my omission... I've made a commitment to blog twice this week to make up for it.  And not one of those gratuitous blogs, but a punch-packing blog that rings resonant for generations to come.

For now, 19 hours drive time in, the last two shows have been big fun - with lovely people,
great rooms, chocolate, wine, chocolate & wine, some mexican food and an irish pub.
Some truly wonderful people drove hours.. and my gratitude is immense.  The pizza last night
at the Sit'N'Bull was fantastic (if you're ever in Giltner, Nebraska, go there) - and the Glory Sisters sent us packing with beer, wine, and, yes.. chocolate.

So - listening to Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett, on CD, as, like I said, Arbutus will not abide
crap fiction.  The pepitas have lasted, as has Arbutus' observation and good humor.

I have to get on stage in a minute.  But Arbutus would like me to leave you with this:


Bombast, referred originally to the cotton stuffing in garments to keep out the cold.  It so accurately describes the interior of many minds, protecting them from any originality of thought.


May the crocodile be with them.  


We are all flawed.  Isn't it grand?

Yes.  It's absolutely grand.  Happy Sunday... be flawed, be grand.

Answer #59 - If someone brings a sledgehammer

 

Sometimes it's important to work for that pot of gold. But other times it's essential to take time off and to make sure that your most important decision in the day simply consists of choosing which color to slide down on the rainbow. ~Douglas Pagels

 

  Of course, that day won't be today because I'm driving to Madison to play a show.  Also won't be tomorrow, because I'll be driving from Madison to Giltner, Nebraska.  Probably not Sunday because I'll be driving from Giltner to Hesston, Kansas.  And Monday's pretty much out because I'll be driving from Hesston to Bloomington, Indiana.

   But Tuesday - it's me and the Leprechaun.  And hopefully the little guy'll bring whiskey.

   If I'm lucky, I will have scored a copy of Into Thin Air on CD - by Jon Krakauer for the journey, as Arbutus will be along on this trip and has no tolerance for crap pulp fiction.

   Krakauer is the finest writer in this genre I've ever read.  He's the Ken Burns of true story adventure writers - seriously ground-breaking.  I believe Arbutus will approve, though I can't be sure.  Her tastes are discriminating, and it's only going to take the slightest hint of pretense or histrionic and she'll put in the ear plugs and read something else.  Still, I'm willing to risk it.  I can live with her disapproval because she brings pepitas (pumpkin seeds) that she roasts up herself for the road.  It all works out.

    And though I will miss the obvious plot device and stereotypes of crap fiction, I have an on-line coupon for 30% off any single item at one of those gigantor book stores that are in every shopping mall between here and Paris.

    So.. it's the road & book on CD today.   

 Will I actually make time for Lucky Charms and whiskey on Tuesday?  

   I don't know.   I do know that I'll have stories to tell.  Maybe I'll wait til Wednesday to write them down. 

   Problem is, though, I'm more likely to try to climb the rainbow with an ice pick than gently slide down it.

   Baby steps.

 

Answer #58 - Right. And the Abyss is Just a Hole.

A Thursday Morning Manifesto:

No more.  Not biting.  Not going there.  Not one more shiny carrot dangled in front of me will hypnotize me into spilling my righteously indignant guts out onto a keyboard and into the virtual world.

This morning, I'm recalling the quote from Dr. Martin Luther King:  

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. 
 No more arguments with dark souls of any sort.  Also turning in my Darth Vader helmet.  Darkness is insidious.  Sometimes the mirror can be a bit shocking.  Especially when you didn't know you had the helmet on.. and there it is.

Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, 
 No more skirmishes with hateful zealots who like the taste of blood.  No more cocktails with them, either.

violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness
 No more swatting ignorance just because I can.  Just makes it tougher and me ashamed.

in a descending spiral of destruction ... The chain reaction of evil — hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation."
I've looked into the abyss, and the abyss has looked into me, and I've decided to step back and turn on the florescent bulb.   

The abyss is only fascinating for the first 30 seconds. After that, it's just a hole.

So this morning, here's to honoring a new Manifesto and the possibility the man presented to all of us.  It's the seed of great Hope - and Hope defies the odds and lights the way.   

Nothing funny about peace, love and understanding, right?

What's funny is plunging yourself into a dark abyss of righteous annihilation wearing a Darth Vader helmet and boxing gloves.

Just saying.






 

Answer #57 - Onion Grass in my Socks

In September I'll have dinner with Wendell Berry.  We may not speak much more than passing introductions, while a table full of the faithful hang on his every utterance between fork fulls of squash and whatever the good Kansas harvest brings.  But I'm an open book, and whoever he turns out to be - for better or worse and away from the wonderful writer that he is - I won't be able to much hide my reaction to it.  My face betrays me all the time.

In grocery stores, perfect strangers have been known to say, "Are you allright?" - and not just in the Midwest, but in the heart of Hollywood once.

I was floored that Hollywood day, and kept looking at myself in the reflection of the freezer case, trying to see what they saw.

I just saw me.  Thinking.  Too much.

These days, I tell myself that to think too much - to distraction - is a waste of time.  I tell myself that I can't be inundated by every piece of tragic news broadcast across the surface of the good Earth and expect to continue to walk upright, despite what arguments facebook friends may or may not make of my responsibility to dedicate all my waking hours to the absorption of the needs of the many.

So, in the still winter-dark light of March, and nearing the end of  
The Importance of Being Iceland,
   I'm having breakfast with Eileen Myles, the poet author of the book.  And though some of her friends are a little pretentious and self-important for me on a Wednesday morning, I still like her.  Not so in love, but that's okay - that's the way of it and better than some long, unrequited infatuation anyway.  And if she quietly clings to the art world like a barnacle to a freighter in the perfect Atlantic storm, I have to wonder,

What do I cling to?  What do we all cling to? To keep us from flying off the Big Blue Ball?

Me, today anyway, I cling to the thought that not too long from now, I'll be on the lawn tractor with onion grass in my socks and sweat on my neck.



Back to
the animus
grid
the city's
smiling face
a hail of birds
revolt
     fly out
something simple
  to keep the baby amused
we tied it
to her wrist
and it
    flew away.

Still, Gong, the city clock rang on,
the minutes the seconds all
    had their say

Once in a while
    you look real
    close, a
    fingernail an MCMXLIV
    you know it's borrowed time
but it's

    time, wild
    & wooly to forge our
faith &

family by,
       to buy
a tractor to be serene.    
         -  Eileen Myles    

Answer #56 - It's ineffable.

I was talking to a doctoral student at a party the other night. Her thesis focuses on teenagers and social networking.

"Yeah," I said, "I read that GenY will be able to multi-task 7 things at once. That's got to be some sort of evolution forward."

"Well... not sure. I was hoping it would be. But it looks as if the ability to multi-task at that level is showing a decreased ability to focus on a single subject - hence, adequately take in information in the form of learning."

Well that's depressing.

Unless, of course, it's ineffable - Evolution, that is. Maybe as our ability to learn single-subject matter decreases, we'll actually grow more limbs with which to get more virtual things done. And eventually, even, maybe a second head or something, dedicated solely to learning single-subject matter while the other brain multi-tasks social networking, gaming sites and catheter monitors.

You never know with the ineffability of evolution.  It's not that it's random or some cosmic game - it's driven by an enormously complex set of rules. But for all intents and purposes they're magic rules.  That I don't know.  And neither do you.  Someone does though, because...

As Einstein put it:  "God does not play dice with the universe."

                               

 And then Terry Prachett put it better:



"God does not play dice with the universe. He plays an ineffable game of his own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players, to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time."


I can currently multi-task 4 things at once, more or less effectively, to a relative degree of effectivity.  It requires occasional sedatives, but I can do it. So -

Am I a tadpole poking my nasal gill out of the primordial muck or a human sticking my whole head right back in it?

Wish that damn dealer would stop smiling in the dark.

Answer #55 - Brown, it's the new brown

Today's the day that Wilderness Plots is honored by both houses of the Indiana Congress.

This is an amazing occurrence, for me.  And I have mixed feelings about it.  I'm honored, I'm excited, I'm worried I'll start talking and then won't stop.  You may not be able to imagine this, but I can seriously go on and on.  Especially on topics in which I can find some nugget of righteous indignation.  The State of Governor Daniels' New Deal on Indiana Education, for example.  For some reason, Arnold Schwarzenegger is the guy he's decided to follow into infamy.  California, here we come.

Wait.

See.  There I go.  I promised myself that, should I get near a podium, I absolutely won't start talking about the budget.  Because, today -

This isn't about that - it isn't about Their Man Mitch - this is about Wilderness Plots, and Scott Russell Sanders, and Tim Grimm, Carrie Newcomer, Tom Roznowski & Michael White.  It's about a thing that came out of the air and landed in my lap... a labor of love and time, a piece of Ohio River Valley History - and a thing I'm so proud to have been a part of.

It's about one man's vision and then brilliant historical vignettes - and a handful of amazing songwriters, all of whom I'm proud to count as friends.


So you wake up with an idea, and the idea moves forward - and someone catches a line, and another idea comes forward, and before you know it, you're standing in the State House with a handful of your friends and there are possibly roses being thrown at your feet by Senators and Representatives.   They might even wear togas, like in the old days.  They probably will.


Now THAT's a pretty damn good Monday!

What will I wear?  You're probably thinking.

Brown.  It's the new brown. Besides, I don't want to show up the Senators in those snazzy togas.