A Thang to be Remembered

Betty Thang, a self-confessed lesbian and recent victim of a savage finger-severing, held a press conference today at the Museville N.O.W. Headquarters.

Ms. Thang pointed out... um...revealed--that unlike straight women, the loss of her fingers was not only a heinous crime which took away her guitar-playing career, but also adversely affected her sex life.

A Thang to be Remembered

A Backwoods Eatery With a Side of Velcro Papaw

You could call this a restaurant review. You could also call this a wart on the butt of the service-industry. Or you could just mark it off to another card-carrying harpy sinking her claws into some unsuspecting, still-warm piece of meat. Ultimately, you’ll chose one, and we can just shake our heads and move on.

The establishment in question is a little club situated in one of our many dry counties. Since it’s the only place in the area that serves liquor, the local college punks and area Bubbas turn out in force to inflict a little down-home harm.

A friend and I went there to enjoy the music of some friends of mine who are popular in the Little Rock music scene. We had no idea what sort of glorified sale-barn we were walking into.

Inside, we noticed that there were no tables directly in front of the entertainment, so we asked permission to move a table to the front. This was our first miscalculation. Moving a table obviously caused some confusion among waitresses. It became a “non-station.” We were outcasts, fooling with the order in their chaos. But we waited patiently for a waitress to appear, and after fifteen minutes, I got up and went to the bar to request some service for our table. The bartender said he’d send a waitress right over. Satisfied, I went back to my seat. The band began their first set of the evening, and we listened, alternately smiling at them and rubber-necking in search of this alleged waitress. Thirty minutes had passed, and we had neither been spoken to, nor offered anything to drink.

I got up again and asked the bartender if there was a manager on duty. He said, “A manager?” and then sort of pointed at himself, as if this was an untested idea. I told him we had been there 30 minutes, and would like to order some food and drinks, and what’s-the-matter, didn’t-he-want- our-money? He turned to one of the waitresses and said, “Hey, they’ve been here for thirty minutes and haven’t been served yet.” She nodded and said she’d be right there. It only took her another 10 minutes to make the trip. We ordered, and within another five minutes or so, we actually got our iced tea. No spoon or anything to stir the sweetener in with, but by golly, we got our tea. My friend stirred hers with a lemon wedge, and I used the tried and true jiggle-method.

Finally, the cheese dip and chips came. And remember, oh Patrons of Culinary Delights, for a mere $3.75, you too can have nuked Cheese-Whiz with water and peppers mixed in, along with stale, reheated tortilla chips. The bowl was only half full, (or was it half-empty?) and I’ll bet that was a good quarter cup of charming queso. Then our bacon cheeseburgers came, complete with that optional side of fries for an extra ninety-five cents. I counted, and that came to about eleven cents per fry. What a deal. And how delightful that they were brave enough to serve them cold. The burgers were overcooked and had that homemade charred flavor that can only be achieved by not cleaning the grill for a year. And we had to go get our ketchup and napkins from the bar. In case you think this is the end, au contraire! Insult was added to injury when we were both accosted by an elderly cowpoke whom I loving refer to as the “Velcro Papaw.”

He pulled up an uninvited chair next to me, plastered himself against my side and began his pick-up routine, no doubt perfected by decades of rehearsal, if the wrinkles on his face were any indication. He wanted to dance, and was sure that my refusal was simply my attempt at being coy. I assure you that I am a lot of things, but coy is not on the list. He continued to pummel away at my resolve, while I continued to move my chair away from him. He extolled the virtues of the VFW club: “Now THAT’S the place to be...why don’t we go there?” I told him I had to get up early for work. He said so did he, and what’s a little sleep-loss? He persisted in asking for my phone number. I told him I didn’t have a phone. Undaunted, he leaned over and offered the same deal to my friend, who graciously said “No thanks.”

He battered her with his testosterone poisoning for a few minutes, asking her for her phone number, too, until I told him, “I don’t think her husband would like that.” He said it didn’t bother him none if she was married “if you know whut I mean...” wink-wink. Then he asked me if I was married and I lied about that, too. I should have known it was not an effective way to dissuade this paragon if moral turpitude. I mean, what part of “no” did he not understand: the “N” or the “O”? I told him we were about to leave anyway, and I stood up, praying that a waitress would appear next to the table with our check. (If wishes were horses, beggars would ride). I went over to the bar to pay, and while waiting for change I glanced back at the table. The Velcro Papaw had sticker- burred himself to my friend, and all I could see was her shaking her head over and over. I got my change and returned to the table, and another cowpoke moved in for the kill. He placed his hands all over my shoulders, squeezing and rubbing and asking for a dance. I summarily removed his hand and shot him a telling glance. They returned to their own table, then, and we sat down to listen to the rest of the set.

When the set was over, the band took a break and followed us outside to say goodnight.

The next day, our musician friends told us it was fortunate that we left when we did. The crowd eventually became belligerent. Some young men collected at a table began screaming requests: “Play Fleetwood Mac.” The singer told them on the microphone that she had just done a Fleetwood Mac song, and they continued to request it, oblivious.

The repartee dissolved into crude comments to the female singer like, “Why don’t you play some George Jones or Merle Haggard...or why don’t you play with yourSELF?” I won’t even go into the other derogatory, prejudical, and slanderous comments that ensued after this.

I’m not sure what it is about the mix of uneducated, uncivilized humans and a bottle of beer, but for performing musicians and attentive audience members, the disrespect and total disregard for decency is out of control. The management of this little “supper club” and some of the clientele it draws, should be staked to a fire-ant hill and left to the devices of the food chain.

From now on, I think I’ll stick to the larger towns where talent is appreciated, and restaurants care about the quality of their food and their service.

A Backwoods Eatery With a Side of Velcro Papaw

A Likely Story

[*..found inside a newspaper, on a front step...]

It was a crisp December evening. It had been crisp all day. I was assured by the car radio that the crispness would extend into tomorrow. I decided a hot cup of java would take away the edge, so I pulled over at the first dingy cafe that came into view. As I walked inside, I noticed the lettering on the outside window: The Dingy Cafe.

I took a booth against the far wall, so that I could see the door, and anything ominous that may wander through it. The ancient waitress shuffled over and gnawed an old piece of gum while I told her to bring me a cup of coffee, fresh. She remarked that the only fresh thing in the establishment was the cook, and that didn't mean his personal hygiene. When she had gone, I pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Just then the door to the cafe opened and in walked this newspaper. He had no poly-bag on, and the rain had soaked him through. He looked as though a cup of coffee would save his life. He saw me in the corner, and came over to ask for a quarter for a cup of coffee. I told him that coffee was forty cents, and he said he'd take what he could get. He looked so alone, so bedraggled, that I asked him to join me, which he did thankfully. I motioned for the waitress to bring another cup.

Over four refills, he told me his sad story. His mother was a tabloid, and his father used to be a Feild and Stream magazine, but got down on his luck and left the family high and dry when Gazette was only a Community Paper. Since that time, Gazette became a vagabond; sleeping on the steps of any who'd have him. Some folks had even taken him in to look him over, but when they tired of him, he was always thrown out to again survive on his own. He had hitched a ride with a truck driver a few hours before he had arrived at the Dingy Cafe. My heart went out to him, and that's when I thought of you. I knew you had room for a poor lonely soul like Gazette, so I gave him your address. When I told him he might end up in your fireplace, he was unabashed. He said that at least he would be warm.

At any rate, he does have stories to tell, and he's up on current events, so maybe your return for this act of kindness will be sufficient.

A Likely Story

A Moment of Chaos in my Brain

Guardian Angels and the Realm of Heaven may not be what most people believe it to be or not to be that is the question. Whether `tis nobler in the mind can play tricks on you if you let it be let it be let it be let it be, speaking words of wisdom does not come without worry and strife and many long-suffering nights of god-I'm-lonely, and I need a friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel away into the night and do something wicked and funny but it seems that it's the only thing to do, run and find the one in a million chance of a lifetime commitments can scare the hell out of you if you don't stop and smell the roses have thorns and thorns leave wounds and wounds leave scars to trouble you are so beautiful to me Tarzan you Jane, let's play jungle out there, my friend, so don't carry all your balloons and keep passing the open windows. . .

A Moment of Chaos in my Brain

Nanci Griffith as Mentor

I had what I call a Mentor dream last night: when someone you respect and admire comes and speaks to you.....(the photo is of me and Nanci when i met her in Little Rock after a show...I had given her stage manager a letter and so she wanted to talk to me afterward....one of the best moments of my life).

So, the dream....

I was on this campus-type area, walking through a wooded area with benches and fountains and bird feeders. It was still a little dark, but the sun was up. I looked ahead on the path and realized that Nanci Griffith was walking toward me, trailed by a body guard. I had known she was in the area for a show--perhaps at this place that night.

As we passed I said softly, "Hi, Nanci."

She said back "Good morning, Jae."

I stopped and turned to stare at her, and she stopped and looked back at me, smiling. I said, "How in the world could you possibly remember me, with all the faces you see?"

She strolled back toward me. "I remember you," she said.

We started walking together. She seemed very calm, very at peace with everything. I could feel her energy traveling through me and it made me feel peaceful too. She said softly, "You're doing very well, Jae. You've come a long way."

I felt my throat constrict a little with emotion and I kept walking. My usual reasons why this could not be true seemed to be stuck somewhere inside, and I couldn't say them.

She continued: "You're very talented, and you have gifts to bring into the world. It's your responsibility and your honor to share them."

We walked in silence for another little while, listening to the birds sing. She said, "And it's good that you quit smoking." She smiled at me and I looked at her again with amazement.

"How do you know about that?"

She only smiled back knowingly.

"How can you possibly remember me?" I asked her again.

She said, "You're not as forgettable as you think. You make an impression on everyone you meet. What kind is always up to you."

The dream faded then.

Nanci Griffith as Mentor

Behavior 101: A Conundrum

Interpersonal relations. This phrase makes me squint with dread. It used to be something I read in a college communications textbook. Now it is a viable, living, breathing Grendel with very sharp fangs.

Take a situation wherein a group of individuals share a common goal, and fling themselves into the attainment of the goal. They will then, inevitably, have to accept the repercussions and peripheral issues that evolve when there is a group dynamic.

"Okay, if I’m behaving in a way that embarrasses you or causes you discomfort or pain, I guess you should just pull me aside and let me know that."

"Maybe. But how do you know that discomfort is your own issue and not mine? How do you know if maybe it’s your need to control my behavior instead of an effort to help me as a friend to grow as a person?"

"I don’t know."

"Where’s the line between your expectations and my right to be who I am in any given situation?"

"I don’t know. But what sort of friend would I be if I didn’t tell you things people say to me about you?"

"Maybe in some cases, I don’t care what they think about me. If these people feel so incompatible with me, why do they continue to hang around and put up with all my grief?"

"Maybe because of the situation--I mean, maybe they have a responsibility to stay in the situation and you’re just part of the package. If that’s true, then don’t you have a responsibility to do your best to be a person who at least makes an effort to be good-natured?"

"I don’t know...maybe I do. But at what point does this effort to keep things amicable, compromise my right to free expression?"

"I don’t know."

"If my behavior is objectionable to these people, why don’t they just come to me and say so?"

"Because they’re afraid of you. Afraid of your reaction."

"My reaction is beside the point in this case. My reaction is my responsibility, yes. And I have an obligation to be mindful of my interaction with others, but I cannot be blamed for their fear, and the way that fear feeds into their reluctance to do what needs to be done to alleviate at least a portion of the problem."

"Or maybe you’re just copping out because you want to justify your behavior instead of looking at it and making changes."

"Ouch."

The breadth of this subject can be overwhelming. Dealing with others. Dealing with others fairly. Dealing with others fairly while remaining fair with oneself. And what is fair? Who has the definition for that one? Can we ever be sure that our right to set parameters for what we will and will not tolerate, is not simply a matter of opinion and not an indication of an infringed-upon boundary?

Behavior 101: A Conundrum

Vocalist Lament

On the more well-stocked magazine racks, one can find Guitar, Modern Drummer, Bass Player, Guitar Player, Acoustic Guitar...but it's awfully hard to find The Vocalist, or Lead Singer, or Modern Harmony, or Rock Singer...

Okay, I pout every now and then because I feel like the market is influxed with information for the instruments that you hold in your hands, while there is a void in the market for the instrument you hold in your throat. Even in training, one can find instructors for any instrument, but if you want to be just a general vocalist, it usually means you have to take Voice in a college venue, and that means singing like Luciano Pavorotti or Beverly Sills when your voice is more suited to Billy Joel or Mary Chapin-Carpenter. Who says that vocal training has to be done in Italian? Or with a piano? I think that institutions of higher learning should know better. They should get with the program. Not everyone who wants to sing, is going to be able to learn how by taking Voice. And I wonder how many budding vocalists are discouraged or permanently lost because they were terrified of the formality of Voice classes?

So why aren't the commercial market people publishing more info centered around singers? I can just hear the musicians, now. "You don't need a whole magazine, for cryin' out loud! How many times can you write an article on how to sing?"

The most prevalent example (I'm sorry to say) of vocal support comes from the You Sing the Hits catalog, which is full of backup tapes. (Not all vocalists have a band, you see. That's because musicians are all reading guitar/bass/drummer magazines and taking lessons in the style they love best...(Was that caustic? )

Okay, is there a foundation to the argument that there's not enough material for a vocal magazine? Let's think it over. What would be included in a magazine like this? What would I like to see? How about: sections of sheet music with vocal lines and harmonies... articles on how to arrange those vocals... Articles about other singers and how they learned to sing, what they learned what they know about it, how they rehearse, warm-up, etc...equipment for singers, like microphones and stands, vocal techno-enhancer-box thingies, health care for singers, like what to do when you have to sing with a sore throat, what to drink and not to drink (herbal tea versus Zima, for instance--isn't it usually easier to find the latter in the places YOU sing?)... How about an anatomy lesson on just how the vocal chords work, and why I can't hit one of those heaven-splitting Ann Wilson notes? ...and how do I interpret a song? You get the picture. Those ideas were just off the top of my head. I'm sure many of you vocalists out there can think of other stuff.

Hey. Let me know, maybe we'll do a magazine ourselves.

Vocalist Lament

Fun With Webster

As a high school student, I was often accused, in an ambiguous way, of being a word-monger. While my friends were out cruising Wal-Mart parking lot, I was usually at home, "cuddled up with a good dictionary." As mundane as that may sound, it did have its brighter moments. I broke away from Webster long enough to write in my journal, but noticed that much of what I wrote was mindless drivel. So-- That in mind, I opened up that linguistic little goldmine, and searched for the word "drivel."

DRIVEL- 1. To talk stupidly and carelessly. 2. To waste or fritter away in a childish fashion....

Which led me to:

Fritter- [which was put off momentarily to read "frippery-" (no, not "be careful of the ice, its frippery") but: Cast off clothes, trifling, tawdry].

FRITTER- 1. To spend or waste, bit by bit, on trifles, or without commensurate return. So what the heck was "commensurate"!?

COMMENSURATE- 1. Equal in measure or extent. Oh, I knew that!")

Okay, I could stop there. I knew what "equal" was, what "measure" was, and what "extent" was. But then I couldn't remember what the original bloody word was!

And what was I talking about? Oh. Yeah. Mindless Drivel.

MINDLESS- 1. Destitute of mind or consciousness.

Which led me to:

DESTITUTE- 1. Lacking something needed or desirable.

And then, realizing this little game could continue indefinately, it made me a bit of a loon, and I nearly detonated altogether...of course, if one detonates, one can't very well be "altogether" can one?

Yours in linguistics,
Jae

Fun With Webster

Cabbage

We were lying in bed together, exhausted from our day, but thrilled to be in each other's arms. I began to wax romantic and gooey about what she means to me, how I'd like to spend the rest of my life making her happy, how my heart jumps when I see her and I can't get her out of my head, etc., blah, blah blah, and at the end of my loving dissertation, there was a short, pregnant pause, and then she said, "Do you like cabbage?"

Ok. I laughed. I had to. It was absurd. But the poor dear had no idea what she had just done. See, she has this condition known as involuntary drift. One moment she is lucid and attentive, and the next, she's in Narnia with the Sandman. This was the situation when she came to and asked about cabbage. After much jocularity and a few miffed expostulations, she explained that she was dreaming that she was cooking dinner for me and was fretful that I would not care for the main ingredient. She really needs extra sleep these days.

Cabbage

Fort Never-Leave

Every morning, from March 3 through May 18, 1988, at an ungodly 3:45 a.m., I would awaken to the smell of paste wax and wool blankets. The view from my bunk was of the mattress and springs on the underside of the bunk above me. I would pull myself out of the regulation-tight sheets and blanket, and immediately fold, pull, and tuck the bunk back into its presentable appearance for room inspection. On my trek across the buffed floor down the corridor, I would make my way to the latrine for the call of nature, passing my bleary-eyed platoon-mates on the way. There was another full schedule for the day, just like the day before, and the day before that, and accordingly, all soldiers had to be up before the sun. Fort Never-Leave was a grudging endearment for a place known more exactly as Fort Lee, Virginia. The tag came from the time that most recruits spent there in Advanced Individual Training (AIT) for the U.S. Army. Since it is a Quartermaster School, most training cycles lasted from eight to twenty-two weeks, a time-frame which could easily seem unbearably endless for those without the proper focus.

The stay at Fort Never-Leave was spent in much the same atmosphere as a Basic Training environment, although the recruits are allowed to have some obligatory freedoms. This freedom was probably in place to discourage would-be deserters, and was based on two kinds of hierarchies: one, was the hierarchy of military rank. The chain of command is crucial to the operation of the military itself. At Fort Lee, the Sergeants were in charge of nearly everything, with the Captains making appearances about once a week. The Drill Sergeants were the motivating force, and the staff sergeants took care of all the administrative details that kept the system running like a well-oiled machine. The next hierarchy is an informal one, understood solely by word-of-mouth. Each Newbie (as new recruits are called) must be mindful of who is in charge on that baser level. The Platoon Leader and Squad Leaders are given a certain amount of control and authority over the day to day operations within the group. It is really these people who can make life miserable for you.

The base was a mini-metropolis, with all the basic amenities of normal life. There was a PX (the facsimile of a large department store), a movie theatre, a library, a Burger King, taxi cabs, and a plethora of old and new buildings and landmarks. When the weekends rolled around and we were released from the more restrictive environment after the fifth week of our "incarceration," we would all flee to the comfort and relief of our favorite hotel. It was almost easy to forget that that freedom was merely a furlough. Come Sunday night, there was always a formation of all personnel, including Whiskey Company, of which I was a part. We were all expected to be in uniform and up to snuff, or pay the consequences by long hours of busy-work designed to teach us to be more careful next time.

My room contained six bunks, stacked two high, and there was very little space in which to move. We each had a tall, double-door locker where we kept all our worldly goods, sometimes in pristine military fashion, and sometimes not. The times we did not always seemed to fall on the day of surprise inspection. Once, when I was certain that the inspection-bug was in the air, I took great pains to see that my locker and bunk were in tip-top condition. I removed everything from my locker, scrubbed it until it shone, and then I replaced my belongings in military precision back inside. My uniforms were hung in perfect sequence, all the outside sleeves folded just-so, the hangers an exact inch apart. My socks and underwear were all rolled and placed in the top drawer in perfect rows. My personal drawer was neat and organized, and my T-shirts were rolled smoothly and nestled in the bottom drawer. On top of the three-drawer dresser, fastened to a large index card, were my service ribbons, Expert rifle, bayonet, and grenade badge, and the various and sundry brass pins--just as they would appear on my dress uniform. I reported for the unexpected formation outside with complete confidence that my locker would meet with the approval of Drill Sergeant Huguely. Much to my chagrin, I was failed on my inspection when he found, there on the top of my chest of drawers--horror of horrors--a stray bottle cap. I suffered through a sound military chastisement in front of my comrades, and later was struck with the idea that perhaps I had been sabotaged by one of my bunk-mates.

There was one who had displayed an obvious dislike for me. Later, when my suspicions were confirmed by an overheard conversation, I made sure that her bunk was in shameful disarray when the next inspection rolled around. Due to her obvious disregard for military pride discipline, she was sentenced to Nut-Guard. This duty consisted of guarding a specified number of pecans which Drill Sergeant Huguely had gathered and placed in a pile beneath a tree. The rub was that Fort Lee was home to some incredibly bold red squirrels, who would literally fight a soldier for that pile of nuts.

As was usually the case, the bottle-cap saboteur returned from her duty knowing she had lost some of her nuts. She was further punished by one hundred push-ups and latrine duty for the next week. I was never a victim of her treachery again.

Each morning, after we completed the cleaning process-- ourselves and our barracks--we were allowed a few precious moments for breakfast. I usually had coffee, biscuits and gravy, eggs, and bacon, and hurried out to the smoking area to enjoy a cigarette in the crisp Virginia dawn before platoon formation. The frequent emergence of officers from the billets kept most of us from actually finishing an entire cigarette, since we had to snap to attention and drop whatever we had in our hands. Many of us learned to just pick the cigarettes back up and continue after the officer said, "As you were." When Lady Whiskey, as 5th platoon was called, gathered outside the smoking area and began the march around barracks to the formation area for Whiskey Company, we always chanted our favorite cadence on the way, just to let the other men and women of the company know that we were proud to be the women in the sector. The cadence began with a crescendo into a count, accented by guttural noises after each number, and finally launched into the words of "Mighty Fifth Platoon," our breaths making tiny wisps of fog, like a herd of camouflaged buffalo on stampede:

"Your ma, your pa, your dirty, greasy grandma;
Your ugly cousin, your sister, too,
Lady Whiskey gonna stomp on you.
Say, `who dat?' say, `who dat?' say `who dat talkin' `bout you?
The mighty, the mighty, the mighty Fifth Platoon!"

As we split into two lines and merged, in a zigzag fashion with each other, we were a bold display of drilling grandeur. The other soldiers in the company always watched us and seemed at least a little chagrined that their marches were less flamboyant. I was lucky enough to get into the most envied platoon, but this Lady Whiskey Fifth also had the best record for performance and excellence. I discovered it's much more difficult to hold a place at the front of the race, than to catch up with the leaders from behind. Thus, Lady Whiskey was not only enthusiastic, but usually trying to mask their extreme fatigue from the other platoons.

The company march to our classrooms was always a highly aerobic journey. We traversed sidewalks, lawns, and blacktop streets, our voices ringing in cadence, our spit-shined boots clamping in synchronized rhythm with cadences called by the Drill Sergeants prancing alongside us. Although I had sustained a spinal injury in Basic Training and often had to fall back in the march, or even ride the "woos wagon" to class, when I was able to march with my company, I was over- whelmed with a feeling of power, teamwork, and patriotism. When May 18 rolled around and the graduation ceremony was over, I hurried to pack the last of my belongings, anxious to be free of this hell that had somehow managed to touch my heart. I got into the cab and the cabby pulled away from Whiskey Company for the last time, finally leaving Fort Never-Leave. I experienced an odd displacement, much like a dream, a profound loneliness, and a sense of loss at those friends and memories which I would no longer share. I tried to recall the details--tried to file them away in that sentimental portion of my brain.

I lit a cigarette and settled back against the cool seat of the taxi, glancing down at the AIT ribbon added to those already at my chest, and I knew my life was changed forever; I knew I'd never settle for less than my best again. As the flowering dogwood trees whipped past the window beside that two-lane backroad to the Richmond Airport, I knew I was up to the challenge.

Fort Never-Leave