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March 28, 2010
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"Follicle to Fundament" It’s time to drink our rations up To lullabies which fill our cup — Jeannie C. Riley “Backside of Dallas” PLUS John Diamond Tribute to Lux Interior
Follicle to Fundament
I’m not James Bond or
Jimmy Beard,
But I know what to drink with weird;
There was a list which I was sent,
From follicle to fundament:
White or red?
Your meal’s still dead;
Just get fed,
And go to bed.
Chardonnay with fish filet?
Chops with Vosne Romanee?
Whether to drink old or young?
(Rampling or Christensen?)
When I drink there is no doubt,
I place my order and make it stout:
Guinness and a Jameson—
What was it that you called me, then?
Cape buffalo, lion, antelope,
I’d even order for the Pope;
ChristBlood singing in a chalice,
Sweet red wine drunk without malice.
In to Bourbon’s slurried well,
Amber pours and secrets tell
Of intermittent deprivations,
And mean slags pouring thin potations.
I know a spot to sup with chums,
With demis, mags and jeroboams;
To start, How about an aperitif?
Kir? Why not? But, make it brief;
And should you want a postprandial,
The green stuff’s good after a while:
Absinthe makes the tart grow fond;
La Fee Verte waves her magic wand;
And if there is no place to go,
We’ll stay inside with Veuve Clicquot;
Coffee, grappa, chocolate cake —
The last request that waiter’s take:
It’s time to drink our rations up
To lullabies which fill our cup.
you ain't no punk, you punk.
you wannatalk about the real junk?
talk about the real 
Ann cannot comprehend my celebratory mourning as I chicken cluck around the house wearing nothing but black rubber shorts (I’m as fat as Lux was thin, but it is the thought that counts).
My judo, opiate-infused singing rants grating her nerves like Surfin' Matt Wilson’s uncapped nails on an abandoned blackboard.
“Let Your Pussy Do the Dog,” and my totally jump’n rendition of
Jeannie C. Riley
“Backside of Dallas”
A tenth grade education won't get you
No kinda job here in big D
hunger pains and prides are things
that just don't go hand in hand for long
And on the back side of Dallas A hungry small town girl can't find a home
On the back side of Dallas nervously she takes another pill
On the back side of Dallas tonight like other nights
She drinks her fill
well you can't dig me you can't dig nothin'.
do you want the real thing, or are you just talkin'?
I'm your garbageman.
Common terms and phrases
afternoon album Aretha artist asked Atlantic Beale Street Bill Blind Lemon Bo Diddley Bobby brother called Charlie Brown Charlie Freeman Chips chord Cooder Country Blues dance Dewey Phillips Dixie Flyers Don Nix door Dowd drummer drums Duane Duane Allman Duck Dunn Elvis father front Furry Lewis girl going guitar guitarist heard high school Hollywood Jagger jazz Jerry Jerry Wexler Jim Dickinson Jimmy Jimmy Reed John Johnny Jug Band Justis knew looked loved Mar-Keys Mary Lindsay Memphis Miami Mississippi mother movie Muscle Shoals musicians Nashville never night overdubbed Packy Phillips radio record rhythm section Ronnie Ry Cooder Sam Phillips Sammy sang session sing singer song sound stage Stanley started Stax studio talked teenage Texas told Tommy Tommy McClure took tracks vocal Waco walked wanted Wexler Where’s white boys wife wore
album Alex Chilton Ardent artists audience Barth Beale Street became began Big Star Bill Bitter Lemon blues festivals bluesmen Box Tops called Campbell Charlie Freeman Chips Moman club Country Blues Dan Penn dancing Delta Dewey Phillips disc jockey Don Nix Eggleston Elvis friends fucking Furry Lewis going gonna Graflund guitar guitarist hear heard house band jazz Jerry Jim Dickinson John kids knew label Lee Baker listen live looked Mar-Keys Marcia Hare Mclntire Memphis music Memphis's Mississippi Moman Mud Boy musicians never night O'Mell Packy Phineas piano play player produced radio Randall Lyon record released remembers rock and roll Sam Phillips says Dickinson Selvidge session shit sing solo song soul sound Stax Steve Cropper studio stuff talent talking tape there's thing thought told tour town trying walked wanted West Memphis Willie Mitchell
La Prisonnière Dream sequence PLUS 'Habana'
The easiest way to blow through, what must be the terminal destination for fratboys and girls, (where this is an appallingly worse place than anything I've ever seen) and onto Cubana Air and that treacherous Russian plane; (the last smoking) immediately bellowing steam/exhaust: both, silent, non-toxic, co-medically-cold air, welcomed on this little hour hot-hop in summer to the illegal, prohibited isle of communist Castro's, and, of course, to his proud Habana Airport.
And so we did touch down and were finally free: free to not have our passport stamped, free to kill chickens for Santeria rituals, free to be cigar smoking, morning-rum and Cuban coffee drinkers, on this, the only communist holdout in the Western hemisphere.
The rest is mostly what one does on regular holiday, except for everything squalid, disorganized, beautiful and preserved by UNESCO: this ruined old Columbus pearl-town; remembered by my inclination to suck up all cultures as a dying man does air--mojitas and depraved Kipling-boys taking us to where we shouldn't have been.
And then she says, 'I'm pregnant.' And it's crying time on the clean tiles of the famous hotel bathroom; and I actually gave my rental car to that guy we met in Parque Centrale, so he could take his girl on a real date in a real car; and it was parked out front in the morning for she and I to leave.
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