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 Field 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