Morning Thoughts … Facts

C. W. and I were talking …

He had been missing for a few days and I asked him where he had been. Turns out he was working on his Atomitizing Neutron Universal Scudcraft, the devise that transported him here. He keeps it hidden in an abandoned school building near here. He says it's perfectly safe from prying eyes there. Anyway …

“I’ve been modifying my ANUS to do specialized tasks,” he said.

“I think we’ve talked before about using that term,” I said, “but go ahead and tell me about what new things your, uh, spacecraft will go.”

“Skywriting,” he said.

“Skywriting?”

“Yes, the Falloonian Elders ordered a two-part experiment.”

“Such as?”

“One,” said, “is how fast your so-called “alternate facts’ can travel, and two, the breadth of their belief-base.”

“And skywriting?”

“My colleagues in Texas have found out that musicians Willie Nelson and Keith Richardson plan to collaborate on a new musical album. The title will be The Good Dope and they expect it to sell millions of copies. Only a handful of trusted associates, and my people, know about it.”

“So?”

“They plan secretly to disappear for several months in order to produce it in peace and solitude.”

“So?”

“Can’t you see what kind of news coverage such a disappearance will cause?”

“And skywriting?”

“That’s my part.”

“And?”

“A couple of months after they disappear, I’ll quietly write a message in the sky to be visible over all major population centers.”

“What message?”

He fumbled for a sheet, handed it to me, and I read:

“Dudes! Like, The Rapture has occurred.”

Perhaps it's time for an intervention.

340. Music and Awe

 C. W. was waiting for me when I arose this morning. At least let’s say Arnold Awesome was waiting for me. In this shape, C.W. is an eighteen years old boy that’s full of wonder and admiration for all things earthly. He can be inspiring at times, but tedious at others. Somehow he had found an old tie-dyed slipover and some bell-bottom pants in the attic. Of course I have no idea from where they came.

“Awesome,’’ he said. “Did you see the sunrise this morning?”

“I’ve asked you not to use that word,” I said, “it’s the most overused word in our country these days and has totally lost its meaning.”

“Like, it was really cool,” he said.

“And don’t insert the word ‘like’ in a sentence when it isn’t necessary to convey an image or idea.”

“Like,” he said, “when you say ‘far out’ for no apparent reason?”

“That’s different,” I said.

“How?”

I thought. “It just is.”

“Awesome.”

“Why are you up so early? Just to catch the sunrise?”

“How do you ‘catch’ a sunrise? Wouldn’t that burn your hands?”

“Just a figure of speech,” I said.

“How can speech have a figure? Women have figures and accountants figure and you are always figuring to do something for Mrs. Big Dope and then you don’t. I can’t figure your language out at times.”

I ignored him. “So what else have you been doing?”

“Remember when we went to that rock concert? The awesome one,” he said. It was obvious he was being evasive.

“Have you been on my wife’s computer again?”

“You changed the password on yours.”

“Answer me.”

“Just a little bit,” he said, “I was waiting for the sun to rise and, like, got bored.”

“You weren’t back on those …”

“Oh no,” he said, rubbing the side of his head in an unconscious gesture. “She explained about that. I was just watching, uh, the news, that’s it,” he said. “The news.”

“And what was on the news?”

He thought. “Football scores?”

“Is that a question for me?”

“There is this guy who may be elected as your president who has no qualifications whatsoever. They had posts of these news reporters talking about what a great job he would do because he would, like, bring a fresh face to politics through his ineptitude and ignorance.”

“Those weren’t news reporters,” I said.

“They claimed to be. They even called it a news channel where they report and we decide.”

“Whatever.”

He cocked his head. “Whatever what?”

“Just whatever,” I said. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“There you, like, go again,” he said. He shifted gears. “Hey,” he said, “have you ever listened to those old songs that were popular when you were a child? You know, Bessie Smith and such?”

“I wasn’t a child when Bessie Smith was alive,” I said. “But yes, I have heard her music.”

“Gimme me a pig foot and a bottle of beer,” he said. “That’s awesome.”

I groaned.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s a better one … my sportin’ man … his barrel’s hot … he rams his ramrod in …”

“Hush,” I said, “you’re going to wake my wife.”

“I think I heard her,” he said. “She’s already up.” He stopped and turned white. “Uh oh,” he said.

What can I say? - C.W.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “I was listening to one when the sun started to come up.”

“And what were you listening to?”

“It was a song about your capitalistic system of finance.”

“Oh,” I said. I relaxed. “What was the name of that song?”

“I think,” he said, “it was called ‘You Can’t Git That StuffNo More.’”

“Oh no,” I said. I started to get up

Too late. A voice erupted from the next room. “Get in here right now.”

“I think she means you,” C.W. said and nodded in the direction of the voice. “Better see what she wants.”

“I’ll be back,” I said and started toward the door.

“Awesome,” he said.

Click on some ads. It costs them money and makes me some.

Also check out www.allhatnocattle.com

And buy Big Dope's book at Amazon

or  www.wattensawpress.com .

Interesting People

Dear Alien:
I read today of the passing of one of the most interesting baseball players who ever lived. This prompted me to do a search of all the current baseball players. I didn’t find a single one who would, in my opinion, qualify as interesting. I am a young sports writer. Whom will I write about in 50 years?
Worried

Dear Worried:
If you want to write about interesting personalities in future years, take my advice and change to writing about classic Rock and Roll. You’ll always have Keith Richards.
The Alien C.W.

So long. It's been good to know you. - C.W.
 

The Sublime

Dear Friends and Followers:

Since my stay on your planet began, I’ve grown to believe that music is one of the grandest accomplishments of your species. That’s why I noticed with interest that Tuesday was the 100^th anniversary of the birth of singer Billie Holiday. She is one of my favorites. What amazes me is that this great woman, what you call a a person or thing regarded as a representative symbol of something in the field of music, (Editor’s note: He means “icon”) was not allowed to use public restrooms when she traveled with bands across your great country. Unbelievable.

I read where she wasn’t particularly noted for her vocal range, or even the pure quality of her tonal output. But my oh my, if you may permit an alien in your midst to observe, how she used what she had.

With so many favorites to choose from, it’s hard to pick one, but I am, as you say, “partial,” to “I’ll Be Seeing You.”

It sure seems odd to me that the person who could perform this wasn’t even allowed to sit with the white band members in venues while on break. But then, the bigotry expressed by some members of your species continues to confuse me. See: “Indiana” and “Arkansas.”

Anyway, until next time, “I’ll be seeing you, in everything that’s light and gay” … oops, better not use that word.

Your friend,

C.W.

 

Now what kind of country would forbid this
great lady a bathroom break? - C.W.

 

 

 

 

 

See also www.wattensawpress.com
And give Big Dope's book a look.

238. Music and Things

It was one of those mornings that I didn’t really want to deal with C.W. I was busy and enjoying one of those euphoric moments when one feels as if one is about to make some sort of intellectual breakthrough. I had no idea what, perhaps some little bit of gain ahead of “The Eternal Footman.” You get the picture.

Oh hell. Not only was it C.W. who walked in, he happened to choose one of his favorite adolescent forms. I call it “Curious Carl.” He plopped down beside me, rested a pair of dirty sneakers on the freshly cleaned coffee table and said, “Hey Big Dope. Whatcha doing?” as if the earphones I wore failed to provide a sufficient clue.

I raised one earphone partly above my ear. “Listening to music.”

“Oh. What?”

“Gustav Mahler.”

“You were listening to him yesterday.”

I drew a deep breath. “That was Symphony Number Two. This is Number Three.”

“He wrote more than one?”

“He completed nine.”

“Just like that German guy.”

“Just like Beethoven.”

He said, “Why?”

“Why did they write nine each?”

“No. Why did you choose this one?”

“I’ve decided to listen to all nine in order. One day at a time.”

“Why?”

“It gives me a break from your questions. That is nice in itself.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“Have they ever used music to kill people?”

That startled me. “Why of course not.” I stopped. “At least I don’t’ think so.”

“Do they use it to torture people?”

Now that one started me thinking. Before I could answer, however, he broke in. “I mean the way Mrs. Big Dope uses ‘ZZ The Highest or Uppermost Point’ on you.”

“I like ‘ZZ Top,’ I said, “just not always while I’m eating breakfast.” I’m sure I sounded a bit defensive. “And perhaps at other times.” I let it go at that. “Besides, I thought you got your Galactic Universal Translator adjusted.”

“Let’s leave my GUT out of this,” he said. “What else does your species use music for?”

“To promote love,”

“That’s nice.”

“To relax and comfort.”

“Commendable.”

“To inspire and elevate.”

“Very good,” he said. “Now let me ask this … is it ever used to promote procreation?”

“Not that I know of,” I started, but then thought better of it. “Maybe some have argued that it does.”

“How about,” he said, “to promote war?”

That stopped me cold. “Well I have heard that if you gave an army the right music, it would set off to conquer the world.”

“Those people,” he said, “the ones who wore the belt buckles that said, ‘Gott mit uns,’ the ones who didn’t like the Jews, did they play music when they marched them to the gas chambers?”

“I never read where they did.”

“Those Spanish Conquistadors, the ones who would dash the heads of Indian babies against stone walls so they would die in a ‘State Of Grace,’ did they do it to musical accompaniment?”

“As far as I know, they did not.”

“Did Torquemada use music as background when he, on behalf of the Church, tortured his enemies during the Spanish Inquisition?”

“You are ruining what started out to be a wonderful moment,” I said. “Why don’t we just listen to music?” I offered to disconnect the earphones.

“Who is performing this musical masterpiece?"

“The Vienna Philharmonic conducted by Leonard Bernstein.”

What a marvelous picture of joy and grace.
Wait. What was her sexual orientation?
Isn't that important? - C.W.

“Oh,” he said. “Wasn’t he what you call lighthearted and carefree?”

“What difference would it make if he were gay?”

“I couldn’t listen, that’s all,” he said. “It’s against my religion to participate in anything involving … involving … uh, those people.”

“C.W.,” I said. “You don’t have any religion.”

“Oh but,” he said, “I’m scheduled to give it a try so I can report about it.” He nodded his head defiantly and swung his feet from table. “So I need to start practicing. Hate doesn’t come naturally to Falloonians, you know.”

The symphony used a succession of ephemeral chords to briefly resolve into a mood of peace before the woodwinds broke into what almost sounded like a jig.

I groaned.

 

Click an ad, Mrs. Big Dope needs the latest ZZ Top album.

See also:

www.wattensawpress.com

www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com

228. Viewpoints

“Hey, want to go for a walk?” C.W. came bounding in almost breathless looking like an ad for L.L. Bean, complete with red plaid shirt and classy hiking shoes. He resembled an outdoor George Clooney. We were spending a long holiday weekend at our farm and he was primed and ready for action, probably a little bored as well.

“Can’t,” I said.

“Why not? You aren’t doing anything.”

Actually I was writing but forget that. “Can’t walk around here,” I said. “Deer season.”

“What?”

“Deer season. There are folks that would shoot an alien just to have their picture with your body in the county paper.”

He plopped onto a couch. “May I say,” he began, “that your species is a bit weird?”

“Pray do,” I said. “Just don’t include me.”

“Oh, you are as bad as the rest.”

I ignored him.

“For example,” he said. “When any issue comes up, you tend to pick a point of view and stick with it no matter what the facts say.”

“Do not.”

“Oh yes you do.”

“Do not.”

“Jimi Hendrix or Eric Clapton?”

He took me by surprise. I thought. “Eric Clapton, everybody knows that.”

“What if Clapton himself said ‘Hendrix?’”

“Eric Clapton.”

“What if ‘Rolling Stone Magazine’ said Hendrix?”

“Eric Clapton,” I said. “Now I have work to do.”

“Are you planning to produce a written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers?”

“If I decide to produce a book,” I said, “you won’t be in it.”

“Why not?”

“You aren’t interesting enough.”

“I’m more interesting than you.”

“Are not.”

“Am,” he said. “How many of your readers have suggested that you write a book about yourself?”

“Well,” I said, “none yet but that’s not to say they won’t be interested when it is finished.”

“Yeah,” he said, “and Rush Limbaugh might discover that it’s fun to talk about the goodness of humankind.”
“It could happen,” I said.

“And Bill O'Reilly might actually read one of those books he has ‘written’ as well and start acting like the subjects of them.”

“Well I do write all my stuff,” I said.

“And,” he  said, “how many of your readers have suggested that you include me in a book?”

I thought. “This month or all together?”

“Let’s just say in the last couple of months.”

“Oh,” I said, “quite a few.”

“So?”

“I’d be the laughing stock of America,” I said.

“No,” he said, “Sarah Palin has that title all sewed up.”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“I could read something,” he said. “Dickens or Austin?”

Will Big Dope ever accept the truth? - C.W.

My worn copy of “Great Expectations” was in view. I saw the trap and could see the joy on his face when he repeated my answer to my wife. “Actually either is acceptable,” I said. “I prefer modern American writers.”

“Gatsby or Grapes of Fierce Anger?”

“Are you trying to provoke me?”

“Maybe I’ll just watch a little television while you write.” Before I could protest, he grabbed the TV remote and punched a button. Immediately the contorted face of Nancy Grace appeared. We both watched in disbelief as she convicted a person of gross sins against humanity and vowed that it would all come out in the trial. C.W. leaned forward and took it in with a wry smile. He turned to me and cocked his head, or at least the shape of the head he had chosen for today.

“Guilty or not guilty?” he said.

 

See also: www.wattensawpress.com

and: www.deltadreaming.blogspot.com

and of course: click an ad. We always need new hiking attire. - C.W.

109. Discrimination

C.W. was devastated. If you have ever seen an alien on the verge of tears, it is not a pretty site. Here is what happened.

With some misgiving, we had invited him to go with us to the Sunflower River Blues and Gospel Festival in Clarksdale, Mississippi. As everyone knows, this is the town where legendary bluesman Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in return for becoming a guitar playing phenomenon. C.W. has always been fascinated by this legend despite his understanding that it is only one of the minor myths of both music and religion. Anyhow.

He had never been to this festival and I hesitated. Loyal readers will remember his antics, appearing as Elvis and distracting the crowd, at another show a couple of years back.

But, he prevailed and showed up as a sort of energetic version of Neil Young, the singer. He had long gray hair, a tie-died shirt, and a worn straw hat. He climbed in and off we went.

This has always been a quiet little festival, conducted in the middle of hottest month of the year in the Mississippi delta. The informality is appealing though, and the ability to seat one’s self near the stage and enjoy the show was a draw. A concrete area near the stage allowed, with the catalyst of mass quantities of alcohol, white people of all ages to display their dancing “skills.”

Not this year. Our normal route to the festival area was blocked by temporary fencing. Forced to squeeze through a small entry point, under the gaze of some jack-booted security guards with bellies as big as Texas lies, we beheld a remarkable site.

The entire area in front of the stage had been cordoned off and filled with tables, each with white cloth and flower arrangements. It belonged to the major donors to the festival who were the only ones allowed within sight of the performers.

At a blues festival, for Christ’s sake.

The “poor folks” made do with a seating area off to the side where the band members were a distant blur. Worst, for C.W. anyway, there was no area for dancing.

 “This is discrimination,” he said. “Who thought this up?”

“Well, the state has gone Republican,” I joked.

He wasn’t amused. “You know the origins of the blues, don’t you?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

Ignoring me, he charged ahead. “It was a music form created by an oppressed people who found it an outlet for the misery resulting from discrimination.”

“Well, yes.”

Want to know how to ruin a blues festival?
 See me. - C.W.

“And here, here, … here,” he sputtered, searching for words. “Here they have separated a celebration of that art form into the haves and have nots.”

It was even worse. Only four of five of the tables were occupied. The bands were literally performing to an empty space. Off to the side, in the distance, were the folks such as us, who had traveled there to see the show.

“If this don’t beat all,” said C.W., beginning the Falloonian version of a pout. Then the whole place erupted with music and a group of young ladies strolled by wearing, among them, maybe a yard and a half of clothing.

“Later man,” he said. “Got to go see what my soul is worth.” And he was gone.

86. Songs

What a mess. We were spending the weekend at the farm and, as usual, I awoke early and stumbled in to make coffee. As I switched on the kitchen light, I realized that there was already half a pot of coffee made. I heard sounds from the living room and made my way there. You won’t believe what I saw.

There, amidst a pile of papers, coffee stains, and cats, sat—get ready—what appeared to be Woody Guthrie with my secondbest guitar in hand and seated at my wife’s piano. He looked at me and smiled.

Of course, it was C.W., not Woody Guthrie, and before I could say anything, he waved me in. “Glad to see you, Big Dope. Come on in and sit.”

I tried to collect my thoughts.

“Come on. It’s all right.”

“C.W., what the …”

“I’m writing music,” he interrupted. “Watched one of them talent shows on TV the other night and figured anybody could do it, and guess what?”

I stared.

“I’m good at it,” he said, picking up my guitar and sounding a chord.

“When did you learn to play guitar?”

“I just know a few chords,” he said. “That’s all you need.” He leaned the guitar against the wall and made a run on the piano. “Did you know that Irving Berlin could only play piano in the key of F Sharp?”

“You’re going to die,” I said. “Nobody touches the wife’s piano but her.”

“We’re all gonna die,” he said. Then he struck a pose. “Excuse me,” he picked up the guitar.

“We’re all a’ gonna die,

It’ll happen by and by.”

He grabbed a sheet of paper, fished a pencil from the coffee table and started to scribble, ignoring me completely.

“C.W.”

“Woody, please,” not looking up.

“What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. The Falloonian Elders like a little showmanship with their reports, so I’m writing some songs for them.”

He stopped writing and looked up at me. He had a thought and then rustled around in the pile and came up with a crumpled sheet of paper. “I’m writing one about you. Wanna hear it?”

“No.”

“It’s called ‘Eternally Confused.””

At that point, a cat jumped onto the piano seat beside him and began to nuzzle his arm.

“Oh, and the cats and I are writing the first musical ever about cats. Won’t that be somethin’?”

“I think that’s been done,” I said.

“Not the way we’re doing it.” He stroked the cat and she purred, looking at him with adoring eyes. “The cats are militant and take over the world.”

“Take over the world?”

“Yes, the theme song is “A New Moon Over Felinia.”

The cat purred again.

“I write topical songs, too,” he said. “Want to hear my latest?”

“No.”

He fumbled through the stack. “Here it is. It is called ‘Your Womb Belongs to Daddy.’”

I was trying to absorb it all when he broke into song.

“You can speak of all your choices,


And the power of your voices.


But your womb,


Your womb,

We'd love us some Woody
- Sarah and Hillary

Your womb belongs to …”

“Enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

“Well then, leave us alone,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.” Another cat joined him and they looked at me with true menace in their eyes.

I waddled back toward the bedroom

82. World Peace

Hey folks, C.W. here. Big Dope took his wife downstairs for martinis last night and is still asleep. I know he won’t mind if I borrow his platform. I do it all the time. Besides, it is for a very important topic.

World peace.

Yes, I said, “World peace.”

Now, what, you might wonder, do I know about world peace? A lot. On my planet of Falloonia, there exists no strife of the type your planet exhibits. War? We haven’t had one since the Tlogogian Epoch

How do we manage it? It is simple really. We are a happy species. What makes us happy? The most important contributing factor is our love of Suploficating. What, you will ask, is that? It is hard to explain but it involves the communal exciting of our Suploficate membrane, an appendage that can develop a quite pleasing sensation when we exercise it.

But enough of that. You humans have no such body part, at least none without dreadful side effects, so I have had to look for some external mechanism for making your individual units happy.

I have only found one.

It is … are you ready? The banjo. Playing it, that is. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always include listening to it, but playing it produces instant and universal joy. As your comedian and actor Steve Martin once said, “You simply cannot frown and play the banjo at the same time.”

So, here’s my plan.

Your country has committed, I understand, to build four new aircraft carriers at a cost expected to reach $10 billion each. The actual purpose of such a program is unclear to me but the stated reason is to produce world peace. Pardon me, but producing world peace with aircraft carriers seems to me like extinguishing a fire with gasoline, but never mind.

Here is my plan.

For the cost of constructing one aircraft carrier, we could purchase approximately 25 million banjos. This would be enough to outfit a substantial sample of the following, remembering that these categories overlap in many cases.

- Conservatives

- Hard-line Muslims and Israelis

- End-times evangelicals

- Right-wing radio hosts

- Military contractors

- The employees of Fox News

- Third-world dictators

- Others of a generally unhappy disposition

Now, for the cost of operating one aircraft carrier, estimated at a half a million dollars a day, we could supply an additional 1,250 instruments per day or 456,000 per year.

The beauty of my scheme is that each banjo would be equipped with headphones so that only the performer would have to listen to any given output.

Can you imagine Rush Limbaugh
after a few months with a banjo?

I know that you find yourselves overwhelmed by my simple logic.

Before you scoff, however, imagine Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, and the board of directors of Halliburton Corporation sitting around a table picking banjos.

Peace in our time!

Next time, I’ll offer my ideas for (1) eliminating hunger, (2) fixing your country’s physical environment, and (3) providing decent housing for everyone.

(Oh, and visit our sponsors; I'm saving for my own banjo).

47. Dialectics

For a moment I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but no. There on a bench near the post office were my old friends Lefty and Lucky, the conjoined twin, arguing as usual. C.W. usually doesn’t assume multiple shapes but he claims these two only account for one. I guess maybe he’s right.


As I neared them, I could catch the drift of their conversation.

“It has to be ‘Cat’s in the Cradle.’”

“Well then, I’m going to say ‘Having my Baby.’”

“No, Jerkoff, that’s unfair.”

“Why is that unfair, Dickhead?”

“That’s the worst song ever written, everyone knows that. It’s unfair.”

They stopped when they saw me. “What’s shakin’, Slick?” Lefty said.

“Not much,” I said. “What on earth are you guys doing?”

“We’re playing a game our friend Perry Carr taught us.” Lucky said. “It’s called ‘Name a song that you would rather blow your brains out than ever have to listen to again.”

“Some call it ‘Popular Dialectics,’” Lefty said. “You can also play a version of it called ‘The ‘Swarmiest TV evangelist’ on earth.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“But you can’t say Joel Olsteen,” Lucky interjected before I could say anything.

“Why?”

“Who could compete with him?” Lefty said.

“I see your point. So is this all you do all day?”

“What do you do all day?’ Lucky said. He sounded offended.

“Oh I write, paint, sculpt, pick the banjo, go for walks, you know.”

“What a douchebag,” Lefty said, Turning to Lucky. “Okay, here’s another: The Invasion of Iraq.”

“No, Crap For Brains. It was selling guns to the Ayatollah Khomeini to fund the illegal war in Nicaragua.”

“Dumbass, that wasn’t bad policy. It was just treason.”

“Let me guess,” I interrupted. “’Name the worst policy decision of the modern era.’”

“Listen to Einstein here,” Lefty said. “Maybe he ain’t so stupid, after all.

“He probably is, but why don’t you ask him for his entry?” Lucky said.

“Yeah, Fart Blossom,” Lefty said, turning to me. “What’s your opinion?”

I ignored the question. “C.W.,” I said. “When did you get interested in politics?”

“We’re not,” Lucky said. “We just get amused when your species starts wars without any plans for paying for them.”

“Or when you support assholes in foreign countries so you can maintain fuel for your beloved internal combustion engines,” Lefty chimed in.

“Hey,” Lucky said, “Let’s name the stupidest piece of equipment in the galaxy.”

“Cut it out you guys,” I said. Then, catching myself, “C.W.”

“You don’t want me to have any fun while I’m here, do you?” Lucky—C.W.—said.

“I thought you were just supposed to be analyzing us.”

Lefty looked at Lucky who just shrugged. “Why don’t you go for a walk?” he said, looking back at me.

Policy or treason, there was

just a faint smell of sulpher

about the whole matter - Lucky

I wandered off, hurt. For some reason, I thought of the Lee Greenwood song “God Bless the USA.” It was pushed out by “Boot-Scootin’ Boogie.” Then, “If I Were a Carpenter.” Oh, lord!

As for Lefty and Lucky, when I rounded the corner I could hear them start back up.

“A man hawking and spitting on the sidewalk,” Lefty said.

“No,” Lucky said. “It’s a woman wearing a short skirt and cowboy boots.”

20. Politics and Brotherhood

A group of friends and I were seated comfortably, enjoying the 25th year of the King Biscuit Blues Festival on the banks of the Mississippi River in Helena-West Helena, Arkansas. The crowd was loving the music. In fact, beer and enthusiasm had already combined to convince a number of folks to start dancing. It was a beautiful October day, and all seemed well with the world.

A friend sitting beside me offered to make a beer run before the next act, one of his favorites. He left and I became distracted by an elderly white lady dancing with a whole group of folks and anyone else who happened to walk by. A hand tapped me on the shoulder. It was my friend, the beer-runner, or so I thought.

“Perry,” I said. “You back already?”

“Shhh. Be quiet. I want to talk to you for a minute.”

Jeez. It was C.W. in the shape of my friend Perry. I had left the alien a while back sitting on the seat of a Harley Davidson Motorcycle on Cherry Street belting out a blues rendition of “The Promised Land, and in the shape of a motorcycle gang member.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I been walking around looking,” he said. “There are at least a dozen different races of folks gathered up here from all parts of the Globe having fun together. Look there.” He pointed at an elderly African-American man who had stopped and was dancing with the lady I mentioned earlier.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happens at blues festivals.”

“That’s amazing,” he said. “In many parts of your state, people leave their homes and move away to some dreadful place to avoid living near people of different races. Here they travel from all over to be together.”

“It’s something alright,” I said.

“Do the races get along this well all the time here?”

“Maybe not always.”

“Really. That’s too bad.”

“But,” I added. “I am told that people do work together as a single soul to put this show together.”

“Interesting,” he said.

We watched the act for a moment. A young guitarist was putting on a show and the crowd was urging him on.”

“I don’t much like the politics of your species,” he said from out of nowhere.

“I don’t think anyone does,” I said.

“Why don’t they change the process?” he asked.

“Too much cost sunk into maintaining it, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if Congress met only at blues festivals?”

I looked at him to see if he was serious. He was.

“Let me get back to you on that. Here comes Perry.” I pointed to our right.

When I glanced around, he was gone.

Perry eased back and handed me a beer. He started to say something but a wave of excitement moved through the crowd. There were shouts of: “Look,” and “I told you he was alive,” and “Oh my god, he’s real!”

It seemed that Elvis was walking along in front of our part of the park. He hurried along but stopped every once in awhile to wave.

“That goddam little twerp,” I thought to myself.

18. The Blues and Unified Theories

A crowd had gathered near the entrance to the Clinton Presidential Library and I could hear music so I walked that way. There, in the center of a great deal of excitement was a blues singer. Thin, leathery, and missing a couple of teeth, his ebony-black skin was glistening from the midday heat. He was picking a time-encrusted Fender Telecaster plugged into a small, battery-powered amplifier. He was belting a fair version of Kind-Hearted Woman Blues. The crowd loved it.

He finished a verse, added a neat run on the A minor scale and finished. “Thankee,” he said to the crowd’s approving applause. That’s when I knew.

Yeah, it was C.W. alright. But how did he learn to sing? I remembered the last time he tried. It was pitiful. I stood and watched as a few coins sailed into his guitar case.

“Thankee, thankee,” he said. “Now I got to be goin’. The city don’t allow no guitar playing colored men in their parks. I be back later.” He gathered the coins, stored his guitar, and looked up at me. He grabbed his amp and guitar and walked over.

“Jimbo.”

“Don’t call me that. And what are you doing?”

“Let’s walk,” he said.

So there we went. A strange couple if there ever was one. A fat old white man and an ageless blues singer ambling along as if the world had been created in their honor.

He broke the silence first. “Tell me what you think is the most moving literature your planet has produced so far—I mean that which has most affected the way your people write in prose and poetry.”

I thought. “Maybe Shakespeare?”

Good choice. Some would argue the Bible but for some reason your myth-spirits gave Brother Bill a big edge in the writing business.” He looked over at me. “You white folks got funny ways.”

I ignored him and kept walking.

“Now what poetic meter did Billy use?”

“I am told that it was the iambic pentameter.”

“Precisely, Now tell me what modern form of music do you find most expressive, emotionally that is, and across the broadest spectrum of folks.”

It was a trick question and I knew it. “Maybe the Blues.”

“Maybe. Now what rhythm does it employ?”

“Iambic pentameter.”

He started singing: “This old man got a funny point to make ...”

“What?”

“This old man got a funny…”

“Cut that out, C.W.,” I snapped just as we met two tourists coming from the other direction. They scowled at me.

“Your species is real interested in finding a so-called “unified theory of the universe.”

“Yes, and?”

“Maybe it’s the iambic pentameter,” he stopped to study a sculpture of a boy and his grandfather heading off on a fishing trip. “Or maybe fishing.”


The Blues Rule!



“What on earth are you talking about and where did you learn to sing?”

“I’m talking about the tendency of your species to look for answers in all the wrong places,” he said as we walked on. “And I got my music abilities at the Crossroads.”





Editor's Note: C.W. wants me to remind everyone that the Arkansas Blues and Heritage Festival will take place in Helena-West Helena, Arkansas on October 7, 8, and 9, 2010. See www.bluesandheritagefest.com. He is threatening to appear on some street corner. I don't know.