Tuesday, April 29, 2008

The Devil and Mr Johnson

The night was black as burned flesh.  Robert stood at the front of the room, draining a watery beer and feeling its meager coolness dissipate inside him, slaking his thirst and soothing his parched throat a little but mostly accentuating for him how hot it was inside the packed roadhouse.  He’d played a solid set, old songs as well as his own stuff, and the rhythm of his guitar and of dancing madness still seemed to resonate off the unfinished boards of the walls and roof.  The crowd, charged by his art and mysterious energy, still milled restlessly.  They wouldn’t leave till the kegs were kicked, but Robert wouldn’t be sticking around so long as that.  He was being pestered by hoochies whose charms had long since worn thin; the men were drunk and seemed to be growing increasingly frustrated and belligerent about the diminishing supply of alcohol and female attention. 

He’d sung enough songs and smelled enough sweat for the night.  Grabbing his hat and his guitar, he pushed his way out the back door.  A few partygoers had congregaed there but they didn’t slow him down - though a few tried with come-on queries and jaw-thrusting challenges.  “Back off, back off,” he barked at them all, seeking the refuge of the night’s anonymity.  “Y’all don’ wan’ nothin’ from me, I’y burn right through ya - don’ tempt the devil ‘less ya ready fo’ hell!” Though his curse produced a few giggles from the women and some mutters from the men, they left him be.

As he walked, the clean air, rich with the scents of the earth, filled his senses and cleared his mind.  Still warm in the sweltering night, a clarity arose within him, an energizing cleanliness.  All was still and dark, yet he felt static crackling just beneath everything.  Things felt portentious.

A few minutes of wide-striding lopes through the moonless night put him at the crossing of a rough country road and a crude dirt track.  Once the spot had been shaded by a large tree; he sat down on its stump, pushed his hat back on his head, wiped the sweat from his brow, and sat for a moment, absorbing the quiet through his skin.  When the laughter and footsteps came up from behind him, they seemed to have arrived out of thin air. 

******

Jimi’s hand ached, but it was way down over there, at the end of an arm that seemed impossibly long.  His skin was hot; he lapped the sweat from his upper lip with a snake of a tongue.  There were people; he knew some of them, had flashes of recognition of others.  Chicks lay like cushions on the flowing paisley carpets and some dude had a joint and an eyedropper.  He reached for the dropper with that aching hand but had difficulty navigating the distance back to his eyes, so a chick rose up and helped him get two drops per pupil.  He mumbled a thanks that sounded like a cat trapped in a piano and managed to snag the j; three deep drags and the colors kicked in. 

Details congealed: he’d been recording some tracks, after a show, not sure where - not Seattle, or New York, or London, or any of those cold damp city places - this was a hot damp place in the country, and it felt like it was getting hotter by the second.  He discovered himself standing, his axe in his hand.  His head rotated and he sensed the atmosphere in the studio closing in on him.  “I gotta get some air,” his voice said, and though the sound echoed in his ears no one seemed to have heard him.  The door was before him; miles away, a hand he’d once owned turned a burnished, grinning knob.

Fresh air bathed his face.  He realized it was almost as hot outside as it had been in the studio, but the blackness of the night was tranquil and soothing, and a whisper of a breeze eased his burning head.  The strat in his hand hung almost to the ground; he observed dispassionately that a shorter man would be dragging it along the rough road down which he found himself ambling.  He pulled off his bandanna and shook out his afro.  Fresh air, real colors, the absence of sound, the billowing of his wide lapels and flared trousers and extravagant hair… He felt refreshed, but something more as well - a pregnant potential, as if he were at some kind of precipice, the edge of a cliff or a diving board, and everything around him was calling on him to jump into something new.  A crack opened in the earth before him and he leapt it, both feet landing in twin puffs of dust.  He was looking at them and laughing when a voice came from outside his head to interrupt his reverie: “Who the hell are you, boy?  And what the hell is that? 

*****

A wiry man sat on a stump, beads of sweat rolling down his dark skin and beams of power shooting from his fingertips and eyes.  He wore a suit the way a fieldhand wears dungarees and his broadbrimmed hat sat well back on his head, forming a black halo that made the whites of his eyes gleam all the more preternaturally.  An expression of wry disbelief was on his face and a battleworn acoustic axe waited at the ready by his strong right hand.  “Can you hear me, boy?  Are you for real?”

Jimi smiled big and nodded.  “I’m a voodoo chile,” Jimi replied, “runnin’ wild on a country mile.  What’s your story, man?”

Robert was relieved and smiled back; he’d honestly not been quite sure that this lanky devil in the crazy outfit was really for real.  There was something about this guy that seemed unusual, besides the bizarre hair and the strange clothes.  Robert had been mouthing off lately about doing some summoning - mostly to give the mamas a thrill and get a little sugar off’em.  This guy, though, seemed summoned, and now that he was there, Robert wasn’t sure what to do about it. 

Part II later this week.  as if you can’t tell what happens. 

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Redeem This, Local Merchant!

Hey welcome back and I hope you’ve had a good weekend.  Mine was delightful.  I could wax eloquent about the wonders of vacuuming under my dresser or catching up on an old episode of Lost, but really, why should I rub it in?  The weather was perfect, we had a good time at the beach and in the park, and I’m all geared up to see old friends this week before jetting off to my ol’ college town for a good-natured bacchanal at the bowling alley.  Meantimely, I thought I’d remind you that passover is now past and over for one more year.  In case you were paying attention to, I don’t know, your cuticles or something, here’s a recap:

First night, first seder: we went down to Shariar and Helena’s lovely Palo Alto condo for a solid ceremonial fix.  Highlights included one total newbie (always a big plus), a very active and engaged reading of the hagadah with some damn fine questions and comments at along, a symbolic “pesach” consisting of a small ewe-shaped magnet (heaven forfend it be mistook for the real thing), both traditional (yum) and nouveaux (yeaum) charoset, the best damn chicken soup with matzo balls I’ve ever made, both standard gefilte fish and awesome tuna poke (sashimi chunks in sauce), double tzimmes, a spectacular sephardic spinach omlette thing, and this brisket, man, you would not believe how good it was - and we wrapped up with a flourless milk chocolate cake and a flourless dark chocolate cake, with Kel’s famous lemon bars for a little zest.  (re-reading this, I realize I left out the 12-hour-roasted eggs, that I, a non-hard-egg-eater, found totally irresistable.) The kids failed to find the aphikomen (I put a time limit on it) so we all split the surprisingly delicious grand prize of chocolate covered matzo, and they all got fun light-up animal keyrings that seemed to placate them.  We were there till after 10, and felt the glow for many days thereafter.

(note: nouveaux charoset contains fuji apples, pecans, wanluts, pistachios, dried cherries, sultanas, honey, cinnamon, salt, black pepper, and garnacha red wine.  traditional style was apples, cinnamon, and some left-around zinfandel.  They both rocked.)

Kick it forward a few days - I get an email from Mitch, who’s hosting seder #2 - he’s looking for matzo.  As you may not have known, there was a serious shortage of the bread of affliction all around the bay area and we couldn’t scrape up a scrap of the damn stuff.  At the last minute, basically, his mom airlifts (via fedex) a five-pack to him, and we meet for lunch so he can lend me a box wherewith I have been making my favorite matzobrie breakfasts (mixing in cinnamon and jelly with the egg and soaking it in honey, what a deadly way to start a morning...) So I’m feeling pretty good about the passover scene in general. 

Then we get to Mitch and Catharine’s seder this saturday just past (day 8, the official final night).  We hit the “ghetto farmhouse” where they make their fabulous crib and start socializing with a cubic buttload of awesome folk - we wind up being a crowd of about 23, I think.  The house seems a bit under-prepared for the ceremonies, though, and I’m surprised… till Mitch orders us all outside where, by their carriage house (yes dude they have a carriage house, this place totally rocks) (they even have a “safe room” but it isn’t particularly secure, it just actually has a huge old safe in it!) by their carriage house, as I was saying before so rudely parenthetically interrupting myself, where they’ve set up a gorgeous al fresco table for us in the warmth of the evening.  We read Mitch’s hagadah with vigor and enthusiasm, because it’s funny and interesting, and we enjoy a meal which Mitch cooked all by himself for all of us, consisting of:

* Duck soup with duck confit matzo balls (the meat minced and mixed into the dough for the balls)
* Morrocan matzo brei with peas, topped with house-made harissa
* “Franks and beans” - house-made seafood sausage with cannilini beans, marinated pickled veg and watercress
* Intermezzo: house-made campari granita
* Braised short ribs (to die for) with sweet potato and horseradish mash and greens
* Chocolate cheesecake (house made, of course) with whipped gorgonzola dulce creme fraische sauce

Wines included: Gattinara Traviglini Giancarlo 2002 (a powerhouse), Arbois Pinot Noir 2004, Marea cinque-terre 2005 (a white that totally stood up to the intense reds surrounding it), Artesia 04 Cab Sauv (Napa), and a really noteworthy Paolo Bea Montefalco Rosso Riserva 2000 (and let’s not forget the plentiful house-made seltzer!).  Little Olivia found the aphikomen and got a grab bag of prizes, and the other kids got good consolation gifts; we tore ourselves away at 11 pm but could have stayed there laughing and drinking and talking - mostly about the exodus, of course, we’re very focused on the essentials - all night long. 

So now you’ve been updated till your gills are ready to burst, I suppose.  I’ll try to follow up with some sort of short story-ish thing.  I thank you for your time, and congratulate you all on a well-deserved redemption.  Moses out. 

Thursday, April 24, 2008

You don’t look a day over… urm… you’re looking quite well-preserved, anyway

Well I’m glad you’ve had a restful time of it; some of us have to work for a living.  However, it’s worth noting that today* marks a special anniversary.  (pause for confused googling.) In addition to which, it also happens to be my birthday.  (pause for irritated groans of understanding.) As is my traditional wont, I have prepared a moving self-testimonial in the form of rhyming crap to celebrate the occasion.  You are welcome to search my archives and find previous such poesy - I refer you to april 03, april 04, may 05 (april was not a good month that year), april 06, and april 07.  I don’t have the time to hunt down the links for you; I’ve got an army of angry mutants to subdue.  But not before I share as follows:

Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute
ten pound sack with twelve pounds in it
but a man of rare accomplishment can fit a little more -
Find his digits, call his pager
wake him from an all-night rager
yes the man you want is Daniel-san, for Daniel’s 44.
He can see you crawl and cower
from his awesome perch of power
and his trophybelt’s a-dangle with the prizes he has took;
Gird your loins and say your prayers
city keys from all the mayors
get your king into the castle or he’ll play you for a rook.
With a grip of tensioned steel
squeeze the juice and smoke the peel
don’t exceed the standard dosage or you’ll surely pay the price -
Buildings shiver when he passes
melts the lenses from your glasses
fills your heart with questing hunger and your veins with boiling ice.
He’s the sober blade of justice
makes you understand what lust is
you’d be wise to leave him leeway or he’ll mow you to the ground;
Trials for your tribulation
he’s a walking celebration
of the everloving victory of fury over sound.
Half-piano, quad-eleven
he’s a little slice of heaven
he can give you what you’re wanting if you know how to implore;
Meet your favorite kind of trouble
rising raging from the rubble
forging forth to force the fortresses, for Daniel’s 44!

So go out and party on my behalf already.  I have a planet to save.  If you’re lucky, it’s yours!

* okay I posted this a day early.  sue me.  I freakin’ dare ya.