Honky Tonkin' Hillbilly Heroin

Last night in NOLA was really cool.
Suite Seats at The Hive, to see the Hornets (Bucs) beat the Bucks in dramatic fashion. I temp-tattooed this logo on my neck for fun.
Fresh sushi con wasabi, shrimp cocktail, marinated crab claws, fried catfish, nachos grande, fresh fruit, and complimentary beer (or double Sprites in my case). Lavish spread, not exactly following theme for the NBA Classics Throwback Night.
Victory high-fives, shennanigans, and the mass exodus to the happy streets.
Then the obligatory drive through the Quarter, past the beaten path, which on this night was a better strain of touristy, now that Mardi Gras has passed. No, Bourbon Street and the Vieux Carre will be there any other day, so it was a groovy crooze across Esplanade around Elysian Fields and a block over to Frenchman Street for a big easy night in the eclectic Marigny. This is the beloved NOLA that we seek after dark.
As luck would have it, we secured 1 of only 2 tables at The Apple Barrel, just before the after-11 crowd came sauntering. Then the Hipshakers turned the place into the sweetest little juke joint south of the Mason-Dixon. Original Nawlins Blues, on a postage stamp stage. The only thing missing was room enough for more than 1 couple to dance at a time, so hipshaking was limited to standing room only, or in the seats for those of us fortunate enough to have one.
After 2 sets, and rather full tipjars for the bartender and band, we departed for a stroll in the cool night air. The bohemian gypsies and street freaks were joyful, even cordial. Micro jam sessions breaking out on every other street corner or on stoops of this place or that. Happy, joyous and free, if only for a little while. No Lucky Dog vendors to be found. There was a big Taco Van, though. And musical vibes from every direction.
Then it was time for the 2am express back to the Red Stick. We had gotten the blues injection we needed, and a little gravy on our shoes.

But I still have a wicked case of the rock&roll pneumonia and the boogiewoogie flu.
I tried to sleep it off today, but now it's Saturday night, and I'm jonesin' for a cure.
Mandatory hiatus from honky tonkin, due to wicked knee injury while playing basketball.
And staying home on Saturday night is not something that is completely foreign to me, but doing it sans alcohol or drugs seems to be quite unnerving. There was a time when I would relish the oportunity to shack up for the night on a weekend. Hell, I could even clean my bathroom or do laundry and watch bad tv, but I was doing so higher than a Georgia pine. Now it is awful quiet, even with my best X music blaring. These chili-pepper lights don't look quite as fun without the psychadelic LSD, or some sweet chronic over smooth sippin whiskey. And cleaning and/or laundry seem so overwhelmingly laborious without the warm blanket of oxycontin shrouding my laziness. As a matter of fact, nothing seems as cool without the roxy and the oxy. Except honky tonkin. That remains a constant with or without the hillbilly heroin. I know now that I am chemically dependent, even if I have not had a single micron of mood-altering substance in what has to be approaching 80 days. Not one cold beer. Not even a warm cup of coffee. I mean tee-fucking-totalling drug & alcohol & caffeine free. I'm down to about 3 cigarettes a day, and a shitload of tonic & lime, or sprite, and the occasional rootbeer. I think I used to be cool, even if I was slurring with eyes half open. So what. Now I am uber self-conscious, tattered libido, and evaporating ego. Transcending my ass. Big deal, so I am gradually becoming comfortable in my own skin. That doesn't change the fact that most nights I still want to jump the fuck right out of it and run from or with the wolfpack, and get higher than a wildcat. But I digress.

Out of the frying pan into the fire. I got what I needed last night, but tonight it's gettin me.

I'd rather be in some dark holler, where the sun don't never shine.
Than to be alone, just knowing that you're gone, as I slowly lose my mind.
So blow your whistle freight train
Take me farther on down the track
I'm goin away, I'm leavin today
I'm goin and I ain't comin back.

Thank you Dwight Yoakam, and all you other rounders.
Guitars & cadillacs
& hillbilly music...the only things that keep me hanging on.



n'm'0ut

Make it through the night.

Just saw Kris Kristofferson on The Colbert Report, of all places.
And he picked a tune on his acoustic & sang. Dressed all in black.
Yesterday is dead and gone
And tomorrow is out of sight
And it's bad to be alone
Help me make it through the night

As it went along, I heard a train whistle blowin' in the distant night air.
Reminded me of hopping trains for midnight rides back in Plano, highschool sneakouts.
And I love train songs.
Hear that long lonesome train whistle crying in the wind
Hear that long lonesome sound that's become my only friend.
When it whispers out my name, that's when the tears begin to roll
Cause there's a world out there awaitin' me, and I know it's time to go.


Rock & Roll Pain Train.
All aboard.
Cold blue steel rails.
Smokestack black night.
Hear my train coming for me.
Hey Porter!

Death Lives in the Rock-House

Email from Mom:

XXXXXX’s mom kicked him out after she got her credit card bills for last month. He had been stealing her credit cards for cash withdrawals to buy crack, and then putting the cards back in her purse. Since he didn’t have any place to go, he checked himself into a detox clinic here in XXXXXX for 7 days, then he will go to a half-way house for 3 months. Since he doesn’t have a job, he will live and work there for them cleaning, etc. He tried it before and checked himself out, but XXXXXX’s husband has had it with him and said he can’t come back there.

Crack killed AppleJack. He jumped in and he couldn't jump back.

He was just too blind to see that... Death lives in the rock-house.

Juke Joint Jezebel Jam

Embroidered shirts with snap buttons.
Handmade boots and rockabilly tattoos.
Chrome microphone and steel guitar.
Upright bass and a Bob Wills beat.
Infectious grooves with a contagious smile.
Cash, Cline, Haggard, Williams...meet Holiday!













I'm gonna give up honky tonkin' one more time
I'll put down that demon whiskey, beer and wine
Gonna drop down on my kneeses, give my life to Jesus
Gonna give up honky tonkin' one more time

You'll never see me in that honky tonk again
I'll straighten up, fly right and end this life of sin
My liver's needin' surgery, I'm off to join the clergy
Gonna give up honky tonkin' one more time

But if I weaken, and go out seekin'
The company of an old time used to be
No sense in lyin', I'm not denyin'
This bottle has got a hold on me

So if you see me in that honky tonk downtown
I'm not alone in here, my friend just look around
I'm not sneakin', I'm not hidin' the fact that I'm backslidin'
If you see me in that honky tonk downtown

But if I weaken, and go out seekin'
The company of an old time used to be
No sense in lyin', I'm not denyin'
This bottle has got a hold on me

So I'm gonna give up honky tonkin' one more time
I'll put down that demon whiskey, beer and wine
Gonna drop down on my kneeses, give my life to Jesus
Gonna give up honky tonkin' one more time

Yeah, I'm gonna give up honky tonkin' one more time



I take my hand off to that Gal.
Then I just fade into Bolivian.



Free dancing tonight, free beer tomorrow.
Backslidin' with boots on, the old 12 step shuffle.
Same ole New Orleans blues.
See you in that honky tonk downtown, Gal!
Smilin' under the neon moon.

n'm'out

Resonating Reznorative

Back in the saddle again. Horn-grabbin' wrist-strappin' spur-jinglin' yeehaw-hollerin' cowboy freestyle.
Starched & pressed in a shirt that doesn't fit this new frame anymore; last year's tie a hangman's noose.
Lucida Grande. Fontification. Put your typeface on. It's gametime. Color separation. Matriculation.
Morning meditations betwixt sun salutations. Warrior pose versus low post headfake, spin, up and in.
Is this stress or willpower pushing free weight? 5 reps of 12, and off you go. Yardpass to nowheresville.
Shoot from the hip, full clip of hollowpoints in my airified lovegun.
Jamming classic karaeoke on this Smith&Wesson 9mm guitar hero, 38 to zero in nothing flat.
Evaporating culture, clubbed in the head, signed, baby-sealed and delivered. Postage due.
Violently executing now that which could be perfectly executed next week. Ride the lightning.

I'm becoming less defined as days go by
Fading away
And well, you might say
I'm losing focus
Kinda drifting into the abstract in terms of how I see myself
Sometimes I think I can see right through myself
Sometimes I can see right through myself
Less concerned about fitting into the world
Your world that is
Cause it doesn't really matter anymore
No it doesn't really matter anymore
None of this shit really matters anymore
Yes I am alone but then again I always was
As far back as I can tell
I think maybe it's because
Because you were never really real to begin with
I just made you up to hurt myself
And it worked.
YES IT DID!