Terrorists In The Woodpile

Ahoy again, fellow planet denizens and those in orbit, alike. See, the thing is with these container laws they have here in Varmint these days, where there can't be an open container in the rig even if the driver is stone-cold sober, can't even be one in the trunk, really, you got to get home quick -- see, this to me is what I'd call DWI terrorism and it's a sign of how deeply the yuppies have estabished themselves in Varmint since the dark daze of the '80s when they started showing up here in strength. Thousands moved into Burlington alone and yet the population remained the same from the census of '80 til the census of '90. How's that possible if thousands moved in? Means thousands more were forced to move out. It's been putting a hurt on the never all that plentiful urban woodchuck population, rendering it endangered, at least.

They bark and bark and wring their hands over an old hipster just wants a beer on the way home from a dry and dusty day's work. And yet, if you dare to enter the health food stores and what used to be food coops, they got red wine stacked by the case, floor to ceiling. I said floor to ceiling, hoss. Now you know it ain't old hipsters or native woodchucks behaving as they traditionally have that's drinking up all of that wine, mister. Most can't even afford to look at these places, never mind find a suitable alkieholic beverage in one. See, it just ain't done. Which seems from where I stand to signal that they trust their own apparently limitless ability to drink red wine by the case without committing mayhem and mass murder but not your or my ability to drink a pint or two of ale, see. That's how it works.

So, you get this situation where the law here in what used to be Varmint forbids any kind of open bottle in the rig and also a breath test reading of only .08 that crossed means losing the license and who all knows what all more by the time the judge gets through with your ass. For a guy my size, what that translates to is if I meet two buddies down at the tavern, if we each buy a round, we're all illegal. Now, please. That shit ought to be against the law, itself. Hell, I've driven many times across this here continent with that much alcohol on board and never ran a nuke-waste-carrying truck off the highway or anything. Just minding my own business. I've done it even more times stone-cold sober because I couldn't have afforded a drink come hell or high water. Personally, I prefer the former.

One time headed west on that I-80, I hit a terrible ice storm outside Des Moines. If you drove more than eight or ten mph, you were headed for 360 land. Just creeping along. Cars off the highway on all sides. Then a truck pulling a flatbed trailer that in fact was hauling nuke waste passed me on the left. That did it. I pulled over at the next exit and slid and spun til I found the likeliest looking motel for the likes of you or me, that had a bar right next door, too. So, I stopped the rig for the night, took a shower, and headed for the bar with my guitar. I asked the bartender would he mind if I played a few for drinks. He didn't. Turned out he meant a literal few, though, and I required in those days about two fingers' worth and a beer per song. The bartender finally decided the ration of alcohol to songs was too high for comfort and put the kibosh on the whole deal. But wait! There was a guy at the bar sitting next to me, retired farmer, who got with Crispo's routine right away. Another Crispophile converted. He asked do you want to see some of Des Moines because I know other bars what would get with it and how if we was to show up on such a night. So I said, sure, let's do it. We took his wheels with him driving and proceeded to hit several other Des Moines bars that night and some parking meters, too. There. You see? The universe was once more in balance. Which it has to be of course or we're all goners. That's something the yuppie terrorists haven't realized yet.

Chuck The Mutt says if you want to keep yourself balanced, see, what you have to do is keep your keys in one pocket and your change in the other. If you have folding money, so much the better. It's lighter (always) and so doesn't disturb the balance. At least not in any amount's going to matter to the like of you or me.

You'll also note, ice storm or no ice storm, another Crispophile was made that night. That's one of the sure-fire ways of bolstering your fanbase, riding with a retired farmer through late night Des Moines in an ice storm, careening off guard rails from one gin mill to the next and ain't noone the worse for it. Keep that bottle coming, good boy; lord, I'm gettin' some dry inside.

Which is what gets me to the main point, see: In Varmint today you can't rock and roll in the bars for a living (however modest) no more. Ain't enough of them roadhouses left -- most of the ones we used to play in the long-ago '70s and even '80s aren't even there anymore. All closed up but a handful. Even the buildings are gone, now, in a lot of cases. But where there's only a handful of roadhouses in any one given time zone, that means, no way around it, that there's only a handful of gigs in any given time period, and of course, if you play those in too high a frequency per period of time, you wear out your welcome. Just the way it is. It's a law of the universe applies to you and me as much as it does to Nancy Sinatra. How many times a year you see her playing Vegas? Ok, then, point made.

Incidentally, back in the 90s, she posed for Playboy and I bought it, just to look at the pictures, and if you think her boots weren't made for walking well on into her 50s, well, then, partner, I don't have much else left to say.

And now, as Elwood has correctly observed on this here blog, they're going after Paris Hilton and handing her 90 days -- that's sixty more'n they gave that Whisky Willie -- for having a little fun. Now that just ain't right, and it is in fact a judicial overreach as Elwood put it. They always seem to be giving her some kind of shit, as they do us all, rich or poor, alike, apparently. It ain't like she's down at the tavern teasing fuzz-faced kids for beers, let's face it. If she were, we'd have a place to play for certain. Ain't a cowboy in Texas wouldn't ride a bull for .... Well, let's not get into all that.

But she's no Nancy Sinatra well on into her 50s, either, so maybe I could be off a few points, here, but not many, mister.

Dave Reisch told me last year that Lonesome Wayne is the last untamed American and he has a point, though there are a few more left. I ain't tamed, yet, for example, though they damned sure have me corralled here in Varmint, and that's a fact.

Here's the moral: If you make it illegal for people to have fun, there won't be enough places left for an honest picker to plunk. It is in fact just that simple.

Gone forever in Varmint are nights like the one where I closed up my band Hundred Proof back in the days, pre-End Of The Trail, last time Jeffrey was resident in this general zip code. So must've been '78. We called a farewell performance at a local watering hole what's still here but can't afford to pay musicians anymore because not enough people drink enough alcohol when they go out to make it worth the tavern owner's while. At that farewill performance, I'd invited all of my musician friends to come play with us. I talked the owner into cash for the band, of course, but also stipulated that anyone playing music that night was drinking for free. He squinted at me and asked, How many are you talking about? I told him there wasn't any way of knowing, really, but it would be a big band or close, and, hey, if you don't wanna have the farewell gig, here, someone else will there. A lot of people are going to be coming out, mister, and the next guy won't mind having his cash drawer full if'n you don't want to. He saw the sense in that, as people used to be able to, and we shook on it. My brother, the Other Sisco, had a fairly hefty tab going there, another historical phenomenon, now. He told the tavern owner he'd bet is tab the owner'd have the best tape he'd ever seen when he cashed out that night. So they shook on it.

Turned out there were thirteen people in the band that night, just shy of a big band what's traditionally 17, so let's call it a not quite big band. It was a goddam guitar orchestra's what it was, really.

Comes around 11:30 and two state cops walk in. The place was packed to the gills. Cars overflowing out of the parking lot and onto the shoulder of the highway in both directions. People were lit up and having a hell of a good time. Booze was flowing freely, people were smoking the hoot at will, some were even laying out white lines on the table tops.

Cops didn't once look to either side. They walked directly to the stage and one told me, Hey, a neighbor's complained because she said the music's too loud. Would you turn it down a little, please. I told him, sure, anyone can understand that. We all needs our beans and we needs our daily rest. So the cops says thanks and the both of them walk back out of the bar, again without looking to either side.

When the tavern owner ran his tape and cashed out for the night, my brother asked if he could see the tape. The owner refused but he did take John's tab and tear it up into tiny pieces tossed over his shoulder like confetti. Nuff said. Actions speak louder than words.

See, it was still a free country, then. Having fun hadn't been criminalized yet, nor my profession, either. It was our job to provide working people with a damned good time come their hard-earned weekend.

What's a crime is that if we did that today, celebration or not, the cops would have arrived with a SWAT team in full combat gear, marching like men who go "hut!" and chanting "War on drugs! War on drugs!" while beating cadence against their palms with steel-tipped riot clubs, like in *Vineland.*

And that shit just ain't right.