---- 

(Falstaff) The haunting solitude that accompanies the protagonist behind the wheel can reach psychotic tendencies if we are left to ponder the possibilities serenaded only by the monotonous drone of tire on pavement. For me, the importance of music in the car was instilled at a young age.  I distinctly remember accompanying my father in musical bliss on many a car ride 
swathed in faded denim and Terry Bradshaw replica jersey (number 12 in your hearts and in your score-book).  My father never fooled around when it came to his automotive musical selections.  A short trip to the grocery store was always surrounded in Charlie Parkeresque swirls while longer sojourns still echo with Miles Davis epics. Every trip had its specific 
sound. 

Thus the torch is passed. 

The frivolous, chumming in the water, evening in Princeton, West Virginia was encouraged by the punishing sounds of My Life with the Thrill Cult (Confessions of a Knife Wax Trax 1989). Before Cousin Red and I ascended into our reality of debauchery we were reminded that as "Christian zombie vampires" we would forever remain "the father(s) of nothing" significant. We confirmed poor decisions by bobbing our heads in unison certain in our knowledge that we would always be "Kooler that Jesus". 

Indiana.  Even before I crash-landed into the Ohio River I had ideas that Indiana was going to be significant. I had been told tall tales involving wholesome Midwestern values that I had convinced myself that once there I would become a different me.  Maybe I would be a kinder and gentler Flagstaff. Perhaps I would finally remember that overdue Mothers Day card...  Anticipating this, I readied myself with a collection of Brazillian sambas (Samba Brazillia, Hemisphere -1995). The Samba sound always equaled a gyrating fiesta so I was certain this music would ensure my new good nature.  It failed.  Although some people would consider amber waves of grain to be pacifying, yours truly did not.  The only moral transformation that was happening within me was that of increasing frustration.  I was in America's heartland and was having a musical 
coronary.  In a fit of desperation I punched the "prog" key and was soothed. The white picket fences of Middle American was whitewashed by the raspy truth of Tom Waits (Nighthawks at the Diner -Ryko1972). The CD's masochistic poetry confirmed my suspicions that all was not entirely "moral" in Indiana.  I was now pleased and let the landscape cower before me. 

Dead in the Water - Deadwood, SD 

     (Red) As I sit here chain smoking Camels and quaffing cold Budweiser I am reminded of a lesson learned by Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy in Paulo Coelho's "The Alchemist" who is off following his Personal Legend.  He has traveled a great distance and still must cross the desert to get to Egypt and the Pyramids where his treasure is to be found.  A powerful 
Alchemist tells Santiago that he must sell his camel and buy a horse in order to get to the Pyramids.  Santiago doesn't understand until he learns that camels will walk and walk seemingly to no end, until they suddenly kneel and die.  On the other hand, a horse will tire slowly and you will always know how far you can push it. 
     As smoke curls up from between my fingers I glance at the pack of cigarettes lying beside me with its familiar subliminal beast standing proudly before a pyramid.  I have to laugh.  It is time for me to start treating the Clipper like the horse she is and not the Camel I try to make her.  Our breakdowns have added the unpredictable edge that the Chumming.Com staff certainly does relish but...  I have been going against the natural grain for the past 2 weeks and trying to survive on Camels.  Of course a horse will run like a camel if you fill it full of ether and turn it loose on the back roads of Amerika...  but is that the best idea? 
     A finicky high-performance Holley carburetor has been strapped to the back of our beast by some unforgiving soul along the way and it is time to get things back in order.  Tow-job after tow-job has been a result of this crappy piece of machinery and no one along the way has been willing or able to rectify our situation.  But necessity breeds invention, or maybe I am just beginning to follow the signs.  It took meeting a relative of mine on the vast plains of the Cheyenne River Indian Reservation outside a town that bears my name.  It was during breakdown #2 for the day that carb expert Mike was able to pound it into my thick skull.  The Clipper is a horse that needs a rest... and get rid of that piece of shit carb. 
     So it's 105 degrees and we are waiting for the weekend to pass so that we can begin our search from this small town for a late model carburetor and someone with the gumption to make the swap.  But Deadwood isn't such a bad place to be... just look down the hill to "Gulches of Fun" and you will see a throng of happy campers frolicking in the oppressive heat with no concern for their survival...  foolish beasts. 

(Falstaff)

Keep it Real (part 2) West Virginia 

Blue Hawaiian dreams 
Of velvet love 
And acres of astroturf, 
Succumb to gentlemanly suggestions. 

Slick pole ruptures 
My baseline spine 
And purges your teasing. 

"How am I doin'?" 
I don't know 
And you don't care. 
But can that thing make change? 

A day late 
And a dollar short, 
I'm the sucker born last minute. 

U-touch, U-go. 
I went. 
And door #5 
Glows in video. 

--- 

Keep it Real (part 3) Chicago 

Hyde Park symmetry 
Lets me believe 
That I want 
What I can have. 

I have licked 
The same spot twice. 

Will the center be as juicy?