There's No Place Like Home

There's No Place Like Home

Scrambling for work today. Nothing from the temp agency. Had to re-apply online for the grocery store. One of the guys there (who hired in the same day I did and is now going between cashier and low-level management) told me there was no reason for them not to hire me back. "They've gone through 30 people since you left."

Also went back downtown to the library, which I'd done with Katie last night.

Last week, our Wednesday night was very special. She was here late, and we watched TV and snuggled, and it hit me very hard just how weird this all is. She's not far away now, but I still only see her a couple times a week, and I still have to take her home, which was harder Wednesday night than it has been for a long time.

But our time together is beautiful, and that's what matters.

Last night, we came back here for dinner, then downtown. I parked by the river and the big stadiums, and we walked up into downtown. Just walking, talking, BEING. Not our usual night, but perfect.

I said something about school, and she told me she wanted to go back to her school to visit when she gets older. She'll be leaving there for kindergarten in a couple months. "I did that a couple times, honey."

"You did? Did you have memories? You missed your friends? I'm going to miss my friends. We're all going to different schools now. We had good times. It was so perfect."

The strain in her little voice was so pure, so sweet, but still hurting.

"Well honey, you'll still have good times. Maybe even better. And new friends. It's hard to move on. I know that. Right now I'm moving back here, and I'm really going to miss my apartment and everything in Indianapolis, and it really does kinda hurt. I don't like that feeling, but I know it can be even better here. I can have more than I had there. And I'll be with you. That's what makes it better. But I know what you mean. I'm sure you'll find new friends and have even better times than you did before."

She thought for a moment. "You're right, Daddy. I bet my new school will be LOTS of fun. I cna't wait to meet new friends!"

Funny how her mood lifted so quickly.

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"Sometimes I'm with my daughter, and I'm walking with her, and talking with her, and I pick her up and look at her and I think that the relationship I have with her now is going to affect her relationship with men for the rest of her life. And I realize then that my only job as a father is to keep her off the pole. Keep my baby off the pole! They don't grade fathers, but if your daughter is a stripper, you fucked up!" - Chris Rock

"I'm a dancer."

"Really? Looks like I'm moving out too soon." Big smile.

"Wanna see my tattoos?"

"Uhhhh...yeah..."

She must be quite the Aerosmith fan...

"Uhhh, nice. You CAN pull that top down a little farther. Or do you need a dollar?"

"Give me a dollar and I'll laugh at you. I can do better than that."

"Let's see...here's my wallet...hey, I've got a twenty. Do you do private showings? I mean, there's a bush back there we can..." I started laughing before I could finish.

She thought I was funny.

She laid out her basic philosophy of life, which pretty much revolves around using her "assets" to get as much money as possible. I loved how she referred to the guys as her "clients" in the same way my lawyer friend would say that word. Yeah, clients. Of course, I guess if you're getting cash to have a 400 pound trucker splooge his caffiene-ridden semen on your stomach, THAT is a client.

Not all strippers are whores too. But come on. This little girl has served more cock than a Chick-Fil-A.

She told me she's 20 years old. Pants, meet wood. She told me about the friend who was about to pick her up for work. "She's really cute, but she kinda looks like Tom Petty. You know who he is?"

"Sure, I've played a few of his songs in bands before"

Her already crack-heightened eyes got really big. "You're a musician??? I've GOT to see your guitars!"

Pants, meet...oh, you know the rest...

So before I knew it, I was in my apartment, sitting on the floor across from a beautiful but fairly scary crackwhore stripper who was holding my guitar. Moving her hand up and down like...oh shit...

Shoulda gave her the bass. As the Prophet Claypool once said, it's longer, and those low frequencies keep the sperm count higher.

At this point, I'm breathing heavier, completely wanting to fuck this girl at the same moment that every RATIONAL part of my being is saying "If you stick your dick in THAT, it'll explode."

Her friend pulled in. Long straight blonde hair, with obvious dark roots. Quite pretty, but sonofabitch, she DOES like like Tom Petty's kid.

I bade them goodbye. Thank Christ. THAT was fuckin' weird.

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"False gods will bring the devil the blues
And the blues do not themselves excuse
Don't come from the blues, if the blues are empty
Hell is filled
Don't slander me ma-ma-ma, don't slander me and you."
- Roky Erickson

Only seven more gigs with the band.

The best place for us to do our more aggressive side, it was our third time there. Great fun. I usually hang around and try to talk to women afterwards, but every one in there seemed to be with a guy. Most of them were older this time, many in their 40s. And looking damn good for the most part. One particularly pleasant looking cornfed lady with beautiful blonde hair framing a weathered but lovely face came up to me on every break, asking for songs we didn't know. But some good ones. Never had anyone ask for Van Morrison's Tupelo Honey before. She came up and danced a lot, often with her boyfriend/husband/whoever .

The guy that's possibly going to replace me was there, and intends to be at most of the rest of our gigs until he's in. Nice guy. But when he told me who he was, a nice little bit of arrogance shot up my system. "I'm gonna fuck with this guy's head", I thought to myself.

I played a LOT of notes. I can do this shit a lot more effectively and intelligently than I used to, but I still went out of my way to be as aggressive and note-y as the music would allow.

And I scared the shit out of him. He said it himself at the end of the night. Hehe. I'm such a prick.

Of course, he doesn't have to do 1/10th of what I did that night, and I told him how I played most of the stuff very simply for the first few months I was back in, because you can, and what the fuck. I still lay out nothing but the groove almost half the time, but I push it hard enough to be noticeable, and I think that's the best thing a rock bass player can do. You don't need chops for this stuff. It's about BALLS.

At soundcheck, I laid out a basic groove, and the others jumped in on a straight blues progression. I got up to the mic and sang a Roky Erickson tune that nobody within 10 miles save for our singer would likely have known. It would have been good too, if not for the lack of rhythmic propulsion behind me. I'll let the musicians have fun with that thought. Fuckin' drummers...

The solo version of Rockin' In The Free World got a great response, and I even heard a couple guys in the back singing along. I sang it great too, up until the last note out of my mouth. As Stone and L.A. will remember, I always came out of the last chorus with a loud "Freedom!" that isn't on any version I know of Neil doing it, but he did add that to a live version of Crime In The City (one of my favorites, also originally on the Freedom album) and I thought it fit here well too. When I hit that last word, I did the most accurate impersonation of Tonight's The Night-era Neil I've ever pulled off. Which is to say I cracked all over the fucking thing like I'd just downed eight beers and hit puberty.

Somehow that was kinda cool. Too bad the entire upper half-octave of my vocal range was shot to shit for the rest of the night, though.

Getting towards sundown here in SW Ohio. I havne't even bothered bitching about my problems with my bank in the past week, but maybe tomorrow I'll actually be able to USE that check my grandma so kindly gave me. Got some fuckin' bills to catch up on, and Bill wants me to tag along to a dinner tomorrow night with a couple online prog-fan buddies in town for the week.

Love,
Dougie