bobby lee black, bobbyleeblack
Actor, Artist, Writer & More...
Johnny’s Diner
By Bobby Black
The two plain-clothes cops that were questioning me, had taken a break and were regrouping on the other side of the two-way mirror that I was looking into. I leaned back and took a long drag off of the cigarette the ‘good cop’ of the team had given me before they left. Blowing the smoke directly into the interrogation lamp and starring up into the harsh light I wondered, how things ever got so far out of hand. Just about then they both stormed back in. One of them kicked the chair out from under me and I hit the floor with a thud. The other stood menacingly in the darkness, with a phone book in a pillowcase in one hand and a length of rubber heater hose in the other. The one that had landed me in the floor was leaning over me as he slapped the cuffs back on saying “This is it smart guy either talk to us or we’ll fix it so you don’t talk to no one ya dig?” and to further prove his point, helped me up by the hair. Just about then another cop dressed in a huge rubber pigeon suit walked in kind of cooing or whatever pigeons do. He points his rubbery wing at me and starts chanting he did it, he did it. Then as if that’s not weird enough, the other cops start in on the chant and they all three started circling me. Before it got any more bizarre a bell started going off which stopped the whole procession. Slowly they all started to fade and I began to realize that I was at home in bed lying in a pool of sweat coming out of yet another caffeine induced nightmare. The bell was still going off beside the bed, “oh man who could be calling this early” I moaned aloud as I picked the phone. My ears were ringing almost as loud as the phone had been but I managed to make out a faint whispering voice on the other end. It was Scotty, he had been up all night peeking out of his windows watching ‘them’ and was convinced that ‘they’ were on their way to get him as we spoke. The minute I opened my mouth to talk I felt kind of a sticky film in my mouth that had the distinct taste and smell of rat sex, how I know what rat sex smells or tastes like is another story but rest assured I do know! I assured him that ‘they’ weren’t and suggested a little food and some sleep might make it all seem a little less life threatening. After spending another few minutes convincing him that I wasn’t in cahoots with ‘them’ he agreed to meet me at Johnny’s Diner. I fired up the tattoo mobile and roared off toward a grease soaked breakfast, mulling over the events that had led up to this torturous morning. Echoing in my mind was the infamous precursor to most of the felonious events of my life, “It all started innocently enough, no one had intended it to get out of hand.” See, Scotty, Dusty and I had been working at the emporium the day before. We were all pulling doubles (10am ‘til midnight). Dusty had just put about 400 miles on his bike the night before and Scotty had spent the evening doling out a few miles of one dollar bills at some strip joint so they were both a little punchy. That in itself would have been enough to make it an unusual day but then around 3 o’clock or so, I got the bright idea of having a Blue Ox / Red Bull marathon. Dusty bought the first round, of two Red Bulls each. We downed those and I bought us two Blue Oxes each, down they went as well. Then Scotty did his duty, and this continued into the night. After a few hours Dusty was just sitting in the corner with a maniacal grin on his face caught in the punch line of some joke he was too wired to tell. Scotty’s head had been exuding so much heat that all the pomade in his hair had melted and ran down the back of his neck leaving him with an even more intense ‘who crapped in my cheerios’ scowl than usual. Not to mention second degree burns on his lower back where the heated hair grease pooled. And I had gotten to the point that I would either burst out in laughing fits for no apparent reason or start ranting about something no one but me could understand. Strangely as time rolled on there were fewer and fewer people that wanted to get tattooed by any of us. It got to the point that if I asked someone if they had been helped they would say yes whether they had or not, just to avoid dealing with me. Yeah, we never intended for it to get out of hand, BUT IT DID! Its all fun and games ‘til somebody’s eye gets poked out, then its fun you just can’t see! Ha I kill me! Anyway I saw Scotty in the parking lot, he was just sitting there in his caddy with the engine running darting his head back and forth. I walked up to the car and tapped on the window, he started to peel out then realized it was me and slammed on the brakes. If everyone wasn’t looking at us before they sure were now. Using exaggerated hand signals that he could see though the tinted window I finally talked him into getting out of the car and we headed inside. My ears were still ringing and there was some kind of grit in my eyes, as we walked into the place, actually more of a lurking creep than a walk but nonetheless we made it into the building. All eyes were on us as we saddled up to the ordering counter. I opted for a ‘big bopper’ which consisted of a pile of fried potatoes covered in melted cheese, topped with a sausage patty, a few slices of bacon, and a couple of eggs. A pile o’ meaty, greasy cholesterol, breakfast of champions baby! I also asked for a large cup of coffee and an orange juice. The girl behind the counter took my six bucks and gave me an empty Styrofoam cup and another one to match full of OJ. After Scotty ordered we headed over to the next phase of our dining adventure. I grabbed up some plastic silverware and packaged condiments, then filled up my cup with some fairly weak coffee (thank god for weak coffee on mornings like these) and we headed for a table. As soon as we sat down I noticed that this and all the tables along the wall had a decided lean to them. I sat there waiting for our drinks to topple over until my name was called over a loud speaker. I remember wondering why you need a loud speaker in a place not much bigger than your average 7-11 but far be it from me to judge. I went up and retrieved our cafeteria tray loaded down with two paper plates full of greasy flarn. My pile o’ breakfast was awesome! The paper plate, Styrofoam cup, plastic silverware, packaged condiments and leaning table seemed to matter much less as I sat back with my belly full of greasy goodness. Scotty had mellowed out considerably and was looking a little drowsy. He mumbled something about bed and headed for the door. I cleaned up our mess and headed out as well. I walked past Scotty’s car as I was headed for mine and saw him sound asleep in the front seat with the engine running. I opened the door turned off the engine and locked him in (it was Aurora after all). All in all mission accomplished, full belly for me cooled head for Scotty. Just another day in the life and times of a reluctant super hero!
The Great Macchiato Controversy
By Bobby Black
Listen friend as I relate a tale of woeful dissidence, laced with secret societies and subversive sub-cultures. There is a controversy brewing just beneath the surface of polite society that could effectually tear the very fabric of existence, as we know it!
They are everywhere conspiring all around us, plotting under our very noses. If you listen closely you can hear their hushed conversations in the shadows and see their conspiratorial knowing glances as they pass one another on the street. Although, there are many legends, and much propaganda on the subject, where the rift between these two factions began is hard to say. All that is known for sure is neither faction has any tolerance of the other and each blames the other for the degradation of purity.
Where I first came in contact with the fringes of these secret societies was in a very unlikely place, an unassuming little coffee shop in Lakewood. I ordered a caramel macchiato, not because I knew what it was, but because caramel sounded good! The coffee guy (I refuse to call them baristas) stepped back a little and said a very defensive tone, “we don’t make them like Starbucks”. Now, I’m not real hard to please so I told the guy to just make it like he makes it. He handed me a cup of espresso with a dollop of foam on top and a little caramel syrup in it. It was pretty good but my curiosity was piqued so I had to find out just how Starbucks makes them. I headed for the one close to my house in DTC’s Belleview Promenade. This time I was served a large cup of steamed milk and espresso with caramel drizzled over the foam. It was pretty good too but I couldn’t let it slide without asking about the difference. My question was received well, I mean there was no defensive vibe at all, but this coffee guy had no idea what I was talking about. As I turned away a lady standing behind me said very matter of factly, “if its not done this way, its not a real macchiato”. I stopped dead in my tracks; I could feel a world-class rant coming on! Then as my mouth began to open, preparing to release the spun gold of knowledge that it is famous for, I fell uncharacteristically silent. I suddenly realized that I was outnumbered and out gunned; almost everyone in the place was looking at me with that good ole boy ‘you aint from around here’ scowl. Now I’m a pretty big guy, and I’ve been known to go to the floor, to defend my beliefs from time to time. But even a hard head like me knows when my chances are those of a one legged man in a butt kickin contest, so I just smiled nervously and headed for the door. Lynerd Skynrd was pounding out ‘gimme three steps’ in my head and scenes of being beaten with cell phones and Gucci bags by wild-eyed yuppies clouded my vision as I headed across the parking lot. Their baleful glares followed my progress as I sped away, and I could have sworn that one of them took down my license plate! I was trying desperately to process the bizarre set of circumstances that had just transpired, but I had no frame of reference for beverage prejudice! From somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind the random voice of reason began rattling off all the useless information I had ever been fed, ‘for my own good’. “Fasten your seat belt, don’t look into the sun, use a number two pencil, take small bites, wait an hour before swimming”. On and on the reel played but no help for this situation. Thinking that this could be an isolated set of events I decided to try some other places. I hit a few places down town some made it one way some made it another but almost all had a pious opinion of their formula. I kept driving further and further out of town stopping for macchiatos as I went. I started thinking that I was being followed somewhere around Arvada (probably due to the fact that I had downed enough espresso to power a 747). I kept moving, partly to find the truth, partly to stay ahead of ‘them’. In Golden it was “We don’t make em the way they do”, then in Morrison “we prefer the traditional preparation”, in Evergreen I heard “this is an American macchiato”. No matter how far I went the story remained the same. I woke up a few days later in my car completely surrounded by empty coffee cups, with my maxed out credit card still clutched in my shaking hand, and completely out of gas. I had stumbled out of the car to escape the putrid stench of drying espresso and congealing caramel, when I realized I hadn’t had solid food in a couple days. My stomach started making satanic, growling, ‘feed me Semore’ kind of sounds. There I sat in the dirt on the side of the road outside of Evergreen with no gas and no money, holding my head in my hands. Then my ears began to ring, “oh God now I’m gonna die” I thought to myself, then in realized that it was actually my cell phone ringing inside my car! I rifled through the mound of empty cups until I found my caramel and espresso covered phone. It was my editor telling me I was passed deadline again, demanding my story. I didn’t have so much as a word written, but thinking fast I told him I had it done but he would have to bring me some gas before I could give it to him. After listening to him rant about irresponsibility and such for a few minutes he agreed and said he would be there ASAP.
We were standing next to my car, as I poured the gas into empty tank I started thinking about my empty stomach again. “How’s about a paycheck advance so we can get something to eat, and I’ll give you my story over lunch?” I asked hopefully. He agreed and we stopped at the first grease ball burger shack we saw. As I wolfed down my heart attack in a sack he asked “so what about this review?” I sat back and slowly began “Listen friend as I relate a tale of woeful dissidence…”
The Golden Corral
By Bobby Lee Black
After my last caffeine induced adventure and flailing attempt at an editorial, I was standing tall before the man once again. “Lack of content” was the first thing I heard bubble up out of the string of accusations. “You’re the tattooed food critic, F-O-O-D critic, not the tattooed, marginally coherent, ranting lunatic!” he went on.
I assume the onslaught continued, I had pretty much checked out and was wandering around in my mind, picking at the loose edges of conscious thought. A few random statements from the conversation outside my head seeped through, things like “you’re getting pretty far out there” and “we are concerned for you”. Then I heard something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, It was a phrase I had heard a time or two before, a seemingly unassuming group of words that heralded the coming of something too terrible to remember! My editor was saying, “I’ve asked a friend of mine to talk with you a bit, he’s a doctor that specializes in these kinds of things”. AAAAAHHHHHH it was the beginning of the end, my jacket was being fitted with arms too long and my reservation was being made for a rubber room with a view! No way man! I was going to get out of this! I knew I was under contract and pretty much had to do what they wanted me to, but I wasn’t planning to take any forced vacations! So I decided to play it cool, “you know that’s a great idea, I’ve been meaning to get back into therapy” I lied. So me and the doc headed off for our little ‘talk’, then as we stepped into the hallway these two big bald dudes grab me, the doc produces a syringe, a quick poke and I’m gone!
I wake in the usual fashion, alone in a strange room, strapped to a bed, groggy from mind-altering chemicals that haven’t entirely worn off yet… pretty basic stuff for me. But this time it’s in a hospital! AAAAAHHHHHH! “Well we’ve done this bit before, my boy, keep it wrapped tight and play your cards close to the chest and we’ll be outta here in no time!” I thought to myself. So I did just that, I went to my groups, had a few ‘breakthroughs’ made some ‘progress’ and in 10 days time I had been given full privileges. My group consisted of a few interesting characters, my three favorites were the pyro, the liar, and some white guy named Viv who thought he was a Vietnamese prostitute! So there we all were in our little dysfunctional family, trudging the road toward sanity and an early release, when the most unlikely turn of events took place!
Our good intentioned (though short sighted) caseworker had decided it would be beneficial to our recoveries to participate in a little ‘socialization’ in the form of a supervised outing at the Golden Corral in Aurora. It sounded like the opportunity I had been waiting for! We all piled out of the van at the restaurant and headed inside with our two chaperones. As I took in my surroundings it suddenly occurred to me that this place had exactly the same vibe of a circus! Man, no wonder they brought us crazies here! So we all got our trays and headed down the mile of greased caloric heart stoppage. Deep-fried shrimp by the ton, macaroni everything, lard dipped biscuits, every possible stroke inducing food, in all you can eat proportions! There was a fat kid eating frozen yogurt right out of the dispenser! There were two old ladies fighting over who saw the last bbq rib first! There was even a Klump family at the center of the room devouring everything but the table they were sitting at! Under normal circumstances I would be in heaven, but I was on a mission, a mission of freedom! I started scheming, looking for my window of opportunity. After two full plates of delicious deep fried prawns, four huge baked potatoes, and two plates of fresh fruit I was ready to put my plan into action and make a batman style getaway.
One of our chaperones was up at the desert table loading up on various pies, cakes and what not. The other one was in the bathroom and judging from the way he looked on the way in he was going to be gone for a while, so I headed up to the register and asked for some matches. Back at the table I palmed the matches off to the pyro who headed immediately for the bathroom. Then I called the waiter over and got him to ask the liar about the time he was an astronaut. Once he was off and running I convinced Viv that these four guys at another table were G.I.’s on leave. He headed over
to their table getting louder as he went with the whole “me so horny, me love you long time” bit. The rest of the fruit loops at our table began bleating and throwing things. The liar was in fourth gear and had the waiter practically pinned in the corner recounting tales of outer space travel. Then the smoke started pouring out of the bathroom, the pyro had found the trash can! Yes! The chaperones were going crazy trying to calm everyone down and I made for the door! Down the street I ran, heading for my partner Wayne’s house. As we were driving toward my house I recounted the tale of my untimely incarceration and timely escape. Then it hit me I could e-mail the whole story into the printer directly, bypassing the editor all together and getting the true story of his plot to silence me out in the open! He will be reading this the same time all of you are, exclaiming, “Drat foiled again” or some such villainous stuff. Until next time…
Amtrak
Destination service hell.
By Bobby Black
What to do for new years, that was the dilemma as with every passing of a year. Everyone has the same problem for which we all come up with different creative solutions. Sometimes that seed of creativity falls on the fertile soil of possibility and from it sprout memories that last a lifetime. There are other times that the same creative seed fall on the barren rock of hapless circumstance allowing forth the gnarled branches of the unforgettable tree of regret. The following is an account of just such a time.
I decided to take the train up the California coast; just a nice leisurely train ride through the mountains doesn’t that sound nice? Yeah I thought so too! A startling realization hit me as soon as I walked into the travel agency; when Dorothy doused the wicked witch of the west she didn’t die, she became a travel agent! I believed this after the first few minutes with my agent and knew it for a fact once my trip was under way. Across the desk from me sat possibly the oldest, rudest, and most disgruntled woman in the history of travel. My every question was stopped mid query with an abrupt one word reply, or ignored all together as she pecked away at her computer. Finally I just shut up and waited for all this to be over. As the crone passed me the ticket to hell she pointed a knurled, yellow fingernail at the amount to be paid. She was smiling for the first time during our encounter. At least it looked like a smile; well it bared its teeth nonetheless. I just figured it was due to the prospect of her commission, I would find out later that there was a much more sadistic motive behind those fangs. I flew into LAX with train ticket in hand only to find out I had to ride a bus, that’s right a BUS to Bakersfield to catch the train! The only thing I hate more than walking is bus travel but I was committed so I bit down and boarded my ‘coach’. (I’m sure they call it a coach because the word bus usually makes people vomit!) Once I arrived at the train station, I was informed that my train would be 5, count ‘em 5 hours late! Candy bars, coffee and cigarettes were the main staples of sustenance while I waited. But on the bright side, I became fairly proficient at computer backgammon. (Thank got for my laptop!) Finally at long last I boarded the train but if I had known what awaited me I would have stayed at the train station. The cars were even filthier than the bus had been and smelled of socks and spoiled milk. And if that wasn’t enough the air was filled with the sound of crying children! I made it to my seat and fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of cackling crones and crying babes. On awakening I headed for the next chapter in Dante’s Inferno, breakfast. I asked the conductor about our whereabouts on my way to the dinning car. He had no idea of any aspect of the trains schedule, not where it had been, where it was going or even where it was. That set the stage for my waiter who had no idea that service had anything to do with serving, there is much to be said for continuity. The dinning car smelled distinctly of boiled cabbage. Not the smell of cabbage being cooked in so much as cabbage that had been previously digested and didn’t sit well. There are only so many seats in a car so dinning alone is not an option. At first glance this might seem quaint, but we are, after all, relying on the fickle hand of fate to deal our dinning cards. I was seated with a mother and son duo the mother being none too pleased to be sharing breakfast with a tattooed yahoo. The kid however was pretty stoked although mom spent way too much time shushing him. He was pretty stoked right up until our food came that is. The kid ordered blueberry pancakes; the waiter explained that they weren’t exactly as described. All he could offer was regular pancakes with blueberry syrup. The kid reluctantly agreed but once the order actually arrived the wailing began. Instead of pancakes the waiter brought half cooked French toast and blueberry jam, after one bite this kid let out a sound that made my teeth hurt! If that wasn’t bad enough, the bacon, eggs and potatoes I ordered had transmuted into some sort of an open-faced omelet. I scarffed down the nine-dollar miscommunication and lit out of there like I had caught fire. Back at my seat I settled in to the sound of squeaking metal and crying children, and succumbed once again to fitful nightmares. I was awoken by the sound of a particularly upset child and decided to escape back to the dinning car. My lunch companion was John, a Korean Salesman who continually insisted on being served Kim Chee although the waiter had no idea what it was. He finally decided on a chicken potpie but since he would only eat Korean food insisted on it being called a Korean potpie. Judging from its appearance it should have been called a previously eaten potpie. I had a cheeseburger, which turned out to be a dried lifeless chip of wood covered with a filmy sheet of orange and brown supposed cheese substance. Two slimy brown leaves masquerading as lettuce accompanied it.
I ate what I could of it, quietly cursing the crone that had orchestrated this malady. I was afforded two hidden blessings in the indigestion that ensued. One was that I lost the ability to eat for the remainder of the trip. The other was gas, the kind that permeated the air around me with the stench of brimstone so foul that Beelzebub himself would have been proud! This made my fellow travelers quietly take their crying children and move far, far away. Needless to say as soon as I reached my destination, I immediately caught a flight home. In closing if I ever decide to ride a train again nobody will notice because they will be to busy watching the monkeys fly out of my butt!
LETTER GRADE FFFFFF
A Push mower, a Fishbowl and Jell-O in my shoes.
By Bobby Black
One of my bros, who will from this day forward be referred to as “Bum Wire” (due to his inability to keep his facts straight) told me the legendary local metal band “Push mower” would be playing at Eddie Fishbowls. Needless to say I WAS STOKED.
It had been a hard week of holiday hoo-hah; scrambling for merchandise, hurtling shopping carts, taking elbows from little old ladies and all the general pandemonium of Xmas. I’m not necessarily an according to Hoyle head banger or rivet head, but I am a red blooded, financially strapped, politically frustrated American male. So when faced with the opportunity to mosh through a few metal heads, sustain an injury or two, then press my face up against up against the speakers until my brain rattles loose, well I was excited to say the least.
As the day wore on all I could think of was the full frontal assault of angry lyrics, screaming guitars and crashing drums. When the time came to pack up the posse and head for the ensuing carnage I never stopped to think that anything could go pear shaped
on an evening such as this. The one factor in this equation that I hadn’t considered was in retrospect, the only one I should have taken into account. The simple fact is, that although well meaning, most of my cohorts are either dumb as a bag of hammers, or so perma-buzzed that their brains actually slosh when they move, but I digress.
We pulled up to the club ready for musical war, but as we drew closer something wasn’t quite right. There were in fact yelling, cheering and sounds of general debauchery pouring out onto the street but the music was more clubby, mixy, dancy, than rocky, head bangy moshy. A short conversation with the doorman revealed that Push mower was scheduled for THURSday night, and due to my not so clear minded friend we were here on TUESday night. I explained this little detail to “Bum Wire” along with the fact that tomorrow was the deadline for my story to be in and there wasn’t time to scramble around and find another band to interview. He was muttering something about both days starting with the letter “T” when the doorman asked us to come in or let the line through.
I figured since we were here we might as well see what all the excitement was about so into the smoke, cheering and music we went. I muscled my way toward the front of the cheering crowd as the rest of the crew headed for the bar. Then it happened, the crowd parted and there before me was the holy grail of testosteronian drunkenness…JELL-O WRESTLING. Yes my friends semi clad young women covered in multi-colored slime grappling with one another. I could have sworn I heard angels singing, this must have been what the Romans had in mind when conceiving the Olympics. And then it hit me, arts and entertainment, this is the epitome of both! What subject has been more often expressed by the artists of the ages than the female form? And entertainment? These women were athletes, as dedicated to excellence as any performer could ever be. As for the Jell-O, well that’s just a fun use of color, and one must have a hint of color! We, ragged travelers, questing for metal mayhem had inadvertently stumbled onto the pinnacle of art and entertainment. I closed my eyes for a moment to thank the Gods and could see the Roman coliseum around me, the crowd standing and cheering. I raised my sword to the heavens and shouted:
“For tonight we immerse ourselves in war and hunting, the two springs from which flow the river of life…” As I opened my eyes I realized the cheering around me had ceased, the music had stopped, and even the slime covered wrestlers had stopped writhing. Everyone was staring at the big tattooed, ranting, weirdo standing in the Jell-O pool. Thinking quickly I pointed to the confused wrestlers and in my deepest Zeus like voice, thunder the words “soldier on Amazonian warriors”. There was a slap and a thud and the melee reconvened. I figured it was time to make a hasty retreat so I stepped out of the pool and went to collect my friends. Everyone was missing in action except for “Bum Wire” who was facing the wall of fame (an entire wall of photographic evidence that alcohol makes many women pull their tops off) with a half consumed drink the size of a small bucket in his hands. He looked up at me with the glowing gaze of the inebriated and drooled the word booooobiiiies as he fell into my arms. I caught the rest of his gigantic drink in one hand (later I found out it was a “fishbowl” thus the venues name) and threw him over my shoulder heading for the truck. As we drove home I reiterated my story of champions and conquests thanking my muddle minded friend for the mistake of the century. When we pulled up to his house he looked over at me gratefully smiling and as he opened the car door said booooobiiiies and fell out of the car…well done young soldier, well done.
No Way Jose! Land Pirates…RUN!!!!
By Bobby Black
Bum wire and I had been rummaging around at the Sally (Salvation Army thrift store for you less enlightened bargain hunters) most of the day looking for the appropriate accoutrements for seeing SWFL’s premiere party band NO WAY JOSE. We were standing in the check out line with our dumpster scores of sombreros, blankets, sandals and sunglasses when we met Flo (that’s what her masking tape nametag said anyway). Flo was a weathered, tobacco stained crustation of sorts that had appeared to have spontaneously grown up from behind the register. She suspiciously poked at our treasures with a gnarled nicotine encrusted claw and growled “you boys goin on a trip, or maybe… you’re already on one?” As if we had rehearsed it I said, “no way” and bum wire said “Jose”, then he burst out in maniacal laughter (probably because bumwire is usually trippin at least a little). From that point forward everytime I said anything he muttered “no way” then began to laugh like a loon again. That went on for the whole ride back to my house and most of the way to Backstreets where the band in question was playing.
We got to the place wrapped in our blankets, wearing our sombreros sunglasses and sandals, ready for action. When we were asked for our ID’s bumwire started in with “we don’t need no stinking badges” bit that seemed to go on for a decade. I’m not sure why they actually let us in but they did, me and my sidekick Bumwirito, just two amigos here to see No Way Jose.
Let me just say these guys BLEW IT UP!!! Aside from some awesome original stuff they were all over the place with their covers. Sublime, Bob Marley, Chili Peppers, Snoop, Social Distortion, Marvin Gaye (yes you read it right), House of Pain, you name it they did it. The onstage energy and antics were like ska meets roller derby. Speaking of roller derby I learned how to do something called skanking that night. All I know is I have a tennis shoe shaped bruise on my butt and I lost on of my sandals somewhere, nuff said.
Before long I was covered in sweat and various spilled drinks and needed a break, so I went to find my bro. Bumwire was slouched at a table with an empty shot glass in his hand. Strangely he too had lost a sandal but I’m still not sure why. He had also regressed into the mono syllabic language of the truly inebriated. No matter what song the band played, everytime there was even the shortest pause bum wire would try to fit in the gravelly lyric “TEQUILLAAAAA”. I was watching Bumwire slouch closer and closer to the floor as the band ran through a Jimmy Cliff tune when it hit me like an arrow between the eyes. “JUAREZ!!!” I shouted, Bumwire sobered slightly and looked over the rim of his sunglasses at me. I started again, “dude you ever been to Juarez? It’s like the Tortugas of Mexico except without the boats!” He looked of in the distance and slurred “we could be pirates, Mexican land pirates…ARRRRGH…iasso!” And we paid up and headed for the door, well I headed for the door, bumwire just kinda flopped over my shoulder as I carried him out. As we pulled away from the curb in the Bel Air Grande I was chanting the lyrics to the no way Jose song Skanky Riddim “we aint got no money…we aint got no problems…” and everytime I took a breath bum wire would shout “TEQUILLAAAAA”…I remember thinking “this is going to be a long drive.”
A Very Strange Arrangement
By Bobby Black
I heard Bum Wire was back in town after our Juárez excursion. I had last seen Bum Wire face down in a plate of huevos rancheros at the Centro De Monterrey Hotel. No I didn’t leave him for dead, I saw the ranchero sauce bubbling around his nostrils so I figured he’d be ok while I went to the bathroom. When I got back he was gone, huevos and all. I looked around town for a couple days, asking about ‘mi poco borracho loco’ (my crazy little drunk). Finally I got the word someone had seen him traveling back across the Cordova bridge toward the US with a bunch of hippies in a chartreuse VW van so I headed back that way.
2 days and 2 right turns and I was back in the Cape, but no Bum Wire to be found. I had heard that he was following some band around called Strange Arrangement so off I went in search of the band. After a few near misses I wandered into Eddie fishbowls to find a couple guys bounding about the stage. They weren’t dancing, or just kinda’ rockin’ around they were manically bounding about the stage. And the spectacle didn’t end there the crowd was going wild, dancing, shaking, singing and screaming. And there in the middle of it all was Bum Wire doing some bizarre dance called the “strange shuffle”. It’s a dance devised by the band, primarily for the inebriated but I managed in a sober state. Bum Wire of course was a natural, it was weird to see him so animated, his usual state being varying stages of horizontal, but not tonight!
I tried getting the story out of him about his exodus from Juarez, how he got back, where he met the band, but his answer to every question was “it was a Strange Arrangement”. Finally after much pointless questioning, Bum Wire introduced me to the band between sets saying “you’ll see what I mean” and ‘strange shuffled’ off. The Brothers Van Kirk, Warren (vocals and guitar) and Gregory (bass) are the originators of the musical melee. These 2 brothers who developed an early addiction to music, realized that they would never quit, so they found some other guys that were equally addicted and the rest is musical history. The rest of the band line up are: Bear (keys and vocals) grrr, nuff said, Kelly (drums) wild flailing furry of sticks and skins, Lehel Barabas (trumpet) maybe from Romania, maybe Moldavia no one knows, and Mark AKA Origin-ill (Hip Hop/Wordsmith, back up dancer, singer) motivation in motion.
To say this is a multi genre band would be an gross understatement. I’ve seen other bands try to do multi-genre and it just ended up sounded like a musical garage sale. These guys blend their different musical styles together seamlessly into an unbelievable genre all their own. They do strange rock, reggae pop, funk hop, swing bop, and a soulful love ballad or two just to keep ya guessing. All original lyrics take you on a trip of social commentary that makes watching TV pointless, they don’t just sing about what’s happening in the world they are what’s happening in the world! As a matter of fact these guys should BE the news. No more smiling plastic Barbie dolls telling us about the plane crash with a gleam in their eye! No more guys with trap door comb overs trying to look sincere while cash in on some political farce. That’s right I said it! We need Strange Arrangement TV, you heard me Larry King, Oprah, and yes even you Jerry Springer you’re all going down, man. These guys are poet warriors in the classic sense! You ever hear some droning anchorman with a toupee that couldn’t look any faker with a chin strap, say something deep like “my father has a TV, the closest thing I had to a friend was a CD”. That’s to the point, out front commentary…and then it hit me, crystal clear, like a diamond bullet between the eyes… 4 words I thought I would never say, “Bum Wire is right”. When I was asking him all those questions before he knew exactly what he was saying: Strange Arrangement IS the answer for everything…WOW…I get it now: It’s Strange but beautifully Arranged. I began to ‘strange shuffle’ again but this time…I meant it.
Mardi Gras, Madness and Meyhem
By Bobby Black
Our story starts innocently enough; it was to be a road trip, just me and my buddy “Bum Wire”. We were on a quest for a story, after the Jell-O debauchery of our last adventure we needed to come up with a story of substance, a tale of merit if you will. So we gassed up Bum Wire’s old bel air and headed toward the Cape. Unbeknownst to me the beast had a bit of a gas leak under the hood that tended to fill the car with noxious fumes, but we were only going into Cape Town after all, how bad could it be? I had decided to do the driving, as Bum Wire was still a little under the weather with a bit of brown bottle flu. We were heading for the bridge when the hum of the engine began to get louder and louder. Suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car. I yelled over at bum wire to look out as shadows fluttered across his face, “AARRGGGGHHH!” I screamed as I screeched to a stop in the middle of the road. Bum Wire casually looked over at me saying, “What are you yelling about?” I responded as nonchalantly as I could saying “Never mind. It's your turn to drive.” No point mentioning the bats. I thought to myself. He will see them soon enough. I climbed into the back seat and we were back in motion with Bum Wire at the helm. As I hung my head out the window the gas fumes were beginning to clear, and the fear of flying fauna was subsiding.
Just before we got to the bridge my captain spotted a tattooed hitch hiker carrying an airbrush kit “let's give ‘em a lift” he shouted. I tried to respond with “we can't stop here - this is bat country!” but he’d already swerved to a stop inches from the guy, besides I wasn’t even sure if he was actually there or if we had even stopped. It turns out he wasn’t a hallucination after all, he was James from Art and Soul tattoo and was on his way to Mardi Gras to do body painting for the Fat Tuesday celebration. I reminded Bum Wire that we were, after all, on a mission and although New Orleans was a hoot this time if year it was about 800 miles out of our way. As James was still explaining that Mardi Gras was a bar on 47th terrace in the Cape that was having a Fat Tuesday party, Bum Wire was already careening down 47th heading for the bar. He mentioned the event was also a 50th birthday to someone named Gloria. This was obviously the code name of an iconic Mardi Gras character of some sort, so as not to look un-hip I inquired no further, just nodded knowingly, while reciting the only lyrics I new to an old Doors song “G-L-O-R-I-A…Gloooooria!”. We pulled up in front of the bar as I was belting out another chorus, there people were laughing, music playing, glasses clinking and beads were flying. As we walked in James headed over to his booth to set up for body painting. I remember thinking “I gotta learn that art” as I watched him fending off the eager nubiles wanting to be his canvas. Just then my attention was diverted by a flurry of blonde hair and beads headed toward the kitchen (I would find out shortly that this bundle of energy was Renee; the owner of the place and creator of the event.) I thought to myself “she seems to know where she’s going, maybe I’ll tag along”, and off we went. As we bustled through the crowd I could have sworn I saw a clown, and maybe a monkey on a carousel horse, or a was it a small hairy man on a bar stool? The gas fumes hadn’t worn off yet so it was hard to tell, but it was festive and colorful to say the least! Then as if I had found my way into Ali Babba’s cave of treasure, I was amidst the holy grail of Cajun and Creole cuisine.
As I rounded a huge pot of Bayou Jambalaya a spoonful found its way to my lips. I felt a hand on my wrist and heard a voice in my ear “who are you and why are you in my kitchen?” whispered Renee. I quickly explained my position with the magazine, pleading for mercy (I left out the parts about the bats the monkey and carousel horse, unnecessary details after all). After a moments scrutiny she smiled a smile that was like sunshine coming through the clouds and began leading me around the kitchen telling me all about the food, the atmosphere, and the event. The next thing I knew there was a seafood ravioli melting in my mouth. Just behind that came the most tantalizing crawfish etouffee I had eaten since being run out of Baton Rouge, but that’s another story for another time (statute of limitations and all). I found a stuffed chicken breast sticking out of my mouth, and various gourmet pizza slices in both hands. Then as quickly as she had appeared she vanished back into the crowd of libation. I tried to follow but lost her somewhere between the band and a group of people dancing in a conga line. I stumbled past the body painting booth where James was painting a woman like a snake or was it a snake like a woman, either way he would have quite a story to tell when he got back to Art and Soul…
And then it hit me, this was a story to be told indeed, but there’s only one thing that could give it the perfect ending, the crescendo to an opus so to speak. I looked to the heavens and in a thundering voice shouted “were going to New Orleans!” Bum wire appeared from nowhere with a host of inebriated bead clad, body painted followers. He looked directly in my eyes (as directly as he could in his Jager induced state) and said with great authority, “acting as your attorney and driver I must advise you that you'll need a very fast car with no top, a tape recorder, for special music, and some Acapulco shirts. This blows my weekend, because naturally I'll have to go with you -- and we'll have to arm ourselves…” grabbing a pizza slice and brandishing it like a weapon he headed for the car with entourage in tow. “Why not?” I said aloud “ If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing right. I tell you, my man. This is the American Dream in action! We'd be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way to the end. Indeed. We must do it, do it for the story! What kind of story will this be?
…A story that starts innocently enough; it was to be a road trip, just me, my buddy Bum Wire, and a few unsuspecting followers on a quest for a story…”