Bluegrass Slingshot, Ashland, KY: Disappearing Geography

 Brutal! Savage! Beyond Perversion!  - Kentucky Fried Movie (1977)


Curiosity is natural to the soul of man and interesting objects have a powerful influence on our affections. -Daniel Boone

Kentucky is one of those places I have a deep and abiding affection for in spite of  not having any real roots here. As I've mentioned before, my daughter, who was born here and hasn't lived here since she was 5 has more of a claim on the place than I do according to conventional wisdom. Stella could return to Morehead, Kentucky at any point in her life and call herself a local because she was born there. On the other hand, I've actually lived in Kentucky and spent more time here than she has; but because I was born on the OTHER side of the Ohio River I will never be counted among the Kentucky's sons.

But, as I've also noted in the past, people from Kentucky -- particularly Eastern Kentucky -- have such a strong connection to the geography that even if I tried to claim Kentucky as a home, I lack a fundamental oneness with the dirt... the mountains, the clay, the rocks.

My dirt, apparently, is elsewhere.

But even the dirt that I can claim is not dirt that I feel any connection to. That, maybe more than the change in my living situation, may explain more why I'm compulsed to go go go. How did Kerouac say it? 

"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."

Not that my traveling has much in common with Kerouac, though people have made mention of On The Road more than several times. I can only assume that because I'm a writer, that I claim the Beats as a literary influence, and that I'm traveling, that they assume I got the idea from reading the book. (In case anyone's wondering, I didn't. And actually, I think Desolation Angels is a better book.)

You can't be a writer at this time and NOT claim the Beats... even if you're writing against the influence of writers like dear Jean-Louis, Ginsberg, Corso, and di Prima. I can't stand anything written by Dreiser. But to say he hasn't had in impact on what I do would be naive and short-sighted. As a matter of fact, I wonder sometimes if writers aren't more influenced by the writing they hate rather than the writing they love.

In spite my lack of connectedness with the geography here, though, it's always nice to be back. And it's always nice to revisit friends. I stayed with Mike and Elizabeth on my last trip through a few months back, and it's always a kick to see them. I was also able to spend some time with friend and fellow writer Misty Skaggs, whose blog is here, and who's worth checking out.

Got in around 5pm Friday after a 9 hour drive from the coast... the idea being that My Dear Sweet Ma would drop me off in Ashland on the way back to Porkopolis. I suspect, however, that we would have gotten to my end destination much more quickly without the help of the on-board GPS giving me directions in an oh so polite slightly British woman's vernacular.

It was actually worse on the trip out to Virginia Beach... tried to take us as far out of the way as possible, but somehow still had no idea where we were when we were on Highway 35 in Eastern Ohio.

When I had a car I always kept a road atlas somewhere handy.  I may not be able to stand in a wide open field on a cloudy day and tell you what direction I'm facing, but I know how to read a map... which is one of those things that I suspect is being lost in the age of digital travel and permanent GPS tracking. One of the things I noticed -- especially on the way out to Virginia Beach -- is that even when you program your travel preferences in... longest route, shortest route, avoid toll roads, etc.. it still sticks primarily to interstate routes whenever possible. If, while driving, you ignore the dumb bitch (because computers are DUMB. They don't KNOW things. They're programmed. You know. Like members of the Tea Party) the voice will either harangue you into making a u-turn or... if you wait it out... it will eventually "recalculate." Even then, though, there are large pockets of the country that are being lost. And since people rarely travel for its own sake, and have lost a lot of that natural curiosity Daniel Boone seems to have credited us with (maybe it's The Travel Channel's fault?) in addition to not being able to read a map, people are learning to live their lives  corralled by the interstate system,  hyperbarically and hermetically sealed within electronically connected bubbles of their own design.

I have learned, however, that when it comes to travel, I would rather get lost on my own terms than depend on some umbilical connection to a global positioning satellite.

Baboon in the Bluegrass: The Saga of Charlene and Marlene (Ashland, KY)

"If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world." -- Francis Bacon

This was the day before yesterday, Sunday. I'd run out of deodorant, soap, and shampoo before I left Willow Drive. And while I don't mind a little stink, I do try to ward of the human stain when relying on the kindness and the couch of friends or family. So that meant a trip to the drug store.

Liz was gone a large part of the day, taking Mike's mother to a casino near Charleston, West Virginia. I spent the day writing, hanging out with Mike, watching snooty English Dramas, and watching him recover from hangover. We spent Saturday evening relaxing, visiting, drinking, and singing L'Internationale. Mike drank more than I did and passed out -- but not until he went about drunk dialing some people, like friend and poet Misty Skaggs, and his sister-in-law. He was polite, and almost... almost... apologetic to Misty. To his sister-in-law, Mike said 

"Your pussy stinks like turpentine." 

Then he laughed hysterically. And so did Liz. And so did I.

He survived the night, drank some water the following day, and was just fine.


When Liz came home, she ran Mike and I up to CVS. My plan was to buy travel size supplies. Not only would that save me money, but a little space in my sack, too. Walking into the CVS, I felt like I was walking into a department store. It had been a while since I walked into a pharmacy that big. Seriously. The Pharmacy Center in Mount Carroll could've fit in a corner of the Ashland CVS. And yes, I have lived in more populated places with larger drug stores, grocery stores, liquor stores. Yes, I know. And that I was, for the briefest instant, struck with confusion at the sheer amount of choices I had to choose from, sounds absurd. And it is absurd. That I can walk into a drug store on a Sunday afternoon and get everything from flip flops to dental floss, from Ramen Noodles to Roach Killer, from batteries to bubble bath, strikes me as 


Everything except beer. Kentucky Blue Laws made THAT impossible. Bastards.

After my eyes grew accustomed to the glow of the fluorescent lights, I quickly found soap, shampoo, and deodorant. I also bought some disposable razors and a travel sized can of shaving cream so that I can trim back my beard... or at least, shave my neck.

 It's good, sometimes, to try and look human... even if I often wish I wasn't.

Liz and Mike picked up a few things and we prepared to check out. As we did, we first ran into a woman trying to maneuver two shopping carts -- one holding an infant in a carrier, the other for shopping. She was clearly having a difficult time, and the construction of the CVS carts weren't working in her favor; the carrier was too big and the carts were too small. She finally managed to push both of them towards  the shampoo aisle. The baby was surprisingly silent.

At the moment we were about to step up to the register, Liz was then accosted by an older woman who seemed to know Liz.

"... and you know what," she said. "I'm still living with that son of a bitch and he's got some woman that sleeps over."

"Is that right?" Liz asked.

The woman -- who we found out was living with her ex -- was clearly irritated by the situation. She was tense and shaking. and even behind the granny thick glasses -- which was framed by wiry, frizzy graying black hair spots of white that looked like extensions of the crows feet and frown lines dug deep into gray face --  it was obvious that the woman was tweaking on something. Crack or redneck cocaine* or maybe even meth... anything was possible.

"And you know what?" she went on. "Last night, that woman climbed into bed with ME. Can you believe that?"

"Is that right?" Liz asked.

"Well, you know what my daughter said..."

"No," Liz answered. "What'd she say?"

"She said I ort ta reach over an GRAB something!" The woman reached out with bony vulture fingers and grabbed the air as if to demonstrate how she might just go about grabbing... uh... something. (Additionally, the mental image was not at all pleasant.)

"Well," Liz said, "Maybe you should."

"Maybe I will!" She said. "That'll learn her."

"I bet it will," Liz said.

We paid for our purchases and left. The woman walked out with us, still talking to Liz about grabbing a piece of the woman who crawls into her and her ex's bed. Once we hit the parking lot, she made for an old model white and blue Ford F150. We got into Mike and Liz's Chevy Aveo Sedan.

"Who was that?" Mike asked as we got in the car.

"I don't know," Liz said. "She just started talking to me like we were in the middle of a conversation."

We laughed about it a bit, and got on the road. We ended up behind the Ford, and then beside it. Liz honked and waved at the woman, who honked and waved back."

"Well, honey," Mike said. "Looks like you made yourself a friend."

"I bet her name is Charlene," Liz said, laughing.

"And I bet she's thinking you're someone she knows," I said. "I bet she thinks your name is Marlene."

[If you like what you read here, you can help by:

1. Passing the link around.
2. Graciously donating to the cause using the button on the right hand side of the screen;
3. Contact Catherine Sellers at Greyhound, 415-331-6049. Tell them you are asking about a sponsorship when the operator picks up. I write about them enough. They should be helping me help them. Right??

Thanks for reading.]

Baboon in the Bluegrass, Part 5: Hillybilly Hot Dogs and Pentecostal Swingers ( Ashland, KY)

  “...at midnight Ashland, Kentucky, and a lonely girl under the marquee of a closed up show.” -Jack Kerouac


After a week of being plied with gin, poetry, and wonderful company, finally it was time to push east.  After a week of Spring-like weather, I woke up Saturday morning and it was cold and rainy.

Shit. Am I being chased by the weather? Again?

It was starting to feel like it. I barely escaped Illinois with a snow storm at my heels;  by the time I left Cincinnati, the cold and the rain were onto me like bad cop drama. Lexington was cold and windy. If  I decide to head south after I visit Stella,, it will be to escape the winter that's chasing me.

The trip to Ashland was short, and George was kind enough to drive me from his and Laura's place on Willow Drive straight to the door of college friends Mike and Elizabeth Fraizer. I've known both Elizabeth and Mike for many years, Theirs was another one of those weddings I missed, once upon a time. (Sorry Mike and Liz!)  But they have been gracious enough to let bum on the wheel spend a few days, sleep on their very comfy couch and take advantage of their hot water and their washer and dryer -- not to mention the prodigious liquor cabinet which would make any drinking man take pause.

I have always tried to balance the amount of money I spend against my taste for good swill; which is to say, sometimes you can afford the Good Shit and sometimes you can't. Mostly, I haven't been able to. This means I balance taste and cost in what seems a teeter totter sort of compromise. I try to avoid, for example, cheap whiskey. I will, when forced by economics or necessity,drink Bud Lite. I'll even cut corners -- though not many -- on scotch. But I insist, in most cases, on Kentucky Bourbon.

Mike and Liz take the approach that drinking, if done, should be done not only with great care and occasional abandon, but that it should only be done with high class hooch. For his part, Mike is something of and Anglophile when it comes to booze; it's Irish Whiskey -- none of that Jameson shit, either, we're talking pure Irish stock -- and proper English or Irish Ales and Stouts.  Liz is fully on board, having fully engaged sense of the finer things -- be it booze, home cooking, literature, and trashy pop culture. 

(from thesmokinggun.com)

[A good example of this is Jailed. This publication, which is something like an inbred child of the World Weekly News and the Jerry Springer Show. It highlights recent arrests in the area, complete with mug shots and games like "Match the Tramp Stamp." This game, which was borrowed/stolen from The Smoking Gun, consists of matching the picture of the lower back tattoo to the jail house hootchie it's attached to. In addition to being good family fun, it's a good memory game for the kids... 'cause these chickies will, I'm sure be back for encore mug shots... if they haven't already.]

One of the first things Mike and Liz did was drive me across the border into West Virginia (BY GAWD!!!) to a gem of a place called Hillbilly Hot Dogs. This place has been highlighted on a couple of cable shows including Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, so I won't spend too much time on it. I will say, however, that I the Junk Yard Dog was pretty tasty.

The restaurant is made of two buses and a shack.

It's way friendlier than it looks.

People come from all over and lose their license plates.

Liz (Center), Mike (Right). That half-,man is Zach Shavers.

Insidious technology... it creeps in everywhere...

I wanted this hat. Really.

It's also a place to ponder the important and eternal questions.

Ok. This broke my heart a little. Ok. A lot.

This ain't your OSHA's restaurant!

In addition to the oddity and general ambiance of the place, we also met A.J, who informed us that two of the other buses... that were just sort of sitting around.... were going to be cleaned out and added to the restaurant and used for... he whispered... a bar. 

A.J. seemed like a nice enough kid, who was just looking for people to talk to. He also seemed like he might have been living in the bus we found him in... but since I'm essentially homeless, I have no room to talk.

One of the things I always liked about Mike and Elizabeth is the way they live; because it always seemed to me that they -- maybe more Mike than Liz -- sort of live in order to be able to tell the story later. And this, I have found, is a far more interesting way to live. Living to tell the story means sometimes taking risks. A good example of this is the story of the night before their wedding, when Mike checked himself into the Ramada Inn at Morehead, where he proceeded to order a hooker from a Lexington phone book. But the story isn't that the girl actually drove out to Morehead -- even though it's really difficult to get out call hookers to trust you. The story isn't even what happened once the hooker arrived -- because Mike, in spite of himself, is essentially an honorable guy and he most likely just talked to her all night. No -- the story is that he called Liz THAT night and told her about it. 

And Liz married him anyway.

Liz, for her part, is the kind of person who tries to stay open enough to still experience the world. She's naturally friendly, on the gregarious side, and easy to talk to. This is evidenced by the fact she and Mike have been targeted by a church of Pentecostal swingers. This particular sect calls themselves a "Jesus Only" Church... which means they reject the trinity. They have membership outreach programs, such as paying members $250 for person they manage to convert (After all, nothing saves souls like the profit motive!). The minister, in addition to being a gold chain wearing warrior for Jesus, is also... an insurance salesman. So, when Mike and Liz filled out the little Guest Cards and marked -- CLEARLY -- the DO NOT CALL option, guess what happened?

Yep. The preacher called. Not too save their souls. But to sell them insurance. 

What a guy.

But it's good to be open to experiences, even bizarre ones. 

And here I am, waiting for my train ticket to catch up with me; because, even though the train stops here, there's no ticket office. I'm scheduled to leave Wednesday the 8th, headed for Richmond, and eventually, Norfolk. After that, it's still difficult to tell. 

[If you like what you read here, you can help by:

1. Passing the link around.
2. Graciously donating to the cause using the button on the right hand side of the screen;
3. Contact Catherine Sellers at Greyhound, 415-331-6049. Tell them you are asking about a sponsorship when the operator picks up. I write about them enough. They should be helping me help them. Right??

Thanks for reading.]

Baboon in the Bluegrass, Intermezzo 1: Cupid Is a Sadist

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds

 Admit impediments." -Shakespeare

“Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It's like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.”  

― Charles Bukowski

Love stories are fraudulent, sentimental tripe -- which is why I don't, as a general rule, write them. Sure, I've written my share of love poetry; but poetry about love, like reality TV about self-important morons, isn't all that unusual.

STD Soup

The thing about love poetry -- in spite of how many people rehash "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day" -- is that it lives in a moment and is gone again. That's the nature of poetry. That's the nature of love. That people find solace or reflection in a love poem after its moment has passed is only a confirmation of the continuity of human experience. That love has a beginning, a middle, and end is a reflection of the absurdity of the human condition; because even though it ends -- and it always does -- you either split up or one or both of you dies. Either way, the shelf life of love is terminal and short -- so it is with life.

That's the problem with telling love stories. No one wants them to end. And with Valentine's Day approaching... perhaps the most ridiculous, Capitalistic, and conspiratorial holidays on the U.S. calender... it's important to realize that all love stories end. They end because they have to.

But that also means they have to begin. And on rare occasions, even though they end, it may be worth the time and space to tell them. When they matter.

When I first met her, she was 18 years old, and a college Freshman. I was a few years older.  I was also trying to excise myself from a  relationship that had gone horribly, tragically wrong. There's nothing particularly interesting about that story, except that then, as always, I had gone into it with the best of intentions. But relationships have always proven problematic for me. For as long as I can remember, I have neither understood how they worked, nor have I have been very good at maintaining them. I also have a tendency towards thickheadedness when it comes to knowing whether a woman is interested in me or just being nice.

And when I met her, this college freshman, I thought she was interested in one of my friends. Past experience had taught me that this was most likely the case. Most women were interested in my friend. He was not only a talented and (some would say) troubled person, but he was -- according to certain women friends of mine -- handsome. Tall, with broad shoulders. Strong jaw. When he was in a good mood -- or in the early turn of a manic phase -- he knew how to be very charming.

Charm wasn't -- and probably isn't -- one of my strongest qualities. So when she came around, I assumed it was for him.  But even so, there was something about this girl -- this spark of an Eastern Kentucky girl that would smile, giggle nervously, ask me serious questions and seem interested in what I had to say -- that felt different. I was nervous around her because she was beautiful: shoulder length reddish-brown hair, blue eyes. But there was something about her that also made me feel ... well ... safe.

Safe. And very confused. I wasn't used to women who made me feel safe. I was used to the most recent dysfunction of my marriage to my daughter's mother. Prior to that, my experience had been severely limited by a painful shyness and social awkwardness that still, on occasion, plagues me -- along with the frustrating thickness in the head about whether women like me or whether they're just being nice. (I always assume the former.)

It wasn't until a mutual friend pointed out her interest in me that it occurred to me that maybe she was being nice to me other than because I was the roommate and she was trying to win me over in the process of chasing after my friend.

The relationship -- if you could call it that -- was a dismal failure, for all of the right reasons. She was young, and coming out of some pretty rough stuff. I was in the process of going through a gut kicking divorce. There wasn't enough of me to invest. And eventually, I ran her off because of my own unique ineptitude to say the right thing at the right time. (Another flaw that plagues me almost daily.)


But I never forgot about her. And, to be more precise, I thought about her. I thought about the way she made me feel -- that sense of safety that I thought I'd destroyed. I thought about the warmth of her body, the sound of her laugh. I thought about her belly button. (Don't judge me.) She became the standard -- real or imagined -- by which I judged other women, other relationships.

So it seemed more like destiny than chance when I ran into her again. And not only was I surprised to find that she still wanted to talk to me, but I was also surprised to find that I still felt that sensation -- that sense of safety, warmth, and acceptance. And I found -- I rediscovered -- a woman who has always seen me for who I am, who has never really wanted me to be something other than who I am.

And while the relationship is over -- because all love stories end -- I am grateful for the time. And while there is pain and anger in the parting, I know that when the sense of loss is past, I will be left with gratitude. And while that may not have been my intention... it certainly wasn't what I wanted... that is what I am left with.

And it will have to be enough.

[If you like what you read here, you can help by:

1. Passing the link around.
2. Graciously donating to the cause using the button on the right hand side of the screen;
3. Contact Catherine Sellers at Greyhound, 415-331-6049. Tell them you are asking about a sponsorship when the operator picks up. I write about them enough. They should be helping me help them. Right??

Thanks for reading.]

Baboon in the Bluegrass, Part 4: Joyce

I could tell she's lived in the area nearly all of her life by two things: by the friendly way she greeted when I stepped on the 20-30 seat bus that passes for public transportation in Morehead. The university has been using similar short buses for years to transport students back and forth from the outlying parking lots. To ride the MorTran locally costs $1. (Passes available.) What's really interesting, however, is that the bus offers service to  both Lexington AND Ashland... a detail I wish I had known before I asked George to drive into Lexington to pick me up in front of the Starbucks. (I should point out that I offered to ride the bus to Ashland and save him the trip, but he would have none of it.)


The other way I could tell that Joyce has lived here a long time is from the gravelly Appalachian accent she spoke with. (People who are either ignorant or dismissive of accents tend to confuse the Appalachian growl with   the Southern draw. They are not the same.The Southern draw has elongated vows, soft consonants, and reminds the listener of molasses pouring on a cool autumn morning. The Appalachian growl is harsh, sometimes difficult to understands, and is, to the untrained and uncivilized ear more akin to riding a rough back road  in the back of truck with no shocks or power steering.)


She asked where I was going, and I told her I needed to head back to campus, or somewhere near it. What took me out to the library was a car, owned by an old friend I hadn't seen in many years. When I met Joy, she had been a college Freshman. I was a graduate student. She had these big blue eyes, a half sarcastic smile like she was silently judging everyone and everything around her (including me), and a well informed home schooled brain. Not home schooled because her parents were religious freaks or because she was a freak; they were just that smart and so was their kid. Also, Kentucky public schools -- at least in the eastern part of the state -- aren't known for the quality students they pump out.


Joy was one of those girls that left me confused, but it wasn't her fault. Girls in general have always confused me. (And no, I don't feel any wiser after two marriages. I just feel more stupid.)  Joy confused me because there was something about the sight of her that made my heart stop. Literally. It's an odd sensation, and one I have felt rarely; though I've been told the fact that I feel it at all, let alone more than once, is a gift.  It was confusing because I knew enough to know what it didn't mean, but not what it did.

And then it got kind of nuts. But that's another story for another day.

Seeing her again was good. Really good. Seeing her made my heart stop, ever so briefly. And for the same reasons as before... not because it was anything, but because it was something... even if it was just a flash and then it was gone. We talked briefly that day but she had to work; so I rode up to the library with her and when it was time for her to work, I left, intending to walk back to town.

Which was when I noticed the bus driving down the street. It stopped right in front of me and I stepped right in.

That there is something in Morehead resembling public transportation -- and that is not, I might add ... at least as far as I know... associated with the University -- intrigued me. So I told her I was a former student and that I was visiting. She asked when I graduated, and I told her. Then I asked her how long the MorTran had been in existence.

She told me she wasn't sure. "I've only been driving with them for a year." But, she added, she thought it had been around for three or four years.

Joyce -- she eventually told me her name was Joyce -- is one of those people you run into a lot in Eastern Kentucky; and I mean that as a compliment. She's trying to get by in the world as honest as simply as she can. For all the bad press PR Eastern Kentucky gets -- from the "This is California not Kentucky" crack in Clueless to every single stereotype on record... some of them encouraged by Kentuckians who would rather be thought of as a stereotype, and some of them encouraged by well meaning outsiders who make tragic documentaries, win awards and then leave, changing nothing -- I have to admit that some of the best, kindest, most honest people I've ever met have been from Kentucky. So there.

I prefer the PETA Alica.

Batgirl wasn't bad either (Geek Flag flying)

And here's some of what I mean by that. I asked Joyce what she did before she drove the MorTran and she said she used to work at Wal-Mart. She worked at the OLD Wal-Mart (the one I knew was here, that moved in when I was doing my undergrad work in the early 1990's and effectively destroyed the local-based economy) as well as the NEW hyper Wal-Mart that they widened the road for. She worked for them for 14 years.

Until.

She was working in the dairy department, she told me, when she hurt her back. In response, they made a greeter.... you know, those geriatrics who wave like automatons when customers walk in.  I asked if they offered her any kind of Workman's Compensation. She said no, they didn't. Making her a greeter was Wal-Mart's version of Workman's Comp. Eventually, she said, they just pushed her out.

I know some about the way Wal-Mart works... one, because I pay attention, and two, I worked for them -- briefly -- back in the mid-90's. Wal-Mart is anti-union, anti-worker, and, as far as I can tell, anti-humanity. But they are FOR PROFIT, so I shouldn't expect anything else, I guess.

WATCH THIS MOVIE

I mentioned the wonderful three day orientation -- the first day and a half which consists of watching movies about how unions are bad and how Sam Walton is God.

Joyce laughed. "I remember that. But my ex-husband worked for GM; so I know unions aren't ALL bad."

[I need to extend my thanks to George and Laura Eklund, along with Waylon, Tommy, and Fiona, for their kind hospitality at Willow Drive.

If you like what you read here, you can help by:

1. Passing the link around.
2. Graciously donating to the cause using the button on the right hand side of the screen;
3. Contact Catherine Sellers at Greyhound, 415-331-6049. Tell them you are asking about a sponsorship when the operator picks up. I write about them enough. They should be helping me help them. Right??

Thanks for reading.]