Flying Rabbit Wrote:
Cap'n Squirrgle Wrote:
toots Wrote:
there's a jerry lee lewis one and a mickey gilly one floating around somewhere. trying to find it.
Toots those are fucking awesome.
Indeed. I really think you're missing an opportunity, Toots if you don't use those for inspiration on a novel about some dude crashing the country music awards.
Juck Pulver (Toots' Uncle) is a man among men. He knows how yank a wrench, and he knows how to roll a joint. As a sad matter of principle in today's economy, Juck spends more time rolling joints than he does with his wrenches.
Juck's life had recently taken a strange turn when he won tickets to The Country Music Awards down in Nashville from a radio contest WKKK here in Indianapolis was holding, and he was arrested, on the same day. Well, within hours of each other. Technically he was arrested at the exact same time - a quirk in the space time continuum caused by half of Indiana observing daylight savings time and half of it not.
At 1AM on Saturday Juck was at home, enjoying a joint, and listening to the radio. He thought that today's country just wasn't the same it was when his daddy was driving trucks, but sure as hell beat that crap his brother listened to like Deep Purple. He liked that song Tush, but he just didn't quite understand why it had to be so loud. And he was pretty sure none of them could tell the difference between a head gasket and a fuel intake valve. Like George Jones could. Or Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash worked the motor pool when he was in the Army. That's a man who could crank a wrench, write a song, drink a damn beer.
The DJ was doing okay tonight. He was playing old Hank Williams tunes. He announced a contest.
"The 3rd caller that can tell me where Hank Williams, Sr. was from gets two tickets to a very prestigious event. The type of event where you get to hob nob with the hoi poilloi. You may even need a suit. Or a tux. And if you're a silver tongued devil like me, you might get lucky. That's right sports fans, we've got us 2 genuine, bonafide tickets to The Country Music Awards in Nashville. You gotta get yourself to Nashville, but we'll get ya into The Opry."
Well, Juck may know more about rolling joints and yanking wrenches than he does about balancing checkbooks or making rent, but by God he knows. Hank Williams.
First dial was busy. Second dial he hears someone on the phone. The caller blurts out a loud "I know the answer and I'm goin ta Nashville! Hank Williams was from Alabama!"
"Where in Alabama?"
"Oh, oh, oh...oh...."
"Caller, I need a city"
"Birmingham!"
"I'm sorry you might be going to Nashville, but you're not going with WKKK's tickets."
And then it happened. Juck got through. He could hear the DJ tell him to turn his radio down. He had cotton mouth. He took a quick pull on his can of Hamm's and he heard the DJ ask for his answer.
He thought he was going blank. He couldn't think. He couldn't conjure a thought, but he heard himself saying, in his best diction and enunciation, "Hank Williams was born in Georgiana, Alabama, but most people would consider him being from Montgomery, Alabama."
Damnit, Juck. You couldn't have just said one or the other? You had to try to show up the audience? You had to try to show up the DJ?
Then like it was being broadcast underwater, he heard the DJ's voice say
"You sir have just won yourself two tickets to The Country Music Awards in Nashville! What's your name and where ya from?"
"I'm Juck Pulver and I'm from Marion, Indiana," he lilted. And with that he was off the air and on the phone with the producer making arrangements to pick up the tickets.
{to be cont'd}
_________________
Throughout his life, from childhood until death, he was beset by severe swings of mood. His depressions frequently encouraged, and were exacerbated by, his various vices. His character mixed a superficial Enlightenment sensibility for reason and taste with a genuine and somewhat Romantic love of the sublime and a propensity for occasionally puerile whimsy.
harry Wrote:
I understand that you, of all people, know this crisis and, in your own way, are working to address it. You, the madras-pantsed julip-sipping Southern cracker and me, the oldman hippie California fruit cake are brothers in the struggle to save our country.
FT Wrote:
LooGAR (the straw that stirs the drink)
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