Eight Feet Deep

I found myself Wednesday in the uncomfortable position of siding with the Bush administration over the speech by Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to the UN General Assembly.

It isn’t the fact that Chavez, a real punk, called Bush “El Diablo.” Sometimes I harbor such thoughts myself. And in the larger sense Chavez and Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad both have some legitimate gripes about Ugly American foreign policy of which Gee Dubya and company have made even more horrific.

No, what galls me is Chavez goes on stage in a place that should bring the world together through diplomacy and trashes the U.S. president and by extension its citizens.

Now you might be asking: Isn’t that what this nation is all about? Free speech? Apparently not. Even though the Bush administration says we are free to speak they would rather we not speak ill of their administration or their ill-advised war in Iraq. But Chavez didn’t speak in the U.S. per se. He spoke on international ground at the U.N. and he made the faux pas of insulting our nation’s institutions (regardless of the fact that our president may belong in some type of an institution).

I’ve said it here before by using the example of Lyndon B. Johnson. Some Texans could get mighty pissed when outsiders started insulting their fellow homeboy LBJ. The saying we had back then for LBJ applies today to Gee Dubya(less in a provincial sense though because Gee Dubya is a transplanted Yankee): He may be a bastard, but he’s our bastard.

Pulling a rickshaw through some Third World city could be considered an optimum workout for the new mommy.

This morning on my walk on the hike-bike trail along the creek I was suddenly and unexpectedly descended upon by The Baby Runners. These are the relatively new, in-the-zone mommies who zip by with their babies firmly planted in what is known as a “jogging stroller.”

I saw the first one, then another, then another, then another one right after the other. I thought maybe they all got together in the wooded loop for a quick cigarette or joint, then off they go!

It probably is great exercise pushing a baby around in a stroller while jogging. The babies didn’t seem to mind although I swear one had this godawful expression on its face as if it was concerned that Mommy might accidentally veer off, crashing through the underbrush and plunging into the creek.

Personally, I think pulling an old-fashioned rickshaw around would be a good workout for anyone (but me) and especially new mommies wanting to trim down just a skosh. I mean, screw the rubber buggy baby bumper. A rickshaw would be the H2 Hummer of the jogging strollers. Not only could Mommy get her exercise and take the small fry for a stroll at a good clip, she could could run to the store, the dry cleaners, the post office, all the while zipping in and out of traffic.

Maybe the baby rickshaw SUV will be the wave of the future in the Gordian knot of balancing new motherhood, physical fitness and low emission transportation.

When it comes to musical preferences I will, often times, let an entire genre alone for various periods of time. That is not to say I don’t listen to songs of a certain genre. It’s just I don’t pay close attention to the body of work as a whole or give a lot of thought to it for awhile. A case in point is country rock.

It may have seen to some folks at certain points in time that country rock was an oxymoron. But it really wasn’t if you go back and look at the heyday of rockabilly which was stuffed with the likes of Elvis, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash.

But country rock as we know it today probably owes much of its popularity to Gram Parsons, the enigmatic performer whose work included stints with The Byrds and The Flying Burrito Brothers.

Parsons died Sept. 19, 1973, at age 26, of a drug overdose. Yet his legendary status in the music scene — among which was being Emmylou Harris’ mentor and influencing the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards — was overshadowed by the near mythic story of what happened to Parsons after his death. I refer to the theft of his body by friends who took Parsons to Joshua Tree, Calif., and cremated him. His friends stole the body at Los Angeles International Airport as it was being readied for shipment to Louisiana for burial. His friends insisted that Gram wanted Joshua Tree as his final place of rest.

Flipping channels on the “jumbotron” the other day, I came across the musical tribute to Parsons in “Return to Sin City” on INHD. Lo and behold there was Jay Farrar of Son Volt and Uncle Tupelo fame singing a soulful version of the biting anti-war “Drug Store Truck Driving Man,” written by Parsons and The Byrds’ Roger McGuinn:

“Well, he don’t like the young folks I know
He told me one night on his radio show
He’s got him a medal he won in the War
It weighs five-hundred pounds and it sleeps on his floor …

“He’s a drug store truck drivin’ man
He’s the head of the Ku Klux Klan
When summer rolls around
He’ll be lucky if he’s not in town.”

Listening to old Gram Parsons tunes got me in touch with my inner Byrds, such as the light but cosmic McGuinn piece “Mr. Spaceman:”

“Woke up this morning with light in my eyes
And then realized it was still dark outside
It was a light coming down from the sky
I don’t know who or why
Must be those strangers that come every night
Those saucer shaped lights put people uptight
Leave blue green footprints that glow in the dark
I hope they get home all right …

“Woke up this morning, I was feeling quite weird
Had flies in my beard, my toothpaste was smeared
Over my window, they’d written my name
Said, so long, we’ll see you again
Hey, Mr. Spaceman
Won’t you please take me along
I won’t do anything wrong
Hey, Mr. Spaceman
Won’t you please take me along for a ride.”

From there on came Emmylou, the Eagles, Rodney Crowell, Cracker, Lucinda Williams and who knows who all in the genre of country rock. It’s sometimes nice to think of how we got from Point A to Point B, especially when something worthwhile is waiting at the terminus.

Arrr, it’s Talk Like A Pirate Day. It is the day I usually never remember until it is days, weeks or months too late.

Once I did remember that September 19 was Talk Like A Pirate Day. I had to fly to El Paso on business and I had harbored thoughts about wearing a pirate’s hat and an eye patch. However, thinking about it was all I did because people don’t seem to have much of a sense of humor when it comes to flying these days. I probably would have been strip searched (ostensibly so the TSA could look at my peg leg, arrr!)

Anyway, if you see someone talking like a pirate today, greet him or her with a robust “ahoy.” Or, at least tell that person to have a nice pirate day.

The Beaumont Enterprise reports Willie Nelson and company got busted for pot and magic mushrooms on I-10 near Lafayette, La. Among those cited and released after their arrest with the 73-year-old Outlaw King was his 75-year-old sister and piano player Bobbie Nelson. Isn’t that just like those young whipper-snappers!