Seen 'em all my life.
On maps and spinning globes.
Big bodies of water.
Up there where it's cold.
Ontario, Erie, Michigan.
Huron, Superior, too.
Took a driving trip.
I was just in the mood.
Islands, rocks, and cliffs.
Beaches of every type.
Native American paradise.
Stolen in the night.
(Chorus)
Went over to the Island of Mackinac.
Never forget what I saw.
Don't miss the boat, don't be late.
Those old Great Lakes are really great.
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Couldn't get out of Nashville quick enough, rose at dawn and blazed north over the Lyle A. Fulton Bridge. Had my money, had my technology, keys, bike, stuff, it was a nice little spot, on the southern bank of the Cumberland River, right on the Greenway trail, away from the neon. The town was best in the day, took in a round at the Ted Rhodes Golf Course. Ted was the first African-American professional golfer on the PGA in 1948. The Nashville native was Joe Louis' personal golf instructor, valet, and playing buddy, the Jackie Robinson and Sachel Paige of golf rolled into one.
Then the rivers one after another: Barren, Green, Nolin, Salt, Ohio, Muscatatuck, White, Driftwood, Salamonie, Wabash, Little, Kalamazoo, Grand, Looking Glass, Maple, Chippewa, Au Sable, Sturgeon, and finally, the Indian River. Not to mention the creeks, brooks, forks, runs, ditches, and gutters. Water moves in this country, searching for the sea, ready for anything, overcoming cold, overcoming heat. For now, all we can do is build bridges, but we'll die someday. Water never dies.
I'd rented a motel room in Indian River, northern Michigan was a desired location for many reasons, especially in September, before the weather turns harsh. Earnest Hemingway spent his childhood and teen summers in the area (from 1900 to 1920), inspiring much of his future writing content, especially the Nick Adams Stories. Before being sent off to WWI, before being wounded, before A Farewell To Arms, The Sun Also Rises, For Whom The Bell Tolls, and The Old Man And The Sea. Before he offed himself. Mackinac Island was cool, too.
I was a mixture of panic, determination, and bafflement. First night in Nashville and I lost my money clip containing my cash, my cards, and my ID. It was nowhere, it was gone, it was a disaster. The details are too inconceivable to explain, but that money clip was found on the 3rd floor of a parking garage, left there for a full hour while I drove around downtown, frantically retracing my movements, ransacking my condo, and searching every conceivable interior space of my 2011 Toyota Camery. As I drove up the 3 floors for a final peek of my last known parking spot, I prayed specifically over and over, "God, please let me find my money clip, please God, let me find my money clip."
The ramifications would've been extreme, all remedies seemed outlandish, it would've been a road trip ruiner for sure. I was hard on myself during the search, vulgar and unrelenting, tunes turned off. As I got to the spot all I could see was what looked like a squashed beer can. Upon closer inspection, and with squinting eyes, I muttered "Good Lord" as my body released all its tension. Found my money clip on a 3rd floor parking garage in the middle of Nashville, untouched, intact, a miracle.
The next night wasn't much better. I was looking forward to catching a show at the famous Bluebird Cafe. Surely, Sunday night would be a light crowd, perhaps even a chance to jump up on stage and play an original song, or two. I naively miscalculated, the small venue was flooded with people, there was a long, sad line for suckers without tickets, my 2nd, and last, night in Nashville was a bust, too. Neon shrines to Johnny Cash and Kid Rock lit up Broadway and 3rd as I called it a night, but they weren't around, got no plans of making it in Nashville.
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Couldn't find it anywhere in Texas.
Looked every place I could find.
Scattered all over the state.
Lost my peace of mind.
Oklahoma was another thing.
Didn't stay there very long.
Side-eyed stares and grudges.
Thinking they been done wrong.
Avoided the law in Arkansas.
Even though I hit the gas.
Cooled it down with the Velvet Underground.
Passed all their state trooper traps.
In Tennessee, no need to stop in Memphis.
That place has slowly died.
Guess they never got over Elvis.
Don't think they ever tried.
Kentucky with its wooden fences.
Louisville looked a bit glum.
Indiana, heard about its basketball courts.
Don't think I even saw one.
Get me to Indian River.
Where the lake perch are fried up right.
Over near Mullett Lake.
Those North Michigan nights.
CG
DG
CG
DCG
That's the way it goes.
That's the way it goes.
I'll be down the road tomorrow.
That's the way it goes.
I've concluded the worst drivers in the world drive Dodge Ram pickup trucks. In a hurry, unaware, and utterly oblivious of others, they seem to all wear mirrored wrap around glasses, tailgate relentlessly, and pass on two lane bridges. Go on by, here, go on, rush, you're first, see you at the stop light, Jackson! I brushed it off somewhere near the Red River in that brilliant corner where Texas meets Oklahoma meets Arkansas, north of Interstate 30, on the rolling, curving roads, through Albion to Broken Bow, then over to DeQueen. I was on my way to Nashville from north of Dallas, and at the beginning of a 10 day solo road trip to spend some time with my father in Wisconsin; taking the gonzo route, taking my time.
Rolled into Music City around mid-afternoon, checked into my rented riverfront condo, and took a late afternoon ride through the nearby downtown area. Nashville does it right with the bicycling scene--paved paths, navigational signs, cool bridges, and a flair of art throughout. The natural beauty of the hills and trees and cliffs centers around the Cumberland River. Steady moving and full, it's still a working river. Barges of all sizes, carrying lumber, oil, and dirt. The irony of moving dirt on a barge down a river.
Of course, there was the cliche Party Pontoon Saloon boat to ruin the calm. Lit up, blaring new country, and full of maniacally laughing tourists. Nothing wrong with tourists and laughing, but keep it low profile, start out low key, fall into the local culture. In truth, the boat mirrored the Nashville nightlife: Crowded, expensive, inauthentic, and bland. Trying too hard, just let it flow like the river.
The shouters must be shouted down, somebody's got to do it. We the people's roar can drown out any shout, the decibel level is 11. It's cranked up like never before. Public noise violations are at an all time high. The bottom is booming, the treble is hissing, the reverb is echoing.
We the people are not reading the news, we are not hypnotized by the breaking headlines, we are deciding on our own, paying attention. These American tyrants got to go, they must be sent off, exiled and reviled. They will drag as many as possible, dragging is what they know, but their fingernails are getting brittle, the tug-of-war is too much. Into the tar pit first, then the feathers. Make a spectacle of their spectacle.
Ignore the sheep, they are sheep, they do what sheep do. The shepherds are what matters, skilled and protective, they are like shadows, they know the angles, they know the sun. Their work is done in the dark, while the herd sleeps. The sheep know nothing when they wake, they just start eating. They have wool over their eyes.
No one escapes the wrath. The tossing out is set to begin in sixty days. To the street with these fools, leave them on the pavement, mercy is for the humble. The robotic trash truck will come sooner or later, don't get near them. Nasty.
Gurgling words, not understanding definitions, unable to articulate syllables, coughing goo into a hanky, eyes squinting through surgical lids. This man is shrinking, this man is little, a mental breakdown, a puke, an asshat. Turn up the red lights, that's what really gets him off. Same as his son, laptops and lap dances. And yellow pills to avoid a bodily function mess.
Bribed and blackmailed, he'll read anything off the screen. Hide behind brain decay, hide behind a cootie mask, take no questions from the truly curious, answer for nothing. The mud awaits, plenty of gutters around, drain the city. Scrape the scum, no chemical is strong enough to dissolve the filth. Clear the stink.
Shell of a corrupt, career politician performing at a 3th grade level. Lame, America. Pigment pimps respected for their courage in stirring the spoon of open racism. Lame, America. Celebrations and parties for the right to exterminate a fetus.
Lame, America. Obvious FBI hoaxes and bald faced lies accepted as rational fact. Lame, America. Poke the police in the eyes, then razor wire up the capital city and hide like a pussy. Lame, America.
Gulp up the media mush, vomit out the talking points, and refuse questions. Lame, America. Exploit envy and hardship, talk all folksy, kill Ukrainians and Russians, bring up democracy. Lame, America. "Patriotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel will cling," said Bob Dylan.