An Alien Birdman on the Road to Alaska

Rev. Steve Chambers spent the summer of 1973 hitchhiking from Lancaster, Pennsylvania to Alaska and back with his friend Stacy Stegemerton. This is an excerpt from the travelogue of that summer.
 

While there was a culture of comraderie in 1973 among the many hitchhikers on the road, there was the occasional edgy character as well. Early on in our trip, darkness fell on the Pennsylvania Turnpike and we found ourselves sharing an entrance ramp with a rather strange individual.

We were dropped during rush hour, just before a busy tollbooth polluted with other hitchhikers. We'd barely arrived when we were approached by a stocky, muscular man, reminiscent of Meat Loaf's character in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Running a comb through a greasy head of hair and chewing a wad of gum, he strutted up to us and declared, "Ya know you can hide anything with a mirror". It made sense to us. In fact, we thought it was quite profound. We started to get the feeling that maybe we had stumbled onto some sort of a roadside philosopher. 

He didn’t elaborate on much, but the definitive statements popped out of him like a Whack-a-Mole on speed. "The trucking industry runs this country, you know". He used the phrase "you know" often, as if to say, "You better believe this pal and if you don’t, l got a problem with you". So we agreed with everything he said.  

But his demeanor slowly grew intimidating. "Wait a minute", he barked. "Are you a bird?" he poked his finger at me."Stick out your tongue!" l wasn’t sure if it would be better to be a bird or not, but l braced myself and stuck out my tongue. "You're a bird!” 

“Stick out your tongue" he pointed at Stacy. Luckily, we both passed the bird test as our interrogator pointed into his own mouth and said, "See, l'm a bird too".

We heaved a sigh of relief. 

Other hitchhikers wandered up and left as they heard the conversation.
Our friend spit on the ground and glared at us. "Ya gotta watch out for the slurps and serpents in this world. Then you have your giants and miniatures, your days and your nights, your shotguns and revolvers." 
We had no idea which of these were good and which were evil, but we nodded along in agreement.

"I've reached the ultimate in knowledge”, he informed us. “I've been forward in time to 2015 and l'm an alien from a distant planet, walking among the humans on earth. I can be three places at once, ya know," He spoke in tangents, jumping from lucidity to insanity in the space of a sentence.

It was interesting talk, but we were wary of our bird friend's menacing manner and given the encroaching darkness and the lack of rides, Stacy and l wandered up the hill to find a place to sleep, somewhere far from our new friend, the man from another planet. He persisted in his attempt to flag a ride. We spread a plastic sheet upon the ground, threw out our sleeping bags and lay there, the well lit, bluish hue of the toll booth in the distance and the drone of tractor trailers endlessly braking and accelerating, washing over us, an invasive white noise. It wasn't a particularly restful place to sleep. 

Shortly thereafter, l awoke to a loud, violent smacking upon our plastic tarp. Whack! Whack! It was our alien birdman creating room for himself next to us. “If he's reached the ultimate in knowledge, why didn’t he think to bring a tarp along”, l wondered. Here l am lying along the road beside a possible wandering psychopathic killer. It was the ultimate intimidation. We felt vulnerable inside sleeping bags?

We woke the next morning to find our friend gone. We packed quickly and hurried down to the ramp. We immediately scored a ride with a straight-laced businessman heading to Cleveland. The perfect lift! We threw our backpacks into the trunk and just as we were getting into his car, our alien birdman came running down the hill, requesting a ride as well. My heart sank. " Sure", said the driver and we soon found ourselves riding to Cleveland with a New Jersey insurance salesman and an alien from outer space.

After 15 minutes of silence, the birdman chirped, "Ya know, you can hide anything with a mirror". And he and the salesman were engaged in a discussion that was disturbingly familiar. Oddly, the salesman told us later that he thought the guy made pretty good sense. Maybe New Jersey insurance salesmen and aliens from outer space have more in common than we think. Around Pittsburgh, birdman began to get restless, maybe even nervous, fidgeting with his small pack. Somehow he didn't seem so intimidating in the back seat of a Monte Carlo, but his uneasiness made me uneasy. Was this where the gun would come out of his backpack? 

"l'm goin' to the Indy 500, so you can drop me in Pittsburgh", he said. As enlightened as he claimed to be, his knowledge of geography was clearly limited. Without a goodbye or a word of thanks he jumped out of the car and strutted up the road. We never saw him again. He was Pittsburgh’s and soon to be Indianapolis's problem now, an alien off to observe the phenomena of automobiles racing in circles. 

And l was as far west as l had ever been. Stacy and l were beyond the point of no return on our trip to Alaska.

First Christmas away from home

By Rev. Steve Chambers

There is a heartbreaking tearjerker of an old Stan Rogers song that grabs my gut whenever l hear it about a young lad away from home for the first time at Christmas.

This Christmas my own daughter won't make it home...the first time that my family won't share a table. Some people bolt from home right out of high school and never look back, but as a young man, my home life was stable enough to come back every Christmas. I would put aside my issues and everyone else's and allow for a few hours of the old pleasant feelings. Sooner or later, though ,it happens to most of us.

I was in Seattle, having gone there in an attempt to hop a freighter so that l might work my way around the world. It was a bold move for me, but I figured it might be my last chance to see the world and down the road be able to tell my grand kids some killer stories. I had been in St. Thomas , Virgin Islands the previous winter, lying in a hammock reading Tom Robbins. What the hell made me think that the rainy Pacific Northwest sounded romantic? But my friend Dave Smithgall loved it there and he offered me a place to stay. So, l made my way to Seattle, what seemed a perfect jumping off point for the rest of the world.

Dave lived in a house with four other adults and it was a fun place to hang out. Friends would stop by, and out to the bars we would all go. The taverns had great character then, not at all gentrified as they are today. Many of the waterfront taverns retained a certain beer hall, down by the docks, turn of the century charm. I ended up getting a part time job in a sandwich shop and staying on for a few months, prowling the docks looking for a boat out...to Hawaii maybe, or China. But l had no luck.

Thanksgiving was a great feast with my new friends. That afternoon Dave and l played frisbee football in the bank parking lot across the street with a few locals and sat down to a turkey dinner that evening. But for Christmas he went back to Pennsylvania. l couldn't afford plane tickets so l stayed on with folks that l actually didn't know as well as l thought. Folks with families of their own.

I was suddenly a lonely man in a big city, far from home. All the bright window displays and cheerful Christmas carols and sparkling holiday lights served to mock rather than cheer me. And there was the relentless cloudy and rainy weather, some Seattleans love it, preferring it to snow, but l was miserable.

On Christmas eve l went to a local alternative theater for a movie.

A film called "It's a Wonderful Life" was playing. Now there was a point

when this movie hadn't seen the light of day for a long time. Today it is a common holiday show…very common. But between 1950 and 1975, because of licensing issues, it was not seen. I had never heard of this movie at the time. I found it profoundly moving that night, probably because of my lonely state. What a happy ending, the Jimmy Stewart character, who is foiled in his attempts to travel the world, later finds relevance and redemption in his own little home town!

When l stepped out into the dreary street, other movie goers were walking along shouting out "Merry Christmas". l shouted back to them. It was probably my last and only moment of Christmas spirit for that year.

The next day l awoke with an atrocious case of influenza. There was vomiting and diarrhea and headaches. I lay alone in a fetal position, in my bed, no one to care for me. l'd infect them anyway. I'd hit rock bottom, both emotionally and physically.

Some Christmas!

Ah, but you make it through days like this and you move on. But l quickly realized that maybe l wasn't cut out to work on a freighter in the Pacific Ocean. Who would nurture me out there? Who would be there on Christmas morning to kiss my face and hand me gifts?

So by New Years day l was gone, heading back to the Virgin Islands for the winter, where the sun would warm me and where my many friends had gathered to lay upon the beaches, swim in the caressing sea and read Tom Robbins.

A Bucket List Moment in the Mississippi Delta

A year or so ago, I flew into Jackson, Mississippi to meet friends to travel and experience the history of the Mississippi Delta Blues. We traveled up Route 61, stopping in Indianola to visit BB King’s stomping grounds before heading up to Clarkesdale to spend a few days soaking in as much of a Blues experience as could be fit into a 48 hour period. There were many highlights, including the Ground Zero bar, the Shack Up Inn and checking out a blues documentary that was being shown as part of the Clarkesdale Film Festival.

But all of that paled in comparison to a late night spent at Red’s Lounge, one of the last remaining authentic Mississippi Delta Blues juke joints.

Nestled next to a slightly overgrown graveyard, Red’s doesn’t look like much of anything from the outside and there’s nothing fancy about it inside. It’s small. The kind of small where upon entry every head in the joint turns to greet you.

This being my first trip into a Mississippi juke joint, I had nothing to compare it to. But it certainly felt authentic. Peeling paint on the walls, a worn carpet, tiny stage and a low ceiling paneled with what looked like heavy-duty green plastic garbage bags. Exposed light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, coupled with several neon lights shaped like musical notes cast a hazy, red tinged hue throughout the cramped quarters. The bar menu was simple – bottled beer, water and soda. Cash only.

Red, the proprietor, was serving. He took a peek at us over the bridge of his dark shades and welcomed us.

It was all that you could imagine in a Mississippi juke joint. I had reached The Promised Land!

Well…almost. I was within a few feet of it.

I fancy myself as a decent musician. Can’t read a lick of music and my guitar playing is pretty basic. Simple blues stuff. And I’m not afraid to admit that the only thing better than a two-chord song is a one-chord song. Less to remember but more room to feel.  I’ve also dabbled with the piano, saxophone, harmonica and a lot of percussion.

Over the years, I’ve managed to talk myself onto stages from Memphis to Kansas City to New York City to sit in with various musicians for a few songs. I begin planting the seed with a band member during their breaks. By the end of the night when the crowd thins, most relent and let me sit in for a tune or two.

From the moment I walked in the door, I knew the path I was going to travel. An authentic Mississippi juke joint? This was a bucket list moment for Willie Marble. And the evening’s act was perfectly set up for it. A young Blues player who seemed to be cool with having people sit in with him. In fact, it didn’t seem like he had a band behind him. It was more reminiscent of pick-up basketball on the playground. Players were shuffling on and off the bandstand. It was a pretty loose scene.

I surveyed the situation. It was unlikely that he’d let me play his guitar and I wasn’t packing a saxophone, Mississippi or otherwise. There was, however a small, simple trap set. Bass drum, high-hat, floor tom, one cymbal. That was my ticket. I set my sights on it.

I can sit in with just about anyone as a percussionist with hand instruments such as congas and various shakers. Those sorts of percussion instruments are easy to add a bit of sound and vibe but at the same time not get in the way too much. But I really can’t play a trap set. I’ve never been able to coordinate my hands with my feet. Compounding that problem is that my enthusiasm usually gets the best of me and I simply can’t resist stomping on the bass drum or high-hat foot pedals. The results are not always optimal. But that wasn’t going to stop me.

Compared to the level of selling, convincing and outright bribing with a beer or two that I’ve had to do in other bars and clubs, this was fairly easy.

“You can play the drums?” he asked.

“Of course!”.

“Okay. You can sit in when we begin our next set.”

I can’t tell you what song we played. A straight Blues number, no doubt. I fell into the groove. I was having the time of my life, enjoying every second of this bucket list moment. I even deluded myself into thinking that I was holding my own pretty well.

My Delta Blues juke joint bubble however, was about to be burst.

No sooner did the last note of the first song fade away, when he turned around, looked me straight in the eye and hissed, “Damn! You can’t play! Go sit down. Let’s get somebody up here who can play the drums.”

For many, that walk of shame from behind the trap set back to a seat at the bar after being summarily and quite publicly kicked of the bandstand would have been humiliating. But not for Willie Marble. He’d just checked off a bucket list item. Playing on the stage of one of the last authentic Blues juke joints in the Mississippi Delta? It would have taken a blow torch to erase the mile wide smile on my face.

I ordered a beer. Red handed me the bottle and I took a long gulp.

“Doesn’t get much better than that, does it?”

From behind his shades, Red simply nodded.

A Tale From the Floor

Based on a True Story
Xperienced and Submitted by Queen Victoria

Seems like these things always begin with a phone call.

It was late afternoon on a Wednesday when my phone rang. I answered the call and Marble was on the other end of the line. He was all excited as he began to tell me about a gig in Kansas City.

“My old stompin’ grounds” he explained. “I just love that place. This gig is in a super-cool club he gushed. It ain’t quite like the old Milton’s Tap Room, but it’s in that general neighborhood. It’s got that general same kinda vibe.”

“KC is a beautiful city with wide boulevards, rolling hills, fountains everywhere you turn and its one of the jazz capitals of the universe.” I could not get a word in edgewise. “And if that’s not enough it’s got the best barbecue on the planet. I’ve got the A-Team already assembled. Dr. Miller, Senator Seeds and Mr. Shade are on board. All they wanted to know was Where? When? And are the Marblelettes going? Even Blind Melon Pelvo who, with a reasonably ‘respectable’ day job, usually has to ask a few more questions than the rest of us, jumped on immediately. Pevlo responded, Kansas City! That’s a road trip! Get your bags are packed girl, cause we are leavin’ on Friday”.

Finally, Willie skipped a verbal beat and I was able to quickly shout a rapid “Yes - I’m in”.

I admit there was a quick flashback going on in my mind’s eye to the group’s last road trip. It was Memphis. That one ended under a cloud of suspicion, rampant innuendo and a still outstanding warrant. (Hey, Memphis can get crazy. And it’s been well documented that nothing is out of the question when the Dekays are involved particularly, those years when Billy Bob Dekay was hittin’ the bottle pretty good. We were on a double bill with them at some joint on Beale Street. What would you expect?) But the scent of the adventure ahead overtook that dusty faded memory and I was raring to go. This trip was to the famed Kansas City Marble had been telling stories about for years! I was totally on board.

Shooter and Honey Bee were push-overs. They immediately began to cancel all other appointments, plans, gigs, and family responsibilities. They were not about to miss this adventure. No way.

After a very long time on the road our magic tour bus, with a saint of a driver who we dubbed St. Monica, we rolled down Wyandotte Boulevard and into town. We were running late. Willie paid absolutely no attention to that fact and called from the back of the bus “St. Monica, pull over at the corner 50th and Main. We gotta make this one stop. Only take a second”.

Monica pulled over in front of a very sketchy place called “The Peanut” which, according to Marble had the “best corned beef sandwich this side of the Mississippi”, where we were met by a shady crew with some very interesting names. Dutch. Piff, Dr. Sindritch, Barbecue Neil and some dude with only one-eye named Night-Train.

Night-Train was carrying something he called “The Football”. Actually it looked like about eight or 10 footballs wrapped in red butcher paper. The thing was gigantic whatever the hell it was. This cast of characters was led by Big Jake Young, referred to by many as the “Peoples Mayor of Kansas City”.

Lo and behold, they all jumped on board the magic tour bus and off we went.

A smell began to emanate from ‘The Football’. I asked Night Train “what’s in there?”

“You’ll find out soon enough”, he replied with a wink of his one good eye. Then with an air of both celebration and reverence, he ripped opened the football to reveal an enormous mass of Arthur Bryant’s barbecue, several racks of ribs, a slew of brisket sandwiches, lots of “burnt ends”, a boat load of fries and what must have been at least two loaves of white bread, all slathered thick with sauce. A beautiful sight it was indeed! We all dug in, stuffed our faces and washed it down with a swigs of Rebel Yell straight out of the bottle.

Groaning with footballs in our bellies, we pulled up to the club, with a name that, for reasons soon to be revealed, I cannot recall. The street signs told me we were at the corner of 12th St. & Vine. Hallowed musical ground. And it did indeed resemble the old Milton’s Tap Room with its dark, smoky speakeasy feel. We headed for the green room which was basically half storage closet and half office. But its walls were lined with frayed play bills featuring some of Kansas City’s jazz and blues greats - Count Basie, Charlie Parker, Jay McShann, Big Joe Turner and Hot Lips Page and up in a corner was ... I squinted and rubbed my eyes and looked again ....Willie Marble?

It was hot that night. Very hot. All those fountains in that darn city, you would think it would cool the air. I don’t know whether it was the effects of the heat, the football, or the travel, but I wasn’t feeling quite right. On the advise of Dr. Miller, I took a shot of tequila to calm my system. Who am I to question a doctor’s advice? It seemed to work and I headed out to the main room with Shooter and Honey Bee where we began chatting up the barflies.

The joint began to get crowded with blues lovers coming in from all corners of the legendary city and beyond. The word had spread that The Xperience and the World Famous Marblelettes were in town. It was gearing up to be a great night! Since that first shot of tequila seemed to cure my ills I opted for another and a beer. An extra bit “liquid courage” for the nerves.

The boys were playing and the room was packed. SOR. Despite the close quarters, when Shooter, Honey Bee and I moved toward the stage, the crowd parted like the Sea of Galilee. There we stood looking out over a mass of people. We started into Lou Reed’s “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” and true to the song’s title, things got wild real quick. A few notes came out of my mouth while I was thinking to myself about how damn hot the room was and maybe I should not have eaten quite so many of those “burnt ends”.

Then there was a giant crash. Or so I am told. Turns out I was the crash. I passed out stone cold into the laps of some front row seat fans and soon arrived face-first on a beer and bourbon soaked floor.

When I woke up everything was so surreal. I could not figure out why I was on the floor or why I could not stand up.

Despite my confused and fogged-up brain, I could hear people trying to figure out what to do. Honey Bee had my right foot in one hand and right arm in the other, moving them both around in big circles. Shooter was on the other side and doing exactly the same thing with my left foot and arm. This was sooooooo undignified for a World Famous Marblelette! My mind was shouting “STOP IT” but the words just would not come out.

I could hear the boys offering their expert opinions on the situation. Mostly, these opinions consisted of “She’ll be OK”. I think this was the only time that Dr. Miller did not pipe up with “a shot of tequila will take care of everything”. I heard Marble say “Well, now what do we do?”

By this time I was able to utter a few words and gamely offered, “Hand me the mic”. And then oh no - ohh no , ohh NO NO! The police were on the scene! Here I am sprawled out on the floor in a bar in Kansas City and the cops are arriving. Surreal does not fully describe the situation. Then in comes a whole pile of EMT’s and yep’ they are bending down to pick me up and carry me out of there. Some of the details remain a bit sketchy but there was this dude who held my hand the entire time cooing “Everything is gonna be OK”. Well, yeah, sure but he left before the questions began. This was awful.

“What’s your name?” Given that still outstanding Memphis warrant, I wasn’t about to tell them that I was THAT Queen Victoria. The World Famous one. I’m no legal scholar, but I wasn’t about to take the chance that our behavior in Memphis might catch up to us in Kansas City.

“What did you have to eat?”
Barbecue and something some guy called a football.

“What did you have to drink”.
“Tequila, bourbon and a beer, of course”

“Did you do any recreational drugs?”
“Not yet”.

“Why in the world are you in this place?”
“Good question. It started with a phone call”.

Then the inevitable happened.

The EMT tending to me looked at me again then blurted to the driver “Hey. You are kidding me! Hey Joe. You know who this is? She’s one of the Marbelettes. The World Famous ones. They sing with the Willie Marble Xperience. Remember, we heard a rumor going around that they were in town.” And now I’m thinking ohh no! …they have nailed my identity. This is not good.

He turned his attention back to me. “The rest of the band still back there?” I answered weakly, “Of course. The show must go on.”

I immediately felt the ambulance speed up. I thought to myself “they are hauling my ass to the hospital as fast as possible so they can turn right around and get back to the juke joint to catch the rest of the show”. Sure ‘nuff, I was hastily run in on a gurney and deposited less than delicately in the hospital emergency room.

The hospital staff removed by boots. I silently panicked. In my haste to dress for the show I could not find matching socks. One foot donned a cute pink crew sock with polka dots and the other a black lace knee high. Mis-matched socks are the ultimate humiliation for a Marblelette. Being World Famous we pride ourselves on our fashion choices.

After a few hours of being poked and prodded and me saying, “yeah I know I feinted and you are worried that I had a heart attack or a stroke and all of that - but hey my head really hurts”. Finally an orderly brought me a tiny ice pack for my massively hurtin’ head.

I saw a big shadow cross my doorway and in walked Willie Marble. Now for those of you who have never experienced a Marble sighting, he is a bit of an imposing figure. He sauntered in sporting his traditional hat and shades with his driver in tow and smelling like a top shelf bourbon. The hospital people were just shaking their heads and didn’t know what to think until a young orderly blurted “Hey, that’s Willie Marble!”. Willie smiled and replied “Y’all taking good care of my girl here, right?”

He sat down by my bedside and took my hand and said, “Well, you’ve looked better girl”. Then he did a double take on my socks and laughed out loud. “Yea, I confessed, I could not find two that matched”. Willie nodded in agreement “I get that”. He then took off one of his blue suede shoes to reveal a sock with not one, but two holes in it. Once again we were reminded that we are of the same tribe.

Now the hospital staff began to wait on me hand and foot. I was beginning to feel much better and must have dozed off for a while.

When I awoke, he was gone. Likely on his way to a remote Caribbean island. On the desk next to the bed was a note.

“Get well. I’m working on something in Boise. Will call you soon.”

I was finally released. Walking out the hospital door, a wide smile crawled across my face. Despite that warrant in Memphis, my face plant on a beer soaked bar room floor in Kansas City and a massive headache, I couldn’t wait for that call.

Fleeting Fame in Mexico

By Reverand Windowpane Johnson

In 1975, my buddy Cliff Firestone and I climbed into his 1968 VW bug and traveled south into Mexico. I can’t remember why exactly. I guess we were seeking adventure and avoiding boredom.

Mexico was so different than it is today. It had a feel of timelessness, charm and lawlessness. It reminded me of the American old west. Road signs were virtually nonexistent, so you never knew if you were where you were hoping you were. 

Machine gun toting, teenaged Federale soldiers strolled the streets. You couldn't drive at night, because there were dogs and donkeys walking around in the dark. You might drive for two hours and see no one, then suddenly a peasant man carrying a bundle of sticks would appear out of nowhere. We would converse in our broken Spanish and he would give us a "Vaya con Dios" and disappear into the desert. There was a dreamy, hallucinogenic sort of feel to each day.

At the end of our second day we ended up in a small village high in the mountains. I don't remember the name of the town, but it had some dusty streets and a water source in the center of the plaza. We found a quaint old hotel and the amicable owner fed us well and started us on a night of drinking.

Refreshed from our meal and showers, we wandered about the town until we came upon a cantina, with swinging doors just like in a western movie. Inside we could hear discussion, and revelry. It was an unspoken inevitability that we would enter, and I pulled Cliff aside and said "Lets just keep a low profile in here, we don't know  how they feel about Americans". Cliff nodded, and strutted through the doors, his arms above his head gesturing wildly, shouting out, "tequila por todos! tequila por todos!"

So much for the low profile, but we were warmly welcomed.

It was a primitive old saloon, a trough urinal running down one side of the room and a rough-hewn bar down another. Eight Mexican farmers eyed us warily and with curiosity. We traded rounds of the most rotgut, vile tequila I have ever had.........even to this day, and the ice was broken.

Cliff and I broke into an acappella version of an old Carter Family tune, and soon we were trading songs as well as drinks. The evening began to take on a bizarre glow. It was like a scene from a Keruac novel, just us and our new best friends hanging out in a remote village bar in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas, singing for each other.

Small, dirty, smiling urchins huddled just outside the swinging doors soon spread the word among the village that there were gringos entertaining tonight. Suddenly the cantina was closed and we found ourselves on the street, surrounded by teenagers, eager to hear gringo music. I ran back to our room to get my guitar, and we were now singing for a new crowd. We were famous and life was good!

But as quickly as we had found stardom, the tequila caught up with us and we made a hasty retreat to our room, where we soon found ourselves vomiting upon the cool tile floor of our bathroom floor. Fame is a fleeting mistress and two days of diarrhea was our penance for letting it go to our head.

Week Night in Chicago 1994

“They tell me you are wicked and I believe them for I have seen your painted ladies beneath the gas lights luring the farm boys.” Thank you Carl Sandberg. But it wasn’t the painted ladies, it was the lure of authentic Blues that swept us in.

Buddy Guys place.

The real deal.

We (Bob and me) had driven a rental car to downtown Chicago with the address of Buddy’s establishment written on a coaster from the night before. We rode past the classic “Buddy Guys” neon out front, and parked the rental in the nearest lot that didn’t say, “Full.”

I turned around and there was Bob, his face stretched into a huge, goofy grin and 2 large martinis sloshing over their sides. “It’s a week night. We’re in Chicago. We’re at Buddy Guy’s. And it’s Open Mike Night. Drink it. I’m getting 2 more!”

A couple of random, adequately talented guitar players traded the stage with one another, and the whole night began to feel flat and average, standing in the back of a crowded bar, yelling to talk and scanning the landscape to see something interesting.

Then it happened: Buddy jumped on stage. Buddy Guy, in the flesh, in his oversized blue bib overalls, in his place on Open Mike Night. We had struck Blues Gold.

Buddy jumping on stage was the beginning of the, “We’re Having a ‘Tini Every Song He Plays” game. With Bob buying, and appearing from nowhere before each new song with fresh martinis in each hand, all lit up with that goofy, “Isn’t this great” grin.

Buddy played a couple tunes with the dude’s guitar who had been on stage for “Open Mike Night” before Buddy had taken over and borrowed the guitar from the awestruck rube.

After a sweaty rendition of “Damn Right I Got The Blues”, Buddy’s all fired up and hollers to the wild crowd, ”My guitar is kinda like my woman. I don’t like stroking no one else’s.” With that, his red axe was promptly whisked on stage. Buddy looked at it lovingly, stroked it a few times, and then laid into a nasty, “First Time I Met The Blues”.

The place exploded.

Song concluded, Buddy leaned into the mike and teased, “Someone bring me a Conneyack, and I might stay up for a little while.”

Bob howled, “Hell yes!! It’s a week night. We’re in Chicago. We’re at Buddy Guy’s. And Buddy Guy is playing!” He raced back to the bar for 2 more fresh martinis, a pack of smokes and a Cognac for Buddy. His new buddy, the greatest guitar player of ALL TIME.

The night went on. Late. Real late. And the “We’re Having a ‘Tini Every Song He Plays” game ran it’s course and did us in real solid. So did the singing. Cause neither of us could talk anymore.

We cabbed it to a hotel near the airport for flights we both missed.

The next day, I called Bob to recount the night and asked about the fate of the rental car. Bob answered without the slightest hint of remorse. “Oh, I Fedexed them the keys with a note that said, “it’s in a lot near Buddy Guy’s place. You better go and get it quick, because we didn't pay for the parking. I’m a Hertz Gold Member.”

Who found the Blues

From the Spud Turner Chronicles

Almost Cut My Hair

Music can codify life, in much the same way scent can transport you back to a first love, or a taste can zoom you through time and space to Grandma’s kitchen. In 1970 Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young released Déjà Vu, and the song Almost Cut My Hair. When I hear that album, this is where I end up, every time, moved through time:

Vietnam is my magnet word. When I was young, I had a set of hard, dark gray magnets about an inch long. Touch together one end and they snapped to; touch the other and they repelled. When I see Vietnam I still snap to, but my insides are repelled by the memories. Vietnam raised me, TV news and Walter Cronkite bringing daily death counts during dinner.

Lots of things were less safe growing up in the 1960’s. Those magnets were probably full of lead and carcinogens, kids were car pooled, unbelted, in the cargo hold of station wagons (“we can fit one more”), the Creeple People machine and Vacuform were industrial tools, and bicycles were ridden daily without helmets. Vietnam was less safe for boys who flipped from banana bikes to rifles at age 18.

I wanted to marry Bobby when I grew up, he of the curling dark hair and life force eyes. I loved him with all the might of an unhappy girl child who found warmth and soul safety in her cousin’s presence, living for the visits, “will Bobby be there?” Bobby was kind to me, didn’t care that my family said I was a precocious brat. As an eighteen year old with a brand new used car, backcountry roads, and the unlimited possibilities of Friday night awaiting him, he made time to hold my hand, visit his big outside dog, share some of his heat. It was enough just to be in the same room.

I’d just turned ten when Bobby died, a marine killed in Vietnam; he was 26. The next time we went to visit, I broke my already cracked mother when I asked, “will Bobby be there?” I’d forgotten he died - just for a second. I got in big trouble for that one, hurting my mother like that.

My own son turned 27 last year and the realization that Bobby never did so hit hard. Old tears, old pain, old woman now.

I’m a peripheral person to Vietnam. I didn’t serve, I didn’t protest, I didn’t debate – I was just a kid. But Vietnam raised me just the same. Swanson TV dinners in hot foil packaging, live TV footage of the war, KIA, MIA, do you want dessert?

- Submitted by Ellie Coo

Marble in Berlin?

It’s late night in Berlin – cold, windy and damp. I am walking along the Münzstrasse, and music drifts up from a side street. I venture towards the sounds, blues notes and guitar becoming clearer. “Lötte Bar”, the sign says, with a Kindl beer emblem. Opening the door, the room is heavy with smoke, crowded tables and sounds of glasses at the bar.

Before I can find a seat, a man approaches. “We’re closed. Private Party.”, he says brusquely, and grabs my shoulder to steer me back to the door.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were closed. Who’s the singer?”, I ask, nodding toward the tall figure hunched over a guitar.

“Some American. He sings like they did before the Wall went up.”

I stop at the door and turn for a last look. The singer’s hat is tipped low over his face; his voice is deep and gravelly, as he sings “Boogie Chillin”. He looks up; the shades are distinctive.

I step back into the night, with Willie’s voice for company as I walk home.

So, You Think Being a World Famous Marblelette is So Glamorous?

So you think being a World Famous Marblelette is so glamorous?

Well, let me tell you what happened to this Marblelette the last time Willie Marble rolled into town.

It’s common knowledge that Marble tries to stay south of the border during the winter months. But there he was, sitting at the bar in an establishment that had seen its better days in a town significantly north of the border. He’d gathered the Xperience for another xperience. We were as surprised as anyone. We don’t usually see him from November through March. Just like you, we hear the rumors and the random supposed sightings, reported anywhere from the backstreets of Memphis to a small village in the Andes Mountains.

But to see him in the flesh deep in the heart of an early February cold snap was out of the ordinary. He mumbled something about being in town to “make a few things straight again”, but offered nothing else. I didn’t care much one way or the other, I was simply happy to be hopping on the Marble Xpress for a winter ride. I packed for what would likely be a long evening – light, but with enough supplies and accoutrements to meet most any situation. At a minimum, a Marblelette needs her lipstick, bling and boots and of course, a few of her essential Marblelette lingerie items. While this Marblelette was never a Girl Scout, I’d learned through the years to pack a few extra of everything when making the rounds with Mr. Marble.

As usual, we did some carousin’ and drinkin’ of his favorite brown Southern bourbon, Willie playing his guitar, the Xperience singin’ and playin’ the blues and everyone having a good ole’ time. Folks gathered around to hoop ‘n holler ...they were dancin’ up a storm and cheerin’ us on and we were lovin’ it! Several dives, multiple bourbons, many songs and some unaccounted for hours later, I found myself standing on a street corner, searching for bits and pieces of my stuff, that by now, were scattered from one end of town to the other.

I was..... stranded! A Marblelette damsel in distress!

By this hour, everything was shut up tight and no one was in sight. But as charmed Marblelette luck would have it, a fellow carouser, pulled up in a well driven van and offered me a ride and a place to crash for the night. The guy claimed he was a Reverand of some kind. Of course what kind of Reverand would be out tending his flock at 3:30 AM? But maybe 3:30 AM is precisely when a man of the cloth does his best work. By that point, I certainly could have passed for a lost sheep in need of some spiritual guidance. Little did I know that my evening’s adventure was far from over.

The Reverand said that he knew Marble, though he was hesitant to admit it. Something about a deal going sideways in the Florida Keys back in the late 70’s. I nodded, neither being in a position or the condition to ask too many questions.

Upon climbing into his truck, I was overcome by the smell of some god-awful stuff coming somewhere out of the whole heap of assorted paraphernalia stashed into the back of the vehicle. Not a good mix with bourbon. With minutes to spare before passing out, we arrived at his place. We walked through his toasty kitchen and climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom.

Which had no heat.

But the Reverand, being a hospitable sort, appeared with a small heater. The heater, blankets and the last bit of bourbon from my flask, the one thing I never leave scattered around anywhere, made for a nice, fully clothed doze for a few hours before I awoke - sweltering. I tossed back the blankets and began tossing off articles of clothing until I was right down to my Marblelette lingerie. I dozed back off until a suspicious odor brought me out of my dazed slumber. That heater was about to burn the house down beginning with the room I was in! Adrenalin set in and any remaining bourbon haze disappeared as I regained my wits and started pulling any plug I could get my hands on. First thing to go were the lights! It was pitch black with the heater still blazing.

After the heater was finally disengaged, and my near death experience was stuffed into the closet, the room began to cool .....fast .... and went from cold to Polar Vortex in no time flat. I began to shiver and shake which prompted a visit to the necessary room. Fortunately the gracious Reverand did make me aware of where it was so finding my way there, in the dark, was slow but successful. That room was a damn igloo! A glaze of ice beginning to form in the bowl - and my ensuing experience is one probably best left in the water closet.

This Marblelette was ready to leave the building!.

Putting my now freezing clothing back on, which included those damn frozen boots, was quite the unpleasant challenge. I gathered up whatever remaining stuff I could find by Braille and made my way to the street. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, I stuck out my thumb. Another well-worn but rather spiffy little red truck soon stopped. I hopped in. A discreet sideways glance reveled a decent sort. My Marblelette lucky charm was still working! Said he was a Doctor of some kind on his way to do a house call. On Sunday morning? He and the Reverand need to team up. I’m not one to judge, but Lord knows I could have used him a few hours ago for a personal hypothermia treatment.

As his heater began to thaw me out, I received a text. It was from Marble. A picture was attached. I did a double take. After a full night of singing and carousing and after not only nearly burning to death but also freezing to death, I wasn’t sure whether to believe my eyes. There he was, with that sly little smile of his, a woman on each arm, and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t standing on what looked like a Caribbean beach, the sun over his shoulder just beginning to peak over the horizon. I checked the date and time indicator on the text, and sure enough, the picture was taken five minutes prior.

I asked the Doctor to turn up the heat.

“It’s at max”, he responded. “But this should help.” He offered a flask. For his early morning house calls, I presumed. Hair of the dog for me. I obliged. I don’t know what kind of Doctor this guy was but he provided me the perfect prescription at just the right time.

I checked my look in the rear view mirror...a bit dicey but not bad considering the time of day after the evening before…and settled back in my seat wondering when Marble would be through town again. I freshened my lipstick, contemplating whether to ask this guy to take me to the nearest airport for a flight to the Caribbean to track him down, when my chauffeur cut his eyes towards me, a glint of recognition crossing his features.

“You’re a Marblelette, aren’t you? It seems like such a cool life. So glamorous!”

I motioned for another sip of his flask, took a dainty Marblelette pull and with a bit of a Marblelette smile responded,

“Damn right it is!”

- This Sighting and Xperience recorded and submitted by Queen Victoria