They shouldn't oughta do that. As everybody's attorney, that's just standard advice I would be remiss not to give. Hey, they carded all of us. They saw our driver's licenses. Feral Mom was still a Chicagoan at that time (though she wasn't a mom yet, nor a famous blogger). They knew where we was coming from. They was on notice. But then Feral not-yet Dad didn't make the scene, and K.C., that rambler, probably had an I.D. from Arizona or Provence or goofus knows where, and I guess Des had moved to New Hampshire and probably had a N.H. license (and how can a state with an inordinate level of power over the selection of presidential candidates harbor wretched irresponsible glass-shattering spaz-dancing drunkards?), and the others in the party were bona fide Minnesotans, dontcha know, so maybe there weren't enough Illinois cards presented in enough time to raise the alarm. That's possible. In which case, I suppose the blame lies with ... us.
No ... that's unthinkable.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. On the other hand, I don't wanna reel back too far, either, or else we'll end up in Urbana in 1993 or something ... no, that's too much background.
Let's start here. Black River Falls, Wisconsin. June 28, 2002. Three knuckleheads in a 1997 Toyota Corolla unequipped with CD or tape player, hell bent for perhaps their last seriously stupid arrested-adolescent road trip in advance of various happy and/or sad pathways into actual adulthood. Perhaps the last time we were gonna be young enough to hear the high-pitched squeal of Rock And Roll from across state borders ... or at least the last time we were energetic, aimless, and foolish enough to heed the call.* FM and I left Chicago sometime that morning, making a detour in L-ville to rustle up The Des, and by Black River Falls, it was time for lunch. I was already suffering from my characteristic qualms and anxieties ... which I tend to have about everything and nothing. That is, until I saw this.
I dunno if this Google-snagged foto does this gigantic thing justice, but this monstrous object ... it seems to serve the Rock Gods as a booster siren, a relay tower of irresponsible mayhem-craving havoc-wreakery, because when I saw it from the Taco Bell parking lot, it gave me strength. Bad strength. Well, some. Maybe not enough. But enough to get to Minneapolis without puking from The Fear.
Not that The Fear went away. Oh no. The Fear didn't go away.
Hm.
Maybe this will have to be a multi-part post. Like Feral Mom's multi-part post this week. Only instead of being gripping, inspiring, beautiful, and ultimately joyous, it will be ... colicky as hell.
Come back soon for part two, won't you?
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David Foster Wallace Memorial Footnote Section:
*Well, not really my last time. Hell, I still get on planes a couple times a year to chase soul-damaging rock and roll punishment ... but I haven't driven that far to be pummeled by noise and anguish since.
2 comments:
Do you suppose...the moose was a bad omen of some sort? Nah.
Very well put, STDPM, Minnesota IS cute. At a Chicago GBV show, this same crew merely hopes not to get trampled upon, and getting a beer is just too much goddamn trouble and involves giving up prime standing space crushed between a pillar and a pack of 6 foot drunk belligerent people...and that's just the women!
In Minnesota, however? We trash the place, ourselves, our friends...
But I cannot tell this tale, for it is Stronger than Dirt Pete Moss's tale to tell. Tell it, tale teller! I'll be stalkin' ye until it is finished.
Thanks muchly, FM. Although I'd love to hear your version. Not to mention the fact that I plan to redact any embarrassing misdeeds or shortcomings of my own from the saga ... at least the ones I consider unfunnily embarrassing.
I think the moose was more of an enabler than a bad omen, per se. (There's a lawyer phrase for you, per se. Prima facie. Cogito ergo bullshitero.)
Anyway, to put some gloss on the heading of this post, it's a reference to a Deadwood episode this season ... and I get to be Richardson for this story. You hurted me, rock and roll!
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