Everyone looks, guys gaze at the girl, star-struck girls stare without shame at the black boots by the pool alongside everyone’s summer sweetheart of 2008.
Everyone wants her (if they can dream) or at least wants to experience her poolside manner. She relaxes while we get-down to the 6+ hour performance of a traveling German break-dance troop. Just kidding, the epic poolside performance was by my new mental mentor Jeffrey Steele, the 2007 BMI Songwriter of the Year.

You just can’t underestimate the amount of talent in this industry town of Nashville, Tennessee. Music City.

She’s no mess in a dress. She’s poised, perched with her man de jour. Is she prissy? Certains, un peu. Is she pristine? Elle ne l'est pas.
As for him, let’s just say that he’s such a capital “D” Dude that he is regarded as “most likely to cause a cat fight at his own funeral.” Mere mortal males can only aspire…

Ah youth! Wanting to be taken seriously. Such fervent feelings, running deep, as deep as their twenty or so years on planet earth can allow.
Black boots morph into flip-flops, even Croc-clogs. Luckily he can simply change shoes, but she’ll remain tagged as a Honky Tonk woman, inked for the life of her skin - which, thanks to poolside sunshine and gravity will retire and sag south. Explains the plethora of Nashville billboards for laser tattoo removal with taglines like “What Was I Thinking?” and “Things Change, So Can You.”

Before you rant back at me folks, you want ink? Get Inked!
While you’re reading, dig this: YOU KIDS! Stay off my Lawn! You call that music? And dress like you have some respect! Get a haircut! Or you with the buzz cut - let it grow out and part it on the side, be normal!

If anyone (any age) figures out what “normal” means, please advise because while in NashVegas I got clued in that “Things Change, So Can I,” and everyone wants so desperately to be normal... just a regular guy like the Songwriter of the Year and the Dude with the Tootsie with the Honky Tonkin’ ‘tude.
Don’t bury me ‘cause I ain’t dead yet.

The Officials have an announcement: “It is now safe to eat a tomato.”
Well if the Officials say it’s safe then we’ll let our sheep and lemming traits kick in and do as we’re instructed.
Let’s eat a tomato! Or two! Wow, we’re crazy…
Life threateningly crazy, it seems.
Prompted by the warnings that “toms equal death by salmonella food poisoning,” we formed a tomato-eating underground. We’re rebels. Been eating vine ripe tomatoes since May.
Like so many other limitations that just don’t constrain us, the tomato ban didn’t apply to us because we planted ‘em, prayed over ‘em, picked ‘em, and then sliced-mayo’d-salted ‘em, then paused to state our gratefulness for our bounty.

Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.

This documentary photo was taken before Memorial Day ‘08
but is just now able to be released to the public.
Our official policy was that underground tomato eaters didn’t want to appear gauche by flaunting our access to so many things that are so delicious (and healthy).
The real motivation to take our subversive sandwiches underground was that we feared a jealous backlash from tomato fans that are without access to bacteria-free fields, which might lead to class warfare, resulting in a midnight raid on our pristine tomato fields. And you know the tomato-eating underground would be on guard with tomato knives and shakers of salt. We wanted a peaceful coexistence but were prepared to go militant on any poaching gourmands. Slice! Then salt the wounds! We meant it.

Now that Officials have freed the tomato-eating underground, we will show good faith by sharing our secret ingredients. We like sugarless tea - sweetened only with a dash of fruit juice (we prefer apple or OJ), and sourdough bread (the white bread un-Wonderbread of the 21st century).

Dive face first into the blessings of the season. Other boatloads of seasonal blessings include: shrimp by the net-full, figs and pears by the bucket-full, watermelons by the arm-full, saltwater soaks by the ocean-full, sun by the sky-full … and, and,
“Her cups runneth over” by the bikini-full!
Praise Jah for all tomatoes!
Ours, yours, and especially - HERS !
Dive face first into the blessings of the season.

Click here for a review of the Official 2007 Annual Sliced Tomato Rodeo

Is it me or is this post chock-full of hyphens and dashes?
Chock-full. See? There it goes – again.

OMG!
In case the glare is too much, yes, that reads $695.00 worth of fuel. Likely this isn’t even a fill-up since it got rounded to less than $700. “Hey honey, let’s sleep in the car tonight, it costs as much as the High Roller Suite at Hotel Swank."

Ok, I admit I still love her and I always will.
But gotta reevaluate and redefine the relationship with the two-lane blacktop, the white line, life between the ditches, the pedal to the metal.
It's our July 4th patriotic duty to streamline and become a leaner cleaner greener wienermobiler.

Check it out, we have a fine frankfurter of a tradition going, assuming duo years doth a tradition make:
2007 _wienermobile_summer_tour
This 2008 photo supplied by a fan o'bigbonton, Abby-Patty and her trusty Canon Digital Elf.
You go girl! You walk, look, and drive like an Ace.

Winding down the first half of the year and we have yet to see much change in his condition. He's gone native, but native to where? Or what species?

"Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire."

He repeats, as if it's his mantra:
"I live in a birdhouse."
"Je vis dans une Volière."
"Ich lebe in einer Voliere."
"Yo vivo en una casa de aves."
"Moro em uma casa de pássaros."

Mmm. English, likely it's British. Then en français, in deutscher Sprache, en español, and then em Português.
Seems well traveled, coherent and articulate, whenever one can break through that protective shell. He fits in everywhere but doesn't really fit in anywhere. Focused, doesn't flitter, but the fit into farm, family, or fortune building seems still pending . . .

"Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say"
- I live in a birdhouse.

Click for more from "The Dark Side of the Moon"

. . . something in this crisp perfection is oh-so less than satisfying.

While the above table setting doesn't reek of effort, it just doesn't satisfy like being outside in June, downwind of a hot grill, a bit of sweat on a shirt, some food gets dropped, someone tells one story over and over and over but we're free to escape and eat while standing and mosey over to the distant side of the shrubs to stick a flower behind her luscious ear because she feels the same way and knew she'd be found by magical mutual interest.

Ah, the long days of the year. OUTSIDE. That's what's causing this indoor photo to lack that je ne sais quoi - maybe I should have waited to post this image in the winter when indoorsy-ness is more inviting and crispy tablecloths are more palatable.
But here you go and there we are - lounging over there behind the shrubs at dusk. Eating fruit, spitting seeds, inside our cocoon of ethereal light between sundown and dark. Do not disturb, we're having a one-on-one communion with nature. If the bush is rustling we might be tussling.

Pearls are often compared to holy things.

Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs sang about their rivalry over a mutual interest in a country girl named Pearl. Such a nice name, a bit old fashioned, somewhat Asian.
[ PS:Huh-oh, just found this toy, grooveshark lite. A simple player so you can get hip to some pulsing Pearl ]

An Aunt named Pearl was famed for her cooking ability, especially with pot-roast. In her home for her funeral there was food galore, brought in by well-wishers and by the family gathered together to mourn the loss of a dear sweet Auntie.
Food galore, but not the luscious cooking of Aunt Pearl... until... (zoot alors!) an idea! Dear Aunt Pearl was aged but died suddenly, and Hmm... looking in the fridge I found a few containers of leftovers. In the rush of the hospital and bereavement plans, no one had considered the first thing everyone thinks about Aunt Pearl, "What's in the fridge?"
Precious leftover cooking of Aunt Pearl. Should I share it? Who gets it? There was even some pot-roast! The temptation to hoard the booty laid itself down hard.
In case Aunt Pearl was watching me from her cloud I knew I should share, so I called my fellow mourners into the kitchen and disclosed the precedings that had lead up to the voila and the last of the precious home cooking of Aunt Pearl.

Dear, precious Pearl and her blessed ability to turn food into love.
We each shared small tastes of the last home cooking of Aunt Pearl. Tales of her long-gone meals praised our departed loved one.
She nailed it one last time. Mmm-Mmm Good!
- we're still thinking about you, Aunt Pearl!

We got to this lunch place not a moment too soon – it was 3PM on a random Tuesday afternoon, late for lunch but perfect timing for the last of the unsweet tea mixed with lemonade. We got to chat with Mr. Weaver D himself, he had time, looked up from his paper. Nice guy, seemed self-assured and fulfilled in the way everyone wants to feel. Maybe we caught him on a good day, maybe we were projecting, since that’s the way everyone wants to feel. Or maybe he is the King of this domain, Weaver D’s, Athens, Georgia. He knows the public, he talked, he listened. I told him I was leaving town for a long drive, visiting a 90 year old Uncle. “Uh Huh, Oh,” he said. I’ve been at a conference, I said. “Oh, a conference,” he said.

Weaver D S Delicious Fine Foods
Automatic For The People

We got to this place not a moment too soon, in this case “not a moment too soon” means fourteen years later than we originally thought of visiting, but when we first heard about this joint we were half a world away from Athens GA, in Budapest, Hungary. It was one of those moments that seems insignificant but sticks in your mind like a time stamp.

Mr. Weaver D knew what I as doing there, he was cool about it. I looked, tried not to stare at the "Automatic for the People" memorabilia, but being deliberately blasé is hard to pull off. I wanted to ask him what being on an R.E.M. album cover felt like, did it change anything? For the better? Do people like me bug him? Am I bugging you? Should I say it? Do I seem remote because I’m not talking? Am I giddy from a brush with fame?

April, fourteen years earlier, I got off the yellow Budapest tram near Octagon Ter, started down the promenade but got caught in an April downpour, a sudden soaker that had everyone scurrying for shelter. Not I, since I was done being The Professor for the day (3pm) and was on my way to my Sweetheart of the Month. Wet clothes gave an excuse to shed clothes.
I strolled in that springtime, everything was going my way, I watched the mere mortals fear the elements. Near her courtyard I paused to collect myself, shook my wet hair like a dog, ducked into the tarp shelter of a bootleg cassette pirate. A new R.E.M. release played on the jambox of the street vender. I bought a cassette (700 forints), presented my discovery to Miss Sweetness of April and we enjoyed it together for a long, long, long, long time. It wasn’t until I returned to the USA that I found out that the cassette had a fault, it played a bit too slow. The correct version of “Automatic for the People” sounded like up beat Pop-Schmaltz to me in America. My idealized version is more of a blues, slow and low is the tempo. Seems more meaningful, going slow. The up tempo version lacks depth.
[addressing two comments that came in very quick, yes, "Everybody Hurts" going slow tempo can be even more painful, but we were blissing, untouchable, and didn't pay attention to that]

Every single freaking lyric was written for us that season, it was the soundtrack to our lives. Spring, Summer 1993 in Budapest, Lake Balaton, that week spent in a haystack, the weeks surfing Croatia... train rides, homemade wine with grape seeds in it, bread and cheese for lunch...

You can call the pay phone.
Let it ring a long, long, long, long time.
If I don’t pick up, hang up, call back, let it ring some more.

Baby, instant soup doesn’t really grab me.
Today I need something more sub-sub-sub-substantial.
A can of beans or black-eyed peas, some Nescafe and ice,
A candy bar, a falling star, or a reading of Doctor Seuss;

Night swimming, remembering that night.
September’s coming soon.

Pick up here and chase the ride.
The river empties to the tide.
All of this is coming your way.

I will try not to breathe.
This decision is mine. I have lived a full life
And these are the eyes that I want you to remember.

Eat in a train car!
(But it turned into a circus train.)
Somewhere beside the train tracks with weeds growing up through the railroad ties.

Before we went inside we saw the first old person using a medical walker, she was slow, old and infirm. Her husband let her out of the car at the train car restaurant entrance. Once she had fully disembarked from the vehicle (five long minutes) she stood at the handi-ramp while her husband parked the Ford Fairlane. She just stood and waited for him and he came around and walked beside her and held the door. It was the healthiest thing we’d see for the next ten minutes.

Inside in a booth along the far wall was an old farm couple, we knew they were a farm couple because everyone else was and he wore overalls. We wondered if they liked the all-you-can-eat boiled vegetables from the buffet. The farmer man had his arm cut off below the elbow. Maybe from a farm accident? How long ago was the accident? How did he get to the hospital? Did they amputate it on the farm and say “We don’t need no fancy book learning Doctor, we country folk can survive.” We walked past and overheard his farm wife saying with a tired tone, “for better or for worse,” - no kidding, she was saying that. How many times does THAT marriage vow get worked into a conversation, especially when it applies to the exact thought of a passerby? We were wondering how that lost limb had impacted their lives together.

At the $6.95 All You can Eat Buffet walk-up counter there were two old folks using medical walkers. Make that trying to use walkers, they were clanging together, muttering tiny “oh my’s” and each one waiting for the other to do something right and solve their tangled dilemma. This never happens at home when they sit and stare at the TV. They seemed like they were together but it also seems like they’d be better synchronized if they were together.

Tried not to be juvenile and impatient, but… we couldn’t stay, headed for the door. On the way out we passed the circus fat lady, and we’re not being mean, but she could sell tickets to the sight of her girth. She took up two chairs and spilled over the edges. Did the place notice her when she arrived? What engineering did it take for her to be seated on her two chairs? Couldn’t help but peek at the chair placement strategy, there was a two foot gap between chairs. For air?
Her husband, the husband of the circus fat lady, was addressing one of their three kids. The middle kid, a boy, was getting dressed down, the oldest, a girl, looked resigned, despaired and void of emotion. The youngest (Boy? Girl? WTF?) stared and drooled, barely moving, an odd stillness for a young kid. But the middle child! Not yet beaten down but it’s coming, energy and life will drain from a little boy when Pop has a sneer like Popeye (pulled face, one eye winking closed) and is saying in an angry tense stage threat, “Dat kinda leg kickin’ gonna get yo butt tow up” while glaring with that one open hot eyeball. Pop communicates with heat & hate. The middle child little boy licked at his fork, smiling an embarrassed “see if I care” smile, without having any escape or even a point of reference to know there was any escape. This wasn’t what he signed up for before being born. His poor, poor life.

After we escaped to the parking lot we had to admit the fried chicken looked good, really crispy, but we couldn’t bear to reenter even for a to-go order. Anyhow, what’s the sense of getting a to-go from a $6.95 All You can Eat Buffet? That’s crazy.

“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
- Macbeth's soliloquy in act 5, scene 5.

And down the road we went.

Oh, the pageantry, the immensity of the spectacle.
Some hearts stood still, some hearts were a flutter, some were un-wowed - but all paused and pondered.

Overheard at the wedding:
Marriage is all about what a man puts into it and what a woman can get out of it.
 

The Vows.
This little girl has heard too many adults saying too many things that are not true.
She made it through the vows and was a good girl, doing what others wanted her to do.
Her reward? Dunno, but she made the deal so it must have been something she wanted.

The bride wore a high belted beaded orgazma dress, designed by Oscar de la Renter, the White House said.
I’d love to get a closer look at that bauble that bobbed from the necklace the bride wore (pearl? ice?), but I’m only interested while it’s around her luscious neck.
The attendant wore a cocktail dress the color of wildflowers, if wildflowers were that color, designed by Lela Rose. The women wore dresses. The men wore suits and ties.

Photo by the hidden camera of a bigbonton operative.

It was just a small wedding, just family and a few friends.
Oh! “Just a small” play on words, because after the small wedding came the royal reception!
“You are Invited to See and Be Seen at an Honest-to-Goodness Event!”

With the soundtrack provided by “Ten Bloody Marys & Ten How's Your Fathers,” everyone felt fitted-in, in the tent. Make that "tents", plural. Small wedding, mega-reception. “Just a few” is a shrewd saying when the guest list includes astronauts, regional monarchs, the finest silvery haloed and the utmost solid titans, no patience for non-special hangers-on, et certainement pas de bateau rockers. The fix was on, air was kissed, eyes were caught, and everyone left feeling puffed up.

.
.
.
A pole star is a visible star that is approximately aligned with the Earth's axis of rotation and so might be mistaken as the center of a facile pre-Copernicus universe. It may indicate a stable point of reference, useful in navigation, providing assurance of place until the next required fix.
And what a fix this pole star provided, when she used to rock and roll.
Here, Mrs. Star, the photo is months old, but these were for you:

. . . kiss kiss . . .

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Happy April Fools Day 2008.
Fools in love, are there any other kind of lovers?
Fools in love, never knowing when they've lost the game
Fools in love they think they're heroes
cause they get to feel no pain
I say fools in love are zeros
I should know, I should know
Because this fools in love again.
- Inara George / covered by Joe Jackson

Push play on the player and play it. Fun, and short enough to keep your attention. If you like this, you’ll love what's coming up...

Un cuba libre por favor? Nada, compadre, mojito!
The only unknown: reflector shades or jet-black wrap arounds?

Strike out line 1:
My name's Juan Manure, but you can call me "lover."

Strike out line 2:
Juan Manure: Can I borrow a quarter?
"What for?”
Juan Manure: I want to call your mother and thank her.

Strike out line 3:
If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.

The steering wheel is this big (hold your arms outstretched wide). No head rests, no carpeting, just a bumpy plastic-y black rubber that resembles carpet nubs. The driver has the option of locking the ignition or leaving it able to start without a key.
AM radio, one speaker, with analog (of course) needle dial tuner. The car horn? Nicknamed the “Cuban doorbell”.
The trunk could hold 5 bodies back in the day, but in today’s obesity epidemic USA, make it 3 lard-o’s who have landed on the wrong side of Scarface.

Chevrolet's chief engineer in the late 1950s defined the Impala as a "prestige car within the reach of the average American citizen."

This was the best selling car in the USA in the 1960s.
From 1958 until 1966, Chevy sold over 13 million Impalas, more than any other full-size car in the history of the automobile.
Slow and low that is the tempo
Let it flow let yourself go

Clue-train: It’s a mashup of classic lyrics. As such, one might dig it as best one can without reading too much into it, unless you think "shuffle" has the power of prophecy.

BEGIN
Guest Lyricists

OH, Sweet Sweet Jane
Heavenly wine widened roses whisper affections to me
aspirations, when you smile Sweet Jane

Jane-o-baby! Oh,
Standing on the corner, Suitcase in my hand
Ever lose your heart, turn around, been faked?
Sweet Jane! oh sweet sweet Jane!
Anyone who's ever had a heart, Wouldn't turn around and break it
Sweeeet sweeet Jane…
…
An island in your arms a country in your eyes
... Drive thru your Sunday suburbs...
Don't ya love your face?
Don't ya love her as she's walking out the door?

…
There’ll be good times again for me and you
Don’t cha feel it too
But the music’s over, the music’s over here…
When the music is over, turn out the lights. Turn out the lights!
Music is your only friend, until the end.
You either sits on it, sells it, or loves with it.

Turn off your lights relax and float downstream,
lucky little lady in the city of light
another lost angel city of nights city of nights city of nights
Cops in cars, topless bars
Never saw a woman...
So alone, so alone lone lone

My oh my, you sure know how to arrange things.
You set it up so well, so tenderly
Ain’t it funny how your new life didn’t change things,
you’re still the same ol’ girl you used to be.

She came in through the bathroom window
Protected by a silver spoon
She would steal but she could not rob

Something to tell you, you make it show.
Let me come over, I know you know
When you dance, I can really love.
Don’t f-around, you should be kind,
Step inside, open wide. It's the loner

When you dance,
Do your senses tingle?
Then take a chance?

Sleep little darling don’t you cry and I will sing a lullaby
I certainly know the lyrics
Once there was a way to get back home
you were thinking of me about me
like the flower needs the rain you know I need you
you'll never forget - until somebody new comes along

put a candle in the window
'cause as long as I can see the light
the sun is mine (but not the sky)

- END Guest Lyricists Input -

Wow, that was cryptic! Maybe "someone" should get back to work writing posts and not farm out the task to the DJ.
"One can delegate authority but not responsibility"
Cheat Sheet:
Cowboy Junkies / Velvet Underground, The Doors, Carol King, Eagles, Beatles, (pre-disco) Bee Gees, CCR, Pearl Jam

Hiding nervousness behind their obvious efforts to show a love of the salt water, stinking of effort to be bohemian, and posturing of their “special calling of respite” that made them decide to seek comfort and joy with pseudo-strangers instead of staying close to the home and hearth, the Atlantis noobs parked their cars, stowed their keys, and might as well have shaved their heads. Their “Uh-Oh!” was obvious when they heard pre-launch, “All your hearts and minds belong to bigbonton for the duration. Fasten your personal floatation device. It’s going to be an unpredictable crossing. Let’s go for a ride.”

Stow the load and shove off.
Wind power and upper body strength drove us across the deep channel, through the winding creeks, and into a tidal enclave untouched by Santa or Satan.
Welcome ashore! The Grand Isle de Bontonia, a rest stop for the weary, a home to the transient, and a release for the over-pulled. Where you don’t have to shoot out the streetlights to see the stars.
One noob brought 7 DVDs for her personal Johnnie Depp film fest, which went fine until her laptop batteries were spent by day two. (By that time she had come out of her shell.)

The holiday tribe went through typical phases in their social interactions, including introversion morphing into friskiness, feelings of wonderment and attraction, being sized up, and addressing probing questions with answers like:
“Well, because someone has to live happily ever after.” “Just lucky, I guess.” “Never too late to have a happy childhood.” And “Why spoil my great lifestyle?”

La Replenishment Bateau.
Always a welcomed sight, especially after a few days off the grid. Seeing her sail meant fresh supplies are near. Some days she brought treats like chicken necks (just add salt water and they transform into crabs), chapstick, and the occasional peanut butter and jellyfish sandwich.

Every Femme Tourista wants to score with her outfitter, a common travel condition known as the “Tarzan-Jane Syndrome”.
No one actually called anyone else Tarzan, but daily aliases like Buck Stagg and Marlin Spike showed attempts at playfully pairing-off.

She said, "What's your sign?"
I said, "Aquarium."
We had a whale of a time.
Presented her a bouquet of flounders.
I made her dinner.
I made her dance.
And what did I get for my trouble? Crabs!
Really, Blue Crabs, plenty of ‘em. Caught, cooked, shelled and finger fed with salty giggles. Holiday tidings inside us and beside us.

Parking Lot at Low Tide.

The weather was so fine, 70s/ daytime and 50s/ nights. When that changed we had to suffer a breakup and endure the cold hard facts of life: winter comes, even on the Isle of Bontonia.

The first days after arrival, with all that inherent nervous posturing, shyness, and wondering how this was going to play out, now seems so long ago. What was strange and foreign became comfortable, as familiar as your tongue touching your teeth. For a while we could almost take comfort and joy for granted, or at least feel like it was real and would last.

The Holiday Cello, Strung Like a Guitar.

It feels like the last night of 2007 Holiday Refuge Camp never actually came. But the calendar and the weather have both changed, so again Son Volt sings their refrain, “We’re all living proof that nothing lasts.”

January 1st, 2008.
1) Sunrise swim / polar bear salt water baptism.
2) Reborn.
A new day, new winter, new time, new beginner. Hello melancholy, something good ended. But now we have the chance to begin again; do it our way, like we like it, skipping some of the “figuring it out” dance.
Oh, who am I kidding. A good thing is over, paradise lost, that’s sad, and we are forever figuring it out.

::

::

::

Click here for some sampled lyrics to the 1980’s song by Kip Addotta, “Wet Dream”

Gold, frankincense, and myrrh are small-time loot. Go straight for the Son of God!

That lamb on the right sure looks happy. I remember feeling that way about the holidays.