Mad Poets Found in LaCrosse, WI

I'm sitting here in the homestead half way through a bottle of dry French rose listening to American Roots on NPR out of New Orleans. I know, it sounds dumb, but they are playing Hank Williams, George Jones, Tammy Wynette and even Elvis Costello crooning out the country shit. Does it rock? Like, duh. I'm supposed to show up at Buggy & Vickie's tonight where the smoker is huffing, laden with slabs of venison from seven (count'em) young does he laid to rest, which will now prance their way to our eventual bellies, for which we are already eternally grateful -- all honor and thanks. But before I head over there, I have a story to tell.

Juliet showed in my driveway later than planned for our departure further south to LaCrosse, Wisconsin on Thursday November 16th, 2006. (Now, George Jones is being interviewed.... he's waxing sentimental about a show he was trying to get to which involved getting thrown in jail en route -- his raspy old man voice is killing me.) We were slated to appear as Poet & Rock Star at The Pump House Center for the Creative Arts that evening. A room for us at the motel off I90 was waiting and Juliet had called ahead for early check-in. After one turnaround, we landed at what will now be forever known as the Moose Ass Motel. This place is pretty much beyond description, but, imagine a suburban housewife still devoted to a husband who's done well in the insurance or car business. She doesn't work and has time on her hands, so she decides that the upcoming redeco project on the home front will involve hunting, which he loves. We're talking carpet to walls to tabletop to ceiling detail in horrifying overkill: pinecones and pine bough carpeting, duck decoys nailed to the wall replete w/ duck whistles dangling 'round their necks, bear, fish and elk lamps, grizzly bear art and, in the yard, chainsaw sculptures. You get the picture, but I'll help. (George Jones is talking about having a bird haircut, still doing 70 shows a year and god knows he's old as dirt.)(George was given a nickname -- The Possum -- after which he did something about his hair....)This one is my personal favorite... the bleak if fancifully milling area outside yet another conference room. I'm sweating in those flannel curtains.

Soon, we left our hunting lodge nightmare (albeit comfy -- good towels, soft beds, hi-rent bathroom sundries) and arrived at The Pump House in town. The theatre was unexpectedly warm and inviting; 140 tiered seating capacity, workable sound system, moody lighting. Nice. There we met Bill Stobb and David Krump, our hosts... young men, in deference to the old hippies with a small town vision I'd imagined meeting us at the door. We got set up, sound checked and headed to Piggy's for pre-game warm-ups. It was there I became slowly aware of who I was in company with. Bill has a PhD at 35 and is a professor at Vitero College. He is a poet, slated to be published by Penguin having already been published in serial weighty writing magazines prior. David has just won the most prestigious literary prize for poets under 30 -- the Ruth Lilly Fellowship -- which affords him a $15,000 prize and seven trips to Oxford over the next year. Wha---? Dudes just want to talk about something else, humble beasts that they are, even though Juliet presses a bit, but the conversation sways easily into poets. I listen attentively. After a couple of drinks, we head back to the theatre. Here's where I admit this is my first solo show, after 20 years of "singing professionally". I got through it. Juliet was brilliant as usual, and the open mic which followed was very, very entertaining -- some good stuff. Check Mental Contagion for December for more details.

Then, the party began. (Nina Simone is singing now... not country, but somehow she fits in here.) We bounced back to Piggy's for food & cocktails after the show. The table grew and grew.... Who knew such luciousness lay in the downtown strip of LaCrosse. After Piggy's, we wended our way to the Bodega. Upon entering, I was lofted by an ear-plugged, tattooed, teddy bear bouncer into a very satistying hug. Why? Probably because David was my escort, but I have to say, it did more than the hot tub might have back at the hotel. A college jazz band was set up at the rear of the room and before I knew it, first Bill and then David swept me out onto a dance floor created in our party spirit. Ahhh... I love being whirled and dipped. The guitar player had strains of Jerry Garcia in his offering, the drummer was talented and the sax playing duo up front were doing their best.

The following hours were filled with conversation, one person after another, about music, about poetry, about life and death and the importance or impedence of whiskey. Beautiful, shy human beings each on their own personal exportive journey. But I have to say, these poets know how to party! Bill had to go home first; he's got a family but he had partied well, which says to me he has a good woman at home giving him love for who he is. (Taj Mahal is wailing now .... ) There is no doubt Bill offers the same margins for her. He is a very BIG man, in every sense of the word. Then, we were in David's hands, who appeared to know what to do with us next...

We left the Bodega but not before I was mauled (again!) by the beloved bouncer who obviously had some tatts to shout out on camera.... (Jackie Wilson is giving it up.... bring it!)
Then, it was on to another awesome bar where we rocked a purple pool table. Here is Dave dealing with a steaming heap of pool balls. Pressure..... Melissa and I lost on the 8 ball, but we held our own. She's a painter. I didn't get to talk to her enough.

Then... it was 2 AM.... and downtown was closing. Juliet looked spent... so we turned down the after-party. The streets were swarming with police cars. Dave reiterated the cheap cab ride back to our motel, but I wasn't impaired, I assured him. Well, OK.... slightly impaired, but not beyond driving. Our goodbyes were bittersweet....
... we had fallen in love with these young lads, their pals, their city. Who knew so much life teemed down river? It's simply more evidence that wherever you go, your windows and doors must remain open. After spending three weeks traveling across the country, this visit to LaCrosse was further proof that wherever you go, you will find your people... whether you are in search of tired old barflies, excitable young artists, blue collars, white collars, or up and coming poets. They are, we are, all of us, beacons across the enduring landscape, across the waters and mountains and plains, across the boundaries which pretend to divide us. We have everything to give each other.

Swing Down Chariot is being proffered by some hillbilly crooners on the airwaves now. I'm off to Buggy's where the venison smoke is thick and the bar is stocked. And... what is it about rivers and the congregations that flock to their shores?