BlitzBlog

I was sitting in my car, my beloved '71 Mercury Montego. It was a lovely Spring day, and the windows were down. I was talking to my longtime friend Kim Quninones, who lived just around the corner from me.

We'd known each other since probably about 3rd or 4th grade. Now we were seniors in high school, closing in on the Next Phase of our lives- college. Kim was fiercely intelligent and had an exotic Spanish beauty. Her brains had gotten her to where it was known she would possibly be our class Valedictorian, or an extremely close second. If she didn't wind up as such, it was most likely because of something petty like a gym grade or once more day of absence from school back in freshman year.  Her brains would be sending her to Princeton come September.

Me? I was one of the Underachievers. Sure, top 5th of the class, but probably could have been top 10% if I'd decided to give up a social life and worked harder.

Kim and I had always had a friendly relationship. There'd been years where we'd been closer than others, and some where we barely saw each other. But even when we were 12 or 13, it was readily apparent to my burgeoning pubescent senses that Kim was gonna be a looker. And while yeah, there were a couple of years when she'd put on a few pounds, though I'd never have referred to her a “fat”, by senior year, she'd slimmed down into a high school hottie, although she rarely dressed to show it off. The best part of this was that she probably always underestimated how attractive she was. Undoubtedly her parents had ingrained a brains-over-beauty ethic in her, and it stuck.

So on this warm Spring day, I had driven Kim home, parking in front of my house. We'd been discussing, as seniors are wont to do, graduation and of course, The Prom. I'd already made plans to skip our prom. At the time, I was one of those kids who's social life extended far beyond the confines of high school friends. I had a wide array of friends from all over the New York area, and as such, poo-poo'ed the small-town provinciality of my prom. Basically I had that “above it all” attitude that some assholes in high school project. Yes, I was one of those assholes. My plans for prom night were to head into the City with some friends to go to Studio 54, the owners of which my 34-year-old sister was friends with and as such, I could get in past the velvet ropes even as a lowly 18 year old.  To me, this was the ultimate. Young, horny and with welcome access to the hottest club in the biggest city in the world. What mere prom could measure up?

Kim had gotten out of my car and was standing next to my driver's side door. I don't remember why I was still sitting there, but we continued to talk for while.

So Kim tells me that she's probably going to the prom with a girlfriend, as nobody (meaning any boy) has asked her yet. She was lamenting this- that she really hadn't had a boyfriend throughout high school. I reasoned that guys were intimidated by her. She was so smart, and that she was beautiful. “Really? You think I'm beautiful?” she asked, surprised.

“Kim, you have to know how good looking you are. Don't you?” I replied.

“No! Nobody's asked me out- nobody who I'd want to go out with anyway. It's not like they're beating down my door. Why would I think that?”

“My guess is that you hang out with all the brainiacs, who're either too into their books or too socially awkward to ask a girl out. And then, since you're smart and cute, they figure you're out of their league.”

“Jeez, what a bunch of idiots you guys all are!” she sulked. “Why can't you go to the prom? C'mon Mr. High-n-Mighty, we can go together.”

“You mean as friends?”

“Well, whatever you think…” she replied open-endedly, smiling coyly.

I'm sitting there, not sure what to think. Then Kim leans in through the car window, puts her hand on the side of my face, and plants her lips to mine. Her soft hair fell across my shoulder as she kissed me as passionately as I can recall ever being kissed.

Then Kim pulls away, stands up and does that little hair flip, smiles that same coy smile at me and repeats, “Whatever you think.” And then she grabs her book bag and starts walking to her house.

I sat there for a few moments, trying to figure out what had just happened. Kim and I had been friends so long, I'd never even considered her to be someone who I'd “go out” with. She was just the smart girl from around the corner. Now, I was trying to get through my head that not only had she just asked me to the prom, which I could at least fathom (at least up until about a minute ago) but now Kim had pretty much told me that she not only thought we should go to the prom, but we should take our friendship to another level.

I was still so stunned at this revelation that I didn't even consider the larger implications, like ruining a long friendship and such. I'd really just so ….never….even…considered…it.  I just never thought of Kim “that way.”

But now……..that all changed.

I don't think I saw Kim for a few days after that. I wasn't sure how to approach her, but when she saw me and the first thing she blurted out was “You should have seen your face after I kissed you! I'd never seen someone so shocked in all my life! Especially you- Mr. Too-Cool-For School! It was great!” And she just laughed with joy.

I'm sure I was embarrassed, but it quickly faded, as something inside me just told me that I truly had no desire to go to the prom, and that I really didn't think it was a good idea for Kim and I to start dating. I recall having an awkward discussion with her about it, and Kim was annoyed but assured me things would still be okay between us, which in reality, over the last few months of school turned out not to be true. Things had definitely changed as the months got warmer, our friendship cooled.

But graduation came, and the realization that we might not see each other much in the future, if at all, and that we didn't want to part this way hit us both, and during that summer we made amends. We even did spend some time at that “next level” and while our clumsy lust never progressed into anything truly meaningful, we did see each other periodically through our college years.

I don't recall the last time I saw Kim, but I most certainly remember the first time she kissed me.

Just read the great news from the TSA and the FAA. They're going to start allowing lighters and breast milk to be brought on board commercial air flights again. 

So will someone tell me, if there's no smoking allowed on commerical flights, why would someone need a lighter? Are we going to be lighting votive candles in First Class for relaxation?  Are we going to be barbequeing and we'll need to light the on-board charcoal grille?

This is the stupidest thing I've heard in along time. We have to remove our shoes to get through security, but we can carry an incendiary device with impunity.

We need to have a new alternative. We need an airline called WTF Air. You can show up 5 minutes before your flight, pay in cash. Drinks are free and everyone on board is handed a gun before takeoff.  If the plane makes it to its destination, great. If not, WTF,  NBD and what'd you expect?  Plus the food better be awesome, or the cook's gonna eat some lead.  The flights would always be on time, as no airport would want these planes in their midst any longer than necessary.

The breast milk, I have no problem with.

I maneuvered my black urban assault vehicle past the security
checkpoint, giving the guard the agreed-upon code of  $14 to allow
my safe passage.  A series of hired guns pointed me through a maze
of alleys, where finally I was able to position myself for an easy
escape.

All around me I could see the uniforms of The Enemy. The deep navy
color of their garb gave them away, even the ones who were only
supporters, not even Real Players. Some wore homages to their fallen
heroes, some to current ones. Some dressed for full battle, in uniform
replicas that would fool  anyone, except that they were obviously
not in the physical condition to truly play The Game. Some wore subtle
t-shirts with slogans that only a true believer would wear or
understand. Some wore taunts to their enemies (and there are many). But
every one of them wore that blasted deep midnight blue that provokes
hatred in the hearts of Mets and Red Sox fans everywhere.

Yes, I was at Yankee Stadium.

A Mets fan at Yankee Stadium.

I was there to meet my son and some friends who were coming down to The
Bronx to see the Yankees play the Blue Jays. The tickets were a
last-minute gift invite, and I'd said, “Sure, what the hell…” I'd
been to Yankee Stadium many times before, probably 50 times in my
life. My first major league ballgame was here, circa 1966. Yanks versus
the Washington Senators. But the Yankees were a terrible team back
then, and by chance, my family moved to Flushing, Queens, NY in 1968,
to the shadow of Shea Stadium. The year after that, the Miracle Mets
took over my 9-year-old consciousness, and thus I became a life-long
Mets fan.

Being a Mets fan in New York is to know what it is to be a second-class
citizen. The New york newspapers headline the Yankees on their days
off, while the Mets seemingly are always relegated to afterthought on
the back sports pages.

Shea Stadium, a charmless 1964 horseshoe of civic engineering built in
the flight path of seemingly every plane coming and going out of the
neighboring LaGuardia Airport, is a concrete and steel monument to
Robert Moses and his ruinous ego maniacal hubris that seemed to have
hijacked New York City's master plan in the 50s and 60s.

Yankee Stadium is a Monument to America's Pastime. It is hallowed
ground where the Greatest of the Greatest performed. The place where
baseball became what it is today. To this day, in my mind, there is
still no more iconic view of Baseball than walking out from under the
stands behind home plate and viewing those white facades that line the
outer rim of the stadium.

And yet, here I am, today, easing through the Bronx streets, noticing even
that the traffic cops are wearing the Yankee colors, and I feel a
twinge of resentment. To be a Mets fan in New York is so wish that for
just a few fleeting moments, there was more royal blue and orange in the
city's color palette. (I mean, c'mon, even the Mets' colors are meant
to honor the previous teams in town. Mets blue is identical to Brooklyn
Dodger blue. The orange, taken from the departed NY Giants, and the
even the Mets' pinstripes pay homage to the Yankees). So what does this
team have to do to earn its place in the NYC landscape.

Perhaps a Miracle in 1969, and an uncharacteristic Bill Buckner error
(the second Miracle?) is the only way to wrestle New York's affection
away from the corporate Bronx Bombers for a few moments. This perplexes
me, as New York was historically, a National League town. Despite the
seemingly continuous championships of the Yankees from the 20s through
the 60s, both the infinitely less successful Giants and the Dodgers
out-drew the
Yankees at the turnstiles almost every year.

And between 1965 and 1995, the Mets and the Yankees were tied for number of World Series won, both with 2.

But in 1996, all  that changed. The Yanks won 4 Series in the next
5 years, and they basically have owned the town since. Yankee fans born
after the Mets last World Series win in 1986 have come to expect a
championship  run every season. This sense of entitlement is what
infuriates Mets fans the most. While yes, the more mature Yankee fans
know of Dark Times, the most vocal 12-25 year olds regard the Mets as
New York's Junior Varsity.

So here I am, not quite a Yankee-hater, but full of resentment towards
what Bostonians refer to as The Evil Empire. The Yanks own this city.
The Mets don't even own their own borough.

I guess I can root for them. For a game I guess.

This gonna hurt.

“Shit or get off the pot!” I yelled into the cell phone. (Well not really my cell phone. I was in the car and I had an earpiece on, so basically I yelled it into thin air.)

“Shit or get off the pot, man. I have 2 other people that want to go on this trip, and I’m already on the hook for your room, whether you use it or not.”

“You do?” replied TDusty Roads. “Well, I’m trying to figure how to do the Florida trip and set up flights, or a car, to Mississippi.”

“So you’re going?” I replied in surprise.
“Yeah.”
“Definitely going?”
“Yeah!”
Definitely?”
“YES, alright! I’m going dude.”
“Wednesday to Sunday, right?”
“If that’s when you’re going, then yeah. When are your flights?”

At this point, we went on to discuss the particular way and time of T’s joining this year’s Blues Cruise to Clarksdale.  Me? I was just glad he was finally committing to the trip. If anyone I know needs a Blues Cruise, no one needs it more than TDusty Roads.

TDust almost made it to last year’s cruise, but missed the flight, got another flight, then for some reason known only to the FAA and TSA, spent a zillion hours sitting on the tarmac with no food or water and finally grabbed he opportunity to get off the plane when they headed back to the gate to switch crews. The details of all this can be found at 5 Damn Minutes, but suffice to say, last year, TDusty Roads never made it to the Crossroads.

We’ll start the betting pool soon on whether he actually makes it this year.  But I sure hope he does.

So come August 8, TDusty Roads joins veteran Blues Cruisers Major Ricochet, Doc Holdemayo, Gas Can Blitz, the Mighty Blue Frog, and another rookie- Colonel JT Beefcake on this years trek down to the Sunflowerfest held annually at the Birthplace of Modern American Music: Clarksdale Mississippi.

Can Ah Git an AAAAA-men!?

The festival starts on Friday evening, but we’re flying in to Memphis on Wednesday to get a head start and do some sight-seeing (yes it IS possible to sight-see in Mississippi). We’ll probably inaugurate our gullets with a light early dinner at Interstate BBQ - the world’s
greatest BBQ as voted by both Travel and Cooking Channels. Then head to The Crossroads to genuflect a bit, and then check in to the ultra plush 2-Star accommodations at the Generic Motor Inn. We’re still dreaming about staying at the legendary Riverside Hotel or in the Bins at Hopson Plantation’s Shack-Up Inn, but those rooms are for long-timers and bin-lottery winners. Ah, well, it leaves us more reason to keep coming back. Someday….

Thursday the plan is to explore the Delta outside of Clarksdale. Maybe head to Junior Kimbrough’s juke joint in Chulahoma. Who knows? Gotta stop and see our pal Ron at Bluestown Music and have  eeeeclairs and BBQ brisket at Bluesberry Bakery. Cat head. Red’s and a bunch of other seedy-lookin’ joints that most Upright Amurricins would be caught dead in.

I feel like my kids when they’re in the back seat, on their way to Six Flags, planning the rides they want to go on. And chances are, if the last two years are any indication, I’ll be just as nauseous when I’m done. (But in a good way.)

So if you’re crazy enough to actually want to go to Mississippi in the heat of August; if you love the Blues and want to know Where it All Started; if you like BBQ and beer and grits and tamales and collard greens and….; if you wanna meet 6 handsome (on some planets at
least), fun (on every planet) good-time boys on a 5-day sweat binge, then ya’ll contact me here, and we’ll see you at The Crossroads!

Amen.