My Hillbilly Heart

Two outlaw legends.

What luck! Two outlaw legends need a ride.

I think I should have been born a hillbilly.  I think that’s been the problem.  I needed to be around people who understood me.

I’ve been watching a lot of videos of outlaw hillbillies on the computer machine these days.  Mostly Jesco White and his clan of kin, raising hell in Boone County.  More bat-shit ballistic, cold-cocked ruthless, knocked-down, chopped-up and snorted party people you won’t find.  Not around these parts.  Really love Jesco.  Really love that whole family.  Hell, I just plain love hillbillies.

I admire how tough they are.  They’ve had more than their fair share of shit dumped on them.  People living in places where having a job mining coal is considered “doing well. ”  In other words, it goes down from there.  Tragic shit.

Jesco White, King of the mountain dancers.

Jesco White, King of the mountain dancers, on the fast track.

Exploited for ages.  Starved thin.  Shot up.  Beat down.  Sold out.  Black-lunged.  And somehow still proud.  If you can endure all that bullshit and still tap out a dance on the front porch, more power to you.  Nobody dances better than the poor.  That’s a historical fact.

As for the outlaw element, I figure they’ve earned a little rule-breaking slack.  Yes, yes.  We all must take personal responsibility for our actions blah blah.  But I see a lot of people not taking personal responsibility for their actions.  They’re farting up their golf pants on a resort island while some great idea of theirs has just ruined the lives of thousands of people.  And nobody setting the hounds on them.

Fuck it.  If you’re coming from such a depressed socioeconomic status, there’s nothing wrong with paying back society.  With a middle finger.  As a salute to it’s magnanimous largesse.

“Somebody say large ass?  C’mere Lulu Lee, an’ let me spank some of that big white!”

Gratitude.

Gratitude.

Hell.  Why not try and do as much as you can get away with?  If you’re basically fucked either way.  Might as well go ape shit.

Create some memories.  Something they can’t take awayI always say.

I’ve created a few memories.  In between all the stuff I can’t remember.  Some good.  Some not so.  But not everything about being bad was bad.  Just like not everything about being good is good.  It’s just better to be good.  So I have to go with that.  Maybe with a little resignation.  Maybe with the thought that I wouldn’t have to do this…if I was born a hillbilly.

Me without make up.

My natural default. Can I still get a ride?

Could be some past life thing.  Maybe because I was conceived in Kentucky, when my dad was stationed at Ft. Knox.  I don’t know.  But I get those people.  I think I’d find a comfortable niche in a community of moon-shining, tap-dancing, porch-swinging, substance-abusing, unlawfully-discharging-of-a-firearms folk.

Something about the lifestyle.

It appeals.

Not all of it.  The abject poverty is a downer.  Not a fan of any racism, xenophobia, or inbreeding either.  Early death due to accident, sickness or murder are also bummers.

But karate-kicking the Jack Daniels mirror my cousin Keith won at the carnival in Brokewood–right out of ol’ boy’s hands?

Well, that sounds like a gas.

Especially if it had his last line of coke on it.

“How do you like that, boy?”

“You done stirred up a hornet’s nest of shit, son.”

Both of us scrambling for a shard of broken glass. “Only Daddy That Will Walk The Line,” playing on the stereophonic record player we stole from the Goodwill.  Granny on the rocker, gumming us a grin from behind her huffin’ rag.  Uncle Willie tapping out The Death Row Shuffle on the curling linoleum in the kitchen.  My hound dog, Boone, howling at an outhouse moon.

I can get into that.

Or going to the gasoline cart races.  Swilling half-gallon cups of beer.  Watching the cars go around the track.  Cheering when someone crashes.  Booing when someone wins.  Karate chopping my cousin Keith in the neck for no reason while stumbling back to parking lot.  Jumping the security guards sent to break up our fight.  Gassing them with their own pepper spray.  Mountain dancing on the hood of their squad car while they cough and vomit.  Then throwing a brick through the rear window before we bolt.

Me and Keith laughing as we roar out of there.

My 1970 Chevelle SS dragging caution tape tied to pylons.

Out to the back-roads.

And sweet freedom.

The money I saved by not fixing my teeth going under the hood of the beast we ride.

Cracking cold beers.  Ripping bong loads while driving with the knees at eighty-seven miles per hour.  The air-blower vacuuming up the white lines in the road.  Shooting at mailboxes with the .410 snake charmer we stole from his uncle, who’s also my dad, who’s now married to his mom, who is a stripper, that’s also good for pills.

That part would be cool, too.

"Hey, I need a ride to my truck."

“Hey, I need a ride to my truck.”

I’d want to cultivate a dangerous drifter look.  When I say “cultivate” I mean “naturally default to.”  Just walk around as the gnarly mess God meant me to be.  Let my hair go greasy.  Grow some stubble.  Let the gut lap.  Don the foam cap.  Start chewing plugs of tobacco tar–the dripping juice staining my red beard with black streaks.

Tattoo “Born too Loose,” on my forearm with a needle wrapped in string.

In Hillbilly Heaven, I’d live off Ramen and roadkill.  Canned beans and beer.  White lightning and black-powdered adrenaline.

I’d shoot empty bottles off my cocktail table.  Torch my tool shed just to watch the sparks fly up into the night sky.  Rock some large pile of woman back and forth in my rickety trailer while listening to Black Oak Arkansas.  Chain-smoke Pall Malls.  Pick at my electric cigar box guitar.  Take long pulls from the jelly jar.  Cough from the burn of liquid fire.  Jump straight out of my Lazy-Boy and knock out another of Keith’s meth-loosened teeth.  This time with a badminton racket I found in the neighbor’s yard.

“Jim Dandy’s not comin’ to your rescue, beeeyahtch!”

SWAP!

All because I could.

Ain't got a squad car? Hop a table.

Ain’t got a squad car? Hop a table.

The freedom.  The liberation.  Just the idea of it gives off some pretty potent vapors to huff on.  Activates the reptilian part of my brain.  The part I try to keep in check now.  So I can be the good citizen.  And stay out of the evening news.

The problem is that after sustaining long periods of good citizenshiphood, even in my doddering middle-age, I find myself hankerin’ for a heapin’ helpin’ of misbehavin’.  I miss courtin’ Miss Mayhem.  It’s the same irrational fond-recollectioning I do for some of the women that had made my life hell.

Or for booze.

You only remember scenes from the highlights reel.  A reel edited with Leni Riefenstahl propaganda wizardry.  Triumph of The Self-Will, if…you will.  All the brutally painful scenes left on the cutting room floor.  Only replaying the fun parts.

I selectively reminisce, then find myself longing for a long-lost self–a part of me that doesn’t get to come out to play anymore.  It’s easy to feel sorry for him.  Miss him.  And wish he wasn’t grounded…for life.

You know you gotta keep him locked in the root cellar.  Feed him under the door.  But that guy doesn’t die-off easily.

Fuck, he’s proved it.

So I better try to deal with him as best as I can.  While he’s still hanging around.

In early sobriety, I had to play a lot of Grand Theft Auto on the video machine.  Just to safely ween myself from some of my real hobbies.  Today, I  like to watch others run amok.  Soccer riots.  Public brawls.  Cage matches.  Russian mafia gunfights.  There’s always something to hold my interest on YouTube.

Basically, to let me live vicariously.

Anyway, it’s just something nice to think of.  Dream about.  Remember.  Whenever my goody-two-shoes start to pinch.  It’s good to remember what not giving a fuck feels like.  Maybe keep a little of it stuck in my sock.  For in case.

It sure helps knowing you already filled up on enough bad.  Earlier.  Really topped off the tank.

Enough to last you through a really long pursuit.

.

Young hillbilly in exile.

Young hillbilly in exile, looking for a ride.

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8 responses to “My Hillbilly Heart

  1. I can’t tell ya how happy this hombre was to see your name pop up in my reader. Missed your high falootin’ tales of debauchery and outer limits stuff. And you come up with a beaut here. Anyone that can put Riefenstahl and Jesco White together in the same piece in a meaningful and dare I say, poetic?, way gets all my props. A swish and swash of the quill and quire there. Marius, Esq. at your service, methinks your business card needs to read.

    Too much to pull out and examine here, M. I would be quoting the whole damn thing. I did laugh heartily (and I mean Heartily) to “Nobody dances better than the poor. That’s a historical fact.”. Don’t know why, but that hit the ol’ tickle bone. But if you ain’t got nothin’, why not dance at least? That’s gratitude on a wooden plank, is what that is.

    I do get the idea of the death of old self…the inner hillbilly, the buried (but not gone) rabblerouser, the gimp under the floorboards. That dude will never leave. Don’t feed the animal, don’t take flash pictures, keep hands to self. I do get the Super 8 films of the Old Ways come back now and then, but try not to romanticize. I think we all have our way of getting back in touch with the old way, but without getting in touch with the old way, if you get my backwoods drift. My sweet tooth has been raging in a not-so-good way that will have to join the alcohol pig fiend in the basement sooner than later.

    But I *get* that you *get* the hillbillies. God bless them, they’re God’s brood too. Just like I *get gypsies, hoarders and goth kids. I just do. In another life, I would be one of them, no doubt. Or a vacuum salesman going door to door. Depends when I get reincarnated. Other than the early death thing and dodgy hygiene, there is a freedom and rebellion associated with the Folk of the Mountains, eh? I guess we had our fill of that in other ways. Sigh. It’s like when they say that youth is wasted on the young, I wish I knew that I would be taking my last drinks and be on my last sprees or last adventures in the van solving mysteries. I may have soaked it in more, taken souvenirs, shot a few rolls of film.

    C’est la vie.

    Wonderful, killer stuff here, Marius. The kind of stuff I hope to pounce onto the world one day. But I am happy here on the sidelines, watching the tapdancing show, whilst I whittle a new set of teeth for grandma.

    Appalachianly yours,
    Paul

    • Yes, I have emerged from the dead. Again and again. As only the undead can. Thanks again for the lavish. You’re a good soul, Paul. Fuck what anybody else says. Glad some of this last one was good for a few laughs. That’s how women usually sum me up. Either that one or “a really bad period of my life.” It’s a coin-toss.
      “Getting back in touch with the old way, but without getting in touch with the old way.” Love it. Is that there one of them there aphorisms? (I don’t actually even know what an aphorism is and am too lazy to Google it. Fuck. So don’t want to deal with this. Hold on.
      That wasn’t as much of a pain in the ass as I thought. Good to know. Okay- Aphorism
      1) A pithy observation that contains a general truth. 2) concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient classical author.
      Dude! That’s exactly what all my talking is like. Fuckin dead on. Wow. I’m kind of getting the chills right now. That’s spooky.
      Anyway, I think your statement is guilty on both counts. I should know, I’m like Mr. Aphorism. All fucking concise and pithy, and shit. Say, you’re pretty pithy yourself. It’s a pity how pithy you are. Pretty pithy. Pretty pithy. Pretty pithy. Pretty pithy. Pretty pithy. (I wanted to see if I could type that real fast. It’s hard)
      Shit. Where was I? So don’t feel like having to look up at the top of this page. So don’t want to deal. Okay. Hold on.
      Okay, yeah, getting in touch with some of the old. Without. Yeah. Boy that’s what the contest is all about, eh? How can I maintain some of the bold self-confidence bordering on a social-disorder, and tap into it sober. So I can succeed in business. Run countries and stuff. Anyway, I think you smell the smoke from my sausage.
      It’s that whole relearning thing. And relearning. And. The Lazy Susan spins around and around. Almost hypnogogically.
      “Haven’t I learned this lesson already?”
      “You have.”
      “Then why do I have to learn it again?”
      “You learn it on a more refined level.”
      “I’m refined enough. If I get anymore refined, there won’t be anything left of me!”
      “Exactly.”
      Oh, before I forget. What’s this side-lines shit? You’re in this hockey game. Right there. To touch the puck after I ice it. Yeah, so don’t fool yourself, Pauly. You’re as deep into this shit as the rest of us. No jury in the world is gonna buy your sideline story. We go down together. That was the deal.
      Oh, and that guy wants to see those stamps. You know, the one with our yellow friend on them. Hold ’em the right way down this time.
      Alright. I gotta go lie down. So don’t want to have to walk up the stairs. So don’t want to deal.
      Big Going-on Love,
      Marius

  2. Duelling Banjos with you, kin. I just about have that goggle-eyed freak chained up for now… but I’m coming over to see you this year, so get those dancing clogs dusted down. It will either be a very dull non-event as two positively charged retards bash heads and cancel each other out… or people in neighbouring galaxies will see the sparks! Yee-haw!

    • Well that will be grand, Carney. I can’t wait to see you in the meat. I know we’ll be able to make each other laugh, so the get-together will be a roaring success. At least by my standards. The people in the neighboring galaxies would be wise to tune in. Should be a good show, old boy. I would love to give you a tour of the seedy underbelly of Camarillo, CA. Shouldn’t take long. Mostly just around the house here.
      I’m also pretty sure we’ll be able to coax some bad behavior out of each other. For old time’s sake.
      I suggest we attend some intimate dinner theater. How can we help ourselves then? Drunk or not, dinner theater always brings out the beast within.
      C’mon. Let’s let ’em out to play. For a little while.
      (rebel yell)

  3. Perhaps we’ll be the cause of my predicted 7.1 shake in your neck. Can’t wait. Don’t have a clue what dinner theater is… but I’m open to know experiences.

  4. How I figure is… Everyone living now, is the crown of human creation. We ARE the survivors…every last one of us, the distillation of a multiple millennial still built by the Willendorf Goddess. Every person you see IS a SUCCESS and if anyone says different they’re cuttin checks their souls will run outa cash to cover. No matter how it looks… no matter how bad it feels…we’re all monkeys on this rock.

    And you’re right. Sometimes that little taste o’ rip n roll, that smidge of YeHaw, just one little bite of that tasty nasty morsel, that wee tiny slap of S&M…comes with a hefty bill. WTF?!?! You can’t charge me that much for just a taste! MuthaFuh…Where the fuck do you get off chargin me THIS for that!?!?

    Appreciative I am, for eyesight still sufficient to read the fine print through coke-bottle specs.

    • Oh yeah. Totally dig and relate, man. Well eloquented, Frater. Willendorf Goddess?! I was going to ask where you come up with these gems, and then remembered the answer.
      And yes, I have been the recipient of many unhappy surprise bills. You’re already crashing and a new one comes in. $700.00 in data usage for an overnight stay in Canada. All you did was send three texts and order a pizza. The one you broke your tooth on.
      Shit like that can chop me at the knees. But even that’s not as bad as the bill for just a smidge over a smidge of YeHaw. Bigger WTF than any hotel mini-fridge charge. So yeah, it’s a better way. This sort of thing we’re trying to do. Wink. Shove.
      Man, we have to talk on the phone again. It’s always so good for me. Maybe that’s why I forget to. WTF?
      Oh and speaking of WTF? I thought your coke-bottle glasses were goggles. Intrepid pilot or genius dweeb? Which one is it?
      Oh, that’s right. Both.
      And more.
      I love all of them. The whole gang of you.
      Marius

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