Bear hunting with Elvis

The second, and so far last time I ran into Elvis Costello was in Richmond, Virginia. Well, not exactly in Richmond, but just outside of Richmond in Goochland County.

He had a shotgun. And was wearing a coonskin hat and singing quite loudly about shooting the bear.

“Hey Elvis!” I yelled, as if I was on a first-name basis with the man. “There aren’t any bears here!”

He looked at me with his hat just a little bit crooked, pushed his glasses up and shrugged.

“Listen, Mr. Jones,” he said matter-of-factly, stunning me that he remembered my name from that bar in New York oh, so long ago. “I know damn well there is a bear here, and I’m going to shoot him.”

I didn’t know if arguing with a man with a shotgun, even a man like Elvis Costello, who remembered my name for Christ’s sake, is ever a good idea. But, if there were bears in these woods, I would give him a blow job. Of course, I wasn’t about to say such a thing because on the off chance and there actually was a pretty good chance there was a bear in these woods, he found one, I’d have to fucking give Elvis Costello a blowjob. Or at least he would always have the ability to say “Randy Jones, you owe me one blow job!” at any bar or tavern or concert hall that we were together at.

So instead, I asked :”May I join you on this quest for a bear?”

“Why of course, Mr. Jones!” Mr. Costello said with glee. I wondered at that moment if he was drunk. I didn’t quite know what to make of a mad British songwriter with a coonskin hat wandering around the woods in Virginia looking to kill a bear.

“I guess you are wondering exactly why I am hunting a bear in these woods, Mr. Jones?” he asked as if reading my mind.

“Yes, yes I am Mr. Costello.”

“Call me Elvis.”

“Well, Elvis, I am a little baffled why you would be hunting bear. It seems out of character.”

“You know of my character from our one chance meeting years ago, Mr. Jones? I’d think not. I am a hunting man. I love the thrill of it. The smells of it. The kill! Yes, I love the kill! The sweet, sweet death of the prey!”

I once again pondered if it was a good idea to be in the woods with a man, his shotgun and a coonskin cap.

“So, I guess I never figured you for a hunter.”

“Well, I’m not much of a hunter, really. I did get a squirrel once. With my car. And I had to run it over twice to finish it off.”

I looked at this man, a man who’s music had been a part of the soundtrack of my life since the first time I heard him in the soundtrack to “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” back in the early 1980s. A little late to the Elvis Costello game, for sure, but I was just a wee lad of 12 or 13 at the time, so cut me some slack. I started to wonder if maybe he’d been hanging out with Ted Nugent.

“Just kidding, lad,” he said with a bit of a cackle.

“I’ve never killed anything. But I really want to!”

“Kidding again?” I asked hesitantly.

“Do you ask a man in the woods with a shotgun and a coonskin cap if he is kidding about killing a bear!” he pronounced. It wasn’t really a question, although it was phrased as such. Tone and inflection are very important things, I noted to myself. It’s one of the reasons I have always hated text messages and e-mails. Tone is impossible to project without explaining it. And let’s not even start with emoticons.

“I guess not,” finally said.

“By chance do you have any liquor?” Elvis asked.

“I’ve got my flask,” I said. “Just filled with Jameson.”

He winced a bit. “Well, I guess when you have no choice, you go with the Irish!”

Once again, I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. I didn’t get British humor.

I pulled out the flask and took a swig. Was it impolite to take a drink first, I wondered. But fuck it, it was my flask and my whiskey, which, I believe, he just insulted.

He took the flask and drank a long drink.

“Ahhhhh!” he exclaimed upon finishing. “If it were cold out, that would have been quite a nice refreshing thing. As it is, now I’m ready to go home.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“With you, my friend Mr. Jones. With you!”

“Well, I’m driving back to North Carolina in a few hours,” I replied.

“Why are earth are you in the woods here?” Elvis asked. A very observant question from the man.

“Well, I was here to bury a body,” I said.

Elvis’ eyes widened. He seemed either very curious or very scared.

“And after I was done, you happened along,” I said, pointing at a freshly dug patch of ground a few feet away.

Now Elvis was scared. And I looked deep into his eyes.

“Just kidding,” I said.

“I just don’t get you American sense of humor,” he said with a long exhale.

“Let’s get going,” I said.

“On to North Carolina!” Elvis said.

I put  my arm around his shoulders and we shared a few more swigs from the flask. I was beginning to enjoy my encounters with Mr. Costello.

the walkman

I was walking down Houston Street in New York just listening to Megadeth on my headphones hooked to my Walkman when I had to stop to flip the tape.

“Damn, haven’t seen one of those in a while,” a voice said to me.

Looking up after my task was complete, I noticed a small boy staring at me. Next to him was Elvis Costello.

“What are you listening too?” he asked.

Now, of all the times to have “Peace Sells …” playing in my old Walkman, this is it.

“Megadeth,” I say meekly.

“Damn fine choice,” he says and walks away after a tip of the hat.

Dumbfounded, I just kind of stare at the ground for a moment. I wonder if I should chase after him, maybe get an autograph. I have a gal friend that loves him immensely. However, I kind of like the way this story had a beginning, a middle and an end. It doesn’t need a chase scene, I decide, and I start walking the opposite direction.

A few minutes later, I get to a street I don’t particularly want to be on. There’s construction at one corner. A closed deli on another. The third corner has a thrift store and the one I’m on has some kind of church. It’s marquee says “Turn your back on God? Don’t do it.”

“Huh,” I think, turning back the way I came.

I decide since I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop by the Niagra Bar. The best bar with a mural to Joe Strummer on it that I’ve ever been to. Once, I had a drink with the pedal steel player of my favorite band. He seemed cool. Even though he made out with the girl I was with. Ha. And there we were again, hanging out in this place.

I meander to 7th Street and Avenue A to the bar. It’s open. And empty, except for a barkeep.

I amble up to the bar and take a seat. Sorry, man, that seat’s taken. I look at it and there is a hat on the bar in front of it.

“Sorry, my bad,” I reply, give me a Jameson.

“Guess what man?” the barkeep says. “You seem like the kind of guy who would care about such things, but Elvis Costello is in here.”

I look at the barkeep with a smile. “Why’d you think I’d care about such things?”

“You’re using a Walkman,” he said.

“Good call. Anyway, me and Elvis, we’re cool.”

“Whatever man,” the barkeep says and walks to the cash register.

A few moments later, Elvis comes out of the john. He’s shaking his hands and wiping them off. At least he’s the kind of guy who washes after, I think.

He plops down in the seat next to me.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Mr. Mustaine!” he says with a chuckle and pats me on the back. “Get this man a drink!”

The barkeep stares at me then looks at Elvis in bemused silence. All I can think of is this is pretty fucking cool.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “where’s the kid?”

“Oh, mommy took him to the park. I had to pay my respects to Joe.”

“Me too,” I said. He gave me a glance under his shades. And then a once over.

“What other tapes you got?” he queried.

I actually had no idea. I grabbed a handful when I left my apartment and stuffed them into my old 1997 Rose Bowl book bag that I got while working for my student newspaper at Arizona State.

“You know what, let’s find out,” I said, reaching for the bag.

Elvis kind of gave me that “what the fuck is this kid reaching for look” when I went into my bag, but when I yanked out a handful of cassette tapes, all stress vanished from his brow.

“I’ve got Y&T, Prince’s “Around the World in a Day”, a Dixieland sampler, Bruce’s “Nebraska” and the Mick Mix,” I said.

“Mick Mix?” he looked at me.

“Yeah, I made this in 1991. It’s a tape of Clash, BAD I and II songs that Mick Jones sang. Heavy rotation back then.”

“May I” he said, pointing at the tape’s case.

“Certainly,” I said, handing over a mix tape I made and the index card I scribbled on back when I was 20 years old to Elvis Costello.

He read the card and then took the tape out of the case, removed Megadeth from my player and put in the mix. Soon, Elvis was smiling as “Lost in the Supermarket” started playing. He listened to the entire song, including the part where I accidently pushed record one day while listening to it and you hear me go “ahh”.

“I love that song,” he said. “Perfectly timed.”

He took a long draw on his drink.

“My name’s Randy,” I said meekly. “Randy Jones.”

“Nice to meet you sir,” he said. “I’m Declan.”

“He, can I get your autograph. I know this girl…”

“Her name is Alison, right?”

“Yep. Even with one L.”

He did so dutifully. I feel that ended our little moment.

“One more round?” he asked meekly. Maybe he sensed exactly what I was thinking.

“Certainly sir,” he said.

“Don’t call me that. I ain’t no sir.”

We sat for about another 15 minutes. He asked me my favorite band. I said who it was, and he smiled.

“Those guys are pretty damn good. Wish they make the bucks one day. It’s a tough road they’re on.”

I then told him of the redhead the pedal steel guy kissed. And how in these exact seats we talked.

“You and rock stars, you always meet up here?”

We shared a laugh. Then he put down a tip, paying for my drinks as well, and stuck out his hand.

“Great to meet ya Randy.”

“You too, Elvis.”

And he left. I ordered another round, knowing full well nothing better could happen if I went outside now.

exactly

Two and a quarter beers in, and I’m done. The beer doesn’t do what it used to do. Now, it’s just the depressant that it is. Making me feel bad. Taking the desire to live away.

So I stop drinking. I pace around for a while. Trying to find something to occupy my mind. It’s not easy when there’s nothing around.

Downloading an Elvis Costello concert diverts my attention for a moment or two. Finally, I dig into the boxes of VHS tapes that I cling to for just this reason. “We’re No Angels” grabs my attention. I plop it into the VCR. Push play. Start watching. It’s got to be better than the other options.

The quarter drunken beer sits on the coffee table. Staring at me. By now, it’s warm. Well, as warm as it can get when you don’t turn the heat on in the middle of November. But this is North Carolina. Not North Dakota. So, it’s not freezing cold. Inside. Yet.

The itch is here. To do something wrong. Something dumb. Stupid. Ignorant. Would it make Dennis Hopper proud? Hell no. I feel too sorry for myself. But maybe he felt sorry for himself sometimes to. Hell, who doesn’t? Assholes and cereal killers. But they smell and have bad teeth. Wait a second…

Just five minutes ago I was thinking about going to bed. Calling it quits at 11:45 p.m. Instead, I’m typing. Sitting in my mind, trying to come up with some way to get 750 words into this Microsoft Works Document. I looked at my old diary on disc while I was at home earlier this week. My mom threw away the old Brother Word Processor that I typed them on. Of course, I threw away my journals from the rest of my life up until 2008.

Still bitter about that one aren’t we? No remorse. No repent. We don’t care, what it meant…

My mind wanders back to the TV for a moment. The absolute awfulness of 1980s movies that took themselves seriously makes me chuckle. The music, straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. David Mamet. Ha. But he’s a writer. Of films and such and so much more. Me? I used to be a reporter. A decent one. Best thing I could do was write features and the like. My gamers tended to be too wordy. But my leads were usually spot on. I just need someone to tell me -- “write 10 inches dipshit, not 35.” All those years I wished for an editor. Which is why, I think, I went back to being just a reporter. But the editor was a friend. A friend who sometimes had a complex about being an editor. Just not a good thing.

Now, I’m just a squatter. My posture has gotten worse. My attitude better in some ways, a whole lot worse in others. I can feel my depression seeping away the more letters I type into words. No matter how silly what I type is. How banal. How insipid. Hey, fun with words without a thesaurus. It can happen. Not that you care.

I thought about my ex girlfriend today. Which one, you may be asking? But probably not. And really it doesn’t matter.

The phrase “love isn’t enough” echoed throughout my empty skull for most of the drive home tonight. I hate those words put together. They killed me once. And I try every day and night not to let them kill me anymore. It’s why I feel so god damned one-dimensional. I can only write about one thing. No matter what I’m writing about, it’s always about that. Hell, I remember a few times I’d see it seeping into my newspaper stories. I’d have to stop myself and consciously keep the words from steering that direction.

How stupid is that?

I got an e-mail earlier this week. Or late last week. It’s hard to keep that straight when I go on trips. And that’s a damn good thing. It was from forbes.net. It was the one I sent to myself five fucking years ago. However, it was addressed to her, not me.

I saw the message title. It made me happy for a second. Until I opened it up.

Guess it’s better than it being in an envelope. That would have meant effort involved in the matter. I did get a postcard this week. From another. It made me smile. I wish we tried harder with people. I like letters. Writing them and getting them. Yet, I don’t send them. So why should I think I should get them?

Exactly.