She came from inner space ...

I’m a city kid, born into the busy streets and lively times of a big city. There’s always something going on in a city. There’s always something to see. I guess it is to be expected when you cram so many people into one seething, confronting place. The people scream to be heard, demand to be seen. It’s the only way to stand out from the masses, I guess.

And, I love the essential expression of humanity that is constantly on show. My latest obsession is with stencil graffiti. Here’s why:

It haunts me. She looks out from a tunnel on Punt Road, Richmond. And, I deliberately drive by there every time I am back in the city. She has become a feature of my town, etched into my remembrance of the people I grew up with. See, we grew up with the figures and poses captured in the graffiti. And, as much as art mirrors the people, the people have mirrored the art. That’s the thing about stencil graffiti. They confront you. In the most ordinary and unexpected of places. Artists must choose carefully, but they must also choose hastily. They have little time to transform a blank wall into a canvas. And that transformation can’t easily be undone. The art becomes inextricably tied to both the location. And, to the town. See, my home town is Stencil Graffiti Capital.


I can imagine the artist designing and trying out their art for what must seem like ages. Early sketches become cardboard cut-outs. Lofts become littered with failed images. And, then, in one late night rush, all the anticipation unfolds onto the blank slate of the public space. In the new morning light, the art is unveiled. Do the artists come back to admire their work? Do they watch other people and how they respond to their art? Do they tell them that they made it last night? Or is the art lost to anonymity and the vagaries of time.


So, I was wondering. Is there a place for stencil graffiti in my new town? Will there be an appreciative audience for the statements embodied in this art? And, then, one day on a roundabout sign just near my house, this blossomed:

This Is Why Two-Person Rock Bands Fail (or, A Call For Occasional Guest Writers)

For those of you keeping score at home, Zed's kicking my hiney all up and down the block when it comes to posting in these here parts. But this isn't going to be one of those "Sorry I haven't written in a while" posts. No, dear readers, we realize your time's far more valuable than the 41-cent stamperooni that would be required to mail that stinker in. (For more vociferous indictment of self-indulgent meta-writing, check out what our man in the U.K. recently had to say about it.)

This band was supposed to be a three-piece you know, with a few extras thrown in here and there for the tour dates. It all looked so pretty in theory. But alas, CGK (our theoretical third contributor) seems to have gone the way of a Spinal Tap drummer, his blogging life cut tragically short by spontaneous combustion. There he was, just drinking a beer at a Saturday afternoon barbecue just south of Moline and explaining to the woman nearest to him why she was fundamentally wrong about pretty much everything, and all of a sudden there was a flash of green light and WHAMMO - nothing left of him but a globule. That's what the eyewitnesses say, and they ain't lying 'cuz I was there. Saw it with my very own oculars I did.

Not everyone buys this story though. Zed swears on a stack of crushed Coors Light cans that the green globule was extraterrestrial residue, and that CKG was in fact brazenly abducted by aliens in broad daylight. While I find this unlikely, I have to admit it wouldn't be the first time little green men have been spotted in that part of the country.



Whether you're on the 'splosion side of the fence or the abduction side, the end result is the same - we're a two-piece now. You know what they call a two-piece rock band? A gimmick, that's what. As for those very few two-pieces that actually achieved some level of notoriety, you know what they call those bands? Talented gimmicks, that's what. Folks like The Spinanes? Flat Duo Jets? The Kills?

All gimmicks. Gimmicks with a special place in my heart, mind you, but gimmicks just the same. And don't even get me started on Roxette, which I refuse to link to on general principle. Furthermore, let me remind you that no matter how hot you thought the blonde in Roxette was, she turns fifty next month. The hot chick from Roxette is turning fifty?!?! Holy shit, what have I been doing with my life since 1989?!?!?!

Don't answer that, Zed. Show some mercy. After all, friends don't pile on when their friends use Roxette videos as mileposts in their life-arc.

Hold on, did I just link to...

Goddammit!!!!!!!!

Linking to a Roxette video. Me of all people. Gawd. That's not nostalgia, that's a cry for help.

Speaking of cries for help...

Zed and I envisioned this production as having three people who posted a good amount along with a sprinkling of other voices here and there. Between the two of us, we have friends and associates scattered far and wide across the globe, and what would really spruce this place up a bit would be occasional dispatches from some of these far-flung folks. Just a paragraph or two about what's going on in your corner of the world would do the trick. Think about it. Drop us a line at broncobillyblog[at]gmail[dot]com if you don't know our "real" email addresses. A few of you are about to get arm-twisted into submission anyway, and so you might as well just start typing 'cuz everyone knows volunteerism is infinitely preferable to coercion.

Sleep well, good citizens. You have been warned.

"Politicians, politicians everywhere and not a hand to shake..."

I logged in tonight to do a post 'cuz I'd been, uh, not quite matching Zed's recent surge in output, and lo and behold right before I sit down to write a breezy little piece, I see that he got face time with Obama in a bar way out west.

Yeah... I can't top that. Originally-planned breezy little piece now gets bumped to next week, I'm afraid. Instead, let me try to hold up a mirror to reflect part of the DC take on this sort of thing. (Read Zed's post below first though. It'll make more sense this way. Plus, his is, um, better.)

Back now? Alright then...

Here in the Nation's Capital, you can't throw a rock without hitting a Congressman, a CNN talking head, a Starbucks, and Marion Barry. If you've lived here 5+ years, there seems to be an unwritten rule that you have to make a big show out of acting like politicians - no matter what office they hold - aren't anything special. That all they really do is spew B.S., check the lobby cushions for spare change, and generally make your morning drive a major pain in the ass. (I can personally confirm that being on the wrong side of a Cheney motorcade running perpendicular to your route will add no less than 40 minutes to your commute.)

Oh sure, we interact with them, we just act they're anybody else - a deliberate indifference that must be alternately relieve and infuriate these people. Some of the more surreal encounters I've had in this town include cracking jokes with Senator Paul Simon in an elevator, sharing a long table with Janet Reno as she ate a bagel in a profoundly weird "she's gotta be a Men in Black alien" kind of way, and making fun of George Snuffleupagus' height after a medium-speed sidewalk collision. (Ordinarily I'd just say "excuse me," but the immaculately coiffed midget gave me attitude, and Satan transmitted the desultory response of "You look taller on T.V." straight to the steel plate I got in my head back in 'Nam - a steel plate that as Zed may recall from our younger & drunker days, bypasses my tact circuits entirely.)

In this town there is indeed an art to spotting important folk and getting them to notice you in order to make a big production of acting like they're not important. It's a mug's game but it's our game. Those politicos and talking heads are our unique indigenous species, and we can't help but wonder what ridiculous predicament they'll get into next. We can't help but see them walk down the street, roll our eyes, shake our heads, and maybe chuckle a bit. "Only in this town," you mutter to yourself.

I suspect it's probably similar to the sensation Zed and his neighbors feel when they're out fly fishing and a Long Islander on vacation rumbles up next to them with several hundred dollars worth of ridiculous and unnecessary gear. "Christ. Only in this town. Thanks a LOT, Mr. Redford..."

And yet these knuckleheads are lovable and endearing knuckleheads because they're so uniquely yours, and it is because of this that instead of telling this pasty Easterner to piss off you force a smile and remind him of the four-count rhythm between 10 and 2.

Over here on our end of the country? Well, I suspect that it's the very same "lovable local knucklehead" psychology that compels us to keep electing Marion "Mayor for Life" Barry to public office. Easy there, Mr. Barry, you're among friends. Slow down. Remember now, crack smoking is done to a four-count rhythm between 10 and 2...

All that being said, I would have paid hard cash money to have been at that bar with Zed when the American political system walked right through the front door and bummed a handful of fries. We DC residents are so damn jaded and cynical that when office-seekers clamor on T.V. about how the people in Washington have lost touch, I wonder if that indictment does extend beyond the conference rooms on K Street and a handful of storied marble buildings.

Yes sir, it woulda been nice to meet Obama in a room full of normal people. "What's normal" you ask? Well, there are loonies out Zed's way for sure, but when it comes to politics - especially national politics - I know one thing.

"Normal?"

Nope. Sorry. Not this town.

That ain't us.

A brush with greatness

He is as tall as he looks on TV. His smile is broad and genuine. And, he really does have the knack of truly connecting to the ‘little guy.’

Yes, I got to shake Barack Obama’s hand and meet the guy unmediated, unmonitored, and entirely without spin. He’s the real deal. This country could be so lucky.

So, there we were, happily chowing down on a burger, fries and wheat beers. There’s cowboy hats, bolo ties, and a good assortment of clean jeans sitting up at the long, long bar. The walls are covered with the proud local traditions of mining, miners and the ethnic groups to which they belonged. Stevie, the grizzled shoe-shine drifts from one pub denizen to another.

Then, suddenly, a suit appears, wielding a reporter’s notepad. A handful of political operatives (you can pick them by their silk ties, Chanel handbags, and Blackberrys) all turn their attention to the door. We know not who the buzz of expectation, the frission of anticipation, is for. But, it is clear something is about to happen.

It was all so sudden, so undramatic, and so ordinary. Barack walked in, smiled, took in the scene, and then found the first hand to shake, the first person to greet and give his full attention.

Initially stunned, the forty or fifty of us in the bar were amazed this was really happening. We cheered and we clapped. The man-who-might-be-President was right there, mere feet away, smiling, chatting, and clearly enjoying himself. Barack was at ease and quickly, we were too. Excited, nervous but not in anyway scared or intimidated.

Out came the cell phones, the digital cameras, and the pieces of paper for him to sign. It all seemed OK for us to gawk, to snap photos, and to ask him for a special word or two. No-one crowded him, no-one pushed or jostled. (Of course, the Secret Service wouldn’t let that happen, and the media all took positions behind the bar.)

One-by-one, Barack visited with us. He asked after our story, he told us he was glad to see us, and he graciously allowed photo after photo (that will be treasured and talked about for weeks, months, maybe years).

Now, he may have a bit of a jellyfish handshake! You would too if you had hundreds of them, day in and day out. But, it is the genuine attentiveness, the eye-to-eye connection and the immediate warmth with which he greets you that is notable. You are swept entirely into his world, for just a moment. There is no hoopla, no distractions, just your story and his.

Wow. Is this a great nation or what? That a man on the cusp of becoming the leader of the free world graciously asks a seven-year-old if he could have a couple of fries, signs the bartenders t-shirt, and then turns to address the small crowd saying how marvelous he found this place we call home and asking after the fishing; that is amazing. You know he would have loved to have had a beer (indeed, he would say so later that night in his speech.) Nothing staged, and nothing rehearsed. A man of the people, getting to meet the people, all across the country.

And, then Barack was gone. The Secret Service now let us freely come and go. The media all file back onto their bus. As we exit into the bright, chilly afternoon, left in the wake of the moment, it is clear that something special just happened. Something that you never really experience on TV. Something that makes you proud and amazed to be an American.

I would say there’s no where else in the world right now where it would happen quite this way. And that makes me smile. That gives me hope.

p.s. Your not-so-humble correspondent was able to give Barack a quick lesson in the Presbyterian art of fly-fishing: “Its ten and two, Senator, ten and two!”