Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2000 01:01:24 -0600 From: "Rich Limacher" THE UNLIKELY ADVENTURE OF KITSCHME SIOUXME AT THE SUPERIOR TRAIL 100 Part 17 "You Can Get Anything You Want At Hiawatha's Restaurant" "You can get anything you want At Alice's Restaurant Yes, you can get anything you want At Alice's Restaurant Walk right in, it's around the back Just a half-a-mile from the railroad track And you can get anything you want ('Cepting Alice) At Al-i-ce's Re-ess-taur-ant!" --Arlo Guthrie, Son of Woody Guthrie Who Gave Us: "This Land Is Your Land, This Land Is My Land" I'm trotting along northbound on Highway 61, having just delivered a terrific punchline to a Japanese girl who could not possibly have understood the joke, thinking about writing about all of this to all of YOU, who've never understood me 'n' Bobby McBee to begin with. So, in my mind, I start playing back this Arlo "classic" word-for-word (since at one time in my high school days I'd had it memorized) because, well, the song takes more than twenty-five minutes, and I just KNOW I have more than twenty-five minutes left to go. I'm not proud. Or tired. But I remember Arlo talkin' his "song" for at least ten full minutes and bein' stuck, his friend and he, in a cell in the Po-lice Officer's Station in the one-stop-sign town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts... "When Alice--remember Alice? This is a song about Alice--came down an' bailed us out of the cell--with a few choice words to Officer Obie on the side there, and we all went back an' had another Thanksgivin' dinner that couldn't be beat an' went to bed an' didn't get up until the next mornin', when we all had to go to court." When suddenly my two stockbrokers--remember them? This is a saga about breaking free of the stocks that bind you--are RIGHTONMYASS and about to pass. "So, you think it's only 44 more miles to Grand Marais, do you?" the big one breathes down on my neck as he passes. "Heh, heh," the other one goes as he keeps up with the other one, "have WE got some choice desert property to sell to YOU!" "Ha ha ha, guys," I say. "Very funny." Well, NAH to those guys. I just--choose to, natch--let 'em all glow on down the road, laughing all the way to Shearson Lehman Hutton. "Yeah," I mutter under my breath, "at Dean Witter we measure success one Sears sucker at a time." And there, up ahead of me now, is two. "This land is your land, this land is my land, From the Oberg Mountain To Encampment Island From the Tettegouche aid place To the Cascade River This trail was made for ewe and me." It suddenly dawns that I've been writing this "Adventure" now for seventeen chapters, and I'm not even one-quarter of the way through the race. I'm not proud. Or tired. And I could go right on writing for another seventeen chapters. In fact, that is the plan. They only give you thirty-four to finish. Hours, that is. And if each chapter takes you an hour to read it, why, you'll be done then too. (Quoth Wm. Bligh, the Ancient Mariner: "Arr ye baginnin' ta ken us bettr naw, me 'n' Bobby McBee?") Speaking of stocks, I begin to take mine. Here I am in the northernmost regions of Jesse's state, running right smack into the wind along the very highway made famous by another Bob, also from the same state, staying inside the cones on the west shoulder, facing traffic. I'm doing a trail race. On trails through the woods so that you don't have to worry about exhaust fumes, flying rocket cigarette butts, discarded wadded-up candy bar wrappers, horrible car horns, or nasty insults from passing motorists. "Beep-beep! Hey cowboy! What'd ya do, lose yer hearse? Haw haw haw!" No, but I may need one if this keeps up. "Beep-beep! GEDDAFF DA RODE!!" "Beep-beep! Hey, buddy, wanna ride?" Oh oh. It's a pickup. A chick in the cab is slowin' down to take a look at me. "No thanks! I'm only goin' to Grand Marais." "My God! Do you know how far that is?" "Only 44 miles. I do that every day before breakfast." "I bet you do. Well, good luck! Bye!" "Thanks! Bye!" Zoom. She's gone. Okay. So now we know where we are. We also know how we're dressed. We got on a singlet and shorts and two new New Balance out-of-whack trail shoes. And socks (no-see-um Thorlos) with double Western States water holsters and silver bullets along the belt (for the werewolves at night). Dangling from the side are my jacket and long-sleeve T. On my head is my hat. I decided I could leave my hat on. Dangling from my front is my pouch. 'Nuff said. Ah, but inside my pouch are my very most prized personal possessions! 'Nuff said? Naw, I'm talking about headlamp, spare batteries, a wad of T.P. bagged in a Baggie, my traveling jar of Advil, trusty kerchief, and a full-size extra full-colored bib number with an identical number to mine with circles and hash marks on the back and four holes in the corners with a safety pin safely stuck in each one, to be used as evidence I'm being paced. Except, of course, for the simple fact that I'm not, in fact, being paced. "And the judge walked in with a seein'-eye dog. And Obie stood there with the twenty-seven 8 by 10 color glossy photographs with the circles and arrows and the paragraphs on the back of each one explainin' what each one was to be used as evidence against us. And then he looked at the seein'-eye dog. And then at the twenty-seven 8 by 10 color glossy photographs...." And Arlo and I both then decided "it was another typical case of American blind justice, and there was nothin' we was gonna do about it." What we're all doing, of course, heading north into that headwind along the very shore of Gitche Gumee itself, is tryin' to get OFF this damn road headin' north and turn WEST into the Caribou Wayside where we all know we'll pick up our trail again, and head off--the LONG way--along "the scenic route" for about another five thousand miles before backtracking back to this very same highway again, which we're just about to leave, in order to rediscover civilization and otherwise come to the collective end of our rope, er, race. So, I'm running along the steel guardrail, down the last little highway hill, out of shouting distance from all the passing motorists, and I see, ahead of me, a couple of parked cars and all kinds of people (stockbrokers included) turning LEFT. And that's the long and the short of it. When I get there, I turn left too, and....SMACK! There's Alice, er, Hihowarthya--remember Hihowarthya? This is a saga which was started in the first place because of Hihowarthya--standing right there with her lips ajar and arms akimbo. "Where the hell ya been?" Wellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll... Folk-rock fans, is THIS the kind of greeting we hear our hero being greeted with at the end of his twenty-seven road-by-trail dolor grassy rocky paths with the endless circles and chalk-marked arrows and the miles behind him justifyin' just where he was then and how long it's taken to get there to be "used" as evidenced in this way by his pacer against him? Or.... did SHE even say these words at all? Did HE (gasp!) say these to SHE??? (Oh, what an ungrateful Retch is HE!!!!!!) Just stay in tune next time, y'hear? And the next time you hear it comin' around on the guitar, I want you all to sing it with seventeen-part harmony--with feelin'--and, friends, if you DO sing it with seventeen-part harmony--with feelin'--they might think it's a movement. A vowel movement. With side consonants thrown in on the side. And that's just what it is, too. It's a vowel movement in seventeen-part harmony scribed with feelin' and sung like this: You can run any time you want At Superior's North Shore haunt Oh, you can run any time you want At Superior's North Shore haunt Walk right in, wear a hiker's pack, It's jus' 44 miles from Marais an' back You can run any time you want ('Ceptin' when yer miserble) At Sioux-pee-re:-ore's North Shore HAUNT! [More parts--with feelin'--still to come.] Kitsch Limacher TheTroubadour@prodigy.net