Sailing To Oblivium July 19, 2017

I’m trying my best not to be an old grouch today. So far I’ve not been successful. Maybe a little Doc Watson music would help. Or Steve Davison. I’ll think about it and try to escape what John Steinbeck called “the blackass.” I still wonder why I’m stuck with it.

It may have to do with the subject of my previous post: the weather.

Nah, I went ahead and braved it yesterday. Worked out fine. Felt like a real man afterwards.

It may have to do with the fact that we are moving away from governing in this country and toward opposing, vilifying, blaming, and destroying.

Nah. Who cares?

It may have to do with the fact that there is this chord position on the guitar that my beloved mentor Mike Benetz insists I use (I call it “Mike’s Misery”) that requires bending the last joint in one finger into a 90-degree angle with the next, and my body is rebelling.

Nah. My body has rebelled against any method of fun I’ve pursued for decade after decade and I’m still erect, … my posture, that is.

I’ve got it, the source of my curmudgeonery! They’re stopping Riverfest in Little Rock. Too bad. For them that likes that sort of thing, it was just the sort of thing they liked.

I hadn’t been in years. Nothing against it mind you. I just don’t like to be around that many people at one time. And I never did care for the play money. Oh, I understand its purpose. I just never cared for it. Mostly though, it was the crowd. I just don’t like that many people, especially on days like today, so you can imagine.

And … the whole thing had gotten a bit over the top for me. It has probably been ten years since a band performed there that I recognized. And the last time I went, purchasing a beverage of choice took close to an hour. And there were thousands of people there of the type who, as they say in the Arkansas Delta, "make my ass want a dip of snuff."

I remember the first time I went to one. I think it was the very first. Our neighbor from across the alley came to the back door and said. “I think they’re having something down on the river.”

“Big deal,” I said.

“I heard they have beer and music.”

“If you’re waiting on me, you’re backing up.”

We drove down, parked on Markham, and walked toward the sound of music. Yep. The “Greasy Greens,” one of the best local bands Little Rock ever produced, were playing. There was beer. And almost everyone from our downtown neighborhood was there. It was like a big block-party. There wasn’t a single pistol in the whole crowd.

The festival grew a lot after that. It really had, in my humble opinion, gotten out of hand. How do you keep something like that under control? Maybe they could just bring the Greasy Greens back down, (I think some of them are still around) park beer trucks along the paths, invite street musicians and other performers in, and let people relax and enjoy themselves like they used to.

The City of Little Rock could just put the whole thing on. It would provide some relief from worries about the news, give some local artists a chance to perform, promote harmony, and give our city manager something to do.

There. I feel better already. Can’t you just feel the smile?