The Southern Comfort Tour - Goin' Out West
(Sorry for the delay....life has been doing its dance on my chest lately)
Well I’m goin’ out west
Where the wind blows tall
’Cause Tony Franciosa
Used to date my ma
They got some money out there
They’re giving it away
I’m gonna do what I want
And I’m gonna get paid
Do what I want
And I’m gonna get paid
Little brown sausages
Lying in the sand
I ain’t no extra baby
I’m a leading man
Well my parole officer
WIll be proud of me
With my Olds 88
And the devil on a leash
My Olds 88
And the devil on a leash
Well I know karate, Voodoo too
I’m gonna make myself available to you
I don’t need no make up
I got real scars
I got hair on my chest
I look good without a shirt
Well I don’t lose my composure
In a high speed chase
Well my friends think I’m ugly
I got a masculine face
I got some dragstrip courage
I can really drive a bed
I’m gonna change my name
To Hannibal or maybe
Just Rex
Change my name to Hannibal
Or maybe just Rex
I’m gonna drive all night
Get some speed
I’m gonna wait for the sun
To shine down on me
I cut a hole in my roof
In the shape of a heart
And I’m goin’ out west
Where they appreciated me
Goin’ out west
Where they appreciated me
Goin’ out west
Where they appreciated me
Goin’ out west
Goin’ out west
---- Tom Waits, “Goin’ Out West”
Driving down along Interstate 540 - what I refer to as Sam Walton Highway, because is seems that the only real reason for it’s existence is Evil Empire HQ at the end of it - in the early morning sunshine, I was already feeling myself relax. In a strange sort of way, it took me waking up almost a thousand miles from home to really, truly understand that I was on a trip, an adventure, having a set of experiences that were very, very far outside of my normal reality.
It is in the very nature of these revelations that I believe things start to metamorphosis for us as travelers on the road; as we have these experiences, which may be no different than what we deal with on a day to day basis, they somehow have a different flavor to them, stamped and branded with the unique-ness of our spatial locations. If you pull into a gas station up the street from your house, it’s no big deal, just another chore to be taken care of in the course of a day. When you stop for gas on the road, however, pulling into a postage-stamp-sized town consisting of the gas station, the post office, and a dusty general store, than it feels like you’re in some mythical otherworld, a cowboy in a modern western, blowing through town on your way some place else, stopping just long enough for some gas, a cold bottle of something refreshing, and a chance to stretch your legs. The people you meet are just bit players in your personal movie, and they almost always conform to a stereotype: the crusty old geezer who looks as though he’s walked all 80-plus of his years on his face; the matronly older woman who dispenses advice as she hands you your change; the small town beauty stuck in a dead-end job and dreaming of escape; the young tough, giving you advice on exactly where the speed traps are and ending it with a quick jerk of the head, the unique bond that unites men of a certain age. You meet all of these people and countless more, a supporting cast of hundreds, all of whom serve to make you smile, make you angry, make you think, but, most importantly, get you on your way.
So I drove south, eventually reaching highway 40 again and pointing my nose into the west, crossing over into Oklahoma, into the Golden West. The green hills and trees of Arkansas are replaced almost immediately by scrub brush and flat plains stretching off into the distance, the sky becoming the sort of blue that you only find in arid territory. The road stretches ahead, an unbroken gray line reaching out to that vanishing point, the sun a flat, empty eye, glaring at you from above.
The temperature started to rise, slowly; I became uncomfortable, and once I stopped at a rest area, I took off my jacket, got rid of my long underwear, and after a quick smoke, headed back onto the road, windows rolled down to let in a bit of a breeze in the midst of this suddenly gorgeous day.
The last time I drove through Oklahoma, it was nighttime, and so I wasn’t able to fully appreciate the landscape as I drove through it. Sadly, not much changes in that regard during the day, although I am surprised by the number of lakes that I passed - I am so used to thinking of that state as being a dusty farmland that the idea of actual bodies of water is a bit disconcerting. Even so, I find it hard to imagine what it would take to look at this land and to love it, to decide this was going to be home, this was where I was going to stay. Of course, that is the great unknown; we never really know what will feel like home, until we find ourselves there. And that’s what makes us different, what makes us people with differing personalities, and thank goodness for that.
With little effort or fanfare, I crossed over into “Texas, Proud Home Of President George W. Bush”, and observed with a sense of wonder the growing smudge on the horizon ahead of me - the haze and smoke and reflected light of 5.8 million people that eventually resolved itself into the Dallas/Forth Worth metroplex, the largest center of finance and commerce in the southwest, a city poised on that dividing line between the prairie and the desert, site of national tragedy and sports excellence, gateway to the golden west, and, for the time being, my destination, the end of my journey into the setting sun, the place I have come to seek refuge, to seek comfort, to find myself, to see if the broken parts of my soul can be made whole once again.
With hope now riding shotgun, with a song on the stereo, and with the sun in my eyes, I merge into the traffic and make my way into the heart of the city.
Well I’m goin’ out west
Where the wind blows tall
’Cause Tony Franciosa
Used to date my ma
They got some money out there
They’re giving it away
I’m gonna do what I want
And I’m gonna get paid
Do what I want
And I’m gonna get paid
Little brown sausages
Lying in the sand
I ain’t no extra baby
I’m a leading man
Well my parole officer
WIll be proud of me
With my Olds 88
And the devil on a leash
My Olds 88
And the devil on a leash
Well I know karate, Voodoo too
I’m gonna make myself available to you
I don’t need no make up
I got real scars
I got hair on my chest
I look good without a shirt
Well I don’t lose my composure
In a high speed chase
Well my friends think I’m ugly
I got a masculine face
I got some dragstrip courage
I can really drive a bed
I’m gonna change my name
To Hannibal or maybe
Just Rex
Change my name to Hannibal
Or maybe just Rex
I’m gonna drive all night
Get some speed
I’m gonna wait for the sun
To shine down on me
I cut a hole in my roof
In the shape of a heart
And I’m goin’ out west
Where they appreciated me
Goin’ out west
Where they appreciated me
Goin’ out west
Where they appreciated me
Goin’ out west
Goin’ out west
---- Tom Waits, “Goin’ Out West”
Driving down along Interstate 540 - what I refer to as Sam Walton Highway, because is seems that the only real reason for it’s existence is Evil Empire HQ at the end of it - in the early morning sunshine, I was already feeling myself relax. In a strange sort of way, it took me waking up almost a thousand miles from home to really, truly understand that I was on a trip, an adventure, having a set of experiences that were very, very far outside of my normal reality.
It is in the very nature of these revelations that I believe things start to metamorphosis for us as travelers on the road; as we have these experiences, which may be no different than what we deal with on a day to day basis, they somehow have a different flavor to them, stamped and branded with the unique-ness of our spatial locations. If you pull into a gas station up the street from your house, it’s no big deal, just another chore to be taken care of in the course of a day. When you stop for gas on the road, however, pulling into a postage-stamp-sized town consisting of the gas station, the post office, and a dusty general store, than it feels like you’re in some mythical otherworld, a cowboy in a modern western, blowing through town on your way some place else, stopping just long enough for some gas, a cold bottle of something refreshing, and a chance to stretch your legs. The people you meet are just bit players in your personal movie, and they almost always conform to a stereotype: the crusty old geezer who looks as though he’s walked all 80-plus of his years on his face; the matronly older woman who dispenses advice as she hands you your change; the small town beauty stuck in a dead-end job and dreaming of escape; the young tough, giving you advice on exactly where the speed traps are and ending it with a quick jerk of the head, the unique bond that unites men of a certain age. You meet all of these people and countless more, a supporting cast of hundreds, all of whom serve to make you smile, make you angry, make you think, but, most importantly, get you on your way.
So I drove south, eventually reaching highway 40 again and pointing my nose into the west, crossing over into Oklahoma, into the Golden West. The green hills and trees of Arkansas are replaced almost immediately by scrub brush and flat plains stretching off into the distance, the sky becoming the sort of blue that you only find in arid territory. The road stretches ahead, an unbroken gray line reaching out to that vanishing point, the sun a flat, empty eye, glaring at you from above.
The temperature started to rise, slowly; I became uncomfortable, and once I stopped at a rest area, I took off my jacket, got rid of my long underwear, and after a quick smoke, headed back onto the road, windows rolled down to let in a bit of a breeze in the midst of this suddenly gorgeous day.
The last time I drove through Oklahoma, it was nighttime, and so I wasn’t able to fully appreciate the landscape as I drove through it. Sadly, not much changes in that regard during the day, although I am surprised by the number of lakes that I passed - I am so used to thinking of that state as being a dusty farmland that the idea of actual bodies of water is a bit disconcerting. Even so, I find it hard to imagine what it would take to look at this land and to love it, to decide this was going to be home, this was where I was going to stay. Of course, that is the great unknown; we never really know what will feel like home, until we find ourselves there. And that’s what makes us different, what makes us people with differing personalities, and thank goodness for that.
With little effort or fanfare, I crossed over into “Texas, Proud Home Of President George W. Bush”, and observed with a sense of wonder the growing smudge on the horizon ahead of me - the haze and smoke and reflected light of 5.8 million people that eventually resolved itself into the Dallas/Forth Worth metroplex, the largest center of finance and commerce in the southwest, a city poised on that dividing line between the prairie and the desert, site of national tragedy and sports excellence, gateway to the golden west, and, for the time being, my destination, the end of my journey into the setting sun, the place I have come to seek refuge, to seek comfort, to find myself, to see if the broken parts of my soul can be made whole once again.
With hope now riding shotgun, with a song on the stereo, and with the sun in my eyes, I merge into the traffic and make my way into the heart of the city.