Rambling Country Mama (Pretty Girl From Illinois)

Rainy Independence Day Blues

The neighborhood looks like a jungle green on a wet Forth. Have had great acoustic shows the last two nights at Finnegan's in Plainfield. Feels like we're slowly starting to turn some heads around town. We're at Finnegan's every Thursday, indefinitely and btw. Here are the lyrics to a newish tune that you may or may not have heard.

Rambling Country Mama (Pretty Girl From Illinois)

I know that you're a country girl
Yeah your boots are the real thing
A hat to match your gunny sack
Fake cactus diamond ring
But I never knew that Nashville
Was where you want to be
Thought you'd leave me for a businessman
Not a town in Tennessee

I rode the City of New Orleans
Chicago down to Beale
Then thumbed my way on eastward
Over Tennessee moonshine hills
I almost turned around
The hard rain fell and filled my eyes
And I know that you don't like to be
Confronted or surprised

But babe its been a long time
Since I felt this shade of blue
My heart just can't get past the thought
Of beating without you

So if you wanna be
Another Johnny and June
I'll change the way I sing
And we can move to some place new
The fiddle feels like dancing
And I've got whiskey on my tongue
You're a rambling country woman
You've got me on the run

I know you do the honky tonk
You like to jook and tease them boys
Two dudes at Tootsies knew you as
That little pretty girl from Illinois
But I know you as someone else
Who likes to keep me on the line
So when I say I'm here to prove my love
It’s the truth cause I ain't lying

I'm feeling like a lonesome tune
I can't find you, I can't sleep
Nashville's getting louder
I think maybe its time to leave
"Hey stranger what brings you around"
I hear a whisper soft and sweet
You say what took you so long, baby
I've been waiting here for weeks

Love you know the right time
Is right now and not for long
A cardinal in the springtime
Daybreak at the dawn

So if you wanna live
Like Suasanna and Guy
We'll settle down in Texas
Where the lonesome bluebirds cry
The banjo feels like singing
I feel like loving you
Lets travel pretty mama
With these rambling country blues

Now I have so many songs
I’ve written just for you
Just to keep you on my mind
The way you asked me to

And I’m not going home
You’re not staying here
The world is ours to have
Just like I am yours my dear

The road is our red carpet
Where the trucks are rolling slow
Carlsbad to Carolina
Anywhere you wanna go

The Future Is Gonna Be Great

Ello! While our lives are rather chaotic right now with the move and various other happenings, one still has to find time for relative sanity. I've been getting into a groove as a writer lately and look forward to moving into the Overhouse Plainfield, as I think it will be a great change at the right time. I feel we'll really start to hit our stride as a band and can't wait to have a whole slew of new, show ready Overman tunes by August. Full album in time for the holidays?

Matt and I have been kicking around this chorus for a year or so, and we both really like the proclamation "the future is going to be great." So absolute. I didn't mean for it to be a death song, but that's where it went; these things have a mind of their own.

I think I might add a bridge.

The Future Is Gonna Be Great

It was two years before 2005
Because my old man was still alive
We went to a Bob Dylan concert one night
He sang "Don't Think Twice, Its All Right"

Pa was the one to spot the lights
High above us in the neon sky
Burning bright before they die
Colors crocheted with moonlight in his eyes

The future is gonna be great

Daniel broke my little foot
In a football game, on an ugly root
I cried and cried, he carried me inside
Brothers stick together, brother stay alive

So I learned to play his old guitar
It helped me heal, he taught me life is art
My eyes were wide so I could see
Daniel I know you were so proud of me

The future is gonna be great

Springtime comes and skeptics speak
To an auditorium full of science geeks
My best friend takes his mother there
To show her how he feels because he knows she cares

But is scared to think this could be true
Probably less for her, more for me and you
Where do we go when we die
She wanted to ask, but we ran out of time

The future is gonna be great

Now its five years past what it outta be
And I'm getting slowly older like an antique dream
I wanna sing a thousand songs
In to your ear, but you are gone

And on and on, and on and on
We all get born where do we all belong
I dream to see your face again
In a clear blue sky or blowin' in the wind

The future is gonna be great

Monday: A Celebration of Life

"Quiet weekend" I thought to myself as I was cutting limes on a Monday morning barshift at Chili's North Plainfield, Home of the All-Day-Everyday-Happy-Hour. It was Monday, May 22nd 2006 and Billy "The Tall Texan" Walker had died the day before. Monday morning barshifts were more social gatherings with Southwestern Eggrolls, where we learned to curse in Spanish, than they were anything resembling a serious job or challenge. I graduated from Columbia one week earlier and had subsequently initiated a one to three month moratorium on responsibility. I didn't work on Tuesdays, so when I left Chili's at 4:15, I was up for anything.

Matt, Russ, Jimi Frey and I had been living at The Overhouse for one year and had only just begun to scratch the surface of what was possible at our new location. Between being unincorporated, living between 2 churches and having a landlord who lived 1,400 miles away, it felt like we were annexed from the rest of the country, we had diplomatic immunity and we abused it like Peter Griffin or the bad guy from Lethal Weapon 2 (a showcase of Joe Peci's immense diversity.) The Overhouse was a manufacturer of good times. And so it is with this perpetual chance that I came to be at this point in space and time, driving home from Chili's and into a celebration of life, an entrance into a new era: Post-Monday. My first recollections are of a giddy Matt Radowski greeting me, as enthusiastic as a child on Christmas morning, but yet unaware of the enormity of the present we were all about to open, to tell me that he wanted to get sloppy drunk tonight to make up for a dull weekend and requested that I join him. It was no later than 4:30 when we glugged our first shot of Captain Morgan and chugged our first beer; life was good.

The next beneficiary of "Matt's Boring Weekend Compensation Plan" was Justin Goebel. As his grey pickup came speeding up the drive around 5 o'clock, Matt and I were playing our first or second drinking game at the dining room table. I recall greeting Goebs quite enthusiastically, a lot of laughing and cheering, and demanding that he immediately chug a beer; a situation he adapts to with ease. The Kegerator was flowing in the garage as the three of us played Mushroom, a game where the loser chugs a full, usually room temperature, beer. I recall Goebs losing each time, but acknowledge that between the passage of time, the enormity of Monday legend, and my own hazy memory, this, as well as other recollections, may be slightly off. Regardless, by the time The Enemy and Jimi Frey arrived, within 10 or 15 minutes of each other, sobriety was as distant to us as A1689-zD1, we were already intrepidly smashed. After the two newcomers chugged their orientation beers and a game or two of Asshole, I spotted Russell in the Overvan and the five of us scurried outside to greet him, to show him what we had done. We were five, but had the enthusiasm, spirit, and courage of an entire army. We stormed the van, opened the window, and each grabbed one of Russell's limbs, extracting him from the van. It didn't take very long for him to transition from "Hey, what the hell are you guys doing" to "This is awesome!" We carried him, helpless, from the van and into the house. In what is one of my top 5 Monday moments, he managed to grab a full beer off the table as we carried him through the garage, and didn't spill a single drop. If we ever construct a Monday monument or statue, that scene warrants serious consideration.

The team was complete. We carried Russell inside and we celebrated. We played drinking games, we blasted DJ Quik ("Safe and Sound" was our party soundtrack for at least 2 years), and we celebrated. I'm sure a lot happened in the next hour or so, but I can't recall specifics. The next event I remember is walking to Instant Reply, our local dive bar, and stopping at Speedway on the way. As Matt paid for his purchases, the rest of us wildly cheered him on from outside, flailing about and chanting things like "Cigar-ettes, Cigar-ettes!" and "Speed-way, Speed-way!" We crossed Route 30 and entered the bar, a low-key, shot 'n beer, don't get tooo happy kind of place. I should probably mention that we left the house with a 7th member: a giant stuffed dog, presumably won at Six Flags or a carnival, donated to the charity, and claimed by Russell at his thrift store warehouse job, and given new life at The Overhouse. We'll refer to him as Dog. We carried Dog with us and gave him his own barstool at the bar. Between him and our generally outrageous behavior, the bar was none too pleased when they realized what we were, a freakshow. They had never seen our kind, and didn't necessarily care to. The owner, Frank, watched us like a Greek Hawk, waiting for us to do something that he could kick us out for. To his credit, he gave a warning, telling us we were disturbing the solum silence that Instant Replay patrons enjoy so much and if it continued he would have to ask us to leave. He made a comment about Dog, which I thought was hilarious, the 800 pound elephant in the room, taking up a barstool. I asked Dog if he wanted anything and ordered him a shot of Mad Dog 20/20, Anna, the bartender, was unamused. We swilled a few pitchers of High Life and had a good 'ol time. I like to think that after a little while we merrily interacted with other people, but cannot recall with any confidence, as I mostly remember the perplexed and terrified looks on their faces. We made a loud and triumphant exit and you could hear a collective exhale from the bar as we walked out the door. We were only a few feet from the door when it dawned on me: the name of the bar is Instant Replay! What a perfect opportunity to use that like it has never been used before. We turned around and walked back into the bar, yelling "Instant Replay!" For them, it was the equivalent of a Cub's fan watching an 8th inning replay of Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS; painful to say the least. Frank immediately came over and asked us to leave, which I think we all expected to happen. We thanked him for a lovely night and made another grandeur exit before heading home.

Arriving back at The Overhouse, the celebration continued. It was still relatively early at this point, 9 o'clock perhaps. We drank straight from pitchers of beer, played Two Ball, listened to more DJ Quik and wrestled with Dog. Then something very significant happened: Dog started to bleed. Little white balls of Styrofoam began to spill out of a tear in his skin. One by one they poured out, slowly and only if you jostled him a certain way. I went in for the kill, tearing open the wound and hemorrhaging the Styrofoam balls everywhere! We cheered. Soon we were like a pride of lions, hungry and feasting on our kill. We had sacrificed Dog in the name of Monday. The little white balls covered the floor, we had barely emptied out the head, yet the living room was nearly covered. We continued to tear it apart, throwing it at one another until all the stuffing was extracted and only the skin of remained. The living room floor was covered with 2 inches of Styrofoam snow. We high-fived and celebrated like we had never celebrated before. We were the mad ones, the ones Kerouac wrote of in "On the Road," we were out of our minds and on top of the world.

At some point, possibly soon after we got home from Instant Replay, Matt decided that his goal and vision for the night had been realized, and went off to bed (his bedroom was downstairs at that point). This is a key detail I can't recall, whether or not Matt was a part of tearing Dog apart. Part of me says that the mother in him, even in this drunken, celebratory state, would have protested such a mess, but part of me acknowledges the nature and carelessness of the night; I'm sure he clears it up in his recollection of Monday. Either way, at some point he had gone to bed. I think it was when the rest of us were in the garage filling up pitchers, as he thought he could sneak off unnoticed. Well, for our first year or two in the house, we used to play a game called "Wake Up Matt Radowksi." It was a lot of fun and is the reason he now sleeps with a hammer next to his bed. So obviously, it didn't take very long for us to storm into his room and wake him up; though I'm sure between the noise and the fear, it was near impossible to fall asleep. We attacked, ripping open the meagerly locked door, surrounding his bed and demanding that he see the night through to its bloody end. In only his boxers, he made a futile, but committed, attempt at resistance. We laughed. He managed to get us to leave the room, with promises of rejoining the party, but he lied! We came storming back to his door, where he met us and demanded we retreat immediately. In an act of panic, self-defense and pure genius, he grabbed a gallon of laundry detergent and threatened to pour it on us if we didn't stop these shenanigans immediately. We sent The Enemy at him first and Matt violently shook the gallon at him, sending a stream of detergent sailing through the air and onto The Enemy. It was not enough. Ten thousand gallons of laundry detergent is not enough to stop the force and will of these 5 drunk idiots, determined to Wake Up Matt Radowski! He continued to pour the detergent on all of us, including himself, as we forced him from his room and into the living room playland. We celebrated.

The downstairs floor was now covered with 2 inches of Styrofoam balls and a layer of laundry detergent, snow and ice. The detergent made the hardwood floors more slippery than ice and it was everywhere. We rolled around in it. We grabbed handfulls of the Styrofoam/detergent sludge and smeared each other's faces with it. It was in our eyes, ears, noses and certainly in every nook and cranny of the living room. In the middle of this scene, with us rolling around, half-naked, on the living room floor, Anna and her friend Pam walked in the back door. Pam immediately slipped and fell to the floor, Anna clung to the walls so as not to do the same. Pam got up, they watched us for a few seconds and they left. There was nothing for them there, this was far too intense and bizarre for them to understand.

This is my last recollection of the night: laying on the floor, watching them leave, and laughing uncontrollably for the next 45 minutes. I don't remember going to sleep, I don't remember anyone else going to sleep. The moment doesn't end in my mind, it lives on forever. I woke up the following day and walked downstairs. The house was empty, the dog gutted and resting heroically on the floor. Try as I may, there are no words to describe what had happened the night before.

Be sure to check out Matt and Russell's recollections of Monday; between the three of us, we should be able to account for half of what happened that night!

Sanitation Update

JOLIET, IL - In Overhouse dish and garbage happenings, Russell completed his dishes early Sunday, doing a thorough job after being given a one week extension by the Overmom.  I have the most undesirable position in the dish rotation, following Russ, but this week he was on top of it.  Well done duder.

As is custom to do the dishes once per week, we take out the garbage, on average, once every four weeks.  And I'm probably being pretty kind with that average.  Last Monday night we delivered a pretty signifiant amount of garbage to the curb, in preparation of the next days pick-up.  I'd guess it was 12-16 bags, 3 cans, and what I'm assuming was an unacceptable and unusual amount of miscellaneous pizza and beer boxes, organized with little to no regard.  Once I realized the special nature of our trash habits, I wondered which method the Waste Management workers, the "Garbage Men," prefer:  weekly, consistent stops, or monthly Trash Mountains.  I thought maybe I'd run out and ask them, but understood that I may be met with some hostility, three years worth of pent up aggression.  I'm sure the Overhouse is water cooler talk, bulletin board material in Waste Management circles and I should tread lightly.  So when I saw the the garbage truck pull up, I grabbed the camera and headed for the front porch.  Almost immediately,  I realized that the garbage man was not picking up the trash, but rather pacing around it as if he were inspecting it at customs.  Jason followed me onto the porch and, unable to contain himself, became very giddy at the situation, and in doing so let the garbage man know we were watching him, and if he looked closely enough, filming him as well.  He emptied the cans and threw one or two bags in and was on his way.  He left most of the trash on the curb.  

We immediately called Waste Management, a $13B company, and said "what the hell, boys," they're a Texas company, "our trash ain't good enough for ya'll?"  They said they reckon we had us too much rubbish and that it'd be 100 buckeroos for them to pick up the rest.  We said no thanks.  Luckily, they ended coming back an hour or two later and picking up the rest of the trash, but the point was made, we have to adjust our ways.

I'm sure every time we build Trash Mountain we're well over what the terms  and conditions of our agreement with Waste Management state, but that they deal with it because most weeks the Overhouse isn't even a stop on their route.  Regardless, we decided to start taking the trash out every week and even though we missed it today, are on top of it!  I think in the summer time we should set up near the street and play them some music and serve them some refreshing beverages as they pick up the trash.  I'm sure they'd appreciate the olive branch.  Actually, thats a great idea:  set up in the front yard for practice from time to time.  It would definitely cause people to slow down and take notice.  I'm sure the churches would love it. If we did it while we had the OverYard Sale we could probably sell some merch as well.  Ha!  And mattress rides for $5.  Yes...I like the sound of this...

...and Malort....Malort for everyone...we'll stop short of inviting James N. Herron, Overlord of Overmanner, but you get the idea.

The Best That I Can Do

No picture here besides the one painted in the lyrics.  This is a recently completed song about being far away from home, from where your heart is.  Though "The Best That I Can Do" involves a relationship, the idea reminds me a bit of Jason's situation.  I got to thinking how hard it would be to pick up and leave everything, the only things, you've ever known.  That's not to say I don't see the glorious upside, I am after all, very nomadic by nature, but no one ever said change was easy.  Part of what drives me now is wanting to make it so as to validate Jason's risk.  He is passionate (sometimes defensive!) about music and I deeply respect and appreciate that.  This is how I might feel if I picked up moved far away, leaving someone I care about far behind.

The Best That I Can Do

Susanna I woke up late again today

There just ain't nothing getting me out of bed

It hurts sometimes to open my eyes

As wide and bright as yours

The things I cannot face head on

I prefer through this blur

And thats the truth, Ma

Thats the best that I can do

Maybe you'll be there if I do come back

Maybe you won't though, I'll just count on that

I know it gets real hard

I know that weight ain't light

Believe me if I could I would

Be with you every night

And you've not been true

But thats the best that you can do

Lady her hair hangs down, her lips I long to touch

As lonesome as I have been, I need it just as much

In my heart our love is strong

In my mind it fades

Lady says that you're the one

Who brings to me this pain

And yes that sounds true

Or I'm the best that she can do

Farewell I wish you love, if you should care to find

Your face is but a picture babe, a memory fair and fine

I won't be coming home

You won't be losing sleep

There is no use to try no more

No secrets for to keep

And all thats good, Ma

That's the best that we can do

Pillow Talk

Its too cold to do much of anything again today. So in trying to keep the Blogmentum going, I putzed around the house for a few minutes after breakfast (Breakfast was at 8am, for anyone thinking it was already past noon at this point!) taking pictures and debating what the weird noises coming from Jason's room were.  Still not sure.  The following image presented itself to me as I looked from the hallway into Matt's room:

I understand why Matt uses the Penus Pillow.  We've been conditioned to be content using the standard 20" x 26" pillow, so when a pillow presents itself in new and exotic size and form, we're intrigued.  This pillow is soft, it's full body huggable, ya know?  Though he refused to demonstrate his method for the purpose of this blog, he said he sleeps with the Overballs at his knees, hugging the shaft.  I'm sure it took some getting used to, but it seems physically comfortable and lends itself to a goodnights sleep.  It's not the first time something risque has appeared on the Overhouse radar.  Back in the Jimi Frey era, I came home one evening to find Jimi drilling holes in the ceiling of his room.  He had purchased a swing!  I had visions of the band in a big white picket swing in the front yard, with guitars and banjos and pots and pans.  But Jimi hadn't purchased that type of swing.  It was more of an adult swing.  It still functioned as a traditional swing, but had certain straps, bars and angles that allowed for grown up activity and passing judgement.  Oh Jimi.  I'm not sure if he, or anyone else for that matter, ever used it as it was meant to be used, but it was attached to the swing set in backyard for a period of time, gazed upon with curiosity by many churchgoers:

While we're on the subject, there was also an incident with a rubber-breast-replicate-ball-novelty-thing that was filled with goo; "Boob Goo."  Think of it as a breast implant for a Smurf.  One Saturday morning, after a trip to Malnar's, we starting playing catch with the Boob in the living room.  For whatever reason, it turned into a competition to see who could thrown it into the ground hard enough to make it explode!  Amazingly, that tough little boob must have lasted 40 or 50 full-blown whips into the hardwood floor, it was wearing us out.  Needless to say, the buildup to the explosion was intense, and when the rubber finally broke and the Boob Goo exploded onto the floor, we erupted in laughter, cheer and satisfaction.  We done good.  I remember the Goo being spread on people's faces like warpaint, flung about the room like kids splashing water in a pool.  To this day, a ring of its glory remains gracefully stained on the living room ceiling.

Now I have Jimi's old room and have been thinking about using those three holes in the ceiling, as they are at a spot above an open area in the room.  A potted plant perhaps?  Maybe a pull-up bar?  Wind chimes would be nice in the summer.  It is nearing the time to start show preparations, Doug's Rockhouse in Aurora tonight with OD Jo and Clifton Roy and Folkstringer!  It promises to be a good night. 

It is quarter past five on Friday and the dishes are growing into antiques on the counter.

He's Got Dirty Dishes on the Brain

We have dish weeks at the Overhouse.  Each month we draw up the dry-erase calendar, marking down gigs and other days of significance, and assign Sunday Dish Days.  That is, a 4-man dish rotation, with each person responsible for having the kitchen sparkling clean by bedtime Sunday night.  The board looks like this:

As my finger indicates, this past Sunday, the 11th, was Russell's dish day, a light one at that.  Now I'm not doing this to call Russell out or anything like that, well kinda, but mostly because we have created an interesting system, full of interacting entities, quirks, variable and ethics, in an attempt to keep our kitchen clean: One person is responsible for the kitchen per week.  A foolproof and forgiving system!

The fact of the matter is, we absolutely loathe doing dishes.  Not so much that act I suppose, I always enjoy putting on a record and cleaning the kitchen into submission, but rather bringing ourselves to pick up that first dish.  It's tough sometimes.  Maybe its Sunday afternoon, after a good Saturday night, the games on the tube, a non-dish week roomie is napping in the recliner, you're on that magical love seat strategically placed right above the heat vent *niiiice* the last thing you wanna do is get up and wash a few notoriously brutal loads of Overhouse dish.  It doesn't feel natural to do dishes on Sunday.  Sometimes you get them done on Monday, sometimes Tuesday, nobody's perfect.  It's Wednesday night, for instance, and this is how close Russell has come to finishing his dish week:

He even managed to pull off the somewhat rare "dishes-are-in-the-dish-washer-and-ready-to-be-washed-but-are-just-sitting-there-useless-to-the-world":

I will say, to call Russell out is to call us all out.  There are no winners, no superstars in this game.  We eat our Nachos Locos together from the same bowl, at the same time, and we like it.  If the bowl sits on the counter for 6 days before someone washes it, so be it!  At least I know that next time I eat out of that bowl, that beautiful bowl, someone had to scrub the hell out of it to get it clean.

But seriously Russ, you gonna finish those or what?