Banana Pudding Bliss With Jim James and Levon Helm
Ryan Adams called Scot Coogan, who said that he was not interested in playing drums. Levon Helm called Bonnie “Prince” Billy and received the phonenumber for Scott Carney who gave Levon Helm the telegraph-address for M. Ward who contacted Conner Oberst via Ouija Board who informed Mr. Levon Helm that he could locate Jim James at the Baskin-Robbins on Alexandria Drive, in Lexington, Kentucky, where Mr. Jim James (or, Dr. J.) finds solace in the banana pudding ice cream.
Levon Helm rode a Greyhound down from Patterson, New Jersey (when he was in the process of re-writing many of the poems of William Carlos Williams) and arrived in Lexington, Kentucky, on New Circle Road.
Levon looks at this circle wonders how many horse and dirtfarms were broken by this now not-so-new circle? He walks, left thumb extended, realizes his tremendous, beautiful, dirt-pure smile deters some. Left, right, breath, exhale, observe, left, right, breath, for miles: passes police station, Hustler billboard, a boundary of the once-famous Calumet Farm. He walks, with a three-mile stare, down exit ramp, hears the galloping beats, cathartic lyrics of Dirt course through fertile brain; tramps down Versailles Road, journeys along Alexandria, bypasses skeletal remains of Lexitalia, STD-laced payphone inside of Camelot West; ignores dresses designed for young Mexican daughters, enters Baskin Robbins. Let the bells ring.
Levon Helm dines not on fried black swan, but on an inverted clown icecream cone. He watches Frankie Lee, who Michael knows (and soon Levon will know) is obviously intoxicated from several bottles of Dollar General mouthwash. Frankie Lee dances towards Levon, stops, smiles broadly.
Levon Helm stops consuming the clown.
“You ain’t from ‘round here, is ya?” Frankie Lee chortles as wafts of strangely pungent freshmint penetrate Mr. Helm via nostrils, “I kin tell by th’ way ya’s crunch’s th’ clowncone,” and Frankie Lee emits a ghastly, freshmintly laugh, “Frankie Lee’s th’ name, sinnin’s th’ game.”
Levon Helm, a man who knows millions about dirt farmers, looks at the outstretched hand of Frankie Lee, says: “I’m waiting on a friend. I heard he might be here.”
“Well, who wouldn’t be here? Looky here, fella. We’re all family ‘n here,” Frankie Lee removes his dumpster soiled safari hat and a greasy crescendo of hair cascades down, wrecking Helm’s image of this fellow as a Shakespeare in a safari hat, “List’n, I’s down th’ Alexandr’a yesturday ‘n’s havin’ me a few quarts o’ beer there ‘n Lexico at dat there La Bamba. Talkin’ t’ two fellers from San Salvador El Salvador, talkin’ ‘bout Ricky Ricardo, ‘n them two fellers, like yous, never crack’d a laugh. Then I rememb’r’d, Ricky’s from Cuba,” and Frankie Lee flashes aged teeth far darker than Levon’s, raises chin, flings head backwards, laughs a fountain of freshmint.
Levon Helm begins a chuckle and Frankie Lee proclaims: “Them’s th’ purest teeth I ev’r seen… no wond’r you’re a hard laugh t’ crack.”
Jim James comes in through the outdoor, with two black pomeranians at his heels. He nods toward Frankie Lee, who tips his hat and curtsies in response.
“That there’s Dr. J,” heralds Frankie Lee.
“Thank you. You are a kind old dirt farmer,” and Levon stands, walks towards the center of two prancing pomeranians.
Frankie Lee reaches down, raises the clown, stuffs the remnants into his mouth, chomps, worries not about empire, realizes all is bright.
“Allow me,” Levon speaks, looks at Jim, into eyes so similar to the eyes of his father’s but not abusive, not drunken; looks into the eyes of Michael: “Two scoops of banana pudding, with marshmallow topping, pecan, whipped cream, and extra cherries.”
“Do we know each other?”
“Yes, we met backstage at the Judas Priest show at the Garden, and we spoke briefly at Bonnaroo this year, at the something else tent while Harybu McCage played,”
“Of course I know you, who’d forget that perfect smile? You’re the holy drummer, champion of all dirt farmers: Levon Helm!”
Jim and Levon embrace, drink in one another’s aroma as the black pomeranians circle at their feet, smiling the pink tongue smiles of black pomeranians.
“Why are you here, and in Lexington?”
“I have an important proposition.”
“Speak, memory!”
“Ryan Adams wants us to form an Alice in Chains remnants band.”
“Who will play bass?”
“That is your decision.”
“After banana pudding bliss.”
“What’s not after banana pudding bliss?”
“What’s not?”
Frankie Lee, Michael (son of a holy mother and a milkman), Levon Helm, and Jim James interconnect through laughter, deep-breathing, meditative, exploratory and binding laughter. The two black pomeranians spin in circles, celebrating the joy of all the animals present.
[written by Jo Son of Jo, 6/28/08, 8:29 p.m.]
