Home Again, Home Again, Jigity Jog

That's right. Anya and I made it back last night after our week-long vacation and a Sissy Hankshaw-inspired thumbing across Wisconsin. Although our puny opposable appendages were no match for the sausage-thumbs of Sissy, I think we did okay, and our technique only improved with time.

If you need to get in touch with me, drop by my folk's house or drop me a line. I got one helluva deal through my service provider and turned in my cell for a touch-tone phone tethered to the wall. It still has the same number, so everyone can get a hold of me, but it makes me immune to turning into a cell-phone wielding citizen-cop!

The polls have closed on the issue of "hand-made or not." Check out the results, though it must be noted that no further analysis can be made that hasn't already been stated, and that there just isn't enough statistical evidence to warrant any conclusive judgments.

So what's next? the ever-faithful blog reader might ask. Good question. For starters, there are tapes to transcribe and I'll pay anyone $10 a tape for the privilege, no, the honor, of reviewing these tapes. When some guy "accidentally" took my bag off the bus from Austin to San Antonio, I wasn't worried about my clothes, my toothbrush, books, or passport–just my precious tapes. I could live with fuzzy teeth for a few days, but not the interviews. Better hurry, because there's never been a better time to hear your's truly sounding like the panting dog of enthusiastic interviewers.

It might be a good idea to listen to all the records I collected, too. I had a brief meeting with my Archivist for the Homemade Album Art Historical Preservation Society last night and she received some, but not all, of the records I scattered to the far reaches of the country. I also plan to start browsing through academic journals and write a piece for them. Why not? There's plenty of other texts to read in preparation as well. Ultimately, a gallery needs to be set up to promote a book. Sean had a great idea to trace the background, influences and process of four specific records in the same way that Michael Pollan might write about potatoes, marijuana, tulips and apples in his book, the Botany of Desire. On the other hand, a 12" coffee table book might just make a quick buck. One thing is for certain though: I have to get a motorcycle. Too many veteran cyclists, coupled with my natural tendency to challenge the status quo that I cannot help , (in this case the saturation of "bikers" infatuated with their pedal-powered cycles) and a few good books made me fall in love with the idea of touring America on a road hog.

Ah, America! The land of opportunity, the land of endless possibilities and innovation; the land of those with vision, with warped perception, with blinders even; the land of The Land Before Time, the land of the landless, the land of the moon landing, the land that is your land, the land that is my land; the land of scenic byways and desert highways, of concrete freeways and fantastical threeways; the land that aches to be romantic and regrets being lustily screwed; the land of tasty dishes and tasteless wishes; the land that exists in Google Maps, in films and flicks and picture frames but mostly in your head; the land that never quits; the land that you keep on discovering in the same way that Chistopher Columbus "discovered" the New World; the land that if let alone may be allowed to thrive in imaginative ways. It's there–it's always been there, and it will always be whatever you want and perceive it to be. I set out to find an America of amazing homemade records and those folks who make, collect and adore them. And that's exactly what I found. Cool.

Signing off,
James