In the entire month of May I have only written the following, listed by the number of words to each article, in the order written:
842
662
762
1,079
698
317
828
470
569
757
449
527
397
1,307
419
286
1,475
496
430
1,400
815
257
1,062
1,435
238
212
617
804
373
349
325
263
450
595
564
879
724
And 1,024
That is 1. [something] article a day when I normally do 3-4.
Sure, I could make some excuses. But the truth is—I done lost my Negro!
The last I saw him he was eating pancakes at a Portland restaurant with Yeti Waters, who promised to send him across country on $5 mega buses via Indian casinos. I am beginning to think that blues-playing, sausage-fingered guitarist Yeti Waters has perhaps kept my slave for his own self.
Maybe it was Stevedore’s doing, perhaps telling my generous host that it was he and not me who had done the house cleaning—when it was my handiwork all along as Stevedore was needed at the typewriter.
In any case, I’m busting my rusty ghost brain over May’s slated book completion and I was simply wondering, if any of my readers have seen a 122-year old Negro, about the tone of brown shoe polish, playing the slot machines at some Midwestern casino with a “rum and smoke” in his long-fingered hand?
A devil needs to know.
Starter Book List
Last time I saw Stevedore, he was at the Spirit Mountain Casino, putting steel washers into the quarter slots. I don’t know where he is now. Scouts honor.
On an unrelated note, I’ve just finished a comprehensive history of negro folk music, 796 pages. The working title is “Lightnin’ Stole My Thunder”.
Thanks for the tip, Bro.