THE GREAT GADFLY:

In The Mouth A Desert

I've decided to become a person who eats grits.

This is kind of uncharted territory for me, being someone who grew up eating things like omelettes and Fruits 'n' Fiber cereal, but something deep inside my belly told me that after three decades limping around this big brown mudball called Earth, it is finally time. Time to embrace the grits.

Oh. And for obvious reasons, let's just get this out of the way right now:

I don't know why I didn't grow up knowing the magic of grits. I'm fairly certain I grew up with memories of my parents telling me that it was nasty food that only vulgar southerners ate. Something like that, I'm sure. Regardless of the source, I'm certain that I grew up viewing this particular delicacy as something that "other people" consume, but not us. Oh, no. Better we should sup on plutonium and Dran-O than...than....grits!!!

But, you know, I grew up, left the nest, and life took me on its voyages, as it always does, and along the way here and there, people eventually introduced me to the glory of hominy. A taste at a diner here, an instant packet microwaved there. I found that I didn't mind it. Kinda liked it. It appealed to my discerningly bland midwestern palete. Bumpy buttery goo. Right on, man.

So a couple of days ago at the supermarket, I made the plunge. I bought a huge cannister of grits for a buck-fifty. No turning back now - I'm a changed man. Oh, the crackling excitement implicit in my dragstrip of a life...it doesn't get any edgier than this, I tell you. I know this is the kind of pulse-racing adrenalin-charged sensationalism that keeps my readership coming back for more, and who am I to disappoint?

Last night I made an experimental batch of the stuff, just to see what I'm getting myself into. Added a little butter, a little salt. I'm into it, man. I dig the grits. I'm not sure how I'm going to spruce 'em up to keep the experience exciting, but I'm sure I'll figure out new permutations. I'm thinking maybe I'll add cashews and Laffy Taffy to the mix, just for added zing. If you have any ideas on how to make an exciting bowl o' grits, please do share. I'm always asking people I know for scintillating el cheapo recipes, and I fear they think I'm being somehow disingenuous with my pleas. What, you all think I eat is a steady diet of CDs with a side of Diet Coke W/ Lemon? Sheesh. I got an offer recently for a recipe involving potatoes and tofu. I really hope I get that recipe. Maybe I'll add some grits to it. There's no stopping me now. I am a madman.

Which brings me to the band Pavement, and the spectacular lovegift lavished upon me over the holidaze by the lovely and talented K-Style. The man presented me with a lush 10th anniversary package of Pavement's "Slanted and Enchanted", complete with an intricately embossed slipcase, a 60-page indulgence of "behind the album" scrapbook ephemera, and two discs of anything and everything even remotely related to the album - demos, live tracks, BBC sessions, what-have-you.

Talk about an intense crash course. I'll fess up - I'm no dyed-in-the-wool Pavement fan, and I don't really completely get what their whole thing was about, other than "woo-hoo! INDIE RAWK!!!". I do know that I like it, like it, yes I do. I've been enamored with "Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain" for years, though I've only ever owned the album on a cassette that I don't listen to all that much anymore. I have the solo Stephen Malkmus album that came out a while back, and it's not bad, though it's a little too much on the down-low for me, other than the song about Yul Brenner (I think).

Other than that, all I know about Pavement is that everyone squawks about them and when I listen to the albums, I can easily understand what all the squawking is about, but I can't get outside of my head enough to truly climb into the music and absorb the sounds as much as I'd like, or maybe as much as I feel I'm supposed to. Maybe I have too much of an attachment to the calculated, to the linear bottom-line, to let myself fully give over to sounds that just kinda let it all hang out, free-association styley. There's a kitchen-sink asthetic to "Slanted and Enchanted" that both draws me in and keeps me at arm's length, as though there are aspects to the music that I'm just not meant to comprehend, and once I'm right with that, I get the keys to the kingdom. Frustrating, but sort of deliciously so. Kinda like opening that door to the closet full of junk that you don't wanna throw away, so you toss more misfit tchotchke into the abyss, knowing full well that one day you're going to have to climb in and sort it all out, though you know the fun is in the digging.

And now, oh lord, I fear that my musical musings have lapsed into the limbo of a Christopher Guest monologue. Kinda like one time at a party when I was trying to describe something to my friend Lizzard, and I said, "well, in a zen kind of way, it's kind of like when you Google yourself and see what's out there bearing your name." And she replied, "thanks for that sparkling analogy, Corky St. Clair." Heaven help me. iMama mia!

So, you bastard people, the naked truth is that I'm loving this here Pavement re-issue. Yummy yum yum. The music reminds me of Indiana weather - if you don't like what you're hearing right now, wait five minutes. It'll be completely, unexpectedly different. Crooked rain, indeed. I can't really listen to it when I need my mind to focus. This isn't music that allows for ambient compromise. No. I'll be devoting my undivided attention to these songs, and there'll be no negotiations to the contrary. I like that. When I can afford it.

So. It's the first full week of 2003, and I find myself psychically preparing for a new job while wrapping my tattered attention span around Pavement and hominy grits.

Like I said, it's come to this. I guess there are worse ways to while away the hours.