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admin | How To Get My Girl Back | 16.11.2014
As she grasped the door handle, Don Ho, her over-weight Boston Terrier, jumped up on the window and barked.
Then, up ahead he saw her, dressed in a long white sarong-like thing, waving her arms, her blurred, ghostly image caught in the headlighta€™s beam beyond the rhythm of the wiper blades. Operating under the theory that when one dispatches onea€™s undergarments in the path of oncoming vehicles, ita€™s wise to proceed aggressively, Lani pounded on the drivera€™s side window. The rain had eased up, but she realized she was drenched to the bone.A  Lani debated whether to give him her real name, in case she had missed her hunch and he turned out to be a cop or an attorney or something.
She anticipated him offering his hand, but thankfully, he didna€™t.A  He looked as if he had thought about it, then reconsidered. Her eyes were enormous, as brown as polished stone, and made him look into them longer than . That seemed a sufficient explanation to her; she spun around and started in that direction. She glided away a few feet and now stood considering him pitifully.A  a€?Guess youa€™ll have to help me now, Mr. Lani walked casually to the car, pulled his jacket tighter to her bosom and looked away.A  Billy hesitated, cast an exasperated glance at the car and the dog inside. As if it had telepathically received his thoughts, the dog threw its squat body at the window again and resumed barking. The dream, as dreams often do, took Billy to places he had never been before.A  But, since this was a prolonged dream, as opposed to those experienced during sleep, those which occupy mere wisps of elapsed time .
Besides that, seeking a more rational grasp of his environment, searching for symbols of logic (even dream logic) surmounted the alternative: speaking with his bearers.
Billy was out of sight when Lani reached the interior of the emergency room.A  A set of double doors separated the waiting room from . There were two other people in the waiting room watching a sit-com on a TV set mounted high on one wall.A  A computer keyboard responded with almost silent spastic rhythms to its operator somewhere beyond a set of sliding glass windows set in the wall. It was with mixed emotions that Lani followed that noise and stepped to the glass windows.A  Her involvement in this accident had been more than simple happenstance; after all, who was it that flung her little white undies into his path? The big, blonde haole had been generous with the grin, and the grin itself was a thing of versatility, radiating all kinds of signals, some pleasant but most slimy.
She saw in the policemana€™s eyes a new reverence, then as if to gain fresh insight into its secrets, Officer C. He wondered again what questions to ask three men dressed in aloha shirts on a black beach next to a black ocean with the eye of God breathing hot fire onto the surreal landscape.
Another moment flew by, a tense one, like after a gun shot.A  Lani gripped the phone tighter and, with as much assurance as she could muster, replied, a€?I had a flat tire .
Tina resumed the interrogation, poking into the sordid shadows of Lania€™s social life.A  a€?This isna€™t that guy say work at Mauna Kea, in the observatory?A  Dat one hustling you last Friday night, is it? Lani waited for the lewd suggestion that she was sure would follow, something to do with feet, and massaging, or kissing or .
Unable to locate a water fountain, or a container in which to carry the water in, Lani bought Don Ho a diet soda from the machine out in the hallway.A  She carried it outside. He wanted to tell them to fuck off, he wanted to ask them their biggest secret, but as if some repenting convict en route to his execution had commandeered Billya€™s vocal chords, he blurted out urgently, almost, it seemed, joyous to divulge the information: a€?One time when I was fourteen I played hooky from church, and when my family was gone .
All three Billya€™s stopped laughing for a moment and looked up at him.A  Then they resumed their hysteric contortions. Instead, Lani saw a trim, middle-aged Asian of indiscriminate gender, dressed in an impeccable linen suit, sitting on the fender of a black Corvette, staring off into the distant night, with its leg swinging in a lazy rhythm, shoeless.
At first, of course, the car caught her attention, then the person, then lastly, the persona€™s lack of footwear. It slid from the sculptured fender, straightened the crease in its pants and stepped toward Lani. He thought of his previous confession, how unacceptable it had seemed to them.A  a€?Ia€™m not as kind as I could be!a€? he shouted, frantically, filled with fear, hoping that was the kind of confession they were requesting.A  Where had that come from?
William, the somber, reflective-looking one said, a€?We know at this point that whata€™s being discussed is your life up to the present, or at least, if you didna€™t know, you do now .


The one in the middle, Alan, compared to William, seemed more intense, and rancorous perhaps, although rancorous might be a little stronga€”just the way Alana€™s jaw jutted almost imperceptibly when he concluded his sentence and his point.A  William, on the other hand, looked sadder, more deliberate and distanta€”an author of serious books, perhaps.
A It all had a pleasing, deductive ring to it.A  a€?Thata€™s what Ia€™m here for?a€? he asked, his enthusiasm rising.
The volume increased into white noise until Billy grasped his ears in pain, fell onto the sand, and, unable to help himself, wallowed and rubbed himself across the ground like a dog after a bath.
Alan raised his head almost imperceptibly and Billy sensed he had again said something wrong and that Alan was preparing to inflict another blare of music . Its voice, just the tone startled Lani, the fact that it was neither male or female, but both, added as much significance as if it were broadcast through a huge loudspeaker, large enough to vibrate her bones, & directed by none other than the oh-so-subtle Mr. Lani smiled inwardly.A  She decided right then and there that she would be the one doing the seducing, if that was what was occurring. There was a new album, Come Running, and a golden opportunity to promote the CD and get reacquainted.
He'd hitchhike to Concord, the next town over, to a record shop that had a old-time listening booth.
A friend and he would hitchhike into Boston to the Jazz Workshop on Sundays when they allowed minors to attend. After high school, Bill attended Plymouth State College in New Hampshire to study Visual Arts and English. He hadn't yet developed as a musician, so he relied on an improv comedic patter between songs. What was frustrating was hearing the barroom folkies, human jukeboxes, who would just do covers and sound like Paul Simon on one song and Neil Young on the next. He began playing the Sunday open mic at the venerated Newmarket, NH live music venue, The Stone Church on a regular basis.
He began dating Annie Williams, a freshman at the University of New Hampshire who attended the open mic. After performing throughout New England in the 1970's, Bill signed with Rounder Records and released his self-titled debut album in 1984. Following the aforementioned Inside (1992), he teamed with Greg Brown in 1993, for an album of covers, Friend of Mine.
Warren gruffly dismisses her, declining the wine and insists that they use oak, for it's more practical long-lasting heat. It was probably only a matter of time, fiction writing being so much a part of Bill's nature. One impediment to Bill's lack of production might have been the passing of close friend, fiddler Johnny Cunningham, who died of a heart attack in December of 2003.
I got to see Johnny perform at New Bedford (MA) Summerfest many times and his bigger-than-life personality and exuberant humor were a joy to behold, in addition to his being a fiddler of Olympian stature. The dog was one of thoseA  horrid little pug-nosed things that slobbered profusely and snorted like swine. A a€?Here we are,a€? Billy said, cheerfully, automatically, moronically.A  He had no more awareness of a€?where he wasa€? than say, a shrimp has, lying peeled and pink in a salad on a picnic table on a Sunday afternoon in .
He lifted each foot, one at a time, repulsed by the fact that his bare feet were actually embracing .
A His smile seemed a fraction more gaudy than the other two, as if he were permanently bent on some sort of drug.
Don Ho hovered over the can, licking its top, tipped it over and began slurping the pop as it poured out.A  After another moment he looked up at her again, belched, and walked away, his pugged nose close to the ground, sniffing loudly. While I was intrigued, the unflinching look at life's bleaker moments was something I didn't want to focus on then. Kelly Flint, vocalist for the on-hiatus band Dave's True Story, has embarked on a solo career and is touring often with Bill. Beyond the customary guitar and vocal, the songs also use horns and bear witness to Bill's lifelong fascination with jazz, blues and even funk.
They'd come home with records by Dave Van Ronk, Eric Andersen, Tim Hardin, and of course, Bob Dylan.


He didn't have money to actually buy an album, so he'd listen to a song for about 20 minutes to get the chords. They'd get there two hours early and nurse a coke at the front table until the show started. He asked [slurring] 'Could I play your guitar?' I explained that it was my tool, how I made my living. Around age 25, Bill decided to join a bass player in going up to Alaska to work the fishing boats for a much-needed cash infusion. She was the daughter of a professor at the University, Thomas Williams, a novelist and 1975 National Book award winner. Johnny's fiddle provided harmony on more of Bill's songs than anyone else throughout his entire career. Any collector of quality contemporary folk music who doesn't own every Bill Morrisey album has some holes to fill. Today, July 31, as I update this page, the sadness continues its course through me as I listen to his songs on John Platta€™s Sunday morning show on WFUV. The audience would shut up and listen to the introduction, but as soon as I started to sing, they went back to their conversations.
There is a cadence in a well-written line.A  Three different words might work in one place in a sentence, but only one will scan correctly.
Wallace, (Lani had read the name tag pinned below his badge) set the wallet on the counter and began searching through it more thoroughly. It's as if God gave him x-ray vision for the human spirit -- all its hidden motives and knee -jerk responses.
During the first day out at sea, Bill realized, at 135 lbs, he really wasn't strong enough for the type of hard labor involved in pulling in the full nets.
The characteristic display of brilliant writing was there from the beginning, especially in the album's first two tracks. At some point, he will be revered as much as, and regarded as highly as someone like Dave Van Ronk. John replayed parts of his interview with Bill and the loss of the many songs he was about to record is joined by the sense of absence of Bill himself.
Bill would trace the music back, from Dylan, to Ramblin' Jack Elliot, to Woody Guthrie.A  When he discovered the music of Mississippi John Hurt, it became the foundation for his own guitar style.
He had built his own cabin upstate in the White Mountains and would invite Bill to spend weekends hunting and fishing. He was simply a wonderful human being, his cracked voice imparting voluminous stories and memories.
I mean, are you going to get out here and help me, or you going to sit there looking stupid?a€?A  Gripped the collar tighter and twisted it. He wrote it over 18 months, mostly on the road, in motel rooms and in the back of the bus. He wrote it over 18 months, mostlyA  on the road, in motel rooms and in the back of the bus.
He played it a while and handed it back and slurred a 'thank you.' I wouldn't want to do it again, but it was a great training ground.
Bill would soak up the conversation as Williams and writers like John Irving would discuss hunting grouse and what fly to use at what location on a stream one minute, then the work of Raymond Carver the next. Today it sounds like a who's who: Patty Larkin, Cheryl Wheeler, Greg Brown, and Nanci Griffith. There were guys who had gotten out of the mill at 3 o'clock and had been drinking since then. A young Stephen King asked if he could come and meet him just after selling his first novel, Carrie, Bill remembers Stephen driving up in a beat-up pink Cadillac.



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