ELEGANZA

I Call On Hoot 'n’ Annie

Rick Johnson

MACOMB, IL—The Twentieth Century ground to a thoroughly embarrassed halt as I entered the home of my neighborhood hepsters, Hoot and Annie. They reside in a déshabillé hovel furnished in a hit and miss style that decorators sometimes refer to as “of uncertain parentage.” Loom debris battled warped dulcimers for wall space, while child goners with names that sound like different brands of cough syrup were scattered across the floor, observing rug wildlife.

Hoot wears a cowturd hat as is the nature of all Hoots. He means well, but so did Jerry Lewis. Aye, he doth hoot, but he knoweth not whereof he hooteth.

Annie likes to throw on three or four long dresses and picture herself the Stevie Nicks type. Either that, or a tent city in a typhoon.

A visit to Hoot and Annie’s is generally one of those Magic Moments in a person’s life, like borrowing your dad’s level or being presumed dead. These little gatherings, which the local garfunken had dubbed “hootenannies” for some arcane, small town reason, featured fools with beards and cropduster goggles honking on mandolins and paint can bass, singing “whoa.” The other beardlings sat on the cathair in various postures of soulful monotony, humming along like Limelighters in an ice shed. Someone was actually heard to mention “civil rights.” If I had a hammer...

At the kitchen table, the hosts and two or three budding cheese representatives were smoking something that smelled like a burning heap of synthetic wigs from a hookah-style waterpipe. Hoot pointed a hookah at me.

“Wanna toke, cowpoke?” he hooted.

“Hey man,” I quickly retorted, “Is that thing loaded?” That one gets ’em every time. They cackled like snapping turtles in pain for awhile, then forgot what they were laughing about as I quickly slipped out of the room.

When I find myself on the ice amohgst this dizzy hockey team with no goalie, I start to feel like I’m the only human being present in a school of particularly loathsome, possibly alien fishies. And to think I laughed when my agent tried to sell me some bluegill insurance. v

You know how, on TV, whenever you see a group of airline passengers, at least one of them is a nun? Well, here I was playing Sister Morphine in the Wicker Ward and beginning to panic. In threatening situations like this, I always stop and ask myself, what would The Beaver do?

In this mess, he’d hang back and observe. This group contained more varieties of flake than a year’s worth of itchy scalp ads.

Among the more unusual species and their strange and frightening characteristics:

•Farmhand—Looks like somebody dropped him and a bale of alfalfa off the top of a silo to see which would hit the ground first...always scrafching at long-term case of now-sightless crabs...makes Eb Dawson look like Ric Ocasek. •Woman’s Woman—Contemporary equivalent of the “man’s man”.. .voice quality of tape hiss... t-shirt motto: “The More I Know About Men, The More I Want To Stab Pitchforks In Their Stupid Ugly Faces”...enjoys untying knots.

•Hep Capitalist—Personality of ungummed rolling papers... turquoise imagination... alleged owner of a beret.

•Drug Casualty—Ravaged face resembling an abandoned go-kart track, .'.if he was an actor, he’d be typecast as an amnesiac.. .if you’ve got a couple hours to kill, ask him his name.

•Musician—Continuous harmonica-of-the-brain .. .always some sticky, milk-related substance on his beard, a regular facial tinkle-tail...spends most of his time playing the world’s saddest song on the world’s smallest violin.

•Mixed Veggies—Standard assortment of gutter balls and dimmer switches.. .like the Mom on TV says, “These kids aren’t happy unless they’re murdering their clothes”.. .being virtual prisoners would be an improvement... group photo caption: “Suffered only bruises and mild shock in the collision.”

•Bro—Has looked like a washed-up biker since he was IQ years old.. .should be required to wear a “Do Not Feed The Viciou^ Reptile” sign around his neck at all times!. .everybody thinks his name is a diminutive of “Brother,” but it’s really just short for “broken. ”

The “entertainment” continued to spill out like a bladder disorder. One of the musicians had brought along his Mr. Microphone, making him lead guitarist by default. The sound of dirty fingernails on catgut filled the air, resembling a sadistic tape loop of the opening of the Mamas and Papas’ “Dedicated To The One I Love.” “Before you go to bed (SCREEEECH) my baby/whisper a little (SCREEEECH) prayer for me...”

While morbid tunes about eagles, trains and mountains turned the air in the room to moosh, I tuned out the musicians and tuned in the various wined and twined conversations.

“Doesn’t this town seem like a concentration camp for com?” onq hoopster asked another.

“Well, they have to grow it somewhere!” came the well thought-out reply. It was getting hard to tell the non sequiturs from the wrong answers.

“... are you sure they were real robins?”

“She said she was the original ‘Jackie Blue.’ ” “...but only six million Americans are into ginseng.”

“Sea legs?”

. .and so he got to the top of the ladder and found out it was leaning against the wrong wall!” “Well, a floor can be a place, ya know?”

“Yeah yeah, well my favorite ball player is Burt Hooten.” That had to be our host.

As the hooting subsided and slow songs concerning pasture love and coal miners unravelled like waterlogged yarn, I recalled my original reason for coming. Simple lust. These flop parties may not be good for much, but 'they’re always good for a couple of fiddle-dazed members of the opposite sex who, like many Major League pitchers, often found themselves in trouble early.

I tried to strike up a conversation with an overripe Mary Travers nod-alike whom I had once described as “a fun couple,” but she indicated that she was “really into the music.” So squat on a tuning peg, toots. I’d hooted enough for one night anyway and besides, I think coal miners are plain stupid.

Wouldn’t you know it—the next day I heard that, just after I’d left; somebody sat down right on a tambourine.

I always miss the good parts.