I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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Delta rain
All day, in and out of storms. Sheeting, misting, dripping, stopping, and sheeting again. Did it stop Eric Stone from showing me around, or me from following right behind? Are you kidding?
Right now in my sung little guest house listening to the pounding rain and rumbling thunder. Some great sharp lightning slicing through the sky.
Just home from Red's, a juke joint where we heard Leo Bud Welch, a bluesman in his eighties. A juke joint is like the diviest dive bar you were ever in, plus great music. Before Red's Eric and I were down in Greenville, about an hour from Clarksdale, where we shared a giant steak at Doe's Eat Place -- after checking out both the Jewish and the Chinese cemeteries down there.
Breakfast this morning with Eric and Ace Atkins at a Lebanese-run diner. That we made it to breakfast was impressive considering last night we went out to dinner (whereat I ate shrimp and grits, which were delicious, and the guys ate about ninety pounds of crawfish, which if you ask me are underwater cockroaches); and then we went to Po' Monkeys, a juke joint shack in the middle of a cotton field. In the old days, before the mechanization of cotton picking and processing, there were lots of places like Po' Monkeys, because there were lots of farm hands living in the fields and getting into town for a night of hanging out was difficult. Now the farm hands are fewer and the juke joint field shacks are almost gone.
As I said yesterday, photos coming.
Right now in my sung little guest house listening to the pounding rain and rumbling thunder. Some great sharp lightning slicing through the sky.
Just home from Red's, a juke joint where we heard Leo Bud Welch, a bluesman in his eighties. A juke joint is like the diviest dive bar you were ever in, plus great music. Before Red's Eric and I were down in Greenville, about an hour from Clarksdale, where we shared a giant steak at Doe's Eat Place -- after checking out both the Jewish and the Chinese cemeteries down there.
Breakfast this morning with Eric and Ace Atkins at a Lebanese-run diner. That we made it to breakfast was impressive considering last night we went out to dinner (whereat I ate shrimp and grits, which were delicious, and the guys ate about ninety pounds of crawfish, which if you ask me are underwater cockroaches); and then we went to Po' Monkeys, a juke joint shack in the middle of a cotton field. In the old days, before the mechanization of cotton picking and processing, there were lots of places like Po' Monkeys, because there were lots of farm hands living in the fields and getting into town for a night of hanging out was difficult. Now the farm hands are fewer and the juke joint field shacks are almost gone.
As I said yesterday, photos coming.
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