#ameripass

#WATCHMOVIE HERE: Report August 11 2020 From Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond Jon's archive https://archive.org/details/report-august-11-2020-from-pandemic-quarantino-jon-hammond Youtube https://youtu.be/jgY9N2x_Pck

Report August 11 2020 From Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond

by

 Jon Hammond 

Hammond Report August 11 2020 from Pandemic Quarantino Jon Hammond - Daily Music and Stories from organist & accordionist Jon Hammond, today's story about playing with the late great tenor saxophonist David "Fathead" Newman - I called him David! I played Hammond B3 organ here with David and Bernard Purdie at the Zanzibar and Grill on Manhattan's east side in May of 1990 - we did so well that the next day I went down to the Port Authority Bus Terminal and bought myself an all-you-can-ride "Ameripass" bus ticket on the Greyhound Bus and took my first trip to Nashville Tennessee (with several stops in between!) - enjoy and stay safe out there everybody, we're still in the pandemic so make sure to mask up in public. I'll be back tomorrow with another Hammond Report - Jon Hammond - Jon Hammond Band - thanks Joe Berger for operating my Panasonic PV-430D camcorder

#HammondReport#MusicAndStories#DavidFatheadNewman#HammondOrganist#11August2020#Ameripass#GreyhoundBus#JonHammond

Publication date

 2020-08-11

Usage

 Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 4.0 International

Topics

 Hammond Report, Music and Stories, Ameripass, Greyhound Bus, Tenor Saxophonist, David Fathead Newman, Jon Hammond, Hammond B3 organ, Hammond Organist, 11 August 2020, Zanzibar and Grill

Language

 English 

Addeddate

 2020-08-11 19:12:08

Identifier

 report-august-11-2020-from-pandemic-quarantino-jon-hammond 

Riding the Dirty Dog: A Love Song to the Greyhound Underworld

In the 1957 Jayne Mansfield–heavy film adaptation of John Steinbeck’s mostly forgotten novel The Wayward Bus, an assistant mechanic named Kit Carson stands chatting with a lunch-counter girl with Hollywood ambitions in a little dusty Central Valley bus depot named Rebel Corners. “I wonder if there’s going to be any important people on the bus today,” the girl asks. “Important people,” Kit tells her, “don’t ride buses.”

Nelson Algren taxonomized the nonpeople he would run into while traveling in his bookNonconformity, written in the 1950s: “The pool shark hitchhiking to Miami or Seattle, the fruit pickers following the crops in the 1939 Chevy with one headlight gone and the other cracked… The ‘unemployed bartender,’ ‘unemployed short-order cook,’ ‘unemployed salesman,’ ‘unemployed model,’ ‘unemployed hostess,’ ‘self-styled actor,’ ‘self-styled artist,’ ‘self-styled musician’… Their names are the names of certain dreams from which the light has gone out.”

Turgenev and Herzen might have called these people “superfluous” Americans. The dregs of the American dream. Though seemingly dated, vanquished Beat-lit stereotypes, these hustlers, dealers, prostitutes, and “freelancing phonies” never really went away—they’re still here today, tucked on the back of a Greyhound bus.

Sometime in 2002, having dropped out of college and moved back home to North Carolina, unmoored and without job prospects or definite plans, I caught a chance ride to Fort Benning, Georgia, for a protest against the School of the Americas—the academy responsible for training all the Latin American paramilitaries and death squads. There, as frocked Catholic priests thrust themselves over the base’s ten-foot-high fence in nonviolent civil disobedience, I became friends with some young transients on their way down to Florida. After the protest ended, we caught a ride with a guy in a Buick, taking turns driving through the night. On a misty two-lane road in southern Georgia, a rural sheriff pulled us over and ran our IDs. One of the transients had an outstanding warrant and was taken to jail—his girlfriend was only 17, and apparently her parents didn’t approve. We drove around to three different ATMs to get bail money and made it to Gainesville the next morning, stumbling into Denny’s bleary-eyed with exhaustion.

There, as if by magic, an expired Greyhound Ameripass made its way into our hands. (I don’t remember how exactly, but I think these crusties got it from a friend of a friend.) For the uninitiated, the Ameripass was a reasonably affordable pass that got the buyer 30, 60, or 90 days of unlimited bus travel throughout the United States and Canada. Originally marketed toward European backpackers and students on a budget who wanted to wander cities and towns by day and sleep on the bus by night, the Ameripass offered a nice glimpse of the “real” America before being rebranded as the Discovery Pass and then permanently discontinued in 2012.