donna keith rhodea bw

The expressional dichotomy in this photo is jarring: it’s boggling that one species can produce such dissimilar mindsets.

This isn’t like the difference between “amused” and “enraged,” no: it’s like the gap between “mildly interested” and “about to rain,” which is a common feeling among the sentient Cloud Monsters of Flooof, the gas giant moon that orbits Shmordo, The Living Planet, whom people have stopped visiting because he’s into CrossFit now and won’t fucking stop talking about it.

“Dude, do you know how much weight I’ve lost? Guess?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, honestly, me either: I’m a planet. How would I even weigh myself? I don’t even think that’s a thing.”

“Listen, I gotta go.”

“But just look how tight my equator is!”

Mrs. Donna Jean is, in almost every way, standing behind her man. She was a traditional Southern woman, so she was loyal to Keith, no matter how many luggage carts she threw at him or Bobbies she humped.

In an interview a long time ago, Mrs. Donna Jean refers to Keith’s first six months or so in the band, when she sang nothing at all, and the rest of ’72, when she cameo for her little part in Playin’ as being in large part her choice. She had wanted Keith to have–and this is the phrase that stuck with me–his “pride of place” in the band.

Weird little phrase: Southern, deeply so. But poor, too. It refers to the spot in the home where the most cherished family item goes. You never see it in rich folk’s homes; you never don’t see it in poor. It’s where the eye stops naturally upon entering the house: the mantle, the living room wall, over the bed. Sometimes, it’s remains, a diploma, a Bible.

Pride of place. When what you have to offer is respect, then the respect is more highly valued. All of us have our currency in this wicked world.

Keith is trying not to puke.