Journal

Last Updated : 10/13/2005

10. Magic Red Guitars 10.13.05

October day, I feel a little weird. Maybe that's why I
like October, something in the air. I recently became
the owner of a red guitar. Not my first red guitar
either. My first was a Hondo II, electric, looks like
a Les Paul only with bad electronics and I still have
it somewhere at my folks house. My second, a Yamaha
something, looks like a Gibson 335, doesn't quite pull
it off, but it looks like it could spank out some
Brian Setzer like a cherry poppin mother scratcher.

Now our saga thickens, around April 2003, "So I'm
sittin at the Golden Light, right, when in walks this
random mother f***r, gives me this f****g guitar
case and he says, "Hey, some dude asked me to give
this to you." Period end of the f***king story right,
no not right. Inside, next to the note which says
almost verbatim, "Nice stuff, nice stuff, and nice
stuff, have this guitar, signed anonymous fellow
musician, is a brand new RED Fender Telecaster. Holy
shit right." Well now I'm trying to act cool because
the truth is I felt a little weird, I didn't deserve
this. Not a real Tele, not a Jerry Donohue Signature
Edition, not free, not from a musician, anonymously. I
run around the Golden Light trying to find answers and
finding none, I return to the guitar, confused.

O.K. present day, I'm going out to hear some guy and
his wife sing at the old Radisson, don't know what it
is now, Hotel in Amarillo the other night, in between
alot of other things I was doing, because I am so
important, and they are playing for an older crowd who
come out to dance between 5 and 9 on Tuesday's. They
play alot of old standards and as I'm sitting there
with my friend Mark Hilliard, he tells me these two
are big fans, and they love my music, and have been to
several shows. Mark has been bugging me to come hear
these guys for a long time and I just haven't had the
time. Butch, the guitar player used to play for Wanda
Jackson and Roy Clark. Yea, Big Note guitar book Roy.
Hee Haw Roy. Cool. So I meet them in between songs
and say how honored I am to meet them, and wish I
could stay and even invite them to my acoustic show at
the Golden Light later that night. We leave. We're
leaving the hotel and Mark says,"so remember your
Tele? they are the ones who gave it to you." I lose it
and break down right there in the parking lot. I don't
deserve the things I've been blessed with. I felt
weird until now, now I feel I have something to earn.

Last week Bubba calls and asks, "do you know who Floyd
Tillman is?" Well, honestly, the name sounded
familiar, but I wasn't quite certain why. "I think
so, I think he was a musician back in the day," I say.
Bubba proceeds to tell me he worked on Floyd's son's
air conditioner's and one thing led to another and,
well, they had this guitar that belonged to their dad,
and did Bubba, knowing us, think we would like to have
it. Huh, I just seen red. Bubba says, "It's red and
real purty, but I don't know nothin about guitars and
if I kept it, it'd just sit in the closet next to my
guns. Do you want it?" "Uh, only if it's red." I say.
I feel a little weird.

So I sat in George's house today polishing a guitar
that once belonged to Floyd Tillman, member of the
Country Music Hall of Fame, Friend of Willie's and
Johnny Bush's and ... hold it. The Cooder Boys just
recorded song with Willie and Johnny Bush, maybe
around the time this guy passed. I've found out a few
things about Floyd since my conversation with Bubba,
and I've realized this, I have some living up to, to
do. I don't deserve this guitar. But, somehow it found
its way to my possession. Maybe I'll pass it on to
one of my girls for Christmas. Put a big green bow
around it. I like October, and trees, just something
in the air.

Martindale
Don't forget:
fight unreadiness

9. Me and Jim 10.01.05

Jesus was a Capricorn, he ate organic foods, he
believed in love and peace and never wore no shoes.
Me, well I like pizza, or at least I did. I used to
like barbeque too. Until that was all had to eat for
eight years as a musician. Jim, I think, may be a bit
of a Capricorn as well. He likes to eat grilled
yard bird, which is good because everything tastes like
yard bird these days. He likes veggies and other
healthy types of things. Me I love a good steak, a
cheeseburger, onion rings, a Monte Cristo, Chicken
crispers at Chili's, and anything which was cooked in
what could be used as a substitute for 30 weight oil.
This is all fine, except that me and Jim always have
to dine at the same restaurants.

It's not really like the yin and yang are housed all
under the Martindale address, or Hegel's thesis and
antithesis are at play in joyous stomp on my medulla
oblongata, nor is it Jesus on one shoulder and
Beelzebub on the other. No, it's more like the the
fight over the ANWR,the Arctic National Wildlife
Refuge, where the Gwich'in and the Inupiat Eskimo's
find themselves at odds over oil production in the
sacred migratory lands of the Porcupine caribou.
The Inupiat sold their minerals and gave up their
cling to tradition and poverty in the late 1970's,
while the Gwich'in have hung on to their lands,
customs, lack of indoor plumbing, and squalor to
maintain their dignity and proper amount of filth
required of them as real bitchin Gwich'in. OK, hard
to follow so far, I know. But here goes, the Gwich'in,
while hanging on to some traditions, have forgone
others. much like me and Jim. I imagined them dressed
in handmade clothes, chasing caribou with dogsleds,
killing them with handmade hatchets and spears, using
bows and arrows with the skill of a 7 year old
shooting his sister with a water gun at close range,
sneaking up at night because someone had a vision in
the night that the great blue caribou was mating on
the Northern range and it was time to slew caribou.
What really goes on is, they live in shacks, made out
of man made material, with no running water, wear
clothes from Wally World, get a call on the cell phone
from flying bear who spotted a herd 27.3 miles from
here while making his rounds in his helicopter this
morning. The Braves then bravely fire up their Arctic
Cat snowmobiles and head toward the midnight sun. Of
course once all of the engines are running it sounds
a lot like ancient tribal drums humming in the middle
of your head at 110 decibels. Once they find the
sacred Porcupine caribou, they dispense with them
quickly using some kind of high powered 9mm or some
other big ass rifle like a Barrette 50 cal. or a BAR
with some tracers or some kind of something Jim
doesn't know anything about. The Inupiat on the other
hoof, sold any reservations they might have had long
ago, to get indoor plumbing and new Arctic Cats....and
a lot of money. They still whale and live off the land,
they just have a lot of Wal-Mart bucks to help along
they way.

So where am I going with all of this? I've assumed all
of my life everyone was similarly daunted by dueling
tribes, not quite diametrically opposed, yet unable to
live in perfect harmony with each other. I couldn't
practice law and play music at the same time. I was a
hack of two trades and a Matter of none. I'm always
cold, and Jim hates the heat. Part of me wants to get
up on stage and stomp around and light something on
fire. The other part of me, Jim, wants to sit down and
do my new song and tell the story about it to a quiet
room of listeners. I've seen changes in me, where I
used to know all the new jokes, now Jim just sits back
and listens, because I get so much time on the stage,
Jim likes to be quiet and private. I am in this crazy
Cooder Graw band, and Jim has his own weird acoustic
web site.

Jim and I. Gemini. Twins. The same only different. We
live in the same land, and have the same value system,
we drive the same Arctic Cat, yet mine goes 97 MPH all
the time and Jim's goes 55 or 45 or 35, whatever the
speed limit is. I thought we all had these boughts of
doubt about who we were supposed to be and what was to
come of us, but Jim doesn't think so. Either way, you
can see both of us doing our solo acoustic set at the
Golden Light on almost every Tuesday night, Jim shows
up early, has a couple of beers, and then gives up the
mic to me. Well, come see us some time. We'll be
looking for you.

Martindale

Don't Forget
Two heads are better if they are one

8. I do believe in Ghosts, I do believe in Ghosts, I do believe in Ghosts... 9.01.05

I don't believe in ghosts. I've heard weird
noises, seen strange things, and been scared out of
my truck, but as a general rule, there can't really be
any such hooey as ghosts. That being said, I have
been part of a haunting.
     I was driving Lorena, our old Bus, to the Dallas
Fort-Worth metro-plex, late, between the hours of two
a.m. and 7 a.m. last night. I had played at the
Golden Light earlier like I have maybe 1.7 trillion
times before, but even here, there something was
different. I experienced what I would refer to as an
out of my truck experience. I would play and sing and
it was all good in the hood but my face was about 4
feet in front of everything. Anyway, back to the other
trip.
     I met our camp at our bus barn, and after much
reminding me of how all the what's work, we were on our
way, the band and crew in the nice bus, and me and
Lorena all alone, heading down the road. Alone? I
thought so but as I soon realized and remembered,
Lorena has a few permanent house guests. She's almost
like an Overlook Hotel, with no Jack, no dead people,
no mountains, and she's mobile....o.k., so it's not
like the Overlook at all. Whew. All driving and no
play makes Matty a paranoid trucker. One of my song
writer fellow truckers said, "music is about 80%
driving and 20% music." The percentages may be more
like 90-10 or 95-10 or 90-3, truckers aren't known for
their math. I had forgotten about ole Steve. Steve is
the moniker given to the family of household and
rather conformable apparitions housing themselves
within the confines of our old travel tube. I heard a
few of the old sounds I was fairly used to hearing,
and a new one or two. I don't really go for all of
this. Truth is, I was worried someone might have
stowed away on our 8 wheeler of love and was planning
on overtaking me at a point of weakness. It was
probably our fan. No way. We got rid of that person.
We knew if it really was our fan they would find a way
to get around the restraining order and get us anyway.
When we found out about that dude we knew we had
someone who had completely abandoned their truck, left
it on the highway, and it was now covered with all of
those red "tow my ass" stickers. O.K., I've tangented,
sorry, I'm back. I made that up, we really don't have
a fan.
     So if it's not our fan I hear, and I don't
believe in ghosts, why do I look in the mirror to see
if anyone is in the bus. Well because of those freaky
ass sounds, and because I had this weird experience at
the Golden Light......and because....we have
these...pictures of Steve. Yea, I don't really
believe them either, but they're plain as my truck.
Several of them, some faces, some just spirits kind
of floating, all right back there in the back lounge.
Giv'em hell boys, I'll try to drive smooth.
     This is what I learned, Ryan Adams makes them a
little restless, Willie calms them, and they must have
had one hell of a good time last night, because, I
heard a cough this morning, driving into the
Metro-Plex. One of these days someone else will take
them on and I hope they appreciate their general good
nature and luck. Lord knows they've helped us. If I
believed in them I can only imagine what kind of fun
we would have had. Hey Steve, got a light?

Martindale

Remember
Some buses are like people, some shine and some don't

7. Taking the lazy ferry to Midlothian 7.31.05

Parentally speaking, I want my kid to out-kick all
other kids. Out-kick, run, spell, play, out-burp,
spit, whistle, sing, cuss, dance, scream, drive,
whatever, anybody else, including me, and if your a
parent and you don't feel exactly the same way about
your kids, your out of your truck, completely lost
your glasses. I try to instill that killer instinct
in my precious little sponges. Of course this logic
is perfectly rational on the soccer field, "honey,
that ball is yours, go get it." But in this modern
populated age, the the truth is we tell our kids to
share and be kind, treat each other with respect, the
way you would want to be treated. The golden age of
the golden rule. Where does our killer instinct fall
while we take our dogma out for a walk.
Capitalistically speaking, capitulating to the
ideology of our trappings we find ourselves fierce
competitors at heart. We are supposed to be. The
Sealy Mattress Company was built on the sweat of the
American dream. If my company kicks your company's ass
I make more money. It's not about mommy or daddy's
money, it's about my truck being better than yours.
So.....we teach our kids the American Dream, so they
can dream it too, in their little bedrooms, they can
think about outdoing everyone else. But that's not
what I think about. Huh, and that's not really what we
teach them. Somewhere along the line, maybe in line,
they have been taught to be nice,....sweet actually.
Damnit. It would be so much easier for them if they
weren't nice. Because not everyone is so agreeable.
But you know, Jesus would share, and so do they. They
share too much. They share on the damn soccer field.
They hold hands on the damn soccer field (girls mind
you), they make sure everyone gets a turn, and they
try not to take the ball away from the other team too
quickly so as not to make them feel too badly. I try
to tell them this a communist move and that these days
if someone catches you acting too much like Jane
Fonda, especially in the bible belt, you can be
relegated to Dixie Chick status in less than a minute,
spurned and repudiated as your eclat is laid to rest
before those who renounce you. They don't listen,
they're out the truck. So what is the lesson to take
away from history. Is it Laissez Faire, stay the hell
out of as much as you can, because kids are good by
nature and love will keep us together (Captain and
Tenille) and just make certain they understand the
separation of church and competition. Nope that's not
it. I don't know what the hell to tell them. I want
them to kick every body's asses because they are my
kid's and I am proud of them and I want everyone to
like them and I really, more than anything in the
world want them to be happy. Them of course and my
wife, because if momma ain't happy somebody gonna get
an ass whooping. Somewhere along the way, my wife went
from being a little girl to being a competitor, go
get'em honey.

Matt Martindale
don't forget:
Glasnost what your country can do for you what can
you do for your kids

76. the long and short of it 7.06.05

Why, why did you cut your hair, they ask. Women,
dudes, dogs, there are folks and other creatures out
there who aren't quite sure why a man would ever,
wait, I'm sorry, EVER, change his appearance. There is
the, "Man, what happened," to the, "Huh-uh" and then
directly to the, "woof, woof, woo...wha the hell
happened to yo hair bro." I mean, I don't want to be
one those who is going to pretend to be completely
innocent of similar crimes against vanity. I
personally felt weird when I saw pictures of Willie
with his hair cut way back when. And you know if I had
seen that som bitch some where I'd a jus gone straight
up to his ass and said, "man, you are an idiot for
cutting your hair. You looked a lot cooler the other
way. You should have called me first. I could have
steered you down a more prudent coif path." But I
ain't one them who'll go out and do that. If I have
people saying crazy things to me, simply because they
feel it their patriotic duty to aid me in a rendezvous
with an old hair-do, can you imagine what all the good
patriots said to Jack Ingram when he got his burr
several years ago, or Boland when he opted no longer
for longer locks. Can you imagine what would happen
if Cody Canada cut his hair. Holy hell. He probably
has to get trimmed at night under the surveillance of
the secret service. Poor Willie probably grew his hair
back in pure self defense. Thank god the internet
wasn't up and humming when Willie got his hair cut
off. People would have started groups, therapy
sessions would've been had right there online. Paxil,
Wellbutrin, and Xanex, would have been more popular
than ever as depression was probably at an all time
high. I know I personally was depressed and internally
stuffed with strife over the loss of Willie's Waving
amber mane. I would have led that group personally,
opening up in session after session and meeting after
meeting, pig tailing every little braid of a problem
until we could have brought the whole world a solution
to this quagmire of a quagmire. Or, yes, until his
hair would have magically grown back. Then life would
be back to normal and I could go back to being me and
finally have time to do all those things I've been
putting off, start wearing a hat again, get a
haircut..... what the, hey dude, where's your hat?

Martindale
Remember: shortcuts take a little more time

5. Wheels of a different color - 6.13.05

       About two weekends ago I found myself sitting behind the wheel of Lorena, our 1985 Silver Eagle. For those of you who are not wise to the lingo, it is a bus and although I typically don't drive, I was spelling Gyro, our own version of MacGyver. It was there, I found my mind in a bit of a jeu d'esprit, jettisoning my trappings of heat and anguish and thinking about cars. Particularly about my old cars. Of course my road trip down memory highway could all be linked to the Car and Driver Magazine I had perused so thoroughly the week before while awaiting my 3 hour muffler/tailpipe overhaul.
       I, of course remember my first hoopy, as my father called it, a 79' RX-7, orange over red. I could haze the Hoosiers in first and second, speed shift, drink a coke, smoke a cig, change the tape, adjust the equalizer, and drive all without missing a thing on the road. That car was magic, maybe it was the 12 speakers I put in it, or the sunroof I added post factory, maybe it was just because it was my first car. Either way, for an entire year, at least, I kept K-mart and Alco in business buying Craco speakers, cheap eq's, and cassettes out the wazoo. But she never had a name. Jeez I'm an idiot.
       My next three cars spelled me for a while, a Porsche 924 (4cylinder so we won't go there), a Mazda 626 ( did I really just tell all of you that), and a Toyota Camry ( whatever the hell a Camry is.) All fine auto's but with no defining characteristics.
       Then came the truck. 1989 blue Nissan 4X4 King cab, manufactured title of a bad boy. Manufactured title meaning it had the shit wrecked out of it once and some dumb ass had the gumption to put humpty dump truck back together again. Well thank the heavens they did cause them some other brave dumb ass put it to work in the oilfield for a good while before I took it over and decided I could clean it up, make it at least not look like spindle top just spindled all over it, despite the smell, and ride that heavenly beast straight to Purgatory. Purgatory, Colorado anyway where I spent one hell of a winter. By the time I was through with her I was sure she would climb up a tree, cause I tried, she still smelled like the oil patch, and she had the coolest hybrid toolbox/bike/ski rack in the homemade business. Of course the north wind blew through her like the panhandle and she eventually made her way back to the patch, without a name, why am I such an idiot.
       The last vehicle to find her way to my heart, until Lorena, was Rhoda, named after the wife of famed skier, and Nazi infiltrator, Ernie Blake, who as a husband and wife team, built Taos Ski Valley into what it is today. Ah Rhoda, a 1988 Toyota Land Cruiser, Silver over Blue, leather interior, four dour, slow, strong, overheating, gorgeous bitch. Damn I miss that one. I needed the money, I had a buddy who wanted her, she was giving us troubles, I could rationalize it all day but the truth is, I just flat out miss her. Maybe If I'd never given her a name, never personalized her, nope. Truth is I wanted that car and still want her and anytime I see her likeness rolling sown the street my wife and look the other way, our hearts skip a beat, we brought our first daughter home in that car....hoping it wouldn't overheat. She really did have a great four wheel drive, she was roomy, looked great, oh, I'm going to cry.
       And now Lorena my be leaving. She's been a good bus. Never stranding us. She's gotten hot before and sent to the side of the road, she's gone crazy and made it so cold in mid summer it was 52 degrees for 3 straight weeks while we recorded Shifting Gears, she's been hotter than any kind of whore in any kind of religious establishment in any kind of joke, ever, and yet, I will miss her, and I realized as I drove her down 287 for what may have been her swan song for the Cooder Boys, she'll make a great bus for years to come, we just gave her a name to carry while she carried us. We'll miss you Lorena, in some sick sadistic, messed up, lonesome kind of way.

4. Grow up grown ups - 5.31.05

       There needs to be a home for wayward adults. Some place we can send our friends or even people we know who need help. Not typical help in the check-up from the neck-up kind of help, but aid doled out in the old fashioned parental way. There are adults out there who still need to be raised and for some reason their parents didn't do a very good job. People who have road rage, throw fits in public, and generally act like children in big kids clothes. You've seen them, you know them, yet you put up with them. If my parents could see them they would not put up with it.
       My parents would say things like, you're acting like a girl, so I think we'll just trade in your clothes for some dresses and let you walk down main street. Scared me half to death. We'll get you some dolls if you're going to act like a girl. Those of course were quick responses to fits I would throw and there was no danger that I wanted to wear dresses or play with dolls, and in fact if any of you want to do those things you can stay on your own side of the playground with your own slide and swing and swingers and get the hell off my web site, you've been raised wrong. I really don't have any serious biases but I sure as hell don't want to wear any goddamned dresses.
       It amazes me though people are out there who think they can roll around on the ground and kick their legs and get their way. My parents would kick my ass if they saw me acting like that, and so should yours. My folks didn't spank me, instead they talked to me, asked me why I did what I did, where it landed me, if I planned on doing it again, those kind of things. I hated it. I had to explain my actions. Yea, I threw a beer bottle at Mrs. Johnson's mailbox and it hit her car, I didn't mean any harm, but now I have to pay for it. Crap. Responsibility for your actions and fits. I think we need to start a school for wayward adults. Not a jail or a mental institute but a home for the further education or adults. I have at least four candidates ready right now. Get off the alcohol, get off the pills, grow up and quit kicking you feet on the floor or I'll send my parents right over there to talk to you. You're an adult for Pete's sake, you need a spanking.

Remember: This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.

Martindale

3. Song Tamers 5.10.05

Only Lion tamers are killed by lions. At least that is what I read last week while thumbing through a soft porn magazine called National Geographic. I quickly thought about a couple of things though. One, Hugh Hefner probably doesn't own this rag anymore and, second, I hope the same doesn't hold true for other professions, especially for song tamers. I can't imagine having a show with other like minded song tamers, all of us sitting up there in our little ring, wondering if, when it comes our turn, is it really going to come our turn. And, how is it going to happen? Is it really going to be one my songs I've nurtured since birth, bathed and changed over and over, only to have it show up right in the middle of my favorite verse, change the rhyming scheme, add a measure while I'm not looking, throw in a note so sharp it would cut you and, lo and behold it does. This kind of thing would never happen with other types of artists. Picture tamers like DaVinci and Picasso who only had to tame their prey once and then they could leave it be, running freely away from the madness of the beast. Hemmingway, Poe, The Bard, all allowed to place prose on their prey and walk away. Architects and sculptresses, all free to leave behind something set in stone or on canvass, never to change. Yet the song tamers who perpetually take the ring to re-tame the same old song are constantly reminded of weaknesses in the song, thus they are driven to new levels of creativity and extreme folly. The song tamer dumbly stands in the middle of the ring holding his old whip and feathered hat, and he puffs his chest and lights the entire ring on fire for the first time ever. Maybe this is what the song needed after all, some fire. Well there it is, the demise. The fire overtakes the gentle but proud song tamer.... and he thought he had a big hit. Good try, good one, should've been an script harnesser, paint tamer, anything but a song tamer. As far as I can tell the song is one beast that will forever be tame less, undomesticated, uncultivated and downright rude at times. No wonder we love music.
Martindale

Remember:
You can sit and stay for a while but it doesn't mean you are welcome.

Put her in reverse and see what she's got

2. "My lands are where my dead lie buried," Tashunca-uitco   (5/3/05)

       Long before Neil Young left CSN and formed his own tribe ascribing to it the name Crazy Horse and long before the massive memorial was ever thought of, there obviously had to be some greatness to leave behind a wake so grand in stature. Crazy Horse was one such boat. He was one of those medicine men who was born into it, with a stethoscope around his neck and the tribal drums of the Gods of the earth beating in his ears. As a teenager he had a vision of himself in a great battle with only a stone in his ear and one small streak of lightning on his face. He also dreamed he should never take scalps. Good news for the balding pioneer.
       As he grew older, he became one of the greatest warriors ever, completely selfless. He would raid and bring back countless spoils and shower the camp with the them, keeping little if nothing for himself. While the other little braves were spending time in front of the mirror perfecting their blush techniques and eye liner strokes and swapping lipsticks, Crazy Horse on the other hand spent almost no time in front of the makeup mirror, as Avon was expensive back then and Mac could only be found at the finer malls. As an almost bare faced Native, he was brilliant and feared. Today, the man who kept almost nothing for himself has a legacy larger than the mountains.
       I say all of the above, to say this. Last weekend, as we traveled across the troposphere in a bus with the air conditioning out, and people came to our aid, people we had never met before and people we had known for a long time, I kept thinking about Tashunca-uitco, Crazy Horse, and how the people we come in contact with almost daily have a little bit of Crazy Horse in them. I think maybe Bubba who came out and fixed the AC and then drove to the the Saturday show, stayed late so he could give a couple of us a ride to a hotel somewhere close to the airport, how he may have some Crazy Horse in him. I think how Joni and Bill Jewel must have some medicine in their blood as they took up cords and two-wheelers and helped us load our PA after a rather slow show in Huntsville. I wonder if maybe Jim and Linda might be related in some way to the old medicine man as they leave us weekend after weekend with wonderful fare so we don't starve. I almost know Alan Hughes is related in some way as he left us with gift certificates from Outback after meeting us only a handful of times because he listened to our music while going through chemo. And then of course there is George Martin. Truly a direct descendant of the chief himself. In fact, if you go to the Crazy Horse memorial, and squint, or get drunk, take three peyote buttons, smoke a peace pipe, or drive too long to get there, you can probably see the resemblance immediately. Next time you see George ask him to put a stone in his ear and draw a streak of lightning down his face. That is, of course if you want to go into battle, because if my presumptions are correct, a slew of old memories may slide back into George's tepee and he may haul off and do a rain dance or conduct a one man pow wow and the heavens may part for my friend.
       I guess the only way for me to follow my dreams and those around me to follow theirs, is to have an army of Indians watching out for us.

Thanks and how.
Pest Inmon

Remember:
It takes a big man to admit he's a dog

1. Refractions on the Light (4/27/05)

       So here goes a few thoughts. We pulled into town after a great weekend of debauchery and filth on the road. Not your typical filth mind you, and the debauchery was not too satanistic, but even though the devil may not have been proud, somewhere there is a Rich & Rare flask which which need not bear reslurping. The events to which I am referencing are the Larry Joe Taylor Festival of chili cookers and Silliness. Somehow about 20,000 or more of Larry's biggest and drunkest fans found their way to Farm to Market Road 3025, 2.1 miles east of Huckaby, Texas. Musicians who own globes were there and even people who understand how to read one. Filth is something which takes on an extended meaning at a LJT Silly Fest, because most people don't take baths, or spit baths, or brush their hair, or teeth or brush the spit out of their hair or any kind or sort of a thing until Sunday, when somehow they remember where they parked their wife and how drunk their fifth wheel got. They do remember where they hid the flask last night and someone passed them something they thought was a really big cigarette at that one fire and then, crap, the sun was coming up and they ate something and Boland drank the rest of what was in the flask. Crap. They know the toes of the their shoes are burned up because they left them too close to the fire so all they have left to wear are their wife's all terrain flip flop's or one red wing they found and one good Nike left over from last year. And they know they can't throw either of these two items away because who knows what next year has in store for footwear.
       So everyone packs up camp, trying not to look up too often fearing the onlookers might remember them from the first night, or the next or Satan forbid, last year and the Nike incident. They file out of camp single file as warriors who have bared their soul and their wife's whatever's to revere in glow of Texas music and the Huckaby moonlight. This campground will never be the same, until the first rain Larry says, then it all reverts back to the wilderness it was before the incredible world of fans found their way here, to save a little water for the rest of the world for the weekend and give us musicians something wonderful to do every year about this time. Next weekend may not bring this kind of filth but I sure hope it comes close.

I'll be back later in a roundabout way,
Pest Inmon

Remember: Crazy Horse was not a Horse