|08-01-2008, 09:32 PM||#61|
Joined: Jul 2005
Holy shit that's good reading. There's not a whole lot of people who can string words together correctly that make me laugh out loud. This was a real treat.
|08-01-2008, 11:51 PM||#62|
Joined: Nov 2003
Location: N Van BC
I'm in for the long haul on this one
"One of my goals in life is to someday be in a position where I can
yell "Enough stalling! KILL THEM!" and no one laughs.
Well, that, or "Guards! SEIZE THEM!" I'm not picky."
|08-03-2008, 01:58 PM||#63|
Joined: Jul 2008
Location: Albuquerque, NM
Vermin, Drifter, Dollbaby
There are 10 kinds of people in this world - those who understand binary and those who don't.
|08-03-2008, 07:13 PM||#64|
Joined: Feb 2006
You couldn’t throw a dead cat without hittin a famous or attractive person
The 'famous' couple here is German (ex)national soccer player Stefan Effenberg and his on/off wife Claudia. They are shooting a reality show for German TV in LA...
The ADV salute is now commonly called "Effenberg" in Germany. Stefan used to greet referees (and everyone else) ADV style on a regular basis...
|08-04-2008, 08:12 PM||#65|
Joined: Nov 2007
Location: Christchurch, New Zealand
Thanks for the "Heads Up" Players Markus.. I WAS a tad puzzled!
Now, can someone go dig Vermin outta that cubicle and get him back on the job over here???
"Enough Robert Pirsig-esque philosophizing. My bike didn’t need maintanenece and my Zen was around the next corner. Time to ride." Sly-on-2
|08-05-2008, 10:17 AM||#66|
Joined: Jan 2007
Hugs and Kisses
|08-05-2008, 12:28 PM||#67|
ADV, this, I crave.
Joined: Dec 2007
Location: Wichita Falls, Tx
Fellow cubical Unix/Oracle slave here Verm.
I'm in on this fo sho.
2009 Solo TAT Ride Report
01 F650 Dakar | '99 Triumph Trophy 1200
SmugMug Goodness Coupon Code (GZnn7vYHaHJjg)
|08-06-2008, 09:29 AM||#68|
Joined: Sep 2007
Location: Baltimore, MD
[quote=PlayersMarkus]You couldn’t throw a dead cat without hittin a famous or attractive person
The 'famous' couple here is German (ex)national soccer player Stefan Effenberg and his on/off wife Claudia. They are shooting a reality show for German TV in LA...
I thought it was Sharon Stone. Whoops
|08-06-2008, 12:07 PM||#69|
Joined: Aug 2004
"it's easier than just waiting around to die"
Townes Van Zandt
|08-06-2008, 12:50 PM||#70|
Making things worse.
Joined: Dec 2005
Vermin, keep it coming.
|08-08-2008, 11:18 PM||#71|
Joined: Jan 2007
Revisiting the depression
The Quest for the American Dream at the Crystal Palace
or "The rise and fall of country and western civilzation"
Woke up in a hotel on Venice beach. Ate the Continental breakfast shooting the breeze with some Germans (ich bin ein dummer amerikaner jah). Unk, Ant, Dollbaby and myself seem fairly rudderless at this point and I will be damned if I will be accused of having a plan.
Packed 'em up
5 Kilograms of excrement
2 Kilogram bag
I originally had planned to head up the angels crest road and all these other twisties north and east of Los Angeles I had read about in cycle magazines since I was a pup but Unk had spent a lot of time polishing the bottom of his floorboards and didn’t want to scratch them up on curvy roads so we headed west toward Malibu. I actually think he may have been trying to ditch me for a little quality time with ant but I didn’t take the hint. In reality we live so far away from our loved ones I wanted Dollbaby to get to know her Ant and Unk up close and personal rather than in a mass gathering every other year, there are plenty of curvy roads ahead so I figure the trade is well worth it.
Malibu beach bums still exist. Livin la vida loca in the camper on the beach. Hmmmmm.
We cruised west a little and pulled into a gas station, in Malibu, to get some more go juice and while I was filling cack up a 60 something woman in a new Mercedes pulled up and started shooting the breeze with Dollbaby. Doll told the lady what we were all about. The lady was startled and grinned from ear to ear as I am sure she probably couldn’t imagine such a cool trip. As the lady turned to leave I thought she started misting up a little. Maybe her dad was too busy to take her on trips, maybe he did take her and he was gone on the biggest trip of all at the moment. Either way I knew we were in the sweet spot of life if we had that effect on a rich old lady in Malibu.
My Pacific Coast on the Pacific Coast
At this point we light up the bikes and cruise west into Ventura. I didn’t see any town as we were on the state highway. We pulled over in a construction turnoff to get our wits about us.
Miscellaneous agriculture off the coast by Oxnard (hi roboter)
I was entirely unaffected by L.A.
So I see this whole thing as a feel good summer blockbuster like “Little Miss Sunshine” but with a more rubbishy littery feel. The demographics will be great, wide range. It’ll kill on both coasts and the middle. Have your people git with mine.
Intro: Long, sweeping, moving, montage of two renegade bikes rolling down the pacific coast highway with the song Born to Be Mild by the band Steppenshit, go to a medium shot as they pull into a gravel construction pulloff
Close up on the Verm
Verm: Hain’t this purdy
Ant: Why are we stopping?
Unk: I have to pee.
Verm: Hey where did my maglight go?
Doll: Back there (waving her hand vaguely backwards toward LA)
Unk: I have to pee.
Verm: Where are we? (looking at trucker atlas)
Ant: Why don’t we use our GPS? (Snotty rich Ant speak for my stuff is better than yours) Dang the batteries are dead (futily shaking the unit).
Verm: (smiles a non battery needin smile) Why don’t we use my trucker atlas?
Ant: I am hungry
Verm: They make a mean chicken fried steak at Buck Owens Crystal Palace in Bakersfield that killed ‘im deader’n a doornail about a year ago. ( Imagine the glory of creating a delicacy so delicious it is lethal. It is like a hillbilly version of them poisonous Japanese puffer fish).
Unk: Bakersfield is heinous the coast is beautiful. I have to pee.
Doll: Are we there yet?
Dollbaby: Why don’t you use that porta potti? (she points to the porta john, the only visible building anywhere, 75 feet across the road)
(Cue ominous important decision makin music)
Ant: I gotta have that chicken fried steak.
Verm: (Singing way out of tune, I believe the word is caterwauling, sounding not unlike the uvulating shrieking of some mourning Bedouins)
“you don’t know me but you don’t like me
you could care less how I feel
how many of you that sit and judge me
ever walked the streets of Bakersfield”
And this is how it came to pass that we missed the entire pacific coast of and chose Bakersfield as our destination.
Old School Country Music Rant
(you type A personality types can go get a cup of coffee you will not understand this part)
Musically I started out normally enough with my Monkees records and my Beatles lunch box, this quite naturally led to the Rolling Stones and Zepellin. I was pretty much an archetypical couch layin long hair snot nosed punk. So far, So good. then on June 1st 1977 I became a roustabout on a Midwestern tent crew (carney if you will). I was unceremoniously shoved into a tent truck being sent to my first dusty heat shimmerin fairground.
The scene: a cab of a 1975 Ford F600 Flatbed truck pilled 12’ high with tent bags, with Conway Twitty wailing out of the metal dashboard, headed toward the Frankenmuth Michigan beer festival in a slow moving convoy on northbound US-23.
Vermin: Hi old hatefull carney how about we share the radio even steven? 50/50 Rock/Country.
Old Hateful cigar smokin’ carney: How bout you touch the radio and I break your fingers off and shove them up your ass? Sound Fair?
Vermin: Sounds good to me.
I had never listened to country music prior to that. I was forced to listen to it in the sweltering cab of a truck that smelt of sweat, Strohs Beer, and cheap stogies. The songs that came out of that dusty dashboard speaker took me away. It was created by people that had survived the depression and never even knew it happened because their poverty was no different regardless of what Wall Street was up to. They came to town after WW2 looking for jobs in the big cities like the GM Hydromatic plant in Ypsilanti Michigan. They sang their hearts out. They sang about love, loosing the life they knew, pain and glory, there was a richness and depth to their “3 chords and the truth” style. They believed if your ex didn’t have a restraining order on you it wasn’t real love to begin with. In those songs love would destroy you when it inevitably failed.
In a way their exodus from the hills was similar to my own. I was raised on a farm as a young lad and eventually moved to the big city That particular paradigm/value shift staggered me and has somehow kept me permanently out of sync with my surroundings.
White boy blues primer, do yourself a favor and download this stuff (don’t worry about royalties the artists are mostly dead and the rich cats at Sony/BMG wont even sue you over these songs just stay away from Gwen Stefani) grab a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon turn down the lights and get a good misery waller goin.
Ramblin’ Man-Hank Williams (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi9GuQofDLc
should be advriders theme song ignore lame video but listen to cool song)
Long Black Veil-Lefty Frizzell (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50k18gL76AU)
Big in Vegas- Buck Owens (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-kOr...eature=related)
What have you got planned tonight Diana?-Merle Haggard
Faded Love-Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys possibly the best song ever written played by the best band ever assembled (he wrote this tune when he was a field hand at the age of 14)
Cold hard facts of life-Porter Wagoner (it has become politically incorrect, as of late, to stab your wife and her lover to death but it was a different place and time)
This is part of a subgenre of country music called psychobilly of which Porter was a master, his song “Rubber Room” is also tremendous.
Take an old cold tater and wait- Jimmy Dickens
Roses for momma/Teddy Bear-Red Sovine
Kansas city star- Roger Miller
This is basically po’ folks group therapy.
Be careful not to listen to them right in a row the intensity of ‘em could mess up your DNA. In the old days they had what you call “emotions” just wipe the saline solution off your cheek with your sleeve and blame allergies. This is before Pfizer, and Merck created capsules designed to obliterate emotions so they would not intrude on your ability to produce. Whatever happens, do not turn away from the television pill ads and notice that the only industry that is currently thriving are the pill pushers at CVS, RiteAid and Walgreens that are popping up on every corner. Produce so you can consume, consume so you can be happy, take a pill when it falls apart, then repeat one more time but faster, it is the American Dream.
I suppose if you where born and raised within spittin distance of a T.G.I.F. or a Bed, Bath and Beyond, then Kenny Chesney and his bland ass music will work fine but I need to keep it hard core down to the bone hurtin music. The only hurting Kenny Chesney does is when he wears his flip flops to the beach and stubs his toe on his beer cooler.
I like the pain it makes me feel alive. That is where Buck Owens and Merle Haggard come in.
Where was I? Oh yeh, Unk gets done with his roadside respite and we head out on my personal favorite road of the trip. Go find it yourself (hint 11x3=sweet road north outta Ventura) tons of scenery, good corner radii for the speed and absolutely no cars.
Cool Road, Cool Company
Unks sphincter grows some teeth in the twisties and his footboards get scratched up anyway.
Up top of the pass into the interior I saw a beautiful desert flower.
Don’t get distracted by the flora.
Hey I smell a rat this is looking less and less like paradise and a lot more like hell.
Was Unk right?
So I figure, what paradise is this place called Bakersfield? Buck and Merles folks moved here from the dust bowl states of Texas and Oklahoma to pick fruit and vegetables. They could have gone to Iowa, Michigan, Tennessee or for that matter, the fruit laden capital of the blue haired set, Florida. But no, they chose Bakersfield, it must be beautiful! Unk said it was the armpit of California but certainly he had never been there. So we cruised over the mountains north of Ventura into the central valley, certainly this heat I am feeling is unusual and it will be nice and cool in Bakersfield. The closer we got to Bakersfield the hotter it got. My arms where so hot it felt like god was enjoying smoking me with a magnifying glass. Somebody had done something to really piss off the sun because it was on’ry today. At least the thought of Buck Owens chicken fried steak bolstered Ants spirits and made everything tolerable. We do roll past vast fields of produce I finally realized why the central valley is so important to America this is where it appears the vast majority of our produce is grown. I was not aware that it was grown in 100+ degree heat. Tractors should work fine here the surroundings are pancake flat and featureless. Smooth move Verm you have somehow managed to put the kybosh to the most beautiful coastline on earth for this, I AM A MORON. Perhaps I have made a mistake. So we roll up California 99 to Bakersfield. WHAT THE HELL? THIS IS PARADISE TO AN OKIE? Jeez I would hate to see Oklahoma in 1935.
A little about the Crystal Palace. I had read that these old country musicians Buck Owens and the Buckaroos played honky tonks for years all over the country and they wanted to settle down, so Buck decided rather than retire he would build the ultimate honky tonk/nightclub right here in his home town and incorporate the finest features of all the beer joints, honky tonks and nightclubs he ever played in and he called it the Crystal Palace. He played here most Friday nights. One Friday night a year or two ago he played a 45 minute set for his adoring fans, ate a famous Buck Owens crystal Palace lethal chicken fried steak and went home. He claimed he didn’t feel well and went upstairs and died of a heart attack.
What a grand edifice this must be! I imagine a great crystal dome with search lights piercing the desert night sky. I have a good deal of melancholy over having never seen him when he was alive. I have seen most of the greats, George (if you have to ask you wouldn’t understand), Waylon, Willie, David Allan Coe, Merle Haggard, Guy Clark, Billy Joe Shaver, JR Cash, Carl Perkins I even saw Ray Price at a blue hair warehouse down in Ohio but I never got out to Bakersfield to see Buck so it is with some sadness and guilt that I approach this musical mecca. Oh well I must pay homage and move along.
Surely there must be special exits off the freeway 3 or 4 lanes wide to handle the extra traffic to see one of the worlds greatest musician.
So we roll into a gas station on the south side of town to get gas and ask directions. The black top is sizzling like some one left the back door open to hell and my arms feel like they are being bitten by fire ants. I saunter into the building and start asking the patrons directions.
Vermin: Excuse me, Do you know where the Legendary Buck Owens Crystal Palace is?
Patron A: No Comprende inglese los siento
Vermin: Excrete me, Do you know where the Legendary Buck Owens Crystal Palace is?
Patron 2: tu motocycleta es muy basura
Vermin: Exhume me, Donde esta el palicio cristal de Buck Owens.?
Patron C: Who is Buck Owen?
Cue sound of breaking crystal and the cartoon sproinging sound of broken (minds) springs.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Was I in some twisted twilight Zone episode and no one bothered to tell me? No I didn’t see cameras.
I thought Buck Owens invented Bakersfield and vice versa
Finally this nice Arabic cashier went on the internet for me and found directions. We were about 2 miles away!
I was still excited but the fact that nobody had heard of him/it caused me to steel my resolve in preparation for no small amount of disappointment. By the time we pulled into the parking lot I was pretty much inconsolable, there was no Crystal anywhere it was pretty much just your average cheesy night club/gift shop. First the tooth fairy, then santa, and now this, please god let trickle down economics be true.
Where are the guys with the flags guiding us to our parking spot?
To depressed to be witty
At least I finally got to meet him, unfortunately he had previously joined the ranks of the dead bronze guys
A sweet custom job by Nudies Rodeo Tailor (gives me some good ideas for a cack car). This was back when country artists had class.
We where the only ones there. Even the lady that ran the souvenir counter seemed shocked that someone had showed up.
As I quietly, reverently reviewed the memorabilia scattered about the place the only known employee yapped loudly to her girlfriend on her cellphone about what a terd her boyfriend was.
We took the obligatory tour of the place and bought a bumpersticker. I gotta confess I got misty but hid it from the rels. I get overemotional about these old hillbillys because they remind me of my dads generation that came busting out of the south post ww2 full of piss and vinegar, one hand spinning their steering wheel speed knob (they stole offa their dads tractor), and the other on some hot babes torpedos, fishtailin and spitting gravel into Memphis or Nashville circa 1955. It was all yassir and no maam but you knew they had “da devil in dey drawers”.
One by one they are dropping, either burning out or rusting, either way they had a spirit to them that cannot be copied, every generation tries but the signal to noise ratio continues to deteriorate. The music has devolved into either bland jangly horseshit, gutteral demonic thrash or shallow macho chest thumpin rap either way I still listen to music that was made before I was born. The river is always cleaner closer to the source.
It is not just crass marketing acumen that has Snoop Dog doing a tribute to Cash (who has been dead several years) and has a video on Youtube singing with Willie. Snoop knows the real thing when he hears it.
I would also like to point out that early rappers watched Hee Haw and stole the idea of the droopy drawers from Dave "Stringbean" Akeman
Tupac got the idea of getting shot to death to highten your career from String.
The original notorious B.I.G.
You can’t get more gangsta than country, Merle Haggard was in San Quentin for armed robbery. Johnny Paycheck wrote the song “Old Violin” as he was headed to jail for shootin a feller in the head because the guy said he “sang good for a short guy”. David Allan Coe learned guitar from Charles Manson in prison (the Coe part may be false but Coe claims it is true).
I feel confident they won’t be forgotten, I looked on Drifters Ipod and it is chock full o’ JR Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Johnny Horton.
The straw that broke the Ants back was that the Buck Owens lethal chicken fried steak maker had not come in yet. There Ant was with her fork all drawed back and no place to stick it so we did a perfunctory tour of the buck owens crystal palace nudie suit and memorabilia museum and then mosied over to the IHOP out back to cool off and add a layer of plaque to her arteries.
At this juncture it was important for Ant and Unk to go to a radio shack and find a charger for their GPS so they could figure out how to get away from me and I had some unfinished business in a suburb of Bakersfield (Oildale) so we split up temporarily. Unk would like it stated that at this juncture that had the cigarette lighter I had cable tied to my dash hole would have worked he wouldn’t have had to buy a charger. Duuuuuh!
“I came here in looking for somethin'
I couldn't find anywhere else
Well, I don't want to be nobody,
Just want a chance to be myself."
(streets of bakersfield dwight yoakum/ buck owens)
Searching for “The Hag”
Dollbaby still seemed game for whatever I wanted to pull off. It was pushing 4 oclock and the temperature had plummeted to a hundred deg. so I decided to search for the original converted boxcar that Merle Haggard grew up in before he got busted for armed robbery.
“The first thing I remember knowing,
Was a lonesome whistle blowing,
And a young un's dream of growing up to ride;
On a freight train leaving town,
Not knowing where I'm bound,
No-one could change my mind but Mama tried.
One and only rebel child,
From a family, meek and mild:
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store.
Despite all my Sunday learning,
Towards the bad, I kept on turning.
'Til Mama couldn't hold me anymore.
And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.”
(Cool autobiographical lick from The Hag)
I went lookin’ for a feeling more than an address, which worked out perfect because I never did know what the address was. I just knew he lived on Yosemite Street in Oildale which is the poor part of Bakersfield, which is the poor part of Kern county which is the poor part of California. I still don’t understand what them okies where thinking. So I pogo’d my no suspension havin’ self around northern Bakersfield looking for the joint. I saw “Trouts” bar were “The Bakersfield Sound” was fleshed out by Tommy Collins, Buck Owens and Merle back in the late 50’s early 60’s. Just so you know “The Bakersfield Sound” was sharp as a damn straight razor (It pretty much cut the throat of the smooth Nashville orchestra sound of the sixties). Usually featuring twin Fender Telecasters that where up front and center in the mix, with the twang knob spun past 11 and broke off. Buck and Merle did their own thing out there in B’field and it caught on pretty good cause that sound could cut through the wadded up empty packs of Pall Malls, work order tins and oil field dust on the dash of any pickup truck’s speaker as it hightailed its guilty ass home to momma at closing time.
I could have gone into Trouts as a salute to the masters but in a rare moment of good parenting I decided against it. Some of these things are better left to the imagination anyway as I had recently found out. I got in the vicinity of Merles boyhood boxcar and decided I needed a haircut and it would be cool to shoot the shit with some of the old timers that may have known Hag or Buck. Much to my dismay Okie Rays barber shop a block away was closed.
I eventually found Yosemite, which is only a couple blocks long. By now I have been so discouraged about seeking the shining light of my heroes I don’t expect much, and I wasn’t disappointed. We pulled into the concertina wire, pit bull tire chewed, burned out escort (Ford or flesh) capitol of the planet. I figure rather than fiddle faddle around this probable high crime area too long I would just ask a guy where was Merle’s boyhood boxcar.
I really didn’t want to get off the bike. This is a place where I clearly had no business but I had to try. I presume it was this shitty back in the 40s also but who knows? So this guy slithers across the street in front of me. Judging from his slender frame he is either a world class marathon runner or a devotee of Vitamin M. When he opened his mouth to reveal what appeared to be a row and a half of mildewed corn I had to vote Vitamin M.
The Scene: 5:30 PM Yosemite St. Oildale California June 2008
Vermin: Pardon me your majesty. Do you happen to know which Box is the one that the best singer/songwriter ever born was raised? You know Merle Haggard?
Vitamin M: …..
Vermin: You know, the one that got outta San Quentin in 1960.
Vitamin M: …..snif birtx
Vermin: You know, with a voice as sweet as a new awlins tenor sax bawlin at midnight?
Verm: You know, the only singer that can make sweet thang cry?
Verm: You know, theeeee Haaaaaag?
Vitamin M: (Wild darting eyes) “I don't know what yur talkin' about mang” (cue Road Runner pitcheeeeww cartoon leaving noise as he peels out and leaves nothing but tracks across the dusty road)
This little moronic sojourn into the past was a failure to a degree but it helped highlight, in my mind, that there ain’t no future in history but non the less, the savage beating that my preconceptions took stung and left me feeling blue.
Enough of this semi dangerous tomfoolery, it was time to make tracks, we had to meet Ant and Unk up the road apiece so I pointed my hi viz fuselage north on the slab and rolled on the throttle.
Rollin’ down the freeway my internal dialogue was a full on harangue. The Buddhist call this dialogue “the monkey mind” well my monkey mind had a brand new tire in its cage and was whippin’ it around, shrieking and flingin’ ape shit at the spectators (don’t get any on ya).
Painful Internal Dialogue Rant
I try to sort through the mess as to how much is personal and how much of my angst really is justified by the state of the world as it pertains to me. Working in a domestic industry that had no apparent plan for high fuel cost doesn’t improve my “tude”. But yet somehow the big shooters do quite well, win, loose or draw.
I will use a true story to sum up my view of this morass:
A lady I worked with had a barn full of horses and a rat problem. She found out my dad had a heckfire four legged rat killin’ machine. Actually it would try to kill anything with DNA but bein’ 14lbs, (soaking wet with varmint blood) all it could kill was rats (it pretty much just perforated horses, possum, coons, irish setters, nieces, nephews, UPS drivers, truck bumpers and wiring harnesses).
We pulled up to the barn with the rat killin dog justa vibratin’ with excitement. He knew something needed killin’ but the fact was we had forgot to bring Frankie the ferret (a gift from carl with a K) to chase the rats out of their holes. It twernt much of a killin’. The rats lowtailed it subterranean asap and the dog commenced to pacing around, barkin’ and carryin’ on. He was all dressed up with nowhere to go and more than a little pissed. Being an astute rational engineer type I looked around the barn and found several morbidly obese cats laying around up on the rafters and on the feed bags, swishin’ their tails and looking bored. I continued scanning and saw, on the ground, a big hubcap piled high with cat food.
I immediately ascertained that the barn didn’t have a rat problem it had a cat food problem. I figure we have a cat food problem at the highest levels of leadership in this country.
A hour and a half north of Bakersfield we reunited with Ant and Unk at a motel and relaxed and had a couple of adult beverages. Then for some unknown reason, as I was trying to wrestle myself out of my depression era funk, Unk repeatedly tried to highlight what an abject failure my pursuit of hillbilly glory had been. It confused me as to why he would kick a vermin when he was down. After I agreed several times that I stank, my plan stank, my entire operation stank, Bakersfield stank, and my bike stank, Ant came to my defense and told him to lay off. Thanks Ant. I think the motivation was that in his world planning and its resultant success is the only alternative. In my world a plan that has failed miserably but taught me something about myself or the world around me still ranks as a success. In my routine I run vague plans that are liable to tank and then enjoy the challenge that a recovery mandates, it keeps me on my toes. That’s how I roll.
It is all part of the Unk loosening up program. He was in my world now.
Ant and Unk have been a pleasure all along and I am glad that we are still together. This is Ants first semi long trip with Unk and she is loving it thoroughly. It is nice to see a couple get along well after 30 years and, ideally, gives me a glimpse into my future once the kids leave home.
I stink therefore I am.
Zen and the art of motorcycle negligence
The grapes of rat
Cack Comes Back
Age Against the Machine
vermin screwed with this post 11-14-2008 at 12:56 PM Reason: i forgot stuff
|08-09-2008, 12:43 AM||#73|
Wishin not fishin.
Joined: Oct 2006
Location: In the Cone of Shame
|08-09-2008, 07:47 AM||#75|
Joined: Jun 2008
Location: Austin, Texas
Dang it all, Vermin, you got me leaking saline here.
I share your feelings about these guys - I saw Ernest Tubbs once - it was sometime in the 80s - at the Golden Stallion dance hall east of San Antonio. The Texas Troubadors came out and played a few songs - Leon, Moon - I got right up close to the stage like some teeny-bopper - and then Ernest came out. His guitar looked bigger'n him, his hands were thin, wrinkled, his skin was almost transparent - he looked friggin old.
A gut bomb went off in my stomach, I was losing something that I'd had there my whole life, this little old frail man on the stage was stealing it away from me. He stepped up to the mic, raised his chin a little, and KA-BOOM - "I'm walking the floor over you." It was like lightning and a miracle and magic all at once - That little old man was goddamned Ernest Tubbs.
Thanks for letting us ride along.
(Oh - you might like James Hand - singer-songwriter from Marlin, Texas - he's old-time country - http://www.jamesslimhand.com/jukebox/LB-NotWorth.mp3)
2006 Ural Patrol
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