Stories

Tales From the Road 11-02-2014

Below is a collection of stories from the road from the past 20 years or so. Each week a new one will be posted.

 

 

 

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Tales From the Road 11-02-2014

Below is a collection of stories from the road from the past 20 years or so. Each week a new one will be posted.

 

 

 

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Earl, Wayne, LEe, Ray Dean 11-03-2014

 

The Norman Transcript is the local newspaper. Local news is far superior to national news as you find out what is actually going on around you in your own town. Local weather, local sports, local event and local police reports.
One thing I have noticed in the local police reports of alleged crimes is that there is rarely a day that goes by when there is not one person whose middle name is Earl, Wayne, Ray, Lee or Dean. They are arrested from anything from warrant service to Breaking and entering to Outraging Public Decency which is legal talk for "Taking a piss in the alley".
I have tested this theory and decided to tell the audience at a show in Fort Smith Arkansas. I started with my premise which was that anyone with the middle name Earl , Wayne, Lee, Ray or Dean always seems to show up in the local police round up. In fact I am guessing that was soon as someone with the afor mentioned middle name is pulled over the officer looks to see if they have any of the previously mentioned middle names. It is almost a given like not wearing a shirt on an episode of COPS. You know they guy without the shirt is going to jail no matter what he has done. The cards are stacked against him. And its the same with the middle names.
Result of the joke with audience was, silence. Nobody said a word. I soon realized that Oklahoma may not be that different from Arkansas in that there are plenty of folks with the middle name Earl, Lee, ray, Wayne or Dean. There is more than likely a Lee Ray Or Dean Wayne or a Lee Earl or Ray Lee in the audience.
How do you come out of a foot in the mouth situation..... Simply say "Tough Group" and fire into another song....quickly........"Song three!

 

 

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Tales from the Road

 

 

MAY 10, 2011

 

Cliches all have a basis in truth.This weeks lesson focuses on the farm.Pigs down in Ardmore at Budro's after hours. One looks like he got a little frisky so he decided to start "Makn Bacon."

november 20, 2010

 

This is a fine example of a "Oklahoma PartyHat". The appartus consists of a cup with a single cigarettee coming out of the top like a birthday candle, duct taped to the birthday boy's head with two straws coming down on either side from which to smoke the birthday "Sin Stick". The under carriage of the hat is a Keystone Light 12 pack box in the shape of a crown. The whole thing is duct taped around and provides hours of fun. I think the picture of the birthday boy passed out with the hat still on his head wold be the best picture. But we willhave to settle for this example taken from the College Bar.

June 10, 2010

So I go to the post office to mail a package and walking up to the machine there was a lady ahead of me mailing her own packages and on the side waiting for her was her pet rabbit. He sat there calm as could be while she mailed all of her letters. When she was done, she picked up the rabbit like a toy dog put it in a little carrying bag and went on her way. Now, if you cannot afford a puppy like Paris Hilton to keep in your handbag, you can alwyas go Norman, OK Style and get a bunny.........and if you get two you will have many more bunnies, thus lowering your cost.......

February 16, 2010

Oriental Tokyo Health Massage located on "Vigilante Blvd" which is actually North Flood Ave, had a sign out front which can be ony seen to be believed. This is business and in the window a sign was posted telling propsective clients why the busienss was not open. read the message carefully. This is real folks.

November 10,2009

Oh the bar fight......there seems to be one every time. Either in the form of a shouting match, or even a belt buckle smackwdown at Classic's in OKC. Now for the first time a picture of the calm before the storm. Right after this picture was taken the two gals in the front row got into a shoving match and look out ..... Cat Fight!!! It began with a hip bump move and turned ugly from shouting to screaming to pushing and full scale.........Cat fight!
And that brings me to the discussion of evolution. The evolution of the animal nickname attributed to females in bar situations. In the beginning, there is the cat or the Hell cat, which is a young female. Later the cat evolves through middle age into a cougar and finally into a wildcat which is a grandma so I have been told. After that I think the nickname should go to Saber Tooth, which the lady may not have any teeth all all.......

 

 

February 25,2009

It turns out the reporter who threw the pair of shoes at Bush practiced throwing his shoes which would help explain his timing and how acurate he was. Now, Bush dodged both shoes and was reported to have said something along the lines of "seeing his sole" but I just have to ask what this reporter practiced against. Did he have a dummy to throw at, cardboard cut out, a simulated news room set up. anyway, it makes you wonder.

So, there is something to add along with the terrorist "Monkey Bar"  footage video of shoe snipers in training.

 

JANURARY 10, 2009

There is an Old abandoned Grandy's resturant here in Norman, OK. If you are not familiar wih Grandy's, they served , gizzards, livers, corn, fried hicken, gravey and other country favorites. Years ago they even used to have a little old lady dressed as "Grandy" who would serve biscuits. Now the building sits vacant with a for lease sign in the window. I often try to imagine what is living in the Old Grandy's.....maybe an 8 foot tall cockroach or even a possum colony. I am also wondering when someone will try to alter the Grandy's sign so it will say "Randy's".

Actually, some believe there is a river of white gravey that runs underneath from a natural spring. It is a wonder of the natural world.

Janurary 1, 2009

Happy New Year! New Years Eve is over and everyone made it through. I always like looking at the floor of the bar after New Years Eve and seeing the broken glass, plastic party favors, spilled beer and in there as always is a scarf, jacket or hoodie that someone left on the ground and upon seeing it soaked with "liquid" decided to leave it there. Happy New Year again!

December 1, 2008

Thanksgiving is over.Thanksgiving meals do not require any chewing at all. No teeth are required. So everyone can enjoy.

 

November 20,2008

Palooza-Lahoma, the endings of choice for festivals, events and concerts. Today, we played

"Schoomzapalooza" in the Centinneal Building on the Oklahoma State FairGrounds an

event for the Oklahoma City Chamber of Commerce.

We are gradually working our way to someday play the State Fair Speedway

but that is another story. I suggested that next year the

event be called "SchmoozaLahoma" because Lahoma is the new Palooza.

November 28,2008

Last week I played a house party in Tulsa, OK. Walking into the suburban 7 bedroom home, I noticed that the floors were covered with plastic sheeting. The plastic sheets were taped against the walls. I asked one of the hosts what exactly the plastic sheets were for. I had seen an episode of the Soprano's where they lure the guy into the room where the floor is covered with plastic, the guy gets shot and they roll him up in the plastic and throw him in the lake. When I asked, the host replied the plastic was to protect the floor.

As the night went on, no less than seven bags of wine were revealed. As the bags were passed around the cheap wine went everywhere from the ceiling to pooling up on the floor. One guest was holding the bag of wine over a girls head. When he asked her if she wanting some she turned away. For turning away, he let the sack of wine flow out the spickett right on to her head

Party guest in the house were using the pastic sheeting like a slip and slide with spilled beer and wine. The sticky sheeting's smell permeated the room.

So the next time you walk into a party and there is plastic sheeting on the floor be prepared to have an indoor slip and slide lubricated by festive beverages and also don't wear open toes shoes.

 

It turns out the reporter who threw the pair of shoes at Bush practiced throwing his shoes which would help explain his timing and how acurate he was. Now, Bush dodged both shoes and was reported to have said something along the lines of "seeing his sole" but I just have to ask what this reporter practiced against. Did he have a dummy to throw at, cardboard cut out, a simulated news room set up. anyway, it makes you wonder.

So, there is something to add along with the terrorist "Monkey Bar"  footage video of shoe snipers in training.

 

JANURARY 11, 2009

There is an Old abandoned Grandy's resturant here in Norman, OK. If you are not familiar wih Grandy's, they served , gizzards, livers, corn, fried hicken, gravey and other country favorites. Years ago they even used to have a little old lady dressed as "Grandy" who would serve biscuits. Now the building sits vacant with a for lease sign in the window. I often try to imagine what is living in the Old Grandy's.....maybe an 8 foot tall cockroach or even a possum colony. I am also wondering when someone will try to alter the Grandy's sign so it will say "Randy's".

Actually, some believe there is a river of white gravey that runs underneath from a natural spring. It is a wonder of the natural world.

Janurary 1, 2009

Happy New Year! New Years Eve is over and everyone made it through. I always like looking at the floor of the bar after New Years Eve and seeing the broken glass, plastic party favors, spilled beer and in there as always is a scarf, jacket or hoodie that someone left on the ground and upon seeing it soaked with "liquid" decided to leave it there. Happy New Year again!

December 1, 2008

Thanksgiving is over.Thanksgiving meals do not require any chewing at all. No teeth are required. So everyone can enjoy.

 

November 20,2008

Palooza-Lahoma, the endings of choice for festivals, events and concerts. Today, we played

"Schoomzapalooza" in the Centinneal Building on the Oklahoma State FairGrounds an

event for the Oklahoma City Chamber of Commerce.

We are gradually working our way to someday play the State Fair Speedway

but that is another story. I suggested that next year the

event be called "SchmoozaLahoma" because Lahoma is the new Palooza.

November 24, 2008

Last week I played a house party in Tulsa, OK. Walking into the suburban 7 bedroom home, I noticed that the floors were covered with plastic sheeting. The plastic sheets were taped against the walls. I asked one of the hosts what exactly the plastic sheets were for. I had seen an episode of the Soprano's where they lure the guy into the room where the floor is covered with plastic, the guy gets shot and they roll him up in the plastic and throw him in the lake. When I asked, the host replied the plastic was to protect the floor.

As the night went on, no less than seven bags of wine were revealed. As the bags were passed around the cheap wine went everywhere from the ceiling to pooling up on the floor. One guest was holding the bag of wine over a girls head. When he asked her if she wanting some she turned away. For turning away, he let the sack of wine flow out the spickett right on to her head

Party guest in the house were using the pastic sheeting like a slip and slide with spilled beer and wine. The sticky sheeting's smell permeated the room.

So the next time you walk into a party and there is plastic sheeting on the floor be prepared to have an indoor slip and slide lubricated by festive beverages and also don't wear open toes shoes.

 

Fluffy  01-29-2008

A guy in Oklahoma has a pet snake that he recently sold to an Ohio Zoo. He had loaned the snake to the zoo and it was such a popular attraction the zoo wanted to buy it. The zoo offered him $35,000 for the snake and he was reluctant to sell but he took the money.
What was so special about this snake? Was it a rare species? Nothing special other than it was a 35 Foot Reticulated Python thick as a telephone pole. Let me type that out one more time, a 35 foot snake thick as a telephone pole. The snakes name is Fluffy.

So here are the questions and the joke:

Now, where the hell do you keep a 35 foot snake? And what do you feed a 35 foot snake? How long did it take to grow 35 feet?

I kind of imagine that the owner was ordering pizzas and feeding the pizza and the delivery guy to the snake. The scene would have gone like this:
"You order a pizza..Its 14.95"
"Why yes I did. Would you mind delivering it to my friend in the back room. He is very hungry and can't come out right now. It would be a tremendous favor for you to deliver his dinner."
"Oh sure, No problem buddy. The back room. O.K…..AHHHHHHHHHHH A Giant Snake. AHHHHHHHHHHHH."
"Splendid! How is dinner Fluffy?"

Actually the OSBI and FBI may want to run the plates of all the cars in the front yard of anyone with a 30 foot plus snake and they may solve some Cold Cases.

I would guess he also had a lot of people come over to give estimates on home repair, pipes, sprinkler systems and anything he could think of.

"Yes, can you go in the back room and talk to my…….associate. He is eager to meet you." And the guy giving the estimate would walk in the back room and be eaten.

But if you were feeding the 35 foot snake regular snake food, you would have to feed it goats, small horses, neighborhood dogs and maybe even little people. And as we all know that pythons like to hunt their food, then surround it and slam it into something in order to cram it in their mouth. So , whatever room the 35 foot snake was in was probably torn to hell. Which leads us to the final question. Where does somebody live with a 35 foot snake?
Hopefully, far away……..far far away.

 

Two Year Sitter 03-13-2008


In today’s newspaper, and in just about every newspaper there was a story out of Wichita Kansas about a woman who had been sitting on the toilet for two years. Shoe had sat there so long that her posterior had actually grown into and around the toilet seat. Authorities had to pry her off the stool and then a medical team had to remove the actual lid from the back of her legs.
I read at least four different accounts of the "The Sitter". Authorities responded to a call from her boyfriend for help. No article sheds any light on why it took him TWO years to call in the problem. Apparently he had been feeding her while she was in the bathroom and he would ask her if she wanted to come out to which she would reply "Maybe tomorrow." She sat there fully clothed in a bathroom. The news articles also said her legs had "Atrophied" or withered. Yuk.
The happy couple lived in a trailer park in Wichita, KS in Ness County. Reports indicate that the smell inside the trailer was "Overwhelming" which is journalistic code for "smells like ass." 
Folks around the trailer park were quoted as saying they weren’t surprised. What does that mean? What is going on in this trailer park?
This lead us to ask a few questions. First, Did she flush? That is to say, she was being fed so logically, she would have to for lack of a better phrase, Go to the bathroom.
Secondly, what happened when the toilet backed up? Trailer homes are on septic systems usually they back up. I guess she may have been a buffer of sorts kind of like the little Dutch boy putting his finger in the levee. And finally, as she was scared to get off the potty, after she gets out of the hospital she will eat something and then have to go to the bathroom again. What happens when she goes to the bathroom again? Back to the comfort zone?

There has to be a joke in here somewhere. Lets see.......Brings light to the phrase, "Shit or get off the pot." This lady chose to shit and continue to shit never intending to get off the pot.

Maybe authorities will hopefully make it so she or someone who is afraid to leave the bathroom never has to go in the room again with an ample supply of Depends.

 

Nude Juice BAr 02-19-2008

I have a motto, which according to Chuck Norris said "Every man needs a motto" which is from the less than hit movie "Lone Wolf McQuade" . Lone Wolf McQUade was a precursor to the Walker Texas Ranger and I recommend watching it as the evil killer in the movie went on to replay his role as a crazy killer in "Cobra".Oh yeah, my motto, thats another story.

Anyway, I read in the USA Today Coloring book that in Nebraska, there are plans for a fellow to open up a juice bar....a topless juice bar. There is already one in Omaha and this guy wants to open one up in Lincoln, NE. I think I had been to the original topless juice bar back in 1993 at a Grateful Dead Show in Las Vegas. I was in the parking lot of that show picking up trash with some guy I had met in a VW van. Somehow, I was convinced to pick up trash in bare feet on a black top in Nevada. How did I keep from feeling the pain of the heat of the black top in Nevada? The answer is " I was at a Grateful Dead show in the parking lot. What happens in the parking lot is more than likely forgotten in the parking lot.

Anyway, I recall getting a primative smoothie of sorts from a gal hocking her wares from the back of a Chevy Hatchback. All I can remember is that it was cold and that she was tripping so hard she had taken off her top and was trying to explain something about wearing a bra. I was in no mood to read lips as I drank my concoction which I was sure was really a Sammy Smith.

On the way back to the hotel, I recalled the headliner that was appearing that night..Byron Allen and how I had obsessed all day on that fact that if I saw him I was going to tell him he was not funny. I went to my room and paced around for a while. For some odd reason I could not sit still. hmmmm. So, I got on the elevator to go from my room to the lobby when the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Getting on the elevator was noe other than Byron Allen. My first thought was, "here is your chance." I tried to work up the nerve but then thought how funny it was that here was my opportunity and I started laughing. I laughed so hard I fell in the corner of the elevator as Byron Allen and I descended to the lobby. I tried to get it together and tell him but I just couldn't and my feet really started hurting to as I noticed for the first time I had no shoes on. 
So the elevator stopped at the first floor and Byron Allen went to find security as I hurried to the gift shop to buy a candy bar and then raced up the stairs to my room. I can;t recall what floor I was on but it was up there. Considering my condition, I was in as good of shape as a MLB Player running to first base on HGH.
I made it to the room and could not stop laughing or even convey my tale until morning at the Keno Buffet.
So, A naked juice bar just makes me think of the Dead, in the heat and Byron Allen. I never said this ramble had a point, but it does trigger a memory, a vivid, color filled, cut up pair of black top feet memory

Valentine's Day 02-13-2008

Who was St. Valentine?

Legend has it that Valentine was a priest during the third century in Rome. Emperor Claudius decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he banned marriage for young men thus insuring his crop of potential soldiers. Valentine, realizing the injustice, disobeyed Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine was found out, Claudius ordered that he be killed.

Another legend has it, Valentine actually sent the first 'valentine' greeting himself. From prison, Valentine fell in love with a young girl -- who may have been his jailor's daughter -- who visited him in jail. Before his death, he wrote her a letter, signed 'From your Valentine".

So in Conclusion, basically, St. Valentine was a felon and corresponded with a prison employee's daughter. So, besides inventing the first "Valentine" he should also be credited with the worlds first conjugal visit. 
If this is the case "wanting someone to be your Valentine" should require putting them in prison and then slowly killing them. So, the dude from Silence of the Lambs who says "it puts the Lotion on."is the ultimate Valentine.

The HUman Body Exhibit 02-12-2008

Up at the Omniplex, which recently changed its name to the Oklahoma Museum of Science and History, but will always be the Omniplex to me, hosted a Human Body Exhibit. Just like the Redhawks baseball team will always be the 89ers to me. And you remember the 89ers played baseball in All Sports stadium, which was a stadium only used for baseball. Anyway, back to the exhibit.

Perhaps you have seen the exhibit, where bodies unclaimed from China were stripped of their skin, bones and muscles and posed in stances to demonstrate the different functions of the human body.

There was one guy who was holding his skin on a hanger, another had his muscles flailed out like a cricket unfolding its wings. These are all real bodies, embalmed somehow so they had no stench, like you would expect from an embalmed body like say at a funeral home.

There were also organs on display and each section was a different function of the human body. They even had a body that was cut into slices or sections to demonstrate an MRI. The body was placed out on display and was stretched out about 20 feet almost like snack tray.

Anyway, it was interesting and creepy all at the same time.I wondered if anybody recognized any of the bodies that were on display. "No Uncle Lou….NoNoNoNo!!!". I also wondered that at night, when they turn out the lights at the Omniplex, that the bodies……….disco dance. Turn on the disco ball, turn up the Gloria Gaynor…..

 

charles Bronson 01-21-2008

 

Is there a better vigilante/hitman than Charles Bronson? I am watching the Mechainc where he trains a young Jan Michael Vincent to be a ruthless hit man. Death Wish is even better. Bronson has about twenty lines in the movie and fires off more bullets than words. He is a one man machine of Justice.

Bronson is the Aardvark of hit men(remember the blue cartoon aardvark that was always after the ant. The blue aardvark was voiced by Jackie Mason... this makes Bronson the Jackie Mason of killers in a way). Most will remember jackie Mason from Caddyshack II or from the gas station owner in "The Jerk

Bronson typifies the old school movie hero who was cast not becaue they were good actors, but because they were just who they were. They were their own personality much like Chirstopher Walken is today. When they are cast in a role they really play themselves.

So back to Bronson, if he was really just playing himself what did he do on his time off? When he wasn't making a movies was he............A One man Army?

Also in a side note, in "the Mechanic", Bronson goes to sleep every night with sleeping pills and dressed in a bright red pair of jammies....with matching red robe........So if Bronson was really just playing himself you must ask the question.... Does he wear his own sleep wear in the movies?

So what have we theorized? Bronson plays himself, Bronson is a killer Bronson takes the time to put on jammies before bed...after killing......of course

 

The deputy of North Dakota 01-21-2008

 

The only part of the USA Today I read is the Across the Nation section, mainly because you can find out what is happening in all fifty states in less than a few minutes of reading. I say that with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Here is one I read last week in the January 19th edition.

A Deputy in North Dakota fired his handgun in a bathroom, on accident. According to the city in which it occurred, “discharge of a weapon within the city limits is not a crime without some element of intent.”

So there is some real news indeed, a deputy ‘s gun goes off in a restroom. Below are a few comments  that I would like to make  on why this happened.

1.He didn’t mean for the gun to go off….He was just “polishing” it.

2. The terd  in the bowl tried to attack!

3. He was trying to shoot the lock off the stall to escape the smell before it got on his teeth.

4. He was really trying to mask the smell as the restroom was out of FeeBreeze

5. He said he was going to tell Senator Craig to stop only twice, after the third time………Blam!!!

What a story. Well, it turned out to be a big story as there was an update in the Across the Nation section in January 21st  edition. According to the USA Today investigators concluded “ the Deputy hung his gun by its trigger guard on a coat hanger inside the stall.” It went off when he tried to get it down. Believe it or not they are still investigating.

So, that leads us to ask a few questions. We must figure out why he hung it on a coat hanger. Here are a few possibilities:

  1. He was changing clothes.
  2. He has no holster, as his gun is on a string like the guy who played “the Ugly” in the “Good, the Bad and The Ugly.”…Blondie!!!!!

And we must ask,  Did he not have a gun belt. Aren’t there more objects on the gun belt other than his gun? What did he do with the flashlight, keys, mace, pepper spray, handcuffs, baton, walkie talkie and there are more than likely a few more I am missing. Where were these items while his pants were or were not down around his ankles while he attended to his business, although we are not given the information as what he was doing in the stall. Was he going number one, number two, number one and number two or was he attending to another  natural matter that required the solitude of the bathroom stall.

Finally, if it is not illegal in South Dakota to discharge a firearm in the sity limits without some element of intent to do some kind of harm, this will open the door for folks to bring back the time honored tradition of firing guns in the air in celebration at sporting events and political victories……..So hopefully, we can all be in North Dakota in November of 2008 to fire our gins in the air when we get a new El Presidente……Vamanos a Dakota Norte!

And as they are still looking into the situation, there is bound to be more. To come.

 

 

 

The Snake Lady 09-18-2007

 

The sign said "Snake Lady: Head of a beautiful woman and the body of a hideous snake. No arms or legs." The picture over the tent showed the image of a woman's torso melding into the body of a giant Cobra. For 50 Cents this seemed like some real entertainment, and she was supposed to "answer all of your questions.

I paid my 50 cents or would that be my two bits, and walked through the tent to the simulated snake pit where the mysterious snake lady was to be lurking. I went over to cage thinking this is probably some poor lady with no arms or legs painted like a snake smoking a cigarette and reading a book but as I peered into the cage and I burst out laughing.

First there was a female head poking out of the top of a mirrored rectangle. Attached to the back of her head was a stuffed leather snake body that curled around her head. She was also wearing sunglasses and listening to music or a book on tape perhaps with a pair of headphones. So basically there was a woman, sticking her head out of a box. Around the mirrored box was a pile of straw to give the illusion that any normal human could not tell that there was a lady sticking her head out of a box.

My friend next to me said, What the hell!' Obviously an expression directed at the complete bullshitting that was going on. Just a side note, there was a Carnival Worker or Carney standing next to the box and whispering sweet nothings to the "head".

So let me add to my list of "Shittiest Jobs on the World" the poor gal who sits with her head out of a mirrored box all day who folks pay 50 whole cents to see as "the snake lady." To that I say Touche and ah I done got bullshitted. You got me this time Snake Lady……but then I paid another 50 cents to see the worlds smallest horse, which was really just a baby Shetland Pony………..And do you know who was probably behind it all…….the Snake Lady……..I just guessn.

 

 

Your Own Personal Home Depot 03-22-2007

I go to the ACE hardwares store alot. And Lowes. And Home Depot. i even bought a shed to put all the stuff I have accumulated over the years from these home repair box stores. Today I realized the plot. The Conspiracy......As I went into my shed to get a tool to fix a lock on a door I had what Big Jack would call an epiphany..Everyone will eventually have thier own personal Home Depot....And the worst thing is af all the things you buy there is no combination of items that you can, in the future, put together to complete your project. You must go back to the mother ship aka Lowes, Home Dopet or ACE to get even more.........George Carlin was right!
I bought a tree saw to prune a tree but ended up calling a tree trimmer becasue I was on the roof trying to cut a branch and damned near cut the power line in half....I have bout rakes, hoes, shovels, screwdrivers with a tool box to put them in, paints, hose,thinner,fertilizer and every yard contraption you can imagine. I remember when I bought them I thought, "well Hell I can do this. I;ve looked in the Time Life Book and it doesn't seem that hard..." only to end up looking up some pro in the phone book to come clean up my mess.
That is where the conspiracy is, they get you to buy all these things to try and do a Home Repair knowing all the while it won't work so you will have to call a repairman to come out and fix it. And where does he get the part to fix your mess, the same Home Depot you went to to begin with. You not only pay for the labor but the part, twice...
Most recently I went to the ACE with my littl eboy and got some pvc pipe to fix the sink.........four hours later I was calling the plumber who repiared the sink with....you guessed it....PVC pipe.
Example 2: The Toilet was clogged after a guest to my house over the holidays took what has been described as a "French Shit". I went to the Lowes and bought some liquid plumber and a snake. For those who don't know, the snake is a metal hose you fish down the pooper to dislodged the forgien material, which is usually feacl matter. After two hours of "Snakn'" I called the plumber again and with one swoop of a mighty plunger the clog cleared. I told him the guy at the hardware store said the "Snake" wold do the trick and the plumber politely explained that snake was getting hung in the toilet and wasn't going to the problem all I really needed was a good plunger.....Holy Shit.......
So, when you at the hardware store thinking of "doing it yourself" get back in your car and drive home and call someone who has dedicated thier life to what ever project you are about to embark upon. We were al put on thi plaent with a skill. Call the friend with the skill. He will call you when he needs your skill.Tit for Tat as James Brown said on his Christmas Album......It will save you time, money and a shed full of tools that can't complete any project with other than owning your own personal Home Depot.

 

taser, taser, Taser 01-30-2007

 

After the last bellow from the bar keep, “Get the Hell out of Here!” and before the clock strikes two stragglers begrudginly slam the last slurp of warmed beer or drink and tumble out into the cold leaving the bar staff and band to pick up the pieces of the night and to decompress. Talk of the drunkest guy in the bar, the potential fights and most of all good time had is batted around the room while everything is packed and cleaned. But sometimes there is a challenge.
“bzzzzzzzzzzzzt” The waitress looked to be holding a mini Van De Graft Generator in her palm as she waited for her payout. I leaned to hear the conversation and to see just what she was holding.
“Its a Taser. I am not walking out there after hours without mace or one of these things.” she said as another burst was shot out this time a little puff of smoke followed and the smell of ozone I suppose.
“I will take a Taser for ten bucks” said the bartender as he washed the glasses.
“Well get over here” she teased him with another burst of the Taser.”
He was stalling, talking a big game as it were, to avoid the challenge. You could tell he was thinking about it more and more. And as he sobered up a bit he declined the challenge. All present jeered at him. Names were flung. Aspirsions cast. 
“Hell, I will do it.” a voice said. But it was the other bartender. “Let me finish these glasses and then Me.” True to his word he finished his work walked up to the bar, put his arms out on the bar and stuck his ass out. She let out a couple bursts like the First Mate cracking the bullwhip as the sailor is lashed to poll awaiting the instructions of the capitian
“Its a fraud, she is going to Tase him in the Wallet!” Someone Yelled
The young man removed his wallet stood his ground and the waitress stuck the taser on his right butt check and gave him a burst. He yelled out and dropped to the floor on his knees sounding like a Pot Roast that has fallen off the grocery check out counter with a dead thump.
But, he got up and brushed himself off and went bck to work. Apperntly, he had been tased the night before. This guy was a glutton for punishment or one tough dude.
I had to think of the police when they taze someone. The burst I saw lasted only a momment and the guy got right back up. Even on TV the burst is a short burst and the victom recovers after a little while. A fugitive on the run would have to be hit with mutiple burst or held in a stream akin to a Ghostbuster holding its prey. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ “Freeze”ZZZZZZZZZZZZ’Stop”ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ’Freeze”ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ’
The tazer. Many police departments have them and then they trickled down to mass sales. What is next?The governemnet has just invented a Ray that makes the subject feel like he is on fire. I feel the pocket version is just around the corner and the late night exhibition of the device is on the horizon as well. AS for both the Pocket Tser and the Ray Gun just make sure they don’t go off in your pants........

 

 

CAT FOOD 02-15-2006

I have often thought the mayor of every town should be the local town drunk. Not only are they polite and well versed but have an excellent vocabulary as well. Combined with a wealth of unusual knowledge and bizarre thought patterns, the town drunk, much like in Western Movies of old, would be a great leader. Of Course, he would be required to wear a top hat and a sash every where he went. Here is an excerpt from a bar conversation with on such perveyor of knowledge that got me to thinkn about eatn’.

 

In a dingy all night bar in Little Rock, Arkansas, I looked over the late night menu. The specialty of the house is a delicacy called the Spam Burger. And after a night on the town, your taste buds really don’t care what makes it their way. In other words, they sell quite a few at 4 a.m.

 

When I suggested reservations about the Spam burger to the bartender over the blaring loud electric Southern Rock of a Powered by Peavey ensemble, a patron next to me took it upon himself let me know Spam was much like a Hot Dog.

 

“MMM, a  hot dog” I said. “That just doesn’t sound real good right now.” My grammer was slipping away into the night.

 

Next to me, an elderly gentleman swiveled in his chair to look me straight on. His words were pure wisdom.

 

“My good sir, do you know what is in a hot dog?’ he said, “Hooves, scraps and beef by product mechanically separated and formed into a tubular meat product what we know as a ‘Dog’. Derived from the sausage, of European decent…….”He continued but I really couldn’t take it all in. He was speaking fueled by spirits driven tongues. Where was my tape recorder or a even a pen?

 

“Ah” I have heard that rumor before. And having read the side of a Slim Jim one evening I found out that Mechanically Separated Chicken parts are a key component of the Slim Jim beef stick meat product. 

 

“You might as well and would be better off  eating  Cat Food.” He continued. And with that he peaked my curiocity even more.

 

“ It has every thing you need in it. All the flavors you can imagine and is cheap. The perfect food.” He said. Tuna, chicken, pork all mashed. No chewn’. With a cracker you could substitute it for the Bean Dip at a  @%#^ Super Bowl party. Wham!” he finished with a Kruschev-like-slap-on -the-bar-counter. “Ritz crackers! Tuna Delight! Stick it to the corporations who want us to eat what “They “ tell us too.”

 

As he continued to rant in an inebriated Kelly Ogle type fashion, it did have me wondering how “Sea Captian’s Delight” would taste as well as a few question for the ages like, “How do they know it tastes like Beef Tenderloin in a delicious Gravy. Is there a taster? Is there a chef? Do cats really care they are getting tasty filets from the sea? My cat is happy eating out of the garbage can and drinking out of the toilet.

 

After returning home from Little Rock, I was dispatched on a late night run to the Walgreens to retrieve some  necessities for the morning. My list was extensive, orange juice, bread and cat food. My little boy needs the “juice.”

 

As I placed my items on the counter, I looked at the clerk, recalling my past conversation with my fermented guru and said, “You wouldn’t think it but I hear this makes a great sandwich.”

 

ufo's and Buckets of beer 08-20-2005

 

Stillwater, OK is the home of Mike’s College Bar where my trusty sidekick and I, known as the Hosty Duo, were to perform that night. As we pulled in front of the club we were waved into a parking space being vacated by an acoustic guitar-toting nomad driving a late 70’s model LTD. Little did I know that this simple act of kindness would lead me down the tangling trail of mystery and the unexplained.

He was draped in cameos, complimented by a militia style cameo hat that he had tucked his hair into as he stepped out of his ride. He bore a strange likeness to right wing rocker and archery enthusiast, Ted Nugent.
As I approached him to thank him for giving us the space he said, “How would you guys like to be on a record label? How would you like a record deal? I am looking for some guys to form a band. I got a contact and all I have to do is have a band.”
As I am one not to judge on appearance, I thought it quite possible he could be the king pin of a major record label only, in disguise. So I responded to his query in the form and fashion that usually leads to trouble from hitch hikers, telemarkers, hoboes and preachers. “Sure. A record deal would be nice. And you told about it last time.”
You see the last time we were at Mike’s he had approached us with the same question and schpiel to which we politely refused. Remembering his past advances he took to a new avenue of conversation by producing a CD of his material from his coat pocket. He urged me to give it a listen. So I suggested that we may hear it over the house sound system. The night was young and the bar half empty, so the bar staff obliged.
As the music played, he described the origin of each song, instrumentation and production when in mid sentence he turned to me and said,” You know I don’t know why people always complain about being abducted.”
“Well, I could think of several reasons. “ I said “ Maybe its illegal?”
“No, “he volleyed back, “ I mean UFO. Alien abductions. You know getting probed and what not.”
“Ah” I said. “What do you mean?” I had to hear more.

“ Well, I was asleep in my house when a bright light came in levitating me into a mechanical room when they examined me, medically and then went for a ride and finally back to home. It wasn’t bad at all, not like all these people who get all freaked out about it. You see, I want to get in good with these saucer guys anyway cause if we blow up the planet I may need a ride. Right?”
I agreed, I mean what else is there to say. I was flabbergasted. I had never met a star traveler before. I needed to hear more.
The song on the stereo was about to crescendo when he raised his hands up and said, “ This is the part of the song where they took me away.” And with a sweeping motion he mimicked the swoop of the 70’s style Pink Floyd synth.

In the Hour past happy hour, while the night is still young and before the free beer flows there is noting like woven tales of hitchhiker’s, hobo’ sand UFO’s. And when the end comes, it will be good to know someone with connections

 

Ol Blue Part iv: Run, Run Run 07-27-2005

 

 

338,456 miles on Ol Blue, as the trusty van had traveled from Oklahoma up to the mouth of the Mississippi to the Twin Cities, out east the South Carolina, skimmed the edge of the gulf of Mexico and cross the desert, Rocky mountains and grand Canyon to the Pacific ocean. I wrote the Ford Motor Company and asked for an endorsement figuring with this many miles I need to be the spokesman for all D List bands across the nation. I only got anywhere when I told them my musical undertaking involved a “vow of poverty” which I had meant in a purely figurative way. With my options exhausted on the free ride I began my search for “new Blue. Between the rows of cars and gleaming gold teeth, a new ride would be found and had to be found as ol Blue’s trip back from OU Texas weekend 04 had ended in a spilling of rainbow colored car fluids from every conceivable crevasse and crack on that old trusty friend. .

To get on the road you need wheels and in search of wheels I was. My task was epic indeed for Ol Blue was the stuff legends are made of. I had calculated that I have spent a total of at least two years solid in the van. My choice of new van needed to be like I was buying a new house almost. .

Unless you have a sack of money, a few bars of gold or are mega country super star, you must run the gauntlet lined with sales men that instead of whacking you with sticks, as in gauntlet tradition, you are pelted pitches some well intentioned and others down right puzzling. .

When looking for a new car you actually begin to pay attention to the TV and radio car commercials as they blare through the speakers instead of instinctively turning the dial. My personal favorite is the car dealership ad where the owner comes on the air to tell the public, “I bought to many of these purple Gremlins and they have to go. I have till midnight to sell all these cars and I am going to camp out in a Conversion Van high atop the lot until they are all gone. I’ll do whatever it takes. They have got to go. I got to get rid of these cars.” And he comes on the tube every year at the same time to tell you he has done it again. He is the guy who kept taking his parents car in high school and crashing it into and then some how talking his way out of it only to do it again. .

The other angle of ad is the soft sell where the dealer comes on and touts his family tradition and promises to treat you like a member of their family. They don’t tell you that none of the members of their family are on speaking terms and there quite possibly could be an Unsolved Mystery involved. .

I have become acquainted with every gold-toothed car salesman in the state who has given a mountain of information to consider such as gas mileage, cargo, options and incidentals like DVD players and X Box’s. Since when did a DVD player factor into the equation and when as you are driving will you ever get the opportunity to watch a movie. I always hear my high school science teacher and driver’s Ed guru in my ear saying, “10 and 2. Eyes on the road Hosty. Eyes on the road. Brake! Brake Brake!” with a swelling intensity that cascaded into a barrage of words that was for from complimentary. .

Buying a car is serious business. As most folks don’t drop $20-50 Grand on a whim, unless they are the C.E.O. of TYCO. There is much to consider. As you are considering the salesman is busy selling. There are hard sells and soft sells. Every one has their own technique. My favorite line so far has been, “What do I have to do to earn your business?” .

That is actually a great question and made me think, “What does this car salesman have to do to earn my business?” So I came up with some stock answers, such as Number One. Juggle… You never see folks juggle any more. Like in the office picking up three staplers and putting on a show. Number 2. Give me the car for free…this one is just obvious Number 3. Give me three wishes. Number 4. A Challenge… make it sporting and challenge the salesman to a foot race, test of strength or a spirited board game like Monopoly. Number 5. Challenge to a duel playing popular video game Halo. Number 6. Rock, scissor paper him for the car. You loose you pay. You win get the car for free. And finally Number 7. The slap game. I have often thought this would be a great addition to any presidential debate. We want to see them quick on the issues but lets also test those reflexes. Now bear in mind, they want to sell you a car. They want to sell that car bad so don’t be timid in your replies. .

After the opening phrase, the salesman will get in the “get to know mode.” Several questions will come out to which he will attempt to find a common ground so that he may better relate with his prey before he devours them like the Venus Fly Trap. A standard one is “What do you do for a living?” and “What do you need the van for.” I always try to get in good with the guy and see what type of guy he is by saying, “Well I play in a band and I need to van to haul equipment and (with slight pause) you know.” The statement is followed by a raising of the eyebrows and a nudge in the ribs and a hardy “huh huh. Know what I mean?’ If they say yes, run. If they say no, stay a little while because you got a good one. .

Once you get past the sales pitch and get into the dealership, the salesman always takes you to his glass holding pen deep within the recesses of the building. The room décor is sparse with usually a calendar on the desk, pen, phone and tray of cards as well as a wall of car advertisements, posters etc. as they have to be ready to get the hell out when they don’t make their quota or go broke. Their room is like a den the snake drags back its prey to spit them out and feed to their young. .

Once you are in the office, they move in closer gradually loosening the friendly “on the floor” façade into the hard sell. Some even suggest you sign a piece of paper that simply says, “I promise to buy.” Now, you must sign this before you precede any further. The explanation is that they don’t want you make a deal with them and take it to another dealer. Now think about this one in regards to all the ‘Best price guarantee ads, or Beat any price.” How can you beat any other price if you sign a promise to buy, if you don’t sign it you can’t bring the price to beat? Clever old dodgers these guys are. .

First you must side step the promise to buy. What if you don’t want to buy that day? What if you have an anxiety attack after seeing the motor fall out? If you must sign the promise to buy be sure not to indicate “when” you promise to buy. As you leave they will say, “You promised to buy!” To which you reply, “Yes, but I didn’t say when. I may be back tomorrow or I may be back in the year 2025 when cars are powered by the rays of the sun.” .

As they have you in the office, they then play the “I will go ask my manager” game. I always wondered why doesn’t everyone get in the room together so there is not Bull at all. It is basically a version of Good Cop and Bad Cop as seen on TV. Common phrases during this portion of the sale are “I will have to ask my manager” “My manager is not going to like this” “I don’t know if my manager is going to go for this.” It reminds me of asking a friend back in third grade to spend the night. Did he used to say he couldn’t come over after t-ball because he would have to ask his manager? .

During this step you go through the feat of obtaining financing which is more embarrassing turning your face redder than what you did down at Falls Creek back in seventh grade. Don’t worry they will approve anything, cause if you don’t pay they just send somebody to take it away. .

The goal of getting you in the office and playing Good Cop bad cop is to wear you down. To break your spirit until you relent and sign on the dotted line, which these days is a straight ink jet line. .

So your goal is to catch them off guard so they can’t try all the tricks in the book or go to ask the manager if its alright by playing good cop bad cop with another salesman. They have read all the books, know all the tactics and stay on the offensive with the hard sell. .

I chose to buy my van on the weekend of the OU/ Texas A&M game and let me tell you that are the time to buy. Every salesman was crowded around the TV so the sale was quicker than the transaction at a candy machine. I drove away before the start of the third quarter in a brand new van. Inhaling the new van scent, my quest was over and to top it off my Sooners pulled out the victory that day. .

So buying a car consists of several steps and key phrases. .

1. Go to the lot and approached by salesman “How are you today?” 2. The pitch “What do I have to do to earn your business?” 3. The office visit equivalent of “Lets go back to my place for drink.” 4. Good Cop Bad Cop “My manager is not going to like it.” 5. Breaking point where you will do just about anything to get the hell out of the office 6. Finally driving off the lot home, where you rationalize you purchase. “Debt is forever”, you think while trying to justify why you got the internal/external DVD/ Global positioning power locks along with the step side rails, boat rack, towing cable, 8x8 moon roof and fur covered bumper. .

Now you’ve run the gauntlet.

 

Ol Blue Part iiI: Do You have a Trade in 07-27-2005

 

 
With cash in Hand on a brisk Oklahoma October day with wind gently whispering and the sun a shinning high in the fall sky, I went to the local ford dealer to purchase a van. .

The salesman I ran into was his first day on the job and a young go getter who escorted me around the lot where I saw Ol Blue, a repo from a kennel that had gone out of business due to unsafe animal practices. My salesman was as green as I was and eager to sell a car to inch his way up the nicotine and whiskey car salesman poll in the lot where the Darwin-esque idea of the pecking order still reigns supreme in the human world. His co-workers circled around us like vultures waiting to peck at the remains if his salesmanship should fail. .

Old Blue had aqua blue pin strips running down the side to make it go faster, and a white sheen with the shiniest chrome you ever saw with running boards of fiberglass that made her look as if she was floating on air. .

“Want to look inside?” he said. As the doors opened to the van I swear I head a choir of angels as the fold out bench seat came into view with matching crushed blue velvet captain’s chairs and wood work paneling on the inside that like more like a mobile home than a van. .

“How about a test drive?” He then asked like a meth dealer who knew he had one hooked on his line. As we drove away from the lot we went about fifty feet when he stopped the van, turned on the KATT 100 heavy metal hour on the radio, folded back the bench seat, cranked the AC and turned on the Christmas light running lights that ran across the roof of the interior of the van. .

“Folding bed, AC and a radio with cargo space. If you are in a band,” following a dramatic after school Special Pause he sad, “ this is the van.”v Without hesitation I said, “Sold.” That is all it took. I was easy as they come. A Velvet fold out couch with running lights? Racing Stripes? My God, this was the most luxurious mode of transportation I had ever laid eyes on. .

He looked surprised but so fired up to make his first sale he hauled the van back to the dealer and rushed through the paper work faster than a check out at the 7-11. I was thinking shouldn’t take a bit longer than this to buy a car? Excitement was over taken me and my thoughts were solely about that van. .

With 1000 dollars and no idea how I would make the monthly payments I walked off the lot that day rather I drove home a brand new 25,000.00 dollar van which would over the next ten years make my way, Cleveland County Fame and be my instructor of my Rock and roll education, a cheap motel for latex lovers in plenty a parking lot, and a trusted friend on cold night high atop New Mexican Plateaus and roadside rest stops.

 

Ol Blue Part iI: Do You have a Trade in 07-27-2005

 

With over 300,000 miles logged on her, she has tales to tell. But before we let her do the talking, how we came to meet has to come out. .

I was transporting gear to gigs in my 1988 Honda Accord hatchback, a trusted companion that even made it up to Omaha, where we played behind a Steel Chain link fence in a blues bar mini mall. After years of abuse, the ol Honda was wearing down and I needed to look for another mode of transportation if this band thing was going to fly. So I took the first step of placing an ad in the paper for the Hod-une.v Selling the Honda was a chore in itself and I found myself giving test-drives to a variety of international students who had just learned to drive thanks to a cone course at the local sporting events parking lot. As they tested it out they would all ask the same questions to which I would give the same answers. .

“Does the AC work?”
“Nope” I said. 
“Does the Radio work?” 
“Again that would be a no.
“How about the windows do they roll down?” .
“Well no, they were busted out a Grateful Dead show in Oakland. Got to love them hippies.” .
“Do brakes work?” .
“Well…sort of the shoes are worn out and it needs new CV joints. But other than that it rides like a dream.” I said sounding like a modern day Herb Tarlec from WKRP in Cincinnati. .

I find it strange that when buying a car the first questions people ask concerning the aspects of the car that are most easily changed, such as the radio or, AC, r window tint. There are rarely any technical questions about the engine, brakes, suspension and the like. That is always rolled into the same question as well. .

Which is “How many miles does it have on it?” A query, which seems to encompass the entire condition of every operating system you get a car for in the first place. .

After risking my lifer several times with two fellows from Pakistan and a Taiwanese student who never stopped laughing the entire time he drove the car around the block at the sheer joy of operating a car, I considered my offers. .

The international kids gave me the best offers like “I will trade you a stereo and a months worth of free food at my cousins place.” But I ended up selling to a fast talking man from Seminole who offered cash and didn’t want to sign the title. And later I learned why, when the poor lady he resold the car too came calling wondering where the title was. .

 

Ol Blue Part I: The Search for New Blue 07-27-2005


This is the story of the quest for the new van. From the humble beginnings of purchasing Ol Blue in 94, to the search for her worthy heir, I will wax nostalgic on magnificent miles of cars, gold-toothed smooth talkers and the joys of automotive debt.

Playing in a band, you are only as good as your van. Vans are the instruments of transportation that allow you to drive endless hours for the opportunity to put your band sticker on the wall like a modern day Heavener Ruin Stone to tell all you had been there and gotten the t-shirt. Travel hundreds of miles to play at the same bar that is down the street with Doppelgangers of all your favorite local personalities. After you unload your equipment be sure to put a sticker up in a bathroom, then go see the manager who promptly kicks you square in the front of your pampers, then load up the van and truck it on to another town where the process is completed again. You have to keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down if you are going to make it to your show and for me the Ford E-150 is the only way to go. The only problem was that Ol blue was ill. .

So, I bought a new van. Ol Blue met a Chevy Cavalier and has decided to settle down and raise a Go Cart in love tale that would make a NASCAR dad shed a tear. It wasn’t for lack of desire on the part of Ol Blue you see, it was more like the 340,000 miles logged on to her Detroit frame that had me in the repair shop every month coddling a new affliction. Ol Blue taught me quite a bit about Ford matainence, as practically every part in the van broke at the specifies time as stated in my trusty Ford Maitnece schedule which by the way stops at 150,000. .

Now she sits in the driveway leaking oil, and providing a playground for my boy Liam who loves to get inside on occasion and honk the horn. But in the driveway she is doing an invaluable service. Ol Blue is also imparting valuable knowledge while he leaks to the new van as they sit in the street late at night. I can hear the new van asking, “What is it like out there Blue?” and Ol Blue blowing some black smoke from his rusty muffler and imparting automotive wisdom on the level of the Diesel Dali Lama. .

. Ol Blue Part 1 .

No matter how much cool equipment you have, if you can’t it get it to the stage the only folks who will ever see it are the family pets and friends. To play in a band you need a vehicle capable of hauling the menagerie of electronic and sound equipment one has amassed over the years. Some opt for the pick up truck, which is the most basic and easily obtainable other that their daily driver. Others go for the SUV, mini van but at a certain point, some go for the van. .

As a youth, I have fond memories of the Cozzen’s family van Ford Van transporting me to swim meets and soccer events. On the side, Accent II was painted indicating the name of the family business for which it was primarily used, which was hauling clothing and accessories to town for sale in their downtown store. But bear in mind the family had three boys and two girls who combined with all of their friends managed, in true kid fashion, to tear the hell out of the van. They had two, the first was a white model with the bench seats and the second van was a baby blue, wall to wall shag carpet job, with captains chairs and an in dash cassette player. Although I was never adept at the art of water based human locomotion, I did enjoy the late nights rolling on the highway back from Amarillo or Tulsa in the back of the van, rolled up in a Justice League of America sleeping bag and listening to the soon to be Classic Rock. In these steel walls my love for the interstate and backwoods highways were born feeding my childhood dream of someday owning, you guessed it, not including, brown haired gal wearing a skin tight jump suit with the Farrah Facet hair……… my own van. .

Now, the Ford Econoline 150 is the Holy Grail of the band world followed only by the ford Club Wagon. Many a tattered and rusted bucket of Detroit steel has transported the rock and roll dreams from every walk of music. The gentle hum of the horses under the hood has lulled many to sleep after the big gig to the small gig. Inside the walls of the van many a band has broken up, yelled screamed, fought and disclosed secrets that the world may never know. The walls are sacred holding secrets, lies and truths. With this in mind here is the story of the Rock and Roll Simulator I like to call….Ol Blue. .

Ol Blue is a 1994 ford Econline 150 with a 351 Windsor and a Glaval half Back conversion package that split the van into a cargo in the back and a conversion in the front. I like to call it the Rock and Roll Simulator that sit in 8 hours a day whether I need to or not. I have often thought of offering a course to young kids wanting to play guitar as a supplement to their lessons. I would call mine Van Endurance. The class would begin with putting them and their three closest buddies in the van with the radio blaring for eight hours with no AC, get them all drunk and rock the van to simulate the pot holes of 1 40. If they survive they can play the gig. Anyway………..I digress,

 

lysol in the booty 07-20-2005

 

Heard a great story in Fayetteville, Arkansas about a late night run in with a straggler who had been forgotten about in the bathroom stall. Around 4:30 a.m. as the bar was closing up after a long late night of cleaning, the head bartender went into the bathroom only to find a guy emerging from the darkness. As the stranger approached it was apparent that the fellow was covered in shit,vomit and blood. The bartender did what any concerend citizen would do and told him to "Get the hell out." The stranger disappeared into the night, and the event was over until the bartender walked to his car to drive home and found that there was shit smeared all over the car. The mysterious El Shito had wiped off on the guys car as well as some other monor damage. this time the cops were called. But how do you find a mysterious drunk covered with blood and fecal matter?

Well the next day a co worker approached our hero with an industrial strength Lysol can he found in the bathroom along with a wallet of the man who the night before had caused the ruckus. The wallet revealed the ID and the Lysol can revealed the cause of the blood. See, the guy had gotten drunk, gone in the bathroom and shoved the can up his posterior region apparently jamming the can into his nether region by slamming his ass on the toilet seat. Only in passing out on the floor due to vomiting was his plan foiled. The hit on the floor caused the can to come out and expel what rich folks pay thousands for in Taos New Mexico at new age salons. 

So beware of strangers offering you drinks and offering cleaning tips at the bar in northwest Arkansas.

 

Drop Death 07-20-2005

 

In Austin Texas last week, we met the alleged bass player for Slipknot, the masked metal rockers from up North I believe. He was out on the town and one look at his visage was clear reasoning for the use of the mask by the band. See each member dons a specific mask and goes by a code name to keep their identities secret which is why I was surprised when he announced his true identity. He looked much like a Springer guest with jailhouse tattoos.
"I play bass.” he said.
"Would you like to look at mine I think you would like It." referring to my bass a tar, a custom Justin Green creation which is both a guitar and a bass which usually intrigues folks because it is an oddity.
Upon looking at it he said, "I play in Drop D and Drop Death which is one below drop D." Now her is a music primer, the musical notes are all in alphabetical order a, b, c, d, e, f, g and then repeat always in the same order. So after b is always c, after d is c and so on.
So I said, "drop Death is really C."
"No Drop Death." he responded
"So C" I said " C being before D."
"Drop Death" he responded.
This went on for a while till I relented. From now on C is Drop Death to me too.
Then I realized Him not very smart, and him drunk so I better do what him say or him get mad.
"You are form Norman, Its boring there.' He said
"Well you got to be from somewhere,” I said realizing that Norman may be boring to the masked rocker because there aren't very many shiny things to see.
"All the bands here in Texas suck.' He continued.
This conversation was getting to deep. This guy was depressed. His mother probably made him clean the swimming pool adding to his frustration in the suburbs leading to his days of masked rocking to the mosh pit. To this guy everybody and everything was the object of scorn and contempt. Add to the fact that him was drooling his beer out of his lower lip you can imagine the dizzying intellectual depts. Behind his sunken sockets. The short of it is we started playing and he left in disgust, bolting out the door like a rabbit. Guess him not like.

 

 

the gospel preachn wrecker man 04-27-2004

 

The Gospel Preachn Wrecker Man in the Year of Ought 4 
04-27-04
Ol Blue, my trusty Ford E- 150 Van purchased right here in Norman at Reynolds ford back in 1994, has approximately 320,000 miles on her. Now I have written to Ford Motor Company on a variety of occasions lauding Ol Blue, telling the places we’ve been and the people we’ve seen. I have always said, “ If that Van could talk, what would she have to say.” Ol Blue has been north to the headwaters of the Mississippi, east to the coast of the Atlantic, West to the deserts of Arizona and the California coast and all points in between. I keep writing hoping for a new van, as the mechanic who wrenches on says, “With that many miles, you’ve earned it.” 
Now you’ve heard me spin tales of Ol Blue before, like the time when the front wheel flew off the side into the bar ditch around Austin, Texas and was re-assembled by the Romantic Latino mechanic named Carlos who told me “ It is not your van that is broken my friend. It is your heart.” There was the Glen Campbell cassette fire on the Turnpike back in 2001 when Glen’s truck stop tape decided to illuminate the dash as it were filling the interior with “Wichita Lineman as well as smoke. And finally, the tale of Chuck the Long-Walker from somewhere on a Colorado Interstate who dropped a fuel tank on the side of mountain for us. These tales seem to pale in comparison to the event that is to unfold below. Ol Blue’s first road show was in Fort Smith in 1994 and it seems only fitting that one of its last was to the same destination.
Ol Blue set out to take the Duo to Fort Smith Arkansas last Thursday evening with the intent on playing some rock and roll on Garrison Street at the 501 Oyster Bar in celebration of the release of out tenth record entitled “Hosty Duo”. I had just replaced the original battery that had 320,000 miles purged from its acidic motorcraft core and Ol Blue seemed too happy as could be. Along the way we witnessed the Muskogee County Twister forming north of I 40 counting Storm chasers on the side of the road. As the sky swirled above I looked down at the battery indicator was slowly dropping. I was perplexed because we had a brand new battery. Pulling off to the side of the road at a No Facility Rest Stop, which is code for “ Meth Exchange Area for rest Stop Romeo’s” I noticed the gauge going down even farther. Tic Tac and I switched places behind the helm of our steel ship and we continued on when gauges started the flicker, the speedometer went out, the lights faded and Tic Tac guided Ol Blue off the I 40 exit ramp barely coasting into Jim Bob’s Phillips -66 on impulse power. Coming to the overhang near the gas pumps, Ol Blue heaved and died.
Overhead, the storm we had been watching the storm chasers chase was coming our way. The hook echo was overhead and clouds were creeping in. Would we make it to the show in Fort Smith? Would we be carried away on the wings of the Muskogee county hook echo? There was only one thing to do. The only logical thing to do. Go in Jim Bob’s and order a truck stop burger and wait for impending Armageddon. Just before I let the apocalyptic thoughts grow I remembered we had Triple A, so with a few phone calls a wrecker was on its way to tow us to Fort Smith of course after he heard we needed to go that far. . As we waited a diagnosis of Ol Blue by Tic Tac revealed that it was not the new battery but a bad alternator. If we could replace it we would be good to go. But where to get a new one in the middle of nowhere after hours. 
The answer came in another phone call to the owner of the bar we were to play at in Fort Smith yielded a Good Samaritan to go to Auto Zone and get a brand new alternator and bring it to the club so that we may put it on after the show if we would pay him back.
Rains started falling and the wrecker arrived lit up like a Mini Mall traveling carnival show. Emerging from the cab of the tow truck was a shriveled old man of 72 years who said, “ You must be broke down.”
All literal interpretations aside, he was correct and proceeded to hoist the hull of our Detroit steel on the back of the wrecker while he began to preach.
“ I have been working an 18 hour day and I am 72 years old.” He said.
I was waiting for him to say that he also like to stretch and kick, but before I could the raisin esque looking captain of the tow had the van high in the air on two wheels and we were rolling out of the Warner exit on to Fort Smith. The Hosty duo had become the Hosty trio again with addition of our new tow trucker pal
Just as we rounded the fist corner around the on ramp to I 40 easts bound Bill, our wrecker driver, said, “ How about that?”
And as he did the world was in slow motion for a while as I saw the wheel spin from his hands and looked out the wind shield I saw us head right over the divider. You know when you are waterskiing and you float or hover above the water for a bit and no ripples are formed just a smooth silent glide. Well imagine that, combined with the fact you are strapped to wrecker seat hauling around a half Ton full of band equipment. The tow truck was hydroplaning across the median when Bill’s 72 years of skill coaxed that big rig back on the road.
Breathing a sigh of relief, we lumbered on to Fort Smith where Bill told us of his trips, travels, trials and tribulations from his years of living. He told us about the gal he brought back from California, the hot rods out west and the lonely life of a tow trucker trying to keep his head above the tax waterline, making tows to pay the bills.
We told him we played music he waxed about Merle, Bob Wills and a fella he gave a tow to last week, a Steel Guitar player whose card read cleverly, “Steeln is my Game.” He was certainly a driver second to none, to borrow one of his quotes.
We made it to Fort Smith in time to play the show, on time, thanks to Bill. He unloaded ol Blue on to the side of garrison Ave in downtown, the owner had retrieved an alternator and all looked right with the world.
On finishing up the show at 2 a.m. it was time to put the alternator on. There was one problem it seems we had failed to take care of. We had no tools. As luck would have it the owner of the bar was also the owner of a plastic bag factory in Van Buren Arkansas that makes plastic sacks for Tyson Chicken and Solo Cups, which are two products that to me anyway go hand in hand. He called up his chief night mechanic named Gary who with the able assistance of Tic Tac holding the flashlight managed to put on the new alternator with a set of Sharper Image standard tools and a couple of his own. The plastic bag mechanic raised ol Blue from the junkyard to the fast lane with the deftness of an AST Certified Grease Monkey.
All he wanted was a handshake, a t-shirt and cd that Gary did. We gave him our thanks and rolled out of Fort Smith back to I 40. All’s well that ends well until you reach Roland Oklahoma and the lights begin to flicker- the speedometer goes out and the headlights dim as you watch the voltage indicator slowly die off and see you and Ol blue in the bar ditch westbound pitch-black I 40 at 4 a.m. in the morning rain.
I felt like Wylie Coyote Super genius uttering “Back to the drawing board.”
“Hello AAA.” I began. “ We need a tow.”
“ Where are you sir?” the operator said. And it was a perplexing question indeed.
Somewhere as we drifted off the road I had not seen a mile marker sign. Since they need to know where you are I set out on the side of the road to walk to the nearest mile marker with my cell phone and call em back. As I trudged through the mud and rain along the side of the road Big Rigs breezed by giving me a gentle push of diesel smoke and roadside rain. My feet sunk into the earth and I began to think, “ I am that guy.” We all have driven past him as he walks down the side of the road late at night and wonder, where the hell is that guys going?” Well I will tell you exactly where, to fond a mile marker. I finally did find mile marker 321, called triple AA back and they sent another wrecker. After watching him pass us by twice and call us to tell us he couldn’t find us he finally saw the van.
Our new tow truck driver was also an elderly gent of considerable years who drove a truck with a flat bed on the back. As he was hoisting Ol Blue up again he told us his conditional plan.
“ I am here to get you but I can only take you to Sallisaw and you will have to wait until 8 when my son gets up to take you back home. And we only take cash”
It was like a punch square in the gut with a bag on the head. Then he hit us with another zinger.
“You guys can sleep in the van on top of the wrecker until morning.” He said.
Oh goody, I thought. Sleep on top of the flatbed wrecker in Sallisaw. We agreed, what were our options, none. 
So he hauled us to Sallisaw and placed us underneath a blaring street- light that I thought was at least four times brighter than the sun. Under that light, soaking wet feet, I drifted to sleep in the captain’s chairs of the van. We must have looked like extras in a Sci fi movie Aliens or Roswell where they find the pilots of the craft still in their chairs. 
Just as I feel asleep I heard the gentle call of the new tow truck driver, BAM! BAM! BAM! He sounded as if he was blooding his fists on the side of the van. I shot up out of the driver side chair standing at attention like an Oakley, Kansas prairie dog, to look out the window and see the wrecker’s son as promised standing in the street.
I opened the door and he said, “ You awake?”
“I am now,” I said
He looked like a miniature version of Michael Anthony, bass player from Van Halen and he motioned for us to get in the front cab with him and we would get on our way. We stopped at a gas station to fill up and as he went inside to pay, I perused the cd collection on the floor of his truck and pulled up a one to inspect its contents. Just as I did, our wrecker driver, Doug, said
“ I guess that aint your type of music.”
Seeing how I had a country cd of duets performed by country superstars paired with NFL quarterbacks I replied,
“Yep, that aint my type of music.” I said.
As we road three in the cab back from Sallisaw to OKC, my eyes became heavy so much so I needed toothpicks to prop them up. Every time I was to nod off, our wrecker driver, Doug, would say something like profound like,
“ You guys play in a band?’ he queried. 
But he wasn’t looking at me, as was riding on the hump. He would look over at Tic Tac and only started in on me after Tic Tac told him I am not one to indulge.
To all his queries I would say….
“Yep” I would say followed by ten minutes of silence and then Doug would say.
“You married?”
I responded yes and he continued
“And your wife still lets you go out to bars? You know I was messed up doing drugs every night, not living right, doing drugs….”
I thought Oh no. Not now. Not the “Salvation Talk.” The last one I had heard was courtesy of a pill-popping cowboy in Mississippi, who was trying to save me and make a dollar off of some “Legal” steroids.
“You all should consider singing gospel songs. I have done it all, been a jockey, been on the crank, wouldn’t think to stab somebody or shoot em. I wasn’t livn right. Went to jail and went right back in. then When I had a job collecting garbage I found a pair of gloves when I need gloves. They must have been sent by…”
You get the idea. Yet he continued.
“ Dope they can mess you up. But I still get high every so often on weed. It comes form the earth so it aint bad for ya.” He pulled another “Skywalker” Indian smoke shop cigarette and cradled it in his fingers staring off into into the void. He waxed on his days wildacting, roughneckn, robbn, stealn coming up with a new location for his exploits it seemed every time we would mention a town. . Mention Lubbock for example.
“Been there.” He said. “Met a gal with wooden leg. She had a peculiar talent with a cue ball, if you know what I mean.”
All I could was to look back at Ol Blue Riding behind us with its cracked radiator smile and bug toothed grin as she bobbed up down to and fro dreaming of the crush blue captains chairs that lie vacant.
As we loped on down the road, we drove past the Rusty Barn, a tavern on the edge of I 40 somewhere outside of Webbers Falls. It is a bar that has always intrigued me because there is no exit to it and it contains a firing range outside of the bar complete with targets and bales of hay. Apparently you can go get torn down and take aim at a couple rounds of target practice. I have always imagined the seedy interior where the is indoor skeet shooting and a drink called the “shot” where you put on a bullet proof vest, down a glass of whiskey and then the bartender blast you in chest with a 9mm. 
As we past the mythical tavern, it was packed and I had to ask Doug. 
“Did you ever go in the Rusty Barn?”
“Oh yeah” he said lowering his tine and head to the ground. “You could get stabbed or shot in there and nobody would bat an eye.”
I was about to correct his use of “bat an eye” cliché with “ Bat an Eyelash” but considering the origins of our new friend, the good representative from Norman abstains.
His statement confirmed my aspirations for the establishment and I bothered him no more about the Rusty Barn, letting my imagination working on less two hours sleep do the rest to provide me with ample entertainment for the rest of the ride.
We finally made it home around 10 a.m. and dumped Ol Blue at the Auto repair shop and Tic Tac went on home of course after we went to the bank to get cash for the driver. Somehow the large wrecker co didn’t take charge cards only cash, without a receipt of course. And I am willing to pay. When I asked if they took credit cards intialy he said, “How bad do you want to get home.” To which I replied, “Cash will be fine.”
As he stuffed the cold hard cash in his dungaries the Michael Anthony of the Wrecker world, the former crank smoking, wilcating, roughneck gospel-preachn trucker disappeared into the grey mist of the Cleveland County morning air.
As they lowered Ol Blue low, the reason daddy plays guitar in a rock and roll band, Kellie and Liam in his snuggly , came around the Acres Street corner to walk me on home past the former site of the double stop signs and into our Norman Height’s Chateau where I slept like a stone that was done rolling at least for a day.
PS
We are now looking for a new Ol Blue and will have Car dealership Tales to tell very soon.

 

 

 

iranian doctor of death 11-29-2003

 

There are a few things that really get your attention in crowded rooms and public places. When boarding an airplane never joke about having a firearm, or when in the bank kid with the Teller that you are interested in robbing the place. The perennial favorite of the bunch is of course, “Fire!” a word that your sweet mother never told you to yell in a crowded building. I would like to add one more. The final phrase on this short list is without a doubt, “The Iranian Doctor of Death wants to kill me.” 
She blew in the joint four sheets to the Bricktown wind with an entourage in tow of two fellows with salt and pepper hair and a pair of Dicky Do’s. The brick walls reverberated with the sound of Cleveland Country White Street rock as my trusty drummer and I played to another roaring crowd. I noticed her immediately, not for any unique character features but that she was poll dancing around a steel gurter for her crew of two. After witnessing this display of shear alcohol fueled desire I decided it was time for a break hoping that during the rest we would meat our CD Sales quota of one. That’s when she approached me. I thought she wanted one of our “fine” CD’s but instead I got a story.
“You guys are pretty good.” She said “ I got a proposition for you. I want you guys to back me up while I sing a funky song. It needs that funk you got.”
“Well what kind of song is it?” I asked.
“I got a publisher in Canada. He will put it out and we will make tons of money. The cash will roll in when it hits the charts. My lyrics and your funky groove will be the perfect match. Bare in mind we were playing a country tune when she walked in.
I figure I would ask again, “Well whet type of tune is it?”
Her reply was not what I had expected. “ It is a Christian song about women.”
“Ahhhhhhhh.Great, but that aint my bag sweetie.” I was about to correct her and say the new term is Inspirational Music when she burst in.
“Oh it will be after you hear these words.” She said
And with that she decided to sing a few bars of the tune directly into my tympanic membrane. She was obviously drunker than Glen Campbell as her voice quivered like a broken lute. The song, which involved rainbows, soft things, female-to-female lovemaking and nothing what the title or genre, she described.
“How did you come up with that?” A simple question. But simple questions lead to complex descriptions. Like “why does it rain, where is the sun from” the answer is never what you expect. I have heard of Folks speaking in toungues when under extreme pressure. And pressure is what I got as she went into her inspiration behind the tune.
“Well there is an Iranian Doctor of Death who wants me dead. I told him he could have the donut shop and the color TV, all I wanted was his new wife, but no he doesn’t see it that way. He found us lying together through the window and I never saw her again. I think she disappeared and now he is after me. But this song is my savior and will put him away when it hits the airwaves. All will see what he had done. I was married to him once and he couldn’t take it. Donut shop or not. Can’t control me anymore”
Now I was confused. Started out with a song and now we are at an Iranian Doctor of Death in a donut shop. What is the exact specialized field of Medicinal Fried pastries? I replied with the first thing that popped into my head.
“Is he a pro wrestler? I mean with a name like that…” Then she burst in.
“Shhhhhhhhh…. He has ears in the walls and eyes on you. Everywhere. He will kill anyone I associate with. You can’t say that.” She said scanning the room like a radio Shack surveillance camera.” I need your phone number.”
After hearing that, why in the hell would I want to perform a song with her if it meant the Iranian Doctor of Death was going to hunt me down like a dog and make me the Mother of all Unsolved Mysteries. She wanted my phone number that the evil doctor could easily locate me. As she spoke I imagined Mid South Grappler Skanbdar Akbar busting through the wall with an armload of donuts and an RPG blowing my guitar out of my hands and leaving me out near Stanly Draper wrapped in a carpet.
Thankfully a Redhawks fan raced through the door showing off a souvenir baseball he had professing to the world that he was in fact “The Man.”. She was spooked like a combination longhaired cat and a lemming and bolted to the back of the Bricktown Business and slinked out the door escorted by her male companions.
Now, bear in mind, you never know really if the tales of strangers are true but when there is an Iranian Doctor of Death involved, Funky Inspirational Rock, medicinal donut shops and late nights you might as well take the time to listen to the story. Reality is cheaper than cable and far more reliable.

flash cards 11-20-2003

About this time last year I was experiencing some difficulty with the old singing pipes. Years of playing in Smoke filled bars, beer drinking and a new friend called Acid Reflux all combined to give me the gift of a cyst in my larynx that would inflate and deflate like a balloon as it beat the side of my throat every time a note would pass through. On the upside, I was able for a short time to make the train sound made famous by Boxcar Willie. I had an incredible “HOOO HOOO” as well as being able to sound like a young Tom Waits. The minus was obvious that I couldn’t speak clearly and it required I blow every ounce of breath from my lungs to produce a tone. Doctor visits and months of waiting to find the cause/cure along with a pile of flash cards to speak where I learned there are really only a couple essential phrases you need to operate in everyday life.
October 2002.My voice was going out. Every night, the monitors had to be cranked just so I could hear myself. Accompanied by a cough that wouldn’t go away, I decided to face one of my phobias and go to the Doctor, who was a family friend. He looked me up and looked me down even shoving a tube down my proboscis to reveal a singers worst nightmare.
“Well you have got something down there that doesn’t belong.” He said. 
My stomach sank and the nerves were starting to unravel. 
“Lets put you on some Acid reflux medicine and see if it helps. Lay off the suds when taking it as well as spicy foods.” And with that I got a month of medicine designed to help get rid of the bump in my throat along with the instructions not eat what had been sustaining me for the past ten years, beer and Mexican food. But after a month of not having a cold one at the show, exercising and drinking loads of Herbal Tea. My next Doctor visit revealed what I had feared. “It is still there. And we are going to have to take it out. I don’t know what it is and it could be a multitude of things.” The doc said and I appreciated his candor as he described that the cyst may well be a little bugger that may be an indicator of a larger problem such as the “c” word. He wanted to do it immediately but I chose to wait until after the new year to have it done to save up some dough for the month off I was going to have while I pondered what the cyst was benign or not. So In the next month I decided to jump on the T.T. train. Why not? Hell If I may have some life threatening why not goes down swinging.
New years Eve 2002 was a difficult night for me on the stage of the World Famous Deli in Norman, Oklahoma located on Historic Campus Corner. Soft glow of some left over X-Mas lighting, the warm smell of the bar heater, the haze of smoke that curled around the stage lights like an early morning San Francisco fog and the hum of all the gear on stage that I might be setting up for the last time in long time to come. Looking at the rat’s nest of chords that I hook up every night on the floor, I felt as if I had never sat to look at the complexity of what I had been doing the past few years. Bass, Guitar and singing I closed my eyes and feel into every one of those songs I had sung million times, or so it seems. Like a group of friends I wasn’t going to see for a while, I played through their notes upon notes. It was a night a lot was revealed about those around me. A moment of Clarity that I will not soon forget.
The Operation The operation was set for early in the morning of Jan 6, 2003 at the Southwest Surgical Hospital. The love of my life, my wife Kellie, woke me and prepared me to go over to the hospital. Tic Tac drove up and waited in the lobby as well. Before the operation I was told after the procedure, which makes it sound more clinical, I would not be able to talk for about three to four weeks I was prepared in the room with robe and IV and taken into the operating room where about ten folks had crammed in around a table. I was reminded of that alien abduction movies and I was the subject. The anesthesia was administered and the last thing I remember hearing was the Doctor fiddling with the laser cutting device that was state of the art in the realm of medical technology and saying as my eyes grew lead, “Someone get me a screwdriver, this dern thing………..” I passed out into a deep sleep that I felt all day and the next. When I awoke the doctor looked at me shaking a small tube with a little piece of flesh from my throat and shaking it he said, “Got it.” I passed back out.
I woke up, my throat dry and my tongue was on fire like it had been beaten with a hammer. Apparently so you don’t swallow the old tongue they clamp it down by the tip. Kellie loaded me in the car and drove me home making a nest on the couch where I slept for two days. Tic Tac poked his head in to find me doing laundry, or I think I was doing laundry, when I woke up the next day. It would be the last time I would see or hear from him for a month until the first scheduled gig at Pearl’s in late January. I began the year in silence, at home, wondering what my new voice would sound like, if I would be able to sing and what I was going to do. But first on my mind was the fact I could not talk. 
Flash Cards I found that there are really only a few phrases that one needs to operate in society on a day-to-day basis. Most conversations at retail stores go like this:
“How are you today sir? I can help you over here”
“Fine.”
“How are you?”
“Doing well. Will that be all?”
“Have a Good Day.”
“You too.”
“Alright.”Br> It is suffice to say that we spend entire days of having conversations with strangers that amount to little more that banter. And if we are lucky we get the occasional witty banter like this exchange. “Have a good one.”
“I already got a good one, I just need it bigger.”
Insert laughter. All day, every day there is few essential phrases. As I would be going out a little into the world I decided that to communicate these phrases effectively I would have to write them down. So I made some Flash cards on 3x5 cards I could show to the counter people, store clerks, friends and acquaintances. Here is that fabled list.
“Hello. How are you?”
“Fine”
“O.K.”
“I would like an Iced Tea Please.”
“Thank You.”
“Have a Good Day.”
“I can’t talk I just had Surgery on my Throat.”
“Go to Hell.”
“I was just helping that sheep over the fence.”
The strange thing is that a lot of the times there is no conversation even required at all. You go in get what you need. Take it to the counter. They scan it and you go on your way humming the Musak tune you heard on the way in.
When the day came that I was allowed to talk again, the sound of my voice was strange indeed. I t was truly a great relief to be able to tell my wife that I love her. Just to say the words “I love you.” Without her I would have lost my mind. I truly owe her a huge debt of thanks. We had discussed that when it all comes down, when the shit really hits the fan, when the cards are staked against you its only “you and me.” And that is the truest of the true. Actually I had gotten used to not talking or even saying a word, which for me is odd. To celebrate I bought a 50 cent Ronny Millsap tape and sang along with “Don’t you Know How Much I love You.”
I threw those damn cards away.

I built all the wal marts 10-14-2003

 
The Arkansas Traveler is a traveler indeed and so were we. Just as my trusty van Ol Blue broke 300,000 we arrived in Fayetteville, Ark, home of the university of Arkansas. That night I met the man who built every Wal Mart from here to there and everywhere in between. Needless to say he was a little crazy. But aren't we all. 
  
“I build Wal Marts.” He said. Dressed in a haggard tie-dye cowering underneath a faded blue workman's coverall, he resembled a cross between a Civil War vet and Charles Manson. His salt and pepper hair flew in the air-conditioned ventilation system like he had his tongue on a Tesla coil. Gripping a scotch and soda in one hand and mine in the other he carried on. 
“And I like the way you caress that stick of wood. Right alone the grain my friend.” He continues. 
  
Now I routinely make the mistake of starting in on a conversation that I will soon be wishing and praying for to be over but just can't pry myself away from. 
  
“Would you like a drink?” he said 
“Sure…Sounds good. I will have a beer.” I chimed in. this won't be so bad I thought until he ordered. 
“Bar keep. My friend would like to order us a round.” 
What? I just got took…but before I could bring notice to the city slicking hands of the wayfaring stranger he started into a monologue that was worth the drink. 
  
“You know. I am the great grandson of Sadie Hawkins. I can show you her grave in Western Arkansas and sing you a tune or two. And While I was working for Sam Walton I built Wal Marts all across the country. They would say something, like use the Lord's name in vain and I would say hey, let me find a pen, oh what is that a tape recorder? A Tape recorder. I told you not to use the Lord's name in vain because now I will tell Mr. Walton hand he will tell you to go to hell, make you like it so much that you use the Devil' phone to call him up and tell you he loves his ass on fire!” 
  
After his tirade, the only thing I could think of was the obvious. 
“Do you think the Devil has long Distance and if he does do you think he pays for it? Or steals it/ it seems more evil to steal it.” 
  
He wasn't listening to me as his eyes glowed the glow of the Leprechaun part Five, In the Hood style. He continues talking of erecting log cabins, sanding with the grain and putting on Charitable events for Tyson Chicken because he could get them all on the phone cause he had tape recorded all of them. He was rolling with a captive audience of one. 
  
“How would you like to play a charitable event? I can give you a meal, a place to stay and a rock good time.” His face was a glow. 
  
Now take note, usually when someone makes a request such as this it involves a Sub way style Gas Station Sandwich, a palette of Pine needles on a refurbished crack house floor kitchen and waiting around for eight hours to play the back of a flatbed bed trailer through a 1950's Gym Speaker system acquired from the abandoned state park. So I gave him the typical answer. 
  
“Sure………give me call.”

 

cleaned out 03-25-2003

 

Most people hate the familiar ring of the telemarketer who interrupts at the most in opportune time to try and sell everything from miracle diets to Siding. My patented reply to get them off of the phone is simple and goes something like this. “hello Mr. hosty. We are offering a special and we need to confirm your address are you still at..”...........
I interrupt before they can finish and say,”
“What are you wearing?” and with that i usually hear the dial tone. last month however i forgot my technique and ended up getting cleaned out.
A Monday evening and the phone rings with the cheerful voice of an operator who informs me that her operatives, or Team as she called them will be in the area and was wondering if i would like to have my ducts cleaned. having undergone a recent throat operation, my curiosity over the in home pollutants was peaked and i thought that yes having the air ducts to remove mildew and mold would be a bully idea. I envisioned a crew of three with a large tanker truck hooked up to the ducts in my house sucking out all the harmful bacteria and growth of the years making my home smell angel fresh. You see i had heard of the dangers of air borne pollutants as i watched late night infomercials for the ionic Breeze. I was educated indeed. So send them over, I said.
With a confirmation call, within two days the team was there knocking at my door. we had planned a get together with some friends that night and I assured the wife that the clean ducts would add to a festive party atmosphere. she agreed until I opened the door.
in front of the house was the cleaning team truck that resembled a third world public transport bus that should have been filled with chickens and lined with old tires. And the cleaning crew- a husband and wife team whose communication and work place interaction with each other indicated to me that they had not yet red Men are from mars and Women are form Venus. Armed with a clipboard the male spoke.
“I need to asses your ducts.”
“Well OK I said.”
and let them in and he walked through the house looking at all of the ducts to clean and in all we had 10. “That is ten ducts that is 100 dollars, 10 per duct.” He said. What a bargain, clean air for only 100 dollars. I wonder what type of equipment they have. As i was day dreaming about the pure country air about to pour out of the outdates Central heat and Air system, a nightmare took its place.
Across the lawn the female was hauling a hose and vacuum unit that looked like R2-D2’s stunt double circa 1976. around her waits was a a tool belt of spray bottles filled with all of the colors of the rainbow. Dragging the unit in house, she quickly found a plug, hoisted the ladder and turned on her R2 unit.
As the vacuum fired up I was reminded of the Raiders of the Lost Ark, when the Ark was opened and all of the demons from the centuries flew out, destroying all in their path. this vacuum was truly the Ark of Cleveland County for when she flipped the switch the stench of ten thousand piss soaked mattresses came out of the filter and filled the whole house with the foulest smelling recirculatied air imaginable. It was as if someone had opened the containment field at Ghosbuster Central. My house was now the holland tunnel, a swirling Mass of odor that word fail to accurately pin point
my wife came out of the back of the house with a look on her usual cheerful visage that was more in the Hell raiser motif. I tried to calm her concerns but I was having trouble breathing and gathering enough air in my lungs to muster up,
“What in the Hell is going on?”
As the Dynamic Cleaning team whisked through the house dragging the battered R2 Vacuum and stepping up on a ladder to clean the ducts,
My University of Oklahoma education kicked in from the recess of my Cerebellum. Now the term “Duct Cleaning” is elusive. the Duct i learned was not the Entire Home Heating and Air Tube that you would see like in a restaurant hanging over head. the “Duct “ is merely the 12 inch piece of metal that is on the ceiling. Yep, the little piece of metal you see when you look up on your ceiling. they unscrewed them and wiped them down with the rainbow palette of cleaning agents that smelled much like Rock Creek Road and I 35 when Moore is all stirred up late after the witching hour.
The thing that got me was that the vacuum was on for only effect.
they never used it.
It was a diversion to make the house smell so bad that the tenants would leave and not see that the Duct cleaning was only about cleaning a 12 inch piece of metal from the ceiling.
Now i have been to the State Fair and been had by the Carnival sidemen pitching softballs and dropping rings but This took the cake mind you,.... the whole bakery. My house now smelled like Mr. Abernathy’s dog had drank ten gallons of Cranberry juice and deposited it on the rug, just in time for our party.
Hauling the dented aluminum vacuum out the door, the team loaded up the truck and came back in to present me with a bill. I thought, you know this scam is so good they deserve their hundred dollars. They had got me good, real good. So I said, “Honey , pay the good man.”
So when you get that call that says “Our Duct Cleaning team is going to be in the Area......” Save yourself some trouble, get a step ladder and a bottle of Windex and save your 100.00 bucks or you too will be cleaned out. 

 

elvis vs the Dancing man 03-06-2003

  
Oh the Deli, my hometown bar. Usually the dancing story revolves around drunken lass who choose to put on a stripperesquue without the stripping exhibition for the Sweet Tooth's in the crowd by dancing about the poles that hold the roof. This night proved there are others. 
  
  A Thursday night in a sleepy college town where a local Grocery Store clerk disguised as Elvis with seventies regalia complete with gold rimmed aviator glasses, purple/red spandex open-chested jumpsuit with Indian fringe and a Buddhist tattoo running down a red row on his chest was competing for the hearts of the ladies in the bar with a man in his late 70's of considerable experience. A School teacher from Dibble who used to be a farmer and a part time trucker, this elder was also a dancing machine whose feet incanted a jig that blurred his feet against the brick sloping floor of the Deli. His feet moved in the fashion of a cartoon character revving up to make a quick getaway accompanied by the furious flapping of the bongos. That night the Deli resembled the smoking lounge of the Atlanta International Airport where the travelers pack into to smoke sweet nicotine behind a glass wall which itself looks like a diorama from a museum of natural History Exhibit on the Late 20th Century rite of smoking. 
  
The dancing man as the elder was named was furious sin his onslaught giving Mr. Bogangles a run for his money and lighting the eyes of the young ladies with a fiery passion that erupted in applause. Elvis conceded the contest, as he was no match for the pent up dancing ability of the Okie Farm hand. Mysteriously he slipped out of the Deli and into the night leaving only the memory of the “fastest feet on White Street.” 

women are from venus and men must be from alaska 06-13-2002

 

When the Moon is Full, strange and unexplained things seem to happen.The date known as Friday the 13 th , in auspicious date where it is to believed to be the unluckiest and witching day of the month. Where creatures of the night come out to circulate among the living. Made for cable t.v. specials on the “bizarre' the “strange” and the “unknown” have capitalized on the superstition. 
  
  Now much in the fashion of “your peanut Butter is on my chocolate….no your chocolate is on my peanut better”, the combination of these two superstitions: the full moon on Friday the 13 th , and you have a recipe for the macabre. Such was the setting for the Tapwerks in OKC Hosty Duo show during the Full Moon on Friday the 13 th . 
  
Tapwerks is a small converted gas station that fell into disarray and was resurrected during the early 90's to house a cigar bar/ Ale Tap room consisting over well over 100 taped beers. Compared too most bars and venues we play in the Tapwerks is upscale and enjoys a clientele of certain economic means. 
  
We arrived to find that they had built a stage in the corner of the room. Now normally we would load everything to a perch up a flight of stairs, but when the venue booked Red Dirt hero Stoney larue into the play list, the stage was built in his honor. Now, the irony is that Stoney fell deathly ill and could not perform on the stage built in his honor. 
  
Load in was load in. Heavy box hurt Hulk's groin. Hulk need beer. Beer good. Fire bad. Sorry, when lading huge boxes my mind reverts back to the Clan of the Cave bear and my adrenal glands perk up. We set up and began to play. 
  
That night, there were several celebrations occurring. The first was a birthday for a Mid First banker employee who was turning 40 years of age. Isn't that bizarre? The kind of thing that would only happen on Friday the 13 th ? Just kidding.. 
  
The second was a family reunion of a group of folks who joined families in Alaska and Oklahoma. Now usually the union of folks from Arkansas and Oklahoma raise the level of terror alert when in a bar as the booze starts flowing they can tear the place to the ground. 
  
But tonight, the night of the full moon on Friday the 13 th something odder happened. Something even more bizarre. For the light of full moon through the windows of the small venue was about to show where the term Lunatic came from. 
  
During the first set one of the reunion members, the eldest brother decided to get the party started by putting the “40 Birthday” Wal-Mart folding design party favor on his head and strut around like a chicken on the dance floor. As he did I decided to comment in the fashion of the Discovery Channel British announcer. Kind of like this: 
  
“As the male enters the dance floor, he puts an ornament on his head to attract the female. Gyrating as shimming to the sound of the music he hope to mate with an inviting female.” 
As another bar patron passed by to go to the bathroom, he turned his attention towards him, oblivious to my ranting which was making the reunion party bust a stitch or two. 
  
I continued, “ The male, not finding a female, sometimes resorts to following a male.” 
It was a choreographed dance that went perfectly with the commentary. As I spoke he hammed it up even more even removing his rented tuxedo shirt and shoes. 
  
His brother seeing that his older sibling was getting all of the attention entered the dance floor also with a party favor on his head. As the two imitated each other, they did look like a couple of roosters competing for the hens in Mutual of Omaha fashion . After which the two rivals settled down, gave each other high fives and sat to Asses the amount of sweat they had worked up. 
  
The reunion group from Alaska was subdued for the next couple of minutes   and sat quietly in the corner with rented tuxedo's and formal wear gently sipping adult beverages in a Victorian manner until……………Someone asked for a Surf tune. Now keep in mind the Moon, the date, but add in a surf tune and beer………………..and you can imagine what happened. 
The two oldest boys from a family of seven lurched on to the dance floor flailing their arms in Drunken monkey Style Kung Fu Fashion. It was a brotherly form of moshing, where one brother would grab the other in a wrestling move and administer a nootgie on top of the head, the other would throw him to the ground and wrestle around a bit. The crowd watched at first in amusement, which soon turned to terror as the Surf tune increased in intensity so did the Brothers from Junno, Alaska.   Swinging each other around in whirlwind fashion, one of them fell flat on his face. The thud that occurred when his face hit the hardwood floor was much like the sonic waves created when a hunk of ham wrapped in plastic falls to the showroom floor. I though the show was over. But in true bar room fashion, he leaped up to proclaim “OK…. I am OK” as if waiting for news from his corner to continue the fight of permission from the ref. 
  
The elder brother in a surprise move grabbed the little brother and flung him into the cigarette machine, wrapping his hand around his kin and rabbit punching him in the back of the head. As the crowd watched, the crowd creped closer as the brother's shinaagins turned into what resembled an Irish Bar fight from the 1860's in the old west. During the melee, the Brother in Law came out to the dance floor, laughing hysterically and trying to break them up when Middle Bro performed a Brothers Karamazov back flip and kicked his brother in law in the face…not once but twice….
  
Sensing they we getting out of hand they retired to the back, and middle bro looked as if he had had enough…when he lurched into the group and toppled the whole party into the table. It was a scene straight out of Hooper staring Burt Reynolds…. The eldest brother escaped the bottom of the pile to return to the dance floor and continue his Dance Fever assault. But don't count the middle son out because, and here is where the mot memorable event of the evening took place, He assumed a Jimmy Super Fly Snuka stance ala WWF on the top rope of the Squared circle and leaped off his perch onto his brother slamming him to the ground. The crowd gasped and was slowing wondering, where is the door guy? 
  
After the leap the show was over, drenched in sweat I decided to halt the surf tune before they spilled onto another table. 
  
I approached the mic and said, “ladies and Gentlemen give it up for the Folks from Alaska. They are having a hell of a time. 
  
As soon as my words left my lips, the eldest of the group, in a sweat drenched rented tuxedo top torn open from the tangling tango climbed on stage and grabbed the mic. The room fell silent as to wonder what words of wisdom the gallant warrior of the Ale room would say. 
“We may be from Alaska. Not form Oklahoma, But we don't @#$%   around.” And he exited the stage, like an all Star who had played his last game to a silent and respectful group. 
  
“A man of Few words” I said…knowing that any more could result in an on stage display. 
  
Later that night as the full moon faded, the beer-stained floor began to coagulate and the smell of the smoke settled into my clothes, asked the door guy if he saw what was going on at all. He said he did and earlier the elder of the two had smashed a beer glass on the floor only to apologize in drunken guy fashion of disbelief followed by apology, “What?…….I am sorry I am just trying to have fun.” 
  
  
It was a scene Hollywood could not have choreographed better. 19th century mock bar brawl between brothers from Junno Alaska where they search for the Klondike gold. The kind of thing that only seems to happen on nights of full moons, Friday the 13ths and nights the Hosty Duo plays. 

fort smith wedding brawl 08-15-2002

 

Fort Smith Arkansas was the site of the legendary posse that musicians only dream about. You see there are always hecklers and guys yelling Freebird in the crowd and band is basically powerless to stop them unless they learn the Lynard Skynard song. But that night at the Wedding reception by the river was a night all musicians live for.
You see we were set up in a park on top of a Levee on the Arkansas river. A river that flows right into the Mississippi. That levee was right across from the gallows of Judge Parker, the infamous Hanging judge who would hang time Life book subscribers just for snoring to loud. Now remember this symbol of justice. It will become way to eiree as the story unfolds. As we were playing a young fella came up and asked if he could play guitar because well he knew how to play and he was real good too.
I said no as nicely as I could but he persisted asking me what kind of guitar I had, if I knew any Sabbath or Joe Walsh etc. His question became more and more pointed. You know the exact moment when someone is taking to you and you realize they are trying to tease or haze you. Well, it was that moment The organizer of the party seeing that this drunk guy would not let up came over and politely asked him to leave, which he didn’t. Finally he left, thanks to the organizer Bill. Bill apologized and I said no problem.
Thinking it was over we sat on the top of the Levee when the shit hit the fan. All of a sudden I see Bill, who is 6 foot 260 chasing they guy who was talking to me across the park. The heckler jumped in a pickup truck that had fishtailed into the park like out of a Steve Mcqueen movie and shot up dirt everywhere. Bill yelled to his partner and they all followed suit by jumping into another waiting pick up truck as they sped out of site.
Bill and the Heckler Posse eventually caught up the guy on Main Street Garrison and pulled him out of the bar and proceeded to beat the living hell out of him in the street. And then jumping back in th truck and racing away like Zorro after he had saved the village from the outlaws.
Upon returning to the park, Bill informed us that they guy had called him a "Fat fuck" and that had set Bill’s purge valve off leaving him no choice than to beat the Heckler to a pulp. Combined with the Heckling of the band he didn’t stand a chance. So there you have a story of redemption for all the bands of the world from the guy who yells Freebird. In one instance he took on the sins of the Heckling world and received the proper Karmic response. And not even at my hands!!!~Hosty Out 
Halloween at Howlers to the top 
Ah the holiday season is coming faster that the Devil on Sunday. But the best holiday seems to be Halloween. People get all dressed up and assume the identity of their garb. In addition to that they all get wasted and make for one of the best party times of the year. You can see a drunk pirate trying to fight Nixon. You get the idea I love Halloween. This months episode involves my first Halloween gig at a South OKC Biker bar called Howlers.
What is Howlers you ask? Well to begin with the place doesn’t have a door and the floor is made primarily of dirt and gravelized shards of broken bottle glass. The mens bathroom is located in the form of a feeding trough along the wall so you don’t have to mess with the hassle of opening a door and going in a room. Oh there is no shame for the patrons...everyone is alright with it. The patrons are composed of the Biker element from episodes of Cops. Gold paint rings were even seen being sported by on fellow passed out in the corner.
How did I get this gig? The Band was Zulu King and featured Lex 'Lord of Drums' who had been known to play his drums with bloody fists, and Jammin John Cook on the bass. We didn’t have too many gigs so the DJ at Sugars who was a Rock and Roll Rick Wakeman style Keyboard player complete with open chested shirt and gold medallions along with a New York Accent asked us if we would back him up on a Halloween gig. The pay was 50 dollars a guy. I said hell YES!!!!!
Now remember the description of the club I gave earlier.
I had no idea.
We get there and see the place. John, who for all the years I have known him has been up for anything says
"I am Scared. We are going to die."
Trying to be cheerful I said "Oh, it can’t be that bad." 
So we set up and played.
The crowd started to turn a little ugly, aparently James Brown is not what bikers listen too. Go figure. Then John says something that sounds like it came out of a movie, in fact it is from a movie. " We better play something these people like and fast!"
So we tear into a classic rock barrage that leaves them wanting more. And we were safe for the time being. But the gig is not the story here it is the Haloween costume contest and the people in it.
The participants were only four. The first was a Giant of a Biker who wanted in the contest. It didn’t seem to matter that he was not wearing a costume but nobody had the heart or balls to tell him. Contestent number two was a nurse. Yes a nurse who had gotten off of work as a nurse and was shit faced drunk pole dancing to Paranoid. She ended up falling over on the dirt floor passed out from libation. The third guy was some kind of cat man who stumbled across the stage only to put his head down on a table and pass out.
The final contestent was a beauty. She was a pro, a ringer, if you will. Obviously an exotic dancer she wowed the crowd with her "ART" and subsequntly won the contest. But during her coronation the contest was halted. It appeared that there was a water leak of some kind coming towards the stage. But it wasn’t water. You see the cat-man was pissing his pants as he sat passed out at a table. So the kindly bar keep who looked like the pro Wrestler Gerge the Animal Steele picked him up and threw him out the doorless door. Then the queen was free to survey her kingdom.Over and Out...Hosty  

where's ya flippers 04-15-2002


The Outdoor music festival known as the Groovefest canopied beneath the shady trees of Abe Andrew’s WPA Amphitheater is a Norman Tradition.
The good folks at Amnesty International provide a day of music on Sunday afternoon where folks from all over the municipality come to hang out, picnic and picnic. As with every outdoor event there is always that one guy or gal who has been there all day long and started the party a few days before not even taking time to come up for air. 
Such people are written off as insane, drunk or methed up.
Some would call them hecklers, interfiering with the show.
I say these folks are seerers of the future.
Such was the setting for the Abe Andrew’s Park Prophet.
The Wife and I set out Sunday afternoon from our State Street address to covert in the park while enjoying the sites and sounds of the A.I. Groovefest. It is a time to see all of the folks in the daytime you usually only see at night. Dogs of every size and shape provide much need lawn matneince in the for of fertilizer, the sno cone guy, activist booths and also the bands. We picked a shady spot under an evergreen tree to watch the music unfold. We laid out a “blanket on the ground” knocked off our flip flops and kicked back.
On the stage was non other than leather pants clad Falcon Five O playing their radio family friendly brand of generic rock. As they lumbered through their set, a festival goer had taken her place on the front of the stage, literally on the stage and was rocking out. This haggard concert goer looking much in the vein of the Wicked Witch of the West on PCP saluted the band with the rock horns and then proceed to take one of the lead singers flip flops that he had removed and casually walked off. As we watched, the Falcon’s dispatched one of their cronies to follow the lady and retrieve the shoe, which he had quite a time but finally prevailed in returning the missing piece of footwear.
From this point is when the prophecy began.
“Where is your shoe’s? you Crybaby!!” she yelled
and continued to yell during the whole rest of the OKC’s Falcon Five O’s set to which the lead singer was powerless to respond to the verbal hazing. He stood with no reply resorting only to a mid 80’s Nuno Bettencourt inspired guitar twirl in hopes to silence the shoe pilfered. 
His antics only served to inspirer her rage.
”aint got no flippers!!!!!!
Where is yer Flippers!!!!
Where is yer flippers.”
She ranted.
“where is yer shoes!!
Where did you get em Walgreens?”
she raved in a quivering voice ala Katherine Heburn on meth.
And she would not stop.
She was consumed with the shoes.
She apparently wanted those shoes.
“Where are yer flippers!???!???
Get them Fliippers?!” She yelled
Bill Richards, stunt bartender at the Deli, even got in on it with a
“Where is yer flippers?”
To a smattering of applause, the Falcon Five O ended their set with not a bang but with a whimper, obviously phased by the verbal battery at the hands of the haggard lady.
But her ravings were not confined to the band and her taking of the shoes was not meant for them for as the wife Kellie and I returned from purchasing a Coke, with crushed ice of course, and made it back to our blanket she noticed something ary.
“Where are my shoes?” She asked 
“Someone stole my shoes.”
I said” You mean your Flippers? from Walgreens?”
The crazy heckler from the crowd was not crazy indeed, nor was she a heckler. Her words had proven true. And although this did not help the wife’s feelings on loosing the shoe, she did concede that the missing flippers had been foretold.
And from the back we heard,
“Where Are yer shoes?”
And it was all clear,
the haggard one was not as she seemed but a prophet foreseeing the theft of the “flippers”.
Yes the prophet is never revered in their home town.
So next time you see that one guy ranting and raving at the concert,
listen closely , don’t dismiss him as crazy he could be foretelling of tales yet to come.  

Stop, hey what's that Sound Roadside Surgery 07-05 2002

 

  
The words most seasoned travelers fear most on the road is: “Do you hear something funny coming from the engine?” which is only preceded by the second thing a driver does not want hear: “Is that the wheel coming off into the ditch?” Both are paramount to the telling of this Texas interstate tale. 
  
Usually, the blasts of Classic rock by Boston on the FM radio dial drown out the potential road problems, masking the sound until it is too late. Yet, traveling in our van over the past ten years I've developed a peculiar talent to decipher odd mechanical dings, pings, grinds and bumps. The acoustical properties of potential road trouble are as different as the genes that make up life itself- each with its own signature all of its own. 
  
For example, when the van caught on fire thanks to a blown heater core under the dash, not only was the interior of the van filled with a poisonous gas, but the squealing of a steam engine – much like that of the Monitor or the Merrimac- could be heard, a volume that is rivaled only by the Friday noon tornado siren test in Hometown Norman. 
  
Of course I thought the fire was due to the overheating of my Glen Campbell “live at royal hall” tape that had been lodged in the tape player for the past several weeks continuously playing “Sunflower” and a patriotic medley of Glen Campbell cocaine show rock. 
  
And when my lovely and talented wife, Mrs. Kellie Lynne Hosty, took the helm during a stint through the badlands of new Mexico, the odd sound of a buzz saw ping, followed by something that sounded like a little midget throwing a rock at the engine, and a rattle accompanied by the van locking up and drifting off the road, could only mean that the belt housing pulley that holds the engine together came off. 
  
Luckily, we broke down next to a 24 hour AutoZone in Albuquerque on route 66 and happened upon a journeyman mechanic on his way to a Mexican fiesta. While he fixed the engine his amigo took me on a ride in his supped up turbo charged Honda. We reached mach 2 in that thing as he laughed hysterically as we spun into the Conoco to buy some beer to pass the time. On returning we were back on the road in no time. 
  
Saturday June 22, 2002 Austin Texas 
  
  On the way from Austin to Norman to play a gig at the Cleveland County's home of Live music- the deli- I heard…a sound. A sound unlike any sound I had heard before. 
“Did you hear that?” I asked tic Tac, interested only in the Amon Tobin minidisk he was trying to jar loose, did not reply. 
  
The van took a wide swipe to the right. A grinding sounded, much like a coffee machine revving up or breathing as I have been told. 
  
Squealing, the van swerved to the right again- hard. The brakes went out. As my foot pushed the pedal to the floor the speedometer as 70mph, I could only think in incomplete sentences in true action movie fashion. The wheel locked d up and the van drifted towards the bar ditch as the packed I-35 weekend city traffic closed in. 
“Is that the Wheel” I felt like a cartoon character….”mother.” 
“Pull over. Pull over.Easy..hosty Pull over…” Tic Tac finally heard and the van was pulling itself over by itself, so I let go of the wheel…just kidding.
A familiar sight- the van on a jack by the side of the road swaying in the wind wake of passing trucks, my rock and roll dreams in a ditch by the Texas road. Mud flap gravel spit on us by truckers and the sun wasn't helping either. A tow truck was called thanks to AA and a rental car was reserved. 
“We aren't going to make it back in time to play,” Tic Tac said. 
“Yes we are,” I replied. “Yes we are.” 
I had to repeat myself because it was a made for TV moment, or at least ABC after school special moment. 
  
One phone call to a Austin and we were saved. Thanks to 40 minutes of hell drummer and my former band mate, Scott Mason, who expatriated to Austin, we made it back to Norman with minutes to spare and a tale to tell. Ironically, while in a band with Scott the wheel had come off on Sooner road after a five hour late night jaunt from Little rock to Norman where I hit the curb doing 60. 

Chicken Fightn 1998 

Chicken Fightin'  

Some tales of the Road are woven before the gig. Such are the tales of van maintenance. This particular day Byars, or Tic-Tac as we call him, went to this little Oklahoma town called Blanchard to buy a new trailer. You see we had worn the wheels off of the other one, barely surviving a near death experience, so we said it is time to give the old trailer a Viking Funeral and begin destroying another fine made Oklahoma product. 
Blanchard is south of Norman in McClain County, Oklahoma just over the Canadian River. Along the way there is buffalo farm with a heard of at least 100 ‘Tatonka.’ As we came over the ridge I couldn’t see the new trailer Tic-Tac had been ranting about…..but we soon would. 
Pulling into the lot, the jumpsuit clad proprietor was underneath a decrepit speed boat hooking up the tail lights for a good ol boy wearing a fanny sack, Oakley sun glasses and a shirt with a scene of a motorcycle going so fast past a young lady that it torn her shirt clean off (a very beautiful site I must say). Trailers were all over the lot as far as the eyes could see, and of course a early 80’s Monte Carlo turned into Top Fuel Race Car complete with roll bar. 
All of a sudden the owners voice came, “Try that,” in a gruff country lisping drawl. For about an hour we heard, “Try this light, try that light……..” The lights never did work but he soon relented and gave his attention to selling us a trailer. After walking around on the lot he said he had a trailer at home that would better suit our needs. 
So we hopped in his truck…along the way he asked, “So what do you fellas dos?” 
“Well we are musicians, and we need the trailer to haul around our stuff,” I said. 
“Oh musicians well that’s good we need music,” he said. And then quite prophetically added, “A lot of people loose site of the big picture and quit because of little thangs. You got to keep your eyes on the big picture.” This man was turning out to be a sage of sorts. 
As we turned the corner to his house ‘Big Red’, our new trailer was in site plain as day as well as something else… what I thought to be little dog houses everywhere, but they also had…….roosters tied up to each one. My god, I finally realized he was raising fighting chickens! They were everywhere and guarded by two of the meanest guard MULES (yes mules) I have ever seen.
Byars asked timidly, “ So you raise fight’n Chickens. I knew a guy…….” 
And before Byars could finish our jump-suited sage began to speak, “My chickens are like my kids. Sometimes I just go out and watch them, feed them.”
“Do you fight them?” I asked
“Oh yeah I treat my chickens good, they get two years of good eating and living before they go to the pit.”
(The pit is where the gamecocks have knives taped to their legs or a little hook and they fight to the death.)
Then I made the mistake of asking, “What do you think of those people in the city trying to ban chicken fighting?”
I was trying to make small talk, but as it turned out, he walked away quietly with his thoughts on the question. I thought he was going to tell us to get the hell of his place either that or kill us and feed us to the chickens. As we unloaded Evergreen feed from the trailer onto pallets our chicken raisin’ friend drove up on a forklift and growling he began to speak.
“ Those people are talking about stuff they don’t know. I ship these chickens all over the world, like South America. I treat my chickens good. At Tyson those chickens are fed the leftover parts of other chickens, raised in a less than one foot of cage and live only 16 weeks. Our founding fathers fought chickens and even the ancient people.”
Ah ……….the ancient people I thought. Ah who cares, he was on a roll.
“Hell I spend 400 dollars a month feeding these things, putting money into the community and that lady in the city who says it is cruel don’t know she is messing with a lifestyle that goes back thousands of years. These chickens were bread to fight each other. You can’t keep two in one yard. They will attack, that’s all they know to do. That aint American telling someone else what they can and can’t do just cause you don’t like it. You got to keep out of other peoples business. They take away one right and then they start to take them all these days.”
And with that, the fork lift shot up a cloud of dust and exhaust and drove away. It was a scene straight out of a low budget public access documentary.
Byars and I were standing almost in tears at the patriotic speech ready to salute the flag. But instead we finished unloading the fifty-pound bags of Evergreen feed, closing up the big red trailer and driving away. As the Blanchard trailer company faded into the rearview we realized we had bought a former feed trailer from a professional racecar driving patriotic chicken fighter. 
God bless America and chicken fighting. 

Rib Shack Shuffln crew 09-1998


The Fort Smith Celebrity Golf Tournament was going on the day we were playing. So the crowd anticipated seeing big name stars like, former defense star for the Dallas Cowboys and pitiful excuse for a boxer Ed ‘Too Tall Jones. Also former Chicago Bears quarterback and leader of the Super Bowl Shuffle in 1984 Mr. Jim McMahon. And there were a whole host of supporting stars from the television show Cheers, etc But since I forgot my peepers I couldn’t see.
The Punch line you ask. Here it comes. A television personality form the Ft. Smith area approached the band stand with a swagger reminiscent of Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter. He looked at me and Said,"Do you ever have anyone sit in with you?" Hoping not to ruin it like the Collective Soul experience, I said "Sure Do." Hoping with all my heart that it was 70’s football sensation Ed "Too Tall" Jones. Did Ed Sing and Dance? The possibilities were endless! 
"Well," the anchorman said " Jim McMahon plays a mean harmonica do you mind if he plays one with you?" This is great. "Sure get him up here!!" I wanted to play the Super Bowl Shuffle as soon as he got on the stage. We are the Bears shuffle crew!!! A dream come true!!!
Well we set up a mic. Got ready. Pumped up the crowd with stories of Rip Taylor. But unfortunately Jim apparently either found a hooker, got to drunk or used his superstar status to get in free somewhere else. I watched him all night hoping he would get up but no way. Jim was gone. Damn it to Hell. 
It wasn’t a total loss. I found two guys in the audience and told the crowd they were with Blue Oyster Cult. They went along with the gag, and probably got a lot of free drinks, and all the ladies. Oh well I though it was going to be the in cast of Cannonball Run Part II, the greatest movie ever made staring Burt Reynolds. But you got to have dreams. You got to have something to hope for.
~Hosty Out 

the Stalker 1997 


Now I love unusual situations at the bar. Like the time I met the Stalker.
"Hey, you should have won that contest at the T-Bar." Said the mysterious voice. As I turned around, I saw a middle-aged, haggard man wearing a vest, turtle neck and what appeared to be a tie. Not knowing how exactly to respond, I said "We sure should have won." My mind was blank on what the hell we were supposed to win but I decided to play along and see where it was going to go.
"That gall dern blues competition at the T-Bar where the Blues Society put on. Ol Smilin' Vic won and you guys should have" he said.
Now it came back to me. The Competition he was speaking of was the Oklahoma Blues Society Amateur blues competition. Mike Byars and I had tried to win this event unsuccessfully for the past several years and had always gotten last place. We were loud as hell and raw as a scab on the playground. The winners were usually the equivalent to the smooth jazz of the blues world. 
"I was in 'Blues Hangover', we had a trumpet and a guitar." He said bringing me back from my nostalgia.
"Oh yeah." I said, "I don’t remember your name but….." 
And before I could ask he began...
"My name, I don’t need no name! ....I'm a criminal!" he said with a slight grin. And with that he pulled out a piece of paper littered with official State of Oklahoma stamps that said in bold print at the top, CRIMINAL.
"Well, you sure are." I said "What exactly are you a criminal for?"
And with a look of disgust and a small bit of pride he said "Stalking! My ex-wife, or thought was my ex-wife, see we never divorced…I thought we were divorced but nooooooo……she never signed no papers and don’t let me see those kids…….So I went by there one night all drunk and was yelling and playing golf on her front lawn." As he demonstrated hitting golf balls through the front window of his true loves house. 
"The next time I showed up at her house I was just drunk……And the last time I called her on the phone and said, Honey I’m comin over there to put a gun to the back of your head and pull the trigger I just want you to know that it was me who pulled the triggger……Hell it took them a week to find me and I did nine months in the jail. I wasn’t gonna blow her head off I was just trying to scare her."
"Ah I see.." I said not really knowing how to respond.
"So I got out (of the slammer) and the judge gave me this piece of paper that says I am a criminal. Hell when I get pulled over and the policeman asks for my ID I just pull this out and say I don’t need any ID, I'm a Criminal!!!!!" and with that he slammed back his Crown and Coke.
"That woman is going to pay… by the time we get done taking her to court she is gonna have to pay me a lot of money and I won’t be surprised if Governor Keatn’ give me a full pardon." Summing up his story with a look of accomplishment and determination on his violent visage.
"Well at least your out and...well...drinking." I though this was a stroke of good conversational etiquette. Having never been in this type of conversation before I decided to go low key. 
And with that he gave me the universal rock and roll power clinched fist in the air routine that gave me a feeling I hadn’t felt since the last biker fight I saw at the Steve Miller show at the Zoo Amphitheater in beautiful OKC. 
It’s true, love makes you do crazy things.
~Hosty Out 

Cults, pool balls and beer 1996

 


There are several bars that are my favorite in the whole wide world to play at for a whole bunch of reasons. Decor, odor, etc., But what really makes a bar are the people you meet. And there is no better place in the world than at the legendary…well I can’t say for reasons that involve personal safety... in Tulsa, Oklahoma right behind the Kentucky Fried Chicken where I first learned of the after 11 chicken chunk into the trash diving. That is a story all in itself.
Well the first time I played at old Jake’s it was I believe Tuesday night and we were lost and late as usual. So when we got there I went to work setting up the PA and sound equipment like the DEA busting into a meta-Anphetamine lab out there in Lincoln County. And when I busted in the door I realized we were in trouble. 
"I though you guys weren’t going to make it!" Said the Bar Keep. "Well," I tried to think real hard for a good excuse, but being stoned I said "It was Aliens!"
So the gig went pretty normal from the time we set up. We got pitchers of beers, got drunk and played classic rock that we had heard on the radio coming up to the gig while they screamed Metallica, Molly Hatchet and Led Zepplin at us. We obliged them all even going so far as to play a Neil Diamond cover of " They Come to America."
The dance floor was packed. I say that because this place was about as big as my shoe and there was no where for anyone to go! But they liked it loud. I noticed a young lady on the dance floor Dancing around on crutches with what appeared to be a broken foot. Despite the cast, she was getting down. Throwing the crutches all around almost nailing a couple people. But who cares she was having fun.
So on the break I sit down to have a little beer when who do you think comes and sits right next to me. You got it, the dancer with the Broken Foot. "I like the way you play that guitar." she said. "Well thanks." I said. "I saw you getting down out there with that cast on. How did you break your foot? Sking perhaps."
After I had asked this question I realized it was a mistake. " Why no! I was cleaning my shotgun, Well I had to take it awy from my little boy he was playing with it and when I pulled it out of his hands I blew my foot off." She said with a smile.
" Really?" this was to unreal. "Oh yeah" She Said " See I got no foot!" And with that she pulled off he cast and her sock to reveal that infact she had blown off her foot with a shotgun and let me tell you I can’t describe it vividly but believe me...I mean believe you me. "Wow, that is terrible." Being a stickler for details I noticed because of her low cut revealing dress that she had a scar on her throat. So I asked if that was part of the shotgun incident."
"Oh no, that was from when I got abducted by a cult last year. You see they tied me up with duct tape and electrical tape after they kidnapped me from my apartment. They were Satanists, with my old boyfriend. They tied a rope around my neck and dragged me down the stairs and then stabbed me 30 some odd times and left me for dead in the bar ditch at the side of the road. The only thing that saved me was the tight elecrical tape keep’n me from bleed to death" she finished in a cheery manor. I didn’t know what to say and before I knew it she was showing the puncture wounds to me.
"Do you want to come over and party after the gig" she said. Now, judging by her luck I decided that a safe trip home was in order for me, so I told her thanks for the beer and see ya later. She seemed unfazed by my lack of interest and soon started working on other available gents in the bar.
But you see the night was not over yet. Before I go much further, you all know my theory on country hillbilly music. If you start playing it people start fighting and if the fight is already going you must stop the song you are playing and immediately begin a hillbilly breakdown. With that in mind the next events soon happened.
Our last song was in full swing when the participants in a pool game started to argue. "Fuck You" said one of the pool playing people and struck his opponent over the head with a pool cue shattering it in two and taking out the beautiful Spuds McKenzie pool lantern in process. A move that I think is illegal in the game of pool.
We immediately stop playing and go into the Hillbilly Rag, a faster than fast bluegrass humdinger. Soon the fight escalates while one of the waitress stands like a trailerpark cheerleader screaming "No Billy!!!! No Billly!!" It is like live Kabookie Theater. The fight going on and us providing the live soundtrack for it!!
Punches are flying, beer canasters are being broken. Pool balls are being used as weapons and the furious beat of the train beat bluegrass is wailing. The fight moves outside where one of the most amazing things I have ever seen takes place usually the type of thing reserved for "That’s Incredible" or "Real Death Stories"
The original assailent punched with his bare hands through the side window of a parked truck, bursting the window and cutting his hand open with blood going everywhere. Now the fight was over, so we stopped playing and decided to get the hell out of there. I didn’t want to find out what the fight was about. Hell I already knew. The love of the beautiful lady dancing on the dance floor spinning around and around with her recent firearm injury. For her hand the mighty gladiators fought bravely, and in the end she had passed out dead drunk in a booth and did not even witness their great display of machismo.
~Hosty Out

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