I was trying to cheer myself up, it being autumn and all. Lots of other stuff going on, and it's all uniformily bad.
Yesterday, however, I was at a cowboy bar in Cave Creek, AZ. I could tell it was a real cowboy bar because there was a horse arena in the back, horses with and without riders were wandering around and the jukebox was playing an eclectic mix of George Straight, Jimmy Buffett and old Hank Jr., from back when Bocephus and I traveled together.
I was watching a long lean cowgirl, wondering in a strictly non-sexist engineering sort of way how she got those jeans on and off, like maybe was there some kind of modified sausage casing machine or a particular kind of denim lubricant. No matter — the great thing about a real cowboy bar, as opposed to a cowboy bar in downtown Denver, is that in a real cowboy bar that whole cowboy ethos thing is real. Unlike, say, the guys who run SASS, the cowboy shooting group, who wear hats and boots, talk endlessly about "the Cowboy Way" and will promptly pick your pocket, lie to your face, piss on your dog and probably sell you their wives and daughters for 10 minutes of airtime and a clean $20 bill, in a real cowboy bar, you get the benefit of a doubt. Maybe you're the living breathing reincarnation of John Wesley Hardin or maybe you're Nancy Pelosi, but you're treated straight up and with courtesy until you prove yourself unworthy. Believe me, there are worse places for the merry-go-round to stop than a cowboy bar in rural Arizona. Hell, all I ever wanted was the benfit of a doubt! And a decent 1911. I got the 1911, so I'm half-way there.
I left the Buffalo Chip Bar feeling like maybe the entire world didn't suck.
Will be up at GUNSITE tomorrow for a day, and that's always good for a boost. Especially if I get to crank off some belt-fed weapons.
I wonder just what makes a man keep pushing on
What makes me keep on hummin' this old highway song
I've been from coast to coast a hundred times before
I ain't found one single place where I ain't been before
White Line Fever
A sickness born down deep within my soul
White Line Fever
The years keep flyin' by like the highline poles
What makes me keep on hummin' this old highway song
I've been from coast to coast a hundred times before
I ain't found one single place where I ain't been before
White Line Fever
A sickness born down deep within my soul
White Line Fever
The years keep flyin' by like the highline poles
— Merle Haggard
"White Line Fever"
"White Line Fever"
Tomorrow is, after all, another day!
5 comments:
Hang in there, Michael! You sound a bit disillusioned. I know how you feel, and you are not along my friend.
You were up at the Buff Chip and didn't even call me to buy you a beer. (and it wouldn't have been one of those nasty chili beers, unless you wanted one)
Shame.
I could have helped you figure out how those jeans got on...
KMitch200
read today's obituaries. They all have nothing to worry about now.
George Strait, Jimmy Buffett, Hank Jr. and Merle Haggard. Add Shiner Bock to that mix and I'd be in seventh heaven. As for this little snippet:
Unlike, say, the guys who run SASS, the cowboy shooting group, who wear hats and boots, talk endlessly about "the Cowboy Way" and will promptly pick your pocket, lie to your face, piss on your dog and probably sell you their wives and daughters for 10 minutes of airtime and a clean $20 bill
...one would almost swear you were talking about the people who run the radio stations that don't play those folks anymore (with the notable exception being George Strait). What makes you keep pushing on? The fact that you know better days will come again.
And every man needs to own at least one good 1911 at some point in his life...
Awww man, the Buffalo CHip is a great place; next time you're gonna be down here y'all need to drop a line.
Oh, and you should try the satisfied frog just down the street as well; we were there last Sunday night.
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