Posted by Mark David Manders
Sat, 27 May 2006 11:30:00 GMT
Today the triplets turn eight years old. Kathryn is at school right now and the kids just left to go over to a friend’s house, leaving me here to clean up from their sleep over last night. It’s really not that bad; only three rooms were destroyed. Actually, the garage, where the adults spent the evening watching the Mavericks game, is in the worst shape.
Last night my ex-neighbor Shawn and I were talking and he said, “You know, you ought to start writing about what goes on in your garage when all the neighbors get together. You could call it ‘News from the Garage.’” So there you have; a subtopic to News from the Road has been conceived.
So let me start by giving a brief recap of yesterday’s events. I spent the morning making phone calls and doing paperwork, and then it was off to the Academy sports store to buy the boys their birthday presents. Since they’re now eight years old I thought it was time to get James and Justin their first “big boy” present. I bought them each a Crossman 760 BB gun. There’s a little creek not far from our house where I take the kids, the perfect place to shoot old cans and snakes.
On my way home I stopped by the dreaded Home Depot to get the last of the materials for Jessica’s present, a gymnastics bar I was building in the back yard. I’m not going to get on my soap box, but I would like to state right here and now that I am extremely anti-Lowes and Home Depot. Just walking into either of those mega-monopolies rubs me the wrong way. Yesterday, however, I managed to keep my cool and get out of Home Depot without swearing once.
I got back to the house around lunch time and set the posts for Jessica’s gymnastics bar. The kids all stayed at friends’ houses the night before and I was left alone for the greater part of yesterday afternoon, a factor which expedited my progress immensely. By 2:00 I was 90 percent finished with Jessica’s present. All that was left to do was insert the bar after the concrete had time to set.
Kathryn came home from work about the time I was putting up my tools from the back yard. She is now on Frito Lay’s summer work schedule, which involves staying a half hour later Monday through Thursday and getting off at noon each Friday. The summer schedule runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day and it will come in handy this year since the kids are not going to day care. I’m not sure how we’re going to manage this summer with me traveling, but hopefully I have earned enough babysitting credits with the other mothers to get us by.
Kathryn picked up our kids, as well as a few of the neighbor’s, and took them to the pool. Justin stayed at home with me to help finish Jessica’s gymnastics bar. I couldn’t find my 1 ¼” hole saw (you’d have to see my garage to understand why), so Justin and I drove back to Home Depot where I bought a new set. I love projects where I get to buy new tools.
Just after we got home, my ex-neighbor, Shawn, showed up and helped us complete our project. Kathryn, James, and Jessica arrived a few minutes later. Then the phone rang. It was Sandy, the mother of one of the boys’ friends, who asked what we were doing for the Mavericks game. Kathryn invited Sandy over, hung up the phone, and immediately went into a panic. Once again, you’d have to see my garage to understand.
Kathryn, Shawn, and I spent the next half hour cleaning the garage. We more or less got everything in order before Sandy and her kids showed up, and then it was game time. Mac, my other ex-neighbor, dropped by during the first period. Why do I keep calling people my ex-neighbors? Shawn used to live next door but moved about a mile away. Mac used to live across the alley with David but moved into an apartment at the end of the street.
The Mavericks game was fantastic. The only distraction I had was when someone asked me for a beer. I was sitting closet to the refrigerator but I had to get up each time because the door opened in the opposite direction of my chair. Shawn noticed this and came up with an ingenious suggestion: let’s reverse the swing of the door. We did. We thought it would be funny to watch our other neighbors’ reactions the first time they tried to open the door. Max decided to take the prank a little further and mounted the door handles in the original position, which was now where the hinges were. In other words, when you went to pull on the door handle nothing happened.
The funny thing is that every time one of us went for a beer we instinctively reached for the door handle. Call it a conditioned response, but it was hilarious.
After the Mavericks game Sandy went home and brought back a board game called “Catch Phrase”. Now we have played several games in the garage late at night, but this was a new one. Dave (my neighbor across the alley) dropped by a little later and joined in. Leslie (not really a neighbor, but might as well be one) and her sister showed up after the George Strait concert and also participated. Kathryn, Sandy, Shawn, Max, and I all got a big laugh the first time each of the newcomers went to the fridge for a beer. They got an even bigger laugh each time one of us forgot and tried to pull on the door handle.
I guess it was 1:30 when Kathryn decided to go to bed. She had to be up early this morning for class. I was pretty worn out myself and said goodnight, leaving the neighbors to fend for themselves.
The kids woke me up early this morning. Sandy dropped by around 9:00 and invited all three to her house to play. I was going to use my free time to clean, but I just wasted an hour typing this entry. I’ve got thirty minutes before Kathryn gets home, so here I go again, running around in panic mode.
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Tue, 23 May 2006 14:30:00 GMT
I had a busy weekend and didn’t get a chance to write the News from the Road until now. I guess I’ll start with Thursday morning when I started receiving calls about the “Brokeback” article in the Dallas Observer. I had read it online the night before, so I was already aware of its content.
So here’s my take on the article. First of all, Rob Patterson, who wrote the piece, is a friend of mine. We don’t hang out together, but I have known him for years and he has always been kind to me in his reviews. Rob had called me the week before to get a quote for the article and I asked him, “Are you going to lambaste me?” He replied that he had a problem with the song and not me. Fair enough. In our conversation I could tell that Rob was truly offended by the song and I apologized. In my defense I will say that I never intentionally meant to ruffle any feathers. As I told Rob, I have all sorts of songs in which I make fun of myself, so I didn’t think the Brokeback song was too much of a departure. Anyway, the article is out and, just as Rob promised, he attacked the song and only took a few jabs at me. In our conversation the week before, we both agreed that any ink is good ink, and even after the issue hit the stand I still consider Rob a friend.
So that’s that. Thursday night we opened up for Radney Foster at the Rockin’ Rodeo in Denton. I was a little surprised by the crowd. There were probably between 150 and 200 people there, but those who made it were treated to a great show. Radney has an unbelievably tight band and they know how to entertain.
I got home at 4:00 Friday morning and slept a few hours before packing for the trip to Nacogdoches. The band showed up around 12:00 and we hooked up the trailer and hit the road. Friday’s show was at the Banita Creek Dance Hall and I was ready to see all our friends there again.
We took Highway 175 east and stopped at our favorite cafe in Poynor for a bite before continuing on to Cody’s house. After dinner Grant decided he wanted to stop at a roadside park just this side of Frankston and fill his cup with some spring water. Grant has relatives in Jacksonville, twenty minutes away, and he used to drive by the park and see the locals filling up jugs of the spring water. For some reason he got a craving for the water that day.
We arrived at Cody’s house around 5:00, just as he was finishing up his duties at the Rusk City Park. It only took a few minutes to get the drums loaded and we were off again.
We showed up at Banita Creek an hour later where we were greeted by Robert Truitt, the owner. After loading in and checking the sound we headed over to the hotel to freshen up before the show. We only had thirty minutes, so I passed on a shower, knowing that it would be hot under the stage lights anyway.
When we got back to the dance hall there was already a good size crowd. As I climbed up on stage to tune my guitars I noticed something strange out of the corner of my eye. There was a large pinata shaped like Batman propped up in the back corner of the stage. We were getting ready to start the show, so I didn’t get a chance to ask Robert about its significance.
We had a great show that night in Nacogdoches. There were probably three times as many people as there were the first time we played the hall back in April. Robert was happy, and of course, invited us to his house for a little after party. The only takers were Russ and me. Grant said he was getting us up early the next day because he had to be back in the Dallas area by 2:00 for his grandmother’s birthday. Lafon and Cody decided they would rather sleep instead of hang out and opted to join Grant.
Around 4:00 we all decided to hit the all night taco stand back in town. Russ and I rode with Robert and on our way he made a detour back by the club. He emerged from the hall carrying the oversized pinata I mentioned earlier. Robert explained that he wanted us to name the pinata and take him on the road with us for a few months, checking in via e-mail with pictures. We agreed and thus began the odyssey of “Peccho Baludo”. You’ll see and hear more of him in the months to follow.
It was 5:00 am by the time Russ and I got back to the hotel; Grant had us up at 8:30. We dropped Cody off and made it back to Dallas around 1:00. I tried to sleep a little on the way home but my phone rang constantly. When I finally made it to my front door I walked into the bedroom and laid down. I was out in ten minutes.
About an hour and a half later Kathryn came back from the neighborhood pool with the kids. I knew all hopes of continuing my nap were gone, so I got up and made my way to the driveway to work on the trailer lights. We had been having problems with the trailer wiring for a few weeks and I figured I had better try and resolve the issue before someone got pulled over.
My neighbor, Dave, showed up and, after tracing wires with a meter, we repaired the shorts in the wiring. Afterwards the lights still didn’t work and we soon found that the left-hand signal filament was bad and the right-hand running light filament was burned out. In other words both bulbs had to be replaced. Unfortunately, our trailer lights are marine style and you have to replace the entire assembly.
By now I was running late for sound check so we threw the bad lights back in place and Kathryn and I drove up to Hanks. I pulled into the parking lot, dropped the trailer, told the guys to get started without me, and drove to the auto parts store in such of the trailer light assemblies. After visiting the only two parts stores in McKinney I returned with only one trailer light. I wasn’t very happy, but made do with what I had. Lafon, who was watching me work and listening to me complain about only returning with one light replied, “I guess McKinney really is a one-light town.”
The Show at Hanks started at 9:00. It was a packed house and we had a fun time. I think I knew eighty percent of the people in the bar that night. Tracy Walls (yes from the song, “Tracy Walls”) even showed up. She is married with children and now lives just a few miles from our house. Small world.
We were told by the management to shut down the music at 1:00 sharp. Apparently the last time we played Hank’s we kept the music going well after last call and the bar didn’t want to take any chances with the TABC this time. We complied, more or less, and ended the show with Country Mick.
Kathryn and I made it home around 2:00 and had a few beers with our neighbors, who were all at the show that night. I lasted less than an hour before the lack of sleep caught up with me and I snuck off to bed.
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Mon, 15 May 2006 11:05:00 GMT
The last three days are a blur. Hell, most of last week is a blur. I was gone six days and covered just under 1600 miles. I drove back from Amarillo yesterday so I wasn’t able to work from my laptop, but I did make notes of the events which occurred Friday and Saturday. I’ll try not to ramble, but I can’t guarantee anything.
Friday afternoon we left Plano for a little run through West Texas. We were doing a three-piece, acoustic show at the Blue Light in Lubbock on Friday and the Golden Light in Amarillo on Saturday.
The trip to Lubbock was rather uneventful. It usually is. I love playing in Lubbock but I hate the drive. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time going back and forth from Dallas to Lubbock while attending Texas Tech.
We pulled into town around 6:30 Friday evening and went to the Blue Light to load in and sound check. Afterwards I told David, the manager, that we were going to get a room at the Koko Inn. He said, “Good luck. It’s graduation weekend and you’ll be lucky to find a room anywhere in town.” He suggested that we call the Circus Hotel out by the loop. I said, “You mean there is actually a hotel that is worse than the Koko?” David grinned and walked off.
We called the Circus and tried to reserve a room but the guy at the desk said they didn’t take reservations; it was first come, first serve. I should have known right then and there that we were in for an interesting stay.
We pulled into the Circus parking lot around 8:00 and I hurried into the lobby, afraid that all the rooms might have already been taken. This is where it gets weird. There was a rough-looking lady in line ahead of me at the counter when I walked in. She was fumbling through her purse for credit cards and arguing with the hotel employee as I approached. She had on dirty, faded jeans and a halter top, and her underwear was sticking out above her pants in the back as if someone had just given her a wedgy. As I got closer I thought I saw hair protruding from her underwear. Upon closer inspection it proved to be varicose veins. I don’t know which is worse.
After waiting patiently for several minutes as this lady pulled credit card after credit card out of her purse, each one summarily denied, the man at the desk finally turned to me and said, “May I help you?” I asked him if they had any vacancies and he said he had a few. In the meantime, the homeless-looking lady glanced out in the parking lot, saw our truck with the trailer attached, and said, “Hey, man, are you guys in a band?” I thought to myself, “This is going to be a long night.”
I paid for my room and turned toward the door to leave, but the bag lady grabbed my arm and pulled me back. She asked where we were playing and if she and her “old man” could get on the guest list. I said, “Fine.” She then borrowed a pen and wrote her name on a receipt. As she was writing I couldn’t help but notice all the track marks on her arms and, believe me, I was never so ready to get out of a hotel lobby in all my life.
I left the lobby and got back into the truck. Grant asked, “Who was that?” and I replied, “You don’t want to know.” Grant pulled around to our room in the rear of the hotel and we unloaded. About that time Melanie (the bag lady) showed up and asked to bum a cigarette. I gave her a few and locked the door to our room.
Fortunately, Melanie and her “old man” never made it to the Blue Light that night. The show went off without a hitch. Several of our Fiji friends showed up, as well as a few other people we hadn’t seen in a while, and the night was a complete success.
I woke up Saturday morning around 10:00 and peered through the blinds to make sure Melanie and her “old man” weren’t around. Once I ascertained that the coast was clear we all took showers and hopped in the suburban for the trip to Amarillo.
We decided that, since we had all day and it was only a two-hour drive to Amarillo, maybe we should run out to the strip and pick up a few beers for the road. For those of you unfamiliar with Lubbock, you cannot purchase alcohol within the city limits. The closest beer store is located on the Tahoka Highway (Hwy 87) just south of town.
While leaving the beer store Russ remembered that Scotty’s Barbecue was two exits down from the strip. We were all hungry and decided to drop in for a bite to eat. I warned Russ not to mention my name to Scotty (I’ll explain that later) and he agreed.
OK, now this is where it gets weird again. We pulled into Scotty’s and sat down at one of the outdoor tables. There were four or five men sitting at the table next to us drinking and listening to music from their truck which was parked about five feet away. They were some pretty rough-looking characters, but one in particular caught my attention. I swear I knew him from my days at Tech, but I couldn’t remember exactly how I knew him. I think he may have played on the football team, but I did remember that he was crazy and definitely not one to cross.
Scotty came out and took our orders. He looked at me and said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I said, “Oh, I doubt it.” Scotty went back to prepare our food and at the same time all but two of the men sitting next to us got up and left. The remaining two were the guy I once knew from Tech and a man who looked like he could be a biker, except you knew he wasn’t because he only had one leg. We began to make small talk with them and things got weirder.
The one legged man’s name was Terry Lynn Womack. He came and sat at our table and told us, in a round about way, most of his life story. He had lost his leg in Vietnam and he now lived in the Lubbock area. Although he looked meaner than hell, and I’m sure he can be, he was actually a very nice person and we enjoyed talking to him.
I learned that his buddy’s name was John. I never got him to say his last name. He remained seated at the other table and, to be honest with you, I was glad. This guy was completely insane. He had those crazy eyes and I knew that he could fly off the handle at any moment. By the way, he also had needle tracks all up and down both arms.
Scotty brought us out our food a few minutes later. His barbecue is the best I’ve ever had in Lubbock. We all ate and talked with Terry Lynn, and I kept one eye on his buddy, John, never quite comfortable.
After the meal we went inside to pay and Scotty asked, “So what do you guys do?” Before I could answer Russ said, “We’re in a band.” He asked what the band name was and, once again, Russ offered up more information than I wanted him to. He said, “We play for this guy (pointing at me), Mark David Manders.”
Scotty looked at me and said, “I remember you now. How have you been?” I was relieved at that point and here’s why. When I was in school at Tech I once wrote a hot check to Scotty’s Barbecue. It was my last semester and I was flat broke. I had always intended on making things right with him, but I knew it would have to be later, after graduation, when I had a job.
Scotty hates hot checks; he always has. Back in 1989, when I bounced one on him, he had a policy of collecting money unlike anyone I’ve known since. I was asleep at 7:00 in the morning one day at my house on 45th Street when Scotty kicked in the front door. I don’t know if he had a gun or not, but I didn’t wait around to find out. It made a lasting impression on me and eight years later, after playing a show in Lubbock, I dropped by Scotty’s and paid my debt, with interest. Scotty thanked me, but I was always a little apprehensive about the matter and I had hoped that he had forgotten the entire mess. He hadn’t.
Scotty went on to tell Russ how much he hated hot checks. He then turned to me and asked, “Which apartments were you living in at the time?” I replied that it was a rental house over on 45th. Russ said, “Are you serious? You kicked in the front door of someone’s rental house?” Scotty grinned, gave me a wink, and said, “Now I wouldn’t do anything like that, would I?”
As we were heading out the door Terry Lynn told us to be careful driving. His buddy, John, who was now acting stranger than when we arrived, simply mumbled something at us and made a clown face with his thumbs stuck in his ears. I was happy to be leaving.
In the truck, Lafon said, “Did you see that John guy’s neck? It looked like someone drilled a hole in it.” I then remembered something about him getting shot back when I was in school. I still don’t remember all the details, but I do know that we were lucky John was in a fairly good mood that day.
After our strange lunch encounter we got on Highway 87 and drove north toward Amarillo. We still had half a day to kill and I suggested taking a detour through Palo Duro Canyon. Everyone agreed.
I have to stop here and tell you that, if our day had ended right then, it would have been a story-filled road trip already. We all were enjoying a great afternoon and I felt like we could have been cast for the movie, “Fandango”. We were cutting up and enjoying the drive. I haven’t had that much fun in a while. (By the way, Grant, sorry about the dynamite under the seat.)
It was mid-afternoon when we turned off Highway 87 in the direction of Palo Duro State Park. I told the guys that there used to be this place called Six Guns, where some college buddies and I worked on weekends when we were freshmen, and that I wouldn’t mind stopping there again. I had heard that Jim Sorenson, that owner of the dude ranch, had sold the place several years ago, but I still wanted to show the band where I used to work.
The old Six Guns was gone. There is now a general store where the old pool hall used to be. We pulled in and met the new owner, Cindy. She was very friendly and allowed us to wander out back and down to the canyon. I showed the guys where the old stables were located (It has been converted into a house now). We took a few pictures using Fonzie’s cell phone (I had forgotten to bring my camera on this trip) and then made our way back to Cindy’s.
I thanked Cindy and explained that I used to work at the old dude ranch twenty years ago. I asked her where Jim moved to and she replied, “Not very far, he’s got a stable just down the road from here.” So the boys and I decided to pay Jim a visit.
Now Jim Sorenson is a character study on West Texas itself. Back when I used to work for him I could never tell when he was serious or when he was joking. He had a dry sense of humor, the driest sense of humor I’ve ever known. And just when I thought I had him figured out he would do something to send me back to the drawing table. I learned Saturday that his personality hasn’t changed much over the years. He is still as unpredictable as ever.
About a mile west from Cindy’s place we found Jim’s stable. There was a sign out front that read “Six Guns”, but it was hard to see from the road. As we approached we noticed a girl carrying a pitchfork, walking from the side of the office toward the front gate. She asked what we needed and I replied that I wanted to speak to Jim. She disappeared into the office and a minute later Jim came out followed by a young man and an older lady I assumed was his wife.
Jim sat down on the front porch of the office; the older lady and younger man followed suit. I told Jim that I used to work for him over twenty years ago when I was in college and I offered him a beer. He replied that he had given up drinking eleven years ago when he found the Lord. I asked if we could come in and talk to him. He told me we could talk just fine from the gate. Both Jim and the other man were wearing holstered revolvers so I figured there was no point in pressing the issue.
The porch was located about thirty feet from the front gate and Jim spoke in a quiet voice. There wasn’t very much traffic on the road to the state park, but each time a car did pass by I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Fortunately, Jim is a very slow talker and I was able to figure out, more or less, the missing words in his sentences once the cars faded into the distance.
One thing I really wanted to show the guys was a picture that Jim’s son, Jack, had painted of him several years ago. Jack Sorenson is a well known Western artist who now lives in Amarillo, just fifteen minutes from Palo Duro Canyon. He had painted a portrait of his dad sitting on a corral fence with a Coors in his hand and that oil painting has stuck in my mind for years. I tried to find it on the internet this morning, but I guess the painting is so old it is out of print. I asked Jim about the painting and he replied, “Guess you’ll have to wait until his exhibit comes around in two weeks at the Panhandle Plains Museum.” I didn’t bother to tell him that we were only in Amarillo for that night.
We talked for another fifteen minutes, Jim on the porch and me and the band at the gate. I could tell that Grant was a little nervous. I think the whole pistol thing threw him for a loop. I do have to tell you how the rest of our conversation went, though. Try and picture Billy Bob Thornton in “Sling Blade”.
“So, Jim, is that your son sitting on the porch with you?”
“Naw, he ain’t my blood…but he ought to be. He’s a pretty good boy.”
“So do you even remember me and my buddies from Tech? I know it was a long time ago.”
“I’ve had probably a thousand or some such college kids run through here in the past forty years; don’t reckon I do. The good Lord saved me, but he left my memory to fend for itself.”
“Well, I guess we’re going to head on out for Amarillo. The next time we’re in town we’ll stop by and rent some horses for the afternoon.”
No reply, just a nod.
That was it. We turned and walked to the suburban; Jim and clan got up from their seats and went back into the office. As we drove off I turned to the guys and said, “Oh, I forgot to warn you about Jim. He used to have a real dry, West Texas sense of humor. Now I guess he’s just dry.” Grant said, “Holy shit, I feel like I just stepped back in time a hundred and fifty years.”
We talked about Jim, Palo Duro Canyon, and various other topics as we drove the remaining fifteen miles up to Amarillo. You would think that the weirdness would have ended by then, but it didn’t. We entered the south side of Amarillo through a little residential section and came to a red light. Grant got a funny look on his face and said, “Hey check out that sign.” Across the intersection was what appeared to be a regulation traffic sign which read, “I saw her again.” We all scratched our heads, the light turned green, and we drove on.
A few blocks further we noticed another similar traffic sign with another strange message. I believe we were driving down Washington Street; I can’t remember for sure, but it was a pretty busy thoroughfare. Anyway, we decided to take a side street and see if we could find someone who could explain the strange traffic signs to us.
What we found were several more signs in people’s yards. Finally we came across a garage sale and stopped to inquire. Apparently the signs were placed all over town by the owner of the Mustang Ranch, a spread just west of Amarillo owned by an oil-rich, eclectic man famous for burying his old Cadillac’s radiator side down in a row on his place adjacent to Interstate 40. The rumor is that if someone ever figures out the clues written on each of the over two hundred signs that it will lead to a million dollars.
We didn’t have time to drive around Amarillo searching for clues, but we did get some bargains at the garage sale. I paid a quarter for a fake pirate’s hook and Grant picked up a really nice lava lamp for the same price.
We finally made it to the Golden Light around 6:30 Saturday evening. The sound man wasn’t there yet, so we went next door to the cafe and grabbed a bite to eat. When we got back to the bar we did a quick sound check and then watched the first half of the Mavericks game before heading to the Kiva hotel to freshen up.
This was our first time to stay at the Kiva and, upon first inspection, it appeared to be a fairly nice hotel. As Grant and I approached the counter to check in we heard music coming from the lounge. I went to investigate and discovered a rather large bar with a band playing mostly eighties country covers. The customers were fifty years old and up and swear I saw more than one bun hairdo. I thought to myself, “Wow, this is my kind of bar!”
After getting our keys I persuaded the rest of the band to stop by the lounge for a quick beer before going to our rooms. We stood and listened to the band for a few songs, but we spent most of the time checking out the people in the bar. It looked like a VFW on Memorial Day. The only young person we ran into ended up being a Coors rep. He bought us another beer and then we went to our rooms to get dressed for the show.
Lafon and I were sharing a room; Grant and Russ were two doors down. I took a quick shower and then watched the end of the Mavericks game with Mark. Around 10:30 I went over to Grant’s room to let him know it was time to go. I knocked and no one answered, but I had a pretty good idea of where he and Russ had slipped off to. Lafon and I found them in the hotel bar listening to the band and drinking shots. I told them it was time to leave and we all loaded up and drove to the Golden Light.
We had a great show Saturday night. I left our set list in the truck, but it didn’t matter; after the first few songs people started yelling out requests. We ended up playing until 2:15 when the bartender asked everyone, including the band, to leave.
Grant dropped me off at the hotel around 3:00 and he and the guys went to grab a bite to eat. I hit the bed and immediately fell asleep, but Mark woke me up around 4:00 and offered me a taco. I got up, ate, and then fell back to sleep.
My daughter, Jessica, had her first gymnastics meet at 4:00 on Sunday, so I woke everyone up at 8:30 and we were on the road by 10:00. I drove like a bat out of hell and we made it home with fifteen minutes to spare. I even had time to stop and buy Kathryn some flowers for Mother’s Day.
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Posted by Mark David Manders
Wed, 10 May 2006 14:40:00 GMT
I spent most of yesterday evening swapping songs with Amos Staggs in his back yard in Comanche. Amos built a covered veranda there that is perfect for writing and playing guitars. Every songwriter has a favorite place to get away and write, and I was especially comfortable in Amos’s sanctuary.
When I arrived at his house yesterday, I noticed seven or eight cars parked in the driveway and on the grass in the front yard. Amos explained that his wife, Jerri Lynn, was hosting her weekly “American Idol” watching party. Amos invited me in and I met all the ladies and sat down for a few margaritas before the show began.
I have to say, Jerri Lynn and her friends take their “American Idol” very seriously. They had food and plenty of drinks and were nice enough to bring Amos and me a plate. They had personalized scoring sheets and even a typed list of rules. My favorite was, “No matter how good you think you may be, there will be absolutely no singing along with the performers.”
Amos gave me a tour of his house and then we slipped out back just before “American Idol” aired. We played guitars and told lies for about an hour and then Jerri Lynn asked me to play a few tunes for the ladies inside. I sang a couple of songs, had another margarita, and then returned to the veranda.
Amos apologized about putting me on the spot but I told him I didn’t mind at all. He went on to explain that Comanche’s only bar had shut down and that ever since then the townspeople had to be creative when planning social gatherings.
I guess Amos and I played guitars until around 11:00 last night. Jerri Lynn joined us after the last of her group left. They invited me to spend the night but for some strange reason I thought I could drive all the way back to Dallas. At the time I felt pretty alert and able to drive. I asked Amos if he had a shovel I could borrow to bury Kathryn’s cat and I think I may have scared him a little. He said, “You’ve been driving around all day with a dead cat in your suburban?” I explained that I was in a hurry when I left and that I had forgotten to throw a sharp shooter in the truck. Fortunately Amos had an extra shovel.
I thanked Amos and Jerri Lynn as I pulled out of the driveway. I made it a whopping six miles before the margaritas hit me. First one eye, and then the other, began to get heavy, so I pulled over at a cheap hotel for the night. I slept like a baby until 11:00 this morning.
Right now I’m rolling down Highway 6, the steering wheel in one hand and a pencil in the other. I didn’t bring a map with me, but I have enjoyed driving the back roads and using “Voodoo navigation” to find my way.
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