BAD FICTION AND DIRTY LAUNDRY: SEX FOR CHRISTMAS

It was the Christmas the big owl flew right by the window.

It wasn’t exactly on Christmas but it was close enough.

A few nights before Christmas Tyler was in the living room watching TV when the shadow of the giant bird fell on one of the windows.  Wings wide, it was if the bird was diving for the house and pulled out of the dive at the last second.  Tyler saw the night bird, the flapping wings.

Tyler jumped up and ran to the window.

There was the owl flapping, illuminated by a street light, winging its way up and coming to rest at the top of the light pole.

The thing was huge.

Tyler wondered why.

There was probably a simple explanation, but he thought there was more to this.
Tyler believed this was some kind of sign, an omen.

Tyler went to his computer and looked up “owl crossing window” and “owl omen,” things like that.

Nothing.

The next day at work Tyler asked his pal, The Herbalist, what she thought of the owl flying by the window.

Tyler called her The Herbalist because of her constant talk of taking all kinds of herbs every day, including herbs for a daily enema which she had no qualms of talking about, referring to them as her “Daily E.”

“If you think it’s an omen then it’s an omen,” she said.

“But of what?” asked Tyler.

“What do you think it portends?”

“Something bad,” said Tyler.  Her questions sounded like a psychoanalyst’s.  Then he remembered, she mentioned that she was once a psychotherapist.

“Well,” said The Herbalist, “If you don’t know what it means then you’ll have to wait and see what happens.  When something happens that you connect with the owl omen then you know it was an omen about that.”

Many things in the hippie town of Bisbee, Arizona were described in such a Zen fashion.  Tyler didn’t actually know what Zen was but The Herbalist’s take on everything sounded like what he thought Zen might sound like.

It was also the Christmas of a Christmas Eve full moon.

It was the first Christmas Eve full moon since 1950.  There wouldn’t be another one until 2102.  That might have been fine and dandy except as Tyler and Alex were walking in the cold desert night in the border town of Naco there was a ring around the full Christmas Eve moon.

“Ring around the moon, trouble here soon,” said Tyler.  “That was in that Sandra Bullock witch movie, what was it…can’t remember…”

“’Practical Magic,’” said Katherine, “But I remember it as a Nicole Kidman movie.”

“Sandra Bullock has good teeth,” said Tyler. “That’s why I remember it.”

“You remember people by the weirdest shit,” said Alex.

They were walking back from a party at Katherine’s.  Katherine was an artist, working in oils.  Tyler liked her stuff.  She did a lot of landscapes.  One in particular he liked was of a town square deep in the interior of Mexico.  The painting reminded him of the first Mexican town square he walked in many years ago…dudes kicking back in the shade of palm trees, women carrying shopping bags.

Above all though, Katherine Carter lived by her art.  Prices on her works started at $1000. If Katherine’s art wasn’t selling in the galleries of Bisbee, Tucson, Scottsdale or Santa Fe she had no money for groceries.  Katherine refused to get a job, she believed it would corrupt her art.

It was in the middle of the year that Katherine hit a dry spell…none of her stuff was selling anywhere.  So for the past few months Tyler and Alex had been giving Katherine about $200 a month.

“It’s our job to support the arts,” said Alex.

“You know,” said Tyler, “This is weird.  I’m a manager, I’m not a millionaire.  I think it’s more of the job of the upper classes to support the arts.”

“We have the money,” said Alex.  “Between your job and my dance studio we’ll do alright.”

Problem was was that Alex bartered out a lot of dance lessons for the artists of Bisbee.  Her income barely covered the studio’s expenses.

“She’ll pay us back,” said Alex.

“I don’t believe that,” said Tyler.  “But it’s Katherine, so…what the hell.”

“Katherine says if she can’t she’ll give you that painting of hers you like.”

Tyler thought maybe that wasn’t such a bad deal.  Katherine had a $1200 price tag on that work.

Money for Katherine started in May.  Then June, July, August…  Finally in November a gallery in Santa Fe sent her a check for $5000.  Then another one of her works sold in Scottsdale.  A $1400 check came to her in the mail.

So Katherine had a Christmas Eve party. That’s why Tyler and Alex were in Naco.

After the dinner of tamales, posole’ and enchiladas preceded by copious amounts of beer and tequila Katherine handed an envelope to Tyler.

He opened it.

There was a check for $1400.

“Oh,” said Tyler.  “Money.”

He handed it to Alex.  She looked at it.

“Um,” said Tyler.

Alex kicked him under the table.  Tyler looked at her.  They locked eyes.

“Um,” he said.

Alex kicked him again.

Tyler handed the envelope back to Katherine.

“I tell you what,” said Tyler, “You take this and open a savings account for when those hard times come again.”

Katherine looked at Tyler and touched his hand.

“Thank you,” she said looking into his eyes.  She had big eyes.

Katherine had big boobs too, but he wasn’t supposed to look at those.  But he wondered why… if she knew it was just going to be the three of them this evening why was she showing so much cleavage?

Katherine nodded to Alex.

“Both of you feel this way?” Katherine asked.

“Sure,” said Alex.  “It’s why I was kicking him under the table.”

They all laughed.

“Well,” said Katherine as she stood.  “Then I want you to have your favorite painting of mine.”

“Oh my,” said Tyler.

Katherine walked over to the wall where the Mexican scene hung and took it down.  She presented it to Tyler.

Christmas Day came to Tyler and Alex’s house.  They had gotten each other presents.  They opened them in the morning.  Alex then went to the kitchen and started fixing up a lot of food, they were having a Christmas come-and-go buffet.  Friends were invited to come over between noon and 4 and have a plate or two, sit around and shoot the shit on Christmas Day.

And the friends came.

Old Lady D who had basically given the dance studio to Alex came by.  She and Alex sat and chatted to the exclusion of Tyler.  Old Lady D was married to a retired CIA dude who was dead now.  She knew Jack Ruby…the guy who gunned down Kennedy’s assassin…that was one story.  Then there was the story of when she took her New York City students to audition for “West Side Story” and was dismissed outright because the choreographer said her students “danced like they’d never been f*%ked.”

The Swansons came by.  The Swansons had cuts and bruises.

“Got in a fight in The Gulch last night,” said Mr. Swanson.  The Gulch would be Brewery Gulch where Bisbee’s beer joints stood.

“Yeah,” said Mrs. Swanson.  “He kicked some ass.”

“Nobody talks to my wife like that without consequences,” said Mr. Swanson smiling as he slapped a fist into a palm.

“They kicked each other’s asses last night,” said Alex after they left.  “You know that, don’t you?”

“Noooo,” said Tyler.

“Yeah, their fights are notorious,” said Alex.  “It started years ago.  He was abusive.  Then she started fighting back.  And they stay together.”

“Not dysfunctional at all,” said Tyler sarcastically.

More old hippie townsfolk came by, had a bite to eat with the town dance teacher and her husband with the racist Southern accent, at least that’s what he heard they called Tyler behind his back.

And soon the sun was setting on the day.

Alex was in the kitchen washing dishes and Tyler was drying.

“I was thinking about another Christmas gift for you,  but I thought better of it,” said Alex.

“Oh?”

“I was thinking about letting you have sex with Katherine for Christmas.”

Tyler set down the plate he was drying along with the towel.  He furrowed his brow.

“What?” he said through squinted eyes.

“You heard me,” said Alex.  “But then I thought better of it.  I thought it would just bring us problems.”

“What?” asked Tyler.

“You both want it so bad,” she said.  “If she had a tail she’d be wagging it every time you get near her, don’t tell me you don’t sense it.  Hell, if you had a tail you’d be wagging it when you got around her.  And you’re always looking at her tits.”

“No I’m not,” said Tyler.

“Ohhhh-kaaaaay,” Alex said real slow with a low voice.  “So you try hard NOT to stare at her tits.”

“Wait,” said Tyler.  “You mean you TALKED TO HER ABOUT THIS?”

“Sure,” said Alex.  “Tyler, it’s just sex.”

“Sex for you and me is something just you and I do,” said Tyler.

“Yeah,” said Alex as she kept washing dishes, “But I’m not so into it anymore.”

Tyler just stared at her.

“Oh we’ll DO IT, I’m just not that INTO IT,” she said as she kept washing dishes.

Tyler raised his eyebrows, sighed, picked up his towel and went back to drying the dishes.

“But like I said, it’s off the table.  After I thought about it I thought there’d be nothing but trouble.  You’d want to do it AGAIN or there’d be FEELINGS, and it would just be messy,” said Alex.  “Did you WANT to have sex with Katherine?”

Tyler laughed and kept drying the dishes.

“Well?”

“I really can’t wrap my brain around that,” said Tyler with a smile.

E P I L O G U E

After that Christmas Alex grew more and more distant.

They actually had some loud arguments with Tyler ending up sleeping on the couch.  This was something new in his life.  He was a big believer in patching things up before turning in for the night if there ever was an argument.

Those mornings-after Alex would wake up Tyler early and say, “I want you to move out.”

They’d talk, Tyler would stay.

Tyler and Alex broke up a year-and-a-half later.

Tyler kind of knew it was going to happen.

He had called his buddy Winston the week after that Christmas and told him about Alex’s idea of “The Gift of Sex with Katherine.”  It was an idea that messed with his head and he needed to talk to someone about it.

“Brother, I’m gonna tell you something…you won’t like it and you won’t do anything about it because I know you,” said Winston.  “But things are over for you and Alex.”

There was silence on the line.

“Really,” said Tyler.

“DUDE,” said Winston, “She’s outsourcing y’all’s sex from the relationship.”

“Wow,” said Tyler, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“But like I said, you won’t do anything about this.”

“I can’t wrap my brain around the concept that it’s over,” said Tyler.

“I’m gonna tell you something else,” said Winston.  “Your friends have known for years…that you care about that woman a helluva lot more than she cares about you.”

“Hmmmmmm,” said Tyler.

And Winston was right.

About everything.

Tyler didn’t do anything about it, he kept hoping things would change.

But they didn’t.

And one day the caring just ran out.

Tyler left Arizona and moved back to New Mexico.

And Alex took up with a waitress…a woman… named Annabelle.

And things suddenly made sense.

Sort of.

-30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: EATING GOAT

by Grant McGee

            Thirty years ago, before I made my journey to The Great American Southwest, if someone had told me, “you will eat things made with fresh tomatoes, have green chile brownies and eat goat,” I would have had a good laugh.

            You should know I wasn’t a fan of fresh tomatoes, had no concept of green chile and didn’t know people ate goat.  I knew they were good for milk, feta cheese, trimming trees and butting you if you got in their space.

            Now I love salsa whether it’s fresh or from a jar.  I can’t imagine a grocery store without green chile (though there are plenty of them in Amarillo).  However, goat is not something I’ll be putting in my slow cooker anytime soon.

            I got to thinking about eating goat on a recent trip to Roswell.  The Lady of the House remembered one of the grocery stores there sold frozen rabbit.  The meat man pointed to where the frozen rabbit was usually stored.  There wasn’t any rabbit but there were some frozen cuts of goat.

            I remember the first time I learned of the epicurean delights of eating goat.

            I was a country music DJ in Roswell.  One of my listeners invited me to his house to have some barbecue and cervezas.

            Upon arriving at “Mountain Man’s” mobile home on the south side of Roswell he shoved a cold one in my hand.

            “Want something to keep it cold?”

            I barely had time to think.

            “Here, stick the can in THIS.”

            Mountain Man handed me this fur covered thing to keep my cerveza cool, also known as a “coozie.”  Most of the time they’re made out of foam.  This one was not.

            Now, there are some moments we remember all of our lives and there are other moments we remember more than others.  This moment was one of the latter.

            I held the fur covered thing in my hand.

            “Know what that is?”

            “I have no idea,” I said.

            Then he told me.

            “That’s a goat scrotum coozie,” he said with pride.

            I turned the thing around and around in my hand.

            I held it up to my nose and had a whiff.

            Gamey.

            Goat gamey.

            Mountain Man raised goats for sale to folks around Roswell who enjoyed the meat.  Goat heads were perched on many of his fence posts.  Goats and their kids played in a nearby pen.  It was a surreal scene.

            A fancy, big-city writer might opine, “It was a scene juxtaposing life and death in close quarters.”

            I’ll just say it was surreal.

            “I get $150 a goat,” he said with pride.  “I think I’m gonna start sellin’ them goat scrotum cozies at the flea market too, make some extra coin.”

            I just smiled, nodded in agreement and had a swig of beer as that goat gamey-ness wafted up to my nostrils.

            The next day I told my buddy Kent I had sat down to a meal of smoked goat with Mountain Man, his wife “Nighthawk,” and their son “Snake Boy.”

            Kent looked at me for a moment.

            “Where DO you meet these people.”

            I can’t say much about my first taste of goat.  It was smoked and kind of gamey.  It was okay.

            Mountain Man obviously thought I enjoyed the goat because he dropped by the radio station next week with a crock pot full of goat soup.

            It was seriously gamey, greasy stuff.

            I politely had a few spoonfuls, smiled, said “thank you” and he was on his way.  The boss came in a bit later and wanted to know what the hell was stinking up the building I told him about the soup.  He snatched up the pot, trotted out the back door and dumped the contents a good distance out in a nearby field.

            The next time I had goat was at a party in Loco Hills, New Mexico.  My buddy Wayne and I were providing the music for the get together.  We were invited to eat.  Along with the green beans prepared with strips of jalapeno and other tasty dishes was cabrito, that’s Spanish for baby goat, that had been roasting in a pit all day.

            I told the host about my previous experience with goat soup.

            “Oh no,” he said, “he must’ve cooked up an older goat.  Cabrito is a young one, a kid.”

            I hadn’t tasted roasted meat that good in years.

            The first time I ran into goat being sold in a restaurant was during my truck driving travels.  It was a restaurant in Pomona, California, a little place near the company terminal.  I always tried to eat at places that might offer some local flavor, like the time I had some great Cuban food in Miami:  fried plantains with black beans.  Anyway, this California eatery had birras on the menu.  I inquired as to what that was.

            “Goat,” said the man behind the counter.  “Very good.  You want salsa with that?”

            So it was sometime in late 2002 I had my very first goat burrito.  Every time my travels took me back there I had some more.

            I try to remain open to new gustatory experiences.  It’s how I ended up eating some kind of braided, chewy meat at a Sinaloan party. 

I found out later that was roasted cow or pig intestine.

But that’s another story.

-30-

THE HOTEL CHILD: MY MOM THE SOCIALIST

Actual factual picture of me and my mom as the family leaves Hawai'i.

by Grant McGee

If it were now… not then… I reckon they’d have called her a liberal.

But back in 1970 they weren’t bandying that word about like they do here in the future.

So I reckon Socialist is what someone might call her.

My mom, the Socialist.

But then, maybe mom wasn’t, maybe I just heard things she said and listened to things she told me and just thought she couldn’t possibly be a conservative, couldn’t possibly be a Republican even though she was married to one.

Now there was no doubt my old man was a conservative Republican, what with him derisively referring to President Franklin Roosevelt as “King Roosevelt.”  And then there was the time that the dude who leaked some secret papers about the Vietnam War to “The New York Times,” Daniel Ellsberg appeared on the TV screen during the evening news and my father yelled at the tube, pointing, “THAT MAN SHOULD BE CASTRATED.”  Not thrown in prison, not executed by firing squad, but castrated.

Yep, my dad was a conservative Republican.

But my mom?

Mom told me about the time, around 1964, when we moved into a southern city where my dad was managing a hotel.  She joined The League of Women Voters.  At that particular time and place, according to my mom, the league was getting black voters registered, something that caused a measure of controversy back in the day.

“Then your father told me to get out of the League,” said mom, telling me the story one day.

“Really?” I asked in wide-eyed amazement.

“He said he didn’t think that the wife of the manager of the top hotel in town should be involved with such rabble-rousers,” she said.

There was another time I was watching the movie “The Bird Man of Alcatraz.”  It’s the story of a fellow who ends up in prison for murder and while in there he starts to keep birds and study them, becoming an expert, writing books and such.  He ended up becoming real famous.  Burt Lancaster played him in the movie.

Anyway, so I’m watching “The Bird Man of Alcatraz” and the prison officials are transferring Burt Lancaster from prison to prison and my mom is walking by.  She stops, watches the TV screen for a few moments then says, “Man’s inhumanity to man.”

I was young and didn’t fully understand.

“What do you mean, mom?” I asked.

“Keeping someone locked up like that for their whole life, robbing them of any hope,” she said.

“But he killed some people,” I said.

“I know that.  But how long is enough?” and she walked on.

These thoughts came back to me the other day when I saw a fellow working in the back room of a store.  He had a severely cleft palate.

My mom’s voice came to my head from long ago.

“That boy will never stand an equal chance in society,” were the words.  “That’s why we need socialized medicine.”

It was something she said one morning on the way to school.

It was probably almost 50 years ago mom used to take me and Dead Kevin to and from school.  Dead Kevin wasn’t dead then, that would be 12 or so years in the future.

Anyway, riding with mom was always lively because she’d talk about all kinds of stuff.  Dead Kevin used to say stuff about the Bible and she’d take him to task over it.

“The end times are prophesized in the book of Revelation,” Dead Kevin pontificated one morning.

“Oh Kevin,” said mom, “The Bible is a book of history and a guide to good moral living, it is not a book of prophesy.”

Dead Kevin gasped.

“I’m shocked you’d say such a thing,” he said.

“How can you say that, mom,” I said.  “You teach Sunday School.”

“Because that’s what I teach.  The stories, the parables are a history of that region.  The lessons are a guide to good moral living, it’s just that simple,” she said.

So one morning we were on our way to school and we drove by a guy, older than us, we didn’t recognize him as going to our school.  And he had the biggest sticky-out ears you’d ever seen on anyone.

Dead Kevin and I laughed.

“You boys shouldn’t laugh at him,” said mom as she drove.  “That boy will never stand an equal chance in society.  That’s why we need socialized medicine.”

“What’s socialized medicine?” I asked.   I was just a junior high school kid.

“It’s health care paid for by the government,” said mom.  “Some countries in Europe have it.  You think that boy’s parents can afford the cost of surgery to fix those ears?  No.  He’ll be ridiculed and his self-esteem will be affected.  He’ll never reach his full potential.”

Socialized medicine.

It would be years before I realized my mom was speaking words that in some quarters would be considered fightin’ words.

And yet I never heard her mention such ideas again.

Was it how she really felt or just a passing thought?

One time when I was a lot older I asked my Aunt Margie, my mother’s kid sister, if she knew anything about my mom’s socialist leanings.

“Your mother?  A Socialist?  Oh my!” said Aunt Margie with a wry smile.  “I thought your mother was an elitist.”

“What?”  Now I was confused.  From one extreme to the other.

“There was that time you all were living at the hotel in Buffalo and we came to visit,” she said.  “Your mother told us to come up to your family’s apartment by way of the service entrance and elevator.  I always saw that as she was ashamed of us.”

So I don’t know.

Mom’s done “gone on to glory.”

I suppose I may have been wondering about her political leanings, trying to figure out where some of my silly notions came from.  Silly notions like this one time long ago I had this idealistic thought that people with children shouldn’t go to prison because of the affect it has on children.  House arrest yes, but not to “the big house.”  Luckily I kinda kept that thought to myself because I know of someone who did say that out loud and was practically laughed out of town.

Or the times that I have wondered aloud why we humans all can’t simply just get along with each other.  That thought was met with raucous laughter and queries as to my planet of origin.

And I guess it all really doesn’t matter.

Mom was mom.

And after all mom was the greatest mom ever.

                                                                                -30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: MY BIG COIN, HIGH DOLLAR GAMBLING CAREER

Actual factual photo of a twin-pack deck of cards with the railroad logo from the big railroad based in my home town of Roanoke, Virginia

By Grant McGee

            I was at a church rummage sale the other day and spied something with an old railroad logo on it:  A twin-pack deck of cards with the Norfolk and Western Railroad logo on it.

            Norfolk and Western is what they called the big railroad based out of my old hometown of Roanoke, Virginia before they re-named it the Norfolk Southern.

            Then the memories came back of the times I thought about playing Blackjack and gambling.

            I never have been much of a gambler.  I’ve known folks who were, folks who were raking in the bucks, lost it all and walked out of the casino with no more money than I had. 

            No, wait, I take that back, there was that time I picked up a wad of bills gambling in Iowa.  It was years ago during my one-year truck driving career.  I was team driving coast-to-coast with another driver who loved adult beverages.  We’d drop off our load and he’d make a beeline for a bar, any bar.  This meant I was the one who had to escort him back to the truck and that I was always first driver on the next load we got.

            Anyway, we dropped a load off in Council Bluffs, Iowa and my partner headed straight to a nearby casino for some beverages.

            “I’d rather read my book and hit the hay,” I told him once we parked up.

            “Aw, come on man, don’t make me drink alone,” he said.

“It’s not my thing, man.”

“Here,” he said, reaching for his wallet, “Here’s 10 bucks, sit and gamble and shoot the shit with me.”

            So while my compadre had cerveza after cerveza I played the video gambling game built into the bar.  After I’d won about 50 bucks I decided I’d had enough.

            “You gonna share?” my buddy asked.

            “Yeah,” I said, “Here’s your 10 bucks back.”

            Every time our 18-wheeler was in the neighborhood of the Acoma Pueblo west of Albuquerque we always made a point of stopping at the Sky City Casino.  They have this deal:  Show them your commercial driver’s license and they give you a $5 roll of quarters.  For my co-driver that meant a $5 start to a gambling spree that usually cost him 50 to 100 dollars.  For me, that meant $5 off a huge green chile cheeseburger platter in their restaurant.

            But as time wore on I got the usual tired feeling of working for someone.  You know the old saying:  Bosses are like diapers, always on your ass and full of shit.  One day it occurred to me that I could have a full-time career playing cards.

            It wouldn’t be poker…there’s too much hype around that game what with faking people out, wearing sunglasses so people can’t read your eyes, crap like that.

            Nope, Blackjack would be my game.  I felt it in my bones.  My time was now.  I was going to make a living raking in the big coin at the Blackjack tables of Vegas.

            The time came I had to run a load to Vegas, this would be my lucky trip.

            I rolled into Las Vegas…the opening riffs of Elvis’ “Viva Las Vegas” running around in my head… “Da-da-da, da-da-d-da, da-da-da, da-da-d-da…,” driving by the big places:  The Bellagio, Caesar’s Palace, Mirage and that place where a big beam of light shoots from a pyramid into the night sky, The Luxor.  I didn’t stop at any of them.  Instead, my big-time gambling career would start at a truck stop Blackjack table.

In Vegas it’s not unusual to find a Blackjack table at a truck stop, there are casinos and slot machines all over the place there.

            I bellied up to the Blackjack table with visions of dollars piling up in front of me.

            “I don’t know how to play,” I said to the dealer, a lady who gave off the feeling like she was at the end of her shift.  “Just what my brother showed me a long time ago about getting ‘21’ or less and beating the dealer.”

            “You’re kidding me,” she said.

            “I don’t know how to dribble a basketball either.”

            The dealer outlined the rules of the game, including the tapping of the table when I wanted another card.  I was ready to play.  I put $2 on the table.

            She looked at me over the top of her glasses, smoke wafting up from the cigarette that dangled from her lower lip.  “Two dollars?” She said.  “I think you should give that to me for making me get up from my chair.”

            I just smiled.

            I lost my $2 bet.

            “You wanna play again, big spender?” said the dealer.

            “Yeah,” I said.  I put another $2 on the table.

            On my second hand at Blackjack I won $4.

            “That’s it for me,” I said.  My visions of wads of cash flying into my wallet disappeared.  I couldn’t take this kind of risky behavior.

“You’re f*%king kidding me,” said the dealer.  She took a long drag off her smoke and exhaled.  She walked back to her chair, sat, then stared at me over the top of her glasses.  “Next time go to one of them hotels on the strip, big spender.”

“Maybe the Bellagio,” I said.  “I like the architecture.”

“And you’re a truck driver?” she said.  “You sure you’re not a flower arranger or something?”

            Sometimes I still ponder the life of a gambler.  I’ll be channel surfing on a Sunday afternoon and land on one of those televised poker tournaments.  I watch the players hunker down over their cards, some wearing sunglasses, others with the brims of their hats pulled low over their eyes.

            “Maybe I could learn poker and make tons of money,” I say to The Lady of the House.  She looks back at me and starts laughing.  Soon she’s laughing so hard she’s out of her chair and laughing down the hall.

            “Well, I thought it was a good idea,” I muttered to myself and kept flipping the channel.

-30-

TALES FROM THE EDGE OF THE EARTH: STORIES FROM THE CONCERT LIST

by Grant McGee

It's one of those things that showed up on The Facebook that, at first, I didn't want to do.
It was one of those "participate in this" thingys:  "Listed below are 10 acts.  9 I've seen, one I haven't.  Guess which one."
Finally when a couple of pals posted their "9 I seen, 1 I ain't" list I decided to post mine.
But once I got started the memories just started rushing back.  One memory would trigger another reminiscence.
I posted a list of 19 acts I'd seen, 1 I hadn't.
The Canadian accused me of being a showoff.
The Car Salesman guessed the band I hadn't seen on the list of 20.  I had listed The Rolling Stones.  I never saw them, they were always playing stadiums and stadium concerts weren't my cup of tea.  He said he figured it out through "hillbilly logic."
But the memories kept flooding out of the recesses of my mushy hard drive (my brain).
I jotted down act names I remembered on scraps of paper while I was in traffic, a song would suddenly pop a concert back in my head.
Then I posted a new list on to The Facebook:

Listed below are FORTY-FIVE acts I've seen live, EXCEPT one which I didn't. Can you guess which one?
1) Stephen Stills
2) Leon Russell
3) Yes
4) The Allman Brothers Band
5) Dire Straits
6) Little Feat
7) Pure Prairie League
8) The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
9) Willie Nelson
10) Heart
11) Eddie Money
12) The Doobie Brothers
13) Jimmy Buffett
14) Chicago
15) Jim Croce
16) Seals & Crofts
17) Loggins & Messina
18) The Eagles
19) England Dan & John Ford Coley
20) The Marshall Tucker Band
21) Conway Twitty
22) Randy Travis
23) Wet Willie
24) John Martyn
25) Gordon Lightfoot
26) Boston
27) The Band
28) Dwight Yoakam
29) Heartsfield
30) The Bellamy Brothers
31) Waylon Jennings
32) Merle Haggard
33) Michael Martin Murphey
34) Los Lobos
35) Marty Stuart
36) The Edgar Winter Group
37) Rick Derringer
38) Lester Flatt
39) Bill Monroe
40) John Hartford
41) Iris Dement
42) Peter Rowan
43) Mark Chesnutt
44) Chris Hillman
45) Grand Funk Railroad
46) Steve Young

And the memories with those concerts came back.

1) Stephen Stills
This was the first concert I ever went to.  Early 1973.  Tickets were 3 bucks.  Stephen Stills of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fame had put together a band Manassas that had some good tunes.  Funny, one of the things I remember is they had rolled out a big rug on the stage that the band was playing on.  Maybe it was a lucky rug or something.  Come to think of it I saw Stills again in 1976 when I tried to get an interview with him for the college paper.  I was having dinner with my date, I spied Stills, went over, asked him for an interview later and he gave me this look that would kill.  His manager stepped in and said come see him backstage after the concert.  It turned out that I had not only blown that because they took off right after the concert but I blew it for my newspaper editor too.  He actually had an interview set up with Stills and me interrupting Stills' dinner had blown the whole deal.
I guess I had karmic payback though.  His warm-up act was Flo & Eddie, two dudes who had spearheaded the pop group The Turtles back in the 60's.  But these two took to the stage acting like two fourth-graders who had just discovered bad words.  They were rude, obscene and they seemed to be totally out of place at a Stephen Stills concert.
Halfway through their act my date excused herself to go to the restroom.
She never returned.
I didn't understand.
I wondered why she could'nt've just told me she was offended or whatever.
2) Leon Russell
Leon kicked ass in "The Concert for Bangladesh" playing "Jumping Jack Flash."  He came to my home town of Roanoke, Virginia in support of a triple live album he released in 1973.  It was like a road revue like he did with Mad Dogs and Englishmen with Joe Cocker.  Even had a little gospel concert going on.  One feature was while he was doing one of his songs a member of the band came out on stage dressed in an Uncle Sam outfit, twirling a cane and tap dancing.  Come to think of it that was the first time I saw the band "New Grass Revival," they were the opening act.
3) Yes
This was early 1974 and the band had just released "Tales from Topographic Oceans."  What I remember about this concert was somehow it seemed like the sound ricocheted all around the colesium.  That's about all I remember because I had taken Dead Lisa as my date, except she wasn't dead then.  I spent a lot of time at the concert wondering if I was going to get to "make out" with her afterwards.
4) The Allman Brothers Band
Sorry guys, but I have to say this was the second worst concert I ever went to.  I hung around until they played "Jessica" and I got to hear the Dickey Betts guitar solo then I took off.  The concert was like "Hey we're stoned and we're gonna just jam up here.  You audience people do your own thing."
5) Dire Straits
Never seen Dire Straits.  Would've liked to.  Mark Knopfler kicks ass.
6) Little Feat
One of my fave bands.  Saw them twice:  Once in 1988 at Virginia Tech and a second time at the Santa Fe Raceway in 1991 where they were the opening act for the Allman Brothers.  Little Feat finished their set, the Allman Brothers took to the stage, I left as a giant cloud of cannabis smoke suddenly lifted above the audience.
7) Pure Prairie League
The band of the moment.  Their album they recorded in 1972 suddenly exploded in the spring of 1975 with the re-release of the single "Amie."
8) The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Saw these guys twice.  Or was it three times.  Always remember how banjo virtuoso John McEuen handled a heckler, having great fun at the heckler's expense.  Quite difference as to how Stephen Stills handled a heckler yelling back at the dude, "If you're so f*cking smart why don't YOU come down here and do the f*ckin' concert."
9) Willie Nelson
Maricopa County Fairgrounds 1993.  I was on the second row.  The lady in front of me looked familiar, couldn't place her.  Then during the concert Willie says, "I'd like to say hello to my good friend, former governor Rose Mofford."  Ah!  That's who that was.
10) Heart
Saw them twice.  Just loved to watch Ann Wilson sing and sister Nancy kick ass on guitar.
11) Eddie Money
It was Eddie Money.  Yup.
12) The Doobie Brothers
These guys were my favorite live act.  How many times did I see them in concert, four?  Five?  Once they blew it when lead singer Tom Johnston left the band for a bit and was replaced by Michael McDonald and he took the lead on Doobs hits that Johnston sang, it just wasn't the same.  At the end of the concert it seems we were all looking at each other going, who the hell was that and didn't he suck.
13) Jimmy Buffett
Warm up act for an Eagles concert.  It was Jimmy Buffett.  The best part was his harmonica player Fingers Taylor doing a jammin' little tune "Dixie Diner."
14) Chicago
Worst concert I ever went to.  It was like, "Glad you all paid cash money to come to our jam session but we don't give a shit you're here."  No hits, all band jam stuff.  Me and Dead Lisa (except she wasn't dead then...I wonder what she would've said if I'd said, "Sorry to tell you but you're going to pass away in 36 years.")  
Anyway, we drove up to the lake outside Roanoke and pulled up off the road where we sat in the dark talking.  That's it, no hanky-panky, just talking.
I was hoping I'd get to "make-out" with her.
Then I heard footsteps in the woods, Dead Lisa did too.  
She said, "What's that?"  
"Those aren't deer," I said.
And just as I started the car...
BLINK
Flashlights on either side of us.
"Roanoke police," said a voice.  "What are y'all doing up here?"
"Talking," I said.
"Talking?" said the voice.
"Talking," I said.
Long pause.
"The lake is closed after sunset," said the voice.  "Y'all get on out of here."
I think they were disappointed.
But Dead Lisa and I weren't the only ones who left the concert.  My buddy Dax and Sailor Boy (we called him that because he had signed up for the Navy) were on a double date with The Cheerleader and her sister.
Along with a bottle of grain alcohol and some Strawberry Hill wine I had purchased for them with my fake ID.
The girls ended up getting sick.
Sick to the extreme.
So Dax and Sailor Boy rushed them over to the home of Mr. B our high school English teacher.
He got them back to normalcy.
I think about that now and realize if such a thing had happened today that it would've been trouble for Mr. B, Dax, Sailor Boy and me.  It would've been something that would've had the whole town abuzz and everyone up on charges of being a threat to national security or some overdramatic shit like that.
15) Jim Croce
Hampton, Virginia, August 1973.  On a double date with my pal Chuck Biscuits and his girlfriend.  They set me up with a girl who started kissing on me as we drove away after the concert.  
I didn't understand. 
Then a month later Jim Croce was dead in a plane crash.
16) Seals & Crofts
It was Seals & Crofts.
17) Loggins & Messina
Saw them twice.
Dug them each time.
Full of energy and fun.
18) The Eagles
Saw them twice in the same year:  1977.
The first time in Richmond, Virginia.  The second time in Roanoke, Virginia.
The second time I started a standing ovation after my anthem-of-the-day "Take it to the Limit."
I was drunk.
I wished I had taken my groovy cassette recorder into that concert.  Midway through it the guys started jamming on a tune, I mean it was Joe Walsh, Don Felder and Glenn Frey tradin' licks on a powerful jam that SUDDENLY broke into "Witchy Woman."  It kicked ass.
Now two years earlier when I took Dead Nancy to the prom (she wasn't dead then) the prom was held in a function room at the Roanoke Civic Center while in the colesium upstairs The Eagles were in concert.
Someone had started rumor that the guys were going to come down and replace the band that was playing once their concert was over.
Yeah...
THAT didn't happen.
19) England Dan & John Ford Coley
It was England Dan & John Ford Coley.
20) The Marshall Tucker Band
One of my favorite bands to pay cash money to go see.
For their January 1977 concert I snuck a cassette recorder into the colesium and caught them on tape.  I never wanted to make any money off of it or anything, just wanted it for my own collection.  Caught a jam on there of them doing "Will The Circle Be Unbroken."  Mighty fine.
21) Conway Twitty
Like the country music people say, "The best friend a song ever had."
He opened his show with his deep, resonant "Hello darlin'...."
22) Randy Travis
It was Randy Travis. 
23) Wet Willie
Funky, Southern, full of energy and fun.  Opened for Grand Funk.  Opened for Marshall Tucker.
One of those times I was right up front.
24) John Martyn
Guitar virtuoso, good stuff.
25) Gordon Lightfoot
It's good to see a legend.
26) Boston
February 1977, College of William and Mary.  They were just as tight and good live as they were on their big selling LP of the day.
27) The Band
I drove all the way to Charlottesville, Virginia spring 1976 for this concert, not for them, but to see their opening act, Chris Hillman.
28) Dwight Yoakam
Amarillo, Texas...spring 1993.  I got to go backstage and shoot the breeze with him before his concert.
It was a great moment in time and bummerly all I could think to say was how cool it was that he put The Indigo Girls on his newest CD.
29) Heartsfield
Opening act for the one Doobie Brothers concert that sucked.  These dudes were from the Midwest.  Best described as a "merrie" band of melodic hippies full of kick ass energy.
I went out the next day and bought all three of their albums.
30) The Bellamy Brothers
This was the in-between time for them...from when they had the big hit with "Let Your Love Flow" on the Top 40 pop charts and were morphing into a mainstream country act.  They came to hillbilly-land to play a local gym. 
The receptionist at the radio station where I worked was quite smitten by the boys.
31) Waylon Jennings
Salem, Virginia 1977...Amarillo, Texas 2000.  It was Waylon.  Waylon kicked ass.
32) Merle Haggard
Roswell, New Mexico 2003.  I was glad to go.
33) Michael Martin Murphey
Roswell, New Mexico 1991.  I fell asleep.  Though I have to say when I interviewed him the year before when he was going to be at the New Mexico State Fair it was a fun interview, like talking to an old party pal from college.
34) Los Lobos
Phoenix, Arizona 1993.  Good stuff.  I dug it when they broke into one of my all-time favorite songs "One Time One Night."
35) Marty Stuart
Salem, Virginia 1974...Amarillo, Texas June 2000.  Marty knows his shit.
36) The Edgar Winter Group
This was the last concert I took Dead Lisa to.  I think she thought I had a one-track mind.  What can I say.  I was 16 and a boy.  I had hormones, you know.
37) Rick Derringer
Opening act for The Edgar Winter Group.
38) Lester Flatt
Bluegrass legend appearing on a double bill with...
39) Bill Monroe
...THE Bluegrass legend.
40) John Hartford
One of my fave country-folk acts.
I even got to introduce him on stage one time.
I saw him 2 or 3 times in my time.
41) Iris Dement
The folksy country singer from the Heartland.
She took to the stage in Scottsdale, Arizona 1994.
Have you been to Scottsdale?
It's expensive to live there.
She looks out at the audience.
"I went window shopping around here before the concert tonight," she said.  She paused.  "Bet y'all don't have a Wal-Mart around here."
42) Peter Rowan
Legendary Bluegrass musician and all-around performer.
43) Mark Chesnutt
Mainstream Country singer who gave a great, tight concert in a high school auditorium in Sierra Vista, Arizona 1995.
44) Chris Hillman
Original member of the Byrds, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Stephen Stills Manassas and years after this 1976 concert I went to... The Desert Rose Band.
45) Grand Funk Railroad
After The Doobs, The Eagles, Little Feat, Marshall Tucker Band my 5th fave band to see in concert.
46) Steve Young
My all-time favorite musician.  Southern singer songwriter.  The man who gave the world "Seven Bridges Road."
I couldn't believe my good fortune when he came to Amarillo for a small coffehouse concert in 1993.
I was really amazed when he showed up in Tucson in 1994 with Katy Moffatt.
Oh, hey.  I forgot to put Katy Moffatt on the list.

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: A VISIT FROM A GUY FROM THE FBI

by Grant McGee

There’s a story out of El Paso about some dude who was standing outside the FBI office there with his camera.  Some FBI agents came out in their suits and ties, confronted him and took away his camera.

I reckon he never heard the old saying if you don’t want the bear to attack you don’t poke it with a stick. 

Actually that’s not an old saying, I just made it up.  But you’d figure people would have some common sense about such stuff.

This incident reminded me of the time I came face-to-face with a real, live FBI agent.

I was kicking back one sunny afternoon at my bicycle shop when a customer came in.  He seemed like an average Joe, dressed like an average Joe, just browsing around.

“Where are you from?” I asked.  I like to shoot the breeze with folks about where they’re from.  It lets my brain get away for a bit.  Besides, I might’ve been where they’ve been and there’s a conversation starter for you right there.

“Roswell,” said Mr. Customer.

“Oh hey,” I said, “I used to live in Roswell.  What do you do down there?”

“I work for the federal government.”

Federal government?  Roswell?  The first thing that popped in my mind, to me the biggest Federal presence that I knew of was the Bureau of Land Management.

“So you work for the Bureau of Land Management?” I asked.

“No,” said the customer.  “The FBI.”

A strange tingly sensation rolled over me.  The theme from the 1960’s TV show “The FBI” played in my head.  Visions of Efrem Zimbalist Junior, the star of the show, appeared in my head, kicking ass and taking names for AMERICA!

“So you guys are like lawyers with guns who have super psychoanalytical mind-reading powers, right?” I smiled.  I opened a drawer on my desk.  “Dang, no aluminum foil in here so I can make a hat to keep you from reading my mind.”

Mr. FBI smiled.

“So seriously,” I went on.  “Are all you guys law school dudes?  Highly skilled in argumentation and debate and stuff like that?”

“No,” he said, “My degree is in Electrical Engineering.”

 “Can I see your badge?” I asked.  “I’ve only seen them on TV, like on that FBI TV show with Efrem Zimbalist Jr. or Mulder and Scully’s badges on ‘The X-Files.’”

Mr. FBI fished around in his pocket and produced his badge.  It was a coppery thing about the size of an old-fashioned silver dollar.  It wasn’t in a little wallet thingy with his picture ID like Mulder and Scully flashed when they were investigating an X-file.  I silently wondered to myself if this dude was for real.  But I only silently wondered.  There wasn’t any way I was going to challenge him on if he was a real FBI agent.

“Cool,” I said.  “But doesn’t that come in a wallet thingy with your picture ID?”

“On television,” he said.

“So you ride a bike?” I asked.  “So you’re like…a normal guy with an engineering degree who works for Uncle Sam.”

Mr. FBI gave me a sideways glance.  He smiled again.

He bought some inner tubes and stuff and was on his way.

When I told my friend Texas Michelle I had a customer who was an FBI agent she looked at me sideways.

“He was just shopping,” I said.

“Oh SURE he was ‘just shopping,’” said Texas Michelle.

“Yeah,” I said.  “But you know, I did write that article that one time about the dude who came into my bike shop and was talking how Obama went to a ‘secret school’ run by the CIA in Hawai’I and I called “Bullsh*t” because my brother went to the same school years earlier.  Maybe they saw me writing about that as a problem.”

“Unh-hunh,” said Texas Michelle. “You know it doesn’t take much to get those people’s attention.  There was that time that we were driving back from Oklahoma and we slowed down to look at an 18-wheeler with some “We-guard-the-President” kinda cars as an escort…we were curious…and one of them leaves the convoy and gets right up on our bumper and follows us real close for a couple of minutes then left us alone.”

“Nah,” I said.  “He was just shopping.”

“Unh-hunh,” said Texas Michelle.

“Maybe he was checking me out over that article I wrote and decided I wasn’t a threat to national security.”

Texas Michelle burst out laughing.

“Nah,” I said.  “He was just shopping.”

At least I think he was just shopping.

I’m pretty sure.

I reckon he was.

                                                                                -30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: STUFF YOU CAN SPEND YOUR MONEY ON IN SANTA FE

The Plaza, downtown Santa Fe, New Mexico

By Grant McGee

It was what I called a “lightning trip” to Santa Fe.

I was living in Phoenix and knew a guy named Tom.  He had to make a run to Santa Fe to take a test for his New Mexico licensure which validated his Arizona teaching stuff or something like that.  All I knew is he was going to make the run from Phoenix to Santa Fe, take a test, then rocket back to Phoenix and he was looking for someone to ride along so it wouldn’t be so boring.

About 500 miles, about 8 hours each way.

“Sure, I’ll go,” I said.

I reckon I could write about the one-day adventure:  Hitting the interstate at 4am, rolling into Santa Fe around lunchtime, Tom taking his test then rocketing back to Phoenix by midnight.

I picked up a Santa Fe paper while I was in “The City Different” as they call it.  I amused myself with the articles…here was one about women awakening their inner she-wolf written by a woman who had had a mastectomy and covered the scar with a vine tattoo…here was another article about raising babies without diapers.  That if you just got in tune with your baby you would realize when they needed to “go” and the poop could go in a toilet and not sully the environment with another used disposable diaper.

But it was the ads that I found most interesting of all.

Ads for mostly “services” that people with copious amounts of money could spend their money on.

Aromatherapy.  Shiatsu I & II.  Santa Fe School of Healing.  COME TO THE SPRING PSYCHIC FAIR!  Know your “court card personalities” and how they affect your life…$25 registration fee, limited to 25 participants, session begins with a catered vegan buffet.

I wrote them down…

The School of Natural Healing…this city sure has a lot of “academies.”

Transformational Healing Therapy.  Kinesiology (workshops available).  Creative Core Energetics.  RHYTHM ART!  DRUMS AND GONGS!  COST $395 W/O ROOM AND BOARD.  GRADUATE AS A NATURAL THERAPEUTIC SPECIALIST.

Colon Therapy.  It would be years later that a dude at a party in Bisbee, Arizona would remark to me on how “high” he felt after having his colon cleansed, and how fascinating it was to observe his colon contents on display for him in an aquarium after the procedure.

“Excuse me,” I said.  “Someone is calling my name over here.”

More from the Santa Fe paper…BUY FRESH GOTU KOLA, FOR SALE IN MY SHOP, THIS IS THE KOLA FOR THE AQUARIAN AGE.  The Gurdjieff Movements, $485 tuition includes lunches, end of seminar traditional feast.  There was a picture of Mr. Gurdjieff from long ago, he wore a pointy hat.

And then there was a thank-you note in the paper…

“Thanks to all who made this possible for me, your income donated to me allowed me three days naked in the rain forest to help give me perspective to my life.  When I left they gave me vibhuti (holy ash) from Satya Sai Baba…I plan to spend the next 6 to 8 months in India visiting ashrams, trekking in Nepal and continuing my spiritual journey wherever that may lead.”

I tried to imagine me asking people for donations so I could wander the earth on my spiritual journey.  I couldn’t see this happening.

More commentary, more ads…

“To my surprise the native Maori are a warrior people!  I didn’t fee much attraction to them.”  “The author having her millet paste make-up done during the winter solstice festival.”

CREATE THE RELATIONSHIP OF YOUR DREAMS NOW!  Explore the essence of spirituality.  I AM AN EMPATH, $75 AN HOUR.  “She is a best-selling Native American writer of eastern tribe and European descent whose training began with Native Elders in Mexico where she journeyed into non-physical worlds.”

I can’t make this shit up.

Psychospiritual Healing!

Spritual Healing!

Psychic Surgery!

Practical application of gemstones and crystals for personal and planetary healing.  Ear Coning.  Vibrational healing.  Earn your apprenticeship in Color Puncture Catalyst for Transformation.  European medium available in Santa Fe.

Craniosacral therapy.

Then I put the paper down.

I closed my eyes, rubbed my eyelids and laughed.

“What,” asked Tom.

“All the bullshit you can spend your extra money on in Santa Fe,” I said with a smile.

“Who has extra money?”

“Ohh, you know,” I said.  “Trustafarians…”

“What’s that,” he asked.

“You know, people who live off trust funds.  They’re out there.  Trustafarians and people with lots of money in general and  people with extra money who need to fill a hole in their soul.”

“Who the hell has extra money like that?”

“Zackly,” I said.  “They basically just need to get out, grow up, live and be free.  But hell, if the people who spend money on this stuff stopped then I reckon the whole town of Santa Fe would blow away.”

“Naw,” said Tom.  “All the New Yorkers and Californians would leave and it would go back to being a New Mexican town.”

We both laughed.

                                                                                -30-