Six Degrees of Trump, Sir Doug, Sheriff Joe and Me

Give me enough time and I'm reasonably sure that I can produce evidence that Kevin Bacon is involved in here somewhere. In another time, another decade- heck, another century- the fledgling calling itself The Americana Music Association held its first "conference" in Lake Tahoe.

Finally a place for me! No longer an outcast, alone in the evil music industry...

Oh, wait...

Those folks never quite took me to heart either. For awhile my releases went to the Top 10 on their charts. First thing you know I've managed to alienate myself from this bunch, too.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I do that.

My roommate for the conference was Doug Sahm. You know, Sir Doug. One of the biggest thrills of my life, I gotta tell you. I had worked with him at a Star Spectacular in Clearwater in 1966 and I had been dragged to the Florida State Fair to see the Texas Tornados but we had never really known each other.

Well, sir, Doug was a talker. World class. I couldn't begin to catalog our conversations from that weekend. Some of the things that do come to mind:

Amos'n'Andy, Minor league baseball, Huey Meaux, Sienfeld, coffee, wrestling, Hank Penny...

I had to tell him about No Depression and the whole new alt country thing, which wasn't yet alt country. This king had a new throne and nobody had bothered to tell him.

One day at a picnic table he launched into his sad tale of leaving Texas. He had been set up by a crooked cop for a marijuana bust in Corpus Christi. Eventually, to avoid jail time he left for California with his family, his band and his record producer in the rearview mirror.

While he was spinning the yarn an aging hippie strolled up and Doug introduced me to the guy who had put him up and taken him in when he got there. I don't remember his name but he was a nice guy and a genuine character. We had these coincidences all weekend. I'll string them together for another day. This story, though, the Texas drug bust, turned around a notorious scoundrel that Doug kept referring to as "Sheriff Joe."

Joe Arpaio has been ruining lives going back to the mid-sixties. Maybe further back. 

Did I tell you that I once worked for the Russian mafia? Joe Ely told me about ten years ago. Long, long time ago. I never knew.

I've lived an exciting life. I just didn't know it at the time.

                                       

Faith Restored

Let me dry my eyes after bawling through the NBC Nightly News. The disaster in Texas brings together the best parts of humanity. Cajuns from Louisiana coming in with their monster trucks to rescue Texans, human and otherwise. First responders, including the National Guard, police, firemen and rescue workers of every stripe. Mexico offering all manner of love, hope and financial assistance. The Salvation Army, the Red Cross and high school football players. Nobody asking about the ethnicity or faith of any of the victims.

There's no way to find joy in the suffering but there's no way to miss the hope.

Fight with love.

Money and Soda

Nobody's passion lasts forever. Maybe broken hearts do. We're all Texans for the time being and Mother Nature knows all about unrequited love.

While hate is fashionable, show the world some love. Help make it so common that it's not fodder for local TV news. You know the stories-

Baby With No Credit Gets Medical Attention!

Stranger Holds Door Open For Old Lady!

Let the Nazis fight the Klan. Let's dance, let's love.

Don't Know Much Economy

Now, I spend my time, i.e. waste my time, preaching about radio, hot rods, rock'n'roll and broken hearts- usually mine. Why on earth would I put forth a rant about economics?

"What," you may ask, " does that down-and-outter know about finance, economics?"

Well, what do I know about anything? Has it stopped me from writing plays? Newspaper columns? Hillbilly songs? I would tinker with brain surgery if not for those pesky license requirements.

My credentials as a financial scribe are based on "The Emperor's New Clothes." In other words I'm not employed by Goldman Sachs... or the Trump administration.

Let's all agree right here that those nutty tax resisters have some things right. The fact that most of them eventually go mad in their mom's extra bedroom will keep us from putting any of them on the witness stand here. They do know this:

Power in this culture is based entirely on the control of green paper by the very ones who print the green paper.

No wonder that the government fears nuts like me who notice the absurdity of any such phenomena and have the audacity to write it here for my millions of readers! 

Oh, wait.

Long ago the haves figured out that the minions would have to be controlled, Voila! Religion. Patriotism. Overtime pay. Sports. War. Politics.

Print your own green paper. See what happens.

Now the financial pundits conclude that housing prices going up faster than worker pay is good for the economy. Really? Has anybody told the worker? The one who doesn't own a house?

They also know that nothing stops a roaring market like the threat of full employment. You don't say! Has anybody shared this information with the unemployed?

Am I a socialist?

Pretty sure that I'm just an old, white male who went to school with those vultures who play that game and always noticed that the emperor is naked. Look at that tiny little talleywhacker, will ya'!

                                    

Nose To The Grindstone

So here I sit. White. Male. American. Healthy. I was born in a post-war culture in a country where the tide was lifting most boats. A country that had just given the world jazz and rock'n'roll. A democracy that was promising a better day to the oppressed. A forty hour work week

I had no need for bootstraps.

Things change.

Rear view mirrors never meant much to me. Do I wish for a sweeter, gentler world? You bet. My ambition is to be. I do what I can with cowboy chords and love. Take what you need. Plenty more where that came from.

                                    

Fragrance and Arrogance

Being right always seemed so important. Not so much these days. I've lost more friends and heroes in the last year or two than I have in all my life before.

Oh, I'm not complaining. That wouldn't be fair.

The sweetest folks in the world have graced my life. Nobody ever wanted to believe in heaven more than I do. Some of my friends are my heroes and some of my heroes are my friends. It's always been that way. 

The concept of "rich" is alien to me. I've always had more than I needed and there were times when I had nothing. "Famous" is even more foreign as a notion. When writers describe me as a cult artist, I know what that means. To tell you the truth I'm just always happy that they don't use "failure." Probably more accurate but it doesn't flow as well.

Pretty sure that I'm supposed to be full of regrets at this stage. I just can't work it out. Oh, I should have been kinder and I surely could have been more generous.

Did I mention that I wish I believed in reincarnation? 

I probably wouldn't do much differently. I'd just like another couple of laps.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

                                        

Three Queens And A Joker

If I knew now what I thought I knew then I'd still be in trouble. The world was black and white. Girls were sugar and spice and everything nice. Boys were snaps and snails and puppy dog tails. Then, Elvis.

I've struggled with all of it ever since.

A friend reminded me recently that I've always wanted to give away all that I own. Seems crazy. I'm not trying to buy love. I don't think I am. It wouldn't buy much.

The price of seeing the world through the poet's eyes is steep. I see way too much and I know far too little. I cry about things that I saw years ago. I can't list all that I've lost. It hurts too much.

The other side of the coin, of course, is the joy. Only local ordinances keep my pants on and that doesn't always work. If you're tired of me telling you that I love you, get in line.