Tag: music

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Meeting Tex Ritter: A Cherished Childhood Memory


Tex Ritter, photo courtesy of Roy Rogers

“Do not forsake me, oh my Darlin,” on this our wedding day,” who didn’t know the first verse of that song from the radio? A massive hit from the 1952 movie “High Noon,” performed by everybody’s favorite singing cowboy, Tex Ritter.

In 1957, I was eight years old, and on some Saturday nights, I got to tag along with my father to the “Cowtown Hoedown,” a popular live country music show performed at the Majestic Theater in downtown Fort Worth, Texas. My father was the fiddle player in the house stage band, so I was somewhat musical royalty, at least for a kid.

Most of the major and minor country stars played Fort Worth and Dallas as much as they did Nashville, and I was fortunate to have seen many of them at this show. One, in particular, made a lasting impression on my young self.

I was sitting on a stool backstage before the show, talking to a few kids; who, like me, got to attend the show with their fathers.

My father came over and asked me to follow him. We walked behind the back curtain and stopped at a stage-level dressing room. There in the doorway stood a big fellow in a sequined cowboy suit and a 30 gallon Stetson. I knew who he was; that is Tex Ritter, the movie star and cowboy singer. My father introduced me, and I shook hands with Tex. I was floored, shocked, and couldn’t speak for a few minutes. What kid gets to meet a singing cowboy movie star in Fort Worth, Texas? I guess that would be me.

Tex asked my name and then told me he had a son the same age as me. We talked baseball and cowboy movies for a bit, then he handed me a one-dollar bill and asked if I would go to the concession stand and buy him a package of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. So I took the buck and took off down the service hallway to the front of the theater. I knew all the shortcuts and hidey holes from my vast exploration of the old theater during the shows.

I knew nothing of the brands and flavors, not being a gum chewer, but the words Juicy Fruit made my mouth water. Not having much money, what change I did get from selling pop bottles went to Bubble Gum Baseball Cards, not fancy chewing gums.

I purchased the pack of gum for five cents. Then, gripping the change tightly in my sweating little hand, I skedaddled back to Tex’s dressing room. He was signing autographs but stopped and thanked me for the favor. He then gave me two quarters for my services and disappeared into his dressing room for a moment. He handed me an autographed 8×10 photograph of him playing the guitar and singing to the doggies when he returned. I was in country and western music heaven. He also gave me a piece of Juicy Fruit, which I popped into my mouth and began chewing, just like Tex.

Juicy Fruit became my favorite gum, and now, whenever I see a pack or smell that distinct aroma as someone is unwrapping a piece, I remember the night I shared a chew with Tex Ritter.

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Ask A Texan: When Life Ain’t So Wonderful


Contemplative And Often Serious Advice For Non-Texans

The Texan

This Texan recieved a letter from a Mr. George Baily of Bedford Falls New York. It seems his oldest son, Tommy has become a Performitive Male.

Mr. Baily: Mr. Texan, I read your advice column in my uncle Billy’s copy of the Police Gazette, so you, being a wise old fellow, might be able to help me out.

My oldest son, Tommy, has been away at college in New York City. Mary and I haven’t seen him in about 6 months, or so. He came home a few days ago, and we almost lost our breakfast right there in the foyer when he walked in the door. He was dressed in checkered pajama pants, a see-through black tee-shirt, and a pink fuzzy sweater. He was carrying a tote bag from Macy’s, had a Nikon camera hanging from his neck, and was wearing some pink Phyllis Diller-looking glasses. And to make it even worse, he also had one of those man buns on his head. His younger sister Zuzu took one look at him and called him a little sissy-man.

Mary spent three hours in the kitchen making him his favorite supper of Pork Tenderloin, mashed potatoes, and steamed Broccoli-Tomato medley. When he came downstairs to eat, he threw a fit and said he no longer eats meat or nightshade vegetables because his sensitive digestive system makes him moody and melancholy if he eats the wrong food. He only eats Kale salad, Tibetan rice cakes, and drinks a Mocha Latte from Starbucks. Just looking at the supper made him whimper and cry. He told us he has embraced his sensitive feminine side, doing away with his male toxicity. He is now what is known as a Performative Male.

Zuzu, our stout, no-nonsense daughter, lost it and punched him out with a haymaker to the face, right there in the dining room. She then threw a handful of rose petals on him as he lay there on the rug with a dislocated jaw and bleeding from his nose. Mary is so upset, she pleaded with me to call my Angel buddy Clarence to see if he could talk some sense into our little Performative sissy man. Got any suggestions on how we can handle this predicament?

The Texan: Boy howdy, George, I can see that your life ain’t so wonderful right now. We don’t have many of those feminine men here in Fort Worth, Texas, they all stay in Dallas and Austin. Down here, men are real men. We wear manly footwear, Stetson hats, and Wrangler jeans from Cavender’s. If your son took a stroll in the Stock Yard district, he wouldn’t last five minutes before some cowboy put a large can of whoop-ass on him. Your daughter Zuzu sounds like a keeper. Let her handle her brother; a few more butt-whippings might do him good. There’s something about getting your butt kicked by a girl that gets the old male hormones going. I’m sending him a CD of George Strait’s greatest hits, a pair of Justin cowboy boots, some Wrangler jeans, and a box of Cherry Bombs so Zuzu can blow up all his girly stuff. Tell Clarence howdy for me, and stay away from bridges.

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Dylan In One Paragraph: Going Electric And Country


Bob was a restless cat. His hair was longer and wilder now. Minnesota was a dream or at best, a faded picture on a postcard from home. The Martin guitar didn’t do it for him anymore, nor did Pete, Woodie, or Joan. He hooked up with some Canadian boys with electric guitars and organs and traded the acoustic for a Fender Strat and a Super Reverb Amplifier. He was hip…he was in the scene…current and cool. He was tired of writing songs about nothing that seemed like something after a few bottles of wine and some grass. All these young hippie kids thought he was the Messiah of music..the second coming, he tried walking on water and almost drowned, all for believing the hype. He was done. Joan B. was clingy, handsy, folksy, and too natural for his taste. She didn’t shave her armpits or legs and he was sick of her traditional whiney folk music. He had been to Monterey and played grab-ass with Janis. New York can go to hell. He was going to Nashville and pick with them cats that played cool as country water. Chet Atkins invited him to dinner. Johnny Cash invited him into the fold. He was sold on country cooking and Gibson guitars. Nashville Skyline was his opus. Cash led him to the promised land. He found Baby Jesus in a snow globe at the Bluebird Cafe. He put the Menorah in his pantry and laid out the “Good Book” on his coffee table, next to the crystal ashtray and his roll-your-own cigarettes. Bob was a Christian now, his Jewish days behind him for a while, but he would revisit them often. Joanie wanted a rematch..said she would be less competitive and write even crappier songs, Bob said no way, he couldn’t take another round of her. He thought about buying another motorcycle, but just for a minute. Naw…I don’t need another broken neck and leg. He purchased a machine gun in case the Black Panthers came to Woodstock, he would be ready. He wrote ten thousand songs and won the Pulitzer Prize. He kept the money. His son, Jacob is too hip and hangs out with girls from Laurel Canyon that have no talent for anything except spending his money and wailing. Bob tells him to get a haircut and a real job, he is now his own father back in Minnesota. Bob sells his song catalog for a Billion dollars to a group of Japanese. He’s flush with cash. He calls Paul and Ringo and tells them to stick it, he’s richer than they are now. Paul writes a song about it. Ringo sends him some Kale cupcakes. He revisits the Village. All the old hangouts are now fast food joints and iPhone shops. He walks the street, but no one recognizes him..he’s good with that. His cell phone rings, it’s Joan B., and she wants to meet for a salad and mineral water lunch. He wants a burger, he tells her he loves meat, and she gags and pukes on her Samsung phone. Bob laughs and walks into McDonalds for a Big Mac. The girl behind the counter asks him if he’s that guy on that “Survivor.” TV show. He says “No, I am a survivor.”

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The Journey to Fort Worth: A Story of Hope and Sacrifice


The continuing story of Jesus Got A Mainline
the Manley Family: Front from left, Jasper, Marcy, Lavelle. Standing, from left, Mozelle, Jay, and Catharine

Leaving home to forge a new life can be an exhilarating journey or a regretful mistake, depending on the circumstances of the departure. My mother, Mozelle, saw it as a journey that must be made; there would be no regret or sadness. The days of laboring in the fields and chopping cotton were behind her now. She would never again grip the wooden handle of a hoe.

Her mother’s parting tears left a permanent stain on the shoulder of her best dress. Her father’s apathy and refusal to hold her pierced her heart.

The bus ride to Fort Worth stretched into the night, giving her time to reflect and to shed her tears in the dark.

Sharing an apartment with her sister, Lavelle, she found work at Consolidated Aircraft Corporation, where she built B-24 bombers as part of the war effort. She was now the girl on the famous poster, with her sleeve rolled up and a polka dot headscarf. Her life was all work with little time for a social life.

In a letter from home, her father demanded that she and her sister send him a percentage of their paychecks, as their departure from the farm had forced him to hire labor and change crops that yielded less money. They complied, albeit unwillingly, for the sake of their mother. They learned that the Preacher and his family had come one last time, and with no cotton to pick, returned to San Angelo, where he passed a few months later. His sons carried on the church. She never forgot Preacher and his mainline to Jesus.

Her brother, Jay, wrote frequently to his sisters from his ship in the Pacific theater. He was a gunner on a destroyer and participated in the invasion of Iwo Jima. He was one of my two uncles who were the best liars and spinners of yarns and tall tales, and he passed that treasure on to me.

The front porch of the family farm house was his stage, and I would sit for hours absorbing his tales, some true, some as tall as the oak tree growing in the front yard. Give the man a few Pearl Beers and he could orate as well as Will Rogers. I felt he missed his calling to be a writer or a stage personality. In later years, the stories had darker undertones, and he became a world-class alcoholic who, after two stays in a state hospital, beat the demon and lived a sober life until his passing in a car accident in 1968, a head-on collision caused by, of all things, a drunk driver. She believed the war affected him deeply and led to his drinking problem. Today, we call it PTSD. My mother loved him dearly, and she was the force that convinced and aided him to seek help. His death affected her deeply, and I believe she grieved him for the rest of her life.

As a young girl, my mother wrote poetry and was quite good; she won an award in grade school. Her handwriting was exquisite. She and a fountain pen became one, and a sheet of lined school paper became her canvas.

Reading the great poets of her time and writing her own poems was her idea of a proper education, and she dreamed of one day publishing her own book. There were hundreds of pages of poems, squirreled away in a drawer, for someday. The poems were lost, and so was the day with them.

After the war ended, she and her sister worked on drawing maps. There was more time for a social life, and the two enjoyed dancing, so that led them to nightclubs at Crystal Springs on Lake Worth, Belknap Street, and Jacksboro Highway. She wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a husband, but was swept off her feet by a good-looking, dynamic young fiddle player in one of the bands. The attraction was immediate and intense, and both of their backs were chock-full of Cupid’s arrows. That nice young man, a native of Fort Worth, a veteran, and recently relocated from Hawaii, would become my father.

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Day Two Of The Heart Monitor And Janice Taking A Little Piece Of My Heart…Now Baby.


I got through the night without the red light coming on, so I didn’t wake up dead, which is another misnomer. How does one “wake up dead?” I don’t care to find out. I know Jerry Garcia was always playing and talking about being part of the Grateful Dead, another messed-up name for a band. Dead folks aren’t grateful unless they have never heard a Taylor Swift record, or they are in Heaven, so we can assume the band at least gave Christianity a second thought. In the end, Ole Jerry didn’t have much to be grateful for except a body full of Heroin or whatever the hell he killed himself with. We can assume that if he made it to Heaven, the Good Lord at least put him in one of his praise bands along with Hendrix and a few others.

I had my usual cocktail last night, sitting on the patio with Momo, watching the Skunk and two Opossums come into the bird feeding area scrounging for treats. I was surprised the two critters didn’t get into an altercation, considering they both prefer the same foods: fruits and veggies. Momo says no old man in their right mind would encourage critters to come to an animal Luby’s cafeteria in their backyard. Somebody has to take care of our small furry critters. Elie Mae Clampett always had a few hanging off of her, and Granny was good at fixing them for supper when Elie Mae wasn’t around and Jed was out shooting for some food and finding more crude. Did Granny ever serve Mr. Drysdale and Miss Jane any Possum Medallions on a wooden stick with Chipmunk sauce?

Finally got my heart monitor paired with my Bluetooth hearing aids and my stereo and listened to some of the drum solo from Iron Butterfly’s “Inna Gadda Da Vida,” and man, that guy could play, I got my heart to match his kick drum, and was moving and grooving in my La-Z-Boy: Momo thought I was having the big one and almost called 911 since the light started blinking yellow. If it’s green, I’m good; yellow means it’s iffy, and if it goes to red, then I’m off to La-La Land. I got a text from my Dr. Squatch to “knock it off.”

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Why I Missed My Calling as a Writer


I was born too late to meet my calling as a writer. Instead of being birthed in 1949, I should have appeared in 1931, no later than 1933, then I may have had a fighting chance. By the time I began writing about serious topics, I was in high school, in the mid-1960s. We had the Vietnam War, Hippies, rock music, and pot to contend with. Writing about Hippies held no interest for me, but the war, music, and politics did, and so I wrote a few things for my high school paper and journalism class that brought instant grief my way. My mentor and writing coach, Mrs. Mischen, chastised me for the language I used, which, in retrospect, was a bit crude and too hip for a high school paper. However, she also gave me an “atta-boy” for having the courage to put myself out there. I wasn’t anti-establishment, anti-war, or anti-Hippie; I wasn’t anti-anything: only a rock musician playing in a popular band, and that’s about all I had to offer the world at that point. That’s why I should have been a writer in the 1950s, hanging out in the Village with Kerouac and Boroughs, and even Hemingway and Steinbeck in late-night bars, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, drinking whiskey, and arguing about the fate of America after the two recent wars that had led to a drastic shift in our country. I would have been a perfect cohort. Instead, I spent my childhood years writing in a Big Chief Tablet about neighborhood shenanigans and mailing my articles to the Fort Worth Press, hoping for a spot in the Sunday news, all the time, believing I was the incarnation of Mark Twain. Now, I’m too damn old to be the incarnation of anyone, and can’t remember what to write, and can’t find my notebooks full of ideas.

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Ask A Texan: Yearning To Be Sydney Sweeney…


Questionable But Believable Advice For Folks That Dream About Living In The Land Where They Can Be An Urban Cowboy And Date Debra Winger

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Whipple Charmin of Lawton Oklahoma. It was written on the back of a Walmart grocery list, and after reading what the poor man is being fed, I’m amazed he’s still alive. It seems his wife, Luanna Rosanna Cash, is going through a midlife change and is searching for her “inner self.”

Mr. Charmin: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Popular Chicken Magazine at Tractor Supply and figured you might be able to help a brother out. The Missus, Luanna Rosanna Cash( her mama named her that after her favorite singer), is going through the change of life, at least that’s what her Chiropractor and her hairdresser tell her. She recently saw that Sydney Sweeney girl on TV wearing those tight jeans and looking pretty fine, so she thinks she wants to be like her. The problem is, Luanna has a butt the size of a 1957 Buick and the only jeans she can fit in is those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans at The Walmart. I come home from work at the chicken-killing plant, and she’s all laid out on the sofa with a cold bottle of Ripple Wine, wearing those stretchy jeans, and a Dolly Parton wig and a Urban Cowboy western shirt open to the waist. Her little Poodle dog, Tidbit, is sitting on her butt, with his leg up licking his own little butt, which killed the mood. I know her hormones are all messed up and she’s going through one of those identity crises and all, so I tell her she looks real fine. Well, she asked me if those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans make her look like Sydney Sweeney? That dog sitting on her butt kinda threw me off my nut, and I said, No, honey, you look just like that nice waitress down at the Waffle House. The doctor at the ER stitched up my forehead and said the scar should go away in a few years, but the imprint of the Lodge frying pan logo might be permanent. I need to make things right with Luanna cause I’m tired of living at the Motel 6 cause they keep that damn light on all night, and I can’t sleep.

The Texan: Whipple, you Okie moron, didn’t your Daddy teach you anything? It doesn’t matter if her butt looks like the Goodyear Blimp floating over Cowboy Stadium; you lie like a two-dollar garage sale rug. I, too, once was in a similar situation. The wife, squeezed into her 1980s Madonna, Like A Virgin outfit, she was wearing to our class reunion. She looked at me with those big, old, fake eyelashes eyes and that teased-up hair, and asked me if the dress made her butt look too big. I was working on my fourth or fifth Jack and Coke, so I told her the tushie looked just like that Led Zeppelin album cover. The prom was a little icy, and a few days later, I came home from the Sons of the Alamo Lodge meeting, and she had donated my bass boat to the Goodwill store. So, Whipple, you’d better learn to lie like a Democrat. I’m sending you a copy of ” Liars for Dummies” and my usual box of Cherry Bombs just to make you feel better.

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Ask A Texan: Lost In London And Homesick


Downhome Advice For Folks That Don’t Have A Home…

The Texan

This Texan received an exceptionally long telegram from a fellow Texan, a Mr. Forest H. Crouch, from somewhere in London, England. It seems his wife got herself in trouble, and now he’s stuck and can’t get home.

Mr. Crouch: Mr. Texan, I’m in dire need of help here. I saw your ad in the back of a Penny Shopper paper at the train station. I’m stuck in London and can’t get back to Texas. I just want to go home to my Armadillo ranch. The wife, The Lovely Juanita, that’s what she insists I call her, even though she’s not Mexican, but has a dark complexion and thinks she’s really cute. Well, The Lovely Juniata and I took this trip for our 30th wedding anniversary. We had never been out of the US, so it was a cultural shock to us since we’ve lived just outside Luckenbach, Texas, all our lives and are the proprietors of the Luckenbach Armadillo, Watusi Cow, and Llama Ranch. We were eating at a nice Pub by Marble Arch Station, here in London, and I tell you, I was freezing my balls off because no one will turn the heat on in this city. My toes were like frozen Vienna sausages, and The Lovely Juanita was turning blue, even with her dark complexion and all. Even my Justin boots (manly footwear)couldn’t keep those frozen toes warm. Well, The Lovely Juanita orders some fish and chips, and I order a steak with gravy, since the menu said it was chicken fried like in Texas. The barmaid thought she was really cute and made some smartass remarks about us being from Texas. The Lovely Juanita takes a taste of her fish and spits it out and yells, “This crap tastes like bait, I want some Bass, or at least some Catfish nuggets, and then, thanks to four big glasses of warm beer, the missus jumps up and slugs her. Well, that started the fight, and two big old Limey boys get me down and are working on me pretty good. I couldn’t get up because there was this big Sheep Dog in the Pub, and he started chewing on my leg. Somewhere in the fray, I lost my Sony Walkman, which had all my favorite country music from Amarillo and Abilene on that cassette. The Lovely Juanita grabs a cheap acoustic guitar from the stage and starts beating them about their limey heads, yelling at me to “run, Forest run,”(which is my first name, folks back home call me Hondo), which I did. I run out of the pub just as the limey police come and arrest The Lovely Juniata for assault with a musical instrument, which I guess is a crime here in London. Hell, back in Luckenbach, we use guitars to bust folks’ heads all the time if they can’t play for shit. Just a month ago, I smacked some little Austin hippie dippy man bun wearing boy for butchering Jerry Jeff’s Mr. Bojangles. The bartender bought me a beer for that one. Well, The Lovely Juanita is locked up in a limey jail somewhere in London, and she has all the money in her Pioneer Woman purse, and the hotel key. Somewhere in the fight, I lost my billfold and my lower false teeth, I think the dog may have eaten them, and now I can’t get in my room, and can’t chew nothing. The Lovely Juniata is in the jailhouse now, and all I want to do is go home, be in a Texas bar, and tend to my Armadillos and Llamas back in Luckenbach. Can you help a pal out?

The Texan: Well, Hell, Hondo, I hope I can call you that, it sounds better than Forest. I’ve never been to England, but I have been to Oklahoma, and folks tell me it’s nice there. I’m leery of overseas travel, especially for Texans; it just ain’t safe these days. My cousin from Buda went to Paris, France, and was walking down the sidewalk when he tripped on a prayer rug and the moron kneeling on it, and broke his collarbone. Best to stay in the Hill Country. I contacted the London Police, and Prince Charles and they won’t release The Lovely Juanita until she pays for the cheap guitar, or replaces it. I’m sending the cops a new Fender guitar to take care of the fine, and you and The Lovely Juanita some cash to get home, and of course, a box of Cherry Bombs so you can throw a few into that crappy Pub. Let me know how it all turns out. I’ll be down your way in a few weeks and will stop by to say howdy.

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The Endearing Connection: Ozzy and Ozzie. Pass Me That Burning Guitar…


When old Rockers check out, they do it in style. Ozzy Osborne did one last concert the week before his ride up to meet Saint Peter. TV preacher, Joel ( Money Bags) Olsteen, said that Ozzy, upon being stopped at the gate by an Archangel, told God that the whole black satanic Satan thing was just an act, and he never liked the taste of Bats. I haven’t heard anything yet about whether that worked. Alice Cooper had more fun with the makeup and outfits, and Alice is a Christian, so he will likely make the cut when his time is up.

I was not a Black Sabbath fan, and couldn’t name you one tune they did, but I did watch the Ozzy and family show a few times and found it sort of entertaining and depressing at the same time. I was accustomed to the original Ozzie show, the one with his wife, Harriet, and the two nice-looking sons, and a street full of nicely dressed neighbors. Everyone cooked hamburgers on their charcoal grills every night because the weather on the back lot at California’s Desilu Studios was always so perfect. That’s the Ozzy I connect with. Much like Ozzy Osborne, Ozzie Nelson was also a musician and a television producer. Big Band music, large-scale orchestrated numbers featuring blaring horns, doghouse bass players, and hep cat drummers. Then his son, little Ricky, grew up and had twinkling blue eyes and perfectly styled wolfman hair, a nice Martin guitar, and sang teenage songs that made the young girls all jelly-legged and instantly fertile. So, the dull Ozzie could have related to the outrageous Ozzy, as he had raised a rebellious teenage musical son.

I made a list of deceased musicians and read it to Momo. She is adept at correcting me when I make a social or personal mistake. She asked for a rundown, so I gave it my all, but all was wrong. I had no idea Bruce Springsteen, Spinal Tap, Stills and Nash, Neil Diamond, Diamond Lil, Joni Mitchell, The last Monkee, Paul Simon, Simon and Garfunkel, Dave Clark and his Five, Peter the Hermit, Freddy the Dreamer, and Sir Paul were still alive. What a shock. Ringo is now a member of The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, so I guess that “They’re Gonna Put Me In The Movies” tune paved the way. I told her to put the list in her desk drawer and check it in a few years to see if I foretold the future. The sad reality of old musicians and singers passing on is, who will pick up the torch and replace them? Please don’t even consider Taylor The Swifter and that group of cartoon music morons she spawned. I’m waiting on Dylan and Baez to go on tour.

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Ask A Texan: Finding Joe Bee’s Father


Pretty Stable Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas And Can’t Get Here

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Miss Sparkle, a business owner in Chattooga, Georgia. She runs the Papa Gus River Rafting and Fish Camp, which was made famous in the movie Deliverance.

My little boy, Joe Bee before he grew up into a man

Mr. Texan: I can’t get no help around here from nobody: it’s just a bunch toothless hillbillies sitting around drinking moonshine, so maybe you can shine a light on my predicament. I enclosed an old picture of my boy, he’s real shy and won’t let me take a picture now that he’s older.

Back in 1972, a group of Hollywood boys filmed a movie here on the river. It was all fun, and my family got to be in the movie. I enjoyed many an evening drinking shine with some of the actors and got to know one of them really well. Bless his heart, he’s passed on now, but I’ll always remember his funny laugh and how good he was with that bow and arrows. Now, in 1984, a bunch of rich big-shots from Washington, DC came down to ride the Chattooga like in that famous movie that was filmed here. They were nice men and treated me with respect, even though I was just a river rat. Daddy hadn’t been gone long, and I was really sad, so it was nice to have some company at the camp. One night, the bunch of us were sitting around the campfire drinking daddy’s famous shine, and this one fellow they called Joe B started sniffing my hair. I didn’t mind cause I had just washed it with lye soap, and it smelled pretty good. He was a nice man, in a creepy sort of way. Too much shine always gets you in trouble, and I’ve had plenty of it since then. Well, about a year later, the old stork shows up with this bundle of joy. I call him Joe Bee. He ain’t no kid no more and doesn’t want to do anything but sit in his porch swing all day long playing the same song on his damn-ole’ banjo. I’ll tell ya, it’s driving us all to drink more than we normally do, and that’s a bunch. We tried hiding it, but he always finds the darn thing. Little Joe Bee just wants to know who his daddy is. My two other boys, the twins, Smokey and Bandit, their daddy never comes to see them either, but that’s cause he’s dead as a shot squirrel. I’ll give him a pat on the back; at least he gave them each a black Pontiac Trans Am for their sixteenth birthday. At least Joe Bee’s daddy could send him a monster truck or something. He just wants to meet his daddy and have something with big wheels to drive.

The Texan: Miss Sparkle, I’m sorry to hear of your problem and Joe Bee’s fatherless miserable life. Like you, I couldn’t stand to hear a banjo picking all day long. At least you have some good moonshine to knock the edge off. Looks like your boy’s Pop might be found in Washington, DC, and shouldn’t be too hard to track down; the family resemblance to a former big-shot should help find his daddy. We folks down here in Texas believe that every boy deserves a big truck to drive. Keep in touch, and tell your son I’m sending him a DVD of the Smokey And The Bandit movie along with a month’s supply of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.