Trouble in Taos: Batwings and Strangers Part Three

This is the third installment of Chapter Seven of  Trouble in Taos.  Here's Part one, and Part two.  For those of you entering the Nine (should be Eight) Missing Words Contest, the scrambled letters to word five is SEUHO.

“Howdy Estevo, I’m Lowell Sparger.”

“Well Mr. Sparger,” said Estevo, “your first drink is on the house. Can I get you beer or whisky?”

Two-Bucket Joe muttered something about never getting a drink on the house, but most of Joe’s drinking came when someone else bought a round, so no one paid any attention to him, except maybe Flossy, who did something under the bar that made Joe twitch.

Sparger was still leaning on Estevo’s new doors, so offerin’ whisky and beer instead of mud was probably a good idea. The stranger pushed both the batwing doors in, just like the cowboy in the picture. It made me feel like I wasn’t in Taos anymore, but some made-up place that was supposed to look like the American West.

“Is the whisky any good,” he asked.

“Not really,” said Two-Bucket. Then he grunted as Flossy made him twitch again.

“Why no tequila?” asked the guitar player.

“Estevo’s afraid of worms,” said Two-Bucket Joe. He twitched again, but he didn’t look so much like he was in pain. It was almost as if he was enjoyin’ it.

“I’ll have the beer,” said Lowell Sparger.

Two-Bucket opened his mouth, twitched, smiled, and never said a word about Estevo’s beer.

Estevo poured the stranger’s beer in an almost clean glass while everyone else paid attention to whatever they were drinkin’. Some were even polite enough to sip instead of slurp.

“Yup,” said Slimy. “This reminds me of that time Uncle Ned didn’t say anything. Uncle Ned always said what was on his mind, like how there was water in the cotton fields one Spring. I wasn’t there that Spring, cause I wasn’t born yet, but I guess there was a lot of water. Water isn’t somethin’ you want in a cotton field, they say, at least Uncle Ned didn’t want it. That’s what he would say, except that time he didn’t say anything that really surprised us that time.”

Everyone froze. Slimy’s stink was only half of the problem, but how could we get him to shut up? He had a habit of shooting men that tried to do that.

He obeyed me when I asked him to move; it was time to see just how far this new friendship would go.

“So Uncle Ned didn’t say anything about the fields or the cow horse what kicked him when he was only…”

I stood up.

“Slimy,” I said. “This man here has a guitar. Wouldn’t you like to hear a song?”

Slimy looked up at me. I couldn’t tell if he was furious or just surprised.

Maybe he didn’t know either, but after three real slow heartbeats, he smiled.

“Yah,” said Slimy. “I would truly like to hear a song.”

Estevo started to giggle. I think he was just too scared to do anything else. If anyone was going to take charge, it would have to be me.

“Say, Mister,” I said. “My friends and I would sure like to hear a song or two. Do you know any? I mean, any other than ‘Dixie,’ ‘Green Grow,’ or ‘Tenting Tonight.’”

“Or ‘Frère Jacques,’” added Jacques.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “We know that one too.”

The stranger shook his head. “You’re telling me that you fellers only know three songs?”

“Four,” said Jacques.

We all nodded except for Slimy. He seemed to be paying attention, but sometimes that was hard to tell with Slimy.

“Well shoot,” said the stranger, “I know hundreds of songs. I’d be happy to sing for you fellers as long as someone buys my beer.”

“How about mud?” said Two-Bucket Joe. He twitched again, looked up at Flossy, and muttered, “I’m not going to have to pay for this, am I?”

Flossy flashed her teeth in what I suppose was a smile. It was a scary sight, but it made Two-Bucket smile back.

The West was a lonely place in those days.

Lowell took his beer from the bar and brought it over to a table. He set the beer down, unslung his guitar, and started tuning it. A few of the fellers looked confused – was that supposed to be a song? Slimy was bobbing his head to it.

We finally get to the song on Thursday.  For now, here's my last (promise) yodeling video.

Trouble in Taos: Batwings and Strangers Part Two

This is the second installment of the seventh chapter of Trouble in Taos. Part One is here. If you would like to win a Trouble in Taos coffee cup, enter the Nine Missing Words contest (though two of the nine missing words should really be one compound word.) The letter scramble for the forth word is: GILTH.

Part Two

Every time a stranger came into the Rosa Linda, we asked him if he knew any songs. Most didn’t. A few would start singing “Dixie,” or “Green Grow.” One feller sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” We never bothered learning that one. A fair number of the regulars had been Rebels. Sure, the war was over, even Slimy knew that – though Slimy thought the South won it. But the Rebs didn’t want their noses rubbed in it, and even us Yankees didn’t care much for “The Battle Hymn.” It just sounded so churchy.

One fella offered to teach us “Garry Owen.” We passed on that one too. It was that bastard Custer’s song. There were more Indians, or at least part-Indians, among us than there were Rebs. Even after Little Big Horn nobody wanted any part of that tune.

I wracked my brain to remember the words to those great songs like “Beating Down the Micks” and “Chinaman in a Ditch,” but bein’ born with a voice like a cat with a rusty nail in its tail, I never bothered to learn songs I knew I couldn’t sing.

The day Lowell Sparger stepped into the Rosa Linda was a day I’ll never forget. Lowell was the first man to walk through Estevo’s new bat-wing doors. Estevo ordered the doors from a Sears and Roebuck’s catalog. They were supposed to be real popular in western saloons.

“Ain’t they too small?” asked Charlie Four Fingers. “They don’t reach the ground.”

“No,” said Estevo, “that’s the way they are supposed to look. See here in this catalog.”

The catalog showed a picture of duded-up cowboy pushing back the two small doors, one in each hand.

“That don’t look like any cowboy I ever saw,” said Jacques.

“Yeah,” said Flossy, “too clean. I might like to try that for a change.”

“His hat’s all white,” said Charlie. “Who ever heard of a workin’ man keepin’ a white hat clean?”

“What do you know about work?” said Two-Bucket Joe.

“Just look at the doors,” said Estevo. “They’re just like in this picture.”

“They’ll let the flies in,” said Jacques.

“More likely to let them out,” said Joe.

“You’ll see,” said Estevo. “Doors like that will bring in more business. We’ll get a whole new quality of clientele.”

“If that means clean men,” said Flossy, “then I’m for it.”

And that’s when Lowell Sparger appeared at Estevo’s new batwing doors. He wasn’t clean like the cowboy in the picture, but he was tall and straight. His clothes were nicely mended, and most amazing of all, he was carrying a guitar across his back.

I got up to make room for this stranger and motioned for Slimy to move with me against the wall. He surprised me by obeying without a word. He stank like he always did, but against the wall it wouldn’t be as strong.

The fellers at the Rosa Linda didn’t have any manners, but at least they knew that, so they just did nothing. Estevo, the only man with anything approaching sophistication, did all the talkin’.

“Welcome, stranger,” he said. “My name is Estevo Silva. I own this place.”

I got a little boggled last week looking at yodeling videos. Check this one out.

Trouble in Taos: Bat wings and strangers Part One

In conjunction with the NINE MISSING WORDS contest link, Just Plain Stupid presents part one of Trouble in Taos, Chapter Seven: Bat wings and strangers. For those following the NINE MISSING WORDS contest, I’ve gotten guesses already, but not all of them addressed to headleystupid@gmail.com, nor do all include a mailing address in the continental US (Maynard, Massachusetts – not included.) Two of the nine missing words can be (maybe should be) combined to form a compound word. Here is the scrambled letters for word 3 – TRIPTREE.

Chapter Seven

Beach was a man of compassion, a protector of the innocent, a defender of the helpless. Those who victimized the good people of Taos rarely lived long enough to regret it. Slimy Beach, the great guardian of the little people, let no act of villainy pass without swift retribution in the manifestation of his avenging six guns. Even Lowell Sparger, a simple drifter, was under the mighty hero’s protective wing. Ernest Felthousen, the feared cattleman’s hired killer, shot Sparger while he was innocently playing a guitar for church children. Slimy Beach evened the score by shooting the speedy Felthousen. Felthousen drew on Beach before the hero even knew his peril, but Slimy Beach, with the power of righteousness in his veins, shot faster and truer, ending Felthousen’s villainy and bringing him to God’s seat of judgment.

W. G. C. R. Colmes, Slimy Beach, the Tornado of Taos, p. 65

They’ve got entertainment in the restaurant now. “The Hotel La Fonda proudly presents the Highlands Heartbreakers.” The Highlands Heartbreakers were three college students from Santa Fe dressed up like Juarez pimps.

What a pile of horse shit. Music is just pathetic these days. It’s all love ballads by momma’s boys like Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. I don’t mind a ballad once in a while, but how many ways can they rewrite “Down in the Valley?” It was all those damn crooners in the ’90s that ruined it.

When I was still living in New York in the ’60s, we had Gilbert and Sullivan and songs like “Little Brown Jug” and “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” Then we had a buncha songs that made fun of the Irish and even more that made fun of the Chinese – ya know, interesting songs. At least people didn’t go around moon-eyed all the time.

I just don’t know what’s wrong with people these days.

Of course, I got out of touch with the music scene when I headed west. Most of the campfire evenings on the trail were taken over by tree-stump preachers. Once you got past the Mississippi, it was hard to hear any music other than hymns and evangelistic songs.

I never cared much for the stuff. I don’t think most people cared for it. Maybe the mules liked it, ’cause it was everywhere we went. I went through prairie towns where a man could spend a night in jail for singing “Home on the Range” or for playing an instrument other than a church organ. Some towns didn’t even allow the organs.

Good folk are raised to fear what gamblers, koochy girls, and gunslingers will do to their communities. Well, I’m here to tell you I’ve seen men of God that were more destructive and terrorizing than any card shark, whore, or murderer, not to mention harder on the ears.

The trail just squeezed good music out of a body so that you could hardly remember a decent drinkin’ tune by the time you got to the Rockies. The only songs they knew at the Rosa Linda were “Dixie,” “Tenting Tonight,” and “Green Grow the Rushes Ho.” Jacques de Tiwa claimed to know “Frère Jacques,” and he did a fair imitation of French words, but I’d heard the song enough in New York. I don’t know if he was using real French words, but he wasn’t singing “Frère Jacques.”

When a man has a drink or two, he likes to have a song. We regulars at the Rosa Linda got pretty tired of the same four songs, and we were damned if we was goin’ to croon “Ave Maria” while we swilled our mud.

You think the move west didn't mess up music?

Nine Missing Words Contest

Those of you who have read Trouble in Taos link may still be wondering about an omission I made in Chapter Seven. I had the unfortunate character, Lowell Sparger sing a song at the Rosa Linda bar, but I killed him before he could finish. I felt kind of bad about doing that to my readers (and I don’t think Lowell liked it much either.)

Here’s the tune

And here are the lyrics that show in the book.

Off to sea went the fighting ship, make way, make way.

You never did see a mightier ship, make way, make way.

With a hearty crew and a captain proud

They sailed through the night in the fog and the cloud,

And the crew roared MAKE WAY.

We’re the mighty ship, you better get out of the way.

The captain spied a light ahead, make way, make way.

They better move, or they’ll be dead, make way, make way.

To the ship ahead, this is Captain Clyde,

Move five degrees port or else we’ll collide,

And the crew roared, MAKE WAY.

We’re the mighty ship, better get out of the way.

Out of the gloom, there came a reply, make way, make way.

You better move or else you will die, make way, make way.

To Captain Clyde, this is Seaman Nash,

Move five degrees port or else you will crash,

And the crew roared, MAKE WAY.

We’re the mighty ship, better get out of the way.

The Captain said, have some reason, son, make way, make way.

This fighting ship is twelve hundred ton, make way, make way.

With a triple hull, and a mighty prow,

We’ll make short work of your garbage scow,

And the crew roared, MAKE WAY.

We’re the mighty ship, better get out of the way.

The seaman said you’re in danger now, make way, make way.

For what you approach is no garbage scow, make way, make way.

She may be small for eight tons, she be

___ _ ________ _____ _____ ___ _____ ___ ___

Yup – that’s how I left it.

So to make up for leaving the readers in the dark, I’m planning on revealing the missing lines here on JPS. But first let’s have some fun.

Can you guess the nine missing words? The last word rhymes with be and I put (I think,) the right number of space marks for each word. Take a guess. Send your best guess to headleystupid@gmail.com with the subject line Nine Missing Words. The first one to come up with the right words (failing that – the one who comes closest: failing that – the one who gives the funniest response: failing that – the one that makes the best effort: failing that – the one that doesn’t hurt my feelings,) wins a Trouble in Taos coffee mug

It's suitable (surprisingly) for coffee.  It is also suitable for tea, hot chocolate, bullion, and Ovaltine (Mr. Pibb not recommended) (not because Mr. Pibb will harm the mug – I just don’t recommend it.)

The contest is open to anyone who has an address in the Continental US where they’d like their mug sent. (Other than in Maynard, Massachusetts – some grudges die hard.)

In the event of multiple right answers, those who were not first to get their guess in will receive a set of 6 low-quality Go Figure Reads refrigerator magnets, suitable to cling to your refrigerator door and mock you for not getting your response in fast enough. Those with right answers who fail to give their name and address will receive a raspberry via email reply.

All legal disclaimers ever written apply.

Over the next few weeks, I will be serializing Chapter Seven on Just Plain Stupid. In each installment I will jumble one of the Nine Missing Words. I will announce the correct answer and winner at the end of the series (unless the winner is too ashamed to let me use his/her/it’s/their/whatever’s name – you can make up a fake name and I’ll announce that… but the NSA will still know.) Awarding of the prize may be cancelled or delayed due to NSA actions such as kidnapping me, blocking my blog, or taking away my tin-foil hat.

Rotting Your Brain 3 Facebook Beasts.



The old Vaudeville saw is to never do an act with a baby or an animal.  Not only are they unpredictable, but they're bound to look funnier than you are.  As I scan FB, I marvel at the amount of time people must stand poised over their pets or other beasts with a camera in their hand.  And people worry about our Gross National Product!  Here's our GNP - pictures of animals posted on FB.  Surely, this must help our trade deficit somehow!

Sorry for calling you, Surely.





 Kittenhood is contagious

 I hope they don't talk to their distant cousins in the North Pole

 Too much time on Hubby's hands

 Been there

 Squirrel peace

 Yeah, that's about it

 Why I love the feel of Wash and Drys

 Who gets the remote?

 Not really an animal - or is he?

 Sorry, girls - too wise

 Like as in...?

Ummmm

 Why cats have mental health issues

 Good tip

 Cute warning

 And She Don't Care!

 I hope they didn't train him to do that

Eat - Sleep, so much to do.  Hard to keep it all straight

 

Here's a video that makes me feel better about the kind of person I am.

Bacon - Love It, Eat It, Fear It

I suppose you might think it’s just practical but it amazes me that I’ve never seen unsliced bacon – no bacon steaks, no bacon roasts, no bacon fingers or croquets. How is it in a world which calls two almost completely unrelated foods “clam chowder,” do we have uniformity on the issue of preparing pork belly? We live in a country in which people that voted for Pat Robertson are living next door to people who voted for Jerry Brown, and we consider “thick slice” a radical departure in the area of breakfast meat.

It’s not as if we lack the imagination. I was surprised when someone told me about scallops. What they serve you in a restaurant is rarely a true scallop. Someone just takes some common white fish and cuts it down to little button shapes. (I had always wondered how the little guys swam around) Why no such innovation with bacon? Oh, I hear you! “Bacon bits!” you say. But bacon bits are just slices crumbled up. If you don’t believe me, spend a night at a salad bar matching them up like a jigsaw puzzle (it’s more fun than it sounds and a great conversation starter).

Could it be that there is something THEY’re not telling us? (I’ve always loved the THEY concept. Isn’t it exciting that there maybe a people sufficiently motivated to pull themselves away from Baywatch re-runs in order to create dubious conspiracies of minutia and mind control?) Maybe things just aren’t the way we think they are at the slaughterhouse.

They say that pigs are highly intelligent. I’ll admit that I’ve not been exposed to pigs a great deal. There wasn’t much of an opportunity to see pigs in the neighborhood I was raised (unless you believe what Mrs. Harris said about her ex-husband) but from what little I’ve observed, I’ve seen no sign of brilliance among these illuminati of the barnyard. I’ll buy that dolphins are smart, living in the sea, swallowing shrimp at will, befriending mermaids and bopping sharks on the nose. I can believe that chimpanzees are savvy, making neat tree houses, eating high fiber fruits and leaves, staying out of reach of lions and making fun of Tarzan

but what do we see of the pig? Does sleeping in mud and eating excessive amounts of garbage in order to raise cholesterol and fat content sufficient to invite slaughter sound like an enlightened lifestyle choice?

This is where THEY come in!

THEY don’t want you to know but I’ve figured it all out. Historians, politicians, zoologists, practitioners of animal husbandry (yes, I laugh when I hear that too) and several grocers have successfully (for the most part) hidden the fact that at one time, the pig competed with humankind for mastery of the planet.

At that time, pigs were a slim, clean, warrior species. They wrote poetry and dressed in tasteful linen robes and open toed sandals. Their prowess with the multi-blade sword was admired, feared and copied. For centuries the issue was in doubt. The pig armies would march out for honorable combat as we humans sneaked around behind them, toilet papered their rock gardens and painted rude mustaches on their sculpture. We might be speaking grunt today if it weren’t for the swine traitor Poq Ye Pyhigue who revealed to us the secret word of pig submission, Sooooouuwweeeeee! What, you think a simple word could never have such power? C’mon, what did you think the movie Babe was REALLY about?

A once mighty people, now live in squalor, consume refuse and follow calmly on that last long mile to their extermination. Their only hope, that high cholesterol may take a few of us with them. Reaching the abattoir they are allowed to hold for the only time in their lives the weapon of their people, the multi-blade sword. In a tradition since copied by the samurai class in Japan, the noble pig commits hari-kari leaving his belly in several long even strips.

Perhaps it’s better that people not know the truth. Our breakfast plates are salty enough, without tears of remorse, regret and recrimination. We dare not attempt liberation. The backlash would once again threaten our very existence. There’s an entire wing of the pentagon dedicated to contingencies in case pigs someday develop immunity to the farmer’s call.

Like a red and white flag of defiance, the bacon strip waves and curls at the bottom of my skillet. No steak, roast or kabob could express so well, no scallop could define in such certain terms, the dignity and tragedy that is the porcine karma.

Hey, what would you call a bacon scallop? Would you want to eat a pig belly button?

This was a column I wrote in August of 2001. Since that time, I’ve seen more variety in bacon products. Why might that be?

 

Patricia Gebhard Wright 3-25-25 through 9-29-13

It doesn't seem appropriate to be clowning around in the wake of the passing of my mother, Patricia Gebhard Wright last evening. She was a woman of good humor and enjoyed a laugh. Many of my first laughs came from her (in spite of the fact that she had my nose – how did she do that?) She was a loving and kind woman and I can't recall a mean thing that she ever said or did. I will miss her, but I count myself fortunate to have had her as my mother and my friend.

Stupidity will return on Thursday.