Jed, The Joads, & Me

I didn't strike gold, or get blown west by dark dust bowl clouds, but in the Fall of 2017 I made pretty much the same migration as the Clampett's, Woody Guthrie, and Faulkner's famous family.

Texas to California

Most people that know would say me and Texas fit together like boots and jeans, but sometimes life takes us all places we never thought we'd go. Sometimes things fall apart so better things can come along, and make no mistake that my life is better out here in Southern California than it was back in the windy Texan Panhandle.

My journey started way back  in the fifth grade but of course I had no idea back then that it would lead me to the Golden State. I met Connie in Mrs. Davis's class. She hadn't gone to elementary school with me before then because she lived in a neighboring district but her old school did not have an Enriched Learners program so she transferred over to Oakdale. We had no whirlwind puppy love romance, but we were friends until her family moved to California our seventh grade year.

More than two decades later we reconnected through the powers of social media. This eventually led to me and my two boys moving west and it has been great for us all.

Food, Funk, & a Few Folks 

I am told I have an accent but if you ask me I sound just like everyone else. Nevertheless, the first question I get asked is, "Where are your from?" Guesses range from Arkansas, to Georgia, Tennesee and often Louisiana probably because I often wear a New Orleans Saints cap. (By the way if you are reading this Roger Goodell you and your corrupt NFL officials all suck. I stick by my theory that the NFL Commissioner caught some venereal disease from a Bourbon Street prostitute during a bygone Super Bowl in the city and has held a private grudge agasint my beloved Saints ever since)

But I digress.

The second question I get asked is, "What do you miss most about Texas?"

My mom tops that list, but she is finally coming out to visit at the end of the month. Friends are also on the list but the power of social media and with a few visits back and forth and it is not hard to maintain those relationships. 

Live Music is not quite the same beyond my cherished Texas dive bars, but I have found a number of cool venues, including The Cave up in the mountains at Big Bear, which hands out warm pork rinds as you wait in line to get inside. 

Little-by-little immersing myself the the Southern California Music scene. I have also been fortunate enough to see Kris Kristofferson, John Prine, and a few other of my longtime favorites that simply do not play in or around Amarillo.




That brings us to food.

Man oh man do I miss Texas cooking. Not always, because I have my smoker and grill and to stoke my own wood box I can cook up some damn tasty meat. Good thing too, because what passes for BBQ out here in California is a damn shame.  

Tex-Mex is few and far between, but the chain Cafe Rio does the subgenre justice and they easily have the best queso I have found in the state.

Californians do love their avocado this and mango that. And for the love of Gad stop putting fruit in sweet tea. Raspberry, passion, watermelon. All of that shit is perfume water not suitable for hydration. McCalisters Deli can you please bring your southern sweet tea to SoCal?

And don't even get me started on quality french fries. The venerable Golden Light Cafe in Old Route 66 in Amarillo, Blue Sky, and Coyote Bluff all serve up a hand-cut style of fry that might as well be a Brontosaurus in California. 

In-n-Out is not Whataburger. I don't hate their small little round burgers, but I have to eat two if I want to be satisfied, And their bland fries are palatable, when dipped in the imported salty greatness that is Whataburger ketchup.

I have railed enough for today, but soon I will be back to highlight the things I love most about my life here in So Cal. 

 

 

Troubador

While blogging has not been going great, I have been busy writing. I'm excited about a new fiction project I've recently started, am pitching some other stuff I've just finished polishing, and luckily been swamped with a good bit of freelance work from sports writing to music.

You can check out some of that work here if you wish.

Freelancing can be fun and profitable but at the same time you get pigeonholed by what the client wants. Compromises have to be made and sadly not every business relationship is made to last. Sometimes both the ideals and ideas clash. I freelance not because I have to, but because fiction writing is a slow moving process and sometimes it is nice to see your words and ideas read in a timely fashion. And hey, every paycheck is a validation in a pursuit fraught with disappointment.

Having said that, my musical writing juices have been cooking as of late so I've been doing a lot of music writing and much of it is for myself as much as anything else. I love to attend live shows and I'm fortunate to have a handful of musicians I can call friend. One such person is Ray Wilson.  

Ray was gracious enough to send me an advance copy of his new CD Troubadour . Following his read I thought I'd write up a complete review to help spread the word so more people can check out his music.

Ray Wilson -- Troubadour

Ray Wilson is an old soul. That is apparent from the first note on Troubador. The album builds momentum taking the listener on a pleasurable time-warp of delicious funk and soul.

The opening track, “Rebel In Faded Old Jeans,” is smooth and smoky and perfectly sets the tone for the album. A hard guitar lick underscores the passion of the unnamed rebellious troubadour, but somehow it is understood this track is Wilson’s pledge to give his all to both the album and his audience.

“Racin’ Jake”  is a haunting coming of age tale about the challenges that make us who we are. Musically, it is perhaps my least favorite, but the tune is one everyone can relate to on some level. The third track “Misty Waters” showcases Wilson’s vocal smoothness, but is otherwise only a prelude of the album’s real emotion and power which shines through on the back half.

The folksy emotion of Wilson and the range of his voice materializes with “Sit Beneath The Tree” and carries right into the fifth track“Soul” which is lyrically my favorite selection from Troubador. “Outside on Sunday,”  is a delicately balanced tune that you can’t help but sing along with upon a second, third, fourth, and beyond listening, and within the boundaries of the album feels like a perfect place for our troubadour to land after a hard Saturday night.

Sounding a bit like a third Everly Brother, Wilson resurrects the crooning ballad with “Silver Threads,” and again reinforces the overall story feel of the album. Wilson has given us a life story whether it is meant to be a metaphor of his own musical journey, or more likely that of the collective inspirations behind his sound. I get the sense that Wilson is reflecting upon the way things used to be, both in regards to music and life while reminding us life can slip through our grasp if we don’t grab hold when we can. “Underdog” punctuates this point with its message that our strength must be internal if we are truly going to persevere, because without faith and self-belief, today’s underdog is simply tomorrow’s has-been. 

Wrapping Troubadour with a reprise of “Rebel In Faded Old Jeans” Wilson brings it back around to triumphantly declare, he is here to stay and that his old soul is one that cannot be denied.  The nuances of the album come alive on second, third and fourth listening, but the smooth buttery vocals and folk brand of blues make Troubadour an entertaining listen the first time through.   

For ordering information or to purchase a digital copy please click here. 

If you live near Amarillo be sure and come out to the Golden Light Cantina March 6th for the official CD release party. I sure plan to be there. 

And People Thought Ozzy Was Disrespectful

I'm a proud Texan.

I know my state history.

I have visited the Alamo.

So I have always enjoyed the famous Davy Crockett quote ...

And I do love keeping my beer cold, so when I spotted this can coolie in a little gift shop in Chillicoathe, Texas, I found it quite tempting.

After all what better way to honor a true Lone Star hero who died while fighting for Texas's independence against Santa Ana's army ...

a man who stood his ground despite being outnumbered nearly ten to one ...

than with a beer holder declaring his bravado?

I turned it over to check the price and what did I find?

The man killed him a bear when he was only three, but 178 years later ... the Mexicans are still getting the last word.

Expectations Are Dangerous Things

The bar is set. Picture it now ...

Shot glasses carefully arraigned. Beer chilling on ice. The hum of the margarita mixer.

No not that kind of bar. What are y'all lushes?

I meant the bar of expectation. The bar which I assume is a metaphor from the track and field world as in the high jump and pole vault where competitors must achieve a predetermined height or goal.

You've waited for months maybe even months for a certain movie and finally, All Dogs Go to Heaven Part 19 is here. But then the actual flick simply doesn't live up to your anticipation. It failed to clear the bar.

Books, movies, new seasons our favorite TV shows. Albums, return trips to favorite restaurants, a new post from one of your favorite bloggers. (Don't kid yourself you know that's why you are here) 

At one time or another we've all been disappointed by something eagerly longed for.

And sometimes it is this very pressure that creates a problem. Heck we've all been awaiting Harper Lee's next book but something tells me she never quite came to grips with the success of To Kill A Mockingbird. I dare say she even feared any follow up would follow short. J.K Rowling released a book last year under a pseudonym to escape some of the hype and pressure. And look what happened to Lucas when he finally put out a new round of Star Wars movies.

On the flip side we've all stumbled into that movie we thought would suck or that dive cafe expecting a ho hum experience only to have our expectations blown out of the water by a great viewing or taste budding pleasing extravaganza.

Let me share a recent day in my life where expectation and reality fought a hard battle in my life.

There I was in Plano, Texas. Ready to watch my son and his soccer team battle. Now we've been making the nearly 6 hour trip to Plano quite often since last September as his club team plays league play all the way down there since there is not much of a soccer culture up here in the Texas Panhandle. His team had battled hard and improved greatly while adjusting to bigger playing fields, hotter temps, higher humidity and the challenges of facing more experienced teams. Despite the improvement they were a combined 0-14-2 heading into a weekend where they were slated to play the two best teams in the league. Expectations were low yet his squad battled hard and tied the very best team in the league. it felt like a win for his team and a loss to the other guys. All because of expectation.

Post game, we dined at a place called La Hacienda Ranch. 


We'd eaten there the week before and the steak fajitas were the best I'd ever had. Week two, I'm proud to say held up. The place was just as tasty the second time.


And then I went to Whole Foods.

Y'all know me. I'm the Lettuce is the Devil guy.

Organic! Healthy! Green!

These are curse words in my vocabulary and her was an entire store not only full of that stuff but the kind of beatnik, hemp sandal-wearing, do-gooder yuppie moms people. How could I, a devote meat man enter the den of vegetarians, vegans, and various other vagabonds of the  "healthy living" lifestyle?

My expectations were below ground level. The bar was set deeper than carrot roots. 

And then I spied the beer aisle. 

I felt like a like a hungry panther upon catching sight of a juicy cottontail in a field of dandelions.

I spent the better part of an hour ogling battle of all shapes and sizes from locales all over the world. Ales, Lagers, Stouts, Pilsners ... OH MY!    

I bought one of these on one of that. A bottle of trappist from belgium. A lager from Germany. An amber from California and then I spotted the dunkel. 

I like dunkels. No I love dunkels.   

 from the German Beer Institute website ...   Dunkel — The World's First True Beer Style
German Dunkel ("dark") beer is a deep-brown, mahogany, or sepia colored all-barley lager. It is soft and elegant, with a rich, mildly vanilla, nutty-sweet palate and a dry, rounded finish that is never harsh, toasty or acrid. The beer is full-bodied, with a chewy texture and a firm, creamy, long-lasting head. Though it looks much like a British dark ale or Porter, unlike these brews, a Dunkel has a typicallly clean lager taste without any fruitiness at all, and next to no nose.

 
Except this dunkle wasn't exactly German. It was Texan, But from German ancestry according to the bottle. It was brewed jsut up the road in McKinney Texas at a place called Franconia Brewing. I was so sure I'd love this beer I bought a whole six pack versus all the other singles I'd picked up.

Well folks let me tell you, and this is painful for a prideful Texan to admit ... not everything is bigger and better in Texas. The dunkel was an awful disappointment. If you check that description up above you will not find even the slightest of mention of peas. Yes those evil little green suckers good for nothing but thumping off the dinner table. Peas. That is what this dunkel tastes like. In the bottle, poured in a mug, it doesn't matter the stuff tastes like damned peas. Peas people.Why for the love of all that is holy would anyone brew beer that smells and tastes like garden peas?

Franconia Dunkel you broke my heart with your overriding pea flavor. At least Coors Light only tastes like pee. Yes, I consider urine a slight improvement over peas in the taste scale.

To be fair it's not the worst beer in the world. I mean there are people who enjoy the falvor of peas but come on man warn a fellow. Put it right there on the bottle ... HEY, IF YOU AIN'T A VEGGIE LOVING PEA POD PARTIER! THIS ISN'T YOUR BEER!

But don't try to sneak in your evil healthy living flavors on an unsuspecting fat guy. It's not right to trod upon his expectation like that.

Purple Panties and Cleavage

I'm not a country club guy.

I have no problem admitting that.

A suit and tie? Not if I can help it. My idea of dressing up is a pair of starched jeans and a button up shirt. Which I can get away with for most functions here in Texas. Dress shoes. I'll stick to my favorite pair of double-stitched, Anderson Bean Boots thank you very much.

And golf? I have but frankly trying to whack that little white ball in a straight line just ticks me off. I'd rather smuggle in a fishing pole and cast for bass in the water hazards while my buddies debate distance and club selection. I will ride in your golf cart and drink your beer however.

Tennis? I'll leave that to Phats.

But tonight I will be at the Amarillo Country Club for a church event.

It's not my only visit to the place. I've been there before. In the very room I will be in tonight.

Only the last time I was there I was the keynote speaker for a luncheon. I stood there and told the Amarillo Rotary Club about my path to publication not long after THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES came out. I had a great time that day and met some very nice people. Yeah, I think I scared a few but when I read them a sample I stopped short of the bulldog masturbation scene.

Now tonight I will be back. Perhaps its an odd coincidence I once again have a new book out. Maybe that is the only time they will let a guy like me inside the gates.

I would be game, but I doubt the Arch Bishop wants me to read the opening of TWISTED ROADS. I got a feeling I'd be sent straight to confession when I went to describing purple panties and cleavage.

Oh well, there is always the rotary club.

 I wanted to share the back cover blurb from Twisted Roads from you ... well it will be the back cover blurb when the print book is released in a few weeks. Until then you can pick the novel up on Kindle for 6.99 if you so desire.

A tarnished name and a bitter heart.

That's all Angela Ross took when she fled Texas fifteen years ago as a teenager. Now, she's back to take care of her grandmother’s estate. But in a town like Grand, where reputation means much more than the truth, some sins are never forgotten much less forgiven.

Shelly Sampson has worked hard to cultivate her image as reigning queen of Grand, but long kept secrets mean her crown is precarious at best. And nothing could knock her tiara off faster than a chill wind from the past ... Like the return of Angela Ross.

Left with nothing but an old house and painful memories, Angela soon takes a job at the local tavern owned by Lucas Cahill hoping to earn enough to leave this town behind for good. Lucas still holds the same flame for Shelly Sampson that he had in high school and though she welcomes his attention, he can’t understand why she won’t leave her rocky marriage behind to finally give them a chance at happiness.

Once Angela, Shelly’s old arch rival, enters the picture as Lucas’ new employee Shelly’s desperation to keep her life and secrets intact starts a chain reaction whose outcome no one in Grand could have ever predicted.

 

School Daze

School starts tomorrow in many places. My youngest still attends the private elementary where my wife teaches started last Wednesday. Here is a shot of him look oh-so-excited.

My oldest begins anew tomorrow morning. Not only is he making the leap from private school to public but he is also moving up to the ever dreaded ... Middle School.

No, my son will not be attending the middle school they named after me here in Amarillo. Okay fine, so it's namesake is actually William B Travis formerly of the Alamo but still it's a cool name. ;)


My son isn't fully aware of it ... but he is leaving behind bathroom stalls with doors on them and nice soft toilet paper for a world where a boy can;t take a dump in private and is forced to wipe with funky little squares of tissue paper that are too flimsy to remove poop but tough enough to chap your ass.

he is going from class sizes of fifteen and halls where everyone knew his name and his mom was right downstairs to jam packed hallways full of kids that think the only way to make themselves look good is to make the next guy look bad. Tarek is a big kid. A strong kid. So I'm not worried about him physically in any way but I fear that is too-trusting nature and every-one-is-my-friend/or-soon -will-be mentality will take a hit.

But it's gotta come sometime and what is middle school for if not for teaching painful life lesson and unabashed humility?

All this school thought has me recalling my school days and the stuff I thought was dumb then and in retrospect ... I still find asinine.

Like door-less stalls in the boys room. Come on it is school not prison. And how much trouble is a kid gonna get into behind a stall door that he isn't going to find someplace else anyway? Life is full of intrusions and every parent will tell you there are times when that brief respite atop the porcelain throne is the only peace and quiet to be found. Let kids shit in private.

And how many of you remember those pathetic paper straw they used to make you use in school. I'm pretty sure they were created from the same crappy (pun intended) paper as the toilet paper. Halfway through your carton of milk the damn things collapsed and clogged up like a fat man's arteries.

And the soap? Remember that white chunk of calcified perfume? you had to turn a little handle which ground up the block of soap and dribbled white powder into your hand. It was more of a workout to get a handful of soap than it was to climb that frigging rope in PE. And the stuff never produced any lather and yet you could skin a dead skunk and still smell the scent on your hand afterward.

And speaking of powder, remember the titty pink puke powder they used to spread atop the pile anytime some poor kid vomited int he hall. you could smell the stuff three wings over and why did they just sprinkle he stuff atop the upchuck rather than cleaning up the mess right away. I can recall times when the pile of powder topped puke sat there for hours before it was removed. WHY?

And here in the Texas panhandle we used to have tornado drills. Which consisted of all the classes gathering in the hall or a bathroom and bending forward so that our faces were between our legs.

If I'm going to die in a whirlwind of flying debris Id just as soon my last sight not be my own hairy ass. Of course in those days my backside was still follicly free but you get my drift.

The photo above is of my 6th grade year. Back then we stayed in elementary for 6th grade. I'll leave you to guess which one of these kids is me, but trust me when I say those days were far from my best image wise.

The good ol' days?

More like good ol' daze?

Super Cells, Bacony Smells, and Horny as Hell

I've had a productive writing week so rather than drone on here I'm going to share a few of the many pictures I've collected recently on my cell phone. All of these shots come from in or around the Texas Panhandle.


Last year was terrible hot and dry but because we've had more of these this year ... 

we actually have some green foliage and wildflowers. 

 Hope that trend continues through the summer but I certainly do not want it to ...

After all the cows need something to eat.

And so do I.

Whether it be beef or pork.

 Used to be these Horny Toads were everywhere but they are kind of a rare site these days. 
 

I wish this picture accurately showed the size of these wind turbines, but it is hard to capture. (At the base of the nearest turbine is a bobtail trailer you might be able to see by clicking on the photograph.)

I would explain this shot but I better not.

 Again, you might have to click to see it, but that is Amarillo's skyline out there on the horizon. Okay, so it's not New York or Chicago, but it is home to me.

I'd just finished mowing the lawn and my hair was sweaty so when I ran my fingers through it this was the result. My 9 year old told me I looked like Wolverine so I struck a pose.

This paperback wouldn't quit frowning at me. 

See ya on down the road my friends.

Home ... Home ... Homer ... on the Range

When most people think of country music they think of Nashville. They think of the pop music with a fiddle They think of over-starched shirts, cowboy hats, and sequined western shirts.

I don;t much like that kind of country music.

But I LOVE Texas country music.

Yes there is a HUGE difference.

So one of my favorite events of the year is Homer's Backyard Ball which takes place in an empty field on the east side of Amarillo each and every May.

The event started as backyard party at a guy's house back in 1997 and has now blossomed to an all day music and food fest with an impressive lineup of bands each year, with proceeds benefiting The Make A Wish Foundation.

This year's headliner was Cody Canada and The Departed.

But the headliner didn't hit the stage until well after dark and for most of the day it was hot and sunny. Everyone has different ways to cope with the Texas heat but most people bring a canopy of some sort so the place begins to look like a tent city after a while.

My group of friends was no exception, but a tent alone is not enough to coll off a big hairy fella like me. So I got in touch with my inner pirate, by kicking off my shoes and letting the rum flow underneath my awning. (By the way, that fella with the fancy ink on his leg. He actually took all of these pictures except this one. His name is Damian. He possesses mad skills with a pogo stick.)

Some don fancy hats to keep the sun off of them.

After seeing this hat, I realize the box that Coors Light comes in is actually more valuable than the stuff they call beer in these silver bottles.


Some prefer their beer delivered in a high sped manner.

As the beer flows, so does the tunes. Here is a video from Casey Derry, of one of Amarillo's finest musicians.

And of course others prefer to keep cool with well-placed straw hats.

Yep, Texas is a mighty fine place.

Feeling Nutty

I've been trying really hard to blog at least once a week so here are some random thoughts from the past seven days.

You have probably heard that a private company SpaceX launched a rocket into space this week.

But did you hear that along with the cargo on board headed to the space station there was also a number of people. okay not really people, at least in the living sense, but their remains -- their ashes? For the sum of three grand Space X along with partner Celestis will release the remains of the dearly departed while in orbit.

Who says you can't buy your way into heaven?

James Doohan the actor who played Scotty on Star Trek was beamed up for the last time in this recent flight. Actually this was his remains second attempt as a failed mission dumped him into the Pacific ocean back in 2008.

Talk about Star Trek : The Next Generation

In other news I created this short video for my own, and hopefully your, entertainment.

And last but not least I have to share this with y'all. I write for a Texas football magazine and by far the largest part of the job is creating the profiles for the MANY high school teams here in the state. Some of these are really out of the way places. Tiny little towns that play 6 man football and almost no one except those from there have ever heard of. One such town's high school is nicknamed the steers.

Now for the uneducated a steer is a castrated bull. If you are really uneducated let me explain more. Castrated means the animals testicles have been removed.

Now in light of that fact having a football team called the steers seems rather asinine to me but as I was writing the profile and recapping their last season I noticed they had lost one game by two points. I couldn't resist writing this brilliant (if I do say so myself) line ... And in the final non-district tune-up, the Steers came up a pair short in a (56-54) loss to Silverton.

Mother Nature's Mud Slushy

A few nights ago a freak thunderstorm developed just north of my hometown of Amarillo, Texas. Along with the usual rain, wind and lightening, this storm dumped 4 FEET of hail. The individual hail stones were not super large but freakishly plentiful. Here is some footage of mother natures mud slushy. Highways were forced to close and snow plows were brought in to clear the roads. 

Here is some video footage ...

Set 'em Up Joe

I've confessed on here before that I'm pretty much a beer snob. I'll only drink certain brands and types of beer and never from a can. But despite my affinity for beer I've never been much of a bar goer.

Matter of fact, my history with bars is shaky at best. Until I find a new distraction I'm going to write about my various experiences in bars. I'm not going to follow a chronological order but a rambling one as I see fit though I'll start by saying the first ever bars I entered was as but a young child.

Yes, I wrote as a young child. But it's okay ... because I was with my dad.

For my entire life my dad has been a salesman. Automobiles, hardware, vet supplies on down to hair products. Many other titles could be bestowed upon my father. Hunter, cowboy, alcoholic. To name a few. He was and is a big man. These days he's no taller than my own six foot five but before back surgeries and year of hard living forced a stoop to his spine he stood within a couple of inches of seven foot. Like myself he was never a lean brand of tall. But thick-shouldered, broad-fisted, and all-too-willing to prove his strength if necessary.

He was a man other men feared. And while I never spent a great deal of time with him as child the time I did spend was either in t he field hunting, on the lake fishing, or in some smoke-filled dimly lit room watching him play poker and drink Canadian Whiskey.

Not all of these rooms were technically bars but I think of them as such. Even the backrooms of liquor stores, the shadow filled appliance store long closed for the night. the rural barns out in the boonies. I would eventually drift off to sleep with the sound of various splashes filling my ears. Those of poker chips hitting the table and whiskey tumbling over ice.

The sounds that woke me were never as tranquil. Shouted curses. Fleshy smacks of a fist meeting a nose. Slamming doors.

These memories are not so much plentiful as they are memorable. Three maybe four occurrences but to this day the right combo of smells will bring them to the forefront of my mind. And that combination of smells is most often found in a barroom. 

And that is why I've never been a fan of bars.

But as you'll learn in coming posts that distaste alone wasn't enough to keep me from visiting my share over the years.

Good Times

I've put off this post far too long but I wanted to give more of y'all a chance to read THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES before I posted these pics.

I am extremely blessed to have a great wife as well as very good friends. Together they tossed me a party in honor of TFC's release.

Without further adieu I bring you the photographic evidence of a very fun night for me.

I APPRECIATED THE THOUGHT BUT THAT GIANT ASS PICTURE DID STRIKE ME AS FUNERAL-ESQUE

 DON'T KNOW WHY BLOGGER DECIDED TO LOAD THIS SIDEWAYS BUT SEEING AS TO HOW MOST OF THE ATTENDEES FINISHED THE NIGHT SEEING SIDEWAYS PERHAPS IT IS APPROPRIATE. THE EVENT WAS HELD AT BAR Z WINERY JSUT SOUTH OF AMARILLO.

I'M STILL GETTING USED TO THE WHOLE "SIGNING" THING BUT NOT THE PEARL BEER BOTTLE. ALSO NOTE I AM ACTUALLY DRINKING SHINER

IT'S ABOUT HERE THAT SOME OF THE PHOTOS GET FUZZY. AGAIN LIKE MOST OF THE ATTENDEES. THE LIGHTS IN THE HORIZON ARE AMARILLO.

NOTICE THERE IS NOTHING GREEN ON THOSE PLATES.

I FOUND IT QUITE FUNNY THAT PARTICULAR QUOTE WAS BEING WORN BY A DOZEN OR SO WOMEN 

SO HERE THEY ARE. MUCH OF THE GANG THAT HELPED TO INSPIRE THE BOOK. (FROM RIGHT TO LEFT  WITH THE NAME YOU WOULD KNOW THEM AS) - DOYLE, LAURA, JENNIFER, ME, HOUSTON, DALLAS, AND AUSTIN'S STUNT DOUBLE)

 LIZ AND DEE THE POWERS THAT BE AT TAG PUBLISHING AND THERE HUSBANDS WHO I'M CERTAIN WIELD THEIR OWN BRAND OF POWER (when Liz and Dee allow for it)

MONTY, THE OWNER AND PROPRIETOR AT BAR Z. AS YOU CAN SEE, HE TOO LIKES TO SPIN A TALE OR TWO

MY WIFE JENNIFER, LISSA, AND MY SISTER-IN-LAW STEPHANIE.  NO, I DIDN'T BREAK HER ARM BECAUSE SHE REFUSED TO SPORT A PEARL'S SHIRT AND PEARL NECKLANCE IN MY HONOR

ME AND "DOYLE" SURROUNDED BY FAR BETTER LOOKING WOMEN THAN FREQUENTED THE FEEDSTORE. THOUGH THAT EXPRESSION ON LISSA'S FACE IS PURE FEEDSTORE ECSTASY.
 

HERE IS A GANG OF PEOPLE READING IN AN ATTEMPT TO FIGURE OUT WHAT EXACTLY "YOU WANNA HELP ME FEED THE CHICKENS?" MEANS.

ME AND THE FAMED DEBORAH ELLIOTT-UPTON

ME AND MONTY DIXON THE MAN BEHIND BAR Z WINE.