Bottlecaps

The worst country songs of all time

OK, it's been a busy weekend with Bullworker in the hospital and me in El Paso. Lots to report, but I'll start with what I promised.

If you Google "worst country songs," what you get is different versions of the same list of country songs with humorous titles that has been passed around since the beginning of the Internet.

Yes, "I Fell in a Pile of You and Got Love all Over Me" sounds funny. But it's not a song any of us have heard. And it might actually be a funny song … if it is a song and not just a disembodied title.

Other songs in those lists are actually good, or passable, songs. Others fall into the "so bad they are good" category, like "Convoy" and some of Jerry Reed's stuff.

But it's hard to find a list of honest-to-God-played-on-the-radio country songs that are flat-out awful. And I don't mean songs that are just bad. I could fill the Internet with those. I'm talking about once-in-a-lifetime awful. Stuff that forces you to change the station, maybe rip out your car radio and set it on fire.

10. "Happiest Girl in the Whole USA," Donna Fargo. 1972. Shannon reports that if she would ever kill herself, it would be to this song. Donna Fargo has a true gift for inanity.

9. "Bimbo," Jim Reeves. 1953. The rare "happy children" song on this list. Listening to it is like an icepick to the ears.

8. "The Party," Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton. 1968. Did we say "happy children"? Nothing says maudlin country music like dead kids. My friend Lee recommended this one.*

7. "Me and God," Josh Turner. 2006. I'm not against religious music. I've got a whole CD of my favorite gospel tunes by Billy Joe Shaver, Johnny Cash, Willie, even Bill Monroe and Townes Van Zandt. I titled the CD "Holy Shit!" (Yes, I still think that is very funny.) But this song is beyond bad.

6. "Refried Dreams," Tim McGraw. 1994. This song is my go-to example of what country music is today: Cutesy-clever "hook" in the chorus surrounded by vapid lyrics and sung in a stadium by a preening man in tight pants and (this is what makes it country) a cowboy hat.

5. "Teddy Bear," Red Sovine. 1976. The worst of the CB-era songs (of which many were bad). Yay truckers and crippled kids!

The following "Top 4" are the worst of the worst and could be in any order.

4. "Indian Outlaw," Tim McGraw. 1994. Not only is this the most offensive song on the list (and it would have been offensive in 1964, much less 30 years later), but it is from the same album as "Refried Dreams" and the same album also includes the maudlin "Don't Take the Girl." Yes, this makes Tim's "Not a Moment Too Soon" the worst country album of all time. And "Indian Outlaw" had its own line dance.

3. "Raggedy Ann," Jimmy Dickens. 1969. Little Jimmy is known for his novelty songs, but this one is creepy beyond description. You have to hear it to fully understand. Short of that, it's a song about a guy who is talking to his daughter's doll. And he had to raise the daughter on his own after the mother died. And the daughter died, too. And, oh yeah, he doesn't expect to make it through tomorrow.

2. "Funny Face," Donna Fargo. 1972. Never in a million years will I understand how anybody listened to this insanity, much less it being a major hit. I can't imagine the drugs you would have to take to think this is not something that makes you want to claw your eyes out and stuff scorpions in your ears.

1. "Achy Breaky Heart," Billy Ray Cyrus. 1992. I shouldn't have to explain this one. Did you know that in 1962 that George Jones had a hit with a song called "Aching Breaking Heart"? So not only is Billy Ray the source of all that is wrong in the world, but his song was sort of a rip-off, too. Except that George Jones' song isn't awful.

* My friend Lee also nominated another song, but I haven't heard it, so it'll have to be a dishonorable mention. Here's how he describes it:

The latter is a song called "Half a Man," and I don't mean the Willie song. It apparently was written by some poor woman as a tribute to her paralyzed-from-the-waist-down husband (or perhaps just flat-out legless, I can't remember), and submitted to a studio as a demo for consideration. Instead, it became a running gag among industry types in Nashville – people would tape it and pass it on. By the time it found its way to me, it was a barely audible seventh-generation or so tape. It's truly awful.

That little corner of UT that I dig

You'd have to be a myopic Aggie indeed to not admit that there's at least something cool and kickass about that little secular school in Austin that calls itself UT.

That something is, of course, the Cactus Cafe.

If you don't know: It's a little bar / music venue RIGHT THERE on the campus. That's right. You buy a ticket to, say, a Guy Clark show. You hoof it over there. And you sit in there and listen to music and have a few beers just like any other music venue. 

Except it's not like any other music venue. It's a place for singer-songwriters. By this, they mean no talking during the show, no hooting, no yelling, no sloshing of the beer and definitely no screaming "FIIIIIIVE POUND BASSSSSSS!" (Not that there's anything wrong with that. There's just a time and place for it.)

If you haven't heard: The University has decided to shut down the Cactus Cafe, despite its 30 years of music history.

First questions first: Why? Well, the venue is designed to be self-sufficient. And UT says it hasn't been. As part of the announced cuts, UT is also opting to stop offering informal classes, another program popular with the community.

The school says cutting both programs will save $120,000 a year. (No word yet on how that breaks down between each program.)

Let's think about that for a moment: The University of Texas is axing two popular programs for want of $120,000 a year? 

That would be like me explaining to my family that we have to get rid of the television for want of $1.20 a year.

Is there something more to this? Must be. Maybe they already have a deal to lease the Cactus Cafe's space to a more profitable business? Maybe someone has objected to the alcohol sales? Or the influence of all those goddamn communist liberal singer-songwriters?

Who are those songwriters? Well, Townes Van Zandt played there about a hundred times. It's seen Lucinda Williams, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, the Dixie Chicks, Robert Earl Keen and even Ramblin' Jack Elliot. And those are just the folks I dig. Some of them. The place has forgotten more cool history than most places ever have seen. Shit, Bill Monroe AND Ralph Stanley played there.

Perhaps it's just a pathetic miscalculation by out-of-touch bean counters.

Who knows, but Austin is alive with indignation. 

Heck, I've been there half a dozen times myself. And you know how little I get out. Saw Robert Earl Keen there. My first Guy Clark show. Saw Bobby Bare Jr. open for Billy Joe Shaver. Saw at least a couple more shows there I can't recall off-hand right now. But I do recall seeing J.T. Van Zandt open for Ray Wylie Hubbard. That last show, we even took the in-laws to. They were impressed. 

Me? I'm depressed. The rest of Austin howls with incredulity. But this seems all too familiar to me. Something that's just right goes away.

Seems it always does.

Anybody remember what a supporter of Austin music former UT coach Darrell Royal was? He was a big supporter of Willie Nelson. He threw his own music parties where he would shush people who weren't listening the music. 

Maybe ol' Mack Brown could take a page from the coaching legend, and maybe he could donate 2.4 percent of his $5 million annual salary and keep the Cactus Cafe in business for awhile yet.

Or maybe ol' Mack just doesn't have that kinda soul.

Maybe Austin doesn't either. Anymore.

Who should play Willie's Picnic?

With the rather unprecedented move of announcing the Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic the previous December (and, for that matter, selling tickets before a lineup is announced), us Picnic fanatics have a grand opportunity: 

We can debate who should perform.

Who should play?

I think we can agree that, in addition to Willie himself, it's not a picnic without: Leon Russell, Ray Price, Johnny Bush, Billy Joe Shaver and Ray Wylie Hubbard. And David Allan Coe, too.

Now, after spending New Year's Eve watching the bootleg DVD of Willie's 1974 Picnic, I know why Leon Russell doesn't talk onstage anymore … because he used all his words up. I do believe that if I had been at that Picnic, I would have gotten pretty sick of Leon pretty damn fast. But he's a Picnic legend, he's in.

And Ray Price, Ray Price. He never does seem to fit out there in the 100 degree heat. He's what now? 84 years old? Ray, you get to do whatever the hell you want to do. If you want to play, I'll listen. But I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.

Of Bush, Shaver, Coe and Hubbard, only Ray Wylie had a good performance at that bummer of a Picnic in San Antonio in 2008. Still, gotta have 'em. (And David Allan, you need to rock out. Don't mail it in.)

Auxiliary legends: Kris Kristofferson, I've heard, is already on board. Merle Haggard has played plenty of picnics. But I've got a new idea: How about George Jones? 

The stage needs women: Sure, we get Paula Nelson and Pauline Reese, but the Picnic really is a boys' club. It was great when Emmylou Harris performed in Luckenbach, and I'd take her back in a heartbeat. Would Lucinda Williams be a good fit? Maybe so. But here's my best idea of the whole blog and this really needs to happen: Loretta Lynn. She needs to play the Picnic.

It's been 14 years: Robert Earl Keen needs to come back to the Picnic. And Gary P. Nunn, too. 

Younger bands, smaller bands: The early hours of the Picnic is usually host to the smaller acts. And these can be fun. I'd vote to see Shooter Jennings again. How about my old friend Mark David Manders? Damn! Hayes Carll needs to play the Picnic. But whoever it is, Willie needs to come out and do a song with a couple of them. That's the most fun part … seeing these acts try to keep it together when they absolutely CAN NOT BELIEVE THEY ARE REALLY JAMMING WITH WILLIE JESUS NELSON! HOLY SHIT!

We need diversity: Bring back the Bells of Joy for an early-afternoon slot. And Little Joe y la Familia.

Surprise me: You know, if Dwight Yoakum were scheduled to play the Picnic, I'd be only mildly excited. But one of the coolest moments of the last 20 years of Picnic history was when he showed up unexpectedly and jammed with Joe Ely for a couple of Buddy Holly songs. We need a surprise guest. (Maybe it could be Joe Ely?)

Who hasn't played the Picnic? James McMurtry. Todd Snider (that would blow me away). Steve Earle. 

Leave 'em out: For God's sake, let's not do the Dead again. Sorry, Neil Young. And Bob Dylan, you've had your turn. In fact, how about no aging rock stars? It's Willie's Picnic.

That's a start. Who do you think we should see? Better speak up. Only 163 days until the gates open.

He was born … in Oklahoma

So, Ray Wylie Hubbard has a new album out, and it's time for the Austin publications to rush out an interview with the guy they suddenly remembered is really interesting.

My own publication was focused, oddly, more on the movie Ray Wylie just worked on. The article, revealingly, made reference to the "gritty, dusty Westerns of John Ford and Sam Peckinpah." Well, the writer was half right.

Anyway, the articles generally come out the same. Ray Wylie always recounts the saga of "Redneck Mother." He talks about getting sober. And he remarks upon his new status as elder statesman and guru to the young, hip Texas Music crowd.

And generally, he'll use the same quotes in each interview. It's not a criticism, really. The quotes are generally awesome and wise, but if he finds something he thinks sounds good, he doesn't like to give up on it.

I recall in the early 2000s (I can say that now), I saw about a half-dozen Ray Wylie performances over a relatively short period of time. By the fourth or fifth show, I could have gone on stage and done his between-song banter for him. (But, it's important to note, I kept going to the shows.)

I was prepared to call out the Austin Chronicle for not joining the cavalcade of feature stories this week, but then I stumbled across this excellent story from 2006, and I figured that'll last 'em another year or two.

I don't get to interview Ray Wylie anymore, which is a shame. I think it would be a neat challenge to come up with questions that would demand new answers.

Here a few I would ask him:

In "Redneck Mother" — and I have at least a half-dozen different recordings of this song — the guy is always 34 years old. Why 34? From song to song, his bumper sticker is open to interpretation. Why not his age?

You are quick to disparage your early albums. Was it just the production, or did you dislike the songs themselves? What are your favorite songs from those early days — you've redone "Portales" and "Dallas After Midnight" … any others?

You describe yourself as spiritual now, does this mean we won't hear a new version of "Gypsies got the Right to Steal?" And what's the deal with "Texas is a State of Mind"?

Did you hear about the time I saved your wife from a vicious aquatic varmint?

Yes, it is time to tell that story.

So, on July 3, 2000. I was in Luckenbach that morning, preparing to go meet my friends in Austin that afternoon. We were gonna get a little advance beer drinking in before Willie's Picnic in Southpark Meadows the next day.

VelAnne, the Luckenbach mayor, says to me, "Ray Wylie Hubbard is having a pool party, why don't you follow me to Wimberley, then you can go on to Austin."

I was in my truck and following her down the road before it crossed my mind that this wasn't a particularly good idea. I was still a part-time music journalist at the time, and the last thing that seemed proper to me was to show up at a private party uninvited.

Well, I didn't have a cell phone and I didn't want to run her off the road, so I pretty much had to follow VelAnne to Ray Wylie's house before I could voice my concerns. At which point, curiosity got the best of me, and I had to at least go look at his house.

VelAnne is a good friend and all. And I'm not going to talk ill of her. But she is given to distraction from time to time, I'll admit. It turns out that the pool party that Ray Wylie was going to was a birthday party that he was taking his son Lucas to. That's right. Ray Wylie was not home.

But his wife, Judy, was there and she wouldn't hear of turning us away without taking a dip in their pool. She insisted, and I agreed.

So there I was, a little short of 30 years old, leaning back in Ray Wylie Hubbard's pool, catching a little sun, listening to VelAnne and Judy gossip and wondering what in the hell I was doing.

"If I leave now," I thought, "I can still catch the crew for Happy Minutes at the Showdown."

I was getting ready to leave, when I saw a wriggling dark shape at the far end of the pool. I thought immediately that it was a snake.

So I stealthily moved toward it to investigate. I was hoping to take care of the situation before the women realized it was there.

I had just gotten close enough to realize it was either a really big mouse or a small rat when VelAnne screamed at top volume: "JUDY!!!! THERE'S A RAT IN YOUR POOL!!!!"

And, to my dying day, I will say this is what happened, though I know it is not possible: The two women got out of the pool so fast that it seemed as though they jumped to the top of the water and scampered, Bugs Bunny-style across the top of the water until they reached a varmint-free spot of dry land.

I got out, a little more elegantly, and retrieved the net hanging on the fence. I fished out the mouse/rat and freed him into the tall grass on the other side of the fence. (I knew Ray Wylie would not approve of me killing the critter.)

And with that being as good an excuse to leave as I could think of, I said farewell to the Hubbard abode and drove on in to Austin.

The Austin crew was already sitting at a table in the Showdown's beer garden. 

"Guess what, guys," I told them. "I just saved the mayor of Luckenbach and Ray Wylie Hubbard's wife from a vicious aquatic varmint!"

And so I've told the tale sporadically since then. But I know it hasn't reached Ray Wylie's ears.

Because surely, if it had, he would have written a song about me.

All-time favorite live albums

This began with an effort to list my favorite all-time cover songs. Soon, that became the simpler task of favorite all-time songs. Then, when I realized that the end of the decade was upon us, I was going to list my favorite 10 albums from the 2000s.

And I'm still going to do that. But I have a spare moment, and the compulsive side of my brain wants me to list my all-time favorite live albums.

This is based on a rather cursory shuffle through the chaos that is my CDs and records. So I might be missing a few key ones. But the top half of this list won't change.

Not that you'll care. The real fun of this blog is me trying to decide what order they go in. You're just stuck with reading (or not).

Circling the list: "Live at Cibolo Creek Country Club," Ray Wylie Hubbard; "Near Truths and Hotel Rooms," Todd Snider; "Live at Gruene Hall," Jerry Jeff Walker; "Sellout," Max Stalling.

TEN: "Unleashed Live," Charlie Robison, Bruce Robison, Jack Ingram. 2000. Just because of Charlie's three songs.

NINE: "Night After Night," Jerry Jeff Walker. 1995. You should check out what this one's selling for on Amazon.

EIGHT: "Live at the Philharmonic," Kris Kristofferson. 1972. "Jesus was a Capricorn, he ate organic food … "

SEVEN: "Live at the Austin Outhouse," Blaze Foley. 1999. Ordinarily, I don't like stuff just right out of the blue. But this was an instant hit.

SIX: "Live at Liberty Lunch," Joe Ely. 1990. I can't believe this one made it to No. 6.

FIVE: "Live at the Old Quarter," Townes Van Zandt. 1977. Re-released on CD in 2002.

FOUR: "Unshaven: Shaver Live at Smith's Olde Bar," Billy Joe and Eddy Shaver. 1995. Kick-ass Texas music. I can't believe this one sank so low on the list.

THREE: "No. 2 Live Dinner," Robert Earl Keen. 1996. I still know every song, every story. Between 1996 and 1999, I might have listened to this one twice as much as I've listened to anything over a 3-year period.

TWO: "Live in Aught-Three," James McMurtry. 2003. This album has stayed in my vehicle since it came out. I don't know if it's ever seen the inside of my house. If what qualifies an album as "favorite" is repeated listenings, then this one is quickly catching up to …

ONE: "Willie and Family Live," Willie Nelson. 1978. One of the secrets to life, I've said, is to have a favorite Willie Nelson album.

In Memoriam: Rusty Wier

You know, ol' Rusty Wier didn't quite get his due in the spot I would have most expected it. I'm thinking just a short article on one of Austin's beloved and long-tenured musicians seems a bit less than proper, eh?

If YOU don't know who Rusty Wier is, that's all right. If you only know him as "that guy who wrote 'Don't It Make You Wanna Dance,'" then you're a step ahead.

But here in the condo-land formerly known as the birthplace and headquarters of the Cosmic Cowboy progressive country movement of the early 1970s, Rusty Wier is, was, a pretty well-known guy. He played the Saxon Pub every Thursday for 15 years. He was a rock-and-roll-hearted folk singer with a country feel and an outlaw hat … and a fellow with enough of a sense of humor to write a song like "I Heard You Been Laying My Old Lady."

I'm not going to recount who he was or his greatest hits or how his career went. You can find a good part of that in the Texas Music Bible (aka Jan Reid's "The Improbable Rise of Redneck Rock" … first edition, of course).

But I do want to tell you about when he played the San Angelo Picnic in 2001 …

You know the San Angelo Picnic. Blaine's concert at the RiverStage where you could bring your own beer and food (a real picnic, Blaine said). The event started small with some 800 people in 1999 and ended after the 2006 version attracted some 8,000 or more who left the RiverStage looking like a dump.

I went to the first, the last and most in between. But, by 2001 the event really had hit its stride. It had a crowd, but enough room to wander around and find someplace to sit down when you wanted to. Frat boys would buy couches at the Salvation Army, bring 'em in for the show, and leave 'em to be collected and cleaned by the Salvation Army the next day. People would bring grills and kegs and it was really a free-for-all in a wonderful kind of way.

Folks like my friends Jimmy Lee Jones and NDC played in the afternoon, as well as Geronimo Trevino and Rodney Hayden. Jack Ingram (yes, that guy, before he went Nashville) and Mark David Manders almost closed out the show. I can't remember the order: Jack was always well-loved in San Angelo. Manders was the hottest thing in town during 2000 and 2001.

But to close the show, Blaine had Rusty Wier. And I remember thinking "Well, he's much older than the rest of this show, I wonder if he can hold up?" I mean, people were still hopped up and spilling beer everywhere after Manders had played.

Well, Rusty came out and they played the first 20 seconds of "Don't It Make You Wanna Dance" … at the slower, original pace and I felt like I was right.

Then Rusty stopped everything. He said "That's how I originally recorded that song. But here's how Jerry Jeff did it…" and he launched into a rocking, ROCKING version of the song.

And HE BLEW EVERYONE AWAY. Audience, particularly, but I wouldn't have been surprised to see the young Texas artists at the side of the stage taking notes. This was HOW YOU DID IT.

Rusty wasn't old. He was experienced. And after a lifetime of playing the clubs in Austin, he was more than prepared to handle a bunch of drunk yahoos in San Angelo. The man knew how to read a crowd and for the next hour he owned San Angelo. Hell, he owned San Angelo for the rest of the week.

Can I say it again in all capital letters? He BLEW EVERYONE AWAY.

Me, too. Me, especially.

I figured I would see him perform often when I came to Austin, but it didn't happen that way.

But I'll have my Rusty Wier moment, nonetheless. God bless you, Rusty. I hope He lets you wear your hat in heaven.

Now the rest of you heathens, go buy an album.

You might …

… wonder where I've been: I didn't mention I was taking a four-day weekend, not because I thought you might come rob my house or anything, I just ran out of time before hitting the road on Friday.

… wonder how my second effort at the garage sale went: I'm never doing that shit again. Next time I'm just throwing my stuff in the street, slamming my head in a door for a couple of hours and shredding a couple of $20 bills. It would be easier, less painful and cheaper.

… think I have something to say about the Aggies, the Cowboys or my fantasy football team: Yes, my fantasy football team is the worst of the three. And that's bad. You spend half a year waiting for football season, and one month goes by and you're thinking "I wonder how the Spurs will do this year?"

… wonder where Scores of the week are: I took Monday off. They'll be here tomorrow.

… think I have something to say about Bret Favre: No.

… wonder what's up with the boy: He's talking a little, and demonstrating his growing intellect by being a fulltime jerk.

… think I'm kidding about that last one: No, he's in his room, raising hell instead of taking a nap, despite the fact that he nodded off several times on the drive home from lunch with mom.

… wonder when you're gonna find a good blog in this space: Maybe Thursday. If we're both lucky.

Lovable losers, no-account boozers…

… and honky-tonk heroes like Billy Joe Shaver.

You know, I was pretty hard on my favorite songwriter when he shot that man up in Lorena. I was disappointed, it's true. He was my No. 1 example when I argued that an uneducated blue-collar man could be just as poetic and noble as any Ivy-League graduate.

And then he goes and shoots some damn fool in the face in the parking lot of a hole-in-the-wall bar in some pissant interstate trailerpark town, asking him first "Where do you want it?"

But that little gunplay incident ain't just it. Over the past decade, it seems like the honors that have, at long last, been heaped and heaped upon Billy Joe have gone to his head. He doesn't seem to be that humble, hungry, unknown legend I interviewed a dozen years ago. No, he's BILLY JOE SHAVER and he fucking knows it.

And so I've been a little stand-offish when it comes to my Corsicana cotton-picking hero these past few years. I haven't seen a show after a stretch of seeing him play several times a year. I haven't listened to my Shaver albums much.

Then, along comes this article on the Onion's AV Club page, bringing me back to where I belong. I guess it would naturally take a hip-hop expert on a country-music sabbatical to remind me why I loved Billy Joe in the first place.

Nathan Rabin doesn't tell me any facts I didn't know. I've covered that ground in my own stories. But seeing that a Jewish Yankee film critic holds Shaver in the same highest regard that I do, well, that's pretty damn cool.

I'll add that any real Texan has to love a singer who can rhyme "fame" with "thing" and not come off like a Nashville-pseudo-hick asshole pretending to be country.

Besides, Shaver makes a fine a honky-tonk preacher as I've ever seen or heard. He sings about Jesus like he expects Him to wander in and buy a beer.

If I need a little religion in my life, I'm getting it from the guy who told me "It's not what goes into a man that defiles him, but what comes out. So drink all you want, just be careful what you say."

Preach on, Billy Joe.

Three Aggies walk into a live music venue…

Robert Earl Keen opened with "Feelin' Good Again" and followed that up with "Gringo Honeymoon," and for those two songs, it felt like old times. It didn't feel like I was three weeks from 38, with a 2-year-old son and a stagnant career.

It felt like it was 1995 and I was young, crazy and the terror of the journalism world (at least, in West Texas). I'd been chain-drinking Bud Light since I arrived at Floore's Country Store at 7:45 p.m. with my father-in-law (who, as the designated driver, did have one less drink than I did). We'd gone to see Max Stalling (Aggie) open up (at 9 p.m.) for Robert Earl (Aggie) (at 10:30 p.m.) and for just a moment, it did not seem at all like it had been 6 years since I had seen a Keen show.

I have to admit, when Keen sang the line in "Feelin' Good Again" about how he "wished that you were there" and then he turned and "saw you standing by the stair" … well, I looked not once, but twice toward the entrance for Shannon thinking that, well, maybe …

No, she was back in Austin, sleeping, probably, in between waking for work at 5:30 a.m. that morning and getting up early Saturday for a 10 a.m. acupuncture appointment. This was Dad's night out.

And it looked like all the old characters were still there at those Keen shows: the obnoxious frat boys, the stoic weirdos in their starched western duds, the tough guys, the squealing bimbos, the happy-go-lucky dudes, the kings of the beer line. I wanted to tell them all to get the hell out of my way, I was two-fisting Lone Stars and yelling "Front Porch Song!" back when they were all still asking mommy to drive them to the mall.

For those two songs, all was right in the world. But, as good as the show was (and Keen was good, though he shorted us on the story telling, Max was fine, though he seemed overmatched by the size of the crowd) … halfway into the show I was tired. The beer had reached that saturation level where I knew I could drink more, but I knew I would regret it. (Back in the day, that level was barely noticed, never acknowledged, but now … well, I have obeyed mostly for seven years, strictly for three years.)

No, I didn't feel like that young guy much anymore. And, to tell the truth, I didn't really miss him that much.

One night with the crowds, in the open air, for two shows and two fistfuls of overpriced beer, that's all it takes to look back, visit, and return to being damn near 38 and the father of a two-year-old.

And I'm pretty happy right here.

(Besides, you should see the Father's Day loot I got…)

Palaces and armadillo piss

If you've been watching the Colbert Report on Comedy Central this week, you've noted that ol' Stephen Colbert is broadcasting from the Al Faw Palace in Baghdad.

I don't typically watch the show, but was alerted to it by my buddy Scott L. who is in Baghdad. He works for military intelligence (don't say it) on the third floor of the palace, and has been able to see the show, which is set in the rotunda, by walking out of his office, leaning over the railing and watching the proceedings.

Anyway, if I had one handy, I'd raise a Lone Star to my buddy Scott, who probably thinks that a palace in Baghdad still ain't a nice place to be.

If you watch the show, or even if you don't, you oughta think of him, too.

---------------------------------------------------------

Speaking of Lone Star, I got bored enough at work on Monday night to hunt down the "contact us" e-mail for Lone Star Beer and send them the following e-mail:

Remember the Alamo? Remember?


See that label that says "Since 1845"?

(It was very kind of y'all to put a picture of it on the "contact us" page.)

Why does it say "Since 1845"?

Oh sure, that's when Texas became a state. But it became an independent nation in 1836.

(I can even still spell "sesquicentennial.")

And SINCE Lone Star's image and all is based on the whole "National Beer of Texas" thang (and rightfully so), you would think that the label would not ignore the first near-decade of Texas existence.

You would think it would proclaim "Since 1836, hell yeah" or something like that.

So why 1845? Why? This can't possibly have been overlooked, unless, shudder, some Yankee in your marketing department looked up "Texas" and "statehood" in Wikipedia.

Say it ain't so.

(But otherwise, I do appreciate the redesigned packaging. Not only is it truly kick-ass, but the previous packaging was severely ugly.)

Thanks,

Dave Thomas
Lifetime member

P.S. Any chance Lone Star will ever be brewed in San Antonio again, where it should be?

Now, granted, my "lifetime membership" has lapsed since they started brewing Lone Star in Fort Worth. But I figured I've had enough Lone Star in my lifetime to make the claim.

They can't tell me that the brewery in San Antonio has been around since 1845, because it opened in 1884. And Lone Star Beer itself, Wikipedia tells me, began in 1940.

So why?

Lone Star sent me an immediate reply: "We got your message and will get back to you soon."

Since then? Nothing …