Johnny Law

My mouth gets me into more trouble. It used to be just an attention getter as much as anything. If I could affect people's feelings good or bad, at least I was getting their attention.
Like that feeble excuse for an assistant high school, varsity football coach / history teacher who saw my attempts as class cut-up as an assault on his tiny-ness. I couldn't help it that he was short, stumpy and lacked respect. I was the voice of the people Bob. I was saying what everybody wanted to say. I was just a vessel.

A few years ago, me and the missus were ridin the scoot and were pulled over just outside of town. He didn't have anything better to do. I knew that, he knew that. A snotty little tone started creepin out. I couldn't help it and I'm getting that STFU look from my wife.
Plus she's embarrased we're sitting in the bowling alley parking lot for all the world to see.
She's thankful she's head to toe in Harley garb sose nobody can ID her. But, when you think about it, what self-respecting biker women wouldn't relish the idea of being photographed in a bowling alley parking lot, mixing it up with Johnny Law? That's just bad ass!

Dead Flowers

My wife has one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen. I would never dilute that by implying it's not genuine because I know for fact it is. But, she also has what I call Photo-Face.
I cannot find a picture of her where she doesn't have that perfect smile.
I gotta think sometime somewhere, she must have stood in front of a mirror until she got it just right. Must be some sort of facial memory thing. Of course she flat out denies it, but for cryin out loud, ten outta ten pictures of me are a train wreck at best. I have a difficult time staying in front of the mirror long enough to comb the three hairs on my head, and then do I go from left to right or right to left?

Flip the coin over and most likely for practicality purposes, while she was workin the smile thing, she was also pioneering (and should patent) a short list of expressions I'm fond of calling
Kill-Face.

I've named them here in order of severity. Some may seem similar, or appear to overlap depending on the grave I've dug.
1) Watch It Buster
2) Don't Even Think About It
3) Nice (totally not innocent, must have sharp, sarcastic/caustic tone)
4) You Best Not Mess With Me
5) I'm Gonna Kick Your Ass (no sarcasm what so ever)
And finally 6) The Death Sentence or what I like to call, The Electric Chair

She coulda made some real dough and saved penitentiaries across the country millions by just propping up the convicted to a closed curtained window, counting down three...two...one...OPEN and BOOM, lights out.
Yeah, we could be sittin pretty instead of frettin about which car we're gonna fix.

Credits:
last.fm

What Do I Know

Today, while driving back from Davenport, Iowa, I was faced with answering the periodic but inevitable question a non-writer/hack will often ask himself. " Well Ernest, what the hell gives you the right to even remotely entertain the notion that you have something/anything to say?"
And I always revert back to that tried and true chestnut that you write about what you know...and write often..............


Credits:
irishtimes.com

Tear It Up Boys / Rem Wall And The Green Valley Jamboree

On Sundays, when my brothers finished commandeering my Pop's Harmon Kardon, and they headed back to college with their Blue Cheer and Judy Collins' albums tucked under their arms, I was again able to throw my Monkees record back on the platter.

My Folk's taste ran along the lines of Bert Kaempfert, Ray Coniff and the Doctor Zhivago soundtrack. But on the odd Saturday when Tim and Don weren't around and Mom and Dad were off to Klompen Klub or Pot Luck or some other big doins on their cocktail circuit, I was sentenced to a night with Mrs. Hansen, the elderly lady across the street.
She had a record player too, but she was clearly all about Boots Randolph. Boots Randolph...he should have titled one of his albums, Havin' Sax With Boots On. Maybe he did, I don't know, I didn't follow him that closely.

On Saturday nights Mrs. Hansen's TV (being the ultimate baby sitter's baby sitter) was usually always tuned to WKZO, the local channel out of Kalamazoo. And 7 o'clock meant Rem Wall and The Green Valley Jamboree.
Being a young putz, it wasn't really a show I could get my head around. But at Mrs. Hansen's, it was always on so I always watched it. Hopin like hell, I wouldn't be subjected to Lawrence Welk or Red Skelton which I think came on after. Please Lord, give me My Three Sons.

The show ran for years and years and the one image I'll always have with me is when it was time for the fiddle player to take a solo and the camera keyed on him, he would always grin this big coast-to-coast grin with one eyebrow shooting skyward. I'll never forget it.

My Mom could do that. One eyebrow would be perfectly relaxed and horizontal and the other would arch up like a camel's back. Thing is, she could this with either brow.
She was some talent, my Ma.

Credits:
hillbilly-music.com
dulltooldimbulb.blogspot.com - cool site!

Love On Wheels: The Cargo Van

Granted, these days they may be deemed a little pervy, but back then,you had yer Ford Econolines, Dodge Tradesmans and Chevy Beauvilles, that were all just so right on. Mid seventies era 3-on-the-tree. It didn't have to be fancy and mine usually were'nt.

Not like the rich kids that rode the factory customs with the swiveling captain's chairs, opera windows and cheezy mural of some viking warrior astride a mutant sabre toothed tiger about to rescue a heavily boobed nordic lass from a gargantuan cyclops. Yikes, give me the funny papers, bondo and some primer and you've got MY mural.

I'm talkin bare bones, stinky pile carpeting, a mattress and a few lawn chairs and you're good to go type of love machine. Just cool enough to haul shit, hide shit er just git with yer lady down some two-track or lakeside beach. Just remember, when you open the side doors at sun-up and saunter outside naked in that wake-n-bake haze to the strains of Mississippi Queen, be careful she doesn't trip on the crappy wiring job to the new Pioneer 8 track quad. You know Leslie West never sounded so good, even in stereo.




credits:
www.oldparkedcars.blogspot.com
blog.dbtwang.com

Ladies And Gentle People, I Welcome, David Dyer

See the resemblance, me either. I sure hope he's funny though, cuz with the power this blog yields, I can pert near gaurantee thiz guy's gonna reap 2, maybe 3 extra slices-o-cabbage at the door when all is said and done. I'm here to tell ya, this Thursday the 21st, The Sportsmans in Newaygo, 8-ish.
God hep ya kinfolk, ya best be funny!

The King And Bob And Rockmount Ranchwear

In the depression era 30's, Halpern and Christenfeld (shortened to H-Bar-C for authenticity purposes) were focused on the Hollywood ideal for outfitting a cowboy - think Tom Mix.
During that same period, Jack A. Weil's concern was for the workin man, the ranchhand, the true cowboy.
Jack A. Weil has long been credited with placing snaps on the pockets of western shirts - to keep gear in, and snaps on cuffs to prevent the sleeves from catching on machinery. The shirts were cut slim and the tails were long so they stayed tucked in.

Though H-Bar-C seemed to have a toe-hold in the movie studios, the entertainment aspect to western shirts was not lost on Mr. Weil. Not only did the yoke on the upper back of the shirt provide more durability, it gave the shirt a contrasting detail and gave the wearer a broad look to his shoulders.
With the workwear aspects of his shirts becoming more popular, Rockmount added styles with silky fabrics and louder colors so that after a long day of yankin bull horns, it was also the go-to shirt for the parlor rooms and the dancehalls where a cowboy could kick back er kick butt.



I put some time in of my own at Rockmount in the late 90s as a sales rep and discovered then that Jack A. Weil, at 101, was still driving himself to work everyday and unlocking the doors every morning to the family run business in Denver. He was a wonderful old man to aspire to, with many great stories who passed away in 2008. You would never know by talking to him that he had any idea what kind of mark he left on Americana, as he ended many conversations with "I think I gotta shirt you'd like to see."

Credits:
Rockmount.com
Ranch Dressing: The Story Of Western Wear by M. Jean Greenlaw