Road Stories

Tales From the Road

From time to time, I sit around and think what the hell do you put on a web site?
I mean, what the hell is it for?
And then it came to me as I was high as a kite on model glue.
Besides the usual information that accumulates like piles of material at a construction site,
I decided I would sit down and begin to write a column on the band experiences while traversing this great nation.
A ‘memoirs’ of the bizarre, if you will!
~Hosty
P.S. The story at the top is the most recent.
As you scroll you will fall deeper and deeper and deeper into the past.

That’s What I Call Oklahoman. to the top
Presenting one man band and stand-up comedian, Mike Hosty. By ALLISON KEIM

Within every community there is a gathering place that perpetuates culture by cultivating new ideas and supporting local talent. These places are obscure, disguised with shabby signs and tinted windows, behind which are groups of people that could be called outsiders or rebels. To the unsuspecting onlooker, there is no sign of a cultural revolution behind those windows. It’s just another bar where young kids go to listen to loud, obnoxious music. To the moral and upright citizens of small towns, these places are breeding grounds for change, which can be a naughty word for some Midwesterners. What they don’t understand is that this influx of new ideas is necessary in order for the community to mature and survive in an ever changing world.
In Norman, Oklahoma, home to almighty Sooner football, there stands one of these hidden cultural gathering places. In 1929 a structure that resembled a modern strip mall was built on the North side of White Street, between Asp and Buchanan. This was one of the first buildings on Campus Corner and was originally used as a laundry mat and a barber shop. In the sixties it was converted to a restaurant. First it was a breakfast place, which is what it would be used as for the next few decades, and it eventually developed into a nice, sit-down dining establishment. As time went on, more and more working class guys made this place their home, and beer drinking was their activity of choice. Bob McIntosh, a long-time bartender at this Campus Corner bar says that “the cigarettes eventually took over the kitchen, and the role of the kitchen shrank until it no longer existed. That’s when live music took over.”
This bar would eventually come to be known as The Deli, providing a place for blue collar Normanites and OU students to drink beer, smoke cigarettes, and listen to live music. The students were progressive thinkers and the regulars were working men that liked to have a good time. Eventually, The Deli gained the reputation as a low-key, friendly place for people to listen to really good, Oklahoma music- music that was influenced by blues, country, and rock’n’roll. The talent was local and raw and the community was always friendly. Bob has been watching from behind the bar for about fifteen years, and he says The Deli is still like that today.
I asked him if he though there was a common thread between these performers, and if there was, did it prove that an Oklahoman aesthetic existed? Bob thinks that native singer-songwriters like Bob Childers and Leon Russell exemplify an Okie camaraderie.
“They have a different way of looking at things that I can’t really put in words. They just have their own thing going on.” He had a hard time articulating exactly what it was that makes these guys “Oklahoman.” What he did convey was that these artists rely on more familiar patterns of music to communicate their message. In comparison to cultural movements in coastal regions, Oklahoma music is rooted in more traditional forms of music. “I don’t think your average new guy in New York is gonna have his roots in Blues, whereas Hosty- that’s where his core lies.”
Enter singer-songwriter Mike Hosty, who is a cultural icon for Norman via Campus Corner and The Deli. He was born September 21, 1970 in Wauwatosta, WI. The Hosty family ended up moving to Oklahoma City, where young Michael was raised. When he was eleven, his Mom bought him his first guitar at Larson’s Music, for which she kept the receipt, just in case. He stuck with it and learned everything he needed to know and then some, mimicking techniques from jazz and blues to create a unique sound with his guitar. In his adult life, that guitar would be the instrument that he would use to make a living for his family while defining a purely Oklahoman sound.
The first band Hosty played in was called Zulu King in 1990. He called it “a cross between James Brown, Lemmy from Motorhead, and SRV.” Rob Dollarhide was on drums, John Cook was on bass, and Hosty played the guitar. Zulu King was replaced by The Silvatones, then Mophead, and then finally by a band called Heater. Heater was together from 1994 to 1997, and they were a pretty big hit in Norman. At the same time, Hosty collaborated with drummer Mike Byars and bassist Alex Mackie to create what would come to be known as the Mike Hosty Trio. Hosty and Byars have stuck together and they still produce albums as the Hosty Duo.
When Hosty plays solo on Sunday nights at the Deli, a tradition that has been around since 1993, he rocks the house. He becomes a one man band, playing the drums with his feet and a custom made guitar with his hands. He has several microphones, base pedals, and odds and ends he uses to compose his songs. He is also an expert when it comes to playing the kazoo, mastering a sound that resembles a saxophone. Though this musical playground is intriguing, Hosty’s sense of humor is the reason that people religiously support his Sunday night solo act.
I started playing by myself when the band refused to play one night and the bar owner insisted I carry on. So I did to see if I could and it worked. The second time I did the band disappeared to make a coke deal in Stillwater and I was left to my own devices and had to finish the night alone.
It is this subtle humor that makes his solo act successful, keeping the audience, the bartender, and random onlookers laughing between songs.
When I asked Bob to describe Hosty’s music, he chuckled and said “pseudo bluesy disco.” Though Hosty is influenced by all kinds of music, especially the old stuff, he seems to maintain his sense of humor through a modern and sometimes silly perspective of Oklahoma. The balance between traditional musical influences and the intelligence of his humor distinguishes Hosty as an Oklahoman by offering a unique perspective through the content of his music. Furthermore, there is a reappearance of Oklahoma themes like daydreaming, hard work, and whimsical romance that is consistent throughout his lyrics. Other artists and songwriters in this state have a similar position when creating music, art, or literature, but is that in fact proof that a statewide aesthetic exists?
According to Bob, his idea of an Okie aesthetic is based on his relationship with space, specifically geography. Bob is from Tahlequah, which is in the eastern part of the state and therefore lush and green, which is not common in the popular image of Oklahoma. The western part of the state is what most people think Oklahoma looks like, which is wide open space dominated by plains. Bob made a reference to something that he once read which commented, “Oklahoma is the place where you can see yourself leaving the east and going into the west.” This transition in geography seems to affect each Oklahoman’s idea of an aesthetic in a different way, but Bob implied that this topographic diversity is what makes our state that much greater; geographically and otherwise, Oklahoma is diverse, creating an odd combination of residents and in turn, a unique culture.
Now Hosty, on the other hand, has a distinct idea of what it means to be an Oklahoman. He has a kind of admiration for his surroundings, and feels as if we should be proud of where we are from. He sings about going to the river, watching twisters, and drinking High Life, all of which are common to working people. His lyrics paint a picture of the way that he sees Oklahoma. He uses Oklahoma’s “boom town mentality” to fuel his songs and he draws inspiration from the extreme weather. “The heat definitely influences my music. It boils your brain.” And he goes on to say that “the unpredictability of it makes you fuse all sorts of things into one.” For Hosty, it seems like the heat acts as a catalyst, encouraging wild guitar skills and bizarre humor. This is paired with exclusively Okie lyrics to create a distinctive sound that is fun to listen to.
The song Destination Hawaii was written in 1994 and defines him as a “dreamer.” The song feels sultry because it has a warm tonal quality which is complimented by Hosty’s voice. He writes about his intense longing for tropical paradise, which is inspired by pictures he’s seen on postcards. He calls himself a dreamer in an Oklahoma town, waiting to get to his destination. Hosty describes this song using the term “Okie spirit.”
The Okie spirit is all about being a dreamer and making it happen by pioneering your dreams into reality. Country boys always dream of a better life out there, which is why folks came to Oklahoma in the first place. Now that same spirit is manifested in wanting to leave and finding it somewhere else in the world. There are Okie’s all over the United States now because of this spirit. But Oklahoma is always home.
Hosty eventually made his dream come true and went to Hawaii, where he married the love of his life on the beach. He also came right back to Norman to make a home for his new family, appropriately illustrating his idea of an Oklahoma spirit.
Another Hosty original is called Oklahoma Breakdown, which is noticeably tamer and sincere in comparison to others. The song is catchy and has the qualities of a pop song, which, considering its content is surprising. It appeals to the Midwestern audience because it’s about going down to the river, getting drunk, and falling in love. Mike said that this song is the story of “getting torn down, wanting a girl you aren’t allowed to see, and dealing with the impending retribution of her Daddy after you deliver her home drunk.” He uses his understanding of the county boy mentality to relate to his audience, delivering this haunting love story with county style music. The brilliant part of the song is that anyone can appreciate it musically, whether or not they relate to the lyrics, making it one of his more successful songs.
Hosty also expresses a fascination with weather, weather men, and the news media in general. He sings about twisters in Fraidy Hole, a song about people watching a storm role in and also in Flamingo, which tells a silly story about pink yard ornaments that fear the sky. Both songs poke fun at the mentality of people who sit fixated on the sky while disaster roles in. Hosty also talks about TV icon and weather man Gary England, who is visible to all Oklahomans in times of weather crisis.
Gary England has literally scared the hell out of me for years, but at the same time he has also saved thousands of lives. He is a true Okie hero and should be enshrined in a song. Most people think we all live in fear of the sky, but really, when a tornado is coming we all stand on the porch and watch it roll in, only getting in the fraidy hole at the last minute.
This song is the epitome of the Oklahoma experience; a combination of country and blues delivers a wild image of eccentric Midwestern characters in awe of an enormous sky. But all of Hosty’s songs have a similar effect, making him a poster boy for our great state.

By including this kind of content in his music, Hosty targets an interesting and diverse audience. When he is on stage singing about twisters, getting wasted, and falling in love, there are pretty college girls dancing with fifty year old guys with mullets. There are older men hunkered over the bar, telling stories about Normans ghosts to whomever will listen. There are married couples, local celebrities, and fraternity guys all coexisting in a smoke filled bar, drinking low-point beer and listening to some great music. Mike brings people together by referencing things we know and understand, once again proving that he has an idea of what it is to be an Okie, and further more, he takes pride in being an Okie himself. Whether or not it is his intent, he is instills a sense of dignity in his audience while bringing us all together to celebrate our Oklahoman culture.



This paper was written in reference to interviews with Mike Hosty and Bob McIntosh by Allison Keim and was inspired by repeatedly listening to three of Hosty’s albums which are listed below.
Un Hombre Malo. Mike Hosty Anthology. 1997-2000
Golden Country Hits. Hosty Duo. 2003
Hosty Duo. 2003

The Gospel Preachn Wrecker Man in the Year of Ought 4 to the top

04-27-04

Ol Blue, my trusty Ford E- 150 Van purchased right here in Norman at Reynolds ford back in 1994, has approximately 320,000 miles on her. Now I have written to Ford Motor Company on a variety of occasions lauding Ol Blue, telling the places we’ve been and the people we’ve seen. I have always said, “ If that Van could talk, what would she have to say.” Ol Blue has been north to the headwaters of the Mississippi, east to the coast of the Atlantic, West to the deserts of Arizona and the California coast and all points in between. I keep writing hoping for a new van, as the mechanic who wrenches on says, “With that many miles, you’ve earned it.”

Now you’ve heard me spin tales of Ol Blue before, like the time when the front wheel flew off the side into the bar ditch around Austin, Texas and was re-assembled by the Romantic Latino mechanic named Carlos who told me “ It is not your van that is broken my friend. It is your heart.” There was the Glen Campbell cassette fire on the Turnpike back in 2001 when Glen’s truck stop tape decided to illuminate the dash as it were filling the interior with “Wichita Lineman as well as smoke. And finally, the tale of Chuck the Long-Walker from somewhere on a Colorado Interstate who dropped a fuel tank on the side of mountain for us. These tales seem to pale in comparison to the event that is to unfold below. Ol Blue’s first road show was in Fort Smith in 1994 and it seems only fitting that one of its last was to the same destination.

Ol Blue set out to take the Duo to Fort Smith Arkansas last Thursday evening with the intent on playing some rock and roll on Garrison Street at the 501 Oyster Bar in celebration of the release of out tenth record entitled “Hosty Duo”. I had just replaced the original battery that had 320,000 miles purged from its acidic motorcraft core and Ol Blue seemed too happy as could be. Along the way we witnessed the Muskogee County Twister forming north of I 40 counting Storm chasers on the side of the road. As the sky swirled above I looked down at the battery indicator was slowly dropping. I was perplexed because we had a brand new battery. Pulling off to the side of the road at a No Facility Rest Stop, which is code for “ Meth Exchange Area for rest Stop Romeo’s” I noticed the gauge going down even farther. Tic Tac and I switched places behind the helm of our steel ship and we continued on when gauges started the flicker, the speedometer went out, the lights faded and Tic Tac guided Ol Blue off the I 40 exit ramp barely coasting into Jim Bob’s Phillips -66 on impulse power. Coming to the overhang near the gas pumps, Ol Blue heaved and died.

Overhead, the storm we had been watching the storm chasers chase was coming our way. The hook echo was overhead and clouds were creeping in. Would we make it to the show in Fort Smith? Would we be carried away on the wings of the Muskogee county hook echo? There was only one thing to do. The only logical thing to do. Go in Jim Bob’s and order a truck stop burger and wait for impending Armageddon. Just before I let the apocalyptic thoughts grow I remembered we had Triple A, so with a few phone calls a wrecker was on its way to tow us to Fort Smith of course after he heard we needed to go that far. . As we waited a diagnosis of Ol Blue by Tic Tac revealed that it was not the new battery but a bad alternator. If we could replace it we would be good to go. But where to get a new one in the middle of nowhere after hours.
The answer came in another phone call to the owner of the bar we were to play at in Fort Smith yielded a Good Samaritan to go to Auto Zone and get a brand new alternator and bring it to the club so that we may put it on after the show if we would pay him back.

Rains started falling and the wrecker arrived lit up like a Mini Mall traveling carnival show. Emerging from the cab of the tow truck was a shriveled old man of 72 years who said, “ You must be broke down.”

All literal interpretations aside, he was correct and proceeded to hoist the hull of our Detroit steel on the back of the wrecker while he began to preach.
“ I have been working an 18 hour day and I am 72 years old.” He said.
I was waiting for him to say that he also like to stretch and kick, but before I could the raisin esque looking captain of the tow had the van high in the air on two wheels and we were rolling out of the Warner exit on to Fort Smith. The Hosty duo had become the Hosty trio again with addition of our new tow trucker pal

Just as we rounded the fist corner around the on ramp to I 40 easts bound Bill, our wrecker driver, said, “ How about that?”

And as he did the world was in slow motion for a while as I saw the wheel spin from his hands and looked out the wind shield I saw us head right over the divider. You know when you are waterskiing and you float or hover above the water for a bit and no ripples are formed just a smooth silent glide. Well imagine that, combined with the fact you are strapped to wrecker seat hauling around a half Ton full of band equipment. The tow truck was hydroplaning across the median when Bill’s 72 years of skill coaxed that big rig back on the road.

Breathing a sigh of relief, we lumbered on to Fort Smith where Bill told us of his trips, travels, trials and tribulations from his years of living. He told us about the gal he brought back from California, the hot rods out west and the lonely life of a tow trucker trying to keep his head above the tax waterline, making tows to pay the bills.
We told him we played music he waxed about Merle, Bob Wills and a fella he gave a tow to last week, a Steel Guitar player whose card read cleverly, “Steeln is my Game.” He was certainly a driver second to none, to borrow one of his quotes.

We made it to Fort Smith in time to play the show, on time, thanks to Bill. He unloaded ol Blue on to the side of garrison Ave in downtown, the owner had retrieved an alternator and all looked right with the world.

On finishing up the show at 2 a.m. it was time to put the alternator on. There was one problem it seems we had failed to take care of. We had no tools. As luck would have it the owner of the bar was also the owner of a plastic bag factory in Van Buren Arkansas that makes plastic sacks for Tyson Chicken and Solo Cups, which are two products that to me anyway go hand in hand. He called up his chief night mechanic named Gary who with the able assistance of Tic Tac holding the flashlight managed to put on the new alternator with a set of Sharper Image standard tools and a couple of his own. The plastic bag mechanic raised ol Blue from the junkyard to the fast lane with the deftness of an AST Certified Grease Monkey.

All he wanted was a handshake, a t-shirt and cd that Gary did. We gave him our thanks and rolled out of Fort Smith back to I 40. All’s well that ends well until you reach Roland Oklahoma and the lights begin to flicker- the speedometer goes out and the headlights dim as you watch the voltage indicator slowly die off and see you and Ol blue in the bar ditch westbound pitch-black I 40 at 4 a.m. in the morning rain.
I felt like Wylie Coyote Super genius uttering “Back to the drawing board.”
“Hello AAA.” I began. “ We need a tow.”
“ Where are you sir?” the operator said. And it was a perplexing question indeed.
Somewhere as we drifted off the road I had not seen a mile marker sign. Since they need to know where you are I set out on the side of the road to walk to the nearest mile marker with my cell phone and call em back. As I trudged through the mud and rain along the side of the road Big Rigs breezed by giving me a gentle push of diesel smoke and roadside rain. My feet sunk into the earth and I began to think, “ I am that guy.” We all have driven past him as he walks down the side of the road late at night and wonder, where the hell is that guys going?” Well I will tell you exactly where, to fond a mile marker. I finally did find mile marker 321, called triple AA back and they sent another wrecker. After watching him pass us by twice and call us to tell us he couldn’t find us he finally saw the van.

Our new tow truck driver was also an elderly gent of considerable years who drove a truck with a flat bed on the back. As he was hoisting Ol Blue up again he told us his conditional plan.
“ I am here to get you but I can only take you to Sallisaw and you will have to wait until 8 when my son gets up to take you back home. And we only take cash”

It was like a punch square in the gut with a bag on the head. Then he hit us with another zinger.

“You guys can sleep in the van on top of the wrecker until morning.” He said.

Oh goody, I thought. Sleep on top of the flatbed wrecker in Sallisaw. We agreed, what were our options, none.

So he hauled us to Sallisaw and placed us underneath a blaring street- light that I thought was at least four times brighter than the sun. Under that light, soaking wet feet, I drifted to sleep in the captain’s chairs of the van. We must have looked like extras in a Sci fi movie Aliens or Roswell where they find the pilots of the craft still in their chairs.

Just as I feel asleep I heard the gentle call of the new tow truck driver, BAM! BAM! BAM! He sounded as if he was blooding his fists on the side of the van. I shot up out of the driver side chair standing at attention like an Oakley, Kansas prairie dog, to look out the window and see the wrecker’s son as promised standing in the street.
I opened the door and he said, “ You awake?”
“I am now,” I said

He looked like a miniature version of Michael Anthony, bass player from Van Halen and he motioned for us to get in the front cab with him and we would get on our way. We stopped at a gas station to fill up and as he went inside to pay, I perused the cd collection on the floor of his truck and pulled up a one to inspect its contents. Just as I did, our wrecker driver, Doug, said
“ I guess that aint your type of music.”
Seeing how I had a country cd of duets performed by country superstars paired with NFL quarterbacks I replied,
“Yep, that aint my type of music.” I said.

As we road three in the cab back from Sallisaw to OKC, my eyes became heavy so much so I needed toothpicks to prop them up. Every time I was to nod off, our wrecker driver, Doug, would say something like profound like,

“ You guys play in a band?’ he queried.

But he wasn’t looking at me, as was riding on the hump. He would look over at Tic Tac and only started in on me after Tic Tac told him I am not one to indulge.
To all his queries I would say….
“Yep” I would say followed by ten minutes of silence and then Doug would say.
“You married?”
I responded yes and he continued
“And your wife still lets you go out to bars? You know I was messed up doing drugs every night, not living right, doing drugs….”
I thought Oh no. Not now. Not the “Salvation Talk.” The last one I had heard was courtesy of a pill-popping cowboy in Mississippi, who was trying to save me and make a dollar off of some “Legal” steroids.
“You all should consider singing gospel songs. I have done it all, been a jockey, been on the crank, wouldn’t think to stab somebody or shoot em. I wasn’t livn right. Went to jail and went right back in. then When I had a job collecting garbage I found a pair of gloves when I need gloves. They must have been sent by…”
You get the idea. Yet he continued.
“ Dope they can mess you up. But I still get high every so often on weed. It comes form the earth so it aint bad for ya.” He pulled another “Skywalker” Indian smoke shop cigarette and cradled it in his fingers staring off into into the void. He waxed on his days wildacting, roughneckn, robbn, stealn coming up with a new location for his exploits it seemed every time we would mention a town. . Mention Lubbock for example.
“Been there.” He said. “Met a gal with wooden leg. She had a peculiar talent with a cue ball, if you know what I mean.”

All I could was to look back at Ol Blue Riding behind us with its cracked radiator smile and bug toothed grin as she bobbed up down to and fro dreaming of the crush blue captains chairs that lie vacant.

As we loped on down the road, we drove past the Rusty Barn, a tavern on the edge of I 40 somewhere outside of Webbers Falls. It is a bar that has always intrigued me because there is no exit to it and it contains a firing range outside of the bar complete with targets and bales of hay. Apparently you can go get torn down and take aim at a couple rounds of target practice. I have always imagined the seedy interior where the is indoor skeet shooting and a drink called the “shot” where you put on a bullet proof vest, down a glass of whiskey and then the bartender blast you in chest with a 9mm.
As we past the mythical tavern, it was packed and I had to ask Doug.
“Did you ever go in the Rusty Barn?”
“Oh yeah” he said lowering his tine and head to the ground. “You could get stabbed or shot in there and nobody would bat an eye.”
I was about to correct his use of “bat an eye” cliché with “ Bat an Eyelash” but considering the origins of our new friend, the good representative from Norman abstains.

His statement confirmed my aspirations for the establishment and I bothered him no more about the Rusty Barn, letting my imagination working on less two hours sleep do the rest to provide me with ample entertainment for the rest of the ride.

We finally made it home around 10 a.m. and dumped Ol Blue at the Auto repair shop and Tic Tac went on home of course after we went to the bank to get cash for the driver. Somehow the large wrecker co didn’t take charge cards only cash, without a receipt of course. And I am willing to pay. When I asked if they took credit cards intialy he said, “How bad do you want to get home.” To which I replied, “Cash will be fine.”
As he stuffed the cold hard cash in his dungaries the Michael Anthony of the Wrecker world, the former crank smoking, wilcating, roughneck gospel-preachn trucker disappeared into the grey mist of the Cleveland County morning air.

As they lowered Ol Blue low, the reason daddy plays guitar in a rock and roll band, Kellie and Liam in his snuggly , came around the Acres Street corner to walk me on home past the former site of the double stop signs and into our Norman Height’s Chateau where I slept like a stone that was done rolling at least for a day.

PS

We are now looking for a new Ol Blue and will have Car dealership Tales to tell very soon.

Art Party MC                                             Jan 22 - 2003 to the top

"How would you like to play our Art party?" is usually how it starts. The deal is cemented by my typical answer to almost everything that gets me in trouble or more like my mantra. Chuck Norris's motto is "Every man needs a motto." My motto is one word because I like to keep it simple. And it is.......

"Sure."

The Philbrook Museum of   Tulsa in the Brookside area was donated by the Phillips Petroleum patriarch some years ago when the family made the big move from Oil Town Tulsa ,OK to Bartlesville, OK. The home was added on to over the years and is now a top notch art museum. Most folks don't realize that inside these granite and marble walls parties, events of all sorts take place. The Tulsa Visual Artist Coalition was having their annual awards banquet and they asked for the Duo to be the entertainment for their party inside the historic museum.

A tornado was taking the turnpike to Tulsa along with us that day. Gary England warned us to stay home via the magnificence of television but we decided to press on as good rock soldiers usually do. Cumulous clouds loomed over the town of Stroud, which had been wrecked some years before leaving only a huge acre spread of cement where the Tanger Outlet Mall once stood tall. Under whirling skies and torrential downpour we made it to T-town, on time and a little wet.

Backing up Ol Blue to the loading dock, we unloaded the precious cargo rock and roll simulator rolling the gear down to the pavilion where we were to set up, that's right, next to the buffet table. The caterer was the typical loud talking middle aged woman veteran of many a failed relationship who was vocalizing her impending date with a fellow some years younger than her. Her concerns were that a true mate would never be found, and after listening to her "chalk on blackboard voice" I was to believe, in her particular set of circumstances she may be right. Throwing her hands in the air, we were left to our own devices on where to set up. Thankfully there was enough room in the corner to set up the rock machine. In fact it was the perfect spot according to Tic Tac. Right near the cash bar and directly in front of the buffet.

As we set up, the organizer of the event came to meet us and to ask a question or two. Most of the quereys were normal such as how loud are you going to play, how long are your going to play and of course, "Will you MC our art party awards ceremony?" You can guess what my response was thankfully which held pretty close to my mantra, "Well Sure."

"Well we need to go over the slide show presentation and the awards. Are you familiar with Entourache?" he said leading me to the auditorium.

"I am a little under dressed for the event." I joked as I was wearing a pair of torn and tattered shorts and a rain soaked Moon Pie Shirt, hardly the thing to present awards with.

"No you look fine." He said directing me towards to the computer that thankfully was being manned by a pro. Here was the drill. The guy at the computer would press a slide show button which was projected on to the screen. I would read the screen and make the announcement. Easy Right?

" I got it." I said and went right back down stairs to enjoy the cash bar, free buffet and play some delta melancholy for the computer graphics designers.

We were to play mellow..real mellow blues to the swagger of the art party goers who networked and met up with colleges for a drink on awards night. The gig was going swell. We got to eat, drink a little and then the organizer approached.

"Are you ready to MC the ceremony?"

Ommmmmmmmm. I thought   refering to my years of reading Zen and the art of Motorcycle Repair which lead me back to my mantra. "Sure."

The Philbrook auditorium reminds one of the high school stage where it may be your first time on the stage in front of folks and you are nervous as all hell as I was hoping I got the swing of the slide show. I had to remember to read the slide and then present award. But then I thought I am supposed to be the MC., like Billy Cyrstal giving away the Grammy's or a B list celebrity getting an American Music award. I need to play the part.

"good evening. The folks organizing called an agent an asked for a celebrity to MC. They first asked for Billy Cystal but he was booked. They then asked for Earnest Borgnine but I believe he is dead. When prices were to high for some fo the other folks they went to the lowest on the totem pole and got me." I was on fire I thought. What a great intro. It is like I am on the tonight Show. Until I heard Crickets and looked to the blank stares of the audience. "Tough Crowd." I said and thinking I should just move on to the slides I motioned for my computer assistant to run the machine.

The first slide came up..

"Joe Ferguhimer for his work on the Driver."   The crowd applauded and Joe came up to get his award. This is easy I thought. I will just run right through all of this and I did opting not to make any jokes other than mispronouicing almost every name that came my way.

"Quinn Trann for her web site "Q factor." Again the crowd   applauded and I felt as if this was going smooth as silk. Since the evening was also about web sites I thought I should interject a joke about a web site at this point. It is the job of the MC as I have seen on countless television shows to read a joke off a cue card and split the crowd into a chourrs of laughter. Not having the benefit of a cue card I went with the first thing off the top of my head.

"You know I have a web site that gets a lot of hits but it is not entered into the contest." My delivery was deft indeed and now I would hit them with the punch line. "The site helps you gain more confidence and add to your 'personal growth'" the reaction was a groan at least. I had thought I had zinged them with a common reference to the Male enlargement e-mails we all get. Instead I had entered the web designers area of the faux pas, the spam e-mail joke. Undaunted and asking for my cut man Lou Duba I continued.

Slide after slide came and went and I read the screen as I was asked waiting for   the chance to redeem my MC abilities. And then it happened. There was one slide I could not resist. It was so tempting. I couldn't help myself. It just kind of came out. And thus ending my career as a MC.

A slide for ForSkin apparel came on to the screen. The ad was for a design company that designed the logo for For Skin which is a scuba gear type clothing that one would use for surfing etc. On looking at the slide I said the first thing that came to mind. Which I have come to realize is always a mistake. I began my joke.

"The foreskin shirt has been very popular and only comes in one size. If you need a bigger size all you have to do is rub the shirt.and maybe buy it a glass of wine."

After my first big MC comeback joke I realized my MC days were over because looking out on the crowd reaction I felt like the guy in the movie who just told the town he was the one that ruined the opportunity for the new plant to come in and the town scowlin at him pondering the lest used punishment of the Shun. There wasn't an eylash batting in the crowd so I thought I would give the old emphasis on the punch line one more time.

"You see you rub the shirt...Fore skin shirt and..Tough Crowd.." I hurried through the rest of the awards to the stunning of the audience. After which Tic Tac and I loaded the van with a fever like never before and got back on the road where the next day we had to be in Nashville TN, Music City for a week of pickin, grinning Drinkn and sinning. Leaving Tulsa behind, MC days are over before they even got started.

The Long Road to Nashville West Memphis, TN

Have you ever fallen asleep in the car and woke up in another town wondering the big three questions. How long have I been asleep? Where are we? And where the hell are we? Well my friend those we in fact the questions I myself asked when I woke up in a West Memphis, Arkansas parking lot for a Total truck stop/waffle house/dumpster area. I wasn't so alarmed but I had seen the town featured on COPS before we left where a trucker meth bust was going down and being in a truck stop parking lot I was a little concerned. Just a little.

  I had relinquished the wheel to Tic Tac in Little Rock and fallen into a slumber of Van Winkle proportions. The only difference really is that I woke up a little sooner than Van Winkle and I was still in the van. Waking up asked myself those familiar three questions.

The drive from Tulsa to the capital of Arkansas lead deep into the night and by the time we switched drivers I was hallucinating which is always a good indication to stop driving. But back to waking up. I woke up and looked out to see Mr. Tac fondling an American Spirit cigarette and pondering the cuisine of the local Mickey D's in the heart of West Memphis.

Double Stop                                             01-20-2004 to the top

Its no secret I make a living driving the road, a traveling truckn' minstrel rolling into cities and town with a trusty side kick to tell a few stories and sing a few songs. Along the way, there is weirdness and strange sights but the strangest starts even before I get to the highway. It has been right before my eyes for months and I hadn't really noticed. In fact,   its right at the end of my street.

As said before, my trade is that of a troubadour, which I am required to be since passing 30 some years ago. And ever since the birth of my first baby boy named Liam, I have been spending a lot of time around the old homestead cleaning, singing "twinkle twinkle", changing youth style Depends, doing home improvements and taking a closer look at the block where I live as I stare out   the window with swaddler in hand. Now combine this with the penchant for reading the local "Humor"   column in the Norman Transcript which is wiritten by a guy in sydication whose job it is to observe things around the house or anything for that matter ,write about them and collect a paycheck. Mainly these stories are quaint observations and witty responses. For example, one story was about laundry. There was even one written about "What he was going to write for his next column ."   The end result was that he wrote about what he was trying to think of writing about. This mixed with cabin fever and the techno version of London Bridge is flalling down on the Baby Einstien   tapes only pushed   me. Those tape by the way remind me of something you would watch in a VW Vanagen in the parking lot at the Bonaroo concert without a VCR.

So I figured, hell I got some time on my hands, a window to the world and a Smith Corona although I choose to use to ol computer. He he   he. ( you see you must laugh three time after you say "old" anything. Like Ol Shep. Hee he he. It makes it seem like there is a story behind the afore mentioned item and it makes the listener salivate over the story.)

What to write about, I needed to decide. The tale to tell came to me while the whole family piled into the Chevy on the daily trek to find something for lunch. I sat in the passenger side   seat with the newspaper to look for inspiration. I went to the article by the afor mentioned guy in the paper. Lets see he is writing about and as I was flipping through the pages of the paper the car came to a stop at the end of my street. Then my wife, Kellie, hit the accelerator and then promptly stopped again.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Well there are two stop signs at the end of our street. I figured I needed to stop twice for each one or I would be running the stop sign and we could get a ticket." She said.

Two stop signs. Originally there was one. But with the new city improvement there is now two stop signs on the same side of the street. Yes.   I had my story. The questions poured in. the information was over whelming..

What was wrong with the original stop sign. Granted, the new one is taller by at least a few inches and features what looks to be "break away basket ball hoop" technology fasting it to the ground. The old one is sunk in a pit of cement like a fence post. The new one is shinney red while the old one is still red but the years of wear have begun to show the age of the sign as it has faded from fire engine red to just plain red.

Is it illegal to stop only once at the double stop sign? You are supposed to stop when you see a stop sign

What could it be? Why are there two on each side of the street? Now the size of the sign must be different. Well, no the size of the sign is exactly the same the only difference is one is as mentioned before a little higher.

Now did they intend to make a four way stop and simpley misplace the hole for the stop signs right infornt of the old stop signs? Possibly. There could have be a scene   like this.

"Hey, the plans are wrong Bill. They say put a new stop sign in front of the old stop sign."

His buddy replies, "I know but you know the Foreman. You'd better do it as it says or you gonna get two paychecks on Friday."

Everyday I arose to race to the front window with my boy and ask him where these stop signs came from along with other mysteries of the universe. Of course since he has not really mastered the ability of speech not to mention the English language just yet, He merely drooled to a sleepy smile indicating an impending   journey   to make an offering to the all powerful Diaper Genie.

My only conclusion was that it was a conspiracy. Back and to the left. Back and to the left. A conspiracy   on the part of the Auto parts manufacturing sector.   Just like pot holes. If you don't know already the pot hole people are in cahoots with the shock people. The only logical conclusion is that he double stop sign people must be in with the brake people.

So look out your window. You could have a double stop sign at the end of your street soon. It isn't government waste. No something a bit more sinister. The auto parts people are about to found out. Well I got a lot of time and I am breeding. So our numbers will increase. Note to self: Got to get out of the house more.

 
Elvis Vs. the Dancing Man                                             03-06-2003 to the top
 
Oh the Deli, my hometown bar. Usually the dancing story revolves around drunken lass who choose to put on a stripperesquue without the stripping exhibition for the Sweet Tooth's in the crowd by dancing about the poles that hold the roof. This night proved there are others.
 
  A Thursday night in a sleepy college town where a local Grocery Store clerk disguised as Elvis with seventies regalia complete with gold rimmed aviator glasses, purple/red spandex open-chested jumpsuit with Indian fringe and a Buddhist tattoo running down a red row on his chest was competing for the hearts of the ladies in the bar with a man in his late 70's of considerable experience. A School teacher from Dibble who used to be a farmer and a part time trucker, this elder was also a dancing machine whose feet incanted a jig that blurred his feet against the brick sloping floor of the Deli. His feet moved in the fashion of a cartoon character revving up to make a quick getaway accompanied by the furious flapping of the bongos. That night the Deli resembled the smoking lounge of the Atlanta International Airport where the travelers pack into to smoke sweet nicotine behind a glass wall which itself looks like a diorama from a museum of natural History Exhibit on the Late 20th Century rite of smoking.
 
The dancing man as the elder was named was furious sin his onslaught giving Mr. Bontgalgles a run for his money and lighting the eyes of the young ladies with a fiery passion that erupted in applause. Elvis conceded the contest, as he was no match for the pent up dancing ability of the Okie Farm hand. Mysteriously he slipped out of the deli and into the night leaving only the memory of the “fastest feet on White Street.”
 
I Built all the Wal Marts                                                  10-14-2003 to the top
 

The Arkansas Traveler is a traveler indeed and so were we. Just as my trusty van Ol Blue broke 300,000 we arrived in Fayetteville, Ark, home of the university of Arkansas. That night I met the man who built every Wal Mart from here to there and everywhere in between. Needless to say he was a little crazy. But aren't we all.
 
“I build Wal Marts.” He said. Dressed in a haggard tie-dye cowering underneath a faded blue workman's coverall, he resembled a cross between a Civil War vet and Charles Manson. His salt and pepper hair flew in the air-conditioned ventilation system like he had his tongue on a Tesla coil. Gripping a scotch and soda in one hand and mine in the other he carried on.
“And I like the way you caress that stick of wood. Right alone the grain my friend.” He continues.
 
Now I routinely make the mistake of starting in on a conversation that I will soon be wishing and praying for to be over but just can't pry myself away from.
 
“Would you like a drink?” he said
“Sure…Sounds good. I will have a beer.” I chimed in. this won't be so bad I thought until he ordered.
“Bar keep. My friend would like to order us a round.”
What? I just got took…but before I could bring notice to the city slicking hands of the wayfaring stranger he started into a monologue that was worth the drink.
 
“You know. I am the great grandson of Sadie Hawkins. I can show you her grave in Western Arkansas and sing you a tune or two. And While I was working for Sam Walton I built Wal Marts all across the country. They would say something, like use the Lord's name in vain and I would say hey, let me find a pen, oh what is that a tape recorder? A Tape recorder. I told you not to use the Lord's name in vain because now I will tell Mr. Walton hand he will tell you to go to hell, make you like it so much that you use the Devil' phone to call him up and tell you he loves his ass on fire!”
 
After his tirade, the only thing I could think of was the obvious.
“Do you think the Devil has long Distance and if he does do you think he pays for it? Or steals it/ it seems more evil to steal it.”
 
He wasn't listening to me as his eyes glowed the glow of the Leprechaun part Five, In the Hood style. He continues talking of erecting log cabins, sanding with the grain and putting on Charitable events for Tyson Chicken because he could get them all on the phone cause he had tape recorded all of them. He was rolling with a captive audience of one.
 
“How would you like to play a charitable event? I can give you a meal, a place to stay and a rock good time.” His face was a glow.
 
Now take note, usually when someone makes a request such as this it involves a Sub way style Gas Station Sandwich, a palette of Pine needles on a refurbished crack house floor kitchen and waiting around for eight hours to play the back of a flatbed bed trailer through a 1950's Gym Speaker system acquired from the abandoned state park. So I gave him the typical answer.
 
“Sure………give me call.”

I'm With Stupid               June 07 2003 to the top

          
In my experience Festival is just another word for “flatbed trailer in a parking lot, located conviently next to the back of the kitchen or dumpster in heat exceeding the 100 degree mark.” And usually comes with a mish   mash of Porta Toilets, or as I like to call them, Red neck Space Shuttles and a Sound engineer which is Politically Correct for Sound Man complete with Fabio like hair, leather vest, utility belt, sunburn, bandana and to top it off he has “Seen it all, done it all and sailed the seven seas.” Not to mention that he has a tin ear after being pummeled with the sound of Heavy Metal guitars bellowing out of Marshall Stacks back in the 80's.
Now we usually we garner the opening slot, which means we set up in front of the other two bands gear that is already on stage and are the guinea pigs for testing the awesome firepower of the fully operational P.A. Several memorable festival type gigs include:
•  The Okie Noodling Hand Fisherman's Contest in Pauls Valley Oklahoma. Now the name for this one should say it all. But to every title, there is a tale. Noodn' is the act of sticking ones hand in a river or lake mud hole that may house serpents to pull out a flathead catfish sometimes weighing in at over 100 pounds Middle of July, with the Oklahoma heat index, which is a combination of the actual heat combined with the humidity to indicate just how sweaty you actually feel, well above 100 in the parking lot of Bob's pig Stand BBQ there are six horse troughs filled with water and flathead catfish caught from all over the state. The Flatheads float around in the tubs some on their bellies and some sink to the bottom wondering where the hell they are. I have often thought of how I would feel if someone were to knock on my door and when I answered a giant hand came through shoving right down my throat and then pulling me out into the front yard and into waiting cooler in the back of a pick up truck. That has got to be what that fish feels like, if the fish did have cognitive ability. And who knows in another 1000 years Flatheads may be in control of us all, if the Gore Oklahoma plant keeps leaking.
Before we played a fella with a cud of Red man chew handed out the awards for the fishing contest. So there we were on the back of a Flatbed trailer playing for Flatheads swimming in tanks and with the first note we blew the breaker forcing the lights in the whole darkened lot to peter out. Truth be told, the folks in Pauls Valley went hog wild at the fishn tournament and a good time was had by all.
 
•  Cinco De Mayo at Don Pablo's located on the Kilpatrick turnpike near Quail Springs Mall. A total of eight people watched us play in 40 mph winds high on top a Flatbed Trailer during which time I blew up my boutique bass amp.
•  Cinco De Mayo at on the Border on the Lake Hefner parkway in 2001 opening up for a metal band on a……….Flatbed Trailer in winds of only 30mph.
•  Red Dirt Café's 3 rd Birthday in a parking lot and 100-degree heat before two other bands. This time we had a stage. Memorable line from the night to which I got no response was “We don't even have to start playing and we have already blown the roof off this place. See cause there is no roof.” I was waiting for a rim shot.
•  Biker Fest at the Dugout 2000…. Sounds like a bad USA Up All night movie as we played again on the trailer this time after a couple metal bands. We had made it to the top and were headlining. The only thing is that as we played the bikers would fire up their machines and all you could hear was the roar of the engines over the Shea Stadium sized PA. Those bikes are loud as aircraft engines at Will Rogers Airport. The bikers decided to do some burnouts, which is making the tires smoke. Standing over a puddle they had made by, well you don't want to know how they made it lets just say the beer helped them, anyway, the positioned their bikes and shot smoke into the Okie sky. The final contestant put his bike in the puddle and began to smoke, but just my luck, I was right behind the biker and he shot gravel, tire shards and smoke all over me as I played. I was helpless to the onslaught but kept on plying anyway despite the fact I couldn't hear a thing and I was engulfed in a cloud of Goodyear smoke, which did not allow me to see my fellow band mates.
 
All the reminiscing I forgot the tale I was to tell. You see we had just played the red Dirt Café's birthday bash and I loaded the van to head just down the street to Othello's on Campus Corner to finish setting up for the gig we had later that night.
 
As we played the bar slowly filled and then a group of late 40 something house wives and professionals gals came into the bar celebrating their Insurance selling friends birthday. These gals came to party as to squash the years before them of raising their brood. A couple of them definitely qualified for the title “Mom's Hot Friend.” You know the friend of mom's that made you think those “ I can't go to the blackboard thoughts” and who you pissed off your buddy when you told him “Your mom is hot.”
 
As they danced a stringy lookn fellow with torn jeans and Western shirt drapped over him entered the dance floor. Tobacco stained teeth grin and a slinky disposition he curled around the floor like an asp fingering a smoke in one hand and fondling a rink in the other.   On my way to the gig, I ran into him on the street where he told me he had just got out of the Looney bin over at Griffen memorial hospital where they had in his words “Some really Crazy Folks.” He told me he would be out later after he hooked up with his potential former girlfriend after a roll in the hay to which I said, “Well alright.'
He sat down directly in front of us and insisted Tic Tac perform some drum theatrics, more specifically “ the drum stick point, the drum stick twirl and the back scratch.” As he tormented, Mr. Tac politely ignored him with a smile and tried to order another shot of the rumple and a brew.
As the birthday group ebbed and flowed on to the dance floor, our mysterious stranger decided to join them removing his shirt in Jerry Springer fashion as he cavorted around the gaggle. As he danced, he removed his shirt as he did his ride the white horse version of Mick Jagger picking out the birthday girl and performing to what I believed was a mating dance I saw on the Discovery Channel. She obliged him by grabbing his hand and sucking on his fingers to which he replied “Good Golly Miss Molly!!!!”
As the dancing continues he removed his shirt to reveal a tattoo on the upper portion of his chest on the right hand side that said written in 70's Subway graffiti/iron –on style “I'm with stupid.” To which he would position himself where the finger would point to his dancing compadre. She bent down to like the brass rail on the floor he followed imitating her every move much like Mockingbirds with a Springtime in flight feather display. She began to slink around and look at Tic tac like she was going to devour him. Being the Sex symbol for the band is a heavy weigh for him to bear, but he was laughing so hard his eyes were swollen shut.
 
Finally the male chaperon or male alpha took his group of ladies and left the building and our friend slammed back a mixer, demanded a free t-shirt and said ‘ I Love you Hosty. Not in a gay way though, but a Viking ‘we pillaged the village now lets drink a tankard of ale from a goat horn' type of love.” I was scrambling for a pen wanting to write down every word…
 
The next day I ran into our mystery man at the library in Norman where he was sporting the free t we gave him for his performance. He told me that night he broke into his work and stole some beer to go to an after party where the hosts had valiums and Lori tabs in a candy dish on the table. Thinking they were complentary he grabbed a handful and threw them in his mouth. The host of the after hours shin dig did not take kindly and gave him the boot out while his future potential ex-girlfriend stayed inside. Now this wouldn't be too bad if he wasn't three miles out of town in the country, so with a tub of stolen beer and jacked up on prescription meds he wandered back into town. He said, “That will sober you up quick. I was hoping a cop would haul me in just so I could get a ride. Oh yeah
 
Fourth of July: Sarge!!!!!!!!!!!!!                                                  07-07-2003 to the top
 

Sarge had the mange. Sarge the aged German Shepard mutt had the mange so bad they did the only thing to relieve his pain that they could. His only recourse was a dip in a vat of recycled/used motor oil. This is how my Fourth of July started that fateful year back in the early 1990's. A night when I learned all about homemade fireworks, mac stew and backwoods Mobile home lifestyle of Canadian county.
 
Back then, I was in love. Or at least thought I was , with a pretty little blond from OKC. Over the course of our courtship we had on occasion visited her aunt and uncle who lived out past the paved roads in Canadian county just North of OKC in a doublewide trailer nestled by the side of a Red Dirt road. Grandpa, who was the rightful owner of the property and benefactor to the couple, would have to come out a brush hog the area when the rains   came. With a mouthful of General Chew, the overall wearing country Freewill Baptist Preacher sliced the countryside with an ancient John Deere. But usually the forest took car of itself. Full of black Jack trees and young Hickory the acreage was truly “in the country.”
 
Uncle Dale was a Vietnam vet who loved his portly polka-dancing bride, Paige was her name. She lovingly called him Sergeant Dale and he called her pet names like punkin. Their two boys ran wild on the property digging in the red clay, chasing stray dogs and sometimes coming home with a mysterious bite from a creature of the woodlands. Their domes were capped with matching jarhead haircuts and the constant diet of sugar products had forced one turn out like a fireplug and the other like a rail. Hyper and hypo tension case models in the making.
 
Out beyond the lights of the city the four some   made their home in the Double Wide trailer on Grandpa's land. Fourth of July that year, the invitation was extended for us to come and join them in celebrating the nations birthday. When we arrived, I told you about Sarge , the dog. He was cowering under the trailer ashamed of his lot in life as having been dipped in a vat of oil and shivering from the pain of the country remedy..
 
“Sarge!!!!!!!!”   Paige bellowed almost loosing her tube top. “ Ah that dog….good to see you two.”
She rushed out to greet us and gave a hug to her niece and then to me. As she peeled away from me the circle of menthol 100 smoke curled around my head and floated off in to the country air but the smell of the 7 and 7 lingered on me because as she hugged me she spilled a bit on to me.
 
“Oh I am sorry about that.” She apologetically replied and then in bipolar fashion she switched from sweet Aunt to tornado Siren as she yelled out the name of her sweetie, “DALE………DALE!!!!!!!DALE!!!!!!!!!! God Damn it we got company!!!!”
 
Dale rolled out of the trailer on to the red wood deck sporting a pair of Air Force aviator glasses, a camo tank top and a plaid pair of Bermuda shorts. He was the patriarch   of the bunch and had been estranged for quite some time for having the knack for the bottle and a temper to match. He was the type of guy on a rainy nights you would see standing in full camo next to the dumpster outside your house glaring inside for hours. Scary indeed. He had made his return that day. The nations birthday he would start over with his brood..
 
“no need to be that loud.” He doled in Dirty Harry fashion.
 
As I strolled up the walk to meet him he said coolly, “ I see you brought some fireworks…..That is nice…….But I got real fireworks….home made….army training style.”
 
I felt like he was talking in code like we were in a prison camp trying to escape and to some effect he was right. We would all want to escape after this night.
 
“Come over here.” He motioned to the above ground pool that was covered with a green tint that made it almost glow in the light of the sunset. As the sun was going down I was getting a little jittery. Drunk Sergeant Dale had me near the above ground pool when he pulled out a lemon shaped object.
“this here is Fireworks.” He said.” Handmade fireworks. The kind you don't find in stores or roadside stands. Got a detonator from a buddy and some black power packed in this tighter than a nun's you know what.” He followed his description pulling down his aviators and letting fly a one eyed wink.
 
I was going to correct him on the grammar but before I could he pulled a pin and threw the grenade into the pool.
“DUCK!!!!!!!Hit the DECK!!!!!!”
 
If you have ever seen victory at sea when the boat would push over depth charges from the edge of the boat as the Destroyer hunts the sub that is pretty much what it looked like. The sides of the pool burst open as a plume of water shot out the brim of the pool send a tidal wave of over chlorinated water crashing down to the red clay and dousing us leaving a small puddle where the old pool lay.
 
 
“WOOOOOOO!!!!!!!' he yelled.
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WOOOOOOO WOOOOOO.”
 
“What the hell is goin on!!!!!' yelled his sweetheart. “You trying to kill us?”
 
“I never ‘try' I f was aimn' to' he paused dramaticly,” I would have.” Was the response in Eastwood fashion that was so calm it was disturbing. After quieting his honey with a little Psychological warfare he continued his yelps while dancing around the yard kicking up dirt like grandpas brush hogging.
 
I had thought things had cooled down that hot July Independence Day, as we all sat around the treated pine picnic table to enjoy a feast of flank steak, mac, beans, slaw, white bread, tater tots jello casserole, cans of Dr. thunder and a jumbo bottle of Weller's Whiskey. If that wasn't enough there was plenty of   cold Miller beer floating like survivors of the titanic in a Coleman Cooler.
 
As Darkness fell over the Red Dirt forest, it was growing close to the time we were to shoot off the fireworks we had bought a little while earlier at the Waterloo road exit. Our sack runith over with roman candles, bees, Thor Rockets, punks, black cats, whistle chasers, popper and devices from the folks in China we had no idea what they did.
 
“ aint noithin like a roman candle fight.” Said Dale chewing slowly on bones of dinner.
Soon the Sgt, and Army training were to come out and in pure Army ordering fashion he declared his intentions.
“We gonna divide up into teams….Me vs. All of you!!” letting out a bellowing laughter that   echoed. And from underneath the picnic table he held up a Roman candle with lit fuse pointing it directly at his gal. He laughed as she scrambled to get her legs from the inter twined bench seat on the table, falling over on to the ground which saved her from the first shot of the candle.
 
We immediately ran. Fear took over and we grabbed whatever fireworks we could to   counter the attack of the Sgt as he roamed around the trailer laughing like Jack Nicholson in the Shinning. We were being hunted down one by one.
 
Fissssssssssssst bang. He got one of his boys in the back leaving a quarter sized burn mark and an indelible mark on the poor kids mind only therapy and   men's group will ever cure.
 
SSSSSSSSSSST Bang. SSSSSSSSST Bang. One by one he let fly the ordinance until he was out and we had all scattered. Even though we had escaped we noticed that we lacked one thing in combating our foe. We had fireworks but no lighter. Thankfully Dale called a truce.
 
“Come on now……..Lets stop.' He said in his moment of clarity. Lets all set off the rocket. Dale held up a rocket that he had gotten earlier in the day.
 
“ Did you make that one too? “ I asked.
 
“Nope. This one is pre Made all the way in China. It will fly up and explode like them big time firecrackers do. I have also rigged up this strand to the rocket so when it goes it will start a chain reaction of fireworks going all over this place” He said putting the firework down on the clay he took his lit menthol out and placed the cherry near the fuse. With the fuse lit he backed away slowly in cat like fashion.
 
As the fuse burned, the wind picked up a bit. Not much but just enough to make the rocket teeter, and totter. Back and forth the rocket swayed until a final gust tipped it over   and I distinctly heard Dale say…
 
“Oh Shit……..”
 
The Rocket flew straight at the mobile Home, bounced off the siding and straight at us. We scattered. Smoke enveloped us as the rocket had now lost a rudder and was flying wild.
 
“Hit the Deck Hit the Deck!!!!!!!! “Yelled Dale his Army training coming out. The kids were screaming running for cover when the rocket took a turn and flew right up under the house. Dale repeated his mantra……
 
“Oh shit………..”
 
My immediate thought were that the rocket would explode a light the whole place on fire. Well the rocket did explode but the house was spared. I would assume that the water from the above ground pool that had leaked out during dale's grenade episode had moistened the ground the bottom of the house thus saving the house from fire. But although fate had intervened in saving the mobile home. Fate dealt a cruel final hand to the other Sarge. Sarge the dog. Remember Sarge was under the house after being shamed after being dipped for the mange. He was dipped in, as you recall, motor oil. If maybe by some chance knowing what was to happen next the mantra was again repeated by us all…….
 
“Oh Shit……..oh Shit ………oh Shit…”
 
From the bottom of the house a ball of yelping fire emerged racing round the lot like the rocket who set the blaze. Howling and turning the flames engulfed the dog. The kids were screaming for their pet. Blindly the dog ran right into the remains of the above ground pool and upon hitting the side of the tank the remainder of the water dumped on to the poor pooch leaving the animal gasping for air and smoldering but alive. Barely alive.
 
“My Dog!!!!!!!!!!!” Dale's sweetie yelled. “you Son of a bitch Dale!!!!!!” Her faithful friend smoldering the Whiskey fueled her rage as she attacked Dale. In one hand she held her drink and with the other she mercilessly beat him as a cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. This was the final straw in a pile of straw that had piled up over the years and been held in reserve waiting to erupt. The kids watched as their Dad was beat to the ground. The chain of fireworks he lit buzzed around like unfriendly fire in the combat zone. Dale lay their helpless whether stunned, shocked or having a flashback I will never know. I stood wondering if I had eaten a tab of acid and was actually still at home curled in a ball beneath my bed. But no, I was there a firework going in every direction, my date had wandered off and passed out in front of the Free TV to a UHF fuzzy glow and I was left to view Armageddon.
 
So what of the two Sarges.
 
I heard that Sarge the Dog crawled up under the house and lived his last days in quiet solitude. As for the other Sarge, Dale left never to return to the Double Wide Trailer on that red dirt road and began living in the Lonely Rose bar and grill dreaming of his Polka dancing princess and the ruffled dress she wore. And as for the owner of the lot, god old Grandpa had to come out and get the dog from underneath the ground lattice that surrounded the house.
 
As for me, I left the summer love of that year far behind but the memory of that fateful day is brought back every 4 th of July when someone asks the question, “Would you care for a HOT DOG?”
 
The Little things……                                  
Sometimes the whole story is short, sweet and happens so fast there is not need for embellishment or processing. It is these little things that keep the mind sharp at every turn.
 
Backpacking Gear…                                                  04-17-2003 to the top
 
On the campus of OU there was a guy, looking as if he was off tour with Phish, selling some back packing and camping gear on the sidewalk complete with hand painted sign “For Sale.” A Simple yet effective sign in the world of commerce. When asked why the sale of the miscellaneous miss matched outdoor gear was going on he replied,” There is a leather jacket that I want that will go great with my stripper persona.” When asked what exactly the persona was, he said “Cowboy.” I later learned the jacket was a full-length duster on sale at the mall at Wilson's. As the Belamy Brothers say, “Get into reggae hippie cowboy….
 
Late Night C-Store Tweekers,                                         07-18-2003 to the top
 
A Chevy Sportsman style conversion van was confused and having trouble exiting the parking lot as the driver could not figure out where the curb was. Inside one of his passengers had loaded up his haggard hands which looked as if he had just disassembled a Boeing aircraft engine, with a box of day old Krispy Crème donuts, a bottle of wine and what appeared to be twenty sticks of Slim Jim Jerky. He climbed into the conversion van to aid the driver with the nutritious bounty he had acquired. As he left the store, Tic Tac told me that he had no shoes and was wearing a pair of black socks with the soles worn out.
 
Yet another Random Asshole with a harmonica
 
Usually you can count on the random asshole with the harmonica to show up in the bar and play along with band from off the stage. This is a norm and is as expected as the obligatory yelp for “FREEBIRD”. Yet when it happens in the daylight, it is like you got sucker punched.
 
While outside on the patio of the now gone la Baguette coffee house in Norman enjoying the day a young man approached that we will call Josh. He came real close and with a glare he pushed out a question that had been on his mind.
 
“Hey do you play guitar? I have seen you play guitar.” He said. “Cause I play the harp.”
 
And without time to respond to the verbal melee he whipped out a Plexiglas “C” harmonica and began to wail a blue solo that sounded like a cross between the tornado siren and a Cat caught in the dumpster on hot August day.
 
After his musical assault he said,” I'm in AA and living in a halfway house right now trying to get a job and do what is right by the Lord. My dream is to be a gypsy musician living in a Greyhound Bus playn street corners and towns while trying to make enough money to make it to the next one.”
 
I was about to respond when, in a flash, he mounted his bike and left. I wanted to tell him that he should wait to join AA after the rambling of the bus-traveling musician is done.
 
Russell's Hotel Marriot Bar to the top
 

The Hotel bar is always a place where the weary traveler can knock the dust off their saddle and relax with a little hair of the dog that bit them. You can also find a painted lady resting her bones on the Lord's Day after a hard night on the job with a smoke nestled firmly in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other. On one such “Sunday” we were playing when out of the bathroom a gal comes running out.” Stop the Music…Stop the Music…. I broke my toof.” She had fallen in the bathroom and busted out her front toof. She didn't seem to mind after a couple more drinks and smiled a toothless grin as she swayed in the gentle breeze of the Marriot AC.
 
This would not be too strange but the week before a waitress form a local bar had done the same thing.
 
Women are from Venus and Men must be from Alaska            06-13-2003 to the top
 
When the Moon is Full, strange and unexplained things seem to happen.The date known as Friday the 13 th , in auspicious date where it is to believed to be the unluckiest and witching day of the month. Where creatures of the night come out to circulate among the living. Made for cable t.v. specials on the “bizarre' the “strange” and the “unknown” have capitalized on the superstition.
 
  Now much in the fashion of “your peanut Butter is on my chocolate….no your chocolate is on my peanut better”, the combination of these two superstitions: the full moon on Friday the 13 th , and you have a recipe for the macabre. Such was the setting for the Tapwerks in OKC Hosty Duo show during the Full Moon on Friday the 13 th .
 
Tapwerks is a small converted gas station that fell into disarray and was resurrected during the early 90's to house a cigar bar/ Ale Tap room consisting over well over 100 taped beers. Compared too most bars and venues we play in the Tapwerks is upscale and enjoys a clientele of certain economic means.
 
We arrived to find that they had built a stage in the corner of the room. Now normally we would load everything to a perch up a flight of stairs, but when the venue booked Red Dirt hero Stoney larue into the play list, the stage was built in his honor. Now, the irony is that Stoney fell deathly ill and could not perform on the stage built in his honor.
 
Load in was load in. Heavy box hurt Hulk's groin. Hulk need beer. Beer good. Fire bad. Sorry, when lading huge boxes my mind reverts back to the Clan of the Cave bear and my adrenal glands perk up. We set up and began to play.
 
That night, there were several celebrations occurring. The first was a birthday for a Mid First banker employee who was turning 40 years of age. Isn't that bizarre? The kind of thing that would only happen on Friday the 13 th ? Just kidding..
 
The second was a family reunion of a group of folks who joined families in Alaska and Oklahoma. Now usually the union of folks from Arkansas and Oklahoma raise the level of terror alert when in a bar as the booze starts flowing they can tear the place to the ground.
 
But tonight, the night of the full moon on Friday the 13 th something odder happened. Something even more bizarre. For the light of full moon through the windows of the small venue was about to show where the term Lunatic came from.
 
During the first set one of the reunion members, the eldest brother decided to get the party started by putting the “40 Birthday” Wal-Mart folding design party favor on his head and strut around like a chicken on the dance floor. As he did I decided to comment in the fashion of the Discovery Channel British announcer. Kind of like this:
 
“As the male enters the dance floor, he puts an ornament on his head to attract the female. Gyrating as shimming to the sound of the music he hope to mate with an inviting female.”
As another bar patron passed by to go to the bathroom, he turned his attention towards him, oblivious to my ranting which was making the reunion party bust a stitch or two.
 
I continued, “ The male, not finding a female, sometimes resorts to following a male.”
It was a choreographed dance that went perfectly with the commentary. As I spoke he hammed it up even more even removing his rented tuxedo shirt and shoes.
 
His brother seeing that his older sibling was getting all of the attention entered the dance floor also with a party favor on his head. As the two imitated each other, they did look like a couple of roosters competing for the hens in Mutual of Omaha fashion . After which the two rivals settled down, gave each other high fives and sat to Asses the amount of sweat they had worked up.
 
The reunion group from Alaska was subdued for the next couple of minutes   and sat quietly in the corner with rented tuxedo's and formal wear gently sipping adult beverages in a Victorian manner until……………Someone asked for a Surf tune. Now keep in mind the Moon, the date, but add in a surf tune and beer………………..and you can imagine what happened.
The two oldest boys from a family of seven lurched on to the dance floor flailing their arms in Drunken monkey Style Kung Fu Fashion. It was a brotherly form of moshing, where one brother would grab the other in a wrestling move and administer a nootgie on top of the head, the other would throw him to the ground and wrestle around a bit. The crowd watched at first in amusement, which soon turned to terror as the Surf tune increased in intensity so did the Brothers from Junno, Alaska.   Swinging each other around in whirlwind fashion, one of them fell flat on his face. The thud that occurred when his face hit the hardwood floor was much like the sonic waves created when a hunk of ham wrapped in plastic falls to the showroom floor. I though the show was over. But in true bar room fashion, he leaped up to proclaim “OK…. I am OK” as if waiting for news from his corner to continue the fight of permission from the ref.
 
The elder brother in a surprise move grabbed the little brother and flung him into the cigarette machine, wrapping his hand around his kin and rabbit punching him in the back of the head. As the crowd watched, the crowd creped closer as the brother's shinaagins turned into what resembled an Irish Bar fight from the 1860's in the old west. During the melee, the Brother in Law came out to the dance floor, laughing hysterically and trying to break them up when Middle Bro performed a Brothers Karamazov back flip and kicked his brother in law in the face…not once but twice….
 
Sensing they we getting out of hand they retired to the back, and middle bro looked as if he had had enough…when he lurched into the group and toppled the whole party into the table. It was a scene straight out of Hooper staring Burt Reynolds…. The eldest brother escaped the bottom of the pile to return to the dance floor and continue his Dance Fever assault. But don't count the middle son out because, and here is where the mot memorable event of the evening took place, He assumed a Jimmy Super Fly Snuka stance ala WWF on the top rope of the Squared circle and leaped off his perch onto his brother slamming him to the ground. The crowd gasped and was slowing wondering, where is the door guy?
 
After the leap the show was over, drenched in sweat I decided to halt the surf tune before they spilled onto another table.
 
I approached the mic and said, “ladies and Gentlemen give it up for the Folks from Alaska. They are having a hell of a time.
 
As soon as my words left my lips, the eldest of the group, in a sweat drenched rented tuxedo top torn open from the tangling tango climbed on stage and grabbed the mic. The room fell silent as to wonder what words of wisdom the gallant warrior of the Ale room would say.
“We may be from Alaska. Not form Oklahoma, But we don't @#$%   around.” And he exited the stage, like an all Star who had played his last game to a silent and respectful group.
 
“A man of Few words” I said…knowing that any more could result in an on stage display.
 
Later that night as the full moon faded, the beer-stained floor began to coagulate and the smell of the smoke settled into my clothes, asked the door guy if he saw what was going on at all. He said he did and earlier the elder of the two had smashed a beer glass on the floor only to apologize in drunken guy fashion of disbelief followed by apology, “What?…….I am sorry I am just trying to have fun.”
 
 
It was a scene Hollywood could not have choreographed better. 19th century mock bar brawl between brothers from Junno Alaska where they search for the Klondike gold. The kind of thing that only seems to happen on nights of full moons, Friday the 13ths and nights the Hosty Duo plays.
 
Fort Smith...the Wedding Brawl to the top to the top

Fort Smith Arkansas was the site of the legendary posse that musicians only dream about. You see there are always hecklers and guys yelling Freebird in the crowd and band is basically powerless to stop them unless they learn the Lynard Skynard song. But that night at the Wedding reception by the river was a night all musicians live for.
You see we were set up in a park on top of a Levee on the Arkansas river. A river that flows right into the Mississippi. That levee was right across from the gallows of Judge Parker, the infamous Hanging judge who would hang time Life book subscribers just for snoring to loud. Now remember this symbol of justice. It will become way to eiree as the story unfolds. As we were playing a young fella came up and asked if he could play guitar because well he knew how to play and he was real good too.
I said no as nicely as I could but he persisted asking me what kind of guitar I had, if I knew any Sabbath or Joe Walsh etc. His question became more and more pointed. You know the exact moment when someone is taking to you and you realize they are trying to tease or haze you. Well, it was that moment The organizer of the party seeing that this drunk guy would not let up came over and politely asked him to leave, which he didn’t. Finally he left, thanks to the organizer Bill. Bill apologized and I said no problem.
Thinking it was over we sat on the top of the Levee when the shit hit the fan. All of a sudden I see Bill, who is 6 foot 260 chasing they guy who was talking to me across the park. The heckler jumped in a pickup truck that had fishtailed into the park like out of a Steve Mcqueen movie and shot up dirt everywhere. Bill yelled to his partner and they all followed suit by jumping into another waiting pick up truck as they sped out of site.
Bill and the Heckler Posse eventually caught up the guy on Main Street Garrison and pulled him out of the bar and proceeded to beat the living hell out of him in the street. And then jumping back in th truck and racing away like Zorro after he had saved the village from the outlaws.
Upon returning to the park, Bill informed us that they guy had called him a "Fat fuck" and that had set Bill’s purge valve off leaving him no choice than to beat the Heckler to a pulp. Combined with the Heckling of the band he didn’t stand a chance. So there you have a story of redemption for all the bands of the world from the guy who yells Freebird. In one instance he took on the sins of the Heckling world and received the proper Karmic response. And not even at my hands!!!~Hosty Out
Halloween at Howlers to the top
Ah the holiday season is coming faster that the Devil on Sunday. But the best holiday seems to be Halloween. People get all dressed up and assume the identity of their garb. In addition to that they all get wasted and make for one of the best party times of the year. You can see a drunk pirate trying to fight Nixon. You get the idea I love Halloween. This months episode involves my first Halloween gig at a South OKC Biker bar called Howlers.
What is Howlers you ask? Well to begin with the place doesn’t have a door and the floor is made primarily of dirt and gravelized shards of broken bottle glass. The mens bathroom is located in the form of a feeding trough along the wall so you don’t have to mess with the hassle of opening a door and going in a room. Oh there is no shame for the patrons...everyone is alright with it. The patrons are composed of the Biker element from episodes of Cops. Gold paint rings were even seen being sported by on fellow passed out in the corner.
How did I get this gig? The Band was Zulu King and featured Lex 'Lord of Drums' who had been known to play his drums with bloody fists, and Jammin John Cook on the bass. We didn’t have too many gigs so the DJ at Sugars who was a Rock and Roll Rick Wakeman style Keyboard player complete with open chested shirt and gold medallions along with a New York Accent asked us if we would back him up on a Halloween gig. The pay was 50 dollars a guy. I said hell YES!!!!!
Now remember the description of the club I gave earlier.
I had no idea.
We get there and see the place. John, who for all the years I have known him has been up for anything says
"I am Scared. We are going to die."
Trying to be cheerful I said "Oh, it can’t be that bad."
So we set up and played.
The crowd started to turn a little ugly, aparently James Brown is not what bikers listen too. Go figure. Then John says something that sounds like it came out of a movie, in fact it is from a movie. " We better play something these people like and fast!"
So we tear into a classic rock barrage that leaves them wanting more. And we were safe for the time being. But the gig is not the story here it is the Haloween costume contest and the people in it.
The participants were only four. The first was a Giant of a Biker who wanted in the contest. It didn’t seem to matter that he was not wearing a costume but nobody had the heart or balls to tell him. Contestent number two was a nurse. Yes a nurse who had gotten off of work as a nurse and was shit faced drunk pole dancing to Paranoid. She ended up falling over on the dirt floor passed out from libation. The third guy was some kind of cat man who stumbled across the stage only to put his head down on a table and pass out.
The final contestent was a beauty. She was a pro, a ringer, if you will. Obviously an exotic dancer she wowed the crowd with her "ART" and subsequntly won the contest. But during her coronation the contest was halted. It appeared that there was a water leak of some kind coming towards the stage. But it wasn’t water. You see the cat-man was pissing his pants as he sat passed out at a table. So the kindly bar keep who looked like the pro Wrestler Gerge the Animal Steele picked him up and threw him out the doorless door. Then the queen was free to survey her kingdom.Over and Out...Hosty

Where’s Yer Flippers? to the top
The Outdoor music festival known as the Groovefest canopied beneath the shady trees of Abe Andrew’s WPA Amphitheater is a Norman Tradition.
The good folks at Amnesty International provide a day of music on Sunday afternoon where folks from all over the municipality come to hang out, picnic and picnic. As with every outdoor event there is always that one guy or gal who has been there all day long and started the party a few days before not even taking time to come up for air.
Such people are written off as insane, drunk or methed up.
Some would call them hecklers, interfiering with the show.
I say these folks are seerers of the future.
Such was the setting for the Abe Andrew’s Park Prophet.
The Wife and I set out Sunday afternoon from our State Street address to covert in the park while enjoying the sites and sounds of the A.I. Groovefest. It is a time to see all of the folks in the daytime you usually only see at night. Dogs of every size and shape provide much need lawn matneince in the for of fertilizer, the sno cone guy, activist booths and also the bands. We picked a shady spot under an evergreen tree to watch the music unfold. We laid out a “blanket on the ground” knocked off our flip flops and kicked back.
On the stage was non other than leather pants clad Falcon Five O playing their radio family friendly brand of generic rock. As they lumbered through their set, a festival goer had taken her place on the front of the stage, literally on the stage and was rocking out. This haggard concert goer looking much in the vein of the Wicked Witch of the West on PCP saluted the band with the rock horns and then proceed to take one of the lead singers flip flops that he had removed and casually walked off. As we watched, the Falcon’s dispatched one of their cronies to follow the lady and retrieve the shoe, which he had quite a time but finally prevailed in returning the missing piece of footwear.
From this point is when the prophecy began.
“Where is your shoe’s? you Crybaby!!” she yelled
and continued to yell during the whole rest of the OKC’s Falcon Five O’s set to which the lead singer was powerless to respond to the verbal hazing. He stood with no reply resorting only to a mid 80’s Nuno Bettencourt inspired guitar twirl in hopes to silence the shoe pilfered.
His antics only served to inspirer her rage.
”aint got no flippers!!!!!!
Where is yer Flippers!!!!
Where is yer flippers.”
She ranted.
“where is yer shoes!!
Where did you get em Walgreens?”
she raved in a quivering voice ala Katherine Heburn on meth.
And she would not stop.
She was consumed with the shoes.
She apparently wanted those shoes.
“Where are yer flippers!???!???
Get them Fliippers?!” She yelled
Bill Richards, stunt bartender at the Deli, even got in on it with a
“Where is yer flippers?”
To a smattering of applause, the Falcon Five O ended their set with not a bang but with a whimper, obviously phased by the verbal battery at the hands of the haggard lady.
But her ravings were not confined to the band and her taking of the shoes was not meant for them for as the wife Kellie and I returned from purchasing a Coke, with crushed ice of course, and made it back to our blanket she noticed something ary.
“Where are my shoes?” She asked
“Someone stole my shoes.”
I said” You mean your Flippers? from Walgreens?”
The crazy heckler from the crowd was not crazy indeed, nor was she a heckler. Her words had proven true. And although this did not help the wife’s feelings on loosing the shoe, she did concede that the missing flippers had been foretold.
And from the back we heard,
“Where Are yer shoes?”
And it was all clear,
the haggard one was not as she seemed but a prophet foreseeing the theft of the “flippers”.
Yes the prophet is never revered in their home town.
So next time you see that one guy ranting and raving at the concert,
listen closely , don’t dismiss him as crazy he could be foretelling of tales yet to come.

Cleaned Out 3-25-2003 to the top

Most people hate the familiar ring of the telemarketer who interrupts at the most in opportune time to try and sell everything from miracle diets to Siding. My patented reply to get them off of the phone is simple and goes something like this. “hello Mr. hosty. We are offering a special and we need to confirm your address are you still at..”...........
I interrupt before they can finish and say,”
“What are you wearing?” and with that i usually hear the dial tone. last month however i forgot my technique and ended up getting cleaned out.
A Monday evening and the phone rings with the cheerful voice of an operator who informs me that her operatives, or Team as she called them will be in the area and was wondering if i would like to have my ducts cleaned. having undergone a recent throat operation, my curiosity over the in home pollutants was peaked and i thought that yes having the air ducts to remove mildew and mold would be a bully idea. I envisioned a crew of three with a large tanker truck hooked up to the ducts in my house sucking out all the harmful bacteria and growth of the years making my home smell angel fresh. You see i had heard of the dangers of air borne pollutants as i watched late night infomercials for the ionic Breeze. I was educated indeed. So send them over, I said.
With a confirmation call, within two days the team was there knocking at my door. we had planned a get together with some friends that night and I assured the wife that the clean ducts would add to a festive party atmosphere. she agreed until I opened the door.
in front of the house was the cleaning team truck that resembled a third world public transport bus that should have been filled with chickens and lined with old tires. And the cleaning crew- a husband and wife team whose communication and work place interaction with each other indicated to me that they had not yet red Men are from mars and Women are form Venus. Armed with a clipboard the male spoke.
“I need to asses your ducts.”
“Well OK I said.”
and let them in and he walked through the house looking at all of the ducts to clean and in all we had 10. “That is ten ducts that is 100 dollars, 10 per duct.” He said. What a bargain, clean air for only 100 dollars. I wonder what type of equipment they have. As i was day dreaming about the pure country air about to pour out of the outdates Central heat and Air system, a nightmare took its place.
Across the lawn the female was hauling a hose and vacuum unit that looked like R2-D2’s stunt double circa 1976. around her waits was a a tool belt of spray bottles filled with all of the colors of the rainbow. Dragging the unit in house, she quickly found a plug, hoisted the ladder and turned on her R2 unit.
As the vacuum fired up I was reminded of the Raiders of the Lost Ark, when the Ark was opened and all of the demons from the centuries flew out, destroying all in their path. this vacuum was truly the Ark of Cleveland County for when she flipped the switch the stench of ten thousand piss soaked mattresses came out of the filter and filled the whole house with the foulest smelling recirculatied air imaginable. It was as if someone had opened the containment field at Ghosbuster Central. My house was now the holland tunnel, a swirling Mass of odor that word fail to accurately pin point
my wife came out of the back of the house with a look on her usual cheerful visage that was more in the Hell raiser motif. I tried to calm her concerns but I was having trouble breathing and gathering enough air in my lungs to muster up,
“What in the Hell is going on?”
As the Dynamic Cleaning team whisked through the house dragging the battered R2 Vacuum and stepping up on a ladder to clean the ducts,
My University of Oklahoma education kicked in from the recess of my Cerebellum. Now the term “Duct Cleaning” is elusive. the Duct i learned was not the Entire Home Heating and Air Tube that you would see like in a restaurant hanging over head. the “Duct “ is merely the 12 inch piece of metal that is on the ceiling. Yep, the little piece of metal you see when you look up on your ceiling. they unscrewed them and wiped them down with the rainbow palette of cleaning agents that smelled much like Rock Creek Road and I 35 when Moore is all stirred up late after the witching hour.
The thing that got me was that the vacuum was on for only effect.
they never used it.
It was a diversion to make the house smell so bad that the tenants would leave and not see that the Duct cleaning was only about cleaning a 12 inch piece of metal from the ceiling.
Now i have been to the State Fair and been had by the Carnival sidemen pitching softballs and dropping rings but This took the cake mind you,.... the whole bakery. My house now smelled like Mr. abernathy’s dog had drank ten gallons of Cranberry juice and deposited it on the rug, just in time for our party.
Hauling the dented aluminum vacuum out the door, the team loaded up the truck and came back in to present me with a bill. I thought, you know this scam is so good they deserve their hundred dollars. They had got me good, real good. So I said, “Honey , pay the good man.”
So when you get that call that says “Our Duct Cleaning team is going to be in the Area......” Save yourself some trouble, get a step ladder and a bottle of Windex and save your 100.00 bucks or you too will be cleaned out.

Stop, hey what's that Sound? Roadside Surgery Part I          July 05,2002 to the top
 
The words most seasoned travelers fear most on the road is: “Do you hear something funny coming from the engine?” which is only preceded by the second thing a driver does not want hear: “Is that the wheel coming off into the ditch?” Both are paramount to the telling of this Texas interstate tale.
 
Usually, the blasts of Classic rock by Boston on the FM radio dial drown out the potential road problems, masking the sound until it is too late. Yet, traveling in our van over the past ten years I've developed a peculiar talent to decipher odd mechanical dings, pings, grinds and bumps. The acoustical properties of potential road trouble are as different as the genes that make up life itself- each with its own signature all of its own.
 
For example, when the van caught on fire thanks to a blown heater core under the dash, not only was the interior of the van filled with a poisonous gas, but the squealing of a steam engine – much like that of the Monitor or the Merrimac- could be heard, a volume that is rivaled only by the Friday noon tornado siren test in Hometown Norman.
 
Of course I thought the fire was due to the overheating of my Glen Campbell “live at royal hall” tape that had been lodged in the tape player for the past several weeks continuously playing “Sunflower” and a patriotic medley of Glen Campbell cocaine show rock.
 
And when my lovely and talented wife, Mrs. Kellie Lynne Hosty, took the helm during a stint through the badlands of new Mexico, the odd sound of a buzz saw ping, followed by something that sounded like a little midget throwing a rock at the engine, and a rattle accompanied by the van locking up and drifting off the road, could only mean that the belt housing pulley that holds the engine together came off.
 
Luckily, we broke down next to a 24 hour AutoZone in Albuquerque on route 66 and happened upon a journeyman mechanic on his way to a Mexican fiesta. While he fixed the engine his amigo took me on a ride in his supped up turbo charged Honda. We reached mach 2 in that thing as he laughed hysterically as we spun into the Conoco to buy some beer to pass the time. On returning we were back on the road in no time.
 
Saturday June 22, 2002 Austin Texas
 
  On the way from Austin to Norman to play a gig at the Cleveland County's home of Live music- the deli- I heard…a sound. A sound unlike any sound I had heard before.
“Did you hear that?” I asked tic Tac, interested only in the Amon Tobin minidisk he was trying to jar loose, did not reply.
 
The van took a wide swipe to the right. A grinding sounded, much like a coffee machine revving up or breathing as I have been told.
 
Squealing, the van swerved to the right again- hard. The brakes went out. As my foot pushed the pedal to the floor the speedometer as 70mph, I could only think in incomplete sentences in true action movie fashion. The wheel locked d up and the van drifted towards the bar ditch as the packed I-35 weekend city traffic closed in.
“Is that the Wheel” I felt like a cartoon character….”mother.”
“Pull over. Pull over.Easy..hosty Pull over…” Tic Tac finally heard and the van was pulling itself over by itself, so I let go of the wheel…just kidding.
A familiar sight- the van on a jack by the side of the road swaying in the wind wake of passing trucks, my rock and roll dreams in a ditch by the Texas road. Mud flap gravel spit on us by truckers and the sun wasn't helping either. A tow truck was called thanks to AA and a rental car was reserved.
“We aren't going to make it back in time to play,” Tic Tac said.
“Yes we are,” I replied. “Yes we are.”
I had to repeat myself because it was a made for TV moment, or at least ABC after school special moment.
 
One phone call to a Austin and we were saved. Thanks to 40 minutes of hell drummer and my former band mate, Scott Mason, who expatriated to Austin, we made it back to Norman with minutes to spare and a tale to tell. Ironically, while in a band with Scott the wheel had come off on Sooner road after a five hour late night jaunt from Little rock to Norman where I hit the curb doing 60.
 
 
 
The Hobo Association to the top
To:
The ABLE Commission
Liquor Wholesalers Association
Oklahoma Gazette
From:
The HOBO Association
P.O. Box 843
Norman, Oklahoma 73070
Regarding the sale of Oklahoma Wine
We hobo’s are a wayfayering group that sails the steel rails of the land pitching our tents in different towns depending on which way the wind blows. Our lives are based on scampn and shirkn work just enough to keep our belly’s full and our mind clear. One vital element in this equation is wine. Wine is the Hobo’s freind, enemy, companion and sage. And on stop overs in the Sooner sate, we love to drink Oklahoma Wine, the sweet fruit of the vine that is available only here in the Indian Nation.
Now we may not be taxpayers in the traditional sense, but due to the tremendous amount of we as a group pruchases we feel as if we make a strong contribution to the local economy’s where ever we go. Why liquor and wine tax, build schools, pave roads, provide health care funding, f uel the state Tobaco Trust and provide funds for the cogs and tinkers of civil government.
During many of my travels I do not have the luxery of a word processor to convey the sentiments of my small but visible contingent of gentleman loafers. My last typing device was a well worn 1950’s Smith Corona tyewriter whom I lost while jumping the rails from the Sante Fe to the Burlington North. My trused companion, a mutt named mutt also didn;t make the trip home but bought the farm as the yard boss beat him to death with a baton chasing me and a vietnam vet named Yoakum out of a Hooverville just south of Dallas. However, that is a matter for the function of government concerned with cruelty to animals, which is a different letter for a different day.
We Hobo’s wish to confront the ABLE Commision for thier wisdom in keeping Oklahoma Wine from grocery stores. We hobo’s are more afraid of Politicians underage sons and daughters from fraternities but cases of 3.2 beer from Homeland.
Also the wisdom in not letting the wine be sold in stores is perplexing, almost as much as the inability for producers of the Sooner state wine to sell thier product to other states. Oklahoman’s can buy wine from France,California, Arkansas and Texas but Oklahoma producers can not send thier product out of thier own state.
Sincerely
The HOBO Association
P.O. Box 843
Norman, OK 73070

Hosty Duo’s Golden Country Hits Liner Notes to the top

Credits:
All songs were written by Michael Hosty for Hosstone Music ASCAP 2003
Recording Credits:
Cleveland County Cage, Wrote You a Letter, Save some Love and Truck Stop Shower Stall
were recorded live in person at Nita’s Hideaway in Pheonix, AZ by a fellow named Alan Johnny Cash,
Molokai Cowboy, Applesauce, The General part I, The Generel Part II and Tiki Lounge
we all recorded at Hosstone Studio’s in Norman, OK.
Destination Hawaii was recorded at Wookn Pa Nub studio by Cory Roberts in Norman, OK
Que Haya, Guitar-O and Gunfighter were recorded in Norman, Oklahoma at Trent Bell’s Studio.

The Story of the Album to the top

To make space in the musical shed for new songs, you got to clear out the old.
Most of these songs were never released but have been played over the past several years
in smokey bars, near dumpsters, drunken fraternity parties, art galleries, weddings,
and into the clear night air following trials of smoke out into the parking lot.
The Ford E-150 van that carried these songs battered from the blacktop hums these songs
as it sits in the cold, the rain and drives the heat of the highways in search of the next
60 dollar show a tank of gas and maybe if its lucky the waiting shelter of a grove of trees.The Songs to the top
We should start with the song that more or less broke up the band,
The General and the only sequel song better than the original the General Part II.
These two classics were recorded off the top of my head while someone is doing the dishes in the background.
During the recording sessions for the now defunct country super group Ten Pound Hammer,
tracks were being laid down and songs were being mixed to the delight of the band.
On one of these fateful days I had the idea to bring in a four track recorded at home
with some experimentation in mind.
See, if I could record the songs at home and then bring them to the studio I would save some time and money on the recording process. With four track in hand I entered the studio armed with a couple of songs I had recorded spontaneously at home.
During the transfer from the little four track recorded to the giant tape machine all
in the tiny studio were amazed at the ability of the Hi Fi german tape machine to beef
up the home made recording. Tic Tac, Chief Engineer Bell, ol Eric Harmon, and myself
were all laughing at the song as well as how well the experiment was going when
Col.Buck Steven's showed up late to the session, walking in the door.
Hearing the song seemed to wipe the smile form his face, turning smile to stone.
The Col. sat in the corner as the Epic saga about the Catfish play on. The more we laughed
at the song, the redder the face of the Col. got. Tears began to well up in the drooping eyes
until I asked the Col. what in tar nation was the matter.
“I didn’t really kill that fish” I said, thinking the emotions garnered from the heart
wrenching tale of my limited angling experience were bringing the Col. down.
“I thought we each were going to have the same amount of songs on the record?”
he said in a timid and trembling voice. Mighty Col. was having what appeared to be
a breakdown, as each bar of the home recording lumbered on.
“This is just an experiment.” I answered, “Who wants to listen to a fifteen minute song
about a fish anyway?” We all laughed and the Col. exhumed a half hearted gasp of air but
it was clear that the Col. wanted to command.
But the flood gate of the Col’s fragile eggshell Ego had been opened and the Col. would soon
resort to tac tics nor before seen by the likes of Cluff and Tic Tac that ultimately lead
to the Col. throwing accusations and a beer bottle tantrum on the stage , storming out
the door under a babbling of third grade mockery and into the lore of 309 White Street, Norman,O.K.
Gunfighter is also from the fabled Ten Pound hammer sessions and is dedicated to the Clint Eastwood in all of us. What I really wanted was a DVD video to accompany the song I had always envisioned during the Western Porno trumpet solo a couple making love in a late 1800’s whore house, when right at the moment when the fellow consummates their union the door is kicked open by a jealous lover and he is simultaneously shot with a shot gun blast, bleeding over his love, slumping over her body. Just a thought.
The final song from the ill fated Ten Pound hammer sessions is Que Haya, which is a reminding about a lost love in ol Mexico by a gringo who doesn’t quite have a grasp of the language. With accordion played by Ryan Jones, the song also features the debut of my first guitar captured on tape. the TakaHaru Special was purchased for 100 dollars at Larsen music in 1979 by my mom. It finally made it to tape after only 20 plus years.
The live tracks included on the album were recorded by a fellow named Alan from Phoenix, Arizona at Nit’s Hideaway a seedy musical dive located near an Adult Novelty shop a breakfast joint and miles of searing hot blacktop. my wife had just flown in from Oklahoma, and i was so juiced up i think I played the craziest guitar I have ever played in my life.
Included in this group is Cleveland County Cage, a little song about small towns, weed and the police. A theme around many small towns.
Also in the Truck stop Shower Stall which was inspired during a trek to omaha nebraska with the group Hosty and the Silvertones. i think the song speaks for itself.
Wrote you a Letter and Save Some Love are a couple of rag time tunes that feature the rock steady tic Tac on the percussion and the bass mate II on the bass, which is my right foot. these two ragtime tunes also bear the scars of the kazoo which was taped to a Microphone to give us the Budget Saxophone sound making trained musicians cringe at the thought they took years to master the sax a phone while someone in the crowd that mentioned to me, “The sax player was off tonight. i couldn’t see him but he was a little off.”
Guitar-O starts the album off, which is fitting seeing how it in of the first tunes recorded at bell labs, where the Heater album burnone and all of the Hosty Trio albums were recorded. Guitar-O is an ill fated western super hero who can destroy villages with a mere stroke of his wrist on the strings of the guitar, A Pre 20th Century Esteban, if you will. On the bass is Norman Legend, and bassist for Cinderbiscuits, Paul Schiavo who has since left the Sooner state for greener pastures in the big city of New York.
Destination Hawaii was recorded in May of 1995 at Wookn Pa Nub studio in norman by Cory Robert's after a night of drinkn at Cafe 66 on main Street norman that left me in the back alley underneath a power grid serving station near a steaming dumpster heaving my innards out much in the fashion of a Sea cucumber. it was also my first attempt at Electronica, utilizing a Casio keyboard drum machine. Not to forget the debut of “little Roy’ the ragged lap steel that bears the signatures of Dale Watson, Lemmy from Motorhead and Nashville Pussy. i had finally learned how to play the thing halfway. The hangover didn't help me keeping in tune.
Also on the record are a few tracks recorded in the ol Hosty house with the aid of the a for mentioned four track recorder. These include Johnny Cash, Applesauce, Molokai Cowboy and Tiki Lounge.
Johnny Cash is a truckn song. There are miles of highway and miles of truck stop floor space where travelers can get anything from cb’s to Marty Robbins tapes, tire hammers, lights, greasy meals, ingredients for roadside meth production and chains. Truckn always takes you away but always brings you home. Sometimes the love we leave behind is better left as the memory's fondness fades into the blacktop.
Applesauce is an ode to a gal I met at a summer outing near an above ground pool party in Logan county Oklahoma. She was a hulk of a woman who had designed her own BMX/motocross course which i took ride on. After dumping the bike and scarring my leg she remedied the situation by having me dunk my leg in the chlorinated above ground swimming hole. I bear the scars to this day. Oh yeah.....she had no teeth.
Tiki Lounge is dedicated to Dave, Bill and John whose backyard Tiki party inspired the song. The song also feature Alex Mackie on the bass the original Hosty Trio up right bass player featured on the 1996 recording Volume. He and tic Tac had formed a Hip hop ensemble where the rhyme section was referred to as the Reactor Core.........Alex also was famed for impromptu UFC battles on off nights where there were no holds barred and a 12 pack time limit. The only escape was to tap out..............Uncle....i wimper.
Molokai Cowboy is dedicated to my lovely wife who bought me a ukulele for a wedding gift. I had no idea how to play it, but one night a revelation that soon Hawaiian Cowboy songs were on the comeback, Mel Bay imparted the knowledge of the ukulele.

Prairie Dog Town USA to the top

If the people from PETA ever drive through Kansas they better not stop at Priarre Dog town, home of the worlds largest parrie dog. But if you are anyone else, it is one of the all time great Road side Attractions I have ever seen.
Miles after miles of endless plains can make anyone go quite insane. So when ever couple miles you are tempted by signs such as, "Worlds Largest Prarrie Dog."………"See the 5 Legged Cow."………….. "Buffalo Herd