Cowboy Confessional

Former President Clinton got a little testy on Fox News when Chris Wallace dared to ask Billy about Osama bin Laden inquiring “… why didn’t you do more, connect the dots and put them out of business?” Clinton in a fit of finger shaking indignation not seen since his historic “I did not have sex with that woman” speech, attempted to shift the unwanted scrutiny onto George Bush, replying through clenched capped teeth “They had no meetings on bin Laden for nine months …”

So Bush had about eight months to deal with Al Qaeda, and Clinton had eight years. With twelve times to opportunity to cure the world of the infestation known as bin Laden, should Clinton not get at least twelve times the blame?

Bookmark to:

A Pacific Research Institute email claims that simple infections kill as many Americas each year as AIDS, breast cancer, and auto accident combined.

You are safer having unprotected sex while driving than if you check into the infirmary.

Bookmark to:

Cats are like women.  If you understand them, they make wonderful companions.  If you don’t understand them, then they are endless pains in the ass.

Bookmark to:

James McMurtry is evidence that the line between madness and genius if very thin … thankfully.

Like a sonic lovechild born from Ray Wylie Hubbard and Tom Waits, McMurtry writes songs that are beautifully ugly in a down-home sort of way.  Waits can sing depressingly about alcoholic love affairs while McMurtry sings boisterously of alcoholic carnal affairs with his cousins (”And them skinny little halters, And they’re second cousins to me, Man I don’t care I wanna get between them, With a great big ol’ hard-on”).  That should drive some Republicans crazy.

More important though is that like Waits and Hubbard, McMurtry’s lyrics paint vivid mental pictures.  One cannot prevent images erupting in the mind’s eye when encountering words like “Aunt Clara kept her Bible Right next to the phone in case she needed a quote” or “deadly as a Texan on ice.” 

(Anyone who has not been on a public highway in north Texas during their freakish winter ice storms knows not the definition of terror)

It is the shared trait of Waits, Hubbard and McMurtry that makes songs special.  Like reading good fiction, the listener is escorted momentarily to another reality because the words create an alternate place and time, populated with people you might not want to know, but who are like people you already know (maybe even like yourself — I know I had a cousin who … never mind).  Contrast even the worst prose penned by any of these gentlemen against the spiritually empty lyrics found in popular music, and one instantly understands why these three develop enduring, almost cult like followings.  Unlike yesterday’s pop stars, Waits, Hubbard, and McMurtry will always have an audience.

Bookmark to:

Polygamy shows the dysfunction of monogamy. A man wants a different woman in his bed every night. A woman can barely stand the same man in her bed once a week.

Bookmark to: