Tag: roy head (Page 1 of 4)

And a goddamned good one. He died today at 79, so lower all six flags for him.

“If James Joyce had been from Texas instead of Dublin, then Ulysses would be a hundred times longer, partly in Spanish, and most likely feature more characters named Hank. If James Michener had written ’bout Texas, then his books would be exactly the same. What writer could capture her like a big-game hunter? Texas is too well-fed to fall for traps, and too sprintacious for riflery or bows. She eludes allusion and refuses reference. Texas is beyond the capacities of one writer, or lady writer, as Texas is merely the superposition of millions of hearts all believin’ in one another simultaneously.

“Texas crowdsources itself into being, basically.

“Both I and my wang are well-acquainted with the pleasures of this world! I once et a Monte Cristo in Monte Carlo, and I twice smoked Montecristos in Montevideo. I tied one on in Taiwan. I penetrated the Iron Curtain, and I toured the Silk Road, and really expected something different from the Ivory Coast. Tyrants toasted me, despots drank to me, and I saved Robert Mugabe’s life on three separate occasions. I have made my love to 81 stewardesses, 16 of whom were assigned to first-class. I was the very first gaijin to ever drive a Datsun.

“It was a mistake letting Skippy Joe borrow that vehicle.

“But I return to Texas. Not via stickery, but voted of my own volition. I choose her highways, and sidewalks, and barflies. Her roadhouses, and cathouses, and that town what got the Gucci store. A sky blue with hope, and a land green with promise and also grass. I’d rather be where Dan Rather’s from. The Autobahn’s not what I want my auto on. Nor will I be seen in the Seine, spend time on the Thames, or get dnear the Dnieper. The Danube makes me blue. The Firth of Forth is fourth or fifth on my list, and Machu Picchu’s for sissies. What need have I for Vienna when Vienna sausages are so readily available, and often served up by itty-bitty girls wearin’ jean shorts so skimpy as to be mistaken for rumor?

“A Texan judges the world, and finds it Not Texan.

“So I return, like a boomerang with insufficient postage, and recall the air. It is sweeter in Texas, and heals minor wounds and verrucas. The water tastes like beer someone else paid for, and treats alimentary ailments and digestives distresses. The standing ovations are taller. Roy Head’s been vertically ovated everywhere there is, but nothing’s like home. Yes, that Roy Head.

“You should’ve heard of me.

“Nobody called her perfect! Like the Christ, Texas’ divinity is bifurcated. She contains within her aspects both spiritual and fleshy, and like all that is human, those parts are flawed. Up to 30% of state schools contain a Hellmouth. Our airports lead the nation in “urinal chaos,” which is a metric I am not familiar with. Several major metropolitan centers should have been built elsewhere. We allow Fedzilla to keep his boot on our bolo-tied neck via the national speed limit, which is unconstitutional and pussified. All the dentists are deranged.

“One time, the ocean et Galveston.

“Healthfulness is also on our to-do list. Most Texans got more extra meat on ’em than a butcher what did his ordering during a manic phase. We got big boys, and grand girls, and children chockful of chunk. Can you blame us? Our diet is to live for! We’d rather eat our ribs than see them, and brisket sells the briskest. Our Tex has been Mexed, and vice versa. Our delightful delicacies deliver such succulent satiation, alliteration absolutely abounds. Flights of fancy-talking follow feasts.

“It’s a delicious meal makes you start talking funny.

“Like the opposite of People magazine, my weight was never an issue. My romantic, frantic, never-mistaken-for-Danzig dancing moves had kept me trimmer than a guy whose job it is to cut off the edges of stuff real neat. Combined with a lovemaking style that was highly aerobic, my waist remained tighter than a cheap teenager’s cooter, my muscles more supple than a supplement. The same could not be said of my beloved friends! Big Bucktoothed Pete, always a wide and ample figure, had blown up like a balloon that ate too much pie. Louie Grabass’ belly was spacious enough to seat one adult or two medium-sized children, and the man could barely reach the stove upon which his changas chimi’ed.

“As you might imagine, Skippy Joe remained lean enough to teach anatomy off of.

“As I noticed my chums getting chubby, my vision done kaleidoscopified itself, like in the movies when the background goes one way, and the actor goes another, and you spit up in your popcorn just a little bit. I could trade my wealth for their health, and also maybe there was some tax benefits to be accrued so’s that I didn’t actually have to give up the wealth in said trade.

“I made a note to call Goldman about that.

“I would build a hospital, and name it after myself, and perform there to cheer up sickies and those what got mangled by threshers. Cascabel had not had no decent doctoring since the unfortunate incident in 1978, but that particular preacher had been chased off and was unlikely to get folks all riled up again. With my beneficence, medicine would make the comeback that Fatty Arbuckle never got. Doctors, idealistic and crusading, would be recruited. Fiercely competent nurses whose scrubs barely contained their hearts would be hired. Technicians who knew how the machines worked. Candy-stripers with pert buttocks. No expenses spared.

“Turns out I did not have “no expenses spared” type resources.

“Plans were updated, downgraded, and I fired the architect and just let Big Bucktoothed Pete and Skippy Joe eyeball the construction. I could also only afford one doctor, who was foreign and had a name that sounded like a turtle choking on a penny, and three disgraced nurses, one of whom immediately broke her hand punching Louie Grabass for living up to his name. We had a microwave that operated in a similar, but not identical, fashion to an x-ray machine. The burn ward was an aboveground pool Skippy Joe had stolen and filled with aloe, which he had also stolen.

“Skippy Joe kept one eye on the bottom line, and the other on the security guard.

“The people of Cascabel lined up to have their carbuncles prodded, and their buttholes okayed. They was missing teeth, and limbs, and some but not many were earless. There was a man what had become conjoined with his tickhound, and triple the number of fireworks-related maladies as you’d hope. Folks were in wheelchairs, and several had been brought in wheelbarrows.

“Opening night, and it was a sell-out.

“We left the foreign doctor and the disgraced nurses to their sacred duties, ‘cept for interrogating the doctor ’bout where exactly he was from, and taking turns on the nurse with the broken hand. Skippy Joe had gained access to the pharmacy, mostly by building and stocking it hisself, then never giving no one else the key, and he revved our healing team to speeds that shredded stethoscopes. The majority of our patients, believing it to be a Jewish trick, did not have health insurance and instead paid in trade, specie, or lettin’ Big Bucktoothed Pete preach at ’em for a while.

“Cascabel’s economy has always embraced flexibility.

“To celebrate the health of both the town and my wallet, I stood my lifelong pals to drinks of a medicinal nature. We drank Quincy, MD’s, which are cocktails that somehow have the power to investigate crimes and arrest bad guys. We drank Dr. Frankensteins, which is when you mix a whole bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong together, and then you’re surprised when violence ensues. We drank St. Elsewheres, which are equal parts vodka and water from an autistic kid’s snow globe. We drank Dr. Whos, which have different ingredients every round.

“We drank Dr. Monkeyfighters, which should not be consumed anywhere near a zoo.

“Our inebriation allowed chaos to sneak in, like a kitty cat who was also a ninja and a burglar and wearing socks! Skippy Joe’s potables proved too potent, and he had overclocked the foreign doctor and the disgraced nurses! Also, the burn ward sprung a leak and the aloe got in the microwave, which caused a small fire that was promptly worshipped by the foreign doctor and disgraced nurses, and thereby encouraged rapidly into a much larger blaze! They fed theyselves to the flame as living sacrifices! They walked into the fire willingly, and singing!”

“We still can’t figure out what Skippy Joe fed ’em!”

…

“Sir, is this for pick-up or curbside delivery?”

“HOSPITAL OWNERSHIP IS NOT FOR EVERYONE!”

“C’mon, man; I got people on hold.”

“You cannot pluralize Texas, as she is singular. Realities reach from right where you standing at all the way to possibilities’ horizon. Instances fractalate and iterize with one another, like a Christmas tree gettin’ freaky with itself. Universes made from cheeseburgers and tungsten, places where gravity can be bribed. There are entire planes that know naught but the joyous yelps of teenage angels, and there’s one reality gettin’ et by a spider, eternally. And yet across the multiverse, only one Texas exists.

“Maybe that’s why drivin’ across her takes so long.

“Is this from whence my Yellow Rose draws her nutrients? Does she sup from the Fount Fantastic? Is her thirst slaked with beer from God’s cooler? Ask her prophets! Ask Sam Houston, and Stephen Austin, and Johnny El Paso! She is a mystical land, this is known by all who reside within her. Texas surrounds us. Binds us. Penetrates us non-sexually, but sometimes sexually.  The true Texan is connected to these dusty magics. Maybe that is the source of the juice with which I power the sinful, soulful, fanciful, danciful legs what done made Roy Head a star both at home and amongst broads. Yes, that Roy Head.

“You should’ve heard of me.

“It was 1984, and my career was flatter than Twiggy’s boobie-patch: where there should have been, there was not. What was once bountiful was now mutinous, and, as I once heard California say, the fault was mine. I had crapped out in Vegas. Biting Elvis was a tactical error, as was breaking into Pearl Bailey’s dressing room and stealing her wigs. Big Bucktoothed Pete still dons several of them wigs, but that is besides all possible points. Lake Tahoe was, for me, also dry, as I burgled Miz Bailey in that gamblin’ semi-mecca, as well.

“I might could play Reno, but I got my pride.

“So many locales had tired of my tirades. Bad feelings were common in Boston, it got weird in Normal, and the relationship twixt me and Flagstaff had wilted. Atlanta made time to hate me. My incidents were international! I called Parisians “gay,” and I called Montrealers “Canadians,” and neither salutation proved salutary. I mispronounced Lisbon in precisely the way you’d expect me to, and then described Barcelona as gaudy. I never even heard of Montevideo, but they sent me a highly official letter telling me not to come.

“When in Rome, I did as the Romans did, but I also tackled some nuns.

“Record sales were a similar dismality. My releases once scampered up the charts like Skippy Joe, shirtless and sweaty and sinewy and speedy, but now they climbed like Louie Grabass, who’s like a dead cow, but fatter. Billboard showed no sign of me! New wave was in, and I was old hat. My country-flecked soul screechin’ was like Edison’s offerings in the Voltage Wars: not directly current.

“The salad days was gone, and we was now smack-dab in the sneakin’-out-of-the-restaurant days.

“Surrender wasn’t on the menu. Course, a lot of things wasn’t on the menu no more. Was a time I would demand twelve lobsters, make the waiter line ’em up like they was in a congregation, let Big Bucktoothed Pete lay some Gospel on ’em. My proselytizing pal could preach him some Lobster Jesus. He would forgive their sins, and then glory in their buttery flavor. The wine flowed and never slowed until we glowed and got real plowed. Skippy Joe was fond of ordering the kitchen’s entire supply of oysters. We kept tellin’ him that food oysters wasn’t pearl oysters, but he shucked with such intense glee that he was permitted his frivolity.

“Louie Grabass was generally not allowed to eat with us, but was provided with a staff meal daily.

“Life was darker than an eclipse made out of dead babies, and we had slipped into low and surly habits. We ate beefsteaks of poor quality. We made many prank calls. The horn section was laid off. The universe shrank up like a willy in cold water for us! We kept to my ranch, Head Quarters, which was just outside of Cascabel, but for a Texas definition of “just outside,” which means ’bout an hour.

“Ain’t nothin’ proves Einstein more right about time being relative than Texas.

“Head Quarters was my home away from bein’-away-from-home. My land was spacious, capacious, and fertile as a teenaged Catholic. The fields would respond to the merest rumor of seed with harvests bushy and grand. Stalks bearing rare varietals of bean launched themselves skyward, though I had planted no legume! I owned a thousand head of cattle, and I also held title to their bodies. They grazed in the green grass. My sheep produced wool so soft you could hug it with your eyeballs. Chickens, naturally. My stock shared the ranch with ferocious bobcats, and wily coyotes, and several species of deer, each one more shootable than the last.

“Deer’s eyes are on the side of its head, ours are facing forward, and that’s the relationship.

“The grounds were grounds for celebration. The main house was stately, in the sense that it was the size of Rhode Island. I was amenable to amenities, and so options was necessary. Head Quarters got two of everything, one indoors, and one out: pool, tennis courts, bowlin’ alley. Regular movie theater inside, drive-up theater outside. I covered my bases during construction, too. Built me a fencin’ gym. Woodworkin’ shop. Flight simulator. I did not engage in any of these activities, but should the urge overtake me, I would be ready.

“Boy Scouts get two things right: preparation is key, and sashes are awesome.

“The situation dired. Half the cattle died from Brucellosis, and the other half were killed by Bruce Ellosis, a local man whose only explanation for his foul deeds was ‘No one ever did Equus with cows before.’  The sheep all kept getting bubblegum stuck in their wool. Even worse, no one could figure out where they was getting the gum from, let alone who taught them how to blow bubbles. Skippy Joe also done traded an entire year of beans to a man he believed to be a wizard, but who was in fact the trumpet player I had fired. That ain’t all on him, though: Skippy Joe never could resist no wizard, and me and Big Bucktoothed Pete should’ve been vigilant.

“The years have proven that Skippy Joe needs checkin’ in on.

“Already operating at a loss, Head Quarters began hemorrhaging cash so fast it made an owl’s head spin, and their heads was specifically made for that purpose. Bankers sent letters, and then junior associates, and then more letters remonstrating against how the junior associates had been greeted. This was the nighest the end had ever been when from the most expected of sources came salvation in the form of a changa, perfectly chimi’ed.

“Sometimes, the Lord sends a burning bush, and sometimes He sends a fuckwit.

“Louie Grabass could chimi my guests’ changas during meals, which would be taken in between hunting excursions, or maybe just humpin’ in one of poolhouses. Head Quarters would become a luxury ranch experience. I would construct a runway for jets with the proper amount of privacy, and host rich goobers what want to pretend to be cowboys. My compatriots agreed that my plan was a masterstroke of genius, and we began booking guests immediately. As ever, an endeavor! we cried happily, and repaired to repast in celebration of our new roles as hoteliers. We drank Motel 6’s, which are cheap vodka and suicidal ideation. We drank Louis Ritz’s, which are champagne served in your own private bathroom. We drank flaming MGM Grand’s.

“Our soft opening was even more flaccid than predicted.

“Very quickly, we saw the weaknesses in the plan! Turns out you gotta be hospitable to be in the hospitality business! Big Bucktoothed Pete struck several under-tippers, and the courts will be deciding what Skippy Joe did or did not do! Several planes full of wealthy Texans crashed due to shoddy runway materials! The one jet that did land safely was gotten onto by Bruce Ellosis!”

“So, are you gonna say ‘Trick or Treat,’ or not?”

“HE DID EQUUS WITH RICH FOLKS!”

“That’s not even a costume, is it? Get off my porch.”

“You ain’t never seen Christmas until you seen it in Texas. Santa commands a Ford F-150, his pickup bed piled high with the expertly dressed carcasses of his reindeer, humanely dispatched one and all, ‘cept Blizten, who thrashed about a bit. He brings tidings of natures both good and picante, and fills the cowboy boots hung by the barbecue with care. Santa is also shot in around 40% of the homes he enters, but is able to shrug off any injury due to his being king of the snow-elfs.

“The Second Amendment don’t take the Yule off in Texas.

“I have seen palm trees wrapped root to frond in glittery gilt, and I have been asked to leave Midnight Mass in Melrose, Mass. Nogs of various provenance have been presented to me, along with toddies would scald a lesser man. I performed with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir: they handled Handel, while I did the Wassail Watusi. The Rockettes cracked my nuts. Christmas always was a working holiday for Roy Head. Yes, that Roy Head.

“You should’ve heard of me.

“Growing up in Cascabel, the one thing we didn’t have was money. Or education. Decent roads, neither, or anything to do ‘cept get drunk and piss towards Oklahoma. I realize now I should have waited to number our deficiencies until after listing them, especially since I now remember several more problems with Cascabel that many or most would term dealbreakers, such as the structural racism, the freaky whine what came from east of town but no one could be more specific than that, and the Mofetta, which was a devillish skunk-beast the size of a large midget and twice as aggressive.

“It took cattle in the night, and once ran for mayor.

“The deprivations of our poverty were merely material. We were as brimming with faith as our drinking water was lacking in flouride; our hearts were as soft as our teeth, and we showed it during the Season which bears a Reason. No wall could flower in Cascabel when Father Christmas asked us to dance. Though free of funds with which to decorate, the town still gussied herself to a high and shiny polish. The square always featured a terrific and towering tree, the tradition transmitted to Texas through Teutons, even when we couldn’t afford a real fir and were forced to pile Mexican fellows on top of one another.

“It was a different time, and they were allowed to eat the popcorn strings.

“Most magical of all Saturnalias was my eighth. I had begun my show business career that annum, booking a regular gig at Miss Rosa’s Cathouse, which was right outside town, but not too far. I slung high notes at the lowlifes, and they flung five-spots at me, and I danced in a manner that caused me to be preemptively banned in Boston and New Boston. It was my legs that made the bluenoses see red: they defied both gravity and consequence, but their opprobrium never reached Miss Rosa’s, on account of opprobrium would have gotten its ass kicked the moment it walked in for being such a sissy word.

“Miss Rosa’s patrons are populists, linguistically.

“I high-kicked and shimmied; I did the Wig-Wam and the Charlie Chan; I did the two-step for two bits, and all the while wailing. I was the highest of altos at the time, as I had not yet pubertied, and I interpreted songs male and female in origin, including an Andrews Sisters medley during which I imitated all three of them women, even the one who had eyeballs what didn’t communicate with each other. Big Bucktoothed Pete was my accompanist, and though he has thick and graceless fingers that many have likened to swollen cow teats, he could manipulate that ivory better than the Chinese government, and without one lesson. That man’s ears were connected to his heart, which were furthermore attached to his hands. One day on the bus, I drew this vision for him in pencil, a great heart with ears and hands, and Big Bucktoothed Pete became frightened of the artwork and refused to look at it, so I chased him about the bus for hours waving the drawing and making oogie-boogie noises.

“But I get ahead of myself.

“Week after week, my engagement was held over at Miss Rosa’s. Talent scouts and song touts came from far, wide, and deep. A dressing room was procured, and then one I did not have to share with the bats. My daddy was stashed in a room upstairs where his scheming would find no purchase, only hourly rental, but he rarely fussed as my deal with Miss Rosa included regular and professional pickle-pumping. In addition, the girls had become enamorated with me, and would permit me to watch as they stripped from their frilly undergarments and put on their lacy covernothings. They would rub my head, and press bills in my hand, and remark on my cuteness, and they would do it with their titties out.

“I know at a young age that show biz was for me.

“The money flowed in as though it were water and I was a lower level than the one it currently occupied. At first, I was frugal and upright. This glory so recently achieved, and the remuneration thereof, could only be temporary. I opened a savings account, for which I received a new toaster that I gifted to Mama. This thrilled her, and we sat by the piano singing songs referencing, either directly or obliquely, Jesus. My joy was so complete that I felt like my soul had been simonized. The Heads was on our way up the ladder to heaven.

“Rich folks get a stairway, but we got a ladder.

“That same night of the toaster occasion, I was hollering and making a plentiful noise while my legs did their thing, and I realized that I was super-duper talented and that my success would go on until eternity, and it was no use saving any money because more would always come in. I was like Saul on the road to Damascus, but instead of being struck blind, I was struck awesome. A toaster wasn’t enough for Mama. It was more than Daddy deserved, but my mama was a sainted woman. She took in other people’s laundry, sometimes when they wasn’t looking. She could make a hearty and nutritious stew from a handful of rhubarb, some porridge, and an overdue bill. She scrimped and got by, never caring for herself.

“Daddy was a drunken fuckwit, but Mama was good people.

“And Christmas was fast approaching, getting a day closer every 24 hours. Like I said, Cascabel had faith when it came to Christmas, but now I had the bankroll to buy deeds. What, though, shall I do? My mind was blanker than the Antarctic landscape forgetting an acquaintance’s name. After another barn-stomper of a show, I assembled my brain trust of Big Bucktoothed Pete and Skippy Joe, who was still tending bar at Miss Rosa’s, and still not wearing a shirt. I put my query to them. Big Bucktoothed Pete advised paying off the house note, and perhaps arranging a credit deal for a semi-new automobile. Skippy Joe got a forceful nosebleed, and was not included in the discussion thereafter. I countered by noting that Mama was a churchgoing woman, and that her chosen house of worship, Fruitful Loins of Christ Risen Anointed and Sanctified in the Name of the Living God, was a ramshackle knockdown in which one of the exterior walls was held up by the choir and would be condemned had the county inspector not praised Jesus there.

“I know the Lord, and He likes a fancy church.

“It was settled, and when Skippy Joe had corralled his nasal anguish, he rejoined our happy circle and we repaired to the bar to drink in honor of Christmas. We had Die Hards, which are vodka with your shoes off. We drank Rudolphs, which is when you shoot so much gin your nose explodes like J.P. Morgan. We had Xmas Suicides, which are equal parts whiskey and phone calls you never made. It was going on dawn when we decided to begin construction, which begins with demolition, which we were perhaps too enthusiastic for. We had neither plan nor permit, and lacked the skills and tools required by the task, and we were eight years old. Luckily, my dear and sweet brother Skippy Joe put a halt to our schemes.

“Unluckily, he did so by burning the church down.

“It wasn’t his fault! Skippy Joe should not be permitted access to the wiring! He gets to fiddling! The building had the structural integrity of a popsicle-stick house, and not even name-brand popsicles! The generic kind! The church was consumed in mere moments, as was the load-bearing choir! Mama had to worship at the Catholic Church that Christmas Eve, and she died not long thereafter!”

…

“Sir, do you want the wings medium or hot?”

“I BELIEVE IT WAS PAPISM WHAT KILLED MAMA!”

“I’ll just get you medium.”

SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS, SOMEWHEN IN THE SEVENTIES

“Maybe you haven’t heard of Texas. Perhaps you’ve forgotten the Alamo, despite strict instructions to the contrary. Could be you’re in a coma, or sucking soma, or was educated in Oklahoma. There’s a chance that the open skies, plains, and roads are as foreign to you as Shrinky-Dinks to an Etruscan. Our legends are legion, but even this world’s nooks have crannies, and the day is full of the benighted.

“Ignorance got more fathers than the Vatican cafeteria on pizza night.

“My heart went out to these casualties of causality, and so I became an apostle for Abilene, a proselytizer for Plainview, a missionary for Midland. I considered  evangelizing for El Paso, but the only good thing about El Paso is not being there. Every stage I sang sweetly upon, every theater in which my thighs thundered: these were revival halls dedicated not to the Body of Christ, but to Corpus Christi. When I danced, my crazy, hazy, dazy, never-lazy legs were Dallas and Fort Worth, with Arlington dangling in between. The crowds came to a Roy Head show to hear the hits, but I was showing ’em the sights.

“Yes, that Roy Head. You should’ve heard of me.

“I was on the road when I heard the news that Pappy Dolarhyde had passed. He was the Congressman what served my hometown Cascabel and her surrounding surroundings and his passing got me a-going. Who better to shoulder the task? Who more appropriate to wear the title, which I assumed was ‘Your Fancifulness” or “The Man What Makes The Crops Flourish.” I will freely admit that neither the nitty nor the gritty of day-to-day governance was within my mind’s command at the time.

“But where I lacked facts, I had friends.

“Big Bucktoothed Pete’s grasp of civics was rivaled only by Skippy Joe’s political cunning! Combining these with my baby-pressing and flesh-kissing gifts made for a team from which the Oak Ridge Boys would cower, even the bearded fellow. My status as the naivest of naifs led Big Bucktoothed Pete to declare I needed to go back to school, but this is Texas, so we immediately hired Louie Grabass as our football coach. He installed the Spread offense and we were forced to let him go.

“You got a changa, the man will chimi it; beyond that, he’s useful as tits on a turtle.

“My mind swam like a swami: not well. I was made for showboating, not voting! There were numbers to remember, rules to memorize, and it turns out I would not be allowed to wear my shiny finery. I could not, according to Big Bucktoothed Pete’s polling, let loose with my trademark sexy-screaming at any point during my stump speech. Compounding my disinterest, I was forbidden from noting what word ‘stump’ rhymes with. No dancing! No prancing! No motel-maid romancing! I felt as dickless as Wonder Woman’s bicycle seat!

“I had become disillusioned before had a chance to get illusioned.

“But Roy Head is a patriot! And I wanted to be called wonderful names and be forgiven my trespasses, even when I trespass at the golf course and make my business in the holes. Instead of shouting, ‘Fore!’ I yell ‘Two!’and I saw my life stretch out in front of me. I was making my business in every hole in every golf course in the district, and no one could say ‘Boo.’ A few simple votes, and I would be unto a god. I resolved to buckle down, like a pilgrim’s hat that could sing real good. I considered the Constitution, and I devoured insatiably the Declaration of Independence, setting aside time to ramble through the Preamble. I studied Black’s Law until my eyes went white.

“Then Big Bucktoothed Pete told me that elections don’t have nothing to do with that stuff.

“We went on the road, as we’d done so often before. Out of habit, I brought along a full band with a horn section. The trumpet player was a Mexican fellow and he fulfilled roles other than the high voicing of the brass arrangement. In some towns, he translated my salutatory salutations to the crowd, and in others I would shout “Look! An Illegal!” at him, and begin chase. My message was as specifically tailored as a one-armed midget’s tuxedo. I do, however, take pride in the fact that I was only ever as racist as necessary, and not one iota more.

“Politicians lead, but campaigners read the room.

“My district was small by Texas standards, only seven hours across, and we crissed that cross a dozen times over and started back up again. This is where Skippy Joe’s savage savvy came into play. Armed with nothing but some bunting, a couple hundred bucks, and a washing machine he had stolen in Lubbock, he could turn any venue into a political parlor. Skippy Joe would hog-tie the local bigwigs, metaphorically or not, and turn out the press from the bars. No crowd has ever been more competently wrangled. On the occasion of debates, he coldcocked my rivals.

“Except for getting within sniffing distance of the donations, Skippy Joe did it all.

“Election Day drew nigh, and drew it real well, too. Gave nigh big sloppy garbanzos, and we took it as a good sign. Having returned to our campaign headquarters at Miss Rosa’s, we cast the line of our conversation into the river of legislative dreams, and pulled out bills that would make a bear salivate. Upon my inaugurationing, I could do something for the people of Cascabel and her surrounding surroundings. Find funds to hire a replacement for Spots, the basset hound that taught English at Cascabel High. Raise the speed limit to Get to it, Texan. Big Bucktoothed Pete had some fascinating ideas about developing downtown, or at least designating a section of Cascabel as ‘downtown.’ Skippy Joe requested that I legalize it, and refused to name his pronoun’s antecedent.

“Louis Grabass’ opinions were neither asked for nor accepted.

“The polls opened in mere hours! I had knocked on every door, and wriggled in through three windows. If a voter whistled, I stopped, and there was no more stomp to my stump. Nothing more could be done, so we did what we could do and drank wild and imaginative politically-themed cocktails. We had Abe Lincolns, which are shots that go straight to your head. We also had John Kennedys, which are the same concoction, but after you drink it you argue about what happened. We sipped Bella Abzugs, which are equal parts gin and chutzpah. We ordered Woodrow Wilsons, which is where your wife finishes your drink for you. Finally, we switched to Ted Kennedys.

“A Ted Kennedy is a bucket with nine or ten handles of booze in it.

“We came to in the ever-familiar drunk tank late the next day! Skippy Joe still had his washing machine, but the Mexican trumpet player was missing and presumed eaten! Furthermore, it came to our groggy attention that my name was not on the ballot! Big Bucktoothed Pete had neglected to sign me up with the proper authorities! It was a matter of principle with him, he said! He didn’t believe government should intrude into politics!

“Needless to say, I did not achieve the sought-after post!”

…

“Son, I’m only gonna ask you this one more time: do you have anything to confess or not?”

“MY DREAM OF UNFETTERED GOLF HOLE DOOKIES WAS NEVER TO BE!”

“Are you even Catholic?”

“Jesus was not born in Texas, but he was raised and whelped hereabouts. The Lord reddened the rock, greened the grass, and yellowed the roses. Was He educated here? That cannot be answered with any liturgical precision, but the Apocrypha shows that Christ did play high school football. That his crucifixion was on a Friday was one last kiss of cruelty from the Romans.

“Missing that game hurt as much as them nails did.

“The relationship betwixt Jesus and Texas disproves atheism. We take it as axiomatic that Texas is blessed. If it is not, then why is the beer so cold? I just ipsoed your facto, and we continue our metaphysical mathematics. And if Texas is indeed blessed, then whom is the blessifier? It could not be a man, for Texas is too big to be blessed by a man, and so must be a god, but this god ain’t gonna be some oogie-booger from the who-knows-where, this god’s gonna be from Texas, and Jesus is from Texas, so Jesus is Lord.

“I have never made any apologies for my apologetics.

“As I wandered far from home, I also wandered from God. Leaving Cascabel, I was but a boy. A boy whose virtuosic vocalizing and hall-of-fame hoofing had enabled him to bed scores of the hot-to-trot, absolutely, but a boy nevertheless. I did my routine in Eugene; my song-and-dance in Paris, France; I sang rock in Bangkok. The world pulled up her skirt for me, and I removed my jumpsuit. If a man could drown in nonny-nonny juice, then someone should have tossed me a line. Humanity had slipped Roy Head her hotel key. Yes, that Roy Head.

“You should have heard of me.

“Distraction leads to destruction, and the delights of the road were shiny and moving about in my peripheral vision. I chased many dragons, and also purchased a komodo dragon. They are far less trainable than the man at the pet shop led me to believe. The drink was always there, but now it came bearing friends and they was all some Good Time Charlies. Pills of both the tablet and spansule variety, and powders laid out in lines longer than Russians waiting for toilet paper. The three of us conquered the highways and stuck our dicks in America. Me, Big Bucktoothed Pete, and Skippy Joe: we was debauched and debased and headed towards debilitation.

“Louie Grabass was also involved, but he doesn’t count.

“We was off the road, but not home. Caesar’s Palace was always a triumph, and I played there twice a year for a month each time. Las Vegas treated me like a king, and friends like the king’s friends. The craps dealers loved Big Bucktoothed Pete, and different sorts of dealers loved Skippy Joe. No one loved Louie Grabass; in fact, several chambermaids and valets had beaten him for living up to his name. I was setting the lounge on fire, mostly metaphorically except for that one time what wasn’t my fault and that other time what was. My singing was ringing, my dancing was entrancing, and my patter was snappier than a rude man trying to get a waitress’ attention. Attendance, already swell, swelled.

“Redd Foxx caught my act one night, and called me a honky.

“The days ran together like a bobsled team. Time began to repeat itself, as if our carousing had become a carousel. Was it Tuesday? Saturday? Ombleday, which is the secret eighth day of the week hidden from us by Jewish fellows and the US Postal Service? None of us could tell for certain! Our existence had shrunken to hallways, bathrooms, dressing rooms we wasn’t supposed to be in. When we rose in the afternoons, we would take a shvitz, which was not a secret of the Jews; this steamy pleasure they shared with the world of gentility. The previous party’s poisons would puke from our pores. I staggered, haggard, around the sumptuous suite that was now my glitzy Gehenna, and I mortified my mind with fortified wine. The pit bosses at the craps tables had 172’ed Big Bucktoothed Pete, which means they 86’ed him twice, and Skippy Joe had lost his shirt. He may not have brought a shirt with him. Regardless, the man had no shirt.

“We were gimlet-eyed and grasping at straws.

“I had not met Jesus prior to this occasion, not personally, but I was of course familiar with His work. The band was hot and so were the changas Louie Grabass had secreted within the piano after they had undergone full chimification. My crazylegs burned almost 100,000 calories a show, more if it was a good crowd, and I needed to maintain my blood’s sucrosity. The crowd cheered me on and cheered my up, and as I entertained them to a far greater extent than they deserved, I looked them over. A woman with fantastic boobies was up front. Next to her was a woman whose boobies wasn’t as great, but they was still pretty good. I blipped over the rest of the room, except for the man in the back. He was long-haired and bearded, and wearing a flowing white robe.

“I nearly sicced Skippy Joe on him for being a hippy.

“The Lord locked eyes with me and I knew in my heart that He loved me. I knew there that I had to stop sinning. I knew there that I was reborn in the Lord. When I finished the show, ducking and shucking the autograph-seekers and stage-door peekers, I searched high and low for the Lord but I only found slot machines and cocktail waitresses. I thought I found Him at a blackjack table, but it was just a hippy, so I sicced Skippy Joe on him. I could not find the Lord, but He had found me, and so I had Big Bucktoothed Pete baptize me in the suite’s hot tub. From that day on, I would lead a clean and well-lighted kind of life. I would repay the world which had given me so much, and done so much to me, and let me touch and fondle so much of it.

“Upon return to Cascabel, I immediately bought a water park.

“There was, according to Big Bucktoothed Pete’s research, no Bible-themed water parks in America. I set about to rectify that injustice with my new acquisition, which I had renamed Headwaters. The lazy river ride became Moses’ Baby Journey; the big slide became the Red Sea; the rapids ride became Noah’s Adventure. I would spread the Word while renting out lockers and selling hot dogs, a prophet making a profit. When the renovations were completed, we raised several glasses to our new venture and kept to the Christian theme. We drank Sauls, which is when you take so many shots you go blind and start answering to a different name. We drank Methuselahs, which are incredibly aged whiskey. We drank Western Schisms, which is where you have two drinks and they denounce one another.

“Nothing could go wrong with the Lord on our side.

“It did not take until noon to realize that the Lord had not been informed of our opening date! The first mass baptism in the wave pool resulted in several drownings! Apparently, the reason I had been able to purchase the park so quickly was the significant structural deficiencies affecting all the rides! An entire church group from Brownsville went missing from Moses’ Baby Journey! The Red Sea straight-up collapsed!”

…

“Sir, do you want popcorn or not? The movie’s about to start.”

“THE LOCKER ROOMS WERE RIFE WITH LEGIONNAIRE’S DISEASE!”

“Okay, can I help the next person in line?”

SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS

“America is to Texas as Canada is to America: irrelevant, and riddled with hockey. A place of winter, a land of crowds. One might do business there, or briefly romance a hussy, but this singer never lingered. A Texan knows the Lord’s sky, and the Devil’s basin; A Texan knows which side of his armadillo is buttered, though buttering of armadillos is ill-advised even for the most veteran of veterinarians. Them things is basically armored herpes.

“In Texas, roadkill kills you, or at least gives you armadillo herpes.

“Many a Cuban heel have I worn down upon the road as I saw the world, and I long ago stopped counting jumpsuits I’ve blown the crotch out of. My clippings were billboards along the highway of my stardom; my prized Polaroids of poontang past were the paving-stones that made up that highway. In the mornings, I was a glory, and a star every evening. In my beloved hometown of Cascabel, there was a statue of me that I had paid for, and also put up in the middle of the night when no one was around. Multiple theories have arisen to account for its origin, and I encourage these, as to throw people off my trail.

“When in doubt, say that the Illuminati did it.

“I wore stardom like an Italian wears pants: fashionably, and my ass looked good. Fancy, Dancy, and Prancy–my legs are so spectacular that I named ’em three times, and cycle between the three at my own personal prerogative–left the ladies impressed and their dates depressed. During my Asian tour, my happy-dancin’ caused waves of ritual suicides, although it may have been coincidental, as your average Japanese kills hisself two or three times a year. Besides that, the whole damn continent couldn’t get enough of Roy Head. Yes, that Roy Head.

“You should have heard of me.

“At first, I was trepidatious. I was sure of my talents, many and varied, from dancing to singing to pottery to smithing of both the gun and lock varieties, but I was also sure that every damn time we tried to leave the country everything got fucked up. Many high-level meetings were held between myself, Big Bucktoothed Pete, and Skippy Joe and though we caroused at the problem to the extent of the laws of nature and what Miss Rosa will tolerate, none of us could figure out the reason for the continued failures.

“In the drunk tank around dawn, we decided this time would be different.

“Big Bucktoothed Pete had done his hitch in the Navy, and taken leave in many Asian countries, where he did things that it is illegal to do to a white person. He regaled us with tales of debauchery and, due to the favorable exchange rate, remarkably cheap perversion. At those prices, you can’t afford not to get your freak on. Me and Skippy Joe were thirsty for these stories, like an alcoholic in the desert with a salt shaker up his ass. Downright parched, we drank in Big Bucktoothed Pete’s tales by the gallon.

“We was simultaneously drinkin’ whiskey, which may account for our credulity.

“Plans and procedures, and schedules and setlists abounded and multiplied, translated into many languages that were drawn rather than written. Calls of the longest distances were placed. Maps were purchased, and then returned because they were of the wrong country, but that may have been my personal fault, as I should’ve known better than to assume Louie Grabass knew what country Bangkok was in, because Louis Grabass is a smart as a cow pie in a mailbox and shouldn’t have been sent on this particular errand in the first place.

“The man can chimi a changa, but he’s a dolt.

“To acclimatize ourselves to the orientalness of the Orientals, we moved the rehearsal studio/office/tavern into Cascabel’s only Chinese restaurant, Pedro’s. I installed Louie Grabass in the kitchen and got ’em to stop serving foreign food and start making Mexican food; I did, however, leave up all the heathen art on the walls, some of which were made from paper and lasted almost an hour in the same room with Skippy Joe. To save money on musicians, I purchased several busboys from Pedro and taught them the horn parts.

“The trumpet player is still with me today.

“First would be Japan, which was and is still an island, making it the opposite of Texas, which is most decidedly not no island. I did admire their decisions to declare war on the United States, and to be as far away from Oklahoma as global circularity permits. The schedule called for Tokyo, and then Kyoto, and then Okyto, continuing on to Ootky, and next Ytook, and it was at this point that I recalled Skippy Joe’s never-treated dyslexia and regretted having him on the planning committee. Skippy Joe’s writing was like a teenage boy trying to unhook a young lady’s bra: he knew what he wanted to do, but had no idea how to go about it.

“If a friend lacks everything but loyalty, then that friend has everything.

“We got that paperwork back in tip-top shape, and got on the airplane for the 94-hour flight. Wishing to avoid the usual complications, I had Big Bucktoothed Pete give Skippy Joe the ol’ B.A. Baracus with a two-by-four and also a syringe full o’ God knows what; that boy slept all the way to Japan, snoring zestily even throughout Big Bucktoothed Pete’s reading of the Book of Kings, which was precipitated by the free drinks he was provided, and preceded by the removal of his clothing. Sensing we was approaching the part of the sermon in which Big Bucktoothed Pete begins preaching in an overly-sexual manner, I hit him with the rest of the syringe. This was a tactical error, as it left me with no one to talk to for the rest of the flight except Louie Grabass.

“The man’s good for one thing, and extended conversation ain’t it.

“When we arrived in Tokyo, we were surprised to see all the signs welcoming us to Bangkok; this astonishment abated alacratitiously when it was discovered that the flight had been booked by Louis Grabass, whom I was beginning to resent. I also must admit that this was the moment I began to lose faith in my delegating skills. With the next plane not available until the next day, the smart play was to get a good night’s sleep and face tomorrow’s challenges with the brightest of eye, and bushiest of tail.

“Naturally, we chose to find one of them fuck clubs Big Bucktoothed Pete told us about.

“We were the ugliest Americans! No one abroad had ever been less innocent, and it was certainly no burden to be a white man. The bars and massage parlors leered and hooted at us, and we reveled in their revulsion, wandering gaudily down the neon strip. The names were lurid–the Fuck Fuck Club, and Mr. Humper’s–but at the dirty end of the street, we found our place: Miss Rosa’s; she had, unbeknownst to us, opened a franchise. We were happy to be in familiar climes: the decor and layout were identical to the one in Cascabel.

“Texas is so big that some of it could be found in Bangkok.

“Our trans-Pacific imprisonment had been as long as our thirst was now tall, and we dispatched beverage after beverage up its peaks. To Asia! we said, and drank Opium Rebellions, which is a shot of rice liquor then someone forces you take heroin. We drank Yul Brynners, which are not from Asia but play the part of an Asian drink for years. Finally, we had Kamikazes, which are Kamikazes. We were as lubricated as industrial pistons shooting pornography when the live show began, and we learned that despite the similarity of the cathouses, Bangkok and Texas was very different places.

“Even show business had not prepared me for the tawdry tableaux unfolding.

“It was as though these sexual athletes before us had made a list of the world’s gods, and then endeavored to piss off every one! Acts were performed that would get you removed from any mall, and some of the ladies had double-jointed cooters. One healthy young man did a diving act that ended not in a pool, but a butt; his accuracy was breathtaking, mostly to the young lady: you could hear the wind go out of her over the music. There may have been prehensile boners, and we all cheered when the ping pong girl, Ping Pong, came onstage.

“It was like Vaudeville, but with more fancy-fuckin’.

“With a higher-pitched sound than you might believe, the balls SHPLIPPed out of Ping Pong with uncanny precision: she hit targets, knocked cigarettes out of mouths, and changed the song on the jukebox. Her crotch was a cannon, and the room cheered and laughed, except for Skippy Joe, who had gotten hold of a paddle somewhere and returned one of Ping Pong’s volleys. That ball is just the right size to lodge in a sex worker’s throat! There is no word in Thai for Heimlich! Thinking it was part of the act, her fellow performer disregarded her lifelessness and just kept on fuckin’!

“We had to be smuggled out of the country, cancelling the tour!”

…

“So, are you registered to vote or not, sir?”

“THE GAME OF TABLE TENNIS HAS BEEN RUINED TO ME!”

“I’m just a volunteer, man.”