"The love shack is a little old place where, we can get together"! Oh the memories of that song. I'm afraid to even ask what the B-52's had in mind and what the context of those lyrics portray. Honestly, I don't wanna know.
But, believe it or not, I wound up at the Love Shack just today. I took my wife Terri there too. Hold on, before you start letting your mind wander off the road and into the ditch, let me explain.
The Love Shack is a little burger joint on the West Side of Cowtown, or Fort Worth for all of you foreigners. It was the master mind of longtime chef extraordinaire, Tim Love of Lonesome Dove Restaurant fame. The Lonesome Dove is a very high end restaurant in the heart of the Stock Yards on the North Side of Fort Worth. He decided he wanted something a little more laid back and that's howthe Love Shack burger place came about.
The place isn't much bigger than a whisper with only eight tables inside, enough room at the bar for six or eight skinny folks but he has a great covered veranda with ten or twelve tables and a small eleveated stage for nightly live music. It has a new, updated and industrial sort of feel to it, with a touch of barnwood and sheet metal to let you know that you're in Fort Worth and to thank the Lord that you're not in Dallas.
After making our way in and looking over the menu that was, seriously, 10 feet over our heads, we both ordered the "Love Burger" combo meals shmeared with Tim's famous "Love Sauce" and the skinny fries. You'd just have to go there to understand what I mean when I say "skinny fries". The platter came with the burger, the skinny fries and all of your favorite drink you wanted.
The burgers came and at first glance I thought, "Hmmm, that's not a very big burger", but after I picked it up and attempted a bite, my mind changed pretty quick. The flavor of the pattie was amazing with a great charred texture on top and cooked to a perfect medium well..just a touch of pink and nice and juicy.
The combo platter was more than enough to whet both of our hungers and we left un-hungry. And the best part is we left only $16 lighter in the wallet.
After we finished we walked around outside and checked the place out and Terri took a quick shot of me at the entrace. So if you get to Cowtown and are looking for something a bit different, give the Love Shack a try. We'll definitely be back for a re-run.
Love Shack817 Matisse
Suite 445
Fort Worth, Texas 76107
817-348-9655
As the summer is about to burn its self out, our thoughts turn to another school year that’s about to begin. And talking about school, I was fortunate enough to go to my 35th graduation reunion this year. Before my wife and I loaded up to leave, sentiment made me look back at some old photographs and the issue of the local paper that all of us graduates appeared in.
There I was, in that hideous blue and white plaid jacket with the blue print tie and green dress shirt. My how styles have changed over the years…thank the Lord. I looked at all of my friends in the paper and tried to remember a special moment that each of us shared during our four years together in high school.
Well, you never know just how old you’ve become, until you go to a high school reunion. Well, let me correct that. You never know how old you’ve become until you go to your 35th high school reunion.
In the beginning we had a 10 year reunion and for the most part everyone had held up fairly well. You always have the exception to the rule when the “Don Juan” of the class showed up with what looked like a landing strip between his ears that had replaced that thick, full head of hair that he was so proud of during the school days. And of course, the “beauty queen” had lost her girly figure after one or six kids and was hardly recognizable until she told you her name. Ok, we all get old and change for sure and I most certainly have changed.
I missed all of the “in between” reunions prior to the 35th which was held this past summer in my home town and what a surprise I had when I arrived. I walked in and my first thought was “who the hell are all of these old people and why are they at my high school reunion?” Well, it didn’t take long to figure out, dude, you’re just as old as these guys and gals and you need to get a grip on reality.
Actually, 35 years later and I was absolutely floored at how many of my classmates still looked exactly the same, only with a bit more “character” lines. I guess I stayed relatively close to the old skinny, pimple headed geek they knew back then, because they all called me by name and were happy that I showed up.
And you know it’s inevitable at any get together like a high school reunion, someone is going to pull out the old pictures. Well, our reunion planners went one step further… they posted them on the walls for EVERYONE to see. But after looking at everyone’s picture, I was shaking my head positively at how much everyone looked the same…then I got to my picture.
Folks, you have to kind of make a comparison in your mind if you can do that. Picture this…at 53 years old, I am 5’9” tall and weigh right at 190 pounds and have definitely been going through the aging process a while now. On top, where there used to be more hair than the floor of a barber shop, there is now a paltry, patchy, stiff, spikey sort of thing going on in a dark brown, black and gray/white colored mixture. BUT, I don’t have to shave the rest of my head to match the center and that’s a good thing. I now tend to wear jeans and boots and relatively “western” attire, since I did grow up in Texas. And in between the belt and the chest there seems to have developed some sort of a fleshy mound, that’s round and soft and since I don’t get a lot of sun there, it’s a bit of a pasty white. Middle aged spread maybe?
So now, take that image and compare it to this one. At 18, when I graduated, I was 6’ 2” because of the brown platform shoes. Justin Beiber had nothing on me, my hair was smoothed down in that style long before he was ever a gleam in his daddy’s eye. I weighed 128 pounds and if I turned sideways and stuck out my tongue, it’s scary how much I resembled a zipper. I would be wearing a highly-flammable disco type shirt that had dangerously sharp collars and it would be strategically unbuttoned halfway to my navel. Ok, are you getting the picture here? Lastly, I’ve got on these blue jeans and had they been any tighter, they would have been mistaken for leg skin. Oh, but they did make a good ballooning “bell” just below the knee and completely covered up those platform shoes.
So, that’s quite the contrast between the two era’s and except for those few lucky souls that are almost a cookie cutter of their former selves from 35 years ago, we had all changed. But, we had all changed for the better and I’m not talking looks wise either.
Back in school, we all ran in “packs”. Jocks, Brainiacs, Cowboys, Hippies, whatever, we were all labeled and were defined by the company we kept. And I have to say that at the 35th anniversary that I attended this past year, we fortunately have gotten past labeling one another. There were instances where I spoke more to folks in that one night than I did in the entire time I attended high school. And to me, that’s a good thing.
So as your youngsters or grand youngsters get ready to head out to school this year, grab the camera, take a few pics of them and put them away…for 35 years. Because if you’re fortunate enough to be around for that long, you get to make the comparisons of them when they were little guys and gals and you can rub their nose into the same “stuff” they’ve rubbed yours in for being out of school for so long.
I grew up in a small Texas town just on the outskirts of the middle of nowhere. Although I didn't realize it at the time, being isolated there was a blessing that is daily oh-so-obvious as an adult.
As a young boy, I thought my hometown would eventually die a slow, painful death because of its unwillingness to move forward. Now I look back and realize just how great a town it really was and how fortunate I was to begin life blanketed with its simple style.
I was aware of another world just past the county line because of the 6 o'clock news and the fuzzy and static-laden voices that verified its existence on my transistor radio. Those broadcasts and fleeting receptions helped my mind’s eye create the vision of what I thought life might be like in the big cities of Dallas and Fort Worth.
Riding bicycles unaccompanied by an adult from sunup until sundown all over the county was quite normal back then. My mother's only requirement as I pedaled out of the yard and pretended not to hear, was the stern and non-negotiable command of "you had better be in this house when that street light goes on." And that came out of her concern more for my getting into bed at a decent hour and not so much for my safety.
My friends and I would spend hours scouring ditches through the neck-high Johnson Grassbeyond the shoulders of the road and behind restaurants and gas stations, searching for the glistening glass drink bottles that we would redeem at the local grocery store for a pocket full of shiny nickels. That was a dependable source of income for an eleven year-old boy not satisfied with the fifty cents allowance I received each Saturday morning.
Kick the can, riding bicycles without helmets and cooling off in a friends tank, never dwelling on the snapping turtles and snakes that swarmed just below the surface of the muddy water, were all rights of passage for young boys chasing down manhood along those dusty back roads.
With only a single movie available playing for the fifth Saturday night in a row at the local theater, endlessly cruising the mile-and-a-half, well-worn main drag was the weekends entertainment.
We were on a first-name basis with the local policemen who would creep slowly behind us in their cruisers while we parked on the square under cover of night. It was almost like an episode of Mayberry, RFD — Andy Griffith and Barney Fife tending their civic duties by ensuring the children of local residents weren’t involved in something that would get them hurt or in trouble.
But now the hometown I once knew has now become unrecognizable to me and, ironically, it’s from the very thing I once thought would be its salvation from a plain, ordinary existence. I don’t know how to explain the different “feel” it now has. No longer does the naïveté hang on the breeze like the sheets on mama’s clothesline. It’s no longer a refuge or a place where I can run and hide when I get disenchanted by the world and all of its problems.
Now every country in this world is a neighbor. The small town is now a faded memory from another time just like ice-picks, typewriters or those bottles I spent the better part of my youth searching for. Even remote corners of this fragment of dust we call Earth are just a keyboard or mouse-click away. I'm not so sure that I like that or if I will ever be able to embrace it. So call me old fashioned and I'll just say, thank you.
I find myself, like many other people around this globe, mired in the age of Facebook, texting, high speed Internet, and cable television and firmly planted in the electronic age.
But everything good and necessary comes with a price. Technology can be a good thing and the majority of our worldly "neighbors" would say it is necessary, but the by-product of technology has become a double-edged sword.
On the one edge the ability to do things bigger, faster and better has evolved at an incredible pace, freeing up even more time to cram something else into our time-starved lives. On the other edge, the innocence of the small town has been shattered and compromised because now, the entire world and all of its glories and its darkness is at the fingertips of unsuspecting youth from Hico to Hiroshima. Those outside activities I spent a childhood enjoying have now disappeared, long-gone with the small town. Now if it isn’t gigged, wi-fied, joy-sticked or hi-speed, it’s not an activity or an interest for kids.
Yes, the little map dot where I grew up has fully embraced the technological age, too. I don't even recognize it during the visits I take there now. The buildings are the same but just a bit more rundown than I remember and the school I attended is still home to the Fighting Indians and the kids still drive up and down the main drag, only now with a curfew. There seems to be a well-defined appetite for all things worldly, present and around every corner. Cell phone towers seem oddly out of place in once productive peanut fields that are now, empty, overgrown pastures.
Gang signs deface historic buildings and landmarks, young boys walk around with their “pants on the ground" and booming car stereos shatter the silence of once peaceful mornings. Like a favorite uncle I thought would never die, the town I came to love has succumbed to worldly influence.
Those timeless, enduring words of Thomas Wolfe — You Can't Go Home Again —make more sense to me now than they ever have.
But I often take time out of what has become a busy life and close my eyes. I pull an image from a dusty summer day in the past and pause to reflect on the simple tranquility of that place I once knew. Though faded through years and age, the images I recall helps me remember that deep in the heart of Texas, miles away from anywhere, but just a click away from everywhere, is that little place I once knew as home.
The Impulsive Texan
"Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it"...
The year 2010 brought about significant change for me. The biggest change came about by my stepping out of my comfort zone and starting The Impulsive Texan. I've wanted to start a blog for some time now, but I was always hesitant, wondering what other people would think. I know that’s inconsequential and shouldn’t matter to me, but for whatever reason, it did.
I wasn't one of the popular guys in school and I came from pretty meager beginnings in a household that would be considered poor by any standards. I had a handful of friends, but few of them lifelong close friends, so with that, my family and those friends were the opinions that mattered most to me. But even that considered, I worried they would have thoughts like, "look who's trying to write now". So if the first few months of The Impulsive Texan are any indication of how it's going to be, then it's gonna be a heckuva ride.
I have had nothing but positive feedback from everyone and loads of visitors to the site since the day I launched The Impulsive Texan. And I have all of you to thank for that. It may not seem like much of a big deal to anyone else to tap out a few words every now and then or to post the occasional picture on a website, but to me, it's a major accomplishment, because, well, I AM the Impulsive Texan. Believe it or not, that moniker wasn't just yanked out of mid air during a high wind. There is a bit more to it than that. I've always felt like that I have had a slight problem with an attention deficit disorder of some kind, because although I happen to be a Master at starting projects, staying focused on a project until completion, well, let's just say, that's a whole ‘nuther story. You’re starting to understand the “Impulsive” part now, I can sense that.
A part of it may also have to do with me being my own worst critic. I nit-pick everything I write to death. My wonderful wife is always saying, "Leave it alone, it's great just the way it is". But I continue to edit, rewrite and fiddle around with everything I put down on paper to the point of frustration sometimes. I guess I should have taken into account, way back in 1975, the encouragement and advice offered to me by a magnificent soul, my favorite teacher, Mrs.York.
I always hurried to her English class, because her classy demeanor was something I wasn’t used to and it was just a bit out of character for “small-town, Texas”. Her smile was genuine and true and always lit up her kind face. She had a low, delicate voice and she often spoke of how we as individuals, managed our own destiny and we alone determined where we would eventually end up later in life. She was an encouragement to me each time I was in her presence and I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to have her for a teacher, for to me, she was the essence of what a teacher should be.
In class one day, she divided the students up into groups of four or five and set a picture in front of each group. It was a creative writing exercise and our assignment was to write one page of what the picture “said” to each of us. We were to create this short story just by looking at the photo and “seeing” what it held. After a tense thirty minutes, I finished my assignment, turned in my paper and readied myself to receive the failing grade I was sure would be awaiting me in tomorrow’s class.
The next day after the bell rang and we all meandered in and were settled in our seats, Mrs. York immediately took a single selection from a wrinkled, but neatly stacked bunch of papers and began reading. After she had finished the story, she asked the class who they thought might have written the wonderful work she had just read. Of course in high school the first names to pop up were the popular ones, the smart ones and even the pretty people were nominated and each time she would say "no, that's not who wrote this". After the class had gone through about 14 of the 20 or so students in the class, she finally asked, "Do you give up"? Of course no one offered to nominate the remainder of us students, because there was no way one of us could have written something like that. I remember vividly the looks of amazement on my classmate’s faces and the red tint poured all over mine as they turned to stare when she revealed that I was the one that had written it. She went on for ten or fifteen minutes about structure, imagery and how the story flowed and how it had described the simple picture in wonderful detail. I didn’t walk out of the class that afternoon instead I floated out on Cloud Nine.
Those few minutes she took out of her day to read my story and shower me with simple, heartfelt praise way back in 1975, has stayed with me all of these years and has always been a motivating factor for me in writing the stories, poems and songs I've penned over the past 30 plus years.
So for 2011, I'm not even going to chance coming up with some useless list of “resolutions” I’d eventually break. Knowing me and my record with projects, I probably wouldn't finish the list anyway. Instead, I'm going to live this year with giving sincere “thank you’s" that are long overdue. And since I’m writing it’s only fitting to send out the first “thank you” to the most inspirational and motivational lady I've ever known. Mrs. York, I send a warm and heartfelt “thank you” for the kind words of personal encouragement you offered me on that day so long ago. I also thank you for always having something nice to say and for the radiant smile you always had waiting for anyone that happened to wander through your day.
So to all of my family, neighbors, friends and all the friends I haven't met yet, may you and yours have a very Prosperous and Happy 2011 and may fond memories of your "Mrs. York" motivate your dreams throughout the new year.
I was going to a local festival yesterday with a friend of mine and in front of us was a tractor-trailer rig hauling a flat bed. I noticed something small strapped down to the back of it, but I couldn't quite make out what exactly it was until we were right up on it. I snapped these photos of the truck as we got closer.
It was a small John Deere pedal tractor strapped down from side to side of the big rig. This definitely brought a smile to my face!
I sometimes wish I could go back to a time when life was simpler, when there were only three channels to watch on TV, when radios were "AM" and "FM" was a dream of the future. When you could go to the gas station and fill up that big old Oldsmobile station wagon that held 25 gallons of gas and after you handed the full-service attendant a twenty dollar bill at your car window, he'd actually bring change back to you. Oh, and he'd check your oil and other fluids and wash your windows too, with no extra charge.
But could we as a nation, step back in time to those days and live happily and content again or have we become too attached to technology and the "efficiency" of modern conveniences?
I would like to see someone develop a new town and call it "Yesterday, USA". Now, this town could be located anywhere...in the middle of Kansas, upstate New York, on the plains of Iowa or deep in the heart of Texas. No matter where it was, it would be set up and designed with "yesterday" in mind. No satellite dishes to clutter the horizon, no cell phones, internet or laptops and pc's to take our minds off of what's important.
In order to live in "Yesterday", new residents would have to agree that no "modern conveniences" would be allowed. The town would have all of the "amenities" of the '50's and '60's. Your telephone would ring and there would be no caller I.D. so you would never know who was calling. Each time you answered the phone, you'd either be surprised or appalled. Oh, and there would be no answering machine. The party would have to keep calling back until someone answered. Supper would be at 6:00 p.m. each night and if you weren't at the table to eat, you didn't eat. Families would gather at the table, not in front of the TV and actually discuss their day and enjoy the company of family for the entire meal.
Stores and businesses would be closed on Sundays. No more buying music, playing cards or alcohol because of the Blue Laws. Kids would happily play outside and help hang clothes out on the line and take them down again to help mama with her daily chores.
Children would be respectful and young boys would display decency and not allow their pants to fall beyond their waist and reveal their underpants. Girls would dress modestly and wouldn't wear low cut dresses or tops and cause distractions. Kids would say "yes ma'am" or "no thank you" and if they acted rudely at a friends house, they knew exactly what would be waiting on them when they finally made it back home.
Families would get up on Sundays and go to church or to a place of worship of their choice. After church, an invitation to someones house for Sunday lunch would always be welcomed and accepted.
Doctors would drop by your home from time to time if you needed them to. If you called a business, a person in America would answer the phone and there would be no frustrating electronic answering service to "direct your call" to whomever you needed to speak to or someone telling you to "Press 1 for English". Television programs would promote values and morals and there would be no "Sex in the City" or shows to downplay the importance of marriage and healthy relationships.
People would gladly rise to say the "Pledge of Allegience" and sing the "National Anthem" without someone feeling offended or complaining to the local authorities. Businesses wouldn't be afraid to place a Nativity or a greeting of "Merry Christmas" on a wall because everyone would live knowing, this is the United States of America and freedom of speech and worship are guaranteed rights, just because you're an American. Politicians would actually go to Washington, D.C. as a representatives "of the people, for the people and by the people" and not abuse their privilege of service as a way to further their own agenda or to skirt the law entirely.
After a long, productive day, at 10:00 p.m., when all was still and quiet in the home, the faceless and monotonous sound of the television station announcer would break the silence and ask the question "It's 10:00 p.m., do you know where your children are"? After he finished, the old Indian Chief, sitting in the middle of the television "test pattern", would come on the screen, followed by the piercing sound of the old "tone pattern", until the station came back on the air early the next morning.
I know this sounds far-fetched to a lot of you. But I just described a way of life that actually existed, less than 40 years ago, right here in the United States. Am I hoping for too much? Could we, as Americans, ever get back to that simple life that was so grand? If someone were to do this, I'd be so thrilled that I just might become the very first resident of "Yesterday, USA".
Everybody has one..a summer that is more special than all of the others. That summer for me was the Summer of '72. I was a teenager, my voice was changing, I was a tall, skinny kid with a major complexion problem, but life was very, very good that summer.
I had two or three jobs during that summer. I put time in for my dad in the repair shop, I loaded and unloaded produce at the Thrift Mart, I was running the projectors at the movie theater and sometimes on Friday and Saturday nights, me and a few high school buddies would go pull an all nighter at the turkey farm, herding turkeys into the big rigs. They were bound to the processing plant in Wichita Falls and from there on to someones dinner table.
I had a fast car, money in my pocket and I wore my heart on my sleeve. I was what most would call a "geek", for lack of a better term. I had glasses that I never wore outside the house, I spent hours washing my face hoping that the blemishes I had would somehow just go away after the fifteenth time I washed my face.
But that summer, my life would change forever. I would meet the first girl that would make my heart go crazy. She was from Lubbock she was beautiful and she was partially deaf. She was down for the summer visiting her grandmother and grandfather.She had this amazing strawberry blonde hair and her skin had that beautiful, tan complexion that was the color of a fine saddle after only minutes of being in the sun.
Along with being a skinny, pimple-headed geek, I was painfully shy. Girls scared me, I was a complete moron around them and usually something stupid forced its way out of my mouth that I had absolutely no control over before I knew what I said.
Her name was Mandy Owens. The first time I saw her, she rode by on a bicycle and I was covered from head to toe with lawn mower grease and sweat. I stood there like an idiot with my mouth open and she smiled a wry little smile as she passed by. I actually have to thank my little sister for getting us together. I made an offhanded comment to my little sister after she rode by, "Wow, I'd like to meet her". My little sister immediately replied "Ok", in that wicked, "oh you shouldn't have told me that" attitude. You'd just have to know my little sister. She jumped on her bike and sped off after her and a few minutes later, she and Mandy were parked in front of me. My sister said "this is Mandy, Steve, Mandy, this is Steve, my big brother...ok, I'll see you guys later" and like that, my little sister disappeared, leaving me there to do... what?
So there I was, standing in front of the prettiest girl I had ever known, not knowing what the heck to say or do and the first thing out of my mouth was "What are you doing here?" I could see the confusion in her face and before she could answer I said, "I mean, are you here for the summer or did you move here"? Relief filled her eyes and she replied "Yes, I'm here for the summer and my grandparents live right down the street. They are the Owens'". I didn't pay attention to a word she said, I was hopelessly lost in those green eyes, the gorgeous tan and the strawberry blonde hair.
We made small talk for a bit and I asked her if she'd like to get a coke after I got off of work and to my surprise, she said "Yes, I'd love that"! I was blown away, my very first, ever, with a real-live girl, date was happening that night! I don't remember the rest of the afternoon, my mind was on Mandy and getting to spend more time with her.
I picked her up at her grandparents house at 6:30. They knew me well, since I had grown up right down the block from them and after a quick conversation with them, Mandy and I were gone.
We went to Dairy Queen, the only place in town to eat and we sat and talked for hours. She told me about her life in Lubbock and that she was born almost totally deaf, but she could read lips and her speech was actually very good with her level of hearing loss. Before I knew it, her curfew of 11:00 was there. It seemed like it was only a half hour or so. I took her home and floated back to my house on cloud nine.
I was totally enthralled with Mandy. Every day of that summer we saw each other. During the day, the afternoon but mostly after I got off of work. We would go cruising the drag, go to the movies, go for pizza or just sit at the lake and watch the sun go down. Life was awesome.
But we both knew those short two months would be over soon, so we spent as much time together as we could before she had to leave. The night before she left to go back to Lubbock, we sat in my car in front of her grandparents house just making small talk and remembering the summer. We laughed and remembered those things that had made us laugh and the memories we made in the Summer of '72. During the entire two months we were together, I was a perfect gentleman. The most I ever did was hold her hand..I didn't want to do anything to embarrass myself or to the beautiful lady that had came quite by accident into my life. She was a lady and the time we shared was the time of my life.
By the time she had to go, we both were crying, not wanting to leave each other, but we knew it couldn't be any other way. I walked her to the door and I held her hand knowing this was probably the last time I'd ever see her. I told her goodbye and as she started for the door, she turned around quickly and kissed me full on the mouth and she signed, "I love you" over her heart as she mouthed the words silently. I was floored and for the first time in my life, I couldn't make my mouth work to force out a reply, so I just watched, speechless, as she disappeared into the house.
We wrote each other every day for two weeks, but the letters got fewer and fewer, with the distance, school starting and leading totally separate lives and in different towns. And soon, the letters totally stopped. But I don't regret one minute of my time with her. I grew up a lot during that summer. I believe I took one more step toward being a man from knowing her.
It's been thirty nine summers since I met Mandy Owens, but that summer is the one I'll never forget. I sometimes wonder if Mandy remembers me. I wrote a song about that experience about 15 years ago and maybe one day I'll get it put down and see what it sounds like. Or maybe I won't, maybe I'll just keep it right here in my head.
As I said as I opened this writing, everyone has a summer that's more memorable than any other. And mine was the Summer of '72. As a songwriter, I relate a lot life's experiences to music, but what's strange is that the song that I relate most to that summer, didn't come out until years later. This song is the "Summer of '69" made famous by Bryan Adams. I've added it below for your enjoyment. Feel free to insert your most memorable year.
I hope everyone remembers fondly, their Summer of '72. This video and song is dedicated to summer and to Mandy Owens.
If you've followed my blog for a while, or know me in the least, you know how important music and songwriting is to me. And from time to time, something new comes along that really puts a big smile on my face.
A few weeks ago, my wife Terri and I took a rare "night out" during the week and headed to Fort Worth. We were bound for "The 8.0 Restaurant and Bar" in downtown Fort Worth.
A friend of ours, Deryl Dodd, was the headliner that night and we rarely get the chance to get out and see him. So I settled in to an "8.0 Burger" and and an ice cold O'Douls and Terri ordered the salmon. But before Deryl went on, a young lady that I had heard the name of, but never really had a chance to listen to or see, was the opening act.
Stephanie Urbina Jones is a fresh, bright attraction on the Texas Music scene. Her upbeat and lively tunes give a nod to her Mexican American roots with tunes like "I'm Not A Pinata" and "Como Se Llama, Mama".
We had to get there early so we could get a table and after a rousing hour and fifteen minute show, she headed to the merchandise table to help sell her wares and to stand in for folks that wanted pictures and to sign autographs. She didn't have my wifes size in stock but shetold her that she'd personally put it in the mail the next day. That was Wednesday night, the shirt was in our mailbox on Saturday morning.
Terri and I immediately connected with her and her music and I was very pleasantly surprised at what a good stage presence she had and what a show-woman she turned out to be. And being a true man, I have to admit, she ain't hard to look at either. I'm adding a link to her website here so you can listen to her music, maybe order some merch and to verify that my sight hasn't gone south forever.
After she played there was a short intermission before "Double D" came on and about that time my cousin Randy and his wife Chantel from Arlington showed up to join our table. We really didn't get to visit a lot, because the music was so loud it made conversation pointless.
Deryl put on his usual great show and had the capacity crowd down front singing along to the hits and swaying to the new songs he introduced. He's very consistent on stage, the women love him and he's as nice out of the public eye as he is when he's in full "show-mode".
All in all, we had a great time and it reminded me how much I miss being around the live music scene. It's not very often in this busy world and with my schedule that I get to take Terri out on the town, especially in the middle of the week. And it's dually rare when I take her out AND my cousin Randy shows up. So it was an extra special night.
If you get the chance, go out and visit Stephanie's website and listen to this new Texas music diva in action. I promise you wont' be disappointed.
Just when you think that the devil is headed for the United States with an empty hand basket, something like this pops up and the ole' boy turns around and hi-tails it back to Hades all the while making me beam inside and out.
This happened in Cape Cod, Ma, the birthplace of our nation. GOD BLESS AMERICA
"The love shack is a little old place where, we can get together"! Oh the memories of that song. I'm afraid to even ask what the B-52's had in mind and what the context of those lyrics portray. Honestly, I don't wanna know. 
