The Cowboy Way vs. The Rocky Mountain Way

September 10, 2012

In about 1963, I graduated from cowboys to rock stars as my guiding role model. I think this had more to do with puberty than anything else, but at the time I thought the cowboy was beginning to look outdated and corny (I was all of 15!). Rock and roll was, well, young and sexy.





I never completely abandoned the cowboy ideal but it certainly took a back seat to my new found love of living dangerously (at least metaphorically). Much to my mother's regret (which probably added some octane to the fuel) I quickly migrated from Cowtown to Underground.





Although it seemed to me at the time this was a major part of my life, this rock star infatuation lasted but a short time. Okay, maybe 25 years. In 1989 I rediscovered my prepubescent love—outlaws and gunslingers.





The Cowboy Way vs. The Rocky Mountain Way

In some ways the rock period of my life seems like an exception, a misspent youthful culdesac. Or was it merely an extension of the bad boy on horseback?



I read an excellent essay in the New York Times yesterday, "Off the Charts" by Jay Ruttenberg about how the rock star has gone the way of the cowboy:



"How has the rock star—a giant cultural figure who once so happily tangoed with groupies and seafood—come to symbolize all that is rundown, emotionally hampered and moralistic? it struck me as a sad fate: another American hero cut down. And it was certainly not without precedent. In particular, the rock star's fall from glorious licentiousness evoked the rough treatment the cowboy suffered at the hands of '60s and '70s filmmakers, eager to expose a previous generation's idols as nasty old coots wasting away in saloons before embarking on their doomed last rides. Now the baby boomer's heroes were themselves getting a comeuppance. Woe betide the fictional computer whiz 20 years hence."



Pretty profound, really. Here's the wrap-up:



"As with the beleaguered cowboy before him, the rock singer had somehow grown alluring through his woes. On stages large and small, the person gripping the microphone appeared to me a tragic figure, resigned to live forever in the shadow of our youthful dreams and missteps—rock 'n' roll star, sacrificial loser." So, perhaps the rock star and the cowboy are cousins? merely an extension of each other? Interchangeable?



"I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. I'm wanted, dead or alive."

—Bon Jovi

Slow Turnin' And Photographing The Back of John Hiatt Fan's Heads

September 9, 2012

Kathy and I did something totally crazy last night. Drove in to the Beast around 5:30 and had dinner at Gallo Blanco, then motored down to the Crescent Ballroom to see John Hiatt. I have been a big fan for the past decade but have never had the chance to see him.



A very intimate venue, with a dance floor and small bleachers straight away from the stage, only four tiers high. Of course all those seats were taken. Tickets were $50 each (actually $43, but with tax, etc. it came to $107) and, of course, a plastic cup of cabernet was $10. I was banking on the show starting at eight, over by 9:30 and then an hour drive home, but I had forgotten about the OPENING ACT! What an idiot I am.



John Hiatt took the stage at about 9:15 and never looked back:



 

Yes, he's wearing a tie, a jacket AND a cool hat. One of the biggest changes in concert going in the past 15 years is photos. Remember when you'd go see a concert and they banned cameras? People had cameras taken away form them and security was on constant vigil looking for flash bulbs and they would pounce on the illegal photo takers. We own our image and you can't come into our house and steal our souls, seemed to be the message. Well, at some point in the past ten years that became absurd with cell phone cameras. At any given point in the entire concert you saw six or seven cell phone cameras stuck in the air recording video and still shots (mostly video). Kathy even took a few photos using my cell phone (the above shot of John being an example). Here we are, dancing in the dark and up way past our bedtime:





The show ended at about 11:15 and on the way to our car I came up behind a couple I recognized. As we passed them I said, "If you ever need photos of the back of your head, let me know. We have a few." They laughed and then, with the magic of cell phone technology, I whipped out  my cell phone and showed them this:





Couldn't have done this ten years ago.



"Sixty is the new twelve."

—John Hiatt, responding to his wife who said to him as his sixtieth birthday approached, "sixty is the new forty."



Crazy—this thing called love.

Hot Off The Grill And Hot Off The Press

September 8, 2012

    I went to my heart doctor last Thursday and he gave me high marks on my stress test (I lasted 10 minutes and, kept going on a 16 percent grade on the final assault!), he raved about my LDL and all those crazy numbers. He asked me what I attributed it to and I said, "someone told me four years ago, 'If it comes from a cow I don't want you to go near it.'" he laughed because, well, he's the guy who told me that. Then, much to my surprise, he added this, "You are doing so well, I think you could actually eat some grass fed beef, but stay away from corn fed, or any feedlot beef." He also told me that there has been an alarming rise in pancreatic cancer, which he guessed is from eating processed foods.



    Lo and behold, the very next day, Dave Daiss came in to the True West World Headquarters from his ranch at Sonoita with a small sample of his grass fed beef, including a nice, big porterhouse steak which had my name on it, literally. No, really. He had a packet with my name on it.







    Today, I treated myself with a porterhouse steak, eggs and rice—Pattarapan style (with fish sauce over the top— fresh greens and radishes, and, to top it off, the latest issue of True West magazine (October) hot off the press. I topped it off with a glass of cabernet and I would call this a perfect Saturday.



    Actually, now that I think of it, this is a prelude to a perfect Saturday because tonight my lovely girlfriend, Kathy Radina, and I are going downtown, into the Beast, to the Crescent Ballroom to see John Hiatt at eight P.M. For that we will bring a thermos of coffee.



 "Stay all night, stay a little longer, dance all night, dance a little, then go to bed early."



—Old Vaquero Warning

Lon Megargee, Rain and White Hills Redux

September 7, 2012

   Went down the hill to Tom's house at about eight to deliver the paper and see how Picasso is doing. The latest on that front is that he tried to crow yesterday, so maybe he's a rooster after all. This has more twists and turns than a soap opera. In fact, I think we have here the latest installment of As the Coop Turns. Here's Kelly, Tom's daughter, feeding the boy in his new digs.





Started sprinkling right after this and Tom and I stood under the awning and talked shop. He has been doing research on Picasso and it turns out he's a French purebred (a Moran?) and that hens of his persuasion lay chocolate colored eggs (of course, so French!).



Got into the office about nine, just as a deluge of rain hit. Here's the view out my office window:





Really coming down (10:04 a.m.). Herman Dickson is coming by today. He bought the scratchboard I posted a couple days ago of Lon Megargee. Hermann has a business selling reprints of the famous A-1 prints, like "Cowboy's Dream" which hangs in my office. And he recreates the original rope borders for them. Anybody who calls themselves a Zonie should have the entire set.





Here's the scratchboard Herman bought:







White Hills Redux

  Here's the irony of visiting White Hills ghost town, and for that matter, Oatman, Gold Road, Chloride and Mineral Park. Those are all "ghost towns" in Mohave County when I was growing up (Oatman and Chloride never went totally bust). When Dan Harshberger and I were playing among the ruins, we envisioned these buildings as being from 1881, but in fact, most of them were from the 1920s, 30s and even 40s.







All the above mentioned towns were active until WWII when silver and gold and other minerals tanked as investments. So the wooden (key word) buildings in the pictures are probably only about twenty years old. That's why they're still standing! I know this now, because I have a chicken house built in 1986 that looks exactly like this.



   The moral: if it's wood, it ain't going to outlive a turtle. This is why ranchers went to pipe fences and corrals. Wood looks great, but it don't last for beans. End of sermon (for today). Ha.







 "Historic buildings are by and large a mirage, hyped by the living to embarrass the dead."



 —Old Vaquero Saying

White Hill Addendum

September 7, 2012
   Here's the irony of visiting White Hills ghost town, and for that matter, Oatman, Gold Road, Chloride and Mineral Park. Those are all "ghost towns" in Mohave County when I was growing up (Oatman and Chloride never went totally bust). When Dan Harshberger and I were playing among the ruins, we envisioned these buildings as being from 1881, but in fact, most of them were from the 1920s, 30s and even 40s. All the above mentioned towns were active until WWII when silver and other minerals tanked as investments. So the wooden (key word) buildings in the pictures are probably only about twenty years old. That's why they're still standing! I know this now, because I have a chicken house built in 1986 that looks exactly like this.

   The moral: if it's wood, it ain't going to outlive a turtle. This is why ranchers went to pipe fences and corrals. Wood looks great, but it don't last for beans. End of sermon (for today). Ha.

"Historic buildings are by and large a mirage, hyped by the living to embarrass the dead."
—Old Vaquero Saying

White Hills Ghost Town Revisited

September 6, 2012

   We are coming up on our 60th year of publication next year, so I have been perusing old issues looking for ideas. Here's an issue I actually bought and read when I was growing up in Kingman:





Perusing the photos of ghost towns in the issue I spied one that looked very familiar:





White Hills was a ghost town about sixty miles north of Kingman. One summer, I want to say 1958, Dan Harshberger's parents took me with them on a Sunday picnic to see the notorious ghost town of White Hills. Denise Harshberger took this photo of Dan and I with our Fanner Fifties and "26 Men" Levi jackets:





Recognize the three buildings in the background?



"The idea of knowing exactly where you're going, is overrated."

—Sarah Sze

Greeley Hat Works Rocks!

September 6, 2012

   Received my latest custom made hat two days ago from Greeley Hat Works in Greeley Colorado. Ordered it in June when we went through Greeley on the BLT tour. Wore it into work today. This is in my office at the True West World Headquarters.





That's Vaughn Monroe (in the movie poster for "Toughest Man In Arizona") giving me the evil eye, on the left, and that's Dead Man Hanging on the right, by Cowboy Artist Dave Powell, on the right.



Meanwhile, doing a new True West Moment on Crazy AZ and thought this might fit the bill for an illustration:





Went to my heart doctor this morning for a checkup (all good) and while waiting to see him I sat reading Will C. Barnes' classic  "Arizona Place Names". Discovered this little tidbit I never knew:



I grew up in Kingman where we used to drag race on Stockton Hill Road. On Sundays, our family often took drives up and over Stockton Hill, down into the ghost town of Cerbat and Chloride. I always assumed Stockton Hill was named for John Stockton, the Utah Jazz guard. Not really, but I thought it was named for someone named Stockton. Turns out, according to Will C. Barnes, in the early 1880s Arizona did not have an insane asylum and crazy people were sent to Stockton, California. One old timer claimed it got the name "because the first ore struck there was so rich that everyone went crazy over it, they named it Stockton."



"That's just Crazy AZ."

—Old Outrageous Arizona Announcer Saying

My Kind of Guy: Lon Megargee And the Cowboy's Dream

September 5, 2012
   Been boning up on an Arizona original for our next installment of Outrageous Arizona. His paintings hang in my office and several others hang in the halls of the True West World Headquarters. Who is this crazy AZ guy?


The Cowboy's Dream
He was born in Philadelphia as Alonzo Megarge in 1883. Inspired by a performance by Buffalo Bill's troup in Philadelphia, Alonzo came to Arizona at age 13 and sought out the cowboy life, eventually earning his spurs as foreman of Billy Cook's T.T. Ranch near New River. After investing in a ranch and going bust he decided to become an artist.

At some point he added an extra e to his last name and shortened his first name to become Lon Megargee. Lon was married at least eight times and his bio is almost pure BS (he claimed he was born in Tombstone among other windys) but these colorful eccentricities only added to his Arizona cowboy artist cred. As one wag put it, "Lon Megargee was exactly what an Easterner thought a Westerner should be." In 1949 or 1950 he created what some believe is his masterpiece "The Cowboy's Dream" for A-1 Beer. The entire series is very collectable and can be seen in many of my friend's homes and offices.

His painting of a cowboy giving his horse a drink out of his hat is still reproduced inside every Stetson hat.

In addition to being an artist, Lon Megargee built several houses that are today resorts (The Hermosa Inn in Phoenix and Rancho Manana in Cave Creek). He died of a heart attack in Sedona in 1960 and his ashes were scattered across the T.T. Ranch, thus fulfilling the cowboy's dream.


Yes, my kind of guy. Outrageous and full of it. Oh, and I like how he painted. . .


"He uses his paintbrush like a pistol."
—A review by Ball: "Lon Megargee—Maverick Painter"

Nothing To Crow About

September 4, 2012

   A recap: two months ago I bought a rooster for my nine hens. Unfortunately, two of the hens turned out to be roosters and they tried to kill the little cock when I tried to put him in with them.



I tried the old trick of waiting until dark and putting him in the coop with the sleeping chickens, but in the morning he was running around peeping for his life. I finally brought him in my studio where he showed a preference for apples and pecking at paint brushes.





Someone online suggested the name Peckasso and a muse was born. Every day for a couple weeks he jumped up on my lap and watched me paint, often pecking at the paint. He even contributed to this effort:





Which has a decidedly peckinpaw feel to it, don't you think? But, by week four the novelty wore off, but the chicken shit did not. My cleaning lady made the wringing-of-the-neck sign with her hands. Or, perhaps it was my neck she was symbolically wringing. At any rate, the writing was on the wall: I had to find a home for this young rooster, so we can both get on with our lives. So I talked my neighbor Tom into getting a chicken coop with enough room to grow. The idea being that we would wait for Peckasso to mature then give him a brood of hens to enjoy. We unloaded the new coop last Saturday:





Betsy, (above, left) had one more pronouncement: Peckasso, is a Peckassa.



"All that, AND nothing to crow about?"

—BBB

Big Hat, Big Dreams: Lon Megargee

September 4, 2012

   Worked over the weekend on a couple projects. Finished two illustrations for new True West Moments that will run in the Arizona Republic. This is for a TWMoment on Will C. Barnes, an Arizona cowboy who insisted on Navajo County and also the spelling, with a "j" not an  anglo "h":



 

Navajo Si, Navaho No



Meanwhile, executed a big scratchboard of Lon Megargee smokin' up a "Cowboy's Dream":



 

Big Hat, Big Dreams

Based on a photograph of Lon by Thomas Bate. Of course, this references, Lon Megargee's "Cowboy Dream" which hangs in my office even as I type this.



Meanwhile, also had time to do a couple wash studies. This is "Cowboy Controversy":





"I can and will succeed and all I want is half a chance."

—Lon Megargee

Banking On Winslow Homer

September 4, 2012

Had a very nice and quiet Labor Day weekend, painting in my studio most of the time. Went over to Grandma Betty's on Sunday for Brad's birthday. Had mole enchiladas from The Conkydonk (El Conquistador) and pulled pork made by Debbie. Sold the Ranger to Mercedes (she calls it "The Danger Ranger" because the dome light shorts out constantly and stays on at the most inopportune times).



Did about a half dozen paintings over the three days. Was inspired by a Wnslow Homer watercolor:





Had fun with this basic design and created my own version of it:





I call this, "So I Put That Behind Me"



"Time heals what reason cannot."

—Old Vaquero Saying

Doc In Dust by The Duke of Dust

 September 1, 2012

   Hot and humid. This is the season when we get the big thunderheads in the afternoon. Took this yesterday afternoon on my way back into the office:





Thunderheads Over Ratcliff Ridge



Played in my studio all morning. Dusted off a failed painting I found in a trip to the garage and noodled some new dust. It's of Doc Holliday and i must have first attempted it at least a decade ago, gave up threw it out there in the last pile to go to the dump. It's in the studio now and may just become a painting worthy of The Duke of Dust.







Doc In Dust by The Duke of Dust (enough redundancy for ya?)



"El amore es ciego pero los vecinos no."

Old Vaquero Saying (Love is blind, but not the neighbors)

Peckasso's New Digs!

August 31, 2012

   Tom Augherton and I went up to C-4 (Cave Creek Coffee Company) this morning at nine for breakfast. I had the half-assed breakfast burrito (as opposed to the big-assed breakfast burrito) and decaf. They have great breakfasts.



   Over my half-assed breakfast burrito I discovered that Tom is getting some flak about taking over joint-custody of Peckasso.



   "I thought Bob loved Peckasso?" Someone in his house mused.



   "Yes, but he needs a little space. It's a lot of responsibility, you know," said Tom.



   "But why, down here? We don't have the space."



   "Come on. Please. We need the fort in the back yard. We promise to clean up the mess. Come on mom!"



   Well, that's not exactly the exchange but close enough to the emotional truth. In the end we are all still little boys trying to build a tree house fort in the back yard and needing permission from the adult in the house.



   At ten we met Daniel Heines and Betsy The Chicken Lady across the street at the old Cracked Crab restaurant, then caravaned out to Tom's house on the creek below our house. From there we unloaded the Creekside Chicken Condo out of Daniel's truck. He built it to Rooster code (extra room for comb and to roam, $150 house account). Here we are getting ready for the unloading.





Left to right: Betsy (a Cave Creek legend), Daniel The Coop Construction Carpenter, and Tom, The Guy In The Dog House. Ha.



More pics to follow.



"Does the name Pavlov ring a bell?"

 

—Old Vaquero Question

 

Will C. Barnes & Peckasso Shapes Up

August 30, 2012

   After my pool skimmer take down of Peckasso two days ago, the little, budding cock has been a saint. For two days in a row, he has gone outside in the morning, pecked around, came back in the studio, walking straight to his kennel and stepping inside. Of course, after he did this yesterday, I sweetened the procedure by putting a juicy slice of watermelon rind in his cage this morning. But, hey, it's awful sweet of the little booger to step into his little prison cell. Tomorrow, he goes down to Uncle Tom's where he'll have a creekside condo.



   Meanwhile, I'm working on a little known Arizona character named Will C. Barnes. Most people know him for his classic 1935 "Arizona Place Names" book, but the guy led a pretty amazing life. A medal of honor recipient in 1881, Barnes rose to the rank of sergeant in the U.S. Army, then was discharged and went into the cattle business. Did that for quite a while, then served in the territorial legislature and other posts. He did a long stint with the U.S. Forest Service, where he started his quest to collect and research place names for the state, culminating in his classic book on the subject, published just months before his death. He was short, 5' 4", but he cut a dashing figure as a cowboy. This is a work in progress of Will (from an 1880s photograph).





Planning on a much bigger version for a new series we are planning on little known characters of the West who deserve some respect.



"We are grateful to him for opening so rich a field for the enjoyment of all who have any love of frontier flavor, imagination touched by humor, and a salty raciness possessed by all too few."

—Sidney Pattison, in 1935, reviewing Barne's Place Names book

Peckasso Sunrise

August 29, 2012

Long story short: played Wipeout at a band reunion in March of 2008, had a heart attack, had another in Kingman Regional Hospital, came out with four stents and a bushel of pills and an dire warning from my cardiovascular doctor: "If it comes from a cow I don't want you to go near it."



So, I found myself on the road this morning at the crack of dawn (walking towards the hill at the end of Stagecoach Road to increase my heartbeat for one minute to 220 minus my age). Didn't want to walk, lusted after bacon and the bed, but started trudging ahead in the rising heat (actually tolerable at 6 A.M.), looked over and saw this to my right:





Kept looking at it as I walked and fifty yards later, I took this photo:





Is that a chicken descending out of the cloud?





Why, yes it is, complete with a steely-eyed gaze. As I type this Peckasso—Junior Rooster—is fluffing himself on the floor behind me. He is causing me fits. I've been letting him out in the yard in the mornings to get some air and exercise every day, but he is getting harder and harder to round up. Yesterday I had to resort to the pool skimmer to swat him down and bring him back into his coop in the studio. Olga is coming in an hour to clean and I've got to clean up all his damn droppings. Tom Augherton has ordered a custom coop ($150) which will be delivered on Friday, and then Peckasso will go down the hill to Tom's house (we have joint custody). Funny how everything we see is predicated on what is on our mind. I think this is called selective perception.



"If all you have is a hammer, all your problems look like nails."

—Old Vaquero Saying

Classic Arizona Photography?

August 28, 2012

  Paul Hutton sent me an eBay listing for an old photograph that says "Arizona Camp." Sometimes old photos can be so exasperating. You see them, they scream out for clarification but all the photo says is Arizona Camp. No date, no context, no ID.





It looks like it's 1870s by the clothes, perhaps in the Sonoita area (trees and grass in background). For grins I sent this to photo expert Jeremy Rowe and got back this reply immediately:



"It is a view of either the Aztec or adjacent Tyndal mining works in the Santa Rita Mountains, likely  taken by Enoch Conklin or a companion photographer for the Continent Stereoscopic Company. It was probably taken in December 1877 and likely shows several members of the excursion party that traveled from Yuma, in addition to the locals. It was heavily copied and pirated during that era and appears on a number of different mounts, including the original Continent imprint."

—Jeremy Rowe



"It's not who you know it's who you know to go to."

—BBB

Pastor Guenther, Al Sieber and Fred Remington

August 28, 2012

   Tweaked a scene this morning of Pastor Guenther meeting Al Sieber at San Carlos in the graphic novel on Mickey Free.





Yes, that is Frederic Remington's sketchbook on the table. Meanwhile, I'm working on a Kit Carson painting, featuring a big sky. He was big, but the sky was bigger.





Great song from Hayes Carll about a bigot who is so stupid he thinks his girlfriend is dropping him for a guy named Jesus (the last time we made love she called out his name) and the chorus is "The next time I see Jesus I'm gonna kick his ass." Gee, I wonder what the Reverand Gillis has to say about this?



"Whom the gods would make bigots, they first deprive of humor."

 —Rev. James M. Gillis

Weekend Warriors

August 27, 2012

   Had a very nice weekend at home. Having trouble with my laptop in the studio. Won't let me post photos. Keeps grinding. Hate that. Time to blow another grand. Ha.



   Started ten studies, finished four and ruined one. Here's the first one I finished, "The Lonely Bull".





Yes, named for one of my favorite songs of the sixties. I also especially liked "The Lonely Sea," also an instrumental. Must have worn that 45 out by playing it over and OVER. I know what you're thinking: this is some really lonely bull. Ha.



Meanwhile, Mickey Free is always on my mind. This is a better scan of the scene of him ambling through the burning landscape on his ashen covered ass, Tu:



And here's a rain storm in Zion, Utah executed with F&G (flooding and gravity).







Big meeting this morning to go over 2013 issues. Dan The Man Harshberger came out and essentially saved the day (or, at least saved me and Ken from arguing for the rest of the day).



Had a rough morning before I went into work. Peckasso, the teenage mutant ninja rooster got out of the fence and into the high desert. Scrambled NORAD style into the desert and banked into palo verdes to the north of him, threw rocks and ping-ponged him back into the hole in the fence and back into the yard. Called my my chicken-farming compadre Tom Aughterton, and told him we needed a solution for the boy. I've got Olga the cleaning lady coming tomorrow and I need him gone. Tom is shopping for a chicken coop and I told him, "I don't care what it costs, I'm buying the digs for that little hen clucker."



Of course, when I went home for lunch today, I spied this clucker of a cloud near Grapevine Wash. An omen? A curse? A ridiculous way to spend my lunch hour? I'll let you decide.





"Why did the chicken cross the sky? To get to the other side."

—Old Vaquero Joke

Mickey Free, Zion Rainstorm and Hayes Carll Rock!

August 26, 2012

  Stayed home all weekend. Didn't even want to start the Flex. Been on the road all summer and just staying home seemed like jaded decadence.



   Yesterday I experimented with a new painting technique I stumbled upon. I call it flooding gravity. loading up my brush with a little paint and a lot of water I flood the paper with it, then turn the pad upright allowing the water to run down, which creates great patterns. Kind of Japanese watercolor patterns. Here is a good example. This is Zion Rainstorm:





If I approached this from the other end—trying to paint the subtle fall of rain, I would never, in a hundred years approach this technique. Very moody. Love it.



   Mickey Free is never far from my mind. This morning I was inspired to start an apocalyptic landscape and I ended up with this scene:





Covered in ash, the two moved through the burning landscape like shimmering ghosts.



I was just thinking the other day, Damn it, I need to get some new music into my life. Well, I got it today from an unexpected source. This afternoon I was lounging in the bedroom reading The New Yorker ("An explosion is beauty before its consequences.") when Kathy started surfing iTunes looking for new music. Couldn't stand most of the stuff she was listening to. Mostly Jazzercize driven dance stuff. Can't stand it, probably because it reminds me of Jazzercize and the numerous times i have gone with her "for the sake of my heart". This went on for about twenty minutes and I considered getting up and leaving because it was starting to irritate me. Then, like a fresh wind, out from her computer came a honkytonk shuffle and I put down the magazine and said, "Who the hell is that?"



Hayes Carll, she said. Hays Who? Never heard of him. Can you play me more? "It ain't me, I'm just playin' a part, a bad liver and a broken heart." Holy crap, that is my kind of music. Play me more. She did. He's a little bit of Joe Ely and a whole lot of John Hiatt (and that's a good thing): "Doesn't anybody care about truth anymore, maybe that's what songs are for." and super funny lyrics, Secular Texas Redneck style (by that I mean hippie-enlightened-hillbilly: think Willie, Jerry Jeff and Lyle):



"I got a woman who's wild as Rome

She likes to lay naked and be gazed upon

She crosses a bridge then sets it on fire,

lands like a bird on a telephone wire."

—A Drunken Poet's Dream



And then a duet with a Bonnie Raitt gal on a tune KMAG YOYO (Kick my ass Guys, you're on your own)

"You were falling like the Alamo

Drinking fast and talkin' slow. . .



"Were you hittin' on that stripper

Cause you couldn't afford to tip her?"



which leads to this exchange:



she: "Well, you are probably a democrat."

he: "What the hell is wrong with that?"

she: "Nothin' if yer Taliban."

—Another Like You



This is my kind of redneck!



"Don't worry about judgement day, all these people goin' to heaven are just in our way."

—Hayes Carll

Monet and Billy's Back

August 24, 2012

   Earlier this week, my production manager Robert Ray was looking for spot illustrations for our book feature in the next issue and he discovered a stash of my scratchboards in a filing cabinet. Most of them were crap, but found one this morning that kind of amazes me. First, a disclaimer: I agree with the below quote. Hardly anything I produce pleases me. I was on a panel several weeks ago and my painting of the Jame Gang taking the whole road on the cover of TW was on the table in front of me and I had to turn it over because I kept looking at it with a critical eye ("Wish I had THAT back!"). So, this quartet of unlikely bedfellows really stunned me, both by the subtlety of facial tone and loosey goosy design and secondly, how I can easily recognize each dude. Can you?



 

Also found this scratchboard of "Billy's Back," which I seem to remember was inspired by the movie poster for "Unforgiven."







  Summer storms are still churning through Cave Creek. Humid and cloudy this morning. Whipped out another storm study this morning, inspired by the monsoon weather. This is "The Mexicali Stud."







"ninety-five percent of anything is crap."

—Science fiction writer Harlon Ellison responding to the criticism that 95% of science fiction is crap

The Hamilton Connection and Camp Verde Clouds

August 23, 2012

   Had fun at the Arizona Constables Association dinner last night in Flagstaff. My host Jean Bishop, of Chloride, grew up in Kingman and we had many friends and relatives in common. But the big surprise, was the guy to my left at the banquet table, turned out to be related to Choc Hamilton, my uncle.  Doug Middleton is related to Choc's sister. The sister married a railroad man and they visited often with the Hamiltons but we were blind to that side of the family, just as the Hamiltons are basically blind to my father's Iowa relatives. Still, the odds of this happening—him being seated next to me—are pretty remote.



   Got up this morning at 4:30 and left at 5:15 to get back to Cave Creek. We're on deadline with an issue going out the door, so I needed to leave early. Very soggy out and a cool 58 degrees. Hit foglike patches south of town, but it turned out to be low hanging clouds. Lots of tattered clouds on the drop off to Montezuma's Castle, then topped the ridge into the Verde Valley and, at daybreak, witnessed this:





A long cloud bank nestled in the lowlands of Camp Verde and the Verde Valley. Really beautiful. Kathy called me when I approached Anthem and told me the road to our house is washed out and perhaps I should take the long way around to Morningstar. She was concerned The Toaster (my Ford Flex) was too low to make it across the torn up pavement (we got an inch of rain last night). Made it through fine.



"A wise man without a book is like a work man without a tool."



—Old Vaquero Saying

Larry McMurtry and books we love

August 22, 2012

   Big rain last night. Needed it. Also cooled down the air a bit. We have been frying out here on the High Sonoran Desert.



Took another run at Texas John Slaughter on horseback for the next issue of True West magazine. We are covering his gunfight with Barney Gallagher at Chisum's South Spring Ranch near Roswell, NM. There are two versions of the fight with the other having him on foot and firing from the back of his chuck wagon. I lean towards the latter, but, of course, the mounted one is the version we all want to believe.





Gave a nod to the TV Texas John's hat style. I believe it was Tom Tyrone who played Slaughter on the Disney series. I have always loved that hat brim style.







Going up the hill today for a speech in Flagstaff. When I booked this months ago I thought I'd take advantage of the cool up there and spend the night and hang out, but we have so much going on here I need to get back ASAP.



We're doing a big book issue with Larry McMurtry and others giving us a list of books you need for your Western library. I'm listing the five books that changed my life, starting with the very first book I bought, which I had to save for all summer by working for tips in my dad's gas station:





I saw the book advertised in True West magazine for the unheard of price of $15. The ad, which we are running with my editorial touts that the book should be $25 but they have cut corners to produce it at this low price. I used to take this book up to my grandmother's house and she would sit and tell me personal stories about some of the outlaws she knew or her father told her about. This was truly the catalyst for me to seek out the true stories of the west.



"History is a foreign country. They do things differently there."

—Old Vaquero Saying

Texas John Slaughter Redux

August 21, 2102

Back from Durango and the first annual True West Railfest. Had a great time.



   This morning I took another crack at the diminuitive Texas John Slaughter. This time in pen and ink (although it was done on scratchboard, the board was so uncooperative I had to call it a day with the ink as is):







"Practice success and failure amnesia. Forget that you succeeded. Forgive and forget that you failed. Learn from both and move on fast. Failure can be a patient teacher —it's often a learnable event. Success can lead to signal and pattern blindness. The greatest achievers I have met are

 grounded and focused. They practice success amnesia. Achievement is a state of mind. It needs to be practiced, protected and sharpened. Don't let success blind that state of mind or failure bog it down. The faster we forget the twins of success and failure and focus on only creating value the faster the engines of achievement can carry you forward."

 —Shervin Pishevar