All My Rowdy Friends

During my Country-Western days, I dated a fellow who was the spittin’ image of Hank Williams, Jr.  Taught me some fun dances, like the Cotton-Eyed Joe and a helluva routine to the Cherokee Fiddle, but that didn’t last too long ‘cause unfortunately once the hat was off, the spell was broken.  Reminds me of Lauren’s sorrowful depiction of a truly nice fellow she had to break off with because he looked too much like Howdy-Doody. (Remember Buffalo Bob and the Peanut Gallery?  And did you know that this this kind of HD had 48 freckles, one for each state of the then-Union?)

Some things you just can’t get past.  I never was able to master line dancing, and kept forgetting that the line way in the back eventually becomes the one in the front.  But those were my drinking days and I quickly got over my embarrassment during the next round.

I don’t know what they’re like now, but in the ‘80’s honky-tonks were such fun.  In New Jersey, the closest one I could find was in the middle of the state, in the Pine Barrens, but that’s where I’d head on a Saturday night.  If someone asked me to dance and I said No, thanks, I didn’t get a mouthful of attitude.  And when the dance was over I was escorted back to my seat, no further obligation.  But oh, those Marlboro Men, especially during vacations Out West…

BC prefers Country over my Classic Rock, so I often keep the station on in the background for her.  I’ve heard enough of Taylor Swift’s boo-hoo’s for one lifetime, thanks, but every once and awhile I hear a decent memory, like the title of this post, by Hank Junior.

Tower of Pisa
wine bottle

I was more fun in my drinking days, no doubt about it.   Aren’t most of us?  But as I aged I became less cute, so following a particularly nasty episode I stopped.  For years I totally abstained, and now have an occasional light beer or glass of wine with friends (never hard liquor), but I don’t really enjoy it.  I’m too busy concentrating on sipping slowly and worrying about my willpower.  I wish I could keep a nice bottle of cognac or even just Cooking Sherry in the house, but I can’t.
 

I’m compulsive, but also have terrific discipline if I choose.  I also cold-turkeyed cigarettes, for my 50^th, and have been wise enough not to slip with even one drag.  But I still love second-hand smoke, which I tell anyone about to politely exhale in an opposite direction.  I’m not that kind of ex-smoker.

Trompe l'oeil ice cream bowls
Puerto Rico tree gourds, higueras

I’m just grateful I was always too scared of addiction to try anything stronger than pot.  I’d have surely been on skid row or dead by now.  So what’s my drug of choice these days?  French Vanilla, loaded with Hershey’s syrup.  It’s the only flavor I can keep longer than two days.  I’ve learned my limitations, but as you can see I still paint my imaginings.

There goes Tanya Tucker with José Cuervo, dancin’ on the bar, shootin’ out the lights.  Yep, that was me.  DAMN, I miss Kentucky bourbon, Kenny Rogers and Kools.