I’m The Reason God Made Oklahoma

When I was fourteen or fifteen and living in NE Texas, ‘Famine’ County to be more precise, I used to frequently cross the border. Not Mesico. No, Oklahoma. Yep. Go figger.

You see, back-in-the-day (Early Seventies), the drinking age got lowered to 18, mainly because it just was not fitting for a boy to go to Vietnam and not even be able to buy a beer ere he got there. Time enough for that once he got there, but you see, it became a matter of principle.

Well, my ‘group’ took advantage of that. You see, it was very difficult to tell a teenager’s age: I mean,

“How do you know he ain
’t eighteen? He looks twelve, but hell! Ok, serve it up.”

And even better: In Oklahoma, well, they just did not give a shit. If you had money and could reach the bar, well… there you go.

OK, enough preamble and background. Early one morning (after about 0100hrs) my buddies and I, after having closed down the bars in Commerce (Texas), decided we were not drunk enough. So, natch, we drove to The Border, as I said: Oklahoma. Our mission: To hustle Pool and make the next day’s beer money.
Our favorite hang was a place just ‘cross da river. A place who’s name escapes me, but trust me: it was famous. There is a very long, very dark, very narrow bridge across the Red River. If one could successfully navigate that, being drunk… well, you needed a drink.

Now, do not mistake me, this establishment was always ‘closed’ by the time we usually arrived at thereabout 0200hrs, but I knew the guy behind the ‘Speak-Easy’ window and I knew the password: “Joe sent me.”

Good to go.pool.jpg

They legally closed the ba
r at 0100hrs, but then remained open until first light. If one arrived around 0200hrs, one could shoot pool for four or five and then migrate to the back room where the crap tables were. I knew all the drills.

My gang and I sauntered in, bought some beers and Bob and I proceeded to ‘hustle’ pool. For beers. ONLY.

Shit!

We were already drunk; we did not need to hustle beers. We wanted money for the crap game. Bob and I spent the better part of two hours hustling beers, and had pretty much drained the joint, when this dude drops his quarter on the table. He was long and lankly and had his right hand missing. Yep. He was ‘handicapped” Errr… handless. I nudged Bob and said, “This chump cannot beat me. At pool.”

And, of course, I was right, but… damn! He was good. He used his ‘stub’ as a bridge and shot a mean Eight-Ball. I beat him outta bout a case of Coors. He got pissed and walked by me:

“You done stepped on my foot,” he said.

“No Sir, I did not, but if you think I did, well, I’m sorry…”

“YOU done STEPPED on my FOOT!”

“No Sir.”

Bob took me aside along with my other entourage; Peanut, Gene, and Jessie (a big black kid who had played star halfback for the Honey Grove Warriors back in the day—yes—he was older, and I did notice him putting razor blades between his fingers)

“Many-Feet” Peanut said, “That there one-armed man gonna beat you to some death with that nub.”

“Bullshit!” I said.

“No bullshit. Go ahead; hide an’ watch.”

To be continued….

My Blood Pressure Went Three Bubbles Off Plumb This Eve…

But I found a cure: (and I do fear that stroke that is imminent)

Shelly West (Oh. David was pretty ‘spot on’ too)

Now, as all of Y’all out there know, I frequently make fun of Oklahoma on this Blog. And without Mercy. This is requisite in all Texans, especially ‘Native’ Texans, and don’t get me wrong: OK is not ‘OK’ with me. (Especially during ‘Texas/OU Weekend’)

But that writ, I love Oklahoma (Please don’t tell anyone). My second wife was/is from Oklahoma (I think she had some Cherokee in her and I never held that ‘gainst her, even though I have Comanche in me, and we Comanches never did cotton to Cherokees. Hell! We did not ‘cotton’ to no other tribe, save maybe the Kiowa)

Point is, I was experiencing some Melancholy Madness, (and in a fit of temporary nostalgia and just maybe missing my second wife–for a moment or five, and maybe a beer or two) and remembering a song I have always loved,

I present it here for your listening and watching, and perusing pleasure. And if you too have suffered hypertension, try it. It can be therapeutic I guess, (If you are an Okie or are/once married to one… Been my experience that they are ‘purty’ damn good in the sack, but individual results may vary. This is not a testimonial, just my personal experience and opinion.) but I ain’t no Doc;  That would be my Father, so take that with however many grains of salt you require. 

(All the videos push the narrative–if you ‘like’ the subject matter, that is fine, but if you are… smart, and have some time…. drop a dime) 

 

While on the subject of Memories of Oklahoma, I cannot but help to include some more along that same vein below. I hope you enjoy. And please humor me, because when y’all ‘like’ my posts, my Blood Pressure comes down. Substantially. So… do it! Do it for MY health. OH! If you also comment on my posts well, then that is ever even more effective. (If you do not recognize ‘Tongue-in-Cheek’… I cannot help you at this point. I have enuff trouble just understanding CNN these days.)

Some say this was ‘mockery’. I disagree. I think the Beach Boys secretly wanted to be Texans, but failed their immigration tests, i.e., they could not identify a photo of Willie Nelson… so they opted for Oklahoma and then did this song. In protest of their lost dreams. Google it Y’all.

And of course now we must come full circle:

My Take on Kinky:  Here

Or if you require something more sublime…

Peace,

Lancers

P.S. For all of Y’all ‘Serial Readers’ out there: I will finish the Sinai bits and the Biker, Bouncer, Big-Boned Gal bits soon. And I do thank y’all for any interest you may have in these true tales.

But for now, I have to punch some holes in the wall.

-Lance

“I play ‘Country’ when I’m  losin’  control.'”