I count my blessings
I don’t count my faults
I like to dance like the dickens
to the West Texas Waltz.
— the prophet Butch Hancock

—

Thursday night in a little biker-cowboy-music joint in far West Texas. The first time we’ve been in a bar since that covid thing moved into town back in the ’70s.

Check your politics and world crises at the door. This place is about Texas beer and queso, a band swerving from Pink Floyd to Dean Martin to cha-cha and back again.

Piñatas mingle with prayer flags. An ancient rancher carefully places his cowboy hat on the bar before gliding onto the dance floor again and again. A “You may all go to hell, and I will go to Texas” Davy crocket sticker serves as a counterpoint to the “When words fail, music speaks” banner. An unfortunate javelina shares the spotlight with a stuffed unicorn, along with bears and deer and antelope playing dead.

The band’s harmonica player comes over to tell us thanks for listening. Also, who the hell ARE you?

Happily dipping our toes into the calm waters of a simple life in a desolate part of the planet for no particular reason other than because it’s here, and I’ve missed it, and the brothers with whom I once shared it.

Amid all the turmoil in the world, it’s easy to forget the joy that is all around us. You just have to look around. Bless our hearts.

Enjoy every sandwich, Zevon said.

I think that must apply to queso and Shiner Bock as well.