Hate and Trepidation in Midlothian

By James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism.

After our terrifying ordeal in Coon Springs, we were convinced that we had sunk as low as humanly possible.  That is, until we discovered that our next show was booked for Midlothian, Cement Capitol of Texas.  Midlothian’s main claim to fame is that it is not Coon Springs.  Its second main claim to fame is its sprawling cement factory, which emits incalculable amounts of toxic fumes per year, destroying the ozone layer, contributing to global warming,  and causing genetic mutations to domestic cats.

                There used to be a philosopher’s club called “The Thinkers Asylum” which was just off Main Street.  It shut down, however, after all of its members moved away and the owner was arrested on charges too vile, too sick, too inappropriate to mention here. 

                The town lost out to Waxahachie for county seat, so it ended up without a square.  Instead, its seat of culture is “Eighth Street”.  Eighth Street is home to a couple of Mexican food restaurants and your basic assortment of small-town businesses (including a Chicken Express which recently advertised a new addition of green beans to its menu, which created such a run on the building that the Fire Marshall was called), and an above-average number of out-of-business antique shops. 

Mutant cat spotted near Midlothian.

Traveling north on Eighth Street, you pass a few historic two-bedroom houses with the occasional mutant cat in the yard.  Ah, country living at its finest. 

The houses end and the vacant lots begin, right before the bridge.  The bridge is one of the unresolved mysteries of Midlothian.  It is a beautiful bridge complete with cast-iron railing, a walkway, and Victorian lamp post lighting.  It connects one row of empty lots to another row of empty lots.  It was put there in place of a railway crossing because the city council felt like it would add beauty to the landscape, promote local culture, and possibly attract businesses to the city.  Sadly, it has not fulfilled any of these good intentions. 

However, we are not interested in any of these landmarks, as our only interest at this point in time is in the Midlothian Art and Music Festival held at The Lighthouse Coffee Bar, a hip coffee joint on the outskirts of town.  It is unique in that it has a full menu of sandwiches, an art gallery, and an upstairs office space to rent.  We could not have been more than happy with our venue. 

The day came and we headed off to the festival.  We were running a little late as the Star had been locked in the bathroom all morning applying numerous coats of animal cruelty free 100% organic all-natural-origin plant-derived fair trade vegan makeup, emerging occasionally to model looks that were, quote, “really really cute but so not me today”.  Finally my patience wore out.  “I don’t care whether you are youthful gamine, chilling vamp, soda pop Lolita, Japanese geisha, mime, or the blessed virgin Madonna, “ I yelled, “Put on your makeup or I’ll put it on for you!!”   Thus encouraged, the Star emerged five minutes later, looking the perfect Latina.   “That’s better ,” I said. “Now stop whimpering or your mascara will run.”  I hated to do it but you have to be firm with these diva types.  It’s the only way they’ll respect you.

We arrived at the show in a glory of flash bulbs and press.  Unfortunately, it was for the headliner.  Although the festival had been in progress for several hours, there were still quite a few acts before we went on.  I immediately retreated to the upstairs to talk business with several associates I happened to meet, while the Star wandered off to look at the jewelry booths, which she told me later held, quote, “all this really really cute stuff, it was just so not me today”. 

After chewing the fat with the cream of the promotional world, I came downstairs and made my way back out to the festival grounds.  I was overwhelmed with the booths overflowing with handmade craft items of every description, and was immediately reminded of the hipster credo: “Honesty Before All Else”.  The traditional was shunned for originality’s sake, and the tried and true art forms so embraced by our fathers had been replaced by more heartfelt and spontaneous creations.  “What these people need is a good business manager,” I muttered to no one in particular.  Just then I happened to run into my friend Cody, who was carrying a sack of canvases under his arm.  He seemed distraught, to say the least.  “What gives, old man?” I said.  “What have you got there?”  “Half my paintings were banned from this years’ event,” he said, pointing to the canvases.  “Incredible!” I said, dumbfounded, shocked with a revelation of such un-hipster-like exclusiveness on the part of the art board.  “What was it banned for?”  “Explicit content,” he said. “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “You’d better hand it over to me!”  I flipped over the canvas and was greeted by a psychedelic explosion of acrylic paint.  Otherworldly figures so grotesque and fantastic repeated themselves and faded off into the corners of infinity.  Swirls of tangerines, fushias, soda fountain reds, and lime greens looped and rolled with childlike abandon.  Even to my cultured eye, there was nothing in the artwork which could be defined in solid terms or related to anything inside the normal human experience.  “Don’t let the Freudians with their Rorschach blots get you down,” I said. “I’m sure your work will be vindicated and the world will recognize you for the genius you are. It always happens to artists after they’re dead.”  With an encouraging pat on the back I left him to his own devices.

Checking my watch, I saw that it was nearly time to go on, so I struggled through the hipster hoards trying to make my way to the stage.  The fumes of triple-vente-lattes and cappicinos writhed up through the air.  Ironic facial hair was in full vogue. Epic mustaches appeared on boys and girls alike, set off with black plastic-framed Buddy Holly glasses.  The shoes had friendly, familiar-sounding names: Bobs, Toms, Dicks, Harrys.  Heavy gauges hung in distended earlobes like the voodoo charms of some African witch-doctor.  I began to feel the fear. 

I somehow made my way to the stage and stumbled through the first song.  As the Star whistled her way through the bridge, I felt a calming influence pass over me.  After all, we are all the same, I thought, searching for answers.  Sometimes searching for questions.  Reaching out to God-knows-what, but it just might be each other.  I heard, it seemed, for the first time, the lyrics to the song.  "Take a step towards belief.  My eyes are wide open and so is my heart."  And it sounded like a benediction.  I felt the urge to start a chorus of kum-ba-ya, or a group hug, and I supposed that this is what the word festival really means.

Hate and Trepidation in Coon Springs.*

By James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism

*names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.

              Ah, the world of promotion.  That gleaming, glittering, tinseled world of fabled showbiz.  That circus-time melody.  That starry-eyed hope of fame, fortune, and indescribable wealth.  I know you’ve heard the stories.  Tales of rags to riches.  Diamonds in the rough.  Lilies among the thorns.  Those are all true.  But tonight, I want to take you on a trip through the muck and filth, to the seedy underbelly of the music scene, a place of such unmatched debauchery, such unimagined depravity, such unbridled obscenity, the equal of which can only be found in the halls of the United States senate.



"Buddy" (Not it's real name)

                I had received a call from one of my many contacts.  The voice on the other end of the line was low and husky.  “I’ve got a lead,” said Dale (not his real name).  “What’s that?” I asked, sensing an opportunity.  “I met the producer for this small-time internet TV show,” he said. “The guy has a studio just outside of town. I told him about you and he’s interested in a meeting.”  “Good work,” I said. “How can he be contacted?”  “His name is Gary (not his real name),” said Dale (not his real name). “You can find him on the web.”  “Perfect,” I said. “Anything else?”  “Well, to tell you the truth, I got this dog,” said Dale (not his real name).  “Yeah?” I said, hiding my surprise.  “Yup, picked him up by the side of the road,” he replied. “Pure bred, by the looks of it. I don’t know why somebody would get rid of a perfectly good dog like that. Probably worth two or three hundred.”  “Really?” I perked up.  I’m always interested in numbers.  “Did you name it yet?” “Yep. Buddy (not its real name),” he said. “Don’t know why anyone would get rid of a dog like that. It might even be worth four hundred.”  “You never know,” I said, my interest intensifying. “What’s it doing now?”  “Just lying in the corner, panting,” said Dale (not his real name).  “That’s not a good sign,” I said. “Had a friend who had a dog that was doing that. Canine leukemia. Dead inside of three days.”  “Poor guy,” he said.  “The friend, not the dog,” I clarified.  “Oh,” he said. “Thought it might be contagious.”  “Could be,” I said. “Leukemia often is. Better let me take it off your hands, I’ve been exposed to it before.”  “I don’t know,” he said after a pause. “It’s an awful nice dog.”  “Yeah,” I said, “but what’s a three, four, maybe even five hundred dollar dog compared to your health?”  “Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.  “Well, think about it,” I said. “You know where you can reach me.”  With that, I hung up the phone.

                An appointment was soon arranged with Gary (not his real name) from “Gary’s Music Hour” (not its real name) in Coon Springs (not its real name) Texas (its real name).  In five days The Star and I were sitting in the studio with none other than Gary (not his real name) himself.

                “Now the first thing you need to understand,” he began, after complementing The Star on her “purty dress”, “is that I view this as something of a sacred stage. Even my wife has only been on it once, and that was just for a few minutes.”  “I totally understand that,” I replied, “and we are honored that you would take the time to talk to us.”  “Let me play you a song,” he went on, ignoring my interjection, “so that you can get an idea of the quality of the music we play here. It’s called ‘Louisiana Women’.”

                The song was a country-flavored take on The Beach Boys’ “California Girls” if it had been performed at a Honky-Tonk in the seedy part of New Orleans.  After he was done, he proceeded to play another of his compositions titled “Alabama Females”.  It was much the same as the first.  When he was through with that one, he explained that all his songs were based on real experiences, and he was currently working on a piece called “My Missouri Mistress”. 

                “Impressive,” I said, fascinated.  “Are you planning on going through all fifty states?”  “As soon as I get the material,” he said.  “Well, write what you know,” I said.  “Exactly,” he replied. “I specialize in women, although often I get songwriting ideas by listening to Rush Limbaugh.”

                “Now that you know what goes on here,” he said, “let’s take a tour of the studio.”  The studio was a small room about 15 X 20 feet.  The walls were covered with Pink Floyd posters.  “These are just copies,” he explained.  “The originals I keep in individual airtight containers in my gun safe.”  At that moment a small, average-looking dog scampered over to me.  I crouched down and stroked it gently behind the ears.  “Nice dog,” I said.  “That’s Dolly (not its real name),” he replied. “She’s a purebred.”  “I had a purebred, once,” I said. “Caught canine leukemia and was dead within days.  Such a shame, too. That dog was worth close to six hundred.”  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Canine leukemia. Isn’t that catching?” “Probably,” I replied, “but it’s too soon to tell.”

                “And here,” he went on, “is the stage. It has been graced by that gorgeous blonde, Susannah Pritchard (not her real name). She was a great songwriter. Also by that tall beaut, what’s-her-name? Oh, Louisa Stockton (not her real name). Best female country singer this side of the Mississippi. And Debbie ‘Dot’ Richardson (not her real name). Lordy, what a figure. She could also play a mean jazz guitar. And then last week we had some boy in that played harmonica. Forget his name.”  He stopped and stared at me intently. “I sincerely believe that this is where the future of music is headed.”  “Internet TV shows?” I asked, skeptical.  “No, right here in Coon Springs,” he said. “Anyway…”

                He paused for a moment, staring into space at a future that only he could see.  Coon Springs on the map where it belonged.  He, Gary (not his real name), standing on the Grammy stage where he belonged, his album at the top of the charts where it belonged. Life was beautiful.

                “Anyway,” he said, coming to with a brisk start, “we’d love to have you as part of our community. You probably won’t get to play just at first, and certainly not on the stage.  But stick around, come to all of my concerts, and eventually…” his voiced faded off.

                A terrible vision arose in my mind.  Me, sitting at a concert during an endless roll-call extolling the peculiar virtues of the women of all 50 states.  I began to feel the fear.  Was this really the price I had to pay for fame, recognition, success even?  Were these the dues demanded by that most capricious and unpredictable ticket master called “Fate”??  If so, the cost was too high.  A man must keep his dignity, or, at least, his sanity.  I looked Gary (not his real name) squarely in the face.  “Thanks,” I said, extending my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”  I escorted The Star to the door and turned back.  “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

Hate and Trepidation in Ovilla

By James Alexander Dr. of Journalism



    After our terrifying ordeal in Waxahachie, we were glad to be invited to perform at the Ovilla Heritage Day Festival.  Ovilla is presumed to be more civilized than Waxahachie due to its closer proximity to Dallas.  It is really made up of five smaller townships, including Red Oak, Glenn Heights, Oak Leaf, and Ovilla, all sharing the same zip code. 

  Red Oak received its first free-standing post office and is preparing for the arrival of that true mark of social distinction, a Wal-Mart.  The main social event of last season was the much-anticipated Grand Opening of “The Wall” Chinese restaurant, an occasion so over-attended that the police were called in to direct traffic and one lane of the main drag was shut off especially for the patrons.  The main spiritual and cultural hub of the city is the local Whataburger, which, incidentally, is the highest-ranking Whataburger in the nation. 

  Across the highway is the flourishing township of Glenn Heights, which is mainly recognized for being a speed trap.  I speak from personal experience.  They also have the rather unnerving practice of parking police cars in vacant lots with a dummy in the front seat.  By dummy, I mean an actual dummy.  I mean, like, a stuffed person, with a blank expression. I mean--- never mind.   

  Moving on to greener pastures, we come to Ovilla, which is conveniently divided into Ovilla proper and Mr. Sharaf’s estate.



Mr. Sharaf's Estate

 Mr. Sharaf is Ovilla’s very own Horatio Alger.  He started out sleeping on a mattress in an unfurnished apartment, and eventually worked his way up to the head of a prosperous oil shipping empire.  For reasons unknown to anyone but himself, he decided to select Ovilla as the town in which to construct his new palace, a sprawling estate complete with pools, fountains, a Lamborghini, a house for the servants, hand-carved, stone fireplaces imported from his home land of Syria, copper rain gutters, inlaid mosaic sinks in all the bathrooms, four refrigerators, and an elevator.  All of this was surrounded by an eight-foot security wall.  He is, in every way, a living monument to the American Dream, so dear to the heart of us all. 

  The rest of Ovilla is somewhat anti-climatic.  A colorful mix of mobile homes, housing divisions from the $400s, and a couple of suburban neighborhoods in which all the street names end in “wood”.  It is, for the most part, a happy place; time passes by gently, news is rare, but is all the more appreciated when it does occur; the women are fair, the men are what you would expect, and all the children are about average. 

  We were scheduled to play a 20-minute set at Ovilla Heritage Day Festival, a yearly affair where the best and brightest of Ovilla gather to showcase their talents and hock their wares.  We arrived early, so the Star went off to look for a new embroidered handbag and I wandered off through the aisles of booths that cluttered the cleat-printed sand of the community baseball fields.  An endless parade of sights and smells filtered through the red dust.  Funnel cakes.  Corn on the cob.  Fat-dripping, grease-laden turkey legs that hung like carnage from the red, white, and blue booths all around me.  I began to feel the fear. 

UMC

  I stumbled to the other side of the fair.  A large man loomed out of the mist towards me.  “Would you like to buy a raffle ticket?” he croaked.  “A 12-gauge Beretta shotgun with accessories, valued at $250. Tickets only $5 a pop.”  “Who are you?” I snarled. “The NRA?” “No, UMC.” “United Military Contractors? HERE?!?” I gasped in horror.  “No, United Methodist Church. We are adding a new wing onto our nursery.”  I coiled back.  “You let those kids play with those things?” I shouted. “You should be taken out and shot!”  I disengaged his clinging hands and moved on. 

  I wandered from stall to stall, gingerly handling various items and artifacts.  Handmade soaps. Candles.  Jewelry.  Beads.  Anything to catch the eye of the jaded and angst-ridden yuppie spectators, looking for some art or expression to brighten their dull living spaces.  What was this??  Squirming like festering vermin in a small wire cage before me was a dozen tiny creatures in various states of decay.  “Would you like one?” a small voice chirped eagerly in my ear.  I turned to see a young girl of about 11 looking beseechingly up at me. “How are they served?” I asked, my curiosity overcoming my revulsion.  A blank stare met my query.  “Come on,” I snapped. “Boiled? Fried? Pickled?”  “These are animal companions!” she piped, dismayed.  “So you are not associated with ‘The Wall’ restaurant in any way?” I glowered.  Another blank stare.  “These are Chi-Weenie-Poos,” she said, opening the cage.  “Wanna pet one?” She held a particularly diseased-ridden animal within inches of my face.  “See? Chi-Weenie-Poos.” “Stop saying that!” I shrieked, stumbling backwards in terror.  “Get that thing away from me! Give it to the Methodists, they’ll know what to do with it!” At this point my composure broke down completely and I turned and ran. What was this world coming to?  I thought.  How can I navigate in this bizarre jungle where Chi-Weenie-Poos roam freely through the undergrowth and Methodists with 12-gauge Beretta shotguns lurk behind every tree?? 

  Then I saw it.  Surrounded by a blaze of holy light, the sun breaking through the canopy to illuminate the chrome and curves of the 1968 Mustang Shelby in pristine condition.  I stopped in my tracks, transfixed, drinking in the beauty, the grace, the revelation of a classic American car.  An emotion, too deep for words, passed like a rushing wind over my very soul.  The terror that had been creeping over me for the past ten minutes fell away like broken chains, and I felt a true exultation that only those chosen few of us who have known the thrill of an empty moonlit highway, the windows down, wayfarer sunglasses, and the pedal to the metal--- TRANSCENDENT SPEED.  I groped, hands outstretched, to this vision, this thing of beauty.  I caressed the gentle curve of the arched hood, my fingers slipping sensuously over the voluptuous wax surface—“HEY, KID!” a voice blared, jerking me out of my trance.  “Stay away from cars that aren’t yours!” Right, I said to myself.  Don’t think, don’t touch.  Obey authority, ignore individuality, do everything the pigs tell you to do.  Give away your soul. 



Bonding



  It was about time to start the show.  I found the Star bonding with a Chi-Weenie-Poo.  I dragged her away and shoved her onstage.  I don’t recall much about the show.  It sticks in my mind that at some point a Whirling Dervish emerged from the crowd and spun across the stage.  There were several children dressed up like bumblebees prancing in the aisles and a toothless old man in the 3^rd row who appeared to know the words to all our songs, as he sang along quite shamelessly, although I am sure he had never heard them before. 

  We finished the set and I stumbled, exhausted, out the back, collapsing onto a large and inviting bale of hay.  As I lay there breathing in the fresh and familiar scent of summer grass, I began to realize that, really, this small-town pride, these simple country manners, this strong individualism, was, at the end of the day, very close to the bosom of the American Dream.  A reminder of when life was simpler, neighbors were kinder, and love was stronger, and, in spite of the traumatic experiences of the day, I suddenly felt very much at home.

Random pictures from the parade:

Classic Car Show



Air Force Float



The police were out in force.

Alternatively fueled vehicle

The Star with Ms. Ellis County

Hate and Trepidation in Waxahachie

by James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism

  To fully understand what truly happened on the fateful night of August 27th, one must realize the incredible influence the surrounding environment had on what took place.  The location for this strange scenario was the sleepy and peaceful county seat of the county of Ellis, US of A, known to the locals by the old Waxahachie Indian name of: WAXAHACHIE.

  Waxahachie has long been known as a place of culture and learning, which is made obvious by its out-of-business bead shop and its out-of-business handmade soap factory.

Its other main attraction is its red granite courthouse, dating from the late 1800s.  The Courthouse was recently restored to the tune of $15 million; however, it was discovered that the necessary tax increase threw so many people out of the street and into a life of crime that another courthouse had to be built directly across the street.



The Courthouse

   The Courthouse is known as "The 8th Wonder of Texas", and is shrouded in mythology and folklore.  The most credible of these accounts involves several miles of Masonic tunnels, which lead to various places of interest, such as The Odd Fellows building, The Nicholas P. Sims Public Library, and Oma's Jiffy Burger.  There is also the persistent rumor that there is still a "whites only" sign hung over the water fountain in The Courthouse basement.  Needless to say, Waxahachie residents are very proud of their courthouse.

  Another one of Waxahachie's places of interest is Getzendaner Park.  The park is a great favorite of picnickers.  There is also a Health and Fitness trail, which fell into disuse after the grand opening of "Curves Exercise Studio".  "Curves" is now out of business.

  Moving on, we come to the aforementioned Nicholas P. Sims Public Library.  It was founded by Nicholas P. Sims, who can, in turn, be found in the next stop in our little tour, the Waxahachie Cemetery, where the majority of graves read the following epitaph: "Died fighting for God, home, and the Confederate States of America".

  We had been scheduled to play a show at Zula's Coffee House, which was perhaps Waxahachie's last lone outpost of civilization.  I came in early for publicity purposes.  Having printed up some attractive-looking fliers, I proceeded to scout out local businesses, hoping to scrounge up even the faintest interest in this God-forsaken part of the country. 

I was greeted with open arms by the simple country inhabitants, who, recognizing a stranger in town, rolled down the windows of their pick-ups and welcomed my with friendly salutations, such as:

"GET A HAIRCUT!" and "HEROIN FREAK!"

That all-too-familiar fear began to rise in my gut.  This, I thought to myself, was no ordinary city.  Some strange aberration in the earth's magnetic field had frozen these poor souls in some twisted, grotesque 50's T.V. show.  I had to finish this job quickly and leave before sunset.

I passed from store front to store front, desperately searching for a lonely wall, yearning for expression.  Even the very architecture had remained unchanged since "Bonnie and Clyde" had been filmed here in the 1930's.

  My main problem was explaining the apparently unheard-of style of music called "Indie Pop" in a town where Jerry Lee Lewis had been kicked out of college for playing "The Devil's music".

  I was stumped when one elderly store owner asked me if I was part of a religious organization, as she only permitted postings of a religious or educational nature.  At this point, I felt I could make a pretty good case for being educational, but gave the subject up as a lost cause.  How could I explain to these people?  The ignorance before me was too great, too overwhelming, too omnipresent.  I felt lost, wandering in a vast, empty wasteland, searching blindly for any oasis of truth.  My eyes glazed over and I groped for the door.  I had to get out before I was crushed by this heavy cloud of unknowing.



"Average Donkey"



  Feeling numb from this much rejection, I was heartened by my next visit, where one kindly soul allowed me to put up a poster on account of the "pretty picture on it".

  Looking over the other posters on the community bulletin board, my eye caught a neatly-printed Notice of Estray, which informed the public that the county sheriff had impounded three donkeys and a young filly, which was described as being "a light chestnut color with white socks and a white snip on its forehead".  The donkeys were described as being "average donkeys". 

  Below it was a neon yellow poster advertising the "Annual Health Fest", an event billed as raising health-consciousness in Ellis County.  "Free breakfast provided by Donuts Plus and lunch provided by The Cotton Patch Cafe."

  I placed my poster between another promoting the "Sonz of Thunder Bluegrass Ensemble" and a public service notice.  This public service notice advised residents not to drink the water if they are young children, the elderly, pregnant, have struggled with immune disorders, or have contracted HIV.  This gruesome warning was due to contaminate levels in the water supply which were well above the state minimum.  I shuddered.

  After soliciting three more blocks of assorted shops and boutiques, I came to the city's lone head shop next to the Triple A Bail Bonds on the seedy side of town.  Although some unseasoned reporters might have assumed the existence of a head shop to be a sign of culture, the truth of the matter was it made a large chunk of its income selling black light posters of Confederate flags.  I went in and looked around for the proprietor, but there was no sign of any life whatsoever.  I waited for a few minutes, sweating under the black light.

  The sickly sweet scent of Nag Champa and Dragon's Blood, mingled with the smell of utter terror, charged the atmosphere with an almost overwhelming intensity.  The crossed stars and bars of the Confederate Flag glared menacingly down at me like the eye of some pagan god demanding a sacrifice.  I began to sweat almost incessantly now.  The acrid, cloying smoke choked the air and made it difficult to breathe.  My eyes began to burn, and the right side of my face started twitching uncontrollably.  The fear I had been fighting for the last ten minutes finally overtook me.

  I gave a shout, but there was no response, leading me to assume that the owner either saw me coming and mistook me for a Narc and stepped out the back door, or was involved in his own chemical experiments in the back room and couldn't be bothered.  I left a poster on the counter, sensing he would not be in any state to notice a small detail such as a mysterious paper miraculously appearing in his shop, nor would he possess the physical coordination it would take to remove it.

  After this harrowing experience, I decided to call it a day.

  I was up early the next day prepping The Star for a local photo shoot for promotional purposes.  On the way to the location, pulling up at a stop sign at the corner of Ross and Farley, I was distracted by three homemade plywood signs, about 4' tall and 4' wide.  Printed, screaming, on the face of one of these signs with a black spray paint can was the desperate cry:

  "BRING OUR PEE-WEE HOME! HE IS SICK AND NEEDS HIS MEDICINES! *#$&*%!"

  My mind reeled.  What sort of town was this??

  "What sort of twisted mind would steal a young innocent child in the throes of illness?" I raged.  "The poor parents! We must do something!!"

  The Star's eyes welled with tears.  I was about to swing the car around to see what assistance we could render to these unfortunate souls when The Bodyguard interrupted from the back seat.

  "Idiots," he snarled.  "Pee-Wee is their dog."

  Somehow I had overlooked this alternative explanation.  Pee-Wee might be the name of their miniature chihuahua. 

  "How do you know this?" I balked skeptically.

  "It says he has worms," said The Bodyguard.

  "Their child could have worms," said The Star.

  "Excellent point," I concurred.  "Remember the Water Report.  Besides, what sort of sick, perverted individual would steal a chihuahua? Especially one with worms?" 

  I might have stopped and gotten to the heart of the matter, but we were running late as it was.

  We got to the location, parked the car, and stepped out.  It was a beautiful scene, perfectly reminiscent of some 18th century pastoral landscape.  I immediately began working out camera angles.

  I always shoot in natural light.  I love the heightened contrast and the intense play of shadows that can only be obtained by photographing in natural conditions.

  As I directed The Star in a pose and began shooting, a passing car honked repeatedly.  I did not think anything of this until the next two or three cars also began laying on their horns in similar fashion.  The Star seemed to be enjoying the attention; however, The Bodyguard began to get restless and antsy.  I knew I had to do something quickly.

  "It is perfectly understandable," I explained, with forced heartiness, after a black Firebird  whizzed by in a blaze of speed and sound, its occupants whooping, hollering, and whistling. 

  "Think of it," I went on.  "A fast car, a girl with extremely tan legs standing in a field of freshly mown hay, bringing to mind the agrarian beginnings our society was founded on.  It's the American dream, here and now!"

  "I thought I was Colombian," said The Star.

  "Shut up," said The Bodyguard.

  "You'll be Colombian when I want you to be," I admonished.  "Now, hold that lovely pout."

  "You people make me sick," said The Bodyguard, storming off, cursing in Spanish under his breath. 

  We finished the shoot and headed home to rehearse.

  On the night of the performance The Bodyguard and I loaded the equipment into the car and waited another hour and a half for The Star to emerge from her dressing room; she looked radiant, as only a woman who has spent three hours grooming herself can.  We all piled into the car and headed out to Zula's.

  I can't tell you much about what happened that night.  I seem to have vague recollections of twin dogs nestled in a baby carriage, yapping in the front row.  Vaguer still was the group in the back who had wandered in from a nearby trucker's convention.  Through it all came the possessed scream of the amplifier, wailing like some wild beast in the night, sometimes more or less audible, but always there as an undertone.  The harsh odor of espresso hung in the air.  The voices of the customers placing their orders carried faintly to my ears, like some ancient arcane code.  "VENTE MOCHA DECAF LATTE ESPRESSO-TWO SHOTS!!!"  The fear was growing.  The harmonica sounded weirdly off-key.  I had to get out.  I stumbled out the back door and into the cool night air. 

  The night was still, as if the whole universe had stopped to listen.  I found myself sitting in a rusted-out folding chair at the back of the building.  A cool breeze from the north-east swept over me.  I looked up at the stars, spangled across the vast face of the night.  The childlike, soothing strains of "Big Rock Candy Mountain" floated serenely to my ears.  I took a deep breath.  I still did not know if I accepted this wild and virile chaos I had been thrown into.  But I felt, in some strange, silent way, that it accepted me.