My friend John got some homemade beer from the Choctaw reservation via some uncle of his, a pony keg of psychedelic honeysuckle-flavored brilliance. It is maybe the finest buzz ever, like you hear a coyote howl somewhere deep inside and a cartoon Geronimo appears, handing your your third eye in a dried armadillo shell. Then he gently whispers in your ear, enough with the embarrassing Indian references, asshole, and disappears in a burst of flame.It tasted vaguely like flowers, but we surmised that it might easily be Glade Air Freshener mixed with turpentine. All I know is I was floating in John's pool on a raft as the tree frogs came on in a rush, drowning out The BoDeans of all things on the stereo, intoning not fade away...not fade away...beautiful.
All this makes me want to hear the greatest outlaw country song this side of "Copperhead Road," (brother of Larry) James McMurtry's "Choctaw Bingo", offered here for your listening pleasure. It's really the only good song he ever wrote, but its a great one. It's long, but worth it. Here are the lyrics, though somehow they left off the best verse, towards the end of the song.
Ruth-Anne and Linda wear them
cutoff britches and them
skinny little halters and they're
second cousins to me.
Man, I don't care I wanna
get between 'em
with a great big ol' hard-on
like an old Bodark fence post you can
hang a pipe-rail gate from and do some
sister-twistin' till the
cows come home
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