Got my arse left behind...

Since I am such a big fan of “easing into the day”… I got my arse left behind in Marfa, Texas Saturday morning.
( I wasn’t the only one either!!)


Biking around the country with a strong-arm like Theresa can be a challenge for people like me (us) , but I’m learning. Say, for example, the pronouncement is made, “Kickstands up at 8:00 a.m.!” Well, that means just that: 8:00 a.m., and hangovers be-darned.

However... the second-shifters (8:01 a.m.) enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, gassed up at the local Valero and just couldn’t wait to sashay on over to the Marfa Public Radio station, tucked in between Marfa City Hall and the Marfa Police Station.

Also of note in the City of Marfa that day...

(Clearly a violation...)

... but I don’t get many opportunities to live dangerously.

As we were walking back to our bikes, I overheard Sheriff Juan mutter, “God Bless Texas!”

The Marfa Public Radio visit had been my idea (I worship Garrison Keillor and am an NPR contributor -- nerd-- ), strongly backed up by Becky. Our ultimate goal was to acquire some chocolate and powder-blue Marfa Public Radio t-shirts. We were especially keen on acquiring a t-shirt for Erik also.

I can only say one thing about Marfa Public Radio… I totally want to unhook this sleepy little radio station's bra strap and give it a good tickle. They were out of the ultracool chocolate/powder-blue Marfa Public Radio t-shirts, for crying out loud!

Once the second-shifters had exhausted all of our stalling techniques, we decided it best to saddle up and head for Austin (420 miles-plus.) The trip was cold and fast. I couldn’t have predicted this, but an act of God caused us to stop for cellophane-wrapped sandwiches and diarrhea-triggering coffee at a small gas station. While gassing up, we pried Becky's frozen fingers off of her Sportster and massaged her back to life. It was clear that we needed to make a couple of bike swaps.

The decision was made that she and Dilana would switch bikes. It was nerve-rattling to think about but it seemed to be our only option. The gorgeous Sportster is Becky's first bike; the only size bike that she has ever ridden. We put Becky on this rip-roarin' beast.

In the bathroom I asked Becky, “Are you afraid?”

“Awhellyeah, I’m afraid!"

To my way of thinking, that was a very good answer. But I knew that Becky would much warmer and more comfortable.

As it turns out, Becky was a champ. I expect that she'll be acquiring herself a bigger bike for future trips.

To cut to the chase, both shifts made it to Austin from Marfa in one piece. Beautiful riding. Deer crossing signs every 20 miles; dead deer carcasses along and on the road every 2.5 miles. Unbelievable.

Alas, we'd made it through the carnage, and Jesus rays were breaking though the clouds.

Tequila shots and champagne all around!!

*** Special love and recognition to my wonderful husband, Kevin, for taking such good care of his "little biker harem" that day. His patience was heroic!

(rooftop pool in San Antonio)

** It makes me somewhat uncomfortable knowing that there is a 50,000-gallon swimming pool over my hotel room.

Later that evening at the dance hall in Marfa...

I was pretty convinced that The Laguna Dance Hall would be one of those rowdy places where cups of beer would be flying through the air… instead, I was struck by the smells of field hay, diesel fuel and (marijuana??)

Faces stuck out in the crowd, and I began assuming things. Archaeologist on vacation sitting over at the small two-top table. Sports radio announcer from Sacramento here with his city councilor wife. Hey, that looks like Rick Perry over there in the corner!

Of course, they were all incognito, in their red-plaid shirts, artsy-fartsy boots and bandannas. Truly a “Prairie Home Companion” moment.

And perhaps those fellows leaning against the wall beside the stage, the ones wearing the sullen faces, were the locals. I just don’t know.

“Beautiful Mestizo! Raped! Our children are anathema! Our children are a long, sweet rain after a spring drought!”

Or something along those lines…

A beautiful, incensed Latina poet, and college professor, grasped at a microphone, admonishing the silent throng about the plight of the Mestizo, tattooed numbers on blanched skin, blond-haired/blue-eyed plunderers and the injustice/blessing of perpetuating a disenfranchised people.

It was pretty profound stuff (pass the beer nuts); however, nobody had any real passion for anarchy, so the prairie band re-took the stage and started playing a Freddie Fender number, “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.”




I didn’t quite grasp the brevity of Johnny’s avocation over at Jett’s Bar & Grill earlier ( ironwork ) until he sashayed me across the small dance floor. Certain parts of Johnny’s large palms felt as if I were grasping at lava rocks.

“Looka' here!” We stopped in mid-twirl so that he could extend his hands into the amalgam of soft pink lights from various neon beer signs. The cracked black patches that covered strategic parts of Johnny’s palms looked like furry spiders.

Iron work equals mighty thirsty work. Pure and simple.

We were no longer dancing, but still standing on the dance floor…

“Didn’t get the chance to tell you ‘bout my cottonwoods, did I!”

Cottonwoods? I’m pretty sure that my facial expression resembled this man's...

“Bev and I got these big ole gorgeous cottonwoods lining the stream on our property. Couple summers ago, we were havin’ a big drought, you see? Those trees started looking mighty sickly. I tried everything I could imagine, and then I decided I’d bring them back to health with a big ole shot of nitrogen.”

I wasn’t following.

“Drove down to this pet shop sorta deal over’n El Paso, where they have all them – I don’t know -- rat-things that live in all those shavings. I asked ‘em if they’d let me bag up all their left-behinds.”

“Left-behinds?”

“You know – and pardon, ma’am – their droppins’.”

“Gotcha’! How did that work out?”

“Worked out fine! However, it lead to another problem. Ever’ rattlesnake within a 15-mile radius moved onto my place!”

A small hand went over my shoulder and I almost wet my pants. “You shoulda’ seen em! Things were everywhere!” Beverly had walked up behind us and began supplementing Johnny’s tale with arm gestures. “Some were this long!”

“She ain’t lyin’ bout that either. We’d kill one, here come another to take its place.”

“That’s right!” Beverly continued, “and don’t it teach us a beautiful lesson about leaving nature alone? We eventually just started watching the ground real close and learned how to move around between ‘em. They got used to us, we got used to them. It was a beautiful thing.”

Suddenly Johnny’s eyes light up. “Who wants ta’ go outside and sample some of my home-made liquor! Got two varieties, but they ain’t allowed in here!”

“What you got Johnny?” I was intrigued and started speculating about the brews… peyote punch? Rattlesnake-venom vodka?

“It’s a homemade Kahlua and just plain Shine, but it’s good quality shine!”

“Sounds delicious!” … but I didn’t feel like staggering around and hallucinating for 18 days out in the desert, so I politely declined.

Johnny walks his offer over to the rest of our motorcycle gang....

rough digs and fierce winetasters...

Beverly liked our group, in spite of the fact that we were affluent Harley riders from the Big City (not exactly her favorite kind of people, and she let me know that, right off) -- but God said it was good, Amen, and Beverly and I continued to talk.

“Beverly, how long have you and Johnny been married?

“We’re not.” she replies.

“Why not?”

“Whyever for?” Beverly is smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Beverly has strong and well-researched opinions about togetherness, human determination and spirituality. Beverly and Johnny have been together for almost 30 years. I could learn a lot from a woman like Beverly.

“Beverly, I would love to see that limousine.”

“Too bad we didn’t know you all were coming! We’d be driving you around in it.”

I thanked her and made a mental note to arrange that the next time we came back to Marfa.


“Kimberly, we were very close to Clifford, the artist that painted our limo. One hot afternoon, Clifford started digging a very deep hole in the ground.

(I need to interrupt this story for an important announcement: Desert ground is near impossible to dig into, even with the toe of your boot.)

“Not two weeks after that hole was dug, Clifford up and dies. Within two hours, his best friends had him gussied up in his finest (think Jamie Lee Nudie) and had him in the ground.

(... and most of the graves are above ground around those parts.)

“Two hours? How is that possible?”

“We just knew.”

The cowboy-artist had dug his own grave. How romantic is that?

If I didn’t already have such strong, positive opinions on cremation, I would toy with the idea of digging my own grave one day. Just saying…

And, like that, we started chatting away freely about death, religion and enlightenment.

“Young lady, take the time to do your worshipping right here, between these two temples.” Beverly frames her small, tanned face with both of her strong, calloused index fingers. “These temples right here, young lady!”

Beverly is my friend.

Johnny and Beverly are the epitome of worry-free happiness. People like Beverly and Johnny make me realize how full of shit I can be sometimes: “I have seen the enemy and it is me” kind of stuff.

“When you come back, just drop in! Don’t bother calling! If we’re not home, we’re probably in Mexico. Just come on in and we’ll be home eventually!”

** Turns out, there was a local noise ordinance in Marfa - and a nervous show organizer at The Laguna – so the dance hall shut down around 11:00ish. Way too early to stop serving music, I say!!

Which was fine and humpty-dandy with me. We had to get up early and on the road to Austin the next day, and Austin was 400-plus miles down the road…


(* Later, after we had arrived safely home, I started poking around on the internet and learned just how beloved and infamous Johnny and Beverly are. Not only are they local celebrity icons but they are iron artisans. )

Marfa Adventure

(Johnny & Beverly's Limo)

Late one evening, outside a bar in a border town called Marfa, Texas, I started trailing the footsteps of an extremely come-hither pair of silver-tipped, stingray boots -- and met Johnny.

“These here, you see, are from a female stingray! Looka-here! That single stripe down the middle… that single stripe indicates it’s a female!”

I could only nod wishfully.

“How you know it is a male is because…” I didn’t catch the “male version” explanation because I wanted a “female” pair of stingray boots. It had been decided.

Everything about Johnny is loud. From his bright blue straw cowboy hat, his rail-thin/bean-pole stature, desert-creased face, to his piercing, blue eyes. Especially his local-flavor espousals.

“’Bout 20 years back I acquired my first pair of stingrays! Darn hide on the things was so thick that they had to grind ‘em down b’fore you could even slip ‘em on. They’ve got it all figured out now!”

As Johnny stuck his silvery-blue boot out, I caught a glimmer of his pointy silver boot tip, which had a small, decorative wagon wheel on the top. I wanted my own pair, right then -- and right down to the carved, silver wagon wheel affixed to the top of those outrageous silver boot tips.

A quick inquiry about where I could score my own set of boots led to a two-hour conversation inside Jett’s Bar & Grill, a part of the beautiful, historic El Paisano Hotel. In spite of the luxurious accommodations of the El Paisano, the overheard conversations at Jett’s bartop included comments about "the nitwit who had left somebody’s gate open," causing the cattle to stray (a cardinal cowboy sin), pesky burros and the fact that it has been such a dry season. So dry, in fact, that the scorpions have ticks on them. (grin)

Had I only known what I was in for, conversationally speaking, I would have put my prickly pear margarita down and ordered a glass of water.


“You folks been on the river, through the Mexican Canyons yet, ma’am?”

“Oh heck yeah, Johnny! The guides were just great. Helped us navigate upstream, catered us a nice lunch, and we drank amazing red wine before turning around! All the way up to Fern Canyon, yes we did!” On that note, I hoisted my margarita up. I’m sure I looked a bit like Sheriff Barney Fife, sniffing importantly and rocking up on my toes a bit.

“Naw-naw-naw!” Johnny is grinning at me something big. “Naw-naw-naw! I mean way down the river! With the locals!”

Johnny then explained to me that the same river that our group had been frolicking about in was an indigenous habitat for wild boa constrictors, who purportedly can reach a length of three or four meters-- ” (which I quickly converted into approximately 130 feet)
“-- and can get as big around as a coyote!”

Sweet Sainted Maria!

I could tell that Johnny was really digging my reaction to this, so he continues…

“Mexican fella’ once goaded me inta’ pokin' one once with a boat paddle! Thing straightened right out, unhinged its stinkin’ jaws and let out a mighty hissin’ roar. Scared the bejesus outta me! Sounded like a hurricane blowing out of the mouth of a cave there, you see?”

‘Really,’ I thought to myself, but tried to look nonplussed for Johnny. And then I remembered the harrowing experience that my husband and I had experienced a few nights prior. (I’ll explain more later.)

“Well, Johnny, I had a real angry evil spirit blow through my hotel room couple nights ago over in Lajitas.”

Johnny gave me a look and a small shrug that spoke volumes: They accept ghosts like gravity around there.

“Gracious me! Shizzle happens!” I felt like hollering out.



Balcony shot in Lajitas Graveyard pics in Teralingua, just downhill of the historic Starlight Cafe'

Johnny has never owned a television set in his entire life. Johnny has never even been enrolled in kindergarten. However, Johnny is one of the wisest, most mesmerizing fellows that I have ever met.

Johnny owns his own personal limousine. I found this out because, standing beside Johnny was an equally mesmerizing woman named Beverly, Johnny’s life partner. We can talk about Beverly’s yummy boots later.

“Except!” injects Beverly, “this limousine is special! Fella’ painted that limo’s dead now. Was a 90-yr-oldish cowboy-artist who made quite a name for himself. Mighty honored to have his art on our limousine!”

Excuse me while I make sweet love to this chicken fried steak…


El Paisano restaurant...

Dinner at the El Paisano restaurant is heavenly, and that is all you need to know. The menu includes offerings such as…. Cilantro Chicken, Rosemary Pork Tenderloin… and the opus magnum… Pistachio-Chicken Fried Steak.

Dilana, Becky and Linda, our entertainment captains of the evening, organized a hilarious Easter Egg Game. We each opened an egg, filled with an assortment of jelly beans, Bazooka Gum, flaming-hot Cheetos, with a phrase that we needed to add to the end of our fortune, “in bed.” This exercise ended in such Easter Egg fortunes such as… “How do I deal with the pain of hemorrhoids and chaffing -- in bed?”

Simply hilarious. You had to be there.

“Where you all headed after dinner?” Johnny wants to know.

“We’re going to ride our Harleys to the other end of town to see the Marfa lights.”

“Why on earth ya’ll gonna go do that for?”

Johnny and Beverly were wearing the expression of folks who had just got done shoveling dog turds.

“They’re everywhere!" Beverly consoled. "Just sit tight. You’ll see ‘em one day.”

Mention of heavy wind, full moon, and other sage Mexican lore regarding why we probably wouldn’t see the Marfa Lights tonight were factored around the table.

“Exactly!” I hollered out, shaking my finger toward the moon outside of the heavy plate glass bar window. But then my attention quickly strayed toward a very large cowboy hat hovering over the bar.

Hot-Dang! That's The Marfa Cowboy!








I shot around the dinner table and practically leaped up onto the back of a 6-foot-5ish cowboy named “Ty.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s me! I’m a rancher here, by trade. Those people with the Marfa Film Festival just walked up to me one day in town and asked if I minded posin’ for their show poster.”

Immediately my leader, Theresa, starts prequalifying Ty’s authenticity with piercing questions such as… “How many acres? Parcels? Lots? Head of cattle?” leaving my woozy head spinning. I could care less about any of that business. Ty was a celebrity, dammit, and I’d found him! He was my special Easter Egg. I was swept up in all of his poster boy cowboyness.

I like Theresa a lot. She guzzles Diet Coke and talks freely about things that I haven’t even figured out yet. Obviously, I have a lot yet to learn from Theresa.

“Y’all goin’ on over to tha’ Laguna t’night?” Ty is smiling at our group and rubbing the small part of my back. I’m not sure if Ty knows that I am married, so I felt compelled to introduce my husband.

“The dance hall’s just up tha’ road! Two blocks down Austin, hang a right on San Antonio, just over the railroad tracks! Place is called The Laguna, but you’d never know it was a dance hall. Looks sorta like a morgue. Just go right on in.”

And just like that, The Marfa Cowboy faded into the sunset.

(to be continued…)







Fear and loathing in Marfa...