What Would Kinky Do?: How to Unscrew a Screwed-Up World

by Kinky Friedman

  Then "The Tennessee Waltz" was over.

  Shoshone bowed a deep, theatrical bow. Everybody laughed and clapped and cheered. The old cowboy took off his hat. Then he took off his beard. Then he took off the old cowboy mask he was wearing and we saw to our amazement that the old-timer was in reality a very pretty young girl.

  She took off Shoshone's saddle. Then she took off her saddle blanket. And there, to my total astonishment, stood only Shoshone the Magic Pony.

  Shoshone was a real horse.

  In the years that followed, as I grew up or simply got older, Shoshone served me well as a reminder of the duplicitous nature of man. Nothing is what it appears to be, I thought. But there are times when with awkward grace the odd comfort of this crazy world comes inexplicably close to my crazy heart. At times like these, I see Shoshone as a shining symbol of the galloping faith that some horses and some people will always remain exactly who they are.

  THE HUMMINGBIRD MAN

  wise old man named Slim, who wore a paper Rainbow bread cap, drank warm Jax beer in infinite quantities, listened faithfully to the hapless Houston Astros on the radio, and washed dishes at our family's ranch, once told me something I've never forgotten. He said, "You're born alone and you die alone, so you might as well get used to it." It didn't mean much to me then, but over the years I've come to believe that old Slim might have been on to something.

  I live alone now in the lodge, where my late parents once lived, and I'm getting used to it. Being a member of the Orphan Club is not so bad. Sooner or later, fate will pluck us all up by our pretty necks. If you have a family of your own, maybe you won't feel it quite as much. Or maybe you will. I'm married to the wind, and my children are my animals and the books I've written, and I love them all. I don't play favorites. But I miss my mom and dad. In the past fifty years, thousands of kids have known Uncle Tom and Aunt Min. They bought our ranch outside Medina in 1953, named it Echo Hill, and made it into a camp for boys and girls. Echo Hill will be open again this summer, and though the kids will ride horses, swim in the river, and explore the hills, they will not get to meet Uncle Tom and Aunt Min.

  My mother died in May 1985, just a few weeks before camp started, and my father died in August 2002, just a few weeks after camp was over. I can still see my mother at her desk, going over her cluttered clipboard with all the camp rosters and menus. I can see her at the Navajo campfire, at the big hoe-down, at the friendship circle under the stars. I can see my dad wearing a pith helmet and waving to the kids in the charter buses. I can see him raising the flag in the morning, slicing the watermelon at picnic suppers, sitting in a lawn chair out in front of the lodge, talking patiently to a kid having problems with his bunkmates. If you saw him sitting quietly there, you'd think he was talking to one of his old friends. Many of those kids became just that.

  I don't know how many baby fawns ago it was, how many stray dogs and cats ago, or how many homesick kids ago, but fifty years is a long time in camp years. Yet time, as they say, is the money of love. And Tom and Min put a lot of all those things into Echo Hill. Most of their adult lives were given over to children, daddy longlegs, arrowheads, songs, and stars. They lived in a little green valley surrounded by gentle hills, where the sky was as blue as the river, the river ran pure, the waterfalls sparkled clear in the summer sun, and the campfire embers never really seemed to die. I was just a kid, but looking back, that's the way I remember it.

  What I remember most of all are the hummingbirds. It might have been 1953 when my mother hung out the first hummingbird feeder on the front porch of the lodge. The grown-up, outside world liked Ike that year and loved Lucy, and Hank Williams died, as did Ethel and Julius Rosenberg. I believe now that I might have been vaguely aware of these things occurring even back then, but it was those tiny, wondrous rainbows of flying color that really caught my eye. And those first few brave hummingbirds had come thousands of miles, all the way from Mexico and Central America, just to be with us at Echo Hill. Every year the hummers would make this long migration, arriving almost precisely on March 15, the Ides of March. They would leave late in the summer, their departure usually depending upon how much fun they had had at camp.

  For those first few years, in the early fifties, the hummingbird population, as well as the number of campers, was fairly sparse, but as the green summers flashed by, more and more kids and hummingbirds came to Echo Hill. The hummingbirds nested every year in the same juniper tree next to the lodge. Decades later, after my mother's death, the tree began to die as well. Yet even when there were only a few green branches left, the hummers continued to make that tree their summer home. Some of the staff thought the tree was an eyesore and more than once offered to cut it down, but Tom wouldn't hear of it. I think he regarded the hummingbirds as little pieces of my mother's soul.

  My father and I more or less took over the hummingbird program together in 1985. As time went by, we grew into the job. It was amazing how creatures so tiny could have such a profound influence on your peace of mind and the way you looked at the world. My father, of course, did many other things besides feeding the hummingbirds. I, unfortunately, did not. That was how I gradually came to be known as the Hummingbird Man of Echo Hill.

  Tom and I disagreed, sometimes almost violently, about the feeding methods for these fragile little creatures. He measured exactly four scoops of sugar and two drops of red food coloring into the water for each feeder. I eyeballed the whole process, using much more sugar and blending many weird colors into the mix. Whatever our disagreements over methodology, the hummer population grew. This past summer, it registered more than a hundred birds at "happy hour." Tom confided to me that once, long ago, he mixed a little gin in with the hummers' formula and they seemed to have a particularly lively happy hour. Min was not happy about it, however, and firmly put a stop to this practice.

  Now, on bright, cold mornings, I stand in front of the old lodge, squinting into the brittle Hill Country sunlight, hoping, I suppose, for an impossible glimpse of a hummingbird or of my mother or my father. They've all migrated far away, and the conventional wisdom is that only the hummingbirds are ever coming back. Yet I still see my mother hanging up that first feeder. The juniper tree blew down in a storm two winters ago, but the hummers have found other places to nest. One of them is in my heart.

  And I still see my dad sitting under the dead juniper tree, only the tree doesn't seem dead, and neither does he. It takes a big man to sit there with a little hummingbird book, taking the time to talk to a group of small boys. He is telling them that there are more than three hundred species of hummingbirds. They are the smallest of all birds, he says, and also the fastest. They're also, he tells the kids, the only birds who can fly backwards. The little boys seem very excited about the notion of flying backwards. They'd like to try that themselves, they say. So would I.

  HOW TO HANDLE A NONSTOP TALKER IN A POST-9/11 WORLD

  o person is immune to the Nonstop Talker. They lurk everywhere there is an audience and like a spider, they wait patiently for their prey to approach and unwittingly become entangled in their web. Once they have you, they assault you with their blather, and the harder you struggle to get free, the more entangled you become until you are paralyzed by their words and consumed from the inside out, drained of all energy and life force. Encountering a Nonstop Talker on foot is exhausting but doable. When you've had enough, you can simply run or drive away. Getting stuck next to one on a long flight, however, is like being banished to the ninth level of Dante's Inferno and will require extensive counseling for post-tedium stress disorder, if you survive the catastrophe.

  Studies on lab rats have shown that there is no sure way to "talk-block" the Nonstop Talker but there are some techniques I have used that had limited success; I can't guarantee these will work for you but doing them may at least make you feel like you are being proactive rather than just a passive victim. That alone gives your subsequent trauma counseling a much greater chance of succeeding.

  The su
ggestions I outline below can be done in any order. It's best to practice the techniques at home in front of a mirror before using them in a real situation so they will be second nature when you need them.

  Now, imagine you've boarded an airplane, you've strapped yourself in, and you're settling back to enjoy the oxygen-mask tutorial performed by a peppy flight attendant named "Colt." Suddenly you hear a distant whining sound, like a mosquito in your ear, and to your horror you realize you are seated next to a Nonstop Talker! The first thing to do is remain calm. Take a deep breath and do a body check. Make sure you have not reactively assumed the fetal position because if you want to survive this encounter, you have to allow the blood to flow to all your extremities lest you develop deep vein thrombosis, a deadly blood clot that starts in your calf and travels to your lungs and kills you.

  By the time the plane clears the runway and attains liftoff, Nonstop Talker will have already tangented about six times without closing anything he says (since this is a worst-case scenario, I use the Tangenter, who is the worst kind of Nonstop Talker; listening to one talk is like reading a page full of left parentheses without any closing parentheses). You have a couple of choices now. You can sit still and allow his words to flow over you like the Grim Reaper over a grave or you can go ahead and start trying some of my suggestions as listed below. Don't wait too long to act because if you let Nonstop Talker blather on unrestrained, you could spontaneously combust, and fires are illegal on commercial airlines. The only thing worse than flying with a Nonstop Talker is being incarcerated in a federal prison with one doing life without parole for breaching air safety regulations.

  Nonstop Talker will be saying something like this (and this is just an example. No one really hears what they say. I just want to get you into the moment): "Don't you hate it when your story doesn't hold up in court and you have to come up with an alibi that doesn't put you anywhere near that all-boy's private school on the day in question? Has that ever happened to you? Well, I was walking down this dead-end street and decided to get a cream cheese bagel..."

  At this point you can begin your response. Again, these suggestions can be done in any order, and feel free to improvise. Every Nonstop Talker is different, so use what you think will be most effective against them in your situation.

  Good luck and Godspeed.

  RESPONSES TO A NONSTOP TALKER

  Put on your headphones. You don't actually have to have an mp3 or CD player; you can just tuck the unplugged end into your empty pocket. It really helps the visuals if you use the white I-pod earphones because they will stand out against any kind of travel wardrobe.

  Pretend that you're listening to gangsta rap music. Most people who travel in the first-class section fear and loathe rap. Sing along with your imaginary Grandmasta Houseshoes collection. Throw gang signs and breakdance in your seat.

  Exhibit symptoms of Tourette's Syndrome. Emphasize the yelping and swearing part.

  Act like you've fallen asleep. Just close your eyes and let your chin drop to your chest. You could add a snore or two for variety. Drooling a little is also a nice touch.

  Frantically rummage around for the air-sickness bag. Make loud retching sounds into it. Wonder aloud if a person can be infected with SARS twice in a lifetime.

  "Your order will be ready when I yell, 'Mother-fucker.'"

  Straddle the armrest between your seats and pretend that you're a rodeo cowboy only eight seconds from glory. Thrust one hand in the air and thrash your body around violently.

  Retrieve the flotation device from under your seat and put it on. As you inflate it, explain that every flight you've ever been on has crashed into the sea and you just want to be ready this time.

  When all else fails and you still have hours of flight time left, go ahead and curl up into that fetal position and cut loose that blood clot. With any luck, it will reach your lungs before your Nonstop Talker segues into the one about his anal fissures.

  SOCIAL STUDIES

  ho says Texas etiquette doesn't exist? From matters culinary to matters urinary, it defines who we are like nothing else.

  To the 6.1 billion people on this planet who are not Texans, the very idea of Texas etiquette may seem like a contradiction. These culturally deprived souls, sometimes known as the rest of the world, go blithely through life believing implicitly in lady wrestlers, Catholic universities, and military intelligence, yet they scoff at the notion of Texas etiquette.

  We Texans believe if it ain't King James, it ain't Bible. We believe in holding hands and saying grace before eating big, hairy steaks in chain restaurants. If the steak is the size of a sombrero, the meal is followed by the belching of the Lord's

  Prayer, which is then followed by projectile vomiting. Extreme cases may result in what some Texans commonly refer to as "squirtin' out of both ends."

  The only thing that really differentiates Texas from any other place in the world, however, is the proclivity of its people to urinate out of doors and to attach a certain amount of importance to this popular pastime. Urinating outside goes much further than merely meeting the criteria of what is socially acceptable; it is the way of our people. To walk out under the Texas stars and water your lizard is considered the most sacred inalienable right of all citizens of the Lone Star State.

  Though Texans are always a relatively considerate bunch, things do seem to get a little wiggy when a certain type of woman meets another woman from the same substratum whom she hasn't seen since Kennedy was croaked in Dallas (which we don't really consider to be part of Texas). The announcement of JFK's death, by the way, was rumored to have been greeted with cheering in certain boardrooms and country clubs in the state, which, of course, was a mild lapse in Texas etiquette. So, no doubt, was killing President Kennedy.

  As I was saying before I heard voices in my head, there is a traditional greeting used by women in Texas who haven't seen each other in a while. In a sort of latent lesbian mating ritual, the first one's face lights up insanely, and she shrieks, "Look at yeeew!" The other one, her countenance locked in an equally demonic rictus, responds, "Look at yeeew!!!" There is little doubt that this increasingly frenetic, insectile exchange would continue indefinitely if not for the intercession of a third party. Suddenly a big cowboy walks up, strikes a match on his wranglers—he has two Mexican wranglers who work for him— and proceeds to set the women on fire.

  Now the women are dancing around like vapid versions of Joan of Arc, sparks flying from their big hair, still screaming "Look at yeeew!!!" and they would have no doubt fallen through the trap door in tandem if not for the appearance of another party. Fortunately a man nearby just happens to be urinating out of doors and saves the day by taking the thing into his own hands and extinguishing the fire with Hose Number One.

  Sometimes Texas etiquette manifests itself far beyond the boundaries of the Lone Star State. When I was working in

  Borneo with the Peace Corps, I decided to take a little trip to Thailand with a few other volunteers. This was the height of the Haight-Ashbury era and, of course, the Vietnam War. In a seedy little bar in Chiang Mai, these two forces came together. By forces, I mean special forces, as in Green Berets. A group of them, on R&R from Vietnam, had been drinking rather heavily at the bar. There were four of us Peace Corps kids, all skinny as Jesus, with long hair and native beads, and one of our party, Dylan Ferrero, happened, rather unfortunately, to be sporting a flower in his hair. In the air, the sense of impending doom was almost palpable. The Green Berets, like ourselves, had been culturally out where the buses don't run for possibly a little too long. They thought we were real hippies. And they were in no mood to let Saigons be bygones.

  A wiry, dangerous-looking little Hawaiian guy from this gang wandered over with a glaze of hatred in his eyes that almost wilted Dylan's flower. I remember his words quite well because he chanted them with a soft, evil cadence: "Ain't you cool." A bar in Chiang Mai could be a godless, lawless place in 1967, almost as lawless and godless as a lonely road outside Jasper
in 1998. But it was just at that moment that I thought I heard a familiar accent—a Texas accent. The deep, drawling tones were emanating from the largest man I'd ever seen. He was sitting with the Green Berets, watching the ongoing tension convention at the bar. With a sudden confidence that must have come from deep in the heart of Texas, I walked over to a table of cranked-up Special Forces. With my beads and Angela Davis Afro, it would have been the stupidest thing I'd ever done in my life if I hadn't been so sure that Goliath was from Texas. Texas saved me.

  In a matter of moments, I had learned that the guy was from Dublin, Texas, and he knew my old college friend Lou Siegel, who was also from Dublin. The next thing anybody knew, the invisible bond of latent homosexual Texas manhood had transcended all the other human chemistry in the bar and the world. Years later I thanked Lou for being spiritually in the right place at the right time. I never saw Goliath the Green Beret again. Maybe he just got Starbucked into the twenty-first century like everybody else and is sipping a decaf latte somewhere and reading the Wall Street Gerbil.

  I wish I could say that Texas etiquette really exists. Maybe it's like God or Santa Claus or brotherly love—something no one's ever seen but just might be there after all. Years ago my mother had a little sign on her desk at Echo Hill Ranch. It read: "Courtesy is owed. Respect is earned. Love is given." That may be as close to Texas etiquette as any of us will ever get.