Live, acoustic performance of my song "The Ballad of Rosie" recorded at OklaVision Studios....

Here is a live, acoustic version of my song "Ain't Goin Down In The Ground", recorded at the OklaVision Studios...

The Etiquette of Smoking

            Our conforming American society has found yet another subject in which to loathe, pass judgment, and if all goes as planned, eradicate. And why not?! By many standards, smoking is a disgusting habit. But, so is eating in many circles…. I suggest taking a booth next to the All-You-Can-Eat buffet at your local Shoneys if you would like to question this statement. When can I expect legislation to be passed against self-induced obesity??

            I could go on about such inconsistencies in our modern world, but that would require several chapters. I haven’t the time or diligence to write such a piece—nor do I have the desire to do so. Hate smokers if you want. Hate Muslims. Hate Africans. Hate whoever you damn well please. But before you do, I suggest educating yourself enough about the matter before passing final judgment. If you are going to hate someone or something, you should at least be expected to having a working knowledge of the subject…

            Now, before I begin, let me just say that I am NOT a smoker---at least not as one is generally defined. I despise cigarettes--primarily due to the fact they leave such an odor. As one who goes to great lengths to rid himself of human odors to get closer to game, I could never take up smoking cigarettes. Besides, I have spent years playing music in smoke-filled bars, and like the butcher who has lost a taste for meat, I have simply had my share.

            However, just as I do not see how a balanced, organic meal can be compared to a pile of utility steaks and butter-fed mashed potatoes at your local slop shop, I can see no comparison between Bobby Joe’s 4 packs of Lucky Strikes addiction and the pleasure that can be derived from the feel and taste of an aged, wooden pipe. Still, there are those who would simply classify Bobby Joe and me as "smokers". Therefore, I guess it is prudent that I consider all those who eat at Shoneys as---well--- Fat Asses.

            The truth is (according to me, of course) that there are glaring differences between the filthy barbarism of the tar-filled cancer stick that has become a staple of Bobby Joe’s diet, and the naturally-grown, additive free tobacco of which I partake in from time to time. And, just as glaring are the contrasting ways in which Bobby Joe and I enjoy our fire-driven pleasure.

            Bobby Joe began smoking at the age of 13 in order to be cool. I started as an adult—at a time when I could care less about being "cool".  Bobby Joe smokes more when things are bothering her—like when wondering whom the father is. I only smoke during times of relaxation and contentment. Bobby Joe smokes constantly to get through her day. I smoke at the end of mine. Bobby Joe smokes in her house, car, bars, restaurants, bathrooms, and behind the diner. I smoke around campfires, in my canoe, or sitting on my dock. Bobby Joe smokes because her body thinks she must. I smoke because my mind enjoys the rest.

            You see, I don’t smoke often. I smoke when the time is right---like enjoying a fine wine or group sex. Timing is everything. Also, it is rare that anyone else is around when I smoke. My smoke time is a personal time. (Unlike the group sex)

            My smoking is not one of addiction, but of affliction---generally caused by dealing with the same modern mentality that caused me to write on this subject to begin with… The process of smoking a pipe CORRECTLY is, in of itself, a great healer---much the way the antiquated method of washing dishes by hand can be. In both instances, an organic rhythm is created, and soon only the rhythm exists. The mental baggage is released, and action suddenly replaces thought---a rarity these days.

            In contrast to the uncivilized cigarette wielder, the pipe connoisseur takes great care in what goes in his or her mouth (a lesson Bobby Joe still has yet to grasp). The pipe is meticulously cared for—the tobacco chamber scraped clean of any char, the smoke tube properly brushed with a cleaner, and a fresh filter put in place. For those who choose the pipe, it takes more than an expiration date to judge freshness. No—the tobacco must show a perfect blend of fragrance, texture, and flavor. The tobacco has been hand selected—even to the point where one has found the perfect mixture of 2 or even 3 tobaccos—producing the perfect "breed" (much like crossing a Labrador and a poodle).

            Then, and only then, is the pipe properly prepared to be enjoyed. Next, the true aficionado will light the blissful mixture with one of only two options—the ageless chrome zippo that has been handed down from another "keeper of the flame", or for those without parental guidance, the perfectly balanced butane option for an even burn.

            And lastly, and perhaps most important, like Mr. Clinton, the person behind the pipe should NEVER inhale. Inhaling into your lungs is like chugging a bottle of 60 year old scotch! When one has reached this level of maturity, they realize that the flavor and aroma should be cherished—carefully tasted, absorbed into the palate, and then released like a flock of doves at the Macy’s Day parade—a sign of grace and freedom.

            Now, as the facts have clearly shown (my facts, as stated previously), one who cherishes the time with a properly aged and prepared pipe is far from "a smoker". I do, however, realize that there are those of you out there (generally less educated, racist-types), who will continue to group me in with the brash, foul-smelling, flam-hacking, chain smokers who reside on Lot 12. So be it. But remember, the time is coming when the politically-correct will turn against you and your gluttonous way of eating. It is only a matter of time.

            And, I will be there to tell you "I told you so"---FAT ASS!

                                                                By Chad K. Slagle

           Like other various "outings" that my wife has felt it necessary to subject me to, the one today came in just above the painful mark and way below joyous. She will be the first to tell you that anytime I am forced to spend money, I find it to be somewhat painful. However, this particular investment hurt not only for the monetary sacrifice, but also for the emotional sacrifice. You see, today I purchased a new truck. I know that for the majority of the human male species with even moderate genitalia, this should be a moment of jubilation. But for anyone who has owned a vehicle as dependable, tough, and downright supernatural as the one of which I am about to describe, you will understand my grief. (I assured Jen that I will grieve just as deeply the day I have to trade her in for a new model, but she didn't seem to get the punch line) Neither my driveway nor my insurance premium has the capacity for two trucks, so it is time to say goodbye to an old friend. I can only hope that the following words can somehow pay homage to one of the toughest old S.O.B's to ever roll across this great nation.

            I know that there are several people out there that will find it odd that I choose to write about an inanimate object as though it were a breathing, living creature (my wife included!). Of course, many of those folks feel that putting a down payment on a vehicle in order to rent it for a specific amount of time with the promise to drive it very little, only to give it back and do the same thing over again is sound reasoning. So, based on that, I hereby discredit their opinion altogether. There was a time in this great land that a man bought a truck and kept it for ten years. I guess those days are gone now, but there are always a few holdouts. I guess "The Black Knight" and I are just two old holdouts.

            I first met the "Knight" just over a decade ago. My mother had been in the market for a small pickup for light hauling and work around the farm, but didn't want to spend an arm and a leg. One of our neighbors had gotten into the business of restoring wrecked cars, so we put a bug in his ear to keep an eye out for something that would work for us. About a month later, we got a call about a black Ford Ranger that had been wrecked. It had been rolled, and the roof of the cab had been smashed in and the body banged up pretty good, but the engine and frame seemed to be in fine shape, with less than 40,000 miles. After some numbers tossing, we agreed on a price and the work was underway.

            Several weeks later, we got a call and Mom asked me to drive her over so we could bring it home. As she was taking care of the paperwork, she asked me to go ahead and drive it back. At first, I wasn't the least bit impressed.  The truck had no power steering, and turning the wheel from a dead stop was a workout. Fact is; there wasn't anything even remotely close to power in it.  It was early summer, and there was no sign of an air conditioning apparatus. There was a rectangular piece of plastic where a radio should be, and even if I were to throw a radio in there, it was never fitted for an antenna. The seats were gray vinyl, and it was all I could do to peel myself off them when I got back to the house. Needless to say, I saw nothing special about this truck.

            The "Knight" served its purpose over the next couple years or so for Mom. She would haul things with it when necessary, and when the weather was nasty, would drive it back and forth to work. Up until that point, it seemed that this was just a simple, dependable little truck. It was not until my brother Travis had fooled the state of West Virginia into believing that he had the capacity to operate a vehicle that I began to see that this was no ordinary truck.

            If my memory serves me (which could go either way at this point), I believe Travis owned the truck for almost a year. Travis had pulled an "Evil Knevel" with a certain blue Bonneville that my mother had treasured just weeks after receiving his little plastic picture, so Mom was forced to drive the truck for a couple of months until she was able to replace the Bonneville. Mom figured it best to let Travis take over the last remaining payments on the truck when she bought her new car. Travis made it about eight months with only a few scratches and dents before running the "Knight" over an embankment and putting it in a state very similar to the one that caused us to buy it in the first place. So, at the age of 18, Travis had now totaled two vehicles, had about  $800 left to pay on the truck, a $1000 deductible just to get it back on the road, and an insurance premium that could easily feed a small country. That is where I came in.

            I had been driving a less-than-satisfactory Oldsmobile, and was all too happy to hand it over to Travis. I was in need of a truck with a topper for hauling my musical equipment to gigs and various outdoor activities, so I paid the deductible and the last of the remaining payments. The "Knight" had a new owner, and for the past 8 years, he has never let me down.

            The first order of business was to make the "Knight" more suitable. Luckily, my mother had fashioned the old boy with a rockin' sound system and CD player. From there, I added a topper for the bed. Next, I purchased chrome rims, larger tires, and had it detailed with chrome strips. Then, I added a bug shield, window visors, and a nice seat cover. Because of the wreck, the "Knight" had a brand new coat of paint, nice mirrors, and a sharp bumper. In a word, it was kickin'. When it was finished, I stopped by my good friend Allen Schnopp's house for the usual celebratory beer (we always found reasons for such events), and as I was getting out of the truck Allen met me in the driveway and said, "It looks like a shiny black knight!" Like many "Allen-isms" over the years, it just stuck.

            At the time, I was living in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Nearly every weekend I was heading to a DJ or music gig. Every Wednesday night I drove an hour south after work to meet my friend Thomas, drink all night, and head back to work the next morning. For a while, I seemed to come down with a virus every Thursday. I am still not sure how I continued to be employed with the Patriot-News, but nevertheless, the "Wednesday Night Drinkin' Club" became tradition. Between my day job travels, music gigs, and affinity for Southern Comfort, the "Knight" put on more miles in a year than most people put on in four. When my shows got a little too long and fun, the old boy even served as a place to snooze one off with a little mattress that I kept in the bed. Fact is the "Black Knight" was about the only stable thing in my life at the time.

            Before the Patriot-News had the opportunity to fire me for any number of reasons and my ex-wife had time to think of another reason to extort money from me, Thomas and I hit the road. At some point during our drunken ramblings, we felt it would be a good idea for us to travel across the country. If we were lucky, we might find a place we liked and hadn't pissed anyone off yet.  So, I purchased an old pop-up camper, put what few things my ex hadn't taken into storage, and said goodbye to the Chocolate Capital of the World!

            Most of the next year Thomas and I lived on the road. I would peddle my way into a gig now and then, and sometimes we made some quick-cash playing on the streets. Basically, we were a couple of modern day hobos. The old truck had nearly 100,000 miles on it the day we left behind our families and headed west. We traveled several thousands of miles in that year, and the old "Knight" never let us down; not once, despite the times I gave it every reason to.

            I can remember one instance in Montana that we hit a huge snowstorm on our way to Washington State. Tractor-trailers were parked along ever turnaround, pull-off, and side road they could find. We stopped long enough to throw a set of chains on the front tires, and never stopped again for 200 miles. The snow was piled 12-15ft on each side of us, and was coming down in flakes the size of walnuts. The closer we drew northwest to Washington State, the deeper the snow on the road. Even with 6 or 7 inches of fresh powder on the roads, we forged ahead. Thomas and I barely spoke a word in those 200 miles. For some reason, we simply weren't going to stop. We never actually said it, it was just understood. So, much like a "Thelma and Louise" ending, we pushed on straight ahead to what seemed certain doom. But, our small, two-wheel-drive behemoth loaded down with everything we felt we may possibly need in traveling cross country and pulling our small, Coleman-manufactured home saw us through. Physics was never one of my stronger studies, but as best as I can calculate, we never should have made it.

            From time to time, Thomas and I would scrape up enough money to pay lot rent for a few days at some backwoods KOA and explore parks and wildlife areas. "The Black Knight" has rolled through Yellowstone, Glacier, Zion, The Grand Canyon, and The Badlands; just to name a few. It sat at the base of Devil's Tower, stood before 4 presidents, and paid homage to Crazy Horse. It has ridden through rain forests, climbed 4000-foot mountains, crossed deserts, and waded rivers. It took on every distinct piece of country we could throw its way, and it never failed to make it to the other side.

            "The Black Knight" has also seen its share of city lights. It cruised the strip in Las Vegas, crossed the Golden Gate in San Francisco, rolled down Hollywood Blvd in LA, passed the Arch in St. Louis, fell in the shadow of the Space Needle in Seattle, and felt the cold wind of Chicago's East Side. He slept near homeless, prostitutes, and drugstore cowboys without a single complaint.

            In more recent years, the "Knight" and I have grown into a different relationship. We no longer hit the road for months at a time; instead our outings became weekend adventures. Instead of late nights in a gravel lot outside some old honky-tonk, we spent time parked near lonesome streams with the dwindling light of the campfire. The need for hauling musical equipment was replaced with the need for hauling camping gear, unruly canines, and old canoes. Life took on a new rhythm for both of us, and after all the miles and all the places, I guess it was just time.

            Today, as I clean out my old friend, I am constantly reminded of the numerous adventures we have had. Behind the bucket seat I find an old atlas with highlighted areas that Thomas made of each destination on our trip. I wipe the dust off the extension mirror I once used to maneuver my old pop-up camper that now sits as a memorial in my backyard; a constant reminder of days gone by. Wedged under the passenger seat is an old address book, as tattered and faded as the memories of the people and places it names. I pull out the "S" hook that has served as a hat rack for more hats than one man should own in a lifetime from the nameless hole just above my back glass. The glove box contains receipts for things from places that I can barely pronounce, and a few photos of friends and places that I still think about in my dreams.

            As I begin to wash and wax the outside, I am amazed to find the small reminders etched into the "Knights" exterior. The windshield still has the long, half-circle crack from the "mysterious pebble incident" in Seattle. The front bumper has a section about the size of a softball missing thanks to a curious coyote in Wyoming that decided to watch the pretty lights a bit too long. Both sides are lined with scratches from various camping missions in which I was certain there was "enough room". The lower corner of the tailgate still has the funny curl from backing into that redwood in California, not realizing that Thomas had left the tailgate down. The rails of the bed are dinged and scratched from years of shifting musical equipment, and the roof of the cab has two small spots rubbed to the shiny metal from miles of backwoods travel with the canoe strapped on.

            I am just finishing the final rinse when Jen steps outside. "Someone on the phone interested in the truck", she says. I dry my hands and she hands over the phone. The young man on the other line informs me that he had heard about my truck from a friend of Jen's and that he would like to take a look at it. He proceeds to ask the usual vehicular questions, and I am a bit less than cordial until he asks, "Think it will be OK to haul some music equipment"? Living in Music City, USA, I should not have been surprised by such a question, but I was. I asked the young man to elaborate, and he told me that he and a good friend were moving to Seattle. They had made some contacts in the music business, and needed to purchase a vehicle to get them there. They were going to rent a small Uhaul trailer to pull behind, load up the truck, and head west. "Basically" he said, "we need something to get us there, haul our stuff for gigs, and have to take to the mountains from time to time".

            As I stand beside my old friend, I envision him making one last trip back across the country. I think about him passing some of those old familiar mountains, crossing the big river, and cruising under those big skies one more time. Suddenly, I feel a sense of sadness, but overall, a sense of shame. I feel as though I have broken a wild stallion, and put him out to pasture like some damned-old quarterhorse. I had succumbed to the "civilized" life, and in the process, so did he. Like any good friend, he stuck by me, and by doing so, lost a bit of himself. I had no right to ask such a thing of something so free. The "Knight" is a metallic representation of everything that ever made this damn country interesting in the first place, and he deserves something better than just an occasional trip to the river or ride to a city park.

            As I think about the great injustice I have caused my dear friend, the young man chimes in after what is probably several silent seconds, "So, do you think it is up to it"? Suddenly, the sadness is exchanged for joy; I grin a bit, and say, "Kid, you have no idea". 

                                                                                                By Chad K. Slagle