We all have great memories of ‘the best party’.
I
had a party. It lasted 48 hours. I lost my socks, my dignity, two days
of my life, six ping-pong balls and four pounds. I broke my G-string,
achieved a new “personal best” and learned to dog paddle in a bathtub
full of beer.
The occasion for this
all-out, climb the walls, cowboy shindig was in celebration of my new
book. The party honored the world’s best cowboy cartoonists who
contributed cartoons for the book. We gathered under one roof some of
the most unique individuals in the world of Western philosophy and art.
Every one of them is a crossbred maverick of the finest kind.
Jerry
Palen from Cheyenne showed up and spent Friday night tryin’ to sell
everybody a Shetland pony, sight unseen. The price went up Saturday
after a phone call from his vet: it looked like the pony was gonna live.
In
certain circles I am considered a pretty fair guitar picker (places
like the 5th Amendment Bar and the Society for the Tone Deaf). But I was
relegated to playin’ second fiddle by my brothers, Steve and Bob, Jim
Schafer, and my new wife.
Under
the right circumstances I can be coerced into singin’ a few ditties (as
Champ Gross would say, “He’ll sing to anyone who’ll listen”). “First,” I
said modestly, “Let Herb Mignery sing one.” He wound up singin’ all
night to the delight of the crowd. Finally Herb said, “Let ol’ Bax sing
one!” I did and everybody went to the bathroom.
I
thought I could hold my own in story tellin’. But then Dick Spencer
started tellin’ about adobe submarines and his Indian relative. Running
Bare. Pretty soon Ace Reid was spinnin’ yarns about Lady Bird, Slim
Pickins, Hondo Crouch and his old Daddy who claimed to be the best
cattle thief in Texas. Todd, Tink and Andy each had more wild cow tales
to fill in the empty spaces. All in all, it was windier than a sack full
of whistlin’ lips.
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