Lyle on the back porch

Jesus. Sitting on my back porch with my reading lamp and a can of Yuengling. Listening to Lyle Lovett singing “Just the Morning”. Not bad boyos. Not bad at all.

My cat is out here trying desperately to kill a rabbit. I don’t have the heart to tell her to give it up. She’s a tenacious little bugger. But at this point the rabbit is clearly mocking her, making mad dashes to and fro before escaping under the fence. My cat was not right on the day we brought her home. Something about being part of a litter that was collectively dropped on their heads. Didn’t get all the details. No matter. Some two years later she needs about 6 months of therapy to fit into anyone’s definition of a house pet. We keep her around because we feel responsible for letting her out of that cardboard box in the first place. Admittedly this ain’t the easiest place to shit in your own house. Plus, as I always say, you can’t choose your family.

Flashes of heat lightning caress the sky. No sign of rain behind it. Sky just finished burning off the red. Sailor’s delight. Lyle onto “I’ve Been to Memphis” now. Sometimes you’re up all night because you couldn’t match the evening with the right songs. Try some Lyle if you have any idea what I mean.

This porch is what sold the house for me. So what if it was covered in tile when we bought it and was so rotted that my wife put her foot through the floor a few months after we moved in. We had no way of knowing such mundane details. So we had to rip it up and replace it, at a cost that seemed obscene then and almost comically egregious now. But what the hell. It’s guaranteed “for life” and requires “no maintenance”. Telling me that is like offering me a night with Halle Berry for a roll of quarters. Sign where? Ok then.

I regret it not at all. That stupid cat is sitting in the middle of the yard pretending she’s being filmed for a PBS Nature episode….acting like some badass Cheetah. Her tormentor has apparently packed it in for the night. So here she comes. She’s now sitting on top of the mini fridge, guarding the beer I guess. I told you she was family. I attract nothing but weirdos. Friends. Women. Cats. Name it.

Lyle. “She’s Already Made Up Her Mind”. Gorgeous and deadly. Lyle is not for the children. They’d be up all night crying and pissing the bed.

My daughter is 16 years old today. This makes me feel like I’m 20 different people. I’m so proud of the young lady she’s become. Yet still I wake up shivering in the middle of the night wondering if this world is worthy of her. Lyle singing “North Dakota”. “They look across the border / to learn the ways of love”. I feel like crying. And I’m not even sad. “If you love me say I love you / if you love me take my hand.” Who is gonna watch after my baby girl when I’m not around?

Storm. So much for my weather forecasting. In North Korea the little dwarf would have me flogged for such incompetence. But the porch is covered. You think I’d buy a home based on some slab of floor with the sky for a ceiling? Hah. This is serious business out here. I feel safe amongst the savages. Even vertical awnings to keep the prying eyes away. Money is no object. Put in on the card dammit!

Cat seems much less brave now with the rain pissing down and the wind howling. She’d shame the shit out of PBS. At the moment she’s hiding under my chair. The perfect moment for the rabbit to attack methinks. Dumbass cat might get a taste of the fear.

Well that should do it for now. Lyle is singing the blues. All my love is gone. Surely that’s a good place to stop. Was talking “country music” the other night. For me the list is short. Lyle. Yoakam. Haggard. Willie. And some dead guys. Johnny Cash and Hank. I don’t go much further. I was told Tim McGraw was the real deal because “his ass is so tight a quarter would bounce off of it”. They were talking about how he looked in jeans, not how he is to the list above as my deranged cat is to Cheetah’s on PBS. (on the other hand…Lyle was banging Julia Roberts on talent alone…don’t you dare try this at home)

If I Had a Boat. These 3 minutes are enough for the hall of fame.

And so it goes. Blame it on the fear.

In a bit.

–tf