3:15 a.m. October 25, 2006 - The Compound, somewhere east of San Diego - Tank and I are awake tonight. As it is every night, he's barking into the pitch black canyon protecting those who sometimes feed him when in reality, they're the ones who should be belled - alerting everyone that approaches to check their wallets and roll up the window on the driver's side.

Me? I've had insomnia since day one. The next night I sleep straight through will be the first. We're night owls, me and Tank. And Dick Cheney. It's no stretch to picture him hanging upside down from the rod in his bedroom closet. Dressed in his suit, his eyes blankly staring straight ahead, never blinking, watching us all through the mind's eye.

Tank moves like a typewriter carriage, left to right across the road. He's relocated closer to the Compound, having seen the light go on in the Bunker. He knows I'm up. Without waking the other two, I step outside and scratch behind the monster's ears. He's a little over a year old and his head is the size of a bowling ball and weighs as much. Once he knows Sam and Maggie aren't going to come flying around the corner, he sits down next to me, seemingly grateful that he can stop barking for a few minutes.

They're up across the road; cars come and go throughout the night. Having tortured a series of landlords and other tenants in a run of attic apartments and other illegal sub-lets, I'm pretty sure I know what's going on over there but as long as there are no explosions or flashfires, I'm not too concerned. Besides in about three hours when I know they're coming down and trying to fall asleep, I'll back the Black Pearl to the end of the drive and let the car alarm go for about 30 minutes; a steady honking pulse to let them know that I know.

While the Pearl serves as a 2 ton alarm clock, I'll be packing up for a road trip to Tucson and then Tombstone. Tomorrow is the 125th Anniversary of the Gunfight at the OK Corral. The powers that be here at Great Hoboes have forced me to cover the events…something about "in exchange for those good reviews" on some records I may or may not have recorded. We haggled over the expense account - determined there wasn't one - and left it at that.

7:30 a.m. - If you're going to do a gig, you have to do it right. Some people travel light; I've never subscribed to that theory. Three doc boxes of books, maps, newspaper clippings, seltzer, fruit, and an elaborate headdress handed down to me from a giftshop near the Grand Canyon. One box of cables, batteries, blank cassettes, knives, and digital camera. CDs, a compass, tax bill to pay in person, and a laptop go in the front seat. Next to the collection of hats and Halloween gloves of course. With a few stops in El Cajon, I'm on the road by noon.

4:40 p.m. - Love's Truck Stop, Casa Grande, AZ - The placard over the gas pump is advertising tiger and leopard throw rugs for $29 apiece. Though life is cheap out here in the Wild West, even I have to assume the rugs are faux; mere imitations of the great beasts housed in zoos and on cereal boxes. Much to my dismay, they're out of the rugs but have stuffed versions lying across stacks of soda and motor oil. I know what will happen if I bring one of them back to the Compound: Sam will hump it into submission before Maggie tears its head off in a fit of jealousy or boredom, depending on how vivid one's imagination is. The register jockey assures me a new shipment will come in within the next couple of days so I should swing by on my way back to San Diego. That won't happen. I have a routine I adhere to each trip down here and this station is not on the return trip. Perhaps the one in Gila Bend will be stocked… Anyway, I'm less than an hour from the Congress and getting into the parking lot before 6 p.m. will give me something to brag about the minute someone brings up the travel distance and time. It's just under 400 miles from the Compound to the Congress and assuming no trailers hauling manure are jackknifed on 10, I get there in 6 hours or less. That's if I travel alone or with an adult. Kids and alcoholics add at least an hour.

5:45 p.m. Suite 217 Hotel Congress, Tucson, AZ - No need to go into my history with the Congress but let's just say that when I eventually buy it, there are a few rooms that'll be hermetically sealed off.

6:00 p.m. The Tap Room, Tucson, AZ - Which came first, the Tap Room, The Hotel Congress, Tucson, or the Arizona Territory? It's one of those questions that one gnaws on when hunched over the bar for 4 or 5 hours. At least it's one I've mulled over more than once. It wouldn't surprise me if the owners of the Tap Room saw the potential and built a bunch of rooms over the place, allowing certain patrons the option of crawling up the stairs on all fours…not that we know anyone that's happened to. Twice.

10:00 p.m. Still in the Tap Room - In a fit of one upsmanship, it seems yours truly has let his future plans for the state of Arizona slip. Yes, it's common knowledge amongst some of my closer associates that I'm going to: a) buy the Congress, and b) be Mayor of Tombstone in 2020. Even though it's a forgone conclusion, it's sometimes best not to let the natives in on your plans until the last possible moment. Just ask Captain Cook.

They all laugh - some a little harder than others. The bartender though, he realizes the gravity of my statement, slurred or not. "Next one's on me," he says… then wonders if I'd frown on him giving away my booze. Too late. I'm sliding the pint glass down the bar somewhere in his vicinity. Besides, he's got 14 years to look for another place to ply his trade. I grab his wrist when he returns and look him in the eyes…or at least in the vicinity. "Son, you'll always have a job as long as I own this place. Got that?" I let go and slap the top of his knuckles. "Frr life."

10:30 p.m. - Seems the Tap Room is closing early tonight…or at least that's what they're telling me even though I'm the only one being walked to the door. That's fine, I need some fresh air and when I say 'fresh air' I mean something that doesn't resemble tailpipe exhaust from a '53 Ford. As one of the last bastions of toughness in America, you can still smoke in bars in Arizona and in honor of every other state where it's banned, they've made it a crusade to represent. Ever had nicotine flavored popcorn? Better get down here quick. There's not one but two propositions on the ballot this year: Prop. 201 which bans smoking in every indoor public space and a set number of feet from a doorway, and Prop. 206 which bans smoking everywhere except in bars and restaurants that serve alcohol. (It would be up to the establishment to decide if they allow it.) Now I'm not a big fan of pulling up to the bar at 10 a.m. only to get a cloud of smoke in my face, but hell, it's 10 a.m.. No smoking in gyms and elementary schools I can get behind, but I'm not doing aerobics or whatever they're called with a pint glass in my shaking paw. I'd vote for 206 if it wasn't heavily sponsored by the tobacco lobby, to the tune of over $5.7 million from what I've read in the local papers. Sorry, can't support anything those guys are connected with. With my vision and lungs clearing, I wander off to the Grill where every meal is an adventure.

1:30 a.m. October 26, 2006, Suite 217 - Time for the Club Congress to start tossing out belligerent frat boys. It's a time-honored tradition; look for the sideways ballcap and inevitably you'll find a smoothfaced horse's ass who's had one too many PBRs and is having motor skill issues. He'll be half embarrassed, half confused and one hundred percent in need of a serious ass kicking. In past years, I've: poured water on them from above, dropped an empty beer bottle out of my window, and one time, calmly paraded down the stairs, across the lobby, out to Corleone, grabbed my trusty "dispute resolution tool" (Louisville Slugger) and calmly told the bouncer that if he didn't shut up the kid screaming across the street, that I'd do it and he could call the rescue wagon and a dentist. He apologized and dealt with the lad in a much more professional manner than I would have, or he deserved. He's probably a corporate defense attorney now. As a result of the salmon and cream cheese omelette, I'm up anyway and will be until everyone's wandered off, finally letting go of the night, not realizing there'll be another one tomorrow…and the day after that. Kids…

5:30 a.m. Room 217 - The buses and trucks get started early on the corner of Congress and 5th. It's the lesser of two evils when you stay at the Congress. The rooms on the north side of the building are over the clubs; the ones on the south and east are over the street. All of them are within 100 yards of what is probably the world's busiest railroad track. I know people who've never heard a train pass. They've never stayed here.

Doesn't matter, I'm up anyway. Today's the big day, the 125th Anniversary of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Or the Shootout at the O.K. Corral. Or the Murder at the O.K. Corral. As with most U.S. history, there seems to a bit of discrepancy in the facts and what makes for a good - or self-serving story.

For the average person, the story goes like this: Wyatt, Morgan, and Virgil Earp, assisted by their friend John 'Doc' Holliday took it upon themselves to disarm the Clantons and McLaurys, two sets of brothers who owned ranches outside of Tombstone and may or may not have been rustlers and stage coach robbers, depending on who you spoke to. Tension had been building for weeks between the groups though not so much that City Marshall Virgil Earp couldn't play poker all night with Tom McLaury, Ike Clanton, and Sheriff Johnny Behan, the game breaking up only hours before the gunfight.

----------Wyatt Earp----------	----------Doc Holliday, 1882----------	-----Won't be home for dinner-----

Wyatt, Virgil, Morgan, and Doc met up on the corner of Allen and 4th, walked one block to Fremont, took a left and walked down to the rear entrance of the O.K. Corral where they met up with Tom and Frank McLaury, Ike and Billy Clanton, and Billy Claiborne, the Pete Best of the gang. Supposedly, the gang was on their way out of town, realizing Ike was causing more trouble than they needed. There's confusion as to whether Sheriff Behan said that he had disarmed the cowboys, or that he'd "tried". Either way, Virgil- as marshal tried to disarm them, failed, and gunfire erupted. Ike, who had been relieved of his pistol and rifle when Virgil had tried to cave his skull in a few hours earlier, lurched forward and grabbed Wyatt's arm saying he was unarmed. Wyatt threw him to the side wherein Ike kept running for a few blocks, to be arrested a little later. Wyatt's first shot got Frank McLaury in the stomach. Tom McLaury had trouble getting his rifle out of his saddle scabbard due to the horse getting spooked by the gunfire. Holliday went right after him, hitting him under the right armpit and sending him into the street. Unknown credit goes to whoever hit Billy Clanton in the chest, then wrist, then stomach. No one seems to have told Billy about these minor invasions as he switched gun hands and kept firing from a crouched position. Frank McLaury - now sporting a hole in his stomach - tried to hide behind his horse as he moved onto Fremont Street. The horse (wanting no part of history in the making) took off leaving Frank squatting in the street. Doc Holliday chased after him. Frank stood up, raised his pistol and said, "I've got you now."

As usual there are conflicting quotes attributed to Holliday at this point. Considering the scenario, both are still pretty cool. "Blaze away. You're a daisy if you have," is what the Nugget (local newspaper) quoted. "You're a good one if you have," is the other, attributed to people who were actually there. Mine would be, "I've soiled myself. Again." Frank wasn't quizzed on it as after he did in fact shoot Holliday in the pistol pocket - grazing his hip, he staggered across the street picking up a little extra weight from the bullet from Morgan's gun which ventilated the right side of his skull, and one from Doc which hit him in the chest.

The "good guys" didn't get off scot-free either though. On top of Doc's wound, Morgan got a clean shot through the calf, and Morgan got the worst of it (though the McLaurys might argue that) with a shot through one shoulder which chipped a vertebra before passing through the other shoulder.

The entire affair lasted less than thirty seconds. But…those thirty seconds have generated a cottage industry of tourism, movies, books, coffee cups…and grown men getting to dress up in some crazy ass gear year round.

(In a footnote: the Earps and Doc were tried for the crime of shooting an unarmed man and killing three: go figure. The preliminary hearing went on for a month and the prosecution had a strong case…up until Ike Clanton was cross-examined. It seems that during the trial, Ike was being treated for "neuralgia of the head". The treatment was a solution of cocaine and water. Ike was pretty peppy and full of himself through the two days of questioning (though rumors that he wasn't hungry have gone unsupported), and completely contradicted everything he'd said during the defense's portion of the case. The afternoon Ike finished pissing away his case, he and Behan - Sheriff Behan - secured a $500 loan together. After all of that, the Earps and Holliday were found innocent and avoided a murder trial. The damage was done though. The public - never ones to behave like mindless sheep - had been following the case in the local rag which had a grudge against the Earps and instead of getting the Bernie Goetz treatment, they got the Joey Buttafuco.)

10:30 a.m. - Benson, AZ - I knew going in that if I didn't fuel up before I entered Tombstone's city limits, I'd be screwed so I popped into Papouli's for some grub. I sat in the non-smoking section (surprisingly empty) and went through the local paper. Seems someone was trying to sneak a 5,000 home development into an area originally zoned for 500 homes. Now if you've ever been to Benson, even 500 houses would seem obscene; there are only about 5000 people in the whole region. But…being about an hour from downtown Tucson, it wasn't too far-fetched to see someone envisioning a bedroom community vibe. I asked the waitress what she thought. She wasn't too keen on it but seemed resigned to the inevitability.

Well I'm not. I used to know some kids who used the thinly veiled excuse that they were stopping urban sprawl by robbing construction sites of materials. Usually it involved stealing sheets of plywood and 2x4s…which coincidentally were the same ingredients in skateboard ramps. Now 5000 homes would make one hell of a skate ramp, but if that's what I have to do…

11:30 a.m. 4th and Allen Streets, Tombstone, AZ - Three hours to go until the actual event is re-enacted, sans bullets, bloodshed, and anyone who actually saw it go down. I've actually been here once before on October 26th. Standing in Boothill Grave Yard, the new girlfriend who was still on probation, was gamely listening to me ramble about previous visits when I happened to notice the date on the Clanton and McLaury graves as she snapped away. "Holy shit, today's the 26th. How cool is that?" Not very, judging by her arched eyebrows, peaking over the top of the camera. The fact that I was driving and we were 70 miles from Tucson, and 500 from where her car was parked, narrowed her options. We went into town, hit all of the shops, had drinks at the Crystal Palace then wandered down the sidewalk to the Corral. Since it was only the 117th Anniversary, the luminaries were few and we secured a spot against the adobe wall to watch the re-enactment. Being the shy type, I struck up a conversation with a woman standing close by. She said she'd been coming for years on the anniversary. "Anything strange happen?" "Sure."

Well, the 125th was a different affair. Events had been going on all week, mostly surrounding cooked meat. Safe to say at least a thousand people were milling about, mouths agape. Fashion ran the gamut from "straight off the tour bus, Day 6" to "no one told me it was 2006, not 1881." With temperatures in the low 80s, I sensed that we were going to get some real authentic odors emanating from under the full length dusters, frocks, vests, and wide brimmed hats. I walked the length of Allen Street and back trying to avoid the inevitable…

The Crystal Palace has been around since the late 19th Century. It started out as the Golden Eagle Brewery where Wyatt and crew would run a faro game. [It appears that the one book I didn't bring to Suite 217 has the history of the Crystal Palace. Look it up yourself.] Aside from the flat screen tv discreetly tucked in the corner, and the modern amplification stacked on the stage, one could easily believe it was 1881. Granted the beer's $3 and the other customers are sprouting cellphones and cameras, but that's just nitpicking. My first visit to the Palace was in the summer of 95. 95 degrees that is, but it was cool in the Palace and I've never let the climate dictate my alcohol consumption. I went with a buddy whose uncle was sheriff at the time. We didn't hook up with him unfortunately (unfortunately upon arrival, fortunately six hours later) but did walk into a wedding reception with the theme being 1880 period garb, music, and dance. We were the only two other people there and after a few beers in the heat, the surreal factor cranked up considerably. We were dressed like two poor boys in the record biz while all around us waltzed immaculately groomed couples, manners and all. I hadn't seen someone curtsy or bow since I had it beaten into me in 4th grade gym class in Coweta. Just when I started to worry about my horse tied up outside, I had to go to the ATM. Reality, I curse you.

Ah, Greta. Greta had drawn the short straw two years ago when I brought some musicians down there as kind of an 'end of recording' celebration. The bar at the Palace is about a ¼ mile long and as is my nature, we went as far away from the front door as we could. Poor Greta had the unfortunate luck to be down there as well. And, considering it was 10 a.m., had no one else to wait on, leaving her trying to figure us out. Let's just say, the tab was $140 two hours later and the foreign producer was sitting outside on the wooden sidewalk, head between his knees, waiting for the Chuck Wagon to open so he could choke down a couple of tacos.

Luckily two years had passed and I'm sure she'd seen more than her fair share of jackasses and lightweight foreigners. "Hey, you're the guys from San Diego that made a record right?" I was fucked. "Where's your buddy with the fake accent? Wine spritzers, right?"

I explained that he'd been deported and that I was traveling solo this time. It was tough finding a seat at the bar even at that hour. It was a good crowd though; a solid mix of "re-enactors" and tourists alike. A few of us media types trolled the edges, some with cameras, some with pad and pen. Greta and the other bartender were working the length of the bar stopping just long enough to lean over in an attempt to catch some quip they'd no doubt heard a thousand times before. I squeezed between two parties and ordered a Dos Equis. "Better bring a second one, it's going to be a long day." Greta nodded in agreement, no doubt hoping I wouldn't be in the same spot at the end of it.

My journalistic responsibilities overwhelmed my barfly tendencies, sending me back out onto the dirt of Allen Street. A young lad by the name of Joey Dillon was performing a rather intricate set of tricks with two handguns all the while entertaining the crowd with his quips. One of his handlers noticed I was making notes and sauntered over.

"Couldn't help noticing you were scribblin' in that pad…you a writer or something?"

"Jack Wood, freelancing for an online magazine."

"Oh yeah? Which one?"

"Great Hoboes dot com."

"Don't know that one."

"Read a lot of them, do you?"

"I see your point. Well, what do you think of Joey? He's the World Champion six gun handler."

"Pretty cool, seems to have the crowds' attention. Then again, I guess any guy swinging two guns around on a crowded street would have that effect, huh?"

Just then, two dandies strolled over, one carrying a big carpetbag. "Would you like a free video of Joey?"

"Who wouldn't? Thanks."

The one reached into the bag and withdrew a DVD of Mr. Dillon, handing to me with his card. "We're the producers of the film, work out of Phoenix."

"Nice to meet all of you. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Sure is…" Not wanting to stray from the job at hand, the other one piped in, "so you a writer?"

"I'm doing a piece on the 125th for a magazine."

"Jack here writes for an online magazine…what was the name again?"

"Great hoboes dot com. Here I'll write it down for you. The piece should be up by November first." (Ha!)

Just then Joey was finishing up his performance. "You want to get that signed by Joey? Might as well, the opportunity is upon us."

"That it is. Sure, why not." We strolled over to the tent/merchandise mart where Joey was catching his breath and getting his bearings, having just spent the past ten minutes tossing 12 lbs. of steel all around, stretching and spinning in the noon sun.

"Joey, Jack here's a writer for a magazine…doing a piece on today's events."

"Nice to meet you, I saw a homeless guy spin a water pistol like that one day on the 2 train going downtown but he had nothing on you. Then again, he said the aliens were making him do it so I don't know how much actual control he retained."

Joey was sizing me up the whole time he was pulling the tray card out of the DVD case. I handed him a Sharpie which he used to inscribe the following passage, "Jack God Bless? Joey Dillon" (hard to read the sig and judging from the looks I was getting, could have been an alias). I told him to keep the Sharpie as I knew he'd need it, judging by the gang of people heading his way. I didn't notice the question mark until a few beers/hours later.

1:30 p.m. - Crystal Palace - I needed to regroup before the big event now an hour away. Having just spent the last hour watching Luke Roy perform rope tricks (I think that's his name. He disappeared into the crowd like my prom date.), I then waited in the shade to see if anyone wandered into a steaming pile of horse crap on Allen (no one did though my camera was at the ready), I was in need of re-hydration the Dos Equis way.

How's it going out there?" Greta was still moving like a pinball behind the bar.

"It seems God pretty much dictates spinning guns and ropes from what I can gather. I wonder if he gets credit when the gun goes off."

"He would if I was on the trigger."

"That's why I like you Greta. That and you didn't throw me out when I walked in." I nursed a pair of beers while a young tattooed gent knocked back no less than 6 shots of Johnny Walker Red, never speaking to anyone - not even Greta. He'd just pick up the shotglass, put it close to her side of the bar and nod. She'd fill it, walk away to serve another and repeat. At first I thought about striking up a conversation but quickly surmised it wouldn't go anywhere and didn't want to spend the rest of the day wondering if I'd made a friend or foe.

2:10 p.m. - I wandered across the street to Big Nose Kate's Saloon. Definitely more of a locals hangout than the Palace, Big Nose Kate's bar staff dress in contemporary clothing while the Ladies of the Crystal Palace are always done up in period outfits. The waitresses at Kate's are in bustiers and hoop skirts though, which can be confusing if you're in a time warp frame of mind. There was a guy on guitar singing Buffet songs and a few women hanging all over one of the law enforcement officers positioned at the back of the bar. They were taking turns posing with him, some of them with their hands on his chest. He sat there behind his mirrored glasses letting it happen but not really letting on whether he was enjoying it or just putting up with it. I got lucky and sat next to some older gent who was making the most of his annual vacation and whooping it up, cracking jokes. He and the bartender swapped a few before I chimed in.

"Why are cowgirls bowlegged? 'Cause cowboys leave their hats on when they eat."

"How is a bad rancher like a prostitute? Neither one can keep their calves together."

My turn, "What's the hardest part about sex with a ten year old? Getting the blood out of your clown suit." Both spun away from me and remained silent for a few moments. It was 2:25 anyway so I finished my beer and tipped out onto the wooden sidewalk.

The crowd on the four corners of Allen and 4th was now straining their necks in all directions though the real historians were looking south on Allen as that was the direction Holliday and the Earps came from on their walk towards the Corral. Some couple - oblivious in their world - asked me, "What's everyone waiting for?" There was no time to explain as the commotion in the crowd meant the March Was On.

Even positioned on the elevated sidewalk on the west side of Allen, I couldn't get a great glimpse of the four of them as they made their way through the crowd. There was a parting of the Unwashed Masses but they quickly closed ranks behind the actors and everyone dropped in step, heading east on 4th and north on Fremont to the Corral. I ran down Allen to 3rd, coming up on the north flank of the stampede. I tried to position myself on the north side of the gate to the Corral but the Phoenix and Tucson news trucks and reporters had managed to cordon off the corner leaving me to scramble across traffic (which for some reason hadn't been halted for 5 minutes of History) and set up in a lesser Grassy Knoll-esque vantage point. There was the sound of gunfire and cheers (gotta love Americans) and then it was over. I've had sneezes that lasted longer. The crowd in the street milled about, not sure what to do. Even less organized was the law enforcement who was so swept up in the events (and who wouldn't be?) that I was sure someone would go down under a set of Michelins. I half-expected Johnny Walker to stroll out of the Corral blowing smoke off the tip off his Colt .45 totally unaware that it was a re-enactment and not four dudes looking to off him.

2:35 p.m. - Corner of 3rd and Fremont (Highway 80) - As luck would have it I ended up in front of the William Brown Holster Co., a mecca for fancy shirts and loose bullets. A few years earlier, my friend songwriter Sean Smith and I were down here for a little inspiration and organ damage, and had stumbled (literally) onto Fremont ending up in front of Brown's. He fell in love with a shirt but due to the hour, was unable to purchase and/or otherwise acquire it. He did reel off a series of photos, one of which is attached here. Not sure which shirt it was, and not having the photos with me, it led to the following series of calls:

"Hey, I'm in Tombstone in that store with the shirt you wanted two years ago. Remember which one it was?"

"Nope but I have the camera with me so I'll scroll through the pics and get back to you."

"Okay, but they close in 3 hours and I don't think they're comfortable with me haunting the racks for that long. Nope, the woman behind the counter next to the dog just shook her head 'no'. Get back to me asap." I hung up and assured her he'd call back. In the meantime we both agreed I should check out the Bella Union's new bar across the street. Her tight grimace told me she couldn't wait for my return.

3:00 p.m. - Brown's Holster Co. - After two calls - one made from the Bella Union's mens room - I was back at Brown's flipping through the racks. It was a quest now. Cell phone pictures were met with 'not it' and 'you're joking'. We gave up and agreed that if he came across the picture, I'd contact Barbara and see if it was in stock. Feeling a sense of retail obligation and swelling of national pride, I made up for my invasion and purchased a snazzy shirt made out of the U.S. flag with the words "Tombstone, AZ" discreetly stitched over the pocket. Of course when the shirt itself is a series of red and while stripes with a large blue field full of white stars on the right shoulder quadrant, even a picture of the Pope banging an altar boy would come across discreet. For good measure I also purchased a single bullet…just in case.

3:30 p.m. - Crystal Palace - The Palace was packed by now. I squeezed through the crowd and slid sideways between two couples who were nursing light beers. Greta was working on pure adrenalin by this point but the brass tip spittoon was overflowing and the atmosphere was very upbeat and noisy. "You should see the shirt I bought!" I yelled to her across the mahogany. "Okay…" She wasn't as excited as I had hoped but I also knew she couldn't play favorites with the crowd. "Two Dos Equis, please. " Aren't you an Ambassador for Maker's Mark?' "Yes, but I have a lot of driving and work to do. Tonight," I shouted. It was true I am a Maker's Mark Ambassador (#35007) and though there have been times when I've had to pull out that trump card today wouldn't be one of those times. Jesus, I start in on that stuff and I could end up in Bisbee, or worse, at the Gadsen in Douglas, trying to smuggle my brown brothers across the border. No, they didn't need that kind of help, not today at least.

I finished both beers, tipped the fair maiden Greta, and after being assured that she didn't need me to go out and get her something to eat (her lunch consisted of pretzels), bid a fond farewell. I strolled as far as the Bird Cage Theatre - my journalistic senses were tingling - but it turned out it was my bladder which found relief in the public restrooms at the south end of Allen. I worked my way over to Fremont again, wandering by the Town Hall, knowing someday I would be reporting to work there as Mayor. I jumped into the Pearl and sped off to Tucson, passing Boot Hill and the side road which leads to my 40 acre spread 20 miles east: future home of the Fortress of Solitude, current home to the Unfinished Cabin. No time to check on the spread this visit. Besides, I have to give advance warning to my neighbor Tom who has a tendency to fire overhead if you cut across his property unannounced.

2 a.m., October 27, 2006 - Suite 217, Hotel Congress - The kids are in the street again, squeezing the last bit of the night out. I've got headphones on and No Show George Jones is lamenting the loss of a good woman as I slam these keys in a syncopated rhythm. I'll be at it for a few more hours, falling onto the bed just as the buses and trucks get going. By that point, I'll be so exhausted that I won't hear them. I already told the front desk that I won't need any room service until checkout two days later. I've been making the hotel bed since the first time I stayed in one, more out of guilt than an obsessive compulsion. At least that's what I tell myself. I got the bartender to sell me a six pack a few hours ago and they're resting in the ice bucket at my elbow. None of them will live to see the sun rise.

…so what does all of this mean? From the size of the Anniversary crowd (and every other day of the year), it appears there are many who cling to a sense of history, albeit a skewed version of facts and events. There have been at least 4 movies made about the events and characters involved with the OK Corral - two in back to back years in the '90s. (And just for the record, the Kurt Russell/ Val Kilmer version seems to be the winner in the merchandise and promotion war. Plenty of "I'll be your huckleberry" t-shirts and coffee mugs fill the shelves on Allen Street.) Just as people don colonial gear in Williamsburg, and Enterprise shirts and ears at Star Trek conventions, there are plenty of people who will strap on spurs and dusters and walk the streets of the Old West, if only for a day - or for three shows daily. Countless tourists from around the world descend on places like Tombstone annually. The sense that "it was better then" or that "it was a simpler time" betray the reality that time has a habit of erasing. Take a stroll through Boot Hill or one of the old cemeteries in places like Boston, Newport, R.I., or downtown Manhattan and see the graves of wrongly hanged men, or 8 year old children. Sure it's fun to have a bartender slide a glass of beer down the bar to you, but maintain that timewarp and shower once a week or use an outhouse in 110 degree temperatures. Can't have it both ways, or can we?

Hell, what do I know? I'm just a whiskey ambassador running for Mayor in 2020…the guy wearing the stars and stripes.

- Posted to the Great Hoboes of New York on May 12, 2007