Jiving Mr. Crazy

Perhaps I've mentioned Hick's penchant for stretching the truth a bit. Oh, in his mind, it's the absolute truth. Even though his truth has only a nodding acquaintance with reality.

Take, for instance, the time he called home excitedly from a business trip to brag that he was staying two doors down from the home of Betty, the famous author, who had just died. Several return calls and detailed interrogation revealed the fact that he was visiting the boss of his company who lived two doors down from the estate of Katherine Hepburn, who had passed away two years earlier.

You can understand why I take what Hick has to say with a grain of salt. And you don't have to be a doctor to recognize the basis for my hypertension. I make it a point to question Hick's declarations, lest I perceive an unintentional falsehood as truth. No need for Val to be a laughingstock if she repeats the story.

Tuesday evening, Hick took The Pony and me to a local catfish house. The meal was delectable, if one enjoys crispy farm-raised catfish with tasty tartar sauce, peanut-oil-fried chicken breasts with a dipping sauce that is a mutation of BBQ and sweet & sour sauce, breaded shrimp with cocktail sauce, hush puppies with honey butter, steak fries with tangy ketchup, cole slaw (COLE SLAW!!!), baked beans, dill pickles, bread-and-butter pickles, sliced onions, and mason jars full of icy beverages. Not that each of us ate everything. I prefer the chicken and fish, Hick likes the shrimp and fish, and The Pony is partial to hush puppies, fries, and shrimp. We did consume two platters of the all-you-can-eat servings.

Because that was not enough for Thevictorian family eaters, we then drove through a frozen custard stand for a single scoop. The Pony cried shenanigans, declaring that he had not been previously informed of the dessert run, and had eaten too much meal. Too bad, so sad. Cheaper custard for me and Hick.

It was on the way home, sweaving the back blacktop roads of Backroads, that the latest inane Hickversation floated throughout the cabin of T-Hoe.

Hick: "See that house? That's where that song 'A Horse With No Name' lived."

Val: "A song lived in a house?"

Hick: "No. The one that did the song."

Val: "I don't know who wrote 'A Horse With No Name.'"

Hick: "Sang it. The one that sang 'A Horse With No Name.' He just died."

Val: "Um. 'A Horse With No Name' was a hit for America. America lived there? That's not a person. That's a band."

Hick: "He was IN the band. That guy."

Val: "Thank goodness. Because I was afraid America just died."

Hick: "No. That one guy in the band, he wrote 'A Horse With No Name.'"

The Pony: "This is an old story. I've heard it a lot."

Val: "Well, I have not been with you two on your secret frozen custard runs. How long ago did you first hear this story? Don't tell me it's one of these guys who 'just died' about ten years ago. No wonder I don't know what you're talking about."

Hick: "No. He just died. I can't remember his name."

Yeah. Kind of like that horse. With no name.

My BFF Google says that the dude who wrote 'A Horse With No Name' is still alive. So I had to dig a little deeper. It seems that what Hick meant to say was that one of the guys in the band America, who had a big hit called 'A Horse With No Name' died three years ago, in that house we passed in the town that has a catfish restaurant and a frozen custard stand.

Who knew that Hick was a reader of The Rolling Stone?