To Fred Roper and his midgets

Fred Roper and his midgets were in the business before it was a business. They traveled the country in a couple of old wagons pulled by mules and pushed by the wind. My God, I remember the first time I met Fred in the Jesse James Café in Northfield, Minnesota. Nickel and dime times that they were, dusty roads and dreams blowing around our feet like old rags. He was a class act or as Jesse James might have said, “A straight shooter.”

Fred mentored me through those early years of boxcars and brine. My dreams back then were clear as train smoke and soot but Fred encouraged me, cracked the whip when he had to and never gave up on me. See, in this business there are no sliver spoons; just rusty nails and tin pails full of rag water and the ghosts of those who’ve gone before.

I’ve written a new song, to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” in memory of Fred and I plan to debut it at the Cheyenne show next week. My God have mercy on Fred and may He have mercy on those who, like me, have traveled that path on the dust of Fred Roper’s heels.

Campfire Song (To Fred)

It’s getting late
The fire is cold
It’s getting late
The fire is cold

But our hearts are still a glow
With a song, a friend and a campfire
Our hearts are still a glow

Oh, baked beans and brine
Baked beans and brine
When the sun refuses to shine
Oh, I’ll still be at the campfire
With baked beans and a cup of brine

Our hearts will dance
Our souls will shine
With our beans and our brine
When the show is over and we’re lonely
Our hearts will dance and shine

So long my friend
So long my friend
May the circus never end
And I’ll see you in that big top in the sky
Beneath the spotlights dusty glow
And a twinkle in your eye.

Omaha Blues

Life on the road is hard on a man--bitters and blue ruin, these tin can dives and paper torn lives make for poetry but not living. Omaha is an old town, past its prime, nickeled and dimed like some cheap hooker too lost to ask for directions.

We're introducing puppets into the show and Omaha will be the first run. Tammy, the former assistant goat tamer, will narrate the show from atop a trunk full of dead treasure. I'm not optimistic about the puppet show--unless they burn the puppets at end and get some naked girls to dance around the flames.

At a truck stop, parked along some barely used highway, an old trucker asked me why I'm still on the road. Perhaps I should retire; join the VFW, buy a couple of lawn chairs and cheap cigars and relive my faded glory. I told him that entertainings in my blood and I'd just as soon saw off my legs than retire. He started to object when I told him he should zip up his fly before a couple of unwanteds move in and set up shop.

Over a sour mash and just desserts,

Lanny

South Dakota Show

My God, it was one hell of a show last night in Rapid City. The riotous crowd nearly set Bubby the Clown's hair on fire with kerosene and cotton candy. I knew from the set-up it was going to be an interesting crowd. Three women seduced the midget twins, got them drunk and they disappeared from nearly 12-hours.

Needless to say my songs went over like a lead balloon. Even the usual crowd favorite, "One blade for everyone who has ever loved" sailed over this stellar crowd's head.

One beautiful thing about show business is that there's always tomorrow. Next week it's Wyoming and we'll let you know how it goes.

Drunk in Rapid City,

Lanny