We’re not Baptist, we’re German

 

So yeah my husband and I (I need a name to call him here – I don’t like “DH” because even though I am not a big baseball fan, I am pretty sure “DH” means “designated hitter” and he is not a baseball player) –

Man. I need a name for him. He just volunteered that his stepdaughters called him “Butthead” and I told him we are not doing that.

For now, he will be my marido until the day I am hit with inspiration.

Anyways. Marido and I went to see James McMurtry when we was in Milwaukee and he was great, as I knew he would be.

I was annoyed at Marido. He had asked me if I even knew who McMurtry was and I answered that I was the one who had lived in Austin when McMurtry first became popular while Marido was already in California and what did he even know?

I have had that cassette since the late ’80s! I told him. Ever since I lived with Rebecca in the house on Indian Trail!

Anyhow.

Aside from the fact that the bar sold more tickets than they had seats – we are not Aggies we are lazy we do not stand for the whole game we sit – and aside from the fact that there was a lady using one of the few available chairs as a place to put her foot, which, in a state where people refuse to zipper merge even when instructed by the DOT because it seems so darn rude, was shocking to me, it was fabulous.

But – I don’t think Mr. McMurtry understands The Ways of Wisconsin.

We sat (or stood) politely and listened politely. We were quiet. We were still.

He finally asked, “Is everyone in Wisconsin Baptist? There’s a dance floor but nobody’s on it.”

We’re not Baptist but we are funny.

A random audience person answered – without wasting words, which is a skill I have yet to master, “German.”

To which McMurtry replied, “You know, Baptists can impersonate Methodists (on the dance floor). I can’t tell the difference.”

 

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