Country Cowboy Quotes

Puttin’ on a cowboy hat & a pair of boots doesn’t make you country; Like puttin’ on a ball gown & glass heels won’t make me Cinderella.

Why, aren’t you just about as sweet as syrup on a sundae? I sure would appreciate that, ma’am.” He winked. “How’d you like ta stroll the deck of this fine ship with me and watch the sunset? I need a purty girl to put her arm around me and steady this bow-legged cowboy as he finds his sea legs.” I raised an eyebrow and affected a southern accent. “Why, I think you’re a pullin’ my leg there, Texas. You’ve had your sea legs a lot longer than I have.” He rubbed the stubble on his face. “You might be right at that. Well then, how about you taggin’ along to keep me warm?” “It’s about eighty degrees.” “Shoot, you’re a smart one, you are. Then how ‘bout I jes say that a feller can get pretty lonesome by hisself in a strange country and he’d like to keep compn’y with you fer a while longer.

When a country goes to war, it acts like a sociopath. It sends people like me out in the woods to do the most evil things we can think of, but everybody else pretends like they're on the side of the angels. The reality is, if the angels want to win, it takes the devil to succeed.

erhaps it was the difference in age between the countries—America with its expansive youth, building all those drive-in movie theaters and cowboy restaurants; Italians living in endless contraction, in the artifacts of generations, in the bones of empires.

Seriously? A cowboy hat? Was he trying to slay her? What was next? Cuddling puppies against his shirtless chest?

This is a love story,” Michael Dean says, ”but really what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery or the chase, or the nosey female reporter who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely, the serial murder loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets, or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice-trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk. Just as the housewives live for catching glimpses of their own botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors and the rocked out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on hookbook. Because this is reality, they are all in love, madly, truly, with the body-mic clipped to their back-buckle and the producer casually suggesting, “Just one more angle.”, “One more jello shot.”. And the robot loves his master. Alien loves his saucer. Superman loves Lois. Lex and Lana. Luke loves Leia, til he finds out she’s his sister. And the exorcist loves the demon, even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace. As Leo loves Kate, and they both love the sinking ship. And the shark, god the shark, loves to eat. Which is what the Mafioso loves too, eating and money and Pauly and Omertà. The way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar and sometimes loves the other cowboy. As the vampire loves night and neck. And the zombie, don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool, has anyone ever been more love-sick than a zombie, that pale dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms. His very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains. This, too is a love story.

The American idea of sexuality appears to be rooted in the American idea of masculinity. Idea may not be the precise word, for the idea of one’s sexuality can only with great violence be divorced or distanced from the idea of the self. Yet something resembling this rupture has certainly occurred (and is occurring) in American life, and violence has been the American daily bread since we have heard of America. This violence, furthermore, is not merely literal and actual but appears to be admired and lusted after, and the key to the American imagination. All countries or groups make of their trials a legend or, as in the case of Europe, a dubious romance called ‘history.’ But no other country has ever made so successful and glamorous a romance out of genocide and slavery; therefore, perhaps, the word I am searching for is not idea, but ideal. The American IDEAL, then, of sexuality appears to be rooted in the American IDEAL of masculinity. This ideal has created cowboys and Indians, good guys and bad guys, punks and studs, tough guys and softies, butch and f****t, black and white. It is an ideal so paralytically infantile that is is virtually forbidden—as an unpatriotic act—that the American boy evolve into the complexity of manhood.

If she’d had any doubts he was a real deal country boy, they disappeared when he unabashedly stripped down to nothing—the sun had kissed his arms to mid-bicep, although his torso wasn’t without a faint tan. She’d thought lazily that maybe he had a pond. She’d like to go skinny dipping with him. Leap onto his back and wrap her legs around his lean hips. Hold on to his broad shoulders and press her naked breasts into his back and drift into the cool water together. As he opened his button-fly jeans, revealing snug briefs underneath, she’d whispered for him to stop. He was hard and sinewy in all the right places, with shadows and valleys she wanted to explore with her mouth and hands and eyes, but her touch first went to the line where dark faded to light on his arm, neatly following the curve of his muscles. “Nice farmer’s tan.

A cowboy’s hands are as strong as steel, as tough as leather, but soft enough to touch a butterfly’s wing and the skin of a woman without disturbing the beauty of either.

It’s as if our bodies know the secret that we don’t wish to admit yet.

For the last twenty minutes, having something to do, he had become himself again, had come to earth from that unsafe country of the brain

You aren't a nice cowboy. Are you going to break my heart so bad that I have to write a country song about it?

My fingers are wet. I haven’t even got passed your panties yet.

Big and little they went on together to Molalla, to Tuska, to Roswell, Guthrie, Kaycee, to Baker and Bend. After a few weeks Pake said that if Diamond wanted a permanent traveling partner he was up for it. Diamond said yeah, although only a few states still allowed steer roping and Pake had to cover long, empty ground, his main territory in the livestock country of Oklahoma, Wyoming, Oregon and New Mexico. Their schedules did not fit into the same box without patient adjustment. But Pake knew a hundred dirt road shortcuts, steering them through scabland and slope country, in and out of the tiger shits, over the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts, into early darkness and the first storm laying down black ice, hard orange-dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog, two redheaded cowboys moving a house that filled the roadway and Pake busting around and into the ditch to get past, leaving junkyards and Mexican cafes behind, turning into midnight motel entrances with RING OFFICE BELL signs or steering onto the black prairie for a stunned hour of sleep.

While Republicans since the 1980s have insisted the symbol of the United States is the whitewashed American cowboy who dominated the West with manly individualism, in fact the key to survival in the American West was family and friends: kinship networks, trading partners, neighbors who would show up for a barn raising. Working together, across racial lines, ethnic lines, gender lines, and age lines, was what enabled people to defend their rights against a small group of elites determined to keep control of the country.

His eyes are cold and restless His wounds have almost healed And she'd give half of Texas Just to change the way he feels She knows his love's in Tulsa And she knows he's gonna go Well it ain't no woman flesh and blood It's that damned old rodeo Well it's bulls and blood It's dust and mud It's the roar of a Sunday crowd It's the white in his knuckles The gold in the buckle He'll win the next go 'round It's boots and chaps It's cowboy hats It's spurs and latigo It's the ropes and the reins And the joy and the pain And they call the thing rodeo She does her best to hold him When his love comes to call But his need for it controls him And her back's against the wall And it's So long girl I'll see you When it's time for him to go You know the woman wants her cowboy Like he wants his rodeo

You know, so many people through the years have had heroes. That's what a cowboy is. But the thing that he stands for more than anything else in the world is honor. Pride. He believes in his God and takes care of his country or his livestock. He's a fair and honest man, he has a lotta integrity.

Rustin knew that Tommy was right. It was high time he stopped being so passive. After all, he'd moved halfway across the country to start his life over. If he didn't have the balls to put himself out there and take the bull by the horns - or the cowboy by the balls - then he deserved to be alone and lonely.

I’m not a big drinker and I’ve had enough secondhand smoke for this decade and the next, so . . .” Great. All she had to do was complain about the deafening volume of the music, and she might as well slap a sticker on her forehead saying old next to the one that already said nerd. “Band’s good, though,” she added. “Country’s not my thing, but the players are . . . proficient.” And great, now she sounded like a professor. Proficient. God. But he was nodding. “Country’s not my thing, either.” “But you have a cowboy hat,” she said, and as soon as the words left her lips, she realized how stupid she sounded, no—not that she sounded, but that she was.

I was just a little buckaroo when they first invited me to Marlboro Country. I loved being a cowboy; and smoking seemed to fit right in with riding, roping and wrangling. But once I got to where the Flavor was, it would take me four decades to find a trail out of Nicotine Canyon. I finally ran out of reasons to smoke...when I ran out of air...

The names Dodge City and Wichita conjure visions of cowboys on horseback moving herds of cattle long distances, but as we found ourselves in the Blue Stem flint hills and tallgrass prairies we stopped the car and got out to rest. And with what felt like a cyclone trying to rip our ears off all we could see was …… nothing; Big sky, big land, unceasing horizon and cold-blooded and ruthless prairie.

She was staring at Rusty—or the remains of something in Rusty’s crate. Then she narrowed her eyes at Virgil. “Who gave Rusty one of the treats?” “Cowboy Bob,” he replied blandly. She looked at the toy leaning against the side of her desk, then turned back to Virgil, baring her teeth. “Cowboy Bob? Really? Is that what we’re doing now? Blaming the stuffie?” She looked bigger than she had a minute ago, but he met her eyes and said, “Yeah.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

Hopeful?” Bondi continued; “well, not really. I don’t see the world getting any better; like you I see it getting worse. I see liberty being strangled like a dog everywhere I look, I see my own country overwhelmed by ugliness and mediocrity and overcrowding, the land smothered under airstrips and superhighways, the natural wealth of a million years squandered on atomic bombs and tin automobiles and television sets and ball-point fountain pens. It’s a sorry sight indeed; I can’t blame you for wanting no part of it. But I’m not yet ready to withdraw, despite the horror of it. Even if withdrawal is possible, which I doubt.

He puts his hands up against the wall above his head like he’s gonna be frisked by the police. He appears to be lookin’ down at his sticks and berries and I’m thinkin’ that fella is gonna wet himself. Nothin’ is happenin’ and I’m beginin’ to wonder if he has a medical problem. All of a sudden, he starts singin’. Except, he ain’t singin’ words, or hummin a tune. He’s just sort of starts singing a tune like cowboys do in movies when they are alone on the prairie. Next thing I know, I hear his water works start up. Now at this point I think it must be his way with dealin’ of relievin’ himself at the urinal, except this fella keeps singin’ while lookin’ down at himself.

Well, then,' said Peter, 'I guess we'll just have to find a cab.' Peter said this in the manner of a cowboy telling the womenfolk that, because of the avalanche, they were going to have to take the pass through Indian country. In fact, as Holly and Peter both knew, nothing could have been easier than finding a free cab, for at this hour they flowed steadily down the avenue. But if Peter were to regain some face by wrangling one, the fiction had to be kept up that this would be a challenging task. Will you try?' Holly asked Sure,' said Peter. He stepped off the curb, raised his hand, and a taxi pulled up in front of them about five seconds later. Thank goodness!' Holly said.

Oh the Beat generation was just a phrase I used in the 1951 written manuscript of On the Road to describe guys like Moriarty who run around the country in cars looking for odd jobs, girlfriends, kicks. It was thereafter picked up by West Coast Leftist groups and turned into a meaning like “Beat mutiny” and “Beat insurrection” and all that nonsense; they just wanted some youth movement to grab on to for their own political and social purposes. I had nothing to do with any of that. I was a football player, a scholarship college student, a merchant seaman, a railroad brakeman on road freights, a script synopsizer, a secretary … And Moriarty-Cassady was an actual cowboy on Dave Uhl’s ranch in New Raymer, Colorado … What kind of beatnik is that?”[22]

The beatest characters in the country swarmed on the sidewalks—all of it under those soft Southern California stars that are lost in the brown halo of the huge desert encampment LA really is. You could smell tea, weed, I mean marijuana, floating in the air, together with the chili beans and beer. That grand wild sound of bop floated from beer parlors; it mixed medleys with every kind of cowboy and boogie woogie in the American night. Everybody looked like Hassel. Wild Negroes with bop caps and goatees came laughing by; then longhaired brokendown hipsters straight off Route 66 from New York; then old desert rats, carrying packs and heading for a park bench at the Plaza; then Methodist ministers with raveled sleeves, and an occasional Nature Boy saint in beard and sandals.

The voices of all the lost, all the Indians, metis, hunters, Mounted Police, wolfers, cowboys, all the bundled bodies that the spring uncovered and the warming sun released into the stink of final decay; all the starving, freezing, gaunt, and haunted men who had challenged this country and failed; all the ghosts from smallpox-stilled Indian camps, the wandering spirits of warriors killed in their sleep on the borders of the deadly hills, all the skeleton women and children of the starving winters, all the cackling, maddened cannibals, every terrified, lonely, crazed, and pitiful outcry that these plains had ever wrung from human lips, went wailing and moaning over him, mingled with the living shouts of the foreman and the old-timer, and he said, perhaps aloud, remembering the legend of the Crying River, and the voices that rode the wind there as here, Qu’appelle? Qu’appelle?

The only thing I can’t figure out is why you still eat the food your captors fed you. Why don’t you hate it as much as you hate them?” Fila glanced down at her plate. It contained a strange mixture of Afghan and Mexican dishes. She held up a flatbread. “This isn’t Taliban food—it’s Afghan food. It’s my mother’s food. I grew up eating it before I was ever captured. To me it means love and tenderness, not hate and violence.” “Taliban, Afghan—it’s all the same.” She waved the bread. “No, it’s not. Not one bit. Afghan culture is over two thousand years old. And it’s a conservative culture—it’s had to be—but it’s not a culture of monsters. Afghans are people like you, Holt. They’re born, they grow up, they live and love and they die just like we do. I didn’t study much history before I was taken, but I know this much. America’s story is that of the frontier—of always having room to grow. Afghanistan’s story is that of occupation. By the Russians, the British, the Mongols—even the ancient Greeks. On and on for century after century. Imagine all those wars being fought in Montana. Foreign armies living among us, taking over your ranch, stealing everything you own, killing your wife and children, over and over and over again.” She paused to catch her breath. “Death is right around the corner for them—all the time. Is it any wonder that a movement that turns men into warriors and codes everything else into rigid rules might seem like the answer?” She still wasn’t sure if Holt was following her. What analogy would make sense to him? She wracked her brain. “If a bunch of Californians overran Chance Creek and forced everyone to eat tofu, would you refuse to ever eat steak again?” He made a face. “Of course not!” “Then imagine the Taliban are the Californians, forcing everyone to eat tofu. And everyone does it because they don’t know what else to do. They still love steak, but they will be severely punished if they eat it—so will their families. That’s what it’s like for many Afghans living under Taliban control. It’s not their choice. They still love their country. They still love their heritage. That doesn’t mean they love the group of extremists who have taken over.” “Even if those Taliban people went away, they still wouldn’t be anything like you and me.” Holt crossed his arms. Fila suppressed a smile at his inclusion of her. That was a step in the right direction even if the greater message was lost on him. “They’re more like you than you think. Defensive. Angry. Always on the lookout for trouble.” Holt straightened. “I have four sons. Of course I’m on the lookout for trouble.” “They have sons, too.” She waited to see if he understood. Holt shook his head. “We’re going to see different on this one. But I understand about the food. Everyone likes their mother’s cooking best.” He surveyed her plate. “You got any more of that bread?” She’d take that as a victory.

I kissed Polly good night as we stood at her front door Now she's quite a proper lady, so I didn't ask for anything more But I was feeling oh so groovy that I went down to the movie And I sat down and guess just what I saw? I saw Polly in a porny Down at the dirty flicks I saw Polly in a porny I didn't know she knew them tricks What I seen nearly struck me blind I never knew she was theatrically inclined I saw Polly in a porny with a pony and it nearly blowed my mind Was she gallopin'? (no no no) Oh was she trottin'? (no no no) Oh was she riding across the country with some tall dark handsome person Oh was she wearin' her cowboy hat? Well, not exactly that But at least I recall she had her spurs on I love ol' Polly in a porny I keep on going back In the very last row I'm singin' low with my coat bouncin' in my lap I spend each dime I can afford I swear she's gonna win an Academy Award I saw Polly in a porny with a pony and the pony seemed a little bored

I opened the front door of my parents’ house the next evening. His starched blue denim shirt caught my eye only seconds before his equally blue eyes did. “Hello,” he said, smiling. Those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees--the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months earlier in a temporary fit of illogical lust--were once again as firm as cooked spaghetti. “Hello,” I answered. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet V-necked sweater, and spiked black boots--a glaring contrast to the natural, faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Fashionwise, we were hilariously mismatched. I could sense that he noticed this, too, as my skinny heels obnoxiously clomped along the pavement of my parents’ driveway. We talked through dinner; if I ate, I wasn’t aware of it. We talked about my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing in the country. About my dad, the doctor; about his dad, the rancher. About my lifelong commitment to ballet; about his lifelong passion for football. About my brother Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who had died when he was a teenager. About Los Angeles and celebrities; cows and agriculture. By the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding in a Ford F250 diesel pickup with a cowboy--and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

As for me, I went inside, walked up to my bedroom, and fell on the floor. What…just happened? Staring at the ceiling, I tried to take it all in. My mind began to race, trying to figure out what it all meant. Do I need to learn how to whittle? Cook fried chicken? Ride a horse? Use a scythe? My face began to feel flushed. And children? Oh, Lord. That means we might have children! What will we name them? Travis and Dolly? Oh my gosh. I have children in my future. I could see it plainly in front of me. They’ll be little redheaded children with green eyes just like mine, and they’ll have lots of freckles, too. I’ll have ten of them, maybe eleven. I’ll have to squat in the garden and give birth while picking my okra. Every stereotype of domestic country life came rushing to the surface. A lot of them involved bearing children. Then my whole body relaxed in a mushy, contended heap as I remembered all the times I’d walked back into that very room after being with Marlboro Man, my cowboy, my savior. I remembered all the times I’d fallen onto my bed in a fizzy state of euphoria, sighing and smelling my shirt to try to get one last whiff. All the times I’d picked up the phone early in the morning and heard his sexy voice on the other end. All the times I’d longed to see him again, two minutes after he’d dropped me off. This was right, this was oh, so right. If I couldn’t go a day without seeing him, I certainly couldn’t go a lifetime…

Once the wedding gift was out of the way, Marlboro Man and I had to check one last item off our list before we entered the Wedding Zone: premarital counseling. It was a requirement of the Episcopal church, these one-hour sessions with the semiretired interim priest who led our church at the time. Logically, I understood the reasoning behind the practice of premarital discussions with a man of the cloth. Before a church sanctions a marriage union, it wants to ensure the couple grasps the significance and gravity of the (hopefully) eternal commitment they’re making. It wants to give the couple things to think about, ideas to ponder, matters to get straight. It wants to make sure it’s not sending two young lovers into what could be an avoidable domestic catastrophe. Logically, I grasped the concept. Practically, however, it was an uncomfortable hour of sitting across from a sweet minister who meant well and asked the right questions, but who had clearly run out of juice in the zest-for-marriage department. It was emotional drudgery for me; not only did I have to rethink obvious things I’d already thought about a thousand times, but I also had to watch Marlboro Man, a quiet, shy country boy, assimilate and answer questions put to him by a minister he’d only recently met on the subject of love, romance, and commitment, no less. Though he was polite and reverent, I felt for him. These were things cowboys rarely talked about with a third party.

I’d never been with anyone like Marlboro Man. He was attentive--the polar opposite of aloof--and after my eighteenth-month-long college relationship with my freshman love Collin, whose interest in me had been hampered by his then-unacknowledged sexual orientation, and my four-year run with less-than-affectionate J, attentive was just the drug I needed. Not a day passed that Marlboro Man--my new cowboy love--didn’t call to say he was thinking of me, or he missed me already, or he couldn’t wait to see me again. Oh, the beautiful, unbridled honesty. We loved taking drives together. He knew every inch of the countryside: every fork in the road, every cattle guard, every fence, every acre. Ranchers know the country around them. They know who owns this pasture, who leases that one, whose land this county road passes through, whose cattle are on the road by the lake. It all looked the same to me, but I didn’t care. I’d never been more content to ride in the passenger seat of a crew-cab pickup in all my life. I’d never ridden in a crew-cab pickup in all my life. Never once. In fact, I’d never personally known anyone who’d driven a pickup; the boys from my high school who drove pickups weren’t part of my scene, and in their spare time they were needed at home to contribute to the family business. Either that, or they were cowboy wannabes--the kind that only wore cowboy hats to bars--and that wasn’t really my type either. For whatever reason, pickup trucks and I had never once crossed paths. And now, with all the time I was spending with Marlboro Man, I practically lived in one.

Soon it was time for us to leave; the clock had struck midnight, and we had miles to go before we slept. After throwing my bouquet and saying good-byes, Marlboro Man and I ran through the doors of the club and climbed into the back of a smoky black limousine--the vehicle that would take us to the big city miles away, where we’d stay before flying to Australia the next day. As we pulled away from the waving, birdseed-throwing crowd at the front door of the club, we immediately settled into each other’s arms, melting into a puddle of white silk and black boots and sleepy, unbridled romance. It was all so new. New dress…new love…a new country--Australia--that neither of us had ever seen. A new life together. A new life for me. New crystal, silver, china. A newly renovated, tiny cowboy house that would be our little house on the prairie when we returned from our honeymoon. A new husband. My husband. I wanted to repeat it over and over again, wanted to shout it to the heavens. But I couldn’t speak. I was busy. Passion had taken over--a beast had been unleashed. Sleep deprived and exhausted from the celebration of the previous week, once inside the sanctity of the limousine, we were utterly powerless to stop it…and we let it fly. It was this same passion that had gotten us through the early stages of our relationship, and, ultimately, through the choice to wave good-bye to any life I’d ever imagined for myself. To become a part of Marlboro Man’s life instead. It was this same passion that assured me that everything was exactly as it should be. It was the passion that made it all make sense.

This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk, just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ’roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love—madly, truly—with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke loves Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark—God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the mafioso loves, too—eating and money and Paulie and omertà—the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie—don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

In the meantime, I tried my best to acclimate to my new life in the middle of nowhere. I had to get used to the fact that I lived twenty miles from the nearest grocery store. That I couldn’t just run next door when I ran out of eggs. That there was no such thing as sushi. Not that it would matter, anyway. No cowboy on the ranch would touch it. That’s bait, they’d say, laughing at any city person who would convince themselves that such a food was tasty. And the trash truck: there wasn’t one. In this strange new land, there was no infrastructure for dealing with trash. There were cows in my yard, and they pooped everywhere--on the porch, in the yard, even on my car if they happened to be walking near it when they dropped a load. There wasn’t a yard crew to clean it up. I wanted to hire people, but there were no people. The reality of my situation grew more crystal clear every day. One morning, after I choked down a bowl of cereal, I looked outside the window and saw a mountain lion siting on the hood of my car, licking his paws--likely, I imagined, after tearing a neighboring rancher’s wife from limb to limb and eating her for breakfast. I darted to the phone and called Marlboro Man, telling him there was a mountain lion sitting on my car. My heart beat inside my chest. I had no idea mountain lions were indigenous to the area. “It’s probably just a bobcat,” Marlboro Man reassured me. I didn’t believe him. “No way--it’s huge,” I cried. “It’s seriously got to be a mountain lion!” “I’ve gotta go,” he said. Cows mooed in the background. I hung up the phone, incredulous at Marlboro Man’s lack of concern, and banged on the window with the palm of my hand, hoping to scare the wild cat away. But it only looked up and stared at me through the window, imagining me on a plate with a side of pureed trout. My courtship with Marlboro Man, filled with fizzy romance, hadn’t prepared me for any of this; not the mice I heard scratching in the wall next to my bed, not the flat tires I got from driving my car up and down the jagged gravel roads. Before I got married, I didn’t know how to use a jack or a crowbar…and I didn’t want to have to learn now. I didn’t want to know that the smell in the laundry room was a dead rodent. I’d never smelled a dead rodent in my life: why, when I was supposed to be a young, euphoric newlywed, was I being forced to smell one now? During the day, I was cranky. At night, I was a mess. I hadn’t slept through the night once since we returned from our honeymoon. Besides the nausea, whose second evil wave typically hit right at bedtime, I was downright spooked. As I lay next to Marlboro Man, who slept like a baby every night, I thought of monsters and serial killers: Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers, Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. In the utter silence of the country, every tiny sound was amplified; I was certain if I let myself go to sleep, the murderer outside our window would get me.

Months later, Time magazine would run its now infamous article bragging about how it had been done. Without irony or shame, the magazine reported that “[t]here was a conspiracy unfolding behind the scenes” creating “an extraordinary shadow effort” by a “well-funded cabal of powerful people” to oppose Trump.112 Corporate CEOs, organized labor, left-wing activists, and Democrats all worked together in secret to secure a Biden victory. For Trump, these groups represented a powerful Washington and Democratic establishment that saw an unremarkable career politician like Biden as merely a vessel for protecting their self-interests. Accordingly, when Trump was asked whom he blames for the rigging of the 2020 election, he quickly responded, “Least of all Biden.” Time would, of course, disingenuously frame this effort as an attempt to “oppose Trump’s assault on democracy,” even as Time reporter Molly Ball noted this shadow campaign “touched every aspect of the election. They got states to change voting systems and laws and helped secure hundreds of millions in public and private funding.” The funding enabled the country’s sudden rush to mail-in balloting, which Ball described as “a revolution in how people vote.”113 The funding from Democratic donors to public election administrators was revolutionary. The Democrats’ network of nonprofit activist groups embedded into the nation’s electoral structure through generous grants from Democratic donors. They helped accomplish the Democrats’ vote-by-mail strategy from the inside of the election process. It was as if the Dallas Cowboys were paying the National Football League’s referee staff and conducting all of their support operations. No one would feel confident in games won by the Cowboys in such a scenario. Ball also reported that this shadowy cabal “successfully pressured social media companies to take a harder line against disinformation and used data-driven strategies to fight viral smears.” And yet, Time magazine made this characterization months after it was revealed that the New York Post’s reporting on Hunter Biden’s corrupt deal-making with Chinese and other foreign officials—deals that alleged direct involvement from Joe Biden, resulting in the reporting’s being overtly censored by social media—was substantially true. Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey would eventually tell Congress that censoring the New York Post and locking it out of its Twitter account over the story was “a mistake.” And the Hunter Biden story was hardly the only egregious mistake, to say nothing of the media’s willful dishonesty, in the 2020 election. Republicans read the Time article with horror and as an admission of guilt. It confirmed many voters’ suspicions that the election wasn’t entirely fair. Trump knew the article helped his case, calling it “the only good article I’ve read in Time magazine in a long time—that was actually just a piece of the truth because it was much deeper than that.

We went to dinner that night and ordered steak and talked our usual dreamy talk, intentionally avoiding the larger, looming subject. When he brought me home, it was late, and the air was so perfect that I was unaware of the temperature. We stood outside my parents’ house, the same place we’d stood two weeks earlier, before the Linguine with Clam Sauce and J’s surprise visit; before the overcooked flank steak and my realization that I was hopelessly in love. The same place I’d almost wiped out on the sidewalk; the same place he’d kissed me for the first time and set my heart afire. Marlboro Man moved in for the kill. We stood there and kissed as if it was our last chance ever. Then we hugged tightly, burying our faces in each other’s necks. “What are you trying to do to me?” I asked rhetorically. He chuckled and touched his forehead to mine. “What do you mean?” Of course, I wasn’t able to answer. Marlboro Man took my hand. Then he took the reins. “So, what about Chicago?” I hugged him tighter. “Ugh,” I groaned. “I don’t know.” “Well…when are you going?” He hugged me tighter. “Are you going?” I hugged him even tighter, wondering how long we could keep this up and continue breathing. “I…I…ugh, I don’t know,” I said. Ms. Eloquence again. “I just don’t know.” He reached behind my head, cradling it in his hands. “Don’t…,” he whispered in my ear. He wasn’t beating around the bush. Don’t. What did that mean? How did this work? It was too early for plans, too early for promises. Way too early for a lasting commitment from either of us. Too early for anything but a plaintive, emotional appeal: Don’t. Don’t go. Don’t leave. Don’t let it end. Don’t move to Chicago. I didn’t know what to say. We’d been together every single day for the past two weeks. I’d fallen completely and unexpectedly in love with a cowboy. I’d ended a long-term relationship. I’d eaten beef. And I’d begun rethinking my months-long plans to move to Chicago. I was a little speechless. We kissed one more time, and when our lips finally parted, he said, softly, “Good night.” “Good night,” I answered as I opened the door and went inside. I walked into my bedroom, eyeing the mound of boxes and suitcases that sat by the door, and plopped down on my bed. Sleep eluded me that night. What if I just postponed my move to Chicago by, say, a month or so? Postponed, not canceled. A month surely wouldn’t hurt, would it? By then, I reasoned, I’d surely have him out of my system; I’d surely have gotten my fill. A month would give me all the time I needed to wrap up this whole silly business. I laughed out loud. Getting my fill of Marlboro Man? I couldn’t go five minutes after he dropped me off at night before smelling my shirt, searching for more of his scent. How much worse would my affliction be a month from now? Shaking my head in frustration, I stood up, walked to my closet, and began removing more clothes from their hangers. I folded sweaters and jackets and pajamas with one thing pulsating through my mind: no man--least of all some country bumpkin--was going to derail my move to the big city. And as I folded and placed each item in the open cardboard boxes by my door, I tried with all my might to beat back destiny with both hands. I had no idea how futile my efforts would be.

Yup, we'll start driving these ill-tempered, longhorn cattle through wild and desolate country. There's coyotes and rattle snakes. There's the blistering sun, blinding dust storms, and wild rivers to cross. Then sometimes, just sometimes, there's a double-crossing, thieving cowboy riding right along beside you. And you don't know it until it's too late.

Pasquale considered his friend’s face. It had such an open quality, was such a clearly American face, like Dee’s face, like Michael Deane’s face. He believed he could spot an American anywhere by that quality—that openness, that stubborn belief in possibility, a quality that, in his estimation, even the youngest Italians lacked. Perhaps it was the difference in age between the countries—America with its expansive youth, building all those drive-in movie theaters and cowboy restaurants; Italians living in endless contraction, in the artifacts of generations, in the bones of empires.

And now that blood had been spilled, he understood it wouldn't end until one of them was on the ground.

About page warm and casual on her blog, The Pioneer Woman: Howdy. I’m Ree Drummond, also known as The Pioneer Woman. I’m a moderately agoraphobic ranch wife and mother of four. Welcome to my frontier! I’m a middle child who grew up on the seventh fairway of a golf course in a corporate town. I was a teen angel. Not. After high school, I thought my horizons needed broadening. I attended college in California, then got a job and wore black pumps to work every day. I ate sushi and treated myself to pedicures on a semi-regular basis. I even kissed James Garner in an elevator once. I loved him deeply, despite the fact that our relationship only lasted 47 seconds. Unexpectedly, during a brief stay in my hometown, I met and fell in love with a rugged cowboy. Now I live in the middle of nowhere on a working cattle ranch. My days are spent wrangling children, chipping dried manure from boots, washing jeans, and making gravy. I have no idea how I got here . . . but you know what? I love it. Don’t tell anyone! I hope you enjoy my website, ThePioneerWoman.com. Here, I write daily about my long transition from spoiled city girl to domestic country wife.2

2 country music: good-time urban cowboy fare with a hint of honky-tonk and a healthy measure of rock.

The magnificent strength of Ella Cahill took his breath away.

There was something starkly different about him that separated him from other men, reflected even in his choice of horses. Every seasoned cowboy, and even some greenhorns, knew owning a white horse to be the quickest road to death. Easily seen from a great distance, it left a man vulnerable to ambush, as another could simply lie in wait along the trail with a rifle, and spot the rider from a long distance. It was considered suicide to take a white horse into Indian country.

Try as he did at such times, his thoughts would inevitably turn to the pretty girl named Annie. Tony was always able to sense when the cowboy's deep longing for the girl was at its worst, and nudged him with his nose. He reached up and stroked the horse's mane absently, his thoughts further away than those stars above him. A pretty girl like that was probably at some dance, courted by a long list of admirers. A mere cowboy stood nary a chance, and one with a reputation like Wyn's even less. Even being seen with a man like Wyn should give Annie pause. With this sad realization he dozed, his gun always within reach. Even the quickest and most accurate of men could take nothing for granted in a land whose beauty often  masked its danger. Wyn knew the biggest danger, however, was the men who rode these untamed lands, which were often a haven for outlaws and bad men, as well as men like himself who simply loved the land. A wanted man could disappear completely in the wild country.

The California Gold Rush, both the first and second one, had inflicted almost as much damage as the bounty. Stream channels where the Diggers fished had been disturbed or re-routed and blasting had damaged the habitat the Diggers fed on. In addition, foods the Diggers gathered from the land had been damaged or destroyed as the way was cleared for cattle, who ate one of the major source of Digger food: the acorn. Worse, as with all California tribes, contact with white men had led to new diseases for which the Indians had no immunity. The Nevada cowboy had speculated that the Sierra Diggers had once numbered perhaps ten-thousand, but that number had been whittled down to about one-thousand by the time the young man had left for Nevada.

Whiskey Jacks Saloon. He’s playing country western music, and wearing a plaid button down shirt and fringe along the sides of his tan chaps that cover his jeans, no less. Who can’t appreciate a cowboy in plaid and fringe? There are so few of us who can actually pull that off. Usually I’m all about acoustic guitars, but not tonight. At the moment, my mind is

That kiss was amazing. Our lips were meant to meet and do wicked things to each other.

He looked out at the country that ran to the mountains. Cahill Ranch. His grandfather had started it, his father had worked it and now two of his brothers ran the cattle part of it to keep the place going while he and his sister, Lillie, and brother Darby had taken other paths. Not to mention their oldest brother Tucker who’d struck out at seventeen and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.

Hunter Westley, you can’t just go around kissing people. She’s so cute. Not people Lenora, just you. Only you.

Her country and western cowboy couldn’t have burst her romantic bubble more if he’d moon-walked across the cabin while farting out the tune to ‘Islands In The Stream’.

This is my country; this is your country; “Be brave to stand for what you believe in even if you stand alone. “If you believe very strongly in something, stand up and fight for it.

last place country music newcomer Maura Whittaker expects to fall in love with a sexy rock guitarist.

Inside the saloon, a band of plump, middle-aged gentlemen in Stetson hats and leather jackets crooned about an Ibaloi girl from Bahong. Like the roses of Bahong Ambrosial and winsome If they uproot it and bring it to Manila They will kill it They sang in mellow, baritone voices.

outlaw country politicians lining their pockets while the poor get poorer. starving the American people with the high price food and rent while the rich get richer and the underclass people starve

Outlaw Nation [Verse] There's a storm in D.C. now, can't see the light, Biden's dropped the reins, runnin' from the fight, Kamala's in the spotlight, dancin' on a stage, Trump's rollin' back in, full of fury and rage. [Verse 2] Folks down in the heartland, feelin' all the strain, Politicians playin' games, drivin' us insane, Farmers in the fields, can't catch a break, Factories closin' down, livelihoods at stake. [Chorus] Outlaw nation, we're fightin' to survive, Caught in the crossfire, just tryin' to stay alive, The rich gettin' richer, while we pay the price, Outlaw nation, it's time to stand and rise. [Verse 3] Main street's empty now, dreams turned to dust, Kids askin' questions, who can we trust? Grandpa's on the porch, with a tear in his eye, Reminiscin' 'bout the days, when the flag flew high. [Bridge] It's a tangled web they weave, in them fancy suits, But out in the country, we're stickin' to our roots, With a six-string guitar and a bottle of truth, Outlaw nation, we're fightin' for the youth. [Chorus] Outlaw nation, we're fightin' to survive, Caught in the crossfire, just tryin' to stay alive, The rich gettin' richer, while we pay the price, Outlaw nation, it's time to stand and rise.

This Is My Country [Verse] They’re tryin’ to take the rights to bear our arms, As if we don’t need 'em, in these here parts, Replace the hard-workin’ man, they say, But my roots run deep, I ain't movin’ away. [Verse 2] Down at the diner, talk's a-stirrin’, Everyone’s worried 'bout freedoms' curtain, But I’ll always stand for what's just and right, My spirit’s steeled, I’m ready to fight. [Chorus] This is my country, my land of the free, Where the sun sets, on folks like you and me, I'll always stand tall, under these skies of blue, Proud to live in the USA, doin’ what we do. [Verse 3] Honest days work with dirt on my hands, Sweat on my brow, I’m a proud working man, They might try to change what we hold dear, But we won't back down, we'll persevere. [Verse 4] From the rolling plains to mountains high, We cherish our home, with a watchful eye, Our rights ain't just words on an old scroll, They're the lifeblood, deep in our soul. [Chorus] This is my country, my land of the free, Where the sun sets, on folks like you and me, I'll always stand tall, under these skies of blue, Proud to live in the USA, doin’ what we do.

Dance with the Devil [Verse] Dancin' with the devil in the moonlight starlit mess Demons in my closet never gave me any rest High and low and then lower still hit the ground so hard Had to claw my way out back to life from the dark [Verse 2] Disappointed mother tears in dad's eyes deep Friends turned to shadows had no one to keep Hidin' from the truth scared of what I'd see Had to lose it all just to find me [Chorus] Rise from the ashes 'gainst the dark night's howl Every scar a story every pain a growl Digging my nails through the dirt and stone Reckoning the ghost of the life I know [Bridge] Lost myself lost my way in the foggy deep Found nothin' but regret every night of sleep Pledge to the horizon promises in blue Chasing better days ripping through [Verse 3] Country road callin' heartbeats lead the way Breath of fresh freedom in the light of day Undone sins behind stepped into the new Grit in the voice but a fire in the view [Chorus] Rise from the ashes 'gainst the dark night's howl Every scar a story every pain a growl Digging my nails through the dirt and stone Reckoning the ghost of the life I know

HonkyTonk Love [Verse] I saw you lookin' over, with that sunshine smile, Your eyes were sayin' somethin', you've been here for a while. In this honky-tonk light, I can see it clear, You're lookin' for some country, so baby, come near. [Verse 2] Boots are tappin' on the sawdust floor tonight, Guitars strummin' sweetly in the neon light. Bartender’s pourin' drinks, the band's playin' our song, So don't be shy, darlin', just come along. [Chorus] In this honky-tonk love, where cowboys dream, Stars above us light up that western scene. We'll two-step through the night, hearts on fire, In this honky-tonk love, feelin' that desire. [Verse 3] You've been hurt before, I can see it in your eyes, But with every broken heart, a new love can arise. Take my hand and trust me, we'll sway with the tune, Two lonely souls findin' love beneath the Texas moon. [Chorus] In this honky-tonk love, where cowboys dream, Stars above us light up that western scene. We'll two-step through the night, hearts on fire, In this honky-tonk love, feelin' that desire. [Bridge] Life ain't easy, it's a wild, wild ride, But tonight we got each other, there's nothin' to hide. In this honky-tonk haze, let the music play, We'll forget our troubles, dance 'em all away.

Cowboy's Neon Dream"** Stompin' through the city with my boots and hat, Got that country soul, no denying that. The skyline's bright but it can't outshine, The cowboy spirit that's min [Verse] Stompin' through the city with my boots and hat, Got that country soul, no denying that. The skyline's bright but it can't outshine, The cowboy spirit that's mine, all mine. [Verse 2] In the honky-tonk, I found my scene, Where neon lights ignite my cowboy dream. Steel guitars and fiddles fill the air, A country heart in a world that’s rare. [Chorus] City lights try to take my joy, But they can't shake this cowboy's ploy. Underneath the urban gleam, I'm livin' a cowboy's neon dream. [Verse 3] From the high-rise windows to the crowded bars, I ride the concrete range, chasing stars. Through the winding streets where dreams collide, I wear my country pride, deep inside. [Bridge] Even when the city's loud, My spirit stays unbowed. With every step, I hold the line, This urban cowboy’s life is fine. [Chorus] City lights try to take my joy, But they can't shake this cowboy's ploy. Underneath the urban gleam, I'm livin' a cowboy's neon dream.

defiant rugged Outlaw Country this country must stop selling our land to foreigners Be hell to pay take back America Tell it like it is this is America we stand up for God and our rights

Take Back America Old Glory's wavin' high but there's a shadow in our land, They're sellin' off our roots to foreign hands. Cowboys livin' broke while strangers make their stand, It's high time we reclaimed this promised land. [Verse 2] From the prairies to the plains, where the wild rivers flow, We've built our homes on pride but now it's gettin' sold. Politicians turnin' blind, as if they didn't know, But real Americans, we can see the show. [Chorus] We won't back down, no, we won't compromise, For our country, we'll rise and defy. Standin' up for what is ours, with God on our side, Hell to pay, take back America, it's our right. [Verse 3] They barter bits of history for a dollar and a cent, But they can't buy the years our families spent. Sweat and tears on crimson fields where our forefathers bled, Warriors of the free, never easily led. [Bridge] From the smokestacks to the mountains, every rusted coastal town, We hear the echoes calling, time to turn this train around. We'll fight with all we've got, feel it as our duty bound, Keep the spirit of America, on solid ground. [Chorus] We won't back down, no, we won't compromise, For our country, we'll rise and defy. Standin' up for what is ours, with God on our side, Hell to pay, take back America, it's our right.

This Land is Our Home [Verse] From the rolling plains to the mountain high, Our fathers bled and fought, they didn't die for a lie. Now the ghost of our past whispers in the wind, Saying "Son, don't let the dream die, fight to the end." [Verse 2] The city folks in their ivory towers, Selling out our lands for their fleeting powers. But out here in the country, we'll make a stand, With calloused hands we'll take back this land. [Chorus] This land is our home, and we're not backing down, We stand for our God and the small-town crowd. Proud to be American, we ain't selling our soul, There'll be hell to pay, we're taking back control. [Verse 3] From the chapel bells to the fields of grain, The spirit of this country runs deep in our veins. Mama's prayers, Daddy's hardened hands, We fight for the future, we take a stand. [Verse 4] In the quiet dawn, we hear the land's lament, Sold to the highest bidder, they don't repent. But we're the heartland, the rock of this earth, We'll reclaim our pride, know what it's worth. [Chorus] This land is our home, and we're not backing down, We stand for our God and the small-town crowd. Proud to be American, we ain't selling our soul, There'll be hell to pay, we're taking back control.

Folks like you and me [Verse] They’re tryin’ to take the rights to bear our arms, As if we don’t need 'em, in these here parts, Replace the hard-workin’ man, they say, But my roots run deep, I ain't movin’ away. [Verse 2] Down at the diner, talk's a-stirrin’, Everyone’s worried 'bout freedoms' curtain, But I’ll always stand for what's just and right, My spirit’s steeled, I’m ready to fight. [Chorus] This is my country, my land of the free, Where the sun sets, on folks like you and me, I'll always stand tall, under these skies of blue, Proud to live in the USA, doin’ what we do. [Verse 3] Honest days work with dirt on my hands, Sweat on my brow, I’m a proud working man, They might try to change what we hold dear, But we won't back down, we'll persevere. [Verse 4] From the rolling plains to mountains high, We cherish our home, with a watchful eye, Our rights ain't just words on an old scroll, They're the lifeblood, deep in our soul. [Chorus] This is my country, my land of the free, Where the sun sets, on folks like you and me, I'll always stand tall, under these skies of blue, Proud to live in the USA, doin’ what we do.

Vanishing Freedoms [Verse] Our freedoms are vanishing gone like the wind. The scales are tipped against fairness lost my friend. They strip your rights they don't ask they just take. We're left here reeling feeling betrayed ain't no mistake [Verse 2] They got the power they got the gold. Locked us in this system tight grip hold. Scream for justice they turn a deaf ear. In this land I'm drowning in fear can't you hear? [Chorus] Once they strip your rights away no lookin' back. You will pay hell tryin' to get 'em back. Chains of oppression wrap round us so tight. Fight for our freedom we gotta rise and fight [Bridge] Grassroots growing voices loud and strong. Can't stay silent while they do us wrong. Torn and tattered but we stand tall. This country ain't free if freedom's gone at all [Verse 3] Faceless men trading power in the halls. We the people rise truth through the walls. No more silence we break the night. Stolen liberty now we're raging for light [Chorus] Once they strip your rights away no lookin' back. You will pay hell tryin' to get 'em back. Chains of oppression wrap round us so tight. Fight for our freedom we gotta rise and fight

Backroads and Battles [Verse] Down on the backroads, where freedom's our creed, Folks like us, we don’t take lightly to greed. They're tryin' to tell us how to live, what to own, But our roots run deep, as hard as a stone. [Verse 2] But beneath this old hat, there's a fire that won't die, We ain't just cogs, we're stars in the sky. Takin' the rights to bare arms ain't the way, A hard-working man’s got a right to his say. [Chorus] This is my country, I’ll fight to the end, Proud to stand up for family and friends. They can try to change us, try to tear us apart, But they'll never steal what's carved in our hearts. [Verse 3] We rise at dawn, with sweat on our brow, Plowin' the fields, ain't no time for a row. They're tryin' to silence, to push us aside, But the spirit of this land's too strong to hide. [Chorus] This is my country, I’ll fight to the end, Proud to stand up for family and friends. They can try to change us, try to tear us apart, But they'll never steal what's carved in our hearts. [Bridge] From the mountains high to the wide open plains, We’ve weathered the storms, and danced in the rains. No politician's words can undo what’s been done, In the heart of this country, the battle has won.

This is My Country [Verse] They say they're taking our rights, trying to clip our wings, Taking aim at the heartland, changing all our things, But I'll stand my ground, with my boots in the dirt, For the sweat on my brow, and this worn-out shirt. [Verse 2] They're chasing my plow and meddling with my land, Trying to break the backbone of the hard-working man, But over my shoulder, there's a flag flying high, For every valley, every mountain, and the wide open sky. [Chorus] This is my country, where I'm proud to stand, With the rifle in my hand, and I’ll defend this land, They can try to take it, but they'll never break me, In the land of the free, I'll always be. [Verse 3] They don't understand the veins in this soil, Each drop of blood, each tear, and each toil, But I'll say my piece, in every whistle and chime, 'Cause this life's been mine since the start of time. [Verse 4] From sunup to sundown, in the fields I roam, They won't replace the essence of my home, For every stream and every tree that's grown, They can't take the spirit that's deeply sown. [Chorus] This is my country, where I'm proud to stand, With the rifle in my hand, and I’ll defend this land, They can try to take it, but they'll never break me, In the land of the free, I'll always be.

Outlaw Prairie Thunder [Verse] This old town's got nothing left, storefronts boarded tight, Once was a place of hope and pride, now lost to endless night. Biden's bowed out gracefully, Kamala's on parade, Trump's stirring up the winds of change, on a roaring train of rage. [Verse 2] Folks around these parts are weary, they’re standing in the sun, Fighting for the scraps they get, wondering if help will come. Saw old man Jenkins cry today, says he can't stand the weight, Bank just took his family farm, he's cursing his cruel fate. [Chorus] Oh, where’s the heart of this country, when our leaders just play the game? Trading blows on TV screens, while we live with loss and pain. Oh, America’s torn at the seams, can’t find trust or grace, In this outlaw prairie thunder, we’re all part of the race. [Verse 3] Mama's working double shifts, just to pay the rent, Daddy's out there driving trucks, all his money's spent. Kids are dreaming 'bout a life, where they ain't gotta fight, These backroads tell a story, of a million restless nights. [Bridge] Brother's in the army now, they sent him overseas, Fighting for a notion, that he barely believes. Sister’s waiting tables, barely getting by, As the politicians holler, and the flags of freedom fly. [Chorus] Oh, where’s the heart of this country, when our leaders just play the game? Trading blows on TV screens, while we live with loss and pain. Oh, America’s torn at the seams, can’t find trust or grace, In this outlaw prairie thunder, we’re all part of the race.

After taking her by the elbow, they walked into the country club where the meeting of the Texas Ranchers Association was held tonight. Adrian gave the girl outside the restaurant their information and she led them to a table where two other couples were seated. He pulled out her chair and she sat quite daintily for someone who could empty a mud puddle with one jump. Of course, that

Boot Scootin’ Friday Night”: Verse 1: Got my boots on, ready for a wild ride, Trucks lined up, tailgates open wide, Country music blaring, feel that beat, Bonfire’s roaring, heat on our feet, Cherish these moments, hold ‘em tight, We’re boot scootin’ on a Friday night. Chorus: Underneath the stars, we’re feeling free, Dancing in the moonlight, just you and me, Guitars wailing through the night, Everything feels so right, We’re living for these moments, In this small-town paradise. Verse 2: Friends all around, smiles on every face, Cold drinks in hand, we’re setting the pace, Guitars rocking, hearts pounding along, This is where we all belong, Memories made, they’ll never fade, In this place where dreams are laid. Chorus: Underneath the stars, we’re feeling free, Dancing in the moonlight, just you and me, Guitars wailing through the night, Everything feels so right, We’re living for these moments, In this small-town paradise. Bridge: As the fire burns low, we hold each other close, Whispering secrets only the night knows, These are the times we’ll remember, Forever and ever, In our hearts, this night will stay, Never fading away. Chorus: Underneath the stars, we’re feeling free, Dancing in the moonlight, just you and me, Guitars wailing through the night, Everything feels so right, We’re living for these moments, In this small-town paradise. Outro: Got my boots on, ready for a wild ride, Trucks lined up, tailgates open wide, Country music blaring, feel that beat, Cold beers in hand, we’re feeling neat, We’re boot scootin’ on a Friday night, We’re gonna be kickin’ it up, Be kickin’ it up all night long.

He’s not sure how all the cowboys stay so good-looking in the movies when the country is so openly hostile to sartorial maintenance.

and Mrs. Wiggins said, “You can’t blame Bill, Freddy. All of us have got valuables in the bank, and you’re responsible for them. That Flint is no better than a bandit, and until he’s out of this country, nothing will be safe.

The panic of 2007–2009 had hit Western Europe hard. Following the Lehman shock, many European countries experienced output declines and job losses similar to those in the United States. Many Europeans, especially politicians, had blamed Anglo-American “cowboy capitalism” for their predicament. (At international meetings, Tim and I never denied the United States’ responsibility for the original crisis, although the European banks that eagerly bought securitized subprime loans were hardly blameless.) This new European crisis, however, was almost entirely homegrown. Fundamentally, it arose because of a mismatch in European monetary and fiscal arrangements. Sixteen countries, in 2010, shared a common currency, the euro, but each—within ill-enforced limits—pursued separate tax and spending policies. The adoption of the euro was a grand experiment, part of a broader move, started in the 1950s, toward greater economic integration. By drawing member states closer economically, Europe’s leaders hoped not only to promote growth but also to increase political unity, which they saw as a necessary antidote to a long history of intra-European warfare, including two catastrophic world wars. Perhaps, they hoped, Germans, Italians, and Portuguese would someday think of themselves as citizens of Europe first and citizens of their home country second.

Wait, Abigail.” Dylan wiped his tool on his rag. “You like country music?” She could see where this was headed. “Not really. More of a classical music gal myself.” “Give me a chance to win you over. We have a great local band, the Silver Spurs, and they’re playing at the Chuckwagon Saturday.” “Marla’s brother’s band. Tina from Mocha Moose told me about them.” “You’re getting around.” Not in the way he hoped. “I like meeting people.” She knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as she said it. “Then come with me Saturday. Everyone from town’ll be there, and it’ll give you a chance to hang out with the home crowd.” He winked. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Have fun, though.” She turned toward the house. “I won’t give up, you know,” he called, teasing. “I’m getting that impression.

How to Tell the Truth and Get in Trouble I am a fourth-generation dairy farmer and cattle rancher. I grew up on a dairy farm in Montana, and I ran a feedlot operation there for twenty years. I know firsthand how cattle are raised and how meat is produced in this country. Today I am president of the International Vegetarian Union. Sure, I used to enjoy my steaks as much as the next guy. But if you knew what I know about what goes into them and what they can do to you, you’d probably be a vegetarian like me. And, believe it or not, as a pure vegetarian now who consumes no animal products at all, I can tell you that these days I enjoy eating more than ever. If you’re a meat-eater in America, you have a right to know that you have something in common with most of the cows you’ve eaten. They’ve eaten meat, too.

America had become an ice cream society in the last years of the twenties, thanks in large part to Prohibition. Bars and fine lounges in hotels sold ice cream, because they could no longer sell liquor, and dairy bars began to crop up all over the country. It was an incredible era. The straitlaced Cal Coolidge, who assured the nation that his fiscal probity had brought prosperity here to stay, moved the White House to the Black Hills of South Dakota for the summer and celebrated the Fourth of July by parading around in a cowboy costume. Babe Ruth signed a three-year contract with the Yankees for the stupefying figure of $70,000 a year. Lindbergh flew nonstop from New York to Paris. Al Jolson sang in the first talking pictures. And—wonder of wonders—in 1929 the Chicago Cubs won the National League pennant! Big

What’s the news?” she said, foregoing a greeting for the obvious. That’s Georgia—take the bull by the horns. It was one of the things I loved most about her, one of the things that had saved us when our own love story took a few tragic turns. The phrase awakened a memory and instead of answering I said, “Do you know that Tag actually grabbed a bull by the horns once? I saw him do it.” Georgia was silent for a heartbeat before she pressed me again. “Moses? What are you talking about, baby? What’s going on with Tag?” “We were in Spain. In San Sebastian. It’s Basque country, you know. Did you know there are blond Spaniards? I didn’t. I kept seeing blond women and they all reminded me of you. I was in a horrible mood so Tag got this bright idea that we should go to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls. He said a shot of adrenaline was just what I needed to cheer me up. Pamplona isn’t that far from San Sebastian. Just an hour south by bus. I knew Tag had a death wish. At least he did at Montlake. And I knew he was a little crazy. But he actually waited for the bull to run past him. And then he chased the bull. When the bull turned on him, he grabbed it by its horns and did one of those twist and roll things that cowboys do at rodeos.” “Steer wrestling?” Georgia still sounded confused, but she was listening. “Yeah. Steer wrestling. Tag tried to wrestle a bull. The bull won, but Tag got away without a scratch. I still don’t know how. I was screaming so loud I was hoarse for a week. Which was fine. Because I didn’t talk to Tag for two. That son-of-a-bitch. I thought he was going to die.” I stopped talking, emotion choking off my ability to speak. But Georgia heard what I couldn’t say.

Pasquale considered his friend’s face. It had such an open quality, was such a clearly American face, like Dee’s face, like Michael Deane’s face. He believed he could spot an American anywhere by that quality—that openness, that stubborn belief in possibility, a quality that, in his estimation, even the youngest Italians lacked. Perhaps it was the difference in age between the countries—America with its expansive youth, building all those drive-in movie theaters and cowboy restaurants; Italians living in endless contraction, in the artifacts of generations, in the bones of empires. This reminded him of Alvis Bender’s contention that stories were like nations—Italy a great epic poem, Britain a thick novel, America a brash motion picture in Technicolor—and he remembered, too, Dee Moray saying she’d spent years “waiting for her movie to start,” and that she’d almost missed out on her life waiting for it.

So we come to the cowboy. If any one word describes the quintessential ideal of the American male (and subsequent males in many other countries), if any word has influenced the style of the American male manner and manners, has been copied by Presidents and slid helplessly between truth and fantasy in its power to evoke a certain kind of courage, endurance, probity, determination, clean-living, woman-respecting, lawabiding, but always willing and able to take the law into his own hands when that was required, slow to anger but swift in pursuit of justice, it is the cowboy. The

If I've learned one thing, its that we can't live in regret. God doesn't want that for our lives.~ Barrett Thorn

There was just something about the guy, the way he struggled with his faith, yearned to do the right thing in spire of the flaws that got in his way, that made her want to kiss him again~ Shelby Arroyo

Bonner and Casey lived in different worlds. City and country.

It's hard to find the words when your life gets flipped upside down.

The “Sons of the Pioneers” are amongst America’s earliest Country/Western singing groups. One weekend we’d drive south of the border to Tijuana, Mexico and the next weekend it would be to Knott’s Berry Farm, where I heard the “Sons of the Pioneers” singing Tumbling Tumble Weeds, Cool Clear Water and other Western songs that made the group famous. On many occasions, they performed with Roy Rogers, who was a movie cowboy and Dale Evans his cowgirl wife, from Victorville, California. The “Sons of the Pioneers” were popular at that time and were inaugurated into the Country Music Hall of Fame later in 1976. It was a summer that I will never forget! Knott’s Berry Farm is a 160-acre amusement park in Buena Park, California and the singing group has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on Hollywood Blvd.

Ain't Lookin' Back" (Verse 1) City lights, country nights, blending in a perfect flow, I'm hitting this life full throttle, ready for the show. You're yesterday's echo, fading in the track, When you take out the trash, ain't no sense in looking back. (Chorus) 'Cause I'm living loud, in the here and now, No rearview glances, I've made my vow. I won't be a part of letting you destroy me, I'm all about the future, that's where you'll see me. (Verse 2) Got my heart tuned up, like a guitar's string, Every lesson learned, is a song I'll sing. I'm done with the digging, done with the old hack, When you take out the trash, you don't unpack. (Bridge) I'm a modern rebel, with an old soul's wisdom, Cutting ties with the past, like a sharp incision. I'm not just surviving, I'm on the attack, When you take out the trash, you don't look back. (Chorus) 'Cause I'm living loud, in the here and now, No rearview glances, I've made my vow. I won't be a part of letting you destroy me, I'm all about the future, that's where you'll see me. (Outro) So here's to the bright days, and the starlit nights, To the new beginnings, and the soaring heights. I'm stepping forward, on a one-way track, 'Cause when you take out the trash, you ain't lookin' back.

I saw you lookin' over, with that sunshine smile Your eyes were sayin' somethin', you've been here for a while In this honky-tonk light, I can see it clear You're lookin' for some country, and luckily, I'm here I know you want me, it's easy to see In the way you're swayin' to this guitar's melody I know you need me, like a song needs a tune So come a little closer, we'll light up this room We're two-steppin' closer, with every beat The rhythm's got us movin', from our heads to our feet There's magic in the music, and sparks in the air With every little glance, I catch, I know we're quite the pair So let's raise our glasses, to nights like these Where the music's our language, and you're all I wanna read We'll dance 'til the morning, under the moon's soft gleam 'Cause I know you want me, and you're my country dream I know you want me, it's plain as day In the way you're smilin', every time I look your way I know you need me, like a lyric needs a rhyme So let's make this evening, a hit for all time

Sunshine Smile”. I saw you lookin' over, with that sunshine smile Your eyes were sayin' somethin', you've been here for a while In this honky-tonk light, I can see it clear You're lookin' for some country, and luckily, I'm here I know you want me, it's easy to see In the way you're swayin' to this guitar's melody I know you need me, like a song needs a tune So come a little closer, we'll light up this room We're two-steppin' closer, with every beat The rhythm's got us movin', from our heads to our feet There's magic in the music, and sparks in the air With every little glance, I catch, I know we're quite the pair So let's raise our glasses, to nights like these Where the music's our language, and you're all I wanna read We'll dance 'til the morning, under the moon's soft gleam 'Cause I know you want me, and you're my country dream I know you want me, it's plain as day In the way you're smilin', every time I look your way I know you need me, like a lyric needs a rhyme So let's make this evening, a hit for all time

Beyond the Judging Eyes” Down a dusty road where the judgments fly, Where the gossips whisper and the rumors pry, If you're lean as a rail, they'll say you're chasing a high, If you're round as a barrel, they'll tell you to diet, oh my. But I'm sick of the box, sick of the fake, We're all just folks, make no mistake. Let's sing it loud, under the wide-open sky, We're all kin in this rodeo of life, Mending fences, not just tearing 'em down, In this country song, we all wear the crown. Dress up like a star, they'll say you're too proud, Wear your workin' boots, they claim you've fallen out, Speak your heart, they'll call you a loudmouth, Keep it to yourself, you're aloof, no doubt. But I'm done with the noise, done with the scorn, We're all diamonds, rough or adorned. Let's sing it loud, under the wide-open sky, We're all kin in this rodeo of life, Mending fences, not just tearing 'em down, In this country song, we all wear the crown. Whether you're the toast of the town hall dance, Or love the quiet of a wide-open expanse, We're each a verse in life's grand old song, In the chorus together, where we all belong. Let's sing it loud, under the wide-open sky, We're all kin in this rodeo of life, Mending fences, not just tearing 'em down, In this country song, we all wear the crown. We're side by side, through the highs and the lows, Lifting each other, that's how it goes, Forget the critics, their talk's just strife, We're the best we can be, in this country life.

Cowboy's Neon Dream"** Stompin' through the city with my boots and hat, Got that country soul, no denying that. The skyline's bright but it can't outshine, The cowboy spirit that's mine, all mine. 'Cause I'm a cowboy, from dusk till dawn, Two-steppin' to life's sweet song. With whiskey smooth and city lights gleam, I'm living out this cowboy's neon dream. Every step I take's got that two-step flair, From the honky-tonks to the open air. I've got the rhythm of the wild, wild west, In this modern world, I'm still the best. Got my cowgirl by my side, so fine, Together we shine, her hand in mine. We're the duo that steals the scene, In this cowboy's neon dream. Yeah, I'm a cowboy, ain't no scheme, Dancing through life, chasing the dream. With a glass of whiskey and the skyline's beam, I'm two-steppin' in this cowboy's neon dream. Let's raise a toast, to the night's bright seam, Where every cowboy and cowgirl finds their theme. In the two-step beat and the city's stream, We're living large in this cowboy's neon dream.

Life's Just a Day Sunrise over fields, golden waves of grain, Tractor trails and morning dew, simple and plain. Life's just a day, on this old family farm, Where the rooster's crow, is our wake-up alarm. Yeah, shit happens, out here in the sticks, But we patch it up, with our country tricks. Oh-oh, life's just a day, it's a wild, wild ride, Shit happens, yeah, but we take it in stride. We love, we lose, but we still find our way, Oh-oh, life's just a day, and we're okay. Oh-oh, life's just a day, and we're okay. Barn dances at night, under a silver moon, Harvests that come, none too soon. Needed you more, but you gave me less, Now I'm sowing seeds, of newfound happiness. Yeah, shit happens, even when you plow straight, But we learn to bend, before it's too late. Oh-oh, life's just a day, it's a wild, wild ride, Shit happens, yeah, but we take it in stride. We love, we lose, but we still find our way, Oh-oh, life's just a day, and we're okay. Oh-oh, life's just a day, and we're okay. Through the dust and the dirt, we find our way, With the strength of the earth, we build our day. And when the sun sets, painting the sky, We'll remember the day, with a satisfied sigh. Oh-oh, life's just a day, it's a wild, wild ride, Shit happens, yeah, but we take it in stride. We love, we lose, but we still find our way, Oh-oh, life's just a day, and we're okay. Oh-oh, life's just a day, and we're okay. Life is but a day, and it's fleeting, they say, But in every furrow, there's a chance to sway. To the rhythm of the land, to the heartbeat of life, Through the good and the bad, the peace and the strife.

Whiskey Truths and Lies" (Verse 1) In the glow of the bar signs, where stories intertwine, I've seen love come and go, in the blink of an eye. But if there's one thing I stand by, as I look up at the sky, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Chorus) Lies, they're like a backroad dust storm, blinding and unkind, Leaving you lost and alone, searching for a sign. But truth, it's like a highway, straight and defined, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Verse 2) I've laughed with strangers, cried on a friend's shoulder, Felt the sting of regret as the nights get colder. In the strum of the guitar, in every note I fly, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Bridge) Give me raw, give me real, give me something I can feel, Not just a sweet nothing, that'll disappear with the dawn's reveal. So fill up my glass, let the spirits testify, And speak to me honestly, don't be shy. (Chorus) Lies, they're like a backroad dust storm, blinding and unkind, Leaving you lost and alone, searching for a sign. But truth, it's like a highway, straight and defined, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie. (Outro) So raise your glass to honesty, it's the melody we crave, In this modern country scene, it's the anthem of the brave. For every soul that's searching, for every tearful eye, Hurt me with the truth, but never comfort me with a lie.

Stones and Shadows" - Modern Country Remix (Verse 1) In this fast-paced world, where rumors fly on screens, Hurtful words can hide, but they're not what they seem. I walk with confidence, with every step, every stride, 'Cause I've got God beside me, and there's no need to hide. (Chorus) Yeah, there'll be those who'll hurt you, with stones they'll try to throw, But I'm standing unshaken, in the light I know. With faith as my compass, I'm never alone, God's standing with me, that's the truth I own. (Verse 2) They'll try to put you down, make you feel so small, But I've got a power, that'll outlast it all. In the rhythm of life, in the beat of my heart, I find strength in His presence, right from the start. (Bridge) So let the gossip roll off, like water on a duck's back, I've got better things to do, than to keep track. For every harsh word, for every low blow, I've got a higher calling, that's where I'll go. (Chorus) Yeah, there'll be those who'll hurt you, with stones they'll try to throw, But I'm standing unshaken, in the light I know. With faith as my compass, I'm never alone, God's standing with me, that's the truth I own. (Outro) So here's to the strong ones, who know where they stand, With God as their partner, they'll walk this land. No fear, no feeling worthless, they're in the zone, 'Cause when God's on your side, you're never alone.

In the heart of the land where the rivers flow free, Stands a nation of folks who are brave as can be. With hands on our hearts, under God's watchful eyes, We're singing this song for the home of the brave. We're taking back our country, it's time to stand tall, With faith as our compass, we'll never fall. From the mountains so grand, to the wide-open sea, Under God's grace, where the brave are still free. We've weathered the storms, faced our trials with grace, Now we're turning the page, we're not stuck in one place. With hope in our eyes and prayers in our hands, We're planting new seeds across this great land. So many have fought, and so many have died, To keep the flame of freedom truly alive. In fields far away, under skies so vast, Their courage reminds us, our liberty lasts. Oh, we're not just a memory, we're alive and we're strong, We're the voices united in a powerful song. With God by our side, we'll forge a new way, For the red, white, and blue, we'll proudly display. We're taking back our country, with courage anew, We'll mend every bridge and paint it with truth. From the golden wheat fields to the cities that gleam, Under God's watch, we're chasing the dream. So let's raise up our voices, let the whole world hear, The USA's heart beats strong and sincere. We're taking back our country, making it better each day, For we are the people, under God, the USA.

We've walked these streets, we've seen the signs, A nation of dreams, in trying times. We've got the will, we've got the might, To lift each other into the light. Let's make this country a little bit better, Hand in hand, we'll face the weather. Brick by brick, we'll build our dream, With hope as our foundation beam. From the mountains high, to the valleys low, There's a common thread that binds us so. It's the love we share, for this land so grand, Together we stand, hand in hand. Let's make this country a little bit better, Side by side, no one's a debtor. Heart to heart, we'll mend the seams, Of this patchwork quilt of American dreams. * We're different voices, in one choir, With every note, we aim higher. To heal, to grow, to lead the way, For a brighter, kinder USA. Let's make this country a little bit better, Step by step, we'll write a new letter. Of unity, of dignity, of esteem, For the land of the free, and the home of the dream. So here's to the brave, to the free, To the builders of a legacy. We'll make this country a little bit better, For you, for me, forever together. May this inspire unity and a collective effort to improve our nation.

**Verse 1:** In the neon glow, where the cowboys roam You've got that look, makes me feel at home With a rockin' riff, and a rebel cheer We're the talk of the town, when we're both in gear **Chorus:** I know you want me, it's a wild, clear sign With the drums a-thumpin' to this heart of mine I know you need me, like the desert needs the rain So let's crank it up, let our spirits soar again **Verse 2:** We're two-steppin' closer, with every beat The rhythm's got us movin', from our heads to our feet There's magic in the music, and sparks in the air With every little glance, I catch, I know we're quite the pair **Bridge:** Let's hit the highway, under the stars so bright With the amps turned up, in the heat of the night We'll ride this song, like a steel horse dream 'Cause I know you want me, we're the perfect team **Chorus:** I know you want me, it's a wild, clear sign With the drums a-thumpin' to this heart of mine I know you need me, like the desert needs the rain So let's crank it up, let our spirits soar again **Outro:** So let's raise our glasses, to nights like these Where the music's our language, and you're all I wanna read We'll dance 'til the morning, under the moon's soft gleam 'Cause I know you want me, and you're my country dream

American Rocker” I was born in the land of the brave, where the eagles soar and roam, With the roar of the rivers and the whisper of the wind, in the place I call my home. My heart beats to the rhythm of the drums, and the guitars strumming wild, In the land of the free, I stand with pride, an everlasting American child. 'Cause I'm American, through and through, My soul's painted in red, white, and blue. I rock to the core, with freedom's sound, In the USA, where my roots are found. From the neon lights of the bustling cities to the quiet country roads, I've seen the beauty of the starlit skies and where the mighty Mississippi flows. I've danced in the rain and I've faced the sun, with a spirit that won't be tamed, In every note I play, in every word I say, I'm American, unashamed. We're the land of the dreamers, the home of the brave, Our anthem rings true, for the free and the saved. We'll rock this country, from dusk till dawn, With the power of the word, and the strength to carry on. 'Cause I'm American, through and through, My soul's painted in red, white, and blue. I rock to the core, with freedom's sound, In the USA, where my roots are found. So let the guitars wail, let the drums beat hard, As we sing our song, under the stripes and stars. We're American rockers, with a story to tell, In the land we love, where our hearts dwell.

Whatever the reason for their choices, too many country men saw the best years of their lives melt with the ice cubes in the bottom of an empty whiskey glass.