The Pot Can’t Call the Kettle Black Revisited

So I laced my shoes with country blues and I lit out down that dusty ol’ road with a guitar in a case and my old military duffle bag. I hit the West Coast sometime in the days of way back when, got me a one ton ’58 panel truck, some new tires and a booking agent and ran that West Coast up one side and down the other of Hwy 1 and 101 crissin’ and crossin’ twixt the two from Coos Bay, Oregon down through Big Sur, Half Moon Bay, Napa, Sonoma, Mendocino, LA, Redondo to San Dog playin’ the coffee houses and the road houses and the honky tonks of the day. The Ash Grove in LA, the Ice House in Pasadena thanks to David Lindley, The House of The Rising Sun in Redondo, to the Golden Bear down in Diego and a thousand others I can’t remember, oh yeah, Sid’s Blue Beat in Huntington Beach. Then out along the Mexican Line I’d go, from Yuma to Nogales and on over to Juarez playin’ places most folks wouldn’t set foot in. Places with dirt floors, Hombres and no mics, just passin’ the hat. I had very little trouble back in them days. I liked people. Didn’t have no trouble on my hand, didn’t have no trouble on mind.



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