For as long as the written word has been in existence, there has most likely been writers of those words adopting pen names, or a “nom de plume”, as you would say if you enjoy sounding pretentious and hoity-toity. Try it…nom de plume…nom de plume…

If you were to choose a nom de plume to write under what would you choose? Since my middle name, Charles, has never gotten much play time, perhaps I would go with Charles Q. Cowboychord? What’s the “Q” stand for? Quilt, Quasimodo, Quantum, Quail…? How should I know? Afterall, I thought I had two middle names when I was a kid, Josh Uwa Charles Ellis. Exotic name, idiotic child. What do you expect from someone that slathers rancid liverwurst on Zesta crackers and washes the whole lot down with spoiled milk?

Being born without a sense of smell has its advantages, but a fair amount of disadvantages as well. Those of you that may quip, “Even if you can smell you can’t tell if liverwurst has gone bad or not.” Let me tell you, you can tell…eventually. What the nose fails to detect is astutely recognized by the functioning rancid food detection systems further down the line and briskly ushered out the nearest exit…or exits. So it goes.

I rely on my wife and her seemingly superhuman sense of smell to swat rancid liverwurst slathered on Zesta crackers out of my hand before everything goes south, but if she’s not around either I go without or I roll the dice. I know that after 30-years of being my nose she has probably grown weary of me asking her to smell stuff, especially liverwurst, but Catholic guilt and the vows that Father Leonard Savelkoul sanctified have thus far prevailed. Love shall conquer all…even food poisoning.

Speaking of Zesta crackers, we were in Lignite after Christmas to visit Ma and Pa and the gang when we were cordially invited to a garage gathering. A proper North Dakota garage gathering…crockpots of various cheesy stuff, crackers of all shapes and sizes, beers of all makes and models, a couple of glorious handmade canoes, two guitars, a banjo, and a harmonica.

For fear of retribution by the Fedora or Beret divisions of JAZZ (Jazz Aficionado Zealot Zealots), I won’t reveal the names of those in attendance at GAGZ (Garage gAthering aGainst jaZz) in Lignite that blustery December evening.

Those suede wingtip tapping thugs would love nothing more than to subject naysayers and dissenters to their dreaded hi-hat treatment “chick..chicka..chick..chicka..chick..” or a three-hour guitar riff that, like a drunk telling a story, manages to never go anywhere discernable, interesting, or memorable. Nowhere discernable to us lowbrow cowboy chord strummers anyway.

I know I have spoken disparagingly about jazz in the past, and I always preface those disparaging words with the proclamation that I really do respect any musician of any genre. But music taste being subjective, I object to jazz, and would rather knowingly eat a Zesta cracker slathered in rancid liverwurst than endure it. Verified rancid by my loving wife.

Charles Q. Cowboychord once lamented that if he were ever informed that he only had an hour to live, he would simply drop some groovy jazz vinyl on the hi-fi. He explained that that hour would feel like days, and when the final ticks of those 60-minutes mercifully arrived, he would welcome death. That Charles Q. Cowboychord…I’d like to meet him someday.

At a proper North Dakota garage party one blustery December evening Mamma Tried, as momma’s always do, and while Seven Spanish Angels bid adieu to The Highwayman and ascended through the dust kicked up by Ghost Riders In the Sky, Heroes and Friends sang, strummed, and laughed a bit with Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Slainte my friends.