Where Seldom is Heard...

So it turns out there are a number of overlapping laws and statutes that prohibit the public staging of a good old fashioned cow-punching, campfire sing-along... on a Friday night... on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

The noble Vaquero, those wild and dashing Mexican cowboys of the old Southwest, have always been a friend and ally to the squinty-eyed American Gunslinger. There was much that each respected and admired in the other. The vaqueros could be fierce fighters when absolutely necessary but rarely sought it out. Love, passion and romance - these were the things the Vaquero lived for and bullets have a nasty habit of violently smashing future opportunities to love. "Lips," so goes the old vaquero saying, "are for kissing a fine woman, not for forming bloody spit bubbles with last ragged breaths."

Over the years, many a tired gunslinger has enjoyed a night of peace, good food and carefree song at a vaquero campfire.

For ten dollars an hour, the gentlemen relaxing outside the local Home Depot were more than willing to help Latigo Flint reenact this comfortable picture of frontier camaraderie. "Campfire songs senior? Of course we know campfire songs. Serapes and cooking pots? No problemo."

We rehearsed until twilight then drove to Hollywood & Vine. Double parked the U-Haul for a moment and quickly set up. And that was how it came to pass that a large crowd of Midwestern tourists got to witness the following scene.

Seven vaqueros hunkered around a campfire, leaning comfortably against saddles and singing magnificently as the frijoles and tortillas warmed.
"El Oh la vida de un vaquero es fino. Caballos y vacas y coyotes y tales. El Oh la vida de un vaquero es magnífico. Tengo gusto de hacerlo oh tanto. "

From somewhere beyond the circle of firelight my boot heal scuffed audibly on the curb.

"Es somebody there?" Juan peered cautiously into the night.

"Not to worry amigos!" I said in a low, clear voice. "Continue to play and sing your fine song. None but a friend approaches your fire this night."

"Es that Lateego Fleeent the esteemed gunslinger? Could it be so?"

"None other my amigos."

"You know you are always most welcome at our fires of camp Lateego Fleent. Step in from the cold and join us for frijoles and tortillas."

"Thank you Juan. You're certain you have enough to spare?"

"For you Lateego Fleent, always. You will of course lend your mighty baritone to our humble song to earn your food."

I threw back my head and laughed heartily. "Juan my amigo, does nothing ever change?" I stepped to the fire and breathed deeply of the wonderful smells emanating from the kettles. "And so again amigos it has come to pass that-"

The screeching tires and wailing sirens cut me off at that point and the comfortable picture of frontier camaraderie quickly disintegrated into chaos and bedlam. My gentleman reenactors hollered "I.N.S.!!!" and started to scatter, colliding with the suddenly terrified tourists who screamed and began beating them with handbags. The frijoles pot was overturned into the path of several charging police who slipped and crashed into the campfire, sending flaming logs flying in all directions, badly burning several tourists and igniting some nearby magazine racks. A squad of street people charged from an alley and tried to scoop up the musical instruments until enraged, frijoles-stained police, started pummeling them with nightsticks. A large crowd formed out the outside of the circle and started collapsing everyone in towards the flames in an attempt to see what was going on. Then a stray dog darted in, gulped down a couple of tortillas, took a giant sniff from a small dish of cayenne pepper and just went completely berserk...

They're going to try to throw the book at Latigo Flint. You may hear newscasters and court reporters say terrible things about Latigo Flint. But you know they aren't true. You know Latigo Flint was just trying to bring a little frontier camaraderie to a cold, heartless town.