The Saga Continues . . . In deference to me, he squashed out the cigarette he was smoking. I nestled into a comfy nook under a keyboard in his studio, the only spot I could find. Like the gentleman he is, he pushed a few cords and empty JD bottles out of the way for me. I waited patiently.
Cowboys love to ramble on about their work.
When he lit his third without speaking, I took a more aggressive approach. Always has been. Years and years. He stood and stretched, walking over to a wall lined with guitars and such, not all of which I recognized. He picks and bangs a mean guitar, and a lot of other instruments of destruction as well.