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I was just minding my own business, then BAM—I looked up and 1975 was 50 years ago. That doesn’t seem right. I still remember sitting in the front seat of the first Fairlane 500 at the Prairie View Twin Drive-In with Buttercup, not having a clue what was playing on the big screen up ahead.

Now Mick Jagger is 80. Mitch McConnell is 81. And I’m suddenly reconsidering every salad I ever ate. The big health lie wasn’t about carbs or kale—it was about clean living keeping you young. The real key, apparently, is rock and roll, bad decisions, and refusing to sleep for more than three hours at a time.

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Not that anyone’s young around here. Fort Stockton’s got more creaking joints than a haunted mansion. I ran into Rusty Hammer the other day at the Piggly Wiggly, sniffing around the discount bin like a truffle pig. He leans in and goes, “I’ve just released my own fragrance. Nobody in the car seemed to like it.”

The man’s a poet.

Speaking of men who shouldn’t be trusted around a spritz bottle, I saw Rex Hall leaning up against the ice machine outside Rex Hall Drugs like he was waiting for a movie deal. Told me his wife’s identity had been stolen. Then he smiled and added, “But the guy who stole it is spending less money than she did, so I’m just going to let it ride.”

He says it like he’s proud of her, or the thief, or maybe both. With Rex, it’s never quite clear where the punchline ends and the obituary begins.

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And in case you were wondering, yes—things in town are as weird as ever.

The mayor—God help us all—is still in office, somehow. He’s been trying to get the Silver Slipper and the Scuttlebutt to combine operations for a “dual-denominational nightlife experience.” When asked what that meant, he said it was “like a Hooters but with more forgiveness.” That man refuses to let an opportunity pass if he can turn it into personal profit. Some denizens of Fort Stockton see that as patriotism rather than graft.

I heard from Hairless B29 this week, too. He’s leading rehearsals for Shakespeare in the Stock Tank again. Claimed this year’s Macbeth would be performed entirely in iambic tequila. When I asked what that meant, he held up a bottle of Espolòn and said, “Act Two starts when this is half empty.”

Casting is still underway. Trixie wants to play Lady Macbeth but refuses to take off her acrylics. Sister Thelma said that’s fine, but only if she agrees to stop flirting with the high school boys in the chorus. Progress.

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Anyway, for those of you who are new around here—welcome. I mean it. Every time somebody posts a link to the blog on Bring a Trailer, I get a little rush of subscribers, confused but curious. One day you’re hunting for a clean ’79 Wagoneer, and next thing you know you’re reading about a naked man with a tattoo of a B-29 bomber trying to direct West Texas Shakespeare.

Life is unpredictable like that. But once folks mosey on over to the blog, before they know it, reading each daily story with their coffee becomes a habit. In no time they’re grabbing their chest in either laughter or disgust, and their life partner is contemplating calling 911.

I truly appreciate y’all spreading the word. You have no idea how much that means in a world where the algorithm thinks I should be selling collagen powder and reverse mortgages. The more eyes we get on this strange corner of the internet, the more folks get to experience the glory, shame, and assorted engine noises of Fort Stockton.

If you’ve been following along for a while, you probably already know it’s just about time for a new series—and you’d be right.

Mercury, Gold, and Iron.

It’s a seven-part adventure across time, memory, and several poorly maintained vehicles. There’s family drama. There’s unexpected romance. There’s a car so ugly it may cause astigmatism.

It starts bright and early tomorrow, and if you’re not subscribed yet, now’s the time. I’d hate for you to miss the part where we almost drown in a creek behind the Dairy Twin. Hypothetically.

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Now back to aging, which has become my full-time side hustle.

AGE 12: Fell off a bike going Mach 5 on a gravel road, tore open a knee, rode five miles home and asked for seconds at dinner.
AGE 50: Used the wrong pillow and couldn’t turn my head for two days.

How is it even possible to throw out your back by sneezing? I feel like I’m one strong fart away from complete paralysis.

That’s the trick of it. You don’t feel old. Inside, I’m still that kid in a G.I. Joe t-shirt thinking MTV is a permanent cultural institution. But then you pass a mirror, and BAM—reality jumps out like a raccoon from a trash can.

Hair is running away from your forehead like it owes it money. Eyebrows growing faster than your ambition. And don’t get me started on ear hair. Somewhere around age 48, your follicles go rogue and boxer shorts are no longer a fashion alternative. The boys demand more support.

I turned down the stereo in the car the other day just so I could see better. Think about that. There is no logical connection between sound volume and visibility, and yet here we are, as a species.

Also, a friendly reminder while I’ve got you here: this blog doesn’t run on West Texas charm alone. I hate asking. I really do. But stories like these—brought to you fresh, folded, and free of pop-up ads for Hemorrhoid Cream and Bedroom Enhancement Pills—don’t pay for themselves.

There’s web hosting to cover, coffee to brew, and the occasional replacement ribbon for the battered Smith-Corona typewriter I refuse to part with.

So if you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into our oddball town—or any of the 785 stories that have been posted so far—consider hitting that DONATE button down below. Throw something in the kitty. Could be the price of a gas station burrito, or enough to fund my next descent into automotive madness. Either way, it helps keep the lights on and the words flowing.

And listen—whether you’re reading this from a kitchen table in Kansas or a break room in Pensacola, I’m glad you’re here. Life’s better when it’s shared with folks who laugh at the same kind of nonsense.

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As for me, I’m off to help Angus Hopper look for a replacement carburetor for his ’65 Ford pickup. He swears the old one was sabotaged by squirrels. Then he blamed the mayor. Then he blamed “the Chinese,” which I’m almost positive is just the name of a poker group down at the Cattle Baron Hotel where he’s been known to take suckers’ money.

Either way, I’ll be back tomorrow with the first part of Mercury, Gold, and Iron.

Until then, don’t trust any man who wears Crocs in public, don’t let your heart get harder than your liver, and if your town doesn’t have a woman like Lucinda or a man like Hairless, you might want to move.

Fort Stockton says howdy.

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If you laughed even once, prove it wasn’t gas money wasted. Tap that donate button. Let’s keep this ship running smooth(er) than Rusty Hammer’s cologne.

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