From Eric Taylor:

      Hello my friend:

     What does it mean, Diddy Wa Diddy? And is it spelled with a y or an i? I have asked others and wait for answers.

      I am trying to get a copy of your show at Kerrville. I got the photographer to send some great shots of you to choose from. You are so beautiful and smartly attired. Any case, I will continue to bother them.

      Eric


My reply:

Yo. This is Vince.

     Saturday morning my dog (Taz) kinda let out one funny sounding, muffled bark at 6:18. On the outskirts of awake and my underwear not quite around my waist, I stumbled, one eye open, through the typical fog into the living room. I squinted to make out joggers a half an acre away down on the greenbelt outside the big picture window over the sofa. Instead there stood a tallish fellow silhouetted broodingly in front of that couch casually sipping on a bottled water.
     When the other eye opened I changed all that. I thought to ask the apparently unconcerned dude just what the **** he was doing in MY house. Underwear notwithstanding, and before I could get the words out of my mouth the water went flying one way and the bottle the other while I put him on the floor. Still hollering like someone possessed of nothing save that pair of underwear, I grabbed as much hair in my white knuckles as I could and threw the now freaked out, big ol' unknown and his cool out the front door.
      It turned out a few cops later to be some eighteen year old that was trying to get in the house sitter next door’s pants. No doubt, after a Friday night of unrequited rapture. The directionally challenged young person missed by one house. Fudge.
     I think I stress fractured a big toe when I jumped on him like white on rice. Nonetheless, I let him go home with his father who kept insisting to the police and me he was a good boy. I'd have thrown the father in jail just because. But, I couldn't press charges on his oversized suckling turkey of a son whose worst transgressions were that he was young, horny, and messed up. You know the drill, it's easier to get laid when you're fifty than when you just get a driver's license. Gobble, gobble.
      Here's where we get to definition. "Diddy Wa Diddy" is what you have left when you stare down at your aching big toe and the cops, the young man, the family SUV, and his bullshit father are gone.
     I love you for thinking of me. I got the set I did at Kerrville from Mo, Humble that is. I can send it to you on a CD if you want.

Anyway, lemme know.
Vince

      ps As it sounds New Mexico continues to be dynamic at 14 Recado these days, and there’s a new border collie named "True".

     True's a real sweet six month old we rescued from a life of show bizness. Took her home from an AKC kennel between the Ortiz Mountains and the Sandias. So no parading between the paddocks for her. She has her own bowl, plenty of water, and a couple of slaves to peel her grapes. We're all learning to speak the same language. And it's exhausting this week 'cause we're on 24/7 trying to keep her from getting at stitches. She's quick as a hiccup. Teeth like shears.
     Latest and greatest: In New York I had a very good gig outside Millerton in a beautiful valley up a New York State route off the Taconic Parkway. The drive there took me past the opening gates of the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. Looked just like Kerrville. I played for a passle of dudes and dudettes imbued of Texana at my house concert for John Hermans and his wife, Marty. It was their first, and already it’s organized, attended by a great crowd, and sounds like the real deal. We filled up that garage, and the patio out back.