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Happy Father's Day!

I hope you called your Dad. I can't believe how quickly time is flying by this year. May was a blast! The shows in New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia went by too fast. We also got to Texas for the first time in a long while. Love and War in Texas turned out to be one of my favorites. It was broadcast live on the internet, so maybe you got a chance to catch it. The owners of the club, Ty and his wife Kim along with Ty's brother Tory, are true Poconuts.
Since getting home from Texas I've been busy writing. I really want to finish the book project and have it published next year for Poco's fortieth anniversary. Mary tells me I should pull another story from the book for the journal and since I always do what Mary says, I'm posting a story about me and Miles.
It's when we were in high school, long before he ventured out to California and became a roadie for the Buffalo Springfield. Some of you may know that Miles Thomas was the one who convinced Richie to call me for the 'Kind Woman' session that marked the beginning of Poco.

Miles and I had been friends since seventh grade. We were pretty typical kids, once in a while we'd get into a little trouble, skipping school and chasing girls. Like every other high school kid, we couldn't wait to turn eighteen because then you could drink 3.2% beer. There were clubs in Colorado that served nothing but 3.2% beer and pizza, a sort of training school for future alcoholics.
But even before we turned eighteen, Miles and I used to skip school on Friday afternoons and drive up to Golden, Colorado. That's where the Coors Brewery turns sparkling Rocky Mountain spring water into Coors beer. The brewery gave tours of the facility every twenty minutes on the hour. All you had to do to take the tour was register with the hosts that waited in the lobby. When you registered you were given a tour badge and two coupons, each redeemable for one ice cold glass of beer. The tour passed by the giant brass kettles where the hops fermented and the long warehouse rooms layered with barley. After winding down hallways covered with pictures of Adolf Coors and the generations of little Adolfs that followed, the tour ended at the lounge.
It didn't take a lot of visits before Miles and I noticed that the beginning of the tour wound right by the lounge where the tour ended. We developed a plan. We'd linger inconspicuously at the back of the crowd until the tour group walked on. Then we quietly slipped out of line and into the lounge. In those days, if they thought you looked old enough, they didn't ask for a driver's license or point out that you'd been in line more a few times. I can still remember those tall glasses of beer. On a hot breezy afternoon they were about the best thing you'd ever tasted.
Sometimes, if we were lucky we'd talk a couple of girls into going with us. We met the girls in the school parking lot or forged a pass excusing the girls and raced out to the car. There was one thing for sure, we always took my red Chevy Corvair with white bucket seats and three speed floor shift. It was a real chick magnet!
Actually, we took the Corvair because exhaust fumes leaked into the car and got the girls high. About halfway between high school and the brewery if the girls started giggling, we knew the fumes were working. To avoid becoming light-headed ourselves, Miles and I tried holding our breath during the ride. But we had to give up on that when Miles kept passing out from lack of oxygen. I think we eventually just built up a tolerance to carbon monoxide fumes. It was all great fun while it lasted, but mine wasn't the only Corvair leaking exhaust fumes and a government recall on Corvairs put a damper on things. Damn that Ralph Nader!

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