OLD GRINGO

Posted by Shireen Sandoval  12/14/12, 4:02pm

Cue Western music. Film camera pans up slowly to a wide shot of an old dusty saloon. A cowgirl, with a John Wayne swagger, saunters into the shot. You see her backside and it looks mighty fine, if I do say so myself (in a slight Southern accent.) As she walks up the wooden steps, her right hand slides to her gun holster. With quick draw precision, she checks her pistol to make sure it's locked and loaded. After all, that's how the west was won.

Music builds. Next shot (not as in bullets or whiskey - yet.) The camera, from inside the bar, zooms slowly toward the rickety, paint chipped, double doors. In harmony, they swing open, as the cowgirl tilts her hat, nods her head and blesses the bartender with a slight wink and a crooked smile. She has nice teeth because she prefers chewing gum, not tobacco. Her hair is freshly blown from her horse-ride into town. Her cheeks are flushed and her body tanned from the desert sun. You could've heard a pin drop when she walked into the room.

Music lowers. Camera pans slowly down the cowgirl's body. She's wearing a white distressed, wife-beater tank, a trusty San Lorenzo leather holster, a pair of faded blue jeans she'd snatched off a skinny bank-robber down in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She caught up with him before the long arm of the law did and demanded he give her the stolen money.

She wanted to buy herself a new pair of shit kickers and they were expensive. She took his jeans while she was at it. Everyone needs to be caught with their pants down now and again, to teach 'em a lesson. She was also wearing her worn-out, shotgun chaps, with a bit of fringe on the side and her brown, beige & green Old Gringo boots (with hand-sewn butterfly patchwork at the top.) She was a sight for sore eyes.

Music changes. Camera reverses angle, follows cowgirl from behind. The tension in the room eased up a bit, as she walked toward the bar, swung her leg over a stool and ordered a shot of Glenavon Whiskey. It was a one-horse town and she'd be damned if she didn't see it through rose-colored glasses. The cowgirl swigged her drink, whistled at the bartender for another and then went about her way. But it wasn't that simple. It never is with Westerns (especially one starring a fashion diva.)

She knew the camera was there, so she walked passed it, out of her mini blog movie, with her one-of-a-kind Old Gringo's on. They were, in fact, one of her favorite things. She bought 'em in the old square of Santa Fe, when she went back home to do away with a man who'd done her wrong. Enough about that, though; she knew she had to skedaddle. It was possible some bandits would shoot her dead in her tracks, just to live a day in those boots. Really, who could blame 'em? They were the best looking things on that side of the Mississippi. That's why she was a wanted woman in the The Four Corners area.

In fear of being found in her fancy footwear and afraid the Sheriff would catch up with her, she straddled her horse and rode outta town. The sun was setting (of course,) and the cowgirl knew sometimes, living for what you loved came with a price. She was okay with that. She was a little lonely at times, but every good woman suffers a fool when it comes to finding the perfect fit. So she rode west, with dust behind her, a pink sky in front of her and a passion for fashion inside her.

Before she headed further into big sky country, she wanted me to tell you: good boots should never slip on your heels, or rub on your legs and they should always be a little loose, so you can slip em' on and yank em' off, after a hard days work. Go on, giddy up yourself at www.oldgringoboots.com

The Gallant Gladiator

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

The Gallant Gladiator a blog story...

I know it didn't happen in slow motion but it felt that way. My feet danced around me; forward and backward, up and down, side to side. My body lunged in different directions, twisting and turning, in what I thought was a dazzling display of agility. So, imagine my surprise when my enemy sunk her dagger straight into my heart. I gasped in pain and my body grew limp. After she stabbed me, she pulled me close and whispered: "Rest in peace Gallant Gladiator."

Rosebuds, Mr. Herrick, Clover Canyon & Floggs

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

When Springtime approaches, the poem "Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May" incessantly runs through my head. It affects me in two ways. At first, I feel a renewal of sorts. Spring brings such possibilities. Then I feel an overwhelming need to inflict pain on Robert Herrick. He's the 17th-century English writer that penned the poem. It's basically a warning to young people to heed love ASAP. He states: "That age is best which is the first." My translation - love is better when you're young (virgin-like) so get it while the gettin's good.

Paula, Kookie & Molly my hair chronicle ...

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I didn't lose my hair all at once. It came out little by little, here and there. It trailed behind me like a brillant mystery novel, leaving little clues to my whereabouts. First, I noticed it on my pillow. Then my shower drain. I'd find strands on my shoulders and frantically pick them off. Eventually a clump would follow. Each piece was like a string of rope coming untethered. The once strong, tightly bound fibers unraveled around me. Over time, my magnificent mane became minuscule. The bottom shed so much it turned see-through. The top, typically full, thinned-out into a lackluster, lifeless thing that just laid there. It was a case of "hair today, gone tomorrow" literally.

A Fashion Felony

Posted by Shireen Sandoval

I was in a deep sleep when the raid happened. It was the middle of the night. The sound of the front door getting kicked in jolted me from my slumber. My heart raced. I knew it was over. I had the premonition a few days prior. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. I'd prepared myself - going over and over it - hundreds of times in my head. But now that it was actually happening, I wasn't ready. I looked through the darkness, toward the door of my bedroom and saw flashlights flooding my apartment. A cop yelled my name, demanding my surrender. I couldn't let them take me. Not now. Not like this. I was vunerable, disheveled and undressed.