My friend Debbi hosted a tie dye party the other weekend, and I never miss a tie dye party when I can. This time I outsmarted myself, bringing with me nine t-shirts and two pairs of briefs to put through the process.

Problem is, tie dye is something of a warm weather sport, and the more you dye, the more you die in the heat. Four hours later, wilted and wrung out like my best swirly t, I slunk off to let set my creations, all hope of a meaningful visit with my friend dashed, my energy spent folding, banding and dying enough shirts to clothe a microbus full of deadheads. See you next year, Debbi!

 A day or so later I wrote her a note, thanking her for inviting me to this magnificent hippie weekend extravaganza (in Wimberley, no less!), regaling her with photos of my latest creations and vowing to spend more time catching up the next time the merry-go-round swings through San Marcos or Wimberley. I didn't hear back for about a week, but her reply added insult to injury.

She writes "You're not going to believe who showed up on Sunday afternoon. I came out on the back porch and Robin introduced me to a woman named Adrienne, who is the mother of one of Marley's class mates. I turned and introduced myself to her son, and then to her husband, who introduced himself to me as Butch Hancock. Yes, dear, Butch Hancock spent Sunday afternoon at my brother's house, tie-dying with his wife and son, Rory. How cool is that?"

Well, Debbi, that's so Goddamned cool that I may just never speak to you again! (At least until the next tie dye party--don't forget to invite me back, baby!!).

In the meantime, I will pat myself on the back for being a day ahead of Butch Hancock--very possibly the greatest songwriter of his generation and a fellow west Texan.

A day ahead?  Years, more like. Because, see, I'm pretty annoyed at my fellow Lubbock-or-leave-it alum. Why? Because as great as his west Texas poetry may be, he is remarkably unmoved by the power of the Internet to put his music before the listening public. Like a number of artists who made a big splash in the '70s and '80s, Butch has not mastered the interwebs, nor does he seem to want to. So, as much as I might like to regale you, gentle readers, with his prowess, by introducing you to such gems as Mario e Maria, or West Texas Waltz, or If You Were A Bluebird, I can't.

I can't, because Butch doesn't have anything of note on YouTube to even show you. And it's a shame, too.  I can't imagine that Butch doesn't have a recording of Little Coyote Waltz that he could throw out there to attract some new fans, or wow a lucky few of his old ones. But he won't. Not so much because he is unaware of YouTube as that he is just opposed. Needlessly opposed to technology that could put him on the map. Or simply not interested, which is just as bad.

Still, I believe I could have overcome my pique over his virtual absence from the Web to engage the man in some manly conversation. I've heard he drives a tractor and I know he wears tie dye shirts, so I'm sure he's a good old boy.