You Should Never Sing Wildfire At The Top Of Your Lungs In A Crowded Movie Theater...........

I think that qualifies as a federal offense or something.

I didn't intend to make this an all-classic rock-all-the-time theme week. Maybe I was unknowingly possessed by the ghost of a 1970's radio DJ during the night and he's controlling my every move. That would go a long way towards explaining why I wanted to dress up in a crochet vest today and why I keep asking everyone-even the dog- "Hey baby, what's your sign?"

When I was a little whippersnapper my mom had the sheet music to Wildfire. We spent many hours of my youth wailing for Wildfire along with the earnest Michael Martin Murphey. My mom and I also sang the Bumblebee Tuna jingle over and over. Bum-Bum-Bumblebee, Bumblebeeeee Tuuunnnaaa.......... I think she was grooming me to land some commercial work and bring home either a check or a lifetime supply of canned Bumblebee Tuna.

Anyway, I ran calling Wiiiilllldfiiiiire so often that I'm surprised I wasn't branded by the neighborhood residents as The Girl Who Cried Wildfire. No, we didn't live on Yellow Mountain. I think those people got accustomed to a lady screaming "Wildfire!" a long time ago.

There's a particularly memorable line from that song that goes:
There's been a hoot-owl howling by my window now
For six nights in a row
She's coming for me, I know
And on Wildfire we're both gonna go

When the oldest of my mini-Infidels were younger we had a scintillating discussion about owls because an owl family decided to nest in the tree right outside their bedroom window.
The conversation turned towards that line in Wildfire. I explained that Michael Martin Murphey (Seriously, that name is so freakin long. Why can't we just call him MMM?) wrote that because according to Indian legend, an owl perched outside your window means that somebody is going to croak off and croak off soon.

That was a big mistake. One that should be chronicled into the humongous tome filled with my sometime appalling parenting skills.

The three of them were terrified of sleeping in their rooms because with every piercing Hoo-Hoo of the owl they grew more and more certain that signified death swooping in to take them away.

So traumatic. When I was a child I was terrified of owls, too. But that's only because I knew they couldn't be trusted to be honest with you if you gave them your Tootsie Roll pop and asked them to tell you how many licks it takes to get to the center.

The owl family eventually took their Hoot-a-Palooza across the street to our neighbors. They have a magnificent oak tree with branches that extend towards the heavens and a trunk big enough to shield me when I duck behind it to avoid the Boy Scouts peddling popcorn on our street. It's far superior to our lowly pine. Snobby owls.

So there you have it. Need a guest room? Import some owls to live in your trees and then tell the Indian Legend of Certain Death to your smallish children. They'll refuse to ever step foot back in that room again and you'll have gained valuable bedroom space.

Michael Martin Murphey On Letterman Performing Wildfire

*Holy freak, MMM aged really well. He retired his 70's blond bob look that he stole from Toni Tennille along with his puka shell necklace and he now looks like a respectable older cowboy. A cowboy that wears impractical non-weatherproofed fringe suede, but you know. He should have passed his ten-gallon cowboy hat around the audience to take up a collection. Maybe MMM made a lot of money selling Wildfire to the glue factory at the same time he was selling copies of the Wildfire song and doesn't need the cash that bad. Who knows? He ran calling, whooooo will buy Wildfire..........He ran calling, whooooo will buy Wildfire.......*