Texico Days: Macho Burger

     In large measure, commerce was the true reason Texico came to be.  The notion that good ideas, executed in a deliberate and intentional manner, will lead to innovation and prosperity was radical to some, especially the corrupted American establishment.  Soaked in unneeded regulations, choked by corporate taxes, and saddled with expensive entitlement programs, the American economy collapsed in the 20's.  The baby boomer transition from saving money to withdrawing money tanked the banks and investment companies.  Texicans were resourceful.  Never did they expect the government to provide for their retirement.  Retirement, in fact, was not something many texicans pursued.  Instead, aging texicans kicked it in as they headed towards the grave.  Business ventures, missional efforts, and other interests became more important later in life.  Rebirth, renewal, and reinvention.  Always.  No other phenomenon illustrated this spirit as clearly as Macho Burger.  This prevalent feature of the towns and cities of Texico began as a simple vision.  The best burger for less.  Opened prior to the beginning of Texico in the great Collin county suburbs north of Dallas, this restaurant has become a conglomeration of 2500 units spread all through Texico.  Created by entrepreneur Mason J. Step, L. Dean Fitzgerald was an early investor and wrote the signature jingle in the early days...

Walking, I found myself hungry and in the Allen area. While I was looking around for something to eat, I bumped into a guy standing on the corner of Bethany and Greenville. I asked him, “Hey man, you know where I can get a good burger?” “You want a good burger, huh?” he answered. “Yeah”, I said. He asked if ever had a Macho Burger. “A Macho Burger?” I inquired. “Yes, a Macho Burger.” “Nope”, I answered. He then pointed across the street to a small colorful hut with smoke coming out of the top and said, “Go on over there and order you a Macho Burger. You’ll be glad you did”. Intrigued at this point I pressed for more information. “What makes a Macho Burger so good?” I asked “What makes a Macho Burger so good? First off, they give you a huge hunk of meat. Secondly, they keep the bread dry”, he answered quickly. He thought for a few more moments and added, “another thing, after you eat a Macho Burger, you know you ate a good burger.” he went on, “you know you got your money’s worth and you can come back and get the same thing next time you want a good burger.” Then he challenged me, “Why don’t you go try for yourself?” With that I thanked him, jaywalked across the street, and ordered a Macho Burger. After carefully unwrapping the burger and seeing it in its full uneaten glory I could understand what he meant by a huge hunk of meat and the integrity of the bread was intact. I couldn’t wait to take a bite and when I did I tasted the best burger I ever had. A Macho Burger. I’ll tell you this, it won’t be the last. Get you a Macho Burger today. You'll be glad you did.


Creative marketing, good burgers, and relentless sanitary execution earned Macho Burger it's place among iconic Texican brands.  The development of the now famous chihuahua burger and the marketing of it, first as a slider appetizer, then as a children's burger, was an example of this continuous nature of texican innovation.  Mr. Stec developed the menu personally and makes adjustments obsessively.  The original Macho burger (meat, sharp cheddar cheese, thinly sliced onions, zesty dill pickle slices, raw bell peppers, and black olives served on a very toasted bun, best with real mayonnaise) was the only burger on the menu for a couple of years before the need for diversity led to a more versatile menu.

White Pants

.she stepped out last week.
.cold shoulder turns and silence.
.the joy of life can be had.
.but it must be sought.
.you will find it within.
.it has already found you.
.white pants and stone necklaces.
.warm towels and perfect eyebrows.
.until the slumber ends.
.until the change of the season.
.endurance and work.
.routines and habits.
.particular projects of beginnings and ends.
.selling margaritas in the stands now
.just want a smoke.
.nervous mutes and sidewinders.
.get up there closer.
.the yu choo rendition of the rangers.
.no bleacher seats anymore.
.the world has been fooled.
.not entertainment.
.larceny.
.glow world park.
.a sucker's den.

No Generations

.disorientation of the order of things.
.take nothing for granted.
.all rotations are their own.
.this will not last.
.time will end.
.our time.
.anxiety and regrets rolled in the mud.
.schedules and agendas obsolete.
.no generations.
.no eras.
.decades, centuries, millennia.
.pushing work and cash around now.
.pride digestion and moments of joy.
.relationships initiated and maintained.
.plans of goals and actions.
.read respond, read respond.
.give your heart away.
.it is too blue for your own use.
.look through the eyes of others.
.understand them.
.the season came to an end last night.
.the hawks had a good run.
.the loud voice having fun.
.his stage is gone.

Evolution Girls

.refinement.
.and the other side of hate.
.part of the soul now.
.authenticity.
.shapes of all kinds.
.colors too.
.the tender hearts.
.the cold ones.
.turn away turn away.
.look to the stars.
.on a clear night.
.away from noise.
.only music and nature.
.evolution girls.
.resting in love.
.home girls.
.resting in love.
.teach your children well.
.they are being kept from trouble.
.avoid the pit.
.and the falls.
.mind games forever.
.until the age of maturity.
.until the age of reason.

Shark Fin Sky

.orange, orange shark fin sky.
.all the colors plunging into the clouds.
.remembered some sort of promise.
.still and completely clear.

Intended

.the metal got extremely hot. .it must to become what it must. .intended and planned. .considered the expense of time. .it was worth every hour. .as we count them down carefully.

Where The Leprechauns Howl

   
     He walked in and the 7 foot guy stared him down.  Started and listened in amazement.  Who was this skinny white boy with Unc?  Smothered his shoulder with his hand after the performance.  "You turned me around son, I didn't know what to think," he boomed.
     "I learned from the three Kings--Albert, Freddie, and Elvis.  Martin Luther And Martin Luther King. Jr and Sr too."  He talked with knowing confidence.  The place smelled of chicken necks and the guitar players coated their fingers with chicken grease.  This was in the backwoods.  The hills of Tennessee.  Where the Cashes come from.  Self sufficient and musical people.  This is not Nashville.  These people made Nashville.  Players all around.  That Gibson box was tuned in.  Learned to play every note.  Studied the theory of music and heard sounds.  Not a follow me man.  "You say you play better than Jimmy Hendrix.  Really?  Let's hear it."  He was older now.  This was years later.  "Now Jimmy wrote the book.  There is no doubt.  Had to go and off himself.  Intentional or not, He was reckless.  Can't be drinking too much prior to a performance.  Can't be sloppy.  We move forward, we don't look back."
     Buzzards was a lake bar.  Near pottsboro and pink.  These texoma boys flash cash around.  Floating the waters while the red river dies.  Beach camping bums and stripper fillets.  Green waters and hundred pound catfish.  Cold and windy on granpappy point.  The Munson place near the cliff.  They never heard a big sound.  They never heard the doctor on the keys.  Three piece county bands with honky tonk covers and straw hats.  It was buzzards.  Big red loved the guitar.  I'm playing one for him.  And the strings were pulled off.  Bended and mangled and shredded.  Burns run come down.  Sleep the next day.
     Playing the glow gig set and this gentlemen walks up to the stage.  He calmly straps on the electric guitar and begins to ensure proper tuning.  I have just completed the opening song, swaying California brown, and the place is full of anticipation.  The opener is a ripper and my sideman was playing nice long slide licks.  The bar was ringing noises of commerce.  I'll have another, make it two or three.  Once he's satisfied with the sound of the telecaster, he proceeds to play the introduction to the second track, north end of Erwin park, the most local of all glowface songs and my favorite to sing.  He seems to know it and the minor chord laced solos and improvisational sounds we're filling the entire room with melted wax.  Incredible, I thought as I signaled the slide for some butter knife whines.  The protest of the protest song went on for an hour.  The gentleman would not stop.  I was pouring sweat and exhausted.  We had played the entire album, finishing with a remarkable rendition of Rankin Blues.  He made up notes, he tore off the paint, he made the chandeliers cry.  All songs were played without pause.  It was like one long song.  The place smelled of mushrooms and beer.  The man finally unstrapped the worn out guitar and placed it back on it's lonely stand. He walked through the stunned crowd, out the back door, and down the ally. We stood there amazed, not knowing what had happened.  The slide player was hypnotized.  The crowed was silent as he left, but glowing brightly.
     He came from the end of the road.  Near the washed out bridge.  Where the leprechauns howl.