Texas showed up at our offices one day, fresh off the bus from Smalltown, USA, looking for work. To tell you the truth, we didn’t quite know what to make of him. Standing over six feet tall from his boots to his ten-gallon hat, his ragtag Levis held up by a rope cinched around his middle, Texas was one tall drink of water.

Then the day came when the Internet blew a fuse, and we couldn’t communicate with our East Coast office. Someone had to deliver the new dates for The Strokes, and Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe to our facilities in New York City. Of course, Texas, being a simple young man with a heart of gold and a brain at least twice as large as the one the good Lord gave David Lee Roth, immediately volunteered.

Needless to say, we were concerned. The Big Apple can be a dangerous place for a small-town boy like Texas carrying a load of tour dates for bands like Mana and Jackpot in his suitcase. But Texas insisted upon going, so the very next day we bundled him and a box lunch onto the fastest Greyhound bound for NYC, the Fresno Flyer.

In retrospect, the poor boy didn’t have a chance.

They spotted him as an easy mark as soon as he stepped off the bus. There were four of them. Four shameless hussies that used every possible ploy in their womanly bag of tricks to seduce, entice and bamboozle every single tour date, whether it be for Creed, 38 Special or Bruce Hornsby, that Texas was carrying on his person.

It started when a foxy looking lawyer named Charlotte, a public relations woman named Samantha and a wild divorcee that went by the name of Miranda triple-teamed Texas, and while the poor boy’s heart was pounding and his pulse racing, worked their feminine wiles on him.

Oh, the horror! They did what they wanted with his body and then cast him aside as they made off with his dates for No Doubt and Sheryl Crow, all the while laughing about the yokel who always tipped his hat to the ladies.

Well, it was about that time that Texas figured that he’d seen the worse of New York City. But it wasn’t over yet. The leader of the pack, Carrie, who by day was a columnist for one of the local newspapers, grabbed Texas by the collar then proceeded to trace the routings for Chuck Prophet and Willie Nelson all over the erogenous zones of his cowboy body. And just when Texas couldn’t possibly stand any more, she took his Sophie B. Hawkins dates and then dumped his sorry butt in the East River.

You young men in the audience, let this be a lesson to you. There’s danger in those concrete canyons for simple boys fresh off the farm. Wicked harlots lurking at every corner, promising you desires of the flesh in exchange for your dates for The Other Ones, Money Mark or even Ari Hest. But don’t you listen to them. Walk the straight and narrow. Never talk to strangers, especially if they look like Sarah Jessica Parker or Kim Cattrall. No matter what you do, always remember this little morality tale. The tale about the poor boy named Texas who was a victim of his own lust and desires.

The tale about Tex and the city.