Back when used CD stores became all the rage, several voices cried foul into the night. They shouted, "No! It can't be!" from the rooftops of their million dollar homes.

One man stood among them. It was he who roped the wind; it was he who needed two margaritas one for each hand. His name was Garth Brooks.

A big Kiss fan, Garth used to put on the makeup. (He claims it was Gene Simmons but we all know it was Peter Criss.) This rodeo clown didn't like this idea of selling used copies of his albums, feeling that it robbed "artists" of their hard-earned cash. That is, if you can call what Tight Pants does "art." You see him out there strutting in painted on wranglers, smashing acoustic guitars and bravely taking a stand on such controversial issues as domestic violence wife beating.Garth strongly takes the underdog stance in writing a tune that says that beating women is not very cool. He is a song and dance man, the thunder rolls and the lightning strikes. The fiddle part comes in smooth, nice. You wonder how many takes it took to get that feeling down on tape -- very smooth, lifelike, as if you were there beatin' that bitch as the thunder rolled and lightning struck.

You're a super fan of the Brooks. You buy his records, but then one day you need weed.You sell his records to the discount store; they give you enough for a dime bag. You got five on it. Your day is set. You feel lucky.
Garth dies a little inside. He doesn't want your business. You have betrayed him. You force him to find tighter pants, for that is the only way he knows how to show anger and, especially, fear.

Garth is afraid. His dreams are nightmares of millions lost as millions pawn off their copies of Roping the Wind to the second hand store. His children must wear slightly baggy trousers because that is all he can afford.

He doesn't want you to sell his albums back to the man behind the counter; he wants the rest of your sandwich and he wants it now. You can see his fat, pudgy fingers reaching out from the television set and stealing food from your children's mouths. The buttons on his multi-colored Native-American-inspired theme shirt scream and then pop off. He strums his guitar and the sweat from his brow forms a line of grease that runs down his face. The stage lights bounce off his bald spot and send three fans into a coma and one to the morgue.

So many Sandwiches left behind. Why oh why, with so many plane trips on so many tours, you would think one would have ended in an Iowa cornfield, the flames from his burning carcass filling the cold night air with a black thick smoke, his fat feeding the fires for days at a time.

The masses who adored him would pile sandwiches high in a tribute to Peter Criss Gaines, to the shepherd who wanted his flock to give Dr. Pepper a chance. The radio plays Bye Bye Miss American Pie. Tattered remains of his sweat-stained Wranglers serve as holy artifacts of a new faith. The thunder rolls, the lightning strikes, and the waters in the bay stay eerily calm, because someone has roped all the wind.