Earlier this year I had the honor to appear on Brent Weber’s Fox 25 morning show to plug my book Big Easy.  Brent is an affable and intelligent man, and put me instantly at ease.  I realized that he is talented but didn’t know that he is also an accomplished actor until I received this recent email:

 http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com

There is a new review of Just East of Eden on the website Bookpleasures.com.  There is also and interview with Eric Wilder on the website.  Please check it out.

http://www.bookpleasures.com/Lore2/idx/0/3072/article/Just_East_of_Eden_Tales_From_The_Blog.html

http://www.bookpleasures.com/Lore2/idx/0/3074/article/A_Conversation_With_Eric_Wilder_Author_of_Just_East_of_Eden_Tales_From_The_Blog.html

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Edmond, OK (Gondwana Press) October 19, 2007 -- Gondwana Press LLC announces the release of Eric Wilder’s newest book Just East of Eden.  What do chicken sacrifices, oil wells and black panthers have in common?  They are all storylines from Wilder’s prolific imagination that are highlighted in his latest outing.

Just East of Eden is a hybrid page-turner based on the author’s popular story blog by the same name.  Wilder transports his readers on a rapid-fire journey between misty waterfalls in the Ouachita Mountains, steamy brothels in Vietnam, and a setting sunset amid filigree ironwork in the heart of the French Quarter - the ultimate destination located somewhere between reality and your wildest fantasy.

Author of Big Easy, a murder mystery set in post-Katrina New Orleans, Wilder has also penned Murder Etouffee, Prairie Sunset and A Gathering of Diamonds.  Heather Froeschl of Quilldipper.com says, “The natural course of events is to take the blog and publish parts of it for those who still like to feel the pages turn beneath their fingers and breathe the scent of ink and paper. Eric Wilder has done this with his newest book, “Just East of Eden,” and I am delighted.”

About author

Native of Louisiana, Eric Wilder now lives and writes in Edmond, Oklahoma.  The author of seven other books, he is also a geologist and noted energy expert.

About Gondwana Press

Founded in 2006, Gondwana Press LLC is a regional publisher seeking to expand the bounds of both knowledge and entertainment.

At Wal-Mart tonight, I visited the pet department for dog and cat food.  My pups and kitties conveniently ran out about the same time.  While scanning the aisles for new products, I discovered a new doggie treat that looked like a package of Oreo cookies.  Yes, I bought them.

I opened the package to discover that they even smelled like Oreos.  Made me want to scarf down a couple.  Instead, I read the nutrition label.  I didn’t see sugar so I decided that they were probably okay for my doggies, and maybe a bit too bland for me.

Yes, they loved them.  At least Patch and Lucky did.  I couldn’t really decide about always picky Velvet.

I wondered to myself as I returned to the house – do fake Oreo dog cookies make my poochies love me more?  Am I giving them something that I would like myself in order to assuage my guilt for not spending more time with them?  Should I cut myself up in pieces or spread myself thinner to cover the people, pets and past times that I love?

Probably not.  I forgot my own mother’s birthday for forty years and she still loved me.  Well – – – most of the time, anyway.

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com

Here is an artistic rendition of rustic Caddo Lake with its algae-green water lying beneath shading cypresses.

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com

During the last oil boom, Christmas parties became monster occasions in downtown Oklahoma City.  Schlumberger, Halliburton, Dresser Atlas and all the large service companies rented massive ballrooms and sated every guest there with food, drink and entertainment.  The oil companies weren’t far behind, especially those in constant search of investor money.

Single and still fairly young, I once had three women that I was dating show up at the same party.  The ballroom was so large and the crowds so thick, I almost made it without getting caught.  Almost!

A year or so later, I made the break from Texas Oil & Gas, forming a partnership with a geophysicist friend of mine.  We had an office on the eighth floor of the Park Harvey Center.  The venerable office building had a bank of elevators in the center of the floor.  A hallway wrapped around this center square with the offices on the outside, facing the windows.

In addition to John and me, there was a small oil company, a land (oil leases) company, two lawyers and a couple of independent geologists.  We all knew each other and decided to go together and have a Christmas party on our floor.  We chipped in for  the booze and food, and one of the lawyers mentioned that he had a few waitresses as clients that owed him money.  He was sure that they would waitress for free in exchange for working off some of their indebtedness to him.

About this time I had just begun dating Anne and wanted desperately to impress her.  When the night of the party arrived John and I had a big shock.  The lawyer’s waitresses were really strippers and they were dressed only in baby dolls.  Since they weren’t being paid and they weren’t afraid of being fired, they quickly began sampling the hooch as fast as they dispensed it.

Word soon spread.  Before long the hallways were packed with leering geologists, landmen and engineers.  The girls didn’t mind.  They soon doffed their tops, and then their bottoms.

Anne showed up with a friend, a matronly secretary.  After practically fainting, the older lady hurried back to the elevators, leaving the increasingly rowdy crowd for safer climes.  I don’t remember a lot after that, having already consumed way too much whiskey.

The party continued until all the whiskey was gone, and the girls dressed and departed.  Anne was a good sport about the situation, as was Debbie, John’s future wife that also showed up.  Anne remained sober, had a clear head and drove me home safely.  I awoke to a massive hangover and a ringing phone.  The news of the party had spread and those that had missed it were calling to see if the stories were really true.

The following year John and I were drilling oil wells and had several employees.  Instead of the previous year’s drunken debacle we hosted a sedate wine and cheese party that lasted only until seven.  It didn’t matter as hundreds of oil industry voyeurs showed up anyway, just in case. 

Those were the go go years of the last oil boom.  Even amid the blurred memories, many things that occurred read almost like fiction.  The events that occurred during that era were anything but fictional.  Not even I could make this stuff up.

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com 

My Tulsa friend Mick is launching a new mag.  Lurid, yes.  Entertaining, absolutely. Here is his first cover.

While it is true that the eighties oil bust adversely affected every oil hub in the United States, Oklahoma City maintains a unique position in the episode because it was the location of the infamous Penn Square Bank debacle.

Penn Square Bank occupied a stand-alone building in the parking lot of the Penn Square Mall, still located in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Northwest Expressway.  During the go go days of the last oil boom, officers of this bank began making oil and gas loans, then selling the paper to eager upstream banks like Continental Illinois.  The problem was, many of these loans were secured by little more than a “lick and a promise.”

One story that has circulated for years now involves an oil company that borrowed millions of dollars to purchase drilling rigs.  Auditors, attempting to account for the bank’s collateral after the company went bust, learned that Rig 13 (I don’t know if this is the actual number) was really a Lear Jet.  Clients, supposedly with little or know oil experience, could get a million dollar loan with only a signature and the promise of drilling a few oil wells.

Many nouveau operators purchased jet planes, helicopters, luxury vehicles and lavish offices and lifestyles with the seed money they borrowed from Penn Square Bank, and then parlayed into millions more with money raised from largely unsophisticated investors.  It is safe to say that most of these investors had little more than a “lick or a promise” of ever seeing any return from their investment.

While drilling a well in western Oklahoma, one company encountered a large pocket of natural gas.  The well blew out and the gas ignited in a huge burst of flame.  Instead of worrying about the raging fire and its ensuing consequences, the company chartered a commercial jet and flew a planeload of investors and various company people to the blowout site.  There they had tents erected, catered barbecue and beer, and a band to entertain everyone at an elaborate blowout party, ostensibly to raise even more money. 

Elaborate parties were the norm during the last oil boom.  Christmas parties hosted by operators and service companies boasted hundreds of guests, all enjoying free food, drink and entertainment.  I attended one oil company party where Mel Tillis and the Oakridge Boys were flown in by jet helicopter to entertain for an hour or so.  One of the Penn Square loan officers was there, dressed in an Alpine costume complete with hat, shorts and lederhosen.  The party took place on a farm near Edmond, the cars and party-goers so thick that they blocked the adjacent county road for hours.

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com

Yesterday, I wrote about life in downtown Oklahoma City during the last oil boom and I mentioned the Concourse.  The Concourse was a tunnel connecting all the major buildings in downtown OKC, originally created to provide workers with a way of avoiding the city’s often inclement weather.  During the oil boom, it grew into much more than just an underground pathway.

During the oil boom the city fathers decided there was room for retail development under ground. Texas Oil & Gas, the company I worked for, had offices in the Midland Center and you could enter the Concourse from a stairway on the ground floor there.  The tunnel system was simply a dimly lit concrete pathway with a colorful carpet on the floor.  The system of tunnel snaked in all directions and it was easy to lose your bearings – especially if you had just visited one of the many clubs. 

Retail clothing stores, a jewelry store, a fast food kiosk, a barber shop and other businesses soon began to thrive.  Several combination restaurants soon occupied space in the Concourse, among them the Bull and the Bear, the Brigadoon, and the most notorious underground establishment of them all, the Depot.

The Depot was a dark saloon masquerading as a restaurant and it is true that the place sold as much booze as it did chicken fries.  It’s main draw were the gorgeous and friendly waitresses in skimpy outfits.  The drinks were strong and at most any time of the day or night, half the downtown Oklahoma City oil industry could be found there.

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com

I’m a big fan of Eric Felten’s weekly column in the Wall Street Journal.  Felten highlights cocktails and rather than just providing his many readers with instructions on how to build the perfect Zombie or Mai Tai, he tells a story that is always interesting and informative.  A recent column caused me to recall one of my own cocktail stories.

During the last oil boom, I began working as a geologist for Texas Oil & Gas, the most aggressive driller at the time and possibly since.  My first day on the job, I had lunch at a downtown restaurant called Over the Counter with the district geologist and another company man.

Having just left Cities Service, a conservative, old line exploration company, I was used to brown-bagging a sandwich washed down with coffee or iced tea.  Because of this, my lunch companion’s choice of beverages gave me a start.

Neither man actually had to order a drink.  Gerlinda, our very German waitress brought Larry a Bacardi and Coke and Roger a Crown and Seven.

“You are a new one,” Gerlinda said.  “What are you drinking?”

“Iced tea,” I answered.

Larry and Roger smiled when Gerlinda shook her head and said, “TXO geologists don’t drink tea.”

“A Coors then,” I said.

“There is no beer at Over the Counter.  What kind of cocktail would you like?”

Larry’s grinning shrug clued me that he expected no argument from me.

“Bourbon and water, I guess.”

“What kind of bourbon?”  It was my turn to shrug, and shake my head.  “TXO geologists don’t drink house liquor and you look like a Wild Turkey man to me,” she said.  “From now on I’ll bring you Wild Turkey and water.”

She did, three of them before we finished eating.

“Everyone drinks at lunch,” Larry informed me as I stumbled back to work.  “Turkey and water suits you, Wildman.”

“Thanks,” I said as I returned to my office and tried not to fall asleep at my desk.

Lunch was the beginning of my indoctrination as a TXO geologist.  I was instructed to put at least $3000 per month on my company expense account, even if I had to treat friends, cohorts and secretaries every meal.  I was also expected to create at least one drilling prospect every single week, no mean feat even when you are sober, much less when you can hardly hold your head up off the desk after lunch.

I, or I should say my liver, slowly grew accustomed to the daily consumption of alcoholic beverages that often continued into the wee hours of nearly every night.  It didn’t seem to matter much as my seven year marriage was already in shambles.  An underground concourse wove a dark maze beneath downtown Oklahoma City, a pathway populated by restaurants, bars, barber shops and jewelry stores.  The proprietors soon knew my name, and my poison of choice, greeting me happily when I stumbled through their door.

The last oil boom was populated by a cast of almost unbelievable characters – ex-used car salesmen sporting Rolex watches, diamond encrusted belt buckles and gold nugget necklaces, preying on the unwary investor, hungry to participate in the multitude of newfound riches and burning up with incurable cases of oil fever.  I bought my own gold necklace, a half moon with a diamond eye, from an eight by ten jewelry store in the concourse that catered to the newly rich.

I managed to survive almost two years with TXO, having almost a hundred of my prospects drilled during that time.  I don’t know if it was me that said uncle, or my liver.  Whichever, I moved down the road with my life.

All this brings me to my cocktail story.  Sometimes when I was simply too drunk to continue drinking Wild Turkey, I would switch to a drink called a Bullshot.  A Bullshot is basically beef bouillon and vodka.  I never learned the exact recipe although I tasted many varieties during my two years with TXO.  The one I liked best came from an eight ounce can.  I can’t remember the company that produced it and I don’t believe they are still in business.

The last oil boom is long gone, along with Penn Square Bank and thousands of drilling rigs cut up for scrap.  Oklahoma now has liquor by the drink instead of liquor by the wink, and you can no longer leave a bar with a roadie to tide you over until you get home.  Oklahoma City police no longer tolerate drunk drivers, nor should they.

An era of overindulgence died in Oklahoma City, along with the last oil boom.  What was left was a group of survivors that could smile when someone said, “Last one to leave the State, cut off the lights.”

That was nearly thirty years ago and the lights in the City are again burning brightly.  It’s been nearly that long since I drank my last Bullshot.  Still, the cocktail helped me survive an era every bit as exciting as the Alaskan Gold Rush, and when I read Felten’s column every week I’m reminded that mixed drinks are more than a bartender’s recipe.  They are a story waiting to be told.

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com

It’s early October, misty rain falling from a darkened sky – a continuation of Oklahoma’s soggiest spring ever.  Summer wasn’t quite as hot this year and there didn’t seem to be as much wind as usual.  There were fewer tornadoes.  One other thing was different.  My magic moonflowers, so prolific these past few years, never bloomed at all.  Last year, I often counted as many as seventy blooms in a single night; but this year, not a single one.

The days are still warm, unseasonably warm.  Still I know that the first freeze is not far away.  The long days of summer will soon give way to long winter nights.  As they do, I will revel in the falling snows, icy rime coating the window panes, and the chilly blast of wintry air when I walk to my car in the morning. 

Yes, I’ll enjoy the change of seasons, but next July I’ll see a magic moonflower bloom again in my garden, even if I have to go to Home Depot and buy one!

http://www.ericwilder.com  http://www.gondwanapress.com