Month: April 2022

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Which Came First? The Writer or the Author?


A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I hope Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote don’t become too riled over her observation. I know in my heart, those men could give a flying shit.

Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.

I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?

My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.

My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.

My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.

So, at 72 years old, I consider myself a writer; A hundred-plus short stories and interviews later speak of my efforts.

I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.

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The Transformation of Giblet


Photo by Diane Arbus

I ran into my old friend Mooch at Whataburger a few days back. Many a fine friendship is based on the breaking of bread, ours is no different.

Standing in line to order, from the corner of my left eye, there he was, sitting in his usual booth by the window; head down, hands splayed on the table, palms prostrate as if he has lost his best hog.

Something was off. His bucket hat, the overalls, and the ever-present mustard stains on his denim shirt rang Mooch. Then, I noticed the absence of his everywhere buddy, little Giblet, the crusty Chiuaua that usually rides in a front mount baby sling, drawn tightly to his chest. I feared the worst, old Giblet is no more.

I took the opposite seat, clearing my throat to alert Mooch of my presence. Without looking up, Mooch muttered through clenched teeth, “Those rotten little bastards down in Austin, they ruined my Giblet.”

” Man, I’m so sorry Mooch, I had no idea Giblet had entered the realm,” being as conciliatory as possible.

He looked up, ” Giblet ain’t dead you moron, he ain’t Giblet no more, he’s now, Gabrielle, thanks to those little woke shits at that animal psycho place.” I’m thinking this will be one of his best stories yet, I need more.

Mooch took a swig from his Dr Pepper and began a lengthy explanation.

” A month ago, Gib started acting weird; wouldn’t eat his Wolf Brand Chili or watch his shows on Animal Planet. He stared out the window all day and paced the floor all night. Doc Barker over at the vet says Giblet has suffered a nervous breakdown, so we take him to this fancy clinic down in Austin. This doctor lady with green hair and a fishing tackle face says he needs to stay a few weeks for therapy and convalesce. We can check in on him via a remote camera in his suite, or do a “face call.” The first time we log on, he is laying on his Sterns and Foster bed watching Animal Planet, that’s a good sign. the next day, there is a Calico cat snuggled up to him and they’re watching “The View.” By the end of the week, he is watching the Food Network, CNN, MSNBC and now has a bunny rabbit and the cat hanging out in his suite. Mrs. Mooch and I jump in our truck and hi-tail it to Austin. I demand that they cough up my dog. After paying the stupifying bill, they bring old Gib out. He is wearing a wig and has pink toenails and false eyelashes. The doc says that Giblet has always felt to be a girl and has transitioned over to Gabrielle. He still has his junk, but that can be removed when he is ready. Mrs. Mooch has to restrain me from killing that sum-bitch doctor until the doc says the Government will give Gabrielle a check for 3 grand every month to help with expenses. What could I do? I bought Gabrielle a new Ford Pick up so she can ride around town in style.”

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Holiday Road To Washington


Photo by Ken Kesey

That fun-loving scallywag, Texas Governor Greg Abbott has kicked off his new tour line from the South Texas/Mexico border to Washington DC. ” Texas Dust Devil Tours” boasts 900 luxury diesel guzzling buses, with a non-stop direct trip to “Old Screaming Joe’s” neighborhood. The cost to each rider is zero, nada, free, no peso, etc.

The inaugural bus was met by the Catholic Charities, DPS, Federal folks in polo shirts, representatives from MS-13, and Ronald McDonald.

As each maskless passenger de-bussed, they received a hearty handshake, a hug, and a cute gift bag full of goodies. Inside, they found a map to the White House and Nancy Pelosi’s personal residence in Georgetown. Also included were coupons from Mcdonald’s, Motel 6, Waffle House, and Walmart. A crisp $100.00 bill was tucked inside a nice little card that read, ” Don’t Come Back To Texas,” Love, Gregg.

Madame Speaker’s limo happened to drive by the arrival. ” Oh Spalding, who are those dreadful little brown people coming out of the tacky bus?”

Her driver responded,” That would be the illeagle invaders from the Texas border Ms Pelosi. I hear there will be around 900 more bus loads.”

Pelosi grabs her cell phone and calls Joe, ” Joe, you friggin moron, we are being invaded, call the National Guard, now.”

Madame Speakers’ limo was spotted at “Liquor Land” a few minutes later. Her driver was carrying a case of Grey Goose to the car.

It’s going to be an exciting summer in DC folks. Forget Disneyland; pack up the old station wagon and go to Washington.

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“The Cactus Patch Is On The Road Again”


Photo from Texas Monthly

Since last Sunday, we have been in the high-altitude lovely village of Ruidoso, New Mexico. If it weren’t for visiting Texans, like us, this town wouldn’t exist. Every business owner seems to be an expatriate.

As of April 1st, New Mexico allows recreational sales and use of Marijuana. The evil weed is now legal for anyone 21 years and older. Up until the 1st, it was by medical card only, which could be purchased online for a small price. I had no idea the folks in New Mexico were such potheads. Then I was reminded that everyone that comes to Ruidoso is from Texas, so I guess that makes us cowboys the potheads.

So MoMo, my wife, and I are thinking maybe a gummy or two to help us sleep. Why not? We’ve earned the right by being old and living with constant pain. We stop at one of the five Pot Stores in Ruidoso.

A nice period adobe building hidden among the pines is painted a garish Weed green. Nothing like curb appeal to draw customers in.

The perky little “Pot-arista” led us, through a secret triple bolted door into the main shop where all the goodies are displayed in well-lit sterile display cases. I feel better already knowing that all health regulations are met.

We are the oldest folks in the shop and feel out of place and on the verge of embarrassment. The employees are in their twenties and seem unusually happy. My wife asks our Potarista about a gummy specifically for sleep and relaxation.

“Oh, it all makes you chill and sleep like a baby” she replies. “I take a bit in the morning, then some at noon, then more in the evening, and then a toke around bedtime,” she says.

It’s obvious the girl is stoned all damn day and this is the only job that she can perform while high.

I tell her we are from Texas, we’re old as if she didn’t notice, and we want a gummy to help us with the pain and sleepy time. She brightens up and exclaims, “we have a new gummy, just in from Austin, it’s called Willie Nelsons Head, you’re gonna love it. Willie has the best stuff you know.”

She brings us a small box printed like the Texas flag. Inside are a dozen little gummies shaped like Willie Nelson’s head. The realism is uncanny. The skin tone on the wrinkly face, the pig-tails, and that scallywag glint in the tiny eyes. It’s also a bit creepy. It comes with a CD of his greatest hits, so I’m all in.

Once in the car, I pop in the cd, and ” On The Road Again” plays. We each eat a Willie gummy, put the car in gear, adjust our sunglasses, and head for who knows where.

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“Scatter Shooting from The Cactus Patch”


Today, Hollywood’s own little Fresh Prince Baby Jesus, Will Smith, resigned from the Acadamy. Did he give back his participation Oscar statue? Most likely not. A second, almost third-rate actor reaches the pinnacle of movie success and believes his own bull-shit. And folks, that is wrong with this shit-show country. We focus on the wrong.

Now that NBC, CBS, and ABC have been cornered and forced to say “Hunter Biden,” the other 85 million Americans can’t wait to see where they go from here. So Lester may be out of a gig.

Now that Biden is a sure bet to be put out to pasture, on or before 2024, Butterboy is next in line for the Demorectic nominee. Two men french kissing while standing at the presidential podium, taking turns nursing their twins on tits with no milk. Yep, that’s the sign of a strong America. Putin is laughing his KGB ass off. AOC is tweeting, ” Hey, I can do all of that and don’t even need a husband.”

Proof that God does indeed have a slick sense of humor. Sitting around the clouds one day, he looks at Archangel Michael and says, ” you know that ugly Cabbage Patch Doll from the 90s? How about I make someone have a real one down there on Earth? And now, we have Amy Schumer.

How hard can it be for Nancy Pelosi to not have a stroke? Please, someone in the medical community, figure this out. Spiked Vodka or ice cream is a good start. Ask a Russian; they are experts at this sort of thing.

How is it that a president of the United States lets invading hordes from South America invade our sovereign country with no challenge? Put a bunch of Texans, “since we are all hunters,” on the border wearing camouflage, hiding in the scrub brush, and give them high-powered rifles, and this shit would be over in about 45 minutes. Governor Abbott is an imbecile, and Cruz is no better.

So the people of Ukraine are fleeing their war-torn country for the United States. They show up on our southern border asking for asylum. Good, educated folks that pray to one day be American citizens. They have something to offer our country. Old Poopy Pants Joe says, “wait a minute here. We still have millions of uneducated, unskilled, American hating, gang member, murdering, blood-sucking illegals we have to let in first. ” Talk about a screwed-up government. All my friends who voted for this POS, you got what you deserve, and you still have to pay the same prices as I do.

This entire mess with Congress and the House, along with Biden’s apocalyptic attack on our country, would have been dead on arrival if the Republicans would have ran better-qualified candidates in Georgia for the last election. Instead, the guy, who knows his name, was a footnote with a slick haircut. The gal, Malibu Barbie, tossed her long hair around like a supermodel and looked really cute. This is a state that is mostly black Americans, and the Repubs run these two? How about Hershal Walker or any one of the other qualified candidates. McConnell needs to be tar, feathered, and dumped in the tidal basin for crab food.

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“Weather Days and Weather Nights”


A few nights back, I was awakened by bright static flashes against my eyelids. Lightening from afar brings a storm.

I lay in my bed, eyes now open for most of an hour, cataloging the most intense flashes through the window curtains, waiting for the following thunder to announce the wind and rain. The anticipation of a storm is pure dope for a weather nerd. I’ve been addicted for most of my life.

The television weather folk had been hawking this storm for days prior. Warnings, interviews with people on the street, getting every drop of drama out of their forecast. The cute weatherwomen and stern weathermen called for Apocalyptic conditions favorable for tornadoes and various end times hi-jinx. This would be no more than a typical spring supercell thunderstorm. Texans take their weather as seriously as the Alamo, Willie Nelson, and BBQ.

It’s a well-known semi-historical fact that Colonel William Barrett Travis predicted the cold and rainy weather during the siege of the Alamo. General Santa Anna, relying on his hungover weathermen, expected spring break conditions in San Antonio, and didn’t dress accordingly.

My first solid memory of bad weather happened when my grandmother carried me into her storm cellar as a vicious thunderstorm attacked the family farm; I was four years old. Every summer after that, there were numerous trips to the safety of that dank dirt storm cellar. Two cots, a pile of quilts, and a kerosene lamp were enough to see us through a siege. Shelves of canned fruit and vegetables lined the walls. Winters food pantry for when the land is at rest and for us to dine if the storm lasted more than a day.

If you are a farmer in Texas, the weather “is your life.” It will make or break your crop season with no warnings or apologies.

My Grandfather was a typical old-school pioneer farmer that possessed an active and painful weather bone in his left leg and a working man’s knowledge of the stratosphere. My grandmother was equally blessed with a pinky toe that swelled when a storm was brewing. Together, not much got past the two.

Grandmother would stare at a tiny cloud in a pure blue sky and remark, ” it’s gonna come up a cloud tonight.” She was rarely wrong.

During my summer visits to the farm, against my young will, I was dragged by my Grandfather to the domino parlor daily and subjected to hours of bullshit and weather talk from the old farmers in Santa Anna, Texas.

Old men in straw hats, bib overalls, and a cheek full of Redman tobacco ruled the world in those times. It was all about the weather and when will it come, how bad will it be, and how much rain could be expected? I usually fell asleep with drool running down my cheek after an hour. Then, it was back to the farm while my grandmother limped around the house because her weather toe was swollen. Good Lord. The family was a meteorological wreck.

Thank God, the family gene skipped my sister and me, so we depend on our local televisions weather personalities.

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