Month: January 2024

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Remember The Alamo, The Sequel


Risking blasphemy and a quick trip to Hell by evoking one of our sacred cows we Texans hold so dear, I believe this picture says more than any news blurb. Yeah, I know it’s fake, likely done with AI, but it represents how we feel and how much of our country feels. This time, we have more than 200 defenders, but the invading force numbers are in the millions, and the lawless folks in Washington are added. I’m not a violent person, but I will admit that I own firearms and am not afraid to use them, so I guess Momo and I might be open to joining these fellas on the banks of the old Rio Grande to protect our state and country. Just to make things right, before I wrote this, I ate two Whataburgers and offered a prayer to Saint Willie, so I should be good to go and forgiven of my trespasses and all that.

“Remember The Alamo,” the battle cry that changed the course of American history. “Come and Take it,” the flag that solidified Texas’s place in history. I don’t expect a body from New Hampshire or Deleware to understand our heritage; those states have the revolutionary war to wax about. If Texas seceded from the United States, we would have the tenth-largest economy in the world and could easily sustain ourselves as a republic without the interference of those grifters in Washington. What’s evolving by the hour at our border is a preview of things that might be coming. Yeah, we are all braggarts bordering on insufferable assholes at times, but everyone wants to live here. Wonder why? God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.

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The “Swifter Bowl” Is Coming


Yes, Dear Hearts, she has now taken over the Super Bowl. It’s not about football anymore; it’s about a singer with an average voice who knows four chords on a guitar and always holds her microphone near her rear end. What is up with that? We can be assured that the camera will show her face every few minutes; maybe they can catch her squeezing a zit. Poor Kelce, there will be a song about him in the near future, and he knows it: what an unlucky schmuck. I have no plans to watch the “Swifter Bowl:” there are too many good movies on Netflix and Amazon.

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Ain’t Dead Just Quite Yet!


American Classics playing our acoustic set at The Georgetown Winery, Georgetown, Texas 2012. L to R: John Payne, Jordan Welch on drums in the window, Danny Goode, and myself.

My back is killing me, and my left hand and fingers may never be the same, but damn, it was fun. Last Saturday, my friends Jordan, our drummer, and his wife, Jonelta, hosted a Mardi Gras party in their home. Jordan is a certified Coon-Ass from Louisiana, so he always makes two types of gumbo, shrimp and sausage, which I love both. Add homemade bread, cajun cake with a baby inside, pralines, wine, and a good group of friends, and you have the perfect setting for an impromptu reunion of the American Classics Band. We haven’t played together since April of 2019, and since then, our good friend and lead guitar and fiddle player, John, has passed away, so now we are three old guys wondering what happened and who’s next. We had a good run of it, the same four pickers playing together since 2001.

After eating ourselves into a Gumbo-induced coma, the three surviving members of the band took the stage in our old practice room. This is not a cheesy garage band setup; it’s a large room in Jordan’s home with a stage, a kick-ass recording studio sound system with a board, and speakers mounted on aluminum trusses suspended from the ceiling. My pal, Jordan, didn’t hold back in giving the band a good practice room.

Not me, but very close….

After a mic and instrument check, we kicked off some of our old tunes that we could play without a lead guitar. Our vocals were always the strongest part of our music, and we missed John’s third harmony voice and his guitar and fiddle. It was a bit of a sad shock at how different our songs sounded, with a large part missing, but we made the best of it and played for two hours without a break. After that, we collapsed in a heap. Voices shot, fingers on the verge of falling off and Jordan, behind his drum kit, was huffing and puffing. We all agreed that for us, men in our middle and upper 70s, any gig outside of this practice room would not happen.

We hope for a repeat performance soon because we ” Ain’t dead just quite yet.”

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All Hands To The Border…


Scouts heading to Eagle Pass, Texas.

To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; To help other people at all times; To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.

I was a Boy Scout; before that, I was a Cub Scout. My sons and grandsons were, and are, Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts, so the tradition runs deep in my family. We are not an army, one that can bear arms and fight the enemy, but if pressed, we could, with the right arms, cause our invaders to re-think their decision. Send some scouts to the border, give us some Daisy pellet guns, and hide and watch. Pellets may not wound them, but damn they hurt.

Father Frank, my priest at The Lady of Perpetual Repentance, has mobilized the Holy Sisters to the border. Mother Agnetha and the ladies have had the honor of winning the state rifle range championship five years running, and they are putting their Winchester prowess to work on the border, defending their home state. When things get tough, call in The Nuns With Guns.

My 24th cousin, Annabelle Oakley. She’s been shooting things since she was a wee-one after joining the Barnum and Baily Circus, so now she is heading for the Texas / Mexico border to do some trick shooting through razor wire.

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“You Want Wire? Well Hoss, We Got Some Wire!”


There’s a sanctified saying that’s been used in Texas for at least 40 years, ” Don’t Mess With Texas,” and we damn well mean it. Our governor, Greg Abbot, has the cajones of a penned-up bull, giving the middle finger salute to those elitist som- bitches in Washington. Old Gov is now known as the “Crazy Texas Wire Dealer.”Here’s an excerpt from his commercial that’s running on the radio down by the border.

Hey folks, It’s Governor Abbott here; I’m now called The Crazy Texas Wire Dealer! You want wire? well hoss, I got a wire. I got me some Razor wire, Constantina wire, Barbed wire, Hog wire, Horse wire, Rabbit wire, Chinchilla wire, Chicken wire, prickly wire, smooth wire, Viet Cong wire, wire with little bells on it, wire with $ 50.00 ATM cards hanging like ornaments, Bud Light wire, Amnesty wire, Biden Wire ( it’s invisible), Go to Jail wire, Cartel wire, Terrorist wire, wire with little bombs attached, 10,000-volt electric wire, poisoned wire, Telegraph wire, Western Union Wire, Walmart Wire, Taco Bell wire, wire with little Don’t Tread On Me flags hanging off it, I got wire for every occasion, and if I don’t have it, I can get it. We also got Alligators, Nile Crocodiles, Nile Pirahna fishes, Electric EEls, little remote-controlled submarines that shoot missiles, swimming Dingo Dogs, Scuba Pit Bulls, Wives with guns going through The Change, Crazed Teen Girls with guns having their period, Swimming Zombies, Air Boats with machine guns, Armed Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, Indian Guides, The Boys Choir, The Highway Patrol, George Strait and his band, John Daley, The Neighborhood Patrol, the Shooting Grannies, the Proud Boys, the Ploughboys, The National Rodeo Association, Nuns With Guns and every armed Texan that can make it to the border. Come on down; it’s gonna be some kind of fun.

Momo and I are leaving in the morning.

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In Remembrance


“In Remembrance.” How many times have you rolled your eyes at that phrase? Obituaries, Eulogies, sympathy cards, and Life Celebrations all bring it to mind, but to me, it feels like a worn-out catchphrase from the past. Not the most fitting expression, but it has that eye-roll-inducing charm. My grandparents, bless their hearts, were professional funeral attendees. They never missed a chance to show up for the bereavement and raid the potluck table – family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers. Their dedication to mourning and food was truly unmatched. Some months, my grandmother didn’t cook a meal; they lived on leftovers from the family gatherings after the service. Ham, roast beef, tater salad, rolls, they ate better than anyone in the family. Death is final, but it comes with good food.

I’ve taken that old phrase, “In Remembrance,” and revamped it to perfectly encapsulate my childhood adventures. It has nothing to do with shuffling off this mortal coil, pushing up daisies, biting the dust, buying the farm, ashes to ashes, or any other worldly farewells. It’s all about the good ol’ days, mischief managed, butt whooping, and the epic tales of my early youth. I’m an old guy now, so time is of the essence, and my keyboard is hot. My punch card could run out at any time, anywhere.

There will be a flurry of “In Remembrances” hitting my blog. I figure a small novella broken into multiple chapters will about do it. I will, because of being blessed with a crazy-assed family, be using them as fodder and foils in many of the recounts. To protect the guilty, I will change some names because a few of them are still among us.

My direct family, Mom and Dad, are floating around in the clouds now, so what I write about them will be respectful and kind, even though my dear Mother whipped my little kid’s bony rear thousands of times with everything from Tupperware to a Mimosa Tree switch. My neighborhood pals and, of course, my mentors, Mr. and Mrs. Mister, played a large part in my development into what I am today. According to my wife, Momo, I should get into a time machine, return, and start it all over. I’ll give H.G. Wells a ring.

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The Three Mouthkateers Ride Again


Pictured are my three Texas rootin-tootin-cowboy cousins circa 1956. Right, to the left are “Little Bit O’ Lunch” Lunch Kit,” and “First Aid Kit .” I believe the horses are Butterfinger, Twigger, and Furi’ous. The Daisy BB guns they carried are not shown in this photo.

My grandmother was the original Texas chicken lady, calling her farm the Chicken Ranch of Santa Anna: not to be confused with the infamous Chicken Ranch and the best little whore house in Texas.

In 1955, after consuming half a dozen Pearl Beers, my uncle counted, more or less, 1500 hens and 50 noisy, aggressive Roosters. The cousins rode the chicken ranch range all day keeping the fowl in line. Any chicken employee not doing their only job of laying eggs got a BB to the rear end. Grandmother was thankful that the little cowpokes liked to ride the chicken range because they constantly ran their mouths about everything and nothing at all. She called them the “Three Mouthkateers,” not to be confused with the kids wearing the mouse ear hats also while singing and dancing about nothing.

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January Dispatch From The Cactus Patch


Don’t Look At That Sun..You’ll Go Blind

I’m ready for the Eclipse in April. That’s me back in my 3-D days. I walked around for months wearing my cheesy glasses. Everything looked better in the beautiful hues of red and blue, so I saved them in my Roy Rogers lunch box with the original Thermos that held my cold Ovaltine and kept it cold for half a day. How did it know? I figure these specs will work just fine for the Solar Eclipse.

The Beat Goes On…And On

My father’s late cousin, Mail Order Preacher, Little Jimi Bob Fender of Fort Worth, Texas. He started out playing that “Devil music,” rock-a-billy, and jive-assed jumping-around stuff out on Jacksboro Highway. After getting knifed a few times, then shot up real good by the jealous husband of some old hairy-legged gal, he glammed onto religion and started the “Church Of What’s Happening Now.” He had the rocking-ist church music in Texas, and many of the great musicians, such as Delbert McClinton and Willie, stopped by on Sundays to jam. As you can see, he was a snappy dresser. Dig that guitar and that blue suit.

When It’s Round-Up Time In Texas

Back in the 1950s, long before there was the Dixie Chicks, there was my late 14th cousins’ trio, “The Texas Fried Pies.” They played most of the grocery store openings, school assemblies, parades, Tupperware parties, Avon get-togethers, rodeos, The Fat Stock Show, and select funerals. Left to right: Peach E. Keen on the doghouse bass, my cousin Apple Coreby on the banjo, and Cherry la’Tartness on the squeezebox.

The Gospel According To That Person of The Year

Good Lord, help us, please. Now she has her own religion and a bible? It was bound to happen, given she has around ten million young zombie followers. I read from a former swiftie-cult member that when she turned 21 years old, her brain hit reset, and she became a normal woman and started listening to George Strait. There is hope.

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Dirty Hairy…Make My Day


What was once cool, then not, is now cool again. Back in “the day,” meaning the 1960s, some of the flower children went a bit too naturally. Hairy armpits, legs, and other areas were part of the “back to nature” movement. I was not a fan, nor was Momo. The most back-to-earth she got was making her own bread, which she still does and does quite well.

Momo and I were in H.E.B. a few days ago, and a hippish-looking young lady in an Armani sleeveless top had so much armpit hair that it looked like she had Buckwheat in a headlock. As Momo walked past her, she couldn’t help saying, “Otay.”

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The End Is Near


Well, dear hearts, it’s official: another Polar Vortex will be in Texas by Sunday night, about the same time the Dallas Cowboys kickoff against whoever in the hell they are playing for whatever, something, or another position in the NFL universe. I’m very over my former home team. My son, Wes, the rabid family Cowboy fan, is coming in from Corpus Christi for the big game and is taking an entourage of family and friends to the game: he owns seats at the Death Star, and instead of selling them for enough to retire on, he actually attends games, pays $18.00 for a BBQ sandwich, $20.00 for a warm beer, and $150.00 to park, and then walks two miles to the stadium. I watch it on TV and enjoy my own food and my Barc-o-lounger. He’s young and has the stamina and the chutzpah.

We do experience winter in this part of Texas, but damn, in 2021, we had ice and single digits for a week: Momo and I were stranded in our hilly community and were cooking frozen wieners over the butane firepit.

This cold snap, as we call it in Texas, will be about the same. H.E.B. was a crazy town today: No baskets, people snarling and slugging each other over a loaf of Mrs. Baird’s bread, and then, I ran into my buddy Mooch at the frozen pizza case. There he stood, fifty or so Red Baron Frozen Pizzas in his cart, thirty bags of Pork Rinds, and two cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. He is ready for the apocalypse. A young boy, around the age of six, stood staring at his cart. Mooch had taken all of the Red Baron Pizzas, and it was obvious that they were also the kid’s favorite. Mooch is a gruff old fart, but that little boy, staring at him with those Puss-In-Boots watery eyes, broke the man down. He handed the kid a twenty dollar bill and told him to go buy some Paul Newman’s Pizzas. What a humanitarian. The kid took the bill, gave him the finger, and took off to find his momma.

Momo paid an old lady some cash for her empty cart and loaded the baby up with milk, what was left of the bread, some produce, a few Boston Market Pot Pies, yogurt, eggs, ground turkey, ground Chipmunk, Ostrich steaks, Emu-On-A-Stick, bacon wrapped jalapenos, bacon wrapped Gerbils, bacon wrapped chicken wings, smoked cheese, smoked smokies, aged corn beef hash, Betty Crocker Elf Cookies, ten bags of tater chips, two cases of ginger-ale, three bottles of wine, a dozen jars of Ovaltine, Terlingua Chili Mix, three dozen cans of Tomato soup and a large bottle of Tums. We are ready for the Vortex, so bring that Canadian baby on. The “Police” patrolled the aisles to keep the peace, and I thought I saw “Sting” over by the deli counter signing autographs; there is a rumor he now lives in Granbury with his crazed wife and their fourteen children.

I’ll keep my Cactus Patch pals appraised of our survival as the weather deteriorates. If you don’t hear from me by Tuesday, you know Momo and I didn’t make the cut.