I love Mark Twain. I revered him to the point that when I was a child of ten, becoming Mark Twain was my life’s ambition. Sadly for me, it didn’t work out, but he still inspires me to this day, not only with his witty writing but his keen eyes focused on the human race. Not much has changed since his days on the big river, or so I thought.
I attempted, and somewhat succeeded, to watch portions of a streaming salute to the black comedian Kevin Hart on Netflix. Filmed at the bastion of liberal theater, the elitist government-funded “The Kennedy Center.” He was being awarded with the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor.
I like Kevin Hart; he’s a funny guy who is not afraid to dig into squeamish subjects. But he is strictly adult comedy: crude, foul-mouthed, racist, and mean at times. He has his place in clubs, streaming specials, and R-rated movies, not on the stage of the “Sacred Cow Kennedy Center” in front of a mixed audience of wealthy Hollywood folks jiggling their jewelry and rich old ladies who were clearly put off by the humor he and his roasting guest comedians spat out. The F word seemed to be the most favored of the night, and they all used it for maximum value.
Jerry Seinfeld, the king of clean comedy, introduced the show and praised Kevin for his body of work. Kevin, in the king and queen box, yuked it up, kissed his kids and wife, and wiped away a few tears; it was a touching tribute until Seinfeld left the stage, and that is when the show went to comedic hell in a “Jackie O Handbasket.”
I know how to cuss, learning it from my father’s side of the family and from my sainted Cherokee mother, who could string some of the better words into a formidable tirade. The F word and a few more, are in my vocabulary, and lately, watching the maddening news on television, I find myself screaming adult language at my set. But that is in my home, in front of Momo, who can cuss as well as I can, sometimes better. We don’t dare say bad words in public or in mixed company or around our family, especially the grandkids. So why is filthy, foul-mouthed thuggish language acceptable for an audience at “Jack’s Palace?” You could see Jerry Seinfeld cringe when the camera panned to him. I’m certain he has used those words, especially dealing with Kramer, Newman, and maybe the Soup Nazi.
When Hart finally took the stage to thank everyone and show his stuff, it was a recitation of F you, F this, F that, and so on: all his comedy buds in the box seats roared with approval, showing me that you can be funny, make a butt-load of money and have folks idolize you, but you that doesn’t give you class.
Hollywood and its ilk have taken what was once a reverent, respected, cherished, and Homeric award and turned it into another cheap-assed participation trophy, like the Oscar. Mark Twain deserves so much better.
Something to ponder: how did the Kardashians wish their father a happy Mother’s Day? It must have been uncomfortable.
How often does Doctor Jill check the president’s diaper?
Momo and I are going to Colorado Springs next week to see family, and she is selling her custom purses in a craft show over Memorial Day on top of Pikes Peak. The problem is that she is afraid of heights and mountains, so I will have to knock her out with a pill, drive her up to the top, and then give her another pill to wake her up. Then, repeat the process to take her back down. Hope she sells some purses in between.
It’s been a rainy week in the Cactus Patch garden. My plants are now at the “Plantzilla” stage and need trimming. Things are improving; I was stung by bitchy little bees twice and bitten by spiders of an unknown origin a few times. Now, I’m waiting for a snake bite to complete the circle. Just part of gardening in the Texas countryside.
The bird-feeding area is now a combat zone. Two flat feeders and a plastic rooftop one, and yet they fight over seeds. The Doves used to be the bully-birds, but now the Crows have claimed that title, pushing everyone around. Now, there are two Squirrels, likely siblings, that visit and eat the Peanuts that the Crows and Bluejays love and the Crows attack the Squirrels, who in turn flip the feeders and scatter the food on the gravel. The poor Cardinals and the other species sit in the trees and watch the battles. No one is starving yet, but with food as costly as a car payment, they soon may be eating bugs and wooly worms, which have invaded my landscape by the hundreds. I may catch a jar full of them and dump their wooly little selves into the bird feeders. Much healthier than all those sunflower seeds.
Now, I know that the world is off its axis: Willie Nelson is moving his famous 4th of July Picnic from Texas to somewhere in the Northeast to beat the heat. Look, Willie, the brutal life ending heat, Lone Star longnecks beer, no restroom facilities, drugged crazed hippies and cowboys are what your picnic is about. If Waylon was here, he would kick your scrawny old butt for even considering a relocation to of all places…Yankee land. Kris is still around, so he might just step in and do it. I attended one of his picnics back in the late 70s at Palo Duro Canyon and damn near expired from the hellish heat, no water and very little food. I survived by crawling under a car for shade, which at that point, it didn’t matter, my skin was roasted, and my dark hair bleached white. Around dark, ole Willie steps up to the mic and belts out Whisky River. Trigger, his beat-up Martin guitar was out of tune, his singing was off meter and he was likely higher than a California Redwood, but it was Willie, our Patron Saint of Texas Country Music. We sat transfixed on the hard dirt and rock, fire ants chewing on our legs, Rattle Snakes crawling about begging for a beer, and hundreds of poor passed out folks missing the show they came for. Please, Willie, keep it in Texas. I have confirmation from a good and mostly reliable source that your Saint Hood is imminent. This might screw it up.
Jewish Students Revolt Against Federal Protected Students
There is now a movement on most of the elite university campuses to oust and delete the fake Palestinian protesters. Two groups calling themselves “Jews For Jesus” and “Frat Boys Revenge” are now in place at most of the major universities. Maya Sharona, field correspondent for NPR interviewed a protestor at MIT.
MS: Excuse me, are you a woman or a man, It’s hard to tell with all the scarfs wrapped around your head?
Student: I am neither of those words, call me a new servant of Allah, willing to die for whatever Allah and that woman with the megaphone tells me too. Please film my left side, that’s my best profile. Should I show my molitove cocktail for the camera?
MS: Sorry, there is no camera, this is radio. What exactly are you protesting?
Student: I am not really sure, wait a moment, I must check TikTok and Facebook, all of our information and instructions comes from them. Ahh yes, here we are, (screaming)” Death to Israel, Death to all Jews, and Death to America” we demand Starbucks Latte’s and vegan pizzas, student loan forgiveness, and a free diploma in the curriculum of our choice. That’s a bummer about the no camera, got all dressed up for nothing.
MS: There is a group of frat boys over there by that police car. They look menacing and most of them are twice the size of your comrades. I believe they may be about to kick your butts.
Student: Allah and Papa Biden will protect us, we are the chosen people of Palestine, or maybe it’s Gaza, or Syria. It doesn’t matter, we are protected by the Federal Government, like the tiny fish and the lady-boys with fake boobies.
So now the Boy Scouts of America have put on their make-up, styled their hair, and inserted their tampons in the appropriate orifice.
I was a Boy Scout and a Cub Scout. My grandson was a Cub Scout and is now a Boy Scout, and my son is his troop leader. I can tell you, they are not a bunch of whiny-assed pansies like we are reading about in the news. What a disgrace to America. All those years of honor flushed like a happy bear toilet wipe.
Yeah, I get the lawsuits and all that, and the payouts, and girls wanting to be boys instead of their biological gender, and the little sissy boys wanting to be a girl scout in a boy scout uniform; it’s where the world is at this day.
How about drinking some Ovaltine, putting your hand between your legs and feeling what God gave you, and go shoot your Daisy BB gun and shut the hell up.
I am borrowing a piece of Joan Didion’s famous book title to make a point; I don’t think she would mind. I can’t ask permission because she expired in 2021, but I am a fan of her works.
After yelling and cursing the television screen for a few weeks now, thanks to the pampered and entitled Ivy League students and their new besties, the Palestinian agitators, I began to understand their imagined cause. They hate their parents, they hate their country, they hate you and me, and they hate themselves for hating everything and understanding nothing: the “everybody gets a participation trophy” generation has come of age. The soccer moms and helicopter parents created this pack of little Franken-Children, and us old folks have to suffer their folly.
I’m no Dr. Phil, (although the name affiliation is there) just an old guy that has seen a thing or three and stayed in a Holiday Inn Express a few times, although I prefer Drury Inns. This is my blog, and I can darn sure say what I please, no matter how much it offends, or not. Getting kicked off of Twitter numerous times, only makes me more insufferable.
I remember being a teenager in the turbulent sixties when protest against the Vietnam War and Lyndon Johnson were in full swing. Those were mostly students and a mix of outsiders singing songs and they carrying signs, that mostly say hooray for our side and all that Hippie Dippy Love Love Panda crap. Yes, they burned and bombed some buildings and would have lynched L.B.J. if they had gotten their THC-stained hands on him. Their purpose was to end the war, not end America. As misguided as they were, the strength in numbers and the news media’s coverage gave them a skewed and at times, misguided pulpit, and it did make a difference. Those little Hippie protesters, for the most part, grew up to be productive citizens and parents, although many of them became Devil-Dog politicians, radical teachers and Satanic university professors and they, Dear Hearts, are partially responsible for the turmoil of today. Once our boys in Washington took prayer, God and the Bible out of our schools, the Demon Brigades sallied forth, and the slow walk away from Christianity began. Thank God and Pastor Greg Laurie, it’s resurging with a vengeance never before seen in this country. Is it too little too late? Maybe for some, that are past the point of reason, their minds altered from tiny Demonic brain worms. (a cool phrase lifted from Bobby Kennedy).
Instead of carrying signs and singing songs of praise while marching toward Bethlehem, the misguided young’uns, wearing their backpack full of trophies, are slouching away towards evil.
“So you want to be a rock and roll star? Then listen now to what I say Just get an electric guitar Then take some time and learn how to play”…The Byrds 1967
After the family moved from Fort Worth to Wichita Falls for six painful months and then to Plano, Texas, I met a classmate and fellow guitar player who was also bitten by the “rock-a-rolla” bug. He knew another guy on his block who played guitar and owned a Fender Bassman amp, which automatically made him a band member, and he knew a neighbor across the street who was a drummer with a snare and one cymbal. He also knew a kid with another cheap Japanese guitar that would part with it for $10.00 bucks. I snatched it, bought his Sears amp for another $15.00, and was back in “the biz.” Hours of practice produced twenty songs, which we could repeat at least once or twice if they were shuffled around and changed singers and keys. Our first gig was at the Harrington Park Swimming Pool, Plano, Texas, early summer of 1965.
The Dolphins: left to right: Jarry Boy Davis, Warren Whitworth, Ron Miller, Jay-Roe-Nelson, Phil Strawn
Guitar tuners were not invented yet, so we used a pitch pipe and got as close as possible to A440, and apparently not close enough; we sounded like hammered Racoon crap on grandma’s china plate. It was a humiliating experience. In my playing frenzy, I broke my B string and had to play with five strings, and then our amplifiers went south because the outside temperature was over 100 degrees, and we were in the direct sun. Then, the drummer’s head on his snare split, his cymbal fell over and cracked, and Jerry Nelson, another guitar flanger, tripped on an extension cord and fell flat, damaging his Silvertone guitar. Our third guitar player, Warren, came into contact with water splashed from the pool onto the concrete while touching the strings of his electrified, ungrounded guitar, resulting in a bad electrical shock. Hair frizzed out, smoking from his ears, and burns on his fingers; he finished the gig, not knowing who or where he was. The grand debut ended with sympathetic applause, and the pool manager refused to pay us, which, per our contract, was free burgers and shakes. Warren, our previously electrocuted guitar player, got into a fight with our drummer, and the two rolled around in the gravel parking lot for a while with no clear victor. We thought Warren was a trooper, considering the amount of electricity that had almost fried him an hour before. Bad music tends to piss folks off. The final curtain was when my pal Jarry discovered his Mustang had a flat tire, so we had to call our parents to rescue us. Welcome to the rock n’ roll music business.
From 1966 into 1967, the band continued with better gear, a new drummer and bass player, and a different name. We were now known as “The Orphans.” A strange pick since we were all middle-class guys with full sets of parents, but Barry Corbett, our drummer, thought it sounded tough and a bit rebellious. Barry may have been the biggest rebel of the four members, listening to Frank Zappa and Spike Jones and teaching himself to play the Sitar. George Harrison’s influence led him into the realm of Indian music, which he fully embraced to the point of obsession. He developed a strange Peter Sellers-type accent, wore the red dot on his forehead, and had two high school girls follow him around town wearing white robes, playing with small cymbals attached to their fingers. He was also a rudderless musical genius and would soon lead us into the semi-big time and the really big show.
Alice Davis, Jarry’s mother, was now our official manager and did a wonderful job of it. She knew people and had connections and was not afraid to use them or to press a business contact into hiring her band. We were booked around Dallas and Fort Worth most Friday and Saturday nights. We made some good cash for high school kids but spent all we made on new equipment and clothing. Band members were in constant rotation. Teenage musicians proved to be an unreliable commodity.
Our keyboard and bass player left us for high school football, again, leaving three of us. Calls went out, Alice worked the phones and contacts, and we auditioned two musicians from McKinney, Texas. Danny Goode, a bass player/singer and former member of the Excels, and Marshall Sartin, church organist, classically trained pianist, and blues guitar player. We played a few songs as a five-member band and almost passed out. It was as if the ghost of Phil Spector had brought us into that practice room at this appointed time in the universe, which was strange because Spector was still alive and kicking in Los Angeles.
The Orphans. Left to right front: Jarry Davis, Danny Goode. Left to right rear: Barry “Lil Spector” Corbett, Phil Strawn, Marshal Sartin
Miss Alice was religiously overcome with musical emotion and experienced a spell of the rock n’ roll vapors that led to seating herself with a double Jack Daniels and branch water. Barry, our drummer and musical genius, had an epiphany and went to work on arranging our music and vocal parts, showing Marshall how to play them on his Farfisa Organ, which was another strange thing; Jarry and I didn’t know Barry could play the piano, or as we soon found out; the guitar, the trumpet, the sax, or the vibes. We dubbed him “Lil Spector” in honor of the famous Wall of Sound producer.
After the Miss Janelle Bobbie Gentry-infused tenure that ended in a puff of hair spray and perfume, the band took a vote: no females allowed. Marshall was still recovering from a severe case of the Love Fever Hubba Hubba’s, and we needed him in good condition for our upcoming gigs.
Miss Alice grew weary of working the phones, dealing with clubs and booking gigs, her realty business was suffering and needed her attention. She arranged for us to be managed by an upstart agency called Mark Lee Productions of Dallas, Texas. Mark was a go-getter and had more connections than Bell Telephone. His one and only main band, Kenny And The Kasuals, had just released a great 45 that was climbing the charts, so we were excited about working with him. We signed on the dotted line of a ten-page contract that not one of us read. Why bother? We were young and full of piss and vinegar: point us in the direction of the stage and plug us in!
Within twenty-four hours, The Orphans were booked into some of the hottest venues in the DFW: The Studio Club, LuAnns, The Pirates Nook, Phantasmagoria, and Teen A-Go-Go and The Box in Fort Worth. Mark Lee was turning down gigs because he had only two bands. We wouldn’t have a Friday and Saturday night free for two years, and even less free time in the summer when the bookings took up most of each week.
We were booked to play a Christmas party for Parkland Hospital at the famous Adolphus Hotel in downtown Dallas. Pulling up to the front in our 57 Caddie Hearse caused a stir. The bellman politely told us the bodies were picked up at the rear. We got the joke and proceeded to the loading docks. The party turned out to be for the doctors, nurses, and administration folks. In the next ballroom, Braniff Airlines was having their Christmas party, but with no band. It didn’t take long before the airline partiers spilled over into the hospital party, and that’s when it got crazy.
These people, supposedly responsible adults, were dancing on the tables, had a conga line going on the bartop, and we had our own go-go dancers on either side of the stage. Three of us were under the age of 18, but that didn’t stop the inebriated partiers from pumping us full of hooch in the form of cute little airline bottles. By the last set, we had gone from charming and talented to stupid drunk and were glad the gig ended. We couldn’t locate our keyboardist, Marshall, so we loaded up his gear and headed out. He showed up a few days later with some dumb-assed story he couldn’t talk about: the Hubba-Hubba’s got him again.
Warning! Dear Hearts, the following commentary on social issues is not politically correct in any way. If you are triggered by common words in the English language or by religion and free political speech in the form of comedy, then don’t read any further. I’m warning you one more time.
I attended Momo’s Melody Belle’s choir concert this evening at the Langdon Center in old town Granbury. For a bunch of old gals, they sang well, doing Broadway hits from the 40-50s. I was impressed.
When leaving, the pianist approached me on the front steps and asked me if she could ask a personal question. I said sure, shoot. She says, ” You look like such a free spirit. Are you a Democrat? I said no, and then she told me that she was the chairwoman for the Granbury Democratic Party and asked if I was voting for Trump. I answered yes, and then Momo showed up, and the lady asked her the same. Momo has become a nervous filly lately, and folks should know that the wrong questions are likely to get the wrong answer. I’m the same but with a touch more diplomacy. The encounter did not end well for the pianist.
Free Spirited Momo at The Opera House. She has a 380 Smith & Wesson in that purse
If you have read this far, it’s too late.
A free spirit..now, what does that mean? Maybe because my hair is pretty long, and the mustache makes me look like Wild Bill Cody, or perhaps The Dude, without the bathrobe. The Democrat lady assumed I was an old liberal, burned-out Hippie. Nope, only an old, weird-looking, slightly burned-out ex-rock n-roll musician, conservative. You can’t always go on looks alone: same thing my sixteen-year-old self used to tell my parents.
Old Free Spirit Me at the Opera House. That cane is really a sword and a flame thrower
On another subject dear to my heart: Biden awarded Nancy Pelosi the Medal of Freedom for her courageous behavior on Jan. 6. That’s sort of like making Hitler an honorary Rabbi for his outstanding management of Auschwitz. Old Sniffer has been awfully quiet the past few weeks. Those rioters and anarchists are his voting block, so he has to mollify the little everyone gets a trophy, darlings.
Kudos and salutations to the fraternity young men at UNC and a few other universities for taking it upon themselves to protect our flag. The little candy assed Hamas loving, mask-wearing, latte-drinking, vegan-eating, Birkenstock-wearing, head-scarf-wearing, trans-loving, tongue-pierced, devil-worshiping, police-hating, America-hating grifters were freaked out when young American males told them if they touched the flag, they were dead little Gazaians. We need more of that from the rest of the schools that have been hijacked by socialist teachers and students. A word to the tenured commie professors, ” Don’t mess with Gods chosen people, the Jews. He’s kind of touchy about that.”
The Obama/Biden bunch is trying to pass a sneaky law to allow over a million Gaza refugees into the US. I ask, “Now what in the hell could possibly go wrong with that scenario?” Little terrorist kids in our elementary schools wearing C4 explosive belts. Hamas gunmen rampaging through Walmart? Oh wait…we already know what can go wrong thanks to our open border. This may sound a little over the top, but if these folks come here, it’s likely to happen. But will they be able to vote? Of course, they will.
My sainted Mother’s second cousin, Elfinian Keebler, owned one of the largest cattle ranches in Texas. Located between Mineral Wells and Ranger, Texas. It took four days to cover the width and another two days or so to ride the length. By Texas standards, it was a residential lot, but 3,800 acres ain’t what it used to be in the 1950s.
Elfinian’s daughter, Cookie, wasn’t into raising cattle, although she was the proverbial FFA queen. She had gone steady with every boy in high school and most of the ranch hands and had been riding horses since she could crawl. Her older brother, Chip, was a knock off the old Keebler block; he was a cowboy to the bone, raised on Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. His mama, Piddle, fancied herself as a debutant who married low and wanted her baby boy to be a doctor of some sort, but Chip was a dunce and had the IQ of a piss-ant: riding the range was about all he was good for, and his horse did most of the thinking. Cookie was the plucky little prickly one and decided she was taking the ranch in a different direction, creating a stink between her and Daddy Elfinian. Cookie wanted to raise Llamas and Highland goats. In Texas, anything but cattle and horses is considered blasphemy, and sheep and goats aren’t welcome except on the supper menu.
A year into her Llama plan, Daddy put the brakes on. One Hundred Llamas, forty donkeys to guard the Llamas against Coyotes, and half a dozen cow dogs to keep the donkeys under control were more than Papa Keebler could swallow. The donkeys and dogs had lost interest in the Llamas and had gone back to hanging out with the cattle. The critters were pretty, but they were no better than a cow: eat, spit, and crap.
A contingent of robe-wearing folks in limousines arrived at the ranch house on a Saturday afternoon. A realtor from Mineral Wells introduced them as followers of the Dalai Lama, most recently of Tibet, a tiny country in Asia. Elfinian had never heard of this Lama guy, but he invited them in for a set down, some of Piddles’s baked cookies, and a drink of Jack Daniels. The head robe-wearing spokesperson was the Dalai Lama’s sister, Deli Lama. She wanted to buy a piece of the Keebler Ranch so the Dalai could have refuge from the Chinese who had booted him out of Tibet, and he wanted to raise a Llama or some hairy sheep, his favorite spirit animal.
Papa Keebler sold the group three hundred acres, including the existing herd of Llamas and all the donkeys and cow dogs. It was a win-win deal. Cookie volunteered to help get the ranch workable and show the tinder-foots the art of Texas ranching.
Eight weeks later, the Dalai Llama arrived in a private helicopter, touching down on the new helipad next to the ranch house an army of Monks and Hari Krishna volunteers had constructed for his holiness. His sister, Deli, her daughter Carol, and The Keebler family were there to welcome him to Texas. He stepped out of the chopper wearing a white Stetson from Leddy’s Western Store over in Fort Worth. The multi-talented Monks also played many instruments, so they broke into a rousing rendition of San Antonio Rose and then The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You. The Dalai felt right at home and immediately asked for a “coldbeer.”
After an all-nighter traditional Texas BBQ and a dozen kegs of Pearl and Tibetian Beer, The Dalai Lama surprised everyone by mounting a horse at sunrise and touring the ranch with Cookie and Elfinian. He had picked up a pair of jeans, some Justin boots, and a 44 Colt pistol in Fort Worth, and like in the movies, he was itching to plug him some Hombres. He also had purchased a twin-engine Cesena T50 airplane like Sky King flew and wanted Cookie to be his sidekick. Elfinian managed to wrangle the pistola from the Dalai before someone wound up planted, and he damned sure didn’t want his daughter flying in a plane with this loco-Lama.
The Dalai’s sister, Deli, and her daughter, Carol, were huge fans of New York musicals, especially Carol Channing. Miss Channing was in Fort Worth appearing at the Casa Manana production of “Hello Dolly,” so the Dalai Lama arranged for Carol and the entire theater company to put on an open-air show at his new Llama ranch. A cast of a hundred, the orchestra and sets were delivered by trucks, rigged, and a portable stage was built near the Llama corral. Half the ranching community was seated on the tailgate of their pickups, beer coolers stocked with Pearl and Mama’s, and babies scurried around the grassy lawn in front of the ranch house. The sun went down, the lights came up, and Carol Channing, as “Dolly,” walked up to the mike and sang, ” Hello Dalai, it’s so nice to have you back where you belong.” This kind of stuff can only happen in Texas.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 