Author: Phil Strawn

I'm a 7th generation Texan and write about growing up in this great state. Tall tales and ripping yarns are what Texas is about, and I will oblige my readers with these. Most stories are true, some are a total fabrication, and others are a bit of both.
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Hey Kids! Let’s Watch The Newest Sitcom…”All In The State of The Union Family” Show


Momo made me promise to write less politically charged posts, and for the better part of a year, I have struggled but accommodated her request. There have been maybe two that I sneaked in under the radar during the wee morning hours under my assumed name, which I can’t divulge for fear of repercussions or worse. Only Mooch and Hi-Ho Steve-A-Reeno know my secret squirrel identity. A few of my blog non-regular readers ratted me out via the WordPress comments boxes, threatening to reveal my real name and where I live. The address on my blog, personal information, and stats are fake, so take your best shot, little Deputy Dogs. I will admit that since I have become a political newt, I sleep better when I manage to sleep. My appetite has returned to my favorite diet of tomato soup and chocolate pudding, so there is an upside to depriving myself of the joy of skewering, defaming, harassing, extorting, and embarrassing all politicians, especially the ones in my home state of Texas.

I watched the State of The Union sitcom tonight, one eye covered, no hearing aids, and a triple Jim Beam on the rocks. I was hoping for at least forty-five minutes of ranting, lying, clenched fists, frothing, spitting, and deranged behavior, but I was surprised when I got a one-hour and seven-minute performance that met my recently lowered expectations. The gal from Georgia, the blonde that is fit, with a cutting witt, and possesses Bull of the Woods size gonads, was a breath, or maybe it was a yell of fresh air. Over the decades, I’ve watched many of these “rah-rah” pep rallies, and this one took the tiny trophy of being the most pitiful and lamest of them all. The newest, so far, Speaker of the House may have a career in comedy when he leaves politics. His facial expressions were brilliant, with Lenny Bruce’s reincarnated sense of timing. The man has sad eyes, bright eyed bushy tailed eyes, rolling eyes, smirky smiles, sad teary trembling lip smiles, hang-dog head down, side glances, serial killer stares; Yoda, the force is with me smiles, and drill baby drill looks into the back of old Joe’s hair plugged head; he’s the best I’ve seen. Plus, he is a coon-ass from Louisiana…ahhh yeee.

I felt bad for the Supremes, sitting there, all dressed in their tailored black gowns, looking all professional and deliciously judicious. If looks could maim a man, then all nine of them had the same expression for old Joe when he told them he was going to reverse their constitutional decisions, scolding them like naughty schoolchildren caught cussing on the playground. Hey, Joe, those folks know where you and Hunter live, and now they are pissed off.

Why did most of the Democratic women representatives wear white pantsuits? Are they now re-born virgins? Are they Hulu Hand Maiden’s? Anna Rittenour should phone and remind them you aren’t supposed to wear white after Labor Day; I’m an old guy, but I know that bit of fashion sense. And why are these youngish, sour-faced women holding little personal cardboard signs to their chests when the camera pans them? I thought that behavior and personal protest were prohibited in the chamber. Well, I guess since Rummy Eyed Ice Cream Queen Pelosi tore up an official State of the Union address, which I believe is against some sort of arcane law, any type of behavior is acceptable. If so, the house speaker should have set off a cherry bomb behind old Joe and see how long it would take for Jill and the clean-up crew to make it to the podium. Now that would have been funny.

I figure I’ve got about four or maybe five summers left, then it’s adios, little doggies, and I’m heading to the last roundup up there in them-thar clouds. Momo and the rest of my extended family will have to understand when something as good as we watched tonight comes along, I gotta do what I do. I promise, no more politics until at least November.

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“Come And Take It” The Story of The Alamo Brisket


This Tall Tale is from 2021. With the anniversary of the final battle of The Alamo upon us, I figured a re-visit might be welcomed.

Tex R. Styles learned the art of grilling at a young age. His father, an expert, medal-winning griller, and smoker, proudly and meticulously teaches six-year-old Tex the art of cooking everything from burgers to ribs on his cast-iron Leonard Brothers charcoal grill. The family lineage of grilling over an open flame can be traced back to the British Isles and their ancestral home of Scotland, where a Styles family member cooked meat for Celtic warriors, the King of England, and Mary, Queen of Scots.

When Tex turns eleven, his father conducts a tiki-torch-lighted ceremony in their backyard and passes the sacred grilling tools to his only child. Father Frank, the local priest, attends the party and lays down a righteous blessing on Tex and the family grill.


When young Tex fires up the charcoal on summer evenings, the neighborhood gathers in his backyard to watch the boy genius at work.
Once he has entered his “Zen-cooking zone,” he serves up a better T-Bone than Cattlemen’s, and his burgers are known to bring tears to a grown man’s eyes. Around Fort Worth, the word is out that some little kid over on Ryan Ave is a “grilling Jesse.”

Tex receives a bright green Weber grill for his thirteenth birthday and a professional cooking apron with his name embroidered across the front. The Star-Telegram newspaper takes his picture and writes a glowing article that appears in the Sunday food section. Over on Channel 5, Bobbie Wygant mentions him on her television show and sends him a congratulations card. He is now a local celebrity. Dan Jenkins, the hot-shot sports writer at the Telegram, does a piece on Tex for Sports Illustrated, and just like that, young Tex is officially a “big deal.”

When Tex turns sixteen, like his father and grandfather, he is inducted into the “Sons Of The Alamo” Masonic Lodge. To become a member, your family tree must include one direct family member who fought and died at the Alamo. Tex’s great-great-great-grandfather was a defender and was killed in the siege. He was also the head cook and griller for the Texian Army and a rowdy drinking buddy of Jim Bowie and Colonel Travis.

New members must speak before the lodge elders, recounting the siege from their family’s history. Since childhood, Tex had heard this family story a hundred times and can repeat it word for word, but tonight, he is drawing a blank on some critical details and decides to wing it a bit. In the mind of a sixteen-year-old, his modernized recount of the battle makes perfect sense.

He stands in front of the assembled elders, leans into the microphone, and begins;
“In late 1835, my great-great-great-grandfather, Angus Styles, traveled from the Smokey mountains of Tennessee to the dangerous plains of Texas with David Crockett and his band of long-rifle toting buckskin-clad rabble-rousers. Angus was in the dog house with his wife most of the time, so he figured a year or two in the wilds of Texas would smooth everything out with the Mrs.

Before immigrating to America, Angus was the chief griller and top dog chef for the Duke and Duchess of Edinburg in Europe. David Crockett knew Angus was a master griller and wanted him to travel with his men so they would eat well. Crockett and the men killed the meat, and Angus grilled it to perfection.

Arriving in Texas, Crockett tells Angus they are making a stop-over for a few days at a mission called The Alamo in San Antonio De Bexar. A buddy needs help fighting off a few Mexican soldiers; it shouldn’t take more than two days.

Once at the Alamo, arriving in the dark, entering via the back gate, Angus realizes Crockett was wrong in his evaluation. The rag-tag Army behind the walls would be no match for the thousands of Mexican soldiers sitting on a riverbank a few hundred yards away, eating tortilla wraps and polishing their long bayonets. Mariachi music floating on the breeze gave the scene a weird party-like atmosphere.

Angus locates and converts an old Adobe oven to a smoker griller, working on some chow for the Texians. Brisket, ribs, and sausage, along with his secret sauce, will be on the supper menu.

A young pioneer woman from northern Texas is there with her father, a volunteer. Veronica Baird is busy baking bread and cinnamon rolls in another adobe oven and lends Angus a hand stoking his fire. A prominent German fellow, Gustav Shiner, wanders over and offers Angus a mug of his homebrew beer. It’s looking like the Army will eat and drink well tonight.

A chilly March wind is blowing toward the Mexican Army camp, and the troops smell the delightful aroma of cooking meat and baking bread. Having marched 1500 miles with little food, they are famished, and the wafting perfume makes them salivate like an old hound dog.

General Santa Anna and his officers also smell the same heavenly aroma and, having not much to eat in the past few days, hatch a scheme to get their hands on that meat and freshly baked bread. Santa Anna sends a white flag rider with a note to the gates of the Alamo.

Standing in the courtyard, surrounded by hundred-plus fighters, Travis reads the letter, ” Dear Sirs and Scurrilous Rebels, on behalf of our large and overpowering Mexican Army and of course, myself, General Santa Anna, we would be willing to offer you a general surrender of sorts if you would share your delicious meat and bread with my troops. Looking forward to a good meal. Yours until death, General Santa Anna.”

The men, in unison, yell, “hell no,” we are not sharing our chow. Being a bit smart-ass, Travis orders two 20-pound cannons to fire a rebuke into the Mexican camp.

The first cannonball destroys the Mexican’s chuck wagon and what beans and flour the troops have left. The second cannonball blows up the cantina wagon, vaporizing numerous cases of tequila and wine. Now, the officers and troops have no food and no hooch. Santa Anna is as mad as a rabid raccoon and screams, “that’s it boys, we are taking the mission pronto.”

The battle started that evening, and as we all know, it didn’t turn out well for the Texians. Veronica Baird survived the massacre and said that Angus Styles and Gustav Shiner fought off the advancing soldiers with carving knives, a keg tap, and her sizeable wooden baker’s Peel. They fought to their death.


As the women and children of the Alamo were escorted out of the mission, Veronica Baird spots Santa Anna, sitting on his black horse, about to take a bite from one of her captured Baird Cinnamon rolls. She chunks a rock and knocks it out of his hand. General Santa Anna’s Great Dane dog, Mucho Perro, gobbles it down before it hits the ground. Sweet revenge.

She later wrote a book about the battle, which sold pretty well here in Texas. Not only is the Alamo our sacred national treasure, but it was also the first BBQ joint in Texas. Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the story of my grandfather Angus dying at the Alamo.” And with that, Tex takes a seat next to his stunned father.

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God Bless The Alamo


A few more days until we solemnly recognize the fall of the Alamo, March 6th, 1836. It’s not a day that will live in infamy like Pearl Harbor, the battles of Gettysburg and Yorktown, but for us native Texans, it’s a day of retrospect that deserves the reverence we bestow upon it.

The blog-es-phere is chock full of opinions about Travis and his men; poor old Santa Anna only wanted to get along, move along and be friends, but had to kill all the defenders because he was forced to. Bullshit, he was a murdering dictator and knew full well what he was doing. Three thousand plus soldiers against less than two hundred poorly equipped pioneers and farmers. Not much brotherly love was present in San Antonio that February and March. There are even stories, one of which I read today, that swear black slaves were picking Texas cotton outside the gates of the mission before the Mexican army invaded. If it’s on the internet, it’s got to be true. Right?

Starting in the first grade, I was taught the history of the Alamo. My teacher made sure my classmates and I knew the story of the battle, the events that led up to it, and the aftermath at San Jacinto. Mrs. Edwards, my teacher, was a native of San Antonio, so she was a bit “ett” up with the whole thing. Us six year- olds, although slightly lacking in historical proficiency, understood the enormity and the importance of the battle. We regularly staged a neighborhood reproduction of the battle a few times a month, using my parent’s garage as the besieged mission.

Walt Disney and his television series Davey Crockett, King of The Wild Frontier, turned every boy, and most girls, in my grade school into a rabid Texian defender, ready and willing to fight the battle a second time using our Daisy BB guns and Cub Scout knives for arms. Having a native Texan and hometown boy, Fess Parker, in the role of old Davey didn’t go unnoticed in Fort Worth. Fess, dressed in full buckskin and coonskin cap came to Fort Worth to promote the show and the schools had to declare a holiday because they were empty. That is how serious we are about our history. Yes, we are all braggarts, insufferable most of the time, and onery as a Honey Badger, but pound for pound, put us against any enemy, and we will get the job done. My fellow members at The Sons of The Alamo Lodge, of which I am a member in good standing, can attest to our state of readiness.

Keep your powder dry; God Bless The Alamo, Goliad, San Jacinto, William Travis, Sam Houston, Juan Sequin, Davey Crockett, Bob Wills, Willie Nelson, and George Strait.

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I’m Going To Graceland,Graceland,Memphis Tennessee


The Mississippi Delta was shining like a National guitar

I am following the river down the highway

through the cradle of the Civil War

I can’t think of a better opening lyric than the first verse of Paul Simon’s song, Graceland, from his acclaimed album of the same name. I’m a Simon fan from way back in the caveman days when he and Art Garfunkle made all the hippies and folkies stop and listen to their lyrics. Simon and Garfunkle were cerebral before it was cool or hip; holdovers from the coffee house Greenwich Village days. One guitar and two voices, no feedback, no pounding drums or wall of sound, just pure, beautiful talent. One could say that Paul and Art ” knew their groceries.” An old Beat term used by the hep-cats.

I’ve played a National Guitar, and it’s a tough hombre. Made from shining chromed steel with a resonator instead of a sound hole, the instrument is a beast that will shred your fingertips in record time. The sound, like the guitar, is unique, so I can see why Simon weaved it into the lyrics. The guitar does shine like the Delta, which I have seen from the air, and it does glow to the point of breaking out the Raybans or at least a $10.00 pair of gas station shades.

Graceland, yes, I have been there too, but it was “back in the day” while Elvis still called it home and was in and out of his kitchen making “peanut butter and nanner” sandwiches when he wasn’t shooting up color televisions or yukking it up with his entourage of buddies.

Memphis, back in the 1960s, when I used to visit, was once a happening city, and Graceland was in a good part of town. Now, you had better be packing if you visit that neighborhood. Beall Street was legendary, Sun Records was still operating, and the best rock n roll acts came to town like clockwork. Perhaps the city intrigued Simon when the boys played there in the 60s. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to pen a great tune about the southland. Having South African musicians on the album was the mint in the julip.

Paul and Art are old men now; aren’t we all that played music back then? I doubt there is much more left in the two of them, but man…those guys gifted us with some great music and lyrics that made us stop and think about a winter day in a deep and dark December, being an island, riding a bus while watching the moon rise over an open field, and writings on subway walls. Let’s see if anybody beats that.

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WordPress Is Now Facebook, Twitter And Instagram


Oh My! Say it ain’t so, Sheriff!

Yes, Dear Hearts, the best blogging site out there, has been discovered by the cancel crowd. They now think WordPress is Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and all the other platforms where they can hide behind a keyboard and burn down the mission with hateful, moronic verbiage. In the past 14 years I have been blogging, there have been only a handful of inappropriate comments thrown my way; some I responded to, others got the trash can symbol. My most recent post, ” High Noon At The Border,” must have caused folks to lose some brain cells and hide in their safe rooms.

Sure, it’s comedy; anyone with half a brain can see that, although I now know there are folks out there who take it seriously. I received one comment from a former Texan who was dragged to California at a young age. She wrote an alternate scenario about the border, which was snarky, well-written, but full of venom. I can picture her at her Apple laptop, tapping away, sipping on a latte’ in between sobs. You can bet she is a Garrison Keillor fan and listens to NPR. I hope the crazed woman doesn’t have access to an assault rifle, most folks know I live in Granbury, Texas, and I wouldn’t be too hard to find. Out of respect for my readers, I ditched her cute little reply, as well as a few others that started with an F and ended with a k..you get the message. I must be on the right path if it offends the ones that cause all the trouble in this country. I’m rather enjoying this.

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High Noon At The Border


Flash update 2-29-24. One way a blogger can tell if they are on the right track is from the comments received. I must be on the electrified center rail because some of the comments regarding this post are not approved for viewing and will never be. It seems some folks out there think WordPress and its blogs are like Facebook, Instagram, and X, where they can freely and anonymously throw their little fit full of venomous, snarky, and juvenile remarks and then trot down to Starbucks for a well-deserved woke-a- latte’. Keep them coming, kiddies, and please leave an address so I can mail you some Christmas cookies with pretty sprinkles and a participation trophy.

I hear Tex Ritter warbling, ” Do not forsake me oh my darling,” as the sheriff walks down the dusty street, about to slap leather and melt the barrel of his 44. High Noon is one of the best westerns of all time.

Texas, the border, February 29, 2024. The motorcade arrives at Eagle Pass. Governor Abbott is there, the Texas National Guard is present, and the Texas Border Patrol surrounds the throng of greeters. The black SUVs roll in. Out steps former president Donald Trump, dressed in black; a 44 hog rests in a black leather holster on each hip, and a stetson sits atop his head. The theme from High Noon plays through the PA speakers. The sheriff is in town and ready to do some business.

Brownsville, Texas, is not quite the border, but it is close. February 29, 2024. The mayor of Brownsville is present, as well as a few city council and Democrat Senators from Texas and Washington. The motorcade of black SUVs rolls up, and out steps President Biden in a blue suit, wearing Rockport sneakers; his wife Jill (not a doctor) leads him to the podium and slips a notecard in his shaky hand. In bold black letters, it reads, “ITS ALL TRUMPS FAULT, get the Republicans, kill all Christians and conservatives, burn down the mission if we want to stay alive ( Elton John, Tumbleweed Connection), and we love Mexico and Ukraine. We need money for Ukraine so our beloved criminal immigrants can vote for me. I’m honored to be here at the Alamo, I love Davey Crockett.” The blonde grifter leads him from the stage to the presidential SUV. The media day is over.

Well, it could happen this way.


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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch Feb. 28th, 2024


One of the by-products of becoming a senior citizen is the onset of boredom. I can only watch so much Wheel of Fortune, although Momo would sit for days watching a pre-recorded loop of the same episodes and keep guessing all the puzzles, waiting for old Pat to send her a check or a vacation voucher to Ukraine. I want to slit a vein.

The Beatnik thing didn’t work out; I was too old, forgot all the best verbiage, and couldn’t stand to wear turtleneck sweaters anymore. Revisiting “On The Road” stirred an interest, but then I took a nap and forgot about it. When I have a good idea, it’s best to avoid daytime naps; they tend to act as a mental reset button for us folks.

Momo suggests I try my hand as a social influencer on TikTok or YouTube. She might be onto something. I have an abundance of white hair, much like those TV preachers from the 1980s when a person could lay their hands on top of their Motorola console color unit and be healed, but only after you gave the call-in number person your credit card number: no donation, no cure. I have the schtick and the suaveness to pull it off. I imagine it would be more like a Brother Dave Gardner comedy album. Speaking of, Brother Dave was my idol back in the late 50s and early 60s. But then, the portable record player broke. My comedy stint was over before it started. But I have the hair: you be the judge and let me know; my phone number is BR-549. A coinsedense how much I resemble Brother Dave.

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Oddities In The Cactus Patch


Things That Can Only Happen In Texas

Pictured at the Larado Railway Station, circa 1958, is my father’s uncles, brothers 15th cousin seven times removed, Little Tex Twitter, with his good buddy from across the border, Teenie Lopez, not to be confused with his older brother, Trini ( If I Had A Hammer) Lopez, a famous pop musician out of Dallas, Texas. Before Tex took him under his armpit, Teenie had been a tire scrubber at the “La Bamba Car Wash And Strip Club” in Nuevo Laredo. Cheech Chong, owner of the business, said that Teenie never missed a day of work but was a “little” late occasionally. Tex, seeing a possible Hollywood connection and possibly a movie or two, convinced Teenie to hit the road with him and his pet Coyote, Wiley. Tex had been on the rodeo circuit for a decade doing rope tricks and wrestling doggies; he had a new act planned for Teenie.

A small saddle was made to fit Wiley, and Teenie would ride the Coyote around the arena wearing a mariachi suit, singing and playing a small guitar. The act lasted only a few weeks when Wiley, doing what Coyotes do best, spotted a Roadrunner darting across the rodeo arena and gave pursuit, which ended in tragedy when Wiley and Teenie, in the heat of the chase, ran into the bullpen and were “hammered flat as a tortilla. “

Tex sent Teenie’s older brother, Trini, the small mariachi hat and what was left of the suit for remembrance’s sake. Trini, in his few moments of grief, penned his first hit tune, ” If I Had A Hammer,” as a tribute to the passing of his little brother. Bet you didn’t know any of this, did you?

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In Remembrance: Mrs. Mister Makes A Killing


A Tall Texas Tale For Those With Wrinkles…

Pictured above is none other than my childhood neighbor, Mrs. Mister, pouring her revolutionary beauty concoction, “Mrs. Mister’s Transforming Beauty Soak And Wrinkle Eradicator,” into the swimming pool at Colonial Country Club in Fort Worth, Texas, circa 1956. After emptying the last magnum of this magical elixir into the pool, every female club member over the age of fifty plunged into the water and adamantly refused to emerge until they attained Mrs. Mister’s enviable wrinkle-free appearance. Admittedly, a few of them came close to the mark, but, alas, the majority remained, shall we say, in dire need of further miraculous intervention.

Being the shrewd entrepreneur she was, Mrs. Mister struck a deal with Avon and pocketed a tidy sum for her creation. The miracle potion was rebranded as “Avon Skin So Soft,” renowned not only for its beautifying properties but also for its ability to repel those pesky “no-see-um” gnats. After all, why not fend off insects and look fabulous while doing so?

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Strange Things Happening At The Whataburger..A Texas Tale


Whataburger draws old folks like a moth to a porch light. Besides having the best burgers in God’s universe, the breakfast are scrumptious and affordable, which is the big draw for us Texans. I stopped by the old orange and white building a few days back for lunch and ran into old pal Mooch and, of course, his constant companion, Giblet the Chihuahua.

I believe Giblet to be the most spoiled and entitled dog on record. He spends most of his time in the converted baby chest carrier strapped to Mooch; the only time the dog sets foot on the globe is to potty, and the rest of the time, Mooch fusses over him like he’s little king Tutukamen.

I qued in line behind Mooch. He tells me Gib has been to doggo school and learned a new language that allows him to communicate with humans. Today is the first dry run of Giblet’s communication skills.

Mooch walks up to the counter and makes his order: a number 1, all the way, extra pickles, jalapenos, no onions, fries, and a Dr Pepper, the old Texas standby. The counter lady, past middle-aged, has that “don’t give me any crap” aura about her.

“Will the pup be having lunch today?” she asked, with a slight touch of sarcasm in her three-pack-a-day croak.

” Mooch asks Giblet what he’ll be ordering. The tiny mensa dog barks eight times. The counter lady seems to understand. ” That’ll be a number eight, right?” Giblet barks once for yes.

She asks, ” will that be the meal with fries and a drink?” Gib barks once. ” Do you want it all the way?” Giblet growls. Mooch asks him, ” you want onions and pickles there Gib?” The dog snarles and bares his teeth. The lady says, ” No onions or pickles. You want a drink with that little doggy?” Giblet barks once for a yes. ” He likes Dr Pepper, mam, in a styrofoam bowl if you please.” says Mooch. The nice lady repeats the order and asks about payment. Giblet sticks his snout into the carrier and extracts a tiny ATM card, holding it in what’s left of his teeth; the lady takes the card, swipes it, adds a tip, and sticks it back in Giblet’s mouth.

“Never seen a dog with its own ATM card before; now I know the world has gone street-rat crazy.” An adoring crowd surrounds Mooch and Giblet, taking selfies with Giblet on their iPhones.

I’m standing in line, forgotten, so I exit and head next door to Wendy’s for a number 3, no onions, extra mustard, with a chocolate shake.