The Summer of Love and Joy Is Upon Us


Yes, Dear Hearts, another summer of “love and joy” is approaching. It usually starts the day after Memorial Day, but it’s early this year, of course, it is, and why wouldn’t it be? There is so much to do that it can’t wait another minute. I always loved the way our treasured southern comedian, Brother Dave Gardner addressed everyone with that old south greeting; “Dear Hearts.” It brings to mind fried chicken, tater salad, and the smell of cooking cornbread. Deadly sweet iced tea with a shot of Jim Beam to ward off the skeeters.

A deranged young white man goes into a supermarket in Buffalo, New York, and shoots ten shoppers dead. All black Americans there to buy groceries for their families. The local cops knew of this guy; he had been institutionalized for mental problems, yet his parents let him procure a firearm. It’s not known as of yet if it was legal or a “ghost gun.” He was on social media and is known as an avowed racist. There are plenty of them out there folks, and they come in all colors. You don’t have to be from Texas to be a lunatic, although we have more than our share and could ship you some if needed.

A church in California was shot up, members were wounded, and one died. The shooter is a 68-year-old Asian man, but the national news skipped over all that. Wrong race, not the correct narrative. I guess the Asian guy is also a racist? Here in Texas, I would say many worshipers in church congregations are packing a piece. If it’s a Cowboy Church, they all have a sidearm.

And now our cognitively destroyed president and his (not a doctor) wife will go to Buffalo to mend America. He will make a screaming demented speech against white people, racists, and Trump, and lecture us on who knows what vile crap will spew from his mouth. He will stand at a podium and scream at the imaginary demons that float in the sky above and follow him like a beloved pack of devil dogs. Jill will have to lead him away before he says something racially insensitive. He and his ilk will turn this tragedy into a George Floyd moment and use it as a summer blockbuster trailer for the upcoming mid-term elections. Never let a good disaster or a mass killing go to waste. Right?

Over last weekend, in the once-respected city of Chicago, 77 black Americans were shot; sixteen of them died from bullets. The shooters were all young, and black. So does that make them racist against their own citizens? Mayor Beetleguise says this summer will be the most celebrated “summer of joy” the city has ever known. Yet she is afraid to go to McDonald’s without bodyguards or an armored vehicle. On the national news broadcast, Old Lester, Metroman David, and that green-eyed devil, Norah won’t mention this on their newscast. Ukraine might be safer than Chicago.

I might be wrong, and more than a bit nostalgic, but we could sure use a good “1969 Woodstock” concert right now.

” The Eve of Destruction”


Barry telling it like it is!

Europe again hears the drums of war. ” Bet they didn’t see this one coming?” Putin is now the anointed Baby Joseph Stalin, and Biden behaves much like Franklin Roosevelt.

“The Eastern world, it is explodin’.
Violence flarin’, bullets loadin’
You’re old enough to kill but not for votin’.
You don’t believe in war, but what’s that gun you’re totin’?
And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin’.”

“But you tell me over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.”

In his hit song back in the sixties, Barry McGuire warns, “we’re on the eve of destruction.” We can imagine he was referring to Vietnam or perhaps the Arab-Israeli conflict in 1968.

Either one, those lyrics are more relevant today than they were 50 years ago. Our American news media, Old Lester Holt, and the other two networks, the young pansexual dude and the snarky woman, are getting a lot of mileage out of the Ukraine war. Wars and conflicts are lotteries for ratings.

Imagine the biggest news story since Watergate, the Clinton organization and her cronies spying on a president, breaks, which the media completely ignores, and then Russia invades Ukraine. What a blessing from below (Hell) for our media and folks in Washington. Again, Biden and the Clinton gang are off the hook, most likely for eternity.

Our young people can be comforted to know that the Kardashians are still in the news throughout this apocalypse.

“Spotify Don’t Need Him Around Anyhow”


“Hope Neil Young will remember, a southern man don’t need him around anyhow.” Lynard Skinnard had it right, and neither does the eastern or the western man. Sliding into rock and roll obscurity is a pitiful state. Joni Mitchell, one of my favorite singers from ” back in the day,” has joined the “has-been” wagon supporting old Neil. She’s been on that trip for a while now. Together, she and Neil can enjoy swooshing downward until they hit the pile of crap at the bottom of the celebrity slide. Eventually, everyone in rock music gets to ride it.

Old Neil was never one of my favorites. He can’t sing for squat and possesses a thirteen-year-old valley girl’s whiney, tinny voice. So, it’s puzzling why Crosby, Stills, and Nash asked him to be in their supergroup. Those three guys could sing like hashed out angels, so Young must have been there for his guitar chops and fancy fringed leather jackets.

Joe Rogan is the new big deal in town. A new age sheriff with lots of tats and a six-gun on each hip. He’s as cool as Clint Eastwood and has the literacy jive of Jack Kerouac. He calls it as it is and doesn’t coat anything with honey.

So, Joe Rogan is the guy that Neil Young and Joni Mitchell always protested against way back in their hippie-dippy days, and Biden, who is the personification of “the man holding them down,” with his kings’ scroll of mandates, is their new golden calf. Go figure that crazy town crap out. They canceled themselves.

“RESPECTIVUS” “For the Rest of Us” A New Holiday Coming Soon


In 1966, Maulana Kereuga, a member of the Black Panther Party (the one that Forest Gump messed with), invented a holiday to celebrate African culture in the United States, but not Africa. “Kwanzaa” became the alternate secular Christmas for some black Americans, but not all bought into it. The citizens of Africa think Kwanzaa is a made-up hot-mess of a holiday and had never heard of it until the late 60s. They celebrate Christmas, like most of the world. I’m betting Forest and Jenny didn’t know about Kwanzaa.

“Festivus.” A Sienfield made-up holiday to bring attention to the over-commercialism of Christmas. Held on December 23rd, it celebrates no giving of gifts, feats of strength, airing of grievances, and questionable miracles, as well as a fine meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. In place of a traditional tree, there is an aluminum pole carried by the family elder. Frank and George Castanza convinced Jerry, Elaine, and Kramer that Festivus is a viable and authentic holiday. It makes more sense than Kwanzaa, and at times, Christmas.

Festivus

So if anyone can make up a holiday, get it printed on a calendar and plastered on television, why can’t I? Well, just hide and watch.

I propose a new holiday that celebrates the elders of our families, the old and almost forgotten, except when birthdays and Christmas roll around and their children expect them to dish out wads of cash on useless gifts for their grand kids.

Poor old used-up Parents.

I’m talking about the senior parents and grandparents. They have toiled in the corporate salt mines, served in the military, died in wars, slaved in the factories and retail stores, walked those miles of isles in Walmart, changed those thousands of bedpans, paved the roadways, built the buildings and houses, and worked the land that provides the food that all our children and grandchildren enjoy. If it wasn’t for Grandma working in that computer chip factory for thirty years, little Johnny and Chelsea wouldn’t have that expensive video game or smart-ass phone that cost a cool grand.

As of today, December 28th, 2021, I proclaim the period between Christmas and New Year’s Eve the holiday of “Respectivus.”

Six humbling days of showing respect and gratefulness to parents and grandparents for all they have made possible for their loving family. Shower them with expensive gifts and fine wines. Send them on all-inclusive cruises to warm climates, and maybe pay off the mortgage that they borrowed against to pay for their children’s college education.

Sure, there will be a few million or more that will send their parents a gift card from Walgreens or maybe a jelly of the month membership or a new sleeve of tennis balls for their walker. Those would be the cheapskate brats that threw a conniption fit when they didn’t get a trophy and a pizza after they lost every game, and now their kids do the same when they don’t get the latest techno-gadget under the.. good God, it’s hard to even write it… “Holiday Tree.”

Implementing this hew holiday won’t be easy. It will take a banding together of old folks to make it happen. Marching in the streets carrying signs, some saying hooray for our side, protesting at the post office and in front of city hall, burning our driver’s license at the polling prescient, riding our personal mobility scooters like a biker gang on the freeway’s, and chaining ourselves to the columns of the White House. The old guy in there should get it; he’s older than we are. Us’un old ones have to stick together like we did in the 60s. So put Steppenwolf on the 8 track, and let’s roll.

I am excited about the tennis balls I might be receiving.

“Hey Hey I’m A Monkee”


It appears that Mike Nesmith, formerly of the Monkees, made a more significant impact on our culture than anyone imagined. It’s said that he invented the music video format and country-rock, two massive contributions to our video and audiophile obsessed society. He was a fellow Texan, so he gets a 10 in my book for that alone. Mickey Dolenz, the remaining Monkee, will most likely hang it up and enjoy the renewed interest in his former band and maybe make a few bucks. God Bless ole’ Mike Nesmith, and may he keep playing music in his heavenly venue.

I was a fan of the show; how could a teenager in 1966 not be? Rock music, comedy, and a groundbreaking video music format were the perfect show for that time. I played in a rock band, so I felt the show was made for us musicians. The public had no idea that the boys didn’t play their music. Super Beatle amplifiers, Gretsch guitars, and drums, a Vox Continental organ, top-of-the-line gear, and these guys were as famous as the Fabs or any of the English bands.

I don’t recall when I discovered the band was not a real band, but only four funny guys. It wasn’t a devastating blow, but it pissed me off that the television producers had put one over on young people. Don Kirshner likely leaked the truth when he was fired from the show as a music producer. Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart wrote the tunes, and the famous Wrecking Crew provided great music. We were duped, but it was a good duping.

My younger sister was a huge fan, so she and I attended a Monkees live show in 1967. They were playing their own instruments and were rumored to be quite good by then. The show was at Memorial Auditorium in Dallas, Texas, the best venue for a large crowd but terrible acoustics for music. The crowd was teenage or younger boys and girls, their mothers, and guys like me bringing a sibling too young to drive.

The warm-up act, a local band, Kenny And the Kasuals, put on a solid show. The promoters and the Monkees were likely afraid of being outplayed. As it turns out, they were, but the crowd was there to see the Monkees, not a local act, so it went unnoticed.

When the Monkees took the stage, the screaming began. I could hardly hear their first two songs. Mike Nesmith was playing a 12 string Gretsch guitar and couldn’t keep the beast in tune, so like any good musician, he proceeded to tune up for ten minutes. All music stopped. The crowd grew restless, and folks started to leave. No music and three Monkees standing around smiling and waving at the attendees did not make a good show. He got his instrument tuned, and the music proceeded, but the excitement in the room was gone. The band did an encore, performing “Last Train To Clarksville,” and the show ended. It wasn’t the Beatles, but my sister saw the Monkees live, so it was a good night.

“Wavey Gravy Bitch Slaps Austin”


Wavey Gravy

The organizers of the SXSW Music Festival thought it would be a great throwback piece of nostalgia to invite the infamous Wavey Gravy of Woodstock fame to speak at one of their Hipster symposiums during festival week.

Mr. Gravy, while giving a book signing at the “University of Woke Texas” bookshop, had a few choice words for his admirers. His new book, ” How I Survived The Brown Acid and Made A Million,” is a New York Times bestseller and attracted a crowd that stretched around the block. Everyone in Austin thinks they are a retro-hippie.

Maya Sharona, head reporter for SXSW News caught up with Wavey as he was returning from the men’s room.

” Mr. Gravey,” she asked, microphone inches from Waveys face, ” can you give your loyal throwback fans in Austin some advice on how to get through the destruction of humanity, the scourge of oil pollution that is changing our climate, killing Polar Bears and Tiddy Wink minnows, turning women into men and men into newts, and is destroying our universe while rendering all highly educated females infertile and unable to return to work because we can’t afford a Prius ?” No shit, she was dead-out serious.

Wavey thought for a moment, took a swig of his Mylanta Antacid Margarita, lit a joint, checked the time on his Rolex, scratched his balls, cleaned his ears with a bandana and spit, hocked a snot ball, farted, and said to Ms. Sharona, ” take the Brown Acid kid, it did wonders for us at Woodstock.”

“Sargent Yorks Lovely Beatnick Bongo Band”


The Bongo Band at The Hip Hereford. Sargent ( Sal ) York in Stripped shirt

In 1957 there was a coffee house and Beatnik hangout in downtown Fort Worth, Texas called “The Hip Hereford,” named in honor of the owner’s prized champion bull.

Sargent ( Salvatore )Tulane York was related to the legendary war hero, Sargent York, on his fathers’ side of the family, thus his naming after his famous cousin.

Growing up on a vast cattle ranch outside of Weatherford Texas, Salvatore wanted one thing; to be a singing cowboy, like Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and maybe Tex Ritter.

All-day, every day, from the time he could sit a saddle, Salvatore sat on his shetland pony, “Giblet,” playing a plastic ukulele while singing “Home On The Range” and “Oh Susana.” This behavior went on for years, and his parents finally gave up on the little savant, letting him ride the range singing his two-song songbook to the cattle and the critters. At times, his parents forgot to call him in for supper, or when it rained, and little Salvatore would make camp with the doggies, showing up a few days later as if nothing strange had happened.

When Salvatore turned 17, he began going by his family name of Sargent. It made him feel dignified and a little important. He and a few boys from school formed a little guitar and fiddle band and began playing around Parker County. Chicken fights, church fundraisers, and intermission at the Cowtown Drive Inn were about the only gigs they could get. They knew four songs and were hard to listen to. They called themselves ” The Parker Valley Ranch Boys.” They met Buddy Holley once and asked for his advice. He told them to stay the hell away from him and his Crickets and to get a real job.

The band didn’t work out, so Sargent decided he would try being a Beatnik. It didn’t take talent or an education, both of which he had none of, so he figured he could make it work.

He opened the first Beatnik-type coffee house in Fort Worth near the Majestic Theater. He gave the guitar and fiddle band one more shot but it didn’t fit the atmosphere. He had another idea that would work. Why even have music! Just have a few guys playing bongo drums while people speak or recite poetry. How cool is that? No messy music or instruments, just the gentle beat of the soothing bongo to accentuate the moment.

The picture above is the first incarnation of “Sargent Yorks Lovely Beatnik Bongo Band,” onstage at The Hip Hereford. Sargent York, the band leader, is the dude in the middle wearing the striped shirt.

Word got out about how cool and hip the place was, and soon every performer around wanted to be seen there. Elvis Presley was at Fort Hood serving his time in the Army, so he would come up on Saturday nights and sing a few tunes. Jack Ruby ( yes, that one ) would bring Candy Barr, the famous stripper to do her show, and Lyndon B.Johnson and Lady Bird would stop by to shake a few hands and recite the latest bill he was introducing in the senate. Lady Bird would give gardening advice. Brother Dave Gardner, the famous comedian made a few appearances, as did Lenny Bruce, Joan Rivers, Phylis Diller, Jonny Carson, Alvin, and The Chipmunks, Soupy Sales, and Rabbi Schmolie and his singing dog, Moses.

The place rocked on for another year, then when interest waned, Sargent closed the doors and went to Greenwich Village to become a folk singer.

The rumor that floated around for years, even into the mid-60s, was that some English musician was vacationing in Texas and caught a few acts at the Hip Hereford. He dug the name of the house bongo band and later passed it along to some of his blokes over on Abbey Road. Who knows, it could have happened?

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