Reasonable Advice For Folks That Don’t Know Their Butt From Fat Meat
The Texan
Mr. Don Limpet, a resident of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, writes that he had laser eye surgery at his local Walmart and has complications.
Mr. Limpet: Mr. Texan, I saw your advice column in the back of Bass Of The Month magazine at the Tractor Supply. You seem to be a down-to-earth fellow and have given some good advice to folks, so I’m hoping you can help a brother out here. My eyesight has been deteriorating for years, and it’s become so bad that I can’t distinguish a Yellow Booger Picker Bass Lure from a Purple People Eater Crappie rig. My lovely wife, Little Sheba, yes, that’s her real name, she’s a belly dancer who performs at Old Folks Homes and Funerals. Little Sheba said that Walmart has a special on Cataract eye surgery: $ 49.95 per eye, and you get to choose the color of lens after they suck out the cataract. So I say, ” Hell ya, with the money I’ll be saving, I can buy that new Evinrude motor for my Bass boat. The lady who was getting me ready couldn’t get the IV in the right vein, and my arm swelled up like a poisoned Possum. She finally called the gal over in the make-up department to get the sucker in the right vein. Little Sheba said I should go with the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles lenses since he was her favorite actor. I told her he’s dead, and so is his sidekick, Sundance, but she was insistent, so I went with the blue lenses. The procedure took longer than expected, and the boys in the produce department had to help out the tech suck out the cataracts with a Turkey baster. When I woke up, Little Sheba took one look at me and fainted dead out. The girl got the wrong lenses. Instead of the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles, she installed the Count Dracula Red Devil lenses, and now I look like Dracula or a Demon from Hell. The manager at Walmart says the operation is irreversible, and he is genuinely sorry. To make it up to us, he gave Little Sheba a $ 500 gift card to be used on Christmas Decorations. I look awful, and the preacher at church won’t let me in the door because I scare all the little kids. Can you help out a cursed man?
The Texan: Well, well, Mr. Limpet, you are either the biggest cheap-ass in New Mexico or a complete moron that doesn’t know your butt from a piece of fat meat. What did you expect for $49.95 per eye? Those folks at Walmart make $13.00 an hour and can’t even ring up a purchase correctly. As far as the red eyes, you can always get a job at those Halloween Spirit stores, or a spook house. I, too, once had a problem with red eyes, but it was the result of smoking too much pot back when I was hanging out at the Armadillo World Headquarters down in hippie land, Austin, Texas. Back then, everybody had red eyes, so it wasn’t a big deal. Try mixing some Murine and blue food coloring, or wear dark glasses and use a can like Ray Charles. I’m sending Little Sheba a 45 record of Ray Stevens’ big hit, ” Ahab the Arab,” the sheik of the burning sands, and of course a box of Cherry Bombs so you can set a few of them off in The Walmart. In closing, let me know how everything turns out, and you are the biggest dumb-ass moron I know.
Fancy Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But wish’un They Did
The Texan
This Texan received a letter from Mr. Merle T. Haggaurd of Muskogee, Oklahoma. It seems that his wife and her pet kitty have gone off the deep end of the Red River.
Mr. Haggard: About a month back, my wife’s pet kitty, Toonsis, appeared to have a nervous feline type of breakdown. I don’t know a lick about cats, being a dog person, so Reba, my wife, took the cat to a vet. It turns out the kitty did have a feline breakdown, and the vet suggested we take it to a specialized animal behavioral clinic in Austin, Texas. The only thing I know about Austin is that’s where Willy, Waylon, and the boys hung out, and it’s full of old dope-smoking hippie types. Me, I’m more of an Okie from Muskogee and a manly footwear-wearing feller. The doctor examined Toonsis and said she could fix her right up. She did say that this clinic is a LBGJQYST facility, which we had no idea what she meant by that. About a month went by, and two days ago, we got a call to pick up the kitty, so we headed down to Austin to retrieve Reba’s good-as-new cat. Driving into town, we noticed all these strange folks marching around carrying rainbow-looking flags, blocking traffic and spray painting little slogans on buildings and folks cars, and a lot of the buildings were draped in the same type of colors. We thought maybe we missed a national holiday or something. The hotel clerk got really upset with me when I asked what all these people with rainbow flags were doing. He squealed, “Don’t you know it’s Pride month?” I say, ” Well no, I’m as about as full of pride as any American and I didn’t know we had a month for it.” The next morning, we go to the clinic, and they trot out little Toonsis. She’s dressed in a rainbow kitty sweater and has pierced ears and eyebrows, and her fur is dyed purple and green, just like the doctor’s hair. The doctor says the cat is now identifying as an LBGQYST animal and now demands special rights and privileges. I pay Dr whacko the $2,000 dollar fee, and we take the new and not-so-improved Toonsis back to Muskogee. Did the missus and I miss something? Was there a cultural shift, or are all the folks down in Austin just plain weird? I’m enclosing a picture of Toonsis, who now prefers to be known as “It.”
Toonsis The “It” cat
The Texan: Well, Mr. Haggaurd, I wish you’d contacted me before taking Toonsis to Crazy Town. We, normal, gun-toting, beer-drinking, Bible-carrying rational folks in Texas, don’t consider Austin a part of our state. When Willy, Waylon, and the boys left, it went to pot pretty quick. Pretty soon, everybody and their dog or cat will get their own month. It appears that Pride Month is relatively new here in Texas, and we try to keep it fenced up in Austin and Dallas. After all, “Keep Austin Weird” isn’t just a slogan, I would try a Cat Whisperer if I were you. Keep in touch, and I’m sending Toonsis some 50 % off Pride Month coupons from PetSmart and Target.
I first posted this in 2021, November. I met Wavy at the Texas International Pop Festival, Labor Day weekend, 1969.
Wavy Gravy
The organizers of the SXSW Music Festival thought it would be a great throwback piece of nostalgia to invite the infamous Wavy 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 NPR and SXSW News caught up with Wavy as he was returning from the men’s room.
” Mr. Gravy,” she asked, microphone inches from Wavy’s 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 Tiddly 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 ?”
I kid you not, she was dead-ass-serious.
Wavy 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 bandanna and spit, hocked a snot ball, farted, and said to Ms. Sharona,
“Take the Brown Acid kid, it did wonders for us at Woodstock.”
Momo and I are gearing up for our yearly trip to the Texas Bermuda Triangle: Marfa, Fort Davis, and Alpine. Strange lights, strange people, and a weird town full of characters out of a 1950s sci-fi western movie. We love the place. So in honor of our love for this quirky village, I’m revisiting a post about our last journey into the Chihuahuan Desert, the twilight zone of Big Bend, Texas.
In the days of COVID-19, when darkness, despair, and lemming-like stupidity seemed to envelop the world, every soul, human and animal alike, found themselves confined to their homes, forbidden to roam: even the wandering Buffalo was home-bound. It was then that Momo and I made a pact to evade the restrictions and set out on a clandestine journey to the remote Chihuahuan Desert, with our sights set on the enigmatic and quirky town of Marfa, nestled in the vast expanses of big sky West Texas. We had no idea that a small blurb of a village in the middle of the desert would be so ghosted. It was eerie in an Alfred Hitchcock movie way. We did find a small burrito hut, grabbed a few, and returned to Granbury. The trip was an utterly bummerited loss.
I wrote an unkind, snarky post about our Marfa visit in my hour of exasperated, irritated, and agitated gloom. The older I get, the more the little things in life send me into a combat zone of petulant whining and unforgiveness. So we were both surprised that, having a cocktail on our patio one evening, we decided to give little ole’ Marfa a second chance. We plotted a trip that would take us into the Chihuahuan Triangle, which, from what I have read, is a dry land version of the one-off of Bermuda. Marfa, Alpine, and Fort Davis make up the Texas twilight zone. Ghostly lights in the mountains, shooting stars that stop and change directions, and strange-looking young people wearing Keep Austin Weird tee-shirts that wander the streets at night searching for live music: it’s all there.
Hotel Piasano
Being a fan of the great Texas movie “Giant,” the Hotel Piasano, where the cast stayed during the 1955-56 filming, was our only historical option. Arriving in the afternoon, the lady at the check-in desk was gracious and friendly. She gave us the “classic” room, which in the hotel language means one that had not been renovated since the 1930s. That’s fine with us; we are interested in the historical value and feel of the place. I noticed some of the rooms were the star suites, so I asked about those. The concierge told us that the Rock Hudson room is available for around half a grand a night and includes a lighted display cabinet featuring the original book of wedding photos from his make-believe marriage. We passed. The Liz Taylor suite was priced the same and included a small lighted curio cabinet showcasing a dainty Italian crystal decanter filled with her spit. Momo said no. The James Dean suite showcased his favorite toiletry in a glass cabinet, his comb, and a half-used tube of Brylcream. No, on that one, too. The concierge did say that our room is rumored to have been the one that Chill Wills occupied, so we gave it a go. She added that the entire hotel is extremely haunted, so beware of ghostly appearances and personal items being relocated.
Liz, Rock, and Houston in Marfa 1955
Considering all the warnings about ectoplasmic phenomena, we unpacked in our classic room, which includes a 1930s-style bathroom with a corner shower and a drain in the sloped tile floor. I know damn well that Chill Wills could not have got his big ole Texas boy butt into this shower. French doors opened to a private walled patio with an outside stucco fireplace. How nice is that? I could picture Chill and Dennis Hopper sharing a whiskey by the fire. We enjoyed a cocktail while observing a thunderstorm roll over the mysterious mountains.
Our dinner at Jett’s Grill was nothing to text back home: My pork chop was too pink, and Momo’s chicken surprise lived up to its name; she was surprised it tasted like cardboard and cost thirty dollars. I enjoyed a Jameson Irish Whiskey on the rocks for almost twenty dollars, and Momo had a whiskey with ginger ale for twenty-one dollars; they charged her for the ginger ale. After paying the check, we felt a bit violated. We spent the rest of our evening in the classic room, waiting for another distant thunderstorm from over the mysterious mountains.
Planet Marfa
Local Marfites at Planet Marfa enjoy a brew, and Sagebrush Sonny is seated far left.
Planet Marfa became our next foray into the Big Bend Twilight Zone. The place took up half a city block. Inside was a genuine transcendental Indian meditation TePee, a full-size school bus dedicated to dogs, a modest kitchen offering the renowned Red Barron Pizza, and a bar bustling with locals partaking in their afternoon meet-and-greet. I found myself at the bar’s edge, ready to place an order, when I noticed an elderly gentleman perched on a stool beside me. Out of a sense of camaraderie, I motioned to the bartender to pour the old man another beer, my treat. He acknowledged the gesture gratefully, and we exchanged pleasantries as we shook hands and introduced ourselves. Resembling a character straight out of a Gabby Hayes movie, he embodied the quintessential oddity one might encounter in Marfa. Sagebrush Sonny Toluse, as he called himself, had called Marfa home for nigh on sixty years, having relocated from Presidio, Texas, a town situated right on the Mexico border and reputed to be the hottest spot in Texas.
I noticed Sagebrush Sonny had a wooden peg leg where his right-side human leg would normally be. He noticed me staring and felt compelled to explain his missing appendage. He asked if we were planning to visit the desert and view the famous Marfa lights. I said yes, we intend to do that tonight. He said they were quite a sight, but he warned me not to get caught out there after midnight: bad things happen in the desert.
He said he got caught out there after midnight about thirty years ago after his truck broke down. He decided to walk to town since he was close enough to see the glow of town lights, and that’s when a large pack of mongrels set upon him. He asked me if I had ever wondered why the desert was called the Chihuahuan Desert. I had no idea, so he explained. After the atomic bomb was built, the Army needed a place to dump the nuclear waste, so they chose a spot way out there, stashed some drums of goop, and left them to the elements. Over in Mexico, a fella was breeding Chihuahua dogs, and two of them got lost in the desert; of course, they found the nuclear waste site and lapped up some of the contaminated oozes, which did some crazy things to their DNA. Doing what dogs do, they had some pups, and then the pups met up with some Coyotes and had some more pups. The dogs kept on breeding until there were three or four thousand of the critters, except they weren’t regular dogs. They were all muscled up with shark-like teeth, and some had a fifth leg that allowed them to run like a greyhound dog. The mutts were still small, like a Chihuahua, but they were mutants and mean as hell. That’s how I lost my leg. A pack of them set upon me out there in the dark. I was trying to run, dragging some of them that had hold of my dungeree’s and then they started chewing my right leg. Since they were small, they could only reach up to my knee, and that’s where they stopped eating on me. A highway patrol came along and shot a few of the stragglers and took me to the hospital over in Presidio, where the doctor amputated what was left. That’s why I have the peg leg, and they are the reason it’s called the Chihuahuan Desert. The story alone made the trip a success.
I wrote this story in 2012 after a visit to Threadgill’s on Barton Springs Road. During the Armadillo Headquarters days, I often went in and out of Austin and knew many of the musicians responsible for its progressive music scene. No one can remember who, what, or how it started, so why not make it an Armadillo?
A. Dillo influenced a generation of Texas musicians and tunesmiths. On a scorching Saturday in September 1970, a group of dazed and confused hippies found this precocious little Armadillo digging for grubs on the lawn of the state capitol. They were lounging on the grass, sunning themselves, drinking Lone Star beer, and smoking pot, recuperating from a busy week of doing absolutely nothing, which was what they did best.
He was a sad Armadillo, lost and searching for his family unit after being separated from them in Zilker Park a few days earlier during a vicious thunderstorm and a frog-floating flood. A happy reunion was not to be. His mother and father were tits-up on Congress, and his siblings had been lunch for a pack of wild dogs. He was an orphan.
The dazed but kindly hippies were drawn to the friendly little tank. They took him back to their pad just off Congress and raised him as one of their own. He was christened A. Dillo.
One of the more studious hippie chicks in the house was majoring in animal behavior and journalism at the University of Texas and saw a spark of something in the wee critter. Wading into uncharted territory, the twinkle in his tiny red eyes caused the two of them to connect magically. After a few weeks of sputtering starts and misses, she was soon tutoring the ardent little critter in reading and writing.
Within six months, A. Dillo had mastered penmanship and was writing prose. Within a year, he wrote short stories and speeches for the university’s professors and a host of prolific student protesters who hung around the house.
He experimented with strange illicit substances and began hanging out with artist types and deep thinkers, writing about current events, political science, theology, and music with the best of them. He was, in a sense, humanized.
A. Dillo’s popularity grew, and he was invited to give readings of his work at weekend hootenannies, parties, and student gatherings. He was the critter version of Alan Ginsburg.
Being an Armadillo, he had no clothing, only his armored shell, so he employed an artist friend to decorate his tough covering to resemble a fashionable tie-dye t-shirt. He then wore round rose-colored sunglasses and various pins and peace symbols. He was beyond incredibly cool and a perfect fit for Austin. A problem arose within the house. A few of his adopted Bohemian family members harbored a bone of jealousy. Though quietly envious of the little fellow, they accused him of selling out to “the man.” Perplexed and hurt, he asked his tutor who this “man” he sold out to was. She shushed him, explaining it was anyone who did anything better than themselves.
The bad vibes from his former adoring family were a downer, so unable to create and win back their adoration, he packed his few belongings in a Piggly Wiggly grocery bag and returned to Barton Springs and Zilker Park for peace and tranquility among the Oak trees and dancing waters.
While shuffling down Barton Springs Road, he happened upon a recently opened venue called The Armadillo World Headquarters. Delighted to find a place that openly celebrated his kind, he scurried through a hole in the fence and took up residence beneath the beer garden stage, enjoying the clamorous musical atmosphere and the continual supply of spilled Lone Star beer that flowed through the cracks of the wood floor.
A group of guitar-picking musicians who frequented the club’s beer garden befriended A.Dillo, and soon, he was anointed as the “official mascot” of the headquarters. He was cool again but didn’t understand this new scene where long-haired Hippie types wore cowboy hats and listened to country music. He kept copious notes, sensing that a reversal of attitudes was happening. Cowboys and Hippies learning to fraternize in a peaceful manner.
The little poet was inspired by his energizing surroundings and began putting his thoughts and prose to paper. In a moment of trusting innocence, he exposed his talent and shared his library of work with a few of the beer garden musicians, hoping for a morsel of recognition.
The coterie of musicians was so impressed with his talent that, without asking permission, they confiscated his poems and lyrics and made them their own. That this library of written work came from an Armadillo seemed utterly reasonable. After all, it was Austin in the early 70s, and it’s a well-documented fact that if you remember that time, you weren’t really there.
Within a few months, the musicians and wailers at the headquarters were singing songs about Austin and everything Texas. A handful of local artists were drawing A. Dillo’s likeness on their concert posters to promote the rapidly changing musical landscape. The times were a-changing.
Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings took up residence at the headquarters and became the shaggy royal ambassadors of Austin music. It was a heady time for Texas music.
A. Dillo was heartbroken. He had been bamboozled by the “love your brother and sister” preaching musicians, who were scoundrels, thieves, and false profits. His trust had been violated. The soaring soliloquies, his enlightening prose, his ramblings about Texas, all stolen and plagiarized with no hope of recovery. One cruel musician blatantly took his favorite poem and made a song about “Going Home With The Armadillo.” That was the deepest cut of all. He was a broken critter. ” Oh, the pain of it all,” he wailed.
He soon left the headquarters, again packing his Piggly Wiggly bag and stealing away into the night.
A. Dillo returned to his home burrow in Zilker Park. He reconnected with the inhabitants, giving nightly readings of his new poetry to an enthusiastic and adoring crowd. He was elevated to Homeric status among the park’s animal population, and his name was known to all creatures. He was at peace with himself and his life.
A. Dillo was the unappreciated spark of inspiration for Austin’s progressive music scene of the 1970s. Without his influence and the spread of his stolen words, tunesmiths, musicians, and vocalist all over Austin would still be writing and singing those dreary Three-chord hillbilly songs or tripping out to psychedelic brain fuzz. Jerry Jeff, Willie, Waylon, and the boys would have needed to seek inspiration elsewhere, and the city would not have evolved into Austin as we know it today.
Tall tales have it that some years later, on a stormy night similar to the one that started his journey, A. Dillo was hit by a vehicle while attempting to cross Barton Springs Road.
An elderly lady living in the Shady Grove trailer park scooped up his remains and fed them to her two Chihuahuas. She used the decorated shell as a planter, adorning the steps of her Air-Stream trailer.
The small shell’s bright colors faded over time and sat on the steps of that old trailer for decades. Couples with gray hair walking to one of the many restaurants on the street, grandchildren and dogs in tow, would sometimes notice the shell full of colorful flowers and pause to take a photo. Austinites who had known the little poet or knew the legend would approach the unassuming shrine and pay homage, explaining to their grandchildren the true story of the “real father” of Austin music.
It’s already started in a mere 24 hours. Poor OJ Simpson, the maligned ex-football player who couldn’t keep a large knife out of his hands, is being turned into a 20 over-par saint. He only wanted to ” have some fun,” as Sheryl Crow warbled. Considering the crime he committed and the families he destroyed, it’s a surprise he lasted this long without some do-gooder taking his sorry butt out. If there is payback from God, I hope he is getting a double dose of it now. Of course, all the high school and elementary kids who jumped and cheered when he was found innocent are now middle-aged adults or older, so I wonder if they still idolize a murderer? It might be interesting to hear from a few of them. My late father was dying from brain cancer during the OJ show trial. He told me that OJ would get off on the race card, and sure as hell, he was right. The trial gave my pop something to watch and focus on, so I thank the Hollywood judge and the defense lawyers for that much.
Breaking News: Iran is going to attack Israel within two days as retaliation for killing one of their top terrorist thugs. Those turbine-wearing imbeciles don’t get it. The people of Isreal are God’s chosen people, and anyone who comes against them will suffer God’s wrath. Did it ever occur for the Ayatolla to read a Bible? Best of luck to Iran if they think they can pull this one off without a major butt-kicking. Iran will likely wait until Saturday to move; that way, our Sniffer in Chief will be on vacation and whacked out on heavy meds. We should be worried that “Not A Doctor” Jill might have the keys to the red button while her mixed green salad for brains hubby is sleeping.
Poor Congress: still putting on their fake push and shove to convince us that both sides are working for the peons, which would be us’ins. The speaker will cave, as he always does. Neither side wants to give up their insider trading: ” What am I supposed to live on when I leave…Social Security? Can’t you hear them squealing right now? It’s a good ole boy’s private club, and we are not invited.
One final note: Momo is going, by bus, with a large contingent of women from our church and hundreds, if not millions of other churches in Texas, to our state capitol in Austin on Saturday. The planned peaceful protest is to let Gov. Abbott know that the schools, the woke teachers’ union, and DEI cannot have our children’s souls without a fight. Besides getting to stomp and yell for a few hours, the bus is stopping at Bucee’s for a potty break and lunch. I can see it now; An Ozsarka bottled water and a bathroom break will cost me $ 50.00. She hasn’t said if signs, pitchforks, or torches will be involved, but knowing her, there may be. Those green-haired fishing tackle-faced, Birkenstock-wearing, Mao-worshiping, booger-eating, pimple-faced, Starbucks-drinking students at UT haven’t had the pleasure of getting their skinny jeaned-wearing rears kicked by a bunch of senior citizen women wearing heavy orthopedic shoes with steel toes. I have a large stash of cash in case I need to drive to Austin to post bail. My apologies to Coach Darrell Royal; may he rest in peace. God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.
Our illustrious president, ‘ol’e shuffling Joe,’ made a surprise secret squirrel visit to Ukraine by plane, first in the dead of night, then taking the Orient Express to Kyiv. It’s unknown why he chose to visit the war- engulfed country. Political speculators on both sides of the aisle of crooks suspect he will ship another C130 cargo plane full of taxpayer dollar bills to rebuild every demolished structure in the country. Zelensky is so excited he is dancing the Ukranian “spring maiden shuffle” as he saunters alongside our demented leader. Back in Moscow, Puti-Putte is getting ready to ramp things up; maybe send in a missile or two to scare ol’e Joe and Ukrains favorite funny man, Zelensky.
Meanwhile, back home in “our country,” Mayor Butterboy and his crew have yet to make it to East Palestine, Ohio, to witness the eco-tragedy caused by the derailing of multiple freight cars full of toxic chemicals. FEMA and the “suddenly uninterested” EPA, the guys that think every puddle of rainwater and stock tank belongs to them, says the town is “on your own; We must in all haste now go to Africa for a 7-day conference on why the constantly poor Africans have no food, water, or money.” A good rock to look under for spiders and snakes would be those countries’ leaders who take the money the US gives them and live like king Faruk or a Saudi Prince. We can assume that as soon as Mayor Butterboy pumps enough breast milk for his kids to survive for a few days, he will do a “drive-by” on his new mountain bike and then release his standard word salad statement full of wilted contents and no meat. Wildlife and domestic animals are dying, creeks and soil are ruined, groundwater will be affected, and humans are getting sick. “Nothing to see here, folks; move along, please.” Why isn’t good old NBC Lester Holt reporting from the scene with his sleeves rolled up and a shovel in his hand; wrong kind of tragedy, the wrong state, a conservative town, and low-income country folk; not his bag. He’s also sure that no soul in that town watches his newscast. Former President Trump will visit the town on Wednesday. Not certain what he can or will do, but at least the man is doing what a president should in a crisis.
Those pesky young liberal college and high school students in Austin are at it again. Street racing, rioting in a mass gathering of youngsters throwing things that explode at Police cars, and breaking into and destroying a private home for a ‘mansion party. Fellow Texans, these are young high school, mostly white kids doing this, not Black Lives Matter hoodlums running through the streets of Portland. We should ask ourselves, “what in the hell has happened to the young people of our country?” Social Media, bad parenting, and liberal schooling take a large piece of this society’s poison pie. The “everybody gets a trophy” generation grew up and became these little devils. I never cared much for Austin, not even in my long-haired fake hippie days. Since my once favorite magazine, Texas Monthly, has gone to hell in a wokie handbasket,’ I don’t see myself ever visiting that crime-ridden forsaken city again. I know folks that live there and wonder why they stay? It’s not the Austin I knew in the 70s. Maybe because they can swim topless in Barton Springs during the summer or attend the SXSW music festival and smoke a lot of righteous weed.
In honor of Texas Independence Day and the fall of The Alamo, I am bringing this post back to life. If I had a recent picture of myself in a Stetson or a nice straw hat, I would include it, but sadly, this picture is it. I don’t take selfies, only a few since the invention of such a silly thing. I looked for my coonskin Davy Crockett cap, which would have added to the story, but I believe my mother tossed it sometime in my twenties. God Bless Texas.
I am, and always will be, a stubborn, self-righteous, braggart, and proud son of Texas. If there was a lodge called ” Sons of The Alamo,” I would be a member. I bleed red, white, and blue with a lone big star. My battle flag is the ” Come And Take It,” from the skirmish with the Mexican army in Gonzalez, Texas, that sparked the Texas Revolution.
In my dreams, I carried Davy Crockett’s old Betsy from Tennessee and sharpened Jim Bowie’s knife so slick he could shave with it. I helped Colonel Travis write his famous pleading letter for more troops to defend the Alamo, and I was with the defenders on the narrow pulpits of that old fort when it fell after thirteen days of defiance. I fanned the horse flies away from a wounded Sam Houston as he lay underneath a shade tree along the banks of a bend in a creek called Texas on the Brazos. I was with the Texian army as they rousted and defeated General Santa Anna’s troops on the battlefield of San Jacinto.
I sat on the commander’s deck with Texan Admiral Chester Nimitz during the battle of the Coral Sea as the Japs relentlessly attacked our armada. I rode with the Texas Rangers as they fought the Comanches and Pancho Villa. I was but a boy with a dog-eared history book, but in my dreams, I was a part of the glorious history of my home state. I will always be eternally grateful for being born a son of Texas.
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.”
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.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 