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Getting The Skinny…

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

Gravy The Clone Dog

I dropped by Whataburger a few mornings back for a Taquito and O.J. I’m still not comfortable calling frozen orange juice OJ, considering what Simpson did, but sometimes I still do.

Sitting in his usual booth was Mooch, with Gravy, the clone Chiuauia of Giblet, strapped to his chest in the child carrier. There was an order of biscuits and gravy sitting in front of him with one bite missing. Gravy the dog had a bit of gravy on his little chin, and Mooch looked like he had lost his prized hog. He also appeared to have lost weight. I sat down with my aromatic Taquito and asked why he wasn’t eating. The smell of fresh eggs, sausage and a lucious tortilla wafting around us as if we were in a five star resturant. Gravy stared intently at the tatar tots.

” He says, Mrs. Mooch put me on those GPL-1 drugs, and I don’t have an appetite anymore, for nuthin. They’re gummies and taste real good, so Gravy likes them too, and now he’s not eating, and we’re both looking like Oprah, all skinny and bony.” I will admit, the dog looked worse, bulging eyes, that Ozempic face, and Mooch looked like he had been vacationing at Dachau.

” That clone cat, Here Kitty Kitty, is so skinny she crawled into a Dr Pepper bottle, and I had to call the fire department to get her out. I’ll tell you, we are wasting away here. My wife says she is going to audition for Taylor Sheridan’s new show, and has to have that Hollywood Ozempic look to get a part: the only part she could get now would be a corpse.”

He’s right, everyone in Hollywood looks about to die at any moment, and they are shooting themselves up and gobbling those pills as fast as they can get them from CVS or their favorite pharmady in Tijuana.

I wanted to be sympathetic with him, but my Taquito tasted too darn good, so I gobbled away as he drooled and tears ran down his cheeks. The dog passed out.

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Ask A Texan: Did Cylasporia Get Put Into Our Food Chain by A Pissed Off Dr. Fauci or Did The Terrorist Do it?

/ Phil Strawn / 6 Comments

Did Fauci Put This Crap On Our Lettuce For Revenge?

A Mister Tom T. Soreass, from Wormdance, Michigan, wrote to me on a Walmart receipt that he and his whole family have come down with explosive diarrhea and the Cyclospoia bug from eating sprouts and iceberg lettuce from the local Walmart. We have it here in Texas too, but we drink whiskey and beer, and it helps kill the buggers.

Tom T. Mr. Texan, you have got to help me here. The family ate our salads the other night from Walmart, the kind they put in cute little clear plastic cartons that cut you to pieces when you try to open them, with a pouch of surprise dressing, and now we are crapping all over our once-nice-smelling home. Lucy, my wife, has about three hundred candles and incense burning, and the plumber has been called twice to unclog the toilets, but I never knew kids had so much crap in them. My kids could fertilize a farm in Somalia with the amount of human waste exiting from their sore little behinds. Lucy and I are suffering as well, as are the hounds, the chickens, the hamsters, and both cats. Our doctor gave us some pills but they don’t do a darn thing, were dying here, third house in the cul-de-sac, with what was once a nice yard. Our neighbors are no help; they don’t want to catch it from us. I think that little rich-assed turnd, Doctor Fauci, or the Rag Head Terrorist in Iran put all this stuff in our food chain. Help!

The Texan: Mr. Tom, I feel your pain. I had a touch of it a few weeks back from a Taco at Taco Bell. I lost ten pounds in two days, but at least my clothes fit better. Mexico uses human waste as fertilizer, and it’s possible that Fauci could have organized a clandestine attack via the hundreds of little secret squirrel labs he has all over the place, and yes, a Rag Head Terrorist could have also put it there, but it’s likely the unhygienic growing practices of the farms in Mexico that are the root problem. I’m sending you a case of that pink stuff and some cherry bombs to keep you occupied while you’re in the bathroom. Did you know a cherry bomb can blow up a bathtub? Fill it with water, light the bomb, and toss it in. It cleans the whole bathroom in a few milliseconds. Add Listerine to the bath water for smell and disinfectant. Dig some holes in the backyard for the kids and show them how we used to do it. They have their phones, so they’ll be ok. Keep in touch, The Texan.

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Just So You Know…

/ Phil Strawn / 5 Comments

A Few Things I Did This Week That Make Sense To Me

The Texan before I gave up smoking

I deleted my Substack account. I found out that being contacted by people I don’t know with idiotic, maniacal rants from people on a keyboard that I would ever care to know outside of social media is not for me. It was supposed to be a site for serious writers to submit their short stories or articles, but it is really X, Bluesky, and Facebook hidden in a different format. Political hate, pure hate, impure hate, giddy hate, ignorant hate, and liberal white woman hate against us white guys who write are the worst kinds that I have found in my research. Socialism, communism, LGBTQ+ism, Muslimism, you name it, they are all there. So adios MF. Get a damn job and stop posting filtered or fake selfies of yourselves in fake places made with AI. No one under thirty years old has any real friends anymore; everyone they know is an AI-generated figure on their phone.

For now, I will keep my Notes From The Cactus Patch on Facebook because it publishes there automatically, and many of my old high school friends and the few family members who still speak to me follow it. I may or may not keep X; it does the same, but damn, people are flat-out Street Rat-crazy and evil on that platform. WordPress is where I will stay, even with all of its faults and liberal happiness engineers, who are a bunch of folks in India sitting at a keyboard figuring out a way to steal your identity and sell it to the Dark Web. I know, it happened to both Momo and me. We now have a service that watches and catches everything, and it is not Lifelock, but much better: meaner, with actual humans named Guido and Luiggi who will go to their home basement and break bones, or worse. The owner of the service is related to the lateTony Saprano.

Did anyone pay attention to the defeat of most of the Democratic Socialist Party candidates? Most of them got their pansy ignorant commie butts handed to them in a Red Mao grocery bag. And now, that smiling-Commie Rat Bastard Mayor in New York City wants his favorite goat, excuse me, I mean his wife, to have a security team the size of President Trumps when she visits her homeland of whatever the hell it is over there in Muslim land. They had better pack extra hay and oats for her meals. Within a few months, that demon has turned one of our great cities into a third-world shit-hole equal to Mexico or Somalia, and the entire state of Michigan is lost: might as well nuke the state and be done with it. There, now I feel better. Have a good day, and God Bless Texas and the Alamo. I wish Paul Harvey were still around.

The Texan

Say It Ain’t So, Billy Joe…An Ode To Rock Music And Bobbi Gentry

/ Phil Strawn / 36 Comments

After a few months of rehearsals and gigs with our new members, Danny and Marshall, Alice, our manager, announced that she had arranged an audition for a female singer for the band. No consulting the boys on this one; it was full ahead. Alice had good ideas, so we rolled with them. She thought some familiarity would add depth and make us more audience-friendly, since we were a bunch of surly young men with longish hair and the attitude to accompany our looks.

She knew someone who had a neighbor who knew another neighbor of a family who lived next door to a lady who attended church with a woman who had a daughter who sang in the choir at school and did solos at church, so Alice, one step ahead of us, escorted her into the practice room and announced, ” Boys, this is Miss Janelle.”

In walks this teenage girl with a full-grown woman’s head of long hair piled up in a big bump on top, then falling down past her shoulders. She was a dead ringer for Bobbie Gentry. But could she sing?

A TV dinner tray sat by Marshall’s organ, used for drinks and lyric sheets, so the auditioning singer pulled from a Coppertone beach bag a few record albums, a book of lyrics, a TAB cola, and a framed 8×10 autographed photo of Bobbie Gentry. Now we knew why she looked so much like Bobbie Gentry…she dug the gal.

Danny asked Miss Janelle what songs she knew. ”

Do ya’ll know any Dusty Springfield, Petula Clark, Diana Ross, LuLu, Sonny and Cher, Marianne Faithfull, April and the Flowers, Dione Warwick, Lesli Gore, Ronnie Spector?” she asked.

Danny said, “Nope, we are a rock band, not the Ed Sullivan Show.

That kind of busted her bubble a little bit. “Well,” she says, ” How bout some Bobbie Gentry? I just love her, and she is my favorite singer in my whole life.” We had already figured that out from the picture and the hair-du.

Our inquisitive drummer, Barry, interrupted her: “Isn’t that the song where she and the boyfriend throw a baby child off a bridge into the muddy river?”

Miss Janelle whirled around and yelled, ” No, moron, she didn’t throw no itty-bitty-baby off a bridge; it was a bouquet of Mississippi wildflowers to solidify her big love for her man Billy Joe Macallister, but then he got caught dating his auntie’s pet sheep, causing him to jump off the old bridge into the muddy Tallachee River. Bobbie sent me a letter, along with this picture, explaining the whole song, but I promised to keep it a secret. We’re friends, you know.”

She thinks hard for a minute, then says, ” The only Rock-N-Roll song I know is Gracie Slick’s Somebody To Love. Ya’ll know that one?” We sort of knew it, so we gave it a go.

The lass let loose and was jumping around like Tina Turner, hair flying everywhere, strutting and shimmying, doing the Bug-a-loo, the Monkey, the Watusi, and a few others while singing. When we ended the tune, Marshall, our organ player, was staring her down with those big pansy-boy watery Puss-N-Boots eyes. He clearly had a severe case of the “Hubba Hubba’s” for this gal. Danny told us that this happens about once a week, and he will be alright once he gets home and eats his mama’s hot supper. Alice announces she is marvelous and is now part of the band. Okey-dokey.

At the next rehearsal, Miss Janelle comes in with red eyes and mascara trails down her cheeks. All sniffily and weepy, she says, ” My boyfriend said I can’t sing with a bunch of degenerate rock musicians. We are in love, big-time, and I must quit the band now.” Still in the grip of the Hubbas-Hubbas, Marshall puts a consoling arm around her shoulders and tells her, “It can’t be all that bad.”

She barks at him, ” Shut up, Moon Doggy….It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.”

And with that, she packed her Coppertone beach bag with her albums, lyrics book, TAB cola, and the autographed picture of Bobbie Gentry and left, leaving the air heavy with teenage perfume, hair spray, and juicy fruit gum. Then…..More to come in my series.

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So You Want To Be A Rock N Roll Star? 1966-67 – Part 2

/ Phil Strawn / 15 Comments
“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 who would part with it for $10.00. 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 by shuffling them around and changing singers and keys. Our first gig was at the Harrington Park Swimming Pool, Plano, Texas, in the early summer of 1965.

The Dolphins: left to right: Jarry Boy Davis, Warren Whitworth, Ron Miller, Jay-Roe-Nelson, Phil Strawn

Guitar tuners hadn’t been invented yet, so we used a pitch pipe and got as close as possible to A440, and apparently it wasn’t close enough; we sounded like hammered Raccoon 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. 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, even though our contract stipulated 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 a red dot on his forehead, and had two high school girls follow him around town, wearing white robes and 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. 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 from high school kids, but spent it all 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 hairspray 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, 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 Friday and Saturday nights free for two years, and even less free time in the summer, when 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 its Christmas party, but with no band. It didn’t take long before the airline parties 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 bar top, 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.

More to come in Part 3

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Ohhh, The Hot Mess We’re In

/ Phil Strawn / 14 Comments

Here in Texas, we have a pickup truck full of local sayings and down-home descriptions, and one of our favorites that covers most of our female-induced situations is called ” A Hot Mess.” Sounds sort of like a hormonal-induced biography of Marilyn Monroe’s or Elizabeth Taylor’s life. What it really means is everything is “FUBAR,” another good one that came out of WWII. My father wouldn’t tell me the real meaning until I was a teenager. F…. Up Beyond Any Repair, you get the drift. All of us kids used it, because all of our fathers served in WWII. We heard it daily.

I can clearly hear those angelic acidic voices of my mother and grandmother talking about an unruly cousin (usually Cookie) or an aunt or uncle, or a neighbor being a “hot mess,” or a situation that is out of their control, which was usually me.

I wasn’t a bad kid; like Sinatra, I did things my way and paid for it in the usual way: a Tupperware, 9″ x 12″ hard plastic cake storage container to the butt. I still have a faint Tupperware emblem scar embedded in my left buttock, a free lifelong birthmark compliments of my sainted mother with the arm strength of an NBL pitcher. Then, to make matters worse, she put my birthday cake in the same container, and I had to suffer the humility of blowing out those candles of that lovely cake sitting atop that cruel instrument of punishment. Dr. Johnson, my pediatric MD, would always ask me about that scar when giving me my monthly penicillin shot in the butt for whatever ailed me. It was a fairly new drug back then, so you got a shot for everything. He would say, “Well, at least she made you a cake.” He was an old Army doctor and smoked unfiltered Camels while he examined me. I think he died young while mowing his lawn.

If I’m seeing things right, this country is in a “hot mess.” We got ragheads with missles and exploding drones blowing up large oil filled ships sitting in bean bag chairs working their Gameboy controllers, I-ugh-atolla’s killing all the young folks that want a normal life, crazy ass socialist trying to take over our governement, and are succeeding, a smiling sleezy-assed commie mayor of New York trying to turn one of our greatest cities into a third-world shithole, a million Somali’s ripping off us taxpayers and driving around in Lamborginis and Porsches, Lake Wobegon has gone to hell, and all the strong women and good looking men and above average children have left and moved to Texas and Florida, even old Garrison split for New York and is now trying to escape from Madison Ave to somewhrere where he can go for a walk without hearing a call to prayer five times a day on a sound system bigger than Lynard Skynner’s. I’m telling you folks, we are in a “Hot Mess.” One thing about Texas is, we all have guns, ammo, lots of coldbeer and pork rinds, HEB frozen pizzas, and we are pissed off most of the time because it’s so hot, so the “Hot Mess” the rest of the world is in doesn’t faze us that much. Governor Abbott already issued hunting tags for all the terrorists we want to shoot; limits don’t apply, and the taxidermy mounting fee is fifty percent off.

Don’t get me wrong, we still have a “hot mess” down here, but ours isn’t as bad as it is where you are. So, if it gets unbearable in your hometown, come on down to Texas; we’ll watch out for ya.

“

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Don’t Ask The Addled Texan Floating On The Lone Prairie

/ Phil Strawn / 18 Comments
This picture is only partially AI-generated. Me, the hair, the hat, the background, and the Mandolin are real; the suit is taken from Porter Waggoner. I hate AI.

Being a native Texan is a damn challenge, and not every one of us can pull it off without a series of small nervous breakdowns, panic attacks, and, of course, a few bottles of coldbeer (it’s considered a form of cultural blasphemy to pronounce it as two words in Texas). So, we tend to meld our words into one; it makes it easier to speak without sounding like a high roller walking around in high cotton. We do have our own language down here in the Lone Star State.

I consider writing my job now, perhaps my trade. So far, I’ve not made a nickel for any of my literature, possibly because it’s about Texas, my childhood, country music, and all the characters I’ve met along my journey on the lone prairie. There is a book of short stories in the works, but an addled mind has a problem picking out twenty of the four hundred I’ve written over the decades.

Gardening was a passion for a while; I became a master gardener and imagined my landscape to equal George Harrison’s Friar Park or Martha Stewart’s backyard. It’s too hot in this part of Texas to keep anything alive, so all of my plants are expiring, begging for me to put them out of their misery. I had a small service for two purple Salvias this morning, and last night, I saw another Rat at our bird feeder. Momo would cook for the little Avians every morning if I didn’t stop her.

Music would be my other pursuit of happiness. Still, I mostley play with our church band, which is primaraly worship songs: ain’t no Amie, The Weight, or Like A Rolling Stone getting played in the sanctuarary, even though we have the intrumentation to pull it off, and some of the musicians actually can play that type of music, mostley myself since I am the oldest old codger on stage and the rest of the bunch is in their 40s, and that leaves me as the “old relic from another era, the Woodstock generation, that played Hendrix and The Band, and tried to change the world, but failed miserably and had to go back home with our collective tails between our legs. Our parents laughed, “See, you stupid ass, we told you so.” They were half-right.

My main interest now is Mandolin: bluegrass, jazz, country, the music played by Ricky Skaggs, Sierra Hull, Mike Marshall, Sam Bush, Molly Tuttle, and Billy Strings, and of course Bill Monroe.

When I was a wee child, maybe five, my father brought home a tater-bug mandolin, likely given to him by a musician friend. I learned four or five two-finger chords, and then grew bored with the instrument: Cartoons were more interesting. My father was a professional country fiddle player, so he should have whooped my butt and made me stick with it, but my mother intervened. One musician in the home was more than enough. Now, that I’m older and bored with the guitar I’ve been playing since the age of twelve, I’ve gone back to the Mandolin and fiddle. I’m much too far down that rabbit hole to stop, and Momo, my wife, says it’s the only thing, except a trunk full of medications, keeping me alive: she is always right. If I stopped playing, within twenty-four hours I would assume room temperature and the paramedics would have to bag me and haul me away. So, I keep playing and writing. It’s a vicious circle, one that I created for myself. There is no escape, and I can’t take it with me when I go, and neither can any of you reading this. Everything stays here except your new suit and no shoes.

We are taking a road trip to Mount Rushmore in September, and I hope that seeing those big faces, Custer’s Last Stand, and maybe Yellowstone will revive us and add a few more years on our punch card. I plan to watch Not by Northwest before we go, so I can see how I could climb on Teddy Roosevelt’s nose and not fall off. I also have plans to run with the Bison, which is the newest form of self-destructive dopamine hits that old folks do these days. I’ve always wanted to pet a Buffalo, or a wolf, so this will be my chance.

I’m no travel writer or influencer, so don’t expect anything spectacular or even interesting when we return. I may do a Podcast full of rants, but that would be it. God Bless the Alamo and Texas.

The Texan

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Scratch A Little To The Left

/ Phil Strawn / 8 Comments

I ran into old buddy Mooch at Whataburger a week back. I was waiting on my Number 1 meal, large fries, and Dr Pepper when he walked in with his little cloned Chihuahua, Gravy, attached to his chest via a baby papoose holder. Giblet, the original mean-as-hell Chihuahua, finally bit the dust, and he had him cloned, as well as his wife’s cat, Here Kitty, which is now the clone cat called Here Kitty Kitty. You have to live in Texas to understand the way we think down here.

Mooch looked pretty good, even though his overalls still had the same Ketchup stains as they did last year. What I did notice was that his fingernails were perfect and he was wearing an expensive Rolex watch. What the hell? Mooch has always been poor as a hobo with no train to ride, so this was perplexing. I knew better to ask but it had to be done.

I spit it out, ” Mooch, where did the Rolex watch and the fingernails come from, did you win the Texas two step or sell a body part?”

No, little buddy, he says, ” Me and the missus started us a nail and back scratching salon over by the old McDonald’s. She got a bunch of these little Vietnamese girls to do the nails, and with those long nails, they also do back scratching while you’re having your nails done. Feels real good, and they finally got that one spot that’s been itching for years; turns out it was a big old blackhead, and that little gal dug it right out with that sharp little fingernail. Now we’re rolling in the dough. Miss Mooch got her a new Kia, and I got a new bass boat and a pickup. Lunch is on me today.” I appreciated that; I usually pay, and that damn dog bites me. Gravy is more mild-mannered than the long-dead little demon dog, Giblet.

I will admit, I have some scratchy spots on my back, and Momo scratches me like a mongrel dog once in a while, so I said I’ll stop by for a manicure and some scratching. Every man needs a good back scratching once in a while by a little dragon lady with talons.

Happy trials, God bless the Alamo, and I’ll catch on down the line.

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The Boy Who Became Sweet Baby Jesus

/ Phil Strawn / 19 Comments


The year was 1955, and at six years old, by my grandmother’s observation, I was a heathen child, almost feral. Being raised in the big city of Fort Worth on a steady diet of television featuring Popeye, Bugs Bunny, and the Three Stooges, I was living in a religious void. I saw the “good book” as a large decoration on the dining room table and read it at Christmas, Easter, and family funerals. Recently, I had been attending a few services at the Poly First Baptist Church with my parents. Still, the preacher, with his over-animated, stage-stomping Hell-and-Damnation rants, scared me more than The Mummy and Frankenstein combined. I was wishing for a fatal disease to strike so I would be bedridden and couldn’t attend.


I had been visiting the farm for six weeks, from June into July, and it was my first time away from my parents. The farmhouse had no television, only a radio. By the third day of no cartoons, I had the shakes and a low-grade fever. I did bring my Red Ryder BB gun and enough ammo for a summer’s worth of popping some of my grandmother’s five hundred chickens: the BBs bounced off their thick feathers, so none were harmed. Other than throwing dirt clods at Rattle Snakes, it was all the entertainment I could muster. Granny was a wise Cherokee, medical Shaman, and self-proclaimed Texas Biblical scholar, and she felt a week at the Baptist Church Vacation Bible School would fix me up and assure my acceptance into Heaven. I had no idea where Heaven was or when I would be required to visit, so I trusted my Granny would make my reservations.


Miss Ida Belle Mae and her younger sister, Rita Rose Mae, are the self-appointed teachers of our Bible school class of 25 children, ages 6 to 10.
Homely as a sack of poultry feed, the two are old maids and prolific spinsters rumored to survive on a tidy income from a single pumping oil well on their farm. It has been a long-standing gambling bet at the Domino Parlor that that gasping little well will give it up. To date, no one has won the wager.
When the holidays come around, the two sisters are rumored to donate a substantial sum to the church. To appease the ladies and keep the money flowing, the kind but timid preacher is forced to let them do what they please. Their pleasure this summer will be teaching Bible school. The preacher will regret this decision.


On the first day of Bible School, our class cut, pasted, and signed 270 prayer cards for the sick and unfortunate children in Africa; quite a feat for 25 kids. Most of us were injured and bleeding from paper cuts and glue poisoning from licking the envelopes. My tongue swelled up the size of a buttery biscuit. The kid beside me glued his lips shut, and Miss Ida had to pry them open with a spoon and a douse of grape Kool-Aid.


Miss Ida sent us outside to lounge under the trees and recover from our stint on her assembly line. There is no recovery; it’s 96 degrees and not a rustle of a breeze, but it’s better than forced child labor.


A black Cadillac sedan stops in front of the church, and an older lady escorts a boy of maybe nine or ten into the main building. The kid wears a black suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. We assume he is here for a funeral or a baptism, but don’t care because it’s too hot to move or think. Miss Ida rings the lunch bell. Yummy peanut butter, grape jelly sandwiches, and lukewarm Kool-Aid await—the usual menu for Bible school attendees.
After we are seated, Miss Ida brings the suited boy to the front of the class. She is beaming like a schoolgirl attending her first prom In a giddy voice, she addresses us,


” Children, I would like to introduce Master Stewart Sweet. His daddy is the famous tent-preaching evangelist and faith healer from San Angelo, the Right and Honorable Doctor I.M. Sweet. Master Stewart will attend our Bible school and lead the children’s Bible study on Sundays for a few weeks. I can assure you that he is quite capable since he has read the Bible three times, all before he was six years of age, and preaches at his father’s tent revivals.” Miss Ida doesn’t know this kid’s back story, nor do we, but it will soon come to light.


As a class, in childish camaraderie, we are unimpressed and instantly dislike this brat. Will this kid, dressed as a department store dummy, preach to us about sin and saving our little souls? At our young age, the worst thing we could have done is tell a few small lies, steal a cookie, or shoot a chicken with a BB Gun. Hell and Damnation are years away for most of us.


Young Master Stewart steps from behind Miss Ida’s table and slams his ten-pound Bible down on the floor so hard it sounds like a firecracker. A few girls in front are shaken and begin to whimper.
The young preacher Stewart raises his hands to the Heavens and launches into a tirade that can only be considered appropriate for adults designated to luncheon with Beelzebub within the hour.


After ten minutes of our first fiery sermon, we are ready to wrap this kid in scotch tape and send him to Africa with the prayer card. Suddenly, he stops and begins to bless our food. He bows his head and, in a reverent whisper, says,


” Dear Lord, these children, wretched little hayseeds that they are, cannot survive on the butter of the Peter Pan and the mush of Welches. They need a substantial amount sustenance so they may be healthy to accept your holy spirit. Starting tomorrow, a glorious feast of grilled sausages wrapped in soft buns, the salad of the potato and the ruby-red fruit of the melon will be their manna from Heaven. Amen.”


Miss Ida is speechless. The little preacher kid has called her food “garbage,” and she has to sit there and take it. The class is now a bit impressed. This kid is good.
The sisters, rattled by Young Sweets’ blessing, need time to recover and devise a plan to send this kid back to San Angelo as soon as possible. So they send the class outside to suffer in the heat again.


Miss Rita delivers the ice cream freezer and instructs two larger boys to start churning for the afternoon dessert. Allowing us to have ice cream may be the only kindness these two witches grant us.


Twenty-five minutes into the churning, the ice cream remains a pitiful mush. Now impatient for their treat, the class gathers around the freezer, demanding an explanation. We are kids and know nothing about how these machines work. You add ice, salt, liquid, and chur. That’s all we know.


Young Stewart parts the crowd and approaches the ice cream freezer. He kneels and places both hands on the contraption. In a soft, almost inaudible voice, he says a small prayer and violently shakes the machine a few times. He rises and declares, “There shall be delectable ice cream in five minutes.” He is right. This ice cream might be the best we have tasted in our young lives. Little Master Stewart fixed the ice cream machine. A girl calls it a miracle.


After ice cream, Miss Ida calls the class for Bible study and a story. Her stories are known to last too long, and kids tend to lose interest and fall asleep. Her voice is that of an older man who smokes two packs of Camels daily — raspy and accentuated by the occasional hack.


Bitsy, the smallest and youngest girl in class, is seated at the front table and is in distress. The new kids in the class are unaware that she has an immobilizing speech defect. She stutters, and her vocabulary is limited to a simple yes or no. The little girl is wide-eyed and squirming in her chair.
Miss Ida knows her problem, and when Bitsy politely raises her hand to request a bathroom visit, Miss Ida insists that she must stand and ask aloud in front of the class. Of course, Bitsy, immobilized with fear and embarrassment, wets her pants. Miss Ida snickers and calls her a little baby child. We all knew these two sisters were mean, but now we know they are darn right evil.


Master Stewart comes from the rear of the class and stops in front of Bits. He turns and gives the two sisters a “stink-eye” that makes them fall back into their chairs, white with fear.
He bends down, takes Bitsy’s head in his tiny hands, and declares,

” Take this affliction from this small child. Purvey upon her the diction of William Shakespeare and the wisdom of Mark Twain. Let her words flow forth like the singing of Doves on the south wind. She will never again stammer or grasp for words and will someday speak to massive gatherings of people who will clamor to hear her message. Amen.”


The class sits in stunned silence. Healing the ice cream machine was a warm-up compared to this. A girl from the back of the room yells, “Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus.” And there it is: Young Stewart will now be known as Sweet Baby Jesus, or just Sweet Baby for short.


Miss Ida and Miss Rita sit rigidly in their chairs, eyes glazed and staring into nothing. The amount of “stink eye” Stewart, now known as Sweet Baby Jesus, put on them must be compelling.
He approaches the two women, lays his small, soft hands on their wrinkled, sweating foreheads, and mumbles a few words. His back is to the class, so we have no idea what is said. The two evil sisters shiver a few times and awaken from their “stink eye” trance. They stand, gather themselves, and tell the class they are going home. Master Stewart will teach for the duration of the Bible school. They depart the church as if in a zombie trance.


Sweet Baby Jesus takes his Bible, sits on the edge of Miss Idas’ desk, smiles, and says, “Now, let’s hear some real Bible stories straight from the source.” It was a beautiful afternoon full of unexpected laughter and acceptance. For once, we kids found that listening to the word of God from another kid made us feel good, sort of like hot oatmeal on Christmas morning.


The following day, the preacher greets us with the news that young Stewart is back in San Angelo and will teach the class for the remainder of Bible school. Of course, we were sad to see our new Sweet Baby Jesus depart our Bible school. Bitsy, in between constant talking, sniffles, and wishes him the best.
The class wrote a letter to Sweet Baby, thanking him for his kindness to Bitsy and for putting the evil sisters in their place.


I attended the vacation Bible school for a few more summers, but it wasn’t the same without Sweet Baby, and I attended my last one at eight years old.
A few decades later, I read that the Right and Honorable Reverend Stewart Sweet, with assistance from his wife, Bitsy, had established an enormous ministry in Africa and healed everything from Beri-Beri to auto engines.
It looks like Sweet Baby Jesus is still doing a great job.

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Chuking Rocks At Each Other

/ Phil Strawn / 8 Comments
Four boys playing and throwing rocks in a dirt alley with old houses and a fence
Four boys joyfully play a spirited rock-throwing game in a gritty urban alleyway.

When I was a child in the 1950s, one of our favorite forms of retaliation against our enemy, the small group of hoodlum kids we called the ‘hard guys,’ from across the tracks, was the infamous rock fight.

As kids, we didn’t possess the strength to propel a stone fast enough to kill an enemy, but they hurt, especially when one pops you on the forehead or the back of your flat top haircut-wearing head while retreating from the fracas.

We were all masters of rock chucking and knew which rocks were the best for throwing: the larger gray stones that lined the railroad tracks across the field from the back of our house. The railroad furnished us the perfect weapon for rock fights, just the right size and weight, and hard edges that would raise a welt on young tender skin.

Georgie, our neighborhood firebug and the biggest titty baby of our gang, took one rock to the nose and had to have stitches, so our parents, after a series of butt-whoopings, ended that form of warfare. We still had BB guns, so that replaced the rocks, but presented a greater danger of shooting one’s eye out, like the classic 1984 movie, ” A Christmas Story. Not a one of us, or our enemy, lost an eye, but those BBs did sting through our jeans and T-shirts.

That description of past juvenile antics brings me to this point: we, meaning the American public and families, are still chucking rocks at each other, not actual stones, but words and actions driven by, news paper articles, television news, social media platforms, and the newest form of ammunition is the smartphone text; they’re all the same, and they hurt more than a small rock to the head and sometimes the wound never heals.

Political and religious tribalism is the newest and the worst form of family alienation. I know firsthand, because I go through it daily, and so does my wife, Momo. Our children and a few fair-weather friends and relatives are liberal Democrats, and we are conservative Christians, so we are easy accessible targets for alienation from their La La land of beliefs and ideology. We are not pious Bible beaters, and, sure, we drink cocktails and wine and beer, and we were teenagers with long hair, rock band playing fools, and a bit wild back in the 1960s. We weren’t real Hippies, but more of a middle-class version that bathed every day and didn’t hang out with the Manson family. We didn’t care for the Vietnam War, but we darn sure didn’t burn buildings, assault the police and citizens, and cheer on socialism like the younguns of today do so freely without guilt.

My grandfather once told me that to get along with family, never talk politics or religion, and he was correct. My father’s extended family on his mother’s side all lived in Fort Worth, within a few blocks of each other. During summer cookouts, a few of them always got into rabid arguments over politics and sometimes religion. Most of them were good, hard-drinking, night club dancing Baptists, but a couple were Catholic, so it was bound to happen. Fists flew, beer bottles zipped by our heads, and uncles and cousins rolled in the grass until one gave up. But that was the end of the disagreement; it didn’t go past the backyard fun, at least not until the next get-together. I cringe at using the term ” back in the day, and the good old days, but that’s when we were civil to each other and didn’t alienate family and friends.

Today, it’s a different world that I don’t recognize. Indoctrination and tribalism go hand in hand. The political tribalism goes both ways; each party is its own, and you insert religion and lack of belief in God and Jesus into the encampments, and it becomes a toxic mix that has ruined many a family gathering and destroyed relationships.

Now, we have texting, which is the worst form of communication. I will admit we use it to communicate with our church’s music ministry, friends, and family. It’s so easy, so non-committing, so bland, so lacking in tonality and reality that a simple few phrases can be taken as an insult or call to arms. It also signals that ” I don’t want to have a real conversation because that requires actual interaction and brain power to think about what you are talking about.” Texting is the newest form of ignoring human interaction; it says I’m too busy to have a conversation or what you have to say is not worth my valuable time. Texting is here to stay unless Elon Musk invents a brain chip implant that lets us communicate our thoughts via Starlink.

I’m looking forward to that implant.