Tonight, I discovered that my pitching arm doesn’t work anymore. Listening to the debate, I couldn’t tell who deserved my ire. Trump could have done better, and Harris surely had the questions, possibly weeks in advance, so it wasn’t really a debate but a corrugated yuk-yuk party. I started scanning my den for objects to hurl at my flat screen. My Dallas Cowboys honorary brick would go through the set and possibly the wall, so that was out. Maybe a vinyl record album, but then I like them too much. A music CD, nope, I like them too. Maybe a sandal, nope, might ruin the footwear. So I threw an old Texas Highways magazine, and it bounced off: no power in my throwing arm anymore. Trump did bring up the Haitians eating people’s pets, which got a yuk from the moderators, but folks, that is true. I read that one Ohio grandmother watched a hungry Haitian eat her little Yorkie while she still held the leash. Haitians have a new dish, Kitty Tacos, which we’ve likely eaten before if you lived in Texas. I can’t take any more politics, so this will be my last post about the subject. Chapter 10 on Wagons Ho to California is about in the can, so stay tuned for that. May the force be with you…well, maybe not; Luke Skywalker likes Harris. Why did he have to go and ruin my Star Wars memories?
Chapter 5. Life In California And Jelly Roll
Moving day from the migrant camp fell on a Saturday. There wasn’t much to transport apart from the car and the personal belongings they had brought from Texas. Knowing that John Henry had very little, the landlord had left behind some furniture: a kitchen table, an icebox, two beds, and a well-worn couch. The screened-in back porch extended across the entire width of the house. In one corner, a roll-away bed and a standing lamp stood, and it was there that Johnny made his claim to the porch as his bedroom. Meanwhile, Lady ventured out to explore the expansive backyard, complete with an Eucalyptus tree that was home to a resident squirrel.
My grandmother Bertha had come across newspaper stories about the firebrand woman preacher, ‘Sister Aimee, ‘ holding court at her downtown church. She aimed to grace the Sunday service, eager to unravel the mysteries that had stirred up such a commotion among the camp folks. Ever the agreeable sort, John Henry consented to accompany her and young Johnny, perhaps harboring a hope to cross paths with Blind Jelly Roll Jackson and Pancho Villa.
The faithful congregations formed a line that stretched down the block, twisted around, and continued for another block. It seemed this preacher lady possessed a special magnetism to draw such a crowd. As they reached the doors, they discovered the church was once a theater with a plush red carpet and a winding stairway leading to the balcony. Climbing the stairs, they found seats near the balcony’s edge. With an eagerness to feel the Holy Ghost passing through her, Bertha was in stark contrast to John Henry, who simply yearned for a cup of black coffee and a nap.
The house lights dimmed, and the red velvet stage curtains slowly drew back to reveal an orchestra and a singing choir, all adorned in purple velvet robes. The orchestra boasted horns, a piano, violins, and a drummer, and right up front sat Blind Jelly Roll holding a shiny black guitar. His seeing-eye dog, Pancho Villa, was seated on a chair next to him, wearing a small matching robe. In a moment of confusion, Johnny, unaware of his surroundings, called out Pancho’s name, causing the dog to excitedly tumble off the chair. Jelly, recognizing the voice, offered a warm smile and a friendly wave as he reseated Pancho.
A slender woman with short blonde hair stepped into the center of the stage, enveloped by the spotlight’s glow. She was draped in a white silk robe, and a sizable golden cross hung at her breast, casting a mesmerizing reflection across the congregation. In that divine light, she took on an ethereal quality, almost angelic, as if transported from the pages of a biblical tale.
The singer, whom everyone now recognized as ‘Sister Aimee,’ suddenly turned into a musical whirlwind, belting out a heartfelt religious hymn that could make even the angels jealous. How did this powerful voice project from such a small woman? The orchestra performed as if they were on a mission from above, and the choir sounded so otherworldly that even the congregation wondered if they were in the presence of celestial beings. As tears flowed freely and some brave souls rose to join her in song, Bertha found herself on the verge of a melodramatic meltdown; young Johnny was bored and on the verge of sleeping, while poor John Henry remained steadfast in his pursuit of a good nap. It seemed like the lengthy two hours ahead were shaping into a divine comedy of sorts.
After two more songs just as rousing as the first one, Sister Aimee spoke.
” Dear Hearts, recently, a lost soul came to our church. He had wandered in the wilderness for years. Blind since birth and led by his small seeing-eye dog, he came to me seeking repentance and personal guidance. He is now walking the straight and holy path of our Lord. A formidable blues guitarist and singer, he has agreed to share one of his songs of atonement. Please welcome Blind Jelly Roll Jackson.” The crowd applauded.
A stagehand stationed a large silver microphone before Jelly. The spotlight shone on his hair, white as an East Texas cotton field. He tugged and twisted his guitar through eighteen bars of mournful blues without a moment’s pause. The audience was spellbound, the majority never having encountered a blind black bluesman. Leaning towards the mic, he growled deeply as he sang,
” I gots me a woman, haw-haw-haw-haw, she don’t mean a thang, squeezes my lemon picks my peaches from my trees, gonna go see that gal and get my hambone greased, haw-haw-haw-haw.”
Sister Aimee lunged for the microphone, but a stagehand beat her to it. He grabbed the microphone and carried it away. Jelly Roll was still singing and playing when the stage curtain closed. Blind Jelly Roll Jackson’s official California debut was history.
Don’t touch that dial or turn that computer off; there is more to come in Chapter 6
Ob-La-De-Ob-La-Da Life Goes’ On Brah…La-La-How The Life Goes’ On
Yes, Dear Hearts, as the Beatles say, life does go on. As of today, I’m five years cancer-free. I’m expecting a face time phone call from Sir Paul and Ringo anytime now.
Comedy Gone A ‘Foul
I love Mark Twain. I revered him to the point that when I was a child of ten, becoming Mark Twain was my life’s ambition. Sadly for me, it didn’t work out, but he still inspires me to this day, not only with his witty writing but his keen eyes focused on the human race. Not much has changed since his days on the big river, or so I thought.
I attempted, and somewhat succeeded, to watch portions of a streaming salute to the black comedian Kevin Hart on Netflix. Filmed at the bastion of liberal theater, the elitist government-funded “The Kennedy Center.” He was being awarded with the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor.
I like Kevin Hart; he’s a funny guy who is not afraid to dig into squeamish subjects. But he is strictly adult comedy: crude, foul-mouthed, racist, and mean at times. He has his place in clubs, streaming specials, and R-rated movies, not on the stage of the “Sacred Cow Kennedy Center” in front of a mixed audience of wealthy Hollywood folks jiggling their jewelry and rich old ladies who were clearly put off by the humor he and his roasting guest comedians spat out. The F word seemed to be the most favored of the night, and they all used it for maximum value.
Jerry Seinfeld, the king of clean comedy, introduced the show and praised Kevin for his body of work. Kevin, in the king and queen box, yuked it up, kissed his kids and wife, and wiped away a few tears; it was a touching tribute until Seinfeld left the stage, and that is when the show went to comedic hell in a “Jackie O Handbasket.”
I know how to cuss, learning it from my father’s side of the family and from my sainted Cherokee mother, who could string some of the better words into a formidable tirade. The F word and a few more, are in my vocabulary, and lately, watching the maddening news on television, I find myself screaming adult language at my set. But that is in my home, in front of Momo, who can cuss as well as I can, sometimes better. We don’t dare say bad words in public or in mixed company or around our family, especially the grandkids. So why is filthy, foul-mouthed thuggish language acceptable for an audience at “Jack’s Palace?” You could see Jerry Seinfeld cringe when the camera panned to him. I’m certain he has used those words, especially dealing with Kramer, Newman, and maybe the Soup Nazi.
When Hart finally took the stage to thank everyone and show his stuff, it was a recitation of F you, F this, F that, and so on: all his comedy buds in the box seats roared with approval, showing me that you can be funny, make a butt-load of money and have folks idolize you, but you that doesn’t give you class.
Hollywood and its ilk have taken what was once a reverent, respected, cherished, and Homeric award and turned it into another cheap-assed participation trophy, like the Oscar. Mark Twain deserves so much better.
Deep Thoughts From The Cactus Patch
Something to ponder: how did the Kardashians wish their father a happy Mother’s Day? It must have been uncomfortable.
How often does Doctor Jill check the president’s diaper?
Momo and I are going to Colorado Springs next week to see family, and she is selling her custom purses in a craft show over Memorial Day on top of Pikes Peak. The problem is that she is afraid of heights and mountains, so I will have to knock her out with a pill, drive her up to the top, and then give her another pill to wake her up. Then, repeat the process to take her back down. Hope she sells some purses in between.
It’s been a rainy week in the Cactus Patch garden. My plants are now at the “Plantzilla” stage and need trimming. Things are improving; I was stung by bitchy little bees twice and bitten by spiders of an unknown origin a few times. Now, I’m waiting for a snake bite to complete the circle. Just part of gardening in the Texas countryside.
The bird-feeding area is now a combat zone. Two flat feeders and a plastic rooftop one, and yet they fight over seeds. The Doves used to be the bully-birds, but now the Crows have claimed that title, pushing everyone around. Now, there are two Squirrels, likely siblings, that visit and eat the Peanuts that the Crows and Bluejays love and the Crows attack the Squirrels, who in turn flip the feeders and scatter the food on the gravel. The poor Cardinals and the other species sit in the trees and watch the battles. No one is starving yet, but with food as costly as a car payment, they soon may be eating bugs and wooly worms, which have invaded my landscape by the hundreds. I may catch a jar full of them and dump their wooly little selves into the bird feeders. Much healthier than all those sunflower seeds.
Are You A Boy..Or Are You A Girl?
So now the Boy Scouts of America have put on their make-up, styled their hair, and inserted their tampons in the appropriate orifice.
I was a Boy Scout and a Cub Scout. My grandson was a Cub Scout and is now a Boy Scout, and my son is his troop leader. I can tell you, they are not a bunch of whiny-assed pansies like we are reading about in the news. What a disgrace to America. All those years of honor flushed like a happy bear toilet wipe.
Yeah, I get the lawsuits and all that, and the payouts, and girls wanting to be boys instead of their biological gender, and the little sissy boys wanting to be a girl scout in a boy scout uniform; it’s where the world is at this day.
How about drinking some Ovaltine, putting your hand between your legs and feeling what God gave you, and go shoot your Daisy BB gun and shut the hell up.
Stand By For News! And Other Commentary From Texas
Warning! Dear Hearts, the following commentary on social issues is not politically correct in any way. If you are triggered by common words in the English language or by religion and free political speech in the form of comedy, then don’t read any further. I’m warning you one more time.
I attended Momo’s Melody Belle’s choir concert this evening at the Langdon Center in old town Granbury. For a bunch of old gals, they sang well, doing Broadway hits from the 40-50s. I was impressed.
When leaving, the pianist approached me on the front steps and asked me if she could ask a personal question. I said sure, shoot. She says, ” You look like such a free spirit. Are you a Democrat? I said no, and then she told me that she was the chairwoman for the Granbury Democratic Party and asked if I was voting for Trump. I answered yes, and then Momo showed up, and the lady asked her the same. Momo has become a nervous filly lately, and folks should know that the wrong questions are likely to get the wrong answer. I’m the same but with a touch more diplomacy. The encounter did not end well for the pianist.
If you have read this far, it’s too late.
A free spirit..now, what does that mean? Maybe because my hair is pretty long, and the mustache makes me look like Wild Bill Cody, or perhaps The Dude, without the bathrobe. The Democrat lady assumed I was an old liberal, burned-out Hippie. Nope, only an old, weird-looking, slightly burned-out ex-rock n-roll musician, conservative. You can’t always go on looks alone: same thing my sixteen-year-old self used to tell my parents.
On another subject dear to my heart: Biden awarded Nancy Pelosi the Medal of Freedom for her courageous behavior on Jan. 6. That’s sort of like making Hitler an honorary Rabbi for his outstanding management of Auschwitz. Old Sniffer has been awfully quiet the past few weeks. Those rioters and anarchists are his voting block, so he has to mollify the little everyone gets a trophy, darlings.
Kudos and salutations to the fraternity young men at UNC and a few other universities for taking it upon themselves to protect our flag. The little candy assed Hamas loving, mask-wearing, latte-drinking, vegan-eating, Birkenstock-wearing, head-scarf-wearing, trans-loving, tongue-pierced, devil-worshiping, police-hating, America-hating grifters were freaked out when young American males told them if they touched the flag, they were dead little Gazaians. We need more of that from the rest of the schools that have been hijacked by socialist teachers and students. A word to the tenured commie professors, ” Don’t mess with Gods chosen people, the Jews. He’s kind of touchy about that.”
The Obama/Biden bunch is trying to pass a sneaky law to allow over a million Gaza refugees into the US. I ask, “Now what in the hell could possibly go wrong with that scenario?” Little terrorist kids in our elementary schools wearing C4 explosive belts. Hamas gunmen rampaging through Walmart? Oh wait…we already know what can go wrong thanks to our open border. This may sound a little over the top, but if these folks come here, it’s likely to happen. But will they be able to vote? Of course, they will.
Grifter Swifter
After reading all the glowing, foot-kissing reviews of Swifter’s new album, “The Tortured Poet’s Department,” I take back a few of the skews I gave her, but only a few. I had no idea the poor dear had lived such a sad life. I doubt her feet touched the ground until she was five years old, and every spoon in the house was pure silver. A downtrodden, entitled little rich girl confined to her Barbie bedroom writing little kid songs on her half-size Martin guitar. She never played in a bar, a club, or anywhere for that matter, except for her doll babies. Pop’s paid millions to get her into that Nashville brotherhood, which shows us how far that once holy ground has slipped. Did the poor waif have ever have a decent relationship with a male, not counting her current knuckle dragger? Doubt it, so the tortured poet title might fit her, even though what she writes is far from good poetry.
There have been many before her who qualified for the title: Harry Nillson, John Lennon, Bobbie Gentry, James Taylor, and Willie Nelson are a few. The original Homeric tortured poet, Bob Dylan, still holds the title: Swifter is no more than a grifter.
A Tiny Late-Night Rant from The Cactus Patch….
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.
The Eclipse Gave Us A Little More Time
Update!! Many annoyed thanks to WordPress AI and Grammarly that changed my post spelling of the name of an angel, and attempted to change my sentence structure to be more inclusive, diverse, and woke.
Like everyone on the planet today, Momo and I positioned our lawn chairs on the back lawn, donned our cheesy sunglasses, and waited for the big show. The full eclipse crept up on us as we sat and watched the sky turn to a color I had never seen. The clouds swirled in circles, the stars appeared, and our little piece of real estate plunged into semi-darkness for a few minutes. The birds roosted, the dogs barked, and we waited for the sound to come from the heavens. It was quiet. Gabriel did not blow the trumpets, and the angles did not swoop down from the heavens as we had hoped. If there was ever a period in the life of this planet that needed divine intervention, it was this moment. I guess God will make us wait until the next eclipse, or maybe he will surprise us with a quick visit. Soon, I hope. We don’t need a celestial event as an excuse, but it would have been a really big show.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 