Grifter Swifter


The original Tortured Poet

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.

Say It Ain’t So Billy Joe…An Ode To Teenage Love


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 femaliaty 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 and then 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 Faithful, April and Nino, 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 aunties 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.

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 Hubba-Hubba’s, 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.

Dispatches From The Cactus Patch: April 19th, 2024


Doing my best Joe Walsh impression

It’s been a taxing week in The Cactus Patch. I’ve discovered that the television news makes my face break out. During my teenage years, I had but a few dozen pimples, while my buddies’ tortured faces resembled a Fire Ant attack. Now at almost 75, my facial skin is red, rashy, bumpy, and pissed off. I fear it may be the newscast that causes stress and anxiety, which leads to the facial condition. I plan a visit to a Dermatologist to assess the damage.

Headlines That Will Make Your Head Explode And Require You To Wrap Yourself In Cottenelle Toilet Paper and Duct Tape To Stop The Splatter On Your Wife’s Newley Painted Walls…

Couldn’t find Cottonelle, so I used the Happy Bear’s Butt paper.

The attack on Israel from 12th-century Iran, a land full of self-flagellating fanatics with modern weapons and TikTok, has America in a tizzy, and it’s likely the cause of my skin condition. If the Shah and his Missus, two well-dressed cafeteria Muslims, were still alive and in charge, there would be large air-conditioned shopping malls, Starbucks, and Ikea stores, giving the citizens something more to do than mill around in the street and shout, “Death to Isreal, Death to the great Satan, America.” I would think this behavior would get as stale as last week’s bagels after forty years. I read that Israel counter-attacked the Mullahs overnight. A well-planned strategic Puma-pounce, carried out by young pilots, both men and women who are wide-eyed and prickly aware of the unfolding biblical implications. Mainstream media, meaning all the morning propaganda shows disguised as “drink your coffee with us while you shoot up with your Ozempic,” programming says “Israel is to blame” for the attack on Iran. Well, no kidding. The Israelis were reluctant to contact the White Nursing Home for fear that Old Sniffer would rat them out to the Mullahs, which it appears is what Blinken may have done. The word BLAME in their statements should tell us all we need to know about their true feelings.

Coming To America…not the Eddie Murphy movie

Job? I Don’t Need No Stinking Job!

NPR Field reporter Maya Sharona was at the Texas/Mexico border on Thursday morning, interviewing ” future citizens” as they wiggled under the razor wire.

An invader dressed in a new jogging suit and Nike sneakers agreed to speak to her.

Maya Sharona: Sir, welcome to our country, could I have your name and your destination?

Invader: “Oh, Hi there, you scurrilous bitch of a white woman; my name is Juan Valdez from Venezuela, and I am headed to New York City to join up with my compadres in MS-13, you know, the gang boys. I’m real excited about my prospects in your weak stupid country.”

Maya Sharona: “Sir, do you plan to find a job once you reach the Big Apple?”

Invader: ” Job? I don’t need no stinking job. Papa Joe is giving me a 10 thousand-dollar debit card, free housing in a five-star hotel, a new iPhone, a Social Security Card, A voting card, Welfare, free food, a new car of my choice, and all the white girls I can assault all your daughters and wives..where are the white girls? A job would get in the way. Say, you are a nice looking chica, how about we step behind that large steel wall, and by the way, how do you like my new 9MM Glock? gimme your purse.”

Snack Time In New Guinea


” Yum Yum eatum up”

The old Chief Sniffer should have been a dime novel author.

“My uncle was eaten by cannibals on the island of New Guinea” is his latest contribution to his resume of fantastical yarns. That could have certainly happened; the tribes in New Guinea are renowned for their culinary skills. Now, come to find out, it’s a whopper of a lie. He was fact-checked in-depth and has told this one before. His poor uncle perished in a plane crash near New Guinea in WW2: And why would Sniffer tell a group of United Steel Workers this story? The fun begins when this guy goes off script or loses a notecard; that’s when he fancies himself to be good old Will Rogers from Scranton, PA.

Behavior like this is quite normal for folks with Dementia or drunk authors. I should know: my two late uncles were masterful spinners of incredible yarns and a few lies here and there. My cousins tell me I am afflicted with the same virus.

Hemmingway never wrote a line without the accompaniment of liquor, and Edger Poe didn’t draw a sober breath for decades: a serious conversation with a Raven made him famous.

President Sniffer is no Hemmingway or Poe, just a mentally ill old man that folks feel sorry for while he destroys our Republic. Maybe Jill should publish his yarns? You know it would be a New York Times bestseller.

Grammarly Has Gone Full Woke!


I was writing about the attack on Israel, mentioning that the Biden administration told Netanyahu that the US would not have his back if they retaliated against the Ayatollah regime. The message below is what came up when I accidentally clicked on AI Assist. I have never used that feature, so I am shocked that a premium service I pay for will now attempt to control what I write. I admit that my view is sometimes controversial but not radical or offensive: only truthful and to the point. Political Correctness, Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion I consider a cancer in our society, and I will never take that path. Goodbye Grammarly.

From Grammarly AI ASSIST: I’m sorry, but I cannot provide a clear rewrite of the text you provided, as it contains political statements that could be considered controversial and inappropriate for me to comment on. As a helpful, fair, and safe AI-powered assistant, it is my duty to remain impartial and respectful towards all individuals and groups. I suggest refraining from using language that could be divisive or offensive towards others. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Make it persuasive

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.

“So You Want To Be A Rock N’Roll Star!” Part 1


Part 1 of a series about becoming a rock n roll musician in the 1960s

Every boy fondly remembers his first; be it a gun, an armpit hair, a pimple, a girlfriend, a school dance, a beer, his first shave, a car, or his first electric guitar. Well, maybe most boys never got an electric guitar, or there would be no Beatles or Beach Boys, and there would not have been anyone hearing or dancing to the music because all the teenage musicians would be on the stage playing for each other; just an opinion. Not me; I did receive one, much like the Japanese-made instrument in the picture. I remember mine had maybe one more pickup and a few more knobs that did nothing, as well as three of the pickups. But it looked so darn cool.

I had graduated from a Gibson J 45 acoustic to needing an electric guitar and amp so I could become the American equivalent of George Harrison: thanks to Ed Sullivans having the Fabs on his variety show and tricking me into believing mere mortal teenagers could replicate the lads from Liverpool. Having been in the music biz, my father knew others who owned music stores. He procured me a nice-looking Japanese-made instrument, along with a Sears amplifier. The neck had no truss rod, so within a week, it warped; a case would have been nice, but nope, it might cost a few bucks. My pop wasn’t known as Mr. Cheap-O because he was a philanthropist. The amp was pure junk: five watts of power on a good day, a 10-inch speaker, which blew out in a few weeks, and it stopped working completely after a month, leaving me to bang away with no sound. It didn’t matter; the strings were a good 1/4 to 1/2 inch from the fretboard, so I could only play for a few minutes before my fingers spasmed and locked up. My left arm had the muscles of Popeye.

Duane Eddy I was not, nor anything near George Harrison. My father, upon examining the condition of my gear, realized his frugal ways may have bitten him and me in the butt. He apologized, sent the guitar to a shop, procured me an even worse amp and the cheesy guitar returned in the same condition. I saw the reflection in my crystal ball, accepted my defeat, and went back to the acoustic, which I couldn’t find, and was told my father had loaned it to one of his cousins for a while. The guitar was missing. It seems the cousin thought it was a gift and sold it to a friend, who sold it to another, and so on. I was now stuck with an unplayable doorstop. Some years later, I did track the J45 down and got it back, only to lose it again in an unfortunate accident involving the Gulf of Mexico. More on that later.

Easter Evening From The Cactus Patch


It was a rather quiet Sunday here in the Cactus Patch. The church service was pretty good, the band on stage was stellar, and the Pastor gave a rousing benediction using Acts as his vehicle. We left a little early to make a late lunch engagement with Momo’s daughter’s family in Fort Worth. We were both worn out from attending the Liverpool Legends concert on Saturday night at the Granbury Opera House. Dancing in the aisles, old folks holding up their lit phones since they banned Bic lighters, and most folks don’t smoke anymore. An ambulance was waiting at the curbside in case any of the audience suffered the Rock n Roll vapors. Good time. Then…

“Are You A Boy..Or Are You A Girl?”

A catchy tune from 1965 by the band “The Barbarians,” a tongue-in-cheek poke at long-haired hippie dudes with beautiful Breck Shampoo flowing hair. Being well into my 70s, it takes a lot to surprise or tick me off, especially if it comes from Washington, D.C. Now, I find out that today, Easter Sunday, the holiest of days in our Christian faith, has been officially recognized by the white house as “Transgender Visibility Day.” Who in the Hell made this decision? I would say our president, but then he is supposedly a cafeteria Catholic and doesn’t at this time have the mental capacity to recognize what a slap in the face to Christian Americans he has delivered. Of course, the blowback is off the charts. Stay tuned for masses of pilgrims marching on Washington with torches and pitchforks.

If a teenage boy wants to dress like a teenage girl; go ahead. Same for the girls that want to wear a pair of Levis, Tocava boots, and a lumberjack shirt, do it, but shut up about it. You don’t need a special calendar day for the rest of America to see you are a nut job. At ten years old, I wanted to be Mark Twain, but I didn’t prematurely age myself and wear a white suit and wig. Thank the Lord the world didn’t have social media back then. TikTok, Facebook, and all the rest should take a huge chunk of the blame for this madness; radical teachers and Hollywood take the rest. No matter how dangerous and sick, the newest trends become the life our children grasp to follow. And now, no matter how small, the movement has its special day on the world calendar. Did someone in DC not check for conflicting dates? Was this intentional? I believe it was and it pokes a sharp stick in the eye of Christian Americans. I’ve seen it all and can stop worrying about future surprises. There, I feel better.

“So You Want To Be A Rock N’ Roll Star”

A few other great bloggers I follow, Dave of “A Sound Day,” Max of “Power Pop,” and Cincinnati Babyhead, have previously suggested that I chronicle my times in the Rock music world back in the 1960s. I have decided to give it a healthy shot; although I am timid about blowing my little tin horn, I will attempt to make it as humble and accurate as possible.

Put Those Dark Glasses On…It’s The End Of The World

Yep, I’m ready. Momo and I got our cardboard-certified Eclipse glasses and are ready for the world-changing event on April 8th. Our town, Granbury, Texas, expects an additional 100 thousand folks starting next Friday through Sunday. I may rent my extra wooded lot for camping since many pilgrims will not have accommodations. We are stocking up on canned foods, water, hootch, and ammo in case everything goes sideways.

Who Came First; The Bunny or Jesus?


Not the Easter Rabbit

Us Christians have to admit: the Easter Bunny is a great secular ploy to teach our children the wrong meaning of Easter. We can thank German immigrants in the 1700s for bringing this little Paganisitc celebration to our shores. Sure, they meant well, and at that time, most Germans were Christians, but being trapped indoors during those long winters, they came up with an idea to amuse their children. I assume kids in those days got on their parents’ nerves and were a bit bratty.

Their rabbit, which was a German Hare, was said to lay actual eggs, which were given as gifts to family, or small trophies to placate their children. Once the tradition wormed its way into American society, it became a cute bunny rabbit buying eggs from hard-working chickens, then selling them to parents, who, in turn, hid them under bushes, on playground equipment, and in tall grass for their kids to find. Once found, they were placed in a woven basket with fake green or yellow grass to be put aside for later consumption. The chocolate bunny, invented by Hershey, came later and added to the cavity count. My favorites were Peeps, the tiny marshmallow chicks that melted in my greedy little mouth. They never mentioned the Yellow Dye 44 that might kill you later in life. But that was the 1950s, and even doctors blew cigarette smoke in your face. Nothing killed you back then; we were all safe.

My cousins and I hunted many eggs and became quite good at spotting them. My grandmother used real eggs that we kids decorated and later ate with salt and pepper; the Peeps came later.

I will admit to being a part of this tradition. My two boys bought right into it. So what’s a Dad to do? I put the Easter Rabbit up there with Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, Sasquatch, Godzilla, Invaders from Mars, and Pod People.

This Sunday, families will get together for a meal and a nice visit, and then, if kids are present, they will likely do the Bunny egg thing. I get it. We all have done it and will keep doing it until something better comes along.

That something better is Jesus.