Category: Notes From The Cactus Patch

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Life At 33 1/3 RPM


Since my teenage years in the sixties, I have been a vinyl album collector. It was out of necessity; we didn’t have CDs, flash drives, and such, but we did have 8 track tapes, which I despised. I was a rock musician in those years, so I bought all the most popular records. I’ve long lost many to thievery, unreturned loans, and negligence. At last count, I still have about 125 albums, most in good to perfect condition. I lost a box of my most treasured ones when a moving company absconded with them during a move. It was clearly marked ” favorite 60s albums.” The culprit also relieved me of my coveted ” Ray Ban” classic sunglasses. I curse the man daily, although I shouldn’t carry a grudge. I hope his turntable broke.

Last week I made the plunge, purchasing a new Sony receiver, an Audio Technica turntable, and two Klipsch speakers. Now my wife and I can listen to our eclectic collection of albums by the likes of Joni Mitchell, Cat Stevens, Crosby Stills and Nash, Chicago, Buffalo Springfield, Hank Williams Jr., Billy Joe Shaver, Jerry Jeff Walker, and of course, the Beatles and everything in between. I even have a greatest hits album by Sonny and Cher, if you can picture that. I own two coveted albums of “Meet The Beatles,” on VeeJay records, the one released in the UK, not the states in 1963.

I have a nice collection of CDs, but they don’t count since everything is digitized and sanitized, and I own a nice collection of music on my computer.

Thanks to Apple, I lost around 350 songs off of my iPod Nano while trying to download them to my laptop. Steve Jobs be damned.

There is something magical and soothing about that slight hiss and skips of a classic vinyl disk recorded on analog equipment with a 4 track machine. I can picture Sir George Martin sitting in the control booth pushing knobs while the Fabs struggle to produce the perfect tune on ancient equipment. I am deaf in my left ear, thanks to standing in front of large amplifiers playing at level 11 for many years, so my right ear is my musical one. Like the RCA dog, I can trick myself into hearing stereo high-fidelity if I turn my head just so.

No need for that flat-screen television anymore. We plan to live our life at 33-1/3.

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Ice Storms and The Alamo


Texas is in the midst of a nasty ice storm. It started with sleet, then freezing rain, a dusting of snow, and now more freezing rain mixed with thunder, sleet, and lightning snow. I envy the folks up north; they get plain old snow. it may be five feet deep, but it’s not ice.

Ice storms are part of our history. Our great authors, Larry McMurtry and J. Frank Dobie often wrote of them in their novels. Hondo Crouch, the lord of Luckenbach, Texas, commented, “there is nothing as lovely as a good ice storm to make you stay inside to ponder and piddle.”

In 1836, when General Santa Anna marched his troops from Mexico to San Antonio to dispose of those pesky Texians who were having a barbeque cookout at the Alamo, his men were pelted with ice and sleet storms. Most of his soldiers came from warmer parts of Mexico and died in the scrub brush of south Texas, frozen solid while standing upright or in mid-stride. Santa Anna lost his personal wagon full of Tequila; the bottles froze.

Here in Granbury, the most historical small Town in Texas, the day before “Icemegedon” hit, my wife and I went to our local H.E.B. for a few items. We know how to “hunker down,” so we don’t require much.

Good God, it was as if the world was ending. Masses of shoppers grabbed everything they could from the almost bare shelves. One lady had a basket full of Mrs. Baird’s bread and twenty-six packs of Dr. Pepper and Big Red. I ran into Mooch and Mrs. Mooch, and he had a basket full of Red Baron Pizzas and Pork Rinds, which is actually survival food here in Texas. I saw two older women in a tug-of-war over the last pack of pork ribs, and the bakery ladies were smacking shoppers with loaves of French bread as they came over the counter. It was pandemonium at its finest. The wine shelves were empty, as well as the beer coolers. If you have enough booze, food is not required to sustain life.

Back to the Alamo, if I may. It’s a good comparison to the state of our country today, and we are fighting a similar battle, destined to lose. The defenders, which would be the citizens of Texas, are sheltered in the mission and are attempting to hold off the invading hordes, which would be Mexico and the rest of South America. By letter, Travis, now Governor Abbot, begged for reinforcements, which never came. Thus, the mission was breached, and the defenders slaughtered. President Biden is now playing the part of General Santa Anna, and Senorita Kamala is his muse.

All of this happened because of an ice storm. I think Hondo was right. It’s a good day to ponder and piddle.

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De-Ja-Vu Old Hippie Dude


He wasn’t the best guitar player in the band, nor the best singer, but added into the mix, he was a part of the Byrds that made them. The band gave Pete Seeger a stroke, turned Joanie Baez gay, and gave Dylan the courage to pick up a Fender Strat and plug into a twin reverb amplifier. The world of folkie music would never be the same.

Crosby was too outspoken, prideful, and an asshole rich kid who pissed off everyone he interacted with. Canadian Mockingbird Joni Mitchell wanted to kill him with her delicate hands for ruining her first album. But, despite his misgivings, the man was one hell of a part of the sixties music movement.

David Crosby has gone to the great Woodstock in the sky. When Bob Dylan rang a doorbell today, Crosby got a pair of angel wings. They were tarnished and likely secondhand, but he can now fly around the clouds flipping off everyone on earth. Joni is sick and too old to do nothing more than guide her electric wheelchair around these days, but she would still kick his smug ass if she could muster the strength. He damn near ruined her career before it started. All he wanted was to marry her, but she was already hitched to her Martin guitar with those quirky tunings. Crosby could barely tune his Gretsch.

I saw them back in 1999 at an outdoor venue in Dallas Fair Park. Crosby, Stills, and Nash, the once young gods of Woodstock. David soooo endeared himself to the audience by saying, “Dallas, the fucking city that killed Kennedy.” He was spot on, but he didn’t need to say it. The man had no control over his mouth or life and couldn’t separate reality from a good high. What was that lesbo singer Ethridge thinking about having him as a sperm donor for her kids? Drug addiction and craziness are inherited via the genes, and I don’t mean bell-bottom Levis, or did she bother to read up on it?

I loved the Byrds in 1965 and forward. I loved CSN even more, and coke loved David more than anyone in the biz. He was a powder hound deluxe, made for drug abuse and bat-shit crazy behavior. Stills tried to put out a Mafia hit on him, and Nash attempted to poison his Oatmeal after he completely destroyed CS&N. He was loved by many but hated by many more. Why are the tortured souls the ones to drip with talent? Maybe Morrison can fill him in on it this evening if the two are in the same place. The poor man was a train wreck and a screw-up, but tomorrow, I will listen to my two CS&N albums and The Byrd’s greatest hits and remember one of the shining talents from when I was a 60s teenager banging on an electric guitar and wishing I was him. RIP, you old hippie dude.

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Who You Gonna Call?


When the juvenile name-calling has stopped, and the fossilized Republicans gather in their lyre to consider their candidate, who do they have? Trump or DeSantis? That’s it, kiddies. No one left with enough charisma to hold up to being a candidate. Biden can’t run because of a brain malfunction, and Hillary is so damn evil not even a Democrat would vote for her. So, Mr. Hollywood, Gavin Newsome is their only hope.

Trump’s already declared his intentions with a great speech. Instead, whether we like him or not, DeSantis will most likely issue a statement within a few days.

Trump has the bulldog tenacity and sharpest teeth, but DeSantis has the second coming of the “ghostly Kennedy family” working for him, even though he is a conservative. It’s damn right scary. The only thing missing is the compound at Hyannisport and loading up the Mafia with cash.

McConnell is a disgrace, and McCarthy is likely to bumble-dumble all he attempts, even though he has a very nice haircut. Let us hope he has the balls to have Pelosi removed from the building by the Capitol Police. She deserves no better.

I’m going to Half Price Books and Barnes and Noble and load up. At least reading good books will keep my mind off of this clown show.

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“Remember The Good old Days?”


Now I’m sounding like my grandfather ” remember the good ole day’s” for whatever point he was trying to make. Now I am him.

Remember the good old days when people actually took the time to set before a keyboard and answer your emails instead of using one word or a stupid little picture of a beer or a heart or some other useless bullshit like that.

I send a lengthy email to a few friends of mine. Nothing that was a novella or a short story, just some questions, and recollections. What did I receive, ” an emoji and “sent on my iPhone” I almost had a stroke. I spent thirty minutes composing an easily readable, edited, and entertaining email, and I get a thumbs-up crap from a smart-ass phone.

No more; I will send one word or a cute little picture and let them figure it out.

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Happy Trails Till We Meet Again, But Only For A Little While


Photo by; Gabby Hayes

Tomorrow morning at approximately 7:15 AM, one of the two surgeons assigned to my medical predicament will be slicing into my stomach on his way to my spinal column. This has been a while coming, and alas, the highly anticipated moment has arrived. I have total faith in both surgeons since they are from foreign countries, attended multiple the bet medical schools, and are highly rated in their field.

The first surgeon, (the general surgeon,) and the stomach expert showed me a beautiful 4K video of the actual operation. Stunning color with sharp close-up photography of what one’s insides actually look like. They don’t use scalpels nowadays, but tiny light sabers similar to the ones used in Star Wars. Funny that his nurse is named Leia and the examination room I was in was labeled Exam R2.

Cutting through the viscera and old muscles, the soft pliable pinkish and rose-tinted innards, pulling back guts, tendons, and vital organs, blood veins pulsing with every beat of my 72-year-old heart, tons of escaping blood, and then driving a stainless steel wedge in between my L5 and S1 disk, that is no longer functional and are bone on bone and constantly fighting about who gets to cause me the most pain. He did mention, in passing, that if a blood vessel or artery burst he would be there to repair it, if possible. But, if I do pass on to the “other side” I wouldn’t feel a thing since I will already be halfway there. I told him “I would rather not wake up dead.” He thought that was witty, and giggled a bit.

He assured me the hardware and the tools are made by Craftsman and have a lifetime warranty from Lowes. I exhaled in comfort knowing that bit of information. He also adores Craftsman tools, so we talked a bit about home improvement. Seems he is remodeling his ranch house in Weatherford and forgot to support the main beam which allowed the den to collapse, resulting in the home being razed. Oops!

He congratulated me for not fainting since 99 percent of his patients do when viewing the film. I gave the presentation a 4 popcorn box rating and continued on to the next surgeon’s office.

My second surgeon, the spinal expert is rated so highly in his field, that he is considered a revered legend. The medical people don’t use his real name, but in the circle of surgeons, he’s called “The Spine Man.” It’s all rather James Bondish.

He’s repaired numerous high-profile and talented sports figures including Dac and Tony. It’s said that the first surgeon in his family tree corrected Qusimoto’s condition after the famous Notre Dame debacle, but that’s part of the legend I assume.

He also uses Craftsman tools and parts and showed me a brief presentation on how he will slice me in three or more places and install stainless plates, screws, rods, and spacers into my spinal column around the spacer wedge assisted by the spinal surgeon. They don’t use real bone for splicing anymore, but bone pieces are taken from recent and highly rated cadavers. He assured me not to worry, the cadaver looked a bit like me and didn’t object to the donation. That’s a good thing, I don’t want to wake up to ” It’s alive!” screaming in the operating room.

The question of years of practice came up and he told me he got his start at ten years old repairing mopeds and motors so he gained expertise early on with repositioning wiring harness, to accommodate nuts, bolts, and screws. Another good thing to know.

I will likely not be able to write on my blog since I will be as doped up as a San Francisco street person for a few days, then in excruciating pain which will require more drugs. I will not be in any state of mind to write about subjects that will surely offend every one of my readers and friends. My wife says I cannot have my laptop until I am reasonably sane again.

All kidding aside, I have complete faith in my surgeon’s skill and the care of the nurses and staff at Medical City Fort Worth. After all, it’s God’s gifted hands working through these two blessed surgeons.

Let’s hope all ends well and I’ll see you on down the trail in a short while. Happy Trails until we meet again.

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When Artist Interpretation Takes Over Real Life Events


Odd, yet typical, our sacred F.B.I., now fodder for the news sites, escorted one of their own out of their Washington Headquarters. The poor man is knee-deep in the cover-up of the Hunter laptop and thinks that by resigning, he will be above prosecution. He may be, but the agency and the D.O.J. are so marginalized they have to start leading people to the gallows, and he is a good one to begin the scheduled executions.

That darling little black, Lesbian, immigrant moron press reader, spouting from her prepared book of B.S., says Americans that support Trump, Christianity, Conservatism, or common sense, are Facisest? So the leftist has a new ” call to arms” just before the mid-term elections. ” Fires and Facisist and Riots. Oh My!” I doubt president Poopy-Pants remembers saying the same thing a few days ago. It’s her job to remind us.

A crazed, shaved head, hoodie-wearing mentally-addled radical is leading Dr. Oz in the polls? How can this be? Oz, a highly educated physician, and a conservative man, is the clear choice of reasonable voters, yet this freak of nature is likely to win. He is almost as bad as Biden in putting together two sentences that make sense.

Have we heard enough about J-Lo and her new husband Affleck yet? They are stealing the spotlight from the Kardashians. So look for an uptick in subversive sluttish behavior from the “Clan of Kardashian soon.” Young women all over the country are having withdrawal symptoms.

N.A.S.A. spends billions on a one-time use rocket, precisely as we did in 1968, to send an orbiter around the moon. I assume to see if it’s safe to land there again. The Aliens that the rock group “The Byrds” warned us of many decades ago actually told us not to come back. More than a few astronauts have attested to this confrontation at a campfire, along with some Vodka-laced Tang. The problem is that we must file the paperwork and close on the property before the Chinese beat us to the title company. The C.C.P. has a few robotic surveyors staking and subdividing the property. So why are Space X and its better quality reusable rockets not being used? N.A.S.A. has good friends in congress, and to Washington, Elon Musk is the most intelligent and dangerous man on the planet; what’s a few trillion here and a few more there? Soon, we’re talking “real money.”

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The Mullet Man Is Back


Mooch

I was shopping in H.E.B. grocery a few days back and ran into my old pal, Mooch. I was cruising over to the wine department via the frozen pizza aisle, Mooch’s favorite cuisine. There he was, pushing a basket full of Paul Newmans and Red Barron pies. The other half of the basket was full of Mountain Dew, Little Debbie snacks, and the family-size container of Metamucil.

I didn’t recognize him right off, the face seemed the same, the overalls, the black tee-shirt, and the white Rockports, but something was severely amiss. Then it hit me; Mooch had a mullet haircut. He looked like the grandfather of Joe Dirt. Where did all of this hair come from? Mooch has the condition that most men his age suffer from; thinning to no hair. I gotta admit, he looked pretty darn redneck, but in a cool way. His hair on top and the sides was stylish and curly, but the back flowed past his shoulders, giving a little flippy doo thing at the end. He looked like a shampoo ad.

” How ya like the haircut buddy” was the first thing out of his mouth. The only thing I could reply was ” you look like Joe Dirt, in that movie about the moron that drives a Dodge Hemi.”

” Yep, that’s me, little buddy,” he says. “Got a 1970 Charger out there in the parking lot. The bitch has a full-blown 440 Hemi, positive traction rear end, cheater slicks, Goodyear Red line tires, glass-pack mufflers, and a Hurst four speed stick shift with a skull shift knob; got a big box of 8-track tapes sitting in the back seat for tuneage. I got her up to 140 mph yesterday on the Chisolm Parkway over in Fort Worth. A fuzz tried to catch me but gave up.”

I wished him luck in his new lifestyle and continued on with my shopping. He exited the store in front of me and I watched him as he loaded his booty into the trunk of his bright red Dodge Hemi. As he bent over, his mullet wig fell off. He put it back on and burned rubber as he exited the parking lot.

The good old 70s. I don’t miss them as I got into my 2008 Honda CRV.

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John Steinbeck and His Eden


As a ten-year-old, I had no business reading “The Grapes of Wrath,” but my Aunt Norma thought I should discover more than Mark Twain. Her foresight gave me a vision beyond my years.

I learned to read at the age of five. I started school later because my birthday fell beyond the cut-off date. So my Mother and aunt ensured I would be ahead of my class when I entered first grade. I was at least two stages ahead in reading and writing but woefully ignorant of math, my most hated subject. Fun With Dick and Jane were books written for childish idiots. I yearned for more. My young brain was afire.

I’ve read all of John Steinbeck’s books except for ” East of Eden,” which I have almost completed. It’s supposedly autobiographical about his family, the Hamiltons, who were farmers outside of Salinas, California. There was a movie of the book made in the 1950s starring James Dean. It was a disastrous attempt, and Steinbeck deplored the film. I could hardly watch it.

I am a rabid reader and follower of Larry McMurtry, Truman Capote, William Faulkner, and Thomas Wolfe, but good Lord, this book, this blessed and talented man, John Steinbeck, may have written the best novel I have read to date. Its time is old and takes place in the late 1800s into the first world war, and if you know nothing of history, this book will teach you enough to not sound stupid at a cocktail party, which is now called a wine tasting or some other hip gathering. Most young folks nowadays don’t read, so you may be considered a god or a fumbling old fool. The young are not impressed easily.

If you have time, a rainy day brings boredom, or you may simply want to improve your life, read this book and learn from a master of American literature.