Here in Texas, we have more down-home sayings than cattle. “Ain’t Scared” is one of them, and it sort of says it all about how we Texans feel about the crap that our government fan throws our way. The above title is real, and Dear Hearts, this time we should be scared…real scared. If the title doesn’t hit you in the gut, perhaps the picture will.
How I long for the presence and the voice of the esteemed Paul Harvey. His ability to provide perspective on our nation’s turmoil and division would be invaluable.
By request, I am again publishing this post, including my 1968 recording of the band I was part of, The A.T.N.T.; formally, we were the Orphans but changed our name at the suggestion of Mark Lee Productions, our manager. Enjoy.
The year was 1968, and the rock band I played in, The A.T.N.T., recorded a 45 at Summit Sounds in Dallas, Texas. The band had been called The Orphans, but a copywriting dispute resulted in a name change. Our then-manager, Mark Lee Productions, wasn’t keen on the idea because we had been under his management and promotion for a year.
The A side is “Cobblestone Street,” written and sung by myself and our drummer Barry Corbett. The B side is ” No One Told Me About Her,” written and sung by our lead singer and bass player, Danny Goode. The two producers, Marvin Montgomery and Artie Glenn, suggested we add horns to get a Chicago Transit Authority sound. Before the brass was added, Cobblestone Street was loud and raw with loud guitars and organs. After adding the horns, we returned to the studio and tweaked the cuts. I purposely untuned my Gibson 335 a bit to give the guitar break a bit of an out-of-tune carnival sound. Marvin, who went by the name of Smokey, was a member of the Light Crust Doughboys since the 1930s and played with Bob Wills. He produced Paul and Paula and Delbert McClinton. Artie Glenn wrote the famous Elvis hit “Crying In The Chapel” and many others; he was also a Light Crust Doughboy western swing musician. These two men were top-shelf record producers, so we listened when they suggested.
The A.T.N.T. at Flower Fair 1968
Our band members in the above picture are: foreground right John P. Strawn ( me ), then Jarry Davis on rhythm guitar, Barry Corbett on drums, Danny Goode on bass, and Marshall Sartin on keyboards. Barry and Marshall have passed on, but Danny, Jarry, myself, and our wives met for lunch a few weeks back in Fort Worth. It’s obvious why we all have severe hearing loss from the large amplifiers turned up to 11.
We introduced the songs at Flower Fair 1968 but without the horns. The Doors were supposed to play the event, but last-minute scheduling got sideways, and they couldn’t make it. This was the Spencer Davis Group without Steve Wynwood in the band. LeCirque ( The Smell Of Incense Fills The Air ) was formally known as The Southwest F.O.B. with members England Dan and John Ford Coley, who would later go on to fame as a duo, both local Texas boys. Kenny and the Kasuals were also a local group managed by Mark Lee.
The record received good airplay, but we never made much money. Distribution was the key, although the local radio personalities gave it positive chatter. Hope you enjoy the tunes.
It’s been a rough few months in the Cactus Patch. A pesky winter turned into a monsoon-like spring, and bandit Squirrels raided my bird feeders. Now, I have to contend with the sitcom on television known as politics. A demented, crooked old man holding off a bit younger old man, and one of them will wind up in the most expensive nursing home in our nation. My political wound was about healed, and now this indictment thing knocked the scab right on off, causing me extreme discomfort. Momo, my nurse wife, wants to stitch it up with sewing needles and thread. I rubbed some Whataburger ketchup on the wound and took a double shot of Irish Whiskey, and it’s healing nicely.
We took a trip to Colorado last week to visit Momo’s daughter and grandkids and sell Momo custom purses at a craft show, but that didn’t pan out. As most of you know, Colorado is one of the most liberal states in the union. California used to be, but folks moved from there to the rocky mountain high that old John Denver used to warble about. We saw plenty of trippy folks when we shopped at Sprouts for regular cereal and milk. Everyone in the store looked like models from an L.L. Bean catalog. Lots of flannel, leggings, facial hair, patchouli oil fragrance, and expensive hiking boots. We found some all-natural, gluten-free, free-range raisin brand and Tibetan goat’s milk, as well as some Mrs.Sasquatch gluten-free, sugar-free cookies. The girl at the checkout had so many piercings on her face that she looked like she took a head dive into a tackle box. She was very mountain trippiesque. The 6,588-foot altitude played hell with my breathing, so I figure most of the folks in Colorado Springs are perpetually high from oxygen deprivation, and you add weed on top of that.
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.
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.
Now, I know that the world is off its axis: Willie Nelson is moving his famous 4th of July Picnic from Texas to somewhere in the Northeast to beat the heat. Look, Willie, the brutal life ending heat, Lone Star longnecks beer, no restroom facilities, drugged crazed hippies and cowboys are what your picnic is about. If Waylon was here, he would kick your scrawny old butt for even considering a relocation to of all places…Yankee land. Kris is still around, so he might just step in and do it. I attended one of his picnics back in the late 70s at Palo Duro Canyon and damn near expired from the hellish heat, no water and very little food. I survived by crawling under a car for shade, which at that point, it didn’t matter, my skin was roasted, and my dark hair bleached white. Around dark, ole Willie steps up to the mic and belts out Whisky River. Trigger, his beat-up Martin guitar was out of tune, his singing was off meter and he was likely higher than a California Redwood, but it was Willie, our Patron Saint of Texas Country Music. We sat transfixed on the hard dirt and rock, fire ants chewing on our legs, Rattle Snakes crawling about begging for a beer, and hundreds of poor passed out folks missing the show they came for. Please, Willie, keep it in Texas. I have confirmation from a good and mostly reliable source that your Saint Hood is imminent. This might screw it up.
Jewish Students Revolt Against Federal Protected Students
There is now a movement on most of the elite university campuses to oust and delete the fake Palestinian protesters. Two groups calling themselves “Jews For Jesus” and “Frat Boys Revenge” are now in place at most of the major universities. Maya Sharona, field correspondent for NPR interviewed a protestor at MIT.
MS: Excuse me, are you a woman or a man, It’s hard to tell with all the scarfs wrapped around your head?
Student: I am neither of those words, call me a new servant of Allah, willing to die for whatever Allah and that woman with the megaphone tells me too. Please film my left side, that’s my best profile. Should I show my molitove cocktail for the camera?
MS: Sorry, there is no camera, this is radio. What exactly are you protesting?
Student: I am not really sure, wait a moment, I must check TikTok and Facebook, all of our information and instructions comes from them. Ahh yes, here we are, (screaming)” Death to Israel, Death to all Jews, and Death to America” we demand Starbucks Latte’s and vegan pizzas, student loan forgiveness, and a free diploma in the curriculum of our choice. That’s a bummer about the no camera, got all dressed up for nothing.
MS: There is a group of frat boys over there by that police car. They look menacing and most of them are twice the size of your comrades. I believe they may be about to kick your butts.
Student: Allah and Papa Biden will protect us, we are the chosen people of Palestine, or maybe it’s Gaza, or Syria. It doesn’t matter, we are protected by the Federal Government, like the tiny fish and the lady-boys with fake boobies.
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.
I am borrowing a piece of Joan Didion’s famous book title to make a point; I don’t think she would mind. I can’t ask permission because she expired in 2021, but I am a fan of her works.
After yelling and cursing the television screen for a few weeks now, thanks to the pampered and entitled Ivy League students and their new besties, the Palestinian agitators, I began to understand their imagined cause. They hate their parents, they hate their country, they hate you and me, and they hate themselves for hating everything and understanding nothing: the “everybody gets a participation trophy” generation has come of age. The soccer moms and helicopter parents created this pack of little Franken-Children, and us old folks have to suffer their folly.
I’m no Dr. Phil, (although the name affiliation is there) just an old guy that has seen a thing or three and stayed in a Holiday Inn Express a few times, although I prefer Drury Inns. This is my blog, and I can darn sure say what I please, no matter how much it offends, or not. Getting kicked off of Twitter numerous times, only makes me more insufferable.
I remember being a teenager in the turbulent sixties when protest against the Vietnam War and Lyndon Johnson were in full swing. Those were mostly students and a mix of outsiders singing songs and they carrying signs, that mostly say hooray for our side and all that Hippie Dippy Love Love Panda crap. Yes, they burned and bombed some buildings and would have lynched L.B.J. if they had gotten their THC-stained hands on him. Their purpose was to end the war, not end America. As misguided as they were, the strength in numbers and the news media’s coverage gave them a skewed and at times, misguided pulpit, and it did make a difference. Those little Hippie protesters, for the most part, grew up to be productive citizens and parents, although many of them became Devil-Dog politicians, radical teachers and Satanic university professors and they, Dear Hearts, are partially responsible for the turmoil of today. Once our boys in Washington took prayer, God and the Bible out of our schools, the Demon Brigades sallied forth, and the slow walk away from Christianity began. Thank God and Pastor Greg Laurie, it’s resurging with a vengeance never before seen in this country. Is it too little too late? Maybe for some, that are past the point of reason, their minds altered from tiny Demonic brain worms. (a cool phrase lifted from Bobby Kennedy).
Instead of carrying signs and singing songs of praise while marching toward Bethlehem, the misguided young’uns, wearing their backpack full of trophies, are slouching away towards evil.
My sainted Mother’s second cousin, Elfinian Keebler, owned one of the largest cattle ranches in Texas. Located between Mineral Wells and Ranger, Texas. It took four days to cover the width and another two days or so to ride the length. By Texas standards, it was a residential lot, but 3,800 acres ain’t what it used to be in the 1950s.
Elfinian’s daughter, Cookie, wasn’t into raising cattle, although she was the proverbial FFA queen. She had gone steady with every boy in high school and most of the ranch hands and had been riding horses since she could crawl. Her older brother, Chip, was a knock off the old Keebler block; he was a cowboy to the bone, raised on Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. His mama, Piddle, fancied herself as a debutant who married low and wanted her baby boy to be a doctor of some sort, but Chip was a dunce and had the IQ of a piss-ant: riding the range was about all he was good for, and his horse did most of the thinking. Cookie was the plucky little prickly one and decided she was taking the ranch in a different direction, creating a stink between her and Daddy Elfinian. Cookie wanted to raise Llamas and Highland goats. In Texas, anything but cattle and horses is considered blasphemy, and sheep and goats aren’t welcome except on the supper menu.
A year into her Llama plan, Daddy put the brakes on. One Hundred Llamas, forty donkeys to guard the Llamas against Coyotes, and half a dozen cow dogs to keep the donkeys under control were more than Papa Keebler could swallow. The donkeys and dogs had lost interest in the Llamas and had gone back to hanging out with the cattle. The critters were pretty, but they were no better than a cow: eat, spit, and crap.
A contingent of robe-wearing folks in limousines arrived at the ranch house on a Saturday afternoon. A realtor from Mineral Wells introduced them as followers of the Dalai Lama, most recently of Tibet, a tiny country in Asia. Elfinian had never heard of this Lama guy, but he invited them in for a set down, some of Piddles’s baked cookies, and a drink of Jack Daniels. The head robe-wearing spokesperson was the Dalai Lama’s sister, Deli Lama. She wanted to buy a piece of the Keebler Ranch so the Dalai could have refuge from the Chinese who had booted him out of Tibet, and he wanted to raise a Llama or some hairy sheep, his favorite spirit animal.
Papa Keebler sold the group three hundred acres, including the existing herd of Llamas and all the donkeys and cow dogs. It was a win-win deal. Cookie volunteered to help get the ranch workable and show the tinder-foots the art of Texas ranching.
Eight weeks later, the Dalai Llama arrived in a private helicopter, touching down on the new helipad next to the ranch house an army of Monks and Hari Krishna volunteers had constructed for his holiness. His sister, Deli, her daughter Carol, and The Keebler family were there to welcome him to Texas. He stepped out of the chopper wearing a white Stetson from Leddy’s Western Store over in Fort Worth. The multi-talented Monks also played many instruments, so they broke into a rousing rendition of San Antonio Rose and then The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You. The Dalai felt right at home and immediately asked for a “coldbeer.”
After an all-nighter traditional Texas BBQ and a dozen kegs of Pearl and Tibetian Beer, The Dalai Lama surprised everyone by mounting a horse at sunrise and touring the ranch with Cookie and Elfinian. He had picked up a pair of jeans, some Justin boots, and a 44 Colt pistol in Fort Worth, and like in the movies, he was itching to plug him some Hombres. He also had purchased a twin-engine Cesena T50 airplane like Sky King flew and wanted Cookie to be his sidekick. Elfinian managed to wrangle the pistola from the Dalai before someone wound up planted, and he damned sure didn’t want his daughter flying in a plane with this loco-Lama.
The Dalai’s sister, Deli, and her daughter, Carol, were huge fans of New York musicals, especially Carol Channing. Miss Channing was in Fort Worth appearing at the Casa Manana production of “Hello Dolly,” so the Dalai Lama arranged for Carol and the entire theater company to put on an open-air show at his new Llama ranch. A cast of a hundred, the orchestra and sets were delivered by trucks, rigged, and a portable stage was built near the Llama corral. Half the ranching community was seated on the tailgate of their pickups, beer coolers stocked with Pearl and Mama’s, and babies scurried around the grassy lawn in front of the ranch house. The sun went down, the lights came up, and Carol Channing, as “Dolly,” walked up to the mike and sang, ” Hello Dalai, it’s so nice to have you back where you belong.” This kind of stuff can only happen in Texas.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 