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My Local Grocery Store: Surprising Encounters with Father Frank


I visited my local H.E.B. a few days ago to do my grocery shopping for the week. Just so you know, I loathe shopping for groceries: negotiating the crowded aisles, pushing a cart that steers hard left, trying to read your shopping list, and dodging the blue hairs wanting to run you over. It’s more than any man my age should have to endure.

The geriatric inhabitants of Pecan Plantation have christened this store as their domain, and they make their own rules of engagement. I’ve had my toes run over, my legs pinned between a grocery cart and the dairy cabinet, rammed from behind for being too slow, and verbally assaulted by an 80-pound octogenarian because I got the last loaf of “dollar bread.” The old bag pulled out a flip-top Motorola cell phone and threatened to call 911 to report me, so I reluctantly handed over the loaf. She shook a bony finger in my face and growled, “And your little dog, too.”

Wednesday is the big day for the sample gals to push their wares on the shoppers. You can’t go twenty feet without a chirpy hostess wearing her “Pioneer Woman” apron wanting to stick a food sample in your face. Forget trying to get away, they track you until you stop and then thrust the toothpick impaled morsel into your protesting mouth. I unwillingly managed to taste sushi, sausage roll, carrot cake, cheese whiz, and wine before I could get to the first aisle, and by then, I needed a Prilosec, so I bought that as well.

After shopping, I proceeded to the checkout stand. As I rounded a corner near the book section, I bumped hard into a table, partially blocking the aisle.

Father Frank, the priest from my former church, Our Lady of Perpetual Repentance, sat behind a 6-foot fold-out table.
On his table is a stack of leaflets, bottles of water, and giveaway key chains shaped like the Virgin Mary. It’s been a while since I have seen the good Father, so we exchange our pleasantries. The missus and I changed churches about a year ago, choosing one closer to home.

After a brief howdy conversation, I asked Father Frank why he was staffing a table at a grocery store?


With a deep sigh, he explained,

“The church is losing so many of the flock that the diocese has put me here to drum up new members.”


I didn’t want to offend by asking delicate questions, so I said, ” I suppose you have to start somewhere, and the crowd here is about the right age to be finalizing their looming Heavenly travel arrangements.” He thought that was prolific and said he would use that phrase in a future sermon.

Now, more curious, I ask him about the giveaways on his table.
With a big smile, he explains,

“The bottled water is actually blessed holy water, bottled right in my church by altar boys. We figure if it’s good enough to drive out demons and christen babies, it is strong enough to cure the pallet and insides of foul offenses. It has a slight hint of mint, so it may be used as an alcohol-free mouthwash in a pinch. I drank a bottle a few days ago and was confined to the rectory bathroom for many hours. Nothing like a happy gut and pleasant breath you know”.


I said, “Yes, I know that feeling, and my cousin Beverly could have used a case of that for mouthwash if you know what I mean.” He said he did and gave me a bottle to aid in her deliverance.

The good Father is on a roll and excitedly explains that they have made considerable changes to his church to attract new members.
Handing me the leaflet to inspect, he proudly proclaims,

“look at these pictures! We now have a glassed-in section of pews with flat-screen monitors installed on the back of each bench so the young boys and girls can access their computer games and social media during the sermon, piped into the enclosure by a high-powered HD digital audio system. To save parishioners time, confessions can be uploaded via your home computer or smartphone, and communion has an optional wine flight that, for a nominal fee, comes with a small crystal goblet.


Am I not hearing him, right? Preteen kids gaming in the pews, computer confessions, wine tasting? How about the singing choirs, the fire, and damnation, the rock-hard pews that make your butt sweat and your legs go numb? A church service is supposed to have some misery, not comfort.

I tried to interrupt, but the good Father was in over-drive as he continued to exclaim,

“The most daring change, and the one I’m most proud of, is converting the adult Sunday school room to a sports bar for after-service football games. It’s a brilliant concept; come to church, walk across the hall, and watch the game on 80-inch flat screens. We call it “The Blue Nun Sports Bar,” with Mother Prudy’s help, I recruited some of the younger nuns from the Abby to come over and wait tables after their service. The sisters are doing a great job but grumbling about the miserly tips and are threatening to hold a sit-in.
I told them to stop offering a repentance prayer over every beer served, and the tips may improve. It’s best to reserve a blessing for food service only. Next thing I know, they are wearing tight-fitting T-shirts with “We Aren’t Your Mommas Nuns” on the back. I don’t know what gives with these younger sisters. The piercings, tattoos, and spiky hairdos are not what I‘m used to. Nuns are supposed to be stoic and mean, not cute and hip.


Well, I say,

” you’re certainly doing everything you can to increase membership, I may have to come to see you next Sunday. I need a good dose of religion and football.”
I shake the good Father’s hand, bid him adieu, and shuffle on to the checkout.

On my way out of the store, I noticed a table tucked in by the potting soil and flowers. Staffed by a young, tanned, rock star, poofy-haired, frock-clad fellow flanked by two bikini-clad girls, standing on either side of the table handing out free cold beer and hot dogs. The sign above them read “Rolling Rock Love and Peace Community Church Membership Drive.” I was thirsty, so I scooted on over. Looks like Father Frank may be in trouble here.

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Coca-Cola Cowboys: The Charm of Hollywood Icons And A Politician That Wants To Be Noticed


“He’s just a Coca-Cola cowboy…He’s got an Eastwood smile and Robert Redford hair.” Mel Tillis

And he’s a pretty good actor. Just saying

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End Times in Texas: Snow Chaos at H-E-B


Backyard Bird Cafe at Casa de Strawn

According to the news gals on TV, the end of the world is upon Texas: snow is coming on Thursday and Friday, maybe a foot or more of the lovely puffy winter blanket. The problem is that the folks in this part of Texas don’t know anything about snow or how to deal with it. Schools are closing, businesses are having “End of Times” sales and liquor stores are running out of stock. This is as serious as the chicken flu.

Like every other fool in town, I went to the H-E-B for a few supplies: pork rinds, wine, beer, Cheeto’s, Wolf Brand Chili, A2 milk, and Ovaltine. I live in a hilly area, and if Momo and I get snowed or iced in, we cannot get out. Exceptions would be made for the hospital or the liquor store for hootch supplies.

I walked into an “End Times” scenario. The H-E-B, that pure Texas grocer, was in full pandemonium mode. The local police were arresting a mother for stealing food from an old woman’s shopping cart, her two young baby childs holding onto their mother’s legs as she was dragged out of the store. The store manager tased an old guy for ramming other shoppers with the store’s personal scooter.

Women were fighting, pulling hair, punching, kicking, and biting each other over toilet paper. Children ran wild down the aisles, grabbing cookies and any sugary treat. One kid stood atop the frozen food kiosk, throwing Red Baron pizzas at the snarling crowd below. It was like a scene from The Walking Dead.

I ran into my old pal Mooch. He had a garbage bag full of Pork Rinds and five cases of Pabst Beer, enough to see him through the apocalypse.

I found what I needed and went to the cashier; she said,

“take it, no charge, the machines have cratered.”

Arriving home, I found Momo cleaning our pistols and checking our ammo supply. She’s a crack shot, so I pity the fool who comes onto our property with intentions to steal. She’s excited about the Snowmeggdon and wants to make snow angels in our backyard. I told her the only thing we could make would be old people’s angels when we fall down and can’t get up and have to crawl back to the patio.

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Reflecting on the Luanne Platter at Luby’s…It’s A Texas Thing, Ya’ll


Miss Luanne Platter

Maureen and I visited Luby’s Cafeteria last week for lunch. The smell of the food brought back memories from my childhood.

Back in the 1950s, in Fort Worth, there were Wyatt’s and Luby’s cafeterias. It was always a hard choice for the family. Luby’s had the best deserts, while Wyatt’s always served larger portions. My Dad usually chose Wyatt’s—more bang for the buck. It was the Eisenhower years, and things were tight. That’s back when he was still a Democrat. I was just a hungry kid.

We took our place in line, trays aligned on the metal rail. I scanned the extra-large menu board for my favorite dish but couldn’t find it. I panicked. The platter I came for and have always ordered for decades is “The Luanne Platter,” and they damn well better have it. My blood sugar was low, and I could feel a rant coming on. Maureen rubbed a few drops of “Peace of Mind” lotion under my nose to calm me. Then, in the lower corner of the board, I spotted it. ” The Luann Platter, half portions with a roll – $8.99.” What the hell! It used to be $4.99 with a roll, a drink, and a slice of pie? Retired folk can’t afford those prices.

I approached the smiling lady server and, using my best old man-controlled voice, said,

” I’m not paying $8.99 for a half portion that was $4.99 with a piece of pie the last time I ate at Luby’s,” and I slammed my fist on my tray for effect.

Still smiling, she replied,

” Well,, sir, then you can choose the children’s plate if you are over 65 and/or acting like a child, as of which you appear to be. You have a choice of chicken strips, a hot dog, or spaghetti with 2% milk and a fruit cup. That will set you back $4.99 plus tax. And by the way, The Luanne Platter has been $8.99 since 2001.”

Oh man, the little Pop-Tart was really messing with me now. Her smile had turned to a slight sneer, and her eyes got beady. I leaned over the glass barrier.

” Do you know who Luann Platter is, young lady?” I demanded.

” No, sir. Was she a famous cook or employee of the month or something?” she said. Good Lord, this girl is clueless.

By this point, two other line servers had flanked the young miss in case I went postal. I faced them and, with conviction, said,

” Luanne Platter is the most famous character on the television show, ” King of the Hill.” An animated series set in Garland, Texas, and this dish you serve is named for her. Don’t you know who Hank, Bobby, and Peggy Hill are?”

The three servers’ young faces showed social ignorance. It was useless to explain. I collected my platter, and we proceeded to the checkout.

We sat in our booth, eating our lunch in silence. The food wasn’t as good as it used to be. The good old days are gone for good. My turnip greens were Kale, the most evil weed ever cooked. Maureen’s chicken was rubber faux, and my corn muffin was doughy and awful. We can scratch this one off of our list.

Leaving the cafeteria, a fortyish blond woman in the Luby’s uniform held the door open for us. In a girlish voice, she said,

” Ya’ll come back now.” I noticed her name tag read “Luanne.”

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Growing Up With Mexican Food in 1950s Fort Worth,Texas..My First Visit To Trashy Juanita’s



Childhood memories are like teeth; we all have good and rotten ones. If you grew up in Texas in the 1950s, you will identify with some of mine, or maybe not.

I was nine years old before I dined in a Mexican restaurant. I knew they existed because my father and mother enjoyed them, bringing home little mints and matchbooks touting the restaurant’s name. I got the mints, and my parents put the matchbooks in a jar in the kitchen. I dreamed that one day, I might visit one.

In Texas, Mexican food is part of life. It’s one of the major food groups; a boy cannot grow into a man of substance without it. Not having real Mexican food at that young age affected my evolution into a healthy young specimen. I harbored a nervous tick, stuttered sometimes, and had one leg shorter than the other. All those maladies were cured once I ate the real stuff. The medicinal qualities of Mexican food are exceptional.

For many years, I had eaten tacos at my cousin’s house, believing them to be authentic Mexican food. Sadly, they were nowhere near the real deal. Several times over the summer, my cousin Jok’s mother, Berel, would cook tacos and invite the families for a feast. Cold Beer and tongue-scorching Tacos. Pure Texas.

Berel would stand at her massive gas range, a large pot of ground beef, and a cauldron of boiling Crisco, heating the room to cooking temperature. She would drop a tortilla stuffed with meat into the witch’s cauldron, pull it out, and toss it to the pack of wild African dogs sitting around her kitchen table. The dogs, of course, were my cousins and me. My poor mother would leave the room. She could not bear to see her son eat like a feral child: growling, biting, snarling as we consumed the tacos like they were a cooked Wildebeest. That is what I consider Mexican food and proper behavior when consuming it.

Driving Northwest of downtown Fort Worth on Jacksboro Highway, right before you come to the first honkey tonk, you would find “Trashy Juanita’s” Mexican restaurant. Legendary for its tacos, frijoles, and cold Pearl Beer. It was also legendary for things my father would not mention until I was older. Gambling, shooting dice, and generally questionable behavior were part of the after-hours entertainment. It wasn’t on Jacksboro Highway for the view.

The owner of Juanita Batista, Carlita Rosanna Esposito, was not a trashy woman but a middle-aged Latin beauty with a bawdy laugh and sharp wit. The restaurant’s front yard adornments earned the name. Offended at first, she finally accepted her crown and wore it proudly.

Two rust-eaten pick-up trucks, one painted blue and the other yellow, sat abandoned in the front yard behind a cyclone fence. Pots of flowers decorated the fenders while the beds overflowed with vines and small flowering trees. Fifty or more chickens strutted and pecked around the yard, giving the place a barnyard atmosphere. Some saw a work of art, while others called it a junkyard that happened to serve great food.
In an interview in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Juanita claimed to be related to General Santa Anna, Pancho Villa, and the Cisco Kid, making her royalty in Mexico. The people of Fort Worth loved her, and she was considered a local character of some importance. She often dined with Ben Hogan and the Leonard brothers at Colonial Country Club.

Trashy Juanita’s was my first introduction to authentic Mexican food and all that comes with it.

My father sold one of his many fiddles to a buddy, and with the profit, he took the whole family to dine at Trashy Juanita’s on the Fourth of July, 1958.

Juanita had gone “whole hog” on this holiday. American flags hung from the front porch and draped the cyclone fence. Two small children sat in the front yard shooting bottle rockets at the cars driving on Jacksboro Highway, and the chickens were wrapped in red-white-and-blue crepe paper streamers. Very patriotic and also very redneck Texas.

A jovial Juanita escorted us to a large table beside the kitchen doorway. A waiter delivered tortillas, chips, salsa, and two Pearl beers for my father and grandfather along with large, frosty glasses of sweet iced tea for the rest of us. There was no menu; it was Tacos or nothing at all.

The unfamiliar aroma of exotic food floated on a misty cloud from the kitchen, filling my young nostrils and activating my developing saliva glands. A torrent of spit dripped from my mouth onto the front of my new sear-sucker shirt. My mother cleaned me up and wrapped a napkin around my neck. I was ready: I had my eating clothes on.
We decided the family would dine on a medley of beef and chicken Tacos, frijoles and rice, and guacamole ala Juanita. The waiter rushed our order to the kitchen.

The evening was turning out great. My father was telling jokes, the cold beer flowed, and a waiter walked past our table into the kitchen. Under each arm was one of the patriotically wrapped chickens from the front yard. My grandfather must have forgotten that two young children were at the table and remarked, “There goes our Tacos, can’t get any fresher than that.”

His remark went unnoticed until I asked my father, ” Dad, are we going to eat the pet chickens from the front yard?” He didn’t offer an answer.
I got a big lump in my throat, and my eyes got misty. My sister whimpered and cried like a baby, and my grandmother, seeing her grandchildren in such distress, shed tears in support. Mother gave the two adult men the worst evil eye ever. The mood at the table went from happy to crappy in a minute or less. So much for a joyous family celebration. We might as well be eating Old Yeller for supper.

There was a ruckus in the kitchen, yelling, pots and pans clashing, and the two chickens, still wearing their streamers, half-flew, and half-ran through the dining room and out the front door. The cook was right behind them but tripped over a man’s foot, knocking himself out as he hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the dining room, Juanita announced that there would only be beef Tacos tonight. The two doomed birds had escaped the pan, and my sister and I were happy again. My father breathed a sigh of relief that the night was saved, and my grandfather bent down and polished the new scuff on his size 10 wingtip.

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Everybody Gets A Medal


“Awww, come on man.”

I’m excited for the first time in almost four years: I might receive a Medal of Freedom. I got so worked up that Momo, my wife and a retired RN, had to put me on a Valium drip.

I penned a letter using my Parker fountain pen and had it delivered to the White House via FedEx special D. This morning, I received an email from someone who didn’t use spell-check or Grammarly: What is it with the youngsters working for the old guy? No one can spell.

The young lady, a staffer named Maya Sharona, said someone might consider my request and somebody might be circling back to me. Wow, there is a chance?

I thought my correspondence was professional and heartfelt. It went something like this:

Dear Mr. President Demento,

Since the once sacred Medal of Freedom is now nothing more than a Holiday Inn key-chain hung around one’s neck: the traitor who left behind our patriots in Benghazi receives the medal from the traitor who left behind our patriots in Afghanistan, a Nazi collaborator demonic Hell-Hound, a few half-assed actors, the grumpy old fashion designer, a fake science guy, the monkey whisperer, filthy-rich insider stock trader, backstabbing traitor warmonger, retired basketball player that gave women aids, talk show host, chef, fry cook, and Marty McFly get one, then I should too. Give my best regards to the babysitter.

Patiently waiting for your response,

I’m all jazzed up.

Phil

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Tupperware and Anxiety: A Personal Story About Fear of Food Storage Containers


Not my mother, but the Tupperware and the fridge look about right. Ain’t AI fun!

It takes guts to admit to a phobia. I have more than one, but this one will do for now. I can’t stand to touch plastic ware, mainly Tupperware or any brand that resembles that sturdy piece of American culture from the 1950s.

My mother, rest her sainted soul and bless her heart, was a Tupperware lady. During those years, she hosted numerous parties in our and her friends’ homes.

It wasn’t until years later I learned the truth about these parties. They were a front for gossip and cocktails. In her old age, she admitted it was a sham, and the girls used it as a front to get away from us kids and husbands for a few hours and get sloshed on Manhattans and Gin and Tonics. It was the perfect set-up. She made a small amount of money, had some good hi-balls, and caught up on the neighborhood gossip. They were the forerunner to ” girls night out,” which started in the 90s. I sometimes wandered into the room hoping to find a little finger sandwich or a Vienna sausage on a toothpick. Instead, I found a pack of “big-haired” gals holding a cocktail glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My mother was a world champion smoker and would have a ciggie in hand and one perched in her ashtray. Mothers back then were tough gals.

Our kitchen was stuffed to the point of bursting with the plastic-ware. It filled every drawer and cabinet and was neatly stacked to the ceiling on top of the ice-box. We ate on paper plates and drank from aluminum glasses. There was no room for real dishes or glassware; It was all Tupperware everywhere. The ice box was neatly arranged, with meals sealed in Tupperware. We didn’t call them “leftovers” in our home; they were called “future pre-prepared dinners.” Some of those dinners were on-call for a year or more. That’s the beauty of Tupperware: if properly sealed per the manufacturer’s instructions, the food will last for years.

Now, the explanation of the phobia. It’s complex and involves many layers of childhood anxiety. My therapist said it started with an incident when I was five years old. I don’t remember what I did, but it was severe enough for a butt-whooping from my mother. While trying to escape, she grabbed one arm, a classic move that only mothers use, and wielded the nearest object she could find, which was an 8×10 Tupperware slimline cake storage container. I had no idea plastic ware could hurt so damn much. The impression of the insignia on the bottom of the container lingered on my butt for days. Of course, I showed it to all my buddies, and they were pretty impressed and worried because their mothers owned the same Tupperware containers.

After that incident, I couldn’t bring myself to touch plastic ware in any form. That brought more punishment because when helping with the dishes, I would retreat from the kitchen sink when a dirty piece of Tupperware was to be washed. There was nothing that could make me touch that vile object. That plastic dish scared me as much as the monster under my bed. My father realized that his only son was becoming a child neurotic and stepped in to help my mother with the dishes, thus allowing me to enjoy a somewhat normal childhood.

Not much has changed in 65 years; I can’t touch the stuff. My wife, Momo, loves her some Tupperware. She has a beautiful assortment of colored containers that, when soiled, she puts in the dishwasher. That is another layer of my anxiety. I cannot take them from the rack. I use a set of tongues to grab the cursed piece and then lay it on the counter for her to put away. I don’t care to know where she hides this stuff as long as I don’t come into contact with it.

My therapist is a cheeky fellow. He told me that being spanked with a Tupperware dish and all the problems it caused me could have been worse. My mother could have grabbed a PYREX dish.

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Addressing Border Issues: Boy Scouts Armed with Daisy Air Rifles


Troop of Texas Boy Scouts marching to the El Paso border.

There has got to be a better way to secure our border. Our illustrious governor of Texas sent the state National Guard to help the border patrol, but they were issued only one bullet, which is to be carried in their shirt pocket, like Officer Barney Fife. Now we have Venuswealean gangs attacking our officers and guards with knives, broken bottles, and tire irons, and our boys can’t shoot back to protect themselves.

Problem solved: send in a troop of Texas Boy Scouts armed with Daisy pellet rifles. Those pellets may not kill the invaders, but damn, they hurt, and those Boy Scouts always save the day. Be Prepared!

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Elvis Presley Meets the Afterlife: A Southern Tale


Two Kings In A Caddie

The high desert at night is solitude. The velvet blackness holds wondrous things.

The “57” Caddie pulled away from the gas station, spewing gravel. The old man who had filled it up a few minutes ago watched until the tail lights disappeared down the highway. Two twenty-dollar bills for ten dollars of gas, go figure. A two-dollar bill was mixed in the bills; TCB was printed on the front. What did that mean?

The most comfortable place in the world for the aged singer was sitting behind the wheel of his beloved white Cadillac.  

He was not the sleek crooner in size thirty-six sport coats anymore; he didn’t care to be. He was comfortable in his own skin.  After decades of dieting, he surrendered to the siren’s call of biscuits, gravy, and his beloved peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Everybody gets a little heavy as they age, he told himself, and after seeing an old girlfriend in a supermarket trash magazine, he felt better about his expanding looks. The once sleek red-headed dancer was now as portly as himself. It’s a shame he couldn’t call her up. But then again, she loved the man he used to be, and he loved the girl she once was.

The decision to disappear in the late 70s was his way of escaping the hell he had created for himself. Drugs, alcohol, guns, crazy-ass women, and an army of hangers-on. The whole scene was sucking what life he had left from him. Realizing that if he was going live incognito, Las Vegas, Nevada, was ground zero. Every casino on the strip had Elvis impersonators. He could hide in plain sight.

To stave off boredom, he worked at one of the cheesy late-night wedding chapels for a while, imitating himself. He loved the irony of it all: having the wedding party cry and gagging with laughter, telling stories only the real Elvis would know. The patrons appreciated his stories and one-man karaoke performance, and he could still make a few young brides swoon.

At times, he became bone-weary and yearned to go home, but he knew that could never happen except in dreams. These long rides in the desert calmed him and allowed sleep without prescription drugs. He was clean now and was damn – straight going to stay that way.

The Caddies headlights illuminated the figure of a man standing by the roadside, thumb in the air. Elvis never picked up a hitcher, but a tingling feeling in his scalp told him he should stop for this one. Pulling over, he waited for the stranger to approach the car. The door opened, and a figure slid into the seat beside him. He turned to introduce himself.

An old man sat in the glow of the dash lights. His long gray hair was tied into a ponytail, and a neatly trimmed gray beard filled his face. He wore a loose-fitting red running jacket with matching sweatpants. His gold lame running shoes shined like bars of gold.

Elvis studied him briefly and then asked the old man, “I know you, mister, I’ve seen you on TV, aren’t you, Willie Nelson? What are you doing out in this desert this time of night?”

The old man turned and said, “No, I’m not Willie Nelson, and that’s a fine compliment, to be sure. I’m not going far, and it’s nice to meet you, Elvis.”

Speaking his first name as if he had known him forever, and his voice made him squirm. He hadn’t introduced himself.

In a slightly scolding, fatherly tone, the old man addressed Elvis,

“Young man, I’m shocked that a Christian boy like yourself from a first-class Baptist church in Tunica, Mississippi, would not recognize me. Don’t you find it strange that I know who you are? In fact, my boy, I know everything about you from the day you were born. I’m a little hungry, can I have one of those peanut butter and banana sandwiches hiding in your glove box?”

Elvis told the old man he was welcome to one, and there’s an ice-cold Pepsi in the cooler sitting on the back seat.

The old man pulled a soda from the cooler and then pushed the caddie’s glove box button. The door dropped down with a clunk. From inside came an angelic light that illuminated his face in a soft glow.  Elvis stared into the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen. Endless in depth, filled with kindness and forgiving, but tinged with a bit of sadness. The old fellow looked as old as dirt, but in that light, his features were as soft as a pastel portrait.

The old man sighed and, in between bites, said, “I appreciate the snack. It seems like I’ve been working for an eternity and have missed a lot of meals. All I do is go from one place to another, convincing folks to follow Dad and granting miracles. I was out here last week waiting for you, but that case of heartburn brought on by that Red Baron pizza laid you up for the night. You really shouldn’t eat that junk. Look at me, trim and healthy, all because of the Mediterranean diet. Can you imagine all those gals shooting themselves up with that Ozempic stuff just to stay thin?”

The old man smiled, reached over, touched Elvis’s shoulder, and said,

“ I’ve got someplace to be, and I want you to go with me. We can have a little visit along the way, a counseling session of sorts, no charge, it’s on the house. And by the way, when I’m down here, in this realm, I prefer to be called just plain old Sonny; it’s less frightening…puts people at ease.”

After driving for a while, Sonny turned to Elvis and said, “You know son, I play in a band when I’m home, and your name comes up often, the guys are always asking me when you’re coming up to join them.”

Elvis said, “That’s nice, sir; who might your band members be?” and where, exactly, is home?”

“Well, home is where my Father is; Heaven. You know, the pearly gates and such, sitting on clouds, the weathers good all the time, all of that stuff you read about.”

“You mean streets of gold and everyone lives in their own temple type of Heaven?” asked Elvis.

Sonny replied, “Well not exactly, the streets of gold were a real maintenance nightmare, so we went back to Jordanian river – rock. The temples were a little small, so we made some major changes right after Frank Lloyd Wright came up. Everyone now has a nice little place with a view of the garden…everyone’s equal in Dad’s eyes you know. Your Mamma and Daddy’s place is an exact copy of Graceland. Bet you didn’t know that!”

Elvis swallowed hard and said, “You’ve seen my Mommy and Daddy?”

“Well of course I have you nimrod. Didn’t I just tell you who I am and where I live. Don’t you listen!” replied Sonny.

Sonny clapped his hands on his knees and said, “Now, back to my band for a minute. It’s made up of the best musicians that ever lived.  Your old buddies Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash just recently joined up, and I’ve got Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, and George Harrison on guitars, and Gene Kruppa and Keith Moon on drums, and I’m looking forward to Ringo joining up pretty soon. There’s Count Basie and Mozart on keyboards, Roy Orbison, Bobby Darin, Buddy Holly, and Old Blue Eyes on vocals. Man, that Orbison can hit those high notes…really ticks Sinatra off. Frank has a bad attitude about everything, always wanting to get the Rat Pack up and running again. Dad always sends him “down below” for a few days to keep him in line.”

Elvis struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. He knew all those dudes when they were alive, and Bobby Darin was a running buddy back in the day.

On a bit of a roll, Sonny continued, “Myself, I play a little bass sometimes if Noel Redding is busy greeting the British arrivals down at the gate.  John Lennon still claims it wasn’t Yoko that broke up the band; he swears it was McCartney’s doings, and old Ed Sullivan already has a Beatles reunion show planned, just waiting for the other two to show up. I told him it wouldn’t be too much longer, but it wasn’t a deal if he had that stupid little mouse puppet Popo Gigio on the bill.  I just wanted to squeeze him until his little eyes popped out. Puppets make me uncomfortable.”

Looking at the road ahead, Elvis was sweating like a lawn sprinkler. His mouth was dry as cotton, and he couldn’t catch a good breath. This was too much for him to digest at one time. Here he is, giving a ride to the Son of God. “Is this the way it’s supposed to be?” he thought, “Aren’t you supposed to see a white light and your loved ones coming to meet you?” Not the Lord telling you he plays in a rock band full of dead musicians and hates mouse puppets. Maybe he was having an LSD flashback.

Sonny turned to Elvis and said, “No, Elvis, you’re not having a flashback, and you don’t always see the light…and yes, I can read your thoughts.  Really, this is pretty much the way it happens. I make special provisions for people as needed, and you are a special provision type of fellow, so enjoy the evening.  I’m not saying it’s your time to come home to “my place,” but who knows. Take the next right up here; you’re going to like where we are going.”

Elvis turned the caddie down the dirt road and, after a mile or so, came to a ramshackle tin building. The exterior looked like an old military barrack, and over the door was a cheesy neon sign that read “Sonny’s Place.” No cars parked in the lot or tire tracks in the sand. This joint was really out of the way.

Sonny escorted Elvis through the front door, greeted by a kindly lady sitting behind a counter. Elvis noticed her name tag read “Patsy C.” When she saw Sonny, she said, “My Savior, how good to see you again; everyone’s been asking if you were going to come by tonight, who’s your pal?”

Sonny replied, “This is the famous Elvis Presley darling, but he’s not here officially yet, he’s just visiting for a spell, slap one of those silver wrist bands on him please.”

Elvis interrupted, “Excuse me sir, what’s the silver band mean?”

Smiling, Sonny said, “Oh, it means you can’t have the top-shelf drinks, can’t use the nice restrooms, and most of all it means you’re not dead yet…dig.”

Elvis understood all right, and that was okay with him. As long as he had not assumed room temperature.

When they walked into the main room, thunderous applause greeted them. Sonny humbly waved and nodded, and Elvis, slack-jawed and gob-smacked, stared at all the dead musicians and singers he had known.

On stage, Bobby Darin was kicking off “Mack The Knife,” accompanied by an all-star band of Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Mozart, Charlie Bird, Gene Krupa, Glen Miller, Harry James, and an entire horn section. Bobby saw Elvis and gave him a big smile and a thumbs up.

When the song ended, Bobby directed a spotlight to the small table occupied by Sonny and Elvis, and in that “oh so cool voice,” he announced, “Ladies and Gents, in the crowd tonight we have the one and only, my good friend, Mr. Elvis Presley, stand up and take a bow, E.”

The crowd went wild. Everyone was on their feet, applauding, and from the back of the room, a chant was growing, “Elvis..Elvis..Elvis.” A shaking, teary-eyed Elvis stood as best he could and acknowledged his peers….his dead peers.

Sonny touched his arm and said, “Go on up there, my boy, give it all you got.”

When Elvis walked onstage, the band came over and gave him a hug. His old friend Bobby held him the longest. Elvis grabbed the microphone, turned to the band, and yelled, “Viva Las Vegas in the key of G.”

Strutting, gyrating, not missing a note, the crowd dancing in the aisles, and Elvis was putting on the show of his life. His heart was so full of joy that he felt it would burst, and then it did.

As he floated backward, he felt hands engulfing his body, lowering him to the stage. He was aware of people standing around him, and then he saw a beautiful bright light, and from that light emerged his parents, who were leading him through a heavenly garden to a lovely copy of his beloved Graceland.

The musicians formed a circle around his body, heads bowed, quietly praying.

They parted when Sonny came on stage, and he knelt next to Elvis’s body. With his hand on Elvis’s forehead, he said, “Wake up Elvis, you’re home now.”

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Scooter Adventures: Not Your Grandma’s Ride


The day after Thanksgiving, I made my usual trip to the grocery in search of any food item that didn’t resemble a turkey. I came away with ice cream sandwiches, Corsicana Fruitcake, and Kinky Friedman Salsa.

As I was leaving H-E-B, I noticed a gathering at the far end of the parking lot, so I wandered over to see what the gathering was about. Being close to Sun City, a throng of seniors usually means a medical condition or someone got mashed by a car. 

There, gathered under a brightly displayed “Scooter Town” sign, was a throng of senior citizens, milling about a display of personal electric scooters, or as I call them, ” fancy wheelchairs.”

I squeezed into the mob to have a better view and was surprised at how beautiful this “new generation” of personal scooters were. The throng was “oohing and ahhing” as if they were witnessing the unveiling of the new Cadillac at the State Fair car show. One old-timer commented to his wife that “these new scooters made his one at home look like a Model T.” I had to agree; they were light-years better than the one my Aunt Beulah used to ride around Santa Anna, Texas.

One scooter caught my eye, so I shuffled over to check it out. As I was bent down, admiring the tires, the salesman, standing behind me, said, “go ahead, sit in her, crank her up and take a test drive.”

” Aren’t these supposed to be for use in the house and grocery stores?” I asked.

The salesman, in his best excitable voice says, “Heck no, these aren’t your Grandma’s scooter boy, these are the new generation of senior transportation. You can drive these babies anywhere. Take them to the store, the post office, the gym,  Luby’s, the doctor- where ever. They are 100 percent street legal, and the best part is you don’t need a license. So…when the kids think you’re a vegetated pabulum sucker and take away the car, you can get one of these beauties and keep on trucking.

He was in full salesman mode now, and continued to explain in further detail, “Take this model you’re looking at here, this is our newest one, The 1967 Summer Of Love Retro. Notice the authentic tie-dye seat, the leather fringe appointments, and the custom paint job, that is an exact copy of Janis Joplin’s psychedelic Porsche Roadster. Upfront here, we have the hand-tooled-Tibetan copper bull horn, and in the back, there is a 2500 lb wench with a carbonized cut-proof chain. The tires are reproductions of the legendary Goodyear Redline radials wrapped around these special little Cragar Mags. To finish the package, we’ve included a Lear-8 track tape player with Bluetooth, a leather stash bag, if you’re so inclined for that scene, and that cute little bird sitting on the guitar decal”.

“Why would you need a bullhorn and wench?” I asked.

He exclaimed, ” The Bullhorn,is for yelling at people that get in your way, such as punk-ass kids or anyone disrespectful to old folks, and,  if you’re still feeling frisky like back in the day, it can be used to voice your opinion when protesting at Walmart or the Social Security Office. The wench and chain have come standard on our California and Oregon Protest models for years are for attaching you and your scooter to tree, gate, power plant, or structure of your choice. That cut-proof chain makes it tough for the police to get you unhooked. How about taking her out for a little test drive?

I agreed and eased onto the cushy seat.

After a few minutes of instruction, I was ready to roll. I turned the ignition key and felt the hard bump of the powerful transmission lighting up.

” Go ahead, gun the throttle, listen to those pipes,” said the salesman.

I gunned the throttle, and the digitally-reproduced sound of a Harley Davidson chopper roared out of the side pipes. He was right, this was not my Aunt Beulah’s  scooter.

The salesman warned me to take it easy because the controls were extremely touchy, and don’t touch that red button below the seat. With that warning clearly ignored, I pulled the sleek little scooter onto the parking lot and accelerated down to the exit. This baby was smooth and fast. I racked the pipes a bit and folks stared at me like I was an old Hell’s Angel that escaped from the nursing home.

The salesman didn’t say anything about “not” driving in traffic, so I figured it would be alright to at least cruise down the street and take a spin around the Dairy Queen.

While waiting at the exit to merge onto the street,  I thought some tunes would be cool, so I reached down and pushed the button on the Lear 8 Track, and Steppenwolf blared from the two Bose side-mounted speakers. I also mashed a small button next to the sound system labeled “Turbo.” The one the salesman told me to avoid.

“What the hell! Let’s see what this baby can do,” I yelled into the wind.

With “Born to Be Wild” blaring at 250 DB’s I gunned the throttle.

I figured the scooter would react like an old-folks ride. I didn’t expect that sucker to raise straight up on its rear wheels and do a “high-ho Silver” wheelie across Highway 377.

With zero control of the beast,  I shot down the busy street like an NRA dragster, narrowly missing a bread truck, an eighteen-wheeler, and three Cadillac’s by mere inches.

I roared by a Black Cadillac, and the lady behind the wheel crossed herself and showed me her rosary. With that sign, I figured “What the hell, I’m going to die.”

Pinned to the back of the seat by the G-Force, hand frozen on the throttle, I somehow made a hard right turn into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen, spewing gravel onto the cars waiting in the order-line, as I did a rubber-burning 360 and came to a stop.

The “little beast” expelled a  tiny raspy -cough from the shiny side pipes, shuddered a few times and died.

Stunned, disoriented, and shaking like a dog passing a peach pit, I dismounted the scooter, and on shaky legs, walked back to H-E-B to retrieve my car, leaving the little beast where it died.

Driving home, I decided that I ever need one of those scooters, I’ll buy something safer, like a Harley.