The rugged mountains and the slow-mo village of Ruidoso, New Mexico, are two of my favorite places. Momo and I try and visit a few times a year, and this year, in February, we are taking a road trip to the mountains and hopefully some snow. Momo likes communicating with the wild Deer via nose-to-nose rubs and feeding them Quaker Granola cereal. She’s quite popular with the local wildlife, and they seem to know where we are staying and what time we arrive. Word travels fast in the forest.
One stop we look forward to is the McDonald’s in Roswell, New Mexico. This isn’t a run-of-the-mill burger joint; the building is built to resemble an alien saucer inside and out and is complete with small alien statues around the exterior of the building. We love it, as do thousands of other earthly visitors who flock there to take pictures and eat an alien burger.
On the first trip we took to Ruidoso years ago, I spent eight hours talking up Roswell, the saucer crash that happened in 1947, the government cover-up, and space aliens in general. Momo was worked up and ready to meet a spaceman by the time we rolled up to the space-age McDonalds. We had a burger, checked out the local costumed weirdos that hung around the place, and then got on the road to Ruidoso. I told her to be on the lookout for aliens, since the town is lousy with them. I had never seen her so excited and hopeful. She put on her tin-foil hat, got her iPhone camera ready, and was looking for a close encounter of any kind. A block or two from the McDonalds, she had a conniption fit and almost jumped from our moving car. Walking down the sidewalk with two larger human units was a small alien in a red suit and silver shoes. We pulled over, and she jumped out and started taking its picture. The parents of the big-headed little boy in a Spider-Man jammies didn’t take kindly to a crazy woman with a tin-foil hat taking pictures of them. I felt sort of bad, but not too bad. She still believes.
Butch, Sundance, and the gang during a weekend in Granbury, Texas
Maybe some bloggers need prompts to give them that “get along little doggy” push, but I’m not one of them. My personal writing space and white laptop screen belong to me alone. I don’t need ” Big Brother Blogger” to lead me in any direction. I get lost enough on my own. WordPress means well. They want to help us. Think of them as the “Blog spot with a heart, we are all one big internet family, it takes a village” and all that crap. My track record of offending everyone is extensive and documented. No prisoners were taken, and none were harmed. My internal and social filters were lost some years ago. Not even WordPress can reinstall them. I am a rebel with no cause.
Me, the author, back in the day before I got a haircut
The writing prompt for today was a zinger: what would you put on a highway billboard. Considering most drivers have one eye and hand on their cell phones and are not paying attention to the road, why would the morons be looking up at a billboard? “Get your face back in that phone you idiot! Are you trying to cause a wreck?” would be an appropriate sign.
I don’t have a problem with highway advertising. Buc-ee’s has some great signs, as do Dairy Queen and McDonald’s. The only time they catch my attention is when Momo is driving, and I have time to scan the horizon. Churches are getting more inventive, ” Next Exit To Save Your Soul” visit the Second Baptist Church of Twickelstick, Texas, turn right and go 4 miles to reach Heaven. Car dealers are the most annoying. The classics that scream of desperation are ” Dust Bowl City, Where Texas History Lives.” Every darn town in Texas is not a historical landmark. My town, Granbury, is a true old-west historic town., and has been voted that honor for many years now. Lots of notable stuff went down here in the 1800s. General Granbury of the Confederate Army of Texas is a famous man; he lived here, so the town was named after him. The city fathers have armed citizens standing guard over his statue on the square because the new wokie residents from California want to pull it over with a rope tied to their Tesla.
Notable and historical visitors, gangsters, outlaws, and past residents of Granbury were; Billy The Kid, Sam Bass, Bass Reeves, Billy the singing Bass, The Bass-O-Matic, The Purple Passion Triple Jiggle Bass Lure, Cheif Quanah Parker, Santana, Sitting Bull, Crawling Bull, Annie Oakley, The Statler Brothers, Jerry Reed, Wild Bill Hickock, Jack Ruby, Lee Harvey Oswald, Lyndon Johnson, Lady Bird, Big Bird, The Surfing Bird, Elmo, Burt and Ernie, Clarance Odbody, Mr. Potter, George Baily, Rasputin, Krushev, Stalin, The Big Bopper, Buddy Holley, Candy Barr, Bill Barr, Captain Kangeroo, Mr. Peppermint, Ickey Twerp, Steve Allen, Ernie Kovacs, Soupy Sales, Mr. Greenjeans, Mr. Rogers, Mrs. Rogers, Roy Rogers, Buck Rogers, Roger Ram Jet, The Jetsons, Sky King and Penny, Poncho and Cisco, Yogi Bear, Boo-Boo, Willie Nelson, Charles Nelson Riley, Paul Lynde, Wally Cox, Rose Marie, Dick Van Dyke, Little Dutch Boy with his finger in the dyke( Rosie O’Donnel) Van Dyke Parks, Jack Keroauc, Sal Paradise, Wavey Gravy, Deputy Dawg and Muskie, The Three Stooges, Chewbacca, Princes Leia, R2D2, CP30, Willie Wonka, Kim Kardashian, Eddie Murphy, The Vanderbilt family, William Randolph Hearst, Patty Hearst, Huey Newton, Huey Lewis and the News, Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Rodney Dangerfield, The Gopher, Carl the greenskeeper, Lacy Underall, The judge, Davey Crockett, Jim Bowie, the defenders of the Alamo, The Hole In The Wall Gang, and others liked the food at the hotel and the drinks at the saloon. The Paramount TV show 1883 was filmed here, and I heard that Taylor Sheridan liked the town so much he plans to buy it. So Granbury has some bragging rights and the signs to prove it. My town finds its way into many of my stories, as do the citizens, who now have it out for me. I have to go incognito when strolling the square.
The bottom line is I will not be prompted to write about trivial ca-ca. If what I do write turns out to be bull crap, then so be it. I fear this post, against my will and better writing judgment, accomplished what WordPress requested. But, as any five-year-old will say: “You ain’t the boss of me.”
I wrote this a while back, but considering everything that’s going on today, I’m bringing it back for a curtain call or the last call, whichever fits.
Photo courtesy of Colonel Sanders
Old Pal Mooch called me early this morning. I was dead asleep and dreaming of Pioneer beer batter pancakes slathered in Aunt Jemima syrup. In his usual excited state, he tells me that his band of patriots, the Hood County Plowboys drove straight through from Granbury to Washington DC, stopping to buy gas and some North Carolina jerky and pork rinds. I believe about half of his stories, so it never occurred to me that he and his bunch of armed rag-tags were serious about forcefully taking back the country before old Joe lays his hand on the “Good Book.” I will pay more attention to his wild schemes from now on.
He said that the closer they got to Washington, the more National Guard troops and armored equipment they saw. Thousands of soldiers posted along the highway, eating from food trucks and playing games on their phones. It was the scariest thing he ever saw.
Arriving in the city, they tried and failed to get to the mall, but installations of razor wire, armed troops, tanks, cruise missile installations, and claymore minefields blocked their way. A group of large and menacing soldiers told Mooch to take his raggedy-ass pop-gun carrying hillbillies back to Texas and then pointed a 50 caliber machine gun at the would-be insurrectionist. They got the message.
I asked Mooch what their plan B was and if they might be in peril. He took a moment to answer and then told me that since they couldn’t shoot anybody or get to see Old Joe, they found the nearest Waffle House. When all else fails, it’s time for a waffle.
Christmas, 1955, and I found this under the tree: my first stringed instrument, made by my Coonskin cap-wearing hero, Davey Crockett. My father, a musician, tuned it up and put it in my tiny hands. I must have been a musical savant because I played and sang, with no mistakes, the theme song to the Disney show Davey Crockett. My parents, flaber and gasted, grabbed the Brownie Box camera and took my picture while I was wailing on my miniature ax, mailing it the next day to The Arther Godfrey Talent Hour in New York City. I continued to give impromptu recitals around the neighborhood for my buddies until Georgie accidentally sat on my Davey guitar and crushed it to splinters. After that, I couldn’t remember the words to the song and forgot how to play, and wouldn’t you know it, a week later, Arther Godfrey called my folks for an audition. I could’a been a contender!
The above picture is of my late cousin, Velveltine, her late husband Zig Zag, and their young family. I believe the year is 1971, when they lived in a commune in the mountains of New Mexico on the Apache Indian Reservation. Zig Zag, ever the historian, swore they would live as the Apache did; thus, when the children were born in the tent with the help of an Apache midwife, he would pull back the flap of the TeePee and name the child for the first thing he saw. It was an Indian tradition: no cheating and no changing the name. He was a stickler, as was Velveltine, even though in her old age, she realized they traumatized the children with the crazy-assed hippie names they gave them. All the kids had identity issues as well as psychological malfunctions.
Pictured left to right: Gentle Morning Rain, Mama Cousin Veveltine, daughter Chattering Squirrel, daughter Noisy Thunderstorm, Papa Zig Zag, and the youngest child, daughter Two Dogs….well, you get the picture. I heard that when the children reached legal age and got out of prison and the mental wards, they changed their names to a more appropriate moniker. And we wonder why the world is the way it is today.
Momo and I have been tossing around the idea of a camping trailer to pull behind our Honda Ridgeline Pickup Truck to see the sights of the United States. To hell with Europe, who needs that crap? There is plenty here to see without getting on a plane and risk getting blown up by terrorists. I told Momo I wanted a retro trailer with an interior like the one shown in this picture. She said,” Well, I think I have the dress, but I’m not sure I can get my hair to poof up like that.” She’s gonna give it a shot. Yeah..baby.
Some of my late relatives celebrated New Year’s in 1955
For me and my wife, Momo, New Year’s Eve wasn’t much different than the day before it. We had a nice supper, watched a bit of TV, and then we were in the sack by 9:30 CT. Texts from my son, grandchildren, and friends went off at about 11:45 PM, prompting me to get up and answer back. I’m getting better at texting once I found out how to use the voice-to-text part on my iPhone. That’s what us old folks do for special occasions: nothing, and we do it quite well.
The fireworks started about dark and continued until around 1 AM. Our neighborhood is a “no fireworks” area, so many of the residents got around the law by firing their automatic handguns and rifles into the air. The Sheriff will give them a ticket for a bottle rocket, but firing weapons at random is ok by them: It’s a Texas thing. Momo and I were tempted to take our automatic handguns into the backyard and fire off a magazine or two, but it was too cold, and we were already in our jammies and had slurped down hot Ovaltine and old folks meds. Maybe next year.
New Year’s Day will be the same as the day before. Nothing, with a bit more of nothing, except adding some of Momo’s Blackeyed Pea Soup with Jalapeno and Texas-style cornbread, will keep it gastronomically interesting for the rest of the day. She made a batch of homemade salsa and put a smidgen of my Vietnamese Death Pepper in the mix. It was pretty darn good once I got past the tearing eyes, the shortness of breath, and the muscle spasms that occurred when I leaned over the pot and dipped my Frito into the sauce. She also whipped up some homemade “Nanner-pudding” with Vanilla Waffers embedded in the luscious mix. I plan to eat myself into a mild desert-induced coma this evening.
I hope everyone who follows my blog and the ones I follow has a great 2024 year. Let’s be honest about it: things can’t get much worse than they were in 2023. Well, maybe they could, but I’ll address that in a few days. From the cactus patch, have a Happy New Year, folks.
Are we not living in “Crazy Town?” Fifteen Thousand clean, well-fed, cell phone-carrying invaders are on their merry way to our Texas/Mexico border, most of them adult military fighting-age males, ready for action. ” Come on down, free everything for life,” and our government does nothing, which they do well, to stop this invasion of our once sovereign land. Since our National Guard, hands tied to their waist, can do nothing, I suggested sending thousands of Boy and Cub Scouts to the border equipped with Daisy BB guns, ” the BBs won’t kill anyone, but damn, they hurt.” This may or may not stop the hordes of brain-eating Zombies, but maybe our folks in DC will get the message. Really, I’m kidding; this is a dream I had while under the influence of my pain meds. Sounds good though.
The NFL is experiencing a boost in game attendance when Taylor Swift is holding court in the owner’s luxury suite. Thousands of her young “Lemming Swifites” are in the bleachers, holding up ” We Are Here For Taylor” signs, clutching her CDs to their breasts, and praying for a glimpse of the anointed one. There is talk on the street that she may run for President. The country will need the “Auto-tune” app on their phones to understand what she is saying. Isn’t social media a grand thing?
I believe she just wet herself. Poor Travis
28 miserable years since my once wonderful football team, The Dallas Cowboys have made a Superbowl appearance, and now the owner, a Rummy-Eyed, jabbering, scotch-pickled Beverley Hillbilly from Arkansas is about to give his quarterback a 60 million per year contract to keep the team in their mediocre bubble. To Jones, it makes perfect sense; if the boys win a Superbowl, then they will be expected to produce a winning team every year, so just give the fans a smidgin of hope, enough to keep his Deathstar stadium full of hungry pilgrims, there to witness mediocracy at it’s best. I can’t bear to watch this trainwreck; at least our Texas Rangers delivered a World Series after receiving their new stadium. Please send Tom back down to Earth for one season.
Saint Tom
Momo is roaring back from her bionic knee replacement, sort of. We went shopping in Fort Worth yesterday, hitched up the wagon, and trekked to the big city. She’s happiest when spending money, so Old Navy, Acadamy, and Half Price Books got a token of her appreciation. I did notice that HPB’s is now carrying re-issues of the old classic rock albums. Back in the 60s, we paid around six bucks for one; now, they cost around twenty to forty bucks, and the vinyl is paper thin. I purchased a reissue of Bob Dylan’s “Nashville Skyline” to replace my long ago stolen original. Who thought that digital engineering of music would sound better than old-school analog. Wasn’t me, and it doesn’t.
Two days after Christmas, half past midnight, I just had my second cup of hot Ovaltine and am ready to pontificate.
It appears Taylor Swiftless is now the new “Yoko Ono,” having ruined the KC Chiefs chance at returning to the Superthang and cursing her Charlie Football for life. I always thought that poor Yoko got a bad rap when it was Paulie who pulled the plug on the Fabs. Not so with Person of the Year, Swifter Girl; she is toxic to human men. A football-inspired ex-boyfriend album and an NFL tour of all the stadiums will be coming soon. The games will be played at halftime.
Momo and I watched the Christmas movie, “Elf” on the 25th. I guess age has dulled my sense of humor since I find Will Farrel irritating. I enjoyed him in “Eurovision ( the elves went to far)” but Buddy the oversized Elf needs to go to LaLa Land. I thought James Caan got knocked off in The Godfather?
Momo made her infamous Greek Ribs today. Her daughter Tammera and the fam stopped by for an early supper and gift exchange; what a nice afternoon. I finished my first in the series of old-time circus sideshow posters yesterday; there are only seven more to go. I remember going into one of those freak or sideshows at the state fair. Lizard Woman, Alive! Cost me twenty-five cents. Turned out it was an ugly gal with a bad case of Dermatitis. The Lady With Five Legs was worth the change. Bonnie and Clydes Death Car was an old Ford that some moron drilled holes into the body and poured some red paint on the seats. PT Barnum was right, ” there’s a sucker born every minute.”
My Boy Scout grandson, Jett, his troop, and his Pop are doing another winter campout starting tomorrow. For Christmas, I gave him a family heirloom six-inch razor-sharp skinning knife in a leather scabbard, much like the one O.J. and Jim Bowie used. My grandfather said he carried it in WW1 and used it to open canned Pork N Beans and stab Germans when he ran out of ammo. I believed every word of it.
So Kwanza is here. A fictional, absurd holiday invented by a felonious black American male who needed a steady income after prison. So what about “Festivus?” George and Kramer deserve a day to celebrate, too. I always felt bad for the Seinfeld folks; what did they do on Christmas since the Soup Nazi was closed? I am working on inventing a holiday for senior citizens called ” Respect Your Elders Day.” Catchy slogans like “Get the hell off of my lawn” and “Do you think money grows on trees?” will go over well with our age group. All adult children, grandchildren, and neighbors will relate.
New Year is approaching. We live in a rural community outside the city limits, so the joyous and festive sounds of fireworks, 9mm pistols, and assault rifles fired into the air will be keeping us up all night. The problem is, those bullets have to come down, and they can kill you. Last year, it sounded like Santa was plodding around on our roof; turned out it was only bullets ruining our shingles. Insurance doesn’t cover that.
Now that Christmas is done and gone, I’m ready for the traditional Texas after-holiday meal of a Whataburger, large fires, and a Dr Pepper. Father Frank, our groovy-hip young priest at Our Lady Of Perpetual Repentance, is having a blessed by Willie service this coming Sunday. Governer Abbott has petitioned the Pope to make Willie Nelson a Patron Saint, at least here in Texas, so our good priest, getting the early ball a-rolling, will have a Willie Nelson approved impersonator give communion to any who wish to partake. A tiny bite of a Whataburger( no onions and extra pickles), a small toke of Willie’s popular Dripping Springs righteous weed, and a sip of rum-infused ice tea to wash urn down, and you can be ” on the road again” and feeling real good. Pretty sure the church will be at full capacity.
I ran into old buddy Mooch at H.E.B. on Christmas Eve. I stopped by to pick up a few things Momo forgot: Eggnog, Milk, Cedar Fever Elixer, and more birdseed. Our Avian friends have been a demanding lot as of late since the flock of Crows moved in. They sit on the fence and Caww-Caaww until I load the flat feeder with peanuts, their favorite. The poor Cardinals and the Dove have to wait until the big boys leave. The Crows like shiny trinkets, so I left a quarter in one flat feeder and a Crow took it. The next day, there was a dime in the feeder. I have no idea what the Crow spent the other fifteen cents on.
After fighting off the food sample ladies, I spotted Mooch staggering around in the frozen food aisle with a hand-carry basket full of Red Baron pizzas, his favorite. I eased up beside him and wished him a Merry Christmas, but no response. I tapped his shoulder, but no acknowledgment. I stepped in front of him and gave him a friendly stare, glazed eyes, and a stream of slobber on his chin. In desperation, I shook his shoulders, and he snapped back into the moment.
” Sorry old buddy, I’ve been drifting in and out of it for a few days,” he says.
I am worried, so I ask, ” Don’t you think a visit to Doc Bones is in order, I thought you might have stroked out on me pal?”
” He was apologetic and explained, ” Nawww…I went Deer hunting last week and shot me a big ole Buckster. We ate some Deer chicken fry steak yesterday, and now I think I’ve got the Deer Zombie disease. Mrs. Mooch is convinced I’m a Deer Zombie but without the ten-point rack of horns.”
Momo requested some Christmas music this morning so I dug around in my vinyl stash looking for my Elvis Christmas album; I couldn’t find it… must have given it away. I did run across a Perry Como and a Sing Along With Mitch Christmas, but I couldn’t bring myself to spin them, and I have no idea why they are in my collection. I streamed some Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas tunes, which did the trick.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 