Posts

Posted on

Take another little piece of my heart now, baby, You know You Got It If It Makes You Feel Good…


Getting older guarantees one thing for certain: each week is a new and often, rousing experience. This week was my Opus moment: I had a heart monitor installed. A nice piece of technology super-glued to my chest that tells my cardiologist, Dr. Squatch, if my heart is acting abnormally, and if sudden death is imminent. At least I now have an inkling of when it might happen.

The first nurse had the bedside patient demeanor of a prison guard. ” Lay down, be still, don’t finch, don’t breathe, don’t do anything,” she says. She applies a gooey substance to my neck so she can use a Channel 5 Doppler radar to detect blockages in my carotid arteries. I, being my lovable, imaginative, smart-ass self, asked her if it was a boy, a girl, or an alien implant? She wasn’t amused, but my Cardiac Nurse wife, Momo, got a giggle.

The Doppler imaging completed, we were ushered into another room where the second nurse explaied the device to us. It was rather smart looking, small, many lights and buttons, and had to be attached to my chest with Gorilla Super Glue. After she installed the contraption, she expalaied how it worked: Momo being a fellow nurse uderstood all of it.

She pushed buttons, sent some signals to somewhere far away, and I was in business. ” If the light blinks green, it means you are doing alright. If it goes yellow, that means you are stressed and need to slow down and don’t look at that Sydney Sweeney Eagle jeans commercial. If it blinks red and glows like ET’s finger, then the doctor will call you with instructions for your final moments on earth. If he is busy or not near his phone, you can kiss your ass adios,” I understood. ” It will also connect to your hearing aids via Bluetooth, so you can listen to the soothing sounds of your own heartbeat, or the bass drum beat to In A Gadda Da Vida.” I am impressed.

Momo drove me to Home Depot so I could get into an altercation with a salesperson to see if this thing really works. If you don’t get another post soon, you’ll know Janis took another piece of my heart, baby.

Posted on

Sharing My Desktop Challenge 10.15.25


Many years ago, as I was starting my landscaping and building my side yard fencing, the Polar Vortex, which caused temperatures to drop to -2 degrees for many days, accompanied by ice and snow, took out many of my plants, and I had to start over.

The Polar Vortex arrived.

The disgusted gardener having to start anew…

Posted on

The Comedic Side of Childhood Baptisms: Learning To Swim In The Holy Waters


I was a Southern Baptist kid, not by choice of my own, but by my mother and father’s doing. I was a feral six-year-old, and my sister was a swaddled titty baby along for the ride. My father had not yet been dunked, but my mother had been many times at the First Baptist Church in Santa Anna, Texas. I was a captive, unable to escape, so I had no choice but to enter the holy tub of East Fort Worth’s unfluoridated river water.

The good Reverend Augustin Z. Bergeron, our illustrious chain-smoking, iced-tea-drinking preacher from the bayou of Louisiana, was a world champion baptizer. He could hold a body under the water for a good minute while orating the word of God to the congregation on why this sinner had found their way to his tub of holy water. I was a kid, I didn’t know sin, or lying, or anything, I was just a dumb little fart that was dragged to church every Sunday and fell asleep in my own sweat-covered pants sitting on oak wooden pews, holding my feet high so I wouldn’t be dragged to the depths of Hell through the hot wooden floor of the church. My sainted mother thought it was time for me to take the dunking, which marked the start of a once-a-year ritual that would last for half a decade. I was baptized so many times that’s how I learned to swim. It was that or drown. My skin was permanently wrinkled, my scalp was free of Brylcream and dandruff, my skin was soft, and I smelled of Trinity River holy water most of the school week after my Sunday dunking. I may have been the cleanest and holiest kid in school. My teacher, Mrs. Edwards, a strong Christian lady of faith, always knew on Monday morning that I had been cleansed; she treated me better than the other little heathens in our class. I got two towels to lie on at nap time. I rather liked my status.

I remember my first baptism. I was barely six years old. My mother cornered the good reverend and demanded I be cleansed. My cousins, all a few years older, were considered world-class professionals, having been dunked every Sunday for two years. Mother, not wanting to be outdone by her sister, needed me to catch up. Reverend Z was hesitant because I had not been a regular attendee at Sunday School, but that didn’t deter my mother; she was determined to pursue her mission. He finally agreed over a glass of iced tea while my mother smoked three Camel cigarettes while nursing my sister and making her point.

The big-haired church ladies sang the usual hymns, a few of the overly faithful fainted and were carried out of the church. Reverend Z preached his usual knock-down-drag-out sermon, complete with rolling on the floor, smoking a half-pack of Lucky Strikes, and drinking a gallon of iced sweet tea. Not a hair on his coiffed head was out of place, and his suit was creaseless. He was a holy mannequin of God, in a good way, of course. The good Lord appreciates a snappy dresser.

After the two-hour sermon with four or five cigarette breaks, the line of folks to be baptized was down to me. Dressed in my best pants and a starched white shirt, Snap-On tie, and my new Timex kids’ watch, I was somewhat stylish for a boy my age. The young girls in the congregation gave me their toothless grin of approval. I had no idea what awaited me when the good reverend called my name to approach the pulpit and the holy tub. It was a quick affair. Reverend Z lifted me into the water, shoes, watch and all, said a few words, held me under until my legs kicked, and then raised me up, gasping for air. I was terrified. If the holy ghost had entered my body or wrapped their arms around me, I was unaware. I gagged and couldn’t catch my breath. The good reverend, seeing I was in holy distress, slapped me on the back, causing my breakfast to hurl into the holy water, which in turn made the congregation gasp in horror. This dumb-assed kid puked into the baptismal water, blaspheming and ruining the whole experience. I had eaten biscuits and gravy that morning, so the volume and solidity of the puke were rather disgusting. Reverend Z literally threw me out of the tank, lit a cigarette, took a swig of tea, and continued with a remarkable recovery sermon, saying I had rebuked the devil. The mess in the tub was the demon I expelled. It was a brilliant recovery, a saving grace for both of us. I went on to participate in many more Baptisms over the years and improved with each one, learning to hold my breath and refrain from eating before church.

Posted on

Dealing with Crows: Tips for Backyard Bird Feeding Just Short of A 4-10 Full Of Birdshot…


It pains me to say this, but the Crows are back. Not the band, but the Avian models. I moved the bird feeders to a new, more open location, hoping to deter squirrels, crows, and other critters, such as rats, field Mice, Possums, and other nocturnal creatures. It didn’t work. The Hawks or the Horned Owl that calls a back lot tree home may have dispatched the pesky Squirrels, but the Crows are a nuisance. Pushy Avian bullies exhibit an attitude similar to that of high school students. They park themselves outside of our bedroom window and squawk, starting before daylight. I know that somewhere in the woods behind our land, there is a roughly written sign in bird language with directions to our back yard feeders. There is also a barcode since the Crows will take a quarter and bring me back a dime in change. They are smart, and no, I haven’t found the sign yet. So, Momo, my overly sympathetic wife, continues to feed them peanuts, their favorite food, as if we run a Luby’s bird cafeteria. Today, the Blue Jays beat the Crows to the peanuts and cleaned them out, so now the Crows are amassing on the high wires, similar to Hitchcock’s famous movie. I need my eyes, so I’m staying in the house this afternoon, or at least until they go to roost. I’ve also oiled up my old 4-10 shotgun, just in case.

Posted on

Why I Missed My Calling as a Writer


I was born too late to meet my calling as a writer. Instead of being birthed in 1949, I should have appeared in 1931, no later than 1933, then I may have had a fighting chance. By the time I began writing about serious topics, I was in high school, in the mid-1960s. We had the Vietnam War, Hippies, rock music, and pot to contend with. Writing about Hippies held no interest for me, but the war, music, and politics did, and so I wrote a few things for my high school paper and journalism class that brought instant grief my way. My mentor and writing coach, Mrs. Mischen, chastised me for the language I used, which, in retrospect, was a bit crude and too hip for a high school paper. However, she also gave me an “atta-boy” for having the courage to put myself out there. I wasn’t anti-establishment, anti-war, or anti-Hippie; I wasn’t anti-anything: only a rock musician playing in a popular band, and that’s about all I had to offer the world at that point. That’s why I should have been a writer in the 1950s, hanging out in the Village with Kerouac and Boroughs, and even Hemingway and Steinbeck in late-night bars, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, drinking whiskey, and arguing about the fate of America after the two recent wars that had led to a drastic shift in our country. I would have been a perfect cohort. Instead, I spent my childhood years writing in a Big Chief Tablet about neighborhood shenanigans and mailing my articles to the Fort Worth Press, hoping for a spot in the Sunday news, all the time, believing I was the incarnation of Mark Twain. Now, I’m too damn old to be the incarnation of anyone, and can’t remember what to write, and can’t find my notebooks full of ideas.

Posted on

The Retail Rebel: A Fugitive’s Tale


A Wanted Man On The Run

I’d Like To Settle Down But They Won’t Let Me…A Fugitive Must Be A Rolling Stone…Down Every Road There’s Always One More City…I’m On The Run. The highway is My Home.

Years ago, when I lost my social filters after a fainting head-planting fall from our hot tub, my once kind demeanor has vanished in blocks. There are post office quality pictures of me in Lowes and Home Depot, saying ” Do Not Wait On This Old Man, He Is A Retail Verbal Assaulting Fugitive, Call Your Manager Immediately.” And, they do, if they recognize me. I’ve become quite good at disguising my appearance: caps, sunglasses, different beards, band-aids, creams, crutches, walkers – anything that will throw them off so I can do my shopping. Now, Walmart, my last bastion of shopping, might be adding me to their list of undesirables, rejects, lunatics, and mentally deranged. All because of an overcharge on Bird Peanuts.

Wallmart might be the best in reatail at miss-pricing their items. I found a large bag of Bird Peanuts, which I usually buy at H.E.B. mainly for the Blue Jays and Crows, who turn their black beaks up at anything other than good old Texas Roots Legumes. The sign beneath the box said $7.57 for seven pounds of Peanuts, a bounty of a bargain considering H.E.B. wants over $2.00 for one pound. My wife, Momo, checked out, not paying much attention to the ring up. Arriving home, she discovered the bag of peanuts cost almost $15.99, and that’s when my remaining filter evaporated through my right ear and blew out the back door like a vanishing fart.

It was a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. Eventually, I drank two hot cups of Ovaltine, which usually calms my nerves and elicits sleep, but nope, not this night. I sat in the dark, planning my strategy for how I would confront the customer service representative about the outrageous overcharge. Common sense was non-existent, my Christian faith waned, and my carnal instinct took over; I was out for righteous vengeance, and it would be mine.

I awoke at dawn, fueld by caffine and what little testosterone is left in my body, I was anxious for battle. I arrived at Walmart as the senior citizen greeter unlocked the door. ” Good morning, sir,” she said in her four-pack-a-day rasp. I growled and headed for the customer service counter.

The young girl behind the counter was kind, sweet, doe-eyed, and wore a cross hanging from her neck. My vengeance and blood lust disappeared. How could I crawl from the trenches and attack this sweet child? I explained the problem, which now seemed embarrassingly insignificant, and she was kind and understanding, offering my money back without question and a big, toothy smile along with a “have a blessed day.” I did notice behind the counter many post office-quality posters of old people like me, who are prohibited from shopping at Walmart. I’m safe for now. But there is always next week, and I will be sure to give them one of my better photographs.

Posted on

Ask A Texan: Walmart And The Red Eye Special


Reasonable Advice For Folks That Don’t Know Their Butt From Fat Meat

The Texan

Mr. Don Limpet, a resident of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, writes that he had laser eye surgery at his local Walmart and has complications.

Mr. Limpet: Mr. Texan, I saw your advice column in the back of Bass Of The Month magazine at the Tractor Supply. You seem to be a down-to-earth fellow and have given some good advice to folks, so I’m hoping you can help a brother out here. My eyesight has been deteriorating for years, and it’s become so bad that I can’t distinguish a Yellow Booger Picker Bass Lure from a Purple People Eater Crappie rig. My lovely wife, Little Sheba, yes, that’s her real name, she’s a belly dancer who performs at Old Folks Homes and Funerals. Little Sheba said that Walmart has a special on Cataract eye surgery: $ 49.95 per eye, and you get to choose the color of lens after they suck out the cataract. So I say, ” Hell ya, with the money I’ll be saving, I can buy that new Evinrude motor for my Bass boat. The lady who was getting me ready couldn’t get the IV in the right vein, and my arm swelled up like a poisoned Possum. She finally called the gal over in the make-up department to get the sucker in the right vein. Little Sheba said I should go with the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles lenses since he was her favorite actor. I told her he’s dead, and so is his sidekick, Sundance, but she was insistent, so I went with the blue lenses. The procedure took longer than expected, and the boys in the produce department had to help out the tech suck out the cataracts with a Turkey baster. When I woke up, Little Sheba took one look at me and fainted dead out. The girl got the wrong lenses. Instead of the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles, she installed the Count Dracula Red Devil lenses, and now I look like Dracula or a Demon from Hell. The manager at Walmart says the operation is irreversible, and he is genuinely sorry. To make it up to us, he gave Little Sheba a $ 500 gift card to be used on Christmas Decorations. I look awful, and the preacher at church won’t let me in the door because I scare all the little kids. Can you help out a cursed man?

The Texan: Well, well, Mr. Limpet, you are either the biggest cheap-ass in New Mexico or a complete moron that doesn’t know your butt from a piece of fat meat. What did you expect for $49.95 per eye? Those folks at Walmart make $13.00 an hour and can’t even ring up a purchase correctly. As far as the red eyes, you can always get a job at those Halloween Spirit stores, or a spook house. I, too, once had a problem with red eyes, but it was the result of smoking too much pot back when I was hanging out at the Armadillo World Headquarters down in hippie land, Austin, Texas. Back then, everybody had red eyes, so it wasn’t a big deal. Try mixing some Murine and blue food coloring, or wear dark glasses and use a can like Ray Charles. I’m sending Little Sheba a 45 record of Ray Stevens’ big hit, ” Ahab the Arab,” the sheik of the burning sands, and of course a box of Cherry Bombs so you can set a few of them off in The Walmart. In closing, let me know how everything turns out, and you are the biggest dumb-ass moron I know.

Posted on

Ask A Texan: Yearning To Be Sydney Sweeney…


Questionable But Believable Advice For Folks That Dream About Living In The Land Where They Can Be An Urban Cowboy And Date Debra Winger

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Whipple Charmin of Lawton Oklahoma. It was written on the back of a Walmart grocery list, and after reading what the poor man is being fed, I’m amazed he’s still alive. It seems his wife, Luanna Rosanna Cash, is going through a midlife change and is searching for her “inner self.”

Mr. Charmin: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Popular Chicken Magazine at Tractor Supply and figured you might be able to help a brother out. The Missus, Luanna Rosanna Cash( her mama named her that after her favorite singer), is going through the change of life, at least that’s what her Chiropractor and her hairdresser tell her. She recently saw that Sydney Sweeney girl on TV wearing those tight jeans and looking pretty fine, so she thinks she wants to be like her. The problem is, Luanna has a butt the size of a 1957 Buick and the only jeans she can fit in is those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans at The Walmart. I come home from work at the chicken-killing plant, and she’s all laid out on the sofa with a cold bottle of Ripple Wine, wearing those stretchy jeans, and a Dolly Parton wig and a Urban Cowboy western shirt open to the waist. Her little Poodle dog, Tidbit, is sitting on her butt, with his leg up licking his own little butt, which killed the mood. I know her hormones are all messed up and she’s going through one of those identity crises and all, so I tell her she looks real fine. Well, she asked me if those Pioneer Woman stretchy jeans make her look like Sydney Sweeney? That dog sitting on her butt kinda threw me off my nut, and I said, No, honey, you look just like that nice waitress down at the Waffle House. The doctor at the ER stitched up my forehead and said the scar should go away in a few years, but the imprint of the Lodge frying pan logo might be permanent. I need to make things right with Luanna cause I’m tired of living at the Motel 6 cause they keep that damn light on all night, and I can’t sleep.

The Texan: Whipple, you Okie moron, didn’t your Daddy teach you anything? It doesn’t matter if her butt looks like the Goodyear Blimp floating over Cowboy Stadium; you lie like a two-dollar garage sale rug. I, too, once was in a similar situation. The wife, squeezed into her 1980s Madonna, Like A Virgin outfit, she was wearing to our class reunion. She looked at me with those big, old, fake eyelashes eyes and that teased-up hair, and asked me if the dress made her butt look too big. I was working on my fourth or fifth Jack and Coke, so I told her the tushie looked just like that Led Zeppelin album cover. The prom was a little icy, and a few days later, I came home from the Sons of the Alamo Lodge meeting, and she had donated my bass boat to the Goodwill store. So, Whipple, you’d better learn to lie like a Democrat. I’m sending you a copy of ” Liars for Dummies” and my usual box of Cherry Bombs just to make you feel better.

Posted on

The Old Time Revival Inspired by Charlie Kirk’s Memorial: A Soliloquy For Young Believers


It’s been a few weeks since Charlie Kirk was assassinated, and a few days since his memorial, which was a landmark television event in itself. Yes, many folks of high standards and lofty ideals spoke in eloquent tones, delivered soaring soliloquies on the life of a young patriot taken too soon. It was somber for the most part, but like any television production, it utilized technology to connect with the audience.

My wife, Momo, and I shed a few tears, moved by the words spoken by government officials that professed their Christianity to the world, and didn’t hold back. Near the end, when Charlie’s widow, Erika Kirk, spoke with humility and eloquence, I knew she had been chosen to lead a new revival of young men and women to Christianity and conservatism. She will lead them to reclaim our country as envisioned by the founding fathers.

Then, in a flashback, uninvited moments I often have as I grow older, I envisioned it as something entirely different. In crystal-clear black and white, it evoked the memory of an old-time 1950s Texas Christian revival I attended as a young child, held in a weathered circus tent in a field of drought-stricken grass near Santa Anna High School. Unlike the sturdy Baptist Church in town, there were no pews or wooden floors; only hard wooden folding chairs and a foot-trampled, grassy floor, harboring insects that crawled up my legs and delivered vicious bites. I yelped, and my mother smacked me on the back of my tiny, crew-cut-wearing head. “Be respectful,” she sternly whispered, “God is using the preacher as his lightning bolt.” No matter how hot the weather and the misery caused by pestilence, I obeyed. Pretending to listen to the droning sermon, half asleep from the heat and boredom, I would rather have been anywhere but that tent. My grandparents sat behind us, their hands holding heavy black Bibles that would leave a mark when connected to an insulant child’s behind. I could feel the searing stare of my grandmother’s laser eyes on the back of my neck. I looked straight ahead in fear, knowing that if my chin dipped half an inch or I wavered sideways, a bump from the good book would remind me why I was there. I was six years old and a reluctant, ignorant, bordering on a Christian at best. I yearned in silence to follow my older cousins; they were washed in the blood of the Lamb, bathed in the Holy Spirit, and had been dipped like spring sheep in a trough of holy water. I was just a young kid with no spiritual compass to guide me. It took some time, too slow to my mother’s liking, but I eventually came to Jesus in my own terms. Making me kiss the casketed, heavily perfumed body of my dead great-grandmother set me back a few years, from trauma alone. But God did find me, and I found him. It wasn’t the lightning bolt jolt from above, but a slow and gentle process that fitted my preciousness.

The memorial service in Arizona was similar, but in a larger way. Thousands gathered in air-conditioned comfort, with cold drinks and hot dogs served to feed the masses. Clean restrooms, paved parking, and ushers were on hand to help you find your seat. Believers and those seeking to become believers gathered to pay respects to a young man who will likely become the unofficially appointed sainted leader of the next Jesus Revolution, similar to the one started by Pastor Greg Laurie in the early 1970s in California. Take away the stadium, put the masses in a tent with no air conditioning, a grass floor, a rural setting, and a grieving, electrifying widow instead of a hellfire and brimstone preacher delivering the word of God, and you have today’s equivalent of an old-time tent revival. And, it’s about time.

Posted on

Three Strikes Doesn’t Mean You’re Out Of Life’s Game


How many chances are we allowed when we screw up? As a child, I was, at times, allowed three strikes and then I was out. The first one was the warning, the second was a more stern warning with parental icing, and the third was the one that always resulted in the butt busting and exile to my room with no cartoons or Ovaltine. I remember them well. I wasn’t a bad kid, but one who didn’t remember the first two chances as being severe enough to deter me from the dreaded third. Most kids have been there, my two boys included.

This past Saturday, Momo and I volunteered through our church, Generations Of Granbury, to help feed the homeless in our hometown of Granbury, Texas. It’s known, and touted as the number one celebration town in the country, as well as being the number one small historical town in the USA, it also has homeless folks. How is that possible? Look past the beautiful square, the lake, the historical charm, and all that razzle-dazzle hype. You find that yes, it’s like any other small town or city in Texas: we have homeless people living on our streets, or in cheap motels, paying by the week, or day for a bed and a bathroom. Good people who were dealt a bad hand found themselves without their castle, their home, their pride. It may not have been more than a few bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen, but those walls and a roof held so many family memories of past Christmases, children’s birthday celebrations, graduations, and Thanksgivings past. The laughter and joy are gone in an instant because they couldn’t make the mortgage payments, or perhaps a divorce, loss of a job, or alcohol and drugs were to blame for their misfortune. Our society does not guarantee everyone a safe, warm home; that is up to ourselves to make that happen. What our government and NGOs do guarantee is that people from third-world countries come here illegally and freely partake in the American dream, and then some for breaking our laws and contributing nothing for what they receive. Just be sure to vote as we tell you, or the freebies stop. How about the poor American citizens and veterans who need a hand? Do they receive the same red-carpet treatment? Hell no.

We arrived at the Classic Inn, set up the tables, laid out the hot food and sack lunches, and waited for people to stop by for a meal. On our way from the church, I had noticed a young couple with backpacks sitting under a stand of oak trees by the highway. I told my wife, Maureen, that if they are still there, I would like to take them a sack lunch and some water. Everyone thought that was a good idea. I found them lying under a stand of trees in the front yard of a bank building. The young man was flat out and not moving; the young lady, his wife, was lying by their belongings, which consisted of a backpack and a grocery sack with grapes and an orange drink. I handed her the lunches, and she was grateful. I asked her where they were headed. She looked up, bottom lip quivering and tears in her eyes, and said she didn’t know where they were going or what to do. I saw the look of despair, hopelessness, fear, and defeat in her young eyes. She was mortified to be accepting food from a strange old man and to be in her situation. Here she sat, guarding the few things they owned, no home, no money, no nothing except her husband, who was going through his fourth day of agonizing detox from Fentanyl addiction. She had been clean and sober for over a month. Drugs knocked them to their knees, robbed them of their possessions, their pride, and then brought them to this shady patch of grass in Granbury. Whether I liked it or not, it brought them to me. I told her I would be right back and ran for backup, which was my wife, Maureen. She’s a nurse and a strong Christian warrior, and these situations are what she is made for.

We returned with hot food and more water. Maureen sat on the grass talking to the young lady while I purchased two bottles of Poweraid from the grocery store next door. When I returned, she asked me to go to the Classic Inn and pay for them a room for the night. Her nurse mode had kicked in, and she knew the young man needed out of the heat and a bed. The demons of detox had hold of him in the worst way. I procured a room and returned. We helped the young man, who could barely walk, to our truck and took the two of them to the motel. The Classic Inn is no Motel 6, but more like a Motel 4: no frills, just air conditioning, a bed, and a bathroom. We decided they needed another night, which we arranged, considering the condition of the man.

When we left them in the motel room, Maureen prayed with the young girl and was told they have a four-year-old son who is being cared for by the man’s mother. This made their situation even more dire, as a child is involved and away from his mother. Evidently, they had been given the three strikes you’re out from their families, and had failed: kicked out, and banished.

Maureen embraced the young mother, and she clung to her. It was not the easy embrace of friends, but one of desperation, and thanks for understanding and helping without judgment. We went back to the food table and helped load up, but as we finished, a car with a lady and three children pulled up and asked if there was still food left. They left with boxes of food for their supper that night.

Maureen and I went home, shaken by what we had dealt with for the last two hours, praying for God to heal and help these two young parents. They may have used that third strike and were considered out, but sometimes, folks deserve a fourth or fifth strike to get it right.