Now that mail-in votes won’t be counted until election day, and not past, I’m sure both sets of my deceased grandparents can rest a bit easier.
Ask A Texan: Voting With No Pulse
Ask A Texan: Doctors Don’t Know Jack Shit…
But I met him in 1970 at Shorty’s Bar in Port A
Momo acompanied me to my primary doc today for the results of my physical a few weeks back: it’s best she drives, but I’ll explain all that later on.
I like my doc; he’s a young fellow who dresses nice, wears stylish shoes, and wears colorful socks, sort of like a younger version of myself. He immediately started in on the blood work results, which were amazing since I’m on the cusp of 77 years old. I had a few age-related glitches, and he wasn’t worried just yet. I asked him, “When is yet a problem?” He said he would let me know later. I told him my heart doctor said I had a real good chance of a major malfunction, but couldn’t tell me when that might happen. He said not to worry, it would be quick and painless. I also said I needed to lose 25 pounds, and could he put me on that Wegovy pill or the Ozempic shot all the movie folks are killing themselves with? He sidestepped that question. I said, “Jeeze, doc, I don’t want to look like Demi Moore or Oprah, I just need to lose a few pounds.” He said just stop eating and work out. ” That’s all fine, but I can’t work out; I’m disabled from a bad back surgery, and my body won’t cooperate, and Momo just bought a yummy French Vanilla Pound Cake with some Blue Bell Ice Cream: get the picture?
The young nurse was a bit too perky when she handed me the little notebook for the cognitive test. She said the instructions are a bit tricky. She was right, they were Ayatollah gibberish. I did the best I could, but failed with flying colors. All those numbers, words, little pictures of monkeys and fish and ice cream cones. Old folks don’t give one shit about any of that crap, so I was a miserable failure. I told him I re-learned to play the mandolin in six weeks and will be taking on the fiddle next week, so my brain can’t be that blocked up. He gave me a cute little Dr. Marcus Welby laugh and said he wants more blood and another cognitive test to see if I should be in some sort of home, or at home with Momo pulling me around in a wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin. I asked him if I was smart enough to be president, and he said, “No, we’ve already been down that road.” As of yet, I haven’t left the truck keys in the freezer, burned down the shed, or dug up a natural gas line with my spade, so there is still hope. Old folks remember what they want to and screw the rest of it.
Music, Worship And War: Ask A Texan
Down Home Often Correct Advice And Old School Teachings For Folks That Live In Other States And Want To Move Here…Please Don’t. We Already Have Too Many Californians and New Yorkers, and There Is No Parking Left at Walmart or H.E.B.
After a rousing set of worship songs yesterday at our Generations Church, myself on my little mandolin, Eric on bass, Momo singing with Isabella and Ester vocals and acoustic guitar, Larry on Sax and Clarinet, Sandy on Cello, Ephraim on drums, and his daughter Victoria on keys, Monday morning is always a let down, coming off of a great set of worship music and Pastor Alan lighting up the church, like a Texas A&M bonfire, plus the spaghetti lunch and bake sale for the youth. I’m plum wore out and already need another nap.
Then I turn on the news, and reality hits me in the face like a Soupy Sales cream pie distributed by White Fang or Black Tooth. For those too young for real comedy, Soupy had a live TV show back in the early 1960s that actually was funny and made us laugh, much like the Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes. I almost blinded my best buddy, not knowing that Moe poked Curley in the forehead, not his real eyes. I am still amazed I made it to this age without being disabled or permanently disfigured. Momo says I still have time left to accomplish both.
World War 3 is in full swing and living color, minute-by-minute coverage of what Iran is planning for Israel and the rest of the Middle East, not to mention the good old USA, which is just a short missile hop from Tehran. Does the current Ayatollah think that he is safe from a smart drone missile that has more brain power than his entire staff of twelfth-century Zealots?
Maya Sharona, the on-site news person for NPR, was interviewing Iranians on the street. One group of young women was without their head-to-toe tents with eye holes, long hair flowing, full face makeup, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beer, and cursing the current regime. Ms. Sharona asked one of them whether they were excited that the current Ayatollah was on the run and that Iran might be free again. The young lady replied, ” We are ecstatic that we may return to the 70s again, we all have our Sony Walkmans and bell-bottom jeans ready, and Jane Fonda workout tapes are on sale at the bookstore, and oh yes, Death To America, but we really don’t mean that, it’s what we were taught to yell in school. God bless the USA and Sydney Sweeney. “
There is an old Texas saying that I still use to this day: “Hide and Watch.” Which, according to my late, late, late, and wizened old grandfather, meant hide behind a rock or a wagon and watch what happens when a few cowboys or a group of Indians on ponies try to attack a bunch of pioneers armed with Winchester repeating rifles. Sometimes it’s just best to peek over the edge of the rock and wait for the results before you get involved in the fray. I’ve got the Winchester and the pistols, and there are a lot of rocks around my hilly, rocky mountain home, so Momo has the Jiffy Pop ready, and we are stocked up on Dr. Peppers. Stay tuned, and Paul Harvey used to say, “Good day.”
Happy Trails From The Alamo and Demon Rats Visit The Ayatollah
My first and last speech at the Sons of the Alamo Lodge No. 2 was a rousing lesson in humility; my own. I will admit my prep work was on the shabby side because my few remaining female cousins have taken my name off their Rolodexes and cell phones. I didn’t see the harm in using them in my stories about our childhoods; they were always shown in a good light to avoid tarnishing their social standing in their hometown. Reams of notes, old photos, and orated stories from my mother and granny were the fodder for my historical ramble.
Daniel Crockett, the great-great-great-and even greater grandson, and the grandiose Grand Poohbah of the lodge, accused me of blasphemy because I insinuated that old Davy and Jim Bowie were drunkards. I reminded him that the book written by Veronica Baird confirmed that not only were they affectionately fond of the home-distilled sauce, they also smoked an Indian peace pipe stuffed with loco weed. Nothing like historical truth to bring the wrath of Texas upon you. I have been informed by a certified FedEx delivered rolled parchment letter, sealed with hot wax from candles found in the old mission, that I am on probation within the lodge for insulting historical heresy. I called my good buddy, Mooch, and laid out the scenario, and he volunteered to cut the tires and sugar the gas tank of the Grand Poohbah’s Suburban in retaliation. I will admit, it does sound like a good plan, and Mooch is just enough of a red-neck to pull it off. Before I pull the trigger on this one, I will consult my Pastor on whether this type of revenge is a Hell-bound offense.
The Rat War is in its final days, just as the Iran war with the entire world is hitting its stride. Foam removal from the hot tub’s interior is complete, and no rodents are present; only the damage caused by their excessive chewing. I haven’t bothered to check for carcasses in the woods because the Copperheads and Rattlesnakes are active, but gauging from the amount of the delicious poison consumed from the Martha Stewart Designer Rat trap, they have likely gone to La-La Land, or wherever pestilence goes after death. Wonder how the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini feels about demon Rats from Hell running up his robe? Yikes!
Armageddon Is Upon Us…The Last Days of Texas
I am not a snow person, nor an ice one. Cold weather is fine for a while, but then I want to be bathed in the warmth of the sun (Brian Wilson). But then, in Texas, the sun’s warmth means cooking alive in 100-plus-degree heat. So, living in Texas is for tough folks. Alas, the winter snow and ice Armageddon is about to return in two days; the last one was in 2021 and crippled the state for a week.
Momo and I stopped by our HEB for a few items this afternoon, and that was a mistake. The place was like a zombie apocalypse: folks fighting and snarling over the last loaf of bread, fists flying in the aisles over Hamburger Helper, and riots at the frozen pizza case. It was all entertaining, watching my fellow Texans act like, well, crazed Texans. We don’t do well when bad winter weather is approaching, and even worse once it arrives. My truck has All Wheel Drive, so I’m good with the snow, but not the ice storms, then we stay in and watch 1883 or 1923 again.
Momo is already fretting about missing church on Sunday because of the storm. I told her that God will understand, after all, he’s the one who created this lousy weather and is sending it our way. I stocked up on extra bird seed and peanuts for the Crows, Blue Jays, and now the pesky Squirrel has returned and found the relocated bird feeders, so it’s back to war with the little nut-breath. The Racoons, Possum, and Skunk are still visiting nightly, enjoying their cafeteria of dog food and sliced apples. My backyard is the equivalent of Luby’s for critters. Now, a Coyote has been coming around, but I have roadrunners on the property, so we’ll see how that plays out.
I’ll post some pictures of the end of Texas as we know it, if and when it happens…if we survive.
Looking At 2025 In My Rear View Mirror
I lifted the title line from Mac Davis’s hit ” Looking At Lubbock In My Rear View Mirror.” He’s gone for a while now, so I don’t think a fellow Texan would mind.
As this year slipped by, I want to thank all of you who follow my blog and comment. I’m too computer-challenged to thank an entire list like Max, so this will have to do for now. I’m hiring a six-year-old down the street as my PC tutor.
Who would have thought that our country would be in such an uproar about every darn thing anyone could dream up, but here we are.
I think Mark Twain says it best: No matter how healthy a man’s morals may be when he enters Washington politics, he comes out again with a pot-marked soul. Makes you wonder if any of those flamboyant bastards will ever make it to Heaven? I certainly hope they find the Lord, but I still don’t care to patronize them when I get there. Sort of like a high school reunion: I wasn’t buddies with you then, so what makes you think I want to hang out with you now?
All of these privileged, university-educated white kids running around carrying signs, wrapping their heads in checkered tablecloths, and throwing objects at our Jewish Americans and our underpaid and overworked police. They seem to be mostly young white women, so that doesn’t say much for the future of marriage and child production for the good old U.S.A. Did they learn this behavior at home, or are they so misinformed and ignorant that they follow any evil cause that greets them when they wake up in the morning? Not enough caffeine, and too much weed, will alter one’s consciousness and turn their brain to nursing home gruel. They need a good ass whooping with a Mesquite Tree switch, and then give the same to mommy and daddy, and maybe the grandparents as well. Sort of reminds me of the sixties and the young folks protesting on college campuses, in between cum-by-ya campfires, pot parties, and humping like wired up Rabbits, but at least then, they had a real cause, like the Vietnam War and their dislike for LBJ and Goldwater. It got messy and dangerous at times, like in Chicago in 1968. The National Guard against the radical students at Kent State University brought it all to a nasty head, and the protest dwindled after that, but the well-informed students and older Americans did make a difference, and the average law-abiding citizen did listen and learn. I was fresh-squeezed out of high school in 1969, waiting for the draft board to send me to Asia, and a long-haired, rock ‘n’ roll-playing musician. I put myself right in the midst of that mess, but refused to buy into the radical side of it. You could call me an anomaly of sorts. Conservative before it was cool to be. I felt that my stance on things had brought my depression era Roosevelt-Democrat Kennedy-voting parents over to the other side, changing coats in the winter of chaos. My father became so conservative that he couldn’t force himself to make a left turn when driving, so many days he drove in circles or took hours to reach his destination. I am not kidding.
September 10, 2025. Free speech and Christianity in America: do we still have it? Charlie Kirk certainly thought so and put it into practice in a brilliant way that no one in the media would have thought possible. Now we have little trophy-winning kiddos like those I described in the paragraph above, thinking they can assassinate someone because they don’t like their speech or ideas on religion. One more trophy his parents can add to his childhood bedroom shelf, next to his Star Wars posters and action figure collection. They must have missed the weapons stored under his trundle bed.
Christianity. I am a Christian, proud to be so, and I will tell anyone, anytime, that I follow Jesus Christ and his teachings. As a child, I was dunked and baptized so many times that my hair smelled like river water, and I learned to swim. Dear Hearts, we are under attack most cruelly. Our attackers are Islamic, and our castrated politicians have given them total approval to rid our country of us Christians. Maybe we Christians should take matters into our own hands and rid our country of both. I might write more about this, but the time feels off today. Besides, I have to clean my guns and go buy some ammo before The Walmart stops selling it as well.
The NFL. Once again, the Dallas Cowgirls have blown another season. It’s been thirty years since old Jerry has been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy. One more thing: why is it called the Super Bowl? What’s so super or special about it? Just another game with self-serving, overpaid, obnoxious young men. And of course, Taylor Swift is in the stands with her five patented facial expressions. I don’t watch football anymore; it gives me a headache like the one I got the one time I listened to Taylor Swift sing one of her cartoon music songs. I had to take a Valium IV drip to get over that one.
I promised my wife, Momo, that I would refrain from writing about politics, and for a year now I have kept my word. It’s often maddening to refrain from grabbing the laptop and cutting loose. Let me say this: New York City electing a Muslim mayor who is a proud socialist and follower of Islam has sealed the fate of this once great city. In the near future, maybe weeks, we will be reading of large corporations and average citizens vacating to the south, mainly Texas, Florida, Oklahoma, and a few other states. I will welcome them to my small town of Granbury. One condition is that they must not bring their East Coast attitude and lifestyle with them and expect to survive in Texas. Fancy Italian olive oil suitable for bread dipping, and Texas spring branch water don’t mix. Driving through town a few days back, I saw a Tesla with New York plates, and it had a sofa, a chair, and other pieces of modern furniture tied to the roof; the only things missing were Granny and Elle Mae sitting in rockers. The exodus and invasion have begun.
I’ve received a sack full of mail and numerous emails from all over the country addressed to my Ask A Texan advice column, so there will be more of those posted soon. I can assume that, since Ann Landers is no longer around, folks think an old Texan can help them navigate this mess. Being a senior member of The Sons of The Alamo Lodge was the catalyst, and being a student of the revered Texas “word slinger” J. Frank Dobie inspired me to help, or at times, hinder others with often good but sometimes questionable down-home advice. See you later this year.
One Day After: The Parade Of Slovenly Zombies And The Flannel PJ People
The hype season is upon us. Thanksgiving is in the rear view mirror, and everything is Christmas, and it started in October. Walmart skipped Thanksgiving and Halloween and went from summer to Christmas. Which is fine by me. I only visit that store when forced, and I was forced against my will a few days before Thanksgiving to accompany my wife for prescriptions and a few last-minute grocery items for the Turkey dinner with the family on Tuesday instead of Thursday, which we spent eating lunch with her brother, who is living in a rehab center in Dallas.
Every person in Granbury seemed to be there, thinking they were saving money, which is the big trick that the Waltons pull on the public. They mark some things way-way-bottom down low, and then raise the price on others, tricking the poor shopper into believing they are getting a great deal and saving their hard-earned money, or EBT money, which is really mine and your taxes financing all those overflowing baskets of junk food, hair extensions, and fancy dragon-lady fingernails.
I did notice more young women in full bedtime attire this year: jammy-bottoms and tops, along with fuzzy house slippers; some of them should have at least combed their hair and brushed their teeth. One girl had a long string of toilet paper dragging behind her PJs. What is wrong with women these days? They think it’s fashionable to come to a public place in their sleepwear? They look like morons. One older lady was wearing a Pioneer Woman house robe, a shower cap, and hospital socks, the kind with the little rubber bottoms so you don’t slip and fall. She was pushing a basket full of Pork Rinds and Dr Pepper, which, here in rural Texas, are considered one of the survival food groups, along with coldbeer and baloney.
Thinking back, decades ago, in the mid-1950s, I would accompany my mother to the grocery store, Piggly Wiggly, which was her favorite haunt. I would see women with their hair in rollers, peddle pushers, KEDs, and nice blouses. There was always a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, which made them look a bit sleazy, but back then, everyone smoked and used hair rollers. My mother loved to smoke; she was a world champion and would have a burning one in her mouth and one in each hand, ready to replace the other. She had a lot of big hair, so there would be at least two dozen rollers of all sizes shaping her follicles into a work of art. It seemed that these women all knew each other. They would stop and say, “Look at yeeew, how’s your mama and them? Did you get a new dress, or is that hair color just darlin, makes you look ten years younger and as cute as a Christmas puppy?” This went on for hours, as the ice cream melted and the meat grew dangerous E. coli bacteria, and I lost a large part of my childhood that could never be reclaimed. At least they didn’t wear pajamas.
Facing Cancer: My MRI Experience at UT Southwestern
Back in 2019, this Texan caught myself a case of cancer. It wasn’t contagious like the flu or a Norovirus, but it was a bad case. My first doctor wanted to do the standard treatment, but my wife, a dedicated nurse, did some digging and found a new treatment available only at UT Southwestern in Dallas. We live in Granbury, and I grew up in Fort Worth, so going to Dallas was painful; it’s something we Fort Worth’ians didn’t do back in the 1950s. Fort Worth is where the West begins, and Dallas is where the East peters out; it’s an actual historical fact. So, I had to swallow my family legacy of pride and prejudice and go to Dallas to save my life.
Round two of my cancer diagnosis commenced on May 13th, 2019 at 3:45 pm. Going to UT Southwestern Oncology for treatment was a no-brainer: it’s the best. Their staff radiates positive vibes, so naturally, I feel better. It is battling this evil little demon that has invaded my beloved earthly form with its sights set on the destruction of my body that keeps me focused. This course of action is my main goal and will receive my full attention for the near future.
Today is the ” oh so” specialized 3RDT MRI. I’m amused at the Star Wars comparison to R2D2. At least R2 would show me a hologram of Princess Lea for my entertainment. As with any procedure, it is inserting the word “specialized” into the mix that assures the method will be expensive and painful. I was right.
My bright eyed and bushy tailed MRI nurse accompanies me to my changing room, where I change into a scratchy blue hospital gown accented by yellow non-skid socks. After my wardrobe makeover, he inserts an IV pic into my arm and leaves.
A young woman, maybe twenty-one or so, also wearing the blue gown sits down next to me. She has two IV pics in one arm and appears scared. At this age, my shyness with strangers is minimal, so I ask her, ” first MRI?”.
Without looking over, she says, ” no sir, this is my sixth one, and there’s more to come. It’s Cancer.”
She looks at me and asks, ” how about you.” At this point, I feel like this young girl needs a laugh, even at my expense.
In a deadpan voice, I say, ” complications from the Racoon Flu. My entire body is pulsing with it. Never saw a garbage can I didn’t love. She knows this is total BS and laughs. I crack myself up.
Ten minutes later I lay on the MRI table, IV in place, earplugs inserted, headphones on, and the nurse/tech leans over and tells me “this might be a little uncomfortable.” He smiles and snickers as he says it.
I ask, ” how big is this thing you are inserting into my earthly temple.”
He laughs and says, ” not too big, just enough to get close to the subject and light you up with some good old Radiation.”
I plead, ” let me see it, and I’ll be the judge of that. What kind of Radiation are we talking here?”
Rather proudly he exclaims, ” this is the good old American stuff, came straight from Los Alamos Labs. The same material used to build “the nuke back in 1945. It’s so pure that Dr. Oppenhimer personally endorses it. Its the bomb.”
From behind his back, he produces a probe that looks like a 1/24th scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. Attached to the business end is an evil pigtail coil that is glowing green. This contraption is right out of the Spanish Inquisition playbook of torture, and it’s going inside of me? Fortunately, for my mental stability, the relaxation drugs I took an hour ago have kicked in, so I am defenseless to attempt escape. I accept fate and brace for the assault.
When the nurse, Mr. Smiley inserts the “little Hindenburg” into my backside, I was convinced I was either in the throes of childbirth or expelling an alien creature from my abdomen. I will never again doubt the painful stories of Alien abductees or women birthing children as “no big deal. ” I am squirming like a brain-hungry zombie, begging for mercy, offering money to end the agony, anything to stop the immobilizing pain. Then, in an instant, the suffering was gone, and I was human again. Listening to some awful hillbilly music, I drifted into La-La land.
I drift back into consciousness hearing George Jones sing ” He Stopped Loving Her Today,” possibly the saddest damn country song ever written. I choke back a tear, then realize where I am and why I’m here. Nurse Smiley congratulates me on a job well done, helps me to my feet and back to the dressing room.
Heading for the waiting room, I realize that scenarios like this will be my life for months to come. I think of a song from The Grateful Dead: I will get by, I will survive. Catchy little tune. Everyone needs a theme song.
Halloween Candy Haul: A Grandpa’s Last Trick-or-Treat Adventure
I wrote this in 2019, but thought it appropriate to bring it out again for Halloween.
I’m sad to say, that my wife did not believe me when I announced this would be my last “trick-or-treat” before my coming demise. There are three things left on my bucket list, and this will reduce it by one.
Walking out of the front door in my black jacket, black shirt, black jeans and Texas Rangers baseball cap, the look on her face says that she didn’t believe I would really do it. I reminded her to “hide and watch” as I departed down the sidewalk carrying my Trader Joes paper bag.
A few blocks down, I joined a group of children in search of sweets. It was cold, so most had on heavy jackets that hid their fancy costumes. The kids assumed I was someone’s grandfather and welcomed my presence as a chaperone and comrade. A few of the mothers gave me the stink eye, but being a kindly older fellow went a long way in easing their fears.
A few dozen houses behind us, the group was thinning down to a dedicated few. The hour was late and the school bell rings early, so the younger ones retreated for home to sort their spoils. I noticed that my bag was getting heavy, so I told the group I would do one last stop, then split for home.
Our last stop was a retirement apartment complex. One kid said ” it’s the best because old people miss their grandchildren and really pile on the goodies.” I can identify with that, and I would do the same if I was wielding the candy bowl.
As predicted, the octogenarians loaded our bags to the bursting point. They didn’t mess around with the bite size candy bars, everyone received full size bars, like the ones you see in grocery stores. My bag, one handle ripped, was maxed out.
Unable to carry my booty, I summoned my wife to drive me home. She was excited over the amount of candy I collected because she loves chocolate as much as any six-year-old, and I had enough to last for months.
At home, we turned on “The Bride of Frankenstein” and dumped my bag of goodies onto the den rug. We were, for a moment, children again. A treasure trove of candy lay piled before us. It was the largest haul of my life. I gave my spouse a smug “told you so” smile, as she clapped with glee and sorted out the best chocolate bars for her consumption. It was then things took a weird turn.
From the pile of sweet treasure I pulled a plastic bag of No. 2 Male Catheters. I’m thinking someone at that retirement home must be missing these by now. Digging further, I exhumed a new tube of hemorrhoid cream, two tubes of denture paste, a bottle of stool softener, handwipes, a pair of reading glasses, an adult diaper rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon and three 50% off coupons from Luby’s Cafeteria. I was mortified. My wife laughed so hard she barely made it to the bathroom. Well, at least I gave it a shot.
Day Two Of The Heart Monitor And Janice Taking A Little Piece Of My Heart…Now Baby.
I got through the night without the red light coming on, so I didn’t wake up dead, which is another misnomer. How does one “wake up dead?” I don’t care to find out. I know Jerry Garcia was always playing and talking about being part of the Grateful Dead, another messed-up name for a band. Dead folks aren’t grateful unless they have never heard a Taylor Swift record, or they are in Heaven, so we can assume the band at least gave Christianity a second thought. In the end, Ole Jerry didn’t have much to be grateful for except a body full of Heroin or whatever the hell he killed himself with. We can assume that if he made it to Heaven, the Good Lord at least put him in one of his praise bands along with Hendrix and a few others.
I had my usual cocktail last night, sitting on the patio with Momo, watching the Skunk and two Opossums come into the bird feeding area scrounging for treats. I was surprised the two critters didn’t get into an altercation, considering they both prefer the same foods: fruits and veggies. Momo says no old man in their right mind would encourage critters to come to an animal Luby’s cafeteria in their backyard. Somebody has to take care of our small furry critters. Elie Mae Clampett always had a few hanging off of her, and Granny was good at fixing them for supper when Elie Mae wasn’t around and Jed was out shooting for some food and finding more crude. Did Granny ever serve Mr. Drysdale and Miss Jane any Possum Medallions on a wooden stick with Chipmunk sauce?
Finally got my heart monitor paired with my Bluetooth hearing aids and my stereo and listened to some of the drum solo from Iron Butterfly’s “Inna Gadda Da Vida,” and man, that guy could play, I got my heart to match his kick drum, and was moving and grooving in my La-Z-Boy: Momo thought I was having the big one and almost called 911 since the light started blinking yellow. If it’s green, I’m good; yellow means it’s iffy, and if it goes to red, then I’m off to La-La Land. I got a text from my Dr. Squatch to “knock it off.”
Notes From The Cactus Patch 