After a trip to Frisco Texas for a doctors visit today, Momo and me stopped off at a local Fort Worth Mexican restaurant for an early supper before taking the cattle trail back to Granbury.
Seated, beers in hand, decompressing from two hours of hell on earth Dallas traffic, our Senorita waitress stopped by to drop a bowl of chips and salsa at our table; the usual fare for Tex-Mex food.
Over the years I have told my readers that my social filters have left on the last train to Clarksville, so I’m apt to blurt out any number of insults to no one in particular. The damn music was so loud I couldn’t understand a word the young miss was saying.
“Miss, can you turn down the music, or maybe give me a tablet and a pen so I can write out my order?” I say.
She was well indoctrinated. “Sir, the music is here to add to the ambiance and to make the food more tasty. We want our customers to think they are in old Mexico enjoying a meal while gazing at the Pacific ocean or the Gulf of America.”
Momo is giving me that ” you had better not say it” look, but I did anyway.
In my best old man I mean business voice I say, ” lookey here, Senorita, your food ain’t that good, and the music sucks, I can’t speak Spanish so why do you think I can understand a word that girl is singing? As far as ambiance, I’m looking out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Hulen Street and there is not a palm tree or a beach, or a dude leading a burro with a margarita machine strapped to its back. It’s Fort Worth Texas, not Cancun.”
Thoroughly insulted, she turns and stomps away. A few minuets later, Dire Straits is playing Money For Nothing. I notice all the folks our age are tapping their feet and digging the music. A few words of wisdom: music doesn’t make the food taste better.
Walking into Walmart this morning to pick up my meds, I was accosted, not by a panhandler or some poor schmuck with a sob story, but by a cute eight-year-old girl selling Girl Scout cookies. She wouldn’t take no for an answer and “had” all the answers. This little waif, hands on her hips and a defiant gleam in her eye, actually blocked my entrance into the Walmart. Standing in front of me like a little David about to punch Goliath, she meant business. I couldn’t bump her out of the way, so I was forced to engage her. It was all a grand scheme. Standing behind a table stacked with boxes of cookies were four Mama Bears, arms crossed, foot tapping, just waiting for me to decline. They all had that ” Just try to get out of this one” look on their face.
” I don’t have any money,” I pleaded.
” We take credit and debit cards,” she chirps. When did this start? Does every kid have a credit card machine in their backpack?
” I’m diabetic and could have a seizure,” I add.
“No problem mister, we have sugar and gluten-free,” she sneers.
I’m trapped. Twenty adults are staring at me as if I am a criminal. I hand her my Visa card, and she rings up five boxes of cookies and a twenty percent tip to boot. I take my cookies and walk to my car, fearing they will grab me again on the way out. I’ll be having cookies for supper.
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.
Tex Styles grilling in the backyard of his Fort Worth, Texas home
After sixteen-year-old Tex Styles is inducted into “The Sons Of The Alamo Lodge,” and gets his big write-up in the Fort Worth Press and a shout-out on the Bobbi Wygant Television show. His status as a “wonder kid” champion griller is increased by ten-fold. So, naturally, everybody wants a piece of Tex, or at least a plate full of his Brisket and sausage.
His face is on the cover of Bonn Appetite magazine and Sports Illustrated, thanks to Dan Jenkins. The Michelin Travel Guide lists him as the top meat griller in America and gives him a five-star rating. Julia Childs is fuming mad.
Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip are Texas BBQ fans from way back. So, they send Tex an invite to prepare a meat feast at Buckingham Palace; the boy lives in high cotton and cold beer and has not yet graduated high school.
Upon his graduation from Pascal High School in 1968, the Army drafts Tex and sends him to Viet Nam for a visit. His captain happens to be a Fort Worth boy who knows Tex’s hometown celebrity status, which, in turn, gets Tex a gig as the top generals’ chef. He won’t hold a rifle or fire a shot for his two-years tour. Instead, a smoker grill large enough for thirty steaks and ten briskets is his weapon. A color photograph of his boyhood grill instead of the usual Playboy fold-out hangs next to his cot. The general tells his men that he “loves the smell of smoking brisket in the morning.” Tex is an immediate rock star.
Tex used his time in Vietnam wisely by learning exotic cooking techniques from the locals.
For example, a shriveled up old Mama-San educated him on using “Vietnamese Death Peppers,” the hottest pepper in the world. If a man ate one whole, death would occur within twenty minutes, or so the Mama-San said. Tex nibbled a small end piece and was on fire for two days, unable to leave the barracks bathroom, so he figured she wasn’t bullshitting him.
A month of experimentation’s with the “Death Pepper” resulted in an edible and survivable pepper sauce. Tex called it “Davy Crockett’s Ass Canon,” since he is a “Son Of The Alamo” and all that.
He found a local business in Saigon to bottle the product, and a local artist produced an excellent illustrated label for the bottle. It pictures Davy Crockett with his buckskin pants around his ankles, torching Mexican soldiers with a massive fiery flame shooting from his buttocks. In addition, the label said it’s a marinade, a pepper sauce, a medicinal elixir, and a hemorrhoid eradicator. All of this is true, so it’s bound to be a huge hit.
In June 1972, Miss Piddle Sonjair was a nineteen-year-old winner of the “Miss Chigger Bayou Louisiana” contest. Although she is not the prettiest girl entered, she is the only one with a full set of straight white teeth, no baby bump, and doesn’t have a snot-nose kid hanging off her hip, making her the popular winner via unanimous decision.
Piddle holding her Chigger Bayou trophy and a plate of Tex’s brisket
As the newly crowned “Miss Chigger Bayou,” Piddle Sonjair makes her appearance at the “Shreveport Annual Crayfish, Sausage and Meat Smoking Festival,” where she meets handsome Tex Styles as she awards him the winner’s trophy.
She is bug-eyed- shaky-legged enamored with his triple-crusty-peppered Angus brisket and his ten-alarm jalapeno wild boar sausage smothered in his secret chipmunk sauce.
Marriage follows a few months later, then two sons and two daughters round out the Styles family. So naturally, all the kids take to grilling and smoking, just like dear old Dad.
Tex, Piddle, and the children travel the country in their two custom tour bus’s, pulling a 30-foot smoker and grill for the next twenty years. They smoke, grill, and serve the best meats in the south, winning competitions and elevating Tex to legendary status in the grilling world.
His Fort Worth boyhood home, listed in the state historic register, is a traffic-jamming tourist attraction. His first Weber grill is cast in bronze and displayed at Will Rogers Auditorium during the “Fat Stock Show.” Men worldwide come and pay homage to “the masters,” sacred covenant. It’s a moving sight to see grown-assed men weep while kneeling and touching the small grill. It’s one of the top tourist attractions in the south.
Tex is now seventy-two and retired from competitive cooking. The only folks that get a Styles brisket and fixin’s are his select clientele of fifty-plus years and Father Frank, the priest at Our Lady of Perpetual Repentance church of which Tex and Piddle are members in good standing. He has more money than King Faruk, a large home on Lake Granbury, and a cabin in Ruidoso, New Mexico, so he’s in the cooking game for fun.
Ten days before Christmas, Tex gets a call from his old pal Willie “the Red Headed Stranger,” Nelson.
Willie, his family, his band, their families, and numerous relatives and hangers-on have planned a “Santa Claus Pick’in and Grinn’in Christmas” shin-dig at Willies Dripping Springs ranch. Willie has a hankering for a Tex Styles holiday meat feast with all of Miss Piddle’s fancy fixins’.
Tex and Willie exchange the usual howd’ys, and then Willie drops his order.
Expecting around two-hundred-seventy-five people and assorted animals at the shin-dig, Willie needs enough food to satisfy a herd with possible pot munchies and other self-induced disorders.
Willie’s list is a booger bear, and Tex isn’t sure if he and Piddle can fulfill it in time, so he calls in his two sons and a couple of grandkids for backup.
Willie needs 38 each of Tex’s 30-pound “Goodnight Irene Ranch Briskets,” 45 each of West Texas spoon-fed bacon wrapped-beer can pork butts, 35 pounds of San Saba wild pig sausage, and 59 educated and certified free-range smoked chickens, with documentation attached.
All of the sides and fixin’s, are Piddles forte’, and will consist of 175 pounds of “Jacksboro Highway Red Skinned Tater Salad”, 175 pounds of “O.B. Jauns Canobi-Oil Mexican Macaroni Salad”, 120 pounds of high octane Shiner Bock Ranch Style beans, 235 pounds of Piddles special “Nanner Pudding,” 50 gallons of Tex’s secret sweet n’ spicy Chipmunk sauce, and one bottle of ” Davy Crocketts Ass Cannon” hot sauce.
Finally, to wash’er down, 135 gallons of Tex’s unique Dr. Pepper CBD oil-infused sweet tea and 5 commercial coffee urns of Dunkin Donuts Breakfast Blend coffee. The order is too big to ship, so Tex’s fifth grandson and granddaughter will deliver it to the ranch in the Styles family food truck. Money is not a worry for Willie, so he doesn’t discuss cost, which rounds out to be about $18,000 without taxes and tips.
Tex fires up his 30-foot trailer-mounted smoker and three custom-made “Styles Grills.” The next morning. Grandson number 3 unloads a pickup bed full of Mesquite, Peach, and Oak firewood purchased from the “Little Bobs” wood co-op in Eastwood, Texas. Tex won’t use wood or charcoal that doesn’t come from West of Fort Worth; if he suspects it may have come from Dallas or anywhere East of there, he throws it out. He is a Fort Worth boy to a fault.
At midnight, Tex pulls a tester brisket and carts it into the kitchen for a “slice and chew,” checking for tenderness, aroma, and flavor.
When he pulls back the foil wrap, he gasps and stumbles a few steps backward. Piddle hears this and bolts to the kitchen, where she finds a “white as a ghost” Tex sitting in a chair. Thinking he is having “the big one,” she dials 911, but Tex stops the call, assuring her he is alright.
He asks Piddle to join him next to the Brisket, telling her to describe what she sees. After a few seconds, she lets out a hound-dog yelp and crosses herself.
There, on the kitchen counter, resting in a tin-foil boat of succulent juices, sits a 20-pound brisket perfectly shaped like the Virgin Mary holding her baby Jesus. The contour of the torso, the flowing robe, her angelic face, and the little baby in her arms look as if a great master had carved that hunk of beef. Piddle gets all weepy-eyed and announces that this is a “Christmas Miracle Brisket.” Tex takes a picture with his phone and sends it to Father Frank, telling him to get over here now; we may have a miracle on our hands.
An hour later, Father Frank and two Nuns from the rectory view the miracle meat in the kitchen.
Father Frank is skeptical; these things usually happen in Latin America and tend to be the face of Jesus on a tortilla or a piece of burnt toast, not a 20-pound hunk of beef brisket.
The two Nuns intensely study the Brisket for a good thirty minutes. Then, finally, sister Mary and Sister Madgealyn, renowned experts in miracles of all things holy, inform Father Frank that this is the real deal and he should contact the Vatican, stat. So Father Frank dials the Popes’ secure red phone hotline. The Holy Father answers.
The conversation is in Latin and lasts for a few minutes. Then, finally, a bit shook, the good Father hangs up and tells Tex that the Vatican’s special investigation team will arrive tomorrow afternoon and to please hire armed guards to protect the miracle meat. Tex agrees.
Father Frank asks Tex if he might take a tiny slice of the useless burned fat home for religious reasons. Tex cuts a sliver from the back of the meat and wraps it in foil. The nuns, Father Frank, and the miracle sliver depart.
The following day is Sunday, and Tex and Piddle are too busy cooking to attend services. Then, around 1 PM, Father Frank calls Tex and tells him that “we have got a problem.”
Seems that the good Father couldn’t resist a tiny taste of the burned miracle fat before bedtime; he said it was the most Heavenly thing he had ever put into his mouth.
When Father Frank stared into the bathroom mirror this morning, he thought he had died and gone to Heaven. But he was still here, and, instead of a 70-year-old white-haired man in the mirror, a younger version of himself with thick jet black hair and perfect white teeth stared back. His hemorrhoids are gone, his gout is healed, his vision is excellent, his knee’s and hips don’t hurt, he took a dump like a big dog, his skin is as smooth as a baby’s bald head, and he has a woody so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. This miracle brisket is the real deal for sure. But, Tex senses there is more to the Father’s explanation. So, he presses him for the rest.
Father Frank comes clean and begins to weep like a teenage girl having her period, telling Tex that the experience is a flat-out-miracle, and he was compelled by the all-mighty to share it with his congregation during mass this morning. So, he told them the whole beautiful story. Tex murmured, sum-bitch, and hung up the phone.
Before Tex can get really good and pissed at the good Father, his buddy down the street, Mooch, calls and tells Tex to check his front lawn. “It ain’t good little buddy,” was all Mooch said. News travels like wildfire in a small town, especially if it involves religion.
A hundred or more people sit, lay, stand or take up space in wheelchairs, hospital gurneys, and walkers on the front lawn. The overflow takes up his neighbors front yard.
The block is a traffic jam, and two news trucks from Fort Worth are parked in his driveway, antenna raised and going live. Last night, the two Nuns accompanying Father Frank are now standing on Tex’s front porch, signing autographs and giving fake communion using Goldfish crackers and Sunny Delite grape drink instead of sacraments. The healing circus just hit town.
Two police officers show up. They demand to see Tex’s permit for a gathering of over fifty people and organizing an outside church service. Tex explains there is no church service, but the two nuns giving fake communion show otherwise. The cops write Tex a few tickets and leave.
As soon as the cops depart, the Vatican Special Forces arrive.
Five burly boys in black Georgio Armani suits wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses and sporty Italian Fedoras force themselves into the house. So, naturally, they want the miracle meat. Two black limos with fender flags are parked in front of Tex’s house. The news folks go apocalyptic. Father Frank is curbside giving a live interview to Vatican Television News. It has officially hit the fan.
The main burly boy produces a document printed on expensive Vatican parchment saying that “All Miracles involving God, Jesus, The Virgin Mary, or any relative or likeness thereof on an article of food is the sole property of the Pope and the Catholic Church LLC.” It’s signed by the Pope and has a small picture of him glued next to his signature.
Tex claims bullshit and tells the Pope’s boys to hit the road. Piddle stands in the kitchen doorway, 9mm in hand. Her look says, “don’t mess with a Coon-Ass gal this Brisket ain’t leaving Granbury, Texas.”
The Vatican boys, muttering select Italian curse words, leave in a huff. Tex knows what he is meant to do with the Miracle Brisket.
Willie Nelson sees the news coverage down in Austin and calls Tex on his cell phone. ” I sure could use some of that Miracle Brisket when you deliver my order. The old lumbago and prostate cancer has been acting up and it hurts so bad I can hardly roll a joint or pack my pipe. I’ll be glad to donate a couple of hundred grand to any charity you choose.” Tex says he will send a piece if there is any left. Willie’s word is as good as gold.
Father Frank rushes into the house, arms waving, screaming like a fainting goat. ” What in God’s name have you done you backwoods cow cooking toothless hillbilly? I’m ruined!”
It seems the good Father made a sleazy back door deal with the His Popeness for a secret trip to the Vatican and a fancy appointment to some committee if he delivered the Miracle Brisket to Rome. So, Tex tells the good Father, in a non to gentle way, that the meat is staying in Granbury and will do whatever good it can here at home.
Father Frank yells, ” you double dog crossing sum-bitch,” grabs the two nuns, and they are history. Tex tells them, “don’t let the door hit you in the butt.” He had a feeling that Father Frank was never as holy as he pretended to be, and the nuns were a little flakey.
Tex goes to the kitchen, lays the meat on a cutting board, and slices the Miracle Brisket into tiny slivers, wrapping each morsel in a square of tin foil. He and Piddle then distribute the bites to every person in their front yard that is ill or has an apparent medical condition. He also gives a nibble to his fifteen-year-old dog, McMurtry.
Tex then sends his two sons, his two daughters, grandsons, and granddaughters along with himself and Piddle to every nursing home, mission, physician’s office, memory care facility, hospice, veterinary clinic, and hospital in town with pieces of the Miracle Brisket.
Most years, when I remember, I invite my old buddies to a Christmas lunch at Whataburger. Imagine my surprise when I stopped off for a Number 1 meal, with extra pickles and a Dr Pepper, and ran into my old pal Mooch. I had planned on calling him, but the sticky note fell off the fridge, and Momo sucked it up with her third appendage, also known as a cordless vacuum. I can’t survive a day without sticky note reminders. Plug in the coffee percolator, take meds, wash your face, turn off the burglar alarm system, feed the birds, etc. Life is easier when you have a yellow note lighting the way.
I joined Mooch in our usual booth, third from the entry door, chipped formica on the front edge, and “Jose loves YaYa” carved into the tabletop. Mooch looked all hangdog down in the mouth, which is his usual mood, but his personal pity party didn’t hinder him from stuffing his face with a double order of french fries and a Dr Pepper shake. I knew better than to inquire about his misfortune, but my mouth over-rode my sensible brain, and I asked what was wrong.
Mooch’s troubles stem from his wife, Mrs. Mooch, his son, Mooch Junior, or his foul little demon Chihuahua dog, Giblet. Today, Giblet had the man in a hand-wringing fit of despair. He brushed back a tear with his ketchup-covered napkin and let loose,
” That damn little dog has gone MAGA on me. Now, I kinda like Trump, but I always write in my vote for Ross Perot. The dog watches Fox News on his little TV all day, and some way, he got hold of my credit card number and ordered an official Trump hair piece from the RNC website. My wife sent a picture of him in his little wig to President Trump, and now he’s coming to Granbury to meet the mutt and take him to Chick Fil-A for a lunch visit. The guy from the Presidents office called and said that Trump may have a slot for Giblet in his administration, so now me and Mrs. Mooch will have to move to Washington and put up with all that crap.” I just had to ask him… didn’t I.
I was in Walmart a few days ago. The Christmas season is the best time to observe humanity at its finest and lowest and street-rat-crazy humans.
All the usual suspects were there. People dressed in bathrobes, onesie pajamas, and rabbit-eared bedroom slippers. One lady squeezed herself into an Elf costume four or five sizes too small. Her husband looked like Edger Alan Poe; all that was missing was the stuffed Raven on his shoulder. Another old lady had her grocery basket full of Mountain Dew and Pork Rinds, which is considered a food group in Appalachia and now in Granbury, Texas. Two little girls absconded bicycles from the toy department and were speeding down the isles terrorizing shoppers: their mother watched with an adoring smile as her little angels wreaked havoc: they likely received a small trophy when they got home. A crazed woman was ripping into the poor Pharmacist because he wouldn’t fill her prescription for Oxycodone; she clearly needed her medication; pulling her hair out in fistfuls didn’t help her cause.
One family, mom, pop, and the three kids pushed baskets with a flat-screen television for each member. What is the fascination with large televisions? Are we the only society that is addicted to electronics? The kids looked undernourished but had to have that TV instead of healthy food.
A lady and her young daughter, maybe five, passed by. They were both on their cell phones. Mama was engrossed in a personal conversation that should have been private, and the little girl was jabbering into her pink Barbie smartphone. I assumed the kid on the other end was about the same age since I couldn’t understand her words. Five-year-olds appear to have a unique language used to communicate with other children. When did giving a child barely out of diapers a smartphone become acceptable? As the song says, ” Only In America.”
Exiting the store, I looked for the Salvation Army and their red kettle. None to be found. The greeter lady said they should be showing up any day. I have childhood memories of my mother dropping change into that kettle as the kindly lady stood ringing her bell. In some years, it was a quarter; in better years, it might have been a dollar. She always had a change in her coin purse to help the less fortunate. I’ve continued that tradition every year of my adult life, stuffing a few dollars into that slot and hearing a “Merry Christmas and God bless you.” That’s when I knew it was Christmas time.
Don’t misunderstand me; Momo and I are happy with the election result. I feel bad for all the self-serving celebrities who publically promised to move from this country because of the election. Where will they go? Canada or Europe may be their only hope for survival. If they were smart, and there are plenty of them that are not, they would seek to find the magical land of Nirvana. You know, the elusive country hidden in the Tibetan Mountains, a stone’s throw from Xanadu, which would also offer a safe harbor.
Of course, there would be drawbacks. The Monks who run these places don’t care much for Hollywood folks. There wouldn’t be movie studios, movie houses, fancy restaurants, Mercedes dealerships, or elections. In fact, there would be no work for them at all except for pruning the bushes and flowers. They might find true inner peace and illumination by spending the rest of their days there, wearing a flowing white robe as they stroll the mystical gardens accompanied by a mystical grasshopper.
Momo and I gave it some serious thought. Moving to Nirvana or Xanadu sounds warm and fuzzy, like new Christmas pajamas. After many nights of kicking the idea around, she announced that there is no way she can move to a place that doesn’t show “The Wheel of Fortune” and doesn’t have her H-E-B.
Rantings Of an Elderly Man That Has lost all filters and doesn’t give a damn if I ever get them back….
Let me set this writ straight from the start: I am not a union supporter and never have been. When I was building multiple projects at the Mall Of America in the early 90s, the local labor unions threatened me and my family with death numerous times. Tires slashed late-night phone threats and everything you could imagine if my employer, a Texas company, and I did not comply with their Nazi commands. This was in Minneapolis, Minnesota, supposedly America’s friendliest state; if you believe that whispering downhome wolf in a sheepskin suit, Garrison Keillor, the hometown boy, made good, then exposed as the unvirtuous butt-pinching bad boy of small-town America.
The longshoremen are shutting down the country because a forklift driver’s six-figure income is insufficient. The average income for a hardworking American is 58K. And a man driving a forklift on a dock is worth over three times that? Since when did our country go full “batshit crazy?”I would guess it was around when the sainted Franklin D. Roosevelt was crowned president for what he envisioned as a lifetime. An elitist northerner sporting a lilted half-European accent that smoked his ciggies in a pearl holder and humped more willing women than JFK could dream of. He was a cad, but considering the almost canine looks of his genius wife, I could throw him a bone: Sorry for the apparent cheap joke.
Momo and I are trekking to the HEB tomorrow to stock up on whatever is left. The panic buying is upon us like a flock of city park Ducks on a single Junebug.: my condolences to the dearly departed ducks in Springfield Ohio. Ordinary women in far-too-skin-tight leggings fight in the aisles over toilet paper, face moisturizers, wine, Mountain Dew, and Rice A Roni, the San Francisco treat. Down here in Texas, we won’t put up with that crap in the Northeast. We have plenty of farms with fresh produce, hordes of cows, pigs, and fish, feral pigs, feral cats and dogs, and feral people, and if we don’t have it, we will invade Mexico and take it. Why not? They have already invaded us.
Did I say too much? Probably. If you have any significant complaints, call me at BR-549 and ask for Junior.
I’ve always believed in the raw strength of prayer. A small child kneels by the bed. A grown man kneels beside a dying parent. God listens. He may not grant all our prayers. There are reasons for this. A dying parent approaches the end, no cure in sight. It is time. We all have our moment.
Momo and I found ourselves at a prayer gathering in the park a week ago. The turnout was sparse, the heat oppressive, the air thick with discomfort. Yet, amid it all, the holy spirit lingered among us. Men, women, and children knelt, some on one knee, others prostrated on the pine needles, indifferent to the thoughts of strangers. The older ones were weighed down by age, needing to rise again; I understood. What struck me was the number of young folks present: teens and those in their twenties, engulfed in faith. I thought, why should I be surprised? This faith is not merely for the old; it is for the young, from the cradle to the grave and beyond. It filled me with a quiet hope against the dark forces that assail our nation—a small, emerging army ready to stand, bolstered by the strength of Michael, the Archangel. Change is coming; stay tuned.
I’ve recently sprouted a beard, and much to my surprise, not a single dark hair dares to intrude upon my snowy facial wilderness: the scruffy testament to my frothy mirth matches the proud hue atop my head, a delicate white crown. As a son of Cherokee lineage, I stood astonished, finding myself transforming into an old man with pearly locks in my forties. This change, I suspect, is the handiwork of my father’s Scotch-Irish heritage—a rowdy clan of kilted revelers who seemed to navigate life with laughter and a touch of mischief. They must have commandeered a ship, setting sail for New York, then onto Pennsylvania, where the merry-making reached promising heights. My grandfather would neither confirm nor deny the wild tales of our kin. This speaks volumes about my love for Irish Whiskey, while the Cherokee blood in my veins draws me to large, sharp knives. Hand a drink to an Indian, and trouble isn’t far behind. History whispers of how Little Bighorn ended for Custer. Loose chatter suggests that Sitting Bull and Howling Wolf snagged a wagon load of drink the night before the fray, bestowing upon the braves a reckless spirit. Had they chosen an early night with a hearty breakfast of Buffalo tacos, perhaps the bloody disaster would have been averted.
As a boy of nine, I dreamt of writing like Twain. In my innocence, I thought I was his spirit reborn, dropped into a different time: September of 1949, the last year of the baby boomer generation. With a Big Chief Tablet and a number 2 pencil, I set out to capture the simple chaos of childhood mischief. There were four of us, bold and reckless, stealing cigarettes, hurling water balloons at police cars, and fighting with the tough kids across the tracks. The local papers laughed at my tales as if a child’s imagination could not hold weight. My aunt, wise and educated, introduced me to Spillane and Steinbeck. Spillane turned me into a wise-ass, insufferable child, resulting in numerous mouth cleansings with Lifeboy soap. Steinbeck felt right—my family had lived a life like Tom Joad’s, migrating to California during hard times of the Dust Bowl and the 1930s. I had stories in me, maybe even a book. A therapist dismissed it as a childish fantasy, saying it would fade. Yet here I am, much older, still tethered to that innocence. Now, I’m in my Hemingway phase, my looks echoing the rugged man who lived wild in Cuba, writing furiously while embracing the chaos of life.
There is more sand in the bottom of my hourglass than in the top. I feel the end approaching. I do not wish to know the day or hour. I can only pray it is a good one, resulting in a trip to Heaven, which is better than the alternative. I am not the writer Twain, Steinbeck, or Hemingway was. They had talent, and they had time from youth to hone their craft and find their voices. Yet, I will still give it a try.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 