Thanks to my late favorite aunt, Norma Lavender, I became a scholar early in life.
Five-year-olds are stuck between that titty-baby stage and graduating to sandlot baseball and comic books. If life got tough, I could still console myself with a grimy thumb to my mouth, and a skinned knee sent me squalling to momma. I couldn’t tie my own sneakers or button a shirt.
My pushy aunt realized my floundering ways and rescued me with books. She got her hands on the first two years of Fun With Dick and Jane, the books the Fort Worth school system used to teach kids to read; comic books would have to wait; Micky Spillane and Mike Hammer were calling me.
Aunt Norma quizzed me like a Perry Mason for a year, teaching me to write and read. By my sixth birthday, I was a reading Jesse, a child phenom, and a leper to my neighborhood gang. They could barely write and couldn’t read a lick of anything. Here I was, a young Shakespeare among a crowd of jabbering idiots.
Having given her parenting rights to her sister-in-law for a year, my sainted mother has now stepped in to reacquaint herself with her young scholar. I still couldn’t tie my sneakers and applied too much Butch Wax to my flat-top haircut. My mother was a hard-core Southern Baptist, and I didn’t understand why when I colored outside of her parental lines, she would cross herself and say a prayer right before she administered a righteous butt whooping with her favorite weapon; a 9inch by 12-inch Tupperware cake holder. To this day, I won’t touch a piece of Tupperware.
I was assigned a weekly Micky Spillane paperback and expected to read the entire book. Looking back, those trashy, noir detective books were not fit for a child or an educated adult, but Aunt Norma would read a book in 24 hours and was quite an educated gal. I didn’t understand most of what I read, but a few phrases stuck with me: “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” “A hard man is good to find?” Mike Hammer was always in trouble with a trashy broad. I shared my new vocabulary with the gang, and they dug it.
Mother started receiving phone calls from the other moms, blaming me, her little boy, for teaching their uneducated idiots smutty language. The Tupperware storage pan came out of the cabinet, and my butt burned for a week. Aunt Norma gave me Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn to reprogram me. I dreamed of someday becoming Mark Twain, a kid with a Big Cheif tablet and a handful of Number 2 yellow pencils stored in a Tupperware container.
Ten or so miles past the Needles California border station, my grandfather, John Henry Strawn, encountered a stooped, raggedy-dressed black man and a small dog walking along the side of the road. The man’s attire resembled that of a poorly dressed scarecrow. Without hesitation, he slowed the Ford, performed a swift turnaround, and approached the traveler. After stopping the car, he offered the old fellow a ride. Without hesitation, the traveler gratefully accepted, ensuring that his dog was settled in first, followed by his knapsack, a guitar case, and then himself.
A few miles down the road, the man broke the silence, introducing himself as *Blind Jelly Roll Jackson from the Deep Ellum Dallas, Texas, and his seeing-eye dog, a Chihuahua named Pancho Villa, who is blinded in one eye. The result of a dog fight with a Coyote, so he wears tiny sunshades because the bright sunlight hurts his good eyeball. Jelly says he is a blues man and is headed to Los Angeles to stay with a cousin and find work in a juke joint, and he, by accident, shot a fella in Dallas four times over a pay dispute. He said it was all Pancho’s fault because the dog said the man had a knife, so what else is a body to do. He pulled a leather Bolla from his knapsack, took a jolt, poured a little liquid into his palm, and let Pancho Villa lick it up. John Henry was sure it was whiskey, and after the dog drank it, he fell over and started snoring. Jelly’s chin found his chest, and he slept the sleep of the weary.
On the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles, they saw the first billboard, “No Jobs in California, Keep Out.” John Henry paid no attention to the sign; he was certain he could find a job on the docks in Long Beach. He was an artisan, not an Okie fruit picker. The next sign was for a migrant campground, $.25 per day, running water, showers, and clean grounds; John Henry took the turn off Route 66, drove a few miles, took two more turns, and found himself at a tidy campground guard shack. Unlike the border boys, the guard wore a clean, crisp uniform and was pleasant. The three-day fee was paid with small change from the small stash in grandmother’s purse. Their assigned camping slot was shaded by a tall Eucalyptus tree. This would do until a job was found. Jelly and Pancho Villa wandered down the main lane, stopping to let the children pet and scratch Pancho, who immediately bit a couple of them.
Travel to the eastern outskirts of Los Angeles, past the city limit sign. This is where a well-manufactured fantasy meets reality. Families living in tents or shanties of plywood and canvas. The city fathers, embarrassed to call them shanty towns, label them “migrant campgrounds.” Men walk the roadways for miles into the city looking for day labor or something better. These are hard-working, proud people who have been dealt the cards of misfortune. Los Angeles is becoming a city of “haves and have-nots.”
The Los Angeles of 1934 is a city like no other in this country. The motion picture industry paints it as larger than life. Hollywood, where dreams are made and shattered, is the engine that powers this city. Oil and shipping will defend their role, but Hollywood fuels the beast.
At first glance, commerce appears untouched by the depression. Polished cars parade on Santa Monica Boulevard. People fill the sidewalks as if on holiday, smiles on their faces, knowing they are fortunate to live in this unique land of opportunity. The manufactured facade so completely obscures the reality that, in fact, California suffers, but not quite as much as the rest of the country. It’s hidden so well that thousands of hopeful migrants genuinely believe this is the “Promised Land.”    At dawn, John Henry, with Blind Jellyroll, drove into Los Angeles to search for work. He and a few thousand others had the same idea. A long line of men and women walked in unison as if Moses were leading the Jews from Egypt along the dusty highway.      Men wearing patched overalls, sewn-up khaki pants, and shirts as white as a wash tub could get them. A few wore a dirty Fedora or a worn sweat-stained Stetson. Some real Okies wore frayed straw hats and cracked work boots. Their clothes hadn’t seen a wash tub of water in months. It was an army made of misery. The cloud of roadside dust told the folks in town they were coming—”NO WORK HERE” signs went up in every window along their route.
John Henry drops Jellyroll and Pancho Villa at the downtown mission run by Sister Aimee McPherson, the celebrated firebrand radio preacher. Jelly’s cousin works for the preacher and has assured him that the good sister has a place for him. John Henry wonders how a blind man and a one-eyed dog made it from Texas to here. Perseverance and Moxy, some folks have it, but most don’t.
Lost and asking directions to Long Beach every mile or so, John Henry made a wrong turn and found himself on a residential street. Tidy bungalows with mowed green yards and colorful landscaping lifted his spirits. Back in Fort Worth, you only saw streets like this where the rich folks lived. He could tell by the cars in the driveways and houses that needed paint, that these folks were plain working people, getting by better than most.
 Half a block up, he sees an older man and woman losing the battle to unload a large chifforobe from the back of a pickup truck that should have been in a scrap yard. The rear end of the old truck sat on the concrete, and both leaf springs shot to hell. They are struggling and on the verge of dropping the piece of furniture when John Henry stops and, without asking, jumps in and grabs the end the woman is about to lose. The man thanked him for his help as they carried the furniture into their house. The home smelled like the fragrant gardenias growing around the front porch.
More in Chapter 3. * Note; My father couldn’t remember the name of the fellow or his dog, so I used the name of a character from an earlier story. A dog named Pancho could be nothing else but a Chihuahua.
Summer in the Cactus Patch came early this year. May was pleasant, with frequent gully washers that quickly turned into toad-floating spring floods, yet some of my neighbors ran their sprinkler systems on their already-soaked lawns, which added to the flooding. We live on top of a rocky hill, so our abode was protected from the rushing waters of May, and we don’t have a sprinkler system to water our rocks and cacti.
June came with a dreaded heat wave forming in the southwest desert and sneaking into Texas. The Mexican province known as California is experiencing the hottest weather in history, and that adds to the folks getting out of Los Angeles and Sacramento and moving to my state, which has done nothing to stop the influx of unwanted refugees. U haul and Ryder are out of trucks, so folks are building their own trailers or tying furniture to the tops of their cars. Yesterday, I saw a Tesla with luggage and home decor tied to the roof of the poor EV. Of course, the car had California plates, and the occupants were likely looking for a home to buy in my little town.
My grandparents, my father, and my aunt migrated from Texas to California in 1934 because there were no jobs in Fort Worth or the city of Dallas. When reaching the desert town of Needles, CA, they were immediately labeled “Okies” by the border guards. My grandfather, a man of many words, mostly curse ones, did his best to convince the guards that he was a Texan and had visited Oklahoma once for a funeral, which made the situation worse because the guards then labeled them Texas Okies, which was a double insult, and to boot, they weren’t welcome in the land of pleasant weather and movie stars. Grandfather turned himself into a poor man’s Will Rogers with plenty of aw-shucks, dirt kicking, and head-scratching and made the guards laugh, so the family was admitted. He forgot to mention the three pistols, the sawed-off shotgun, and his pet Rattle Snake, Bubba, stashed under the front seat of his Ford.
I am borrowing a piece of Joan Didion’s famous book title to make a point; I don’t think she would mind. I can’t ask permission because she expired in 2021, but I am a fan of her works.
After yelling and cursing the television screen for a few weeks now, thanks to the pampered and entitled Ivy League students and their new besties, the Palestinian agitators, I began to understand their imagined cause. They hate their parents, they hate their country, they hate you and me, and they hate themselves for hating everything and understanding nothing: the “everybody gets a participation trophy” generation has come of age. The soccer moms and helicopter parents created this pack of little Franken-Children, and us old folks have to suffer their folly.
I’m no Dr. Phil, (although the name affiliation is there) just an old guy that has seen a thing or three and stayed in a Holiday Inn Express a few times, although I prefer Drury Inns. This is my blog, and I can darn sure say what I please, no matter how much it offends, or not. Getting kicked off of Twitter numerous times, only makes me more insufferable.
I remember being a teenager in the turbulent sixties when protest against the Vietnam War and Lyndon Johnson were in full swing. Those were mostly students and a mix of outsiders singing songs and they carrying signs, that mostly say hooray for our side and all that Hippie Dippy Love Love Panda crap. Yes, they burned and bombed some buildings and would have lynched L.B.J. if they had gotten their THC-stained hands on him. Their purpose was to end the war, not end America. As misguided as they were, the strength in numbers and the news media’s coverage gave them a skewed and at times, misguided pulpit, and it did make a difference. Those little Hippie protesters, for the most part, grew up to be productive citizens and parents, although many of them became Devil-Dog politicians, radical teachers and Satanic university professors and they, Dear Hearts, are partially responsible for the turmoil of today. Once our boys in Washington took prayer, God and the Bible out of our schools, the Demon Brigades sallied forth, and the slow walk away from Christianity began. Thank God and Pastor Greg Laurie, it’s resurging with a vengeance never before seen in this country. Is it too little too late? Maybe for some, that are past the point of reason, their minds altered from tiny Demonic brain worms. (a cool phrase lifted from Bobby Kennedy).
Instead of carrying signs and singing songs of praise while marching toward Bethlehem, the misguided young’uns, wearing their backpack full of trophies, are slouching away towards evil.
Warning! Dear Hearts, the following commentary on social issues is not politically correct in any way. If you are triggered by common words in the English language or by religion and free political speech in the form of comedy, then don’t read any further. I’m warning you one more time.
I attended Momo’s Melody Belle’s choir concert this evening at the Langdon Center in old town Granbury. For a bunch of old gals, they sang well, doing Broadway hits from the 40-50s. I was impressed.
When leaving, the pianist approached me on the front steps and asked me if she could ask a personal question. I said sure, shoot. She says, ” You look like such a free spirit. Are you a Democrat? I said no, and then she told me that she was the chairwoman for the Granbury Democratic Party and asked if I was voting for Trump. I answered yes, and then Momo showed up, and the lady asked her the same. Momo has become a nervous filly lately, and folks should know that the wrong questions are likely to get the wrong answer. I’m the same but with a touch more diplomacy. The encounter did not end well for the pianist.
Free Spirited Momo at The Opera House. She has a 380 Smith & Wesson in that purse
If you have read this far, it’s too late.
A free spirit..now, what does that mean? Maybe because my hair is pretty long, and the mustache makes me look like Wild Bill Cody, or perhaps The Dude, without the bathrobe. The Democrat lady assumed I was an old liberal, burned-out Hippie. Nope, only an old, weird-looking, slightly burned-out ex-rock n-roll musician, conservative. You can’t always go on looks alone: same thing my sixteen-year-old self used to tell my parents.
Old Free Spirit Me at the Opera House. That cane is really a sword and a flame thrower
On another subject dear to my heart: Biden awarded Nancy Pelosi the Medal of Freedom for her courageous behavior on Jan. 6. That’s sort of like making Hitler an honorary Rabbi for his outstanding management of Auschwitz. Old Sniffer has been awfully quiet the past few weeks. Those rioters and anarchists are his voting block, so he has to mollify the little everyone gets a trophy, darlings.
Kudos and salutations to the fraternity young men at UNC and a few other universities for taking it upon themselves to protect our flag. The little candy assed Hamas loving, mask-wearing, latte-drinking, vegan-eating, Birkenstock-wearing, head-scarf-wearing, trans-loving, tongue-pierced, devil-worshiping, police-hating, America-hating grifters were freaked out when young American males told them if they touched the flag, they were dead little Gazaians. We need more of that from the rest of the schools that have been hijacked by socialist teachers and students. A word to the tenured commie professors, ” Don’t mess with Gods chosen people, the Jews. He’s kind of touchy about that.”
The Obama/Biden bunch is trying to pass a sneaky law to allow over a million Gaza refugees into the US. I ask, “Now what in the hell could possibly go wrong with that scenario?” Little terrorist kids in our elementary schools wearing C4 explosive belts. Hamas gunmen rampaging through Walmart? Oh wait…we already know what can go wrong thanks to our open border. This may sound a little over the top, but if these folks come here, it’s likely to happen. But will they be able to vote? Of course, they will.
My sainted Mother’s second cousin, Elfinian Keebler, owned one of the largest cattle ranches in Texas. Located between Mineral Wells and Ranger, Texas. It took four days to cover the width and another two days or so to ride the length. By Texas standards, it was a residential lot, but 3,800 acres ain’t what it used to be in the 1950s.
Elfinian’s daughter, Cookie, wasn’t into raising cattle, although she was the proverbial FFA queen. She had gone steady with every boy in high school and most of the ranch hands and had been riding horses since she could crawl. Her older brother, Chip, was a knock off the old Keebler block; he was a cowboy to the bone, raised on Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. His mama, Piddle, fancied herself as a debutant who married low and wanted her baby boy to be a doctor of some sort, but Chip was a dunce and had the IQ of a piss-ant: riding the range was about all he was good for, and his horse did most of the thinking. Cookie was the plucky little prickly one and decided she was taking the ranch in a different direction, creating a stink between her and Daddy Elfinian. Cookie wanted to raise Llamas and Highland goats. In Texas, anything but cattle and horses is considered blasphemy, and sheep and goats aren’t welcome except on the supper menu.
A year into her Llama plan, Daddy put the brakes on. One Hundred Llamas, forty donkeys to guard the Llamas against Coyotes, and half a dozen cow dogs to keep the donkeys under control were more than Papa Keebler could swallow. The donkeys and dogs had lost interest in the Llamas and had gone back to hanging out with the cattle. The critters were pretty, but they were no better than a cow: eat, spit, and crap.
A contingent of robe-wearing folks in limousines arrived at the ranch house on a Saturday afternoon. A realtor from Mineral Wells introduced them as followers of the Dalai Lama, most recently of Tibet, a tiny country in Asia. Elfinian had never heard of this Lama guy, but he invited them in for a set down, some of Piddles’s baked cookies, and a drink of Jack Daniels. The head robe-wearing spokesperson was the Dalai Lama’s sister, Deli Lama. She wanted to buy a piece of the Keebler Ranch so the Dalai could have refuge from the Chinese who had booted him out of Tibet, and he wanted to raise a Llama or some hairy sheep, his favorite spirit animal.
Papa Keebler sold the group three hundred acres, including the existing herd of Llamas and all the donkeys and cow dogs. It was a win-win deal. Cookie volunteered to help get the ranch workable and show the tinder-foots the art of Texas ranching.
Eight weeks later, the Dalai Llama arrived in a private helicopter, touching down on the new helipad next to the ranch house an army of Monks and Hari Krishna volunteers had constructed for his holiness. His sister, Deli, her daughter Carol, and The Keebler family were there to welcome him to Texas. He stepped out of the chopper wearing a white Stetson from Leddy’s Western Store over in Fort Worth. The multi-talented Monks also played many instruments, so they broke into a rousing rendition of San Antonio Rose and then The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You. The Dalai felt right at home and immediately asked for a “coldbeer.”
After an all-nighter traditional Texas BBQ and a dozen kegs of Pearl and Tibetian Beer, The Dalai Lama surprised everyone by mounting a horse at sunrise and touring the ranch with Cookie and Elfinian. He had picked up a pair of jeans, some Justin boots, and a 44 Colt pistol in Fort Worth, and like in the movies, he was itching to plug him some Hombres. He also had purchased a twin-engine Cesena T50 airplane like Sky King flew and wanted Cookie to be his sidekick. Elfinian managed to wrangle the pistola from the Dalai before someone wound up planted, and he damned sure didn’t want his daughter flying in a plane with this loco-Lama.
The Dalai’s sister, Deli, and her daughter, Carol, were huge fans of New York musicals, especially Carol Channing. Miss Channing was in Fort Worth appearing at the Casa Manana production of “Hello Dolly,” so the Dalai Lama arranged for Carol and the entire theater company to put on an open-air show at his new Llama ranch. A cast of a hundred, the orchestra and sets were delivered by trucks, rigged, and a portable stage was built near the Llama corral. Half the ranching community was seated on the tailgate of their pickups, beer coolers stocked with Pearl and Mama’s, and babies scurried around the grassy lawn in front of the ranch house. The sun went down, the lights came up, and Carol Channing, as “Dolly,” walked up to the mike and sang, ” Hello Dalai, it’s so nice to have you back where you belong.” This kind of stuff can only happen in Texas.
The old Chief Sniffer should have been a dime novel author.
“My uncle was eaten by cannibals on the island of New Guinea” is his latest contribution to his resume of fantastical yarns. That could have certainly happened; the tribes in New Guinea are renowned for their culinary skills. Now, come to find out, it’s a whopper of a lie. He was fact-checked in-depth and has told this one before. His poor uncle perished in a plane crash near New Guinea in WW2: And why would Sniffer tell a group of United Steel Workers this story? The fun begins when this guy goes off script or loses a notecard; that’s when he fancies himself to be good old Will Rogers from Scranton, PA.
Behavior like this is quite normal for folks with Dementia or drunk authors. I should know: my two late uncles were masterful spinners of incredible yarns and a few lies here and there. My cousins tell me I am afflicted with the same virus.
Hemmingway never wrote a line without the accompaniment of liquor, and Edger Poe didn’t draw a sober breath for decades: a serious conversation with a Raven made him famous.
President Sniffer is no Hemmingway or Poe, just a mentally ill old man that folks feel sorry for while he destroys our Republic. Maybe Jill should publish his yarns? You know it would be a New York Times bestseller.
It’s already started in a mere 24 hours. Poor OJ Simpson, the maligned ex-football player who couldn’t keep a large knife out of his hands, is being turned into a 20 over-par saint. He only wanted to ” have some fun,” as Sheryl Crow warbled. Considering the crime he committed and the families he destroyed, it’s a surprise he lasted this long without some do-gooder taking his sorry butt out. If there is payback from God, I hope he is getting a double dose of it now. Of course, all the high school and elementary kids who jumped and cheered when he was found innocent are now middle-aged adults or older, so I wonder if they still idolize a murderer? It might be interesting to hear from a few of them. My late father was dying from brain cancer during the OJ show trial. He told me that OJ would get off on the race card, and sure as hell, he was right. The trial gave my pop something to watch and focus on, so I thank the Hollywood judge and the defense lawyers for that much.
Breaking News: Iran is going to attack Israel within two days as retaliation for killing one of their top terrorist thugs. Those turbine-wearing imbeciles don’t get it. The people of Isreal are God’s chosen people, and anyone who comes against them will suffer God’s wrath. Did it ever occur for the Ayatolla to read a Bible? Best of luck to Iran if they think they can pull this one off without a major butt-kicking. Iran will likely wait until Saturday to move; that way, our Sniffer in Chief will be on vacation and whacked out on heavy meds. We should be worried that “Not A Doctor” Jill might have the keys to the red button while her mixed green salad for brains hubby is sleeping.
Poor Congress: still putting on their fake push and shove to convince us that both sides are working for the peons, which would be us’ins. The speaker will cave, as he always does. Neither side wants to give up their insider trading: ” What am I supposed to live on when I leave…Social Security? Can’t you hear them squealing right now? It’s a good ole boy’s private club, and we are not invited.
One final note: Momo is going, by bus, with a large contingent of women from our church and hundreds, if not millions of other churches in Texas, to our state capitol in Austin on Saturday. The planned peaceful protest is to let Gov. Abbott know that the schools, the woke teachers’ union, and DEI cannot have our children’s souls without a fight. Besides getting to stomp and yell for a few hours, the bus is stopping at Bucee’s for a potty break and lunch. I can see it now; An Ozsarka bottled water and a bathroom break will cost me $ 50.00. She hasn’t said if signs, pitchforks, or torches will be involved, but knowing her, there may be. Those green-haired fishing tackle-faced, Birkenstock-wearing, Mao-worshiping, booger-eating, pimple-faced, Starbucks-drinking students at UT haven’t had the pleasure of getting their skinny jeaned-wearing rears kicked by a bunch of senior citizen women wearing heavy orthopedic shoes with steel toes. I have a large stash of cash in case I need to drive to Austin to post bail. My apologies to Coach Darrell Royal; may he rest in peace. God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.
It was a rather quiet Sunday here in the Cactus Patch. The church service was pretty good, the band on stage was stellar, and the Pastor gave a rousing benediction using Acts as his vehicle. We left a little early to make a late lunch engagement with Momo’s daughter’s family in Fort Worth. We were both worn out from attending the Liverpool Legends concert on Saturday night at the Granbury Opera House. Dancing in the aisles, old folks holding up their lit phones since they banned Bic lighters, and most folks don’t smoke anymore. An ambulance was waiting at the curbside in case any of the audience suffered the Rock n Roll vapors. Good time. Then…
“Are You A Boy..Or Are You A Girl?”
A catchy tune from 1965 by the band “The Barbarians,” a tongue-in-cheek poke at long-haired hippie dudes with beautiful Breck Shampoo flowing hair. Being well into my 70s, it takes a lot to surprise or tick me off, especially if it comes from Washington, D.C. Now, I find out that today, Easter Sunday, the holiest of days in our Christian faith, has been officially recognized by the white house as “Transgender Visibility Day.” Who in the Hell made this decision? I would say our president, but then he is supposedly a cafeteria Catholic and doesn’t at this time have the mental capacity to recognize what a slap in the face to Christian Americans he has delivered. Of course, the blowback is off the charts. Stay tuned for masses of pilgrims marching on Washington with torches and pitchforks.
If a teenage boy wants to dress like a teenage girl; go ahead. Same for the girls that want to wear a pair of Levis, Tocava boots, and a lumberjack shirt, do it, but shut up about it. You don’t need a special calendar day for the rest of America to see you are a nut job. At ten years old, I wanted to be Mark Twain, but I didn’t prematurely age myself and wear a white suit and wig. Thank the Lord the world didn’t have social media back then. TikTok, Facebook, and all the rest should take a huge chunk of the blame for this madness; radical teachers and Hollywood take the rest. No matter how dangerous and sick, the newest trends become the life our children grasp to follow. And now, no matter how small, the movement has its special day on the world calendar. Did someone in DC not check for conflicting dates? Was this intentional? I believe it was and it pokes a sharp stick in the eye of Christian Americans. I’ve seen it all and can stop worrying about future surprises. There, I feel better.
“So You Want To Be A Rock N’ Roll Star”
A few other great bloggers I follow, Dave of “A Sound Day,” Max of “Power Pop,” and Cincinnati Babyhead, have previously suggested that I chronicle my times in the Rock music world back in the 1960s. I have decided to give it a healthy shot; although I am timid about blowing my little tin horn, I will attempt to make it as humble and accurate as possible.
Put Those Dark Glasses On…It’s The End Of The World
Yep, I’m ready. Momo and I got our cardboard-certified Eclipse glasses and are ready for the world-changing event on April 8th. Our town, Granbury, Texas, expects an additional 100 thousand folks starting next Friday through Sunday. I may rent my extra wooded lot for camping since many pilgrims will not have accommodations. We are stocking up on canned foods, water, hootch, and ammo in case everything goes sideways.
A shot of the crowd at Texas International Pop Festival, August 1969. The promoter, Angus Wynn, thought it would be a great idea to have a Yogi or a Swami to lead the crowd of zonked-out teenagers in an hour of Transcendental Meditation since it was the most recent in-crowd thing to do thanks to the Beatles and the Beach Boys who hung out in India with the famous Maharishi Mahesh Yogi Jr. He got a discount on a guy out of Deli, India, who was working in a sub sandwich shop in Brisbane, Australia, but was once a revered holy man in his home country. After a crazy hot night of music that lasted until after midnight, the Maharishi O Mah-ha-Ah-ha took the stage with a sitar player and three nude women beating on tablas and tambourines, all sitting crossed-legged on a rented Persian rug from AAA Furniture Rentals. The crowd, still suffering from the after-effects of too much pot and the brown acid that Wavey Gravy warned them about, eventually got into the groove. After an hour of chanting mantras, swooning and swaying, and all that middle eastern crap, the Maharishi passed hand-woven Indian baskets through the crowd asking for donations. What the good Ah-ha didn’t realize was that even though the young folks were long-haired, dope-smoking teens, they were Texans, and most of them owned shotguns and rifles and drove pickup trucks. Tithing was meant for Sunday church only, not some dude in a robe with a red dot on his forehead. The poor Maharishi was last seen tied to the front fender of a GMC pickup loaded with long-haired hippy Texans shooting their shotguns into the air while speeding down I-35. Best not to “Mess With Texas,” which is where that famous saying was born.
My late cousin, Velveteen, and her late husband, Zig Zag, came up with this idea for a hippy-only tea bag while living in a commune in the mountains of New Mexico. Since they enjoyed sitting around all day doing nothing, they figured why not let the rest of the regular folks enjoy their lifestyle, too. The tea, with its mystery ingredients, was a hot seller for a while until Lipton caught wind of it and sued them into the next galaxy.
My late cousin, Alice, was the only waitress at Woodstock in 1969. She and Wavey Gravy came up with the idea to serve all the attendees breakfast in bed, but she was the only member of the Hog Farm lucid enough to work. When asked how the gig went, she said, ” I didn’t make a cent in tips, damn Hippies don’t have no money anyway.” She met Arlo Guthrie backstage and married him the next day during a Joe Cocker set. They later opened a famous restaurant in upstate New York, where you could get anything you wanted at Alice’s restaurant.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 