Tag: Travel

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Ask A Texan: Preaching And Peaches In Lonesome Dove


Substantial Advice For Folks Outside Of Texas

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Augustus McRae of Lonesome Dove, Montana. It seems that his middle child, a wealthy TV Preacher, has abandoned him and his wife, leaving them to fend for themselves in their old age.

Mr. McCrae: Back in 1978, I was doing some cowboying on a big ranch in South Texas and grew tired of everything. I hooked up my horse trailer to my Ford Pickup, loaded my horse, Hellbitch, up, and headed for Montana, where the water runs cool and the weather is nice. I made a stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for some chow and decided to go into this topless bar called “Mamery’s Are Made Of This.” I was sitting there drinking my Schlitz and eating a juicy burger when this topless lady comes up behind me, pecks me on the neck and sings, ” Blow up the TV, throw away the papers, move to the country build you a home… plant a little garden…eat a lotta peaches…try to find Jesus on your own.” I was young and naive and figured that topless lady had something up her sleeve. She danced around that ballroom, and she did the Hoochie-Coo, she sang that song all night long, telling me what to do. Well, it worked. She gave me a big old smackeroo, grabbed her little suitcase, and hopped in my pickup, and the three of us headed for Montana. We built us a little log cabin, no TV, no papers, planted a great garden with Peach trees, raised a lot of children, and they all found Jesus on their own. That’s where my problem starts, Mr. Texan. Our middle child, Baby Face Joey, took to religion and preaching like a duck to a June bug. He preached to anyone who would listen and began healing the ranch’s livestock and the garden veggies: we had the nicest Peach orchard in Montana. When he turned sixteen, he left the house and found himself in Houston, Texas. He preached a lot, built a large congregation, and relocated his church to an old basketball arena. Now he has about twenty thousand people in his church, and he’s raking in money like there’s no tomorrow: wealthy can’t describe the amount of cash this little chiseler stuffs in his custom-made suit pockets. Me and his momma are old and don’t have much these days, so I call Preacher Baby Face Joey and ask him for a little financial help. He sends us a $50.00 gift card to The Walmart and a membership in the Jelly Of The Month Club. I’m as mad as a hungry wolf and the wife is ready to whip his little butt with a Peach tree switch. Do you have any suggestions on how we can manage this situation without disrupting the entire familyThe Texan: Well, Mr. Gus, I’m sometimes at a loss for words, but this isn’t one of them. When I was a young and hungry man, I too did some cowboying down in South Texas. I got bitten twice by Rattlers and stomped by a bull, and that was it for the wrangler days. I’ve been in your part of Montana and there ain’t a more beautiful place, cows and Peach trees all over the place. Those TV preachers get pretty full of themselves, and I believe I know the one you’re writing about, and he’s about as obnoxious as they come. I suggest taking your wife and any kids left at home, go to Houston, dressing in some ragged clothes from the Goodwill, and walk down the aisle begging for some help. If that doesn’t get Baby Face Joey to cough up some cash, then nothing will. Keep in touch, and I’m sending you an album of John Prine’s Greatest hits and an autographed picture of Gypsy Rose Lee for the wife.

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Ask A Texan: How Bucc-ee’s Changed Our Culture


Sometimes Accurate Advice For Folks That Wish They Had Been Born In Texas

The Texan

This Texan received an email from Mrs. Her/She Cleaver of San Bernadino, California. She and He/Him husband traveled from California to Dallas for a relative’s non-binary wedding and made the mistake of stopping at a Bucc-ee’s in Amarillo, Texas.

Mrs. Her/She Cleaver: Mr. Texan, if that is your real name, or do you prefer to be called a misogynistic red-neck knuckle-dragging Neanderthal cowboy? I wasn’t sure. All of my troubles started when I accepted a wedding invitation to my non-binary relative’s wedding. Although she is formally female and will be wearing a dress, she prefers to be known as “it”, or “a human.” We quietly cruised into your backward state and needed a charge for our Tesla, which we recently disguised as a non-binary automobile. The only charging station in Amarillo, Texas, was located at a redneck gas station called Bucc-ee’s: who would name a business that? Pulling into the lot on our last few volts, we were amazed at all the carbon-burning autos and trucks purchasing gasoline and polluting our planet; there must have been a hundred gas pumps. I was so rattled; I needed my safe room, but I had to settle for my heavy blanket and a Valium. The two of us needed a restroom, so we swallowed our beliefs and entered. I must say, the cold air was refreshing, and my-oh-my, what a layout. Clothing, toys, jewelry, hats, all with a little Beaver wearing a baseball cap sewn onto everything in the store. The food, oh my creator from above, we have never seen so much of it—fudge, candy, jerky, BBQ, ice cream, every kind of sandwich known to exist. Personally, I was repulsed by all that wasted nutrition that could be feeding those poor, hungry illegals, and not one Vegan option available. How could they do that? We college-educated women have rights, too. While I was in the female’s restroom, a work of technology and cleanliness, my husband discovered the BBQ caveman meat section. Hot sliced brisket, ribs, sausage, and side fixings, he was gorging himself into a coma. I made a scene when I screamed, ” How could you do this to me? We are Vegan; think of that poor animal that died so you can stuff your jaws like a deranged Chipmunk.” He looked at me and said, “Kiss it, Karen, get in that toy car and get your happy vegan ass to Dallas; I’m never leaving Bucc-ee’s.” All covered in BBQ sauce and Banana Pudding, he ran to a big tub of little Bucc-ee’s stuffed animals and dived in. He then ran across the parking lot and rented a room at a motel and steak house called The Big Texan. I’m afraid our marriage is kaput, all because of Bucc-ee’s. Any ideas on how to fix this mess since your redneck backward state caused it?

The Texan: Well, Mrs. She/Her, or whatever you identify as It appears you picked the wrong state to visit. Bucc-ee’s is a national treasure, right up there with the old Alamo and Davy Crockett, and one thing for sure is, you “Don’t Tread On Us.” It appears you may be suffering from a culture shock known as “reality,” which no one in California can identify with. You should have just mailed a gift or made a donation in “it’s” name and stayed in your safe place. Your husband will be much happier and healthier living at the Big Texan Steak House and Motel; I’ve been there many times. You should fit right in with those man-bun-wearing, skinny-jeaned, purse-carrying little pansy-asses in Dallas; they are your kind of folks. Don’t bother writing back, and for once, you’ll get nothing and like it. God Bless Texas and Bucc-ee’s.

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Exploring the Beat Generation: Kerouac and Cassidy’s Road Trip


Jack Kerouac

Two Catholic boys, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, are on a road trip by car across the American West to find the meaning of life. The badlands of New Mexico held all the secrets that New York City would never have. It could be a great book are a movie. But, as it turns out, it was a book first. What could go wrong?

It was 1947, and half the country still lived in a Norman Rockwell painting, and the other poor souls struggled with keeping food on their table and a decent job. The war was a few years ago, and the scars were fresh and raw. As the movies would have you believe, not everyone had the good fortune to live in New York City and shop at Macy’s. The Hollywood boys covered everything in Fairy Dust and Unicorn Piss, and the commies were coming to your neighborhood. The two young men sensed the growing change and needed to find the “real America,” the wide-open, gritty, in-your-face, working man culture that made their country run on regular gasoline.

“On The Road” was published in 1951. The author, Jack Kerouac, a French Canadian American who didn’t learn to speak or write in English until he was six years old, became an instant literary celebrity and a reluctant prophet to the “Beats,” which would become the “Hippies” in the 1960s. He tolerated the Beats and the new intellectuals because he helped birth them, but grew to despise the Hippies before he died. He wrote many times that he was sorry they found his books and used them as their warped ideological, drug-addled bible that led to the near destruction of his beloved country. The “beat generation,” another term he loathed, wasn’t meant to survive past 1960. The writings and musings made no sense after 1959. He believed everything had an expiration date.

Ginsburg and Burroughs kept the plates spinning; the publishing cash and the adulation were too strong to walk away. So Kerouac moved on and became a drunkard and pillhead. Fame, and all that came attached, was not his bag.

The only comparison to the book that I can think of would be the “road” movies of the 1940s. Two pals and a gal road-tripping to Nirvana. Kerouac would have been Bing Crosby and Cassidy a bi-polar Bob Hope with his girlfriend a sluttish Dorothy Lamour. But, of course, their adventure was adults only. Weed, booze, Minga Minga, and foul language would not have made it with old Bing and Bob.

The two main characters, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, were the essential bad boys before it was cool. Their names alone were enough to make you buy the book. Every teenager who read it could easily place themselves in their universe for a while. Who knows how many ill-fated trips the book influenced?

My cousin and I toyed with the idea. First, to California and back to New York, then home to Texas in his Corvair; then the effects of the pot wore off, we ate a cheeseburger and shit-canned the plan.

James Dean was a disciple, as was Marlon Brando. They wore bad boy cool like a soft leather jacket. The movie boys jumped on it. “Rebel Without A Cause” and “The Wild Ones” sent parents screaming through their middle-class neighborhoods with hair ablaze. Ozzie and Harriet doubled down. Pat Boone turned up the heat. Art Linkletter had a meltdown. The fifties were dying before our eyes.

I may revisit “On The Road” again. It sits on my bookshelf, aging like wine, and needs to be jostled.

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Ask A Texan 5.9.25


Plenty Good And Often Accurate Advice For Folks who don’t Live In Texas, But Wishing They Did

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from The Land O’ Lakes Fishing Camp and Vacation Cottages, Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota. Thanks to their rebellious daughter, Sassy, Mr. Franklin Kettle and his wife, Phoebe, affectionately known as Ma and Pa, are on their good Lutheran last nerve.

Pa Kettle: Mr. Texan, I’m not much on asking for or taking any kinda advice from anyone other than our Minister at the Shakopee Lutheran Church, but seeing that the root cause of me and the missus distress started in Texas, I thought to myself, by-golly-gosh, maybe this wise old Texan can save the farm, doncha know. Our daughter, Sassy, and her husband, Tiberius, and their brood of kiddos live here at the fishing camp and help run the place; it’s a family business passed down from my grandpappy. We have twenty nice and tidy cabins with kitchens and screened-in sleeping porches, and Ma and I run the tackle and bait shop at the main dock: there’s not a prettier slice of Heaven on the lake. We Minnesotans are nice and tidy folks, and we run a polite camp with no hard hooch allowed and only beer after five in the afternoon. A while back, Sassy comes to me and says, “Daddy, me and Tiberius are taking the kiddos and the dogs and are going camping out in the desert in far West Texas. We need to reconnect with God and we hear that the Big Bend area around Marfa is the preferred place. Besides, Tiberius likes the way my earrings lay against my skin so brown, and I want to sleep with him in the desert at night, with a million stars all around.”

I say, ” Golly-Geez, Sassy, we have millions of stars right over the lake here and you don’t need to go travel’n to Texas to see-um; that trips gonna be spendy.”

She said, ” It’s not the same, Daddy; the stars here don’t give us that peaceful, easy feeling, doncha know. ”

Next morning, they loaded up my 1965 Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon, with 25K original miles, and hit the road. I tried to give her some emergency money, but she said it was covered. Tiberius sold a kidney to the University hospital and has the option to sell both testicles and both pinky toes in the future. After three weeks, Ma and me are getting kinda worried. I’m pacing the dock, and she’s spending most of her time in the sleeping loft with a worry headache. Then, one sunny afternoon, they roared up to the main dock. My Fairlane looks like it got trampled by Old Babe The Blue Ox. The brood walks into the tackle store, and the missus and me have a conniption fit. The kiddos have long, dirty hair and are wearing nothing but JCPenney boxers and the two boys have fishing lures hanging in their hair. Tiberius is wearing a beat-up straw cowboy hat and has God Bless Texas tattooed on his bare chest. Sassy is wearing old cut-off dungaree shorts and one of her old nursing brassiere she dyed red. I’m thinking, Geez-Louise, what has happened to these folks in the name of Joseph and Mary?

Nowadays, the grandkiddos are going around the dock spitting on the floor, breaking wind and saying things like, “fixing to, Hide and watch, hold my Pop and watch this, and the worst one is, ” Let’s not get into a pissing contest about it.” When the granddaughter, Little Pebble, said that, that’s when I by-golly drew the line and said, ” Nobodies a going to be urinating in the tackle shop or on the dock for cripes-sakes.This is Minnesota.” My grandkiddos have turned into heathen children, possibly possessed by Demons from the Texas desert. Sassy and Tiberius are no help, they set up house in a Yurt down near the fish cleaning shack and the kiddos are scrounging meals from the dumpster. Ma wants the priest in Saint Paul to come over and exorcise the whole big bunch. Sassy wants us to move to the Texas desert with them and run a campground they can buy with the money from Tiberius selling his body parts. Looking for some help here, doncha know.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Kettle, I’ve never had such a lengthy or disturbing request, but sometimes when a polite culture of folks, like you have in Minnesota, intermingles with a less than couth culture, scenarios like yours happen. It’s common in Texas. I suspect the family may have wandered into El Cosmico, a big pile of old Airstream trailers, Yurts, teepee’s and tents. The place is a hotbed of young hipster hippie types that migrated from Austin and haven’t left Marfa in a good way. The kiddo’s are testing you old folks with their new-founded freedom of expression. Most of those sayings are harmless, except for then pissing contest one: those challenges can get really nasty real quick if there are weapons around. Trust me, The Texan has been in a few. Give it a few months, and if your brood is not back to Minnesota standards, pack them up in the Fairlane and send them back to Marfa. Better them than you, for, after all, that part of Texas is “No country for old men.” Keep in touch, and I sent the kiddos a box of cherry bombs, I hope they enjoy.

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Ask A Texan 4.29.25


Pretty Good And Sometimes Worthless Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas But Wish They Did Because Everything is Bigger and Better In Texas

The Texan and Notes From The Cactus Patch will be offline starting tomorrow, April 30, 2025. Here’s the reason why:

I was pulling up some dead plants and pesky weeds in my landscape, and I reached over a little too far and jerked on a pesky dead plant. I heard a “pop” and felt the rotatory cuff muscle and bicep detach from my shoulder. And, of course, it’s my good arm, the one I use for playing the guitar, painting, writing, shaving, brushing my teeth, and holding my whiskey tumbler. I wouldn’t be so upset if it was my left shoulder. Dr. Pepper, my young surgeon, says he will fix me up, and I’ll be able to use my arm after eight weeks in a special sling. He explained he would be using a small Robot controlled by his Atari game controller, so no humans would be touching me. I’m concerned that the small Robot might make a mistake and go rogue. The little fella looks a lot like R2D2. Dr. Pepper says no worries. The robot will be scrubbed in, and a mask and surgical gloves will be on his little mechanical hands. They had him worked on last week to fix the glitches. I asked what the glitches were? It seems the Robot had malware in his little chipped brain and removed a lady’s liver instead of her gall bladder. That made me feel really warm and fuzzy.

The little Davinci Robot

I had a similar experience when I had cancer. The surgeon needed samples of my poor prostate gland, so he used a robot called “Davinci.” It was larger than this R2D2 and wore a purple cape and a matching Italian Beret. The little fellow got his samples, took one, and put it in an Italian cut-glass jar. It’s sitting on my coffee table.

I’ll be back writing and giving worthless advice soon. God Bless Texas, The Alamo, and Davy Crockett.

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Ask A Texan 4.29.25


Decent advice for folks who might not live in Texas but wish they did.

The Texan

A fella sent me a note on a Tractor Supply postcard. It seems Mr. Leroy Buford of Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, has suffered the wrath of a vengeful wife.

Leroy: Mr. Texan, my wife, Lavernfullella, got mad at me for gambling away my paycheck on the Dallas Cowboys game. I’ll admit it was my fault; who in their right mind would bet on those boys to win. The case of Bud Light had something to do with it. Anyhow, I came home, and our house was gone. She had hooked up her pickup to the trailer and pulled that sumbitch out of the Chigger Bayou Trailer Park. I don’t have a home and am living in the old lady next door’s tool shed. Can you give me some advice on how to fix this mess?

The Texan: First off, Mr. Leroy, never bet or watch those washed-up Americas team again. That Hillbilly with a gold card ruined a great Texas franchise. Secondly, why didn’t you remove the tires from your home? You’d be sleeping warm and cuddly right now. This scenario reminds the Texan of his friend, the great white hunter, Bwana of San Saba. He had a nice Airstream on his hunting lease in the Texas rough country. He was sleeping good one night, dreaming of killing a Bambi. Some Cartel boys liked the looks of his fancy trailer, so they hooked up to it and pulled it away. He was sleeping soundly and didn’t know he was being hijacked. He woke up the next morning in a parking lot in Juarez, Mexico. He looked for a policeman, but he only found two little boys wanting him to come to meet their sister for twenty dollars. Lesson learned, take the tires off your home and hide them somewhere. Hope you find your Hacienda. Keep in touch.

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Ask A Texan..4.25.25


Semi-Serious Advice for folks Who Don’t Live In Texas, But Wish They Did

The Texan

I received a Buc-ee’s Post Card in the mail with the following question:

Question: Mr. Texan,
I recently bought some two-day deodorant pads at a truck stop outside of Waco, Texas. How can I keep these pads under my arms for 48 hours?

Signed, Kenworth B. Smelly

The Texan: Mr. Smelly, us’n Texans are known for our ingenuity. If it hadn’t been for bailing wire and duck tape, there wouldn’t be a ranch or a farm left in West Texas. My late grandpa’s tractor and Ford sedan were held together with bailing wire, as was his farmhouse, and that was before Duck Tape. My best buddy, Mooch, broke his leg while stepping into a Prairie Dog hole. He was out in the Chihuahuan Desert near Marfa with no cell service. He crawled to his truck, dragging his useless leg, found a roll of Duck Tape, wound it around the hurt leg, and got home. So, I know the stuff can perform miracles. Hold the pad in place with one hand, then take the roll of Duck Tape and wrap it around your shoulder and over the perfumigated pad, making sure it’s real tight. That should fix you up, and ignore the instructions; those things are good for at least a week if you don’t shower. Good luck, and keep in touch.

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Ask A Texan 4.25.25


Serious advice for those who don’t live in Texas but wish they did.

Mr. Cletus Snow sent me an email seeking advice.

Cletus: Mr. Texan, I’m a long-haul trucker for Walmart out of Arkansas. My route takes me to Chicago, then to Minneapolis, then to Yellowstone, then to Arizona, and I wind up in Fort Worth. My dog, Bandit, and I are trucking 3,000 miles a week hauling Coors beer. I’ve developed a fatal case of hemorrhoids, and so does Bandit. Any suggestions on how to deal with all this mess. East Bound and Down.

The Texan: Mr. Snow, you have my sympathies. I, too, drove a truck for a while, and the biggest complaint I heard at the truck stops was the scourge of the Hems. I suggest you remove the driver’s seat and drive while standing up, thus relieving pressure on the sensitive area. I’ve got a good buddy who developed a cure for hemorrhoids when he was killing Viet Congs over in the Nam. He got his hands on a Vietnamese Death Pepper, the hottest pepper on the planet. It took him a while, but he invented a hot sauce that can cure almost anything. Since he is a Texan, too, he calls it “Davy Crockett’s Ass Cannon.” Believe me, I’ve seen it cure the lame, make a blind man see, give an old woman the body of a Hooters girl, and, of course, burn off those pesky hemorrhoids. I’m sending you a bottle. Keep in touch.

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Ask A Texan 4.23.25


A brand-spankin-new series for folks that want to know what a Texan thinks

The Texan

Mr. Bromide S. Eltzer from Arizona sent me an email.

Q: Mr. Texan, my wife and little girl have taken over my stereo Hi-Fi setup. They play the same Taylor Swift album all day long and it’s driving me to drink, and I’m losing my faith in humanity. Do you have any thoughts on how to handle this situation?

Texan: First off, Mr. Bromide, Taylor Swift’s music is not real music; it’s a cartoon soundtrack. I can see your little one getting hooked on this nonsense, but your wife is another can of fishing worms. Are you drinking beer or whiskey? The quality of hooch does make a difference in how this stuff effects you. I prefer Redneck Riviera Whiskey out of Nashville, give that a try. Go find some good vinyl records by Creedence, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard or Johnny Cash, and when they’re not hogging your turntable, tie them up with some good rope from the Home Depot, and make them listen to some real music. If that don’t work, invest in a nice Bass boat and start spending time on the lake or river. If that doesn’t restore your faith, say a prayer to Saint Willie, and eat three Whataburgers, my son.

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Just Another Day Full Of Things


Before I kicked the smoking habit, I look better now

Old people do odd things: I know this firsthand. I’m good at it. A few months ago, the urge to gather and distribute my personal items to family and friends took hold. 2 am in the wee hours, wide awake, I wrote a list of my treasures and who might be the recipient when I assume room temperature. I found that over the years, I have accumulated more useless crap that no one would want.

My tool shed, art studio, storage shed, and junk pile will likely go to the nice folks at the local Goodwill store. The handicap shower chair and the two walkers will stay. The nice walker, the one with four wheels, a handbrake, and a seat, will likely be my new ride. Some guys get a Corvette; I get a souped-up walker. My friend Mooch says he can add a battery-powered motor to make the baby run 30 MPH.

A few weeks back, I bought back one of my acoustic guitars that I sold to Mooch when Momo and I moved to Georgetown, Texas in 2008. It’s a real beaut: a Gibson-made Epiphone E J160 e. Only fifty of them were made in Bozeman, Montana, likely by some of the Yellowstone Dutton family. Now, I have one guitar for each of my three grandchildren, of whom two play guitar.

Us’un humans collect things throughout our lives; it’s our nature. At the time, we might have needed them, but eventually, the things become useless “things” taking up space.

Momo and I are taking a road trip in mid-April. Back to Marfa and Fort Davis, Texas, the Big Bend Chihuahuan Desert. God’s country, big sky and brilliant stars. Marfa is our go-to escape. The town is full of eccentric street-rat crazy folks, and we enjoy interacting with them. I plan to interview a few while sitting at the bar in Planet Marfa, where most of them congregate nightly to swap lies and tell tall tales. I fit right in, my kind of folks, and I need fodder for my stories and yarns. I may fill my pickup full of “things” and give them to the characters I meet. Folks like free stuff and can give the things to their friends down the line.