Tag: Travel

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Snack Time In New Guinea


” Yum Yum eatum up”

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.

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A Tiny Late-Night Rant from The Cactus Patch….


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.

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Easter Evening From The Cactus Patch


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.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch March 14th 2024. Remembering The 1960s


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.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch 3/9/24


My late cousin, Chumly, is pictured above after he found his calling in shark training. Steven Speilberg employed him to wrangle his pen of sharks used in the movie Jaws. This is the last photo of Chum after he thought he had made friends with the lead shark. The only parts of Chum recovered were the sneakers and sunglasses.

My mother’s late uncle Zap was considered the inventor of the family. His most famous contribution was the ” Home Personal Hair Removal Wand,” which was the forerunner to Nair and other hair removal products that became household staples in the 1950s. Zap and his lovely wife, Yippie, a Harpers Bizzare hair model, are pictured here, demonstrating the device for the Fort Worth Press in their backyard pool in 1957. Her hair from the waist down was zapped away, but when she fell backward into the pool, she was rendered bald as a cue ball. The divorce came shortly afterward.

Pictured above is my cousin’s niece, Fifi, who, since the age of 16, has identified as a dog. After years of expensive therapy, her parents gave in and presented her with a custom-made Serta dog bed. The last report is that all was going well except for letting her out to pee twice a night and holding an umbrella over her when it’s raining.

Pictured above is my grandson’s Boy Scout Troop 33 1/3 of the Texas Longhorn Division, arriving at the Texas/Mexico border to support the National Guard. After arrival, they were issued Daisy BB guns and a towsack full of chunkable river rocks to fend off the invaders. Jesus Navidad, an illegal, after crawling through the razor wire, said, “Those Boy Scouts are mean little shits, and man, those BB guns and rocks hurt, I texted all my relatives and told them to stay home until they can catch a free flight to New York.”

My childhood neighbor, Mrs. Mister, in 1956, posing for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram after becoming the only female swimming instructor at the parks and recreation’s Forest Park Pool. Swimming lessons hit an all-time high that summer and the pool had a record year. I’m the goofy kid, bottom right, second up behind our right fielder, Rhonda.

Pictured above, around 1954, is my neighborhood milkman, Mr. Rock Pint. He was a swell guy who gave all of us kids free chocolate milk and ice cream sandwiches during the hot Texas summers. All the moms loved him, and many of the younger kids resembled Mr. Pint; must have been something in the milk?

Pictured above is a crowd photo from the Texas International Pop Festival, August 1969. I am in the center of the crowd, about thirty people back; Momo, my wife, is just to the right of the center, about forty people back. My buddy, Jarry, is the blond guy with the severe sunburn that required hospitalization, but the paramedics wouldn’t transport him until the Grand Funk Railroads set was over. I survived one-hundred-degree temperatures for three days and got to meet Janis Joplin one late night when this nice gal with a Texas twang asked me if she could cut in line as I was waiting to buy a hot dog. It took a minute for me to realize it was her, but I was cool; it was the sixties, man. That night, ole Janis “took a little piece of my heart, now baby.” Momo and I still get a good laugh and a few wheezes when we revisit those times. Our children and grandchildren will never be as cool as we were.

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Hey Kids! Let’s Watch The Newest Sitcom…”All In The State of The Union Family” Show


Momo made me promise to write less politically charged posts, and for the better part of a year, I have struggled but accommodated her request. There have been maybe two that I sneaked in under the radar during the wee morning hours under my assumed name, which I can’t divulge for fear of repercussions or worse. Only Mooch and Hi-Ho Steve-A-Reeno know my secret squirrel identity. A few of my blog non-regular readers ratted me out via the WordPress comments boxes, threatening to reveal my real name and where I live. The address on my blog, personal information, and stats are fake, so take your best shot, little Deputy Dogs. I will admit that since I have become a political newt, I sleep better when I manage to sleep. My appetite has returned to my favorite diet of tomato soup and chocolate pudding, so there is an upside to depriving myself of the joy of skewering, defaming, harassing, extorting, and embarrassing all politicians, especially the ones in my home state of Texas.

I watched the State of The Union sitcom tonight, one eye covered, no hearing aids, and a triple Jim Beam on the rocks. I was hoping for at least forty-five minutes of ranting, lying, clenched fists, frothing, spitting, and deranged behavior, but I was surprised when I got a one-hour and seven-minute performance that met my recently lowered expectations. The gal from Georgia, the blonde that is fit, with a cutting witt, and possesses Bull of the Woods size gonads, was a breath, or maybe it was a yell of fresh air. Over the decades, I’ve watched many of these “rah-rah” pep rallies, and this one took the tiny trophy of being the most pitiful and lamest of them all. The newest, so far, Speaker of the House may have a career in comedy when he leaves politics. His facial expressions were brilliant, with Lenny Bruce’s reincarnated sense of timing. The man has sad eyes, bright eyed bushy tailed eyes, rolling eyes, smirky smiles, sad teary trembling lip smiles, hang-dog head down, side glances, serial killer stares; Yoda, the force is with me smiles, and drill baby drill looks into the back of old Joe’s hair plugged head; he’s the best I’ve seen. Plus, he is a coon-ass from Louisiana…ahhh yeee.

I felt bad for the Supremes, sitting there, all dressed in their tailored black gowns, looking all professional and deliciously judicious. If looks could maim a man, then all nine of them had the same expression for old Joe when he told them he was going to reverse their constitutional decisions, scolding them like naughty schoolchildren caught cussing on the playground. Hey, Joe, those folks know where you and Hunter live, and now they are pissed off.

Why did most of the Democratic women representatives wear white pantsuits? Are they now re-born virgins? Are they Hulu Hand Maiden’s? Anna Rittenour should phone and remind them you aren’t supposed to wear white after Labor Day; I’m an old guy, but I know that bit of fashion sense. And why are these youngish, sour-faced women holding little personal cardboard signs to their chests when the camera pans them? I thought that behavior and personal protest were prohibited in the chamber. Well, I guess since Rummy Eyed Ice Cream Queen Pelosi tore up an official State of the Union address, which I believe is against some sort of arcane law, any type of behavior is acceptable. If so, the house speaker should have set off a cherry bomb behind old Joe and see how long it would take for Jill and the clean-up crew to make it to the podium. Now that would have been funny.

I figure I’ve got about four or maybe five summers left, then it’s adios, little doggies, and I’m heading to the last roundup up there in them-thar clouds. Momo and the rest of my extended family will have to understand when something as good as we watched tonight comes along, I gotta do what I do. I promise, no more politics until at least November.

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God Bless The Alamo


A few more days until we solemnly recognize the fall of the Alamo, March 6th, 1836. It’s not a day that will live in infamy like Pearl Harbor, the battles of Gettysburg and Yorktown, but for us native Texans, it’s a day of retrospect that deserves the reverence we bestow upon it.

The blog-es-phere is chock full of opinions about Travis and his men; poor old Santa Anna only wanted to get along, move along and be friends, but had to kill all the defenders because he was forced to. Bullshit, he was a murdering dictator and knew full well what he was doing. Three thousand plus soldiers against less than two hundred poorly equipped pioneers and farmers. Not much brotherly love was present in San Antonio that February and March. There are even stories, one of which I read today, that swear black slaves were picking Texas cotton outside the gates of the mission before the Mexican army invaded. If it’s on the internet, it’s got to be true. Right?

Starting in the first grade, I was taught the history of the Alamo. My teacher made sure my classmates and I knew the story of the battle, the events that led up to it, and the aftermath at San Jacinto. Mrs. Edwards, my teacher, was a native of San Antonio, so she was a bit “ett” up with the whole thing. Us six year- olds, although slightly lacking in historical proficiency, understood the enormity and the importance of the battle. We regularly staged a neighborhood reproduction of the battle a few times a month, using my parent’s garage as the besieged mission.

Walt Disney and his television series Davey Crockett, King of The Wild Frontier, turned every boy, and most girls, in my grade school into a rabid Texian defender, ready and willing to fight the battle a second time using our Daisy BB guns and Cub Scout knives for arms. Having a native Texan and hometown boy, Fess Parker, in the role of old Davey didn’t go unnoticed in Fort Worth. Fess, dressed in full buckskin and coonskin cap came to Fort Worth to promote the show and the schools had to declare a holiday because they were empty. That is how serious we are about our history. Yes, we are all braggarts, insufferable most of the time, and onery as a Honey Badger, but pound for pound, put us against any enemy, and we will get the job done. My fellow members at The Sons of The Alamo Lodge, of which I am a member in good standing, can attest to our state of readiness.

Keep your powder dry; God Bless The Alamo, Goliad, San Jacinto, William Travis, Sam Houston, Juan Sequin, Davey Crockett, Bob Wills, Willie Nelson, and George Strait.

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WordPress Is Now Facebook, Twitter And Instagram


Oh My! Say it ain’t so, Sheriff!

Yes, Dear Hearts, the best blogging site out there, has been discovered by the cancel crowd. They now think WordPress is Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and all the other platforms where they can hide behind a keyboard and burn down the mission with hateful, moronic verbiage. In the past 14 years I have been blogging, there have been only a handful of inappropriate comments thrown my way; some I responded to, others got the trash can symbol. My most recent post, ” High Noon At The Border,” must have caused folks to lose some brain cells and hide in their safe rooms.

Sure, it’s comedy; anyone with half a brain can see that, although I now know there are folks out there who take it seriously. I received one comment from a former Texan who was dragged to California at a young age. She wrote an alternate scenario about the border, which was snarky, well-written, but full of venom. I can picture her at her Apple laptop, tapping away, sipping on a latte’ in between sobs. You can bet she is a Garrison Keillor fan and listens to NPR. I hope the crazed woman doesn’t have access to an assault rifle, most folks know I live in Granbury, Texas, and I wouldn’t be too hard to find. Out of respect for my readers, I ditched her cute little reply, as well as a few others that started with an F and ended with a k..you get the message. I must be on the right path if it offends the ones that cause all the trouble in this country. I’m rather enjoying this.

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High Noon At The Border


Flash update 2-29-24. One way a blogger can tell if they are on the right track is from the comments received. I must be on the electrified center rail because some of the comments regarding this post are not approved for viewing and will never be. It seems some folks out there think WordPress and its blogs are like Facebook, Instagram, and X, where they can freely and anonymously throw their little fit full of venomous, snarky, and juvenile remarks and then trot down to Starbucks for a well-deserved woke-a- latte’. Keep them coming, kiddies, and please leave an address so I can mail you some Christmas cookies with pretty sprinkles and a participation trophy.

I hear Tex Ritter warbling, ” Do not forsake me oh my darling,” as the sheriff walks down the dusty street, about to slap leather and melt the barrel of his 44. High Noon is one of the best westerns of all time.

Texas, the border, February 29, 2024. The motorcade arrives at Eagle Pass. Governor Abbott is there, the Texas National Guard is present, and the Texas Border Patrol surrounds the throng of greeters. The black SUVs roll in. Out steps former president Donald Trump, dressed in black; a 44 hog rests in a black leather holster on each hip, and a stetson sits atop his head. The theme from High Noon plays through the PA speakers. The sheriff is in town and ready to do some business.

Brownsville, Texas, is not quite the border, but it is close. February 29, 2024. The mayor of Brownsville is present, as well as a few city council and Democrat Senators from Texas and Washington. The motorcade of black SUVs rolls up, and out steps President Biden in a blue suit, wearing Rockport sneakers; his wife Jill (not a doctor) leads him to the podium and slips a notecard in his shaky hand. In bold black letters, it reads, “ITS ALL TRUMPS FAULT, get the Republicans, kill all Christians and conservatives, burn down the mission if we want to stay alive ( Elton John, Tumbleweed Connection), and we love Mexico and Ukraine. We need money for Ukraine so our beloved criminal immigrants can vote for me. I’m honored to be here at the Alamo, I love Davey Crockett.” The blonde grifter leads him from the stage to the presidential SUV. The media day is over.

Well, it could happen this way.


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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch Feb. 28th, 2024


One of the by-products of becoming a senior citizen is the onset of boredom. I can only watch so much Wheel of Fortune, although Momo would sit for days watching a pre-recorded loop of the same episodes and keep guessing all the puzzles, waiting for old Pat to send her a check or a vacation voucher to Ukraine. I want to slit a vein.

The Beatnik thing didn’t work out; I was too old, forgot all the best verbiage, and couldn’t stand to wear turtleneck sweaters anymore. Revisiting “On The Road” stirred an interest, but then I took a nap and forgot about it. When I have a good idea, it’s best to avoid daytime naps; they tend to act as a mental reset button for us folks.

Momo suggests I try my hand as a social influencer on TikTok or YouTube. She might be onto something. I have an abundance of white hair, much like those TV preachers from the 1980s when a person could lay their hands on top of their Motorola console color unit and be healed, but only after you gave the call-in number person your credit card number: no donation, no cure. I have the schtick and the suaveness to pull it off. I imagine it would be more like a Brother Dave Gardner comedy album. Speaking of, Brother Dave was my idol back in the late 50s and early 60s. But then, the portable record player broke. My comedy stint was over before it started. But I have the hair: you be the judge and let me know; my phone number is BR-549. A coinsedense how much I resemble Brother Dave.