Pretty Good Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But Wishing They Did
The Texan
Mr. ET ( Ernest Tom ) Home from Roswell New Mexico sent this Texan a long letter written on a McDonald’s takeout food bag. His wife is attempting to become a country singer and has gone to extremes, and he’s hoping I can help.
ET Home: Mr. Texan, about a month ago, the wife, Willowmina, decided she was going to become a country songstress. Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but the poor gal, bless her heart, sounds like Phyllis Diller when she sings. Both cats have left home and the neighbors are knocking on our door, a lot. She see’s old Willy Nelson on the View and he’s bragging about how he gave Beyonce some of his strongest weed and it turned her into a country singer. Well, that’s all it took. Next day, we drive to Ruidoso and visit the Miss Dolly’s Weed Emporium and Desert Shop. The wife asked the young lady manager what is the best and strongest stuff she has from old Willy. She leads us into a back room, then into a closet and down some secret stairs into another little room. She hands her a small box and says this is the best stuff on planet earth: Willy’s “Hide And Watch” secret stuff. I hear it can be a life changer, and not always in a good way. Well, we take the stuff and go back to Alien city.
She’s been puffing away on that stuff for a while now, and I hear her singing in the shower, and will admit, she is getting better. Then about a week ago, she put her long gray hair in braids, put a bandanna on her head and starts playing songs on our granddaughters Taylor Swift plastic Ukulele. She’s starting to look like old Willy, face stubble and all, and I think I must be losing my marbles. So’s, I calls the daughter, Little Tator, and she drives down from Raton Pass, walks in the house looks at her mother and says, “You ain’t crazy Daddy, that’s Willy Nelson in a Pioneer Woman house robe and Pokemon slippers.” Looking for an answer here.
The Texan: Well, Mr. ET I was at a loss on this one so I called a friend of mine, Dr. Scaramouche at the Fred Mercury Hospital For The Deranged in Queens, NY. He says this derangement is new and becoming more common thanks to entertainers like Taylor Swift and the Kardashian clan. Folks think that by eating, drinking, ingesting things, or dressing like their idols, they can glam off their talent and become a version of them. Willy was right, Beyonce is about as country as Martha Stewart. I would start out by taking away the weed. If that doesn’t change things, you might consider buying a used tour bus and going “On The Road Again.” I hear it can be a lot of fun. Keep in touch, and I am sending her a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.
I wrote this story in 2012 after a visit to Threadgill’s on Barton Springs Road. During the Armadillo Headquarters days, I often went in and out of Austin and knew many of the musicians responsible for its progressive music scene. No one can remember who, what, or how it started, so why not make it an Armadillo?
A. Dillo influenced a generation of Texas musicians and tunesmiths. On a scorching Saturday in September 1970, a group of dazed and confused hippies found this precocious little Armadillo digging for grubs on the lawn of the state capitol. They were lounging on the grass, sunning themselves, drinking Lone Star beer, and smoking pot, recuperating from a busy week of doing absolutely nothing, which was what they did best.
He was a sad Armadillo, lost and searching for his family unit after being separated from them in Zilker Park a few days earlier during a vicious thunderstorm and a frog-floating flood. A happy reunion was not to be. His mother and father were tits-up on Congress, and his siblings had been lunch for a pack of wild dogs. He was an orphan.
The dazed but kindly hippies were drawn to the friendly little tank. They took him back to their pad just off Congress and raised him as one of their own. He was christened A. Dillo.
One of the more studious hippie chicks in the house was majoring in animal behavior and journalism at the University of Texas and saw a spark of something in the wee critter. Wading into uncharted territory, the twinkle in his tiny red eyes caused the two of them to connect magically. After a few weeks of sputtering starts and misses, she was soon tutoring the ardent little critter in reading and writing.
Within six months, A. Dillo had mastered penmanship and was writing prose. Within a year, he wrote short stories and speeches for the university’s professors and a host of prolific student protesters who hung around the house.
He experimented with strange illicit substances and began hanging out with artist types and deep thinkers, writing about current events, political science, theology, and music with the best of them. He was, in a sense, humanized.
A. Dillo’s popularity grew, and he was invited to give readings of his work at weekend hootenannies, parties, and student gatherings. He was the critter version of Alan Ginsburg.
Being an Armadillo, he had no clothing, only his armored shell, so he employed an artist friend to decorate his tough covering to resemble a fashionable tie-dye t-shirt. He then wore round rose-colored sunglasses and various pins and peace symbols. He was beyond incredibly cool and a perfect fit for Austin. A problem arose within the house. A few of his adopted Bohemian family members harbored a bone of jealousy. Though quietly envious of the little fellow, they accused him of selling out to “the man.” Perplexed and hurt, he asked his tutor who this “man” he sold out to was. She shushed him, explaining it was anyone who did anything better than themselves.
The bad vibes from his former adoring family were a downer, so unable to create and win back their adoration, he packed his few belongings in a Piggly Wiggly grocery bag and returned to Barton Springs and Zilker Park for peace and tranquility among the Oak trees and dancing waters.
While shuffling down Barton Springs Road, he happened upon a recently opened venue called The Armadillo World Headquarters. Delighted to find a place that openly celebrated his kind, he scurried through a hole in the fence and took up residence beneath the beer garden stage, enjoying the clamorous musical atmosphere and the continual supply of spilled Lone Star beer that flowed through the cracks of the wood floor.
A group of guitar-picking musicians who frequented the club’s beer garden befriended A.Dillo, and soon, he was anointed as the “official mascot” of the headquarters. He was cool again but didn’t understand this new scene where long-haired Hippie types wore cowboy hats and listened to country music. He kept copious notes, sensing that a reversal of attitudes was happening. Cowboys and Hippies learning to fraternize in a peaceful manner.
The little poet was inspired by his energizing surroundings and began putting his thoughts and prose to paper. In a moment of trusting innocence, he exposed his talent and shared his library of work with a few of the beer garden musicians, hoping for a morsel of recognition.
The coterie of musicians was so impressed with his talent that, without asking permission, they confiscated his poems and lyrics and made them their own. That this library of written work came from an Armadillo seemed utterly reasonable. After all, it was Austin in the early 70s, and it’s a well-documented fact that if you remember that time, you weren’t really there.
Within a few months, the musicians and wailers at the headquarters were singing songs about Austin and everything Texas. A handful of local artists were drawing A. Dillo’s likeness on their concert posters to promote the rapidly changing musical landscape. The times were a-changing.
Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings took up residence at the headquarters and became the shaggy royal ambassadors of Austin music. It was a heady time for Texas music.
A. Dillo was heartbroken. He had been bamboozled by the “love your brother and sister” preaching musicians, who were scoundrels, thieves, and false profits. His trust had been violated. The soaring soliloquies, his enlightening prose, his ramblings about Texas, all stolen and plagiarized with no hope of recovery. One cruel musician blatantly took his favorite poem and made a song about “Going Home With The Armadillo.” That was the deepest cut of all. He was a broken critter. ” Oh, the pain of it all,” he wailed.
He soon left the headquarters, again packing his Piggly Wiggly bag and stealing away into the night.
A. Dillo returned to his home burrow in Zilker Park. He reconnected with the inhabitants, giving nightly readings of his new poetry to an enthusiastic and adoring crowd. He was elevated to Homeric status among the park’s animal population, and his name was known to all creatures. He was at peace with himself and his life.
A. Dillo was the unappreciated spark of inspiration for Austin’s progressive music scene of the 1970s. Without his influence and the spread of his stolen words, tunesmiths, musicians, and vocalist all over Austin would still be writing and singing those dreary Three-chord hillbilly songs or tripping out to psychedelic brain fuzz. Jerry Jeff, Willie, Waylon, and the boys would have needed to seek inspiration elsewhere, and the city would not have evolved into Austin as we know it today.
Tall tales have it that some years later, on a stormy night similar to the one that started his journey, A. Dillo was hit by a vehicle while attempting to cross Barton Springs Road.
An elderly lady living in the Shady Grove trailer park scooped up his remains and fed them to her two Chihuahuas. She used the decorated shell as a planter, adorning the steps of her Air-Stream trailer.
The small shell’s bright colors faded over time and sat on the steps of that old trailer for decades. Couples with gray hair walking to one of the many restaurants on the street, grandchildren and dogs in tow, would sometimes notice the shell full of colorful flowers and pause to take a photo. Austinites who had known the little poet or knew the legend would approach the unassuming shrine and pay homage, explaining to their grandchildren the true story of the “real father” of Austin music.
Now, I know that the world is off its axis: Willie Nelson is moving his famous 4th of July Picnic from Texas to somewhere in the Northeast to beat the heat. Look, Willie, the brutal life ending heat, Lone Star longnecks beer, no restroom facilities, drugged crazed hippies and cowboys are what your picnic is about. If Waylon was here, he would kick your scrawny old butt for even considering a relocation to of all places…Yankee land. Kris is still around, so he might just step in and do it. I attended one of his picnics back in the late 70s at Palo Duro Canyon and damn near expired from the hellish heat, no water and very little food. I survived by crawling under a car for shade, which at that point, it didn’t matter, my skin was roasted, and my dark hair bleached white. Around dark, ole Willie steps up to the mic and belts out Whisky River. Trigger, his beat-up Martin guitar was out of tune, his singing was off meter and he was likely higher than a California Redwood, but it was Willie, our Patron Saint of Texas Country Music. We sat transfixed on the hard dirt and rock, fire ants chewing on our legs, Rattle Snakes crawling about begging for a beer, and hundreds of poor passed out folks missing the show they came for. Please, Willie, keep it in Texas. I have confirmation from a good and mostly reliable source that your Saint Hood is imminent. This might screw it up.
Jewish Students Revolt Against Federal Protected Students
There is now a movement on most of the elite university campuses to oust and delete the fake Palestinian protesters. Two groups calling themselves “Jews For Jesus” and “Frat Boys Revenge” are now in place at most of the major universities. Maya Sharona, field correspondent for NPR interviewed a protestor at MIT.
MS: Excuse me, are you a woman or a man, It’s hard to tell with all the scarfs wrapped around your head?
Student: I am neither of those words, call me a new servant of Allah, willing to die for whatever Allah and that woman with the megaphone tells me too. Please film my left side, that’s my best profile. Should I show my molitove cocktail for the camera?
MS: Sorry, there is no camera, this is radio. What exactly are you protesting?
Student: I am not really sure, wait a moment, I must check TikTok and Facebook, all of our information and instructions comes from them. Ahh yes, here we are, (screaming)” Death to Israel, Death to all Jews, and Death to America” we demand Starbucks Latte’s and vegan pizzas, student loan forgiveness, and a free diploma in the curriculum of our choice. That’s a bummer about the no camera, got all dressed up for nothing.
MS: There is a group of frat boys over there by that police car. They look menacing and most of them are twice the size of your comrades. I believe they may be about to kick your butts.
Student: Allah and Papa Biden will protect us, we are the chosen people of Palestine, or maybe it’s Gaza, or Syria. It doesn’t matter, we are protected by the Federal Government, like the tiny fish and the lady-boys with fake boobies.
After reading all the glowing, foot-kissing reviews of Swifter’s new album, “The Tortured Poet’s Department,” I take back a few of the skews I gave her, but only a few. I had no idea the poor dear had lived such a sad life. I doubt her feet touched the ground until she was five years old, and every spoon in the house was pure silver. A downtrodden, entitled little rich girl confined to her Barbie bedroom writing little kid songs on her half-size Martin guitar. She never played in a bar, a club, or anywhere for that matter, except for her doll babies. Pop’s paid millions to get her into that Nashville brotherhood, which shows us how far that once holy ground has slipped. Did the poor waif have ever have a decent relationship with a male, not counting her current knuckle dragger? Doubt it, so the tortured poet title might fit her, even though what she writes is far from good poetry.
There have been many before her who qualified for the title: Harry Nillson, John Lennon, Bobbie Gentry, James Taylor, and Willie Nelson are a few. The original Homeric tortured poet, Bob Dylan, still holds the title: Swifter is no more than a grifter.
Since last Sunday, we have been in the high-altitude lovely village of Ruidoso, New Mexico. If it weren’t for visiting Texans, like us, this town wouldn’t exist. Every business owner seems to be an expatriate.
As of April 1st, New Mexico allows recreational sales and use of Marijuana. The evil weed is now legal for anyone 21 years and older. Up until the 1st, it was by medical card only, which could be purchased online for a small price. I had no idea the folks in New Mexico were such potheads. Then I was reminded that everyone that comes to Ruidoso is from Texas, so I guess that makes us cowboys the potheads.
So MoMo, my wife, and I are thinking maybe a gummy or two to help us sleep. Why not? We’ve earned the right by being old and living with constant pain. We stop at one of the five Pot Stores in Ruidoso.
A nice period adobe building hidden among the pines is painted a garish Weed green. Nothing like curb appeal to draw customers in.
The perky little “Pot-arista” led us, through a secret triple bolted door into the main shop where all the goodies are displayed in well-lit sterile display cases. I feel better already knowing that all health regulations are met.
We are the oldest folks in the shop and feel out of place and on the verge of embarrassment. The employees are in their twenties and seem unusually happy. My wife asks our Potarista about a gummy specifically for sleep and relaxation.
“Oh, it all makes you chill and sleep like a baby” she replies. “I take a bit in the morning, then some at noon, then more in the evening, and then a toke around bedtime,” she says.
It’s obvious the girl is stoned all damn day and this is the only job that she can perform while high.
I tell her we are from Texas, we’re old as if she didn’t notice, and we want a gummy to help us with the pain and sleepy time. She brightens up and exclaims, “we have a new gummy, just in from Austin, it’s called Willie Nelsons Head, you’re gonna love it. Willie has the best stuff you know.”
She brings us a small box printed like the Texas flag. Inside are a dozen little gummies shaped like Willie Nelson’s head. The realism is uncanny. The skin tone on the wrinkly face, the pig-tails, and that scallywag glint in the tiny eyes. It’s also a bit creepy. It comes with a CD of his greatest hits, so I’m all in.
Once in the car, I pop in the cd, and ” On The Road Again” plays. We each eat a Willie gummy, put the car in gear, adjust our sunglasses, and head for who knows where.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 