But he never saw a train

I was thinking about the our third president, Mr. Jefferson, and all the amazing things that happened during his life time. Born in 1743, he lived in well into the 19th Century, passing away July 4th 1826, 50 years after signing the Declaration of Independence from Great Britain. A lot of folks talk about the genius of Jefferson, but when you look at historical time lines and juxtapose them against Jefferson's Ideas and inventions, Jefferson comes across as a bit of a bumpkin, for while he was imagining and east-west water route to the west coast through a land populated by Woolly Mammoths and camels, the Europeans were engaged in an industrial revolution. Were Jefferson more scientifically inclined, he might have brought the machines of industry to the south balancing out the agrarian nature of the place and perhaps preventing the Civil War. Instead Mr. Jefferson spent time reading Scripture and deciding what words Christ had actually said. Jefferson was not particularly religious in an evangelical sense, however; he was a big fan of the historical Jesus as a living and moral man. A paradox that jumps out at me is the fact that Jefferson had great respect for Native Americans but seemed perfectly at ease with keeping African slaves. Go figure. So even though Jefferson said it did not bother him if his neighbor had one God or 20 he was not much good for the Negros and if he had paid more attention to that we would have had plenty of Black Presidents by now and I wouldn't have to be so worried about some nut killing Obama or had to go through civil rights thing while I was so impressionable. Oh well, that's life.

Their Names and horse's ages

The first time I ever heard Galway Races done where I could understand the lyrics, was way back in the Newport years. Those days, and the good they carried, are frozen in a block of memory so crystal clear that I can take little sips at any time and never ripple it's surface or cause a distortion to it's truth. I suppose that right this minute the thoughts of people I'll never meet are whirling like atoms around my happy mote that still haunts the streets of the old town, and I worry that death may come and cause a collision that will flash for an instant and my shiny bits of time will flush down a small black hole and disappear with a soft "pop". I've had other bright moments you see and were they to flop into another dimension with out me it might be less than a heavenly sort of thing. So, I am thinking about the Newport Days and hearing my first Celtic fusion band. The were called JSD for Jim, Sean and Des, but they were a five piece and were booked into a local club to warm them up for their first US tour. Oh Lord how they blew us away and what with Newport having and actual Irish section-The 5th Ward-where Gaelic was spoken, by Tuesday night the bar was full to bursting. Looking back I fear the group were probably disappointed as they traveled because I doubt they received such response and support in other cities. I'll leave that to find it's own truth, and just touch on pulling an all nighter with the boys at their hotel. We drank Scotch and I explained blues, while they told me why the Beatles "Black Bird" was special to anyone from "The North" and in the end, I traded my Cowboy Shirt for a pair of elevated boots. As I stumbled home in the dawn not so much the worse for drink but more from unfamiliar footwear, I knew for a brief instant that some connection had been forged and though I would never see those people again I would know them forever. That brings me back to my fear that death may destroy all my bright memories in a mini black hole and leave me a drift with my sins. Doesn't seem fair at the moment. I guess will have to maintain my grip on good memories and if we do fly down some cosmic drain maybe they will burst open as a new reality and I will have another chance. Wouldn't that be cool?

Circle in a square

About 100 years ago I drove my sporty Corvair to New York City to play folk songs in Washington Square. This was done on a Sunday and many other musicians were about it as well. While Washington Sq. is indeed that, the performances were done about the circular wall of the empty fountain's pool.
It was pretty large and you could easily find a spot far enough from the other pickers to afford you a little bubble for your music and it would be just fine, unless some Spade with a horn came bopping by and temporarily broke it. A Spade used to be a hip name for an African American; certainly cooler than A Club. Anyway, in those days it was important to identify people
with some sort of modifier. I think it had to do with smoking pot or something. I should mention that this guy Mike had come with me. Mike claimed to have lived in Greenwich Village before and was certain he could find us a spot to crash. (sleep) I was not too sure about Mikes ability to pimp my musical talent for room and board, but he was full of big talk and we were in New York on a Sunny Sunday and I had a D-18 with new strings.
I set up on the wall and started to play some guitar features in the style of Lester Flatt. People gathered and seemed to like the music. I sang Carter Family tunes that Joan Baez had made popular but I had known for many years and since I was shy and sort of country, they stayed to listen. At least they did until Mike came back and started working the crowd. I should mention that I was like 17 years old and Mike was 18. For some reason he had gained the attributes of Norman Mailer and Earnest Hemingway in that he was a fast talking he-man sort of guy and pretty much the opposite of the free spirit hippie movement that was starting to happen. I had made some friends while playing but once they got a load of Mike, they found pressing engagements elsewhere. Listening to Mike was a weird trip anyway. He claimed to have hitched cross country and back while writing a novel. Unfortunately the novel was lost when some guy who had given him a ride ditched him out in the desert at a gas station, taking the the nearly finished manuscript and the rest of Mike's stuff and tooling off down the two lane with the goods. All this plus the fact Michael claimed to have actually lived in the "Village" should have made him about 25 instead of 18. On the other hand, Mike was one of those Italian kids who start shaving at 12 and he was in fact a fairly tough kid. I figured that from a safety stand point it was probably wise not to ditch him even if he was queering my social progress with women who might like country folk singers and had apartments. I got tired of playing and went for a walk. About 3 pm on the big circle, I came upon David Grisman and some guys playing bluegrass. They had a big crowd and I figured I could fit in due to me being an actual VA. picker and them all being from up north and Jewish besides. Well I got my 18 out of his box and started to strum along. I was having a swell time until some chick taps me on the shoulder and tells me I'm playing out of time. I wasn't, but that old time rythm I used sounds different than your regular flat picking since you pick a bass note with your thumb then brush the chord then do a little strum as well. Never the less, it killed my buzz and left me feeling unhip and hungry. Mike was on my nerves too. He kept up this rap like "There's where I used to take my laundry, I wonder if they still have my shirts?" You got to remember, I was in High School with this dude, so I have to wonder when exactly was he able to pull off his young Hemingway/Keroac years? Some folks just try too hard. In later years, I ran into Mike off and on. Last time was in some bar. The years had piled on him enough to support his stories, but I knew that his marriage had failed and he was selling office furnature. I don't know about you, but to me, at least, some people you know just seem grown up their whole lives. Hell I remember kids from my grade school who looked like little old ladies or men and I bet now that they are little old ladies and men they look just the same. Well, I'm going to leave myself in NYC and just say that we got home OK. Maybe, if I had not had Big Mike, I might have found some direction and friends. They way things worked out I went back and played music in the studios and through the years I did have some high times in the music game and I'm still about. It's just another day I remember.

Texino's Christmas etymology # 46-The humbug

To be fair, Humbug is as Christmas as, "Fa la la la la".
Fact is it's a fine term which can be brought to bare in any conversation and should be used far more often in daily use it being a noun meaning deceptive or false behavior. Perhaps President Bush is one. Of course the use of Humbug we hear the most at Christmas is "Bah, Humbug" which, of course is just a Dickensian term for "Bull shit." Actually the act of calling something a humbug is a pejorative as to it being false, a scam or fraud. It that light it seems to fit Christmas to a "T". Therefore the proper way to discern the meaning of "Bah, Humbug" would be, "Bah, It is a Humbug or perhaps "It (Christmas) is a confounded hum buggery that drives the foolish classes into debt from pure sentimental rubbish!" It should be remembered of course that the merchants depicted in the writings of Chas. Dickens were not of the retail class and therefore had no real interest in promoting the season as such, due to it still having a sense of the Pagan right of seasonal passage attached to it and the gifts given were often symbolic as well as frivolous amusement. It is quite important that we notice that aside from the "God Bless us, everyone" spoken
by the deformed and possibly retarded "Tiny Tim" Cratchett there is a definite lack of Christan religion in Dickens story. In fact, Tim's call "God bless us, every one", could easily be an entreaty for every God to bless us. Using that theory, then it certainly would not be safe for Ebenezer Scrooge to enter the slums and visit the Cratchett home. No, a small raise in salary and a new coal scuttle would be appropriate there. After all, Scrooge had family he could share his awakened kindness with, people of his own social standing Therefore, the only version of the Dickens Carol that is believable is the one in which the near sited Mr. Magoo plays the role of the scrooge character. Magoo has proven through the years that he can enter any situation that would be certain death to others and escape unharmed. Plus he is funny and in no way is he a Humbug. Now getting back to the lesson. A Humbug is something false; a scam. Saying "Humbug" or "Ba, Humbug" is similar to saying bullshit in a nicer way. Also to prevent the story of A Christmas Carol
becoming an allegory of good humor a common decency, remember that Mr. Magoo is in it an impressive number of times.

Selling Apples

I grew up hearing about the Great Depression. You have probably heard about it too. Well we are sort of heading for another extended financial disappointment as we speak and, so far, the main difference I have detected between then and now is a distinct lack of financiers jumping off tall buildings and spattering them selves all over Wall Street. I think that was pretty common back in 1929 because these guys had let down their clients or couldn't make margin calls, the sort of stuff that honorable men couldn't face. Well today, these same sort of men and now women as well, are just walking away from these huge failures and some are taking big bonus checks with them. Failed banks are taking big handouts from the Feds and stashing the cash while hitting their consumer credit customers up like loan sharks.
Back in the depression years people worried about losing their homes and going to the "Poor House." I don't think they have poor houses any longer but people are still fixing to lose their homes. Makes me wonder where they go. Me, I have a fairly decent sized car. Another icon of the Depression, besides bankers leaping to their deaths, is the picture of guys selling apples. Now with the things the way they are, I think a person would have to sell a lot of apples to make an eating wage. I don't know where you can get a deal on any apple fruit, but I could lay my hands on some Tangerines for free. Thing is, if I went down the street to try and sell them, I'd get busted for vending food without a permit from the heath department or a vendors license which they won't grant in this town. Bottom line I sell tangerines or, apples I go to jail. I might get some press out of it, but I am not doing this for kicks or to get my name in the paper. I would just like to make some eating money. I could eat apples and all that but I have the cats and the dog to feed too. I can't even play my mandolin on the street for tips. That's against the law too.
This is ridiculous ! You might say, hey Texino, get a job! Well, I am disabled and I can only make a certain amount of $ above what social security pays and I make that fixing computers. Hard Times my friends. The shame of it all is someone always has it worse There is always the guy pushing the trashcan at the end of the parade. His job is to pick up the horse shit, most parades have it. When you think of it, horse poop doesn't look so bad. It almost looks packaged. Some lumps of dirt with some straw woven in. The town near by depends on the horse business and there are a score or so horses clopping about every day. They used to have a guy go around with some trash cans. Low end of the totem and all, but I would do that kind of work rather than sell apples. When I was a kid up in VA. A man would come around each year at strawberry time. There were two men actually. One drove a black pickup with wooden slope roof over the racks of fat red berries in the bed and a big "clock face" scale swinging from side to side hanging off the rear. That man drove the truck really slowly while his partner, a black man with a jumbo voice, would call out "Strawberries" a block or two in front.
Soon, a woman would come out and the voice man would wait for the truck and while he did, more women from the big houses or the back kitchens would Snow down on the big voiced black man with the jolly charm and an impromptu fruit market would take root for a bit and then move off. I could lie in bed on a Summer's morning and hear the strawberry man coming like some slow parade. You'd hear his music and then forget it till it came back a little closer and then fade and then return. His voice was ghostly in the way the bumps and drags in a haunted house can stay at the edge of your audio range but rarely challenge you directly. That is to say the strawberry was only real when you realized "Strawberries" was a question and answered the role call by going out side and saying "Here!' Now that's a bit like apple selling and a step up in respect to street sweeper. But wait! You can't sell fruit like that now, too many cars, and as far as horse shit sweeper the horses wear a canvas construction to catch the droppings. Talk about being SOL. Well, we will just have to get a hand on the situation and make some new low end employments for the new year. Watch this space for more.

An unwelcome drift

I have been attacked by the mail box. No, it is not a crush of Christmas cards.
It seems that my electronic bank thought it would be a great joke if they held up the delivery of two credit card bills by one day. The credit cards in question took this error with such umbrage that they upped my % rate by 21% making it right around 30% rather than the 9% it had been and, by doing this they created finance charges which put me over the limit and now rather than owe a combined payment of $98 it's like $700. I suspect they are using the new math but I can't prove it. Now the point of this is to advise you not to do this your self because those credit card people are laying for the tardy individual and even a prudent mariner like myself can strike their iron clad reef of unreasonable rules. I tell you when I speak to these people it is like hearing a Dada piece done in Esperanto. Since many of you never talk to the actual Texino, you may not realize that I have the devil of a time making my self understood. Therefore when I try to discuss my situation, I am taken as a fool or at best senile and the credit devils employ a demeaning sort of small child talk. This drives me mad and after on of these sessions it is not uncommon fo me to take leave of my emotions and fall very far into dark depression. I am starting to wonder just how far you can drop before you automaticly die of shame and dispair. I have considered this option from the standpoint of the British; "For Gods sake old man, just be done with it and let the rest of us real chaps keep the home fires burning and all that." Right now their adive seems very reasonable . On the other hand, there must be a good reason for us breaking away from the crown in the first place. I'll probably give the suicide this a pass and try to work it out some other way. Thats what the prudent mariner would do. So long as you can trust your ship you will weather most storms.

Flash

See that girl? Her name is Flash Bathory and she's dead at 19 years old. No one seems to no what happened to her other than she died in her sleep.
Now dying in your sleep is a decent way to go, providing it is your sleep and not brought on by some sort of central nervous system depressant that makes you forget to breathe. Flash passed back in September, in Texas. Now I'm fairly sure that Texas is a state were you can find out stuff like cause of death in public records. Problem is, I am pretty certain that Flash is not this girl's given name and Bathory is a common name of choice among the Shred Metal community due to the legend of Countess Elisabet Bathory of Hungry, aka The Blood Countess. Seems the her highness liked to torture people and was from some place in the Dracula part of the empire. If you go to You Tube, you can hear Flash play her guitar. Thing is she is playing the same song in every video. She has some nice licks, but if you understand how shred guitar is played or you are a player yourself, you might not be as impressed as some people seem to be. You ought to check it out an see if you can spot the component parts. I bet you can. Still, I think Flash had potential. So damn young too. If you look at her stuff from the NAMM convention of 07 she is all baby fat (and playing the same song) while this year she dyed her hair really red and started to get a shape. (but not a new tune for the NAMM show) Friends post online about how she was always jogging and eating health food or vegan. I think some music people thought she might break out and become a force on guitar. Unfortunately , she was not advanced enough to go into that gang of young genius that claims, Robert Johnson or Jimi Hendrix or D'jango, Christian and the rest. She should have put off the death for at least 5 years because it would not hurt to have a girl guitar hero.
I went to Flash's web site. It was well done and spiked with hope. Even though her family had put up a notice about her death, it didn't cover up the buttons to check her calender, buy her CD, go to "Myspace" or leave her a message. All that stuff, ready and waiting, but the clicks go nowhere at all. Why am I writing about Flash Bathory? I'd never heard of her until I saw a notice of her passing in an advertisement put out by the guitar company whose product she endorsed. Not a real well known outfit either. Well when it comes to sudden or tragic death, I'm drawn to a quote from a Terry Pratchett story that goes "Man isn't dead as long as his name gets mentioned." Although as I get older the litany of names gets longer, I do my best to mention the ones who may have vanished but need to stay alive in someones heart. You probably do it too.

Esperanto sprewing flea wrangler

Recently I was over to Sam Marley's Fat Alley. I was just hanging out. In case you don't know about Sam's, it's a kind of 24 hour news stand that's lots bigger on the inside than the outside. Like a Tardis but larger outside. Anyway, the thing moves around by teleportation and it's got lots of cool stuff to do inside. For instance, there is a underground railroad terminal which is used primarily by zombies who need to travel unnoticed and there are some traditionalist black people who use it to summer in Canada.
While I was there, an Esperanto club was holding a congress of some sort and for entertainment, they had brought in a Flea Circus. Now I thought perhaps I'd learn some Esperanto because I don't speak many languages other than Spanish, German, Russian, Farsi, Chinese, Vietnamese and Gaelic. When I heard the people shout "estas pulo cirko " well I was really glad I had come. Mi neniam ..isis viditan pulon cirkon, so I was anxious to see one in action. Now there are two types of Flea Circus. One uses fleas and the other uses little magnets because puloj estas tre malgranda estas facile tromp homoj kun etaj magnetoj en ilia pozicio. Works every time. Still some cirko use puloj and harness them with tiny gold wire. They will pull little chariots and kick little soccer balls. The balls are soaked in oil of camphor and fleas don't like it so they will kick it away. (the fleas are held in place)
ial la ideo de pulo cirko alportas min la willies, but I got used to it and I'd say I'm a pretty decent Flea Skinner now.
Otherwise, things are pretty quiet at Sam's. He makes a ton of money selling dope to movie stars and cigarettes to kids. Plus being able to teleport zombies all over keeps him in good with the spooky folks. I'll tell you one thing. There is a room in that place that must be 100' long and it has racks down both sides that hold those aluminun briefcases; the kind you always see full of money in the movies. Anyway, those racks are full of those cases 10 high and 10 across and they just keep going and they are full of money. In case anyone has notions on that cash? Well Sam's nephew Zombie Bob Marley hangs out in that room with a big bad shotgun and Zombio Bob frapos vin dise kaj manĝi viajn cerbojn en Jamaika Minuto. I think you can follow words like "Mangi" and "Cerbojn" (Eat Brains) See Esperanto is easy and fun. Truth be said here, I am not too sorry to leave those fleas, although I did learn quite a bit about the flea circus world.
I am trying to play some music but I am limited to nylon strings right now. That's OK. I like the sound. I can do some mandolin as well because the strings are close set. Those steel string acoustics, I'm fixing to sell them cause I just can't work the strings any more. That's me for now.

Too Old To Drive?

OK folks. It happened just the other day. I was driving in some manner or other that caused a younger person to pull around me and stare right at me with the very same look I have given others for years. The name of the look is, "Too Old To Drive" or "T.O.T.D" or sometimes just "Tot" Well anyway, I got that look and I did not care for it because I am not too old to drive. How do I know? Well, first off. When a man gets too old to drive two things happen. First, he gets really short and second his ears grow large. Now if you look at the pictures above you will see that in the one on the left, I am signing an autograph for the Center of the Chinese Woman's Olympic basket ball squad who at 7' 2" is pretty tall for a girl. Anyway, you can plainly see from this picture that even at the advanced age of 61, I still stand a good 8' and some, plus my ears are perfectly normal in size (see close up)

Now some of you must be saying, "I know old Texino and I've never realized he was a giant!" Well that's OK my friends, I can make my self seem small so as not to frighten people and to just fit in. Sometimes though, like other animals, I have to make my self seem bigger to scare off adversaries. At times like that I can puff up and get my hair to stand up straight like eraser head and spew large amounts of ready mix cement from my mouth. I don't know how I do that, but it's enough to scare most people and if it doesn't I can always start pulling sheet rock from under the back of my shirt and nail it up with my bare hands. If you were to be walking around some place and come upon what seemed to be an impromptu Home Depot demonstration outside of a bar, its safe to say I probably had a run in with some guys there. I find that a good show of construction technique can calm the most violent men right down. If not, I can just tear them to bits. Like bugs. Little bugs with bright cotton clothes.
Well that's it for now, I just wanted to put your minds to rest over this driving issue. That kid's damn lucky I didn't make a paper weight out of him. Too old to drive my foot.

12/7/2008

Today is when Pearl Harbor was attacked. Now that is 68 years ago. As a young man, I am always hearing where everyone was and what was everyone doing on that day so famous. And everyone said "Remember Pearl Harbor!" in a voice of certain emotions that you know they are not forgetting it at all. Well now, add up 68 years to the age of most of the people whose memories were once the clearest and you will see not but the old looking at the framed and dear departed. I think that they all know someone or more frozen there forever young.

Texino missing

Hello this is Sam Marley from Fat Alley. I'm still dealing drugs to the stars and running an underground railway station for zombies on the move, plus a few ultra traditional Blacks who can't admit slavery is in the bag. Doesn't matter to me anyway. You got your "ticket" you can ride all the way to the northern terminus. I hear that place is a hollow tree up in Canada by a cross road. They have a store that sells spaghetti with banana parts, chicken fried chicken, and you can catch a bus there too. I should mention, as a matter of public safety, that if you see a shabby looking person eating a big helping of pasta with red sauce and bananas, then you are watching a Zombie dinning out. Just remember, that Zombie would really rather be eating your brains close by the thrill of bashing your head to get them. Dealing with Zombies is a tricky business. Me, I am lucky because, my cousin Bob is one and he is still very popular in the music business. Texino deals with all manner of Zombies, Loupes Garoux , witches, Vampires and what have you and no one messes with him. All that aside, the boy has gone missing. While it has been rumored Texino may be involved in a love pentagon there are those who claim the composit genius has not made boom boom with a lady for years. Sources close to "the truest and most loyal friend a person could ever hope to find" say that he has recently been upset and feeling as "useless as a Nordic Trak™ exercise device." Long time neighbor"Mrs. Parkhurst" reports that she noticed "The Texino" slouching around the "hood" and when she asked, "Where are you going?" he replied "Crazy, want to go?" OK. I have business.
Hope Texino comes back. I'll miss him, if he don't. You come see me at The Fat Alley some time––– http://thefatalley.blogspot.com/ Sam

A long illness

That's what these Bush years have seemed like to me; a long illness. Now the matter is, will the patient recover or and spread the truth regarding his symptoms and how we might avoid the disease or will he die, leaving us in the dark to start over? Sure I stretch an analogy, but wouldn't it be cool if GW could just get with Obama and say, "Bud, this is where I really started to fuck up, you don't want to go there." Sort of like warning a guy not to eat something made with Sauce Mayonnaise that's been in the sun for a while, or not to take the brown acid. You know what I mean? I tell you something else.
Now I don't know about you, but I am pretty sensitive to the vibe. Like I was at that concert out in Altamont, CA where they had the troubles, and when things went bad, that vibe almost knocked me down. I certainly was not the only one, so it's probably fairly common. So I'm thinking, suppose you are GW Bush? You got to wonder if he can feel the vibe of the thousands who just don't like him. You just do. So this whole long illness riff really has to do with feelings. I know because I've hurt some good people's feelings and it makes me sick. The thing with me is, I don't think I'll be able to fix it and I fear that the outcome is destined to be bones in the road warning me to keep my distance and not try to go to that well again. Feeling bad is one thing but bad with a thirst is bad all the way.

Today we would like to send birthday props out to Sir. Winston Churchill who is 135 and also literary rascal Mark Twain (Sam Clemmons) who's a spry 173. Remember, as long as a name is mentioned a person never dies and those guys are mentioned a lot.

Well that's the way I think. You certainly don't have to think like me, just don't forget to keep in touch with what's going on and try not to get too hepped on that Jazz Music. OK? Fine.

Oh Hell, it's White Thursday!

Yá'át'ééh it's the old Indian. While most of you are enjoying the holiday of family togetherness, I am feeling mean spirited and loathsome. Sometimes people ask, "Hey Texino, why are you so mean spirited and loathsome?" I tell them the war did it. They accept that because I actually am a veteran, and a lot of us from the Vietnam era are crazy. Being loathsome is a by product of madness you see. It is getting hard to pull that veteran stuff lately because we now have a whole new mess of vets from the Iraq thing and they are not particularly loathsome at all. In fact, I would think long and hard about calling one of those guys or girls and "baby murderer" regardless of how many children he or she might have snuffed. Point being your modern GI is a professional soldier and not some confused high school kid who was snatched up like an alien abductee, given as little as two months training and then beamed down into a country full chittering little people who dress alike, talk alike, act alike-man, you could loose your mind. It really is a different situation now. Here is an example. Yesterday I actually opened an email newsletter from some vet site, and there was a piece of news about a former cook in the 82nd Airborne who, after being convicted of multiple rapes and murders and attempted murders, was going to be executed pretty soon. There was a picture of the Trooper obviously being led from the court martial which had taken place sometime before. The soldier was wearing his class A uniform, which is what you wear when you face any kind of military proceeding. OK? Fine. Well there was a space to leave a comment about the story and many had been left. What surprised , or maybe didn't really surprise, me was every person who had replied referred to the guy as something loathsome i.e. "This piece of dung" "Maggot" "slime" "human garbage" "sleaze ball" "P.O.S." "dirt bag"-well you get the picture. There were over 50 replies and every one used a dehumanizing modifier when referring to the suspect, not to mention what they thought should be done to him. If nothing else this article showed me that the mind set of the modern armed service has been molded into one where a human life can easily be relieved of it's value and I came away with little doubt that these soldiers would gladly kill anyone so long as someone classified that group as "dirt bags." It may or may not be of interest to you that this training modality is very popular at today's law enforcement academies. From personal experience during my time as an instructor at a technical college, I can attest that these schools are not focusing on prudent reasoning, but instead are taking the tack that the police must be an insular group because "everyone hates them" ergo, they should only hang out with other cops. This is not making for any "Sheriff Andy's" now, is it? So there you have it. It's Happy Thanksgiving and I truly hope you have one. I'll be hanging out in the studio traveling through some new loathsome identities like "Terminal Loser" "Bad Dog Breath" "Mid level Roach" and "Flea Circus Sideshow Freak" Such promise! Makes me want to live all over again.

Where were you?

I was working in the guidance counselor's office in high school, something I did during 5th period, and I felt this intense ill vibration run through the whole area. Then everyone sort of zombied up to the Principal's office where a radio was playing out the news. I slipped out and went to tell the librarian about it, because it seemed something she should know. I just eased up and asked her if she had heard the president had been shot. She said that it wasn't a funny joke and I was taken aback because it wasn't a joke and I had not set it up like one either. By the time my next class,US History, convened, everyone seemed to have gotten the word one way or another. Some kid kept saying "it was a grassy knoll" and someone else said there had been a big shoot out at a movie theater, while others said Johnson had died of a heat attack. I had nothing to add. Then, because the class was in a temporary building out by the student parking lot and the teacher had fled to the Office for more information, I decided to go on to the house, so I did. I watched and listened. Then on a cold clear day I stood on Memorial Bridge with thousands of others and watched as the cortege made it's way to Arlington Cemetery. I saw Emperor Hialie Selassie and Charles De Gaul and many other famous heads ride by in silent limousines. I keep thinking I saw Winston Churchill, but I don't believe he was there. Then I drove home and got there in time to hear the bugler bust a note playing Taps. Couldn't blame the guy. It was a very cold day for everyone.

Casey at the Bat

I used to enjoy Thanksgiving because either I would be throwing a dinner or friends would invite me over. Well that was another time. I can't afford to make a feast and I'm short on friends who set a heavy table. This can only lead to that incredible hole created by Earnest Thayer; Mudville. That's right the home of mighty Casey a person so overly certain of his gifts that what is really just a simple action, striking out in a baseball game, causes all the joy to slink out of town causing it's name, at onetime a silly aside, to swell up to the epitome of where nobody wants to be. What a piece of writing! Were I not in Mudville myself, I would review it for you further. I can't do that right now because it is so obvious that in so many somewheres things are really OK. There is just no joy in Mudville.

Closing Alice's Restaurant

Way back in the day, back when I was raising pigs in South Vietnam, a woman who I scarcely knew sent me a letter of news from back in the states. She said, "There is a real cool song called Alice's Restaurant out and you would like it."
Well, I thought it was a good title and I tied to create an idea how a song like that might go, since she didn't mention that it was a 23 min talking blues. Oh well, I wrote back to her off and on. She kept the letters. I know this because her husband called me up a couple of years ago and after determining that I was not some sort of maniac (Ha!) he allowed his wife to speak to me. I'd forgotten her name, but she wanted permission to publish my writing in some Vietnam thing where she taught school. I said sure. She said her husband told her I probably had a "trophy wife". I told her no, just a regular long term partner and no, I was not a successful writer or musician, just a guy who drove an ambulance. I gave her my email, but she didn't write. I had only met her once and taken her for a motorcycle ride. I think she fell for me at the time, but I don't think she loved me anymore. At's OK. I was just thinking about Alice's restaurant.

Dear Death, I hope you cut your fucking foot off

So there is a man I know, not well but better than I would, due to the sorrow of some mutual friends. Friends whose grief rose higher this week as this man came closer to solving the hideous mystery which lurks close by a person's final breath. A person dying from the injuries of brain lesions, a rather dressed up name for Cancer, will often take on a characteristic breathing pattern called Chayne-Stokes where the comatose patient will start breathing in a ragged rhythm which builds to a crescendo and stops cold, long enough to cause a few tired eyes to raise and then it starts again. Why is it we think on the subject of death for most of our life yet at the end so few want to pass? Indeed there is no line jumping in that final waiting room and I in my role as a medical handy man have seen no end of persons rise from varying periods of clinical death and try for another few hours; sometimes weeks or even a year or so. I've laid the electric on a stone dead man at a square dance only to have him try and rejoin the line, just like a car with a slightly low battery, he just needed a little jump. I've laid the car analogy on plenty of docs down the years and everyone has gotten all snooty on the subject. All the more reason you should stay away from most doctors, I'd say. Nope, people are so happy staying alive, the body has to make up some solid gold 50 caliber machine gun diseases that will not only take you out but make you wish you were already gone. And that brings me back around to my sort of friend Ed the banjo guy. He had had cancer for four years or more and finally the disease just bashed him with a big hammer to the brain. So Ed's on the other side now and if there is anything there worthwhile he knows it and we don't.
And as far as spooky skeleton in the picture is concerned, if he were to lose a foot due to misstep with that big cradle scythe we all might gain some good time. I'm all for a good time and I meant that pun about the scythe too. Now get out of here before someone else gets killed. OK? Fine

The big blowhard

This fellow whom I know fairly well, has abruptly lost his weekly radio show. It was an hour which he paid for by providing advertising and web service to the station. Easy for him, as he owns a successful Internet design and hosting business. I understand that he prefaced each broadcast by saying the content was his opinion and in no way represented the views of the station or it's advertisers. Pretty standard free speech fare. Along with the show the man also did some sports related thing with a local HS football team where he was a big booster. Well, he wants to know why he was chucked off the air. The station in question is a tiny AM that you can barely get in some parts of the county, however; with atmospheric skip it is often picked up in Norway and other points in the great Atlantic Ocean Sea.
After digging around a bit, I have come to the conclusion that the broadcaster in question was dumped for trying to emulate blowhard talk radio. You know that Rush Limbaugh thing. Now I would like to be 100% certain about this, but I have to admit to never tuning in his show. Here's why. When I was doing some much needed work for his company, he began to needle me a bit about being a "liberal musician" well I fired back that I was a damn war vet, and I could run down an impressive list of fire arms. The guy was a gun nut. I also took my brother in law, Cabbage, to see him and Cabbage knows more about guns than anyone, so there. Well that was before the elections got in gear, but once the did, everyone on the general employee list, and don't forget this is a design company with and African American male as head designer, everyone started getting the most egregious anti Clinton and Obanma "stuff". I mean all the time and the real crap, plus once the nomination went to Obama it was a constant stream of Obama's the leader of Arab terror and all that other scare crap that was prevalent here in the south. And this is going out to customers and friends and employees. More than a few did not care for it.

Now I said in a recent post that I though people were pretty much over that. Well my buddy Mr. X just didn't see it and while that two bit little station will broadcast other right wing stuff, they are doing it for green money, while the tangible dollar worth of Internet presence is definitely undergoing a reevaluation in these troubled times.

I guess it all comes down to the fact that if you want to push the limit of free speech in the name of the mean spirit, you are just going to have to blow a little less BS if you want to get on the air. Oh, I'm a free speech guy alright, but my ears are just tuned to a frequency of polite discussion at the moment. It's good to be an officer in the realm of reason.

The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down ( a new track)

Hi, I feel like ringing a bell and singing la la... You know how that song goes.
Well, it's a sad song and one written ease the blood up in a southerner until he or she gets julep-eyed and falls into that particular state of mind which exists in all white people born below The Line. "The Southern Thing" I admit to falling victim to The Southern Thing or "TST" many times. People down south make quite an issue about it; in fact there is even a tag line that goes; It's a Southern thing; "You wouldn't understand." that gets put on various things like coffee cups and T-shirts. They sell them right next to the logo of the rebel soldier with his flag and long beard who proclaims, "Forget? Hell!" This is convenient because that whole "Forget? Hell!" business is "A Southern thing,..." Get the picture?

OK? Fine. Now I am a Southerner, born a few blocks from where the very first shot of The War between The States was fired and around the corner from the doctor's house where they took the fellow to die. Shortly after this, my neighbors would have day tripped to Manassas to watch the US Army route the rebels and when that didn't happen, they soon found that living in that particular slice of The Commonwealth would separate them forever from the true antebellum south. Never the less, after living in NC and FL for many years, you may be certain "I understand." If fact I understand so much that when I figured out that Senators Clinton and Obama were to run for the Democratic nomination. I said, "God dammit , the party has a chance to sweep into office and they come up with a woman whom most people in the south can't stand and a colored guy." That's right; a "colored guy". And for the first time in my life, I thought I might just have to vote Republican and John McCain seemed like a presidential fellow. Well, that was a couple of years ago and I listened and realized that both Clinton and Obama were on the ball and I started liking Obama's message and the fact that he seemed cosmopolitan in a world that had to be getting tired of The US telling everyone how it was going to go. I became a supporter.

Last night, as I saw the results start to come in and the pundits with their complex math were saying Obama could win, all I saw was a whole line of the old south going for McCain, AL, MS, KY, AR, TN and Texas, and I felt the old racial thing stir in my gut. But wait! The Commonwealth of Virginia, a state who had not voted Democrat in 40 years went blue and then FL, the place where I live and have had to put up with all manner of racial crap, is blue too.
NC, still undecided but deadlocked with Obama showing the slight lead. Important, battleground, states coming through and driving old Dixie not necessarily "down" but in a different direction.

Now what. I am happy with the results, but at the same time a bit nervous due to a penchant this country has for letting good guys take a bullet. I would really like to have seen Texas and Alabama go blue because down there and here in FL as well, there live very rich reclusive old men who are the direct descendants of families who owned large numbers of slaves from Africa. These guys are quite serious on the subject of race and keeping the black person from breaking out. That the black person broke out a long time ago does not register in the within the bourbon colored paneled walls where old southern power seethes. I believe that these men killed the Kennedy's and Dr. King, and they did it simply because it embarrassed them and their political power base to have federal troops walking little children to school where grown men and women shouted the worst obscenities at a little girl with ribbons in her braids, and, it was on TV, in Black and White-like a war.
(well it's a southern thing, you wouldn't understand; Forget? Hell!) I bet you get it now.

So there. I want some peace and common sense to play over the land. I don't want to lose the possibility of a rebirth of the Good America in the cloudy conspiracy theory that would enfold us were President Obama to vanish by an assassins trick shot. We just can't allow that, for not only is Obama the person who might help our country rise to a level of a grand society, he is possibly the last president I will vote into office. When I came to be, this country was humming right along. There was a lot of hope. Unfortunately,
big issues of race and gender had to be hammered out and that took time. You were there, I'm sure. Then last night, one of the greatest obsticles between us and our ability to claim status as a truly great nation, just fell right over. No big thing as it turned out. It was just a matter of drawing a few lines with a felt tip pen and running it through a grade scanner like at school and enough people did that in hope that Mr. Obama can deliver the goods.

Hard times are ahead maybe the Republicans know this and that's why they did not field the very best horse (or moose) From where I sit, I can see the "GOP" doing just that. OK, but whatever they did, last night the people took the ball and seem ready to run, sing and ring those bells. Like I said, I'm on that wagon and I'm ready to make some noise.

Surprise her with a...

Britain's "Bonny" Prince Charley
appears stunned after Jappanese Fertility Priest, Akira "Kendo" Saki causes his penis to achieve "Royal" proportions during an impromptu demonstration of his power. The Prince and his companion, Mrs. Parker-Bowles, were visiting the site of a famous fertility festival held during the final week of October, when Saki, their offical host, grew irritated at a comment made by Charles condemming a procession of rice farmers carrying various fertitlity symbols as "The sort of backward rubbish that keeps the yellow man from acheiving parity with his betters." Saki (shown in the photo after slipping an ornimental bamboo cover over The Princes erection) scolded Charles for his rudeness and told him the "change" would last though the week after which the organ would return to normal proportion. While The Princedremained speechless, Mrs. Parker-Bowles, shown at right, seemed extremely interested in the whole incident.

Scoop Texino

OK, I guess you could call me a member of the press. I mean I have been reporting the news for quite some time and when I'm getting paid for it or writing under a by-line, I always give it my best shot. What I mean is, I do my level best to be sure
my readers are getting the straight dope in a clear, unclouded format. I've been doing this for a number of years, plus I know plenty of other
journalists, diarists and just plain note takers on the the general 411 and I'd like to say that not a single solitary one of them is guilty of non reportage. That's right, all that stuff you hear about writers not writing important stuff like that thing about the space people who encircle the earth holding the answers to all of our problems but can't make "First Contact" until the USAF promises not to shoot their shuttles down. Well we don't report that because it's not true. Simple as that. You see we writers really do have an important job and it is easy for anyone to do so long as he or she tells the truth.
What is the truth? I'm happy you asked. The truth is simply what you know to be factual or what your common sense of values suggest is the right path.
Here is an example of putting your mind to work in this manner. OK, story #1 is that the CIA is using secret locations to interrogate terror suspects and they might not be being very nice about it. Now story #2 has to do with the FBI supplying young children to certain members of Congress as well as the so-called "Illuminati" for the purpose of satanic rituals involving sex and cannibalism. Now while neither of these stories are the sort of thing I follow, it's pretty obvious that item #1 is verifiable to some extent while if you try to verify #2 you will find yourself being led down pathways of conspiracy that just become less believable at every turn. So while you have these tips of bizarre stories sticking up through the sea of information, a quick look will usually disqualify them while your articles of some worth tend to float around offering different angles of view making them much easier to capture and develop. Still, no matter what you do to explain your reasoning, someone will be trumpeting that the clear evidence of his or her matter is being over looked by the people who write the news. Well it's not. Why? Because of the millions of would be reporters like me with and electronic platform to lay out decent copy and a eye peeled for something, anything, to write . When you look at it that way, you can feel pretty safe that the skies are clear of saucers and Sen. Obama is just a man who wants to be president for the same reason anyone else might. Now sometimes I write strange stuff that is hard to believe. That's not reporting, it's just made up stories used to ease my mind during times of trouble. Just look at it like some kind of poetry and it will make more sense. I hope you will see the difference and keep reading what I have to say. Who knows? One day I might do something important.

Who's Next?

You know there is something extremely refreshing about knocking off ones enemies and dragging their cheating skin and bones to Miller's Cave. (God help the person who gets lost in there) I'm certainly am not the first person to get my kicks in this manner either, so there is quite a crowd of well preserved dead folk occupying the "Grotto of Ghouls" as it is known to the spelunking set. Well, I can promise that crowd will be getting some 5 star entertainment pretty damn soon, providing I can get my hands on the funny man pictured at left.
That's correct, the halls of horror will ring with ghostly mirth when none other than Jerry Lewis stumbles in for an extended stay. Now don't go saying Aw Texino, why you got to murder Jerry, he is so funny? I know what I'm doing, OK, and it is all for the best. The man is a junkie and I know about that from the inside out and can tell you that junkies are the worst of the earth should all be taken care of with extreme prejudice. You can ask, so how come you are still around Texino? Well, when you look at me, you can see that I am pretty much dead due to the fact that my addiction cost me my self respect and popularity. In other words things that meant the most. So there. Well Jerry Lewis, he still has popularity and quite a bit of respect of all types in Class A spots like France and Vegas. Same goes for another junkie, Mr Rush Limbaugh. So maybe you see why I feel the need to wipe these and a few other of their kind off the earth and into that cave. See, Miller's cave is one of those allegories, in this case, Hell. Something in the chemical makeup causes dead people to stay in very good biological shape given their clinically dead condition. i.e. they are aware, so I find it pleasant to think of these people having to endure the feeling of loss that I deal with every day. It's not like they had no chance to fess up to the public; they just wouldn't, so I get my kicks sending them to my version of hell. An allegory is just an idea you cook up to represent another idea, so what does it matter if I want to pretend I'm spreading the guilt around. It makes me feel better, OK? What's more, this blog is about true stuff and if I don't have any news or clever ideas to go with, I'll just write about how I feel. It may suck but it's not your fault, so you can just go away and then come back in a week and maybe I will have calmed down enough to write some worthy stuff. OK? Fine.

A small space

I live in small spaces now. I figure I need 1/3 of this bed, all of a bathroom and maybe the kitchen, since it is already small. That means I could really live in a space the size of this room. I wonder If I might sell off the rest of the house? I mean, I just stay in this room and write until a computer call comes in. Then I hit the road like an old fire horse, fix the problem, and come back here. I need to make some sort of adjustment because all my money goes into keeping the house, and, like I said, I don't need it.

Moving on the politics, I think that Obama might lose this election. He should not, but he still might. I would not care so much were it not for S. Palin the Republican VP nominee.

I heard an interesting observation on the radio and it was that the US might gain popularity amongst the Europeans should Sen. Obama get the vote. That made sense seeing that he is more open and urbane than his opponents, Joe six-pack and Betty Beauty parlor. When you think about it, this may not be the best time in history to hire a pair "Real" Americans to navigate the ship of state through the sea of global financial an political unrest. We need someone with a bit of style and not the typical "in your face, we're number 1-USA USA " type of chap.

I would like to point out that although Sen. McCain is trumpeted as a "War Hero" he actually spent the majority of the war in prison. That was probably not particularly nice duty, but compared to what we have learned about our own countries treatment of prisoners with extremely tenuous connections to a terror attack, McCain, who was without a doubt guilty of bombing civilians in their beds got off fairly lightly, in my opinion. Of course what is my opinion worth? Not much I guess, other than to say that secondary to suffering some sort of mental let down in the spring of '68, I was tossed into a prison for 6 months and left at the hands of truly sadistic keepers, who, believing I was crazy, set out to make me more so by "sentencing me to death" and showing up at my cell at midnight with pillowcase hoods and a hangman's noose. They had other games as well, but I won't waste your time other than to say that I may be a little more in tune with forced confinement and torture from a mental and physical standpoint than your average failed mandolinist. It could have something to do with my not needing a lot of space as well.

Well, I guess that's that for now. If you need me, I'll be here-unless they finger me for those canvasser killings. If they do, I'll just use the old Perry Mason "blurt it out in court" excuse: "I had to do it, they were ruining my life!" or the much cooler "I did it for kicks man, you know to get my name in the paper."

OK, perhaps I over reacted.

So, I went down to the voting house the other day and cast some votes. I was happy to do it because I knew what lay behind the various issues as well as which candidates would likely perform to suit the interests I support. Then I went home.
Everything was fine for 24 hours. Then bright and early Saturday morning,
a herd of Democrats disguised as joggers came trooping down my street.
They knocked on the door! My door! It must have been 3 AM (some place) and woke me from a dream where I had finally found a cure for cancer and was in the process of writing it down, but lost it in the transition to wakefulness, so I was not too happy when I stumbled to the door only to be addressed as someone else. I denied being that person, but that did not stop them. No they stood jogging in place and asked me if I planed to vote? I told them I had already done so and therefore we had nothing to talk about, goodbye. Well, it should have happened that way, but no. They wanted to know whom I voted for. I said, "my business" They got snotty like it was no big deal. It is a big deal. When I was married, my wife worried about my overreactions, so she had removed all the weapons from the house. Now that she is gone, I have gotten hold of some more, as is my right and since I felt that the Democratic jogging canvassers were violating my right to a secret ballot by inferring that being a registered member of that party I had voted the party line and going so far as to write it down in a book, I had no problem what so ever in gunning them down, one and all. Oh yeah, then I dragged their cheating skin and bones to Miller's Cave. You may note I've made some life style changes. Things are going pretty well for the time being. I mean I'm back at the house and not lost in millers cave . I'll try and keep writing but right now isn't a good time being alone and laying low. After the election things might ease up. If the republicans win, I hardly think they will notice a few missing democrat workers. I figure either way Ill be good to go.

Voting, do or die

I stopped at a friend's house a few days ago to check on a computer issue. Instead of finding her in her office in the back, she was on the door step being harangued by a canvasser for the Democrats who was loudly checking the family facts in aid of getting all the enfranchised members to the polls ASAP. The woman asked me if I was the Mr. but I muttered that I was not a citizen and she immediately disappeared me from her line of site and kicked me out of mind. I instantly regretted my lie and wished I had offered to sell her my vote instead. You know, just to see.

Now what I am about here is where I come from (a world of grace and good manners) One just doesn't go around asking you for whom did you vote? It's a secret you know. Like how much you earn. At least it is supposed to be. Now I'm getting pummeled to get out and vote right now and it's still October. Also the feeling is that if you do vote early you are voting for Obama. Now I don't mind Senator Obama winning, but I like a fair election and I am starting to think that if the News people start up with their exit poles on the early voting and it seems like Obama is winning is that going to keep some Democrats home on election day? It's simply a matter of class and race and racism. If the middle class white Democrats see what looks like mobs of Blacks and Hispanics being herded to the poles to give Obama the early push is there a danger that the Republican code word that he (Obama) is not like "Us" may start to ring true over a quiet glass of bourbon? I would worry a lot more if McCain had a stronger running mate. Still, I don't like people in my face and as a registered Democrat, I can vote for whomever I please and I'll get myself to the poles thank you. Lastly as a Southerner, I know there are a lot of people who do not believe that, Negros, Blacks or African Americans are capable. It is a sad situation, but it is true. I only hope the creepy monster, Racism, that killed the Kennedy's and King and scared LBJ out of the White house, has died enough generational deaths to become diluted to the point of impotency, so the measure of a man may be taken without his being burdened by the chains of irrational hatred. I wish for the very best, but still I fear the worst has equal footing. To that end, I think I'll vote early and then shun any media input until the election has passed. Perhaps this time we may employ a visionary who can lead us into the glow of respect which our country definitely needs in these dark times. I truly hope so because I do believe that "More of the same", and just a little bit
of it will put us in such a dreadful spin that I'll not live to see recovery. And there is the rub. We, the children of the high hopes brought by the Kennedy years were robbed blind and wouldn't it be swell if we could ride out of here
with a last breath of hope, that the future might hold some bright moments?

From the files of Doctor Texino!

Howdy folks, this is Doctor Texino and I'd like to tell you a true story about some decidedly non-Christian hi-jinks that caused a particular pastor a great deal of embarrassment. A situation made sweeter due to the pompous position he insisted on taking before he had the facts of the matter in hand.

This incident occurred at the JFK Memorial Hospital in Lake Worth, FL on a Friday afternoon in the spring of 1977. JFK was not particularly busy, being a small hospital. It did have a minor claim to fame though for being the very first memorial building named for the late president. Having been in the process of dedication at the moment in time he was gunned down, the City Fathers of the Palm Beach County town had jumped right on it, and that was that.

I was on duty in the ER when we received a ring down that an ambulance was in route and to contact them on the medical channel. A nurse did and the rescue said they were bringing 27 year old female complaining of abdominal discomfort and that she was stable. That was all they would say and when asked for a more detailed history they said they needed to relate it to the ER staff when they arrived. It seemed a little odd, but the medics were good and we didn't give it much thought. The unit arrived in a few minutes
and brought a woman in on their stretcher who was lying left lateral recumbent (on her left side) and had the sheet pulled over her head like a dead person. I snagged the lead medic and asked he what the hell this was all about. She answered that I should probably send one of the female nurses in because the woman was very embarrassed and upset secondary to having a foreign body in her rectum. Oh, I see. Well, I ordered a portable x-ray and sent the head nurse in the get the story. OK? Fine. Well, the film came back before the nurse and damn if this woman did not have one of those hollow plastic candy canes that come full of hard candies at Christmas-time and it was lodged to they "crook" up her butt. By this time, the nurse had returned with the history which was the lady had been masturbating and had inserted the object to simulate anal intercourse. She said that her husband was away but was returning that afternoon and she was extremely nervous that he would find out. Well, you learn not to be judgemental in a clinical situation, but this was certainly one for the books and I knew that X-Ray film would make it into the radiologists hall of fame. Another thing was this sort of foreign body situation was a surgical problem. In other words, you could not just pull it out because it had created a suction and even though that area of the body is fairly elastic, it is also extremely vascular and you don't want to be tearing anything. Chances were that a surgeon could get it without going to the OR, and protocol demanded one be consulted, so the call was put in.

After the patient had been reassured, all was quiet. Back in our office everyone had a little smile about it and brought up other cases for comparison. Suddenly however, a commotion was heard from the area of the admitting desk and a call for security followed. Well, of course, the whole ER staff ran out to see the matter and were confronted by a very self possessed fat man who was hurling demands at full speed. "Where was his wife?" "Why was she here and not at the fancy rich folks hospital?" "Produce her right away" "He was the Rev. X from (large conservative Baptist church) and he wanted to see the administrator etc. What a rude man! Well, I introduced my self and asked him to please calm down and we would discuss his wife. I really wanted to protect this poor lady but nothing would do, he was going to get to the bottom of this mess. At which time he pushed past me and burst into the exam room where we had put his wife for privacy. Silence.

Well when next we saw the raging preacher he had gone white as a sheet and seemed to have shrunk several sizes. He went to a waiting area and sat hiding his face until some fussy men and women came and hustled him away. I left JFK shortly afterwards to take a job in the Northwest, so I never found out if there were repercussions, though I do know the surgeon on call had been able to retrieve the objet d' butt with no trouble. I need not elaborate on that, but I guess I might mention one reason that the Preacher had been so troubled on finding out his young wife's difficulty. You see he was a local and noisy conservative with a TV show that mixed God with politics and, at the time, The JFK Memorial Hospital was owned by one of Lake Worth's largest employers. The National Enquirer.

Well folks, that's another case from the files of Dr. Texino. All these stories are true, however; for the sake of propriety, we don't mention any names.
(Unless, of course, there is the chance of making a buck) So until the next time. Adios.

He's Back.

He, in this instance, is somebody who has a connection to the home across the yard and behind the fence from me. Now ,the thing is, the house is quiet as a tomb all year long. They have a pool, but I hear no splashing. I have neither smelled smoke from their chimney nor seen the fire of a Bar B Que winking through the fence. But come football season, this maniac is turned loose and whenever a game is on television this guy bellows like a buffalo during every single play. In fact, it is almost as if he is rooting for both teams. Now this guy, we call him "Mr. Touchdown" is so loud that we have to close the windows when he's in action, and that's a shame, as this is the time of year when the wind blows a little coolness in and the AC shuts off and the power bill goes down. It can be very pleasant, however; when Mr. T. is on the scene everything goes to hell. Now, I'm not a cranky old man and I think a little team spirit is a good thing but when I think about Mr. Touchdown (I have never see his face) I imagine a person who may well be painted teal and gold or is wearing a large foam hand with the index pointing out that "We're No. 1" or both. The kind of person who would get with some other like minded creatures and paint some sort of word on their collective belly's and show it to the world by removing their shirts at some freezing stadium. I'm not certain there are any freezing stadia anymore because owing to some odd turn of my brain, I have lost my football interest. In fact I don't think I've seen a game in almost 10 years. It's funny because while I never had the enthusiasm of Mr. Touchdown, I used to get pretty worked up over my team The Washington Redskins. Actually, I'm more than a bit surprised that our football monster is back because during last years play offs, it certainly seemed as if he would die of apoplexy. I guess he didn't because he is breaking the night right now screaming Go! Go ! Go! Go! Go!/ the wind blew the french window closed and cut him off. If you will excuse me, I'm going to go and see what I can find about the old Redskin marching band. They still have a band I think, but I don't believe they march around in white fringed Indian costumes like they did when I was a kid. I'd like to find a picture of that.

Evidently, size can be an issue.

Hi Texino here, and I would like to comment about what seems, to me, to be a disturbing trend
on the internet. Every time I open a web site I am assailed by the off handed question "Do you want a bigger penis?" I will say that this query is totally out of context, since I am not visiting Porn sites or anything to do with anatomy for that matter. What's more, if I don't get this flashing inquiry, I tend to be shown a picture of a
wide-eyed young woman who, btw, looks a lot like my daughter, accompanied by the caption;
"Surprise her with a bigger penis!" Actually, to my mind, the girl's expression conveys the sort of surprise that would register if she were the one who suddenly was blessed with the appendage size not withstanding. All this nonsense has led me to investigate and come to the conclusion that there is an over the counter pill which is supposed to make your dick bigger and, in turn, put you in better stead in the love bed. Funny, I can't say that I have ever thought about size when it comes to sex. I mean what I have has proven sufficient at producing children who are handsome, do not use drugs, put themselves through college and then leave me alone. Other than procreational sex, I have put a good amount of work into the recreational variety and shared the sweet favors of more than a few women, each of whom I loved totally. Unfortunately many of these true love affairs ran concurrently and that led me into major difficulties trying to sustain long term relationships. But we talk of times long past, and that brings me back to the main point. Why in Hell are they trying to sell me dick pills now? I'm 61 years old for Gods sake and I'm not about to pop some OTC pill and hit the street hoping to surprise some poor woman with my new found secret. How's that supposed to work anyway? Do you go to some place where lonely hearts meet and tell some friendly lady about this amazing pill? Or maybe you sit around and shift positions saying "Excuse me, but my penis is growing as we speak; surprising isn't it?" Well, I just don't know. You can call me a dirty old geezer if you like, but I would direct you to the attached photo which shows bizarre geezer Pres. H. S. Truman showing a keen interest in a decidedly phallic display as former Nazi, DR. Werner Von Braun looks on. It is obvious that these two guys do not hold to the Texino Theory of crafty love making which employs all manner of tenderness and quasi legal technique and instead are going with the monster or "More is More" philosophy. The choice, of course, would lie with the individual. So maybe we should just view this as a public service message; you know like, Objects may be bigger than they first appear or something along that line. Mr. Texino says, Take care.

The Great Bus Metaphor

The Canadians would not play my podcast last week because I mentioned cannibalism. I think the context had to do with Zombies and how you really couldn't get a decent Zombie from someone if a cannibal had cracked their bones and this may have had something to do with a desire that someone might eat Sarah Palin to that extent. Anyway, it got me thinking about living an active life as opposed to waiting for a bus. I have waited for a few buses in my time but mostly I have spent my time in some sort of action. If you just met me, you might find this hard to believe, as I am sort of a slug today, but I'm sort of at the end of my active life now. Before I got here, however, I was definitely not a bus rider. I think that, compared to most people, I have had a rather exciting life. I worked hard at many different jobs and really enjoyed meeting the people I came in contact with. Everyone has a good story and I became good at getting them to tell it. It has been said that everyone has a book in them. In my opinion, being a good author is getting those stories from as many folks as you can and then finding out that everyone is a usable character somewhere down the line. I would have liked to make a good book for people to read, but by the time I understood how to go about it, I got too tired.

When I was a little boy, one of the old people who lived in my house used to sing an Irving Berlin song about a soldier who did not like to get up in the morning. At the end of the tune, the GI said that "someone was going to murder the bugler" and after that happened, he would spend the rest of his life in bed. Having been in the Army, I could understand that desire and after 25 some years of getting called out at all hours during my time in EMS, when it came time to retire, I found myself in bed. Now this had something to do with a glitch during heart surgery and also some bad luck which caused further brain troubles and to tell the truth, what with my laptop and library, bed's a nice place. Thing is, no matter what I read about, I've seen something worse in real life, so if I just lodge down in the covers and close my eyes I can usually make up a happy story and slip right off. I guess if I keep it in mind not to board any buses while in dreamland I may have a few more years of active rest right here. Only thing about that bus. They never shut if off and some nights you will hear it idling and wonder just how long you might have before they put it in gear. On the other hand, some of those buses are real palaces on the inside while others, you are lucky to find a seat. There is always got to be a fucking mystery behind this manner of thought. Hell, if you miss-time your boarding you might get run down in the road and eaten by scavengers who will most likely crack your bones. Then where are you?

Taking dope is risky business as evidenced by GWB

Hello, it is Tommy Texino and I want to talk to you about drugs. Specifically Cocaine. Have you ever taken cocaine? Hmm...Well I have taken it it more times than I can remember but I don't take it anymore because it is very expensive and the stuff around here really isn't that good. Besides all that, I've just grown out of wanting to drink and take dope, so I just don't, however; I think that G.W. Bush does. That's right. The voice that keeps whining from the radio saying we need to give 700 billion dollars to ourselves. That G.W. Bush, The President.

Why? Well, he has a history of alcohol and drug use and he never denies it or brags about being sober like a reformed drunk or 12 step person would. Now if you have ever taken really good cocaine you know that it makes you feel very positive about things, even things that are not such a good idea. I mean for every stupid move that The President has made, I can see why it might have made sense if you happened to be coked to the gills on some good flake and maybe some decent champagne or a good whiskey buzz. Really. Pushing that 700 Billion dollar mess? No big thing when you feel invincible. And that's the thing; blow makes you go! I'm talking the good stuff of course. That crap you get at the bar is totally half-assed. I imagine Sarah Palin gets her shit at some fisherman's joint. I doubt if Bush is sharing. In fact, I don't think I've seen W around the campaign all that much. Still, while we may ready for the last of Bush, we got to keep an eye out for Palin. I figure McCain is a dead man walking and it looks as though he can't reign Palin in and if that gal gets up with W. Bush and they "Party" Well figure it out. McCain kicks and Palin gets to be the president and W. is holding the dope. Who will really be the president? The answer is, whomever is really the president now and God only knows who that might be. Kind of makes me want to head down town, you now what I'm saying? The way this deal is playing out, I may just need a gram and a dram. Of course if Obama wins, I'll stay sober and hope we get the changes he's talked about.

This Lady is a piece of ...

That's right. Sarah Palin Gov. of Alaska and VP candidate for the Republican Presidential Campaign is basically ,well really, you know, OK, she's a piece of shit. You think that's not an apt description? Well, while she obviously is not a giant bowel movement, she, IMO, fits the definition of the colloquial P.O.S. Here is why.

You see that picture? What the P.O.S. is doing right there is explaining that Democratic Candidate, Barack Obama "doesn't see America like "We" do. By "we" the P.O.S. means White People. Then she says that Sen. Obama pals around with "Terrorists". OK. What the P.O.S. is talking about is that Obama once worked on the same housing board as a guy who was at one time a member of the Weather Underground who, if they did any terrorism at all did it when Barack was a little baby. So that makes Palin a lying Piece of Shit in any one's book. I'm really sorry for the language, but I am mad. Fucking pissed off to the Max Mad. Mad that this P.O.S. is going around telling lies and making racist points and it is possible that stupid white people are going to start thinking "Do we really want a negro president?" After all, goofy old white guys have been president for ever, right? Maybe so, and they have had some bimbo VPs as well, think Dan Quayle. So right when we really need a change that a sharp thinker like Obama could bring, they haul out this loud mouth P.O.S. to spread lies and racist undertones while McCain just sits around looking like someone who we are used to having in the white house. FOR GOD'S SAKE PEOPLE WE HAVE GOT TO RUN THIS REPUBLICAN TICKET SO FAR INTO THE GROUND THAT IT WILL TAKE 12 YEARS TO RECOVER! It's really our only hope. Someone must reach out and slap that smug look of Palin's face and back flush her to where she came from. VOTE!

It's "Hoss" not "Horse"

I guess that you people wouldn't think that I, Texino, would be buddies with Eric "Hoss" Cartwright, but think again. Really, how many chicken dinners do you think it would take to get a guy like Hoss on your side? Well the answer is two.

I was riding the range out Nevada way, when I came upon the friendly giant. He had been wounded while fighting bushwhackers and was out of his head with fever. Well fortunately, I had a couple of hens on me and my saddle bags were full of ingredients so after giving the big man water and listening to him rave about his dead mother, I fed him two full chicken dinners. (portioned) After that, he was OK and we had coffee.

The next day, he took me home to his ranch to meet his family, but I did not take to their fascist ways and spent most of my visit hanging out with a Chinaman in the cook house making up recipes for chicken cooked Chinaman style. They had no chickens in China back then, so this Hop Sing guy (The Chinaman) must have sent some back home because there are quite a few chicken dishes in Chinese cooking now. I guess you might say that I was sort of the Johnny Appleseed of Chickens. Funny how you could take a bird that was previously only used for helping women deal with life in the pre-suffrage era (they just chopped the head off to let off steam, although it occasionally went a bit farther-see the case of Massachusetts vs. L. Borden) and for it's feathers, and turn it into one of the most popular and imitated tastes in the world.
Please remember that anytime someone says "It taste like Chicken" that were it not for me, it would have been someone else whom you don't know.

As for the Cartwrights, other than Hoss and Hop Sing, I didn't like the others and they didn't like me. I believe that the Ponderosa may have been the birthing chair of the Right Wing
Republican Party. They loved their (Portioned) chicken dinners though.

The Man who invented the chicken dinner.

Looks good doesn't it? Damn right it does! Ever wonder where the chicken dinner came from? Your mom? Grand Mother? Oh they cooked them I'm sure and, no doubt, they did a fine job. But, did you ever stop to think whose idea it was to take a chicken to pieces, cook it and then serve it up with a double starch and some greens? Well, I'm here to say that I'm the guy. That's right. Me, Tomas Benito Texino, El Niño the inventor of the modern chicken dinner. Huzzah times three and a big trombone riff! For truth! Now, I know you ladies. (boy do I) and right now you are saying something to your selves along these lines. "That Goddamn Texino is so full of beans!" "Why my female forebears were chopping the heads off chickens when he was a scumdrop* at the bottom of the Panama Canal." (*note; "Scumdrop" is a Texino word.) Well OK fine, so yer grannies were killing chickens. Of course they were. How in hell do you suppose those poor women kept from murdering whole sections of town what with all the crap they had to put up with as second class citizens who just happened to be more intelligent than the guys running the show. Hey sisters, I'm with you all the way! I just happen to have created the portioned chicken dinner as we know it today and there is not a thing I can do about changing that. I mean it is not like I am asking for a monument of me examining the future with my gaze while holding a plump hen. I just want a little respect. I mean, I may have been born yesterday, but it was 61 years ago and I can tell when I'm being left out. No it would have been pretty easy for certain people whom I love to just drop me a simple line of congratulation of completing one more year, but no couldn't do that. We OK, fine. Keep your greetings to your self because as the inventor of the portioned chicken dinner, I have too many responsibilities to worry about without letting a couple of snubs by the most important people in my entire world get to me. I mean we have all manner of media functions to attend, for when you have done something of such magnitude ( as invent the portioned chicken dinner) your influence reaches far beyond the coop. We have potatoes and squash, Lima's, applesauce and countless other avenues to put in our shadow. Not to mention a nice pie for desert.

OK, got to go now. We are working on something new in the area between cheese and milk and I for one, am too fucking excited to care about anything else right now.