Jed, The Joads, & Me

I didn't strike gold, or get blown west by dark dust bowl clouds, but in the Fall of 2017 I made pretty much the same migration as the Clampett's, Woody Guthrie, and Faulkner's famous family.

Texas to California

Most people that know would say me and Texas fit together like boots and jeans, but sometimes life takes us all places we never thought we'd go. Sometimes things fall apart so better things can come along, and make no mistake that my life is better out here in Southern California than it was back in the windy Texan Panhandle.

My journey started way back  in the fifth grade but of course I had no idea back then that it would lead me to the Golden State. I met Connie in Mrs. Davis's class. She hadn't gone to elementary school with me before then because she lived in a neighboring district but her old school did not have an Enriched Learners program so she transferred over to Oakdale. We had no whirlwind puppy love romance, but we were friends until her family moved to California our seventh grade year.

More than two decades later we reconnected through the powers of social media. This eventually led to me and my two boys moving west and it has been great for us all.

Food, Funk, & a Few Folks 

I am told I have an accent but if you ask me I sound just like everyone else. Nevertheless, the first question I get asked is, "Where are your from?" Guesses range from Arkansas, to Georgia, Tennesee and often Louisiana probably because I often wear a New Orleans Saints cap. (By the way if you are reading this Roger Goodell you and your corrupt NFL officials all suck. I stick by my theory that the NFL Commissioner caught some venereal disease from a Bourbon Street prostitute during a bygone Super Bowl in the city and has held a private grudge agasint my beloved Saints ever since)

But I digress.

The second question I get asked is, "What do you miss most about Texas?"

My mom tops that list, but she is finally coming out to visit at the end of the month. Friends are also on the list but the power of social media and with a few visits back and forth and it is not hard to maintain those relationships. 

Live Music is not quite the same beyond my cherished Texas dive bars, but I have found a number of cool venues, including The Cave up in the mountains at Big Bear, which hands out warm pork rinds as you wait in line to get inside. 

Little-by-little immersing myself the the Southern California Music scene. I have also been fortunate enough to see Kris Kristofferson, John Prine, and a few other of my longtime favorites that simply do not play in or around Amarillo.




That brings us to food.

Man oh man do I miss Texas cooking. Not always, because I have my smoker and grill and to stoke my own wood box I can cook up some damn tasty meat. Good thing too, because what passes for BBQ out here in California is a damn shame.  

Tex-Mex is few and far between, but the chain Cafe Rio does the subgenre justice and they easily have the best queso I have found in the state.

Californians do love their avocado this and mango that. And for the love of Gad stop putting fruit in sweet tea. Raspberry, passion, watermelon. All of that shit is perfume water not suitable for hydration. McCalisters Deli can you please bring your southern sweet tea to SoCal?

And don't even get me started on quality french fries. The venerable Golden Light Cafe in Old Route 66 in Amarillo, Blue Sky, and Coyote Bluff all serve up a hand-cut style of fry that might as well be a Brontosaurus in California. 

In-n-Out is not Whataburger. I don't hate their small little round burgers, but I have to eat two if I want to be satisfied, And their bland fries are palatable, when dipped in the imported salty greatness that is Whataburger ketchup.

I have railed enough for today, but soon I will be back to highlight the things I love most about my life here in So Cal. 

 

 

Expectations Are Dangerous Things

The bar is set. Picture it now ...

Shot glasses carefully arraigned. Beer chilling on ice. The hum of the margarita mixer.

No not that kind of bar. What are y'all lushes?

I meant the bar of expectation. The bar which I assume is a metaphor from the track and field world as in the high jump and pole vault where competitors must achieve a predetermined height or goal.

You've waited for months maybe even months for a certain movie and finally, All Dogs Go to Heaven Part 19 is here. But then the actual flick simply doesn't live up to your anticipation. It failed to clear the bar.

Books, movies, new seasons our favorite TV shows. Albums, return trips to favorite restaurants, a new post from one of your favorite bloggers. (Don't kid yourself you know that's why you are here) 

At one time or another we've all been disappointed by something eagerly longed for.

And sometimes it is this very pressure that creates a problem. Heck we've all been awaiting Harper Lee's next book but something tells me she never quite came to grips with the success of To Kill A Mockingbird. I dare say she even feared any follow up would follow short. J.K Rowling released a book last year under a pseudonym to escape some of the hype and pressure. And look what happened to Lucas when he finally put out a new round of Star Wars movies.

On the flip side we've all stumbled into that movie we thought would suck or that dive cafe expecting a ho hum experience only to have our expectations blown out of the water by a great viewing or taste budding pleasing extravaganza.

Let me share a recent day in my life where expectation and reality fought a hard battle in my life.

There I was in Plano, Texas. Ready to watch my son and his soccer team battle. Now we've been making the nearly 6 hour trip to Plano quite often since last September as his club team plays league play all the way down there since there is not much of a soccer culture up here in the Texas Panhandle. His team had battled hard and improved greatly while adjusting to bigger playing fields, hotter temps, higher humidity and the challenges of facing more experienced teams. Despite the improvement they were a combined 0-14-2 heading into a weekend where they were slated to play the two best teams in the league. Expectations were low yet his squad battled hard and tied the very best team in the league. it felt like a win for his team and a loss to the other guys. All because of expectation.

Post game, we dined at a place called La Hacienda Ranch. 


We'd eaten there the week before and the steak fajitas were the best I'd ever had. Week two, I'm proud to say held up. The place was just as tasty the second time.


And then I went to Whole Foods.

Y'all know me. I'm the Lettuce is the Devil guy.

Organic! Healthy! Green!

These are curse words in my vocabulary and her was an entire store not only full of that stuff but the kind of beatnik, hemp sandal-wearing, do-gooder yuppie moms people. How could I, a devote meat man enter the den of vegetarians, vegans, and various other vagabonds of the  "healthy living" lifestyle?

My expectations were below ground level. The bar was set deeper than carrot roots. 

And then I spied the beer aisle. 

I felt like a like a hungry panther upon catching sight of a juicy cottontail in a field of dandelions.

I spent the better part of an hour ogling battle of all shapes and sizes from locales all over the world. Ales, Lagers, Stouts, Pilsners ... OH MY!    

I bought one of these on one of that. A bottle of trappist from belgium. A lager from Germany. An amber from California and then I spotted the dunkel. 

I like dunkels. No I love dunkels.   

 from the German Beer Institute website ...   Dunkel — The World's First True Beer Style
German Dunkel ("dark") beer is a deep-brown, mahogany, or sepia colored all-barley lager. It is soft and elegant, with a rich, mildly vanilla, nutty-sweet palate and a dry, rounded finish that is never harsh, toasty or acrid. The beer is full-bodied, with a chewy texture and a firm, creamy, long-lasting head. Though it looks much like a British dark ale or Porter, unlike these brews, a Dunkel has a typicallly clean lager taste without any fruitiness at all, and next to no nose.

 
Except this dunkle wasn't exactly German. It was Texan, But from German ancestry according to the bottle. It was brewed jsut up the road in McKinney Texas at a place called Franconia Brewing. I was so sure I'd love this beer I bought a whole six pack versus all the other singles I'd picked up.

Well folks let me tell you, and this is painful for a prideful Texan to admit ... not everything is bigger and better in Texas. The dunkel was an awful disappointment. If you check that description up above you will not find even the slightest of mention of peas. Yes those evil little green suckers good for nothing but thumping off the dinner table. Peas. That is what this dunkel tastes like. In the bottle, poured in a mug, it doesn't matter the stuff tastes like damned peas. Peas people.Why for the love of all that is holy would anyone brew beer that smells and tastes like garden peas?

Franconia Dunkel you broke my heart with your overriding pea flavor. At least Coors Light only tastes like pee. Yes, I consider urine a slight improvement over peas in the taste scale.

To be fair it's not the worst beer in the world. I mean there are people who enjoy the falvor of peas but come on man warn a fellow. Put it right there on the bottle ... HEY, IF YOU AIN'T A VEGGIE LOVING PEA POD PARTIER! THIS ISN'T YOUR BEER!

But don't try to sneak in your evil healthy living flavors on an unsuspecting fat guy. It's not right to trod upon his expectation like that.

I Might Never Eat a Baconator Again

I am quite proud of my meat man status here in the web-o-sphere. Not a day goes by that I don't get a meat related picture, link, or product posted on my Facebook wall or Twitter stream. They never fail to make me smile and bear my carnivorous teeth.

I am every bit as devout in my Lettuce is the Devil dogma as I ever was.

So it might come as a shock when I say ... This whole bacon thing has done got out of hand.

Before I proceed I should point out if you have delicate sensibilities, are prudish, or embarrassed by sexual discussion now might be the time to click that X up in the right corner of your screen as this blog post is headed nowhere wholesome.

Of my regular meat contributors, the Jacksons, Steve and Elizabeth routinely send me the best jokes and most unique links. this morning was no different. (Don't worry Steve I won't question exactly how you discovered thee bad boys.)

Yes, those truly are bacon condoms. Bacon flavored, I read in the article though I do no see that description on the box and further investigation brought me to discover the inside packaging ...

and the actual product.

I have three words -- No! No! No!

Actually I have many more words. So many in fact, I don't really know where to start.

First he obvious pun, This gives a whole new meaning to porking.

Moving on.

Blowjobs are glorious things. I sang their praises in THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES for those who ahve read that little tome. But who the hell wants to get a blow job while wearing a condom, and furthermore who would want to suck on a chuck of latex? No doubt the Center for Disease Control recommends protection for oral sex, but let's face it, if you are ready to put another person's dick in your mouth you are probably a live for the moment, throw caution to the wind kinda of individual.

Now I get the bacon flavor is meant to cover up the latex taste so for the sake of arguing let's toss aside the blow job while wrapped up debate and move on to the next WTF moment.  

Bacon is Delicious. It is hard (no pun intended) to resist. No, I am not saying these condoma are going to turn a straight man into a cocksucker. Or even a hungry woman into one. You either are or you aren't. Makes no matter to me and if you are thank you for making the world a better, happier place. What I am saying is it takes teeth to eat bacon. The last thing you want in that glorious tender moment of bliss is teeth crunching down.

"Oh shoot, honey. I forgot I was giving you a hummer. My mind went blank and I thought I was at Denny's having a Grand Slam."

"How many stitches you think that's going to take?"

Now let's forget all about blowjobs. (Y'all have no idea how hard it is for a man to type that sentence) 

Let's say a fella is wearing one of those bacon flavored condoms, complete with bacon scented lube. Yep, it says that right there on the box. And let's say that fella is going to town like Peter Cottontail on crack. Friction comes into play and that lube gets warm. Like bacon grease in the frying pan.

Now the last thing you need is the distraction of a growling stomach just as you are hitting your stride.

And what happens when that delectable scent of hot bacon grease drifts out of the room. I happen to have to hungry growing boys. If that scent were to reach their bacon grubbing nostrils they would be bounding down the stairs shouting "BACON!" at the top of their lungs.

Try explaining that to the kiddos.

"Sorry son, but I don't have any bacon."
 "I don't care what you smell." 
"No, we didn't sneak off my McGriddles." 
"That is the smell of me and your mom preventing more of you hungry little heathens."

And God forbid they find the discarded aftermath of your porky poke.

Therapy for sure.

And let's say you don't have kids. You are a fun loving single out our for the  prowl. Why limit your quarry. What if that person you pick up is Muslim? Jewish?

No siree. I can't see one positive benefit.

If you want to wrap you wiener in bacon, might I suggest this ...

 



     

Life Always Has Its Lumps

Lots of things transpired during my 6 month blog hiatus. Turns out, life rolls on whether you blog about it or not. The high, lows and everything in between. Once upon a time I shared them all with y'all because that is how friends are. And frankly doing so helped hone my writing skills and turn me into a better writer. 

Today I'd like to share some of my writing that also happens to tie into perhaps the most significant event that happened during my blogging hiatus.

I was raised by a single mother that had to work full-time to support me and my brother. I was lucky enough to have a great set of grandparents that also were heavily involved in my life. Many of y'all have read the memoir I wrote about my grandfather's passing in conjunction with the birth and subsequent heart surgery of my oldest son.  Sadly back in December my grandmother joined my grandfather in the everafter. 
  
My Granny Howery shaped who I am as she was second only to my mom in influence in my life. As many of you know I've been working on a comedic memoir/cookbook/manifesto title Lettuce Is The Devil. Until my grandmother's passing I'd never shared one scrap of that project, but Chapter 3 showcased much of how I felt and was influenced by my grandmother so I shared it on Facebook and today I want to share it with those of you who do not follow me there. Today I've added a few photos to enhance the story.

From Chapter 3 of Lettuce Is the Devil : The Culinary Dogma of a Devout Meat Man

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve proclaimed the words, “Lettuce is the Devil,” I’d have enough money to purchase a lush mountain valley, complete with a herd of well-marbled Bonsmara beef cattle and a gurgling stream, teaming with fat and hungry trout and meandering by a nice spacious log cabin, containing two huge copper beer vats -- full to the brim of dark malty ale. Yes, my friends I would be in Meat Man utopia. 

But alas, spreading the gospel has not brought me that kind of fame or fortune to this point, which is why I thank you for purchasing this tomè and helping to remedy that gross injustice. Furthermore, now seems like a fine time for me to point out that this book would make a fine gift to all your friends, family and fellow countrymen, whether they happen to already be a righteous member of the meat loving brethren in need of fellowship, or a sinful, veggie-phyte in dire need of enlightenment.

Now let’s get back to my personal motto, “Lettuce is the Devil.” Upon utterance of these ever-so-truthful words I am met with a wide variety of responses. 

A fellow Meat Man is likely to offer an immediate high-five, or perhaps a military salute, whereas a vegetarian is apt to give a nervous chuckle. Vegans often swoon and faint on the spot, but given their frail and anemic dispositions that is no rare occurrence. 

The vast majority of omnivores respond with a question. “Okay, I’ll bite,” they say. “If lettuce is the devil, what is God?”

God.

The All-Mighty. 

Lord Of All Creation.

No food can live up to such lofty titles, so it is at this point I have to explain that when I say … “Lettuce is the Devil,” I don’t mean in the physical, forked tail and gleaming red eyes kind of way, so much as I mean the ultimate evil -- the epitome of the joy-sapping darkness draining all happiness and color from this world.

Therefore, the Anti-Devil, the divine, the most heavenly edible on this earth is not to be thought of as creator or even as the All-Knowing deity that people the world over turn to in times of need. No, the culinary king of peace, the messiah of mealtime is more of a savory savior. A righteous symbol of all that is good and right in the universe. It makes the dinner place a better place to sit. It heals, soothes, nourishes, and brings hope to even the most horrendous of slop. 

So what is this virtuous vittle? 

Steak -- perhaps, a nicely marinated rib-eye, or maybe even a porterhouse?

Nope. 

I concede steak is a worthy and wholesome meal, as well as a palate pleasing source of nutrition, but not even a perfectly cooked piece of beef can heal everything it touches. Steak does not make everything it comes in contact with taste better.

Bacon then you say? Surely it must the God of meats. After all, it makes everything it touches taste better. People even sprinkles bits of it on salad to improve the taste.

You are correct. Lettuce munchers do use bacon, and let me add what a terrible waste of pig flesh. Bacon, the candy of the meat world can and will help to cover the vile taste of the evil green one, but despite its tasty crunch and satisfying flavor, bacon is not The One, for it lacks the soothing tranquility necessary to bring about change. And the pure and holy food would never allow itself to be associated with bits of salad.

I hear the rumblings of the congregations, the impatience of the doubting Thomases. Not steak. Not Bacon.

They are the dynamic duo. The superheroes of the butcher shop. What meat could possibly be more righteous than either steak or bacon?

Hold onto your cleaver my friends, but the Yahweh of Yummy is not technically even a meat.

The Anti-Devil, The Supreme Culinary Comfort, the Dietary Deity is … Brown Gravy.

Do not be fooled its viscous nature, Brown Gravy's classification as food is steadfast and solid. Beverages are served in glasses, mugs, bottles, cans, and a variety of stemware. Dipping sauces come in dainty little bowls and ramekins. But like the very forefathers that forged this nation, Brown Gravy arrives in a boat.

Brown Gravy is forged from the juice of meat. Its base, the savory fluid, is the very essence of meat. But in a display of tolerance, love, and harmony Brown Gravy combines this delectable nectar with flour, the powdery essence of the wheat plant and transforms into the most holy of foods. Thick and meaty of flavor, and capable of supper time salvation, Brown Gravy can turn a plain ground beef patty into a hamburger steak. Let me say that again. Ground beef into a steak. Remind you of someone famous that once turned water into wine? 

Let me hear an AMEN!

And along those same lines it is said Jesus fed the masses with but a few loaves and a couple of fish. My mother used to do the same thing, only on a smaller scale, by feeding her two hungry teenage boys with half a pound of round steak and a boatload of Brown Gravy. No one knows how to stretch the budget better than a single mom.

But Brown Gravy’s miraculous ability to save does not end there. Picture this … you have a grill full of burgers going when that hot neighbor next door decides to mow her lawn. In a string bikini. Distracted you fail to notice the flare-ups. In a matter of minutes your tasty burgers shrivel and die. You could feed the dry, hockey puck like patties to the dog, but the game is about to start so you don’t have to time to cook yourself more. What is a Meat Man to do? Easy, whip up a quick batch of brown gravy, pour the ambrosia over the burgers and all is well for everyone but Fido.

Or your time of crisis could come as a result of your wife’s hysterectomy, when taking pity on you, your mother-in-law brings over her “World Famous” meatloaf to help feed the family. Until that moment in time you never realized “World Famous” was a synonym for bland, tasteless, and dry, but as your starving kids gaze upon you with those sad, do-we-really-have-to-eat-this eyes you remember that packet of brown gravy just sitting up there in the cupboard waiting to embrace a bad meal and turn it into something good.

I’ll grant you that fresh, totally homemade Brown Gravy, the kind grandma used to make is the best, but part of the beauty of Brown Gravy is that even emergency rations, such as the powder-filled, ready-made packets, offer hope and peace in times of need.

Legend has it that as a small child I’d eat anything. Whirled peas, spinach, purred carrots. My family tells me this was the case until just after my fourth birthday when I got deathly sick, and ran a high temperature for days,. They say I laid there sweating and shivering in that hospital bed. They say I nearly died. They say, the day my fever broke was the last day I was willing to eat vegetables.



Now I suppose there are several ways to explain this change. Perhaps I saw a light and realized life is too damned short to spend eating crap that tastes like weeds and lawn clippings. Perhaps I figured out eating all that “nutritious” stuff damn near killed me. Perhaps a carnivorous angel watched over me and whispered meaty lullabies in my ear while my body fought to survive. Truthfully, I don’t really care what brought about the change, I’m just mighty glad the truth found me, and at such an early age that my body, mind, and taste buds were not tainted beyond repair. 

Not that my family didn't try to perpetuate the damage. As the saying goes, misery loves company so my kinfolk, especially my mom, tried to turn me back to vegetables. For years, I battled my mom and others at mealtime.

You can’t go outside and play until you eat EVERYTHING on your plate.
How are you ever going to grow up big and tall if you don’t eat your veggies?
I don’t care if we have to sit here all night neither one of us is getting up from the table until you’ve eaten those three green beans. 
 
Yep, we had some battles.

My mom won her share, but this book is evidence that in the end, she lost the war.

Lucky for me, I could count on one steady and constant ally. – my Grandmother, or Granny Howery as I called her. 

Granny Howery not only told everyone else to leave me alone, but fearing my stubborn streak would lead to starvation, she went out of her way to make the few things I was willing to eat. Like Brown Gravy. And no one, made Brown Gravy like my Granny Howery.

It didn’t matter what else she cooked my grandmother ALWAYS made a batch of Brown Gravy, special for me. Many a time the family ate casserole, or goulash, or stew while I dipped fresh, hot buttery dinner rolls in Brown Gravy.

“Oh, leave him alone,” my grandmother would say to my mom, aunts, and uncles. “At least he’s eating something.”

Granny Howery steadfastly defended me to others, but in private she’d sometimes whisper, “You really should eat some vegetables. You don’t wanna get rickets.”

To this day I’m not sure what rickets actually is, but I do know I never got them, and at six-foot five, and nearly three-hundred pounds I’m kind of glad I didn’t eat all that stuff, for I do believe I’m as big and strong as anybody needs to be.

Not all Brown Gravy is as good or smooth as Granny Howery’s Brown Gravy, sometimes there are even a few lumps in it, but you know what? Life ain’t always fair, or easy. A Meat Man, however, knows how to deal with the trouble. A Meat Man embraces all situations. A Meat man follows Covenant #3 ...

DON’T LET THE LUMPS SLOW YOU DOWN

Like I said, me and my mom waged many a battle over my Meat Man or in those days, Meat Boy, diet. My dad was even worse, but given the fact he only showed up every six months or so those conflicts were sporadic at best. 

By the time I was seven or eight my mom had begun to realize the cause was lost. She'd mostly given up the fight, except when others were around. I suppose she feared criticism of her parenting skills for allowing me to eat only meat and bread. Maybe she worried they would call CPS and turn her in for not providing proper nutrition. Heck, maybe they all whispered in her ear, “That boy is gonna get rickets if you don’t start making him eat his vegetables.” All I know is the last real skirmish of our war occurred at a family function up in Denver, Colorado. Had we been boxers, it would've been dubbed – The Mile High Melee.

I believe it was a funeral, but I suppose it could’ve been a wedding. Whatever the reason we'd made the six hour trek north and were staying with some cousins. There was lots of extended family around. So many that we kids were not allowed in the kitchen to make our own plates. Given that we were nearly four hundred miles from Granny Howery’s kitchen the chances were slim to none that Brown Gravy would be served, so I was already dreading the meal, even before my mom handed over my plate.

A slice of ham, a dinner roll, some kind of nasty pink marshmallowy casserole stuff, and three green beans. Staring down in horror, I didn’t realize those three green beans were about to be the stuff of legend. Sorry Jack, but no tale of beans, yes even those of Fee-Fi-Fo fame, has spawned as much grief for their owner as that trio of legumes did me.

I ate the ham.
I ate the biscuit.
I fed the pink marshmallow goo to my cousins' Afghan hound, but the big hairy bastard wouldn’t eat so much as one of the green beans.

Man’s best friend my ass. A few years later that same Afghan sunk its teeth into my hand and I have no doubt the bite was retaliation for my repeated attempts to poke those beans down its throat. Never before, or after, did the pooch show even the slightest sign of aggression.

After a while my mom wandered over to the kids table. “You’re not going to go play with the other kids until you eat those green beans.”

I stared at her.
She stared back.

“Hurry up, Travis,” said my cousin Keith. “So we can go outside and play hide and seek.”

I shot him a look.

“Fine, I’ll eat them for you,” he said.

“Oh no you won’t,” chimed in my mom from across the room. “Earlier she hadn’t been paying a damned bit of attention, but now she was in heat seeking missile mode. Maybe she’d seen the Afghan licking his pink lips and realized I’d do anything to avoid eating the undesirable elements on my plate.

I sat there.
I begged.
I pleaded.
I cried.
I pouted.
And eventually got my way --sort of.

I was forced to go to bed extra early, while my cousins ran and played. But, I didn’t eat those three green beans.

The funeral, wedding or whatever it was had been the day before so the next morning the family loaded up a Winnebago and headed into the snowy mountains. This was the late seventies, so the RV was one of those huge, tin-boxes on wheels. Our clan was headed up near Winter Park to go tubing. We kids sat in the back, staring out the Winnebago’s rear window while making rude gestures at the unlucky motorists behind us. All the way up the mountain pass, my cousins teased me about having to go to bed early ... all because I wouldn’t eat three stupid green beans.

Bean boy.
Sprout.
Jolly Green Crybaby.

I took the taunts of my older cousins with all the grace, dignity, and unassuming gusto as any eight-year-old boy would. By whining, crying and complaining to any adult that would listen. But I didn't find so much as a single sympathetic ear as they all too thought I should've eaten those three green beans. Granny Howery had stayed back in Denver with the other senior set.

Things settled down when we reached out destination and we’d been tubing the better part of the day when it happened.

For those who have never gone tubing let me explain this rather simple activity. You take a inflatable inner tube, flop yourself down on it and slide down the mountain.

The laidback tuber prefers the butt in the hole position, as if they were simply floating along a gentle river, whereas the more daring folk assumed a belly down deployment so as to hurdle down the mountainside head first. Either way, getting from point A, at the top of the hill, to point B, several hundred yards down the hill, was relatively easy. Gravity did all the work.

However, getting from point B, back to Point A, was not nearly as convenient. In those days the process involved laying supine on the tube and holding onto a handle which was attached to a cable which pulled you back up. Sounds rather innocent, but after a long day of fun my eight-year-old arms began to tire.

There I was, getting hauled back to the top for the umpteenth time when I simply gave out and let go.

Gravity took over.

I plunged downward.

Sliding feet-first, I went no more than seven or eight feet before I collided with my mom. In a domino case of cause and effect, my snow boots impacted the side of her head, bringing about the release of her tenuous grip. With two tubers hurling down it wasn't long until a slew of folks were gathered up in an avalanche of flesh and rubber heading the wrong direction. Most happened to be related to me, but there were a few unsuspecting and innocent strangers among the disgruntled and battered bodies at the bottom of the hill.

Some were groaning, a few were cussing and most were trying to assess their various bumps, scrapes and bruises when Keith piped up and said, “Dang, it Travis. You should’ve eaten those three green beans.”

Three decades have passed since then. One for each of those green beans and yet, to this day I am known as the-kid-who-wouldn’t-eat-his-veggies. The family still talks about their minor injuries that day as if they lost limbs and shed copious amounts of blood, but they have never found a empathetic listener in me. For I know, had they fed me Brown Gravy rather than a trio of legumes, they could have easily avoided their lumps.

Super Cells, Bacony Smells, and Horny as Hell

I've had a productive writing week so rather than drone on here I'm going to share a few of the many pictures I've collected recently on my cell phone. All of these shots come from in or around the Texas Panhandle.


Last year was terrible hot and dry but because we've had more of these this year ... 

we actually have some green foliage and wildflowers. 

 Hope that trend continues through the summer but I certainly do not want it to ...

After all the cows need something to eat.

And so do I.

Whether it be beef or pork.

 Used to be these Horny Toads were everywhere but they are kind of a rare site these days. 
 

I wish this picture accurately showed the size of these wind turbines, but it is hard to capture. (At the base of the nearest turbine is a bobtail trailer you might be able to see by clicking on the photograph.)

I would explain this shot but I better not.

 Again, you might have to click to see it, but that is Amarillo's skyline out there on the horizon. Okay, so it's not New York or Chicago, but it is home to me.

I'd just finished mowing the lawn and my hair was sweaty so when I ran my fingers through it this was the result. My 9 year old told me I looked like Wolverine so I struck a pose.

This paperback wouldn't quit frowning at me. 

See ya on down the road my friends.

Good Times

I've put off this post far too long but I wanted to give more of y'all a chance to read THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES before I posted these pics.

I am extremely blessed to have a great wife as well as very good friends. Together they tossed me a party in honor of TFC's release.

Without further adieu I bring you the photographic evidence of a very fun night for me.

I APPRECIATED THE THOUGHT BUT THAT GIANT ASS PICTURE DID STRIKE ME AS FUNERAL-ESQUE

 DON'T KNOW WHY BLOGGER DECIDED TO LOAD THIS SIDEWAYS BUT SEEING AS TO HOW MOST OF THE ATTENDEES FINISHED THE NIGHT SEEING SIDEWAYS PERHAPS IT IS APPROPRIATE. THE EVENT WAS HELD AT BAR Z WINERY JSUT SOUTH OF AMARILLO.

I'M STILL GETTING USED TO THE WHOLE "SIGNING" THING BUT NOT THE PEARL BEER BOTTLE. ALSO NOTE I AM ACTUALLY DRINKING SHINER

IT'S ABOUT HERE THAT SOME OF THE PHOTOS GET FUZZY. AGAIN LIKE MOST OF THE ATTENDEES. THE LIGHTS IN THE HORIZON ARE AMARILLO.

NOTICE THERE IS NOTHING GREEN ON THOSE PLATES.

I FOUND IT QUITE FUNNY THAT PARTICULAR QUOTE WAS BEING WORN BY A DOZEN OR SO WOMEN 

SO HERE THEY ARE. MUCH OF THE GANG THAT HELPED TO INSPIRE THE BOOK. (FROM RIGHT TO LEFT  WITH THE NAME YOU WOULD KNOW THEM AS) - DOYLE, LAURA, JENNIFER, ME, HOUSTON, DALLAS, AND AUSTIN'S STUNT DOUBLE)

 LIZ AND DEE THE POWERS THAT BE AT TAG PUBLISHING AND THERE HUSBANDS WHO I'M CERTAIN WIELD THEIR OWN BRAND OF POWER (when Liz and Dee allow for it)

MONTY, THE OWNER AND PROPRIETOR AT BAR Z. AS YOU CAN SEE, HE TOO LIKES TO SPIN A TALE OR TWO

MY WIFE JENNIFER, LISSA, AND MY SISTER-IN-LAW STEPHANIE.  NO, I DIDN'T BREAK HER ARM BECAUSE SHE REFUSED TO SPORT A PEARL'S SHIRT AND PEARL NECKLANCE IN MY HONOR

ME AND "DOYLE" SURROUNDED BY FAR BETTER LOOKING WOMEN THAN FREQUENTED THE FEEDSTORE. THOUGH THAT EXPRESSION ON LISSA'S FACE IS PURE FEEDSTORE ECSTASY.
 

HERE IS A GANG OF PEOPLE READING IN AN ATTEMPT TO FIGURE OUT WHAT EXACTLY "YOU WANNA HELP ME FEED THE CHICKENS?" MEANS.

ME AND THE FAMED DEBORAH ELLIOTT-UPTON

ME AND MONTY DIXON THE MAN BEHIND BAR Z WINE.