I thought I could use an AI makeover

I like to draw. Mostly cartoonish kind of things. Rocks. Animals. Teachers. 

One day, I drew a cowboy. I thought he'd make a great cartoon figure spooning out home-cooked guru-ish kinds of philosophy. Texas style. Front porch style. Old man looking back and handing out words of advice to people who never asked for it style.

I called him The Texas Hoss.

I used to like posting on Twitter. I had The Texas Hoss posting positive things about Wendy Davis, when she was running for Texas Governor back in...I don't remember the year. I pert near stopped using Twitter after she lost and you-know who bought the place. 

Then HELLO 2026 and a Blue Wave washing over Texas. 

I started posting positive things about Gina Hinojosa and James Talarico and just about anyone who wanted to wash away the scourge from our state and country. But then I started thinking -- it's a new age and people are more leery of bot-like entities on the social media, so maybe it's best to put the cartoon away and start using something more real.

I liked this photo of me (a school photo, by the way), but I didn't want to get rid of The Texas Hoss moniker. So I succumbed to having an AI makeover. 

All I asked for was a cowboy hat, a slicker and some cows in the background. Nothing fancy. And this is how it all came out:

We're living in a strange new world, folks. 

I think I kinda like it.

The Meadow

I once dreamed 

of being a shining city on a hill,

or at least a super highway

cutting through the still

countryside, heading for 

all places exotic or mysterious:

New York, Chicago,

or even LA, I guess.

But it didn’t turn out that way.

I’m no posh hotel with indoor swans,

or an upmarket restaurant that serves

caviar and prawns on fancy dishes,

yet wishes it were some cheap

roadside attraction like the

World’s Largest Frying Pan

or Barnacle Bill the Muffler Man,

or even a corner taco stand.

No, I grew up to be

what was just right for me:

an endless meadow

covered with wildflowers,

keeping watch over the universe

while dancing with the wind.

Not all journeys have to come to an end

It’s been 11 years since I rode a motorcycle around, across and right through the very middle of these United States. The trip lasted for two months during the summer of 2015, and I travelled more than 19,000 miles. I saw all of the Great Lakes, dipped my toes in both oceans, and got eaten alive by mosquitoes in both the upper peninsula of Michigan as well as on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico.

 

The best part of the adventure? Meeting people along the way who made me proud to be a part of the human race. The worst part? Friday, July 31, 2015 — the journey’s end.

I sold that motorcycle several years ago. It was 17 years old with more than 110,000 miles on the odometer, and it was still running fine. I have no doubt it still is. But that journey for me is over. I have no intention of buying a new motorcycle and trying to recreate that Summer of 2015. It’s time for me to move on.

If a musician is someone who performs music for a living, then I’ve never been one. But if a musician is someone who enjoys making music, even if it’s for nobody but themself, then I’ve been a musician for more than 50 years. Guitar, penny whistle, violin, banjo, washtub bass — I’ve tried them all. Well, except for the alphorn and bagpipes. But there’s still time.

I started off playing trombone. It served me well in high school. Got me a scholarship to college. Paved the way to a 37-year teaching career. I performed a little bit on the side. Made a fair amount of cheeseburger money with it. But at some point along the way I wasn’t playing as well as I wanted to. So I packed it up and put it away. Eventually, I sold it to an upcoming musician. I have no doubt he’s still making good use of it. As for me, my time was over. Or so I thought.

After 10 years of not playing the trombone, I bought another one with the hope of rekindling the joy I used to have in playing it. But sadly, it didn’t happen. I might have been better off learning how to play the didjeridoo. Oh well, lesson learned.

Up until the time I joined the U.S. Air Force, I never imagined serving any time in the military at all. But my father had been in the Navy, my uncles had been in the Marines, and my brother had been in the Army. One thing led to another, and I found myself serving for five years as a public affairs specialist, which meant I was a journalist.

As a child growing up in the DFW area, I started writing stories not long after I learned how to read. Poems, adventure, science fiction, song lyrics. None of it really spectacular. No child prodigy here. But I enjoyed it. So it made sense to hop into a writing job with the Air Force when the recruiter said one was available. That was in 1986, and I haven’t stopped writing since.

But it is getting harder. I find myself writing about the same subjects over and over again. Cats, dogs, fruitcakes, finding ways to dodge having to mow the yard. And even though I want to be a better writer, I can’t help but think this journey is coming to an end. But maybe not right now. Not today. Maybe I’ll try a little harder. Give it a bit more thought. Find old dusty roads that I’ve never ridden on before, and relish whatever new music comes my way.

Early Voting Forever in Blue Jeans

I voted for bluebonnets, blue skies and blue seas,

blue whales and bluebirds, and rounds of blue cheese,

blueberries, blue moons and Bluey the dog,

the Blue Power Ranger, all toys analog.

Forever in Blue Jeans with shoes of blue suede,

now happily watching this deep blue parade.

 

Another lazy morning at the auto repair shop

Let me share with you just how much I love spending all day at a mechanic’s garage waiting for my car to be fixed:

To begin with, you might think I’d rather spend the early morning hours gathering up my fishing gear and then heading to the nearest bait shop to pick up a container of the plumpest worms a fish could ever hope to dine upon, but you’d be flatly wrong. I much prefer starting up my car and having the engine fight back as if it were a monster alligator gar intent on devouring my left leg, right up to the hip joint. And those kind of fights – man vs car/gar – are the legends stories are made of.

Sure, I could be puttering around Lake Bob Sandlin in a small flat-bottom fishing boat with a thermos filled with hot coffee, an ice chest close at hand, and a nice breeze to keep away the mosquitoes. But do you know what I’d miss? My sweaty palms holding a death grip on the steering wheel of my sputtering car, with me hoping beyond hope that it will make it to the mechanic’s garage before it passes out from heat exhaustion and the angels usher it along to that big auto junkyard in the sky.

Oh, the sounds of fish jumping for their morning flies, seeing the shy beaver as it makes its way along the shoreline, the turtles climbing up on exposed logs waiting for the sun to rise, or the random crane floating down to a perfect three-point landing can’t compare with the sounds of a perfectly-thorough mechanic pronouncing the much-needed repair for my pert near terminal car 

will cost much more than I have in my checking account.

The repair job will take four hours? Shoot, that’s nothing like having to sit on the lake, willing for something fishy to swim along and take notice of a juicy worm dangling below a bobber while I wait, feasting on a turkey sandwich I made just this morning, and washing it down with something cool to drink. What’s for desert? A piece of homemade apple pie my loving wife baked for me the night before.

“I’m sorry Mr. Farr, but we’re going to have to order the parts we need. It will only take a few more hours. Do you want to wait?” is heaven to my ears compared to turning off the boat’s engine and listening to silence; letting the wind and current take me where it may; and leaning back to peek up at the blue sky and wonder if those passing clouds look more like a family of monarch butterflies looking for a luscious patch of milkweed to snack on, or maybe a family of dragons looking for a luscious mountain village to sack.

And I know I snore. My wife knows it, too. But who would ever complain about it out on the lake? Certainly not the fish. I could float around for hours, oblivious of the world and all its troubles. My boat might even ground itself under a shade tree, giving me hours of peaceful, undisturbed slumber without being punched in the eye and told to roll over. 

But none of that malarkey at a mechanic’s shop. A good mechanic knows how to stop that “sawing of logs” with a sharp jab of the elbow, followed by a handwritten bill that doesn’t quite explain why the repair job now costs 20 percent more than previously stated.

“I might’ve bought a new boat for that amount,” I say, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. The mechanic swipes my debit card and replies, “Lucky for you, now you don’t have to. Sign here, please.”

Cats waiting patiently for breakfast

I was dreaming of maybe getting a new motorcycle, not the first signs of Parkinson's

When I was younger, I never gave a passing thought about what I might have to endure when I grew old. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Cancer. Kidney disease. Nope, not on MY radar. I’m going to die an old man in my bed reading a good book, or a not quite so old man riding a motorcycle down the backroads, never seeing the deer that walked out in front of me.

But my perspective changed one night after I had fallen out of bed.

MESSAGE TO MY WIFE: “Do you remember about a month ago, you heard some kind of sound in the middle of the night which woke you up and it made you curious enough to grab a flashlight and aim it at the bathroom door, trying to see which cat was playing hockey in the bathtub? Well, I was awake. I had just fallen out of bed. I had gotten back in bed by the time you turned on the flashlight, and I pretended to be asleep because I was embarrassed.”

I had been having a dream. I was sitting on stage with a bunch of students. I don’t know why we were there, but a student beside me started playing around on the floor. I reached out my left foot to hopefully nudge him back to his chair — and the fall woke me up. I wasn’t hurt. Just shocked.

The next morning, I started an "acting out my dreams" journal.

• I reached out during a dream to swat at something (can’t remember what), and I hit my bedside table. It woke me up.
• I dreamed I nodded my head answering a question, and woke up nodding my head.
• I dreamed some kind of animal was charging me. I waved my hands and yelled to scare it away. I woke up yelling out (more of a grunt, really)
• I dreamed I was pointing my hand at someone and woke up pointing my hand.
• I woke up swatting at a giant dream spider that was walking across my bed.

All of this led me to start asking questions about acting out your dreams instead of your body being immobilized, like it should be. The deep dive into the subject wasn’t reassuring. 

What I found out is that I MAY have an REM sleep behavior disorder (RBD) which can be one of the first symptoms of Parkinson’s, occurring years before a diagnosis.” I got that info from the Michael J. Fox Foundation website. Even worse is that “RBD may be associated with other neurological conditions, such as Dementia with Lewy Bodies.” I got that from the Mayo Clinic.

(Dementia with Lewy Bodies is what caused Robin Williams to…well, you know.)

MESSAGE TO MY WIFE: “I don’t want you to be worried about it, I’m worried enough for the both of us, but I want you to know that I think I’m following the right procedures by keeping a dream journal, and I have a doctor’s appointment scheduled for November. 

“No, I don’t have any tremors or limb stiffness or trouble with balance. I’m not hallucinating, don’t have delusions, anxiety or depression. But I am thinking about buying that motorcycle. Best to buy it now while I’m not all shaky-shaky, and get some good riding in before I am.”

So. That’s my story. I imagine I’ll have to go in for a sleep study, and I’m hoping they’ll find everything hunky-dory and that I more than likely drink too much coffee. Either way, I’m eyeing a 2026 Kawasaki W-800, or a Triumph Bonneville T-120. I just can’t make up my mind — which is perfectly normal for me.

Thirty days hath September

Nobody Wants to Listen to Someone With a Weird Idea

I try not to talk unless I’m asked a question. Even then, I try to stick with parroting back what has been said.

“Good morning.”

Good morning.

“Seems to be a little chilly this morning.”

Absolutely chilly.

“The newspaper says Artificial Intelligence will one day destroy the world.”

AI will do that to ya.

“Are you going to the store before that happens? We’re all out of avocados.”

Yep. Going to the store. Avocados.

There really isn’t any need for me to say things like “Nope, lousy morning. Can’t we turn up the heat a bit? Yes, I’ll go, but I’m starting to feel uncomfortable thinking about having to make my way through crowds of angry shoppers looking for the perfect AI-generated avocado. I think maybe we’ll eat toast today. If we have any bread.”

Nobody wants to listen to a complainer. Or someone with a weird idea. Or someone who feels the need to recall a dream they had the night before:

ME: I pulled up to a gas station, stepped out of my car, and noticed a tote bag sitting on top of the trunk. It wasn’t mine. I had no idea where it came from. So I went inside the gas station to tell the attendant, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Kept singing along with a song that was playing on the radio. So I went outside to talk to the mechanics, but they ignored me because they were singing along with the SAME song on THEIR radio. That’s when I noticed my car was stolen. So I went into the sheriff’s office (which so happened to be attached to the gas station), and he wouldn’t give me the time of day because HE was singing along with the SAME song on HIS radio. What do you think that means?

THEM: You know, I had a dream the other night that I was on a boat and…

Nope. Didn’t even listen. Started thinking about THEIR dream, not giving MY dream the time of day. So I try not to tell people my dreams anymore. And when they tell me THEIRS, I say stuff like, “Oh really? Yep, that’s a weird dream.” Unless it’s funny, then I say, “Oh really? Yep, that’s a funny dream.”

I will admit there are times when I’m not a good listener myself (ME: Did you just say you bought a terrifying Komodo Dragon? THEM: Nope. I was wondering how long this terrible traffic jam was going to drag on), but it’s possible I may be getting hard of hearing.

Communication. Verbal communicating. I’m starting to think I should stop talking altogether. Nod my head every now and then. Shoo my hand for go away. High-pitched grunts to represent understanding. Low-pitched grunts for “you need to leave me alone.”

In the TV show “Pluribus,” Earth is taken over by aliens who turn the humans into a peaceful and contented “hive mind” race. Everybody knows everybody else’s thoughts, dreams, and skill sets. No real need for talking. Need to fly a commercial jet to Munich but you’re a post office worker in El Paso? No problem. Robby in Cincinnati flies 747s. Just hack into his mind and away you go.

Although, I bet it would be kinda awkward when you have the memories of your parents as they are creating a little you. I know I wouldn’t want to see that.

The flip side would be if that alien invasion had been by creatures with a hive mind which assimilated everybody into a hostile and aggressive collective like the Borg from “Star Trek.” See the planet, assimilate the planet, resistance is futile, everybody back to their cubicles, and off we pop to the next inhabited solar system. Yeehaw!

The Borg costume is very iconic, but would you really be okay with having your left hand amputated and replaced with a DeWalt Atomic 20V Max cordless angle grinder? Hmmmm. Now that I’m thinking about it….

I wonder if birds ever get tired of hearing other birds tweeting away, nonstop? For fish, is screaming just a matter of letting out a lot more bubbles? I’ve never heard a peep out of a deer. I’m guessing they’re telepathic. Do you think the trees took a vow of silence at the rising of humankind out of Africa?

I’d ask someone, but that comes under the heading of “Nobody Wants to Listen to Someone With a Weird Idea.” So I guess I’ll be like a tree and keep it all to myself. 

 

It doesn't take much to surprise a Kiwi

Last Tuesday, I was making what I considered a darn good fruit salad filled with papaya, pineapple, mango, and watermelon, when I sliced through a Kiwi who was more surprised to see ME than I HER. 

I felt like I had just accidentally walked into a women's bathroom. 

I covered my eyes, apologized, then slowly backed myself out of the situation. But really, can you ever UN-see a surprised Kiwi? I know I can't.