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MaybeACoordinator

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  1. Graveside ceremony is today. There would be drama if any of were going, but we are not, and not out of disrespect for our matriarch....Just reasons. I think there will be three people plus the priest, unless one of "those bitches" cheats on the no grandkids rule.
  2. My writings on social media have attracted some long-lost cousins. The BMT wing remarried into Cajuns so these two sisters have extremely coonass names. (The Eve on our line was another coonass). Anyway it was so cool to find these long lost cousins. One of them is a yoga instructor up in Long Island, another is an attorney who used to work for JIM ADLER THE TEXAS HAMMER, and a third was yet another Sabine River pilot (and an in-law)....Only it turns out, as I learned over the course of the day, after I'd friended him, and he volunteered to send me a box of Sabine River Pilots' Association swag, that he routinely cheated on and/or beat the stuffing out of Texas Hammer cousin...So I quickly blocked his sorry ass and probably won't be getting my swag, lol. There seems to have been a feud between these branches of our family dating back to about 1940...One of that branch was mayor of Beaumont and I NEVER heard about him in spite of the fact that my grandmother and her aunt loved to tout their illustrious relatives...But not a word about this mayor. So I told new Cousin Co about all this and she just said that's the way we are now and have always been. Lifelong grudges and neverending feuds.
  3. Wayyyyy before HS, like kindergarten, these two sisters and me were in my mom's bedroom jumping on the bed. One of the girls had the idea to unbutton our pants while we jumped, and in the course of time, gravity did its work. And then we took off our underwear too, and then my mom and their mom came in and there we were, jumping on the bed with nothing covering our "wedding tackle" (as the Brits say). My mom was a hippie / hellion and thought it was hilarious. I later had a real threesome with two strippers I knew and wound up with crabs. Mama found that hilarious too.
  4. Kind of a dick move on my part (or was it?) but I refused to chip in to the price of the ticket because: 1. I had no money. 2. None of those other dudes could conceivably have kicked my ass 3. And most importantly, and as I said at the time, it was the principle of the thing: driver dude needed to suck it up, tell his parents we had beer in Galveston (shocker!), and have them fight the ticket, so that TABC would think twice before pulling that kind of bullshit again
  5. Meet the kid who would grow up to become Captain Howard (X), my grandmother's dad. He's about 16 in this pic -- he lied about his age to join the Navy in time for World War I. (In World War 2, he commanded a minesweeper that hit one off Anzio and sank. He survived along with most of the crew.) Anyway, also around this time, probably with his navy money, he hit up a whorehouse near the port of Beaumont and tapped some ass. He liked one of them so much, he hauled her up into the Big Thicket and married her. Some town up there -- I think Kountze -- was notorious at the time for giving marriage licenses to anyone with the cash. Their domestic bliss was short-lived. His parents extracted him from the whore's clutches and had the marriage annulled and he went off to war. He was from a fourth-gen sailor and from Sabine Pass, a town so sorry (after numerous hurricanes) it's been annexed by Port Arthur. I think he's worthy of Surly Hero status. @NeverMarryAStripper might agree.
  6. I never got to meet my grandfather's drunk brother, the father of the Bogata Girls and the grandfather (through his first wife) of two hot sisters. If only it had been one of them at Aunt Li's wedding instead of Cousinish J....dang. Anyway, my grandmother put the kibosh on visits to "Uncle" (as. we called him) forevermore after this incident: Some time in the late 60s, my grandparents and all their kids were visiting him as he was on his deep, dark death spiral. The kids were all runnnig around the house while the adults were in the living room, Uncle, as ever, nipping on an ice tea tumbler full of whiskey. So the story goes, a rat was bold enough to come in the room while they were all in there. My grandmother screamed. Uncle shrugged, leaned over to a little table next to his easy chair, opened a drawer, and pulled out a 22 pistol. CRACK. No more rat. Those WWII vets did not play. He thought it was hilarious, but my grandmother did not, not with all her kids running around. And so Uncle was persona au gratin* forevermore. *Yes, I know it's "non grata."
  7. A mild bust, the story told just to say fuck the motherfucking TABC forever.... Also in Galveston, I think during Dickens on the Strand. There were about four of us in this dude's Bronco and we pulled up to a Circle K on the Seawall and bought potato chips and other junk food, and these two plainclothes assholes then demanded to search the Bronco. They claimed the junk food gave them probable cause, I guess as some kind of beer accessory or something. We did have the remnants of a six-pack aboard, so the driver was ticketed for MIP. End of story, but I will say it again: Fuck the TABC forever. They should have been sundowned years ago.
  8. Maybe he is on Pete Townshend's research team.
  9. Saltwater version: Spring Break way out west beach in Galveston. The beach was packed. For some weird reason, probably just laziness, I decided to go piss between the dunes and some rando's car (instead of in the fucking ocean) when this fat Galveston cop -- the notorious Beach Patrol -- rolls up in a golf cart. He totally fabricated a case against me on the spot -- "I saw you urinating on this vehicle," he said, in spite of the fact that there was not a drop of piss on that car. So he asked for my license and whipped out his ticket pad when some idiot came tearing down the beach, spinning out in every direction. The cop sees that and puts away his ticket pad. "Wait right here, son," he says, and goes off to pursue the car. Um, yeah, officer, I'll get right on that. I tore off into the water and swam out to about the third sandbar and waited for the coast to clear, literally..
  10. Almost certainly so! What year and where did you graduate from? At the same HS party spot -- Shotgun, a road through a field near the as-yet-unfinished Beltway 8 -- we were occasionally hunted for sport by the rednecks then endemic at Sharpstown HS. They would descend on us like a fucking Mongol horde, beat the shit out of us, and then split. They were all roided out and we were always outnumbered. (I think one of them was Barrett Robbins, the future Oakland Raider who infamously flaked on the fucking Super Bowl.) One time that happened to Tony and Steve and a few of my other friends. I arrived a few minutes after it was all over. They were gone but the Sharpstown Horde was still there, and the encircled me. Discretion was the better part of valor -- I told them I was already a freshman at UT and for some reason that defused the situation and I was able to get out unscathed. Tony was of Sicilian heritage. And this unfair fight did not sit well with him. And he recognized one of the dudes in the party who kicked his ass. A few days later he and a buddy went to that dude's house and lay in wait. When the kid came home with his GF, Tony then proceeded to beat the shit out of him in front of his girlfriend while his buddy laughed and took pictures. (Which was very very rare in those days.) @Brisketexan knows this guy; he can tell his story if he wants. It's a good 'un. Another time we were at , our late friend Sam decided to down a flaming shot of 151 which of course set his whole face on fire. I smacked him around, calling him a dumbshit and putting out the fire at the same time. Come Monday at school he had obvious burn wounds on his face and the late Brother Casey, the legendary campus cop (a former soldier in the Tampa mob), asked him what the fuck happened. Sam said the Sharpstown assholes tossed a Molotov cocktail at him. I am pretty sure there was an inter-school investigation which of course went nowhere because at least this time they had nothing to do with it.
  11. I know of one exception: OPP -- Orleans Parish Prison. I've got a coonass friend who did time there and later in Texas lockups and prison, and he said OPP was just off the charts horrible. From the warden on down it's got a culture of downright sadism, he said. (He's a druggy and not a chomo so it wasn't directed at him because of what he did.) He did have some actual pleasant memories of his time in Texas prisons.
  12. One reason I believe ol' cumface Cousin Sh might have been lying about whose cum was on her face: one time when were all at Mass she let rip a tremendous fart and when everyone turned around, she pointed right straight at the very same Aunt Li who years later was fool enough to take her in post-carnie interlude. Like I said, Aunt Li is loyal to a fault, especially regarding family.
  13. I had another cousin whose name was Zachary Zachary. Your read that right. (He died young, and I think changed one of his names.) Anyway, he stayed with is for about a week one summer about 1981 at the same time the Bogata girls were in town. He was from Brownsville and had really good taste in music. He was way into the B-52s years before it was cool. He also was kind of a stoner. And he'd call back down to the Valley often, and we'd listen in. (Rotary phones -- you removed the mouthpiece so the other party couldn't hear you were tapping their calls) He never knew he had an audience of about eight of us in another part of the house as he told his party-hearty buds he couldn't get along with us because we were too much "the executive type." (None of us was older than about 18 at the time.) Nevertheless, we were the "executive type." And he went on to spin a tale about how he'd walked down to the nearest U-Tote-M and scored some psychedelics. "Y'all know what I mean," he told his Brownsville buddy. "Ell. Ess. Dee. Acid, man." We were in stitches, listening in, and all of poor Zachary Zachary's private moments became inside jokes we told for decades, and, in fact still do. To this day, "the executive type" and "ell. ess. dee." can make us laugh.
  14. RD, I think you'll like this: the founders of Bogata intended to name it after Bogota, Colombia, but missed the mark with the spelling. And the locals pronounce it B'goda.
  15. Oh and out that bunch, Cousin R is yet another lesbian in the family. At one time I wouldn't have minded getting between Cousin P and Cousinish J though.
  16. I haven't even told the story about how my grandmother's grandfather and great-uncle roped a dying sperm by the fluke, dragged it into Port Arthur behind their tugboat, and put it on exhibition. "COME SEE THE PORT ARTHUR LEVIATHAN". Special trains were put on all the way to Tennessee. They made a fortune at a quarter a pop. Nature took its course and the whale died, and then turned. The stench was unbearable so the show closed, but the uncles had a new plan -- they called in a taxidermist from Houston. They then planned to take the stuffed whale all through America via the river system. The tour was a massive flop and they lost all the money they'd made from the exhibit and the sale of whale oil. Reminds me of a John Prine song ("Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone"): Sabu was sad, the whole tour stunk The airlines lost the elephant's trunk The roadie got the rabies and the scabies and the flu They was low on morale, but they was high on glue To cut their losses, they sold what was left of the Port Arthur Leviathan to a carnival in Memphis. The operator kept only the head, which was repurposed as an ice cream parlor. Then the whole carnival was swept away in a fire. But I think our family still has the record for biggest "fish" in Gulf of Mexico history. Sucker was 60-80 tons. I heard that story from my grandmother as a small child and years later thought I'd dreamed the whole thing, or that she'd just made it up, but you can read all about it. Yes on that excursion that song was played more than once.
  17. The passing of my grandmother is dredging up all these memories.... So here is the most epic bust of my HS years. Background: Sharpstown/Alief, Houston, 1985. I was a freshman at Strake. Cast of characters Tony: A year ahead of us, he had a license and access to an old station wagon. Steve: My best buddy at the time and to some extent to this day. We bonded in football practice when, after I blindsided him on a kickoff play, instead of pussing out, he said "Wow, man, I can really see stars!" Clearly this was a dude worthy of respect. And we both loved the Beatles. Joe and John: Junior high buddies of Steve. Joe attended a now-defunct Catholic HS that was full of stoners; John got a football scholarship to Kinkaid. By the time this event took place, they'd both been busted by their parents for weed and maybe also for burglary? I can't quite remember when they got popped for the burglary. And so, the story: The plan was we'd pile into Tony's stay-wag and head down to Galveston for the weekend. We acquired three cases of beer and a half ounce of ditch weed. We arranged for some girls to slip out of their window (slumber party) after midnight knowing they had to be back home by around 7 the next morning. While we were waiting for midnight to roll around, we went to our HS party spot and got into the weed and beer. I think it might have been the most stoned I'd ever been up to that point, and then here comes the po-pos. They threw on that bright white light and I remember thinking the cop car looked 25 feet tall. My legs were shaking while they were interrogating us -- classic good cop / bad cop routine. Tall older Mexican cop was the cool one, redneck runt partner was the dick. "Where's y'all's dope? I smell me some dope!" he said. He didn't look very hard, as our sack was carelessly concealed under a t-shirt on the back seat. Mexican cop found the beer...And then called us to huddle up and told us to get the fuck down to Galveston. Just don't let him catch us again on that patrol. HOLY SHIT. He didn't even make us pour out the beer. So we mostly followed his orders but we had to get the girls first. We did and we all made it down to Galveston. I don't remember much about that night. I do know that I did not get laid or even make out with any of the girls. I also know that Steve did not either. I don't think anybody did. Anyway, Tony piles them in then the stay-wag and takes them back to Houston, and then, the idiot goes to his own house to take a fucking shower. While he was in there, his mom went out to the car and found a roach or two and a few empties, so she orders him back to Galveston with instructions to pick us all up and bring us to her house. That was a long-ass fucking trip back to Houston. Because they were already known stoners, the rest of us agreed that Joe and John would take the rap for the weed. By "us", I mean all of us who were not Joe and John. Back in Sharpstown, Tony's mom forced us to call our own parental units in front of her and confess all. Joe and John had the bright idea of dialing some random number and faking the whole thing and Tony's mom pretended to have been fooled. After we all left she called their parents for real and added that to their stack of charges. What a fiasco. I'd had dreams of losing my virginity on the beach. We escaped the cops. And then we wound up destroyed by a mom.
  18. About 15 years ago, a gas well finally came in on our family property in the Piney Woods and my grandmother was independently wealthy for the first time in her life. She went out and bought herself a Mini Cooper -- her dream car. Meanwhile she was running this sewing circle of Beaumont ladies of her age who lived in her nursing home. One of these ladies slighted that Mini Cooper and my grandmother blackballed her from the sewing circle. A couple of years later I went on a pub crawl in Houston with an old HS friend of mine and some dudes he knew. Somehow that story came up while we were in my old friend's car between bars, and the dude riding shotgun, who I just met that night, said "Yeah, that was my grandmother your grandmother blackballed." Before all of that, I had been concerned that she wasn't making a whole lot of friends at that home, and I was worried that she was being picked on, like Paulie Walnuts' mom/aunt in the Sopranos. Aunt C, the responsible daughter, assured me that she was far more like Livia Soprano in there,
  19. Forgive me y'all, I've neglected the rules. My grandmother on her wedding night.
  20. Now, the cousins from Uncles first marriage, wow. To this day....
  21. It fell to me to call the Bogata girls today...Who are the Bogata girls? Our cousins from that little town in NE Texas near Paris. Three of them are the progeny of my grandfather's drunken brother's third and last marriage. Right out of UT he snared one of the richest women in Texas, had three kids with her, drank his way out of that marriage, briefly married a chick he met in AA, and then met the mother of the Bogata girls and started over. She was a few years younger. She was a Highland Park and UT grad and a PiPhi and pretty hot. "Uncle" (as we knew him) had charisma. Somehow they wound up back in her mom's hometown of Bogata and he begat my Cousins R, P and S. And then their mom kicked him to the curb and she had cousinish J with the pot farming kingpin of Red River County. All four of them would come down to Houston every now and then and they were like mirror images of us albeit with incredibly country accents. The three cousins all had an age-corresponding sister-aunt of mine, and Cousinish J was mine. Fast-forward from childhood to college years. They all came down for my sister-aunt Li's wedding. And Cousinish J and I were reunited, and, well... We fucked in at least three rooms in my grandparents' house post-reception. (I was on a hillbilly roll at the time -- I'd just had a wild fling with a second cousin on my other side of the family at a reunion mere weeks before.) Fast forward again about 20 years....I went up to go visit the Bogata Girls. I was leaving the big house up there and Cousinish J came running after my car saying she was homeless for the night. So I agreed to take her to Paris and get her a room in the same motel where I was staying. Off to Paris we went. I got her into her room. Then a thunderstorm blew in. There was a tap-tap at my door. Yep, Cousinish J. Y'all, life had not treated her well between that wedding and that night in Paris. She'd been rode hard and put away soaking-ass wet. But she insisted that she sleep in my bed with me and I let her. When I politely declined to give her the peen (I was also happily married at the time) she reminded me of Aunt Li's wedding night, and I told her "That was then and this is now, Cousinish J" Along the way she let me know she was a Stevie Nicks fanatic, and so I've always taught my son, never get deeply involved with a chick named Rhiannon. (Because her mom is likely just like Cousinish J).
  22. Spoke to my Sisters L and P today. Sister P is the bi one and kind of eccentric. She lives on a farm in rural Washington but was raised in Tennessee, partially in foster care after our mom died and her dad joined a cult. (The International Church of Christ). Speaking of cults, she told me she accidentally started two on her own: one in Appalachia (Knoxville area) and the other in Washington. She said she only intended to found these old-school hippyish mom groups and they quickly turned into insane Q-Anon prototypes....She'd walk away then, but I get the impression she's the type who starts a bar fight and emerges unscathed and without throwing a punch herself. Unlike our mom, who would finish what she started. She was a holy terror and loved to whoop ass on other women. Sister P thinks she'd been molested by nuns and later took it out on whoever crossed her. Speaking of mama's bisexuality, I didn't hear about it until about 2010, 12 years after she died. All my sibs knew but I did not, somehow, though I am the oldest. She did walk out on me from age 8 to 19 so there was a knowledge gap there. (These are half-sibs). Anyway, I was kind of adjusting to this new conception of mama and my little brother tried to comfort me. "Don't worry MaC, mama loved the peen."
  23. She was a product of her times. I got busted smoking pot in HS (by parents not cops, though it was close -- long story) and she summoned me to her bedside for a chewing-out. She was up there on her throne, one of our dogs by her side, her knitting in her lap, and she said "When I was your age the only people who messed with that stuff were Mexicans and jazzmen." She loved Mexicans -- in college she tried really hard to land a San Antonio Canarian-descended aristocrat, any San Antonio Canarian-descended aristocrat, but she couldn't quite win one over. In an epic case of sour grapes, she told me they were the most arrogant people in Texas. For his part my grandfather would bristle whenever she would talk about them, or the Cubans she fancied during her one year at LSU -- back in those days Beaumont girls went there as often as UT because it was more convenient. And well-off Cubans sent their sons to Baton Rouge to study sugar science -- it was the aggy of that particular crop for the whole Caribbean basin at the time. She attended bilingual mariachi mass at St Joseph's in Houston off and on for 50 years....But I guess she was just speaking her truth there.
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