Cagle World

Since the chaos of election season has ended, and we’ve stopped receiving daily text messages asking us to contribute a few dollars to our favorite candidate’s legal expense fund or celebrity endorsement financing plan, we can turn our attention to more important matters, like gravy.

Seriously, though, I’ve read several articles recently warning that Americans should avoid discussing political topics during holiday gatherings in order to avoid conflict, hurt feelings and damaged sheetrock. The problem is that arguing is a cherished pastime in some families, and a full-contact sport in others.

To keep the tradition of passionate family debating alive, below are a few controversial topics that should keep holiday gatherings lively without inciting fisticuffs or sacrificing the structural integrity of dining rooms.

First, and speaking of gravy, there is the age-old question of whether gravy should or should not include giblets. “What are giblets?” you may ask. No one really knows, but it’s a funny word to say, and it’s probably best not to ask too many questions. Apparently, turkeys and chickens grow their giblets inside a small plastic pouch that can only be retrieved by giving the bird a thorough cavity search (preferably once the bird is deceased). This procedure should only be performed by a trained professional who is sworn to secrecy regarding the precise identity of the giblets­–in order to protect the privacy of the poultry.

Next is the contentious issue of cranberry sauce. The question usually comes down to berries or no berries. In other words, should the cranberry sauce come out of the can looking like a murder scene or a giant earthworm segment? I suppose there are skilled artisans in remote areas of the northern tundra who don’t have enough to do, so they make their own cranberry sauce. I don’t know how it’s done, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve a cavity search.

I realize I’ve already mentioned this too many times for most family publications, but speaking of cavity searches, there is the important debate about dressing or stuffing. My family has always enjoyed dressing with our holiday meals, and I usually ingest enough of it to sicken a large standard donkey. I’ve never really understood why it’s called “dressing,” although I do love it enough to wear a feed bag full of it in public – on a date with my wife, even. As for stuffing, the name makes perfect sense. (See cavity searches.) And since you’re in there, anyway, spelunking for the giblet bag, I suppose you might as well cram that space full of something delicious that you can extract after cooking – hopefully hidden from the innocent gaze of the kids’ table.

Although there are plenty of other topics to debate during family holiday gatherings, like whether to top your pie with aerosol whipped cream or spray the entire can directly into your mouth, the aforementioned issues should get you off to a good start. And if these aren’t enough, you can always argue over who gets to do the poultry cavity search.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Now that Halloween is over and I’ve almost polished off that jumbo bag of snack-size Almond Joy bars that I “forgot” to distribute to trick-or-treaters, it’s time to start thinking about Thanksgiving.

And speaking of gorging on holiday fare, Thanksgiving is an occasion when Americans express our deep appreciation for our country’s blessings by eating most of them.

In preparation for this event, I like to adorn the house with a few decorations that remind my family of the historical significance of our celebration.

I start the Thanksgiving décor process by turning our large, ceramic Halloween jack-o’-lantern around backward because I’ve been assured by several Thanksgiving picture books I used to read to my three semi-grown daughters that pumpkins were present at the first Thanksgiving. I assume the Pilgrims and Native Americans used the pumpkins strictly for table decorations since Cool Whip hadn’t been invented yet.

Next, I make the death-defying climb into our attic to fetch a Rubbermaid tub containing the Thanksgiving décor that has been fermenting up there all year. And since temperatures in East Texas are often still summer-like when November begins, being in the attic gives me a taste of what it must be like for the turkey, once that weird giblet bag of innards and other horrors has been removed, and the bird is sweating profusely in the oven.

Speaking of turkeys, our décor includes several replicas of this iconic fowl in all sizes, shapes and functions. We have turkey salt and pepper shakers, turkey candle holders, and a turkey teapot, all depicting the male bird in his full plumage – like a teenage boy with a freshly-groomed mullet. I’ve always found it odd that most Thanksgiving displays are centered around a turkey in its “wild” unbasted form since most of us only appreciate it covered in gravy. If we’re being honest, our décor should actually include a fully-nude Butterball reclining seductively in a roasting pan.

Next are probably the most problematic decorative items in our Thanksgiving display – our Pilgrim and Native American figurines. I realize there is intense debate about the true nature of the “first Thanksgiving.” I also realize that the Pilgrim men weren’t really wearing all black with buckles on everything except their boxer briefs. And, no, the Native Americans probably weren’t smiling in eager anticipation of their next helping of Grandma Pilgrim’s deviled eggs. Despite the shameless anachronisms, I still think it’s important to honor the people who made Thanksgiving Day (and leftovers for the foreseeable future) possible for all of us.

I remember the third grade in the 1970s around Thanksgiving time studying a unit on Native Americans–when I wasn’t flirting with the girl who sat in front of me by cleverly offering to let her play with one of my extra Star Wars Stormtrooper action figures. As part of this unit, we were to design an authentic Native American tunic out of a paper grocery bag, and our teacher assigned each of us an official Native American nickname. My name was “Thunderbird,” and I couldn’t determine whether the moniker came from the fact that I talked too much in class or because of the noises I made after lunch.

Anyway, putting out these Thanksgiving decorations gets me in a festive holiday mood. They bring back fond memories of my childhood and especially that of my daughters–back in the good old days when they didn’t know what a credit card was and they all asked for pumpkin pie with extra Cool Whip, minus the pumpkin pie.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

I recently listened to actor Stanley Tucci being interviewed about getting older, and he shared some words of wisdom. (No, he didn’t suggest that older people should spend more time grooming their ear and nose hair – even though we should.) He said that we shouldn’t let aging consume us because there is so much for us to see and do. Or, in my case, there is so much more Tex-Mex to eat.

Now that I’m roughly the same age as the Hamburger Helper family of dried carbohydrate food products, I’m trying my best to follow Mr. Tucci’s advice, but my quickly crumbling carcass isn’t making it easy to remain philosophical.

I feel like one of those Halloween pumpkins someone left out on their porch until Valentine’s Day. It still generally looks like a pumpkin on the outside, but Heaven forbid that someone removes the lid to see what’s really going on in there.

Just the other day, I came in from mowing the yard (tragic, I know), and my wife exclaimed, “What happened to your arm?!”

As far as I knew, nothing happened to my arm, other than I was forced to use it in the unthinkable act of mowing my own yard. But when I glanced down, I noticed that my bleeding forearm looked like I had been hired to give each of our local feral cats a pill.

Apparently, I have developed what a slightly more elderly friend of mine calls “old man skin.” This is when your skin, especially on your forearms and shins, takes on the resilience of gift bag tissue – and not even the kind with sparkles. This means that if you go outside in a stiff breeze, you may wind up in a trauma center – or at least with some unearned sympathy and pampering from your wife, depending on your level of whining.

I also recently had a scare involving my prostate gland, which is a mysterious organ all men possess that is located somewhere between the belly button and the left kneecap. The prostate gland is usually unnoticeable until a man reaches the age when he looks even more ridiculous with a ball cap on backward and his fashion sense tells him that socks go perfectly well with sandals.

The purpose of the prostate gland, other than to have a funny-sounding name, is to teach men to navigate their way in the dark on the way to the bathroom at night without stepping on a pet or damaging their old man skin. Since I had been doing pretty well with this task, other than the stepping-on-a-pet part, I wasn’t worried.

Unfortunately, after my annual physical exam, my doctor informed me that, in addition to giving his staff a good laugh, my exam revealed that my prostate gland might be in trouble and that I needed more tests involving uncomfortable situations with strangers wearing scrubs.

Thankfully, the test results revealed that the only thing wrong with my prostate gland is that it is roughly the size of Saturn’s smallest moon, which, my doctor assured me, is relatively normal for men of my age and back-hair thickness. My doctor said we would monitor the prostate gland for now – I guess to ensure that it remains in its current orbit.

In the meantime, I’ll try to stay as healthy and fit as possible. I’m not ready for nature to take its obstacle course with my vintage anatomy just yet. There is too much yard-mowing to do, too many pets to step on in the dark, and too many good things to eat – and I don’t mean Hamburger Helper.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

This year, my eldest and most expensive daughter embarked on her senior year at Texas A&M University – and my wife and I embarked on another year of wondering whether or not credit cards can actually implode from overuse.

Having a senior Aggie daughter has made me wistful about my own time at this storied university, when I, too, did my best to ensure that my parents couldn’t retire until they reached their late hundreds.

My love for all things Aggie began at a Texas A&M football game when my wife and I were still dating and visiting my big brother, who was already a student there. It was then that I was introduced to Texas A&M’s greatest tradition – that when the Texas A&M football team scores, so do you–with a kiss from your date  –on the lips even. (Never sit beside someone’s emotional-support schnauzer, by the way.)

Luckily for me, Texas A&M defeated the SMU Mustangs 63-14 that day, and I spent the next week overdosing on Chapstick.

Unlike most college students, my wife and I entered Texas A&M as a married couple. After two years of dating, while we were attending community college, I figured I had better seal the deal before she figured me out or met some university stud with actual muscles.

Our parents agreed to help us with tuition and living expenses as long as we promised to live within our means, which meant that we ate Kraft macaroni and cheese by the cargo container, and I had to limit my intake of restaurant Tex-Mex to twice a week.

Speaking of Tex-Mex, one of my first classes at Texas A&M was Spanish, which I felt pretty confident about due to my vast experience identifying menu items by name. I knew I was in trouble, though, when I was writing my name, “Jase Graves,” on the sign-in sheet. I noticed that most of the names already on the sheet were of Spanish origin, and most students seated around me were fluently “habla-ing” the “Español” with one another. My confidence evaporated further when the professor announced that the first day would be the last time she would speak any English in class. The death knell came when she called roll with our sign-in sheet and pronounced my name, “José Gravez.” Although I dropped the class, I still go by that name when I’m eating chips and salsa.

Another interesting class I took and actually managed to finish was Speech Communication Theory. (Yes, this was an actual college course that my parents paid actual money for.) Also attending this class was an Aggie Corps member, the Texas A&M mascot corporal, who was always accompanied by our mascot, a collie named Reveille V. Tradition has it that if Reveille barks during class, the students are to be immediately dismissed. Despite our best efforts with dog whistles and fervent prayers to the spirits of all annoying yapping dogs, Reveille remained perfectly silent and still all semester long – except for occasionally licking herself.

I can’t say the same for the enormous Texas A&M football defensive lineman who sat directly behind me. He never licked himself as far as I know, but his heavy breathing sounded like that of a hangry grizzly bear, and he regularly asked me if he could borrow my notes. Since he could have killed me using only his earlobes, I kindly obliged. (Heck, I sort of considered myself part of the football team at that point.)

My days at Texas A&M were some of the most challenging, but greatest times of my life. And soon, my wife and I hope to be celebrating with another Aggie graduate in the family. We’ll probably all go out for a big Tex-Mex dinner, so if you see me, just call me José Gravez.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

In the current economy, when a visit to the grocery store requires a long-term financing plan, it has become clear that our family must find ways to spend less. This is especially challenging for us considering that we have two daughters in college, one daughter in private school, and three pets, all of whom seem determined to ensure that we won’t be able to purchase hamburger meat without selling our plasma.

Our first step toward financial freedom, or at least parole, involved canceling our lawn service. Tragic, I know! This meant I had to exhume my vintage Craftsman push lawnmower that had been comfortably decomposing in our storage shed for the past three years, or so.

After replacing a spark plug, adding some oil of unknown origin, and praying for the souls of Briggs and Stratton, I had exhausted my vast knowledge of troubleshooting small combustion engines. So, I resorted to seeking help and risking ridicule from my mechanically inclined cousin. Unfortunately for me, he soon had me back to inhaling hydrocarbons, sweating profusely, and wishing for the good old days when I could compliment my lawn guy and go back inside to take another hit of aerosol whipped cream.

I had also forgotten about the toll mowing takes on my post-middle-aged carcass. When I finished the yard for the first time in a while, I felt like I had participated in an aggressive one-on-one match against U.S. Woman’s Rugby Olympian Ilona Maher . . . and lost . . . badly. The next day, I could barely move – except to go to church in hopes that the sermon would focus on those verses about someday getting a new, glorified body that doesn’t require a steady regimen of Tylenol and lying prone on our bedroom floor whining, instead of doing the lumbar stretches my doctor prescribed.

The cancellation of our weekly swimming pool service compounded my budgetary heartbreak. Gone were the Fridays when I could come home to crystal-clear pool water and a door hanger indicating that the pool had been brushed, vacuumed and tested by technicians who could do it without complaining to their wives that no one ever swims in the pool anymore – except for the occasional bullfrog, possum, or hyperactive (and not terribly bright) pet doglet accidentally falling in while trying to chase our antique Polaris pool sweeper.

I do admit that, nowadays, I sometimes strip down to take a brief dip in the pool after mowing, and I may or may not risk traumatizing the neighbors and being arrested by doing so in my underwear.

Our final act of supreme sacrifice was to cancel most of our TV and movie streaming services. This has probably been the easiest adjustment for me since I rarely had time to watch anything other than cable news networks, none of whom tell the whole story, so I had to watch all of them in order to get my blood pressure elevated properly. I do miss the nerve-induced nausea I experienced watching my beloved Texas A&M Aggies play football on TV, but I can almost get the same sensation that I’m about to toss my tacos by listening to the games on the radio.

The government has been assuring us lately that the economy is improving and inflation is declining, so I guess there is reason for hope. I just wish someone would tell the hamburger meat.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

This summer, my wife and I took a vacation with our three semi-grown daughters to one of the most expensive places in America. No, we didn’t visit our local insurance office. We toured several beautiful and fascinating cities in New England.

Our first stop was Newburyport, Massachusetts. We hadn’t planned to visit this charming coastal city, but after deplaning, securing a rental vehicle ginormous enough to accommodate the US Olympic Team (or our luggage), and heading north to our first planned destination, we were starving – at least I was. We found a restaurant in the historical downtown area, and in the euphoria of the moment, I made the grave error of telling the girls to order whatever they wanted. After we inhaled appetizers of delectable clam “chowdah,” I heard my youngest and quietest daughter say something to the server about swordfish, and, unfortunately, she wasn’t asking how to catch one. Oh, well, I hear that retirement is overrated, anyway.

Next on our list was scenic Portland, Maine. I had always wondered if the local Mainers would continuously force-feed us lobster rolls once we crossed the state line, which didn’t sound too bad to me. I soon discovered, much to my wallet’s dismay, that the lobster in Maine, though scrumptious, isn’t complimentary–or even “buy one, get one free.”

The highlight of our time in Portland was a sunset visit to the Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth. Standing on a craggy shoreline, the lighthouse is truly stunning. In fact, I risked life, limb and vital organs crawling around on wave-slicked rocks while helping my daughters take some “fire” Instagram pics. We were all “high-key” amazed by the view – I think.

After Portland, we headed to Boston for what I thought would be a truly educational experience in one of the most historically significant cities in the nation. Instead, I was soon following my daughters down what is often called “the most expensive street in America.” Newbury Street in the Back Bay area is best known for its Victorian brownstone buildings and, most of all, the shopping. I spent the next several hours loitering outside historical sites like T.J. Maxx, Sunglasses Hut and Urban Outfitters.

The next morning, we strolled down to Boston Harbor to go whale watching, which is basically what our neighbors do when I trim the hedges without a shirt. Watching the humpback whales breach and dive was truly amazing, but it would have been even more amazing if I had remembered to use sunscreen and my head didn’t wind up looking like a massive pomegranate.

Next on our itinerary was a jaunt to Saratoga Springs, New York, to visit this beautiful resort town for some shopping (of course) and a concert featuring some of our daughters’ favorite musical artists, Niall Horan and Del Water Gap – singers who would probably consider me old enough to have to use Google to find out who the heck they are. The concert was terrific, but I expected that, at any moment, my wife and I would be escorted to the geezer enclosure.

We finished our trip with a brief but fun visit to Providence, Rhode Island, where we ate seafood in the Federal Hill neighborhood, shopped, went on a historical “ghost” walk in the College Hill neighborhood, shopped and shopped.

My wife and I know that the days of vacationing as a family are numbered, so we’re taking advantage of the opportunity while we can. On trips like these, we’re encouraging our girls to love their family and live life to the fullest­ – just not order the swordfish.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

I’ve heard it said that things happen in threes, especially tragedies, deaths and doses of Pepto Bismol after a big Tex-Mex dinner.

My own three defining experiences over the past few weeks can’t be described as tragedies, per se, so I’ll refer to them as catastrophes, instead.

First was/is the great Graves dishwasher incident, or saga, or ongoing fiasco. In our home, we tend to hang on to appliances until they die of natural causes–and sometimes we invoke extreme resuscitation measures. In fact, most of our appliances hail from the Clinton administration (pre-impeachment).

It all started with a repair technician informing us that our dishwasher needed several part transplants that would require him to gouge it out of its current lodging where it was inadvertently “tiled in” the last time we replaced our kitchen flooring. Because removing it might cause further injury to the unit (and himself), he was unable to do anything other than charge me $100 for inviting him out to give me the bad news.

Miraculously, though, probably after hearing that it might be euthanized and replaced altogether, the unit started working again–briefly. The second technician, this time a plumber who was also hired to reset a toilet (don’t ask), told us that we should just replace the dishwasher because repairing it would cost more than purchasing a new one. Ha! Apparently, this guy was unaware of the vortex of calamity he was dealing with.

To make a long story longer, I tried ordering two different new dishwashers to fit the space, and both arrived looking like they’d recently participated in a WWE death match with André the Giant. At that point, I refused to spend another three weeks scouring skillets by hand (Little House on the Prairie-style) while waiting for another new unit, so I managed to extract our elderly dishwasher from its space using only my sheer brute strength, some utterances in unknown tongues and a couple of ruptured disks.

When the third repair technician arrived, the real fun began. To avoid allowing our two doglets to harass the repair technician and accidentally (or intentionally) be used as replacement parts for the dishwasher, I asked our youngest daughter to secure them in her bedroom. Suddenly, our smallest doglet produced the same earsplitting screech I make when I see the bill for one of my three daughters’ visits to the hair salon. Somehow, the dog’s foot had become lodged between the wooden bedrail and mattress, and she injured it getting free. A few hours later, I had a resurrected vintage dishwasher, a Maltese mix with a splinted foot and about $1,000 missing from my bank account.

Amid all of this merriment, my youngest daughter had a minor fender-bender in her car. Luckily, I was with her at the time, no one was hurt and the other driver admitted fault. There were a few tears and hysterics, but my daughter was able to console me after a few minutes.

Now that I’ve survived a triumvirate of domestic debacles over the course of a few weeks, I’m praying we’ll have smooth sailing and operational drain pumps for a while. But if we don’t, I know I can depend on Tex-Mex take-out, paper plates and a few doses of Pepto Bismol.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Recently, I was getting a haircut and teasing my long-term stylist about the lack of inspirational-quote décor in her salon station compared to the one next to hers. Of course, she knows that teasing her is how I show my love and appreciation to her for not re-sculpting my earlobes with her straight razor or making my hair look like it was styled with a package of firecrackers.

Our discussion had us both laughing about how corny and unrealistic some inspirational quotes can seem, especially for those of us who are 50 or older. Take this one, for example, which is attributed to Oscar Wilde:

“With age comes wisdom.”

Now, I know what Oscar was getting at, but as I’ve aged, I’ve come to believe that a more accurate quote would be along these lines:

“With age comes wisdom – if you can remember where you put it.”

Below are some other inspirational quotes for the over-fifty realist. (Feel free to decorate your workspace with them.)

We’ll start with a few quotes related to the over-50 anatomy, what’s left of it, anyway:

“Seizing the day will probably require Tylenol tomorrow.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, and if I bend down too fast to pick them up, I’ll throw out my back.”

“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man yawny, grouchy and tired.”

“There is a difference between listening and hearing, and you can’t do either if you don’t take a hedge trimmer to all of that disgusting hair in your ears.”

“You are what you eat, but if you want a six-pack stomach, it had better be bottled water–and it probably still won’t work.”

“Follow your dreams – just not the one about suddenly discovering that you’re naked in public.”

“Play like a champion every day, which often means being on the injured reserves with a hernia.”

“Count your blessings, not the number of times you have to get up to go to the bathroom each night.”

And more bathroom inspiration,

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself – and the aftermath of too much Tex-Mex.”

How about some inspiration from our children?

“Children are a gift – until they reach puberty. Then they’re more like that weird bump that came up right in the middle of your back.”

“She believed she could, so she did (right after she borrowed her dad’s credit card).”

“The best things in life are free – except for children, pets, Tex-Mex, a decent mattress, air conditioning, comfortable underwear . . . .”

And while we’re on the subject of non-free things,

“Home is where the heart is. It’s also where appliance repairs will cost you at least $300.”

We’ll close with some inspirational randomness:

“If at first you don’t succeed, try a different screwdriver.”

“It’s always darkest before the dawn, especially during Daylight Savings Time.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work because you’re the one who does all the work and everyone else on the team is a doofus.”

And my favorite,

“Believe in yourself – even when your wife points out that you’ve put on your expensive, comfortable underwear inside out and backwards.”

I hope you’ve gained some inspiration from these quotes, but if you think they’re “cringey” or “mid,” I hope you’re enjoying your dad’s credit card.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Now that two of my daughters are away at college and the one still at home basically views me as an ATM in an unfashionable neighborhood, I’ve tried to find myself a hobby. Since I’m not interested in activities that involve getting out of bed before noon on a Saturday, that pretty much rules out most manly-type-outdoorsy stuff that would require me to sweat profusely in a tent, clean an animal carcass or have one of my friends pluck a tick from a region of my anatomy that I can’t reach.

Instead, with the money we have left after paying for college tuition, semi-grown-daughter car insurance and an occasional can of bean dip, my wife and I have been attending concerts. Something about the exciting atmosphere of several thousand fans enjoying music together and anticipating their next restroom break makes me feel alive. It also allows me to temporarily forget about the pain in my lower back from sneezing too hard the day before.

Below are a few brief reviews of concerts we’ve attended over the last few months:

First, we’ve seen alternative singer-songwriter Ben Rector in concert twice recently – once in Austin, Texas, where we waded through throngs of hormonal college students on notorious Sixth Street to visit the famous Amy’s Ice Creams after the show. Ben Rector is currently my favorite artist – by a mile. He seems like a genuinely good guy, and his songs include themes like lost youth, how quickly time passes, how hard adulting can be, and how lucky guys like us are to have our wives. Watching him also makes me wish I hadn’t quit piano lessons. Yes, Mom, you were right about that – and pretty much everything else.

Next, we traveled to Shreveport, Louisiana, to see what could be called “The Remnants Tour” with surviving members of southern rock bands ZZ Top and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Even though both bands have been around for years, they can still tear it up on stage. It’s also refreshing to see musicians who are older than me and still manage to stand upright–though they made me feel a little self-conscious about my lack of facial hair.

Speaking of musicians who make me feel young, sort of, in early Spring, we traveled to Houston, Texas, to see legendary rockers The Eagles with my big brother and his wife. After listening to my brother speak in elaborate tongues as he navigated the Houston traffic, we saw the band perform all of their greatest hits, and Joe Walsh killed it on several guitar solos, making the same faces of pleasure and pain I make when I’ve had too much Taco Bell.

Most recently, we attended the iHeartCountry Festival in Austin. Granted, I’m about as country as one of the Three Amigos, but I do enjoy some rock’n country music. (I even wore boots.) One of my favorite performers at the festival was Jelly Roll, who–along with belting out some great hard-luck ballads – seemed thrilled and thankful to be there. The other was Keith Urban, who sang his upbeat hits, shredded on the guitar, and owned the crowd. Unfairly, Urban is roughly my age, but he looks like a twenty-something heartthrob, and I look like Dorothy from “The Golden Girls.”

Attending concerts has been great fun for my wife and me in our “almost empty nest and bank account” years, and we don’t plan to slow down. Upcoming concerts include Def Leppard with Journey and Steve Miller, Niall Horan and Kacey Musgraves. They all should be a blast–as long as I remember the Tylenol and sit close to the restroom.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

First, it was Toys “R” Us. Then, Bed Bath & Beyond. Now, perhaps the most personally painful demise of a legendary franchise that helped to shape my psyche (and my penchant for complimentary appetizers), our local Red Lobster, along with over 90 other locations nationwide, recently bit the dust, or the biscuit – as it were.

I guess we all saw it coming in the carnage of crippled restaurant chains that COVID-19 left in its wake. Red Lobster was never quite the same haven of succulent, mass-produced seafood after the pandemic. In particular, they inexplicably excised their scrumptious seafood gumbo from the menu – one of the main reasons I loved the place, and the only reason my eldest and most expensive daughter ever wanted to go.

Granted, the carpet was dingy, the nautical decor was corny, and the lobster tanks invoked a sort of morbid fascination that made us all wish they’d take those rubber bands off the lobsters’ claws and let them have a battle royale to entertain us while we waited seemingly forever for our table.

But still we went, if for no other reason than those indescribably delicious Cheddar Bay Biscuits, the presentation of which by our server invoked a kind of joy comparable only to the delivery of one’s firstborn child. Well, maybe not that much joy . . . but almost.

Speaking of joy, in the late summer after my senior year of high school, when I had finally learned to apply the perfect combination of Right Guard deodorant and Calvin Klein Obsession for Men cologne, I took my future wife to Red Lobster one Sunday after church for our first real date. For an eighteen-year-old aspiring stud-muffin on a city-pool-lifeguard salary, Red Lobster was a big deal, and I thought she’d be especially impressed by the big brass lobster claw door handles. I know I was. It was there, gazing at each other across elegant entrees of fries and popcorn shrimp, that we found true love among the crustaceans.

After we had children, we began a tradition of visiting Red Lobster after the evening Christmas Eve service at church since it was usually one of the very few restaurants open and we weren’t in the mood for pancakes – even international ones. I always requested kid’s menus for our daughters – even when they were teenagers – so that we could guess at the silly trivia games, play tic-tac-toe, and take turns embarrassing my wife by inserting crayons in various facial orifices – usually right when the server showed up.

Besides, the food at Red Lobster just tasted good. I know there are seafood snobs out there who scoffed at what were undoubtedly pre-cooked, frozen menu items that required little more than a boiling bag, a deep fryer or an industrial microwave, but in East Texas, it was the next best thing to a mess of fried crappie if you asked me, and I’ll miss it.

So, thanks for the memories, the Key lime pie with raspberry drizzle and those unlimited biscuits of gold, Red Lobster. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart – and my digestive system.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].