Windshield Breakers And Tumbleweeds

time to shine.

guns up everywhere.

final four cred.

the techies of Texas.

undercover horn.

amped on amber vision.

lets make our free throws.

conga drums and wild jumping.

name the fruit contest.

the United supermarkets Arena.

that oughta be a technical.

44 works.

don't let 4 shoot.

time out on the floor.

Rodman showed up for the gorilla toss.

shoot.

sweet caroline.

andre emmet day.

the weinerschnitzel dog race.

winner ran off the track.

airball from half court for the grand prize.

5 grand from caprock.

for heart deezeez.

not time for that.

to go cold.

the pom pom girls were right on.

karaoke cam.

get loud geico.

lockdown defense is all it took.

sent them techies home crying.

this ain't your scene.

lines ain't my scene.

blue jean blues and dusty pebble roads.
windshield breakers and tumbleweeds.

Flown Like A Mule

In darkness the blinking light is constant, a beacon to guide the landers, the birds of the night, the propelled, the lifted up, the crow flyers.  Everyone knows of straight lines, it is practical, reasonable, possible, and preferred to float above.  The ground is busy, crowded, and confining.  Air is the high road, spacious, and liberating.  Piloting is obsessing, an alternate lifestyle complete with siblings, secret codes, and Crown Victorias.

Commerce was a jump, Magnolia was a leap, the Arkansas morning air was fresh and cool.  Full of tree farm oxygen, smelling of pine.  The soggy bottoms, the muddy fairways, the weedy greens.  Sloppy, sloppy golf, but glory shots by all.  Wal-Mart bags of ice beer, an overpriced pool, and one working cart at Magnolia Country Club.  Evidently, El Dorado Country Club, up the road, has decimated the membership, and for good reason.  No one wants to be a part of an electrocution.

A spirited start with defensive intensity.  Up in the space, swatting and reaching for everything, lots of obstruction, lots of pestering.  Easy buckets.  Then the clamp, then the streaky, then the turnovers.  Blood, concussions, collisions, step backs, put backs, and kick backs.  Like kicking mules, like an air guitar, like 5 cannon balls from the Texas cannon, a decoy by the end.  Deception is the art of winning.  Community establishments and downtown folks, lit up by the fight, neon and open, loud and excited.  Playoffs secured, some madness in March assured, this ride ain't over yet.

Mental checklist of flight.  Visual inspections, the rudder, the props, the seals, instruments, navigational tools, tire pressures, buckles, headphone ears.  Then the engine roars, get it hot.  Taxi the runway, tower permission to depart, easy lift, climbing and veering east.  From Perrin Field at sunrise, my elementary education continues, learned to fly.  Over Bonham, then Blue Ridge, at 3,000 feet, solo, for five solid minutes, executing slight turns and slight climbs and slight dives.  Flown like a mule.

The Superiorists

With a flip of the glorious bird.
Tweet tweeting and chirping.
The twin finger on the other hand.
Ready for the double flight.

To all the judgers and branders.
The smug, the superiorists, the ridiculers.
Shamers, the behind-the-back slanderers.
The fucking thieves, the idiot racists.

For no other reason than liberty.
Certainly not in anger or malice.
More like punctuation for the apathetic.
These two wings from the same bird.

DD7G
CG
DD7G
DCG

20/20 Gonzo 20: The Boogie Red Nation

This Berniac claimed if Bernie was a commie, then I was a commie.  Just trying to break it down, the overtaking of capitalistic institutions, the classless society, where basic needs are met, where the rich become poor, the poor stay poor, the government decides, and public protests are disbanded with tear gas, tanks, and Wi-Fi blackouts.  It is true every Russian I've met I've liked, they seem proud, funny, although, a bit guarded.  Like they know something I don't, but it's too depressing to bring up, we were alive and aware in the 90s, when the commie crack up happened.  When the boogie red nation, the CCCP, the USSR, greedily crumbled.

But superdelegates don't care.  Who are these people?  The shadiness, the shadows, the vape filled back rooms, the creeps of these national committees, whipping up the money, greasing whatever, saying whatever, doing whatever.  Run by the parties, whoever they are, whatever they do.  Elected by nobody, that's for sure, that's been verified and certified and validated.

Lone votes are like mist, a hint of cool moisture, but meaning nothing, and worthless to the overall ecosystem.  The greenhouse controls the air anyway, the outdoors is irrelevant.  Humidity, pressure, lighting, and cameras, all controlled, all decided.  1984 all over again, complete with an Animal Farm vibe and Huxillian dream.  The brave shall live and die, the meek shall live and inherit, and they shall inherit what they do not deserve to inherit.  The land of the free and the home of the brave. 

On Display At The DMA

Saw one with European towers.
Checked out the Mexican Flowers.
Walked the place for 2 or 3 hours.
On display at the DMA.

Postcard about a retro session.
9 separate screens of voice inflection.
Can't miss the wood carving lesson.
On display at the DMA.

Wall art from 500 BC.
Rooster in red, looking mean.
Crown worn by a Mayan queen.
On display at the DMA.

Fisherman with one glass eye.
Safety matches in perfect light.
Cotton balls and Texas skies.
On display at the DMA.

Yes, the Dallas Museum Of Art.
Across from Clyde Warren Park.
Best art around these parts.
On display at the DMA.

GGCG
DDCG
GGCG
DCGG

The Anthem 3: The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

The waiting is the hardest part, it's my petty pet peeve.  Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth was submitted weeks ago.  The rules and timelines of The Anthem Contest were clear, I knew February would be a challenge.  The anxiety will nudge a bit during the early March initial judging process, prior to public voting.  Referring back to page 7 of the fully capitalized NEBRASKA FURNITURE MART SONGWRITING COMPETITION OFFICIAL RULES, a tremendously formal document, all submissions will be screened by one or more NFM designated judges.  Then, at NFM's sole discretion, up to 10 submissions will be chosen for public voting and will appear on the competition website.  The rules also indicated only submissions that are chosen for public voting will receive prior notification by email or phone.  Don't call us, we'll call you.  Ruthless, but the most pragmatic method for sure.  Take it on faith, take it to the heart, the waiting is the hardest part.

To even consider public voting process strategies or tactics seems presumptuous and entitled, but it's impossible not to think ahead.  First, the rules are clear.  No shenanigans!  Any macro robotic scripts, bribes, or other fraudulent means to achieve voting success will be quickly squashed and the submission thrown out of the contest.  Legit is the only way with NFM, integrity is in the song title--Tell The Truth.  My loose plan is to engage my various contacts, introduce the contest, and ask they participate in the voting process.  Not to vote for my entry, to be clear, but to participate in the voting process.  Fair and square, best song wins.  Entitlement is for the weak, nothing is deserved, prevail on the merits.  Maybe I'll catch some breaks, maybe I'll catch some luck.  Like the song goes.  Perhaps my tune is the best anthem for Nebraska Furniture Mart, perhaps it's not.  We'll see, I expect it to win.

In the meantime, to remain occupied, plenty to keep me busy.  If a person is blessed to live a long life, it's roughly 30,000 days.  To me, that doesn't seem like a lot, so spending days anticipating tomorrows seems wasteful.  Got full time work, where I get to lead a group of corporate professionals at a world class private company in the financial services industry.  Got full time family, where my wife of 28 years and 2 daughters aged 19 and 21 keep me grounded, loved, and motivated to try and pay my bills.  Got other musical projects, including completion of Some Dude Named Amos Vol. 6 which features 5 songs released in the 70s, among them Hotel California and Bobby McGee.  Texans Don Henley and Janis Joplin can bust out a tune, so it's a significant challenge.  Always reminded that NFL Hall Of Famer and overall football legend, Jimmy Johnson, went to high school with Janis in Port Arthur, Texas.  Something in that water for sure.  Got a tennis career, of course.  Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company is in full flight.  Third year of the five year plan.  I remain an unpaid, unofficial, affiliate of the brand.  We are much like NFM in some ways it seems.  Their anthem, which I wrote couple of years ago, is similar to the approach taken with Sell Cheap, Tell The Truth, but that was more of a brand defining situation.  NFM is 85 years old, and doubling down on their values.  Lots to admire, lots to learn.  My backhand is grooved out better than ever, my hip hurts.

Driving home from work yesterday, noticed an electronic billboard on the south side of 121, between NFM and Toyota World Headquarters.  The Anthem Contest was being advertised.  A gleaming NFM delivery truck was in the right lane next to me, cruising in late afternoon Collin County traffic.  The Billboard changed, evidently Tony Bennet was appearing at the Winstar Casino in Thackerville, Oklahoma on April 18th.  Doubt I'll make the show, casinos bore me, but I like his version of Fly Me To The Moon even better than Sinatra's.  Perhaps it was a good sign.  We'll just have to wait and see.

The Silence Box

Three doors in my mind,
all ready for the show.
Don't pay me no nevermind,
play it out, then I'll go.

First door, it's the past,
memories and dreams came true.
Figured it would always last,
time takes away our youth.

Next door is the future,
oh, the possibilities.
Travels, love, and humor,
peace and tranquility.

Last door is right now,
what I feel and what I see.
Feel like a getting loud,
need to find a jamboree.

Then the doors all shut,
heard the clicks of the locks.
All the noises, they went hush,
back into the silence box.

AmEmDG

20/20 Gonzo 19: Cartoon Convention

"Listen, if you can't keep your seat, of you can't quit name calling, if you can't quit throwing fits, I will march all of you right back to the 1st grade!"  The teacher eyed each one of them, a serious glare.  The cliques were already formed, they snickered and whispered despite the lecture, they simply did not care.  They started making bodily noises and laughing, they threw things at each other, they made faces, they slouched, they interrupted, they pointed.  Calmly, the teacher sat back down at her desk, guess it just comes with the territory, the way it goes in the 2nd grade.

All the calculators broke in Iowa.  The phones were whacked, the tabulators didn't know what to do, the guy who developed the caucus counting application wasn't around, something about being arrested at a cartoon convention in Seoul, South Korea.  According to the police report, he was in a jail cell after attacking two convention attendees dressed up as Tom and Jerry.  Witnesses saw the crazed man, dressed as Spartacus, pull a sword and swing it around and around above his head while running towards the victims.  Luckily, in self defense, Jerry caught him with a roundhouse kick to the jaw, knocking him out cold.

On the D.C. streets the hecklers are relentless, the order is gone, the rules about talking, formality and dignity.  Where the actual clowns work, where the bums get their dimes, where tailpipes smoke.  News conferences to declare crooks and creeps, interviews to express outrage, fire pits to burn copies of speeches.  Headed to New Hampshire, time is up here, need a recess, need a snack, need to work on my multiplication tables, division is next, then fractions, then decimals.  Like all elementary skills, math is developed by guidance, repetition, and reinforcement.

Ordered A Robot

My own confidant.
My own restaurant.
My own debutante.
Got me what I want.

Ordered French croissants.
Ordered whiskey shots.
Ordered a robot.
Got me what I want.

Need it a la carte.
Need it super sharp.
Need it torn apart.
Got me what I want.

Have a topless car.
Have Martin guitars.
Have a chocolate bar.
Got me what I want.

To all humankind.
To all unaligned.
To all undefined.
Got me what I want.

Found some peace of mind.
Found some good good times.
Found some words that ryhme.
Got me what I want.

EAx3
DAE

Inslamnia

GC
DC
GD
CG

DG
CG

Isolate each point.
Focus in.
Gonna rock this joint.
Bout to win.

Fighting off the yawns.
Coffee up.
Three hours til dawn.
Filled my cup.

Get the Melbourne news.
Inslamnia.
Down under Blues.
Inslamnia.
Sleep deprivation.
Inslamnia.
Infecting the nation.
Inslamnia.

Concentrate again.
Check the draws.
What's up with the men.
King Nadal.

Money's on Novak.
He can't lose.
Like inslamniacs.
Hit the snooze.

Check in on the gals.
See what's up.
Osaka went down.
CoCo's tough.

Serena won't quit.
She can't lose.
Got a nice outfit.
Hightop shoes.

**co-written by AJ Chabria

Connor Cruse Karma

Our group was ready to hit the courts.  We had just enjoyed the featured exhibition match and formal ceremonies, which took place between separate 2-hour drilling sessions.  Each session featured 4 rotating local tennis pros working a group of 10 players.  The annual TeamConnor Smashing Childhood Cancer Event at the Lifetime Fitness Indoor courts in Plano, TX was not to be missed.

Since my initial involvement the year prior, I knew what to expect.  Goes like this:  The tennis pro gathers the group at the net.  After quick introductions, a drill is explained.  We nod like we understand right away, but it usually takes a few minutes of confusion and further explanation before we get in the rhythm.  Then it's constant movement, swings, overheads, volleys, and encouragement.  After 25 minutes, the tennis pros rotate and we repeat.  It's a tremendous workout, the fellow players are generally friendly, although I wasn't so friendly when I smashed an overhead and smacked a fellow driller on the side of her foot.  The sound echoed loudly, her husband glared at me, I apologized sincerely, she was gracious and merciful.  Later, her husband almost took my head off in a volley drill.  Chivalry is still alive.  I was happy when they won designer earrings in the raffle, and I was disappointed to lose out on the Del Frisco's prize.  Karma is still alive too.

During the formal ceremonies a couple of 7th graders spoke about their buddy from school.  He was being honored but was too ill to attend.  His buddies spoke of his fight, they thanked all the players for coming, they told us of how funny he is, how he inspires others.  I look forward to meeting him next year.  The event organizers told us about TeamConnor, about how Connor kicked his original cancer to the curb before succumbing to another cancer caused by the cancer treatment.  My eyes filled with tears.  That was years ago.  Since then, the TeamConnor organization has raised millions for Cancer treatment research.  Great promise lies in gene replacement therapy and other potential methods.  Science is a gift from God, it must be explored to its end.

Afterwards, while drinking a cold Red Stripe beer on my McKinney patio, I thought of Connor, of the buddy of those 7th graders, of other children I've known with cancer.  I thought of my grooved out backhand, I worried about my overhead, my hip hurt, I was proud Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company was involved.  Then I wrote this:


--Instantaneous Automatic Maneuver--

Rotations and directions, everywhere they pointed.  Side to side, front to back, four tries.  Make them count, follow through, move forward.  

A turn should happen first, the first move.  Then a step up.  Like an instantaneous automatic maneuver.  

The odd crowd, internalists mostly.  Keeping it in, needing an outlet.  They are smashing.  

Care is expensive, the research is stalled.  Get to the point.  The genes done it, family history don't lie.  

Molecules and atoms can be made right.  Keep it going, the rallies are fine.  Let's work up some sweat, get the legs moving, quick feet, on your toes.  

Pick up 5, make a big circle.  Jump in whenever.  The tennis underground is represented, make time for the burn out drill.  

Shower up, the cold will do its magic.  Fresh and clean.  Red Stripe hit the spot.  Brand awareness, for the love of the game.

Thanks for your mission, TeamConnor.  Appreciate donating the indoor courts, Lifetime Fitness.  Dug the goodie bag, the delicious sandwiches, and the two drink tickets.  Thanks to all who contributed, to the tennis pros and all the other volunteers involved.  Bless you, Joy Cruse.  Sorry for hitting that woman on the foot, really smashed that one.

Oh, and to hell with cancer.  Connor Cruse Karma is still alive.

Killer Caterpillar

She was a killer caterpillar.
Scooting down the lane.
Avoiding the annoying.
Groovy groovy games.

Could get crushed or smushed.
Wouldn't take much at all.
A slip, a rip, or even a the yips.
Could get killed by a tennis ball.

Kept on going never knowing.
What might happen next.
Eventually, she broke free.
Then I became perplexed.

Then about then, she turned and went.
In the sweetest little voice.
My, oh my, I'll be your butterfly.
Won't have to scoot no more.

Then that killer caterpillar.
With her blushing eyes.
Got took by a bird, a swooping bird.
Off into the sky.

GC
FGC