jpaulgorman

International pariahs and international criminals, all the same to me.  The people wrong and fooled for years seem wrong and fooled again, gulping the stink bait like hungry catfish at the bottom of a muddy man-made west texas lake.  Dig for information, get out of your hotel room, ditch the heavy blue helmet in favor of a lightweight model, ask questions.  War corresponding is tough business, get in there like Hemingway, know things, discover things, ride in an ambulance, Fareweall To Arms, write things.  We only need the tip of the iceberg. The institutes, organizations of thinking and scenario modelling, are drawing blanks.  They have no idea, although they keep thinking and fundraising.  Such a shady industry--the institute industry--lots of washed up minds, lots of alcohol and pills.  Low overhead, petty cash stashes, and zoom call happy hours.  Theories. The makeup artists are the real deal, the best in the world.  Powders and rouges a...

  Don't owe you a dime. Done wasting my time. Finished with the fooled. The ones who are ruled. Decided long time ago. Ain't doing what I'm told. Fine with the severance pay. Supposed to be that way. Division is what we got. Demanded from the very top. Went packing with a few grand. Now I'm working on my tan. Hit the beach in a few weeks. Counting waves brings me peace. So little we control. Too much greed and gold. DCDDx2 GCGGx2

  The room was practically empty, the other press were nowhere to be seen.  The Press Secretary took to the podium with 'reports of' and 'state departments say' and 'videos show'.  Hey man, I want some answers, lady!  Let's get to the root of the seed of the reasons for this deadly mess, I pressed.  She stared at me and asked me politely to put on a mask. To this I scoffed, muttering something low and true about suffocation, and got back to demanding more clarity.  Tell me about Ukrainian oil money, tell me about bribes, tell me about grease.  I pressed like the press should.  She asked me again to put on a mask, this time with a 'please' and a point to a sign.  I pressed more about the Ukrainian adoption industry, the Ukrainian drug scene, conditions for Ukraininan women and children, Ukrainian widows, Ukrainian boards. Then she rudely told me, "Sir, put on a mask now!"  I stared at her silently for 30 seconds, it was me and her, her ...

This analysis came strait from the source, got it from the source.  Jeff Spicoli is worn out, but he's not done yet, the Vice documentary squad is on the scene.  The Neo-Journalists.  With Neo-Wave music and hairsprayed hair.  Thought he was taller, I was surprised when he stood. He smelled of body odor and long fingernails, he looked like an actor, he acted like he was acting.  He frowned.  So much promise way back, free spirit, class cutter, a teacher's nightmare.  Now this, pouting and somber, and sober.  Mr. Hand got the last laugh, the 'told you so' laugh. But it's a hollow laughter, a sad laughter, it's heavy.  This ain't no disco, this ain't no party, this ain't no fooling around.  He kept talking, I was having trouble following his logic.  Then he looks at me dead in the the eyes, calm like, and said, “What Jefferson was saying was, Hey! You know, we left this England place ’cause it was bogus; so if we don’t get some cool ...

He looked across the table and sized up his foe, a baby with candy.  Easy pickings, dude can't get his thumbnail out of his teeth.  The opposite of stoic, more like a bafoon, a village idiot, a weak and frail rotted soul, compromised by his past indiscretions.  A known grifter, a known groper, a known racist.  The Russian matched the pot and called. Proclamations of significant sanctions, name calling and pouting, nervous laughter and cryptic responses.  Gone America for now, that stench is from DC, our fenced in capital.  It's all razor wired now.  A standoff is good for some involved, this game of chicken is profitable.  Follow the money. News screen readers is all we got, amateur viralogists, and gabbers with no gifts of gab.  Retired, tired generals of last century blabber for pay, their analysis taken for truth by the mopey dopey class of society.  They got to say something.  Then the host nods perfectly, just like it's writte...

Ottawa had way more action than Ukraine, better organized and festive, honks and wizzbangs.  Those trucker hosers unmasked the despots, God bless 'em.  The moral high ground collapsed, it's the mosh pit now, it's a slam dance.  Elbows in, those are the rules.  Head butts and hip chunks, back whacks and knee jams, a punk war. Information is liberty, reasoned and clean.  Without the newsroom morning staffer, without editorial boards, without associate production and executive production.  Thought provokers.  Thought liberators.  Thought whisperers. This is mere satire, it's much worse.  Another dark winter, another sacrifice, another whopper, another trillion, another lecture about race from the high tech lynchers.  More hair plugs and plastic surgery for the old and done, more grease for the deep fryer, more of the same.  Six dollar gas, shrinking bags of chips, and gatesmeat burgers, sources predict.  Oh, and the vote tabulato...

"Wolverines!" screamed Patrick Swayze and C. Thomas Howell.  Fresh off The Outsiders, they were the best we had, actors on the 80's A-list; oh, the incredible cast of Red Dawn.  Next, Ivan Drago was sent packing to Ukraine.  Nobody fucks with Rocky and Apollo Creed and gets away with it, James Brown knows what's up in America, we don't juice, we train.  Eye of the tiger, home of the free, home of the brave, the righteoues, the honorable. Then the opening of the Iron Curtain, George Sr. taking Reagan's credit; exploiting the situation.  Turning the Cold War into the Sold War, where it's all paid for up front.  Grind to a standoff and deal.  Send around pallets of gold.  The lend write-off, the cash game, the layered wire transfers, the currency squeeze. Russian Daniil Medvedev don't care, he's trying to win the French Open, but it looks like Novak is playing.  Back to reality!  Back to this century.  Tune up and out, the deceptions ...

This abuse of germs, the story of our time.  Germs of truth twisted into unrecognizable piles of junk, sent to junkyards of greasers, recycled and abused again.  Guts must return, there's truth in guts--that hunch, that nag, that thing.  Feel the truth, the way you feel pain.  Smell the truth, the way you smell bullshit. Called einfrieren (freeze) by the old German propagandists of the 1930's, the people are fed only the hot mush meal, good and tasty.  The cold truth is left frozen, but it will thaw in the sun, it will spoil and begin to stink.  There's only so much freezer space in town, and freezer burn is real.  The summer will be hot, the party is definitely on, a festive wake before the burial, with nostalgia and laughs and drinks and stories.  Leave the grieving to a future day. Lifted my eyes and saw another sunrise, it was similar to one seen long ago.  Red and cold, going the other way, elecric blue sky taking over, the thaw of trut...

Turdeau needs to float away, but he won't; he'll have to be flushed.  Call up the sanitation trucks, this could get messy.  Hose it down later, you hosers, let the clog do its thing, they'll be plenty of time for clean up.  A plunger can usually fix it up quick, and the snake can be used if suction don't work. Civil disobiedience glows brightest when the arrests are made, no going back.  Patience and resolve and personal pacifism will not lose--MLK, Ghandi, Keith Richards.  Oh Canada, inspire the fall of criminal tyranny!  Dump your king, exile him to the the frozen tundra wastelands.  He smells. First, resentment will settle in like a searing thorn, this trucker roundup won't go the way Turdeau is expecting.  Resentment only breeds more anger, not less.  Next, a face save will be attempted, but it will be ignored, a turd is a turd, and odor is odor.  Remove it.  Get your fresh air back, there's tons of it up there, eh.

For seemingly insufficient reasons, Mexican avocados are the target of an American embargo, a guacamole blockade.  What happens to all the cilantro and limes, the domino effect?  Seems the salsa industry could benefit and the queso market could spike.  Follow the money, it's usually the best indicator of motives and corruption.  Might be an inside job, creating demand for the spring and summer, jack the prices, cut a deal, 10% seems reasonable. According to sources, this is all due to a vague altercation between a Mexican avocado farmer and an American avocado inspector.  Get over it, Cinco De Mayo is closer than you think.  Figure out the kickbacks (that's what inspectors do), but make it quick.  Scheme.  Do whatever to get the green, silky, healthy, mexican fruit delivered, the California varieties have a bitter taste. Perhaps a standoff is best, establish some sort of Avocado OPEC, work the markets, control the supply.  Exclusive, run the...

Woke up and my ears were ringing dull and low.  The previous 48 hours included:  Brooksby beating Thompson and Giron, Fritz losing to Giron, Opelka outlasting Isner 24-22 in the longest tiebreaker in ATP history, brief VIP and 200 level access, a dash across Dallas looking for a lost phone, actual bar hopping, a shuffleboard cliff hanger, Franconia Brewery's 14th Anniversary Party, and a psychedelic rendition of the Frank Zappa tune --The Torture Never Stops.  We're left with Opelka vs Brooksby in the finals, lots of potential, lots of American tennis hope.  Giron felt the squirm, but couldn't avoid the squirm, awareness is the first step, avoidance is next level.  Fritz needs to crack the neck, like a fatally wounded animal, and end their misery with compassionate ruthlessness; he seemed to have Giron beat in the Quarters, but didn't bash the skull with a rock. Uomosport picked a good partner, Brooksby flashing the colors and the logo all over the stadium cour...

Both times I've walked into the Styslinger Tennis Complex so far, Fritz was on the practice court sweating it out, grooving it out, working hard.  No talking, no giggling, no bullshit.  His business approach paid off in the late Wednesday night match against Sock.  First serves lasering where he willed, clocked 135 MPH on one ace; Sock was overwhelmed, the first set was over in 20 minutes.  He recovered a bit to make the 2nd set more of a fight, but Fritz was relentless, his unforced errors were minimal, he won in straight sets to advance to the Quarters. When Fritz strutted, Sock moped, when Fritz hit sweet spots, Sock hit frame.  Precise.  A collection of small improvements is how Fritz described it in the post match interview.  He seems ready in the mind, he knows how to fix his broken windows, he's likely involved in some sort of effective systemic approach.  Too much for Sock. The early evening match was a giant contest, Isner and Anderson; ...

Drove over two thousand miles, I went all through the Hook Of Texas:  Alpine, Marfa, Ft. Davis, Valentine, Van Horn, Presidio, Terlingua, Lajitas, Marathon.  Through and in between, around and over, it was all fabulous.  In the last piece of Texas, which is the edge of America, I encountered peace and quiet and beauty.  Alive and well, there for the trip.  The dunes of Monahans, the water of the Rio Grande, and Judd's visions at Chinati. Drive the Davis Mountains at night, visit Prada Marfa near Valentine, moonroof it, avoid the thorns.  I was never hassled, never bugged, only encountered, only welcomed.  The cultural vibe seemed acceptance and solitude; embrace the isolation and space; use it.  Leaving was as natural as arriving, it was time to go.  I packed up and headed east. The Talking Heads blared in my earbuds.  New wave music took over til Brady, the geographical center of Texas:  Sparks, The Replacements, Yaz, Pretenders, ...

Forget the claustrophobia, forget the fluorescent lights tinting everyone, forget the kinks.  Nevermind the visible seam in the court, overlook the $12 can of Dallas Blonde, forgive the Kyrgios and Dimitrov withdrawals.  The Dallas Open is on!  In the snazziest area of the city, with a draw full of top 50 players.  Back in business like we was with the WTC decades ago, professional tennis has finally returned. First night of the main draw.  It was Monday, when grinding the grind is most important, when the bill money is made.  My seat had me looking directly down the middle of the burnt orange stadium court, row 7, seat 11; the place was like a sauna, it smelled of cheap Cabernet Sauvingon and popcorn. In the first match, the young American, Nakashima, took down Millman from Australia with a powerful first serve and a backhand that eventually came around.  Millman was tight, jittery, and constantly looking to his coach in the stands, he was merely acti...

  Driving through Big Bend National Park from the east on Hwy 118, I was in the middle of Mars it seemed.  Massive, jagged horizons through every open window, the rear view mirror was its own production.  Through the Junctions:  Maverick, Santa Elena, Basin, and Panther.  To the park headquarters.  Speed was kept appropriarely low, sundown was approaching, long shadows went on for miles, my eyes darted in every direction, my head exploded. From the park headquarters, a humble rest stop with pamplets and the familiar brown sign of all national parks, I took Hwy 385 directly north to Marathon.  71 miles.  It was a slow motion sundown most of the way until dark overwhelmed.  I stopped to hear the silence, cut the engine.  It was fly.  The eastern half of the park would have to wait until next time, dinner was on my mind. The 44 Farms Ribeye at The Gage Hotel in in Marathon was discussed by an Alpine local the previous afternoon at Harr...

To Terlingua and the Starlight Theater.  Jerry Jeff, Willie, Gil, and the others, where guitars ring with smooth chords, where the ghost town is full of life and music, where I saw Mule Ears for the first time.  One of the most famous landscape masterpieces in Big Bend, I had no idea where to look until local resident Jack Smith pointed it out while sitting next to me on the Starelight porch.  He was every bit the 6'6" he claimed, looked mid 70's, and indicated he'd dropped 90 lbs over the past couple years after his wife passed.  He took care of her until the end. Players just showed up and played according to Barry, an Alpine local and familiar musician around this part of Texas, the optimal time to show was 3:30.  We'd met the day before and traded tunes for 5 hours as we closed down Harry's Tinaja along with his harmonizing lady, Sara.  Modeloes with limes, a Yamaha, and a newly cleaned up, strung up old Seagull.  "A gringo has never sung Spanish b...

In Presidio, Texas the tallest structure in town is the Border Canopy, it stuck out immediately.  No one was there at noon, nothing to report, the place seemed peaceful, one people, one purpose; now on to the famed Farm To Market 170, snaking the Rio Grande for 50 miles to Terlingua and on into Big Bend National Park.  As a lifelong Texan who's never seen this part of the Lone Star State, this was the main dish, the whole enchilada, and the savory, sopped up sauce.  Postcard after postcard, the sky was electric blue, the visibility went on and on, God's rockpile for sure.  The river cut all through it, deep spots, shallow spots, no one was around. Big shots, reverse shots, angled shots, looking for scale, looking for shade.  Snap, snap, snap, like a snapping fool.  It cannot be avoided the first time you drive the 170, the Pacific Highway of Texas.  Good God, God is good.  Pictures don't even do it justice, next time I'll just drive and look, alre...