The Hook Of Texas 12: Cool Marfa Morning

The previous 44 hours were loaded, this cool Marfa morning on my rented patio offered time to give my senses a break.  My eyes that saw the Grand River's work in Madera Canyon, my ears that heard The Blan Scott Band's tasteful version of Silver Wings at Planet Marfa, the buds that tasted all those Modelos and limes, the nose that knows the smells of the Terlingua gas shack, and all the other feelings.  They have to rest, too.  Chinati is later, for now, town dogs were barking at each other in the distance, back and forth, communicating with intent.  Just a cool Marfa morning.

Geology has a way of expanding your scope and in the hook of Texas, down where the state digs in, the geology keeps coming.  Windows down, windows up, radio, no radio, moonroof, sunroof, it didn't matter, all the miles were lit, all the miles delivered.  From Persimmon Gap, I drove around the Rosillos Mountains, over the Tornillo Flats, through Panther Junction, right up to the Chisos Mountains, and past Croton Peak.  Describing further would be plagiarism, all the words have been tried, it must be driven, hiked, rode, or floated to be understood, even photographs are a cheap imitation.  Everything is enormous.

Then, an afternoon of music on the Starlight porch, which turned into 7 hours of timeless space once I started playing and getting to know Davis.  He'd been in Terlingua since he was 18, almost 30 years, Fort Worth was not for him, he was solid on the porch cajon, we created a tune called Little Truck In A Ghost Town.  It went a bit dark, but ended with the lightness of optimism, any ole thing could be a story Davis said, and he was right.  The local folks were far out, Davis introduced them one by one, I listened to them banter, I tagged along, I kept going to the icebox, I asked questions, I chimed in, I held back, I hung out, I bought a koozie.  It was all decided by dusk:  Some dude named Dakota couldn't be found, architecture is relative, there's a reason we haven't gone back to the moon in almost half a century, tall girls are treated unfairly, movie set crews are full of jerks, and Davis was retiring to the Sea Of Cortez.

The Hook Of Texas 11: The Alpine Flood

The rain came down hard, the storm formed right over the town according to the doppler radar.  Thunder echoed off the mountain walls, wind raced through like left jabs, lightening struck like right hooks.  The Alpine flood lasted an hour, enough to close several roads, knock down a few power lines, and cancel the night's baseball game.  I jumped on my bike when it cleared out to survey the damage and ride around, get some miles.  Credit the city planners, the water drained out perfectly, a really fine drenching, another successful flood.

The late afternoon was cool, the rain took all the heat, Fort Davis, 25 miles north, was likely getting punched in the face at that moment.  I rode over to the magnificent Holland Hotel, where Viva Big Bend set up their box office, I still had to get a ticket.  The Billiards Room made a good headquarters, I purchased a general admission ticket for $60, they were out of the $105 VIP tickets, but besides some VIP happy hour and a free t-shirt, I couldn't figure what made the VIP different.  Mine was a blue wristband, their's was a yellow wristband, maybe that was it, identify the riff-raff, not a bad plan.  Both these wristbands, blue and yellow, allowed entrance into any of the Viva Big Bend shows through Sunday night.

This was no fenced in, flopping in mud, stand in line festival, Viva Big Bend is spread out over four towns in three counties, this is a driver's show.  In Alpine, Railroad Blues, Spicewood, and the Old Gringo; in Marfa, the Lost Horse Saloon and Planet Marfa; in Terlingua, Starlight Theatre and The Porch; and in Fort Davis, The Chateau Wright.  In addition, there was free shows all over, a Ukulele workshop, a free BBQ, art galleries, and incredible postcard views.  Damn gas prices, fill er up!  Estimating 500 miles, seven venues, and twelve bands over the next four days and nights; check out at the El Viejo Adobe is 11 o'clock, gonna miss this place.

The Hook Of Texas 10: The Old Gringo

At the top of Hancock Hill in Alpine is a heavy, old metal desk and I hiked 2 miles to locate the famed piece of furniture and give it a sit.  It's loaded with graffiti, stickers, declarations of love, and several RIP's.  The plastic chair is broken, but it still sat fine, my lunch view was insane.  Losing the path at one point on the way up, it was solo off trail hiking, but I had water, I had electrolytes, I had my directional wits, I was calm, it was quiet and colorful.  The brush was full of thorns, cacti of numerous versions made the terrain seem almost lush, especially far off, and I could see far off in every direction.

After a rocky decent, I took a needed rest to rejuvenate my eyes and clear my mind of the vast scenes.  The trip north to the Davis Mountains the following day would light up my senses once again.  Then it's south to Terlingua for a night to observe border realities and the darkest of dark skies.  From there, back up north to mystical and colorful Marfa for two days of bands, art, and freelancing.  This is a roadtrip of smaller roadtrips with the El Viejo Adobe serving as a peaceful home base, initially.

The afternoon was for beers and tunes.  Dropped in on Harry's Tinaja, recorded several tunes at The American Legion, then ended up at The Old Gringo Biker Hotel to hit the stage for a few songs.  Opened with Dark Sky, then the anti-classic rock classic, Neil Young And His Needles, and finally, Only A Woman to clarify the national gender debate.  The response was positive, a harmonica player and drummer jumped in quick, some in the audience were shook, there were hoots, there were hollars, everyone listened, an accordian player told me he really dug my stuff.  It was a wakeup call, an announcement of proceedings, moaning vocals, lingering notes, violent strums, booming tamborine foot stomps amplified the hollowed stage, it was time to get it on.

The Hook Of Texas 9: The Sky Was Everywhere

 

The Viva Big Bend brochure was an impressive piece of printed marketing.  It was jammed packed with information regarding the much anticipated music festival -- schedules, venues, maps, bands, shuttles, frequently asked questions, merchandise, sponsors, pricing, whisky advertisements, and the festival logo.  Since winter, this return trip to The Hook Of Texas was imagined.  Alpine local, Barry, had mentioned the event when we closed down Harry's Tinaja the previous winter; there and then it was decided.  There was more to see, there was more to hear. 

And here I was, same pad to start, El Viejo Adobe, across from Sul Ross University.  Drove in around mid-afternoon after cruising through the Monahans Sand Hills by bicycle and having my mind blown again by the horizontal and vertical scenes.  Big Bend was south, the Davis Mountains were north, Marfa was west, Marathon was east, and the sky was everywhere, electric blue with pillowing clouds.  The land was greener than before, but still rough.  Good for poking holes in, good for oil, good for natural gas, lots of storage tanks and pipes, lots of trucks.

After settling in, grabbing a few provisions from Porter's Supermarket, and eating a small bite, I headed out to Kokernot Field to take in the Alpine Cowboys vs. Austin Weirdos minor league baseball game.  It was the 75th Anniversary Night and besides the incredible beauty of the ballpark and its surroundings, the game delivered and the brisket nachos hit right.  Tough start for the home team, but they made it a game at the end with 4 runs in the 9th to only lose by five, 9-14.  It was their third loss in a row, but they got three more shots at the Weirdos before the Weimar Hormigas come to town for a weekend series.  In all, 23 runs, 28 hits, 8 errors, a few spectacular plays in the outfield, and several awful calls by the umpire.

The Great Wake 32: The Son Also Rises

 

Now comes the blackmail, inexplicable decisions are proof.  The bribes, we know.  Stupidity is the ultimate cover, brain decay sympathy gives a measure of grace, initially.  The dumb president strategy.  Brilliant in a way.

Only a person with no dignity and low class would go for it, to be known for being an idiot.  To have "Fuck" added to the beginning of your name, to get in trouble, to stink out the Pope and Queen Elizabeth.  The blackmailers are putting it in the face, rubbing and rubbing, smashing the nose.  The bribed have no way out, they are stuck in the shit, up to the eye balls, they can't even smell it anymore.  They become it.

But the heat keeps coming and eventually burns the scheme.  The son also rises, crack pipe in hand, surrounded by prostitutes and razor blades.  Then, spotted on front row at the White House honors ceremony.  Touching people.  Whispering into his father's ear.

Neil Young And His Needles

 

Tired of listening to the Beatles.
Neil Young and his needles.
That was in another century.
Years ago before technology.

Media is our modern fiction.
Another humanoid addiction.
Stories with a fucked up plot.
Twist your mind until it rots.

Tired of listening to the Eagles.
Classic rock should be illegal.
We've heard it a thousand times.
Memorized every damn rhyme.

Said what they had to say.
Said it loud, said it in their day.
Broke some strings and popped some amps.
Did some drugs, put em in a trance.

Tired of listening to Pink Floyd.
Brain Damage gets me annoyed.
Bricks in the wall are crumbling.
Thought control is rumbling.

Take it to the Board of Truth.
They decide facts for me and you.
They cash their checks on the side.
They hide their bribes in plain sight.

EDEA

The Great Wake 31: We're Not At War

 

But, we're not at war.  There's no declaration, we have no stake, nothing to gain, no boots, no heels, no nothing on the ground.  Only suspicious reasons and dubious rationales about the fate of democracy, uttered by criminals and gropers.  Stealing our money tank by tank, we know gas should be 2 dollars a gallon, if that.  Oily bribes lead to oily blackmail.

Pull up your pants old man, your ass is hanging out.  No way you could run a gas station, updating prices daily, stocking the shelves with goodies and cold drinks, keeping the bathrooms clean, lottery tickets, cigarettes, vapes, rubbers.  No way.  Leave the gas stations alone, fool.  Go back to studdering sanction threats, shaming caucasians, and smelling up the place.

All the country is holding its nose, even the hypnotized.  After abortion, guns, air, and vote counting went bust at the Supreme Court.  Guess those robes have some juice after all, about damn time they called it clean.  The legislative branch gets pruned in the fall, then this country could work it's way back, but it's still gone for now.  Up and gone.

The Great Wake 30: The Funk Brothers

 

No buyers for what they're selling, might as well put it on clearance.  Clean out the inventories, this product is a bust.  Whacked and crunchy, like eating sand, like New Coke, like a pet rock, like hair mousse, like parachute pants.  Grab a mushy tomato, this joke has no punchline.  Pelt all those involved in the debacle, use up the whole crate.

The Supremes left it right there, the sixties were the sixties.  Decide for ourselves, but cut the middle grease, ditch the schemes.  Baby Love and that polished Motown rhythm and blues.  The Funk Brothers were pros, they came to play.  Diana Ross never had it so good.

The brutes are replaced by robots, the brains are replaced by microchips.  This system needs a cold reboot, unplug for 5 minutes.  Cycle it through and relaunch.  Back to the original settings.  Like new.