jpaulgorman

  Where to start?  Get better soon, Ray McCarthy.  You were kinda missed, but we made sure you were near, with a mugshot pasted on the left speaker stand, off to the side.  Joe Vanzant got his keys pedal going and filled in like a professional.  Only a 10 minute drive for him, he's practically a 177er now.  Adopted as their own.  Chris Allen brought the five strings of bottom and boomed the top of the red barn clean off.  The balcony patrons shivered.  Bill Bachman brushed aside the mute monitors and banged and brushed and cleaned off every tune like a Bachman should.  His grandfather, inventer of the 33rpm record, is tapping his toes somewhere, somehow.  He knows technology.  The Sing Bats arrived right on time and sang like they must've been from space. Effortless and flowing, like space women almost. Those space notes. Finally, and with more appreciation than the rest, our band leader, Mike Lowery.  His Evil Ways is still being discussed in local coffee shops and hardware

  Mutter all you want, these things move where they will.  Like continents, only countries and cultures.  We woke ourselves to a new reality, color explosions and razor thin skin.  It's too bad, chuckling and joshing each other was a blast, roasting was an art.  Things just don't seem funny anymore. I blame myself and God and the devil, of course.  Only perspective can change, the thing is the thing, uncontrollable as ever, a glowing pixel screen, a mighty megaphone, follower bots and ranters.  Get to a million and you can be somebody, those days are over.  For real.  For real for real. Because dogs are fed up, our attentions have been taken.  Cats, too, probably.  I wouldn't know, actually, they might not care.  Either way, enough is enough.  Let's all nap in the quiet, it's been a great wake.

  It's up for grabs every day and night, free will is real, although most don't recognize it.  Fate plays it's part, but these are problems we encounter, big and small.  If we want to.  And here, it gets dicey.   It's hard, we're removed, we're living our lives, going round and round, and spinning. Looking out my window now, so calm and peaceful, words effortless, sentences seamless, paragraphs of five.  The Great Wake was inevitable, America doesn't sleep in, usually.  We got drugged somehow.  Manipulated and done wrong, prolly slipped it in our drinks, like the Dallas bartenders do.  They hate you when they look at you like they hate you. Splash your face!  Do some jumping jacks, move around.  Then sit still and take a hundred deep breaths.  Think of space, we have never been at this place before, but don't think too long.  It'll make you crazy.

  The smartest of the cream crop got tricked so easily.  Time to reevaluate our cream crop standards.  Perhaps it was stirred too much, or too little.  Either way, our academic institutions have failed to cultivate and prepare the current batch properly, depending on what the context is or is not.  They giggle under their breath when they hate. The Deplorable States Of America seem chill to me, especially out in the country.  Never better.  The beaches are still hitting nice, the quiet rolling hills of parks and golf courses, the laughter of people doing their people things.  Many birds fly south in the winter, they love it down here.  Get away from the grumps near the brain numb, dead, and snooty Ivy league. The mocking will continue, the satire will expose them. The hypocrites will whine, like hypocrites do, depending on the context of what is or is not, anyways.  They do hate you with that look that looks like they hate you.  Usually, for your pigment tint, but it goes deeper.  The

  The enemies of saying are all around.  The offended, the frail, the waxy ears of hearing.  The burnt eyes of the uncomfortable, the truth hurts to read and see.  Even grey area is too much, the enemies of saying have no nuance, no understanding, they have below average grey matter. Their skin is sensitive and paper thin. But it's all fine, time will tick anyway, this thing doesn't go on forever.  Talk yourself out, but save some for later.  There is much we don't know, our intelligence is miniscule.  Discovery is finding out, like archeology, it was there all along.  Inventions, too. Ultimately, we know the end is near, but we know nothing about it.  Thank God for faith and hope, otherwise, shutter the thought.  Give up, worry no longer.  It's the most destructive state of mind, with it's sleeplessness and doom. Jus' saying.

  Ungratefulness is predominant, even Thomas Jefferson can't catch a break.  America was an illusion of an idea all along, unless our charity is needed, or our blood, or our smarts, or our music.  All that was real, it was glorious and tangible.  And now we have arrived at now, and now we have a problem.  We got no fight. Despite the marches, despite the flags, despite the bullhorns.  That ain't fighting.  Flimsy patriotism and common greed, equity obsession and resentment, moron inclusion and IQ diversity.  Dumb it down.  Just do it, where's the beef, 7-11 is making a big comeback. Make it all up, Jefferson did, but he was looking into the future, he manifested, he knew destiny.  These ungrateful, dim, depressing, do-nothings.  They are in control now.  Inevitably, the meek inherit what they do not deserve.  And, also inevitably, the brave wake and take it back.

  Can't believe Jimmy Buffett died. Eating cheeseburgers in paradise. Still got those island tears in my eyes. Can't believe Jimmy Buffett died. Can't believe Charlie Watts is gone. Drummed on every Rolling Stones song. The rhythm section never went wrong. Can't believe Charlie Watts is gone. Wish Merle Haggard was still around. Missed him when he last came to town. His mamma cried when they put him down. Wish Merle Haggard was still around. Just go Tom Petty, leave us too soon. Went solo, caught the fever of the moon. Find Nelson and Lefty, play some Wilbury tunes. Just go Tom Petty, leave us too soon. CFGC FFCC GCFC CFGC

  Prepared for months and weeks. Every note, every tune, every detail. Meticulous. The Silverleaf of Dan. All the lights, all the sound, on the marquee. Nantucket ride. No stopping now, sailor. Write the words, write the chords, write the tap tap. Melodical. Hunter S Thompson room. Filled with tunes, filled with art, filled with spacefolk. Those Frisco nights.

  None of this is serious, Loafing has no future. The irrelevant fellow, Decorations. The artist opens eyes, And the nature of sound. Find your own mantra, Chant like you like. Read this fine cosmology book, Why this idiocy. Like children making faces, Absolutely absurd. This babbling Hindu sound. Out of their heads. Fantastic sudden recognition, Getting hung up and hooked. Classical music of India, No legs being pulled. Everything is meaningless, The rhythm of life. Like the branches of a fern, Level it proper. We're all leaning on each other, One way or the other. *Notes on an Alan Watts lecture .

  Think I met a tater tot. Mighta been a glowing bot. They cried and whined and talked alot. But they made no sense. Said they wanted love and peace. But they couldn't keep the beat. Seems like they still got their baby teeth. Their small minds are dense. Don't tell me about their skin. Thinner than it's ever been. Come on, give me an Amen. Tater tots can't take a joke. They deserve it all. The mocking and the cat calls. Grow a pair of balls. I'll end it on that note. CCDGx3.GC

  As a one issue voter, Erwin Park must remain whole.  Loopholes, kickbacks, and wink winks aside, this is an essential municipal necessity.  Creekfront, Lakefront, Northside, Southside, The Jungle.  All of it.  Nothing we can do about the bulldozed century old trees. Happenings must be made transparent.  What, why, and what happens now?  Elections matter, the yard signs, the street signs, the suburban corners of red, white, and blue signs.  A captive audience.  The winners are our leaders, they are the city.   Run with it, know all about it, build upon the builders of the past.  Wheel, deal, make it real.  Parking garages, custom houses, acres and acres of land.  Carve it up, wish you good luck, make some money if you can.  Wolves will howl, dogs will bark, keep your hands off Erwin Park.

  The last of the Sri Lankan chutney was delicious, cinnamon is the spice of life.  Like butter for the New York Strips.  The season is upon us, watch for sales and free delivery days.  Take a break from the spooky and scary, the sky falls every day and night, regardless.  Time is a stalker. Wineries are the new ranches in Texas, profits are hard fought and subsidized.  The swag business is usually the money maker.  Trinkets.  No sighting of Willie or Waylon or The Boys, but Fredericksburg is a fine place to wear a fine hat.  The outlaws cleared out, went to Austin or Nashville to fake it, then make it. The wine was good, no sugar, all earth, the only wine worth drinking.  "Getcha some Mad Dog if ya wanna get smashed!".  Hold on to the good times, make them last and last, pause. Tanya Tucker knew all about Ridin' Rainbows in '77, left her lonely.  Vinyl hits different somehow.

  Laughing while relaxing away the morning.  Anxiety must be combated.  Only a temporary diversion from the reality of our times.  The gloomy and doomy, the pessimistic, the down.  Living inside a video game, waiting on our turns.   Charge up your laser beams, your gonna need 'em.  Lighthouse communications and code, radio waves and bicycle messengers, The Trek Express.  Lock blades at the ready, helmets on, protect yourselves.  Probably should go tubeless, thorns and shattered glass and stickers.  Spend your nights near the creeks, their echoes will carry. Canned food is overrated, dehydrate.  Lighter, better, easier.  Complications should be minimized.  Corn ain't gonna keep you alive.  Jerky is what the mountain people eat, jerky and seeds.

  When golden years turned to stolen years and your eyes turned away.  After afterglow went on the the road and we woke up in a daze. All the while, we've been wasting miles, should've been set free.  Since that time, a few minor crimes, nothing that made you bleed. From here, who knows, a single rose, I'm lost in this blasted town.  Not much for casinos, chess, or bingo, guess I'll just get on down. DCGC/GCG

  Shame has no rules, some avoid it, some ignore it, some embrace it.  The asses are showing up all over.  T-shirt worries, avatar confusion, something to protest.  Goldfish in a bowl, tadpoles in a withering puddle, flies on fly paper.  Marking time. Nights must be scary for a hostage, knowing they will wake up to their same reality.  Probably not sleeping much.  The leaders of the captors are eating a breakfast buffet this morning.  They got some decent sleep, it was quiet in Qatar.  In America, the justification rallies continue, it's a sad, and mad, scene. Maybe they'll get some bread and water today, but maybe not.  Still wonder if that Mayor of London asked about them, he seemed to know some people who might know some people who might know.  All the politicians and intelligence agencies and think tanks and holy folks don't seem to know much.  They still give speeches, though, for some reason.  Hope they get some sunlight today.

  The commentators are speechless and horrified, they escape into old habits, it can't be helped.  Oppression and freedom fighting justifications, suddenly a cry for peace.  But peace must be kept, it will not care for itself.  Only intention is needed, there will be peace.  But not now. The fall of D.C. games, the whacked out fools, the reds, the blues, the hoodies, the cooties.  But that's all fine, just fine, we got football.  Another dark winter from our leader, three in a row.  Cut the invite lists again this year, protect everybody with needles and masks.  Spy on us. The first thing will be the arrests and indictments, then we'll move to the trials.  Peers will be eager, ready to serve, ready to judge.  The evidence will speak for itself.  Bribes are easy, blackmail is hard.  Only the lonely know peace.

Like a flood, the next day is for assessment.  What's critical and what's essential.  Early morning start for the crews.  Chainsaws, trailers, blowers, sweepers.  By 9am, all is clean and neat and lush, the bike ride was fabulous. This town runs.  With the Reds, I mean Feds, on a self-imposed suspension, life is as it is here.  Fall has arrived, the torching of Texas is over.  Now the A/C's can take a break, most were outstanding, some inefficient, a few, broke.  Pop a window or two, get the drafts going. In Washington D.C., they are considering returning back to the Redskins, the Commanders just fell flat.  We need some native spirit, some cultivation of the land.  I'd sign the petition if I was there, but why bother.  Those punks still crowing 'bout the Smurfs.  As if Dave Campo wasn't 5-1 against them, despite Darrel Greene.

  Gimme that phone, need to talk to earth. Might be alone, but I'll be the first. Said we went there back in '69. It was a Kubrick film, it was all a lie. Let's break it down, so it's understood. U/V rays would've got 'em good. Shadows, radios, and thin space suits. Let's all agree, we've all been fooled. But that's alright cause here I am. Floating solo in this stainless steel can. A rocket for there and one for back. Been set on course, right on track. Walking on the moon soon. This time for real. Walking on the moon soon. This time for real. ED7/EA7D7A7 *cowrite EM.

  Everybody else wants to get back to life.  Everybody else wants to create something. Everybody else wants to enjoy the breeze. Everybody else wants to float around. Everybody else wants to rock out. Everybody else wants to high five.  Everybody else wants to hit a show.  Everybody else wants to meditate.  Everybody else wants to read some Word. Everybody else wants to ignore skin. Everybody else wants peace and love. Everybody else wants to go, go, go. Everybody else wants to say whatever. Everybody else wants to think originally. But cry babies must cry.

  Walk him out, he can still read the large print.  His legislative maneuvering and rules of order evoking are legendary, the leader of the minority.  The melting face of the Reds.  Supported by a fearless staff, the best proper uppers and downers around, always at the ready to break a fall.  No way they're gonna let him take another black eye. A staff infection has taken hold, the government professional class is oozing puss and its getting all over the citizens.  Get some gauze, cover it up, get your oxygen at night, it's too gross for others to see.  Go heal, perhaps a leave of absence.  These staffs are elder exploiters, elder abusers, and basic blood sucking leeches.  The staffs have infected the entire government. Morale is at a record low at the post office, the staff is frowning, they are moving in slow motion.  They do not care.  Everyone in line is frowning.  All the morning drivers were frowning, too.  The infection runs deep, it's in the blood, all the vital o

  This only ends one way, with cry babies in the streets, holding signs, holding each other.  Yelling about equity and billionaires and how so and so better keep their mouth shut (Theory Of So applies again).  Apathy is the real deal, shunning and mocking is the real way.  Leave them to their tiny chaos.  Let them cry it out, it's actually essential to develop the lungs, just keep the door closed, ignore them. It'll be the same burning of city trash cans and masked cowards standing in line, getting up in the personal spaces of unknown enemies.  A cootie alert'll be issued by some department or organization, supply chains'll snap, China, Russia, Ukraine, my Argentina, my Mexico, Oh Canada, all the way to Japan.  Hurricanes, fires, floods, and twisters.  Mother Nature, that bitch!  Woe is me, oh woe is me, woe, woe, woe. Go pay your bills, get a life going.  Perhaps two outlets, one creative, one active.  Move around, protesting is a waste, a net calorie disaster, espec

  The giddy kids were having a good day, they nibbled, they giggled, they snortlaughed.  Spittle is all over their camera lenses, holy guacamole, Spicoli.  Calm it down.  Perhaps it's better to get it out now, avoid a 2nd Civil War.  The duped, the manipulated, the knobs, the premature. Tough to go out in a mocking heap of shame, but they deserve it.  The low class society, beyond no class.  This is not a monetary situation, it's more about decency.  Revenge is the conscious of envy, envy is the subconscious of guilt.  Odd, nervous laughter is the soundtrack. Flex the union, it's more like rubber than plastic.  Time for some off roading, it can handle the rocks and canyons and rivers and gullies.  Those big shocks'll keep it going, bouncing and bumping.  Buckle up, grab a helmet, it'll be a blast.  It'll be a ride.

The Thursday night opener at Spicewood in Alpine was The Swifts, a local group with an electric folky sound, a banging cajon, and two sweet chick singers who sang about spilling wine, lost lovers, and bloody teeth.  Viva Big Bend Music Festival kicks in like a quake, people out there dance, they like to jump, twirl, scoot, slide, and sway.  I'm more of a neck nodder, a lone skeleton shaker.  Robotic movements wrapped around chaotic smooth popping, so I've been told.  Both my favorite daughters are tastefully excellent dancers, but it was too early for them to hit the floor, they were scoping out the scenery, they were watching the sun go down on the patio, they were magnetic. Then it was off to Railroad Blues down the road for the West Texas Exiles 9 o'clock show.  This rough rocking, telecaster driving, old hat wearing group was my personal Viva '23 favorite, stomping stompers.  They seemed like the real deal, a weary musical band of woe and wild nights, of vans and sw

  No answer from the fair squad, the tables got turnt.  These interrogators are out of practice.  The news is dead.  Fools on display, they are shells, nothing but fossil fuel.  A slow, controlled burn for now, but the sparks are flying, there's oil all over the floor. Manipulation media must be unwired and sent to detox.  Lights out at 9, no pills tonight.  Let's have a look around this dirt hole.  Hire more procecuters, clear the jails, line up the traitors, stock up on duct tape.  Surrender means nothing to us now, justice requires destruction. The ABC's of propaganda -- A. See no evil.  B. Hear no evil.  C. Smell no evil.  Ruined minds of the crowd, thick with psycho drugs and blurbs.  They are easy, but they have no spirit, no significant intelligence.  Numb, dumb, and zero fun.  Pretenders.

  The Chinati Foundation is a trip when first encountered, I knew my daughters would catch the ride.  We turned right to start the self paced tour, despite the arrows indicating left was the correct direction.  The field blocks could wait for the end, it was approaching 90 degrees, I wanted them to see the buildings first, while their minds were cluttered.  The untitled Flavin lights, Donald Judd's two enormous converted artillery sheds of perfectly placed aluminum sophistication, the car crash sculptures, and the coolest dance floor ever installed, all surrounded by the desert dirt, scrubby bushes, stickers like razors, and big red fire ants.  They were glad they wore their western boots. The creative gush was immediate, scenes of long hallways with diagonal fluorescent tubes of light --peach with green, yellow with blues, silloutes of dashes and lashes, then opposites, in six old converted barracks.  Then more shadows and installations and intentions along the gravel path; one b

Driving into Marfa for our first night, we were road weary and hungry.  We checked into our spot at Bohemio, a converted restaurant with several lush courtyards, comfortable accommodations, and an advertised 'beat writer' theme.  Not so sure a generation of washed out, pilled up, frenzied, broke, first-thought-best-thought drunks is what I felt when I walked in, but the girls were enchanted.  They had done the research, "This place is so Marfa cute," said one of my favorite daughters.  They went from room to room, they thought it was cool, they thought it was nice. Despite the hours of driving, we were energized, it was close to sundown, we walked to the nearby Piasano Hotel for dinner.  The grandness of the place is immediate, the architecture is unexpected, the food was delicious, we cleared our plates, we passed on dessert.  That night was a happy night, they were beginning to understand the ying and the yang of this dusty, disorderly, symmetrical place.  We walke

  The departure was typical, the city holds on as long as possible, the stops and starts of morning driving.  We zoomed west, my favorite daughters and I, on Interstate 20 after Ft Worth-- 78 MPH, then 83 MPH, then 88 MPH.  "Eight you're great, nine youre mine," a State Trooper once told me.  We saw 3 wrecks, all involving semi trucks, we popped and swayed to the radio, we talked and listened and listened and talked, we took turns, I mostly listened.  I assured them, I encouraged them, laughed with them, drove like an expert, maintaining highway space at all times, left, right, front, back, continuously scanning, darting my eyes. The Sand Dunes of Monahans was our initial destination.  The impressive mounds of sands, the wind whipped waves, ever photogenic; then a charcuterie board picnic of meats, cheese, granola bars, cherries, carrots, and Sun Chips.  "To me, sand is like gold," I cried.  It was a nice stop, both my favorite daughters were shook, they began

  "Imagine the hours of driving, imagine the right way to plot it, develop a skeleton of a plan.  To see the most, to hear the most, but not too much, certainly not rushed.  Make it easy, make it happen, you're not on your own anymore, man.  You've got responsibilities, you're now a guide, a scout, a catalyst."  This was my silent conversation with myself as I was planning a roadtrip to the 2023 Viva Big Bend Music Festival with my favorite daughter and my other favorite daughter. No more wandering aimlessly, digging everything in sight, gawking, driving in circles, blabbering nonsense, this was a different deal, time to put my travels to good use.  The music will hit, the Texas Tycoons, Butch Hancock, and Blan Scott return; the Los Texmaniacs, The Hot Tamales, and West Texas Exiles are interesting additions, and Doug Moreland at Château Wright near Ft. Davis on Sunday afternoon is a legendary closer.  He's the local musical prodigal.  Works with chainsaws an

  Threads, meds, feds, and baby beds. No getting away from what you said. No show no doze, don't get shocked. Can't take the dish, can't take the mock. Checkers, electors, psycho protectors. Line's over there for the vaccine testers. Mush, hush, shush, don't make a fuss. Take a long ride on the Barbie bus. Ding, ping, sing, give us any ole thing. Ban the bots that wanna to make us think. Ban the tan and the mean ole man. The dirty work of the Steely Dan. AmEmAmEm D Am

  The modern skin is the melting pot, all mixed and matched and unattached.  The results of our American experiments.  Squabbling will never fade away on its own, time to take the lead.  This old digital war of bans and glow bravery is burnt out.  Let it go, ya know. The hot haze has descended, it has covered the land and the lakes.  Sitting there with its high pressure and heavy air.  Fill up the lungs, they can take it, pop a tune or two.  The Dandy Warhols know the dilemma, they wanna be bohemians like you.  Cause they like you. But that makes no difference, these days are numbered.  They are yours.  Take them all in, the awoke, the asleep, the aloof.  Apathetic of circumstance, unaffected.  Chill.      

  Rusty pegs and long tan legs. Memories of a tennis club. Long before paddles and echos that rattle. When stringers were the biggest studs. Vantaggio, Sergio, Izod and Polo. Brands that have some flash. Zippers are out, rusted, no doubt. Just like Uomo's hats. Still got the the Slams, they're still grand. The Grass, the Clay, New York. Even down under, despite their blunder. Tennis is the ultimate sport. GC DG

  What a bomb.  Laughed off the stage, demented and weak, delusional and ignorant.  A murderous criminal, too.  Armed and dangerous, maniacal and deranged, gutless and heartless.  A pathetic American. The future will sort out the sordid details, but the future won't care much, let's all move on.  Remember the tyrants and the fooled tyrant followers.  Put their words inside their mouths, put their writings up their wazoo, put their hypocrisy in lights.  Mock alot, they deserve it. Tell us another folksy story about the good ole days in Scranton, about most of your grandkids, about most of your blood offspring.  The patriarch, the trunk of the tree, the rock of the family, the man.  Shuffle on, find a seat, you look a little withered.  Karma has taken its toll, but it's got a long way to go, this is a dirty person.  The fruit of his spirit seems rotted.

  This undreamy reality.   Another caravan, another expert, let's argue some more.   It's the natural way to roll.   When you're hopeless, when you're tired, when you're maximized.   Keep the mind, ignore the nerves, be quiet.

"Sorry about that 10 grand. But Pell Grants are off the charts and if you become a teacher, we got your back.  Wink, wink, ya know.  Where's the crapper, I gotta go.  These tamales are rank around here.  Bust a gut, King Tut." Then he stumbled away, like a fool.  Back to the mask, back to his room.  Jacked up on needle juice and ludes seemed to me.  Summon the White House Docs!  Who's drugging this man? Face facts.  This is bad news, and a drop in the bucket.  Think of all the other guilty greasers, red, blue, white, grey, gay, straight, black, and otherwise.  Selected, elected, and protected.  The bribed tribe.

  The art was empty, void of creativity and void of cool.  Nothing could be seen beyond 3 shades of purple.  Dark purple to spoil, purple purple to make it rain, and of course, the insecure, envious shade of lavender, the weakest shade, the shade with no soul, the flimsy shade.  No heart art is all purple is, ugly art.  Boring art. Not worth the price, not worth the time, not worth the attention.  Port-A-Potty art, complete with flies on stink.  Bad breath art, stay 10 feet away.  Soft art, you catch the drift.  Blank art, like it's not even there.  Loser art, the kind that doesn't matter. Let others paint with purple.  Let others admire its lameness.  Let others fall for its scam.  Let others chase its bland tint.  Let others care about purple.

  While the young die, the old congratulate themselves and claim courage.  For geopolitical reasons or some other crucial and brave action.  The money men and women make hawkish or doveish remarks and are hailed as fighters, so brave to rip everyone off as they're ripping them off.  Takes gall, grease, and guns, these are dirty people. Created a dung dynasty right before our eyes.  Full of debauchery and shameless souls.  Built on the backs of pigment pimps, like the pigment pimps of the past.  No surprise, the High Tech Lyncher leads them.  His brain decayed long ago of rot thoughts, his hands crave the grope, his nose knows a good rejuvenating conditioner when it sniffs one. All this is known, the real suckers are the suckers; the following, wallowing mass of whiners, blinders, and five-and-dimers.  The poor ole me's, the weak in the knees, the tics and fleas, the pricks and sleaze.  Glowing heads in baby beds, agents, officials, and nine types of Feds.  At the end of rainb

  Yep, free and clear, on our own.  Nobody to say nothing about nothing, nobody to tell, nobody to point.  A good reminder in the middle of summer.  Imaginations running wild, a disaster around every corner, a price tag on each one.  Shake, shake, shake it down, sway over here, moonwalk over there. Closing the government, trading markets, and banks is the least we should do.  Take a break from the games, trivial and lame.  Hydrate, do what you want, meditate, free up your mind.  The clutter is stuck to your brain transistors, the gruel is self-induced, the confusion is intentional.  Thoughts that soak are thoughts that float. No trifling, no pity, no shame.  A reminder of the sound of chains, let my people go.  The demand of our nation.  Freedom is cheap now, it's free, it's ours to take.  Paid in full.

>>Comparison of Used Cars and Used Dads.  A lot in common... ^^Used Dads are beat up, dented, scratched, scarred, and sputtering. ^^Worn out, worn in, broken, smoking, and hoping.  "Lord, just get me there." ^^Used Dads are familiar with rejection and neglect, it's an important skill.  Some sit idle for months, years even. ^^Bad spark plugs, cracking belts, bubbling tint, dents, missing rims, and bald tires. ^^The golf course is the junkyard of Used Dads, not many New Dads around.  ^^Used Dads have great stories--roadkills, hydroplanes, burnouts, bugs, skid marks. ^^ No big deal being a Used Dad, nothing that can't be replaced, or fixed up, or taped up, or polished up, or waxxed up.  Or, ignored. ^^Run long enough and a Used Dad might become a classic.  Find himself in a parade.  Live in a garage. 

  The people with no courage were easy to identify.  They were the loudest, but they were the weakest and the whinyest.  They showed their ass over and over.  Without end.  Buttholes, basically. They stuttered cliches and spit when they talked.  They denounced pigment color and hated men for some reason.  Even the men with no courage hated men, a twisted mind fuck if there ever was one.  So twisted, people everywhere started cutting off their private parts at a record pace.  Even worse, licensed doctors actually did the cutting. "Whatever," I said, "And nevermind, too."  Nirvana is in your own mind.  Your own thinking is enough, courage follows conviction and conviction is created by knowing.  Courage is handling the truth. You knows what you knows, light's a cold blooded truth teller.

  'What if it was true' fuels the charade, the boogie story, the shutter, shutter, shutter.  Land of the ruled, home of the cowards.  We tilted over, we took on water, the life boats were deployed, the captain is nowhere around.  Jumped ship way back, I ain't sinking to the bottom.  Went cast away, went floating, saving my life for some other final fate. Not here, not now, not like this, all the sellouts making out.  Walking among the ruins, all teeth, all glitter, all rot.  It was imaginary all along, the Yankee Doodle Dandy.  It was blah, blah, blah.  There is no Spirit Of '76 left, the scoundrels have sucked it dry. A liberated mind thinks it out, hysterics and hope have no place.  Hissy fits are for chumps with dust in their eyes.  Outrage is for maniacs addicted to mania.  Conclude what you will, not what you're told, the mush has no taste.  Trendy is out, as always.

  Like a bolt, the truth gets out.  Tell it like it is, tell it like it was, the past tense is appropriate, unfortunately.  The old way was better, respect and taboos, dignity and shame.  God or country?  It's no contest, line up the fools, the patriot parade is over there on the patriot parade field. Any union must be both ways, the governed and the government, implicit trust and light, to the end, without escape, without injury, without betrayal.  By the book, out of the grey areas and mushy middle.  Have some courage, these proxies are for cowards and tools.  The downside must be harsh, otherwise, it's too easy to abuse power.  Might end up funding a dubious Eastern European War or might solicit bribes or might become a pigment pimp. Our baseball is boring.  Our apple pie is sour.  Our Chevrolets suck.  Let's be real, reality ain't taboo no more.  Nothing is.

Pride, pride, pride, pride, pride.  Aww man, such a complicated emotion.  Too much, you get full of yourself; too little, you get run over.  Given or received is what matters, solicited or unsolicited is critical, look at me, look at her, look at him, look at Jim, look at slim, point, point.  It's exhausting, Francis. Make your parents proud, dangit.  Be what they want you to be, and more importantly, what they don't want you to be, either way, or both ways.  Keep the embarrassment down, don't embarrass your parents, for God's sake and the sake of other possible supernaturals.  Pride is dignity in a way, protect your own, don't act a fool.  Don't be a dick. Flags, schmags. Who cares about a flag?  Burn em, churn em, get em off the poles.  Flags never done nobody no good ever, can't remember a flag doing anything for anybody, mainly shouting and shooting and scamming.  Never follow a flag, it's not worth your pride, it's not worth your dignity.

  The big bosses all got together for talks about spooking the people into line.  You know the ones, the boogie club.  Men and women and men that want to be women and women that want to be men.  All of them.  Starve 'em out with supply chain and drout news, not a drop of rain in northeastern Kansas for weeks, woe is the woe, it woes and woes. Fertilizer is what really scares the smart gullible people, they see the root of the problem, they just fall into the trap.  But the truly smart people don't worry about fertilizer, because there will always be fertilizer, just as there will always be a future.  The skin in this game, especially the skin tone, doesn't matter much, but it stings less if it's thick.  Thin skinners get road rashed, they stay scabbbed and irritable, nervously picking.  Bleeding from the edges. Light does have a way, truth breaks through.  A hundred years from now, people will remember the chickens, the marching ants, the fraidy cats.  Thou shall not

  I'm just waiting on my crash, The fire sale is gonna be hell, But I'm loaded up with cash. Tracking the ratios and shorts. Whether it's covered or just smothered. It's a little out of sorts. He talks, on no!  Jerome Powell. Eloquently he speaks, recklessly he cheats. Like a foolish wolf he howls. Play it like a wall street wiz. Take a quick trip, buy on the dips. Done like the market sharks did. Waiting on my crash. Waiting on my crash. Waiting on my crash. Waiting on my crash.

  Lightening was flashing, the thunder was loud, but the showers held off long enough, Day shot a final round 62 to win the Byron by 1 stroke.  His chip in, his drained putts, even his lay up on 18, all professional, all executed.  No wonder he won a major, no wonder he won this tournament twice, no wonder he was #1 in the world a few years back.  He zoned in, he locked it up, he took it.  Mamma Dening was resting in pride, his baby mamma was glowing, and his new cowboy hat gave him that James Dean Giant look. A five year cold spell can test any professional in any profession, but at 35 his game is back, his back is back, and his gonzo strut is back.  Watch out, this version of the PGA Tour is watered down a bit (LIV Golf does exist.), Day could go on a run, collect several more wins, add to his 13, including one Major - the 2015 PGA Championship.  In addition, he has 4 Europen Tour victories and 3 Runner Ups in Majors.  He doesn't seem to whine or complain or moan or bitch or gig

  Even Scheffler gets beat down.  Majors don't matter on a Saturday in May on the 17th Casino Hole in McKinney.  Boos rightly reigned down in him and Palmer after coming up short.  Canadian Mackenzie Hughes came through with a solid tee shot, but he'd fallen off the leaderboard in the Texas wind.  Hang in there, Mac, you've still got a chance at a big check on Sunday.  Money matters, and every stroke has a price tag on tour.  Miss a 4 foot putt, lose out on $75,000, blast a drive out of bounds, $150,000, blade a sand iron, blade it back, that's a $225,000 triple bogie.  The winner of the event will get $1.7 million, 2nd - $1.04 million, 3rd - $650 grand.  If he holds his 54 hole position of 15th, Mac'll bank $173 grand.  Not bad, but every bit of his Saturday 73 hurt to the wallet bone. Scheffler is 2 back, tied with Day, Kim, and Norrman.  Local resident Marty Dou, Amarillo's Ryan Palmer, and Okie Austin Eckroat start their Sunday rounds tied for the lead at

  My shoes wore out.  Following the Scheffler/Day/Lee group for the final 6 holes of their 2nd round was like being involved in some sort of mass movement.  People jockeying, outsmarting, speeding ahead, staking out their spots.  It was orderly and deliberate, outside the ropes, quiet and muttering, uptight and awkward.  I bailed for the final hole, enough is enough, the heat was picking up, I was out of water, it was almost noon, I was hungry. Then, the Theory Of Proximity was validated once again.  Big Cat Chuck sends me a note regarding a suite ticket for the 17th Choctaw Casino Par 3, the most preferred ticket at the tournament, the most coveted, right by the green, lit and tricked up, short and unpredictable.  He knew a somebody that knew a somebody else that knew the right people for the right reasons.  Evidently, I wasn't his first call, but I was on the semi-short list, and on a Friday my flexible occupation as a writer served me well, I was already on scene.  He appreciate

  I made an early arrival on day one of the Byron Nelson.  After months and weeks of preparation, the PGA tournament was on, players were already ripping drives, dropping putts, and doing their thing despite the spectacles.  Their's is a silly craft, requiring mental steadiness, technical swing execution, and emotional control.  If they get it right, they can cash some big checks, if they waver, others will cash the same big checks.  Golf doesn't care. The TPC Craig Ranch in my hometown of McKinney, Texas was in ideal condition, despite the spectacles, the greens keeper here really knows how to make the grass happen, the wide fairways were spongy, the greens were true, the rough was rough.  The professionals were winning, low round on day one was 11 under from The South Korean Noh.  Several finished way under, low scores were had, a bird feast was underway, even the afternoon Texas winds didn't ruin the meal.  Most of the names weren't household--McCracken, McNealy, Mc

  Let the trashers trash it out somewhere else, there ain't no camping here.  Clear out those tents, get a room, get going.  Beggars over there, out of the street, you're a hazard.  Go knock on the church door, or city hall, or some other institution, but there ain't no camping here.  Get going.  This is the southern war, our battle royale, our Alamo.  No telling the blood already on the streets, no telling the killing already done, no telling what's next, we're already in the soup, we're being stirred.  Our leaders are leading us into the line of fire.  We've been abandoned.  Left for dead. The mops and slicksters are devouring the milk and honey.  Gluttony on an international scale, feeding themselves like frenzied flies, shitting wherever they land.  Like common bandits and robbers.  Heap your pigment shame upon the heap of pigment bullshit already heaped.  No one cares.

  The pray haters are at it again, demanding we cease all prayer when we need it the most.  Thoughts, too.  Worthless, they say.  Do something, they insist.  Somebody else is at fault, somebody else is to blame, somebody else must pay, the murderer is dead. How dare we pray, how dare we think, how dare we, how dare we.  No burning, no looting, no bashing windows, no signs, no fires, just a sad sunset, a sad ending to a Texas day in May.  Right up the street.  The politicians will stir it up, Beto will show up to point his finger.  Racial scavengers will swoop in for a meal, the sickos. But, both my middle fingers are for the pray haters, the worst of the worst.  More of a fuck off than a fuck you, won't even ask them to join in, they can sit the prayers out.  I've got nothing for them, no suggestions, encouragements, or well wishes.  No nothing.  Go.