The Great Wake 61: Okee Doke

 

Rant some more, this is our debacle.  Talk to the wall, reason means nothing.  Teaching us a lesson.  Shouting us down.  Let's move on.

I'm okay, you're okay, okay or not, either way, it's okay  That's right, we'll be a'okay.  It's okay to be okay, and it's okay to not be okay, too.  Okay has its boundaries, okay.  Okee Doke.

We're flying above, it's only a few bucks.  Money's not hard.  Get a job where there's more pay and you're okay.  Come on in here boy, have a cigar, you're gonna go far.  By the way, which one's Pink?

The Great Wake 60: Cows Make Sense

 

Squirm worms, they wanna make you go "Eww."  But they got some value, too, think of the earth they slip through.  The grubs they eat, or is it the other way around.  Soil wars of the dirty kind.  In the mud.

The predictable logic of the pigmenters.  Stir that racial spoon, all you high tech lynchers, following their old white man leader.  Fred and Barney were cancelled long ago, no more gay ole times for them, and cave people times must have been full of boredom.  Even looking at stars gets old, but I'm projecting, they probably had games with sticks or coconuts, but I'm projecting, they likely skipped breakfast.  Morning was for hunting and gathering.

Berries, peaches, seafood was big, but doubt if oysters were eaten upon initial human discovery.  Or snails.  Guess they saw the animals eat each other and it was eat or be eaten.  No wonder we don't eat cats.  Cows make sense.

The Great Wake 59: Cancel Cares Of Woe Is Me

 

This chatter of chats and bits and rot and bots, designed to fill the glow waves with rubbish.  Clarity still has its place.  Rationally is the opposite of foolishly.  However, what is foolish can be rational, and what is rational can be foolish.  A paradox.  Any thinking person takes the blindfold off, and thinks.

Any thinking person takes out the ear plugs to hear better, we feel right and wrong, instinctively.  We got good guts.  A thoughtful perspective, without the cancel cares of woe is me and monetization freeze frames.  Intrusiveness is a certain kind of feeling, no one likes being an imposition.  The shallow have no room left, free'r living in the deep.

To think is not to be right, it's only to think.  What might be or become, or where we were or where we're going.  It's a constant state of movement and possibilities, imaginations and senses of humor.  Only a few in the deep make much of effort to listen before thinking.  These are the modern playwrights, those that capture the absurd.

The Great Wake 58: Bring The White To Light

 

The awful, awful white men I've known.  That slobbering, stuttering, spitting JV football coach, for one.  I blame him for my elbow dislocation in the 80s.  Dumb idiot, he didn't know nothing about history, either.  Told us The Great Society was great.

Anyway, the list goes on and on, those damn white men.  That one who almost intentionally ran over my pregnant wife.  That other one, Italian I think, who wouldn't honor his daily special coupon at Paseano's in Plano, Texas.  Then the one who tried to run my pastor off, Germans are so confrontational, babies when they don't get their way, demons when they do.  Worst white man in history came from there. 

Bono seems overrated, The Edge is the true glue of U2.  John McEnroe is a brat, Larry Bird can't jump, and Paul McCartney writes nothing but silly love songs.  All, white men.  About time we get to have our say, throw some shade.  Bring the white to light.  

Port Aransas On My Mind

Valentine's is gone.
Ride that love wave to spring.
Never meant to do you wrong.
Was just doing my thing.

You captured my heart.
A long, long time ago.
Figure we'll never grow apart.
Floating on our own love boat.

We're passing over now.
Ferry 5, it took some time.
I'd wait as long as it took for you.
Port Aransas on my mind.

Eating fish from the sea.
Drinking wine from the vines.
We all brought books to read.
Wake Lily up by 9.

Play that music low.
Something nice and smooth.
Jazz from the 50's or so.
Abby thinks it's cool.

Super Glue

 

Never replace what super glue can fix.

The Great Wake 57: Punk The Pushers

 

When officials begin talking about spaceships and aliens, believe none of it.  It's a scam, a diversion, a call out to the hysterical.  Next, it'll be air quality and solar flares, go inside everybody.  Then comes the harmful sound decibels, grab your muffs.  Hear no evil.

Pay little attention, the babbling words of nothing continues.  The easy life of observation, it's in your head, take up for yourself, keep your peace, they don't deserve it.  Rock it out if you have to, punk the pushers, destroy all the stratocasters and telecasters, get that high tone reverbed feedback.  Say anything.  These are cardboard people.

The serious are seriously living, knowing each heartbeat is a true miracle, knowing life doesn't last, looking forward with hope to what's next.  Days, seasons, years, let them transpire without any narration but your own.  You are witnessing exactly what you are witnessing-- our American Pie is nothing but a mess of crumbs and crust. Officials went to town, the evidence is evident, officials stole our country and pawned it off.  Unofficially, these guilty officials are guilty of treason.

Dallas Open Gonzo 7: Wu Waits For No One

 

The scheduling couldn't be better, by the time the Super Bowl began, I was exhausted.  Wu had just beat Isner in the Sunday Dallas Open singles final and I was riveted, it was like military tennis as someone put it:  rockets, bombs, whips, whops, giants, Chinese, Americans, laser beam line calling, offensives, defensives.  All 3 sets were tiebreakers, each player held numerous championship points.  Finally, Wu found the mid pace angle shots and Isner failed in the end, his crumpled miss at the net on one of his match points will likely haunt him a bit.  It was right there, he was just too tall.

Once again, the local tournament launched the tennis year big and bold.  Forget France, ignore Argentina, Dallas is where we got down to it.  The JD Miles piece about the cancer smashing ball boy was the best journalism of the tournament, the VIP Lounge is a waste of space, and Uomosport research indicates pickleballers are cheaper than tennis players.  Thrifty is thrifty, taste is taste, exercise is excersise, I prefer strings.  Pickleball is not related to tennis, its more ping pong, and there's nothing wrong with that, if that's your thing.  The gut feeling, the absorbing, the spinning, the cutting, the going for it, that's for me, myself, and me, and a few others, I'm sure.

Wu looked like a top 10 player; taking out Mmoh, Mannarino, Fritz, and Isner is no fluke, he's got demeanor, he's got the mind.  The Wu Cru, Wu Man Chu, Woo Hoo Wu, the Wudoo Voodoo, Who is Wu, Wu What, Wu Why, Wu Where, Wu When, Wu How, Wu Won.  Wonder if JJ needs a doubles partner, he could probably use some volly work, might be what's missing, might be his weakness, might be why he lost to Isner in the semifinals.  Get better or get behind, JJ, Wu waits for no one, and he won't wait for you.

Dallas Open Gonzo 6: Deal With It

 

The quick turnaround from a boozy Thursday night to a late breakfast meeting at Cafe Brazil was almost too much.  Obviously, I always stay below the .06 alcohol line, just to be safe, so the previous evening's drive home was smooth, curb to curb for my gals.  Nothing would ruin my mind more than a rookie, late night traffic cop asking me to recite the alphabet backwards--stay moderate, my friends, be in touch with your blood.  However, the Wolf/Tiafoe match was at noon, it was time to get down.  The delicious empanada breakfast hit right on, the Vantaggios were fed, caffeined, and grooved, ready for Quarterfinal Friday at the Dallas Open.

Think of the mid to late 80s tennis team of McKinney High School with a Berkner soccer punk thrown in when you think of the Vantaggios.  The tennis underground, the Kings Of The Courts, flashing modern fabrics and colors that pop, in it for the Grand Slams, in it for all peace loving tennis peoples:  the grassers, the clayfolks, the hardies, and even the carpetshags.  Regardless of surface!  We all grabbed tallboy Stellas (with complimentary tallboy koozies) and found our way to section 101.  A roadie named Bart, who looked official, said we could sit anywhere until we got kicked, we moved down nice and close. 

Upstart American JJ Wolf and Francis Tiafoe, a US Open semifinalist in '22, started the action at noon.  A three set, two hour banger, it became JJ's biggest win of his career, we howled his every ace, others began to howl, too, Francis glared at us.  He matched Tiafoe's strut, he matched Tiafoe's serve, he matched Tiafoe's cool, it could've gone either way, but Wolf was the bear this time around, he survived and arrived.  In the next match, Isner put the beatdown on Ecuadorian Emilo Gomez, the son of former French Open champion Andres Gomez.  Frankly, it was boring to watch the greatest server in the history of tennis again, but we take him for granted, he will go down as, we will look back and remember, it is obvious to all, Big John is Big John, deal with it.

Dallas Open Gonzo 5: The Quarters Are Set

 

By Thursday, most of the ATP riff raff is gone, anybody below a ranking of 100 or better is rare in the Quarterfinals.  Holt, out, Rybakov, out.  There are layers of talent on the tour, the top 3 has been Novak, Nadal, and Federer for the good part of two decades, an historical anomaly, but 64 Grand Slam tournament victories between them left little room for anyone else.  A few broke through--Andy Murray, Wawrinka, and Del Po--but none dominated.  No American took the court for a singles final during that time, but with the Californian Taylor Fritz, maybe we got a chance at one.

Fritz was playing Jack Sock at 7 and I had my family with me for the session.  Located in the swankiest part of Dallas, in Highland Park, the Styslinger Tennis Complex served as a fine host location once again.  My wife grew up around there and told stories as we walked from our street parking spot, Hillcrest and Mockingbird was her 1970's biking boundaries; my daughters were perfectly attired and peppy after a full day of work, they both had Friday off.  We were ready for action, Giron vs. Otte (oh-tay) was the late match.  Fritz was already blasting Sock when we arrived, it was the first set, we looked around, got some drinks, and shared some nachos, the girls were impressed with the scene, they googled, they giggled, they dug it all.

We caught the final set as Fritz finished it with little mercy, a big whippy forehand, and fearless angles.  He was gifted a Stetson cowboy hat after the match for no particular reason.  He dorkily put it on for a picture, but there's no pragmatism in a cowboy hat, and he took it off quick.  American Giron dusted Otte The German, 6-4, 6-4.  It was no contest, Otte's serve couldn't overcome his spray game, no way he can rally with the likes if Giron.  The Quarters are set:  Wolf/Tiafoe, Isner/Gomez, Fritz/Giron, Wu/Mannarino.

The Great Wake 56: Paper Kitties

 

Going in hard on airline service fees and burger joint talent wars.  "Look it up!  Look it up!"  You look it up, thief.  We definitely have a public health emergency.  "It matters!  It matters!"

Can't keep the racial spoon out of his mouth, the goat high tech lyncher himself.  Pigment made the man.  And plugs, of course.  Nothing but the balloon bafoon sucking on his teeth.  End this speech, we are in an altered state, diminished and groggy.

There is no hope in the capital city, we got nothing but lip singers and fakes.  Hollow shells of dust.  Paper kitties.  "Name me one!  Name me one!"  As the generals and judges sulk and frown on the front row.

The Hook Of Texas 22: Big High Bending Fade

 

Texas 118 going south from Alpine to Terlingua was foreign road, I'd previously only been on River Road or 385 from Marathon.  This was new and I wanted to take my time, I wanted to see the spots, hike the mountains, drink a beer at a roadhouse bar, walk around the Cactus farm, but it was mid morning, and I was on a mission to golf at Black Jack's Crossing in the border town of Lajitas, Texas.  I'd visited the place before, but never played, even met the mayor once.  It looked out of place, but perfectly sculpted into the barren, beautiful, busy land.  Evidently, you can bust one into Mexico from one of their tee boxes, if you hit it clean.

The day was incredible with massive skylines, huge fields of clouds, like upside down rows of cotten that went on and on into the horizon.  The course was practically empty, the cost was $295, I had two cold Modelos wrapped in koozies, stashed.  Nothing could make that Sunday go slow enough.  To describe the course is to fail to describe the course, even the spectacular pictures don't reflect the spectacles, it must be visited, played, sniffed.  An aquifer dug out decades ago waters the place, hydrologist say the well will last for another hundred years, still, they recycle all the water possible and don't dare drain the sacred Rio Grande.

Birdies on #16 and #18, two relatively short par 5's, knocked my score down below where it normally lands, it was a mercy laden, mulligan taking, short putt giving, roller balling 81.  From the short man's tees, distracted by digital photography and desolation.  Got the scorecard for proof, there was hardly anyone around.  This one nice couple from Austin let me through on the front nine and saw me hit a drive straight as a string, and I echoed celebrations as I dropped several 15 footers--trust me, they were just going in.  On the back nine I did hit a range ball into Mexico, plastered it clean, a big high bending fade.

Dallas Open Gonzo 4: A Magnificent Sound

 

As I walked up to the 2023 version of the Dallas Open, I was curious about the improvements from the inaugural tournament the year before.  Immediately, I cashed in on a free hat from BMW, all it took was a 2 minute survey regarding electric cars.  Last year, I got a lame water bottle for similar feedback .  This hat had the DO logo, was adjustable, and seemed like something I would wear.  The Monday noon session would allow me plenty of time to browse around, experience the layout, and watch professional men's tennis at our very own ATP 250 event.

Much had changed: the hospitality area was on the south end, hawk eye was now installed on the grandstand court, and the local residents seemed a bit more cool with the outsider parking.  I checked in on the Uomosport Apparel folks, they had new seasonal colors, the company model was also selling the goods, and their man (uomo in Italian), Jenson Brooksby, was out with a wrist unjury.  I made my yearly purchase, a hat and wristbands, they thanked me for checking in, but I still couldn't pull the trigger on their shorts.  $150 is just too much money for shorts.  After watching Denis Shapovolov slap smooth backhands on the practice court and browsing the other merchant booths, I headed to the grandstand court to watch German Elmar Ejupovic play American Alex Rybakov, a former TCU player ranked #376 in the world, I was seated courtside.

From the start Elmar seemed motivated, but off track, reading from a notebook after every changeover, I wondered what was written on those pages.  Whatever it was, it didn't work, Rybakov turned up the heat late in the first set, then finished him off on the 2nd set, 7-5, 6-3.  The next match featured Brandon Holt, son of former Wimbledon champ and American sweetheart, Tracy Austin, and Canadian Gabriel Diallo, a 6'7" giant with a huge game, a huge serve, and a huge future.  However, Holt held strong, playing solid defensive tennis and waiting on his chances.  Diallo hit every ball as hard as he could, all out with a magnificent sound; he'll be tough to beat one day, but he couldn't handle Holt's mental game and the American won 7-6, 7-6.

The Hook Of Texas 21: Ghost Choir

 

As I was saying, it's nice to know a few folks if you're on the road, out and about, traveling and discovering, especially if you're alone.  Humans were made for roots, deep and shallow, connections are hard to avoid, they become part of the excursions.  Earlier in the year, Viva Big Bend times, it was determined and declared by my main Alpine connection and friend, Barry, that he wanted to start a band called Cool Arrows.  I liked the name right off, and invited myself to join.  I'd written 4 to 5 tunes for the project, I'd serve as producer and sound engineer; I'd connect with Barry and his wife, Sara, when I got to town, I was prepared to make it happen, someone's got to push the project from idea to drop.

I had no studio, we had nothing nailed down or lined up, no songs, no additional players, no rehearsals, it was unclear if they were even going to be in town, last I'd heard from Barry, weeks prior, they could be stuck in Houston because Sara had just become a grandma. Babies are the most important people on this earth, God bless the babies, protect the babies from harm.  Thankfully, everything went smooth in Houston, and we met up at the Old Gringo downtown to hear the house band and check in.  I was a bit weary, still feeling the effects of closing down the Continental Club in Austin a couple nights earlier, but we developed a plan, the project was a go--we would record the entire album the following evening at El Viejo Studios, Barry would have 4 tunes, I'd have 4, we'd record three takes of every song, figured we'd need 3 to 4 hours, the Cool Arrows was just us for now.  Fewer the better in my mind, less moving parts, less audio clutter, less coordination, fewer dynamics.

The session went smooth, caught 8 solid songs on digital, we had an album.  We worked at a professional pace, recording over 30 tracks in all, we were beat by the end.  Tunes about sons and dogs on streets and generations and being someone different and Wednesday afternoons, with oooo's and ahhh's and stomps and dings, with sparse guitars and finished off lyrics, with trucker talk and Gil Prather's Mexican Moon.  Say what you want to say, and the Cool Arrows did--loud and low, amplified and whispered.  Almost like a ghost choir.