jpaulgorman

  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 ...

  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, o...

  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 alo...