Band Practice 2: Pablo Picasso Project

The song list was out there, out there out there.  Amos made sure we had communication and coordination.  He was running with it, chords, lyrics, ideas, his Zappa Minor Scholar street cred was really showing up.  Wednesday night it was, at the Hunter S. Thompson sound room in Frisco, 6-9, hard stop, let's see what we have here.  The Pablo Picasso Project was ready for noise, we have a live performance sometime, somewhere before November 18th, evidently.

I was beat when Amos picked me up for our first practice session.  After 27 holes of extreme heat golf, I had this woozy feeling and the sinking doom of unpreparedness.  Hadn't practiced once, just a quick glance at the tunes, but I had recently acquired a 1964 Gibson J-45, and figured I could wing it or fake it or just add some little extras.  Supergroups are the best, somebody gonna bring something almost always.  Everybody gets to coast a bit, like a ride or a dream.  

Ugly Matt was there when we arrived.  A guitar making, guitar playing, vagabond from L.A., he could do anything and was prepared to rock, punk, pop, or bang.  He was ready for something he told me on a garage break, something to sink his teeth into, timing has its own timing, ya know.  We nailed down 5 tunes easy and without internal angst, Amos was finding our way through, leading from the back, flexible and booming, "Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole!"  The third take was a masterpiece, wish I had it on tape.

Band Practice 1: Spitting Tyrant

Inspired by the late 70s punk scene and lit by a nagging call to music making and band association, Amos set his course.  And ours.  Some sort of execution mandate and mysterious ability to form a thing.  Written down and visioned, willed into existence.  Proposed and agreed to, declared and acknowledged, a done deal.

Every mountain needs a pass, every bird needs wings, and every band needs a bandleader.  A foul-mouthed, demanding, sweating, spitting tyrant.  He was none of those things.  His initial recruitment focused on the leftover husks of the Men From Nantucket, a guitar constructor of wild talent, a young bass prodigy, and a list of possible drummers.  So backwards and unconventional, upfront and invading, outlandish and gutty.  

Any band with an ounce of a drop of a chance to do anything groovy or spastic or clean or dirty must have a name.  Amos immediately voted to dust off Some Dude Named Amos, his cover band of the late teens and early 20s, like voting mattered in a band.  Already been done, no do overs in music, no Jefferson Airplane becoming Starship crap. Mork Square, the lead guitarist, offered Metallic Salmon, Forever In Cream Jeans, and others; I offered up Eye Crust, Squizz, and Pee Cans.  No telling where this whacko band of limping, brain demolished, blind, and deaf bandits land, probably be a big flop, but maybe not, we got bassist Ace Square.

Our Party

The local scene is the epicenter of the edge of the thing.  My county over country approach is now active and in constant alert status.  To spit in the face of 800 citizens and vote 7-0 the other way is a blaring horn.  A certain gesture in a double gesturing manner to the citizens of my great town.  And the predictable double gesturing from the citizens back to the city council, produced a recall petition to sign.

The mayor, a man of little words and smaller ethics, seems befuddled.  The former mayor, full of unfiltered bullshit and goofy glares, seeths at the inquiries.    This house of cards seems flimsy, brokers and builders and busted budgets.  Ramifications are only ramifications 'til the assaults go down, then it's retaliation.  The goons are out, it's a public fight. 

Here comes the chaos, the light, the sledgehammers.  Been happening since time was known, especially when the industrial age hit.  Bandits and robbers, fraudsters and slicksters, interlopers and the weak within.  This is the opposite of peace.  This is our party.

Simple Day

 

This simple day.  Blood pressure spot on, coffee came like I like.  No back ache today, no indigestion, no weird tooth thing or eyeball twitch.  Both feet painless and flexible, both hands gripping tight, no tendon issue or thumb jam.  Spine basically straight.

And the air, the refrigerated air, streaming strong inside through ducts and vents.  Fans swirl the cold throughout.  Essential technologies of last century.  Television is off, as usual, music hits so much better in the morning.  Without the stress and worry, with some truth and telecaster solos.

And the cancers stayed away another day, not everyone is as fortunate.  No scans for me, no regular check ups, we'll wait for the blood to appear, or some collapse or cardiac event.  Been down that road, always made it back.  So far.  Enjoy the simple days, complications ahead.

Pot Hole

 

To use as a prop, like rodeo clowns, like duck decoys, like shiny objects, like a lock box from the 90s.  Fooling the ignorant people with nothing to lose.  They've never been there, they don't plan on going, the ignorant people have other things, less significant things, to whine about.  We don't want whiners anyway, they have no impact on society.  We want the mockers, out of their heads, into their hearts, finding their guts, bleeding and beat up.

Mind your own business, get water to the population, do some schooling, fill a pot hole.  Your progress is giving me stress.  Untouched, the way we enjoy it.  Remote, the way we like it.  Leave it as you found it, litter is unacceptable.

The chants won't stop, the ridiculous conventions, and parties resembling shit shows.  Like that Jaffe tune.  Glad I'm on the record, but it's a small gesture, nothing will stop the ruin.  Like all empires on Earth are ruined.  Weak officials did this--Blue, Red, and Otherwise.

  

No Wall

(Chorus)

I don't want no wall.

No, I don't want no wall.

I don't want no wall.

At all.

Let's have a little fun.

Beat on some big ole drums.

Listen to Two Tons.

Of Steel.

(Chorus)

Wish I had a vote.

All I gots is notes.

Wonder if their bullshit floats.

In beer.

(Chorus)

Jamming at Railroad Blues.

Planet Marfa gives me Exile juice.

Sometimes it's so tough to choose.

But I have to.

(Chorus)

Look at those mountain scenes.

Like something from a Martian dream.

Supposed to leave it pristine.

It matters.

(Chorus)X2

GCGDD7

Leadville Or Bust 6: Incommunicado

 

The filet mignons were delicious and cooked to perfection, Quincy's was some kinda restaurant, pure 70s and doing it right.  Crispy cold salads, loaded up baked potatoes, bread&butter, and a fine 12oz cut wrapped in thick sliced peppered bacon, dinner hit nice.  We had a boozy Tuesday in Leadville after the late night cancellation deflation.  Brown handled it well despite the long hours of preparation, he brushed off my lame attempts at finding meaning in the decision.  Air quality was the headline reason, stress on the over stressed city resources was a factor.  It was the right call, the Willow Fire smoked and smouldered 4 miles west of town as we drove in earlier in the day.

As usual, the town was calm.  We headed over to where the race would have began, a steep hundred foot climb starts the Silver Rush MTB50.  Riders push or carry their bike up the  wall-like feature, no other race of any kind starts in this maniacal fashion.  We unloaded our bikes and rode the paved 12 mile Mineral Belt Trail up and around the old mining operations of two centuries ago, 2 miles above sea level.  At 10,200 feet, Leadville is the highest town in all of America.

After the ride, we went on an early afternoon bar crawl.  The Manhattan Bar, the Scarlet Tavern, the Silver Dollar Saloon, we bellied up to their mostly empty bars, we drank beers, we bantered with bartenders.  Our gratuities were generous, the financial woe of a measely winter and smokey summer was evident.  At our final bar stop, the Silver Dollar Saloon, we sat in the booth Jimmy Buffet wrote the song Incommunicado on the day his friend John Wayne died in the summer of 1979...

Tell me where do I go from here

Think I'll ride into Leadville and have a few beers

Think of Red River or Liberty Valance

Can't believe the old man's gone.

After Quincy's we drove back to Gold Park #7, the night sky was clear and stars were bright, the Milky Way was showing off, and it was all fine, just fine.

Leadville Or Bust 5: Postcard Colorado

 

Although the Hornsilver campsite was a fine plan B destination, it was close to the road and loud.  Guess Harley's sound the same everywhere, but the echoes off the massive cliffs amplified the famous sound over and over and over.  Despite the scenery of awe and top notch facilities, we had to find another plan.  On a tip from Robert, our campsite host, we found Gold Park campsite spot #7.  It was 7 miles off the main road into the huge mountains, valleys, and streams of premier postcard Colorado.

We found our spot.  The race was 6 days away and Brown needed to lay low, no riding.  Rest and lung acclimation was his priority.  He hadn't had a drop of alcohol in 6 weeks and rode 400+ miles per month to prepare, his body was a mountain biking machine, he was ready.  Also, he felt his nutrition improvements could give him an extra edge--what to eat, when to eat, where to eat, how to eat, and why to eat.

Three years prior, in his first Silver Rush MTB50, Brown barely missed qualifying for the 100 mile Race Across The Sky, otherwise known as The Leadville 100, the big daddy mountain bike race of them all.  After watching Belgium team destroy the USA squad in the men's World Cup round of 16 at the Famous Bar, we headed back to Gold Park #7.  It was dark and quiet as we hit the hay, Homestake Creek rumbled and tumbled nearby.  "The race is cancelled," he said as I was just dozing off.

Leadville Or Bust 4: Mountains Over 14K

 

Like hurricanes, like cyclones, wildfires are named.  Usually, by the first responders or dispatchers and after the nearest geographic feature--like a road, creek, mountain, or landmark.  No people companies or slag according to protocol.  Communications cannot be vauge and tacky when the flames are hot and the wind is whipping.  

As we started west from the Interstate, we drove south of the massive 82,000 acre Aspen Fire, the third largest in Colorado history.  Highway closures, evacuations, and thousands of fire fighters, the northern sky was a white cloud of smoke.  We drove on, eventually getting near the Willow Fire, less than 5 miles from Leadville.  No staying in Half Moon campsite near Turquoise Lake, the campsite and the lake were closed.

Plan B was to go north through Leadville to the Hornsilver Campsite near Red Cliff.  It was open and elevated, right off the road between massive rock cliffs on both sides and several 14ers (mountains over 14k) stacked and shaded, still burning, still smoking, but partially contained somehow.  The best firefighters in the world were snuffing it out one hotspot at a time.  We saw them during our earlier slow roll through Leadville-- magnificent, well equiped, organized.  The town was calm, by Tuesday we'd know if the race was on, we were optimistic.

Leadville Or Bust 3: Cinnamon Colored Black Bear

 

The cinnamon colored black bear looked at us with a frozen shock. It was strolling down the Capulin Volcano road looking for whatever, sort of goofy and cartoonish, unaware and slow.  The 20 yard face off lasted 45 seconds, then the cinnamon colored black bear took a dive off the road and ran down the steep elevation fast and reckless.  We stared it down, we stared it off, we couldn't hardly believe what we were staring at.  According to my wife, Capulin Volcano averages one bear sighting per year.

With renewed adrenaline we pedeled on, eventually reaching the Capulin volcano rim, eventually taking in the 4th Of July sunset from 8,182 feet.  Each rock in the distance was an ancient spark from the largest firecracker of the past 60,000 years.  Volcanoes do what they want, when they want, kinda like Americans. The dark ride back to the Capulin RV Park was fast and free, 5 miles of coasting.  It was a cool night, we slept deep and easy.

We departed early the next morning, no reason to hang around Capulin RV Park.  The hot water don't work, the laundry room isn't a laundry room, and the caretakers of the place own loud dogs.  It was for sale and it showed.  With no news on the status of the Silver Rush MTB50, we headed west and hit the Colorado state line at 9am, Leadville was near.  We could smell it.

Leadville Or Bust 2: Palo Duro Morning

 

As a mountain bike rider sidekick, it's important to be a rider yourself.  It just is.  Within 24 hours of being in Palo Duro, we took 4 separate rides, 35 miles of climbs and decents and rough canyon trails through incredible scenes.  Legs don't build themselves, lungs don't acclimate automatically, every mile is earned the way all things worth developing are earned.  Brown took off, he had specific preparation objectives, he was testing out a pesky rib injury.

Palo Duro is a marvel of nature, of course, but also of New Deal intention and labor.  Paved roads, campsites, huts, and a visitor center.  Panhandle Texans with their cars and post WW2 boom we're all over it from then on out.  I'm embarrassed to be a first time visitor at my advanced age and lifelong Texan status.  Better late than never, the 2nd largest canyon in America is worth the visit, enough said.

Tuesday's the day we'll know more about the Silver Rush MTB50, on or off or in between, its irrelevant to our movement.  We must continue towards Leadville.  Independence Day started with a French pressed Palo Duro morning, a fine and delicious hamburger at the Palo Duro Trading Post, and a drive to Capulin RV Park.  From there, an evening ride to sit atop the Capulin Volcano is planned. Should be a hazy New Mexican sunset, the smoke is close.         

Leadville Or Bust 1: Into The Smoke

 

Fires raged in the Rockies, it was unclear if the 2026 Silver Rush 50MTB in Leadville, Colorado would even occur.  We checked for updates and speculated, but we set out west, as planned, on the 1st of July without fear, without worry.  Brown was entered and paid up, his second Siver Rush 50, I signed on as medic, media coordinator, and part time chef.  Every mountain bike rider needs a crew.

The webpage description of the race...

Put your grit, guts and determination to the test with a 50-mile course that packs more punch (per mile) than even the mighty Race Across the Sky. From technical climbs to high-speed descents, the Silver Rush 50 MTB takes riders across Leadville’s breathtaking panoramas and under the shadow of 14,000-foot Rocky Mountain peaks. With 8,000 feet of elevation gain over 50 miles, Silver Rush offers the perfect trial run — and qualifying event — for the Race Across The Sky.

I'll do what I can, stay silent when best to stay silent, speak up when when needed.  Keep the tunes down in the evening and up in the afternoon.

By the end, it's 2 nights in Palo Duro canyon, 1 night near the Capulin volcano, and 8 nights in Leadville.  Plan A, but we got plan B ready to plan, and plan C if it comes to it.  Even our plans have plans.  But, somehow, through it all, we have no plans.  We'll know by Tuesday, the race organizers wrote, head this way, stay close.  It's Leadville or bust, into the smoke.

Dumpster Diver

 

I'm a dumpster diver.

Cold blooded survivor.

Went dumpster diving.

For my phone.

My dog was restless.

Been making messes.

Before I dove in,

Took Teddy home.

Couldn't call nobody.

Was a super hot Friday.

Meeting my kin folk,

Gotta get my phone.

One of those big ones.

Not one of the little ones.

Had to get a step stool.

Coulda broke a bone.

The minute I jumped in.

The smell was something.

But I kept going,

I was all alone.

And I got it.

Yes, I got it.

Good God, I got it.

I got my phone.

Only now I think back,

Nothing could hold me back.

Was on a mission.

Into the unknown.

Dumpster diver.

Cold blooded survivor.

Went dumpster diving.

For my phone.

*Laney Gorman co-write.

GC

G

D

G

Like Nothing

 

Like eating cardboard for days.

Like heavy air full of silence.

Like a sharp edge of ice.

Like a suit hung up in a bag.

Like a drooping and dying flower.

Like a sentence of some sort.

Like an ignored bumblebee.

Like a flickering candle flame.

Like nothing.

Golden Tempo

 

Renegade, Albus, Intrepido.

Wonder Dean from Japan made the show.

Sunday Silence was his great grandpa.

Won the Derby and Preakness, almost won 'em all.

At the Post Parade they all colored up.

Litmus Test going for the Derby Cup.

Great White scratched by the vets.

Flipped his rider before the field was set.

So Happy and with Further Ado.

Incredibolt and Chief Wallabee, too.

Ocelli was ready, Commandment was not.

Six Speed had jitters, Potente had knots.

No one was watching Golden Tempo.

As they came down the stretch he was last, ya know.

Then he made his move on the outside lane.

Blew away the field like a bullet train.

CGFCx2

FFFC

CGFC

For The Rest Of Us (Trucking Sounds)

Who gonna drive the truck.

Who gonna drive the truck.

Who gonna drive that truck.

For the rest of us.

Who gonna take the wheel.

Who gonna take the wheel.

Who gonna take the wheel.

Gimme a good deal.

Drop your hammer down.

Drop your hammer down.

Drop your hammer down.

Hear those trucking sounds.

GC

DG

CG

CDG

*Jingle Hut creation for Trucker Healthcare, Inc.

Hang Gliders

 

Death to America, death to all.

Hit Beirut after ditching the Shah.

Flew hang gliders in to murder and maim.

Took hostages, too, always the same.

Killed their own if they got out of line.

Hung em in public screaming 'Palestine!'

Three generations of Mullah rule.

The Ayatollahs, they weren't too cool.

Shot those girls between the eyes.

Said do it again and we'll take more lives.

45,000 just months ago.

Just a drop in the bucket, so we're told.

Wonder what's going through their minds.

Prolly think Allah is with them this time.

Wreck 'em and forget 'em, snake head war.

Fuck with us again, we'll fuck you up some more.

Hey Partner

 

Hey partner, tell me your dreams.

Everything you think you oughta be.

While your at it, look me in the eyes.

Get an up close look, they're sparkling tonight.

Hey partner, it's a big bad 'ole world.

Together we can beat it back, I'm sure.

But first there's another thing to do.

This tree we planted must make it, too.

Hey partner, to forgive is to forget.

These minds we got need to overlook regret.

All our love and wisdom is required.

Ever thought it's a blessing to be tired.

Hey partner, I'm won't quit you now.

Too far down the road to lay it down.

Tell ya partner, if it's the last thing I write.

Loved you always, you and your green eyes.

GG CDG

CC GDC

DD CGD

GG DCG

Laser Beam Dome

 

Find a place for the disappointments.

They must be stored up, locked away.

Turn them into a laser beam dome.

Nothing will get through, no chance.

Talk to yourself and agree to agree.

Unbreakable bond, unmutual friends.

Same tunes to jam and art to see.

A wedge with touch, a steak to eat.

Thirsty Vines

 

Jam samples and free beer.

These Lone Star days.

Long rows of thirsty vines.

Inspection trip.

Old structures and new ones.

Oaks and pecans.

The limestone dirt lies deep here.

Red clay holds tight.

Shallow stones cover the ground.

Rocks crunch underfoot.

Calcareous soils stay rich now.

Valleys grow green.

Sandy loams mix with gravel.

Hill dirt endures.

Linked Out

 

Gonna get linked in.

Gonna get sucked in.

Gonna get rubbed in.

Him and his loaded friends.

Wanna get linked out.

Pull his junk out.

Nobody gonna hear her shout.

Won't get kicked out.

It's all for charity.

Gotta build his dynasty.

He living in luxury.

He don't care about me.

We won't see no handcuffs.

It's him, you see, not one of us.

Get linked in if you must.

Your conscious is yours to trust.

GC

Dallas Open Gonzo 13: As I Write

 

Pressed to pick a winner for the Final just minutes before the racquet spin, I went with Fritz over Shelton.  Too much groove, too much consistency in the rallies, and his serve is a Top 10er.  His serve is why he's the highest ranked American player of the past two decades.  His time is now, the slam dance, the keep the elbows in, the hip and pop, entering his prime.  The Dallas Open dignitaries can just sit back and smile at the match-up, maybe it goes three.  

As I write, Fritz is up a break in the first set.  His reactions are minimal, but intense when shown.  Exasperated on ground stroke misses from either side, fist pumping and glaring on winners and aces.  He rarely double faults, way less than Shelton (1.8 double faults per match vs 3.0), he is mostly mellow.  His work ethic is known and legendary among the other players, sources say.

The crowd seemed to gain its footing on the weekend, many more cries from the upper decks, many more yelps and things.  They've both won the crowd, they've both won enough big points.  A Dallas 500 would boost either, some seasoning, some bark, some bite for the upcoming summer slam season.  As I write, Fritz is serving for the first set, let out, 2nd serve, 2-ball rally, Shelton blasts an easy forehand 3 feet past the baseline.  Looks good on the TV, was fabulous in person, this tournament is for real, as I write.

Dallas Open Gonzo 12: Higher Levels Of Tennis Talent

 

The Dallas Open had moved up quick and slick, The Ford Center at The Star is an incredible venue, built for any event needing some elbow room, facilities to spare, and all the charm of a metal barn.  Had to miss last year's introduction of the tournament's new location due to unavoidable conflicts.  No neighborhood walkups like the old SMU days, no mazy corridors, no makeshift portable bathrooms.  There's lots to love about the new setup, and nostalgia is mostly worthless, so we gonzo on regardless.  Access is easy, parking galore, seen football, basketball, lacrosse, and now tennis, in the same space.

Had a real posse with me for the Wednesday evening session.  My sweet wife and daughters, their plus ones, and my buddy Amos, who brought along his 8th grade son and his buddy, who were both trying out for the middle school tennis team.  This could be the spark for them, an introduction into the higher levels of tennis talent, a vision of what could be.  Our first match was highly contested with top seed Fritz out hitting Nakashima after dialing in his return of serve; it only takes two breaks for a server like Fritz.  He's earned his cool way, a workhorse, a practice hound, a professional before his time, he's ready for a Grand Slam breakthrough, he's a slammer.

Next was Frances Tiafoe getting kicked around by Sebastian Korda in straight sets.  Couldn't tell if it was too much Korda or an off night, but Tiafoe seemed demoralized by the 1-6 second set end.  Impressive from Korda, serves were MPHing and he seems a smooth mover.  A title in Dallas would put him back to the forefront of American male tennis hope, he reached #15 in the world in '24 before a shin stress fracture took him out for a few months.  At #54 in the world currently, he seems ready for a move back into the top 20 in '26, one title can turn it all around.

Saddle Up

 

Good morning for a good day.

Think I'll work my troubles away.

Good time for a good rhyme.

Little something to alter my mind.

And if you want to come my way.

Saddle up, run through the foggy haze.

Hear your voice, see your face one day.

All you got to do is ride.

Good night for a good bite.

Moon light and neon burning bright.

Good year for a good year.

Don't waste it on a pool of tears.

*Blan Scott coWrite.

GCGC

DDD7D7

CGx3

DD7G