The Great Wake 25: Ashes In The Air

 

One day you realize the good guys were the bad girls, and the good girls were the bad guys.  Looking back, it all makes sense, the total eclipse of the heart.  But that means nothing now, this is our time still, this is our woke up call.  Let the summer simmer, exhaust your grievances, wail and moan, march and chant, wear your costume.  All in good fun.

Burn ban in the west, winds are whirling wild.  Smokey smells, charcoal ruins, ashes in the air.  The California Governor is in his forest fire jacket again, his camera crew follows him everywhere.  In San Francisco, he built the largest tarp city ever known.  He seems an ugly, ineffective man of unusual inauthenticity.

The boom balloon deflated, the helium got sucked up by the gigglers, the bull headed yappers who buy, buy, buy.  Stick to the plan they'll say, history is on your side.  The fat is best cut after the grilling, let the juices fry.  Sear with the high heat all over, trap the flavor.  Make every bite count. 

The People's Mob

 

Then the People's Mob took over.
Rationality became so fly.
Pragmatism in the afternoon.
Flashlights through the night.

What we saw in the capital halls.
Like it was written for the movie screens.
Insulting my intelligence.
Think you know what I mean.

(Chorus)

Make way for the People's Mob,
we coming through in waves.
Had it with your bribery racquets, your needles and your chains.
Back to basics now, we know our time got robbed.
Now's the time to testify, answer to the People's Mob.

Thirsty for war, thirsty for whores.
Greased up, paid up, your time has passed.
Wonder where they got all that dough.
Think we should find out fast.

Tell me the who, wanna know why.
Put 'em on the stand, make 'em sweat.
Interrogation of the tyrant class.
You ain't seen nothing yet.

EAx3

DAE

(Chorus)

AEx3

DAE

The Great Wake 24: Apart From Conformity

 

The weak imposters, talking about javelins and stingers, not considering the death they endorse.  Their podiums and prompters are disappearing, they will be run off.  But they don't know peace, they will attach their doom to others, they are heartless, soulless, and brainless.  Hooked up, hooked on, and hooked out.  Caught.

It's called the Declaration Of Independence for a reason.  Apart from authority, apart from royalty, apart from conformity.  Leave us alone to live and to die, we'll get by fine without you.  Cut the tax, Jacks, you don't own us.  Truth be known, we just ignore old uncle Sam, he blabbers and points fingers with his dumb hat and goofy scowl.

We'll get to the whole truth, beyond speculation, beyond a reasonable doubt.  It'll involve money and death and other details, it almost always does.  Dark is no match for light.  We've been sold out, inflation is pure math.  The crooks must go down.

The Great Wake 23: A Certain Method Of Thought

 

The detecting is automatic now.  The best kind of automation, automation of the human mind, thinking through a process and pathway, a certain method of thought.  Starts with the push, the reason we're being swayed.  For money, love, or hate, it's one or more of those, could be all three.  The motive could be the only thing that's true.

Note the audience, could be mere validation for those already convinced or casual proclamations to sofly nudge the go-alongers.  Flimsy stuff.  A more independent thinking group, a rational and curious group, requires other actions.  The identify and avoid tactic is the most used. Can't fool those listeners, those with one raised eyebrow, those unconvinced, those with tuned senses, those that ask.

False until proven true, the new news.  And, of course, the proof is false too, and must be proven true, and the proof of the proof and so on.  There is plenty of light in fiction, it's non-fiction that fools.  Make it all up, blame the sources, blame the screens, blame the rich and poor.  A decision has been made on your reporting.

Turpentine

 

Take some more soma, gonna sit right here at home ahh, all alone ahh, on my phone ahh.  'Til the morning cracks, when the sun slacks, watch your backs, we're being tracked.

Fall into the grey, let come what may, what's that you say, stay away, stay away.  Don't try so hard, let it fall apart, it's just another start, another color chart.

You smell like turpentine.
Just like turpentine.

Break the mold, ditch the old, my blood is cold, won't go where I'm told.  It's a poisoned drink, makes ya think, makes ya think, takes you to the brink.

It's all a big mess, this diplomatic address, this hornet's nest, we should all care less.  The end ain't far, a few years is all, another ride in a car, another fight in a bar.

CG

DCGx2

The Great Wake 22: Send Powdered Milk

 

Peek-a-boo, we see you.  The professional panicers, the loons, the irrelevant.  We've moved on, we're not in a war, we say what we want to say, we call it like we see it.  Like always.  We ignore signs.

Watch that looting, the market crash and grab, just like televisions from Target.  Same element, masked Mercedes theives.  Snagged all the bread, guess they got mouths to feed.  Woe to the underprivileged, send crates of peanut butter and jelly, send powdered milk.  This will be a managed decline.

Might as well jump, like 1984.  We've seen the toughest around, roll with the punches, put your back against the record machine.  You know what I mean.  Ignore the worry, ignore the anxiety.  Fly above the story. 

Three Dead Skunks

 

Maybe it's the goo on my shoe from the backroom hairdoos.
Could be some old food voodoo, maybe their bread is turning blue.
Couldn't really tell what made the smell, but it smelled like hell.
Air was stale like sour milk pails, like a stinky, moldy jail.

(Chorus)

Paid my green fee.
Didn't look like many trees.
Just a slight southern breeze.
But the stink almost knocked me down.

Jumped in a cart about to start, loosening up all my body parts.
Broke my heart, they had no scorecards, keeping score in my head is hard.
Hit nothing but junk, score was sunk, water balls went kaplunk kaplunk.
Was in a funk, was playing like a punk, then I drove by 3 dead skunks.

(Chorus)

Rest of the round no putts went down, almost par'd 7 but the ball lipped out.
This small town, hard pan ground, 9 hole course we somehow found.
It was going to pot, place smelled like rot, took a snowman on 8, then took a shot.
By 9 we were fine, we'll remember the time, Blanket Muni Golf Course, the scene of the crime.

(Chorus)


GCDG

DCx3
G

*co-written by Corey Baker

The Great Wake 22: Ignite The Breath

The acquisition is first.  Then comes the demolition, which includes the clearing of debris.  Next is the cleaning and disinfecting, the scrubbing and scraping.  Dig out all the dirt and grime, from the corners, from the creases.  That's how the stink is fixed.

Now that we have fresh air, the renovation can begin.  Start with a skeleton, bare to the bones.  Shake, rattle, and roll.  Smooth the edges, repair the ligaments and disks.  Stuff in the organs, glands, and various veins, removing all obstructions.

Wrap it with ripped muscles, pull them tight to the bones with tendons.  Cover it all with thick skin, the most durable type kind of skin.  Tune the six senses to a fine tune, balanced and common.  Load the brain with knowledge, flip the heart pump, ignite the breath.  Wake, speak freely.
  

The Great Wake 21: Scribble That Reality

 

"Mr. Nick, Mr Nick, tell us about that song you wrote," the reporters were relentless.  "Nothing new, really, just a plead for pragmatism, just a frame of clarity, just a folk tune.  Three chords and a mock, rolling in the rock, watch the shooting clock, here's one for the drop.  Do it, just like that.  Dribble that melody, scribble that reality."

"Call me Peace, please.  Mr. Nick is my father's name.  He's got more scars than me, but I got some.  In the end, war has blinded, war has ruined, war has done no good.  The diplomats of the world have mostly failed, got plucked and greased.  On with the future, cut the anchors, leave then at the bottom of the ocean, let them rust to nothing."

"What are you implying?"  Most reporters are dumb, missing the opportunity to understand for themselves, missing out on the thinking, wasting brains.  Dull.  "About the grease or the pluck?"  The press room went silent, glazed eyes were everywhere.

The Great Wake 20: Asia Major

Kittens and puppies stuffed in bags to suffocate, these are the unholy for sure.  Without soul, these humans, without soul.  Asia Major has a major problem, their days are numbered, like everyone elses.  The hazmat suits, the smog blocking face masks, the humorless smirking.  That charming Chinese culture.

Like the Hero Of Kiev, his country wrecked, blood on his hands.  Like the Old Man In Moscow, still sucking that Stalin tit.  Like the Ole Skinny Dipper, nothing but a pervert.  Like The Natoists, always gearing up for more greasy war.  Like the Techno Nerds, trying in vain to be cool.

The twist is still to come, this plot gets thicker.  Grubby finds the money, and we can print and print for now, shrink and shrink, oh sweet Venezuela.  They are stealing it now, high inflation is an unarmed robbery.  Next is unrealized gains and a 401k tax, or some other heist-like maneuver in the tax code.  Good bye blue skies, good bye.

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty Two

 

"Like The Joker" by King James

I'm now gonna be pulling for the Sabanov doubles team going forward.  Never heard of them before this trip.  And, they are Serbian like the Joker.  Greatness!  You couldn't pay me to watch that singles final.  Ugly tennis, but congrats, Opelka.



"Ivan And Matej Sabanov" by AJ

These crosses were gifts from a Serbian player I coached back in California.  If these had been in my bag, I would have given them to Ivan and Matej Sabanov. Great guys, God bless 'em.  So pure.  So skilled.  Big future.  Idemo!

"Grooving The C Spot" by jpg

Missed it, was busy losing 4-6, 1-6 to some Brookhaven 4.0 aces.  Played decent, only one double fault, but they broke my serve into shattered shards.  Net wizards, lobbed us.  Team won 3-2.  Undefeated so far.  Moving my shorts, not my shirt.  Grooving the C spot...the wins will come.



"Texas Chain Serve Massacre" by jpg

At least Opelka has murder within him, a killer must kill, and does kill.  Along with his Dallas Open win, he completes the first ever Texas Chain Serve Massacre.  It's never been done, the double homicide.  I was going for Isner, but I'm glad the kid won it.  More to come, Opelka goes for blood.

"Review of 1118 Peveto Street" by jpg

Location is important in Houston and this spot was ideal for a 3 day visit to the US Clay Court Championships at River Oaks. Close to Kirby Drive.  Super nice accomodations.  Clean, comfortable, and cool.  Backyard patio very comfortable. Appreciated the guitars, played the one in the middle for a few tunes, including the live debut of Margin Squeeze.  Fine A/C.  Hosts were great, laid back, friendly, and helpful.  Close to Whole Foods and Brenner's On The Bayou.  Straight shot to Irma's.

Donkey Day

 

Nice this morning, spring is here.
Starting today gonna have no fear.
King is coming, He's on his way.
Lay down your palms for donkey day.

Like it said in the prophesy.
Gonna be saved by the Prince Of Peace.
Gonna ride in and make them pay.
Lay down your palms for donkey day.

Crowd didn't know what would go down.
Figured Jesus would take the crown.
But later that week He was betrayed.
Lay down your palms for donkey day.

Had to be done, had to bleed in the sun.
Up on a cross on a hill he hung.
His final breath means we was saved.
Lay down you palms for donkey day.

CFC/GFCx2

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty One

 

"Prince Of A Guy" by AJ

Absolutely a prince of a guy. Very serious.... serious about going to a movie in an actual theatre right now to prep for his next match. Then he will go back to Canberra and hibernate until the grass court season.  Nick moves in mysterious waze.  Same specs, leather and overgrip as my sticks. 

"Not A Bad Life" by King The Todd

Cool. He seems like a good guy when he's not in a match.  Kind of strange that he's opting out of the clay court season too. It will be funny if he wins this clay court tourney then skips the rest.  Not a bad life.

"Double Edged Swordsman"  by jpg

Punked his way out of a doubles win against the Sabanov Brothers, such a double edged swordsman.  Nick plays with fury when on, plays with extreme apathy when off.  His partner, Jack Sock, played awful, just awful.  From my courtside seat I observed.  Kirgios chattered constantly, his eyes darted, his ears heard everything.  Fucks wern't given, then fucks were given, then fucks were spoken, then fucks were yelled.  He's in a good spot, River Oaks will feed his soul.  Hope he wins the singles, but Garin is nails.

"Crazy Man" by King James

Tiafoe forehand... crazy man...

"Yoko Shrieking In The Background" by Amos

Steve Vai, his role with the Czech Republic declaring independence (until his opinions got him in in hot water), Tina Turner and the Ikettes as background singers on Over-Nite Sensation, jamming live with John Lennon (and fing Yoko shrieking in the background), the Turtles singers (named as Flo and Eddie due to lawsuits), etc, etc, and the music!  Indescribable....

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty

 

"Butter Cups" by TTop.

Add the pad right to the shorts or pants.  Seat cushions and butt enhancers.  Call them Butter Cups.  I don't know about you, but these seats are hard, tough to sit through a whole match, and people don't want to carry a bulky seat cusion.

"Potato Buns" by jpg

The hat flew off in a burst of wind, Brad Gilbert had a panicked look.  His fedora was rolling towards me, and I bent down and grabbed it.  He was very grateful, but humorless in his response to TTop's Ebay joke.  This seemed a different BG than we had known, preoccupied and distant, you never really know what's going on with anybody, grace is the only way.  Glad he didn't have to run after it, glad he wasn't put in an embarrassing position, he maintained his dignity, he is among the River Oaks' esteemed.


The chicken must have been pounded out with a mallet, it was paper thin.  Marketed as spicy, a pile of jarred jalapeños were stacked on the sandwich.  Any use of potato buns is a shortsighted, cost saving giveup.  The fries were awful, the windows were dirty, no salt and pepper, the staff was closing up, just going through the motions.  FM Kitchen and Bar is rated 2 of 5 stars, the peoplesDuke would've been disappointed.  This was no Pizza Motus.

McEnroe bending  the space and time continuum, so early, so precise.  ABCD deconstruction of the hitting zones, with C dominating modern tennis strategies, test if they can get around it for a fully extended forehand.  Move the shorts, not the shirt.  Hit it way over the net, take the short ones to the A zone.  Tangible takeaways from AJ's Thursday morning electric court drill session, El Rey hit--4.5 of 5 stars.

"Smoked" by King The Todd

Smoked by a complete unknown.

"Zappa Playing Blues" by Amos

Found some gold in my research.   First 25 songs (disc 1) is from '69 tour with the mothers....playing cool R&B with Zappa playing blues guitar leads...is best stuff I've listened to.

Red Mud Gonzo: Nineteen

 

"Use The Pixels" by jpg

This is bullshit, no TV yet.  WTA all damn day!  Any cameras in Houston?  Gilbert?  Tennis Channel?  Get the red mud asetetic going, use the color of the season to capture viewers, use the pixels.  What a giveaway, two whole days of wasted opportunity.  Maybe test out some new announcer talent.  Like AJ.  Or Billy, think of that!  Cheap ass bean counters.



"Girls Tennis" by King James

Agreed. They showed girls tennis during a rain delay of girls tennis. I literally watched them dry off the lines on a clay court.

"Nail The Coffin" by jpg

Aww, man.  Nail the coffin, Garin!  Sock will wilt......Match point!......Breaks to win the 3 setter.



"Up Early" by AJ

Can't wait. I'm up early to get some work done and drive down this afternoon. Hoping to see you guys at the NK vs Tommy Paul match at about five pm at river oaks. Dinner after?

"Flex Otherwise" by TTop

I have a place I want to go one day for breakfast or brunch...I'm flex otherwise but El Rey should be on the list for consistency sake, great coffee and breakfast tacos!  Yes sir!!  Let's hit a good grub spot, PG I'm on time, leaving in about 10.

"Red Mud Mansion" by jpg

Gotta check into our Red Mud Mansion, then off into the Houston culinary night.

Red Mud Gonzo: Eighteen

"Alcaraz" by King James

Alcaraz gonna win the French.


"Heavy Metal Nooner" by jpg

Some sort of mental deficiency, perhaps too much warming up.  Broke down late to lose 0-6, 5-7, (1-10).  As others ascended, I descended.   Coach Bill, AJ?  Team won 3-2 over Canyon Creek, avenging a 2-3 loss from last fall.  Mutes the personal loss a bit, but only a bit.  Wanted to hit Houston with winner vibes, not the Bayou Blues.  Heavy Metal Nooner at 1140 on Tuesday, TTop.  Think Motorhead is up, that should get my groove back for the Red Mud.


"Red Mud Cleansing" by AJ

Tough loss, amigo. Red mud cleansing this week.


"Motorhead For Sure" by TTop

Check out the draw! Looks like Ruud, Opelka, Isner and Fritz are all set to play Weds so hopefully Kyrgios, Feli Lopez, Brooksby, and Tiafoe Thurs!  Man, that is a tough one... Motorhead for sure.


"Rogelio Pardo"  by peoplesDuke

Rogelio Pardo Los hermanos y las chicas bonitas y la gorda y la flaca.


"Inflation Is A Bitch" by CB

Inflation is a bitch and I'm not in a good state.  Did you hear about Azerenka storming off the court after a teenager was kicking her ass. Tennis is a mental game and the Belarusian succumbed to emotional strain. It's a sad and difficult world we live in today.

The Great Wake 19: Dig The Synthesizers

 

Remove your eyes and ears, keep your words to yourself, dole them out carefully.  Take your brain and trick it, convince it of good and bad, of right and wrong.  Walk into the wind, don't get swooped up, turn your back if you must, keep the sand away from your face.  Walk backwards so you can see the view, so you can see the crash from afar, from a high ridge.  Enjoy time.

Lawyers, needles, and money.  Here it comes, here it comes, like lions getting thrown swine in a courtroom cage.  The damage done.  That's some low class action suits, the waivers will be shredded, the money will be gone, shrunk and gone.  Like a lost sock, leaving the other sock behind.

Come back Jonee cries DEVO.  This is the second new wave, the wave before the third wave and after the electronic new wave, which came after the first new wave.  Music is best against the wind, shades for the eyes, voices for the words, reverb for the ears.  Tighten up your ego, have some self respect, be fierce for others.  Dig the synthesizers.

Tupps At Four

 

There I was walking through the door.
Word got out it was Tupps At Four.
Thought about The Yard, Plano's too far.
Maybe I can bike it, no need for a car.

Step up and choose your favorite brew.
Or take a taste of something new.
Check out the art, tour the machines.
The twisted iron and the music scene.

Stand up, sit down, lounge on the couch.
Make a food truck run or just hang out.
Propeller fans and stacks of cans.
Echoes from some Nantucket jams.

There I was walking through the door.
Word got out it was Tupps At Four.
Thought about The Yard, Plano's too far.
Maybe I can bike it, no need for a car.

GDCGx3/DCDG

Margin Squeeze

 

Make it for this, sell it for that.
Gotta make a profit or the business cracks.
Microchips, steel and wood.
Cutting into my margins good.

Please, please, please.
Take it from me.
Never wanna get into a marginsqueeze.

Oh, no, no.
Takes more dough.
To buy the same thing I bought a week ago.

Refinance and print cash for free.
Gold won't hold in the 22nd century.
Waiting around for the great default.
While the criminals are already bought.

EADEx2//AEDEx2

Gravy Chilling

 

Sitting on the patio ahead of the curve.
Hammock I'm on got the perfect swerve.
Breeze coming through, keeping it cool.
Degrees ain't earned by lazy fools.

Aww, that's some gravy chilling.
That's some high tone grilling.
That's some sweet dealing.
Yes, that's some gravy chilling.

Fake it to the hoop, take a step back.
Behind the line, got to bank the cash.
Or cut hard to the lane looking to dish.
Either way I go, I just can't miss.

Aww, that's some gravy chilling.
That's some high tone grilling.
That's some sweet dealing.
Yes, that's some gravy chilling.

CG/DCGx2//AmCx3/DCG

The Great Wake 18: A Pepto Bismol Evening

 

There is no relevance to your red carpet.  Read the room.  Preen and glare into the flashes, glamorous and indignant.  Your public is a hassle, you know the depth of your shallow pool, no diving, no horseplay.  This is serious, we have war.

Pilled and coked, vaped and doped.  Agents are sweating and hyperventilating, chauffeurs are pretending to dig everything, interviewers are having audio difficulties.  The shit show of America.  Stand for the Indians, the Ukrainians won't mind.  They have other worries.

Steal from the past, even Toy Story gets ripped off.  Nothing new, same scripts.  Like stale cinematic bread, bland and hard to digest.  Knotty stomach aches all around, acid reflux moans, a pepto bismol evening.  Try not to crack a tooth.

 

Field Of Bodies

 

Sneers of the future, full of snide.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
All day long the bombs kept dropping.
Old man shuffles through a field of bodies.

Says there's gonna be a consequence.
Watch out, man, I'll build a border fence.
Out on a Sunday wandering and shopping.
Old man shuffles through a field of bodies.

Snake eyes squinting like they always do.
His mask keeps him from the Kung Fu Flu.
Once the drooling starts there ain't no stopping.
Old man shuffles through a field of bodies.

Three or four wars, never made no peace.
Vietnam, Baghdad, blood in the streets.
Something smells fishy, something smells rotten.
Old man shuffles through a field of bodies.

GAmx2

GD

CG

The Great Wake 17: Mad War

Mad is right, he seems upset and crazed.  The Russian leader, long known for his conniving smarts and strategic moves, didn't go loopy overnight.  His stoicism is legendary, his relationships are crafted, his history is telling.  Madness alters judgement, madness creates delusions, madness don't compromise.  Pragmatism is of secondary concern.

His two uncles were killed in WWII, his grandfather was the personal chef to Stalin and Lenin, he began Judo at age 12.  Then, on to the KGB and the life of an inside operator until the Soviet collapse.  The 1990's were the darkest days for the Russians since millions were killed by famine and Germans in the middle of last century.  With all these grinds, he accumulated his stock of axes.  He took over the first day of the century, promising to make Russia great again.

Guess the handshakes and summits didn't work, all the presidents, all the vice presidents, all the secretaries and senators.  Wasted buffets, wasted tokens of appreciations, wasted time.  It ended when the reptiles came to town with greasy pockets, cool guns, and slander bombs.  That's when his madness began, that's when the red line was drawn, that's when his anger simmered.  It's a mad, mad, mad, mad war.

  

The Great Wake 16: Oval Bowl

 

"Tell me about my schedule today, boy.  I got no time for messing around, you see, better toe the line, you see, I need a whole hour for lunch, man.  Step back, out of my way, I got the runs.  Stinking you out, but you'll get used to it, keep the bathroom unlocked, you use the one down the hall.  The Oval Bowl is all mine, I'm the President of the United States."

"Nice, nice, a bike ride, now that's some fun, keep moving is what I always say.  Stand still and you might freeze up, end up stiff, take it from me.  Cut that Vietnam War meeting with those G.I.'s, ditch the Baghdad call, ghost Kabul, we might have new war now.  Heard that Putin fella might invade Ukraine, we just can't let that happen.  Not on my watch, not on this watch, not on any watch."

"Get my son on the face television, he's got some new art he wants to show me.  He's working in ash now, all his pictures are made with ashes.  He burns all his clothes and uses the ashes.  Think of it, brilliant!  Burns his clothes to make the ashes, that's where he gets his ashes, his bicycle ash picture sold for 50 grand."

The Great Wake 15: The Spirit Of 2076

 

It is years from now.  Everybody shares almost everything deemed essential: transportation, homes, food, employment, clothes, you name it.  The Deemer Commission is responsible for organizing and administering the use of these types of resources, and also deem multiple levels of states of emergencies, which, in turn, determines the use of these types of resources.  Share the sacrifice, share the blame, share the shame.

The previous generation's criminals made off with the money, took the whole pie and stuffed it in their pockets.  Left us with some crust and crumbs, a little fruit filling smeared around the edges of the tin pan.  Took those dollars and converted them to pounds, the revenge of the English was in the banks.  Our grandparent's grandparent's parents were greedy idiots, fooled by emotions, laced with cowardice, addicted to mope; the hypnotized generation, as they were called.

The generation after them had it the roughest, they had known prosperity, they became despondent, they shut down.  They virtually existed.  They asked few questions, they went along, they were for nothing, they were against nothing.  Thankfully, this current group of folks seems to have a bit more spark.  The Spirit of 2076, the year punk rock returned.

The Great Wake 14: This Loop Of War

The media that cried wolf, few believe them anymore.  Only the willing suckers, only the wannabe lollipops, only the dazed and confused.  The real news is your common senses, what you think, feel, hear, smell, and see.  What you know.  Your own data analysis, your own math.

The faces of our leaders are melting, few are following, few are even taking their calls.  The old skin of America, thin and blemished.  Their instincts are delayed, their responsiveness is unacceptable, their accessibility is gone.  Create your own nation, a spinoff, a separatist state, out of this loop of war.  Uninformed, without experts, clean.

The cowards are waking now, now that the sun is shining bright on the truth, as it does.  By midmorning they will reset, by noon the t-shirts will be ready.  They'll be cowards again by early afternoon, pretending to be fighting in a war.  Stealing the glory of others, suffering nothing, risking nothing, braving nothing.  Wearing a pin.

The Great Wake 13: Like Crickets

The readers on the news are shoveling it, the scripts are full of bullshit.  Serve it up without shame, hold your nose at first, eventually you'll get used to it.  A bit gamey, but it does the job, it fills the brain, it tastes fine after a while.  Like crickets, like slugs, like bats--eat up.  Wipe your chin off with your t-shirt, napkins are in short supply.

Get in on the inside, the scenes are horrible, like an apocalypse movie.  The political readers can't even read, the PowerPoint decks are out of order.  Russia is invading Russia.  The words they read makes no sense, they are suppling chains for the big yanking.  They don't care about your grandchildren's grandchildren, they don't care about Ukrainian children or Urkainian women or Ukrainian men.

Sanctions, cackle, refugees, cackle, planes, cackle, hospital explosions, cackle, insider trading, cackle, icebergs, cackle, next slide, cackle.  Walk like an Egyptian, let my people go.  Roadtrip summer, America!  Hit the beaches, take RVs around the country, visit National Parks, visit State Parks, mountains, lakes, drive, drive, drive.  Oh, nevermind.

We Need Some Road

 

Don't care what gas costs.
Nevermind this traffic jam.
Soon we'll be cruising through
That Texas open land.

(Chorus)
We need some road.
Wanna cut loose.
Drive with the windows down.
Change my whole attitude.

Gonna go south from here.
Shunpiking after Waco.
Bluebonnets blooming.
Scratchy radio.

(Chorus)

We're skipping Austin.
We're skipping San Antone.
Too many cars and folks.
We kinda wanna be alone.

(Chorus)

Gonna watch dawn and dusk.
Eat Port Aransas seafood.
Sleep like the beach bums sleep.
Near the ocean blue.

(Chorus)

GCG
GDG
GDG
DCG

The Great Wake 12: The Weakling Muttered

They ain't living like the refugees, but they're here for them in spirit and fashion.  Thoughts and prayers and solidarity and ribbons and pins.  How heroes are made, how viruses are defeated.  Sounded like an invite, a small incursion was one thing, a large incursion was another.  The weakling muttered at the microphone as he stood soft and wobbly.

His decay seemed forced, the circle talking, the circle jerks, the circle of grease.  Map it out, missles for cash, they weren't paid for planes, they weren't paid for no fly zones, they weren't paid for war.  This is not our fight, he reasoned, just keep the wire transfers and SWIFT transactions moving, "Clear out the prosecutors, I'm from Scranton and Beau is dead."  He's not up for the moment, he's in the basement bunker, betrayers are betrayers by nature, and traitors are traitors to the end.

This feeling of being manipulated, so easy to recognize, so transparent.  The bullshit is deep, the cowardice is shocking.  Our superpower level is on low, simmering for some reason.  Profound, significant, and crippling sanctions have had no profound, significant, or crippling effect.  Ask a Ukraininan refugee about our sanctioning super powers.

Paint Me With Your Own Mind

GEmAmD

Go on paint me with your own mind.
Create the picture you want to see.
Mix the oils just right, use the brush that makes it tight.
The curves are just like they need to be.

Tell me all the I've lost for good.
Then tell me what you need to grow.
You should know I would, you should know I could.
But you cut me loose a long time ago.

And your picture looks alright to to me.
Abstractions always catch my eyes.
Your popping colors are sweet, your framing lines are neat.
And the lighting catches it just right.

Go on and paint me with your own mind.
Go on and paint me with your own mind.
Go on and paint me with your own mind.
Go on and paint me with your own mind.

The Great Wake 11: Executive Producers Of War

Big stories from the headroom news patio, gasoline has hit the fan, nevermind the suffering refugees, nevermind the stink in the high heavens, nevermind somebody's robot speech.  The death ticker is next, we've seen the thing, twice removed, arms length.  The viralology experts have been replaced, the map pointers and war sages are pointing and mapping and suggesting.  In other happenings, the new Batman movie is setting records.  It's a story about a city being destroyed, innocent people being blown up, crazy weirdos, and corruption at the highest levels.

The spoonman in our White House has left his mind behind.  Still stirring the race soup, he boosts it with vaccine injections and seasons it with Ukrainian patriotism.  Glad he stays in Deleware most of the time, keep the human rot smell away from our presidential bedrooms.  Like an undesirable guest, he should get blackballed on the AirBB reviews.  One star, let's not rent to him again.

Turn to the movie screen for a while.  Lots of death in Gotham City, the Garden Arena flooded, bridges fell, fire and explosions, and down goes the tin men.  The audience sipped it up like kittens.  But this is not a riddle, this is no joke, this is suffering, this is real milk.  These are the executive producers of war.

The Great Wake 10: Another Universe

 

This must be another universe, these parties have crashed.  Get the kids together and see what happens, the peacemakers have been exiled, the madness is on the live wire, the reporters do nothing but report on reports, or statements, or releases.  Take no side, be for the people.  Time to walk away so more people don't die, time to draw up some conditions, time to quit.  Ditch the diplomats, they have budgets on their minds, they don't produce peace, they are greedy cowards.

My own congressional representative in D.C. just resigned.  Something about an affair with a former member of ISIS, the radical group that was chopping infidel heads off on YouTube 7 years ago. Never got to meet this Van Taylor, now I'm glad I never shook his hand, no telling where it's been.  Seems like treason to me, but I'd have to look up the law.  At least he resigned.

The current state of this union is awake, incumbent fish frys are being scheduled all over.  Dignity just met honor on a street corner in Winslow, Arizona.  Bravery went the other way, split off with integrity.  Respect just sat there crying about reputations and bank accounts.  Liberty finished a nap, rested and ready, dreamy and calm.

Done With Van

 

I'm done with Van.
Supposed to be my man.
Didn't make a stand.
Not much of a fan.

We need some spine.
Done with wine and dine.
Done with robbing us blind.
Ain't it about time.

Turn up the grease.
An incumbent feast.
Fry 'em where they sleep.
Need to keep the peace.

Respect yourself.
Good for your heath.
Time to ditch the filth.
Vote for Keith Self.

EADE

The Great Wake 9: The Institute Industry

International pariahs and international criminals, all the same to me.  The people wrong and fooled for years seem wrong and fooled again, gulping the stink bait like hungry catfish at the bottom of a muddy man-made west texas lake.  Dig for information, get out of your hotel room, ditch the heavy blue helmet in favor of a lightweight model, ask questions.  War corresponding is tough business, get in there like Hemingway, know things, discover things, ride in an ambulance, Fareweall To Arms, write things.  We only need the tip of the iceberg.

The institutes, organizations of thinking and scenario modelling, are drawing blanks.  They have no idea, although they keep thinking and fundraising.  Such a shady industry--the institute industry--lots of washed up minds, lots of alcohol and pills.  Low overhead, petty cash stashes, and zoom call happy hours.  Theories.

The makeup artists are the real deal, the best in the world.  Powders and rouges and eye liners. Mascaras and lipsticks, concealers and brow trimmers.  Dull out the face grease, dim the set lights, check all teeth.  Three, two, one--action.

Working On My Tan

 

Don't owe you a dime.
Done wasting my time.
Finished with the fooled.
The ones who are ruled.

Decided long time ago.
Ain't doing what I'm told.
Fine with the severance pay.
Supposed to be that way.

Division is what we got.
Demanded from the very top.
Went packing with a few grand.
Now I'm working on my tan.

Hit the beach in a few weeks.
Counting waves brings me peace.
So little we control.
Too much greed and gold.

DCDDx2

GCGGx2

The Great Wake 8: The Other Press

 

The room was practically empty, the other press were nowhere to be seen.  The Press Secretary took to the podium with 'reports of' and 'state departments say' and 'videos show'.  Hey man, I want some answers, lady!  Let's get to the root of the seed of the reasons for this deadly mess, I pressed.  She stared at me and asked me politely to put on a mask.

To this I scoffed, muttering something low and true about suffocation, and got back to demanding more clarity.  Tell me about Ukrainian oil money, tell me about bribes, tell me about grease.  I pressed like the press should.  She asked me again to put on a mask, this time with a 'please' and a point to a sign.  I pressed more about the Ukrainian adoption industry, the Ukrainian drug scene, conditions for Ukraininan women and children, Ukrainian widows, Ukrainian boards.

Then she rudely told me, "Sir, put on a mask now!"  I stared at her silently for 30 seconds, it was me and her, her and me, eyes to eyes, my brains against her mush.  She was unmasked, she was red, she didn't blink once, she raged with hate, she reminded me of my 4th grade teacher who was so into Language Arts.  I ignored her command and kept on pressing; inhaling oxygen, exhaling carbon dioxide, asking open ended questions, yes/no questions, fill in the blankers, hypotheticals, theoreticals.  She finally squeezed up a tear and left me alone in the press room to "Reflect on your manners and review the protocols--like the others."

The Great Wake 7: Body Odor And Long Fingernails

This analysis came strait from the source, got it from the source.  Jeff Spicoli is worn out, but he's not done yet, the Vice documentary squad is on the scene.  The Neo-Journalists.  With Neo-Wave music and hairsprayed hair.  Thought he was taller, I was surprised when he stood.

He smelled of body odor and long fingernails, he looked like an actor, he acted like he was acting.  He frowned.  So much promise way back, free spirit, class cutter, a teacher's nightmare.  Now this, pouting and somber, and sober.  Mr. Hand got the last laugh, the 'told you so' laugh.

But it's a hollow laughter, a sad laughter, it's heavy.  This ain't no disco, this ain't no party, this ain't no fooling around.  He kept talking, I was having trouble following his logic.  Then he looks at me dead in the the eyes, calm like, and said, “What Jefferson was saying was, Hey! You know, we left this England place ’cause it was bogus; so if we don’t get some cool rules ourselves—pronto—we’ll just be bogus, too! Get it?"  And I did get it, we needed some cool rules quick, some Neo-Cool Rules.

The Great Wake 6: Tired Generals Of Last Century

He looked across the table and sized up his foe, a baby with candy.  Easy pickings, dude can't get his thumbnail out of his teeth.  The opposite of stoic, more like a bafoon, a village idiot, a weak and frail rotted soul, compromised by his past indiscretions.  A known grifter, a known groper, a known racist.  The Russian matched the pot and called.

Proclamations of significant sanctions, name calling and pouting, nervous laughter and cryptic responses.  Gone America for now, that stench is from DC, our fenced in capital.  It's all razor wired now.  A standoff is good for some involved, this game of chicken is profitable.  Follow the money.

News screen readers is all we got, amateur viralogists, and gabbers with no gifts of gab.  Retired, tired generals of last century blabber for pay, their analysis taken for truth by the mopey dopey class of society.  They got to say something.  Then the host nods perfectly, just like it's written on their teleprompter, "Thanks for joining us, let's all hope for the best.  Back after the break to highlight the difference between home equity values broken down by vaccine status, and cross referenced by ethicity, you may be alarmed."

The Great Wake 5: Mosh Pit

Ottawa had way more action than Ukraine, better organized and festive, honks and wizzbangs.  Those trucker hosers unmasked the despots, God bless 'em.  The moral high ground collapsed, it's the mosh pit now, it's a slam dance.  Elbows in, those are the rules.  Head butts and hip chunks, back whacks and knee jams, a punk war.

Information is liberty, reasoned and clean.  Without the newsroom morning staffer, without editorial boards, without associate production and executive production.  Thought provokers.  Thought liberators.  Thought whisperers.

This is mere satire, it's much worse.  Another dark winter, another sacrifice, another whopper, another trillion, another lecture about race from the high tech lynchers.  More hair plugs and plastic surgery for the old and done, more grease for the deep fryer, more of the same.  Six dollar gas, shrinking bags of chips, and gatesmeat burgers, sources predict.  Oh, and the vote tabulators haven't changed, still infested with bugs and tics and wires.

The Great Wake 4: Station To Station

"Wolverines!" screamed Patrick Swayze and C. Thomas Howell.  Fresh off The Outsiders, they were the best we had, actors on the 80's A-list; oh, the incredible cast of Red Dawn.  Next, Ivan Drago was sent packing to Ukraine.  Nobody fucks with Rocky and Apollo Creed and gets away with it, James Brown knows what's up in America, we don't juice, we train.  Eye of the tiger, home of the free, home of the brave, the righteoues, the honorable.

Then the opening of the Iron Curtain, George Sr. taking Reagan's credit; exploiting the situation.  Turning the Cold War into the Sold War, where it's all paid for up front.  Grind to a standoff and deal.  Send around pallets of gold.  The lend write-off, the cash game, the layered wire transfers, the currency squeeze.

Russian Daniil Medvedev don't care, he's trying to win the French Open, but it looks like Novak is playing.  Back to reality!  Back to this century.  Tune up and out, the deceptions are obvious, the Russians aren't coming, we don't have to run for the hills, we're not being invaded.  Living in America, eye to eye, station to station.

The Great Wake 3: Thaw Of Truth

This abuse of germs, the story of our time.  Germs of truth twisted into unrecognizable piles of junk, sent to junkyards of greasers, recycled and abused again.  Guts must return, there's truth in guts--that hunch, that nag, that thing.  Feel the truth, the way you feel pain.  Smell the truth, the way you smell bullshit.

Called einfrieren (freeze) by the old German propagandists of the 1930's, the people are fed only the hot mush meal, good and tasty.  The cold truth is left frozen, but it will thaw in the sun, it will spoil and begin to stink.  There's only so much freezer space in town, and freezer burn is real.  The summer will be hot, the party is definitely on, a festive wake before the burial, with nostalgia and laughs and drinks and stories.  Leave the grieving to a future day.

Lifted my eyes and saw another sunrise, it was similar to one seen long ago.  Red and cold, going the other way, elecric blue sky taking over, the thaw of truth underway.  It ends in a bunker, or a basement, surrounded by prissy tyrants and criminals.  Without windows, without radio, without lights.  Whimpering like wimps.

The Great Wake 2: Dump Your King

Turdeau needs to float away, but he won't; he'll have to be flushed.  Call up the sanitation trucks, this could get messy.  Hose it down later, you hosers, let the clog do its thing, they'll be plenty of time for clean up.  A plunger can usually fix it up quick, and the snake can be used if suction don't work.

Civil disobiedience glows brightest when the arrests are made, no going back.  Patience and resolve and personal pacifism will not lose--MLK, Ghandi, Keith Richards.  Oh Canada, inspire the fall of criminal tyranny!  Dump your king, exile him to the the frozen tundra wastelands.  He smells.

First, resentment will settle in like a searing thorn, this trucker roundup won't go the way Turdeau is expecting.  Resentment only breeds more anger, not less.  Next, a face save will be attempted, but it will be ignored, a turd is a turd, and odor is odor.  Remove it.  Get your fresh air back, there's tons of it up there, eh.

The Great Wake 1: Guacamole Blockade

For seemingly insufficient reasons, Mexican avocados are the target of an American embargo, a guacamole blockade.  What happens to all the cilantro and limes, the domino effect?  Seems the salsa industry could benefit and the queso market could spike.  Follow the money, it's usually the best indicator of motives and corruption.  Might be an inside job, creating demand for the spring and summer, jack the prices, cut a deal, 10% seems reasonable.

According to sources, this is all due to a vague altercation between a Mexican avocado farmer and an American avocado inspector.  Get over it, Cinco De Mayo is closer than you think.  Figure out the kickbacks (that's what inspectors do), but make it quick.  Scheme.  Do whatever to get the green, silky, healthy, mexican fruit delivered, the California varieties have a bitter taste.

Perhaps a standoff is best, establish some sort of Avocado OPEC, work the markets, control the supply.  Exclusive, run the game, like grapes or silicon chips or tires or Ukraine.  Manipulation and channels of distribution, some dip must take the fall.  Could be the hummas freaks making trouble, they want everyone to eat their garbanzo beans, and only their garbanzo beans.  Boring chickpea fools.

Dallas Open Gonzo 3: Gold Tipped Drawstrings

Woke up and my ears were ringing dull and low.  The previous 48 hours included:  Brooksby beating Thompson and Giron, Fritz losing to Giron, Opelka outlasting Isner 24-22 in the longest tiebreaker in ATP history, brief VIP and 200 level access, a dash across Dallas looking for a lost phone, actual bar hopping, a shuffleboard cliff hanger, Franconia Brewery's 14th Anniversary Party, and a psychedelic rendition of the Frank Zappa tune --The Torture Never Stops.  We're left with Opelka vs Brooksby in the finals, lots of potential, lots of American tennis hope.  Giron felt the squirm, but couldn't avoid the squirm, awareness is the first step, avoidance is next level.  Fritz needs to crack the neck, like a fatally wounded animal, and end their misery with compassionate ruthlessness; he seemed to have Giron beat in the Quarters, but didn't bash the skull with a rock.

Uomosport picked a good partner, Brooksby flashing the colors and the logo all over the stadium court.  I learned about the 4 year old company and bought some lush green wristbands during the Monday evening session.  The tennis shorts were $135.  They featured terrycloth pocket interiors and gold tipped drawstrings, they were slice, their colors popped.  Uomo, meaning 'man' in Italian, is high fiving for sure, their boy ain't no boy no more, he's in the finals.

And the finals will be a blaster.  Played hours before the Super Bowl, the schedulers hit it right on.  Get your queso quesoing, get your early drilling in, get some hottub time.  This Sunday is for champions.  I'm predicting Brooksby in 3 sets over Opelka and the Cincinnati 'Gals over the Los Angeles Rams; the revenge of Johnny Fever.

Dallas Open Gonzo 2: Fritz The Californian

Both times I've walked into the Styslinger Tennis Complex so far, Fritz was on the practice court sweating it out, grooving it out, working hard.  No talking, no giggling, no bullshit.  His business approach paid off in the late Wednesday night match against Sock.  First serves lasering where he willed, clocked 135 MPH on one ace; Sock was overwhelmed, the first set was over in 20 minutes.  He recovered a bit to make the 2nd set more of a fight, but Fritz was relentless, his unforced errors were minimal, he won in straight sets to advance to the Quarters.

When Fritz strutted, Sock moped, when Fritz hit sweet spots, Sock hit frame.  Precise.  A collection of small improvements is how Fritz described it in the post match interview.  He seems ready in the mind, he knows how to fix his broken windows, he's likely involved in some sort of effective systemic approach.  Too much for Sock.

The early evening match was a giant contest, Isner and Anderson; a giant 3 set, 3 tie breaker, no deuce, no breakpoint, serve contest.  Isner is the best server there ever was or is, in all forms of the word is or was.  He won.  Live by the serve, die by the serve, an awful double fault lost him the 2nd set and sent the inaugural Dallas Open into a New York U.S. Open night vibe by forcing the late match to start after 10 pm.  Blondie played in my ear buds, drunken chirps could be heard around the arena, the passive fans cleared out, and then Fritz The Californian slammed the place.

The Hook Of Texas 8: Visions At Chinati

Drove over two thousand miles, I went all through the Hook Of Texas:  Alpine, Marfa, Ft. Davis, Valentine, Van Horn, Presidio, Terlingua, Lajitas, Marathon.  Through and in between, around and over, it was all fabulous.  In the last piece of Texas, which is the edge of America, I encountered peace and quiet and beauty.  Alive and well, there for the trip.  The dunes of Monahans, the water of the Rio Grande, and Judd's visions at Chinati.

Drive the Davis Mountains at night, visit Prada Marfa near Valentine, moonroof it, avoid the thorns.  I was never hassled, never bugged, only encountered, only welcomed.  The cultural vibe seemed acceptance and solitude; embrace the isolation and space; use it.  Leaving was as natural as arriving, it was time to go.  I packed up and headed east.

The Talking Heads blared in my earbuds.  New wave music took over til Brady, the geographical center of Texas:  Sparks, The Replacements, Yaz, Pretenders, Echo & The Bunnymen, Tom Tom Club.  Stayed a night in the Bonnie And Clyde Room at the historic, and partially renovated, Brady Hotel.  It was loud, the people were rowdy, the room was cold, the bathroom was in the hallway, I was gone at dawn, took back roads to home.  Clyde should've known better, could've hid out in the Hook Of Texas, made a good life with Bonnie, might've seen the Lights Of Marfa, might've found some gold.

Dallas Open Gonzo 1: Tournament Host Status

Forget the claustrophobia, forget the fluorescent lights tinting everyone, forget the kinks.  Nevermind the visible seam in the court, overlook the $12 can of Dallas Blonde, forgive the Kyrgios and Dimitrov withdrawals.  The Dallas Open is on!  In the snazziest area of the city, with a draw full of top 50 players.  Back in business like we was with the WTC decades ago, professional tennis has finally returned.

First night of the main draw.  It was Monday, when grinding the grind is most important, when the bill money is made.  My seat had me looking directly down the middle of the burnt orange stadium court, row 7, seat 11; the place was like a sauna, it smelled of cheap Cabernet Sauvingon and popcorn. In the first match, the young American, Nakashima, took down Millman from Australia with a powerful first serve and a backhand that eventually came around.  Millman was tight, jittery, and constantly looking to his coach in the stands, he was merely acting confident.

Sock and Isner playing doubles was next and they nuked the Nedovyesov/Quereshi duo with massive forehands and serves.  They'll be tough to beat, but Isner could be distracted by his tournament host status.  A migrant to Dallas, he sunk his efforts into helping bring back professional tennis.  America's greatest male tennis player of the past two decades--a Texan.  An ace.

The Hook Of Texas 7: The 44 Farms Ribeye

 

Driving through Big Bend National Park from the east on Hwy 118, I was in the middle of Mars it seemed.  Massive, jagged horizons through every open window, the rear view mirror was its own production.  Through the Junctions:  Maverick, Santa Elena, Basin, and Panther.  To the park headquarters.  Speed was kept appropriarely low, sundown was approaching, long shadows went on for miles, my eyes darted in every direction, my head exploded.

From the park headquarters, a humble rest stop with pamplets and the familiar brown sign of all national parks, I took Hwy 385 directly north to Marathon.  71 miles.  It was a slow motion sundown most of the way until dark overwhelmed.  I stopped to hear the silence, cut the engine.  It was fly.  The eastern half of the park would have to wait until next time, dinner was on my mind.

The 44 Farms Ribeye at The Gage Hotel in in Marathon was discussed by an Alpine local the previous afternoon at Harry's Tinaja.  Only a few specific stops were planned on this loopy day trip around the Hook Of Texas, and this was one.  However, the previous descriptions of this place failed to mention the completely renovated dining room, the fine art everywhere, or the first class staff, I was worried when the Maitre 'D asked me if I had a reservation.  She scanned the chart and escorted me to a tucked away corner table, lit warmly by a cowskull wall lamp and set with thoughtfulness.  The glistening medium rare 44 Farms Ribeye was served with hatch green chili cream corn, sautéed spinach, pastry butter rolls, a jalapeño margarita, and chocolate delight to finish; it was a meal from heaven, directly from God.

The Hook Of Texas 6: Terlingua Jack

To Terlingua and the Starlight Theater.  Jerry Jeff, Willie, Gil, and the others, where guitars ring with smooth chords, where the ghost town is full of life and music, where I saw Mule Ears for the first time.  One of the most famous landscape masterpieces in Big Bend, I had no idea where to look until local resident Jack Smith pointed it out while sitting next to me on the Starelight porch.  He was every bit the 6'6" he claimed, looked mid 70's, and indicated he'd dropped 90 lbs over the past couple years after his wife passed.  He took care of her until the end.

Players just showed up and played according to Barry, an Alpine local and familiar musician around this part of Texas, the optimal time to show was 3:30.  We'd met the day before and traded tunes for 5 hours as we closed down Harry's Tinaja along with his harmonizing lady, Sara.  Modeloes with limes, a Yamaha, and a newly cleaned up, strung up old Seagull.  "A gringo has never sung Spanish better," declared Jack, who knew Barry and wanted me to tell him the accordian player was back in Terlingua.  Immediately I sent a note, it seemed important to him.

Grabbed my guitar out of my trunk, this was a chance to play the legendary porch; a couple of players were picking and singing sweet Rio Grande river tunes, a dozen or so other folks were milling around waiting for the Starlight to open for dinner.  Then it was my turn, the locals nodded, I dropped a foot tamborine downbeat and started in on Must Be From Space (Lights Of Marfa).  Written two nights prior, the tune came out perfect, the articulation was on, the finger picking was clean, it was the freshest I had; didn't come down here to play cover tunes.  Terlingua Jack stomped and clapped, he listened, he dug them all:  Dark Sky, Techno King, Tijuana Taxi, That Hat From Mexico, Red Hour, and Coporate Maxed.  When the Starlight opened, everyone cleared out and I was left there alone looking at Mule Ears in the cool afternoon; under me I noticed a white book of matches with the words 'Thank You' printed on the cover, nothing else, just 'Thank You'.

The Hook Of Texas 5: On The Fringe

In Presidio, Texas the tallest structure in town is the Border Canopy, it stuck out immediately.  No one was there at noon, nothing to report, the place seemed peaceful, one people, one purpose; now on to the famed Farm To Market 170, snaking the Rio Grande for 50 miles to Terlingua and on into Big Bend National Park.  As a lifelong Texan who's never seen this part of the Lone Star State, this was the main dish, the whole enchilada, and the savory, sopped up sauce.  Postcard after postcard, the sky was electric blue, the visibility went on and on, God's rockpile for sure.  The river cut all through it, deep spots, shallow spots, no one was around.

Big shots, reverse shots, angled shots, looking for scale, looking for shade.  Snap, snap, snap, like a snapping fool.  It cannot be avoided the first time you drive the 170, the Pacific Highway of Texas.  Good God, God is good.  Pictures don't even do it justice, next time I'll just drive and look, already got the photos.

I recorded On The Fringe near the river at one spot.  A border tune:

Said, what would you find.
If you broke into my mind.
No longer blind, what would you find, what would you find.

And, how would you like.
If I gave it a try.
If I stayed up all night, til we saw the light, saw the light.

And, where will this go.
No one really knows.
Take the path you chose, and let it roll, rock and roll.

Next time we meet again.
Maybe we'll be friends.
Maybe I make you cringe, on the fringe, i'm jumping in.

The rushing water was in the background, the wind whipped, the guitar was tuned up tight.  There was no one around, I was on the fringe.  It was nice.