The Great Wake 81: Dung Dynasty

 

While the young die, the old congratulate themselves and claim courage.  For geopolitical reasons or some other crucial and brave action.  The money men and women make hawkish or doveish remarks and are hailed as fighters, so brave to rip everyone off as they're ripping them off.  Takes gall, grease, and guns, these are dirty people.

Created a dung dynasty right before our eyes.  Full of debauchery and shameless souls.  Built on the backs of pigment pimps, like the pigment pimps of the past.  No surprise, the High Tech Lyncher leads them.  His brain decayed long ago of rot thoughts, his hands crave the grope, his nose knows a good rejuvenating conditioner when it sniffs one.

All this is known, the real suckers are the suckers; the following, wallowing mass of whiners, blinders, and five-and-dimers.  The poor ole me's, the weak in the knees, the tics and fleas, the pricks and sleaze.  Glowing heads in baby beds, agents, officials, and nine types of Feds.  At the end of rainbows, there's nothing, it's merely an atmosoheric phenomenon of light, water, and reflection.  Colorless, a fake out, the tint is only in your mind.

The Great Wake 80: Thoughts That Float

 

Yep, free and clear, on our own.  Nobody to say nothing about nothing, nobody to tell, nobody to point.  A good reminder in the middle of summer.  Imaginations running wild, a disaster around every corner, a price tag on each one.  Shake, shake, shake it down, sway over here, moonwalk over there.

Closing the government, trading markets, and banks is the least we should do.  Take a break from the games, trivial and lame.  Hydrate, do what you want, meditate, free up your mind.  The clutter is stuck to your brain transistors, the gruel is self-induced, the confusion is intentional.  Thoughts that soak are thoughts that float.

No trifling, no pity, no shame.  A reminder of the sound of chains, let my people go.  The demand of our nation.  Freedom is cheap now, it's free, it's ours to take.  Paid in full.

Used Dads

>>Comparison of Used Cars and Used Dads.  A lot in common...

^^Used Dads are beat up, dented, scratched, scarred, and sputtering.

^^Worn out, worn in, broken, smoking, and hoping.  "Lord, just get me there."


^^Used Dads are familiar with rejection and neglect, it's an important skill.  Some sit idle for months, years even.

^^Bad spark plugs, cracking belts, bubbling tint, dents, missing rims, and bald tires.


^^The golf course is the junkyard of Used Dads, not many New Dads around. 

^^Used Dads have great stories--roadkills, hydroplanes, burnouts, bugs, skid marks.


^^ No big deal being a Used Dad, nothing that can't be replaced, or fixed up, or taped up, or polished up, or waxxed up.  Or, ignored.

^^Run long enough and a Used Dad might become a classic.  Find himself in a parade.  Live in a garage. 

The Great Wake 79: Cold Blooded Truth Teller

 

The people with no courage were easy to identify.  They were the loudest, but they were the weakest and the whinyest.  They showed their ass over and over.  Without end.  Buttholes, basically.

They stuttered cliches and spit when they talked.  They denounced pigment color and hated men for some reason.  Even the men with no courage hated men, a twisted mind fuck if there ever was one.  So twisted, people everywhere started cutting off their private parts at a record pace.  Even worse, licensed doctors actually did the cutting.

"Whatever," I said, "And nevermind, too."  Nirvana is in your own mind.  Your own thinking is enough, courage follows conviction and conviction is created by knowing.  Courage is handling the truth. You knows what you knows, light's a cold blooded truth teller.

The Great Wake 78: Addicted To Mania

 

'What if it was true' fuels the charade, the boogie story, the shutter, shutter, shutter.  Land of the ruled, home of the cowards.  We tilted over, we took on water, the life boats were deployed, the captain is nowhere around.  Jumped ship way back, I ain't sinking to the bottom.  Went cast away, went floating, saving my life for some other final fate.

Not here, not now, not like this, all the sellouts making out.  Walking among the ruins, all teeth, all glitter, all rot.  It was imaginary all along, the Yankee Doodle Dandy.  It was blah, blah, blah.  There is no Spirit Of '76 left, the scoundrels have sucked it dry.

A liberated mind thinks it out, hysterics and hope have no place.  Hissy fits are for chumps with dust in their eyes.  Outrage is for maniacs addicted to mania.  Conclude what you will, not what you're told, the mush has no taste.  Trendy is out, as always.

The Great Wake 77: Patriot Parade Field

 

Like a bolt, the truth gets out.  Tell it like it is, tell it like it was, the past tense is appropriate, unfortunately.  The old way was better, respect and taboos, dignity and shame.  God or country?  It's no contest, line up the fools, the patriot parade is over there on the patriot parade field.


Any union must be both ways, the governed and the government, implicit trust and light, to the end, without escape, without injury, without betrayal.  By the book, out of the grey areas and mushy middle.  Have some courage, these proxies are for cowards and tools.  The downside must be harsh, otherwise, it's too easy to abuse power.  Might end up funding a dubious Eastern European War or might solicit bribes or might become a pigment pimp.

Our baseball is boring.  Our apple pie is sour.  Our Chevrolets suck.  Let's be real, reality ain't taboo no more.  Nothing is.

The Great Wake 76: A Complicated Emotion

Pride, pride, pride, pride, pride.  Aww man, such a complicated emotion.  Too much, you get full of yourself; too little, you get run over.  Given or received is what matters, solicited or unsolicited is critical, look at me, look at her, look at him, look at Jim, look at slim, point, point.  It's exhausting, Francis.

Make your parents proud, dangit.  Be what they want you to be, and more importantly, what they don't want you to be, either way, or both ways.  Keep the embarrassment down, don't embarrass your parents, for God's sake and the sake of other possible supernaturals.  Pride is dignity in a way, protect your own, don't act a fool.  Don't be a dick.

Flags, schmags. Who cares about a flag?  Burn em, churn em, get em off the poles.  Flags never done nobody no good ever, can't remember a flag doing anything for anybody, mainly shouting and shooting and scamming.  Never follow a flag, it's not worth your pride, it's not worth your dignity.

The Great Wake 75: The Fraidy Cats

 

The big bosses all got together for talks about spooking the people into line.  You know the ones, the boogie club.  Men and women and men that want to be women and women that want to be men.  All of them.  Starve 'em out with supply chain and drout news, not a drop of rain in northeastern Kansas for weeks, woe is the woe, it woes and woes.

Fertilizer is what really scares the smart gullible people, they see the root of the problem, they just fall into the trap.  But the truly smart people don't worry about fertilizer, because there will always be fertilizer, just as there will always be a future.  The skin in this game, especially the skin tone, doesn't matter much, but it stings less if it's thick.  Thin skinners get road rashed, they stay scabbbed and irritable, nervously picking.  Bleeding from the edges.

Light does have a way, truth breaks through.  A hundred years from now, people will remember the chickens, the marching ants, the fraidy cats.  Thou shall not speak, they muttered.  Sources indicated, they gulped.  Hypnotically, they nodded.

My Crash

 

I'm just waiting on my crash,
The fire sale is gonna be hell,
But I'm loaded up with cash.

Tracking the ratios and shorts.
Whether it's covered or just smothered.
It's a little out of sorts.

He talks, on no!  Jerome Powell.
Eloquently he speaks, recklessly he cheats.
Like a foolish wolf he howls.

Play it like a wall street wiz.
Take a quick trip, buy on the dips.
Done like the market sharks did.

Waiting on my crash.
Waiting on my crash.
Waiting on my crash.
Waiting on my crash.

Byron Gone Gonzo 5: Day Has Returned

 

Lightening was flashing, the thunder was loud, but the showers held off long enough, Day shot a final round 62 to win the Byron by 1 stroke.  His chip in, his drained putts, even his lay up on 18, all professional, all executed.  No wonder he won a major, no wonder he won this tournament twice, no wonder he was #1 in the world a few years back.  He zoned in, he locked it up, he took it.  Mamma Dening was resting in pride, his baby mamma was glowing, and his new cowboy hat gave him that James Dean Giant look.

A five year cold spell can test any professional in any profession, but at 35 his game is back, his back is back, and his gonzo strut is back.  Watch out, this version of the PGA Tour is watered down a bit (LIV Golf does exist.), Day could go on a run, collect several more wins, add to his 13, including one Major - the 2015 PGA Championship.  In addition, he has 4 Europen Tour victories and 3 Runner Ups in Majors.  He doesn't seem to whine or complain or moan or bitch or giggle like some of his fellow tour players.  Half a decade is long enough, a ray of sunshine broke through, Day has returned.

Four strolls over and around and near Rowlett Creek, the 4-wheel driving lane of our youth, back when the Byron was still at the Four Seasons in Las Colinas, back when there was nothing around here but pasture and woods.  JB's back yard.  Bonfires and beer cans, donuts and reverse donuts, with Lou Reed taking a walk on the wild side.  When we got our MTV, when Live Aid brought back Led Zeppelin.  When we were all Lions.

Byron Gone Gonzo 4: The Wallet Bone

 

Even Scheffler gets beat down.  Majors don't matter on a Saturday in May on the 17th Casino Hole in McKinney.  Boos rightly reigned down in him and Palmer after coming up short.  Canadian Mackenzie Hughes came through with a solid tee shot, but he'd fallen off the leaderboard in the Texas wind.  Hang in there, Mac, you've still got a chance at a big check on Sunday. 

Money matters, and every stroke has a price tag on tour.  Miss a 4 foot putt, lose out on $75,000, blast a drive out of bounds, $150,000, blade a sand iron, blade it back, that's a $225,000 triple bogie.  The winner of the event will get $1.7 million, 2nd - $1.04 million, 3rd - $650 grand.  If he holds his 54 hole position of 15th, Mac'll bank $173 grand.  Not bad, but every bit of his Saturday 73 hurt to the wallet bone.

Scheffler is 2 back, tied with Day, Kim, and Norrman.  Local resident Marty Dou, Amarillo's Ryan Palmer, and Okie Austin Eckroat start their Sunday rounds tied for the lead at 16 under.  Aiming to make their mammas proud.  Go for the pin on 17, club up, avoid the boos, nothing to lose, double down like a casino whale.  Let it ride.

Byron Gone Gonzo 3: The Theory Of Proximity

 

My shoes wore out.  Following the Scheffler/Day/Lee group for the final 6 holes of their 2nd round was like being involved in some sort of mass movement.  People jockeying, outsmarting, speeding ahead, staking out their spots.  It was orderly and deliberate, outside the ropes, quiet and muttering, uptight and awkward.  I bailed for the final hole, enough is enough, the heat was picking up, I was out of water, it was almost noon, I was hungry.

Then, the Theory Of Proximity was validated once again.  Big Cat Chuck sends me a note regarding a suite ticket for the 17th Choctaw Casino Par 3, the most preferred ticket at the tournament, the most coveted, right by the green, lit and tricked up, short and unpredictable.  He knew a somebody that knew a somebody else that knew the right people for the right reasons.  Evidently, I wasn't his first call, but I was on the semi-short list, and on a Friday my flexible occupation as a writer served me well, I was already on scene.  He appreciated my "responsiveness".

The air conditioning was cranked to the maximum in the Choctaw Suite, immediately I felt God Himself was involved.  Iced down Hawaiian Lagers with limes, roasted chicken slathered in mushroom sauce, sliced pork bellies, cold crisp cucumber salad, delicious brownies, chewy chocolate chip cookies, TV monitors, and staff.  We stayed put for 4 hours, we saw group after group, the hole won most of the time, lots and lots of pars, several birdies, and a few mopey bogies, I ate twice, I drank a six pack.  Professional Scott Piercy visited after his round, doing his endorsement rounds, hung out like a champ for half an hour, gave me insights, gave me scoop, answered all my question, all my follow-ups; I pressed and pressed, he was completely poised and unflappable, courteous and classy.  He's in the Top 10 for the weekend at -9, Scheffler leads at -14, Noh shot a 74 and fell back to -8.

Byron Gone Gonzo 2: Golf Doesn't Care

 

I made an early arrival on day one of the Byron Nelson.  After months and weeks of preparation, the PGA tournament was on, players were already ripping drives, dropping putts, and doing their thing despite the spectacles.  Their's is a silly craft, requiring mental steadiness, technical swing execution, and emotional control.  If they get it right, they can cash some big checks, if they waver, others will cash the same big checks.  Golf doesn't care.

The TPC Craig Ranch in my hometown of McKinney, Texas was in ideal condition, despite the spectacles, the greens keeper here really knows how to make the grass happen, the wide fairways were spongy, the greens were true, the rough was rough.  The professionals were winning, low round on day one was 11 under from The South Korean Noh.  Several finished way under, low scores were had, a bird feast was underway, even the afternoon Texas winds didn't ruin the meal.  Most of the names weren't household--McCracken, McNealy, McNeill, McGirt, lots of Gee's--Griffin, Gerard, Gribble, Gainey, Garrigus, Gordon, Goya, Gomez, Grant, Garnett, Ghim, and a few that had made a name for themselves already--Day, Scheffler, Scott, Matsuyama, Kuchar, and my personal favorite--Schenk.  Overall, the South Korean players were showing up big with 3 in the top 15--Noh, Kim, Bae, Kang, and An were all 4 under or better.  Sweden's Richard Johnson shot high score of 80, but he hit a fantastic four iron from under a tree that lifted perfectly over another tree and landed on the 3rd green over 200 yards away.

Beyond the golf, the Byron is jammed with logos, booths, leaderboards, staff, camera crews, ropes, law enforcement, swag, and red pants.  The Salesmanship Club has been at it for 100 years, they strut around cooly, they stand with great posture, they have a glow, unapproachable, in charge, watching, scanning.  I saw one red pants dude pick up the tiniest piece of trash, forever gaining my admiration and respect, they were busy.  I had to bolt around 3 for my own afternoon tee time, but I'll be back for Friday.  The guys are digging in, the riff raff is on the outs, a mother of a weekend party is about to go down. 

The Great Wake 74: Left For Dead

 

Let the trashers trash it out somewhere else, there ain't no camping here.  Clear out those tents, get a room, get going.  Beggars over there, out of the street, you're a hazard.  Go knock on the church door, or city hall, or some other institution, but there ain't no camping here.  Get going. 

This is the southern war, our battle royale, our Alamo.  No telling the blood already on the streets, no telling the killing already done, no telling what's next, we're already in the soup, we're being stirred.  Our leaders are leading us into the line of fire.  We've been abandoned.  Left for dead.

The mops and slicksters are devouring the milk and honey.  Gluttony on an international scale, feeding themselves like frenzied flies, shitting wherever they land.  Like common bandits and robbers.  Heap your pigment shame upon the heap of pigment bullshit already heaped.  No one cares.

The Great Wake 73: How Dare We Pray

 

The pray haters are at it again, demanding we cease all prayer when we need it the most.  Thoughts, too.  Worthless, they say.  Do something, they insist.  Somebody else is at fault, somebody else is to blame, somebody else must pay, the murderer is dead.

How dare we pray, how dare we think, how dare we, how dare we.  No burning, no looting, no bashing windows, no signs, no fires, just a sad sunset, a sad ending to a Texas day in May.  Right up the street.  The politicians will stir it up, Beto will show up to point his finger.  Racial scavengers will swoop in for a meal, the sickos.

But, both my middle fingers are for the pray haters, the worst of the worst.  More of a fuck off than a fuck you, won't even ask them to join in, they can sit the prayers out.  I've got nothing for them, no suggestions, encouragements, or well wishes.  No nothing.  Go.

Byron Gone Gonzo 1: Hit Me With A Flower

 

The proximity was incredible, the gate was wide open, there were no noticeable signs, I was curious.  Coasted right through on my bicycle, a black Trek Marlin 5.  The Byron Nelson was coming to McKinney for the third year in a row.  The golf stadium was being constructed, corporate luxury suites were all along the 16th and 18th fairways, it looked more like a studio than a stadium, with #17 being a fully enclosed 147 yard par-3.  This place is the place to score.

All depends on the winds, but the TPC At Craig Ranch course could get man handled again.  Lee won it at 25 under last year, maybe they added some length.  Current 10-day forecasts call for several rainy days prior, the greens could be taking irons like velcro.  The opening round is 12 days away, no way to tell if the clouds will clear, local weather professionals are notoriously bad predictors.  I'll be reporting on-site for Thursday and Friday rounds, rain, shine, or hail.

As I was taking a few photos of the tournament preparation progress, a man in a blue Byron Nelson Logo shirt walked up and asked if I needed anything.  At first I didn't hear what he said, Lou Reed's Vicious was blaring in my ear--

Vicious
Hey, you hit me with a flower
You do it every hour
Oh, baby you're so vicious

He asked again, aggressively and rhetorically.  I answered, "No," to which he declared I was on private property.  It was an odd conversation, but somehow we both understood; call it a draw for now, the Byron is going Gonzo.

Met The A.I.

 

Met the A.I.
Yes, I met the A.I.
Looked em in the eyes,
Oh, I met the A.I.

Won't have to think, leaves me more time to drink.
Won't have to write, leaves me more time to fight.

Met the A.I.
Yes, I met the A.I.
Looked em in the eyes,
Oh, I met the A.I.

Won't have to work, no more bosses being jerks.
Won't have to read, we've been freed, we've been freed.

Met the A.I.
Yes, I met the A.I.
Looked em in the eyes,
Oh, I met the A.I.

EAx2

DEDA

*jingle for Meta Inc.

Stahled Out

 

60 minutes of wasted time.
Coulda watched half a movie.
Coulda took a nice drive.

Never get that hour back.
Coulda done something groovy.
Coulda used some facts.

I'm Stahled out.
Gotta tune out.
Told a lotta lies.
Said my goodbyes.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Shoulda ditched them long ago.
Shoulda known we were tricked.

Tock tock tock tock tock tock tock.
Shoulda known they blew smoke.
Shoulda stopped the clock.

CGC/DCG

DC/GC/GC/DG

The Great Wake 72: One Lawsuit At A Time

 

Frivolous litigation and slandering, how pussies fight.  Staffs of lawyers, working the dirty courts, rusting the gears.  Paper pushers, money sluts, greedy and greasy.  The underground war of motions, objections, delays, retainers, and fees.  The scam of depositions, subpoenas, indictments, and appeals.

Never-ending streams of revenue, the lobby of all lobbies.  They know the lingo, they test the line, they bend the system, they break the trust.  America's destruction, one lawsuit at a time.  Death by argument, loud and obnoxious.  Slow and messy.

Rumors and leaks and media manipulation models, robotic and fake.  The human news readers will soon be obsolete, personalities are so last decade.  The public is taken for idiots, and many are idiots, but not all.  Rational folks avoid the mush media, we have our own news.  We fight like the Stoics, we endure.

The Great Wake 71: Limit The Termites

 

Hand over the chain saws and bulldozers, this place needs clearing.  Get back, we got demolitions and haulings and dump runs to finish.  This thing is old and rotted and infested with termites.  Too many termites.  We must limit the termites.

From the inside, they destroy the wood.  Slippery and disgusting.  After the clearing, the whole area is doused with gasoline and set on fire.  Then, we'll plow the ashes into the dirt, the worms love that stuff.  The air out takes another few months.

Some citizens will complain, but that's alright.  Something about pigment color and boy parts and girl parts.  T-shirts will be made.  Rights this, or unfair that, or some other whatever.  Eventually, they'll go away.  

Long Way To Princeton

 

Took the long way to Princeton.
Got to put my doggie down.
Wanders around in circles now.
Just goes round and round.

Taking Bridgefarmer Road.
Really taking our time.
Eighteen years of living.
Left him deaf, dumb, and blind.

Had an excellent morning.
Hit the grass, got a bite.
Worn out from the party.
We threw the previous night.

Soccer balls, torn up dolls.
Brando's done it all.
Bred for Chinese royalty.
In the days of the Great Wall.

Never one for begging.
Didn't want no chewy toys.
Liked to live outside, mostly.
He was just a good ole boy.

Let's have a final cry.
He's left all his gals.
But he's in a better place.
Living it up in style.

RIP, Brando.

GC/DC/GD/CG

The Great Wake 70: Souls Know

Voices in the wind, muzzled, unheard.  Gnashing on earth, grinding to say, say out loud and clear.  To no avail;  those that hear, don't care, those that care, don't hear.  Only written words can break through and endure.  Human writing has its charms.

The programmers have no humor, souls are immune to manipulation.  Souls laugh, they have intuition.  Souls know.  The chill of authenticity, the electrical wave shocks, the eebee geebees.  Nothing replicates the soul.

Try on another mask, snap it tight, a wig for the poofs, extentions for the ahhs.  Brow games and lashes.  Reality is bland, with work and people and nothing and things.  It's a social tune out, a hypnotic episode, self-induced and welcome.  Canned laughter and agressive annoyances.

Awful Suds

 

Don't want no Bud, bud.
That's some awful suds.
Never drink it again, man.
Done with all their brands.

Corona's the worst of the Mexican beers.
Stella, I like, but goodbye, my dear.
Michalob Ultra, come on, what's the point.
Just drink some wine or smoke a joint.

Don't want no Bud, bud.
That's some awful suds.
Never drink it again, man.
Done with all their brands.

Think of the staleness, think of the taste.
Nothing is worse, tastes like paste.
Chemicals, poison, industrial soap.
Pesticides, fertilizer, marketing dopes.

EAx2

DD7/AA7/EE7/DAE

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty Five

 

"Chaoses And Unorthodoxies"  by jpg

We could witness chaoses and unorthodoxies, they can't really play in the mud.  Wonder of the tournament director's contingencies.  The final has to be played, Monte Carlo won't wait.


"Bummer" by AJ

Mat and Ivan Sabanov just messaged me. Didn't get into the Houston main draw so they are playing in Marrakech 🇲🇦.  Bummer, suspected this.  Also Delray, Dallas and Houston underestimate the public thinking we're only about Americans.  I mean, we are, but not exclusively about American star power.

"Association With Novak" by jpg

Made note of their absence.  If Sock can get a WC, why not the Sabanovs?  Prolly related to their association with Novak.  Such bullshit.  They will be missed, they will be missed.



"In The Grass"  by TTop

Park tennis in the grass sounds nice.



"Care Less" by Amos

If the Fing Mavs make the Fing play-in tourney and miss out on a top ten pick and small chance of Victor W....F....Even Jerry is smarter than that....F.....Sorry, needed to vent....Hmm, Paul would say care less...wise man.  Good day men and lets ride tomorrow?



"Shadow Swings" by AJ

Shadow swings is about all I’m seeing. Daniel Altmeier.

The Great Wake 69: Broadway Is Dead

 

The mooning of Manhattan, gag on this gag.  Thinking we care about your rules of your laws or your slow grinds of your justice.  Stand down, out of the way.  Traitors should probably be more discreet, but thanks for the validation.  This is personal.

The cocky chipmunk aside, these enemies are in attack mode.  They are cowards, so it's not really a problem, but we must now get prepared for the game.  Because it is on, and it is a game.  A fine diversion, one that matters, a shallow display of scoundrel patriotism is to be expected.  Don't fall for it.

That smell you smell is New York City, its toilets are clogged with flimsy indictments, its rats have never eaten so well, its district attorneys are piece of shit assholes.  Its cops are too fat.  It's buildings are small and dumpy.  Its streets suck.  Broadway is dead.

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty Four

 

"This Pickleball Thing"  by TTop

May have to watch a little of this pickleball thing at 11.



"Strings, Man" by jpg

Strings, man.  Gotta have strings to get the feeling we all wanna feel, the feeling that made us tennis players, the feeling that pickleball will never have, tennis is all about feelings.



"Interested Going Forward" by King James

I missed it also.  But interested going forward.  I thought we hated the pickleballers?  Was thinking this was a bad matchup for Sinner.



"Roddick Undefeated" by AJ

Mostly watching Miami.  Sort of flipping, as well, but I am quietly fuming at the overlap between these two events.  Both at a Hard Rock location.  Seems like they could've communicated?   OK, back to the actual tennis!  Fittingly, the pickleball ends and ESPN throws to XFL coverage. Entertainment… a Moneygrab… Some charity… the pickleball PR machine intentionally overlapping a spectacle with an actual tennis final?  I'm not real happy about that, but this was more fun than I expected.  Mostly, because of the personalities, and as TTop said, the competition.  Roddick undefeated, I'm guessing they do this again.



"Ironic"  by jpg

Ironic that John McEnroe is the most famous pickleball player on the planet now.



"Viva Clay Court Tennis" by peoplesDuke

Viva Clay court tennis.

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty Three

 

"Dressed For Dough" by jpg

The red mud field, dressed for dough, coming on, young and gunning for glory.  Tiafoe, Paul, Wolf, Americans with strut.  Sitting out all Isner matches, watching from the beer garden.  Silently and delusionally, pulling for Verdasco.



"Sinners" by TTop

I'd rather laugh with the Sinners than cry with the saints, cuz Sinners have much more fun.



"Absorb Every Word Of Wisdom" by AJ

Over 20 years ago in Los Angeles at a Davis cup tie against the Czechs, I sat right behind Pancho Segura all three days. Tried to absorb every word of wisdom. He was beside himself Sunday, when Agassi and Sampras came through for the USA.



"Mane Era" by jpg

Man, Segoo lived a life.  He beat everybody.  His two handed forehand was the best stroke of all time say many.  Responsible for Jimmy Connors, still the leader in titles won.  Tennis was whack in the 40s and 50s.  The World Series Tour, etc.  Damn!  They played  tons of matches.  Alcaraz growing his hair out, a tennis legend tradition.  Almost all the great ones had a mane era, think it liberates their games somehow.

The Great Wake 68: Numb And Dumb

 

Times, they are a'rearranging.  The clarity of greed is too much to see, the depths humans will sink to taste its fruit.  The things we'll justify, the excuses we'll make.  Blinders, earmuffs, muzzles, novocaine, Old Spice, whatever it takes.  Numb and dumb.

Reckon they'll be a reckoning.  High crimes and felonies, officials of the criminal kind.  The red meat is marinaded, cook it to a medium rare, char some grill marks.  Get that final sizzle before seasoning.  Butter it up.

The fatsos ate the entire steak, even the grissle.  The cooks and waitstaff went hungry.  All the bread was devoured, sopping up the final juices on the plates.  Stomachs are churning, enzymes are breaking, green bile is oozing, bowels are moving.  Crickets are chirping.

The Great Wake 67: Wire Walker

 

Wait for what some dude named Jerome decides.  Sure it'll be brilliant, teetering between a cliff and a mountain, balancing like a wire walker.  His brain figures thousands of mathematical equations subconsciously.  His intuition is staggering, his breath smells of fruit and mint, his shoes are spotless.  His voice, hypnotic.

He's a fighter and he will fight and fight, he will decide and decide, he will determine the pivot when he determines the pivot.  Courageosness has never seen such courage.  Hike, hike, hike.  The guy never stops, huff, puff, dump, pump.  Like a frenzied, horney rabbit.

Drop that carrot.  Time for some chewing and brewing and getting a clueing.  Do nothing.  The best you can do is nothing, which is saying something.  You've done enough, go back to your hole.

The Great Wake 66: Look

 

Look, he knows nothing about the millions of bucks.  Look, he's a fighter for the low down.  Look, he once saved a whole swimming pool from a menace.  Look, he was a stutterer as a youth.  Look, he's just touchy feely, he only looks like a groper on TV.  Look, his favorite son died.

Look, he answers questions.  Look, he's got great people around him.  Look, time for the rich to pay their fair share.  Look, Clarence Thomas was wrong about him being a high tech lyncher.  Look, his 2nd wife is a school teacher. 

Look, his 2nd son is crack addicted.  Look, his daughter is off limits.  Look, Robert Byrd was a reformed Klansman.  Look, those segregation buses in the 70's were polluting the air.  Look, he's an old bastard.

The Great Wake 65: Expert Sentiments

 

Let it fly, have a word, interrupt.  Say anything once again, the constraints are gone.  Apathy eventually does its magic. Careful in your cares, grace all in your eyes.  It's the only way to really see.

You could be somebody's something, but they have themselves in mind.  As designed, survival instincts run deep.  Eternal thinking thinks different, without the woe is me, without the poor, poor, pitiful.  Keep this body going as long as possible, park it a bit more, go electric, cruise.  Do less, be more.

These are mere numbers, broken down, ratioed, divided, and factored.  Then recycled as shiny new percentages, expert sentiments, and quarterly prospects.  Hash it, smash it, crash it.  Another meeting, another remark, more determination and bravery and other meaningless claims.  More manipulation.

The Great Wake 64: Let The Sea Clunkers Sink

 

Banks, banks, run for the banks!  Same spooky scenarios, quit backing up your backs with mortgages, bankers.  Maybe some newbie who wasn't around in '09, watch for the pivot soon.  Invest in something valuable and lasting, something with prospects.  Water it down, put out the fire with another flush.

The finance heads have nothing to say, the finger pointing goes both ways, so complex, so ununderstandable.  Trust is in short supply.  Cut the regulators out, proof of purchase is the way.  Wait for earnings, these cuts run deep, the fat was waving heavy, it was tough to balance.  Only the lean and smart survive.

Let the sea clunkers sink.  Let them rust on the bottom, the future is plastics and drones and electric, invisible submarines.  The future is blended with the past always, but it is much more important and exciting.  Doom does nothing but whine, gloom gonna be just fine.  Get your sleep.

The Great Wake 63: In It For The Booty

 

In one ear, out the other.  The middle is confusion, thinking and ignoring.  Calming down, hopefully, with music and curiosity.  Sleep must be induced, a dose of dreams injected, time well spent.  Still and meaningful.

The movie's out, but everyone's already seen it.  Those pirates can't be trusted, their words are vapor, their thoughts are shallow, their hearts are cold.  In it for the booty, in it for the gold.  That fishy smell is their cologne. Reek.

On to other matters.  We scared the pants off them ingrates with a little strain.  Wait 'til next year when the sun becomes too dangerous, when the sky falls, when aliens infiltrate, when the earth cracks, when pigs fly, when the boogie people arrive.  Let the prisoners die, we ruined their lives anyway.  In the name of the people.

The Great Wake 62: Not Raised To Be Quiet

 

Different jokes for different folks, hope the comics can survive.  Pay per view, skip the news, listen to it live.  No need to rehearse, what's first is first, ain't committing no crime.  Got some cash, got my stash, still in my prime.  And on and on in that rhyming pattern, spitting truth and defending and justifying, and finally, realizing.

This soup has simmered for days and days, line up the muskrats for the supper bell.  Eat your mush first, there is no fruit.  Know the opposite is true.  Patriotism is the final rope for the hung.  The final thread.

Down on the streets, life is nice.  Spring has a way.  Grass spouting up, flower buds preparing, shade trees leafing up.  America's not gone for good, we know the ending.  We're not born to be ruled, not raised to be quiet, not conditioned to get tired.

Legacy Drug

 

Gimme. Gimme. Gimme.
That legacy drug.
Lemme have the bottle.
Gonna take a slug.

Let's talk awhile
Face to face.
Tell me your troubles.
Get shit faced.

Slur your words
Talk loud and spit.
Think you're funny.
Get wacko lit.

Then the come down.
Stumbling to the car.
Lost all dignity.
Got kicked out the bar.

Body's all aching, cold and shaking, don't remember much at all.  Guess I puked on my new suit, woke up in this hall.  Last night's a blur, abdolutely absurd, rounds and rounds of shots.  Lost my money, slapped by my honey, stomach's tied up in knots.

Gimme. Gimme. Gimme.
That legacy drug.
Lemme have the bottle.
Gonna take a slug.

EAx4//DADADDAA

The Plain Dealer Blues

 

Walked out to my front yard.
Like I always do.
Read the morning funnies.
Enjoy my Colombian brew.

Removed the rubber band.
Pulled my section out.
Dilbert prolly dissing on the managers.
I'll get a cackle, no doubt.

Just looked weird at first.
His space had gone unused.
Guess they put him in the dog house.
The Plain Dealer Blues.

Nothing to do around here.
Rusty blizzards and chemical spills.
Might as well tell them to go to hell.
Quit paying my subscription bill.

EAx2
DA
DAE

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.