Moon Soon

 

Gimme that phone, need to talk to earth.
Might be alone, but I'll be the first.
Said we went there back in '69.
It was a Kubrick film, it was all a lie.

Let's break it down, so it's understood.
U/V rays would've got 'em good.
Shadows, radios, and thin space suits.
Let's all agree, we've all been fooled.

But that's alright cause here I am.
Floating solo in this stainless steel can.
A rocket for there and one for back.
Been set on course, right on track.

Walking on the moon soon.
This time for real.
Walking on the moon soon.
This time for real.

ED7/EA7D7A7

*cowrite EM.

The Great Wake 89: Everybody Else

 

Everybody else wants to get back to life.  Everybody else wants to create something. Everybody else wants to enjoy the breeze. Everybody else wants to float around.
Everybody else wants to rock out.

Everybody else wants to high five.  Everybody else wants to hit a show.  Everybody else wants to meditate.  Everybody else wants to read some Word.
Everybody else wants to ignore skin.

Everybody else wants peace and love.
Everybody else wants to go, go, go.
Everybody else wants to say whatever.
Everybody else wants to think originally.
But cry babies must cry.

The Great Wake 88: Staff Infection

 

Walk him out, he can still read the large print.  His legislative maneuvering and rules of order evoking are legendary, the leader of the minority.  The melting face of the Reds.  Supported by a fearless staff, the best proper uppers and downers around, always at the ready to break a fall.  No way they're gonna let him take another black eye.

A staff infection has taken hold, the government professional class is oozing puss and its getting all over the citizens.  Get some gauze, cover it up, get your oxygen at night, it's too gross for others to see.  Go heal, perhaps a leave of absence.  These staffs are elder exploiters, elder abusers, and basic blood sucking leeches.  The staffs have infected the entire government.

Morale is at a record low at the post office, the staff is frowning, they are moving in slow motion.  They do not care.  Everyone in line is frowning.  All the morning drivers were frowning, too.  The infection runs deep, it's in the blood, all the vital organs are impacted, the brain shuts down last.

The Great Wake 87: Tiny Chaos

 

This only ends one way, with cry babies in the streets, holding signs, holding each other.  Yelling about equity and billionaires and how so and so better keep their mouth shut (Theory Of So applies again).  Apathy is the real deal, shunning and mocking is the real way.  Leave them to their tiny chaos.  Let them cry it out, it's actually essential to develop the lungs, just keep the door closed, ignore them.

It'll be the same burning of city trash cans and masked cowards standing in line, getting up in the personal spaces of unknown enemies.  A cootie alert'll be issued by some department or organization, supply chains'll snap, China, Russia, Ukraine, my Argentina, my Mexico, Oh Canada, all the way to Japan.  Hurricanes, fires, floods, and twisters.  Mother Nature, that bitch!  Woe is me, oh woe is me, woe, woe, woe.

Go pay your bills, get a life going.  Perhaps two outlets, one creative, one active.  Move around, protesting is a waste, a net calorie disaster, especially after all the sugar drinks and afternoon snacks.  And looting's just a bad look, quit stealing shit.  Quit sucking your thumbs.

The Great Wake 86: Giddy Kids

 

The giddy kids were having a good day, they nibbled, they giggled, they snortlaughed.  Spittle is all over their camera lenses, holy guacamole, Spicoli.  Calm it down.  Perhaps it's better to get it out now, avoid a 2nd Civil War.  The duped, the manipulated, the knobs, the premature.

Tough to go out in a mocking heap of shame, but they deserve it.  The low class society, beyond no class.  This is not a monetary situation, it's more about decency.  Revenge is the conscious of envy, envy is the subconscious of guilt.  Odd, nervous laughter is the soundtrack.

Flex the union, it's more like rubber than plastic.  Time for some off roading, it can handle the rocks and canyons and rivers and gullies.  Those big shocks'll keep it going, bouncing and bumping.  Buckle up, grab a helmet, it'll be a blast.  It'll be a ride.

The Hook Of Texas 27: The Exiles Saved My Life

The Thursday night opener at Spicewood in Alpine was The Swifts, a local group with an electric folky sound, a banging cajon, and two sweet chick singers who sang about spilling wine, lost lovers, and bloody teeth.  Viva Big Bend Music Festival kicks in like a quake, people out there dance, they like to jump, twirl, scoot, slide, and sway.  I'm more of a neck nodder, a lone skeleton shaker.  Robotic movements wrapped around chaotic smooth popping, so I've been told.  Both my favorite daughters are tastefully excellent dancers, but it was too early for them to hit the floor, they were scoping out the scenery, they were watching the sun go down on the patio, they were magnetic.

Then it was off to Railroad Blues down the road for the West Texas Exiles 9 o'clock show.  This rough rocking, telecaster driving, old hat wearing group was my personal Viva '23 favorite, stomping stompers.  They seemed like the real deal, a weary musical band of woe and wild nights, of vans and swag tables, of bottles and pipes, of depression and resurrection.  Before one tune, the lead singer claimed he'd been at the lowest point in his life two weeks prior and if not for his band mates he'd be dead.  Their drummer kicked, their bassist bumped, their keys rained drops, they had a dynamite mandolin player.  The whole place rocked, it was packed, the band played and played, for 3 hours straight, they were exhausted by the end, we were exhausted by the end.

I got the shirt, I got the sticker, I got the koozie, price was no consideration, whatever the cost.  Bravo, bravo.  We come around for the landscape, we wander around for the art, we hang around til midnight for the telecaster.  After the show, I asked the lead singer if he was really at the lowest point in his life just two weeks prior.  He was surrounded by people and on his way somewhere, but he stopped, looked me in the eyes, paused, and said, "The Exiles saved my life."

The Great Wake 85: No Pills Tonight

 

No answer from the fair squad, the tables got turnt.  These interrogators are out of practice.  The news is dead.  Fools on display, they are shells, nothing but fossil fuel.  A slow, controlled burn for now, but the sparks are flying, there's oil all over the floor.

Manipulation media must be unwired and sent to detox.  Lights out at 9, no pills tonight.  Let's have a look around this dirt hole.  Hire more procecuters, clear the jails, line up the traitors, stock up on duct tape.  Surrender means nothing to us now, justice requires destruction.

The ABC's of propaganda -- A. See no evil.  B. Hear no evil.  C. Smell no evil.  Ruined minds of the crowd, thick with psycho drugs and blurbs.  They are easy, but they have no spirit, no significant intelligence.  Numb, dumb, and zero fun.  Pretenders.

The Hook Of Texas 26: Aluminum Sophistication

 

The Chinati Foundation is a trip when first encountered, I knew my daughters would catch the ride.  We turned right to start the self paced tour, despite the arrows indicating left was the correct direction.  The field blocks could wait for the end, it was approaching 90 degrees, I wanted them to see the buildings first, while their minds were cluttered.  The untitled Flavin lights, Donald Judd's two enormous converted artillery sheds of perfectly placed aluminum sophistication, the car crash sculptures, and the coolest dance floor ever installed, all surrounded by the desert dirt, scrubby bushes, stickers like razors, and big red fire ants.  They were glad they wore their western boots.

The creative gush was immediate, scenes of long hallways with diagonal fluorescent tubes of light --peach with green, yellow with blues, silloutes of dashes and lashes, then opposites, in six old converted barracks.  Then more shadows and installations and intentions along the gravel path; one building was a meticulous replica of an abandoned Soviet schoolhouse by Ilya Kabokov called School No. 6.  It was transcendent, their red patriotism, their red nostalgia, their love for their red children.  We are all uniquely, and essentially, and eventually, the same.  Just wanna learn, just wanna make something, just wanna feel good, just wanna go, just wanna rest, we walked on.

The field blocks seemed like big concrete doll boxes for some reason, the shades and shadows were alive, it was their home.  One after another, the arrangements interested us in some way, the placements, the surroundings, the sky, all working to inspire whoever or whatever, whenever.  But only there, in that place.  There is no other Chinati.  We walked 8,000 steps according to one of my favorite daughters, we were dazed and unconfused, we were hot and unbothered, shattered and uncluttered.

The Hook Of Texas 25: Bohemio

Driving into Marfa for our first night, we were road weary and hungry.  We checked into our spot at Bohemio, a converted restaurant with several lush courtyards, comfortable accommodations, and an advertised 'beat writer' theme.  Not so sure a generation of washed out, pilled up, frenzied, broke, first-thought-best-thought drunks is what I felt when I walked in, but the girls were enchanted.  They had done the research, "This place is so Marfa cute," said one of my favorite daughters.  They went from room to room, they thought it was cool, they thought it was nice.

Despite the hours of driving, we were energized, it was close to sundown, we walked to the nearby Piasano Hotel for dinner.  The grandness of the place is immediate, the architecture is unexpected, the food was delicious, we cleared our plates, we passed on dessert.  That night was a happy night, they were beginning to understand the ying and the yang of this dusty, disorderly, symmetrical place.  We walked back to our spot after dinner and checked out their cliche vinyl collection.  It was solid, but not spectacular--Stevie Winwood really sucked in the mid 70's, both the Miles records were scratched, Daft Punk's Robot Rock was the headliner, the Neville Brothers were over produced, and UB40 is way overrated (except for that red wine tune).

The following morning, the girls dolled up, it was time for digital images.  We took the 40 mile drive north on US-90, past Valentine, to Prada Marfa.  Despite the awful vandalism, featuring broken glass and bad graffiti, the ironic and satirical landmark was pictorial gold.  They are fabulous artists in their own right, already at this young age, eyes for light, eyes for shadows, eyes for lines, like their mother.  As we were leaving, two recent graduates of the Milan, Italy School Of Design asked me to take a photo of them; they had done a project based on this place, this was the first time they'd been there, I snapped several for them, made sure I got their shoes, made sure I had a good angle, made sure I got the mountains in the background.

The Hook Of Texas 24: Revolution Road

 

The departure was typical, the city holds on as long as possible, the stops and starts of morning driving.  We zoomed west, my favorite daughters and I, on Interstate 20 after Ft Worth-- 78 MPH, then 83 MPH, then 88 MPH.  "Eight you're great, nine youre mine," a State Trooper once told me.  We saw 3 wrecks, all involving semi trucks, we popped and swayed to the radio, we talked and listened and listened and talked, we took turns, I mostly listened.  I assured them, I encouraged them, laughed with them, drove like an expert, maintaining highway space at all times, left, right, front, back, continuously scanning, darting my eyes.

The Sand Dunes of Monahans was our initial destination.  The impressive mounds of sands, the wind whipped waves, ever photogenic; then a charcuterie board picnic of meats, cheese, granola bars, cherries, carrots, and Sun Chips.  "To me, sand is like gold," I cried.  It was a nice stop, both my favorite daughters were shook, they began to understand the lure of this crazy landscape in far west Texas, we had arrived at the edge.  From there, we turned South on FM 1776, Revolution Road, abandoning the Interstate, flying.

Faint outlines became mountain scenes quickly, the ooos and ahhs began 96 miles from Alpine, they had no idea, they were bewildered, confused, enchanted, lit.  Then I realized the low gas alert was alerting, our last fill-up was east of Abilene, there was nothing around, we had 16 miles of gasoline left the alert indicated.  My favorite daughter GPSed our position, Alpine was 11 miles away, we were all quiet and calm, we cruised into Uncle's convenience store on fumes.  Anyway, they say you have two gallons of gas left after the needle hits empty, I'm not so sure.  Running on empty always seemed dumb to me, no reason to cut it so close, no reason to sweat it, I apologized.

The Hook Of Texas 23: Far Out

 

"Imagine the hours of driving, imagine the right way to plot it, develop a skeleton of a plan.  To see the most, to hear the most, but not too much, certainly not rushed.  Make it easy, make it happen, you're not on your own anymore, man.  You've got responsibilities, you're now a guide, a scout, a catalyst."  This was my silent conversation with myself as I was planning a roadtrip to the 2023 Viva Big Bend Music Festival with my favorite daughter and my other favorite daughter.

No more wandering aimlessly, digging everything in sight, gawking, driving in circles, blabbering nonsense, this was a different deal, time to put my travels to good use.  The music will hit, the Texas Tycoons, Butch Hancock, and Blan Scott return; the Los Texmaniacs, The Hot Tamales, and West Texas Exiles are interesting additions, and Doug Moreland at Château Wright near Ft. Davis on Sunday afternoon is a legendary closer.  He's the local musical prodigal.  Works with chainsaws and fiddles, writes songs about clowns and dads in Cadillacs and bringing back the swing.  Perfect for brunch.

The rest is far out driving, far out riding, and far out scenes.  Dunes and telescopes, El Camino del Rio (River Road 170) and Balmorhea, Mule Ears and The Boathouse, Chinati walks and ribeye dinners.  My daughters will do some driving, it'll feel different, there'll be questions, there'll be anticipations, there'll be silent astonishments.  It'll be far out.

Baby Beds

 

Threads, meds, feds, and baby beds.
No getting away from what you said.
No show no doze, don't get shocked.
Can't take the dish, can't take the mock.

Checkers, electors, psycho protectors.
Line's over there for the vaccine testers.
Mush, hush, shush, don't make a fuss.
Take a long ride on the Barbie bus.

Ding, ping, sing, give us any ole thing.
Ban the bots that wanna to make us think.
Ban the tan and the mean ole man.
The dirty work of the Steely Dan.

AmEmAmEm

D

Am

The Great Wake 84: Pop A Tune Or Two

 

The modern skin is the melting pot, all mixed and matched and unattached.  The results of our American experiments.  Squabbling will never fade away on its own, time to take the lead.  This old digital war of bans and glow bravery is burnt out.  Let it go, ya know.

The hot haze has descended, it has covered the land and the lakes.  Sitting there with its high pressure and heavy air.  Fill up the lungs, they can take it, pop a tune or two.  The Dandy Warhols know the dilemma, they wanna be bohemians like you.  Cause they like you.

But that makes no difference, these days are numbered.  They are yours.  Take them all in, the awoke, the asleep, the aloof.  Apathetic of circumstance, unaffected.  Chill.

    

Rusty Pegs

 

Rusty pegs and long tan legs.
Memories of a tennis club.
Long before paddles and echos that rattle.
When stringers were the biggest studs.

Vantaggio, Sergio, Izod and Polo.
Brands that have some flash.
Zippers are out, rusted, no doubt.
Just like Uomo's hats.

Still got the the Slams, they're still grand.
The Grass, the Clay, New York.
Even down under, despite their blunder.
Tennis is the ultimate sport.

GC

DG

The Great Wake 83: Trunk Of The Tree

 

What a bomb.  Laughed off the stage, demented and weak, delusional and ignorant.  A murderous criminal, too.  Armed and dangerous, maniacal and deranged, gutless and heartless.  A pathetic American.

The future will sort out the sordid details, but the future won't care much, let's all move on.  Remember the tyrants and the fooled tyrant followers.  Put their words inside their mouths, put their writings up their wazoo, put their hypocrisy in lights.  Mock alot, they deserve it.

Tell us another folksy story about the good ole days in Scranton, about most of your grandkids, about most of your blood offspring.  The patriarch, the trunk of the tree, the rock of the family, the man.  Shuffle on, find a seat, you look a little withered.  Karma has taken its toll, but it's got a long way to go, this is a dirty person.  The fruit of his spirit seems rotted.

This Undreamy Reality

 

This undreamy reality.  

Another caravan, another expert, let's argue some more.  

It's the natural way to roll.  

When you're hopeless, when you're tired, when you're maximized.  

Keep the mind, ignore the nerves, be quiet.

The Great Wake 82: The Bribed Tribe

"Sorry about that 10 grand. But Pell Grants are off the charts and if you become a teacher, we got your back.  Wink, wink, ya know.  Where's the crapper, I gotta go.  These tamales are rank around here.  Bust a gut, King Tut."

Then he stumbled away, like a fool.  Back to the mask, back to his room.  Jacked up on needle juice and ludes seemed to me.  Summon the White House Docs!  Who's drugging this man?

Face facts.  This is bad news, and a drop in the bucket.  Think of all the other guilty greasers, red, blue, white, grey, gay, straight, black, and otherwise.  Selected, elected, and protected.  The bribed tribe.

Blank Art

 

The art was empty, void of creativity and void of cool.  Nothing could be seen beyond 3 shades of purple.  Dark purple to spoil, purple purple to make it rain, and of course, the insecure, envious shade of lavender, the weakest shade, the shade with no soul, the flimsy shade.  No heart art is all purple is, ugly art.  Boring art.

Not worth the price, not worth the time, not worth the attention.  Port-A-Potty art, complete with flies on stink.  Bad breath art, stay 10 feet away.  Soft art, you catch the drift.  Blank art, like it's not even there.  Loser art, the kind that doesn't matter.

Let others paint with purple.  Let others admire its lameness.  Let others fall for its scam.  Let others chase its bland tint.  Let others care about purple.

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.