Dallas Open Gonzo 3: Gold Tipped Drawstrings

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

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

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

Dallas Open Gonzo 2: Fritz The Californian

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

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

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

The Hook Of Texas 8: Visions At Chinati

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

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

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

Dallas Open Gonzo 1: Tournament Host Status

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

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

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

The Hook Of Texas 7: The 44 Farms Ribeye

 

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

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

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

The Hook Of Texas 6: Terlingua Jack

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

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

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

The Hook Of Texas 5: On The Fringe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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