The Junkyard Court: Grass Transition

Everyone knows who owns the clay.

Nadal even looks red.

His dark Spanish skin wrapping his used and busting muscles, which connect to his sturdy bones, all controlled by a white hot nuclear reactor flame of want to, need to, have to, and will.

His 11th Barcelona title, coming after his dominance in Monte Carlo, gives a good indication of who will win the French Open.

The ball whizzes off his strings, it loops high, and falls quick and sharp.

Nicking lines, biting down, going deep, severe angles.

Every point is fought for desperately, no mistake is tolerated without disgust.

The routines, the tics, the picking.

Scrowling around, rarely smiling during play, saving the beaming flash of complete joy for hoisting big silver trophies.

Ten at Roland Garros, eleven is likely.

The grass transition is the question for Rafa, will he win again in his whites.

He plays like he thinks he is the best tennis player ever, and knows he is the best tennis player now.

He is ranked #1.

Perhaps he will play Federer after Paris.

Perhaps he will win.

Static

The dim lits, not needing much to see forward.  Conceding the developments to inevitability, searching for the way through.  This is not just a ride going round and round while spinning.  Dizzy.  Nothing is repeated in the same space.  Unoccured time is the only true frontier.  Even the oceans have been scanned.  Space is known.  The poles.  To explore the future is to anticipate.  Technology, culture, relationships, and nature.  Each impacting the other, minimal autonomy.

Technology must be freed.
Late adopters are late.
There is little to gain.
The fear of it should be overcome.

Culture is our known existence.
Music, styles, priorities.
Demographics and insecurities.
The art of it all.

Relationships light the minds.
Individuals electrify each other.
Sharing the emotions of life.
Security, affection, envy.

Nature is a constant reminder.
Its beauty, its noises, its age.
Everything without thought.
Perfectly inconsiderate.

The futurists talk of trends and business and politics and other trivial things.  Predicting for money.  Like a fortune teller or tarot card reader or some other mystic.  Candles burning everywhere, made up like clowns, suckering and shaking.  Open your own eyes.  Cause and effect.  Explore.

Static.

The Block Age

The block age.
Chained to the past no longer.
The speculators are raking.
Seven thousand percent return.
With some luck and calm.

Trust is irrelevant.
These transactions are instantaneous.
A constant state of things.
No updates required.
The reconciliations.
Back office nonsense.
Modern day pushing paper.
The roll back and the buy-in.
Middle people get eliminated.
Cut-taking on top of cut-taking.

This is main line.
Applicable.
All states are transparent at all times.
The utility of it all.

Nakamoto, Szabo, Buterin.

Programmability of exchanges.
And work proof.
Public permissions of the crypto kind.

The Sound Must Sound

.hastily arranged, rearranged somehow.
.arrivals delayed, equipment loading.
.cracked the drinks, drank the Kool-aid.

.domestic communications, and life.

.down for the breakdown shakedown.
.then a fast patrol, low-riding, coasting.
.felt almost fuzzy headed, heart beating.

.flea is certainly a fine, fine bassist.

.more Kool-aid, goes down good and easy.
.plugs and wires, the sound must sound.
.amplifier cracks and crunks, cord abuse.

.never play with a pic, just never do.

.adjust to the rhythms, tried to get through.
.bodies out of sorts, our minds distracted.
.dogs howled, birds kwacked, we slacked.

.floated back home, exhausted and empty.

Red Mud Gonzo: Ten

"Grand Slam Noise" by jpg

...time to eat.  Tennys is hungry.  Even as a kid his moms said.  Hungry.  Nervous, always moving, just ticking all the time...  But, The Grit is The Grit.  A declaration before the match is due.  More research, 4 hours left.  The tournament magazine has a spread on the Finals Sunday Brunch at the club.  Everybody wearing what they're supposed to wear, not the same, not conformed, just above.  Yes, above.  I am intoxicated, to attend this brunch one day is a goal.  Begin with the end in mind.  Elevate, above the rest.  Tennys is hungry, yes, his mom likely snuck him a plate from the brunch.  He most certainly did not attend himself.  Obsessive pre-match routines, rituals, and yoga poses.  Then he eats.  Already making grand slam noise, which was a surprise.  Whose Sandgren?.  Now we know.  But, The Grit is The Grit...



"Sweet Slice BH" by TTop

Should be a great match...the Grit has that sweet slice BH.

"Joey" by peoplesDuke

Her name is Joey? I never knew this. That's awesome!!

"Joey Dean" by jpg

...Joey Dean.  She was a blaster on the court.  Leauges, etc.  Flat serve.  Whammer forehand.  Most likely, I play tennis because of her.  Great net player.

"On To Monte Carlo"  by jpg

...the end was euforically sad in a way.  The Grit defends.  Knelt before the match in obvious prayer.  When it was over, the eyes cried.  His father had passed suddenly, soon after Stevie won the USClay Court title last year.  Tennys was there to console.  No quick shake, but an embrace, a head pat from the defeated, along with just the right words.  A 3 setter that could have gone either way.  The Grit took that Red Mud Cannonball run.  Hung in the air, suspended in slow motion, then crashed through the surface of the River Oaks pool.  It is tradition...  On to Monte Carlo, it's just part of the tennis pro deal as Wayne says...  

The whole media operation, led by Pete Holtermann, are the electric glowers, the up-to-daters, the latest breakers, the on-the-record quoters, and the smooth floaters...his team seemed capable, controlled, and empowered...  Also, before the Red Mud Gonzo line closes, a thought and a prayer for Barbara Bush, in the final stages of an incredible life...  A great gal.

Red Mud Gonzo: Nine

"Cool Cats" by jpg

Russell Seymour and Dick Landenberger are Hall Of Famers, inducted, immortalized, permanently.  They know the game, and they marvel at its evolution.  The equipment, the giants, the scene.  Much has changed.  However, the traits of the greats are the same.  Tenacity, endurance, merciless, controlled simmer, deuce juicers, door closers, heart breakers, hate to losers.  These Texas Tennis HOFers, Russell inducted in 99, Dick in 01, earned eternal admiration and honor.  They still play.  Evidently, the over 80 division is active.  This is our future if we are fortunate and take Russell's advice to "Keep playing!"  Their jackets were sweet.  They were rightly elevated and strutted around the River Oaks grounds without even trying to strut.  It's just the way the naturally walked.  Still strutting.  Cool cats.  Dick mentioned playing the red clay of a River Oaks years back.  We were in the stands watching Tiafoe and The Grit.  A gathering of these TTHOFers was taking place all around us.  It was incredible, the vibe became too much, just too much.  Wayne called out their attendance from the PA.  Surely there was a luncheon, perhaps some wine, for the men and women of the Texas Tennis Hall Of Fame.  And their guests.  Jazz trio tapping, bopping, and popping in the corner.  Imagine the stories, a few are likely still rivals.  Grudges, perhaps, but much more forgiveness.  Some gone, memories still electric and known.  Fit, personable, smooth, and engaging.  Still climbing stairs, still coming into the net, still going for lines, still overcoming, still enduring, still hitting VVinners.  Double V.  So Vantaggio..  We are now friends...



"Art Hookup" by griff

I wanna cruzr' bike like that. So Walmart rig strip it down then what?  I don't have the art hookup like you do.  What if I bring my survivor '77 BMX original CYC stormer!



"99 Bucks" by jpg

...99 bucks.  Stripped it down, took off reflectors and fenders and chain guard, of course.  Added the foam.  Cali-style. Upgraded pedals and grips.  Dice air covers.  All In, another 70 bucks...  West Texas broke Blues.  Almost.  Good for suburban riding...  HellYell is for the dirt!  ...prolly cost about what a bag of top level golf clubs cost...



"Time To Eat" by jpg

...The Grit is The Grit.  He finds ways to win in Houston.  For his past 8 matches here.  Or 9.  A brawler, a sprawler, and an occasional mauler.  In his 12th set of the tournament, Fritz finally went down.  His future is very bright, especially when his net game improves.  .......A proven red mud champion, Stevie The Grit will need every edge he can find to defend his title against Sandgren in the final.  Tennys is hungry, his mother knows.  Time to eat...

The Ballad Of Moe Action

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Few years back he was a company man.
Came early, stayed late, always gave a hand.
Til one day, when he had that infraction.
No mercy, no love, take a hike Moe Action.

Became a lawyer to defend his good name.
Claimed that company should be ashamed.
No due process, just assumptions and talk.
Cashed his check cause the company lost.

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Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action, Moe Action.
(Less Talk) (Less Talk) (Less Talk)

Then old Moe started reading the Word.
Felt like something in his soul was stirred.
Few years later, gave all the world hope.
When he humbly agreed to be the Pope.

Ditched the robe almost immediately.
Instructed everyone to get off their knees.
Can't move around til you're off the ground.
Moe Action, The Pope, with Vatican sounds.

Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action, Moe Action.
(Less Talk) (Less Talk) (Less Talk)

Tired of Italy, hung up his Pope hat.
Damn pickpockets, those thieving rats.
Mastered Kung Fu, now he fights crime.
Moe Action protects the world at night.

The sleaze, the squeeze, he's seen it all.
Moe ain't surprised by the devil's call.
It rings it beeps it notifys our eyes.
Full of hate, got no grace, just full of lies.

Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action, Moe Action.
(Less Talk) (Less Talk) (Less Talk)