Comanche Country

The Davis Mountains

Mr. Adams probably didn't use a 10 year old $100 Kodak for this shot in Big Bend

The Good thing about the west is that no photograph will  prepare you for the grandeur. Sure, a few Ansel Adams black and white postcards come close but in general you will see things for the first time.

A keen eye will see the violent history of this land

Getting on the trail in my hippie pants with not enough water, flirting with the brunette state park ranger, getting lost, learning about a new bird...these are things that I miss. Although I'm dedicated to the destruction of the earth's ecological balance, a part of me still pines for the wide open spaces of a rocky trail and a can of beans at night under the stars. I never needed money but the goddamn police hounded me all day long in Corpus that they basically forced me to seek shelter in a junk yard...and now I'm an industrial electrician with money to burn! Texas made a man out of the most irresponsible 40 year old child in America and I'm bitter about it. I'm resentful. The whole point was to become a professional jazz guitarist. You can go back to the early days of this blog to witness the sheer insanity of my default lifestyle...the willful disregard of gainful employment, writing protest songs, drinking medicinally evaluated soda pop, jamming with fellow gypsies on the sidewalk, throwing my life away on a dream. I actually sold everything I owned to move into a van parked on the street so I could play guitar on the Venice Beach boardwalk...where I didn't make a dime...but I didn't need a dime because I was recovering from ass surgery and couldn't eat. Those were the good old days and now I'm too broken to live like that again. The best I can do is drag ass through enough years in the oil field that I can get my escorted funeral when I die.

Just because it's black and white doesn't make it good.

Drawing

Milk Cow said that Bobby is chasing chickens in heaven now. I've been told that anyone can draw but I have my doubts sometimes. The real problem is knowing what to draw but Bobby's last moment is what I would draw if I could. To capture the story behind the story is something I can do with words but if you can do it with a single picture then you've done something.

Those are chicken shaped clouds that only Bobby can see.

"Goodbye, Bobby."

Milk Cow Has Some Stories

The dog (Bobby) living at Milk Cow's apartment had a rough life and a quick exit. In his own words, this is Milk Cow's description...

"Had to take care of Bobby myself, neither F. nor R.would spend 37 dollars to have him put to sleep..i had to deal with it ..his back was broke his legs spread apart he had to drag himself..he wouldn't eat i couldnt see him suffer and freeze..i got him some milk and talked to him and when he turned away i hit him with shovel..died instantly.."

I want to make this a country song but I'm a coward and a rat and a hypocrite. I'm sure Milk Cow would let you have the lyrics.

I told Milk Cow that I'd do the same for him and he said he would hide the shovels next time I saw him. And you can put that in the song too.

Death Or Glory

Every morning I basically run with the bulls at Pamplona. The truckers call Interstate 20 "The Highway of Death" and to get to that highway I have to dodge coyotes, trucks and roadrunners and raccoons while my man tits jiggle courtesy of the hormones injected into my fake pork sandwich at the truck stop where my meals are paid for by big oil.

The fire department was too busy with a major tanker truck accident a mere mile east from here to put this minor fire out.

 I was trying to find a job site and I called for help and these were the directions...

"You see the smoke?"
"Yeah."
"We're a mile east of there."
"Ok. Who died?"
"No one I know."

This Clash song isn't about the oil field, it's actually a clever song dedicated to youthful braggadocio.

I was stuck behind a funeral procession for a dead trucker and I was peeling out in the dirt looking for an alternative route..."Motherfucker had to get buried today?" I yelled unsympathetically. "Oil Never Sleeps" is my new motto.
I've seen the light of how ignorant and self centered the generic populace is to allow this exploitation to go on and then condemn men living in vans preaching simplicity. Finally, I'm selfish like the rest of America, eating half a sandwich and throwing it away because I'm full, since it's paid for by someone else it's like I can shrug off any responsibility. Handjob afternoons and kiss the wife goodnight. My principles are on sale in Aisle 3 with the bulk Chex mix. Like children we defend ourselves from our biggest fears with self deception and numb ourselves with calories and alcohol. A generation of Fox news pawns with augmented reality glasses to replace the real reality that includes how their sand castle virtues are being swept away with the latest celebrity cellulite story. It's laughable, but accepting the truth would cause chaos so the apathetic stupor of drugs is the best alternative we have. Generic zombies watching international news that looks more and more like "America's Funniest Home Videos" Energy is my goal and if the Super Bowl game uses more energy than Haiti then I guess that's why God chose America to embrace.


The Clash were working class rockers. They didn't hide their accents and never cleaned up their act. They died with needles in their arm.
I love The Clash because they never let success get in the way of their disdain for the world.

"Now every cheap hood strikes a bargain with the world,
Ends up making payments on a sofa or a girl.
Love 'n hate tattooed across the knuckles of his hands,
 Hands that slap his kids around, 'cause they don't understand how,
 Death or glory, becomes just another story.
Death or glory, becomes just another story. "

Another Day Another Brake Project

stubborn rusted bolts

all the brake line is rusted and Oggy is on his back again in the Texas dust trying to get rusted fittings off of 45 year old brake hubs. I did learn that the bleeder screw can be left in the wheel cylinder if it is too rusted to get out. Get a new wheel cylinder and leave the bleeder screw alone...and there is a pressure differential valve that has a warning light that might've told me I'd lost all the pressure in the rear brakes so when the front brakes failed I would have no brakes at all. But that warning system is long gone...so it was quite a surprise when I lost my brakes. In the past few years if I'd lost my brakes at one of several hundred dangerous locations Rocky Mountains, Sierra Nevadas, Mexican desert, Labrador forest...New York Parkway...I'd've died. But it happened on a flat road in Texas. I mean, the brakes were gone. I learned that the rear brake cylinders were barely working and the front lost all fluid, so I had nothing. The parking brake would've done nothing. I downshift and then bite the bullet and put it in park, maybe destroy the transmission trying to save my life.