Dallas Cowboys

The “Dallas” Cowboys haven’t, strictly speaking, been in Dallas for almost 40 years. They started playing in 1960 at the Cotton Bowl, just a few miles from downtown Dallas. In 1971, they moved to the Texas Stadium, in Irving. Although Irving has been described as a “suburb of Dallas”, and is definitely part of the area usually referred to as “the DFW metroplex”, it is a city in its own right. Last year, the team moved to the newly built Cowboys Stadium, in Arlington, which is “centrally located between Dallas and Fort Worth”, having been offered financial incentives that few could refuse (including Jerry Jones, the current owner). It’s one of the most valuable sports franchises in the world, second only to the Manchester United football team, and you don’t get to that position without cool-headed and ruthless financial acumen.

Protest sign ...

... and a 100 yards down the road

 I drove past the shell of the old Texas Stadium this morning – it’s only a few miles from the hotel – and was saddened to think that it will be completely demolished on April 11^th. They auctioned off the stadium seats, the scoreboard, the clocks, the chandeliers, and anything else that didn’t move. As I drove past, I was listening to Brulé’s Buffalo Moon – Brulé are a native American band – and an interesting juxtaposition of ideas occurred to me.

Native American culture is gaining momentum here, as well it should. There is a story behind the band, but it is not my place to tell it. The music represented, for me, something agelessly spiritual, and the stadium, something purely temporal. It seems as though we build things just so that we can tear them down, like a child with a sandcastle; as if we are emphasizing our mortality, writing it bold, italicizing and then underlining it. The native spirituality predates the corruption of Christianity, in which we have descended from illumination to evangelism, from learning to lust, from cathedrals to child-molesting.

We no longer have the stomach for majesty, the heart for love, or the will to survive. We will continue to rape and pillage until there is nothing left to rape and pillage, or until, as is more likely, nature tires of our futile attempts to circumvent her need to contain our voracity.

Infuriating, isn’t it?

Indian Market

Today the temperature has been around 75°F; this time last week it was half that. What a difference a week can make! It’s warm enough to venture out – it certainly wasn’t last weekend (bearing in mind that I have no coat on this trip).

This weekend was the annual Indian Market in the Arlington Convention Center – American Indian, that is. Arlington is an interesting city. It’s considered part of the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, and is home to the Rangers baseball team, UTA (the University of Texas at Arlington), Six Flags (a theme park), Hurricane Harbor (a huger water park), and, most recently, the Dallas Cowboys (after they stole them from the city of Irving).

At the market, I discovered two bands – well, one performer and one band – that I’ve never heard of before. Arvel Bird’s grandmother was a Paiute Indian; his grandfather was a Scot.  His music is an interesting fusion of Native American rhythm and Celtic melody and lyricism. Brulé are a Native American rock band, who seem to be doing for that culture what Runrig did for theirs.

I bought CDs from both, stood in line for autographs, and after a lunch of Indian Tacos and Dr Pepper, hit the road to listen to the music. The trees are starting to green, and the purple crape myrtle is blossoming – signs that Spring may yet be attainable, after a winter that seems to have been universally unpleasant.

I drove West on I-30 to Weatherford, where I had to stop to take a picture of an interesting mural on the side of an antique store on Main Street; then north to Springtown (home of Shinola’s Texas Café – an excellent diner); and finally east back to the hotel. Just enough time to listen to both CDs.

It’s hard to beat driving Texas country roads on a warm sunny day, listening to inspiring music.