Roller Derby

It’s looking more like Spring here now. The clocks went forward last night, and I’ve been seeing little clumps of primroses by the side of the road for a few days. Today I saw bluebonnets for the first time, and the temperature went up to about 94ºF (about 36ºC). Like everywhere else, winter seems to have been unnecessarily long.

"Coin lady"

Yesterday morning I went to my “coin lady” in Garland to catch up on State Quarters – Nevada (the “Silver State”, which joined the Union in 1864) is the only one that’s been issued this year. They’re supposed to be released at about 10-week intervals, and, since we’re about two thirds of the way through, you’d think they’d have it down to a fine art. But, like almost everything government does, it’s behind schedule. The coin is pretty, though (unlike, say, Vermont’s, that looks like someone peeing behind a tree).

The Financial Times is delivered to my hotel room daily (I don’t think they’ve figured out yet that I don’t have any money), and in it I read a review of “The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada”, which stars, and is directed by, Tommy Lee Jones. Tommy Lee Jones is patchy in his choice of roles, but this movie won Best Actor and Best Screenplay at the Cannes Film Festival. It’s one of those movies with no loud bangs, no special effects, and no gratuitous sex or violence. So, of course, it came and went here before anyone noticed it (though it’s obviously only just been released in England). I tracked it down to the last place in the area it’s still playing – the Angelika Film Center on Mockingbird Lane in Dallas. It’s one of those civilized movie theaters that serves wine and respectable snacks in the attached restaurant (I went to the matinee at 11:15, which is a little early to partake, even for me). It’s great to see the Western movie genre being revived and redefined – most notably, recently, by Brokeback Mountain, and now this. I don’t want to spoil it by revealing any of the (wonderful) storyline, but I would recommend it without reservation. It left me tearful (in a good way) until all the credits had rolled by.

Outside the "skatium" ...

... and inside

This evening, of course, I went to see the Panther City Princess at the roller derby in Arlington. My camera, unfortunately, is not up to taking good shots in large, poorly-lit interiors – or, more likely, it’s just me – so I don’t have any good action pictures. But, in any event, it was interesting. The raffle prizes  included cow-skulls, garden gnomes, and free piercings. I was probably not the oldest person there, but I may well have been the only one without a tattoo or a body-piercing. The marriage of Heavy Metal to Roller Derby works well. The sport is definitely a contact sport – the girls all wear crash-helmets and elbow- and knee-pads, and use gum shields, and are mostly well-padded in other important areas. The outfits are skimpy, but in a seductive, and not nasty, way. Gothic images abound, and “mock” violence – in the names of the teams (Suicide Shifters, Slaughterers) and players (Leather Locklear, Krazy SK88, Ultra Violence, Willow Bliterate) and the between-race skits – is played up. But it’s all intended to be good fun – if a fight breaks out between girls on the track, it is resolved by the “Penalty Mistress”, for example, by having them skate backwards to see who’s the fastest, or donning huge fake boxing gloves to “slug it out”. If I had to choose between an American and a Brit to put on a good show, I’d choose the American every time.

By the way, I have the program that contains the complete rules (such as they are), if anyone is interested. They’re also advertising for participants, but you have to be fit, feisty, and female.

I’d go again, but next time I think I’d have a tattoo first, and take more beer.

Your toes leave small dimples in the sand

That the water takes away

And carries to some foreign shore

Another time, another land.

Your words express my thoughts unspoken

Words that hide inside by day

That lurk behind half-opened doors

And when formed are always broken.

Panther City Princess

I’m still looking for America – it’s just as hard to find as England these days.

The Panther City Princess

Autograph & tickets

In that quest, I heard during the week that Ann Calvello, “queen” of roller derby, most famously with the San Francisco Bay Bombers, died recently at the age of 76 (http://www.latimes.com/news/obituaries/la-me-calvello17mar17,1,1727199.story?coll=la-news-obituaries). It seems that roller derby is making something of a comeback, and since it is most definitely American, I tracked down a local event. Next Sunday evening, at the Arlington Skatium, the High Seas Hotties take on the Suicide Shifters, and the Slaughterers hope to do just that to the Wrecking Crew. I stopped by the Dallas Cigar Shop yesterday to pick up a ticket, and was served by a young lady who turned out to be the “Panther City Princess” (in team colours, no less), who skates for the Suicide Shifters (Panther City, by the way, is an old nickname for Fort Worth that predates the current Cow Town). It was early morning, and there were no customers, so I asked for her autograph, and also requested that she describe the finer points of the game to me. It rather seems that there are no finer points, but … well, you’ll have to wait until next week when I’ve seen it for myself. If you’re not familiar with roller derby, you can find out something about it at http://dallasderbydevils.com/ (but please don’t go there if you are easily offended, and remember that my exploits are driven only by curiosity).

Today, I went to my usual flea market in Fort Worth. While examining some black flower vases, the vendor explained to me that some were black amethyst, while some were simply black. When I asked what the difference was, he explained that, if you hold black amethyst up to the light, you can see a purplish tinge. When I told him I was colour-blind, he laughed and told me that everything was black amethyst! We struck a deal on one of each.

Cool

There was a dog show opposite at the Will Rogers Center, but I’m not paying $6 to look at dogs – so I headed west on I-20, passing through “Cool” (which, I have to say again, doesn’t qualify as a city to me).

I have no idea if Cool is actually cool, and, given the small population, there wasn’t exactly anybody around to ask. But I might consider joining the local church – that would be cool!

A cool church ...

At Mineral Wells, after stopping at Braum’s for a hamburger and milkshake (I know these are not good for me, but almost anything is ok in moderation, and Braum’s are renowned for their milkshakes and ice cream), I turned around and headed back along virtually the same route. Too late for me to stop (I was in the centre lane), I passed a hitchhiker on the highway. He was walking along the shoulder with a huge back pack, and it was only as I passed that I could tell from the shape and colour of the hand, thumb extended, that hung loosely at his side as he walked, obviously not expecting anyone to stop, that he was Mexican. I don’t know why these images haunt me – I couldn’t have stopped, I didn’t know anything about him, and there are too many in need of help anyway. Somehow the reasons just sound more like excuses.

A newly completed church

By way of update, a few weeks ago I included a picture of a church under construction in Fort Worth. Here’s a picture of the same church, now completed. Whether something constructed with such urgency will stand the test of time as did the churches and cathedrals of old – well, only time will tell. I imagine the same construction skills go into raising new Walmart’s, and Target’s, and MacDonald’s – and the sooner they fall down, the better.

Carls Corner

Interstate 35 gets confused in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex area. About 30 miles south of the Metroplex, it splits into two legs – one leg goes through Fort Worth, and the other through Dallas (which are about 35 miles apart). Then, about 30 miles north, they coalesce. In between, they are known as 35E and 35W. If you’re from out of town, this can be confusing, because both of them run north-south – it’s just that one of them is left (West) of the other (East).

I only mention this because I started out this morning from Fort Worth towards Carl’s Corner. Why would I go there? Because I’ve heard it mentioned recently from two independent sources: friends in Connecticut, and Julian Pettifer in BBC Radio 4’s “Crossing Continents” (I’ll get back to that in a minute).

Up in Smoke

Starting from Fort Worth, you head south on 35W, whereas Carl’s Corner is on 35E. Fortunately, about the time you need to make a u-turn to come back towards Dallas on 35E, you hit one of my favorite BBQ truck stops. The menu is pretty basic: plates of beef, ham, sausage, hot links or turkey for $6.79 – a plate includes two sides (typically beans, potato salad, green beans, mashed potatoes, corn, …); ribs for $9.99; po’boy (yes, good question – I don’t know) for $4.59; Texas trash (frito pie Texas style – again, I don’t know) for $6.25. Desserts: cobbler or pie for $2.50. To drink: coffee, iced tea or coke – large or small, but nobody (except me) orders small (and that’s only because I know that “large” means I’ll most likely need a friend to help me carry it).

"Bio Willie"

Delicious. So what’s the deal with Carl’s Corner (http://www.wnbiodiesel.com/locations-TX-Carls%20Corner.html)? It’s just a truck stop, but the owner is a friend of Willie Nelson. When Willie heard that Carl was closing down and retiring, he called him and persuaded him to stay open selling “bio-diesel”, which is made from natural products. Willie Nelson isn’t on my list of favourite singers, and he’s had a few legal problems, but he is to the American farmer what Bob Geldof is to starving Africans, and I admire him for that. So Carl stayed open, and, as he says, “the truckers did the rest”. It’s cheaper, it gets more miles per gallon, and the engine runs cooler. While I was there, a 30-wheeler pulled in to fill up – I’m used to 18-wheelers, but this was a monster, and so was the guy who climbed down from the cab. Loose fitting pants and t-shirt, with a beer-gut that hung down almost to his knees!

I didn’t go inside – if you’re not a trucker or a biker, I think the place might fall silent as you walk in, but I’m probably being unfair.

And why would Julian Pettifer be even remotely interested? Because, apparently, even though the American administration appears to be denying all knowledge of global warming, and refusing to be a party to the Tokyo Accord, there is a grass roots movement with indications to the contrary. Individual states are instituting mechanisms for reducing corporate emissions, and ways to trade “coupons” between states that are particularly efficient with those that are not. And an Evangelical church splinter group is breaking ranks by recognizing that we were given stewardship of the earth and its resources, and should accept the responsibility for taking care of it (there is a strong “creationist” versus “evolutionist” debate here, which means that many evangelicals automatically reject anything that “scientists” might have to contribute). And so Julian Pettifer not only visited Carl’s Corner, but also the town of McCamey, Texas – the “wind energy capital of Texas”  (http://www.mccameycity.com/windmills.htm). That’s quite a few hundred miles west of here, and, much as I’d like to visit, it’s a little too far to drive.

So don’t believe everything you read. Sometimes the people can make a difference. And, at the moment, George W. Bush is following, not leading.

Nothing to Write Home About

It’s not supposed to be this cold in Texas, y’all! The temperature dropped 50ºF from 80ºF one day to below freezing the next. And here, snow is unusual – more often, we get “freezing rain”, which is a euphemism for the major highways acquiring a surface like glass, and being littered with cars that have spun off onto the grassy verge, and the flashing lights of Emergency Services vehicles slowing down the traffic to almost a complete standstill.

The fountain outside the hotel, though still trying valiantly to maintain its credibility, is essentially frozen – and the picture was taken around noon!

Meanwhile, back in Eggesford, the winter landscape continues to look stunningly beautiful – the picture is of our local church (in the foreground), and Eggesford House, of which I know nothing more than the name (in the background).

So there’s literally “nothing to write home about” – and I had such great plans for this weekend. I’m sure that within a week the unusual cold spell will be over, but for now, I can do no better than include a small vignette that I wrote some time ago – if for any reason my memory fails me, and you’ve seen this before, I think you’ll just have to grin and bear it!

Panhandling is illegal in Dallas. Every now and then they have a crackdown, and it disappears for a while. But it always comes back.

While waiting at a red light, a young black man with a feckless smile stood by the side of the road, baseball cap in hand, held out expectantly. He waved cheerfully at the occupants of cars as they drew up. He didn’t look hungry or drunk or drugged – merely forlorn. His clothes, though old and ragged, were clean, and he wasn’t the usual panhandler that you’d cross the street to avoid.

I stared resolutely ahead. The light took forever to change, and that gave me time to think. Why did I refuse to make eye contact? Presumably because, in the inner recesses of my mind, I could pretend that I hadn’t seen him, or that he didn’t exist. If he’d been wounded, or fainting from thirst, would I have helped? I think so. So why not help with some loose change (which I dump into a jar when I get back to the hotel and then donate to Children In Need in those little envelopes they give you on the plane anyway)?

Maybe it helps if you have a rule – you know: “I never give money to beggars”, or “I donate to charity through my church”. But I don’t think it would help. Somehow the thought that I completely ignored a fellow human being that was in need of help, and worse, that I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t even there, weighs on my mind. I know you can’t give money to everyone who asks for it; I know he’d “probably only go and buy beer”; I know that “he ought to get himself a job like everyone else”. But I also know that not everyone in similar circumstances has deliberately thrown themselves under the wheels of life.

The trouble is, how do you tell the difference? And what do you do about it? In my case, the answer is, sadly, nothing.

In my defence, I have to say that, now, I invariably give money to people that look as though they need it. The most recent said something like: “Hey, thanks man – now I can buy some soap and get cleaned up.” Whether I, or you, believe that is inconsequential. I felt better. I really hope he did, too.

Bishops Arts District

New church

Here’s a sight you won’t often see in England – a church being built. And a big church, too. This is quite a common sight here – at least in the Bible belt. In England, they have trouble filling and maintaining the architecturally spectacular churches that we have; in Texas, they can’t build them fast enough, even if they are just stick built (wooden skeleton) and drywall (plasterboard). You can read into this whatever you like.

Today, I went in search of the Bishop Arts District (http://www.bishopartsdistrict.com/) in South Dallas. It took a bit of finding, because it’s not so much a “district” – more just a couple of blocks of artsy shops and restaurants in the middle of a deprived Hispanic area of Dallas. The reason I went was because a local TV station reported on a Dallas Museum of Art’s community outreach program to encourage local children between 14-18 years old to create murals in the area. You know, of course, that I’ve developed a particular fondness for murals.

The area, apart from the murals, was disappointing, as are so many of the “gentrification” projects that seem more to me like “yuppification”. At least Starbucks haven’t made it there yet.

(And, on a separate note, if you have access to the internet, and any doubt about the poverty gap between rich and poor in the United States, you should check out http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/countryboys/view/ - there are significant areas of the country that are third world at best. And I’m sure this is just as true of almost any country that likes to think of itself as “civilized”.)

El Padrino

I bought lunch at “El Padrino” – it’s on the fringes of the District, and is included in it more as an acknowledgement of the local community, since the patrons (unlike those of many of the nearby upscale restaurants) seem to be exclusively Hispanic. It’s basically a streetside Mexican takeaway. The menu was entirely in Spanish, and I had no clue what to order, so I asked two young girls ahead of me in the queue to help with the translation – I can’t believe my opening line was: “Do you speak English?” We’re in Dallas, for heaven’s sake, and they looked at me as if I was insane. They helped me nevertheless, and I ordered 3 chicken fajita tacos and a Coke. The tacos, needless to say, were nothing like what we call “tacos”, but delicious, and served with refried beans and slices of fresh avocado.

Mum in Okehampton

And just to make sure that you don’t get the impression that my interest in murals is confined to Texas, here’s one in Okehampton, Devon. The wonderful lady in the picture is my mother – otherwise known as “Nana”, which is why I also include a picture of an enterprise she seems to be running on the side in Dallas, unknown to the rest of the family. 

Nana's Wash-n-Dry

I wish there were more murals – they brighten up the dullest of areas and lift the soul.

Richard Avedon

Motor home

Inside the bus

Horse trading

Richard Garber

Roger Anderson

It has been a weekend of contrasts. Yesterday, at an equine trade show, I boarded a “motor home”, immediately informing the salesman that I had no intention of buying, but was merely curious. He was more than happy to indulge me. Every possible convenience was available on what was, essentially, a purpose-built single-decker bus: double bedroom with walk in closet and en suite bathroom; separate shower; refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave and gas range; wide screen plasma television; ergonomically designed cupboards, with doors that folded out of sight; soft carpeted floors. And all for a cool $1.4 million.

Horses were traded for around $4,000, with an auctioneer that sounded just like those on the movies. And for the same price, you could get a custom-made, hand-tooled and stitched leather saddle. For slightly less (but only slightly less), you could get a pair of Mercedes boots to fit you like a glove. I have to admit that I only spent $8 on getting my current boots shined – a process that takes at least ten minutes, and leaves them gleaming like glass.

On my way back, I passed the Amon Carter Museum in Fort Worth, and remembered a colleague telling me about an exhibition by the recently-deceased photographer Richard Avedon, entitled “In The American West”. It is a collection of portraits, taken over a four-year period in the early eighties, and focuses, not as usual on the more fortunate members of society, but on those closer to the land: farmers, oilfield workers, carnies, coal miners, drifters … (http://www.cartermuseum.org/Exhibitions/avedon/). I remember, some years ago, seeing the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC, and subsequently getting the book “The Wall” (which is mostly pictorial) and being moved to tears by some of the images. The Avedon exhibition moved me similarly – if you can see the picture of Richard Garber (a drifter), read the (very brief) background, and not feel his sense of despair, you’re a better man than I. I immediately bought the book from the museum shop so that I could share the images with others at home. But the exhibition is not about despair, or misfortune – though somehow you can see in the eyes of all the subjects the thought that somehow life has passed them by. What is most scary is that they are so comparatively recent. I remember 1983 very well, and I was probably, at that time, only one pay cheque away from being on the opposite street corner to Richard Garber.

Today, I headed south on Beltline, for no good reason. I came across “Texas Iron Concepts”, a store specializing in decorative ironwork. I stopped by to look, but it was closed. As I pulled away, the owner came to the door, and called me in. He was just “hangin’ out”, and I was welcome to look around. I spent quite a while chatting with Roger, about his work, his store, and his previous life in the oilfields of Oklahoma. He learned that I like flea markets, and directed me to a Mexican market in South Dallas – “Hell, you’ll be the only white boy! D’ya speak Spanish?” When I said I didn’t, he told me: “Cuanto dinero? That’s all you need to know – it means “How much?”. But they know me, and I mostly just say “How much for this piece of crap?””

He was right – I was the only “white boy”. It was pretty safe, I think, though I was careful who I made eye contact with. I was also the only white boy at “Big Bruce’s Texas BBQ” an hour later, though the other faces this time were black. The two patrol cars parked in front reassured me (because they were there for lunch, and not investigating a crime!). Beef plate, potato salad, pinto beans and lemonade. Did I want the small (pint) or the large (quart) size drink? I pointed out that refills were free, so that there wouldn’t be much point in me paying extra for the large size. It seems that they get a lot of truckers, and they can’t be bothered fiddling about with refills. It may also be that they get quite a few people who can’t figure out the difference.

Like I said – contrasts.

Appaloosas

Appaloosas

Garland Mural

Dia de los Muertos

Dia de los Muertos

Shoes

Appaloosas are spotty … but attractively so. Named after the Palouse Indians of North West Idaho, they are the state animal, and are predominantly show horses. As you can guess, I found myself once again at the Will Rogers Memorial Center, at the Appaloosa Horse Club Show. I’m not sure what attracts me there so frequently – because it’s free, a love of horses, or that I have a thing about women in spurs. Probably we should not dwell too long on the topic. The picture shows riders exercising their horses prior to the show.

My day didn’t start there, however. First stop was my favourite coin shop in downtown Garland, to pick up the recently released Kansas State Quarter – I’m collecting 7 copies: one for me, and one for each of the children. As luck would have it, it was the First Saturday Trade Day in the square – that it to say, it was a craft/produce/bric-a-brac event that occurs on the first Saturday in every month. As well as the stalls, a variety of (mostly) country singers performed on a makeshift stage in the middle of the square. I’ve been going to Garland for almost a couple of years now, and have been watching it slowly transform itself from the more commonly seen effects of “downtown neglect” into an area with much more possibility. On a Saturday night, you can either pay to watch country artists at the Garland Opry, or hang out in the square to watch a variety of bluegrass pickup bands; there are coffee shops and craft shops; a couple of restaurants and a second-hand bookstore; a feed store that puts on a great fall display of hay and pumpkins – signs of vitality. The picture shows one of the inevitable murals (of which I’m now building an impressive collection!).

From there I headed towards Dallas, to the Bath House Cultural Center. I’d heard on an early Saturday morning Hispanic TV show (“La Vida”) that they had an exhibit devoted to Dia de los Muertos (the Mexican “Day of the Dead”, when they pay tribute to dead loved ones (it’s interesting how different cultures have such different attitudes to death, but that’s a subject for another time). The building itself was singularly unimpressive (although its history may not be), but the exhibit made up for it, ranging from a traditional shrine to a dead pet, to a more modern homage to one “Dr Diablo”. And not only that, but it’s right on the shore of White Rock Lake – in the picture you can see cormorants, egrets and cranes sunning themselves with the Dallas skyline in the distant background.

Later that day, back at the hotel, I glanced over to the spot on the floor where I keep my shoes, and it occurred to me that, on at least one level, they summed me up: the shoes that I wear for work (because the preferred attire is “business casual”, and I long ago discovered that it’s not worth fighting the system, and that there are plenty of ways of making a discreet personal statement without upsetting anybody); the sandals that I would always wear, given half a chance (because, hand-crafted in San Antonio, they are very comfortable, and also because I think I like to be in climates for which that footwear is most suitable); and the boots (Tony Lama’s – not the best, but certainly not the worst) that are much more comfortable than they look, and polar opposites to both the others.

I think perhaps we all have multiple personalities, in a sense – it seems as though I have at least three.