Evolution

The world is constantly changing around us. This is nothing new, but what is new is the speed at which it is happening. We human beings are not accustomed to handle evolution at such a rapid pace. We like to think we are in control, that we influence the things that happen around us. And so we focus our feeble attention on global warming, endangered species, “conflict resolution” by means other than violence, world poverty, and the financial crisis, when, in fact, all these things transcend our existence – we are the only really endangered species. I have a collection of “reusable” shopping bags at home, because I always forget to take them with me, and feel obliged to buy more rather than ask for plastic bags. I suspect my collection has depleted the planet’s resources far more than the plastic bags that I would otherwise have used, and it is for that reason that, although I will dutifully recycle where I can, I think that saving the species is probably not in the best interests of the planet.

I’m not a Luddite – things have to change, and I know that. But there needs to be a reason for change. As many words do, the word “progress” has morphed into a synonym for “change”, and progress, as a result, is no longer necessarily a good thing. Realizing this takes the edge off the satisfaction of going to the mall and buying 4 shirts and a pair of jeans for $60 at the Western Wearhouse (sic), because they’re going out of business; and walking through the skeleton of Virgin Records, where even the fixtures and fittings are up for sale; and seeing any store that isn’t offering 70% discount devoid of customers. It’s evolution, it’s a natural process – the strong will survive, and the weak will not. But Western Wearhouse is where I bought my first pair of boots, and I’ve spent time at the listening stations in Virgin Records, discovering new artists. I’ll miss them both. Having said that, of course, it’s slightly hypocritical that I think GM, Chrysler and Ford deserve to go under – their arrogance is finally rewarded.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting older that I have trouble with the ground shifting under me. These days it seems more like a threat than an “opportunity.” I went to see two movies this weekend – Gran Torino, with Clint Eastwood, and The Wrestler, with Mickey Rourke. In both, the protagonist is an older man coming to grips with the human frailty to which we all eventually succumb. They deal with it in very different ways, however – one with dignity, and the other, in the only way he can. I won’t spoil it for you by telling you which is which. I’d recommend Gran Torino for “guys and gals”, but The Wrestler probably for guys only – not because of the storyline, or the acting, or the underlying morality (which are all superlative), but simply because The Wrestler pulls no punches in representing the violence of the world of “fake” wrestling.

I was upset when they decided that Black Rod no longer should walk backwards at the opening of Parliament – that’s how much of a traditionalist I am. I’m sure there’s room for a happy medium, and I’m willing to negotiate.

Talimena Scenic Drive

The Talimena Scenic Drive runs between Talihina, Oklahoma and Mena, Arkansas. The name is, obviously, an elision of the two names – not unusual in these parts, to wit, Texarkana, a city straddling Texas and Arkansas, or Lake Texoma on the Red River, shared by Texas and Oklahoma. We decided to drive up to Little Rock, the capital of Arkansas on Friday evening, spend Saturday in Little Rock, and then drive back to Dallas via the scenic route.

It’s cold for this time of year – hovering around the freezing mark first thing in the morning, and when the sun goes down, and we weren’t, sartorially speaking, particularly well prepared. So when we arrived at the hotel on Friday evening, we decided to eat in the hotel. My experience has been that eating in hotels is almost always a bad idea – this one wasn’t too bad, even though they told me that ribs were off the menu when I tried to order.

Arkansas is one of the nation’s poorest states, and the capital reflects that. Downtown, the River Market District was quite disappointing, even though we knew that the “season” has been over for a few weeks. The Clinton Presidential Library, however, was a delightful surprise, especially since they’re in the middle of an “Art of the Chopper” exhibit. The restaurant served an excellent lunch, and the library, despite looking like a double-wide trailer on stilts, has a very comprehensive history of “the Clinton years”. Try as I might, I could find no mention of Ms Lewinsky, other than an oblique reference regretting the events that led up to his attempted impeachment. Not surprising, I suppose.

I’m not a biker, but even I could appreciate the bikes, designed and ridden by all the great names of Harley-Davidson-dom. Particularly poignant was a picture of Indian Larry, standing on the saddle of his moving motorcycle (which is, ironically, how he died) alongside one of his bikes.

On Saturday evening, we went to Murry’s Dinner Playhouse, to see a performance of “There Goes the Bride”. Not great literature by any standard, but very reminiscent of the old Brian Rix farces at the Whitehall Theatre, and an ideal accompaniment for a buffet-style dinner and a couple of glasses of wine.

Food for the winter

Val talking to Jay Jones

On Sunday, we set off reasonably early on the “scenic route” to Dallas. We stopped on the way at a gas-station cum diner for coffee. I don’t think they get too many visitors from the outside world, because an old lady got up from her table to speak to Val, because she’d “lived here all her life, and just wanted to say hello”. We also stopped in Mount Ida, for two reasons. One was because we were about to cross the Oauchita mountains, and had no idea how to pronounce it (“Washiter”); the other was because we’d seen so many “crystal and rock” shops that we were curious. We chatted for a while to Jay Jones, from whom we learned that there are numerous open pit crystal mines around Lake Ouachita. We bought a chunk of crystal from his shop, a book written by his father, and I photographed a couple of his buddies butchering a deer – I should say that, although I don’t at all appreciate hunting for sport, I have no problem with hunting for food. They’re allowed, by law, to take 3 deer per year, and that’s enough to provide meat for the family. In the picture, they have just removed the tenderloins.

"Vista Point"

The Scenic Drive is spectacular. I can’t begin to tell you how spectacular the views are. No – I really mean that. I can’t begin to tell you because the visibility was down to about 100 yards, and, despite the numerous “vista points”, we could hardly see the trees in front of us. But I’m assured that the scenery is wonderful, and I have no reason to doubt it.

From Talihina, we headed south through the Choctaw nation in Oklahoma, down Route 75, past the gambling casinos on the reservation that are the result of legislation that was inadequately thought through by Congress (much to the delight of the native population – and more power to them!). The increased traffic on the highway signaled the proximity of Dallas – and our return to the hustle and bustle of the Metroplex.

The Choctaw Nation

I never cease to be surprised by the poverty I see in rural America – Arkansas and Vermont are peculiarly similar in that respect, despite apparently being at opposite ends of the geographic, cultural and climatic spectrum. I also never cease to be amazed by the friendliness of the people.

My hope is that the current financial upheaval we are experiencing favors the rural community, and that we may once again appreciate the value of living closer to the land.

Frequent flying

Air travel isn’t what it used to be – I’m sure you know this already. But you have to take your pleasures where you can, and they can still be found, even in the air, if you know where to look.

Many airlines these days board “by group number”. This is nothing new – they used to board by row, but the objective is the same: people seated at the back (with the exception of those with children, or a disability, or needing “special assistance”, or first class, or business class, or platinum, or …) board first. This makes perfect sense – or it would if the majority of people were not morons. If you’re a flyer of any frequency, you’ve probably worked this out for yourself, but, in case not, here’s a handy tip: don’t wait for your group number to be called. Wait only for the number before yours. Once the initial rush is over, join the end of the line. By the time you get to the front they’ll be calling your group anyway.

You are then ideally situated, comfortably in your seat, for what is probably the most enjoyable part of the trip: watching your fellow travelers trying to fit what they think is reasonably sized carry-on luggage into the overhead compartments. Giant hold-alls, and backpacks that are overstuffed with what seems to be half a camel, do not fit into this category. It has to be the most entertaining part of the journey – because it surely isn’t the food, or the movies, or the half-drunk Germans a couple of rows behind you.

If you have headphones, preferably noise-cancelling, put them on early, otherwise you risk being introduced to the person in the next seat – in my case, Anita. I shook her limply proffered bony hand as she explained that she and her husband were on an “outreach mission” to Turkmenistan. It’s so nice of the Turkmenistanis to take these American outcasts and show them life on the other side. It’s all about balance – if we didn’t have crime, we wouldn’t need law enforcement; if we didn’t have taxes, we wouldn’t need government; if we didn’t have third world countries, we wouldn’t need charitable organizations. So, for our part, we endure democracy, capitalism, and the consumer society, while they suffer violence, hunger and war. It’s difficult sometimes to figure out who’s better off, isn’t it?

As soon as you’re at “cruising altitude”, the flight attendants will come round with drinks. There’s a reason for this: they want to get you liquored-up before they serve the food. My advice is to heed the warning. When I was much younger, I saw the band Queen in concert. This was on the university circuit, and before they were famous (they were spectacular even then). My only complaint was that they were a little too loud, and when I mentioned this to a friend who happened to know one of the band members, he told me that they turned up the volume when they were a little nervous about how they would be received. It’s something like this with airline food. It’s not good – we all know that – but it seems as though the chefs (chefs?) don’t know that adding salt doesn’t make it better.

When the food is thankfully over, you’ll need your mp3 player – otherwise you’ll be subjected to what the airline believes constitutes “entertainment”. “David Letterman” and “The New Life of Old Christine” weren’t funny when they were on TV, and they still aren’t. Neither are the 2-star movies, especially since most of the even remotely interesting parts have been cut (for the general audience).

Oh, and try to ignore the Americans doing gymnastics in the aisles in the vain hope that it will prevent a DVT – they haven’t yet figured out that it’s really a lifestyle issue.

Longhorn Harley

Before I start, I should apologize to all the recipients of this newsletter of the female persuasion. As you know, I’m not usually interested in “guy” events that feature motorcycles, live music, free beer, free barbecue, Hooters girls and ex-Playboy bunnies. But a friend of mine at work is a biker, as is his wife, and she organizes “social events” at the Harley dealership not far from here. So I gritted my teeth, and went along.

Old bike

The band - a "Heart" tribute

If you’ve never been to a biker event, I should emphasize that it’s not at all a threatening environment. For a start, the guys are largely not too much younger than me – who else can afford a Harley? Interestingly, their female companions are typically much younger … hmmmmm. But it is almost pure testosterone. Beer, barbecue, loud music and louder motorcycles.

Hooters girls

New bike

"Kisses" for Gerry

Anyway, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many motorcycles, let alone so many Harleys, all in one place. There were old ones, new ones, outlandishly customized ones – and all absolutely immaculate. Because my friend Gerry is a biker, I made the supreme sacrifice and got in line for a signed picture of “Miss Longhorn Harley-Davidson” and ex-Playboy bunny Nancy Patton.

I’m not a biker of course, but if I was, the Hooters girls are probably the best way to get it cleaned. I mean, you can’t take it through a car wash, can you?

TXOU

Sunday afternoon – a good time for laundry. Everyone who came to town for the “Red River Shootout” has checked out, and the business-folk coming in for next week haven’t yet arrived. In case you’re not aware, the Red River forms the boundary between Texas and Oklahoma, and the “Shootout” is the annual “derby” match between long-time rivals Oklahoma University (“OU”, or the Sooners) and the University of Texas (“UT”, or the Longhorns) – serious college football. I didn’t see it (either live or on TV), but the game, played at the newly refurbished Cotton Bowl in Dallas, was apparently pretty good. Certainly the victorious local fans (beating their number-one ranked opponents) were celebrating late into the night.

On the theme of football, The Dallas Cowboys are playing the Arizona Cardinals, and I’m watching it on TV. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and no doubt fathers and sons all over the country are watching it on ESPN. I wonder how some of the dads respond to questions from their younger offspring when commercials come on for Viagra. Impotence may have morphed into Erectile Dysfunction, and then to seemingly innocuous ED, but that’s no more than a deliberate marketing ploy to confuse the censors.

At breakfast this morning, a young man in a cowboy hat sat opposite his partner. She was eating her omelette, and drinking coffee, while he was immersed in reading his bible. At the next table, a mother and father, with 3 children seated round one of the larger tables, paused to collectively say grace before eating. This is not at all uncommon.

“Little Britain USA” aired for the first time this week on HBO. It was made in the USA, and features many of the usual sketches and themes, but with an injection of American characters. I’ll be very interested in the reaction to a show that pokes fun at the disabled, the fat, and the gay (and any other normally taboo subjects). In the UK, I think we have the admirable ability to find this amusing, as long as it is done well, and there is no malicious intent. In the USA, political correctness is taken literally, and to extreme.

 As you can see, there’s a curious double standard – not only here, but throughout the “bible belt”. So I also wonder how mums and dads, driving along the major highway I-635 at Farmers Branch, explain the billboard that features a young lady with her knickers around her knees.

Don’t blame me – I only work here.

Canton again

Today I paid another visit to Canton First Monday Trade Days, in Van Zandt County. I last went four years ago. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, there are 254 counties in Texas (I discovered that from a book I picked up at the market).

Once a month, the otherwise small town of Canton holds a giant flea market on the weekend preceding the first Monday in the month – hence the name. Apparently the market dates back to around 1850, when the first Monday of each month was when the circuit judge would arrive to hold court sessions. Everyone would come to town to watch the proceedings, this being in the days before television and the Xbox.

Today, the market is spread over 100 acres, with more than 6,000 vendors, selling everything from pets to food to clothes to crafts to the usual “boot sale” fare and the even more usual craporama. I spent about four hours looking around, but have no idea how much I still didn’t see – I suspect a lot.

Lazy people on "scooters"

Since I last went, they have started renting “scooters” – really mechanized wheelchairs – which, piloted by unskilled drivers, can be a menace. They’re invaluable for the disabled, giving them the mobility that they otherwise lack. Most people that I saw using them, however, are simply bone idle – but that’s sadly a contemporary malaise. Maybe if they actually called them “wheelchairs” the stigma would scare off otherwise healthy people.

Indian taco

For lunch, I tried Indian (as in American Indian) tacos. These are similar to the familiar Mexican tacos – meat, tomato, lettuce and beans topped with cheese, served with a spicy salsa – except that the beans are pinto instead of refried and the base is Indian flat bread instead of a tortilla.

It was hot – 100  ̊F, or 38  ̊C – and the sweat running off my brow made my eyes sting. There’s plenty of shade, though, and the secret is to stay in it as much as possible and drink plenty. I bought a second hand book (signed by the authors) on the back roads of Texas ($2) and a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes ($5). Very restrained, I thought. No need to mention the cost of the fuel to get there and back …

On an entirely different topic, I was unfortunate enough to find myself, a couple of weeks ago, in McDonalds (it’s a long, and not very interesting, story). I only wanted a small fries. It seems they don’t do “small” fries. They have two sizes: medium and large. I know I’m more pedantic than most, but isn’t there an element of lunacy here? If you only have two sizes, shouldn’t they be small and large? If not, why not large and gigantic? Or giant and colossal? Am I missing something? (And, by the way, I still refuse to use that silly Starbuck-speak for coffee – it’s not venti, it’s large; and it’s not tall, it’s small (how confusing is that?). We already have perfectly good words to express these ideas – why invent new ones?)

Mural in Canton

Food stand

Grinding corn, the old fashioned way

Loving again

I went back to Loving today. The intention was to send myself a postcard, with Loving as the postmark.

I’d lined up a few places not too far away – Paradise, Athens, Paris, Palestine – and planned to mail a postcard from each. Fortunately, I got chatting to the postmistress in Loving, and she told me that the only way to do that was to go into the post office, and ask them to frank it. If I just mailed it outside, it would go to Fort Worth to be franked. That saved me some worthless trekking around, because it was 10:45am, and most of the rural post offices close at around 11am on Saturdays. Anyway, I got one; I foresee some early Saturday starts.

I came back through Jermyn, a very small town with a very small post office, and stopped in Jacksboro for lunch. A billboard had announced that “City Drug” had a soda fountain that was a tourist attraction, so I had to check it out. I wasn’t even sure what a “soda fountain” was. They were somewhat bemused by my questions: What’s the difference between a shake and a malt? (a malt has malt in it …) What’s “frito pie”? (fritos with chilli, cheese and onion). I had a chocolate malt and a grilled cheese sandwich. The locals weren’t as chatty as I’m used to coming across, so that’s about all I learned.

From Jacksboro, I headed towards Bridgeport, through Runaway Bay. Runaway Bay is a bit of an oddity – it has the atmosphere of a beach community, although, of course, it’s hundreds of miles from the coast. It is on the shore of Lake Bridgeport, which is quite a sizeable lake (13,000 acres, or 20 square miles, with 170 miles of shoreline), and is obviously affluent. Nevertheless, it’s not quite what you’d expect to find in the middle of Texas. Bridgeport, on the other hand, is distinctly forgettable – and this is a feature, I think, of every city named Bridgeport that I have thus far encountered.

Decatur has a little more going for it – a town square that, like so many others, is at least attempting rejuvenation. I’m sure you can imagine what it looks like – the town hall in a central island surrounded by a square (with ample parking) populated with bijou coffee shops, cafés, antique and “collectibles” stores, and the inevitable attorney’s offices. Unfortunately, for the most part, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but there’s almost always something to waste money on. It would be reasonable to think that Justin is the city from which “Justin” brand boots originate, especially since the town has several outlet stores selling principally that. It would also be wrong. The Justin boot company started in Indiana, moved to Texas in 1889 (Nocona, not too far from Justin), and then to Fort Worth in 1925. They bought rivals Tony Lama in 1990, and today are owned by Warren Buffet (probably the richest person in the world, at least, if you believe Forbes magazine). I only bought a couple of shirts – difficult to pass up at $12.95 – and so I’ve probably made Warren just a little bit richer.

Justin is, or rather was, also famous for being the home of the Texas Motor Speedway. I say “was” because, in 1995, the US Post Office changed its mailing address from Justin to Fort Worth. I must confess that I haven’t been to the Speedway. I keep thinking I should go, to see what it’s like, but keep forgetting to pick up earplugs.

On an entirely different topic, on an adjacent table at breakfast, a US Marine sat with his back to me. I could tell he was a marine, because his t-shirt proudly hailed “US Marines – First to Fight, Last to Leave.” I think I know what this means, but it’s easy to see how it could be misinterpreted, especially by another culture. This sort of arrogance is what makes America grate (sic).

Jermyn Post Office

Bridgeport Mural

Decatur Mural

Soda Fountain in Jacksboro