LOSER

After the disappointment of not winning the powerball.

What I could have done with the 15 dollars

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Double appetizer plate at Applebee's

Large thin crust supreme pizza, Pizza Hut

Two hours on the shooting range, Indoors

1.75 glasses of LA CREMA at the Forge in Ben Wheeler

1.5 albums on ITUNES

Three 12 packs of Coke for my weekend mixers

10 minutes of chair massage at the airport neck massage booth

a good chunk of Sockeye at Whole Foods

A bottle of LA CREMA at HEB

One cover charge to see Chris Wall at the Broken Spoke

15 midway tickets at the State Fair

4.32 gallons of unleaded

A "ZAC BROWN" CD at walmart

5 cans of Wilson extra duty tennis balls at Academy

Cheap sunglasses at the CVS

5 more chances at the next powerball

A minimum blackjack bet at Harrah's in New Orleans, back tables

3 cups of night crawlers at the bait shop

42.25 shares of HOKU stock....yes I own it.

One bottle of MOUNT GAY Rum, on sale of course

One "Primero Classe" bus ticket from Mexico City to Cuernavaca.

Need I say more....

Wicked Rich

227. 76 Million after Tax

So what if I do win?  Someone has to win at some point.  What would I be doing with my 227.6 Million bucks?  Well, let’s see.  I would spend it of course.  I’m a single dude, no kids, or real family.  I could do the redneck millionaire thing without a lot of trouble.  So...

First I would plan to spend it over ten years.  I’m no Spring chicken either so let’s get on with it.

10 years = 22.76 Million per year     

So, follow me....not bad money.  Slightly more than I make now.  Let’s take a look at the essentials for year one and approximate costs.

TempurPedic bed 5650 My back sucks

Ranch in Colorado (large)      1,990,000 I hate neighbors and 1300 acres works                           

                                                                                for me

Tricked out truck (Chevy)         53,000 I like to be able to look down into other 

                                                                                 peoples car windows.

5900 Sq.ft House (Austin)      1,100.000 Once I Longhorn always a Longhorn

150 cc. Vespa     (Red) 6200 Parking a big truck in Austin sucks.

Hill Country Ranch (Texas)       879,000 A Texan needs a place to BBQ

Apple Super Computer (Desk)      9980 Cowbird Stories in comfort

Dallas Cowboy tickets  (10)        13,250 Don’t ask me why....Romo?

42 ft. Super RV with hot tub     245,000 I hate service station bathrooms

Buy Flea Market  (Texas)      2,300,000 Love to Junk.  The Mountain as they 

                                                                                call it, is loaded with eccentric folks 

                                                                                that should be preserved.

54 ft. motor Yacht in              1,550.000 I love the water and can’t sail a lick

Bahamas

Patek Phillippe Watch                46,000 I hate being late

Apartment Aspen (large)      3,450,000 Sometimes it’s hot in Texas

Sonic toothbrush  (red)                  195 The thought of dentures scares me

House in Bali  (medium)     1,100,000 I’m a sucker for EAT, PRAY, LOVE

                        Does it work in Reverse?

Endowed Chair of Leisure

Studies, UT Austin 2,000,000 Deep science has always fascinated 

                        me.

Endowed Campus Party   450,000 200 kegs of beer annually free to 

                        students seems like a fitting thorn in the 

                                                                                Universities side after all these years.

Bugatti Supersport Auto    1,300,000 If Madonna can own one....Please...

                        “material man...oh oh material man...

Apartment Paris (central)  2,600,000 Ah...the city of lights.  Fresh bread and

                        a heavy Cab...

World Wildlife Fund              500,000 I watched Wild Kingdom as a kid.

Bullfighting lessons       1500         Bloodless of course, and the shoes, oh

                        the shoes....

Guitar Lessons (10)   10,000        Eric Clapton is not cheap

Some spending money          25,000 That way I don’t always feel like I’m 

for friends                 paying.

Build Clinics in Latin         1,000,000 Nothing stronger than Karma

America

RED video camera                75,000        Gotta keep a record of the journey

Anonymous Gifts to            500,000        Again Karma

complete strangers

Dinner at Hiro’s sushi                 500       Good for you too

Tokyo

15,000 Acres Big              1,524,650      Love the high desert.  It’s close to the 

Big Bend, Texas              Terlingua Chili Cookoff.

Best Seats US Open             25,000      If you don’t get hit with sweat, 

Tennis                                                                  you aren’t close enough.

Good start to the first year of filthy richness.  

A Brief Stay in Paradise

The rutted dirt track pounded and twisted every internal organ in our bodies as we picked our way ahead.  We traveled at only slightly more than a shuffle as the suburban creaked, groaned and scraped it’s way through this vast and desolate landscape.   The word wilderness always seems to conjure up magnificent mountain valleys and deep heavy forest.  It is seldom used for rocky burnt desert of Northern Mexico.  Strangely I think because this is one of the most remote and unforgiving places left in North America.

San Antoino de los Alamos was a place of legend in archeological circles.  At least those circles that studied indigenous cultures in this part of the world.  Only a name on the most detailed topographical maps provided by the government map agency in Aguacalientes.  There was no ejido, no village there.  Just a spring and one man, Raul Villarreal.  And what we had spent three days on these rutted tracks to get a glimpse of....centuries of rock art.  “Pinturas de los indios”.  The only sticking point in this plan was that Raul didn’t allow visitors and he made that very clear with an old model 94   rifle.  He had turned away universities, governments, and travelers.  Raul did not like strangers.  We envisioned that today would be our day to be turned away.  Hopefully, without any new holes in our expedition.

The rock outcrop was visible from miles away.  At our pace of travel that meant several hours.  The dirt track seemed to get much worse as we neared the oasis.  We were constantly  stoping to move rocks, pieces of wood, or to bypass deep gullies in the road.  After several hours we managed to arrive at a rickety wire gate with a croaked handwritten sign on the back of a cut up oil can that said, “prohibida la entrada”.  This was a crossroads for sure.  Grampa told me one important lesson that all good Texans should always remember, “Don’t go through a gate that doesn’t want you”.  From the gate we could see the bright green of trees rising up from the brown stark surroundings.  No structures were visible and certainly no people.   We would never get permission from here so a decision had to be made.  

In those days Northern Mexico was one of the harshest physical environments on earth.  It has always amazed me that those environments bred a very different type of people.  There is a kindness and compassion grown from living hard that defies our modern sensibilities.  In our journeys there we have shared a last can of beans, eaten the family goat, slept on old blankets that were the goat herders only source of warmth while he stood by the fire in the dark.  The prospect of getting shot by a local in the desert was new to me.  We would press on.

The greenery was even more absurd as we neared what appeared to be a narrow slot canyon.  A stream was visible from a distance and trees lined the banks as it flowed from the tight rock outcrop.  A small Immaculate house stood on a low rise looking out over the  panorama of desert shaded by the grove of birch and cottonwood.  

We waited for more than an hour at the outer gate without any sign of life in the enclosure.  The silence of the desert made us certain that we had been heard as we picked our way up the road.  We had gone as far as we dared and we would wait and hope for some contact or we would turn and leave.  We were making our plans to leave when we saw movement coming from behind the house.  A tall man in a hat was heading our way and he had a rifle.

His long sleeve shirt was tattered but clean except for the grease.  The piping of the horses on the chest had long since gone.  It was tucked in neatly and locked by a very ornate mexican belt and buckle.  His hat was sweat soaked and rumpled but perfectly seated on his head.  There was no doubt where the rattlesnake came from that made up the band.  He was slim and dignified as much as any man I had seen in my life with a face that was tanned and leathery with bright green eyes.  He was at least 70 years old.  And he was covered in grease.

He stopped about 20 paces from the gate and began to tell us in a loud firm voice that this was private property and we needed to leave.  He was not threatening but firm.  The rifle was loose in his hand like someone who carried it every day of his life everywhere he went.  The tension relaxed a bit as we tried to speak with him in broken spanish.  “Was this San Antonio de los Alamos? “, we asked.  After a few attempts he admitted it was.  After a few seconds of awkward silence my friend asked him about the grease.  Terry was a mechanic and recognized the by product of mechanical crisis.   “My truck is broken”  Raul said in a very weary voice.  He looked like a man ready to give up.  Terry offered to take a look and see if he could help.   Raul thought for a minute then turned and started walking back to the house, rifle in hand.   After about 10 yards he stopped and paused for a second, then turned around. A man without transportation in this place would not survive.   That is when I shook the hand of Raul Villarreal.

San Antonio de los Alamos was one of if not the most beautiful places I have ever seen.  I’m sure the flowers had more color in other places, there were bigger trees, and clearer water elsewhere but for the sheer power of contrast it had no equal.    An island of green in a vast and constant ocean of brown.  His house was small but perfectly cared for.  In the front yard was a grave.  A mound of dirt protected by small rocks all of the same size and shape.  A cross was at the head.  It was not nailed or screwed together.   It was hand notched with an intricate inlay that made the cross piece flush with the main part.  It had no name.  The grave was circled in flowers that did not belong in this desert.  They were freshly watered.  I came to find out later it was Mrs.Villarreal’s grave.

Raul showed us the truck and he was right.  It was broken.  The back springs had broken apart and caused the rear to rest completely on the chassis.  No doubt from many trips down the twisted rutted track.   Terry had a plan.  Several hours later through a series of spare parts and a blow torch  Terry fashioned a fix.  Raul stood back and said nothing only running for parts and pieces of things to continue the experiment.  Midway through Raul saw what Terry was trying to do and their dance began.  Terry would stop cutting and look around for some unidentified something and Raul would hand it to him.  No words were spoken.  

The truck was fixed.  Mr. Villarreal disappeared into the house as we looked at each other and remembered we had not asked about the rock art.  It was only then that we looked up at the walls of the slot canyon and could see the red ochre geometric shapes on the distant walls.  The excitement was building for us and Mr. Villarreal returned with some water.    

Finally, I managed the courage to ask about the rock art.  In a tired voice he asked me if I worked for the government.  I said no.   Then he asked if we were school teachers.  Again I said no.  “We were just some normal people who loved pinturas de los indios”, I told him.  He thought for a minute and looked back at his truck then motioned to the edge of the yard.  There was a gate.  “Vamos a verlo”, he said.  Go take a look.  

It’s an old cliche to say, “words can never describe” something but it was true.  Imagine thousands of years of pictures and script laid down on top of each other.   All telling a story about life, death and struggle in this desolate place.  Imagine the life returned to you by the clean spring water and the shade of these trees after weeks of walking or riding to places unknown.  There was prehistoric geometric shapes that were painted high on the cliff sides.  There were more modern shapes of deer and antelope being hunted.  My favorites were the mothers being depicted giving birth and the indians waring on what where most certainly friars on horseback.  In a small cave there was spanish script and hand prints along with the outlines of old spanish rifles.  Who knows why they put them there but here they were.    No one in our group had ever seen or heard of anything like this.  It was one of a kind.   A few photos and our time was up.  We could see Raul’s discomfort as he waited for us at the fence.    Our praise of his place and the art went without comment.  It was time for us to leave. 

He followed us back to the inner gate and closed and locked it behind us.  We shook hands and before we drove off Terry asked him how long he had lived at San Antonio.  He said ever since he could remember but he would be the last.  He told us that the rock art was going to cause him to lose everything.  His home, the resting places of his family, and his life will soon be gone. It was just a matter of time.  The Mexican government had already told him this place will be a national park very soon.  It didn’t matter to them that this was his land and his home.  The rock art was too valuable.   Now for us it all made sense.  

Five months later we heard through an Archeologist in Mexico that Raul Villarreal had taken kerosene and covered the walls of the slot canyon in San Antonio de los Alamos then lit them on fire.  

A Terminal History

A piece of Austin legend?  Sure.  The best honky tonk in Texas?  Without a doubt.  A place of memories and good times?  Always scattered across my memory.  Being strangled by development, the most pervasive means of cultural annihilation?  A picture is worth a thousand words.  Anyone who has ever been to the “Spoke” will remember the low ceiling, semi cold beer, and the museum.  The owner James White and Willie looked a little younger then but I guess we all were.  

I know I know....it’s still there.  It’s not gone.  It’s a landmark.  I know.  Anyone who has been in Austin long will tell you it won’t be that much longer.  I’m mad at things these days.  Things like ear hair, getting stiff (in a bad way), being on the AARP mailing list, but most of all I’m mad at development.  Austin has done this before.  Up and down they go running out what made Austin Weird in the first place.  It’s not the first time but I’m afraid it may be the last.  What is it about destroying things that have history that we find so appealing?  It can’t be just about making a buck?  If it is don’t tell me I am holding out for a better answer.  If you have it then share it.  In the mean time, get down to Austin and cut a rug at the Spoke while you can still hear the music.  

The King of Yams

My introduction to Earl Parrot came many years ago in a tiny national forest campground deep in a narrow rock strewn valley in the Ozark Mountains.  I was just passing through looking for a little piece and quiet and some good fishing.  Earl’s campsite was at the edge of the small clearing near the forest.   There were tarps strung and laced with cord that reminded me of a sail rig on a triple master off New England.  Everything appeared functional and in it’s place.  Firewood was stacked high and orderly on the side under one tarp and a small well used tent was barely visible under the structure.

After being in and out over the next couple of days I had wondered who or how many occupied that campsite that seemed so much like home.  Earl and I were the only ones there and taking a look at the weather forecast it was easy to understand why.  Rain and cold all week.

My exploration took me out longer than expected one day and I realized the steady rain was destroying my hopes for a nice warm fire to ward off the cold.  I had left my precious fire wood uncovered like a complete rookie.   To my surprise when I returned, I saw a tattered blue tarp pulled over my woodpile.  Looking underneath I saw my soaked wood was topped with 3 or 4 pieces of a dry crisp oak that was not mine.  The rain had stopped and the oak made a warm dancing fire to pushed back the cold.  Looking over to the distant campsite I saw the same dancing glow and decided it was time to meet the neighbor who had saved my evening.

Earl was about 80 years old with deep weathered lines on his face that told me he was a man’s man.  The wrinkles painted his face in the firelight as we shared a spirit I had brought over.  Earl was from Wyoming and spent a lifetime on the ranch.  He was a true cowboy and told me of his days as a rodeo cowboy and bronc buster through the 50’s and 60’s.  “Never no dollars in that back then”, he said.  “Just a good way to meet girls and break a few bones”.    He was quiet and thoughtful in his words and used them sparingly.  It was one of those conversations that made you embarrassed when you said you lived in Austin and was on vacation.  You see Earl was living in the National Forest.  He said without emotion that his children had taken his ranch and sold the parcels off to out of staters.  They wanted to put him in a home and just get rid of him but he decided to go on the road.  We never talked about how he got there or how long he had been there but the policy of the park was you could not stay in one place for over two weeks.  I knew I had stretched my welcome with this dignified and private man so I thanked him for the wood and the words and went back to my piece of the world.

Earl would wave when I would see him each day.  I never knew what he did with his time but I could tell he was well respected by the park rangers.  One day they helped him move his tent, wood, and shelter contraption a few feet to beat the park rules of being in one place too long.  The rangers laughed and talked and lifted and moved his things with respect that son’s would show their grandfather.  Occasionally a ranger would show up and pick Earl up and drive away.  I learned later that he was getting a small check at the post office which he sent to his children.  Imagine that.  

I was nearing the end of my stay and packing up the truck when a ranger drove in at high speed.  He jumped out and talked in an excited voice to Earl who moved with some haste to get a big burlap sack and some grocery bags that were neatly folded.  Before he left with the ranger he shuffled over to me and in a wild eyed excited voice told me the story.  It was simple you see, a grocery truck had turned over on a rain soaked mountain road.  It’s contents were scattered down a steep ravine.  All those groceries were there for the taking. No telling what was down there but he knew there was yams.  I suppose looking back Earl expected me to jump in my truck and follow him.  It was an enticing offer but I chose to go in search of one more bite instead.  A couple of hours and I was back ready to hit the road.  I walked over to say good bye to Mr Parrot but he was no where around.  What I did see was more than 30 one gallon cans of yams stacked neatly under a separate weather beaten tarp.  The cans were dented and muddy but no doubt a treasure for the cowboy from Wyoming.  I smiled as I walked back to close up my truck and leave the forest for good.  As I did I noticed three one gallon cans of yams sitting on the tailgate of my truck.  None of mine were dented or dirty.  He had give me the perfect ones.  

First Class

Blankets, peanuts, headphones, your choice of entree, a few drinks were all part of the old First Class days.   Some of those things are still there....well one I guess.  Now First Class means an extra power connection for your DEVICES.  Take 2B for instance, he is wired in, powered up, and downloaded.  First Class is now bring your own class and get there first.  Not what the old PAN AM travel guru's had in mind.    Well, here it is....headphones listening to music, (not the movie on his computer), reading an IPAD magazine, the movie on the computer, and I almost forgot...the in flight movie...which was mostly terrible sit com reruns....  welcome to FIRST CLASS in the new age.

Miles (aka Larry no more)
www.bymiles.com

Forgotten

What is it about a place or a thing from your past that acts as a key to open doors to feelings and thoughts long since locked away.  They are always so different than the picture memory paints. Those places are often faded and run down without the size and color provided by our old imagination.   Maybe that is what makes it all so amazing that the fragments of our youth can open such deep feelings and thoughts.  This old tennis court was the only court with lights in town.  My family lived across the street but I lived here.  Endless summers of imaginary tennis matches against the greats of the day.  Early morning practices by myself that would later lead to living most of my adult life within the game.  Today I needed to remember the single minded focus that was mine in those years long ago.  Today I needed to remember what is possible.  Today I wanted to relive the power of chasing my dreams.  The years muffle the sounds but do not silence that voice.  Today I needed to remember not to forget.

Miles
www.bymiles.com