Boom. Here I am, pursuing one of my many dreams. After a twenty-two hour trek to the wild and wonderful state, I’ve settled into a dumpy joint that I’ve increasingly come to dig as the days go by. This quaint little apartment comes complete with ambient radiator heating, grit-textured walls accomplished by a single coat of dangerously high, lead-based dollar store paint, and floors with grades as inconsistent as those of found on the line marked Spanish 2 on my high school report card. In short, I arrived, I dropped off my things, I went to church, I immediately went to work, I unpacked, and am, as intended, writing my noise to keep the brain steeped in some sort of creative juice.

Now, I’m fairly certain that few, if anyone at all, have any insight as to my view on religion but it’s obvious that I’m no avid, churchgoing man. However, devout as I was to the pursuit of getting here, I was, for obvious reasons, reluctant to tell my grandparents where I was headed. And when I did, I gave them not but a couple weeks to take in the information and try to get me to stay in town to become a doctor. Seeing as I had practically packed my vehicle and was ready to jet, there was little they could do, and so, as their only wish, obligated me to hit the house of the holy pop pop with some sort of consistency.

Now, this was not something but everything of an imposition, and while I was unenthusiastic, I felt that this was the only thing I could slash have given to my grandparents aside from trouble and worry. So I buckled down, buckled up and headed the local location of praise and forgiveness and, as I would throughout my Christian-born life, took my seat in the pew furthest from the alter. Which, as an aside, got me wondering, where these pews and alters and oversized, nonflammable crosses are coming from. Is there a bi-monthly catalog sent out from the church supply warehouse company with offices in some armpit state but with factories located in Laos? I really hope that the six to eight year old sweatshop workers that hand applique these moo moo garbs called robes are non-denominational.

Anyway, this service being Ash Wednesday, I decided to give a listen to the pastor and gave some effort to take in the sermon at large. To paraphrase, since I think every Ash Ketchum gotta ash ‘em all Wednesday discourse is the same, a discourse many found on my collegiate campus failed to incorporate, you don’t brag about being religious or fasting or anything of that sort because it’s just lame; wise words I can identify with. So in light of my commitment in that dude upstairs, which is an odd reference because I’m sure there’s some 300 pound retired bouncer living above me likely to fall into my living quarters at any given moment, I have decided that it best to not be on the constant whine about my life on the hot line. If you really want to know about what I’m doing, give me a ring or we can grab a drink in four.

However, I will say that this job is fairly intense given the three days I’ve been on, and I can only assume that it will get all the more difficult. I’ll have to take the time to thank my previous head chef for running the only kitchen I’ve worked in to be a damn good prep for the weeds I’ll get myself in on and down the line. For the little time I’ve dedicated to what a majority regard as a lifelong pursuit, I’m feeling a bit more comfortable than the next new guy, who is more qualified on paper, is looking. The orchestra should be interrupting me soon but I’d also like to thank everyone that supported my ambition and took the time to see my off all proper.

So this will be my mark as the beginning of a significant changing point in my life; where I go from dreaming to achieving. Whether I go back to church however, is another matter.

Growing up in a major city in Texas often gives you an odd, senseless, sort of pride. The type of pride that, without much rationale, allows you to claim that other major Texas cities are inferior to your own. Dallas? That uncontrollable disease of urban sprawl with a lesser Galleria than that of Houston? Houston? The city that is a travesty of transportation and is covered by a visible dome of smog and pollution? Etc.

However, what brings all the bickering boys and beautiful babies together is an equally sparse respect for the substantial portion of land that is West Texas. I could only wish that this discourse is a contradiction to the assumed, but, West Texas is damn boring. A boring that I had to endure for more than half of my day. Why?

What was an ephemeral interest in pocket billiards early on in my life has now seemingly turned into a lifelong infatuation with the sport, in all its forms. Early in my game, while learning the moves, I inevitably combined my private affair of billiards with my main-squeeze vice of collecting and produced a financially draining hobby of cue collecting. Having touched upon the production cue offerings, I only wanted better equipment and finally ventured into custom cue land. With some forum grazing and a fair amount reading, though unfair to my academic studies at the time, I came to find what still stands as my favorite cue. Though I’ve played with many names and shot with much more, I can’t help but love my Sugartree. Though the criteria for what constitutes a proper cue is endlessly debatable, I find conversational solace that a great cue, like the ST, only makes you love the game more.

So, since that cue, I’ve always wanted to be a cue builder. I wanted to give the joy to others that was given to me by a 58 inch, full-spliced piece of bocote, cocobolo, and maple. Though he would never admit it, I introduced my friend, Joseph Tsai to the world of cue makers outside of the one he frequented, and his inevitably adoration to Eric Crisp of Sugartree cues sprouted from there. A year later, I get a call from Joseph telling me that he’s befriended Eric and that Mr. Crisp would have us for a week to show us around the shop and whatnot. Insert my no less than overly ecstatic response and you have the reason for what is more of a pilgrimage to Alamogordo, New Mexico.

I often try to find the allure and charm in most things but I was given little chance to enjoy the flat, drab xeriscape. So, unless you can find thirteen hours of enchantment in dry, withering shrubs and an array of dead critters by the roadside, I suggest you find someone else to drive and you sleep through the cinematic equivalent of television static called West Texas.