West Texas Tour

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.