Amarillo, TX is the heart of the panhandle, I assume because its womenfolk have achieved some ascendency in pancake-making and or because it is the last place you can stop to get some poached eggs before you get into the dust bowl (‘Out of the frying pan & into the fire’, as they say in Texas). Apparently there are no chickens in the dust bowl… perhaps because they’ve been wiped out by poachers? [Now I must apologise profusely for that singularly awful joke.] Amarillo has many beautiful parks and playgrounds, Tumbleweed Cafe, plaid-covered twin-beds, refrigeration, a veteran’s hospital, a famously lighted street (Polk Street) where buffalo roam (I assume), a disproportionate number of young men who run away to sea (true), and a by-pass so you can go ’round to avoid the whole town if you want to (recommended). Polk Street, I now realise, was named for both the dance and the dots; it’s a good old fashioned friendly Texas tribute to the Amarillo pie-making matriarchs and sampler enthusiasts Dorothy “Dot” Hawkeye and Pat Tearaway. Perhaps I have been naive, but down my way poke more often refers to the kind of merry chap lighted Broadways aim to attract with their combination of glitzy Super Safe tram stops (the one outside the NGV has a “wow” factor set permanently at eleven) and an unquantifiable number of Judy Garland tribute shows, so you will understand the depth of my disappointment when I discovered that the only Revival happening on Polk Street in Amarillo, TX was in fact a Religious one, where the object of veneration was that dully robed, girlish bearded fellow with a Spanish name.