Just picked up the new album by The Black Keys today. Seriously, buy this. Two throw-back guys for Bowling Green, Ohio making noise in a big beautiful way. I am convinced they are possessed with something not given to many people in this world.
It's simple blues rock recorded in the rock mecca that is Painesville, Ohio. If you don't know, you better ask someone.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Pops
My father started preaching the gospel when he was 8 years old. At first, he was a novelty, the cute kid who they would pull up to speak at Camp Meetings who would speak for a few minutes about Jesus' love. By the time he was 13 though, he was getting press in the local papers when he would be speaking at a revival. True, the novelty was still there, but he began to build steam. He wasn't yet 15 when he started getting air time on the local radio station to preach.
I don't know a whole lot else about him or his childhood. I know his father was abusive, and he once told me about catching a beating because he climbed up on their new camper after he was told not to. The fact that they were all playing hide-and-seek and the kids whose parents owned the camper were all hiding on top of it didn't factor in. I know that he was locked in closets as punishment, sometimes for as much as 24 hours. I know his favorite toy (a scooter) was taken away from him each Sunday as his sacrifice for the Sabbath. My mother told me he had a homosexual experience in high school and then again in college, but I have no idea how he figured those actions into his narrow interpretation of religion.
She met him in a church run university where he was the most popular boy in school. Girls flocked to hear him preach, and while he wasn't much of a student in general, his passion for the Word of God carried him through school. My mother dropped out to marry him after he graduated, and they became traveling evangelists until she got pregnant with my brother. They settled down in a small house to focus on building a family, and he took on his first church.
An amazing speaker, my father was really best suited for evangelism. He could sweep into a town, hold a week long revival, get people running the aisles and then head on to the next town. Taking on a church required paperwork, money management, and working with a board of individuals that want to see the corporation of Jesus run in a certain way. This was a challenge for him, and he leaned on my mother to fill in the gaps which she did to the best of her ability.
Still, it would usually just be a handful of years until things would start to go bad. The Church Board would be against him, or circumstance, and then God would call our family to a new city and a new church. So we started a cycle of moving around through Indiana and Ohio, from church to church, holding what I've come to think of as "Extended Revivals".
When it comes to his adult life, I know almost less than I do of his childhood. He left the family when I was ten, so my memories are of a caricature...not a fully formed person. I know that he had affairs. I know he was always seeking out get rich quick schemes, investing money we didn't have into pyramid schemes and roofing businesses. He sold advertising. He sold sleeping bags along road sides. The electricity would get turned off. We ate a lot of fried bread.
He loved to pick up hitchhikers, something that made my mother so uncomfortable she wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the day. He was devoted to his congregation and loved to be a part of that bigger family. He loved to give gifts, and is truly a person that I think liked giving more than receiving.
But in all this, I never saw someone speak the way he did. He would get entire congregations moving.
He would be speaking, preaching, teaching and then the mood would strike him. He would jump from the pulpit and sit behind the organ and start to play and sing, getting the congregation to stand and join him. It wasn't choreographed, it felt organic and natural. A piece of scripture would trigger a song, or vice versa. His sermon notes were just a blueprint, a jumping off place, and he rarely gave the same teaching the same way twice. He had years of notes and sermons, and that was just his own work. He also had hundreds from his father as well and would sometimes pull an old sermon out he remembered from his childhood.
After I moved out of my mom's house, years would go by without contact with my father. My anger over my childhood eventually fizzled out and just became a kind of sadness for him, and eventually became a gentle apathy. I no longer wished ill on him, I just didn't care. Things could be great or rough for him. In the end, he was another in a long line of strangers out there.
When we heard he was dying, my brother and I made several trips to see him. He was weak and the cancer was robbing his personality along with everything else. We would just sit and chat. He would call Jennifer "your wife" because he didn't know her name, but he would ask about her, and it seemed like he really wanted to know about who she was. His current congregation loved him, and he always had a room full of flowers and visitors.
When he passed, one at a time, the members of his church stood and told stories about this stranger. They would talk about how he would stop talking mid-sentence and go over to play the organ, and how they loved not knowing what would happen on Sunday mornings. They talked about how he was always at the hospital to visit with them and their families. They talked inviting to their homes after services for dinner, and how he was an engaging delightful guest.
In the end, I think that sums him up pretty well. He really was an engaging delightful guest. I guess in the end, there are a lot worse things you could be.
This morning, here at work, a Ben Folds song came on about a kid that climbed a tree tripping on acid and in the morning he came down a born again Christian. It got me thinking about my dad, and I wondered what he would have seen if he had dosed some blotter and climbed a tree.
I don't know a whole lot else about him or his childhood. I know his father was abusive, and he once told me about catching a beating because he climbed up on their new camper after he was told not to. The fact that they were all playing hide-and-seek and the kids whose parents owned the camper were all hiding on top of it didn't factor in. I know that he was locked in closets as punishment, sometimes for as much as 24 hours. I know his favorite toy (a scooter) was taken away from him each Sunday as his sacrifice for the Sabbath. My mother told me he had a homosexual experience in high school and then again in college, but I have no idea how he figured those actions into his narrow interpretation of religion.
She met him in a church run university where he was the most popular boy in school. Girls flocked to hear him preach, and while he wasn't much of a student in general, his passion for the Word of God carried him through school. My mother dropped out to marry him after he graduated, and they became traveling evangelists until she got pregnant with my brother. They settled down in a small house to focus on building a family, and he took on his first church.
An amazing speaker, my father was really best suited for evangelism. He could sweep into a town, hold a week long revival, get people running the aisles and then head on to the next town. Taking on a church required paperwork, money management, and working with a board of individuals that want to see the corporation of Jesus run in a certain way. This was a challenge for him, and he leaned on my mother to fill in the gaps which she did to the best of her ability.
Still, it would usually just be a handful of years until things would start to go bad. The Church Board would be against him, or circumstance, and then God would call our family to a new city and a new church. So we started a cycle of moving around through Indiana and Ohio, from church to church, holding what I've come to think of as "Extended Revivals".
When it comes to his adult life, I know almost less than I do of his childhood. He left the family when I was ten, so my memories are of a caricature...not a fully formed person. I know that he had affairs. I know he was always seeking out get rich quick schemes, investing money we didn't have into pyramid schemes and roofing businesses. He sold advertising. He sold sleeping bags along road sides. The electricity would get turned off. We ate a lot of fried bread.
He loved to pick up hitchhikers, something that made my mother so uncomfortable she wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the day. He was devoted to his congregation and loved to be a part of that bigger family. He loved to give gifts, and is truly a person that I think liked giving more than receiving.
But in all this, I never saw someone speak the way he did. He would get entire congregations moving.
He would be speaking, preaching, teaching and then the mood would strike him. He would jump from the pulpit and sit behind the organ and start to play and sing, getting the congregation to stand and join him. It wasn't choreographed, it felt organic and natural. A piece of scripture would trigger a song, or vice versa. His sermon notes were just a blueprint, a jumping off place, and he rarely gave the same teaching the same way twice. He had years of notes and sermons, and that was just his own work. He also had hundreds from his father as well and would sometimes pull an old sermon out he remembered from his childhood.
After I moved out of my mom's house, years would go by without contact with my father. My anger over my childhood eventually fizzled out and just became a kind of sadness for him, and eventually became a gentle apathy. I no longer wished ill on him, I just didn't care. Things could be great or rough for him. In the end, he was another in a long line of strangers out there.
When we heard he was dying, my brother and I made several trips to see him. He was weak and the cancer was robbing his personality along with everything else. We would just sit and chat. He would call Jennifer "your wife" because he didn't know her name, but he would ask about her, and it seemed like he really wanted to know about who she was. His current congregation loved him, and he always had a room full of flowers and visitors.
When he passed, one at a time, the members of his church stood and told stories about this stranger. They would talk about how he would stop talking mid-sentence and go over to play the organ, and how they loved not knowing what would happen on Sunday mornings. They talked about how he was always at the hospital to visit with them and their families. They talked inviting to their homes after services for dinner, and how he was an engaging delightful guest.
In the end, I think that sums him up pretty well. He really was an engaging delightful guest. I guess in the end, there are a lot worse things you could be.
This morning, here at work, a Ben Folds song came on about a kid that climbed a tree tripping on acid and in the morning he came down a born again Christian. It got me thinking about my dad, and I wondered what he would have seen if he had dosed some blotter and climbed a tree.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Buying Groceries With Faster Pussycat
I'm a guy that generally take a good hour and a half to feel really awake after getting up in the morning. I muddle through mornings on autopilot, managing to survive a morning, but never really feeling engaged. This morning though, something cut through that haze.
On the television was your standard car commercial, but in the background the good folks from Chevy had selected a stripped down remix version of "Lazy Eye" by the Silversun Pickups. I died a little inside.
OK, I realize that SSPU are not exactly on par with "Instant Karma" being used by Nike, but I really like this band. They're a bit of a throwback to the wall of sound Smashing Pumpkins and noisy growl of My Bloody Valentine (comparisons that everyone makes, I know. That doesn't make them incorrect though). I saw them last summer and they were amazing live. So it hurt to see a Chevy Malibu being built in a factory to the lyrics "I've been waiting / I've been waiting for this moment all my life..." Sob.
It's like that though. They're a small band, and the drugs can't always be free. There's a new album to record, and they're on a small label (http://www.dangerbirdrecords.com) It's just that I like to keep my art and advertising separate. ESPECIALLY when it comes to car commercials.
Everyday I get surprised by how the music that is/was important has become used in ways I never would have guessed.
I'm a big Lou Reed / Velvet Underground fan. There's just something about the guy. Funny thing is, that awhile back I was driving around listening to the radio when I heard the string section from a song called "Street Hassle" (Lou Reed solo stuff) playing prominently in an advertisement for one of our local "Heart" hospitals. It was so funny to hear the voice-over guy talking about how said hospital beats the national average for heart attack response time by over twenty minutes backed by music Lou wrote. It was a wise choice not to include any of the parts of the song that contained lyrics:
"You know, I’m glad that we met man
It really was nice talking
And I really wish that there was a little more time to speak
But you know it could be a hassle
Trying to explain myself to a police officer
About how it was that your old lady got herself stiffed
And it’s not like we could help
But there was nothing no one could do
And if there was, man, you know I would have been the first
But when someone turns that blue
Well, it’s a universal truth
And then you just know that bitch will never fuck again
By the way, that’s really some bad shit
That you came to our place with
But you ought to be more careful around the little girls
It’s either the best or it’s the worst
And since I don’t have to choose
I guess I won’t and I know this ain’t no way to treat a guest
But why don’t you grab your old lady by the feet
And just lay her out on the darkened street
And by morning, she’s just another hit and run
You know, some people got no choice
And they can’t never find a voice
To talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
Why they follow it, you know, it’s called bad luck"
Nothing says responsive heart care like a song about ODing. Not to mention the fact that the first part details a sex scene in a kitchen. Oh well, I guess the music sounds nice enough and I'm sure that was far as they thought about it. Somewhere though, there is an ad exec patting himself on the back and saying "Fuck yeah, Lou Reed".
It's like this everywhere I go. I heard Modest Mouse at the grocery store a while back. There I am, pissed that I forgot to pick up English Muffins when I was in the bread isle, and they're playing "Dashboard". All of the 80's hairband music that I used to think was so hardcore (yes, I thought Motley Crue was hardcore when I was 12, what of it?) is the new muzak. You can hear The Scorpions or Great White being played in offices across Mid America right now. Seriously, just pop in to a local temp agency or insurance office. They're listening to Van Halen and yawning.
How long will it be before I see a Nine Inch Nails Volkswagen commercial or hear Sonic Youth in an elevator? How long before Ozzy Osbourne plays the telethon for Jerry's Kids and licks Ed McMahon's wilting cheek? ("Ha! That tickles, sir!") When are the fine young men of Wolfmother going to introduce a new line of flatware to be sold exclusively at Target?
Actually, if I'm honest, we could use new silverware...
On the television was your standard car commercial, but in the background the good folks from Chevy had selected a stripped down remix version of "Lazy Eye" by the Silversun Pickups. I died a little inside.
OK, I realize that SSPU are not exactly on par with "Instant Karma" being used by Nike, but I really like this band. They're a bit of a throwback to the wall of sound Smashing Pumpkins and noisy growl of My Bloody Valentine (comparisons that everyone makes, I know. That doesn't make them incorrect though). I saw them last summer and they were amazing live. So it hurt to see a Chevy Malibu being built in a factory to the lyrics "I've been waiting / I've been waiting for this moment all my life..." Sob.
It's like that though. They're a small band, and the drugs can't always be free. There's a new album to record, and they're on a small label (http://www.dangerbirdrecords.com) It's just that I like to keep my art and advertising separate. ESPECIALLY when it comes to car commercials.
Everyday I get surprised by how the music that is/was important has become used in ways I never would have guessed.
I'm a big Lou Reed / Velvet Underground fan. There's just something about the guy. Funny thing is, that awhile back I was driving around listening to the radio when I heard the string section from a song called "Street Hassle" (Lou Reed solo stuff) playing prominently in an advertisement for one of our local "Heart" hospitals. It was so funny to hear the voice-over guy talking about how said hospital beats the national average for heart attack response time by over twenty minutes backed by music Lou wrote. It was a wise choice not to include any of the parts of the song that contained lyrics:
"You know, I’m glad that we met man
It really was nice talking
And I really wish that there was a little more time to speak
But you know it could be a hassle
Trying to explain myself to a police officer
About how it was that your old lady got herself stiffed
And it’s not like we could help
But there was nothing no one could do
And if there was, man, you know I would have been the first
But when someone turns that blue
Well, it’s a universal truth
And then you just know that bitch will never fuck again
By the way, that’s really some bad shit
That you came to our place with
But you ought to be more careful around the little girls
It’s either the best or it’s the worst
And since I don’t have to choose
I guess I won’t and I know this ain’t no way to treat a guest
But why don’t you grab your old lady by the feet
And just lay her out on the darkened street
And by morning, she’s just another hit and run
You know, some people got no choice
And they can’t never find a voice
To talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
Why they follow it, you know, it’s called bad luck"
Nothing says responsive heart care like a song about ODing. Not to mention the fact that the first part details a sex scene in a kitchen. Oh well, I guess the music sounds nice enough and I'm sure that was far as they thought about it. Somewhere though, there is an ad exec patting himself on the back and saying "Fuck yeah, Lou Reed".
It's like this everywhere I go. I heard Modest Mouse at the grocery store a while back. There I am, pissed that I forgot to pick up English Muffins when I was in the bread isle, and they're playing "Dashboard". All of the 80's hairband music that I used to think was so hardcore (yes, I thought Motley Crue was hardcore when I was 12, what of it?) is the new muzak. You can hear The Scorpions or Great White being played in offices across Mid America right now. Seriously, just pop in to a local temp agency or insurance office. They're listening to Van Halen and yawning.
How long will it be before I see a Nine Inch Nails Volkswagen commercial or hear Sonic Youth in an elevator? How long before Ozzy Osbourne plays the telethon for Jerry's Kids and licks Ed McMahon's wilting cheek? ("Ha! That tickles, sir!") When are the fine young men of Wolfmother going to introduce a new line of flatware to be sold exclusively at Target?
Actually, if I'm honest, we could use new silverware...
Monday, April 28, 2008
Demon Dogs of the Night
I picked up Otis and Lucy (my two very manly ten pound dogs) just before 7:00 from the groomers and brought them home. As always, they were all strung out from a day spent in a strange place. Otis was shaking the whole way home, and the moment they got in they guzzled water side by side, unable to quench the thirst within.
Then, they chased and fought one another and seemed to stare at me when they thought I wouldn't notice. In short, their behavior made me nervous.
I don't mean to sound like an alarmist, but I am quite certain that my lap dogs are possessed by Satan. I'm convinced that sometime after the clippers were put away and the toenails were clipped, my dogs participated in a Satanic ritual and are now full of the powers of darkness.
You have doubts? Peep these...
In this first shot you have Lucy (rockin' the pink bandanna) lying in wait before offering up a sacrifice to her master (note the fires of Hell burning in her eyes). Otis (in blue) just got done trying to quench said fires of hell with a long steady drink at the water bowel, but to no avail.
In this shot, Lucy hasn't moved a muscle. She is lying in wait for her chance to strike. Beside her, Otis flicks his tongue like the serpent dwelling in his soul dictates. (Note the fires of Hell are still burning in their eyes).
And finally, here we have Otis, dropping the pretense of being a normal Silky Terrier and giving in to the lust for blood that now fuels his every move. Yes, hellfire still spills from his eyes.
I've put them to bed for now, but if my fears prove accurate I'm guessing the thin wired cage they bunk out in won't contain the horror that is about to be unleashed. I knew we should have paid more for the deluxe crate.
Then, they chased and fought one another and seemed to stare at me when they thought I wouldn't notice. In short, their behavior made me nervous.
I don't mean to sound like an alarmist, but I am quite certain that my lap dogs are possessed by Satan. I'm convinced that sometime after the clippers were put away and the toenails were clipped, my dogs participated in a Satanic ritual and are now full of the powers of darkness.
You have doubts? Peep these...
In this first shot you have Lucy (rockin' the pink bandanna) lying in wait before offering up a sacrifice to her master (note the fires of Hell burning in her eyes). Otis (in blue) just got done trying to quench said fires of hell with a long steady drink at the water bowel, but to no avail.
In this shot, Lucy hasn't moved a muscle. She is lying in wait for her chance to strike. Beside her, Otis flicks his tongue like the serpent dwelling in his soul dictates. (Note the fires of Hell are still burning in their eyes).
And finally, here we have Otis, dropping the pretense of being a normal Silky Terrier and giving in to the lust for blood that now fuels his every move. Yes, hellfire still spills from his eyes.
I've put them to bed for now, but if my fears prove accurate I'm guessing the thin wired cage they bunk out in won't contain the horror that is about to be unleashed. I knew we should have paid more for the deluxe crate.
Bits of Tid
A new Portishead album hits tomorrow. I burned a leak of the new disc over the weekend to check it out and cannot wait to buy it this week. Seriously, ya'll...support the artists financially that you believe in. They have enough people taking money out of their pocket, they don't need you doing it too.
---
Today is Mario Kart Day for me and mine. Tonight should be full of high-speed hi-jinks (after working out, cleaning the kitchen, and playing with the dogs, of course). The fifteen minutes I actually get to play are going to be amazing...I can feel it.
---
Speaking of the dogs, I had to drop them off for grooming this morning. We generally like them natural looking, but break down and have them fluffed and puffed a few times a year. It's always a nightmare, because our dogs are generally ill-behaved. Otis believes everything he sees at the vet's office (where we have them groomed) belongs to him, and as such, pees on everything if you let him. He's an eleven pound dog when we get to the office, but by the time we leave I think he weighs two pounds due to fluid loss. I don't know where it all comes from.
Our other dog, Lucy, barks. I know you're thinking, "No shit, she barks. She's a dog." But, just like there are people that take a simple thing from life and focus and explained on it, elevating it to an art form, there are dogs that do this as well. Lucy is one such creature. While not discerning, Lucy's barking is no simple disgruntled yelp. Her bark pierces and echoes. It slices through the air and rattles around your head several minutes after the actual barking is done. She barks at dogs, televised or real, cartoon or actual. The other day, she actually growled at a picture of herself that came up on our computer's screen saver. Genius.
So, between trying to keep her quiet enough to talk to the groomer and praying to God that Otis doesn't piss on my leg out of frustration for me not letting him claim the Reception Desk as his own, my morning kind of blew. I think the groomer heard my instructions, but if I pick them up tonight and they have mohawks, the dogs will have no one to blame but themselves. For the record though, I would be totally down with some mohawks.
---
It was a beautiful day yesterday, so we headed up to Mohican State Park to go hiking. It was a good day. We climbed a Fire Tower to check out the valley and took a relatively short four mile hike. Saw some deer and acted like idiots. I haven't checked out the pictures yet, but if there's anything worthwhile, I'll throw them up here later today.
That's all I've got.
---
Today is Mario Kart Day for me and mine. Tonight should be full of high-speed hi-jinks (after working out, cleaning the kitchen, and playing with the dogs, of course). The fifteen minutes I actually get to play are going to be amazing...I can feel it.
---
Speaking of the dogs, I had to drop them off for grooming this morning. We generally like them natural looking, but break down and have them fluffed and puffed a few times a year. It's always a nightmare, because our dogs are generally ill-behaved. Otis believes everything he sees at the vet's office (where we have them groomed) belongs to him, and as such, pees on everything if you let him. He's an eleven pound dog when we get to the office, but by the time we leave I think he weighs two pounds due to fluid loss. I don't know where it all comes from.
Our other dog, Lucy, barks. I know you're thinking, "No shit, she barks. She's a dog." But, just like there are people that take a simple thing from life and focus and explained on it, elevating it to an art form, there are dogs that do this as well. Lucy is one such creature. While not discerning, Lucy's barking is no simple disgruntled yelp. Her bark pierces and echoes. It slices through the air and rattles around your head several minutes after the actual barking is done. She barks at dogs, televised or real, cartoon or actual. The other day, she actually growled at a picture of herself that came up on our computer's screen saver. Genius.
So, between trying to keep her quiet enough to talk to the groomer and praying to God that Otis doesn't piss on my leg out of frustration for me not letting him claim the Reception Desk as his own, my morning kind of blew. I think the groomer heard my instructions, but if I pick them up tonight and they have mohawks, the dogs will have no one to blame but themselves. For the record though, I would be totally down with some mohawks.
---
It was a beautiful day yesterday, so we headed up to Mohican State Park to go hiking. It was a good day. We climbed a Fire Tower to check out the valley and took a relatively short four mile hike. Saw some deer and acted like idiots. I haven't checked out the pictures yet, but if there's anything worthwhile, I'll throw them up here later today.
That's all I've got.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
That Time
Do you remember that time we danced in the living room to Otis Redding?
Do you remember that time I shot my brother's nine millimeter into the air, and only wondered where the bullet would come down after I pulled the trigger?
Do you remember that time I stole the bottle of Adidas cologne out of that kid's pocket in middle school, even though I knew he would know it was me?
Do you remember that time we used to smoke the crushed butts of Viceroys out of your old man's ashtray?
Do you remember that time you brought vodka to the Youth Group trip to Chicago?
Do you remember that time that guy we knew got his hands of six pint bottles of raw ether and the way we screamed when you tried to light a cigarette?
Do you remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing?
Do you remember that time we walked up on that group of six deer and they just stood there and looked at us?
Do you remember that time I was looking down into the Valley of Armageddon, and didn't even realize it?
Do you remember that time we held hands while walking on the beach and then cracked up at what a cliche we were?
Do you remember that time I told the kids at school I had lots of GI Joe vehicles and figures because I wanted them to like me even though they probably already did?
Do you remember that time I saw the neighbor kid's dad punch him for not helping with the groceries fast enough?
Do you remember that time you told me that you hate people that do the things you do?
Do you remember that time we sat in your car in the parking lot at Kroger trying to pick up the Indianapolis station long enough to hear Radiohead's "Creep"?
(Regina Spektor's "That Time" came up on my iPod and got me rolling.)
Do you remember that time I shot my brother's nine millimeter into the air, and only wondered where the bullet would come down after I pulled the trigger?
Do you remember that time I stole the bottle of Adidas cologne out of that kid's pocket in middle school, even though I knew he would know it was me?
Do you remember that time we used to smoke the crushed butts of Viceroys out of your old man's ashtray?
Do you remember that time you brought vodka to the Youth Group trip to Chicago?
Do you remember that time that guy we knew got his hands of six pint bottles of raw ether and the way we screamed when you tried to light a cigarette?
Do you remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing?
Do you remember that time we walked up on that group of six deer and they just stood there and looked at us?
Do you remember that time I was looking down into the Valley of Armageddon, and didn't even realize it?
Do you remember that time we held hands while walking on the beach and then cracked up at what a cliche we were?
Do you remember that time I told the kids at school I had lots of GI Joe vehicles and figures because I wanted them to like me even though they probably already did?
Do you remember that time I saw the neighbor kid's dad punch him for not helping with the groceries fast enough?
Do you remember that time you told me that you hate people that do the things you do?
Do you remember that time we sat in your car in the parking lot at Kroger trying to pick up the Indianapolis station long enough to hear Radiohead's "Creep"?
(Regina Spektor's "That Time" came up on my iPod and got me rolling.)
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
A Veritable Potpourri of Whatnots
Every morning when I drive to work, and then each evening when I drive home, I look for deer along the edges of yards and in the fields along the highway. While I often see them, I don't know why I spend so much time looking for them in the first place.
---
Most days I will chew an entire pack of Orbit gum at work. It first started because the diet I'm on gives you funny smelling breath. They say it has something to do with being in ketosis. Well, it started with that, but now it's an obsession. Unless I am having the one cup of coffee I allow myself in the morning, I am chewing gum while at work. Rarely do I chew gum at home though.
---
The other day I got home from work and was talking to Jen. I turned to go to upstairs and she called me back. She had noticed that the back of the jeans I was wearing had ripped from the top of the pocket down to the top of my thigh. I had worn the jeans all day at work, but have no idea when or how they ripped. It's possible I spent the entire day at work with my butt hanging out, although everyone denies having noticed. Fortunately, I was rockin' some super swanky boxers.
---
I like being outside on Wednesday's at noon when the city does the Tornado Siren testing each week. I didn't realize that until today, but every time I'm out and about at that time and I hear the whine in the air I like it. Although,I liked the sirens considerably less last year when they went off for real and Jen and I had to hang out in our downstairs bathroom waiting for the funnel clouds to pass.
---
I preordered Wii Fit today. I'm going to get the new Mario Kart soon too. Bask in my geekiness! I SAID BASK!
---
I love tattoos. Well, some tattoos. I've always wanted some ink done, but never had anything in mind that I loved enough to get on my own skin. I see other people's tatts and think that they look cool, but they're never anything I would want on my own skin. A long time ago I read East of Eden and fell in love with the book. It's still my favorite book of all time. In the book, they discuss the word "timshel" which in Hebrew translates to "Thou Mayest". Biblically it refers to free will. The reference is to the passage that says "Thou mayest rule over sin". I love affirmation of free will. You may rule over sin. You may choose not to. You may choose to romp and roll in it. For me, not being a born again (the first time was enough, thanks) gentleman, I just like the idea it conveys about personal choice, and the responsibility that comes with it.
I decided years ago that if I got work done, it would be the original Hebrew characters on one inner arm, and then "timshel" inside the other arm. I always said that I would wait until I dropped some pounds first though. 100 of them to be exact. Well, here I am, realistically within three weeks of hitting that goal and still not sure if I want to do it. I really love tattoos, but again, I really love other people's tattoos. We'll see.
---
Most days I will chew an entire pack of Orbit gum at work. It first started because the diet I'm on gives you funny smelling breath. They say it has something to do with being in ketosis. Well, it started with that, but now it's an obsession. Unless I am having the one cup of coffee I allow myself in the morning, I am chewing gum while at work. Rarely do I chew gum at home though.
---
The other day I got home from work and was talking to Jen. I turned to go to upstairs and she called me back. She had noticed that the back of the jeans I was wearing had ripped from the top of the pocket down to the top of my thigh. I had worn the jeans all day at work, but have no idea when or how they ripped. It's possible I spent the entire day at work with my butt hanging out, although everyone denies having noticed. Fortunately, I was rockin' some super swanky boxers.
---
I like being outside on Wednesday's at noon when the city does the Tornado Siren testing each week. I didn't realize that until today, but every time I'm out and about at that time and I hear the whine in the air I like it. Although,I liked the sirens considerably less last year when they went off for real and Jen and I had to hang out in our downstairs bathroom waiting for the funnel clouds to pass.
---
I preordered Wii Fit today. I'm going to get the new Mario Kart soon too. Bask in my geekiness! I SAID BASK!
---
I love tattoos. Well, some tattoos. I've always wanted some ink done, but never had anything in mind that I loved enough to get on my own skin. I see other people's tatts and think that they look cool, but they're never anything I would want on my own skin. A long time ago I read East of Eden and fell in love with the book. It's still my favorite book of all time. In the book, they discuss the word "timshel" which in Hebrew translates to "Thou Mayest". Biblically it refers to free will. The reference is to the passage that says "Thou mayest rule over sin". I love affirmation of free will. You may rule over sin. You may choose not to. You may choose to romp and roll in it. For me, not being a born again (the first time was enough, thanks) gentleman, I just like the idea it conveys about personal choice, and the responsibility that comes with it.
I decided years ago that if I got work done, it would be the original Hebrew characters on one inner arm, and then "timshel" inside the other arm. I always said that I would wait until I dropped some pounds first though. 100 of them to be exact. Well, here I am, realistically within three weeks of hitting that goal and still not sure if I want to do it. I really love tattoos, but again, I really love other people's tattoos. We'll see.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A Mercenary Whelp Men Stern
Did an anagram search of my name today. Here are some of my favorites:
A Permanence Wrestler Hymn
A Carpenters Newer Elm Hymn
A Penances Remelt New Myrrh
A Creamer Renews Lent Nymph
A Mercenary Whelms Pen Rent
A Spacemen Renew Lent Myrrh
A Cleaners Preterm New Hymn
A Cleaner Hymen Perm Strewn
But, my all time favorite is: A Mercenary When Lent Sperm
You're goddamn right a mercenary when lent sperm. Don't you forget it, you.
Oh, and I named the Great Blue Heron I see most days. I started calling him Stanley for no real reason. Tonight though, I pulled up an old short story that needs some love, and realized the dog in it is named Stanley too. I feel like I'm going to have to find another name that fits. Who would have thought I would only be able to come up with one name for a dog and a bird?
A Permanence Wrestler Hymn
A Carpenters Newer Elm Hymn
A Penances Remelt New Myrrh
A Creamer Renews Lent Nymph
A Mercenary Whelms Pen Rent
A Spacemen Renew Lent Myrrh
A Cleaners Preterm New Hymn
A Cleaner Hymen Perm Strewn
But, my all time favorite is: A Mercenary When Lent Sperm
You're goddamn right a mercenary when lent sperm. Don't you forget it, you.
Oh, and I named the Great Blue Heron I see most days. I started calling him Stanley for no real reason. Tonight though, I pulled up an old short story that needs some love, and realized the dog in it is named Stanley too. I feel like I'm going to have to find another name that fits. Who would have thought I would only be able to come up with one name for a dog and a bird?
Monday, April 21, 2008
Assortments of Assorted Assortments
My wife is pretty sick, yo. While she seems pretty shy and sweet on the surface, there are things going on under the surface that I don't understand. Here's the thing.
I've been working on a pretty gruesome short story for way too long now. It's called "Bridge" (for now) and it's the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written. I like it quite a bit. Still, there was a part of the story which was a bit too graphic for even me. After consulting with a couple of people that I respect their opinion, I removed the super-extra disturbing phrase from the piece, and felt good about it.
The next day I tell Jen about it and while she reserves her opinion, I detect a tone. When I press her about it, she just says that she'll have to read it. I argue my point, saying that knowing that this heinous little thought was in my main character's mind makes him less likable. She says, "OK."
So I start thinking about it. Why do I care if my character is likable? Why this weird need to defend him? So we started talking about it during the course of drive, discussing possible motivations for the man. In the end, the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written just got ten times worse (in my mind, at least). My character now just isn't less likable, he's a monster.
I read the story (all 25 pages) aloud to her tonight (reading aloud lets me catch so many mistakes that I would normally miss). When I got to the part where my gross little story takes a nosedive into hell, I glance over at my sweet innocent bride.
She's smiling. Ick.
In happier news, I've been quite the good consumer lately. Last weekend I was able to get a couple of tickets for this summer's Radiohead show at Blossom Music Center outside of Cleveland. I'm hoping an out of town friend will be able to join me, but if not, I'll drag my brother along again. He went with me the first time I saw them after Kid A/Amnesiac. I really like the new album, and I even liked a bunch of stuff off of Hail to the Thief, when a lot of people don't. It wasn't their best record, but even when Radiohead is so-so, I still like them better than 95% of everything else out there.
I also bought a new gas grill over the weekend and hope to be able to pick it up tomorrow. We'll be mixing in some dinners here soon (stupid diet) and I wanted the grill for all of the fish, chicken and veggies we'll be cookin' up. Gotta tell ya, I love my funky red grill.
I've been working on a pretty gruesome short story for way too long now. It's called "Bridge" (for now) and it's the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written. I like it quite a bit. Still, there was a part of the story which was a bit too graphic for even me. After consulting with a couple of people that I respect their opinion, I removed the super-extra disturbing phrase from the piece, and felt good about it.
The next day I tell Jen about it and while she reserves her opinion, I detect a tone. When I press her about it, she just says that she'll have to read it. I argue my point, saying that knowing that this heinous little thought was in my main character's mind makes him less likable. She says, "OK."
So I start thinking about it. Why do I care if my character is likable? Why this weird need to defend him? So we started talking about it during the course of drive, discussing possible motivations for the man. In the end, the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written just got ten times worse (in my mind, at least). My character now just isn't less likable, he's a monster.
I read the story (all 25 pages) aloud to her tonight (reading aloud lets me catch so many mistakes that I would normally miss). When I got to the part where my gross little story takes a nosedive into hell, I glance over at my sweet innocent bride.
She's smiling. Ick.
In happier news, I've been quite the good consumer lately. Last weekend I was able to get a couple of tickets for this summer's Radiohead show at Blossom Music Center outside of Cleveland. I'm hoping an out of town friend will be able to join me, but if not, I'll drag my brother along again. He went with me the first time I saw them after Kid A/Amnesiac. I really like the new album, and I even liked a bunch of stuff off of Hail to the Thief, when a lot of people don't. It wasn't their best record, but even when Radiohead is so-so, I still like them better than 95% of everything else out there.
I also bought a new gas grill over the weekend and hope to be able to pick it up tomorrow. We'll be mixing in some dinners here soon (stupid diet) and I wanted the grill for all of the fish, chicken and veggies we'll be cookin' up. Gotta tell ya, I love my funky red grill.
Friday, April 18, 2008
"I Can Ride My Bike With No Handlebars..."
Each morning that I drive onto the service road that surrounds the office building, I search the small man-made pond to my right, looking for Great Blue Heron who is often fishing along the shallow banks. I haven't named him yet, but I will.
***
I used to know a guy named Lurch. While I'm sure that wasn't what his mother called him, I never knew his real name. Lurch and his friend used to hang out on the porch with us from time to time, but it was obvious they were a little more serious about killing brain cells than the average imbiber.
John was Lurch's hype man. When John would notice someone looking at the disjointed childish tattoos covering Lurch's arms he would say, "He did that shit himself! He's fucking awesome!"
The first night I met them, I watched Lurch guzzle an entire bottle of Robitussin cough syrup.
The last time I saw them they stumbled into the convenience store I was working third shift at and bought a box and a half of B&C Aspirin powders. They didn't recognize me, and I pretended not to know them.
"Hey man, do you guys sell razor blades?" John asked.
"Just safety razors." I told him.
"Fuck."
***
Last night I downloaded the "Fight With Tools" album by Flobots. If you have ever wanted to hear an MC rap over a super tight rhythm section, guitars, a Classical Violin and a Jazz Trumpet, you should really buy this. $8 on iTunes for the album is a steal.
***
Rain is coming this weekend in big fashion. The bike gang rolls for the final time for the week tonight. Another wild and crazy Friday night on the way.
***
I used to know a guy named Lurch. While I'm sure that wasn't what his mother called him, I never knew his real name. Lurch and his friend used to hang out on the porch with us from time to time, but it was obvious they were a little more serious about killing brain cells than the average imbiber.
John was Lurch's hype man. When John would notice someone looking at the disjointed childish tattoos covering Lurch's arms he would say, "He did that shit himself! He's fucking awesome!"
The first night I met them, I watched Lurch guzzle an entire bottle of Robitussin cough syrup.
The last time I saw them they stumbled into the convenience store I was working third shift at and bought a box and a half of B&C Aspirin powders. They didn't recognize me, and I pretended not to know them.
"Hey man, do you guys sell razor blades?" John asked.
"Just safety razors." I told him.
"Fuck."
***
Last night I downloaded the "Fight With Tools" album by Flobots. If you have ever wanted to hear an MC rap over a super tight rhythm section, guitars, a Classical Violin and a Jazz Trumpet, you should really buy this. $8 on iTunes for the album is a steal.
***
Rain is coming this weekend in big fashion. The bike gang rolls for the final time for the week tonight. Another wild and crazy Friday night on the way.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Parked Cars
The parking garage was dark inside, even during the day. Although it was an open air garage only two stories tall, light and fresh air seemed incapable of entering further than ten feet inside its parameter. Leaves and litter scratch their way across the pavement like a well manicured nail pressed and drawn against slate. Chewing gum, smashed into flat ovals, blackened with dirt, doesn't even try sticking to the soles of my tennis shoes anymore.
Once you passed the place where the sun no longer reaches, the garage smells like an ashtray. Carbon monoxide stings your eyes, and seems to coat your hair.
Sparrows peck at the cupcake wrappers that have blown against support posts and taste the cigarette butts collected in the pavement's seams. They hop over the faded yellow paint that breaks the floor into hundreds of parking spaces, and scatter at the arrival of the maintenance crew that has arrived to knock their newly constructed nests from the I-beams above to the ground. The sparrows cry and scold from their piles of debris, unsure what to do.
Suddenly it seems a decision is made. The birds swarm out of the garage as a group and settle amongst the trees at the edge of the property finding warmth in the sun. Walking past my parked car and out the side of the building I decide to try to follow them as far as I can.
Once you passed the place where the sun no longer reaches, the garage smells like an ashtray. Carbon monoxide stings your eyes, and seems to coat your hair.
Sparrows peck at the cupcake wrappers that have blown against support posts and taste the cigarette butts collected in the pavement's seams. They hop over the faded yellow paint that breaks the floor into hundreds of parking spaces, and scatter at the arrival of the maintenance crew that has arrived to knock their newly constructed nests from the I-beams above to the ground. The sparrows cry and scold from their piles of debris, unsure what to do.
Suddenly it seems a decision is made. The birds swarm out of the garage as a group and settle amongst the trees at the edge of the property finding warmth in the sun. Walking past my parked car and out the side of the building I decide to try to follow them as far as I can.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
We Have Rules for a Reason, Damnit!
The novelty of owning bicycles is gone now, and we're getting more and more serious about riding. While we haven't gotten out tons yet, we find ourselves watching the clock and wanting to beat our previous times. There was a hill that we had to walk part of the way up our first outing, but now we own it. (By "Own It" I mean we pedal slowly huffing and puffing our way to the top cursing anything that moves. Fucking chipmunks.)
It's still really fun though. That part hasn't changed for us at all. It's great to be outside, riding through the trees. Sure, you have to make yourself ignore the highway hiss from time to time, but it's not like you're in the middle of nowhere. In fact, not being in the middle of nowhere has other issues that come with it too.
Our first couple of outings were when the weather hadn't really turned yet. We were out there with a handful of others who were sick of their couches and treadmills and were ready to get out and about. Now though, as the weather warms and the evenings are longer, the multi-purpose trails in the Metro Parks are getting a bit crowded. Not overly crowded yet, but you have to keep an eye out so you don't mow down a family of three when doing 20 mph down a hill.
The main trail that we go to has the left side dedicated to bike traffic, but people drift in and out of lanes taking up the entire paved surface. Normally soft spoken, Jen (who generally leads), had a hard time speaking up to let people know we were passing on the left.
"Ah hem. On the left." she'd stage whisper.
Now though, the bike trail is Jen's trail.
"Passing on the left!" she says loudly as she buzzzes the newlyweds.
"This is the bike lane, buddy." she declares to the Hispanic gentleman who was so confused by the site of two bikes barreling down on him that he froze in the middle of our lane, unable to move left or right.
We encouter the occasional jogger who refuses to give up the lane, even though they're jogging the wrong direction and on the wrong side. I pity these men and women who unwittingly open themselves to unrequested direction.
"Simple-minded motherfuckers, every one of them!" she says drinking from her bottle of water while I lift the bikes back onto the rack, still trying to catch my breath.
It's not that my wife is mean. Far from it. It isn't even that she likes to strike fear in the hearts of the unsuspecting as she passes them so fast and close they can smell a trace of the perfume she wore to work that day. My wife simply believes rules were meant to be followed because they are there to protect us all. She believes this so deeply, she is willing to share her beliefs with anyone who may even look suspect of riding clockwise on the counter clockwise path.
I laugh at her on the way home, picking at her for the improptu "education" she was dumping on park-goers. She remains steadfast in the idea that the next time those people go to the trail, they'll keep in mind what she said and will stay on the walking path. Over a period of months, traffic will flow evenly and smoothly and we will all commune with the outdoors together in harmony.
It's this distance between reality and her ideas that makes Jen fun. She lives in that gap, hoping to bring everyone over to her side. Not just at the trail, but in most things. Recognizing the parallax, but choosing to ignore it, she treads on with her perspective of how it should be and just hopes that enough people will come around to see it her way.
I hope everyone on that trail knows how hard she's working to keep them all safe. She's exhausted.
It's still really fun though. That part hasn't changed for us at all. It's great to be outside, riding through the trees. Sure, you have to make yourself ignore the highway hiss from time to time, but it's not like you're in the middle of nowhere. In fact, not being in the middle of nowhere has other issues that come with it too.
Our first couple of outings were when the weather hadn't really turned yet. We were out there with a handful of others who were sick of their couches and treadmills and were ready to get out and about. Now though, as the weather warms and the evenings are longer, the multi-purpose trails in the Metro Parks are getting a bit crowded. Not overly crowded yet, but you have to keep an eye out so you don't mow down a family of three when doing 20 mph down a hill.
The main trail that we go to has the left side dedicated to bike traffic, but people drift in and out of lanes taking up the entire paved surface. Normally soft spoken, Jen (who generally leads), had a hard time speaking up to let people know we were passing on the left.
"Ah hem. On the left." she'd stage whisper.
Now though, the bike trail is Jen's trail.
"Passing on the left!" she says loudly as she buzzzes the newlyweds.
"This is the bike lane, buddy." she declares to the Hispanic gentleman who was so confused by the site of two bikes barreling down on him that he froze in the middle of our lane, unable to move left or right.
We encouter the occasional jogger who refuses to give up the lane, even though they're jogging the wrong direction and on the wrong side. I pity these men and women who unwittingly open themselves to unrequested direction.
"Simple-minded motherfuckers, every one of them!" she says drinking from her bottle of water while I lift the bikes back onto the rack, still trying to catch my breath.
It's not that my wife is mean. Far from it. It isn't even that she likes to strike fear in the hearts of the unsuspecting as she passes them so fast and close they can smell a trace of the perfume she wore to work that day. My wife simply believes rules were meant to be followed because they are there to protect us all. She believes this so deeply, she is willing to share her beliefs with anyone who may even look suspect of riding clockwise on the counter clockwise path.
I laugh at her on the way home, picking at her for the improptu "education" she was dumping on park-goers. She remains steadfast in the idea that the next time those people go to the trail, they'll keep in mind what she said and will stay on the walking path. Over a period of months, traffic will flow evenly and smoothly and we will all commune with the outdoors together in harmony.
It's this distance between reality and her ideas that makes Jen fun. She lives in that gap, hoping to bring everyone over to her side. Not just at the trail, but in most things. Recognizing the parallax, but choosing to ignore it, she treads on with her perspective of how it should be and just hopes that enough people will come around to see it her way.
I hope everyone on that trail knows how hard she's working to keep them all safe. She's exhausted.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Like Christmas in My Mailbox
*
*
I was stuck at work late tonight when I heard that my dictator had arrived. Knowing that the prints that I had been tucking away money for had arrived made it even harder than usual to stay in the office until 7:30. As soon as I got home I opened the tube to behold Kim Jong iLL in all his glory. Really nice work. The only thing that will make me happier is getting them framed and up on the walls. Can't wait.
*
In other sort of related news, an old friend, Laura Alexander turned me on to an event happening this Saturday. The Agora (sick of links yet?) seems like a great idea. It brings together hundreds of pieces of art, see a ton of local bands and go through fifty studios. Laura has studio space at Junctionview Studios (site of The Agora) and organizes other shows that take place on a regular basis. I haven't seen her since I was in highschool, but can't wait to say hi and check out some of her glass work in person. The photos I have seen look really great.
*
You should come hang out Saturday night. Seriously. What else do you really have to do?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Whigs
Just a quick note to say The Whigs are amazing. Saw them last night as part of CD101 Day 2008 with Switches, Zox, The Whiles, The Duke Spirit and Von Iva. All the bands sounded pretty good, but The Whigs were just amazing.
They were just three guys banging out garage rock and sounding bigger than anything else that hit the stage that night. Quality. I really hope they do a headlining tour so we can see more than 45 minutes.
I hated the Zox discs we picked up prior to seeing them live, but really dug them live too. All the heavy production was gone and they sounded more like a band than an 1980's retrospective. Really good. Jen loved all things Zox before, and last night just cemented that for her.
The Duke Spirit are great, but the sound kind of chugged out of them. I really dig the band, but a touch of muddy sound combined with a bit of a blase stage show just kind of faded into the background.
That's all. I'm no reviewer, to be sure.
I'm really looking forward to next Saturday's Agora Art show at Junctionview Studios. Hoping to see some good local stuff and maybe pick up a piece or two for the house. Jen and I have been on a bit of a kick buying a few pieces of art, and I can't wait to get out and see some more from the area.
They were just three guys banging out garage rock and sounding bigger than anything else that hit the stage that night. Quality. I really hope they do a headlining tour so we can see more than 45 minutes.
I hated the Zox discs we picked up prior to seeing them live, but really dug them live too. All the heavy production was gone and they sounded more like a band than an 1980's retrospective. Really good. Jen loved all things Zox before, and last night just cemented that for her.
The Duke Spirit are great, but the sound kind of chugged out of them. I really dig the band, but a touch of muddy sound combined with a bit of a blase stage show just kind of faded into the background.
That's all. I'm no reviewer, to be sure.
I'm really looking forward to next Saturday's Agora Art show at Junctionview Studios. Hoping to see some good local stuff and maybe pick up a piece or two for the house. Jen and I have been on a bit of a kick buying a few pieces of art, and I can't wait to get out and see some more from the area.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Knockemstiff, Part II
So, we went to hear Donald Pollock read from his new book tonight, and I'm really glad we went. It was a lot of fun for a couple of reasons. First, the guy was just laid back and really approachable. You could tell he was taken aback by the standing room only crowd he drew in the corner of the OSU School Bookstore he was given to read in. As he got up from the padded chair he was trapped in, being prodded by the local academics, his eyes scanned the packed folding chairs and the people standing at the back of the space. You could see his nervousness.
He thanked everyone for coming, and said he would be reading from a few different stories then began. His voice was strong, but his hands were shaking just a bit.
The thing that was cool about hearing him read aloud to the room was that it was his real voice when he read. What I mean is, his voice fit with the tone and the cadence of the words on the page and you knew from hearing it that this wasn't him trying to be anything...the book was who he is.
A couple of nights ago, Jen and I were sitting in the living room reading, and I read her a couple of stories from the book. I read in my own voice through the narration, but found myself adding a southern accent to the dialogue without consciously thinking about it. I'm bad at dialects, and so my Appalachian Ohio accent came out like Dumb-Fuck Southerner (the difference can be subtle, but is there), but it served the purpose. But where my voice was thick and affected, Don's was natural and clear and fit so perfectly with the words.
He read four passages from four stories, but had to skip around a bit. I guess Barnes and Noble management thought someone shopping for cookbooks in the Bargain section of the store might be bummed out to hear about a teen masturbating onto his sister's doll in a smokehouse. They have a point, I suppose. Still, it would have been nice to hear a complete story.
After the reading he took questions for a half-hour. There wasn't tons of stuff that came out that wasn't covered in reviews and quick blurbs I've read about him, but it was interesting to see him field questions.
I had him sign the copy of his book we brought from home, and chatted him up for just a minute or two. Again, he was really laid back and genuinely nice. I had him sign the book to the two of us and we were out.
Funniest part of the night though was a man I can only assume was a professor in the English Department for OSU. He was a caricature of what an aging professor should look like. Unkempt gray hair reaching for the fluorescent bulbs above, practically crackling with static electricity and the worn blazer over a gray turtleneck sweater was only the beginning. He monopolized conversation prior to the reading, rhapsodizing about the voice of the common man and real people struggling tirelessly but ultimately ineffectively.
When Donald began started the evening by saying he would be jumping around through a few stories, old crusty prof spoke up: "Oh, hey Don. You should read from the end of 'Tim and Katy' (I forget the real name of the story at the moment). Could you do that?" The man rocked back in his chair smiling at his idea. There was uncomfortable silence for a moment while the entire room seemed to scowl at this guy who obviously just wanted everyon to know that he and "Don" were old buddies...close enough buddies that he could make requests.
Donald seemed embarrassed and just kind of nodded. "Yeah" he said. "I might get to that."
He didn't get to that, and I was glad.
He thanked everyone for coming, and said he would be reading from a few different stories then began. His voice was strong, but his hands were shaking just a bit.
The thing that was cool about hearing him read aloud to the room was that it was his real voice when he read. What I mean is, his voice fit with the tone and the cadence of the words on the page and you knew from hearing it that this wasn't him trying to be anything...the book was who he is.
A couple of nights ago, Jen and I were sitting in the living room reading, and I read her a couple of stories from the book. I read in my own voice through the narration, but found myself adding a southern accent to the dialogue without consciously thinking about it. I'm bad at dialects, and so my Appalachian Ohio accent came out like Dumb-Fuck Southerner (the difference can be subtle, but is there), but it served the purpose. But where my voice was thick and affected, Don's was natural and clear and fit so perfectly with the words.
He read four passages from four stories, but had to skip around a bit. I guess Barnes and Noble management thought someone shopping for cookbooks in the Bargain section of the store might be bummed out to hear about a teen masturbating onto his sister's doll in a smokehouse. They have a point, I suppose. Still, it would have been nice to hear a complete story.
After the reading he took questions for a half-hour. There wasn't tons of stuff that came out that wasn't covered in reviews and quick blurbs I've read about him, but it was interesting to see him field questions.
I had him sign the copy of his book we brought from home, and chatted him up for just a minute or two. Again, he was really laid back and genuinely nice. I had him sign the book to the two of us and we were out.
Funniest part of the night though was a man I can only assume was a professor in the English Department for OSU. He was a caricature of what an aging professor should look like. Unkempt gray hair reaching for the fluorescent bulbs above, practically crackling with static electricity and the worn blazer over a gray turtleneck sweater was only the beginning. He monopolized conversation prior to the reading, rhapsodizing about the voice of the common man and real people struggling tirelessly but ultimately ineffectively.
When Donald began started the evening by saying he would be jumping around through a few stories, old crusty prof spoke up: "Oh, hey Don. You should read from the end of 'Tim and Katy' (I forget the real name of the story at the moment). Could you do that?" The man rocked back in his chair smiling at his idea. There was uncomfortable silence for a moment while the entire room seemed to scowl at this guy who obviously just wanted everyon to know that he and "Don" were old buddies...close enough buddies that he could make requests.
Donald seemed embarrassed and just kind of nodded. "Yeah" he said. "I might get to that."
He didn't get to that, and I was glad.
Knockemstiff
Tonight Jen and I are going to hear a reading by Donald Ray Pollock. He recently had a collection of short stories published and is being hailed by many in some circles as the next important voice in literary fiction. I'm about halfway through his book and am a big fan and am looking forward to having him sign my copy and going all fanboy for a minute or two.
The thing that is difficult about the meeting is the subject matter of his stories. How do you go up to a man and tell them that you really enjoyed the story about incest and murder, but really related more to the young man traveling with the pedophile trucker who keeps feeding him speed? Or maybe admit that at certain points in multiple stories I have felt sick to my stomach.
To me, Knockemstiff (Pollock's book) is a horror novel even though it isn't even remotely in the same genre.
While I'm a big fan of all things zombie related, and horror movies in general, there isn't a whole lot that is scary anymore. Hillbillies scare me. Inbred, dangerous and violent men who waste away the hours in the parking lot of the local bowling alley scare me. While the stuff going down in these short stories is a bit over the top at times, it all is rooted in this grimy Southern Ohio reality that makes me believe every damn word. He really creeps me out.
So, maybe that's what I'll say tonight. "Hey, Donny Ray? You really frighten me, bro." I think he might like that.
I know I would.
Knockemstiff: http://www.amazon.com/Knockemstiff-Donald-Ray-Pollock/dp/0385523823/ref=pd_bbs_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1207856220&sr=8-1
The thing that is difficult about the meeting is the subject matter of his stories. How do you go up to a man and tell them that you really enjoyed the story about incest and murder, but really related more to the young man traveling with the pedophile trucker who keeps feeding him speed? Or maybe admit that at certain points in multiple stories I have felt sick to my stomach.
To me, Knockemstiff (Pollock's book) is a horror novel even though it isn't even remotely in the same genre.
While I'm a big fan of all things zombie related, and horror movies in general, there isn't a whole lot that is scary anymore. Hillbillies scare me. Inbred, dangerous and violent men who waste away the hours in the parking lot of the local bowling alley scare me. While the stuff going down in these short stories is a bit over the top at times, it all is rooted in this grimy Southern Ohio reality that makes me believe every damn word. He really creeps me out.
So, maybe that's what I'll say tonight. "Hey, Donny Ray? You really frighten me, bro." I think he might like that.
I know I would.
Knockemstiff: http://www.amazon.com/Knockemstiff-Donald-Ray-Pollock/dp/0385523823/ref=pd_bbs_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1207856220&sr=8-1
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Untitled (First Draft Doodling -Now with extra edits!)
(NOTE: The following post has been cleaned up a bit since it was first posted. My lovely wife is the best editor I could ask for when it comes to grammar and punctuation. It's nice to have someone you care about point out how bad you are at something. Thanks, honey.)
"Why don't we hear birds singing more often here?" she asked as they walked through the forest, following the ragged, rock-studded trail. Phillip had stopped walking and closed his eyes listening, noticing for the first time the oddly quiet trees. It did seem strange to be in the middle of the forest and to hear so few birds.
"Maybe it's too early for most of them?" he said, guessing. He heard his wife sigh as she started walking again. She had little use for guesses as a rule, and even less patience for guesses that came from him. She had once complained that he had to have an answer for everything, and even if he didn't know, he would make up an answer just to have something to say.
It was the lack of bird song in the air that Phillip found himself thinking about as he regained consciousness. He was on his back, and his blurry gaze smeared the electric-green pines across a clouding sky. He lay still, letting his over-tasked mind take stock of the dozens of messages his body was sending him all at once. The left leg screamed the loudest, its voice cracking and breaking with the force, pushing the slightly softer voices coming from the rest of his body to the background. Phillip started to reach instinctively with his right arm to run down the outside edge of his leg, but it wouldn't move. Best to think about the arm in a minute, he thought, and decided to try his left.
Phillip's index and middle fingers walked slowly down the outside of his hip and down his leg, pulling its arm behind it until he felt his left shoulder lower just slightly, causing a jagged flash of pain to rip across his chest. His fingertips rested on jagged splinters of what he reasoned must be bone. "Shit" he muttered.
Slowly he tried to account for his injuries as best as he could without moving. His left leg was broken into kindling, right arm still immobile, left wrist throbbing with each beat of his heart. Phillip's chest felt like a barbed-wire tumbleweed was blowing around, scraping at the inside of his skin and lungs with each breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, not wanting the panic that was tapping him on the shoulder to crawl on top of him and start screaming the truth of his situation in his face.
In movies, when someone wakes up after being knocked unconscious they awaken confused, never sure what happened to them. It takes a doctor or sensative-eyed police officer gently breaking the news before realization and memory comes flooding back. For Phillip though, he remembered everything. He remembered standing on the overlook, watching the swaying treetops at eye level. He remembered the sudden absence of ground under his feet. He remembered the blur of rock and sky. He remembered the warmth of Janelle's palms in the middle of his back and being surprised at the force and strength behind them as she pushed.
Slowly, Phillip opened his eyes and looked to the cliff face above where she still stood, looking down on him. Small in the distance, he imagined a look of disappointment on her face as she looked down at his small movements. They stayed that way, Janelle with arms crossed glaring down the cliff, Phillip reclining amongst the rocks his limbs improbably folded in 45 degree angles, looking at each other through the distance. Slowly, Janelle turned and disappeared from sight.
A soft red movement caught Phillip's eye, and he turned his head to examine the source. High above, perched near the top of a still-budding Maple, a Robin had lighted and swayed in the breeze watching him. Feeling insecure with its perch, the Robin flitted and adjusted, finding purchase on a thicker branch. The bird seemed unafraid, accustomed to the heavy weekend traffic of the state park. Still, it kept its distance while appearing to maintain eye contact and Phillip found himself seeing the same disappointed look that had clouded his wife's face in the sharp intelligence of the Robin's eyes.
Without telegraphing intention, the Robin swooped down and found rest on a lower branch, this one a mere ten feet from Phillip. Still it seemed to keep its focus on him, never looking side to side.
Phillip smiled up at the bird. He saw it breathe in and open its mouth.
"Are you going to sing for me?" he whispered up, his chest pinching around the words.
The bird closed its mouth, turned to the side and flew away.
"Why don't we hear birds singing more often here?" she asked as they walked through the forest, following the ragged, rock-studded trail. Phillip had stopped walking and closed his eyes listening, noticing for the first time the oddly quiet trees. It did seem strange to be in the middle of the forest and to hear so few birds.
"Maybe it's too early for most of them?" he said, guessing. He heard his wife sigh as she started walking again. She had little use for guesses as a rule, and even less patience for guesses that came from him. She had once complained that he had to have an answer for everything, and even if he didn't know, he would make up an answer just to have something to say.
It was the lack of bird song in the air that Phillip found himself thinking about as he regained consciousness. He was on his back, and his blurry gaze smeared the electric-green pines across a clouding sky. He lay still, letting his over-tasked mind take stock of the dozens of messages his body was sending him all at once. The left leg screamed the loudest, its voice cracking and breaking with the force, pushing the slightly softer voices coming from the rest of his body to the background. Phillip started to reach instinctively with his right arm to run down the outside edge of his leg, but it wouldn't move. Best to think about the arm in a minute, he thought, and decided to try his left.
Phillip's index and middle fingers walked slowly down the outside of his hip and down his leg, pulling its arm behind it until he felt his left shoulder lower just slightly, causing a jagged flash of pain to rip across his chest. His fingertips rested on jagged splinters of what he reasoned must be bone. "Shit" he muttered.
Slowly he tried to account for his injuries as best as he could without moving. His left leg was broken into kindling, right arm still immobile, left wrist throbbing with each beat of his heart. Phillip's chest felt like a barbed-wire tumbleweed was blowing around, scraping at the inside of his skin and lungs with each breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, not wanting the panic that was tapping him on the shoulder to crawl on top of him and start screaming the truth of his situation in his face.
In movies, when someone wakes up after being knocked unconscious they awaken confused, never sure what happened to them. It takes a doctor or sensative-eyed police officer gently breaking the news before realization and memory comes flooding back. For Phillip though, he remembered everything. He remembered standing on the overlook, watching the swaying treetops at eye level. He remembered the sudden absence of ground under his feet. He remembered the blur of rock and sky. He remembered the warmth of Janelle's palms in the middle of his back and being surprised at the force and strength behind them as she pushed.
Slowly, Phillip opened his eyes and looked to the cliff face above where she still stood, looking down on him. Small in the distance, he imagined a look of disappointment on her face as she looked down at his small movements. They stayed that way, Janelle with arms crossed glaring down the cliff, Phillip reclining amongst the rocks his limbs improbably folded in 45 degree angles, looking at each other through the distance. Slowly, Janelle turned and disappeared from sight.
A soft red movement caught Phillip's eye, and he turned his head to examine the source. High above, perched near the top of a still-budding Maple, a Robin had lighted and swayed in the breeze watching him. Feeling insecure with its perch, the Robin flitted and adjusted, finding purchase on a thicker branch. The bird seemed unafraid, accustomed to the heavy weekend traffic of the state park. Still, it kept its distance while appearing to maintain eye contact and Phillip found himself seeing the same disappointed look that had clouded his wife's face in the sharp intelligence of the Robin's eyes.
Without telegraphing intention, the Robin swooped down and found rest on a lower branch, this one a mere ten feet from Phillip. Still it seemed to keep its focus on him, never looking side to side.
Phillip smiled up at the bird. He saw it breathe in and open its mouth.
"Are you going to sing for me?" he whispered up, his chest pinching around the words.
The bird closed its mouth, turned to the side and flew away.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Bill Czech, Like the Country
I've had a lot of interesting bosses over the years, but none were as puzzlingly amazing as Bill Czech. He led a ragtag team of about twelve Loan Officers through an embarrassingly unproductive couple of years. Bill could be counted on to avoid confrontation, stare at you blankly, blink in confusion and mix metaphors in a way that would make Michael Scott jealous.
Oh, and yes...Bill would introduce himself to people by saying "Hi. My name is Bill Czech. Like the country." Really, Bill? Czech? What language do they speak in Czech?
Each morning, he would rally the troops to discuss any policy changes and get people pumped up for a day of selling. These required meetings were intended to be 5-15 minutes long, get you the information you need and give you that shot in the arm you needed to get on the phone and get hung up on by angry people with credit scores somewhere south of 400. Instead, they turned into a rambling mess of Bill talking about his accomplishments, telling us we need to call more people and find ways to drum up business, and most importantly, delivering impassioned motivational speeches.
At first, these meetings were intolerable. Then, my buddy Gavin and I started keeping notes of things that Bill said in meetings. Sometimes laughing so hard we'd have to hide behind a cubicle wall as we would jot down one of his quotes, we began chronicling the beauty of Bill's wisdom. What follows is Bill's Greatest Hits as collected by Gavin and I. This list represents about half of the quotes we have written down, and are among my personal favorites. Quotes are presented in no particular order. Don't ask me what some of the mean. I just don't know.
1. The word for the month is accountable…it’s accountability.
2. You can only control what you can control, and you can pretty much control everything.
3. My door is always open, unless it’s closed.
4. The girls have sent you stuff of stuff of potential stuff you already need.
5. I didn’t mean to step on Aimee’s thunder.
6. My jaw fell out of my mouth.
7. Spring is right around the corner. (4/6/05)
8. Make quick decisive decisions.
9. I have to watch my words to make sure they are not misinterpreted the wrong way.
10. If I tell you something verbally, it’s just verbal.
11. If you have the "It Factor", you have to imply it here.
12. Look yourselfs in the mirror…Go to the bathroom right now if you need to. (Misspelling intentional for once.)
13. My analogies will always be surrounded by sports.
14. There was a lady being treated for schizophrenia…it was crazy.
15. Use your educated, obviously, loan officer self.
16. Let’s make a conservative effort to get this done as quickly as possible.
17. If you don’t want to be here, I’m not keeping you to be here.
18. You may be able to emphasize what you are not able to miss.
19. Set forth those things that have been set forth by you.
20. Getting off early for the month of June is all of our success.
21. I’d rather have my thumb amputated than have Dhaval here…Or be like a dog and have no thumbs at all. (Note: Dhaval was our Regional Manager at the time.)
22. When the cat is gone, who cares? There should be 17 other cats in here…
23. I may not touch you everyday…
24. We need to get this place to be a squeaky wheel with the grease already on it.
25. It’s extremely important to jump at someone else.
26. You can’t dodge the facts that are real.
27. Lets run and get feathers for our caps.
28. Communication= listening + reading.
29. For those of you that enjoy pool references: we’re not behind the eight ball – we’re not even on the table. (Note: This assumes there is a percentage of people in the room who really enjoy a nice pool reference.)
30. My door is always open except when its closed.
31. Call leads until they bleed or you are stealing from everyone’s mouth.
Oh, and yes...Bill would introduce himself to people by saying "Hi. My name is Bill Czech. Like the country." Really, Bill? Czech? What language do they speak in Czech?
Each morning, he would rally the troops to discuss any policy changes and get people pumped up for a day of selling. These required meetings were intended to be 5-15 minutes long, get you the information you need and give you that shot in the arm you needed to get on the phone and get hung up on by angry people with credit scores somewhere south of 400. Instead, they turned into a rambling mess of Bill talking about his accomplishments, telling us we need to call more people and find ways to drum up business, and most importantly, delivering impassioned motivational speeches.
At first, these meetings were intolerable. Then, my buddy Gavin and I started keeping notes of things that Bill said in meetings. Sometimes laughing so hard we'd have to hide behind a cubicle wall as we would jot down one of his quotes, we began chronicling the beauty of Bill's wisdom. What follows is Bill's Greatest Hits as collected by Gavin and I. This list represents about half of the quotes we have written down, and are among my personal favorites. Quotes are presented in no particular order. Don't ask me what some of the mean. I just don't know.
1. The word for the month is accountable…it’s accountability.
2. You can only control what you can control, and you can pretty much control everything.
3. My door is always open, unless it’s closed.
4. The girls have sent you stuff of stuff of potential stuff you already need.
5. I didn’t mean to step on Aimee’s thunder.
6. My jaw fell out of my mouth.
7. Spring is right around the corner. (4/6/05)
8. Make quick decisive decisions.
9. I have to watch my words to make sure they are not misinterpreted the wrong way.
10. If I tell you something verbally, it’s just verbal.
11. If you have the "It Factor", you have to imply it here.
12. Look yourselfs in the mirror…Go to the bathroom right now if you need to. (Misspelling intentional for once.)
13. My analogies will always be surrounded by sports.
14. There was a lady being treated for schizophrenia…it was crazy.
15. Use your educated, obviously, loan officer self.
16. Let’s make a conservative effort to get this done as quickly as possible.
17. If you don’t want to be here, I’m not keeping you to be here.
18. You may be able to emphasize what you are not able to miss.
19. Set forth those things that have been set forth by you.
20. Getting off early for the month of June is all of our success.
21. I’d rather have my thumb amputated than have Dhaval here…Or be like a dog and have no thumbs at all. (Note: Dhaval was our Regional Manager at the time.)
22. When the cat is gone, who cares? There should be 17 other cats in here…
23. I may not touch you everyday…
24. We need to get this place to be a squeaky wheel with the grease already on it.
25. It’s extremely important to jump at someone else.
26. You can’t dodge the facts that are real.
27. Lets run and get feathers for our caps.
28. Communication= listening + reading.
29. For those of you that enjoy pool references: we’re not behind the eight ball – we’re not even on the table. (Note: This assumes there is a percentage of people in the room who really enjoy a nice pool reference.)
30. My door is always open except when its closed.
31. Call leads until they bleed or you are stealing from everyone’s mouth.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Deep in the Heart of Texas
Texas was a red and brown cigarette burn in the carpet of America. In the summers, the lakes near our home would recede leaving behind bleached skeletal systems of surprisingly large fish that weren't infused with enough instinct to swim for deeper waters. Lawns struggled and wilted, surviving only under the constant administrations of garden hoses and automated sprinkler systems. People scurried like vampires in the sun, ducking from one air conditioned building to another, never looking to the sky. Never needing to.
The attitude of Texans was something I didn't understand at first. You couldn't walk to the corner for beer without counting four bumper stickers that said "Don't Mess With Texas". You couldn't discuss politics without being told that Texas is the only state in the US with that maintains an option to secede from the Union. After a while, it occurred to me Texans are like children working up a bit of false pride over the ownership of an inferior item.
"I prefer the Atari 2600 over the new Nintendo because you can't play Yar's Revenge on Nintendo."
"I don't even like steak. I'm glad we're having liver."
"You know, the Yugo is an economical little car..."
When confronted with an intemperate ashtray of a state you either leave, or make up reasons to love the place. Texans are forced to make up all sorts of shit.
I've decided that I'm going to throw in occasional Texas stories from my past here and there as I go forward with this blog. Some will be mostly true, Some will be complete fabrications. You won't know the difference, and because so much time has passed, it's a real possibility I won't either.
If you do happen to read something that you can't believe I would have been a part of and you are disappointed in me, just know that you're reading lies. Besides, the difference fiction and nonfiction is just a matter of perspective.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Here Comes the Sun
Finally, a beautiful weekend arrived. Because you're never sure when you're going to get the chance to have another one around here, we tried to get out and see the sun while it was willing to show itself.
This morning we got up and hit Old Man's Cave. We got there a little after 9:00 which is perfect. Drunks are still sleeping it off, and the good folks of the world are trudging off to church. When we first arrived, we literally had the entire place to ourselves. We got to climb around the rocks and act like giant dorks without any witnesses.
Below are tons of pictures. They are jumbled and don't follow any real sense of order.
Some guy offered to take this shot for us. It hadn't occurred to me to ask, but since he offered I wasn't going to say no. For a large man, my legs are cartoonishly skinny. I thought they were a couple of strings hanging from my shorts...
The hiking trail pretty much follows this stream the entire way.
This morning we got up and hit Old Man's Cave. We got there a little after 9:00 which is perfect. Drunks are still sleeping it off, and the good folks of the world are trudging off to church. When we first arrived, we literally had the entire place to ourselves. We got to climb around the rocks and act like giant dorks without any witnesses.
Below are tons of pictures. They are jumbled and don't follow any real sense of order.
Some guy offered to take this shot for us. It hadn't occurred to me to ask, but since he offered I wasn't going to say no. For a large man, my legs are cartoonishly skinny. I thought they were a couple of strings hanging from my shorts...
Jen near the lower falls, hating me and my camera.
In the summer these falls have all the power of a three year old taking a whiz in the front yard. Today, after all the rain from last week, it was pouring. All throughout the park today there were dozens of impromptu water falls.
I believe these are referred to as the Lower Falls. Biggest in the park.
Yup.
The hiking trail pretty much follows this stream the entire way.
I'm going to stop now. I feel like that crazy uncle that makes the kids sit down and watch the slide show from their most recent trip to Colorado.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Don't Mess With Texas
I may not have been intoxicated at the exact moment I stood up in the front of the ornate church in some Texas town I've forgotten the name of, but during that period in my life I was rarely without my medication. It's influence was obvious in most of the major decisions I was making at the time. (Note that I said "...when I got married the first time.")
And so it was that I was lying on a mattress that sat on the floor of our little apartment over a garage with my soon to be ex wife trying to sleep when I heard the screaming. It was after ten, which in my mind made things worse. Somehow I thought if a woman were screaming her head off before seven it would be less sinister. Deciding I wanted a cigarette anyway, I searched around for my shoes and headed downstairs with my hunny-bunny bride in tow.
We followed the yells to the edge of the property we lived at to a bridge that crossed a small stream that the neighboring farmer let his cows drink from. We had had a man staying down there a few weeks before, a drifter who was passing through. It wasn't the first of the drifters, but we had gotten used to them quickly as they all seemed to be harmless hippies for the most part. When I heard the screams I was just positive that I would be face to face with a mild-mannered hippie turned rapist, and I was not pleased about it.
Far from sober, it took me a few minutes of looking down at the little stream to realize that the lights coming up out of the dark belonged to a car on its roof - not a sex crazed madman's campfire. I remember standing there, stoned and detached, being so grateful it was just a car accident.
I scrambled down the embankment and a woman was pulling herself through the driver's side window. She had a small cut on her forehead, but otherwise seemed OK. I asked her if there was anyone else in the car, and she said no. To be sure, I got down on my knees in the water and the leaking gasoline peering into a backseat that looked like a traveling yard sale. There was so much shit in there I couldn't even begin to list it.
I called up to have exie call the squad, and the woman and I sat on the side of the hill, me holding her in my arms. She stank of gasoline and beer, and she bawled as I held her. I just hugged her tighter and told her she was OK and to try to be as still as she could because she might be hurt and not realize it. After a few minutes she quieted.
Suddenly, she pushed back against my chest, looking at me for the first time. My hair was an all one length grunge grease mess that just hit my shoulders and I had a goatee so long it tickled my neck and chest when I would read at night in bed. Sometimes it was dyed bright red. I don't recall if it was at the time. Regardless, she saw enough of me in the fading light of her headlights to reconsider our snuggling.
"I don't even know you!" she slurred.
"No. No, you don't."
We didn't talk the rest of the time. The police showed up first. One cop made it down the embankment to check out the situation, and then asked me to stay with her while he called it in. I stayed. Shortly after, the squad showed and they carried her out of the stream on a backboard.
I climbed the embankment and watched them load her into the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Begrudgingly, one of the officers on the scene came over and mumbled "Thanks" and shook my hand with three halfhearted pumps. I guess he didn't like my goatee either.
I sat out on the porch and re medicated (how else does one fall asleep?) and then took a shower to get the gas and mud off of me.
That really encapsulates my Texas experience. Medication, marriage, divorce, being called "faggot-assed faggot" by a farmer while visiting our local Dairy Queen, and just trying to wash it all away in a nice hot shower.
And so it was that I was lying on a mattress that sat on the floor of our little apartment over a garage with my soon to be ex wife trying to sleep when I heard the screaming. It was after ten, which in my mind made things worse. Somehow I thought if a woman were screaming her head off before seven it would be less sinister. Deciding I wanted a cigarette anyway, I searched around for my shoes and headed downstairs with my hunny-bunny bride in tow.
We followed the yells to the edge of the property we lived at to a bridge that crossed a small stream that the neighboring farmer let his cows drink from. We had had a man staying down there a few weeks before, a drifter who was passing through. It wasn't the first of the drifters, but we had gotten used to them quickly as they all seemed to be harmless hippies for the most part. When I heard the screams I was just positive that I would be face to face with a mild-mannered hippie turned rapist, and I was not pleased about it.
Far from sober, it took me a few minutes of looking down at the little stream to realize that the lights coming up out of the dark belonged to a car on its roof - not a sex crazed madman's campfire. I remember standing there, stoned and detached, being so grateful it was just a car accident.
I scrambled down the embankment and a woman was pulling herself through the driver's side window. She had a small cut on her forehead, but otherwise seemed OK. I asked her if there was anyone else in the car, and she said no. To be sure, I got down on my knees in the water and the leaking gasoline peering into a backseat that looked like a traveling yard sale. There was so much shit in there I couldn't even begin to list it.
I called up to have exie call the squad, and the woman and I sat on the side of the hill, me holding her in my arms. She stank of gasoline and beer, and she bawled as I held her. I just hugged her tighter and told her she was OK and to try to be as still as she could because she might be hurt and not realize it. After a few minutes she quieted.
Suddenly, she pushed back against my chest, looking at me for the first time. My hair was an all one length grunge grease mess that just hit my shoulders and I had a goatee so long it tickled my neck and chest when I would read at night in bed. Sometimes it was dyed bright red. I don't recall if it was at the time. Regardless, she saw enough of me in the fading light of her headlights to reconsider our snuggling.
"I don't even know you!" she slurred.
"No. No, you don't."
We didn't talk the rest of the time. The police showed up first. One cop made it down the embankment to check out the situation, and then asked me to stay with her while he called it in. I stayed. Shortly after, the squad showed and they carried her out of the stream on a backboard.
I climbed the embankment and watched them load her into the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Begrudgingly, one of the officers on the scene came over and mumbled "Thanks" and shook my hand with three halfhearted pumps. I guess he didn't like my goatee either.
I sat out on the porch and re medicated (how else does one fall asleep?) and then took a shower to get the gas and mud off of me.
That really encapsulates my Texas experience. Medication, marriage, divorce, being called "faggot-assed faggot" by a farmer while visiting our local Dairy Queen, and just trying to wash it all away in a nice hot shower.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Urban Medium
If any of the two people that have actually peeped out this blog should ever return, you should really go check out http://urbanmedium.com/ . I can't say enough about how great these people are. Seriously, check out DJ-D2 (who graces my cube at work) and Che-Trooper. Straight up brilliant.
While I've picked up some stuff here and there (just got some new T's and I've got tons of their stickers cuz I'm a big sticker dork) I finally placed the order for what I desired most. Kim Jong iLL will be coming to live with me soon. I've got my archival quality frames all picked out and I'm just waiting for them to roll in.
Bring on the crazy North Korean dictator. I've got the spots picked out on the wall for him...
While I've picked up some stuff here and there (just got some new T's and I've got tons of their stickers cuz I'm a big sticker dork) I finally placed the order for what I desired most. Kim Jong iLL will be coming to live with me soon. I've got my archival quality frames all picked out and I'm just waiting for them to roll in.
Bring on the crazy North Korean dictator. I've got the spots picked out on the wall for him...
Putting the Day to Bed
Jen was done tonight. Anxiety woke her up around 2:30 in the morning last night and she wasn't able to fall back asleep. Instead, she got up to do laundry and some general house cleaning. This evening, I painted while she nodded out during the first hour of The Biggest Loser. I used some bold blue in the midst of a red field. She snored softly, still trying to shake off the last of our shared cold.
I put the dogs out while she came upstairs to brush her teeth. She was in bed by the time I got up to say goodnight to her. She was already on her way out, drifting.
Her face is changing. It's different than it was 40 pounds ago, and for a moment she was a stranger bundled under a familiar comforter. In my mind, I saw what she may look like thirty years from now buried under the skin of a cranky sleep deprived brow. I liked what I saw. I kissed her forehead, smoothing out some of the furrowed skin there that seems more familiar on the faces of my young nephews than it does on my wife, and she was gone.
I had one of those "This is not my beautiful house / This is not my beautiful wife!" moments. Suddenly everything current in my life felt like completely new to me, and I stood there beside the bed looking down on her wondering how I ever got to this point.
It seems like a year ago we were all sitting in the grass outside of that North Dallas apartment complex singing into the night. It was a month ago I came crawling back north confused and looking for a place to live. A week ago I lived in that old house downtown drinking too much and living in fear of parking on the street.
The moment was gone before it fully arrived. I felt it pass the moment it touched me and was left feeling simply grateful.
I put the dogs out while she came upstairs to brush her teeth. She was in bed by the time I got up to say goodnight to her. She was already on her way out, drifting.
Her face is changing. It's different than it was 40 pounds ago, and for a moment she was a stranger bundled under a familiar comforter. In my mind, I saw what she may look like thirty years from now buried under the skin of a cranky sleep deprived brow. I liked what I saw. I kissed her forehead, smoothing out some of the furrowed skin there that seems more familiar on the faces of my young nephews than it does on my wife, and she was gone.
I had one of those "This is not my beautiful house / This is not my beautiful wife!" moments. Suddenly everything current in my life felt like completely new to me, and I stood there beside the bed looking down on her wondering how I ever got to this point.
It seems like a year ago we were all sitting in the grass outside of that North Dallas apartment complex singing into the night. It was a month ago I came crawling back north confused and looking for a place to live. A week ago I lived in that old house downtown drinking too much and living in fear of parking on the street.
The moment was gone before it fully arrived. I felt it pass the moment it touched me and was left feeling simply grateful.
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