Father's Day Idiocy

This morning I was going through the paper on the porch (as per our normal routine) and turned to the Metro section. Metro is where you can get some local issue writing, plus the Obituaries. I don't know why, but I always scan the Obits. I don't always read them, but I look at the pictures, and if a face grabs me, I'll see how their family managed to condense their life into a little paragraph.

This morning, I flipped to the back of the Metro section and found myself staring at two pages full of photos of men. I was astounded by the number of deaths, confused why they all seemed to be men, and shocked by how many of them were black. My immediate thought was, if you are a black man living in the city of Columbus, you need to get the hell out. Run man, run! What are you still doing here? For the love of everything holy, don't you see what's happening to your people in this town?

"Holy shit!" I said to Jen. "Are there any black men left in Columbus?"

Jen looks over from her puzzle to the pages I'm holding out for her to see. "Um, those are Father's Day tributes."

"Oh. Of course they are."

Rest easy, African American men of Columbus. You're safe. I'm an idiot.

Indiana

As soon as the guitar started playing I was thinking of Indiana.

I remembered the cold brown of the corn fields with their trimmed stubble poking up through the gray Indiana ice.

I was climbing a thin swaying evergreen tree. I was high in its limbs, and went to reach for the next branch above me when I saw the Blacksnake coiled around it waiting for a bird. I backed down the tree frantically worried that the snake would get scared, loosen itself from the limb and fall on me.

I lived on a lake and we would swim for hours, doggy paddling with cigarettes clenched between our lips, trying to keep them from getting wet.

In Farmersburg, all the big Oak tree's trunks that lined Main Street had been painted white. It was to fend off a particular bug, they said. It always made me think of Tom Sawyer and his fence.

Teenagers, snorting well-timed bumps of crank, chain smoke in their cars and call out to each other as they drive by one another. The local rock stations refuse to play anything but CCR and Billy Squire, so we all listen to cassette tapes of Alice in Chains over and over.

Jesse and I would hike out to the meadow near my house. There was a little pond in the center of the clearing, looking like a mirrored pupil in a large eye. We'd pour gasoline on the water and then light it with a flick of a cigarette butt so we could see the water burn.

I was thirteen when my brother gave me my first beer. I took minute sips when I thought someone was looking at me, but otherwise focused on trying to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. After an hour, it had gone warm, but still I walked around with it, choking down small swallows here and there.

I was in the seventh grade, and somehow found myself holding hands and walking with Mindy Jackson. I spent the next ten years trying to recapture that feeling.

Cat had heard voices, but I didn't know about it until the sod had already stitched itself together over his grave. We stood around the tombstone talking, drinking. We went home and stood around the garage talking, drinking.

I went back once as an adult. Boys I had once known were now playing pool in the bars I visited. Girls I had once wanted to know didn't recognize me, or if they did, they pretended not to. It was OK, because I saw people that I pretended were strangers too. We drank draft beers and told each other we should do this more often.

Weekend

My wineglass must be broken. Every time I reach for it, it's empty. I don't understand.

Jen just said "I've got to stop being such a bad Buddhist. I've got to have something to teach our kid. I mean, if they're not going to have the fear of hell to keep them in line, what do we really have?"

We tried a caramel au beurre salé (or in my language a "Salty Caramel Crepe") from "A Taste of Belgium" at the North Market this afternoon. Yes, please.

Every year we get a few ants on the floor of our pantry. I put down a couple of ant baits, and within 24 hours they're gone. They are timely ants, but have weak constitutions.

Jen sees me typing, but keeps talking. I really don't mind for the most part.

The hummingbirds are fighting over the feeder in the front yard.

Made a big dinner tonight: Italian Herb Crusted Grilled Chicken, Stuffed Shells, and Steamed Asparagus. I don't cook often, but enjoy it when I do.

I haven't had meat (that I don't know the exact source of) for several months. Friday, Jen and I go out to dinner, and she had me try her meatloaf. I was chewing for a few delicious seconds before I remembered and had to spit it out in a napkin.

This morning we sat out on the porch for a few hours drinking coffee, me with the paper, Jen with her book. After a week of pretty intense humidity, this weekend has been perfect. It was impossible to be outside and be in a bad mood.

Really looking forward to TrueBlood tonight. The first season was a lot of fun, and the books are good fast reads. Can't wait to see what they include from the books, and what they change for the new shows.

The woman across the street burps loudly and spits occasionally.

We went out for a walk Friday night and encountered a man peeing in the bushes alongside the trail. His young daughter was ahead on the trail waiting for him where he thought she couldn't see him. Classy.

When I was a kid, my mom and grandparents would sit around and talk about the different birds that came to their feeder, and I thought I'd die with boredom just listening to them talk. Today we saw an American Goldfinch, and we both got excited. I need to write a horror story, listen to some Sonic Youth, or read a Chuck Palahniuk novel to try to regain some cool credits.

Sonic Pants

Got to sit down and listen to the new Sonic Youth tonight. I've only had one full listen through, but I already know it's my favorite album of theirs since "Washing Machine". I wonder how objective I can be right now though since it seems like ages since I've picked up something new. Around 11:00, I ran out to pick it up during my lunch hour and couldn't wait to get back home and listen to it.

Along Cleveland Avenue there has been a pair of jeans on the shoulder of the road for the past few days. Today, on my way back from record shopping, I saw a guy walking along the road stop and pick them up. He clenched his cigarette between his lips and held the heavy wet denim out in front of him as if trying to decide if they'd fit. After just a moment, he stuffed his hands into the pockets, and after finding nothing, dropped them back on the paved shoulder. I don't understand how there always seems to be assorted clothing along roadways. All over the city it seems there's random button down shirts in gutters, single shoes collecting water in highway medians, and socks strung out in the grass beside stop signs. Who are you people and why are you leaving your clothes all over my town?

It makes you wonder how bad things are though if you're going to go digging in the pockets of soaking wet street jeans.

Our Redneck Past is Nipping at Our Heels

It's easy to forget the way that things were (and, for some, the way things are). I get the extreme pleasure of sifting through the occasional Property Deed during the day, and came across this little gem of a restriction. The snippet shown below is from 1939.

70 years may seem like a lot, but it's just a blink.

My grandparents were already working their family farms at the time this document was printed. Hewlett-Packard was founded this year. Grapes of Wrath is published. Billie Holiday records "Strange Fruit". "Gone With the Wind" premiers. Oh, and this community-minded homeowner does his best to make sure his family land isn't tainted.

70 years may seem like a lot, but it's just a blink.

Sorry for the blurry reproduction, but the original was old. The text reads: 1. Neither the said lots, nor any part therof, nor any buildings which may be erected thereon, shall be sold, rented, leased or otherwise conveyed to any other than white persons.

Keep It Simple, Stupid

Sometimes I wish I had more refined tastes. I can easily feel outclassed by people who prefer driving a car that's a jumble of letters and numbers ("Have you seen the new BMW M6?") or can talk about the smoky notes in their single malt scotch. My cars have always been named after small ineffectual animals and my whiskey of choice tends to be standard black label fare. It's not that I harbor resentment for people who can appreciate fine wines or who refuse to smoke a cigar other than the Cubans their friend at the airport smuggles in for them, because I really don't. I'm no class warrior. I just think that no one likes to feel outclassed, and I'm no exception. Sometimes it makes me wish my tastes were more complicated.

The counter point to this is that sometimes my simple tastes are a blessing. I can find Cohibas or Arturo Fuentes at any tobacco shop (not to mention some finer gas stations - fancy!), and my Toyota Corolla is cheap to buy and maintain. And, unlike the newly departed David Carradine, I do not need to have my hands and genitals bound, be gagged, and locked in a Bangkok closet in order to enjoy a random Thursday night. Again, if that's what you enjoy, I couldn't be more supportive of your right to seek pleasure in the way you see fit. I'm just glad I don't have to be burdened with the accouterments that come with such habits.

Plus, I'm lazy. All of the implements and planning and staging seems like a lot of work. Add to that the risk of being found hanging naked in a hotel, and that pretty much takes me out of the running for such activities.

I'm thinking simple is good right now.

But you got to hand it to good ole Dave. He was out there at 72 years old, doing his thing. He was working on a movie during the day and indulging in what I've decided is a nightlife that requires way too much energy and planning for this 30 something. I hope wherever he's at now, he's winning Emmy Awards, acting in celestial movies, and that there are plenty of ball gags to go around.

Places To Be

Last night I got so hot I still don't think I've cooled off. The room was large, and stuffed with a hundred and fifty people. The corporate issued air conditioning struggled with the crowd. I was standing around waiting, sweating, breathing in the air the person standing beside me just exhaled, and making a list of all the places I'd rather be:

A windswept field.
The walk-in cooler at the Pizza Hutt in McKinney, TX.
Flipping through the racks at Magnolia Thunderpussy Records.

There was a girl in a mini skirt and a super tight top walking through the room. Really? I thought. You're going to go interview at a bank today, and that's what you pick?. The girl in question stepped up on the riser to speak with the HR representative, and in her elevated position revealed the black boy-short underwear she was wearing. I immediately looked away, not wanting to be the kind of guy who gets caught looking at the kind of girl who would wear that to an interview.

A bar. Any bar.
Standing in front of my fridge with the door open.
Getting a virtual enema from the big fountain in Easton.

You can tell the sales managers a mile away. It's the walk and the nearly visible haze of aftershave rising from their shoulders like gasoline fumes. The pronounced strut didn't entirely fade in 1979, and they use it to communicate that the room belongs to them every moment they're in it. A nervous kid with a look in his eyes that tells you this is his first interview asks where he should sit. "Anywhere you want, tough guy. Pick a chair you think you can hold down. As long as you can remember your name, we'll find you when we're ready for you."

On the porch with my wife, talking about nothing.
Breathing the overwhelming air inside a walk in humidor.
Half Price Books.

I got home and the air conditioning was off because of the nicer weather earlier in the week, but now the upstairs was a sweatbox. I flipped the switch on the thermostat and went out to sit on the porch with Jen while the house regained its sanity. She's worried because I'm worried and she's trying to get my head screwed back on straight. We chatted for a while, and I told her about the skirt and the heat, but forgot to mention the sales manager guy. I realized I was being a prick, and finally asked her about her day. We talked for a few more minutes while watching the birds at the feeders, and then she bribed me with an ice cream cone from DQ. I stopped making my list of places I'd rather be.