Like the places you are all most likely from, it's cold here. I don't know the exact temperature, but I can generally judge what it's like outside by the reaction of our two dogs. I sent them both out before putting them to bed. Immediately they run to the yard, squeeze out just enough pee to ensure I'll concede they have "done their duty", and let them back in with a quickness. If I'm not fast enough with my duties as doorman, they'll lean against the glass with their front paws making small scraping sounds, and stare into the kitchen like a fat man stares at the last piece of pizza.
Mmmmmmm....pizza.
---
I've started reading "Dead After Dark" by Charlaine Harris. Actually, I ordered the box set of her books because they were used as the basis of "True Blood" on HBO which was one of my favorite shows of last year. I'm two-thirds of my way through the first book in the series, and I still don't know what I think about it. I do get the feeling that if I hadn't loved the show so much I would have given up on the book awhile ago. I'm just so ready to be blown away by something, and it's not happening yet.
---
I think it's something I've been hinting at, but I'm getting cubicle fever. It's a restlessness and it's growing right now. I've been in office environments long enough to know that the feeling comes and goes. Some times are just harder than others.
I think it goes back to my statement above about being ready to be blown away by something. I'm ready to plug into some new experiences, or new art, or something. I'm wondering if Jen's feeling the same way. I'm getting some hints that she's ready to get out there into the big bad world a bit more. I haven't really talked to her about it, so when she reads this I guess she'll let me know if I'm talking out of my ass or not.
I think the winter has a lot to do with it, now that I think of it. This last year was really our first active year being outside through the seasons and doing stuff. It seemed we were always hiking or biking or off to see something or another. Now that winter has settled in with its cigarette smoke colored skies and damp cold, we're holing up in Merryman Manor a lot more. I think we'd feel better if we just got out and did something.
Showing posts with label fuck texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fuck texas. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Ike Lite
Sunday, after arriving home from my camping trip, Hurricane Ike came to Central Ohio. Compared to the force he displayed down south, Ike's arrival was more of a sigh or half-hearted fart but it was still enough to knock out power across the area. With a lot of our local crews shipped south to help the victims there, our crews here are short handed leaving a few places out of power still.
I don't know how we dodged the bullet. Normally our little neighborhood is among the first places to lose power and the last to get it back, but somehow we managed to only lose it long enough to have to reset the clocks once. We talk to people that we work with that talk about going out every day to find ice to put in their freezers, or who have gone to stay with relatives. We are very fortunate.
Speaking of fortunate, my lucky wife has been off work all week due to the power being out in most of the district that she works in. Each night we would get a prerecorded message saying that the buildings would be closed. Tonight it didn't come, so she headed to bed early to get ready for what she imagines will be a monstrous day tomorrow.
The damage is still everywhere though. Storms like this have the ability to quickly separate the wheat from the chaff. Trees that appeared strong snapped in two like twigs, revealing rotten cores. They are everywhere along the roadsides, tottering on lower branches unable to quite reach the ground, and piled in back yards for seasoning and burning.
Last night we went for a bike ride and the trail was littered with leaves, sticks, branches and a slowly powdering mix of dirt and bark. We rode slower than usual, steering through the mess and smelling that wonderful earthy smell of already decaying wood. It's amazing how areas we have been so familiar with before have changed. The landscape has changed with the storm and in some areas the changes make you feel like you are somewhere new.
So, tonight we headed to another one of our favorite parks for a walk and though the trails had been cleared the damage in the woods was amazing. It was a beautiful night but we walked fast, trying to keep heart rates up, while we examined the fallen trees and counted deer. Tomorrow, it'll be biking again. Hopefully the crews have been out to clean up a bit. Otherwise, I'll start moving branches myself.
I don't know how we dodged the bullet. Normally our little neighborhood is among the first places to lose power and the last to get it back, but somehow we managed to only lose it long enough to have to reset the clocks once. We talk to people that we work with that talk about going out every day to find ice to put in their freezers, or who have gone to stay with relatives. We are very fortunate.
Speaking of fortunate, my lucky wife has been off work all week due to the power being out in most of the district that she works in. Each night we would get a prerecorded message saying that the buildings would be closed. Tonight it didn't come, so she headed to bed early to get ready for what she imagines will be a monstrous day tomorrow.
The damage is still everywhere though. Storms like this have the ability to quickly separate the wheat from the chaff. Trees that appeared strong snapped in two like twigs, revealing rotten cores. They are everywhere along the roadsides, tottering on lower branches unable to quite reach the ground, and piled in back yards for seasoning and burning.
Last night we went for a bike ride and the trail was littered with leaves, sticks, branches and a slowly powdering mix of dirt and bark. We rode slower than usual, steering through the mess and smelling that wonderful earthy smell of already decaying wood. It's amazing how areas we have been so familiar with before have changed. The landscape has changed with the storm and in some areas the changes make you feel like you are somewhere new.
So, tonight we headed to another one of our favorite parks for a walk and though the trails had been cleared the damage in the woods was amazing. It was a beautiful night but we walked fast, trying to keep heart rates up, while we examined the fallen trees and counted deer. Tomorrow, it'll be biking again. Hopefully the crews have been out to clean up a bit. Otherwise, I'll start moving branches myself.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Cast of Characters
Bob was from Buffalo. He and his brother Jeff had just moved to the area and I don't remember how I met either of them. One day they were just there, sitting around the porch with us, drinking bottle after bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and chain smoking. Bob was through with high school, and helped get me a job at Pizza Hutt. Jeff was still in school, and used to come to the porch at night with limply rolled joints he bought in the hallways.
Liz was a friend of Angie. High strung and fidgety, she always made a room hum with nervous energy. We clashed immediately. She had known Ang for a long time, but to call them close would have been an overstatement. After a few weeks, she started sleeping with Bob and I think they eventually wound up having a kid. She was always on the fringe of the crowd, and once she started dating Bob, he moved to the outer circle too.
Angie was a mess. She didn't just burn through brain cells like the rest of us, she tortured them like a budding serial killer tortures a kitten. You could hear them scream with every lungfull of smoke or shot of tequila. She had both nipples pierced, and it was the first time I had seen that particular piercing in person. Each night, she would make herself a frozen pizza (her only meal of the day) and would cover every square inch of the top of it with sliced green olives. From a distance, all you could see was the pickled green of the olives with the mechanically cut squares of pimento stuffing. She would eat the entire thing while smoking Camel after Camel. One day, I remember her complaining that she was out of weed. In frustration, she ran her fingers through her hair, and from it she pulled a rather large bud. She had passed out the night before and had rolled in her stash in her sleep. Excited, she ran to get her one-hitter.
Renee was a child. Pretty and innocent and wanting to be neither, she spent as much time around us as we'd allow. At fifteen, we felt guilty in her presence, so we'd try to send her away when we could. I got to know her again when we were both older and a bit wiser and it wasn't until then that I gained a bit of affection for her. Emotionally crippled in ways I was only vaguely familiar with, she was always falling apart or putting herself back together. It was something I found fascinating at the time. She had a brother, but I don't remember his name now even though he was around quite a bit at the time as well. I can see his face though.
Rick was a kid that lived upstairs with his very worried mother. She was a sweet woman who saw goodness in our crew, but knew we were generally not going to be a positive influence on her kid. Rick was kept to the outer circle by her involvement and concern. Good for her. Good for him.
Chris was my best friend and made the move to Texas with me. In life, there are very few real creative geniuses. A lot of people have moments of brilliance, but it is rare to burn bright all the time. Chris was always burning. His personality was so big it wore you down, and he was always testing you, pushing your buttons and limits to see where your boundaries were. People who didn't know him well just thought he was an asshole, and he was that, but for the few that really knew him we knew that was just part of the package and that there was more to it than that. Over a long enough time-line though, most of us came around to the same realization as everyone else. He was just too much to be around for any real length of time.
Sweetpea did things in her life that she could never forget or get past. She would bury these memories as deep as she could, but chemicals have a way of bringing everything to the surface, and there were lots of chemicals around. Desperate and sad, funny and endearing, you wanted to take care of her.
There were others. It was a revolving cast of people that would filter through the porch each night. It was rare to walk outside day or night, and not find someone stubbing out a cigarette butt, looking for something to do and waiting for other bored people to wander by. I haven't seen or heard from any of them in years. Even Chris. I know he's in the state and still playing music, but that's all.
I find myself still thinking about these people on occasion, and I wonder how it's possible that someone who has no close friends now could have had so many back then. Am I so much a different person now? Better? Worse? Obviously a lot has changed for me over time, but I automatically assume that nothing has changed for any of these people. When I wonder what they're doing, I can only picture them doing the same stupid shit as back then, but now heavier or with less hair or with kids hanging on them. In my mind, I'm the only one that is allowed to grow. They have to stay as I remember them.
That's the way I like it.
Liz was a friend of Angie. High strung and fidgety, she always made a room hum with nervous energy. We clashed immediately. She had known Ang for a long time, but to call them close would have been an overstatement. After a few weeks, she started sleeping with Bob and I think they eventually wound up having a kid. She was always on the fringe of the crowd, and once she started dating Bob, he moved to the outer circle too.
Angie was a mess. She didn't just burn through brain cells like the rest of us, she tortured them like a budding serial killer tortures a kitten. You could hear them scream with every lungfull of smoke or shot of tequila. She had both nipples pierced, and it was the first time I had seen that particular piercing in person. Each night, she would make herself a frozen pizza (her only meal of the day) and would cover every square inch of the top of it with sliced green olives. From a distance, all you could see was the pickled green of the olives with the mechanically cut squares of pimento stuffing. She would eat the entire thing while smoking Camel after Camel. One day, I remember her complaining that she was out of weed. In frustration, she ran her fingers through her hair, and from it she pulled a rather large bud. She had passed out the night before and had rolled in her stash in her sleep. Excited, she ran to get her one-hitter.
Renee was a child. Pretty and innocent and wanting to be neither, she spent as much time around us as we'd allow. At fifteen, we felt guilty in her presence, so we'd try to send her away when we could. I got to know her again when we were both older and a bit wiser and it wasn't until then that I gained a bit of affection for her. Emotionally crippled in ways I was only vaguely familiar with, she was always falling apart or putting herself back together. It was something I found fascinating at the time. She had a brother, but I don't remember his name now even though he was around quite a bit at the time as well. I can see his face though.
Rick was a kid that lived upstairs with his very worried mother. She was a sweet woman who saw goodness in our crew, but knew we were generally not going to be a positive influence on her kid. Rick was kept to the outer circle by her involvement and concern. Good for her. Good for him.
Chris was my best friend and made the move to Texas with me. In life, there are very few real creative geniuses. A lot of people have moments of brilliance, but it is rare to burn bright all the time. Chris was always burning. His personality was so big it wore you down, and he was always testing you, pushing your buttons and limits to see where your boundaries were. People who didn't know him well just thought he was an asshole, and he was that, but for the few that really knew him we knew that was just part of the package and that there was more to it than that. Over a long enough time-line though, most of us came around to the same realization as everyone else. He was just too much to be around for any real length of time.
Sweetpea did things in her life that she could never forget or get past. She would bury these memories as deep as she could, but chemicals have a way of bringing everything to the surface, and there were lots of chemicals around. Desperate and sad, funny and endearing, you wanted to take care of her.
There were others. It was a revolving cast of people that would filter through the porch each night. It was rare to walk outside day or night, and not find someone stubbing out a cigarette butt, looking for something to do and waiting for other bored people to wander by. I haven't seen or heard from any of them in years. Even Chris. I know he's in the state and still playing music, but that's all.
I find myself still thinking about these people on occasion, and I wonder how it's possible that someone who has no close friends now could have had so many back then. Am I so much a different person now? Better? Worse? Obviously a lot has changed for me over time, but I automatically assume that nothing has changed for any of these people. When I wonder what they're doing, I can only picture them doing the same stupid shit as back then, but now heavier or with less hair or with kids hanging on them. In my mind, I'm the only one that is allowed to grow. They have to stay as I remember them.
That's the way I like it.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Golf Buddies and Their Ripple Effect
Being an uneducated thirty-something guy, I've had the opportunity to work for a few companies that have gone the way of the Dodo. Actually, it's happened so often that I no longer feel the shock or the quick dose of panic that is actually visible on everyone's face when the news hits. Shutting companies the hell down is my bidness, and bidness aint so bad, let me tell ya.
One telecom company, one utility brokerage (what the fuck is that, anyway?), and three financial related jobs have all shut their doors under my careful watch. Some of the jobs I liked, most of them I didn't. In the end, they all went the same way.
The thing that I find the most interesting about the process now is the way that people react. Suddenly, going back to school and getting that degree like you should have done in the first place doesn't seem like such a giant pain in the ass. For that matter, to hell with it all, why not just move somewhere you've always wanted to live? There's nothing keeping you here anymore. You've always wanted to paint, or do open mic stand up, or write that novel, and suddenly because you are faced with joblessness all of that becomes more of a reality. Why is that?
Do we get so dulled by the day to day process of accumulating bills and then working to pay them off, that we decide that the other parts of ourselves (sometimes the parts that make living fun and worthwhile) are too big of a pain to indulge in?
Not all people do this. There are people who do what they do during the day to be able to do what's important to them at night. Whether that's spending time with family, doodling in a sketch book, perfecting your karaoke routine, or indulging in marathon Internet pornography sessions, if your job makes doing what you love to do possible, then the job is working for you. I think that's awesome and enjoy being around those people (with the notable exception of Mr. Porn Freak).
It's the people who have invested everything they have into their cubicle that feel the most lost when the rug gets pulled out from under them. I want to give them each a paint brush and tell them to put it on the canvas and tell them it doesn't matter that much in the end. There will be more cubicles, I promise.
----
I had been working in a call center for a mortgage company years ago while living in Texas. Life got interesting, then bad, then miserable, and I moved back North. When I moved back, I got a new job doing the exact same thing but this time with a new company. I couldn't have been more unhappy then I was taking call after call from customers who needed their escrow accounts explained to them. I had been doing the Customer Service thing for two years in Texas, and now here I was doing the exact same thing.
One morning, I get in the elevator to go up to my pen on the fourth floor, and I'm standing behind a couple of ladies who were dressed fifty times nicer than anyone on my floor could afford to dress. They say good morning to each other, and then one turns to the other excitedly and says:
"You'll never guess what Tom surprised me with last night!" Her eyes were hungry. I had the feeling that she would bite a hunk of her friend's cheek if she dared to even guess.
"What?!?" Her friend was overly excited. I could tell that every hope and dream she had ever had was pinned on what Tom had surprised his slightly stretched but still attractive wife.
"LORD OF THE DANCE!"
"NO!!!"
"YES!!!!"
"Oh my God. How was it?"
"Oh, that Michael Flatley... In-can-descent!"
I got off the elevator. I walked through the cardboard walls of cubicles until I found the one that had been assigned to me six moths before. I picked up my coffee mug and walked to my team lead's desk.
"Rachelle, I have to go."
"Oh, OK Stephen." Rachelle looks down at the coffe cup in my hand. For months there had been a running joke about my coffe cup that reads "Big Brother is Watching You" being the only personal item I brought to work.
"Um, Stephen...You're not coming back, are you?"
"No. I have to go. I can't stay." I'm talking to her, but inside I'm thinking that if the concept of personal hell was real, when my time comes I will be standing in that elevator for eternity, listening to a review of the touring version of Lord of the Dance. I couldn't take the chance on ever having that happen to me again.
She mumbled something about some paperwork that I would need to sign, and I asked if that was something I could do with HR when I came to pick up my final check. We said our goodbyes and I took the stairs to the lobby.
Even though it was my choice to leave, I was still filled with the excitement of freedom and the fear of joblessness. Maybe this would be the time to go back and get my degree. Maybe I really would start writing again. Maybe I'd really focus on my bass playing. It didn't really matter. All I knew was, that from that point on, I would never work a job that I wasn't passionate about. My optimsim was cute.
----
It's funny how a small group of men can walk out on a golf course half a continent away for a round while talking some business and then two months later you're looking for work. Lives are changed over beers and chip shots. I've never cared for golf.
One telecom company, one utility brokerage (what the fuck is that, anyway?), and three financial related jobs have all shut their doors under my careful watch. Some of the jobs I liked, most of them I didn't. In the end, they all went the same way.
The thing that I find the most interesting about the process now is the way that people react. Suddenly, going back to school and getting that degree like you should have done in the first place doesn't seem like such a giant pain in the ass. For that matter, to hell with it all, why not just move somewhere you've always wanted to live? There's nothing keeping you here anymore. You've always wanted to paint, or do open mic stand up, or write that novel, and suddenly because you are faced with joblessness all of that becomes more of a reality. Why is that?
Do we get so dulled by the day to day process of accumulating bills and then working to pay them off, that we decide that the other parts of ourselves (sometimes the parts that make living fun and worthwhile) are too big of a pain to indulge in?
Not all people do this. There are people who do what they do during the day to be able to do what's important to them at night. Whether that's spending time with family, doodling in a sketch book, perfecting your karaoke routine, or indulging in marathon Internet pornography sessions, if your job makes doing what you love to do possible, then the job is working for you. I think that's awesome and enjoy being around those people (with the notable exception of Mr. Porn Freak).
It's the people who have invested everything they have into their cubicle that feel the most lost when the rug gets pulled out from under them. I want to give them each a paint brush and tell them to put it on the canvas and tell them it doesn't matter that much in the end. There will be more cubicles, I promise.
----
I had been working in a call center for a mortgage company years ago while living in Texas. Life got interesting, then bad, then miserable, and I moved back North. When I moved back, I got a new job doing the exact same thing but this time with a new company. I couldn't have been more unhappy then I was taking call after call from customers who needed their escrow accounts explained to them. I had been doing the Customer Service thing for two years in Texas, and now here I was doing the exact same thing.
One morning, I get in the elevator to go up to my pen on the fourth floor, and I'm standing behind a couple of ladies who were dressed fifty times nicer than anyone on my floor could afford to dress. They say good morning to each other, and then one turns to the other excitedly and says:
"You'll never guess what Tom surprised me with last night!" Her eyes were hungry. I had the feeling that she would bite a hunk of her friend's cheek if she dared to even guess.
"What?!?" Her friend was overly excited. I could tell that every hope and dream she had ever had was pinned on what Tom had surprised his slightly stretched but still attractive wife.
"LORD OF THE DANCE!"
"NO!!!"
"YES!!!!"
"Oh my God. How was it?"
"Oh, that Michael Flatley... In-can-descent!"
I got off the elevator. I walked through the cardboard walls of cubicles until I found the one that had been assigned to me six moths before. I picked up my coffee mug and walked to my team lead's desk.
"Rachelle, I have to go."
"Oh, OK Stephen." Rachelle looks down at the coffe cup in my hand. For months there had been a running joke about my coffe cup that reads "Big Brother is Watching You" being the only personal item I brought to work.
"Um, Stephen...You're not coming back, are you?"
"No. I have to go. I can't stay." I'm talking to her, but inside I'm thinking that if the concept of personal hell was real, when my time comes I will be standing in that elevator for eternity, listening to a review of the touring version of Lord of the Dance. I couldn't take the chance on ever having that happen to me again.
She mumbled something about some paperwork that I would need to sign, and I asked if that was something I could do with HR when I came to pick up my final check. We said our goodbyes and I took the stairs to the lobby.
Even though it was my choice to leave, I was still filled with the excitement of freedom and the fear of joblessness. Maybe this would be the time to go back and get my degree. Maybe I really would start writing again. Maybe I'd really focus on my bass playing. It didn't really matter. All I knew was, that from that point on, I would never work a job that I wasn't passionate about. My optimsim was cute.
----
It's funny how a small group of men can walk out on a golf course half a continent away for a round while talking some business and then two months later you're looking for work. Lives are changed over beers and chip shots. I've never cared for golf.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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