News flash...the world is full of assholes. I know that this will be a shock to the good readers of the pink pony diaries...but I assure you that it is true. My sister was a victim of one this very morning. Many of you already know the long, complicated and never-ending drama that is my sister Tiffany's life. In a nutshell, Tiff overcame a long chemical addiction, attended and graduated computer school and had a baby. For the last two years, Tiffany has been trying trying to find a life for herself. She is a full-time housewife and mother of two. Lately she has been seeking work outside of the house, preferably in the computer field. Entry-level positions in the computer world are few and far between. Most computer folks had to kiss miles of ass and have more than a little bit of luck to land their first position. I myself suffered through 51 rejection letters before I lucked out on the 52nd ( I guess I lucked out , I have not decided yet ).
Anyway back to the story. A friend of mine from computer school, Kathy, called me early one morning last week with the good news that an entry level position had opened up at her company and that she had put in Tiff's resume. The man looking to fill the job called Tiff that very afternoon, and wanted to set up an interview post haste. Tiff called me on my cell phone, a nervous wreck. "Doodle, when should I go in for an interview?" "He wants me to come in today...I am freaking out" Given the shaky condition that she was in I recommended that she make the interview for Monday the following week. I wanted her to calm down and brush up on some of her computer skills ( she had been out of school for two years and was a little rusty ). Also, I thought we could have a nice lunch with Kathy ( whom she had not met yet ), and she could tell Tiff about the job. This simple and seemingly infallible plan went wrong in a big way.
The man who scheduled the interview, (Oscar) emailed Tiffany to let her know that he needed to reschedule. Understandably upset by this last minute change ( and also she had arranged child care for her son ), she called Oscar early this morning to setup another interview. This is where things get weird. Oscar tells her that the position is no longer open but that he will keep her resume. Tiffany, understandably upset, calls Kathy to find out what happened to the job. It turns out that even though Oscar recieved Tiff's resume from Kathy, Oscar did not like Kathy. When Oscar found out that Tiff was having lunch with Kathy ( and I ) before her interview with him, he freaked. He thought that Kathy was going to tell Tiffany a bunch of bad things about him. He then tried (via email - which if you are not a computer geek, you do not check every five seconds ) to up the interview date to a day before the lunch with Kathy. When Tiff did not respond, he called up a friend of his that needed a job and offered the position to him. When Kathy came into work today, Oscar took her aside and told her to keep her nose out of his business. Although not a nice way to start the day, Kathy was not intimidated by this peon, and took the matter up with his higher up. A long story short, a nice person ( Kathy ) stuck out her neck for a friend ( Me ) to help his sister ( Tiff ). What should have been a simple transaction turned ugly because of some self-important dill weed's insecurity.
Oscar doesn't know it but he was playing games with one of North Fultons most notorious family of rednecks. My father, brother and sister have no fear of death or the law. Oscar is only lucky in the fact that my sister was not there in person. She is a 6ft blonde with a temper that would rival the devil's. On any given day , she can stream forth a mouth full of 'fuck-you's' worthy of being noted in the guiness book of world records. And she fights dirty...balls and hair-pulling and throat punching are all in her repotoire. I can only hope that my brother does not find out about ole Oscar. He has been known to jump over desks and bitch slap assholes till they cry and piss themselves. Last but not least, I DO hope that my dad finds out. People's magazine named him meanest man of the year, 10 years running. Confrontation is my dad's oxygen. One wrong eye twitch from Oscar, one carelessly thought out word, one move that was not nice and slow, and my dad would introduce Oscar to Elvis. Me, on the other hand, I like God to take care of my enemies. I know that he is much better at it than I. Perhaps Oscar will wake up one morning with his asshole glued shut by infected hemorroids. Perhaps his girlfriend will leave him for a circus midget. Perhaps worms will start living in his teeth. What kind of a slimy, whithered dick, corn-hole smelling, dumbass donkey wagon driving son of a bitch plays power games with innocent people ? I'll tell ya what kind...the kind that needs his ass beat like a Pinata full of crack.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Saturday, January 29, 2005
The Interconvertible Convertible
Back before Christmas I had to let a friend go.We had known each other for 9 years and had been around this old earth about as long as each other. I was from Atlanta and she was from Detroit. We met , at a run down garage in Tucker where I dropped in one day to see if the owner(a man who twisted wrenches all day and headed up a 8 peice country band at night) had anything for sale. I had just got my business going well and found some cash burning a hole in my pocket. You see I have always had a very public and open addiction to old cars. not 84' Mercury Lynx's with two different doors,no I mean Muscle Cars, big Chrsyler sedans with 440 cubic inch 325hp engines and old pick-up trucks.Not too many years ago I had 14 cars, 8 of them insured and roadworthy.Oh yes and give me an orphan, Oldsmobile's are now what we autophiles call orphans because their parent company is now out of business ,but orphan's also includes Studebaker,Hudson, Edsel, Kaiser etc..All I have now is a 65 Dodge Pickup that my friends daddy bought just before he killed himself and 66 Oldsmobile Toranado that I've left in someone's pasture. Now I'm into new(er) stuff.But my business was built on the bed of a black 76 Fordf150 that I would occassionally touch up with the nearest can of black spray paint.Many a night I would find myself gliding up the highway to Commerce in that old black truck, the wind whistling through the worn out windowseals ,trying to listen to the radio through the speakers that would have driven your average hip-hoper insane, I sold it a year ago but I understand a kindly grandfather uses it now to help his son deliver furntiure. The years go by, but that old truck is still rolling along, grunting and swearing its way through life(if it didn't cuss before it met me,I'm sure it does now).
It always made me sad when I used to walk through old junkyards, for like that truck I always think that some machines are alive or have acquired a soul. Now they lied abandoned, broken and forgotten,cast-off friends who have outlived their usefullness to us.Used up and discarded to the fate of crushing death after being robbed of their organs and limbs...Perhaps it's a soul from the people who put them together, but I think it really comes from the people who own them.We are a race of people perpetually(or if not, you have my scorn) in motion.We live out a good portion of our lives in these machines, and no few have started theirs in one.I like to think that in time we leave some imprint, some prescene in them that gives them a bit of our divine spark.Whenever I had just bought an old car ,I would sit in it and think of the previous owners, jobs they drove to, vacations ,rushing to the hospital, tearing out of the parking lot of some long closed honky tonk on Hwy 53.And then when it came time to give the car a good clean it was like a time capsule of the owners lives.In the trunk I might find John Birch Society flyer warning of the peril's of Castro coming to power in Cuba(under the spare tire and slighty moldy).Digging under the backseat I would find a parking ticket(unpaid) for being parked illegally behind the Fox theatre from 1968.Kids toys from a carnival(little soldiers ,tiny plastic puzzles, even a squirt pistol), the invariable loose change and bobby pins, a extra Six Flags over Ga bumper sticker too.Years ago I was even somewhat superstitious to the point of placing a well hid cross up under the hood and under the rear bumper to ward off fate, but ,I never thought of putting one in each door.Now I wonder that if the cars out there are ever torn down for restoration by their owners, what they'll think."Honey, did he say this car came from Brazil or Mexico?" "I could have sworn he was a Baptist and not a Papist" "Hemmm..Now I wonder where he hid the Holy Virgin, or maybe he's eastern orthodox and under the headliner I'm gonna find a mural from St. Peters basillica."And now maybe someone's sitting in one of my "orphans" and contemplating the places I went and the things I did in that old car or truck.
But I was talking about a summer day in 1996 wasn't I.The garage owner directed me around back to some old convertilble,he couldn't even remember the details. And there she sat, Instantly I knew I had something in my eye that I had to have, a freshly Maaco painted 1969 Marina Blue 69 Olds Cutlass S type.And for the next six years one of my best friends.Power windows, air conditioning, 350 v8, a tuck and roll blue and white interior, new carpet ,almost to good to be true. The fact that the oil pressure gauge came on immediately after startup and that the left rear axle was laying next to it and it had a bizzare brake issue did not dissuade me a bit.Hiding my excitement I calmly walked back in to shop and asked"how much"..."well I need the space ,how about $1000"?.."Huhmmm",..I said in my best bargaining tone a and face,"I was thinking more about $750."..heart racing."AHH ...WELL what the hell just get it gone""No problem," I said calmly walking out the door,"I'll be back tonight with the cash"and I was. Lets see ,contact my tow truck driver, he and I where old buddies now, call my favorite junkyards for a rear end and some brake parts and hell yeah I would be on the road in a car that looked damn good from 10 feet.When the car arrived the next day on a rollback I told no one, it would be my secret until the car would be revealed in triumph to those doubters of my inimitable tastes.
It was hot that summer,but I drove the next day out to Dallas Ga from Alpharetta to pickup the necessary parts to revive my re-creation.When I got home I drug out the 6' wide 350lb rearend out of the 76 ford, dropped in down a ramp to my Cutlass and single handedly removed the old rear end while the car was precariously balanced on two jack-stands that even the poorest mexican would refuse to climb under.But I was a man on a mission, in went the new rearend,and then the necessay rewiring, and the the brake work,and then a trip back to Dallas for 403 big-block when the oil light revealed the truth of the shape of the origional motors bearings. But by 5 days later I was ready for the road.I would like to say that the car was perfect after that, that it never stopped like it did in front of Oglethorpe college on peachtree industrial blvd in 4pm traffic,some mysterious electric gremlim that went away,or that the big block wouldn't get the stater so hot in the summer time that I carried a floor jack in the trunk and a change of clothes so I could crawl under and arc the solenoid to the starter with a scewdriver to get fire to the engine, or that after a drag race with some guy in a Mustang, or a Dodge Stealth,occassionally one of the rear shocks would spit out the bolts and then drag on the pavement. No ,the car had quirks, but I always thought of it like a beautiful, demanding, eccentric woman. She's pretty, all your friends like her,but sometimes she lets you down,but the pleasure far outweighs the pain.I always felt that I could go anywhere in that car,not because it might not stop, but that I could fix anything short of a major disaster with patience and some skill.Savannah, Gatlinburg, Orlando , and many other places saw that car and me.
Things that will always stick out are the times I had just got the top up before that next downpour,or how much the right(or wrong) kind of girl always liked that car.Two of the most interesting people in my life met me because of that car,two wild, feckless , fearless strippers.Dee and Shelle, both made my life very interesting and at times very irresponible.Or the time the kid in the import wanted a stoplight race in front of Cafe Intermezzo, on a night they had all the windows open. The black cloud of smoke from our burnouts rolled into the front and I could swear I heard cursing long after I was gone up the street.Nights spent at the Star Bar on Moreland listening to Kingsized do Elvis or the Drive By Truckers(when they used to play small rooms) and then taking Shelle And Dee to the Diner, coming home maybe by 7AM. The car was a conversation peice, and I would drive it to meet customers and drop off sales materials.Invariably the conversation would get around to the car and then we talk about the kind of cars they had in high school or college.
But the years went by, I got busier and the car paid the price, neglected it began to show.Finally a guy who wanted to buy it years ago called me up and asked if it was for sale. This time I told him yes because I knew he wanted it for himself, a keeper, a collector who had the money to fix her right and he bought the rest of my Cutlass collection too.Just before Christmas he showed up with the tow truck and when it got up on the rollback I remembered the day the car came into my driveway."Goodbye beautiful,you capricious bitch" I whispered next to a fender as they were loading the other cars, and I didn't clean any of the cars out. Let them figure out where we all had been together.
It always made me sad when I used to walk through old junkyards, for like that truck I always think that some machines are alive or have acquired a soul. Now they lied abandoned, broken and forgotten,cast-off friends who have outlived their usefullness to us.Used up and discarded to the fate of crushing death after being robbed of their organs and limbs...Perhaps it's a soul from the people who put them together, but I think it really comes from the people who own them.We are a race of people perpetually(or if not, you have my scorn) in motion.We live out a good portion of our lives in these machines, and no few have started theirs in one.I like to think that in time we leave some imprint, some prescene in them that gives them a bit of our divine spark.Whenever I had just bought an old car ,I would sit in it and think of the previous owners, jobs they drove to, vacations ,rushing to the hospital, tearing out of the parking lot of some long closed honky tonk on Hwy 53.And then when it came time to give the car a good clean it was like a time capsule of the owners lives.In the trunk I might find John Birch Society flyer warning of the peril's of Castro coming to power in Cuba(under the spare tire and slighty moldy).Digging under the backseat I would find a parking ticket(unpaid) for being parked illegally behind the Fox theatre from 1968.Kids toys from a carnival(little soldiers ,tiny plastic puzzles, even a squirt pistol), the invariable loose change and bobby pins, a extra Six Flags over Ga bumper sticker too.Years ago I was even somewhat superstitious to the point of placing a well hid cross up under the hood and under the rear bumper to ward off fate, but ,I never thought of putting one in each door.Now I wonder that if the cars out there are ever torn down for restoration by their owners, what they'll think."Honey, did he say this car came from Brazil or Mexico?" "I could have sworn he was a Baptist and not a Papist" "Hemmm..Now I wonder where he hid the Holy Virgin, or maybe he's eastern orthodox and under the headliner I'm gonna find a mural from St. Peters basillica."And now maybe someone's sitting in one of my "orphans" and contemplating the places I went and the things I did in that old car or truck.
But I was talking about a summer day in 1996 wasn't I.The garage owner directed me around back to some old convertilble,he couldn't even remember the details. And there she sat, Instantly I knew I had something in my eye that I had to have, a freshly Maaco painted 1969 Marina Blue 69 Olds Cutlass S type.And for the next six years one of my best friends.Power windows, air conditioning, 350 v8, a tuck and roll blue and white interior, new carpet ,almost to good to be true. The fact that the oil pressure gauge came on immediately after startup and that the left rear axle was laying next to it and it had a bizzare brake issue did not dissuade me a bit.Hiding my excitement I calmly walked back in to shop and asked"how much"..."well I need the space ,how about $1000"?.."Huhmmm",..I said in my best bargaining tone a and face,"I was thinking more about $750."..heart racing."AHH ...WELL what the hell just get it gone""No problem," I said calmly walking out the door,"I'll be back tonight with the cash"and I was. Lets see ,contact my tow truck driver, he and I where old buddies now, call my favorite junkyards for a rear end and some brake parts and hell yeah I would be on the road in a car that looked damn good from 10 feet.When the car arrived the next day on a rollback I told no one, it would be my secret until the car would be revealed in triumph to those doubters of my inimitable tastes.
It was hot that summer,but I drove the next day out to Dallas Ga from Alpharetta to pickup the necessary parts to revive my re-creation.When I got home I drug out the 6' wide 350lb rearend out of the 76 ford, dropped in down a ramp to my Cutlass and single handedly removed the old rear end while the car was precariously balanced on two jack-stands that even the poorest mexican would refuse to climb under.But I was a man on a mission, in went the new rearend,and then the necessay rewiring, and the the brake work,and then a trip back to Dallas for 403 big-block when the oil light revealed the truth of the shape of the origional motors bearings. But by 5 days later I was ready for the road.I would like to say that the car was perfect after that, that it never stopped like it did in front of Oglethorpe college on peachtree industrial blvd in 4pm traffic,some mysterious electric gremlim that went away,or that the big block wouldn't get the stater so hot in the summer time that I carried a floor jack in the trunk and a change of clothes so I could crawl under and arc the solenoid to the starter with a scewdriver to get fire to the engine, or that after a drag race with some guy in a Mustang, or a Dodge Stealth,occassionally one of the rear shocks would spit out the bolts and then drag on the pavement. No ,the car had quirks, but I always thought of it like a beautiful, demanding, eccentric woman. She's pretty, all your friends like her,but sometimes she lets you down,but the pleasure far outweighs the pain.I always felt that I could go anywhere in that car,not because it might not stop, but that I could fix anything short of a major disaster with patience and some skill.Savannah, Gatlinburg, Orlando , and many other places saw that car and me.
Things that will always stick out are the times I had just got the top up before that next downpour,or how much the right(or wrong) kind of girl always liked that car.Two of the most interesting people in my life met me because of that car,two wild, feckless , fearless strippers.Dee and Shelle, both made my life very interesting and at times very irresponible.Or the time the kid in the import wanted a stoplight race in front of Cafe Intermezzo, on a night they had all the windows open. The black cloud of smoke from our burnouts rolled into the front and I could swear I heard cursing long after I was gone up the street.Nights spent at the Star Bar on Moreland listening to Kingsized do Elvis or the Drive By Truckers(when they used to play small rooms) and then taking Shelle And Dee to the Diner, coming home maybe by 7AM. The car was a conversation peice, and I would drive it to meet customers and drop off sales materials.Invariably the conversation would get around to the car and then we talk about the kind of cars they had in high school or college.
But the years went by, I got busier and the car paid the price, neglected it began to show.Finally a guy who wanted to buy it years ago called me up and asked if it was for sale. This time I told him yes because I knew he wanted it for himself, a keeper, a collector who had the money to fix her right and he bought the rest of my Cutlass collection too.Just before Christmas he showed up with the tow truck and when it got up on the rollback I remembered the day the car came into my driveway."Goodbye beautiful,you capricious bitch" I whispered next to a fender as they were loading the other cars, and I didn't clean any of the cars out. Let them figure out where we all had been together.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Evil Women and the Men Who Hate Them
I have noticed a prevailing theme in some of rbutler's posts....a subject that GS3 and I have discussed as well, so it wil be the topic of today's post.
What the heck is wrong with these women?!?
There, I said it, and I'm not looking back. We all know the kind of women we're talking about, they end up with some loser guy, never amount to much in life, etc...and never seem to learn from their mistakes.
Now to be sure, I want it clearly stated that I am not referring to all women, in fact most women I've known, my lovely wife included, are very well balanced and lead normal lives. But others are just crap magnets. Give them a nice guy and they'll show no interest. One of the obvious theories is that they have very low self esteem. A nice guy is threatening to them, they feel 1) he's just being nice, he doesn't really like me, 2) he's putting on airs, trying to be better than me and my friends, 3) he's different than me and I fit better with a stupid redneck, 4) other reasons I can't think of now.
Maybe it also has to do with how they were raised. I've heard a lot of what women look for in a man is based on their own fathers. So if they never got the kind of love and attention they needed from their father, then they'll look for a man who treats them the same way. My daughter is two now, and I spend all my spare time with her. Hopefully as she grows up she'll get all the love and attention she needs, and the confidence and discipline she needs as well.
One thing that really pisses me off about these loser women is that they hate a nice guy! And it's never an outward thing, they never say "hey you're nice, I hate you." They'll be friends to you, they'll outwardly act like they have an interest in you. I think at some level they know in their head that you are the kind of person they are SUPPOSE to like, but you just can't argue with the heart, baby! And that tobacco chewing rebel who can't pass another guy in a hallway without feeling threatened and staring them down is just tugging at her heartstrings!
They've been taught for years the old song of living the American dream, going to college, getting a good career, meeting a nice, stable guy, getting married in a church, buying a house in the suburbs, raising a few kids, driving a minivan, getting a dog and a cat.....but it's all lipservice to them. The role models in their lives didn't do that, so at the same time that they HEAR these are the things a good girl is suppose to strive for, they don't SEE it in their friends and families, so they really can't relate to it. They end up chasing after the same kind of boys their mother did. And then start popping out babies when they're 16.
What bugs me also, is how the parents never take responsibility to discipline them. It's never their kids' fault, it's always the cops who are out to harrass the kids for no reason, it's always the water company who just didn't like them so they shut off their water..... and when faced with the obvious state of affairs, that their son or daughter ended up ruining their life, they say "well that's just life" instead of saying "you did this to yourself" or "I should have disciplined you better" or "I realize I wasn't a good role model for you"..... And so the situation is self perpetuating, because their kids then have kids of their own and they won't say to them, "I ruined my life but I'll raise you the right way". Instead they say "mommy is staying out late tonight, honey, can you put your little sister to bed?" or "this is your new daddy, be nice to him, not like your loser father."
Another problem, as GS3 describes it and I'm paraphrasing (read: stealing his ideas), is that beautiful women never learn to get along correctly in life, because they are beautiful. I am an average looking guy. And as such, I have had moderate successes in life, and many failures. You can't compete with tall guys, guys with good hair, guys in good shape, guys with a cooler car, guys with better clothes (especially the suit..."he must know what he's talking about", "why", "he's wearing a suit"). This is what the world has taught us. I don't fret over it, it can't be changed, and I probably add to it myself. So, since I have none of the above mentioned qualities I have strived to learn other skills and personality traits in order to survive.
Good looking girls have got to be the same way. Since they don't have a NEED to be as smart or as nice, they don't always foster those traits. Now, once again, I'm not saying that applies all across the board, and many parents go to great lengths to instill good qualities in their daughters. However, many, MANY other females who are beautiful, learn very early in life to get their way with their looks. "How to open doors with just a smile", (Eagles).
They don't HAVE to be nice to guys, because guys are suckers enough to come back again and again. The simple HOPE of a possibility of being with them outweighs the humiliation they put you through. And they know it, and use it to their advantage. And if you're not what they're looking for, they don't tell you because then you'll stop giving them gifts and buying them dinner and loaning them money that they just spend on getting their redneck loser boyfriend out of jail, and when you find out you get mad and swear to never speak to her again, but then she calls and says she sorry and can we still be friends, and we guys are stupid enough to think "hey maybe I can still get lucky with her..., maybe THIS time it will be different", and so it goes on and on. In the words of Milhouse from the Simpsons, "if I do everything she asks she's BOUND to respect me." And of course they love the attention you give them, so leading you along is just the name of the game. If we really could get inside their heads and realize what fools we are, we would probably join a monastery, or form a He-Man-Woman-Hater's club.
Average looking people grow up with enough adversity that they learn from it and develop character. (or people who REALIZE they're average looking, not some ugly chick who thinks she's hot and then when you turn her down she gets all pissed and gets some guy to beat you up, claiming you hit on her, and then you're friends make fun of you because you got beat up and because they think you hit on an ugly chick).
Then some hot chick turns you down because you were too nice to her, then shacks up with a dude who beats on her, "but only when he drinks which he only does because he keeps getting fired from his jobs just because he misses a few days, he's really a nice guy if you get to know him and he only cheated on me once...twice if you count the one time with my sister but that's my fault because I had dinner with an old boyfriend and didn't tell him....but he tries to be a good daddy to our kids, one of which is his and one is ours and the others are mine, even though defax tried to take them away just because we were smoking pot in front of them, I mean it's not like it was a LOT of pot and they were asleep anyway, all except for bubba junior who was out all night or my oldest girl who was staying with her boyfriend because we got in a fight when I told her that her real daddy was no good, but she better not be late for school tomorrow because she's only in the ninth grade..."
The word for the day is "bitterness".
More on this subject later......
What the heck is wrong with these women?!?
There, I said it, and I'm not looking back. We all know the kind of women we're talking about, they end up with some loser guy, never amount to much in life, etc...and never seem to learn from their mistakes.
Now to be sure, I want it clearly stated that I am not referring to all women, in fact most women I've known, my lovely wife included, are very well balanced and lead normal lives. But others are just crap magnets. Give them a nice guy and they'll show no interest. One of the obvious theories is that they have very low self esteem. A nice guy is threatening to them, they feel 1) he's just being nice, he doesn't really like me, 2) he's putting on airs, trying to be better than me and my friends, 3) he's different than me and I fit better with a stupid redneck, 4) other reasons I can't think of now.
Maybe it also has to do with how they were raised. I've heard a lot of what women look for in a man is based on their own fathers. So if they never got the kind of love and attention they needed from their father, then they'll look for a man who treats them the same way. My daughter is two now, and I spend all my spare time with her. Hopefully as she grows up she'll get all the love and attention she needs, and the confidence and discipline she needs as well.
One thing that really pisses me off about these loser women is that they hate a nice guy! And it's never an outward thing, they never say "hey you're nice, I hate you." They'll be friends to you, they'll outwardly act like they have an interest in you. I think at some level they know in their head that you are the kind of person they are SUPPOSE to like, but you just can't argue with the heart, baby! And that tobacco chewing rebel who can't pass another guy in a hallway without feeling threatened and staring them down is just tugging at her heartstrings!
They've been taught for years the old song of living the American dream, going to college, getting a good career, meeting a nice, stable guy, getting married in a church, buying a house in the suburbs, raising a few kids, driving a minivan, getting a dog and a cat.....but it's all lipservice to them. The role models in their lives didn't do that, so at the same time that they HEAR these are the things a good girl is suppose to strive for, they don't SEE it in their friends and families, so they really can't relate to it. They end up chasing after the same kind of boys their mother did. And then start popping out babies when they're 16.
What bugs me also, is how the parents never take responsibility to discipline them. It's never their kids' fault, it's always the cops who are out to harrass the kids for no reason, it's always the water company who just didn't like them so they shut off their water..... and when faced with the obvious state of affairs, that their son or daughter ended up ruining their life, they say "well that's just life" instead of saying "you did this to yourself" or "I should have disciplined you better" or "I realize I wasn't a good role model for you"..... And so the situation is self perpetuating, because their kids then have kids of their own and they won't say to them, "I ruined my life but I'll raise you the right way". Instead they say "mommy is staying out late tonight, honey, can you put your little sister to bed?" or "this is your new daddy, be nice to him, not like your loser father."
Another problem, as GS3 describes it and I'm paraphrasing (read: stealing his ideas), is that beautiful women never learn to get along correctly in life, because they are beautiful. I am an average looking guy. And as such, I have had moderate successes in life, and many failures. You can't compete with tall guys, guys with good hair, guys in good shape, guys with a cooler car, guys with better clothes (especially the suit..."he must know what he's talking about", "why", "he's wearing a suit"). This is what the world has taught us. I don't fret over it, it can't be changed, and I probably add to it myself. So, since I have none of the above mentioned qualities I have strived to learn other skills and personality traits in order to survive.
Good looking girls have got to be the same way. Since they don't have a NEED to be as smart or as nice, they don't always foster those traits. Now, once again, I'm not saying that applies all across the board, and many parents go to great lengths to instill good qualities in their daughters. However, many, MANY other females who are beautiful, learn very early in life to get their way with their looks. "How to open doors with just a smile", (Eagles).
They don't HAVE to be nice to guys, because guys are suckers enough to come back again and again. The simple HOPE of a possibility of being with them outweighs the humiliation they put you through. And they know it, and use it to their advantage. And if you're not what they're looking for, they don't tell you because then you'll stop giving them gifts and buying them dinner and loaning them money that they just spend on getting their redneck loser boyfriend out of jail, and when you find out you get mad and swear to never speak to her again, but then she calls and says she sorry and can we still be friends, and we guys are stupid enough to think "hey maybe I can still get lucky with her..., maybe THIS time it will be different", and so it goes on and on. In the words of Milhouse from the Simpsons, "if I do everything she asks she's BOUND to respect me." And of course they love the attention you give them, so leading you along is just the name of the game. If we really could get inside their heads and realize what fools we are, we would probably join a monastery, or form a He-Man-Woman-Hater's club.
Average looking people grow up with enough adversity that they learn from it and develop character. (or people who REALIZE they're average looking, not some ugly chick who thinks she's hot and then when you turn her down she gets all pissed and gets some guy to beat you up, claiming you hit on her, and then you're friends make fun of you because you got beat up and because they think you hit on an ugly chick).
Then some hot chick turns you down because you were too nice to her, then shacks up with a dude who beats on her, "but only when he drinks which he only does because he keeps getting fired from his jobs just because he misses a few days, he's really a nice guy if you get to know him and he only cheated on me once...twice if you count the one time with my sister but that's my fault because I had dinner with an old boyfriend and didn't tell him....but he tries to be a good daddy to our kids, one of which is his and one is ours and the others are mine, even though defax tried to take them away just because we were smoking pot in front of them, I mean it's not like it was a LOT of pot and they were asleep anyway, all except for bubba junior who was out all night or my oldest girl who was staying with her boyfriend because we got in a fight when I told her that her real daddy was no good, but she better not be late for school tomorrow because she's only in the ninth grade..."
The word for the day is "bitterness".
More on this subject later......
The Mighty Doodle Strikes Out
It was the last game of the season. The Cubs and Giants were running neck in neck for the 1976 Wills Park Little League Championship. It was a warm mid-autumn night and both teams had been matching run for run the entire game. Emotions were running high in the stands. Parents and friends were turning ugly under the stress. “Let’s play some ball… PEEE-PLL” one lady screamed through the chain link fence. The pace of the game was slow and labored. The bottom of the seventh inning came around at a snail’s pace. The score was 7-6 in the Giants favor. The Cubs had one more chance at bat and needed two runs to win. Like thunder “BOOM BOOM BOOM” the first three batters loaded the bases. All the team needed was two base hits and they could spend the rest of the night stuffing themselves with chilidogs and Mr. Misties at the Dairy Queen. Scott, the coach’s son was next to bat. His dad had been training him for this moment all his life. Walking to meet his destiny, he stepped up to the plate. The pitches came in straight and perfect and evenly paced. But the coach’s son struck out anyway. He returned to the dugout inconsolable, baseball cap pulled low to hide his tears. The Cubs now had one out on the board. Big Skipper, the catcher, grabbed his favorite blue aluminum bat like it was a sword and stepped up to the batting area. He tapped the home plate hard three times with ole blue, spat and cocked the bat over his shoulder. “Steee Rieeee Kah” the umpire yelled once and then two more times just to be funny. Skipper flung his batting helmet off and threw it at the chicken wire window of the dugout. His hair stuck out wet and wild. “Shit”, the big man croacked and screwed his face up in agony. Then the worst thing that could have possibly happened …happened. The coach called me to bat.
The whole team felt the impact of the coach’s decision and started to pre-morn the game. “It’s okay coach, I don’t have to bat…let Rodney or Brian or Shane or anybody take my place...I’ll just sit this one out” Coach Stovall looked at me with a calm, fatherly face and smiled. The chew in his mouth was exposed when he grinned and lay like fresh mown brown grass against his teeth. “It’s your turn Doodle-Bug, do the best you can do boy”.
Timidly I geared up and walked into the glare of the lights. I felt as if I was watching myself from a dream. “This is not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I kept telling myself. The unmistakable sound of my mother’s voice wedged it’s way through the crowd. “Knock the hell out of it Doodle!” I took a deep breath and nodded at the pitcher. The first pitch was delivered in slow motion and I nailed it right on the sweet spot. The ball soared high and hard and crashed into the back fence. The crowd’s volume rose in a wave but was quickly snuffed out by the words “FOUL BALL”. I raised my bat again. Once again the pitcher tossed me a baby pitch and I did my best to knock the cover off it. “CRASH” the back fence went, “HOORAY” went the crowd and “FOUL BALL” went the umpire. Then a radical thought entered my brain, “I could win the game.” My body stiffened up and revoked access to my limbs. Two more pitches came in slow and perfect but I could not budge. The anticipation of the crowd was rising. “YOU CAN DO IT DOODLE!” A brief moment of courage surged through my body and my fear dropped like panties on prom night. The next pitch was tossed and I laid into it. “Another fucking foul ball” I was really in a pickle now. One more foul or one more strike and I was out. No prize for Doodle. The pitcher released the ball and as it was travelling on it’s way across the strike zone an angle came down from heaven and whispered in my ear. “It’s your game Doodle all you have to do is swing”. “STEEE RIIIII KAH!” I let my grand slam homerun pass unchecked over the plate.
I have often wondered if my life would have been different if I had swung at that ball. I did not know it at the time, but that weird night back in 1976 I was standing on a pivot point in my life. Maybe I would have entered high school more confident and then carried that feeling into the rest of my life. Maybe I would have become just another sports asshole in a town full of them. One thing is for sure; the angels were rooting for me that night.
The whole team felt the impact of the coach’s decision and started to pre-morn the game. “It’s okay coach, I don’t have to bat…let Rodney or Brian or Shane or anybody take my place...I’ll just sit this one out” Coach Stovall looked at me with a calm, fatherly face and smiled. The chew in his mouth was exposed when he grinned and lay like fresh mown brown grass against his teeth. “It’s your turn Doodle-Bug, do the best you can do boy”.
Timidly I geared up and walked into the glare of the lights. I felt as if I was watching myself from a dream. “This is not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I kept telling myself. The unmistakable sound of my mother’s voice wedged it’s way through the crowd. “Knock the hell out of it Doodle!” I took a deep breath and nodded at the pitcher. The first pitch was delivered in slow motion and I nailed it right on the sweet spot. The ball soared high and hard and crashed into the back fence. The crowd’s volume rose in a wave but was quickly snuffed out by the words “FOUL BALL”. I raised my bat again. Once again the pitcher tossed me a baby pitch and I did my best to knock the cover off it. “CRASH” the back fence went, “HOORAY” went the crowd and “FOUL BALL” went the umpire. Then a radical thought entered my brain, “I could win the game.” My body stiffened up and revoked access to my limbs. Two more pitches came in slow and perfect but I could not budge. The anticipation of the crowd was rising. “YOU CAN DO IT DOODLE!” A brief moment of courage surged through my body and my fear dropped like panties on prom night. The next pitch was tossed and I laid into it. “Another fucking foul ball” I was really in a pickle now. One more foul or one more strike and I was out. No prize for Doodle. The pitcher released the ball and as it was travelling on it’s way across the strike zone an angle came down from heaven and whispered in my ear. “It’s your game Doodle all you have to do is swing”. “STEEE RIIIII KAH!” I let my grand slam homerun pass unchecked over the plate.
I have often wondered if my life would have been different if I had swung at that ball. I did not know it at the time, but that weird night back in 1976 I was standing on a pivot point in my life. Maybe I would have entered high school more confident and then carried that feeling into the rest of my life. Maybe I would have become just another sports asshole in a town full of them. One thing is for sure; the angels were rooting for me that night.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Dumbass Donkeywagon
Names for people in front of me/that cut diagonally across crowded parking lots at 40mph/drive towards you with their bright lights on.Cross six lanes of the highway in less than 100 feet,no turn signal etc.. You know the type
1) Shitass{A term my old man used for everyone when he was drunk}
2)Jughead{Reserved especially for old men in hats who drive 10mph slower than the speed limit, note the ears that are batwinged on the senoir driver> I don't have anything against older drivers, heck my uncle is 85 and he will pass you on Hwy 85 while smoking a cigar}
3)Shitsucker{Vile but decsriptive,best used when the windows are down and they are calling out explicatives to you, try it sometime and watch their expression when they contemplate your appropriate defintion of their daily activity}
4) Cartoon Carnival{This is a group of screw-ups working as a team to delay the rest of us who have jobs or places to be. It's like when co-dependents meet, "well ,we were both pumping gas and saw each ,well ,and we both found out that we both liked the same kind of music and that he's an alcoholic(unlikely to be admitted until after the divorce or when the cops show up for that DUI) and I 'm looking for a boy trapped in a man's body , he gets drunk and I drive him around and clean up his puke , and he's good enough to get sober up for two hours on sunday when my parents visit,God I love him,sniff.. Ladies, when he gets drunk once a month to the point you have to take care of him, congratulations ,you're co-dependent, and guess what, if you're young, you'll be doing it for the rest of your life, enjoy! Bet your mom did, just look how her life turned out, see how happy she is.Just think of all those silly opportunities she passed up to look after some overgrown boy, and then it all came together. ... Or hey, how about that step-dad, mommy would never bring a bad man around, you just don't want mommy to be happy, go stay with your father then. Life is cumalative, we are made up of even the expedient choices we make now and they all add up.That will be you in the future .BEHOLD AND BE BEDAZZLED. The nice thing about this though, the faces will change, but you will not. you'll just get older and the men will just get slacker and eventually more impotent. I know women in their 30's so embittered by their choices that they can kill grass just by walking barefoot.}
5)Fuckstick{Punk-ass kid drivers.Period}
6)Dumbass Donkeywagon{That person in front of you in an ugly,smoking peice of crap that weaves,hits their brakes for no reason,slows up and then speeds up for a reason known only to their vicadin/reidilin/alcohol/manic depressive/nuerotic/pedophiliac/necrotic/syphilatic addled brain.This person will get on a two lane highway and run parallel to a stinking garbage hauling trailer or a gravel throwing asphalt truck for 30 miles oblivious to the 10 mile car chain behind them.}The city of Miami-Dade County has over 113,976 legally taged Dumbass Donkeywagons registered as such at the DMV.I have proposed donating a snow-plow and a M1 abrams tank to constantly drive both high speed lanes in all major citie's highways. The job of these teams would be ram off the road any vehicle moving slower than 60mph in non-rush hour conditions. A few would be sacrificed to less traffic congestion.But the benefits would be decreased stress levels in all commuters, thus improving the quality of life for them and adding years of productive lifespan.A FAIR TRADE IN ANYONES BOOK>
1) Shitass{A term my old man used for everyone when he was drunk}
2)Jughead{Reserved especially for old men in hats who drive 10mph slower than the speed limit, note the ears that are batwinged on the senoir driver> I don't have anything against older drivers, heck my uncle is 85 and he will pass you on Hwy 85 while smoking a cigar}
3)Shitsucker{Vile but decsriptive,best used when the windows are down and they are calling out explicatives to you, try it sometime and watch their expression when they contemplate your appropriate defintion of their daily activity}
4) Cartoon Carnival{This is a group of screw-ups working as a team to delay the rest of us who have jobs or places to be. It's like when co-dependents meet, "well ,we were both pumping gas and saw each ,well ,and we both found out that we both liked the same kind of music and that he's an alcoholic(unlikely to be admitted until after the divorce or when the cops show up for that DUI) and I 'm looking for a boy trapped in a man's body , he gets drunk and I drive him around and clean up his puke , and he's good enough to get sober up for two hours on sunday when my parents visit,God I love him,sniff.. Ladies, when he gets drunk once a month to the point you have to take care of him, congratulations ,you're co-dependent, and guess what, if you're young, you'll be doing it for the rest of your life, enjoy! Bet your mom did, just look how her life turned out, see how happy she is.Just think of all those silly opportunities she passed up to look after some overgrown boy, and then it all came together. ... Or hey, how about that step-dad, mommy would never bring a bad man around, you just don't want mommy to be happy, go stay with your father then. Life is cumalative, we are made up of even the expedient choices we make now and they all add up.That will be you in the future .BEHOLD AND BE BEDAZZLED. The nice thing about this though, the faces will change, but you will not. you'll just get older and the men will just get slacker and eventually more impotent. I know women in their 30's so embittered by their choices that they can kill grass just by walking barefoot.}
5)Fuckstick{Punk-ass kid drivers.Period}
6)Dumbass Donkeywagon{That person in front of you in an ugly,smoking peice of crap that weaves,hits their brakes for no reason,slows up and then speeds up for a reason known only to their vicadin/reidilin/alcohol/manic depressive/nuerotic/pedophiliac/necrotic/syphilatic addled brain.This person will get on a two lane highway and run parallel to a stinking garbage hauling trailer or a gravel throwing asphalt truck for 30 miles oblivious to the 10 mile car chain behind them.}The city of Miami-Dade County has over 113,976 legally taged Dumbass Donkeywagons registered as such at the DMV.I have proposed donating a snow-plow and a M1 abrams tank to constantly drive both high speed lanes in all major citie's highways. The job of these teams would be ram off the road any vehicle moving slower than 60mph in non-rush hour conditions. A few would be sacrificed to less traffic congestion.But the benefits would be decreased stress levels in all commuters, thus improving the quality of life for them and adding years of productive lifespan.A FAIR TRADE IN ANYONES BOOK>
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Licorice, sticky yams and Michelob
Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I did not drink beer. I actually had to acquire a taste for it. Acquiring a taste for something is sort of a funny thing; you eat or drink something that you don’t naturally enjoy and through determination and repetition actually start enjoying the foul substance. People can acquire a taste for anything. I actually know someone that suddenly started eating black licorice after spending most of his life picking the black jellybeans out of his Easter basket. Let me give you another example. Near my work is a Japanese restaurant that my friends and I frequent. On the menu (which is decorated with a cartoon cat) is a dish called “sticky yam”. Although I have never partaken of the mysterious “sticky yam” (it even has stink lines drawn from it on the menu), my good friend Mr. Winkle had the courage to order it one night. Here is how he described it: “the sticky yam is a white, thin, viscous pudding of a dish more akin to mucous or ectoplasm.” As repulsive as this dish sounds, there are enough people desiring it to facilitate it being put on a menu. How do you enjoy a dish like this without "acquiring" the taste for it? Funny, I don't remember my grandmother making "sticky yam", although once I saw a bowl of oatmeal with a similar consistency.
I can barley remember the year after I graduated High School. It was 1985 and summer seemed to be the only season. Georgia was jungle-hot and so green you could taste wild vines and yard onions when you took a breath. To say that I was a lost soul was to use kind words. I was stuck halfway between being a kid and (like George Thorogood says) getting a haircut and a real job. Everyone seemed to have a plan but me. Even my way fucked up friend Mike was going off to the University of Georgia in the fall. ”How the hell did that happen?” I thought to myself in total disbelief. Dana, on the other hand, always had his shit together. Even in the first grade, everyone knew that he would be some kind of an artist. After high school, he attended the Art Institute of Atlanta and worked part-time at a local health food store. The tumblers that click off the passing of life always seemed to fall right in place for Dana.
1985 was the year I learned to drink beer. Saturday night’s usually found Mike, Dana and I cranking The Who and sharing a twelve pack of Michelob. A lonely cul-de-sac in an unfinished subdivision provided sanctuary from the cops and the southern sky provided the backdrop. We often talked about girls and rock and roll, but for the most part we engaged in sweet, sweet drunk-talk. The kind of talk where you make plans to go to Florida on spring break, or where you learn karate and beat up your childhood bully.
It was all I could do to finish my share of the Michelob horde. Many nights I ended up giving my last beer to Mike or Dana. I loved the buzz but my stomach was just not big enough to hold all that liquid (unfortunately, I no longer have that problem). “Do you have a buzz yet?” Mike would ask after every Who song. “Nah, not yet”, Dana would always say. Dana would never admit to having a buzz. To admit to a buzz was to admit to a lack of control, and I just don’t think he could do it. I on the other hand was not as prideful as Dana. “Fuck yeah, I am fucked up!” and “Oh man, I love Floyd, CRANK IT!”
I miss my Saturday night with the boys. I believe Einstein had a formula:
BEER+FRIENDS+ROCKNROLL+SATURDAY NIGHT = as close as common folk can get to heaven.
I can barley remember the year after I graduated High School. It was 1985 and summer seemed to be the only season. Georgia was jungle-hot and so green you could taste wild vines and yard onions when you took a breath. To say that I was a lost soul was to use kind words. I was stuck halfway between being a kid and (like George Thorogood says) getting a haircut and a real job. Everyone seemed to have a plan but me. Even my way fucked up friend Mike was going off to the University of Georgia in the fall. ”How the hell did that happen?” I thought to myself in total disbelief. Dana, on the other hand, always had his shit together. Even in the first grade, everyone knew that he would be some kind of an artist. After high school, he attended the Art Institute of Atlanta and worked part-time at a local health food store. The tumblers that click off the passing of life always seemed to fall right in place for Dana.
1985 was the year I learned to drink beer. Saturday night’s usually found Mike, Dana and I cranking The Who and sharing a twelve pack of Michelob. A lonely cul-de-sac in an unfinished subdivision provided sanctuary from the cops and the southern sky provided the backdrop. We often talked about girls and rock and roll, but for the most part we engaged in sweet, sweet drunk-talk. The kind of talk where you make plans to go to Florida on spring break, or where you learn karate and beat up your childhood bully.
It was all I could do to finish my share of the Michelob horde. Many nights I ended up giving my last beer to Mike or Dana. I loved the buzz but my stomach was just not big enough to hold all that liquid (unfortunately, I no longer have that problem). “Do you have a buzz yet?” Mike would ask after every Who song. “Nah, not yet”, Dana would always say. Dana would never admit to having a buzz. To admit to a buzz was to admit to a lack of control, and I just don’t think he could do it. I on the other hand was not as prideful as Dana. “Fuck yeah, I am fucked up!” and “Oh man, I love Floyd, CRANK IT!”
I miss my Saturday night with the boys. I believe Einstein had a formula:
BEER+FRIENDS+ROCKNROLL+SATURDAY NIGHT = as close as common folk can get to heaven.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Sobering news on a Scottish Road
My refrigerator is covered with pictures of family and friends. There are postcards sent from vacations, old Christmas cards and family portraits from Sears. Some people I don’t even know and some people I know too much about. For instance, we have at least two pictures of three brothers. In one picture, the brothers are little guys and in the next they are growing up fast. To the glancing eye these would be happy holiday portraits. However, I know that their father recently died of cancer. This ruins these pictures for me. I look at their happy, strong faces and I know that they are putting up a front for the camera. They are really thinking: my dad is dead, get this picture over fast.
There is also a photo of a happy couple. They are holding each other in a wedding-style embrace. These people live as close to me as anyone that I know. However, I might as well be a stranger to both of them. I hear about their differences from D and I fear for the happiness of the both of them. One is as straight as an arrow and the other has been everything to everybody except herself. Some people have harder rows to hoe than others and I think that she has a long one.
Perhaps the saddest picture on my refrigerator is of Chris and Monica. In the picture they are young and obviously in love. They shared the tiniest little duplex in Athens. Chris ended up being a professor at a small college in Springfield, Illinois, and Monica ended up leaving Chris for another professor on the same campus. I know this because both Monica and her new lover (sweet Gary Swee as D and I call him), stayed at our house for a weekend (while she tried to show him her old life). I felt like I betrayed Chris by having such a person stay in my home. Years later when D and I were visiting mutual friends in Scotland, we found out that Monica had died in a car accident. To say that the wind was knocked out of us was to say the least. Yet, her picture keeps smiling at us, telling us that she was happy once.
I don’t say these things to make the reader sad. I say them because life is passing at a pace that we cannot comprehend. Pretty soon we are all just faces on pictures on refrigerators. Always let the people that you love know you love them. Sometimes it takes extra effort, but suddenly you are not here anymore.
There is also a photo of a happy couple. They are holding each other in a wedding-style embrace. These people live as close to me as anyone that I know. However, I might as well be a stranger to both of them. I hear about their differences from D and I fear for the happiness of the both of them. One is as straight as an arrow and the other has been everything to everybody except herself. Some people have harder rows to hoe than others and I think that she has a long one.
Perhaps the saddest picture on my refrigerator is of Chris and Monica. In the picture they are young and obviously in love. They shared the tiniest little duplex in Athens. Chris ended up being a professor at a small college in Springfield, Illinois, and Monica ended up leaving Chris for another professor on the same campus. I know this because both Monica and her new lover (sweet Gary Swee as D and I call him), stayed at our house for a weekend (while she tried to show him her old life). I felt like I betrayed Chris by having such a person stay in my home. Years later when D and I were visiting mutual friends in Scotland, we found out that Monica had died in a car accident. To say that the wind was knocked out of us was to say the least. Yet, her picture keeps smiling at us, telling us that she was happy once.
I don’t say these things to make the reader sad. I say them because life is passing at a pace that we cannot comprehend. Pretty soon we are all just faces on pictures on refrigerators. Always let the people that you love know you love them. Sometimes it takes extra effort, but suddenly you are not here anymore.
The Power of Bingo
My grandmother and Aunt Becky loved Bingo. We lived in Alpharetta, and as often as they could, they drove to Toco Hills to play Bingo in a huge smoke-filled shopping center space. For those of you that are not southern, the distance between Alpharetta and Toco Hills is what we call a “fer piece”. Going to play Bingo was like going to town. Even my grandmother would put on makeup and get her “hair-done”. Before they left on their hour long journey, Becky and Mama Ruby would kiss me and ask me to be a good boy. If I close my eyes and get real quiet, I can still smell their perfume and feel my aunt’s pancake makeup on my face.
My Aunt Becky had taken to collecting lucky charms, probably inspired by any number of blue-haired ladies whom juggled more Bingo cards than their attention span could manage. I remember once, my aunt was on a desperate hunt for a rabbit’s foot. She finally managed to acquire one on a key-chain (probably a gift from a fellow Bingo junkie). Many times she sent me out into the yard to look for four-leaf clovers (which she offered a quarter a piece for). For every day that I searched for one I found (at the most) one. It was not the money that inspired me, but the elation in her face as I twirled the tiny green shamrock between my fingers in front of her.
Time passed quickly and I grew into a big child. My grandmother had passed away, but my Aunt Becky still liked to get out and play Bingo, two or three times a year. Once when I was eighteen or so, I needed to borrow my aunt’s car for a date. Unfortunately for me, my date was on a Bingo night. Becky assured me that if we (my Aunt Sara, my girlfriend Pam, and me), went to Bingo that she would let me use her car the following day. Being the selfish-ass that I was (and sometimes am now), I was furious that she did not forsake her Bingo for my date. Reluctantly I dragged Pam on a Bingo date with my family. I made no qualms about how I felt and managed to give off a truck load of bad-vibes before we reached Toco Hills.
I had five dollars to my name and I bought five Bingo cards at a dollar a piece. I rubbed my eyes and cast down judgment on a hundred senior citizens filling the shopping center hall.
“God damn it, I should be at the movies!”
“I could be eating Chinese food now!”
“We could be at Pam’s house, piled up in front of the TV, trying to offend God!”
My thoughts were loud inside my head. Then something happened that I did not anticipate. I won… I won a freakin’ fifty dollar Bingo game. Fifty-dollars! It might as well been five hundred dollars to me at the time.
“Oh my GOD !”
“I can buy Pam a birthday present!”
“We can go out tomorrow!”
“Fucking WHOOP TEE DOO”
The rest of the evening I was on cloud nine. On the way home that night, I managed to find Wolfman Jack on a late night oldies show, and he kept us company all the way to Alpharetta. My aunt did not win any money that night but she did have a small victory that she kept to herself. Her favorite nephew had made an ass of himself and it was apparent to everyone in the car (even himself). A good nephew would have taken his aunt to play Bingo and would have been glad to do it. I kicked and screamed all they way and was fifty dollars richer for my troubles. As we drove through the night on our way out of town, I could see the smallest of smiles on her face. It was the smile of victory. She knew the power of Bingo.
My Aunt Becky had taken to collecting lucky charms, probably inspired by any number of blue-haired ladies whom juggled more Bingo cards than their attention span could manage. I remember once, my aunt was on a desperate hunt for a rabbit’s foot. She finally managed to acquire one on a key-chain (probably a gift from a fellow Bingo junkie). Many times she sent me out into the yard to look for four-leaf clovers (which she offered a quarter a piece for). For every day that I searched for one I found (at the most) one. It was not the money that inspired me, but the elation in her face as I twirled the tiny green shamrock between my fingers in front of her.
Time passed quickly and I grew into a big child. My grandmother had passed away, but my Aunt Becky still liked to get out and play Bingo, two or three times a year. Once when I was eighteen or so, I needed to borrow my aunt’s car for a date. Unfortunately for me, my date was on a Bingo night. Becky assured me that if we (my Aunt Sara, my girlfriend Pam, and me), went to Bingo that she would let me use her car the following day. Being the selfish-ass that I was (and sometimes am now), I was furious that she did not forsake her Bingo for my date. Reluctantly I dragged Pam on a Bingo date with my family. I made no qualms about how I felt and managed to give off a truck load of bad-vibes before we reached Toco Hills.
I had five dollars to my name and I bought five Bingo cards at a dollar a piece. I rubbed my eyes and cast down judgment on a hundred senior citizens filling the shopping center hall.
“God damn it, I should be at the movies!”
“I could be eating Chinese food now!”
“We could be at Pam’s house, piled up in front of the TV, trying to offend God!”
My thoughts were loud inside my head. Then something happened that I did not anticipate. I won… I won a freakin’ fifty dollar Bingo game. Fifty-dollars! It might as well been five hundred dollars to me at the time.
“Oh my GOD !”
“I can buy Pam a birthday present!”
“We can go out tomorrow!”
“Fucking WHOOP TEE DOO”
The rest of the evening I was on cloud nine. On the way home that night, I managed to find Wolfman Jack on a late night oldies show, and he kept us company all the way to Alpharetta. My aunt did not win any money that night but she did have a small victory that she kept to herself. Her favorite nephew had made an ass of himself and it was apparent to everyone in the car (even himself). A good nephew would have taken his aunt to play Bingo and would have been glad to do it. I kicked and screamed all they way and was fifty dollars richer for my troubles. As we drove through the night on our way out of town, I could see the smallest of smiles on her face. It was the smile of victory. She knew the power of Bingo.
Friday, January 21, 2005
The Sound of One Ghost Rocking
I have never seen a ghost. But I am pretty sure that I have heard one. My sister Tiffany says that there are at least three ghosts that haunt our childhood home: a Native American, the man with the blue hat (probably my dad’s father), and our grandmother. It is not that I don’t believe Tiffany; she does seem to be the most “sensitive” person in the family, but she has also smoked allot of crack too.
One-day way back in 1986, I found myself in the middle of a summer’s day with nowhere to go and nothing to do. It is a wonderful feeling to be young and have a summer’s day laid out before you. The possibilities are endless. Don’t ask me why I decided to stop by the old Cumming Street house and see my father. Our relationship is famously rocky, and sometimes the mere site of me can stir up a sermon of hellfire from my old man.
“Get a haircut!”
“When I was your age I had a bitching wife and three ungrateful kids!”
“Don’t go running off, I need you to help me take down a big pine in Buckhead.”
I was stupidly optimistic. “Maybe he would be glad to see me this time.” My head told me to turn my little Camero around and go see Barry or Mike or Eric (anybody but him) but my heart kept the steering wheel turned true towards Cumming Street.
When I pulled into the cracked and oil-stained driveway, I noticed that one of my dad’s trucks was not there. This however did not mean that he was not home, trucks appeared and vanished at my father’s house like cards in a magic hat. I pulled my car over into a well-worn dirt spot and walked around the house to find him. Dad usually hung out in the basement. He could usually be found stuffing a sandwich into his mouth or half-asleep in the big blue easy boy recliner with one eye peeking at a football game. I covered my eyes in a salute to block out the glare from the sun, and peered through the big glass doors into the living room. The place was quiet and he was nowhere to be found. The Cumming Street house (or 281 as my brother and sister called it) was never locked, so I slid back one of the misaligned glass doors and stepped into the cool basement. “What a relief!” “He is not here” My brain was jumping for joy. I had dodged the dad bullet.
I sat down in my dad’s lazy boy and kicked it all the way back to maximum lazy. The heat of the sun was magnified by the glass in the doors and hit me like one of Elvis Presley’s downers. For the next couple of hours I rested. The world was silent, still and deep. Then I heard the drip.
I did not want to get up. I felt like the Cowardly Lion with a head full of poppies. “Poppies…sleep…sleep poppies.” I went through all the stages of grief about the drip:
“I do not hear a drip” - Denial
“Please don’t let there be a drip” - Pleading
“Goddamn it there is a drip” - Anger
“I better get up and fix the drip” – Acceptance
I reluctantly got up and went to the downstairs bathroom. The sink was dry as a bone. “It must be the kitchen sink.”, I thought and pounced confidently into the kitchen. “Nope…the basin is dry here too.”
“The drip must be from upstairs”, I quickly deducted and stomped heavily on each of the old wooden stair steps as I made my ascent.
“Fuck, …no drip in the upstairs bathroom either”
“Has to be the kitchen sink”, I said out loud but my hypothesis was quickly disproved.
“Shit, where in the hell could that sound be coming from?”
It was then that I noticed the closed door down the hall. No one ever went into the sewing room. My aunt and grandmother had used the little room to iron clothes and maybe crochet a doily or two. Suddenly, the synapses in my brain sensed a connection. The sewing room was directly over where I had been sleeping. The drip was coming from this room.
For the better part of my childhood, at least the part that I can remember, my grandmother had been sick. She had lost one eye to cancer when she was a young girl, and eventually lost sight in the other one as well. My grandfather died in 1973, and with each year that passed she grew increasingly bitter and lonely. Each morning as I left for school I would go upstairs to say “Good Morning” to her and my aunt. She rarely left the red rocking chair she used to wait out her time to Beulah Land.
“How are you doing today Mama Ruby?”
“Oh Doodle, I think I am going to die”, was always her response.
Our “good morning” routine played out everyday until I was nineteen years old. “How are you doing today Mama Ruby?” “Oh Doodle, I think I am going to die”, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Well one Saturday morning in 1985 she was right, she died. She had a stroke in the kitchen and died right there on the blue linoleum with my aunt, brother and me in attendance. Her last words to me were, “you want me to die”.
The old worn red rocking chair that Mama Ruby spent the last twelve years of her life in remained still in the house long after she had gone. There was no way that you could walk by it without thinking of her. Some days it was all that I could do not to rush past it on my way downstairs. I was sure that if I looked quick enough, she would be sitting there rocking, a dribble of snuff strolling down one corner of her mouth. It took some time but eventually my father got rid of the rocker and replaced it with a green one. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off of the house and now it was ready for new memories.
A feeling of dread washed over me as I looked down the hall at the closed sewing room door. I felt as if I were in one of those Twilight Zone episodes where the hallway keeps getting longer and you have to run to catch the door. My fear was unexplainable. I had no reason to fear that room. It was the month of June and the day was strong, bright and warm. Feelings like mine were more suited to autumn months and the dark, moody weather that accompanies them. I felt stiff as a statue as I walked down the hall to the end room. A brief moment of clarity took hold of my mind, and called me a silly goose for making such a grand and dramatic thing of opening a door. I could not help but laugh at myself and after taking a considerate pause; I flung open the door like a cop with a warrant.
I could not breathe. I had found the source of my noise; only it was not a drip. It was a creak: the creaking of my grandmothers red rocker moving back and forth on the yellowed pine floor.
“How are you doing today Mama Ruby?”
“Looks like I am dead, Doodle…..looks like I am dead…”
One-day way back in 1986, I found myself in the middle of a summer’s day with nowhere to go and nothing to do. It is a wonderful feeling to be young and have a summer’s day laid out before you. The possibilities are endless. Don’t ask me why I decided to stop by the old Cumming Street house and see my father. Our relationship is famously rocky, and sometimes the mere site of me can stir up a sermon of hellfire from my old man.
“Get a haircut!”
“When I was your age I had a bitching wife and three ungrateful kids!”
“Don’t go running off, I need you to help me take down a big pine in Buckhead.”
I was stupidly optimistic. “Maybe he would be glad to see me this time.” My head told me to turn my little Camero around and go see Barry or Mike or Eric (anybody but him) but my heart kept the steering wheel turned true towards Cumming Street.
When I pulled into the cracked and oil-stained driveway, I noticed that one of my dad’s trucks was not there. This however did not mean that he was not home, trucks appeared and vanished at my father’s house like cards in a magic hat. I pulled my car over into a well-worn dirt spot and walked around the house to find him. Dad usually hung out in the basement. He could usually be found stuffing a sandwich into his mouth or half-asleep in the big blue easy boy recliner with one eye peeking at a football game. I covered my eyes in a salute to block out the glare from the sun, and peered through the big glass doors into the living room. The place was quiet and he was nowhere to be found. The Cumming Street house (or 281 as my brother and sister called it) was never locked, so I slid back one of the misaligned glass doors and stepped into the cool basement. “What a relief!” “He is not here” My brain was jumping for joy. I had dodged the dad bullet.
I sat down in my dad’s lazy boy and kicked it all the way back to maximum lazy. The heat of the sun was magnified by the glass in the doors and hit me like one of Elvis Presley’s downers. For the next couple of hours I rested. The world was silent, still and deep. Then I heard the drip.
I did not want to get up. I felt like the Cowardly Lion with a head full of poppies. “Poppies…sleep…sleep poppies.” I went through all the stages of grief about the drip:
“I do not hear a drip” - Denial
“Please don’t let there be a drip” - Pleading
“Goddamn it there is a drip” - Anger
“I better get up and fix the drip” – Acceptance
I reluctantly got up and went to the downstairs bathroom. The sink was dry as a bone. “It must be the kitchen sink.”, I thought and pounced confidently into the kitchen. “Nope…the basin is dry here too.”
“The drip must be from upstairs”, I quickly deducted and stomped heavily on each of the old wooden stair steps as I made my ascent.
“Fuck, …no drip in the upstairs bathroom either”
“Has to be the kitchen sink”, I said out loud but my hypothesis was quickly disproved.
“Shit, where in the hell could that sound be coming from?”
It was then that I noticed the closed door down the hall. No one ever went into the sewing room. My aunt and grandmother had used the little room to iron clothes and maybe crochet a doily or two. Suddenly, the synapses in my brain sensed a connection. The sewing room was directly over where I had been sleeping. The drip was coming from this room.
For the better part of my childhood, at least the part that I can remember, my grandmother had been sick. She had lost one eye to cancer when she was a young girl, and eventually lost sight in the other one as well. My grandfather died in 1973, and with each year that passed she grew increasingly bitter and lonely. Each morning as I left for school I would go upstairs to say “Good Morning” to her and my aunt. She rarely left the red rocking chair she used to wait out her time to Beulah Land.
“How are you doing today Mama Ruby?”
“Oh Doodle, I think I am going to die”, was always her response.
Our “good morning” routine played out everyday until I was nineteen years old. “How are you doing today Mama Ruby?” “Oh Doodle, I think I am going to die”, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Well one Saturday morning in 1985 she was right, she died. She had a stroke in the kitchen and died right there on the blue linoleum with my aunt, brother and me in attendance. Her last words to me were, “you want me to die”.
The old worn red rocking chair that Mama Ruby spent the last twelve years of her life in remained still in the house long after she had gone. There was no way that you could walk by it without thinking of her. Some days it was all that I could do not to rush past it on my way downstairs. I was sure that if I looked quick enough, she would be sitting there rocking, a dribble of snuff strolling down one corner of her mouth. It took some time but eventually my father got rid of the rocker and replaced it with a green one. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off of the house and now it was ready for new memories.
A feeling of dread washed over me as I looked down the hall at the closed sewing room door. I felt as if I were in one of those Twilight Zone episodes where the hallway keeps getting longer and you have to run to catch the door. My fear was unexplainable. I had no reason to fear that room. It was the month of June and the day was strong, bright and warm. Feelings like mine were more suited to autumn months and the dark, moody weather that accompanies them. I felt stiff as a statue as I walked down the hall to the end room. A brief moment of clarity took hold of my mind, and called me a silly goose for making such a grand and dramatic thing of opening a door. I could not help but laugh at myself and after taking a considerate pause; I flung open the door like a cop with a warrant.
I could not breathe. I had found the source of my noise; only it was not a drip. It was a creak: the creaking of my grandmothers red rocker moving back and forth on the yellowed pine floor.
“How are you doing today Mama Ruby?”
“Looks like I am dead, Doodle…..looks like I am dead…”
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Ode to a Truck Parade
In reference to GS3's last post, as well as other friends we have, it seems a lot of us, including me, had a brother who was the favorite, and nothing great I do can ever compare to his commonplace adventures. I remember telling my dad that I had won an award at work for being such a good peon....I think it was peon on the year or something. I received a thousand dollars, plus a week long all expense paid trip for two at a 5 star resort.
But I didn't get that far in the explanation, since my dad cut me off to say "well, Mike is going to be in a parade with his truck." And his inflection when saying "Mike" suggests that the comparison is actually a competition that I'm losing and my dad is proving it. I think the parade was just a bunch of rednecks driving muddy trucks around a small town square to impress the young redneck girls and the village idiot. Hey, that's a Saturday night where I grew up!
I can remember my mother being so proud when she told me how Mike had finally moved out on his own and had his own phone and was paying his own utilities and everything! "What a big boy, he is" I could almost hear her thinking. Although he was 28 at the time, and a few months later he'd dropped the whole "living on his own" idea to move back in with my folks, and back into the little bedroom he's been in since he was 5.
Of course his biggest adventure was getting married, the first time, when he was 24 and she was 16. Since she was still in high school and had a bad home life, it seemed like a good idea. I mean, am I right? Then they both moved into my brother's bedroom, and his mommy became his wife's mommy. She washed their clothes and cooked for them and woke them up in the morning and drove her to school. Of course it didn't last. To her it was like going steady in some bizarro type universe, and when she got tired of it she just left.
Why am I saving for retirement and my daughter's college education while my brother's saving for a new rollbar for his pickup. And why does he impress my father so much more?
Shit.
But I didn't get that far in the explanation, since my dad cut me off to say "well, Mike is going to be in a parade with his truck." And his inflection when saying "Mike" suggests that the comparison is actually a competition that I'm losing and my dad is proving it. I think the parade was just a bunch of rednecks driving muddy trucks around a small town square to impress the young redneck girls and the village idiot. Hey, that's a Saturday night where I grew up!
I can remember my mother being so proud when she told me how Mike had finally moved out on his own and had his own phone and was paying his own utilities and everything! "What a big boy, he is" I could almost hear her thinking. Although he was 28 at the time, and a few months later he'd dropped the whole "living on his own" idea to move back in with my folks, and back into the little bedroom he's been in since he was 5.
Of course his biggest adventure was getting married, the first time, when he was 24 and she was 16. Since she was still in high school and had a bad home life, it seemed like a good idea. I mean, am I right? Then they both moved into my brother's bedroom, and his mommy became his wife's mommy. She washed their clothes and cooked for them and woke them up in the morning and drove her to school. Of course it didn't last. To her it was like going steady in some bizarro type universe, and when she got tired of it she just left.
Why am I saving for retirement and my daughter's college education while my brother's saving for a new rollbar for his pickup. And why does he impress my father so much more?
Shit.
The Squash Tree
I was a laborer for twelve years. Not that we all don't labor, I just meant that for a long time I held jobs that required a certain amount of dirt to be on your clothes at the end of the day. I did not have my first non-dirt acquiring job until I was thirty. Like some men are groomed to be king, I was groomed to perform mindless physical tasks for long clips of time, often under harsh conditions. From the time that I could throw a stick of firewood on the back of my dad's old Ford 10 model pickup truck, I have been working. For most of his life my dad has been in the tree removal business, although he prefers to be called a salesman of forestry products. Before he was a tree man, dad sold cars for commission at the big Hub Ford Motor Company that use to be at the corner of Piedmont and Peachtree in Buckhead. After five years of taking orders from the head screw, Mr. Megel, dad started his own business cutting trees with his friend Larry Larson. One summer dad took off from the tree business to try his hand at being a farmer (like his dad). He leased some farmland on Cumming Street, and decided to plant row after mile-long row of crookneck yellow squash. Many dog-hot weekend mornings found the Shirley family (minus Mom) dragging a hoe or a bushel basket down the long, soft, and dusty rows of that field. Once my brother refused to work and ran off crying into a nearby cornfield to hide. I ended up doing his share of work that day for not taking his lead. Another time, my military-obsessed father bargained that if my brother and I got crew cuts then we did not have to work in the field that day. It was 1978, and no one, and I mean NO_ONE had short hair. There was no way that I was going to get a geeky crew cut (especially with a face full of pimples too), so I kept on working. My brother, however, opted out (no surprise) and my dad and he set out to find a barbershop that was open on a Sunday. I stayed in the field that day until all my baskets were filled with squash, emptied my boots of dirt and set out on foot to go home and eat some lunch. When I got there my father and brother were watching a football game with the air-conditioning on and eating a sandwich. My brother hair was still intact. It was at this point in my life that I realized that I may not be dad's favorite. Allot of sons want to grow up and join the same profession as dad. For instance, my friend’s dad was a design artist, so he grew up to be a design artist. Another friend's dad had his own electrical shop; now my friend's dad has retired and he runs the shop himself. I too was no different than them. I wanted to be a tree man like my dad. There was one problem, he never taught me how to do anything. He refused to let me climb; it was too dangerous. He refused to let me run a chainsaw; it was too dangerous. He refused to show me how to bid jobs because, well because...hell I don't know. There was one thing that I could do, and that was load the truck with wood and brush. So, when it came time for me to go out into the big world (and that was too soon), the only thing that I had to offer was my back. So I began to work my way through a seemingly endless stream of bad jobs. Here are some of the things that I have done:
Cut grass (miles of it , all day long. Once wore out a pair of new shoes in a month)
pick up trash
dig holes
load trucks
pull wire
clean bathrooms
paint
muck out ponds
work in a nursery ( the plant kind )
Although most of my labor-type jobs did NOT provide enough money for me to pay my bills on a regular basis, they did give me something that I did not anticipate...they humbled me. Those shitty jobs helped a notorious dreamer to put his feet on the ground. They gave me a sense of humor and a calm to work through uncomfortable situations. In way those jobs were preparing me for the day, when I could put on a clean shirt in the morning and it still be clean when I got home (well relatively so). I don't miss busting my ass for a living, and I have grown too fat and out of shape to even think such a thing. My life has become soft and comfortable. Sometimes on my way to lunch, I'll pass one of the landscapers from the office complex raking leaves or blowing the sidewalk. As I walk by him I try telepathically to send him a message, "Psst, I am one of you....shhhhhh, it’s our secret".
Cut grass (miles of it , all day long. Once wore out a pair of new shoes in a month)
pick up trash
dig holes
load trucks
pull wire
clean bathrooms
paint
muck out ponds
work in a nursery ( the plant kind )
Although most of my labor-type jobs did NOT provide enough money for me to pay my bills on a regular basis, they did give me something that I did not anticipate...they humbled me. Those shitty jobs helped a notorious dreamer to put his feet on the ground. They gave me a sense of humor and a calm to work through uncomfortable situations. In way those jobs were preparing me for the day, when I could put on a clean shirt in the morning and it still be clean when I got home (well relatively so). I don't miss busting my ass for a living, and I have grown too fat and out of shape to even think such a thing. My life has become soft and comfortable. Sometimes on my way to lunch, I'll pass one of the landscapers from the office complex raking leaves or blowing the sidewalk. As I walk by him I try telepathically to send him a message, "Psst, I am one of you....shhhhhh, it’s our secret".
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Metaphorically Speaking , ...A Tsunami
Yep, today was one of those days when you are standing on the beach, looking out at the beautiful tropical sky, listening to a little radio music that captures the reflected warmth of a brillant sun bouncing off the waves rhythmically rolling in. And then something tilts in the universe, you mind shifts to a new sensation , the ocean suddenly rolls away, it seems that world is expectantly holding its breath, the horizon darkens and with a sky-crashing roar, a wall of destruction rushes at you at the speed of sound. Transfixed you stand , powerless to stop it's onslaught and too numbed to move. And it hits....After the destrution, and before the turbulent seas have ceased to receed, someone shows up to work and ask's "R"., "what do you need me to do first, string cable or start hog-ringing that corner against the backstop", "oh, can you pay me today, rents due and my roommates a little short",.. " sure no problem".....sigh...
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
A night in the pump house
Once I had to spend the night in a pump house. I am not proud of it, however, it is something that I will never forget. I am not going to tell you why I ended up there, let's just say, I needed a place to stay. In general, a pump house is a little building or closet where swimming pool pumps and equipment are stored. It is a noisy place. Always humming and jerking with the sounds of turning on and off. It was cold that night. Not winter, but a day in mid-fall when you knew that summer was dead. I actually thought that I could walk around all night. An hour later, I found myself looking for a hole in which I could crawl. The gate to the apartment swimming pool (where my girlfriend Pam lived), was locked. I walked around the wrought iron fence, eye-balling the comfy looking lounge chairs by the leaf strewn pool. "If I could just lay down in one of those, I could go to sleep and the night would pass by like a flutter from a black butterfly" The warm whirl of machinery clicked on under the buzz of the street lamps and I had an even better idea. "I bet I could get one of those lounge chairs into the pump house, close the door and snuggle up next to electricity and hot water”, I thought hopefully. I climbed the overly secure and viciously pointy fence, grabbed one of the pool chairs and headed for the pump room. It took some configuring but in no time I was able to wedge the chair into the little room and situate myself. "Fuck, the goddamn door won't close", I said irritably. No matter how I arranged the fucking chair, the pump house door stayed opened with the slightest crack. Believe me that little crack let in a whole lotta cold. Maybe if I listened to some music. I had a Sony Walkman with Billy Joel’s latest cassette, "Innocent Man" in it. I pushed the play button, "I ammmmm an Innnnocent Mannnn oh yes I ammmm" "Aww fuck no" I love Billy Joel but two o'clock in the morning made that album sound like shit. I tried like hell to sleep but who was I kidding. The pump house idea was a bust and I decided to keep with my excellent original plan: walk around all night. Then something wonderful happened… suddenly I remembered that I sorta-kinda had a friend that lived in the apartments. Well, he was the boyfriend of a girl that I barely knew. Mark. He would let me stay with him. I mustered up every ounce of courage I had and rang his doorbell at 3am. It took a few times but his roommate answered all sleepy-faced and sloppy. My pitiful appearance and woe some tale must have melted his early morning heart and he let me sleep on the lumpiest couch in the world. It was dirty red velvet and had a 2x4 block of wood separating the head from the foot. That block of wood cut straight across my back like some torture device but compared to the pump house it was heaven. Mark's apartment was cold but much warmer than outside and I spent much of the evening fighting with a torn hospital blanket trying to squeeze and ounce of warmth from it. I managed to get maybe 45 minutes of uneasy sleep that night and when day broke my stiff and sleepy ass was more than willing to seek more hospitable accommodations. I am 38 now and that was twenty-two years ago. So far I have managed to avoid any further stays in pump houses but I sometimes wonder how far any of us are away from a night in the pump house.
Friday, January 14, 2005
A Rainy Night In Georgia
Drenched. Just like in the movies. I was walking back to my car after a tiring and very wet evening at GSU. My huge umbrella (I don't mean to boast) was being pulled from me by the hand of God and was on the brink of collapsing comically upward. The wind was blowing the rain in sideways and although my umbrella did a decent job of keeping the majority of the water off of me, the humidity permeated my clothes and I looked like the proverbial drowned rat. I was walking along the sidewalk and was about half the distance to my car, when a speeding car raced up Decatur Street and unleashed a tidal wave on the person walking in front of me. I had seen that sort of thing in the movies but never in real life. Before I could even complete the thought, "Whew I am glad that was not me", I found myself hanging ten along with my fellow surfing buddy on Decatur Street. All of the words were knocked out of me. "Oh my god, what kind of mindless idiot would do such a thing to another human being?" I was not even mad. I was flabbergasted. Then a thought hit me, "I have five more months to walk these sidewalks before the semester ends."
"What have I gotten myself into?"
"I have a good job"
"An English degree probably won't help my current career very much"
"Why put myself through writing all the bullshit papers and fighting traffic and tolerating imbeciles that shout out gems in class like: Ah di ent like "The Wastelands" dat sho am sum crazy shit!"
With each step my rain drenched socks made my shoes slurp and suck. By the time I got back to my car a frown had settled in comfortably into my face. "Who was I to think that I could be special" "I am a duck trying to be a swan" I hopped into my car and pulled out onto Piedmont. The road was glistening from the rain and streetlights. Brooks Benton said it right, "Sometimes it feels like it's raining all over the world."
"What have I gotten myself into?"
"I have a good job"
"An English degree probably won't help my current career very much"
"Why put myself through writing all the bullshit papers and fighting traffic and tolerating imbeciles that shout out gems in class like: Ah di ent like "The Wastelands" dat sho am sum crazy shit!"
With each step my rain drenched socks made my shoes slurp and suck. By the time I got back to my car a frown had settled in comfortably into my face. "Who was I to think that I could be special" "I am a duck trying to be a swan" I hopped into my car and pulled out onto Piedmont. The road was glistening from the rain and streetlights. Brooks Benton said it right, "Sometimes it feels like it's raining all over the world."
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Ain't we lucky we got em...Good Times
Just in case anyone was wondering, I survived my first night at GSU. My dry run last Saturday served me well as parking and classes were found with time to spare. As I was sitting in front of the General Classrooms building waiting for my first class, I noticed that everything looked like 1973. The clothes that the kids were wearing, except for a few gangsta wanna-bees, could have all been purchased at the Bargain Store in Alpharetta in the early seventies. Another thing I noticed is: they all smoke. There were cigarette butts everywhere, perhaps more cigarette butts than there are numbers. One smoke-sensitive student sitting beside me on the concrete bench exclaimed out loud, "Is there anywhere I can go to get away from all this smoke!" I gave him the nod of understanding and found another place to sit just in case he burst into some sort of fit and started flailing his arms. Also, the General Classrooms building in front of me looked like the exterior to the high-rise, low-rent apartment from "Good Times". All doo doo brown, burnt orange, and concrete. I could not help but think that somehow I had been transported back to my childhood. "Wow, wouldn't it be cool to have another chance to get things right?", I thought as a skinny Spanish girl with more booty than a little bit, sat down beside me. "I could be cool this time, and all the chicks would like me", I continued to dream. But as I looked around at all of the army jackets, sideburns and lumpy Afro hair-do’s, I had this feeling that even if I had another crack at my life, I would not be cool. I could only be me.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
I'm going downtown to see my gal
Tonight is my first night at Georgia State. I am finally a junior (it only took me the standard 20 years to get my Associates degree). This will be my first time attending a real four-year college. Although a friend of mine helped me to locate a decent parking lot and find my classes, I am still nervous. Actually, I am really scared. Georgia State is located in downtown Atlanta. For those of us that grew up in the far suburbs of Atlanta, the word "downtown" sits right next to "crack head" and "mug yo honky ass" in our lexicons. To make a point: our parents were afraid of "downtown", our grandparents were afraid of "downtown" and there was no reason on god's green earth to find yourself "downtown" unless you were up to no good. Once rbutler and I were going to Little Five Points and over-shot our destination right into 1980's Moreland Avenue. While we were stopped at a traffic light, an angry looking fellow informed us that we were "in the wrong part of town". At the time, my teenage heart was indignant at the comment, but now years later, I am convinced that he was delivering sound advice. My fear of downtown has even reached the point where I am considering carrying protection. A sawed-off double-barrel shotgun would be my weapon of preference but I will settle on pepper spray. I personally have no idea where to get pepper spray. I begged my friend rbutler to pick me up some and bring it to me at work today, but I am guessing that my ass is not big and round enough to expedite promptness. On second thought, it is big and round enough but probably a sight more hairy than he prefers. So tonight I set out to wander the mean streets of Georgia State without so much as a bullwhip to keep away the undesirables. It is probably for the best that I am not armed in my current nervous condition. "Scuse me sah, got any sparh change?" "Get away from me murderer!” , I would scream as I unloaded my shotgun on him. "Pardon me sonny, which way is the GSU Marta station", an elderly woman would say to me delicately. "If you think the Marta station is hard to find now, wait until you have pepper spray in your eyes!", and I would blast her old peepers with burn juice. Yes, maybe I will just use some common sense and keep the new red "Bloods" bandana that I got for Christmas in my pocket. If I end up not posting to this blog for a week or so, you all will know what happened to me. Hey, Imabadcat, would you put up a brief article to my memory ? Something like, “Man uses his own penis to form a hangman’s noose and choke himself to death from a Mulberry tree”. That will make them remember me.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Fun stories of hiding beer
Okay, first of all, men drink beer. This is an established fact that dates back to the dawn of recorded nagging...I mean history.
Most women, I mean "most" not all, do not drink as much beer as the male counterpart in a relationship. So, some of you out there might have, at one time or another, had the desire to have a brew when the little lady wouldn't likely have approved. This would include a weeknight, or too late on a weekend, or too early in the day, or at a party after you've already started sluring your words and caused people to start looking at you like you're a hobo, or just anytime when they want to do "something" and you just want to do "nothing".
So here's a thread to share stories of funny incidents (or incidents that were horrible for you, but might be funny to us).
I'll start.
It was a weeknight, long day at work. All I wanted to do was veg out with a beer. But "we don't drink during the week" so after arriving home, going out for a run, spending a little time with the misses, and doing the obligatory "home stuff", it was time. I snuk out to the garage where I had a mini fridge, grabbed two cans of beer, stuffed them into my jogging shorts, and headed inside. The wife accosted me in the kitchen before I could make my way upstairs to the dark joy of a quiet bed and small bedroom sized tv, to lay there and relax and channel surf. As she stood chatting with me, I could feel slippage. I agonizingly chatted back at her about God knows what. The slippage continued, I could feel beads of sweat forming in my pits. I shifted slightly, with her completely unaware of my predicament. Before I could stealthily and satisfactorily arrange things, a beer dropped out of my shorts and onto the floor at her feet. She looked down at it and back up at me with the kind of look you'd expect at something like that. Then of course the second beer followed it's brother, and they both lay there at her feet. Traitors. We'll close a merciful curtain on the scene that followed.
Most women, I mean "most" not all, do not drink as much beer as the male counterpart in a relationship. So, some of you out there might have, at one time or another, had the desire to have a brew when the little lady wouldn't likely have approved. This would include a weeknight, or too late on a weekend, or too early in the day, or at a party after you've already started sluring your words and caused people to start looking at you like you're a hobo, or just anytime when they want to do "something" and you just want to do "nothing".
So here's a thread to share stories of funny incidents (or incidents that were horrible for you, but might be funny to us).
I'll start.
It was a weeknight, long day at work. All I wanted to do was veg out with a beer. But "we don't drink during the week" so after arriving home, going out for a run, spending a little time with the misses, and doing the obligatory "home stuff", it was time. I snuk out to the garage where I had a mini fridge, grabbed two cans of beer, stuffed them into my jogging shorts, and headed inside. The wife accosted me in the kitchen before I could make my way upstairs to the dark joy of a quiet bed and small bedroom sized tv, to lay there and relax and channel surf. As she stood chatting with me, I could feel slippage. I agonizingly chatted back at her about God knows what. The slippage continued, I could feel beads of sweat forming in my pits. I shifted slightly, with her completely unaware of my predicament. Before I could stealthily and satisfactorily arrange things, a beer dropped out of my shorts and onto the floor at her feet. She looked down at it and back up at me with the kind of look you'd expect at something like that. Then of course the second beer followed it's brother, and they both lay there at her feet. Traitors. We'll close a merciful curtain on the scene that followed.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
The Other Side Of Midnight
Today we took down the Christmas tree. I am glad really. This holiday season seemed to pass like a week with the flu: slow and uncomfortable. Nothing bad happened. I actually got a really cool GPS, a nice sweater and a couple of days off work. However, I could not shake an underlying feeling of ill-ease. Maybe it was knowing that 2005 would be the last year that I spent in my thirties. Maybe it was just a premonition that I am on the brink of change. Maybe it was the full moon fucking up my sleep patterns. Whatever it was, it did not leave me until the tree came down. I have always heard about the great depression that is shared among humanity during the holidays. I have had some sub-par Christmas's myself but thank God the State of Georgia anticipated the need for alcohol on Jesus’ birthday and allowed for the selling of ice-cold, mind-numbing beer. Christmas is not the bad holiday for me; it is New Years that never seems to stop sucking. There is something sad about New Years. All that hope. All those goodbyes. And that kiss. That midnight kiss with the power to forgive. That kiss, which in a moment can fill our hearts with enough hope to keep us running until it is time to kiss again. That kiss, when done correctly, can stop time and keep us safe for a moment from what waits on the other side of midnight.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Action Report ,deck of the HMS Surprise ,Sea of Rosados Del Potro
All in all an excellent day.Up early booked lots of jobs from providence's kind hand.Swung into action in the field and picked up the VELVET SLEDGEHAMMER to walk out a few golf course's for new work.Took her to lunch at Panera Bread, toured a pet shop and watched a few giant birds accost the customers.Oh yes ,stopped in a customers shop and shared tales of Las Vegas scenery, the desert and gambling losses/wins. Dropped off the VELVET SLEDGEHAMMER ,shot up Paces Ferry road to an antique shop, discussed with the cute shop girl her German background, government housing for the Soldiers in Macon,found some fascinating art prints,bought a Tibetian Trunk for me ,noticed a Indian made marble jewerly box. Bought it for the the Sledge Hammer and dropped it at her night job with the owner Zeke,talked about old McDonough GA with Jubal, an institution of Buckhead and best damn beer tub guy in the world.Shot over to Lenox mall, picked up a new dancing top for Allure(a real cute sexy black thing with a zipper front.. grrrr.) Walked into a shop and shot the breeze with another shop girl for about half an hour.Got a call from the VELVET SLEDGEHAMMER< loved the box.Zipped over to the Rosados Del Potro to meet Allure and give her the top, waved in past the rest by the Duke, standup guy of the house.Found a decent seat ,Allure in a good mood , sorry her friend was sick and couldn't stay.Had a drink chated up a few folks,Hell yeh,...Kelly is here,...Tiny shooter girl is here...Spend the rest of the night with them and even sweet Selma Blair type hottie waitress.No stretch of the truth to say that I was with the best looking girls of the house, even the drinks tasted sweeter. When one got up the others would sit down. The day had a rhythm that was never broken.. can spring be far away..??
Friday, January 07, 2005
Grit-O-Nomicon
Grits. Everyday on the way to work, I go through the Krystal drive-thru and pick up a bucket of diet Coke and a scrambler con no huevo. A scrambler is mostly a big bucket of grits, with sausage and more butter than a little bit. Growing up southern I have eaten my share of grits over the years. Me and grits understand one another. Although I realize that many people will never reach the spiritual level needed to "be the grit", I feel that I have attained "grit enlightenment". I very may well be the Grit Dalai Lama. Two things in my life have really horrified me: 1) Watching the twin towers fall and 2) watching a yankee pour sugar on his grits. Let me make this plain and clear: GRITS ARE NOT FREAKING OATMEAL ! Grits are made of CORN ! You don't put sugar on corn, why would you put it on grits. I am also amazed at how many resturants that have grits on the menu do not know how to make them. More often than not I get a soupy bowl of meal instead of the a nice thick mealy concrete that you can eat with a fork. Once again, let me make a point: GRITS ARE NOT SOUP ! Any person that needs to eat grits with a spoon, needs to send that bowl of hell back from where it came. Also, I often hear people complain that grits have no flavor, that they are too plain. Well, yeah dumbass, you have to add butter, and cheese, and salt and pepper for starters. You just don't sit down to a plate full of iceburg lettuce and say, "I really did not like this salad, it was too plain". You put your favorite dressing on it, bacon bits, croutons and the list goes on and on and on. I guess by now the reader can guess that I like grits. Grits are good and wholesome, like big tits in your face or sunshine. I truly believe that you could take an evil thing, let's say....(a gilligan's hat on your favorite stripper), pour some grits on it, and somehow make it a little better. Yankees may never understand grits, that is sad, but okay with me. They seem to have superior sandwich making abilities and have taken the hotdog to levels far beyond the comprehension of those of us below the Mason-Dixon line. Without my daily dose of grits I would not have the mustard to step out into my dull and eventless life and shout, "I am here again, do your best to bore me!" Everyone knows the "Footsteps in the Sand" poem where Jesus carries the sinner through the tough parts of his life. Well, I believe in my life, grits helped too.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
It was the time of clambake, picture #25.
Things not to forget.. the sound of your first girlfriends high heels clicking on the hallway as she rushes back to class,..that new car smell..the sound of the waves lapping against a boat hull while you fall asleep in your bunk.. leaving Las Vegas and seeing the McCullough Mtn. range marching away from the salt flats...that $20 dollars would fill up your friends bottle green 73 ' camaro, feed you all three times at McDonalds and carry you both from one side of Atlanta to the other in a weekend...that bullies wear braces(too bad)..that bailing out a true friend has no price..that a bad friend is to high a price to pay.. that old Cutlass convertibles are still the best way to get around rain or shine..your dads cheap cologne gave him a sophisticated smell to your pre-teen tastes..that I can still only remember 5 jokes in all my life.. wanting to grow up and be a tank...the smell of the concrete at 3am in front of the Star Bar..seeing the top of a girl's thigh above the garter and she wanted you to... that little babes with husky voices are a aural and visual delight.. that .riding a motorcycle, without a helmet on was like flying..
Mrs. Brown
Yesterday on the way home, I got a call from my good friend rbutler. He had been riding around with Elle (his friend/part-time employee), listening to Nick Drake and visiting job sites. Elle had been nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels and was feeling mighty good when rbutler handed her the phone to talk to me. The effects of the JD magnified her already larger than life personality and I could not help but feel small in its presence. My end of the conversation just seemed so lame compared to hers. Her energy is just so alive and dangerous. My own life force seems like milk toast in comparison. She must think that I am so square. With every utterance I reveal my stiffness and inability to relax and enjoy life. I don't think that Queen Victoria had a stick up her ass as big as I do. The funny part is that I actually consider myself to be a laid back relatively cool person. It is only when compared with people that have a real love of life that my rigidity is made so obvious. My English heritage must have affected me more than I realize. I constantly am holding back on the reigns of my true feelings. I guard my reserve with such a ferocity that it makes relaxing impossible. Maybe that is why I like to drink. It gets mighty tiresome holding the wolves at bay. Sometimes I need to let a few through, just to ease up on the pressure against the door.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Finally!!
Great news!! The 5th dentist has finally caved in and is now recommending Trident as well! But only for his patients who chew gum.
Don't let the wife know
Uh-oh...the wings and fries cost more than the cash I had in my pocket...which could only mean one thing, I'd have to charge it. This, of course, leads to the unavoidable conversation at the end of the month.
"Honey, could you check the credit card bill? I was looking it over and saw a charge for Jocks and Jills. Was that yours?"
"Yes, that was mine," I reply surreptitiously.
"I thought you weren't going to eat out anymore."
"I know, but it was my first week back to work and I hadn't seen the guys in weeks."
"You know we're on a budget."
"I know."
"I felt guilty about spending two dollars on a bean burrito at the mall, and you spent 15 dollars on one meal?"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You could have taken Katelyn and me out for lunch for that much!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"We need to have a talk."
"What? No! Please, I'll stop wasting money! It was just the one time!"
"Every month I see charges like this, we need to sit down and have a budget meeting."
And so it goes....
The roots go back deep. Back to the days of our forefathers, when the family institution acted as an engine of discipline, and frivolity was looked down upon. The Puritan ethic prevailed: work, work, work, save, save, save.
Then came the Great Depression. People learned to do things for themselves, not spend money on useless items, not throw anything away, etc. Waste not want not. A penny saved is a penny earned. For those whose parents or grandparents grew up in that time, the lessons were heavily ingrained. For some it's worse than others. You have a 25 year old tv, if you ever replace it, you keep the old one in the basement. If you build something, you keep all the leftover screws. If you break a lamp, you keep it just in case you can fix it someday, or someone else needs it. That is what my wife grew up with, and the values she learned.
Then you have the other side of this coin. Years ago my parents had a fire that partially burned a building on their property. They got $15,000 in insurance money. Did they use it to repair the building? No. Replace items destroyed in the fire? No. They had a good old time for a few months and then were broke again, only now they had a burned out building on their property.
The progeny of these two sides of the coin marry, and the result is the dialogue quoted above. So the question becomes, do I make a new years resolution to try and spend less? Do I work hard to be thrifty like my wife? Do I really try and make an effort to manage my finances more responsibly?.....or do I run over to OfficeMax and get that new dvd burner I've been wanting?
"Honey, could you check the credit card bill? I was looking it over and saw a charge for Jocks and Jills. Was that yours?"
"Yes, that was mine," I reply surreptitiously.
"I thought you weren't going to eat out anymore."
"I know, but it was my first week back to work and I hadn't seen the guys in weeks."
"You know we're on a budget."
"I know."
"I felt guilty about spending two dollars on a bean burrito at the mall, and you spent 15 dollars on one meal?"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You could have taken Katelyn and me out for lunch for that much!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"We need to have a talk."
"What? No! Please, I'll stop wasting money! It was just the one time!"
"Every month I see charges like this, we need to sit down and have a budget meeting."
And so it goes....
The roots go back deep. Back to the days of our forefathers, when the family institution acted as an engine of discipline, and frivolity was looked down upon. The Puritan ethic prevailed: work, work, work, save, save, save.
Then came the Great Depression. People learned to do things for themselves, not spend money on useless items, not throw anything away, etc. Waste not want not. A penny saved is a penny earned. For those whose parents or grandparents grew up in that time, the lessons were heavily ingrained. For some it's worse than others. You have a 25 year old tv, if you ever replace it, you keep the old one in the basement. If you build something, you keep all the leftover screws. If you break a lamp, you keep it just in case you can fix it someday, or someone else needs it. That is what my wife grew up with, and the values she learned.
Then you have the other side of this coin. Years ago my parents had a fire that partially burned a building on their property. They got $15,000 in insurance money. Did they use it to repair the building? No. Replace items destroyed in the fire? No. They had a good old time for a few months and then were broke again, only now they had a burned out building on their property.
The progeny of these two sides of the coin marry, and the result is the dialogue quoted above. So the question becomes, do I make a new years resolution to try and spend less? Do I work hard to be thrifty like my wife? Do I really try and make an effort to manage my finances more responsibly?.....or do I run over to OfficeMax and get that new dvd burner I've been wanting?
Call me back in 5 minutes
I know better than to call my father, but there is hardly a week that goes by that I don't pick up my cell phone, dial his number and wince. I keep hoping that one day my real dad will answer and not this mentally off-center rage-aholic. I cannot imagine carrying on a semi-normal, civil conversation with him.
"Dad, have you been watching the Sopranos on HBO"?
"I LOVE The Sopranos, let's meet for lunch and talk about last weeks episode"
"Sounds great, let's meet at subway"
"Okay son, but I am paying"
"Ha ha ha ha, ...oh dad", and then I would smile.
Boy would that be weird. Everyone has heard the famous explanation of insanity. Insanity is doing the same thing but expecting different results. If that definition is true then I am insane when it comes to hoping that my dad realizes that he is a human being one day and acts accordingly. Again and again he chops off my head, and again and again I stick my neck out over the block. I recently saw an interview with Burt Reynolds and he said that he did not make piece with his dad until his dad was 93 years old. I really don't want to wait that long.
"Dad, have you been watching the Sopranos on HBO"?
"I LOVE The Sopranos, let's meet for lunch and talk about last weeks episode"
"Sounds great, let's meet at subway"
"Okay son, but I am paying"
"Ha ha ha ha, ...oh dad", and then I would smile.
Boy would that be weird. Everyone has heard the famous explanation of insanity. Insanity is doing the same thing but expecting different results. If that definition is true then I am insane when it comes to hoping that my dad realizes that he is a human being one day and acts accordingly. Again and again he chops off my head, and again and again I stick my neck out over the block. I recently saw an interview with Burt Reynolds and he said that he did not make piece with his dad until his dad was 93 years old. I really don't want to wait that long.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Ask Dr.Maturin
To Gs 3 , I believe that Dr. Maturin arrived at the perfect living arrangement in his marriage to the beautiful and high spirited Diana Villiers. While she kept up up the mansion house that they had on Half moon Street(so named for the pub that stood at the end of Piccadilly Street), he maintained his shabby yet comfortable room at The Grapes. There he could count on his parched egg breakfast and Diana could rise noonish in her house and read the papers before dressing.At that time Maturin could leave the inn, walk along the Strand and Pall Mall thru to the Green Park with time to spare to start their day together. Be aware however that just because they maintained seperate living arrangements does not diminish there affection or devotion to each other. This unconventional arrangement suited them well until the arrival of their daughter. That is another story altogether.
Mr Winkle
Who is the mysterious Mr Winkle? This is a deep question which will no doubt lead to more puzzling questions. Simply put, Mr Winkle is like no one you've ever met. He's a mystery wrapped in an enigma, as some might put it. His penchant for fashion never ceases to amaze me. How now can we hope to understand such a creature? Well, I'm hopefully going to give a good starting point. First of all, my interest is purely intellectual. For it is in the mind that one must gather the faculties necessary to understand the grandness of Mr Winkle. Is he cute? Of course he's cute. Is that all he is? Absolutely not! Mr Winkle is the embodiment of all that is right in the world. Through him we know that everything can turn out okay. He is a beacon of hope.
I digress, however. The question was who. Who is Mr Winkle? I cannot tell you the answer. Words do not have the ability to express someone as complex and deeply powerful as Mr Winkle. So, I must show you. Before I show you, be prepared for a life changing event. Your life as you know it is about to change forever. Soak in this moment. Think about your life today and ponder how your current outlook on life is. It is about to change...
Mr Winkle
I digress, however. The question was who. Who is Mr Winkle? I cannot tell you the answer. Words do not have the ability to express someone as complex and deeply powerful as Mr Winkle. So, I must show you. Before I show you, be prepared for a life changing event. Your life as you know it is about to change forever. Soak in this moment. Think about your life today and ponder how your current outlook on life is. It is about to change...
Mr Winkle
The Tao of Poo
How do two people go from actually wanting to spend free time together to detesting everything that person does or says ? For instance, I got a call last week from my girlfriend D. She did not bother with the customary, "hello", or the banal, "how are you doing?", she leap right into the meat of the conversation. "Is there some reason you chose to shit up our upstairs bathroom ?", she said with hatred in her voice. I was floored. I did not know what to say. Yes, I had done a little business the night before in the upstairs guest bathroom, but surely I flushed. "I guess you were too drunk and forgot to flush", she added bitterly. She was right, I was feeling pretty good the night before, but surely in my enlightened state, I was still able to manage the flushing of my poo. "Maybe the toilet backed up", I said timidly. "What in the hell do you want me to do about all this shit !", she snipped at me one more time. "Get a bucket, maybe ?" "Throw in some carrots and potatoes ( if there weren't already in there), and make a stew?" "I don't know, call a plumber D". Now if D had never met me, and she was still living alone. She would have just called a plumber and the case of the terrible turds would have been solved. But for some reason being in a relationship has somehow caused D to stop being a human being. I have seen it happen in many relationships, not just mine. The nit picking, the back biting that seem to follow familiarity. After 5 or 6 serious relationships I can only come to the conclusion that men and women are not meant to live together and remain healthy, happy, human beings. A slight distance seems to increase feelings for other people, while familiarity, as we know breeds contempt. Perhaps a solution would be to have two houses in adjoining towns. This would facilitate closeness without suffocation. It would be more expensive for sure, but living in hell is expensive too.
RButler VS. The World
Well, I have managed to make it two days without beer. Doesn't seem like allot of time, but I believe Einstein was right when he came up with the formula: ( time - beer ) = ( a long time ). Also one of the side effects of not drinking is having dreams. Sure dreams are fun when you are in a threesome with Mary Ann from Gilligan's ( not the dancer ) Island and a young Barbara Eden, but dreams can be hell too. Take for instance my dream last night. I was stuck in some 1920's Avante Garde German film about witches. I spent most of the night in angular rooms talking to dwarfs and wondering why the world had turned black and fuzzy. The huge Indian meal that I had the night before must have contributed to the craziness of my dream. I blame the Cardomon seeds and the Cumin powder especially. Don't ask me why, those spices just seem sneaky. After a night of being chased by witches I was relieved that my aching bladder awoke me to another day.
There is allot to be said for just waking up and being able to step out into the day. Sometimes I feel like I am a king, just because the sun is coming through the car window on my face and the new Mark Knopfler CD is cranking in the stereo. I don't drink coffee, so I usually have a Homer Simpson-sized Diet Coke in the morning to put a little go-go in me mojo. It is amazing how good that Diet Coke can make me feel. I am guessing that there is crack in it or at least some good Glasgow quality H.
Things have been unsettling at the old homestead lately. My sometimes better-half/sometimes disciplinarian Dolly has been sick with an ungodly croupy cough that has her hacking phlem into a rag for the better part of the night. If you want to see the worst of someone, deprive them of sleep. They will hate you like the pope hates sin. I have had the misfortune of being an easy target for Dolly and she has treated me like the proverbial red headed step child. I have more patience than most but sometimes I wonder if there is not a better life for me out there. I warned her not to hook up with me in the first place. Over the years I have left a path strewn with the bodies of broken relationships. Sooner or later I make them all crazy. It is just a fact. Unless they are all crazy to begin with and I just know how to coax it out of them.
Work has not been much better than home, although I do have a few friends here. The IT business that they crammed down our throats during the 90's is going to hell in a handbasket. So far I have survived over 5 layoffs at my company and am expecting more. They have taken my hard earned title, and cut my pay and benefits, all while telling me how lucky I am to have a job period. Well, they are right in a way. I am not cutting onions at the Varsity or being a grunt on my father's tree removal crew. But for some reason I still do not feel lucky. Lucky is winning the lottery. Lucky is meeting a woman that loves to give head. Lucky, is getting change for a hundred when you gave 'em a twenty. Kissing someone's ass everyday while your soul aches is not lucky.
Lately I have been living through the life of my friend and fellow contributor rbutler. His life seems so much more interesting than mine, not to mention that he makes a shit pot load more money than me. He has his own business and has to hussle a helluva site more than I do, but somehow I think that he has allot more fun too. Everyday is an adventure to him. Who is going to show up for work today ? Will I get a check from those people that won't pay me ? Will my mother ugly up my beautiful house with Hummel figures from Target ? Don't get me wrong, I know that he busts his ass and probable worries allot more than I do about keeping the work coming in. I guess that it is a trade off really: security v.s. freedom . But the reality of the situation is that we are never secure; we lie to ourselves and enter a state of denial to ease the passing of our boring lives. I bet those people that worked at my establishment for 26-30 years felt secure right up to the day that they came in to find a fresh new cardboard box waiting for them in their cube. Bottom line is that somehow I get power from knowing that RButler is out kicking the world's ass everyday and manages to sneak in some fun too.
There is allot to be said for just waking up and being able to step out into the day. Sometimes I feel like I am a king, just because the sun is coming through the car window on my face and the new Mark Knopfler CD is cranking in the stereo. I don't drink coffee, so I usually have a Homer Simpson-sized Diet Coke in the morning to put a little go-go in me mojo. It is amazing how good that Diet Coke can make me feel. I am guessing that there is crack in it or at least some good Glasgow quality H.
Things have been unsettling at the old homestead lately. My sometimes better-half/sometimes disciplinarian Dolly has been sick with an ungodly croupy cough that has her hacking phlem into a rag for the better part of the night. If you want to see the worst of someone, deprive them of sleep. They will hate you like the pope hates sin. I have had the misfortune of being an easy target for Dolly and she has treated me like the proverbial red headed step child. I have more patience than most but sometimes I wonder if there is not a better life for me out there. I warned her not to hook up with me in the first place. Over the years I have left a path strewn with the bodies of broken relationships. Sooner or later I make them all crazy. It is just a fact. Unless they are all crazy to begin with and I just know how to coax it out of them.
Work has not been much better than home, although I do have a few friends here. The IT business that they crammed down our throats during the 90's is going to hell in a handbasket. So far I have survived over 5 layoffs at my company and am expecting more. They have taken my hard earned title, and cut my pay and benefits, all while telling me how lucky I am to have a job period. Well, they are right in a way. I am not cutting onions at the Varsity or being a grunt on my father's tree removal crew. But for some reason I still do not feel lucky. Lucky is winning the lottery. Lucky is meeting a woman that loves to give head. Lucky, is getting change for a hundred when you gave 'em a twenty. Kissing someone's ass everyday while your soul aches is not lucky.
Lately I have been living through the life of my friend and fellow contributor rbutler. His life seems so much more interesting than mine, not to mention that he makes a shit pot load more money than me. He has his own business and has to hussle a helluva site more than I do, but somehow I think that he has allot more fun too. Everyday is an adventure to him. Who is going to show up for work today ? Will I get a check from those people that won't pay me ? Will my mother ugly up my beautiful house with Hummel figures from Target ? Don't get me wrong, I know that he busts his ass and probable worries allot more than I do about keeping the work coming in. I guess that it is a trade off really: security v.s. freedom . But the reality of the situation is that we are never secure; we lie to ourselves and enter a state of denial to ease the passing of our boring lives. I bet those people that worked at my establishment for 26-30 years felt secure right up to the day that they came in to find a fresh new cardboard box waiting for them in their cube. Bottom line is that somehow I get power from knowing that RButler is out kicking the world's ass everyday and manages to sneak in some fun too.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Favorite Dancers at Rosados Del Porto
- Kelly, what jaguars become when they walk among mortals.Probably a far more complex person that most might imagine. Preserves her mystery without appearing aloof ; many of the other dancers could benefit from such natural grace.Angelina Jolie wishes she had such lips.
- Vixen, pure carnality wraped in candy=Lust personified.Don 't know much about her, rarely there when I'm there ,but good to look at from any view.
- Paige ,Fleshly like a pin-up girl, very remniscent of my first girlfriend. Polished, but a little to pro., lacks or has lost the ability to ever appear natural or relaxed,still a joy to look at but I don't ask for dances anymore.Sad, it's like falling out of love.
- La'Rue, the ass of ages, Butt-Krakatowa . A great little dancer and sweeter than most . Spends more time with the customers than other dancers and therefore deserves your tips buddy!
The reverse of the medal
Well it's amazing how two people can be in the same place at the same time and have two different realities. Perhaps I had worn G3 out already by dragging him down to the low end of Moreland Ave to make a new year dinner drop on my octogenerian uncle. Now a shut- in with illness and age. G3 likes to start his evenings early but kindly accepted to ride shotgun(literally)to my mother-brothers house in a neighborhood that hardly notices the three landfills next door.If you ever pass by a landfill and notice the reek of fresh baked twinkies empotently trying to cover the other sorts of smells , this is just a deoderant made to sprayed out by nozzles, no kidding. But back to the trip ,after our mission of mercy I gave G3 a tour of my favorite movie store and then we went to our favorite destination Rosados del Potro.Deader than the night before it was, with an even less attractive crowd.However now it seems to be the place to take your girlfriend,I understand this as many of my female friends and employees are only to happy to accompany me on "company picnics" there. After finding Allure at the door we secured a table of unenviable location that still awarded me a excellent view of some of the sorriest non-tipping patrons I have seen in some time.Now true, many of the dancers there were not my taste but I am exceedingly discriminating gentleman who marvels why some of the most malformed patrons would resist a table from anybody but Gilligan.But then things got good for me...A dame walked up to my table and when I took in the view it was like a stick of dynamite went off in my head. 100% Nitro racing fuel bottled in a svelte package that Milan has yet to invision.Seen before but never truly contemplated. An epiphany wraped in an enigma. When the dance began I found my temperture climb and at the end I produced an exhorbitant tip for the lady that many might reproach for but I felt a banal gesture at best.Later we discussed a common passion in motorcycles(relatively older in me this interest.ahem as I precede by no small years) and I hold to faint illusion of a nascent connection.Later I did secure the aforementioned number of the earth -bound angel of a shooter girl,with hopes of yet another rendezvous eminent .
Surly
Normally the sight of naked women does not fill me with anger, unless the dancer is wearing a fuzzy Gilligan's hat (which understandably would make anyone angry). Last Saturday night found my friend and I at what has turned out to be a regular haunt of ours: El Potro Rosado. Much to our displeasure, we found that our usual vantage point and favorite table was occupied by no less than three vaqueros. Reluctantly we inserted ourselves into the Potros population and found ourselves jammed in a sea of tables. Fortunately for us, one of the best waitresses in the establishment was working our table and we were nursing on beer and citrus flavored vodka before you could say “table dance”. One of the dancers at El Potro is a friend of ours and joined us at the table for free drinks and to vent about how the holidays are especially hard on lesbian relationships.
It is at this time that I would like to take a minute to talk about our friends butt. Let's call her Allure. To put it in plain English Allure's butt is a buffet that would never have to be re-filled. She makes Jennifer Lopez look flat. If Allure's butt were a catcher's mask, I would never take it off.
Ok, back to the evening. In general the place was dead and blaring way too much urban (and that is putting it nicely) music for my taste. My friend, (let's call him Gunter) was on a mission to get the little blonde shooter girls phone number. Unfortunately, she was working the other side of the room, and it ended up taking most of the night for her to work her way around to our side of the main stage. Before the night was out I had sacrificed over a hundred bucks to surgically enhanced breasts and forced conversation. On the way home Gunter threw a few Krystal burgers at me to help my financial insolvency go down better. Gunter was happy though, the shooter girl had scrawled her phone number on a cocktail napkin, and visions of sugar butts were dancing in his head. I managed to get home just in time to have my girlfriend attack me verbally regarding the quality of my cat shit scooping abilities. She went to bed hating me and I ended up sharing the tiniest sliver of bed with my fat house cat. Good times.
It is at this time that I would like to take a minute to talk about our friends butt. Let's call her Allure. To put it in plain English Allure's butt is a buffet that would never have to be re-filled. She makes Jennifer Lopez look flat. If Allure's butt were a catcher's mask, I would never take it off.
Ok, back to the evening. In general the place was dead and blaring way too much urban (and that is putting it nicely) music for my taste. My friend, (let's call him Gunter) was on a mission to get the little blonde shooter girls phone number. Unfortunately, she was working the other side of the room, and it ended up taking most of the night for her to work her way around to our side of the main stage. Before the night was out I had sacrificed over a hundred bucks to surgically enhanced breasts and forced conversation. On the way home Gunter threw a few Krystal burgers at me to help my financial insolvency go down better. Gunter was happy though, the shooter girl had scrawled her phone number on a cocktail napkin, and visions of sugar butts were dancing in his head. I managed to get home just in time to have my girlfriend attack me verbally regarding the quality of my cat shit scooping abilities. She went to bed hating me and I ended up sharing the tiniest sliver of bed with my fat house cat. Good times.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)