Sunday was to be a day for work.True to her promise(from last night when we were out) Allure and her girlfriend Carla called at 9am to get my ass out of bed and to work at the jobsite. We had a tournament take over the fields yesterday, on a perfect day to get some work done. Well halfway into town the sky gave it's promised rain on our windshield wipers, so I just dropped over to their house to leave the girls some tools.Now ,Allure has taken to heavy construction like a natural.What a champ.Last summer when she showed up ,she seemed to be about average but I think she would rather run a crew than stand up naked in front of a bunch of strangers and shake it like a polaroid picture. And her girlfriend is pretty good herself.
A change of clothes in their bathroom and I headed out for a day of nothing to do but catch up with friends. My first stop was the warehouse district around Howell Mill rd., you see, I've got a plan for using a warehouse in the empire building process, and have they got space available, some even with apartments already there for the owner/ occupant.Sixteen streets and back alleys later, the next stop was Joel and his wife, a couple that was meant for each other. At one time they had broken up during their courtship and hadn't spoken for months.The reason being they were both in their 30's and he hadn't proposed in 1 1/2 years and she wanted kids.He wouldn't commit cuz he was still trying to figure out where he was going.After a while a " person "took him aside and told him he was never going to find anyone better, sweeter and more devoted to him than that girl.He agreed and campaigned hard to win back her heart and suceeded.She didn't make it to easy for him, she shouldn't, and when he proposed in the summer of 03 at the Barnsley gardens, they both called that advice giver before anyone else in their families.And that person was best man at the wedding.
But life can be unfair to even those meant to be together.Having suceeded in becoming with child they lost the baby at 3 months.This was recently and she has been devastated.She did everything right and is in perfect health, but it can happen.Now on the other side in life's little game, Nina in New Orleans has done everything wrong and she is pregnant at 3 months. The father was a real peice of work and they trifled in every excess they could and couldn't afford.But with all the charm of a layabout with no real potential he suceeded in bedding her in Seattle and then having her pay for his ticket to New Orleans where his two week stay lasted for months and he got comfortable enough to physically intimidate her while sitting around the house and complaining when he wasn't playing his guitar,x-box or computer.
Her father, a sad peice of crap himself,actually got some stones and drove across the State of Florida, risking arrest for probation violations(wow ,I need to write about him, girls like this either go for their father or the emasculated version of a man), and showed up at the door and told him his daughter had already bought a one way ticket back to Seattle for him.He could go out the door on his legs or by his hair, it made no difference to him.Her dad is a still a competetive kickboxer,full contact.Long story short, slacko found himself on a plane back to the 2nd most anti anything decent city in America.Good riddance. But then Nina found out she was pregnant with slacko'os baby and vows never to tell him.Smoke, drink, do drugs,fuck around and baby comes out healthy, grows up, writes tell all book, lifetime channel movie, retires to Hawaii and paints on the beach while hobnobbing with Brad Pitt and Jack Nicohlson.
Then, yes its still Sunday, I roll over to Lenox and catch up with Chen si'ya.Mixing the coffe beans At Star***.By the way, if anyone tells you the economy is bad they are not leaving their house.To much Maury Povich watching, not enough working.Lenox has been packed with shoppers every time I go there, okay maybe a couple of weeks after Christmas it was a little dead, but after that sheesh.Chen si'ya was actually so sick she didn't join the gang out Saturday night and begged off.Today ,I found her no better, but working with that gravel voice everyone had last week,being a trooper and running around the store.After a cup of joe I could tell she was sinking and went up to the CVS and bought her my follwing prescription for whats been going around:1) Cold-eze, pure magic,2)Thera-flu, feel good in a box,3)Listerine, old-school mediciny style every 4 hours, 4) A good magazine(Maxim),real babes dig it.By that time it was time to head home and contemplate world domination on a county by county basis.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
The Bad RButler
Let me put a question to you. Is it possible to be a stripper without some sort of mental scarification? Does the act of removing one’s clothes before beer-bellied, blue collared and no-collared workers, obnoxious frat boys, and hopeful twenty-something bachelor partygoers, have some sort of damaging effect on the judgment center of the brain? Or is it the diseased mind that entices one to strip in the first place? Which came first, the stripper or the pain?
That being said, thank God for strippers! Maybe strippers carry the as of yet undiscovered genetic sequencing that induces clothing removal. I myself have inherited the widely popular alcoholic gene and am looking forward to a scathing case of Alzheimer’s…Hooray for me! I don’t mean any disrespect by questioning the synaptic routes of the apparel challenged. If anything, I am jealous that I do not currently the kind of body that you would want to experience with the lights on, much less on stage.
I only lament on this topic for its depressing effects on a dear pal o mine, rbutler. Winter is bad enough, but the cold weather combined with the unpredictability of stripper logic, can send rbutler spirally down the bitterness vortex until he reaches the point of maximum density. A point that I know as: The Bad Rbutler. The coming of the bad rbutler is usually foreshadowed by the growth of a shaggy goatee, the wearing of dark colors and a spend thriftiness that is contrary to his generous nature. Mind you, I have not seen the goatee as of yet, but that is just a technicality. A few days of waking up late, and dealing with non paying clients, and a goatee that the devil would envy will spring up on his boyish face.
The bad rbutler also makes the normally conservative and republican beliefs of his nicer counterpart, (the funny, generous, stripper loving rbutler) look like a gay senator from Kansas City. If you have a face, watch out, because he won’t like it. Once I saw the bad rbutler punch his own face because he ate a burrito, and he doesn’t like illegal immigrants. Another time he got a third degree burn on his head from an iron because he thought that he had found a curly hair. The bad rbutler only eats food out of the possibility that he might spit some at you when he is talking. Yes sir, the bad rbutler is best left un-conjured and left pacing within the confines of his magic circle.
I don’t know what incantation dismisses the bad rbutler, but I do know that two of the words are summer and water. If I could pull some Miami Beach weather out of my ass I would do it, just for him. If I shut my eyes real tight, I can see the old rbutler’s smiling face, ruddy from the sun. He is wearing dark Blue’s Brother’s style sunglasses and is wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt. His teeth are white and almost glow in contrast to his tanned face. A Brazilian beauty is sunning her ass on the deck of his new sailboat, and his first mate GS3 is steering the vessel straight and true to tropical isles.
“Hola, Esmeralda, necesita más loción que broncea?”
“Sí, pero se cerciora de usted conseguir a mi extremo bueno verdadero.”
“Ése no va a ser ningún problema”
“Ningún problema en todos”
Translation:
Hey, Esmeralda, do you need more tanning lotion?
Yes, but make sure you get my butt real good.
That is going to be no problem.
No problem, at all.
That being said, thank God for strippers! Maybe strippers carry the as of yet undiscovered genetic sequencing that induces clothing removal. I myself have inherited the widely popular alcoholic gene and am looking forward to a scathing case of Alzheimer’s…Hooray for me! I don’t mean any disrespect by questioning the synaptic routes of the apparel challenged. If anything, I am jealous that I do not currently the kind of body that you would want to experience with the lights on, much less on stage.
I only lament on this topic for its depressing effects on a dear pal o mine, rbutler. Winter is bad enough, but the cold weather combined with the unpredictability of stripper logic, can send rbutler spirally down the bitterness vortex until he reaches the point of maximum density. A point that I know as: The Bad Rbutler. The coming of the bad rbutler is usually foreshadowed by the growth of a shaggy goatee, the wearing of dark colors and a spend thriftiness that is contrary to his generous nature. Mind you, I have not seen the goatee as of yet, but that is just a technicality. A few days of waking up late, and dealing with non paying clients, and a goatee that the devil would envy will spring up on his boyish face.
The bad rbutler also makes the normally conservative and republican beliefs of his nicer counterpart, (the funny, generous, stripper loving rbutler) look like a gay senator from Kansas City. If you have a face, watch out, because he won’t like it. Once I saw the bad rbutler punch his own face because he ate a burrito, and he doesn’t like illegal immigrants. Another time he got a third degree burn on his head from an iron because he thought that he had found a curly hair. The bad rbutler only eats food out of the possibility that he might spit some at you when he is talking. Yes sir, the bad rbutler is best left un-conjured and left pacing within the confines of his magic circle.
I don’t know what incantation dismisses the bad rbutler, but I do know that two of the words are summer and water. If I could pull some Miami Beach weather out of my ass I would do it, just for him. If I shut my eyes real tight, I can see the old rbutler’s smiling face, ruddy from the sun. He is wearing dark Blue’s Brother’s style sunglasses and is wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt. His teeth are white and almost glow in contrast to his tanned face. A Brazilian beauty is sunning her ass on the deck of his new sailboat, and his first mate GS3 is steering the vessel straight and true to tropical isles.
“Hola, Esmeralda, necesita más loción que broncea?”
“Sí, pero se cerciora de usted conseguir a mi extremo bueno verdadero.”
“Ése no va a ser ningún problema”
“Ningún problema en todos”
Translation:
Hey, Esmeralda, do you need more tanning lotion?
Yes, but make sure you get my butt real good.
That is going to be no problem.
No problem, at all.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Take that in your pipe and smoke it.
Well, well well..even more interesting news afoot.Yet more proof to my continual campaign of "what the fuck is wrong with you people,do you all really suck that much, and just how desperate are all you dumbass'es?. Apparently you all know no limits". I am no longer surprised, but I think all of your continual pathetic attempts at justifying your stillborn relationships need cataloging.Really how can you all go on without these endless charades, perhaps you never considered some me time ,or all your conscienses filled with such despair that you will hurl yourself into any sad little pretences of romance? Is that what is wrong with you, relationships just so you don 't sleep alone at night? Are you afraid to be with just yourselves?How sad.You spend all your time telling yourself ,Well I dont't love this person, but I think I'll be with them until :the power gets shut off,I find the right one(HA,.. a woman told me once she let a guy move onto her couch and two kids and 20 years later SHE moved out...oh yeah and the right one will come along but they will see what a loser you are with now and make a beeline to the next state to get away from your baggage and you, you are becoming the unsalvageable one...), I can fix this one, all they need is a little love from me to change from/to..stop drinking..doing drugs,..see what a smart person they are and get a real job, stop beating me,..sitting on the couch all day on their naked goat hairy ass and listening to their dubious collection of music.Do I believe in real love you ask? How can anyone observe such meaningless relationships and not believe in Love.Well I guess my definition of what a relationship should consist of is outdated and archaic.How about respect, huh..a little passee,perhaps a little misused.Now I have had persons tell me that they respect me and then turn around and hit me blindsided with a sledgehammer when I least expected it.Not my term of respect(just to clarify if your definition is closer to the sledgehammer). No I mean consider the other persons feelings at all times,just not when its convenient to one.Things like I hurt your feelings and I'm sorry, let me make it up to you. Or better yet how about not doing it in the first place,huh..huh..novel concept.Show somebody you love them by giving them little surprises... the nice kind,like fix them dinner, buy them something they don't know that you know they need or want..not the other way around like "Oh yea here's a surprise,I need fifty bucks from you for gas this week, cause I had to sleep late on monday and I missed work"Or I caused a situation that I don't have the money to pay for so I expect you to help me out.I always thought real relationships were about growing together, no not in your pedestrian sad little way of maybe learning one astounding thing about yourself in in 10 years(LIKE HOW MUCH BULLSHIT YOU WILL PUT UP WITH FROM YOU PARTNER BEFORE YOU WANT OUT). No I mean really learning something together, maybe how in a real crisis(NO, NOT THE I CAN 'T FIND MY KEYS, MY BLUE SOCK ETc..kind)But in the one of you is really sick and how the other one helps ,or real not-self-inflicted financial kind and the other steps up to the plate and covers the others ass kind.Hopefully no naked goat hairy ass'es will be covered but there are those that buy into the pity factor and will do anything for a loser.NOT LOVE . SAY IT SLOWLY.. CO -DE-PEN-DEN-CY.See picture of you.
Recently documented examples of above text;
Sitting with Jackie the shooter girl,age 22 lives around Lenox,blonde ,pretty Ga State student by day , drives a nice car, recently furnished condo.As follows, she has boyfriend, 21 1/2 years old from nice family,been going out for three months but he just got out of jail for 3rd DUI. Disowned by parents,cast alone into the world,must be 49th time I've heard about how a 3day stay in holding caused said person(s) to lose their apartment.Hey babe help a guy out,I've got no where else to go and ahhhh ... I like luv you and stuff.Car breaks down with $1500 transmission problem,she feels guilty cause he was driving her somewhere at the time so it's like her fault you know.And since he dosen't have a car he's got no job.So he borrows money from her and say's "what does it matter If Ineed money from you, you make it at the strip club..!!!!!!!(OH ,SO IT 'S DIRTY MONEY ,BUT NOT SO DIRTY HE CAN 'T TAKE IT ,BUT STILL VERY UNPLEASENT FOR HIM.)
THE OLDE GIRLFRIEND RETURNS
the phone rings and its Jamey,the sex goddess. Hey guess who's living with me now..? Wow ,I've got no idea ,clue me in.Weellll, it's your old girlfriend Monica.What,I haven't heard from her in ages.Yeah her boyfriend threw her out the day after Valentines day after she moved back from Key West to be with him. She moved down there and started her own business, they had broken up but he begged for her to come back.The same guy that broke into her apartment on Lenox road. Yeah, well wait it gets better, she was back in town for a week with him and he woke her up after what she said was a wonderful Valentines day and told her to get out NOW.So she called me at 6am in tears and asked if she could move into my place for a while. She had given up her business and a nice condo on the beach to come back here and now she had to put everything in storage. But wait while I was at work, and she was at the storage place, he broke into my house and ransacked all of her suitcases,while(JAMIE,s) my friend Doug (with benefits) was asleep in my bed.So curiousty gets the better of me and I'm invited to dinner.Monica greets me at the door and looks better than ever,she even had lost 20 pounds in the bargain. So at least you people that co-habitate/date disfunctionally can claim weight loss from stress as a benefit.
Recently documented examples of above text;
Sitting with Jackie the shooter girl,age 22 lives around Lenox,blonde ,pretty Ga State student by day , drives a nice car, recently furnished condo.As follows, she has boyfriend, 21 1/2 years old from nice family,been going out for three months but he just got out of jail for 3rd DUI. Disowned by parents,cast alone into the world,must be 49th time I've heard about how a 3day stay in holding caused said person(s) to lose their apartment.Hey babe help a guy out,I've got no where else to go and ahhhh ... I like luv you and stuff.Car breaks down with $1500 transmission problem,she feels guilty cause he was driving her somewhere at the time so it's like her fault you know.And since he dosen't have a car he's got no job.So he borrows money from her and say's "what does it matter If Ineed money from you, you make it at the strip club..!!!!!!!(OH ,SO IT 'S DIRTY MONEY ,BUT NOT SO DIRTY HE CAN 'T TAKE IT ,BUT STILL VERY UNPLEASENT FOR HIM.)
THE OLDE GIRLFRIEND RETURNS
the phone rings and its Jamey,the sex goddess. Hey guess who's living with me now..? Wow ,I've got no idea ,clue me in.Weellll, it's your old girlfriend Monica.What,I haven't heard from her in ages.Yeah her boyfriend threw her out the day after Valentines day after she moved back from Key West to be with him. She moved down there and started her own business, they had broken up but he begged for her to come back.The same guy that broke into her apartment on Lenox road. Yeah, well wait it gets better, she was back in town for a week with him and he woke her up after what she said was a wonderful Valentines day and told her to get out NOW.So she called me at 6am in tears and asked if she could move into my place for a while. She had given up her business and a nice condo on the beach to come back here and now she had to put everything in storage. But wait while I was at work, and she was at the storage place, he broke into my house and ransacked all of her suitcases,while(JAMIE,s) my friend Doug (with benefits) was asleep in my bed.So curiousty gets the better of me and I'm invited to dinner.Monica greets me at the door and looks better than ever,she even had lost 20 pounds in the bargain. So at least you people that co-habitate/date disfunctionally can claim weight loss from stress as a benefit.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Blue Monday
It was a good day for chili today, all full of drizzle and gray skies. I hauled out my burnt orange 1972 croc pot and filled it with cans of diced tomatoes, kidney beans, jalapeños and browned ground beef with onions. I don’t really have an official chili recipe; I just add things into the pot until it tastes like what I know to be chili. It may not win any prizes at the county fair, but it helped to ease me into another Sunday night. Sundays suck, they are too close to Monday to be enjoyed. Don’t get me wrong, I am not willing to give Sunday back to the man, but the promise of the upcoming workday adds sadness to an otherwise perfectly good day.
Sunday is good until about 3:00 in the afternoon, and then the countdown till Monday throws a shadow on the rest of the day. I have tried to stop Sunday from rolling over into the next week. I have tried to have so much fun that Sunday did not dare turn into Monday. I have put off all of my chores and homework until my last waking glance is closed like a shutter. Monday does not dare to come with so much work to do. Yet it dances into the room anyway. “Excuse me, step aside, I am Monday, you were expecting me?”
Sunday is good until about 3:00 in the afternoon, and then the countdown till Monday throws a shadow on the rest of the day. I have tried to stop Sunday from rolling over into the next week. I have tried to have so much fun that Sunday did not dare turn into Monday. I have put off all of my chores and homework until my last waking glance is closed like a shutter. Monday does not dare to come with so much work to do. Yet it dances into the room anyway. “Excuse me, step aside, I am Monday, you were expecting me?”
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
' Diems 'of Van
Haven't spoke to Van in a year .Don't know if her demons got her or the law has her.I started going to a fashionable lounge years ago as a different stop-off before turning the old 69 Cutlass Convertible for home. A place to go after the earthy Star Bar or the pedestrian Smiths Olde Bar.I meant I went there because of the hot trashy eurobabes that Andy, The Franco-Lebanese owner has always hired. Either for the customer's pleasure or his.Smart Guy.A young woman who worked there particularly caught my eye.At that time my favorite show was a b type TV spy thing LA FEMME NIKITA. The main character was played by Peta Wilson, a willowly, green eyed, long haired blonde of the nordic ehtnicity.When I first saw Van, I could have sworn they were twins.Always stylish,obviously sophisticated,sometimes off-beat and always sexy. Now let me preface that I am half-deaf. Sometimes I don't always hear things that others do.But when I want to sleep in quiet all I have to do is roll over on my ear to go to sleep.
Now, I always tried to get a table for Van to wait on me just so I could see her and maybe start a conversation. But the music is always playing at Diem and for a long time I couldn't hear her just so.Big buildup.So one night I'm in there and she finally leans over(wearing a black blouse,stategicaly buttoned,long blonde hair sweeping across one green eye) and say's(North GA backwoods,up behind the creek, dog's under the porch, engine on a chain swinging under a tree,get off me daddy your crushing my cigarettes, aunt-mom..uncle-dad can I borrow the truck to hook a rope up to the jail bars so I can break brother out in time to go to the spring dance) " Hey hunnnny, where you been?". Wow , I did not see that coming.But at least she was remembering me now.Illusion shattered.
Mystery gone ,she was far more approachable now. And yes she was missing a few teeth.Right behind her canines. The two top teeth, one each side.Never noticed till I got closer to her.Later I learned that they caused her some embarassment. She explained one night ,over tequila shots I kept sneaking , that in her youth in Cumming her mother had started writing her own pain-killer perscriptions to the druggist. This lead to bigger things and finally the cops closed in , which lead to the break-up of the family,dropping out of high school, and running with the meth-amphetamine crowd. Real Big in North Georgia. Crack to the hill-billy.One night when she was 19 ,at a big party she became convinced those teeth were baby teeth and had to go. Locking herself in a closet she got out a pair of pliers and pulled them out. Emerging victorious from there she proceeded to show the horrified, wired-up revellers her bloody baby teeth, complete with roots.
Later ,I met her boyfriend Brody, a thick-set , pudgy , handsome boy complete with guitar and big plans. Van had been with him for 7 years, off the crank and totally devoted to him while he made one dumb decision after the other.Whether it was buying a 10 year old custom van for his band, at 10,000 dollars more than it was worth, wrecking it repeatedly , or actually passing out on top of his keyboards at a show, in the middle of his own birthday song.Yep, she worked to pay the note on the apatment in worst section of Cabbagetown (The last white-trash hold-out in the inner city), and the $500 a month note on the smoking pile of crap he used to transport his band and gear.She would always say she was going to stick it out one more year in case he got famous.
She actually worked a few jobs for me after I got to know her. Now Van had many faults but she always showed up cheery and with a smile. Her passion was looking for arrowheads, at every job-site she would spend her break hunched over looking for old indian arrowheads.And anything remotely pointy, any rock, to her was an ancient treasure.She even went out on her own and and sold some tarps and fence materials, and even made side money cleaning the homes of my wealthy friends. The husbands where always surprised to see such a beautiful girl cleaning the bathroom.
Actually I gave her a car.Well it was a even trade. My neighbor was moving and had parked a 87 Pontiac Gran Prix, last of the rear drive cars, at the side of his house. Mysterious eletrical gremlins. I bought it for $50 on the day he was moving.I had it running by the next day.I knew Van needed a car so I slipped on some used tires, welded on a new glasspack muffler for a rumble sound, and headed down to Atlanta. She was overjoyed.She hadn't had a car in 5 years. She took it everywhere. Her and Brody drove to Dahlonga and camped in it, she took her grandfather to the doctor in it, she took her friends out in it.Now you or I wouldn't want that car ,but it gave her freedom.Things where looking good for her even as Brody came home less and less.Then they moved back to Cumming.Now it would all fall apart.
Brody left her about 4 weeks after they moved back.She couldn't keep up the payments on their apartment alone so she moved in to a room. Brody moved into a new house.He had moved into his best friends ex-girlfriends house. They were married 4 weeks later The bride said she was going to bankroll him until he was discovered.She was a real estate agent.Van was crushed.She went through some boyfriends and started to drink more. I knew she was taking it bad and then the room she was renting was gone ,the woman sold the house.A while back I told her Van could stay on my boat at the Marina. I gave her the keys and she said she would never take it out. She would call every now and then and sometimes her and Shelle would pick up a job from me and do it together. Always smiling, no matter had bad things were getting for her, self-inflicted or otherwise Then she got a job from a old biker dude. Van would run his newstand while he traveled. Then it became weekend trips with him up to Cherokee NC for gambling.I wondered if she was messing around with meth again( olde biker+hot blonde=drugs). I am usually right when I get a vibe or a feeling about something.Unfortunately I wasn't wrong.
The calls got farther and farther apart and then last February she called for some work. I said sure, I had a trade show to go to and a little help would be perfect before I left. She showed up a little worse for the wear ,but still with that old glimmer.I paid her a few extra bucks and told her I would see her soon.Then I started to get little parking tickets for the car,none of which I had to pay, and even a fine for running the toll booth at Ga 400. A couple of months ago I even got a parking notice for the car's tag on a old Chevy Blazer on Tybee Island.
One day in June, Shelle and I went down to the boat to clean it up for a weekend trip on the lake. It had been trashed.The motor had been run hot and blown a gasket.There was garbage everywhere and those little foil strips meth-heads use to smoke the devil's shit.The ignition key was still in the boat and a weeks worth of unflushed shit in the port a potty.I knew it had been Van and maybe even one of her addict friends.I cursed her for a few months but then I started to wonder what had happened to her.Maybe she was to embarassed to call after trashing the boat, maybe she finally got that 3rd DUI,and was sitting in some jail,maybe she was in a clinic....
I don't hold any ill will to her now, in fact I would love to hear from her. If she is out there I hope she has finally gotten herself together,...but how often does that happen?
Now, I always tried to get a table for Van to wait on me just so I could see her and maybe start a conversation. But the music is always playing at Diem and for a long time I couldn't hear her just so.Big buildup.So one night I'm in there and she finally leans over(wearing a black blouse,stategicaly buttoned,long blonde hair sweeping across one green eye) and say's(North GA backwoods,up behind the creek, dog's under the porch, engine on a chain swinging under a tree,get off me daddy your crushing my cigarettes, aunt-mom..uncle-dad can I borrow the truck to hook a rope up to the jail bars so I can break brother out in time to go to the spring dance) " Hey hunnnny, where you been?". Wow , I did not see that coming.But at least she was remembering me now.Illusion shattered.
Mystery gone ,she was far more approachable now. And yes she was missing a few teeth.Right behind her canines. The two top teeth, one each side.Never noticed till I got closer to her.Later I learned that they caused her some embarassment. She explained one night ,over tequila shots I kept sneaking , that in her youth in Cumming her mother had started writing her own pain-killer perscriptions to the druggist. This lead to bigger things and finally the cops closed in , which lead to the break-up of the family,dropping out of high school, and running with the meth-amphetamine crowd. Real Big in North Georgia. Crack to the hill-billy.One night when she was 19 ,at a big party she became convinced those teeth were baby teeth and had to go. Locking herself in a closet she got out a pair of pliers and pulled them out. Emerging victorious from there she proceeded to show the horrified, wired-up revellers her bloody baby teeth, complete with roots.
Later ,I met her boyfriend Brody, a thick-set , pudgy , handsome boy complete with guitar and big plans. Van had been with him for 7 years, off the crank and totally devoted to him while he made one dumb decision after the other.Whether it was buying a 10 year old custom van for his band, at 10,000 dollars more than it was worth, wrecking it repeatedly , or actually passing out on top of his keyboards at a show, in the middle of his own birthday song.Yep, she worked to pay the note on the apatment in worst section of Cabbagetown (The last white-trash hold-out in the inner city), and the $500 a month note on the smoking pile of crap he used to transport his band and gear.She would always say she was going to stick it out one more year in case he got famous.
She actually worked a few jobs for me after I got to know her. Now Van had many faults but she always showed up cheery and with a smile. Her passion was looking for arrowheads, at every job-site she would spend her break hunched over looking for old indian arrowheads.And anything remotely pointy, any rock, to her was an ancient treasure.She even went out on her own and and sold some tarps and fence materials, and even made side money cleaning the homes of my wealthy friends. The husbands where always surprised to see such a beautiful girl cleaning the bathroom.
Actually I gave her a car.Well it was a even trade. My neighbor was moving and had parked a 87 Pontiac Gran Prix, last of the rear drive cars, at the side of his house. Mysterious eletrical gremlins. I bought it for $50 on the day he was moving.I had it running by the next day.I knew Van needed a car so I slipped on some used tires, welded on a new glasspack muffler for a rumble sound, and headed down to Atlanta. She was overjoyed.She hadn't had a car in 5 years. She took it everywhere. Her and Brody drove to Dahlonga and camped in it, she took her grandfather to the doctor in it, she took her friends out in it.Now you or I wouldn't want that car ,but it gave her freedom.Things where looking good for her even as Brody came home less and less.Then they moved back to Cumming.Now it would all fall apart.
Brody left her about 4 weeks after they moved back.She couldn't keep up the payments on their apartment alone so she moved in to a room. Brody moved into a new house.He had moved into his best friends ex-girlfriends house. They were married 4 weeks later The bride said she was going to bankroll him until he was discovered.She was a real estate agent.Van was crushed.She went through some boyfriends and started to drink more. I knew she was taking it bad and then the room she was renting was gone ,the woman sold the house.A while back I told her Van could stay on my boat at the Marina. I gave her the keys and she said she would never take it out. She would call every now and then and sometimes her and Shelle would pick up a job from me and do it together. Always smiling, no matter had bad things were getting for her, self-inflicted or otherwise Then she got a job from a old biker dude. Van would run his newstand while he traveled. Then it became weekend trips with him up to Cherokee NC for gambling.I wondered if she was messing around with meth again( olde biker+hot blonde=drugs). I am usually right when I get a vibe or a feeling about something.Unfortunately I wasn't wrong.
The calls got farther and farther apart and then last February she called for some work. I said sure, I had a trade show to go to and a little help would be perfect before I left. She showed up a little worse for the wear ,but still with that old glimmer.I paid her a few extra bucks and told her I would see her soon.Then I started to get little parking tickets for the car,none of which I had to pay, and even a fine for running the toll booth at Ga 400. A couple of months ago I even got a parking notice for the car's tag on a old Chevy Blazer on Tybee Island.
One day in June, Shelle and I went down to the boat to clean it up for a weekend trip on the lake. It had been trashed.The motor had been run hot and blown a gasket.There was garbage everywhere and those little foil strips meth-heads use to smoke the devil's shit.The ignition key was still in the boat and a weeks worth of unflushed shit in the port a potty.I knew it had been Van and maybe even one of her addict friends.I cursed her for a few months but then I started to wonder what had happened to her.Maybe she was to embarassed to call after trashing the boat, maybe she finally got that 3rd DUI,and was sitting in some jail,maybe she was in a clinic....
I don't hold any ill will to her now, in fact I would love to hear from her. If she is out there I hope she has finally gotten herself together,...but how often does that happen?
A Brief History of Dad
My dad grew up as close to nature as one can without being born a lady bug or an acorn. He was pretty much left to run wild. My grandfather was 60 years old, when he was born and my grandmother was 45. His youngest sibling was 17 years old and to top it off...he was the only male. Over the years I have heard bits and pieces of my dad's early life. Once while walking through the old house (long since burned to the ground) with him, he showed me where his bed use to be and how he was afraid to go to sleep because one of the giant rats that lived in the attic might come down and bite him. He also told me how his sisters treated him like he was a doll and tried to dress him up like a girl. This actually explains allot, you can not meet a more macho man than my father. He is not one that is in touch with his feminine side. At ten years old, he was known as the Teasley Branch Kid, and use to walk the local woods with a loaded shotgun. Retired Reverend Hatfield of the First Baptist Church of Alpharetta will back me up on that one. My dad was just a little kid when the Reverend came to town and my dad was one of the first people that he met.
In addition to trying to assert his manhood, he had to deal with a mother suffering from severe depression. She had been going slowly blind since she was a young girl and probably suffered from postpartum depression. She tried to kill herself numerous times with pills and liked to threaten the whole family with the future possibility of it. My dad has told me how he remembers her screaming “I want to die” until he just became numb of it. People that really want to kill themselves do it. Don’t pull the old “I am going to kill myself” routine on my father; he will go get a gun to help.
My dad’s father, also named Gordon, was an elderly man by the time my dad reached adulthood. I do not know whether he was physically unable to attend my father’s high school football games or was just ignoring my dad like his father ignored him. If my dad did not make a play that was recounted in the following days Alpharetta Neighbor, then my grandfather would not have been able to see his son’s accomplishments. My father’s efforts to get his dad’s attention made him a fierce competitor. I guess that we both wanted our dad’s to notice us.
Dad’s parents were too old to enforce and discipline on my father, so he developed his own methods of dealing with the world and did it in his own time. To make things worse, God made him a handsome man too. If you have ever seen old pictures of Burt Reynolds when he was playing football for Florida, then you have seen my dad too. He would go all the way to Buckhead and pay five bucks for a high class flattop haircut. His clothes he got by donation or discount from the top men’s clothing store of the time, Muse’s (his sister’s husband, Albert sold suits there). All the dominoes slowly fell into place and my dad became preoccupied with the most important thing in his life…himself. Don’t get me wrong, he was and still can be a charming man. He can make you laugh at your mama’s funeral on Christmas Sunday. But his preoccupation with himself has alienated everyone that has ever loved him. He lamented one time on the phone to me that everyone has left him. However, he can’t see that it was him that pushed them away.
It is hard to hate the old bastard, although I have come close several times. I still have hope that he finds love and let’s himself have a little fun before the big dirt nap. He is 62 now, and still chasing young tail. He better be careful. He might just catch one and have to use it.
In addition to trying to assert his manhood, he had to deal with a mother suffering from severe depression. She had been going slowly blind since she was a young girl and probably suffered from postpartum depression. She tried to kill herself numerous times with pills and liked to threaten the whole family with the future possibility of it. My dad has told me how he remembers her screaming “I want to die” until he just became numb of it. People that really want to kill themselves do it. Don’t pull the old “I am going to kill myself” routine on my father; he will go get a gun to help.
My dad’s father, also named Gordon, was an elderly man by the time my dad reached adulthood. I do not know whether he was physically unable to attend my father’s high school football games or was just ignoring my dad like his father ignored him. If my dad did not make a play that was recounted in the following days Alpharetta Neighbor, then my grandfather would not have been able to see his son’s accomplishments. My father’s efforts to get his dad’s attention made him a fierce competitor. I guess that we both wanted our dad’s to notice us.
Dad’s parents were too old to enforce and discipline on my father, so he developed his own methods of dealing with the world and did it in his own time. To make things worse, God made him a handsome man too. If you have ever seen old pictures of Burt Reynolds when he was playing football for Florida, then you have seen my dad too. He would go all the way to Buckhead and pay five bucks for a high class flattop haircut. His clothes he got by donation or discount from the top men’s clothing store of the time, Muse’s (his sister’s husband, Albert sold suits there). All the dominoes slowly fell into place and my dad became preoccupied with the most important thing in his life…himself. Don’t get me wrong, he was and still can be a charming man. He can make you laugh at your mama’s funeral on Christmas Sunday. But his preoccupation with himself has alienated everyone that has ever loved him. He lamented one time on the phone to me that everyone has left him. However, he can’t see that it was him that pushed them away.
It is hard to hate the old bastard, although I have come close several times. I still have hope that he finds love and let’s himself have a little fun before the big dirt nap. He is 62 now, and still chasing young tail. He better be careful. He might just catch one and have to use it.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
But for the grace of God, so walk an asshole
A few months ago, I was making my usual morning trek down Akers Mill Road to the office. As I passed by the apartment complex with the big wind mill, I noticed a man crouching in the weeds behind the guardrail. He was looking back and forth quickly like a kid new to crossing the street. He had on an orange toboggan and his breath blew smoky into the chilly air.
“Holy shit, that guy is taking a shit!” I yelled in amusement.
I giggled like a school kid for the next few minutes and made a mental note to share the story with my co-workers. “They are gonna love this” I said to myself confidentially. Soon, I wheeled my car into its usual spot on deck F, and settled into my cube for another exciting day of programming. My phone rang. The caller id told me it was D, making her standard, “did you make it into work alright” call.
“Hey D”
“Hey, I guess you made it in alright this morning.”
“Yup, only took me two hours.”
“God I don’t know how you do it”
“Got to keep that money coming in, got to keep Ruffy in the latest dog fashions”
“Yes, he is a lovely lad”
“Oh wait a minute!” “You won’t believe what I saw this morning” “Some guy was taking a shit on the side of the road in broad daylight!” I said anticipating immense laughter.
“Awww poor man.” she said with concern in her voice.
Then all of the sudden it hit me. I was an asshole. What I thought was so amusing, was really sad and human. D’s three word sentence cleared up my perception like newspaper and vinegar clean glass.
“Gotta go D, I need to eat something”
“What are you having?”
“Crow, I think” and I hung up the phone.
That was not the first time that D reminded me that I was not as nice a guy as I like to think I am. Once while going to the Marietta Fair, D and I found ourselves stuck behind one of those drivers that rbutler refers to as dumbass donkey wagons. Whoever was driving that day chose to speed up and brake at unpredictable intervals. Even Bo and Luke Duke could not have passed this confused and elderly pair. Finally, after miles of following these hayseeds, a space opened up and I passed them like Speed Racer hot on the trail of Racer X. As if to signal my victorious lead, I gave them a good strong blast of my horn and a hearty, “FUCK YOU, FUCK STICKS!”
Dolly was horrified.
“They were lost GS3”
“How can you be mad at someone for being lost?”
Once again, D took all of the wind out of my sail. She was right. What kind of asshole yells at someone for being lost? I drove on to the fair, feeling a bit embarrassed about my behavior. Being nice is not easy. It takes constant vigilance. The smallest distraction and the wolves slip through the door.
“Holy shit, that guy is taking a shit!” I yelled in amusement.
I giggled like a school kid for the next few minutes and made a mental note to share the story with my co-workers. “They are gonna love this” I said to myself confidentially. Soon, I wheeled my car into its usual spot on deck F, and settled into my cube for another exciting day of programming. My phone rang. The caller id told me it was D, making her standard, “did you make it into work alright” call.
“Hey D”
“Hey, I guess you made it in alright this morning.”
“Yup, only took me two hours.”
“God I don’t know how you do it”
“Got to keep that money coming in, got to keep Ruffy in the latest dog fashions”
“Yes, he is a lovely lad”
“Oh wait a minute!” “You won’t believe what I saw this morning” “Some guy was taking a shit on the side of the road in broad daylight!” I said anticipating immense laughter.
“Awww poor man.” she said with concern in her voice.
Then all of the sudden it hit me. I was an asshole. What I thought was so amusing, was really sad and human. D’s three word sentence cleared up my perception like newspaper and vinegar clean glass.
“Gotta go D, I need to eat something”
“What are you having?”
“Crow, I think” and I hung up the phone.
That was not the first time that D reminded me that I was not as nice a guy as I like to think I am. Once while going to the Marietta Fair, D and I found ourselves stuck behind one of those drivers that rbutler refers to as dumbass donkey wagons. Whoever was driving that day chose to speed up and brake at unpredictable intervals. Even Bo and Luke Duke could not have passed this confused and elderly pair. Finally, after miles of following these hayseeds, a space opened up and I passed them like Speed Racer hot on the trail of Racer X. As if to signal my victorious lead, I gave them a good strong blast of my horn and a hearty, “FUCK YOU, FUCK STICKS!”
Dolly was horrified.
“They were lost GS3”
“How can you be mad at someone for being lost?”
Once again, D took all of the wind out of my sail. She was right. What kind of asshole yells at someone for being lost? I drove on to the fair, feeling a bit embarrassed about my behavior. Being nice is not easy. It takes constant vigilance. The smallest distraction and the wolves slip through the door.
Can't win...
You know, sometimes when you think you're going to do something good and it turns into something bad, it just makes you want to puke....really, really hard.
So I'm on my way to work this morning....earlier than usual. An hour and a half earlier than when I normally come in. I'm excited, I think that for once I'll get home at a decent hour. And then it happened. Either God, or the Devil, or one of those pesky evil mutants, or whoever's in charge of making people miserable happened to notice me. And the idea of my happiness was just too much.
So I'm coming into the parking lot, down one of the ramps, and some guy in front of me slams on his breaks....and I slam on mine....and I barely come to his back bumper. Then he gets out of the car, I'm thinking he's lost. Lost and not too bright to slam on his breaks. So he walks up to my car in a threatening manner, arms out like some thug (nicely dressed thug, looked like a slick salesman) and he says "Why'd you hit me?".
So I says to him, I says "I DIDN'T hit you" and he said "Contact was made", and I says "If I take my foot of the break I WILL hit you" because he'd stopped on a downramp. In hindsight I wish I'd left my foot on the break, put it in reverse, and backed up a foot or so. But I didn't. He wasn't moving, he was standing there next to my car, and so I turned the car off, put it in park, and took my foot of the break. The car rolled forward a half inch or so, and I saw it push on his car. Damn it all to hell!!! So he whips out his cell phone to call the cops on me because I'm such an evil guy, we pull into parking spots, and wait AN HOUR AND A HALF for the cops to come. The cop and security people all shook their heads over the tiny scratch that it made. They asked about my damage, I said I had none, they asked about his damage, and had to wipe the dust away to notice it....tiny piece of paint chipped, about the size of a rye seed. One security guard even commented that maybe the guy was having a bad day.
So now, not only did I NOT get in early, but this guy will undoubtably file a claim against my insurance, since that's what he was most likely after anyway.
Damn it all to hell. Well at least one thing....life's back to sucking again. Good thing, I thought that my coming in early was the start of a good day, but we wouldn't want THAT, no we wouldn't want that at all. That'll teach me.
So I'm on my way to work this morning....earlier than usual. An hour and a half earlier than when I normally come in. I'm excited, I think that for once I'll get home at a decent hour. And then it happened. Either God, or the Devil, or one of those pesky evil mutants, or whoever's in charge of making people miserable happened to notice me. And the idea of my happiness was just too much.
So I'm coming into the parking lot, down one of the ramps, and some guy in front of me slams on his breaks....and I slam on mine....and I barely come to his back bumper. Then he gets out of the car, I'm thinking he's lost. Lost and not too bright to slam on his breaks. So he walks up to my car in a threatening manner, arms out like some thug (nicely dressed thug, looked like a slick salesman) and he says "Why'd you hit me?".
So I says to him, I says "I DIDN'T hit you" and he said "Contact was made", and I says "If I take my foot of the break I WILL hit you" because he'd stopped on a downramp. In hindsight I wish I'd left my foot on the break, put it in reverse, and backed up a foot or so. But I didn't. He wasn't moving, he was standing there next to my car, and so I turned the car off, put it in park, and took my foot of the break. The car rolled forward a half inch or so, and I saw it push on his car. Damn it all to hell!!! So he whips out his cell phone to call the cops on me because I'm such an evil guy, we pull into parking spots, and wait AN HOUR AND A HALF for the cops to come. The cop and security people all shook their heads over the tiny scratch that it made. They asked about my damage, I said I had none, they asked about his damage, and had to wipe the dust away to notice it....tiny piece of paint chipped, about the size of a rye seed. One security guard even commented that maybe the guy was having a bad day.
So now, not only did I NOT get in early, but this guy will undoubtably file a claim against my insurance, since that's what he was most likely after anyway.
Damn it all to hell. Well at least one thing....life's back to sucking again. Good thing, I thought that my coming in early was the start of a good day, but we wouldn't want THAT, no we wouldn't want that at all. That'll teach me.
Monday, February 07, 2005
A Rough Start
It only took five days to get evicted out of my first apartment. I had been working at Pike’s Nursery #19, on Holcomb Bridge Rd. in Roswell. Two of my nursery buddies, Tom and Richard went in with me on a brand new three-bedroom apartment in a complex near Pike’s called Greenhouse Patio. Tom was a ladies man and as full of shit as anybody you would want to meet. Richard was from Tifton, Georgia and had a drawl like old money. He had just graduated from the University of Georgia and was working at Pike’s to keep his end of a scholarship agreement with the company. Richard was a bit of a drunk and walked with a limp from a self imposed car crash that sent his little truck hurling head first into a creek. I thought that they both were so cool.
Our new place, instantly became an after work hangout. The beer of choice in those days was Moosehead Lager. It came in a green bottle, and had a clear, fresh and light taste that was perfect for shaking off muggy slow days at the nursery. One of our fellow co-workers, Brook, became such a regular at our new pad that we sometimes referred to the apartment as Brook’s apartment. During our brief, five day stay at Greenhouse Patio we managed to:
- have the police called several times because of loud late night parties
- engage in a game of strip poker with two underage girls
Note: Due to cheating and not great poker playing Richard and GS3 quickly reduced the girl’s earthly coverings to panties. This situation, although normally ideal turned ugly when roommate Tom upset the game and brought his parents over to see the apartment. Tom’s mother was not impressed and we all scattered like roaches after the lights are turned on.
- have a 15 year old girl fall madly in love with GS3
- have GS3 make out with Tom’s hot girlfriend Lisa in the pool (wearing only a wet t-shirt and panties)
- become a small recycling plant for aluminum cans and green bottles
- various other things that cannot be remembered
On the night that established our eviction, I was not even at the apartment. My girlfriend Pam and I were babysitting her very sweet and fun nephew and niece at her sister in law’s house in Dunwoody. Richard was out on a date with his girlfriend and Tom had organized a group to attend the then annual light up Atlanta Festival downtown. When I awoke the next day, I had no idea kind of mess was waiting on me back in Roswell.
The apartment was a wreck as usual. It looked like one of those places under a bridge where homeless people build cardboard communities. I grabbed an industrial strength hefty bag, and went to work like Santa stuffing goodies. After the furniture was moved back into place and the trash removed, I went to the leasing office to borrow a vacuum cleaner. Cheerful, I burst through the leasing office doors, “Hey would you guys mind if I borrowed your vacuum cleaner again?”
“How can you come in here after what happened last night?” a lady said to me accusingly.
“I am getting the manager”
“I was not here last night; I was babysitting…what happened?”
Then the manager called me into his office.
“I’ll tell you what happened, your friend Tom got drunk and kicked his brother’s fucking head in!”
“What?” I said in disbelief.
“The fucking police and firemen were here at three in the morning; his brother’s blood is all over the parking lot!”
“I’ll show you!”
The manager marched out of the office and pointed to the parking area in front of our building. The black asphalt was dyed red. My whole world started unraveling.
“Are you going to kick us out?”
“I don’t know, allot of people do not want you guys here”
“But it was just Tom… me and Richard were not here”
“Maybe if you clean up that blood and write apology letters to everyone in the complex”
“Okay, okay, I will do anything just don’t kick me out, I have no where to go”
I jumped in my car and raced to Pike’s to borrow a hose and some Clorox. Tom met me with a smile as I walked in the door.
“Tom you son of a bitch, I have no where to go!”
“That money I put down for the deposit was all I had!”
“I can’t go home, my father hates me!”
And then the tears came and the world melted into a blurry, bitter kaleidoscope. Tom put his arms around me to settle me down.
“I am sorry”
“I won’t let anything happen to you”
“I am not drinking anymore”
“They won’t kick us out”
“I gotta get a hose and clean the parking lot”, I barley managed to choke out.
The rest of the day I spent on my hands and knees scrubbing someone else’s blood and distributing apology letters. Even though I had nothing to do with what happened, I was forced to take action to save my own ass. In the end, none of my efforts mattered. The manager decided that it would be best for the community if we moved out. Luckily he gave us until the end of the month to find another place. I was beyond devastated. That evening, Tom left the manager with a dramatic “fuck you”, and sealed the deal with the finger as he pealed out of the apartment complex.
Before the month was out, I ran into Tom’s brother. Half of his face was paralyzed and he looked like Popeye when he smiled. It seems that after Tom and the gang had spent a long night drinking at the light up Atlanta Festival, they returned home and an argument between Tom and his brother ensued. Tom, feeling six foot tall and bullet proof did a round house kick to his brother’s head. The blow knocked out the feet from beneath his brother and when he fell his head hit the curb. Tom’s brother lost so much blood that night, that it paralyzed half of his face. Richard and I ended up moving into Tom’s girlfriend Lisa’s (yes, the one I made out with) apartment, Montrose. She got a three hundred dollar bonus for signing us up and bought a new washer and dryer. Funny, I was hoping that she would share it with us. My life with Richard at Montrose is a story all to itself and too big to tangle up with the goings on of Greenhouse Patio. I have not seen Tom, since our last day at Greenhouse. Sometimes when I allow my mind to go back to that time in my life, I wonder if Tom’s brother still has that crooked smile and if Tom ever took responsibility for any of the lives that he affected that night. A safe guess would be no.
Our new place, instantly became an after work hangout. The beer of choice in those days was Moosehead Lager. It came in a green bottle, and had a clear, fresh and light taste that was perfect for shaking off muggy slow days at the nursery. One of our fellow co-workers, Brook, became such a regular at our new pad that we sometimes referred to the apartment as Brook’s apartment. During our brief, five day stay at Greenhouse Patio we managed to:
- have the police called several times because of loud late night parties
- engage in a game of strip poker with two underage girls
Note: Due to cheating and not great poker playing Richard and GS3 quickly reduced the girl’s earthly coverings to panties. This situation, although normally ideal turned ugly when roommate Tom upset the game and brought his parents over to see the apartment. Tom’s mother was not impressed and we all scattered like roaches after the lights are turned on.
- have a 15 year old girl fall madly in love with GS3
- have GS3 make out with Tom’s hot girlfriend Lisa in the pool (wearing only a wet t-shirt and panties)
- become a small recycling plant for aluminum cans and green bottles
- various other things that cannot be remembered
On the night that established our eviction, I was not even at the apartment. My girlfriend Pam and I were babysitting her very sweet and fun nephew and niece at her sister in law’s house in Dunwoody. Richard was out on a date with his girlfriend and Tom had organized a group to attend the then annual light up Atlanta Festival downtown. When I awoke the next day, I had no idea kind of mess was waiting on me back in Roswell.
The apartment was a wreck as usual. It looked like one of those places under a bridge where homeless people build cardboard communities. I grabbed an industrial strength hefty bag, and went to work like Santa stuffing goodies. After the furniture was moved back into place and the trash removed, I went to the leasing office to borrow a vacuum cleaner. Cheerful, I burst through the leasing office doors, “Hey would you guys mind if I borrowed your vacuum cleaner again?”
“How can you come in here after what happened last night?” a lady said to me accusingly.
“I am getting the manager”
“I was not here last night; I was babysitting…what happened?”
Then the manager called me into his office.
“I’ll tell you what happened, your friend Tom got drunk and kicked his brother’s fucking head in!”
“What?” I said in disbelief.
“The fucking police and firemen were here at three in the morning; his brother’s blood is all over the parking lot!”
“I’ll show you!”
The manager marched out of the office and pointed to the parking area in front of our building. The black asphalt was dyed red. My whole world started unraveling.
“Are you going to kick us out?”
“I don’t know, allot of people do not want you guys here”
“But it was just Tom… me and Richard were not here”
“Maybe if you clean up that blood and write apology letters to everyone in the complex”
“Okay, okay, I will do anything just don’t kick me out, I have no where to go”
I jumped in my car and raced to Pike’s to borrow a hose and some Clorox. Tom met me with a smile as I walked in the door.
“Tom you son of a bitch, I have no where to go!”
“That money I put down for the deposit was all I had!”
“I can’t go home, my father hates me!”
And then the tears came and the world melted into a blurry, bitter kaleidoscope. Tom put his arms around me to settle me down.
“I am sorry”
“I won’t let anything happen to you”
“I am not drinking anymore”
“They won’t kick us out”
“I gotta get a hose and clean the parking lot”, I barley managed to choke out.
The rest of the day I spent on my hands and knees scrubbing someone else’s blood and distributing apology letters. Even though I had nothing to do with what happened, I was forced to take action to save my own ass. In the end, none of my efforts mattered. The manager decided that it would be best for the community if we moved out. Luckily he gave us until the end of the month to find another place. I was beyond devastated. That evening, Tom left the manager with a dramatic “fuck you”, and sealed the deal with the finger as he pealed out of the apartment complex.
Before the month was out, I ran into Tom’s brother. Half of his face was paralyzed and he looked like Popeye when he smiled. It seems that after Tom and the gang had spent a long night drinking at the light up Atlanta Festival, they returned home and an argument between Tom and his brother ensued. Tom, feeling six foot tall and bullet proof did a round house kick to his brother’s head. The blow knocked out the feet from beneath his brother and when he fell his head hit the curb. Tom’s brother lost so much blood that night, that it paralyzed half of his face. Richard and I ended up moving into Tom’s girlfriend Lisa’s (yes, the one I made out with) apartment, Montrose. She got a three hundred dollar bonus for signing us up and bought a new washer and dryer. Funny, I was hoping that she would share it with us. My life with Richard at Montrose is a story all to itself and too big to tangle up with the goings on of Greenhouse Patio. I have not seen Tom, since our last day at Greenhouse. Sometimes when I allow my mind to go back to that time in my life, I wonder if Tom’s brother still has that crooked smile and if Tom ever took responsibility for any of the lives that he affected that night. A safe guess would be no.
Something no one will care about
But I'll post this anyway, knowing the good readers of this blog will probably not be interested.
When the Da Vinci Code came out a couple of years ago, I was fascinated, and read the whole thing in a short amount of time. I have always been interested in that sort of subject matter, and most of what the author talked about, I already knew.
I sort of fancy myself as a budding writer, and am always starting on books and things that I either never finish or, if I do, never have the nerve to submit to a publisher since I know they'll be rejected.
After finishing reading the Da Vinci Code, I planned a new book. I started researching and outlining a book to "follow up" on the Da Vinci Code, and be a sort of unauthorized "secrets behind the book" book. I didn't get far, although the idea really fascinated me. I eventually got busy in my own life again, and with work, blah blah blah, and never took the time to get very far on it.
Then in the book store I found something that halted all progress on it for good....a half dozen or more books EXACTLY like the one I was working on, already written and published. One of them was getting great reviews and selling well. I bought it, read the introduction, and became depressed. The guy said he read the Da Vinci Code the summer of 2003, the same time I read it, and....AND he runs his own business as his main occupation. So this guy and I both read the book at the same time, both have main jobs other than writing, and HE manages to whip out a book and get it published while I'm still fumbling around on the sidelines.
Not that I could have gotten mine published anyway since I've never published ANYthing, and he's already got several books out. But the point is there's a difference between him and me....he did it, he finished his book; I didn't finish mine...didn't hardly even try.
So my claim that I don't have the spare time is really bogus. I just don't MAKE the time. Since I turn 40 this year, it's probably time to stop playing around and start doing what I need to do in order to do what I want to do. What do YOU want to do when you grow up? Are you doing it? Because guess what, you're grown up now.
When the Da Vinci Code came out a couple of years ago, I was fascinated, and read the whole thing in a short amount of time. I have always been interested in that sort of subject matter, and most of what the author talked about, I already knew.
I sort of fancy myself as a budding writer, and am always starting on books and things that I either never finish or, if I do, never have the nerve to submit to a publisher since I know they'll be rejected.
After finishing reading the Da Vinci Code, I planned a new book. I started researching and outlining a book to "follow up" on the Da Vinci Code, and be a sort of unauthorized "secrets behind the book" book. I didn't get far, although the idea really fascinated me. I eventually got busy in my own life again, and with work, blah blah blah, and never took the time to get very far on it.
Then in the book store I found something that halted all progress on it for good....a half dozen or more books EXACTLY like the one I was working on, already written and published. One of them was getting great reviews and selling well. I bought it, read the introduction, and became depressed. The guy said he read the Da Vinci Code the summer of 2003, the same time I read it, and....AND he runs his own business as his main occupation. So this guy and I both read the book at the same time, both have main jobs other than writing, and HE manages to whip out a book and get it published while I'm still fumbling around on the sidelines.
Not that I could have gotten mine published anyway since I've never published ANYthing, and he's already got several books out. But the point is there's a difference between him and me....he did it, he finished his book; I didn't finish mine...didn't hardly even try.
So my claim that I don't have the spare time is really bogus. I just don't MAKE the time. Since I turn 40 this year, it's probably time to stop playing around and start doing what I need to do in order to do what I want to do. What do YOU want to do when you grow up? Are you doing it? Because guess what, you're grown up now.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Once Again God Notices Me
I know of at least two times that God has taken an interest in my life. Once was at a baseball game and the other was in a vegetable garden. My first three years after high school were about as fun as taking a hit of acid at a funeral. Most of my time was spent running away from things: my father, work, school, and the future. I use to have a 1973 bottle green Camaro that spent so much time on the road that the wheel bearings on the drivers-side right wheel literally melted one day while rolling down the Union Hill (now Windward Parkway) exit ramp. My uncle Tony banged in a new set of bearings into the wheel on several occasions but one or two trips after the new part was installed, they popped out again like too much dick in too little pussy. In the end, my trusty steed was put to rest under a pine tree in my father’s back yard. It quickly became victim to pine resin, bird shit and mildew from rainwater creeping in through the cracked window seals. I can still remember the funky way it smelled and scavenging cassette tapes out of pools of rainwater and fast food trash.
The sudden death of my beloved left me with four choices: borrow a car, mooch a ride from a friend, ride the MARTA, or walk. My pride never prevented me from pursuing any one of these options, although my preferred choice was to borrow a car. There were only two people in my family that I could ask to participate in such a risky venture: my Aunt Becky and my grandfather (mother’s side), whom I called Paw-Paw. Becky had a 1976 baby blue Ford Granada. In case you are not familiar with that particular car, it is a real old ladies-mobile. My aunt had bought it for thirteen thousand dollars cash money when it was brand new and she loved it. Sometimes when she saw me feeling down about my lack of wheels, she would say, “Doodle, when I die I am going to leave you my car.” “Awww Becky, by the time you die that ole thing won’t even roll”, I would always say back to her and we both would smile. Little did we both know that she was leaving this world allot sooner than either one of us thought. But while she was alive, my aunt was fairly protective about her Ford. Although she did let me drive it on occasion, the begging that I had to do to use it and the pain and worry it caused her, was not worth the effort.
Now the only reason my grandfather had a car was because my Uncle Richard bought him one for emergencies and to get groceries. I don’t remember the make and model, but it was a big boxy golden boat. There was something wrong with the power-steering and when you turned the wheel sharply to the left or right a piercing screech would come from beneath the hood. “God damn it Doodle, don’t do that”, he would holler at me as I cut the wheel hard to leave his little gravel driveway. I hated to borrow my grandfather’s car even more than my aunt’s, although I am sure he never minded.
Mostly I needed the car to go see my girlfriend Pam. She was the only thing keeping me smiling in those days. I was only allowed to see her one day a week, and I tried to make that day last forever. She did not have a car either, so if I did not make arrangements for transportation our plans could be seriously compromised. One Saturday, like every other Saturday that summer, I wanted the freedom a car supplied for my weekly date. Lacking the energy to beg and plead with my aunt, my choice of vehicles pointed easily in my grandfather’s direction. I hopped on the MARTA and headed to my grandmother’s house in Roswell.
“Paw-Paw, are you here?” I yelled through the torn screen door. “Come on in Doodle, my grandmother yelled back.” I entered the little yellow house and saw my Aunt Arnell and grandmother fixing lunch in the kitchen.
“Paw-Paw’s in the shed out back working on a lawn mower, what do you need him for?”
“I was going to see if I could borrow the car this afternoon”, I said timidly.
“Paw-Paw don’t mind if you use the car honey but you need to help pull those weeds in the garden before you go”, my grandmother said as she took a bite of cornbread.
“Shit”, I said to myself.
“I hate working in the fucking garden”
“It is hot a hell and I am going to get all dirty and itchy”
“Stupid fucking garden, why can’t they just give me the car?” my selfish nature lamented.
“Okay”, I said not hiding my disappointment, and went out to sink my sneakers into the soft earth. “Fucking stupid, stinking weeds”, I said under my breath with every plant I pulled. I pulled off my shirt and laid it across the chain link fence. “Just do it fast and it will be over with”, I thought trying to comfort myself. I stepped up my pace and started flinging weeds over my head frantically, large dirt clods were still clinging to the roots. “Don’t pull up my ‘maters!”, my grandmother hollered from the back porch. I kept working at my ridiculous pace until I screamed in exhaustion.
“I can’t do this anymore”
“It’s too hot”
“I can’t breath”
Paw-Paw walked around the corner.
“It’s alright boy, I’ll finish up”
“Go in the house and get cleaned up”
“I’ll make sure there is oil in the car”
I walked in the house with a skip in my step, knowing air-conditioning and girlfriend were just minutes away. My aunt gave me a look that was both disgusted and disappointed at the same time. I wiped myself off with a cool washrag, put my shirt back on and walked out into the yard. My grandfather was waiting on me, and handed me a five dollar bill for gas. “Watch that power steering boy”, he said to me and put his hand on my shoulder. As I pulled away, I looked back at my grandfather through the rear view mirror. He was bending over in the garden, gently pushing aside tomato plants looking for weeds.
I am thirty eight years old now and it has been over twenty years since that day at my grandmother's. Some would say that it is poetic justice that I spent the next twelve years of my life working in other people’s gardens. But I know in my heart that it was more than coincidence or poetry that guided my fate. God had to teach me the value of a garden.
The sudden death of my beloved left me with four choices: borrow a car, mooch a ride from a friend, ride the MARTA, or walk. My pride never prevented me from pursuing any one of these options, although my preferred choice was to borrow a car. There were only two people in my family that I could ask to participate in such a risky venture: my Aunt Becky and my grandfather (mother’s side), whom I called Paw-Paw. Becky had a 1976 baby blue Ford Granada. In case you are not familiar with that particular car, it is a real old ladies-mobile. My aunt had bought it for thirteen thousand dollars cash money when it was brand new and she loved it. Sometimes when she saw me feeling down about my lack of wheels, she would say, “Doodle, when I die I am going to leave you my car.” “Awww Becky, by the time you die that ole thing won’t even roll”, I would always say back to her and we both would smile. Little did we both know that she was leaving this world allot sooner than either one of us thought. But while she was alive, my aunt was fairly protective about her Ford. Although she did let me drive it on occasion, the begging that I had to do to use it and the pain and worry it caused her, was not worth the effort.
Now the only reason my grandfather had a car was because my Uncle Richard bought him one for emergencies and to get groceries. I don’t remember the make and model, but it was a big boxy golden boat. There was something wrong with the power-steering and when you turned the wheel sharply to the left or right a piercing screech would come from beneath the hood. “God damn it Doodle, don’t do that”, he would holler at me as I cut the wheel hard to leave his little gravel driveway. I hated to borrow my grandfather’s car even more than my aunt’s, although I am sure he never minded.
Mostly I needed the car to go see my girlfriend Pam. She was the only thing keeping me smiling in those days. I was only allowed to see her one day a week, and I tried to make that day last forever. She did not have a car either, so if I did not make arrangements for transportation our plans could be seriously compromised. One Saturday, like every other Saturday that summer, I wanted the freedom a car supplied for my weekly date. Lacking the energy to beg and plead with my aunt, my choice of vehicles pointed easily in my grandfather’s direction. I hopped on the MARTA and headed to my grandmother’s house in Roswell.
“Paw-Paw, are you here?” I yelled through the torn screen door. “Come on in Doodle, my grandmother yelled back.” I entered the little yellow house and saw my Aunt Arnell and grandmother fixing lunch in the kitchen.
“Paw-Paw’s in the shed out back working on a lawn mower, what do you need him for?”
“I was going to see if I could borrow the car this afternoon”, I said timidly.
“Paw-Paw don’t mind if you use the car honey but you need to help pull those weeds in the garden before you go”, my grandmother said as she took a bite of cornbread.
“Shit”, I said to myself.
“I hate working in the fucking garden”
“It is hot a hell and I am going to get all dirty and itchy”
“Stupid fucking garden, why can’t they just give me the car?” my selfish nature lamented.
“Okay”, I said not hiding my disappointment, and went out to sink my sneakers into the soft earth. “Fucking stupid, stinking weeds”, I said under my breath with every plant I pulled. I pulled off my shirt and laid it across the chain link fence. “Just do it fast and it will be over with”, I thought trying to comfort myself. I stepped up my pace and started flinging weeds over my head frantically, large dirt clods were still clinging to the roots. “Don’t pull up my ‘maters!”, my grandmother hollered from the back porch. I kept working at my ridiculous pace until I screamed in exhaustion.
“I can’t do this anymore”
“It’s too hot”
“I can’t breath”
Paw-Paw walked around the corner.
“It’s alright boy, I’ll finish up”
“Go in the house and get cleaned up”
“I’ll make sure there is oil in the car”
I walked in the house with a skip in my step, knowing air-conditioning and girlfriend were just minutes away. My aunt gave me a look that was both disgusted and disappointed at the same time. I wiped myself off with a cool washrag, put my shirt back on and walked out into the yard. My grandfather was waiting on me, and handed me a five dollar bill for gas. “Watch that power steering boy”, he said to me and put his hand on my shoulder. As I pulled away, I looked back at my grandfather through the rear view mirror. He was bending over in the garden, gently pushing aside tomato plants looking for weeds.
I am thirty eight years old now and it has been over twenty years since that day at my grandmother's. Some would say that it is poetic justice that I spent the next twelve years of my life working in other people’s gardens. But I know in my heart that it was more than coincidence or poetry that guided my fate. God had to teach me the value of a garden.
New Favorite
A new posting to illuminate the masses.I have met the newest addition to my top favorites,introduced to me by Pallee,shooter girl extroidinare. Amy J., a Boris Vallejo calender girl come to life , minus the death lizard at her side.(You know ,one of those fantasy calenders so favored by guys who play Dungeons and Dragons on Saturday nights ."Mom ..!..go away, I can't do a spell while you're asking me to take out the trash".) Amy J. is perhaps one of the only women you'll ever meet drawn into real life.Curves you could wreck a corvette on.Flawless skin and firm as Carolina peach.Sweet, flirtacious without the slightest pretence,a natural coquet.I would highly recommend buying her a drink,asking her to sit a few minutes and enjoy the fun. When you're old you will see your life flash before your eyes and you might, might, wonder what it was like to see a beautiful woman do a Beavis and Butthead routine while she is giving you a table dance. And damn if funny and sexy aren't synonimous.Now pardon me while I go to bed, I have to deliver a boatload of copra to Guam in the morning .
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
When GS3 Met RButler
AN OBSERVATION
One of the stupidest trades ever conducted on this planet (or more than likely any other) was when James left Pam. I witnessed the transaction first hand one late spring afternoon while I sat at the senior lunch table. The numbers one, nine, eight and two were crudely cut out of crepe paper and scotch taped to the wall. The one and nine were torn and were waving with the occasional blast of air conditioning. I was technically not a senior myself, and generally such an intrusion by an under classman into a senior area was frowned upon, but since I was considered harmless and mildly entertaining I was waved in by a couple of my elders. As I sat and worked my way through the Milton High School cafeteria's version of a pizza slice, I noticed a nervous chattering of energy down at one end of the table. For a moment I could not determine the source of the commotion, but then the fog lifted and all was made clear to me. James H was sitting with Kris B instead of Pam A.
"What the hell was he thinking?"
"Pam has this lunch period too, she will certainly see him."
"Surely he does not mean to dump Pam for Kris!"
My mind whirred at the possibilities. I dumped an extra packet of Italian dressing on my tiny iceberg and shredded carrot salad and prepared myself for the ugliness unfolding in front of me. It was not long before I forgot all about the upcoming confrontation and was lost in the multitude of conversations floating around the lunch area.
"This weekend John is going to get his dad’s chainsaw and go cut down the devil tree"
"Let's meet at Mama's Kitchen, get some pizza and then go to the Twilight Zone."
"Mike knows someone that will buy us beer, Cory's parents are out of town, and we can get the band together and have a party."
"There is going to be fight behind the bowling alley."
Before I could put together an itinerary for the weekend, it happened. Pam was standing directly in front of James with a look of total surprise and heartbreak on her face. "YOU BASTARD" she yelled, right in front of a fat football coach, and rushed out of the room in a tearful dramatic exit. As if sensing his cue, James too in turn burst into tears and bowed his head into the less than ample bosom of his new mustachioed gal pal. The entire scene played out in less than fifteen seconds. I watched the whole thing with my mouth open and a carton of half frozen orange juice in my hand. "FUCK, James dumped Pam" "What a dumbass", I thought to myself as I got up from the table and emptied my tray into the bin. Then a wonderful thought occurred to me, "I wonder if she would go out with me?" The possibility was enough to keep me smiling for the rest of the day. Little did I know that my first meeting with rbutler was just around the corner.
SOME BACKGROUND NOTES:
Once, I had the great misfortune to have been forced to kiss Kris during a game of spin the bottle. Perhaps I was just put off because her moustache was so much better developed than mine or that she had hair in her pits and I didn't. Whatever the reason, I remember thinking that I was lucky to get away with only a dry, thin-lipped peck. Now mind you that this was a small price to pay because the same bottle that pointed my fate towards Kris later redirected my lips towards Pam. As awkward as I felt goober-lipping Pam in front of her then man James, I was no fool and embraced her in an awkward overly moist smooch that probabley left her wondering if I was retarded.
The good readers of the pink pony diaries, with the exception of one rbutler, have no sense of the magnitude of the story that I have just told you. Leaving Pam A for Kris B could be compared to leaving Bridget Bardot for Walter Cronkite. Sure Walter has a nice personality but will he dress up like a schoolgirl and beg you for anal sex (let's hope not).
One of the stupidest trades ever conducted on this planet (or more than likely any other) was when James left Pam. I witnessed the transaction first hand one late spring afternoon while I sat at the senior lunch table. The numbers one, nine, eight and two were crudely cut out of crepe paper and scotch taped to the wall. The one and nine were torn and were waving with the occasional blast of air conditioning. I was technically not a senior myself, and generally such an intrusion by an under classman into a senior area was frowned upon, but since I was considered harmless and mildly entertaining I was waved in by a couple of my elders. As I sat and worked my way through the Milton High School cafeteria's version of a pizza slice, I noticed a nervous chattering of energy down at one end of the table. For a moment I could not determine the source of the commotion, but then the fog lifted and all was made clear to me. James H was sitting with Kris B instead of Pam A.
"What the hell was he thinking?"
"Pam has this lunch period too, she will certainly see him."
"Surely he does not mean to dump Pam for Kris!"
My mind whirred at the possibilities. I dumped an extra packet of Italian dressing on my tiny iceberg and shredded carrot salad and prepared myself for the ugliness unfolding in front of me. It was not long before I forgot all about the upcoming confrontation and was lost in the multitude of conversations floating around the lunch area.
"This weekend John is going to get his dad’s chainsaw and go cut down the devil tree"
"Let's meet at Mama's Kitchen, get some pizza and then go to the Twilight Zone."
"Mike knows someone that will buy us beer, Cory's parents are out of town, and we can get the band together and have a party."
"There is going to be fight behind the bowling alley."
Before I could put together an itinerary for the weekend, it happened. Pam was standing directly in front of James with a look of total surprise and heartbreak on her face. "YOU BASTARD" she yelled, right in front of a fat football coach, and rushed out of the room in a tearful dramatic exit. As if sensing his cue, James too in turn burst into tears and bowed his head into the less than ample bosom of his new mustachioed gal pal. The entire scene played out in less than fifteen seconds. I watched the whole thing with my mouth open and a carton of half frozen orange juice in my hand. "FUCK, James dumped Pam" "What a dumbass", I thought to myself as I got up from the table and emptied my tray into the bin. Then a wonderful thought occurred to me, "I wonder if she would go out with me?" The possibility was enough to keep me smiling for the rest of the day. Little did I know that my first meeting with rbutler was just around the corner.
SOME BACKGROUND NOTES:
Once, I had the great misfortune to have been forced to kiss Kris during a game of spin the bottle. Perhaps I was just put off because her moustache was so much better developed than mine or that she had hair in her pits and I didn't. Whatever the reason, I remember thinking that I was lucky to get away with only a dry, thin-lipped peck. Now mind you that this was a small price to pay because the same bottle that pointed my fate towards Kris later redirected my lips towards Pam. As awkward as I felt goober-lipping Pam in front of her then man James, I was no fool and embraced her in an awkward overly moist smooch that probabley left her wondering if I was retarded.
The good readers of the pink pony diaries, with the exception of one rbutler, have no sense of the magnitude of the story that I have just told you. Leaving Pam A for Kris B could be compared to leaving Bridget Bardot for Walter Cronkite. Sure Walter has a nice personality but will he dress up like a schoolgirl and beg you for anal sex (let's hope not).
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