I forgot:

my bike. The weather in Boulder was awesome. Live and learn...

Anyhoo, I went on another trip—this time to Nashville, Tennessee. "Why Nashville?" Because it's a beautiful place. and it was cheaper than England. England won't be going anywhere, by the dollar should get stronger before too long. I hope. And I digress.

My old buddy, Alan, and I decided on Nashville because I love the place and he hadn't been to that part of the country. Easy enough. We left on Saturday morning. I went out the night before and was running on five hours of sleep. Gassed up. Set with food. Drinks (water and sodas, funny guy). Music and podcasts ready. And I brought the bikes! Ha! I wasn't too tired to forget anything this time.

Alan and I were best friends from 7th grade until our separate careers pulled us in different directions. Alan was the funniest guy I knew and we were often finishing each other's jokes. He recently moved closer and we have been hanging out a bit. He was the first person I thought of when I wanted to go to England. When we decided on Nashville, Alan was all for it. This was going to be a funny trip.

The drive was long. We got in about 12 hours later. We met Brit and Trina for dinner - BBQ - then we headed for a bar in downtown Nashville. The Red Door. Sounds like a gay bar, and by judging all the frat guys and the women that love them, it was. The place was super crowded and it took us a bit to get drinks. Brit and Trina were married just over two years ago (methinks) and the bar, The Red Door, was where we went after their wedding and reception. It was also the bar where Trina had words with one of the aforementioned frat guys, and Brit's brother-in-law (a Marine with Iraqi shrapnel stuck in his face) knocked said homophobe's teeth out. Needless to say, their wedding night was memorable for everyone-not just themselves. Alas, there would be no frat guy gay-bashing one of trina's friends. There would be no fist fights or thrown bottles. There would be no broken teeth being kicked into the gutter by Brit's sister. There would be no police questioning. The only thing repeated from my first visit to The Red Door was a good bit of laughter. Alan and I were both whipped, so we headed back to the hotel around one.

The hotel was a bit pricier than we were both used to so we planned on getting everything we could from the stay. This included planning to get up earlier than it made sense to enjoy the breakfast bar. Advice to anyone thinking that a breakfast bar is an added bonus for paying too much for a hotel: IT'S NOT. Hurriedly scarfing a few boxes of Golden Grahams while nursing a headache due to lack of sleep is NOT an added bonus. Drinking shotglass-sized portions of orange "juice" in a predawn version of Beat The Clock is not an added bonus. The danishes were good, but still not an added bonus. After retuning to the room to finish my needed sleep, we woke up to cloudy skies. We headed to the Shelton's new house, east in Murfreesboro.

Brit was an old acquaintance of mine in high school. Actually, he was the first of the Sheehan circle I ever met. Some time around 8th grade. Brit is a super nice guy and when were were able to hang out, he proved to be a top notch person. Quick with a smile and very friendly. He doesn't have a drop of pretense about him. It was only fitting when he married the epitome of the girl next door. Trina was a Tennessee native and they met while Brit was teaching one of her classes at the local university. SCORE! Pretty, funny, and personable. Perfect for Brit. Their new house was every bit as cute as they are: big but practical with room to grow. We saw their dogs, Justice, a young Black-faced boxer with a spazzy side, and Carson, a mature Yorkie with a oversized sense of bravery. Carson was the shit. Brit also gave us a tour of his gun safe, then the campus where he used to work.

The next day, Alan and I headed out to Lynchburg to see the Jack Daniel's distillery. I recommend the tour to anyone. Except alcoholics. Because the distillery is in a dry county and after spending the day walking around a drunk's mecca, they serve lemonade. It was good lemonade, though. After the tour, we went to downtown Lynchburg (google it. I just made a funny joke...) and looked at all the Jack Daniel's souvenirs one could ever want. Except Jack Daniel's whiskey.
brb

Day 2 Post

sucked. Long winded and didn't really go far...

To save you the effort: We woke up drove around a lot. Found some food. Ate it. I almost cut my foot off. Went for a walk. Drove into town...

Sorry for the root canal. I will try to be more selective with what I post. Smiley face.

Day 2

After we let Maggs run a bit, Chad wanted to go to a small restaurant to get some chow. While he went in to put on some big-people pants, we hopped in his 4x4 and took off. We took the back way, winding up into the mountains. The sun was in full effect and the day was already in the 60s. "Snowboarding wasn't going to be on the menu this week." I thought. The higher we went, the ore tense I got. Chad is a very inattentive driver. He's totaled a few cars. Luckily he was the only one in the car each time, so no one got hurt. I was really hoping his perfect "no casualties" record was going to hold up.

We pulled down a dirt side-road and parked in front of a very humble building. The mountain man's version of a greasy spoon. As we walked in the door I took note that there were four tables. Luckily, Chad immediately noticed the big "no credit cards" sign over the register. Chad didn't even sit down before he turned heel and hopped in the Jeep to hit an ATM. He arrived pretty annoyed. The town's only ATM was kaput. The post office up the road didn't have one. You would think that if you owned a business miles away from civilisation that you would keep a close tab on the only source of cash. Or buck up and take credit cards. Oh, well. I apologised that my coffee would go unpaid for. The lady didn't seem bothered.

We hopped in the Jeep and took off toward Estes Park. I had never been there before and didn't know much about the place. We drove a good hour before we crested the hill before Estes Park. It was a very touristy town in a valley. The hotel from The Shining is there. Never knew that. We looked for an ATM (and found one). After we gassed up, took the main road toward where there might be a restaurant. "The Egg House"... looks like a place that might serve breakfasts. We pulled in, sat, ate, paid, and split. Eggs work every time.

Chad spent the majority of the drive and the meal bitching. He let me know how clueless his co-workers were trying to screw him. He let me know about a bunch of legal trouble a recently exed ex had gotten him into. Those two topics were going to be a theme this week.

We headed back to his place and arrived around 1 pm. I wanted to go on a hike and decompress from the stressful conversation. I crossed a small snow-frozen bridge across from the cabin and hit a trail. Did I mention it was sunny, beautiful and cloudless? It was. for the first time of the trip, I was glad I did.

With Maggie in tow, I took a left and hit the ascent. Chad had handed me a walking stick that he had adorned with carvings, leather straps and baubles. It was the type of thing you would expect a dread-locked white girl with political amounts of armpit hair would carry around at a drum circle. (I have seen this.) This squirelly stick was my only weapon against the roving packs of chipmunks that were known to stip a man to the bone in a matter of seconds. I digress. We climbed the mountain a few hundred vertical feet. Maggie and I got separated. I hope the chipmunks didn't get her. I took a minute to look around. There were a few deer tracks in the snow. took a deep breath of the fresh air and headed back down the trail. I called, but Maggie was nowhere. I passed some felled trees and spotted a decent log. I was going to need fuel for the stove if I wanted to sleep well. When I got to the house Maggie was waiting inside the front door. Maggie 1, chipmunks 0. I hollered at Chad for an axe to hack this log to usable pieces. He told me to grab the splitter with the red handle. A splitter is a combination axe and sledge hammer. I went outside and set up for a bit of muscle straining wood splitting. Bam. Solid hit dead center. I was going to really have to lay into this thing to do any damage. I hauled back and really let one swing. Put everything I had into it. except good aim. The splitter hit the log at an angle and glanced to the side, wizzing by my leg. It was a scare. I could have easily put a big vertical gash in my right ankle. We were so high up in the hills... it wouldn't have been pretty. Chad came out right when I was catching my breath. He pulled out a chainsaw and made quick work of my nemesis. All limbs were in tact. Time to go.

We stacked the wood and I grabbed the computer. we were heading into Boulder.

Day 1.5

I woke up the next morning feeling a bit ragged. The cabin Chad lives in gets pretty cold at night. Cold enough that he sleeps in a small loft above the kitchen with a small heater and his dog, Maggie, for a bit of extra warmth. I, on the other hand, was in the center of the room, on a futon under two sleeping bags. And a layer of frost. The pot-belly stove that would normally keep the room warm and one's breath invisible wasn't lit. First thing I am going to do when we get in tonight was light that bad-boy up. Me likey fire. 

After I awoke, I found Chad was up and about. He was on his computer concluding some business and calling in sick. At the time, I thought it a bit of hooky, but later Chad disclosed that he was under the weather. Seems my timing was ill timed.

Sun was up. BEAUTIFUL weather outside. Cold and sunny. 8 a.m.

This was the firsttime I have seen Chad in a good few years. We worked together years ago at TWANG magazine. I worked at a startup and we were dipping our toes into the publishing business. I was the only person in the office that could spell well-enough to pass muster, so we needed a designer to pick up the slack. Chad was brought in by our publisher, Paco Koehn, to be that designer. They went to high school together and it was a good fit. Another rowdy guy among rowdy guys. We hit it off. I was well impressed with is sensibility. He was a much better designer that I. I also liked that he distrusted Paco as much as I did. Eventually Chad was looking for a room mate and I was looking for a room. Soon after I moved in TWANG folded. We went job-hunting and Chad landed a job I was really pining for. I moved out, bitter, and we lost touch. Later down the road, Chad and I made amends, and were hanging out regularly. 

A few facts about Chad:

Fact One: He is a 41-year-old cheerleader for the Denver Nuggets. Not "cheerleader" like Brittney-Spears-backup-dancer cheerleader. He's a cheerleader-that-throws-tiny-women-ten- feet-in-the-air-and-catches-them-by-the-feet "cheerleader." He hold two national titles for "stunting." Impressive for a 25-year-old. Really impressive for a 41-year-old.

Fact Two: Chad is a BIG renaissance fair nerd. He travels all over to dress up like a silly girl and talk in a poorly affected English accent. If you were to see Chad as a stranger you might expect him to be into something like that. He has the look of a bad '80s fantasy movie barbarian. Think Beast Master. Yep.

Fact Three: Chad is a sincerely nice guy. He has gone through a lot of trouble since I have known him. He once refurbished a 1970 Sting Ray Corvette Convertible and totaled it on it's maiden voyage (he was cut off and hit a retaining wall. Chad could have easily died.). The car wasn't insured yet and was a total loss, save the new top and the rear wheels. Chad laughed it off.

Fact Four: Chad does exactly what Chad wants to do. He moved to Colorado to live in the Mountains "because I want to live in the mountains." I admire that. Chad is into Ren Fairs "because it's fun." He couldn't care less what other folks think.

I got up and shook off the frost. Chad was on the phone in the kitchen. He was on the phone with his girlfriend. She was in when I showed up, but split before I woke up. I felt bad for a second. She was sick with what Chad had just gotten over and didn't feel sociable. After Chad gave her a courtesy call we went outside to let Maggs stretch her legs a bit.

Chad is a stocky guy. I think he once told me that Notre Dame was pegging him for their Offensive line out of high school. Chad passed on their offers "because I didn't want to be jock." Chad is the definition of a jock, by appearance anyway. The dude is as stocky as a person could be without ending up in front of a Senate panel investigating steroids. To add to the picture, Chad has been growing out his hair since he moved up to Boulder five years ago. His hair was clear down to the middle of his back. Chad is also sporting a weird Abe Lincoln come Backstreet boys beard. And somewhere in the last five years, Chad's neck disappeared. To say that Chad is very much an "individual" is stating the obvious. Put a kilt on him and it's hilarious. Chad. Heh heh heh.

--------

The ground had a nice three-inch layer of snow. This was a fact I missed since I came in via moonlight. The air bit as well. The light cloud cover was already burning off.

Tripping

So apparently I went to Boulder. I woke up the next day (Sunday) and checked the weather forecasts. They outlined bad weather up to Vernon, an hour past Wichita Falls. It was noon and figured now or never. I figured with the time zone change and the few extra miles, I would be rolling into Boulder about one in the morning. Usually, I would opt to drive through west Texas at night due to the complete lack of anything to look at, and reach Raton Pass in New Mexico at sun-up. It takes about eight hours and that would require me to leave home at 10 PM to hit the mark. I loaded up the gear and headed out.

Two sleeping bags and a small tent.
Fire making supplies.
A bag of snacks and Red Bulls.
Clothes.
Computer.
Loaded iPod.
Camera.
I was missing a major piece of gear. I didn't know it.



It was wet out but not by biblical standards (no arcs in sight), so I wasn't too worried. I was a bit apprehensive about possible snow and ice, but scrwe it. I really needed to get out of town. If I got stuck in a blizzard it would be better than spending another boring week off work at home again. None of my friends could go because they all had to work. Don't blame them.

I made a bet with Jay and Deva that as soon as I left town, they would meet women... a claim I made because I noticed that all my male friends never get any. I figured that I am a walking cock-block. We'll see.

Per usual, I made two wrong turns and missed exits before I even got out of DFW. A good start. As expected, wet-Sunday traffic was okay. I almost got in a wreck when some lost dolt almost missed his exit and slammed on his brakes as soon as I let him over. "BUY A MAP ASSHOLE!"

I passed a good few giant bales of cotton. A few gins. The mighty king has fallen so far. To see the gins that once symbolised southern prosperity left as so many rusting hulks for newer things... I was so bored I was trying to romantisize cotton gins. Got to Amarillo safe and dry, but in need of a Starbucks to charge the phone and stretch. There were none. If this is all I was going to have to complain about, it was going to be a boring trip. The sun was setting now. 6 PM.

Dalhart. Hartley. Dumas. The only description to give west Texas is the names on the signs. Occasionally I might catch a glipse of snow on the side of the road.

Raton was a nice change, even if I couldn't see anything now. The limitless ribbon of road was at least of moving in undulations. I finished an audio book in Raton and put on some music for the first time of the trip.

The new Radiohead cd is good. Much better than I was expecting. Didn't really care for the last three. The new Arcade Fire stuff is really good too. Both CDs would make a killer movie soundtrack about a boring roadtrip.

Hit Trinidad, Colorado, just on the other side of Raton Pass, and pulled over to find a fabled Starbucks. It was 10:15 and I would probably just make it before it closed. The kids at the Taco Bell I stopped at told me where to find it. In a Tom Thumb grocery store. Crap. A dead end.

Hit the road for Pueblo. There were a few schools there so ther MUST be a Starbucks that would stay open late.

Nope.

Colorado Springs - my old hood - I pulled off to call Chad and let him know where I was. I found a Denny's and the nice girl hooked me up with the only booth with a power plug. I called my dad to let him know where I was and that my phone battery was crapping out. He thought I was dead or stuck in a snow drift. He also let me know Jack had successfully survived the last 12 hours without me. Good dog, that Jack. Ate some nasty-ass Denny's food and hit the road.

Denver is bigger than I remembered. Boulder was a 45 minute ride north-west. I rolled in at one a.m. local time and called Chad for directions. I imagined that Boulder was a pretty place, but at one in the morning it looked like Addison.

After winding up and into the mountains for 30 minutes I found Chad's place. He and Maggie were waiting for me outside. It was then I noticed how cold it was. Time to catch some sleep.

tbc

Weather or not

I am set to go to Colorado. The problem is that the weather between here and there is a bit iffy. Rain to Wichita Falls, and the good possibility of snow and Ice the rest of the way. Add to that the idea of 14 hours driving each way and my "get up and go" got up and went. Fooey. I am too lazy to go on vacation. I think that might be a first in the history of lazy people.

I will check the forecasts tomorrow and I will prolly head out in the morning.

Turns

Testing my keyboard.

Went out Friday night. Uneventful.

Went out saturday night. Bill and I met the Sheehans at Lee Harveys. Ran into a few other folks I knew from way back. Melody and her date, Jade. There was a birthday happy hour for a girl from work. Pretty cool crew. Some of them know Jade. Melody ran into her friend, Clint. I know Clint as well. Dana was apologetic. Didn't need to be. Dave proposed I go with him to Vegas next month. Maybe. I learned about tit pants. I had a good conversation with Amy C. from work about complacency. She and I are in a band now. Miss Peach was lovely. Dana pointed that out. Left and went to the Palladium. turned around before we got there. Went to Slip Inn. Was miserably crowded. Not fun. Went home. Pwned ((teh Haloz)) Bill. Slept.

Met Steubie and Lynda for breakfast at Allgood Cafe. Nummy. Talked shop. Nice folks. Blogging now.

R.I.P. Jack

I sat by a woman who was in charge of billing. She, Julie, shuffled paperwork and generally made small talk about general topics. Weather. Television. Movies. Julie made an attempt at an occasional joke. The problem was, I was sitting next to - nearly sharing a cubicle with - a person I had absolutely nothing in common with other than the payor address on our pay stubs. Our taste in movies, television and even weather was as differing as I suppose it could get. Her jokes weren’t very good either. It made the days go slower than necessary. (I had to get up and actually go to someone’s desk to have any passable chat. It’s not like I was going to sit in my chair for 8 straight hours and work. No way.)

We sat in the same shared space for eleven months before we found a common topic to share: dogs. Julie, at the time, had four. Two Saint Bernards, a basset hound and a mutt that adopted them. Her husband and two kids didn’t seem to mind sharing their three-bedroom double wide with the dogs, and shortly after my discovery, a cat was purchased. I always liked dogs and even once had a few. I knew what Saint Bernards looked like and Basset Hounds were on my shoes when I was five. That was good enough for me.

We talked for a good three or four hours, over the course of a week, before we exhausted that line. Another month or so passed when Julie mentioned her husband wanted to get a Bulldog. An English Bulldog, not a Pit bull, which are generally found in double wides. I had a bulldog years prior, so I jumped at the chance to offer my bounty of advice.

The Rules: 1. Don’t leave them outside. They don’t ventilate well and it can kill them easily. 2. Don’t feed them tablescraps. Bulldogs tend too put on weight easily. 3. Don’t pimp them out for fighting. That’s just mean. 4. Bathe them often. Bulldogs tend to stink. 5. Be prepared to spend some serious money on him at the vet. The cheaper the dog was to buy the more expensive they are at the vet.

Eventually Julie came in with pictures of the pup they found and he was not unlike any other bulldog pup; wrinkles, fat and cute. I would ask for updates on occasion to break the silence. She would complain of the smell and the shedding. Shedding is what brought them to get rid of Jack and when I found out they wanted to unload him, I called dibs. Julie said to come out to take a look at Jack the following Thursday.

The only picture I ever saw of him was his kennel picture. This was before digital cameras were cheap and common, so they didn’t get many pictures of him. I asked a friend to come along with her opinion so I wouldn’t make an expensive mistake, just in case Jack was genetic mess. As I drove to Rowlett, I had no idea what to expect.

We pulled up to a trailer house on an open lot. I remember most of the houses lacked fences and there were dogs running about. I kept an eye out for a bulldog running loose. In Dallas, a stray bulldog would be a stray for all of five minutes. Out here, probably a bit longer. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. Kristi gave me a look. It was late, about 8:30, and Julie saw the lights pull up. She met us on the edge of the rail-less deck and invited us in. As we stepped through the door, Julie’s son was on the couch with a St. Bernard - a big one - on his lap. Neither one looked to take too much notice of a guest in the house. A basset hound came trotting into the living room with a deep bark. He approached Kristi with a deep whiff and dismissed us as a non-threat. Julie showed us to the kitchen around the corner and went to get the bulldog.

My last bulldog’s name was Cochese. He was lean and lanky (for the breed) and was good in heat (for the breed). He was an amazing lapdog. He liked nothing more than laying with his head in your lap as you drove or watched TV. Unfortunately, my stepmother, whom I lived with, didn’t care for him as much as the rest of us did, so it was a short-lived friendship. I have seen other bulldogs that looked more like a small boxer. Longer legs, leaner chest and a pronounced snout made them look less like a bulldog that I would have thought possible. With the leaner, longer features came more mobility and endurance to heat and play. It was a bit of a trade-off. Either you got a conversation piece in the form of a “classic” big-headed, mush-faced English, or you got a more athletic, resilient and active companion. I prefer the stockier model myself.

Julie returned, and the first thing I noticed with her was another, different St. Bernard. Bigger than the first and he didn’t look pleased. He came right up to my sternum and put his fist-sized nose in my crotch. I pressed against the counter as far back as I could and offered the beast my palm. Kristi squealed. Julie giggled, taking in the sight of a grown man about to be eaten alive. Kristi squealed again, this time kneeling down below my line of vision. The bulldog. In my terror, I forgot about the bulldog. Julie called off the big red beast and I saw Jack for the first time.

Kristi was kneeling down, scratching Jack with vigor just above his tail (what there was of it). Jack was enjoying every second of it, turning and bending his head to meet the scratching as if he was trying to get a good look at what felt so wonderful. I say bending, as if one could bend a fire plug. Jack was about the stockiest dog - bar none - I had seen up to that point. He was by-the-book stocky. It was as if from head to haunch, his skeleton was one heavy bone. He was about two feet long and weighed in at 50 pounds. I gasped at the sight of him. To me he was perfect. I was sold. His coat was red brindle. He had a brilliant white chest and forelegs. His face was white, save the brindle patch over his right eye. His jaw jutted just beyond his broad muzzle, framed by a tiny black sliver of a bottom lip. His tongue was hanging to one side in ecstasy at Kristi’s scratching. When she eased up, noticing that with the scratching, his shed fur was forming a pile at his feet, Jack would snort and paw at her, in a desperate plea for more. He was oblivious to him impending baldness. Kristi stood up and as soon as she did, Jack was spinning around, head cocked, looking for the next person in line to scratch him into euphoria.

He waddled up to me playfully, pawing at the air as he approached. He was showing his age. Jack was only one year old and had reached his full size. According to Julie, he was the runt with an undersized windpipe, so per the breeder, he was fixed as soon as they could get it done. A soon as he reached me he spun around, offering his butt. The first thing I noticed was how coarse his coat was on his wrinkled, rolling back. Then his smell. Jack stinks. His torso was also rock-solid. I scratched his ass a few seconds. That was all it took to form a pile of fur above his tail again. He did shed quite a bit. And stink. No problem here. So do I, I thought. I scratched behind his ears and his tongue shot out. He let out a firm grunt. Kristi giggled. I shot her a glance and she was grinning ear to ear. It would be hard to keep a straight face around Jack. I grabbed him around the chest and lifted him to see how he liked being held and to check his weight. It was shocking to feel what 50 pounds felt like in a such a short frame. People still find it amazing the he weighs as much as he does (about 45 now, due to the diet I keep him on). He went as limp as he could have as I lifted him onto my bent knee. Completely docile and comfortable. Jack sniffed on my arm as I held him there, looking at his face. His teeth were in good shape, his nose a bit dry. The large fold above his nose was clean underneath, so I knew that his smell was skin related and not because he was dirty. I scratched his face able his eyes and on the “bridge” of his snout. I set him down and asked Julie a few more questions.

He had his balls removed and a cherry eye (swollen tissue in the corner of the eye socket) removed about 3 months prior (a common treatment with bullies). So far, he was very healthy. He regularly ran with the other dogs, he wasn’t aggressive, and he even tolerated cats. His only real issue was his inability to climb the stairs of the deck or get up on the couch. He didn’t bark and was housebroken (to this day I can count on one hand the number of times he messed in the house). I asked Julie what the going rate was for a slightly-used stinky bulldog. $250 to cover the surgeries was fair to her, so he shook on it and I produced the cash. When I was handing over the money, I noticed Julie’s youngest son watching from around the corner. I promised him I would take good care of Jack and he would be available to play with whenever his Mom brought them over.

We loaded Jack into the cab of my car. Kristi held him in her lap on the way back to Dallas. It occurred to me that I never asked Kristi her opinion until I arrived at the house. The giggle in the kitchen was all I needed. When we got out of the car, there was yet another decent collection of fur in the cab and on Kristi. This was going to be a theme with Jack...



(JACK IS NOT DEAD)

A good time.

Every week, on Tuesday nights, some wise people show family-safe movies downtown. A few Tuesdays back it was The Wizard of Oz. The week after, they showed The Goonies (I forgot how trite that film is. And fun). The scene that developes just before sunset is just as good as the movies, though a bit less cinematic. Families-moms and dads, kiddos, babies, and not-yet-too-cool-to hang-out-with-the-folks teenagers-with lawn chairs and picnic baskets enjoying the weather and a slower pace. Friends meeting on blankets with coolers of wine enjoying iconic moving images from their youth. The Wizard brought out a little Dorothy and her stuffed Toto. The Goonies brought out throngs that new every frantic word. FIFTY DOLLA BILL!!!

I ride the Katy trail after work. It's a good workout and there is plenty to look at as I fly along on my bike, listening to music. Usually I do about 30 miles and head home. On tuesdays I do 10 and head to the AAC. I never know what they are showing until the film starts. I missed a few minutes of the other films because I wanted to get a few extra miles in. Tonight I wanted to see it all. I rolled in, looking for a few hints that might give me a clue about what was showing. There was a blanket with a few young girls wearing poodle skirts. It's a either going to be West Side Story, or Grease. Either one would be okay with me. I've never seen West Side Story abd the few times I had seen Grease, many years ago, I was only paying attention to Sandra Dee.

Before too long, after the crowd filled in a bit more, the show started. The screens, large jumbo-trons on either side of Victory Plaza, filled wth a grainy image of a beach... Grease it was. The layout at the plaza is cause for the movie goers to face each other in the middle. At once, you could be watching The T-Birds listen to Danny sing about a girl he met on vacation, and with a quick glance down, see the eyes of the crowd fixed, the crowd singing every word. It was really cool to see. I mean to say, the movie was good. I never watched it more for a movie with a cool story so much as for the music, so I saw whayt was so cherished to so many. It was a really good film. More so, it was good to see folks enjoying themselves. There were no cares in their eyes; just time away from their worries and time with each other.

I miss this stuff.

Steps

Yesterday I hit a mark. I paid off the last of my remaining debt. 19K worth of back taxes gone. It is a bitter-sweet thing to talk about. Concidering the money will be used to pad the pockets of politicians in office only because of their swindling and deceit, it hurts. Concidering the money will go towards an illegal war, and by funding it, I am implicated in killing of our fine soldiers and innocent Iraqis, and the pillaging and burning of a country in my name (though I resist), it is disheartening. Concidering there is NO ACTUAL LAW that says I have to pay said ferderal income taxes - yet it is not worth the effort to fight the IRS' extortion - it is painful. I feel as though I am enjoying that the rape is over. Such a thing to smile about.

With this landmark, I only have my monthlies to worry about: rent, utilities, TV, phone.

My car is paid off, I have no credit cards, no student loans, no 30-year sub-prime flexible-rate mortgage sucking me dry. I can't imagine the feeling of those folks (and I know a few) that are dealing with all of this, plus a slew of maxed-out credit cards. It must be overwhelming. (Not saying that my way is better. My way has worse credit, and it actually worked out to my benefit.)

I plan on sacking away what I can and hopefully I will have a large enough of a roll to put down on a new car in about a year and afford something decent for once - without being strapped for cash on the 14th and 29th of each month. We will see.

Thanks for hearing me out. I feel like bragging a bit.

Damn Google.

I finally figured out how to log into my account. I will try to posts more stuff soon.

Well, crap.

ATTEMPT NUMBER TWO (I just deleted my entire post on accident)

--------------

It's been a while since we spoke. Let me catch you up on the last week:
With the help of my brother, Mikey, I laid a fresh coat of bright white to my bathroom. It makes the floors look that much worse though. I also painted my baseboards in the "dog room", and Jack is already testing the paint. I will need to crate him again. Damn it. I've been cleaning my place extensively as well. I got sick of the clutter and the dirt. I finally started sleeping in my bed this week too. I can say without a doubt that I must have the shittiest mattress in town. My back has been killing me since I moved off the couch. Needless to say, I plan on moving the bed to the living room and the couch to the bedroom. I only need room for one anyway.

I worked out more in the last week than I have in the last 3 months combined. I put the new whip through its paces. About 100 miles in 3 days. I love my new bike, by the way. I also got some skates to work out a different set of muscles. They work like a charm. My legs hurt real good. 18 miles on Monday night with 18 more planned tonight. Been loving the weather - especially the heat - and haven't been home much because of it.

I got back on the horse and went on a nice, chill dinner date with a nice girl. We talked about food, which is my greatest vice and possibly her only one. Easy conversation, but I was still nervous.

Got a message from Andrea yesterday as well. She was upset by my post regarding hypocrisy, "Its All Relative". (To make it clear: I was talking about myself in that post and was not trying to call out anyone in particular or otherwise.) Put me in a worse mood than rejection would have alone. I still care that she is happy.

Anyway. I should be in a good mood. Mikey just started his career as a teacher. Best friends are having their second kid on Friday. Through vicarious living alone, I should be on top of the world. I should be...

Can't say I'm much worse for the wear, though.

HMMMMM...

QUOTE OF THE DAY (Today at 1:30, Lunch Time):

"Dude, I am SICK of Baja Fresh®"

'cause, well, I am.

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I got the recordings from Rockstar Karaoke today. Pleasantly surprised. I miss the turnouts that they used to get at GBG.

Oh well.

That's all.

New "Feature":

QUOTE OF THE DAY. Impressed? You will be.

(In an effort to get my word-count up, I will be posting a quote that I myself said at any given moment during the day. You will no doubt notice the wit and zen-like depth of these juicy-on-the-inside, crunchy-on-the-outside nuggets of chicken-esque wisdom. BE AMAZED!

Quote of the day, 7/19/2006, said at work:

"I am in desparate need of an antacid."

Deep meaning: Instead of belly aching, I look for the cure to what troubles me.

Plus, I need to relieve the acid in my ant.


You are welcome.

Take it to the face.

So there I am. What the hell just happened? I look around. In front of me is a bumper, eye level and about eight feet away. Behind me is a couple, eyes fixed on me as I look back over my shoulder towards them. The girl is looking at me like a monkey just crawled out of my ear. Mouth agape. They were probably thinking the same thing I was at that moment. What the hell just happened? My bike lays on the ground about 10 feet behind me. I look back at the car and catch a glimpse of the driver getting out to approach me. I check myself as I stand. No broken bones, no blood, not much pain. My glasses are bent to shit. Damnit, I think. Love those glasses. Then I realize that I ran into that car and stopped myself with my face. That is what the hell just happened.

Wow. That wasn't so bad. I hope there are no cars about to run me over. I hope no one saw that. I hope my bike is okay. I hope the guy I just hit doesn't beat me up...

The guy is gonna be pissed. I had to have put a decent dent in his bumper.

He approaches and asks "What the hell just happened?"

"I stopped myself on your rear window with my face"

"You OK?"

"I suppose so. I feel OK. God, man, sorry about that. My fault."

He laughs. "Damn, dude, you should be the Fall Guy."

I don't feel the same. Just stupid. I looked at his car. Aside from the 2 small scratches on the bumper, everything is okay. I retrieve my bike from the street. The couple are still standing there with their mouths hanging open. I was expecting the frame to be cracked, wheel trashed. As far I as I could tell, everything was fine. (Later I discovered that I bent both legs of the fork back about 30 millimeters.)

"Man, sorry about that. I feel like a moron."

" Sorry about that", he said, laughing. "I had right of way, but I stopped to let those folks in..."

"I should have left more space."

"Well, adios. Sorry again."

The security guard rolled up about then and apparently thought he was interrupting a fight. I chilled him out and hopped on the bike. Damn.

----

About two hours prior to my taking one to the face, I met up with some friends from work. Chris, Emily - a girl he recently met that he is shining on - her sister Katie, Struebie and his girl, Linda. The final game of the world cup was on and it was a good opportunity to rub elbows with some folks from work that are too new to see how truly dull and unfunny I am. We mainly talked about soccer, movies, and food. Erin is a fellow gamer, which is exceedingly rare, so we traded notes. Cool girl. We talked bicycles a bit, I mentioned my bike doesn't have brakes, and I got teased for having no real means of stopping my bike in case a car were to stop suddenly in my path. Hmmm. Funny how even when I am single, women around me seem to be right about everything.


----


Wow, that was cool. A D&D nerd. Too bad she lives in North Carolina. Chris really likes her. Sister's cool too. Its gonna be a hot one today. If I keep moving, it will cool off a bit. Man there are some pretty girls in Dallas. I will take the long way home.

Oh, shit. It's stopping. Can't slow down. Definitely gonna hit this car. This sucks... Ok, Marcus, loosen up. RELAX. Absorb the impact with your arms.

shit. Shit. SHIT. SHIIIITTTTT!!! Going faster that I thought.

I guess I'm about to get knocked out in the middle of this parking lot.

Hope...

I...

don't...

break...

my...

BONK!!!

What the hell just happened?

LV continued (Reposted from MySpace)

My Dad's a writer. He has a few novels under his belt, a few scripts, an extensive editorial credit and the like. I haven't read any of it, and until recently, wasn't too compelled to start. Fortunately, I made it to a poetry reading he was asked to attend and what he read that day has opened windows I didn't know were shut. You see, normally I am nursing a hangover, resting from a late night or dancing, or am just-plain too lazy to get out of bed before 11 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I figure, since he was reading some new material that he really hadn't brought up before, I would go show some support. At least some bleary-eyed, half asleep and in need of a cup of coffee support, if nothing else.

The library near my place was celebrating another year, and they approriately invited some local authors to read to the screaming kids, volunteers, other writers, and their kin attending the party. 8 a.m. Let me reiterate that part. So after a band and two readers had their time, L.V. was called up to read a selection of poetry he was in the process of polishing up, entitled "The Black Dirt Struggles of Fairly, Texas".

Fairly was the small town he lived in with his Momma and Dad, and six other siblings. It is about 30 East of Greenville, and back then, its existence relied soley on the cotton gin in town. The Davis clan were share croppers. Cotton picking to sustain a life, everyone but his Momma and the youngest girls worked the fields. The youngest eligible was my Dad. Six years old and putting in 10 hours a day on some days, it is no mystery from where his tenacity was grown. The guy was busting his knuckles at age six, whereas at six, I was still trying to master the zen art of shoe-tieing. Respect. It was a tough life, and until the library reading, this was all I really knew about those tough years.

So there I sat, under a tree, on grass, as my Dad took the podium and produced a binder stuffed to capacity with notes and papers. Hardly the image of a "professional writer". Kids running, eating melted icecream. A few of the older follks and some library volunteers scattered about joined me as Larry introduced himself and explained the work and its context. Roughly: A nonfiction book of prose, describing those lean years, during the longest drought in Texas history, just before he and his sibs were sent away to a foster home..."

Those seeing my Dad without knowing his aura might mistake him for a homeless man. Peppered, unkempt hair, mustace to match. Thick glasses held together with a paperclip and a rubberband (I shit you not). A button down shirt that never lookd as good as the day it was pulled off the rack at Wal-Mart. Not dirty, mind you. Just messy. Or eccentric or bohemian, depending on how you vote. His eyes are a rich hazel green and despite the rough framing of his wiley, wirey hair, they glint with the joy and sadness of a boy. His eyes, they do smile, and they project his true personality. Smart, keen to joke, full of puns and opinions, ready to laugh, and accepting of more things than most folks would expect of a man of his generation. His warm voice is good with words, as one would expect of an author. A voice not unlike leather; well worn-in and comfortable. He's an easy guy to like if not see eye to eye with. I guess when you come from such deep poverty, you can easily accept the wart and moles on yourself and others. Not to say that L.V. ever just accepted things the way they were for himself and his kids. He always put those around him first and tried his damnedest to make the best situations better. Just that now, he knows that in the end, hapiness is in the dirt, below the castle.

So L.V. start his reading. First, appropriately, a free verse about the humble joys of a big, close, but poor family, enjoying simple things together. Ice cream socials; picking berries with the sisters for a pie; playing with the dog; hunting with his Daddy and Uncles. It started to sink in what I was hearing. There were innumerable details that were there in that ratty binder, that was a window into my father and myself. A simple, and deeper understanding of us, he, and I. As L.V. went from topic to topic, his leathery voice bouncing from description of ice cream, to hunting, to winters endured with no heat, to the final death of his mother in childbirth, I understood the formerly haggard man behind the mic. His voice and words hit me like the leathery fist of a loved one, right in the gut. I sat there as he finished his portion of the event and thanked the library for its ackowledgement as I caught my breath. It actually took me a good minute to regain control of my wrinkling chin and the tear ducts it is indelibly attached to. Luckily, I wasn't the only one with less-than-dry eyes.

I wanted to hear more. I wanted to know more. There is a lot more to know.

An odd weekend (reposted from MySpace)

So. Halloween weekend. Ususally fun. Filled with laughs, drinks, stories and idiots in costume. Not this time.

Friday: Go off work at 9:45. Went out. Met some friends from High School, Alan and Jason. Good guys, but even Alan's razor wit couldn't pull me out of my funk (See Blog "Pity Party"). Wasted night moping. Note to self: When in doubt, go to Cosmos.

Saturday: Wake up and meet the Dad at Goldrush for breakfast and bonding. I love that guy. As flawed as his decisions are, they are overshadowed by his golden heart. After the eggs, he proposed I go with him to a plot of land in East Texas he has been putting time at. My father is an easy creature to get. He was born and raised in that area of the state and this is where he wants to settle down and eventually die. I admire that. As adverse as he had it throughout his life, the one sustaining piece of his young life is the dusty grey earth in Cumby, Texas.

Cumby is about one-and-a-half hours east of Dallas, near Greenville. My uncle Jerald lives there now. Until this weekend, I would have had no idea how to find the place except through Jerald or my Dad. Jerald is not in the best of health. Bad circulation lead to the amputation of his leg, and the other one isn't looking good either. My granddad had a few strokes and heart attacks until his ticker stopped. Grandmother and two aunts died of aneurism. See the pattern? I do. So I figured that if an emergency were to happen, I would need to know where the land was, and where on that land Dad would be at any given moment. We loaded the truck with a few bricks and scraps of wood and headed East.

Upon arriving, I was both impressed and depressed by what I saw. I was seeing what must have been years of weekly drives, each loaded with scraps of wood and a few bricks. Hours of work. Hard work. The bricks were for a patio being filled out in a circular pattern around a fire pit, set in the center of a long clearing. Also scattered around the clearing were the beginnings of a barbeque smoke pit, a firing range, a brush hut (for safely buring briars, vines and other cleared-out vegetation), an out-house completer with quarter-moon cut out of the door and a fairly large storage shed with most of his non-vital posessions. Other items collect on site are some salvaged shutters, four wheels and tires for a truck, two-by-fours of different lengths, a few 50-gallon drums, four remaining beers of a six-pack, a well-rusted potbelly stove, an old pickup truck that he used till its demise, and an assortment of digging impliments. It was quite hard to resist my habit of ribbing LV (Dad's nickname) over the ramshackle homestead. We unloaded the truck and he gave me a tour of the property.

There was the stock pond that was bone-dry about 50 yards from the brick circle and down a curved path. At its edge were two piers, serving not as a place to fish, but as a reminder. At once, a reminder of his determination in spite of the obvious. Dad's wish that as bare as the present was, there will be a use for all his hard work. Secondly, it reminded me that LV is out here, usually alone, busting his ass digging post holes in dry, black earth. (If you have ever dug a post hole - even in the best conditions - you know how hard that shit is. Digging enough for TWO piers in the banks of a dry pond has got to be murder.) Seeing the pond brought forth images of my father, alone and in pain, clutching his chest, lying on the ground next to a shovel. It chokes me up still to think about it.

As we made our way back top the ring, talking the whole time about his plans for the land, Dad pointed out that I was the only one of all three sons that had gone out to the land. He noted that we never cared for his interests out there. Neither his current stuff, nor the horse ranch he was building when things were better for him. He grabbed a set of bolt-cutters for cutting a path to the back-half of the land, to show me the creek (also dry). We made our way through the thick growth of thorn trees, poison ivy and berry bushes, single file. It hit me that there will be a time that I will need to clear the air. Probably soon. I really need LV to know that he is loved. His mistakes were not all in vain. I have learned from them and think nothing but good things of him. I let him know of the reason I finally came out to see his place. "In case I needed to find you..." but LV knew and said "in case I have a heart attack." "If I die out here. I will die doing what I love." All while never so much as breaking stride or looking over his shoulder. Just a matter of fact. That was tough. We made it down to the creek and back up to the pit. We headed out within a hour of arriving there.

On the way out of Cumby, we stopped at a local house where the tree in the yard was loaded with pears. LV jumped out and grabbed an armload. The residents said it was okay a few weeks back. "Take all you want. I don't eat 'em." Shortly after, we passed Jerald's new house. and hit the highway back to Dallas.

Dad turns 60 next week. He was born in a house, the fifth of seven kids, in Cumby, Texas. He's a good man.