BBQ. That's the title. Just BBQ.

Today has been a comedy of errors.  Bits and pieces of which include flat-ish tires, computer repairs that, after texting and calling two different techie types, were accomplished by merely unplugging the modem and plugging it back in, a schedule mix up that had me hauling ass across the country side, only to be brought up short eight miles from my destination by the news that the whole thing had been pushed back four hours, and, most recently, a soaked shirt and drenched pants because I removed the water bottle from my mouth without first disengaging my righteous squeeze grip thereby spraying water aallll over myself.

It's been a day.  

However, in the midst of all of that - and more - I received a really great text message.  It said: 

"In order to get back in your good graces, the judge, on behalf of this office, would like to extend a warm invitation to lunch at the beer store in Dickens."

It was good.  

Mixed Metaphors, Maybe.

I just got off the phone with my predecessor.He just casually mentioned that the office is closed on Fridays.  Just like that.

Closed.  Fridays. 

1.  Windows
2.  Jeans
3.  4 day work week

I am seriously unnerved.  There must be another shoe of Damocles hanging over my head, suspended by a single shoestring, waiting to drop.  It's enough to make me feel guilty about convincing them I needed three weeks vacation instead of just two.  Almost. 

 ~whispers: "closed Fridays"~ 

So, Saturday I took a little road trip and went to check out my new 'satellite office' in Dickens County.  Dickens is one of four counties that I'll be working for. 

Dickens County is a rustic, old-west type of a place, just off the Caprock.  In fact, all four of the counties in my new judicial district border the edge of the escarpment, which gives them a beauty sorely lacking from the counties that make up the land on top of the raised plains.  These are ranch lands, sparsley populated and thinly patroled. 

My parents lived in the town of Dickens when I was born.  It was my dad's first preaching gig and he was still finishing up college.  I've never spent much time there since becoming fully sentient, so I went for a drive to see what I could see.

Just after I came down off the Cap, I passed this:

You probably can't read the small print on that official looking Cattlemen's Association No Trespassing sign. Basically it says "We Will Shoot You For Being Out Past This Gate.  No One Will Ask Any Questions and The Coyotes Will Eat Your Remains".  More or less. 

 Don't trespass there.  They's serious.

A little further down the road, I looked off to the side and saw this:

I  moved in for a closer look:

  And finally:

It's a catfish.  In a chef's uniform.  Holding a rolling pin.  Pointing south-ish.  With American flags skewering its nostrils.

Any ideas?  Anyone? 

I asked one of the locals, but she wasn't talkin'.

She Might Be A Princess, But Why Make Her Disney'd?

So, you know I'm a fan of Wonder Woman.  And, like any self-respecting geek, I loves me some Wonder Woman stuff - t-shirts, mugs, jewelry, stationary, etc.  But I have a question. 

Why is it all WW merchandise uses the older versions of the Amazon?  You know, the one that looks like Betty Crocker in a swimsuit and tiara?

Why isn't there stuff with the more current version?  You know, the bad-ass warrior woman?

There really was an altar. And what else would you use it for?

Internet dating gets such a bad rap, but every time I've tried it, it's been fantastic!   I've met, like, eleventeen friends from teh internets and I've thoroughly enjoyed it each time. 

Granted, it wasn't THAT kind of a date.  Mine are exclusively the "you're a friend I've known for years, just haven't met you yet" variety.  It gets said a lot, but the people I've gotten to know, both personally and virtually, through this internet writin' bidness have made my life way more interesting. 

A couple of weeks ago I was in Galveston for a family vacation.  My profile pic was taken years ago at a cemetery there and I was dying to go back and retake it.  (You can see the new, improved shot on the right.)  annie lives somewhere in the not too distant vicinity and I was determined to meet up with her and a real life friend of her's that I'd connected with as well. annie and, uh, "Amy" met me at the cemetery and we had a great time exploring and taking photos. 

It took maybe 30 seconds to get past the intrinsic awkwardness that is to be expected when you put a pack of introverts into a social situation.  Almost immediately we fell into the same banter and commentary that we've traded for years online.  It was so much fun.  Even their voices seemed familiar, although we'd never spoken to each other before.  I'd give up introversion if I could connect that quickly and completely with everyone I meet.

We snarked about the mafia burials, the headless angels, the altar where the virgins were sacrificed, fence climbing, and mildly freaked out strangers who were reassured by our congenital cuddliness, among other things.  The only thing I'd do differently is to bring water next time!  However, had I passed out from heat stroke, I feel pretty sure annie and Amy would have dragged my senseless body into the shade of a gravestone to fester unmolested while they continued their photographic survey of the surrounding stones. 

We made some fun memories and I was thinking about it a few days after we returned home. While shopping and running errands, Jackson had to go finagle something with his cell phone account at the Verison store.  As we walked in the door, I was hit with the perfect thought to sum up the whole experience.  It was a sparkling piece of literary concision.

I found a bench in a corner and whipped out my Moleskine and commenced to feel horribly smug because I was actually writing, in an actual notebook, with an actual pen in the cell phone/computer store.  I started filling in some background drivel before recording my actual point.  And suddenly Jackson was done and ready to go.  What?  Who spends mere moments arguing with customer service before more or less getting their way?  And, of course, the gods of karma wiped that perfect thought completely out of my mind before I'd managed to record it.  I've spent a week trying to remember it.  No luck.

So.  Come up with something on your own. 

I had fun.  I think they did too.  It rocked.

Wordless Wednesday

The Ennis Menace

Pardon me for a moment while I indulge in a bit of wanton geekery.

Garth Ennis is writing the new Shadow comic! 

~does the dance of joy~ 

This is epicly thrilling. It is beyond cool.  Garth Ennis is the writer/creator of one of my favorite comic characters - The Preacher.  I sorta recommend him with trepadation.  If you are not into blood, guts, vampires, the ghost of John Wayne, fallen dieties, drunken clergy, congregations oblitereated by fireballs from the heavens, renegade angels, prolific profanity, in-bred cycloptic children, pistol-packin' hit-woman girlfriends and cats in toilets, don't read his stuff. 

I freakin' love it. 

And now he's writing The Shadow.  Damn, I loves me some Shadow.  From the pulp novels of Maxwell Grant to the radio program, to the movie versions and the various comic book incarnations, I can't get enough of it.  My senior ring when I was in high school?  I picked one that looked similar to the ring the shadow's agents wore.  (Next time I come across it in some forgotten drawer, I'm having the school insignia ground off of it so I can start wearing it again.  Because I, by God, know what evil lurks in the hearts of men.  More or less.)  I have sketched books full of that character.  I had Shadow action figures in my bathroom of my former house.  (I don't know why the bathroom - there was just a shelf there that needed something on it.) I think I need me a couple of nickle-plated .45s.  Just because.

Garth Ennis.  And The Shadow.  It's a match made in an incredibly entertaining level of hell that we like to visit as long as we don't have to live there.  ~more happy dancing and a possible squee~

Yep.  Garth Ennis. 

And tomorrow I'm going to Ennis, Texas to look at some bad-ass bluebonnets.   It's like the whole universe is doing some sort of karma-applause thing.  Oh, hell yeah.

Prattle and Prognistications

There is an emergency room doctor who comes across the street to the fitness center sometimes at o'dark-thirty when things are slow.  There are only about 2,000 people in the whole town, so early mornings at the emergency room are slow more often than not. 

This morning was the first time he'd come since my unfortunate 'booting', and he asked what was wrong with my foot.  I told him I have a stress fracture.  He shook his head, motioned towards the treadmills and excercise bikes and said "I'm not surprised." 

Which made me feel like a total bad-ass. 

However, given his slightly misogynistic leanings and somewhat caustic personality, he probably didn't mean it as a compliment.  He's one of those vaguely grouchy people that you can't help but like, whether they want you to or not. 

One morning he was attacking the exercise bike and riding like he was trying to outrun the devi.  We asked what he wanted us to do if he passed out or had a heart attack.  We volunteered to go get a gurney and wheel him across the street, cause we're helpful like that.  He just glared and said "Don't do anything.  Just call 911!"

We told him we'd call, but we're still threatening him with CPR. 

And speaking of misogyney...

I've often observed that the snidly racist remarks and dirty little racist jokes that used to be relegated to talk out behind the barn have made there way to the forefront even in so-called polite company since President Obama's election.  It's disheartening.  Especially when I'd always thought better than that of a lot of these people who are snickering and waggling their eyebrows, pretending it's all in good fun. 

Now the sexist attitudes and speech that I thought we had all agreed to at least not speak aloud are resurfacing as well.  You can hear it can hear it and it's getting louder. 

My prediction?  If our next election goes red, the handicapped are next on the chopping block.  Mark my words - unless the current War on The Majority of The Constituency doesn't result in a pretty hard slap in the face, you'll start to hear rumblings about the Americans With Disabilities Act and how it is not really helping the less fortunate among us, but is just another series of unfunded mandates engineered to increase the size and scope of our federal government. 

I'd bet money on it. 

Remember that Dietrich Bonhoeffer quote? 

“First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.”

First they came for the "abortionists" and the homosexuals...

I just flew in from Detroit...

One down, seven to go.  

Seven weeks of wearing a gargantuan medical walking boot because I have and teensy-eensy tiny li'l stress fracture on the top of my foot.  Prior to seeking medical help, my foot hurt only when I exercised.  And for a little while after I exercised.  Other than that, no problems. 

I'm trying to lower my cholesterol and live slightly healthier.  Towards that end, the only lifestyle change I've managed to embrace is exercise.  I actually like it.  Even looked forward to it, vaguely. (Actually, what I enjoy is listening to audio books while I'm walking.  Before the boot I was in the middle of the first Dexter novel.  Luckily I have a long drive coming up in April and I'll be able to finish it off.  So to speak.) 

Every morning for years I have worked out for at least half an hour.  Lately I added a three mile walk in the evenings.  That was all well and good until I added in a bit of jogging.  Quite honestly, Baptists should have foregone the anti-dance crusade and gone with an anti-jog crusade.  Jogging has to be a more devilish form of movement than dancing.  I, for one, feel certain that people are closer to hellfire and damnation when jogging than when dancing. Joggers are Satan's bobble-heads.

So, anyway, I wanted to keep exercising, so I figured I should get my injury treated. 

And now I'm stuck in this boot for two months.  The boot makes my foot hurt worse.  I've finally figured out the reasoning behind the treatment.  It's not that the boot is beneficial per se, it's that it is so cumbersome and uncomfortable that you'd just as soon sit as walk, so you stay off your foot and that gives it time to heal. 

I hope. 

As you can imagine, this has played hell with my cardio plan.  I still go to the "gym" in the mornings.  It's actually the physical therapy department at the surprisingly vibrant little local hospital.  Since I can't walk, run, flail about on the elliptical machine or wedgie myself with the stationary bike, I have been lifting weights - mostly dumbbells. 

This morning I graduated from the sissy weights (color coordinated, rubber coated rods which only went up to 9 pounds) to the bad-ass weights (grimy iron dumbbells on a steel rack that make your palms smell funny and have a minimum heft of 15 pounds).  I managed to do all the same exercises with the heavier free weights. 

And now I think I am going to die. 

However, despite the moans and groans, my morning workout compadres all agreed that they would not want to take me on in a fist fight.  They were also nice enough not to point out that all they'd have to do to win the fight is step out of arm's reach.  Regardless, that was the encouragement I needed to get me back there tomorrow.

Even if I can't lift my arms and have to just sit there and stare at the barbells.

Billy Idol Makes My Head Feel Funny

It's a gorgeous day, even though the sun is shining and there are no clouds.  One can't always have a day of dreary perfection, so I've learned to look for the beauty in even the sunny places and spaces.  The park was calling my name, so that's where I spent most of the lunch hour.  I sat in the car with the radio tuned to the 1st Wave station on Sirius.  I kept it quiet so I could hear the birds squawk. 

It rained some this week, so there was actual water in the faux creek with the ugly little bridge that was built by a strictly utilitarian crew of city workers.  The bridge is very uniform.  I like uniformity in design, but it doesn't work for me if the design is all squarish and straight.  Art Deco is my favorite design style and it is all about uniformity.  But it also flows and curves and sweeps and spreads out in gracefully controlled falls.  Lines are good when curved.  Curves are almost always more interesting. 

I love it here after a rain.  You can pretend that the water in the ditch is actually a charmingly natural little brook and that the scraggly, barely mower-high, dandelions are West Texas' answer to the bluebonnet fields. 

The ravens like it too.  They dance around on the edge of the tiny stream.  They aren't actually ravens, just common grackles, but they are still pretty cool.  And they do an awesome Hitchcock tribute on houses and yards all over town. 

I get a kick out of all the solitary people who come to park their trucks along the edges of the park and eat their lunch in the shade of the elm trees that manage to over-hang the pavement a bit.  The draw - an organically occurring ditch - that runs through here allows to the trees to get enough water to gain some decent height. 

The cemetery has some good trees too, and you can find some of these same people and more eating lunch out there every day.  Whichever place they choose, they stay in their car, keep the radios quiet and don't feel the need to engage in cell phone conversations.  I love it.  It's like we're all attending an introvert's convention together. 

Collected introverts, dancing blackbirds and faux-creeks. 

It's what's for lunch. 

I just like to say "Casper Weinberger".

Words are powerful.  Names are important. 

Remember the old Bloom County cartoon where Opus muses that he and Caspar Weinberger have had to work hard to overcome the hardship of their less than stellar nomenclature?

For the most part, I contend that courtesy titles are a form of self-perpetuating discrimination.  I ain't sayin' it's right, I'm just sayin' it is.  I like titles that tell what you've done (Doctor, President) as opposed to those that give your marital status.  I am 41 years old and I cannot remember a single incident in my entire life in which it was ever necessary to use the title Miss or Mrs. 

Words like chairwoman or policewoman discriminate because the very sound of the word tells you this person is somehow different from the norm.  Why not just be the chairman?  Or the officer?  Why do you need a different title to do the same job? 

Why do we need separate Oscar categories for male and female actors?  Why can't all actors compete against one another?  I do understand, given our currently regressing caveman culture, that this might result in a dearth of female recipients, but it just chaps that women compete only against women and vice-versa.  As if women need some sort of separate arena?  We don't. 

We do need separate bathrooms, but that's about it.

I worked with a court administrator once who preferred the term administratrix.  Thankfully, no one would actually call her that.  The called her some other things, though.  Administratrix - what century is that from?  It sounds like what you'd call the receptionist at a S&M club. 

And then there are the sports teams.  I realize that there probably ought to be some way of differentiating men's and women's sports teams.  And honestly, I've got no idea of how to do it, really.  I just know the current system sucks.  (Isn't this how these things normally go?  Someone gets all smart ass and bashes the situation without having thought through any sort of a way of improving things.)  I don't have the answer, I'm just complaining. 

Bulldogs are always a popular mascot around here.  And every school that uses it calls their girls teams the Lady Dogs.  Yet "Go Bitches!" is frowned upon when shouted from the cheap seats.

The little town just north of here uses the admirably unusual mascot of the Kangaroo.  The women's teams?  Lady Roos.  Lady Roo sounds like a ripoff of Lady Gaga. 

While writing this I am wearing a t-shirt that has "Lady Horn Softball" emblazoned across my chest.  Granted, the boys don't play softball, so they could have used Longhorn Softball.  But, no. 

The Lady Horn might well be an implement of male destruction hidden away from sight and perhaps the culprit behind all the anti-feminism pervading our legislative bodies these days. 

Lady Horn.  Watch for it.

It was all fun and games until someone put an eye out.  With the Lady Horn. 

You gotta say it like Peter Griffin says "Roadhouse":    Lady Horn.

Worse yet?  The reason I'm wearing the shirt is because my kid's team was playing the Sundown Roughnecks.  (A roughneck is a type of oil field worker/job.)  Of course they don't call their team the Lady Roughnecks.  Nah. 

The Roughettes!

Kid. you. not. 

The Roughettes.  Appearing nightly at the Emasculation Lounge with Lady Roo!  They'll be here all week. 

Comic Books–Tool of the Devil

Someone in my household started wearing reading glasses.  It wasn’t me. 

But one day when I was straining through an evidently tiny copy of The Watchmen, I saw them lying on the end table.  I picked them up.  No one was home, no one would see me…  I slipped them on and tried squinting.

It didn’t help.

The squinting, that is.  The reading glasses eliminated all need for it!  Amazing!  I finished the book in record time. 

Thanks to the Kindle and it’s easily adjusted text size, I contend that I shall never need reading glasses.  Provided I give up reading comic books. 

But I don’t want to do that.  In fact, I ordered a new one that came in the mail today.  It’s the first volume of The Preacher series.  I’ve read some later volumes and I just love it.  It’s about a minister from west Texas.  It is chock full of bloody, gory violence, explicit and sometimes extraneous sex, and more vulgarity than you can shake a collection plate at. 

I love it!

 

So, I ordered the first volume from some anonymous internet seller on Amazon.  It came in the mail today and I have either had a brush with fundamentalist sickos who had no idea what they had on their hands, or I have just met my new best friends.

For reals.

They sent along a free gift.  The free gift included a kitty-rap decal (I guess that’s what it is), a cross-shaped sucker (which is just horribly, horribly wrong in my twisted mind) and a choose-your-own-adventure book entitled “You Are The Messiah”.  I can’t wait to read it. (I wonder how it works if you’re female? Does that take you down some alternately subservient path?)  And then there is a post-card for “The House That Drips Blood on Alex” playing at Megaphone Comedy club. 

Isn’t that insane?!!  It’s like Christmas in the asylum, all over again!

 

Cemetery Blogging - Dead Trek, The Wrath of Gone

Cemetery Blogging–It’s been a while.

 

Our Lady of Perpetual Prosaicism is all “meh” about your recent demise. 

Horror-scope

Yesterday started out as a quiet day in the office.  More people were missing than present.  We've all worked here so damn long that about half the folks have trouble getting all their vacation time used before the end of the year.  There is a mad scramble to get in some extra days off before they get swept off the books.

Personally, I've never had that problem.  Which is why I was one of only two officers in the office. Mindy was the other.  It was her first day back after a freakin' 6 day Thanksgiving break.  As if there were that many leftovers that had to be dealt with!

When the clock struck eight, she was already down in the waiting room, herding people, one at a time, down the hall to her office.  The first guy sequestered with her was prepared to kill himself in a quietly self-effacing fashion in the rather immediate future.  The quiet ones are generally the ones you really have to worry about.  It didn't take long for Mindy to recognize how serious he was about achieving that particular goal. 

She called the mental health agency where the guy already had a caseworker.  They referred her to the crisis team and said the team would high tail it over to our office as soon as they could get out the door and navigate the seven blocks between there and here.  The State, she was informed, prefers that they handle crises, with expediency on site, rather than burdening the sufferer with making a trip to their office.  

Mindy called the crisis team, fully expecting the Mental Health Hero on duty to hit the big button that flashed the Nut Signal across the morning sky.  This would assemble the team for swift transport to our building, bringing with them assessment tools, passive restraint techniques and a plethora of pleasant voices. 

Instead she got Seth.  Seth yawned a couple of times, stretched in his desk chair and asked if the guy couldn't just walk on over to their office so they could deal with him there. 

Whatever.

In the middle of that crisis, the boss knocked on her door and asked her if she could get in touch with another of her people - Brian.  Interestingly enough, Brian happened to be sitting in the waiting room.  He does that every morning because he is unemployed.  If you are able-bodied and not completely addle-brained, yet insist on a life of leisure rather than more gainful pursuits, we make you come and visit us each morning - teeth brushed, hair combed and pajamas at least tucked underneath sweat clothes, if not removed altogether and replaced with more employment-appropriate clothing.  Then you set out for a day of job hunting. 

Brian was here to show Mindy his list of applications from the previous day, before being sent out to complete more.  Brian doesn't want to work. 

According to the boss, he'd received an anonymous call stating that 20-year-old Brian had perhaps misrepresented the truth regarding his current living arrangements.  When he told Mindy he lived at home with his parents, what he meant was he lived at his girlfriend's home, with his girlfriend's parents.   His fourteen-year-old girlfriend. 

Oops. 

Mindy hissed his name at the waiting room door and marched him back into her office.  His response to her questioning was "I don't know what you're so upset about.  Her mother doesn't mind."  That was not the smartest thing he'd ever said.  Especially since his neck was decorated with more than a few hickies. 

While we're on the subject, do you know about these? 

Immediately after booting Brian out the door with a laundry list of life changes he'd be making in the next 24 hours, Mindy called the cops.  She reported that her defendant was bedding a fourteen-year-old girl in her own home.  Nightly. 

The cops said, and I quote, "Eeew."

When Mindy told them the mother had condoned the situation, they said, "The mother may not have a problem with it, but the State of Texas sure does."  The said they were starting an investigation and were here within 15 minutes to take Mindy's statement. 

Child Protective Services also took a dim view of the state of affairs.  Since the police are more than happy to charge Brian with statutory rape, they will be investigating the mother on a possible charge of negligent parenting. 

All of this happened before 9:15 in the morning.

She took a break around 10:00 to catch her breath and snarf some popcorn.  After a few minutes, I heard a peal of somewhat maniacal laughter, then my instant messenger beeped.  It was Mindy.  She said:

"My horoscope today says 'your interest in your fellow humans is piqued today.'"

"Piqued with a baseball bat!" I replied.

----------

Still no news from the Lazy Seth the Crises Manager.  We're hoping that's good news. 

Six Places - Just Spaces, Few Faces

This week's prompt:  6 Places.  My six places are

all Dairy Queen.

1.  The Dairy Queen in Lockney.  It's the only restaurant open on Sundays.  If we plan on eating out after church on Sunday, we have to go home and collapse on the couch for a couple of hours first.  You can't wade through the blue-hairs to get a table until nearly 2:00 o'clock.  They have blizzards and WiFi.   They have the world's most polarific air conditioning system.  There are huge vents along the top of the wall.  The icy air they spew falls heavily on the chattering diners below.  Even when it's 134 thousand degrees outside, my knees knock the whole time I'm choking down my chicken strips and tator tots.  I don't yet know what happens in the winter.  Is the heater just as boisterously over-effective?  I'll soon find out. 

If it weren't for the frigidity, I'd hang out there, drinking cherry-limes and drawing pictures.

2.  The Dairy Queen in Post.  You are probably not aware of this, but this little fast-food joint in that wobbly little West Texas town is the epicenter of the six degrees which separate us all.  Everyone you've ever known will eventually have to stop there to use the bathroom.  It's one of those places - plunked down in the middle of nowhere on a back road that is the only way to get to some places from other places.  Everyone stops there.  Eventually.

If I were going to write the great American novel, I'd do it sitting in a booth in this Dairy Queen.  One great story after another walks in the door, heads for the ladies room then orders some tacos.  It's got this accidental, unintentional apocalyptic feel to it that makes you think you're missing something.  Something like the end of the world.  In Technicolor.  

3.  The Dairy Queen in Plainview.  This DQ was home to the Blizzard Boy.  Blizzard Boy was our secret nemesis long ago and far away when we were young and could eat a cup of ice cream blended with Butterfinger bars on a pretty much daily basis without the dire consequences to our waist lines and cholesterol levels.  He never got the order right or screwed up when trying to make change, or sometimes he just looked at us funny.

We toted the ice cream back to the office and sat around the conference table in the grand ballroom, dissing the Blizzard Boy and solving the county's problems.  It was like a drawly, cowboy-booted version of the Algonquin Round Table.  With soft serve instead of vodka. 

4.  The Dairy Queen in Brownfield.  Brownfield was the closest town to the country church where I lived in the early 1980's.  It was, to no one's surprise, dry and dusty and hot.  It was dead then and it's deader now.  At that church at the crossroads in the middle of Earth's armpit, the sand dunes piled high on the west side of the building and my brother and I tied towels around our necks for capes so we could jump off the roof of the sanctuary to practice flying.  And landing.  On our butts, mostly. 

It was at this crossroads church that I learned to appreciate open flame and weeping willows.  I learned to drive a tractor.  I developed what would become a lifelong distaste for lantanas and a morbid fascination with premillennialist baptistry paintings.  It was also a dark and destructive place that taught me to be spiteful towards family churches and suspicious of people who kept those religious malignancies alive.

My parents worked at that church because it was there.  We'd moved back to Texas from Montana so my dad could care for his ailing father after his mother died.  The church was a paycheck.  It seemed like a god-send at first. But in the end, it wasn't.

On Sunday nights after a day full of all that my parents could stomach, we would escape to the Dairy Queen in Brownfield.  A thirty-mile drive, one way, for nachos.  It was pretty much the only place open then.  It was a quiet place on Sunday nights.  And a little bit dark.

I still love nachos.

5.  The Ha-ta-ho in Roby.  Roby was too small to have a Dairy Queen.  I spent my high school years in Roby.  There were two restaurants in town - the Silver Spur Cafe and the Ha-ta-ho drive in.  They sat across from each other, separated by a rod-straight stretch of highway.  Local lore told that the burger joint was opened by a farmer who wanted to get out of the field.  He hated-to-hoe.

Yup.

If you were inclined, you could skip the Ha-ta-ho and come on down the road to the City Grocery and Deli where I worked.  I would make you a chicken fried steak sandwich or a bbq sandwich. (Your choice of chopped or sliced.  Take my advice - go with the chopped.)  It was good enough food, but we didn't have fries.  Or fountain drinks.  Or chairs. 

I can't remember if the Ha-ta-ho had nachos.  They did have really good cokes, though. 

6.  The Dairy Queen in ?  I don't know where I'm going from here, but I'm going somewhere.  I bet wherever it is, they have a Dairy Queen.  It might surprise you to know, but I don't even really like Dairy Queen.  I hate soft-serve and only tolerate blizzards if they have something crunchy in them.  The burgers are ok and The Dude is pretty good.  The fries suck. 

I do like the nachos, though.

Just for grins, because I don’t really know what this is.

 

Tonight I made the holy pilgrimage and left home

At twilight.

At sunset.

At the end of the day.

I walked down the street, through the bad part of town

At twilight.

At sunset.

At the end of the day.

A three-legged pit bull dog barked at me.  Only once.

At twilight.

At. sunset.

At the end of the day.

And I learned that those two lime green trailers really do glow

At twilight.

At sunset.

At the end of the day. 

7 wants

This week’s prompt?  Not getting any easier.  I really don’t know why these are so difficult.  Perhaps I really just need to sit down in a quiet place with pen and paper and work this out.  Hmm… That reminds me of something I want, so, without further ado: 

A.  I want to write.  With pen.  On paper.  I love the feel of a good pen flowing across the paper.  I love handwriting.  Drawing words is an almost Zen-like experience, as long as I’m writing something I want to write. I miss it.  Last week, while visiting Lois, I mentioned this.  She told me there have been studies done showing that handwriting uses a different part of your brain than keyboarding.  You write differently, on both a physiological level and otherwise, when you use pen and paper.  It’s a good change to make if you’re fighting writer’s block. 

I totally should have written this post on paper first.

B.  I want letters to make a comeback.  I know they won’t and I’ll be the first to admit that the convenience of email probably more than makes up for what we miss with written letters.  But still.  I love to write them.  Send me your address, if you want (Facebook message) and I’ll send you a letter!

C.  I want my nose to stop itching.  And they haven’t even started ginning cotton yet!  I used to live across the road from a corn field.  I’m terribly allergic to corn, especially when it puts on tassels right before harvest.  Not for that reason, we moved.  Now I live two blocks from a cotton gin, one of my other major allergies. 

Have I mentioned that I plan to retire to Seattle?

D.  I want Robert Downey Jr. to hurry the hell up with his next project.  Know what it is?  He is producing and staring in a Perry Mason movie.  I also am all geeked about seeing Johnny Depp do Dark Shadows.  And I want both of those franchises to use the theme music their TV versions used.  Perfect songs, both.  (I miss answering machines.  My answering machine message used to be accompanied by the Dark Shadows theme.  It was the best damn message ever – had a people call me just to listen sometimes.  Voice mail leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to creativity.)

E.  I want to get better at portrait photography.  I sort of enjoy it.  Sort of.  Most of the time, when I take pictures for fun, I don’t include people.  Not on purpose, but I’ve just always avoided people pictures.  But I think my taste might be changing…

F.  I want that sheriff’s deputy to quit staring at the stuff in my office.  I’m tired of trying to explain things to him. 

G.  I want to read a good comic book.  Read a good one and an incredible one last week.  The good one:  The Preacher #7.  It had all the elements of a good comic – expressive art, great colors, kick-ass story, tons of violence and more than a bit of gratuitous sex and gore.  (Yes, it really is about a preacher.  From west Texas.  Somewhat defrocked.)   The great one was Persepolis.  It was exquisite.  Lois had it and I sat down one night and read the whole thing (graphic novel) in about 2 hours.  I learned all kinds of things.  The art was simple on the surface, rich beneath.  The story was incredible – about a young girl in Iran during the fall of the Shaw.  She’d be about my age, I guess.  The writing was simple, but like the art, deceptively so.  Hell, the damn thing made me get all teary-eyed. 

Just go read it for your own damn self. 

8 Fears

 

I don’t fear the reaper, but I do fear that y’all will sing precious memories at my funeral.

Life is a highway, but I fear the lack of two-way traffic

I think we should come together, right now, but I fear that someone will bring pea salad.

There’s a bad moon rising, but I fear the scorching sun will make it all moot.

I love a rainy night, but I fear the swirling water.

Only women bleed, but I fear men are more often killed by falling pianos. 

I am Iron Man, but I fear that I will rust without some fresh oil.

I walk the line, but I fear tripping over the curved stones.

This Ain't Cat Food

This week’s prompt is Nine Loves.  This was much easier than last week’s Ten Secrets.  So, without further ado –

~ahem~

I LOVE:

1.  Drawing with ink.  It’s forgivably unforgivable.  It stretches my ability and makes me think.  I still love pencil and eraser and I do my best work in that medium, but drawing in ink has made me a better artist.  Ink forces me to incorporate my mistakes into the bigger picture.  With pencil I can just pretend the mistakes never happened. 

2.  Music without lyrics.   Especially while driving.  I do all my best writing while driving and listening sans words.  I could write the great American novel if I went out and got a job as a cross-country truck driver.

3.  Pork skins.  Especially the hot ones.  

4.  Scarves.  Well, love is a strong word, but I’m developing a definite like for them. 

5.  The fact that Britney Spear’s name is an anagram of Presbyterians. 

6.  My preacher’s kids.  As I sat in church one day and I observed one of my minister’s two teenage daughters do something very small and very nice for someone else.  She didn’t know anyone was watching.  It confirmed what I had suspected.  They are good, good kids.  I stalked them from two pews back and on Facebook as well as observing them from my couch as they stalked my house from the alley.  Then I did something – a tiny little experiment in being spooky, for lack of a better term.  They responded exactly as I would have when I was there age.  They are little Spookies in the making, I think!  I really, really, really like them. 

7.  Boots and peacock feathers.  Not necessarily together.  Not necessarily apart.  And that peacock green/blue color?  Love that too. 

8.  Fedoras.  I need some new ones.  I haven’t worn them in a long time, but I think I might start again.  I blame that Maria Bello ad for her new Prime Suspect show.  I might even take the one down from my office wall, dust it off and slap it up on my head. 

9.  Fiber.  I’m sucking down the nasty stuff twice a day, just like grandma used to do.  Donated blood last week and, according to the vampire’s testing, my cholesterol level has dropped to 195.  Fiber is slightly icky, but it beats the hell out of taking yet another liver-killing medicine.  (And yes, I know that being all excited over this makes me even older than the daily fiber-tang swilling ritual does.  Right now, I’m ok with that.)

The Truth Doesn't Always Set You Free

The Write. Eat, Post, Bathe group is starting a new series of weekly prompts. This is a good thing, because I still haven't snatched my writing mojo free from the gnarled talons of a vindictive and spiteful muse. I need all the prompting I can get. This week's topic is 10 Secrets.  

A writer should have this little voice inside of you saying 'tell the truth. Reveal a few secrets here.' - Quentin Tarantino

I thought this would be easy but, in reality, it sucks. I keep secrets. Always have, ever since I was a kid. When you live in a glass house, you need a deep basement. Secrets are not always a bad thing. But they get a bum rap in these days of hyper-connectedness. We'd be better off if we all had a few more secrets, I think. Take back some dignity, people!

That being said, here are 10 'secrets' for your perusal. They are not particularly earth shattering or revelatory. Maybe they are slightly entertaining. For starters, I'm stealing Cyn's number 10.

10. I love purses, bags, backpacks, etc. I have way more than I need. I also hate cleaning them out. Too time-consuming. So I have little bags of stuff that I can grab and put into the new bag. Presto chango.

9. I have a new mattress - one of those foamy things. I don't know that I sleep better, but I do know that I can't wait to lay down on it each night and I loathe, more than ever, leaving it in the mornings. Not sure that this is a selling point...

8. I am not entirely sure that babies are sentient.  Ever once in a while you see one with a spark of intelligence or personality in their eyes. I find that sort of fascinating. It makes me contemplate reincarnation. But most of the time - meh.

7. I am sucking it up and trying to learn how to photograph the aforementioned lumps of humanity. Babies and brides and their gawd-awful mothers. One of these days, when I retire at an obscenely young age, I am going into the photo business. If I'm going to make any money, I'm going to have to do babies and weddings. Them's the facts. I am, however holding fast with my prohibition against maternity photos. I'm seriously considering marketing myself as The Grouchy Photographer. The Grouchy Photographer doesn't like your mother and your baby is woefully average.

6. Women of America: pregnancy is not a disability. Neither is it some sort of noblesse oblige. It's just a fact. Of life. Get the hell over it. And stop showing me your belly. (Ok, this is more of a rant than a secret.  So sue me.)

5. Learned on Saturday that I can still make change. Thought I'd lost that skill. Good to know, in case I have to go with my fall-back position as Sonic car-hop.

4. Fog is sexy.

3. I have itchy scabs. (Won a fight with a rosebush and a chain link fence, although not decisively.)

2. Just bashed my hand on the side of the desk. Now my thumb is freakin' numb. (How many more do of these things do I have to come up with?)

1. Everyone had a Nellie Olsen when they were growing up. (Yeah, I read those books. Watched the TV show, too.) ((Wonder if there was ever a comic book incarnation?)) I recently came across the adult version of mine. Not the same person grown up, but someone just like her. And now, all these years later, I see the fear in her eyes. Maybe in another thirty years I'll learn to feel sorry for her because she can survive only by wounding the things/people she fears.


Well, that's it. Ten of the little buggers. Here's hoping that next week's prompt is easier.