Bear vs. doe

Bear said he was pulling a 14 ft. trailer full of firewood behind his dually pickup truck, on his way home from work, just before dark. He was cruising along at 70 miles per hour, listening to some Waylon Jennings, when the doe darted out from the edge of the forest, and ran straight into the side of his trailer. "What the fuck was that," Bear hollered, and pulled onto the shoulder. He reached behind the seat for his rifle and remembered that he'd left that sumbitch over at Cooder's house after he got too shitfaced after their last huntin' trip, so he pulled his survival knife from the glovebox. By the time he got to the back of the trailer, the doe, both front legs badly broken, was struggling onto her back legs. And while he watched, that motherbitch started JUMPIN' back towards the forest, like a fuckin' kangaroo or some shit. So Bear had to run after her, but she was scared, and hoppin' fast, and Bear had to TACKLE her, and cut her throat from behind. He called the game warden, and the game warden took her to a poor family over in Woden, so they'd have some meat to eat.

It was the right thing to do.

Ricky Lynn Never Went Anywhere

Just sat on a dirty, bare mattress

in his mom's detached garage

beneath windows spray painted black
the only light, a television.


His all consuming passions

huffing paint, and sometimes glue

cultivating his heavy-metal hair

his mediocre mustache,

and Metallica.


We came to visit

watched him drool,

the silvery thread

tying him to our world.


Sometimes his momma

would beat on the door,

"Gawdammit Ricky Lynn!

Did you steal my oven cleaner again?

And when are you gettin' a job? "


I would laugh,

trace paint drips

with my fingertip

and steal his cigarettes.


Ricky Lynn yelled back

"No one's home!

And I ain't cut out for workin'!"

It sounded like the truth,

to me.

Ricky Lynn Never Went Anywhere

Just sat on a dirty, bare mattress

in his mom's detached garage

beneath windows spray painted black
the only light, a television.


His all consuming passions

huffing paint, and sometimes glue

cultivating his heavy-metal hair

his mediocre mustache,

and Metallica.


We came to visit

watched him drool,

the silvery thread

tying him to our world.


Sometimes his momma

would beat on the door,

"Gawdammit Ricky Lynn!

Did you steal my oven cleaner again?

And when are you gettin' a job? "


I would laugh,

trace paint drips

with my fingertip

and steal his cigarettes.


Ricky Lynn yelled back

"No one's home!

And I ain't cut out for workin'!"

It sounded like the truth,

to me.

Town & Country Food Store pt. 2

I didn't like Joe the first time I met him, and it wasn't just his mullet. There was also his junior-high mustache, his penchant for sleeveless t-shirts that highlighted his matted armpits, his boundless energy and obnoxious personality.

I disliked him more the longer I knew him.

He suffered wild mood swings, one minute laughing hysterically about something only he found funny, and the next, sprawled across the front counter, weeping and howling for his sorry life. He carried a faded, dog-eared Olan Mills 8x10 photo of his daughter, and when he was in what he called a “shame spiral,” he would pull it from his back pocket and hold it to my face, a visual aid to his failure.

"This is my 4 year old daughter, Melissa. She's got problems because my wife drank when she was pregnant. The doctors say she’ll be in a walker for the rest of her life. She’ll never get to be a normal little girl. We were all fucked up on dope and alcohol, and we ruined her life! Melissa doesn't live with me anymore. The court gave my mom custody of my baby girl and she won't even let me talk to her on the phone. After we lost Melissa, my wife left me. I don’t have anyone but Jesus. "

The first time I saw Melissa's bald head and vacant stare, I felt guilty. Seeing Joe's naked grief and the snot leaking into his wispy mustache just made me nauseous. Joe sobbed for several minutes, pounding his fists on the counter, finally excusing himself to the bathroom. He came out a new man, full of dirty jokes and high-pitched giggles. His energy was so great that he bunny hopped down the aisles of potato chips and candy bars, shouting, laughing, and slinging drool onto the dingy linoleum floor.

I was raised by lying dope fiends and petty thieves, but I naively believed Joe when he told me he replaced his love of drugs with a love for Jesus. He certainly talked about Jesus enough to make it seem plausible. Until my boyfriend Eric pointed it out, I was under the impression that Joe was just a hyperactive, recovering addict with emotional problems.

“Joe was acting all crazy again tonight. He started laughing about a fat lady in an orange shirt. He thought she looked like a pumpkin. He just kept saying ‘FUCKING PUMPKIN’, and laughing until he fell in the floor. He just laid there, cackling and kicking his feet. I think he might be mildly retarded.”

“Rebel, you do realize that he’s smoking crack in the bathroom, right?

“You think so? At work? He told me he stopped using when he lost custody of Melissa, and his wife finally left him.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the motherfucker always disappears in the bathroom before he comes out all hyper and stupid?”

"Holy shit, Eric! That explains so much! The motherfucker is a CRACKHEAD!"



On slow nights, Joe would force me to play Lotto.

"Hey, Rebel. Let's get a ticket. Which one do you want?"

"I shouldn't buy a ticket. I'm pregnant and I’m broke because I work at Town & Country Food Store."

"What's a dollar? Especially if you can win fifteen thousand dollars? If you win big money, you can buy your baby a car. C'mon just pick a ticket. I can feel it. Today is definitely our lucky day. Which ticket do you want to play?"

He would pester me into buying a ticket, and he’d buy one too. If I lost, I quit playing. Joe would only stop after a winning ticket or he ran out of money. The desperation in his face as he scratched and cussed at a mounting stack of losing tickets bothered me. After a losing session, he would emerge on the other side covered in latex shavings, sweaty and dazed. It only took a visit to the bathroom to bring him back, artificially invigorated, ready to tell me lies about previous jackpots, and his plan to open a garage when he finally hit big.

As Joe's addiction progressed, he no longer had cash to pay for his Lotto. Instead, he would "borrow" a few dollars worth of tickets, scratch them, and pay for the tickets with his winnings. If there were no winnings, he spent the rest of the night short-changing customers to make up the loss. I stopped playing.


It was autumn, and when I got to work, Myra was in the alley dumpster. I was walking into the building when she popped her head out and frowned at me.

"Myra, what are you doing in the dumpster? You have some trash in your hair."

Myra ignored me and continued frowning. I stood, waiting for an answer. It was clear that no response was forthcoming when she disappeared into the dumpster again. I turned and entered the store, where I was greeted by a store full of uncomfortable looking customers and the familiar sound of Joe sobbing behind the thin half-wall of the manager's office.

The sobbing turned to pleading.

"Please don't call the cops, DeeDee. PLEASE! I'll do anything you want, just don't call the cops. If you do, I'll go back to prison, and I need to take care of Melissa! I didn't mean to do it, it was the crack. I need to go to rehab. You can help me. Please help ME!"

DeeDee was not sympathetic.

I listened to him beg while I rang up customers. I fetched their cigarettes and made small talk with them as if there weren’t a broken man within our earshot. Myra came inside, still frowning, holding a trash bag bulging with strips of lottery tickets.

"Myra, please tell me what the fuck is going on," I whispered as she passed.

Stone-faced, she walked to DeeDee's office, holding her bag of evidence. Soon, two policemen arrived. The officers flanked him, grabbed his arms and led him toward the door. Joe struggled with them briefly, whipping his head wildly from side to side, desperate for escape. When they cuffed him, there was nowhere to go, and the fight left him. His body went limp. The police struggled to support his dead-weight, and settled on pulling him by his cuffed arms, the toes of his shoes dragging the dirty floor behind them.

As he passed, I saw that his face was slack, and he was drooling on the floor.

They were putting him in the back of the cruiser when Myra turned to me.

"Last night, Joe smoked crack in the bathroom, and stole five hundred dollars worth of lottery tickets. When we did the ticket inventory this morning, we were four hundred tickets short. DeeDee and I watched the surveillance video and saw Joe scratching big strings of tickets, twenty at a time. Towards the end, he just sat on the floor and pulled his hair and screamed. Fuckin' weirdo. Did he ever make you look at that picture of his poor kid? Anyway, we called him up here, and he confessed to the whole thing. He said he just knew that he was gonna win big. Now he’s going to jail, and I hafta work the fucking second shift with you. And you’re gonna straighten the cooler tonight, because I’m not doing it.”

Town & Country FUCKING Foodstore, Pt. 1

When I was eighteen, knocked up, and completing my third semester of twelfth grade, I worked at a gas station. The station, commonly known as Town & Country #487, sat at the edge of an aging suburb, a squat brown building that smelled of cigarettes, dirty mop water, and microwave burritos. Across the cracked parking lot, the dilapidated car wash was a hotbed of drug activity and fist fights.

The customers were down and out, most of them drifters from the motel across the street (LOW WEEKLY RATES!), scraping their pennies together to buy scratch off lottery tickets, forties, and the generic cigarettes we kept in a barrel at the front counter. The more permanent motel residents skittered across the street to buy our over-priced boxes of Fruity Pebbles, watery pressed ham, and travel size toiletries. To them, the grocery store one block over was too big and brightly lit. A caravan of gypsies, no longer welcome at the grocery store due to their habit of staging slip and fall accidents, frequented the store to steal sardines and hex the employees.

DeeDee, the store manager, looked like a Texan named DeeDee should, a sassy, gum-snapping bottle-blond with horsey teeth, big jugs poured into a tight t-shirt, her hair back-combed and teased into next week. She worked the day shift with Myra, the dumpy, freckled assistant manager. They spent the day smoking cigarettes at the register, pushing out their tits to impress the construction workers and cops that came for the complimentary sodas, their downtime filled complaining about my refusal to spend hours “facing” the cooler so the drink labels faced the same way.

Jerry, a bulldog of an old man, worked graveyard. He had thin red hair that he scraped over his bald spot, and fists that never unclenched. Constantly broke, he ran out of gas and coasted his way into the parking lot once a week, announcing his arrival by jumping out to kick the tires and scream furiously at his rusty Buick’s betrayal.

Jerry worked two jobs to pay for his quadriplegic sister’s medical expenses, and he demanded that I prepare fresh coffee before he arrived for duty. If the coffee wasn't ready, he'd give me a cussing.

"I don't give a psychedelic FUCK if it was a lotto night and you were busy! It doesn't take two minutes to make a fresh pot of coffee! Now I'm tired gawddammit! I spent all day spraying produce at Albertson's and listening to that chickenshit manager they got over there. I had two hours of sleep before I got up to come to this shithole, and I don't think it's too much to ask that you prepare me some FRESH. FUCKING. COFFEE."

“Jerry, go fuck yourself. It only takes two minutes to make your own fresh fucking coffee. I don’t have to do shit for you. Consider yourself lucky that I did the lottery ticket inventory. I’m just as tired as you are, and I don’t walk around acting like an asshole.”

“You know what? I like you Rebel. You’re a tough little broad.”

Jerry was infamous for tackling the few teenagers brave enough to attempt a beer-run on his watch. His eyes lit with a crazy fire when he told tales of scraping the faces of underage thieves on the pavement, mocking their "baby" tears. He would wave the pilfered twelve packs in their sniveling faces and tell them to "spread the word, no beer-runs at Town & Country FUCKIN' Foodstore!"

This sense of responsibility for the company’s property was in stark contrast with the other graveyard employee, Mark.

Mark worked four jobs, three music stores and Town & Country, and cared very little about any of them. He slept in his friend's closet and, despite DeeDee’s demands; refused to tame his hair, preferring to twist his corkscrew curls until they sprouted in all directions, defiant of gravity. He played tapes of Tom Waits or Throbbing Gristle at top volume, and encouraged customers to steal whatever they wanted, because that's what he was doing. He never paid for cigarettes or candy. The only things he wouldn't steal were our toiletries, which he preferred to use, and return to the shelf. This practice led to refunds on tubs of Carmex gouged by Mark's dirty fingers and Right Guard deodorant sticks contaminated with his armpit hair. He locked the front door at night and spent hours skating down the aisles, uninterrupted by customers. On the few occasions Mark worked my shift, we made it a habit to taste-test every brand of a particular product, cigarettes one week, candy or drinks the next. We called it "product research and awareness," not stealing.

I worked second shift with a constantly revolving cast of moody or insane trainees that never stayed past their first paycheck, leaving me with no impression other than a vague unpleasantness when they were gone. The only one I remember is Crackhead Joe.

the perils of raising a brainiac

Most of the people reading this know my daughter, who I will refer to as Dot. Those of you that know her have surely heard me brag about her genius. Raising a genius is cool because you can have stimulating conversations with an 11 year old & she always has brag worthy achievements (way to go w/ 1 missed TAKS reading question & no missed TAKS math questions!). There is, however, a downside.

The most note-worthy peril (in my humble opinion) is her love of fantasy novels. A love of reading about dragons isn't a problem. What is a problem is her total recall of all the characters names & all the pertinent plot points, which she loves to recount to me in excruciating detail. I hate fantasy novels. I can't keep up with the weird names & made up places. It's even worse when a breathless, excited 11 year old tells you EVERY major event in a 800 page book. I tried being nice, saying "Mommy doesn't like fantasy novels or dragons. I like ninjas & zombies." That didn't work. She thinks if she tells me about it, I will develop an interest. She's wrong. Now when she starts, I say, "Hey Nerdlinger, I don't want to hear about that nerd stuff." You probably think that is mean. Well, I say it with love. Also, you probably don't have children.

She is beginning to use logic against me. It's my fault. I taught her, through much verbal sparring, that logic can never be defeated. In fact, I ended many discussions that way. "You're wrong Dot. You can't beat logic, because logic can never be defeated!"(this statement was usually accompanied by me thrusting my fists in the air triumphantly). Well, that shit is starting to backfire on me, now. As a parent, I often decide she can't do something without having a logical reason. She has caught on to this, & is using it against me. Usually when I am tired. Sometimes, I just fold & let her do what she wants. She out argues Eric with frightening regularity. I believe all hope may be lost.

She is smarter than most of her teachers. This makes her cocky, & disinclined to listen to what they say. She's read more books than her school librarian, & scoffs at her childish suggestions for reading material. Luckily, she still thinks I am smarter than she is, so she respects me. God help me during her teen years.

In the end, it's all worth it. Especially when she's supporting me during my golden years.

paranoid behavior

When I was five years old, it occured to me that everything I did was being filmed. I did not SUSPECT this, but was utterly certain that it was the truth. I don't know what led to this realization, but it colored all my actions.

I stopped playing for pure fun, and began to think about what my audience (I was sure that the entire world was my audience) would enjoy seeing. I made up elaborate stories that I acted out with Barbies (involving adultery and marijuana...my childhood was different). When walking to my friend Christina's house, I would skip and twirl, sure that the audience would appreciate my pizazz.

When I didn't devote myself to entertaining , I poked around the house, looking for the hidden cameras. I suspected that the bathroom camera was under the sink, behind the toilet paper, and the bedroom camera was in my favorite dolly's head.

My obsession with the existence of RebelTV (that's what I assumed it was called) ended when I got my E-Z Bake Oven. I don't think these things are connected.

When I was nine, I became convinced that my parents were trying to poison me.

Let me explain. I drank a large glass of hot tea, everyday. One day, the sugar tasted strange, and I knew that they were trying to kill me.

"They know I drink hot tea everyday, and they poisoned my sugar. They think they can get away with it."

I threw the sugar away, and walked to the store to buy more.

I lived in fear for two months, and kept a wary eye on my parents. Their behavior was very suspicious to me. Then PBS stopped showing Mystery! everyday, and I became fascinated with William Alexander and counting to 1,000,000. Counting to 1,000,000 left me little time to pursue other endeavors, so I stopped eavesdropping on my parents.

So my question to you is...What completely irrational thing did you believe was the absolute truth, when you were a child? Don't leave me hanging, lest I obsess over my possible insanity.

Me VS. Hyundai

Hyundai Wins

My first step-dad (Charlie, not Pooger) seemed to take my intelligence as an outright insult.
"For someone that's so goddamned smart, you sure are retarded. You don't have an ounce of common sense."
While that is an assy thing to say to a 10 year old, I guess he had a point. I didn't know the proper way to cross the street. I'd never had to cross the street without a parent, no one ever covered street crossing safety with me,and I never put much thought into it. I preferred to think about ancient China and detectives that could solve the insolvable. I love detectives.

I entered junior high, and I had to walk to school for the first time. My neighbor, Brandy, was entering her second year. She agreed to let me walk to school with her. When we reached Main Street, a busy five-lane road, Brandy looked at me.
"This street is hard to cross. The best way to do it is look both ways real fast, and take off running."
That's how we crossed, every day for four months.

The day of my accident was not a good one. Brandy and I were fighting, and she told me I'd be walking home alone. I had the sniffles. I was excited about wearing my new white jeans (just out of layaway), but I got a grass stain on the knee during PE. At lunch, we discussed broken bones.
"I've never broken a bone in my life," I said.
Tina, a friend that I didn't even like, replied.
"You will. Everyone breaks at least one bone."
Tina's big mouth pissed me off, so I stormed out to the courtyard.

In English class, we were diagramming sentences. I fucking hate diagramming sentences. While my teacher was lecturing about adverbs and their proper placement, I sneezed and farted at the same time.
Tina yelled "Rebel farted," in order to ensure my embarrassment.
The remembered shame of this moment still causes my face to blush, seventeen years later.

When the school day was done, I was ready to go home. I remembered my solo walk, and filled with dread.
I approached Main Street cautiously, overwhelmed by the volume of the traffic. After several minutes, I saw my chance, looked both ways, and took off running.
Sadly, for everyone involved, I did not see the bright red Hyundai hurtling towards me. The fender hit my shin, snapping the bones. I was thrown onto the hood, where the back of my head was formally introduced to the windshield. When the driver stopped, I was rudely thrown into the street.

Everything got brighter. The only sound I remember for several minutes was my ragged breathing and my gutteral cries of "Mommy".
That's right. I was 12 and crying for my mommy. When I realized that she wasn't coming, I looked around, desperate for another source of help.
I had been hit on the corner in front of the funeral home. When I looked up to see people rushing from the building, I thought, "Oh god, I died and they're coming to get my body."

The teen driver jumped out of his car, removed his leather bomber jacket (thanks Top Gun), and stretched it across his arms. Using this improvised sling, he scooped me up from the street, one arm behind my head, the other behind my knees. When he lifted me, my leg bent at the break. My jagged femur broke through the skin.
I pissed all over him.

He layed me on the sidewalk to wait for the ambulance. I kept saying,
"I'm sorry I peed on you." He paced circles around me.
When the ambulance arrived, I was surrounded by EMT's.
"What's your name honey?"
"Rebel Star. I peed on that guy. I'm so sorry."
"No need to worry about that. Rebel, we're gonna cut your pants off so we can look at your leg."
"These are my favorite pants. Don't cut them. Did I break that guy's car? I peed on him."

Part 2- Me VS. Physical therapist

I was loaded into the ambulance, half of my pants left behind on the street. The EMT's quizzed me on my mom's work phone number, my address, and my name.

"Why do you keep asking me that? I already told you my name four times."

"We need to make sure your brain is okay," he answered.

"Am I going to be stupid now," I asked, alarmed.

"No, I don't think you will."

While I was en route to the hospital, the dispatcher called my mom to tell her about the accident and what hospital I would be at. Mom beat me there, making a 30 minute drive in less than 10 minutes.

When I was wheeled into the emergency room, her face appeared above me, worried and pale.

"Mom, I broke that man's car, and I peed on him. Will you tell him I'm sorry?"

"Let's get you taken care of before we worry about apologies," she said.

I was wheeled into x-ray, where it was discovered that I had what the doctor called "a clean break". He explained to my mom that the bone sticking through my skin was only a "slight problem". He went on to explain that instead of traditional anasthesia, I would be given a drug that would allow me to feel everything, but remember none of the pain.

I was taken into surgery, where they started an IV drip. The doctor made small talk, and I told him I hated my little sister. Then I remember blackness. According to mom, the doctor told me it was time to set my leg. I told him I wasn't ready. He started the procedure anyway, and I bolted upright in the bed, and punched him in the face. Two male nurses were called in to assist, but they weren't strong enough to hold me down. Finally, with Charlie's help and two more male nurses, they were able to set my leg and apply a cast. Mom said I gave the doctor a good cussin', with motherfucker being my word of choice. ( I imagine this scene to be very similar to the exorcism scene in the Exorcist)

I woke up alone in my hospital room six hours later. I called the nurses desk to get something to drink. She quickly delivered hot chocolate and pudding.. I finished eating, and took some time to investigate the heavy plaster cast that went from my toes to my upper-thigh. I went back to sleep, only to wake three hours later when a nurse jabbed my toe with a straight pin.

"Had to make sure your foot wasn't dead, sweetheart."

My parents came to visit the next morning. Charlie had spoken to a lawyer and told me "your college is paid for. We're gonna sue his ass off." These hopes were dashed when the accident report stated that I had been jay-walking. Charlie was very disappointed.

I was in the hospital for two days when the physical therapist came. I quickly dubbed her the beast, due to her brusque manner. She came with crutches, and set about teaching me to lift my cast off the ground.

"You're being lazy," she yelled. "If you drag your leg like that, it won't set properly. They'll have to re-break it. They do that while you're awake."

After hours of practice, she made me walk down the hall on my crutches. I took several steps, and told her that I needed to rest because I felt weak.

"No. You can't leave the hospital until you master your crutches."

I took a few more steps, and collapsed in the corridor.

" Get up right now," she hissed in my ear.

"I will not. I'm tired, and I hate you. Go get me a wheelchair, and tell them that I need a new therapist, because I'm not working with you anymore."

My new therapist was much nicer.

I left the hospital the next day. I had to stay home from school for another week so my leg could mend. I watched television and scratched my leg with a wire hanger, unwound, so I could reach far under the cast.

My first day back to school, I was very nervous. This nervous feeling was only compounded when everyone I saw gasped or turned pale at the sight of me. I didn't understand their reaction.

It turns out that everyone thought I had died. There was a dance class in session, down the street from the accident. The much hated Tina was a member of the class, and they had come outside to watch the aftermath. She went to school the following day and breathlessly recounted the details of the wreck, with a more dramatic ending.

"She died," Tina told everyone, "her brains splattered all over Main Street."

The Burdens of Being A Rebel

I am the fourth Rebel in my family. To clarify, I am the fourth woman named Rebel in my family. This tradition started with Rebel Tallulah, born during the Civil War. According to family lore, my great (I'm not sure how many greats go here, and I don't want to lie to you) grandfather was a Confederate general. Knowing that his wife was due to give birth to their first child at any time, he marched his men right into the front yard of his home, where they set up camp. When his daughter entered the world, he took her outside and held her aloft for his men to admire. Someone in the crowd shouted "We have another rebel" and so she was named.

This story is almost certainly bullshit.

I do not know anything about the second Rebel. I have artifacts from the third Rebel, inherited when "I was mature enough to take care of them". This inheritance includes beautiful photographs from the 30's, a christening gown so delicate that I am afraid to touch it, and a family bible that she received for Christmas, 1925. Her daughter was also named Dot, a fact I did not know until my Dot was two years old. I get chills when I think about it.

My parents had not picked a name for me when I was born, though my mom thought Gypsy Rose sounded "nice". While they were mulling it over, my grandmother was babbling about which relative was recovering from which surgery. "They're not sure if Rebel is going to make it" she said. My parents looked at each other, and they knew that Rebel would be my name. I chalk my middle name, Star, up to dirt hippie idiocy.


It is not easy being named Rebel.

When I was in first grade, we had a substitute. She started class by doing roll call. When she reached my name, she said "What is your real name little girl?". I told her that Rebel was my real name. "I do not find this funny child. I will not call you by this nickname, and I insist that you give me your name." My classmates chimed in to support my claim, enraging the substitute. "Go to the office and don't come back until you are willing to tell me your god-given name!" An obedient child, I went to the office, crying, to explain my plight to the principal. She escorted me back to class, and told the monster that my name was, in fact, Rebel.

When I tell people my name, it is not unusual that they demand to see my i.d. I get asked if I have a cause on a daily basis (this is not now, nor has it ever been, funny to me). Someone sings "Rebel Yell" or "Rebel Rebel" to me once a week. I have been accused of being racist, based solely on my name. "I had a dog named Rebel" is another common statement. I want to punch people that tell me that. I had the misfortune of attending a high school that had a football team called the Rebels. the perky girl assigned to give me a tour of the campus said "Ohmygod! It was like you were destined to go here!" Yeah, it was destiny. People love to give me confederate flag gifts. I don't know why. Do people named Marty get gifts of Marty Stuart albums, and all other things Marty?

For years, I have heard stories of other Rebels. "I went to school with a girl named Rebel" or "There was a Rebel in my dance class!" The mysterious other Rebels began to occupy my thoughts. I wondered what their experience as a Rebel had been like. I wanted to ask how they got the name. I wanted to know if they liked it. I wanted to know if they were real.

I met another Rebel last year. She was a middle-aged woman that came into my music store to order a dvd. My friend Daron was getting her information, and asked her name. "Rebel," she said. His eyes got bigger, and he said, "Her name is Rebel," pointing at me. I looked her, and I forgot to ask a single question. I didn't really need to. I could see what I wanted to know in her eyes.

I did run into that wall, so what?

When I was in third grade, I went from average sized child, to a giant of 5'11", all in the span of a few months. This growth spurt invalidated every item of clothing I owned, made my bones ache, and caused me to lose any control of my motor functions (I will admit, there was not much to lose...I failed catching and throwing a ball in Kindergarten). The scaled-down desks of children no longer fit me. I would knock my knees on the metal support bars, the tops of my thighs pressed againt the underside of the desk-top.
The shock of my body's betrayal seemed to ignite a frenzy of physical injuries and temporarily remove any sense I possessed. This frenzy of injuries continues, unabated, to this day (see me vs. car & broken foot blogs). So without further adieu to anyone but Eske, I present a small sampling of my mishaps...

-I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my mom and Charlie. I slept on the couch in our tiny living room. One night, while sleeping soundly, I rolled off the couch, hitting my temple on the corner of my mother's octagonal table. I woke confused and bleeding. Shortly after this incident, we moved to a two bedroom apartment.

-During my fourth grade year, my best friend was a girl from my apartment complex named Christina. Christina shared my love of all things Prince, and had the added bonus of a teenage sister with a table full of makeup. I walked to visit one day, and was disappointed to find Christina's apartment empty. Unprepared to return home, I sat in the breezeway of her building, waiting for her mother's FireBird to pull into the parking lot. To entertain myself, I practiced escaping things by sticking my head through the bars of the protective railing. Things went well, until my 15th daring escape. My head got stuck between a narrower set of bars, and I was stuck. I waited patiently for someone to pass so I could summon help. No one did. My neck began to cramp, due to my awkward crouched position, and I decided that I was the only person available to save me. I began to struggle. I envisioned myself being fed dinner while trapped in the bars, and I panicked. I shook the bars and pulled my head, but it would not budge. I flailed around uselessly for a time, before I started to sweat, profusely. The sweat lubed my head enough to finally allow me to pop free like a retarded jack-in-the-bars.

-When I was 13, I went to my first New Year's Eve party with my step-cousin, Audra. We were in the large bathroom with a group of 10 women, aged 16-37, when someone began to pass a joint. A recent devotee of the art of pot smoking, I eagerly joined the circle. The smaller the joint got, the higher I was. The roach was very tiny and hot to hold on the last pass. As I pinched it gingerly between my thumb and pointer finger, I inhaled enthusiastically. I sucked the fiery roach down my throat, where it clung, burning my hangy ball (I do not know the actual term for this part of my anatomy. Anyone want to educate me?) The sound I made was something like "KKKCCHLAWWWKK", as I frantically jabbed my fingers down my throat to remove the foul intruder. I choked and sputtered, and one of the girls declared "Gross". They all filed out, leaving me to choke on my own.

This is far longer than I ever anticipated, so perhaps I will do one more, and continue the rest in a series...

-My new house, built in 1928, did not come with a dishwasher, or even a place to put a dishwasher. This means that I must do dishes the old-fashioned way, by hand. I have a dish drainer, to save me the effort of drying them, but Sophie climbs on the counter, in search of things to knock over. His favorite choice is always glasses.This means that I am constantly finding shards of glass in the most uncomfortable way possible. About four months ago, I moved the drainer to clean the counter top. As I vigorously scrubbed, I hit an unseen piece of glass, and it was rammed under my thumb-nail. When I tell you that the pain associated with this injury was worse than child-birth, I am not exaggerating. Unfortunately, we were also in the middle of sanding 80 years of paint off of my house and priming the entire thing, so my poor hand had no time to rest. As I am clumsy, I was contantly banging my thumb on things, causing me to relive the injury, and cuss the really bad cusses in front of my grandpa. After three days of this abuse, a shard of glass a 1/2 inch long emerged from my nailbed. The relief was spectacular.

A Kitchen Conversation

Today, me 'n the family explored archaeological ruins & national forests, met a wacky forest ranger, soiled a Spanish mission with our heathenism, and photgraphed cows. It was my intention to blog about that, but it involves uploading photos, opening accounts, and url's. To be quite frank, that is far more than I am willing to commit to right now. Instead, I would like to share a conversation that I had with Dot last night.

the scene:
Eric told Dot that she would have to help me prepare the picnic lunch for Sunday's adventure. She was pissed, because she preferred to play Nintendo and listen to Ween. She huffed into the kitchen, pissy and unwilling to help...

me:Hey! What's your problem?

dot: I don't want to this, and daddy is making me. What do I have to do?

me:You need to dice the bellpepper and onion.

dot:Oh god, I knew you were going to make me do that.

me:What is wrong with dicing peppers and onions?

dot:It's the worst thing I can think of.

me: There are worse things, like catching your face on fire. That would be horrible. Then they would have to take skin off your ass and put it on your face. You'd be an assface. Now cut the vegetables.

dot:(laughing) You are crazy.

....after several minutes of working...

me:Okay, you need to cut more onion.You also need to dice the pepper. You just cut it into strips.

dot: You didn't tell me I had to cut it into smaller pieces.

me: Yes I did. Remember when I told you to dice them, and then you started whining?

dot: Oh, yeah.Can I please do something else? I hate this.

me: Fine, peel these eggs. Ya know, I can't wait until I'm old and you have to take care of me. I'm gonna crap my pants on purpose, and you'll have to clean it up. You'll whine then.

dot:Uh-uh. I'm gonna put you in a home when you're 50.

me: You will not! I'm going to write it into my will that you won't receive my fortune if I'm put into a home.

dot: That won't work. Who'll get your money?

me:I'll leave it to the cats.

dot: Then I'll kill the cats, and then I'll get the money.

me: No you won't. If the cats die, the remainder of my estate will go to the SPCA. You can't put me in a home.

As we finished packing the picnic and cleaned the mess, we bantered about hypothetical situations and our lives. Her mood was much improved. She loves illogical arguments, despite the fact that I always win. I'm sure she'll be winning soon enough.

Daron Is A Good Friend To Have

Dot is at the age where she is contemplating the notion of trying different personas. I expect this. I'm a very tolerant person. I'm also very strange (I was once described as a wacky-ass, a designation that I enjoy immensely), so there is little she can do to shock me. When she recently inquired about what it meant to be "goth", I got very concerned. Not because I'm scared of black nail polish, but the prospect of having to hear Christian Death blasting from her speakers was the worst thing I could think of. I hate that band.

I needed to formulate a plan, and fast. I turned to my good friend, Daron, for his ex-goth advice. Our e-mail exchange follows. *Note to the sensitive...The Diamanda Galas line is a JOKE! No need to get offended. I love my child, and would never do anything to hurt her. Neither would Daron.

From me:
Yesterday, Dot asked me what being goth means (she's toying with the idea of being goth). I told her it involved listening to dramatic music, wearing velvet, dying your hair black, wearing make up that makes you look ugly, loving vampires, and being sad. Did I leave anything out?
Rebel

From Daron:
You have to remember the complete contempt for anything normal. And you need a good pose. Feeling insecure about your phisical apperance helps.

I should make her a goth music comp to see if she can commit to the music. We should give her some acid and make her listen to Diamanda Galas's Litanies Of Satan while repetedly asking her if she's happy being sad.

That would be an appropriate line in the sand.

I was wondering about her new myspace pic and name.

Tell her I was goth and I realized it's just better to be eccentric.

People still think I'm goth. I just look like shit. Is that goth? I suppose the I Love Nothing shirt doesn't help.

From me:
I broached this subject with Dot, and she was excited about owning a cd of goth music. She then informed me that I would have to buy her "goth clothes". When pressed for details about these clothes, she "couldn't explain" what they looked like. I think 15 minutes of Christian Death would cure her of these desires.

Your response made me wish that you would write stories. I'm thinking you would get a good response. I want to post this e-mail exchange on my blog. It's pretty fucking funny. I think Dot would probably be mortified. Wait, isn't it my job as a parent to embarrass her?

Rebel

From Daron:
I need to learn how to spell physical if I'm going to write.

You would think I would know how to spell the name of an Oliva Newton-John album that has an album sleeve that I used to wank to as a child.

Ah, the things we block out.

I'll make her the gothiest goth cd that ever gothed!
______________________________________________________________
Turns out, Dot could not commit to goth music. Now she likes Ween, thanks to Daron. I can handle that. Goth aversion therapy works, and Daron is a good friend to have. Also, Dot is awesome.

I Have Found My Life’s Purpose

It is carnival and livestock expo time in Nacogdoches, Texas, a magical time of year.
OR
It is convenient to attend a small town carnival with a small town celebrity.

When we arrived at the carnival, Dot and I headed straight to the FFA barns to admire the cows and goats. Eric isn't as enchanted by livestock as we are, so he wandered the midway. Dot and I walked up and down the stalls, pausing to admire the clean, scrubbed and fluffy cows, with their big, wet eyes. As we passed, they raised their heads to moo a salutation to us, their admirers. We were completely charmed. We watched a pair of cows engage in a head-butting contest, the winner being given first chance at the hay bucket. There was a 5 year old boy walking a tiny calf on a rope, so we watched them struggle, the boy to move the cow to her stall, the cow to remain by the feed bucket. When the boy's grandfather intervened, we walked to the goat pens. The goats were beautifully groomed, and resembled giant puppies with floppy ears and hooves. They entertained us by climbing on their pen-mate's backs, and chewing things that shouldn't be chewed, like wood and steel. Dot and I plan to get a goat very soon. Maybe a cow too. Dot has named our imaginary future cow Sadie, while I want to call her Buttermilk.

After our animal adventures, we headed to the midway to test Dot's luck in a game of skill, and to track Eric down. We passed a booth, worked by an elderly man, selling necklaces with free engraving. I encouraged her to pick one out, and she decided on a silver unicorn. I wrote her name on an index card so the elderly man would have it as a reference while engraving. He spelled the name wrong. It says "Dorth". Dot was not amused, but I think it's funny. She gave the necklace to me, and I plan to wear it. Dot played a dart game (3 darts for $5) and she busted two balloons, winning a medium stuffed animal. The carney working the game flirted with me, and then tried to steal my lighter.

When we caught up with Eric, Aunt Cheryl, and grandma, Aunt Cheryl (small town celebrity) had a sheet of ride tickets that someone had given her. No one else wanted them, so Eric and I ran off to spend them. The first ride up was the SeaRay (the giant boat that swings back and forth), operated by the most charming carney I have ever met. As we boarded, he asked, "Are ya'll ready for this?" We assured him we were. As we waited for the ride to start, I noticed a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper sitting on the railing in the middle of the boat. "Why is that there" I asked Eric. The carney overheard and answered "Another worker left it there." The boat started swinging, making me squeal. "You're just gettin' started darlin'" the carney shouted. The ride was more powerful than we anticipated, but we had fun, watching small children scream during the long fall from the top. As he stopped the boat, the carney asked "Did ya'll enjoy it? I know how to make this baby hum. I didn't even take you as high as I could have." He went on the explain that the two-liter was there to demonstrate gravity, and told us about zero-gravity and g-forces. As he talked, I realized that I want to be a carney.

We rode the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Gravitator and ate carnival food, turkey leg for Eric, nachos for me. We eventually found Dot, grandma, and Aunt Cheryl. Dot was loaded with stuffed animals, including a four foot tall giraffe. "I won him for you Mama. I knew you would love him. Are you going to name him Ted Nugent?" She knows me so well. I AM going to name him Ted Nugent, and he will sit next to Ted Nugent the wooden giraffe (if you have read the book "Giraffes? Giraffes!, I will not sound as crazy). We shared funnel cake, and Dot went home with grandma. Eric and I walked around for an hour and enjoyed more rides.

We rode the Hurricane, which whipped around in a circle, crushing my ribs and injuring my neck. The entire time we were on the Hurricane, I could only think, "What if they can't stop this thing, and I have to ride it forever? I think it would take too long for me to die" and "If that cable snaps, I will instantly be decapitated. I wonder how well they maintain these rides?" Then I let Eric talk me into riding the Ferris wheel, despite my hatred of heights. Once inside the car, I realized I had made a grievous error. To distract myself from the panic-attack happening in my brain, I regaled Eric with facts about the first Ferris wheel, built for the 1896 Chicago World's Fair. (If anyone is interested in these facts, let me know. I hate Ferris wheels, but love the story of the first Ferris wheel.) We headed home shortly after riding the swings, and I spent the night fantasizing about working the carnival. A life of travel, smoking while buckling children into rides, flirting with the pretty ladies, and cotton candy. It's my life's purpose.

The Life Of Friday

My first job out of high school was as a clerk at the music store in our local mall. I worked for the same chain until last year, eleven years of my life. During my employment, co-workers, bosses and owners changed constantly. The only thing that remained unchanged, was Donovan Johnson.

The first time I talked to Donovan, I had been working at the store for two weeks. The telephone rang, and my pompadored manager, Joey, told me to answer it.

"Thanks for calling Blockbuster Music. This is Rebel, how can I help you?"

"Say, when's that Master P album coming out," asked the high-pitched voice on the other end.

"Let me look that up for you, sir....my computer says it will be available September 17th."

"I talked to Sam Goody, and they said October. Then I called Best Buy, and they said it's already out, they're just sold out."

"Sir, Best Buy employees don't know what they're talking about, so they lie. It's not out yet."

"Oh, okay. Thank you."

He called six more times that day, to ask the same question. Joey and I tried to imagine the life of this man, the number one Master P fan.

"I bet his life is like the movie Friday," Joey said. "He just smokes pot all day, and calls us."

We took to calling him Friday, for lack of his actual name.

Friday began a regimen of 6 or more phone calls a day. In the beginning, he wanted release dates for countless albums that Master P's No Limit Records was putting out on a weekly basis. After Friday quizzed us for information, he always told us what the other chain stores said, and sometimes what the record label or Source magazine had to say on the matter. (Rappers are notorious for setting release dates, then pushing them back. Friday could not handle this, and did his best to get to the bottom of the delay.) Over time, he seem to regard us as companions, and would call just to chat.

One day, Joey answered the phone. Friday was on the other end.

"Say, do you have the number to the Hurst IGA grocery store?"

"No, I don't," Joey answered. He still regrets not providing Friday with the number. "That would have been so fucking awesome," he said.

When shift change outs occurred, there was always a Friday update. What he called about, how many calls he had made already, the strange things he said. We were consumed. I came in for a closing shift one day, and Joey greeted me at the door.

"Rebel, I totally got to meet Friday today. His name is Donovan. He actually bought something!"

I was jealous that Joey had a face to put with the pestering voice on the line.

After four years at the mall, our store was no longer profitable, so they closed us down. I transferred to the mega-store across the street (Joey moved on). Friday's calls followed me. When training new employees, I would give a five minute speech about Friday, and our history together. Most people were annoyed with him, understandably, but I felt a great affection for him.

Eventually, his phone calls became more about keeping me on the line, and less about the endless quest for information. He trapped me for an hour once, giving me the details of his harassment of Sug Knight and Death Row records.

"So, I called Death Row 25 times in a row, and they wouldn't answer. I left a message every time. I said, 'Sug Knight, you a bitch. Since Tupac died, you ain't got shit. Whatchoo got, Sug? Nothing. Daz Dillinger will kick your ass.' So then they called me back and said 'If you call here again, we'll get a restraining order.' Ain't that a bitch move? Sug Knight is a bitch."

"Wow, Donovan, that's crazy," I said, not knowing what else to say.

In the entire time I worked at the store, I talked to Friday thousands of times, but only met him once. It was awkward, and not worth repeating.

Last Christmas, I decided I could not survive another retail Christmas, so I found a new job. I prepared all my customers for my departure, making sure Donovan knew I was leaving.

"Damn, you are? I'm gonna miss you girl."

I miss you too, Friday.

Rebel Came Home (Sorry, This Thing Is Huge)

My trip to Fort Worth cured my homesickness beautifully. As soon as we hit the outskirts of Grand Prairie, I was reminded of how much I hate strip centers and four-lane highways, billboards and litter. I'll take the crickets and trees any day. What I was really missin' was an amazing group of talented and funny friends.

"Let's Just Get Drunk At The House."

When we got inside the city limits of Fort Worth, Eric and I decided to stock up at our favorite liquor store. It ain't my favorite anymore, largely because they want $2.50 MORE per six pack of LoneStar than I pay for it in East Texas. I bought High Life instead, because that's the kind of cheap date I am.

The official purpose of my visit was to sand the floors of my former house. The house, built in 1954, is being remodeled and updated, and as such, it is a complete disaster. There are sawhorses, paintcans, and tools stacked upon every flat surface. Everything is covered with dust. The floors are filthy.

I really came to see my friends. I wanted to have everyone over to drink and catch up in the gutted remains of the house we spent Thanksgiving and birthdays in.

We couldn't make it any messier.

Daron met us at the house fifteen minutes after we arrived. When we lived in Fort Worth, Daron was at our house every night for two years, and lived in our spare bedroom for six months. He was shocked at the changes. The bathroom, which originally had pink and gray tiled floors and walls, had been completely gutted. In place of the tile was vinyl floor.

This wasn't my house anymore.

We looked at the sunken living room, it's walls bare and ugly. Daron said, "it doesn't look cool in here without your stuff. Like your aprons" I think he's right.

We headed to Wherehouse Music, to harass Little Bryan, and so I could play irritating customer (meaning I came to sell DVD's 20 minutes before close, and I didn't bother to take the price stickers off of them). Daron took the back route to the store for old times sake. When we walked into the store, it was too bright, because unlike my 11 years there, all the light bulbs were in working order. Everything looked clean and organized.

I asked Bryan if they spent all their time cleaning now.

"No, we just don't have any customers coming in to fuck things up anymore," he replied.

After he finished my used buy, Bryan let me bag and sticker the DVD's. I am not as fast as I used to be, and I can't say it's a job I miss.

We made plans for Bryan to meet us at the house when he got off work, and headed home. As we passed Bennigan's, we noticed that the parking lot was over-flowing.

"Hey guys," Daron said, "you wanna go to Bennigan's? It's a bar....AND grill."

When we home, I talked to Jack and Shannon and made plans for them to meet us. Jack volunteered (or I asked him) to call Giant Brian and Vicky and ask them over (Jack's a very convincing fella). Jack and Shannon were kind enough to bring chips, ice, coolers, folding chairs, and some tasty chocolate chip cookies, preventing us from sitting in the floor and starving to death while drinking hot booze.

By 11:30, six of my favorite people were sitting amidst the destruction of my former home. Lil' B brought giant beers. We talked and laughed for hours. I took pictures of the Texas shaped brand on Jack's ass (look for my pictures soon!). Shannon brought me gifts including beautiful puzzles and a creepy praying girl mirror. We laughed until my stomach hurt. At one point, I looked at Lil' B and said "I wish we had nachos" (I always tell him this when we get drunk together). "I know," he said, "it's weird being in this house and not getting your hospitality."

When Little Bryan left, he was feeling fiesty, and bear-hugged me while grinding his skull into my jaw. I thought he dislocated it, but I was okay with that. Sometimes love hurts. When Giant Brian and Vicky left, he faked me out by starting a high-five, and then wrestling me into a bearhug. I loved every second of it. Shannon and Jack left after hugs and talk of how much we missed one another. It was 4:30. Papa wanted to start floor sanding at 8.

Floor Sanders Are Louder When You're Hung-Over And Sleep Deprived

Papa showed up at 9, ready to start work. Eric and I were not, but it didn't matter. I spent seven hours running the industrial sander over a 10x10 room. It was not thrilling.

The Christmas Wolf Is Here!

At one point, Papa rushed into the bedroom and told me to follow him into the backyard. When we got to the fence-line, we saw three helicopters landing in the church parking lot, directly behind the house. Santa, elves, and Frosty the Snowman unloaded from the copters, followed by a man in a reindeer outfit.

"What is that," asked Papa, "a wolf?"

"Yes Papa, it's the Christmas Wolf. You've heard that story, right?"

Country Shows, Half Priced Drinks, And What's Wrong With The Sky In Dallas

We had plans to attend the show that Jack's band, The Whiskey Folk Ramblers, were playing in Dallas. After hitting our favorite thrift store and crappy Chinese restaurant, we went to Shannon and Jack's house to meet up. Actually, we just went to the garage, where I have been drunk on countless occasions. We sat and talked to Shannon, smoked cigarettes and marveled at the new wall hangings they have acquired in the past year, before heading out.

Shannon and I followed Jack and Eric, and enjoyed quality girl talk, something I had been sorely missing.

The bar where they were playing makes the strongest drinks that I have ever had. For real. I suspect that they just waved a bottle of Coke above my rum & Coke. Then, I found out that Jack got drinks for half price. I think everyone can do the bar math and arrive at the correct total, drunk Rebel.

The Whiskey Folk Ramblers were very fun. I will see them again, and soon.

In between bands, I stood on the patio and talked to folks I hadn't seen in months, and got re-introduced to some folks I had met before. I talked about firearms for a long period of time. I realized that the night sky in Dallas is very bright. The stars are invisible, and everything is louder.

After another drink, and an undetermined amount of shots for Jack (he's a charmer, and folks want to buy him drinks), followed by his impersonation of "momma bird feeding" demonstrated on my neck, we convinced Jack to leave for dinner. He was kind enough to spank my ass as we left.

Dinner Was Exciting As You Think It Was
*disclaimer...I was drunk during dinner, and am a little fuzzy on all the details. To all involved parties,if you see an error, please feel free to correct it.

Shannon, Jack, Eric and I went to Cafe Brazil, where Heidi, Kevin, and Kelly joined us. Our waiter explained that he was only pretending to be a waiter, and took our drink order. Jack wanted coffee, which required him to fetch it himself. After returning to the table, Shannon asked him if he knew what he wanted to order. He started shouting "motherfucking bread pudding". Fake waiter explained that they were out of bread pudding and suggested pan crepes instead. Fake waiter delivered Jack's crepes. Jack tried to make everyone eat them, before Shannon told him that he needed them worse than anyone else.

When Jack got up for another coffee refill, fake waiter pointed out a spider on the brim of his cowboy hat. Jack responded by eating the spider, and screaming things I can't remember in a gypsy accent. The spider eating seemed to work him into a frenzy of eating inappropriate things, including Eric's beard and a five dollar bill stolen from Kevin's wallet. He dunked potatoes in his coffee and my water. Crepes were also dunked in a variety of liquids and consumed. He threw water and food around, and frightened a homeless man that stopped to ask for change.

This behavior was more charming than it sounds. Unless you're married to him. Then it might not be as amusing.

Heidi got fried ice cream, and was kind enough to share. Kelly helped me get a proper ratio of fried and creamy. I'm very appreciative. It was the best bite of ice cream, ever.

After dinner, we said our goodbyes. As I hugged Jack, he squeezed me and said, "This feels so good." "That's because you can feel my boobs." This statement led to chest bumping and other inappropriate activities.

Daron picked us up, and we went home with him. We listened to a crazy hillbilly poem about necrophilia that Daron had downloaded. I can't stop thinking about it.

I Need Eggs Benedict

I woke up Sunday and talked to Daron and Joy for two hours. We listened to music from Daron's computer, including a Star Wars Christmas song (I think the chorus was "Merry Christmas, R2D2"), Billy Ocean, and my new favorite song, "I Wanna Pee Pee In The Disco, Mommy". After Eric woke up, we went to brunch. On the way to brunch, I saw a prostitute in a tube top waving at cars. The song playing was "Slave To Love", which seemed surreal. Shortly after we arrived, eggs benedict were eaten, and all was right in the world.

We left Daron's with my third copy of the Great Tyrant album (I kept losing it), which I have since listened to 20 times.

On the way home, we received a text message from Jack that read "Just coughed up summa yr beard. And what appears to have been a spider." I hope he put it in a jar so I can see it next time I come to town.

It Was Nice To Go Home

But I am glad to be back in the country, where LoneStar is cheap and I can look at the stars in peace. I just wish I could have brought all the folks with me. I miss them already.

You Can’t Take Me Anywhere

This weekend, I have plans to go to an exhibition by the editors of Found magazine. As a freak that picks up every random thing that I find on the ground, I am very excited about this. I am also a little worried. I am worried, because this is my first adventure with Ruby, and the event is BYOB. I have a history of doing stupid things at exhibitions, especially when booze is involved. By way of warning, I give you the story of the blown glass vase....

I can't remember how long ago this was, but if I hazarded a guess, I'd say two years ago. Our friend Jack was participating in a Fort Worth Community Arts Center exhibition, and encouraged Eric to submit one of his hand-made books full of stupid and offensive haiku. He did.

We attended the event, and free beer and wine were available. Not being much of a wine drinker, I took advantage of the free beer offer. It wasn't long before I was feeling pretty festive. A little too festive, probably.

The show was mixed media. Eric's book was placed on a stool (scavenged from Jack's garage if I remember correctly), and next to it, on a pedestal, was a HUGE blown glass vase with a $2500 price tag. I was standing with my back to the vase, talking to a group of folks. I took a step back, and collided with something.

I was pretty sure that I knew what it was.

I turned around to see the blown glass vase toppling into the corner. It hit the wall, and made a "GONG" sound. The entire room, which moments before had been full of lively conversation, fell quiet. All eyes were on me and the vase.

In a show of drunken reflexes that I will likely never replicate, I grabbed the vase, righted it on the pedestal, and turned around like it was business as usual.

Shannon, Jack's wife, looked at me.

"Oh my god. What would you have done if you hadn't caught it and it broke?"

"I was gonna take off runnin', and you woulda had to drive all over Ft. Worth to find me."

And they would have.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I feel slightly more secure at this event, because it's unlikely that anyone has found a blown-glass vase on the sidewalk. But just to keep on the safe side, I will keep the festivity to a minimum. Never let it be said that I can't learn a lesson.

Let’s Take A Peek!

Woo Hoo!

The Found event was great! There were songs, dramatic interpretations, curse words, and audience participation. There was a story about Mr. Rogers, and I got to drink beer in a church, allowing me to cross 37 off my "List of 100 Awesome Things To Do Before I Die".

I talked to lots of folks that night that share my obsession with finding things on the ground. We swapped stories of our favorite finds, and talked about artists that use found objects as inspiration. No one discussed why they felt compelled to collect these things.

The whole thing started me wondering on when I developed this voyeuristic desire to peek at the things strangers discard.

After Much Contemplation, I Arrived At The Source

When I was 15, my aunt found three sacks of prison mail on the side of the highway. As soon as she brought them inside, we dumped the contents on the pool table and gathered 'round. In a rare display of family unity, we spent the next week there, reading our favorite passages to one another. We followed the tangled stories of prison romance, and learned the proper technique to brew hooch from cafeteria leftovers. We got to eavesdrop on the most private thoughts of complete strangers.

I learned a valuable lesson, and since then, I've been collecting things found on the ground, forgotten on counter tops, or left in shopping carts. My collection includes suicide notes, bizarre shopping lists, break-up letters, contracts, journals, doodles, medical reports, and hundreds of pictures. I spend a lot of time shuffling these things from place to place, imagining the lives of these people.

I am compiling evidence, of what I don't know.

This Is Not My Favorite, But It Is Certainly The Strangest


I can't remember where I found this, or how long ago. I can't explain what it means, who wrote it, or how it affects the world around you. I can only give it to you, and allow you to draw your own conclusions.

*a brief description of the item- single piece of paper, ripped from a spiral, sharply folded. printed in block letters on the back of the paper , using a blue, fine-point pen. it looks like the work of a serial killer.*

TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS THE ELEVEN SURVIVING MIDGETS FROM COLONEL TOBY'S SOUTHERN CIRCUS GATHERED FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE BROOMSTICK. REQUIREMENTS WERE MINIMAL: ELEVEN BROOMSTICKS, THREE QUARTS OF BABY OIL, AND A FEMALE. JUST AFTER 4:00 THEY OBSERVED A DRUNKEN, BLONDE CO-ED STAGGER ACROSS THE CAMPUS. THEY PERSUADED HER TO FOLLOW, ASSURING HER THEY WERE SANTA'S ELVES AND THEY WOULD LET HER WATCH REINDEER HAVING SEX. BACK AT THE WAREHOUSE THEY STRIPPED HER NAKED, COVERED HER AND THE FLOOR WITH BABY OIL. BROOMSTICKS CAME OUT. THE CO-ED TUMBLED DOWN AND THE MIDGETS BEGAN TREATING HER LIKE A HOCKEY PUCK, WHACKING HER ASS ACROSS THE SLIPPERY, OILED FLOOR. AFTER FIF-

And that is how it ends. I will ponder this mystery for a very long time. The world is a strange place, full of interesting people.

Megan Harris, Will You Marry Me?

* A Brief Note From The Author*
This blog is supposed to accompanied by a series of photographs that I took to document this blog. Photographs that turned out so beautifully, it would almost lead you to believe that I knew what I was doing with my camera. Unfortunately, I loaded the pictures onto my laptop that doesn't want to admit that it has an IP address, and thus, will not get on the internets. This means that I will have to burn the pictures onto a disc, and load them into a computer that can get along with the internet. Seeing as I am technologically retarded, that may take awhile. Since I didn't take notes over the weekend, I need to get these words out now. Please accept my apologies, and allow me to paint you a picture with my words...

Saturday-Megan arrives at the house like an explosion. She comes bearing gifts. She brought me her grandmother's rotary phone, books, a chicken, and five pounds of potatoes. We hug, and then embark on a tour of my adorable 1928 farmhouse. After the tour, Megan realizes that her cellphone, keys, and cigarettes are missing. After much searching, it is determined that my house contains a vortex that leads to another dimension. As you read, her lost items are floating in some mysterious ether, laughing at us.

We head to downtown Nacogdoches for dinner at Mike's Bar-B-Que, Megan's treat. Then, we visit Eric's friend. Eric's friend explained his desire to own a television that he "could be proud of". When we left, we repeated the television story over and over. laughing uproariously. We are assholes.

On the way home, we stop to purchase beer from my friendly liquor shack. While there, Megan determined that my liquor vendor is not Filipino, as I suspected, but is in fact, from Laos. I love a solved mystery.

We spend the rest of the night drinking beer, listening to music, and laughing. Megan laughs like a freight train, and I like that.

Sunday-We ate breakfast, and then Megan, Dot, and I load in the car, headed to search for ghost towns in Cherokee county. I didn't take notes on the historical information, so I'll leave most of that for Megan to tell you about.

I can't remember the name of the first town that we visited. It's not really important, because all that's left is a historical marker. Seems the town was the former site of a peach farm, but we see no traces of peaches. We move on.

We stop at the Arnold family cemetery, and marvel at the cemetery rules sign, blasted with buckshot. There are a large number of infant graves, and the grave of a Confederate veteran. We find a plastic bird, which we take with us.

We're looking for Wildhurst. On the way there, we see a dilapidated shack, ripe for exploration. We battle our way through the branches and brambles, and find the shack is full of tires and jars. Lots of tires and jars. Also, a plastic bull. Dot found blank sheet music, which she took as a souvenir. I wish I had taken the bull.

We spot a roadside, open-air church, so we stop to look around. We find nothing of note until we look at the outhouse. On the wall in the ladies outhouse, we find a sign that reads, "Welcome to ladies' country. Sit down, relax, and relieve yourself." We take it with us.

We finally arrive in Wildhurst, and one of Texas' 12,000 historical markers teaches us that it is the former site of a mill town. Driving past a majestic tree lined drive, Megan stops to take a picture. We park on the dirt road, and venture onto private property to do some exploration. We are interrupted by the buzzing of motors, and look up to see that Megan's car has been boxed in by an SUV and two kids on dirtbikes. We head back to the car to chat with the folks. Megan rushes up to the SUV, and pouring on the Texas accent, explains to our captors that we are history majors in the area researching Wildhurst and other local ghost towns. To our surprise, we are invited to the house with the tree lined drive to look at historical documents. We learn that the housing for the mill workers was located in the yard we are now sitting in, and our hostess is a former Arnold, as in the Arnold family cemetery. We have a pleasant chat, and watch the hostesses' grand-son practice his roping skills, before continuing our journey.

The tiny backroads we are taking are confusing, and not well marked. We get lost. We drive across all variety of bridges, and stop to ask a meth head outside of a house with boarded up windows for directions. Dot pets a large red dog that she later declares as "stinky". Megan spots an old house, buried in brush, and we stop. The brush is actually a tangle of sharp branches and brambles, which Megan bulldozes through to clear the path for me and Dot. I can tell that Dot is falling in love with Megan. Inside the house, we discover an amazing pink refrigerator, and an art-deco sink from the 30's (that I'm going back to get), and a lot of animal turds and mildewed clothes. We explore the lean-to next door, taking a slotted mailbox and a green bottle.

We stop in a small town to get snacks, before heading towards Weeping Mary. On the way, we spot an historic cemetery. We stop to visit the cemetery, and find that is over-grown and neglected. The last burial took place in 1863, so we find the neglect of this piece of Texas history outrageous.

We arrive in Weeping Mary, where Megan meets the mayor, his 40 oz., and his goat. She learns that Weeping Mary is a historic black community, and poses for pictures. Please refer to Megan's blog for historically accurate details.

We head for one more ghost town, Atoy, before we lose the last of our daylight. Megan and I sing along, loudly, to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Nothing of interest in Atoy, unless you find Baptist churches fascinating. I do not.

We arrive home, and as I walk Dot across the street to grandma's house, she looks at me and says, "Megan is SO awesome." Back off Dot, I saw her first.

Me, Megan, and Eric watch the Mighty Boosh, becoming intimately familiar with Old Gregg and his mangina.

Monday- I tell Megan goodbye, and head to work. When I get home from my 10 hour day, I discover that Megan has roasted a chicken for our dinner, washed my dishes and laundry, folded laundry, and made my bed. She was gone. That's too bad, because I wanted to make out with her.

So, there you have it. Megan, if you want to marry me, let me know. I promise to make you very happy.

To My Alcoholic Friends

Recently, a friend accused me of being an alcoholic. This accusation took me by surprise, mostly because it was completely off base. We were on the phone, and anonymous friend was explaining that he had come to the realization he had a drinking problem.

"But you have a drinking problem too," he said.

"What are you talking about," I asked.

"How often do you drink? Every day?"

"No, not even close. I usually drink once a week, sometimes every two weeks. Sometimes, I go months without drinking."

This seemed to throw anonymous friend for a loop, but he would not be deterred from his conviction that I had a drinking problem.

"Well, when you drink, do you do it to get drunk?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then you're an alcoholic!" He seemed triumphant.

Is there something I'm misunderstanding here? If I'm not supposed to be drinking to get drunk, what, exactly, am I supposed to be drinking for? World peace? An end to childhood hunger? An AIDS cure?

"Bartender, can I get a margarita? I'm trying to gain equal rights for women over here."

So, I drink to get drunk. I sometimes find myself inside IHOP at 3 am (a place I would never go when I'm sober) laughing too loud, and expounding on inappropriate (read: ADULT) subjects in my outside voice. Call Betty Ford, I'm out of control. Or, I'm solving the world's problems, one cocktail at a time.

I would let you be the judge, but I don't like people judging me. Now, who wants a margarita? I need some equal pay for equal work over here.