Arv on Main Street

It has taken me a month or so to wade through the almost 8000 images I brought back with me from my month long trip.   As I went through them all, it was almost like doing the trip all over.  It’s funny how visual stimuli can bring back the smell of the heat off the crops,  the chill of a cool breeze as you stopped to talk with someone and the wonder at the life of another.

Gotta luv the swamp cooler

One such memory, if that is indeed the right word, was my time with Arv.  I had just crossed the desert through Utah and was coming out of a mountain pass I had traversed many times before.  This pass, outside of Salt Lake, had been my route for the 20 years I had lived in Portland and made my semi-annual pilgrimage to the 4 corners area.  A small town sat at the foot of the eastern end and although I had driven through it a few times, I just never found much of interest there. On this trip I had a different agenda and felt the need to give the place a little more time.

"Chuck Berry is the King of Rock and Roll"

The first exit for the town was a bit further west than I had ever entered before.  I saw a few things that surprised me and made me wonder about certain socio-economic realities here.  But as I drove along a lot of things looked a bit different and I soon stopped and started making photographs.  As I was standing out in the middle of Main Street, a car passed behind me and the driver shouted out that there wasn’t anything of interest over there, that  “this” is what I should be shooting.  It was Arv in his ’66 Chevy.  After coaxing him out of the car–which wasn’t difficult–and getting his picture, he asked if I would be in town long.  He wanted to come back with his ’50, which I assumed was a car, and that he would be back in 15-20 minutes.  I told him that I would probably be in town that long anyway, and sure, he could come on back with his ’50.

Clean and no chrome

Walking around the town, I found lots of things to photograph and a lot of interesting details.  Just about the time I was about to wrap up, figuring Arv had found something better to do, he drives up in a beautifully restored ’50 GMC pick-up.  He was hoping I might do some photos of it.  As I started, he said he knew a better place just a block away.  We were off.

That block was more like 10 and we came to a little park at the end of town.  Arv obviously had a different idea of what taking a picture of his truck meant than I did, he wanted a photoshoot!  What the heck, I didn’t grab a tripod, but I got the truck positioned the best I could for the location and time of day–and started shooting.  I wasn’t sure his “list” of shots was ever going to end, but I was having fun regardless.  I couldn’t help but feel that Arv had missed his true calling as an Art Director!

When we were done, we headed to Arv’s place for a beer and some cigars.  Turns out that Arv grew up in southern California just as I did.  We were born the same year and even went to the same college for one semester or so.  But Arv was a “‘60’s hippie back in those days” and after the draft wasn’t an issue, he left school and hit the road.  I asked him how he ended up out here in the middle of nowhere.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love this area myself, but I don’t know how someone from southern California would come to such a place and end up staying.  He indicated that he had been hitch hiking back from Colorado in the mid 70’s and had stopped in the next town up for a beer. There he met a guy who offered him lodging back here for the night–he just never left.  He has lived in “his first house with his first wife” all these years–something he seemed to be very proud of.

We talked for an hour or so and then I needed to hit the road.  Just like the photos of the truck, I think Arv had a never-ending list of things he wanted to share.  I finally got on the road-with a blessing from Arv as I backed out of his driveway- and made my way to my night’s destination where I had a great steak dinner, courtesy of the Arvster.  But that is another story…..

Arv with a wardrobe change...

all rights reserved © 2009 John Acurso

Pierre Falardeau is gone. That is a goddamn shame. He had strong opinions and now, the best way to pay tribute to him is by making “Mercury Rising” rise up from the ashes.

I had a discussion this week with Marc regarding Québec, Canada and many more problems.

Marc would like the province of Québec to become a country, and I disagree. Although we are not on the same page, I can still admit when he is right.

He is right when he says that Canada is a parasite for Québec. A big part of all the money that’s lost is Canada’s fault. They suck the life out of Québec like a fucking male prostitute would suck Boy George’s cock.

I completely agree with Marc on that.

However, the people of Québec is mostly ignorant and extremely arrogant. It is becoming increasingly racist. Why ? The reason is simple : After letting every goddamn bastard get into the province and ruin our lives, the people is getting tired of it. Don’t get me wrong : I am no racist, but I do not like my life to change because of buffoons from other countries coming here and telling us how to do things.

And go fuck yourself with your shitty religions ! Believe in whatever you want, but don’t throw it in our face !

If you don’t like it here : GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE !!!

We were kind enough to let you come here and what do you do ? You destroy our lives.

No, I will not point the finger at a complete race. That, I won’t do. However, you know who you are. People coming from the Middle East are mostly to blame. They come here, bomb us and they try to take possession of every small part of Canada & the United States Of America until they possess the countries completely.

I am no racist, I repeat. I don’t hate the race, I hate the people, I hate the extremists, I hate their fucking non-sense thoughts.

It’s just like the Native Americans. Marc hates them and as for me, there are a lot of parts where I agree with him.

Okay, so they’ve been given the right not to pay taxes. It’s not their fault but…why ? Why just them ? Because they deserve it ? No fucking way. MAYBE the older Native Americans, who are now long gone, deserved it. They suffered a lot, but not today. Most of the Native Americans I met were arrogant and so ignorant !

You will rarely see a normal-sized woman, with a normal-sized husband, with 1 or 2 normal-sized, well-mannered children. You better look hard if you want to find that before you die.

Recently, might very well be every day, I saw a 300-pound woman, along with her 400-pound husband with 4 children : 1 normal-sized boy, who looked like he was about 6 to 8, and 3 Chris Farley-lookin’ daughters, who were about 10 to 16.

I have nothing against fat people at all, but when you are this big, take care ! There are some people around you, you morons ! You’re not alone in this world ! And no, don’t get in front of me in the line ! Maybe if you went to school, you’d have a better-developed brain.

That message was also for the rare skinny Native Americans.

And do they all have a brand new, red or black pick-up truck ? I can’t believe that !

I did that in memory of Mr. Falardeau, but more words from me will come in the next few days.

Why is it that the monster pick up truck in front of me is being driven by a little old man who can’t see over the steering wheel? And he’s driving 5 miles under the speed limit, while behind me, there’s  the same type of truck,  climbing up my tail pipe with a 19 year old, baseball cap wearing dude glaring hate daggers at me in the mirror. Not sure which one I am more afraid of.

The 'basic' desired result

Our (I use the term ‘our’ tactfully here – it was really my bride’s idea… make that ‘insistence’!)… our goal is to put ceramic tiles between the counter top and the bottom of the wall cabinets.

Following the advice of my bride’s hairdresser (I never even bothered to search the Internet for other ideas and methods) we have glued the tiles onto boards that are similar to peg board without the holes. They are now lying in wait on every flat surface in the kitchen and breakfast room.

This section will go to the right of the sink

The only windows in the kitchen are above the sink. Neither my bride nor I liked the existing window frames. So, before we could measure and cut the boards, I had to install new window frames.

The new window frames

Of course, to do the frames, we had to re-borrow our son-in-law’s miter saw. I thought we were done with it after we finished the crown molding on the wall cabinets. Silly me!

Two more sections waiting for the next step

The thinner of two sections will go under the windows. The other fits under the microwave. Please take note of the precision cutting along the notched side of that section.

To make that cut, I called a friend, Donnie Culver, who is in the home construction business, and asked to borrow his tile saw. He, of course, said ‘Yes” IF I could come and pick it up. I then started calling other friends and relatives who owned pick-up trucks.

After having no luck, I drove over to Donnie’s office in my 1999 Mitsubishi. After some effort, we managed to get the saw into my trunk. I returned home without any major difficulties.

However, upon arriving home, I realized I had to get the saw out of the trunk as soon as possible. My Mitsubishi needs a new battery and being unable to close the trunk meant the trunk light would be on all night.

The saw probably weighs more than a hundred pounds and is very awkward to lift.

The saw is what you see

The saw sits atop a trough that is filled with water. The water is sprayed on the tiles as they are being cut. The estimate of weight I gave is with the trough empty. I assure you I will get the water out before I try to move it again.

After getting the saw home, I struggled to get it out of my trunk and into a wheel barrel. I then put it in the garage overnight while I went off to choir practice.

The next morning, I wheeled the saw up to our deck. It was then I discovered I had managed to get the saw wedged into the wheel barrel. Eventually I was able to work it loose and get it out. I then literally rolled the saw up the steps and onto the platform shown in the photo.

That platform is a wooden box in which we keep our soft drinks. Therefore, I had to go to the store and buy more soft drinks… there’s no way we can currently get into that wooden box.

Another section waiting its turn

The next step is to apply the grouting. Believe it or not, we will use cake decorating funnels to fill the cracks between each tile. The reason we’re taking this approach is to protect the integrity (translate to ‘beauty’) of each individual block. Some of the tiles have a number of holes that add something – I’m not artistic enough to say more than that. If we were to simply spread the grout over the tiles, those holes would be filled with grout. We don’t want that. Therefore, we will act like cake decorators and squeeze the grout into the appropriate slots and nowhere else.

With luck, that will be finished within the next day or so. Then, we will use liquid nail to attach the boards (and attached tiles) to the walls. We will then make adjustments to the holes I’ve cut for the electrical outlets.

A WORD OF WARNING: Some things have to be learned from experience. Be sure to turn off the electrical power prior to messing with electrical outlets. I, without thinking, grabbed one such outlet as I was preparing to put a section up against the wall to make sure it fit properly. Needless to say, I grabbed the outlet in such a way that I was touching two of the screws used to attach the wires. For a moment our two, we had one more electrical appliance in our kitchen.

Fortunately, I was wearing rubber soled shoes and was not grounded in any other way. All I got was a slight buzzing sensation.

Another section-in-waiting

After everything is on the wall and the electrical outlets are properly aligned, we’ll paint on the sealer. Then we can replace the electrical outlet plates and be ‘almost’ finished.

I say ‘almost’ because Lu wants to dapple them with various colors of paint to make them blend in with the colors of the tiles. (This advice did not come from her hairdresser, but one of her fellow employees at the hospital.)

When you’re gluing things, you often have times when you can do nothing but wait for the glue to dry. I can watch such things all day! But not my bride. This is what she did while waiting for the glue to dry.

Our freshly painted front porch

This is great! Today I can watch the paint dry!

painting, chesapeake 2009-no.01, 16″x20″ acrylic on canvas, by alyse radenovic, 150 usd at http://www.aelisheva.com/alyse.htm

OC TYPES

Like any part of the world, Orange County has it’s own selection of youth tribes with easily identifiable sartorial signifiers and other unique characteristics. It’s fascinating to observe and I’ve attempted to describe some of those with the highest visibility and penetration:

THE BRO – perhaps the most irritating OC youth sub species is – ‘The Bro’. This male group is most easily recognised by large, rippling muscles everywhere, a square protruding jaw, an overall air of nonchalant machismo, an abundance of tattoos (particularly on the calves) and a pea sized brain. Normally drives a large XL pick up truck but equally happy in a Hummer or some other gas guzzling monstrosity single handedly responsible for global warming and driven solely to compensate for the small penis of aforementioned driver. Can be found in numbers on Main Street, Huntington Beach, particularly in Sharkees where the Tits and Tats crowd can be found hanging out, in-breeding and mutating from a very narrow gene pool. 

SO CAL PORNO GIRL – looking like a porn star seems to be an important aspiration for many young females in Southern California. Of course, it being So Cal, particularly the San Fernando Valley which is – so I’ve heard – porno HQ, it’s probably because they ARE porn stars. Frequently the followers of this look resemble monstrous Frankensteins of male sexual fantasy – a post feminist nightmare where every sartorial / plastic surgery decision appears as if it has been taken to accommodate and fulfill male desire. Why should I be complaining? I’m not. Well only a bit. It’s pretty obvious stuff; humungous fake fun bags, collagen enhanced lips that look ready to explode, long blonde hair, slender asses, strategically placed tattoos – Tramp Stamps – everywhere particularly above slender ass. In fact the whole look is one of imminent orgasmic explosion, as if when you – excuse pun – pricked her with a pin the sex doll would explode and then deflate, rasping off into the ether like a popped balloon. The party’s over honey.  The look is entertaining and does grab your attention – for a few seconds, after which the realisation sets in that that this style-free, low- cauture look has the depth of a very shallow bucket of piss.

NEO NAZI DICKIES PUNKS – Dickie’s is a brand of jeans out here worn almost exclusively by an interesting youth subspecies I have difficulty naming – perhaps because they are indeed nameless. It’s part punk, part skater, part skinhead, part Mod, all with lots of tattoos and plenty of faux-aggro. The dress sense is very specific – white socks pulled up to the knees, black and white Vans, long white shirts, short shaven hair a la skinheads. Tattoos are a must – everywere, particularly Gothic skull and crossbands and snakes on the calves. The less ink-free skin showing then the gnarlier they are. Gothic print on the back of the neck also particularly popular – doood. This sect drives low rider pick up trucks with blacked out windows. There’s something Nazi about them – the Gothic iconography, short bleached hair, sneering attitude, a very specific look – and of course it being Orange County they probably do have far right affiliations.

WILL BARACK OBAMA TAKE US

FROM **********THIS *************TO

++++++++++THIS

Here is a proposal to think about. What if POTUS, and the US car companies partner up and do some real long term planning?  The goal would be to make our car companies viable in a world market.  This means building product with superior quality, reliability, safety, performance, economy, and looks. Going one step further, I recommend that a new goal be set for this team. Overtake all foreign competition by making US cars competitive, and desirable worldwide. The team would need to plan fifty years ahead.  The actual business of making, and selling cars would be the domain of the car companies. The government’s role will make  it easy for the US manufacturers (like giving them tax incentives, or wage equalizers). Government can also make global trade easier for us, but harder for the competition. There isn’t any reason why GM, Ford, and Chrysler cannot kick ass in the world market provided they compete on a level playing field.

Planning and cooperation of  this nature will never fly in this country. Especially not with the far Left in power. This plan requires cooperation between management, labor, and government. That is not an idea the Left can deal with easily because they are so much against a company actually making money for their investors. Instead our leaders push Fiat, an Italian company,  to save Chrysler. How in the hell will that save jobs for the USA? All it will do is bring in a lot of cheap ass eeni cars that will fall apart in a month. 

Does the idea sound crazy?  Well, it’s not a new one. It is exactly how Japan worked with their carmakers. Look what that tired old  idea produced for them. They started with a single economy model, and dumped the cars in the USA. Once established in the US market, they attacked their quality, and responded to customer needs. Slowly, they advanced model by model to overtake our strongest manufacturing companies. The Japanese government gave the car companies concessions knowing that in the long term it would be better for the people of Japan.

 I never thought the Japanese  would take the luxury car market as easily as they did. Now they are worming their way into the final bastion; the pick up truck arena. Meanwhile, our adversarial relationship between worker, and management continues to build at a fever pitch. All the while,  government doesn’t give a shit unless it is an election year.

Now that POTUS owns GM he can oust the old time UAW guys, and replace them with fresh labor from Altgeld Gardens.

Marc Broussard has released the music video for “When It’s Good”, the 3rd single off of his 3rd studio album Keep Coming Back. A duet with LeAnn Rimes, “When It’s Good” is a little more country than most of Marc’s work but it doesn’t feel strained.  Marc’s albums have always bridged (or straddled) country, classic soul, gospel and acoustic rock.

Marc and LeAnn’s voices work nicely in this song.  She’s so smooth and perfect and part of his charm is the scratchy, close to off.  In the video, rather than play up the easy sing to each other format, Marc and LeAnn are rarely in the same room, instead singing out to the abyss.  She walks around a huge house and surrounding property while Marc hitches a ride in a pickup truck and sings and plays his guitar in the bed.  All and all, it’s a pretty video that doesn’t take away from the actual song.

When It’s Good

I wonder if the people who are doing the buying reported in the first story have read about the coming disaster mentioned in the second story and if so are they just way more optimistic than George Soros or have they added up their chances and come to a more pragmatic conclusion?

Bestselling cars for 2009 –the list might surprise you

The number one vehicle purchased in the United States thus far in 2009, is none other than Ford’s F150 pick-up truck. Although F-150 sales are off a little over 39% year on year, people still want them. Ford Motor Co has moved over 25,000 units so far this year.Holding a close second place on the 2009 best sellers list is Chevrolet’s Silverado pick-up truck. Sales of these trucks are off by a little over 33% year on year, but Chevrolet has moved nearly 24,000 of these units thus far in 2009. Not surprisingly, the Dodge Ram pick-up truck is holding third place on the 2009 best sellers list. Unit sales of Ram trucks has declined over 35% year on year, with Dodge moving almost 13,000 of these units to this point in 2009. (more via Wallet Pop)

George Soros: World Financial System Has Effectively Disintegrated … Turbulence More Severe than Great Depression – More Like Demise of Soviet Union

Reuters has the following bombshell: Renowned investor George Soros said on Friday the world financial system has effectively disintegrated, adding that there is yet no prospect of a near-term resolution to the crisis. Soros said the turbulence is actually more severe than during the Great Depression, comparing the current situation to the demise of the Soviet Union.

How could it be worse than the Great Depression? Because the bigger the speculative bubble, the bigger the crash. And the bubble from 2001-2007 was the biggest speculative bubble in history. (more via George Washington’s Blog)

I saw a pick up truck filled entirely with loaves of bread while driving to school today. All sorts of bread too…we got a lil Wonderbread, got a lil Pepperidge Farm, got sm’ Hillbilly. No bread discrimination here, they had it ALL.

I’m usually the person who finds inspiration and beauty in things that are not normally beautiful or inspiring. But this was just weird.

That is all!

This piece was inspired after reading the legend of The Bone Woman in Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes.

Bone Woman

Old, bent beneath
her burden of twigs
and branches, seemingly
bleached to color of bones.
Have caught glimpses
of her in distance, moving
in dust at side of road,
perched atop her collection
in back of battered
burned out pick-up truck.

Wonder if someday
she’ll find my bones
cleansed by a keening
wind of all flesh and muscle.
Sort out delicate pieces
of fingers that hold this pen,
find them worthy of being
tied into her bundle. Later
see in them, once again,
movement of her own music.

Elizabeth Crawford

*Originally published in Singing Over The Bones  2002.

16JAN2009

Work lets out at six o’clock, not a moment too soon.

After a mishap, trying to toss some old newspaper in the recycling bin only to find it completely frozen shut, I somehow find myself back in the library with my co-workers again, getting ready to lock up and leave for the night. The building locked and secured, we make our way to the parking lot, saying our “goodbyes” and “have a nice weekends”. I unlock my car, get in, revving my engine a few times trying to get the car to warm up a bit; the weather outside is in the frigid single digits, so that doesn’t seem like a likely outcome.

I pull out of the parking lot and make my way home. I take side streets the entire way since rush hour on the freeways – on a Friday night, no less – is murder. But that’s okay; I turn on my CD player and Augusten Burroughs tells my about his horrible childhood. I feel a bit better about my own.

I pull into my apartment building’s parking lot a little after six thirty. I stay in my car a few moment longer, to get to the chapter break in the book-on-CD. The CD flips from track 11 to track 12 and I shut off my car, collect my messenger bag, and head towards my apartment.

I unlock the door, step inside and throw my bag onto the dining room table. The puppy whines excitedly and does her little potty dance. I grab her lease and collar and attach it to her as I open the door to her crate. We go for a quick walk outside, so she can empty her bladder, and then it’s back inside so I can empty mine.

I change into some warm pajama pants and a sweatshirt, fill the pups food and water bowls, and sit down in my comfy chair, turning on the last disc of the fourth season of The Office. After an episode or two, I head to the fridge and grab a couple slices of leftover pizza and a can of Kroger-brand lemon lime soda.

If you ever want to make me happy, a slice or two of a good vegetarian pizza is surely the way to go.

I watch another episode before the pup lets me know that she has to go out again. I reattach her to her leash, wrapping the other end around my hand twice, and then we head out the door.

We don’t get too far out before the pup takes care of her business. I pick it up in a little plastic baggy and we set out for the dumpster, where I toss it in. The pup still has quite a bit of energy left so we continue walking.

We walk around the entire building, stopping every so often so the pup can sniff around or stick her face into the snow; looking very much like Tony Montana at the end of Scarface when she pulls out. After another twenty minutes or so, the cold has gotten into my lungs and it burns. The pup is shivering, but she wants to continue on. I persuade her to go back inside instead.

We cross the parking lot, heading back towards our apartment. The parking lot is pretty well plowed, as are the sidewalks, however, the spaces around the cars have drifts of snow upwards of a foot and a half.

We walk through the lot, practically hugging the parked cars, until we get to the shoveled sidewalk. The pup stops to jump through snowdrifts in between two cars on my right.

Out of nowhere, the snow in front of me so illuminated so brightly it’s almost blinded. My shadow is cast across the ground and quickly starts to shrink. I turn my head to the left and a bright light shines in my eyes for the briefest of moments and then I am violently thrown forward and to ground, to the sound of screeching tires, spinning slightly as I go down.

I open my eyes and I realize I’m face down in snow, but I don’t know for how long. Several seconds, I surmise. I plant my hands on the ground and push until my head is out of the snow. Pain shoots through my shoulder and back. My puppy playfully licks snow off of my face.

I’m not sure what exactly just happened.

I look up and see a red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape stopped about twenty feet away. I almost expect the driver to throw it in reverse and finish the job off. Instead, the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape peels out, spraying slush from beneath it’s back tires, thick light grayish exhaust discharges from underneath.

I try to catch even one of the numbers from the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape’s license plate, but my eyes can’t focus. I realize that my glasses have been knocked off and I search the ground, finding them a few feet away. I put them on, hoping to still catch that license plate, but the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape is already long gone and my glasses are too covered in dirty slush to see anyway.

The puppy dances around me happily – “Daddy’s playing in the snow, too!” – as I try to stand up and I count myself lucky at least that I didn’t let go of the leash when I went down; as bad as I feel right now, I don’t think I could have chased after her.

Back on my feet, I look around as we walk back to the apartment – snowdrifts be damned – and, true to form, no one in the area comes out to see if I’m okay.

Ah, life in the ghetto.

I close and lock the door to my apartment, drop the pup’s leash – not even bothering to take it off of her – and collapse onto couch, with my gloves, scarf, hat and shoes still on.

I lay there for several minutes, before reaching over and picking up my cell phone off of the coffee table. I feel a stress and pain as I reach for it. I open the phone and dial the number for the police. The dispatcher tells me that a patrol car should be there within twenty to twenty-five minutes, of course, it doesn’t take nearly that long.

Forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I put the pup in her crate and open the door. I explain to the officer what happened and even take him outside to where it happened. He tells me that a red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape isn’t much to go on and, without a license plate number – or even a partial license plate number – there’s little he can do. I told him that I figured as much, but wanted to report it anyway.

The officer gets back in his patrol car and I head back inside myself. The officer sits in his car for about ten more minutes – doing paper work, I suppose — before leaving Tim Horton’s, I think to myself.

I take off my shoes, scarf, gloves, hat, and hoodie and ease myself down into my comfy chair. My warm pajama pants have dried, since falling in the snow, but my knees are still wet. I pull up my pant legs and find my knees scraped and bloodied. I go to the bedroom to change my clothes.

I throw the clothes I was wearing into a laundry basket, then head to the bathroom to clean and dress the wounds on my knees. I turn and look at my back in the bathroom mirror. Already, it is covered in black and blue bruises. I return to the bedroom and pull on another pair of warm pajama pants and a faded old sweatshirt.

It’s after ten o’clock, closer to ten thirty, and I realize that the last two hours have exhausted me. I turn out the lights in the living room. The puppy, who was sleeping on the couch, wakes up, yawns, and follows me – quickly passing me – into the bedroom.

I take off my glasses and place them on the dresser. I plug my cell phone into its charger. I climb into bed. The pup has already curled up underneath the covers. I turn off the light and I sleep.

That night, I dream about fireworks, although, I imagine that’s mostly because of the pain in my back and shoulder.

17JAN2009

At 6:02 AM, I roll over – waking briefly to eye the clock – and deciding that it is, in fact, 6:02 AM, my head nestles back down into my pillow again for what seems like seconds, but what is actually fifty-six minutes.

At 6:58, I feel a tongue gently pass through my lips and after a second, I remember that I don’t have a girlfriend and open my eyes, finding my puppy laying down on my chest, her nose to mine.

Almost immediately after, at 7:00 AM my alarm – my annoying little alarm, designed to shriek louder and louder until you either A) wake up and hit the “off” button or B) bash the damned thing against the wall over and over again until it resembles something that could pass more as modern art than as a functioning clock and, then, fall back to sleep – goes off.

This morning, regrettably, I choose option A.

I slowly, ever so slowly, sit up in bed – my head feels as though it were filled with concrete instead of blood and bone and tissue, my back and shoulder stiff and aching – and slump back over, under the tremendous weight of my head, to the opposite side of my bed. The puppy, finding this incredibly amusing, jumped back onto the bed, dancing around me with her little tail wagging.

Placing my hands on the bed, I push myself back into a sitting position and, once I get the hang of that, feel adventurous enough to attempt standing.

Like baby Bambi, it take a few tries to get into a fully vertical stance and, even when I am, my knees shake and my legs felt like jelly, my whole equilibrium off.

Several minutes pass by the time I finally stand up. The pup looks up at me as she finishes peeing on the bedroom carpet. I spray the wet spot with some carpet cleaner and head into the bathroom for a shower.

I feel a lot more stiff and sore today than I did yesterday and the bruises on my back are much more vibrant in color. It hurts when I stand. It hurts when I sit. I hurts when I rotate my shoulder or pick up anything heavier than a pillow.

I stand under the hot shower, letting the streams of water massage my back, until the water runs cold. And then I stand under it for a bit longer.

I dry off and change into fresh, warm clothes. I make my way into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and the dog food from atop the counter, and fill the pup’s food bowls; knowing full well that she won’t eat it until either A) she’s starving, later tonight, or B) I mix in a hot dog or two. Afterwards, I decide on a bowl of oatmeal for myself, strawberries and cream.

I settle into my comfy chair and eat, watching the last episode and some commentary on the fourth season of The Office. I pause only to wash my bowl, when I finish eating, and then I begin to write; nothing much, mind you, a page or two of prose.

Just before eleven, I send a text to a few friends, letting them know of the previous night’s events. “Got hit by a pick-up truck while walking the pup last night. Well, more like clipped. Pup’s fine. I just got some bruises and a little soreness in my back.”

Almost immediately after I send the text, I get a phone call from my friend Tom, who live in DC. He asks if I’m okay and, after a few minutes of questions and answers, he tries to make me feel better by saying whoever hit me likely worked for someone higher up who was trying stop Punch-Up, my book, from ever coming out and, having failed this, ended up falling through a trapdoor into some sort of James Bond-ian deathtrap.

I realize he’s only trying to cheer me up, but laughing – which I’m doing a lot of, as we talk – hurts and a part of me wonders if he’s only trying to finish me off.

We hang up and I call Abby, who called while I was on the phone with Tom.

I repeat much of the same conversation I had with Tom, then, Abby and I talk about her job and how she has the hots for this guy who may be working with her soon. I advise her to – quote – hit that. And, then, somehow, we get on the subject of her parents’ sex lives, both before and after marriage. We make plans to meet up with Michael on Monday – since she usually has Mondays off, I have a three-day weekend due to MLK Day, and Michael is unemployed… I mean, a freelance artist – for a movie day.

I move to the couch, wrap a blanket around myself and the pup, and read a couple chapters of a comic called The Goon. I finish the book and retrieve two volumes of another comic, called Nextwave, a book so ridiculous it never fails to make me feel good.

Around three o’clock I get a text from my friend Nonnie. “Glad to hear you’re not dead. Try to use this as a learning experience. And remember: Batman would’ve jumped on to the truck and jabbed the driver in the throat.”

I laugh until my ribs hurt, wondering if Nonnie is in cahoots with Tom and the driver of the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape.

I suddenly remember that we’re running low on dog food and are completely out of hot dogs and other dog treats and, I think to myself, the pup is probably going to want to eat again before to long. Feeling somewhat adventurous, I put on my hoodie, hat gloves, scarf, and shoes, put the pup in her crate, and leave the apartment. Driving in my conditions is fairly easy, although getting in and out of the car proves to be more than I bargained for.

I arrive at Target within about twenty minutes and, inside the store, make my way to the pet aisle. The particular brand of food that I usually buy for the pup is, of course, on the top shelf and I have to stretch and stand on my toes to reach it. This sends a spasm of pain throughout my body. I reach again, grabbing the dog food bag. One more time and I pull the eight pound bag off the shelf. I lose my grip on it and it falls. I catch it before it even comes close to hitting the ground, but not with out painful consequences. I quickly put the bag in my cart, snag two small packages of dog treats, and exit the pet aisle.

I wander around Target aimlessly for a bit. I look in the sports department, contemplating buying a bike come spring. I make my way towards the audio/visual department and browse through the DVDs, deciding to buy two bargain bin movies: O Brother, Where Art Thou? and The Full Monty.

I check out and head back to my car.

While I’m out, I think, I should stop at the grocery store and pick up a few essentials. And fifteen minutes later, I’m entering a Kroger that’s not too far from my apartment. I roam up and down the aisles, lazily picking up various items and putting them in my cart. I check out. Return to my car. Drive home. Put groceries away. I walk the pup.

I place two hot dogs in the microwave and, a minute later, on top of the dog food she didn’t eat this morning. She gobbles down the entire thing, as I refresh her water bowl.

I change back into my warm pajama pants and collapse on the couch. I am exhausted. I feel deflated, like a balloon several days later, hovering only a foot and a half about the ground, waiting to be popped and thrown away.

I decide that A) I’m hungry, B) dinner is a must, and C) pasta sounds good. But, when I get into the kitchen, I decide that D) pasta requires several minutes standing over the stove, stirring, and several more minutes over the sink, washing dishes. Instead, I opt for another bowl of oatmeal, apples and cinnamon, which takes only two minutes on high.

I watch The Full Monty as I eat, remembering how funny this movie is and thinking that this would count as irrefutable proof, to my dad, that I am gay.

When the movie is over, I wash the bowl and put it in the dish drain. I sit back down in my comfy chair, open my iTunes and play Belle & Sebastian’s The BBC Sessions, and continue working on character sheets for my next original graphic novel, I Think I Love My Wife.

Just before six thirty, I get a phone call from Kevin, my old roommate and someone who was one of my closest friends. Kevin got married to my other good friend, Jody, a year and a half ago, and moved over a hundred miles away. We haven’t kept in close contact for about a year, ever since a rather unpleasant incident occurred, so I’m a little surprised when he calls and tell me that he and Jody are in town for the weekend and that they were inviting me out to dinner with them and a few other friends of ours at Thurman’s, a restaurant in the German Village.

I turn down Kevin’s offer, telling him that I had already ate, keeping the information about the incident with the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape to myself, figuring that he and Jody will learn about it soon enough from Abby or Michael, who will joining them for dinner. Part of me really does want to go to dinner with them, but another part of me is weary of getting both too close and possibly hurt again.

A third part of me is still too sore to move and that’s the part that ultimately wins out. I stay home and continue to write.

At roughly a quarter to eight, I exchange a few text messages with Michael and then get a phone call from Nonnie. We talk about the incident with the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape and then we talk shop, comparing books that each of us are working on. We talk for a little over an hour before Nonnie tells me that he has to get going.

It’s nine o’clock and I decide that now is as good a time as any to take the pup out one last time before bed.

We come in about ten minutes later and I finish both writing and Belle & Sebastian’s The BBC Sessions. Halfway between a cover of “The Boys Are Back In Town”, I decide that what little I’ve done today has really worn me out and the pup looks like she is about to fall asleep any moment as well, so we turn in for the night.

I double check that I’ve locked the front door and turned off the lamp in the living room, before heading into the bedroom. I charge my phone and take off my glasses, placing them on the dresser, before getting into bed. I can hear a radio commercial coming from my upstairs neighbor’s apartment. He’s listening to “Ohio’s Best Rock”.

After a moment, the ad is over and AC/DC informs me that they can do dirty deeds for me at a surprisingly reasonable rate. Aerosmith comes on next and sings me to sleep.

That night, I have an odd dream.

I enter what looks like a cross between a mall, a movie theater, and an amusement park with my friend Jason. I’m fairly sure we’re there to see a movie, however, the building is vast and palace-like. Outside, there is an amusement park log ride, in which a man-made river starts outside the entrance to the building and travels downhill towards the parking lot.

We walk down a hallway and into a theater. There is no stadium seating, like in most theaters, just rows of seats at a slight incline as it gets further away from the front stage. It looks as if someone with money transformed a high school gymnasium into an auditorium for plays and concerts, where they also sometimes show movies.

We take a seat towards the far right, next to the exit. We sit and talk for a few moments, before the movie starts. There is a couple – what looks like a husband, sitting in front of me, and a wife, in front of Jason – sitting silently in front of us. Every few minutes they turn and whisper to each other. Something bothers me about the woman; she looks familiar.

The couple stands up and starts to turn around, grabbing pamphlets out of her purse. The start to pass out these brochures to people sitting around them – I never do see what the pamphlets are about – and that’s when I figure out where I know this woman from.

Her name – for the purpose of this writing – is Kelly, and she and I used to date, sort of, back in high school. I haven’t seen her or had any sort of communication with her in nearly ten years now, though, I heard secondhand that she did get married a few years back.

She recognizes me right away and we act surprised to see each other and embrace. She introduces me to her husband and I introduce her to my friend. We small talk for a bit, catching up, and then she tells me that she’s glad she ran into me, actually. She has a favor to ask of me. I say, “Sure.” and “What can I do for you?”

Kelly tells me about how she and her husband have been married for close to five years now and how, in those five years, they’ve tried to have children but couldn’t conceive. She tells me that they’ve seen doctors – so many doctors – but they still have problems. She tells me that she wants me to impregnate her so she can have a baby.

I think it over.

“Well,” I say and then immediately bolt towards the exit, running down the hall and outside. I can’t get away fast enough. I run through a line of people, pushing them out of my way as I go, and jump into the next log-shaped car floating up and down in the man-made river. I push the car down the track, slapping away the hands of angry people waiting their turn in line, and plummet down the waterfall, creating an enormous splash as I reach the bottom.

The cart floats lazily along through the river until the bottom catches on something underwater and comes to a complete stop. A log-shaped car goes over the waterfall behind me, creating the same gigantic splash mine did, and rams into the back of my car. Everyone in that car and I are knocked into the water. I feel a little dazed but start swimming for the far end of the pool anyway.

I pull myself out of the pool, my clothes heavy with water. I jog towards the parking lot, dripping the entire way, my shoes making that horrid “squish, squish, squish” sound. I find my car, wring as much water as I can out of my clothes, and drive off as quickly as I can.

As I get onto the highway, I feel relieved and happily assume that Jason probably stayed behind to help Kelly and her husband with their little dilemma.

18JAN2009

I wake up early on Sunday morning – for some reason, I have trouble sleeping and end up tossing a turning all night – although, I lay in bed until sometime after seven.

I’m very sore and very stiff. Every move I make hurts. I try stretching, trying to loosen up a little, but it hurts too much and I end up stopping after some fifteen minutes or so.

I try to put on my hoodie, to take the dog outside, but I can’t move in the correct way to do so. I put the leash on the dog and take her outside, wearing only the pajama pants and sweatshirt I wore to bed, a pair of gloves, a scarf and my hat.

It is a quick walk this morning. No time to wander about and smell the roses.

I microwave a couple of hot dogs, when we come back in, and mix it in with the puppy’s food. Then, I make the last pack in a box of oatmeal for myself, blueberries and cream. I put on O Brother, Where Art Thou? – probably my favorite Coen Brothers film – as I eat.

When the film is over, I’m still feeing stiff so I lay down on the couch and pull my laptop – now a gut-top – onto my chest and pick up where I left off last night on my character sheets, while listening to Of Montreal’s The Sundlantic Twins.

Around twelve o’clock, I call my friend Jason. We talk for a bit, about the incident with the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape, work, and comics.

I try reading for a while – Warren Ellis and Stuart Immonen’s Nextwave, Vol. 1 – but end up feeling worn out and tired. The puppy is already sleeping at my feet and I figure that she has the right idea. I pull a blanket over the two of us and we nap for about two or three hours.

When I wake up, I decide that I really do need to get some work done and sit down at the computer again. I write but don’t get much accomplished and am somewhat relieved when my phone rings. It’s my friend Steph and we talk for twenty minutes or so, catching up.

I turn on the TV after a while and catch the end of Jackie Chan’s Who Am I? And I wonder the same thing: “Who are you, dude? You used to make good movies.”

Feeling sluggish and achy, I sit through Everybody Hates Chris, and two episode of The Drew Carey Show. At some point during a commercial break, I fix dinner for the pup and, tired of oatmeal, I make myself a bowl of generic Kroger-brand Honey Nut Toasted Oats for dinner.

Abby calls me a little after seven and fills me in on the events of the previous night’s dinner and club-hopping that I missed out on.

As soon as I hang up with Abby, I call my friend Tom, interrupting his studies to get a little perspective on I problem that’s been bugging me.

Tom and I talk until a little after nine-thirty and then I let him get back to his books. I read a couple of more chapters of Nextwave and then the pup and I head off to bed.

That night, I have another odd dream.

In my dream, I get a phone call from my friend and Punch-Up artist, David Brame. He tells me that he, Michael, Abby and a few other friends are meeting up to hang out. He gives me directions and I tell him I’ll meet them there in a bit.

I stop at a corner store, to buy something to drink before meeting up with the others, and, as I leave the store, I notice a police cruiser parked in the lot next to the store. I look at the cruiser and then back at my car and decide that the cruiser is a much better car than my own. So I get in and drive off, leaving my own car in its parking space.

I follow Dave’s directions and they lead me to my grandmother’s old house. I enter the house, but no one is home. I decide to explore the house and find that everything is just as it was before my grandmother had died. As I come down the stairs, another police cruiser pulls up outside of the house, its light’s flashing, siren blaring.

The police officer enters the house, gun drawn and tells me that I’m under arrest for stealing a police vehicle. I tell him that I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me. I’m not lying to the officer. The memory of stealing a police cruiser no longer exists to me. I block it out. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t steal the car. It must have been there before I arrived.

I’m handcuffed anyway and, instead of taking me to prison, the officer takes me to my parents house. It’s late at night and, for some reason, no one is home. We wait in the living room for them, making small talk, I’m still handcuffed, and, sometime around four or five-thirty in the morning, my folks come home. The officer takes them aside and they talk. I can not hear what they are saying, but I know that nothing good can come from this.

I wake up before anything ever happens.

19JAN2009

Since winter started, the pup has been letting me sleep in a bit. I think it has something to do with the fact that when she wakes up, it’s still dark, so she goes back to sleep.

And that’s okay with me.

We wake up sometime after eight o’clock which, I know doesn’t sound like sleeping in to most people but, to me, it is quite awesome.

I sit up in bed and a sharp pain shoots through my right shoulder, like someone stuck a knife in and then started to twist. It hurts like hell and I think that it might be an aftereffect of getting hit by the red – possibly brown – pick-up truck shape. I’ve been in two other car accidents before Friday night, one as a driver and one as a passenger – neither of them my fault – and, in both cases, I felt fine for the most part on the day of the accident; it wasn’t until a few days later that I started to really feel any discomfort and sore.

I throw on my hoodie and gloves, put the pup’s leash on her, and took her for a quick walk.

When we get back, I make a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast – strawberries and cream – and put on a French film by Luc Besson that Michael recommended to me, called Angel-A. It takes place in Paris, it’s in black and white, and it’s everything I could ever want in a film. I make a note to add it to my Amazon DVD Wish-List.

After the film is over, I think to myself that I need to buy Michael some Chipotle for recommending it to me. But then I think that he never reads my blog, so he’ll never read this anyway and I’ll never have to pay up.

I wash my breakfast bowl, then turn on Chappelle’s Show: The Lost Episodes, and start to write.

Around one-thirty, I called Michael and made a game plan to meet up at Abby’s later for a movie day. A little while later, I feed the pup, put her in her crate, packed up my computer, and gathered the trash. I’m just getting ready to leave when someone knocks on my door. It’s my neighbor, the Taxi.

Sometimes, I give people nicknames based on what they use me as.

Anyway, the Taxi – who, admittedly, has had her share of health problems lately – tells me that she needs to go to her sister’s house so she could get her medicine. I tell her that I have to go meet friends of mine is a few minutes and she tells me it won’t take long, it’s just around the corner. Honest.

I tell her again that I really can’t, I have to meet friends at three o’clock, and I close the door. A few minutes later, I head out to my car and the Taxi is waiting at my passenger’s side door. I tell her I really have go and she offers me twenty dollars.

Well, I mean, twenty bucks is twenty bucks, right?

We get in the car and pull out onto the road. She tells me her sister’s house is not to far, just a few miles down Livingston. Fifteen minutes later, we turn off of Livingston and travel another ten minutes before we finally get to her sister’s house. As we drive, I get two calls from Michael, wondering where I am, but I silence them.

We pull into the driveway and the Taxi gets out, telling me that I should come in with her. I say that I’d rather just wait in the car, but she says to come in. I tell her that I have to make a phone call and she says just come on in when I’m done.

I call Michael, but he doesn’t answer. I leave a voicemail. I call Abby next, because I figure she and Michael are together. She answers and I fill her in on my current situation. I tell her I should be at her place at four o’clock. She calls me a bitch and then puts Michael on so he can call me a bitch.

I hang up and the Taxi is standing in at the front door, waving at me to come on. I get out of my car and walk towards the house. The Taxi goes inside and, a few moments later, I follow. I open the door and step inside the Taxi’s sister’s house.

Except it’s not the Taxi’s sister’s house.

It’s her drug dealer’s. I look around and there are three angry and dangerous-looking men in the house. There are little bags of marijuana and crack littered all over the living room. There is a small scale on the coffee table, white powder spilled all over and around it.

Of course, this is all kind of hard to see, what with the gun pressed against my face and all.

The Taxi says this isn’t really necessary, she knows me and I’m – quote – “cool”. The man holding the gun to my head tells her that he doesn’t care; she may know me, but he doesn’t. He keeps the gun trained on me for the rest of the business transaction, which – amazingly – takes over twenty minutes!

I mean, it you’re not getting you crack in under twenty minutes, I suggest you talk to your dealers boss.

We leave the house and get back in the car. The Taxi tells me that she needs to make a few other stops, to the corner convenience store, then to her daughter’s house, and so on.

Hey, whatever you want lady. You’re the one with gun-totting drug dealers. And I’m pretty sure they know where you live and you kind of live next door to me, so…

We stop at the corner store, her daughter’s house and wherever else the Taxi wanted to go. Finally, I drop her off at her apartment and she throws a balled up twenty dollar bill at me, as if I am some common whore.

Which I suppose I am.

I drive away as quickly as I can and make it over to Abby’s around four-thirty and tell them of the day’s adventures. The make fun of me for six hours. We put on a couple of films, Phantasm III followed by The Wackness. Michael draws, Abby sews, and I write this.

Long story short: I could think of better ways to have spent my three-day weekend.

Your friend (and part-time lover),

Boom Boom Storm Cloud

The highways, the interstates, the neighborhood culsdesac. These are all dangerous places, infested with dangerous individuals. Five in particular, have proven statistically to be the most hazardous. For your safety, I have detailed these monsters of the pavement. Just to make one thing clear: I do not claim to the best driver in the United States of America. In fact, my driving skills are often the joke of my family. I once ran over a Montgomery County garbage man; but nothing I have ever done on the road matches up to the follow five people:

5. Middle-aged Schoolbus Driver.

Better back off! They're heading to Galdesworth Elementary School!

4. Teenage girl

Please turn your Jack Johnson CD down

Facts are facts: 75% of all vehicle related accidents are caused by teenage girls

3. Woman driving husband’s pickup truck

Yet another housewife stranded on the side of the road. Mrs. Ebblesworth, pictured above, had no idea how to read the gauge and consequently ran out of gas.

Usually these drivers are eliminated from the equation about five miles from their home, either by neglecting to turn off the Emergency break, failing to use the stick-shift correctly, or simply by driving point blank into a telephone pole.

2. Soccer mom

Wooo! The Finnegans are off to soccer practice! Little Jimmy has a game!

They don’t leave, however, until the family’s favorite Disney movie is playing on the in-car DVD player. The kids have a hard time spending longer than fifteen minutes without watching The Princess Diaries 2 starring Raven Symone.

Somehow, the fact that little Veronica is 5 minutes late to her lesson merits complete disregard for the speed limits, stop signs, and traffic lights of the road. Eventually, Hillary McDoogle is tailing you so hard that you can’t even see her headlights in your rearview mirror. She has a mission, and there is no sign of her backing down. Promptly reduce your speed to 5 MPH.

Mrs. McDoogle’s reaction alone will be worth you losing your job for being an hour late.

Facts are facts: 82% of road-rage incidents originate from a reckless soccer mom.

1. The olds.

Myrtle embarks on her monthly mission: Prescriptions at Walgreens, followed by hemotologist's appointment

The best way to handle olds is to pass them as quickly as possible. God only knows when these slow, moving decrepit souls will trap you at a red-light.

Kepada Mr. Ong,

pemilik kenderaan berwarna perak WPR 8980, sila email saya di aqilah_ar@yahoo.com sejurus anda melihat paparan ini.

Terima kasih atas kerjasama anda.

Dear Mr Ong,

The owner of silver pick-up truck, WPR 8980, please get to me at aqilah_ar@yahoo.com as soon as possible.

i think things are starting to pick up ….im getting a bit busy again and its about time. good thing cause i spent all my money on a truck, well not all but a chunk. i have become increasingly less popular with tattooers which i could not be more excited about, i am tattooing for me and if you don’t like me or my tattoos thats fine…im a guy that tattoos sometimes not a tattooer. no skin off my back. i have a life outside of tattooing …my life is not tattooing…i bet that makes people hate me. tears .hahahaha