deadly zins, mohawk zebra

She's the kind of person that obsessively, but obliviously, peels the labels off her beers. She doesn't even drink beer, really, but she will during exceptions. You know exceptions, everyone has them. Like when I am hungover I will eat peanut M&Ms. Like when I am wandering in the desert I will drink anything, anything. Like when you see someone for the first time and it changes your opinion of a certain color.

It was that way with her. I watched her peeling away, I began to scratch at the sides of my glass, wishing I had a tendency to exhibit. Of course, there was no label, and my lemon had already been squeezed into my vodka, so I removed my straw from the drink. I played with it aimlessly.

She was talking about a boy. It was always the same with her - in one and out another. Kind of like her ears. I'd say, "Zora, maybe you should just cool it for a while." She'd agree for a time span of five minutes and then, with a wink and a sleezy smile, on to the next. You understand.


... It becomes easier and easier to create people, like legos, building, building, building.


Thistimehedumpedher. This time she wasn't sure how to handle it. She wanted to die. Sentiment, sentiment. My sympathy goes a long way, I suppose. She didn't really want to die, she was being melodramatic. My mind went into a different mode, psychologist mode. You understand.

"I just ... I love him."
"Love isn't enough."
"I know."
"I know it hurts, just give it time. Hindsight is 20/20, so says my mother." Spit it out. I rationalize that cliches are only cliche because they're true. It's true.

She moves on to his attributes. She cries a little, but not real crying. Her eyes well up, and there is no one word for that, so we'll just maintain that she cries.

I think she's an idiot, really. I think she may be delusional. I think she doesn't know the first thing about love, but then again, I think, neither do I. I haven't dated in three years, I have never been in love, I just imagine it to be different than that.

I may be a cynical hag, also.

True to your heart, you must be true to your heart. This goes through my head and I think about telling her. But if I were her, I'd slap me for saying something that simple.

Women make me crazy.

le poisson

Kitchens are almost always dirty.  One expects a bathroom to be dirty, or a garage, but upon thinking about it, one realizes that kitchens are downright nasty.  

That orange slice fell behind the fridge weeks ago, I thought.  Now it's probably nothing more than a couple of seeds.  But what am I supposed to do about that?  Move the fridge to retrieve an orange slice?  Negative.  

I happened upon this train of thought for a number of reasons, the main two being that a) I work at a restaurant, and b) I am stuck in a cleaning frenzy that has lasted about three days now and is showing no signs of easing.  (And people prepare food in kitchens! I thought).  I threw down the 409 and a dingy old rag.  Time to get out of the house: commence with personal intervention.

I am a walking stream of consciousness, I thought.  

Isn't everybody?  

Well, yes, I suppose so.  But some people are less ... conscious? ... than others.

You mean like brain dead?  Or ignorant?

Probably both.  

I could go on, but the inner dialogue got confusing and technical and, to be honest, boring.  This is why our thoughts wonder.  

There are rats in kitchens.  I'm quitting my job, I thought.  I don't want to support rats.  Nor do I want to work for them.  That's what I'm doing, isn't it?  Cleaning up after them?  And flies.  Damn the flies.

I walked to the coffee shop on the corner of the next block.  Several types of people littered inside were on computers, probably wasting time.  Some of them were entranced in books and various notebooks - telltale signs of studying.  I thought about the time of year: December.  Finals.  Ah, I see.  

The skinny kid behind the counter did not care about me.  I'm getting old, I realized.  To him I look like 24-year-old boys looked when I was 16.  Only, I was in awe of 24-year-old boys when I was 16, and this kid was clearly disillusioned with me.  Try smiling, I thought.

I smiled.

"Can I have a soy latte?"

"Mmhmm."  He set to it.

Coffee in hand, I strolled back to my house.  The 409 and the rag are waiting for me anxiously.  Or perhaps not so anxiously - they must be tired.  I'm tired.  I'm a kind of tired in which you feel pleasant, calm.  You stroll down the street and wouldn't be surprised if you fell in love right then, or died.  

I supposed then that, with my coffee in hand, neither of those things would be altogether bad.  After all, I felt as though we had forgotten how small we are, and the orange slices and rats and flies had forgotten, and suddenly we're breathing for the last time, or kissing someone we feel we've known all our lives, or watching a car come barreling unstoppably toward us, and suddenly we remember.  

burning man vs. burning car

I doubt that Darrell knew that once a year people from around the world go to Nevada to trip on acid, get drunk, and walk around naked. This is Burning Man, this is a festival. The desert is hot, from what I have heard, and the EMTs wait around for people to faint from dehydration. I doubt Darrell knew that. They don't drink enough water, either because they forget or because they assume themselves immune to the dryness, the heat. Their mouths get dry, they think it's because of the pot, and the next minute they wake up with a needle in their arm and a large man named Mike standing over them, shoving all sorts of liquids in their face.
"Drink this."
"Okay."
You have to listen to paramedics. Darrell probably, definitely, knew that.

We weren't in the desert, and certainly were not naked or tripping. Admittedly, I was hung over and naturally bewildered at the sight of my vehicle being engulfed in flames - I hadn't even thought to remove anything but myself and my dog.
"Get your purse!"
"Okay."
"Get your backpack!"
"Okay."
"Do you want this dog food? This laundry basket?"
Snap, snap. I grabbed my cds.

Darrell put MA in his car. She looked at me.
"Mama, what in carnation is going on?"
"We're not going to Dallas anymore, boo boo."

We stood 100 yards away and watched. I started laughing hysterically. Just me and Darrell, standin' around, watchin' my car burn, burn. He looked at me.
"Glad you can laugh about this."
"I'm in shock, I think." Burst of laughter.
"I think so, too."
"Keep talking to me, I don't want to loose it."
"Want a cigarette?"
"Yes, yes. Please."
He asked me what I do. I bartend.
The first tire exploded. Laughter.
I asked him nothing. I couldn't think to. I noticed a wedding ring and wanted to exclaim a question, "Wait, you are married?", but knew I would sound more aghast about that than I was at the sight of the fire, so I kept it to myself. I thought: why shouldn't Darrell be married? Why would you assume he wasn't? Fuck, fuck, fuck. You see, you bartend, and... no, that's not even valid. You bitch, you pitied him the moment you saw him because he is dirty and weathered. Because in any other situation, you would be on your guard. Take it back.

I took it back. A second tire exploded. I ceased my inner dialogue. Darrell was staring at the car, the flames, the smoke. I was vaguely aware of sirens, far off, coming to make an even bigger spectacle of me. I leaned over, put my head between my knees. This was Darrell's cue to keep talking, keep me alert, keep talking.
"Where were you comin' from?"
I straightened slowly. "Baton Rouge."
"Oh, well that's not far. Do you have someone that can come get you?"
I hadn't even thought of this. How novel. I have no car. I have no car. I am relying on the kindness of strangers, ninety-nine percent of whom are policemen. I have a dog with me.

I thought of the things I've said about cops, about the stereotype. I thought of the things people have said about bartenders. Stereotype there, too. Sgt. Moore does his job, Darrell does his, I do mine, and today we meet in the middle around a bonfire, all wishing we were holding a beer in the woods instead of on the Atchafalaya waiting for the damn traffic to let the firemen through. Damn traffic.

Darrel had taken his shirt off. It was hot. The Man was lit, we were watching it burn.

The gas tank. Full. Two explosions happened this time, one from the car and one from me. Laughter, laughter.

An ambulance pulled up, the EMT was concerned. Why shouldn't he be? It occured to me that all of these men probably have children, and a few of them may even have daughters. Also, I'm helpless and my car is on fire.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, just a little shaken."
"I bet. Need anything?"
"Do you have water?"
He put me in his air conditioned ambulance with water and Gatorade, staring the opposite way of the debacle. It's a funny feeling to be sitting down and realize you've been shaking for an hour. You don't notice when you're moving around - you just think you're mentally shaken. No, you're actually shaking.

I thought about it. The thought, “my car just blew up,” left me incredulous. There are things much worse, of course, I knew that. I also knew that I was about to enter into a world of car notes, which made me slightly nervous. I knew I was not going to see my parents that night. I knew I had single-handedly stopped traffic all the way back to the Mississippi.

They wouldn’t let me near the car. Trudy. My chariot of three-and-a-half years. Your childhood copy of Black Beauty was in there, I thought.

The fire took twenty minutes to die. The car's charred skeleton and innards were scraped up and towed away. Darrell, Sgt. Moore, and I all looked at one another. The festival was over. Time to put on our clothes and go home.

happy hour

"I figured out why they don't get along."
He never looks up, so I keep talking.
"Law school."
At this he does look up. He cocks one eyebrow.
"How'd'ya figure?" He asks.
I smile. I've got him. "Last night they argued for thirty minutes about the legalities of involuntary manslaughter." I think I'm being clever. It's rarely picked up on, so I suddenly conclude that perhaps I'm not good at being intentionally clever. Or maybe my attempts are interpreted as sarcasm.
Either way, he looks back down at his newspaper, nodding, and makes a noise that comes from the back of his throat, letting me know he understands. There will be nothing more said about law school. I lost him.

I piddle around in the back. I turn all the beer bottles to face forward, even though no one can see them. I've developed a few ticks, to say the least. The worst is the twitch in the corner of my left eye if the candle isn't placed on top of the post. You wouldn't understand.

Bud Light guy walks in. I hand him a Bud Light. He smokes about eighteen cigarettes over the course of the evening. I debate back and forth, internally: Do I want a cigarette? Yes, no. No. Wait, yes. Shit.

It's a rainy Monday, but it feels like a rainy Sunday, and I should be in bed, sleeping. If I were to have a husband, he should be in bed too, but reading. Rainy Sundays always feel married.

It gets dark enough to light the candles. I light the ones on the bar first (tick), then the ones on the tables (tick), and finally the one that sits atop the post (tick tick). I pour four shots of vodka and distribute them to the gentlemen. Some sip on them, others throw the stuff down the hatch quickly, so as not to have to taste what feels, smells, like rubbing alcohol. They holler down to their stomachs, "Look out below!"

Someone comes in and cheesily asks, "Have your hours been happy?"
"Sure. They usually are."
Person laughs, cheesily, and asks for a beer by sounding out the acronym: "Uh, get me a peeber."
"A what?"
Laughs. I'm thinking this is the cheesiest person I've ever met. "A PBR."
I laugh too, in a nice way, a professional way.

I plan on going home to walk my dog and maybe eat. I won't be there long - my sanctuary has been transplanted to another place which I have yet to find.

purple shorts

sometimes days are uncomfortable
and you can't really do anything about it.

my house is quiet
save the fan.

when i had pneumonia at thanksgiving
i swore the fan was talking to me.

feverish.

we're in

albuquerque. which is increasingly harder to spell.

we're staying at motel 76, which was cheaper than motel 6, if that tells you anything. one of the walls is seafoam green. that may actually tell you more.

pictures soon. my backpack's in the car.

portland.

refreshing.

today we walked 60 blocks to the bridge and back.

tomorrow i'll be in arcata, CA. which means i'll be in a pretty place with pretty people doing pretty things.

thank gawd for vacations and 0 obligations.

i forgot, then remembered.

2002



cvs





america's next top model



favorite sweatpants that i don't own



pool. eek.



bwap.



in NOLA forever with your best friend watching a snoop dog movie.



colorful. come home.



tea kettle.

see clay run (to new york)

the floor



these boots make me think of ducks



new bike



"sometimes i catch a glimpse of myself in the glass, and i think, 'what a lucky guy.'"

hey.

the guy in the stupid shirt
(the guy with too many muscles,
asking your advice on dance moves)
wonders aloud, to you:
"how do you feel about poetry?"
well, sir, let me get you another beer
and walk away
to wash some dishes
in iambic pentameter

in order to make it rain:

over-priced whiskey and an amphitheater full of people who don't speak your language.

that's how you let the beat build

the greatest joy of today was coming home from work
(at almost 4:00 AM)
to find my dog very, very happy to see me, but also
(at the same time)
pointing me in the general direction of my bed.

where she is now soundly sleeping.

Last night, stuck in some feverish dream.

I woke up at 6:00 AM with a peaceful feeling, which I believe derived from the early morning quiet. Everything is crisp, green. The sky is grey. There is the ever present lull of cars on the street nearby, but even that is soothing.

I think I'll wake up at 6:00 AM more often.

i grew up in texas

therefore, things i love:

football
the smell of a stable
westerns, which brings me to:
john wayne
clint eastwood
shiner bock
football





today we went to the dog park. M.A. loves the dog park because she doesn't have to be on a leash and all her friends are there. she's really very social.

this evening there was the rehearsal dinner, followed by a long conversation with my mother about everything i have ever thought. turns out i'm not always right. who knew?

mother

she makes everything better somehow, every time, whether it's me fucking up or someone else.

nothing lasts forever series, part seven

the final part of this
I believe
(hope)
is a tickertate house
and a note on the
re
fridge
rator
that goes something
like a raindrop
landing in water
(they look like people)

Margaret Ann, Austin, big trucks giving rides to tonka trucks

my dog is camera shy. she was licking me in the face and is blurry because she heard the clicks and backed away.







america's next top model marathon. sheesh.



emily and i got rowdy one day at perks.



hungover junkie.



the nipples of Tweak Bird.



1808



"we are PRE"



one time i went to New Orleans with jesse to drop off matt. R bar happened for a long time thereafter.

happiness, again

so the story goes

today i rode my bike and drank tea and taught some people about screenplays.

yesterday i worked happy hour and learned some stuff.  

and when it comes down to it, at the base of everything, 

it's just that i simply can't believe it.  

sometimes

all to myself
i think of you.

day

people learn things the hard way. for example: i should probably pay more attention to my water bill.

but that's frivolous in comparison to a lot of things that we all learn all the time. because we fuck up all the time. it's true.

this explains a lot.

and as a result, sometimes you just need a good, quiet afternoon to yourself and a pbr, perhaps.

i wrote this the other night: "the comma's best friend is the semicolon because it's everything a comma is and more."

excuse me.

girl out

today i'm wearing red lipstick and reading trashy magazines and watching america's next top model. feels good.

on another note, dear baton rouge, i'm tired of you.

i've gotten in this routine where i leave town atleast once a month. having said that, i'm due for a trip. somebody scoop me up and take me there.

we went to dallas for a minute

happiness

i think i'm going to buffalo to hang out with this dude and his little sister.

one of my contacts ripped so i've been wearing my glasses all week. and i don't like it.

i'm going to austin in a couple weeks and i'm psyched.

jumanji is on tv.

haikus please

my brother is 36

and he and his wife are the most creative people i know.

check it:

http://thebeanreview.blogspot.com

and yes, my niece and nephew are perfect, i know.

tunica hills

hehe

mimosas and snow suits

jumping in puddles

tunica hills is one beautiful place.

this goes backward from the order in which it really happened.

home.



seaweedsssss



man on surfboard with paddle.



pebble beach. resort/course.



pebble beach. this child and i were feeling the same way.



breakfast in bed.



david st.



from LAX to monterey.



on my way to LAX. there was a crying baby.



sisters




katy



mother



walter, esther, teapot-cup-steeper thing. pretty.



father (hugh hefner)