lies lies and more lies

2011-12-02T18:10:00.001-08:00

The Once and Future Theme

A Good Lie is Hard to Find

Just before my last true colors ran down the drain, I realized there was more to writing than posting. Like wounded Geronimo, lying cliffside, maggots tending his oozing wounds, eyes fevering over a fading digital desert, I reach for the keyboard. After so much time, its endless combinations of letters, spaces, and punctuation are hieroglyphs of an intricate language I used to write and understand in a previous life before the virtual head injury.

Speaking masqueraded for years, replacing complete written sentences as my vehicle for creative expression. It was bad enough when I simply talked too often and too long to make up for the writing slack. Then the awkward pauses of tweets, posts, and IMs began to infect my verbal conversations. My mouth started auto-filling with non-sequiter or downright vulgar guesses to complete glib, short phrases. There were consequences... Time took over as master editor, and the hue seemed to drip from my palate while the words flattened out like gray eggs cracking, one at a time. I settled for, and spat out clever turns of phrase before ideas could spring forth whole. And now, words that used to be worth a thousand murals are like bumper stickers; my brain has become so random it's epic.

Recovery may be slow. And perhaps that is the whole idea. Maybe I can draw the images back up from the sewer and flood the screen with the black and white that used to saturate mental pictures with a written roux that was rich and delicious. Just maybe. I've got nothing but time.

2009-09-25T11:37:00.000-07:00

Here is my nephew Brian (AKA Cato) during a suprise skirmish with his Dad (aka Clouseau).

2009-02-22T23:25:00.000-08:00

Down at the Balinese
Deep in the south of Texas not so long ago

out on a tiny island in the Gulf of Mexico.

It didn't take too much money, oh but it sure was fine

You could dance all night if you felt alright

drinkin' whiskey and throwin' dice.

~Everybody knows it was hard to leave~

~Everybody knows it was down at the Balinese~

2009-02-22T07:43:00.000-08:00

Galveston.
Oh, Galveston.
I am taking my camera to the island via the back roads of the post-storm county. It has been five months. A fair day for a fair eye. The object is to be objective. We shall see if I remain so, in the face of it.

2009-02-16T22:40:00.000-08:00

haiku

my heels fly up
the grit, the cool ground, wet on my fingers
world of grass!

2009-02-16T21:44:00.000-08:00

La Guanamera and the Return of The Senses

I was so hungry. I had groceries and was mentally building the sandwiches I could make with the fresh herb loaf and bacon and tomatoes in the back seat.

I drove down the main avenue past the seedy bars of the hamlet next to my hamlet. The low, beeming Café Guanamera winked at me through its open door. I used to eat there pretty often for breakfast before the hurricane. Only a block from the since menacing bay, when I went there I always felt like I was tucking into a warren, and a perpetual puddle attests to its relationship to sea level. Months of brown exhaustion, restraint of hope, and ensuing isolation cycled through the monochromatic late summer that bled seamlessly into a dusty winter. I abstained from trying my local havens, fearing the witnessing of their failure and opting for the more urban (if only in comparison) pubs and restaurants a few miles and worlds away from the disappointment of our own little forgotten ground zero. I was wishing I had bought the makings for Mojitos, and was thinking of doubling back for limes and mint at the extremely unlikely but more prosperous Asian stop n’ shop. It was untouched by surge, which assaulted, rather than rose above most of the town.

La Guanamera. I winced at the hammering as I opened the door and let in the coastal wind and its entourage of small, anonymous debris. Eyes met mine and I recognized a fourth student for the night, but the first one outside of Walmart. A memorable one.

Over a year ago, during my first week on the job, I was administering the state TAKS test to seniors who were desperately trying to pass it in the summer, after graduation, some a year after that. This student also tried. She used materials disallowed on a certain part. Did her limited English let her understand the rules or the consequences? Was she sober? Did she feel she could not pass any other way? She scored zero in her second language for opening a dictionary. I wrote copious state documentation.

Months later, her teacher told me she struggled against cocaine. The child had confided. She wanted help. The teacher helped, I don’t remember how exactly – so many strugglers, even before the hurricane, the storm that shall remain unglorified and nameless.

The student came over with my menu, her arms strong and toned, skin clear, the same nose ring and multiple earrings, not needing my Spanish. It had obviously been a long time since I had paid attention to her. The hammering continued while I ordered and then rang on while we talked about ways to get her past the language section of the TAKS test. The rhythmic bangs faded like a locust’s whine behind the shield of our planning.

A small child curled on the low booth behind me. His brushy hair tickled the back of my arm, a modern and sparsely drawn Porky Pig on television lulled him in Spanish. The toddler's chubby sister danced hip hop in her glasses, her thick locks, and her elementary school tee shirt. I ate my tender green chicken enchiladas, savoring the flood of color, and the relief I felt over the new dining room addition. I imagined myself seated across the low wall that would still let you see everyone over there, in the new room, chartreuse and hot orange from beam to bench. I congratulated a young man who might have been the owner on the expansion and renovation. He indicated the white haired hammerer, and gave him all the credit. The man demurred to his boss in a thick Texas drawl.

The chubby girl stopped dancing, and walked slowly over to the worker. “What happened to your fingers?”

I fell into memory. One summer recreation day in the basement of our 1920’s era brick school house in Polk County, Florida – it was Grecian style with two-story pillars too big for three little girls to circle – I asked that question of Mrs. Ross. She had only two fingers and a thumb on one of her thin, white hands, and that day, she was helping us form Super Elastic Bubble Plastic into wondrous caustic forms. I asked her, “What happened to your fingers?” and she said, “That is not a very nice thing to ask, young lady!” She knew my name but withheld familiarity. I had played at her house with her son. I withdrew. I found a corner seat near the carom tables and held back tears for a long time, knowing she would hate me forever, and knowing I had hurt her, but not knowing soon enough. I didn’t tell my Mom.

The hammerer answered the chubby girl in low, humming words I could not hear. He spent some time on it. He stopped his work for it. I glanced at his fingers as he displayed them on the fresh, yellow, pine. But I couldn’t see if they were missing or simply gnarled, or burned. He looked at her, and when she seemed satisfied, he smiled a little and went back to work. She took a pickle from a large jar, and went back to dancing.

I ate every bite of my enchiladas, ordered without cheese as if the whole basket of tostadas could be offset by this. I stood up and tried again to make a Spanish reference to my full belly, which was returned by polite, friendly smiles but not answered. I left a two dollar tip on my five dollar bill. Marina promised to come see me for help in Math. In English.

I'm Shipping Up To Boston - Dropkick Murphys

2008-07-13T09:36:00.001-07:00

I know it's been awhile, but what the hell? SCREAM AND ENJOY!

Desmond Dekker - Israelites

2008-05-10T23:33:00.001-07:00

2008-03-12T13:57:00.000-07:00

Why Not Me???

Please Help! Only you can $ave Little Henry.

-Forward this link to both of the friends you can still tolerate, or risk hours of bad luck-

That's right, for just pennies a day (the price of 1/16th of a cup of coffee) you can make a difference in the life of this young hedgehog. If you are not a complete sociopath, you will be moved by Henry's tragic story...

Henry sustained his disfiguring and humiliating injury the small village of Stanleycesterfordshire-upon- Gloucesterton in the hills of northern England, an area beset inrecent weeks with earthquakes, floods, famines, civil wars, poor ratings, mediocre schools, and the like.

Poor little Hank had planned to be a text message competitor in the 2008 Beijing Olympics, and must now cope with the devastating truth that his left paw will never communicate again.

As if this weren't tragic enough, Henry's loving parents were kidnapped at a recent fast food memorobilia festival. After being unable to raise their ransom, Henry learned that his mother and father had been deep fried and served to adolescent mall rats.

How many times have you said to yourself, "if only I had helped..." Don't let Little Henry wait another day.

Act now and send your gift of $15 per month to:

Precious Little Varmints in Need

4804 West Commerce Street, Suite 614

Hoboken, NJ 22090

As a special thank you for your donation, you will receive our 2008 "There's One Born Every Minute" coffee mug to remind you that there will ALWAYS be SOMEONE who needs your money more than you do.

2008-02-24T21:34:00.000-08:00

Aaaah.

I will tell you more about this.

Oh Spring, welcome home.

2008-02-06T16:10:00.000-08:00

Gaslight's blog suggested this quiz:

What Country am I ?
(to google it, add quiz blue pyramid)

My answer: the only one that is also a "state", and by far the least complimentry of the 64 possibilities!

I nearly fell outta my chair laughing - it only took five questions for this quiz to declare emphatically:

"You're Texas!
You aren't really much of your own person, but everyone around you wishes you'd go away, so you might as well be independent. You're sort of loud-mouthed and abrasive, but you do have a fair amount of power. You like big trucks, big cattle, and big oil rigs. And sometimes you really smell. But it's not all bad, you're big enough to have some soft spots somewhere in all that redneck madness... "

...I can only claim some of this as Lies, Lies and More Lies! Yeee-fuckin'-Haw.

2008-02-06T13:52:00.000-08:00

"GROUNDHOG" DAY, 2008

Top: Rare black and white (colorized) photo of a 1950's true groundhog after a violent death.

Bottom: Alien SubGenius, cir. 1991.

OH BEST BELOVED,
If you believe in Grondhog Day, clap your hands, you're a pink! Everyone knows that Groundhog Day was a cheap ruse laid on Those 50's People by Sub-Genii from The Future, which was, back then, 1991.

The fictitious groundhog portrayed in so many children's books and that Bill Murray movie, was actually a midget abducted from the Star Wars movie set... that's right, a costumed "Ewok". Future SUb-genii of the 1990's found midget flesh much more malliable for probes and various stimuli.

"Aliens sampling Starwars? Coincidence?" you ask. I think NOT!

Anyone who has done their homework knows that back in the 1950's, when everything was still in Black and White, and real groundhogs still roamed the earth, the gigntic creatures were actually transparent until death. Thus, if a groundhog were to see his (or her) shadow, it would mean its soul had crossed over, which of course means it can't see ANYTHING...

So, those of you who have been told that the 2008 groundhog "appeared" and "saw his shadow", fear not. We shall see no such thing as another six weeks of winter. In fact, if you have kept up with your scripture, you will no doubt have learned that we are destined for two-day cycles of winter/spring/winter/spring, etc. for all eternity...

So, let's get on with it.

2007-08-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

Happy Frank Zappa Day
As Declared by the Mayor Of Baltimore
(I don't even like his "music', but...)

Yes, I know, it's almost a complete birthday suit that Frank is modeling, but he does have his pants on, and after all, it is By-God Frank Zappa Day as declared by the Mayor of Baltimore! Read on.

The Mayor’s proclamation, to be presented at the concert reads, in part, “The City of Baltimore is proud of its rich musical heritage, and is honored to claim the prolific composer, musician, author, and film director Frank Zappa as a native of our fair city; and
WHEREAS, Frank Zappa’s artistry involved many musical genres, including rock, jazz, electronic, and symphonic music, and his lasting impact has left an indelible mark on the art and all those who attempt to follow in his footsteps; and
WHEREAS, Frank Zappa has received world-wide recognition for his talents and innovation and defense of the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights of the Constitution of the United States of America; and
WHEREAS, representing the Zappa Family, Dweezil Zappa is here today to embody his father’s music and legacy on stage for the first time in Baltimore, making this an appropriate day to honor Frank Zappa’s memory and his many great accomplishments.”

2007-08-08T18:48:00.000-07:00

"Knuckle Sandwich"

Okay, short and way too sweet. I am back. I'll get into lying mode as quick as I can. For now, you should know that this woman's hand was mangled beyond repair, but being a Hasher with the Third Arm genetic enhancement (see blog from May 2007 - but hers grows out of her back), she can still drink at least one beer while pumping a keg.

Fat Frank's Vespa

2006-12-25T11:16:00.001-08:00

Yeah, I really do know this guy. Welcome to our world.

2006-12-24T07:23:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

I bought the edition of Runner's World with the Hash listed as a life must-do... I also read about those poor, frozen north dwellers (pictured above) who have to buy treadmills to stay perky over the winter. Guess what? I don't feel one f***-ing bit sorry for them!!

Boy, I am So Lucky it is 85 degrees with 60% humidity for my re-entrance into running, here in Sultry Florida! I'm here visiting the luvved ones and coming off of my second major ankle sprain of the year, and it's Just Great to lurch out into the breezeless heat and slog my 5-mile penance, and wetlands rich with wildlife. Each night, I lower my aching calves into the tub, and each morning limp in agony down the hall towards the coffee, and yes, the next run. Chant, pray, drink for me? Or Better yet... Double Dog DARE Me!!

2006-12-19T13:14:00.000-08:00

So have you heard? I'm gonna be a Texas School Administrator... Wanna come work for me?

2006-12-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

there's no place like home there's no place like home
-Tornado courtesy of Firetunnel's shared H3 Google Image search, results from page six, last image (page one was Sumthin' Else, entirely).

Tornados I have known:
Dorothy's (actually a cyclone)

May 8, 1979 - it ripped through my school at 2:35 p.m. I was skippin', but only 100 yards away, watching. Had it happened 10 minutes later, the parking lot woulda been full of dead kids.

The one on the Encarta movie that I played for all the Mexican kids during my first year teaching - a technological miracle at the time.

The one in a small Kansas town, summer of 2001, that sent me and my ex into the walk-in fridge of a local grocery store. All the patrons left the shopping carts in the aisles when the warning siren began to wail. About 30 of us crowded in with the friendly manager. He was plump and sweetly disheveled with a little blood stain on his crumpled shirt, his tie askew, passing out grape sodas to everyone, and kneeling on the damp floor to calm the little kids. After about an hour, the tornado moved out of our zone and the sirens quit, and we all got in line with our melted groceries. Then my ex and I drove back to the hotel, where I finished the stomach flu, and got ready for another day's travel from Nevada, to my new home in North Carolina.

Zaragosa, Texas, mid '80's. 50 miles from Alpine, and we considered that a neighbor in those parts. The town was entirely destroyed.

The one in the fictional documentary, "Gummo", that makes all the disturbingly tragic characters who they are.

2006-12-07T19:03:00.000-08:00

Happy HNT.
Yah, long time, no skin, no see.
Love my poems.
Love me.

I adore underwater cameras. All cameras. The chance to steal a millisecond of indifferent life, a time , a scene. What's a soul if forgotten? Steal mine, please.
Zen=not Zen.

2006-12-04T17:27:00.000-08:00

Name That Tune...

Here's an exerpt of an 80's indie UK band song I wish I had written... oh yeaaah. name the band OR the tune and win a fabulous prize (think: bassline)..

My diplomacy, my security, my hope and my ice-cream
My tomorrow and my temperature, my lips and my selfishness
My cigarette, my uncertainty, my penetration

My notebook and my limit, my importance and my glycerine
My customer, my function, my lawlessness, my charm
My hunger, my refusal, my lies and my vodka...

My ommission, my ability, my telephone and my holler
My relaxing, my distress, my bedroom, my cassette
My diction and my pulse, my fortune and my death

My flake and my restlessness, my headache and my dirt
My paper and my charity, my rose and my pallor
My guess and my closet, my light 'n' my time
My worry, my perversity

My transgression (honey)
My temptation (honey)
My polythene
My gunshot [click]

My jealousy and my water
My demands 'n' my angels 'n' my waiting 'n' my distance
My death, my curtness, my insulin, my memory
My partner 'n' my sadness, my story, my wantoness

My wish, my despair, my erasure, my plantation
My white chocolate, my thoughtlessness, my gracelessness

My courage and my crying, my pockets 'n' my mistakes
My body and my sex..................

My mother, my recorder, my pity and my posing
My light, my carelessness

My drummer, my drummer, my drummer, my drummer...................................

2006-11-01T17:27:00.000-08:00

Made possible by FDR and the CCC.

The source... of flying dreams.
Escaping the grownups, you shoot just under the surface, reluctant to leave the Florida heat, so torturous on the barefoot run from camp. The first wet shock ripples over your sunburned back and flaps your stubbed toe. Your bare, open eyes flow over fish and eels, freshwater wands of waving vegetation, and white sand boiling with pressure from deep in the earth and your heart rebels from the chill. You take a deep drink and the water rushes into your hot gut as your body moves forward and around it. The bottom is a mere five feet below but suddenly it drops away and all is a blue blur. You want to suck in your breath, but realize it is liquid, and feel as if you could fall into the cold, white canyon. You scream, unable to contain your glorious panic, and deliciously aware no one can hear over the thunder and rasping sand of the spring. The hair in the peeling small of your back stands on end. Water flies as your head snaps back for one quick gasp of air, then you kick your way to the bottom, 22 feet down, returning numb and nearly drowned with a handful of snails and white clay raised in a fist to the empty, burning sky. The muck rinses quickly away, as you slip silently under the shadow of your big sisters, tanning safely on their blow up matresses... In all your dreams to come, no one in them can ever see you fly, but you remember.
-Juniper Springs, Ocala, FL

2006-10-27T22:16:00.000-07:00

"You Never Can Tell with Bees..." - Winnie the Pooh.
I am starting to think this format I've chosen is nothing more than banal. in fact, I could reel this stuff off in person without blinking an eyeball. It has been a nice writing experiment to see if I still "have it". Readers who write for a reason are starting to send challenges to me. I wonder what would happen if I wrote something important?

2006-09-27T14:07:00.000-07:00

Gas Price Now Low Enough for Rocket Fuel !

Imagine a picture of this guy, Jimmy, here. He's not pretty, but has sparkly eyes and a Long-guy-land accent, and he swears at all the appropriate times. I have replaced my stolen camera, but I am too busy workin' and playin' in the glorious Fall to sit inside and figure out where to plug the little bitch in.

Jimmy is happy. For the first time since early summer, he has been able to set aside enough gasoline to run his blender. In the blender, he mixes four kinds of rum, a few limes, grenadine, ice, and some fresh pineapple. He lives in an extremely remote (but undisclosed) desert community, and has to thwart homeland security to get the pineapple from a local hamlet on the other side of the (undisclosed) border. You see, the danger of children rowing across the (undisclosed) river to go to an air-conditioned school, built from local donations, was finally recognized as a terroristic threat. 'Bout freakin' time, eh?

-But I digress. Jimmy lowers his 700 hp generator into a hole near the Party Site so as not to drown out the banjos, fiddles, and madolins. He waits politely until the sound of straws slurping the bottoms of blue Mexican glasses becomes unbearable, then fires up the blender again, and the desert is filled with the unlikely sound of whirling ice. He calls it Rocket Fuel. Most of the rum is 151 proof, and has no taste under the pineapple. Salud!

2006-09-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

WAVE YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, AND PARTY LIKE YOU JUST DON'T CARE!!

Happy HNT from the Bayou City - the first place I ever got all the crawfish I could eat. I took this photo after being kidnapped at the Turtle Club on a day when one of those all-blond speedboat flotillas was heading out (these two had on costume wigs). I agreed to take a spin with this mother-and-son duo, only to find out they, and 35 other boats, were going all the way to St. Charles, Louisiana! Luckily, all I had with me was my swimsuit (see previous blog) and several hundred dollars in small bills so there was nuthin' to restrict me from eating 28 pounds of crawfish or gambling away a wad of cash over the three day ordeal. With the pirate theme of the event, there was also no shortage of booty or rum.

2006-08-31T05:42:00.000-07:00

Happy HNT!!

Some of y'all know I went to a friend's wedding up Deleware way about a month ago... Well, after the Great Camera Theft, it took me awhile to get this photo that I had downloaded to the blushing bride's computer while I was there. While I know I can't expect even YOU to believe that the wedding was nude, or even half-nekked, it did in fact take place on Friday, July 29.

So the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner were on... that's right, you got it! Half Naked Thursday! And this is how good a pal the bride is - after only four pitchers of Sangria, she allowed me to talk the entire wedding party into stripping down to our waists at the Olive Garden, and continue down the street to her favorite brewhaus to dance the night away. Today is the one-month-aversary of the happy couple. Congratulations, Peg and Paul! Now, strip!

2006-08-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

Right: the world as I see it.
*Cough *Cough... I have just come back to the surface.

Shortly after digging the lock out of my own car with my incredibly strong steel fingernails to steal my own digital camera and hash bag, I had to bury myself alive. It was easy, compared to the break-in, which was pretty stupid anyway, considering I had a spare key hidden in the gas cap.

I could have avoided the whole burial thing if I hadn't reported myself for the theft, thereby forcing myself to go into hiding. You see, the police recovered the camera after I sold it to a local pawn shop...

Unfortunately, I had photographed myself leaving the scene of the crime, and standing outside my front door, with my address clearly visible in the background.

I believe the interest in the case has diminished, because I phoned the officer and told him to call off the search, since I wasn't really interested in tracking myself down anymore.

Tomorrow, I plan to send myself a fake (but very authentic-looking) email from "PayPal" requesting my password and other personal information so that I can steal my own identity. I am hoping to land a spot on one of those hilarious identity theft commercials. You know, where it looks like me talking, but I'm saying all kinds of stuff I would never say, and telling about all the things I would not normally buy.... Like, "first I charged a keg of Saint Arnold's Beer, then bought a gigantic bag of dogfood, and a weird plastic 3D ring to wear to the roller derby this Sunday".

P.S. Thanks for "lying around" on my blog while I went UnderGround.

2006-07-11T22:22:00.000-07:00

Geez. Lighten up, New Boot!

More tomorrow. I'm s'posed to be writing Hash Trash. Happy Full Moon and crap.

2006-07-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

Uni-Roller...
Happy HNT 11:59 pm from your Houston HO's.
Hmm. It must be 10:04 somewhere, but not in Bayou City.

2006-07-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

Love you all, but dangit, Avatars are THO gay. And they thuck. Draw a thtick thelf.

Yay! Now I'm Gay Too!

2006-07-05T20:20:00.000-07:00

MUSICA CON DIENTES!! Fantastico!

SO, as promised, I floated down Bay Area Boulevard to Armand Bayou in my truck, drowning bicylists and small foreign cars on my way. No one else was there, save the devouring mosquitos and some friendly vultures feeding on fish heads. Strangely, the faint sound of congas and horns seeped through the muck and into the soles of my feet. I felt like dancing waist-deep into the slime, and I did, until lightning reminded me of my task, and the narrow window of opportunity began to close before a deadly bolt was sure to strike. I crossed myself, prouldy told myself I was a total jackass, and sunk under the shallow murk, searching blindly for burrows in the mud bank. The music got louder! I could feel the drums and bassline through the water, and just as I reached into a hole for what I thought would be the consuming jaws of a catfish ready for a fight - something else entirely Grabbed Me... Pictured above - my new favorite salsa band, the Refridge-a-Gators!!!!

2006-07-05T07:52:00.000-07:00

Damn it, I have searched my entire photo collection and can't find a thing that says "POST ME TODAY!" Right now it's allllll Hash pics. So, I'm going down to Armand Bayou with my camera, and if nothing grabs me, I'm going noodling. Check in later for some action.
Hey, what's that huge burning orb in the sky????

2006-06-22T15:19:00.000-07:00

My First HNT...
I tried all day, but the cat would not wear the panties. Gaylord volunteered.

2006-06-20T15:34:00.000-07:00

Pre-fib...
Since, as you all know, I type this blog with my tongue, I will probably limit the copy due to a sudden case of strep. I know, I know. Strep throat, not strep tongue - thank you Mr. and Ms. Science. But the ache limits my agility. The case appeared and went full-on in less than 24 hours. Doc Holiday was real impressed, and said so before he pistol whipped me and attached the leeches. Love this new HMO.
Now for the real bullshit.

LAND HO!

Above: After city officials squandered local resources on motorists, Spanish galleons, summoned across time by Houston mediums, transported stranded Hashers down White Oak Bayou on Sunday, sailing directly over favorite Hash territory, and drinking establishments. Exclaimed one hound, who wished to remain anonymous, "Look! I can see my house from here!"

SURF'S UP, MOONDOGGIES~
or, "How Big Was the Hole?"
In whitewater talk, a hole is the space in front of, or between big ass waves. SO here's a tonesetting joke:
"How many whitewater paddlers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" "Just one; and 10 more to talk about how big the hole was..."

As y'all may know, Houston was smited this weekend with floods and locusts. Damn the press - they always leave out the locust part. Bad for crop $tocks. That's why blogging is so important in the face of all this deception... ANYWAYS, after the first day of rain (before reaching the levels pictured above), the bayous were canoe/kayak-able, if you don't mind 4 foot standing wave trains and gnarly trees and garbage wrapped around the sometimes narrow bridge pilings, and hitchhiking/suicidal fish. The fish tried to kill me at the very end, but I didn't fret, 'cause this ZZ Top-lookin' guy with a Big Staff came and parted the waters while I escaped. Lucky I wasn't Hungover... But I can only lie for myself. Since this isn't Hash Trash, my fellow paddlers, should they choose to reveal themselves, will have to embellish their own ride - but they have a better story!

2006-06-13T11:05:00.000-07:00

Porch view of Bee Mountain honey source (above). Gladly's Porch.

It's Just Too Short!

After the last week of almost continuous Hashing, I decided to make a pilgrimage to the mountain and commune with my friend and spirit animal, Gladly. I did not choose my spirit animal, he picked me:
My family was frequently banished from small-town churches based on my dad's tendencies to challenge local pastors on matters of faith and grammar. Pop was also the worst singer in every church we attended, and demonstrated it with great zeal... Yet, that is how the hymn "Gladly The Cross Eyed Bear", in all its divine mysterious meaning, became one with my psyche.

Gladly had to overcome great visual obstacles in his youth, which he now recognizes as his path to the third, inner eye. After being driven from the bear clan through shame and ridicule (much like my father), he took on a life of solitude. He has learned many things from his hermitage, such as how far into the woods he can go before he is coming out, whether he shits there or not, and whether it sticks to his fur. While his teaching is subtle, his students are often permanently scarred by his affectionate back scratches.

Between meditation sessions with Gladly, I had meant to share my experiences through a blog entry or two, but found that I just didn't have enough data cable to reach Mr. Drucker's store. So Gladly and I rolled down there in his pickup, but Mr. Drucker wouldn't let us touch the phone crank. Gladly finally climbed the pole outside Mr. Douglas' house, and was so moved by the view, he decided to just send a transcendental message... So if any of you have had Sunday School hymns, particularly Gladly's, running through your heads lately, eat some honey, get all sticky, and give someone a hug. But mind the claws.

2006-06-02T12:42:00.000-07:00

FINALLY!
Medical researchers in Houston TX have announced a miraculous breakthrough. In conjunction with the Houston Hash House Harriers, who provided volunteer test subjects, doctors have announced the prototype of "The Ideal Hasher", pictured here at St. Arnold's Brewery.

After much debate, project leaders agreed that the "Third Arm" would be the most viable enhancement of the already able drinking experts. Now, Hashers will no longer have to ask for help pumping kegs, minimize sacred two-handed Hash gestures, or squeeze only one boob or cheek at a time - modifications made necessary by the permanently installed mug of beer included in earlier prototypes. With the addition of the third, predesignated Drinking Arm, hashers can do all these things at once, or perhaps, just carry another mug or two.

In a blitzkrieg of team spirit, intensified by the ensuing Jager celebration, the prototype creators have already cloned its first "brother". According to his blog, EZ generously gave birth to it himself...

2006-05-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

In honor of moving to Webster (which is essentially Clear Lake).... I made up a new word:

hotard (ho' tahrd, from Eng. whore and Fr. retard) One who is sexually indiscriminate and measures two or more standard deviations below the average IQ of 100; or, and moreover, just acts like it to get some. Not to be confused with those of normal-or-above IQ exhibiting excessive manipulative, ingenious, flirtatious behavior, or skin, to get some.

2006-05-24T07:13:00.000-07:00

Dogs, Dogs, and More Dogs...
This is Brit's dawg, Gus. He likes you. A lot.

2006-05-23T11:17:00.000-07:00

Keep Galveston Clean - Move Out!

Life at school has mostly returned to normal... Smells Like Teen Spirit, and loud as hell. Yay. I saw the maintenance staff posting the word "LAST" on the marquee today....

Some of my friends say they read my blog fairly often, possibly some strangers do, too. But they don't leave comments. It can't be cuz it sucks, cuz if it sucks, I'm sure they'd love to say so!
So it must be
a) they think they have to sign in or be a member (you don't, I accept anonymous comments now)
b) it is way too long to read most of the time (can't be helped, and I can live with that reason)
c) they don't know me (doesn't matter)
d)they're chicken
or,
e) they just don't feel like it.

If A-D fits you, at least leave an an "X" once in a while, ok?
CTT

2006-05-18T14:15:00.000-07:00

No Lies today.
I am always amazed at the extreme ups and downs of life, and how close together they can occur. It's hard to believe such an excellent weekend of Hashing could be followed by this particular Monday. A kid greeted me with a newspaper at the door of the school today. He said he was telling all the teachers the bad news, and showed me the story about our seventh grader who was shot and died early Sunday morning.

The rest of the day has been grief counseling and damage control, with many kids jumping to conclusions about the unapprehended shooter. Many threats of misguided retaliation. To add fuel to the fire, the air conditioning was out all day. Whew. Tomorrow can only be better.

2006-05-18T13:26:00.000-07:00

"FOUR!!!"
My friend, John SOf*ckincool (that is almost exactly his real name), cannot be trusted on the dance floor. But he made Geronimo's Cadillac himself. That's him escorting the bride. He loves women, metal, and fire, and is always building something BIG. The seats are real horse hide, and I have actually putted around on the roof in moving traffic. He never goes anywhere without a bottle of sotol and a jug of homemade, hand picked petalla cactus wine. Once you get past the pricks, it's all good.

2006-05-16T09:45:00.000-07:00

I love this picture of Liqeuer Hard and Choo Choo when I met them in October '04. Figured I'd post it to commemorate her move to Afghanistan today... Moments before this shot, she proclaimed me a "Natural Born Hasher".

Thanks, LH! I felt welcome from the start, so I continued through five events during my first eight days of hashing. My first run was a Saturday Galveston H3, followed immediately by Liqueur Hard's Oktober Fest H4 Hash (ononon pictured here). The rest of the week included the OTR Halloween Drag run, a Full Moon run, a Happy Hour at Hairy Bellyfonte's house, and whatever the following Sunday offered... On On, LH.

2006-05-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

Loose Threads...
Howdy. Allow me to introduce my Dawg, Catfish. That is not her Hash name, but she has one. More on that in a minute. I plan to digress. A lot.

Note that Catfish is one of very few dogs that can sit demurely with her feet crossed under 25 lbs. of BBQ without even begging, and she hashes commando (leashless). I found her Under A Bridge Downtown in Presidio, Texas, about the same time I met Twinkie up the Butt, aka Laura. I didn't know about Hashing then, and had to believe whatever Twinkie told me. She's in the photo below, standing on a star in Alpine, Texas, the day before her wedding to the infamous Mr. Spleen. That's not a Hash name, either, and it predates Mystery Men. I introduced them.

Anyway, the day I pulled the last wild louse off of my new canine, I went out to eat with my friend Tim, an ex-dreadlocked, crew-cut, bearded Goddamned Drunk paramedic raftguide from Terlingua, part time Presidio resident when on ambulance call. We were in the middle of the Godforsaken desert paradise, and as I scanned the menu, I was shocked to see catfish listed there, so I exclaimed, (strangely enough) "Catfish?!" just as Tim was asking me what I was gonna name my new puppy. He said, "Catfish?! That's a stupid name!" and being the defiant so-and-s0 that I am, it stuck. Tim went on to become an infamous smoke jumper, tobacco spitter, Old Crow swiller, and writer of country-western songs about drunkeness, debauchery, homosexuality, and necrophelia:

"Three days dead,
Stiff but not stinkin'
She don't worry 'bout my lyin' or my cussin' or my drinkin," etc...

or,

"Now here's the moral of the story
and you can serve it on a platter
If you can't tell the difference
Sometimes it just don't matter.
So don't you travel,
no don't you stra-a-ay
down the Hershey Highway"

He sang these songs and more at Twinkie's wedding. My apologies for any mistakes if you ever read this, Tim. Don't sue me.

So I met Laura (to me) in her role as Presidio's School Nurse and kids' Catholocism instructor, while I was teaching down there. Tim, Laura, Mr. Spleen, and I immediately began a series of Friday nights over the local border in Ojinaga, smoking cigars with the whores as they told stories about the bullet holes in the bar, and cast spells on lesser gringos. One day, after the quinceanera of the daughter of Blanca, one of our favorite prostitutes, we went bar hopping and there was droopy lettuce draped all over our favorite local ,The Bar Monterrey, or "Squirt" Bar, to us, because of the dominant soda advertisment painted on the building, and the passtime of the clientele. It was the kind of establishment with a tiled trough that drains around the base of the bar, so the patrons don't have to get up to piss.

The lettuce covered everything from the open cash register to the jukebox, to the frame of the portrait of the naked blue lady swimming in the muddy stream - very Star Trek. There were several glasses and jars filled with water and whole limes over the entrance and arranged throughout. The Ladies were unusually solemn that day, and we came in after a few tequilas, ready to cut up (knife throwing was standard entertainment). We tried our best to charm our friends with more cigars, but finally the jefa just looked at us and slowly shook her head. We left. I figure someone got killed there the night before, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna pry.

We rolled on down the street, hit a few lower-class spots, as well as the curandera shop for some preventative Snake Oil for the earlier bad ju ju, got our standard bottle of Presidente, and went back to Laura's (Twinkie's) place to dance the night away to Cosmic Thang. We always did. Mr. Spleen (aka her future husband Chuck) stripped down to his boxers and climbed up in a tree outside, just before the police arrived to quell the noise. Chuck was dangling from a weak branch like a sloth, trying not to laugh out loud, and almost fell on one of the cops, but they never saw him.

So, back to Catfish's Hash name. It is "CatDog". Equally as arbitrary as her Nerd Name. One of the last naming legacies of this year's H4 Religious Adviser, McPisser. He's been known for his judicious and humorous use of RA power in various namings, and this proclamation never even made it to the circle's the discussion stage. Of course, H4's circles aren't exactly known for their adherence to Robert's Rules, with our most common quote being "Shut the F*ck Up!!"... As it was, it shall be. When asked for a quote, CatDog wisely had no opinion on the name whatsoever.

2006-05-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Can't Touch This = me. Finally found a way to steal back my photos from Kodak gallery... The girl Standing on the Star is my best friend, Twinkie up the Butt, of very early Austin hash Days. She says she was there on their 7th run. She's the one who finally got me hashing.

2006-05-12T11:35:00.000-07:00

Mystery of the Creepy Things in the Pond...
So, yesterday I was out pre-scouting trail from my truck, getting ready for my last Galveston H3 haring as a local. I'm moving to Clear Lake to let a new set of criminals have their fair shot at my stuff, and I'm trying to break some new ground on the well-worn 30 mi. X 2 mi. island before I go.

Anyway, after cruising by a lot of funky wooden beach shacks and bait shops, I ended up near the gulf on this old, deadend driveway down the middle of a swampy pond - a man made isthmus in decay. The pavement used to go to some cheesy burned down motel, and now it ends at a locked, rusty gate just before disappearing into the muck. It's narrow, so you have to back out once you get down there. High grass, weeds, cactus, and oleander grow up on both sides of the asphalt between you and the water. Just the kind of place for a live Scooby Doo episode, and perfect for the On In, if my cohare likes it.

I climb down to get a better feel for the place, and as the truck engine dies, I hear multiple bodies sliding into the water... Not the careless plop of turtles off a bank, much smoother and more deliberate. And bigger. Gators? No, not the straight line descent of a bunch of gators. More of a tight swirling eddy behind each one. It creeped me out, and that is not easy to do.

Keep in mind it's broad daylight, but I'm about ready to leap back in the truck, sure that something's about to wrap around my legs, when a couple of these Things resurface out in the dark water. Their heads are about 7 inches long, and I can just make out their furry bodies through the murk. They move fast, until one decides to stalk me, about 10 feet off the asphalt. I lunge at it, trying to scare it, and it treads water to stare me down. I didn't have my binoculars, so all I can say is their snouts were less pointy than a rat, or even a dog, and if they had ears, they must have been tucked back. With tails included, they appeared to be about four feet long. There were at least six of them swimming around, just while I was there.

I know it's virgin Hash territory, so I'm still willing to have Circle there, but it damned sure won't be after dark.

2006-05-03T10:01:00.000-07:00

I'm ba-a-ack... The firewall must have burned down. So Tunnel "tagged" me, and since I'm short on time, I'll make the answers this week's blog.

Six wierd things about me. Compared to who? The rest of You All? These are gonna have to be downright bizarre to even rate.

1. I made an entire Jackie O. style suit out of duct tape, and wore it to work at the San Fran stock exchange. Hat, dress, jacket, and boots.

2. I used to have elaborate sleep walking episodes. Once, I rearranged my album collection into alphabetical order. Another time, I drank a bottle of shampoo.

3. In spite of better than 20/20 vision, my depth perception with strung ropes and wires sucks - clothelines, etc. are not my friends, so if you hash with me, please tell me where they are.

4. I can lift 95% of the people I meet. I know, 'cuz I try. I did not say "pick up".

5. My brother foreshadowed my hashing days by chasing me through the swamps of Florida with a machete.

6. When I had a fever, I learned I could play drums to myself with my teeth, and that Mayans lived between my ribs.

2006-04-27T07:19:00.000-07:00

Yikes! I have been firewalled out of all the links on this site... I may not be able to read anyone else's blogs at school. Lunch just won't be the same.

Off the regular theme of lies, I have accidently been collecting "recipes" for crawfish eating/serving tables. So far, random conversations have yielded four completely different designs, usually based on some family tradition, that range from portable and disposable, to deluxe.

Portable: You cover a round table with three layers of butcher paper, tape a consecutive series of garbage bags around the perimeter, pour the steaming crawfish in the middle, and have at it. When you're done, you wad the whole thing up and throw it away.

Deluxe: One Lafayette family has 45 eight foot wooden tables with slanted sheet metal chutes to slide the shells down into a metal, drawer-like removable bin under the surface. The sheet metal chute is trough-like, and surrounds a steam tray that runs down the center of the table, and holds 15 pounds of crawfish.

I'm fixin' to interrogate my work comrades here in La Marque. Got one of your own?

2006-04-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

For those of you still suffering from my last abysmal pack of lies, my advice:

Cut Up at the Nail Shop!
Boys and girls, screw the haircut, go for a pedicure.
The day after the H4 Campout, I carefully detached my lacerated legs (this part's more or less true, to wit - Wet Spot's photo) from the bedsheets, and went to work. Worked my ass off. Deserved Something Better... Went down to my local nail shop, which is conveniently wedged between Ben and Jerry's and a gay bar on the seawall. I got a scoop of vanilla - the kind with the bean specks showing, drowned it in a shot of Priscilla's Ouzo, and stepped into the incense and acetate.
One stop shopping.

For any virgins: the workers are always Vietnamese. They always say "can I help you?" before the door closes and you are surrounded by air conditioning. Then they look at the Madame(don't call her that, I made it up), who speaks English and will carry out the rest of the transaction. "Pedicure, please". "Okay, you pick your color." The wall is alive with half filled or topped off bottles of every garish and Sunday-go-to-Meetin' color of nail lacquer, occurring naturally on the planet or not. I always go for Perriwinkle (yes, Heartache, that's how it's spelled). It bleaches to thundercloud blue in the Galveston sun.

Fellas, you should thank Bob Dobbs for the fact there ain't no Sports Nails places, all hung up with TVs and John Madden. The last thing you want to do is distract yourself from the nimble and soothing hands of the pedicure Sensei (don't call her that, I made it up). She may be anywhere from 16 to 60, or she may be a man so call ahead and request a female technician - the men are less generous with their touch. This is not a job, it's a calling.

So this particular day, I wondered what the young woman looking up from my feet thought of my multiple wounds. She didn't blink an eye, until time for the massage. There is always a massage. After you soak in a foot Jacuzzi, and the necessary cuticles and nails are cut, cleaned and buffed, after the Sensei shaves the dead cells from your calluses into a little pile of curled skin on the floor, and uses a synthetic pumice to smooth out the rest, she squirts a copious serving of House Lotion on your shins, and works you over from the knees to the toes for any where from 3 to 15 minutes. This is where the real fun begins when you're all hashed up.

The initial sting of the lotion gives way to an overall burning sensation that stays with you the rest of the day. Typically, the Sensei pulls your feet (or hands, if it's a manicure) close enough to frotage her chest... I always wonder if this is intentional, and try to pretend I don't notice. It happens every time. She looks up to see if you like the massage. "Does this hurt?" She queries inoccently, knowing that the lotion is diving into my open cuts. "How you get this?" I tell her I'm a fugitive. Has she seen my picture? She has no idea what I am talking about, and scours my legs clean with sea salt, while she asks about the Buddhist tattoo on my thigh. Excruciating Karma. "It's the Tibetan symbol for (AAGH) Om(mm-my God!)" Glad I had the Ouzo.

Now if I were a guy, I'd forego the Perriwinkle, and just ask for a buff job. Yep. She will take a fine-grained paste and place a little on each toenail. Then she'll rub each one briskly with a chamois covered bar. They will pique to a high-gloss, polish free. The Sensei will put your shoes on... on you, that is. She'll discretely take your credit card, allow you private time to write your tip, and wish you a wonderful day and the other Senseis will say in unison, like sirens from the rocks, "Please Come back!" and you will feel they are sincere. As you leave, the ubiquitous fat Buddha, garnished with real fruit and burning incense, smiles "On-on."

2006-04-17T11:36:00.000-07:00

I had Mexican food for lunch today, then went to see the following movie... Thanks for the inspiration, Brit!

Snyder Leather Days
I used to live in Boston while I was between colleges, and I worked in this place that was like a factory. The building stood in the middle of the bridge that linked the Puerto Rican section of town to Southie, where the Irish live. The water below the bridge was Aim-blue and opaque, and it was dangerous to cross to the "other" side, depending on your accent.

The other workers and I climbed six flights of stairs to meet a freight elevator that delivered an endless supply of boxed, smashed leather coats from China. The freight elevator was strictly for freight. We stretched the car coats, blazers, dusters, bombers, and motorcycle jackets over bedraggled cloth manekins that inflated with steam at the press of a pedal. I only worked there three days before I got third degree burns. Then, like my coworkers, I took up the practice of bandaging my hands before work each morning, and wearing boots to protect my legs from the hot jets that shot out of the holes in the manekins. We arrived at seven a.m. in the winter dark, avoiding the deep, icy puddles. We knew what it was like to work all day in wet boots. There were no breaks at that job.

I used to think no one talked there because we spoke different languages, unless you counted the two brothers who worked next to each other, and sang along with the constant, almost inaudible Latin radio. My Spanish wasn't too good when I started, but after a few months, I began to notice that the boys (they might have been 18 or so) weren't singing the same words as the songs. In fact, what they were singing didn't even rhyme, and didn't repeat with any sort of chorus. By summer, I could tell they weren't singing at all. They were holding coversations. One Friday, I decided to join in.

I took their stunned expressions as surprise and delight that I could speak their language - that's usually the response I got when I'd attempt my fledgling Spanish. They answered my bubbly questions about Puerto Rico in clipped, one word answers, and in low tones. I started to get a different read on their acceptance of me. I quit talking to them, and went back to my punishing manekin, feeling shut out. That day marked the onset of the summer heat, and sweatshop (a word I'd thought arcane) became the way I described my work.

The following week, another woman started work there. Her name was Isabel, and she was from Brooklyn. She was Puerto Rican as well, but spoke English. We laughed and shared bagels and dried mangos the rest of the morning, and I actually got more coats steamed into shape as a result, enjoying the respite from tedium.

That afternoon, Leon came back from the loading dock, where he had checked in our most recent shipment - 4000 women's and men's trench coats in brown and black. He was our superviser, as well as the shipping clerk. An older man with dark eyes, thick plastic glasses on the end of his nose, and a gray crewcut, Leon was quiet to the point of sullen. He read German newspapers, and ate his lunch alone. He dressed no better than the rest of us, and kept his head low when Marty Snyder was around. Marty was the big boss, with radio commercials announcing his wares in his own whining voice.

Leon heard Isabel and I laughing and mimicking Marty's ad, "Hello. This is Ma-a-wty from Snydah Leathah..." He approached like a cat who suddenly advances on its prey, with increasing speed. "Vat eez all zees talking?", he whispered, barely holding back spit as his lips trembled. Isabel and I giggled nervously, still not understanding how serious Leon meant to sound. He actually seemed strangely terrified. He got closer to me, an inch or two from my face. "Anozah eenceedent like zees and you are fired!"

Fired. I couldn't get fired. I'd have to move home, and even my meager urban existence beat life at my parents' house in the deep south, with no seedy clubs or good beer. The day, the week, and the long summer stretched out in front of me like a bed of coals. The brown, half-opened windows behind my manekin revealed a half sunken barge, and hid the Boston skyline. I had never felt more isolated.

The temperature of the sixth floor loft increased each day, and the steam mixed with the smoggy humidity. The Puerto Rican boys cut their twin afros, and Isabel and I came early and traded French braiding and hand-bandaging in the morning while we could still chat a little. She had to pick up her son each day after work, and Leon had effectively curtailed any daytime conversations. He came to work in stained old tee shirts now, tucked tightly into his shabby pants. Leon kept his nervous distance, but his hawking scrutiny never wavered.

One Friday, I stayed to clean up a bit before meeting some friends for pints. I changed into my clean, carefully torn vintage dress and added a fresh layer of duct tape to my winter-worn cowboy boots. I rung up my eyes in the black liner that was standard for my peer group, and decided to sneak down the freight elevator. After a long day on the concrete floors, my toes dreaded the pounding of six flights down as much as the seven a.m. six flight climb. The whole place was silent, and I could actually see the pink panorama of Boston harbor and Southie through the cage as I sank past the fifth, fourth, and third floor windows. Then the motor stopped. I stood stiff while the great horizontal doors opened, and Leon's silhouette emerged between their jaws in front of the second floor lights. He stepped into the elevator, carrying his dog-eared newspaper and leftovers.

We rode in silence, and he stood ahead of me, pointedley ignoring my presence, just as if we were strangers in some high rise office building. I scanned him carefully. He shifted his folded newspaper, and I saw the tattoo for the first time - not some trendy design or military memento, but a series of digits on the inside of his forearm. I'm not sure how big the number was now - more than the average person could memorize at a glance. More than a million.

2006-04-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

This one's reallly long, but I had 15 minutes to kill, and it's been days since I wrote. Well, this could have happened to someone, I guess...

The phone rang about 2:30 on Saturday afternoon. It was Aunt Lily, stirring me from poolside and 80's rock. The usual guilt set in, since she lived just four blocks away, I didn't visit enough, and she had been old forever. I was in junior high (nearly a woman in my mind), but she still talked to me like I was six. "Why don'tcha come on down for some pound cake?," she cooed. "I got some sweet tea!"

I decided to walk, and immediately regretted cutting through the orange groves. It was 95 degrees, according to the Tan Report on Q105. Two of the sullen, skinny kids from over by the railroad tressel were hanging out under the trees, kicking rotten oranges around and stirring up the fruit flies. I knew they had already picked me out as a target, 'cause they got real quiet as I approached, then the one with the hairlip started snickering. I tried to keep my stride, but the dark sand was deep and sifted into my flip flops, seering my feet. I felt like a giraffe at the watering hole.

Donny Mesgers threw the first orange. Missed! Then the second shot knicked my shoulder and gooed up my hair. Donny's little brother was winding up, and I knew it was time. I ran under the next tree and grabbed an orange that partially disintigrated in my hand, and let it fly. It fell apart, but sprayed fermented pulp over my assailants. That really pissed 'em off. I kicked off my shoes and ran, trying to hover over the burning dirt. I could hear their sneakers sinking into the ground behind me, getting nearer.

Evasive action was useless, but at least when Donny caught me by my hair, I was in the shade. I grabbed Donny's shirt, and yanked him near to grab the hand that held my hair. I pulled until I was able to connect my forehead with his nose. The blood poured out, dark and hot all down my arm, and his hand grew slippery. I held on as long as I could, but he pulled away. Luckily his accomplices had run off, and when he realized he was alone, he cursed me a couple of times, and stomped away. As he sunk over the next small rise, his image wavered in the heat. It looked as if he was walking on the water of the lake in the distance. I noticed something in my hand, sticky with Donny's blood.

It was a ring. It said, "Auburndale Bloodhouds 1937" on one side, and "Football" on the other. Not realizing it was probably alos made of gold, I threw the nasty evidence to the gournd. "Asshole," I muttered, and walked on to my aunt's house.

I was covered in pulp, bugs, and blood, and she said, "Baby doll! You look precious!". You could give my Aunt Lily an empty box for Christmas, and she would nearly cry form joy, telling you it's just waht she wanted. I ate pound cake, and drank tea, listening to her tell eery stories about the dark side of the family that she only told to me. She wrapped my blistered feet in chewing tobacco poltices, and said some little versus I couldn't understand. I was in no hurry to head out into the heat, even though I wasn't too scared of the Boys anymore.

About twilight, I stepped into the grove again. The sand had cooled, and all kinds of small animal tracks ran between the dusty trees. I was nearly home before I heard the footsteps behaind me, near the splattered orange that got my hair pulled. It was Donny. He was covered in dirt and blood, as if he had not been home yet. We stared each other down. Then his houlders fell. "That was my granddad's ring," he said. He sounded like he was gonna cry, and I told him so. Still, I said I'd help him look.

As we circled the tree where we'd fought, we smelled something putrid. A long-dead cow (judging by how flat it was)laid in a nearby drainage ditch. "Gross," Donny said, and picked up a stick to poke it with. As we got nearer, the cow's stomach began to move in great waves. I screamed and Donny jumped back. The rest of the cow was stiff and decomposed, but the leathery stomach rolled like the ocean. Suddenly, a small dark face appeared between the cow's teeth! Then a long, wide body emerged, with it's scaly rattish tail. It was an armadillo, quickly followed by a mate. They scurried out, covered in whatever the cow at last, and ran straight toward us. One glittered slightly around it's snout. "My ring!" Donny yelled, and tackled the second armadillo. The first leaped in to the air in attack, and scratched my arm from elbow to wrist. Donny rolled around with the first and came up worse for the wear, but victorious, with the ring. We slapped high fives, and went to his house to drink his Dad's beer.

2006-04-04T10:49:00.000-07:00

"Does your blog bite"? "No, my blog does not bite".

My new friend, Parthenia, whom I have never met, spoke to me via a stranger's cell phone over the gulf between Mississippi and Galveston last night. A voice of sanity amidst the din at O'Whoever's. She said she lives her life by the Golden Rule, and caused me to consider this for myself. You know, Do Unto Others, etc. So with all the lies I've been writing, I fully expect a great deal of original BS coming my way in the future. Please don't let me down, and remember, a true lie must always be useless.

"Hey, I thought you said your blog did not bite?" "That was not my blog."

But that reminds me of another story...
One day in Graham, North Carolina (just cuz I'm from Graham don't make me a cracker) I was busy breaking up with my ex and updating my new internet dating profile, when I got an IM from my future cousin. This guy in Atlanta liked my photo. His was strangely familiar, but kinda cheesy, and long distance is frustrating, ain't it? We e-chatted awhile under our mutual aliases, and I went out running, expecting that to be the end of it.

Next time he wrote, I got his first name, Malcolm. Shortly after that, he emailed his phone number and sir name - hmmm, the same one my Mom was researching for her massive and tedious geniology project. She once mailed me a 17x12 foot family tree in size 10 type. I called Malcolm to joke that we might be cousins, but it was okay to pursue this, since Georgia is Like That. He said his family, the Bradts, had a big fat geniology book. Did mine? Well, yes, mine did, too. Was it blue? About seven pounds? Yes... What was my name?

He found me on page 674, under seven generations of grandparents (the Bangermorphs married the Bradts back in 1856), and along side six first cousins and siblings, and a hamster. I was intrigued - I hadn't dated a cousin since Sunday school. We saw each other itinerately for about six months, wierding out our friends, and comparing Georgia and North Carolina barbecue. But eventually the novelty wore off. We really had nothing in common except a blood line. Our paths grew apart when he became a vegetarian. Last year, Malcolm moved to a hollow in Tennessee, and married a pig. He wrote recently to say that they had moved in with his wife's family and named their new daughter Pearl (among swine), and she can be found on page455, under Bradt, Malcolm: offspring.

2006-04-03T10:35:00.000-07:00

I was going to write about my friend Verle with eyes the size of pinballs who almost got one of them sucked out by a snake in his sleep on a camping trip, but woke up just in time to detach it by prying its jaws apart with his leatherman using his good eye and rearview mirror as the snake dangled and fought back, and was left with a shiner that lasted three weeks, but since it's a true story and he's not a Hasher (yet), it doesn't qualify for this blog.

Now then.
Ah, what a relaxing weekend... It seemed to last forever. Stayed at work late Friday, decided to forego happy hour, and curled up with a wholesome book. Got a great night's sleep Saturday, too, after a sensible day of sun at the beach, slathered from head to toe with my ol' 45 to prevent an otherwise spectacular sunburn - damn, I can almost imagine it. I reset my clock at exactly midnight, and went to bed, ignoring all those text messages to go to the Balinese Room for reggae which probably would have made me stay up late for a Whataburger breakfast.

Sunday I cleaned my house 'til it squeaked, and got to the Hash early 'cause of all my intricate planning. I was in perfect health, after weeks of regular 10-K runs, a diet of macrobiotic "food", and extreme sobriety. Came in as FRB at the Hash, then drove straight home at 60 mph to finally download and organize all my Hash pix from Christmas. I called my parents, and was asleep by 8 p.m. I woke up thinking, "I can't wait to get to work!" Right? Right. Happy Monday. Ouch.

2006-03-30T10:46:00.000-08:00

Believe Everything You Read! Part I
Today is April Fool's Day - April Fools! Well, every day is to me. I woke up this morning and decided to skip work to celebrate. When I staggered-ed-ed-ed out blinded by the great death ray to hoist up the junk mail, I realized I could read other people's minds. What a pain in the ass. My first encounter was my nextdoor neighbor, whom I have never met or liked, because he washes his bicycle too much and too gently. He was outside doing just that, slowly stroking the handle bars, "thinking": "I wonder if anyone actually believes this bogus sign on my door that says 'Beware you're being videoed'?" I never did. Not even enough to make obscene gestures to the alleged camera.

Well, now that I know for sure he's a liar too, I plan to break in and rip off his whole collection of VHS Julia Child reruns, which he assumes are coveted by all the local hoodlums. Just as he was backing away to admire his "work", and thinking about Julia singing "Frere Jacque" to him in his bathtub, naked under a wine spattered apron, he was hit by a wheelchair. A half-mind like me can only accomodate one extra-cerebreal thought at a time, so I couldn't tune in to the patient's brainwave simultaneously (always wondered how that would work for me, say, in a crowd. Now I know). My neighbor decided it was the patient's fault, "Slow ass cripple! Should be more careful!", and went on with his labor of love, gleefully filled with superiority, and disdain for the rest of lesser mortals. Given the clearly disappointing nature of this so-called Free Gift, I'm going back to bed to return it to Mr. Sandman's Customer Service Desk, and hope to wake up with a different super-ability. This one sucks.

Well, here's to my first post. They're only going to get more pathological, I hope.
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