Leaf Blowing and the Marriage Metaphor

I was leaf blowing (like, all weekend--I'm not bitter about it, you are) yesterday and of course Dad's Volvo was in the way. It had taken three guys to help me push it out of the carport weeks ago so the guy could come get the MG and take it away, but yesterday there was no one around to help push it back enough so that I could leaf blow around it.

1990 Classic Brick...Dad's ol' Car.

So I set the blower down, put the car in neutral, and commenced to pushing this thing as hard as I could. Now remember I was leaf blowing, and under my noise protecting ear muffs, I also had my ear buds in so I could shuffle music while I worked. So I'm cut off from the world. Unless you make eye contact with me, we ain't communicating.

So...I start pushing and grunting. It rolls a bit, but rocks back. I start the rocking thing thinking I can get this. And I do! It starts to move, slowly. And sure enough, I'm getting it done. The Volvo is starting to pick up speed--enough speed that I start to think about how and when I'm going to stop it. I'm digging in and shoving until I get to the point I think I need to steer and/or stop and I get up from the front bumper and notice that behind me, unbeknownst to me, my wife had been pushing the whole time too!

And all I could think about is how that, in a way, was a good metaphor for marriage. That someone has your back even if you don't know it. That someone is supporting you in ways you may not even realize unless you take the time to think about them. It was a real life "footprints in the sand" moment for me. My wife does so much I of course take it for granted and rarely thank her for it, or acknowledge it.

I mean, sure, as I blew leaves I was finding whole yellow squash, a pumpkin, and potatoes she'd chunked in the yard "for the squirrels"--and that evening she'd sneezed so loudly I downloaded divorce papers, but I think it best if I, and we other married folk, pondered what we don't see when we have our earbuds in and our earmuffs on.

It's a known fact that squirrels love squash, duh!

-rbm

John L. Mothershead Jr 4-26-1934 to 4-7-2008

In the early days of facebook I had some thoughts on the passing of my dad, and now, these days, I've had a few more as things have changed--some good, some bad. It was worth it to me to jot some down again on another anniversary of his dying. Eleven years on and it seems we have become used to him not being here all the time. It took a while, but sometimes that realization does creep up on me. Just last week I dreamt he and I spoke, but I can't remember why. But it was pleasant to "hear" his voice again even if only asleep...he always said I didn't listen very well.

Here we all were at Olan Mills. I borrowed one of dad's cardigans.

Moving into this old house of his has sparked some memories of the family from back in the days of high school from '79 until '84 when I got "asked" to leave, and some are stark yet some are downright charming in a way.

To this day, when I go upstairs I feel a twinge of teenage angst! Like I have tons of homework to do, or I didn't mow like I was supposed to or I didn't take the trash out on time...or I didn't bring the cans back in on time...or I didn't attach the bungee to the tops of the cans correctly and the racoons had run amok in our trash.

When I open the door to step into what is now Emily's room I expect to see my mattress on the floor covered with the quilt mom had made for me since the thermostat was never above 65. My crappy "stereo" and my books and my clothes and my "stuff" are all supposed to be there. In the closet there's supposed to be my doodles, my painted eyeballs on the walls but like dad, they're gone.

There's also supposed to be a bowl of untouchable soap just for looking at in the upstairs bathroom, but it's gone as well.

Even the house itself has dad's signature carpentry skills on display to show how he'd tinker to fix things around here. I could make a list.

When a door dragged he'd cut the bottom off (or the top for some reason...I guess if it scrubbed the jamb) so in many rooms we have doors so far off the floor a beagle can fit her whole snout under the door and a Bacon Dog can slide her paws under--it's quieter than whining to get in I guess. Of course he used his shiny Sears Craftsman Circular Saw to cut them with, the only problem was that the blade was the one that had come with it several years before. So not only would there be a godawful screech as he cut, but also a little smoke and chips of door flying off as he butchered his way to a free-swinging door. When I poop every morning I see dad, or at least his handiwork on the bathroom door in the wavy, splintered cut on the top of the door.

When we moved in there wasn't a tiny spigot for the refrigerator's ice maker as dad had vowed to never own or use an icemaker. To the last day he lived here, he, and us before we all left, made ice by freezing water in trays and twisting them out into a tub...a reused Shedd's Spread tub of course. When we first moved in we dealt with those same tubs filled and frozen and had to chip our ice out with an honest-to-god ice pick, but thank goodness, in his later years he relented and got us those ice trays and I became famous for leaving one cube in so I wouldn't have to refill it!

"If you can't fill it up for us, do it for selfish reasons! So you'll have ice when you want ice!" he'd say, hopeful and then later, disappointed...again. Needless to say, for mom's ghost I put in that little spigot for ice, and one day, for Lisa's sake, I'll get a new fridge worthy of it, but for now, yes, by god we got ice right out of the refrigerator door.

One of the weirdest things he did was put a switch on the closet door in the master bedroom that, like a refrigerator, comes on when you open the door, and turns off when you close the door. The wall switch was diverted to an outlet by a vanity and I can only pray to the minions of fate that he knew what he was doing. But alas, there's no heat register in the closet, so when I close the door to go to bed (because if you don't the light is on all night), I wake up to frozen clothes in the winter, and pre-sweltering clothes in the summer. I haven't put it back "to code" yet because I hate patching sheetrock and painting, so for now, when I lay my pants out to warm up, or cool off as seasons indicate, I think of dad.

Oh, and our thermostat is at a balmy 68 degrees. Because we're worth it.

One of the things I really miss about him not being here is that he never got to see our kids as adults. I feel like he didn't think I was up for the task of raising "cooperative, productive members of society". He hasn't got to see the old soul Emily is, wise beyond her years, and not as recklessly rebellious as yours truly. Or how Jaime is more man (real man, without all the bullshit bravado that's bloodied my nose and lost me friends and income) than I am and has been since very early on. Unlike dad and I, there's not a single conniving bone in his body...Emily? I dunno...gotta watch her.

He didn't get to see me settle mom's estate since he never did, and then see me settle his estate--me, brett...the guy who got asked to leave at the ripe old age of 17. Of course I had help settling those estates--not gonna lie--but it was it was a strange turn of events that led me to the task, that's for sure.

He didn't get to see me make his house livable after it had been a rental for several years and then sat dormant and vacant for several more years when we all thought the state of North Carolina was gonna put Gate City Blvd through it. Obviously the state didn't and now it feels like El Paso down by "the wall". Of course I've had lots of help and am gonna need some more, but for now it's...doable. I fixed the basement door, dad...and threw out everything you had hoarded in the collapsed barn. I wish you could've seen the bonfire I made. Jason Queen saw it from his office in the cab of a Norfolk and Southern locomotive as he passed by a couple of years before the wall got put up! True story.

Anyway, I just wish he could see I am not quite the loser he thought I'd be. I might be close, but I've fed me and mine and a handful of others and theirs just by keeping my hands dirty and sticking up houses. He didn't deserve the way he died fighting the same kind of cancer that killed John McCain, Beau Biden, and Sam Bottoms--not many people do. It robbed him of his intellect, his logical side, the side that knew he didn't have little bugs under his skin, the side that knew he didn't eat cereal without milk; I wasn't about to argue as he crunched away that morning during my weekly Sunday visits to give my stepmom a much needed break from being his caretaker. It was hard to watch. One morning he refused to get off the toilet, scared he'd have an accident, until my sMom got home from church.

Mom and Dad in happier, healthier times.

So here's what I had to say about it on facebook two years after:

John Lloyd Mothershead Jr. 4-26-1934 to 4-7-2008

April 7, 2010 at 6:16 PM

Dad died this same date back in '08. It was warm, and green, just like it is today. He had fought his brain cancer as long as he could until he was gone from us long before his body gave up its fight. It was cancer all right, and it was hard to watch as it robbed him of his personality, but when it was over, we all sighed in a bit of relief.

He was my dad, so at times I hated his guts, needed his help, and laughed at his jokes. He taught me to be systematic in almost any endeavour. He had been a mechanical engineer, and his whole life had become a study in logic and reason. I'm not sure if it were a result of his schoolin' or that he liked crunching numbers in the first place that made him a stick in the mud.

Anyway, you can imagine how fun it was for me to grow up with that outlook when I'm as footloose and fancy free as one can be without being a total irresponsible ass. But if it hadn't been for that influence, who knows, i might have become a pinche carpenter or worse...oh wait. He did manage to make me a happy medium of both (Pirsig speak) Classical and Romantic thinking I believe. Thanks for that, pops.

I miss that the kids don't get to hear the ol standard jokes he'd share, and the puns, and the arguments. And I mean the arguments in the classical sense of the word--not yelling at each other. You'd say, "I think perception is reality," and he's say, "What?!? No, you're...." and it was off to the races.

I miss that, and try some with my kids, but i have no panache for that stuff.

He was my dad. And he ain't here anymore, and I remember thinking while talking on the phone to Scott, my brother in law, that things should be different after he died. I had pulled over to talk on my cell phone and to turn the truck around to head back to Asheboro when they called to tell me he'd died, and people were whizzing by me like nothing was happening. But something was...

My step mom was left alone. And some of us wouldn't handle it very well, and some of us would. But dad was gone and I wanted to see the clouds roll in and give us three days of rain! But nope. It was business as usual. "Hey, Brett, sorry about you dad. When's the house gonna be dried in so we can call the roofer?"

So, tell your pops what you think now, good or bad, because the day IS coming whether it's YOU or HIM.

Of course, I felt the same way when mom died. And you'll hear about that in May.

End quote, and as a postscript, I'd say I do have a panache for those silly jokes and endless arguments, and now so do my children...and may theirs too. I hope I'm around to hear them. Thanks for that again, pops.

Dad and my sMom, again, in happier, healthier times.

PPS. I might be the only person you know with three mothers.

What are your thoughts on Diversity?

"What are your thoughts on diversity?" An open-ended question it was and it got me thinking quite a bit. And here's what I thought in random order:


1. We are surrounded by diversity in my neck of the woods. Here, in one of the only blue counties of North Carolina, you can't throw dead cat without hitting someone from a different country, ethnicity, age group, religion or sex. We're lousy with diversity around here. Sure you can gird up against it and hang out in bastions of "white america' like shitty sports bars or your church*--but like it or not, the majority of places round here are teeming with a multi-cultural and multi racial and multi-sexual diversity that CBS can't seem to grasp by the looks of their boring TV show line ups they offer every year. (What will fat-ass Kevin James be in this year?)

A quick example? Go sit amid the minarets (salam, muthfucca!)  that surround a delightful little area near Ben and Jerry's Ice cream in Friendly Center where one can sit outside and eat and people watch. Last time I was there there were a trio of bored black guys ignoring each other at a table with phones and laptops out, a gay couple were out getting ice cream for their obviously adopted, south of the border boys, and a gang from a local college sat about laughing and eating in a multi-racial gaggle all under the watchful eye of a hot Latino couple eating their ice cream from a cup....together (eww). And of course, as you sit there, keep your eyes peeled at the folks on the sidewalks and you won't be disappointed if diversity is what you're looking for. Heck, there was even a white family there with a bored daughter--dad had on a 49'ers shirt (the cool kind from UNC-Charlotte, not the stupid NFL kind).

So yeah, it's inescapable around here so if you're some kind of xenophobe, you better not live in Greensboro, NC. Don't get me wrong though, I don't mean to suggest we live in some kind of Disneyland harmony, sometimes far from it, but the opportunity to indulge and include are there for the taking.


2. "Be good to me and I will be good back..." is a theme I hear alot. And of course, I've said the same thing myself. And on the surface it sounds reasonable and you can say it paraphrases the good old golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. But it doesn't quite measure up to the golden rule. Often, to me, it smacks of that old thing we'd hear over and over when Amendment One, the amendment that would have made (already federally illegal and state level illegal)  same sex marriage's illegality part of our state's constitution, was put to vote and those noble enough to oppose same-sex marriage would say they, "loved the sinner, but hated the sin".

It's an easy way to rationalize your own (and mine--I'm not saying I'm above reproach) bigotry and racism. And it's a way of dealing with the unknown people you encounter that has you meeting folks with your guard already up. You're already expecting the worst, and when you get the worst returned to you, when someone reacts to you as guarded and unfriendly, you say to yourself, "Ah! See there! I was right! This [fill in the blank] was an asshole just like all the other [fill in the blank]s."

I know, admittedly this is my default setting too. In a world of "Day in and Day Out" (David Foster Wallace's awesome essay and speech--google that shit right now) it's hard to not create a shorthand for dealing with new people. But like I say, it sets you up for "getting what you give".  On the other hand, if you're trying your dad jokes on the wait staff, you might get an even worse result. So I try to temper my "sit back and react to what I get" with a calm demeanor and maybe a testing-the-waters kind of dad joke. I like to paste on a dopey half smile when I have to interact with people. It's no way to win friends and influence people, but that's not my intent on a day to day basis with the diverse public--mostly I'm trying to get some kind of food or service!

Anyway, my point is, as it pertains to diversity, is that accept yourself as I have accepted myself, that as a race of one, an entire species of one, at the center of the universe and all, you owe it to yourself to be good to others in spite of what you think they'll be to you. It's a tough nut I know, and it might be impossible on a "Day in and Day Out" prospect...which brings me to...


3. "Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy."--yeah right. According to the facebook poster from whom I gleaned this quote, Thomas Merton (never heard of him) said or wrote this.
It's an interesting thought as far as Disneyland utopias go, but I suggest you can't love a stranger--that's nuts. I mean if you loved everyone you met you'd destroy yourself. The word gets thrown around alot today by people who want to spread the idea of a happy diversity, of a happy melting pot, but more often or not, it's an attempt at self delusion. You don't, can't possibly love people you don't know. If you did, there wouldn't people standing on the corners with "Please Help, God Bless" signs, and there wouldn't be homeless people and there wouldn't be any debate on the right choices for healthcare/daycare/etc etc...no one would have to "qualify" for "welfare" they would just fare well. 

I can count on one hand the people I love, that I would die for and sacrifice everything for on one hand. Oh, I like a bunch of assholes and airheads a whole awful lot, but I don't love them--they don't get a kidney...maybe I'll buy them lunch someday.
My point is, don't aspire to something you can't deliver as you'll only disappoint yourself. I'd rather be surrounded by people burdened with 'Be nice to me and I'll be nice to you" than people who try to delude themselves into thinking they love me. 
And so, to wrap things up...


4. Try not to fall into the everyday traps we set ourselves--where we expect disrespect so we project a guarded front, or we try to "love" everyone in a gushing Pollyanna approach and then fail. Try the little things and embrace diversity. It's tough. God knows. I can say thank-you, awkwardly, in five or six common-around-here languages--I learned phonetically so I can't write them, but a little "shukra" can go a long way when you want your damn kabob quickly!

Accept your racism and know it, recognize it so you can choke it down when it starts to raise its head. When that kid asks you if you're a Carolina fan because you have a Goodwill-bought, Carolina Panthers T-shirt on, ignore the fact that his pants are down around his thighs--it's supposed to be cool--and answer him. Ask the Indian woman who's minding the Subway to repeat her question again, y'all will get the order correct eventually--smile and remind her that you're half deaf thanks to your job and remember that she's smarter than you as she speaks two languages, though one with an accent. And (one of my big prejudices) no, you (probably) won't get hepatitis from the waiter with "FTW" tats on his hand and bolts in his nose, face, ears, and neck--all that shit is cosmetic! And if you're lucky enough to never question your sexuality or even gender, be glad and be nice.


5. The time for making America great again came and went a long time ago when we shipped in slaves and tried to destroy indigenous people as the United States was created. All we can do now is move forward and try and repair the damage done by at least admitting that we can and must do better in the future.


What do you think?



*Obviously, if you're African American or Hindu or "whatever", the same can be said that if you want to avoid having to interact with different folks, you can hang out in your local enclaves including places of worship and the cumin-filled or cilantro-scented restaurants near you. And let's face it, it is a nice break to be surrounded by like-skinned folk who at a glance know they have something in common with you. I'll admit that. I felt like a king in Guatemala where everyone had black hair, brown skin, and brown eyes--not to mention I was taller than everyone!

The White Deer 3

   

Part three of my serial in an attempt to get me to finish something I started.

Part 1: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/09/im-still-drunk.html

Part 2: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/10/white-deer-2.html

Pulling into Cary's windy driveway I can barely recognize it seeings how it's full of cars. I mean, typical rich people cars. Liberals. People with more money than brains. And everything is much greener this time of year too.

    I weave through the Priuses and Hondas with my smoking, knocking Diesel as carefully as I can without a spotter. His driveway is long as hell, but filled up on both sides, so I end up parking right by the side door, right where I was parked the last time I was here in February. Everybody is so worried they'll get blocked in but I ain't. I ain't leaving early.

    When I turn off my truck, I can already hear the party just around the corner. Sounds like it's in full swing. I grab my cooler out of the back and march around without even going to the door. The first person I see by the gate doesn't bother to help me get it open--it's a big cooler--and barely smiles when I say -Howdy! How's it goin'?

    After I let myself in I look for Cary or his girlfriend Staci--I don't know how she spells it, but in my head I see an I on the end. I see Cary by the pig. The big, half pig on the big, homemade cinder block grilling contraption. I make a bee line because I already know without really looking around that he's the only person I know here.

   -Hey, man!

   -You made it!

   -Yeah! It's pig! It's free! And I even brought beer!

   -Beer. Yes. Please!

   He sticks out his hand and I drop the cooler, open it and hand him a Miller.

   -You said you had beer.

   -That *is* beer. It's the champagne of beers!

   -That ain't beer.

   -It's close enough.

   -It's horse piss!

   -It's beer...for people who don't like beer?

   -Who doesn't like beer?

   -Me?

   He looks at me and shakes his head. -Keep it.

   I shrug and smile to that asshole's face. -OK. I say and pop it open.

   The heat from the grilling pig wafts in my face and I'm surprised how hot it feels. I shove my beer into my mouth and watch Cary look around the yard and towards the house squinting in the sun and smoke. He shouts across the sea of hipsters. -Staci!

   I look in the direction he's hollering at and I hear her before I see her. 

   -Yeah?

   -Could you get me a beer? She steps out from under a funeral tent thing.

   -What?

   -Beer me! He shouts.

   I watch her duck back under the tent, hunch over a cooler and come right across the sea over to us. -Hi! she says to me, handing the beer to Cary.

   -Howdy!

   He and she exchange thank you's and you're welcomes and then she turns to me and asks -You wanna put your cooler in the shade?

   Turns out I do! -Sure.

   -This way.

I look back at Cary, who's poking the pig with a pig poker type hook thing and obviously he's too busy to be any fun. It's so late in the day, I thought the pig would be ready by now, but maybe he ain't the pig-picker he thought he was...and I hope they got snacks.

   -Right here. She says pointing to an open spot on the ground under the folding funeral slash party tent. I drop my mud-stained, shitty little cooler among the pristine Igloos and Coleman EXTREMEs and hope no one notices. 

   -Got one for me? She asks smiling at me, sunglasses on her forehead.

   -Maybe. I say. -It's the Champagne of beers...you cool with that?

   -Perfect. She says.

   I kick the top off the cooler and reach through the ice water and hand her a just-opened-for-her beer. -There you go.

   She nods a weird little 'thank-you' and takes a swig.

   -Thank god! No judgement! I say laughing.

   -Never for free beer. Though it isn't the usual fare around here. Even if it is the champagne of beers.

   -I get the feeling that Pig ain't the usual fare around here either. I throw a chin-nod to the table of veggies and stuff that hungry nerds are picking over while waving flies off the food.

   -You'd be surprised. She says. -They're not all vegeterians. It's just taking someone so fricking long to cook the pig. Heck, meat ain't so bad.

   -Tell me about it. I raise my beer way high and flex my bicep as I suck on my beer. -It does a body good.

   I watch her giggle. -You need more meat. she says.

   -Don't we all? I ask.

   She turns her bottle up and I watch her take huge, manly gulps of ice cold beer, and I hafta say...I like watching her.

    She drops her half empty beer and says. -Indeed.

   I look out over the yard that's peppered with people. The further back the yard goes, the wilder it gets. The yard is lined by a collapsing wire fence. Beyond the fence, it's pretty much wooded and wild-looking. It'd be a perfect hiding spot for an urban deer.

   -Pretty big yard. It's nice. I say.

   -It's huge.

   -Lots of room for the kids. Hey, where *are* the kids?

   -At Cary's ex's. They'd hate the pig-picking anyway.

   -I bet they love the yard. Bet they spend all day out here in the summer.

   -Not without WiFi.

   -Maybe they need a little more incentive.

   She takes another pull on her beer. I can't help but stare at her lips. I'm really loving the way they kiss the end of that Miller bottle. Maybe it's the three I had on the ride over--it's a long trip--but I do my best to put on a good show.

   -What do you mean?

   -I mean...what about an epic tree house?

   -A what?

   -Yeah! Get Cary over here. I mean, it'd be no sweat. I got mad skills. Stick it back over yonder in the corner...in WiFi range, but far enough away you can't hear the dang kids.

   -That's right, you build houses.

   -That is right. I mean, I used'ta. Now I do anything for a dollar on account of this depression we're in.

   She tilts her bottle all the way up and sucks it dry. I watch the last bit a foam disappear into her mouth from the clear bottle. -Thanks. She says. -I need another one.

   -Help yourself.

   -No no. I actually do need a real beer. But thanks.

   -Ouch! I told you, someone, I don't really like beer. I like the alcohol.

   Shaking her head and grinning, she says -I'll be back. I'll grab Cary for ya.

   I watch her walk off and beeline for the recycling can marked Bottles Only! that stands in line with all the other cans each with their own little labels. One for every type of trash. Her empty clanks on into the can the way beer bottles do. A few heads turn.

   I finally finish my beer and clank it in right after hers and start on my next one. I sure as shit don't know anyone here. I shake a few hands and introduce myself to a few of them, but I'm not really all that interested.
   I ain't even hungry even though the smell of pork is swirling all around. Of course, I ain't all that tight yet either.

   I catch a dude's eye and he wants to know how I know everyone.

   -I just know Cary and Staci I guess. Friend of a friend. I say.

   -Oh, Do you drive?

   -Yeah, I drove here.

   -No. Auto cross.

   I shake my head at him and drink my beer.

   -That's how I know them. I thought maybe that's how you knew him.

   Not knowing what the fuck auto cross is, I just say -I guess I'm more of a drinking buddy. And that does it for this guy. He does his -Well, it's nice meeting you. And walks off with his phone in his hand.

   I see Staci pulling Cary over to where I've wandered to and as soon as I can I ask him. -What's auto cross?

   -Racing. Race cars.

   -I didn't know you did that. Weird. 

   -It's fun. I don't do it often. It's expensive.

   -Hunh. I had no idea. Not too green is it?

   -He's not very good at it anyway. Adds Staci. -Has to baby his car. It's the only one he's got.

   -Well, you need a tree house out here anyway. Save your money for that. I say.

   -Yeah. Says Staci. -What do you think of that?

   -You know. He says, looking around towards the back corner, where the weeds get wild. -That would be pretty cool. No real trees back here though.

   -That's no sweat. We'll plant our own. Four six by sixes? Bam. Done.

   -I think it'd be really neat. The kids will absolutely love it. She says. Good, I think.

   -For about two weeks. Cary says, backpedaling a bit.

   -Shoot, we'll do it up nice. You'll have to shake them out of it when I'm done. When we're done. I throw a light *punch* onto Staci's arm.

   -Me? 

   -Yeah, if you help, you can say you built the thing.

   -Well how much would something like that cost? He's back.

   -I have no idea. Just materials. No labor. Just me! I'll have it done by Christmas.

   -That fast?

   I wonder if he's kidding. I mean, that's pretty slow...but pretty fast for free labor. -Yes? I say. -A little here, a little there. It'll give me something to do too.

   Cary stands there and looks at Staci. She shrugs at him.

   -Well I guess. You put some real number together for me.

   -Shit, half the stuff I can steal.

   -That's great, I guess. He says.

   -And much cheaper. Staci says. 

   -Sounds fun. He says. He wipes some sweat off his face with a greasy, pork-soaked towel. -I better turn Pumba. Goddamn, this pig is taking forever.

   He walks off and Staci stays. She's armed with a real beer now. I see berries on what looks like a homemade label and know right away I'd hate it.

   -You're gonna make me help?

   -If you want. It'll be fun.

   -I think so. I've done a Habitat House before...well, one day in the rain. It would have been a lot more fun if it hadn't rained all day.

   -Well I can promise you we will only work sunny days, sunny weekend days.

   -All right. I'll help when I can.

   -I ain't paying you. I joke. -But, like I said, you'll have major braggin' rights.

   I hold my Miller bottle out and we tap bottles and toast on the thought.

   We walk together back towards the larger crowd.

   -You'll have to introduce me around.

   -You don't know anyone. She says, rather matter-of-factly. I'm hurt.

   -That's a fact.

I half expect myself to take her hand as we walk, she's that close to me, but I'm a few beers away from bold, tasteless moves.

   As we walk, I think about how I just gave up a few weekends for pretty much nothing. How I'll be driving out here to work for free and how I'll end up out of pocket poorer than when I started. But of course, at least, I'll have a bitching tree stand when I'm done.

   

Eight Things You Should Never Ask a Drinker.

There's an article, some say stupid, going around about the twenty-two things you should never say to a non-drinker. I'm not sure why we need an article like this though it may be true that us drinking folk need more guidance than the non-drinking set.

As a binge drinker, it might have been helpful if someone more sober than I had offered me advice. Well, here's some advice...here's 8 things you should never ask a drinker if you're not ready for a party.

1) You're gonna let me drink alone?  This is always worse on a Friday afternoon if for some reason you're in a bar together having just slipped out of work a tad early. The really bad news is it means you'll hafta to get up Saturday morning and retrieve your car...or worse, your car will be in your front yard (or your neighbor's) when you wake up at the crack of noon.

2) Do you have to drink to have a good time? This is a trick question, but the answer is yes depending on the company! Sometimes drinking makes you more interesting and funnier than you really are. The alcohol just stops us short from saying something like, "Goddamn! you're boring!" The booze keeps us smiling and nodding and our eyebrows raised creating the illusion we care.

3) You wanna beer? Yes. Yes I do. If you're offering me a free beer out of your fridge, it means you're also offering me ten to fifteen minutes of your undivided attention...and hopefully another free beer and another ten to fifteen! Later on I might regret it...or you might regret it when I'm still there the next day on your couch with a trash can full of vomit beside me, but until then, it's all fun and games.

4) Want a roadie? Want one for the road? Nothing sets you up for disaster like having a beer in your lap when you hit the road for home...though I have to admit, as a younger man, I did indeed enjoy driving around during the cool spring days before the humidity set in after a long, cold winter with a window down and a beer in hand. If my favorite mixtape was on a continuous loop then the experience was all the better.

5) How many have you had? Who're you working for? The Highway Patrol? I didn't know I needed an accounting degree to get tight in your company. Maybe beverages are like Lays potato chips. Or maybe the number consumed is like a woman's age and/or shoe size. The point is, why are you asking? Is it because I fell up your stairs or sprayed a little spittle in your face while I was speaking to you? It reminds me of when someone asks you if you've farted. That's when you respond by saying, "No I always smell like this."

6) Are you gonna drink on an empty stomach? That's the plan. Of course, as soon as I pour a Miller Lite down my throat, my stomach ain't empty anymore. Alcohol is food according to my seventh grade PE teacher/coach....toacher, if you will. It's not my fault waiters the world over ply you with drinks before they'll even take your solid food order. If I had a dollar for every time I gave a food order to the back of a waiter's head as he walked away to get the drinks, well, I could open my own eatery.

7) Have you been drinking? Another trick question! I know that if you think I've been drinking I'm probably doing something stupid like lighting a bonfire or dusting off a chainsaw at ten o'clock at night. So you got me. Beer-breath notwithstanding, I could lie and say no, but it's a fifth amendment moment at best. Rhetorical questions to someone who's been drinking can trigger sobering bouts of thought. Not a good idea as it kind of negates the drinking all together. It's best, perhaps, to just assume I have been and join in.

8) Are you drunk? The answer is always, "No" or, "Not yet."

Oh? A Splinter in My Eye?

Recently we’ve been bombarded by “Don’t text and drive” admonitions from every…one…we…know… Frankly, I’ve had enough. Stop preaching to me (I understand it’s not personal by the way) to stop snapping photos of the world around me as I hurtle down the highways or share in text my thoughts on that world around me.

If you are so inclined to preach to me, to try and remove the splinter from my eye, then you too need to stop giving into distraction like messing with the radio while driving down the road, including messing with the iPod or the flash drive or the charger cable to the iPod, iPhone or whatever while you’re driving down the road. New touch-screen dash in your car? Cover it with duct tape—you needn’t be distracted.

You need to stop eating while driving down the road. One hand on your burger? One on the wheel? Where’s my napkin? Ouch that coffee is hot. Yeah drinking and driving can be hazardous too, not just alcoholic beverages, though, most of us do that too—perhaps not entirely illegal depending on your intake. Stop taking Benadryl and hitting the road.

You need to stop putting on makeup while driving down the road.

You need to stop speaking with your passengers. Those dummies can sit in silence while you get to where you’re going.

You need to crate your cat or dog so it isn't running amok inside your car blocking your view or crushing your gonads. Talk about a distraction. As an aside, however, having dogs in the car (as well as pizzas and boxes of fried chicken) usually make people better, safer drivers...people lurve their pets.

You need to stop messing with your navigation app or device.

The sad truth is, some people shouldn’t send messages and drive because they’re not good at it. Like some people shouldn’t have chainsaws or skateboards or, like me, shouldn’t have motorcycles and/or ATV’s. Some people just can’t do some things. Hell, some people shouldn't even be allowed to drive! Me? I’m good at multitasking. 

If you’re going to send messages of text and drive, or poke around in your “contacts” list or poke around on your iPod while driving, do it smart!

Hold the device in front of you, up over the steering wheel. Keep the road ahead in your field of view. It’s not illegal to mess with your iPod or telephone while you drive, and if you get stopped for such, mention that you weren’t messaging anyone to the cop…and eat your weed (which you need to stop smoking anyway because it’s illegal—for now). Never ever try to hide your device from “the man” by having it down at your side. You’re hurtling down the road! The time your eyes are off the road is translated into feet…sometimes yards.

Don’t mess with your phone in heavy traffic. Don’t even try to read a post if you’re coming up to an intersection…wait for the red light—the perfect pause to wax or read. Now’s a good time to hook up your charger too.

We’re all gonna do at least one of the above things. Admit it. I can’t drive in the morning without an open cup of coffee or a Big Orange soda; it’s a Mothershead birth defect passed down from my mom. We all just have to do it smart. 

Accidents happen and you don’t need a phone to blame it on, usually all you need is a few moments of distraction.

Mmm, there's nothing like Fire.
The irreversible
"I"ll not see you again,..."
Smoke doesn't ask.

Not my graduation,
Not a Moon landing,
Not a president:
Cuttin' and running.

There's not a 
Tonka Truck made,
Or a Lego square formed,
That can't be dirt...or smoke.

Prepared are you for being Old?
For being the guy:
Throws away the goblet--
(When they were young,
And I didn't have to be).

Maybe if...
One more picture,
Someone had taken.
Or if you'd had
Just one more Friend.

No One thinks when it's now:
"Sit down; you're not right,
You're not you."

When you are you,
When you are you,
At the edge of speaking thus,
Walking too,
Trapped inside a mumbling mouth's truth,
Like a deaf one's Dance.
A tumbler away from greatness.
Or a tumbler away from grace.

Not me.
I gave up.
I took a tumbler too much,
I took the Teacher's Key.
I'm not wrong, nor right.

I just see to the fire.
Erase what I want:
The people before me...
Who packed what they wanted;
Nary a shrug now.
Just the prattle of broken glass...
And folded brass.

Me?
I leave the matches,
So people after,
Can be anything they want,
Anything I hope,
But like me.

rbm