27 August 2006
26 August 2006
25 August 2006
Have you ever blindly defended a loved one who often faces unwarranted and unfounded, biased criticisms? They know nothing about it, of course, but you do. You could never tell them about some of the stupid things people have said about them because it would destroy what precious little dignity they have managed to preserve. You don't want them to inadvertently give the rumormongers more fire to fuel their lie factories, so you tend to micromanage the loved one in question. You tell them when they're out of line. And, of course, they do what you expect: They insult you, tell you that you're obsessed with them and that you just need to shut up and stay out of their life. All the while you are carrying around baggage from your most recent bout of defending this person tooth and nail.
And yet, if they only knew what you were going through - - if they knew how you feel when you hear the crap people disseminate far and wide about them...then things would be so completely different. This person would then somehow realize how deeply their words hurt you when you've only been trying to help them all this time. They would give you thanks from the innermost depths of their heart for being a caring family member and an overall decent human being.
And yet, this will never transpire. Since you don't want to damage them anymore than they've already been damaged, you maintain a painful silence about the rumors. You try and help them, but you're constantly yelled at and cut by one stinging accusation or insult after another. You resolve in your heart to continue your cursed vigil, hoping that someday, just someday, that they see what you've been doing for them.
And yet, if they only knew what you were going through - - if they knew how you feel when you hear the crap people disseminate far and wide about them...then things would be so completely different. This person would then somehow realize how deeply their words hurt you when you've only been trying to help them all this time. They would give you thanks from the innermost depths of their heart for being a caring family member and an overall decent human being.
And yet, this will never transpire. Since you don't want to damage them anymore than they've already been damaged, you maintain a painful silence about the rumors. You try and help them, but you're constantly yelled at and cut by one stinging accusation or insult after another. You resolve in your heart to continue your cursed vigil, hoping that someday, just someday, that they see what you've been doing for them.
24 August 2006
Nice. Self-righteous fools, you just ruined the solar system as we knew it.
My
Very
Elegant
Mother
Just
Served
Us
Nine...
Now what? Pizzas are out of the equation.
My
Very
Elegant
Mother
Just
Served
Us
Nine...
Now what? Pizzas are out of the equation.
Before you start reading this, I suggest you start the following video at youtube in another window, due to its recurring appearances in my life as of late. It's Ryan Adams' La Cienga Just Smiled...a song I want played at my funeral, by Gnif if at all possible. You know, should the unfortunate need should arise. Anyway....
Today I was struck by something. At first, it would seem so simple, such an obvious sentiment, that would at first seem unworthy of even mentioning to another due to its mundanity, but at the same time so profound that it's hard to grasp. If you're wondering what on earth I'm getting at, I'm referring to the fragility of life as we know it. It is indeed a seldom occasion when I am smitten with this recurring thought, but as of late I am all but obliged to meditate on the subject. After Mr. Reeves blowing his head off...after seeing several car wrecks...after the Vietnamese shrimp boats laden with dead families in the storm debris left by Katrina. It's something that even though I am not constantly dwelling upon every waking moment manages to stay in a dark corner in my mind.
Last night Mrs. Gimp had a bad bout with the bronchial spasms that have been plaguing her lately. She is forced to sleep in a semi-sitting position, propped up with every available pillow and cushion (including my own, forcing me to sleep with a rolled-towel to support my neck). This position permits her to sleep without choking on her own phlegm. That didn't remedy the situation last night. She began choking with severe bronchial spasms at 01:00, 03:00, and 06:00. I held her hair and shook the albuterol spray and reassured her that she was indeed alive...
In case you don't know what a bronchial spasm is, do this -- exhale, and I mean HARD. Let all the air out of your lungs, then force the last few dribbles out. Now, pinch your nose and close your mouth and make a hard, determined effort to breathe back in. Fight, but don't let yourself inhale. Mrs. Gimp is doing this an alarming number of times as of late due to her bronchitis and previous childhood asthma. I feel rather helpless when I watch her fight so hard for the simple pleasure of breathing air. I sat in my living room the other night and silently cried because of what I had just seen. I've never lived in close proximity to an asthmatic, so I don't know how to take all of this...it's so overwhelming when I see her colour change and watch as tears stream down her face as she struggles. When the air finally fills her lungs I say a silent prayer of thanks. I refuse to sleep at night, opting to watch over her. I wet a finger in my mouth, and place it near her nose to reassure myself that she is still breathing. That she is still my wife, and that she's not dead.
The doctors have increased her albuterol to every 4 to 6 hours instead of twice a day. She's decided to stop the advair steroid due to the fact that it gave her a disgusting thrush infection in her throat (read: yeast infection in your friggin mouth) that necessitated another $50 visit to the doctor, followed by a $40 Rx for an antifungal mouthwash. (Is Ryan Adams hitting it down on the end of this song yet? It's awesome live. It's also key to this post, so start the damn song already if you haven't, and if you have, make sure it's still going).
I bought her a cushion with arm rests today, to keep her from having to use all those pillows. I also bought her 2 red roses surrounded by baby's breath, and a card that has a pit bull on it. It says "I like you so much that I wag my tail til..." and when you open the card it says "...my butt hurts." I also bought her a copy of Troy on DVD so she can get a Brad Pitt fix tomorrow.
I was thinking about last night and how scared I was. It began to rain this afternoon at around five, and of course my windows were down. La Cienga Just Smiled was on the ipod, and for some reason I felt gravitated to the cemetery where my grandpa's are, along with Holly (see my July post about Holly, my beloved cousin who has attained legendary status). It was raining, and I pulled up at Lake Park Hills, rolled through the iron gates where I skated and played street hockey at night so many times before. I drove past the spot where I downed my first beer as a teenager, and around the curve to the second lake on the 'back 40' where I played fetch with Crouton Sherwin recently. I drove past Devan's grave, with its black lab puppy statues on it (Devan was murdered by a vengeful husband who was too stupid to know he shot the wrong damn person), then walked past Dottie's brother Paul's grave. Paul went to sleep at the wheel coming home from Miss. State I understand...don't recall for sure but know for a fact it tore her up and I felt sorry but unable to express it to her at the time.
I walked through the rain, with La Cienga Just Smiled going in my headphones, and then I passed them. First grandma's vacant and morbid-as-hell stone waiting in silent testimony of how creepy it is for the living to purchase a stone beforehand...no deathdate, only the birth date. Then I passed TuTu's grave (my paternal grandpa)...and there was Pa buried right below him (my maternal grandpa). I thought about how both grew up in a difficult time, but one had a lawyer for a dad and the other one's dad made him quit school to pick cotton, something he always resented because it delayed him learning how to read. And by them was Holly...and the song in my ipod declares "How'd I end up to feel so bad for such a little girl? / I hold you close in the back of my mind / It feels so good, but damn it makes me hurt." It's a romantic song, but that one line in a familial sense just described my entire being in that given moment, then it goes "La Cienga just smiles and says 'I'll see you around'." I squatted down and cleaned some bird crap off her stone, it was covering the 4 of July 4, 1989. By then I had been rained on to the point of being wet down to the socks, but I still stood there, admiring my loved ones: Holly, Pa, and Tutu. I kissed two fingers and placed a tender kiss on each of their stones then walked back to my car in the rain, thinking about how a life can be snuffed out in an instant.
I would be depressed, but a close friend of mine is helping me to stop living for the past. I have stopped reaching back and purposely holding on to painful snippets of my life, striving better yet for the present and the unpredictable future.
La Cienga Just Smiled and said "I'll see ya around..."
Holly, I'll see ya 'round one day, and we'll have a whiskey sour with Tutu and talk about all the things ya'll have missed. Ya'll have missed my beautiful wife and my three kids who fell from the sky and into my life. Ya'll missed my first house, which I sold, and my second, which is less than two miles from where ya'll are resting, but only a mile from where we played football in Tutu's yard. I'll pick on you for the big 80's hair you had when you left us, and I'll tell you all the things I was too scared to tell you due to my youthful bashfulness, like how I wanted to tell you to stop hanging out with those drunk whores who you called your 'friends', and how I didn't like you drinking so much, or how I missed you on Saturday nights when you stopped coming over to our house to eat a steak and a salad like we had all done as a family since decades before you or I had ever entered into the equation. I'll tell you about how me and your little brother used to stay up all night watching music videos when they were still a novelty, and how much I miss him too ever since I'd lost touch with him and he'd gotten into the same drug trap that ultimately brought about your demise.
People, remember your families. If you have problems or divisions, it doesn't matter. One day you could wake up and realise that in an instant your loved ones are no longer a part of your day-to-day lives.
And, for the lazy fool that didn't bother to start La Cienga Just Smiled, here:
Today I was struck by something. At first, it would seem so simple, such an obvious sentiment, that would at first seem unworthy of even mentioning to another due to its mundanity, but at the same time so profound that it's hard to grasp. If you're wondering what on earth I'm getting at, I'm referring to the fragility of life as we know it. It is indeed a seldom occasion when I am smitten with this recurring thought, but as of late I am all but obliged to meditate on the subject. After Mr. Reeves blowing his head off...after seeing several car wrecks...after the Vietnamese shrimp boats laden with dead families in the storm debris left by Katrina. It's something that even though I am not constantly dwelling upon every waking moment manages to stay in a dark corner in my mind.
Last night Mrs. Gimp had a bad bout with the bronchial spasms that have been plaguing her lately. She is forced to sleep in a semi-sitting position, propped up with every available pillow and cushion (including my own, forcing me to sleep with a rolled-towel to support my neck). This position permits her to sleep without choking on her own phlegm. That didn't remedy the situation last night. She began choking with severe bronchial spasms at 01:00, 03:00, and 06:00. I held her hair and shook the albuterol spray and reassured her that she was indeed alive...
In case you don't know what a bronchial spasm is, do this -- exhale, and I mean HARD. Let all the air out of your lungs, then force the last few dribbles out. Now, pinch your nose and close your mouth and make a hard, determined effort to breathe back in. Fight, but don't let yourself inhale. Mrs. Gimp is doing this an alarming number of times as of late due to her bronchitis and previous childhood asthma. I feel rather helpless when I watch her fight so hard for the simple pleasure of breathing air. I sat in my living room the other night and silently cried because of what I had just seen. I've never lived in close proximity to an asthmatic, so I don't know how to take all of this...it's so overwhelming when I see her colour change and watch as tears stream down her face as she struggles. When the air finally fills her lungs I say a silent prayer of thanks. I refuse to sleep at night, opting to watch over her. I wet a finger in my mouth, and place it near her nose to reassure myself that she is still breathing. That she is still my wife, and that she's not dead.
The doctors have increased her albuterol to every 4 to 6 hours instead of twice a day. She's decided to stop the advair steroid due to the fact that it gave her a disgusting thrush infection in her throat (read: yeast infection in your friggin mouth) that necessitated another $50 visit to the doctor, followed by a $40 Rx for an antifungal mouthwash. (Is Ryan Adams hitting it down on the end of this song yet? It's awesome live. It's also key to this post, so start the damn song already if you haven't, and if you have, make sure it's still going).
I bought her a cushion with arm rests today, to keep her from having to use all those pillows. I also bought her 2 red roses surrounded by baby's breath, and a card that has a pit bull on it. It says "I like you so much that I wag my tail til..." and when you open the card it says "...my butt hurts." I also bought her a copy of Troy on DVD so she can get a Brad Pitt fix tomorrow.
I was thinking about last night and how scared I was. It began to rain this afternoon at around five, and of course my windows were down. La Cienga Just Smiled was on the ipod, and for some reason I felt gravitated to the cemetery where my grandpa's are, along with Holly (see my July post about Holly, my beloved cousin who has attained legendary status). It was raining, and I pulled up at Lake Park Hills, rolled through the iron gates where I skated and played street hockey at night so many times before. I drove past the spot where I downed my first beer as a teenager, and around the curve to the second lake on the 'back 40' where I played fetch with Crouton Sherwin recently. I drove past Devan's grave, with its black lab puppy statues on it (Devan was murdered by a vengeful husband who was too stupid to know he shot the wrong damn person), then walked past Dottie's brother Paul's grave. Paul went to sleep at the wheel coming home from Miss. State I understand...don't recall for sure but know for a fact it tore her up and I felt sorry but unable to express it to her at the time.
I walked through the rain, with La Cienga Just Smiled going in my headphones, and then I passed them. First grandma's vacant and morbid-as-hell stone waiting in silent testimony of how creepy it is for the living to purchase a stone beforehand...no deathdate, only the birth date. Then I passed TuTu's grave (my paternal grandpa)...and there was Pa buried right below him (my maternal grandpa). I thought about how both grew up in a difficult time, but one had a lawyer for a dad and the other one's dad made him quit school to pick cotton, something he always resented because it delayed him learning how to read. And by them was Holly...and the song in my ipod declares "How'd I end up to feel so bad for such a little girl? / I hold you close in the back of my mind / It feels so good, but damn it makes me hurt." It's a romantic song, but that one line in a familial sense just described my entire being in that given moment, then it goes "La Cienga just smiles and says 'I'll see you around'." I squatted down and cleaned some bird crap off her stone, it was covering the 4 of July 4, 1989. By then I had been rained on to the point of being wet down to the socks, but I still stood there, admiring my loved ones: Holly, Pa, and Tutu. I kissed two fingers and placed a tender kiss on each of their stones then walked back to my car in the rain, thinking about how a life can be snuffed out in an instant.
I would be depressed, but a close friend of mine is helping me to stop living for the past. I have stopped reaching back and purposely holding on to painful snippets of my life, striving better yet for the present and the unpredictable future.
La Cienga Just Smiled and said "I'll see ya around..."
Holly, I'll see ya 'round one day, and we'll have a whiskey sour with Tutu and talk about all the things ya'll have missed. Ya'll have missed my beautiful wife and my three kids who fell from the sky and into my life. Ya'll missed my first house, which I sold, and my second, which is less than two miles from where ya'll are resting, but only a mile from where we played football in Tutu's yard. I'll pick on you for the big 80's hair you had when you left us, and I'll tell you all the things I was too scared to tell you due to my youthful bashfulness, like how I wanted to tell you to stop hanging out with those drunk whores who you called your 'friends', and how I didn't like you drinking so much, or how I missed you on Saturday nights when you stopped coming over to our house to eat a steak and a salad like we had all done as a family since decades before you or I had ever entered into the equation. I'll tell you about how me and your little brother used to stay up all night watching music videos when they were still a novelty, and how much I miss him too ever since I'd lost touch with him and he'd gotten into the same drug trap that ultimately brought about your demise.
People, remember your families. If you have problems or divisions, it doesn't matter. One day you could wake up and realise that in an instant your loved ones are no longer a part of your day-to-day lives.
And, for the lazy fool that didn't bother to start La Cienga Just Smiled, here:
21 August 2006
Edit: You know, I just heard prez say something on CNN that wigged me out. He yelled at the press corps and basically said that as long as he was president that no one is leaving Iraq until the mission is accomplished. Can you explain to me what exactly the mission is and when it will be accomplished? Is it depleting the entire population of 30-somethings? Nothing's changed in that part of the world, except a lot of us have friends who have come home as emotional wrecks. Do you know what it's like to have a friend talk to you in the wee hours of the night on a weeknight, wasted and crying? Babbling about stuff and not wanting to go into detail about the guts, the bodies burned to a crisp, the bones snapped off, the compound fractures and extremity stumps, the natives who take shots at you when you aren't even save on your own base?
I hate bringing up politics, because they're useless, but...I mean. C'mon.
In case the video in my earlier post was lost on you, check the lyrics to Dead American from Lars Frederiksen and The Bastards. It's how I feel everytime the news comes on now and they announce that another young person has been blown to bits.
Trench warfare dug in deep brutal bloody No retreat
American dead better than red another politician with a debt on his head
Bodies ripped covered in shit Napalm blitz the City is lit
Bombs blast mustard gas throat slash truncheon smash
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about another dead American
Blitzkrieg flames buildings ablaze killings fields where the bodies decay
Torture racks machine gun racks never surrender it's an all-out attack
Money whores open sores plan quiet wars behind closed doors
Clandestine games human remains cyanide genocide
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about a dead American
=============================================================
Yo G-nif, here's a video for you and I to derive some inspiration.
:-)
I hate bringing up politics, because they're useless, but...I mean. C'mon.
In case the video in my earlier post was lost on you, check the lyrics to Dead American from Lars Frederiksen and The Bastards. It's how I feel everytime the news comes on now and they announce that another young person has been blown to bits.
Trench warfare dug in deep brutal bloody No retreat
American dead better than red another politician with a debt on his head
Bodies ripped covered in shit Napalm blitz the City is lit
Bombs blast mustard gas throat slash truncheon smash
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about another dead American
Blitzkrieg flames buildings ablaze killings fields where the bodies decay
Torture racks machine gun racks never surrender it's an all-out attack
Money whores open sores plan quiet wars behind closed doors
Clandestine games human remains cyanide genocide
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about a dead American
=============================================================
Yo G-nif, here's a video for you and I to derive some inspiration.
:-)
I have changed over to Blogger's new system, still in its beta infancy. I must admit I was terrified at first, but I'm feeling more confident for now. I'm still wanting to get more hosting and buy back my domain from those stupid snipers from New Orleans who took it from me. They said they'd give it back to me for a handsome three digit fee, which seemed ri-damn-diculous to me. My Co.Uk domain was sniped up too. Oh well.
My American comrades: If you have not heard them, please take the time to listen to the Kooks and the Dogs, two UK groups who currently hold very dear places in my heart. As we have all figured out by now, unless you have an ipod or satellite radio, you aren't going to hear good music, at least not in our rural area of the dark, dusty and cobweb-infested corner of the world.
I must say I am concerned about Mrs. Gimp. Yesterday, she decided to leave the house for the first time in two weeks after dealing with a long bout of bronchitis and other bronchial maladies. I think she was attempting to show us how much stronger she felt now that she's been taking care of herself. Well, she did make a point at least: she passed out and I ended up carrying her to the car. The doctor says she's going to be ok, but it still doesn't make me feel any better after I was scared half to death.
I still want to know who in God's name you are in or around Hammond, LA. You aren't going to get off easily with only one mention. The paranoid self-critic in me thinks it's some class who is using my blog as a teaching tool on how not to behave like a mongoloid in public view.
By the way, nice going G-nif, you finally updated for the first time in January. Hence, you get your very own link again. ;-)
My American comrades: If you have not heard them, please take the time to listen to the Kooks and the Dogs, two UK groups who currently hold very dear places in my heart. As we have all figured out by now, unless you have an ipod or satellite radio, you aren't going to hear good music, at least not in our rural area of the dark, dusty and cobweb-infested corner of the world.
I must say I am concerned about Mrs. Gimp. Yesterday, she decided to leave the house for the first time in two weeks after dealing with a long bout of bronchitis and other bronchial maladies. I think she was attempting to show us how much stronger she felt now that she's been taking care of herself. Well, she did make a point at least: she passed out and I ended up carrying her to the car. The doctor says she's going to be ok, but it still doesn't make me feel any better after I was scared half to death.
I still want to know who in God's name you are in or around Hammond, LA. You aren't going to get off easily with only one mention. The paranoid self-critic in me thinks it's some class who is using my blog as a teaching tool on how not to behave like a mongoloid in public view.
By the way, nice going G-nif, you finally updated for the first time in January. Hence, you get your very own link again. ;-)
20 August 2006
==========================
When horseplay goes terribly wrong
==========================
It's still a bit touchy around this house. Mrs. Gimp can't sleep very well and as a consequence, I don't sleep either. The bags under my eyes are quite voluminous these days, representing almost a complete month of 3-5 hours sleep a night, beginning in Mexico. The asthmatic choking spasms are claming down slowly but surely, and as long as I don't sit up in the night terrified my better half is dying, that's a plus.
You know, it's kind of funny that all of this transpires the month after she is officially insurance-less.
Yesterday, she informs me that she wants something to eat and that I needed to go to the store for her. I get in my car, put on my headphones, and start down the road. When I get there, a brief flashback of what it's like to trounce about in public completely oblivious to one's surroundings (thanks Petite Anglaise!) convinces me to leave the ipod in my pocket as I'm doing my shopping.
The shopping experience was much, much better to the Clash, Pink Grease, and Paul van Dyk. along with a generous smattering of the Sex Pistols. Normally I get to the point where I want to run out of the store screaming and pulling my hair out when there are that many people there, but somehow, I just ignored them, lost in my own personal world. No borderline panic attacks, no rudeness...nothing but the music, and the groceries...
Except now Walmart has stopped selling rueditas ... you know, the wheat chicharrones that you throw in hot oil. Here:
So I ended up having to go to one of the local Mexican markets, which is really hell on a weekend. I think everyone and their momma was there. Since everyone kills themselves working during the week, the weekend is the time to get out and do the typical lavar hablar comprar mandado mandar dinero pa'la casa thing, so everyone was there buying fajitas, pan, and of course sending money back home to the house. While I was in line I counted maybe 8 grand changing hands...about eight guys and each one sending between 800 and a thousand bucks home. That represents a lot of sweat and work...I hope they're doing something worthwhile. Most of the guys I know usually do...it's all about putting your little sister through private school, getting her a laptop and internet access at home, paying off your mom's huge hospital debt, or the classic building a house one friggin room at a time...the construction literally depends on homeboy's paycheck up here at the plant...when he sends a little more home, there goes another room, and then another and another, and before you know it there's a two story house to move into, with decent plumbing and fixtures...and when that's finished...time for dude to come home after saving up another few thousand to maybe open up a family business to ensure they don't ever have to go through the whole mojado thing ever again.
What a tangent...
Anyway, I got the Duritos home, we heated up some oil, and fried the suckers. They expand to maybe 6 times their original size (about the size of a quarter)...and when they're done you arrange a nice pile on a plate, squeeze some lime juice on them, bathe liberally in hot sauce, and maybe a little crumbled fresco cheese, and there ya go...the best junk food money can buy. I LOVE these things. We ended up eating that for dinner since no one felt like cooking.
After watching A Very Long Engagement, I decided to go to bed. Somehow or another, a bit of rough-housing ensued between the missus and myself, she thought it was funny...and I thought it sucked. I went and locked myself in the bathroom, and when I cracked open the door to see what was happening, she sprays FEBREEZE into the partially opened door, not caring where it went. (In this case, my eyes)
I ran to the sink and desperately began pawing at my contacts to get them out of my eyes. "Clean Linen" smell and many tears later, I finally got them out, but now there is a major drawback. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people who doesn't really take his contacts out like he should. So it hurts to put them back in...really, really bad. I have to wait a couple of days to let the eye gunk and protein fairies clear out before I put a new pair in. And now I can't find my glasses.
So I'm sitting here typing this blindly, squinting at the screen and hoping I didn't make any typo's.
Word to ya' moms.
When horseplay goes terribly wrong
==========================
It's still a bit touchy around this house. Mrs. Gimp can't sleep very well and as a consequence, I don't sleep either. The bags under my eyes are quite voluminous these days, representing almost a complete month of 3-5 hours sleep a night, beginning in Mexico. The asthmatic choking spasms are claming down slowly but surely, and as long as I don't sit up in the night terrified my better half is dying, that's a plus.
You know, it's kind of funny that all of this transpires the month after she is officially insurance-less.
Yesterday, she informs me that she wants something to eat and that I needed to go to the store for her. I get in my car, put on my headphones, and start down the road. When I get there, a brief flashback of what it's like to trounce about in public completely oblivious to one's surroundings (thanks Petite Anglaise!) convinces me to leave the ipod in my pocket as I'm doing my shopping.
The shopping experience was much, much better to the Clash, Pink Grease, and Paul van Dyk. along with a generous smattering of the Sex Pistols. Normally I get to the point where I want to run out of the store screaming and pulling my hair out when there are that many people there, but somehow, I just ignored them, lost in my own personal world. No borderline panic attacks, no rudeness...nothing but the music, and the groceries...
Except now Walmart has stopped selling rueditas ... you know, the wheat chicharrones that you throw in hot oil. Here:
So I ended up having to go to one of the local Mexican markets, which is really hell on a weekend. I think everyone and their momma was there. Since everyone kills themselves working during the week, the weekend is the time to get out and do the typical lavar hablar comprar mandado mandar dinero pa'la casa thing, so everyone was there buying fajitas, pan, and of course sending money back home to the house. While I was in line I counted maybe 8 grand changing hands...about eight guys and each one sending between 800 and a thousand bucks home. That represents a lot of sweat and work...I hope they're doing something worthwhile. Most of the guys I know usually do...it's all about putting your little sister through private school, getting her a laptop and internet access at home, paying off your mom's huge hospital debt, or the classic building a house one friggin room at a time...the construction literally depends on homeboy's paycheck up here at the plant...when he sends a little more home, there goes another room, and then another and another, and before you know it there's a two story house to move into, with decent plumbing and fixtures...and when that's finished...time for dude to come home after saving up another few thousand to maybe open up a family business to ensure they don't ever have to go through the whole mojado thing ever again.What a tangent...
Anyway, I got the Duritos home, we heated up some oil, and fried the suckers. They expand to maybe 6 times their original size (about the size of a quarter)...and when they're done you arrange a nice pile on a plate, squeeze some lime juice on them, bathe liberally in hot sauce, and maybe a little crumbled fresco cheese, and there ya go...the best junk food money can buy. I LOVE these things. We ended up eating that for dinner since no one felt like cooking.
After watching A Very Long Engagement, I decided to go to bed. Somehow or another, a bit of rough-housing ensued between the missus and myself, she thought it was funny...and I thought it sucked. I went and locked myself in the bathroom, and when I cracked open the door to see what was happening, she sprays FEBREEZE into the partially opened door, not caring where it went. (In this case, my eyes)
I ran to the sink and desperately began pawing at my contacts to get them out of my eyes. "Clean Linen" smell and many tears later, I finally got them out, but now there is a major drawback. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people who doesn't really take his contacts out like he should. So it hurts to put them back in...really, really bad. I have to wait a couple of days to let the eye gunk and protein fairies clear out before I put a new pair in. And now I can't find my glasses.
So I'm sitting here typing this blindly, squinting at the screen and hoping I didn't make any typo's.
Word to ya' moms.
19 August 2006
While we're on the subject of ABBA...
As one commenter posted about this video, go brush your teeth after watching this. It's too sickenlingly-sweet.
Or...
This is worth putting up with just for the opening synth diddling.
This is on the same lines of singing a catche anime theme that's in Japanese...it's just...I dunno. Novel.
As one commenter posted about this video, go brush your teeth after watching this. It's too sickenlingly-sweet.
Or...
This is worth putting up with just for the opening synth diddling.
This is on the same lines of singing a catche anime theme that's in Japanese...it's just...I dunno. Novel.
18 August 2006
You know, I turned on the TV just now, and to my horror there was...Agnetha and Bjorn from ABBA backstage at a concert. WTF?
I was so shocked I was captivated. I watched, and it ended up being a live from Wembley show back in the day.
They sang some touchy feely song with a chorus full of children...and Agnetha was hugging a little boy with snot running out of his nose saying he was an angel crossing the stream.
Of course, it started with 'gimme a man after midnight'...
I...just...don't know what to think.
Ugh.
Texas Ranger just came in, reeking of cigarettes and with another unlit Pall Mall already in his hand yet again, discussing how difficult it is to add a shortcut to his windows desktop. He has come in four times now, making his trademark in-and-out-and-in-and-out loops in my doorway, pointing and gesturing at me with his lighter and ciggie. And, as always, just when I think he is gone, he comes back in and brings up something I could really care less about, like horses, tobacco, or what the local salvage store got from an ailing and out of business discount store God-knows-where in Iowa, or something just as silly.
Today has been one of those days where I am forced to ask myself, "If it's so dead around here, why do I have to sit here at the phone?" I feel like those nuke jockeys, always on duty, always sitting there by the controls to the Minuteman missles, waiting for the improbable word to launch the suckers across the ponds whenever the powers that be get nukey. I am sure those guys are killer at sudoku and crosswords, or something at least. I'd go crazy if every single waking moment of my career were this boring. Oh well, at least next week seems to be bringing the promise of actually doing something. Apparently some machines broke in random directions around my work district. Time to snap out of Maytag Repariman mode and and spring into action.
As I am desperately picking my brain for some final witty comment, Walker has traipsed back into earshot, this time with StinkyFart Lady in tow. They appear to have stuffed their ears with cake icing, which is the only excuse I can come up with to explain why they are talking in voices so loud that I'm quite sure an old deaf man somewhere in rural Asia can hear their conversation and is wondering to himself what the hell is happening to his peaceful solitude.
And, as I post this, Walker has come back in and thus the cycle is complete. Pass the air freshener, will ya? It reeks of flavor country (tm) in here.
Today has been one of those days where I am forced to ask myself, "If it's so dead around here, why do I have to sit here at the phone?" I feel like those nuke jockeys, always on duty, always sitting there by the controls to the Minuteman missles, waiting for the improbable word to launch the suckers across the ponds whenever the powers that be get nukey. I am sure those guys are killer at sudoku and crosswords, or something at least. I'd go crazy if every single waking moment of my career were this boring. Oh well, at least next week seems to be bringing the promise of actually doing something. Apparently some machines broke in random directions around my work district. Time to snap out of Maytag Repariman mode and and spring into action.
As I am desperately picking my brain for some final witty comment, Walker has traipsed back into earshot, this time with StinkyFart Lady in tow. They appear to have stuffed their ears with cake icing, which is the only excuse I can come up with to explain why they are talking in voices so loud that I'm quite sure an old deaf man somewhere in rural Asia can hear their conversation and is wondering to himself what the hell is happening to his peaceful solitude.
And, as I post this, Walker has come back in and thus the cycle is complete. Pass the air freshener, will ya? It reeks of flavor country (tm) in here.
17 August 2006
I feel that I must borrow a story from an acquaintance of mine for this post. I will call him Zigfried. Zigfried is a road warrior. He is one of those people who truly dominate all forms of asphalt and air to get from point A to point B.
In this instance, Z. was travelling to the west coast on business. He happened to be in the air when the unfortunate incidents of a couple of weeks ago insured that countless innocent people will be uncomfortably thirsty as they wait to board their flights due to a few woolie-bearded zealots wanting to blow up airplanes with a mixture of gatorade and religious fanaticism. Well, he gets off the plane and begins the process of having his baggage scanned and checked to get on another flight. Z. dubbed one of the gate guards "Differently-abled angry knife-wielding sikh in a turban" for obvious reasons. In case the reader is unaware, sikhs go nowhere without this ominous-looking knife called a kirpan by their sides. So in summary there's this angry dude in a wheel chair with a knife. Here's a snippet of info from a googled site for the curious:
Sikh men wear a traditional knife, called a kirpan, as a symbol of baptism. Traditionally, the knife can be used only for self-defense or in defense of those who cannot defend themselves.
Check out a Sikh priest from a BBC news article:
Well, it would certainly give an air of "Don't mess with me, beyotch," wouldn't it?
Anyway, there's is the Sikh and his small army of Homeland Security drones scanning baggage, and behind Z. is a man. A loud man, mouthing off due to the delays. A mad, mouthy Palestinan man, carrying a duffle bag of sufficient size to carry a dead body in, to be exact. Z. awaits his turn at the xray machine, and he puts his jacket on the conveyor belt and passes through. For one reason or another, the guards put his jacket BEHIND the duffle bag. As he awaits on the other side for his jacket, the duffle bag comes through, and the Sikh's eyes grow to the size of saucers as the bag goes through, stops, goes backwards, and then fowards in several repetitive, jerky movements. Z. is immediately surrounded by fed drones who erroneously thought the bag belonged to him. They formed a circle and all had their hands on their pistols. "Don't move," one of them says. He looks at them in a mixture of shock/surprise and says "I don't even know that asshole." He then watches helplessly as ANOTHER group of drones on the OTHER side of the gate surround the loud, incensed Palestinan gentleman, who by this time is screaming in Arabic at the guards.
Finally, Z. is allowed to leave after the Sikh orders one of his henchmen to hurl his jacket back to him.
Later, after they were safely boarded onto the plane, Z. learned why the guards wigged out.
Loud, spittle-spraying Palestinan angry man had built...a robot. Yes, a homemade robot and was attempting to bring this aboard the plane. Why the HELL would you try to do something that stupid when you can't even drink a soda in peace now days.
You know, I remember the day I left JFK London-bound and carried a SWITCHBLADE on the plane with no problem. These morons have really ruined flying for the rest of the sane world.
In this instance, Z. was travelling to the west coast on business. He happened to be in the air when the unfortunate incidents of a couple of weeks ago insured that countless innocent people will be uncomfortably thirsty as they wait to board their flights due to a few woolie-bearded zealots wanting to blow up airplanes with a mixture of gatorade and religious fanaticism. Well, he gets off the plane and begins the process of having his baggage scanned and checked to get on another flight. Z. dubbed one of the gate guards "Differently-abled angry knife-wielding sikh in a turban" for obvious reasons. In case the reader is unaware, sikhs go nowhere without this ominous-looking knife called a kirpan by their sides. So in summary there's this angry dude in a wheel chair with a knife. Here's a snippet of info from a googled site for the curious:
Sikh men wear a traditional knife, called a kirpan, as a symbol of baptism. Traditionally, the knife can be used only for self-defense or in defense of those who cannot defend themselves.
Check out a Sikh priest from a BBC news article:
Well, it would certainly give an air of "Don't mess with me, beyotch," wouldn't it?
Anyway, there's is the Sikh and his small army of Homeland Security drones scanning baggage, and behind Z. is a man. A loud man, mouthing off due to the delays. A mad, mouthy Palestinan man, carrying a duffle bag of sufficient size to carry a dead body in, to be exact. Z. awaits his turn at the xray machine, and he puts his jacket on the conveyor belt and passes through. For one reason or another, the guards put his jacket BEHIND the duffle bag. As he awaits on the other side for his jacket, the duffle bag comes through, and the Sikh's eyes grow to the size of saucers as the bag goes through, stops, goes backwards, and then fowards in several repetitive, jerky movements. Z. is immediately surrounded by fed drones who erroneously thought the bag belonged to him. They formed a circle and all had their hands on their pistols. "Don't move," one of them says. He looks at them in a mixture of shock/surprise and says "I don't even know that asshole." He then watches helplessly as ANOTHER group of drones on the OTHER side of the gate surround the loud, incensed Palestinan gentleman, who by this time is screaming in Arabic at the guards.
Finally, Z. is allowed to leave after the Sikh orders one of his henchmen to hurl his jacket back to him.
Later, after they were safely boarded onto the plane, Z. learned why the guards wigged out.
Loud, spittle-spraying Palestinan angry man had built...a robot. Yes, a homemade robot and was attempting to bring this aboard the plane. Why the HELL would you try to do something that stupid when you can't even drink a soda in peace now days.
You know, I remember the day I left JFK London-bound and carried a SWITCHBLADE on the plane with no problem. These morons have really ruined flying for the rest of the sane world.
16 August 2006
Today, I committed a faux pas of epic proportions.
Despite my best efforts to be silent and 'hidden', I had a random saleswoman come in my office with no warning and start proffering crap on me. It wasn't normal "My midget goat boy child in Chad has AIDS and needs your help so buy this pencil" type soliciting. This woman had "AS SEEN ON TV" type items. Wireless battery-powered alarms. "Sassy Scissors". And God knows what else...I was too horrified to properly pay attention. The first thing I thought was "How did she get past the sleeping lummox at the gate?" She was just making totally random ninja visits to the offices. Fortunately, I had no cash or checkbook, so I told her to come back next week, something I am actually rather sincere about. Some of the crap looked, well, appealing.
I send her on her way and immediately dive for the MSN window to a coworker, warning her "of the lady selling alarm crap"...
Well, my coworker didn't minimize the window, and guess who got hit next. Yep, you got it.
And guess who read the comment.
Yep, you got it.
And guess who had a short, angry saleswoman in his office all defensive about her products being called 'crap'.
Guilty as charged.
Sigh...
========================
I also did a very bad thing, papa Smurf.
I got it out of lay away with all the accessories.
=========================
You know, I'd really love to know why I seem to have a fan base (or group of haters) in the Hammond Louisiana area. You guys are hitting my page more than the home town people. I'd love to hear from you...drop a comment.
Despite my best efforts to be silent and 'hidden', I had a random saleswoman come in my office with no warning and start proffering crap on me. It wasn't normal "My midget goat boy child in Chad has AIDS and needs your help so buy this pencil" type soliciting. This woman had "AS SEEN ON TV" type items. Wireless battery-powered alarms. "Sassy Scissors". And God knows what else...I was too horrified to properly pay attention. The first thing I thought was "How did she get past the sleeping lummox at the gate?" She was just making totally random ninja visits to the offices. Fortunately, I had no cash or checkbook, so I told her to come back next week, something I am actually rather sincere about. Some of the crap looked, well, appealing.
I send her on her way and immediately dive for the MSN window to a coworker, warning her "of the lady selling alarm crap"...
Well, my coworker didn't minimize the window, and guess who got hit next. Yep, you got it.
And guess who read the comment.
Yep, you got it.
And guess who had a short, angry saleswoman in his office all defensive about her products being called 'crap'.
Guilty as charged.
Sigh...
========================
I also did a very bad thing, papa Smurf.
I got it out of lay away with all the accessories.
=========================
You know, I'd really love to know why I seem to have a fan base (or group of haters) in the Hammond Louisiana area. You guys are hitting my page more than the home town people. I'd love to hear from you...drop a comment.
14 August 2006
I'm going to make this short and sweet, because I'm still in shock.
But those of you who went to school with me...who know me.
Our band director committed suicide Sunday.
I'll miss those Disneyworld trips with the band even more now that the man who tirelessly fundraised and honed our skills to get us there in the first place is gone.
This is the man who taught me to play three octaves on the trumpet...the man who eventually let me do the opening to 'Chameleon' because I could nail that E flat that was twenty miles above the normal range on the scale...
This was the man who let me sneak out of school without permission to go on runs to the local nearby deli and bring back lunch for he and I.
This was the man who helped me send my Bach stradavarius to be completely rebuilt. He didn't want me playing a cornet because he said it "didn't do me justice"...heh.
So next time you watch a football game, and you're thinking 'halftime stat rehash'...remember what it's like to feel those lights burning on your face as you stand at ease. Then, you hear TEN HUT!!!! and you snap to life...MARK TIME, MARK UP 1..2...1..2..3..4..
Mr. Reeves, we'll miss you.
:-(
But those of you who went to school with me...who know me.
Our band director committed suicide Sunday.
I'll miss those Disneyworld trips with the band even more now that the man who tirelessly fundraised and honed our skills to get us there in the first place is gone.
This is the man who taught me to play three octaves on the trumpet...the man who eventually let me do the opening to 'Chameleon' because I could nail that E flat that was twenty miles above the normal range on the scale...
This was the man who let me sneak out of school without permission to go on runs to the local nearby deli and bring back lunch for he and I.
This was the man who helped me send my Bach stradavarius to be completely rebuilt. He didn't want me playing a cornet because he said it "didn't do me justice"...heh.
So next time you watch a football game, and you're thinking 'halftime stat rehash'...remember what it's like to feel those lights burning on your face as you stand at ease. Then, you hear TEN HUT!!!! and you snap to life...MARK TIME, MARK UP 1..2...1..2..3..4..
Mr. Reeves, we'll miss you.
:-(
13 August 2006
12 August 2006
I am sincerely hoping that another one of my friends is reading this at this very moment. I gave them the address to my blog and told them that this is soul-baring ground. So, if you are here...welcome and receive a bearhug from me.
Now, on to better things.
==============================
I don't know how many of you have aquariums at home, but if you do, AVOID flourescent bulbs like the plague. Maybe it's my own ignorance, or lack of ability, but I bought those things at walmart. $5 apiece, along with a promise of 'intensifying fish colors'. Yeah, that wasn't the only thing that was intensified. You see, my fish were plagued with an outbreak of algae that ended up eventually killing even Fred, my catfish who was 6 years old. I found two fish remaining out of like 10, put them in a tupperware bowl as I exiled them from their home, and proceeded to completely siphon dry the aquarium. I scrubbed, boiled, scrubbed, wiped, sprayed and eliminated all traces of that crap, which eventually had formed sheets on the walls. I then bought new gravel, conditioned 10 more gallons of water, and put them back in their home, coupled with a pair of new catfishes and a couple of more tetras to add to the original school of 10 which had become 2.
Up until now they seem happy...a little weirded out but content.
Such are the trials of owning an aquarium. :p
Now, on to better things.
==============================
I don't know how many of you have aquariums at home, but if you do, AVOID flourescent bulbs like the plague. Maybe it's my own ignorance, or lack of ability, but I bought those things at walmart. $5 apiece, along with a promise of 'intensifying fish colors'. Yeah, that wasn't the only thing that was intensified. You see, my fish were plagued with an outbreak of algae that ended up eventually killing even Fred, my catfish who was 6 years old. I found two fish remaining out of like 10, put them in a tupperware bowl as I exiled them from their home, and proceeded to completely siphon dry the aquarium. I scrubbed, boiled, scrubbed, wiped, sprayed and eliminated all traces of that crap, which eventually had formed sheets on the walls. I then bought new gravel, conditioned 10 more gallons of water, and put them back in their home, coupled with a pair of new catfishes and a couple of more tetras to add to the original school of 10 which had become 2.
Up until now they seem happy...a little weirded out but content.
Such are the trials of owning an aquarium. :p
10 August 2006
============================
Gimp, on Injusticia and Economy
============================
First of all, if you are a ninny from the local paper, I am going into, what did you call it? Ah yes, 'multicultural hippie wantabe [sic] mode'. This is your queue to get the hell out of my blog unless you want your brain to melt.
I have been thinking a lot about this particular post. I wanted to make something meaningful, but at the same time I began to feel that I would have taken an eternity in wording it. Hence, I decided to go ahead and splatter the wall with my brain, as it were.
A couple of days before I was set to leave Matamoros, I was sent back to the store. My sis in law and I pile in the hooptie and we head to Soriana for whatever it was we needed. While there, we happened upon another bottle of New Mix. Here, take a look:
While we were getting our things, I noticed a couple of typical rubber-neckers and a uniformed guard running towards an aisle. As I passed, I turned my head and locked eyes with the perpetrator. He was...guess. CD's? Cigarettes? Liquor? No...he was in the baby section. He had a carton of milk and some diapers hidden in his shirt and he was being taken down HARD. As I watched him get handcuffed and roughed up, I continued walking, but that scene stuck with me the rest of the day and for some time after that. It was almost as if it had happened in slow motion.
I don't condone shoplifting. It's a horrendous wrong in society and I think people should be caned for participating in it. But then again, it wasn't like the shoplifting you see here so often. You know, the opened pregnancy test box at Walmart, stuck in the drink aisle. Or the empty cd case in the beer section. This guy obviously had a child, and he didn't have a way to provide for it. It just...hurt.
That same day, I was walking to the centro to do some last-minute shopping (fake Ray-Bans anyone?), when I happened upon another scene that bothered me.
You see, there is no middle class in Mexico. There's an upper class, and then there is the lower, dirt-poor class. There's not a neighborhood with families using two minivans to ferry kids to soccer practice. There's not the proverbial picket-fenced yard with two cats in the yard and a golden retriever named Riley. Nope.
There's what I saw. There's the large house, with marble steps leading to the front door. It had golden bars to keep the 'riffraff' out. There isn't really concertina wire, but there's something a helluva lot more sinister. When your brick wall is still setting, you smear mortar on top. While it's moist, you break up any glass bottles you have, and you set them in the mortar. I really pity the bastard who tries to climb one of those at night.
Anyway, there was a family with a setup like that. They had a jeep grand cherokee, and a H3 hummer. They were outside grilling on their porch, laughing and drinking sodas. It was the mom, the dad, and the kids. They had a dog, but he was on a chain to keep him from being stolen. They had a really nice house...but on either side, their compound walls formed the border for another scene. On one side, you have a house made out of old wood, with cardboard patches here and there. You have a well in the yard because you don't have water. And on the other side of the compound, you have a very similar scene, but with an old woman sitting on a broken water heater, sobbing. As the grill smoke wafted over the wall and into this woman's world, I have to ask myself if the smell turned her stomach because she didn't have enough to eat.
You can call me a hippie for thinking about things like this, but it doesn't change the fact that suffering in the world, well, sucks.
Gimp, on Injusticia and Economy
============================
First of all, if you are a ninny from the local paper, I am going into, what did you call it? Ah yes, 'multicultural hippie wantabe [sic] mode'. This is your queue to get the hell out of my blog unless you want your brain to melt.
I have been thinking a lot about this particular post. I wanted to make something meaningful, but at the same time I began to feel that I would have taken an eternity in wording it. Hence, I decided to go ahead and splatter the wall with my brain, as it were.
A couple of days before I was set to leave Matamoros, I was sent back to the store. My sis in law and I pile in the hooptie and we head to Soriana for whatever it was we needed. While there, we happened upon another bottle of New Mix. Here, take a look:
While we were getting our things, I noticed a couple of typical rubber-neckers and a uniformed guard running towards an aisle. As I passed, I turned my head and locked eyes with the perpetrator. He was...guess. CD's? Cigarettes? Liquor? No...he was in the baby section. He had a carton of milk and some diapers hidden in his shirt and he was being taken down HARD. As I watched him get handcuffed and roughed up, I continued walking, but that scene stuck with me the rest of the day and for some time after that. It was almost as if it had happened in slow motion.
I don't condone shoplifting. It's a horrendous wrong in society and I think people should be caned for participating in it. But then again, it wasn't like the shoplifting you see here so often. You know, the opened pregnancy test box at Walmart, stuck in the drink aisle. Or the empty cd case in the beer section. This guy obviously had a child, and he didn't have a way to provide for it. It just...hurt.
That same day, I was walking to the centro to do some last-minute shopping (fake Ray-Bans anyone?), when I happened upon another scene that bothered me.
You see, there is no middle class in Mexico. There's an upper class, and then there is the lower, dirt-poor class. There's not a neighborhood with families using two minivans to ferry kids to soccer practice. There's not the proverbial picket-fenced yard with two cats in the yard and a golden retriever named Riley. Nope.
There's what I saw. There's the large house, with marble steps leading to the front door. It had golden bars to keep the 'riffraff' out. There isn't really concertina wire, but there's something a helluva lot more sinister. When your brick wall is still setting, you smear mortar on top. While it's moist, you break up any glass bottles you have, and you set them in the mortar. I really pity the bastard who tries to climb one of those at night.
Anyway, there was a family with a setup like that. They had a jeep grand cherokee, and a H3 hummer. They were outside grilling on their porch, laughing and drinking sodas. It was the mom, the dad, and the kids. They had a dog, but he was on a chain to keep him from being stolen. They had a really nice house...but on either side, their compound walls formed the border for another scene. On one side, you have a house made out of old wood, with cardboard patches here and there. You have a well in the yard because you don't have water. And on the other side of the compound, you have a very similar scene, but with an old woman sitting on a broken water heater, sobbing. As the grill smoke wafted over the wall and into this woman's world, I have to ask myself if the smell turned her stomach because she didn't have enough to eat.
You can call me a hippie for thinking about things like this, but it doesn't change the fact that suffering in the world, well, sucks.
09 August 2006
08 August 2006
07 August 2006
05 August 2006
I was planning on doing some tech support work on the side this weekend, but I got cancelled on…so I am going to sit here in this horrible rainstorm and type up a little about Tootie and her wedding.
When we got there, Tootie was obviously VERY pregnant. Her dad won’t have anything to do with her since she left home…he says she robbed him blind and she doesn’t say anything in her defense. Since Mrs. Gimp raised Tootie from when she was a baby until about four, she has a bond with her…so it was looked over that she came over during the duration of our stay, but her dad threatened her about taking things and her shackup had to sit outside on the curb, which he dutifully did for hours at a time.
While Mrs. Gimp and Tootie talked, they tried to find a point they could use as a defining moment in Tootie’s downfall from a young teenage girl to a young teenage mom twice over. During the talks, Tootie came forward and said she felt she needed to get married, because (in her own words) in spite of everything she had done she still had a conscience that bothered her when she thought about just living with curbthief. So we called him in, and I had never seen him without his cap on…dude looks like the Mexican version of Bert from Bert n Ernie, so I will call him Beto from now on. Beto came in and we asked him how he felt about things, and he looked at the floor for a while and then finally began to talk. She’s 16, he’s 20, and he said he felt bad about how they were living too. He looked up and asked what he should do, and we asked him how he felt about getting married, which he said he was willing and actually happy to do. So, in front of us, Bert proposed to Tootie. She started crying and of course said yes. So we went, had blood drawn, and got the funds together to help them out with their marriage costs.
That Wednesday morning, we got up early after only a couple of hours’ sleep and went to the downtown registro civil office, and they asked us some questions…when they found out her mom wasn’t to be present (yeah, her. The bitch.), they said she couldn’t get married. Then my brother in law storms past the receptionist into the judge’s office, with the receptionist behind him clucking and screaming about ‘who did he think he was’ etc. What happened next surprised even my jaded soul.
The judge appeared, in blue jeans and reading glasses, and put the receptionist out. The judge and my bro in law talked for about ten minutes, then my bro in law comes out, shades still on, and whispers in my ear, ‘prepárate para una mordida’…get ready for a bite. It was just like the Clint Eastwood spaghetti western: For a few Dollars More, the wedding was in our grasp sans bitches’ signature. So we coughed up his vacation money, and they got married.
We spent the afternoon swilling Tecate and grilling chicken, and Beto came into the house without my bro in law kicking him in the teeth. It was obvious he doesn’t trust them though, because he never pried his eyesight off them the entire time they were celebrating.
Here’s a picture of Beto and Tootie along with Gimp Jr. and Gimp’s nephew buying popscicles from, who else? Nevería y Productos Helados ‘Beto’ :-)
When we got there, Tootie was obviously VERY pregnant. Her dad won’t have anything to do with her since she left home…he says she robbed him blind and she doesn’t say anything in her defense. Since Mrs. Gimp raised Tootie from when she was a baby until about four, she has a bond with her…so it was looked over that she came over during the duration of our stay, but her dad threatened her about taking things and her shackup had to sit outside on the curb, which he dutifully did for hours at a time.
While Mrs. Gimp and Tootie talked, they tried to find a point they could use as a defining moment in Tootie’s downfall from a young teenage girl to a young teenage mom twice over. During the talks, Tootie came forward and said she felt she needed to get married, because (in her own words) in spite of everything she had done she still had a conscience that bothered her when she thought about just living with curbthief. So we called him in, and I had never seen him without his cap on…dude looks like the Mexican version of Bert from Bert n Ernie, so I will call him Beto from now on. Beto came in and we asked him how he felt about things, and he looked at the floor for a while and then finally began to talk. She’s 16, he’s 20, and he said he felt bad about how they were living too. He looked up and asked what he should do, and we asked him how he felt about getting married, which he said he was willing and actually happy to do. So, in front of us, Bert proposed to Tootie. She started crying and of course said yes. So we went, had blood drawn, and got the funds together to help them out with their marriage costs.
That Wednesday morning, we got up early after only a couple of hours’ sleep and went to the downtown registro civil office, and they asked us some questions…when they found out her mom wasn’t to be present (yeah, her. The bitch.), they said she couldn’t get married. Then my brother in law storms past the receptionist into the judge’s office, with the receptionist behind him clucking and screaming about ‘who did he think he was’ etc. What happened next surprised even my jaded soul.
The judge appeared, in blue jeans and reading glasses, and put the receptionist out. The judge and my bro in law talked for about ten minutes, then my bro in law comes out, shades still on, and whispers in my ear, ‘prepárate para una mordida’…get ready for a bite. It was just like the Clint Eastwood spaghetti western: For a few Dollars More, the wedding was in our grasp sans bitches’ signature. So we coughed up his vacation money, and they got married.
We spent the afternoon swilling Tecate and grilling chicken, and Beto came into the house without my bro in law kicking him in the teeth. It was obvious he doesn’t trust them though, because he never pried his eyesight off them the entire time they were celebrating.
Here’s a picture of Beto and Tootie along with Gimp Jr. and Gimp’s nephew buying popscicles from, who else? Nevería y Productos Helados ‘Beto’ :-)
To the goob who thinks he's super-sleuth for slathering my myspace and blog addresses all over our local bumpkin newspaper forums: Thanks. I needed some attention and PR. You've mastered the internet...great. Now master common sense and I'll applaud you.
Now anyway, we're going to be telling a story here shortly, I'm working it up in Word to post later on tonight. Tootie got married while we were there...that girl is a walking contradiction I swear to God above. I'm gonna post some details from the wedding later on tonight. I haven't forgotten ya'll...
Now anyway, we're going to be telling a story here shortly, I'm working it up in Word to post later on tonight. Tootie got married while we were there...that girl is a walking contradiction I swear to God above. I'm gonna post some details from the wedding later on tonight. I haven't forgotten ya'll...
04 August 2006
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