Skydancing

Greetings from my new writing spot: the upstairs balcony of our as-yet-unnamed (i.e. nicknamed) apartment in Austin. I am listening to The Ticket online on the laptop while struggling to put into words just how great it is here.

Before I get into the interior, let me just say that there is a large Magnolia tree to my left that provides a ton of shade, but not so much that I cannot see the sun setting over the wooded hills to the west. Sure, there the requisite signs of development also in view – a Hooter’s, Alamo Draft House, and a hotel. However, none of that detracts from the natural beauty of this city.

There is a sliding glass door on the balcony that leads into The Boy’s room and a hinged door that leads to our room. Both rooms are the same size… huge. 15 by 23 or somesuch. Both rooms also have nice full baths. (I think Coleton’s might be just a little bit roomier than ours.) In between the rooms, at the top of the stairs, is a small wet-bar area complete with a sink, low cabinets, and a mini-fridge. This is where Dawn has promised me room to display all my knick knacks (bobbleheads, the ball from my first high school home run, etc.). Finally, I will have a “man area” that is not a garage. We may have to wait a bit before we buy the shelves and get my Rolling Stone covers framed, though. For now, all my treasures are arrayed on the countertop.

A jaunt down the stairs leads to the front door on the left and the living room on the right. Opposite the front door is a little “cut out” area behind the fireplace that we intend to use for a bookcase and a coatrack. At the end of the living room is a nice sized dining area at the end of the kitchen. At the other end of the kitchen is the laundry area – with a washer and dryer supplied by the apartment. (Mom, the washer is exactly like the one I gave Bob when I moved out of the phone booth.) There is a small hallway under the stairs that offers storage on the right and a half bath at the end.

It really does feel like home. A “real” home, even if it is an apartment.

Once we get it fully furnished, I’ll post some pics somewhere.

For those who have asked about work, it is going very well. (Again, remember my policy of being very vague talking about jobs on here.) I’ve got the whole place to myself – I am the only one in the office… kind of. My company rents space from another office, so I’ve got a built-in receptionist and a space to decorate and organize as I see fit. Pretty cool, and definitely something I am not used to.

One of the best things about the job? I left work in Round Rock today at 4:50pm, stopped by a mail drop to send in documents, and then went into a Wal-Mart to get Nyquil for Dawn. I was home at 5:20. Can’t beat that.

My favorite radio station here is 107.1 because they play all sorts of cool stuff that I’d never hear in Dallas/Ft. Worth. For example, I didn’t even know that Big Head Todd and the Monsters had a new CD out.

I’ll try to update one more time before a weekend spent with family in Oklahoma (now 2 1/2 hours further away), but we’ll see. I think we are going to pick up a new (used) bed tomorrow night.

Peace to all.

And stay weird.

One For The Music Fans

(Just checking to see if anyone is paying attention now that life is returning to some semblance of normalcy in the new Austin digs…)

Music-related quick hits:

- While driving on a backroad between Wichitard Falls and Jacksboro last Tuesday, I saw an odd road sign: “Watch for wildLife on Road Next 15 Miles”. Now, being in Texas, I am accustomed to seeing “Deer Crossing”, “Watch for Cattle on Road”, or even “Truck Crossing” signs, but never one as vague as the above mentioned sign. And, sure enough, a few miles down the road David Byrne crossed right in front of me doing the ‘Once in a Lifetime’ forearm chop.

- Odd music moment: A forty-something Arab store clerk quoting Led Zeppelin to me and doing so on purpose.

- I took a piss in LaGrange last Friday. (Actually, I should have said “wizz” because of the double z’s.)

- On a serious note, my current favorite song is by Kelly Willis: Nobody Wants To Go To The Moon Anymore.

Until next time…

She Sells Sanctuary

Well, I could continue to regale you two (Ed and Aunt Debbie) with more vignettes from the road (how pretty Clifton is or the majestic look of the town square when driving into Meridian from the east with the courthouse spire rising like a gingerbread house in front of hills) but I think today was much more interesting than that.

I knew it wasn’t going to be my day when I spilled my Diet Coke all over my jeans when I was less than 15 miles away from my first stop. Thank goodness that stop was at an Allsup’s in Boyd, so I figured that I’d fit right in. And I was especially thankful that the spill was nowhere near my crotch, so as to eliminate any speculation that my adult diapers were malfunctioning. I got out of my seat and headed to the back of the van to gather all my materials, just continuing my normal ritual. I closed the back doors and hit the lock button on my keychain… and nothing happened. I tried several more times to no avail, so I gave up. I went back to the driver’s side door, opened it, and hit the inside lock button. All secure now.

Once inside, I started to unhook the old terminal and I guess I leaned on the counter in just the right way to hit the “panic” button on the keychain in my pocket. So my big honking van became a big HONKING van. Surprised that the remote was working, I took it out of my pocket to disarm it. Obviously, nothing happened. I pressed the button over and over with no results. I walked outside and tried but still nothing worked. I took out my key and manually unlocked the door, hoping that would stop the honking, but it didn’t.

Finally, getting desperate, I put the key in the ignition and started up the van. And that worked. I shut off the engine, closed the door, and pressed the “lock” button. No dice. So I opened the door again, hit the inside lock button, and went back inside to finish my job. All the while, I was wondering just what kind of omen this was for my day.

I would soon find out.

My next stop was at a ministry and, silly me, I thought that would be easy. No lottery machines and phone lines to contend with, probably well-maintained, etc. Plus, it was in a nearby small town. Good, friendly, helpful people was what I imagined. What I didn’t expect was a big, sprawling compound complete with freaking airplane hangars. But that is what I got.

I drove around the compound looking for the name of the “business” on my work order, but I came up with a big bag of nothing. I finally spotted two women chatting in a parking lot, so I stopped and asked them for help. They seemed bewildered. Food stamps were accepted there? They directed me to the administration building which appeared to have absolutely no convenient parking. Crud.

I made a long walk into the building and was greeted by imposing architecture and a low-talker at the desk. She, too, seemed confused about my arrival. Hushed phone calls ensued, and eventually I was asked to have a seat to wait for someone. “Would you like some cold water while you wait?” Afraid that the cold water there would burn holes in my soul, exposing me as a heathen, I declined. I sat on a comfy sofa and counted my blessings – all five of them. Then I got bored.

Finally, I was called back up to the desk and handed a phone. Evidently, the woman in charge of the food stamp program was on vacation and people were frantically trying to figure out what to do. I imagined them in seedy backrooms, stubbing out cigars (yes, the women, too) while intoning “The State is here! The State is here! Hide the child laborers and the bags of money from the elderly!” To quote the great Bono, “Well, the God I believe in isn’t short of cash, mister.”

It turned out that my imagination probably wasn’t far from the truth.

The woman on the phone gave me directions to her building which was located at a four-way stop sign. Yes – the compound had actual roads with stop signs. (“Do not veer off of the grounds,” I was warned. Seriously.) She told me to enter through the double doors, and I did, and I saw nothing but empty cubicles. I stuck my hands in my pockets and waited, all the while looking at an imposing office to my right with a big oak door that was closed and apparently soundproof. Later, I kicked myself for not scratching my nuts while waiting for someone to come out and greet me. Just for the heck of it.

When that oak door did open, people flew out of the office on a mission (no pun intended). They were going from cubicle to cubicle, opening drawers and cabinets, looking for a machine that they had no idea existed, let alone what it looked like. Then one woman took control. She invited me into a private office while she was on the phone. Then the phone went to speaker mode and I found myself talking to the woman who was directly under the food stamp woman who was on vacation.

Informed that the machine I was there to replace was actually at someone’s home, I was ready to give up. Grant Lee Buffalo’s tune “Lone Star Song” started reverberating in my head. (For those of you unfamiliar with it, the song is about the Koresh compound in Waco. Good stuff.) I was finally able to reschedule for next Tuesday. At first we agreed upon 9am, but that changed when the woman behind the desk noted that “prayer ends around 9am and we need time to get back here”. So 9:30 it is.

Man, I dread it.

Nothing against the deeply religious, but when churches get that big, I start to wonder about motivation.

When I walked back to the van, I made sure to make a path across the well-manicured grass. After all, God put it there for a reason.

Kinky Talk

My mind is a goofball jambalaya. Every now and then it goes off on its own tangent, amiss from reality and not too far from the downright strange. This is one of those times. For some reason, my creative juices get flowing and I know that I need to write. Unfortunately, most of the times this happens I am behind the wheel of a large automobile without the means to pontificate. Not tonight, however. Welcome to my “other” life. The one that haunts me.

I am standing behind a podium. I haven’t been behind one of these since I inducted my future brother-in-law’s little brother into the National Junior Honor Society while I was in the eighth grade. I am no stranger to the stage (only stranger than most), so I make the most of my opportunity while ignoring the flash of bulbs and the spotlight stare of the incredulent.

The audience of interrogators got right to the point: Why was I supporting Kinky Friedman in his second run for governor? Did I agree with all his views? And, most importantly, did I think he had a Jewboy’s chance in Palestine?

Typical of me, I answered in reverse.

No, I didn’t think he had a chance to win “the” seat at the mansion. That chair was reserved for well-oiled, polished, bred-to-be-toadies whose money can push them far further than sales of some old CDs.

His views? To be completely honest, I didn’t know what all “his views” were or are. The only thing I cared about could be summed up in one word: conviction. He absolutley believes in everything he is fighting for and no amount of money or sway can alter how he feels. In other words, a voter would be getting exactly what they voted for – not another lackey serving special interests or a guy who would be tempted by the lifted skirt and perfumed inner thigh of big money.

And why was I supporting him?

Well, if the above paragraphs are not enough, allow me to tell you a little story.

I first met Kinky at a micro-brewery in south Austin. We were both sitting on the patio so that we could more easily hide our contraband (my cigarette and his cigar) from the morality police. I, of course, knew who he was. But the thing that struck me was that he made a concerted effort to find out who I was. And, once he did, he made no overt effort to call my by name in every sentence (a sure buzz-kill). In fact, he ended up calling me ‘Leemer’. Yup. That is how the nickname started.

Anyway, he asked me what I thought the most pressing need of the state was. Needing absolutley no time to consider my answer, I replied “education”. Then I elaborated.

“I’ve read all the statistics that state that American kids cannot even find Washington D.C. on a map and I find it utterly embarrassing. And I chalk it all up to the fact that people who would make excellent teachers end up choosing other careers just to survive. To live. I wish I would have known when I was a student the sacrifices some of my teachers made in order for me to get an excellent education. Lewis, Boardman, Lybbert, Brock, and McKee. They are the true heroes, yet most have moved on to other posts because of familial duties.

“And the beauty of those teachers? They weren’t geniuses or anything. They just knew how to teach. Hell, I’m a smart guy. Smarter than most, anyway, but I couldn’t teach to save my balls. I have three friends that are currently teachers and they stay in the profession because they actually give a shit. Two are bilingual educators and the other tries his best – often succeeding – to get his kids to buy into his program. And their paychecks are the equivalent of peanut shells.

“Those are the people I want supported. Those are the people who need representation. Me? I can find a job, and I might change a life or two. But those teachers have the ability, the sway, to change many. Make teaching an elite job, instead of a fallback option, and you have my vote.”

He tilted his cowboy hat up to the brim of his forehead and peered down at me. The smoke curled from his cigar like the word ’sassafrass’ written in cursive. I watched the smog dissipate as I contemplated the political suicide I had just committed, even though I am not an outspoken politics junkie and he was, in truth, nothing more than a dark horse candidate, albeit one with a good cause.

Finally, he spoke.

“Have you ever seen ‘Butt Bongo Fiesta’?”

Sorry. Actually, his reply was, “Let’s do a shot. Welcome to my team.”

—–

There you have it. An odd glimpse into my brain. I’ve never met Kinky, but I imagine it would go down a lot like that.

Shit, Austin has already started to infiltrate me. Pray, everyone. And thanks for playing along.

I’m On A Roll

Tuesday was pretty boring. I did nothing but drive around Brownwood and two neighboring towns (Early and Bangs – sounds like a mullet starterkit… or a shit-kicker country band). The one highlight was driving back into Brownwood from Bangs, however. From what seemed to be a prarie, all of a sudden a vista opened up in front of me. I was on top of a very tall hill with a view for miles. If Brownwood were a little smaller, it would have been even better. However, the expanse of the town actually detracted from the sight, though it was still welcome.

Ouray, Colorado it was not. But I still reveled in it.

The thing that separated Tuesday from Monday is that I finally saw a person of color. I felt that it was odd, with a name of Brownwood, that every person in town would be white. I mean, I didn’t expect the town to be called Whitewood, but damn. Not even a person of Mexican heritage? Not one? Who the Hell mows lawns in this town?

I’m kidding, of course. I just never thought I’d be in a town in Texas that lacked a single Latino. I’d check into that if I were you.

—

Once back in the hotel that night, I decided that when I called my boss for the daily check-in, I’d inquire more about the McKinney job. After all, Dawn had just been laid off as the company she had worked for spiraled out of control thanks to the housing market collapse. What we thought was a guaranteed paycheck (no pun intended for those who know the company name) until January was suddenly gone. Our 2008 move had just been put on the fast track out of desperation. We were now looking at relocating in November. With fingers crossed.

However, my cell phone sucks. Blackberry? How about Yak-Wary. I kept getting error messages, including the very strange “Radio Connection Failed”. What the eff?

My mind racing (as it always will), I slept on my ideas. I knew I had a full day on Wednesday with ten stops in Brownwood before making my way toward Comanche. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?