Not As Asian As It Sounds

Home?

I wish I could say that I know the dude and/or dudette that owns the bar in the image to the left, but I can’t. It turns out that my last name, rare at best in the US, is quite common on the British Isles. (The photo? It is of a building with a sign proclaiming itself as “Leeming Bar”. Look closely at the sign.)

My dad’s side of the family? Obviously British. My mom’s? Irish to the bone, complete with the “Erin Go Braugh” bumper sticker on her dad’s truck. And me? Incan, as anyone can plainly see. I will be extinct before you know it, but not before I hide the gold. If you think the Columbia drug trade is killing people, try the smallpox they inflicted on my (imagined) ancestors.

Anyway…

I took some vacation time today. Left work at noon for my court appearance. The time on my arraignment summons was 1pm and I was not very hopeful about getting out of there before 4pm. To my great surprise, I was home before 2:30. Just enough time for the wife to do some browsing on Craig’s List (and for me to listen to “Why Today Doesn’t Suck” on The Ticket).

And that is how I found myself driving to southwest Austin early in the evening to buy a home bar for $75. It matches the furniture – and would probably cost close to a grand if bought brand new – and is fully stocked thanks to our trip to Spec’s a week or so ago. So we are all set up to entertain visitors.

That is, if we ever get around to it.

After all, us Irish/British/Incan/Asian-name-sounding tend to go into hiding. Especially since I am full of shit about the Incan part.

Depressing. That’s What It Is.

I remember the first blog I ever wrote for this here interweb thing.  Inspired by a segment on The Ticket, I wrote about the 10 things I can do better than the majority of the population.  I never really thought anyone would read it, much less find it interesting.  It was just an outlet, you know?

Back then, people – at least those that “matter” -  didn’t really have blogs.  But now they are everywhere.  Controlled by publicists, devoid of true meaning and feeling, sanitized lest that someone get offended.

Shit.

Some of my favorite reads seem to be gone for good.  And, not to call anyone out on the carpet or anything, but I will name some names.

Screw it.  I’ll name just one.

Me.

The economy is bad enough that people are afraid to voice opinions, be humorous, or otherwise rock the boat.  I used to have no qualms talking about work on here as long as I didn’t mention the company I worked for.  However, I was always trusting that those commenting (probably the most important variable of blogging) would feel the same restraint.  I am leery now, though, because the risk is far greater than the reward.

Shit.

And now I have this great story to tell about being arrested for something ridiculous, but I am not sure if I have the sack to lay it all on the line.

And I don’t want to confine myself to an anonymous blog because feedback from friends is 99% of the reason I still post entries.  Who cares what Fernando from Akron thinks about my music entries?  (No offense, Fernando.  You do look marvelous.)  But, sadly, that is how things are today.

When you have a last name like I do, it is not too difficult to find me online.  I used to get mega-hits on the old Upsaid blog (when my writing was edgy, funny, and topical), but now I am afraid to post anything that may come back to haunt me.

My friend Devin (link omitted, just in case he is as scared as I am) once mentioned to me that he was behind on reading my stuff.  His explanation was that (paraphrasing) once something is online, it is there forever.

To wit, I would probably never post anything like this again (my famous non-Christmas party), or this (too volatile for the religious), or even this (too many nipple references).

But I still have a lot to say.

I guess it is time to start the book.  Fiction, of course.  Who would believe it, otherwise?  Lots of great ideas there…

THIS Did Not Make My “Things To Look Forward To In 2009″ List

Ladies and gentlemen, straight from the Home Office in Leming, Texas (yes, it exists, even if it is short one letter) is tonight’s Top 10 List.  The category?  The Top 10 Things To Do To Prepare For A Night In Jail…

10)  Wear socks, because concrete is very cold on bare feet.  (I was covered there, thankfully.)

9)  Have phone numbers memorized, like back in the good old days.  Your cell phone’s contact list will not be handy.

8)  Wear a hoodie.  Not only is it kept cold in there, but – hey – extra padding for lack of a pillow!  (I get half-points here.  I was wearing a sweater.)

7)  If your vehicle is not going to be impounded, put the cigs in your pocket so that they will be there when you get out.

6)  Gorge yourself ahead of time.  Never before had I seen something that truly qualifies as “mystery meat straight from a human organ”.

5)  Pick the county carefully.  This one is truly awful.

4)  Go ahead and get a DUI.  Hell, make it multiples!  Those people get out much quicker than first time offenders like me (with a charge of “unregistered animal” when our Lhasa/Shitzu mix got out of the backyard).

3)  There is never a number 3.

2)  Have a kick-ass boss who recently had a brother undergo the same silly treatment.  Scoreboard!

1)  Have effin’ cash, because they don’t take debit.

2008 – The Year That Barack-ed!

Yes, it is several weeks late.  And yes, I did not post my annual letter to Santa.  But just stow any negative thoughts and revel in the 2008 recap…  or just sit there dreamily thinking about the Jonas Brothers.

Moments to remember: Getting my current job in May, Fredericksburg with the wife and boy on July 4th, the final move to the kick-ass house, getting Bodie (the best dog EVER) from the shelter, hanging out with JP (especially backstage at the Bodeans show at SXSW), the most unbelievable scallops ever at McCormick and Schmick’s (not to mention the crab tater tots!), buying “Champ” (our Jeep), garage sale Saturday mornings with the wife, seeing the bats at sunset for the first time, the “man room” in the garage that is like the Phonebooth II, a weekend here in Round Rock with cousin Hollie, some dude named Obama, and getting back in the habit of reading about 3-4 books a week.  Visits from old friends Ray and Mark around the holidays, though sadly not at the same time.

Moments to forget: The binge.  The slow, painful death of my laptop and all of its music, just waiting to be salvaged.  Hurricane Ike and the craziness at work that ensued.  Rats – giant maneating effers – at the previous address.  The brush with circus clowns that Coleton and I had in Wimberley onJuly 4.  (I’m surprised we made it out alive and unscarred.)  Palin-mania.  Ugh.

Music and sporting events: Our first Round Rock Express game, as Tommy Hunter put on a show.  The aforementioned BoDeans concert at SXSW.  Getting into the Airborne Toxic Event.

Things to look forward to in ‘09: Lots more music, like the Morrissey show I mention in the last entry and another show I will mention in the next.  Kayaking again, and maybe even buying our own canoe.  Hiking at Inks Lake.  A real vacation for a change.  Continued opportunities at work.  The Boy’s sister (The Girl?) moving here after graduation.  More visits from friends.  Finally finishing the front room so we can entertain at home.  A road trip to Houston to see the opening of Land of the Lost with family.

One word to sum up ‘08? Rationality.  (Ok, I used the dictionary game to choose a word because “Austintatious” seemed kind of cheesy.)

Fancy another?

How Soon Is Now? (Or April?)

Like the venerated frontman that the title above refers to, I am back.  Thanks to my old friend and musician JP, I am now the owner of a laptop again – so I plan on getting back into the writing habit.

My first entry upon return was going to be my 2008 recap, but that is going to have to wait because I have some exciting news…

I just won tickets on the radio to see Morrissey when he plays at the Bass Hall in Austin on April 12. I went bouncing into the house upon the end of the phone call to tell Dawn the news. She thought, based on my selection as Employee of the Year for my team at work, that I had just been promoted again.

“No, honey – even better! Morrissey! Live!”

All I had to do was be the seventh caller to KGSR while naming any other member of Morrissey’s old band The Smiths. Well, it does not take a genius to come up with the name of the great guitar player Johnny Marr, especially since I was right under my Smiths poster that Coleton bought me last year as I made the call.

Hell, Johnny is the brainchild behind the memorable guitar riff of the song that shares the title of this entry (minus the April reference), the riff that has made me hate the band Soho ever since I heard them rip it off. Johnny now plies his craft for Modest Mouse, purveyors of one of my current favorite songs “Missed the Boat”.

But even he is no Morrissey.

For those who may think they have never heard of him, the NFL has an ad campaign that features one of his songs (though it is not his voice on the commercials). “Everyday is like Sunday”, the ad sings, meaning gridiron, tough hits, touchdowns, and sacks. Of course, they leave out every other lyric, including:

This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon – come armageddon!
Come, armageddon! come!

Or…

How I dearly wish I was not here
In the seaside town
…that they forgot to bomb
Come, come, come – nuclear bomb

Dark, depressing, depraved genius. Oddly, it always made me feel better when I was down.

So, yeah, it has been a good day for me. And this is just the beginning. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.

Hello, world. I’ll be seeing more of you soon.

More Ike Aftermath

You may know that I am a property manager for a preservation company.  You may even know that I am responsible for the preservation of roughly 800 bank owned houses.  What you may not know is that every single one of them is in the Houston area, with many on the battered Galveston Island.

I’m not looking for sympathy – this is my job, after all.  And I didn’t lose anything because of the hurricane.  In fact, it has been pretty silent for me at work lately because of many factors:  cell phone outages (FEMA actually took over the cell towers last weekend, and reception is still lukewarm at best), gasoline lines/shortages/price gouging, and my hardy crew of contractors attending to their own properties (as they should) despite the widespread lack of power and water.

I have had some crews working through all of this, getting things done that I certainly did not expect to get done as quickly as they have.  And I have had others call me pleading for patience with their assigned work, which I of course assured them.  They all want to work, but in some cases it is just not possible.  And I totally understand that.

And then this afternoon, it happened.  The phone at my desk started ringing.  Over and over and over.

Normalcy is beginning to return.  Listing agents are starting to tour their properties, calling me with laundry lists of problems that need to get rectified… NOW.  Again, I understand and bravely accept that challenge.

Wanna see the challenge?  Take a look at the pictures assembled here. One word comes to mind…

Wow.

Never doubt the resiliency of people, particularly Texans.  And that is why I am going to end this entry with a quote from one resident of the island who rode out Ike in a church.  This was his reply to a question regarding divine intervention, after explaining that he had not set foot in a church for 40 years:

I drink beer and chase women, gamble, cuss.  You can’t call that religion. I’m either too good, the devil won’t have me, or I’m so bad the Good Lord won’t take me. That’s a good toss-up.

From The Files Of…

… you would not believe me if I told you.

There will be a new post in the morning that details things I should not say, yet need to be said.  Because, dammit, this story is so blog-worthy.

I just need one more night to figure out how to write this without it being used as evidence if a trial were to ensue.  Interested?

Thought so.

Love to all, as usual.

Cheesy? Yup. Creepy? A Little. Home? Of course.

The thing they leave out is that the ice cream truck in our neighborhood plays King Missile’s “The Boy Who Ate Lasagna and Could Jump Over a Church”. But they also scoop out Haagan Dazs, so it kind of evens out.

A Day Late, A JPEG Short

Screw it.

I was going to have pictures on here to complete my Snakes On A Passport story, but I am so out of practice on this whole “blogging with images” thing… So I guess you are just going to have to follow some embedded links.

This is a link to a picture of a venomous diamondback rattlesnake.

And this is a link to a picture of a non-venomous diamond backed water snake.

I am guessing that I ran over the latter of the two, but try telling that to the kid next door as he loses a limb.

It ain’t easy.

And, yes, I am back to blogging again. Welcome to the Man Room (AKA the garage).

Snakes On A Passport

(Yes, I must give credit to Dawn for the title.  Read on.)

It had been a long day.  The requisite hours at work and multiple errands, followed by a leisurely drive through our neighborhood right at dusk.

At the end of our street, we saw moms walking with their kids and people walking their dogs.  Normalcy.  And that is why I questioned what it was I saw in the road – or thought I saw in the road.

While I was turning the car around, Dawn looked at me with a question mark over her head.

“I think I saw a snake”, I explained.  I did not got into any further detail for fear of looking like an idiot when our headlights illuminated a large twig or a rope.

But, sure as shit, when I pulled over next to the pond 50 yards from our house, there was a snake in the road.  It was not moving, so I assumed it was dead.  But I was also looking at it from about 8 feet away in dusk, so I turned the Passport around again to shine it with the headlights.

And then it started moving.

All five feet of it.

Since our neighborhood has all sorts of end-of-the-day foot traffic from the fitness minded, my first instinct was to run over it.  Then Dawn said, “Run it over!”  So I did.  The tires yelped “ka-thunk”, PETA planned a protest, and backyard ministers winced.  But I was just looking out for the neighbors and their pets, so even my eco-friendly mind was nonplussed.  However, I wanted to make sure the job got done so I quickly turned around…

… and saw nothing.

Not even a hint that the five foot long behemoth had even been there.

And that is when Dawn turned to me and asked – ok, told – me to roll up my window.  Suddenly, life lessons from her childhood were reinforcing themselves into her mind.  Namely, how her dad had always told her to NEVER run over a snake because it will strike the vehicle and latch on for dear life.  It was then that I knew I was driving around a lethal weapon in my undercarriage, and I am not talking about Taco Bell flatulence.

She told me it was some sort of diamondback.  Hell, I saw the skin markings myself, but I also saw no rattle on the end.  So for all I know it could have been Randy Johnson.  Or Doug Davis.  (I was praying for Doug Davis.)

Visions of forked tongues through air conditioning vents and scaly creatures roaming the floor boards filled my head – not mention creeping the shit out of me.  What were we going to do?  We felt trapped in our own Honda, afraid to exit for fear of bites.  Irrational as it may seem now, it was the gospel then.

So I did the only thing that I could think of at the time.  I drove down another street in our neighborhood that two of my co-workers live on.  Why?  I don’t know.  Maybe I thought either of them might see a lifeless body hanging from underneath the car (hissing the words “I know what you did last summer”).  Or perhaps they could run interference for us, amusing the death-grip snake while Dawn and I ran our happy asses home.  “Hey, look, snake!  Free cats!”

But, alas, neither of them were outside so it was time to formulate Plan B.

Plan B turned out to be running our car through the automated carwash (using the cycle with undercarriage wash) and hoping that the snake would either sink its lifeless body into the drainage area (best case scenario) or slink away laughingly due to all the suds and water.

Neither of those happened, but the Passport looks freaking awesome!

It was kind of scary when the car was covered in foam, making a peek through the windows impossible, and the blowers of the wash turned on giving the entire scene a cheap, B-movie horror flick feel, complete with cheesy soundtrack…

By then, I had exhausted all our options.  We had to get home, no question.

After parking in the driveway (there was NO WAY that I was pulling this transporter of death into the garage), I talked Dawn into exiting first.  My thought process was that I could make it to help quicker since I was behind the wheel, while she would have to climb over my poison-stricken body, kicking me to the side while “Every Rose Has Its Thorns” played in her head, should something wicked happen to me.

But once we were safely inside, I returned to the car with a flashlight.  I figured that if anything happened, I could always play cop and ask the snake for its license and insurance.  However, after sweeping the underside of the Passport with the beam, I determined that there was no danger present.  I then told the little kid from next door that he could get out from under the car – and give me back my flashlight.

Look for a follow-up to this entry Thursday night…