aboynamedstu

Yesterday Don't Matter If It's Gone

2012-02-13T15:59:00.001-06:00

Not to get all David Coverdale on you, but here I go again, trotting out something from the archives. It wasn't my intent. I was going to write about my latest trip from whence I came. Read: Oklahoma. And falling off a ladder while digging out gutters on a cold Saturday morning. I'm sure I'll write that story, eventually, but today I feel I need to dedicate my thoughts to Ruby the Dog. You see BLOG reader, Ruby the Dog's unofficial official birthday is February 14th. God only knows when the mongrel was actually born, because her paperwork never did arrive in the mail which I was reminded of when I got sucked into the Team Tinsley archives after this recent post.

And Liberty She Pirouette was (and is) one of my favorite Team Tinsley BLOG posts. Re-reading it five years into the Buck Rogers future is a revelation. Proof, albeit goofy, that things can, do, and will work out in a way you might not expect, but for your greater good.

It's no secret that life is funny. You live it forward while understanding it backwards. Which is so very true of Ruby the Dog.

Happy Birthday to the fifth member of Team Tinsley. Ruby the Dog. Probably the best pet I've ever owned (and I've owned some awesome pets.)

Until I BLOG again...She would never say where she came from.

From The Archives: Let Me Take a Long Last Look...

2012-02-10T09:17:00.002-06:00

You know what BLOG reader. The (Buck Rogers) future is now. And one of the most rewarding things for aboynamedstu is to be in a conversation or have something happen, which sparks me to remember when, literally, which leads me back to a Team Tinsley BLOG post.

That's what today's post is all about. A simple conversation with a good friend regarding doing something with his daughter that was good for him, her and his wife who gets a break when they are out of the house.

Like I said to him, I don't want to get all sensei on you, but it really does go by so very fast.

In other words. Blink your eyes. And remember.

Until I BLOG again...I need to remember this.

The Chain

2012-01-31T10:37:00.000-06:00

My suckery in real time is legion. To the point of ad nauseam on this here (and over there) BLOG. Which is why it should come as no surprise to regular BLOG readers that the connection in this POST wasn't self evident to aboynamedstu. Captain Obvious, that's me, sans a marker, took me nearly a week to connect the dots.

To bring those who haven't read RAPTURE up to speed let me reiterate that as a kid I was horrified of a handful of things, two of which were tornadoes and religion.

I documented my fear of religion in the early day of the Team Tinsley BLOG. February 15, 2005 to be exact. Reading it nearly seven years into the Buck Rogers future is a trip, considering how far I've come, and will go, this July.

I'm a Youth Counselor at church these days. Something I would have never believed I'd become when the aboynamedstu v37 was writing FEAR FACTOR.

Yet here I am today, on average giving 12 hours a month of my time, and self, to the youth of my church. And in a twist of fate I can truly appreciate, preparing for my first Mission Trip ever, to Joplin, MO to help with the ongoing recovery from the devastating tornadoes of May 2011.

I tried to attend church as a youth. Many of my friends were swept up in a religious fervor that rocked my small town. Only problem was that many of these places of worship subscribed to a very literalistic kind of religion. One that horrified me with all the hellfire and brimstone, Jesus is coming soon, and pissed, rhetoric. Even so, kids, including me, will go a long way to fit in and be accepted and I pushed my fear aside and considered going on a Mission Trip with a good friend of mine who attended our town's large Assembly of God. That is until they asked us, as a sign of our commitment, to burn our rock-n-roll records. I could come on their trip, or so they said, but first I'd have to throw my copy of Highway to Hell by AC/DC, and everything else they considered satanic and/or dangerous onto a bonfire in their parking lot.

Needless to say, I didn't go on that Mission Trip. Or future ones. I gave up on the brand of religion I saw offered in my home town, which on hindsight wasn't really fair, but it was, what it is, or so they say.

Flash forward thirty odd years into the Buck Rogers future and aboynamedstu v44, God willing, will go on his first ever Mission Trip as part of an actual Youth Group. And out of five locations the seniors in the group could have selected (and not what the Director or the Counselors wanted them to select for logistical and program reasons,) they chose, the tornado ravaged city of Joplin. A city that is a few hours from where aboynamedstu spent most of his youth terrified of tornadoes and religion.

Talk about a synchronistic high-five. One that could only be made better if I spot Big Foot on the trip.

Until I BLOG again...Damn the dark, damn the light.

Brain Stew

2012-01-18T15:59:00.002-06:00

"Douche!" Boy #1 exclaimed, I think referring to Boy #2, as he ran from the front door through the house toward the back door. The boy's friend H was right on his heels.

"WHOA!" I said stopping them at the back door.

"Did I hear you correct!? Did you just say douche?!?"

Nothing. But a shit eating smile in front of his friend, H.

"Dude. Do you even know what that word means."

Boy #1 and H looked at each other. Grinning.

"Do you?" I asked again?

"It means....," Boy #1 shifted on his feet, not wanting to say what it meant.

"What?" I asked.

"It means shit." He said.

"Dude, a douche is something a woman uses to clean their vagina." I said.

Sweet mother of all that is good, both boys looked horrified. H even more so, since he's probably not used to hearing a parental figure trot out the v word is such a matter-of-fact manner.

"If you're going to use a word. Especially a bad word. You damn well better know what it means." I said.

"That goes for you to H."

"Ok." Boy #1 said.

"Can we go now?"

"Go." I said.

Until I BLOG again...On my own... here we go.

Christmas Is The Time To Say, "I Love You"

2012-01-13T12:58:00.001-06:00

Round-up of Team Tinsley holiday pictures as well as Boy #2's 8th birthday (which was December 28th.)

Until I BLOG again...And a feeling that will last all through the year.

Rapture

2012-01-11T15:16:00.001-06:00

We were sitting around discussing what to do as a family on New Year's Eve when karaoke was mentioned. Playing like I had a microphone in my hand, I said to the family, with an emphasis to Boy #1, "I'd like to dedicate this to all the Mayans in the house tonight."

I paused for a second before singing, "That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an airplane and Lenny Bruce is not afraid..." The opening lyrics to It's The the End of the World As We Know It by REM.

Comedy gold. Right?

Especially considering Boy #1 is horrified of all things eschatological. Which might seem cruel, until you consider he trotted out my joke for one of his friends on New Year's Day.

What the Boy didn't realize then though, not in a meaningful way, was that I, as a child, was terrified of all things eschatological too.

I was also horrified of (in no particular order.)
• Tornadoes.
• Big Foot.
• The Second Coming of Christ/Rapture.
• Nuclear War (which was often combined with The Second Coming/Rapture fear.)

As an aside I also thought that gorillas were fighting in Vietnam when I heard reports about guerrilla warfare attacks. I also thought that Water Gate was a scandal about the things I saw on the side of the road in Oklahoma where there was a fence and gate around a drainage ditch so kids couldn't get into the storm drains.

I was, and still am, I very literal, black and white kind of thinker.

So as a kid, when I heard people say you could go to hell for calling someone a fool, I believed them. The same way I thought saying fuck. Or shit. Would get you sent to hell. Same as not going to church. All things I did (and did not do.)

That same either or thinking, got me with tornadoes too. Not to imply they are something that you shouldn't fear, but the way I thought, as soon as I heard a warning or watch, I thought, fuck me, we're all going to die. Which was scary on a few levels. The first being I was going to die. Second being I had said or thought fuck which meant I was going to die and go to hell.

Double fuck me.

As you mature things that scared you as a kid don't seem as scary. And most of us replace them with grown-up fears. The fear of Big Foot is replaced by the fear of losing your job. Nuclear war isn't as scary as not being able to insure the kids. Not that nuclear war isn't scary. Or tornadoes for that matter. You understand when you get older that the probability of those things happening isn't all that likely.

Flash forward a week or so and Boy #1 and I were wanting to watch a program about Rome and Hadrian's Wall on The History Channel. However, we had to first get through ten minutes of a show about Satan. Which wasn't bad at first. They were showing scholars talking about the devil. Then they switched to talking about Satanists, and showed some very cheesy B movie footage of satanists in black robes doing their ritual. Pentagrams in fake looking blood. I could see out of the corner of my eye that the Elder Boy was about to change the channel. That what he was seeing was scaring him. Which was not scary to me. But quite cheesy, which is why I laughed.

He took his hand off the remote and looked at me.

Finally I said something to the effect of, "That cracks me up...look how cheesy it is."

He didn't say anything. Just watched me. Laugh.

"It used to scare me though," I said.

"Really?!?!" He asked perking up.

"Oh yeah. I was horrified of all that end of the world stuff as a kid. The devil. Hell. I thought I was going to hell because I cussed. Because we didn't go to church."

It was like a weight was lifted off of him. Not that he shares my exact fears. The concept of hell and devil is completely foreign to him because of our church's teachings. Which we discussed. But that isn't my point. And it's his story.

My story continues with me getting dressed while watching Pop Up Video on VH1.

Rapture by Blondie was on and My Lovely Bride was commenting on how Blondie wasn't an actual blondie per a pop up factoid.

"I couldn't watch this video or listen to the song as a kid." I said.

Which is true.

Because, like the Elder Boy, I was so black and white in my thinking, had such OCD type tendencies, to hear it, or see it, gave it power, in my monkey brain at least. Plus Fab Five Freddy's red light glasses tripped me out. To this day I call red lights like that, devil lights. Even when hung in a church.

Which is my point. What I want Boy #1 to heed. Talking about things that scare you bring them out of your heard and into the light. And when you can laugh or joke about them even more so. Like the Riddikulus charm that combats the boggart in Harry Potter. You might not be able to make your fear go away completely. But laughing at it can make it not so scary. Since it's hard to be afraid of something that's funny.

Until I BLOG again...And you try to run but he's got a gun, And he shoots you dead and he eats your head, And then you're in the man from Mars.

Don't Look Back

2012-01-10T10:02:00.001-06:00

Big Boy, as he is wont to do, posted the following quote as his Facebook status a few months in the rear view: "My grandma dropped acid this morning, and she freaked out. She hijacked a busload of penguins. So it's sort of a family crisis. Bye!"

That quote is from Better Off Dead, a 1985 teen romantic comedy where John Cusack's character (Lane Meyer) is suicidal after his girl friend breaks up with him. It is a strange mix of surreal black humor peppered with the absurd which make it unique, and funny to me (then and now.)

As I'm wont to do, I replied to Big Boy's post, adding my own Better of Dead quote. This got me on the feed and I saw other comments throughout the day, until Big Boy posted something else, and everyone, but me, moved on.

I was stuck pondering the fact, with a gazillion channels on today's cable landscape, why I never run across Better of Dead.

Granted it isn't the best movie ever, an acquired taste for sure, and I even read that John Cusak hated the finished film. Still I don't think that is what keeps it off the air. I think it has to do with the movie not being politically correct by today's standards.

Flash back to 1983 where I took study hall with a girl who was, what I called then, a Jesus freak. Her name was Kathy. With a K. And she was taken with the Think Jesus movement going on at our school which was funded by a very large Southern Baptist Church. They had bumper stickers. T-Shirts. The whole bang. They'd even serve high school (we had an open campus) kids lunch one day a week at an extremely cheap rate to push their movement. Kathy often discussed the church, their program, and all things religion with the study hall teacher, Mr. Combs, who ironically enough, didn't need one. The man was cue ball head bald. Mr. Combs wasn't necessarily a Jesus freak, but he was extremely devout. He also had an old school At 10-2 and 4 O'Clock, it's Dr. Pepper time clock in his room. The things I remember.

I was staring at said clock, wishing it was get the fuck out of there time instead of Dr. Pepper time, when Kathy told Mr. Combs she wished she would die. Not in a suicidal sort of way. She quickly noted that. Because killing yourself got you sent to hell. And in hell she couldn't be with Jesus. Which is why she wanted to die sooner than later. To be with Jesus.

This was seriously discussed for nearly the entire study hall hour. Can you imagine what would happen if that happened today.

Mr. Combs, to his credit, didn't freak. He explained, in a very kind, devout way that she had a lot of life left to live. if Jesus meant so much to her she should live her life in a way that served him and the church. He went on to remind her that if she died, she'd be leaving people behind who would undoubtedly be very sad.

Flash forward two years, to what was then 1985, where I was taking a throw away psychology class taught by a coach. Not to imply all classes taught by coaches (other than gym and/or drivers ed) suck. One of my best high school classes (history) was taught by a football coach. That class though, was the exception. In my high school most classes taught by a coach (other than gym and/or drivers ed) sucked. The coaches were a warm body filling space until practice or the game.

That was psychology.

Which was bad. We didn't learn anything about psychology, other than what we read on our own in the text book. Instead Coach Pryor would treat the class like a study hall, and/or share his religious views with the class. At the time, there was somewhat of a revival going on at my high school. The Think Jesus had flourished and coupled with a strong FCA (Fellowship of Christian Athletes) movement. People were swept up in it, fad like, which I found odd and a bit disconcerting because even aboynamedstu v17 got that most of the kids who were the most zealous were pretty much doing all the depraved shit that they claimed was going to send everyone else to hell. Another thing that struck me as odd, was that one of the biggest rallying cries of the movement was how bad rock-n-roll music was to us kids. To the point of some churches staging record burning parties in their parking lot. To get rid of all those devil records with the back masking messages. This was on Coach Pryor's mind one fine February morning when he told us that he let his kid listen to KMOD (classic rock station in Tulsa that played a lot of the offending albums) in his room during the day and evening. But at night. When the kid went to bed, Coach Pryor snuck in and changed the radio to (insert popular Christian station that I can't remember) so his kid would hear the good programming while he slept. Because, and this is the best part, which I can recall after all this time, Coach Pryor didn't want his kid to hear stuff like...like...(he stammered, I can still see him standing in front of the class in his bike coach shorts complete with camel toe, white shirt tucked in showing his flabby belly, and tube socks that came up to his knees)...like...like...Smokin'.

Seriously. Smokin' by Boston.

That might have been when I first coined my favorite expression. Fuck me!

Even though I didn't agree with Coach Pryor. And I thought Kathy was nuts. I respected their views. And was cool with them sharing what they believed. That's what makes the world go around for aboynamedstu. It is also why I have been so stuck on Big Boy's random post about Better of Dead. To the point of not posting anything on this here BLOG for a long long time.

My point. Finally (thanks to those that stuck around!)

Suicide isn't funny. I get that. But our world has become so politically correct that we we've lost the ability to discuss things. Because we're afraid of not being politically correct. We can't laugh at certain things. Even though laughter is the best medicine. And we often laugh at what scares us.

That's why you can't catch Better of Dead on TV anymore. Or at least that's what aboynamedstu believes. Which is flat out, fucked up. And a disservice to many.

I told you all of that, for this BLOG reader. It is a resolution of sorts for me in 2012. I'm going to speak my truth in a more in your face way this year. Here on this blog. I don't know if it is because I'm forty fucking four, or it's because I've been working closely with Youth at church for the past five months, but something has clicked in my head. Which is kind of scary, because I've never been one to not speak my truth. But I have compartmentalized what I've discussed here, and there. So, stay tuned BLOG reader. Should be interesting. And I figure worst case scenario, whomever I piss off, it won't matter much come December 21st (if the Mayans are correct.)

Until I BLOG again...A new day is breakin', it's been too long since I felt this way, I don't mind where I get taken, the road is callin', today is the day.

Fight the Good Fight

2011-12-01T10:22:00.001-06:00

The Sunday before Thanksgiving I served dinner at the main Salvation Army across from Parkland Hospital with 30 or south church youth and a few other adult counselors as our Act of Service program. If you've never done such a job you might think that everyone you help will look at you with eyes of appreciation. Respect. Expect to feel warm and fuzzy for all the good you're doing for those in need.

Real life isn't like that, obviously, and serving in such conditions is an interesting exercise in how people will react to things that are out of their comfort zone.

Some people respond well, are thankful, polite. Others. Not so much.

Below is one such story which nearly two weeks later still cracks me up.

"Taquitos!"

The big black man didn't look pleased as he surveyed his cafeteria style tray of carbs (slice of white bread, spanish style rice, refried beans and the offending taquitos which were drizzled in a brown gravy that you'd normally see on pot roast or mashed potatoes) I served him.

The big black man tore his eyes from the offending tray to meet my eyes. The two youth flanking me, both took a step back and to the side to position themselves behind me and farther away from the big black man who had a big mean look on his face.

"Taquitos!" He said again, only this time he picked up the right side of his tray ever so slightly, an inch or two, and added, "And fucking brown gravy!"

The two youth took another step back behind me as the man released the tray from his hand which made a loud pop sound as it met the surface of the table.

"Motherfucker!" He raged.

"Dude," I said looking him in the eyes. You're supposed to call them a client.

"I didn't make it. I just served it to you."

The big black man looked me in the eyes as he considered what I had said. The two youth flankikng me would have stepped even farther back I'm sure if there was more room. Alas there was not, so they both sort of shifted behind my body as we waited for the big black man's response.

He keep his eyes on me as he reached down to grab one of the fucking taquitos in the motherfucking brown gravy which he promptly shoveled into his mouth.

"Enjoy," I said trying hard to not sound like a smart ass.

He half smiled, maybe more a smirk, at me before he said, "Thank you."

Until I BLOG again...Every minute every day.

The Hardest Part

2011-11-02T11:52:00.000-05:00

Mr. Chambers is gone.

Which isn't new. He's been gone for weeks. But not knowing why he was gone has been gnawing at me. Many it seems. Because Mr. Chambers, resplendent in his crossing guard uniform, has been a fixture at the corner of Floyd and Westwood for years.

No one knew why he was gone. There were assumptions. Mr. Chambers was in his early 80s, and had been growing more feeble in his attempts at doing his job. The oppressive heat of the first weeks of school didn't help either. He was there one day. Gone the next.

We received an email this week telling us our assumptions were true. Mr. Chambers' health had declined to the point that he could no longer work his corner. He was home under hospice care, on oxygen, with a bad heart. The email said that he wasn't having visitors because he didn't recognize anyone. The email ended with the promise that a friend of the family would update the person writing the email on Mr. Chambers condition and she would pass it on when she heard anything new. Alas, I assume when she passes anything new on to us, it will mean that Mr. Chambers has passed away.

Mr. Chambers is gone. Has been gone. That reserved man who I passed when I walked Boy #1 to school that very first day of kindergarten. He was there for Boy #2's first day as well. Mr. Chambers and Boy #2 had a special relationship. Boy #2 would make Mr. Chambers' usual stern face light up when he would run ahead of us in his nearly daily attempt to sneak up on the crossing guard. Boy #2 would then climb a tree near Mr. Chambers post and talk to him as he waited for me and Boy #1.

I wasn't lying when I wrote that using a person's death as a teaching point makes me angry. I hope I've been clear enough today that you aren't left with that impression. Because it isn't my point.

I don't know Mr. Chambers. Not in a real way.

Not to minimize the man, he's flesh and blood. Has his own family, his own life, which appears to be coming to an end.

This is about aboynamedstu, the story of my life, where Mr. Chambers was a background character in some very key chapters.

Like Molly the Dog.

Who is also gone.

I don't walk the Boy(s) to school daily anymore. My Lovely Bride has been substituting this year so on most days she can walk the Boy(s), who to be honest could walk to school on their own. They walk home by themselves. We still do it because our dog Ruby loves those walks to school each day. Because it is part of our routine. And I think, because we're holding onto something we don't want to pass. Not yet, at least.

It was on one of my rare walks to school with the Boy(s) a week before I learned the news about Mr. Chambers' condition, that I asked, for the umpteenth time, "I wonder if Mr. Chambers is back?"

The fact that we were walking together, was testament to the change. Before Boy #2 would have been a block ahead of me and his brother, running his serpentine, undercover run in his attempt to sneak up on Mr. Chambers.

"I don't think so." Boy #1 said.

"I miss Mr. Chambers." I said. More to myself than the Boy(s).

"The new lady is nice." Boy #1 offered.

"She is nice." I said. "But it's not the same. As Mr. Chambers..."

I trailed off in my own thoughts. Realizing how quick time passes. How things change.

The Elder Boy, reading my emotions, walked in front of me look to see my face. Checking for tears in my eyes, I guess.

"Are you ok, Dad?" He asked.

"I'm ok Boy. I'm just sad about Mr. Chambers." I said.

"(Insert Boy #2's name) is too old to sneak up on Mr. Chambers anyway." Boy #1 said.

"Yeah. I know..." I said stopping as I looked ahead, noting that it was the lady, who is nice, on the corner. Mr. Chambers was still gone. Probably for good, which as it turns out, seems to be true. Mr Chambers, like Molly the Dog, represents a time and place to me. Thinking of her, or him, makes me think of then. Which makes me think of the Boy(s) then.

"I'm kind of sad about that too." I said.

Until I BLOG again...Bittersweet, I could taste in my mouth, Silver lining the cloud, Oh and I, I wish that I could work it out.

Postscript: Godspeed Mr. Chambers.

If God Will Send His Angels

2011-10-28T12:38:00.000-05:00

My Lovely Bride has long been a staunch advocate for the Boy(s) in all matters of the TV. What they can and cannot watch. She has strong opinions. As do I. Which makes this a rare instance in our otherwise copacetic union where we do not see eye-to-eye.

I won't do her the discourtesy of outlining what she thinks, beyond telling you that she feels that the Boy(s) should not watch programs like Family Guy as well as certain PG13 movies that are scary, gory, or violent. An R movie. Forget about it.

As for me. I'm pretty fine with them watching that sort of thing, as long as they watch it with me or My Lovely Bride, so we can explain if necessary or field any questions that may arise.

I'd probably hold this view regardless, as it is pretty much in line with my personality, but after doing a few years of SIM (what our church used to call the Children Sunday School program) I'm convinced it is a good course.

You see BLOG reader, I taught a big group of kids over a three or four year period, which allowed me to develop a trusting relationship with most of them (one of my things was I'd never rat them out on something they told me, or said in class, unless said thing put them or someone else, in harm's way.)

Therefore those kids shared many things with me over the years, often what they watched on TV. Or saw in a movie. Or the internet. Things that most of their parents had NO idea that they'd seen, because those parents didn't let their kids watch that kind of stuff. In fact, I'd heard many of the parents actually say that, only to hear later that their kid had in fact seen whatever it was, or something far worse.

I'm no kid expert. Fuck. I'm Captain Inappropriate. Still, I think it fair to say, that kids are going to watch stuff they want to watch. And the more titillating or forbidden you make it, the more they are going to want to watch it.

Which is why I'm fine with my Boy(s) watching most anything as long as me or My Lovely Bride is in attendance.

You may disagree with me. My Lovely Bride certainly does. And while I honor her view on the subject, and won't cross her line, I did somehow luck into crossing it one time with The Simpsons which has become a staple at Casa Tinsley.

I tell you all that for this. While hanging out with Boy #1 on the swings at the school park where Boy #2 practices football he asked this: "What does Matt Groening look like?"

A few punches on my trusty robot phone later, I showed the Boy a picture of Matt Groening from wikipedia.

"How old is he?"

"He was born in 1954, so he is...insert pause as my stupid ass tries to do the math...fifty-seven." I said.

"What religion is he?"

That might sound like a strange question for a nearly ten year old Boy to ask, but in watching The Simpsons I usually make a point of pointing out their jokes on religion.

Example.

Treehouse of Horror XX, Don't Have a Cow, Mankind where Krusty Burger introduces Burger 2. A burger made from cattle that have eaten other cattle in their feed. Genius. The unholy combinations turns nearly everyone into zombies, or munchers as they are called. Eventually Bart, tired of eating fruit, gets out of their barricaded house, eats the infected burger, and turns out to be immune. This makes Bart the key to a cure and The Simpsons head for the safe zone outside the city. Fast forward through a lot of funny shit, and the family make it to the safe zone with an infected Homer, where Bart, being immune to the muncher virus, is worshipped at the chosen one. Only problem is all the people in the safe zone think they have to eat Bart in order to become immune which leads Marge to say: What kind of civilized people eat the body and blood of their savior?"

I think that is a funny joke. I'm sure it is highly offensive to many. Especially Catholics (no offense to any Catholics reading this right about now, funk show brother.) But I can laugh at these type of jokes because I'm a big believer that God and/or Jesus don't need my help in such matters. And laughing at something like this isn't a one way ticket to hell. A great example of how I feel about such things can be found over on the Team Tinsley BLOG—If you give a shit—in a story titled Stand Up Comedy where the very Boy asking about Matt Groening's religion desecrated a church lap pad cover.

"What religion is he?" The Boy asked.

"It says he is agnostic." I answered.

The Boy stopped swinging long enough to give me a look that indicated he had no idea what agnostic meant.

"You know what an atheist means? Or is?" I asked.

"Kind of."

"An atheist believes there is no God." I said.

"An agnostic person is someone who doesn't believe in God or not believe in God. They are kind of in the middle. 'Cause they can't prove God exists." I explained.

"Yeah."

"But you also can't prove that God doesn't exist either." I said.

"They always say that God doesn't exist."

"Who?" I asked.

"On the history and science shows. The ones about aliens."

"Who is to say that God didn't create aliens." I asked.

"Do you think aliens exist?"

"I don't know." I said.

"I don't either."

"A lot of that stuff you are talking about is quasi-history or science. It is more about entertaining and getting people to watch it than real." I said.

"But (insert friend's name who is into conspiracy theories and all that type of shit) said that they really found a spaceship in the desert in olden times."

"That's what a lot of people will tell you. I'm not sure I believe it." I said.

"Yeah. Me either."

"I'm agnostic when it comes to aliens." I laughed.

"Nice." He said. "What about God?"

Sweet Mother of all that is good. The big question. And at flag football practice on a Wednesday night while swinging.

Fuck me.

I should note here that I have a zealous need to always be honest with my Boy(s.) And the God question, well for me, and as fucked up as this might sound to you reading this now, is a lot like Santa Claus and/or The Tooth Fairy. Not to imply God is made-up, or fabricated to keep us on the nice list. It also doesn't mean that I don't believe in God. What it means is that I don't know for sure. I can't prove it. And if I don't know something for sure, it is damn near impossible for aboynamedstu to give the Boy(s) a definitive answer. Which I'm sure sounds weird. Hell it sounds weird to me, and it is me.

To my credit I didn't panic. Instead I trotted out my old stand-by, a question with a question.

"What do you believe?" I asked.

He ignored me. Changing his tack.

"Jesus was real, right?"

Fuck me. The nearly 10 year old version of Boy #1 has me figured out!

"You mean from a historical perspective?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Yes. I believe there's mention of a Galilean Jew named Jesus in historical records from the time. Not the Son of Man type of stuff. Son of God. Nothing like that. Just some dude named Jesus who went to Jerusalem type of records."

"He was real then?"

"Yes. Or wait. Son of God real. Or real real?" I said. "If you believe scholars he was real real. A man. But Son of God thing. There's not proof."

"I think he was, or is real."

"The thing with all that stuff Boy. It comes down to faith. 'Cause you can't prove it. Not in any scientific, I know for sure kind of a way." I said.

"Yeah."

"Look at it like this, Boy." I said.

"Doing all the stuff you do with church. At church. Believing in God. In Jesus. The Holy Spirit. Simply believing. Everything that comes from that. Is it bad? Does it hurt anyone. Or anything?" I said.

"What do you mean?"

I repeated what I said finishing with, "There's not a right or wrong answer with this Boy. It is simply what you believe."

"Yeah." He said.

"Here is what I think. Or believe. I don't think it is bad. It doesn't hurt anyone. Although some use it to hurt, but that's an entirely different discussion. Doing unto others. The golden rule. Helping the poor. The sick. Being part of a community. Being thankful. Mindful or prayerful. All of that is good." I said.

"Yeah."

"And as crazy as this might sound, it would be good if there wasn't a God. Just as it is good if there is a God."

Nothing. Just a deep look as he considered what I said. Those brown eyes, my Mom's eyes, my eyes, watching me swing.

"I can't tell you that there is or isn't a God. You'll have to make those decisions on your own. I can tell you what I think. Or believe. But in the end you got to decide for yourself. If it's going to mean anything. And you have to remember you can't just think with your head. You have to think with your heart, too." I said.

His reply.

Simply.

Yeah.

Which is fine with me.

You may disagree with me. My Lovely Bride certainly does. But watching The Simpsons is a good thing, because if we never watched it together (I'm sure the Boy would have watched it by now, but he wouldn't have brought it with me) the above discussion would have never happened.

Still I won't cross My Lovely Bride's line. I honor her decision. Her opinion too much to ever go against her wishes. I do wonder though what subjects would come up if she let us watch Family Guy.

Until I BLOG again...Would everything be alright?

I Know What I've Been Told

2011-10-26T10:22:00.001-05:00

This week is shaping up to be rant week at aboynamedstu (which is promised if you read the description up above this here BLOG entry!) Today's rant is courtesy of my Sunday at Youth where we watched the documentary, Waiting for "Superman".

The film analyzes the failure of American public education by following several students through the educational system, hoping to be selected in a lottery for acceptance into charter schools.

My rant though isn't necessarily about the film. Not to get all Siskel & Ebert on you, but I found the movie engaging enough. I became vested in the kids trying to get into the charter schools. My heartstrings were firmly plucked when the camera lingered on those who didn't realize their dream.

Spoiler follows My irony loving side noted that the one child selected happened to be the only white child in the bunch. Spoiler ends

Not to say I loved all of it. I felt (and this is saying a lot based on how I think) the movie was very black and white. Not in a racial sense either. It was also absent of any teacher's voice. And concentrated on areas of our country that don't relate to my reality. Not that I should ignore them. What effects them, ultimately will effect me. I get that. But it's hard to wrap my head around what a black kid living in the ghetto is going through.

Today's rant is about the Q&A round-table discussion that followed the movie.

Perhaps it is my blue collar, Okie upbringing. Or impatience. But sitting through a discussion, where a select few feel the need to pontificate from their limited milieu drives me crazier than a shithouse rat.

From the guy who wanted to bring up 'the kids from the wrong side of the tracks can't make it in the real world even though they tell them they are doing good in their shitty wrong side of the tracks school' experience as an human resources employee at a company in Monroe, LA.

To the guy who tried to be all in their face, said face being the talking head panel of educators who were asked to give their thoughts and opinions on the film as well as the state of education in our anytown U.S.A.

He asked them each, point blank, did they feel that the education system is broken.

Fuck me. What an asinine, puffed up, waste of (my) time, question.

What did he think they would say? Yes!?!

Their salary (or pension) is paid by the very system he's trying to get them to recant.

The best of the worst though, for me at least, was this older guy who had a very, 'you kids get off of my lawn' attitude in his statements.

His hot button was that math and science weren't given the proper amount of love in today's educational landscape. And at some point during his point, he took a left turn, and half-ass said to the dozen or so youth in attendance, that they didn't like math or science because they were too busy with computers, rock-n-roll (I'm making that up) and the prom (he actually said that.)

But the best. Was his finish.

He declared, 'that math wasn't sexy enough.'

In the movie, Michelle Rhee, chancellor of Washington D.C. schools at the time of the film, said that if we want to fix education, it has to quit being about the adults. And start being about the kids.

I learned two things on Sunday. What 'charter' school meant. And that it is still very much about the adults who want nothing more than to pontificate from their limited milieu even when they have a dozen or more actual school age youth in their midst who could give them real answers and insight.

Until I BLOG again...I'm no Superman.

I Want A New Drug

2011-10-25T09:26:00.001-05:00

"Is the witch off?"

No good night, I love you, or bye. "Is the witch off?"

You see BLOG reader, we have a Halloween decoration on the front porch, near Boy #1's bedroom window. A witch. Who if turned on, will cackle and talk crazy witch talk if her motion sensor is tripped. Which often happens when things go bump in the night. Said bump being the neighbor's cats.

"I'll go check," I said.

"Come back and let me know." He said.

Which was odd. But ok. I do as told with most family matters. Especially Boy(s) requests, if reasonable and asked in a polite manner.

I went to the front porch, turned the witch around, making sure she was 'off', then walked back to his room where he had a big shit eating grin on his face. This confused me. The witch usually freaks him out, hard, based on a stormy night episode where she went off, or on as it were, repeatedly because of thunder and lighting

"She's off, Boy." I said. "What so funny?"

"Didn't you see?" He asked.

"See what. No. I don't have my glasses on...?!"

"We put our Red Ribbon bracelets on her." He laughed.

"Nice," I said. "I'll have to get a picture of that tomorrow."

"Yeah," he laughed some more.

That's my Boy. Or Boy(s), because like me, they both think Red Ribbon Week is about the stupidest thing the school does all year. Or in Boy #2's words, "Red Ribbon Week is boring...and all they give you is crap."

Which is true. Half baked (pun intended) theme days that trip over themselves to tie into the theme of 'not choosing drugs.' Example. Erase drug day where you get crap, err, an eraser.

Red Ribbon Week is such a beating I'm surprised it doesn't cause kids to actually do drugs.

Like I told one of the Mom's who got wrangled into coordinating Red Ribbon Week. She was asking me how she could raise money to pull off Red Ribbon Week, which was really asking how she could fund buying all the crap.

"Sell drugs." I said.

She laughed.

"Really," she asked again. "How do you think we can raise money for Red Ribbon Week?"

"Sell drugs." I repeated.

"I'm going to tell (insert PTA Mom leader person's name) you said that." She said.

"Please do." I said.

"I hate Red Ribbon Week. It's a beating. And a waste of time."

Which is what I believe BLOG reader. Jaded and rant-y as it may sound.

I don't think Red Ribbon Week works. Their hackneyed propaganda fails to persuade most kids, even those at a a grade school level. And the ones that they get end up sounding like anti-drug-booze-cigarette-McCarthyist parrots.

Reading what I rant, might lead you to believe that I'm Cheech or Chong. I'm not. In truth I'd be considered a square by many in that regard. Even as a kid, I didn't do much of it. Beyond some light experimenting. Which I'm sure is what many of these kids will end up doing.

If you want to help them, be honest, and talk to them.

Because I doubt seriously you're going to buy any of them a drug free life by giving them a free eraser or allowing them to dress up as their favorite character from a book (as long as it is a 'good' one, so no Neely O'Hara, please!)

Until I BLOG again...One that makes me feel like I feel when I'm with you.

Play That Funky Music

2011-10-24T15:46:00.002-05:00

I'm full of what if I did this, or that, type scenarios. Creating situations to see what will arise. Not sure why. Maybe it is an only child thing. I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, and had to amuse myself. Or maybe it's my sick sense of humor. I'm not sure.

What I am sure of is, going to the church Youth Halloween costume Party as Jesus is probably a bad idea. Going as Zombie Jesus, probably worse.

I tell you that for this. I can (and do) censor myself most of the time. Whatever I miss though, well, that job often falls to My Lovely Bride. To censor. Me. Which is why I was stoked when she said yes to this:

"What if we brought white bread to multi-cultural night at the school?"

She even upped the ante by adding butter to our mix and doing a sign that read: White Bread & Butter, USA.

Most found our white bread funny, even if not all found it funny for the same reason. Half got the white = white joke in the political correct context I had intended. While others thought it was a funny commentary on today's busy and hectic life.

The best reaction however, happened before we even walked into the joint. A sixth grader, who knows my wife quite well (from her time teaching at said school) saw me following the team into the school carrying a bag.

"What did you bring to multi-cultural night?" He asked.

I learned later that he had brought pupusas as he is of Salvadoran descent.

"We brought white bread." I said. "And butter. Or actually margarine."

"White bread?" He said. "That's racist."

"Why is that racist?" I asked. "I am white."

I should note that this kid reminds me very much of Boy #2, or as I imagine Boy #2 when he's in the sixth grade. Friendly, poised and a little mischievous. My Lovely Bride loves the kid. Thinks he's really cool. He's that kind of kid, which is why he smiled at me. Sizing me up, I think to see if I was messing with him.

Finally he said, "You are white."

It was my turn to smile.

"Yes. I am. Very white." I agreed.

Until I BLOG again...And just when it hit me somebody turned around and shouted...

All Things Must Pass

2011-10-21T09:49:00.001-05:00

Fair is a metaphor, because, like life, it is not.

Fair.

Which is where, if you aren't careful, you can spend twelve tickets for a cup of beer at a stand that is a few steps from another that charges seven.

Which is my way of saying that The Texas State Fair was about as good of a place as any to mark the fifth anniversary of Mom's death. She was sixty-five. On paper at least. I think of her as being sixty-four. She only lived eight days after her sixty-fifth birthday, most of which was spent as a wasted, bedridden shell of any version of her that I care to remember.

Yet here I am.

Funny that MK picked up on a line—to the point of comment—in what amounts to Part 1 of this here BLOG post.

I miss my Mom. But I no longer grieve for her.

I wasn't lying when I wrote that. But I would be lying if I didn't disclose the rest: I'm often mad.

It has taken me five years to admit that. And. To realize that it isn't necessarily bad. Because I'm not bitter she died. This might sound one in the same to you reading this right now. For me. It is not.

The normal platitudes extended when a person dies do not work for aboynamedstu. You get a lot of those when you lose someone close. People mean well, for the most part. But they don't know what to say. Or do. So they things like, 'she's no longer suffering.' Or, 'she's in a better place.' Or, 'you can learn (insert whatever they think you can glean from it, which I promise, 9 out of 10 times, will be about what the person saying it needs to learn) from her death.'

That kind of shit makes me bitter. And, this is 10 out of 10 times more about me than you there reading this now, I don't like to think about my Mom in a better place. Which implies heaven for most. The person saying that don't know the life she led to make such a blanket moral declaration. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to say to some well meaning person, 'maybe she's in a far worse place like hell, the way she lived her life.' Or. 'I don't like to think about my Mom watching over me from heaven. That means she can see me jerking off, and or not living up to the man she raised me to be.'

Does heaven even work like that? Or does God have the ability to block what the dead can see the same way Time Warner Cable allows me to block The Weather Channel from Boy #1 who has a penchant for watching tornado coverage to the point of freak-out.

The thing that drives me absolute bat shit crazy bitter though is this: You can learn (insert the lesson) from the death. Seriously. Do I really need my Mom to die to learn something? Or for that matter anyone. Like Steve Jobs. We need for the guy to croak so we can all remember the time he gave the speech where he said 'life is short, do what you love.'

Fuck me.

This probably is starting to sound like nothing more than the bitter rant of a aboynamedstu who misses his Mommy. But that's not this thing at all. Like I was saying, I'm not bitter. Which wasn't always the case. I've learned that the bitter is bad, the anger isn't. No matter what you might have been told, or think. Anger gets shit done. It changes things. And. It has taken me five years to get that. Because, I truly do suck in real time.

My Mom died in a house that sits on the 9th hole of what was once a 27 hole golf course. On the first hole of that golf course, the stone you see at the top of this here BLOG post was laid the December after her death by a group of her friends in remembrance. It's hard to tell from the picture but at the very top, above the cliche quote thing, it reads:

Joyce Tinsley
1941-2006
Love, Laugh, Live.

Like Mom, that golf course is gone. It became unprofitable and was allowed to go jungle. Which is why on a visit to Houston a few years ago, a friend gave the stone to my Dad who put it in a box and gave it to me one Christmas. Not as a gift. Talk about a coal in your stocking. He gave it to me because it is tantamount to a grave stone since Mom was cremated and is in a box in Tulsa with my Dad. God knows where that box is? Maybe his closet? He is remarried.

My point. Where do you put such a stone? That was what was bothering me. Why I took it and set it, in the box, on a dark shelf in my garage for what had to be close to a year.

Where do you put such a stone? That was rhetorical. I know the answer now.

I put it on a deck in my backyard next to the hot tub. A hot tub that I only own because of a chain of events that were created by Mom dying.

That might seem odd to most. But for me, it makes perfect sense. I see it every time I climb in or out of the hot tub.

It's my reminder. And much better than that stupid fucking Semisonic song.

That the beginning is the end. Or. The end the beginning.

Because fair is a metaphor, like life, it is not.

Be vigilant in finding the tent that sells your cup of whatever for seven tickets instead of twelve.

Until I BLOG again...It's not always going to be this grey.

What Is Life

2011-10-10T12:46:00.001-05:00

Today would have been (or is, I seriously don't know the ruling on that) my Mom's 70th birthday. Fast forward seven days and it will be the 5th anniversary of her death. Two bookend type events for aboynamedstu.

I can't even begin to imagine what life would be like if Mom hadn't died. Well, beyond the fact that Pop probably wouldn't be remarried to Janie. Or back in Oklahoma. Then again. Who knows.

This BLOG post isn't about what ifs. It is about a memory that I keep dredging up of OU/Texas weekend my freshman year of college. A testament to my uptightness, I didn't go to the OU/Texas game my freshman year. The Thursday prior to OU/Texas happened to be my Mom's birthday. Her 44th birthday. Which for those playing along at home, is my current age, and why I keep returning to this memory. You see BLOG reader, my Mom had lost her Dad on September 21st of that year. After a long slow heart related decline which hurt her heart, hard. Which means that I came home on her first birthday sans her Dad, who had just died a little less than three weeks in what was then the rearview.

Not that I planned it that way. At the time I didn't consider any of that.

I didn't get the double whammy of an only child daughter losing her Dad a few weeks after her only child son had went off to college. And not because I suck in real time. Which I do. This is more about how my family dealt with death. My Grandpa's death was really never discussed beyond the actual dying part. He was here one day. Sick. And then dead. Funnily enough both my Mom and her Dad died in what was their living rooms. Where they watched TV. Not that that is my point. My point is this. My Grandpa's death wasn't discussed much, beyond a random story here or there. Everyone sort of dealt with it in their own way, inside their own head. Which might imply that we were freaked out about discussing it. Which is true of many people. This wasn't our case though. It was more about sucking it up and dealing with it.

Which is why I didn't do that with my Mom's death. I did the opposite in fact, documenting the hell out of it over on the Team Tinsley BLOG. Mainly for posterity, so the Boy(s) will know how I really dealt and felt in the Buck Rogers future. And. To try and let it go, the best I could.

Nearly five years later and it is gone. For the most part.

Turns out, for me at least, grief does have as statute of limitations. About four years. I miss my Mom. But I no longer grieve for her. It is like I often say, when people say something regarding her, as if she were still alive: "My Mom is dead." That abrupt black and white statement jars most. Which I find funny. Because my Mom is dead. The same way the sky is blue. And the grass is green. It is a truth I can't escape. Which is why I just approach it head on as I move on down the road of my life. Trying to not be sad or bitter that she's gone. Pausing quietly on a day like today, when she would have been seventy.

Or.

Is seventy.

(to be continued on the 5th anniversary of her death.)

Until I BLOG again...Oh tell me, what is my life without your love, Tell me who am I without you by my side.

Peace on Earth

2011-09-14T12:31:00.002-05:00

I watched September 11th unfold at work. I was hard at it, when someone came in and said they'd just heard on the radio that a plane had hit some building in New York City. Many of us walked from the corporate office to the showroom floor and watched the events unfold on Good Morning America. To this day, my strongest memory is thinking to myself, how in the hell do you put out a fire in a building that tall. Then, the second plane hit, and all hell broke loose.

Later that afternoon My Lovely Bride and I went to her routine pregnancy check-up. We sat there, shell shock, waiting for the doctor, in a medical office in the hospital that seemed eerily quiet and empty.

That night I sat up and watched TV, trying to find something besides the repeated footage of the planes hitting and collapse. Trying to not think of what a fucked up world we were bringing the baby who would become Boy #1 into. I finally found HBO which was showing some spare movie. At around 1am, however, the movie ended and HBO literally went off the air. Like many stations that night. It was the first (and I bet last) time I had seen a TV station or channel do that since I was a kid in Oklahoma. It was (and still is) a trip to me. I remember the silence. Dead of night. Me and my thoughts. And fear.

I didn't lose anyone I knew personally in 9.11. So these are my memories. Ones I shared to a degree with a group of Youth at Church on the tenth anniversary of September 11. It also happened to be the six anniversary of the first time My Lovely Bride and I visited that church.

The oldest of the Youth were only in 2nd grade when 9.11 happened. Their stories centered around being in class and learning of it from the scared teachers. One kid's Dad came up to be with her, and even though he didn't tell her why, until much later, she knew something at a gut level was wrong because he was there. The youngest of the Youth were only 2 at the time and have no solid memory of the event. What they know is only what they've learned from their parents, in school, or from the media. Many commented that only recently had they seen actual footage, since I guess, the media had self imposed guidelines for showing it out or respect. Leading up to the ten anniversary however, that was lifted, and the media in my humble opinion, succumbed to their disaster porn for ratings aspect of the news which I loathe.

What did we learn from 9.11? That was one of the guide questions. What does it teach us about forgiveness and tolerance was another. Where was God. Another. Deep questions for Youth. And probably, in all honesty, an even deeper question for an old fucker like myself.

At the end of the program the Youth Director led us to the sanctuary where she had ribbon and pens laid out on a table. She asked the Youth and us Adult Counselors to write our prayers of hope on said ribbons. Then when we were done, we placed them on a wooden Cross near where the Pastors preach each week.

I wrote my prayer. In black sharpie. On a pink with polka-dots, ribbon.

9.11 pisses me off. And still makes me want to strike back. Which I shared with the kids. I'm many things. But always honest. Like I told them. Anger is easy. The love and forgiveness is the hard part.

Do unto others, indeed.

Until I BLOG again...But hope and history won't rhyme.

Thinking of You

2011-09-05T11:11:00.001-05:00

For me, especially considering that it's a high five round number sort of a year, Labor Day = this.

This Fall is going to be hard for aboynamedstu. The five year anniversary of my Mom's death comes a week after what would have been her 70th birthday.

Fuck round numbers nearly as much as cancer.

Until I BLOG again...And I'm trying now.

Blue Sky Mine

2011-08-30T12:29:00.005-05:00

Certain events define you.

Often in ways you never fully understand at the time, and until the event is viewed from another person's perspective.

This is such an event for aboynamedstu.

A working steel mill is hot, dirty, noisy and dangerous. In fact aboynamedstu v19 imagined that the steel mill probably looked a hell of a lot like the hell all the preachers of my youth said I was going to if I didn't stop jerking off and/or listening to AC/DC records and get myself saved.

Money is a key motivator though, which is why I donned a yellow hat and worked in that hot, dirty, noisy and dangerous hell hole the summer of 1987.

A Yellow Hat could get a lot of shifts during the Summer. Many of the regular workers would call in sick to go fishing which allowed us Yellow Hats (especially on graveyard shifts when it was hard to get anyone who wasn't already at the mill to come in for work) to work doubles. Your second shift was time and a half. Big money for a college kid in 1987.

Steel mills for the most part, try and run non-stop. The goal is to make as much steel as possible and minimize down time. Which is why the Steel Mill ran in three shifts.

Days: 7am-3pm.
Evenings: 3-11pm (the best shift in my opinion.)
Graveyard: 11pm-7am.

The only time the steel mill would go down—stop producing steel—was if there was mechanical failure or when it was time to patch the furnaces which they did every two weeks or so, always on a Saturday evening shift. They would shut the furnaces down at the end of the Friday evening shift (11pm,) and then the brick gang would come in on Saturday at 4pm to do the patch job. It was a brick gang because a furnace is lined with refractory brick and masons do that type of work in a steel mill. Having their own union, the brick gang was actually separate from the other steel mill employees who had their own union. The brick gang had their own team, foreman, and spell shack (where they took their breaks.)

I preferred the brick gang. Because the guys weren't like the guys I wrote about in this story who were in the other union. But, man, even though I enjoyed working brick gang, when they patched the furnace was (and still is) the hardest work I've ever done.

The first thing you must consider is this. When you start your shift at 4pm on Saturday the furnace in which you are working had been making steel less than 24 hours before. To be clear. You are literally inside the furnace that had molten steel in it 24 hours in the rear view. Often they'd put a wooden pallet onto the metal platform we stood on in the furnace so the thick rubber soles on our heavy duty work boots would not melt. On more than one occasion, I've seen the wood pallet catch fire because of the residual heat. You'd think the heat would be the worst part, but what really got me was the amount of soot or dust that was kicked up by us Yellow Hats who had the fun job of jackhammering the brick that needed replaced out of the sides of the furnace. Which isn't easy considering you are having to hold the heavy jackhammer at chest level—or higher—to get the brick out of the sides of the furnace. In a matter of minutes, any expose skin, which was covered in sweat because of the oppressive heat, was caked with the soot and dust making the person, regardless of color, look black. Minstrel show black too. The filth was such that when I'd come home from one of these shifts I'd take up to three showers to try and get clean. The first was always what the steel mill guys called a yard shower or bath. You'd try and clean up In your yard, with a water hose, so you wouldn't bring the worst of the filth into the house and bathroom. Even after three showers I often had the look of having worked the brick gang because of the black soot that was around my eyes which made me look like I was wearing black eyeliner.

One of the coolest things about working the brick gang on those shifts was that the steel mill, for the most part, was silent. The brick gang shift usually left before 7am on Sunday when the plant started production again. This is a very rare thing if you've ever seen or been in a working steel mill.

It is also the only reason I heard the tiny cries that night. Even though at first I thought it was tinnitus from all the jackhammering.

"Do you hear that?" I asked one of my co-workers as we walked through the plant on the way to our cars.

"Hear what?" He asked.

"That." I said turning my head to try and source the sound.

"Sounds like a cat." He said in a breezy matter-of-fact manner.

"Why would a cat be in the plant?" I asked.

"Guys bring 'em here to get rid of 'em." He said.

"It's coming from that pour stand." I said.

"Maybe," he said walking off.

"What should we do?" I asked.

"I don't care what you do. I'm tired. I'm going to the house." He said.

I stood there, in the middle of the quiet steel mill, as dawn broke, looking up at the pour stand, wondering what I should do. A pour stand (what they sit ladles on—which are like a big bowl they pour the molten steel from the furnace into) is what it sounds like. A big metal stand that looks a little like a mini version of a helicopter pad. There's not really any point for a person to get onto a pour stand platform, therefore, getting up there was going to be no easy feat. I'd have to scale up the side and try and pull myself over the rim edge to get whatever was making the crying noise. A daunting task after working 10+ hard hours in a hot furnace.

Fuck it. I thought. Walking a few paces toward the parking lot and my car.

But I couldn't. Fuck it. Whatever was up there was crying, such a pitiful cry, I had to at least try and help.

Which is what I did. Black from all the soot, bone weary tired, I climbed up the side of the pour stand, eventually pulling myself over the edge where I came face to face with a bony little kitten who couldn't have been more than 6 weeks old.

You there reading this BLOG now are probably much faster than me in real time. And if I have done a worthy job of explaining how the steel mill works and what a pour stand is have arrived at the same heinous conclusion that I never really got until a few weeks ago when I retold this story to a person at a Youth Retreat. I understood that the cat was in the plant because someone was wanting to get rid of it. What I failed to grasp though was this: getting rid was tantamount to kill. And not just kill kill. We're talking kill by throwing that baby kitten up onto the ladle stand platform where the person knew a ladle, that weighed tons, and would be filled with red hot steel would eventually be placed upon that stand by a crane operator, crushing that poor kitten.

I put Elsa (what my Mom, a Born Free fan, named her) inside my flame retardant green (which was actually black post furnace patch) steel mill jacket and buttoned it up so she couldn't escape as I scaled down the side of the pour stand.

As I walked to my car I unbuttoned the coat and let Elsa poke her tiny head out.

The morning shift was streaming into work at this point and some guy going to the furnace jokingly asked me, "You bring a cat to work Yellow Hat!?"

"It was on the pour stand." I said.

"Someone was trying to get rid of it." He said like it was common knowledge that would be the only reason for a kitten being in the plant.

"Why you climb up there and get the damn thing for?" He asked me.

"I don't know." I answered because I really didn't. "I just did."

"Fucking Yellow Hats..." He said shaking his head as he walked toward the furnace.

My Mom nursed Elsa back to health and eventually gave her to my friend Matt. He took her to college where she ended up living in a big house of guys from my hometown. Eventually Matt and I lost touch, but eventually half ass reconnected via Facebook where he told me that Elsa had went with him after he graduated college and started his life. And family. That she had lived to be nearly 20 years old.

"Why you climb up there and get the damn thing for?"

I know the answer now. Not that it's any great revelation.

I did it because it was the right thing to do.

And it is who I am—even if at that time—I didn't yet fully understand the am I was meant to be.

As I Until I BLOG again...Who's gonna save me?

One

2011-08-12T09:09:00.003-05:00

Life has a certain symmetry. Sublime. If—and this is key—you pay attention.

As I alluded in The Wanderer, I often run when I'm traveling. Not only for the exercise and all of its benefits, but also to see a place in a way that is hard to see unless you are on foot.

That is what I was doing when I heard The Wanderer while running along the Arkansas River on my early July visit to Sand Springs, Oklahoma. It was the first time I've heard The Wanderer in a very long time. I owned a CD of it back in the day (said day being circa 1993) which was lost. I saw the disc at Half Price Books a few months ago for $2 and bought it. From there I ripped the CD and it ended up on my iPod where it played on Saturday, July 2nd as I ran along the banks of the Arkansas River.

Three weeks later, literally, while on vacation, we were in Gruene, Texas where I walked into the patio area of Adobe Verde restaurant where The Wanderer was being played by the band that was setting up to take the stage later that evening.

What does it mean. Hell if i know. I simply noted it, going as far to post it on my Facebook status, and put our name on the wait list.

Three days later while running on a sidewalk through downtown New Braunfels my path was blocked by an elderly woman using a walker as she crossed the sidewalk into an old school beauty shop that reminded me of my Mom's shop (Joyce's) for what I assumed was her weekly hair appointment since she had that old lady back-comb style of hair.

I could have easily ran around the old lady, as I usually don't stop while I'm running. But I did. Out of deference. And because the old school beauty shop, and sadly the walker, reminded me of my Mom. All of which is running through my monkey brain as I watch an old man come around the passenger side of what has to be their farm truck.

He was old too. I'd guess in his eighties. But still formidable in his bib overalls and cowboy hat. It was easy to imagine what he must have looked like in his prime and to see that he had spent his life working hard, outdoors.

Then. Dissonance. Hard.

He had a large handbag purse, the type carried by old ladies, over his right arm.

Not that it made him any less of a man. If anything it made him more of one as he walked around what had to be his wife, allowing her to move across the sidewalk on her own, yet making it easier for her by opening up the door and carrying her purse since her hands and arms were busy with the walker. The newspaper in his left hand made it clear that he more than likely would sit in the beauty shop, something he probably did every week, while his elderly wife had her hair done.

In that moment I was filled with a sense of awe. Goofy as that may sound. And to be honest it was one of the coolest moments of my entire vacation. Witnessing this random act on the streets of New Braunfels. And to prove how awesome it truly was, and probably to make sure I was paying attention, at that very moment, as I took all of this in, the song that was playing on my iPod ended and One by U2 began.

Until I BLOG again...We're one, but we're not the same. We get to. Carry each other. Carry each other. One.

Lick It Up

2011-08-06T08:06:00.000-05:00

Until I BLOG again...You gotta live like you're on vacation.

Sassafras Roots

2011-08-02T16:40:00.002-05:00

"You shit in the backyard?" I asked the Elder Boy, stupidly, considering I was staring at his skat.

"Yes."

I looked down at the flies languidly circling his feces.

"Why?" I asked.

He smiled.

"He did it because he...!" The Younger Boy started.

"Stop." I said pointing at him. "I'm not talking to you."

The Younger Boy, stopped, begrudgingly, based on the epic fuck you expression written across his face.

"Why?" I asked the Elder Boy again.

He smiled.

"WHY?" I asked in my scary Dad voice.

"I wanted to see what it would be like," he answered.

"Really?!?" I asked.

A question with a half-ass question. Classic aboynamedstu dipshit move to buy more time.

He smiled again which meant, in my mind at least, he wasn't telling the whole story.

"And...?" I prompted in my scary Dad voice.

"Because I have to...!" The Younger Boy blurted.

"Stop." I said pointing at him again. "I'm not talking to you."

"GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" The Younger Boy raged as he stomped across the yard. Which is when it hit me. Why the Elder Boy had shit in the backyard. Beyond seeing what it would be like.

"You shit in the backyard so your brother would have to pick it up?" I asked even though I was pretty sure I was correct since one of the Younger Boy's main chores is picking up Ruby the Dog's crap in the backyard.

"Yeah!" The Younger Boy said stomping back over to where I stood and looking at me as if he were talking to a kid who rides the short bus.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you! DAD!" He said in a tone that reeked of insubordination.

"Really?" I asked the Elder Boy ignoring the Younger Boy.

He smiled which was answer enough.

"That's funny." I said forgetting that I was supposed to be Dad and mediate.

"IT'S NOT FUNNY...!" The Younger Boy raged.

"You have to admit," I told the Younger Boy, "It is pretty funny. You're just mad because he did it hoping you'd pick it up. If it wasn't you, it would be funny."

"NO!!! IT'S NOT!!!!" He informed me. "Ruby has to use the backyard."

"What?" I asked. Confused.

"IT'S NOT FUNNY. THIS IS RUBY'S BACKYARD!!!"

"You lost me, Boy." I said. "Why does Ruby care if your brother shits in the backyard? Your Mom. I can see. But Ruby? She's a dog."

Nothing. The Younger Boy simply stared at me with the same epic fuck you expression written across his face. I decided to change my tack and asked, "How'd you know it was your brother's crap versus Ruby's?"

"Just look at it." The Younger Boy said in a tone usually reserved for small children or someone who is mentally challenged. "It's HUGE!"

"No shit." I said as I desperately tried to not laugh at my own bad (but awesomely inappropriate)pun.

Laughing makes the Younger Boy go berserk in such situations.

"That would be a huge shit for Ruby." I added.

"YEAH," The Younger Boy said as if I were king of the dumbasses.

Until I BLOG again...Well, I'm a WASTE like you. With nothing else to do. May I WASTE your time too?

Bookends

2011-07-31T09:44:00.003-05:00

I cried. Not once, or twice, but thrice during Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2. Not that you could hear. Boy #2 was loudly munching on a huge tub of popcorn (what he doesn't yet understand is that my allowing him to have control of the popcorn is a testament of my love for him.)

I cried during the Snape back story memory thing. When Harry finally learns his true motives. I cried when Harry gets the resurrection stone and is able to talk to his Mom, Dad, Sirius Black and Lupin. Finally, and probably most importantly, I cried because I was sitting next to Boy #2 and had a view of Boy #1 who was sitting with his Mom below us (the theatre was pretty full when we arrived and we couldn't sit together.)

You see BLOG reader, I went and saw Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on December 7, 2001 at The Studio Movie Grill in Plano for Joanie Pond's birthday. My Lovely Bride was not in attendance, because she was very pregnant with Boy #1 who would arrive roughly a day short of six weeks in what was then the Buck Rogers future.

Life moves fast. Recurrent theme with me. Yes. But fuck me, watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2 version of Harry juxtaposed with the flash back version of Harry from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone made life moves fast palpable in a way that is hard to explain beyond saying that it brought tears.

Watching Boy #1—who looks so big and so much like my Mom—in the reflected light of the screen while sitting by Boy #2 loudly munching on popcorn that I wanted for myself is about as good as it can get for aboynamedstu. I'm a dipshit. And I do suck in real time. But every once in a while, as they say, a blind squirrel gets a nut. And I got mine in a theater in Plano, Texas on a hot Saturday morning which also happened to be my 17th wedding anniversary.

Until I BLOG again...Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.

Melt Show

2011-07-30T09:16:00.001-05:00

Today is my wedding anniversary. Our union could go and see an R movie all by itself. Seventeen fucking years of marriage. Hard to believe. The hippie gas station mexican joint where we ate dinner on our first date (La Suprema for those playing along at home) is long gone. As is the strip club where we later had a drink (Wild Orchid.) What is still around. Me and My Lovely Bride. Seventeen fucking years of marriage is pretty cool in this day and age. Not that it's a contest. Marriage is no game. Ebb and flow like most things in this life. Day by day. Overall. I'm a lucky man. Because I still love My Lovely Bride seventeen fucking years down the proverbial road of life. Which is pretty amazing considering we hit a titty bar on our first date. Happy Anniversary Carter Kincaid.

Until I BLOG again...Will you sober up and let me?

The Wanderer

2011-07-08T16:46:00.004-05:00

I went out riding, Down that old eight lane, I passed by a thousand signs, Looking for my own name.

I hit the wall running along the Arkansas River on a hot Saturday morning in Sand Springs, Oklahoma.

Not literally. Metaphorically.

Although I did end up with a blister on my right foot. It hurt less than my heart.

Even though this and the other BLOG may paint me as an everything zen kind of a Dad, I am not. Especially in my own eyes. I can be uptight. That's the point. Wired for sound is how my Dad classified it. When my own Boy(s) mirror the same type of behavior I tell them this: slow down.

Like many though, I have the hardest time following my own advice.

Do what I say, not what I do, is an especially epic fuck me when I return back to what once was my home.

There's a great episode of Northern Exposure (one of my all-time favorite TV shows) in the sixth season where Marilyn comes to Manonash for a potlatch. Joel (who was leaving the show in real life thus being written out of the series) had went upriver to Manonash a few episodes earlier for a house call and never returned. Marilyn had been Joel's secretary for the length of the series and had seen first hand what an uptight, typical New Yorker he could be. She on the other hand hardly spoke, in a very calm, zen, native american sort of a way. Upon arrival to Manonash Marilyn silently notices the changes that have occured in Joel, from him manner of dress to his ability to adapt to a remote and primitive lifestyle (something that drove him nuts before. Him being the main fish in this fish out of water series.) Meanwhile, Joel feels it necessary to convince or prove to Marilyn that he really is a changed man and in the process reverts back to his old behaviors, which includes talking incessantly to Marilyn who is the queen of silence and calm. As his old behaviors snowball—to comic effect—Marilyn feels he has not changed. Toward the end of the show she sees the progress Joel is making through a wooden bowl he carved with painstaking detail and patience. Something he would not have wanted or been able to do before. In the end, Marilyn realizes that he has actually changed and offers him a gift of babiches she made with goose feathers 'to help him go lightly through life.'

I told you that for this. Sand Springs is my Marilyn.

Running, on that hot Saturday morning, I realized that no matter how far, or fast, I ran, I could never outrun the past.

Until I BLOG again...I went with nothing, But the thought you'd be there too, Looking for you.

S.O.S.

2011-06-29T13:13:00.006-05:00

I'd like to kick Sweden in the nuts. Hard. And not for the reason most would like to kick Sweden in the nuts as my Until I BLOG again link at the end of this post implies (read: ABBA.)

I'd like to kick Sweden in the nuts for IKEA.

That store (really more the shopping experience) is a beating of such fuck me proportion that my general rule is to never, ever, go there. Fuck their $2 Swedish meatball dinners. And insanely cheap furniture and housewares. It isn't worth me having to navigate their labyrinth of a store to save a few bucks only to have to pull their shit off the racks myself, drag it home, and then assemble. And as if that wasn't reason enough to stay away from IKEA factor in that the joint is always full of tourists who are there more for recreation than actual shopping.

IKEA makes me crazier than a shit-house rat.

It is seriously such a beating to me, that when my Lovely Bride and I started discussing buying more seating for our den my only condition was it not be from IKEA.

Yet there I was on a school night not only looking at modular sectional choices for the den, but also looking for an IKEA employee who could help us figure out their byzantine pricing for said modular sectional choices.

You might be wondering why My Lovely Bride would blatantly disregard my lone condition and drag my ass north to IKEA.

Two words: Her mom.

My Lovely Bride enlisted her mother (Linda) to help her on the quest for more seating. Linda is very good at shopping. I think it fair to say she loves it. Which is why she went shopping with My Lovely Bride armed with IKEA's 2010 catalog. Mind you this catalog probably came out in late 2009. Her reason to save it, when she saves little else—she's always attempting to give us her cast-offs so she can make room for new things—is inexplicable, considering up until that point, she had never set foot in an IKEA.

So, again, there I was, on a school night not only looking at modular sectional choices but also for an IKEA employee who could make sense of their byzantine pricing for modular seating so we could figure out how much what we wanted was going to cost.

But there was no one there. Actually that's not true. There were probably as many people in IKEA on that Tuesday night as resided in the home town of my youth. The issue was that there were no IKEA people around. Anywhere.

After waiting for I'd guess, ten minutes or so, I took matters in my own hands and back tracked in a follow the bread crumbs sort of a way back out of their store to their payment area to see if anyone could help me.

Considering that IKEA payment area are all now self serve like you see at the grocery store these days, I didn't have much luck. The two IKEA employees I spoke to, I bet, if you added their ages together, would still be less than my 43 year old ass. They were friendly. And wanted to help. But ultimately tits on a boar hog was the net effect.

So I had to drag my ass back through their maze of a store to My Lovely Bride who was still trying to figure out what she thought the seating would cost us based on what we wanted (she was hundreds of dollars off by the way which is a testament to how confusing their pricing is since My Lovely Bride is smart.)

In addition to us there were a few other people who instead of walking through the area (these recreational shoppers put me in mind of Dorothy and the gang walking down the yellow brick road,) were milling around, clearly wanting assistance too.

Anyone who reads this here BLOG (or knows me) know that I like to fuck with people.

What you might not know is that one of my favorite places to fuck with people is in a retail setting.

I believe people for the most part, are sheep. I don't say that to be a dick. Or superior. I think people, especially in a group situation, are going to go with the flow. It's in our DNA. How we survived and grown in a very entrenched sociological sort of a way. You follow certain rules. Do what everyone else is doing. It's for the greater good. This is especially true in a store like IKEA.

There are rules is my point. And even though most people follow them, most of them can't (or won't be) enforced. I'm not talking about theft. Or breaking shit kind of rules either. I'm talking about the store's rules.

A rule like a customer using the phone and computer in a salesperson's (who was AWOL) work space at IKEA.

Which is what I did.

I work for a retail store. I'm part of the corporate office, but have been around it long enough to know how things work. This made taking over the phone pretty easy. Which is what I did to the horror (especially one lady, she looked at me like I had shit on the floor and then wiped my ass with a fabric sample) of all those milling (or walking through) the modular seating area.

The first person I called (I was using their phone distribution list which was posted near the keyboard in the workspace I had commandeered) was customer service.

I got voice mail.

Which asked me to leave a detailed message.

So, with the uptight lady watching me warily I said, "Hi. I need HELP! BAD!!! There's no one up her in (insert whatever the sign that hung in the area called the area.) You need to get someone up here. People need help."

And really because the women was giving me such a, 'I can't believe he's using their phone' sort of a look I added, "If someone doesn't come quick I'm going to start tearing SHIT up."

I made a point of looking at the women when I said shit too. Because again, that's how I roll. I like to fuck with people. And believe me. It worked.

You might be wondering where My Lovely Bride was during my commandeering of the phone. She was walking around the area, sort of watching me, and looking. She is mildly amused by my antics. In fact, back in our salad days, I remember entertaining her (and fucking with people) at a department store by trying on a Speedo bathing suit (I had boxers on underneath the Speedo so I looked pretty fucking tight) and, wait for it, a garish seersucker suit.

My point. She knows how I roll and doesn't try and stop me. If anything she'll walk off so people don't think I'm with her, or her with me.

Not that that would (or will) stop me.

I waited a few minutes to see if customer service would send someone to help quick before I started tearing shit up.

Nada.

So I called a couple of more random extensions for giggles. Make odd noises. Hang up. Call back. That kind of stuff. Kind of interoffice or in-store crank calling. That is until at the very bottom of this handy dandy laminated phone distribution sheet I saw this: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CALL (INSERT EXT.) - SUPERVISING DUTY MANAGER.

Fuck me. If this wasn't an emergency I don't know what is.

"This is (Insert her name) at the help desk..."

"I need help. Bad. Really need help. Now."

She was silent for a long time. Literally twenty seconds before she said, "Who is this?"

"I'm a customer." I said. "I've taken over the phone."

Crickets.

"I need help. A lot of people do. But there is no one in (insert whatever the sign that hung in the area called the area.) They must be AWOL."

"Ok..." She said. Warily.

"Get someone up here now!" I said. More playing than pissed off or upset. Not that she or the people milling around would know.

"Ok..." She said. Again. Warily.

"Bye." I said.

I hung up.

Two minutes later a pregnant women in a yellow IKEA shirt walked into the area with a very strange, curious, dare I say, scared look on her face.

Since I was still standing by the work station with my My Lovely Bride who had rejoined me after I had grown bored with calling people she walked up to us.

But she didn't say anything.

She had that weird look on her face. Scared. Angry. Both?

My Lovely Bride spoke first. To break the tension I guess. Turns out that this lady was the actual manager who I had called. A few minutes later a lady by the name of (per her name badge) Fatima showed up too.

We ended up buying the modular sectional seating. And. A mortar and pestle. I wanted a $4 wok. But My Lovely Bride said the expensive wok we already had was all the wok we needed.

Fuck me. And. IKEA.

I hope the manager was happy that with her help we made a big ticket purchase by IKEA standards. Her walking through her maze of a store (pregnant to boot) wasn't in vain. Even though she seemed on guard or angry during our entire transaction. Which now that I think about it might be a result of the customer service person who got my voice mail calling her for a possible emergency in (insert whatever the sign that hung in the area called the area) where some crazy customer said he was going to to start tearing SHIT up if no one came to help.

Until I BLOG again...So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me S.O.S.

Ice Cream Man

2011-06-28T08:33:00.007-05:00

The Boy(s) hated—No—H*A*T*E*D PACE. Not the picante sauce. Their after school program at school. They aren't big fans of school either, so having to stay late and do forced homework and other bullshit work designed more to keep them busy than to stretch their minds made them extremely bitter.

Half way through the year we decided to let them start walking home versus go to PACE. My Lovely Bride worked at the school which is literally a block from our house, so we figured the getting home part wouldn't be that tough. Still, when people learned that we were letting them walk and then be home alone for a few hours in the afternoon we got a few should I call CPS type of looks. Mind you they are 9 and 7. I was walking to my Mom's place of work which was double the distance as their walk when I was six. By myself. These PC, American Idiot (Welcome to a new kind of tension, All across the alien nation, Where everything isn't meant to be okay) times. Fuck me.

But I digress.

Our concern wasn't so much them walking and being home alone. It was that they'd do their homework and not beat the shit out of each other. Which were two of our main rules. Get along, get your homework done or back to PACE. The other rule was that they always had to call me when they arrived home.

So each day, usually between 3:15 and 3:20 I'd get a call from Boy #2 who somehow got the job of being their spokesperson.

Boy #2 has a unique voice. Whiskey and cigarettes come to mind, not that he does either, my point is that he has a very rough and distinct voice. He is also a no bullshit phone talker. Typical calls would go like this: RING...I can see that it's them on my Robot Phone but still answer with a simple Hello to have them practice their phone skills.

"Dad. It's me. Wyatt."

"Hi Wy..." The Boy would cut me off.

"We're home. Ruby (our dog) is good. It was an ok day. Can I have a soda?"

After he got done with his all at once check in rap I would ask him about homework and inquire about the Elder Boy before saying he could in fact have a soda (I'm amazed that he has yet to realize he could get a soda without asking and I'd never be the wiser.)

His close is always the same.

"Ok. I love you. Bye."

His afternoon check ins became quite the afternoon laughfest for my co-workers who could hear my side of the conversation and only imagine what he was saying based on what I was saying when we experienced a few typical wheels off Team Tinsley moments.

By far the greatest though happened toward the end of the year, after they were seasoned latch key kids.

I was sitting at work when the phone rang and saw that it was the Boy(s). Knowing it would be Boy #2 and them having done this routine for so long I no longer felt they needed phone skills so I answered, "Hello Wyatt."

"Dad. It's me. Wyatt. We're home. Ruby is good. It was an ok day. Can I have a soda?"

I was quizzing the Boy about what he had to do homework wise when I heard the Elder Boy in what had to be the back half of our house scream.

"What was that?" I asked.

The Younger Boy must have put the phone down because I heard him say, "Ethan!?" in a far away way.

"Wyatt. What was that?" I asked again. "Is everything OK?"

The Elder Boy screamed again, followed by what sounded like him running down the hall into the kitchen where I imagined Wyatt had placed the call.

I could hear a muffled exchange between the two and then they both screamed.

"WYATT! What is going on? Is everything OK?" I asked again. Wondering if I should hang up and call My Lovely Bride who is literally 2 minutes away or 911. Maybe both.

The Younger Boy dropped the phone on the floor at that point. Then they both screamed and were running around. Or so it sounded from my end.

"WYATT!" I shouted in vain.

Mind you my co-workers are hearing all of this.

"WYATT!"

"WHAT IS GOING ON?"

One of them, or so it sounded, kicked the phone across our hard tile floor, which is all I could hear, along with their screams and running around.

"Fuck me!" I said to myself (and I guess my co-workers.)

"WYATT. PICK UP THE PHONE. WHAT IS GOING ON?"

Meanwhile back at the ranch, what was going on was a lot of screaming and loud running around.

A long 30 to 60 seconds later the Younger Boy abruptly picked up the phone and in a very breathless, super excited voice said,

"Dad. It's me. Wyatt."

"Wy what is going on?"

"Ice Cream Man!"

The Elder Boy screamed in the background.

"Ice Cream Man...?" I asked.

Ethan screamed again, and then, or so it sounded, loudly ran back down the hall screaming the entire way.

"Oh. The Ice Cream Man." I said finally figuring out what was happening. With that knowledge came the realization that they weren't simply screaming, they were screaming / yelling / chanting, ICE CREAM MAN, ICE CREAM MAN, over and over, as they ran around the house trying to find money to get some ice cream before the truck had passed our house.

"ICE CREAM MAN!!!" I heard the Elder Boy scream as he (or so it sounded) ran down the hall to what had to be the front door. That's when I heard the distinctive ice cream man truck song.

"Wyatt."

"Wyatt."

"WYATT."

I was about to say my fourth Wyatt when the Boy grabbed the phone and quickly said,

"Ok. I love you. Bye."

Until I BLOG again...All my flavors are guaranteed...to satis-uh-fy.

Times Like These

2011-06-17T15:57:00.004-05:00

Funnily enough the year I shat on a plate is the same year I got my shit together. And not just any old random shit on a plate. I'm talking some serious, did a food stylist shit on that plate, action.

It all started (and ended) at the Four Season Apartments in Norman, Oklahoma which is where I resided my junior year of college.

Fleming (of the infamous zonkey story) and I picked the Four Seasons for three important reasons.
1. It was close to campus.
2. It was furnished.
3. It was the first (and last) place we visited since we would rather spend the day drinking beer versus finding a place to live our junior year.

On hindsight this wasn't the most prudent decision considering we ended up renting a one, albeit very small, bedroom apartment.

Fleming and I had (have) been friends since we were in grade school. Tangent. We hated each other when we first met. I'm talking Green Goblin to my Spiderman kind of hate. At some point we became best friends, and that friendship grew into something akin to brotherhood considering I was an only child and he was an accidental third child with siblings who were grown and gone by the time he was ten.

We were close is my belabored point. Yet. And. Even so. That fucking apartment was too close for our comfort.

Especially in the bedroom.

Which reminded me of Wally and Beaver's bedroom in Leave It To Beaver. It had two twin beds that were literally inches apart. Which would have been fine if we were living a Leave It To Beaver life in said bedroom instead of Fleming getting all kind of beaver in a twin bed that was inches from my twin bed.

To be fair, I wasn't a picnic either. I made my fair share of noise. Only my noise wasn't the sound of hot college sex. I made pig noises. While I slept. Because of this weird throat scratch thing because of my horrible allergies and/or asthma.

So less than a month after moving into that tiny one bedroom apartment Fleming and I were on the hunt for a two bedroom apartment to call home. Considering it was September and Four Seasons was pretty much full and wouldn't let us break our lease to move elsewhere we had limited choices. Which is why we ended up taking the most trippy two bedroom apartment, dare I say, in all of Norman Town.

Fuck me this place was odd.

It was a combination storage room and one bedroom apartment that had been smashed together to yield the complex another two bedroom unit. Only no one wanted it which is why we ended up there.

The front door was literally so far down what most thought a dead end corridor that outside light (and fresh air) couldn't penetrate the joint so it always had this dank smell. The place was further jacked up by the fact that it only had two windows. And only one of them (in one bedroom) looked to the outside world. The other one was by the front door and faced the gloomy dead end corridor. The other bedroom (which ended up being Fleming's) was akin to a sensory deprivation isolation chamber when you closed the door and turned off the lights. Then, in addition to all that funk, factor in 1970s era furnishings. The place was interior designed by helter-fucking-skelter.

The thing is, in spite of the many pitfalls of the apartment, at first, we loved it. The rent was cheap (not much more than what we had been paying for our one bedroom) and Domino's Pizza was the apartment's manna. We're talking the Domino's of my youth here. At the height of their 30 minutes or it is free promotion. And our screwy two bedroom apartment down the dark corridor of dank was impossible to find. So far down in fact that most people would turn around before finding our door.

Which was hell for those poor Domino's Pizza delivery guys trying to get us our pizza in 30 minutes. They couldn't do it. Which wasn't lost on us so we went into an epic three day weekend Domino's Pizza jag eating Domino's for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Three days straight. FREE. At the end of the weekend we had eaten so much pizza we had amassed a man sized stack of empty pizza boxes.

For those curious about how we were able to trick up Domino's for so long. Our secret was doing research and realizing that three Domino's would delivery to our apartment. We'd then rotate calling each restaurant, switching it up, day by day, so as to try and not get the same delivery driver working the same time period (and thus knowing where our apartment was located since they'd delivered to it before.)

We should have paced ourselves on hindsight. But after our three day pizza bender the Domino's got wise, together, and put our phone number and address on a no delivery list.

Fuckers.

It was around the time we made this special list that the apartment lost its luster. For me at least.

But not before I shat on the plate.

You see BLOG reader we had a very good friend who I'll call K since that is the first initial of his name and he was quite literally a pre-Seinfeld Kramer type of guy. We had known K since our dorm days freshman year. K was truly a great guy, but the dude most definitely marched to the beat of his drum. To the point of being one of the most eccentric people I've ever know (which if you know me is saying a lot!)

K's big thing was this. He'd show up at our apartment (ironically enough he was one of the few people to ever find the apartment on his first try, without having to go to the main office and call us to guide him in) anytime day or night, unannounced. He never knocked on the door. Which we often left open (to try and get some fresh air and or natural light,) or unlocked.

K would walk in and head straight to the kitchen as if the apartment were his. Once there he would riffle through the refrigerator, usually ending up with a plate of leftovers, which he would put in our microwave while he poured a big glass of milk. Once the food was done he'd take it to the dining room table (which faced the living area) and sit there and eat.

Mind you he would do all of this, often, without saying so much as hello.

This didn't really bother us at first, because we both liked K. A lot. Eventually, and probably because that fucked up apartment was evil in a no natural light dank sort of a way and screwed with our mood, we became annoyed with K's behavior.

Finally, one day, after Fleming had been going on and on about K eating all our food (he was low on funds at the time) I suggested we give K shit.

Literally.

"Give him shit?" Fleming asked. "I don't get it?"

"He always eats leftovers. So let's shit on a plate and put it with some real leftovers and see what happens." I explained.

"Seriously?" Fleming asked smiling.

"Seriously." I said. "The only question is who is going to shit on the plate."

"Fucking A." Fleming said (which meant yes.)

After further debate it was decided that I should shit on the plate. I think, if memory serves correct, because Fleming had been having loose stools from his diet of Taco Mayo.

Which is how I ended up pinching a loaf over a chipped white plate in the bathroom.

Once done I carried the plate into the kitchen and added left over mashed potatoes, gravy (putting some over the shit) and corn, carefully arranging it so it looked like it was a plate of leftover meat loaf or roast beef once I had put Saran Wrap on it. Then I put it in our fridge, where it sat, for a day!

Flash forward and K comes into the apartment in his usual manner, going straight to the fridge, where he looks around, finally selecting the plate of shit which we can see from the living room where we were watching TV.

At this point, Fleming looks like he's about to have a stroke. Red to the point of purple trying to not lose it with laughter.

I'm much better under joke pressure than Fleming, and wanting to let it play out, I decided to go into the kitchen and give K shit as he was cooking my shit in a very, the best defense is a good offense, sort of a way.

"Dude," I said. "You got to quit eating all our food. Fleming is broke. We need to make this last."

"I'm hungry." K said as he took the Saran Wrap off the plate and placed it in the microwave.

"Don't you have food at your place?" I asked as he balled up the Saran Wrap which had a little a fleck of shit and gravy on it.

"No. We haven't been to the store in..."

I cut K off as he tried to compute how long it had been, "We were going to eat that for dinner tonight!"

K ignored me as he poured his glass of milk.

Finally he smiled and said, "Two months, we haven't been to the store in two months."

Then realizing what I'd said about it being our dinner he asked, "You care if I eat it. I'm hungry?"

DING

The shit was done. Literally.

K pulled the plate out of the microwave and took it to the dining table. Forgetting utensils he turned and headed back into the kitchen while I stared as heat billowed off my gravy covered scat.

Fleming pulled himself off the sofa and came over to the table to get a front row seat.

K, with utensils in hand, walked back to the table, gave us both a quizzical look, and sat down in front of the plate.

K, being K, ignored our scrutiny, and quickly scooped up some mashed potatoes and corn which he quickly shoveled into his mouth.

I nearly shit (Fleming might have) even though K had missed my shit by a few inches.

While he chewed his bite K picked up his knife and went to cut through what he must have thought was leftover roast beef. Only, as you know, BLOG reader, it wasn't roast beef. It was my shit. Which meant that K's knife slid through it as easily as if it were soft butter. But again, K, being K, ignored any possible warning signs he might have got from this oddity and scooped up a big piece of my shit quickly shoveled it toward his open mouth.

It was less than an inche from his mouth when the smell hit him.

"GODDAMN!" He shouted dropping the fork on his plate.

Fleming lost it. Hard. On the floor. Rolling. Me. I didn't do much better.

K watched us both, confused. After a moment he bent over the plate, getting his nose as close as possible without touching the food and took a huge sniff.

"GODDAMN!" He shouted for the second time.

We lost it again x2.

After we had quieted down a bit K picked up the fork and took one more whiff of the offending brown mass and said, "THIS SMELLS LIKE...LIKE...LIKE...SHIT!"

"No shit." Fleming and I said in unison without any sense of irony.

"It is shit!"

"GODDAMN!" K shouted for the third time.

It's a testament to how cool of a guy K was that he wasn't upset about the trick. In fact, after he got over the initial shock of almost eating my crap he thought it was funny. Over time he found it funnier and funnier to the point where he often told the story to people himself.

Unfortunately, and as I alluded at the beginning of the story, the apartment did not get funnier and funnier. Or cooler. It became The Overlook Hotel to my Jack Torrance if you dig that reference. I ended up hating that place. And spent what I'd say were the worst three to four months of my life there.

It started with my being blown up the previous Summer. When my burn healed what should have been the top of my right ear was pretty much fused to the side of my head which was problematic for wearing glasses not to mention that it looked bad. That Christmas break I had reconstructive surgery between the Fall and Spring so I wouldn't miss any classes. Beat down from that, upon my return to school, I entered the apartment to find that everything we owned in the furnished apartment had been stolen. Everything else that normally would have been stolen as well (microwave as an example) were not. I'm not Perry Mason, but fuck me, it felt like an inside job.

Depressed by all my shit being stolen and a particularly cold winter I got sick. Let it go. And then got really sick. My regular ear which wasn't wrapped up like the one that was healing from my skin graft got infected and swelled shut.

From that it spiraled out of control with me missing countless days of classes and developing what I think on hindsight was post traumatic stress from nearly being killed in the steel mill explosion that Summer.

I jest about being slow in real time. But seriously. Six months after that accident I was a head case.

The thing is, I didn't know who to talk to, or go to, so I sort of slogged my way through it. On my own. Slowly. As my parents dealt with their own shit (which would result in them selling my family home and moving out of state for the rest of what would be my Mom's life.)

This stuff is probably a BLOG post in its own right. The point, though, is this.

It was that year. My junior year of college. In that dank fucking apartment. I was nineteen. And I realized in a way that I had never realized before that whatever I was going to do in my life had to be done by me.

Not to imply I was alone. Or didn't have support.

It was the year I grew up and became what I feel was an adult. A year of great change. I became the man I'm still becoming if that makes sense?

Bottom line.

I got my shit together. Which is funny considering it was the year I shit on a plate.

For those few that pay attention to the BLOG title as it relates to Until I BLOG again...line. I was split on which version to use. So I did a v43 (me today) version as well as what I'm sure I would have picked in my v19 days.

Until I BLOG again (aboynamestu_v43)...I, I'm a new day rising, I'm a brand new sky to hang, The stars upon tonight .

Until I BLOG again (aboynamestu_v19)...I, I'm a streetlight shining, I'm a white light blinding bright, Burning off alone.

See The Light

2011-05-25T16:52:00.003-05:00

I was a part of confirmation this past Sunday. At church. The confirmation class, 6th grade, is one that I know well. I was their Sunday school shepherd their 4th grade year. Then I was one of their two Sunday school teachers in their 5th grade year. This year, I was a mentor, and didn't have as active of a role in their confirmation class (by choice I should add.)

But because of my history, and their fondness for me (and me of them,) I was asked to be a part of their confirmation ceremony. This is when they graduate from the children's program into the youth program. They become members of the church in a very moving ceremony after completing a year of learning pretty much all you'd ever need to know about being a Methodist.

I tell you that for this.

I've had a few people question why I wasn't acknowledged along with the people who taught their confirmation class during the ceremony.

And while I appreciate the fact that those who are asking genuinely care about me, enough to be upset that I wasn't recognized, I'm bewildered as to why they think I would want (or need) to be acknowledged in the first place.

I don't write that to come off as some kick-ass altruistic cat who doesn't give a shit about things of the ego. I have an ego the same as you there reading this now. Being recognized though, never crossed my mind. To the point of wondering after being asked if I was upset, if I should be upset, that I wasn't recognized.

I was even asked at the potluck luncheon if I wanted to be recognized in front of the group. I quickly said no. My Lovely Bride (who was sitting across from me) said yes. I think this confused the lady asking the question.

So here I am, days later, pondering being recognized as I face the decision on whether or not I'll join this group in the youth program next year (as a youth counselor.) It's a big decision. Because of the time factor.

What do I want out of this. Or. Why do I do this?

I'm not certain.

I think the reward is getting fulfillment out of doing a thing you love. For me, being a small part of their lives, and traveling with them on their journey is something I love.

To do it out of sense of obligation or worse, in order to be recognized, is to miss the point entirely.

Or so aboynamedstu thinks.

Which ain't saying much. Really. Considering what an epic dipshit I am (and can be.)

Until I BLOG again...But it's gone forever, But never too late, Where the ever after, Is in the hands of fate.

Instant Karma

2011-05-16T12:11:00.002-05:00

"All the mistakes you made, all the dumb things you did, the loves lost, the business you didn’t get, the failed brakes, the busted heads, the bleeding tongues, burned fingers, the dissonance, the darkness, the leaps into the unknown, the suffering, the certainty of death: at the end of the day these are the flavors that made the good parts sweeter." Bill Baldwin

My friend's Mom died. Nearly a week after he got the call from his Dad that the end was near.

We traded a few emails earlier in the week. He responded to the BLOG I wrote, sharing that it plus something that Bill had sent him had resonated with him.

I knew Bill had sent him something. A story. That he had written about going back home to Iowa. But Bill didn't send it to me, so I had never actually read it before. My friend attached it to his email so I naturally, after reading his email, decided to read Bill's story, before starting my work day.

I listen to my entire music library with iTunes DJ at work. Thousands of songs are possible. Yet when I started reading Bill's story In The Satellite Rides A Star by the Old 97s began.

That song, and the timing might not mean much to you BLOG reader. But for me. It means everything. Even if I'm not sure what everything means.

I've posted Bill's story below for those that wish to read it.

Until I BLOG again...We all shine on.

NORTHERN LIGHTS
A Meditation on Human Error

by Bill Baldwin

If you grow up where winter drills so deep it can split trees, you quickly learn certain truths about the physical world. The effect, for instance, of sticking your tongue to iron pipe at nine degrees above. It doesn’t matter that your parents told you never to do such a thing, nor that if your buds dared you, there had to be a catch; you need the experience. All our days we crave adventures of body and mind, even though more often than not our acts lead to disappointment or pain or compromise or confusion or to yet another doorway that opens on—a closet. A bloody tongue’s nothing compared to the pain of not grasping the lessons of those first steps up the learning curve that we mistake for a rainbow.

The message I didn’t get right away, still haven’t fully mastered sixty years later, is, in layman’s language, “You’ll never be an engineer or a holy man.” Which was nature’s way of telling me to stay away from inflexible verities like mathematics and physics, as well as religious dogma and philosophical systems that end in “ism.”

In this state of being, you are destined to go through life taking two or more wrong turns for every right one. And when all you have is questions, that’s only half the process. Thus barely out of infancy you begin to choose career paths. More precisel, careers begin to choose you.

You are born. A few years later you wake up. When I was four or so, and I had collected enough sequential references for a rudimentary memory, I woke up to the fact that we were living in an absurdly small northwestern Iowa burg named Mallard. Why we were there is a mystery to this day. What prolonged Great Depression or wartime hardship (it couldn’t have been opportunity) dumped us in this cul-de-sac on the wide-open spaces I’ll never know. I didn’t think to ask my parents in later years, and now they’re gone. Mallard is too minuscule to have history or character or to be a home-place or quaint or charming. You could never get maudlin about it. There is no there there, as Gertrude Stein said about Oakland. Still, there we were.

Look at a map of Iowa. In the far northern and western sector, around the 42nd parallel, just west of Highway 4 there’s a dot representing Mallard. And if your eye draws a slightly bent line northwest to southeast through Mallard you connect with two other dots, Curlew and Plover.

Driving through rural America, especially in the prairie and plains states, you pass a blink of a town and wonder how it survives or how it came to be in the first place. What wistful adventurers would think to settle these X’s of nowhere, three in an oblique row, and then have the poetry to name them for water birds? And just to the west of Mallard is Rembrandt. (What’s its story?) And what Old Testament-minded sodbusters christened Gaza, Carmel and Lebanon still further west?

I conjure up a Wistful Pioneer — a post-Civil War, upwardly mobile consumer headed for the sunset, lured on (nothing changes) by the railroads’ hype: ads and brochures illustrated with amber waves and orchards, fat cattle, milk and honey, and limpid brooks—all beckoning the gullible to desolation. In fact, from Iowa on, the territory was an infinity of buffalo, buffalo grass, buffalo chips, buffalo bones, and buffalo-chasing Indians in no mood to welcome strangers. After that, a range of 14,000-ft. mountains, then desert, then more mountains. Picture W. Pioneer and the Mrs. and their six surviving children standing by the wagon at the western edge of the glacial blacklands. He looks to the west. Nothing as far as he can see. Spacious skies, but not a tree, much less fruited plains or purple mountain majesties. He recalls tales of starvation and scalping raids and a bullwhip wind that snaps across the prairie.

He takes inventory: two wagons, four mules, two horses, a baby bull, a heifer (bony), six piglets, a milk goat, a rooster, hens and some seeds, potatoes, dry beans, and rootstocks. Having a stroke of sense, he admits to himself how far away California might actually lie, how close winter is, how cold and hungry they might get, how mule meat would taste, and how naked and bloody their scalped heads could be. “We’ll stop here,” he announces. “It ain’t half bad. We’ll raise beef and pigs. We’ll plant corn and wheat. We’ll grow beans and taters. We’ll have chickens and a garden.” He makes a sweeping gesture: “and maybe we’ll open a trading post and name it for a duck.”

My great-grandfather Franklin Morton Baldwin was born in Onondaga County, New York in 1829. At 20, he left the family salt-manufacturing business and lit out with two friends for the Wild West, which for them was Chicago. He worked three years in a dry goods store, he bought land and sold it and finally, either disillusioned with the rough town on the cold lake, or hungry for adventure on the frontier, he resumed his trek and left his hometown buddy Marshall Field to conquer Chicago.

Fortune took me to northwestern Iowa a few years back and I couldn’t resist visiting the one-stoplight places of my childhood. You don’t really need maps to find the towns; look for the grain elevators. As landmarks, these are the Gothic cathedrals of the farmbelt. Homing in, I turn off Highway 4 and there’s a sign with a giant sculpted Mallard drake hunkered on top: Welcome to Mallard. We’re Friendly Ducks!

Most of the City budget must have gone into the sign, even though there’s hardly anything to be welcomed to. A half-century later, Mallard is the same and not the same. It is a single main street that stumbles over railroad tracks, runs straight for six blocks then becomes a sand road wandering off into the soybean fields.

Gone: the movie theater where the screen burst into flames as my father and I were engrossed in a Western. (I thought at first it was part of the story and even as my dad carried me to safety, I twisted around to watch the images of cowboys and horses projected upon a screen of smoke as the actual screen was being consumed by a fiery scorch.)

Gone: our little house, the church across the street, the doctor’s office. (Must have closed the practice after we left town. I was a regular customer.)

I spot a storefront library — in Mallard still called a “lending library” — and slow down to read the titles. The same as everywhere else: Stephen King, Sidney Shelton, Danielle Steel, Danielle Steel, Sidney Shelton, Stephen King.

From Chicago, my great-grandfather Franklin journeyed west to the Mississippi. He rode a boat headed downriver to St. Louis so he could catch another up the Missouri to the far West. At Keokuk, at the very tip of Iowa, he changed his mind, got off and walked more than 200 miles to the center of the state and decided this was the place. Why he did what he did is not in family lore, but I know why.

The first Christmas you can recall in sharp focus? For me this is the place. Probably 1942. In retrospect, I think I was the only little kid in town. I had to invent one-kid amusements, and this is where the first confrontations with reality came in.

Across the side street from my house was a church with a stairway that led to a second-story office. Alongside the stairs was a tall, slender, fir kind of tree, now extra picturesque with new snow on its branches. My thinking was that I could go up the stairs to the landing, climb on the handrail and leap onto the top of the tree. Being supple, it would bend gracefully to the earth, where I would step off. The tree would then straighten, gracefully of course, and I would climb the stairs again to repeat this stunt over and over. Free ride!

That was the theory. And it worked out exactly as I’d envisioned. Except for the velocity. And what pilots call attitude. When I pounced on the top, the whole tree whipped over like a Slinky, only at hyper-speed. I was instantly upside down (wrong attitude) and falling in that curious dimension of slow motion and muted sound often experienced in an accident-in-progress. The branches whispered, the snow crystals hissed, the treetop broke with a soft liquid groaning ooOOPS! The tree flipped me like a bug into a deceptively thin cover of snow and right down to the hard HARD ground beneath.

First time to see stars. First wind knocked out. First hematoma. First loose tooth. I was too hurt and scared to cry. Lying cruciform on my back, I saw a woman clomping down the stairs like a berserk flamenco dancer. Red-faced, bug-eyed, screaming, she scooted to my house to give my mother an earful. The birth of a bad boy. Were was the Christian compassion? Where was the first aid?

Not for the last time, my mother hugged me and said, “I’m so mad I could kill you.” Instead she carried me across the street to the unflappable doctor who pronounced me okay even as he told me I was going to have a dandy shiner. I visualized a really nice baitfish. (Vocabulary lesson: what’s a dandy shiner?)

My father tried to repair the treetop, taping and bracing it erect, and helped string lights on the tree. Still if you walked around it, you could see the top was crooked. One night before Christmas, people from the church gathered to carol outside our house. My mother dabbed at tears, and Dad said, “that’s swell.” But even though the singing was sweet and their candles seen through frosted windows were magic, I was embarrassed. Not about the tree or the mean-spirited church lady, but something I had no name for; it was the humiliation of the charity case.
Great-grandfather Frank settled in a place called Iowa Center, north of Des Moines, probably in the belief that, being at the geographical center of the young state, it would grow to become a metropolis. But I think the real reason was a girl. He married, started up a general store with his brother-in-law, began a family. Once, as my Great-grandmother and another woman washed clothes in a creek, three Indians crept up on them and pushed them in. Sioux comedy. Great-grandfather was so indignant, he cut off their credit.

Reality Lesson II: just before Christmas. My head cleared, my tooth hadn’t fallen out and my shiner was fading like the memory of the lamentable tree ride. I had another idea. Women of the time held their do’s in place with huge hairpins that, to me, looked electronic, like the filaments in the vacuum tubes of our broken radio Dad was trying to fix. So I thought, if I stick one of these in a wall socket, we might just be able to hear the radio shows we were missing. (I was four, remember.)

Okay, you know what happened: sparks, a zzzzzz noise, black burn marks on the wall, burned fingers, burned-out fuse, doctor’s office, stethoscope to make sure the heart still worked, a deep look-see into the eyes, topical pain killer, gauze-wrapped fingers, he’s okay. Did he really do that?

Reality Lesson III. Against all odds (given our poverty), Santa Claus
brought me a bicycle. Actually it was the smallest of bikes and had training wheels, which I scorned immediately and had my Dad remove, only to ask him to put them back on when I couldn’t master two-wheel balance. Inexplicably it had hand-brakes. In my mind, brake = stop. Instantly, like braking a car. You brake, you stop. And that’s pretty much how it worked. On a level street. But I needed a serious incline to give the system a real test.

Iowa’s not known for hills, but a nearby town where my grandparents lived had beauts. In fact, their street was one of the steepest. Two-thirds of the way down, I was just a blur and I knew this was a really bad idea. Still I had a spark of faith that the brakes would stop me at the bottom of the hill. And, in a way they did. I grabbed the hand-grips in a death squeeze. And then that eerie accident slo-mo again: front wheel stopping, rear wheel floating up and catapulting me into space, me rolling over and over then body-surfing the gravel cross street.

There was no doctor in my grandparents’ town. Dad said, “does that hurt? I don’t think there’s any broken bones.” They cleaned and doctored and bandaged the abrasions and my grandmother sewed a sling for my arm, which made me see myself as a wounded war hero. Later I found out the bike was second-hand and the rear brake was broken. Probably when the previous owner was killed riding it.

My great-grandparents had six children. One died in infancy. One became a well-known opera singer in Chicago, one an artist–a regionally celebrated painter–one a spectacular eccentric who outraged his family all his life (and he lived to 102). Two were musicians. My grandfather, for whom I’m named played trombone and other brass instruments, auditioned for John Philip Sousa, was in the San Francisco earthquake of 1903 and, while lying in his honeymoon bed in Colorado, blasted a cockroach off the bedroom ceiling with his six-shooter — my grandmother’s favorite Will anecdote. How these 19th century Iowa burghers were exposed to literature and art and music and the romance of travel, who knows?

On the ride back to Mallard, Dad said, “Got a big surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
“Can’t tell you; it’s a surprise.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s tonight.”
“Why can’t I have it now?”
“Because you have to wait till tonight.” Four-year olds can only wait so long, and then they fall asleep. I was still waking up as my mother dressed me over my pajamas and worked my sore arms into a coat. She pulled a stocking cap over my bandaged head. “Where we going?”
“It’s a surprise, remember?” I was instantly alert.
“What is it? What is it?”  “You’ll see.” I forgot about the sling. Puffing his pipe, my dad carried me to the car, already running and heated, and sat me in the back seat. My bundled-up mother climbed in front and we headed off for the
beanfield end of town. As we neared the last building, Dad said, “Okay, put your head down, no peeking.”

I was so excited it was hard to breathe. What air I pulled in was thick with pipe smoke. Then I had bad thoughts: maybe they were going to
take me out to the fields and leave me. I’d caused a lot of trouble. We drove on and on, up a road that rose to a ridge west of town. Lying face-down on the seat, I could hear gravel pinging the underside of the car. “When can I get up?”

“Almost.” They wouldn’t leave me out here. Would they? My dad stopped the car, but left it running. I heard him push in the light switch. “Oh, my!” said my mother.

“Shut your eyes.” He opened the back door, carried me to the front of the car and sat me on the warm hood. “Okay, open ‘em.” We were parked at the top of the ridge, looking north. It was too much to take in at once: the winter heavens, clear and sharp and spangled with stars against the blackest of black skies. And from the northern horizon, beams and veils and coronas of light, spiking and receding, shimmering and fading on a scale so huge the light seemed to rise from beyond the edge of the world. I had no idea, no reference. Maybe it was the war, far away. Cities burning.

“It’s the Northern Lights,” said my dad. “Aurora borealis. At the North Pole they see it all the time. We can’t see it from here very often. What do you think?”

I sat between my parents on the hood, warmed by the idling motor. There was nothing to say. My father tried to explain what caused the lights, but it didn’t sink in. We watched the show for a long time and then my mother said, “I’m going into the car; it’s too cold for me.” My dad hugged me closer and let me have a baby puff on his pipe. I pretended the steam I blew out into the freezing air was a great cloud of smoke. After a while there was nothing to do but go home.
In a history of Story County, Iowa, I read this: “Since that time, Franklin M. Baldwin has been senior member of Baldwin & Maxwell, one of the oldest mercantile firms of this commonwealth. So successfully has the business of this firm been transacted, that it passed through all panics and other trying times without financial embarrassment and has held its own in every respect for almost a quarter of a century. . .F.M. Baldwin has always been a Republican in his political views and is a man who has ever had the best interest of the country at heart.”

After my drive-through of Mallard, I spent the rest of the day checking out other towns of memory: Plover, Rolfe, West Bend, Algona, Cylinder, Emmetsburg, and after dark, circled back to Mallard. I looked for a cop or waitress or bartender to chat up, ask about the old days and the changes, where was this building and that. But there was no police station, no tavern, and the one café was closed. I drove west on the sandy road, retraced my midnight Christmas surprise of a half-century earlier. No Northern Lights tonight, but there was no moon either. I recommend the experience. Here’s what happens:

A clear moonless night sky with no light pollution or obstructions to the view is the ultimate theater, the ultimate temple. Just empty your mind, wait and see. As your preoccupation with getting and spending fades into
triviality, the vital questions surface: Who are we? How did we get here? Where are we going? What’s out there?

When you reflect that many of the stars you see no longer exist (except as light energy flowing through space), it’s easy to see your place in the continuum where, for instance, you can touch a great-grandfather who passed through panics and other trying times. . . and died nearly fifty years before you were born.

With the clarity of distance (and ignorant of the dull parts), I see him acting out a version of the timeless story of the hero and the quest — a
story not invented, but recounted from life and embellished over time to give it order and artistic truth. (Rescuing Helen of Troy, leading your tribe out of bondage in Egypt, sailing off in search of China and instead discovering a world no one knew was there, or just walking west by northwest until you find that exact place to stake your claim, marry your soul-mate, and live out your life. Never mind that Helen caused a ten-year war, that Moses never made it to the Promised Land, that Columbus got shipped home in chains, or that your great-grandfather ended up voting Republican.

I travel in time to the Christmas of the Errors and all the others when I strained my eyes watching winter heavens for Santa, and Baby Jesus, too, flying through the clouds. Later, when the myths and legends came down to Earth and down to size, I realized that something that’s impossible to conceive an end to in time or space is also infinitely more mysterious and wonderful than man-made saints and deities.

Think about this. Don’t squander the greatest wealth you’ll ever have: the story of your life — complete with pictures and captions. And keep in mind your story didn’t begin with you, nor will it end with you.

Forget the self-analysis, self-improvement, self-absorbed men are from Mars, left-brain right-brain, touchy-feely, New Age, occult, crystal-pyramid, Scorpio-rising, Tarot, encounter-group narcissism that can numb your brain and dumb you down. (In my view, scams to peddle books, DVDs, workshops, cults.)

Expunge your vocabulary of “proactive, empowerment, enable, permission, sensitivity, assertiveness, control freak, personal growth, visualization, unmet needs, healing process, co-dependency, dysfunctional” and similar fuzzy abstractions. Speak real words.

Use your self-help books to kindle a fire in the fireplace, curl up with a fat notebook (or a MacBook) and start writing the story of you. And when you run out of memories, ask your parents and grandparents —and anyone else connected — to sit around the campfire, metaphorically. (And do it now. When they, go, they take entire volumes of the story with them.) Illustrate it with snapshots and drawings and such. Really learn how to research. Keep a journal. For perspective take an extended trip to your homeplace. Or if you’re there now, go somewhere far away.

In the end, you’ll be smarter and wiser. And you’ll feel better. and have stronger defenses against charlatans. It’s not doctrines or superstitions or conspiracies or invisible forces that give our lives order and meaning, but the stories we tell about those lives. (Think of your favorite people, places, books and movies, and I’ll bet that the quality they have in common has something to do with the storyteller’s genius.)
If we really get ambitious, we find our stories intertwining with others to form a larger epic that will resonate forever. Or at least until our little red star self-destructs.

All the mistakes you made, all the dumb things you did, the loves lost, the business you didn’t get, the failed brakes, the busted heads, the bleeding tongues, burned fingers, the dissonance, the darkness, the leaps into the unknown, the suffering, the certainty of death: at the end of the day these are the flavors that made the good parts sweeter.

-End-

POSTSCRIPT: This first appeared in the December 1991 issue of Rough, once a monthly, now a sporadically published, magazine of the Dallas Society of Visual Communications, a non-profit outfit devoted to furthering graphic design and related communications arts. It started out a simple Christmas story, but then became what it is, a long meditation on larger themes and a memoir of a slice of my childhood in the farm towns of Northwestern Iowa. The story as is, is as close to my recollections as I could make it. That is, I didn’t embellish much at all, just compressed time and events and imagined others. The backstory of my Great-grandfather is from family lore and some old newspaper clippings, both of which may be of questionable accuracy.

I apologize for muddying these themes with a descent into didacticism at the end, and dated at that, but I was in a hurry to wrap and I had my audience in mind, mostly young-uns just starting out in our “industry,” or still in school. If I ever rewrite it, I’ll delete or soften a lot of that.

Since this was published, I’ve been back to Iowa on an assignment and had a little time to re-visit yet other places of my early days, including the famous bridges of Madison County and the blink of a town not far from Des Moines, Maxwell–named after my Great-grandfather’s brother-in -law and business partner in Baldwin & Maxwell.

There’s no trace of their once-thriving mercantile establishment, only the name of the town, the references in historical society archives, and the main residential street, which is Baldwin Avenue.

–BB

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

2011-05-10T10:27:00.003-05:00

The coincidences in my life never fail to amaze me. What might seem random to most aligns perfectly in a connect the dots sort of a way in the mind of aboynamedstu.

Not that I know what to do with the connectivity. Other than scratch my head and think, what the fuck.

Sometimes I'll share with My Lovely Bride (if we can have a conversation that isn't commandeered by the Boy(s).) Or. I'll BLOG about it. Which is my goofy way of releasing it back from whence it came.

Let's begin in the middle of this story. The Dallas Mavericks swept the LA Lakers on Sunday. I'm not much of a basketball fan. Not even one that jumps on the band wagon. The reason I noted this Mavs win is that my friend Bill would have been a pig in shit over it. Happy. He was obsessed with the Mavs. And the fact that he died damn near a year ago seems cruelly coincidental as the Western Finals will go down around the anniversary of said death. Which also happens to be the day after what would be (or is, I'm not sure what the protocol is on that) his 73rd birthday.

Which is what I was considering in the hot tub Mother's Day evening.

The Team was at Cottonwood Art Festival. And I found myself alone (a rare treat for aboynamestu.) Drinking a beer and relaxing as I listened to the iPod. I was thinking about Bill, and my Mom (it being Mother's Day) and another friend who's Mom is at the end of a very long fight with (FUCK) cancer.

Which was connected because Bill and my friend knew each other from poker. They were (are) both from Iowa. And had shared their own cancer stories. Bill and his fight. My friend and his Mom's fight.

It was this friend, that another friend and I were talking about at the beginning of this story. He had went up to Iowa to see his Mom earlier in the week, and upon his return had been promptly called back by his Dad. The end was nigh. Or so the doctor said.

It's hard to explain what it is like to be told someone you love as much as a parent only has x amount of time to live. Then if you don't reside in the same town or state, the challenge (and expense) of busting your ass to get there before the end. Only death doesn't follow any neat timetable. Death comes when it wants. So you sit there and pray that your loved one isn't in pain, as you watch each labored breath, wondering if it is the last, and ask yourself if you did the proper dose of morphine (while wondering if you shouldn't just dump the whole fucking vial down their throat to end their misery.)

Meanwhile. Life goes on. A palliative expression that is a kick in the crotch for those dealing with death.

Life is going on while you sit and watch your loved one die. Worrying about the concerns of the real world, jobs, family, paying bills, while also trying to be present in a way that our society doesn't prepare us for in dealing with death. The guilty feelings of wanting it to happen sooner than later, because life is going on, and the end game, short of a miracle that you want to happen but realize probably won't, is death.

It's hard and fucked up in a way that is hard to explain.

Which is all what i was thinking in the hot tub as I drank my beer by my lonesome listening to music and watching the clouds float by overhead when track 13 came onto my iPod. I have a thing about the number 13—a triskaidekaphobia thing. And the fact that out of nearly 5000 songs that could have played number 13 was Kite by U2 was the synchronistic kick in the nuts I didn't need on Mother's Day. The fact that the iPod clock showed that it was 6:13 didn't help either.

Later the Team gathered around the TV to watch The Simpsons (new episode titled Homer Scissorhands.) One of the stories was about Bart's friend Milhouse watching the first part of Finding Nemo, a part of the movie his mother had kept hidden (funnily enough we did the same thing with the Elder Boy when he was little.) Milhouse freaks out in horror, huddled behind sofa cushions, when he learns that Nemo did have a mother. But she died. This realization making him realize just how short and precious life can be.

The coincidences in my life never fail to amaze me. What might seem random to most aligns perfectly in a connect the dots sort of a way in the mind of aboynamedstu.

Not that I know what to do with the connectivity.

So I release it here today.

Hoping that Bill somehow knows what the Mavs have done and that I miss him. And praying my friend is doing as well as he can do when he's watching his Mom die over Mother's Day weekend.

I've been there. Not to imply my there was (is) the same as his there. Even though his there brings back my there poignantly.

Until I BLOG again...I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping.

Day 30: Hopes, Dreams and Plans for the next 365 Days

2011-05-05T16:50:00.002-05:00

Color me Barry Manilow! I am done.

What I learned from this strange little exercise is that I enjoy BLOGGING, but since I shuttered the Team Tinsley BLOG. I've killed damn near all my material. aboynamedstu is first and foremost a Dad. Husband. Then dipship. So much of what I do, think, and say is tied to the Team. Limiting myself to writing about them limits me. Which was why this goofy ass exercise with its ready-made topics was fun.

The thing is, I can't go back to go forward. That would be breaking my word. I can't write about the Boy(s) like I once did on the Team Tinsley BLOG. Perhaps I can find a new way to do it. A way in which I tell the stories I like to tell without crossing over any lines in the sands of cool. Hell. They are both old enough now i could probably ask them for clearance and if they agree, write it in good faith. Maybe. I should also lighten up on what I will and will not BLOG about (work is a good example of a line I never cross. Or politics. My Sympathy for the Devil post struck a nerve, or two.) I guess in the end there really aren't any rules. Only those in my crazy ass, monkey brain, head.

If I dream, is this plan a hope for aboynamedstu. At least enough to qualify for Day 30?

At this point. Does it even matter?

Thanks for playing along BLOG reader. Hope you enjoyed this little exercise as much as me.

Until I BLOG again...And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.

Day 29: A Favorite Play List

2011-05-04T17:01:00.001-05:00

Sympathy For The Devil

2011-05-03T09:24:00.007-05:00

"There's a dark side to each and every human soul. We wish we were Obi-Wan Kenobi, and for the most part we are, but there's a little Darth Vader in all of us. Thing is, this ain't no either-or proposition. We're talking about dialectics, the good and the bad merging into us. You can run but you can't hide. My experience? Face the darkness. Stare it down. Own it. As brother Nietzsche said, being human is a complicated gig. So give that ol' dark night of the soul a hug. Howl the eternal yes!" Chris Stevens from Northern Exposure

I'm not what I would consider a political person. I tend to believe that people are going to believe what they want to believe regardless of what I think or do. And it doesn't matter how eloquent I argue, or more to the point for me, how funny I joke, because in the end people believe what they believe with politics (and religion.)

But fuck me.

This Osama Bin Laden thing is crazy when viewed through the distorted lens of social media.

It's like even the most moderate of Christians have traded their New Testament God (Hippie God as I so eloquently put it in my 5th Grade Sunday School Class last year) for the Old Testament God (Angry God with the Kung-Fu Grip as I put it last year.)

Beyond all the God talk though, which is heady shit, the thing that baffles me more than anything else is how the death of Osama Bin Laden can be politicized. How each side uses the death of this figurehead of hate, for their own political gain.

It's fucked up.

Driving to school on Monday Monday after learning about the news (we were late in learning about it at Casa Tinsley) the Elder Boy asked me, "Why is everyone celebrating that someone was killed."

Good question. One that I tried to explain by asking (or making sure) he knew all the facts about September 11. Osama Bin Laden. His part in it all.

The Boy did.

So, again, he asked, "Why is everyone celebrating that someone was killed?"

Fuck if I know. And. Regardless of what I believe.

How do you explain this to a kid who goes to Sunday School and is told that God is Love? Explain that those that served him that proverbial Kool-Aid are in some cases, the ones putting shit out there that seems to indicate that they rejoice in the death of this man.

God is love, indeed.

Not knowing what to say I answered, "It's the flip side of the same coin."

"If we see them on TV celebrating someone being killed we say they are crazy, evil, or worse. Yet many Americans are doing the exact same thing today."

He nodded his head.

"I don't know boy. It's a hard thing to understand. Or know. It's...It's...

insert five second internal debate if I should, or should not censor myself

...really fucked up!"

Until I BLOG again...But what's puzzling you, Is the nature of my game.

S.O.S.

2011-04-27T09:08:00.001-05:00

Once again I've lived up to my wheels off, crazy shit happens to aboynamedstu reputation. And lest you think I make these stories up, I have my entire church softball team—Dirty Search appropriately enough—as witness to this most salacious of escapades that went down on the patio at Humperdinks in Richardson of all places!

It started when we started our second round of 100 ounce beers. You see BLOG reader, Humperdinks has these huge ass contraptions that they bring out to your table. We ordered two at time since most of Dirty Search was in attendance after our crippling defeat earlier that evening. These 100 ounce beer things look like a giant bong. Not to imply I'm all 420. I'm not. I have asthma. But my point. It's a giant plastic tube filled with 100 ounces of beer and we were on our second set when two women and a young boy walked out onto the patio and took a seat behind our large table.

I noted them, mainly because it was past 10pm on a Monday night and they had a kid who couldn't have been more than five with them. Not to judge. Trust me. You can judge later. And a late night is the least of this kid's worries as you'll soon read.

They hadn't been seated all that long when My Man Bruce, channeling Sly Stallone in the epic Over the Top challenged Jay-Bird to an arm wrestling match.

Why?

I have no fucking idea.

But boys will be boys and before I knew it they were setting up to arm wrestle which is when one of the ladies who had come in with the kid yelled out something like, "Yoo-hoo!," and then, I shit you not, pulled up her t-shirt exposing her large and as it would turn out, fake breasts.

Yoo-hoo, indeed.

I lost it. Gagged I laughed so hard lost it. Then I stopped. Slowly realizing or remembering that she had a five year old kid with her. Which horrified me. Until she flashed her tits again, in what she later explained was her attempt to motivate My Man Bruce and Jay-Bird for their arm wrestling match, which made me lose it all over again.

She took our laughter as an invitation to leave her table and come over and talk to us while My Man Bruce and Jay-Bird arm wrestled. She left the kid and the lady, who it turns out was her nanny, at their table, and apropos of nothing, told me and a couple of other guys on our end of the table that we shouldn't avoid the asshole.

Ok?!?

Then she whipped out her tits again to encourage My Man Bruce and Jay-Bird who were in sort of a stalemate in their arm wrestling battle before explaining to us that women loved to have their assholes played with during sexual congress. Touched. Licked. Didn't matter what you did, so long as you did it. She implored (between random tit flashing) that even if they would never admit it, women liked their assholes played with.

From there it just went deep South.

She kept telling us crazy shit as she bounced from patio table to patio table. Patron to patron. Drinking. Showing her tits. Showing her breast enlargement scars. Talking about (and attempting to show) her personal grooming regiment below the proverbial belt. It became as over the top as My Man Bruce and Jay-Bird's arm wrestling match. To the point of us actually ignoring her. Which to be honest, didn't stop her. She just moved on to someone else. Like the old man, who had to be in his 70s, who's fedora hat she took off his head and rubbed all over her exposed tits. Or the two college students of African descent that she was convinced where terrorists because they kept staring at her. She would go from the most mundane story (she was studying to be a nurse and had taken a test that day) to the most wheels off story (she was a nymphomaniac) in the same breath.

Dirty Search dwindled after awhile. Some of the guys were horrified from the get go. Either by the nudity. Her drunkenness. Or the kid. Others (which would include me) found it funny even if we were disturbed by the presence of the kid. All in all it was interesting to see how the different guys reacted to it all and then what they told people (including their wives) after the fact.

But it was wild to the point of being surreal. At one point I even thought to myself, are we on What Would You Do?

Which we were not. Which is probably good. Because we did nothing.

Except pay our tab (one of the guys bought her a buttery nipple shot as we closed out which I thought was awesome considering her antics) and leave. But not before she came up to our remaining group, in all seriousness, and with a lucidity that still shocks me to this day considering her behavior that evening and asked that we not say anything about that night if we saw her at the t-ball fields.

Until I BLOG again...All around the world, girls will be girls.

Day 28: A Place I Love

2011-04-26T10:40:00.003-05:00

You can't go home again. I know this. Because every time I go back to Sand Springs I'm reminded of it. Since I have the hardest time seeing my hometown when I'm in my hometown. It has changed. The same as I. So each visit leaves me with a feeling that can best be described as a wistful kick in the nuts. Even at my Grandma's house. Which in many ways is unchanged. But the neighborhood. It crumbles around her.

The lone exception. Which is a place that I love. And visit every time I return home. Daylight Donuts..

That might seem or sound odd to most. A donut shop. They are a dime a dozen? Right. Wrong. In the Sand Springs of my youth there was but one donut shop. A place that I visited multiple times a week. In fact, on the morning of July 25, 1967 while having breakfast with my Dad, Mom's water broke at Daylight Donuts. My amniotic fluid all over their white tile floor. Which looks the same now as it did in my youth.

The place seems untouched.

The donut display case. The counter. Where they have the pop machine. Their drive through window. It's the same now as it was when I was in high school and drove through every morning for my chocolate long john and Pepsi breakfast.

I can best sum up what a relic Daylight Donuts is by this simple fact. Which will boggle the mind of anyone used to the Asian run donut shop on every corner world of big city living.

Daylight Donuts is closed on Sundays.

Seriously. A donut shop in this day and age, even in Sand Springs, that isn't open on Sunday mornings.

How can I not love it.

Until I BLOG again...My hometown.

Day 27: A Favorite Website

2011-04-21T17:51:00.001-05:00

Growing up as a kid we had a very nice set of Encyclopdeia Brittanicas. I lived in two homes growing up and these Encyclopdeia Brittanicas were a key feature in each. Especially in the Greenway Circle home we moved into when I was aboynamedstu v.10. This house, which my parents built, had a book case wall that was between the dining room/kitchen and large living room. The book case went floor to ceiling and our collection of Encyclopdeia Brittanicas were displayed proudly on the lower shelves. This led to our Encyclopdeia Brittanicas being eaten by Mike. Which is a good story in and of itself.

My Mom loved animals. Big time. During the early 1980s Mom had a lady who worked at her beauty shop who was married to a guy that raised Labrador Retrievers. There was one dog, in particular, named Mike, who was driving her husband nuts. Mike wouldn't do all the shit Labs are supposed to do. Mike didn't even really like water. Which is pretty bad for a Lab. To add insult to injury not only was Mike an epic fuck up for a Lab, he was also a pain in the ass because he was obsessed with food. To the point that he got into fights with all the other dogs and just caused a lot of problems for the guy who raised these animals to be hunting dogs. Not pets. It got so bad that the guy was thinking of putting Mike down (a nice way of saying he was going to shoot him.) Until, that is, Mom intervened and we ended up the proud owners of a wacky 6 month old black lab named Mike.

Mike ended up being one cool dog. Let me cut to the chase right here, right now on that fact. He was great with kids. Loved to be around people. He was a good dog. But when he was young he was fucking crazy. Bad. When we'd all be out of the house he'd go nuts. Literally. His favorite thing to do was drag shit out and chew on it. In today's PC world we'd say he had separation anxiety and probably medicate him. Back then, we just dealt with it the best we could because Mom was his advocate no matter how bad he destroyed the house. Which could be bad. Like come back from dinner and the front room looks like they do in movies when they are searching for a micro-chip, bad. Shit everywhere. And his favorite thing to drag out and chew were books and magazines. Seriously. And even better was that my Mom called this wheels off behavior, reading.

Imagine coming back from dinner in 1982 and walking into your house which looks like someone has been searching for top secret spy files. Magazines torn apart. The first three shelves of book case wall empty. Everything everywhere. Including your Encyclopdeia Brittanicas with the spines chewed off. Teeth marks. Dog slobber. Mom would take all of this in and then look at this crazy dog and say, "Mikey, have you been reading. You must be the smartest dog in the world."

Seriously.

The reason I told you that though is this. My Dad loved those Encyclopdeia Brittanicas. His favorite thing to do was grab one, say the letter C, and sit down and read it cover to cover. He'd even read it to me at times. He did this pretty much all through my youth. I can still picture him in my mind's eye sitting in his chair reading one of the Encyclopdeia Brittanicas.

It is only fitting, since I am my Father's son that my favorite website is a Buck Rogers homage to him and his habit. I love Wikipedia. Hard. It is by far my number one visited site and the one I spent the most time reading.

Great example of my usage of this site while giving you a bonus quirk of mine. When I eat lunch at my desk these days I read the the Wikipedia listings for United States network television schedules. Seriously. I love it. To go year by year and to see what was on in prime time. Like the year I was born. What shows I know about were on against. At what time. Day. When they were picked-up. Canceled. Then chasing links to discover more about this or that. It's the perfect storm of trivia and chronological history that sucks me into another world. I freaking love it which is why I love Wikipedia.

Until I BLOG again...We've got nothing better to do
Than watch T.V. and have a couple of brews.

Day by Day

2011-04-20T16:09:00.003-05:00

A programming note. For anyone who gives a shit. I'm going to scrap Day 27 and 29. They are supposed to be, respectively, a child I love and a person I love. Why. I'm a freak. And I can't (or won't) pick one over the other (even though it's not asking me to pick a favorite.) I'm weird like that. So instead I'm going to finish this little exercise as such:

Day 27: A Favorite Website
Day 28: A Place I Love
Day 29: A Favorite Play List
Day 30: Hopes, Dreams and Plans for the next 365 Days.

Until I BLOG again...Day by day, well, who cares anyway.

Day 26: A Funny (True) Story

2011-04-18T17:37:00.001-05:00

MK asked me after reading the N word story why it seemed crazy shit happened more to me, than her, or other people.

Because, let's face it, when I thought of today's topic I had a bunch of stories pop into my head.

• My onanistic attempt in a public restroom.
• The time I shit—lest I shit myself—in a public park.
• Wearing My Lovely Bride's pants (by accident) for a job interview.
• Tampered with the mail.
• Fashioned a band-aid out of a Maxi-Pad.
• Dug a tick out of the Elder Boy's junk.

If I thought longer I could add more. Hell, anyone who has ever read this, or that, know my penchant to mine the crazy shit that often happens in my life.

It would be easy to mail it in again (you got six funny (true) stories to read above.) But that wouldn't be fair to the spirit of this little exercise. So. Today. I'll offer up a story that I only hinted about in a Facebook status post a few weeks in the rearview.

The first thing you need to know is this. I do laundry I'd guess, 50% of the time. Maybe more during the school year to be honest. I know ladies. What a catch, right? Wrong. I don't do My Lovely Bride's laundry (unless it's t-shirts and other articles of clothing I can't fuck up) because I tend to throw pretty much everything into the same wash and wash it.

I told you that for this, though, BLOG reader. When I was out of town checking on Old Granny and her new robot hip My Lovely Bride did all the laundry. She must have felt sorry for me too, because in addition to doing the laundry she went so far as to place my laundry in my drawers (something she often leaves for me to do myself.)

At some point she placed some of the Elder Boy's size 8 year old boxer brief underwear into my drawer.

As an aside the Younger Boy doesn't have a lot of underwear since he prefers to freeball. His freeballing was so epic that My Lovely Bride actually bribed him with a new video game if he'd agree to wear underwear to school the balance of the year since he was showing so much ass crack. The first week of the new underwear deal, the Younger Boy called My Lovely Bride (he was at home with his brother, she still at work.) Because of the time, My Lovely Bride assumed the Boy wanted to know why she wasn't home yet and when he could expect her to be home. Which I why she said something like, I'll be home soon upon answering the phone. The Boy didn't want that though he told her. He wanted to know if he could take his 'damn' underwear off now that school was over lest he not live up to his side of the bargain.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the ranch being my underwear drawer, I had no idea that a pair of the Elder Boy's underwear were mixed in with mine. Which is why one day, I pulled a pair along with some socks and placed into my work out bag.

I should note that when I work out at lunch I generally go into the club and change down to my underwear and then suit up. I place the underwear in my bag, into my locker and then put that pair on after I've showered and am changing back into my street clothes.

Which is what I did this fine day a month or so in the rearview in a very crowded 24 Hour Fitness Locker Room.

It was here that I attempted to suit back up in what I didn't realize was the Elder Boy's size 8 boxer briefs which only made it to slightly above my knees.

Being an epic dipshit, at first I figured I was putting both legs into one leg hole.

Wrong. So I figured they much be bunched up in some strange way so I got them a few inches higher to the point of constriction. Where I was doing that crazy ass bounce move trying to get them up (with my penis flopping about no doubt.) Until. I fell. On my ass. In the crowded 24 Hour Fitness locker room. With my dick hanging out and a 9 year old boy's boxer briefs constricting my upper legs.

Which brings me to this (another funny (true) story.) I'd like to apologize to the guy who almost jammed his dick into my knee in the same 24 Hour Fitness Lock Room. I take it all back.

Until I BLOG again...D-U-M-B.

Day 25: Answers: Part 2

2011-04-11T12:02:00.006-05:00

As promised on Day 18, today I'll answer the second round of questions.

Someone who is hurting asked:
Some of your most poignant posts on Team Tinsley were about your mother. You even wrote 'grief is funny and apparently has no statute of limitations.' You don't write about her much anymore. Do you still grieve for your Mom?

aboynamedstu answer:
Talk about ego stroking. Being quoted in a question (actually it is the second time in as many weeks that I've heard someone quoted something I wrote. If it keeps up my head will get big enough to look right with my Ginormous forehead!)

The short answer is yes. I do. Often at odd times. Big things don't faze me all that much anymore (birthdays, anniversaries, holidays.) It's the little things that get me. Watching one of the Boy(s) do or say something. The way they look. Those are the things that make my heart hurt that my Mom is missing it. My Dad even said that's one of the things that causes him the most pain. That she doesn't get to see any of that sort of stuff. Overall though, as I've written to the point of ad nauseam, grief for me is very much akin to an injury. It hurts bad at first. Then over time the wound heals. It doesn't hurt the same. Even though it still hurts. You also have the scar. And the little moments I mentioned at first, cause the old injury to ache (like my collar bone will do–I broke it–when it's going to rain.) I still think that grief is funny too. How people deal with it. Act around it. It's the stuff of nightmares for most. Stick your head in the sand, don't think or talk about it. Which I think is a tremendous disservice to most. Especially children who have to deal with it.

Anonymous asked:
Who was your first love?

aboynamedstu answer:
Julie Lunn. Not even sure if that is the correct spelling of her name. It was clearly puppy love. Star crossed lovers if you can be lovers in 6th grade? We did make out at Skate World (in the corner!) She lived in the Widow's Colony. We went on what might have been my first date date. Even though we had to have parents drive us. We went to see Every Which Way But Lose with Gordon Tipton and Lori Trundle (why can I remember her last name and not Julie's?) She told me that popcorn made her fart. Then she left me for Troy. Bitch. Broke my heart.

Septemberist (a.k.a. Erica) asked:
You, a movie theatre, an infinite selection of films. What's on the playlist?

aboynamedstu answer:
This question makes me feel like Ed from Northern Exposure. Of all the questions asked this is the hardest to answer (which is funny to me.) I love movies. All kinds. Classics. Popcorn. Adventure. Hell, I even like bad movies when they are so bad they are good. For this question though I imagined myself running my own hip movie house that serves beer and does double features each night of the week. Movies that are connected, thematically, in my head at least. Each movie selected has special meaning to me and was pretty much selected top of mind so I could get 'er done!

Sunday Nigh
The Searchers
Rio Bravo

Monday Night
A River Runs Through It
Field of Dreams

Tuesday Night
High Fidelity
About a Boy

Wednesday Night
Bronco Billy
Shawshank Redemption

Thursday Night
Pulp Fiction
Boogie Nights

Friday Night
Goodfellas
Saving Private Ryan

Saturday Night:
Fight Club
Three Kings

Until I BLOG again...One of my favorite scenes from Three Kings. That movie is greatness. If you've never seen it. Check it out!

Day 25: Answers: Part 1

2011-04-06T10:06:00.008-05:00

As promised on Day 18, today I'll answer the questions. Since I got a handful, and some are multipart, I'll bust this day into two to make sure I adequately answer what was asked.

Staci asked:
It is obvious how much you love your family. Did you and your Lovely Bride always "plan" on 2 children? Have you ever thought that you wanted more kids? And, wondering how being an only child influenced your decision?

aboynamedstu answer:
John Lennon nailed it. For us. Quite literally. Life is what happened while we were busy making other plans. Because our plan was to be married, roughly 5 years, and then become breeders. 1999 (we were married in 1994,) like the song, came and went. Only. There was no lion in my proverbial pocket that was ready to roar. Because it seems, My Lovely Bride's female parts coupled with my male parts were akin to a fucked up reproductive version of Space Invaders. I chronicled some of our trials and tribulations regarding this in Hope Springs Eternal (a.k.a. the infamous aboynamedstu attempts to beat off in a public restroom story on the Team Tinsley BLOG.

It took more than four years (and $10,000) to have the Elder Boy.

Which is ironic considering the Younger Boy was conceived on pretty much the first attempt and cost only $10 (My Lovely Bride's generic antibiotic prescription that I'm convinced rode shot gun for my boys (read sperm) quest to her egg.)

I tell you all that for this: We felt blessed to have one kid. Anything beyond that was gravy because there were days when we felt or thought it might never happen for us. Most of those days are long forgotten now. We realize that we were (are) much luckier than many. That some will (and have) spent much more than $10,000 to try to have a child (and never succeed.) Whereas others who don't really want to have kids can get pregnant at the drop of a hat. Life is funny like that.

As for the question of more kids. I'd have liked to have a daughter. We joked around at one point when the Younger Boy was still pretty small that if we could be guaranteed a girl, maybe we'd have one more. The fact that we were joking about a guarantee based on our history with having Boy #1 is not lost on me either, Staci. In the end, two is more than we ever figured we get, so it's the right number for Team Tinsley. At this point I think if my Lovely Bride got knocked up (knock on wood) she'd go insane. Babies and toddlers are fun to visit. But those days are behind us. I'll settle for a daughter in the form of a daughter-in-law someday. That is if the Boy(s) aren't funny. Not ha-ha funny. Queer funny. Not that there would be anything wrong with that.

My being an only child didn't influence me/us as much as you might think. In a vague sort of a way I knew we wanted to have more than one child. Perfect world it would be a boy then girl. Then we had all our issues, and it felt a bit presumptions to say I wanted X amount of kids when having one was proving to be such a challenge. Then as I've wrote, the Younger Boy happened so fast we didn't even have a chance to really think about it. We would have never planned to have the Boy(s) 23 months and 3 weeks apart. Even though there are lot of positives to having two of the same gender so close in age, it's not always easy.

Now I sit here today, writing this, aboynamedstu v42 and think something my Mom said to me epitomizes how I feel about being a Father of two.

Fuck me. I can remember this call like it was yesterday. Even though this yesterday was late December 2003. I had dropped off the Elder Boy at Mimi and Papa's and went to see My Lovely Bride and the Younger Boy at the hospital. I had just arrived and was walking through the parking garage when my cell phone rang. It was my Mom. Calling to check in and to talk logistics about her and Pops coming up to meet their new Grandson. Once all that was discussed and almost as an aside, really, Mom said, "Me and your Dad were talking and we just can't believe you have two sons. It seems unreal."

Which is often how I feel. Based on being an only child of an only child Mother. After all the stuff we went through that first time to get pregnant. Even though I think, I'm a pretty good Dad for the most part. It still feels unreal, even to me at times, because I never had that sibling thing. It's voodoo to me. Something that anybody with siblings probably takes for granted. But if you've never had it. You want it. Or would at least like to visit it.

Speaking of which. Pardon me as climb upon the soap box. Writing this answer reminds me once again of how fucking bad I miss my Mom at times. The fact that she could simply call me (or me her) on the phone, even if it was the most mundane of calls is something I can't even begin to describe how bad I miss. Parents can annoy you. I get that. Mine annoyed me. The thing is BLOG reader. They'll be gone one day. Probably sooner than you want or realize. And you'll be like me. Missing it. So. aboynamedstu PSA: Slow down and embrace what you got while you got it. They love you the same as you love your kids (if you are fortunate to have any.) If not. They still love you. No matter what. Unconditionally. Which is saying a lot.

MK asked without realizing she was asking:
I thought about things you don’t talk much about and actually Carter comes to mind. You mention her (Drunko! HA!) but I don’t feel like you write that much about her and your interactions – is that a conscious choice? A respect issue? Or do you feel like you write a lot about her and I am crazy? You’ve talked about how you met – still makes me laugh—technically you are a funny guy after all – but funny in a haha way. But then I figured if you don’t mention her, I really need to respect her privacy.

aboynamedstu answer:
My Lovely Bride. God love the woman for putting up with me. Truly. I don't write that much about her specifically, which is as MK said, a conscious choice. Indirectly however, she's all over most of what I write. It's funny how people perceive my lack of writing about her though and a question I'm frequently asked. Does she exist? You guys having problems? Why don't you talk about her more. Write her name vs. writing My Lovely Bride.

I think a large part of this is because unless you know us, know us, you don't see My Lovely Bride since she's not big on the whole digital thing (she's not on Facebook for instance. Has no desire in fact.) Yet I write all this highly personal shit on the Team Tinsley, aboynamedstu BLOGS, and my goofy little Facebook things, so people feel like the know me or us. Be interesting for those that do know both of us personally to chime in and give your impression of her vs. the impression you get of her from the BLOGS.

Carter (there I used her actual name!) in a lot of ways is a bigger, bolder, more in your face personality than me. Which some might find hard to believe if you only know us from reading about us. She's not one to mince words. You pretty much always know where you stand with her, good or bad. And she puts up with me. That is a joke, but in all seriousness I put a lot of shit out there because of who I am and she's always cool about it. I try and respect her by not putting words in her mouth. Which is the real answer to MK's question. Unless of course the story I'm telling is so wrapped up or dependent in her voice. At the end of the day I respect her too much to ever try and write what I think she might think, feel, or say.

Until I BLOG again...I'm thinking of you, And all the things that you wanted me to be, And I'm trying now.

Day 24: A Travel Story

2011-04-05T11:06:00.001-05:00

My travel stories (over at the Team Tinsley BLOG especially) are legion.

Pretty much anytime I travel alone with the Boy(s) (a.k.a. Mr. Mom trip) something happens. Which is why I'm going to dial in Day 24 and offer up a few of my favorites from the archives.

Reminder. Day 25 is up next. I'm still taking questions to answer vs. posting another fucking picture. So. If you want to know something. Anything. Really. Ask. Quick.

• 220... 221, whatever it takes. The genesis of the whole Mr. Mom thing.

• Help Me. Indeed!

• I have no more than I did before This is my favorite for just pure, unadulterated wheels off-ness!

• It's just a moment. Fucking Teenage Ninja Turtles!

Until I BLOG again...In every port I own the heart of at least one lovely girl.

Day 23: A Favorite Video

2011-04-04T12:13:00.000-05:00

This is my second choice, to be honest, because my first choice would cross a line. I promised the Younger Boy I wouldn't post baby videos of him wearing anything incriminating. In looking for something else to post, I ran across this at my old Buzznet site (where i used to post photos, etc. from circa 2002 until 2006.)

If my memory is correct, I think this was one of the early versions of her memorial slideshow thing. Her memorial was two months after she died. A week before Christmas. Looking back, I can't believe I was actually able to complete the task, what with all the normal holiday craziness. The long hours it took to complete it because of the scanning and rendering. Staring at so many images of my Mom so soon after she had died so horribly (in my mind at least.)

Someone asked me for the Day 25 question (there's still time to ask your questions...get to it Dear BLOG Reader! if I still missed her. Actually, their question was much longer and they actually quoted me from an old Team Tinsley post where I asked this: Does grief have a statute of limitations?

Nearly five years in and I still don't have a good answer to that question.

Until I BLOG again...All things must pass.

Day 22: A Favorite Joke

2011-04-01T08:48:00.004-05:00

To be such a funny guy I don't really do jokes. Not knock-knock or 'A guy walks into a bar with a duck' type of jokes at least. I'm more about a great quip. Or pointing out the comedy in a common, day-in-the-life type of situation. Or doing a bit. Real life funny. No joke funny.

Still, I do have what I call stock jokes. These are bits and/or quips I trot out every chance I get. The first I ever remember doing I did for the first time as aboynamedstu. Literally.

It went something like this:

My Mom (the late great Joyce Tinsley:) Mrs. (insert name of close childhood friend) is having surgery tomorrow morning so (insert close childhood friend name) is going to stay with us for a few days.
aboynamedstu v10 (circa 1977:) Why is (insert name of close childhood friend) having surgery tomorrow?
My Mom (the late great Joyce Tinsley:) She's having a hysterectomy.
aboynamedstu v10 (circa 1977:) Does that mean her rectum is history?

I still find this joke funny. Maybe because it got a laugh out of my Mom? But then again she was my Mom so she kind of had to laugh, right?

Another stock joke is if someone tells me so-and-so is pregnant, my first reply will almost always be: 'that means so-and-so had sex.

God help My Lovely Bride because I have probably a handful of these goofy stock jokes.

Another favorite kind of joke thing that I do, which is really more of a bit, is to pose doing something to see what sort of wheels off comedic situation it will create. The recent post about the kid calling Big Boy the n-word is a good example of that. Most people would have simply ignored the kid, paid, and left. I questioned him and bam, I end up with a funny (and disturbing) comedic situation that I'm still talking about.

But here's the thing BLOG reader. For every bit I do, I have a handful that are left unrealized because I won't cross over the line to do them for various reasons. I usually will share them with someone, and pose it as a what if we did...scenario. A great example of this happened the other day at work.

Again. Let me stress. I did NOT do this. To do it would probably get me in severe trouble at work. But fuck me, I wish I could/would have done it.

I went something like this: A lady at work (who is kind of uptight and very straight laced) emails me and three other people who all arrive before 8am each day that an accountant named Eric is coming by the next morning with a package for her (she usually arrives around 9am.) She explains that the package is important and asked that we get the envelope from Eric and give it to her.

Now most people would read that and just think, sure, I can do that.

I'm not most people.

My first though is, how awesome it would be if I was the one that greeted Eric the accountant the next morning. Then when I took his package, I had one ready for him, presumably from the lady at work. Or so he would think. Only it would be from me. And inside the envelope would be a pair of panties.

The possibilities of this possible joke make me literally gag with laughter. Wondering what Eric the accountant would do or say. What the lady from work would do and say if Eric questioned her about it? Came onto her? How wheels off would this one act become.

Alas, I need my job more than my comedy, so I refrained.

Until I BLOG again...I started a joke.

aboyanemdstu update: After posting this, because again I suck in real time, I realized that today is April Fools Day! How cherry is that considering the subject.

Day 21: A Favorite Recipe(s)

2011-03-31T08:28:00.005-05:00

I like to cook. A lot. I also like to watch cooking shows (and cable cooking channels.) Every once in a while I'll do a true recipe. Usually though, like with ones below, I wing it. Tweaking it each time I make it, until I hit on the basis of a good recipe that I will rarely follow exactly. For me a recipe is more like someone saying we're going to this area of NE Richardson. I have a general idea of where I want to go, approximately, and the freedom to get there however I want. Below are a few recipes that I do quite a bit and are pretty damn dog good.

aboynamedstu's ramen noodle hot pot
This is one of my big go-to meals. I usually make it just for myself since it's so freaking hot and spicy and it's vegetarian. You could easily add some sort of meat if you wanted. As well as switch out veggies to what you like. It's quick and easy. And damn good.

1. Package of ramen noodle (Sans the flavor bag. That shit will kill you)
2. 2-3 Garlic Cloves
3. Half of small onion finely diced
4. Couple of carrots cut small (for quicker cooking time)
5. Couple of pieces of celery (cut small)
6. Couple pieces of broccoli (cut small)
7. A roma tomato (quartered)
8. Soy sauce (or teriyaki sauce)
9. Garlic Red Chili Sauce or Sriracha Red Rooster hot chili sauce
10. Red curry paste (I get hot)
11. Water
12. Oil
13. Salt and pepper to taste

Directions: While cooking the ramen noodles per instructions on the package (I generally pull them out a minute before I should) cut up your veggie ingredients. When the ramen noodles are done, drain them, and leave them in your draining device. Wipe your pot dry and put it back on your stove on high heat. After the pot is smokin' hot, add couple tablespoons of oil. Then add your onions, garlic and celery. Add a little salt and pepper and cook a minute or so, then add the carrots (which should be cut small to cook quicker.) Cook another minute or two, stirring the entire time. Then add the broccoli (also cut small) and cook another minute or so. While that is cooking get a small bowl and add (to taste) soy sauce (I'd guess I use a tablespoon or two,) garlic chili paste (probably 2 to 3 tablespoons because i like it hot,) and the red curry paste (I use a tablespoon.) Mix it together adding a little water so you get a half pint or so of liquid. Then dump that into your hot pot, stir, and cover for a few minutes. When your veggies are getting soft (I like mine with some crunch left) add your cut up Roma Tomato and cook for about a minute (adding more water or soy sauce if its getting to dry.) Once the tomato is good and hot and losing their juice, add the ramen noodles to the pot and stir like crazy so they won't stick. After a few seconds, I turn the stove off, and keep stirring, hard, to mix up all the ingredients and to coat the noodles with the sauce and distribute the veggies thru the entire dish. When done, serve in a big ass bowl and eat.

aboynamedstu's chocolate river
I don't really eat much dessert. Never had it as aboynamedstu growing up in Oklahoma. Unless for the holidays. My Boy(s) feel that each meal isn't complete without dessert. This is something that I concocted to trick up dessert which they love. If you got spawn, give it a try, your kids will go ape-shit.

1. Ice cream of your choice (1 1/2 to 2 scoops, we usually use rocky road)
2. Cone of your choice (sugar is ours)
3. Chocolate syrup (carmel will work too, as will strawberry)

Directions: Scoop your ice cream as normal into your cone, making sure you pack the first scoop tight (it will be your 'floor'). Be careful that you don't break or crack the cone. Once packed tight, add second scoop. Turn on warm water and let it run over your index finger for a few minutes. Once warm stick your index finger into the center of the ice cream pushing down slowly until you get to the packed first scoop. Remove your finger and take your chocolate syrup and fill the finger hole up with chocolate which is the chocolate river. From there you can trick it up as you like. The Elder Boy likes to sprinkle sprinkles all over the exterior of his ice cream whereas the Younger Boy likes the basic chocolate river. He's more a purist. I've also shoved candy into the finger hole, busted up cookies, and whipped cream. The sky is the limit really. Have fun, 'cause isn't that what dessert is all about?

Until I BLOG again...Warm my mind near your gentle stove.

Day 20: A Hobby of Mine

2011-03-30T10:01:00.002-05:00

I don't really have any hobbies these days unless you can count the Team (Tinsley.) Pretty much most of my activities center around my family. What they do. Or are doing. I'm usually doing until I'm done.

I'm playing softball with a bunch of guys from church (Dirty Search is our team name.) I like to do an occasional poker tournament. I like to golf. I'm going to sponsor Big Boy to see if he can eat a 5 pound burrito at Fuzzy's on Saturday.

But are those hobbies? I don't think so.

A hobby for me is something like stamp collecting. Or making models. Something that requires you go to Hobby Lobby to get shit. Or some type of specialty store you'd probably never frequent if not for your hobby.

Which brings me to my hobby. Which I no longer do, to be honest. Homebrewing. Stu's Demon Malt brand (what I called my brews) was in business circa 1994 to 2002. For those playing along at home, The Elder Boy was born in January 2002 which is about the time I stopped homebrewing.

I brewed a lot of beer over those 8 years. Some Great. Most good. And some that were undrinkable.

I'd like to get back into the brew thing someday. I always enjoyed it since it combines two things that I love to do: drinking beer and cooking. Brewing isn't really all that complicated. The main thing is making sure everything is clean. Sanitation. It is key. Not that you can or could kill yourself with a bad batch of beer. About the worst you can do is end up with a sour batch you have to dump which sucks because of the time and money you spend in a batch. Or it won't taste like what you wanted it to taste like. Rogue yeast. Seriously. Clean is a big thing in making beer.

The thing that always cracked me up about homebrewing was the main question I got from most people. How did I cap the beer. Which to be honest is the most simple of tasks in all of the process which can take 4 to 8 hours depending on what you are making when all is said and done.

Until I BLOG again...Strange brew.

Boyz in the Hood

2011-03-28T09:04:00.007-05:00

A few weeks in the rear view Wifesearch had a lively class on the letters of Martin Luther King. In our politically correct world the subject of racism is polarizing which is why after one such class, sitting in the hot tub, drinking beer, that Big Boy (a.k.a. Patrick) told My Man Bruce and myself that he had recently been called the N word at a local beer store.

For those that don't know Big Boy. He's not only a big boy. He's a big white boy.

"Why would he call you a N word?" Bruce and I both asked.

Big Boy went on to explain that he had no idea. He would often hit said beer store (which is across the street from Arapaho United Methodist Church for those playing along at home) on his way home from work and buy a hoop-d (big ass beer in a paper sack.) At some point when he entered the convenience store the worker who was a young kid (either Indian or Pakistani) would say, 'What up N word' as a greeting.

This troubled Big Boy. Hard. On multiple levels. Knowing Big Boy as My Man Bruce and I do, we thought the story was hilarious, and laughed until our sides hurt as he told about his encounters with this crazy kid.

Fast forward to the annual auction at AUMC (which was long and hot) and Big Boy, My Man Bruce and me decided to act like we were in Jr. High and sneak across the street to get a beer.

As we walked up to the door, Big Boy, who again is big=tall, sort of bent down and peered into the window and said, "It's him."

We filed into the store and were half way to the hoop-d case when the kid recognized Big Boy and said, I shit you not, "What up N word."

Big Boy ignored the comment and walked to the hoop-d case and whispered if we had heard the kid say the N word. We had. But it wasn't super loud and to be honest it was so surreal, it was hard to even believe it had just happened.

Finally we decided to grab a Fosters oil can each and Big Boy darted up to pay the kid and tried to ignore him as much as possible when the person you are trying to ignore is your cashier.

In his haste Big Boy had sort of cut in front of two other guys buying a six pack of Miller Lite, so Big Boy stood to the side and waited for My Man Bruce and myself to pay.

My Man Bruce and and I were discussing who would pay (I had cash, he had a check card) when the kid acknowledged it was our turn by saying to me, "What up N word?"

As anyone who has ever read this here BLOG know, I love nothing more than a situation that is so gloriously wheels off. There was NO way I was going to ignore being called the N word by this kid so I asked him, "Did you just call me a N word?"

The kid smiled and said, "Yeah. What up N word?"

"That's racially insensitive." I said to him.

Big Boy lost it at this and darted out the side door leaving me and My Man Bruce with this crazy kid. My Man Bruce said a lady entered right about what was then now, but to be honest, I was so focused on what the kid said next that I had tunnel vision.

"Your President is a N word."

"My President," I asked. "He's not your President too?"

I could see Big Boy laughing hard outside. My Man Bruce stood next to me, doing a very Beavis type laugh.

The kid. He was oblivious.

"No N word. He ain't my president."

"Really," I said. "Where are you from?"

"I ain't telling you where I'm from N word."

"Why?" I asked. "Where are you from?"

"I'll blow up your house."

"You'll blow up my house?" I said. "What the fuck?"

"You haven't been able to find that N word from September 11th." He said as he handed Bruce his receipt to sign.

"You ain't never going to catch that N word," he said as Bruce handed him the signed receipt.

"Thank you, sir." the kid said automatically.

"You just throw out the N word and then say sir?" I said. "Nice."

"He is a N word." the kid said.

At this point I realized that this kid is crazy. And as much as I like to fuck with someone, I didn't want him whipping out a gun and shooting me or My Man Bruce who was so discombobulated by all of this that he started to open his Fosters oil can that was sitting on the payment counter.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, N word!!!" the kid said to My Man Bruce. "You trying to get me thrown in jail."

"I don't want to end up in jail with you N word." The kid said.

We were slowly heading to the door that Big Boy had exited when we asked the kid why he called Big Boy a N word. I've been in that store a few times (I don't like to shop there 'cause they are HIGH in price) and that kid was working and he never called me a N word. Ditto for My Man Bruce. For some reason Big Boy brought it out of him. Something Big Boy self admittedly says often happens to him.

The kid sort of shook his head in disgust and said, "He ain't no N word. That boy buys Keystone Light in the can. He's white."

My Man Bruce and I lost it. I'm talking bending over laughing so hard laughter.

The kid was again oblivious though and continued. "He's ain't no N word. He's white. He's a hippie!"

"That what we call him too." I said to the kid. "That he's a hippy."

"I been saying he was hippie long before you N word." He said to me.

Then he spit in a cup and said, "See you later N word."

Until I BLOG again...coz the boys in the hood are always hard, you come talkin that trash, we'll pull ya card, knowin' nutin in life but to be legit', dont quote me boy coz i aint said shit.

Day 19: A Fun Memory

2011-03-25T15:02:00.004-05:00

Back in the day, said day being 1992, I lived with The Pig (my nickname for him, him for me) in a duplex on Lower Greenville. Prospect Street to be exact. The house, like many in the area, before it became hip and cool, was an older home that had been literally cut in half to make it a duplex. The Pig and I lived in the front half (that faced Prospect.) Two sisters and a boy named Roy (who was the child of one of the sisters) lived in the back half which opened on the alley.

Roy used to come over and watch Double Dare on Nickelodeon with me in the evenings because his Mom went to some popular shit kicking bar/dance joint a lot of the time for Happy Hour. She was recently divorced from Roy's father and on the hunt for a man. His Aunt went to Sue Ellen's because she was not only Roy's Mom's sister, she was also a sister to Sappho. All of which left Roy, who was maybe 10, by himself from the time school got out until the evening which is why he'd come around to our pad and want to hang out with aboyanemdstu.

It's a testament to how much My Lovely Bride (we had just started seeing each other in a boyfriend / girlfriend sort of a way) liked that version of aboynamedstu, or how decent her judgement was, that she didn't run screaming from a 24 year old man who was unemployed at the time and spent evenings drinking beer and watching Double Dare on Nickelodeon with the ten year old neighbor boy named Roy.

I guess she saw through the creepiness and realized that I was simply keeping a lonley kid company (and often feeding him) while his Mom and Aunt did whatever they did at Cowboys or Sue Ellen's. The Pig and I even made up a song about the situation set to the tune of The Devil Went Down To Georgia that went like this:

Roy you rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard
'Cos your Mama's down at Cowboy's in the backseat of a car.

I digress. As always. But since I'm off the track. Let me digress farther.

We didn't have a washer and dryer at the pad. So we took our wash to a little do it yourself laundry joint over on Oram Street that was run by a big black lady named Peaches. Seriously. A few years later, when I was gainfully employed, and doing some freelance for a friend that ran a local youth sports oriented magazine, I worked under the pseudonym Peaches Johnston so my main employer wouldn't know I was freelancing. I even ended up on his masthead to puff up his staff and people would call the magazine asking for Peaches. Awesome. Digression.

As I alluded, I was unemployed at the time. Roughly from mid February until May. This meant when I wasn't looking for a job, I had a lot of free time on my hands. It was truly the first real free time I'd had since I was a kid in the summer. Being an adult though, and relatively new to Dallas, I didn't do all that much with my time (The Pig worked evening and nights and had a new girl friend so was often gone.) I'd go out occasionally. Or sit on the couch that was on our kick-ass front porch. And I watched a lot of TV, some of which was with Roy.

After Roy went home and to bed (he was 10 after all and had school) I would walk the two blocks up to the 7-Eleven that was near the Wholefoods on Greenville Ave. and purchase a hoop d (read big ass beer in a paper sack.) I'd then make the return walk home and either drink my hoop d while lying on the driveway while I gazed at the stars. Or. On our big ass couch on the porch.

After I was done, It was nearly always close to 10pm so I'd go inside and I shit you not, watch thirtysomething reruns on Lifetime.

Which is my fun memory.

Until I BLOG again...Roy you rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard, 'Cos your Mama's down at Cowboy's in the backseat of a car.

Day 18: A Baby Photo Question(s)

2011-03-24T11:21:00.003-05:00

I agree with Erica. Fuck all this picture, shit. I don't have a baby picture readily available to post, and to be honest, I'm sure I couldn't recount a story to go with it.

This exercise is about writing cues. Or at least that is how aboynamedstu sees it.

So, I'm going to break whatever you'd call the 4th wall in this here BLOG and do this: Ask you Dear BLOG Reader to ask me a question?

I want you to ask me the one thing(s) you'd like to know about aboynamedstu. Something you've always wanted to know. A good chunk out there have read not only this BLOG but the Team Tinsley one. So surely, there's something you want to know. Anything is fair game, really. And as regular reader should know, there's a 99.9% chance I'll answer honestly. From the heart. On Day 25 (which is supposed to A Favorite Photo.)

You can even keep your anonymity if you want. I won't post your name unless you say you are cool with it. If you don't say either way, I wont' post your name with your question.

You can submit your question as a comment to this post (which will sort of dink up the whole anonymity thing) or email me at tinsley.stuart at gmail.com (obviously I'm warding off SPAM trollers so be sure and use the at symbol and close the gaps.)

Until I BLOG again...Someday somebody is going to ask you.'

Day 17: A Photo Of My Family

2011-03-23T12:10:00.003-05:00

Team Tinsley sans me. I'm behind the camera. I did Wy's zombie skate boarder get-up. Should I quit my day-job and move to Hollywood to do special effects? Probably not.

Until I BLOG again...Well any time, any place, anywhere that I go, all the people seem to stop and stare, they say 'Why are you dressed like it's Halloween?'

Day 16: A Favorite Food

2011-03-22T13:16:00.003-05:00

My palate is an interesting exercise in what it means to be aboynamedstu.

I grew up in Oklahoma. Most who read all of [insert gesticulating] this know that. What you might not know is that my Mom and Dad both worked full time jobs when I was truly aboynamedstu. Mom owned the eponymous Joyce's Beauty Shop. Dad worked at the steel mill. Also. Mom cooked. Dad did (does) not. Working a full time gig and then coming home to cook ain't easy now. It wasn't easy then. Plus, my Mom, God bless her, wasn't the best cook in the world. She could make some things. Had her special things. But overall. Not great. In fact, her hijinks in the kitchen are legendary.

Example. Charley Shaw (a great childhood friend of mine who I've sadly fell out of touch with over the years—something I regret) and myself once came home from someplace or another and went to the Tinsley icebox to get a cool drink. There was nothing. Mom, being a Mom, asked us what we wanted. Charley requested Kool-Aid. Mom said, fine, and went to make it while we went off and did whatever we did back in the day. A few moments later Mom brought us two glasses of Kool-Aid (they were in those funky Cartoon collectible glasses you used to could get at McDonald's and other joints in the 1970s and early 1980s if you are old enough to dig that reference.) Charley took a long drink from his glass and then screwed up his face and said, "This doesn't taste right?"

I took a long drink to see what he meant and sure enough this Kool-Aid didn't taste right.

In fact, it didn't taste like Kool-Aid at all even though it looked like Kool-Aid.

We went into the kitchen and Charley said, "Mrs. Tinsley is this Kook-Aid? It tastes funny."

My Mom cackled (I wish I had that laugh on tape now that she's gone.) Long. Hard. While Charley and I stood there looking at her and then each other.

Finally, wiping the tears out of her eyes, she reached around and grabbed the package to show us.

It was Jello.

My Mom tried to pass off dissolved and unset Jello as Kool-Aid.

Fuck me that's funny. Then. Now. But my point is Mom did some crazy shit in the kitchen and when I was aboynamedstu we ate simple middle American type dishes. Most coming from a can. Or frozen. Hell, I probably didn't eat fresh broccoli until I was grown. Ditto with anything more exotic than say, Mexican food.

Which is why my favorite food choice is odd based on my upbringing. I don't revere the food of my youth. All those home style stick to your rib types of food that so many in Oklahoma love to eat.

Not me. In fact, I've forsaken my culture entirely and have fallen in love with the foods of Asia. Literally.

I don't just love Chinese. I love Thai,Japanese,Korean, Vietnamese and Indian (which is in Asia obviously even though you might not consider it Asian food.)

I could eat Asian food all the time, every meal. Something that drives My Lovely Bride nuts. It is my de facto go to meal. When I cook, I'd say 8 out of 10 meals will have some sort of Asian influence (I'm also a big time one pot cook and the wok rocks.) Hell, if you gave me the choice between a big breakfast of eggs and bacon versus a nice big bowl of Pho. I'm going with the Pho. I'd prefer a thai dish over BBQ. I'd rather eat a nice stir fry than Italian. If I want to go out for a nice dinner, splurge, special occasion type of thing, I don't think steak house. I think sushi. You get the point.

Looking back through the years, I can't recall (which is odd with my memory) the first time I had Asian food. I'm pretty sure it had to have been Chinese and I was probably a teenager. Maybe the 15th Street Wok for all the T Town peeps in the house. There weren't many Asian restaurants in the Oklahoma of my youth. Certainly not in Sand Springs. But things change. Today, the McDonald's in Sand Springs, Oklahoma when I was growing up is an all-you can eat Chinese joint.

Until I BLOG again...You catch a pearl and ride the dragon's wings.

Day 15: My Celebrity Crush

2011-03-21T11:45:00.006-05:00

This has been the hardest day yet. I'm not a crush kind of a guy. Not even Orange. Unless it's the REM song. But. As usual. I digress.

When I think celebrity crush my first instinct is someone of the opposite sex. Only. I can't come up with one single foxy celebrity chick. That's not even a bullshit answer 'cause My Lovely Bride is following this (and reading these posts.) I don't have one.

Since I have to pick though I'm going to go the opposite direction and pick someone of the same sex. Which I hope doesn't make me come off as gay. Not that there is anything wrong with that. My celebrity crush is Timothy Olyphant.

I absolutely love Justified (as an aside I have a crush on the way Boyd Crowder in that show talks. I could listen to him for hours. If you aren't familiar with Justified you can hear him talk yourself if you chase the Until I BLOG again link at the bottom.) As well as Deadwood. I'm simply fascinated with Timothy Olyphant, probably because him seems so cool to me. And there's not much I wouldn't watch him do. Including much to my shame, watching The View my Lovely Bride DVR's daily to see Timothy in a segment plugging season 2 of Justified.

Maybe I am gay?

Until I BLOG again...If I were gay.

Day 14: An Old Photograph

2011-03-17T09:35:00.005-05:00

Christmas 1972ish? Not really sure how old I am here. I'd guess five or six. I was recently up at Old Granny's (this is her house) to help her post robot hip surgery. Many of the things that you see in this picture are still there and in the exact same place. Only now, Old Granny with the robot hip sits (nearly all the time) in a chair that is placed pretty much between my Mom and Grandpa and me in this old photo. Where the tree is placed is a table (that was in the house when the photograph was taken, but in another spot, obviously) that has a lamp, a phone (her life line to the outside world,) a senior (high school) photo of my Mom, senior (high school) photo of me and a photo of the Boy(s). My Dad, kneeling next to my Grandpa and me, isn't in any photos on this table or that room. Which is ironic considering he's the only one left between my Mom and Grandpa and checks in on Old Granny with the robot hip in that very room more than I would if I were him. He's a good man. My Dad. But more on that later.

Being back in Sand Springs last week for four days—FOUR days—that's the longest I've been there in over a decade. I was struck with the fact that you can truly never go home again. Everyone knows that. But what I got to wondering was this. If you never left home, is it the same? Or is it equally weird for you? Is change so slow, day to day living your life, that you don't notice it if you've never left?

I wanted nothing more than to get out of Sand Springs when I was in high school. I didn't want to go back when I was in college. This was solved for me, in large part, because my parents moved away from there for good in 1987 (my Dad moved back to the area after my Mom died.) As I've aged, I've grown to look back fondly on that place. And when I go back, those fond memories are most often kicked in the nuts. Hard. I think because what I'm actually fond of were the time(s) wrapped up in that place.

This is probably true of everyone. And I'm just now realizing it since I suck in real time.

Recently when I was up in Oklahoma tending after Old Granny with a robot hip I saw what must be my second cousin. I get that shit confused. She is my Grandma's niece. A few years younger than my Mom would be if she were alive. Ravaged by what must be a life of cigarettes and bad food, she was talking to Old Granny with the robot hip about helping her, when she can barely walk herself without the aid of a cane. And even with, she was out of breath by the time she walked from the kitchen to the front room where Old Granny with the robot hip sat in the chair that is placed in between my Mom and Grandpa and me in the above old photo. Which isn't far. I was talking to her in the kitchen earlier though, where she sat chain smoking cigarettes (such an odd thing in my PC world to see someone smoking indoors today) and chain drinking Dr. Pepper (she drank two) while the nurse redressed the wounds on Old Granny with the robot hip.

At one point she asked me by name (which is always odd because most people in Oklahoma pronounce Stuart as Stert. Like Certs, sans the C or the S on the end) if I remembered Uncle Thayer (a.k.a. my Grandpa) bringing me down to the diner she worked at when I was little.

I did not.

She went on to tell me that I was really young. Probably not even in school yet as he would bring me there in the morning and if I were older I would have been, or should have been, in school.

That's not the point though. The point is the fact that she was amazed that Uncle Thayer was so sweet and gentle with me. That I was the little boss as she put it. And this tough man would do whatever this small child wanted in a very sweet and nurturing way. Which is how I remember my Grandpa. Only he wasn't that sweet. He toughness is legendary in that part of the world. Or was, before so many died.

My Grandpa had a deformed hand. It was like a natural fist. Stump like. Or a hoof. It was like his fingers all fused together in this hoof. He was self conscious about it. Often hid it in pictures and in life so if you didn't know him well, you would never know he was deformed in this way.

Having this hoof hand and living his life made him extremely tough. He wasn't a big man. He was 5'4" maybe. As a kid in school he was a state level wrestling champion. He actually won state way back when. As he grew older he developed a reputation as one of the toughest guys in town. A real life Boy Named Sue with a name like Thayer and a horse hoof hand.

One of the most famous of all his tough stories dealt with a bunch of guys drinking beer (which was illegal back then) at some place. There was talk about some big tough football player over in Tulsa. Or some other town in the area who could whip anyone. One thing led to another and a fight was organized between my Grandpa and this big football playing bad-ass.

As the story goes, anecdotal at best, when they met up the football dude stood well over 6' tall to my Grandpa's 5'4" frame. The jock also noted the deformed hoof hand and tried to dismiss my Grandpa as being an unworthy opponent. My Grandpa said it was fine and that he would take his chances and fight the guy.

It was at this point that they got ready to begin the fight with the big tough football player sort of preening and getting ready in a very showy way to kick what he thought would be my Grandpa's ass.

My Grandpa on the other hand, took off his coat, and then quickly ran toward the jock, catching him off guard, jumping up as high as he could, then wrapping his legs around the jock's stomach / chest area and then riding him to the ground all the while pummeling him in the face with his good hand and his hoof hand.

The guy was out before he hit the ground.

When I look at an old picture like above (or return home,) I see all of these stories and more. I see family history. Good and bad. I see context. I see what is. I see what was.

Until I BLOG again...What is life.

Day 12 & 13: Smash-Up!

2011-03-16T15:55:00.002-05:00

I'll take Day 12 as meaning something I bought recently for myself. Something beyond gas. Or food. Beer. Because, really, beyond that I rarely, if ever, buy anything for myself.

My father-in-law once said of me: "You have a depression era mindset when it comes to money."

Which is true. Money = security for me. I don't necessarily covet it. Think that it is the end all, be all to everything. I get that money is a tool. And as I said, that tool for me is security.

That might make you think that I'm cheap. Which is when my relationship with money gets really curious. Because I'm not cheap at all when it comes to buying things for others. Or if I'm on vacation. I'll gladly spend what I need and want to spend. Without buyer's remorse. Yet splurging $8.99 versus $7.99 on a six pack of beer will give me buyer's remorse.

I'm saving a fucking dollar. Sixteen cents spread over 6 beers, beers that I wanted over some other beers. Yet I'll beat myself up and or stand in front of the beer case for too long agonizing over the decision.

The same is true of other purchases for me. Like something I want to buy.

I need a gym bag. Mind you, I work out pretty much Monday through Friday. To burn stress. Read. Get out of work for an hour. I take my gym bag. Which is actually the Elder Boy's very first Day School Backpack. He's had, shit, 6 backpacks since then. Expensive ones. That I've paid for, for the most part. Yet, I'm using a 7 year old backpack that has a ET written on it in black Sharpie and has a big ass hole in it because I can't convince myself to spend $25 to $40 on a nice new gym bag/backpack for myself.

Fucked up, isn't it?

Until I BLOG again...All That Money Wants.

Day 11: A Photo Of Me Taken Recently

2011-03-15T09:35:00.001-05:00

This was at a work related party for DIFFADallas. I look old. And. Annoyed. Which I probably am because I don't enjoy these type of work related parties even though I'm very good at organizing them.

Hi irony.
Nice to see you.

Amazingly this was the only recent photo of me. I'm never in any photos. Because I'm usually the man behind the camera. I also don't like to have my picture made. That sentence was on purpose. I heard someone say that while I was in Sand Springs.

"He don't like to have his picture (which sounded like pitcher) made."

Are pictures even made anymore? In this digital age?

Until I BLOG again...I finally see the light, Down on the east side, Wasted like a memory, If I had a car I'd drive, Straight off the bridge into the river, it would empty me.

Lenny Bruce is not afraid

2011-03-14T11:23:00.004-05:00

"These are end times," he said.

"Excuse me?" I asked looking up from the Rib Crib take-out menu.

"These are end times," he said pointing at the TV showing earthquake and tsunami footage. "The Bible talks about it in Revelations."

I shifted on my bar stool. The boy version of aboynamestu was terrified of exactly this kind of talk as a kid growing up in Sand Springs. Armageddon. End times. Whatever you want to call it scared the ever living shit out of me.

Now. Not so much.

And having to listen to this dude in coveralls tell me about his version of the Bible while I drank a beer and ordered take-out was about the last thing I wanted to hear considering the fun-filled time I was having in Sand Springs nursing my 87 year old Granny with the new robot hip.

The dude did look like a prophet though. He had an impressive 7" long beard. And his coveralls, did he have sort of a flowing robe look to them.

"The Bible tells about end times starting with earthquakes," the prophet in coveralls said again in case we didn't hear him.

Best I could tell from his entrance the prophet in coveralls was a regular. Or at least regular enough that the bartender poured his beer and had it sitting in front of him by the time he had perched his large frame on top of the Rib Crib bar stool.

Stroking his beard he pointed at the TV hanging over the Rib Crib's small bar and said, "That new-clear plant is leaking the radiation. End times. Just like in Revelations."

"Interesting," I said.

Which was a mistake. Because my saying what he said was interesting was an invitation, to him at least, to tell me more about his eschatology theories.

After a lengthy discourse he summed it up again by saying, "These are indeed end times. Just like in Revelation."

I held up my take-out menu and asked, "If that is the case, you think I should order the ribs or a salad?"

The bartender chuckled.

The prophet in coveralls however, gave me the most curious of looks before saying, "I don't know what you're hungry for. Me. I like ribs. Salad is woman food."

"It was a joke." I said.

"What?" He asked. Genuinely confused by the course of the conversation.

"I'd never order a salad?" I said.

This made the bartender laugh out loud which confused the prophet in coveralls further.

"That was a joke too," I explained.

The prophet in coveralls gave me a hard look and said, "God don't take kindly with people making fun of his good book."

"Blasphemy." I said. "I hope my bad joke didn't offend."

The bartender chuckled again.

I'm sure our two man act at his tiny ass bar was the most entertainment he's had in months.

The prophet in the coveralls took a long pull off of his beer (Sam Adams for those playing along at home—which surprised me—never judge a prophet by his coveralls.) He nearly drained it to be honest. Then, wiping the suds off his impressive facial hair said, "No offense taken."

"Good," I said. "What does Revelation say about Godzilla—because my oldest Boy is convinced he's the cause of all this trouble over in Japan."

Until I BLOG again...Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom!

Day 10: A Photo Of Me Taken Over Ten Twenty-Eight Years Ago

2011-03-09T09:45:00.003-06:00

Hawaii. Not sure which island. We went to three. O'ahu, Maui, and Kaua'i. We were there from December 26, 1983 until early January 7ish, 1984.

I'm visibly pissed off in this photo. Note how my lips are pursed. That's a very aboynamedstu angry look. I still do it today. For the life of me, though, I don't recall what I'm angry about in this picture. Perhaps it was at my Garanimal-esque outfit. Bonus points for the tightly tucked in shirt. And zipper head hair style.

Fuck me.

In truth, I'm probably pissed off that Dad wants to capture the moment for posterity. So, sucked into my own teen-age angst or drama, I can't distance myself to see the bigger picture. That this is (was) one of the last true family vacation we would take. That a year or so later, I'd be out of the house. At college. Then a few years later, my parents moved out of Oklahoma, and I wouldn't live in the same state with them for nearly a decade. Then I wouldn't live closer than 300 miles.

Of course, in what was then, now, I didn't know any of that.

Seeing this picture, I want to jump into a time machine, and nut punch that version of aboynamestu. Hard. I get that he is a building block to who and what I am now.

Still.

Looking at him, and that pissed off look on his face, pisses this version of me off, bad enough, to put that same look on the current aboynamedstu's face.

It's like a bad Terminator time loop paradox of regret.

Until I BLOG again...With all this loveliness, There should be love.

Day 08 & Day 09

2011-03-08T12:19:00.001-06:00

Day 08 and 09 smash up! Why. Because, I'm trying to pass Erica. Kidding.

Seriously, and as goofy as it sounds, what I crave is also my pet peeve. But first, allow me to digress.

I rarely, if ever, crave anything tangible. My commitment to walking the talk or doing what I say is to the point of compulsion. Which isn't a bad trait, all things considered. While I love good beer, tacos, popcorn and Flaming Hot Lays, if you gave me a good reason to cease and desist, and I agreed, I'd be fine. I would be able to move onto something else without looking back. Which I get is annoying for anyone that doesn't have the same ability or self control. I'm the guy who can dip highly addictive smokeless tobacco only when I play golf and or poker (both of which I do infrequently.) I'm the guy who can say, no more fast food period, and then not eat any fast food for nearly five years, because I said, I'd quit eating fast food. Ditto on red meat. The list of examples of my ability to simply quit something, and move on, is legion.

What I do crave, that isn't tangible, and also is my pet peeve, is fair.

Hypocritical joke interlude.
Boy 1 or 2 (they both do it often:) It's (insert a litany of things that come up in daily life) not fair.
Me: If you want fair, wait until September, drive downtown, buy some tickets, and tell Big Tex I said, hi.
Boy 1 or 2: < insert fuck you Dad look. >

Life is not fair. Period. I know this. Well. Yet. I still think and feel, dare I say, crave that it be so. And when it doesn't meet my sense of fair standard, it is the ultimate pet peeve nut punch.

To be frank, it drives me fucking nuts.

Especially when there should or could be a sense of fair in a situation. By that I mean when people have control to make something fair or just.

I get that you can't control who gets cancer. Or struck by lighting. Who's home burns.

And while I can (and often am) pissed off by that shit, there's not much I can do about it.

On the flip side when some dickweed decides to bypass a long line of cars by driving on the shoulder I go absolutely bonkers. Granted. I can't control that either. But fuck me, does it get my goat.

Until I BLOG again...Fair is fair!

Day 07: A Favorite Photo

2011-03-07T06:20:00.001-06:00

One Day was what I titled this picture captured on the shore of Lake Texoma in May 2006. It was a Memorial Day Weekend retreat with what was then, our new church, Arapaho United Methodist. The Boy(s), looking forward, aged four and two are watching some older boys play on a giant raft as the waves lap toward their feet.

Now my Boy(s) would be on that raft while other kids watched them.

Fuck me it happens fast. Not to imply that I'm some sort of zen master live in the moment guru (trust me—I'm an epic dip shit most of the time,) but even back when then was now, I got that life moves fast.

This picture reminds me of that. It's almost as if that 38 year old version of aboynamedstu was saying slow down. Savor it. Focus on now because you'll blink your eyes and they'll be grown.

This photo helps remind me that when one of them calls out in the middle of the night after a bad dream, and wants me to stay in bed for awhile —no matter how tired I am after my day—I should seize that opportunity.

There's a shelf life on them allowing me to do that and one day sooner than I want, they will no longer need that from me.

This photo is a favorite because it is the epitome of why I spend so much time documenting Team Tinsley's life and times on our Flickr page. Or the Team Tinsley BLOG.

Until I BLOG again...Won't last forever (twenty-four twenty-five) It's kind of sad (twenty-six twenty-seven) Won't last forever (twenty-eight twenty-nine) It's kind of sad (thirty thirty-one) Won't last forever (thirty-two . . .)

Day 06: A Fun Fact About Me

2011-03-05T19:45:00.003-06:00

Being a red haired, left handed, only child in the Oklahoma of my youth was a trifecta for being fucked with. Seriously. The only way I could have stood out more was if I were missing a limb. Or Jewish.

My point though, only 1 to 2% of the world's population has red hair, and if you have red hair as a kid you're different from the get up and go. Factor in that my Mom owned and ran a beauty shop, and well, I got a lot of shit as well as admiration for my red hair.

If I had a dollar for every time someone in my youth said, 'Red on the head like the pecker on a poodle.' Ditto every time someone in my Mom's beauty shop commented on the color of my hair and if they could get it from a bottle. It's odd to be praised on one hand and teased mercilessly on the other. Typing that I recall that Lucy (as in the Lucy Show and her fire red hair) was another put-down I heard often in grade school.

I tell you all that though, for this, the fun fact about me.

I have an extremely high tolerance to physical pain.

Which I always thought was just me, until very recently when my man Bruce sent me a link to a story on ginger prejudice. Not the spice. Hair. People with red hair often get a lot of shit. To which I replied, no shit. Welcome to my world.

The thing is, in reading more about that story, I learned that red haired people (especially women) have a higher tolerance to physical pain because of a some mutation in a hormone receptor that deals with pigmentation.

Which might explain why I didn't go see the doctor until 10 hours after being blown up in a steel mill accident. I simply reassured everyone that I was ok to drive myself home. Then in denial about the severity of the injury (and unable to fully gauge the extent because of hair) I drank three Coors Lights in quick succession and went to bed. Waking up the next morning in more pain. I went to the steel mill's doc in box and learned that I had 2nd degree burns (with a few 3rd degree spots) over a good portion of my head. They then sent a nurse over to the Warehouse Market to purchase some disposable razors and then, after giving me a Valium, shaved the right side of my head clean, removing a lot of charred skin in the process.

It also explains why it took me three days to go to the doctor, after falling in a flag football game, to learn that I had broken my collarbone. By the time I went to the doctor, my right arm was hanging down to my knee because the right collarbone was busted to the point of not being able to hold up the arm. I'll never forget the doctor looking at me, prior to a proper examination, and asking, "Doesn't it hurt?"

It did hurt. But to be honest, it wasn't nothing a beer or two couldn't take the edge off of, which is my usual method of dealing with pain. Secondary fun fact about aboynamedstu. I don't like to take pills.

I'm the guy who after having his hernia fixed, only took three pain pills out of a full prescription. Ditto when I had my tonsils removed (which for the record is the most pain I've ever experienced. It hurt worse than the 2nd degree burns on the side of the head.)

Until I BLOG again...Pain don't hurt.

Day 05: A Favorite Quote

2011-03-04T08:41:00.002-06:00

I'm not a quote kind of a guy. Every once in awhile, I'll see something that I think is exceptionally good. Or. Defines a moment for me in such a unique way that I take the time to write it down. Either on paper. Or. Type it into my computer and/or robot phone. If I really love it. Hard. I'll commit it to memory.

Then. Shit happens. Life. Time. All the usual things which result in my losing the quote that had meant so much to me. I either forgot what I memorized. Or lose what I wrote. Or delete wherever it was I punched it into my computer and/or robot phone.

Even worse.

There are times I'll stumble upon an old quote and re-read it and think what the fuck, why did I think that was so great in a very waking up the morning after with an Oklahoma 10* sort of a way.

Which is sad.
For the quote.
And for me.

So today I'm not going to list a quote from anyone but me. Stuart Eric Tinsley.

Not even sure this qualifies. Unless you were quoting the Team Tinsley BLOG. Or this one.

Regular readers might know where this train is heading.

Which is here: "Fuck me."

I'm not sure when I even started saying, or thinking (and I think it a lot!) "Fuck me."

All I know is that it has become my de facto reaction to damn near every wheels off moment that happens to aboynamedstu. Any absurd moment. When I hear especially sad or troubling news. I always say. Or. Think.

"Fuck me."

Until I BLOG again...*Oklahoma 10: A 4 plus a 6 pack (of beer.)

Day 04: A Favorite Book

2011-03-03T10:47:00.006-06:00

It is an indictment against my Oklahoma education that I never read Kurt Vonnegut until I was a freshman at college. Eighteen years old when I had my first experience with Vonnegut. And that wasn't even assigned in a class. No. I read my first Vonnegut book, Breakfast of Champions, after borrowing it from a dorm mate.

That book in a lot ways, set me free. Before that I mainly read non-fiction books. Even as a kid in grade school, when everyone else was reading Where The Red Fern Grows you'd find my reading a biography on say, Tecumseh.

In jr. high I started reading a bit more fiction, along with some classics that were assigned in class. SE Hinton books were a favorite at this time, but that might have had more to do with the fact that she was from where I was from, so I could understand her subject matter in a very insider sort of a way. She also had the same first and middle initials as me which made me feel as if we had some sort of special kinship.

In high school I quit reading for pleasure. Only reading what was required. Lord of the Flies being an example.

Then came that fateful day in Kelsey's dorm room where I saw Breakfast of Champions on his shelf. The bold cover in its vivid color made me want to pick up the book and then, flipping through the pages I saw the crude art in with the text and I was hooked.

I love Breakfast of Champions. It was the book that opened my eyes to Kurt Vonnegut. It is however, not my favorite book. That distinction goes to one of Vonnegut's earlier works, Cat's Cradle.

The Books of Bokonon interlude
A parable on the folly of pretending to discover, to understand
It is not known, in which Book this parable appeared, but it reads as follows:

I once knew an Episcopalian lady in Newport, Rhode Island, who asked me to design and build a doghouse for her Great Dane. The lady claimed to understand God and His Ways of Working perfectly. She could not understand why anyone should be puzzled about what had been or what was going to be.

And yet, when I showed her a blueprint of the doghouse I proposed to build, she said to me, "I'm sorry, but I never could read one of those things."

"Give it to your husband or your minister to pass on to God," I said," and, when God finds a minute, I'm sure he'll explain this doghouse of mine in a way that even you can understand."

She fired me. I shall never forget her. She believed that God liked people in sailboats much better than he liked people in motorboats. She could not bear to look at a worm. When she saw a worm she screamed. She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is Doing.

Cat's Cradle is the first thing I ever read where I felt like the author got me. Or. Probably truer. I got them.

The absurdity of Bokononism. The social satire. The intertwined plot. All spoke to me in a way few books ever could or would.

Cat's Cradle is the way I think. If you could scan my brain. Read my thoughts. A lot of what you see in Cat's Cradle is how I think about things. Feel about things. How I look at things.

I'm not sure what that says about me. Personally. Or. Spiritually.

The Books of Bokonon interlude
The Fifty-third Calypso
Oh, a sleeping drunkard
Up in Central Park,
And a lion-hunter
In the jungle dark,
And a Chinese dentist,
And a British queen--
All fit together
In the same machine.
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice--
So many different people
In the same device.

Cat's Cradle is a favorite because it taught me that it's ok to laugh at the absurdity in life. The contradictions. That maybe Nietzsche was only partially correct when he said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Maybe, just maybe, what doesn't kill you that you still laugh at is what really makes you stronger. And happier.

The primary tenet of Bokononism, the religion that plays such an integral part to the entire book is this:

"Live by the foma that makes you brave and kind and healthy and happy."

To which I say, Amen.

Until I BLOG again...busy, busy, busy.

Day 03: A Favorite TV Show

2011-03-02T11:37:00.003-06:00

If you think my favorite movies illustrates what a conflicted soul I truly am, dig this, I equally love, albeit in their own way, a series such as LOST the same as I love Who's The Boss.

Seriously.

How can the two even exist in the same place, that place being my heart. Because I truly do love both of those shows. Same as I love Dexter, Gilmore Girls, Freaks and Geeks, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

For today's exercise though, I'm picking Northern Exposure.

Sure, at first glance Northern Exposure is your classic fish out of water story. But as the focus became less on the fish and more on the denizens of the town, it became something much more to me.

Poetry. Art. Music. Philosophy. Smash together in this most awesome of shows which was especially strong in the early to mid seasons. After the fish left (to be replaced by two new fish) the show lost its way to a degree, but in doing that, I think, the show became a truer reflection of how life often is. Illustrating that it's not so much the destination, as the journey.

Chris (the ex-con, philosophizing radio DJ) sums it up much better than me in one of my favorite (if not favorite) episodes from the third season titled Burning Down the House.

Until I BLOG again...But I can see the sun's settin' fast, And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts. Well, go on, I gotta kiss you goodbye, But I'll hold to my lover, 'Cause my heart's 'bout to die. Go on now and say goodbye to my town, to my town. I can see the sun has gone down on my town, on my town, Goodnight.

Day 02: A Favorite Movie

2011-03-01T09:58:00.007-06:00

If you ever need an example of how fucked up my world view can be, or how contradictory my nature is, you only need to look at aboynamestu's favorite movie list.

Seriously. How can the same person love both Fight Club and A River Runs Through It? Any Elvis Movie and Citizen Kane? Paul Blart Mall Cop and Raging Bull? The Searchers and Step Brothers?

I do love all these movies and can watch each one repeatedly (I call this re-watchability.) Some engage me on an artistic level. Others are simply fun. Easy to watch. Each of them in their own way are like old friends that I can pick up at anytime (during their running time) and become fully engaged. In a crazy sort of a way they lend a certain comfort, or better yet, continuity to my life.

That being said and like Day 01, because of my black and white nature, picking a favorite is no easy feat.

There are a handful of movies, each very different, that come to mind, when I think favorite, but ultimately I have to go with It's a Wonderful Life.

I watched an alarming amount of television from the 5th to 8th grades. And for some reason, clerical error I think, It's a Wonderful Life fell into the public domain around this time and aired on damn near every station from Thanksgiving until Christmas. With me watching it nearly every time it played. To the point of being able to recite, line for line, the movie as it aired. Talk about your crazy party tricks.

As I've gotten older even though my opinion (in a critical sense) of It's a Wonderful Life has evolved, my love for it has not diminished.

It's a Wonderful Life still delivers that nut punch to my soul and is one of a handful of movies that is guaranteed to make me cry.

For all those that say It's a Wonderful Life is too saccharine. I invite you to watch it again. And consider it on a deeper level. This is a film that is often cited as one of the most uplifting films ever made yet goes into pretty horrible detail about how one man compromises his own life slowly, over time. He watches other get ahead. Do what he wanted to do. Fuck me, he sees his father driven to the grave before his time, because of their bitter, small minded town. Finally, when he can no longer repress his rage, he explodes and abuses not only his kid's teacher but his entire family.

This is a holiday / family classic?

Not to get all Siskel or Ebert on you but most of us live in Pottersville. And are more like George Bailey than we'd ever care to admit. Like Thoreau wrote, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Which is why I love It's a Wonderful Life. As goofy as it may sound, It's a Wonderful Life reminds me that life is quite literally what happens while you are busy making other plans. That some unanswered prayers often were or are. And to be brutally honest, about as close to faith as I often can get.

Until I BLOG again..."Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?

Day 01: A Favorite Song

2011-02-28T12:34:00.001-06:00

Day one and I'm already struggling, because of my black and white world view.

I imagine when you read the above BLOG post title, gentle BLOG reader, you see the a favorite song.

Me. I skip right over the a and get hung up on favorite.

Picking a favorite song for me is impossible. The same way I can't pick a favorite child. Or Elvis (young or old.) Or favorite pet. My favorite is ephemeral. I get into something, hard, and love it. To the point of wanting to have babies with it. Then, something changes, I hear something else, and I'm onto the new thing, hard.

What was my favorite becomes entrenched into this crazy aboynamedstu pantheon of awesomeness which includes songs such as Love Me by Elvis, I Rise, I Fall by Ricky Nelson and You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You by Dean Martin. Those are, in order, Me and My Lovely Bride's wedding dance song, my baby song to boy #1 and my baby song to boy #2.

This pantheon of awesomeness contains 100s, maybe 1000s of favorite songs. My taste in music is eclectic to say the least. Then there's the thing that most of my favorite songs are spliced together, in my mind's eye, with memories and emotions that are powerfully connected to a time and place. Which means if I pick one over another, I feel like I'm playing favorites, which is what this BLOG post is all about, so pick I must, but again, easier said than done for aboynamestu.

New Madrid by Uncle Tupelo.

That's what my monkey brain spit back at me. Actually it spits back the first lines of the song:

All my daydreams are disasters
She's the one I think I love
Rivers burn and then run backwards
For her, that's enough

Musically. Lyrically. New Madrid by Uncle Tupelo is an apocalyptic near miss love song that I can listen to repeatedly. And one of the few songs in aboynamestu pantheon of awesomeness that hasn't been co-opted by a memory or emotion.

Until I BLOG again...Go on and do what you did, New Madrid.

One Thing Leads To Another

2011-02-27T08:43:00.000-06:00

I was being all (The) Fixx like on the internets (read one thing leads to another) when I stumbled upon Septemberist.

I used to read Septemberist frequently, but my friend Erica stopped blogging about a year ago, and I slowly got out of the habit of checking her site.

Now she's back, with an assigned task no dobut, that I think is so cherry, I'm going to borrow it for aboynamedstu.

Thirty days, thirty topics. A favorite song. Movie. TV show. Pet peeve. Thirty things to write about each day. Which might be a tall order for aboynamedstu. Maybe more like forty-five days. Although it's not really about the time frame for me as much as seeing if I can write about each favorite which I think will be fun, albeit in a very omphalocentric sort of way.

Here's the full list for those playing along at home.

Day 01 — A favorite song
Day 02 — A favorite movie  
Day 03 — A favorite TV show 
Day 04 — A favorite book  
Day 05 — A favorite quote
 Day 06 — A fun fact about me 
Day 07 — A favorite photo 
Day 08 — Something I crave  
Day 09 — Pet peeves
 Day 10 — A photo of me taken over ten years ago  
Day 11 — A photo of me taken recently  
Day 12 — Something I bought recently  
Day 13 — Something I want to buy
 Day 14 — An old photo  
Day 15 — My celebrity crush  
Day 16 — A favorite food
 Day 17 — A photo of my family 
Day 18 — A baby photo
 Day 19 — A fun memory  
Day 20 — A hobby of mine 
Day 21 — A favorite recipe  
Day 22 — A favorite joke 
Day 23 — A video  
Day 24 — A travel story  
Day 25 — A favorite photo 
Day 26 — A funny (true) story 
Day 27 — A child I love
 Day 28 — A place I love  
Day 29 — A person I love  
Day 30 — Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days

Until I BLOG again...The deception with tact, just what are you trying to say?.

Minority

2011-02-16T17:17:00.002-06:00

I'd rather be sodomized by a troop of baboons, than have My Lovely Bride's (teaching) job.

The shit she must endure. The hours she must work. For the pay she is paid. Is beyond fucked up. It's crazy. And makes me feel like Chief Iron Eyes Cody felt in those old pollution ads. A lone tear running down my cheek for the sorry state of education in this state (and country.)

The funny thing about this latest job related trial for My Lovely Bride though, is how it comes on the heels of a rocking good Lifesearch (what they call our adult Sunday School class. I jokingly call it Wifesearch) series on the letters and sermons of Dr. Martin Luther King.

I won't go into a lengthy and erudite summary of these Wifesearch classes today. If you want to read a well thought out treatise on the class, read Big Boy's thoughts here.

For my purposes these discussions on the letters and sermons reinforce how bad we as a society worship at the church of PC (political correctness.) The moment you bring up anything, that might be viewed by the pack as racially stereotypically most feel that they have to immediately back pedal and or disclaim what they are saying. Even if what they are saying is valid.

Don't get me wrong. Like Big Boy points out here, there is something comical about a bunch of white people sitting around talking about black people. Or brown people. Or yellow people. Or red people. So on. So forth.

I'd like nothing more than to dress up in black face, and go incognito to the next Wifesearch class, as someone's guest, and then slowly get more and more stereotypical, to the point of Fuck Whitey crazy, to see at what point, someone would stop me. I bet it would take a very long time, because most are so very afraid of not being PC and seeming racist, when the fact of the matter would be, I'd deserve to be called out for being a dick regardless of the color of my skin.

Which brings us back to what happened today to My Lovely Bride. She has a horrible child in her class by all accounts. I mean bad. The child won't listen. Or behave. Often is disruptive for the kids who want to learn. And when My Lovely Bride sends her to the office and or reaches out to her parents, she's gets no support. There are no consequences for this child's actions.

In addition to this child's wildly erratic behavior, she wears clothing that isn't appropriate, thus she is always showing her belly, ass crack, etc. which is also disruptive to the class and teaching.

If you saw a person behaving in this manner. Dressed in this way. What would you think. Or do. Forget color. Or religion. Forget black. White. Red. Green. Isn't bad behavior, simply, bad behavior?

Mind you this is a child, so there is a bit of softness in the mindset that she is a product of her environment, her home life, etc. A home life where the Mom cannot be bothered with returning phone calls. Or scheduling appointments that are after or before school in advance.

As an aside, the amount of parents who call My Lovely Bride and are aghast that she can't or won't meet with them, at the drop of the hat, between the hours of 8am and 3pm, because it is convenient for them, makes me insane.

Don't they get that she is teaching their child (and other parent's children) at this time. And to interrupt that process is not only disrespectful to My Lovely Bride, but to every child (and that child's parents or guardians) in that class room.

Bottom line they don't give a shit. They can't be bothered for the most part. And sadly, most of the parents that illustrate this point of view, are of certain ethnic backgrounds. And sadly, they take up more space, make more noise, and are just a lot more visible than others in their ethnic background who are trying to make their way through the world in a good, decent sort of way.

Why is it that the dicks of society always get the most press? And create stereotypes.

So, when the shit finally does hit the fan because of the child's crazy behavior. Her inappropriate clothing. Her complete disrespect for the system which goes through hoops to try and educate and cater to her situation, it is in the form of her parents coming up to school a few minutes before class begins.

They are allowed to sign in and come all the way to the class room where they get into a very (and one sided) Jerry Springer moment with My Lovely Bride, in front of the entire class, and proclaim that all of the above issues are because My Lovely Bride is racist.

FUCK ME x100.

Nothing will ever be resolved if people can't speak honestly and openly regarding certain realities, even if they are somewhat unpleasant.

Alas, the person who loses in this situation is the poor crazy kid who's parents would rather blame racism than whatever other factors are at play making her behave in the manner in which she behaves. Behavior that damn near 95% of the population wouldn't accept, I dare say.

What is the solution? Fuck If I know. What I do know is it pisses me off, bad. And I want change.

Until I BLOG again...'cause i want to be the minority.

Harvest Moon

2011-02-14T17:28:00.005-06:00

To be continued–Continued-CONTINUED. Part 1 and 2 of this depraved story is here and here. Be forewarned gentle BLOG reader. This tale is not for the faint of heart as it includes drunkenness, bad 80s music, lethargic dancing, prostitution, betrayal, and animal cruelty. Interestingly enough though, and in line with today's date, it ends up being a twisted (in that oh so fresh aboynamestu sort of a way) valentine to My Lovely Bride.
-------------------
Things went south at the El Zorro, quicker than that prostitute, er–dancer, could finish the copped cough drop.

She was barely back to the bench with her gaggle of he/she colleagues when I heard Fleming arguing with what would turn out to be the biggest, burliest, and meanest looking, Mexican I'd ever seen.

And the reason I saw him, he followed Fleming out of the the back of the El Zorro into the actual bar club part. Something that was highly unusual, I suspect, because it visibly agitated the bartender and girls.

"Lets leave," Fleming said as he walked up to the booth.

"NOW!" he added looking over his shoulder at the big bad–ass Mexican heading our way.

Seriously. Give that dude a cape and mask and we're talking Lucha libre big.

"What's going on?" I asked. "We still have beer."

"Forget the beer."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Nothing. They are trying to get more money out of me. And as you know, I don't have more money. I took what money you had."

"Oh," I said looking at the big bad–ass Mexican standing behind Fleming.

"You...You...You..." he stammered. I think because he was trying to figure out what to say in English. "You...You...mas dinero. Money. You...You...more money!"

'Fuck me.' I thought. And. Maybe said.

"I don't owe anymore money!" Fleming said. "I didn't do anything. You're trying to rip me off!"

"More money!!!" The big bad–ass Mexican said.

"LET'S GO!!!!" Fleming said heading toward the door.

"You no go," the big bad–ass Mexican said. "You owe. Pay. Now."

"GO!" Fleming said as he bolted for the door.

Thankfully big bad–ass Mexican equals slow Mexican. So Fleming and I were able to get to and out the door of the El Zorro which opened to a very busy street in a touristy area which made us somewhat safe. Which was good, because the difference in light on the street from the El Zorro blinded my ass to the point of stopping me in my tracks.

Not so for Fleming.

By the time I regained my eyesight, that fucker was half way down the block standing in front of what appeared to be a zebra wearing a giant sombrero.

Let me repeat that.

A zebra wearing a giant sombrero.

Seriously. After having listening to Hotel California a dozen odd times consecutively in a bar in the real TJ where I was nearly rolled but for a good (half Hawaiian) samaritan. After having went into a dance club which was actually a dirty brothel staffed with what had to be a good percentage of he/shes, one of which copped a cough drop from me and proclaimed me a fag. After being chased out of said brothel by a big bad-ass Mexican who demanded more money from Fleming for God knows what service. I stood on the dirty streets of TJ. Looking at a donkey that was painted to look like a fucking zebra. Wearing a sombrero.

Fuck me.

When I finally caught up to Fleming, who was mesmerized by the zonkey, I said, "What happened back there?"

"Look at this thing." Fleming said.

"I see. It's a donkey painted to look like a zebra. Which is pretty fucked up."

The Mexican handler and photag of the zonkey (which was attached to a buggy, which you could sit in, and then have your picture taken) was off to the side eating a taco and drinking a Mexican Coke ignored said, "Seniors. You want picture?"

"Look at this thing." Fleming said again.

"No, thank you." I said to the Mexican handler and photag.

"Look at this thing," Fleming said poking it in the nose.

"Senior...Senior....," the Mexican handler said to Fleming. "He no good donkey. He mean. Good for pictures. But nothing else."

Fleming ignored him, poked the donkey in the nose and said, "Look at this poor thing. A zebra. In a sombrero."

"Leave it alone," I said. "It looks miserable enough without your drunk ass poking around at it."

"Look at this thing." Again with the poke.

"Fleming, what the fuck!" I said. "Leave it alone. Tell me what happened back there. What did you do."

"Out of country, man." He explained.

It is at this point in our story, considering what happens next, that I'd like share what Fleming had told me when he borrowed the remainder of my money to go into the back of the El Zorro and do whatever it is he did.

As strange as it may sound, I don't judge him for what he did, even though it is something I'd never do. Even though at the time I was single and he was not. In fact, and what will make this even more distasteful for many, his wife who was expecting, expected us to pick her up, damn near at the exact time he was standing there poking that poor zonkey.

My point.

When asked how and or why he could do whatever it is he did, and to be honest, to this day, I've never asked nor do I want to know exactly what he did (because let's be honest, I funded a portion of it, so have some accountability) he simply gave me the Navy (and probably ever branch of the military's rationale for this sort of thing:) "Out of country doesn't count."

Never mind that he was less than an hour from his wife. The fact is, in his head, he was out of country, and felt there was some crazy ass international law that protected anyone in the military to do this sort of thing if they wanted as long as they were not in the United States.

"Whatever," I said. "We need to go and pick up (insert wife's name) now. We were supposed to be there now."

I didn't know much about the laws of Karma back in the early 1990s. But sweet mother of all that is good, they were at play, because as Fleming attempt to poke the poor thing in the nose one last time, that little zonkey wearing the giant sombrero opened his mouth wide, and chomped down on Fleming's arm, hard.

Fleming was flopping around, screaming, his arm up to the elbow in this zonkey's vise like chomp while I stood there and laughed. Until I cried.

Thankfully zonkey's don't have canine teeth. Or Fleming might have lost his arm.

Still, the zonkey was putting enough pressure on Fleming's arm that he was in some pain and making enough racket that the handler and photag realized it was probably bad for his business (would you want your picture made with a zonkey who had eaten a man's arm?) so he grabbed a big wrench, and sadly, started beating the zonkey in the head.

Which did the trick. As well as knocked his sombrero off his head.

"You fucking idiot," I said to Fleming. "That poor thing just got beat because of your stupid ass."

"That fucking thing almost took my arm off," Fleming whined.

We stood there arguing until Fleming realized that he was 45 minutes away from his pregnant wife whom he was supposed to have picked up 15 minutes ago.

We ran. Hard. Which seemed to make us even more drunk as we ran up that weird ass thing that goes around in circles up to the crossing bridge. Only our drunk asses got turned around and we ran back into Mexico. Literally. No joke. And quite far. Before we even realized our error and turned around and run up and over the bridge back into the U.S.A.

"Man, she's going to be pissed." Fleming said to me as he pulled the car up to the booth to get it out of the lot.

"Ticket please," the attendant said.

"Ticket..." Fleming said realizing what was about to happen. "Here."

"That will be $XX dollars, please." The attendant said.

"Do you have any money?" Fleming asked me.

"No. I gave you all my money. Remember?"

"Shit. I don't have any money either."

The attendant looked down at us. Literally. Figuratively

"Sir," Fleming said. "We don't have any money. Can you let us out and I'll mail it in when I get home. I have to get my wife. She's pregnant."

"Tell him about the El Zorro and why you don't have any money," I said from the passenger seat.

"Shut up!"

"You don't have money?" The attendant asked.

"No, sir."

The attendant shook his head in disgust.

"I have a credit card," I offered.

"Get out of here," he said. "And drive carefully. You've been drinking!"

We were over an hour late to pick up Fleming's wife. An hour. I still feel bad about that. And the part I played in the whole sordid story.

But to be honest with you, it was this story that shaped a discussion Fleming and I had a few days later over lunch in a Pacific Beach pizza joint.

I told Fleming about My Lovely Bride. How we had met on the street of Deep Ellum. How she thought I was funny (not ha-ha funny, queer funny.) How we had become somewhat friends. Running in the same circle. How in proving that I wasn't gay (read sleeping with one of her friends) I had further turned her off on me.

Left unsaid was the fact that drunk out of my mind and perfectly single, I still had no desire to partake in any brothel type activities because yes, I'm germ phobic, and yes, I'm cheap, but also because I liked this girl. I liked this girl a lot. And even though there was absolutely nothing going on in the way of a relationship at that point (aside from being friends,) I wanted something to be going on.

I love Fleming. And again, I don't judge him for what he did. Or has done. I know he has his flaws. Same as me. Same as you. But in the end I value his opinion because he knows me like few others.

I trusted him.

And I wanted to know what he thought I should do about My Lovely Bride since I my trip to TJ had sort illuminated the fact that I like liked, more than I had thought, the women who would become My Lovely Bride.

"What should I do," I asked.

"Ask her out." He said.

"Didn't you hear what I just told you?" I asked. "She won't go out with me."

"Yes, I heard what you said." He said shaking his head.

"Don't be a pussy. Ask her out."

"What if she says No?" I asked.

"Then she says no."

"Yeah...but...," I said.

"But nothing. Don't be a pussy. Ask her out. She'll probably say yes and who knows.

"You could end up getting married someday."

Sage advice from a dude who was attacked by a zonkey.

Until I BLOG again...Because I'm still in love with you.

Shake Your Love

2011-01-26T17:28:00.004-06:00

To be continued–Continued. Part 1 of this depraved story is here. Be forewarned gentle BLOG reader. This tale is not for the faint of heart as it includes drunkenness, bad 80s music, lethargic dancing, prostitution, betrayal, and animal cruelty.
-------------------
aboynamedstu travel advisory. If you even find yourself in Mexico and you see a bar/club/cantina advertise cheap Corona. And I mean really cheap–because Corona is already pretty damn cheap in Mexico–cheap, be advised that this is more than likely a bait and switch trick. And the Corona you get in this bar/club/cantina, which may or may not be a brothel staffed with women who may or may not be men, are actually going to be Coronitas.

That's why me and Fleming ended up at the El Zorro Club drinking a bucket of Coronitas.

Picture the dirtiest, creepiest bar/club/cantina you can imagine. The El Zorro Club was worse.

But we were drunk. Stupid. And ready to continue our party after narrowly escaping the Hotel California cantina. We were also running low on funds, which is why the cheap bucket of Coronas, which were in reality, Coronitas sucked us into the El Zorro Club.

The El Zorro Club was billed as such, I guess, because it was dance club. And when I say dance, I mean stripper dance. Only there was no stripping at The El Zorro that I ever saw. I think it might be against the law (or maybe it would reveal that some of the girls were actually guys?) in TJ which is ironic considering what else was going on in the club. But at the time I didn't know that. All I knew was that there were 10 to 15 girls sitting on a long bench against a wall, while one girl danced, albeit lethargically, on this cat walk type of stage thing. The girls all wore stereotypical (albeit cheap) lingerie. Red with black ruffles. Stockings with garters. That sort of thing. And a lot of them, well let's just say that they had seen better days. They were older. Some were slightly over weight. And again, I'd bet good money that some of them were actually dudes dressed up like girls in order to service the handful of Mexicans and sailors on leave from San Diego that frequented this joint.

Like most strip clubs, the girls rotated on and off stage, and when they were not dancing to 80s pop music (mind you this is 1992, so 1980s music was not yet cool in that ironic way quite yet,) they tried to get the patrons of the club to buy them a drink so they could party.

I think by now, anyone who reads this BLOG (or the Team Tinsley BLOG for that matter) get that I'm pretty honest with my stories. Hell this story alone proves that fact. As it doesn't really portray me in the most flattering light. My point though is this, I'm not leaving out facts to make myself appear better in this story. There's no revisionist history going on here. I can honestly say that I've never been a fan of strip type clubs. Not then. Not now. It just doesn't do it for me. For reasons I'll explain more fully in a moment. I have also never paid for sexual gratification. I'd like to tell you that is for moral reasons–And there is some of that in it–but to be fully honest it's more about my being germ phobic. And cheap.

Which is why I sat there as girl after girl sidled up next to me in the booth and asked me in broken English if I wanted to buy them a drink and have a good time.

I most certainly did not want to buy them a drink and have a good time.

Whereas most every other patron in the bar did. Including Fleming, who had to borrow what money I had left, to do so.

Which is why I sat in a dirty booth, by myself, sipping on my my baby Corona and watching a tore up girl gyrate to Shake Your Love by Debbie Gibson.

Seriously. Give me a stick. Let me gouge out my eyes.

And while I suffered through that, I also had to deal with girl after girl coming up and saying: "Buy me drink. We have a good time."

"No thank you."

"You buy me a drink. We party. Have a good time."

"No."

On and on, as every girl at the El Zorro approached me.

After the last one struck out, they all sat on their bench, I believe talking about me as I watched a handful of young men walk up to the bartender and offer up cash in exchange for a roll of toilet paper with a prophylactic package on top.

I should have left on hind site. Fuck Fleming. And his bad choice. It wasn't mine. But, I was young, single, and drunk, so I sat there, like a dumbass and waited, until a new girl came into the club from the back and started talking to the girls on the bench.

Eventually she turned her head and gave me an appraising look as the other girls spoke to her, and then they all laughed.

She turned back to the girls on the bench, said something to the group–on hindsight I think she made a bet that she could get me to buy her a drink and have a good time–and then turned back around and started walking my way.

"You buy me a drink." She said. More statement than question, as she slid, uncomfortably close, next to me in the booth.

I moved over, and she moved over, until I was trapped against the wall.

She then placed her hand on my leg and said, "We party. Have a good time."

"No, thank you."

"You like girls?" She asked then looking at the girls. "They say you don't like girls. Like boys."

"I say you no like them." She smiled and then squeezed my leg. "But you like me."

"No thank you. I like girls." I said. "I'm not interested though. I don't have any money either. I gave it all to my friend."

"You have money." She purred. "You buy me drink. We have a good time.

She stroked my leg, moving her hand up toward my crotch.

"No." I said grabbing her hand and pushing it away.

"You no like girls..." She asked putting her hand back on my leg near my thigh.

"No thank you." I said, shifting.

"Let's party." She purred and as she went to move her hand to my crotch she touched a pack of Halls Cough Drops that were in my pocket.

"Ohhhhhhh," She purred, excited. "You do like girls."

"No," I said laughing. "It isn't what you think..."

"You do like me," She purred squeezing the Halls packet.

"No really," I said reaching into my pocket for the Halls. "They're cough drops. See."

She sat there for a few moments, processing, I guess.

Finally she shrugged, reached out, grabbed the Halls packet from me, took a cough drop, quickly unwrapped it, popped it into her mouth, tossed the wrapped at me, and said, "Maricon!"

Halls Cough Drops...$2.00
Bucket of Corona (which are actually Coronitas) in TJ...$3.00
Loaning your dumbass friend money to party...$20.00

Pissing off a stripper/prostitue he/she in a dingy TJ club...Priceless.

To be continued.

Until I BLOG again...I just can´t shake your love.

Hotel California

2011-01-18T15:26:00.003-06:00

Karma is, or was, as it were, a zebra striped donkey (wearing a sombrero!) chomping down hard, on Fleming's arm.

Nearly twenty years have passed and I still cannot get that image out of my head. It's seared in my mind's eye, the same way as the birth of both Boy(s,) my Lovely Bride walking down the aisle, and sadly, the way my Mom looked when she died of (say it with me: Fuck) cancer.

You'd think a zebra painted donkey (or zonkey) wearing a sombrero biting your friend's arm up to the elbow would be the most surreal thing you'd see in a day. Hell, a week. Or a month. Fuck. All year. But this day was full of such moments, all of which happened in Tijuana, Mexico (TJ from here on out,) which totally lived up to its billing.

The fact that we survived, were never incarcerated, and didn't do any irreparable damage (unless you consider Fleming's first marriage, which to be honest, would probably have failed anyway) is amazing in a grace sort of a way.

So let us get started on this most wheels off of nearly any aboynamedstu story (and there are many) by telling you this: I was drunk by 10am local time.

Less than thirty minutes after arriving at the border (ten minutes of which were spent parking Fleming's car in this weird parking lot that was in a sort of no man's land between the U.S. and Mexico, then walking up and around this crazy circular walk-way that takes you to the crossing bridge) and we had already drank three beers and ate two fish tacos. Tequila shots were involved too, I think. Which is an important point for this story. Normally, I'm pretty air tight on everything I write, memory wise. I have a memory like an elephant. But on this story, probably more like that poor zonkey. Because I was drunk when I arrived and got progressively more drunk up until Fleming was attacked by the zonkey.

But that happens near the end of the story.

At 10am, loaded up on beers, fish tacos, possibly a tequila shot, Fleming said, which on hindsight was a horrible idea, "Let's go see the real TJ."

"The real TJ?" I asked.

"Yeah. Where the real people live. Not all this..." Fleming looked around searching for the words, face flush red, excited.

"...all this tourist shit!"

"Yeah." I agreed. "Let's do it."

"Fucking A." Fleming said.

So off we staggered deep in TJ. Well beyond the tourist areas that are safe for the most part. Deeper than white people should ever go into TJ. Eventually we ended up at this weird little cantina joint full of burly looking Mexicans, which caught our eye, or more rightly, our ears, because they were playing Hotel California by The Eagles on their juke box.

If you've seen the movie Animal House. The part where the guys on the road trip take their dates to see Otis Day and the Knights, only to realize upon entering that they are white in a very black place. That was me and Fleming at this bar. Which was a cantina. And black was brown. But white. White is always white.

So there we were, two stupid gringos, who again, were already drunk, trying to get drunker by ordering a bucket of beer and asking for the tequila popper chick that frequents most TJ cantinas.

The tequila popper chick entered the room when Hotel California ended (and inexplicably began again–it repeated non-stop the entire time we were in the cantina which was at least 45 minutes.)

Fuck me. The tequila popper chick. Is there a better look than a slightly over weight chick with stretch marks wearing a bikini with holsters (for her tequila bottles) and bandolier (for her shot glasses?) And if that isn't enough for you, she also had on a cowboy hat and boots!

How can you say no to that. In fact, the Mexican Tourism folks should wise up and put this chick's image (or someone like her, riding a zonkey) in every advert they ever produce to promote Mexico.

But I digress.

We couldn't say 'no' to this lady and her broken English, so Fleming and I allowed her to pour tequila into our open mouths and then slap the ever-loving-shit out of our faces (the pop in poopers?) as we tried to swallow the vile tequila. I'd never seen popper done this way before, or since, but what the hey, we were in the real TJ. Living the life with real TJ denizens.

Or so we thought until a little guy came over and said in perfect English, "Act like you know me."

"What?"

He then started speaking rapidly in Spanish to the burly looking Mexicans (who did look kind of mean,) and then said to us in English, "I'm telling them you are my American cousins who can't hold their tequila. Laugh. NOW."

"What?"

"Laugh!" He said again. "Or you're going to get hurt."

"Ok."

So we laughed. Loud and hard. While the mean looking Mexicans sort of chuckled and shook their heads in disgust.

It turned out this little cat had a Mexican father and a Hawaiian mother which meant he had dual citizenship. This allowed him to straddle both worlds. And he had been in the cantina drinking when he noticed Fleming and myself and realized if he didn't come to our aid, we were more than likely going to get robbed and then the shit beat out of us (or worse.)

A Mexican/Hawaiian good samaritan he was.

After we stopped laughing like idiots. He said, "Pay your tab, and I'll walk you out of here."

We left as Hotel California ended and promptly began again (it must have played 7 or 8 times in a row.)

After we had walked a few blocks he stopped and pointed north and said, "You need to go that way. That's the safe part of town."

"He wanted to see the real TJ." I said pointed at Fleming.

"The real TJ. You idiots. TJ will chew you up and spit you out." He said. "Go two blocks that way and you'll be safe. Don't come back this way. Next time you won't be so lucky."

Now you might think, after that harrowing experience, we would have sobered up, and thought, 'maybe this isn't such a good idea, let's head back to the U.S.'

You'd think wrong.

We were so fucking stupid. And young. And drunk.

And we didn't have to be back to the United States (Del Mar, California specifically) until 5pm.

As it was only 2pm we decided to soldier on, and have some fun.

Fun which would include a stop in a possible Transvestite and/or transgender dance club (which was really more of a brothel) and the zonkey incident.

To be continued.

Until I BLOG again...And she said ’we are all just prisoners here, of our own device’.

Abracadabra

2011-01-11T16:57:00.007-06:00

Two things you might not get about aboynamedstu from reading this or that. I'm pretty Type A personality wise, and as a result I exercise a lot to burn stress as well as suppress some of my more base tendencies. Mainly because I don't want to be a dick. To people I like. And love. Even strangers who don't need me being a dick to them because I'm impatient or wound too tight.

My system usually works fairly well, except in January when the health club is flooded with newbies who have resolved to get in shape in (insert the applicable year.) I realize I sound like a dick, when I write that, but really, I've been going to the same health club at lunch (and the same one on most weekends) at least 4 or 5 days a week for the last decade. Week by week. Month by month. I know traffic patterns, and cringe as January approaches knowing full well that the clubs attendance will spike for most of January, until all these resolute people give up, as they always do, and quit coming.

See. I sound like a dick. But I so want to scream, at the top of my lungs, the next time I walk into the over crowded locker room: "Would everyone just give up now, like you will in a few weeks!"

Alas, I do not do this, and instead walk from locker to locker, trying to find a place to stow my shit. The reason I walk from locker to locker, is another pet peeve of mine, health club wise. Most people, especially the newbies, don't put a lock on the locker where they stow their shit. So, I walk from locker to locker, trying to find one that is free, usually leaving the locker I've just opened, open, because I'm annoyed and want to fuck with the idiot who didn't lock up their shit in the first place.

The coup de grace though, for me, is how whichever locker I select, when it comes time for me to shower, and dress to leave, people on either side of me, will be doing the same thing. Seriously. There are over 100 lockers in the locker room, and by some fucked up reason that can probably be explained by math and or probability I'd never understand, the only 5 with activity are the ones all around me.

It makes me want to scream. Which is what I felt like doing the other day as I attempted to get ready to go back to work next to a newbie who, in all honesty, really did need to resolve to lose some weight. The guy was big. Fat big. And hairy. All sweaty. And worn slick from whatever exercise he had just done. And there I am, trying to dry off my body, and get dressed in record time to get away from him. It didn't help that I had chose a locker in a dead end part of the locker room so I was sandwiched by this behemoth on one side, and a big black man on the other. Adding insult to injury, the club was blaring an extended dance mix of Steve Miller's Abracadabra over their sound system. Fuck me. Who would ever want an extended mix of that song.

So there I stood, awkward personified, trying to dry my wet body and keep my junk covered up, while the newbie behemoth sat (nude mind you) on the bench trying to catch his breathe and cool down, and the black man on my other side took off his clothes.

I was pulling my pants on when the newbie behemoth finally got up, and I shit you not, staggered toward me, which resulted in his penis nearly slapping me on the leg. I was horrified. Grossed out. Annoyed. Pissed. Truly D. All of the above. And the look on my face said it all.

He to was embarrassed so he quickly stepped back into his personal space and said, "I'm sorry. I'm not gay. I'm clumsy."

Which is funny. Really funny, actually, and made funnier by the, 'fucking white people!?!?' look the black man gave us both.

Fast forward to that night, and I was telling the Team my wheels off health club story. Both My Lovely Bride and The Elder Boy laughed, hard, at it. The Younger Boy however, got a serious look on his face and asked, "Did he have an up penis?"

Which is Wyattese for an erection.

I nearly shit. And I'm happy to report that he in fact, did not have an up penis.

Until I BLOG again...I want to reach out and grab ya.

Cuts You Up

2010-12-21T08:57:00.009-06:00

I'm so adamant about not lying to the Boy(s) that they make a game of trying to catch me in one. As close as they usually get is when I say something like, 'It's going to rain later.' And then. When it doesn't. Rain. Later. They'll (usually The Younger Boy who plays harder at this game than the Elder) say, 'It didn't rain. Later. You lied.'

I tell you that for this.

I'm going to lie. Right here. Right now. By doing something I said I wouldn't do. Again.

I'm going to break a self imposed aboynamedstu edict by blogging directly about the Boy(s) in a very Team Tinsley BLOG sort of a way. I consider this lie worthy. My dear dead Mom would classify it a white lie which implies it isn't hurtful. The Boy(s) might disagree. Especially the Younger. Because this is very much about him. And it would certainly embarrass him.

My reasoning is two fold. If you care. Which I guess you do, since you are reading this.

It's a gloriously good moment that I want to save for posterity about the Younger Boy at the tender age of six. And. It's my kwanza gift to you, Dear BLOG reader.

It's long too. Backstory. Which is necessary in a Don Henley getting to the heart of the matter sort of way.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Oklahoma is OK my ass. Oklahoma was depressing. And a cluster fuck, infrastructure wise. To add insult to injury, the first thing I saw as we pulled into my Grandma's (a.k.a. Old Granny) driveway was that Danimal wuz here. Or there, as it were. In the form of spray painted graffiti on the side of Old Granny's neighbor's house. Which is abandoned. Literally. It's a crack den waiting for crack heads. I wrote about my uneasy relationship with my hometown on the Team Tinsley BLOG way back in 2005. Back then, on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd say my unease was a six, maybe seven. Today, it's a fucking ten.

One of the reasons is that since I wrote this my Mom died. Old Granny is my Mom's Mom. Who was an only child. Like me. Pretty much everyone else in Old Granny's life is dead. Or in such sorry shape that they don't get around all that good. So it's me watching over her in a very remote sort of a way. A few years ago, after we set up that I'd be watching over Old Granny in a legal and financial sort of a way, in addition to being her Grandson sort of a way, I made a promise to myself that I'd get up to see her at least four times a year. I'd visit at least once each season to get my eyes on her to see how she was doing and give her a chance to see the Boy(s). This promise has been a lot easier to live up to since my Dad moved back to the area which is again, a result of my Mom dying. I don't think she'd ever have returned to the area. But I digress. My point is I can now kill two birds with one road trip. I can see both Old Granny and Pops. Which makes life a little easier for us since we often get sucked into today's overextended hectic paced way of living.

How we do these trips is like this. Day 1 is with Old Granny. Day 2 is with Pops (and Janie.) Generally we get up early and drive to Old Granny's. Spend most of the day with her. Take her to dinner. Usually the Rib Crib. She then takes the Boy(s) to Wal-Mart for a prize (read gift.) Mind you both the Rib Crib and Wal-Mart are a block from her house. We then come home and try and sleep in her cramped little house (in beds that are older than me.) When we wake up, we usually stay for an hour or so, and then we're off to Pops (who lives 25 minutes away.)

These are extremely short trips is my point. Less than 24 hours at Old Granny's which is really all we need. Because The Boy(s) are like two bulls in a china shop at her house. And the neighborhood is such that it's not really a kid friendly place to play outside without some serious adult supervision. It would be great if we could go do something, but Old Granny was ran over (seriously) in the mid 1990s, and that injury (they thought at one point they were going to have amputate her foot and part of her leg up to the shin) coupled with advanced age (Old Granny was born in 1923) makes her damn near cripple.

She's fine in her house. Actually, that's not true. She's the poster child for the 'I've fallen and can't get up' Life Alert ad. But she seems to make it ok with a cane in her house. And I've long accepted that moving her (without her consent) would be tantamount to killing her. Because whatever lucidity she has left is tethered to that place. She's lived in her current house since before I was born (1967 for those playing along at home.) And before that she lived in a house that is next door (she now rents that house.) All in all Old Granny has lived there since 1940. Seventy years. And what does that longevity get her. Walking out her front door and being faced with the fact that Danimal wuz here as she hobbles out to get the Sand Springs fucking Leader.

It's sad. And to be responsible for it, and her, is troubling to me on multiple layers.

But this isn't about me. Even though up until now it has seemed as if it were. This is about The Little Warrior. Which everyone says is a min-me. Not only in looks (It is uncanny how closely he resembles me at the same age.) But also in personality. The thing most don't get though is that Wy is like the current adult version of aboynamestu. When I was Wy's age I was extremely bashful. Quiet. I was a lot more like the Older Boy as a kid. So, it's a very strange thing for me to see Wy, who short of having red hair and more freckles could be my double at the same age, yet act like I act, now, personality wise. Which to be honest, worries me at times. Especially his temper. And his sassiness. Which is equal parts good, because he is so cocksure at such a young age, but also bad because he can be a handful. And since our personalities are so much alike, we butt heads, bad.

Which is what was happening on our Fall visit to Old Granny. Wy was being horrible. To be honest, he was being a dick. Not listening to what we were saying. Complaining about being bored which is disrespectful considering our window of time with Old Granny and the fact that she can't get out and about easily. He was wanting his prize. Payoff for his visit. I guess. Again. Dick. Bad.

This was tricked up further by the fact that after spending Saturday at Old Granny's we planned on going to the Tulsa State Fair on Sunday, which was the final day. To add insult to injury, subtext wise, this was Sunday, October 10, 2010, what would have been my Mom's 69th birthday.

The plan was to meet Pops and Janie at the fair when it opened which precluded that we leave Ruby the Dog (who always comes with us on the Oklahoma trips) at Old Granny's for the day. My original plan was to spend the day with Pops and Janie at the fair and then come back to Old Granny's, worn out, eat dinner, go to sleep, wake up, drive back to the Messoplex.

At some point during the day though, the Boy(s) decided they didn't want to deviate from our routine, and said they wanted to stay at Pops house that night. To be fair, Pops house is a lot more fun than Old Granny's. They can play out front (they bring their scooters and go up and down his street which has a nice hill, something that is sadly a novelty for them, based on their flat land Messoplex living.) Pops has wifi. Cable in multiple rooms. A hot tub. And we can get out and about. If I'm honest, I'd rather stay at Pops, too.

So. After a nice, albeit long day at the fair I had to decide if we'd go over to Pops and Janie's for dinner and to stay the night. Or. Stay with Old Granny. And I kept vacillating on what we should do. I knew Old Granny would be sad that we weren't staying. And I felt bad that we'd had her babysit Ruby the Dog, only to come and get her and our shit and split to go see Pops and Janie. On the flip side Pops and Janie really wanted us to come over and spend some time at their home. Which is what the Boy(s) wanted to do.

I guess in a perfect world we could have invited and taken Old Granny to dinner with us over at Pops. But my world, like most, is far from perfect.

In the end I made the hard decision to not stay at Old Granny's, and started loading up the van. Which made Old Granny start to cry.

I should note that Old Granny crying when we are leaving for a visit isn't unusual. She's cried like this as long as I can remember. Which always freaked me out as a kid. I never understood it. Still don't. Really. Because she's a reserved woman in pretty much everything else she does. And it doesn't add up with her personality. In my head. I also feel at some level, she's working it. I can't tell you how many times I've offered to bring her to and fro (in my car so she doesn't have to fly even) to our house so she could have a nice visit with the Team. Or spend a holiday. She always declines. Today. I don't think she could make this type of visit. As I said earlier, whatever lucidity she has left is tied to that house. Get her out of it, and she is quite literally a deer in headlights. But this is a more recent development. There were years when she could have traveled, easily, since she was retired, and had a lot of free time on her hands whereas we have school, work, and live in a city that is 250 miles away.

So. There we are. Me playing the Dad as Sherpa role and packing up all our shit to drive over to Pops (where I'd have to unload it and then repack it again the next morning) while Old Granny sat in her chair crying and telling us she wished we didn't have to leave.

Not fun. And a lot uncomfortable for the Elder Boy and My Lovely Bride. But not so uncomfortable for me (for reasons I've already outlined) and the Younger Boy, because he was being a dick. He continued to show his ass as I finalized packing up and told MLB and The Elder Boy to start getting it together and say their Good Byes to Old Granny.

Side note. Every time we say our good byes. I think. Is this the last time. Our last one? I've been thinking that since 1995. My Mom used to joke, that Old Granny would out live her. Alas. She was right.

As MLB and The Elder Boy said their good byes to Old Granny, I went to the van for something and found Wy dicking around outside.

I asked what he was doing and told him he needed to go inside and say good bye.

At which point he broke down, out of nowhere, and started crying, hard.

I was blown away.

It was the absolute last thing I could have imagined happening.

"What wrong?" I asked him. Clueless. Thinking maybe he felt sick from all the crap he ate at the Fair. Or maybe he had hurt himself messing around in Old Granny's un-kid-friendly yard.

He cried harder.

"Wy?" I asked. Alarmed. "What's the matter? What's going on?"

Nothing. He kept crying.

I stood there dumbfounded. I was about to go get MLB when she came out onto the porch and saw him crying and gave me a look that suggested she thought I had busted his ass based on how he had been acting.

I shrugged and said, "I have no idea what's the matter?!?"

Then looking at Wy I asked for the third time, "Wy. What is the matter?"

"She's all alone." He cried.

"Who?" I asked.

"Old Granny," he sobbed.

Sweet Mother of all that is good. For the second time in less than five minutes I was completely dumbfounded. So I did what I do best, since I suck ass in real time. I asked a question with an obvious answer.

"You're sad because we're leaving Old Granny?"

He shook his head to indicate yes, and sobbed some more.

I was blown away. To the point of inaction. I stood there. Looking at MLB who eventually went into Mom mode and tried to comfort him.

After a few moments I said, "If we're going to go to Pops and Janie's, we need to go, Bub. They'll have dinner ready for us. Let's go say good-bye to Old Granny. We'll come back up and visit."

Nothing. He just stood there.

"Let's go, Bub." I said again. Gently. "We'll come back this Winter to see Old Granny again."

"Give me a minute," he said doing this very Fonzie like move with his arms and hands. "I don't want her to see me crying."

Then giving me a very adult look he added, "It will upset her more."

Fuck me. Hard. I was (and still am) BLOWN away.

So I quietly stood there watching my six and half year old son getting it together so he wouldn't upset Old Granny by crying in front of her.

After he got it together he looked at me, wiped a stray tear out of his eye and said, "Let's go say good bye."

Until I BLOG again...Move the heart, Switch the pace, Look for what seems out of place.

Stories for Boys

2010-12-13T12:01:00.001-06:00

In the pre-cable-non-church going days of my youth I often watched The Lewis Meyer Bookshelf on Sunday mornings. Odd. Considering my age (8ish.) I have an especially vivid memory of watching Lewis Meyer on Ground Hog's Day one year and Lewis Meyer (who was a creepy looking dude) talking about the tradition of Ground Hog's Day and wondering if the giant rodent had seen his shadow that year. The fact that Lewis Meyer had no clue is for me a wonderful time capsule memory of how slow information flowed in my youth. I miss those pre-cable-24/7 news-internet information overload days of yore.

I also have vivid memories of wrestling with religion while watching Lewis Meyer on those Sundays. You see BLOG reader, the entire reason I watched Lewis Meyer was because it was the only thing on besides televised church services on those Sunday mornings. The wrestling part comes from the fact that I was troubled by the fact that we didn't attend church in a formal sort of way which my 8 year old version thought was tantamount to going to hell. I'd even try to watch the religion shows from time to time. But was always so bored by them that I'd up watching Lewis Meyer get all torqued up about the latest book he had read.

Memories are funny. All of the above I got when I was looking over the below list of what I've read in 2010.

1000 White Women: The Journal of May Dodd by Jim Fergus
The WIld Girl by Jim Fergus
Maharanis by Lucy Moore
Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Julie & Julia by Julie Powell
Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lighting Thief by Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Sea of Monsters by Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Titan's Curse by Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Battle of the Labyrinth by Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Last Olympian by Rick Riordan
Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis
The Lizard King by Jerry Hopkins
Generation Kill by Evan Wright
Jarhead by Anthony Swoffard
A Dangerous Fortune by Ken Follett
The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein
Whiteout by Ken Follett
I Am Ozzy by Ozzy Osborne
Code to Zero by Ken Follett
Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson
LIe Down with Lions by Ken Follett
The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett
Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett

Until I BLOG again...Sometimes the hero takes me, Sometimes I can't let go.

aboynamedstu Vlog #1

2010-12-10T15:52:00.002-06:00

Can't get there from here

2010-12-02T11:39:00.009-06:00

Another I probably shouldn't BLOG about. But. Fuck me. It's good. And since I no longer directly BLOG about the Boy(s), and can't share our wheels off travel adventures, their grandparents are the next best thing. So here goes. Read it before I'm asked to remove!

The first thing you need to know is this. We all went to the beach for the week of Thanksgiving. The second thing you need to know is that we went to the Bolivar Peninsula (of Hurricane Ike infamy) which is East of Galveston. You can get to the Bolivar Peninsula two ways. You can come down 45 and then ride the ferry across the bay coming in from the west side. Or. You can come to Houston and go out I-10 toward Beaumont. At some point you get off I-10 and head South until you hit the coast and then you drive in from the East on the Peninsula.

On the day of departure my in-laws called early. 7:30am early. And told My Lovely Bride (MLB here on out) that they were on the road and heading to the beach. The Team (including Ruby the Dog) left around 9:00am and ended up on the ferry (since we came in 45) around 1pm when MLB received our first call from the in-laws.

It was clearly evident from MLB's side of the conversation that my in-laws were lost. After a few minutes MLB became annoyed and said, "I can't help you if you don't even know where you are at." At which point she handed me the phone.

It was my mother in-law who asked me if it was possible for there to be another area that had the same street address as our house. And then started asking me if the house next door had, and describing physical characteristics.

I explained that I had never been to that house before, so I had no idea.

I then asked her if they came down 45 or came the other way, which seemed to confuse her, so she passed the phone to my father in-law who I asked the same question.

He didn't know.

I asked if he came over a bridge. Since Galveston is an island.

He didn't know. Or wasn't sure. He went over some bridges.

I then asked if he went out I-10.

He didn't know.

So I started listing cities that he would have driven through if he had come out I-10 and into Bolivar from the East.

He didn't know. And became frustrated and started telling me that she had him turn left, and then right, and now they were in a neighborhood and she said they were at their destination.

He went on to describe his surrounding, which, based on what he'd told me, I assumed they were on West Beach. The Western edge of Galveston Island and the opposite side of where they needed to be to get to the ferry. I told him, to ask someone, and then ask them how to get to Stewart Beach. If they could get to Stewart Beach, they'd easily find the ferry and then could come across and then, it was literally a straight shot. With ONE turn when we hit the house's street.

Fast forward a few minutes of dolphin watching as the ferry takes us over to Bolivar and the phone rings again and MLB answers. More exasperated talking about my in-laws route. At one point MLB said, "I don't know (insert father in-law's name.) We drove by a lot of schools on the way down!"

She eventually hung up, asking them to do what I had asked them to do.

Stop and ask someone where they were.

MLB and I were sort of annoyed laughing about it all, when I asked her, "Why is (insert father in-law's name) listening to your Mom for directions?"

MLB gave me a quizzical look and said, "He's not."

"He kept saying she said to do this, and she said to do that, when he was trying to explain to me where they were at? Who's she?" I asked.

MLB laughed.

"She's their GPS system. They call her Miss Daisy."

We were both laughing when the phone rang again.

I'll cut to the chase and say, that they still didn't know where they were at. And that whomever they talked to looked at them like they were nuts. My father in-law's words. Not mine.

As we had arrived at the ferry landing, we wished them good luck, told them until they figured out where they were at, we couldn't help them. Find a city, etc. and let us know. Or. Find Stewart's Beach and then they'd be so close to the ferry there was no way they could screw it up. The whole time MLB is lamenting the fact that on our ride down 45 we literally only turned a handful of times. It was a straight shot. How could they get lost. With GPS.

Fast forward through us going to the rental office. Paying. Getting our keys. Driving to our house. Unloading. To me drinking a beer and looking at the waves. It's about 2:30ish at this point.

"Where are (insert my father in-law and mother in-law's names)?" I asked my Dad who had arrived at the same time as us. They were on the same ferry.

He then proceeded to tell me that they called MLB and said they were on the ferry.

"Awesome." I said. "And they left at like 7:30am too!?!?!"

My Dad smiled and said, "They are on the ferry going over to Galveston."

"You mean they came in from the East? And didn't know it?" I asked.

"I guess," my Dad said drinking his beer.

"Fuck me." I said. Mainly to myself.

No wonder everyone they asked though they were nuts. They were telling them they were trying to get to Bolivar Peninsula (which they were already on) by way of the ferry and Stewart Beach.)

Fuck me. Again. Hard.

Fast forward a beer later and they finally arrived at the beach house. A beach house they had been in front of when they called the first time. Later MLB said, pointing at the neighbors house, "There is the black SUV they kept telling me about and asking if they had."

Fast forward a few days later and MLB and her Mom were in front of the house when her Mom said, "Oh, look, the name of the house is on the house."

"No shit. They always have the names on the houses. How else are you going to find them." MLB said (to me later. Not sure if to her Mom then.)

I could end the story here. But. To be fair. My in-laws and Miss Daisy decided to leave the beach a few hours before us on Sunday morning coming down. The figured they'd go the way they came, thus out East, and then to I-10, etc.

The whole way back we speculated if they'd get lost or not. But we never spoke to them. Until a few days later when MLB spoke to her Mom and reported to me that, they had in fact, gotten lost again. Or. As they say. Miss Daisy got them lost. She had them turn off the main road at some point, and go down a smaller road, which turned into a wooden road before dead ending into a canal or draining ditch.

MLB shook her head and said, "Like you're going to get back to Dallas by driving on a wooden road."

I laughed and said, "And don't forget they'd already came that way five days earlier. You'd think you'd remember if you drove on a wooden road when you came to the beach."

"Miss Daisy sucks." MLB said. "But at some point, do you really follow her when you know she's probably taking your the wrong way?"

"They're crazy." I said.

"Yes. They. Are. Crazy." She said.

Until I BLOG again...(I've been there I know the way.)

Bel Air

2010-11-17T16:44:00.001-06:00

This is a sequel of sorts. To this Beer Cans.

I was up to my ass in aluminum cans, in the back of the hopper, trusty snow shovel in hand, when I heard what sounded like a robot ask, "How much you all givin' for aluminum?"

Only aluminum sounded like: A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM.

"Excuse me," I said turning around to face what I assumed was a stuttering robot on the loading dock above me.

Only it wasn't a robot. It was a grizzled old man. In dirty coveralls, holding the biggest can of Budweiser beer I'd seen up until that point in my life, in one hand, and this little metal device in the other.

The old man shook his head, annoyed, and then took a long pull off his big ass can of Bud which was impressive because it was so big and because it wasn't even 8am yet.

"Excuse me," I said again.

The old man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and burped, before putting the metal device up to his throat and repeated, "How much you all givin' for A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM?"

If then was now, this version of a aboynamedstu would have said, 'fuck me.' But then was then, and my twenty year old version could do nothing more than stare, slack jawed, and repeat, "Excuse me?"

The old man shook his head again, looking even more disgusted at me. He was raising the metal thing to his throat, I'm sure to cuss me, when I was saved by Jesus, or Kevin shouting "Praise Jesus!" that is.

The old man gave me one more disgusted look and then raised the metal device up against his throat and said, "Kevin, how much you all givin' for A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM?"

Kevin told the old man what we were givin' for aluminum that day, and then turned around and walked back into the stifling hot warehouse that I'm sure had dozens of code violations if OSHA would ever bother to check out the Borg's operation.

The old man turned back to face me, put the metal thing up to his throat and said, "That's not as much as they are givin' over in Turley."

Being a 20 year old dumbass, I had no idea what to say as a reply so I just stood there, with the snow shovel in one hand.

The old man must have though my dumbass blank stare was me being shrewd because he eventually threw up his hands (one with a big ass Bud and the other with the metal device he used to speak) and said, "Ok. Ok. Ok. I'll take it. I don't want to drive all the way over to Turley. I got things to do."

I could only imagine what sort of things this grizzled old reprobate had to do, but he was a customer, even if he was a scrap dog, so I politely said, "Where is your aluminum, sir?"

"It's in my car," he said pointing to a big old Chevy Bel Air.

"You want to open your trunk, sir?" I asked.

"It ain't in the turtle hull." He said in that freaky metallic sounding robot voice. "It's in the back seat."

And it was. The grizzled old man's back seat, floor boards, the entire back half of his car actually, was full of aluminum cans. Most weren't even in sacks or bags. They were strewn everywhere.

"You're going to need to get a bucket," Jimmy Dale explained as he came out of the warehouse, to rescue me, yet again.

"But weight the bucket first. Empty. And write that number down on the board. And then fill it up with cans, weight that, write it down. And do that for each load. Then we can figure out what his aluminum weighs. And pay him."

"Earl?" Jimmy asked the grizzled old man.

"Yeah," the grizzled old man named Earl said.

"You ain't trying to cheat us by weightin' any of them cans down, are you?"

"Jimmy Dale," the grizzled old man named Earl exclaimed. "I ain't gonna try and cheat you boys on my A-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-LOOM-M-M-M-M-M-YUMM-YUMMMM-MMMMM."

"Praise Jesus!" Kevin exhorted as he walked onto the loading dock.

"I ain't cheatin'," the grizzled old man named Earl told Kevin. I guess because he thought Kevin was doing a W.W.J.D. type of a thing on him, even though this was 1988 and W.W.J.D. wasn't around yet, best I can tell. And Kevin spent most of the day shouting out, 'Praise Jesus!' W.W.J.D.? Probably kick the old reprobate in the nuts. Actually. But I digress.

"Check his cans," Jimmy Dale told me.

And sure enough, that grizzled old reprobate named Earl had dirt and rocks in many of his cans. There were also cigarette butts. And dip spit. It was bad.

And to quote that old grizzled fucker, I was only making MIN-IN-IN-IN-IN-IN-UM-UM-UM-UM, etc. wage!

When I was done. An hour later. Jimmy Dale surveyed all the shit he had crammed into his cans and said, "You cheatin' old bastard, we should throw all your cans back into your car and make you drive all the way over to Turley."

Jimmy Dale was smiling when he said it though, so Earl laughed a laugh-less, therefore, creepy wheezy sort of a laugh until he put that metal device up to his throat and said, "You can't fault a man for a trying, can you Jimmy Dale?"

"I guess not, Earl." Jimmy Dale said.

The grizzled old man smiled, and took another huge pull off of his big ass can of Bud, draining it.

He then set the can down on the scale, put that metal device to his throat and said, "You boys add that to the total now, I need all the 'extry' money I can get, I need to take my girl out on the town tonight."

Until I BLOG again...I'm drowning in the back seat of a '61 Bel Air, I got a mouthful of your hair. (A handful of skin.)

The Girl I Knew Somewhere

2010-11-16T16:39:00.001-06:00

I should have known the relationship was doomed when I saw that the last four digits of her phone number (4377,) which she shoe polished on my right front tire, spelled hell when read upside down.

As often is my case, my moment was more ha-ha than Aha!

Looking back through the years I often wonder how much time spent was wasted. Missed opportunities. Would of, could of, should ofs. Or. Was it building blocks and road maps to who, what and where I am right about now.

I'm sure it's equal parts both. In a very can't get there from here, sort of a way.

Until I BLOG again...That's as maybe, I can't explain, just ask the girl that I knew somewhere.

Haiku Memory #2

2010-11-15T11:30:00.000-06:00

Give yourself away
Indian summer sky blue
A cold soul wind blows

Boyz in the Hood

2010-11-12T12:46:00.001-06:00

begin rant

I should not BLOG what I'm about to BLOG. How is that for a set up that makes you want to keep reading. A hook. As it were. Or was. But I'm going to do it anyway. Because I'm angry. And I can rant. Here. All I want. So rant I will. Hard. Until My Lovely Bride reads this, is horrified, and makes me take it down. Maybe.

My Lovely Bride turned 40 on Tuesday. As of this AM, she has yet to hear (via the mail or phone) a congratulatory birthday wish on what many consider a big round number type of birthday from her birth father.

The fact that a parent could forget their child's 40th birthday baffles me. Even though her birth father divorced her birth mother and then had another family.

Here's a funny tidbit for you. He named the first son of the second family, the same as the first son of the first family. William. Which is his name.

Seriously. I'm not making that up to be funny.

But back to the birthday oversight which I seem to be more pissed about than My Lovely Bride. She tells me she isn't bothered by it, and that it sort of shows her or tells her what she already knew. Or something like that. About their tenuous relationship. Then she gives me this blank look that even after 43 years of being a boy around girls on planet earth, and 16 years of being married to her, I'm not sure if it truly means she isn't bothered. Or that she is bothered. Because I'm a dipshit.

But I'm not such a dipshit that I would forget my child's 40th fucking birthday.

Which seriously, all kidding aside, pisses aboynamedstu off to the point of seeing red.

end rant

Until I BLOG again...Don't quote me boy, cuz I ain't said shit...

All Because Of You

2010-11-11T09:23:00.001-06:00

"Have you BLOGGED recently?" My Lovely Bride asked.

"Actually, I did." I said.

"Why did you stop BLOGGING?" The Elder Boy asked.

"I didn't stop BLOGGING if I BLOGGED recently." I said with a sly grin. "I stopped the Team Tinsley BLOG because I didn't want to embarrass you guys since you're getting older."

"Oh."

"Would it bother you if i still did it?" I asked.

"No. Not really." The Elder Boy said.

"Even if it was..." I started.

"...stuff like Wy and Dora!" The Elder Boy finished.

"DAD!" The Younger Boy squealed. "I don't want people to see that. From school!"

"No one is going to see it." I said even though I knew some of My Lovely Bride's students had recently goggled her and ended up on one of the BLOGS or the TeamTinsley Flickr page.

"DAD!" Wy implored.

"I'll turn it off," I said to Wy. "See E, this exactly why I don't do the Team Tinsley BLOG anymore."

But I do miss it. There has been a lot of great shit that has happened to the Team since I shut it down late last year. Stuff I know I'll forget eventually. Because it's not down for posterity. And I see how the BLOG is already living up to it's billing as old stories often come up in conversation and they are remembered fresh because they were documented on the BLOG.

Which is awesome.

Like the other day. We were discussing my Lovely Bride's upcoming 40th birthday bash. The Boy(s) weren't invited to this big bash because My Lovely Bride wanted an adult party. That makes it sound like we're swingers. But it simply means NO kids. Including the Boy(s). Which they were somewhat miffed about since we were spending a lot of time and energy discussing certain aspects of the party.

After one lengthy discussion regarding cake, one of the Boy(s) asked me, "What did you do on your fortieth birthday."

My fortieth was more punch line than party I thought to myself, but said, "I drove from San Antonio to New Braunfels in the freaking rain."

"Really?" The Elder Boy asked.

"Really," I said. "And when I officially turned '40' I was picking up all of our clothes out of a wet parking lot because of Wyatt."

"REALLY?!?" The Elder Boy asked.

I looked over at Wy who had a shit eating grin on his face, and said, "Yeah, Wy wanted this Ninja Turtle T-Shirt at Sea World and, well, I ended up in the parking lot with our clothes everywhere. It's a long story. I BLOGGED about it. It's funny. Now. It wasn't so funny. Then. Though."

"You little bastard." I added as I pointed at Wy who laughed.

"That's the day we went to the Sea Lion show and Wy, who was really little then, was so excited." I said.

"And when the Sea Lion's came out on stage, Wy was pissed, because he had thought we were seeing a lion show. Like lion, lions. Africa. Not sea."

We all laughed at the memory.

"That's in the BLOG too." I said. "Part of that story. You guys can read it for yourself one day. I'm going to give you each a copy one day."

"Really?" They Elder Boy asked me.

Really, I thought.

My remember when, for then, has come to fruition less than a year after suspending writing new content. Sweet Mother of all that is good, I can only imagine what these stories will be like down the road. Further into the future. If it is already such a huge trip to re-live now, not that far into the Buck Rogers future.

Until I BLOG again...I just arrived, I'm at the door, Of the place I started out from, And I want back inside.

The Number of the Beast

2010-11-09T13:11:00.001-06:00

On Saturday night at My Lovely Bride's 40th BDay shindig, a friend brought up the Chef story, which prompted another friend (who never has read aboynamedstu) to ask about it, which resulted in me telling the story in real time.

I tell you that, for this.

In telling it in real time, it got me to thinking about another puke and shit stained, wheels off, aboynamedstu story. Only this time it was all me. Excrement wise. It also happened in Arkansas. Which I like to pronounce R-Kansas. But I digress.

Spring Break 1984 found me in Hot Springs, Arkansas with my family, Fleming (my partner in crime in the Chef story) and Juan Carlos Munoz, the AFS student from Colombia who stayed with my family from January until May 1984.

Juan had a very good friend in AFS from Costa Rica named Alvaro, who went by Al, who ended up in Little Rock, Arkansas. After the Hot Springs trip, the rest of our group was planning on going back to Oklahoma after dropping Juan and me off with Al and his host family. A few days later Juan and me were going to ride a Greyhound bus back to Tulsa.

Someone needs to do a case study on how many families get a foreign exchange student to try and 'cool' up their kid in high school, because like Juan's first host brother/family, Al's was a trip. Looking back through the years knowing what i know now, I'd guess the host brother was gay. But clearly not out. Living outside Little Rock on a small farm type pad. His parents were super religious and had this trippy old school farm house that had all of these hodgepodge additions to make more room for their large family, which included grand parents who lived with them. The joint was a labyrinth. Really. And kind of creepy.

To make matters worse Al and his host brother didn't get along which Juan only forewarned me as we were getting out of the car to meet everyone. Not that I had time to consider my fate for the next few days, because the host family's dog, a large shepherd mix, named Archie, attacked my leg, in a sexual way the minute he saw me. And pretty much continued having his way with my leg, sexually, the remainder of my stay. Considering the 1984 version of aboynamestu weighed 140 pounds wet, and Archie must have weighed 100 or more, it wasn't sweet leg love either. It was a beating. And it happened all the fucking time. We'd be out walking around on the farm and here would come Archie, lust in his eyes, red rocket out, running toward me, bypassing Juan and Al and bam, on my leg, knocking me around as Al tried to beat him off (pun intended) my leg while cussing the mongrel in Spanish.

Aside from Archie's lustful ways, the trip was very uneventful to the point of us being bored to tears which I why I'm going to fast forward to our final night. It was big. We were going to go into town!!! And a movie. Sweet mother of all that is good. You have to live (or have lived) out in the sticks or be from a small town to truly appreciate how exciting this was back in those pre-cable-tv / internet days of yore.

But before we could into town and the movie (we saw Splash for those playing along at home,) we had to choke down Grandma's horrific taco dinner which I guess she made since Juan and Al spoke Spanish, thus thought they were Mexican? The lady was nuts. And her tacos were bad. And as if that wasn't enough, she served farm milk (from their cow) with the freaking tacos.

Fuck me.

But back then, I was a polite boy so I sat there and choked the shit down as Archie lay under the table, red rocket pulsating, watching me, lustfully. And to add insult to injury, Juan and Al both played the AFS exchange student card and said that they couldn't eat the food because of their delicate foreign palates. Fuckers.

If 2010 aboynamedstu could hop in a time machine and get all Freaky Friday with 1984 aboynamedstu I would have made myself vomit (on that perverted dog's red rocket) to save me the horror that was to come later that night.

After I had finished we went into town, which wasn't Little Rock as we had been led to believe, but some other small shit town that had a single screen movie house. After the movie we cruised the circuit in this little shit town, in Al's host brother's old camaro, listening to Number of the Beast by Iron Maiden, repeatedly.

Someone should do a study on how many ultra-conservative-religious parents spawn children who are into Iron Maiden. But. Again. I digress.

After our tenth or so lap around this shit town, and as many listens to Run to the Hills, we ran to the hills, literally, and shared three cans of warm beer which didn't sit that well on top of the rancid tacos and farm milk.

When we finally got home, the family was all sound asleep, and the host brother informed me that I could sleep in his room and Al and Juan could sleep in the rec room. Again, looking back through the years, I think that the host brother had me sleep in his room as cover so his family would think it was him in there, versus me, so could do whatever it was he did. Gay sex maybe? Meanwhile Al and Juan also snuck out of the house to go bang some chicks that Al knew from school. The chicks loved the AFS latin dudes back in the day, let me tell you, yeah.

Me. Fuck me. I'm stuck in this creepy ass old room, with all these black light Iron Maiden posters, a few doors from Grandma and Grandpa. Al and Juan should have been in the back of the crazy house, near the host parent's bedroom.

So there I was quite literally all alone, wrapped up in a gross old electric blanket staring at all these creepy Eddie posters when I finally dropped off to a feverish and unrestful sleep. A hour or so late, I awoke, drenched in sweat, and feeling bad. Like top 5 in my life to date, sick bad. It was horrible. I tossed and turned for another hour, feverishly staring at the crazy ass pictures of that demented Eddie, until I sat up right and projectile puked all over Al's host brother's floor.

It was sick, a horrific mixture of Grandma's rancid tacos, farm milk, and that warm beer. The smell was so bed that before I could get up, I puked again, this time all over Al's host brother's electric blanket and bed.

Horrified, I staggered to the old bathroom nearest Al's host brother's room, praying I wouldn't wake up Grandma and Grandpa because I was horrified that I was puking all over their house, not really knowing them, and all.

In the bathroom, I sat on the cold tile floor and hugged the porcelain thrown, and vomited a few more times. The last retch I'm sad to say, was so powerful, that my bowels opened up, and I shit everywhere.

Hershey squirt shit too.

It was bad. And I still felt sick. So I quickly took off my pajama bottoms and sat on the toilet in anticipation only to be foiled by another torrent of puke which ended up all over their shower curtain, display towels (the kind you hang on the rack more for decoration than actual use) and bathtub.

This went on for at least an hour, laying on the cold tile floor, intermittently shitting or puking until I finally passed out.

A few hours later I woke up, still sick, but empty, and stared at the horror I had created.

It looked like someone explode a bag of shit and puke. It was everywhere. And I was horrified at what the host family would think so I tried to creep out of the bathroom and find Juan and Al, but those fuckers were still out having sex with R-Kansas girls.

Al's host brother was also still out doing whatever it was he was doing.

So it was just me, Archie (thank God they had him locked up in another room. That dog would have raped me in my prone position in such a weakened state,) the Grandpa and Grandma (who had poisoned me with her rancid tacos!) and the Mom and Dad.

On hindsight I should have went and woke up the parents and told them I was sick. Asked them to help me.

But I didn't do that. Instead I went into Al's host brother's room and dug through his drawers to the very bottom, figuring those were clothes he didn't wear often, and grabbed some t-shirts and sweats. And went back into the bathroom and grabbed some towels (including the decoration ones I'd fouled) and started the long and disgusting job of cleaning up my waste.

When I was through, I took the shit and puked stained clothes and towels (after washing them out in the toilet bowel as best I could) and cleaned up the puke in Al's host brother's room.

When I was finally through, I rinsed as best I could, again in the toilet bowl and went back to Al's host brother's bedroom, closed the door, and sat there looking at Eddie until the sun came up.

It was a long night.

I eventually heard the family stirring and knew I had to get up and get ready to go to the bus station and that there was no way I could get to where Juan and Al were without seeing the family first. There was no way to get rid of all the shit and puke stained clothes and towels without them seeing me either. And I was pretty certain that as soon as I opened the door and vacated the room, Al's host brother would resume ownership and see all the shit and puked stained shirts, sweats and towels.

I had to act fast. So, BLOG reader, right or wrong, this is what that 16 year old version of aboynamedstu decided to do.

I took the puke encrusted electric blanket and put all the puke and shit stained shirts, sweats and towels into it, wrapped it up, tied a crude knot in it, and crammed it way up under Al's host brother's bed.

Seriously.

From there I went to the breakfast table and soon after Juan and I were deposited at the Greyhound Bus Station in downtown Little Rock, R-Kansas.

The bus ride home was nearly as horrific as the previous night. I told Juan about my experience, which made him laugh until he cried. Fucker. And then I sat there and tried toto not shit or puke while Forrest Gump, literally, tried to give me a piece of chocolate from a big box he was carrying around. He tried to give everyone on that full bus a chocolate actually.

It was hell.

Six long hours later we were in Tulsa and my parents picked us up and my sad story ends.

More than a quarter of a century later, like this past Saturday night, I'll remember this sad night and think of how sick I was, and then remember how I wrapped up all those shit and puke stained clothes and towels in Al's host brother's electric blanket which I shoved under his bed.

And I laugh. hard.

And wonder what that crazy ass family thought (and did) when they eventually discovered the gift I left behind.

Until I BLOG again...That what I saw that night was real and not just fantasy.

Original of the Species

2010-11-05T09:17:00.000-05:00

Considering I'm not what I'd call a party person I'm surprisingly adroit at planning parties. A lot of this is because of my job, where I've planned dozens of large scale events over the past decade. Even so, certain things, because of my peculiar tastes trip me up, hard.

Like cake. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

You see BLOG reader. My Lovely Bride turns forty on November 9th. When we were discussing this big milestone birthday, what she wanted, what she expected, she decided she wanted a big party to celebrate herself. An adult party. And by adult I don't mean keys in the bowl. I'm talking sans kids.

All of which is voodoo to me. I'd just as soon lay low and leave town on my birthday as do a big party. In fact, my fortieth birthday was spent in a very low key fashion, more punch line, than celebration. There's a funny story related to it and that, which I'm going to BLOG about in a day or so. For now, we're talking My Lovely Bride, and I'm digressing, hard.

In talking about this big party we worked out that we'd have it catered, nicely, buy a bunch of beer, wine, again nice. Some booze. Make it a very nice adult party that we'd have at the very adult (again un-kid-friendly vs. keys in the bowl) Casa Pond which also allowed us to leave the Boy(s) at home with a babysitter.

In discussing the menu for the party, I told her what and how many I had ordered and then made the offhand comment that I didn't order any sweets since I figure the last thing you want to do is be guzzling Sweet Tea vodka while you eat a freaking cupcake. The very thought makes me want to puke. But that's me. My Lovely Bride looked at me like I was daft and said, "You have to have a cake?"

"Really?" I asked incredulously.

"Really." She answered with that tone that implied she wasn't quite sure if I was being cheap by not wanting to get a cake and/or really that big of a dipshit.

For the record it was the latter. I am that big of a dipshit. Which is why I walked in Tom Thumb(job) completely baffled on how you order a birthday cake. When I walked into the newly remodeled Tom Thumb(job) by our pad, the lady who ran the deli and bakery area gave me a big smile and said, "Hello sir. How can we help you today?"

"I need to order a cake." I said.

"(Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) will help you."

I could see (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee) standing in the back of the prep area decorating some cookies or cupcakes so I walked toward the cake thing which was as close as I could get to him without going into the employee area.

"I'll be right with you sir."

"No sweat," I said.

Looking up I saw 'How to order a cake' for idiot signage. It broke down ordering cake into four easy steps.

Step 1: Pick the cake (and it had a list of choices.)
Step 2: Pick the filling.
Step 3: Pick the size.
Step 4: Pick the icing.

Simple enough I thought, as I knew My Lovely Bride wanted a chocolate cake with white icing. The one thing I wasn't so sure about was size. Since I'm a dipshit and I guess haven't watched enough Ace of Cakes to realize what the sizes listed meant. Quantity wise.

"How can I help you, sir?" (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) asked.

"I need a birthday cake." I explained. "For my wife. Not a kid. It's a 40th birthday."

"Ok," "(insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) said gesturing toward the 'How to order a cake' for idiot signage. "What do you want?"

"How does it work size wise?" I asked. "I figure we got 50ish people coming, and of that 50, say 25 will want cake. The thought of cake and booze make me want to puke. But my wife wants the cake so..."

(Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) gave me a curious look, probably because I shared too openly with him.

"Well a half sheet will feed," he said. Then stopped. Thinking. "Between 15 and 40 people."

Now. Even though I'm an epic dipshit, even I got the vibe that what (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) was telling me was dubious. That was a big ass range of servings and the last thing I wanted to do was end up with a birthday cake that didn't serve everyone. My Lovely Bride would be pissed. At me. And figure I was being cheap. Versus being a dipshit.

"Dude, that's a pretty big range of servings." I said.

"Yeah," He said. "It depends on how big you cut the pieces."

We stood there under the 'How to order a cake' for idiot signage for a few minutes when I realized I better call My Lovely Bride so I didn't screw up. Only. She didn't answer. As usual.

"She's not there." I said to (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name. "She never answers that damn cell phone."

(Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) gave me a curious look redux and said, "I'll be over there, sir. Let me know when you are ready to order."

"Cool." I said. "Let me call my Mother-In-Law."

Thankfully she answered the phone and gave me the info that I needed to order a cake. All the while, the (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) was in the kitchen frosting something, and sort of looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, probably thinking, what the fuck.

I was about to get off the phone when I heard Buddy, My Father-In-Law, ask Linda, My Mother-In-Law for the phone, so I ended up standing under the 'How to order a cake' for idiot signage for at least five minutes talking on my robot phone.

"Hey dude," I called to the (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name.) "I'm ready."

(Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) walked over to me and grabbed an order pad that had the same information as the 'How to order a cake' for idiot signage.

After taking down my personal information (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) asked, "What kind of cake do you want, sir?" Again gesturing at the 'How to order a cake' for idiot signage which had a list of choices.

"Chocolate." I said.

"What kind of filling?"

"Filling," I asked.

To be honest, I hadn't really thought about a filling. I've never had a cake (which isn't saying much) that had a filling in it. But feeling impish said, "Cheese."

This took (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) by surprise. Enough that he looked up from his pad and said, "Cheese."

"Yeah, cheese." I said.

"You mean cream cheese?" He asked.

"No. Cheese cheese." I said. "Like cheddar."

On hindsight I should have got my robot phone and taken a picture of (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name.)

He was baffled. And stood there looking at me, trying to figure out, what to say next.

Which is when I blew it and started to laugh.

"You're kidding?" He asked, still a bit unsure.

"Yeah." I said. "I'm messing with you. I don't want a filling."

After that we were golden. (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) thought I was pretty cool, I guess, for messing with me and assured me that My Lovely Bride's cake would be the most kick-ass cake ever.

"Just so long as you don't pay me back for messing with you by spitting in it." I said. "Or worse."

"That's against the law." He told me.

"Dude. I'm kidding. Again." I said.

"Oh." He said handing me the receipt.

On my way out the lady who runs the deli and bakery area came up to me, pulled off her plastic hand glove for food sanitation thing, and held her hand up indicating she wanted to high-five.

Being a fan of the high-five, in all its cheesy glory, I held my hand up and gave her one.

"That was funny." She told me. "I've never seen anyone have their leg pulled so well. You really got (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) good."

"Thanks." I said. "Do me a favor?"

"Yes, sir." She said.

"Make sure (Insert Tom Thumb(job) employee's name) doesn't spit in my wife's cake for pay-back."

Until I BLOG again...I want the lot of what you got, And I want nothing that you're not.

Happy Birthday to My Lovely Bride. I truly hope her 40th is everything she wants.