Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Stranger Unknown to Truth or Consequences
It’s odd when you first realize you are no longer home. When I first entered Missouri I suffered the strange feeling of Illinois/home umbilicals detaching from my body with the snap of a rubber tube from the arm of a junkie. Pok! Pok! Pokety Pok! Gone are job and love, responsibility, everything is too far away to be any help. In their place is the road, changing accents, scenery, the slow drip of the odometer, and the continual wrestle with ones own being. The experience must be similar to what a junkie feels as well, a mixture of awe and slight paranoia. Is this the one that finally destroys me? Is this going to live up to that first time? Crossing the state line I turned into a stranger, paranoid and unknown.
Now for a slight digression, for all the naval peering we do in this country about the subject of freedom we never speak of the paranoia of freedom, something which this country suffers from chronically. We seem not to be able to handle the true nature of freedom, the fact that the same freedom that lets us do what we want is the same freedom that allows others, different from us, to do what they want.
I was happy when I got to Fayetteville, despite the fact that it is vastly different than the last time I saw it, the bones are still the same... much like the friends I met up with. We are grey, we are fat, we have divorces, we have kids, but under it all we are still the same crazy, brilliant, and retarded kids that tore the city up fifteen years ago. I’m happy that we are all trying to grow up, it’s a thin facade but you can see the effort. I arrived on Wednesday night and navigated the familiar streets and strange buildings for the right bar to breathe in this new Fayetteville. The Kingfish struck me, perhaps it was because of the none to subtle allusion to Huey Long, it seemed as corrupt, affable, and openly panning to the poor man. The dollar PBRs made it all the more suspicious... ah, well, Every man a king! The next day was little less than a haze, making up fifteen years of missed drinking opportunities can be painful. If you want to remember something it’s best not to get drunk. Drinking is an enemy to memory. I know that this is common sense but in joyous occasions everyone wants to drink. Don’t do this! Don’t do as I do, do as I say! Put the glass down and face the experience head on. Like I said, I didn’t do this, so it’s all a bit hazy. I know there were drinks, a creek, and Mexican food involved.
I awoke Friday in a state of mad fear and panic. What happened to the last day? Beer cans littered the floor, sand in the sink, and a throat like an ashtray. I threw my clothes and fled, barely dressed. I spent the rest of the day fleeing the possible retribution for these fleeting memories. I crossed six hundred miles of nothing but sand and towns readying themselves for possible annihilation by the likes of Los Alamos. Texans have finally given in to their own stereotype and embraced it wholly. It’s all you really have when you live in the panhandle.
I arrived in New Mexico shortly before dark. My compass pointed toward Sante Fe and due to the unappealing nature of the last four hundred miles the trip had been reduced to the point of a competition between me and the estimated time stated by the GPS. I have discovered that only by shrewd calculation and a deft pedal foot able to apply pressure measured in the slightest of micro grams could you make those minutes slide back. At the time I regarded it as the utmost of importance, in West Texas you need distraction.
I arrived in Santa Fe, bleary, yet forty minutes behind the estimated time. I considered it a blow out. I was too tired to speak and had to get by on grunts with the hotel manager. It was a run down little room with a small balcony and neighbors who liked to turn their tv up to eleven, at least I was no longer hung over.
My night was filled with nightmares, a life with real consequences... old testament. Green chile was on my mind when I awoke and, thank god for technology, I was able to suss out some of the best huevos rancheros in the town. I walked around the Tiffany and Giorgio Armani dedicated old time square where the old Indians smelled of cinnamon and looking like I see them in the movies. Men and women, dressed in the colors of the season, emerge from black SUV’s dressed with chrome to take pictures with them. Trophies for the victors. It was then that I decided to head to the city of Truth or Consequences because I liked the name.
The city had evidently taken both of its suggestions. The truth and consequence was rusty trailers baking adrift in a sea of sand and brush. I wanted to find a place to get a drink but I got the feeling that I was lost on the set of Thunder Heart with Val Kilmer, and things began to look suspect. The paranoia had returned.
Now for a slight digression, for all the naval peering we do in this country about the subject of freedom we never speak of the paranoia of freedom, something which this country suffers from chronically. We seem not to be able to handle the true nature of freedom, the fact that the same freedom that lets us do what we want is the same freedom that allows others, different from us, to do what they want.
I was happy when I got to Fayetteville, despite the fact that it is vastly different than the last time I saw it, the bones are still the same... much like the friends I met up with. We are grey, we are fat, we have divorces, we have kids, but under it all we are still the same crazy, brilliant, and retarded kids that tore the city up fifteen years ago. I’m happy that we are all trying to grow up, it’s a thin facade but you can see the effort. I arrived on Wednesday night and navigated the familiar streets and strange buildings for the right bar to breathe in this new Fayetteville. The Kingfish struck me, perhaps it was because of the none to subtle allusion to Huey Long, it seemed as corrupt, affable, and openly panning to the poor man. The dollar PBRs made it all the more suspicious... ah, well, Every man a king! The next day was little less than a haze, making up fifteen years of missed drinking opportunities can be painful. If you want to remember something it’s best not to get drunk. Drinking is an enemy to memory. I know that this is common sense but in joyous occasions everyone wants to drink. Don’t do this! Don’t do as I do, do as I say! Put the glass down and face the experience head on. Like I said, I didn’t do this, so it’s all a bit hazy. I know there were drinks, a creek, and Mexican food involved.
I awoke Friday in a state of mad fear and panic. What happened to the last day? Beer cans littered the floor, sand in the sink, and a throat like an ashtray. I threw my clothes and fled, barely dressed. I spent the rest of the day fleeing the possible retribution for these fleeting memories. I crossed six hundred miles of nothing but sand and towns readying themselves for possible annihilation by the likes of Los Alamos. Texans have finally given in to their own stereotype and embraced it wholly. It’s all you really have when you live in the panhandle.
I arrived in New Mexico shortly before dark. My compass pointed toward Sante Fe and due to the unappealing nature of the last four hundred miles the trip had been reduced to the point of a competition between me and the estimated time stated by the GPS. I have discovered that only by shrewd calculation and a deft pedal foot able to apply pressure measured in the slightest of micro grams could you make those minutes slide back. At the time I regarded it as the utmost of importance, in West Texas you need distraction.
I arrived in Santa Fe, bleary, yet forty minutes behind the estimated time. I considered it a blow out. I was too tired to speak and had to get by on grunts with the hotel manager. It was a run down little room with a small balcony and neighbors who liked to turn their tv up to eleven, at least I was no longer hung over.
My night was filled with nightmares, a life with real consequences... old testament. Green chile was on my mind when I awoke and, thank god for technology, I was able to suss out some of the best huevos rancheros in the town. I walked around the Tiffany and Giorgio Armani dedicated old time square where the old Indians smelled of cinnamon and looking like I see them in the movies. Men and women, dressed in the colors of the season, emerge from black SUV’s dressed with chrome to take pictures with them. Trophies for the victors. It was then that I decided to head to the city of Truth or Consequences because I liked the name.
The city had evidently taken both of its suggestions. The truth and consequence was rusty trailers baking adrift in a sea of sand and brush. I wanted to find a place to get a drink but I got the feeling that I was lost on the set of Thunder Heart with Val Kilmer, and things began to look suspect. The paranoia had returned.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
An Auspicious Start
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Matrimonial Delight
Be scared folks, this may be a bumpy ride. I will be off starting on June 7th for a wild ride towards my nuptial day. It's been two years since I've updated this blog, but it's time to get this brontosaurus out of the bog. I will be trying to keep as up to date as possible... great last words.
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