Lawnmower Man

Yesterday, I saw a guy driving a golf cart around is house. He was wearing camouflage shorts, high tops, a ratty American flag bandana, and sported the tan of someone destined to die of skin cancer but completely nonplussed by that eventuality. Attached to the golf cart via the straps intended for use in securing a golf bag to the back of the cart was a push lawnmower. I suppose at this point it would not shock you to read that the lawnmower was on and that the driver of the cart was proudly operating this rig as a riding mower. This struck me as hugely awesome and reminded me of the time, when living in the Middle East, I saw a tiny Dodge Ram 50 pickup truck towing a Brahma bull down the highway via a rope tied to the bull's head and attached to the trailer hitch of the truck. The whole scene was ridiculous. The bull was clearly struggling to match the Dodge 50's speed (maybe the first time in history anything has struggled to match a Dodge 50's speed) and the driver was completely oblivious to the Bull's increasing discomfort.

Lawnmower man showed similar disregard for his attachment and bounced and skidded his way around his lawn leaving little grass mohawks and long patches in his wake. This too struck me as hugely awesome. Clearly, the advent of the golf cart-cum- riding mower had nothing to do with efficiency and quality but was instead imagined solely to facilitate laziness. This reminded me of being junior high aged and allergic to work. I remember one Sunday - chore day - hearing my dad laugh to himself in a resigned way as he was cleaning the bathroom my sister and I used. This was not a good laugh. It was more of an "I give up" kind of laugh. I poked my head in the bathroom door to see what the offending object of his ridicule was and saw him holding a toothpaste tube and shaking his head. The end of the tube nearest the opening was crimped and crushed into a twisted knot while the rest of the tube, bulging with a fresh reservoir of toothpaste, was untouched.

As I thought of this, I began to realize I had maybe once been a little too much like lawnmower man and I stopped laughing as hard as I had been previously. Then I thought of the dishes in the sink, the expired chicken wings in the refrigerator, and pile of laundry in my bedroom and I stopped laughing altogether. Then I thought maybe I could kill two birds with one stone and wash my laundry in the dishwasher with the dishes. Genius.

Just Thought Ya'll Should Know

Today is Texas Independence Day.

On this day in 1836 the Texas Declaration of Independence was created at the Convention of 1836 at Washington-on-the-Brazos.

This marks the most badass moment in the history of the world.

Everything I Needed to Know About Life I Learned at Scruffy Murphy's

Scruffy Murphy's is a nominally Irish and fully dilapidated bar in Waco, Texas. The floors are concrete. The walls are tagged with all sorts of writing and drawings conveying all sorts of messages, mostly inappropriate. Of the six or so pool tables in the bar, none has a clean, unscarred felt surface or all of the required balls. This means -and I've seen this done- missing balls are shared among tables playing at the same time. A straight cue stick is a pipe dream. Every drink is served in a plastic cup or from a cold bottle. The odd assortment of furniture that comprises the seating on the patio was salvaged from fast food restaurants that couldn't make the grade. I once spent an evening at Scruff's (as the initiated call it) during a thunderstorm. There were more buckets catching rain water from the many holes in the roof than there were patrons at the bar. One of the two urinals in the men's restroom is usually out of order and the door to said restroom, if opened wide enough, exposes anyone relieving oneself to pretty much the entire length of the bar. Scruff's is an unapologetic shithole.

In short, it's my favorite bar.

The usuals at the bar are mostly upper classmen and townies, but at about closing time the population of the bar swells to standing room only as people who struck out at the nicer bars look for one last chance to meet (the running joke is "meat") that special someone, emphasis on someone. The one exception to this routine is St. Patrick's Day when the bar is packed inside and out from about six in the afternoon to closing time. I have thought on more than one occasion that the bar survives the other 364 days of the year on the profits it makes every March 17th.

In the many nights I spent at Scruff's (many more than I'd care to admit), I learned some valuable truths that have been proven again and again as I attempt to navigate my way through this caustically funny life we all try to seem so good at.

- Karaoke is one of the last great egalitarian endeavors of our time. One can absolutely belt out a song with perfect pitch and confident showmanship and receive the same cheers of appreciation as one who mumbles and strains one's way through a song one had no business singing in the first place. It's not about being good, it's about entertaining an audience. Humor and courage can get you through most situations even when talent is lacking.

- Finding a mate is as much about ratios and good fortune as it is about being really, really good looking. Anyone who has spent much time at a bar at closing time can attest to this. There's really no rhyme or reason to love -and I use the word loosely here -it's about meeting someone with the same goals at the same time.

- Never ever, ever, ever get into a drinking contest. Ever. They're dumb, unsafe, unhealthy and do very little to prove anything about anyone other than the fact that those participating are desperate to prove their worth to their peers. This is sort of the lush's version of keeping up with the neighbors. Just because you own a Porsche doesn't mean I need to buy a Ferrari. In the end, we're both assholes.

- There are very few things worth getting in a fight over and almost none of those things happen at bars. Having said that, there is no shortage of people in this world who will fight at bars over girls, perceived slights, lewd gestures from the karaoke stage, or spilled drinks. Avoid those people. If you can't, there's no shame in walking away.

- If you should ever find yourself in the back of a truck, in Mexico, in the early morning, on the way to a drug dealer's house, you have made some poor choices in life. Reassess your decisions and friends but remember every detail of your adventure so you can recount the story to people like me at a bar like Scruffy Murphy's. A well told story goes a long way.

- Never, ever, ever, ever piss off the bartender. There are multiple ways to do this in a crowded bar, but all of them can be avoided if one remembers to not be an asshole. Servers are underappreciated and have to deal with the type of people who get in fights at bars. Be patient. Be clear. Say thank you. Tip well.

- If you should find yourself airborne and parallel to the ground after having been thrown out of a bar (possibly for pissing off the bartender), it was your fault. People who are paid to keep order are often bigger and stronger than you and once they're involved it's too late to say sorry. Be accountable, follow the rules, and you'll get to leave most places of your own accord.

- If you should find yourself involved in a conversation about driving cross country RIGHT NOW to go to a casino, take some time to collect yourself and make a better decision. If you don't take that time, remember every detail of your adventure so you can recount your story to someone like me at a bar like Scruffy Murphy's. A well told story goes a long way.

- If you are employed in a high visibility job like, oh, say assistant football coach at a Big XII university, do not piss on the bar at a place like Scruffy Murphy's. The bouncers will throw you out, the media will get wind of it, and you will no longer have a job. This is especially true if the team you help coach has been consistently horrible during your tenure as an assistant. Even if you're an asshole, someone may look up to you and your employer may expect you to behave in a manner befitting a role model.

- If you go to a bar together -and I'm talking about couples here - go home together. Dance with who brung you, no? This does not mean either of you is going home with someone else. If that's a worry then you're in the wrong relationship to begin with, it means that when one or the other of you is ready to leave, you both leave. This may mean you don't get to stay until closing time, but it will go a long way to proving where your priorities lie. Chalk this up to life lessons learned the hard way. Being unified and supportive helps the gears of love go around.

- The best tasting beer is the beer that costs the least.

- Know thyself. If you're the type of person who goes to Scruffy Murphy's, then you're the type of person who goes to Scruffy Murphy's. Don't try to church it up. People will respect you more if you know who you are and say what you mean.

- If the bar is closing, it's time to go home. Nothing good ever happened after closing time.

Conor Oberst, You Magnificent Bastard

So, Bright Eyes...where to begin?

Firstly, I want to call Bright Eyes a band, but since it's really just one guy can you do that? I find this obnoxious in the same way I find it obnoxious when, speaking about Nine Inch Nails, one feels the necessity to stop and refer only to Trent Reznor as if wrestling with the one man band conundrum. Speaking of, there's this great street performer in London who plays dozens of instruments at the same time. They are all strapped to his legs and feet and there's a drum on his back and horns on frames that run across his face and he carries a guitar and sings. He's truly a one man band. I guess I just answered my question. Moving on...

Secondly, I get tired of Bright Eyes fans. If you are one, don't be offended, I am too. This is convenient because I sometimes get tired of myself so at least I'm being authentic, right? It's all the weightiness of the world and the tight jeans on guys, and the tiny t-shirts (also on guys) and tortured beauty of it all (not the guys, but the dance of life). It just seems so self consciously artistic that I want to burp and do a keg stand just to offset the sensitivity.

Thirdly, and this is my weakest point but I feel like I have to throw it in there or else I won't respect myself when I click "post"- Conor Oberst once did a show in Houston during which he stated something along the lines of, "If I were from Texas, I would shoot myself." Even among the emo kids in attendance there were probably enough gun owners with the weaponry on hand to oblige him. I mean, it IS Texas.

So why the "magnificent" in front of the "bastard?" Quite simply, lyrics like these:

Some plans were made and rice was thrown
A house was built, a baby born
How time can move both fast and slow
Amazes me

And so I raise my glass to symmetry
To the second hand and it's accuracy
To the actual size of everything
The desert is the sand
You can't hold it in your hand
It won't bow to your demands
There's no difference you can make
There's no difference you can make
And if it seems like an accident
A collage of senselessness
You aren't looking hard enough
I wasn't looking hard enough

An argument for consciousness
The instinct of the blind insect
Who makes love to the flower bed
And dies in the first freeze
Oh I want to learn such simple things
No politics, no history
Till what I want and what I need
Can finally be the same

I just got myself to blame
Leave everything up to fate
When there's choices I could make
When there's choices I could make
Yeah, my heart needs a polygraph
Always so eager to pack my bags
When I really wanna stay
When I really wanna stay

When I wanna stay (x4)

The arc of time, the stench of sex
The innocence you can't protect
Each quarter note, each marble step
Walk up and down that lonely treble clef
Each wanting the next one
Each wanting the next one to arrive
Each wanting the next one
Each wanting the next one to arrive

An argument for consciousness
The instinct of the blind insect
Who never thinks not to accept it's fate
That's faith, there's happiness in death
You give to the next one
You give to the next on down the line
You give to the next one
You get to the next on down the line

The levity of longing that
Distills each dream inside my head
By morning watered down forget
On silver stars I wish and wish and wish

Move on to the next one
Move on to the next one down the line
Move on to the next one
Move on to the next one down the line

You get to the next one
You get to the next on down the line
You get to the next one
You get to the next on down the line

That bastard.

Smitten

I heart Chicago.

It's official, Chicago is on my list of cities that, were I to suddenly become God (unlikely), I would scoop up and move to Texas. That may sound ridiculous to you, but if it does you're probably not from Texas. Just saying. Other cities on this list are Buenos Aires, San Francisco, Denver, London, and Charlotte.

Chicago makes the list because it's a beautiful city and it's strikingly well planned compared to the midwestern city I live in. It's the little things. The freeway has express lanes with exits only at the major streets and local lanes with exits at every street. There is a well developed and utilized public transit system. Someone is paying traffic cops to keep an eye and direct traffic at almost every major intersection. Everything has an accurate and easy to understand sign. There are parks throughout downtown and things happen there. By "things" I mean events other than muggings or soirees with hookers.

I can't imagine ever being bored in Chicago. Is that possible? There are so many museums and restaurants and parks and bars and events that you would have to be terminally dull to not come up with something to do. Then there's the history: The Mob, riots, prohibition, baseball, the fire, the railroad, and Oprah. Yup, Chicago is definitely my new "city crush," and right at Valentine's Day (oh yeah, there's the Valentine's Day Massacre as well).

My one complaint is that it is cold in a way I just can't handle, and not for a brief period every year. It is cold with a capital C for a few months every year. I mean, I'd be thinking marriage with Chicago were it not for the cold...and the wind. Like Katt Williams says, you have to buy your coat from there for there. This is part of the reason that, were I to suddenly become God (still unlikely), I would move Chicago to Texas. You can't change cities though, you have to love them for what they are.

*Sigh*

Ah Chicago, we could have been perfect for one another.

Inter-American Relations

I overheard the conversation I'm about to recount outside a packed restroom at Crew Stadium last night. A particularly savvy beer man had set up shop right outside the restroom and was selling beer faster than he could pour it. Almost everyone in line was buying. Whether a Mexico fan or a USA fan, the same series of actions was preformed in reaction to the beer man's peddling. First, the buyer would look confused at the oddness of the context in which the beer was being offered. Then the buyer would reluctantly but agreeably shrug his shoulders and ask for a beer. Next, the buyer would take his first sip from his new beer and smile contentedly knowing he was mere feet away from creating room in his bladder for what he had just purchased.

I was in this line, sipping a newly purchased beer, when a Mexico fan, wearing a lucha libre mask, Mexican flag cape, and Mexico jersey walked up to get his picture taken with a USA fan decked out in a full red jumpsuit, USA flag cape, and red, white, and blue painted head. I say "head" because it was most certainly his whole head and not just his face. Both men were spectacularly drunk. Neither man spoke the other's language.

Pancho Villa: Oye, compa! I picture?

Captain America: Fuckin'-A man! USA! USA! USA! Cool.

Pancho Villa [just after the picture was taken turning to Captain America but only being able to look him in the chest]: Joo drun.

Captain America [laughing]: Bo-rach-o! Awooooooooo! You too, man. It's cool if you don't come do my lawn tomorrow.

Pancho Villa: Ho-kay. Ho-kay.

[Both men laughing and hugging]

Pancho Villa: Joo weening es luckee.

Captain America: What!? That goal was awesome! That's not luck! The Alamo was lucky, motherfucker!

[Both men laughing, hugging, high-fiving, laughing, sipping, hugging, and high-fiving again]

I think the two superfans took another picture together, but by that point I was past the threshold of the restroom and could no longer see them. Those of us in the line who had heard the conversation (and understood both sides), eyed each other uneasily. I mean, on the one hand, it really was a comical display. On the other, it was sort of a parody of US/Mexico relations and did more than touch on overt racism. I suppose the men could have actually known one another and that Pancho Villa actually did Captain America's lawn, but I'm guessing that was not the case.

I was mulling this over in my head and trying not to think about how horribly I needed to use the restroom when images of fans in El Salvador, Honduras, and Mexico City popped into my head. Hmmm. Borderline racist drunken hugging and laughing? Or, Overtly violent battery throwing patriotic rage?

The Mexico fan in front of me turned around and we made eye contact.

Me: Viste esos borrachos?

Him [surprised look]: Si, si. Hay pendejos aqui y alli!

[both of us laughing]

Me: Vamos a ganar, sabes?

Him: No, no guerro! Vamos el tri!

Me: No creo que si! Estas borracho tambien?!

[both laughing]

Our conversation ended as we reached the front of the line and we finally got to relieve ourselves. Apparently etiquette on both sides of the border precludes conversation during urination. As an aside, I once broke this rule at a Baylor basketball game when I glanced to my right to see Drayton McLane, owner of the Houston Astros, making use of the urinal next to me. He had just traded Billy Wagner and I had to let him know I, as a long time Astros fan, did not approve. Drayton was friendly and understanding and then said he'd shake my hand but his were otherwise occupied at the time.

Relishing my sweet relief, I sighed contentedly. Yes, there are dumbasses here and there, but thank God we can all go to a soccer match and support our teams without the riot police getting involved...

...and thank God the US won!

I Want To...

1. Be in a fight - I used to get the crap beaten out of me by my best friend in elementary school. We would be in one or the other's front yard playing army (we were neighbors) and then Adam would snap and land some bruising punches to my back or chest. Mostly, I was confused by this rather than hurt. Adam was really and truly angry at an age when I was most concerned with whether or not my mom, on a cleaning binge, would ship some coveted toy off to Goodwill. My parents argued when I was growing up, but Adam's parents could be heard screaming at one another over the fence. He was a kid in a thorn bush and pounding on me must have given him some release.

My gut reaction to any physical altercation has always been to break it up. As I eventually grew to 6'2 and 215 lbs, my stature seems to have served as a deterrent to most possible brawls. I was once punched in the head at a concert, but I instinctively laughed at the kid who threw the punch and I think this dissuaded him. Who wants to fight someone who laughs at your best shot? It's not that I want to hurt anyone, but to quote a great movie, "How much can you really know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"

2. Live in the woods for a year - There is something about being alone in the wilderness that completely subverts your conception of what is truly important. When concerns about electrical bills, clothes, email, debt, and relationships are replaced with concerns about food, shelter, water, and beauty life seems to come into brilliant, vibrant relief. As the poet said, "God is in His heaven and all is right with the world."

3. Do something really and truly badass as an occupation - My father has a non-sexual man crush on my brother-in-law. My brother-in-law flies F-18s. My brother-in-law is the GI Joe of my family. My cousin's kids think he's an astronaut and my grandfather, a WWII pilot, gets all misty eyed and excited when he talks aviation with him. I thought all of this was a bit hilarious and not born of a small dose of envy, but then I visited my brother-in-law at his air station and got to watch F-18s tear the sky in half and I realized he's kind of a badass.

4. Work my way around the world - Who wouldn't want to do this? Obviously, I'm speaking from a perspective of leisure and not of necessity, but can you imagine having the freedom to set out east or west, land in a country, and stay until you've worked and saved enough to move on to the next locale? You'd be like Kane from Kung Fu. The road would be your home. Bandits, scrapes with the law, exotic loves, mysterious diseases, revolution. Imagine all you could see and all you could learn?

5. Be multi-lingual - I had Spanish working in my favor for a while, but then I moved to the Midwest. Not a whole lot of Spanish being spoken here. I envy the Europeans I meet who speak French, English, German, Italian, and Spanish. I think I'd take all of those but throw in some Arabic, Farsi, and Chinese for good measure. Oh, and Russian. Maybe if I did 4 I could crawdad my way into 5. Hmmmmmm...

6. Take a bow to the roaring applause of thousands - Does this need explaining? I was reading an author the other day who wrote that when he was younger he wanted to learn to play the guitar, but then realized he could give a damn about the guitar and really just wanted to be a rock star. I was in a punk band in high school and played the bass guitar. I think (I know) I practiced less than anyone in the band. We all started in the same place, but I was rapidly overtaken by my best friend (and lead singer) and soon found myself on the wrong end of a, "I think we're moving in opposite directions," conversation. Getting kicked out of a band is a little like being dumped, but by more than one person at the same time. I guess I got my just rewards. They really were artists. I just liked being on stage.

7. Write a book - Ahhh, the ego.

8. Plan, execute, and get away with a heist - This may be my answer to number 3, although I'm sure my father would not approve. I have always loved heist films. Don't mishear me, I'm not talking about a mugging or a simple burglary. I'm talking about a HEIST. I'm talking about donning a skin tight, temperature controlled skin suit, rappelling into a laser guarded vault, cracking a safe using an advanced gadget (preferably something involving algorithms), and pilfering an invaluable and unique artifact or jewel or government secret. If there's a moral subplot (a la Inside Man) the heist would be that much cooler.

There's a lot more here, but "ten" lists are tedious and I have recently compiled one of those. Who wants to become predictable?