I’m sorry I haven’t written in awhile. I have been fixated on my looming poverty and have been taking steps to stave off it’s debilitating effects. Yesterday I spent two hours navigating (imagine a blind geriatric rat in a maze) the Department of Housing and Urban Development web site in an attempt to locate and then update my FHA certification file. I somehow stumblefucked into the appropriate section in spite of the fact that the original web site address had been retired and the primary customer service phone # had been changed since the last time I looked. Don’t get me started on customer service goddamit, you know how I feel. Anyway I found my file, changed key pieces of personal and professional data, touched the “submit” function only to be told that I had neglected to enter my e-mail address and check the square that indicates my total agreement and capitulation to reams of legal language protecting the government from me and my presumed criminal intentions or even simply my blinding ineptitude.

“What, fuck, shit, that’s bullshit.” I said aloud in my home office occupied by me and me alone. Of course I had filled in my e-mail address and checked the “go to jail do not collect two hundred dollars” square. So I re-entered these items and again touched the “submit” button only to be told that I had not checked the fore mentioned square and that, while the e-mail address confusion had been cleared up, my license information was inaccurate. I had not even breathed on the license portion of this document so therefore nothing could have possibly changed there.

“FUCK YOU!!” I screamed at the machine. This whole misunderstanding is taking place between a screen devoid of the capacity to show any kind of intellectual or emotional response and me. Sort of a one sided conversation don’t you think? So I call an alternate customer service number, push every button on the phone’s key pad, finally arrive at what the machine thinks is my chosen destination, explain the nature of my problem to the poor hapless customer service representative who, after asking me several times if I have filled out the required requests on the form each in response to me explaining “YES GODDAMIT AND IT KEEPS TELLING ME I AM IN ERROR, FUCK!”, passes me on to a different, unsuspecting customer service representative where the entirety of this conversation is repeated only with exponentially increased venom and volume on my part. At last the third rep is on the phone and I explain that I have been bumped to every desk in the Department of Housing and Urban Development office.

He says (he is clearly Indian or Pakistani) “this is because you are mean sir.”

“MEAN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? IT’S THIS PIECE OF SHIT PROGRAM OF YOURS. IT’S DRIVING ME BERSERK GODDAMIT. I KEEP DOING WHAT IT SAYS AND IT KEEPS TELLING ME I,M FUCKING IT UP. SHIT!”

“You must mellow out my fren.” he says in that cool accent they got where it sounds like they’re talking and blowing bubbles into a glass of milk through a straw simultaneously.

“I WAS IN A FUCKING GREAT MOOD WHEN I STARTED OUT THIS MORNING. THEN I GOT STUCK IN THIS GOVERMENTAL QUICK SAND AND NOW I’m on the verge of a stroke… So OK what do I do now?” My breathing was heavy but slowing and becoming more steady. My heart rate was beginning to gain it’s composure and I was backing away form the cliff of a cardiac episode.

“You do nothing sir. All your information is right here. Everything is fine now.” He consoled as if he were talking to a raving lunatic who was just coming on to heavy mood altering medication.

“But why did the machine keep calling me an idiot?” I kinda whimpered.

“The machine is wrong. It is not to be trusted, this machine. Just follow instructions and at the end push the send button. All will be well.”

“I just don’t understand I guess. Why can’t things work logically. Fuck.”

“Don’t ask why my fren.”

“OK.” I surrender exhausted.

“Now is there a way in which I can be of further assistance sir.” The rep exudes an emotional grounding I couldn’t imagine in my most enlightened wet dream. It must be that third eye of his.

“No, you’ve been quite helpful, thank you for your patience with me.” I say in a state of complete contrition, bowing with my hands folded before my head over and over as I slowly back my office chair away from the machine.

Well, I gotta go. I have to fill out this on-line application and e-mail it back to what I hope will be my first client.

Love Dad

I have no money. I have no skills. Shit!

So this is how it happens. The window in Kathy’s office has been broken for some months now. It’s a single hung window which functions by sliding up and down along a system of sprung steel rods. The window has guides which hold it in an upright position and disallow the sash from falling out on to the floor (concrete in our case) and sending glass shards racing like hundreds of hockey pucks across the hall way, through the dining room, and finally smashing in a tidal wave of broken window parts against the kitchen cabinets underneath the sink. These guides, which are of course plastic, have been broken for some months now. We duct taped the window in the upright position and can no longer open the window without continually changing out the duct tape. We have not opened the window for some months now. One of the dinning room windows requires the Herculean efforts of both Kathy and I to open and close and another dining room window will not stay open without propping it up with a stick. One of the bedroom windows can be all the way closed or all the way open. If set in an in between position it will simply fall out of the frame altogether. I know this because awhile back I came into the bedroom from out side only to find the window sash lying ingloriously on the bedroom floor.

You can see daylight through the door jambs of both the front and back doors. There are elm trees gaining foot holds inside the laundry room. We regularly have to pull weeds out of the cracks in the kitchen floor. There are countless stacks of tree trimmings, up rooted shrubs, and cane cuttings all about the property and they are clearly propagating. Approximately 1.5 acres of our property is not planted. This portion of our yard is relegated to weed growth and maintenance. This would be acceptable to our neighbors if we would keep the weed garden cut. As of this writing about a quarter acre of this area is cut with a broken down lawn tractor marking the terminus of this most recent effort to do our part in maintaining a semblance of neighborhood standards.

The neighborhood standards are set by our next door neighbor who is a self described type A++ personality, has held down three careers each with an attendant heart attack, and is now aimlessly retired. He has nothing to do but yard work. He must do yard work for at least six hours every single day. He mows the sod lawn every other day. He rakes out, in perfect lava like swirls, the one acre of gravel driveways and walkways every other day. He cuts his shrubbery in shapes which would send Edward Scissors Hands sulking away in the shame of mediocrity. This man gets a hair cut every other day and he tucks button up sports shirts into matching shorts. You can imagine the stark contrast created by the interfacing of our two properties. Hell, you can imagine the stark contrast established by the diametric opposition of our respective personal presentations. He occasionally smiles a thin and unconvincing smile and waves an off handed , ya what ever, wave at us now and again but it is obvious he would just as soon engineer our early and untimely demise.

If only I possessed a skill to employ in the repair and maintenance of my domain. If only I had a job which would provide the funding required to close this “pride of ownership” gap between the Gardens of Versailles look affected by our neighbor’s yard and the Abandoned Share Croppers Hovel in Central Tennessee look which Kathy and I have been able to achieve. If only I … but alas ‘tis not to be. I have no money and I have no skills. Shit! Oh well fuck it. I do, as it turns out, have beer.

By the way, given the age of our gas dryer, it should soon find it’s way into the front yard where it will rust to perfection thereby completing our example of the Billy Goat Acres school of landscape design.

Love dad

This is going to really disappoint many of my past co-workers who looked upon me as the guy who successfully went over the wall. The only escapee whose body wasn’t brought back after a couple of days of freedom, being dragged through the gate by four black horses with nostrils flaring, beaten beyond recognition, and paraded around the “yard” in a blood misted cloud of dust for all to see.

“SEE,THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU QUIT YOUR JOB IN THE MIDDLE OF A HIGH UNEMPLOYMENT CYCLE!!” the skinny, hunched over, gray skinned, moldy green toothed, hooked fingered, warden (department manager) would bellow out over the quivering mass of inmates (employees).

“You can run but you can never escape.” he would hiss, his dead black pupils filling is red rimmed eye sockets.

What!? That was an odd bend to go around. I must harbor some minor sense of trauma regarding my past employment experience. And you, dear daughter, question my medication regimen.

Anyway, I find myself again at the crossroads. Will it be the road of poverty and public rebuke, my past compatriots finally turning their backs on me, whispering, “ Can you believe that asshole? He quits his job in the middle of a high unemployment cycle! What a fuckin idiot!” Or will I formulate a resume, purchase the software necessary for the performance of my duties, and attempt to convince the holders of the purse strings that I am still viable and yes, even vital, in today’s ever morphing mortgage lending industry?

Given my rather nasty case Post Traumatic Stress Disorder this is a daunting decision which lies before me.

I was, for a short time, pondering a decompression job, like check out guy at Circle K or something along those lines. That is until it occurred to me that in today’s economy I would, in all probability, be considered under qualified for the position.

See, in the old days I couldn’t get low paying jobs, those with minimal mental requirements and therefore minimal responsibilities, due to the erroneous assumption on the part of the prospective employers that I was overqualified and would become bored, listless, finally stupid and would ultimately leave the job.

What these Quick Mart type managers failed to grasp was that if they did hire me and if in fact I was overqualified, I would, as they feared, become bored, listless, and finally stupid rendering me perfectly qualified for the job. All they had to do was give me a chance. And besides, I aspire to being bored, listless, and stupid.
It’s safer all around don’t you think?

Now, in today’s economy, when you apply for this sort of position you are in direct competition with P.H.D.s, out of work lawyers, and ex C.E.O.s of major mortgage lending firms. The ex mortgage lending bosses are only a threat to my competitiveness in this market segment to the degree that they can successfully explain away their recent prison records. At any rate I am now generally considered under qualified for an entry level job at the Flying J gas station/mini mart.

My friend Don recently had spinal surgery so he can’t drive right now. The other day I happily chauffeured him around Phoenix to his various appointments and errand destinations. I, of course, could provide this service because I am currently unemployed.

Don and I are, for the most part, diametrically opposed to one another politically, socially and religiously so you can imagine how the seven hours in a fully enclosed pickup truck cab went.

“Shit, I‘m gonna miss Beck on Fox news.” Don observed.

“That guys a fucking moron. How can you allow that jack off on your t.v. Don, Jesus.” I chuckled in an, I’m so much more sophisticated than you, tone.

“Beck, Hannity, O’Riely! Now those guys KNOW what’s going on man. I can’t believe that you can’t see that. If you want the truth watch these guys. They’re the three kings of news.” Don said as if he were quoting the bible.

“The three stooges of news more like.” I corrected looking through the rear view mirror preparing for a lane change.

“Fox news, fair and balanced. No spin.” Don finalized.

“Those motherfuckers spin like a top, are you kidding me?”

We both laughed.

And so it continued throughout the day.

The first words out of Dons mouth in the morning are “I am a capitalist!”

I walked into his hospital room the day after his surgery. “Hey Don, how’s it going brother?”

“I am a capitalist.” he responded.

Don is the sole proprietor of a high end garage floor coating business. He works his ass off and beats the pants off his competition in service, reliability, and quality of workmanship. Don is wildly charismatic and to watch him interface with potential customers reaches the status of high art. Don keeps two young men employed full time, at a wage far in excess of the local standard, in a rural market with an unemployment rate of at least 10%. These two kids would be on the streets if it weren’t for Don. All of their friends are sitting around with their collective thumb in their collective ass contributing nothing to the community nor to themselves.

“See, the small business man, this is how it’s supposed to work in America.” Don says with well deserved pride.

“I totally agree with you Don, but a government bought and sold by gargantuan corporate entities does nothing to advance that cause. In fact the effort is mostly thwarted by the unfair competition brought to bare by these voracious, soul eating, slobbering behemoths. Those pirates in wall street are the ones who looted the national treasure. If you want to know where all the available funding for the small business man went look no further than the captains of industry and their government which self administered a Mickey and passed out at the regulatory switch.” I indignantly educated.

“Ya, whatever. Hey you want a cigar? I brought some good ones.” Don offered

“Sure! How ‘bout that Monte Cristo, that looks sweet?”

“Well it would be my pleasure my friend, and thanks for driving me all over this God forsaken city. I really appreciate it man.”

“Hey, glad to do it bro and thanks for the cigar. Now that I’m unemployed I can’t afford these primo stogies anymore.”

Love, Dad

I am trying not to reevaluate my life style .

I went to my primary care physician the other day and had a complete physical examination. Two questions. #1: is there such a thing as a secondary care physician? #2: is it possible to have a truly complete physical examination and survive? Well whatever, it doesn’t really matter, I underwent what is generally excepted as a complete physical examination. In my case this amounts to me yammering on and on and on about my blizzard of symptoms while my main medical professional takes prodigious notes on his computer. Of course there were still the probings, the squeezings, the turn to your left and cough-ings, the open up and say ah-ings, but primarily we just discussed my concerns about whether or not I would continue on my medications. We agreed that the medications were the glue that was holding me together and there would be no chance in hell that I would be cut off. Whew! Thank god! I was getting more than a little worried that I might be considered sane enough to forego my pharmaceutical babies, my chemical flannel jammies with the little feet attached, my pill shaped facsimile of a soft lap in which to curl-up and a warm breast at which to suckle. My safety net, my harness, the very bungy cord in the jump that is my life. With the fear of being cut off from my medications now allayed I had but one question.

“Uh, doc, are these medications going to destroy my liver? Cuz see, I’ve been having these random pains over here (I indicated that region of my torso where I imagined my liver might be located). And besides my brother-in-law had a liver transplant so, you know, there’s that.

“With these specific meds, at the dosages prescribed there is virtually no chance of liver damage.” the doctor said as he peered over his glasses his gaze never leaving the computer screen.

“So nothing to worry about, you know, as far as the liver thing is concerned?” I confirmed. I am by nature dubious of statements made with great assuredness.

“Ya, pretty much no danger there.” my primary care physician stated as he was getting up from the computer, opening the examination room door, and gently shoving me out into the hall. “Go over to the lab across the parking lot and get your blood drawn.”

Two days later I get a call from the doctor’s office. “Mr. Tennyson?”

“Uh, ya.”

“This is the doctor’s office calling. It appears that your liver enzymes are slightly elevated. The doctors says quit drinking. Oh and watch out for those pills.”

Click.

“KATHY!!” I scream. “The doctor says I gotta quit drinking beer!” I whined just like a four year old would whine.

“Well what did they say exactly?” Kathy posed in that really reasonable steady tone of hers which always serves to remind me of how ridiculous I am.

“They asked if still take aspirin every day and I told them well, ya. So they asked how much? About a thousand milligrams I said. They’re like ‘Jesus, whataya do that for? Whatareya an idiot?’ Then they asked me if I drink so I said ya! Duh! So they asked me how much and I explained that by their standards my drinking would be considered excessive, however, in the crowd I run with I’m considered something of a moderate. Of course I assured them that I only drink beer, never the hard stuff. They said whatever, just stop and loose the aspirin while you’re at it.” I reported to Kathy in detail.

“WHAT AM I GONNA DO!?” (RE: the scene in “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” where the brilliant and under rated Tim Blake Nelson is franticly splashing around in a creek chasing after a toad who used to be John Turturro. Of course as you know them sirens never did turn Turturro into a toad.)

“Let’s see… are you still taking all that aspirin?” Kathy asks.

“Uh, yes.” I answer looking down at my shuffling feet.

“Fuckin-a Scott, whataya do that for? Whatareya some kinda idiot? I swear to God you’ve got the sense of a lobotomized fence post.” Kathy observed by way of chastisement.

“Well look, loose the aspirin, be sure to drink at least four quarts of water every day, and take three milk thistles* three times a day. Call the doc and set up a new blood test for three months from now and we’ll see if we can’t salvage the beer habit.” Kathy wrapped up.

I called the doctors office and explained our scheme. They said it sounded like an idea (good or bad was not established) and we’ll order new blood tests in three months.

Whew! Fuck! Thank god! I was getting more than a little worried that I might have to forgo my beloved beer, my liquid bowling buddy, my bubbling comrade in life’s adventure, my frothy open armed brother, always at my side, always there to assist in any moment of doubt or confusion. Now, with a comprehensive health management plan in place, I can concentrate on passing blood over the fact that I have no viable plan for procuring gainful employment.

Love dad.
*milk thistle is well known as an effective liver maintenance agent.

Reinvention is getting tough.

As you know my past career took a bad turn. It still exists but in a greatly fucked up fashion compared to the old days. I could go back to it but I would have to work much harder for way less money and still be at least as liable as ever. This, assuming of course, that I could get up to speed on all the new software designed to increase the production of bullshit reportage on a bullshit market place for a bullshit mortgage industry which still puts it’s best minds to work on finding new ways to bullshit the new bevy of bullshit regulatory agencies and side step the new bullshit regulations which in turn are designed to bullshit the citizenry into believing that the government is not bullshitting them when it says “we cannot allow this financial Titanic to sail again.” Well, I’m here to tell you, sail it will. Anyway, I just can’t seem to get motivated to stick my head back in the lion’s mouth, however, as the calendar pages fly off it is becoming increasingly apparent that I may, at the very least, have to set up business in the lion’s cage. I have some applications out. We’ll see.

Chris and I were reviewing a list of unsavory employment options, all of which are attached in some way or another to the mortgage lending industry, and sinking ever deeper into the rotting, reeking, swamp of disgust and hopelessness which so often accompanies this exercise when, like the fading of a hangover, it dawned on us. PERMANENT DISABILITY! At our age (57 and 60 respectively) this is not out of the realm of possibly and warranted at least a cursory investigation. We started to list our qualifications.

“Hell, I’m on anti-anxiety medication and have been for years. I have a long history of fruitless doctor visits and medical consultations all resulting in a single diagnosis. ‘You’re fuckin’ nuts, take it easy why don’t cha.’ That should account for something!” I exclaimed with more than a modicum of confidence.

“Shit, that’s nothin’” Chris said. I could picture him leaning back in his swivel chair, putting his feet on his desk and looking upwards through the ceiling to the sky above. “I’ve had two heart attacks, I got a pace maker, I’ve had a pernicious case of colitis for most of my life and I’m living with a second hand liver.”

“Lucky.” I said crumpling my resume and tossing it into the trash barrel.

At least we’ve done our part in helping the medical community stay afloat in these times of woe. Not that they need much help. With most of the population approaching, if not exceeding, my age (57) there is no shortage of potential patients. You go in for a physical and of course the primary care physician is going to find something that needs further testing. In my case I’m a sucker for tests due, in no small measure, to the fact that in the past eight years I have lost eight close friends to either cancer or heart ailments. The oldest of which was sixty three years old. So now if I get a hang nail I go up to Kathy (registered nurse for 25 years) and ask “hon, do I have finger nail cancer?”

“I don’t think so but maybe you should get some tests run just to be sure,” she says. “What a fuck nut.” she adds as she turns and walks into the living room.

So I start having all these panic symptoms due, I think, to the collapse of western civilization. I get all this incredible upper digestive track gas which causes my stomach to expand to the size of a dirigible which puts amazing pressure on my major artery going into my heart which cuts off the blood flow which mimics a heart attack which sends me to the doctors office. I tell my story. Doc says, “Let’s send you over to the cardiologist for some tests.” Three visits to the cardiologist and “everything appears alright” he says, “let’s send you to another heart specialist for more tests.”

“More special than you?” I ask as I put on my shirt.

“Look, just go to this other medical mall fifty miles from your house and see this doctor whose name I’ve written down here, show up at the time I’ve designated there, and don’t cause any trouble.” the heart specialist says, perturbed at my lack of respect for his level of specialness.

“K.” I acquiesce.

I schlep over to the medical mall, fifty miles from my house, and see the extra special specialist. Extra special specialist says, “You’ve got an extra wire in your heart. Causes confusion. Alls I gotta do is send this tube with these tiny scissors up this artery here, into your heart and snip that little sucker.”

“How often does this condition become fatally dangerous?” I ask, off handedly.

“Never.” answers the extra special specialist.

“How often is this procedure fatally dangerous?” I obviously continue.

“Oh, about two percent of the time.” extra special specialist shrugs.

“I’ll get back to you.” I say terminating the consultation.

I go back to primary doc’s office with a full report on my adventures in cardiology.

“Hmm, let’s go ahead and order an upper gastro-intestinal test. See what happens,” is his advice.

I go to the gastro-intestinal specialists, tell him my story, he says, “Forget the test, you’re gulping air.”

“What?”

“You get all tense and excited and you secretly gulp air. Blows your stomach up like a dirigible.”

“How many advanced degrees did you need to come up with that diagnosis?” I wonder silently.

I go home… “Kathy, the guy says I gulp air. That’s my whole issue, I gulp air. What the fuck?” I‘m incredulous.

“Well hell, I coulda told ya that. I see you do that shit all the time. You know, whenever you get all tense and excited and shit.” Kathy notes as she is putting groceries away.

So anyway, just last week, your grandma goes to the doctor for a check up. X-ray shows a tiny spot on her lung. Better run a cat scan. Cat scan shows a tiny spot on her lung. Better run a pet scan. Pet scan confirms that there is in fact a tiny spot on her lung. Hmm. Better get a biopsy. Four sections of tiny spot are taken. Biopsy is analyzed. All four samples indicate scar tissue, nothing more. Radiologist says, “we need a diagnosis, let’s do another biopsy.”

What the fuck!?

Your grandmother says, “Fuck that I’m going down to the Bird Cage and getting a drink.”

“What, da’ ya think I’m crazy!?” she mutters as she is leaving the radiology lab.

Oh ya, I’m going in for my bi-annual physical on Monday. You know, refresh my prescriptions, get a battery of blood tests, stuff like that.

Love dad

Well Annie Rose, Bryan, the amazing Kaz, and the two very furry dogs are settling into life in Tucson with its dry 106 degree temps. This seems like a brutality to most folks but it’s important to note that they just came from Sacramento with its very humid 106 degree temps. So, you know, there’s that. Ben and Sylvia are gasping through the Phoenix summer with its 114 degree temps. Dry or humid at 114 degrees what the fuck’s the difference it’s fuckin’ hot! I think summer in the Arizona desert actually helps families get along.

“What’s for dinner?” might be posed by the body lying prostrate under an evap cooling vent.

“Shit, I don’t know. I’m too hot to think about it. Probably something, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe later when it cools off I’ll start thinking about it or whatever.” This could be answered by the body sitting on the sofa, wearing only a flimsy cotton dress, arms and legs spread open as far and wide as possible. This posture, by the way, is designed to allow air to flow to the maximum amount of skin surface, not to invite sexual activity.

“K.” Would be the response coming from the body lying prostrate under the evap cooling vent.

Nothing is contested. Any activity beyond breathing is excessive and finally superfluous. This certainly includes sexual activity. I mean Jesus, could you imagine?

“So let’s go to San Diego and visit my dad.” Kathy and I agree. “78 degrees, ocean breeze!”

The last time I saw dad he was having his 80th birthday celebration. There was me, from marriage number 1. Steve and Cindy from marriage number 2. Tamara and Cindy, step daughters from marriages number 3, 5 & 6. Several grand children and two great grand children. Then of course all of Joann’s kids and their kids showed up as well. Joann is marriage # 8 if my count is correct. I really liked wife number 4. Wife number 7 was so vile that it’s best not to speak of her and on this point we are all in agreement. Joann is by far the best of the batch when considering dad’s emotional well being. So let’s see, that’s six wives spread over eight marriages. I wonder what would have happened if he had lived in the Arizona desert rather than costal California?

Dad was especially nice to me on this particular weekend. Very complimentary to you as well, Nichole. Now, as you know, dad and I have maintained a rather volatile relationship over the past, oh I don’t know, forty five years or so. He, I think, has wanted to correct his own foibles and follies through my life somehow. Like, if I would simply follow his rigorous instruction each step of the way I could be the person he wished he was, I could live the life he had wished for himself. He could fix himself through me. I, on the other hand, had to prove that my vision of myself in the world and my intuition as how to best live an emotionally and spiritually successful life were in fact the superior tacks to follow.

These needs, his requirements for resolution and my requirements for recognition, were of course mutually incompatible. The continuous arm wrestling was spirited and sometimes battering yet we always respectfully nodded to one another at the end of each round. On this most recent visit however the armor was not donned, the sword was not drawn, the face to face stance was not taken, we would not enter into the breech once again, we would not enter the valley of death. Finally in our old age my father had found his resolution and I my recognition, the location of each illuminated, at least in some measure, by the light of our fiery passion. After all, he only wanted me to be happy and fulfilled and I only wanted my life to exemplify something in which he could point to with pride. So, you know, it’s a win-win situation.

I was taking a morning walk down by the harbor while we were in San Diego and noticed some sort of dust-up going on out in front of me. As I approached the fracas it became apparent that the discussion was political in nature. Dad and I had buried our political hatchets just the night before so with this new “pax familia” mental environment in which I was basking I walked among the various combatants as if I were an alien from a far away world. I could hear their accusatory remarks being slung at each other from opposite sides of the street. I could read and understand the bumper sticker philosophies and proclamations scrawled in magic marker on their respective placards. I could feel the rancor in their hearts clogging the avenue of reason, yet I could muster no visceral attachment to either side of the debate. The clarity was redemptive. At about this moment I noticed that, as each of the opposing groups were on opposing sides of a major traffic artery jammed with speeding vehicles, there was no safe haven for those of us holding a middle ground.

Love, dad

Man I’ll tell ya, nothin’s easy.

Annie Rose, Bryan, and their illegally cute son Kaz are moving to Tucson. Kathy and I spent all Monday morning packing our shit which amounts to clothes (2 shorts, 2 shirts, 2 underwears, and 1 flip flops per person), 2 coolers (one devoted entirely to beer), our own pillows (we never depend on motel pillows), a portable stereo system, like seventy cds, (just in case we inexplicably need to listen to music we never listen to at home), and all of our brooms, mops, dust pans, scrubbing devices, and gallons of heinous chemical cleaning fluids. Annie’s new house may need a little sprucing up. We completely fill, to the gills, the Ford Expedition, check to make sure we have everything, get into a biblical argument about something that I can’t even remember, I remove all my stuff, bring it back into the house and announce that I am not going. “So is this what you really want?” I ask rhetorically. After we get my shit back into the vehicle we head out of town with our marriage mostly repaired within about fifteen miles.

So the plan is we are to meet Annie Rose and Kaz at the airport. As you know, you are not allowed to stop in the passenger pick-up/drop-off zone at the airport, so I slow to two miles an hour, Kathy shoulder roles out of the Expedition, bounces to her feet and goes to baggage claim to find Annie Rose and Kaz. I proceed to drive in circles around Sky Harbor International Airport (one of the largest in the world) in 110 degree heat, over and over, and over again until mom, daughter, baby, and luggage are waiting at the curb in front of baggage claim. I risk coming to a full stop, note the armed guards rustling in alarm at our lack of forward movement, scream to the fam, “HURRY THE FUCK UP!”, luggage is thrown in, baby tossed in, Annie jumps into the rear seat, Kathy in the front, all doors slam simultaneously, Annie looks over her shoulder and screams “STEP ON IT FOR GODS SAKE!” I stomp the gas, the tachometer shoots up to 5000 rpms and the truck grinds forward at a rate of approximately ten feet an hour. It appears that the protracted slow speed circling of the airport in the 110 degree heat cooked away the transmission fluid and the gears are slipping. So it begins.

Finally we pick up Annie’s brother Ben and slip and rev our way down I-10 towards Tucson. The motel is nice. Kathy and I stay at this place every time we come to Tucson. We get adjoining rooms and install Annie Rose, Ben, Kaz, Kathy, Scott, and what has now become a stupid amount of stuff into the rooms. The schlepping of the luggage from the truck, up three flights of stairs, to the rooms scares the motel management. “Who are these people?” management would wonder. “How many of them are there?” management would quiver. “How long will they stay?” management would calculate while reaching for the phone. Call the authorities. Which authorities? Realizing that it is a week day in the middle of summer in the Sonoran desert and there are no other guests in the three hundred room motel the manager thinks better of calling in the constabulary and we settle into profuse beer consumption and wait for Annie Roses’ husband, Bryan, to arrive with the Budget Rent-a-car moving truck containing all of their worldly possessions.

Rent a truck, put your shit in it, drive from Sacramento to Tucson, unload your shit, return the truck. What’s the big fuckin’ deal? What follows is an odyssey of Homeric proportions.

The truck was supposed to be ready by 10:00 am Monday. Bryan waits at the Budget place until noon, looks out the window and watches while poorly paid workers are washing down a truck which has clearly just come off the road. Bryan takes the truck home, loads the truck, loads the car on the trailer (provided by the professionals at Budget) and off he goes. By the way, this truck was advertised as having air conditioning which it was, in fact, equipped with. The air conditioning in this particular truck, however, is not functioning and Bryan is traveling with two very furry dogs in 100+ degree heat. At around Bakersfield our hero senses something is amiss, pulls over and correctly surmises that the only reason the trailer and its cargo have not gone careening out into central valley traffic is that he was traveling down hill and gravity, and gravity alone, was keeping the truck-trailer interface intact. In no other fashion were the truck and trailer attached. Wrong trailer it turns out. Trailer problem somehow rectified, Bryan calls Annie in the motel room in Tucson with a progress report and continues on.

Many hours later Bryan calls Annie from the mountains separating the San Fernando Valley from the San Joaquin Valley with the news that he is making the worst time in recorded history due to the fact that the Budget rent-a-pig is constantly over heating. We are all gathering around Annie Rose and the phone in the motel room, hanging on every “are you fucking kidding me?” and “no fucking way!” emanating from Annie’s part of these conversations. More hours transpire. This waiting for the next disaster would have been miserable ’cept we had beer. So, you know, there was that. Bryan calls from the shoulder of I-5 north of Los Angeles. The Budget rent-a-butt ream has irredeemably broken down. It is dusk. It is hot. It’s L.A. traffic for fuck sakes. Bryan’s cell phone has run out of power. Bryan gets a friend in Redding (damn near Oregon) to go on-line and arrange a motel for Bryan somewhere down in L.A.. Arranging the repair or replacement of the Budget bucket of bolts currently spewing steam on the Golden State freeway is a charge which finally must fall to Annie Rose who, as you know, is hold up with a bunch of drunken family members in a motel in Tucson. Bryan breaks the car loose from the trailer, leaves the rest of the smoking debris on the side of the freeway, drives to his motel which is located in Pasadena, informs Annie of his location and motel phone # and passes out in his room due to shear exhaustion. Bryan at no point in this brutality breaks. Kathy calls the front desk of our motel and informs the desk clerk that we will be extending our stay by one, maybe two days. After a long silence the clerk responds with “ok” delivered in the whisper of resignation and defeat.

Annie swings into action at this point and for two days is making calls to countless, useless as tits on a boar hog, customer service personnel employed by Budget rent-an-abuse. “We can’t fix the truck without Bryan’s permission given in person.”

“But he is at a motel 20 miles away. I’m his wife and I give you permission to repair your own truck.”

“I will ask my supervisor. Wait and listen to brain melting phone music until your ears bleed and I will get back to you.”

It seems that each customer service irritant has a check list of miseries which must be experienced by the customer, on the customer’s time, and at the customer’s expense, prior to the customer being shuffled on to the next customer service waste of space where the insult is perpetuated. The most common morsel of helpful information provided to the ever stalwart Annie Rose is “I’m sorry but our policy clearly states that the one obvious, logical remedy to this situation is not within the scope of our contractual responsibilities.”
Annie Rose knows that any outburst of disgust and dismay will only send her back to zero. She powers on all composed and shit. This is now in to the second day of musical responsibilities. Ben’s girlfriend Sylvia has by now joined us at the motel to assist us with the consumption of beer. Annie has at one point had two phones going, one in each ear. Getting calls to Bryan through his motel people has been hit and miss at best. At last the truck is officially deemed fucked up, towed to a Budget location in south central L.A., unloaded by Bryan and some questionable help, reloaded on to a new truck by Bryan and some other questionable help. And Bryan arrives at the Budget location in Tucson on Thursday late morning. Something in the vicinity of forty hours to make a twelve hour trip.

Had Annie Rose and Bryan not worked so perfectly together, had they not been able to agree as to the best course of action each step of the way, had they not been completely empathetic to one another’s experience all the while each locked in their own death grip battle with a monstrous, corporate sink hole, Bryan may well still be camped on the shoulder of an L.A. freeway and this new little family would remain estranged by circumstance. It’s not easy putting a family together. It’s not easy keeping a family together. Annie Rose and Bryan have their difficulties as do most of us. I have never witnessed team work performed with such patience, dignity and grace as that displayed by Annie Rose and Bryan during this trial.

Oh, did I tell you, Ben and Sylvia are getting married next summer. Maybe at our house.

Love Dad.

Kathy got drunk.

As you know gardening has led Kathy into a depression of medium depth, however we agreed to continue with the chemical free yard so together we forge forward in futility.

The next day I look out the window and there’s Kathy, out at the rose bed, applying some kind of granule wearing a HAZMAT suite.”

“I thought we had established that we would adhere to a scrupulous regimen of purely organic fertilizers as well as pest and disease abatements?” I said sorta perplexed.

“The yard will be pretty now,” Kathy assured me.

“Oh, OK.” I buckled.

We had to get ready to go to Hailey’s high school graduation so I hopped in the shower and Kathy hopped in the de-contamination chamber. We met up with Chris (Hailey’s dad), Hailey’s sister Loren and her boyfriend Nigel. Loren and Nigel came out from L.A. resplendent in multi- colored hair, numerous tattoos, and earring holes large enough to park an AMTRAC car in. They thankfully left the ferrets at home. They were surprised to find out that they did not stand out in the crowd.

“How could this be?” Nigel queried.

“T.V.” I instructed.

We gazed out over the graduating class of 2009. About 150 students, a podium populated by sundry high school dignitaries, an open football field, open ranch land, out past a national wilderness preserve, and finally to the San Francisco peaks 70 miles (as the crow flies) to the northeast all under a crystal clear sky studded with orange, red and pink glowing desert sunset clouds. Chris said this, heart of America, small town scene was right out of “America Graffiti” (Re: the classic film by George Lukas. Breakout roles for George the director as well as, Harrison Ford and Richard Dreyfuss).

So what appears to be the principal of the school takes the podium and proceeds to read, never lifting his eyes to the audience, a speech so poorly constructed and ill rehearsed that to listen to it amounted to a torture so evil, so vile, that the CIA would have been shamed into permanent hiding for being so wimpy in their techniques. This guy seemed to believe that the word at the end of the line, you know over at the right margin of the page, was actually the end of the sentence. Every line was read accordingly. To say that this message to the hopeful students and proud parents was unintelligible would be gracious at the very least.

Then, in one of the most stupefying displays of linguistic befuddlement ever witnessed out side of a state hospital day room, the most popular teacher in the school (as the story goes) stood and ambled over to the podium. As her hair continually blew into her mouth and her green dress billowed up repeatedly, not quite but nearly pornographically I might add, she launched into a spoken word train wreck that somehow managed to dive under the snake’s belly in a wagon wheel rut standard just set by the principal. All singulars were made plural, all plurals were made singular, she couldn’t conjugate a verb with a gun to her head, and all of this punctuated by spates of sniffling and whimpering as her voice rose to the finale where she chocked her way through a bowl of verbal slop designed to rouse even the most jaded heart in support of these bright, beaming students.

There then followed three student speakers. Each delivered beautifully structured, well rehearsed speeches infused with clever humor and touching notes of longing for the wonderful memories recently shared with their fellow class mates. Each of these sturdy, confident young minds reached into a future, though fraught with potential difficulties, armed with grace, dignity, and boundless hope. Clearly these young people and all of their class mates had gotten a fine public school education in spite of the dip shit teachers and administrators with whom they had been saddled.

Handing over the reigns of the culture to these young citizens will be my pleasure. If this is the future then America is not going to hell in a hand basket.

As we were leaving the stadium we passed two perfectly spherical kids. The girl, wearing a black and white zebra striped tank top and microscopic shorts, was lying on the grass with her huge fleshy legs stuck in the air saying, “ Looky, stars!” As I averted my eyes I got a gander at her male counterpart. He was attired in a Megadeath t-shirt, covered with a vastly oversized flannel shirt, huge sneakers and the obligatory backwards baseball hat. He just picked his nose in response to his companion’s discovery.

Love dad

God summer’s depressing.

So there I am, it’s winter, it’s freezing, nothing grows, nothing will grow, so I get to do nothing in the way of chores. “I can’t do the goddamn chores, it’s winter, shit!” I could say. And I would be right.

Then spring shows up, uninvited, and I begin to plan to prepare to peel myself off the sofa and go out and review my itinerary for the next six months. Trim all the old dead shit off the perennials, turn the soil in all the beds, go to Home Depot and buy peat, soil amendments, mulch, lots of new annuals, and new perennials. This year we (Kathy actually) are adding vegetables to the soothing recreational activity that is gardening. We have no room in the existing beds for vegetables so you know what that means, new beds. So we need all kinds of blocks and pecky cedar ties plus drip system stuff. The drip system section at Home Depot is the height and length of a rail road car. There’s the main tubing, quarter inch tubing at the end of which will be fitted one of at least seventy five different water emitting devices, there’s soaker tubing, plastic elbows, splicers, “T”s, plastic male ends, plastic female ends (not the kind purchased at Ernestos’ Adult Emporium), clips, caps, timers if you want, this shit goes on forever Jesus!

Kathy is explaining that I have no idea how expensive produce is at Safeway or even Costco and that we can save real money by growing our own vegetables.

“So that’s one pallet of garden block, one pallet of pecky cedar ties, a half a mile of main drip line, an amazing collection of plastic attachments, all these annuals and perennials, plus all these bags of various dirt and shit?” the check out girl asks without even a hint of “jeez this is a lot of stuff” inflection in her voice.

“Uh, yes,” I say with a note of doubt as I catch Kathy out of the corner of my eye browsing the hand trowel, gloves, and organic insecticides rack.

“That comes to nine hundred and seventy nine dollars and sixty nine cents.” the check out girl reports.

“I can put about a third of this on my Master Card hon,” I inform Kathy.

“It’s cool, I’m pretty sure I’ve got room for the rest on my cards.” Kathy says without a blink.

I remember last year Kathy giving a friend of ours a tour of the yard, “so over here we have the grasshopper food” as she pointed out the flower gardens “and back here we of course have the squirrel food” she was directing attention to our first vegetable garden.

The primary human technological advancement enabling the population to grow at a rate that has left cockroaches green with envy has been the development of chemically and genetically enhanced industrial agricultural practices and techniques. The ability to grow food without having to factor in massive losses due to disease and or pestilence has led to the emergence of huge multi-national agribusiness corporations who, in an effort to placate their stockholders, will do anything and everything to maximize profits. Going organic will not be considered among the viable approaches to this gathering of money and power. Organic gardening implemented on a local level by local farmers, though proven to sustain the viability of the soil and provide safer (as in non-carcinogenic) more flavorful food cannot compete in the general market place against the larger agribusiness corporations with their giant land holdings, chemical and genetic engineers, and global transportation networks. This is because organic disease and pest control is, at this stage of development anyway, wimpy and pathetic. By the way the same is true for flower gardening as well.

The other day we were sitting in our rear patio watching as a fog of heinous little bugs, known as thrips, rolled onto the property and commenced to suck the life out of the very yard itself. We applied an organic pesticide which we had been assured by the manufacturer would be effective against all sorts of garden pests. Immediately after application I noticed the thrips had actually grown larger and more robust as if we had sprayed thrip steroids instead of thrip poison on them. As instructed, if this remedy did not work we would have to remove all the rose buds from the yard. As in all yards, roses are the queen of the ball. Kathy wondered why everyone else’s roses look great while we just had to destroy ours to save them. I said, “Did you smell the petroleum distillate stench of chemical pesticides wafting up from their yards?”

“Oh ya, that.” she resigned herself.

So last night we sat in our front patio area at dusk watching the stunning southwestern sunset, surrounded in the withering death that is our flower garden and Kathy wined, “How come we never get to have a pretty yard? Shit! I think I’m just gonna get drunk. Fuck it!”

“Well, as you know, organic gardening is a gateway drug to alcoholism.” I reminded her.

Love dad

I think I’m becoming illegal.

The other day Kevin and I were scheduled to go target shooting. He has this new military rifle he wanted me to check out and I was hoping to finally get to use my cowboy style lever action rifle. So I go to one of the larger gun shops in the area and explain that I need a few boxes of 9MM rounds and a few boxes of 30-30 rounds. “We’re out” the sales person reports.

“Out of which” I ask stupefied.

“Both, everything, there’s no bullets.”

“Uh, what?” I dumbed.

“They’re all gone, all the bullets are gone.”

“Uh, how come?”

“The election.” he illuminated.

“Uh, what about the election caused all the bullets to go away?”

“Scared, every body got scared when Obama got elected and they bought up all the bullets.”

“Kinda like screaming fire in a crowded movie theater,” I thought to myself.

See, this is what happens when lobbying groups and other self interested parties become a person’s only source of “news.”

“Goddamnit, I knew it! That goddamn liberal African/Arab camel jockey lovin’ bastard is gonna steal all our guns” the cry went out across the land.

Actually I don’t remember Obama making any such threat but maybe I missed something.

So I drove over to the next largest gun shop in the area and posed the same request.

“Good luck finding any ammo of just about any kind around here or anywhere for that matter. Hell we got people coming all the way from the Valley looking for ammo it’s gotten so bad.” the sales person bemoaned.

“Shit” I said as the futility of my quest became evident. “What the fuck’s going on?”

The guy behind the counter then explained that the military has a five year fifty billion round contract basically swamping the ammunition manufacturing capacity of the country. He assured me that this was a readily verifiable fact. “Course then you got the Obama factor on top of that.” He finished.

I explained all this to Kevin as we took what ammo we had and went shooting.

“So, if it’s like the guy says, then when did this historically monstrous military bullet grab commence? Was it under the Bush administration with its resignation to the reality that we would be in at least two protracted wars for the next generation or two? Was it something new under the Obama administration with its resignation that things weren’t going to be as simple as they had appeared from the vantage point of the campaign trail and that we would probably be mired in at least one war for the foreseeable future and we had better be prepared? Plus, you know, there’s North Korea. Or was it a sinister ploy by the Obama administration to bottle up the nation’s ammunition supply in a trumped up military emergency and thereby effectively rendering the debate over the meaning and the validity of the 2nd amendment pointless by not banning guns but by starving them into uselessness?”

“Hard telling.” Kevin shrugged. Kevin is aware for my penchant for paranoia.

Don’t ban tobacco just make it illegal to smoke it anywhere but your yard. I smoke cigars so I can’t leave my yard.

Don t’ prohibit alcohol just set the threshold for legal intoxication so low that to simply say the word beer puts one over the .08 blood alcohol limit. I do way more that just say the word beer so I can’t leave my yard.

“God, with the rate of medical advancements these days we could live to be ninety or a hundred years old. But with the ever increasing weight of the hob nailed boot of cultural oppression pressing down on our freedom loving throats the prospect of living another forty years looses its appeal. Well, guess you better wash up, dinner’s gonna be ready in few minutes.” Kathy said.

Love dad.