Golf and Tiger have never interested me much. I see them both as rather boring and spoilt, facets of American consumerism plodding towards some sports hell, where both are doomed to play forever. And it is surely possible Tiger was tempted by the night club singer, (whatever she was) and that his wife tried to throw a golf club through his lofty brain. But where he was going at 2:00 am is no one's business: not the highway patrol, not mine, yours, the press, or Katie Couric's. In fact, it is creepy that "where Tiger was headed at two am" is even a topic for discussion. His destination, as well as mine, and yours, are protected by the open society we live in. WE GO WHERE WE WISH....WHENEVER. It is not acceptable for anyone to ask him. I fear it is in the interest of CONTROL that the officials, Katie Couric, or anyone else would propose this question in its ideological form. As if we have some right to know where the man was going, and we simply DO NOT. He could have been headed out for a late night beer, or a bottle of Tylenol. We have a right to speculate in our imagination, but no legal, or ethical, right to know. I hope someone stands up and defends his right to a private destination immediately. I am tired of my rights slowly stripping into an obscene media twisted perversion of their former selves. Where I go will always be my business. I don't blame Tiger for keeping his mouth shut; I hope he never tells us where he was goin'!
Tonight an actress is on television telling a ghost story through lips as false as her tale. Plastic, plumped, and collagen-filled lumps grotesquely flapping up and down; she looks absolutely clownish. What I would like to know, is how do you get paid for telling lies through a fake mouth? And if the tenor is the idea (or lie) communicated, and the vehicle the vessel used to convey, then, indeed, we have a metaphor. Maybe if you were a chronic liar (we all know at least one) your lips could become your conceit. But rather than write your conceit into a poem, you simply wear it on your face, a scarlet letter of sorts. And as we travel through life, and we become wiser, we can employ humor when stricken by lies, conceits, of those who simmer in comtemptuous buffoonery, greed, and who conspire to destroy our relationships and opportunity.
Down through time our ancestors have argued the folly of human indignity--we have asked for merciful, and honest appraisal, and acceptance of facts not changed by a fake mouth. And even at those darkest of times, our facts, our truths, often will speak for themselves.
And from Proverbs we receive some words of beauty, grace, and you are advised to follow:
Wisdom cries aloud in the street;
in the markets she raises her voice;
on the top of the walls she cries out;
at the entrance of the city gates she speaks:
"How long, O simple ones, will you love being simple?
Out here in Chambers County life is a lot slower. The fall blossoms are gold, red, and orange, the leaves are starting to turn. Thanksgiving Day we sat on the deck playing uno at an old wire table, while the breeze blew around. We drank wine, ate turkey, and talked about our family.
Tonight I am still here with my child, and our dog is stretched out in the corner. My elbows are cold from the marble counter top, and my head aches from the afternoon margaritas. But how lucky we are, my cousins and me, and thankful too.
This morning I am sitting out here at a beautiful old iron table looking out over the garden, and I dread going home. My bag is packed, my child is dressed, my car is warm from the south Texas sunshine, and I am still lingering around. O well.
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Gila Bend, Arizona, is a small dusty town on Interstate 8 southwest of Phoenix. I often wash my jeans in the tiny little wash house at the truckstop/rv park. I have them on now, and they are old, the thighs are worn thin. When the hot wind is blowing the desert dust all around, the chimes hanging from the rafters cling, and tourists walk around the clay pots and statuettes ooing and awing. You can take a cool shower and Miguel always has a clean towel and a cold can of Coke. The place is clean, even if it is miles from nothing, and the people who work there are humble and kind.
Sometimes when I pull my old jeans out of my closet, I miss the days we spent washing at Gila Bend. Once in a while other members of my company would meet me there, and we would drink coffee, and I would watch them smoke cigarettes at the picnic table outside. The hot wind would blow and the stories would float through the breeze, cigarettes on one side of the mouth, while lies fell from the other. The drivers would languish around each others trucks with a beer on the fender, and wrench in the motor. Hoses would bust, water would run out, the heat was unbearable, and the washer would spin around and around like our lives on the road. Sometimes I would roll up the legs on my old blue jeans so I could really feel the heat from the pavement. And after my break at Gila Bend, I would climb back under the wheel and follow my friends out of the parking lot. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my thighs, and the denim was lighter blue.
This morning I had the strangest dream about my friend Steve. I was waiting for him to show up and buy me dinner at a five star restaurant. I had driven over there in my Peterbilt, pulling a trailer, and I was in a hurry to get somewhere on the east coast. The restaurant was beautiful, with an ice sculpture in the middle of the hall, and champagne glasses stacked all around. The waiters were all black tie, and the hotel was huge. Next door was a log cabin built for campers. The place was overrun with teenagers in shorts and flip flops, even though the snow was all over the ground and pushed into piles along the parking area. Around the building, beautiful and expensive cars were parked everywhere. The colors were fabulous. In the back parking area, tractor trailers were lined up as far as the eye could see. He was late--as usual. He works with my uncle in some kind of business, but that doesn't make him very reliable. I am standing on this marble staircase phoning him on his mobile. As dreams go....I can see him in his little cracker box Porsche while we visit on the phone. Everyone is dressed in gowns, jewelry, and stilletoes. I wear my jeans in, and Steve is wearing a little golf outfit: funny shoes, with a snazzy hat. I guess I am missing something from my old life.
We go in and order our dinner. I get in my truck and head east. Does this story have a point...why, heck no!
We see them everywhere, snobby little twits. Most of them have never done anything with their own money, but, nonetheless, they can find ways to spend. They get a start in life from a point of great advantage, believing, erroneously, this makes them somehow superior to their working class counterpart. They creep into the lives of wealthy men, poised on treadmills, high heels, but their dimwitted speech is as cheap as their battle plan. Many of these women have never contributed a day in selfless contribution, and courage is as far out an idea as living on less. They know nothing of the world because no matter where they travel they take their reality with them. Resorts, posh little playgrounds, and suitcases filled with expensive junk are their anchors to chronic superficiality. Patted, pampered, and spoilt into a meaningless life, they look down on women who have spent their lives working and giving. And of course, the trophy girl will always tell you how hard she is working, and, of course, she is going to appear very busy. She may even seem like a giver; but do not be deceived by the window dressing of a fake, especially if she appears to attack you. The only object this greedy little twit doesn’t want to acquire is a woman who can see through her phoniness.
You can find them in almost any office hunching over a file, pretending to conquer the world. Often they crowd around suburbia, hands on the wheel of his SUV. Many have wonderful degrees, but never use their talents to spread opportunity to anyone they deem inferior. And any woman who has risen from a position of disadvantage is a threat to the perpetual Barbie doll. They are insecure because they know they have never truly accomplished; they have never broken a barrier. And, of course, they consider most other women unworthy. As for me, I have never slept with a man for his money. And without a degree, or even whilst I own one, the bulk of my income has been a result of my own hard work. So poor, or not, I have plenty to be proud of. I know the common twit senses my disdain for her, but I offer no apology. Instead, I would recommend a careful check on reality...an evaluation of character. I would study the history of other laughable, and snobby, twits for answers...within are clues to developing integrity. Failing to become a successful gold digging twit will leave one with only a dismal, and dreary, disgusting outcome. The world is cruel, especially if you flounder while you are peering down your nose.
We went to see this thing tonight, "The Twilight Saga: New Moon." Away we went from all of the hideous news, the torrid economy, and the misery men put on us all, to a beautiful place in Oregon where the werewolves and vampires roam. It was fun, beautiful, infused with meanings, themes of friendship, abandonment, true love, and innocence of heart. In the characters you will rediscover the friends and lovers of your own, remember the mistakes you made, and relive some of your childish fears. If you are young anyway, then you are going to love it even more.
The vampires are splendid, the werewolves are fabulous. Just go see it. See it on the big screen...see it NOW.
It's a rainy night here in Texas, but that hasn't stopped everyone from driving all the way to San Marcos for a playoff game. School is out early, the kids got their report cards this week, and the football team is ready to win. You can call me a social idiot, if you want; but, I have never understood sports excitement. The fact our team is near some special victory is nice, but not a reason to evacuate the town. But everyone has left to see our team win. I hope they walk away victorious, but I have heard Cuero has one mean quarterback. If we win this one, all of next week will be devoted to the next game. That means another round of spirit things to buy, black and gold shirts to wear, and cars honking all over the place. Teenagers are goin' to be riding around in the back of pickups screaming and yelling. But not much is going to change here...I will yawn as usual, and hope they win in my own quiet way.