July 8-August 28, 2011
Greetings to All,
Holy
Bogeezums! Was it really early July the last time I sent an update? What
a whirlwind of a summer I’ve had! Condensed, I went from the 6 week’s
stay at my cousin’s in Portsmouth, VA to Dallas, TX for a weekend to San
Francisco for a 2 week tour management course to Albany, OR, to visit
with a friend I hadn’t seen in 17 years to a stay with a friend from
high school in Portland. I am currently perched in Dallas, but not for
long. From here it’s over the Atlantic and through the clouds to Marta’s
house I go (Spain) for a month and then hitch a ride with the birds
heading south to Uruguay for the winter. More on that later.
I
have started travel missives in every port I’ve visited, but never
polished them enough to send any out, so this one will be a
conglomerated hodge-podge of old anecdotes and out-of-date news capped
off with a forecast. Since the missives tend to build upon one another,
I’ve posted previous travelogues starting with Spain in Dec., 2010 on my
resuscitated blog, not only for those in need of a memory spritzer, but
also for the new readers (and the group is growing!).
Let’s start
with a note on karma. You’ve heard me speak of it frequently in my
writing and I’m a devout believer in it, which is exactly why this
excerpt appeared in my journal: “I’ve been seated on this plane behind
this guy who has been rocking out to some hearty song with a beat so
invigorating that he hasn’t stopped banging his head up against the back
of the seat since we left the ground. He’s tall enough that about ½ of
his skull clears the top of the headrest. I’m expecting at any minute
for the back to break and his head to be in my lap with me leaning over
him like a dentist about to do an exam. “Open wide and say ‘Ahhh’! while
I drop this valium down your throat.” At least he is keeping the lyrics
to himself. I’d appreciate it if he’d keep the rhythm to himself too.
This inconvenience, of course, is a direct result of spilling the beans
on Greyhound Gangsta Gurl.” (see the following blog if you don’t know
who she is: http://geesplat.wordpress.com/2011/06/20/travelogue-va-10-go-greyhound-and-leave-the-gagging-to-us/ )
I
also brought upon myself a Sunchips hanging in the airport vending
machine. It was a handsome piece of equipment this time, brand new and
clearly labeled. I put in my money, pushed the buttons and watched the
overgrown corkscrew twirl my bag of chips mere millimeters from falling,
but alas they teetered on the edge like a cowardly kid holding up the
line on the high dive. The deed that caused this disparaging dilemma
was, of course, mule kicking that bucket of bolts in the Richmond bus
station in the balls. (for the context read: http://geesplat.wordpress.com/2011/06/27/travelogue-12-va-the-great-greyhound-gagging-cont/ )
And
finally, remember the tick I found in my ear on the bus and called “a
headless bastard?” About 4 days ago that bite raised from the dead and
ever since has been leaking pus, which means it’s infected and if I’m
not careful will spread and make my ear fall off. See? Cause and effect.
While we are on the subject of ticks, I got so wrapped up in the thrift story ( http://geesplat.wordpress.com/2011/07/08/travelogue-13-va-a-trip-to-the-thrift/
) that I totally forgot why I even brought up Pop and his case of Rocky
Mountain Spotted Fever. Understandably, he hates ticks. I mean hates
their teeny-weeny guts with fervor, to the point of torturing them to
the maximum extent possible. He keeps an empty tuna can half-full of
gasoline on the back stoop and when he deticks the dogs, first he stabs
them (the ticks, not the dogs!) with the point of his pocketknife, and
then he throws the bastardly beasts into the gas bath to watch them swim
around frantically flailing all 8 legs in a futile attempt to save
themselves. Should one happen to get a hold on the side of the can and
try to crawl out, he flicks it back in. Once they’ve suffered a slow
drowning, he tosses a match in there and POOF! An arachnid crematorium.
“Burn, baby, burn,” he says admiring his work. It makes him feel like
God, I think, stoking the fires of Hell to deliver due justice for the
sinner’s transgressions. It seems to me only fair that we do a blood
analysis before sentencing them to such severe torture to see if they
actually carry the disease. If not, a flush down the toilet would serve
as an adequate punishment for just having the potential to be a carrier.
It’s kind of like the difference between smoking a joint in your own
living room and pretending to be the ice cream man to sell crack to
kids. The idea of an act of mercy on my part should clear up this
infection, no?
Speaking of mercy, here’s a story that follows “A Trip to the Thrift” and should get us back on chronological track:
“Shaking with the Quakers” Portsmouth, Va July 3, 2011
I
had a novel religious experience today, a Quaker Meeting. No, it was
not an oatmeal convention, but rather a church service. Seems to me I
recall a mention of the Quakers in some elementary school textbook. They
got their name from a permanentized neurological disorder brought on by
being scared shitless of the mean Queen of England who hated oatmeal.
They fled persecution and came to America to worship peacefully while
soaking in tubs of Avena. That may or may not be accurate…you know how
political textbooks can be.
No one quaked at this Sunday service,
but the guy behind me sure shook the sanctuary. It started out as mild
catnapping, but he went from dozing to deforestation in a matter of
minutes. It’s clear he suffers from sleep apnea and needs to spend a
night in one of those clinics where they suit your face up like a storm
trooper’s, connect everything else from the waist up to an electrode
and wait behind a glass window, salivating, for an oxygen cell to fart.
Anyway, this woodsman was making that double puff sound on the
exhalation that precedes the arrested inhalation that frightens wives
into assuming CPR position over their husband’s chest right there in the
bed in the middle of the night. Then he would blow out a loud buck
snort, the kind a male deer makes when the does are in high rut. He
seemed to rouse himself to a semi-conscious state with his own mating
call, though not enough for embarrassment to snap him to, so I and
everyone else who was awake were embarrassed for him.
A bit about
Quaker meetings: the gathering is held in total silence and there is no
minister. If someone feels lead to speak, he or she stands and delivers
what’s on his or her heart, but otherwise it’s an hour of mute communal
meditation. An eternal hell for the A.D.D. Since Sleepy had no
competition, he was alone on stage at the opera house and a meditating
mind didn’t have a snowball’s chance of staying focused on peace, love,
nothingness or a mantra unless already enlightened, which would negate
the need to reincarnate into human form in the first place. I, still
more mortal than Mary, went through a range of emotions, not all of them
loving. First, irritation. I came here to reflect in silence and find
inner peace. He was disturbing mine and should have stayed home if all
he was going to do was sleep. Was it a guilty conscious that made him
come? The cookies and Kool-Aid afterwards? Was the pew his perfect Sleep
Number? Whatever the reason, it was not good enough to justify ruining
our holy experience.
Then I was amused. My cousin and I caught
eyes and were like two silly eight-year-olds who had seen that Mrs.
Smirtrodder had tucked the hem of her dress into the waistband of her
pantyhose upon the last visit to the restroom and was oblivious to the
extra ventilation. The louder he snored, the worse our fit of the
giggles got until I was answering his stag song with my own snorting.
Finally, I just had to turn away from my cousin and think about cement
drying.
Amusement morphed into a mix of pissed pity. I thought
about wadding up the piece of paper I was writing this story down on to
throw at him. I had planned on not turning around to see my target and
just chuck it over my shoulder trusting an internal infrared radar
system to guide it right between his eyes. I decided against it knowing I
would never remember all these details and besides that he might unwad
the paper, read it, forget Quakers are pacifists and beat the shit out
of me in the parking lot after the service. I imagined the guy to be a
Santa look-alike sitting with his arms crossed and his chin nestled in a
nest of white whiskers on his chest, but no, when annoyance overwhelmed
me and I finally whirled around to shoot him a look, a
thirty-something-year-old was stretched out prostrate on the pew. My
daddy’s voice said, “He is in the House of the Lord!” and my mama’s
said, “He’ll soil the upholstery with those dirty tennis shoes!” and I
said, “Wake the fuck up before I come back there, tip that pew up like
the bed of a toy Tonka and roll your unholy ass onto the floor!”
Obviously, my emotions had cycled with his R.E.M and I was back to
irritation.
At long last the service came to a close and the sound
of parishioners greeting one another raised him from the dead. He sat
up on the bench rubbing his eyes and looking hung over. “Have a nice
nap?” I asked with a notable tone of sarcasm, before extending my hand
to introduce myself. “Sure did!” her responded cheerfully while yawning
and stretching himself back to life. Next Sunday, I thought, I’m
bringing a pillow and blankie, not for him, but for me. He was leaving
the sanctuary in a much better mood than I was.
I think I’ll close
with that, so as to not wear out the welcome mat of your screen. As for
the forecast: Sept. 6 I leave for Spain. Marta has her bar up and
running and has moved into a new apartment a few blocks away. Valladolid
starts its “ferias” on Friday, which is a typical fair for any small
town minus the carnies. Lots of food vendors in the streets and
entertainment in the plaza. It should bring booming business to the bar.
Maybe I’ll get to slide that frosty mug down the counter afterall! Oct 6
I’ll leave straight from Spain for Punta del Diablo, Uruguay for a two
prong job at El Diablo Tranquilo (
http://eldiablotranquilo.com/lang/en-us/ ). Primarily, I’ll be working
in reception, but also they would like for me to set up a language
immersion program to bring in more guests. So, that’s the plan in
general terms. TBC
Would love to hear back from you! I’ve caught up with most of my Dallas friends, but the rest of you remain at large.
Much love and many thanks, as always, G