Another Foray into the Dato-O-Sphere

After the discouraging results of my first leap into the otherworldly world of on-line dating—a land rife with English-disabled prostitutes and certifiable whack-a-doos—I took a deep breath and decided to give it another go, this time on a site recommended by several people who seem to have gotten the hang of the whole internet romance scene. The fact that it’s a free site was another point in its plus column. Not that I’m a cheapskate or anything, but why pay good money for the dubious thrill of interacting with people you’d ordinarily cross the street to avoid interacting with?

So, I posted a profile with as honest a collection of data as I felt comfortable divulging, uploaded a couple of pics, set up my match criteria, and set about alternately searching and waiting to be found. And, wouldn’t you know it, within a couple of days I was enjoying an email conversation with a lady who shared lots of my interests, was old enough not to be completely fucking stupid about the world, and, judging from her posted photos, was even pleasant to look at. Lucky me.

We decided to get together for drinks. I picked her up at her house, met her charming fourteen-year-old son, and off we went. She picked the bar, me being still unfamiliar with all the bars here in OKC. Good place, too. I drank shots of Maker’s and pints of Guinness, while she had lemon drops and Cape Cods, and we shared a plate of tasty nachos. The talking was good too, drifting freely across our mutual recent divorces, music, politics, etc. Soon we were full and happily tipsy, at which point the conversation turned to wine, all of the good things about drinking it, and how we should go buy a couple bottles and adjourn to her house to enjoy the fine weather on her back patio. And this we did.

I’ll pass over the remainder of the evening, except to say this: nocturnal erotic congress.

The next day proved to be an interesting one. She sent a text calling me a “very handsome man” (awww…shucks). I responded with one saying what a fun time I’d had, and that she has a very pretty smile. Her response to that one was, “Oh, ha ha.”

Ha ha what? I asked.

Never mind. Long story. Tell you later.

And I didn’t hear another peep for two days, and when she finally did peep, it took the form of a phone call.

“We have to talk about the ‘pretty smile’ thing.”

“OK.”

“Couldn’t you have just come right out and said you think I’m fat and ugly?”

“’Scuse me?”

“I mean, like ‘I think you’re fat and ugly, but I have to think of something nice to say, so I’ll say you have a nice smile.’”

“Uh—I said you have a nice smile because you have a nice smile, and I don’t think you are fat or ugly.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever. But I talked to all my girlfriends and they all think that was an assholish thing to say.”

“Saying you have a pretty smile makes me an asshole?”

“Why can’t you just tell the truth?”

“I am.”

“Uh-huh.”

By this point, my eyes were rolling like this was an audition for a Warner Bros. cartoon and I was clenching the phone so tightly it whimpered. Time, I thought, to chop this chat off at its ankles.

“Look,” I said. “Based upon this conversation I believe that the two of us will NEVER communicate in any sort of logical way. So, it’s been nice knowing you. Have a nice life.”

She called me a “fuckin’ jerk” and hung up.

Sitting there on my couch, mulling over what had just taken place, it hit me that I should’ve seen it coming. Not because I’m currently having a run of bad luck. And not because the words “Rich” and “Relationships” usually find themselves together in the same sentence only in the pages of psychology textbooks. No, I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve known she was a freak, for one very specific reason.

You know those audio-therapy machines people have? They play soothing sounds while people sleep? She had one in her bedroom. Ordinarily you expect those things to burble whale calls, or ocean waves, or the breeze wafting across grass, and shit like that. What did hers play?

The sound of frying bacon.

So, if you have any cute, single female friends in the OKC area, please…tell them to stay the fuck away from me.

Cheers.

Love & Death

Love and death. We pursue them both. We flee from them both. In a nutshell, it is the push-pull of these two states of being that sums up human existence.

So, it’s a good thing we can laugh at them, don’t’cha think?

THe AfricaN BrIDGe

About two weeks ago, Love (yes, that’s Love, with a capital L), as it has so often done in the past, hawked a thick, wet loogie on my shoes. Chalk up another one in the Loss column. I wandered around feeling befuzzled for a few days, cogitating on how it had come to pass that, once again, I got the gooey end of the poo-stick. I mean, I realize that I’m something of an acquired taste—like retsina and bagpipes—but come on!

Then I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and take a stab at getting my ass back into the saddle. And since I am new to this city, I reasoned, and know a grand total of three people, why not do the thing up right and register my bona fides with an online dating site. Don’t they run those commercials about their members, who, with little or no effort, always find That Perfect Someone? I know they do, I’ve seen them.

Anyway, long story short and all that, I picked a site (more or less at random, I must admit) slogged through their 9,000 page questionnaire, described to them roughly what I sought in female companionship, uploaded a pic or two, and sat back to see what happened.

Which, for the first two days as a grand total of absolutely nothing. Then I got a few nibbles, from women who obviously hadn’t carefully read the info I’d posted (i.e. the rabid anti-smoking Christian who “winked” at me), and then I got someone who seemed, not only to be able to read, but also to be interested. A couple of vanilla emails lead to an e-date in the cozy environs of Yahoo messenger.

When I logged in at the appointed time, she had selected the “tumbling hearts” background for our chat window, which I thought was sort of endearing. Ten minutes later anything “endearing” about our encounter had dropped from the thing like an engine block at a demolition derby.

What follows is the more disturbing tail end of our interaction, pasted verbatim from the chat window, but with certain portions altered the protect the privacy of the crazy bitch on the other end.

HER: Have you been in the OKCity longer?

ME: Longer?

HER: Long time?

ME: No, not long. Just a few weeks.

HER: This is imPortant to me. Because.

ME: [After a pause] Bcause why?

HER: Because. wHen I am go with a man. When you are R my man (which I cincerely HOPE!!!) I must look after all of You concerns and needs.

[At this point a needle of trepidation began sliding into my brain.]

ME: OK. I’ll let you know when I have a few needs that need looking after.

HER: Because.

ME: Because?

HER: Anything you Wish to TaLK about. I am hERe. That is MY job. AnY of Your conCERNS, are now MY concerned.

[Now I was wondering if she was some species of cyber-hooker looking to get me into a naughty dialogue. Christ knows I had better things to do than that…]

ME: That’s nice of you [thinking fast, now], but I have a deadline, so we’ll have to pick this up later.

HER: Your ThouGHhts must are NOw my thoUghts.

ME: Yup. You mentioned that.

HER: Because. I can taLK about anythinG.

ME: Awesome. Like I said, I hate to cut this short, but I have some work to do. Talk to you later.

HER: WHEN? I MEAn that Rickard. WHEN?

[Well, Elvira, I’ll tell ya. Never again in a million, trillion fucking years.]

ME: Day or two. Shoot me an email.

HER: Two weeKs is PERFECT!

ME: OK.

HER: I am in Nairobi, NOw build THe AfricaN BrIDGe. In tHE Okcity in two weeks!HE

ME: Great! Email me then. By.

HER: Byeeeeeeeeeee!

And I X’d out of the chat before she could come up with anything else to say.

The next morning I removed my profile from the website. I can meet crazy people without paying a monthly fee, maybe even some crazy people who have control of their Caps LoCk key. Instead I’m just gonna start hanging around the grocery store on Saturday evenings. Might not meet anyone interesting, but I can buy some soup.

Dead Man Walking!

In only took me a day or two to discover that the apartment complex I’ve moved into doesn’t have the greatest reputation. I was chit-chatting with the liquor-store guy the day I started moving in, and when I mentioned where I was renting, he visibly started, and wanted to know if I’d lost my mind, living in a place like that. I told him the truth, which is that it didn’t seem all that bad to me and that everyone I’d met so far had been very friendly. He didn’t believe me, but so what.

That evening I discovered that my dishwasher was missing the basket thingy you put silverware in, so I wandered over to Wal-Mart, figuring is anyplace sold such an odd replacement part, they would.

I was tromping around the hardware area when the most amazing thing happened. A clerk actually came up to me and asked if I needed assistance. That’s never happened to me in Wally World before. Not once. I told hthe guy what I was after and he shook his head, saying I’d be better off at Lowe's or Home Depot. Then he asked the obvious question: why didn’t I just tell my apartment manager. (I hadn’t because I figured they would shitcan my request three second after hanging up the phone.) The clerk then asked where I lived. I told him the name of the complex.

“Jesus Christ!” he burst. “You have a gun and a flack-vest?”

I laughed good-naturedly. “The gun yes. No vest though.”

“No vest?”

“Nope.”

And this Wal-Mart clerk with food on his blue shirt threw his head back and howled: “DEAD MAN WALKIN’!” Then he giggled.

I giggled too, hewing to my good-naturedness. The clerk went off to help someone else, or whatever, and I paid for the few items I had collected and went home.

On my way up the walk I passed several of my co-residents. Smiles and “hellos” all the way around, and I entered my apartment content in the belief that opinions are, indeed, like assholes, in that everyone has one, especially the assholes.

Two days later a guy in the building next to mine shot his girlfriend six times in the chest and attempted to hide his crime by lighting her corpse on fire.

I could smell the smoke in my bedroom.

Oh well. Twelve months isn’t that long. Not really.

Cheers.

My Magnet is Alive and Kicking

I have officially (almost) relocated to my new digs, far from the Wilds of Oklahoma, and right smack into what you might call the Wilds of Urban Oklahoma. And the big news is…? My Freak Magnet is alive and kicking. Gus the Football-Playing Disney Mule didn’t kick like my little ‘ol magnet is kickin’ these days. Ready for the update? Read on, my fine friends. Read on.

A Trip to the Mall

I’d been here about a week when the urge to see a movie came upon me. Lamentably, I selected that puddle of cinematic ass juice called Transformers: Dark of the Moon, but that’s another tale for another time. The closest theater showing the thing was inside the nearby megamall. I got there too early, due to one of Fandango’s more playful attempts at providing showtimes, and, finding myself with time to kill, went on a wander about the place; three full stories of gaudy commerce.

On the second floor, I rounded a corner just as a quintet of teen- or twenty-something Okie Urban Oddities exploded from the interior of some sort of sports-wear hut. And I mean exploded. They were heading somewhere with a sense of purpose, and I’m betting it wasn’t the library. And no matter their destination, they looked silly as shit. They were all tall and gangly, like junior varsity basketball players. Each wore knee-length NBA shorts, and baggy NBA jerseys with words like Thunder and Heat and Knicks stenciled on them. White unlaced leather high-tops completed their ensembles, except for one other item. All five sported huge—huge—white straw cowboy hats, with brims so wide you could farm mushrooms under them.

And they ran into me. They ran into me, onto me, and around me, each reeking worse than the next of Axe body wash and unleavened testosterone.

They passed as quickly as they arrived, like a bony storm front, and I was willing to let their rudeness slide until the last to go turned and said, “Whoa, watch it there, big ‘un.” His tone suggested he’d routinely employed the exact same sentence at other points over his life’s short journey, most probably in a pasture.

“You ran into me,” I said, coming to a standstill and squinting at them, mostly because their outfits demanded squinting.

There passed about six seconds of guys-sizing-up-other-guys behavior, and I could see in their eyes and body language that we were sharing a similar pattern of thoughts. To wit: they wanted to kick the shit out of me, but even though there were five of them, I was bigger than any two put together, and none of them had the sack to wade into such a melee, one where the outcome was sure to be little better than ten-to-six and pick ‘em. So, after a few shared glances, they took the prudent course and made to depart. But not before one of them, I couldn’t say which, offered some humorous take on the situation, at a quiet, passive-aggressive volume, that set a couple of his pals to giggling.

Grumbling, decided to press my advantage.

“Hey!” I barked.

They stopped in an ungainly clump and turned back to look at me.

“Are you little faggots all on the same dance team or something?”

Not among my better rejoinders, I know, and not the nicest choice of words, but what made it a moment of sheer perfection was that, just as I said it, three very pretty young girls strolled by, heard me, saw them, and burst into that brand of high-pitched, mocking laughter that only teenaged girls can produce.

As one of the boys actually blushed, all five beat feet in the opposite direction, toward a place, I am sure, where they hoped to be free of cranky old fat men and mean girls with smooth, tanned legs.

And then I was punished for my happiness by The Transformers. Fuck.

Purple

I frequent pawn shops. They make me smile most largely. And it’s not all rusty power tools and golf clubs. either. You really never know what you might unearth there next. Just recently, for example, I purchased a fine family of Filipino day-laborers, for—seriously—like half the price of a Chinese set. OK, kidding aside, pawn shops are a positive trove of goodies. Wish the same could be said for some of the people who dawdle about them.

There’s a nifty little locally-owned shop a mile or so from my new digs. They had a sign in the window advertising DVDs for two bucks each. Couldn’t pass that up, so I popped in for a closer gander. After selected five or six flicker-shows for my later popcorn pleasure, I circumnavigated the store, scrutinizing the stuff that was up for grabs. And—Holy Hannah—there it was. A knock-off of da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” framed in bright yellow and pink Neon! Wicked pissah! I immediately coveted it, with a covetousness I usually reserve for ’74 Cadillacs, and girls in Catholic-school skirts.

Oh, but then…tragedy. The shop wanted $375 dollars for it! Fuck me! Bunch of greedy cocksuckers! And thus was I forced to do nothing but stare longingly at it, thinking of how my new walls might have been so honored by it’s dangling from one of them.

And then, a voice from behind me, low and elderly: “That’s blasphemy.”

He was about five feet tall, neat and tidy, and well into advanced years. He frowned with ease, like the frown had become, over the years of his intense religiosity, the default position of his facial muscles. One could imagine him wearing the same expression while he gnawed the heads off Easter chicks.

I didn’t like looking at him. First, because I was afraid he was going to keep on about “blasphemy” and all that shit, Second, because, despite his spick and span appearance, he smelled really bad, and Third, because—and this is so fucked up—his tongue was purple. I don’t mean a little bit purpleish, man. I mean PURPLE. Like a chow’s tongue. Merry-Pranksters purple. Been-goin’-down-on-Violet-Beauregarde purple.

My eyeballs leaped from my head and made like Superballs all over the tile. I guess the old guy thought I was reacting to his “blasphemy” remark, and thus somehow felt emboldened to gimme another dose of Jesus.

“What’s wrong with this country.” He poked a finger at the painting. “Disregarding the Shepherd. Making a mockery of Our Savior.”

I hate it when religious people speak in capital letters.

“He Died for Our Sins,” the old gent intoned, his B.O. clouding around us like a swarm of no-see-ums, his purple tongue dragging across his dry lips.

“Yeah?” I said, kind of loudly, too, I guess. “And then he came back to life three days later. Big fuckin’ deal.”

His eyes went all funny, like I’d maybe stuck my dick in his ear and given it a good jiggle.

“Also,” I continued, as he sort of silently worked his mouth and egregiously exhibited the freaky fucking purple thing inside it, “keep your religion to yourself.”

I started toward the counter with my movies.

“And,” I snapped, now really pissed off, for reasons I still don’t understand, “take a fucking shower. You smell like an unlaundered cunt.”

And I went home. And I popped in a DVD. I’d never seen it before. It was Tron: Legacy.

Punished again. Fuck.

My FINAL Dispatch from Freakland

Just when I thought it was safe to venture out of doors once again, my little Oklahoma town decided to don its finest Freakland plumage. And this time they are really shakin’ their good ol’ tailfeathers.

“A” is for “Atheist"

So, I needed a haircut before going out of town. I pop by the “salon” at the local WallyWorld, and scribble my name on the clipboard. As I’m doing that, two of the “stylists” waddle over to the counter, and they are in the midst of what appears to be a rather heated dialogue.

“Why are you angry?” says one.

“Didn’t you see his earring?” says the other, jerking her chin toward a guy on his way out.

“No.”

“It was a letter ‘A’. Like for atheist!”

“Really?”

“I just wanted to cut his ear off!”

“‘A’ means atheist? I thought it meant anarchyist, or whatev—”

“Which is just as bad, but it means atheist!”

They stop talking when they see me standing there. The athei-a-phobe (I just invented that word) sort of glares at me.

Smiling, I say: “Maybe his name is Albert.”

Silent stares.

“You know, Occam’s Razor, and all that.”

Her face goes perfectly still as the words “Occam’s” and “Razor” ricochet around inside her skull, find nothing stable upon which to perch, and flee in search of a skull with friendlier designs on vocabulary.

“Well,” she says finally, shifting her gaze to her companion. “I don’t know.”

The other one takes up the clip board, scans the otherwise barren waiting area, and says, “Are you Richard?”

“That’s me.” I try on another smile but neither “stylist” seems to be in the mood for good-natured jocularity. The athei-a-phobe gestures toward her work station. As I make my way over I take a glance back at my new friends. They are rolling their eyes.

“We don’t wear secret symbols,” I say.

Questioning stares.

“Atheists. We don’t wear secret devices. We don’t have furtive handshakes, either. Most of us don’t even speak in a diabolic code.”

Stiff stares.

My haircut takes place in total silence. I detect additional occurrences of eye-rolling. I count myself lucky that my ears maintain their normal positions.

I mean come on! A guy walks in with a ‘A’ in his earlobe. They leap to the conclusion that he is either an anarchist or an atheist. One of them wants to mutilate his ear with scissors. And I’m the weirdo?

Reality TV was invented for these people…

The Windmills of Her Mind

About thirty miles from my little town there stands a massive wind farm. There are easily fifty or sixty of those gigantic white windmills scattered across maybe fifteen square miles of red-dirt landscape. They work constantly, too, as the wind here well and truly does come “sweeping down the plain.”

As it happens, we are also in the middle of a rather nasty drought; pretty much the only part of the country not being washed away.

I was standing in line at the liquor store the other day, and started chit-chatting with the young lady in front of me. It was hot outside; well over a hundred degrees. She made mention of that fact while hoisting a case of bad light beer onto the counter.

“We sure need rain,” she added.

“Yeah,” I said. “I haven’t lived here very long, but I understand the drought has lasted the last five or six years.”

“Yup,” she agreed. “Ever since they put in those windmills.”

I processed that for a second or two before saying, “Scuse me?”

“The windmills. They push the clouds away.”

“Ah,” I said. “OK.”

She paid for her bad beer and departed, leaving me to ponder a country whose citizens have such a small grounding in the sciences that they can’t even grasp wind.

Starving Republicans

We have one movie rental place in town. I was in there the other day, multitasking. I was perusing the new release wall while at the same time eavesdropping on a conversation between the clerk and a customer. The customer, a woman of perhaps forty, wanted recommendations, and the clerk was chock-full of ‘em, none however even came close to fulfilling the customer’s desires. Or, rather, desire, singular. Every time the clerk suggested a title, the customer wanted to know who was in it, and when told would grunt and frown, quite gasseously, and inform the clerk that such-and-such a movie star was a “liberal” and she did watch “no movies” with “liberals” in them. It was her loud opinion that Hollywood is run by liberals, and that they refuse to allow decent Republican actors to work in the movies.

The idea that conservatives are somehow shut out of the flicker shows is almost as preposterous as the old saw about a “liberally-biased media.” One thing and one thing only makes Hollywood run: MONEY. Your movies make money, you make more movies. Your movies suck, so do the offers that come your way.

As far as Republican celebrities go, exactly how badly has the Liberal Hollywood “establishment” treated, say, Clint Eastwood? Or Bruce Willis? Or Sylvester Stallone, Vince Vaughn, Adam Sandler, Joe Pesci, James Woods, James Caan, John Voight, Kurt Russell, Mel Gibson, or Gary Sinese? Sela Ward, Jessica Simpson, Patricia Heaton and Joan Rivers all work regularly. Frazier, starring noted Republican Kelsey Grammer, won 38 Emmy Awards, and earned Grammer hundreds of millions of dollars. That poor, sad s.o.b.

No, the conservatives you hear bitching the loudest about how their politics cost them acting jobs—people like Stephen Baldwin and Heather Locklear—don’t work much for a reason that have nothing to do with how they vote. They suck. And their products make suck money.

And remember, the only actual black-listing ever done in La-La-Land was done by conservatives, against liberals. It was real, and evil, and led to suicides.

I thought about mentioning all this to the customer, but she looked to be the sort who wouldn’t ever allow a few facts to get in the way of a good story, so…I rented a couple of George Clooney titles and left.

Hats Off

One weirdly charming thing about my little town is that it’s little enough for the paper to print the weekly crime reports. This notice appeared some little while back:

May 23rd, 2011. 12:59 a.m. 9-1-1 call.

300 block of 48th Street.

“People lighting their hats on fire.”

Shit, and people say small-town America isn’t any fun.

Signing Off

That’s it, folks. My final dispatch from Freakland. I’m moving in a week or two, to an actual city. It is my hope that the Freaks there will be less blatant, but given the constancy of my Freak Magnet, I fear those hopes might be, as I once heard a farmer say, about as useful as tits on a bacon rind.

In any event, wish me well, and stay tuned for more from the Wine God.

Cheers.

Mother Nature's Revenge

I haven’t been around in a while because I’ve been recovering from the various injustices done to my person by Mama Nature and her frisky minions. Yes, she has turned on me; Red in Tooth and Claw, as the saying goes. Not sure what I did to deserve her bleak attentions, but her attentions have I received. Sure, I’ve caught and eaten a few of her fish. I’ve swatted more of her winged soldiers than I can count. Recently, I clobbered a small bird with my car, but that was an accident. And, yes, I made fun of an armadillo. Right to its face…er, snout. But really, did any one of these actions, or even all of them put together, justify the lengths of her revenge? I dunno. You decide.

Turtle Bobber
So many of my stories have to do with me and fishing or me and turtles, and here’s another, this time about both fishing and turtles.

Sometimes, I leave off angling for bass and kick back under a tree with some bait in the water, and go after channel cat. This particular day I was using a rig with three hooks and three different baits, hoping to entice one of the really big cats up from the depths. I reclined the shade of a old cottonwood, watching my bright orange bobber float lazily on the calm water. After maybe ten minutes it gave a little twitch. Then another. I sat up, and lifted my rod from the holder, ready to give a yank and set the hook. The bobber went dancing across the surface and I pulled.

I knew two things immediately. The first was that I had missed setting the hook, and the second was that it hadn’t been a catfish tugging on the line. When a catfish strikes it clamps its ugly lips around the bait and heads for the bottom, usually causing the float to plunge straight down. This one had boogied sideways, so it was likely one of two things—a turtle or a perch. None of my baits that afternoon are popular among perch, so it must’ve been a turtle. My suspicion was confirmed a moment later when one of the poxy little devils surfaced beside my bobber for a moment, taking stock of the situation, then dove under again for another nibble of free nosh. He was a big one, too; easily a third the size of a trashcan lid.

So, my bobber did its thing again, and again went for a surface stroll; about three feet before it went all the way under. Against my better judgment, I gave the rod a sturdy yank—setting the hook this time. In that bloody turtle.

Now, turtles aren’t streamlined like fishies. With a hook in its beak, a turtle is about as aquadynamic as a pie-tin full of cement. All four of their stubby legs paddle like mad, but they simply haven’t evolved to put up a serious fight. Unless, that is, they are large and the water is relatively shallow and strewn with debris, all of which are true of my fishing hole.

Long story short, the repellant reptile hove for the cover of a submerged tree and somehow anchored himself down there. Lord knows what he managed to tangle my line around, but no way was I going to muscle him loose; not without the intervention of, say, a fair-sized horse. Grumbling, I flicked open my clasp knife and sliced the line, then sat down to string a new rig.

Three minutes later, as I worked, my bobber bobbed to the surface. Right there. About five feet away. No sign of Yertle, though. Then it went under again. I felt I was being taunted, but so be it.

Armed with a new set of hooks and baits, I relocated to a fresh spot, forty-or-so yards along to the north. I threw my line out into a spot I had psychically determined to be a good one, and settled in for a watch. Minute or two later—spoink!—up came a second bobber next to mine. Yertle had followed me, the little blighter. And he continued following me all afternoon. Wherever my bobber went, his was sure to follow. I’m not sure if it was his ever-present lurking, but I didn’t catch a single fish that day.

I’ve been back to that same pond three times since Yertle absconded with my orange float, and have seen the thing in at least a dozen different locations, bobbing merrily about. Obviously, dragging a float behind and having a fish hook in his face hasn’t proven to be the detriment to his general mobility one might imagine. Bully for him, but I find it all just a tad unnerving. It’s like a miniature version of the yellow barrels from Jaws.

The B-52 Heron
Sometimes when the fish aren’t biting I like to go exploring the neighborhood around my little pond, and see what sort of interesting stuff the place has to offer. I’ve watched a mama bobcat lead her kittens to the water at dusk; a mated pair of wood ducks bring supper to their fuzzy hatchlings; and a litter of new-born bull snakes slither free from their underground nest. One of the best things I’ve witnessed, however, is a gray heron standing astride her massive nest near dawn, then taking wing and gliding over the mirror-flat waters of the lake. She was truly magnificent. Her wing-span must’ve been close to six feet and she barely made a sound.

Once I knew where her nest was (high up in the skeletal branches of a dying cottonwood tree), I made it a point to creep by occasionally and listen to her chicks peep and whistle. I rarely saw her there, though, herons being rather skittish birds, except for that first time, and then again about a week ago. And then I didn’t know she was at home until it was too late.

I was sitting on the ground beneath her tree, when there came a loud rustling from over my head. I looked up just in time to see her leap from her nest and rocket skyward. She was obviously startled, though I’ll be damned if I was making any noise. I mean, I was just sitting there enjoying her company. But away she flew.

And—miracle of miracles—she left a parting gift. On my shoulder and back.

I once got crapped on by a sparrow. The full extent of its anal output barely amounted to a smudge, but holy hell did it reek. I don’t know what goes on in the digestive machinery of our avian cousins, but does for the human nostril what Tyson did to Holyfield.

Now imagine, not a mere smudge of the stuff, but enough to top off a Big Gulp. Oh my good, good god. The fetid glob hit my back like a water balloon full of Satan’s own special ass pudding. The smell singed by nose hairs. It crawled all the way into the center of my skull and started a mosh pit. I would’ve burst into tears if bursting into them hadn’t meant drawing a deep breath and inhaling even more of the noxious slurry.

I yanked my shirt off and flung it away toward the pond. It landed half-in, half-out of the water, so I grabbed a stick, shoved it all the way in, and sort of stirred it about, watching as greasy white pustules of heron poo reluctantly detached themselves from the fabric. As I stirred I explained loudly and at length what was in store for mama heron next time our paths crossed.

That I haven’t seen her since makes me think she heard and understood.

Bitch.

Sweet SHIT That Hurts!
Among my many charming (read: nerdy) traits is an inability to look at an expanse of rock face without checking it for fossils. Every once in a great while I actually find something. In this case, they weren’t true fossils, but small and very fragile snail shells, bleached white by the sun. As I picked them from the red dirt of the cliff face (this was at my favorite fishing hole) with a toothpick and the tip of my clasp knife, I studied each in turn. Man, were they ever cool; tiny marvels of evolution; each about the size of a dime, with delicate whorls marking the snail’s growth, like the rings of a tree. Just beautiful.

After about thirty minutes diligence I had over a dozen shells in my hand. It came upon me to take them home, clean them up in some hot, soapy water, and make a bracelet with them for my friend Cal. I carried them to a fallen log to study them more carefully, with an eye toward accessories. Depositing them in a little pile, I sat beside them, easing into a comfier position by putting my palm on the log and scooching over.

I was mid-scooch when somebody set my hand on fire.

That’s what it felt like, anyway. Then it felt worse. It was pain with a side of fries; pain in its go-to-meetin’ clothes. It pulsed up my forearm all the way to my elbow. I started yelling and flapping my hand in the air. Can’t remember exactly what I yelled, but it was along the lines of jesusgoddamnfreakingsweetgoatSHIT!

I figured I had put my hand in a hornet’s nest, seeing as I was sitting on a rotting log and all. But that wasn’t the case. Dangling from my palm, right below the thumb, its stinger still stuck in my flesh and pumping venom, was a pale brown scorpion. He seemed almost as agitated as I was, flailing away with his tiny pincers. I didn’t like to see him so out of sorts, so I smashed my hand flat on the log. I smashed my hand on the log about fifty-seven times, pretty much reducing the beast to his component parts and a fair amount of juice. About a thimbleful, I’d say.

Killing the thing was only a psychological victory, and not even a particularly satisfying one. The pain only increased. Then it got together with some swelling and nausea, and the party really started rolling sevens. Pretty soon it looked like I had a cherry tomato growing from the ball of my thumb.

Driving home one-handed was a joy. Once I got there I put a wet washcloth on the tomato and sloppily mixed a tall, strong vodka-tonic. The booze made me feel better. It usually does.

So, there it is. Nature’s Revenge. But I am still left to wonder why She decided to make the last couple of weeks such memorable ones. But no matter Her reasons, I’ve come to a decision. No more making fun of armadillos. Seriously. No matter how stupid they look.

Cheers.

The Weirdness of Weirdos

The citizens of my little slice of Oklahoma are once again being their entertaining selves.

The Family Shouts Together…

Recently I was hanging out at a state park near where I live that was built around some natural springs in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps (oh, those vile liberals). They dammed up one of the springs and turned it into a smallish, three- or four-acre lake. It’s very pretty there, with trees of all sorts—Chinaberry, Sycamore, Hackberry, Walnut—and fauna galore. There’s a mama muskrat I particularly enjoy watching while she cuts cattails to line her den.

Anyway, I was having a nice quiet time. Too bad some extra members of the local human population had to show up.

There were six of them in all, Mom, Dad, and four kids, three girls and a boy, ranging from around three to around seven, they were enjoying a family outing on the other side of the lake from where I sat in the shade, but the Katzenjammer-like volume of their voices made their conversation impossible to avoid. And right out of The Family Circle it was, too. I recorded it here, with all the fidelity I can muster…

Little Boy: Lookit the turtle!

Mom: Hurry up, it’s time for dinner.

Little Boy: Lookit the turtle!

Mom: What’d I just SAY? Get up here!

Oldest Little Girl: It’s a turtle, Mom!

Mom: No it ain’t. Both of you: move!

Middle Little Girl: But Maaaaaaa’aaaaaaahm!

Mom: I ain’t gonna say it again. Move your asses right now or we’re gonna leave you here!

Little Boy: It IS a turtle! Lookit it!

Mom: God dammit! That’s not a fuckin’ turtle! It’s a big god damn stick!

Little Boy: Huh uh! It’s a¬¬—

Mom: Stop it, or I’m gonna paddle you! You hear me?

Dad: Hey, it IS a turtle.

Mom: And you shut the fuck up, too! Jesus CHRIST!

On that note they departed, the Model American Family, back up the trail to whatever carney conveyance had delivered them there. And from all around me came the unmistakable sounds of Nature applauding.

Ah, Prom!

I thought my little town was the Center of the Redneck Universe, but it turns out that there’s another, even smaller, town about twenty miles from here that takes the redneck cake (or, rather, cornbread). For proof, we need look no further than their recent Senior Prom.

The theme was “A Ride in the Country.” Their colors: Mossy Oak hunter’s camouflage…and pink. The centerpieces were tumbleweeds…with pink ribbon. The drinks table (no alcohol of course, only punch) was decorated with mason jars, mason jars filled with dirt clods, topped with tumbleweeds, and festooned with what can only be described as fluffy stuff…in pink. Many of the boys wore Mossy Oak hunter’s camouflage vests with their tuxedos. One boy’s tux was done entirely in Mossy Oak hunter’s camouflage. The commemorative T-shirts were Mossy Oak hunter’s camouflage with a design on the front; a drawing of a pair of hunter’s boots and a pair of high heels…in pink. Instead of a red carpet for the King and Queen to stroll down, they made a carpet of Mossy Oak hunter’s camouflage Duct Tape. The catering was by Kentucky Fried Chicken. Not a buffet. Big buckets on each table.

My friend Cal believes the kids were making a statement and being ironic. I, on the other hand, not being anywhere near as gracious or reasonable as Cal, believe they were just being hillbillies. Seventeen-year-olds don’t do irony. Irony is the privilege of the old and grouchy. Like me.

Redneck dorks.

Losing It Be Not Proud…

So, I’m at the movies the other night. Went to see Red Riding Hood. The eight-pound Oreck vacuum doesn’t suck as much as that movie does, but that’s not what I want to talk about. Just about the time the house lights faded, three kids dive-bombed into the seats in front of me. I’m going to put their ages at eight (a boy), ten (another boy) and eleven (a girl). They began chattering as soon as their narrow little butts hit the cushions. Someone a few seats down from them leaned over during the previews and told them to shush, which did about as much good as begging a puppy to file your taxes. I was to discover later that the daring shusher was the owner of the smaller boy, which rendered her ineffectual shushings all the more bothersome.

But, OK, look: I get it. They’re kids. Kids talk. Kids talk loud. It in the nature of kids to be annoying in public. But I do wish, just occasionally, that I would encounter some of them that conducted themselves as if they had parents at home and not abettors. Mini vans needn’t necessarily be get-away vehicles.

Anyway, the kids kept tittering and giggling, as the collar of my shirt grew tighter and tighter. The movie started, and even though I sensed from the very start that my money would’ve probably been better spent on a good rectal scouring, I had paid for it, and wanted to hear it, such as it was. So I assembled my best “Cool Uncle Rich” smile, leaned forward, aimed it at the trio, and said, “Hey, guys. Chill out. People are trying to watch the movie.”

Three small pale faces turned toward me, three small pale round big-eyed faces, like three juvenile dugongs investigating an X-Box. But, wonder of wonders, they did stop talking. For perhaps eleven seconds.

Time passed. Their voices and their twitching, OCD, antics grew louder and more feral. Had there been a runt in their litter, they would’ve eaten it and rolled around in its blood. The ineffectual shusher shushed them again, eliciting not even a pause in the gale. A lady in the row in front of them offered her own shush, which was also completely ignored.

Believe it or not, I don’t usually shush people during movies. Most of the time they shut up on their own. But these three hellhounds, well, I figured they deserved special attention. So, I leaned forward again and stuck my face right in their business.

“Shut up,” I whisper-hissed. “I mean it. You’re pissing me off.”

My abrupt arrival on the scene startled them and the little girl sort of “eeped” as they all faced me once again.

“Please,” I said. “Just be quiet. OK?”

Interestingly, the ineffectual shushers, both next to and in front of the wee terrorists, each turned and said “Thank-you.” And the wee terrorists ceased jabbering, too, for an period of time that lasted at least fifteen seconds. Then they were right back at it, full speed ahead.

And now we are entering the section of my narrative which some might find offensive.

When the creatures resumed their gabbling and honking the youngest of them (who’s name I later learned was, of all things, Traven) looked back at me and said,

“Hey. Gimme some of your popcorn.”

That’s all he said, but I…what’s the word I’m looking for? Snapped! That’s it. I snapped.

“Listen to me, you little sack of shit,” I growled. “Shut the fuck up. Shut your fucking mouth, right fucking now, or I’ll climb over this seat and shut it for you.” He started to say something smart-alecky, but I didn’t let him. “Don’t you wise-ass me, you little fucker. Do you understand? Do you hear me, you little cunt? Shut up. Shut. Up.”

For the next hour dear Traven made exactly two sounds. Neither was very loud or particularly disturbing. Part of me hopes he had nightmares when he got home, about a fat bearded giant who wanted to throttle him; my Anti-Hagrid to his Anti-Harry.

When the movie was over, Traven’s mother thanked me again. She apologized for his behavior and finished up by saying “I just don’t know what to do with him.”

“How ‘bout next time you’re pregnant, you lay off the meth,” I responded.

Now, even a rock will have noticed how much my tantrum resembled Mrs. Katzenjammer’s in the first story. I am, apparently, turning into one of these people. All that’s left for me now, I guess, is to buy some Wranglers, a Tap-Out shirt, some long-cut Copenhagen and a goat to cornhole.

And that’s the latest from Freak Central. Please, someone rescue me, before it’s too late…

Cheers.

These Are Not Intended to be Factual Statements

Thank the heavens for Arizona Senator John Kyl. He has opened a whole new and wonderful world of public discourse when he said that his asinine comments about Planned Parenthood were “Not intended to be a factual statement.” Because of his brave stance on what other, less-well-informed, people would call “lying,” it is now possible to stand up in front of the American people and say pretty much whatever comes trickling across your mind.

I have a few items of interest to impart, none of which are, of course, intended to be factual statements.

• That revolting thing on Donald Trump’s head is a Tribble.

• Rush Limbaugh plays violent S&M games with Beanie Babies.

• Michele Bachmann is amazed at the way rivers miraculously conform to state lines.

• “Every time a poor person dies, an angel gets its wings.” Christmas Eve at the Koch Brother’s house.

• Anne Coulter eats kittens. Raw. And when she is finished stripping each little carcass she cracks the bones with her teeth and sucks out the marrow.

• Pictures of cancer patients give Newt Gingrich a boner.

• Geraldo Rivera thinks John Wayne movies are documentaries.

• Sarah Palin has fangs in her honey-hole.

• Every member of the Arizona State Legislature is easily distracted by shiny things, like when cats watch a laser-pointer dot.

• Clarence Thomas has lawn jockeys in his yard.

• Larry, Mo and Curley, the three hosts of Fox & Friends, are the monstrous offspring of Kathy Lee Gifford and a Cabbage Patch Doll.

• Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker regularly has sex with boxes of aloe-infused Kleenex.

• Paul Ryan doesn’t have enough electricity in his head to fire up one of those potato clocks.

• Whenever Sean Hannity goes in a church the holy water boils.

• Glenn Beck thinks there are socialist messages encoded in the mating songs of humpback whales.

• Bill O’Reilly has a tattoo on his chest of Phyllis Schlafly wearing a strap-on.

• Brit Hume sells his blood to pay for illegal Canadian anti-wrinkle cream.

• The only way Karl Rove can achieve an orgasm is if the music from The Exorcist is playing.

• Pat Robertson’s secret NAMBLA web handle is “Slippery Fingers.”

And…

• Ninety percent of the Tea Bagger’s yearly operating budget is ear-marked for the hunting down, stuffing and mounting of Mexicans.

Thanks again, Senator Kyl! And I hope you get help with that paint-huffing problem soon!

Cheers!