I wish I had even the slightest idea of what was normal when it comes to milestones in my son’s life. As the only child of a single mother, I really don’t have anything to guide me on this path of fatherhood. I have no clue if what my son is doing is something that I should worry about, or if it’s just a phase that all, most, or even some kids simply go through. For instance, is it acceptable, developmentally speaking, for my son to cry so much? I mean, any time he doesn’t get his way, he breaks down in tears and remains inconsolable for the following five or ten minutes. It’s not all the time, but it happens frequently enough that I’m concerned his only memories of childhood will be tear-stained ragings against the injustice of his dad. I don’t remember weeping all the time (at least until I began falling in and out of love), but I guess it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that it had happened. There is a chance, I suppose, that he’ll focus only on the happy times, or it will eventually all blend together like a moderately moistened yawn. I just don’t know, I really haven’t got a baseline for it…

After having spoken with my mother, it looks like I will probably not be remembered as the Bringer of Tears, but considering what it took to get us back on speaking terms after I moved out, I guess I’ll take that with a grain of salt. I can guide my son down the paths to wisdom, but for lessons in emotional maturity, he’ll have to take an online course. My coping mechanisms have usually involved better living through chemistry, and I’m fairly certain that’s not a lesson that I’d like to pass along. I wasn’t all too thrilled at the prospect of him taking ADHD uppers, as I’ve seen all of the ways in which giving speed to kids can go so terribly wrong, but the undeniable fact is that he is doing better academically on his medication, and is paying attention in class, and even focusing on the tasks at hand. By the time he gets home, of course, the medicine has cleared his system, so it’s hard to see firsthand if it is really working or not. But the progress reports I’ve gotten from his teacher (who is now disturbingly eager to come and talk to me), and my conversations with David have led me to believe that his pills might actually be helping, and he’s not just lost somewhere in zombie mode.

When we were up in Washington, we left his medication at home, and he just flew around my grandparents’ house like a Colombian Turkey, warbling up and down the stairs, and frequently running into furniture and people. Every morning (and every other afternoon), he begged to be taken for a walk down to the beach so he could stock up on cool looking rocks and the very best in only slightly broken shells. Fighting down this modern instinct to overprotect the hell out of him, I told him on several occasions to just pop on his boots and trudge on down. Even for someone with his stubby little legs, he’d only be walking about five minutes, and since the mudslide which took out most of Rolling Bay Walk, there’s really no traffic on the road to speak of. But my wife would have none of that, and accompanied him down there with a look that would have shamed me into action, had I been awake. I told her she should get the most out of her time away from work, and catch up on the two years of sleep that she had missed, but I was told, in no uncertain terms, that she would do what she was going to do, and I could do the same.

I can’t blame either of them for being so enamored of the beauty of the neighborhood where I spent my youth. When I was David’s age, I could walk from the house where my mother and I lived (next door to my great-grandmother) down to the beach, stroll along the rocky shores of Rolling Bay, and up the hill on the other side, to say hello to my grandparents. I knew that telephones were a thing, but it was a lot more fun my way. Every summer I would swim in the frozen waters, thinking that the early warning signs of hypothermia were just a passing current of whale pee (I’m not the only one, either!). For my wife, I think that the bucolic seascape served as a substitute for the home she hasn’t seen in years, whereas for David William, it was a chance to escape all of the dangers (or so his terrified parents kept telling him) of a more urban area (To be clear, I am not using “urban” as code. I am referring to traffic, and the violence which occurs when you cram too many people together). For me, these trips back home are a chance to see my aging grandparents one last time, but for the family of which I am the head, it’s an opportunity to call somewhere new their home.

The first time I flew up with my wife and son, I was treated to the gift of snow in time to celebrate my birthday, and it was the first time either of them had seen such a thing in real life (my son was only five months old, so that’s kind of a given, but it made my wife’s whole day). And it’s that one gift, above all others, that I have to give to my son: The joys of experiencing the beauty of those simple things which we often overlook and take for granted. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, so my mother gave me a childhood of experiences instead, and as I look across my son’s cluttered room, floor littered with electronics, as he’s tuned wholly into LEGO Batman 3, I realize that that I might have had it better. I might not have had the childhood I deserved (in my mind, at least), but I definitely had the childhood that I needed. So maybe it’s for the best that I’m living a life of modern monastic poverty. When I had money, I could spend it on all the toys I would have killed for growing up, but because I was so rarely home, they were just a poor substitute for an absent father. I’m woefully out of practice, but I’m relearning how to be a (slightly) more hands-on Dad. Little by little, I’m trying to sneak a life lesson in when he isn’t looking, but what’s really helping is the time I spend just interacting with him as if he were a person. Who knew?

-Tex

My hometown of Bainbridge Island, Washington, is rarely in the national news. This is probably for the best, as it usually involves a High School Biology teacher dying, The Professor, or David Guterson. But a little bit of team spirit mixed with dubious legislation has drawn the attention of the national media once again to the place where I grew up.

Of course, it wasn’t always like this on Bainbridge. For years, nobody much really paid attention to our little island paradise in the Puget Sound. But then the rich Californians came, lured by the promise of a simpler life, and promptly drove up property values, insisted on the luxuries they ostensibly came to avoid, and ran those not already ensconced in homes of their own directly in into the heart of nearby Poulsbo. In the fading light of the 1980’s, and grunge explosion of the 90’s, Bainbridge Island sold its soul to become a suburb of Seattle, as opposed to remaining the last bastion of sanity in the redneck infected boonies of Kitsap County. By a margin of 136 votes, residents voted to make the City of Winslow a thing in November 1990. That, however changed shortly after the law took effect, as the rest of Bainbridge Island couldn’t stand being lumped in with those “city folk” downtown. So the City of Bainbridge Island came into being.

And so it came to pass that the island where I was growing up slowly became The Little Big City. Where, when I was just a little boy, you only needed to give out the last four digits of your phone number, by the time I was in middle school, you were up to seven. And in high school, they added yet another prefix to accommodate all the cell phones and pagers which had begun to outpace the number of residents on the island. The cops had nothing better to do than to harass the general population, as violence and other crimes was still not a major issue. We had a tolerance march to show we could do the whole “civic pride” thing, despite the fact that the population was, at the time, close to 85% Caucasian, and the world was still nearly twenty years away from recognizing gays as people. Compensating for a lack of urban anything, we did our best to hide our inadequacies through hilariously overstated gestures.

When I was just freshly out of school, I moved in with my girlfriend who was living in one of the few places left on Bainbridge where the poor folk could still be kept. I’d spent my childhood in Rolling Bay, where the intellectuals resided. We had our own Post Office (98061, represent!), and after we were roped into assimilation with the City, they put he Municipal Courthouse in the heart of separatist country (I’m fairly certain just to keep an eye on us), located between the Bay Hay and Feed and the Jiffy Mart (Author’s Note: The Jiffy Mart in Rolling Bay is the only one left of the three that were in existence when I was growing up. The others have been bought out by corporate entities or otherwise been re-branded.). I went from living in the land of woods, beach, and insurrectionist speech, to a double-wide just a ways down from Battle Point Park.

It was a simpler life, then, and no one really paid much mind to the hayseeds down in Island Center. Kind of like the slow cousins that no one liked to talk about, the rest of Bainbridge preferred to leave us to our own devices. That is, unless some idiot wanted to fire off his shotguns in an inappropriate fashion, or get into property disputes with the fancypants who just moved in next door. Really, the City only interfered if it absolutely had to, and then, just to minimize the paperwork stemming from your average rural shenanigans.

When I left the Island to make my way in a proper city setting (having grown tired of my camp beneath the trees and shrubbery behind the Safeway), I was a little relieved at leaving all the nonsense behind. And to be living somewhere that didn’t shut down completely by eight o’clock at night. And to have real public transportation. But even saying goodbye to where I had spent my entire life, I wasn’t truly prepared for how much it would change when I was gone. I left at the end of summer in 2001, and every time I came back to visit, it seemed less and less like home. Houses began popping up where only forests had once stood, and ferry rides were crammed with crowds of strangers I’d never even seen before.

Which is why I find it strangely satisfying that 2005 runner-up for Best Place to Live in the United States has once again stumbled into the national spotlight over something so entirely and perfectly ridiculous: Today, January 16th, 2015, all cheese and cheese-flavored products are banned from City Hall in a show of Sportsball Solidarity with the Seattle Seahawks. But Mike Spence has decided that his “part-ownership” of the Green Bay Packers has granted him the right to try and rain on everyone’s parade (Dear god, they probably have decided to have some sort of parade…), by informing the City Manager that, “As a food item, the regulation of cheese falls clearly within the authority of the Kitsap County Department of Health, rather than the City of Bainbridge Island, a noncharter Code City under RCW 35A.11. I see no authority under that statute granting a noncharter Code City the authority to regulate cheese.”

This, stupidly enough, has drawn the attention of a Wisconsin radio station, which has banned all “songs from any band that calls Seattle home.”

I realize that this is all tongue-in-cheek, and just a way to spice up the pregame festivities, but it just makes us all look like a bunch of idiots. It seems, perhaps, that only Berkeley, California would get caught up in something more ridiculously misunderstandable. Let’s all just shut up about this, and get ready for Sunday afternoon, so we can get back to eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in City Hall, and listening to Pearl Jam in Madison, Wisconsin.

-Tex

GO SEACHICKENS!

So I really only have just a couple of vices that I engage in regularly, and I should probably start thinking about giving them up. I always said that as long as I worked in restaurants, I would probably continue smoking, as those 3 minute smoke breaks (of my allotted 10) were the only time I had to myself since becoming a manager. They were a chance for me to step away from the insanity and chaos and collect my thoughts, regroup within myself and come up with a game plan. That is, of course, until it became customary to be hit up for a cigarette five times in those 3 minutes. Actually, for a little while, I considered giving them up, not because of the associated health risks, but because I was getting sick and tired of random people coming up (no exaggeration, like 30 people a day) and asking to bum a smoke. I know they are a luxury when you don’t have anything to call your own, but I can’t give out a pack and a half a day, especially when I am smoking a little over half a pack myself.

The other evil I should probably excise from my life is the constant flow of energy drinks that I’ve pouring into myself for the past five years or so. I love the rush of caffeination and the way it casually combats a lifelong dedication to apathy, but just like other uppers I have partaken of in the past, I know that I could achieve similar results if I were to just figure out how to get a good night’s sleep. Not that I’m expecting that any time soon. Perhaps when my son is out of school, and living somewhere else, and my wife and I are able to transmute our worries about the daily rat race to something involving a small garden. I’m sure that as long as I am obligated to live by someone else’s schedule, I’ll probably remain intimate with my dear old friend, exhaustion. When I was a teenager, I rebelled against Authority, whereas now I seem to want to incite rebellion against reality. Go figure.

And while I am confessing all of my dietary sins, I should also include all the preprocessed garbage I regularly shove into my bearded foodhole. I am a slave to snack food, candy, and Mountain Dew. My waistline and swelling breasts are evidence that something must be done to curb this slowest and deadliest form of self-destruction, but I’ll be damned if sugar, salt, and fat aren’t just the tastiest ingredients of any unbalanced meal. Unlike the previous two evils on this guided tour of my own failings, I have already taken steps to begin cutting this nonsense out of my life. For years, I’ve said to wife that we should plan out a weekly menu so we can buy groceries with purpose, and minimize on prep time, and the amount of things in the freezer which have microwave instructions. Next week, yours truly has been tasked with the grocery shopping and cooking duties, and I will be ensuring that we’re eating fresher and healthier than we’ve done previously. Vegetables, less salt, olive oil, smaller portions of meat, butter only when absolutely necessary (unfortunately, I will most likely find countless justifications for its usage, but still…). And we’re going to try an have an actual family dinner time!

For the past few years, my wife and son-in-law have worked nights and evenings, while I was stuck with morning shifts, so the feasibility of getting everyone around the table to eat something we could all agree on was so nonexistent as to be laughable, outside of the Big Two holidays (Thanksgiving and Christmas). But since I left my job, my son-in-law has been able to take over my shifts at work, and my wife successfully changed her availability to mornings as well. That means that, for the first time since we have all lived together, we have a time when we can all be in the same place at the same time when at least most of us are hungry. I don’t know if it will bring us closer together as a family, or help with my son’s behavior (as has been suggested), but I do know that it will definitely cut down on dirty dishes, as only one meal will be prepared, and at a certain time, as opposed to the two or three separate meals that are our current standard.

Having said all of this, I don’t know how dedicated I am to self-improvement. I’ve spent the better part of three decades just biding my time until I wouldn’t have to worry about it any more, and being disappointed by every passing milestone that I’m still around to see it, thinking, briefly, that maybe I should take a moment to prepare for the future. And of the few things I’ve said that I should do this year, I’ve taken steps to make at least a couple happen. My process is glacial, and I’m inordinately more stubborn than even I might have previously imagined, and yet I’ve still managed to make at least a little progress over the past several months.

The most important thing was getting back into the rhythm of writing every day, so that it wouldn’t be like pulling teeth when I wanted to get started down the path of my dreams, and I can say that it’s finally coming easier. When I started this blog, it was a pain to sit and think of what I wanted to say, and then to pad that out a hundredfold to make it to my quota, and I found as many excuses as I could to avoid the one thing that I ever truly wanted to spend my whole life doing. Sick? Day off. Holiday? Day off. Returning home by train? Okay, that one was totally justifiable. And I’ve been writing every day since, and usually done early enough that I still have time to work on other things once I’m warmed up. So have I done enough? I don’t know, but at least I got the ball rolling, and that’s something.

-Tex

Stay tuned this evening for the first edition of Batmart After Dark, an occasional showcase for the people and things which are currently rocking my entire world.

I haven’t been sleeping all that well since getting back from Washington, and my attempt to return to a more nocturnal schedule has run directly into my obligation to take my son to school at an entirely unacceptable time of day. To be fair, I’ve gotten him there early every single day that it’s been my job to take him, but there’s always the lurking horror that one day I might have to explain myself to the Principal. Some things never change.

7:42 a.m.- 33 minutes until First Bell

The Bedroom

“Dad, wake up! It’s… seven… four… two…”

My eyes still closed, I grasped for my charging cell phone and responded, “You mean 7:42?”

“Yeah, 7:42. Come on, Dad! We’re going to be late!”

I looked at my phone to confirm the time, and saw that I had overslept. To hammer home the point, an ignored alarm began blaring in my face. “Ughh… Okay, get dressed. Your clothes are on the dresser.” I motioned in the general direction of his uniform which my wife had set out the night before. “Change out of your pajamas first.”

“I know, Dad!”

“Okay, I’m saying…”

I seriously considered tossing my phone across the room and going back to sleep, but decided that leaving my son to his own devices would probably come back to haunt me. I watched as my son grabbed each article of clothing, one by one, and carried them across the room to put them on, and then returning for the next layer a moment later. “You know you you can grab the whole stack, right?”

“Dad! You need to get dressed! We’re going to be late!”

“Dude,” I sighed, “Chill. It takes me like, I don’t know… two minutes to put on my clothes. We’re good, man.”

“Okay.” He seemed pretty judgmental for a dude in socks and underwear. I stretched out, and felt my back protest. I calculated how much money I had left, and tried to figure if I had enough for a new bed. I didn’t think that there was much point in getting another substandard mattress and box spring set, but wasn’t sure if I could cover anything much better. I knew it would be an investment in the future, but I-

“Okay, I’m done!”

“Great… Okay, go and-“

“Wash my hands and face?”

“Yeah… Gimme a minute, I’ll get dressed.”

David scampered across the hall to the bathroom, and I dragged myself out of bed.

7:57 a.m.- 18 minutes until First Bell

The Kitchen

Having both finished dressing, and using the facilities, my son and I went to the kitchen to rustle something up. “Don’t forget my pills, Dad. Two today.” I took a moment to look at my son, and the weight of his words sunk into me. Just a couple months ago, he had been terrified to take his state sponsored speed, fearing that he’d choke upon the tiny pills. But now he was an old pro at taking his medication, and only needed his Piña Colada yogurt drink to swallow them. I poured him a glass, handed him the pills, and watched him swig them down with ease.

He’d been eager to resume his medication lately, ever since his teacher had been complaining of his energy levels and telling him that maybe his parents needed to increase the dosage. Her forwardness irritated me, but since we put him back at his full dose, his behavior in class has improved, and everything he’s told me about how he feels while he’s on them has reassured me that it’s not a simple dexedrine zombie state. He seems to be able to compartmentalize his bursting energies when on the drug, and I’d like to see if he can use his strategies to try and deal with this without taking pills every day.

He finished his drink, and rinsed out the cup before setting it in the sink. “Come on,” I said, “Let’s go see what we can do about your hair.” Like every morning, a large swath of hair was spiking out at random angles in the back, and, although I felt that he looked just like any other little boy in this regard, I knew his mother would have been mortified for people to see him in such an unkempt condition. I moistened my hands, and ran my fingers through his hair, trying to subdue the problem areas, and then ran a brush over his dampened head, hoping that it would be enough, while realizing that, as I didn’t really care, I probably wouldn’t be the most impartial judge.

“Okay, let’s go. Where’s your backpack?”

“I’ve got it right here, Dad.”

“Okay, you ready?”

“Ready!”

“Come on, let’s do this thing.”

“You’ve got your keys, Dad?”

“Yeah, monkey man. They’re right here.” We walked out the door into the Bay Area’s approximation of chilly, and headed toward his school.

8:07 a.m.- 8 minutes until First Bell

Just outside David’s School

“Oh, so don’t forget to tell your teacher that you’ve got a doctor’s appointment today.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got a doctor’s appointment today.”

“Oh… What time?”

“I’ll come and get you around one o’clock.”

“Can you and Mommy pick me up together?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Mommy won’t get off from work in time. But we’ll meet her at the doctor’s office.”

We walked in through the gates, and to the packed cafeteria, where David grabbed a bagged cinnamon roll and a juice box. Normally by this time, all the kids had lined up outside, or were at least in the general area, running around, enjoyed the final moments of freedom before classes began, but since the temperatures had dropped, none of the adults wanted to chaperone the playground any longer than they absolutely had to. Of course, by the time that David had gone through the line, and grabbed the sugariest breakfast he could find (parents are not allowed in line- the kids have to learn to make their own choices (or so the sign posted in the cafeteria reads)), it was finally time to brave the elements and get in line. He attacked the pastry with frightening speed, and sucked down the juice without hesitation, tossing the packaging into the nearest trashcan, and dragging my outside.

“Okay, David. Have a great day today.”

“I will, Dad.”

“I love you, big guy.”

“Me too, Dad.”

“Oh, hey- don’t forget to remind your teacher about your homework.”

“So homework and doctor, right?”

“That’s it, man. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

I gave him a hug and kiss, knowing that in just a few short years, if not sooner, I would be forbidden this for fear that it would be considered uncool. But at least, for now, the world is as it should be, and I can still gather my baby boy up in my arms, and plant smooches upon his cheek and brow. I turned to look at him as I walked away, and marveled at just how short a time seven years truly are.

-Tex

Look at me, awake in the morning once again. I picked up a Red Bull on the way to drop my son off at school, and now I’m tackling my thousand words so I’ll be free to accomplish something else (anything else) during the copious amount of free time I’ve got lined up today. David doesn’t get out of school until half past two, so I’ve got literally hours to put towards something besides moping about, dreading the day when I have to face the outside world. I’ve got Pandora on, tuned to the Alice In Chains station, and I can feel something brewing in the burning storms of neurons firing back and forth across my brain. I don’t want to jinx it, but I may have stumbled onto the secret to my happiness (and financial stability). My wife is working the morning shift at her job now, a marked improvement over the hours she used to work before she took her vacation. Instead of being left to sleep, and waste away the day in a state of lethargic apathy, I have to put on pants and step outside the safety of my front door, tasked with delivering my only son to school.

I’ve been blathering on about using this blog as a warm-up for something more important, always reassuring myself that I would start writing when I was ready. I believe I mentioned in an earlier post (toward the beginning of December), that just as I was getting into a rhythm, and started going at full speed, the timer would be almost down to zero, and I would be faced with the impossible choice of work or genius. Well, the clock is winding down, and I haven’t done anything even remotely creative during these past several weeks of indolence, and sooner or later I’ll need to get back working for The Man. At this point, I’m running out of time to get started before it’s not even an untenable decision, but rather a unceremonious sliding back into a quiet whimpering resignation that I simply do not have the will by which I can succeed. But not today, dear friends. I will not face any inevitability beyond that which I’ve known in the deepest secret chambers of my heart (figuratively, for sure, as inspiration is rarely found within a muscle) since I was just a boy (the same age as my son is now).

Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time understanding him: by that age, I’d already had my moment of clarity, and had begun steering my life toward that goal. I see him lost, foundering with no purpose, just bouncing from want to want, carried along by eddies (insert Douglas Adams joke here) sweeping him in circles and disorienting him. I understand that I’m not the best the role model, as I’m really a man of last resorts. I tend to avoid both the stitch in time, and neglect the nine that I’ve failed to save through inaction. I don’t make plans, aside from grand sweeping gestures toward intent, and I definitely sweat the small stuff. All of that combines into a Voltron of decisiveness when my back is up against the wall, and the biggest decisions of my life have been made with a clear head. When the moment comes for me to answer whichever challenge has been thrown down, I can calmly look at the options left to me, take a deep breath, and choose what’s behind door number three. Nothing confuses Fate so much a man ready to mix metaphors at the drop of a hat.

At this time I’d like to take a moment for a brief aside: I miss being able to smoke indoors. It’s not the weather (usually too hot or cold), or the fact that I have to put on pants to give into my addiction, it’s that it’s just so much more convenient to remain seated at my desk than to have to get up, put on a coat, and go somewhere else while the juices are still flowing. I know it would make more sense to just give them up, or at least switch to e-cigarettes, but that’s another set of problems. I have no doubt that someday I will have to give up smoking; I’ve seen too clearly what it’s done to people whom I dearly love. It’s just that I enjoy the chemical reactions from the nicotine (at least for the first smoke or two. After that it becomes more about withdrawal maintenance), and don’t want to subject my loved ones to the monster that I would unleash (which I still remember vividly from when my mother quit smoking almost thirty years ago) as my body fought to free itself of the shackles of addiction. Well, it would most likely be desperately fighting to tighten the shackles (the body being loathe to change self-destructive habits), but either way, it’s not something I’m looking forward to.

I can understand that my son has no patience for the busy work that his teacher sends back home with him (which will come as no surprise to any teacher who had me for a student), but the lesson to be learned with busy work (which I never took to heart) is that it is preparation for the “real” world: most jobs require some form of tedium and repetition, and the sooner you can develop strategies to keep your brain from atrophying, the better suited to survive the rat race you will become. And I hate to side with the woman who is “educating” him, but he needs to work on penmanship like I need to quit tobacco (doesn’t see the point, kind of painful, but ultimately necessary). I know that we’re living in a world of ever-present technological advancements, and that my two year old grandson can navigate a tablet computer easier than my wife (whose age is a closely guarded secret, integral to national defense), but I can easily imagine scenarios where my son might some day be without electricity, and need to communicate something through the written word.

And then there’s the issue of his reading. He can do it, that’s not the problem. It’s that he has no interest in reading. He just doesn’t see the point, when there are hundreds of shows and games and literally anything else he could be doing instead of burying his face deep into a musty book (or even brightly lit screen). As a writer, this is incomprehensible to me. I began reading at an early age, and have lived and died a thousand times between the covers of countless books. Sure, I still binge on Netflix, and indulge in a game or two on the Xbox (or on my phone), but I always make at least an hour or two available to lose myself someone else’s life. Maybe I was able to fall so deeply in love with the written word because I grew up poorer than not (especially on the Island which I called my home), and didn’t have all of the distractions that a better life has been able to provide. I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to write an amazingly engaging book to draw him in, and keep hold of him until he can seek out other works.

-Tex

For the first time since leaving behind my job of six years, I will be actively seeking out employment tomorrow. I’d like to avoid working in a restaurant if it can be avoided, but it ultimately comes down to being able to pay my bills next month. Realistically, I only need something that can pay me $1200 in a month (significantly lower than I was making, but enough to pay the bills and pay off credit cards), but that will probably mean getting back into management if I only want to work part time. I’d really like to limit myself to 25-32 hours in a week, leaving time to keep writing on the blog, and start working on a novel. I think if I can nail down something for $12-13/hr, I can pull it off. I mean, that’s only going to be $3-4 over minimum wage here in California, and I do have years of management experience.

I have to polish up my resume, and iron out my suit, and find a printer I can use to canvass the businesses in my neighborhood with queries about work. It would probably help if I didn’t always feel entirely so exhausted. I honestly could sleep for at least a week, wake up for a bowl of cereal, and catch another hundred z’s. It seems like so much effort when I’d rather just stay at home, and despite the knowledge that I’ll be performing at a veteran level within a week or two, the notion of a first day at work completely terrifies me. Like every other newbie, I always feel I’m in the way, and I just want to get through the first couple days without screwing up anything major. Of course, I could stay awake all night and bust out the first quarter of a novel so that I could buy some more time from my wife before her hammer drops. I guess I better remember how to use an iron.

Brief Interlude- Things Which Shouldn’t Amuse Me, But Do:

A carnivore in a vegetative state

Angina

Poop deck

What is the most flavorful Spanish animal? Un delicioso 

Hippies

I wish there were a job that would allow me to lounge about all day and come up with inappropriate names for Metal Bands (Snuggle Riot), while still receiving a steady paycheck. It’s basically my goal to become a well-paid hermit, but one that only has to write occasionally, such as when the mood has stuck him. This blog is helping, for sure, as I’ve written over 30,000 words since I began, which is easily double what I wrote in the whole of the 12 months before that. I’m getting more comfortable with the mechanics of the clickety-clackety, and my inner narrative voice has regained some of it composure. The only thing I’m really missing at this point is my imagination. I’ve gotten too used to trying to rationalize all of the insanity, that any time I try to start something, I have to understand its universe molecularly, and that makes it a little daunting, to be sure. But fear not, people who might one day want to give me money for something which I’m currently providing free of charge: These little 1,000 word epistles are, for the most part, completely different every day, free of themes or plotlines. I am giving myself a crash course in improvisational wordsmithing, starting from scratch almost every day, and wrangling from the ether something that resembles intent.

It’s a bit nerve-wracking, but it’s also kind of fun. I get the chance to just let loose with whatever comes to mind, and pad it out with verbiage. I know I’ve been saying it for awhile, but I really do feel like I’m on the brink of a substantial composition. My muscles have been stretched, and I’ve broken a sweat (figuratively, that is), and I feel like when I choose to start, I’ll be able to keep going. I just need to actually get through to my muse, who seems to have been screening my calls since we took a break. She’s a fickle sort of inspiration, and I have to admit that I could have tended better the sweet nothings which we once shared. But I know she misses me, and sooner or later (most likely in the middle of the night) she’ll toss aside her better judgment, and drunk-dial Mr. Batmart.

Brief Interlude- Things I Don’t Much Care For:

Cable news

49ers fans

Cauliflower

Waiting in line

Pants

So what are my priorities for prospective jobs? Well, aside from enough money to make it all worthwhile, it should ideally be fairly close to home, so that I don’t have to waste the first hour of my shift paying to get out there and back home again. I’d like a minimum of customer interaction, as I’ve had quite enough of that over the course of my working life, and I’d like to do something that required me to sit for at least a quarter of my shift. I’m getting older, and those desk jobs that I read about when I was younger are looking more and more attractive. I know that if I wanted to, I could call in a couple favors, and get back into restaurant management (and a decent salary) almost immediately. Depending on how the job search goes, I may have to go that route. I’m not thrilled at the prospect of it, but the fact is that I’ve built up a decent network of contacts over my time in food service, and they know what kind of man I am, and what level of competency I bring to the table. Personally, I think a peripheral recommendation is almost more valuable than a direct one, as it is based only on results and high-impact interactions, where as office politics can sometimes get in the way with people who you’ve worked with.

I did this so that I could look my son directly in the eye and tell him that money can’t buy him happiness, and to always go after his own dreams. I just hope my example is more inspirational encouragement, rather than cautionary tale.

-Tex

My wife loves to play the lottery, although I don’t know how much playing is involved in a game where one person gives another money and are given a scrap of garbage in return. In my life, I think the most I’ve ever won by gambling is $40, which brought my total winnings up to -$869. Whether it’s a card table, slot machines, Mega Millions, or just scratchers, I don’t really know when I should stop, and wind up losing money that I cannot afford to lose. That is why I generally don’t have anything to do with games of chance, as I’ve learned that I like eating, and not being homeless, as my waistline and collection of domestic crap can easily attest. We still play the lottery occasionally, but I’ve accepted that I’ll never have a chance to win, and that I’m paying a couple dollars to spend the evening fantasizing about all the things which I would do if money were no object. Framed like that, it’s not truly that much worse than a glass of Scotch right after work, and as long as it’s not every day, I feel that it’s okay.

So what would I do if I had millions of dollars to play around with?

I’d like to build a house that had all the amenities that I’ve gone without since I began living in apartments. I’d need a private theater, with a giant screen and surround sound, with hookups for every gaming system ever made (which I would purchase for myself as well), a Blu-Ray player (with internet video streaming apps, of course), and a V.C.R., because I still have some videos that I’d like to watch that were never converted to the next technological level. And I’d make it so that the screen could retract, and I could put on various stage plays when I felt the need to watch something written by Romulus Linney, or pay musicians to come and perform a private concert for me (Does anyone know the number for Apocalyptica’s agent? They put on a hell of a good show). I’d let Bad Leon Suave help design the fly loft and the rigging, while Fed could lend his expertise for the light booth and the sound board.

The kitchen would be, in a word, magnificent. I’d commission a commercial setup, with yards and yards of counter space, a couple ovens (one regular/convection, and the other a double deck Baker’s Pride), high-end food processors and slicers. I’d put in a little butcher shop-style alcove, where I could prepare my cuts of bison, or just go to hang out somewhere cool and play with knives in the sweltering days of summer, and be connected by a little door leading into the walk-in freezer, which will measure at least fifty feet by fifty. Next to the freezer, would stand my walk-in fridge, with gleaming, clearly labeled Metro shelving, with a chilled preparation area for anything that might require it. A bodega would replace the need for a walk-in pantry, and be filled with not only all my stocks of dry goods and sturdy shelving, but be lined with hooks and cabinets containing every pot and pan that I might ever need (and yet I think I’d still find that my wife had filled both ovens to capacity with various odds and ends). And I think I’d need some sort of window garden, scaled up, obviously, to provide my with fresh herbs throughout the year.

I’m sorry, but I’m actually really excited about this… I’d need at least four deep fryers (to keep the flavors separate), a flat grill at least a meter long, a triple range with gas and electric options, as well as that cool new thing they have that works with a special kind of pot or pan, that only heats up using those, and is otherwise cool to the touch. I have no idea how they do that, but I think that I would like a set. Maybe I should get a clamshell grill (for those times that I absolutely must have a burger sometime in the next two minutes, and barbecue, and… dare I dream it… a fire pit beneath a spit.

I’d give my wife three bedroom-sized storage and presentation areas (the word closet will in no way suffice) for all her shoes and clothes and purses, with a display case for her jewelry in the vestibule which would connect through private door into her side of the master bedroom. On my side would be the door into our master bath. Its main features would include a sunken tub, a shower, and jacuzzi, with not only a toilet (with heated seat), but a urinal as well. What the heck, we might as well throw in a bidet.

My office would be in the basement, where I could write in peace, free from the distractions of the outside world. I’d line the walls with bookcases, and my desk would hold not only my computer, but a drawer full of Moleskine journals and Retro 51 Tornados. And I’d need a library that would put many smaller towns to shame, both in square footage and variety of printed texts. And like 20 different Kindles containing every book that I might ever like to read. From time to time I would invite my favorite authors to come and do a private stop on their book tours, or maybe just come out to visit and sign a book or two, and drink a glass of Scotch.

While I was waiting for the house to be completed, I guess I’d have to travel. It would be a perfect time to go see Scotland, Ireland, and England, Norway, Spain, and France. And I’d probably want to pop in to the Netherlands, and patronize a “coffee shop” in Amsterdam. We’d need to get all of my wife’s paperwork completed before we left the country, so we’d most likely make our first stop in her hometown just southeast of Mexico City. I think I’d like to treat all of my in-laws to the wedding celebration that we never had, renting out some old cathedral, and throwing a party the likes of which I’ve truly never cared for. My wife’s family helped mold her into the woman that I cannot imagine life without. If I was to come into some money, I’d like to make a dent into that debt which I never can repay.

And I suppose that I should put some money in the bank to prepare for David’s college, and property taxes, and not having to work another day in my entire life. You know, if I had millions of dollars.

-Tex

I’ve known Bad Leon Suave for close to thirty years now, and despite what I may have thought when I first met him, he became one of my best friends, and eventually one of my brothers (the other being Fed, of course). Despite being a native Californian (from the southern part of the state, at that), he’s actually a decent human being, and I’m glad we got to know each other all those decades ago. We were in the same Cub Scout troop (with his mom as our Den Mother), contributed to the same book in the third grade (“The Raddest Book By The Raddest Kids In The Raddest World”- can’t you just feel the 80’s?), suffered in the same fifth grade classroom, and somehow survived middle school (which I’ve been informed, is also sometimes referred to as “Junior High”), before making it to High School, where we actually became good friends. Our group in High School was not really one comprised of friends, but rather, a group of malcontents who simply hated everybody else more. We mostly smoked a lot of pot and mocked the athletic department and their “Anti-Drug Pledge.”

After I declined to finish out my public education, and join the ranks of the working man, Bad Leon still came to visit me at my girlfriend’s house, mainly, I think, to use the bathroom. He’d show up around lunchtime, grunt a hurried salutation, and walk directly to the restroom, locking himself inside for at least a good eight minutes. When he was done, he quickly shut the door behind him, lit a cigarette, and chatted with us a couple minutes, before noticing that it was time to go. He then would hurry out the front door, flying down the stairs, returning to his beat-up car and driving back to class. After about a month of this, we all began referring to the bathroom as “his room”, and, on more socially oriented visits, would jokingly remand him to its confines the moment he entered the door. What’s funny about the whole thing is not that he wanted to avoid taking care of business in a public facility (that, at least, is understandable), but that his own home was about two more minutes distance down the road.

Far too soon, it was time for him to take his leave of us, and make something of himself with a higher education. He packed his things and drove across the mountains to the poorly-ventilated cow town of Ellensburg, WA, to throw himself into a confusing hodgepodge of freshman year curriculum, all so he could build a life for himself and his High School sweetheart he’d left waiting back at home. Of course, like we could have all predicted, she wasn’t the really the type of person who understood the concept of fidelity or patience. To give her credit, though, she waited, if I recall correctly, at least a month or two into the school year until she cast him negligently to the side so she could seek out greener pastures. I love my brother deeply, and have had more than one relationship end suddenly upon my birthday (Surprise!), but he really wasn’t even close to prepared for dealing with such fundamental heartbreak 117 miles away from friends and family and the quiet comfort of his home. But life wasn’t done with him quite yet:

Having stuck it out for who knows how many loveless years until the kids were grown, his parents finally ended their relationship, and poor Leon spiraled further downward. The keystone to his future had suddenly been ripped away, and with no hope of happiness before him or behind, he just sort of drifted on a lessening wave of societal momentum until his apathy finally brought him to a full stop. I, on the other hand, was having a marvelous time of mental illness and chemical dependence, but I mention this only to briefly draw the focus away from Mr. Suave. We’ve all shambled through extended patches where nothing quite makes sense, but some of us are luckier than others in the duration of the melancholia.

I like to make fun (at some great length) of my good friend Leon Suave, but the truth is that we were there for one another when the world was falling down around us. I mentioned luck a moment ago, and you may have thought that it was mine, but actually Bad Leon recovered sooner (for the most part). He left school, and found a job, and an apartment, and decided it was time to maybe start acting like the adult that people had mistaken him for those past few years of training-wheel independence. At the same time, I was going through a nervous breakdown, and trying to simply gain a handhold on reality. I’d been lucky to point (as lucky as a guy who camped out in Mid-November in the Pacific Northwest because he didn’t have anywhere else to go can be), but had found myself working at a minimum wage job and living in the woods behind my hometown’s Safeway. Were it not for his compassion, I might never have escaped, and well… We were roommates for a bit, and though I had to leave my job to live there, and therefore couldn’t pay my share of rent, he always made sure that I had a bare minimum of nicotine, and something in my belly.

I’ve got hundreds of snarky anecdotes about the man, which I’ve yet to mention. Like the time his girlfriend and I went to one of his wrestling matches in High School, and watched him grapple with other sweaty adolescents wearing spandex until one of them submitted. Or how his very presence is entropic to the average motor vehicle, and should the world need saving from the abominations of Michael Bay, he stands alone as our last line of defense. And, knowing all of that, he still planned a drive from Tennessee to Alamogordo to join up with his friend’s band, and when he broke down outside a crack house somewhere in East Texas, he refused to answer my calls, as he didn’t want to hear me say, “I told you so.” But I won’t mention any of these, because of how much I respect him. He is a noble, if sometimes foolish, man, and he deserves to be remembered so.

-Tex

I hadn’t realized just how much my home in Not Quite Richmond, CA was affecting my mood until we got home yesterday, and I felt the lightness of spirit which I had enjoyed throughout my familial sabbatical just melt away beneath the all-too-clement weather and the same old nonsense resurrected (which had lain quiet and unmolested since our journey had begun). The arguments and ill will have soaked into the walls, and reinforce the cycle of discontent with every breath that’s drawn. And there’s something about this apartment that just knocks me out. A sort of lethargy comes upon me, and I find it difficult to maintain even the briefest consciousness. Our smoke detectors are also carbon monoxide detectors, and they haven’t been going off, but I know that I usually felt better when I left the apartment for any length of time, and just died when I came back.

This week is pretty much a wash, as I need to settle in to my role as personal chef here at home, and morning escort to school for my son. And then there’s football this weekend… We’re doing well enough that I’ve got a little wiggle room, but I’ll probably have to start looking for a part time job next week. After a decade in restaurant management, I’d like to ease myself into something less stressful and all-consuming (says the writer, typing), but I know that whatever I choose, I’ll probably seek out more responsibility (and money) before too long. I miss the paychecks of my last job, but not the constant worry about the restaurant. It’s nice to think, for at least a little while, that I when I clock out, the job will clock out with me, and I can go back home and not have to think about it.

I’m sitting here next to an open window to ward off somnolence, and it’s not really that effective. I’d like to just curl back up under the covers and sleep for the next week and a half. I probably shouldn’t, though. I’m fairly certain that an extended bout of hibernation wouldn’t do me any good, and I’m equally as sure that my wife wouldn’t tolerate that level of concerted shiftlessness. The last time I had this much “free time” to myself was the summer of 2008, when I stayed at home with David William and introduced him to the universe of Star Trek and Doctor Who. He was only one at the time, and easily entertained. It did making smoking harder, though. He never quite understood that I would be right back, and the more he began freaking out, the more I needed a cigarette. We made it work, though.

Now I’ve got my grandson to keep me distracted and not writing. I’m so grateful to be his grandpa for the duration of his Terrible Twos. I can just enjoy him when he wants to be personable, and when he wants to throw a fit, I can pass him back to Mommy. There are definitely advantages to marrying a woman with an almost fully grown child. With our son, she’s had her two, and isn’t pressuring me for a matching set. Also, that David was born 12 pounds by non-caesarean methods, and has been (according to my mother) the spitting image of me in terms of behavior and personality, I think my wife has decided that she daren’t risk another. For myself, I find it easier to enjoy our children knowing that when we’re done, we’re done, and can get on with being old people.

I think that’s what I’m truly looking forward to: spending the twilight of my life with someone whom I truly love, who truly loves me in return. It wouldn’t surprise me to accept the fact that I’ve probably been attracted to women a number of years older than me so that I have someone who will understand that, beneath the pretense of my chronological age, sits a grumpy man, wrapped up in eld, shouting at the world to get the hell off of his lawn. My wife says that she wants a refund; that I tricked her into marriage because she assumed I’d be more full of life. I just chuckle every time she brings it up, give her a hug, and tell her, “No refunds, no exchanges.” She scowls, then, and continues on in Spanish, explaining at some great length the penalty for fraud, all the while trying to conceal the twinkling in the corner of her eye that lets me know that she only sort of means it. She is the one that I’ve been looking for as long as I can remember, and though we have our ups and downs, I wouldn’t give her up for anything. Most of the time. There are a few occasions where I’d like to run off to a studio apartment by myself and live a life unfettered by domestic compromise and pants.

This March will see our sixth wedding anniversary, and this April will mark our ninth year together. It’s taken us a while to figure out who we are and who we are together, and just now, we are finally learning to build a life with one another, and do things as a team. It’s easy after almost a decade to want the butterflies of someone new, the thrill of some kind of fresh romance, but I’ve discovered that it’s exponentially more satisfying to fall in love again and again with the woman I chose to spend my life with. We still argue, as I enjoy it, and we’ll always have divergent points of view, but the arguments no longer carry the weight of matrimonial failure: we’re comfortable enough with one another that the threat of divorce has been taken off the table, and we can have it out in safety. In short, we’ve learned how to agree to disagree, and how to pave it over when we do. I love my wife more every day, and look forward to tomorrow.

 

-Tex

Welcome to my first instructional guide to surviving the banalities of life! If you’re like me (and considering my readers are comprised of friends and family, I’m guessing that you are), you sometimes have to sacrifice convenience for budgetary concerns. But that’s no reason not to get the most out of whatever low-budget predicament that you’ve managed to get yourself into. Sometimes you just have to stretch those tens of dollars just a little further, and I’m here to help you learn the tricks that I’ve come up with to get you to that goal. But before you can get to wherever that you’re going, and begin spending your rent money on nostalgic baubles and touristy crap, you need to need to actually physically transport yourself from where you are to where you want to go.

Airplanes are amazing, but having to plan out your excursion at least a month in advance can be a little overwhelming. Who knows what’s going to happen thirty days from now, or if your boss will even remember to honor your time-off request (you did remember to submit one, right?), or if that weeping sore around your ankle will keep growing, forcing you drop your novelty [insert destination city] t-shirt and commemorative shot glass cash on a trip to the doctor’s office and some sort of fancy topical wonder drug? That leaves cars, buses, bicycles, trains, or just hitchhiking. If it’s a journey to be undertaken by more than just one person, we can automatically eliminate the bike or thumbing down the freeway options. It’s highly doubtful that you have the time or fitness level to make the trip on human power alone, and if you’ve got a kid (or more), the best you can hope to accomplish is a couple miles distant from your front door.

Cars might seem like the next best option, but I assure you they are not. There’s the fluctuating gas prices as you pass from state to state, and the constant hunt for serviceable restrooms, because members of your party can’t hold it in long enough to make it to the Rest Stop. And if you can’t drive straight through the night, you’ll probably need to shell out a little more for a hotel room. Then there’s parking, depending on your destination. Oh, and can’t forget figuring out directions if you can’t afford a GPS. Factor in some money socked away should catastrophe occur, and we’ve all but ruled the mighty horseless carriage out. However, if you can cash in a favor, and talk a friend into playing taxi, it might be worth reconsidering.

I guess that you could take a bus to wherever you are going, but… I don’t imagine that that’s an avenue we’re truly interested in exploring. If you have to take the bus to start off on your journey, just stay at home and lock yourself into the closet and breathe in dirty laundry for much the same effect, with the added benefit of being able to get out whenever you might wish. Also, slightly more leg room.

So, with every other option now exhausted, we turn our gaze to the once-mighty backbone of the American Experience: The railway. The prices stay the same whether you book passage today or half a year distant from tomorrow, and the rates are slightly cheaper than what an airline is likely to have on offer. You buy your tickets, pack your bags, and head down to the Amtrak station. How, you might be asking, can you make the most of this scenic and sedentary travel?

1) Buy snacks and drinks to take along with you. The menu options are outrageous, and the average price of a candy bar is just above $2. They offer food on the train because they’d rather not see anybody starve, but if you want to make it off the train with your bank account intact, don’t indulge too heavily or frequently in the fully staffed mobile minibar.

2) Bring some form of entertainment. Books are great, as you can while away a journey lost in the adventures of another, but also moderately cumbersome, so I recommend a decent brand of e-reader. Make sure you load it up with books before you start your trip, as there isn’t any Wi-Fi except on designated lines.

3) You should have something to listen to, so as to avoid a conversation with a stranger, or possibly your family. Bring headphones along as well, as not everyone enjoys the early recordings of Metallica.

4) If you have a tablet for your kids, make sure to download whatever videos you want them to veg out to so that you can sleep. Don’t worry about variety: they’re kids, and can watch the same show over and over with out ever getting bored. If you can, bring headphones for them as well, unless you’re willing to risk opening yourself up to random introductions.

5) If the trip will last longer than twelve hours, seriously consider springing for a family cabin, or at least a single sleeper. I know we’re on a financial tightrope, but you can platoon the bed among you (think of it as an investment against your chiropractor’s yacht), and it can easily be afforded if you are willing to get rid of most of the electronic clutter strewn around your child’s bedroom.

6) If you are a smoker, I wish you the best of luck. There are not that many stops long enough to pop quickly out and light one up, so I’ve thought of some alternatives:

6a) Consider quitting smoking. Apparently it’s supposed to do wonders for your lungs and pocketbook. No? Yeah, I was laughing too.

6b) Nicotine patches can be effective, but I always feel a little too buzzed off the nicotine, yet still crave the flavor of a cigarette.

6c) The gum and lozenges seem like they would be a better choice, oral fixation and all, but the nicotine dripping down your throat is not the most pleasant of flavors.

6d) I guess that leaves e-cigarettes. Most people still get fairly upset if they see you simulating a good smoke, so just head down to the lavatory for a quick puff or twenty, before returning to your seat.

7) Didn’t have the money to afford sleeping accommodations? That’s okay, just pop the leg rest and ratchet back the seat, and you will find yourself in an almost, but not entirely, unbearable position. It won’t matter how you contort yourself to try and fit yourself into the seat: the body of a thirty-something is not meant to bend that way at all. Try to score some sleep aids or muscle relaxants.

Good luck on your journey, and have fun in [insert destination city]! I hope this little guide will help you survive until you get there. Until next time, this is Tex Batmart saying, “Can I borrow a dollar?”

-Tex

(Tex and his family are currently at the mercy of the Coast Starlight. They hope to arrive back home sometime tomorrow morning. Wish them luck!)