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!)

After over a fortnight spent just thirty minutes from Seattle, we finally decided to go and check it out. I lured my wife and son out with the promise of the Pacific Science Center, but my true intention was to have my first burger from Dick’s Drive-In in over a decade. Every time that I come back up here, I say I’m going to spend more time in Seattle, but every time I seem to be limited by the availability of transportation to the Bainbridge Island ferry terminal. I think it was for David’s fourth birthday, maybe, that we went over to Seattle Center to gaze upon the Space Needle, bum around the Pacific Science Center, and check out the Science Fiction display over at the E.M.P. I have entirely too many photos of our afternoon that summer, which is good, because David can’t remember even a single thing.

I really wanted to do something fun, and get the minkey out of the house, but I woke up late this morning, still groggy from less that five hours’ worth of sleep, and by the time my mom got back to the house, and my son convinced her to come with, there wasn’t really any chance at all of doing much more than just a couple things. But we walked out there anyway, eschewing public transportation for a brisk walk uphill in the bracing chill. I won’t lie: it’s been quite some time since I’ve walked around Seattle, and even longer still since I went looking for something that I couldn’t find at the base of the Space Needle. The directions on my phone seemed contradictory, at best, designed less for a pedestrian that a driver on the sidewalk. My wife again accused me of leading her around in circles (something she’s insisted that I’ve done both of the other times this trip that we’ve walked somewhere in Town), and this time, she was on surer footing. By the time we finally arrived at the restaurant I’d spent the past couple days tirelessly talking up, we were cold, and tired, and extremely hungry, and ready for amazing eats at the one and only (there are five other locations) Richard’s Fine Cuisine:

I only remembered the joint up in Lake City, where you’d walk up the the window, pay, and get your food, and leave. If you wanted to stick around and eat there at the restaurant, you had to stand off to the side, out of doors in every type of weather. So I was shocked to see what appeared to be a regular looking building with a giant neon Dick’s outside. We hurried in the doorway, David running for the bathroom (I swear this kid has no idea how to use his bladder: lets’s go past everywhere that might just have facilities… are we far enough… I NEED TO PEE!) and dragging my wife behind, while my mother and I took a couple minutes to inspect that glorious Menu Board that taunts my dreams of restaurant ownership like Pablo Neruda mocks my poetry.

Four burgers. Fries. Milkshakes. Soda. Ice Cream. Want something else? Too bad. No special orders, no nonsense. And if you desperately must customize your burger, they’ve got little cups of onions, ketchup, tartar sauce, and mustard for just a nickel each. In this day and age of every single restaurant trying to be everything to everybody, shedding quality and flavor with every menu option, and always is search of that final demographic which will push them past the tipping point into Scrooge McDuck’s bloody money vault, Dick’s has chosen a better route. With only a handful of items they are required to prepare, the opportunity for mastery is frequently attained, and free of the nonsense promotions that most restaurants endure, the focus is on fundamentals, not gimmicks and movie tie-ins.

If the menu prices changed since the last time I’d eaten there, it can’t have been by much. 2 Dick’s Deluxe, 1 Dick’s Special, 2 Cheeseburgers, 2 Fries, 3 Milkshakes and a Diet Coke ran us just under $25 (including the sales tax). I literally cannot remember the last time that I’ve taken my family out to eat and it’s cost me less than $30 (and usually for much less food, or at least, less generous portions). I brought the tray back to our table and sat it down between us. I tore apart the wrapper on my Dick’s Deluxe much like I’d done to gifts from Santa, years ago on Christmas Morning. By the time my son had gotten around to complaining how he would have rather eaten at McDonald’s, I’d already swallowed half my burger, and decided that I might enjoy it more if I took the time to chew. Between bites, I told David to knock off his thrumming whinge, and see how a fast-food burger was supposed to taste. He stared at it like someone might regard Soy Bacon, muttering that “McDonald’s cheeseburger is my favorite cheeseburger,” and bravely brought it to his lips. I must have blinked, because I never saw what happened, but that cheeseburger was never seen again. I asked my son what he had thought, and if he’d liked his burger. He said it was “just as good as what I get at McDonald’s.” I sighed and checked in on how my wife was doing.

Having heard for years about the Mythical Burgers at the Place up in Seattle that My Husband Won’t Shut Up About, I think she was expecting something… fancier. I can’t rightly say for sure, but she appeared to be mostly unimpressed, and had been hoping for something capable of living up to its hype. I took a bite of her Deluxe, to see if something had gone wrong, but it was just as delicious at that which had couchsurfed in my jowls. There was nothing wrong with what she’d eaten, I was sure, so the fault must lay within herself. As for my mother: it may have taken her a good half-hour, but she ate her entire hamburger and at least a couple fries, and said that it was, and I quote, “Pretty good.”

My son chirped in, “But not as good as McDonald’s, right Grandma?”

I sighed…

-Tex

Over the years of my carefree youth, I was treated by my grandparents to several road trips and other interstate adventures. They took me to Disneyland a couple of times before I’d reached the age of eight, and in my teen years, they treated me to travels down to Oregon, and back east through Idaho and the oppressive flatness of Montana, to come out on the other side and ooh and ahh in the glory of Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone, The Badlands, and Wall Drug. Any time my mother and I seemed ready to come to blows, I would be bundled into my grandparents’ car and off we’d go to explore adjacent states. Now that they are in their eighties, and I don’t have a license, the days of summer road trips have come to their conclusion. I would have loved to have bundled up my wife and son beside me, and take some time off work to go gallivanting across the country in search of adventure and excitement somewhere flat and filled with buffalo.

I’ve been trying to separate the tangled jumble of my memories, anecdotal snapshots mixed together, to try and tell a cohesive tale of the trips I’ve taken through the ages, but they all sort of blend together in a training montage set to early nineties Metallica. A snippet of sheer terror from my time served on the Peter Pan ride when I was four years old. Hitting puberty waiting in the line for Star Tours which I entered when I was seven, not reaching the actual ride until the springtime of last year. The gift shop down at Crater Lake, and the gift shop at the Oregon Caves. A fragment of a memory tinted by countless retellings of coming back up through California and only eating occasional mouthfuls off of my worried grandparents’ plates. They were relieved to get me home, as they’d been preoccupied the whole vacation with what appeared to be my imminent starvation.

But it was the story of our journey in the Summer of ’94 which has stayed with me all of these years,for the most part, still intact, and the purest motivation to brush up on my long-neglected driving skills and take my family out to see The States. If Fed can finally get his license, and Bad Leon Suave can keep a car for over six whole months, perhaps it’s time I reconsider my opposition to motor vehicle ownership. Of course, were I to drive, I would only care to be behind the wheel of an El Camino, and I’m not sure how reliable that vehicle is for family road trips crossing state lines. On the other hand, if David got to be too loud, or rude, or simply uncontrollable, I guess I could just shove a helmet on him, and let him ride out in the back, where only the howling wind which rushed alongside him could hear his protestations, leaving my wife and I to listen to the dulcet noises of Rock En Español.

It was just over two decades past that my grandparents and I took our final road trip. Things had been deteriorating here at home, and my mother and I desperately needed to put a handful of states between us. I don’t remember all I took, aside from piles of notebooks, pens and pencils, and my Walkman loaded up with tunes. In the morning chill of disharmonious domesticity, I loaded up the back seat of the Mitsubishi Galant, and waved good riddance to my mother, disappointed that I’d have to put off my regularly scheduled heartfelt sulking, but secretly excited that I stood a decent chance at being treated like a person. Everyone got settled as I blasted Soundgarden in my ears, and we were soon off on our adventure, heading East, and toward the Buffalo.

The defining characteristic of this vacation was an unending sea of Buffalo. From the front seat, my grandmother must have pointed out each and every Bison from Washington to Wyoming. Every couple minutes, she’d wave her arms again, pointing out towards the grasslands at the herds and stragglers, mighty bison streaks gone by. I really couldn’t fathom why she felt this odd compulsion to ensure I didn’t miss a single shaggy murdercow, but I suppose it might have helped her pass the time. Nothing about my memories stands out to indicate that I felt any different than I otherwise might have, but considering that I was fourteen, I can’t imagine that I projected anything beyond the most rudimentary sarcasm. I’m fairly certain that this must have been the case, as either the first or second night into the journey, I elected to stay in the motel room while my grandparents decided to seek solace in a glass or eight of wine.

It was at least a triple-digit evening, and I had the A.C. in the room cranked up to its highest setting while I perused the channels that our cable package back at home was woefully without. I got some writing done, finishing up a chapter in a novel I would soon abandon, and actually enjoyed myself for the better part of the sunset hour and following dusk. I’d just finished up a movie which no one would have ever allowed me permission to lay eyes on, when I heard the rattling and banging of the key against the door. I was too busy trying to change the channel to something still verboten, but with exponentially fewer boobs, when my grandparents stumbled in the door, dragging an alternative reality behind them.

The cot was out, and I was ordered onto it, by my grandmother, who seemed a bit uncertain as to the correct pronunciation of the words “Get,” ” bed,” “into,” and “now.” More bemused than terrified, I played along, assuming that, if I played opossum, the alcohol would help me out, and I could gain freedom once more. But my grandmother would have none of that, as she laid each single blanket down upon me, tucking them tightly in down below me, pausing only, I’m assuming, as she considered banging on the neighboring door and commandeering their comforters as well. “I’m fine!” I said, struggling to breathe, and I came to understand how pot roast felt.

“Oh, pooh!” she countered, tucking me in tighter still. “You’ll catch your death of cold!”

I looked over at my grandfather, turned away, but reflected in the wall-length mirror just above the sinks. His shoulders were shaking, and tears ran down his cheeks, as though he found something amusing.

-Tex

This is the year that I will make the time to write: a thousand words a day from here on out, until the notion of a thousand is automatic, and I can focus on trying to tie them into something larger. I want to give at least a thousand words to The Vaults, while working on a couple more regimented projects (which will hopefully result in payment), and try to hold down a day (or night) job, so that I can pay my bills until someone decides they’d like to pay me for my clickety-clacketing. I used to believe that if I wrote enough, and wrote well enough, eventually someone would take note of me, and I could bask in the adulation of my genius. I’ve since been convinced that I should probably develop some sort of plan, as the life of a starving, unappreciated artist is no kind of life for someone with a wife and child, and although I think I could be content living the life of a kept man, I do not believe my wife has any interest in that outcome whatsoever.

And I intend this to be the year when I finally go to Mexico and get to know my in-laws. For years I have been waiting for the universe to indicate that the moment had arrived for me to take my leave of The United States and take in what the rest of the world might have to offer. It will mean leaving behind everything I’ve ever known, and anyone who’s ever known me could tell you that I’m particularly bad at change. I’ve done it a handful of times, and it’s usually worked out for me, but the terror never really goes away. I’m still a little shaky from my resignation at the end of November, and from a financial standpoint, it’s been cause for concern. I have been writing, though, and getting myself back in line with where I want to be. And I doubt I’ll truly miss the San Francisco Bay Area, at least, not nearly as much as I still miss my native land of the Pacific Northwest.

I should probably also focus on trying to learn to be a better dad. I find it hard to understand the viewpoint of my son, and I can admit that I’m not as patient with him as I could strive to be. I need to find a way to interact with him from a less imperious position, and look for common language and ideological middle ground. Less time allowed in slack-jawed vegetation slumped down in front of the television, and more encouragement to actually pick up a book. I need to fight back my exhaustion and read to him on a regular basis, not just when I can muster the animus to attempt it. As he gets older and develops an arsenal of tactics to challenge my authority, I will lose the ability to influence his decisions (aside from his contradictory and punitive reactions out of spite), so if I cannot find some way to reach him now, I’ll probably have to join the Tea Party to keep his rebellious streak from leading him somewhere he may never be able to escape.

I have no idea how I will accomplish this, beyond getting into a rhythm with this blog. I’ve set myself a goal of 365,000 words this year, which means a new post every day in 2015. I’m not sure that I have that many observations about current events and personal trials and tribulations, but I’m going to do it, and I may even have some fun along the way. The move to Mexico will happen whether I am ready for it, or not, and I’m sure I’ll find my footing once I’m there. I’m looking forward to seeing the years of worry melt from my wife in the moment when she wraps her arms around her parents and hugs away the decade that has has kept her from them. And David William, well, I really can’t say how that situation will resolve. I’ve never known my own father, and despite having several role models when I was growing up, I don’t necessarily know how to do it in the off-camera moments. He’s similar enough to me, that I can recognize some things, but he’s also, frustratingly, developing his own personality, and no longer accepts my edicts as sacrosanct.

So where does all of this hedging leave me? Exactly where I was before, but with at least a nebulously defined purpose, which I hope will be enough to propel me forward until momentum takes hold, and it becomes harder not to do the things I must than to merely keep on going. I need to get this book that I’ve been mulling over out of the confines of my head, and onto paper (or its electronic equivalent) before I lose it altogether, and I promised my son I’d write him a children’s book which featured him prominently and heroically. At least, for the latter, I know a couple people who can help me out with illustrations. Since 2001, I’ve told myself again and again to tamp down my expectations, running down every conceivable way in which I might possibly fail. It’s been easier to play out fantasies of Id, than risk being hurt even one time more. No more. 2015 will be the year that I focus on the possibilities of making it, and look only toward success.

I’m good enough to run a restaurant, as over a decade in food service can attest, and my skills in management are easily transferable. But that isn’t what I dreamed of when I was just a boy, and I have a few more years left in me before I’d accept having to surrender. I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember, and it’s almost now within my grasp. I will use the embers of my inspiration to light my way toward my future, and spare not a backward glance into the shadows of the past.

I invite you all to share this journey with me: come and see where it will take me.

-Tex

It’s my wife’s birthday today, so I’ve been having a blast spending it with her. I’ll be back writing tomorrow (everybody is heading out…), so expect something in the afternoon and maybe something in the evening!

Happy New Year, everyone! See you in 2015!

-Tex

I almost made it through the holidays without a single lactose-related injury. I’ve managed to consume my volume in Egg and other Holiday-themed Nogs several times over this past month, to no deleterious effect, but today I pushed my luck just a bit too far, and have been paying the price for most of the evening. Considering that the Nog is on the shelves but a couple months out of the entire year, I regret not even a single drop of its dairy goodness. I just wish my stomach and adjacent facilities would get on the same page as me.

My son has been harassing me since arriving on The Island, insisting that I play Star Munch(i)kin with him. I can usually beat him in less than ten minutes, but he keeps coming back for more. I only really want to play once a day with him, as he’s less interested in the game, and more on reading every single card out loud to me several times consecutively, and generally just messing about. He bends the cards, and knocks them on the ground, and is obsessed with getting “The Cool Bounty Hunter” card. For the rest of the time that I cannot bring forth the will to play, he grabs the box down from wherever I have stashed it, and begins a “game” with his Auntie or his Grandmother, which consists primarily of him just pulling out all of the cards one by one, describing them out loud like the Special Audio Edition for the Sightless, until whomever he has cornered finally gets up and leaves him to chatter amongst himself.

Yesterday I took my family to the Grand Forest where we met up with (everybody look at) Ms. Squeak and her band of bouncing boys. I’d been looking forward to a pleasant walk along a forest trail to soak in extra oxygen to replace that which has been unavailable to me through life in the Bay Area, and cigarettes. Flor loves it as well, and for very similar reasons. But David had the best time out of everybody, running back and forth along the paths and trying to discover puddles in which he could go a’splashin’. And after being stuck with his soon-to-be-ancient parents, the chance to run around with a couple other troublemakers proved to be more than he could bear. As we were nearing the end of the trail’s loop, he managed to soak through his jeans and jacket in one epic and poorly placed foot-first dive into a pond. I don’t know that I’ve seen him happier.

We packed up the kids and headed back to where I’d once hung out beneath the gaze of A.B. Squeak’s father when we were all back in High School. Aside from a handful of electronics that sat scattered around their living room, the place looked like it had been perfectly preserved since the late 90’s. I hope one day to have the stability to maintain a museum level dedication to the preservation of chosen way of life. We’d brought a couple sandwiches, and Squeaky had baked bread, but the only thing the kids truly desired was a Family Size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that my wife shoved in pack as well. The grownups sat around the table and told stories of Tex Batmart, my own and Ms. Squeak’s, having been blown upon to clear the decade and a half of dust. I am forever grateful that the Middle School yearbooks never saw the light of day.

All too soon (for David), it was time to go. They bundled into the car and waited for it to warm up while I strolled to just past the property line and lit a cigarette as A’s dad look on in judgment like I was still some trenchcoated high school malcontent off to corrupt his daughter. I wasn’t then, and it wasn’t my intention now, so I puffed as fast as I could manage, and stowed the butt upon my person for disposal upon a later occasion. It had been a relaxing afternoon with a modicum of exercise, and I’d been afforded the opportunity to introduce my wife to one of my female friends of whom she did not immediately have anything negative to say. We drove back to my Grandparents’ place and thanked our hostess for a well-spent afternoon.

Tomorrow is my dear wife’s birthday, and I have decided that I will cook her some sort of delicious dinner. Of course, half the household is on some sort of taste-free diet, so in addition to being habanero-free for the benefit of David, it now will most likely not contain enough salt or proper butter. Or I could make a small batch (enough for five or six people), and just let the Weirdos eat their cardboard. I wish shopping for my wife was something that could be an entirely electronic experience. For most people now, I just buy e-books and queue them up for either right this second, or the moment that the year arrives upon the day of their birth. But Flor doesn’t really care to read (which is bizarre, since I have always been both a reader and a writer), and usually forbids me to get her anything (showing just the tiniest tic of disappointment should I have obeyed her. It’s too bad, because the Kindle versions of six Calvin and Hobbes collections were on sale today for $1.99 each, and I could have said that I purchased them for her.

So I will cook something fancy for her, choosing ingredients at random until a recipe begins to coalesce. That’s been my favorite part of cooking over the past several years: wandering into a grocery store and sizing up the produce, grabbing what looks good until I figure out what I can make from what I’ve shoved into my basket. Probably some sort of pasta or perhaps my rice dish… I think I’m really going to miss: having access to a Mexican Supermarket.

-Tex

UPDATE: The Calvin and Hobbes sale has ended.

She was just as I had forgotten her to be: a swirl of shadow, coalescing into perception, taking form from the gradual accretion of a spinning gravity of nothingness. The last time that I had been summoned by the Council to stand silently before Her, I’d been informed in such a way as to allow not even the merest hint of uncertainty of Her intentions, that were I to return again to Her demesne, it would mean sure forfeiture of self, my life being the very minimum that She would take. I never bowed before her when I came of age, nor declared my opposition; I never felt any inclination of obligation, nor desire to profess some binding fealty towards any of the countless Powers which claimed this otherwise nugatory estate comprised primarily of stone and grove and the longanimity of unrealized dreams. My growing strength of mystic will and natural capacity to casually manipulate the Shadowstuff which bound the Beasties and the Spiritwalkers to this world was cause enough for their disquietude, but the simple notion that I refused any and all affiliation whatsoever to whomever might have desired it was entirely beyond reason. The Greymage and his incalculable intent, they finally decided, would not be suffered any longer.

Ten years ago, The Council of the Powers summoned me to stand trial before The Quiet, wrapped in shadow and gagged with inchoate mammal panic at the foreknowledge of my inexorable disposition should their appraisal of my character and propensity for interference be determined unavoidable and unacceptable to their current and future whims. The Quiet, oldest and least tolerant of man, could see beyond even the most skillfully wrapped evocations of layered obfuscations a mage might summon about his heart, and gaze upon said man’s quintessence: the seed of sentience from which all further futures would spring forth.

The person which I’d always believed myself to be, and the face of the man I wished the world to know would be weighed in judgment against the being She perceived that I would always be. Any variance summarily judged dissemblance, indicative of the danger which I represented to their order with my every breath. She whispered slivers in my dreams, and shouted glamour to my fear, seeking the destruction of my conscious self to lay the writhing tremors of deception bare. There has never been, nor ever will there be a man who shall survive our introductions, little worm. Enjoy the final moments of your agony’s endurance, for they are all of which remain of you. My history began to burn before my eyes and in my head: joys and triumphs cherished, torments suffered and replayed over and over and over again throughout the freezing depths within the tiny hours of the night; everything which had ever contributed to who I had become, now a searing conflagration reducing and exalting me within the fires of Her Night. The crucible of Her perception cauterized my every hurt and loss, purifying that potential which, until now, I had begged be taken from me.

Serenity came suddenly upon me, a calm of purpose pumping ice and argent fury through what little of myself remained. Liberated from the shackles of any callow aspiration to survive her eradicative interrogatory, I summoned up the will within me which had so terrified the Council that they’d sought first to secure from me fidelity, and, failing that, procure a more permanent neutrality. I forced my eyes up to look into the deeper blackness where the Queen of Night’s own should have been, casting toward Her in that gaze, every shard of aggravation which threatened to consume me in a righteous and cathartic apotheosis. Silver rage burned fiercely behind my eyes, and a molten tone infused the words upon which I impaled The Quiet, “Remember in the moment when you fade away, that this could have been avoided. I never wanted anything to do with you or anyone on, or represented by your preposterous Council! The boy has burned away, and naught but the Greymage remains.”

I raised my index finger up and sliced away the aphotic interdiction these primordial numina had set upon me, cutting loose the Shadowstuff with blinding light, barely registering as it melted down and slunk away, driven down and out of sight by the silvery bells of pure phosphorescence which shimmered just beneath my skin. I traced my sigil in the air, every motion incandescent, blistering the space between us as my animosity ignited and renewed my sign of power, a clear, defiant denunciation of the supposed hegemony of the power of the night. With each heartbeat, my power grew, and I knew I could not long survive it. No hope remained to walk away, and leave them to their inconsequential mystical hostilities; in order to survive, I’d left myself nowhere to run, and the price to end this confrontation would inevitably be my final breath.

Little child, The Quiet boomed, I believe I’ve had more than I care of this. I could extinguish you, as you might do so to a wick. There is power in you, yes, but not near enough to challenge me. Take care that you don’t pester me, or I will snuff you out this night.

“You’re bargaining?” My fires dimmed, my tone a touch more cautious, “If you’re so bloody powerful, why bother with a warning? If you could end me here and now, why haven’t you already?”

Sweet, dearest child, I don’t tempt me into action. I looked into your very soul, and saw that I must, some day, destroy you. But you are stronger than I care to face, for though I could erase you from the very Tapestry of Life, the effort would surely drain me. My brethren, though cowardly and weak, have no special warmth within them toward me. They are many, and I have ever been just One. They would set upon me like a wave of pestilence, devouring me until I posed no further threat. And then a war the scale of which you could not possibly conceive would fill the entirety of reality until nothing but the victor’s will remained. It is my wish that this should not come to pass.

“Assuming that I were to believe you, what would you have me do?”