Local Art is Always in Style

On Saturday I had the unique privilege (and it truly was a privilege) to buy an original piece of artwork. This painting (center) is by Diego Gutierrez Monterrubio. He is an artist, among other talents and occupations, and I'm sure he can be found through Facebook and probably Google. He was instrumental in initiating the Porterville Art Walk. He has and will continue to do great things.

An Argument* Between Body Parts (*contains bad language)

Conversation between my Mouth and my Guts (digestive system, not bravery.)

Scene: Me at an open fridge. The moment of reckoning for the average American.

My Mouth: Sweet! There’s still cream cheese in the fridge.

My Guts: Wait! Before you start champing at the bit, don’t forget you’ve been throwing dairy at me for 3 days now and quite frankly, I cannot tolerate it any longer.

My Mouth: Yeah I know. You’ve been grumbling, getting all twisted up and then popping off at me from day one.

My Guts: But you won’t listen. You’re not the one who has to try and break lactose down. I don’t even have the proper enzymes. You know that!

My Mouth: Don’t worry about it, babe. You can handle it.

My Guts: You’re being a selfish asshole, Mouth.  Remember when you gave me acid reflux from shoveling down jalapeños, day after day, and you told me to “just deal with it?” And it’s one thing when you’re only hurting us, but half of the whole body had to sleep sitting upright! Do you remember that?!

My Mouth: As the professional mouth here, I’m going to have to ask you to shut the fuck up, Guts. Did you ever think maybe Dairy isn’t the one being an intolerant dick?

Announcer’s Voice: And it’s MOUTH for the win!

My Guts: (grumbling) Just wait ‘till he hears what the Butt is going to say about this...


The end.

Some Truths are as Plain as the Writing on the T-shirt

A two-act mini-play 

In this episode, Dad visits a veteran’s support group for the first time.

Act 1:

Scene: Small conference room with circle of 7 to 8 plastic chairs, coffee machine, positive affirmation posters. Three men already seated. Dad enters and takes a seat followed by introductions.

( Older man with beard explains why he comes to the group, concluding)

Older man: … after 20 years as a nurse it just got to me. All the dying, and blood, and killing; it got to the point where I had to retire early. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Dad looks at older man’s face, and then looks at man’s t-shirt. T-shirt reads in large print: I will kill you. Dad looks back at man’s face.

Dad: You know, your mouth is saying one thing but your shirt is saying something else. As a veteran of war, I think your shirt is offensive.

Act 2:

Scene: Home. Dad talking on phone. I’m washing hands in the kitchen.

Dad:  …okay than, I’ll give him a call.

(Dad hangs up phone, clearly looks like he wants to say something.)

Me: Yeah, so what was that?

Dad: I went to a Veteran’s group and the other guys called the therapist to tell him I don’t fit in.

No Kids Allowed

When I decided I wanted to write a column I made the mistake of asking on Facebook if anyone would read a column about a single, childless woman in her 30’s. It was a mistake only because I offered a lousy, base description of what this blog would be all about.

One concern I received from my semi-public Facebook announcement was that I, as a swinging single, might be inclined to speak negatively on marriage or raising children. Sure, I could proudly state that I am secure being alone; that I don’t need a man rescue me; and bearing children in an overpopulated world is an act of ego and not of love. I’ve come across plenty of commentaries criticizing “breeders,”  “stage moms,” and the single parents who work long hours while others are left to raise their latch-key kids. In reality I don’t know shit about parenting or marriage and hope to avoid both for the immediate future. But the topic of family always creeps up; even in the minds of the most devoutly single.

Recently I was having lunch in downtown Bakersfield with a favored (and rather attractive) friend. His relationship stats are nearly identical to mine: 30-something; divorced; no children. After several years in a relationship he shared his experience of being fresh on the dating market.

“Since word got out that I’m single, I’m being hit on by nothing but baby mommas,” he told me. “Seriously, it’s been all baby mommas.

It’s not that he doesn’t like kids. He loves his nephews and is delighted to have another on the way. There is a great joy for single people which comes with their siblings bearing offspring. We love to spend time with our tiniest relatives and more than that, we love feeling relieved of the pressure to produce grandchildren for our aging parents.

“I don’t think I’m going to have kids,” he said. His slight shrug reflected a figurative weight that had been lifted from his shoulders.

I agreed that I had come to the same conclusion and together we exalted in our freedom to avoid reproduction without guilt. As I took a drink from my glass of beer I felt steeped in confidence that I could continue to enjoy alcoholic drinks for the foreseeable future. And that, dear readers, is when biological instinct dropped a tiny seed of remorse into my psyche. My enthusiasm tempered and I lowered my glass to look across the table at my friend.

“I want to clarify, I do think I would make a great mom,” I told him.

We looked at each other and I could tell that in his head he was now assessing his own potential for parenting. After a thoughtful moment of introspection he concluded:

“I think I’d be a really great dad.”

Eve's Exile

The sheriff’s deputy headed for the front door of the house. He was going to get a statement from them. The arrival of law enforcement had made it more than evident it was my time to exit and so I left opposite, towards the garage at the east end of the lawn. On the way to my car I walked next to the rear of a white mini-van sitting in the driveway and stopped. It looked so out-of-place there. Inside the locked doors and tinted windows it must have smelled like stale McDonald French fries, and sweaty kids’ sneakers, superficially masked by the perfume of an oppressive vanilla air freshener.

A burning sensation began to spread upwards from my fingertips. How could I not think of it as my parking spot? It had been my spot for more than 5 years, even though my sedan was now parked on the street nearby. Another few steps nearer and I was just inches away from this bulky soccer-mom van; the thing that brought her into my life; into my home; and now, sat heavy and stoic in my goddamned driveway.  With car keys grasped firmly in my tingling hand, the silvery tip of a key reflected cleanly against a white glossy finish. I held it there, almost touching; imagining my hand making a graceful circular motion etched deeply in paint.

 “I could leave them a message,” I thought quickly. The mere idea brought an unexpected jolt excitement. “Oh, how about a curse word—fuck!” Maybe “fuck.” It felt really good.

I pictured the word “fuck” sloppily carved above the tail gate. “Bitch,” quickly flashed into my head but was shaken off before my mind had time to entertain the thought. I was angry, insulted, but short of feeling vindictive. My arm felt its own weight and dropped to my side as I turned to walk to my driver door. I knew I was defeated and it was at these times I needed dignity the most.

From the yard across street came a woman’s voice. Like an approaching train, the sound escalated rapidly in range and volume.

“Did you key that car?” she said. Her tone was full yet slightly forced in an attempt at sounding authoritative. 

“No, I didn’t,” I replied. My own voice had to be drawn out of me and it fell flat like a languishing wind.

 “Did you scratch that car?” she repeated, still a little louder. The woman was stout. She had short blonde hair and was wearing causal yet motherly jeans and a dark sweatshirt.

“No, I didn’t do anything,” I stopped short of my car door and waited to indicate my willingness to remain present during her informal inquiry. “Go ahead! Take a look.”  I gestured towards the van. “There’s not a mark on it.”

“I saw you standing by that car and looking around,” she said. She was now standing in my ex’s driveway and gave a small section of the van a good glance-over. “I don’t know who lives here but I didn’t want anybody’s car to be keyed.” Now she approached me, a little more relaxed but cautious.

“I understand. Thank you,” I said earnestly. “I was considering it. I really was. But I changed my mind.”

“Well good,” she said. Her tone now reset to congenial. “You can get into trouble for that. I don’t want to see you to go to jail.”

I thanked her again for her consideration, affirmed that her actions were noble and that she was indeed a model neighbor. 

How many times have I almost done what is unarguably the wrong thing to do? Thousands, I would imagine. Time and time again, a few seconds of fantasy have satisfied the angry itch without any of the guilt or consequence of the real thing. With at least one crisis averted for the day, I got into my car, flipped a “U” and headed south towards Bakersfield.

I love THIS man!

and will always be true to him; even if he doesn't believe me.

Fat guys should always hold the drugs too.

Associated Press

HOUSTON - An obese inmate in Texas has been charged after officials learned he had a gun hidden in his rolls of fat.

George Vera, 25, was charged with possession of a firearm in a correctional facility after he told a guard at the Harris County Jail about the unloaded 9mm pistol.

The Houston Chronicle reported Thursday that Vera was originally arrested on charges of selling illegal copies of compact discs.

The 500-pound man was searched during his arrest and again at a city jail and the county jail, but officers never found the weapon.

Vera admitted having the gun during a shower break at the county jail.

Eagle Lake Hike

Danny and I hiked from the Mineral King station, up Mosquito Lake trail to Eagle Lake on Monday. So lovely and the water was the prettiest clear blue. We got up to more than 10,000 ft.

Danny's Birthday

Today is Danny's 32nd birthday. To honor the occasion I made him a cake. This is crazy domestic status, but it turned out kinda cute.

Russian Roulette is Intended for Movies Only

I have to wonder if people who die in a game of Russian Roulette have even seen the famous scene from the movie The Deer Hunter. I know I hadn't until very recently when my curiosity was peaked by the "accidental" death of a Visalia teen.
It was Monday (July 27) when 17-year-old Akiou See died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, according to an article in the Visalia Times-Delta. Police investigators said the shooting appeared to be accidental, prompted by "a game of Russian roulette."
Now I would debate whether or not the shooting should be classified as "accidental," since the victim knew he was firing a loaded gun a his head, but there is no such official cause of death as "extraordinarily poor judgement."

Visalia police reported there have been two additional deaths attributed to a game of Russian roulette in the past five years.
I am fascinated by this game and the people who would attempt to play it. I sure there are Russian roulette survivors, but that wouldn't be your regular Friday night story to be shared with strangers at the bar.So all I know about it is the occasional news story.
In March of this year an 18-year-old in San Juan, Texas was placed on life support after a reportedly drinking, taking pills and engaging in a game of Russian roulette with an older cousin. Accoridng to an article published in The Monitor newspaper, police qouted the cousin who didn't get the bullet in the head as saying the pair "just did it because they wanted to."