bring the noyz

Last weekend around this time I found myself completing the five-plus hour drive from the desperately still clinging to the left by its fingernails oasis of my adopted hometown out into the Flatland. Yes, I've been there before, a time or two, so it was not quite as baffling as it has been in the past.

But it is still freakin' weird.

And that is really an understatement.

And I mean really.

Where to begin?

We packed up The Boy and all his gear into the Family Truckster to make the trip to attend The Wife's 10 Year High School Reunion. Yes that's right, 10 freakin' years. Boy, was it ever a hoot. I shall make no more mention of the event and leave the details for her to share with you some day.

As for other details of our trip. . .

When the barrenness of the desolate basin begins to give way to the fringes of the civilization you are greeted by this sign:

Hometown indeed. The sky may be the limit if you inherited the fortune your grandaddy built doing business with the Nazis, but it seems to me that the majority of the folks out there are struggling to scratch out a living and keep the fringes of a desert at bay.

For this trip we stayed in a hotel. The Wife's parents, like mine, recently sold the family home and moved away as a prelude to retirement. We were fortunate in that The Wife's mother also returned for the weekend. My mother-in-law returned to celebrate a belated birthday with friends and to spend time with her only grandchild, The Boy. Thankfully she got us the corporate rate The Wife's father's company pays. Also quite thankfully, she had the neighboring room and was invaluable in providing care for The Boy for the weekend while The Wife and I visited with a few her old friends but mostly she was just reminded of why she really dislikes and never wants to see again most of the people she went to school with.

We made it to our hotel, the area's self-proclaimed only four-star hotel, and checked in. All I have to say about that is if that's the service they offer at a four-star hotel I'm glad we didn't settle for lesser accommodations. You'd think a four-star hotel would have a doorman or a bellboy, or at least automatic doors so you wouldn't be left to struggle with your baggage as you wrestled the building into the lobby. But then again, this is the Flatlands.

Friday night was full of nervous reunions and half drunken re-acquaintances for The Wife at an official informal get together at a some honky-tonk bar that featured a small yet fully functional and quite real bull-riding arena as the primary feature of its back patio. The walls were adorned with autographed photos of famous bull riders.

Famous bull riders? Talk about a small subset of fame.

I quietly stood around taking in the scenery and wondering who was surprised to see who, who got bald and who got fat. As I had neither context nor history, I had no reason to care. I slowly sipped Lone Star and played the role of the perfect supportive husband, which of course I am, so I wasn't really playing. I politely met lots of people I'll never see again while chit-chatting away. I primarily spent the night making sure the The Wife and her BFF since like the sixth grade never had an empty cup. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. And it's not like it didn't have its perks. . .
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My apologies, my dear reader, I just realized that I have yet to share with you these glorious images of this year's celebration of the birthday of the world's most beloved grumpy donkey.

So here.

Check it out.
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I got one today.

First one in seven years.

Which is not to suggest or imply that my gorgeous flaxen mane has been left to grow wild and unfettered like a fallow field for all this time. There have been trimmings, an occasional clip to even things out. I mean c'mon man, I'm not a barbarian, or some damnedable unwashed Birkenstock wearing patchouli stinkin' tree-hugging hippie.

I haven't been one of those for at least seven years. And now I don't so much resemble one anymore.

I'm smokin' hot.

Really.
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I recently read this quote in this article:

"They can have their votes of no confidence, but it's not going to make the determination about who serves in my government," Bush said in Sofia, Bulgaria, the last stop on a weeklong visit to Europe.

All issues and arguments about the current Asshole General aside, there is something about that just plain chaps my hide. What the fuck? Excuse me? "my government"?

I so rarely get the opportunity to paraphrase this great film when discussing political issues. Please my dear reader, momentarily pause with me and relish the moment. . .

[Okay, now let's proceed.]

Your government? I've been thinking about that Mr. Decider, and seeing as how you're here, and I'm here, doesn't that make it our government?

[Thank you, that was truly beautiful.]

And sadly Mr. Decider, I am not sure which is greater evil in this situation: your arrogance or your ignorance. As far as I'm aware the opening phrase of the primary document by which you are granted your authority is still

We the People
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"We will fight the terrorists overseas so we do not have to face them here at home." - dubya

Oops.

They are already here.

A couple of months back I saw this movie.

Earlier tonight I watched this one.

Creepy man, just plain fucking creepy.

In part because of, and in part in spite of the scenes of spine-chilling hypocrisy with This Asshole in both films. . .

I used to think the world was flat
Rarely threw my hat into the crowd
I felt I had used up my quota of yearning
Used to look in on the children at night
In the glow of their Donald Duck light
And frighten myself with the thought of my little ones burning
But, oh, oh, oh, the tide is turning
The tide is turning

Satellite buzzing through the endless night
Exclusive to moonshots and world title fights
Jesus Christ, imagine what it must be earning
Who is the strongest
Who is the best
Who holds the aces
The East
Or the West
This is the crap our children are learning
But oh, oh, oh, the tide is turning

- Roger Waters

No Roger, you are sadly mistaken.

This is the crap our children our learning.

But I still hope the tide is turning.
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on so many levels (not all of which are mine). . .


Maybe I can blame it on the vodka.

But my first thought. . .

"Sold!"

I guess I just don't like this guy.
__________

Whereas perhaps somewhat strangely, this guy is kinda growing on me.
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Ah my darling sweet Simon,

Let me begin by just telling ya straight: I don't own a passport.

[And yes, as will become more clear as you read through this, you seem to have struck a nerve. That being said, please forgive any excessively visceral response.]

Have I seen enough of the world? Not by a long shot. Will I ever? No. The day you have seen enough is the day you need to take a shovel, go into the backyard, dig a hole, lie down in it and wait for the icy hand of Death to claim you.

Will you ever see enough? I pray not, I doubt not, and I'll buy you the fucking shovel if you change your mind.

I also have no doubt, that like me, you remember the generalities (if not all the specifics) of many drunken twentysomething nights full of dreams of travelling if not quite taking over the world.

But as time passes we are presented with choices and we choose different paths.

Would I like to travel? Shit yeah, who wouldn't? And by posing that question I mean that you may be right to castigate those who have the means and the method but lack the motivation to do so.

Can you watch the "American Idol" final in France?

(Sadly, you probably can.)

But I beseech thee, my dear friend, do not include me in that group.

My path has not lead me down roads far from home.

I will be honest, I am not without my George Bailey moments. But as the years flow by I feel less and less like Mr. Bailey and somewhat oddly more like Tom Bombadil.

As for a stated reason of your travels:

Which brings me to one of the reasons I love to travel in the guise of a writer: the more I see of the world and its inhabitants, the more I’m reminded that we are, after all, only human. No matter where I go, people act like the humans they are. . . that we are.

We may have different ways of expressing ourselves but a smile seems to be universal. . . .

You are quite correct, a smile is universal.

And it's why we're here, really now, isn't it?

To smile. . .

Not just to smile; but to smile at, and to be seen smiling. We humans are social creatures afterall. Granted, a smile can sometimes mask deception and treachery. But a sincere smile binds and connects us to one another.

I love you dearly my friend, and I will neither begrudge nor second guess your choices if you grant the same to mine.

That being said, I wouldn't trade donuts for dollars for the smile on The Boy's soon to be six-year old face every night when he's falling asleep on my chest as we lie on the couch watching truly mindless TV over anything available in Provence.

That is almost as equally true for the smiles on the faces of all the multitudes of students and young adults whose lives have touched me deeply as I continue to teach.

While your travels take you around the world, mine generally take me on a more inward, introspective journey, into the minds of the voiceless.

Keep travelling. Perhaps someday I will meet you on the road.

Which would of course be sad, because as you know as Life Abundant I am also the Buddha. You'd have to kill me.

Oh well.

I've got Zuzu's petals in my pocket. It is a wonderful life.
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