Star Date 25092016
I am a product of the 70’s. Proverbs 13:24 – spare the rod, spoil the child. Last night, we went to Rum Runner’s Saloon. I like it not only for the use of the word ‘Saloon’ in it’s title, but for its proximity to our domicile, good food, and yes, Captain Morgan statue out front that hails all passersby to enter in, ye who are weary. Disappointed they do not have Bulleit Rye, but Maker’s will do…unless you’re Norm….then Knob Creek. I am not opposed to this either. Having never been to the upstairs portion of the restaurant and bar, we ventured there, sat at a high-top, and attempted conversation. This kid:
his younger brother, and what appeared to be a girl, were running amok. Unbeknownst to us, the upstairs has fussbol, darts, and a few other games. Let’s just point out a couple of things here. I am not exaggerating the hair cut on any of the three unfortunate, ill-behaved chitlins. Two, who installs a dart board not five feet from the blind entrance/exit, leading to a bathroom…whether or not the darts are “safety tip?” C, the equally offensive parents…three women folk, and two of the (supposed) male version…albeit neutered after said kids were spawned, had a table unto themselves. The seven or eight…maybe more…again, they were running amok and Charlie couldn’t count with them moving so quickly. Also, the three looked so alike, it takes years of inbreeding to look this bad. The kids had a separate table behind the parental units. Funny thing here, it was clear the women folk wanted a night out with the mens (yep…plural for no reason); however, it was further clear, the men were brought along to sit the chitlins. All the kids were unruly. All. There might have been ten of them. It’s such a blur. Fussbol, as you could imagine, is a dangerous game with adults. Hip-checking happens. Don’t ask me how I know, just know that I know. Now imagine this game as played by youngens who have never seen the back of a hand. No…I’m not supporting abuse…just a quick pop…make it look like an accident. Ease up cowgirls and boys…I’m referring to smacking the idiot parents who brought their kids to a bar and let them play with all the games. We sat …assuming as I did…about 5 feet from the toe line of the dart game. Further assuming the toe line was the standard 7′ and 9.25″ away from the face of the board, Dutch boy and clan were bouncing the ‘safety darts’ off the board, the walls, and other games, like ping-pong balls…sorry…table tennis. One landed about a foot behind Norm. It was that one that gave me the opportunity to say something in a louder tone, which might have prompted Jess. Dad…or donor, came over to rescue his child from us, and or from his child’s untimely death. Alas, the kids still ran wild. How do I know the women folk wanted not to be there with kids or husbands? They never moved. Acted as though they didn’t know who the kids were, nor the husbands. Worked out okay since the husbands clearly didn’t talk to each other. Good times. Fourth, the upstairs portion of the establishment is a game room …ahem…for adults, eating area, concert area, and…oh yeah…a bar. Did I mention this is a bar…upstairs? Just checking. We hadn’t been seated long enough to get our appetizer…quite tasty…buffalo chicken, cheesy dip. Mmmmmm. Likely from beneath the stair case, arose Shrek’s brother. Dawning a yellow polo with the word ‘security’ across it’s very large back, this guy is suddenly stopping all who arise to the bar. ID checks. Where was he when the ragtag group of soon-to-be felons came up? I should add here that I do not hate kids. I dislike people. Typically, stupid people. These kids’ parents qualify under that category. Is it wrong to want to have thrown the parents over the balcony, thus making their kids cry? I think not. Okay…I’d leave them a parent. The men are going over the edge kids….come watch…we’re gonna play our own game of see how far they can jump away from the building. No broken bones wins. Death is an acceptable form of winning in this case. Weeeeeeeee. Look, if Johnny really did jump off a bridge, his friend is doing it too. Another classic parenting line from the 70’s. E, let’s take a quick look back at the pic at the top. Who knew lead-based paint was gonna end up causing such a ruckus? How joyfully it is plastered on the can of paint. It screams, “come paint with me, I’m safe and easy to use.” Not so much.
Interlude. Today’s wake up song is from the X-Ambassadors:
“Unsteady”
Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady
Mama, come here Approach, appear Daddy, I’m alone ‘Cause this house don’t feel like home
If you love me, don’t let go If you love me, don’t let go
Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady
Mother, I know That you’re tired of being alone Dad, I know you’re trying To fight when you feel like flying
But if you love me, don’t let go If you love me, don’t let go
Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady
Hold, hold on, hold onto me ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady A little unsteady
I try and keep the whistling to a minimum whilst Jess is still asleep. …and yes, Jess is very much asleep, as it is…you guessed it, only a little after three am. Good news. I got four hours sleep.
RoD also refers to Jess’s favorite clothing item. Jess has a friend from long ago, whom gave her a present. The present was this nice, white, fleecy robe. It has lived a long time with Jess, and quite appropriately…I believe…it should be incinerated with me when my time has expired…now or in many years to come. It has served its purpose and outlived many other of Jess’s garments. I refer to this robe as the Robe of Death. Jess brings it to bed…I did not say wears it to bed…uses it as …well….almost like a second pillow. Magically, as the night turns in to the early morning hours, this thing ends up around my neck or under my shoulder…just so, as to put me at a tilt and funny neck position. I am not blaming Jess for trying to kill me…nay….she is an accessory during the fact. She brought the murder weapon to our bed of tranquility and peace. …then let it roam freely about the cabin. Charlie knows better. He awoke me at three because this thing was creepin on me. So…here I am. Awake because of a stupid robe. Awesome. Should play well as the day wears on and I am still going through oodles of my crap (not literal). Thankfully, Jess gets to go for a massage today…unlike Calamity Kevin, who gets to not have a massage, thanks to Charlie and the spreading …or potential…of. Anyone see this:
In it, Michael Keaton’s character finds out he has cancer, and is given four months to live. Spoiler alert. He dies…before seeing his unborn child. Prior to doing so, he records the last four months he is alive, in a valiant effort to leave something to his kid. Guess what else…he spends lots of time getting massages. His cancer never spread. Just sayin. Aren’t massages supposed to be therapeutic? Before Charlie comes out, I am getting a massage. I will lie on the forms. I will have my day on the bed, with the fancy music and dim lighting. I will have knots worked from my kneck and kshoulders and kback.
Rewind. I am remiss in pointing out how our weekend started and why I was hoping for a much better turn out to yesterday, than typed about. Aside from the obvious amount of sleep received, Jess and I…thank you to Jess, went to http://www.narcisiwinery.com/ for the eve. Where else should one go on a date, on a not so humid eve? This place was packed and apart from a couple of younger folk, we …including me…were the minority…no…not just because I am brown…because the rest were considerably older. …Like…people who typically eat dinner at four pm so they can be in front of Jeopardy at 730 pm, having had plenty of time to sit up and digest properly, before retiring for the evening. We…thankfully…again, all Jess…had reservations…not about going, rather, attending. The night was perfect…temperature wise. We sat out on the patio, where tables were packed pretty tightly together. Now when I say close together, I’m talking I could almost have been a ventriloquist to my neighbors…ASSuming they don’t mind me controlling their mouths from their a-nooses. So close, in fact, Jess…the same Jess I went to dinner with, sat farther away from me on the other side of our table than were our fellow foodies. Have I mentioned how I really don’t like strangers? Let me just take that opportunity to do so here. I do not like strangers. Jess…knows this, yet likes to play a little game on occasions where we are seated way too closely to others. I will follow her lead, as I am the jockstrap in our relationship…always supportive. What a nut. …or two. Anywhozalbees, part of this game is in listening to the conversations of our apparent table mates. When we were seated, on my right were two ladies of a very olden age. Their conversation was insignificant, as they would start talking and trail off, having forgotten what they were going to say next. The contestants in this night’s game, were those to Jess’s right. Obi-Wan Kenobi, and his wife. Both with significant medical issues. Dude had diabetes. How do I know? portable pump which feeds a constant low dose of insulin in to the subcutaneous abdominal tissue. More proof? Typical older diabetic…still travels with the portable pack of insulin, knowing he will over do it with his meal choice, and still order a splendid dessert. Promptly traipsing off to the lieu to inject additional insulin. Obi was also a drinker…could tell by the nose. On this night, he was having iced tea:
This
Not this
Although…given the lack of personality Obi had, momma likely would have loved some brown sugar Ice-T. Who wouldn’t? Momma also had a medical condition known commonly as intestinal fortitude. How else does one stay with a stick in the ass like Obi-Wan? She also appeared to have suffered from a minor CVA, or stroke as common folk call them. Momma was gussied up for a night…or an hour or two…on the town. Why they chose this place and then ordered exactly zero wines, I do not know…at least not at this point of my long story, longer. As destiny would have it on this pleasant Friday’s eve, I got to see Obi-Wan leering at me for my tatts and or being brown. Jess got to see droopy face. Now…one might think I am exaggerating Obi’s scrutinizing stare, alas, I am not. These two had zero conversation…with each other. Jess had momma talking, but even that was a chore. I’ve had tumours taken out of me that were easier to extract. No? Not yet. It’s all in my head…made up you say? No…for reals, in my head. When asked, momma said they were there to celebrate her birthday, that they always came there on special occasions. All I could think was, why bring daddy-downer? Her birthday, and he never uttered a word. Momma further explained the service was not good the last couple times they were there. I suspect foul play…I don’t think Obi is a good tipper…not this kind:
I have teets, Greg, could you milk me? (reference to Meet the Parents). Or could it just be that when you sit in silence, avoiding all conversation with your spouse, others, plant life, et al, the ever-friendly wait staff does not know if you need and or want something? Simpler still, the staff was likely avoiding the table of doom and gloom. Jess even offered to have the staff come sing happy birthday…this was after she offered some of our food to them. Obi sat there, cross-armed. Momma smiled for the first time that night…although, with the droopy side of her face, she might have either drooled, or pooped her britches…both are equally funny. Yes…I know I am an a**. Think about it for a minute and you’ll laugh….poop is funny. Always. Interesting sidebar here. Speaking of poop. Sleeping farts do not count as farts. When one is asleep, one cannot control the explosion of gas from betwixt one’s legs. Why is this important? It is not. Why is it relevant? Proper question. Apparently, after our eve at the winery, and amidst my ten hour marathon of sleep, I farted, in said sleep. See? Funny. I lay there unawares. Content. asleep. Our next contestants at table right, after doom and gloom left immediately when last bite was consumed, were Celone or Celine (unclear) and Tom…although his name may also be different. He was a mumbler. She was a babbler. They were friendly enough and engaged in conversation with each other and us. Actually quite nice. Okay…and pretentious. “We are moving to Aruba.” Aruba can have you, Cellophane. They won’t want you either. They will be living here six months and there six months…amazingly, we were not invited to visit; however we were given the name of a website to go and look at purchasing cheap flights to the Caribbean. Thoughtful or rubbing our nose in it? You decide. I’ve made my decision and it entails a downed plane en route to Aruba. Goodbye and good riddance. Arrivedouchebag. What? Too much? Next time you talk to Jess, ask her about these two. Specifically ask about the time they went away on one of their monthly vacations, and had his son stay at the house. Mention the space-aged washing machine….that will jog the mammaries…er…memory.
Speaking of…We are back at the basement today. Yet another box of memories…pictures of me from medic school…man, was I fat. I spent last weekend completing an advanced directive, durable power of attorney, and living trust. This weekend I have spent going through boxes of pictures from 1987 till present day. There are all the pics of me from school years as well. Truly is amazing how much I looked like Erik Estrada. One would think this would be a cleansing feeling…going through all of this. My grandfather’s Bible. My own. Medical books. James Patterson books. My dad’s tie tacks. Stupid shit that is making me cry like a baby. Finality. An afghan my grandmother made for me when I was a kid…ugly as sin…but she made it for me. It too, is a product of the 70’s…the colors. When I was on the road a lot, as in traveling to and through the Los Estados Unidos, I would get my girls zipper pulls with their names on them, from whatever state I was in. I collected spoons as well…stupid shit. Meaningless, made meaningful. I feel as though I am dead already and someone else is packing this shit away for others. Once again, Jess has the tough job. Dealing with me. Moving box after box. Checking on me. Seeing me in tears. Hugging me. I could not feel more alone, yet here she is right by my side. God, how I wish I could give away the ending to this story. Alas, I do not know. I feel everything one must feel when they think or know they are expiring. Like a carton of milk. Another box. refreshing liquid…that makes my bowels sing to the toilet. Once upon a time, we had no less than three gallons of milk in our fridge, growing up. Now? Now, I can’t touch the stuff. If I even look at for too long, I get the runs. Poison. I have cards from way back. From my birth, given to my parents, about me. My dad died a year and a half ago, which is how it should be…parents die before their kids. It’s an unwritten rule. So…in this I am aware that I am going before my kids. I am following the rules. My mom is alive and could, at this point, outlive me. Odd. I am not 48 and yet I feel every bit of someone older. Calamity Kevin. I have seen loss. A lot of it. I have been sympathetic toward others who grieve. I do not like my current vantage point. It is no wonder empathy has failed me over the years. It is no wonder as to why I choose to compartmentalize…to avoid the very feelings I am having. I have a box packed for my older brother. Wrote him a very quick letter to explain what he is receiving. Telling him what I have told him countless times on the phone…that I love him. Pictures of when we were kids, my dad’s tie tacks, an anniversary clock that was our grandmother’s. I have packed a couple of bins for my girls, also full of pictures of when they were my kids…my babies. What is a literal lifetime ago for them, is feeling like mere seconds to me. A feeling that I hoped would pass between last night and today. Alas, it is only worse. Far worse. I have included little snippets of things from before they were born. My HS diploma, pictures of a great man they never got to know, who died just two months before Casey was born, all the pics of me growing up. …as if to say, “please remember me, this is who I was before there were you two.” The letters to my girls will be considerably longer. So much to say and no way to say it. No way to possibly say it all. All I can think about is how much I will miss. I just met my granddaughter. She will have no clue who I am or who I was. So….the pictures are split into piles. I came across a single picture of a friend who died just a few years ago, at my age. His wife of many years, and three daughters, left behind. Death knows no age. I am tired and my eyes are swollen from stupidity. From being an infant. From feeling. I need to do something to get my man card back…I’m going to the gym and watching an action movie…whilst I ambulate at a brisk pace…alas, I do not want Charlie to grow or move around as per the massage therapist’s expert medical advice. Charlie has sucked enough life from me today. For those who are not country music fans, indulge me and listen anyway. Zac Brown Band – Bittersweet. You’ll not thank me that you did…but you will feel…something.
It would not be completely fair to post pics of others without joining in with some of mine own…get a good laugh, I do.
The 70’s and 80’s were not kind to my head…nor was my baby fat, that clearly showed back up in HS. Erik Estrada got nada on me.
Fast forward. Gym hit the spot. As did the familiar strings and brass of MI-3. Brisk pace kept me from spiraling deeper in to the abyss of sh** I was swirling in. The rest of the day should be fairly quiet.
Final thought. Thankfully, Jess is an administrative a** kicker. She transformed the basement today. There is still more for me to do, as some stuff has been brought to the upstairs for me to continue going through…easier stuff, thankfully. The room I am in is full of stuff as though I am moving in…again. Those feelings would be far different than those of the past two weekends. The clutter I am looking at still needs my help. I still need to reduce my stuff and myself to boxes. Some to go to others, and me to my box, at ground or at sea. I am hopeful…regardless of my mood, this weekend, that the girls get their boxes and are happy to see their past with me in it. I am hopeful I will remain to take more pictures, of them. Of us. Of Logan. Of framily.
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