http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic en-US http://backend.userland.com/rss 60 http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic/2008/06/26/baked_texas Thu, 26 Jun 2008 20:10:59 +0000 Fosforus.com 99@http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog Here in my air-conditioned pod on the 4th Floor, I receive reports of people who just adore these brain-as-griddle-cake days in Texas… with the toilet-bowl humidity and clothes that stick to you like a “Shake ‘N Bake” bag. They get all misty, evangelical about their bodies and feeling porous and alive. Yeah, and a pure, non-lethal bullet wound has a way of bringing you back into your body, as well. What is the point of all your narcissism, if I can’t take you out and get you drunk? I’m looking for narcissists who occasionally let their standards slip. Not really. I’m just looking. Waiting. Miasma of office parks and strip malls off the interstate. Don’t you beat me down no more, bully sun, bully sun, don’t you beat me down no more. Done nothing but my work, bully sun, bully sun. Don’t you beat me down no more. The hyper-friendly clerk at the Shell station south of Fort Worth, mid-30’s, not 100 lbs. to her, chemical brown teeth, sixteen hours into a shift made necessary and possible by meth. Manic-depressive suicide, a former aid to a Florida senator, found in his apartment bed one block from the bayou we used to jog along, two blocks from the house his exhausted ex-wife told him to leave a year and half ago, six hours after calling the only person left in the whole world who would listen to him ramble at 2:00 a.m.: a guy who used to sell him Italian suits. Don’t think for one moment that you get to choose your angels. They choose you. You either recognize them by their missteps, rage and inconvenience—and yourself by all of yours—or you stay in the numbing dark. And so the guy who used to sell him Italian suits took his call. At his funeral service, one of the eulogists, a man who taught he and his son how to hunt, whispered, “If you’re out chasing the star dust, remember, every once in a while, be sure and check in at home.” Gnawing weight of promises not kept, the torque and grind, taking you down to the dusty margins of nothing, nowhere and no one. Why bother with acidic tears when nobody’s here for the show? Don’t you beat me down no more, bully sun, bully sun, don’t you beat me down no more. Done nothing but my work, bully sun, bully sun. Don’t you beat me down no more. &&&&&&&&&&&&&& Wouldn’t it be fine for someone to know you, friend, as blue resurrection water… as the grove where animals gather toward night… as the fanciest clouds of imaginings… as cool refuge… relief?
They get all misty, evangelical about their bodies and feeling porous and alive.

Yeah, and a pure, non-lethal bullet wound has a way of bringing you back into your body, as well.

What is the point of all your narcissism, if I can’t take you out and get you drunk?

I’m looking for narcissists who occasionally let their standards slip.

Not really.

I’m just looking. Waiting.

Miasma of office parks and strip malls off the interstate.

Don’t you beat me down no more, bully sun, bully sun, don’t you beat me down no more. Done nothing but my work, bully sun, bully sun. Don’t you beat me down no more.

The hyper-friendly clerk at the Shell station south of Fort Worth, mid-30’s, not 100 lbs. to her, chemical brown teeth, sixteen hours into a shift made necessary and possible by meth.

Manic-depressive suicide, a former aid to a Florida senator, found in his apartment bed one block from the bayou we used to jog along, two blocks from the house his exhausted ex-wife told him to leave a year and half ago, six hours after calling the only person left in the whole world who would listen to him ramble at 2:00 a.m.: a guy who used to sell him Italian suits. Don’t think for one moment that you get to choose your angels. They choose you. You either recognize them by their missteps, rage and inconvenience—and yourself by all of yours—or you stay in the numbing dark. And so the guy who used to sell him Italian suits took his call. At his funeral service, one of the eulogists, a man who taught he and his son how to hunt, whispered, “If you’re out chasing the star dust, remember, every once in a while, be sure and check in at home.”

Gnawing weight of promises not kept, the torque and grind, taking you down to the dusty margins of nothing, nowhere and no one. Why bother with acidic tears when nobody’s here for the show?

Don’t you beat me down no more, bully sun, bully sun, don’t you beat me down no more. Done nothing but my work, bully sun, bully sun. Don’t you beat me down no more.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Wouldn’t it be fine for someone to know you, friend, as blue resurrection water… as the grove where animals gather toward night… as the fanciest clouds of imaginings… as cool refuge… relief?]]> http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic?p=99&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic/2008/06/10/from_the_overcooked_copywriting_departme Tue, 10 Jun 2008 15:19:07 +0000 Fosforus.com 98@http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog I’ve been straining so hard for profundity that I’ve broken something. Faith, I think. Or dental work. As a gift toward restoration, I offer the following goofy bit of cultural flotsam: the text of an advertisement on Page 40 of the May 1950 issue of GOURMET, The Magazine of Good Living. Yes, this is the actual text, strange formatting and all. I’m reminded of Walker Percy’s thought (in a novel I’ve long forgotten) that salesmen are the last metaphysicians:  Just for laughs – watch a man with Ac’cent®      The night he tries his new Ac’cent—he of the novel cooking ideas, he of the boyish specialties and quaint kitchen ways … phone a friend and catch his act together.      There’s something droll in his eagerness as he reads the Ac’cent label and the directions. Ac’cent, he’ll tell you, is like nothing you’ve ever used in all your years of cooking. (Laughter.) He’ll tell you it’s something mysterious and wonderful—that it makes food flavors sing.      There’s something absurdly delightful in the tender, almost reverent way he handles the shaker of Ac’cent. He’ll say that his marvelous Ac’cent adds no flavor of its own, but intensifies the natural flavors that are already in foods. (Ha, ha!)       There’s something amusingly poignant in the sober way he shakes Ac’cent on that hamburger—just ordinary hamburger. Ac’cent, he’ll say, is easy to use. It works wonders, he’ll claim, in meats, soups, poultry, seafoods, even vegetables. (Yip-ee!)       There’s something very funny in the proud, excited way he serves those burgers. And, girls, that’s where you stop laughing! For after one bite you’ll suspect, after two bites you’ll know that there is hamburger the likes of which you never …       No, girls. Ac’cent is no joke. Try it!       Available at many fine grocery stores and department store food counters. If you don’t find it, drop us a card.      Amino Products Division, Dept. G-5        International Minerals & Chemical Corp.        20 N. Wacker Drive, Chicago 6, Ill.         Not a flavoring! Not an ordinary condiment or seasoning!      Ac’cent is a 99+% pure monosodium glutamate in crystal form. In handy shakers, glass or tin. Gift box, too.
As a gift toward restoration, I offer the following goofy bit of cultural flotsam: the text of an advertisement on Page 40 of the May 1950 issue of GOURMET, The Magazine of Good Living. Yes, this is the actual text, strange formatting and all. I’m reminded of Walker Percy’s thought (in a novel I’ve long forgotten) that salesmen are the last metaphysicians: 

Just for laughs – watch a man with Ac’cent®

     The night he tries his new Ac’cent—he of the novel cooking ideas, he of the boyish specialties and quaint kitchen ways … phone a friend and catch his act together.
     There’s something droll in his eagerness as he reads the Ac’cent label and the directions. Ac’cent, he’ll tell you, is like nothing you’ve ever used in all your years of cooking. (Laughter.) He’ll tell you it’s something mysterious and wonderful—that it makes food flavors sing.
     There’s something absurdly delightful in the tender, almost reverent way he handles the shaker of Ac’cent. He’ll say that his marvelous Ac’cent adds no flavor of its own, but intensifies the natural flavors that are already in foods. (Ha, ha!)
      There’s something amusingly poignant in the sober way he shakes Ac’cent on that hamburger—just ordinary hamburger. Ac’cent, he’ll say, is easy to use. It works wonders, he’ll claim, in meats, soups, poultry, seafoods, even vegetables. (Yip-ee!)
      There’s something very funny in the proud, excited way he serves those burgers. And, girls, that’s where you stop laughing! For after one bite you’ll suspect, after two bites you’ll know that there is hamburger the likes of which you never …
      No, girls. Ac’cent is no joke. Try it!

      Available at many fine grocery stores and department store food counters. If you don’t find it, drop us a card.

     Amino Products Division, Dept. G-5
       International Minerals & Chemical Corp.
       20 N. Wacker Drive, Chicago 6, Ill.

        Not a flavoring! Not an ordinary condiment or seasoning!

     Ac’cent is a 99+% pure monosodium glutamate in crystal form. In handy shakers, glass or tin. Gift box, too.]]> http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic?p=98&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic/2008/05/30/the_problem_of_your_light Fri, 30 May 2008 15:58:14 +0000 Fosforus.com 97@http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog I see you. You’re the weather-beaten mother, too young and too old, with the shy kid and the overstuffed shopping cart with one bad wheel. You nest in the dark armpit underneath the 4th St. overpass. And your choice for this coming night was your choice for three hundred nights before: keeping close to a violent man named “River” or being left open to several who might, if they choose, gang-rape you.  And you: the fidgeting, lobster red chain-smoker in his early 50’s with khaki shorts pushed down under a potbelly and a thirty-year-old Willie Nelson tee-shirt. The state buys you thirty days of anti-psychotics. You’re lucky if you get five days in before someone pushes you to the pavement, snatching the amber plastic bottle with the white, typewritten label.  I have a problem with your light. My problem is that you have any light at all. Why can’t you just donate your light to the pretty girls and all our other peach desserts?  th St. overpass. And your choice for this coming night was your choice for three hundred nights before: keeping close to a violent man named “River” or being left open to several who might, if they choose, gang-rape you. 

And you: the fidgeting, lobster red chain-smoker in his early 50’s with khaki shorts pushed down under a potbelly and a thirty-year-old Willie Nelson tee-shirt. The state buys you thirty days of anti-psychotics. You’re lucky if you get five days in before someone pushes you to the pavement, snatching the amber plastic bottle with the white, typewritten label. 

I have a problem with your light.

My problem is that you have any light at all.

Why can’t you just donate your light to the pretty girls and all our other peach desserts? ]]> http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic?p=97&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic/2008/05/22/the_value_of_things Thu, 22 May 2008 14:42:07 +0000 Fosforus.com 96@http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog The lawyer Poteet, in his rumpled seersucker suit, was standing on the Seawall across from Gaido’s right before dusk waiting for the married niece and only living heir of Mrs. Dorothy Hemphill. The matter of the Hemphill estate was, in a general sense, as uncomplicated as the breeze off the Gulf that April twilight, for the estate consisted of one item: a Chinese vase, painted porcelain with blue underglaze, no chips or other damage to subtract from its value, presumably 14th Century. Yes. Ming. Yongle reign. In one sense, though, the estate was unsettling for Poteet. He thought of himself as someone who could bring a sure quiet and equanimity to any situation. In the almost nine months of his wife’s illness and home hospice care — pancreatic cancer that was angry and metastasizing like a hurricane in her warm blood — he would begin most mornings the same way: splashing water on his face from a bedside basin, looking into the mirror at slate-blue eyes, and whispering, “You must be a good man, Hank, because your Annie sure loves you.” The specific, unsettling thing was the reason Poteet was on the Seawall that night: Mrs. Hemphill’s only living heir, a Mrs. Denise Stripe. On the surface at least, there appeared to be nothing for Poteet to like or admire about Mrs. Stripe. The thing was, she was loud. Even her hair was loud. And this was in dramatic contrast to the person of her late aunt, Poteet’s favorite client. Mrs. Dorothy Hemphill, the widow of a merchant marine captain, was small-boned. She wouldn’t so much sit in a chair as alight, like a hummingbird pausing on a tendril of Confederate jasmine. She enjoyed vegetable soups and halves of tuna sandwiches (with egg and a dusting of cayenne pepper), crust on. There was a creamy, iced lemon cookie at Lila’s Bakeshop on the Strand that was a once-a-week (her word) “extravagance.” Poteet would bring a tidy sack of them to his quarterly meeting with Mrs. Hemphill at the Tremont House. She would accept only two and say to him, “You have one fine habit there, Mr. Poteet. It’s important to create one’s habits mindfully.” In reality, there was no legal business to conduct between Poteet and Mrs. Hemphill. The Chinese vase was quietly impressive for sure, again her words “an important piece,” but from a legal perspective, it wasn’t interesting at all. A paragraph in the will: Mrs. Stripe was instructed to “fully accept with an open heart the Chinese vase that, in its way, provided for me and allowed me a sense of security in the world.” Nothing more. She was his favorite client because there was no business between them. He would talk about what was on his mind: Annie, mostly. She would lean forward, settle her chin against folded hands, close her almond eyes, and give herself to the rhythm of his speech like a raft to a warm current. And every once in a while, she would ask the most extraordinary questions. “When she died there in your life’s bed, did you hear God clear his throat?” Had Mrs. Hemphill’s husband not been killed just 20 years into their union, when she was 42, the Chinese vase that he had declared to be their “retirement plan,” regardless of its provenance, might not ever have become what it became: the last, vexing, redemptive, luminous, jagged, provident gift of a violent man. “He did… only when he was drunk… but he did beat me, you know… with an open hand,” she told Poteet during one of their quarterly meetings. There was a typical Galveston summer squall that early afternoon, thunder, sheets of rain, folderol. They always seem so serious. Mrs. Hemphill knew she would have to speak up. Given the topic, though, she chose to wait it out. Things pass. “It’s important you understand that,” she continued. “He kept his hand open… always. He knew what he was doing. He didn’t want me maimed. He didn’t ever want to see the proof. “It’s taken me all this time to understand that Roger was a man torn straight down the middle… and sewed up by his own hand. “When he’d drink, this look would climb up to his eyes. It wasn’t anger, Mr. Poteet. It was disappointment and weary resolve. The makings of a grimace. I know the meaning of that look now. It was the look of man with a lawnmower that kept breaking down in the high grass. It was the look of a crippling father with what he could only see as a crippled son. “Roger’s self-sewn stitches would loosen. And all there was of night in him would seep out through the wound. “Don’t think it was one way with Roger, please, or with me either. He protected me. I could disappear behind him. Some nights in spring, I’d cradle his large, beautiful head on my lap. We’d be together on one of the benches on the Seawall. And he’d sing to me. Greek sailing songs… “And… He made certain I was provided for. The Chinese vase. It’s priceless, you know. That’s what Roger always said. Museum quality. I’ve changed my whole life to accommodate it. Air conditioning. The insurance. Didn’t feel safe leaving it alone for long. Taking the clerical job at Mr. Moody’s bank. “Then he got into the fight on the Seawall that Halloween, and they pushed him down to the rocks. His beautiful head… cracked open. And that left just the Chinese vase and I. Came home from his service and there it was. I had to accommodate it all. Do you know what I mean? All of it…?” No. Poteet didn’t know what she meant. But he did recognize the shapes and figures fashioned from grief, for that was the human clay he’d been working in for three years now. “I accommodated it,” Mrs. Hemphill concluded with a half-smile. “And now I know its name. Its name is forgiveness, Mr. Poteet.” &&&&&&&&&&&&& “Mr. Poteet, you remember Chilly,” said Mrs. Stripe, wearing studded black jeans and what looked like a pink silk pajama top, as she pointed to the east, that being the general direction of her stubby, amiable third husband. Chilly, a Hispanic man with a crew cut in his early 50s, was smiling a Tonight’s Big Texas Lotto Winner smile behind the wheel of their new black Dodge truck. Chilly never spoke. “Chilly’s not gonna get out of the truck ’cause he’s right up on his lard-ass years,” Mrs. Stripe continued, “So let’s get to the Antiques Roadshow moment, shall we? I mean, I ’preciate you going the extra mile and all with that thermo-uh-whatever testing. That’s nice. We will pay you. Hear me? We will pay you for your trouble. Don’t you worry one minute about that. We just need to know what we can expect at auction. Where’s my Aunt’s China thing anyway?” “Thermoluminescence dating, Mrs. Stripe,” said Poteet. His tone was even. There was a small triangle of sweat forming between his shoulder blades. “Look, I’m a no-BS person, Mr. Poteet,” said Mrs. Stripe, with a surprisingly easy smile. Then, beginning with a mock whisper, she started to unwind: “I know a little secret that you think beach trash like me wouldn’t know. You… don’t… like… me… But you don’t have to get all prickity with the words and everything. Save yourself the stomach acid. People think I’m not watching. I’m watching. Everyone who’s never liked me is real big on details and explaining things. But you see, I know something about people like you. What you are is no f**king fun. And you know that you’re no f**king fun. And you know, yes, you do know that I’m going to die a very happy woman. Not fake happy, either. Big titty happy. And you’re gonna die with that sour little look on your face. Uh-huh… that one.” Chilly was still smiling that Tonight’s Big Texas Lotto Winner smile. “Now,” Mrs. Stripe continued, “What’s the jackpot? And if it’s just half what creepy little Aunt Dottie told me it was, well, I will send you a nice big Christmas card or Jewish card or whatever flavor you like with… uh… $300 just so everybody feels the love.” Poteet eased an envelope from his suit coat. “Here are the test results. It’s a fake, Mrs. Stripe. It’s an excellent fake. It’s worth approximately $500. The thermoluminescence testing is accurate, I assure you. I’m as surprised as you. I’ll go get the vase now. I’ve got it wrapped in the trunk of my car,” said Poteet. “You’re a lying a**hole,” Mrs. Stripe blurted after him. “Nobody, not even that crazy bitch goes to all those years of trouble for nothing.” True, thought the lawyer Poteet. True.
In one sense, though, the estate was unsettling for Poteet. He thought of himself as someone who could bring a sure quiet and equanimity to any situation. In the almost nine months of his wife’s illness and home hospice care — pancreatic cancer that was angry and metastasizing like a hurricane in her warm blood — he would begin most mornings the same way: splashing water on his face from a bedside basin, looking into the mirror at slate-blue eyes, and whispering, “You must be a good man, Hank, because your Annie sure loves you.”

The specific, unsettling thing was the reason Poteet was on the Seawall that night: Mrs. Hemphill’s only living heir, a Mrs. Denise Stripe. On the surface at least, there appeared to be nothing for Poteet to like or admire about Mrs. Stripe. The thing was, she was loud. Even her hair was loud. And this was in dramatic contrast to the person of her late aunt, Poteet’s favorite client.

Mrs. Dorothy Hemphill, the widow of a merchant marine captain, was small-boned. She wouldn’t so much sit in a chair as alight, like a hummingbird pausing on a tendril of Confederate jasmine. She enjoyed vegetable soups and halves of tuna sandwiches (with egg and a dusting of cayenne pepper), crust on. There was a creamy, iced lemon cookie at Lila’s Bakeshop on the Strand that was a once-a-week (her word) “extravagance.” Poteet would bring a tidy sack of them to his quarterly meeting with Mrs. Hemphill at the Tremont House. She would accept only two and say to him, “You have one fine habit there, Mr. Poteet. It’s important to create one’s habits mindfully.”

In reality, there was no legal business to conduct between Poteet and Mrs. Hemphill. The Chinese vase was quietly impressive for sure, again her words “an important piece,” but from a legal perspective, it wasn’t interesting at all. A paragraph in the will: Mrs. Stripe was instructed to “fully accept with an open heart the Chinese vase that, in its way, provided for me and allowed me a sense of security in the world.” Nothing more.

She was his favorite client because there was no business between them. He would talk about what was on his mind: Annie, mostly. She would lean forward, settle her chin against folded hands, close her almond eyes, and give herself to the rhythm of his speech like a raft to a warm current. And every once in a while, she would ask the most extraordinary questions. “When she died there in your life’s bed, did you hear God clear his throat?”

Had Mrs. Hemphill’s husband not been killed just 20 years into their union, when she was 42, the Chinese vase that he had declared to be their “retirement plan,” regardless of its provenance, might not ever have become what it became: the last, vexing, redemptive, luminous, jagged, provident gift of a violent man.

“He did… only when he was drunk… but he did beat me, you know… with an open hand,” she told Poteet during one of their quarterly meetings. There was a typical Galveston summer squall that early afternoon, thunder, sheets of rain, folderol. They always seem so serious. Mrs. Hemphill knew she would have to speak up. Given the topic, though, she chose to wait it out. Things pass.

“It’s important you understand that,” she continued. “He kept his hand open… always. He knew what he was doing. He didn’t want me maimed. He didn’t ever want to see the proof.

“It’s taken me all this time to understand that Roger was a man torn straight down the middle… and sewed up by his own hand.

“When he’d drink, this look would climb up to his eyes. It wasn’t anger, Mr. Poteet. It was disappointment and weary resolve. The makings of a grimace. I know the meaning of that look now. It was the look of man with a lawnmower that kept breaking down in the high grass. It was the look of a crippling father with what he could only see as a crippled son.

“Roger’s self-sewn stitches would loosen. And all there was of night in him would seep out through the wound.

“Don’t think it was one way with Roger, please, or with me either. He protected me. I could disappear behind him. Some nights in spring, I’d cradle his large, beautiful head on my lap. We’d be together on one of the benches on the Seawall. And he’d sing to me. Greek sailing songs…

“And… He made certain I was provided for. The Chinese vase. It’s priceless, you know. That’s what Roger always said. Museum quality. I’ve changed my whole life to accommodate it. Air conditioning. The insurance. Didn’t feel safe leaving it alone for long. Taking the clerical job at Mr. Moody’s bank.

“Then he got into the fight on the Seawall that Halloween, and they pushed him down to the rocks. His beautiful head… cracked open. And that left just the Chinese vase and I. Came home from his service and there it was. I had to accommodate it all. Do you know what I mean? All of it…?”

No. Poteet didn’t know what she meant. But he did recognize the shapes and figures fashioned from grief, for that was the human clay he’d been working in for three years now.

“I accommodated it,” Mrs. Hemphill concluded with a half-smile. “And now I know its name. Its name is forgiveness, Mr. Poteet.”



&&&&&&&&&&&&&



“Mr. Poteet, you remember Chilly,” said Mrs. Stripe, wearing studded black jeans and what looked like a pink silk pajama top, as she pointed to the east, that being the general direction of her stubby, amiable third husband. Chilly, a Hispanic man with a crew cut in his early 50s, was smiling a Tonight’s Big Texas Lotto Winner smile behind the wheel of their new black Dodge truck. Chilly never spoke.

“Chilly’s not gonna get out of the truck ’cause he’s right up on his lard-ass years,” Mrs. Stripe continued, “So let’s get to the Antiques Roadshow moment, shall we? I mean, I ’preciate you going the extra mile and all with that thermo-uh-whatever testing. That’s nice. We will pay you. Hear me? We will pay you for your trouble. Don’t you worry one minute about that. We just need to know what we can expect at auction. Where’s my Aunt’s China thing anyway?”

“Thermoluminescence dating, Mrs. Stripe,” said Poteet. His tone was even. There was a small triangle of sweat forming between his shoulder blades.

“Look, I’m a no-BS person, Mr. Poteet,” said Mrs. Stripe, with a surprisingly easy smile.

Then, beginning with a mock whisper, she started to unwind: “I know a little secret that you think beach trash like me wouldn’t know. You… don’t… like… me… But you don’t have to get all prickity with the words and everything. Save yourself the stomach acid. People think I’m not watching. I’m watching. Everyone who’s never liked me is real big on details and explaining things. But you see, I know something about people like you. What you are is no f**king fun. And you know that you’re no f**king fun. And you know, yes, you do know that I’m going to die a very happy woman. Not fake happy, either. Big titty happy. And you’re gonna die with that sour little look on your face. Uh-huh… that one.”

Chilly was still smiling that Tonight’s Big Texas Lotto Winner smile.

“Now,” Mrs. Stripe continued, “What’s the jackpot? And if it’s just half what creepy little Aunt Dottie told me it was, well, I will send you a nice big Christmas card or Jewish card or whatever flavor you like with… uh… $300 just so everybody feels the love.”

Poteet eased an envelope from his suit coat.

“Here are the test results. It’s a fake, Mrs. Stripe. It’s an excellent fake. It’s worth approximately $500. The thermoluminescence testing is accurate, I assure you. I’m as surprised as you. I’ll go get the vase now. I’ve got it wrapped in the trunk of my car,” said Poteet.

“You’re a lying a**hole,” Mrs. Stripe blurted after him. “Nobody, not even that crazy bitch goes to all those years of trouble for nothing.”

True, thought the lawyer Poteet. True.

]]> http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic?p=96&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic/2008/05/20/always_look_for_the_blind_eye Tue, 20 May 2008 13:16:45 +0000 Fosforus.com 95@http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog Shortly after the shotgun barrel poked out from the doorway of his double-wide in Brazoria County — later, either embarrassed or amused, I forget which, he explained that the leader of a Mexican biker gang had been on his ass ever since a scrape involving a pretty girl at a local dance bar — Bill, Ted, and I (a.k.a. extremely pale suburban boys) figured out that the Bob we knew when we were kids had been thoroughly gnawed on, swallowed, and washed down with Schlitz by this Bob: goateed, marijuana-trafficking, agitated, and in the company of two oversized friends whom we would know only as Roach and Spade. Yes, indeed, the night before us seemed pregnant with possibilities in that Rosemary’s Baby sense of the word pregnant. Bob flashed the three of us a look that roughly translated into: “We’re not in Meyerland anymore, boys.” And that’s when I started, as discreetly as possible (for example, when Bob, Roach, and Spade went looking for exotic weaponry or the formal marijuana they saved for out-of-town guests), giving Bill (the guy with the car) as many interesting signals as a third-base coach. The Bill in this story is Bill Dean, one of the sons of Ashby Alfonso Dean, the most memorable figure in my childhood and, I would venture, one of the most memorable figures in anyone’s childhood. Mr. Dean stood 6'4" tall, had a shaved “Mr. Clean” head that was shiny in the Houston sun, a voice that was less a voice and more Burl Ives “Big Country” bellow (“Act like a dog, crawl like a dog!"), and a build that had a way of clearing the room if one of his sons dabbled in backtalk. Mr. Dean’s hobbies included telling smaller people to eat sheep sorrel (which he pronounced “shropshire”) that was growing in his front yard like the ordinary, bitter weed it pretended to be; beekeeping; collecting 19th-century patent medicine bottles, some of which had turned the characteristic lilac color one associates with glass that’s been out in the sun; and completely rebuilding British sports cars, mostly those made by Austin-Healey. Right now, I want this story to be about Ashby Alfonso Dean. Believe me, you want that too. Had he been with us that night outside of Angleton, we would have been sucked into an adventure. We’d have gone, as suggested by Bob, back to the dance bar where the pretty girl and the fight with the Mexican biker gang leader surely awaited us. We’d have been WWII infantrymen in the shadow of a mighty tank. He wasn’t. We didn’t. We weren’t. Spade told us a story about a friend of his of who wrestled the cranky alligator at Sea-O-Rama in Galveston. The trick was this: The alligator had one blind eye. As long you stayed on that side, you were a happy wrestler instead of live bait. The story seemed instructive. Then, truly, the plan was hatched for us all to head down to the dance bar in question. Once in separate cars, I told Bill and Ted that we just needed to let the Convoy of Bob and his Anti-Suburbanites get way ahead of us. It was at this point that Ted, the most conscientious and kindhearted among us, started making interesting noises about the fact that we weren’t being fair to Bob. Good point, I thought, while assessing Ted’s 110 pounds, wire-framed glasses, and French ancestry. The Convoy of Bob and his Anti-Suburbanites, about an eighth of a mile in front of us by now, made a right across some railroad tracks. Bill made a left. And to quote Frost, that has made all the difference. (a.k.a. extremely pale suburban boys) figured out that the Bob we knew when we were kids had been thoroughly gnawed on, swallowed, and washed down with Schlitz by this Bob: goateed, marijuana-trafficking, agitated, and in the company of two oversized friends whom we would know only as Roach and Spade.

Yes, indeed, the night before us seemed pregnant with possibilities in that Rosemary’s Baby sense of the word pregnant.

Bob flashed the three of us a look that roughly translated into: “We’re not in Meyerland anymore, boys.” And that’s when I started, as discreetly as possible (for example, when Bob, Roach, and Spade went looking for exotic weaponry or the formal marijuana they saved for out-of-town guests), giving Bill (the guy with the car) as many interesting signals as a third-base coach.

The Bill in this story is Bill Dean, one of the sons of Ashby Alfonso Dean, the most memorable figure in my childhood and, I would venture, one of the most memorable figures in anyone’s childhood. Mr. Dean stood 6'4" tall, had a shaved “Mr. Clean” head that was shiny in the Houston sun, a voice that was less a voice and more Burl Ives “Big Country” bellow (“Act like a dog, crawl like a dog!"), and a build that had a way of clearing the room if one of his sons dabbled in backtalk. Mr. Dean’s hobbies included telling smaller people to eat sheep sorrel (which he pronounced “shropshire”) that was growing in his front yard like the ordinary, bitter weed it pretended to be; beekeeping; collecting 19th-century patent medicine bottles, some of which had turned the characteristic lilac color one associates with glass that’s been out in the sun; and completely rebuilding British sports cars, mostly those made by Austin-Healey.

Right now, I want this story to be about Ashby Alfonso Dean. Believe me, you want that too. Had he been with us that night outside of Angleton, we would have been sucked into an adventure. We’d have gone, as suggested by Bob, back to the dance bar where the pretty girl and the fight with the Mexican biker gang leader surely awaited us. We’d have been WWII infantrymen in the shadow of a mighty tank.

He wasn’t. We didn’t. We weren’t.

Spade told us a story about a friend of his of who wrestled the cranky alligator at Sea-O-Rama in Galveston. The trick was this: The alligator had one blind eye. As long you stayed on that side, you were a happy wrestler instead of live bait. The story seemed instructive.

Then, truly, the plan was hatched for us all to head down to the dance bar in question. Once in separate cars, I told Bill and Ted that we just needed to let the Convoy of Bob and his Anti-Suburbanites get way ahead of us. It was at this point that Ted, the most conscientious and kindhearted among us, started making interesting noises about the fact that we weren’t being fair to Bob. Good point, I thought, while assessing Ted’s 110 pounds, wire-framed glasses, and French ancestry.

The Convoy of Bob and his Anti-Suburbanites, about an eighth of a mile in front of us by now, made a right across some railroad tracks. Bill made a left. And to quote Frost, that has made all the difference.]]> http://fosforus.net/workspace/blog/index.php/fosforuspublic?p=95&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#comments