Today I was thinking…imagine that, anyway I went into deep thought about truly living. We all assume that we are trying to live life to the fullest, but where do these aspirations truly come from? Do they truly come from within? For 99.99% of us I think not. Sorry but were all just a bunch of aimless fools that ride on the coat tails of what others have done before us. Don’t get me wrong this can still be a fun way to travel through life…after all I have done the same on many occasions. For example when I was in middle school, I though David Copperfield was one kool kat! I mean shit he had all those hot women around him, he had this mystery surrounding him, soo I decided I was going to be just like him. So, I went to the local magic shop over on Gratiot Ave. and I started my collection of magic tricks, and I’ve got to admit it was pretty cool. I found it quite fun screwing with other peoples head and the funny thing was..it was the smartest people that were the easiest to fool, not to mention I think I was pretty damn good at it. But anyway the point is, I was not doing something truly original, I was merely coping what someone had done before me, much like Blackstone had done before Copperfield. It is hard to be truly original these days.
I have also made music a big part of my daily life, granted I’ll never be some rock star, but I truly enjoy listening to the words spoken to really try and visualize and on occasion truly try and experience what the artist was trying to convey. For example “roll in Lake St Clair in my 40’ Donzi” (Kid Rock), well I don’t have a 40’ Donzi, but I do have a 24’ Searay and I have tell you, it’s a blast. Music is truly a great medium, its like a short story that you can involve yourself in for just a moment or longer if properly self medicated. If you do not find yourself in their shoes for even a moment your not listening well enough. Music to me is the ultimate short story and I have written quite a few short stories, some about me and my desires and others about people that have touched my life in some way.
I have decided to graduate from these short stories and write a book. I am still unsure of the subject matter that I will write about as I have quite a warped mind, but I have found the best way to get started is just start writing, much like I have been doing and recently told a few close friends recently to do as well. This is not to say that I will quit writing songs, but I want to do something new and exciting as I do get bored very easily. I hope that whatever I write, I will be able to suck people in to the story so that they can experience exactly what I am experiencing. Hopefully when I am done, you can find yourself cruising the lake in a speedboat, or flying in some jet a mack1 (another one on my to-do-list), so to speak. Either way when you read, listen, or watch something that inspires you, don’t just visualize or dream of yourself doing it, actually do it. Sure we may be coping what others have done before, but maybe that day will come where you have done something no one has done before and it will be someone else that can fly on your coat tails as they dream.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Dude Lay off the Brew!
Recently I was told “Dude, lay off the brew!” and it triggered one of my writing sprees again. First let me say that I was not offended by this in any way, it was someone merely expressing their thoughts to me, as we all should do with each other as human beings. I find this a great gift we have, that very few actually take advantage of, for fear of tainting their acceptance. I enjoy writing often, no matter the subject, including “screwing a mermaid” which by the way did not actually happen, however, if the opportunity did arise I certainly would, I mean come on; what are the chances of that happening again?
I can certainly see how it appears that I am drunk all the time, but this is far from the truth…after all I am a story teller, whether it be in a song, writings, book or whatever. There are times when I do over-indulge; much like the woman that has two pieces of cake instead of just one. I will admit that I do drink everyday which results in numerous benefits. In fact, beer provides the same health benefits as wine, such as reduced risk of stroke, heart and vascular disease in moderation of course. Another important fact that I recently read was that men who drink, on average have a 7% higher salary for the same job, than men who do not drink. Sometimes I will have a few extra so I can maybe bump that number a few more points. Generally I will have 2 beers everyday, which helps to slow my mind just enough, so that my hands may keep up with my thoughts while writing. I am certainly not ashamed that I drink and fid that benefits far out-weights the risks in my case. When I work, I work hard; when I play…I go even harder! I rarely watch television, because most of it’s a complete joke and has no benefits to really experiencing life. I am a doer! I fish or go boating a minimum of 3 times a week, I write no less than a thousand words every week, I listen to a minimum of 20 songs every week and by listen, I really mean pay attention to what they were trying to say. I play my guitar at least 4 times a week and always record at least one thing. I have went diving in Grand Cayman, drove a racecar around Daytona, fished in the Bahamas, went to dinner with Kid Rock, as well as, numerous other adventures that I will cherish forever. I thrive to experience life and am thankful for those that I can experience these joys with.
In short, I always appreciate comments that people may have and am happy with the opportunity to be able to interact with others. I try to have as much fun in my life as possible and I enjoy doing it with a beer in hand…so “lay off the brew”, absolutely not! Cheers.
I can certainly see how it appears that I am drunk all the time, but this is far from the truth…after all I am a story teller, whether it be in a song, writings, book or whatever. There are times when I do over-indulge; much like the woman that has two pieces of cake instead of just one. I will admit that I do drink everyday which results in numerous benefits. In fact, beer provides the same health benefits as wine, such as reduced risk of stroke, heart and vascular disease in moderation of course. Another important fact that I recently read was that men who drink, on average have a 7% higher salary for the same job, than men who do not drink. Sometimes I will have a few extra so I can maybe bump that number a few more points. Generally I will have 2 beers everyday, which helps to slow my mind just enough, so that my hands may keep up with my thoughts while writing. I am certainly not ashamed that I drink and fid that benefits far out-weights the risks in my case. When I work, I work hard; when I play…I go even harder! I rarely watch television, because most of it’s a complete joke and has no benefits to really experiencing life. I am a doer! I fish or go boating a minimum of 3 times a week, I write no less than a thousand words every week, I listen to a minimum of 20 songs every week and by listen, I really mean pay attention to what they were trying to say. I play my guitar at least 4 times a week and always record at least one thing. I have went diving in Grand Cayman, drove a racecar around Daytona, fished in the Bahamas, went to dinner with Kid Rock, as well as, numerous other adventures that I will cherish forever. I thrive to experience life and am thankful for those that I can experience these joys with.
In short, I always appreciate comments that people may have and am happy with the opportunity to be able to interact with others. I try to have as much fun in my life as possible and I enjoy doing it with a beer in hand…so “lay off the brew”, absolutely not! Cheers.
Monday, November 28, 2011
The Orange Blossom's
This was a short story I wrote awhile back, enjoy!
The Orange Blossom’s
Not much ever happens here in Polk City, Florida. The sun always rises as fast as it falls, and the middle of the day, when it’s the hottest, seems to drag like an Easter Sunday church service. Don’t get me wrong…, I love God and everything, but these long days in the sun are cooking me like a luau pig. I get up every morning at 5 o’clock, just so I can have an hour awake, without the sun singeing every hair-on my already leather-like arms. After an hour, four cigarettes and 3 cups of coffee, I climb aboard this contraption that use to be an old school bus. It’s painted all white now, has like a dozen old wooden ladders strapped to the top and virtually every window is missing since the air conditioning hasn’t worked since Jimmy Carter was president! But what the hell…who needs air conditioning when you spend ten hours a day, incubating at ninety-four degrees with thirty percent humidity outside.
I turn off of Highway 27, onto this dirt path they call a road to pick up Paco and his crew of eleven other Mexicans. Paco is the only one in the group that speaks English, and like me, he has never missed a day of work in his life. Paco and his crew live in a steal building, kind of like an oversized shed. Our boss pays them by the bushel picked, and lets them to stay in this garage like shack for free. Of course he always threatens to call the INS whenever he thinks they’re not picking fast enough. Not like it really matters, they all have work visas.
Paco and I always picked together, and have a very good friendship since he’s been around about as long as I have. He always refers to me as “Gringo”, since I was the only white picker amongst the bunch. There was always one white man on most picking crews, since we were the only ones with a driver’s license. Normally Paco and I spend our day’s bullshitting about the differences between American and Mexican women, and how I don’t have a clue what real tequila is. We argue and debate about stupid crap, but it’s all in good fun, just a way to help kill off these seamless days.
It was last fall-the last week of picking, joking and talking as usual…we had just set our ladders into the orange tree, when Paco says,
“Hey Gringo, why you do this every day?”
“Do what?” I said.
“Pick these oranges? Your white man, you can work better job than this.”
Paco had made a good point, I had never planned to pick oranges for the rest of my life, and it was always just something to do for the summer until I decided what to do with my life. The fact of the matter was I didn’t like change very much. My life was simple; I did the same thing every day, I had one friend and only had to talk to one person all day since the others didn’t speak English. So with a smirk on my face I replied “I love the smell of the orange blossoms!” He just chuckled as he said “ok Gringo”. It was a well known fact that I hated the smell of these trees; it seemed to linger with me like the stench of a skunk on a dog! It was the only smell I knew.
We were fast approaching the end of the season, when I usually drive Paco and his crew back to the Texas/Mexico border, where we meet with his family to drive them the rest of the way back home into Mexico, when Paco said,
“Hey Gringo, come home with us for vacation, we show you good Mexico fun! I take you to the bull fights; we drink some tequila…mucho fun man!”
“I can’t stay in Mexico; I gotta get back and…”
“Do what, wait for more orange to grow, Gringo?”
Paco was right, there was absolutely nothing to get back to, I had the next three months off before we did the fall trimming, but I’m just not use to doing anything outside of these damn oranges. I usually spend my three months off fishing down at Lake Okeechobee in my jon boat. I could clearly see that Paco wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and I really couldn’t come up with an even remotely worthy excuse, so with reluctance in my voice I replied,
“Sure…whatever.”
“Oh you wont regret this Gringo”, as he smirked with enthusiasm.
“This better be good, I could be fishing” as I muttered under my breath.
The trip back to Mexico, was quite un-eventful, as we had made this trip so many times before, however once we crossed into Mexico, I was very interested in this new landscape before me. We pulled up to Paco’s home, or least that’s what they called it, and I have to say that shed they were living in back in Florida, was definitely a step up. Surrounded by a rusty wire fence, and at least a half a dozen chickens, was what they called home. Made of some old grey weathered boards, and a tin roof, it sat up off the ground about a foot and a half or so. You could see the red earth that covered all of Mexico’s landscape, through the gaps in the floor boards; needless to say I was already missing my one room palace back in Polk County, Florida.
It was my last night in Mexico, when Paco and his friends took me to the Rosarita Cantina. I do not lie when I say, that this was the absolute best Mexican food I have ever had, and the tequila…, oh the tequila, cannot be put into words. Now I’m not much of a dancer but, but with a glass of tequila courage, I was doing the salsa till well past two am with all the Mexican women. Paco had to pry me away from these sensual beauties, as I slurred some sort of flirtatious remark to them, as I was stumbling back out to the bus. We all piled back into our white Mexican limousine, ladders and all, and headed back down the all dirt road back to Paco’s, singing La Cucaracha. We were only two miles away from Paco’s house when the bus felt like it slammed into a pot hole.
“Oh shit Gringo! I think you just hit a dog” Paco yelled while laughing in his drunken stupor.
“It was a pothole bigger than your mother’s ass” I yell back in laughter.
I jerked the bus off to the side and slammed on the brakes, kicking up all kinds of red dust from the road. We all climbed out of our white chariot and headed to the back of the bus to look.
There was no pothole. There was no dog. We all just stood there staring in a daze, as we looked upon this old man that lay on the dirt. He was clearly dead. His body had been crushed. He must have dragged for a short period, as his skin was worn to the bone in several places, the red dirt intermingling with all the blood on his body…his face unrecognizable. My body was numb. I went from drunk to sober in half a second from the adrenaline that pumped through my body like a fire hose. The silence was broken when Paco noticed the headlights from a car in the far distance approaching.
“We have to go Gringo! Go! Go! Get on the bus Gringo!
“But I just…I just killed tha…”
“We have to go now” he said very softly this time.
I don’t ever remember getting back on the bus, or how we made it back to Paco’s house. At some point when I became lucid again we were sitting around an old wooden table in Paco’s kitchen, as he told me,
“You cannot go to a Mexican prison; a white man will not survive. They will kill you. Stay here a couple of days, then head out and get back across that border. You have always been a good friend to me Gringo, and we will never speak of this night to anyone, but you must make it back home my friend.”
Three days later as I approached the border, my heart began to race, I was sweating like a marathon runner, images of the body that I had left back on that red dirt road, flashed by like the light between train cars as it passes in the sun. I pull up to the check point booth.
“Citizenship” the border officer says.
“US” I reply.
“Why are you so sweaty?”
“Oh, the air conditioning doesn’t work on this heap.” as I chuckle.
“Sir, step off the bus, we have a little problem” as he points toward the front of the bus.
As I’m stepping down off the bus, thoughts of blood on the bumper hit me, or maybe a huge dent, or some hair, shit! What does he see, somebody saw us drive off, Paco ratted me out, either way I am clearly busted, as all these thoughts race through my head.
As the officer points at the bumper,
“Have a good time in Mexico, Sir?”
I look down at the bumper, and see a empty bottle of tequila wedged between the front bumper and grill, placed there by one of Paco’s buddies when we left the cantina in our drunken state.
“Oh yeah” I said with some relief, “the guys thought it would make a good hood ornament slash trophy of my trip to Mexico” as I laughed.
“Do me a favor” the officer said in an un-amused voice,”take that off and throw it away, welcome back to the United States sir.”
The next season Paco returned to the groves. We didn’t say much to each other, however there would be an occasional glance, with a slight nod, to let me know our secrets are lost in the past, never to be found or spoke of again.
I often think about that man, which lay on that red dirt road, and the guilt that I will carry with me till my own death. Sometimes I find myself staring into the sky, as I perch atop my ladder, birds flying as free as the wind, and the smell of orange blossoms, filling the hot summer air.
The Orange Blossom’s
Not much ever happens here in Polk City, Florida. The sun always rises as fast as it falls, and the middle of the day, when it’s the hottest, seems to drag like an Easter Sunday church service. Don’t get me wrong…, I love God and everything, but these long days in the sun are cooking me like a luau pig. I get up every morning at 5 o’clock, just so I can have an hour awake, without the sun singeing every hair-on my already leather-like arms. After an hour, four cigarettes and 3 cups of coffee, I climb aboard this contraption that use to be an old school bus. It’s painted all white now, has like a dozen old wooden ladders strapped to the top and virtually every window is missing since the air conditioning hasn’t worked since Jimmy Carter was president! But what the hell…who needs air conditioning when you spend ten hours a day, incubating at ninety-four degrees with thirty percent humidity outside.
I turn off of Highway 27, onto this dirt path they call a road to pick up Paco and his crew of eleven other Mexicans. Paco is the only one in the group that speaks English, and like me, he has never missed a day of work in his life. Paco and his crew live in a steal building, kind of like an oversized shed. Our boss pays them by the bushel picked, and lets them to stay in this garage like shack for free. Of course he always threatens to call the INS whenever he thinks they’re not picking fast enough. Not like it really matters, they all have work visas.
Paco and I always picked together, and have a very good friendship since he’s been around about as long as I have. He always refers to me as “Gringo”, since I was the only white picker amongst the bunch. There was always one white man on most picking crews, since we were the only ones with a driver’s license. Normally Paco and I spend our day’s bullshitting about the differences between American and Mexican women, and how I don’t have a clue what real tequila is. We argue and debate about stupid crap, but it’s all in good fun, just a way to help kill off these seamless days.
It was last fall-the last week of picking, joking and talking as usual…we had just set our ladders into the orange tree, when Paco says,
“Hey Gringo, why you do this every day?”
“Do what?” I said.
“Pick these oranges? Your white man, you can work better job than this.”
Paco had made a good point, I had never planned to pick oranges for the rest of my life, and it was always just something to do for the summer until I decided what to do with my life. The fact of the matter was I didn’t like change very much. My life was simple; I did the same thing every day, I had one friend and only had to talk to one person all day since the others didn’t speak English. So with a smirk on my face I replied “I love the smell of the orange blossoms!” He just chuckled as he said “ok Gringo”. It was a well known fact that I hated the smell of these trees; it seemed to linger with me like the stench of a skunk on a dog! It was the only smell I knew.
We were fast approaching the end of the season, when I usually drive Paco and his crew back to the Texas/Mexico border, where we meet with his family to drive them the rest of the way back home into Mexico, when Paco said,
“Hey Gringo, come home with us for vacation, we show you good Mexico fun! I take you to the bull fights; we drink some tequila…mucho fun man!”
“I can’t stay in Mexico; I gotta get back and…”
“Do what, wait for more orange to grow, Gringo?”
Paco was right, there was absolutely nothing to get back to, I had the next three months off before we did the fall trimming, but I’m just not use to doing anything outside of these damn oranges. I usually spend my three months off fishing down at Lake Okeechobee in my jon boat. I could clearly see that Paco wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and I really couldn’t come up with an even remotely worthy excuse, so with reluctance in my voice I replied,
“Sure…whatever.”
“Oh you wont regret this Gringo”, as he smirked with enthusiasm.
“This better be good, I could be fishing” as I muttered under my breath.
The trip back to Mexico, was quite un-eventful, as we had made this trip so many times before, however once we crossed into Mexico, I was very interested in this new landscape before me. We pulled up to Paco’s home, or least that’s what they called it, and I have to say that shed they were living in back in Florida, was definitely a step up. Surrounded by a rusty wire fence, and at least a half a dozen chickens, was what they called home. Made of some old grey weathered boards, and a tin roof, it sat up off the ground about a foot and a half or so. You could see the red earth that covered all of Mexico’s landscape, through the gaps in the floor boards; needless to say I was already missing my one room palace back in Polk County, Florida.
It was my last night in Mexico, when Paco and his friends took me to the Rosarita Cantina. I do not lie when I say, that this was the absolute best Mexican food I have ever had, and the tequila…, oh the tequila, cannot be put into words. Now I’m not much of a dancer but, but with a glass of tequila courage, I was doing the salsa till well past two am with all the Mexican women. Paco had to pry me away from these sensual beauties, as I slurred some sort of flirtatious remark to them, as I was stumbling back out to the bus. We all piled back into our white Mexican limousine, ladders and all, and headed back down the all dirt road back to Paco’s, singing La Cucaracha. We were only two miles away from Paco’s house when the bus felt like it slammed into a pot hole.
“Oh shit Gringo! I think you just hit a dog” Paco yelled while laughing in his drunken stupor.
“It was a pothole bigger than your mother’s ass” I yell back in laughter.
I jerked the bus off to the side and slammed on the brakes, kicking up all kinds of red dust from the road. We all climbed out of our white chariot and headed to the back of the bus to look.
There was no pothole. There was no dog. We all just stood there staring in a daze, as we looked upon this old man that lay on the dirt. He was clearly dead. His body had been crushed. He must have dragged for a short period, as his skin was worn to the bone in several places, the red dirt intermingling with all the blood on his body…his face unrecognizable. My body was numb. I went from drunk to sober in half a second from the adrenaline that pumped through my body like a fire hose. The silence was broken when Paco noticed the headlights from a car in the far distance approaching.
“We have to go Gringo! Go! Go! Get on the bus Gringo!
“But I just…I just killed tha…”
“We have to go now” he said very softly this time.
I don’t ever remember getting back on the bus, or how we made it back to Paco’s house. At some point when I became lucid again we were sitting around an old wooden table in Paco’s kitchen, as he told me,
“You cannot go to a Mexican prison; a white man will not survive. They will kill you. Stay here a couple of days, then head out and get back across that border. You have always been a good friend to me Gringo, and we will never speak of this night to anyone, but you must make it back home my friend.”
Three days later as I approached the border, my heart began to race, I was sweating like a marathon runner, images of the body that I had left back on that red dirt road, flashed by like the light between train cars as it passes in the sun. I pull up to the check point booth.
“Citizenship” the border officer says.
“US” I reply.
“Why are you so sweaty?”
“Oh, the air conditioning doesn’t work on this heap.” as I chuckle.
“Sir, step off the bus, we have a little problem” as he points toward the front of the bus.
As I’m stepping down off the bus, thoughts of blood on the bumper hit me, or maybe a huge dent, or some hair, shit! What does he see, somebody saw us drive off, Paco ratted me out, either way I am clearly busted, as all these thoughts race through my head.
As the officer points at the bumper,
“Have a good time in Mexico, Sir?”
I look down at the bumper, and see a empty bottle of tequila wedged between the front bumper and grill, placed there by one of Paco’s buddies when we left the cantina in our drunken state.
“Oh yeah” I said with some relief, “the guys thought it would make a good hood ornament slash trophy of my trip to Mexico” as I laughed.
“Do me a favor” the officer said in an un-amused voice,”take that off and throw it away, welcome back to the United States sir.”
The next season Paco returned to the groves. We didn’t say much to each other, however there would be an occasional glance, with a slight nod, to let me know our secrets are lost in the past, never to be found or spoke of again.
I often think about that man, which lay on that red dirt road, and the guilt that I will carry with me till my own death. Sometimes I find myself staring into the sky, as I perch atop my ladder, birds flying as free as the wind, and the smell of orange blossoms, filling the hot summer air.
The perfect woman...FOUND!
Call me old fashioned, but there are certain things I really love and appreciate. I love waking every morning and smelling that fresh pot of coffee brewing, sure I could brew my own pot; but you my love, make it sooo good. Sometimes you'll even have a breakfast sandwich hot out of the oven or maybe its just microwaved, but still...its the thought that you know I'm hungry in the morning and you took some extra time to make sure I started the day off right with a little food in my stomach. You always say good morning and have a great day and it just makes me fell good. Now..not to take away from all the special things you do for me because I really do appreciate it, if you could just every so slightly change for me. I hate to pick at the little things, but if you could grow some tits, lose the sack and have a vagina that would be just great. Don't get me wrong guy behind the counter at Speedway, I really love the coffee, but if you could just make a few more minor changes, you would be the perfect woman.
Blog-o-doodle-doo
Well, I suppose its time to give this blog thing a whirl around the toilet. I say toilet because I think of blogging as vomiting through our fingers, the wealth of trash and jumbled thoughts that we wish to expell to whomever will listen. There is not always an ear, that "really" cares to hear our thoughts,but the toilet bowl is always there to vomit our souls into. So with that in mind, what a great place to vomit...I mean Blog!
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