Allen

He wore a mullet like no one’s business, had a car that was one of the loudest and most dirty in town, and he would purposefully fart just to get a negative response.

He was Allen, my cousin.

During my sophomore year, he dropped out of school because he didn’t like the schoolwork.

He lived, by himself, in an old trailer-house just blocks from the schoolhouse. I’d go see him at the end of the day—he’d have some lunch meat in the fridge and I figured I could scam my way into a free second lunch. Often, I had to stop and grab a loaf of bread in order to make this happen.

Short on teeth but not on wit, he had a million stories to tell. Only a handful were true. Yet, I listened all the same because, although he wasn’t but a couple years older than me, in terms of life experience, he was an elder statesman.

His advice was often off-the-cuff, non-substantiated, and, well, looking back, asinine. At the time, however, he was the older brother I didn’t have. My father having passed when I was 15 left a void in the male-role-model department. I guess he was there to fill it.

On Friday nights, he’d fire up his Thunderbird and we’d go “cruising” for girls. Heck, had any responded to our cat calls we never would have known, thanks to the likes of AC/DC and Hank Williams Jr. blaring from his stereo.

He had a girlfriend once. It didn’t last. She moved in and had to do most of the cooking and cleaning. She was looking for a husband. He spent his days looking for work. Neither found what they were looking for.

For one of my birthdays, he gave me a stack of girly magazines. Used. And they weren’t your run-of-the-mill Playboys or Penthouses or even Hustlers. From what I can recall, they had names like Swank and Skin.

My senior year, he decided to go back to school. And play football. He almost made it through his first and only practice. One of the assistant coaches became worried when he started vomiting during one of the drills. Turns out he had chewing tobacco in his mouth the whole time and had swallowed it. Yet, he still showed up to the game on Friday. In uniform.

I graduated and went into the Navy. Just before shipping out, I went to see him for a visit. “Find you some hot foreign chick so that you can bag them and not have to worry about seeing them after” was his best parting advice.

That was 15 years ago, the last time I would ever speak to him.

Just this morning, I learned that Allen had recently passed away from heart failure. He was 33, grossly obese, and diabetic. In a rather unintentionally cavalier manner, one of my relatives laid it down for me: He could barely move from the couch. Ate himself to death, willingly. Refused to help himself.

So, here I am, compelled to reflect on his life and legacy and what, if anything, this chauvinistic, base, unkempt, and foolhardy person has left to me, and what I have used and what I still may use.

My first thought goes back to the darkest autumn of my life.

You see, when my father was killed, well-wishers came and went. Most meant well, but few understood what it meant for a teenaged boy to lose his old man in that manner. When everyone else had all but forgotten about the whole incident, there I was, still reeling, still in pain.

Yet, there was Allen, all the while, by my side, at the funeral and for months after. He never lost that look in his eyes that said, “I’m here to take up some of the slack.”

I once found a stack of love letters he had written to a girl we both knew. The words were basic, the prose unsophisticated, but his words held gems of his true self. Allen, like most of us, wanted to love and be loved. When I confronted him about it, he just shrugged them off. “No use getting your hopes up,” he said, “just to have them bashed.” He then took the letters from me and ripped them into pieces.

I can’t help but recall those Friday nights cruising the streets of Morrilton and Russellville, drinking Strawberry Hill and watching in disgust as he spit into an empty Dr. Pepper bottle. It was an uncomplicated existence, made possible by an uncomplicated accomplice.

I can’t help but recollect the times he’d come around and my other friends would all of a sudden have to be somewhere else; how others wouldn’t be seen with him in public; how on Christmas day you could find him home, alone, asleep.

I can’t deny that I never had the opportunity to get to know his mother and father, my uncle and aunt. The two had divorced when Allen was young. His mother, I can’t recall meeting, his father was a raging drunk who used to beat Allen when he was a child.

I couldn’t help but just read his obituary in the local paper. Turns out he was married with a daughter named Abigail and the three of them lived in the same trailer by the school.

I can’t help but feel enormous guilt because I, like so many others, abandoned him.

And for that, I may never forgive myself.

Spiders

Our house is filled with spiders of every sort. In the corners you'll find those who prefer webs. In the cracks and crevices you'll find those who don't. It's an ongoing battle with these eight-legged critters. It seems that whenever I get rid of one, another is along to takes its place.

I don't kill them, for the most part. I usually wad up some toilet paper and grab each spider, releasing it outside. Every once in a while I squeeze too hard. For that, I feel guilty.

Once, I found a spider on my leg. I noticed him as he was facing me, his primary legs aimed at me in the defensive position. Here was this spider, one-millionth my size, sitting ON me, yet in battle position. I admired his/her bravery and gently flicked it on to the floor before releasing it outside.

The other day, I was in the bathroom and I noticed something next to the toilet that looked like a piece of lint. Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was a spider with but two legs. Perplexed as I was, I picked up the injured arachnid and held it in my hands for closer inspection. It just flailed and flopped, unable to do much with but a fourth of it's normal leg-load. It reminded me of someone having convulsions. It was completely helpless. After a few moments, it stopped flailing about and just stared at me.

What happened to it? I wondered. It seems to me that if it had became entangled with a predator, it would have been eaten. Ants would have picked it apart, not left it there with two legs. Why just two legs left?

It continued to stare at me with sadness and helplessness in its many eyes. More eyes than legs.

I suddenly felt enormous sympathy for this creature, knowing it was destined to either die a slow miserable death on my bathroom floor or be eaten by a bigger bug. I was at a loss as to what to do. Should I end its life quickly? I couldn't release it outside, which would spell instant death. I'm not good at the whole ending-it-quickly thing.

In the end, I took the coward's way out, though I am still reeling over my decision.

I simply dumped the little fellow into the toilet and flushed.

Go Cardinals!

I know this picture isn't anything new, but still.



Purportedly, this is this guy's view on your average immigrant coming to the U.S.

Do You Know This Woman?

While driving from a Chamber of Commerce event, I figured I'd stop and look for the home of someone I am needing to visit in the near future. I had an address, so I drove to the neighborhood and started looking at house numbers. Once I spotted it, I made the block to double-check my work.

Well, this woman was walking her dog down the very same street, saw me double-back and proceeded to yell "FAGGOT!" as I drove by. So, of course I stop, roll down my window, give her the universal gesture for "what the hell?!" and ask her not to yell expletives when I drive by. I used those words exactly!

Nevertheless, she proceeds to tell me that there are no prostitutes in that neighborhood, and that I need a new haircut.

So, I told her, that because she welcomed me to the neighborhood so gracefully, that I would take her picture and post it it on my blog.

Here, for your viewing enjoyment, is an insane woman showing me her arse and her other arse.

P.S. if you know this dingbat, tell her to lay off the espresso.

Cleek at it again

Well, it appears the same wackjob who went after the OTC professor for using an ill-timed joke (but then later dropped charges after he realized how idiotic the charges were) is now going after a teacher and her husband for using a ping pong paddle to swat their kid's behind, and then forcing that child to hammer nails as a punishment.

If the story is to be taken at face value, my opinion is up in the air as to whether or not is constitutes "abuse." This is a touchy subject, corporal punishment, and like abortion, I doubt you can sway people from their opinions. I don't have small children, so my opinion doesn't matter at this point.

But I have to ask: Both parents have been charged with "inflicting cruel and unusual punishment." Was it the paddle or the hammering of the nails? Since when is hammering punishment? I used to steal my dad's hammer and drive nails into anything I could get my hands on. When he found out I nailed a couple into his truck tire, I got more than just a ping pong paddle.

My doubts rest with this prosecutor and his take on the law. He seems to believe that he has his finger on the pulse of Christian County. Instead, he comes off as a member of the morality police, and his belief systems have severely clouded his judgment.

But what do I know?

Here's the article: Local Paper

Советских Социалистических Республик?

So, occasionally I peruse contests, only entering those I would actually use if I were to win. Sometimes, I enter contests that promise to fly me to some far away location where I will be given front row seats to some no-talent performer (usually a former American Idol winner) who will no doubt ruin some of my favorite classics. With these contests, I usually enter anyway, with the the plan being that if I were to win, I would simply take the flight but never show up at the venue.

Anyway, I came across this site, Lucky Contest, and got a quick history lesson. Enter it yourself, and when you get to the scroll menu, scroll down to the countries that begin with the letter "U."

I guess glasnost is still underway?!

Everybody was blog-fu fighting...

I understand blogs are a place for people to knock heads, but the venom often spit back and forth between people of differing political views is not only uncomfortable to read, it paints a picture of a group of people who are filled with nothing but hatred and spite (and a warped sense of agendized entitlement, if you ask me).

I offer, for example, the rhetoric between DocLarry and JackeM in a fairly recent post in DocLarry's blog titled "Hypocrite."

Now, don't get me wrong, I have no point of view as far as who is "right" and who is "wrong," and I haven't taken the time to peruse either journal to see just what makes these two people tick. Heck, one or the other may be a wackjob, for all I know.

Yet, it seems to me that to say "Fuck Off" to a person voicing an opinion in your journal is the blog equivalent of the sniveling kid losing in kickball, who then snatches the ball away from the other players (because it's his ball) in order to end the game.

And then there's the cheering section, encouraging the continued humilitation of the poster. Are you people so full of hatred that you get off ridiculing and berating each other? Is that how you enjoy spending your time?

These are not rhetorical questions, by the way, and this isn't a defense of anyone, either. I'm sure everyone who takes the time to make a blog is a big boy or girl.

I'm just curious as to what makes you people tick.