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Sunday, June 25, 2006
Subject: Breakdowndom
Time: 3:41:07 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Mood: Loopy
Still in the ugly throes of Breakdowndom with no respite in sight.
Breakdowndom?? Put away those dictionaries and let me explain:
It's a sparsely-used psychological term which pertains to nervous faux cowboys who unwittingly take on too much packing and heavy lifting prior to moving from one Texas town to another.
(or something like that).
Averaging a scant four hours of sleep every night, the faux cowboy's preciously few restful moments have been plagued by assorted Nightmares sponsored by Bekins and U-Haul. The climax of the aforementioned Nightmares usually involves the cowboy just about to be crushed by falling objects prior to waking up in a cold sweat.
Watch out for that piano, Jon!
Look out for the falling books!
The pitifully few people in attendance at the grave site are whispering.
"Twelve hundred books. Wow. What a way to go."
"Did he really read all of them, or were they only on the shelves for show?"
"Yea, he read them, all right. That's why he was so damned myopic."
I'm only keeping this journal for theraputic reasons. Writing helps me from going nuts. It's an emotional outlet. And it beats paying a psychiatrist three hundred bucks an hour.
Writing is like talking to myself. Like having a therapy session with myself. I feel better afterwards. But it's scary for my readers. I always write exactly like I think. It just comes out with no preliminaries or apologies. That's kinda scary, too.
I've been providing enormous entertainment for the Mexican Illegals across the street. All forty of them. They periodically hang around outside watching me pack my truck. It kills those empty hours between selling drugs and picking up their Welfare checks.
They're undoubtedly rejoicing because every day is one day closer to getting the Gringo out of the neighborhood. They're probably all hoping that I'll make some humorous faux pas- like tripping and falling with armloads of heavy boxes - but so far I haven't. I'm scrupulously careful and put on a darn good show.
After guzzling down a can of beer for courage, I actually get an exhibitionistic thrill out of showing off for them. I carry the heaviest objects with a pretense of ease and give the appearance that I know what I'm doing. I put on my best Macho act and, after awhile, it can be quite convincing.
Sweat-drenched and winded, but completely undaunted, the faux cowboy struts his stuff and wields his muscles under the broiling afternoon TexMex sun. Jeans dirty, T-shirt soaked, boots (not the new ones) scuffed. And when the going gets too rough, he takes a tobacco break. Lights up a cigarette, leans languidly against the pickup truck, has a leisurely smoke.
Take a good look, amigos. You'll never see another dude this hot in YOUR neighborhood!
Pssst! Here's a secret:
First of all, I don't inhale (yea, I know. You've heard that one before).
Second, it's all a pathetic Big Act. I learned to perfect it long ago on the stardusted streets of Hollywood. You gotta look tough in order to survive.
In reality I'm not tough. Not by a longshot.
In reality I have an inferiority complex bigger than Texas, and my self-esteem is lower than the Concho River in August (trust me, that's low). In reality I'm a wimp & a dandy & probably somewhat of a sissy. I harbor as much Machismo as Peewee Herman. But you'd never know it because I'm a damned good actor.
A couple of easy rules will get you through life:
Always act tough, and pretend that you know what you're doing. Don't flinch and never back down. People will respect you.
Well, most of them. You could get a black eye now and then. Or a punch in the kisser.
No rules are foolproof.......
Now, where was I?
Oh, yea. In the driveway, packing my pickup truck, showing off for the Mexicans.
It has taken me three days just to empty two storage sheds and one garage. The Stuff that people accumulate and never use is formidable. Staggering. Breathtaking. My needless possessions alone could easily fill a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Twice.
The negative aspects of moving are painfully obvious and not worth mentioning (we all have our own moving day horror stories).
The positive aspects? My muscles are getting a workout and I'm keeping out of trouble.
Tonight I'm too sleepy to be creative, too sore to be poetic. I'd like to write about the sultry shadows of the night and the enchanted glow of the moon. I'd like to write about the brief, delightful sprinkle of rain we got two nights ago - just enough to tease the burned grass and dampen the things I had piled up on the back patio, waiting to be moved in the morning.
But I'm too tired. I need to settle back, close my eyes, do a little Dreamtime before dawn.
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Thursday, June 22, 2006
Subject: B-B-BREAKDOWN!
Time: 3:11:51 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Electroshock Therapy Alert
F-f-faux C-c-cowboy is in the process of having a n-n-nervous b-breakdown!
Not a wimpy little run-of-the-mill breakdown. A major, industrial-sized Bellevue quasi-Freudian Sylvia Plath Zelda Fitzgerald breakdown.
He's reportedly been wandering in the wilderness, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and those new boots, existing on cacti & lizards & desert rats & blind instinct. After 40 isolated and hallucinatory days & nights, he emerges from the depths of Hades: an incoherent, unrecognizable, fragile shadow of his former self.
Has he traveled beyond the proverbial Point of No Return? Has he taken an unexpected and tragically fatal plunge from the heights of the dangerously narrow One-Way Passage which he so carelessly tred??
Jon! Wake up! Talk to me! Don't leave us now - you've left too much unsaid! Hang on - - you can do it - We need you.
DON'T - LET - GO!
Come on, man, snap out of it! Get a grip - - you can do it if you try!
Uh, whazzat?
He slowly opens his eyes, looks around. Remembers. Everything's foggy, hazy, but he's coming around. It's all coming back to him now.
"The tumbleweeds," he mutters. "The dust. The buzzards. The incredible heat and unquenchable thirst. Have I descended into Hell? Am I finally being punished for all those unbridled past pleasures?"
"No, son. You're back home again. Here, in West Texas."
"Home? Texas?" The shock is overwhelming.
He groans long & languidly, then sinks back into unconsciousness.
Has the faux cowboy really suffered a nervous breakdown, or is it merely the bone-snapping heat that's gotten to him? Perhaps it's the intense pressure and relentless stress of the past few weeks that has rendered him mentally challenged and physically incapacitated.
What exactly could have driven this hapless cowboy to the Edge? What could make such a charming, brilliant, easy-going, versatile, witty, fascinating, humorous, delightful, charismatic, mentally sound person suddenly snap like a Chiuahua's neck in a Texas tornado?
(Did I mention charming.......?)
All right, cut the crappy, grossly exaggerated, self-serving adjectives and write something that we can comprehend!
(But, that would be boring.........)
Nobody wants to hear about the infinite problems of my wretched life. Nobody wants to hear me bitching & whining & complaining like a minnie mouse schoolgirl who has no date for the prom. Nobody wants to be crushed by the cumbersome details of my laborious existence.
Who cares that I've been so incredibly busy lately that I don't even know my own name (Mortimer? Thaddeus? Raoul? Priscilla? Esmeralda?). Who cares that my idea of a good night's sleep is now usually under three hours, somewhere between 4:00 am and dawn?
Who cares that, during these past few weeks, I've been dealing daily with three (count 'em) realtors, two attorneys, a financial consultant, a business manager, not to mention several insurance agents, several editors, several house inspectors, and a grim assortment of appraisors and bankers.
Besides trying to maintain some semblance of my music work and a smidgen of my professional writing, I've had to drive up to the city where I'm going to move (150 miles, one way) several times last week - in order to find a new house for my Mom and a place for me to live. Back down here, in the wilds of Tumbleweedland, ALL of my spare time is spent packing and moving two households of worldly goods into one very large storage unit - - a temporary deposit until it can all be moved up to the new place. I'm doing it single-handedly and entirely alone (actually, I prefer doing it alone. It always works out better that way. I was never one to compromise). I have two more weeks to do it, and the temperature is never under 100 degrees (If I wait for cooler weather, I'll be here 'til Christmas Eve).
I am over-worked, over-wrought, over-tired, and overwhelmed-
not to mention physically and mentally exhausted. And HOT.
I am irritable, ill-humored, curt, argumentative, aching, sweaty, & smelly. My hands are blistered and calloused. My back went out & my eyes are infected from summertime allergies and contact lenses.
I'm in the mood to kick puppies and punch priests.
"But I'll get through it," he says, fist raised and defiantly clenched at the flaming sunset. "As God is my witness, I'm going to live through this. Neither Texas nor anything in it is going to beat me down! And I'll never be tired or hungry again. No, not me nor any of my folk. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry or tired again. And I'm sure as hell never gonna MOVE again!"
All right, calm down -
it was only a paraphrase. A cheap, dramatic effort to give this floundering blog a little pizazz.
Who did you think I was, anyway - Margaret Mitchell?
I honestly don't have any time to write in this journal - but that's never stopped me before.
A note to Spineful1: (my attempt to email you was unsuccessful)
Am I a damned fool to believe your parakeet story? It sounded too delicious not to be true. I suppose birds can drive even rational people to drastic measures. I've admittedly had thoughts about Beauregard and a microwave........ (*smile*)
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Subject: PUSS & BOOTS
Time: 2:24:10 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Mood: Loopy
Only the brink of Wednesday, and it's already turning out to be an incredibly grueling & exhausting week. Not to mention HOT.
Q&A
Do I feel like writing about it?
Nope.
Will I eventually write about it?
Yup.
How can I fill in the embarrassing emptiness of this entry?
By posting pictures of my cat Scratch. And my boots.
Why do I always post pictures of that damned cat?
Hey, I don't have any kids to brag about.
Well, none that I know of, anyway.........(No need to panic. It was a joke. Just a joke!).
And why the boots?
I dunno. Could be a fetish.
GUILTY! Scratch the Cat atop the parrot cage. The ol' bird isn't very pleased.
My latest pair of boots, hand-made and expensive. The only way I can keep them clean is to wear them OUTSIDE of Texas!
It's a shocking fact. I actually let my cat sleep on the kitchen table! No need for alarm - she's very clean and has had all her shots. Which is more than I can say for me.
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Friday, June 9, 2006
Subject: Insanely looong entry
Time: 4:24:22 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Seems like a freight train came through, full speed, and splattered the last few weeks. Is it May or June? The days are flat & shapeless & indiscernibly fused together - - each one like the last, the next day the same as the one before. Life rushes on, without waiting for me to catch up with it.
I'm moving in slow motion: like walking under water or plowing through snow or treading sand. Snow? Not a chance. I'm treading sand. Deep, hot, searing, suffocating sand. Sahara sand. Scorching Death Valley sand.
Or was it Texas?
The temperature has been over 100 degrees for so long now that my dehydrated brain is ceasing to function. The relentless heat can whip the best of us, can render the very strongest into nothing more than a simpering idiot. If it's 105 now, can summer be far off? I wonder.
Should I be thankful that the humidity is bone-cracking dry? Heat is always tolerable with low humidity, isn't it? That's the widespread rumor. Try telling that to someone whose sun-ravaged flesh is becoming mummified, whose nostrils & lungs burn like fire, whose throat is parched with unquenchable thirst, whose contact lenses are so dry that they adhere to his petrified eyeballs.
Can you guess how much I like the heat?
As if my days weren't frenzied enough, as if I didn't have enough problems, as if the last of my energy wasn't already being sapped, I had to waste time with that Texas Jackass of an attorney. The one our realtor recommended. The one who is putting my Father's will through probate. The one who doesn't seem to know much more about the law than I do. The one who is skeptical about the validity of my Father's will because it was prepared 28 years ago in California.
"It wasn't notarized", he tells me. "All wills have to be notarized."
"Not according to California laws twenty-eight years ago," I tell him. "It merely had to be signed by two witnesses."
He drags out a dusty law book and sifts through it. Ten minutes later, he finds out that I'm right.
Undaunted, and convinced that it's all too easy, he decides to complicate things. Can I prove that my parents were legally married for over fifty years? Can I prove that my Father really existed? Can I prove that my Mother exists (thank God she was there!)? Can I prove that I am who I claim to be?
Holy Crapola! I have fifty relatives who can confirm my existence. But he doesn't want relatives. They might lie in order to benefit from the will.
"But none of them are mentioned in the will," I observe.
No matter. He's intent on recreating the Spanish Inquisition.
Get me outta this goddamned lawyer's office and cut to the chase!!
An extremely frustrated faux cowboy goes home and does some quick research. His Father's will has been prepared by a prominent Los Angeles attorney. Thank God the law firm is still in existence. He contacts the firm and several other places and gathers enough pertinent information to execute that jackass attorney during their next encounter.
Late night now. The sun is long gone but the heat remains. Stifling. Undaunting. The house is unbearable because I always turn the air conditioner off after midnight. It can't run forever. The open windows are airless. The ceiling fans are futile. I am restless, as usual. Disinclined to do any work, eager to immerse myself in the soothing depths of the witching hours.
Outside, the night is breathless but wonderfully quiet. The cloudless sky is lightly veiled in what could only be described as golden dust. The brown, choking dirt of the day magically transforms into dreamdust at night. One of the desert's maddening illusions, courtesy of moonlight.
The yellow moon hangs, yawning & dusty, in the southern sky. She is accompanied by brashly silver Jupiter. Stars are scarce tonight, and the couple seems to have the entire universe to themselves.
A deliciously warm breeze stirs up from the Mexican south and ripples gently over the parched earth, caressing my face and bare chest like the unseen fingers of a long-forgotten lover. This deep, dark Texas night is much more intoxicating than any liquor, much more satisfying than any lover. It is my salvation and strength. In these midnight hours I find complete rejuvenation and immense solace.
Back inside, back to reality.
I've been looking through piles of old, nearly-forgotten things: books, records, tapes, papers, files upon files. Sorting. Sifting. What to keep? What to throw away? I'm the original pack rat. I savor memories.
Tucked away in a desk drawer, two thick files filled with ancient poetry. My poetry. Nearly two hundred poems and many of them published. All written in my late teens & early twenties - when I was a young, fanciful, idealistic dreamer - - who erroneously thought that poetic words were the key to wisdom and the literary stairway to heaven. I devoured poetry back then, and eventually learned to write simply by reading it.
I studied every phrase, every word, every nuance carefully - - deciding that poetry was a form of word painting. I marveled at how adroitly and effectively writers could paint word pictures.
Could I do it, too? It (eventually) wasn't as difficult as it seemed. The main thing was to think things out carefully.
Mere words thrown together are not poetry.
Dare I think that one day I could be published?
Please, I prayed to the Quill & Scroll Gods, Let me get just one poem published and my life will be complete. I'll die happy.
I submitted. And waited.
Miraculously, a Los Angeles editor purchased not one - but three of my poems! I was ecstatic. So what if I was a poor speller and didn't know what the hell I was doing. I was among the ranks of the published!
Fueled with the fire of success, I kept plodding on - writing poems and being published. It wasn't long before I began winning awards and delving into poetic stardom. I was almost famous! Almost.
Then, reality hit me in the face, like a leather-bound volume of Wordsworth.
A New York editor wanted to see a generous sample of my poems for possible publication in a book. After careful consideration, and ample self-scrutiny, I decided that my poems weren't yet good enough to appear in book form. I had very few favorites, and most of them - to put it bluntly - were quite crappy.
In a letter of astonishing humility, I refused the editor's offer. By the time I was 25, my poetry days were definitely over. It was a waste of time, there was little money in it, and I was ready to pursue more productive and profitable endeavors.
Will I keep my pile of old poems? Sure. Perhaps I'll even find the time to revise them someday.
Will I ever write poetry again? Maybe. Even though I still don't know what the heck I'm doing.
Here are three random (and unedited) poems, written and published when I was nineteen:
( I won't reveal what year that was, but it was a helluva long time ago)
THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS
The nights she spent
shuffling untold years over my head
dragging sorrow
with her slippers.
I would listen
in my blind room
with the tinny heartbeat
of the clock
and gather up the blankets
more securely
shivering
with the coldness of her tread
trying not to imagine
all the time she wasted
or the lonely reasons
or the roadmap
of her face
blinking back the dawn.
MIDNIGHT BLUE
Blonder than death,
immersed
in the rainbow glow
of a neon facade,
he surveys the scene
like a porcelain angel
waiting for a score.
Passing now as a ghost
between shadows,
hurrying
through the cavernous jaws
of every hungry midnight
that feasts
upon his pale youth.
His eyes are electric.
They will execute you.
MADWOMAN ON THE BEACH
One of these old winter nights
she followed the sand
back to where lovers once
lingered after watching
a last slice of sinking moon.
But the moon and the lovers
were gone, leaving no trace
of their deception. Sightless fog
slipping in from the sea
weaved a pasty net around her
and underfoot
the bite of broken shells
punished her trek.
Names of the forgotten
stuttered under her breath,
faultered on her tongue,
stuck with the salt on her lips
like the dried-out memory of an ancient kiss.
In shivers of jealousy
the cold air thickened about her.
Sensing that she might find the moon
and devour it, the night held her tightly -
keeping her safe
from the lies of future lovers.
She struggled,
despite the anchor of fog
and the dreadful hiss of the waves,
and she laughed aloud
grasping fistfuls of obstinate night,
climbing towards
what might have been sky.
copyright Jayvee Productions
Did you actually read this entire entry? Honest?? Naw, I don't believe you!
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Tuesday, June 6, 2006
Subject: Faux Entry
Time: 3:37:28 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Is it proper journal etiquette for me to comment on the comments? I always read every one of them and I enjoy them immensely. Well, all except for that Nevada woman who said that when I open my mouth I'm an "instant idiot". That's not quite true....
Anyway, here are my thoughts on some recent comments:
Should I apologize for the Jane Austen thing? A few more mistakes like that, and people will be thinking I really am an idiot. For some exasperating reason, suzypwr is always the first one to point out my errors. I'm sure everyone else notices them, too, but they don't have the heart to mention it.
I could lie and say the Austen error was a typo, but it wasn't. Do I have a good excuse? Sure. I'm so consumed by this entire Texas Thing, that I simply wrote Austin instead of Austen. I was thinking of the city - not the damsel who penned Pride and Prejudice.
One thing is certain - I'm definitely hiring Suzypwr to be my editor when I write my potential best seller. She will be invaluable.
Have I ever read Jane Austen? Yes, believe it or not. And I survived. Actually, her novels aren't half as boring as that crappy movie with Hugh Grant.
Personally, I'm a big Bronte fan. Always was. I read Jane Eyre when I was ten. No kidding. I remember going to the library and asking for the book. The prim & proper librarian stared incredulously through her horn-rimmed glasses and asked "Are you sure that you want Jane Eyre? You really should be reading books from the juvenile department."
The juvenile library was downstairs and designated solely for kids. I had dared to venture into forbidden Adult Territory, but my audacity paid off. The librarian acquiesced. She creaked across the hardwood floor in her orthopedic shoes and fetched Jane Eyre for me.
Later, when I was of legal age to wander into Adult Bookdom Territory, I read Charlotte Bronte's other novels, including The Professor and Shirley. Then I delved into Anne and Emily. By the time I was fourteen I'd completely ravaged the Bronte sisters.
I had tackled Shakespeare, Chaucer, and most of Dickens by the time I was sixteen, and was so smitten by the concept of English literature that I developed a penchant for tea, crumpets, and rainy days.
And where the hell did it all get me? I'm now a middle-aged cowboy with acute myopia and a deteriorating brain - hardly able to decipher the instructions for my DVD recorder.
Hey, what about that Red Dog Beer? (that's what janet0116 was wondering).
Well, I'd never heard of Red Dog Beer until I came to Texas. It might be sold in some other states, but - if not - you're not missing much. I like the name, not the taste. As I told Cindy the Cashier - it's cheap and effective.
When I lived in Los Angeles I used to buy all kinds of weird imported beers. One was from Japan. I don't remember the name, but it came in a fancy, oddly-shaped silver can. In those days I used to be addicted to Rainier Ale. Is that stuff still around? I would drink half a 16 oz. can, then fill the can back up with straight whiskey. When I was feeling really dangerous, I'd mix in a sleeping pill.
Am I lucky to still be alive, or what? I was insane in my early days and liked to live on the edge. The edge of what, I'm not quite sure......
Heck, when you get right down to it, beer is beer. They all taste pretty lousy. Miller is still good. Olympia was always rotten. I presently like Mississippi Mud. It's dark and very smooth and mellow. And for you beer virgins, I'm not making this up. Mississippi Mud does indeed exist.
thisismary wants to know, what's all this talk about moving "up north"??
I don't mean the North Pole, pardners. I don't mean Canada. Or even Wyoming. Let me put it this way:
When you live way down here in the bowels of West Texas and the border of Mexico, ANYTHING north of here is considered "way up north". I hate to admit it, but there are a few places in Texas that aren't as crappy as the place where I'm living now. North is better. In my humble opinion.
More about this later. Until then, I'll keep you guessing.
Now, let me get back to writing a REAL journal entry.......
I've reset my text & font settings several times and they still don't look right. Is this due to my bad eyes, or something more sinister? Should I be worried??
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Friday, June 2, 2006
Subject: Memorial Day Weekend & TX Twilight Zone
Time: 2:13:08 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Mood: Loopy
I'm afraid this journal is dying. I no longer have sufficient time to write, nor the desire to make it interesting. My entries are painfully sporadic & less than half-hearted. Strangely enough, this doesn't stop me.
So, how was my big Memorial Day Weekend?
Should I give the abbreviated and acutely boring clean version, or the sordid & tantalizing x-rated version? Don't be shocked. Even over-the-hill, pseudo-manic-depressive faux cowboys have to let their hair down once in awhile (what did you think - - that I was sitting home reading Jane Austen all weekend?).
I'm still reeling from Saturday night. I never realized that a hangover could last five days. And I still can't remember who I woke up with on Sunday morning. One thing is certain - I'm almost positive I had a good time.
Oh, dear reader - if I had the guts to spill everything, you'd be reading a best seller.......
Wanna hear about the sane, rational, & sobering part of my weekend?
My Mom's house was sold after only being on the market for one day. I called the realtor on Friday. He placed a "For Sale" sign in the front yard on Saturday. The house sold on Sunday. Purchased by the first people who came to look at it. It's a gorgeous house - but who the hell wants to live in West Texas?
Mom plans to head farther north & I can't blame her. When she goes, I'll undoubtedly pull up stakes and follow. Great excuse for me to get out of this area.
Major problem: I have volunteered to do all the packing & moving myself. My parent's household possessions are formidable. It would take a Ringling Bros. Circus train to move everything. At the very least. My own accumulation of possessions is nearly as cumbersome: two pianos and five desks, just for starters.
I could delve into graphic details about how I've been scrambling around like a shot-at bunny trying to prepare for the move. Or how the inept house inspector accidentally broke the kitchen trash compactor yesterday. Or how......
But that would be too boring.
So, how was my Thursday, you ask?
Similar to a lost episode of The Twilight Zone, I guess. Here are some glimpses:
The Faux Cowboy walks into Walgreens's with some film that needs to be developed (wary of Wal-Mart's photo processing service, he shudders as he remembers the time they lost all of his pictures).
The friendly Walgreen's sign boldly states:
ONE HOUR PHOTO SERVICE
Cowboy forks over his film to the petite & perky photo clerk. She shoves them into an envelope and asks:
"What day would you like to pick up the photos?"
"What day?" Cowboy is confused. "The sign says One Hour, doesn't it?" He double-checks to make sure his myopic eyes weren't deceiving him. They weren't.
"Oh, we can't develop photos in an hour," the clerk says. "We can have them ready on Saturday."
"So why the sign?"
"What?"
"Why the One Hour Photo sign?"
"I don't know," the clerk admits, less perky and far more confused. "I'm new here."
"Well, why don't we try for Christmas and see what develops?" Cowboy suggests.
"Huh?"The clerk is puzzled. Not to mention humorless. In exasperation she says "Look, we'll have them ready for you tomorrow morning at 10:00 o'clock."
"That's about 20 hours from now," observes the Cowboy. "You really ought to change the sign."
She didn't.
The Faux Cowboy is now in the "Express: 20 items or less" checkout line at Wal-Mart.
So what if he has 25 items. The sweet & dangerously young cashier doesn't look bright enough to be able to count that far. She bears the name tag "Cindy".
Cindy Cashier frowns when she sees Cowboy's six-pack of Red Dog Beer.
"Are you over 21?" Cindy asks suspiciously.
"Don't try to be funny", Cowboy says. "The jeans I'm wearing are over 30."
"I hate Red Dog Beer," Cindy confesses. "It tastes yucky."
"I hate it, too," Cowboy agrees. "But it's cheap and effective."
During his engaging conversation with Cashier Cindy, Faux Cowboy notices another guy who is now in line directly behind him. Typical West Texas Neanderthal type: fat, sweaty, hairy, grimy, greasy - with a face like an armadillo's ass and B.O. from here to next Tuesday.
As Cowboy holds his breath to keep from passing out from the stench, Mr. Bigfoot starts rudely piling his groceries out onto the counter - right on top of Cowboy's groceries.
Cowboy gives him a Clint Eastwood look of annoyance and starts seperating the unwholesome union of groceries.
Suddenly, with no warning and absolutely no attempt to cover his nose, Bigfoot sneezes:
A loud, wet, unbridled, germ-drenched, Tsunami-Sized sneeze that nearly blows Cowboy into the Wal-Mart parking lot.
Before there is even time to consider the awful after-effects of this Texas drencher, Bigfoot bellows out another Super-Sized Sneeze!
"Holy Shit!" Cowboy yells. He can no longer contain himself.
If looks could kill, Bigfoot would have dropped dead on the spot. Cowboy clenches his fists, counts almost to ten, then grabs his bags of groceries.
"Don't drink all that Red Dog Beer at once," Cindy warns.
"I won't," Cowboy tells her. "I'll be too damned busy disinfecting myself!"
Faux Cowboy is now at KFC, buying a fried chicken dinner to bring home.
"Do you want original recipe or extra crispy?" the KFC employee asks.
"Original", Cowboy says.
"I think we're all out of original. You'll have to have extra crispy. What side dishes do you want?"
"Green beans and macaroni with cheese," Cowboy says.
"We're all out of green beans," KFC tells him. "Do you want cole slaw instead?"
"Naw," Cowboy says. "I want a telephone."
"A telephone?" KFC employee is puzzled.
"Yes, a phone," Cowboy repeats.
"Why?" KFC wants to know.
"Because", Cowboy tells him, "I want to call Domino's and order a pizza."
Sure, this was a crappy entry - - but I'd like to see anyone else try to make my bland West Tex life look interesting.
By the way, I have FIVE desks and I usually write in bed. Or on the floor. Or on the sofa. Am I weird?
Wait a minute! Don't answer that!!!!
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Monday, May 22, 2006
Subject: Yesterday & Today
Time: 3:54:38 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Mood: Quiet
Every day is Cinco de Mayo way out here in the dusty fringes of Nowhereland. The Mexicans across the street party hard and loud from early morning. As the day progresses and the blazing sun becomes intense, the mariachi music swells to pinata-cracking decibels.
I've learned to live with it. Everybody parties hard here, in a desperate attempt to Escape the daily dreariness of their miserably pathetic existence. In a haze of booze and drugs life in West Texas becomes almost bearable.
I can relate to that. There are many days that I couldn't possibly navigate sober. The weight of the world has lately rested so often on my shoulders that intense inebriation is the only remedy to lighten the burden. I seldom spew the venom of my private problems, worries, fears, & anxieties. What's the use? I'd rather keep them pent up inside. Along with the ulcers and high blood pressure.
Am I making any sense? I hope not. That would be too easy. I like to puzzle and confuse. I prefer to remain an enigma. I will say that I have changed drastically during these past few months - changed for the worst: I've lost my humor & optimism & drive. I've become completely exhausted - emotionally & physically - to the point of absolute nothingness.
Is there any chance of rescue and rehabilitation? I dunno.
Saturday
So - - what was my Saturday like? It was like a powder keg with a lighted match (by mid-morning), like driving 110 MPH on an open road and suddenly hitting a brick wall (by mid-afternoon).
A day of errands & appointments & business & grocery shopping & cleaning & mending & cooking & auto mechanics 101. And no pleasure at all.
The heat that I hate so much has crept up from the bowels of the hellish Mexican deserts and settled here in the Land of Forgotten Tumbleweeds. It was a toasty 101 degrees today and felt much hotter. The humidity is bone-brittle dry - - a mere 5% in the afternoon - but this does nothing to assuage the brutal intensity of the sun.
I bought ice cream from the store this afternoon, was going to race home before it melted, then - in a sudden demented act of masochism - decided to stop at Taco Bell for some nutritious take-out food. It was crowded, and the employees in the kitchen were working with all the dexterity of somnambulists or snails.
By the time I emerged with my taco salads, the interior of my sun-baked pickup truck was 450 degrees. At least. Not only had my ice cream turned to mush, so had all the other groceries. Even the bagels.
What's this? Bagels in West Texas??
Absolutely. We eat jalapeno bagels. Topped with salsa, chopped onions, and grated Jack Cheese. With guacamole on the side.
It's kosher. Almost.
Sunday Night
How was my Sunday? Don't ask. The bells from the nearby church awakened me at seven, with a charmingly pleasant peal. I was still fully dressed, having fallen asleep on my bed a few hours earlier - - the result of a hectic schedule.
Optimism timidly filtered through the sunlit rays which were streaming in my windows, but it quickly retreated by the time I was fully awake and reasonably rational. The day went downhill from there.
Want details? Naw. Not this time. Let's press the Fast Forward button and skip my day. No complaints here. No bitching. You see, I'm much more appealing when I'm in a passive, unflustered mode.
Long after midnight now, as I write these words, and the heat is still suffocatingly intense. The night is airless, irritatingly stale. Having scarcely slept at all this weekend, I'm groggy and lethargic.
I'm alone tonight, with no companion other than my jumbled mind & restless thoughts. Even the cat has abandoned me. After a few intensely playful hours, she has finally worn herself out and is curled on the foot of my bed in oblivious slumber. I should be so lucky.
It's moonless, breathless, perfectly still. The open window offers nothing but the gaseous stench of a distant refinery, and the not-so-distant jabber of Mexican music and intoxicated voices.
Every day here, every night, is Cinco de Mayo...........
A little after 1:00 a.m. - the rude & unexpected rumble of thunder. The northern sky is flashing brightly. For awhile nothing happens, only idle promises. Then - - a sudden deluge.
Rain! Real rain, falling from a sullen TX sky! I tumble out of bed and sprint outside.
The rain is warm. The heat smoulders but doesn't leave. A hot, heavy, apallingly musty smell rises from the parched earth and permeates the air. Vampire breath. It conjures old, faraway thoughts that I can't quite remember or understand. Old places, old things.....
I stand dumbly in the yard, absorbing the luxury of God-given moisture. Lightening flashes. Warm rain soaks my hair, spatters lovingly over my bare chest. In less than a moment I'm drenched and invigorated, newly baptized.
Then - almost as quickly as it began - the deluge lessens, ends. Nothing is left but a thundering farewell and a damp, musty, unquenchably thirsty earth.
I go back inside, slide out of my jeans, dry off with a big towel, and slip into bed. Cool sheets in a hot and muggy room.
The cat is now snoozing in a nearby chair. The clock ticks methodically, laboriously - counting the hours, the minutes that drift towards dawn.........
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Friday, May 12, 2006
Subject: When is too much ENOUGH?
Time: 5:30:46 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
When is too much enough?
I'm gonna tell a story that I heard from a very reliable source when I was living in Hollywood:
When Elizabeth Taylor was about twelve, she made a highly successful movie called National Velvet - about a little girl who enters her beloved horse in the Grand National Steeplechase.
After the film was completed, director Clarence Brown wanted to give Little Liz a gift to reward her for the outstanding work she had done.
"What would you like?" he asked her.
Without a second thought the violet-eyed child begged "Please, please, Mr. Brown - can I have the horse that I worked with in the picture?"
It was a helluva tall order, not to mention a highly expensive one, but Brown kept his word. After much trouble, he was finally able to purchase the horse and present it to jubilant Liz.
Twenty years later, Clarence Brown happened to be at a party in Hollywood. There, seated at the bar, was Elizabeth Taylor - whom he hadn't seen since they made National Velvet. Older, heavier, and belting down straight whiskies like a sailor on shore leave, Liz was a far cry from the sweet, innocent child he had once known.
He sat down by her and they began reminiscing about the old days and National Velvet.
"Tell me, Elizabeth," Brown suddenly asked. "Whatever happened to the horse that I gave you?"
Ol' Liz slurped down another whiskey, blew a puff of cigarette smoke in his face, and said "If I ever knew that son-of-a-bitch was gonna live this long, I would have never asked you for him!"
Is there a point to this story - - other than the fact that I think it's hilarious?
Yes. I find myself asking, when is too much ENOUGH?
Are there limits on how long you should keep a pet? What if they live to be 20 years old? Or 30? Or.........heaven help us........even longer? Are we obligated to spend our entire lives with these beasts, 'till death due us part??
Case in point: my African Senegal parrot Beauregard. He'll be 22 years old in June and, quite frankly, I'm sick of him. He's incredibly healthy and has no discernible intention of turning up his claws any time soon.
A little recent research on the internet assured me that Senegals can live to be 35 or longer. That sent a cold chill up my spine and inspired me to consider drastic measures.
Think I could find a parrot hit-man on the net?
I can just see the undercover police video now:
"Do it quick, but make it look like an accident. I want a photo of the remaining feathers before I'll give you all the money....."
When I wandered into that pet shop twenty-two years ago I was young, naive, and harbored a gross misconception about what a parrot would be like to live with.
My only point of reference came from the TV shows and movies I had seen in which parrots were erroneously portrayed as talkative, amusing companions. They were fun, colorful, delightful creatures: tailor-made to enhance and brighten our lives.
So I bought him. Paid eighty-five hard-earned bucks for him, then shelled out another ninety for the cast-iron cage. Not to mention sunflower seeds, millet, moulting food, and Special Parrot Blend. The damned thing eats better than I do!
The guy in the pet shop put my bird a big cardboard box and handed it to me with a warning.
"Be sure to wear heavy gloves when you take him out of the box," he said.
Call me stupid, but for some crazy reason I took this warning only half-seriously. In a Michael Jackson-inspired moment, I decided to wear only one glove. A garden glove.
When I opened the box, the irritated & disoriented bird was ruffled and ready to rumble. Ignoring the glove, he seized my bare hand and sunk his hooked beak deep into my thumb.
I don't remember what was more profuse - the spurting blood or my screaming.
One thing was certain: the bastard wouldn't let go. His grip was tighter than the IRS and more painful than a tax audit.
In a cold moment of blind panic, I grabbed the fuzzy green neck with my gloved hand and twisted. The harder he bit the tighter I squeezed, until my assailant began to weaken from a seriously reduced oxygen supply. When he finally let go, I hurled him into the cast-iron prison.
Two stitches and ten Band-Aids later, things calmed down and the feisty Senegal and I learned to tolerate each other. Even got to like each other.
It didn't take long, however, to see that my feathered friend was absolutely nothing like those mythical Hollywood parrots that perch on the shoulders of pirates and gleefully squawk amusing phrases and yo-ho-hos with bottles of rum.
My parrot didn't talk, didn't sing, didn't even sit on my shoulder. Whenever I let him out of his cage, he'd crap on the floor, then snap at me because he didn't want to go back inside. CRAP & SNAP.
He didn't talk, but he squawked, all right - - so loud & frequently that I'd sometimes wear earplugs or often be forced to banish him to the most remote part of the house.
How would I describe life with a parrot in one word?
Miserable!
Want some adjectives?
Loud, bossy, demanding, nasty, loud, messy, obstinate.
Did I mention loud?
So, twenty-two long years later, me and Beauregard eye each other suspiciously. He is almost absolutely convinced that I will bear his burden to the bitter end. There's a snickering gleam in his yellow eyes:
If that Jackass kept me for 22 years, he'll surely keep me for another 22. If he lives that long. If not, I hope he has a kind clause in his will.
But I have more sinister thoughts:
Tainted sunflower seeds. Accidental drownings in bird baths. A few hours in the freezer. A few minutes in the microwave. A one-way ticket to Senegal. A pet hit man. A Norman Bates-type taxidermist.
Parrot served on a silver platter with sliced tomatos, alla Baby Jane Hudson.
An extremely big , hungry,and aggressive cat (my little cat Scratch is too damned timid).
Wait a minute.
Who the hell am I - - Alfred Hitchcock?
Get a grip on yourself, Jon! Think Greenpeace and bounding dolphins and happy rain forest thoughts.
You're not really that low-down rotten, are you?
Naw. Not much.
Written by jayveeconcerto
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Saturday, May 6, 2006
Subject: This is not a REAL blog entry!
Time: 2:29:55 AM CDT
Author: jayveeconcerto
Mood: Loopy
When I first read the following comment I thought it was written in jest. It was only after a second look that I realized it was absolutely in earnest:
Yes, the largest part of the immigrants are from Mexico, however, I worked with many Samoans, Vietnamese, Canadians, and Europeans in many parts of the country during my careeer, who had been here for many years, and WERE NOT citizens. Also, if you do a nationwide welfare check, you will find that the largest majority of those on welfare, are Americans born here in the good old USA. Me thinks, you have been in TX too long, which by the way was Mexico at one time, which I am sure you are aware of. Rude, sloppy, hostile, arrogant, intimidating, & inconsiderate??? Have you been to Mississippi, Alabama, etc. The population is mainly Black People, and again, American born. Also. POOF, you are off my favorite journals......never thought you were sooooooooooooooo small minded. Yep, it is your journal, and you can say what you want, but I don't have to stay here and read it. By the way, go find the Dixie Chicks, because I sense a certain kinship between you. Open mouth and instant idiot
POOF? DIXIE CHICKS?? INSTANT IDIOT???
I'm fully aware of the fact that the welfare recipients in our country encompass every race - white, black, yellow, red, and probably green (did I leave anyone out?). The welfare situation is a big financial burden no matter who receives it, but - I would rather have welfare given to American-born citizens than to see it squandered on illegal immigrants.
I thought I had made it perfectly clear that I was writing only about the vast influx of south-of-the-border illegals who have infiltrated my part of the country. I can't imagine how my point of view could have been so sorely misconstrued, or how my opinions could be so offensive. I've been in Texas long enough to see that illegal immigration is destroying our country.
You think I have a small mind?
Well, I think anyone who could dismiss me so quickly over a mere blog entry is profoundly small-minded.......
CAUTION: THIS IS NOT A REAL BLOG ENTRY
One of the many hazards about keeping a public journal is that, eventually along the way, you're going to wind up offending somebody. It's an inevitable and unavoidable fact. We all have different views and opinions, and each of us sees life from a uniquely different vantage point. The only possible way to remain unoffensive would be to leave your journal completely blank - - and I'm sure even this would eventually irk someone.
I'm usually very careful and selective about the subjects I delve into. I try to avoid religion, politics, sexuality, personal opinions, and deeply personal feelings. That doesn't leave much to write about, does it? I try to maintain a sense of humor (not an easy task for a pessimist with manic-depressive overtones), and I very often write tongue-in-cheek. Most of my readers know this and accept me for what it's worth ( I think even my fellow Texans have come to realize that when I bash our state, I mean no harm ).
I try not to be offensive while walking thi | 
