Where are you?
Aaron Rzadczynski is renting in Gilbert while whitepages mylife is based out of Knoxville.
After our first (failed) graffiti attempt on Wednesday, Charlie and I went to a little place called Council Hill Station for coffee. A storm was in full force, and lightning hit something very near by. The owner of the place wondered if he should go over to his house and “shut off the Internet.”
Charlie noted that he seemed easily distracted, even by his own thoughts.
The arrival of a big truck passing through “town” caused him to bolt out the door in the middle of a conversation about Jackson Hole.
Before the scene in which Charlie is standing at the counter with money out and the owner is laboriously pointing out locations of nearby towns on a map and briefly fretting that the town of Leadmine has been omitted (“that’s not good”) when he gets a phone call and tells the caller that his partner/wife is not around, then wanders off to the kitchen (or somewhere). We can hear the occasional sound of his side of the conversation. And then the sound of water running.
Our perception of time grew very strange indeed.
Also, the recorded fiddle music that sounded as though it would repeat for all eternity.
And the bad cell phone connections. Charlie and I both got calls, and we were shouting and repeating till the connections dropped.
Charlie to his father: “You can eat fruit . . . ? He said you can eat fruit? You . . . can . . . eat fruit?”
“And this is where it starts.”
Living in the county long enough, you begin to feel that you know every road, every creek, and even every cow; but there are still places hiding out there, waiting, scattered amid the leaves, in the lonely hollows.
But where are we? Where have we gone?
Somewhere Beyond the Corn.
Last night my long-time friend Allen shared his recollections of a Dallas children’s TV figure known as Uncle Tiny, whom he dubbed Uncle Tiny the Obscure, as none of the rest of our gang remembered the man. Allen recalled having seen Uncle Tiny in person at Kiest Park in Oak Cliff, where Uncle had “a small trick pitcher from which he poured a seemingly endless supply of 7-UP.” Allen was impressed. “Uncle Tiny was cool.”
If you watch one local cable television taxidermy commercial today, let it be this one.
The story of Edgar Valdez, aka La Barbie, an American citizen who rose to the top of one of Mexico’s prominent drug cartels.
Like many Texans, Barbie grew up right across the border from Mexico, in the city of Laredo. The place feels like something from a Mexican postcard, with cobblestone plazas and picturesque waterfalls – except for the massive, multilane bridge to Mexico that cuts straight through town. Until the drug war, everyone in Laredo saw the two sides of the border as one; many families, after all, had blood ties in both Mexico and the States. As a kid, Barbie loved to visit Nuevo Laredo, a border town bustling with donkeys, food carts, girls in little embroidered dresses, shoeshine boys and the smell of roasting corn. It was like stepping into another world, and all you had to do was cross the bridge.
In high school, Barbie was in the popular crowd, horsing around in the breezeways outside of class and waging egg wars after school. On weekends, he went to keggers on ranches, played elaborate scavenger games and hung out with his steady sweetheart, Virginia Perez, a bubbly, blue-eyed blonde. He grew up in a middle-class development on the outskirts of Laredo, a kind of no man’s land where Burger Kings didn’t begin to sprout up until the Nineties. Even the people of Laredo considered it “Indian territory,” an area rife with dope and illegal immigrants. Barbie’s parents raised him and his five siblings in a tidy, orange-trimmed home with palm trees in the front. “They’re regular Ozzie and Harriets,” says Jose Baeza, a spokesman for the Laredo police department. “They’re business owners, PTA, morning-jog people.”
Here’s a link to the printer friendly version.
(via the browser)
St. Mary’s Cemetery. Galena, Illinois.
is becoming Mrs. Lucy today. On Thursday, I helped her get her hen on, in a swanky hotel bar.
I’m immensely honored to be attending her and Ross’s wedding, and the succeeding reception-crawl. I will bring a real camera to that.