Make Us Make Sense.

Plastic Logs and Stones

I dreamt that I handed Bill Wyman a demo CD last night. The Stones were busy practicing for their next performance. One song had just ended and faded into “2000 Light Years from Home” while Mick sprouted from behind a wall of amplifiers. He had changed his costume, sporting a red body suit caked with silver ornaments and wings dangled from the wrists and reunited with the ankles.

I had come to them by way of a plastic log floating device, like those at the state fair where you plummet down a watery trail downwards. I had been floating down a manmade stream and The Stones happened to be rehearsing by the stream along the way.

After I handed over my demo to Bill, I covered my mouth with both hands, produced a kiss, and let both arms rise away. The plastic log kept at its slow, consistent pace and I sailed away.

I should update you; My heart has a splinter

After working as a carpenter’s apprentice for several days I had suffered the foreman’s incessant verbal attacks enough. I let him know.

“If you must have a man with miles of expertise why not take your grip off of another three dollars an hour and hire someone knowledgeable. I’ve had enough, thank you.”

He seemed extremely upset. Not mad. Upset.

Of course I had informed him that I would be a man of my word. I would finish out the day.

“It’s no use,” he said, “This is the fifth time this has happened to me.”

We packed the tools away for the day early. He didn’t wish to work any more with disappointment in his blood. Fine with me.

We were going extremely fast. The work van’s tail end was wagging back and forth around stiff curves through the hill country.

“Will you come to my house,” he asked.

“Okay, but I should be paid today,” I returned, ” That way we have no business left to tend to.”

We walk in to his home. It’s a cinder block beach house built in 1950. What was once possibly a nice modern structure had been bitten and weathered. Twice a year the water rises above ground level and the foreman must relocate until the water resides from the interior. The tile floor was old and crusty. It was lifting up in places. The exposed wood plank ceiling had water marks sprouting from the nail heads. There was no furniture save for a bench which was obviously created in haste. I saw a bed peeking out from the bedroom. The back wall was swallowed by operable windows opening up to Lake Travis.

I stood there confused as to why he might have invited me to his home. What would we do? He produced a cheap classical guitar from his bedroom.

“Do you mind if I play you a piece I have been working on this week?”

My hospitable nature pushed the words “yes” from my mouth.

He began playing his little classical guitar. He began playing a classical piece. He obtained a level of talent, but in a ham-fisted, half-witted sort of way. Two songs were performed and both were between seven and eight and a half minutes in length.

After the completion I stood up and asked for my earnings. He pulled some folded bills from his pocket and extended his hand.

“Thank you. Have a nice weekend (and a nice life).”

Jesus was a carpenter, so I will be

Today I landed a job. I’m going to be a carpenter’s apprentice. I know it sounds really glamorous to you. The fact is, I’m really pretty jazzed about it.

My pop was a white collar man, and my grandfathers were all handicapped in one way or another. That being said, I didn’t get to learn much about building a dog house or catching a football. Being from Mississippi, I often find that my peers have learned a great deal of “man skills” that I have not. While I was out galavanting about some downtown stage singing my ass off, the others were learning a valuable trade from their fathers, uncles, grandfathers, or older brothers.

This isn’t to imply that I regret my musical endeavors or that I view musical experience as a useless skill. In fact, my best days were as a teenager singing next to my brother with my father behind a mixing console. 

Come Monday morning, bright and early, I will begin my stint as apprentice.  

Meet Inri/Long Live Ringo

Inri is the new pooch. He’s had a troubled life. When he was a pup he was hit by a car, which totally shattered and misfigured his hips. Since then, he’s been bounced around a couple of houses and the shelter a few times.

After having him for a week, Kathie and I took him to the vet to see about his hips. The animal shelter I retrieved him from assured me that everything was fine. Aside from a goofy walk everything seemed to be great with this boy. He obviously had some training. He came house trained, cat friendly, and good natured. He uses his two back legs as a pogo for going up the stairs, but seems perfectly happy to do so.

Knowing all this you can imagine my surprise when the vet’s first bit of advice was to “put him down.” One look at the x-rays and I almost agreed. His hips are absolutely crazy looking. None of his structure there makes any sense. I really can’t even understand how we walks at all without agonizing pain. The vet called in another vet, and they both agreed, “This is the worst set of hips we’ve seen.” There isn’t even enough good bone for a successful hip replacement. There’s nothing that can be done.

Basically the vet assumed he was in a large amount of pain. The humane thing, in her mind at that time, was to put him to sleep. After an interview where Kathie and I explained his happy, playful demeanor she agreed. Let him live. Why would you kill a happy dog who isn’t experiencing pain?

There is no telling when Inri will need to be put to sleep. I’m sure he’ll let me know. Maybe never? The vet thinks he won’t see five. Ringo Sarr wasn’t supposed to see adulthood either. And he’ll be the last son of a bitch to bite it. Long live Inri. Long live Ringo.