Whoa. What a vacation. On Thursday night we left to drive to Idaho. Doesn’t sound bad, but it’s still a 12 hour trip, one-way, when things go right.
Therein lies the problem. We left for the first leg of the trip, from Santa Rosa to the Sacramento area which normally only takes about 2 hours. 5 hours, a jack-knifed big rig, and several headaches later, we FINALLY arrive at my sister’s place to pick up my nephews. One of which was sick and throwing up all over the place. We crash at their house for about an hour to get a quick little power nap and then hit the road agian. The oldest nephew was still sick so we had to leave him behind, but took the youngest.
The rest of the drive to Idaho went just fine. But then, Sunday sometime, Mason became the puking wonder. Apparnetly, the hour we spent at my sister’s place got the little guy sick. He packs the food away and the worst thing with having a sick baby, is they don’t understand what’s happening to them. All they know is when you feed them, it comes back out, doesn’t feel good, but then they’re even MORE hungry. And mad that you won’t feed them.
We were supposed to leave early Monday morning to drive home. So Keli and I make a bunch of phone calls to work and stuff to get our shifts covered for Tuesday because we figure, we wouldn’t want to be strapped in a carseat for 12+ hours when we’re sick. Mason got better Monday and so we spend Monday night saying good-byes, again, packing up the car, etc. I kid you not, almost as soon as Keli and I settled into bed to sleep, Bailey began taking Mason’s place as the puking wonder. Superb. Bailey was supposed to spend the rest of the week with my parents. Within an hour of Bailey getting sick, BOTH of my parents got sick and started throwing up too. My mom said in over 25 years of marriage she’s NEVER seen my dad throw up. He just doesn’t do it. So, the rest of yesterday was spent in the car, with one kid boared to death, Bailey nauseous and hungry (she only threw up once on the way home), Mason being fussy, and then on the way home I got sick and we had to pull over a few times.
Apparently there’s some crazy intestinal virus thing “going around” and when it hits, it hits hard, man. And the best part is even when you feel fine, it has a contamination period of up to one week. Oh yeah, and flu shots don’t do jack against the little bugger.
A little bit ago I got off work and ran a few errands downtown. One of which was stopping by my second favorite watering hole to pick up a few bottles of their Belgian ale called “Damnation”, to take up to my folk’s place in Idaho to share with my dad.
So I’m standing at the end of the bar, as you enter through the front doors, and I’m chatting it up with the bartender. While he goes down to the other end of the bar to ring up my purchase, I’m standing there and I overhear the a phone conversation that has just started, a few bar stools down from where I am. Without trying to eavesdrop, this is what I hear:
“…I don’t know. The autopsy report will tell us exactly what happened…”
“Honestly [name] I didn’t even know he did drugs.”
“To be completely honest, [name], you’re the best friend I have left in this world.”
The man who was sitting closest to me, doing the talking, was covered in tattoos - a skull on the left side of his neck, a R.I.P. tattoo on his hand, a star and Japanese character on his face - wearing a baseball hat. The kind of guy who you would look at and judge as a bad ass who would throw down at a moments notice. His eyes betray this image by being red and slightly puffy from an obvious earlier break down, and hearing the occasional shake in his voice and glassy eyes tugged at my heartstrings. This is a man who, just by looking at him and the tattoos that tell stories of his life, you can tell he’s seen more than his fair share of struggles and dark times. And yet here he is, sitting alone in a bar at not even 12 noon on a Thursday morning, mourning a lost friend.
What could I do for this poor man, who had obviously lost someone very close to him? The only thing I could do - buy this man a drink. By then the bartender came back with my card and receipt. I told him I wanted to buy that man another of whatever he was drinking. Whispering because I didn’t want to make the gentleman uncomfortable, nor to disturb his conversation. So the bartender walks over to the man and says,
“What are you drinking, again?”
“[name of drink], why?” says the tattooed man.
“That guy wants to buy you a drink,” says the bartender, pointing to me.
At that, the bartender brings the tattooed man a coaster and an clean glass, places the coaster in front of the man’s half empty glass and sets the new glass upside-down on the coaster, indicating a fresh, already paid for drink is in order.
The tattooed man says to the person on the other end of the phone, while looking at me,
“Can I call you right back?” and hangs up.
“Did you buy me a drink?” he asks.
“Yeah. Look, I don’t want to appear as though I was eavesdropping, but I overheard part of your conversation, and thought the least I could do was buy you another drink,” I said
“Right now, that’s what I need I think,” says the tattooed man.
He proceeded to tell me about how a very close friend of his, a “fellow Jew” as he described him, was found dead yesterday. He went to sleep and never woke up, and they’re not sure if drugs played a part in his passing.
The tattooed man informs me “He left behind two little girls and a pregnant wife. I just can’t make sense of it. I cried my heart out last night, man.”
He tells me that this “fellow Jew” always wanted to get together a bunch of Jews and pretend to be a “white power group.” Then he works out a hollow, forced chuckle. As he tells me this, all I can think of is how helpless I feel. How I wish I could just sit down, drink with this man and let him empty his heart about this, maybe in doing so he can make some sense of it.
But, I had to go. And feeling guilty for having to stick to my busy schedule of last-minute chores to prepare for our trip, I wait for a decent break in the conversation and tell him that I was terribly sorry for his loss, and that I would love to stay and talk with him, but I had to go. He says he understands, thanks me for the drink and tells me,
“I had to shoot some last night, man, just to deal.”
I presume he means drugs of some sort, and I tell him, with as much concern in my voice as I could muster,
“You be careful with that stuff, ok?”
And at that, I leave.
Poor man. I can’t seem to get him out of my mind. Be good to each other, okay?
You know what? I think we’re insane. I really do. We (and when I say ‘we’ I really mean Keli, as she was stricken down first by suggesting it…) have been blindsighted by mac truck of insanity.
This evening, we’re loading up the kids, stopping by the Folsom/Sacramento area, tossing our two nephews in the back of the van and continuing our trek up to Jesusland (aka: Boise, Idaho). We’re going to spend the Easter weekend with my parents. That’s right, at least 12 hours trapped in a mini van (Keli still refers to it as “the new car” out of denial… even though it’s over a year old…) with four children ages 9, 6, 5 & 1.
I’m doing the first leg of driving so to amuse myself and probably the kids, I’m thinking I’ll take a picture on our camera at the top of every hour. Mostly out of likely boredom but also to see how the gang fares as the trip grinds on. So have a good weekend everyone! If you celebrate Easter, happy Easter!
This is good for a giggle or two. I especially liked the #5 worst gadget of the year - The Acer Aspire 3000:
We couldn’t measure this laptop’s mobile performance because its battery life was well short of the 90 minutes that it takes to run the benchmark. But you can use it as long as you want while it’s plugged in. Which is totally the purpose of owning a laptop. If you live in the magical realm of Electro-Outlet Land.
Found this posted on Craigslist on 3/21/06. I didn’t write this, but am simply reposting it. It’s in response to this press conference, I believe.
I am ashamed. I am ashamed of this President. Aren’t you? After watching his press conference today, a sense of shame overtook me. I’m ashamed that he took to the podium today as if he emptied out a container of laughing gas. I’m ashamed of a President who has the temerity to laugh when asked a question about war. I’m ashamed of the whores of the fourth estate who care more about having the honor of being the butt of one of the President’s jokes than about exposing the truth to the American people. I’m ashamed that millions of my fellow Americans are so scared and so desperate for leadership that they believe the President’s bullshit.
I am ashamed. I’m ashamed of this President, this megalomaniac hellbent on leaving his assprint on the map of the Middle East, no matter how much destruction is wrought and no matter how much blood flows in the streets of lands that never threatened us. I’m ashamed that when I see the American flag waiving, images of flag-draped coffins flash in my mind. I’m ashamed of Freedom’s March. Ashamed when I see villages reduced to rubble. Ashamed when I see the tiny little corpses. God, they’re so painfully tiny–lined up in a row, little angels wrapped in colorful blankets that starkly contrast against their gray-tinged faces. Ashamed when I see wailing Iraqis slam their hands against plain, unvarnished coffins, over and over, asking “Why? Is this democracy? Why?” When I see those image of funerals, of broken families, I want to crawl into my TV, I want to go to them and grab their slumped shoulders and scream “I’m sorry, good god, I’m so sorry. I want to leave, I want us to leave, believe me. But they won’t listen…No one listens anymore.”
I’m ashamed that the word “massacre” is even uttered in connection with our actions in Iraq. I’m ashamed it’s not just one massacre that is alleged, but two. I’m ashamed it’s gotten to the point that I can’t even tell this little voice inside of me to shut up, that little voice that says maybe, just maybe it could be true. That the impossible may be plausible. Before this war, I would have rejected such claims outright. But that voice of plausibility is the consequence of those black hoods. It’s the consequence of those leashes, those snarling dogs. It’s the consequence of those detainees chained to bedframes. Of naked pyramids. Of forced sex acts. Of beatings and blood-streaked floors.
I am ashamed. Ashamed that Justice is no longer blindfolded, but gagged. Ashamed that in America, in AMERICA, I can only protest in “free speech zones” the size of postage stamps. Ashamed that by the time I’ll take my oath as an officer of the court to support the Constitution, I’ll be swearing to uphold a tattered document that has managed to survive over 200 years only to be shredded by this President in less than eight.
I am ashamed. Ashamed that in America, I see bearded men panhandling in the street, holding cardboard signs that read “U.S. Vet, can’t work, need food. God bless.” Ashamed that somewhere, in our America, a grandmother is sitting alone at her kitchen table, crumpled bills clutched in her thin hands, agonizing over the choice before her: medicine for her pain, or food to keep on living. Ashamed that there is a child who will go to sleep tonight on a cot in an orphanage, with no one to read him a story, no one to stroke his hair and kiss him goodnight, because the American Taliban thinks gay Americans can’t love, can’t parent, can’t provide.
I am ashamed of my fellow Americans. Ashamed that they haven’t flooded the streets. Ashamed they care more about Brangelina than the Bill of Rights. Ashamed that they’re seemingly ok with the subtle but steady transformation from democracy to dictatorship. Ashamed that they are so gullible.
I am ashamed of myself. For not having the courage or the strength to do anything else but sit here and blog. I write. I protest. I vote. And yet, I’m impotent. Stuck in a unrelenting cycle of hope and despair and hope and despair. What a curse it is to be 23 and want to change the world. What a curse to be so disillusioned so early in life. What a curse to want to change a world that will not change…that cannot change? That cannot change as long as we sit and wait for others to change it. That cannot change as long as our elected Democrats refuse to take a principled stand. That cannot change until they–until we–appreciate the gravity of the situation before us: we are losing America.
This is not America. I refuse to accept it. America doesn’t torture. America doesn’t jail people incommunicado for years. America doesn’t sit idly by as an entire people are exterminated in Darfur. America doesn’t stifle science. America doesn’t conduct massive, secret spying on innocent citizens. America doesn’t believe the individual is an annoyance, an impediment to supreme government power. This isn’t the greatest democracy on earth. This isn’t the nation that pioneered human rights. This isn’t the America that leads the world, that leads humanity towards a greater good. No, I refuse to accept this America of shame. This is not my America. It is an America perverted by Republican stewardship. A nation that under GOP rule has abandoned its founding ideals of freedom, liberty, and justice for all. True Americans–coast to coast, young and old–now bow their heads silently in collective shame for a nation that has lost its way.