Just in time for our religion show.

ATHEIST WALKING

He's a Maniac

Just a little something --

Karl and I parked it in a bar at the Dallas/FW airport to have a couple and play some cards until boarding time.

Our waiter was one of the friendliest, animated, and most excited people I've ever met in an airport. He wasn't just a Really Good Waiter. He was hyper-good. He was the pinnacle of a customer service professional. I don't know if I can explain it more than this. He vibrated. He levitated.

Anyway, when we received our receipt -- Karl looked at it to find out his name. It's there in the top left, after the numbers 5049, if you're interested.

That Guy

When you think “summer,” what comes to mind? A luke-warm can of Bud, toppled over in the sand? A heat rash on your thighs from a day at Six Flags? Dealing with reggae music?

I think about a man. This man always comes around when the temperatures are high. Though his particulars may vary, there are constants about him: a ponytail; a bared upper body; a fanny pack and sandals; and an unbridled enthusiasm for whoever is on stage. He is The White Man Over 40 Who Dances By Himself At Outdoor Music Fests.

I was a pre-teen when I first saw him yell “YEAH” while stomping back and forth in time at a sweltering bluegrass festival in my hometown’s municipal park. I was perversely fascinated, as I’d never seen an adult behave that way. He was so free, like the strangers in our school pamphlets. So, he became my girlfriend’s boyfriend, as in, “Omigod Jenny, that’s your boyfriend.” “Ewww!” Jenny would say, “No, Lauren. He’s YOUR boyfriend.”

When I was a high school student, spotting TWMO40 getting down in the crowd meant that we were in the wrong place. “This is lame,” I could officially sneer as a band of local dads played “House of The Rising Sun” from the steps of the bank. We rolled our eyes as his arm waved a bandana above and his bony ass flapped in orange Dolphin shorts below. “There’s no pot and all the guys are pervs,” I’d say. “Go get Jenny and tell her we’re leaving.”

But as a college freshman, my newly educated mind caused a change in TWMO40’s status. Jumping up and down next to the grandmas in their lawn chairs, he became a symbol for escaping society’s constraints. He reminded me of Charles Bukowski. (I hadn’t read Bukowski.) “That old cat’s GROOvin’,” I’d say to my jazz-student boyfriend and his jazz-student buddies, during one of the ubiquitous world music festivals hosted by the university. I followed him to the beer tent, notebook in hand, to take down his slurred warnings of marriage, pesticides and demons he called “The Suits.” I believed this would impress my Creative Writing professor. (I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it didn’t.)

In my late 20’s, his free-form festival exuberance was one of the many Warning Signs (a stupidly cynical, double-spaced list I’d made of things to avoid). His existence ranked somewhere between the song “Mustang Sally” and the book, The Celestine Prophecies. “Damn, look at that guy getting down. If I don’t lay off the booze and drugs, I’ll wind up with a guy like that,” I’d drunkenly muse to no one in particular. “What if he has a gun in his fanny pack and starts picking off the crowd?” I’d say. “He’s going to step on that kid.”

Of course, TWMO40 still gets around. I saw him at last year’s at Arthur Fest, at the Barnsdall Art Park. In the midst of Olivia Tremor Control’s set, with a beautiful hilltop view of Silver Lake as a backdrop, I was a million miles away from small town music festivals and slap-dash blues bands. Suddenly, up he sprouted from behind a group of picnickers. He got a few looks from the crowd, but, as always, his force field was fully operational, making him impervious to sneers or laughter. His flabby arms were raised overhead while his sweaty, stringy ponytail whipped his freckled back. “YEAH,” he called to the tuba player, bouncing back and forth like a slalom skier. I elbowed my friend and we grinned, but paid him little mind.

Summer's almost over. I’d better get out there or I’m going to miss him.

Just Plain Folks

Went for a visit to Oklahoma last week.

I sometimes have mixed feelings about going to visit my hometown. On the one hand, I get to see my family -- wonderful people that I have an absolute blast being around. On the other hand, well…

OK, for example: Karl and I took a trip to the nearby town of Wilson, Oklahoma, in search of the fabled Chuck Norris museum. (Background: Chuck’s from Wilson.) Well, according to a gentleman we met in town, it turns out the museum never really “took.” Had something to do with Chuck’s current wife, he said.

He went on to tell me about Chuck’s first wife. He “wasn’t telling tales,” he said, as this was all in Chuck’s very own autobiography. It seems his first wife fooled around on Chuck during a trip the two of them had taken to the Bahamas. When Chuck left for a week to go do a karate show or something, she hooked herself up with a local. Let me quote the gentleman from Wilson, here, in describing Chuck’s wife’s new paramour.

"He was the biggest, blackest nigger I have ever seen. An ugly human being. I mean he was the BIGGEST and the BLACKEST nig—"

OK. Got it. Thank you sir. No, please, return to your whittling.

When I hear things like this I remember specific instances in my childhood. Like being called a “nigger lover” at a party because I had black friends. But I also remember that the kids who called me a nigger lover got the holy shit beaten out of them by a couple other white kids who heard them say this. One of them used a belt. So it’s not all bad. Like I said, mixed feelings.

During the trip, we spent an evening in the Gusher Lounge in the local Holiday Inn. Not a lot of options for barhopping. We were entertained by a singing Sunday school teacher in a prairie skirt. With a sky-blue Strat hung over a shoulder she wailed Stevie Ray Vaughan songs, backed up by a band in the box. The drunken business travelers cheered and danced on the parquet floor in front of the stage. It was transcendental, right up until midnight when the bartender yelled, “Last call.” At midnight… Again, mixed feelings.

Hope everyone enjoyed their week off from DWLL. We certainly missed being there for you, to bring you the high-quality entertainment you’ve come to expect. Thanks again for hanging in there with us. More to follow, soon.

End transmission.

Welcome to my blog!

Welcome to my blog! I have no idea what I'm doing!

Keeping in true DWLL style, Larry's blog will certainly be filled with well-written, deeply philosophical essays about life, love, and the great questions of our time. Whereas, mine will be filled with minutiae, ramblings, and fart jokes.

I’m on my way out of town, but I wanted to put a little something up before I left. So, today I’d like to tell you about Carlos.

Carlos works at the liquor store down my street. He is such a dude. I love him dearly. Every time I see him he breaks into a big grin and says "Hey! Lauren!" in a goofy, high-pitched voice and gives me the fist-bump. He's my age - wife, kid, and working for $13 an hour if he's lucky. He knows good dirty jokes. I catch up on his life in the 5 minutes I wait at the counter, while the ATM connects my account to the Bildeburgers or wherever the Hell it goes.

Today he said, "Man, I fuckin' hate customers man. You're cool, right? Today this guy said to me, (does uptight white-guy voice) 'Ha ha... I'll bet I paid your rent today with all I spent'."

Carlos replied, "Hey, motherfucker, I OWN, why you gotta think I rent?”

He handed me my bag, shaking his head. “Stupid fucker,” he said. “Man, I shouldn't be doing this shit for a living. This is what some punk ass kid would do in high school."

I felt sorry for him as I started my car outside, until I realized... I don't OWN.

Motherfucker.