“One grave in every graveyard belongs to the ghouls. Wander any graveyard long enough and you will find it – water stained and bulging, with cracked or broken stone, scraggly grass or rank weeds about it, and a feeling, when you reach it, of abandonment. It may be colder than the other gravestones, too, and the name on the stone is all too often impossible to read. If there is a statue on the grave it will be headless or so scabbed with fungus and lichens as to look like fungus itself. If one grave in a graveyard looks like a target for petty vandals, that is the ghoul-gate. If the grave wants to make you be somewhere else, that is the ghoul-gate.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book
Parking Day
Main Street
Dallas, Texas
From my old journal, The Daily Epiphany, August 14, 2000
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy
Triple digits deadly coughing air The full moon is a bloated orange colored by windblown dust I haven’t had a decent breath in weeks
The heat cracks the dried clay cracks the calluses on the bottom of my feet ’til they are bleeding and burn in the morning shower
My gardening – if I did it would consist of gluing brown desiccated leaves back onto stickly branches I finally watered my lawn it smelled of wet hay
I sweat at work so much I’ll change lab coats when it soaks through my shirt and coat the other day I went through four When I drove home I can lick my arm and taste the layer of salt I taste like a giant potato chip
I remember sitting by the ponds at the end of my block, reading and enjoying the beautiful day. I saw two kids on the other side of the block pushing a shopping cart from the local Kroger with about three items in it. When the path they were on veered away from the water they took their items out and pushed the cart down the slope into the pond, where it promptly sank. They were across the water and too far for me to do anything, but I was disgusted.
A year ago they drained the ponds to clean out the silt, it was full of carts. The Kroger has gone out of business, replaced by an Aldi where you pay 25 cents (refundable) for a shopping cart.
Bicycle Drag Racer on the Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge
After fizzling out on a number of disparate career paths that included a go at social work, the Catholic priesthood, and underwater welding, Justice started robbing banks. As Leckart tells it, it wasn’t about the money—it was about doing something he could be exceptional at. At first, Justice gave away most of what he stole, leaving bags of money in alleys for homeless people to find, or in port-a-potties. But he later kept the cash to cover his growing drug habit.
From the Pistons and Paint Car Show in Denton, Texas
Most of us have no problem admitting that we have more than we need. The difficulty lies in the next steps: How to get rid of it? What room to tackle first? Should we toss, regift, donate, recycle, repurpose, sell?
A few miles south of Tyler, in the little town of Noonday, the soil is the right mix of sandy and rain-soaked for growing onions. Accordion to legend, as written in Onion World Magazine, it happened by accident:
“Several farmers here in East Texas started experimenting with growing yellow onions and soon discovered they had the proper type of sandy soil to produce a sweet onion.”
They’re both easy and difficult to find. They show up at Central Market every now and then for a little bit more money than your other local onions. Or you can make a phone call and gas up the car:
“Tomato shed, how can I help you?” “Tex” answers the phone. There are no social media handles, and the online store leads you to a physical address. They’ve got small-to-large bags of Certified Noonday Sweet Onions, ranging from eight bucks to 30, right from the ground of the vice president of the Noonday Sweet Onion Grower’s Association.
““You’re the hunter, the warrior. You’re stronger than anyone else here, that’s your tragedy.”
― Anne Rice, The Vampire Lestat
Sunset High School Cheerleaders
Aliens Abduct Cheerleaders
There are a few people in this world that everyone would consider to be a BADASS. Navy jet fighter pilots, gangsters, hitmen, boxers, bullies, Seal Team Six, high voltage repairmen… that sort of thing. Within that world of people that are badass there are a few that are REALLY BADASS. Think of a bell curve representing the amount of badass someone has – that right hand bit of tail and you have the badass people. Spread that out and you get another curve – to the right of it, the second derivative – and these are the most badass of the badass.
If you meet one of these people (and you better hope you never do) you probably would not even recognize their badassness – at least not right away. There is a saying among the super-badass, “They that do the mostest, talk the leastest.” They will never, never, ever talk about how badass they are. No tales of derring-do, no boastful bluster, no bombastic braggadocio. They are comfortable in their skin, confident in their abilities.
This is a small group, but among them are a handful of the most badass of the badass of the badass. These are the people that keep the badass of the badass up at night, send shivers down their spine. I’m not sure I know about all these people but I know six of them and I doubt there are very many more.
Who is more badass than these six? There is only one. He is not only the most badass person on the planet, he is an order of magnitude beyond; he is so badass that the word almost ceases to have meaning; he is made of pure badass.
He is Spencer Bowman.
Bowman carries an old fashioned pager. It only beeps – doesn’t even display the number calling. He may be the only person in a first-world country that still carries a pager like that.
One day, it beeped. Bowman stomped on the pager, shattering its plastic case, then dropped its remains off the first overwater bridge he came to. He drove his perfectly nondescript and average car to a working class suburb outside of DC and parked in front of a Speedometer Repair Shop in a run-down strip mall. He nodded at the middle aged receptionist and pressed a hidden button. A section of wall opened up and a stainless steel elevator appeared. The walls of the car had slits and Bowman nodded at them, knowing that an unseen man with a machine gun was behind each one.
At the bottom, deep underground, Bowman walked down a bare concrete corridor and pushed open a heavy steel blast door. Beyond was an ordinary drab government-issue office, with a bespectacled man at a desk. Not even Bowman knew what government agency ran this operation. It was so secret and dark it didn’t even have an acronym. Bowman suspected that not even the man behind the desk knew for sure who he worked for.
“Bowman, glad to see you again, have a seat,” said the man at the desk.
“What do you need me for?” was all Bowman said.
“You don’t waste much time, do you,” the man replied.
Bowman said nothing, not even a nod. It wasn’t really a question anyway.
“Well,” the man said, “aliens are stealing cheerleaders.”
“Really?”
“Really. Not just here, all over the world, though, of course the United States leads the world in Cheerleaders and most of the kidnappings are here. The total number isn’t huge, but it’s enough to worry… well, worry the people that know you.”
“And you want me to?”
“Find out why.”
“Maybe it is for breeding stock. There was a movie about that.”
“Probably not. They have mostly been taking female cheerleaders. But there have been a few male ones too. Actually, the ratio is pretty much the same as the total cheerleader population.”
“So, find out why. Anything else?”
“Well, it would be nice if you could get some back. If you can.”
The man handed Bowman a tiny, encrypted USB drive. Bowman already knew the password. And that was it.
There was a surprising amount of information on the drive. Enough for Bowman to figure out a couple of starting points. The government had a lot more data on the recent plague of UFO sightings than the public had been allowed to see. After a month of work, a series of educated guesses, and using some of his more exotic contacts, Bowman was able to figure out where the Alien’s base of operations was – an abandoned water pumping station in Dallas, Texas. The Aliens had a complex, subtle, and deep series of security measures protecting their base which Bowman was able to methodically and completely penetrate.
The Aliens resembled human beings in general, and their advance agents had established an odd cult of bizarre plastic surgery that made them able to… if not fit in, at least pass with their origins unguessed. Bowman reached the leader of the Alien mission with a maximum of stealth and a minimum of violence. They faced each other across an odd seven legged table lit by the unsettling greenish light of the Alien’s home planet.
“Spencer Bowman,” said the Alien mission leader.
“You know me,” said Bowman. Again, it was not a question.
“Of course, our knowledge of your society is more extensive than your own.”
“But why cheerleaders?”
“We need warriors.”
“Cheerleaders? Why not trained military? Or ninjas? Or snipers? Or at least gang bangers?”
“We are so very far advanced technologically that your crude killing methods are no longer relevant. Our weapons need a very specific and subtle mix of physical and mental capabilities and proclivities to operate efficiently. The Earth Cheerleading corps possess these qualities in greater accuracy than any other group we have found in any of the major galaxies.”
“But you can’t just kidnap people.”
“Kidnap? Oh you don’t understand. We present our proposal and they come along if they want.”
“But what if they refuse?”
“What if? Nothing. They return to their life.”
“What if they talk?”
“What if? Would any one believe them? Nope, they would end up a joke in the tabloids. And that’s the thing.”
“What?”
“Nobody has refused. No one. The call of destiny is strong. This is their purpose, they are perfect intergalactic warriors and when this is pointed out – the call is irresistible.”
Bowman knew he had the information he needed and it was time to escape. He turned away from the alien leader and fled out the door, taking every element of the situation in and avoiding the obvious traps. He was confident in his ability to get out of the alien headquarters unscathed and deliver his message to the government.
But Bowman was not prepared for what waited for him in the corridor beyond. There was Amber from the San Luis Obispo Wildcats in her red and blue uniform. She carried a Light Antimatter Laser Cannon and a Neutrino Shield. Next to her was Jeff from the Iowa City High School tumbling squad with a Quantum Saber glowing in his palms. Behind them stood their commander Crystal from The University of Virginia with a Superstring Grenade… just in case.
The fight didn’t last long. Withing a few seconds Bowman was reduced to a series of grotesque smears along a few feet of corridor. The Alien cleaning robot immediately emerged from a hidden closet and began scrubbing at the gore.
Spencer Bowman was without peer in the ranks of earth’s BADASS. But he was completely outclassed by Amber, Jeff, and Crystal, Intergalactic Warriors.
Modern man, if he dared to be articulate about his concept of heaven, would describe a vision which would look like the biggest department store in the world, showing new things and gadgets, and himself having plenty of money with which to buy them. He would wander around open-mouthed in this heaven of gadgets and commodities, provided only that there were ever more and newer things to buy, and perhaps that his neighbors were just a little less privileged than he.
—-Erich Fromm
Downtown Square, McKinney, Texas
From my old journal, The Daily Epiphany, June 26, 2001 (exactly 20 years ago):
Gadgets
I’m one of the last people in this best of all possible worlds to get a cell phone. I always resisted the idea – thinking it was too much or too far or too expensive. Now I have one and I really like it. It is pretty damn amazing, isn’t it – especially when I can remember when the phone company owned all the phones and only the richest of the rich could even have an extension. I was in college, in Lawrence, when we were one of the first cities to get the modular plugs. I remember when digital dialing seemed pretty cool.
I’ve even downloaded custom ringing songs to my phone from websites. Sometimes I use Dock of the Bay, but usually I use the theme song from Thunderbirds are Go.
Somewhere, I read an article about server farms that said the world was ruled by stocky men carrying cell phones and pagers. I guess that’s me. I have my pager on one pocket and my cell phone on the other. Ready for action, like a wild west gunfighter.
Driving too and from work has its own ritual. I have the little hook where I hang my phone after I remove the belt clip. I plug it into a cord that runs to my cigarette lighter socket. I haven’t seen anyone light a cigarette with one of those in years – now they are simply twelve-volt outlets. I wonder when they will change the name of them and supply them with a plug that doesn’t heat. Our MiniVan has an extra one by the back seat; the kids plug their game boys in to it.
The center console of my car has three different drink-holders. I remove my sunglasses from one and use it to hold the belt clip. My pager goes in the second cup-holder. The third holds my ID badge – which is a technological marvel in itself. Inside the badge is a slim chip. Automatic doors flanked by badge-swipers guard the complex corridors of my workplace. Some places allow me entrance, some don’t. Under the console is a space that barely holds the pack of cassette tapes I listen to on my commute. A British voice intones, “This is the end of cassette nine of The Robber Bride, please fast forward to the end before loading cassette ten.”
My cell phone hangs next to the tape player. The player pops whenever I move from one cell to the next and the phone broadcasts its new location.
Above all this, the crack in my windshield hasn’t been fixed yet. It gets longer and longer.
The 7.5-mile Spine Trail segment will mean that, for the first time, residents south of Interstate 30 “won’t have to use a car to get out of our neighborhoods.”
Throw them away? “By keeping less — documents, folders, files, emails, etc. — you create more space in your life,” Kondo told me. “Though digital clutter is not tangible like clutter in your home, I believe it carries the same weight.”
I don’t agree. Precious memories don’t need to go into dusty photo albums or the trash. They should go online.
Scientists have known for years that there’s a “second brain” of autonomous neurons in your long, winding human digestive tract—but that’s about where their knowledge of the so-called abdominal brain ends.
For most of my adult life I read maybe five books a year — if I was lucky. I’d read a couple on vacation and I’d always have a few slow burners hanging around the bedside table for months.
And then last year I surprised myself by reading 50 books. This year I’m on pace for 100. I’ve never felt more creatively alive in all areas of my life. I feel more interesting, I feel like a better father, and my writing output has dramatically increased. Amplifying my reading rate has been the domino that’s tipped over a slew of others.
“She didn’t need to understand the meaning of life; it was enough to find someone who did, and then fall asleep in his arms and sleep as a child sleeps, knowing that someone stronger than you is protecting you from all evil and all danger” ― Paulo Coelho, Brida
View from the pedestrian bridge down to the Trinity river bottoms, Margaret McDermott Bridge, Dallas, Texas
To make a long story short, to save a little money, the city skipped some engineering testing on some elements of the bridge – which had been greatly modified to save money already. Once the thing was finished, several cable anchors cracked in the high winds that are common in Texas. There was an orgy of blame and recrimination and I really thought that the bike part of the bridge would never open.
Finally, the city decided to pony up seven million dollars or so for repairs and try to claw that money back later.
So when I crossed that bridge for the first time I took a look at the cable anchors to see what was done. There wasn’t much that was all that obvious.
Here’s a photo of the original cable anchors:
Image from Dallas Morning News
So it looks like the rod connecting the cable to the bridge is a bit thicker. The big difference seems to be the addition of cable dampers – which are (I guess) the funny looking barbell-looking things mounted to the cables right above the anchors.
They look kind of cool – but it’s hard to believe that these little things are keeping a two hundred million dollar bridge from falling down.
“I come to a red light, tempted to go through it, then stop once I see a billboard sign that I don’t remember seeing and I look up at it. All it says is ‘Disappear Here’ and even though it’s probably an ad for some resort, it still freaks me out a little and I step on the gas really hard and the car screeches as I leave the light.”
― Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero
(click to enlarge)
Invasion car show
Deep Ellum
Dallas, Texas
From my old journal, The Daily Epiphany, August 9, 1999:
Slip Slidin’ Away
Sometimes, when you least expect it, you discover a moment of… if not beauty or wonder, at least amusement.
Today I drove home fighting through the hot afternoon rush hour traffic. I stopped as a light snapped yellow then red. It was a new light, on a T-Shaped intersection right north of where the road arches up and over Interstate 30.
I bent forward and fooled with the radio buttons, settling on some Brahms, something relaxing to help me live through the drive. So I missed it. Some guy had come into the T at such a rate of speed, making his left turn, that he spun his car completely around, and was now sitting completely sideways across all three lanes of traffic.
He had a nondescript small black car, an amateur spraycan paint job, no gloss, small dents all along the fenders. Drunk dents we used to call these. His entire back seat was covered by a sheet of unfinished plywood pierced by giant speakers. I had a good look at him, his window was down, his A/C must have been busted. The guy looked to be in his late twenties, baseball cap on backwards, dirty unkempt long mullet hair, big cheap earring. His expression was somehow simultaneously sheepish, stupid, and cocky.
My light turned green but we had to wait while the idiot managed to maneuver his car back and forth until he was pointing in more or less the right direction.
The amusing part was that, in addition to nobody getting hurt, right when he had is straightened out, a cop shot around me on the shoulder, lights flashing, and nailed him. I grin a little thinking of the reckless driving citation Mr. Speed Racer now has to deal with.
(I had had to walk back to the car to get four quarters from the little holder thing that folds down between the front bucket seats as I only had a single dollar bill plus two tens – and I didn’t want to shove a ten in the machine – who knows what would happen then)
with my dollar bill and four quarters
trying to figure which buttons to push
and where the coins slot was
the train pulled up.
It was Sunday and who knows when the next train will come
So I boarded quickly, without my ticket
I’m a scofflaw
They warn you never to ride the trains without a ticket
one hundred fifty dollar fine.
I clutched my dollar and my four quarters in my hand
Bill Chance 