Tuesday, November 18, 2008


It was really humid. In those days (post-Ludlow, in the apartment, across from the Marina), I'd wash my face three times daily to prevent unwanted white-heads. They still came. I never cried about it. I rarely cry about zits (much to the surprise of my family. And quite the opposite of any reaction that occurs when testing my doomed fate of seeing any picture put forth by the creators of "Magic Eye", the book. Those things can suck my balls--see "Note Found on Floor" post.)

After a day of cruising for fat chicks (not really), I returned home slightly defeated and sweaty. Upon the arrival to my apartment stood a man built with a 12 pack and a mountain of chest hair for which you could donate for love.

"I'm from Seattle," he said, but dare I say, he had shifty eyes?

"Oh so you smoke Pot," I said, clearly stereotyping every shifty eyed, soul who ever donned the title, "Seattle-ian.--or Seattle-ite". In my naivete, I naturally assumed everyone from Seattle smoked pot...............................a curve ball:

"Crack actually..." as he rubbed the back of his head with a coy look in both his eyes--as if he'd just done something ornery.
"I had to quit it though, cause it made me crazy and I kept telling my dealer I was going to rob him. So I don't do that anymore. **creepy chuckle chuckle**"

In my life, I've been fortunate enough not to participate in the taking of Crack-Cocaine. You may call it good luck. There was a time in my life however, that I watched "Death to Smoochy" nearly every night for an entire week! And this I cannot explain. But on a said night (day 3 I believe) a violence came forth from a pounding on my door.

Shifty eyes. He had the look of a mad-man and spoke like a wild park ranger whose favorite bear was no longer stealing pic-nic baskets, but rather stealing small kids and eating them.

I invited him in. Not because I'm "nice" per say...it'd be more accurate to state that sometimes I do dumb things.

Turns out that earlier this day, the googly-eyed maniac had been walking down the street, gently minding his own business, when two homosexuals called him a faggot. ...and he said, "I ain't no faggot!!!!"

(I'm not sure what to call what he did next...I'll call it "air-bonging"...much like any awesome person plays, "air guitar", apparently when a crack-head is justifying the reason why he smoked crack, he may include a pretend hit of a crack-pipe...from a homosexual). He proceeded to "Air-Bong" a crack hit. Sitting on my love seat (next to me), he inhaled deeply and forcefully. A broken smile became a cemented image on his face as he held his breath, still smiling brightly with his teeth clenched tightly. It was a harmonious moment in time when all seemed right with the world...but not really.

When he let out his breath he casually told me he was there to rob me. Not having anything of value, I asked him what he planned to rob me of.

"Well I was just walking by and I saw your Jackie-O's"

"You mean my Apple Jacks? Well I can't have that. I'm calling the cops. Please leave."

Sunday, November 16, 2008

The Son of Ludlow

I was laying in bed, trying to fall asleep in the place I now called home. The home of Ludlow. On this special evening, his son, Lenny, (an alcoholic man of about 40) had traveled down from Corpus Christi.

"I've gotta tell you Chreese, what you deeed, it took a lot of baaaalllls man...moving to a place where you don't know anyone, living in a tent...."

I didn't know what to say. I guess that's one way to look at it. Another way might be to say I was incredibly young and immature.

As I laid down to rest that night, I found myself, laying in the same room as Lenny, listening to his disgusting tales of life. The bedroom was big and had two full sized beds on the opposite ends of the room. He told me about his experience on the island, taking ecstasy and smoking drugs.

When I woke the next morning Ludlow, the frail, old, Mexican man was standing beside my bed and clapped to wake me up.

When I came back from the shower, Lenny had gotten into my clothes and was wearing my tattered jeans, and a pearl snap shirt, both of which belonged to me.

"Lenny!!!??? Why are you wearing my clothes?"

"Oh sorry man....COMMUNITY CLOSET!" And he said this, as if it made perfect sense. As if I were somehow lesser of a man for not knowing what this meant. The day went on. I went to the beach, Lenny went to Mexico for a "business" meeting. He came back thrashed. His dad cried and sobbed that night in my arms about how much he missed his wife (who'd passed). What am I supposed to say? "Hang in there...keep your chin up...I know how you feel...". I said nothing.

Lenny was passed out in the giant bedroom from his business drinking. At midnight he rose, stumbled out into the living room and proceeded for the front door.

"Going back to Corpus" he slurred, (which is a 4 hour drive).

"Before you leave, can I have my clothes back?"

And he pulled the shirt off his back...pulled the jeans off his legs and left them in a heap on the floor, and left.

I watched him stumble to his truck. I was slightly confused by the absurdity that was Lenny. His truck Vrrroooommed, and he sped off. Sped off in nothing more than a cowboy hat, and tighty whiteys.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Note found on floor last year

Hate Mr.

he can suck

Saturday, November 8, 2008

The day/night my tent broke

I realize now how long posts rarely get read.

One night I was sleeping in my home on the beach (which was a tent--see "arrival on the isle" for details).

A whopper of a squall came across the water and blew my home down...with me in it.

The next day I interviewed for a job at the Sheraton (I didn't get it cause I kept staring off into space from lack of sleep).

It was the longest night of my life.

5 days later I was living with a 70 year old Mexican man named Ludlow.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

One year later

This was me 1 year ago.

Arrival on the Isle'

It’s 3:30pm and I just arrived in South Padre Island. I’m 20-years-old. Mom, Dad & family expressed their enthusiasm of my trip via tears, threats of being grounded, and sheer disapproval.

Dropping my college courses to live in a tent on the beach seemed like a good idea at the time. In a tent I bought from Wal-Mart that was less than Hurricane proof, yet still claimed to be on the box.

(In two weeks I’d be laying in my tent at 3:30a.m., 45 mph winds ripping my “home” apart. Lightening would crash and ocean waves would spit on me, along with cold, piercing bullets of sideways rain. That, would prove to be the longest night of my life).

But today is good, because I have $400 in my pocket, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches (that I packed back home in Coffeyville), and a tent with 2 feet, long metal stakes (to drive into the sand).

4:00pm—I’m here…but I don’t really know what to do… I opt for convenience and go to a corner store. Ask the clerk where vagabonds and pitch a tent. “North end of the Island,” she says. “Woah…hey, I’m doin’ the same thing,” said a stranger behind me.

The stranger’s name is Dave, a college graduate from Rhode Island who tried to go backpacking through Mexico, but somehow wound up in Brownsville TX. When Dave arrived in Brownsville at 3AM, he hitched a ride from a homosexual.

13 hours later, Dave was in the corner store preparing to ask the clerk where a failed backpacker could pitch a tent. But I beat him to the punch.

Dave was a great neighbor because he loved to drink, but never alone. We also shared the same affinity for Keystone Lights and lawn-chairs. All in all, Dave and I were destined to be BFF (for two weeks—BFTW?)

Our typical day went something like this: Wake up at the ass-crack of dawn.

Why? Cause in the genius of decision making, when picking a paradise to escape to, I chose a location next to a Coast Guard Base. This particular base played a bugle every morning in some apparent attempt to wake the dead (along with everyone within a 15 mile radius). It’s not bad if you enjoy waking up and feeling like you’re at the horse track…Thus my “beach/tent neighborhood took on the name, “the Pardre Downs.”

We’d go looking for jobs throughout the day and eat peanut butter/jelly sandwiches. Mostly though, we just played in our front lawn (the beach)…played meaning, sit in lawn chairs, drink K.L. Smoothies and pee in the ocean.

But the good times did not last forever. (Contrary to what you might think, $400 does not last forever). Harsh times were yet to come……