tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59274259142154205552024-03-13T19:54:23.627-07:00Chronicles of NoelNot-so Tall TalesChronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-51763485574905723472009-02-17T14:22:00.000-08:002009-02-17T14:33:41.692-08:00Work & Apartment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6n0_y7dI/AAAAAAAAACo/ZUZNJfbQtkg/s1600-h/school+047.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6n0_y7dI/AAAAAAAAACo/ZUZNJfbQtkg/s320/school+047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303897442074422738" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6nqHIH3I/AAAAAAAAACg/pVXHQGfZTKY/s1600-h/school+046.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6nqHIH3I/AAAAAAAAACg/pVXHQGfZTKY/s320/school+046.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303897439152381810" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6naC-wGI/AAAAAAAAACY/YRvTVnCxTDA/s1600-h/school+045.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6naC-wGI/AAAAAAAAACY/YRvTVnCxTDA/s320/school+045.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303897434840023138" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6m5zxpZI/AAAAAAAAACQ/qRrKOiV_228/s1600-h/school+002.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6m5zxpZI/AAAAAAAAACQ/qRrKOiV_228/s320/school+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303897426186315154" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6muWIRgI/AAAAAAAAACI/MA6U7B6MRmk/s1600-h/school+001.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SZs6muWIRgI/AAAAAAAAACI/MA6U7B6MRmk/s320/school+001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303897423109178882" /></a>Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-16352242378069396782009-02-15T06:26:00.000-08:002009-02-15T07:20:52.859-08:00PrideLast night I went to see a Johnny Cash impersonator. There were several highlights. For instance:<br />The opening band sang country songs which made me feel like I was back home.<br />You could hear their New York accents behind their fake midwest twangs, which made me feel superior to them for some reason.<br />They ended the opening set with "Proud to Be an American"--which reminded me of a fateful November's eve in 2001.<br /><br />**Flashback***<br /><br />We'd vanished two kegs and a billion boxes of wine. Instead of having a regular D.J., my sister opted for a Karaoke D.J. instead. She had just been married and the post-nuptial debauchery was in full swing.<br /><br />An average man might think to himself, surely they won't sing ALL NIGHT LONG!? Perhaps it might be a good idea if some of my C.D.s were more than instrumentals. But our Karaoke D.J. was not average. For he needed no cd with audio words. His philosophy: "Any song worth hearin' is a song worth singin'." And that's what Ron did. He sang all the standard wedding songs himself (even the Chicken Dance and Cotton-eyed Joe). But what's to be expected? The guy was a professional. He was all business...until he turned around....<br /><br />So it was late in the game. My Venezuelan friend just finished singing, "Tweeest and Shout" and everyone was pretty faded. For the last song, Mulletron had everyone gather around in a circle. "But We already did the chicken dance," is what I would have thought if I hadn't been so god-damn drunk. <br /><br />This was 2 months after 9-11. My new brother-in-law's family was from upstate New York. It was an emotional way to end the night. Mulletron started singing, "Proud to be an American."<br /><br />There wasn't a dry eye in the entire Parish Hall! <br /><br />The following day people awkwardly passed each other in the hallway on their way to the bathroom or kitchen. Nobody could quite look each-other in the eye.<br /><br />"Did we...umm...stand in a circle last night singing 'Proud to Be an American' while swaying back and forth with our arms over each other and crying...or was it a dream?" I said.<br />"Yeah...I don't want to talk about it." replied my cousin, Kaysie.<br /><br />***Flashback ending***<br /><br />As I stood there listening to the fake cowboys sing that emotional tune, I looked around and saw that virtually anyone can succumb to the embarrassing nature of public emotional patriotism. I will list three examples:<br />1) The man sitting right next to my co-teacher kept screaming (at the top of his lungs, "GO USA!!! I LOVE USA!!! GO AMERICAAAAAAAA!!!!"<br />2) The man in the front, right section of the theatre standing with his arms up, swaying back and forth as if he were being Saved by Jesus...if Jesus were Patrick Henry. <br />3)Last but not least were the two volunteers who held up an American Flag and POW Flag high into the air and walked from left to right (repeatedly) in front of the crowd...not really that cheesy? They were trying to do it in slow motion. It was like a scene straight from Napolean Dynamite.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-55936709635804556142009-02-10T16:58:00.000-08:002009-02-10T17:06:27.400-08:00The Station WagonIt's not that I want a station wagon. It's more than that. It just seems a given that I should own one.<br /><br />It's not even a desire. It's as if a station wagon has always been waiting for me...and I am like Jesus, coming out of the desert. . .Sure I've been tempted...but I'm ready now.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-27108916729300815562009-02-08T10:29:00.001-08:002009-02-08T11:06:27.220-08:00Sheep MeatOne of the best parts about teaching is realizing how much smarter you are than other people. Despite the fact that you maybe in your late 20s, 30s (and they are 12).<br /><br />Most days, I leave school feeling like the smartest person in the world. There are days however when a student jumps out of his/her role as an ignorant being. This is a story about one of those days.<br /><br />In the state of New York, the English State Test is the equivalent of Jesus in the Catholic church. The Holy Trinity is: English State Test, Math State Test,(and some days I pretend I'm the third part of the trinity--other days I pretend I'm atheist so I don't have to create analogies to understand what is important and what is not).<br /><br />Anyway, we're preparing for the holiest of tests and I give my students a practice exam. It was your typical 6th grade test which explained the origin of how the border collie went from a sheep herding dog to a family pet.<br /><br />When I came across Sue's (which is not really her name) paper, I saw that she highlighted every word. So my initial thought was, "you're an idiot". But she proved me wrong with her answers. "I am an idiot" I then thought.<br /><br />The following are her answers to the questions. It's important not to skim, as you might miss the greatness of her answer.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Explain a Border Collie Trait</span> <br />She wrote: <br /><br />"They crouch and use a gaze to hold the sheep's attention."<br />CORRECT!<br />"They run around sheep into smaller and smaller circles to gather them up."<br /> CORRECT AGAIN!<br /><br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">How Trait Helps with Sheep Herding</span> <br />"It makes the sheep come close to them so they can eat them. It makes them easier to capture and eat.<br /><br />(NO LONGER AM I FEELING LIKE AN IDIOT...OR LIKE ANYTHING. MY EMOTION COULD BEST BE DESCRIBED LIKE THIS :....................??????? <br /><br />Moving on.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Use details from the article "From Farm to Family Room" to support the opinion that a border collie should not be owned by someone who lives in a large city.</span> <br />She wrote:<br /><br />"A border collie can not be owned by someone in the city. Because the city is a busy place and the border collie would want to go for a walk" <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">(SO FAR SO GOOD)</span> <br />"But it would mean that it would probably want to go to a zoo and look for sheep and try to kill the sheep and eat him or a grocery store and eat up all the sheep meat." <br /><br />Again...I feel strange, and cannot put my finger on the feeling inside, but this time it's a cross between: ??????... mixed with that feeling of suspended time when you're about to sneeze, but you never sneeze.<br /><br />While reading her answer, my mind blew a circuit and thought: "Either she's a genius, or she's witnessed things in life that no child should ever see, or she's secretly a rogue border collie dressed up like a 6th grader, or she's really dumb, or she has an imagination that is sickly amusing, or".....and the thoughts continued for hours thereafter.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-36279069315939969122009-01-10T12:23:00.001-08:002009-01-10T13:08:29.613-08:00The New Neighbor-lushIn the morning time, I didn't have much to do in Padre because my shift at the hotel didn't start until 3pm. I did a lot of writing at my kitchen table and observed the palm trees swaying across the empty field. <br /><br />Not long after the wet-lady and Mickey-the-crack-head were evicted, the view of my beautiful palm trees was obstructed by a hideous creature with leather skin, short hair and dark circles beneath her eyes that went on for days. The circles under her eyes were like the dark god of death staring into my soul...and that's what she was doing. Staring at my soul...or at least my face, through my kitchen window.<br /><br />I opened my door and went out to her. I didn't invite her in. Not because I thought she was a vampire or anything (though her eyes suggested otherwise). I didn't invite her in because too many people who pass through my door end up spilling their life story about drug addictions to me. I guess I'd rather just assume that everyone's not addicted to ridiculous drugs (Crack, I consider to be in this category). <br /><br />"Umm..Hi! I'm your new neighbor. My name's Sheila," creature said. "I was wondering, do you have a phone?"<br /><br />"Yes, would you like to use it?"<br /><br />"Oh yes!" she said with a far too much enthusiasm. 2 silent minutes pass. "Darn it. They didn't answer."<br /><br />"Would you like to call back and leave a message for them?"<br /><br />"Oh could I?!?!?" she said in wonderment, as if I were Alexander Graham Bell. So she calls...<br /><br />"Hi Betty! This is Sheila. I'm at Chris' house! He's letting me use his phone! He's SUPER cool. Just give me a call when you get this."<br /><br />Okay, I'm not sure if I mentioned that hideous-death-eyes just moved in next door the previous day. When I suggested she leave a message for her friend, I assumed it would be, "Meet me at my new place...I made it here safely....here's my address...." <br /><br />Nay. She merely wanted to tell her friend (whom I'd clearly never met) that she was at MY house and that I was super cool...and that it was okay to call my phone back.<br /><br />At this point, nothing surprises me about these people called neighbors, so clearly designed to be caricatures of themselves. The phone call ends.<br /><br />"Thank you so much! Here's a Sacajawea dollar...." ... . awkward silence as I try to slip back into my apartment......."So..." she says, not letting me get away that easy. "I don't know what you're up to right now...but I've got a bottle of Jack if you want to........." At that point she flashed a smile, which was meant to be coy and accompanied with a head nod back into her apartment. <br /><br />But it's hard to be coy when you don't have a full set of teeth and when you nod your head, you start hacking up so violently that it resembles the mating call of...I don't know...Satan?<br /><br />"What are you talking about!? It's 9:45 in the morning! Who drinks this early?"<br /><br />"Oh, well, see my foot just has this problem..." <br /><br />I looked down at her foot. I don't know why. I knew that looking meant being grossed out. I looked. Grossed out isn't the proper word. Dry heaves might substitute well. PTSD--yes. That it. Because HER FOOT WAS DEAD! I mean, you could see dark veins creeping their way into her foot as a place to go to die. <br /><br />"Oh! Lady! You need to go to the doctor! Not drink Jack Daniels!" I'd never been so concerned with the well being of a foot before in my entire life.<br /><br />"Umm....yeah. Well, I'm 42, and you're how old??? I think I know what I'm doing." She exits dramatically back into her apartment.<br /><br />I went to the beach that day and came back around 4pm. There laid Sheila, on her first full day at her new residence, passed out in the front yard, wearing nothing but granny panties and a bra in the front yard...with a dead foot.<br /><br />42-year-olds seem to have life down to a science!Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-28234643460426212632008-12-31T07:10:00.000-08:002009-01-04T17:00:35.069-08:00Jackie-O's Part IIYou may recall from previous stories that Padre is filled with colorful people and colorful addictions. How I came to be surrounded by such charming spirits (if by charming you mean strung out derelicts and frightening) was a combination of lack of funds and....that was it really. I guess there's no combination for it at all.<br /><br />In any case, the day after Crack-head Mickey came over and tried to rob me of my Apple Jacks, the Landlord changed the locks on his apartment. As it were, it wasn't even his apartment. He was staying there because his girlfriend--a gal that my landlord said (and I quote)-- " had been put to bed wet a couple of times, if you know what I mean". **Chuckle chuckle** in response. Although deep down inside....No.? I don't know what that means. Was she known for getting drunk and falling into the bay? Perhaps, like me, she had an affinity for the beach and passed out there frequently--only to have the tide come and get her wet. I'm not sure. But she was my true neighbor and her crackhead boyfriend was house sitting while she was on vacation in Seattle.<br /><br />When the landlord locked the door on Mickey, he started sleeping in the apartment complex laundromat (that is to say, in a garage with a washer, dryer in it). <br /><br />Two weeks past and not a stir from the apartment next door. At 2:30a.m. I woke up to a pounding next door. It went on for 5 minutes. Silence...but not lasting silence. A calm before the storm silence. <span style="font-style:italic;">CRASH!!!</span> Hooray, I was correct! A storm was brewing! Not only was I entertained by the breaking and entering taking place next door via the broken sharded kitchen window...I was also in fear of my life, thinking I would be next. <br /><br />After calling the police and the landlord, we found out that it was the maiden who owned the place (own = rent). She had just gotten back from Seattle. Instead of going straight home and unpacking, when she arrived, she headed to the local watering hole, got drunk, and came home to a locked apartment and soon found out her keys no longer worked. Logically, she broke the window to get inside so she could sleep (but I didn't check to see if she was wet).<br /><br />She was evicted the next day, but her boyfriend continued to sleep in the garage.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-82183547929015691132008-12-12T17:51:00.000-08:002008-12-12T18:15:52.045-08:00Boat ShowIn those days, Coffeyville Kansas was a small town that didn't ask for much. Aside from a demolition derby here, and a reenactment of our towns' folk killing bank robbers there, we didn't have much for entertainment. <br />So the perplexing question my father must have asked himself daily..."How do I entertain these 5 kids of mine?"<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">VIOLA</span>!!!<br />BOAT SHOW. YES!<br /><br />What better way to bond with the family, than to load into an aerostar, drive 1.5 hours, to look at boats inside a convention center. (There is no water inside this convention center. The boats just sat there lifelessly).<br /><br />I was four. In my lust for boats at that age, I must have gotten really excited by all the boats...or shall I say, mom and dad must have gotten really excited by all the boats, because the only true memory I have of that boat show is being carried by a man in a cowboy hat to the lost and found children (apparently cowboys don't like children wondering around boat shows unattended).<br /><br />I was put in a play pen with other kids whose parents too, had been caught up in the hype of a still boat on concrete. Later I was reunited with my family. <br /><br />The next day I was given a friendship bracelet from my mom...It looked like any standard velcro, wristband, bracelet of the decade...except this bracelet was extra special. For this bracelet had a curly chord (like that of a telephone) which connected to moms wrist. At four years old, I had never been so embarrassed. <br /><br />I looked so uncool playing in my front yard with (literally) a leash tied to my mom's arm.<br /><br />The leash came in handy later though when we all played house. Naturally, I was the dog. <br />In today's society, neighbors might frown on children running around in the front yard, while tied to a tree. <br /><br />But in those days, they smiled and waved as I barked when they went by.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-67321516406050337072008-11-18T17:25:00.000-08:002008-11-18T18:38:20.181-08:00Jackie-O'sIt 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.)<br /><br />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. <br /><br />"I'm from Seattle," he said, but dare I say, he had shifty eyes?<br /><br />"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:<br /><br />"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. <br />"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**"<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />I invited him in. Not because I'm "nice" per say...it'd be more accurate to state that sometimes I do dumb things.<br /><br />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!!!!" <br /><br />(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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />"Well I was just walking by and I saw your Jackie-O's"<br /><br />"You mean my Apple Jacks? Well I can't have that. I'm calling the cops. Please leave."Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-71458449237486319362008-11-16T09:45:00.000-08:002011-12-28T09:13:01.788-08:00The Son of LudlowI 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.<br /><br />"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...." <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />When I woke the next morning Ludlow, the frail, old, Mexican man was standing beside my bed and clapped to wake me up. <br />CLAP! <br />"My Friend! You WANT SOMETHING TO EAT, NO!?!" <br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Lenny!!!??? Why are you wearing my clothes?"<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Going back to Corpus" he slurred, (which is a 4 hour drive). <br /><br />"Before you leave, can I have my clothes back?" <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-80890918194258480502008-11-13T15:14:00.000-08:002008-11-13T15:15:47.124-08:00Note found on floor last yearI<br /> Hate Mr.<br /> Noel.<br /> <br /> he can suck <br /> my<br /> balls.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-62093450646894002802008-11-08T17:06:00.000-08:002008-11-08T17:10:38.479-08:00The day/night my tent brokeI realize now how long posts rarely get read.<br /><br />One night I was sleeping in my home on the beach (which was a tent--see "arrival on the isle" for details).<br /><br />A whopper of a squall came across the water and blew my home down...with me in it.<br /><br />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). <br /><br />It was the longest night of my life. <br /><br />5 days later I was living with a 70 year old Mexican man named Ludlow.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-18716377277656176132008-11-01T16:44:00.000-07:002008-11-01T16:46:32.469-07:00One year later<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SQzqO-gOVrI/AAAAAAAAABY/E96Pcm9ljn0/s1600-h/chris.2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 273px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SQzqO-gOVrI/AAAAAAAAABY/E96Pcm9ljn0/s320/chris.2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263839607506491058" /></a>Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-82446057342320592612008-11-01T14:17:00.000-07:002008-11-01T14:19:12.684-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SQzHtMw8RnI/AAAAAAAAABA/atzRKXX1tGE/s1600-h/sitting+with+beer.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Q411_lqZOaA/SQzHtMw8RnI/AAAAAAAAABA/atzRKXX1tGE/s320/sitting+with+beer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263801643823810162" /></a><br /><br />This was me 1 year ago.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-40578264256647001002008-11-01T13:43:00.000-07:002008-11-01T13:47:05.978-07:00Arrival on the Isle'<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta 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mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >(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).<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >But today is good, because I have $400 in my pocket, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches (that I<span style=""> </span>packed back home in Coffeyville), and a tent with 2 feet, long metal stakes (to drive into the sand). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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?) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >Our typical day went something like this: Wake up at the ass-crack of dawn. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";" >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……<o:p></o:p></span></p> Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-71590785955110378212008-10-27T18:15:00.000-07:002008-10-27T19:25:10.744-07:00Johnny was a manJohnny was a man. A gargantuan black man who lived behind a convenient store in Padre (homeless). He'd done some time back in Alabama, and headed to the island for a chance to have it all washed away. He spent the days waiting tables at a place called Mango's. Mango's was on the verge of being a local hot-spot, but failed to acquire a liquor licence, which doesn't boad well for a spring break destination. Johnny's solution was to give the liquor away for free. . . A coworker offered him a place to stay. That coworker was my neighbor.<br /><br />At night, we'd sit on the screen patio, which overlooked a beautiful sail-boat marina and drink red wine in the hot-humid air. We'd watch the sun go down over the empty sail-boats with backgrounds of pink clouds and orange glass water, which reflected the sunset.<br /><br />Johnny would smoke a joint and tell me what to do if I ever went to prison (sit in a corner...be quiet...make them think I'm crazy). He didn't like authority, but he wasn't an angry man. He got excited when we bought him Christmas lights to decorate his room.<br /><br />When my neighbors (who were married) had their religious parents come into town, Johnny took off. The weekend with the parents came and went, but Johnny was gone. 48 hours passed, but still...nothing.<br /><br />On the third day, I saw Johnny strutting down Padre Blvd. (the main strip). I was cruisin in the LTD, with the windows down (tryin' to pick up chicks....but all I picked up was a coked out Johnny). He'd been doing cocaine all weekend, and this proved to be his undoing.<br /><br />At night, we'd sit on the porch in our routine and drink our Cabernet. But Johnny stopped hanging out. He became a reclouse. My neighbors found crack in his sock draw and immediately packed his things.<br /><br />The car was filled with Johnny's clothes and Christmas lights. When she got to the crack-house, Johnny wasn't there. He was on <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wave</span> (a free public transporation vehicle with a drop right next to the house, by the marina, with the screen porch). But the locks were changed. So Jonny hopped the fence. The doors wouldn't open, so Johnny pulled out a window. He then sat on the front porch and waited for the Evictors to get home.<br /><br />"I guess I'm kicked out eh?" he said.<br /><br />She gave him a ride back to the crackhouse. We never heard from him again.<br />2 days after I said goodbye to the island for good, I received a phone call from my neighbors. The police (it could have been the FBI--but I can't say for sure) contacted the owners of the house. Johnny skipped out on his parole back in 'Bama. He was a convicted felon on the run. . .and he couldn't catch a break...but he loved Christmas lights.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-59280733137426291832008-10-24T07:58:00.000-07:002011-12-28T09:03:36.557-08:00The day of Oct. 23, 2008In the course of the past year and a half, I've taught in the inner-city of the Bronx. Many stories will come from this experience (some as memories, some in real time). This is a "real time" story, as it just happened yesterday.<br /><br />8:00am--Walked in. Broke up two fights in 5 minutes.<br /><br />9:15am--walked by the principals office and there sits a boy whom I marked absent. . .I didn't say anything, I just changed his status on the attendance sheet.<br /><br />9:16am--I turned the corner and a group of teachers are laughing and said the following: "Yo, yo!!!! Mista Noel......your student (the one I just saw in the office) SLAPPED THE SHIT out of an eight grada!" I walked away strangely proud of my 6th grade tough guy.<br /><br />9:45--Waquira walks in...(she normally arrives about this time--in full splendor showing off clothes that are two sizes to small, and weaves that about two-million hairdos too old. She sits down and tells me to Fuck off.<br /><br />10:00--The students are all engaged in the lesson. Waquira, "I gotta fart".....nobody pays attention. She farts. The students run away. I spend the next 10 minutes herding children back to their seats.<br /><br />11:59--Students come back from lunch and tell me another fight broke out.<br /><br />12:45--it's time for Gym, but I dont' let them go, because they've been shit-heads all week. Instead they sit quietly for 15 minutes. If one person says one word, the time starts over.<br /><br />12:48--15 minutes starts again.<br /><br />12:50--Oh, Andrea just told Ezekial the wants to start the 15 minutes again. (15 minutes starts again.<br /><br />12:55--Waquira shouts out, "I gotta fart!" again...and farts again....<br /><br />1:05--Waquira throws a book out the window and hits a car. The police come and escort her out. Waquira's mom calls me and asks me why Waquira's throwing books out the window...then she calls the principal and calls me a liar.<br /><br />3:00--the day is over. Instead of sitting down to be called for line-up, students run around the room and play grab-ass.<br /><br />Note: Waquira is supposedly transferring schools...again.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5927425914215420555.post-45238251065836337452008-10-23T19:36:00.000-07:002011-12-28T09:07:01.798-08:00At Night we PrayedWhen I was a younger man, I took off to the sea of Mexico, residing in a studio apartment on South Padre's sister town of Port Isabel, TX.<br /><br />At night the breeze would blow salty air through the screen door as I laid in bed. I didn't have a couch, but I had a love seat. One night, a drifter walked past and knocked on my door. In such a small town, nobody's really a stranger, and I'd seen this guy around. He was about 25 and I, 20.<br /><br />We had a mutual friend and BBQ'd together once. So it wasn't a total stranger.<br /><br />When he asked me why I was letting him sleep on the floor, I told him that I too was homeless (just 3 weeks before). There was a connection through the Catholic church in a small community just 20 minutes away called, Los Fresnos TX.<br /><br />When he heard this, he asked if it would be okay if he prayed. I said yes...though I didn't expect him to drop to his knees and pray out loud.<br /><br />"God...Chris has been given so much. And Bless him in his way. And let him remember that, to those that much is given, much is demanded. I'm sorry for doing cocaine."<br /><br />Amen.Chronicles of Noelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15566948618988844861noreply@blogger.com2