Tag Archives: redneck

The One About Fireworks

The last time I went to a fireworks show was in the days before Facebook. It was just a small gathering on the lawn …in front of the Washington Memorial. I don’t want to get too into it because it was not a happy experience. It was hot and crowded and I was arm-twisted into attending. Add full dark with strangers everywhere then throw in explosions and a very, very abusive spouse sharing my blanket and it was a recipe for the perfect panic attack.

So, you know what? I don’t go to fireworks show any more. If I hear them out in the country, we’ll sit on the porch and watch from a distance. If I hear them in the neighborhood, I’ll call the cops because I’m that asshole. Your happy-fun explosive times are not worth the fire damage you could cause to my house or the damage to my calm.

Man, the older I get, the more awesome I become.

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TL;DR: Keep fireworks where they belong and you won’t bother people. Also, you kids get off my lawn. Anything less would be a Rook mistake.

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The One About My Dad

 

A day late and a dollar short for Father’s Day, but it’s always hard.

I was a bona fide daddy’s girl growing up. There was a  good five years difference between me and my sister, and then another two between me and my littlest brother. That gave me seven years of being the son my dad wanted. And another 5 before the brother got interesting.

By 12, my father had taught me how to hunt and field dress a deer, reload a shotgun because relocating the raccoons didn’t work out, use a couple of hand tools to put a swing set together, how to lose with grace and courage, and how to cuss the son of bitch out who cheated. He taught me to love and to help people. He’d taught me to drive a stick shift, a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, from one end of the pasture to the other while he shot quail from the passenger side window.

He taught me that life goes on when he pulled my brother out of the cattle tank and couldn’t save him.

He taught me that it was OK to cry.

He taught me that, if you’re able, you work. No excuses. No bullshit. And if you’re not, you contribute in other ways and that there will always be people (like him) to help you.

He was a fireman that, on his off days, remodeled houses. He taught me how to put up a ceiling fan and put in light fixtures. He taught me twice why it’s important to turn off the circuit breaker. (Sorry, Daddy, I am still terrified of electrocuting myself.)

He taught me the importance of a tension breaking joke. (LOUD HORN: “Don’t shoot! I’ll marry the whole damn family!) He taught me patience and the desire to do it right the first time – not to be perfect – but just so you can rest later. His favorite thing to say was, “Give your laziest man your hardest job and he’ll find the easiest way to do it.” He thought he was lazy.

He taught me to stand up for others. And to always give someone the chance to do the right thing. And then he taught me to pick my battles. He taught me the courage of not saying anything and letting people make their own mistakes.

Even if he did let me marry one of them.

Before he walked me down the aisle, he turned and said, “It’s not too late. Tell me right now that you don’t want to do this and I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.”Because that’s the kind of guy he was.

He was.

My dad didn’t live to see my son. Though on his 60th birthday, I gave him a framed picture of my first sonogram. That was July. By December, he was gone.

So, help someone out if you can today. Or maybe cuss them. Do it for my dad.

TL;DR: I miss my dad. 644142_4181073278109_853771843_n

 

 

The One About Opinions

They’re like assholes, right? Everyone’s got one and most of them stink.

Had an argument that left me walking away shaking my head. Discussed these kids who’d  worn masks while flinging firecrackers around campus in MO somewhere. This friend of mine said that the reaction to it was adding to the “pussification” of America.

All the things are wrong with that. All of them.

Mass shootings are not funny. Pretending to have one isn’t funny. These are things I could not get him to understand without the AR-15, 2nd Amendment conversation that I’m so tired of having. He wasn’t ready to listen to the fact that gunfire-ish sounds in a school building was terrifying. It could have set off a plan that the students didn’t know about and maybe even gotten one of them shot.

He could not hear me.

The second amendment doesn’t protect the use of fireworks.

He could not hear me.

When I went on to his use of the word pussification, all hell broke loose.

Women are not weak. Having a vagina is not an automatic second class citizen sentence.

It ended with the thought that if pussy is so terrible, then why does he chase it so hard?

THAT is the only point of agreement we found.

So, fuck that guy in his dirty, stinking opinion.

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TL;DR: Opinions are fine, but be open to logical arguments. Idiots abound. To think they don’t would be a rook mistake.

The One About a Biker Church in a Bar

There’s this little dive bar that I like to drink in when I’m Dallas side. It’s in the north end just down the street from ridiculously priced homes, but in the same shopping center as a Texas Family Fitness. Weird, right? Anyway, it’s sketchier and more country than the places I might frequent closer to the Delta County seat. Passed a bike in the parking with a POW helmet hanging from the handlebars by the strap and a peace bear riding bitch. At 11 on a Sunday morning, there’s just 3 of us here and it seemed as good a place as any with no internet to write. But get this, when I asked the bartender to get the guy a beer on me, he told me that he’s in the back at the BIKER CHURCH. I didn’t know these things existed. When the music cut out, I could hear the preacher going on laying down some hellfire. “Those that were against god are still against Him. We will NOT open ourselves up to the demons. You KNOW the road to hell is paved with what? GOOD intentions, my friends.”Then there was pounding – as they agreed- I guess. I don’t know. I do know that I’m going to show up on Sunday mornings over here a little more often. Dude, BIKER CHURCH.

I got about 1500 hundred words written and bought that guy a beer.

TL;DR  There’s a biker church at my bar. I know, right?  I had to introduce myself to the vet in attendance, anything less would have been a rook mistake.

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The One About Sticks

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even pretend to know where the answers live. I might have seen them once from a distance, but I probably wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them again.

There are all these self-help books out there. They all basically say the same thing. They want you to know that you’re not as worthless as you feel and there’s HOPE for you. It’s not that easy.

Hope can suck a frog.

Sure wish I could do that.

Go suck a frog.

I hope one day I’ll..

Go suck a frog.

With a wish and a little fairy dust anything is possible…

Go suck a herd of frogs.

Get off your ass. Stop internally beating yourself up and take some action. My daddy used to tell me, “You’re not a tree. If you don’t like something MOVE.”

TL;DR: If you don’t like something go get your stick and CHANGE it. Sitting around wishing is the same a pissing an moaning. That’s a rook mistake.a2NXEze_700b

The One About Tex Thompson

A few days ago, I wrote about Chuck Wendig. I do feel rather stalkerish about him, because he’s such an unknown to me down here in the land of red dirt, pine trees, and big hair (closer to God and all). Now, I have to tell you about Tex Thompson’s books.

As a kid JohnWayne was a holy word to be whispered in awe and only in the correct setting, followed closely by Glen Ford and The Dallas Cowboys (Though to be fair, Cowboys was usually shouted along with bless Tom Landry and then Jimmy Jones. However, I’ve never heard much praying for Jerry Jones at my momma’s house.)

To love the twisted-alt-weird-fantastical-post-apocalyptic western that is One Night in Sixes, you don’t need any of that. You don’t have to love westerns. You don’t have to be from Texas. You don’t have to believe me about anything else. You don’t even need the love of story to get into this book. It will give it to you. I will not send you down the wrong rabbit hole.

This book is deep. Social injustice, slavery, love, and loyalty are layered in with a master’s hand.

If you’d follow Mookie into Hell. If you’d take the train with Harry. Then you need to follow Elim out into the night. You’ll be a believer.

TL;dr: OMG Read One Night in Sixes (and the sequel Medicine for the Dead) because it’s pure story joy.

Don’t skip reading this book because you think you don’t like westerns. That’d be a rook mistake.