Tag Archives: family

I hate 9/11.

No, really, I do. Oh, not for all those other reasons. I mean, I get why people are still angry and the remembrances thing. I don’t get the blatant racism cloaked in patriotism thing, but the other stuff, that i get.
But, back to me. All me, all the time. I mean, come on, there’s a certain element of narcissism to doing a blog. A little self importance even.
But enough with the avoidance, the digressions.
I hate 9/11 because it stole my mom’s fucking thunder.
On Labor Day 2001, one week before the shitstorm that socially, politically and literally altered America’s landscape indefinitely, my mom died. She was an amazing and caring and loving and hardworking and, well, to be honest, incredibly sarcastic woman. She was allowed about one week of remembrance before chicken little’s sky came-a-fallin’ and people had other shit to worry about.
That is why I hate 9/11.
Bullshit politics, asshole religion and retarded ideology pushed my mom’s death to the back burner.
It also doesn’t help that every year’s hoopla surrounding the impending date brings to mind my own loss. How my own life’s course took a crazy swing. How much has changed in regards to lifestyle and outlook and future.
September of 2001.
Super shitty.
Of course, I haven’t devoted trillions of dollars and countless deaths to a war in her name. So I guess I got that going for me.

My mom around 18-20? Probably high as shit.


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all the time in the world

Sometimes a certain object holds an almost totemic power over memory. Memories fuzzy and vague symbolized only by a single object and the feelings evoked. Memories of emotion. I got a new watch in the mail today. A cheap Timex Camper. A classic watch. The nylon strap. Hard plastic case. Glow in the dark hands. Basic, simple, timeless.
I remember my father wearing this watch. I remember hikes and mountain trails. Canoe trips and bicycle rides. Father/son adventures. Days stretched out ahead of you like endless horizons. All the time in the world. Campfire hatchets and LL Bean rubber bottom boots. Torn Levi’s and Woolrich shirts. All the material things that make up an image of a man who could do no wrong and knew all the right answers and the words to all the good songs.
My father’s old Timex Camper. It sat on his wrist everywhere we went. It was the watch he’d put on my wrist for me when he’d let me run off alone but wanted me to find my way back again in time for food over the fire. That same too big band slipping and sliding over the skinny arms of a scrawny scrambling kid.
Even now after all the years between and the realizations of fallibility and humanity in the myth of a man,
Even now after the years of drinking and the fights and the lost moments mired in regrets and anger,
Even now I think of those times wearing his watch…
of finding my way back to the warmth of the fire and the beans and bread by my father’s side.
I love him like a son should.
My dad came to visit recently and immediately went in to emergency room with chest pains. This follows years of heart attacks and bad lungs and knee surgeries and bad diets and cigarettes and poor diet and too much booze and is really just one more weak link in his chain of failing health.
I know what it all means.
The inevitability.
Today I got my new watch in the mail.
A $20 Timex Camper.
All the time in the world stretched out across it’s face.

Anyone else wishing they had more time?

Timex Camper.


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E2W w/ x-larry, part two.

Assorted KC and Larrytown.
Po-boys, BBQ, rivers, tattoos, cats, dogs, family, friends and fun. A melting pot of good times and sweet flavors.

Matching cat t-shirts from the bookstore.

KC trains going somewhere, anywhere...

Okie Joe's counter. waiting on some meats.

the sign ain't wrong

enter the Terrebonne!

the slightly overwhelming WWI memorial and museum. so good.



National World War One Museum

Okie Joe’s!!!!!

Mercy Seat Tattoo

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summer retreats

I’m notoriously horrible at keeping in touch. A family trait passed down on my father’s side, I’m prone to losing weeks and months to passing time, forgetting to hit reply or pen responses. I lose track of dates and times, faces and responsibilities. I don’t know if it is some self-absorbed, selfish absentmindedness or the result of some genetic absence nurtured by a father’s tendency to slip away and not call for months at a time.
Or I’m just an idiot.
Neither/nor, I’ve allowed this flaw to affect my writings here and as well as my everything everywhere else. I allow something to lapse long enough that the idea of resuming, returning, contacting becomes fraught with anxiety and fear. Nonsense? Yes, absolutely.
But I also find panic, confusion and fear under fluorescent lights amid aisles of colors, cans and bottles.

Enough excuses and mealy mouthed rationales.
I’m attempting to re-inhabit my moments, exist in my here and now.
So, onto the heres and nows.

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