Vinny

Brilliant is the first word that comes to mind when I think of Vincent Verbryck, for he was both a great thinker and he had a certain light about him. I always felt attracted to his radiance.
I loved Vincent and will always treasure being his friend.
I liked making him smile, and as he was known for his silence, I loved making Vincent say a lot. It was a challenge, but I only did it because it was worth it.
He made me smile, too. He had a great sense of humor, always sarcastic, deadpan, direct delivery. Vincent made me laugh hard.

I don’t think he understood me, but he accepted me in a way that was unique. He called me by my favored name, and he knew what that meant to me.
He did something few people will ever do with me; he wandered with me. That was special, because together we explored Knott’s Berry Farm and Anaheim, California; the torn apart, barely built neighborhoods of El Mirage and the jungles and beaches of Jamaica. We talked about deep, meaningful things and he listened really well.
Often, on AIM he would leave a message and immediately logout, not giving me a chance to react. He once left me a link to Rick Astley’s famous video. Yeah, he was the first to rickroll me. Last year, he started sending my poems by Tennyson. And he did stuff like that fairly often.
When we did talk online, we had casual but serious discussions. Once we were arguing about socialism and famous authors and I mentioned how well he argued. He didn’t try to convince me of his viewpoint, he just stated his side and listened to my opinions and to me, that was more effective than being right. I started imitating that, and he taught me how to discuss ideas without belittling people. I often felt enlightened and humbled talking to Vinny.
I think that in a way, Vincent admired me, but I admired him just as much.
I wrote this about him in January 2007 but never published it because I didn’t want to embarrass him:
There are times when I wish I could be a little more stable, a little more calm. A little more dignified, a little more introverted.

I really admire Vincent for being such a quiet person. I often tease him about his apathy, but I know he cares much more than he shows. I'm in awe of him, that he can keep his opinions silent, and go through life without provoking anyone. How he does it, I'll never know. I can't stand being so inwardly focused.

His sister told me she doesn't understand Vincent. That he walks around on his roof at times, and is always in his room. I laugh at this, because I understand all too well.

I would be lying if I said I didn't see a little bit of myself in Vincent.

I guess that makes me seem like a fanboy, but I still believe that. I saw a lot of potential in Vincent. I once tried to hook him up with my kid sister, which I wouldn't do if I didn't trust and value him a lot. I joked about starting a band with him called the Sketal Heads, a mixture of his trumpeting talent and his favorite genre of music.

He once told me that he didn’t have any passions in life and that greatly pained me. I wanted him to find passion, somewhere, anywhere. And for weeks, I tried to help him.

I often saved him a seat in church or asked him to come with the group when he wanted to be alone. He never seemed to enjoy being dragged along, but at least he did it. At poker nights at the Edahl’s, it wasn’t a complete party without Vinny there. It wasn’t really a LAN without Teh Boy.

We created some great memories together, I believe.

On Wednesday, before I knew what happened, I had spent the entire day drifting in and out of memories of Vincent. It was very uncommon, but it was nice. I remembered Jamaica and drinking virgin strawberry daiquiris and snorkeling in the reefs and how he went out for longer and farther than almost anyone and his mother was so worried when she heard that story. I remembered a lot of things like that, for no particular reason. It was surreal but it made me happy.

Later that night, when I learned what happened to Vincent, it was just like they say; my world shattered. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, or feel or hear and my vision locked up. It hurt unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
The next couple of days were like a film, which isn’t to trivialize it, but it was so perfect and it felt like I wasn’t living my own life. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real.
Thursday morning, it snowed and the sky was lint grey and still beautiful. It was like even the weather wore black and mourned with me. It was perfect.
A woman handed me a tract, and I threw it away almost immediately. I was angry at her, I was angry at everyone.

Some people may say, well he’s in Heaven now or something and that may comfort you and that’s fine. But for me, one of the only comforts right now is that I had my time with Vinny and I used it well. He was here. He made my life better. He deeply changed the person I want to be and the person I am. He made my life what it is.
My entire life with Vinny, I felt like a better person around him. He often humbled me. I spoke less and thought more. And the reason we’re here today, that’s just another way my friend Vinny has humbled me. I cried a lot, I blamed myself a lot, I broke down a lot. So I gotta say thank you to every one of my friends and family that helped me out with this tragedy, especially the Verbrycks, my parents, Kyle and Gean.
I’m here to celebrate the light, the brilliance that Vinny brought to me and to many of you here. I’m here to say goodbye.

Pictures of the Weekend Pt. 1

Went to the artwalk with my buddy Squared. Flag's First Friday usually blows, so you have to create your own chaos. I brought my Canon AE-1 and Squared tugged along his Pentax K-1000.
These big ancient cameras attract attention; everyone wants their picture taken, or on the other hand, they want you to put it down. There's the strange guy who demanded we take a picture of his dog (Squared did; I took a snap of the owner) and there's the grumpy gallery curators who don't want us selling prints of their precious art on eBay (a creepy old woman kept watching us take a picture of a shop window).

We ran into some handicapped people who admired our cameras. We ran into a man dressed as Bigfoot (it was really a bad Chewbacca costume) who ran into traffic and scared a bunch of drivers. We ran into police and breakdancers and drunks and small town poets and terrible art.

We were walking with our equipment hanging out (I know how that sounds) and a drunken Navajo wrapped in a blanket asked us to take his picture:
"Actually," Squared beamed. "I would love to take your picture." He raised the lens to his eye.
"What if I die?" The Navajo asked.
"Uh . . . well, we all will . . . some day. . ."
The Navajo pursed up his fist. "I could use some change. . ."
"Well, okay, we'll give you a dollar if you let us take your picture."
"Deal." He said. Then he raised his arms like a hawk and shouted "FREE!"
"Dude, you're not a freak. Don't worry."
Drunk Navajo Guy raised his arms again and we snapped two pictures.
"What's your name, anyway?" Squared asked.
"David." He said. "And I'm not a giving you any last names either. Just David."
"...Right."
A young college girl walked by and patted Dave on the shoulder and said, "Night, David." How sweet, she knew him and was being friendly.
David growled and said, "Don't touch me."

Later, we walked by a beerpong tournament outside the Mad I. Squared wanted to take a picture of the players, he raised his camera but a bouncer talking on his cellphone told us no pictures. We argued with him, that the sidewalk was a public space and we had the right.
"I know it's legal, but it's not cool."
Frustrated, we left and Squared muttered something about how we shoulda taken it anyway.
So we went to the corner gas station, I pissed and we came back. The bouncer was inside, not paying attention and Squared got the shot, easy. But I wanted to provoke the bouncer, so I turned on my flash and pushed the test button. Flash.
We walked on, but the bouncer ran after us, cursing. He stopped us and told us to delete the picture.
"We're shooting film." And I didn't want him ripping out the entire roll, because of the other great shots we had gotten that night. Bigfoot, the poets, the guitar-hero wannabes, everyone.
"We have two options, because I told you not to take a picture and you did," The bouncer said. "You delete that picture, one way or another."
I was shaking for some reason. I always get nervous in these situations.
"Let's compromise," I said, biting my tongue. "Why don't we just apologize and promise we won't use the picture, because it's film and we can't delete it."
"I don't care."
We argued for a few minutes, trying to tell him what we did wasn't illegal and it wasn't hurting anyone, etc. He tried to tell us he was a business law major and that our First Amendment Rights suddenly didn't matter.
Finally, he agreed to an alternative; we go into the bar and apologize to the manager, playing beer pong. Well, seems like a good idea, but as he led us into the bar I couldn't help thinking this was a trap. He was going to lead us into some dark backroom, beat the shit out of us and destroy the film AND the cameras.
But he didn't. He brought us to some random guy who looked bored and didn't care, we apologized and promised we wouldn't use the photos in a newspaper. That distinction should be emphasized. Everyone was happy. In the end, my first solution became the final one and I really think the bouncer only dragged us inside to embarrass us.
Squared is going to use the photograph, on his flickr, but that's about it. Victory or not, it was fun. Here it is:

Later, we went to NAU's carnival night a little Friday night program to keep Freshmen dying from alcohol poisoning. Yeah, it's a way to control everyone on campus and they tempt you with a raffle that serves as a reminder you are poor and never win anything.

Squared and I waited in line for an hour to get cotton candy with friends Angie and Katie. After waiting, Squared and I decided to take pictures of worker's reactions to strange things. I popped a few balloons next to them and then screamed as loud as I could.

We waited in line for another two hours to get balloon animals because Gean wanted an owl. But by the time we got to the front of the line, the balloon lady quit. Balls. However, a girl wearing a cap and a red Robin Hood hat also had a peacock balloon hat. She gave it to us and then disappeared into the crowd. As if her sole purpose was to give us a balloon and disappear. But we ended up passing the peacock hat off to someone else.

I collected as many balloons as I could and then some asshat tried to hit them out of my hand. Later, I saw him get into an argument with a stranger, who socked him in the face and ran out the fire escape door (which set off an alarm). I tried to get the shot and whipped out my camera, but he was gone and I let go of my balloons. . .which got stuck. What a disappointment.

Whatever. After that I went home and watched lame VHS tapes.

Three of the photos are by Squared.
You can read Angie's account of the weekend here:
http://angieonie.wordpress.com/2009/03/09/this-past-weekend/

It's Time to get serious

I got about 30 rolls of film (or 650 pictures to take) and I want you in them.
I want people dressed up silly and posing and whatever.
If you've already posed for me, that's great, let's do it again.

I want to do people smoking in front of NO SMOKING signs, an idea I am practicing with Luke, eventually. I got a neat t-shirt to go along with it, if you can fit in a Large.

I want to get people jumping unhappy. I heard somewhere that pictures of people hopping about are always happy. Well, time to prove them wrong. I think Vincent would be good for this.

Those are two ideas that will work out for now. If you have time, I can find it.

The Giants Fall

http://www.rockymountainnews.com/

Denver based newspaper that survived the Civil War, a flood and lots more closes under this shitty economy. The New York Times shall be soon.

Ford, GM and Chrysler won't last much longer even with the bailouts.
Same goes for Fannie and Freddie and Washington Mutual.
What's next? Will we see Yahoo! go under? Wal-Mart?
Will Nike lose stockholders and file chapter 11?

Facebook? What would you do if Facebook no longer existed?

We live in an age where the corporate giants will tumble. Anything can happen and anything will. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

I Don't Have Time

This is the fifth blog I wanted to write about how I don't have enough time, but I don't really have time to explain why.

This is the second blog I wanted to write about the chaotic details of my early and current journalism life, but I don't think it will interest you.
Conflicts about talking to stuck-up celebrities and deadlines and story changes aren't the kind of stories that make the movies.

More important than grabbing your attention is that I don't even have the time to do it.
I have started writing in my journal again, but it's keeping me up an extra hour each night.
I'm getting insomnia, but it's worth it just to write for myself and just to reflect for once.
To pause.

I still don't have the time to write anything else but school, newspaper and my novel.
I got a great idea for a short story last night, when I was trying to drift off, but I can't find the time to write it.

It's about a guy named Edward Abbey. Doesn't that name ring nicely?
He's balding prematurely and he wears thick glasses and he lives at home on disability checks.
His only companion is his grey tabby cat, Clyde.
The story opens on a depressing winter morning. Edward Abbey is munching on soggy cereal and talking to Clyde.
A pistol is on the table, fully loaded and menacing-looking.
His is thinking about lonely things, like his dead mother and other sad stuff. He doesn't have any friends.
He is considering suicide.
He goes on the internet and dials-up (yeah, it's the present but he still has dial-up. Isn't that depressing?) and finds a website that allows you to tip the cops off to drug dealers. It's so very interesting because it's completely anonymous and such a ratfink thing to do.

I got the idea for this when browsing "how much is an eightball of cocaine" and how much it costs. Ironically, I stumbled upon the info on a cop website based in Michigan that actually allows you to snitch on drug users and dealers.
I looked up some Michigan politicians and sent in tips that they were sniffing coke. I'm causing chaos in a state I don't live in. It's funny.

Here is the link so you can do it yourself:
http://www.huntteam.net/AnonymousTip.htm

Anyway, Edward Abbey is so lonely and so bored and so depressed that he decides to submit his own name. He types in "Edward Abbey sells drugs to school kids" and his address and his full name and his height (5'3''), his eyecolor (grey), his weight (213 lbs. [he weighs himself to be accurate]) and finally his birthdate (Dec. 1. 1973).

The next morning, Edward Abbey notices an ivory white van sitting outside his house. He checks periodically and it's always there. It has Michigan plates, (cuz Edward Abbey lives in Michigan) and Edward Abbey realizes that he is being watched. He excitedly pours himself another bowl of soggy cereal and tells all this to Clyde. He feels like a celebrity.

The van is there for a week and then it disappears and this depresses Edward Abbey so he logs on again and rats on himself again. He says, "Edward Abbey has a drug den in his home." The next morning the van is there and Edward goes to the grocery store and the van follows him. As he shops, he notices that a shady young man is following him. This guy pushes a shopping cart and occasionally loads in random objects, but they're not things a man like him would buy. This is a clue the guy is shady because a normal man does not have tampons and saurkraut and Good Housekeeping in his cart.

Edward Abbey realizes he is being watched and he is ecstatic about the attention. He looks in his cart and realizes that he has the same old gross cereal and cat food and some hemmerhoid lotion. He decides that he needs to impress the shady character browsing the same aisles but picking up Tabasco sauce and kid-sized toothbrushes. So Edward puts the cereal back and buys a nice, big steak. He buys A1 steak sauce and a set of steak knives and potatoes and chicken stuffing and carrots. He blows half his disability check on this and the cashier flirts with him. Edward has never felt so good.

But then, in the parking lot, he realizes the shady guy and the ivory white van won't follow him much longer unless he has some real evidence against himself. So he pushes his cart of groceries past his car and down an alley and finds a homeless man.

He tells the man, got any cocaine? And the homeless guy laughs and says sure. And Edward Abbey asks how much it'll cost and the homeless guy says $200. Edward gives him the other half of his disability check and takes the eightball of cocaine and stuffs it in his pocket. Down the alley, he notices the shady guy duck back. Good. He was watched.

And Edward pushes his cart back down the alley and gets into his car and goes home. The white van follows him. Edward cooks his meal and talks to Clyde and Clyde purrs. Edward burns half the meal, but sets it on the table anyway. He removes the pistol, which is still sitting there and he looks at it and feels foolish that he ever felt suicidal. This is the best day of his life. It's like he has guests. He replaces the pistol with the eightball.

Then he sits down and eats and watches TV. When he turns to the six o clock news, he notices his mug on TV. He beams! He's famous! Maybe like Andy Warhol once said, he's only famous for fifteen minutes, but that's still something. He turns up the volume and listens to the anchor talk and talk and talk about . . . HIM! Edward is crying tears of joy. He eats his steak and his stuffing and his mashed potatoes and they're mostly burned, but it's the best meal he's ever had.

Then he hears a million sirens and the cops pull up and the police copters and the news copters are buzzing overhead, louder than a hurricane and he hears a cop scream through a megaphone, "Edward Abbey, come out with your hands on your head!"

This is Edward's big moment. He doesn't know what to do, so instead of panicking, he packs up the leftovers from his meal and puts them in Tupperware and labels them and puts them in the freezer. Clyde is freaking out and clawing up furniture. Edward is crying again, but not tears of joy.

The cops yell at him again. "We know you're in their!" Edward realizes his mistake. He realizes this is the end. That he can't go to prison. He was already living in a jailcell his entire life. He's already had his last meal. He's already on death row.

So Edward takes Clyde into the bedroom and he brings the pistol. I know, this is horrifying, I thought, but it has to happen. It just HAS to. It makes the story anti-climatic if poor, depressing Edward doesn't destroy some outside part of himself. So he does. He points the barrel at Clyde and pulls the trigger.

The cops hear the shot and start firing. Edward is safe, however. He goes to the front door and he opens it and he shoots and that's the end. The scene ends with only the silohette of Edward passing through the door and the extreme brightness of all the spotlights trained on him. Trained on HIM. And we watch Edward crumple to his knees.

And that's the whole story I thought of last night. I know it starts out depressing and ends depressing, but maybe that's okay because our main character learns something, he grows and he steps outside himself a little bit. Only he did it the wrong way, and maybe this serves as a moral for you; don't blame yourself. Instead, free yourself.

And maybe you think it's an excellent storyline despite many of the obvious faults. Maybe it's just like one of those movies. Maybe it's perfect idea. Maybe you're telling me, "why don't you have time to write that? You have to!" Well, maybe I just did.

Finger Crossed (A Depressing Look at the End)

I hope the economy collapses. Flatlines. Nothing left.
I think we could use it. We can rebuild from the rubble.
A new start? A new dawn? Sure.

Let's hope those 2012 predictions pan out as well.
The sun scorches the earth and earthquakes split the ground, eat us alive. California launches into the ocean and the magnetic poles turn upside down.

And I don't care for them, but those environmental scare tactics about climate change? Mine as well pray for mass extinction and melting ice caps. The new El Niño.A new ice age. A new dawn.

Remember that Russian professor who predicted the downfall of America by the end of this year?
He forecasted inevitable civil war and even estimated how the states would be divided. I wrote a New Year's blog about how to make this next year, 2009, the best ever because it could be America's last.

Wonder if we'd still be killing random Arabs then. Wonder if we'd still torture. Wonder if.

But back to that prof. -- I don't feel I've really made my life all that much better by now. It's only been a month and a half, and January always blows. I'm not exactly behind am I?
But now I'm worried. So worried that I just want my worries to come true.
I still haven't found a way to deal with any of this. I don't have a World War Z plan. I don't have a metaphorical bomb shelter. Nothing.
All I have is my camera, my pen and a package of cigarettes to protect me.

Oh, and today I learned that Wal-Mart and Walgreens are completely becoming dry labs by March. Target will likely follow suit. No more film developing, except for send-out, but that's a little more expensive, I believe. I don't have the money, but that's OK; I have the debt.

Everything is going digital much faster now because it's cheaper. In this economy, no one can afford to spend $10 just for 24 pictures. Soon CDs and Vinyl records will be gone too. I hope print newspapers and books will last another decade, or at least that, but I don't have my fingers crossed.

Here I am, shivering with my soon-to-be-obsolete technology. It's comfortable, isn't it?

Maybe the solution is to curl up in a ball and listen to sad songs.
I recommend The Bad Plus' cover of Wilco's "Radio Cure".
Arcade Fire's "Windowsill".
Elbow's "Grace Under Pressure".
Radiohead's "No Surprises" or "Lucky" or maybe just all of OK Computer.
Maybe I should just make an apocalypse playlist and then I'll sit on a mountain and play it while writing what I see, those atom bombs blossoming in the sunset, and the whole event will mean something.

As Bright Eyes said once, "I just can't work it out, but for memory and clarity, I had better write it down."

When I was a kid, I used to read those Bailey School Kids books, about the four friends who always assumed their teachers were vampires, werewolves or leprechauns. Sometimes they were close to right, sometimes they were dead wrong, but it usually had this open-ended, cop-out finish. That one girl, Liza, whenever she freaked out and worried her teacher was a goblin, her nose would start bleeding. This fascinated me, and sometimes I wished it happened to me. I like bloody noses. They make me feel important.

I got sick of the Kids and started reading Goosebumps. Both series of books had terrible cookie-cutter plots with cliché bullshit endings. They were supposed to be scary, but never really disturbed me. Except the aliens. I was never afraid of ghosts or witches cause I knew for certain they didn't exist. But aliens? No one could disprove that. The aliens books gave me nightmares of having the life sucked out of me, of being dissected, of being kidnapped.

I also read those worse than terrible Left Behind books, but the whole "the sky is falling" storyline scared the hell out of me. I musta been ten and I cried and cried that The End was Nigh. That I would die at age 11 and never live a full life and I would never experience all the wonderful life promised me once I reached 21. Or at least once my balls dropped.

I was never, not really, worried about Y2K. As grocery store shelves emptied of water and canned goods, I just went to school and drew comic strips. I played Nintendo and used AOL. When the big night finally came, when the ball dropped, I was sitting in the living room, playing Donkey Kong 64 with my brother. My alarm went off and that meant it was my turn to play. The power didn't even flicker.
I heard the next day some casinos lost memory, but the rest of the world was safe. Airplanes didn't nosedive out of the sky, gas tanks didn't explode. In the morning, the pacemakers and credit cards still worked and the rest of the planet was still on life support.

Those things, those worries, seem silly now. Adorable, if you think neurotic children are adorable. There's got to be a way to face these current problems differently.

I could ram a truck into a gas tanker like this woman, only do it the right way.
http://www.azdailysun.com/articles/2009/02/14/news/20090214_front_190872.txt?rating=true

I could listen to the advice of Interpol: "Pace is the Trick / and to all the destruction in man. . .and to all the corruption in my hand."

What I'm most likely to do is keep worrying, petty and stupid and helpless. But like I said, I'm so worried I just want my worries to come true.

But perhaps this is the best advice of all from Robert Anton Wilson:
"All of us should treasure (John Dillinger's) Oriental wisdom and his preaching of a Zen-like detachment, as exemplified by his constant reminder to clerks, tellers, or others who grew excited by his presence in their banks: "Just lie down on the floor and keep calm.""

Right and Left (On Mt. View)

JAN 10 2009
Tomorrow I leave for Flagstaff again. It's time I reflect on what this month had to offer. What I did.
No, scratch that.
I mean, I had a few major goals and I only scrambled to accomplish a couple in the last week. They don't even seem to matter now.
I don't really remember what happened anyway since I stopped keeping a personal journal. It's a hard habit to keep and I don't really spend any time alone anymore, just pondering. I wish I could, I miss it, but I don't have the time.
No, scratch that.
That should have been my new year's resolution. To make time for myself.
Ok, scratch that, let's start over.

This is a specific story.
At the beginning of this adventure, I badly wanted a picture of a decaying billboard four miles from my house, turn Right on Mountain View Rd.
I waited until the day before I left when I drove down there with Dave. He went a little past it and we discovered some stencils on a dumpster outside a tattoo parlor. I got out and took a few pictures. Many of the stencils were old and amazing, such as one of a distorted baby face. And then the manager came out and asked what I was doing.
"Taking pictures."
"Of what?" He was tattooed from head to toe with piercings to match. His hair, unkempt, beatnik style, someone way into a decade 60 years ago.
"Stencils." I said. "I like stencils."
"I thought it was a little strange that someone was taking pictures of my garbage, so I came out here."
"Hope you don't mind."
"Nah, it's cool, just ask permission next time, so I know what's up."
Yeah. Like I'm going to ask if I can take pictures of your dumpster.
I got my shots, including the one of the billboard that I loved. It was beautiful.

Later, Dave generously drove my sister's boyfriend, Daniel, home and I went with them so I could lend Dave gas money. We stopped at QT, just as a cop pulled someone over. The gas station was packed and busy, even at midnight.
While waiting, I met an old man.
He was a babbler, talk talk talk, but worse than that, he was an incoherent babbler.
Couldn't understand a damn word he said.
He was dressed well enough that I didn't think he was homeless, even when he told me a sob story about how he was locked out of his car and needed to get to Glendale.
"I feel like a horses' posterior. Could you lend me enough money to get some gas?"
I didn't question the inherent contradiction. I just gave. He needed gas to get into a locked car? And he's gonna borrow the money, like he's ever gonna pay me back? Sure.
The old guy told me his name, but I couldn't hear it. He told me how he is a professor at Luke Airforce Base. He asked me if I was going to get my masters. Told me to retake the SAT. A lot of random shit.
Suddenly, I noticed the gas station was completely empty. Footsteps echoed. A kind of peace filled me.
Then the old guy asked for money again. This time, he needed it to buy a snack inside the QT to raise his bloodsugar, since he has diabetes. I told him, I gave him everything. But he was being nice about it.
"I'll even open my wallet for you to prove it."
"No, no." He said. "Your heart is bigger than your head."
I'm not sure if that was an insult or not, but it felt wrong. I felt stingy. I truly didn't want to give him anything.
"Um, I have this quarter I found. . ."
Suddenly, Dave appeared, and the guy started his sob story all over again. Dave, poor Dave, gave him enough to buy some coffee, even when I know he has less than 47 cents in his checking account.
Then this guy asked me if I could give him a ride. Just to 17th Ave, down Mountain View, not even out of our way.
"Dave's the driver," I said.
Dave shrugged. "Ok."
We waited for the old guy to buy his coffee and filled up. The old guy took his time, told me, "I never do anything fast." Laughed.
He said a funny thing, that he may not be around next Christmas. "I'm 63 and I don't want to be pessimistic. . ."
Somehow, that made it so that the money didn't matter anymore.

"Don't ask me how I know, I just know." He said. "But you're a night person."
"Yeah."
"You know how I could tell?"
"It's night?"
Old Guy was being incoherent again, but I could make out clips and phrases.
"I don't want to be such a presumptuous bastard, but I'll just say this quick, but the Man upstairs is your ticket." He thrusted upward with his index finger.
"You a Christian? You don't have to be, but it helps."
"Yeah, I am."
He started mumbling something Hebrew and then translating it into English. It may have been a blessing, but I couldn't follow him. Then:
"I know this is gonna sound harsh, but I used to be a football coach and you don't get someone to be all they can be by patting them on the back." He said. "You get them to be all they can be by kicking them in the ass."
Dave laughed. "OK. . ."
"So, get off your ass!"
I looked him straight in the eyes.
"God gave you some special gifts. You have no idea. You have gifts in areas that you have never dreamed of. Don't ask me how I know, I just know. Of all the times you've failed, I've failed ten times more. And any success you've had, I've had. So get off your ass. Use them gifts."
I smiled. I've been feeling shitty about my life accomplishments lately and that's what I needed to hear.
We drove the guy to his place, Left on Mountain View and he said, "I don't mean to be such a presumptuous bastard, but could I ask for one more favor?" He begged us to take him to a church near a hospital. Or maybe it was a hospital near a church. He was so hard to understand.
Old Guy asked us to drop him off at his apartment complex and then come pick him up in 40 minutes. I don't know why, but Dave agreed.
But as soon as we pulled into the parking lot, three people surrounded the van and started looking inside at us. Looking for drugs. The one woman looked like a meth addict and they didn't get what was going on.
The situation totally upset Dave and he drove off.
"The whole situation threw me off." He said. "And then I just abandoned the situation."
"The old man inspired me," I said.
"He said some interesting things."
". . . That's about it."
"I realized that he said exactly what he needed to say to keep me interested long enough to give him a dollar and a car ride. And I realized he was just using me. I didn't feel comfortable in the situation and I knew he was using me so I went back on my word."
"Oh well," I said. "He'll live. Let's hope."
"Yeah," Dave said. "And if he doesn't, then it's not my fault, because he's a grown man and it's his responsibility to take care of himself."

FEB 11 2009
I got my pictures, I'm not sure anything said matters, but I got my pictures.