Then . . .
And now . . .
except 99% of the people at my wal mart are from mexico
Sigh
0
I believe it is important to be a good neighbor. So, in that spirit, I’m going to leave a note on my next door neighbor’s car informing him that the set of chrome testicles he has recently installed on the rear of his pickup truck are offending some of the neighbors and also giving us the impression that he is an asshole with a complex about his small penis.
Alternatively, I could just cut some hair off of my black poodle and glue it to the chrome balls . . .
Customer to butcher as he was restocking the meat: “I’ve got two teeth hanging on and I can either have them pulled now while I’m on disability, or later when I go back to work. I’m thinking now, I’ve got more time off.”
“More time off”??? From WHAT? And, sure, why not do it now, while you are on disability, we don’t mind footing the bill for you.
Recently, on my way to walk my dogs at the nearby “park,” I noticed something seemed a bit different on the corner. A second look revealed a brand new bench at the bus stop.
Apparently the old office chair chained and padlocked to the nearby fence was due for replacement.
Every place has its own unique set of sights, sounds, and smells. I grew up in Tucson where rain brought a distinct and fresh smell to the desert and each morning I awoke to the sounds of doves cooing. While living in San Francisco, I remember the smells of Eucalyptus hanging in the air, of rose gardens in tiny yards, lavender, good food, expensive candles, and so on. I could hear and see parrots, hawks, and myriad other birds. And, depending on the neighborhood, there was the smell of dry piss – it can’t all be good. Overall, in all of the cities I’ve called home, I recall more good smells than bad; and more beautiful sights than ugly.
Once, however, the entire city of San Francisco smelled like sewer. It made news. No one liked it – obviously. The SF Chronicle published an apologetic item explaining that a lack of rain and unusual heat had teamed up to create the stench and reassuring citizens and tourists alike that it wouldn’t last long. Other than for those few days I’ve always taken the relative absence of giant, unmoving stenches in the proximity of my home for granted. Beauty, I’ve never taken for granted – or so I thought. Growing up, I always appreciated the incredible beauty Tucson has to offer. I loved the way the sunlight made the mountains seem just a little different and somehow even more awesome every day. But, when finding beauty requires at least an hour’s drive, one realizes how much it can, in fact, be taken for granted.
(H)el Centro has changed all prior perceptions of pleasantness and all the notions of gratefulness that I had for my former surroundings. Living here has brought on a distinct appreciation for non-fetid air. It has also inspired a certain appreciation for a certain something that even the outlandish sights of Los Angeles or San Francisco can’t rival – I’m talking grown men in full Bon Jovi regalia (full length fur coat open to reveal florescent speedo, hairy, gold chain adorned chest, and cowboy boots, all topped with a straw cowboy hat, proudly striding down the sidewalk outlandish).
To illustrate: I seldom hear any birds sing – though I did see a dead fledgeling on the sidewalk this morning. I went for a run recently and, not only saw nothing beautiful, let alone pleasant, but I saw some of the most decayed, miserable surroundings a person could imagine in the developed, non-war-zone world – border town at it’s “best.” I didn’t even see a single flower in a yard! The pavement is cracked and decaying; people have unpainted, unlandscaped, tinfoil-windowed houses; there was an aging dog with a tumor the size of a watermelon swinging from its chest! There are guys dressed in wife beaters, with long shorts and knee socks sitting in yards. One such guy threw gang signs at me for jogging in the street. EVERYTHING here is just fucked up to some degree. I watched an obese man in the wal-mart parking lot (another post) unload his cart and then leave it against the trunk of the jalopy parked next to his jalopy. I put my hair in a bun when I walk the dogs to keep it from taking on the eau du jour, which rotates among feed lot, rotten broccoli, fish guts, ammonia, giant egg fart, moldy alfalfa, and general unidentifiable stench – all at a balmy 120 degrees . . . in SEP-FRIGGING-TEMBER! I must have done some fucked up shit in a past life to end up here!
Ok – that’s out, now on to focusing on the positive . . . smelly candles for starters.
Wal Mart in (h)el centro doesn’t carry capers . . . odd . . .
well, on the bright side, they do carry boxed mole. I need that all the time and it’s sooo hard to find! I guess, I was being unrealistic imagining I might find fresh olives somewhere to go with those mia capers anyway.
I just rode my bike 20 miles.
My cleavage itches.
Gnats: 5 dead,1 living . . . between my tits.
Unrelated to anything, I was just wondering, over the course of my lifetime, how much money I will spend on ice cream . . . and wine?
More importantly however, I am finding enlightenment here in (h)el Centro. There is a saying “Love knows no bounds.” Bullshit! My love knows at least one: I’m not enduring the heat in order to get phone reception. So, my loved ones, expect an abrupt exit from any conversation that cannot take place in (my) air conditioned comfort.
I spent last weekend laughing that I had escaped the (h)el Centro heat by escaping to the relatively balmy Tucson, where I grew up. Aaaaaa . . . . but, I had yet to experience real heat. It has arrived: a stifling, sweating at 3 a.m., suffocating blanket of stultifidity (yes, I made that up). The locals have begun to complain and talk of when the heat will “break.” The weather forecast foretells “near record heat.” Near record?!?!? What the fuck happens when it is record heat?
Alas, there was no bike ride. I couldn’t even think of exerting myself in this. My dogs and I remain inside staring at four walls and panting and getting more out of shape.
Everywhere. Hundreds of ticks. Tiny ones the size of mites crawling over me in bed. Bombed the house, tick bathed the dogs – still more appear. This learning to love (h)el Centro thing is going to be difficult – and may require me to drink so much wine I just think the whole thing is a hallucination.
Tomorrow, I get up to meet some old men at 5:45 a.m. for a bike ride. The time has just moved from 5:30. Even at that hour the heat will be stifling. There will be giant clouds of dust, smoke, and pesticides.
Some people profess to choose to live here . . .
A Year in (H)el Centro 