Blogger Giveth, and Blogger Taketh Away

I start posting pictures with stories yesterday. What an exciting development. And today Blogger won't let me post photos. Crap.

2806 South Boulevard update

This is the abandoned house in South Dallas that I've been obsessed with for the last five years, which I went into great detail a few months ago.

I drove by it last weekend. It's in even worse shape now.

See the windows that are open on the second story? You could see that there was a set of french doors in the room behind those windows. Now the french doors are gone. So is the wall. Somebody must have knocked down the walls so they could haul off the french doors and the frame. Homeless people and scavengers do this in abandoned houses and sell the stuff to architecture salvage businesses. Apparently the wall must have been the load bearing variety because now there's a huge crack in the center gable. The house is beginning to literally split in half. I think I'm going to cry.

First Photo Posted On This Blog

For my inaugural photo post, I'm chosing one of the scariest shots ever taken of me.

Dan, Will and I went to London in February. And we bought masks in a shop in the Soho area of London. We promptly went to a pub and tried on the masks. The English were not amused.

Hobo Impressionist

This morning, I saw a homeless guy who looked a whole lot like Vincent Van Gogh. Except he had both ears.

Comcast

I will heap abuse on my monopolistic cable company Comcast at the drop of a hat. They suck. Their customer service is nonexistant. They overcharge unless you bitch. And then sometimes they'll make it right.

But I have to say, I dig their direct tv, cable on demand option. It's almost smoothed over my bad feelings about Comcast. Over the weekend, I started watching a terrible movie on demand that only appealed to me. It was "Bless the Children and the Beasts" an awful pre-Meatballs 1971 movie about a bunch of misfit kids at a summer camp who banded together to save some buffaloes from being shot. It was of interest because 1. I saw it as a kid as a late-night movie on Channel 11. and 2. It starred a long-haired Billy Mumy, who played the kid on the 1960's tv series Lost in Space. The movie (Karen walked in and said, "what in the hell are you watching?") was so bad, I stopped it after 10 minutes. But at least I didn't have rent it or take time out of my normal viewing schedule to waste time watching it.

So I went over to the music section of on demand. I watched a short documentary about Dallas' own Old 97's. Guitarist Ken, Tara's old roommate and a dude who I see from time to time at Home Depot, was in high form in this. At one point, he says the band will stay together for no other reason than to piss people off. That's an attitude I like.

Then I watched a 30 minute piece about high-jinks that went on during a David Cross comedy tour. It's a small segment of a docu called "Let the People Laugh" with the cuss words cut out. Cross is so brutally funny in this. At one point, he get's into an argument with a bar manager in Nashville who wants to set up tables and chairs near the stage where he's performing. Cross recounts to his friends what happens when he asked the guy to move them, because his audience generally likes to stand near the stage like rock show. The manager tells him: "Sorry. Nashville is a whole 'nother beast. The only thing I can compare it to is New York or L.A." What?

I think I'm going to watch a 30 minute piece on Duran Duran next.


Currently listening to UB40's "Don't Break My Heart". What a beautiful song. How come *that* never gets played on all the 80's recycle radio stations?

Siva Genius

My college buddy Siva Vaidhyanathan is a certifiable genius. I knew him back in the days when he was spilling Mickey's malt liquor on his sweat pants while we were working on the University of Texas' student newspaper. Instead of slugging it out permanently at a daily newspaper after graduation (he did this for awhile and then wised up), Siva stayed in Austin --- for like 14 years --- and wound up with a doctoral degree. He spun his knowledge of all things music and pop culture into something useful --- a much in demand expertise on copyright issues and laws. And he's now a published author and professor at NYU with a lovely wife, a free apartment in the village and a baby on the way. Siva has one of the lead articles on Salon.com today about the U.S. Supreme Court's ruling in the Grokster case. He does a great job of helping the world at large interpret latest ruling by the nation's highest court on peer-to-peer file sharing networks. And you only have to read the first paragraph of this article to see that Siva is funny as well as genius: "Note to technology developers who want to market products that will help people share copyrighted files: Whatever you do, don't end your brand name with "-ster"!

I'll say it again. Genius!

Tonsils Kids & LSD

News came down yesterday that my 6-year-old nephew needs his tonsils yanked out.

My sister and I were both spared this operation. And everytime I think about a tonsilectomy, I automatically associate that procedure with an episode of the sappy 1960's TV show Family Affair when Buffy had to have her tonsils out. She gets so much attention from people because of the operation that Jody, her red haired creepy brother, wants to have his out too. So they both go to the hospital together, get the procedure, stay in the same hospital room and eat ice cream. And I can't think of this show without thinking about the fate that met those child actors.

After the show, the chick who played Buffy died of a drug overdose. For some reason, I thought she got high on LSD and jumped off a building because she thought she could fly. But in fact, Anissa Jones died in her sleep at 18 years of age after a coke and angel dust binge at a party. Why do I associate all late 60's and early 70's teen drug over doses with LSD and jumping off buildings? Did anybody actually do this? Was it was Art Linkletter's daughter, he of forgotten 50's and 60's T.V. shows like House Party and Kids Say the Darndest Things. Linkletter's daughter Diane indeed jumped off a building. And it was widely reported (or rumored) that she had LSD in her system. But an autopsy later revealed she had no LSD in her system at the time of her death.

So while plenty of kids got high on LSD in the 60's and 70's, few of them actually jumped off buildings, at least among the celebrity children ranks. Whew.

Jimmy the Weed

This story goes out Tara, who requested it.

In 1997, I bought my first house on Tremont Street in East Dallas. The previous owner was a crazy guy named Jimmy who was a former accountant with Arthur Anderson who'd decided to become a free lance photographer. He needed money to finance his enormous lifestyle change (Arthur Anderson employees back then made lots of money and free lance photographers, well not so much), so he decided to sell the house.

Let's just say that Jimmy was a free spirit. He was nice, if not a little scatter brained. The deal went over easy. Except the day before I was suppose to move in, Jimmy was still in the house. He was supposed to have left four days earlier. Jimmy just had trouble organizing himself to move out. My real estate agent had to go over and tell Jimmy that the house was no longer his and it was time for him to leave.

So the day I took possession, Jimmy was still in the house. I went over to pick up the keys from Jimmy himself. Jimmy had most of his stuff out of the house, but he was running around like a mad man to finish up. He says: "Hey man. It's been a little crazy trying to get out. I've been up all night. I thought smoking some pot would help. You wanna hit?"

"No thanks Cheech. It's a little early for me," I said. It was true. It was 9:30 in the morning. And even though I'd just made the biggest purchase of my life, I didn't think the moment was right to celebrate by smoking cannabis with some whacky former accountant.

Four months went by and I had a big house warming party. I have a lot of friends who are police officers because I used to be a police beat reporter for a large metropolitan newspaper. So they came to the party. From this experience, I learned that cops are fun at parties, but it's best not to invite them to your party. They tend to be loud and trash your front yard, causing other cops to show up who are on duty to take care of the cops that are off duty and attending your party.

So the morning after the party, I was picking up bottles in my front yard that the cops had deposited. And I noticed something in the front flower bed something that I couldn't believe I'd missed before. The cops must have missed it too. It was a two-and-half foot tall marijuana plant, courtesy of the previous owner.

I first told the Jimmy story to Tara. And she dubbed him "Jimmy the Weed."

Deranged

When I was in high school, back before the days of caller I.D., we got a lot of hang-up calls after midnight at my house. At first we thought it was some kid down the street pranking us. Later, that proved not to be true.

Usually the caller would say nothing. But sometimes a distinctively male adult voice would say something vaguely threatening like: "You think you're so smart!" Click.

After months of this, my parents figured out the caller was likely my father's nephew Jimmy. Jimmy had no reason to be angry at my parents who are two of the sweetest, kindest people in the world. My dad had only seen Jimmy a couple of times as a young child. All that we could figure is that Jimmy was rightly still angry at my father's brother, who'd left Jimmy as a child to marry another woman. We had a listed phone number and my uncle, wisely, didn't. So my Dad was the closest family member with a phone number that he could take out his rage on. It was pretty upsetting at the time. But Jimmy, who was in his 40s at the time, lived states away, somewhere outside of Bloomington, Indiana. And we doubted he'd make a trip down to Texas to settle his scores.

My parents were not fond of being awakened at 1 a.m. three times a week with Jimmy's calls. So instead of changing the phone number they've had since 1966, they had all of Jimmy's calls forwarded to a recorded information line that gave Dallas County pollen updates.

After he figured out the jig was up, Jimmy gave us a bizarre peace offering. We got a letter in the mail with no return address from Indiana. And inside were a set of snapshots of Jimmy and his home life. There was no note, but Jimmy wrote various messages on the back of the photos. Jimmy looked like a paunchy Travis Bickle, sans the mohawk, with a deranged look on his face. In one photo, Jimmy was wearing a red windbreaker with the words INDIANA stitched on the back. The back of the photo said "My alma mater." That degree from Indiana apparently wasn't working out for Jimmy financially because by the looks of the photos, Jimmy was living in a trailer. The photo I remember most was one Jimmy sent of his car, a beat-to-hell 1974 Chevy Camaro. One the back of the photo it said, of course, "My car." Another of the photos just showed the greasy engine compartment of the Camaro.

I'm not sure what Jimmy wanted to show us by sending the photos. "Say, that's a nice 350 in that Camaro Jimmy. Want to come over for Thanksgiving?"

My parents never heard from him again. But I hope the man has found peace.

Sweepstakes

Since I had a bunch of stamps laying around, I decided to enter the Auto Zone Muscle Car Madness Sweepstakes --- 15 times. The prize? A fabulous, brand new, 2005 Ford Mustang.

I rarely enter drawings for cars, even if it is a beloved Mustang. Usually, such drawings are scams for timeshare companies who just want your home phone number so they can sucker you in with a sales pitch. But since Auto Zone is more interested in selling me motor oil than a condo Lake Tawokoni, I decided to fill out some of the slips.

I'm probably not the only person who's entering this contest multiple times, yet I'm likely one of the only people who read the entry rules on the back. "Enter as often as you like, but each entry must be mailed seperately, hand written" and so on. Got it.

So what happens if I win? I get a Mustang, worth the MSRP (meaning sticker price) of $21,500 at my nearest Ford dealer. So that fire breathing V-8 GT Mustang on the contest display is not an option --- they cost $25,500, MSRP. You get a base model Mustang in other words, with few options and a V-6 engine. Muscle car, not so much, but new car anyways.

The Mustang is free right? Not really. You're responsible for taxes, title, license and destination charges. For a $21,500 car, that's about $4,500. $4,500 is about what I owe on the used Mustang I'm currently driving. That means I'd have to sell my current car just to handle the new, almost free one. Still, a good deal.

Why not sell it and pocket the dough free and clear? Tempting. But if I had say $16,000 free and clear after taxes, you know what I'd do with it? I don't have any debts to pay off. So I'd use it to buy a new Mustang. I've never owned a new car. So I'm back to where I started.

One of my co-workers won a new Lexus last year in a similar sweepstakes. He and his wife kept it, even though Holmes had to sell his paid off Honda to pay the taxes. Kind of sucks for him because his wife got the Lexus and he has to drive a mini-van because they have a couple of kids. But he said he got to pick out the car and color.

Hmmm. It's still a good problem to have. I'd go with a white Mustang with black cloth interior. And Karen wouldn't even interfere. She doesn't even like riding in the Mustang I have now.

Advocation

There's a new Pernice Brothers CD out bitches. And everybody reading this blog should buy it (Rob probably already has it.)

I once drove 650 miles to see the Pernice Brothers play, because, as far as I know, they've never set foot in Texas. And it was well worth the gas money. The Pernice Brothers are dudes about my age who grew up idolizing the Smiths and the New Order. And their music has the same pop genius of those two bands, but they sound nothing like either band. Well, maybe New Order at times, if Marshall Crenshaw wrote the lyrics.

So buy the CD and get ready to lament lost loves. And if you're not convinced, click here to listen to some free songs: http://www.pernicebrothers.com/discography.php

Stars after Stars after Stars

Today while walking to my car at lunch, I spotted a celebrity, or what passes for one in Dallas if you don't count the time Will and I saw Gary Busey screaming at a hotel clerk at the chic Hotel Za Za.

Strolling down Commerce Street just outside of Neiman Marcus was one Mike Madano accompanied by some business looking woman. The woman was decked out in a cream colored linen suit. But the center for the Dallas Stars was keeping it real, wearing blue jeans, a t-shirt and flip flops. They got in a bitchin' black Cadillac Escalade with pimp chrome wheels.

I didn't bug Madano. I might have if I had a camera. Glad I didn't because Mike probably would have run me over in his Escalade. And I would have deserved it.

Fatalism

There's a really desperate feeling that will overcome you if you listen to The Sisters of Mercy while reading my friend Siva's blog. So turn up the old gothic music and enjoy reading about the new decline of western civilization by clicking here: http://www.nyu.edu/classes/siva/

broken

My home computer is five years old. In other words, it's more practical to use this device as a door stop than a information device. It has no CD burner, isn't terribly fast, doesn't have enough memory to run various programs and it's hard if not impossible to stream music on. Still, I've kept it because, well, it works. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. The bastard now locks up on start up.

It's high time to visit the Dell site and plunk down a few hundred to get a vastly better device. But I'm slow in doing this. Why? Because I don't really need this item. I mean sure, it's nice to have. But in the past two weeks, my life hasn't been drastically changed because of a lack of a functioning home PC. Karen has one downstairs that I use to pay the bills. So I'll wait a couple more pay periods before taking a hit on a new computer.

So the lesson is that john_clarke will willingly suffer through minor impracticality than spend money. What a jerk.

Ants Marching

Yesterday, I noticed that sugar ants were assaulting my kitchen cabinets as I was beginning to cook dinner.

I do not fear the sugar ant. They are minor nuisances in the world of insects. They don't bite --- at least I don't think they do. They just get in your food.

However, I do fear the bug spray. If that gets in the food supply, its much more dangerous than eating a few sugar ants. Everytime I handle bug spray, I'm really careful where I use it and I wash my hands immediately after. I've always thought that whatever it is in bug spray that is effective at killing bugs would also be effective in killing me too. It's irrational belief, I know. But to me, it's not a completely illogical thought.

I decide to go outside and spray around the house in all possible ant entry locations before cooking. This did not provide immediate results. So I cook anyway, using food that is not located in the cabinets and avoid the ants. It was kind of gross.

Later, after I finished eating, I threw out all the ant infected food and sprayed in areas outside of the cabinets. That killed a few ants, but they were still lining up on one of the cabinets.

This morning when I woke up, I saw no activity. The ants had all been sent back to their maker.

So I'm glad I took the patient route instead of spraying everything in sight like a madman.

Emmylou

I attended the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, even though I am not a noted bluegrass fan. It's OK. I respect the medium. I who Flatt & Scruggs are. But that's about it.

However, the lineup at this festival always has somebody on it that's not quite bluegrass but blends in well for whatever reason. Wilco was there this time and they were good. But the act that preceeded them really took me by surprise.

I like the anti-Nashville country a bit better than bluegrass. By anti-Nashville, I mean the kind heartfelt songs that are rarely about drinkin', smokin', whorin', divorcin' or how good it in to live in the USA. You don't have to wear a hat to be sucessful in this genre or sing in a phony southern accent.

So out on the stage comes the queen of anti-Nashville. Her name is Emmylou Harris and she's been doing this since 1975. Emmylou can sing. Emmylou can write and turn a phrase. Emmylou can play guitar. And at 58 years old, Emmylou is a very very beautiful woman. She's more attractive now that she was 30 years ago. I was mezmerized.

Near the end of the set, she did a cover of a song composed by her succesor to the throne of anti-Nashville, Lucinda Williams. Emmylou did put her own touches on Lucinda's "Sweet Old World". And I had to hold back the tears.

I'm advocating when the time comes that Karen let her hair go totally gray like Emmylou's. But she won't have it.

The Amazing William

Every time I spend time around Will, I learn something new about him. Will, and my friend Rob, are two of the funniest humans alive. Their sense of humor is different, but genius just the same. And on that point, I have always believed that to be funny, a person also has to be very smart. Will and Rob both have boatloads of smarts. Spend five minutes talking to either of these guys and their intellegence is really apparent.

Rob and I went to different high schools that were a few miles apart. Even though we didn't meet until a year after graduation, our formitive years in North Dallas were similar. We both liked new wave music when nobody else did, stuck to ourselves, had a limited circle of friends and endured public school like it was some kind of war for our souls.

I get the impression that Will's public school experience in Wichita Falls was totally different. Like Rob and I, Will was a music junkie to the point of obsession. But Will was an athlete and a college recruited baseball player. The baseball players at my high school were all popular. But I'm sure Will was popular for reasons complete separate from his athletic ability. He loves funny thrift store clothes and sported that look in high school, not giving a shit what anybody thought. That would have brought on heaps of ridicule at my high school. But I'm sure Will disarmed just about anybody who ran across him in high school, including teachers. The guy is true to himself.

So last weekend while visiting Will and his friends, somehow the topic of honors classes came up. I was in a grand total of one honors class ---- English, arguably the easiest of them all. I'm average in science and a complete idiot in math. Had I attempted to enter either of those arenas in an honors capacity, I would have been slaughtered. I sort of envied the kids who could handle the full load. Most of them were dorks like me, but had brains that packed a punch. So Will says: "Yeah. All my classes were honors."

First I thought he was joking, which Will does all of the time. I can't imagine Will sitting in a classes with a bunch of eggheads. It just doesn't seem like his scene. But after five seconds of contemplation, it made total sense. Will makes every scene his own. I'm sure he stepped out of center field, put on a ridiculous Willie Nelson t-shirt and ran mental circles around Wichita Fall's eggheads. The man is a true iconoclast. And he still is today. Wear that "Math Masters" thrift store shirt proudly my friend.

George

Invariably when I leave for a solo Colorado jaunt, I'll get this call from Karen: "Hey. I don't want to ruin your trip, but (fill in the blank) just fell off the house."

Last year when I was in Golden, a wind storm knocked down our television cable wire, pulling down a board the cable was attached to off the second story of our house. It wasn't a big deal except the missing board was an invitation for squirrels to nest in our attic. Dealing with the squirrel issue was a total nightmare --- way worse than replacing the board.

Last week while I was in Telluride, she called to inform me that our neighbor George had backed into our nearly new wooden fence. Again, not a huge deal except it left an avenue for our two dogs to escape. Luckily, neither of them noticed the massive hole in the fence and stayed put.

George, ever the gentlemen, left a note. George is 85, can hardly see or hear, and has no business behind the wheel, even if it's just to move his van around the backyard, which he occasionally does. The note says: "John. I was backing up the van and missed the brake but hit the gas. I made a pretty good mess of your fence. Fix it and it's on me. I guess you could call this a Dear John letter." By the way, George is a pretty funny guy.

A few other notable things about George. He grew up in Colorado and was a miner while he went to college. He fought in WW II in a mortar unit and survived two of the worst battles of the war including El Alamain in North Africa and the Battle of the Bulge in Europe. He went to medical school in Texas and became a dentist. Even more astounding, George has lived on my rough and tumble street since 1948, making him arguably the most fearless man I've ever met.

So for those and many other reasons, George has my respect. He can run into my fence all he wants. It's on me.

Please Change The Station

Tomorrow, I will head out at 4 a.m. for the Rocky Mountain state. The trip from Dallas to Telluride will take about 14 hours. Be glad you're not going with me for many reasons. But if there's one, consider the sheer torture of listening to my choices on sattelite radio for that period of time.

The unit in my car gives me access to 120 chanels. Many of them are incredible music stations playing an endless variety of magical selections. And I will listen to few of them over the course of those 14 hours. Instead, I'll be glued to all of the stupid talk stations. Home improvement call in shows, the Weather Channel, Air America, and the great great NPR will dominate my listening agenda. This is a strange thing for me to admit because I value music over most non-humans in my life. But when you're on a deserted highway in New Mexico, 100 miles from anywhere, it's comforting to listen to someone else's voice, even if they're unleashing some long winded report about endangered Carribou in Northern Oregon.

Food Stuffs

My wife has food issues. There are limited things that she will eat. Ask her and she'll freely admit that her taste buds were stunted about the time she was in the 4th Grade.

On the other hand, I have a food issue all to myself. Specifically, I despise any cutesy, happy, short hand word are used to describe food.

The word "veggie" makes me cringe.

When someone describes a meal as "delish" I want to howl.

I once had a girlfriend who refered to the grocery store as "the gro." We didn't last long together, mainly because she used that word.

I have no idea why the use of these words sets me off. And while my friend Tara is a degreed, licensed and fully able speech pathologist, I'm not sure she could get to the root of this issue. After all, I can pronounce all of these words perfectly. I just have a really complex reason for hating these words. Is there such thing as a speech psychologist?

Resolution

I will not blog in anger. Yesterday, I briefly posted an item about a ridiculous person I ran across in a professional capacity. Then I decided that even though I had not identified this person, it was somewhat unprofessional on my part to post anything about what goes on in my work life. So I took it down immediately. My own foibles in the working world are fair game, but what other people do to me should probably just remain inside the inner sanctum of my workplace. I just sleep better with that boundary in place.

But man, I was really angry yesterday. And after a good night's sleep, I realized the conflict was momentary and inconsequential. And I'm glad that I refrained from launching on this person. It's a good lesson for me. I should never let anger get in the way of reason.

However, this resolution does not apply to Freddy, the security/greeter dude in the lobby of my building. Freddy needs to become useful or get another job.

City of (blank)

I was just asked what Dallas' label is --- you know The City of (blank). I've lived here all of my life and I honestly don't know the answer to that question, other than Dallas is often refered to as "Big D" which is terribly lame. There's got to be some old indentifier for this city that I've forgotten. In case there isn't, I made up my own. They include:

1. City of Hate
2. City That Killed Kennedy
3. City of Shitheads
4. City of the SUV
5. City of the low SAT score

Ready

I'm not leaving until Wednesday and I'm already overly prepared hit the road. The new car bra is installed for bug and rock protection. New oil is in my engine. All fluid levels have been checked and air pressure is AOK. The one vacation preparation area I give little thought to is myself. Packing has never been much of a concern to me. It takes me hardly any time --- maybe five minutes. And when in doubt, I always err on the side of leaving stuff behind. Clothes can be worn again. Who cares, you're on vacation. And if for some reason I make a drastic packing error and forget shampoo, I'm pretty sure it is offered for sale in areas outside of Dallas County.

Trust

While mowing the lawn Saturday morning, a small Vietnamese man with greasy hands holding several dirty paper towels, timidly approaches. I shut down the lawnmower. On Gaston Avenue, the best thing to do when approached by any stranger is to politely tell them to leave you alone. Most of the time, strangers on Gaston want money. And if you give any to them, they'll keep coming back like stray dogs begging for scraps. This guy had a different and plausible request. He asks: "Can I borrow wrench. I'm fixing car around corner." A request to borrow a tool is something I can indentify with. If my car broke down in a strange part of town, I'd want somebody to help me out by allowing me to borrow a wrench. So I thought, OK, I'll let him borrow a wrench, sort of as a social experiment. Maybe trust is something that should happen on Gaston to make it a more peaceful and loving place to exist. But there's no way I'm loaning out any of my good Craftsman tools. He'll get something from the cheap set of $20 tools I have in my truck.

I asked him what kind of wrench? Boxend, open end, 3/8th's . . . on and on. He really couldn't respond because he didn't speak English very well. So I went to my truck got out the tool box, brought it to him and let him choose. He selected a short Phillips head screwdriver and a big set of channel lock pliers. "I bring right back," he says. Good enough.

But my first clue the guy was not the responsible type occured was when he dropped one of his dirty rags on my front yard --- something he noticed when it happened. He turned off and walked down the street. "HEY!!!", I yelled at him. I pointed to the rag. He looked at it, smiled, and kept walking down the street.

So I finished mowing the lawn. No Vietnamese man. I fininished mowing the back yard. No Vietnamese man. I ran an errand and come home. No Vietnamese man. I went out with Karen to a party, returning at 11:30 p.m. No Vietnamese man. Obviously, I'll never see my phillips screwdriver or channel locks again. That's fine. I assumed as much.

But the next time some stranger on Gaston asks to borrow some tools, my answer will be no. If a guy's car is stalled in a smoking heap in front of my house, he'll have to find someone else to ask. And I will politely explain that if he sees a little Vietnamese man walking down the street with a phillips screwdriver and a set of channel locks, he can ask that guy for help. Because that guy is the reason I no longer loan out stuff to people I don't know.

I Shot the Sheriff

I am a huge fan of the Texas/Mexico border town. In fact, as of earlier this year, I have visited every single border town possible after crossing over from Presidio into Oinajua in February. It's a pointless exercise, but sort of fun because of the adventure. Texas border towns are, by reputation and fact, places where people go to drink, bed hookers, buy cheap crap and get robbed and shot, not all necessarily in that order. But all of my experiences in Texas border towns have been overwhelmingly positive. For example, Juarez, just across the border from El Paso, has the reputation as being one the most murderous of all the border towns. One year, about 400 people got killed, mostly in drug gang disputes. But when I was there, I found nothing but extremely nice people --- including a very cool guy named Juan who I drank Carta Blancas with in a little restaurant while we talked about life and our respective jobs. Boquillas, just across from Big Bend National Park, is the smallest and the most beautiful of the border towns. It's surrounded by mountains. And to get there you have to cross over the Rio Grande in boat buy paying a guy a buck. You can ride a burro or a horse into town for a few dollars more. But you can't go there anymore. The crossing there was always unofficial with no customs or border patrol presence. So the Department of Homeland Security shut down the crossing after Sept. 1.

So I was sad to see that Nuevo Laredo --- the first border town I visited in 1988 --- is now the leading contender for the most lawless of all the border towns. If you're into Mexican art, tile, and pottery, NL is the place to go get some. And it's also now a really good place to get shot as drug gangs have taken over there, much like in Juarez. It's so bad there now that nobody wanted to be the police chief. The guy who signed up got shot his first day on the job. Read about it: http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/dn/latestnews/stories/061005dnintpolicechief.2f9639f9d.html

Bertha

In 1982, when I was 15, I got a job at McDonald's for the sole reason of earning enough money by to buy a car. And I knew exactly what kind --- a 1969 Mustang. They had four headlights up front, making them look a bit meaner and cooler than other Mustangs of that era. I assembled hamburgers for about a year, saving up $1,000 to buy a coveted yellow 69 Mustang. I ended up selling that car before I ever got my license. And for some reason I can't quite remember, I traded down for another more beat-up green 1969 Mustang I bought off an ex-con in Pleasant Grove for $650. Her name was Bertha, the name given to her by Nathan, her former owner.

When I paid for Bertha and drove her home to Richardson, she stalled out about 5 blocks from Nathan's house. My dad and I walked back to Nathan's house in The Grove and asked him what gives? He told us: "Listen. You just have to talk to Bertha. She'll start. She always starts." And sure enough, Nathan accompanied us to the 7-Eleven parking lot where Bertha had stalled, got in the driver's seat, patted the dash board and said "Come on Bertha. It's time to go to work." Nathan worked construction, and this was quite evident because Bertha's interior was caked in construction site mud. But after he said those magic words, Bertha roared to life. He drove Bertha to our house, said his goodbyes, and I never saw him again.

I spent the next 6 months scrubbing Bertha clean, replacing her four mismatched wheels with the correct ones and finding things like original hubcaps to make her more presentable. And I practiced getting her to start. There was a trick to it, which I learned quite well after months of sitting in Bertha's driver's seat after school. And on April 27, 1983 when I turned 16, Bertha was the first car I ever drove all by myself. My maiden voyage in Bertha was a 1.2 mile trip to Tom Thumb's grocery to buy a gallon of milk.

Bertha was an ailing car. She only ran on seven of her eight cylinders. Her brakes were questionable at best. And her air conditioning system had failed years before I bought her. But I loved that car. I drove her to high school for two years --- with my buddy from down the street Scott Chaffee as my co-pilot. Scott and I would listen to Ted Nugent's "Free For All" album on Bertha's 8-track player every morning before. And sometimes I'd take Scott to work at Chuck E.'s as he got me that gig.

I think I loved Bertha because I spent time to make her better. And she seemed to appreciate that because she'd only let me drive her. My mom and dad both tried on various occasions when they needed my car, but Bertha wouldn't budge for them.

Bertha has probably gone on to automotive Nirvana. But she had a good life --- at least when I owned her.

Come Home Corey

I thought it couldn't be done. But I found a copy of Corey Haim's "Me Myself & I" on Ebay. So for the buy-it-now price of $6.50, I will have the pleasure and privilege of watching the worst documentary ever made. I cannot wait to see the senseless preening, incoherent statements and New Jack fashion shows on this 1990 piece of rubbish.

John Hughes Fears

I'm curious about a potential sequel to Sixteen Candles --- the movie I often refer to as the greatest film of my generation. There are currently discussions about another movie (maybe they should go the George Lucas prequal route and set it in 1980 instead of 1984.) I saw it when it came out in the movie theaters when I was sixteen myself. And since then, I've only seen the movie about 148 more times.

Molly Ringwald has held up pretty well from the photos I've seen. Anthony Michael Hall finally has a gig on a UPN series after a whole lot of nothing. Michael Schoeffling --- the guy who played Jake --- who knows? But there is no way they'll come anywhere close to sniffing the original. I fear it'll be about as good as some crap T.V. reunion show like "Still The Beaver" or "The Brady Brides". But I'll see this movie, even it's crap. And I bet Hollywood is well aware of this fact.

Whack Dreams

I've been having especially vivid dreams as of late. Two nights ago, I had a dream about my 4th Grade baseball coach, Mr. Richards. He was the father of a good elementary school buddy who had a house with a pool. In no uncertain terms, Mr. Richards and was a complete ass. He was one of those pony league coaches who loved antics --- screaming at umpires, yelling at the other coaches and riling up parents. He was really good at riling up my own father. The guy delighted in keeping kids he didn't like --- namely little 4th grade smart mouths like me --- from playing in games. I got my league mandatory two innings and two turns at bat and that was it. After the 5th time he did this, my Dad had a show down with Mr. Richards. My Dad called him out and Mr. Richards started in on his antics. It was the first time that I thought my relatively peaceful father was going to punch somebody. It ended after a lot of shouting and no punching. The end result was little Johnny got a lot more playing time. But in my dream from two nights ago, I punched Mr. Richards. I woke up after this because I had actually thrown a punch in my sleep. It also woke Karen briefly after my arm brushed her face, although my fist made no contact with her thank God. I told Karen about my dream the next day. She didn't remember my flailing arm or waking up. But she laughed at my dream state violence. However it wouldn't be funny if I'd made contact --- I shudder to think my wife could get a black eye for something that happened to me 29 years ago. And I just might become the first person in America to be charged with sleep-related family violence.

Bomb Threat Holiday

Late yesterday afternoon, all employees in my office were given the option of going home early after someone called in a bomb threat to a law office ten floors above where I work. I opted to go home early and catch up on some Judge Judy instead of staying and potentially risking my life to write a piece about the new family law measures the Texas Legislature just passed.

In these trying times, it's comforting to know my office is well-protected by Freddy, the personal phone call addicted security/lobby guy whose best attribute seems to be preventing me from entering my office when I forget my key.

F Freddy. I said it.

California Justice

Here's my fantasy verdict for the Michael Jackson case. It wouldn't matter what the verdict is --- guilty or not. To me, it would all be in the delivery of the verdict. The jury would return to the courtroom after one hour of deliberation. And after the judge asked the jury foreman if a verdict had been reached, he or she would say this: "Yes your honor, we have. And we didn't need three months of time-wasting testimony to reach it." California love!

The Haimster

Speaking of great movies, somebody please tell me that this 1990 documentary called "Me, Myself & I" is still available for rental somewhere.

From the Allmovie Guide:
"Released specifically to combat growing rumors that teenage star Corey Haim was losing a battle with drug addiction, this "video diary" sets out to show that a typical day for the "Haimster" is more wholesome than you'd think. Haim is shown mostly alone, enjoying a well-rounded set of activities that encompass baseball, hockey, tennis, makeup sessions, driving around Los Angeles, recording funk music on his Casio keyboard, putting on a New Jack era-fashion show, and lying on a comfortable-looking couch reflecting on life. Dismissing his fans' drug fears as a "whole misconception thing," he says he hopes to make the leap from playing the younger brother to "trying to be the older brother, or the only brother."

See It

Much like Oprah and her books, john_clarke advocates that his army of readers see the movie "Dirty Pretty Things," an English movie directed by the great Stephen Frears (he of "My
Beautiful Launderette" fame.)

I'm a fan of the gritty, realistic, working class drama. This movie has those elements and a bit of thriller to it as well. Unfortunately, some of the story involves the ghastly practice of people selling their organs for profit. But just turn away when that comes on screen and enjoy the character development, including the English language debut of Audrey Tatou, the cute French chick from "Amilee."

The reason I love movies like this over Hollywood dreck is it assumes I have a brain and that I don't need everything explained to me. At one point in this movie, the main character, who's a Nigerian living in London, buys a herb under the counter at a Morrocan shop for chewing purposes. I vaguely knew the stuff is called "ghat" in Africa --- a stimulant that gives its users a buzz. It's unheard of in America, but I've read about it before. The character chews ghat to keep awake while working two jobs. This was presented in the movie and left for the viewers to figure out. The use of ghat is adressed later in the movie, but not in any sort of overt way. An American movie would have envariably explained this to the audience, slowing down the action for the less informed.

Hay

About a year ago, I re-sodded part of my front yard. It was a big job that I did all by my lonesome. And it made me proud. The sod was a massive success and greened up to where you couldn't tell I'd done anything to my yard. In the spring, I fertilized the yard as usual. But now, half of my yard looks like a hay field. I've watered it plenty and I've got no answers. My neighbors thought it was because I put down rye grass in the winter and the rye had to die out and "burn away" before the St. Augustine grass comes back. Well, it's still not back and short of setting my yard on fire, I'm not sure anything is going to burn away. Many years ago, I would have thought it was cool and punk rock to have a messed up yard. These days, I see it as a failing on my part.

A Tale of Two Streets

In the early 1900's, Gaston and Swiss Avenues were the premier residential addresses in Dallas. Stately expensive homes lined each street, all of them a mix of architectural styles, set back from the street on large lots. But in the 1940's, the homes on Gaston started to disappear, falling prey to bulldozers who knocked them down for large apartment complexes. Dallas city government actually advocated apartment builders to invest in Gaston Avenue back then. There was a need for multi-family housing and the city knew it could get more tax revenue out of a big apartment complex than a single family home. Swiss was spared this fate because more influential people lived there and had more pull with the city --- they didn't want to see their street pock marked with apartments. Now Gaston is a hodgepodge of grand old homes and apartments --- some of the complexes are renovated, others are deteriorating hell holes. Swiss Avenue has remained one of the best streets in Dallas --- it's home values increase every year.

So Dallas is considering a "tear down" ordinance. This ordinance is aimed at protecting the integrity of neighborhoods. It would give home owners the satisfaction that the quaint, attractive neighborhood will look much the same for years to come. It would also protect houses from being torn down and replaced by some huge apartment complex or the McMansions --- the large homes of dubious style that are almost always out of place in a 80-year-old neighborhood. In Dallas' classic attitude of let's tear it down and build something new attitude, the Zoning Commission has held up a vote on this ordinance. The reason is because the chair of the commission says she thinks the ordinance might "harm the tax base". This logic dictates that an old house is always going to be worth less than a big shiny new one. To refute that thinking, I'd cordially invite Madam Chairwoman to take a stroll down my street --- Gaston Avenue. Look at our house, it's pretty nice. My wife and I spent a lot of money to restore it. So did our next door neighbors. But are taxes are pretty low. Why? Because there's a lot of shitty apartment complexes across the street from us. Fights break out at the apartments on a regular basis. Saturday afternoon into Sunday morning, several cop cars are always in front of the apartments dealing with the mayhem. And those apartment complexes aren't worth very much tax wise either. That's because nobody wants to live and invest near them. Swiss has none of this ---- no apartments and no new houses. When you buy on Swiss, you're buying security --- it's been this way since 1905, and it'll be this way in 2055. And guess what? The taxes on these houses are massive because the homes are valuable.

So Madam Chairwoman, please pass the ordinance. You're a real estate agent for fuck's sake. I shouldn't even have to explain the impact of neighborhood integrity on home values.