Machine Gun Symphony!

DUELING GUITARS. Machine Gun Symphony, a Springfield, MO based band, captures the essence of the 80s hair bands. Raw, rugged and rockin'!

I take my place in the front of the stage, encouraged by some over-zealous blondes. "Have you seen these guys?"
I shake my head, "No."
The height of the stage hits me chest high. A good launch pad for a drink. Several people do the same.
The drinks vibrate in their containers as the super sonic boom begins. Lights, smoke, sound! These guys are good. They fiddle with the mix, adjust amps. They have egos and wigs.
I remember the songs. And they do them justice. It's been a long time. They don't make music like that anymore. But these guys do.

Bagworms and Driving Lessons

Last May, I was driving through the campus of Missouri State University in Springfield and  saw two familiar foreign faces.
The girls, university exchange students from Poland and Japan, respectively,  had been to my house and my parents' house for family gatherings and had done several activities with me.

Ola and Nagisa stood staring into the blossoms of a tree. I waved as I pulled up. "Whatcha doin', girls?"
They appeared frightened by something in the tree. I stepped out of my car to investigate.
They pointed cautiously to a web nest in the branches, crawling with bagworms.
Bagworms are caterpillars that literally spin a network of webbing into a tree, eventually growing and taking over as they eat the leaves. They are disgusting and predatory, but certainly not poisonous nor difficult to handle.
The girls were terrified of them.
I noticed they were gingerly tossing stones onto the nest to weight it down. The ritual continued as if I hadn't come across the scene. One would toss a stone, then the other. Some stones were lodged in the webbing; others adorned the grass below.
Being from the rural countryside often plagued by the pests, I casually picked up a stick and raked it across the web, bringing a sticky cluster of crawling critters with it. The girls fled before they could see what I was going to do. Their terror inspired me to pursue them with mock menace.
Waving the branch laden with the disgusting critters, I pretended to pursue them as they turned and shrieked in unison, their cries reverberating off the building behind them.
I laughed and tossed the mess on the ground. I picked up a bagworm and they chorused in caution again.
I held it out as if to say, "Look, it won't hurt you!"
I simply tossed it down when they didn't approach. I have four sons; I'm more accustomed to curiosity, not terror, over creepy crawlies.
Ola approached with caution, looked down at the bagworm on the sidewalk, and promptly eliminated it under her shoe. Nagisa came up behind her. As the shoe raised, both girls said, "Eww! Green!" commenting on the color of the bagworm's inner contents.
They kept a respectful distance, yet watched in interest as I scraped away the rest of the bagworms and dropped them in a nearby trash can.
Now that we had rid the earth of the predators, I offered another diversion: Driving my car.
Ola had taken the wheel once before, her first effort at driving, and had a passion for speed which had led her, us, and my poor car over a concrete parking block.
Nonetheless, I forgive such grievances with fatherly patience and was willing to offer not only Ola, but Nagisa, another driving virgin, the chance behind the wheel.

I drove them to a deserted street and Nagisa watched from the passenger seat as I showed her how to adjust the mirrors, push the brake, put the car in drive, and slowly release the brake and start steering. I went down the street and turned around in a cul-de-sac.
"Now it's your turn," I offered.
She took the driver's seat and was soon creeping down the lane at an alarming 5 miles per hour. I took the wheel from the passenger side from time to time to keep mailboxes, stray cats, parked cars, and the wrong side of the road safe and clear.
All in all, Nagisa enjoyed her first driving experience more than Ola did from the back seat.
(I'm not sure if it was the focus on a "pretty dog" or a "red bird I've never seen in Japan" instead of the attention to the driving that got to Ola, or if it was the forward thrust from the mashed down brakes that did it.)
All in all, it was a happy memory of three people from three different countries with one common friendship.

I didn't mean to

I didn't mean to. I mean, I was minding my own business. But, it happened.
Not totally my fault.
She wasn't really my type. I didn't want to get mixed up with someone around my age. I would have preferred someone young and naïve; window dressing. You know, a chick for looks, but no substance. One I could manipulate and leave, no worries. No hassles.
But then again, those kind of chicks don't dig guys like me. I'm too bold; too sure of myself, and way too old.
I like to have the advantage. For me, the advantage was to be alone. Something comforting about wearing loneliness like a shroud around your heart. Keeps away the interested folks who pry into your soul.
Too late. She was there, in my life somewhere, like a sock you find in the bottom of the drawer. A match to the other sock you'd almost given up on. You're ready to toss it out, alone, when you find its mate.
Now that I found my "missing sock" I feel like I'm obligated to wear both at the same time. No more mismatch.

Yep. I found my match. But I'm not fully ready to be well. I enjoyed being miserable so long, it became my theme. I was like a country music song, being played over and over.
Now, it's kind of like being in one of those sappy fairy tales, but this time, the cartoon never ends. There are no closing credits. It lasts more than an hour and 45 minutes.
I'm beginning to think good fortune is finding me and I can't get away and be miserable like I want to.
Worse, I'm discovering that I don't even want to be miserable anymore.
I mean, I didn't mean to. I didn't plan to be happy.
It just happened.

Sad song

I was doing fine, for a Monday. I was working along, doing my job, getting things accomplished. Chasing the dream.
Maybe it was a song that came on in the background. I think so. It triggered a sort of sad feeling. Ever had that happen? You're doing fine one minute, then the next you're fighting back tears?
I went to the lunch room. It was empty. The lunch room, had it been occupied, would have cured my blues.
But being empty, it had the opposite effect. I retrieved my lunch and was consumed with the loneliness of eating alone. I wanted to die.
I made it out to my car before too many tears fell.
Once in the safety and seclusion of my parked car, I fell apart.
Have you heard a grown man cry in anguish?
It still haunts me to hear my own cries.
I recovered, presently, and returned to work, no one the wiser.
After work, a repeat of the same process from lunch. Get to the car and fight back the tears, unsuccessfully.

My heart won't let her go.

 

They say I'm crazy

I heard it again today... I hear it most days, actually. I'm crazy.
At least, that's what people tell me.
My answer? You're right. I am.
But what's wrong with being crazy? People consider me crazy because I don't conform to their idea of how a middle aged, educated, white man should behave. I have a "thing" for women's high heeled shoes. I go to places of questionable content with people outside my socially acceptable circle.

Therefore, those who are prone to judge others, are prone to label me as "crazy."

Okay, I'm not going to totally disagree with them. But I do want to promote something. I want to promote the idea that "crazy" isn't bad. In my case, "crazy" means:
I talk to strangers. I add them as friends on Facebook. I solicit them from a variety of sources online and offline, in real life.
I seek new relationships from people outside my socially acceptable circle. Meaning, older, younger, other cultures, other races, ethnic backgrounds, religions, political perspectives, orientation, etc. etc. and so forth. I purposefully become their friend and social companion. I care about them. I respect their differences. I don't always agree (sometimes I vehemently disagree!) but I always love them.

If that means I'm crazy, bring on the crazy!

Cita Previa No Necesaria (No Appointment Necessary)

 Walk in clinic has a ring of authenticity in the tourist town of Nuevo Progresso, Mexico. Strategically positioned on the south side of the Rio Grande River bridge, American and Canadian tourists are bombarded with pleas for instant dental care, pharmaceutical needs, and "manicure, pedicure, haircut" callings out.

No appointment necessary. "Almost free," the saying goes. No taxes. No waiting. No Obamacare. No nothing, but bring your cash.

I'd been feeling the filling need myself. Two big cavities on the left side. One on the top, one on the bottom. No insurance, so... why not check the prices.

A bald man with tattoos stands outside the dentist office. Not sure if he's the dentist, but his personality and English exceed the norm. "30 dollars for each filling," he says with confidence.

Sounds good. I walk in.  My wait time is about the time it takes to get my chair ready. No mystery here. No build up to worry about, just come in, sit back amigo, and open up.

The dentist arrived momentarily. A pretty little Mexican girl was his assistant. He wore a surgical mast. "Open."

I opened my mouth. No extra brushing and flossing to impress anyone today. Just walk in, and open your mouth.

He numbed the area and filled the bottom filling. The familiar smell of something burning. The same drill sound as in the states. The banter between dentist and hygienist was in Spanish, however.

My throat was dry, but the air hose in my mouth prevented any issues, however uncomfortable at times. Top tooth, bigger hole. A genuine effort for the second $30 filling. A pause.

The interpreter bald guy returned. "You have a big hole so you need to come back in two weeks. We put in a temporary filling," he announced.

"Can I come back in four days?" I was heading home in seven days and had to work the last two.

The interpreter asked the doctor in Spanish. Permission granted.

Paid the $60 and out the door.

Back again four days later, the dentist removed my cavity but didn't fill it up again. At least, when he was finished, my tongue could still feel the bigger cavity. Hmm. At least he didn't charge me again.

Emotional Bridge

The first time I crossed the foot bridge into Mexico, I wasn't sure what to expect. Friendly older American tourists were there to assure me of the safety and security of leaving the comforts of the U.S. on foot.

It cost 50 cents to go through the turnstyle. I went up the ramp and looked. There it was --- the Rio Grande. Not very grande. Actually, quite muddy. On our side, a big brown wall with a border patrol vehicle at the gate. On their side, clutter and beggars.


The bridge entrance at Nuevo Progresso, Mexico

The sign in the middle announced our side in English and their side in Spanish. One step later, I was in Mexico. I could hear the cries of the beggars. Women and children, far below the bridge waiving to me like I was Santa Claus. I could toss money at them through the openings on the railing if I so chose. I put my face down next to the opening. The beggars gathered, their chorus for cash intensifying.

I greeted them in Spanish, as if they were long, lost friends. I stood and waived goodbye. It felt weird to have the power to accept of dismiss their efforts.

Before me, an outstretch arm and a hat in the hand, reaching through the guardrail near the end of the bridge. Her voice was persistent, but small. I smiled at her but had nothing for her open hat.

The tourists took a photo of me on the bridge, and on the Mexico sign before the large statue and welcome sign.

Then I was left to my own devises. People calling out for me to enter their pharmacy. Others asking if I needed a shoe shine. Still others trying to convince me to get a manicure, pedicure or a haircut. Or all three.

More requests for pharmaceuticals, as if they were pushing used cars at a sleazy car lot. Men in white lab coats holding cardboard signs with prescription logos, indicating what was inside.
Children and parents pushing toward me, thrusting plastic trinkets my way. "No gracias," I say.

Vendors asking if I want to buy a wallet, a sombrero, a hammock, jewelry.
A mere glance in their direction is like tossing meat to a tiger. "Come in, sir. Pharmacy. Almost free. I give you good price."

Children with packets of gum. "How much?"

"Ten for a dollar," says the mother.



I pull out a dollar bill and pick out ten colorful packets of chicklets style gum.

This attracted the cactus kids. "Cactus?" I dirty brown hand clutches a ziplock bag of chopped cactus. The other hand clutches uncut cactus in another bag.

The upstairs restaurant has clean, but small restrooms and plenty of gringo visitors. A mariachi band circulates. Six tacos for five dollars. Sounds good.

I look out the window on the hot, dusty street below. Mexico is different. I want to see more.

Back on the street with a full stomach and a few coronas to boot, I wander off the beaten path. A man asks if I want to buy any food, pottery, baskets, or women. Kinda in that order. "Can I get you a young lady?"

Interesting, but "no gracias."

A strip club ahead. Eager man handing me a yellow piece of paper with "lesbian shower" on the featured menu.

I continue. Now I'm in the real town, away from tourism. No more white people. Lots more chickens, dogs and dust.

The streets are uneven, unpaved, unkempt. Laundry hangs along a fence. I look again. It's clothing for sale.  Each pair of jeans has a price tag.

A convenience store the size of a rich woman's closet. Children play at outdoor video game machines different from anything I've ever seen. Like a third world arcade from 1983. No expressions. Void of conversation, just boys standing in their school uniforms pushing the buttons and watching the faded flickering small screen.

Dogs lie in the road, unmoved when cars pass. Many Texas license plates. All cars coated with grime.

Some houses look more like chicken coops. The dogs look too tired to bark at the gringo.

A air of despair and poverty lingers. Oppressive, like humidity in July in Louisiana.

Graffiti on a wall. A bar with happy hour all day painted on the purple exterior.

An ice cream cart. Kids on the sidewalk. "Hola, como estas?" I smile. No reply.
A woman, chubby and suspicious. Young. "Hola," I say.
"Hello," she says.
"You speak English?"
She nods. "Lived in Texas most of my life. Came here to get rid of family problems."
She shows me her arm. Riddled with scars. "I cut myself when I got depressed."
"How old are you?"
"15."
Her 14 year old English speaking brother arrives. A man in his 30s, half black and half Mexican wanders up suspiciously. I greet him like an old friend. He only speaks Spanish. Another chubby woman with him about 20, no English.

I flag down the ice cream cart. "How much?"
"Two dollars?"
"Two dollars! Oh, no, loco gringo no mucho denaro," I say, to the amusement of the onlookers. "Uno dollar each. Five for five. Cinco for cinco."
My four new friends and I enjoy a tasty treat in the hot January sun.

Afterwards, 30 something man asks if I want a "sombrero."
I say yes. He gets a palm branch hat from the house. Now I look like a Mexican, complete with a string under my chin.

I waive "adios" and the man asks me to bring him a budweiser on my next visit.
Three girls walking toward me. "Como te llamas?"
"Angelica."
The other two don't reply. Either they don't have names, or they don't have interest in a goofy gringo with a Mexican sombrero.

Back to the less dusty tourist area. Everyone notices my shoes and begs to shine them. I enjoy the attention, declining each offer.

Back on the bridge, 25 cents to leave Mexico. Passport check. "What are you bringing home?"
I walk home. Beggars on the bridge. Crying out for money. I toss them coins and gum.
Tears suddenly well up. I'm crossing the border because I can. It's cleaner and quieter. The cries of the beggars are gone, but their sound still rings in my heart.