There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses. -Ezekiel 23:20
Fruit infused beers can be a thing of beauty during the summer months. Sometimes, however, they don't quite hit the mark. This is the case with the Leinenkugel's watermelon shandy I'm currently using to kick start the Writing process. The watermelon in this beer is nearly overwhelming at first. Honestly, I picked this up on a whim thinking that it had the possibility to really hit the spot on a warm day. The flavor combination never grew on me though, and the potential thirst quencher was relegated to taking up space in the fridge until it became a last option in the quest alter my state of mind the way God intended; depressing brain function through the ingestion of ethanol.
Frankly, my brain doesn't need much depressing. Since writing my last post I had fallen into a spiral of depression due to recent life events and realizations. "The Man" had gotten to me both literally and figuratively. My off-center sense of humor had landed me in some hot water at my job. Making jokes out of bullshit corporate initiatives is apparently frowned upon in the big box retail sports outlet world. Using your joke about the pointlessness of life and the inevitability of death as a cheap plug for the blog you Write for isn't seen as funny by people who laugh exclusively at things which would be found on the Church of Latter Day Saints "approved" list of humor. This is especially true when you write about writing at your job while on the clock and bitch about the customers you're supposed to be assisting. Having your writing complimented as you are being reprimanded by corporate enforcers brings about odd emotions. Maybe one of the two who had been tasked with forcing the rogues back into line truly didn't want to be doing this. Kind of like some poor German soul being sucked into the Nazi machine to avoid death at the hands of true believers. Does this excuse their actions? I think not.
Sitting in the small, windowless, blank room which is not too dissimilar to the interrogation rooms seen on the "First 48" I wrote out my version of the events which took place and contemplated where I was at in my life. I am a 27 year old, out of shape veteran on academic probation working a retail job, catering to lowlife shit heads who can barely speak without slobbering due to their big, fat tongues, overextending brows, Moe Howard haircuts, and other dead give away signs of inbreeding. The blog I write for isn't even a pipe dream, because I have no dreams of writing. At this point in life, I have no dreams at all. I feel like I have settled, but I don't know what I have ever really aspired to be in the first place. I loved my life in the Marine Corps, and I felt as though I never accomplished what I had set out to do. What that even was, I still don't know. I pulled my name badge, which didn't even have my actual name on it, off of my neck and threw it on the table in front of me declaring to my barely 21 year old manager that I was "done here." I had quit my job which I had hated for quite some time.
The rum courses through me tonight. As is usual lately, it has been a few days since I have last sat down to write. In the background Joe Rogan is having a conversation with Maynard James Keenan, the lead singer of Tool, A Perfect Circle, and Puscifer, some of my favorite bands. The two have started off talking about the first press conference for the upcoming Mayweather verses McGregor fight. What a wild ride that chain of events has turned out to be. A fight, which very few thought would ever happen, is now guaranteed, barring an injury to one of the participants. The press conferences are going to be the best part of the entire series of events in my own personal opinion. It is such a spectacular event, that it seems as if you cannot escape it at this point.
Let's backtrack a little bit here. Shortly after quitting my job, I have my work on my newly acquired Land Rover interrupted by a phone call. It's Chad, my older brother turned pseudo boss. "I'm coming to Arkansas."
The heat of the Arkansas summer must be cooking my brain under this hood. "What in the hell are you talking about?" I ask.
"You assholes aren't contributing enough!" he exclaimed. "Be at the airport tomorrow morning at nine to pick me up. I'm coming to whip you into shape!"
I roll up to the airport a little after nine in the morning and he's already out on the curb. The man on the receiving end of his tirade looks disheveled and a little intimidated. "Don't ever shy away from a political discussion!" Chad shouts. "Such behavior will be the demise of our nation!"
"Is that guy going to be alright?" I ask.
"He'll be fine. Next time someone engages him in a thoughtful discussion that doesn't relate to his goddamn Cowboys, he'll listen though. You have gun in here? We may need it."
We bomb our way up interstate 40 toward northwest Arkansas in order to track down the rest of the Guilty Addictions crew. I had just put new tires on the Rover, and they aren't conducive to conversation. It doesn't matter much though, Chad is trying to read his way through the transcripts of the then recent Comey hearing transcript. Occasionally he looks up and releases a tirade of frustrations at what he's reading. All the while, I'm trapped in my own mind thinking of all of my personal problems I need to contend with while the problems of the nation, and world at large make their mandatory appearance as well.
I had recently become "employment challenged," the numerous problems which come along with living in an old house had started to come up, along with the mortgage payments, I hadn't been fishing in nearly a year, the Land Rover we were barrelling down the road in was basically zip tied together, I had to write out a letter grovelling to administrators of the college I attend in order to be readmitted to school, I had begun having doubts about whether or not the nation I love so much can continue in its current state and survive, and I had somehow become some sort of religious guru for a blog.
Things were fucked.
Our first stop proved to fruitless. Tim wasn't home. In his place we only found an overweight Hispanic man who upon reflection, I think was just a squatter who had found his way into the liquor cabinet and made himself at home. He guided us toward the chief motel in Fayetteville. T.D. was supposed to be there covering the college world series, but no one had heard from him since he had left. Chad made himself a drink with the half finished bottle of Chivas and we headed out again.
Once we finally found the motel, it was late afternoon. The motel clerk pointed us to the room without hesitation when questioned. He noted that the patron hadn't come out of the room in days. It was difficult to know whether or not the clerk considered this a good thing. When Chad expressed his intent to remove Tim from the room I believe the clerk made up his mind. "Get the gun." said Chad.
We approached room number 13 and the sounds of Jamey Johnson filled the air around the entrance; a stark contrast to the Master P that blasted from the Kenwood speakers in the Rover, but a nice sound none the less. A few rapid knocks produced no answer. Before I was able to produce an alternative option, Chad decided to just kick the door in. It flew open to reveal Tim with a shotgun on his lap.
"I shouldn't have left the Glock in the truck." I thought to myself.
"What the hell?" shouted T.D. "The door wasn't even locked!"
The bathroom door burst open as Drock revealed himself amidst a smoke cloud, and now realizing that the entire crew was present, Chad unleashed the full fury of a half drunk editor. The scene was wild. One set of large individuals stood in the doorway with smoke billowing out around them as the largest of the two set upon the others in a verbal tirade about writing for the sake of their fellow countrymen, and avoiding a 400 person mob. The two characters set further back in the scene were certainly not helping due to one of them firmly clutching a shotgun while trying to shout over the man in the doorway about Russia, and a conspiracy within the college baseball world series, while the last man seemed to be smoldering in the bathroom doorway. All of this took place in what looked to be a room occupied by a paranoid schizophrenic who had spent the last week plastering the place with all manner of newspaper clippings, sports headlines, and wikileaks articles.
After drinking this madness in for long enough, I finally decided that something must be done here. "Cops!" I shouted. That was sure to get their attention. Even if they weren't here yet, the motel owner would surely be calling them soon enough.
Drock didn't hesitate. He barreled through the open door in front of him and headed straight for the Rover parked in front. Tim grabbed his gallon jug of wine and followed closely behind. Chad turned on this heels after me as soon as I headed for the truck, which Drock had commandeered. We sped from the parking lot and headed for an old, secluded fishing hole the guys all frequented during their college days.
Things began to calm down once we reached the river, and we all began to interact without much shouting at this point. Water tends to do such things, especially little rivers like the White. It's difficult to get angry, or stay that way with the water so nearby. We all removed one of the poles I keep in my vehicle to drop something in the water as we passed around the jug of wine which T.D. had the sense to grab as he evacuated the motel room. As we strolled along the bank tossing worms, jigs, and whatever else we thought may get a nibble, we each lamented about the struggles of trying to write good, consistent posts while maintaining the rest of our lives. We had each made some sacrifice for this little blog recently.
Tim seemed to be losing his mind watching what was sure to be a national champion Arkansas baseball team get shafted, Chad's frustrations with our current political climate and lack of blog content had reached a boiling point, Drock was recently sent a beer containing some sort of semen which he was supposed to review, and I was in the middle of a life crisis.
When I revealed to the guys that I had recently quit my job while writing for this blog, they hailed me as a hero for my dedication. I neglected to tell them that I hated the job and thought of quitting nearly everyday that I stepped through the doors. The reason why I stayed there as long as I did was due to the excellent discount I received on fishing tackle and the like. It didn't hurt that the place gave me some solid material for this blog either. As my wife dutifully points out though, my sense of humor and mouth can get me into trouble.
I suppose I should tie this all together with some sort of religious, or spiritual trash. After all, it's times like these when many among us would say "Jesus take the wheel!" You see, then if you do go careening off of one of life's many cliffs, you can say, "Well fuck man, I wasn't driving." Maybe that's just me being too cynical though. Religion does help some people in times of great need. Often though, when life does throw curve balls your way, it isn't enough to stand at the plate and hope they all wind up being called "ball." Sometimes you have to go out swinging, and if you do strike out, you probably had more fun that way at least. So for now, I'll wait on a determination from school, enjoy the fact that I have a nice little house to do with as I like, and continue writing about beer, sports, politics, religion, and whatever else I find interesting in life.
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Editors Note: This photo is a Creative Commons licensed photo from Wiki Media
