Ode To Rain

I love the rain.

If it played a role in the modern family Rain would be the abusive, drunken step-father. He would drive up in his old, beat up '89 Chevy pick-up truck, get out, reach over for his twelve pack of Budweiser in the passenger seat and walk into the house. He'd look over at us kids playing in the driveway with our toys and ask, "Where's your mama?"

"She inside," we'd say in unison, with a slow southern drawl.

He'd go in, popping open a can of beer, yelling her name and slamming the door behind him. Us kids knew better than to follow him in. This was his and mama's time. It never changed from day to day. And as the sun would start to set and the wind begin to pick up we'd slowly find our way inside to see beer cans strewn about and dinner on the table for us kids, but no parents in sight. So we'd eat in peace before retiring to our rooms to do our homework and say our prayers before bedtime.

In the middle of the night we'd be awoken with a start. Our sweet dreams if sugar plums and fairies and childish nonsense would fade quickly as we hear mama and daddy arguing. Daddy would threaten to kill mama and mama would threaten to leave him if he ever tried.

Then we'd hear the slap. Thunder. That first slap always shook our bones in our skins. We knew we were in for one hell of a storm after that. It might be loud and fast or it could linger on for hours, but it was going to do some damage.

Sometimes we'd hear the winds howl during a storm and we'd know it was mama crying. Through all of his slaps and punches and kicks she'd do nothing but cry and cry and cry until she could cry no more. After which it was silent. Daddy would crack open another beer and start drinking. Mama might whisper something to enrage him, or maybe she'd start to move, whatever it was Daddy wouldn't like it and he'd start in again on the beating.

By now Mama would be too exhausted to cry and she'd just sit there and take it. Slap after slap.

Mmm . . . thunder. You never fail to let us know you are there. You're so boorish and loud at first and slowly fade into a quiet "thump" sound. However you still leave your imprint on her face, as you do in our ears when not another sound is being made in the entire house.

It's just another night. We've heard your destructiveness for years so much so we're becoming desensitized.

"Go back to sleep," I tell brother. They're just arguing again.

He looks frightened, so I go over and crawl in next to him, whisper, "It'll be okay. You'll see the sun shining in the morning and everything will be okay." I place my hands over his ears and we fall asleep like that. We try and remain hopeful, as kids do, that tomorrow will bring blue skies.

*Sigh*

How I love rain.



Random thought of the day: Not enough Coke makes me deliciously sleepy.

Don't Watch Don't Move

Do you know what got me about this Italian flick {Don't Move} I saw yesterday?

Whoever made the movie I'm sure, wanted you to feel something for the main characters, Timoteo & Italia. The problem: I can't feel sorry for the brute of the man who first RAPED the woman and then started taking advantage of her every time after that even making her feel like a whore by paying her at the end of the "deed." I can't feel sorry for the "tainted soul" who lets this asshole do this to her. I can't even feel sorry for the spoiled bitch of a wife the guy is married to who probably drove him to having an affair.

While everything in the movie IS believable (I'm sure it happens all the time. Turn on Oprah or Ricki Lake and you'll see it) the fact that they're so supposedly in love with one another is a crock. At one point in the movie they show Timoteo holding up the jar Italia uses to put all the money he gives her. Initially I thought he was going to steal it. But then they move on with the movie and it seems to me that shortly before that point he probably stopped paying her for sex, but then resumed because he knew she was saving. After all she was a hotel maid and by looking at her living conditions you knew she wasn't making much.

Later on Italia tells Timo about a time when she was a kid and was raped when trying on a dress in a van.

Even later than that she tells him it was her own father who had raped her.

Okay . . . I get it. She's been made to feel like an object her entire life. Point taken. But why does she let herself? She gave me the impression that she's been taken advantage of several times and not all while she was a child either. And what pisses me off more than anything is the scene in the movie where she and Timo are laying on the ground, wrapped in an embrace and she says something along the lines, "Come once a week, one a month, once a year. Just come back."

WHAT THE FUCK?

I suppose being a strong-minded female, more importantly, a strong-minded AMERICAN female it's been drilled into my head to fight off someone who is hurting me physically, to report them to the police, tell a friend, tell my mom, tell a priest for fuck's sake, something, not fall in love with the asshole! We mock people like this who appear on day time talk shoes, snot faced and claim, "But when he beats me he's doing it out of love. I wouldn't know what to do if he ever left me."

And yes, I also get that she's weak and has no close family nearby and all that jazz, but come on. Their relationship is purely based on sex. Not 'love making,' but good ole, down and dirty fucking. At the beginning she's half heartedly trying to beat him off but then slowly succumbs to everything he does.

She ends up pregnant. Big surprise eh? Those crazy Italians don't seem to believe in contraceptives.

It's about this time that Timo tells Italia he's going to leave his wife.

Oops . . . did I not mention that he was married while this other "passionate" affair was going on? Yeah well, he's married (and doesn't bother hiding the ring either).

Anyway, he promises her the proverbial 'fairy tale' ending. Five minutes later he finds out his wife is also pregnant. {In our time it was five minutes.}

Can you say dilemma?

Long story short: He stays with his wife who is seemingly oblivious to the entire thing. Italia finds out. She has an abortion. He finds her nine months later. He fucks her in an alley when he finds her. She tells him about the abortion. He's pissed because he wanted the child. Here's where I get madder. She tells him she's leaving town. They spend one last night together. She misses her train in the morning because she's yelling at her dog. He offers to drive her. On the way there they stop for dinner and "sleep." She starts getting sick. He takes her to the hospital and finds out her stomach is full of blood due to the botched abortion. She dies a short time after he operates on her.

Boo fucking hoo.

This entire affair is a backdrop to the present. Timo is having these flashbacks as he's pacing the floors of the hospital he works at (he's a surgeon), waiting of word of his daughter's condition (she had a motorbike accident at the very beginning of the movie). Honestly, the only part that tugged at the heart strings even the slightest bit was when Elsa (Timo's wife) was stroking her daughter's bald head as she lay unconscious and told her that she'd cut her hair also so they could wear sunglasses and look like dorks together.

Other than that the movie did nothing for me. I've seen characters like these in movies before. Usually though they grow a conscious. And while I wasn't expecting your typical "happy ending" (that's what's so boring about most American movies) I had also hoped SOMEONE would redeem themselves in the end.

More than anything I wanted Italia to stand up to Timo. Slap him, call the affair off, bite his right testicle off like this woman did and leave him screaming her name (as I'm sure most would-be rapists know the names of their victims, pfftt), ANYTHING!

But alas, that didn't happen. Italia died a slut. Timo was selfish the entire movie up until the last moment when he practically beat his daughter back to life (You can argue that he was trying to resuscitate her, but seriously, to me he looked like he was beating her). And Elsa, as far as I'm concerned was still a bitch; however a little bit more warm-hearted. Even the doctor friend of Timo's was a piece of shit; he also paid women for sex. It's actually a surprise to me when he tells his friend that his wife left him (woohoo, someone has some common sense in this movie).

The only character I'd hope to feel anything for was the good (ha) doctor's teenage daughter, Angela, who appeared to have been his entire happiness after losing Italia, but her character is underdeveloped and the audience doesn't have the chance to find out just what type of relationship she had with her father (though it's implied they were close).

Moral of the story: Girls, if you want an active sex life marry an Italian.

God, I need a cigarette.




Random thought of the day: Dehydration is a bitch.


*'Scuse my use of four letter words, but it's kind of obvious I was upset that I wasted $6.00 and two hours of my day off on something that will be out on DVD this summer.

A Second New Year's Day

Which Family Guy character are you?

Okay, I have been pondering something all day. I was listening to my favorite people on the radio this morning when one of the disc jockey's mentioned that yesterday (May 18) was supposed to be the best day for resolutions, being that it was the 'most positive' day of the year.

Why yesterday you ask? Well after much time and calculations by some doctor who apparently had too much time on his hands he came up with his answer using a simple equation: M x O + Bh (H+R) x S.

You can look for yourself to find out what the variables stand for.

This is the same guy who came up with the date January 24, 2005 as being the 'most depressing' day of the year.

Apparently the good doctor doesn't pay much in taxes come April 15th.

Anyway, so this got me to thinking about resolutions and promises we make to ourselves throughout the year and just certain types of phenomena happening around the same time every year.

For instance, did you know criminal acts are a peak during the summer months? Especially violent and property crimes?

Is this merely a coincidence?

Or is it possible criminals knew about the whole 'Resolution Day' before the doctor did? Do you think they sit around on this 'positive' of all days and make promises to themselves about all the people they're going to murder or the houses they will burglarize in order to keep their quota?

Personally, I think they have the right attitude {I mean, not about KILLING someone or stealing their stuff . . . Gawd, that's just crazy.} about keeping their promises and being good at what they do, or at least doing a lot of it. God only knows I can't stick to an exercise regime for an extended period of time to save my life!

Then again, today is supposed to be the second best day to proclaim a new hold on life. So what's say we all make a list of resolutions and see how well we can keep them. Meet me here next year?*

Great, good luck with it!

Random thought of the day: I just don't get it.

* I've attempted online blogs twice before. If I don't meet you next year you'll know this was a failed third attempt.

Home

I want to travel the world.

And I mean, REALLY travel the world. Not in a business like sense where I have some six figure income and a job that takes me all over the place for business meetings or to meet clients or some weird thing like that.

No, I want to find the little nooks and crannies on this crazy dirt rock we call 'earth' that few people have yet to see. Of course, I'd love to see Rome, Paris, Rio de Janeiro, but I also want to visit places in between all the big cities.

I remember a drive my father and I took from Green River (which in itself is a very, very small town) to Yellowstone National Park, and seeing a town nestled in between the hills. The grass was so green and luscious and you would swear you've seen the sight on a million postcards but it still looks nothing like the actual thing. Picture the shire from the Lord of the Ring movies.

Now imagine it was ten times as pretty. Yeah, that's the town we saw on the drive up north.

You're probably wondering why I want to see places such as these. Well, to be honest it isn't necessarily for myself. Honestly, I want to be able to tell my kids, nieces and nephews and just a younger generation in general about where I've been and what I've done. I don't want to be famous and be rich, not in a monetary sense anyway. However I'd love for them to know that I have an almost fearless sense of adventure. I want them to be able to feel like they have the world at their fingertips. They don't always have to stay in their comfort zone.

You see, that's how my parents are. And my mom more so than my father. And of course, being brought up by a single mother most my life I never was presented with the idea that there was so much more out there for me. I mean, she's always told me I could do whatever I wanted and made me believe that. I've always known I was bright and capable of anything, but no one really pushed me forward. It wasn't until I moved away from the home I've known my entire life that I've felt like I had wings. Seeing huge parts of the country at a time made me think about "home" and the notion that's it's all just a feeling.

Home isn't where you were born. Sometimes it isn't even where you live at the current time. You may be married and have three or four kids and have been living in the same house since you were 10 years old and you still may not feel like you were really home.

I know the times I crashed at my uncle's apartment on the weekends I always felt home. It was safe. I felt liberated there. I could say and do anything and not be judged. It was always warm and long conversations were never at a shortage.

I feel at home in my room when no one else is in the apartment.

I feel at home at the MFAH. All the other people there are just neighbors. It's one little community. I see the same museum guides every time I go in and am greeted with the same cordial nod and smile.

Home is my best friend's car, the track I used to run along in the neighborhood I grew up in and even the third seat from the front of the bus I usually fall asleep in when I'm on my way to work.

I know it's kind of strange for me to be talking about home when I started off posting about how I wanted to travel the continent. I suppose maybe I just want to make as many places I can feel like home.




Random thought of the day: "Christians" are the biggest hypocrites, especially when they seem to be minding everyone else's business but their own.

Talking To Strangers

The other day, through the parental figure, my father tried to talk me out of getting married.

In the seventeen years that they've been divorced this is the only thing they've agreed on.

Heh. That's me for ya. I'm all about bringing people together. Peace, love and harmony man.




On another note, my younger brother left town last week. I hadn't seen him since New Years 2003. So what . . . two years, four months? Want to know how much time I spent with him? Oh . . . about an accumulated 10 hours. He spent the night at our place for one night of the entire week.

Before he showed up he told our mom that the wife wanted him to stay the majority of the nights with her at her parents' house.

(Anyone else hear that whip cracking?)

Umm, what the hell did she think was going to happen? None of our other three brothers live here in town. So, what? Did she think I was going to drag him out to some club and try and hook him up with some hot chick and then invite a few people over for a wild orgy that I was going to videotape and promote on the Internet?

*Sigh*

My brother's wife has some serious issues. If my fiance acts like that when we get married I'm inviting anyone to slap him. Then slap ME for listening to him.

I know this is going to sound so much worse than I intended it for, but I think my life would be so much more pleasant if I only knew strangers.

You see, you get to choose when you leave a situation involving a stranger. You don't have to talk to them if you want to, or tell them what you're thinking. You can lie and they'll never know, although I've often found myself being very open and honest with most people I meet and know I'll never see again. They have no preconceived thoughts about you. It's a clean slate with every stranger you meet. You decide what you want to take away from that experience.

And this now makes me think of David. I wrote about him in an email to a friend of mine:

I met a man on the bus today.

His name was David.

David {is} a 'Negro,' as he called himself. He was gracefully graying. His eyes seemed almost troubled, like they had seen a lot. They weren't sad as a person's might be if they had just lost a loved one. No, his seemed to open right up to his soul (as the saying goes) and from the looks of it his soul had taken a beating.

As well as David, literally.

He had a large discolored bump just above his left eye. And on it was a purple bruise; it appeared to have been fading because it wasn't as prominent as some bruises are at first contact. He was missing a few teeth and listening to him speak was like experiencing a carnival for the first time.

There's so much going on and so many lights that you don't even know where to begin and what to grasp and you keep trying to remember all the names of the rides as you pass them by so you can come back and ride them.

That's why I'm emailing you this just minutes after getting home, for fear that I'll forget everything he said.

He was married four times. His first wife, who he called 'The joy of my life,' ate a lot of meat and drove fast. She called people bad names and flipped them off. He was blessed with twins from his second wife. His youngest daughter is named LaCreshia, although she complains that her names sounds like 'The Creature.' {Ha} He never did mention his oldest daughter, though I'm sure he would have had he been on the bus longer.

He got on at the same stop I did downtown. He was crossing the street as the bus pulled up and sat down directly in front of me. My seat faced the front of the bus. His lined the side of the bus and faced the aisle. Another man, middle aged, got on with us and paid his bus fare after David started asking everyone for 50 cents (bus fare being $1). Shortly after the bus started moving again the man told David, "I get off at Washington Ave. I'll give you $5 if you don't say a word from now until then (which was only a five minute ride)."

At that point I began wondering how many other people paid David off to stay quiet, or maybe even threatening him. I felt bad for him and was seriously going to be pissed had the man not kept his word. Luckily he did. Had he not I was prepared to do it myself, running the scene through my head in case I needed it. I would have stopped David from getting off the bus by grabbing his arm, handing him $5 and would have said, "Next time someone offers you money to keep quiet you keep talking."

You see, David was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder (so he says, though I doubt he's lying) and was constantly talking. In fact I never got a word is besides "9:30" when he pointed to his wrist to indicate he wanted to know the time during his brief period of silence.

He was probably the only person I made eye contact with the entire night.

It was a strange experience.


I wish I knew more people like David.



Random thought of the day: Sleep while you can. Sleep while you can.