Page Four

So there's this high school after-game party going on at one of the obnoxiously large homes behind us. It's loud. Currently we're listening to a hyper-obnoxious boy jokingly scream, "YOU WANT SOME?! YOU WANT SOME?!" in some sort of girl-impressing peacockery, while the object of this romance yells back, "BRING IT ON! BRING IT ON!" Ah, high school. Fortunately for us, it's all being played out in front of the soothing strains of Panic at the Disco or the Jonas Brothers or some crap. If ever you doubted the rabid devotion to football in Texas, come stay with us for a week. Any week of the year. I'll take you somewhere in town, anywhere, and sooner more than later you'll see a legitimate businessman wearing a tie with little orange longhorns on it, a soccer mom or two or three in orange sweats that sport the word "TEXAS" across her ass where "JUICY" was really meant to be, or even better, a grown man walking down the sidewalk in head-to-toe burnt orange pajamas. I've seen it.   

Speaking of obnoxious homes, there's a castle around the corner. Not a real, ancient, stone, I-live-in-Dublin-and-James-Joyce-used-to-write-in-the-little-castle-down-the-lane kind of castle, but a house that once looked like a house and has been refurbished to look, from the front only, like Medieval Times. It's nothing short of absurd. In the driveway there are usually two or three new American cars—Chevys and Dodges, the kind that look like they were designed after the cars on ZZ Top albums and are bought exclusively by the kind of nouveau riche white trash that will soon have to bandage those sub-quality pieces of junk together with their overstock of Sarah Palin bumper stickers. 

Now, keep in mind that we live in a neighborhood that forces us to belong to a home owners' association (Don't worry—we're broke. My in-laws have very generously let us live here rent free.), and this HOA leaves notes on our cars if we leave them on the street after eleven at night. But this same HOA allowed this monstrosity of a dwelling to go up in plain view of the rest of us? Seriously? Come on. 

Uh-oh, the party has dwindled down to the last of the cool kids, and they're now listening to "Ice, Ice Baby." Shit, I kind of have to like them now.

Speaking of Vanilla Ice, did you know that at some point he was some kind of a motocross champion? He has trophies and trophies for this stuff, and a bunch of karate awards, too, I think. Who knew? Well, I did, because I worked for a motocross magazine for over four years. I learned a lot of useless crap like that there. Like who pulled the first backflip on a motorcycle, and How to Fix a Flat Tire with Your Own Skin. Really random people are really into that stuff. Mark Paul Gosselaar, "Zack Morris" from "Saved by the Bell", came into the office several times to pick up an issue or some special gear (Screech plays bass in Brea, California, last I checked). Nouveau riche, man. I guess. Zack Morris was probably born rich. Friggin NPH-Lite. 

*The Beatles? The Chili Peppers? Who are these kids? The party continues.*

That's all I'll say about MX for now. Until then, I'll dig up a poem or something. 

But first—

The "Do Yourself a Favor And..." of the day: 

Get yourself all irie and then watch "Stayin' Alive." Repeat the name "John Travolta" over and over to yourself, and you will see that, at the time, John Travolta was a baddass, and the name "John Travolta" is the most baddass name ever. It sounds like a crimson-red lightning bolt on the hood of a black '78 Corvette. Do yourself a favor. 

Oh, and Crayola invented all the names of the colors. Ask Avery, she'll tell you.

Porch Kiss
David Lynn Clucas

He sat on his porch and smoked. He was leaning back in the chair and he had his feet up on the ledge in front of him. He was drinking wine and eating cashews and chocolates, thinking about the last time he had drunk wine and eaten cashews and chocolates on this porch. It was with that girl, the tall one with the perfect brown eyes that went a little lazy when his face was close to hers. He liked her because she was tall but she wasn’t too thin; she liked to eat cashews and chocolates and drink wine and play Scrabble when they were both a little drunk. She had one eye that went a little lazy when he got close enough to kiss her.

They had played Scrabble drunk and made up words; his were all fake South Pacific fruit names and hers were all space-alien vernacular. She looked adorable when he kissed her.

But this day was later and she was gone and a Mexican guy was walking across his lawn with several shallow strawberry boxes on his shoulder. Strawberries? he had asked. No, thanks, strawberries go bad too fast. Thanks, though, gracias. Lo siento. He liked strawberries, but they went bad too fast.

She called him and he could tell she’d been crying. She started crying again. He asked her what was going on and she just talked small with him. What are you up to today? How’s the job? It was sad for both of them. Sad for him because he didn’t like to see her sad, and sad for her because she was sad. Her best friend had yelled at her, she said, and it wasn’t even my fault, she said, and he knew it wasn’t, not this time, but it had been before. But this time made her cry. He was sad, but he had stopped crying for her long ago.