a dirty little secret

Ok, shh, I'm about to tell you a secret about me. NO, not that one. Dammit, why did you have to bring that up? We said we'd never talk about it again. You fucking promised. Shit, I don't even want to do this anymore. Shit. Give me a sec.

Ok, this secret is brand new. It's been simmering for a few weeks now and I now I can no longer deny it.

I like Wal-Mart.

Honestly, it took a long time for this love to bloom. I'd always been depressed by previous interactions with Wal-Marts throughout my life, but then they built one just down the street from me. I remained nonplussed. Like they had imitation crab, but not the brand I really like. So ok, mildly convenient, but. meh.

Until the Saturday morning I was running around like a madwoman--Fatima, my saintly housekeeper who I'm sure sees gross and disgusting shit of mine but would never betray me, was over, when I realised that I had no money to pay her or the wood floor polish she uses special for me. Because she loves me. So I raced up to Wal-Mart, figuring they would have the polish and then planned to pop over to the drive-up ATM where I was already bracing myself to get behind the person who hasn't been to a bank in a few years but has decided this morning to conduct approximately 93 transactions at the ATM including buying stamps, a balance transfer, and procuring a mini-statement.

Got the polish and found an open register--saw the option for cash back and asked the lady what the max was and she said $100. $100! I was expecting $20, maybe $50. Wal-Mart has gone big time. But hooray, it meant one less stop. I held Wal-Mart's hand all the way home.

Since then, I have purchased 4 beautiful bougainvilla plants on the cheap (did I have to look up how to spell that? yes, I did), spray paint for my front porch railings, a battery charger thingy, poison ivy killer concentrate, a big fluffy dog pillow for Miss Lu, and a massive container of pina colada gum. I like pina colada. Plus there was a weird visit where I ended up buying index cards, a steak, and a copy of Raging Bull.

In conclusion, Wal-Mart and I are more than just friends now. I think we may go all the way!

A reminder of how much there is to learn

I was cleaning out some stuff this weekend and found a small booklet of bookmarks that my parents gave me last Christmas. They are of Irish writers, and each one features the author's name, picture, and a quote from one of his works. They have one for each month, so it's meant to be some sort of calendar as well.

I had totally forgotten about this and put it on a shelf, so when I took it out, I just flipped to May and found that this month is dedicated to Samuel Beckett. His picture shows a stern man with a deeply lined face, and the quote is from the one-act play Krapp's Last Tape. And it reads:

"Perhaps my best years are gone . . . but I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now."

I've tacked it to the door leading down to the basement and read it everytime I'm on my way out.

Mama, trains, pick-up trucks, and getting drunk

So I did something out of the norm on Friday. My dear friend Warrenburg calls me on Thursday night and leaves me a 932 minute voicemail that tells me the following:

• She is borderline-mentally retarded
• No one has ever talked slower in the history of man
• There is a free show for us to go to!
• It's David Allen Coe, a musician that all Texans are required to see play live, preferably in either a musty whisky-soaked bar with peanut shells on the floor or in the middle of a field under a hot sun with no shade swigging Lone Star/Shiner/ok, Olympia while hugging each other inappropriately and slurring along to "You Never Even Called Me By My Name."

So fast-forward to Friday night, whereupon MW and I are trekking up to Kennesaw to a fine musical venue called Cowboys. Over the entrance there is a big sign that says, and I quote, "Through these doors walk the most beautiful women in GEORGIA!" We read this at the same time, and without so much as a confirming glance to the other, we sashayed in.

Cowboys is a very large place. There are 2 main bars on either side, with 4 smaller bars anchoring the corners and THEN 4-6 little kiosk bars scattered around. There are also about 63 women walking around at any given time with trays of shooters. We had Tequila Rose, which some say is the nastiest shit on the planet, but which I say is yummy and delicious and shut up. One of the first things we noticed is that people really like to dance at Cowboys. Like line dance in unison. There was something calming about watching it, though, and it's also uncommon these days for me to see men dancing in a organised manner. One of the fellows was really good and Warrenburg and I kept saying things like, "Ooh he twirled!" and "Look at that kick!" to each other. We have a very low threshold for being entertained.

This was proven again when we sat by one of the beer kiosks and, without warning, two of the beer harlots leapt atop the beer bin and began dancing on the rim of it ala Coyote Ugly. This is apparently an ordinary occurance in Cowboys that has become tiresome and boring, because absolutely no one in the entire place took any notice, except the two of us who were literally agape. I kept flinching because one of the girls was wearing really high heels and was approximately a millimeter away from the edge as she flung her body around. If there was a fall, it was going to hard and disfiguring. I was extremely nervous and pined for a Tequila Rose.

Then the show started and DAC came on stage. Now, I don't recall Mr. Coe ever being a wholly attractive man, but damn. This is what I am talking about. And I think this would be considered a good picture. He is very large and has very long hair and a long beard that is braided by colored threads into two strings that are at least 2 feet long. You will not lose David Allen Coe in a crowd. You will never confuse him with someone else. The image of him is like a branding iron on the brain.

Anyway, he had this interesting thing of playing one song for a couple of minutes then seamlessly going right into another one without pause or applause. It was extremely efficient. Then Warrenburg got a text from his wife/manager Miss Kim that said to meet her by the side of the stage. She took us backstage and we were like neat. Then she said, let's watch the show up here and parted a curtain that I could see was actually the back of the stage itself. And we walked up onstage and ended up watching the show about 10 feet away from the man himself while standing on the side of the stage. The whole crowd was right there and I had the following thoughts repeating in my head:

• No stumbling/tripping/falling
• Don't slouch and suck your gut in
• Drink your beer nicely and no dribbling
• God I hope this dress isn't too short and I'm unwittingly showing my ladyparts

Despite this, it was really fun being up there. MW and I kept pinching each other and grinning. Afterwards, we went out to the back with DAC, Miss Kim, and posse and hung out and talked for a bit. I definitely get the appeal of being a groupie now.

Next we are working on nicely exploiting MW's DAC connections to see if we can get into Willie Nelson's private 4th of July parties in Austin this year. Where I'm sure there will be absolutely no marijuana.

Good.