Something about dead flies and jars of perfume

When we last saw Your Humble Narrator, he had just brought his vehicle’s resale value down by about two-thirds as the result of hilly terrain, a temporarily mobile home, high velocity and his own slow wit.

Also a guardrail. Also that.

But I was all right, and after checking under the now-bent hood, determined things looked alright, so I determined to drive on. I had a wedding in South Texas to get to, after all, and just hours to cover all the miles.

Continue reading “Something about dead flies and jars of perfume”

It was the bad karma from 10,000 dead butterflies

People often ask me what happened to the front of my car.

It used to be pretty, but for the past few months, the front near the license plate has been well-crunched.

So I say, “I was dodging a house.” Then they laugh and say, “It jumped right out in front of you, huh?” And I say, “Well…”

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The cartoon virus makes the world a more colorful place

The other day, I realized I probably enjoy Facebook a little too much, or at least for the wrong reasons. The social network super giant makes it almost too easy to creep — or rather keep up with everyone you kinda sorta met one time. Or might someday.

But Facebook is a lovely thing, as much as it is a monster.

Continue reading “The cartoon virus makes the world a more colorful place”

Fourth Street stabbing

“I killed Satan.”

According to residents at West Fifty-One Apartments, that’s what 47-year-old James Spencer Williams said at about 9:15 p.m. as he walked around the courtyard with a bloody knife before running off.

In apartment No. 8, Antonio “Tony” Villa, 59, was quickly dying from a fatal stab wound in his upper torso.

Williams was arrested at 9:31 p.m. and charged with murder.

Villa was pronounced dead at 11:34 p.m.

It was a surreal scene, but one the residents of 2251 W. Fourth St. said they’d come to expect.

The complex shows signs of graffiti and vandalism, blood aged brown flecked the doorframe where Villa’s still-red blood had dried on the concrete below.

But Bruce Wood, 36, said he had lived there for a year, and it was a peaceful and quiet place before Williams arrived a few months ago.

“People could sit outside and enjoy themselves,” Wood said.

More recently, Woods said his own friends haven’t wanted to come over.

“One morning he was running around in his underwear and some lady’s shirt,” Wood said.

Other residents also described Williams walking around the courtyard wearing women’s clothing or very little, engaging in bizarre behavior such as digging holes and filling them with concrete, walking long distances barefoot at night, and ripping cushions to spread outside.

Residents said that several weeks ago, Williams used a bat to break windows on the lower level, including his own, which was the source of the older blood.

Inside Williams’ home, an assortment of odd and most broken items were plainly visible, including torn furniture, a bicycle on its side, and an upright baby carriage.

Abel Flores, 44, said Williams was somebody nobody wanted to be around, for other reasons.

“He had some kind of book,” Flores said, which Flores described as large and black, but he wasn’t sure if it was a Bible. Flores said Williams would walk around with his hands up, mumbling, “I ain’t afraid of Satan. I’ll kill Satan.”

“He claimed he was Jesus Christ,” said Sam Slate, 44, who said he was dating Villa’s 30-year-old niece Jo Dominguez. Slate said police had often been called out to the complex and Williams had been arrested before, but was never gone long. Slate said he wasn’t surprised by the stabbing.

“It was just destined to happen,” Slate said.

Although no one had a bad word to say about Villa, who didn’t live at the complex, Slate said Williams had fought with Villa before. Slate said things really got bad when Villa hit Williams with a shovel in an argument.

“James (Williams) said he was gonna get him back,” Slate said.

Joseph Fischer, 47, who lives in No. 8, said he and Villa were in Fischer’s apartment Monday night watching God’s Learning Channel with the front door open for the cool air.

Fischer said Williams just walked inside.

“We weren’t expecting nothing,” Fischer said. “I thought they’d kind of patched it up.”

But then Fischer said Williams yelled, “I’m gonna kill you Satan,” before stabbing Villa once with a knife and going back out the door, shouting that he’d killed the devil.

“We were all friends at one time or another,” Fischer said.

Oh, but I do love this city, you know

I was at Ogi’s Restaurant and Bar one Friday night, drinking with several coworkers and enjoying the night air on the patio as we waited for closing time. We talked literature, Dan Brown to Mark Danielewski, Ann Rice to Voltaire. The bartender sat down to join now and again, and a stranger overheard us and occasionally chimed in (he favored Mark Twain).

When we headed out after last call, a crowd leaving the Black Gold Sports Bar next door had gathered in the parking lot. Two men, or maybe two groups of friends, were having some sort of disagreement and violent posturing was obligatory on the part of some. People shouted, shirts came off, two guys struggled to the ground, punching. It was a dispassionate British man’s narration away from being a National Geographic program.

Anyway, the cops showed up and the show was over, and everyone did what was right in their own eyes and left.

Odessa.

Continue reading “Oh, but I do love this city, you know”

Truly our collective individuality is wonderful

My Grandpa Rod was an accountant, but even he had questions when it came to doing his own income taxes.

When he called the help line, he never asked questions he needed answered, not right off. He asked several to which he already knew the answer. If the person got them right, then my grandfather asked what he didn’t know. If the person got the first questions wrong, he thanked the fellow, hung up, and tried again with someone else.

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Either the rabbits go, or I do

It began harmlessly enough. One over-sized rabbit downtown commemorating I don’t know what for tourists to come and take their pictures next to.

In the ’90s, Jack Ben was even popular enough to make it in a promotional commercial for the state of Texas. A middle-aged couple talked about the Alamo, the San Jacinto monument and that “big ol’ jackrabbit in West Texas.”

And I dealt with it. He brought people here, which was good for the economy, and Jack Ben and I kept our distance.

Then in 2004, some slobbering imbeciles or consorts of Satan got the bright idea to make more of them, more of these 6-foot-tall bunny abominations, and place them all over town.

I hate that horrible hare and all his Jamboree progeny. I hate them, and I can’t stand to see them around anymore.

Continue reading “Either the rabbits go, or I do”

I used to work nights at a gas station

Because I worked alone and because the manager opened most mornings, it was my responsibility to make sure everything was clean and ready to start the new day. In theory, everyone cleaned whenever they got a chance in their shift, but in practice it was rare.

Our public bathrooms were outside, and even though the doors had keys, by the end of the day, especially, the bathrooms were as gross as you’d expect. Transients and carnies seemed to use it to take showers (both men’s and women’s just had a sink, toilet and mirror). In a way that’s anatomically impossible to happen on accident, feces, urine and used toilet paper could be just about anywhere. And for hygienic specifics that need no elaboration, on occasion the women’s bathroom would be far worse than the men’s ever could.

All of this was in addition to the expected grime and trash from the traffic of dozens of people who knew they didn’t have to clean up after themselves.

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My dad is a terrible pastor, but he preaches peepholes

As many people know, my dad is a man of the cloth. That cloth is usually shorts and a sweatband, but then he is the Running Preacher, after all, so this isn’t much a surprise.

As pastors go, he’s really not a very good one. Terrible, even. Most people don’t know that about him. He’s never made much money at it, never been interested in being the boss when it comes to church affairs and never had any sort of political ambition at all, including within the Southern Baptist Convention. (I wish there were more terrible pastors.)

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