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Pungsnotded » Miller Lite

Miller Lite


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August 8, 1991

Actually, the date was August 8th, 2012. An old friend had stopped through town, via Spain. We immediately headed to the bar, on a weeknight. The place was nearly empty, friends and a bartender. Others drifted in and out. It was a Wednesday night. We closed down the place.

The bar had a digital calendar clock. Well, we thought it was a digital calendar clock. But then we noticed the year, 1991. It was silly, we started to pretend it was only 1991. Some of us were about to be in deep shit, it was well past midnight. We would be grounded for sure. That evolved into stories about what we were probably doing on that date. Reality set in and we finally figured out that the digital calendar clock was for the bartender. August 8th, 1991 was exactly 21 years before. The legal drinking age.

Twenty One Fucking Years Ago. I am sure, that as long as I exist in this world, the years will continue to fly by. My grandma always tells me the “days are long, but the years go fast”. Jesus. I do not want time to go any faster. Sometimes, I am cursed with a memory. I cannot find my car keys, but I cannot let a scene in time go by. It plays over and over in my head. Haunts me, until I write it down. Express it. Clarity.

The jukebox was playing that night. Here is the song that froze it in time. We all had drinks. Sitting on barstools singing along…so strange to look at faces, faces I love. Faces that explained “existentialism” to me. Faces that I have slept under bridges with. Faces that were the first to hold my newborn baby, so many years ago. These are the faces that I hope will stay with me, I have lost enough…

 

The strange thing with life is that sometimes, inside you know that a moment is important. The stranger thing is that you won’t ever realize how important. I was blessed in this life with amazing parents, and the best siblings a kid could ask for…4 of the most interesting yet different people. But we groove. We survive. We are there for one another. Always laughing. Positive.

I was blessed in this life with amazing friends. I have never had a problem finding them. They are everywhere. But to have childhood friends, that is such a gift.

“The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.”
― Richard Bach, Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah

 

You lose the physical presence of your friends over the years. Nothing you can do about that. But I have learned, since August to make those moments count. If we are all gonna be here, and we are all gonna survive, let’s go ahead and make it count. Enjoy every sandwich.

I do not smoke anymore, quit almost 9 years ago. But I still love a good playlist. I have one for every situation. I was working on a new playlist, a few weeks ago, called Music to Pack Your Cigarettes By. My brother once told a girl that he could tell how much white trash was in a girl by how long she packed her cigarettes. Don’t know if that is true, but I still mimic packing my cigarettes, with my phone, one my steering wheel. Shhhh!

As I started the playlist, I realized that every song I could think of, came up EAGLES! I know, weird…so weird.

Then I started to realize, any song by the Eagles is a good song to pack your cigarettes to, and then I couldn’t think of any other songs.

It just became a thing. I miss the smell of a new pack of cigarettes. Not the smoking part, not the coughing part. Just the HEY, I am happy, new pack of smokes, and packing them on the steering wheel, the desk, my thigh, my friend’s head, you know…

I don’t even know what to say anymore. This song especially worries me. Someone is going to get hurt. And in a creepy Jodie Foster way. Get me out of here. I hate the Eagles I hate cigarettes. I need to listen to some punk rock now. STAT!

True Confession: I did buy this Christmas Eagles 45 for my jukebox. The picture was worth the price alone.

Go Ahead. Pack Your Smokes. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Unless you are cool like me and quit. Merry Christmas and Happy Easter!

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This is real. Merlin was our waiter. At Pizza Hut. The ordeal lasted well over 2 hours. I expected more out of someone named Merlin.

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Chicken Nutget. REALLY? We had to get one. Turns out, they were just nuggets.

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This was in Florida, at a Dollar Tree Store. How could you EVER throw trash in that store? It is already full of trash! And only costs one dollar!

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One big ass mother fucking toe. Measures how much? 3 1/2 inches?? That is big!

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Traffic that will stay? Come on in! It is just a busted up bridge over a creek, pull over and shoot things!

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I love metal, so NO GENTLE!

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This should not make me laugh. I am SO sorry Dennis Wojtkiewicz. I have googled you. I cannot find one single picture of your fingers. Or even your hands. Your paintings are pretty amazing. I need answers. Click this for his amazing paintings:

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AND finally, my baby kitty, Simba. He is still kinda stupid but I love him. Even if he climbs the Christmas tree and costs me one million dollars at the vet. He is my baby boy kitty and I love him!

Sorry Dennis! HOT DOG FINGERS! That should not be so funny. But still, I am googling you OLD HOT DOG FINGERS!

There are few things so sweet in this world as a partner in crime. A sister. From the moment of birth, this younger creature was there to assist on every adventure your mind could conjur. Magical things, these siblings, so close in age, so willing to suspend disbelief with you.

 

As children, my sister and I had a summer home on our back screened in porch. It was carpeted, albeit scratchy indoor/outdoor astroturf, and our wonderland. We had all of our play dishes and my mother gave us some Blue Dawn dish soap to wash these tiny things. They were washed and dried and we were allowed to eat tiny portions of spaghetti on them. I think of it, every time I am washing dishes, in my grown up life. I used to dream, back then, of having our own homes, our own stuff. We agreed that when we grew up. we would eat cookie dough and cake batter for every meal.

Those early dreams, turned out better than I ever could have imagined. My sister owns a bakery. She works very long hours, with patience, hard work and skill. But when I visit, she carves out time for me. We have drinks and we dance. And laugh and talk. I can never stay up as long as she can, she has more endurance for that thing. She lives in a building and the first night I was there, I wandered in and out of her apartment, confused. Laughing. Wondering where I would end up. I had to call for her, to help me find my way. It was like a strange dream, but all of it was my sister’s world.

The weekends I spend with her are so amazing. Sweets and treats galore. Hobart mixers that are big enough to throw a man in and kill him, mafia style. Shiny knives and giant butcher block tables, where I lean and drink coffee. Watching her drizzle icing, or prepare sandwiches. Sunday mornings coming down, she makes me eggs and cookie sheets full of tater tots. We giggle and recover.

Our lives may not be as neatly lined up as the baby dishes, we washed and dried in our summer home, but they are happy ones. I hope everyone has a partner in crime in their lives.

There is a god, maybe many of them. Somewhere along the lines of human existence one of these gods spawned forth a Willie Nelson. It matters not, how he got here, just that he is here. He is here for me.

Willie Nelson is the god of calm. No matter how hectic, stressful, erratic and crazy my life becomes, my moment of “count to ten” is always Willie Nelson. The calm that radiates from the soul of that beautiful man is more than weed and voice. I can’t sing and I don’t smoke.

Willie is a gorgeous example of what happens when a human just chills the fuck out. In my mind, he walks into a room and life stands still. No road rage, no sadness, no Rush Limbaugh.

Willie Nelson has been there for me. I want him to visit my home. I want to sit on the front porch and watch cars drive by, while we drink cold Miller Lites from a cooler sitting between us. I want to walk through the woods with him while the light changes into the yellowish hue of a 1970’s photograph. Not that Instagram bullshit either, the real thing. The crosshatch texture, the smell, the carpet and beer cans, cigarettes lit in the ashtrays, the real 1970’s in a photograph. Willie Nelson and I will have a slumber party and wear our flannel pajamas and drink strawberry soda and eat M&Ms while watching the Flintstones. Imagine falling asleep under a quilt, outside, staring up at the sky with a fire beside you and Willie Nelson playing guitar and singing beside you. There are a million miles to go in the morning but that moment is so calm. Thank you, Willie Nelson.

May you all have a beautiful Willie Nelson Day!

Barbara Sue in her new black dress.

This is a dress that I made for Barbara, on one hot summer day. We had  the  fans going all day as I slaved away on this dress. I also drank most of Barbara Sue’s Miller Lite, that scorcher of a day. Most of the time, Barbara Sue and I are together, I drink all of her Miller Lite. I am revamping this website, in order to write everyday and I am declaring Sundays, New Dress Day. One of these days, I will sew one for myself, but today you will have to see Barbara in her pretty new dress. Brrrrr, Barbara go put some clothes on.


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