Posts: 5

1. Leave A Will They Can Really Fight Over

   10.Jul.08, 14:28 EDT
   
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   So . . . recently I wrote out my will, and it goes like this:
   
   To Whom It May Concern:

    

   Maybe you've noticed, but I'm dead.  I thereby bequeath to all my surviving kin my best wishes.  I hope your life turns out as worthwhile as mine was.  I had a blast!

    

   Sincerely,

    

   D. Paz Dalton

    

   P.S.  I left millions.  If you can find it, it's yours.

   
   Nobody really knows this but me, but I'm broke.  All I have to leave behind is mostly indebtedness . . . and nobody wants that.  But people love mystery and romance, and they love a good treasure hunt.  So, I figure the least I can leave my kids and grandkids is a good treasure hunt.  And, I do have millions.  It's not dollars, that's for sure, but I'm preparing to leave behind millions of things, and I'm going to hide them well.  If nobody takes me seriously and never looks at all, that's fine.  That won't likely happen, though, 'cause everyone who knows me likewise knows that I'm capable of hiding something a real seeker might find . . . and it just might be worth something.
   
   D. Paz, 7/10/08
   
   

    

2. Conversations With Ivey, #2

   04.May.08, 22:24 EDT
   
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   It's been two weeks since I started my weight losing project, and I hadn't heard from Ivey until just this morning when I stepped out of the shower.
   
   "OK, Lard ass, step on the scales and let's see how you're doing with the weight loss," she said.
   
   "Screw you, I'm not good awake yet.  Besides, I've got to run down to Austin today, and I don't have time to fart around with you."
   
   "You're just a chicken, that's all.  You look just as fat as ever to me.  My guess is you haven't lost a pound.  And I've been noticing that you're still eating way too much.  And what's the deal with the big dinner at the Italian restaurant the other night?"
   
   "I was with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and you can't be unsociable and not eat when you're out with friends," I said.
   
   "You ate enough for two guys . . . and you can't lose weight doing that," Ivey said.
   
   "That was just the one time.  I've been eating just one big meal a day, nibbling the rest of the time.  And, I've cut out snacks."
   
   "Then get on the scales and let's see how you're doing."
   
   "OK, I'll do it . . . if you'll shut up for another two weeks."
   
   "Deal," Ivey said.
   
   So . . . I waddled over to the scales and stepped on.  That's when I saw it:
   
   248
   
   That's ten pounds lighter than two weeks ago.  I had to rub it in.  "Do you see that, big mouth?  Huh?  Huh?" I asked.
   
   I didn't get a response.  At least now I know how to shut Ivey up.  She hates it when she's wrong.
   
   C. Duhon, 5/4/08

3. Conversations With Ivey, #1

   20.Apr.08, 23:09 EDT
   
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   First off, I need to state that I'm not nuts.  I mean, just because a guy hears voices and talks back dosn't mean he's off his rocker.  I just hear one voice, and it belongs to Ivey, who's my inner voice.  I've mentioned her before, right?  Ivey?  Like for I.V., which stands for inner voice?  Anyway, I've had Ivey around for some time, so me hearing and taking back to her doesn't mean I'm bonkers or anything like that.  I don't hear strange voices, just hers, and she's damn sure no stranger.  Oh, no, I couldn't be that lucky.  I'm the kind of guy who's got to have his own special voice, an inner voice, and to top it all off, I end up with a woman as my inner voice.
   
   Second, I need to point out that I've never been lucky.  In fact, I'm perhaps the world's biggest fuck-up.  If you had a forty acre pasture with one lone pile of cowshit in it, and if I had to walk across that pasture to get to the other side, you can bet that I'd somehow find a way to step in that pile of crap.  It's even worse than that.  I could be in a small army of a hundred, all armed to the teeth with machine guns, going up against some poor dude with just one bullet, I'd be the luckless asshole who takes it.  Yep, if that poor dude had time to get off just that one shot, it would hit me right between the eyes.  I'm the dude a shot in the dark will hit for sure.  And to make matters worse, I've got Ivey around pointing that out to me.
   
   I hadn't heard from her in quite a while, but this morning when I went to the bathroom, she said, "Why don't you get your fat ass on the scales for a change and see how much you weigh?"
   
   "Go away, Ivey.  I know I'm fat . . . so what?"
   
   "All that blubber is killing you, dumbass.  You've already had one heart attack, and you were twenty pounds lighter then.  Now look at you.  You've got to be over 250 by now," she said.
   
   "I figure more like 245, same as always."
   
   "Get on the scales."
   
   "OK, I'll do it . . . if you'll shut up," I said, then stepped on the scales.  That's when the number popped up . . . 258, and I'm still not dressed yet.
   
   "I told you so.  Now what are you going to do about it?" Ivey asked.
   
   "First I'm going to take a leak, and then I'm going to get me a cup of coffee, and then I'm going to . . . going to . . . "
   
   "Finish the rest of that cake  you started on yesterday.  You ate a whole lemon cake almost by yourself, you lardass."
   
   "How much do you weigh, Ivey?  Just judging from your big mouth, you probably weigh half a ton," I said.
   
   "Wrong.  Actually, I weigh about half an ounce."
   
   "Liar.  Your mouth weighs fifty pounds."
   
   "Quit trying to change the subject.  Are you going to do something about your weight or not?" Ivey asked.
   
   "Yeah, I'll go to the store and buy some rabbit food, starve my ass off for a month, and lose maybe five pounds.  I can gain weight on water," I said.
   
   "Can I make a suggestion?"
   
   "No!"
   
   "Go to your closet and get out that Colt Cobra you seldom ever use, then put it on the kitchen table.  Every time you get hungry and start to sit down and eat, pick up  the pistol, put it to your head, and pull the trigger."
   
   "Yeah, that ought to do it.  I'll be dead, so what good will that do?"
   
   "No, don't load it, stupid.  Just put it to your head and click it.  The sound of that hammer falling on an empty chamber will remind you of what you're doing to yourself.  It's either a fast death, or a slow one, but you'll damn sure die from being fat if you don't do something."
   
   "That won't work.  I'll just click the gun, then go eat a donut," I said.
   
   "In that case, put a bullet in it, spin the chamber, and put it to your head again.  If the hammer lands on an empty chamber, you lucked out, just like you do when you gobbled down that donut.  If the hammer lands on a live round . . . well, you weight problem is no longer a problem, unless they have trouble stuffing your fat ass in the coffin," Ivey said.
   
   "You know what, Ivey?"
   
   "What?"
   
   "I don't like you . . . but  you may be right this time.  Now will you leave me alone for a while?"
   
   "Sure, tubby.  Glad we could have this little talk.  I'll be checking back on you in a week or two."
   
   You know, I hate to admit it, but Ivey made a good point.  The pistol is a good symbol of what I'm doing to myself by overeating, by being fat.  I'd never put a gun to my head, not even an empty gun.  With my luck, there's no such thing as an empty chamber.  With me, all guns are loaded.  The thought of simply holding a gun to my head makes me shudder . . . and I'll be thinking about that pistol a lot for a while.  And I'll think about what I eat, too.  So on this day, April 20, 2008, I weighed 258 lbs.  I'll write about it again in a couple of weeks.
   
   C. Duhon, 2/20/08

4. Uncle Percy's Take on Social Networking (and Computers)

   14.Apr.08, 11:06 EDT
   
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   I created this blog, called it Shots in the Dark, because it's for topics of discussion that are not likely to make sense to everyone.  Even if they make sense, they're topics that won't win lots of supporters because they're too out of the groove, off the beat, or not mainstream enough.  This is also a place for things I'm not completely sure about but have a strong inclination toward.  Uncle Percy stopped off the other day for a chat, and I started hitting him up again about getting his own space on moli.  He said no, that he didn't want to get involved in social networking.
   
   I pointed out to Percy that he'd invested a lot of time and money into his quest to become a writer.  If you remember, Percy took some courses over at the juco on creative writing, even bought a laptop and took some typing lessons from a local retired commerce teacher.  And now he's saying he wants no part of social networking, that it's just a bunch of bullshit he wants no part of.  That's not all.  Now he's saying he's not going to get involved in blogging either.  Instead, he's going to be a novelist and write big books.
   
   Remember now, Uncle Percy B. Hand is 75 years old.  He's a retired auto mechanic who thinks that profession went to hell when Detroit started making cars with computers in them.  According to Percy, the last car engine that really made sense was the Chevy 283 cubic inch engine that came out in 1957.  You could do about anything with that engine, he said . . . and it didn't have a goofy computer in it, not one.  Furthermore, Percy thinks computers have spawned an entire generation of digiheads, techno-nurds, and socially deficient people.  He says that television was nothing compared to what computers have done to the youth of America . . . and that the situation is just going to get worse.
   
   Now, Percy's the kind of guy who does his research before he jumps off the deep end.  He's not likely to come to radical conclusions . . . unless they're supported by some facts.  And his research tool?  The computer.  He used the internet to start checking out all the blog sites and social networking communities he could find.  After spending half a day checking out myspace, he damn near went into vaporlock.  He already knew moli, since I'd introduced him to that some months ago . . . but he's only luke warm even about them.  And the blogs?  He said all that nearly made him sick.  Mostly for immature users, he said . . . kids mostly, or young people.  He looked hard, he said, trying to find something for older people, but he said he found very little.
   
   Maybe he jumped to a conclusion here, but he says computers just aren't for old folks.  Oh, they're OK for shopping, or keeping up with the kids and grandkids, and for research - sometimes.  But computers in general are still very much a fragile tool, at least in his mind.  Yeah, they can do wonderful things . . . but they are not user friendly, and they take lots of maintenance.  And, here's the biggie - there's a learning curve involved, and sometimes it's a big curve.  That's OK for kids, younger people, but old people just don't want to invest the time and money to get involved in something that's just another irritation in life.  In other words, Percy thinks the liabilities outweigh the assets when it comes to computers and all that goes with them . . . at least for old farts.
   
   You should remember that we're talking about a man who does not own a telephone, or a television.  His daughter gave him a cell phone a while back . . . but he lost it . . . sort of on purpose by accident, if you get my drift.  He refuses to deal with fast food restaurants because he can't communicate with the kids who work the windows, make the sales.  He won't even use the drive up window at the bank.  Percy watched the start of the movie Cool Hand Luke fifty times, just to see Paul Newman cut the heads off parking meters over and over again. 
   
   I'm not saying that Percy is right . . . or wrong . . . but on days like today, I'm inclined to agree with him.  We own 9 computers, and something is wrong with every one of them.  Five of them are outdated, but this is something that happens about every two or three years in the computer owning business.  Four of them are laptops, and two of the desktops are fairly new.  The one I'm using automatically turns itself on and off a dozen times a day.  I could call their tech service, but I wouldn't be able to communicate with them - since I have trouble with foreign languages.  Either I can't understand broken English, or they can't speak it.  And if I can hear them, and still can't understand what they say.  I HATE COMPUTERS!
   
   But . . . I enjoy blogging, and I like my sites on moli, and I'm trying to learn to deal with the damnable computer so I can write.  I don't want to create dialogue, join forums, argue, discuss, or any of that . . . but I like hearing from people occasionally.  All of my friends, the ones I coerced into joining moli, pooped out, faded away, became nonexistant.  I don't keep up with anyone; I just blog.  And Percy might be right - it might be a waste of time.  My only response is that if you've got time, then what else are you going to do with it?  
   
   Percy didn't have any suggestions about that.  I'm not much of a mechanic.
   
   C. Duhon, 4/14/08 

5. Barflies Can Fly, They Just Can't Land

   10.Apr.08, 22:13 EDT
   
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   So what's the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic?  The drunk doesn't have to go to the meetings.  And, damn, have I ever been to a lot of the meetings.  My name's Dumbass, and I'm a drunk.  Yup, a former barfly who finally found a place to land.  Back when I was still drinking, about all I ever landed on was a pile of shit . . . mostly because that's what was handy. If you hang around bars, you'll be standing near a pile of shit, regardless of whether or not you recognize it as such.
   
   I read too much stuff these days about how wonderful the party life is, how neat bars are, how great it is to be young and free to drink.  I can empathize with that.  The world is full of people who haven't frequented near as many bars as I have . . . nor have they consumed anywhere near as much booze as I have.  Within the ranks of heavy drinkers I ran with back then, people like me were called power drinkers.  That term distinguishes us from all the lightweight drinkers, the social sippers, and most of the barflies.  When it gets right down to it, most of the people who hang out in bars are a bunch of pussies when it comes to drinking.  What I'm saying here is that when you talk about barflies, you just might not be talking about a drinker.
   
   I watched the movie Barfly with Mickey Rourke several times, trying to find something in it that appealed to me.  I had stopped drinking five years before that movie came out, and when I heard people talking about it, I went to see the thing.  It left me flat . . . and disappointed.  Rourke played some dude named Henry Chinaski, a loser if ever a script writer drafted one.  And maybe that's what the intent was, to portray Chinaski as the biggest loser of all time.  What disappointed me was that Chinaski was a pansy-ass when it came to drinking.  He was no power drinker, that's for sure.  He couldn't hold his booze, couldn't get his shit together at all, and he ended up being as much a disappointment at the end of the movie as he was at the start.  That part, however, is realistic when depicting barflies.
   
   Yeah, I was a power drinker who prowled the night with guys who made Chinaski look like a dink.  Most of us had jobs, and we managed to make it to work come morning.  On weekends, we might sleep in on a Sunday morning . . . but we drank hard and worked hard.  Drinking, if you are a sure enough drinker, is a hard life . . . not a life like Henry Chinaski had in the movie.  He was a weakling, and pretty much a chickenshit with little or no redeeming features.  And you know what?  Neither did this old boy and they guys he ran with.  We were tougher, better drinkers . . . but we were still chickenshits.
   
   I still like bars, especially if they're old time saloons.  I'll go in and have a bottle of soda, maybe a non-alcoholic beer, and visit with folks.  And I look around, thinking maybe I'll see somebody in there like I used to be, like my old gang was . . . and I don't see them.  Damn!  What happened to all the old time power drinkers?  Where are the champion chickenshits?  Maybe I'm hanging out in better bars than we frequented . . . or maybe they don't come in until long after I've gone home.  Yeah, that must be it.  I'm too much of an early bird now to be a barfly, especially a power drinker.
   
   If you're missing the point here, then here it is in good old boy talk:  All drunks are chickenshits, and a barfly is nothing but a budding drunk - a wannabe, a pretender to the highest order of boozers, the power drinker.  Most of these barflies are selfish people who've left someone waiting, or left them wanting.  It's either that, or they're the unfortunate people who have no one to leave waiting or wanting.  Either way, they are people lacking in something . . . and they're not likely to find it in a bar.  And they sure as hell won't ever find it in a bottle. 
   
   But, I'll admit one thing.  There's an education to be had in both the bar and the bottle.  It's a damn hard one, but sometimes it the only way.  And do I regret all the hours I spent in bars . . . or in the bottle?  Yeah, I regret it a lot.  I still have flashbacks, like one that still comes back to me from time to time.  I'm standing in the hallway of my home back in Oklahoma, with a sad-eyed little girl looking up at me, still dressed in her kindergarten graduation dress, asking, "Where were you, daddy?"
   
   And I won't live long enough to forget it.  And that one flashback is just one of many that still haunt me.
   
   PMC, 4/10/08