Felonious Monk

Last night I went out for Thai food with my good buddy Steve. We became friends about a year and a half ago when I signed up for a sculpture class he was teaching. Not only is he a great instructor, but we immediately hit it off and soon became as thick as thieves.

A few weeks later, I had Steve over for dinner and we stayed up 'til 2 in the morning, covering every topic from art to Aristotle, our philosophical fire fueled by a copious quantity of red wine. Steve's one of the smartest guys I've ever met, extremely well-read, a world traveler, constantly curious, and has lots of tall tales to tell.

As I walked him to his car at the end of the evening, I hugged Steve goodnight, and in my somewhat altered state, I wasn't sure if our unshaven faces had simply brushed against each other, or if he had kissed me. I sometimes kiss my guy friends on the cheek, so I instinctively kissed him back.

But as he drove off, I had this sinking feeling that he HADN'T kissed me, and had misinterpreted my spontaneous display of affection. I sent him an e-mail the next day to tell him what a great time I'd had, but received no response, which confirmed my worst fears. Several days went by, and the next time I saw him, I felt kinda sheepish. He was with a mutual friend who asked if we knew each other. In response, Steve came over and gave me a bear hug and a big smooch on the cheek and said "Yeah, we kissed for the first time last week." You gotta love a guy like that.

Last summer, when Steve was relocating his studio from one side of town to the other, he needed a place to stay while he finished out his new digs, so I offered him my spare bedroom. Far from being altruistic, my motives were completely self-serving...underneath my seeming benevolence was a desire to hang out with this fascinating character. I've lived alone for more than 20 years, and Steve ended up staying for several weeks. Unlike most house guests, however, the longer he stayed, the more I didn't want him to leave. We grew really close during that time together, and I now consider Steve one of my dearest friends.

He's an extremely talented and prolific sculptor, constantly reinventing his style and exploring new materials...he's currently creating the most amazing sculptures from discarded car windshields! His prowess as an artist is exceeded only by his humility. He's generous to a fault, a riveting raconteur and an all around good guy.

I was delighted to be invited to a recent surprise party for Steve's 65th birthday. I wish I had a photo of the look on his face when he walked into a room filled with his friends and fans. The walls were covered with several years' worth of self-portraits, secretly stolen from under his bed by his girlfriend, who organized the shindig.

All of the drawings bore the same 7 digit number, Steve's primary form of identification during his 16 year incarceration. Originally sentenced to life without parole, Steve spent most of his time in prison at a federal correctional facility ironically named Terminal Island. Never one to give up hope or his perennial equanimity, Steve continued to read, to learn, to evolve as an artist, and to fight for his eventual release. Last night we celebrated his fourth year of freedom.

I consider it a privilege to call Steve my friend. He recently reprimanded me for failing to call him for help when I had to change a flat tire in the rain. I'd take a bullet for that guy. And I know he would for me.

Your Test Results Are Back...You've Got Sisyphus

In my previous blog entry, I made reference to the Greek legend of Sisyphus. In my search online for an illustration of the intrepid boulder-roller, I ran across a remarkable number of variations on the theme...here are a few of my favorites. You can click on the images to make them larger.

Mini Menace

Finding a parking space in downtown Austin on a Saturday night is about as easy as finding a left-handed, albino, Portuguese, agnostic jockey named "Sven". Which I'm looking for, by the way, if you happen to know anyone. I can offer him the lead role in a one-act play I'm working on, coincidentally entitled Mini Menace. And it would help if he could provide financial underwriting. But I'm willing to compromise on that.

I have a secret parking space in an undisclosed alleyway that is so narrow and lined with dumpsters that nobody thinks it's legal to park there. I feel kinda like Batman not being able to reveal the secret location of the Bat Cave. You tell one person, and next thing you know you got traffic backed up all the way to Gotham City.

Anyway, I parked in my secret spot, went to meet my friends, and when I returned at midnight, I discovered that my exit was blocked by a yellow Mini Cooper. The driver of this pesky little roller skate had pulled so close to my rear bumper that I had about 6 inches clearance in front of and behind my vehicle.

Unlike the girly Mini Cooper, my manly Isuzu Trooper has about the same turning radius as a Boeing 747...so I found myself on the horns of a dilemma. And just as I was thinking I'd like to impale the driver of that Mini on the horns of a dilemma, I noticed a girl who works at the restaurant next door taking a smoke break, so I asked her if she'd mind looking out for me while I attempted to get out of this tight spot.

She agreed, and about 2 minutes into my exercise in futility I noticed that she had completely lost interest and was gazing off into the distance. Air-traffic controller is probably not a career option for her. Or anything requiring more than 90 seconds of concentration. By this point I realized that even if I could maneuver out of my parking space, driving forward was not an option due to several dumpsters obstructing the way. Incidentally, "maneuver" is the French word for inching back and forth 27 times while some girl with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth who has agreed to help you is distracted by some distant, shiny object.

So I squeeze back into my parking space and decide to wait. The bars don't close 'til 2 a.m., and who knows how long the knuckle head who drives this Mini is gonna keep me cooped up. I'm 49 years old, but I can lift as much weight as a man twice my age. So, like Sisyphus, who was doomed to roll a boulder up a hill for all eternity, I decided I'd try to push that damn car out of the way.

I've since done a little research and discovered that the weight of an empty Mini Cooper "S" (I think the "S" stands for "Sisyphus") is close to 2700 lbs. And that's not taking into account the gear shift being in "P" which stands for "Pushing will get you absolutely nowhere, sissy".

As I'm standing there trying to summon my telekinetic powers, along comes a posse of 8 burly guys who look like they're on their way to a casting call for the sequel to The Gladiator. What are the chances? Better than my chances of getting out of this parking space by myself, that's for certain.


I figured that with nine of us, we could pick up this annoying thing and move it back a coupla feet. Well actually, the way I envisioned it was the eight of them lifting the car, and myself in more of a supervisory capacity. It's a good thing I wasn't trying to convince them to raise the Stars and Stripes over Iwo Jima ...despite my enthusiasm and encouragement I just could not get these guys to rally 'round the flag. "You guys are a bunch of sissies!" I thought quietly to myself as they walked away.


I was rapidly running out of options, when I was approached by a drunk homeless guy who said he'd direct me out of my tight squeeze in return for a small donation. In the movie version of this long-winded anecdote, his part will be played by Eddie Murphy. As much as I appreciated his generous offer, I wasn't sure that enlisting the help of an intoxicated panhandler was my best bet. It was beginning to look like I might need what little cash I had to catch a cab home.

I was about to throw in the towel, when a massive guy in a tight black T-shirt showed up out of nowhere. Reacting with the cat-like reflexes of Bruce Lee, I instinctively clenched my fists as I curled into the fetal position. Turns out this fellow was the bouncer from a nearby bar who happened to be walking down a dark alley hoping to make a deposit in the Bank of Good Karma.

Before I knew it, this Incredible Hulk had shoved 3 fully loaded dumpsters out of the way, directed me out of my parking space and was blocking traffic so I could pull out of the alley. I offered him my last $10.00, but he wouldn't take it, so I gave him my business card and told him if he ever needed free photos to give me a call.


I thought about leaving a note on the windshield of the offending vehicle, but then it occurred to me that I drive a gas-guzzling SUV that's consuming ever-diminishing natural resources while simultaneously burning a hole in the ozone later.

Besides...I figger I can use all the good karma I can get.

Top Ten...

...words and phrases I wouldn't mind not hearing again.  Ever.

10. Maverick

9. Hockey Mom
8.   Hemorrhoid

7. Troopergate. Since when is "gate" a synonym for "scandal"?

6. A heartbeat away from the Presidency

5. Freddie Mac & Fannie Mae

4. From Wall Street to Main Street

3. Joe Six-Pack

2. Economic Bailout

1. We're having beet casserole for dinner

Strange Signs and Ominous Omens

I saw this sign outside a hospital today. Seriously.

My thoughts were:
a. Is this a clinic where firemen can be surgically attached at the hip in order to be doubly effective?
b. A dating club for fire fighters who want to “hook up” with conjoined twins?
c. A place where firemen can adopt Siamese cats?
d. A space where members of the Firefighters Association are rehearsing an upcoming production of The King And I?
e. A nursing placement agency operating as a front for a mail-order bride service for firemen who want wives from Thailand (this seems unlikely)
f. A fetish/swingers club
g. A psychological experiment to see how many people would inquire at the front desk
h. The word “connection” is misspelled and should actually read “correction”. It’s a clinic for conjoined firefighters who want to go their separate ways.
g. More data needed.

If you know the answer, please contact me.

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys

Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold.
Lonestar belt buckles and old faded levis,
And each night begins a new day.
If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,
He'll prob'ly just ride away.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornings,
Little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do,
Sometimes won't know how to take him.
He ain't wrong, he's just different but his pride won't let him,
Do things to make you think he's right.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Music & Lyrics by Ed & Patsy Bruce

Click here to see Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys
performed by Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson & Johnny Cash

Shake It Up

I received a postcard today from my buddy Henry. He's a financial advisor at my bank, which just made international headlines by going belly up...the all-time, world's record, biggest bank bust in history. Not to mention that the NASDAQ dropped more than 700 points this week. At the moment Henry’s doing about as much business as a chimney sweep in Honolulu.

Henry has a smile that can be seen from outer space. Soon after we met, I'd think of reasons to stop by the bank so I could shoot the breeze with Henry. His favorite book is The Pursuit of Happyness. He has an autographed copy on his desk. Whenever I came in, Henry would stop what he was doing, walk over to me, flash that big grin of his and give me a great big ol’ bear hug. Do you get that kind of service at your bank?

Henry is a terrific dad. He asked me to photograph his 12 year old daughter's "jewelry line" so that he could build a website to sell her hand-made creations online. He had a portfolio of the photographs printed so that she could show off her wares. He made arrangements for her to have a "jewelry kiosk" at the convention center when a women's conference came to town. And he struck a deal with her to "pay" him a commission on each sale.

We talked about a lot of things on the phone today, and I told Henry that one of my hobbies is looking for the mystical moments in life…those all-too-rare times when I feel like I’m “in the flow” instead of swimming across the current.

Like when you see a little kid doing something funny and no one else is watching, or the girl at Home Slice Pizza zaps you with a great big smile for no apparent reason, or you're driving in your car with the windows down and your favorite song comes on the radio right when the sun is setting and the sky is that perfect shade of blue...moments that are poignant or moving or inexplicable and that leave you feeling as if there just might be something more to life than meets the eye.


Henry told me that he'd recently had a fight with his wife. They went to bed mad as hell at each other and didn’t speak for a couple of days. Henry wasn’t about to apologize to her, because he didn’t feel like he'd done anything wrong. And then he had an idea.

He remembered that he'd packed away a copy of his wedding vows with the suit he wore 12 years ago when they got married. So he went and put on his wedding suit and read his vows to his wife. That ended their fight…and I added another mystical moment to my collection.

I noticed on the postcard Henry sent me that he had changed his last name from McDonald to Muhammad. When I asked him why the name change, he said “Because I’m pretty sure I’m not Irish”.  I'm pretty sure too...Henry is African-American.

I asked Henry if his new last name meant that he had converted to Islam.  "No," he replied, “I just like to shake things up every once in a while.”

Shake it up, Henry.