![The Tao of Kyle… Friend, Actor, Poet, Director… Farmer?]()
by Richard Timothy | May 11, 2010 | Gratefully Grateful, I Think There's a Point, Life Characters, My List of Things that Don't Suck, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
There are some farewells that truly are events, were people wear dinner jackets, and sometimes retired space astronaut shows up because they heard there was an open bar, and they really had no plans for the weekend. At some farewells drinks are consumed with such exacting repetition that those drinking could give any synchronized swimming show in Vegas a run for its money. Point of clarification here, by farewell I do not mean… passed on, no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet ‘is maker, a stiff, bereft of life, rests in peace, who’s metabolic processes is now history, is off the twig, has kicked the bucket, is shuffled off the mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible, or is an ex-parrot, err human, and thank you to the Parrot Sketch for their assistance in that explanation. No, by farewell I mean that person being farewelled simply has moved to a new location on this planet that is no longer a short drive away, but at least you can still talk on the phone.
Then there are some farewells, like the one I had this past Saturday, which consisted of the me, the fareweller, saying farewell to my friend Kyle, the farwellee. Kyle and I have been best friends since 7th grade. Now if we were both in 8th grade, it would really not be that impressive of a feat, but considering we are bother in our mid 30s some of you will think to yourself, “well done” while others will think, “what an old fart.”
It was the first day of school and I was standing in the lunch line, minding my own business, hoping that they would be serving tater tots for lunch, and the next thing I hear a conversation that sounds like it’s directed at me. I looked around and saw nothing. Then I look down, and there beside me was this little redheaded kid, in glasses, looking up at me waiting for a response. I half expected him ask, “Please sir, may I have some more?” But the second we make eye contact he instead said, “Don’t you just hate it when you are standing in line and some stranger walks up to you and just starts talking to you?”
I gave him an odd smile, and told him I really didn’t know… and so began the 25 year (and going) conversation that is my and Kyle’s friendship. As it turns out, I do not hate it when people walk up next to me when I am standing in a line and start talking with me, well unless it’s because they want to sell me a watch, or ask me for some money. I guess you could say I learned that from Kyle. There have actually been a number of things over the year I’ve learned from Kyle. Here are just a few of them:
-
The only proper way to eat French fries it to dip them into your Wendy’s chocolate Frosty, or chocolate milkshake if the a fore mentioned Frosty is not available.
- The best way to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is with a glass of chocolate milk… which you dip the sandwich into. He has always been a firm supporter that if something is good, adding a chocolate flavored dairy product to the consumption process is only going to make it better.
- A great deal of my musical education is thanks to Kyle. He introduced me to The Cure, Depeche Mode, The Dead Kennedy’s, Benny Goodman, Leon Redbone, Blues Traveler, REM, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, The Grateful Dead, U2, Bob Marley, Concrete Blond, Patsy Cline, and Sigur Ros… just to name a few.
- He introduced me to The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.
- He introduced me to the first girl I ever made out with. I was freshman, she was a senior… I was pretty sure I deserved a medal for it.
- He gave me my first Terry Pratchett book, Good Omens, even though it was a co-author project with Neil Gaiman… and he gave me my first Neil Gaiman book.
- He did introduce me to the work of William S. Burroughs as well, but has since apologized for that.
- He introduced me to the television series MST3K, for which I will be forever grateful.
- I went to my first concert with him, Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers.
- He also introduced me to the work of Hunter S. Thompson… he may have apologized for that too.
-
He was my proxy drunk for the many years that I spent not drinking. He would always make sure that for every New Years we celebrated together he would drink enough for two.
- He introduced me to Opus and Bill, aka Bloom County.
- He gave me a lot of advice I ignored when I was young, and that I look forward to now that I’m older.
- We would hang out in my basement and write really bad open-verse non-rhyming poetry, which in looking back was my gateway writing style. It was the beat poets that really got us breaking out of the conventional boring rhyme writing process that was the lyrical love child of Dr. Seuss and iambic pentameter. I do think that my love affair with writing started back then. Removing rhyme and playing with words opened up a whole new realm of creativity and appreciation in writing. I started writing longer poems and eventually moved over to short stories, and have never looked back. Except now, because I needed to look back and explain it a bit.
I could keep going, but I think the point has been made. It has been quite the adventure so far. The farewell arrived rather quickly. He’d only been in town a few months. Still, it was a really good few months having him within driving distance again. The thing about Kyle is that he is the epitome of a true Goonie, the adventure never really ends with that man. This farewell is, for now, a 9 month endeavor. I mean regardless of how long he’ll be away, he’ll be back for New Years. It’s a kind of ceremony if you will. We’ve only missed spending it together a few times in the past 25 years.
So where is he off to? I only bring it up because it is so inherently him. He’s going back to his roots, back to the path that his forefathers took. He has chosen to become a farmer for the next few months. The one small difference, instead of corn, or wheat, or barley, or chickens, or whatever it was that his ancestors grew, the crop he’ll be growing is cannabis. Yep, the man is off to California to grow about 50 plants for a local dispensary. I think he loves having that conversation with people as well, mainly because he can. He’s not doing anything illegal. He will be growing the crow within the guidelines of the state of California. Plus, it’s a good way to make a year’s salary in only nine months time. His degree in directing hasn’t really assisted him with where he’d like to be or what he’d like to be doing, especially when it comes to theatre. The thing is, there is a good chance that becoming a farmer is going to enable him to pay off all his student loans in one harvest. I do find that to be subtly poetic.
Our farewell consisted of just him and me sitting in a booth at a restaurant, having breakfast for lunch and reminiscing about the past four months. Then it was time for the farewell gifts. What does someone like me get someone like Kyle as a farewell gift? It’s easy really, the first thing I gave him was the books he had lent me to read while he was in town. Second, I gave him a DVD of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along-Blog, but it is just the type of thing that is going to make him happy to watch and it will give him some new musical songs to memorize through repetition, so the next time he visits we can watch it together and sing along to all the songs while we act it out in my television room. Also, it is a standard viewing staple in anyone’s DVD library.
Finally, I returned the favor and gave him a copy of one of my favorite Terry Pratchett books, Small Gods, which he has not yet had the pleasure of reading. And then we said, “See you.” and that was that. The farewell was done and I went home to mow the lawn. A bit anti-climactic I know, but sometimes that’s life.
What are some of the things that you have learned from one of your best friends over the years?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: Parrot Sketch, tall boy and short boy, fries in frosty, Opus and Bill, New Years, and Dr. Horrible.
by Richard Timothy | May 10, 2010 | Gratefully Grateful, Holiday Banter, Life Characters, My List of Things that Don't Suck, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
One of the problems that I find with Smirking on the day of a holiday is whether or not I am going to have some free time to get some writing done on that holiday. Some holiday’s works out great, some result in me getting a Smirk posted on the day of, but just before around midnight so it can still be technically posted on the day of. Then there are holidays, like yesterdays Mother’s Day, which takes all of my writing time for the day because the holiday requires me to bask in the celebration of the holiday. If I hadn’t been so exhausted from spending a few hours running around the back yard with my 5 year old niece perhaps I could have gotten something done. But between the water fights, 27 times we played use the lawn darts to hit basketball game (they were the plastic ones), playing house, having a tea party with two baby dolls and three Barbie’s and one of Barbie’s horses, and helping her climb a few trees, I was a touched pooped by the time I got home. So with all that being said, today gets to be my (post) Mother’s Day Smirk.
Contrary to popular belief, Mother’s was not originally a pagan holiday. Ok, so maybe I’m the only one who has ever assumed Mother’s day was at its origin a Pagan holiday, but it’s my fail safe explanation. If you don’t know the origin or a holiday, just blame it on the Pagans. It’s worked pretty will for me so far. I guess that’s what I get for assuming though. Of course, you know what happens when you assume? Apparently a spell is cast and you are turned into a donkey named Ume… or something close to that. Maybe, assuming is, at its origin, a pagan thing? It sure explains that whole shape shifting donkey thing. Actually, it all depends on what origins of the holiday you are after, if you look at all the Mother’s Day holidays around the globe, we really do need to give some credit to the Pagans… thanks Pagans! As for today’s information on the holiday it is based on the US version of Mother’s Day.
Mother’s on the other hand, are just like the heart, the brain, and the nervous system. We are all born with one and we would not be here without one. Despite all our differences, mothers are one of those things that make us all the same. That is, at least, until human cloning becomes a standard practice of human devolution.
The present day version of Mother’s Day was inspired one Ann Jarvis. Back in 1868 she set out to create a Mother’s Friendship Day, which was designed to bring families who had been divided during the Civil War back together. Before the movement gained any substantial momentum Ann died on May 9th, 1905. It was her daughter Anne Marie Jarvis that keep Ann’s work going. It took a few years, but on May 12, 1907 there was a memorial service held at an Episcopal Church in West Virginia honoring all mothers. The first “official” service happened a year later on May 10, 1908. Anne then started a campaign to establish Mother’s Day as a national US holiday.
In 1910, West Virginia officially declared Mother’s Day an official holiday. The nice thing about that is who is going to say no to a holiday celebrating mothers, especially in congress. I mean there are some things that are passed that people are going to rant and bellow against it. I mean how big of a gluteus maximus article of clothing that you place on your head do you have to be to vote against something like a day to celebrate your mom? I would assume and hope that it was a unanimous decision to follow suit, because it did not take long for the other states to jump on the Mother’s Day wagon. Then on May 8, 1914 the US Congress passed a law making the second Sunday of May Mother’s Day. The next day, Woodrow Wilson proclaimed May 9, 1914 the first national Mother’s Day… ok so that really wasn’t so much funny as it is educational, but I did find it interestingly educational as opposed to yawnishly education.
Now because mothers are people too, they are all different, unique, and simply put, human. Some mothers are good, some are not. Some are nothing more than incubators, and some are your best friend your entire life. Some share DNA with you and some do not, but one thing is universal about them, they are our mother.
My dad’s mother, well sadly, I never met her. She was gone before I made my grand entrance onto the planet, but I’ve heard stories and seen photos of her. Her photos always reminded me of the incarnation of Santa’s special lady, Mrs. Claus. According to the stories my dad has shared about her, I’m going to have to say that I am about 76% sure that she actually was Santa’s main squeeze, or at the very least related to the family in some way.
As for my mom’s mom, she was a product of the great depression, a little hard, and very set in her ways, but we always had a grand time when visiting, which was about 2 to 3 times a week, and we were always welcomed. I’m not sure why, but one of my first thoughts about her is always her unexpected and always entertaining use of colorful metaphors. They were always said under her breath and when she didn’t think anyone was listening. It was more of an involuntary thing for her than anything else. It was a result of everyday “oops” type situations. Things like dropping a fork from the dinner table, accidentally pricking her finger with a sewing needle, or dropping a washed dish while she was drying it by hand. Each of these situations would trigger an automatic cursing expulsion. This whispered flurry of words would always give my siblings and me a fit of the giggles, which we would blame on the cartoons we would be watching. I never dared repeat any of the words I learned from grandma until I was at least in junior high school. For the record, it wasn’t your standard back ally, drunken sailor profanity either. It was just your standard, run of the mill, ok-for-70’s television profanity.
Then there are the Karen’s. Both Angela’s mother and my mother are named Karen, which is of Danish origin meaning pure. As far as mother’s go, actually as far as people go, I’ve never met a woman so devoted, concerned, loving, worried for and unconditionally loving and supporting as my mom. My only gripe is that she is one of those older generation mothers who believe serving others is what a large part of life is about, which is fine, but she does have a difficult time receiving anything for herself and accepting how amazing she truly is. Interestingly enough my new, second mom, Angela’s Karen is a bit similar in this behavior as well.
There is a song by Natalie Merchant that, from the first time I heard it, reminded me of my mom. It very simply, accurately, and beautifully put into song the way I feel about her. It was the song that I dedicated to her, and dance with her to, on my wedding. I suppose you could call it my official Mom song. So for this Mother’s Day, and for every Mother’s Day to come, I dedicate the song Kind and Generous to my mom’s, Karen and Karen, and to all the secondary mother’s I had growing up, Anson’s mom Helen, Kyle’s mom Carol, and Buck’s mom Nan. To my mother’s… (Note: There are two songs in the attached video, the first song is the one I’m referring too. I would have linked the official video, but I think it takes away from the message I find in the song.)
Thank you and I love you.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A89kgQK3pfU&feature=fvw]
(Click here if video did not play. Click here to see the lyrics.)
What song would you dedicate to your mother?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: dad spinning daughter, pagans, mothers day, mrs claus, and mom hugging son.
![The Tao of Kyle… Friend, Actor, Poet, Director… Farmer?]()
by Richard Timothy | Apr 9, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Life Characters, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking, When I Was a Kid
This story starts as all stories on this subject start… with good intentions followed by a series of bad choices. At least I think that’s how it started. While going to college in Powell, Wyoming I was without a car… actually I started with a car, but it died about 30 miles from campus. And when I say died, I mean dead died, like never coming back dead… like Steve Buscemi at the end of Fargo not coming back dead.
My first car was a 1971 Chevrolet Impala. Believe me there is no need to be impressed. The car cost me $50 dollars and it was a vomit aqua color of blue and green and rust all mixed together. The inside was gutted so that there was not padding or covering of any kind on the inside roof of the car. And it burned oil. It burned oil like a Brit drinks gin, like a vegan eats tofu, like an alien probes a… abductees. Yeah it burned a lot of oil. We named it the Lucky Bastard mainly because it had actually made it to California and back when the previous owner, my friend Ryan, felt compelled to learn to surf before heading to the UK for a few years. It was a miracle that the car made the round trip and we still running for that matter.
As I was driving to Powell I was traveling along a windy canyon road and found myself stuck between a Pratchett Troll and a dab spilled soy sauce on a white shirt (a rock and a hard spot). There was a large yet motionless exhaust pipe in the middle of my side of the road. There was a car traveling in towards me in the opposite lane and a cliff with at least a 50 to 75 foot drop-off to my right. So I took the only logical option I had. I slowed down as much as I could and ran over that exhaust pipe. This resulted in a very large crunching noise the emitted from under my car. It sounded a little like two Transformers making out. So when I found a turn off point I pulled over and checked out the car.
The back seat was so full that I could not see a thing out of the back window such had a billowing cloud of white smoke coming from my car. I couldn’t really see a problem, but when it comes to a working knowledge of car related things, well, I can usually identify the color, but that’s about as far as I usually get. Long story short, the crunch I heard was the exhaust pipe knocking a dime sized hole in my oil pan. It only took 20 more miles before all the oil had run out and the engine seized, never to be started again. The tow man did take pity on me and was kind enough to town to Powell even though we were already in a Cody (a town about 30 miles away from Powell).
Hence, this is how I arrived in Powell with a car and without any transportation. So when a friend told me that there was a co-op in Billings, Montana (a city about an hour and a half from Powell) that was selling some rental mountain bikes for about $200. Sure it was four times more than I paid for my car, but it was also going to be 10 time more reliable. They were that year’s model and they had been well taken care of and kept up. I was in, I just needed to find a way to get there and bring one back with me.
Turned out that Carrot Jim and a few other people were heading up to Billings that Saturday and were happy to have me join the trip and help donate to the fill the tank with gas fund. We went to the co-op first and picked up the bike with no troubles to speak of. It was a mountain bike with front shocks and it was just my side. Carrot Jim even had a bike rack on the top of his Jeep. It was one of those older model station wagon style Jeeps. I know there’s a name for them, just don’t care enough to look it up.
Now as I was test driving the bike and taking care of the purchase and all, some of the people in the Jeep thing had… hmm, let’s go with they were suffering from glaucoma and took some time to ingest some air that just so happened to be filled with a little HC accented T. I mean I know one of the side effects is poor short term memory, but what happened next was… I really just couldn’t believe it.
Once we had attached the bike to the roof of the Jeep, most of the people in the car were expressing an intense desire to get something to eat, and Jim needed some carrots. His backup bag was now empty. He suggested a place in the downtown area that had great coffee and good food. It was unanimous and as short while later we were in the heart of downtown Billings. Jim mentioned that there was parking lot close to the café that we could park at. What he failed to mention was that it was an indoor parking lot. So as he pulled into the place I spoke up from the back seat, “Dude, you have a bike on the roof of your car!”
This received with a few giggles and Jim continued pulling into the parking building. I tried again, “Jim! There’s a bi….”
And I was interrupted by a very loud crash, bang, boom, and scraping sound from the roof of Jim’s car. He slammed on the breaks and actually said, “I thought you were kidding!” as he jumped out of the Jeep so we could check the damages. The front fork shocks were dead, but they are what saved the frame of the bike. The seat had caught one of the low cross ceiling beams and the shocks were pulled out of their tubes and stretching out the springs.
I was baffled when I got out of the Jeep. He thought I was kidding? What? Why… How is that even possible? He helped me attached it to the roof of his car less than twenty minutes ago. I mean… seriously! All I could figure is that it must have been some amazing pot, because that much memory loss over just a short time and distance was simply dumbfounding… and commendable if you think about it. I mean the fact that most of them graduated, well done indeed.
It was clear that Jim didn’t care about my bike at this point, we was more concerned about any damage to his Jeep. Other than a small dent or two there was no real damage. I on the other hand was going to need to get new front shocks, which meant that my just bike was about to double in price. New shocks were going to cost as much as I had just spent on the whole bike, which I didn’t have. Yeah I was pissed at the time, but I would imagine most people in my situation would be.
Jim sensed this and to help smooth things out promised to pay for the new shocks, all the while apologizing profusely. The unfortunate part was that the reality was that we were both broke college students, so when I finally got the bike fixed and called while with the bill, he was honest and told me he would be paying it. He didn’t have any money to do so. So I responded like the young 20 year old I was who was also a broke college student and just used their portion of the rent to get their bike fixed because they were told they’d get the money for it. I started swearing at him and doing my best to point out every possible flaw I could think of about him in regards to his failure as a human being.
Sure I felt bad afterwords, and I know he felt bad about it as well, but I was stuck in victim mode and was angry and chose to be mean and unforgiving. Youth can do that to you sometimes. So we stayed clear of each other after that. We wouldn’t even acknowledge one another at parties, or art shows, or in classes we had together. It was too bad too, and in the scheme of things, utterly pointless.
I think the saddest thing was that even after 13+ years of this event transpiring, one of the first things Jim said to me when we reconnected on Facebook was that he was a little worried about accepting my friend request and that he had a little anxiety when he saw my name on the friend request because of the bad way things ended between us. That’s way too long to be carrying around that type of bad energy. It’s so bad for you on so many levels. We’ve since cleared away the any residual negative waves between us. I don’t know if we’ll get any further than old college acquaintances, but even if that’s where we end up, it’s profoundly better than it was for all those years. And based on that alone I think it’s a rather happy ending to an unfortunate event. Besides, the mental image of watching a Jeep drive into an indoor parking lot with a bike on the top of it is going to keep putting a smile on my face until the day I die.
What are your thoughts?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: 1971 Impala, tow truck, mountain bike, bike rack, apologize, and shaking hands.
![The Tao of Kyle… Friend, Actor, Poet, Director… Farmer?]()
by Richard Timothy | Apr 8, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Life Characters, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
College is one of those things that will always mean something to those that went to college. What does it mean? Honestly, it just means that they went to college. For some people I know, college was a wise choice. I, for one, appreciate knowing that my dentist went to college and got a degree in the art of wielding tools of oral torture. Just thing of how unsettling it would be to walk into a dentist’s office and find him reading a “Cavity Drilling for Dummies” book just before you are to have a cavity filled that appointment.
I also need to point out that college, for a lot of people, is one of the most expensive private party clubs they will ever join. I know I’m still paying off the cover charge on my last collegiate endeavor. There is a universal conversation that all college goers have about 2 days after graduating or leaving for good, and that is, “Do I have to start paying of my student load right now, or in like a week or two?”
In my case, I went to college twice, once for art and once in hopes of getting a degree that could help me get a job afterward. The art school I went to was a touch odd on a few levels. For one thing, it was a school in Wyoming that was known for its arts programs. I should state that it was only known for this within the state of Wyoming, no one had any idea this was even possible. Besides, if you know anything about Wyoming you know that this equates to about 12 people actually knowing about this school. Ok so maybe there were a few more than 12, the point being that there just aren’t that many of us. In fact, if there were a Wyoming species of human, I’m pretty sure we’d be on the endangered species list.
Another oddity about the school is that it was also an agricultural school, for farming, and horses, and rodeo, and other cowboy and farmer like skills. Ok that’s actually more of an expectation instead of an oddity, but it did mean that about 90% of the students were either art majors or agricultural majors, and that does make is a touch odd as far as Wyoming colleges goes Other than the initial surprise that Wyoming actually has colleges.
The nice thing about being an art student is that, traditionally speaking, artists are rather odd ducks. If there is one thing I learned from the ugly duckling story it’s that odd ducks need to stay together … oh and don’t be a mean bastard. I’m pretty sure that was one of the lessons in that book.
It was during this attempt at being an art student that I met the lad I want to talk about today. His name was Jim, but we called him Carrot Jim. And before he was Carrot Jim he was Banana Jim. I wish I could say that it was because he was a vegetarian, but I don’t think he was. The banana name came from his bananas… the ones in his sketchbook. You know, the more I keep talking about this the more I think I’m going to get in trouble. See Jim was one of those artists that always had his sketchbook out and was working on a drawing. It was quite inspiring really.
Now if there is one thing you can count on from an artist it’s that they have phases. Picasso has his Blue phase, Monet has his water lilies phase, Pollock has his splashy-splashy dribble-dribble phase, and Jim, well, Jim had his Banana phase. He was always drawing them… and for the record, when I say banana I mean that strictly in the fruit that The Librarian of the Unseen University loved to eat. Besides Jim’s banana obsession, the other thing that set him apart from the other art students was his glasses. They were of the Buddy Holly genre of eye ware and you usually saw those dark horn rim frames before you saw Jim.
Jim belonged of the pasty pigment phylum of man and because of that his eye glasses were one of his more distinguishing physical identifiers. Perhaps this is what started the carrot project, I’m honestly not sure, but what I can tell you is this, college is a time to experiment and try new things just for the sake of trying it. Jim was no different.
It started out as one of those “You know what I heard” conversations where someone actually said, “You know what I heard? I heard that if you eat a bunch of carrots it will eventually turn your skin orange.” This was followed by a barrage of, “gnut agnaa”, which can be loosely translated to mean, “oh no it won’t.” There was however one “Really!” in the bunch. Maybe it was a result of being too pasty for too long. Maybe it was because he wanted to be the same color as Alan Steel in Hercules Against the Moon Men. Then again, knowing Jim, he just wanted to see if it could be done.
And that was the birth of Carrot Jim. For the next few months, for every meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner Jim ate carrots. Not just a few carrots, but a cafeteria tray half full of carrots. He did eat other things and as I recall was a big fan of coffee, but mostly, he ate carrots. Now perhaps it’s just me, but attempting to change your skin color through mass consumption of carrots would fall under the “seemed like a good idea at the time” category of ideas, which usually translates at some later point to “that really wasn’t a very good idea, why didn’t you “friends” try to stop me.”
And why is it when a friend makes a poor choice and then later reviews it, you suddenly become a “friend” as opposed to a friend, when they talk about your lack of stopping them from the choice they made. Yeah, and they always raise both hands, doing that little bunny ear sign in each hand when the say friend just to make sure you know the word is housed in quotations. 
This is when you attempt to explain that you, on numerous occasions, did attempt to defer them by saying things like, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” To which you always received trite and unimaginative response, “Well I’m not you.” In most cases people are going to do what they want, regardless what friends and family tell them to do. So stop trying to blame your “friends” for your choices. Case in point, I blame no one but myself for that six month period I went through that I tried to mimic Robert Smith’s hairdo. And you want to know why I did it? Easy, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Still, after about a month of mass carrot consumption Jim slowly started to tint orange, and with each addition week the more pigmently altered he became. I mean sure he might have been a little pasty, but at least it was a normal color that didn’t both confuse and detour the opposite sex, or whichever sex you fancy. Watching Jim turn orange, albeit entertaining, was in the end rather unfortunate. He did stand out in a crowd thought, and the ladies did notice him, it’s just none were interested in “getting a cup of coffee” with Carrot Jim. I think the biggest problem was that orange just wasn’t his color. Poor guy. Although, regardless of anything else that could be said about this experiment, I’m sure we can all agree on one thing… at least the lad was regular.
Jim couldn’t stop either, the carrots I mean. He said he had become addicted to them and could not stop eating them… so I slapped him, threw some milk in his face and yelled, “The power of beef compels you.” while hitting him with a half eater hamburger paddy. Ok, maybe not, but we did talk to him about a possible intervention. Eventually he began to cut back. I’m not sure he ever quit completely, but his skin did eventually return to its natural shade.
My friendship with Jim ended as most college friendships end, we graduated and moved on. Sadly there were some uncomfortable feelings at the end, which at the time was a big deal. In your early twenties there are a lot of big things that turn out to be not that important at all. And now, it just makes for a good story that has been known to get a laugh from time to time. I’ll have to tell you about it sometime.
Although, thanks to the reconnectability magic of Facebook, I’ve since caught up with Carrot Jim. He’s just Jim now and turns out he stuck with his art, and fortunately for everyone, he got past his Banana phase. From what I’ve seen of his recent work, he’s become a rather fine artist.
So, any of you have any friends that tried and succeeded in turning themselves a different color?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: college, sketching in sketchbook, baby carrots, finger quotes, and intervention.
![The Tao of Kyle… Friend, Actor, Poet, Director… Farmer?]()
by Richard Timothy | Mar 2, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, Life Characters, Non-Fiction
When Nobody was living in Alaska, he worked in a small town that became a hub of business for a few short periods during the year when the town would surge into over population from fisherman around the world seeking the chance to fill their daily catch limit of Salmon. Apparently the river close to town was renown for the congregation the salmon that would pass through on their way to some big orgy fest the salmon held each year in Alaska. I guess its kind of like the fishy equivalent of an aquatic burning man.
As is the stereo type of small towns everywhere, the novelty of having someone new move into town always brings with it a certain amount of excitement. Nobody told me about meeting the locals. He said there was one he said always stuck out in his mind, and that was Brody Smooth. Brody wasn’t even his real name. To this day Nobody’s not even sure what his real name was. The reason for this was a result of an evening of conversation and making friends with the locals at the town bar. With a name like Nobody, you are guaranteed the floor when the exchange of stories begins. It had better be a good story at that because your first story is usually what the locals are going to use as the catalyst for making their decision about your character. Nobody was either going to be “alright in their book” or “one of those no-so-bright kids.” I’m not sure they really care either way, they just want to get an understanding of how fast or slow they will need to talk to you for you to understand them.
It was after Nobody had finished his story of how Nobody became Nobody, that Brody, after a few minutes on contemplation made the comment, “Yeah, if I was ever to change my, I change it to Brody Smooth.” He then tried to cover it up by saying that he would never change his name, but it didn’t matter. The name had been uttered and there was no taking it back. Everyone in the bar started to laugh, and that is the night Brody Smooth became Brody Smooth.
On the evening before Brody was going to head out and get his camp set up for the salmon run, he and Nobody met at the bar. It was a pastime for the locals to meet at the bar, stay mostly sober and people watch for the entire evening. They were passive aggressive fans of this time of year. They were annoyed by all the tourists, but it also allowed them to create new conversations with each other once the fishermen had all left town. It gave everyone new stories to share with each other. Some of the tourists even became sort of lite-friends with some of the locals, you know like lite mayo, or lite beer. Something that smells, tastes, and feels like the real thing, but is really just a cordial pretend version that really doesn’t do any damage do you agree to coexist then you are together. The fishing trip every year was a kind of reunion. There were never any letters, calls, or any other type of correspondence between them. But once a year in Alaska these lite-friends, would be friends until the salmon run was over.
It was during this evening that Brody told Nobody about his yearly sacrifice. Apparently, on opening day of the salmon run the banks of the river and packed with fishermen standing shoulder to shoulder ready to cast the first line and pull out an Alaskan king salmon. I believe this is the point and why it’s so popular. It’s talentless fishing at its best. No skill = a great reward.
Brody explained that every year he always made his way to the river with a revolver on his hip and a sawed off double barrel shotgun in backpack. No one really noticed his arsenal as he would squeeze in between them. Then, as the official casting time arrived and a wall of men with almost water ballet precision flick their wrists and thousands of small hooks dance through the air and land in the river with a sort of a “gooch” sound. Then, almost immediately after hitting the water thousands of fishing rod reels begin to fill the morning air in a sound like the 100 little people playing kazoos have sucking down have balloon filled with helium. Fish after fish are pulled on the rock cover shore. The hooks are removed , the fish are placed on a string and and another cast is made.
Brody admitted that he always struggled with these types of crapped fishing conditions. One of the things he loved most about Alaska was the utter lack of cramped spaced. It was this very thing that triggered Brody’s first fishing season sacrifice. It worked so well that it became a yearly ritual. As Brody reels in his first fish of the season he get the fish about ten feet away from him, drops his pole and rushes the fish while screaming and pulling out his shotgun. Once he get to the fish he unloads both barrels into the fish, then as he drops the shotgun he pulled out his revolver and unloads all six shots into the fish. “Sure it’s a waste of a perfectly good fish,” he told Nobody, “but I always have at least 4 to 5 feet of space on either side of me the rest of the day.”
And that was Nobody’s story about the one and only Brody Smooth.
What did you think?
Image Sources:
Google Images, key words: eels, fishing, and small town Alaska.
by Richard Timothy | Feb 25, 2010 | I Think There's a Point, It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, Life Characters, Non-Fiction, Observationally Speaking
One of things that always gets me smiling is when I reminisce with myself about old friends… sometimes, when I’m lucky, others are there to hear the stories about these characters from my past. These stories are about people who have come into and gone out of my life. They are the “time and place” people of my life. They were there for a time and will always have a place in my mind that I get to share with others from time to time. I think we all have people like this in our lives. So what better way than to pay homage than to share some of things about them that always made me smirk.
Nobody is one of the first ones that comes to mind. Then again, he usually is when the topic of unusual friends begins being shared with current friends. Nobody was a regular at Caffe Ibis, the coffee shop I worked at when I was going to the university in Logan, Utah. I was working in the deli section of the place, which was brilliant because of the creative license we always had to make some random lunch special from scratch each morning. One of my favorite parts was writing the story behind the special on the special of the day board. A bit of a shocker I know. We were a “conscious” deli, using local growers when we could and always using organic products whenever possible. The coffee was more “conscious” than the food. The owners specialized in triple certified organic coffee, which for coffee connoisseurs means something. They roasted the beans right in the back. (Incert deity of your choice here)! That place stunk, especially during those roasting times. Then again you know my feelings about coffee aromas so it does make some sense.
Being a local and alternative coffee shop and cafe we attracted a particular type of clientele. I mean we attracted all types of people, but we became a hangout for the local hippie kids. So much so, that on more than one occasion we found a particular type of plant growing next to the trees in the growing pots that were outside on the sidewalk.
Is all this necessary? I don’t know. But it does give you the setting for when I first met Nobody. He came in for some hummus, pita bread, and a cup of joe. My friend Kyle, and co-worker, already knew him.
“Hey Nobody.”
“Hey Kyle. Hey new guy.”
“This is Rich.”
I smiled, thinking to myself, “Nobody? Kyle just called him Nobody. I nodded at him. “I’ll be it’s just a nickname. All the little hippie kids have nicknames. Hell, I’ll bet I only know real name of maybe three of these guys.” I then walked into the back were I could not be seen and asked Kyle to come with me for a quick minute.
“Nobody? Really? It’s a nickname right?”
Kyle smiled, “Nope.”
“Soo?”
… more smile.
“There’s a story there isn’t there?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re not telling me?”
“It’s his story.”
I called Kyle a few choice expletives, because that’s how civilized boys in there 20’s expressed appreciation to their best friends in the… always I think. Come to think of it I still do that with my brother Mike all the time. Every time we see each other he’ll yell out, “Rich!” Causing me to reply with my own cry, “Mike!” Then in unison, we yell out together, “YooouuuUU BASTARD!” And then clamp hands in a solid handshake. Granted, whenever we do this and our mom is around she always yells, “Stop it!” Every time we get to the bastard part. This always reminds us to tell her, “No offence meant mom.” And then our dad starts laughing.
Over the next few weeks I got better acquainted with Nobody. He had been in Alaska working and was back for a while deciding what he wanted to do next. He became one of these reliable work friends. They type of person that comes in a few times a week to say hello, strike up a conversation, and then go in his merry way once things started getting busy and the prospect of an active conversation became filled with the lunch hour rush. I think the official term of this is “a regular.” I did see him at the occasional party, but we never really hung out other than at work.
It was the day he came in with his new driver’s license beaming with pride, because it said Nobody ion it. So I finally asked, the two big questions, how and why? He replied, “I have scruples and I am my word, even when it’s a result of a bad conversation as a result of a very very drunken evening.”
I gave him a glass of orange juice to help with the scruples, and waited for his next sentence. I half expected it to be, “…besides it seemed like a good idea at the time.” But it wasn’t. As he unfolded his story he explained that he had made a promise, and was one to keep his promises. He and a friend were having an intensely inebriated evening and the topic of name changes came up. They started laughing at how funny it would be if one of them were to legally change their name to Nobody. Nobody volunteered that if his friend would pay for all of the costs to get it done then he would do it. The friend agreed, and make Nobody promise to do it. He promised and both agreed that it was the most brilliant idea they ever had.
The expected course of these types of conversations is, because they are incredibly common once copious amounts of liquor are involved, to be instantly dissolved once you wake up with a pounding headache and the short lived pledge that you will never drink again. In Nobody’s case, the next morning only strengthened the friends resolve that this was one of the most brilliant ideas they ever had. Some paper work, some fees, and a lovely little sit down with a judge resulted in Jonas becoming Nobody. The judge said he had to keep his last name, but that was something about my time in Logan, I made a lot of friends, but I’ll be buggered if I ever knew any of their last names. I had all their first names down, but last names… no bloody clue.
“Not everyone can do the Nobody thing.” he once told me. His parents still call him Jonas, as do a few old friends, but to me he was Nobody. It was oddly fitting. Not to mention the endless hours of personal appreciation I would get telling people I spend the afternoon talking with Nobody. Or saying I saw Nobody at last nights party. If felt like I was on the verge of starting an Abbot and Costello skit at any given moment when Nobody was in the equation.
He had this brilliant story that he would share about Broody Smooth. A local he met working in Alaska during the fishing season. Actually, I’ll share that with you tomorrow. It’s… it’s the story of Broody Smooth, there’s no other way to put it.
Nobody ended up going back to Alaska, and I lost track of him at that point. Still one of the first stories I love to share with new friends is the time I spent in Logan Utah becoming friends with Nobody.
Any of you have friends who have changed their names?
Image Source:
Google Images, key words: name is nobody, hippies, glass of oj, and who’s on first.
There are some farewells that truly are events, were people wear dinner jackets, and sometimes retired space astronaut shows up because they heard there was an open bar, and they really had no plans for the weekend. At some farewells drinks are consumed with such exacting repetition that those drinking could give any synchronized swimming show in Vegas a run for its money. Point of clarification here, by farewell I do not mean… passed on, no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet ‘is maker, a stiff, bereft of life, rests in peace, who’s metabolic processes is now history, is off the twig, has kicked the bucket, is shuffled off the mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible, or is an ex-parrot, err human, and thank you to the Parrot Sketch for their assistance in that explanation. No, by farewell I mean that person being farewelled simply has moved to a new location on this planet that is no longer a short drive away, but at least you can still talk on the phone.
It was the first day of school and I was standing in the lunch line, minding my own business, hoping that they would be serving tater tots for lunch, and the next thing I hear a conversation that sounds like it’s directed at me. I looked around and saw nothing. Then I look down, and there beside me was this little redheaded kid, in glasses, looking up at me waiting for a response. I half expected him ask, “Please sir, may I have some more?” But the second we make eye contact he instead said, “Don’t you just hate it when you are standing in line and some stranger walks up to you and just starts talking to you?”
I could keep going, but I think the point has been made. It has been quite the adventure so far. The farewell arrived rather quickly. He’d only been in town a few months. Still, it was a really good few months having him within driving distance again. The thing about Kyle is that he is the epitome of a true Goonie, the adventure never really ends with that man. This farewell is, for now, a 9 month endeavor. I mean regardless of how long he’ll be away, he’ll be back for New Years. It’s a kind of ceremony if you will. We’ve only missed spending it together a few times in the past 25 years.
