(Phaysis)

In high school, I ran with a group of guys who, in retrospect, I call “The Four Horsemen”. Greg, Steve, Doug, and I, with our gaggle of girlfriends and anciliary characters. Doug was the last of us to join our group, with me the third. I met Greg in bowling class, and Steve through his friendship with Greg; I’d join them for lunch because they were nicer than most. Doug I met a year later in drafting class; a loner, he’d go off to not eat lunch down by the DECA snack bar. Finally, after enough harrassing, we got him to join our ranks and we all proceeded to do adolescent nonsense at each other’s houses.

I think it was my 18th birthday or somesuch. Maybe a sleepover. My mother, preparing for a houseful of hungry guys, made a huge pot roast with all the trimmings for dinner. It got loud and raucous, as we were wont to do sometimes. Occasionally we’d attempt to outgross each other. Stuff guys do. And so the meal went.

I took a bite of meat and chewed for what seemed like forever; there was gristle or inedible fat in my bite, so I reached in, pulled it out, and set it on the side of my plate. Without missing a beat, Doug, who sat to my right, reached down, picked up the chewed-up wad of beef fat, shoved it into his mouth, and commenced to eat it until it was gone.

It was then that I knew that my friend, Doug Marshall, was the Devil.

Run forward to the end of that year. I had returned home for the holiday after my first semester at college, and I would hang out with these guys, all high school seniors at this point, as much as possible during the holiday break. Doug’s family was gone to north Arkansas for the holiday but he had to stay behind due to his pizza delivery job, so we went to his place a lot. Can’t let a buddy stay way out there alone with no parents around, right? Call it charity.

The Marshall compound was, by my standards, a rather sizable house with a pool, hot tub, pond, patio, woods, and fireplace miles beyond the farthest end of South State Line. It took a considerable amount of time to get out there depending on which path you drove — there was no such thing as a quick run to the store. You could drive the longer, normal route, meaning you took Highway 71 and Line Ferry Road, or you could go the quicker, fun way, which is the network of twisting, half-paved, half-graveled unimproved county roads beyond South State Line. We took to the fun way as often as we could.

One night, three of us were hanging out at the Compound. Steve was on the phone in the game room, Doug was loading up the fireplace in the den, and I was in Doug’s room dubbing off CDs onto tape. Doug walks in and tells me he and Steve are going to go collect some firewood. I nod at him and return to my dubbing.

An hour later, I hear the faint sound of the outside door slam, and Doug stumbles down the hall and into his room, barefoot, dazed, out of breath, and with his forehead covered in blood. “Shawn, c’mon, let’s go. We just had a wreck.”

We jumped into his mother’s car and headed back up South State Line. “Where’s Steve? Where’s Steve?” I asked.

“We went to town and picked up Jennifer.” Jennifer was Steve’s underaged girlfriend. Their dating was forbidden by her parents, given their age difference, so she would have to sneak out after they went to bed. So by now it’s obvious who Steve was calling. As we went, I could make out the faint shape of Steve and Jennifer hobbling towards Doug’s house. We picked them up, and went up to examine the wreckage.

The wreck was at a quick dog-leg in the gravel road where a large oak sat inches from the outside of the curve. Doug’s silver econobubble looked like it was breaking quantum physical laws by sharing spacetime with the tree, like the tree was growing through the front right corner of the car. The driver side of the windshield was spiderwebbed around the impression of a head, steering wheel bent at rough angles. Doug clutched his chest. The driver seat was twisted at the right shoulder from where Steve flew into it from behind before crowning himself on the dash. Luckily, Jennifer was buckled in the back next to Steve, so her injuries were minor. The front passenger seat? It didn’t do so well, either. Anybody sitting there would’ve been pinned and damaged for life.

I don’t know what caused the wreck. Don’t know if Doug was up to his usual risky behavior. Maybe his headlights were off while going fast, trying to prove he could drive the familiar road blind. Maybe he swerved to miss some sudden wildlife. Maybe it was a random patch of ice. Who knows for sure anymore?

But I know that it was Doug’s bald-faced white lie that saved my life. If I knew they were going in to town, I would’ve dropped my tapes in search of adventure. If I knew that “collecting firewood” meant “going to pick up Jennifer”, I would’ve been in that passenger seat. But the Devil lied to me, and as a result I live able-bodied, twenty years almost to the day later, to tell the tale.

I never really thanked him for his betrayal.

Those few of you who follow my postings, you’ll be pleased to know that I’m travelling to Texarkana this week to celebrate the Foodeating holiday with my family. I’ll be there for a few days, but before I know it, I’ll be itching to leave town again. But not until I make my rounds and see a few of you. I’ll be giving you a heads-up when the time comes. If you’re desperate for some Shawn time, hit me up on Facebook. You know where to find me.

On an unrelated note, last night’s Dresden Dolls show was fucking phenomenal. It was the last show on their current tour, and they pulled out all the stops. Amanda Fucking Palmer and Brian Viglione were at the top of their form, and it was a joy to watch them play off of each other’s musical asides and hit all the right notes at the same exact time. If that’s not the musical form of simultaneous orgasm, I don’t know what is.

They played most of their hits, which was a treat, but it was the weird little covers they played that made the whole thing worth it; a few of the songs were lullabies told with musical accompaniment, some are from the historical cabaret canon including “Mein Herr” from the movie “Cabaret”. During the first of two encores, they played an incredible cover of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs”, which gave me a new appreciation for the song and the craftsmanship that went into writing it. Sugar and spice.

What hit me most about the show was their inclusion of the audience. Not only was it OK to participate in the show by cat-calling and singing, it was compulsory (some girls near me knew every single word). They went as far as to pull 20-odd hand-selected people from the audience up to the stage to have them help perform “The Jeep Song”, and that was incredible. I wish more bands got involved like that.

It seems we, as a society, have lost our heritage of pub songs, work songs, and sense of being OK with singing in public, even if we can’t do it as well as the professionals. A travesty, really. But the Dolls do their best to remind us it’s OK.

“You motherfuckers, you’ll sing some day.”

Back home from my holiday retreat to Texarkana. Got to see the family. We had a rather non-traditional holiday feast. I grilled fajitas, and it was awesome. Steak and chicken fajitas with the onions and bell peppers, skewered some veggie kabobs with zucchini, tomatoes, and pineapple (yes, I know tomatoes and pineapple are fruits). We also had Spanish rice, refried beans, all the toppings, chips & salsa, and fudge pie for dessert. The house smelled like a Mexican restaurant. So good.

If you’re interested, I can give you the recipe for the marinade I used; you could still taste its citrusy spicy goodness on the meat even after grilling.

Now that I’m back home, it’s time to unwind from the unwinding and spend the last two days of “freedom” before I have to return to work on Monday. Sucks that I have a family holiday in the middle of a week of paid vacation; it’s like three three-day weekends in a row, and each weekend has its own flavor. The first weekend is frustration, the second is exhaustion, and the third hasn’t happened yet.

I took the opportunity Wednesday night to go driving around Texarkana. Instead of driving around to ogle the construction and the new churches that are sprouting up all over the place like pimples, I decided to take my wheels to the far north end of the county to an old haunt of mine.

Oak Ridge Road is a lonely stretch of back road north of Wamba, just off of FM559, where my friends and I in ’96 would hang out with smokes and beers and nothing around us but fields, empty roads, and the stars above. So damned peaceful out there that it’s my place to go for contemplation. It’s a sacred place. And so on occasion I have to go back, to pull the car to the side of the road, get out, gaze at the stars, the moon, the constellations; to feel the cold breeze; to breathe the crystallized air; to be alone with nothing around me but the rolled hay bales standing out in the fields like grazing cattle keeping silent vigil.

Try as I might, I can’t think of a single place here in Austin that I consider sacred. I’m sure there’s somewhere, but nothing comes to mind. I could easily say Epoch, but this place isn’t sacred. It’s just a hangout where, sometimes, someone will hang out with me. Not very sacred. I could say Pease Park since I like walking there, but it’s not really a nightime hangout (well, not for me, anyway). There’s the overlook on Castle Hill, but it’s off limits. The boat ramp on west Lake Austin Blvd is OK, but it’s not quiet, private, or cop-free.

I guess most of my “sacred places” are not really destinations, but journeys, neighborhoods to drive through. All the rich neighborhoods to the west of MoPac, along Exposition. The hills south of the river, along Westlake Drive. West 6th and West Lynn. Those are fun because of the hills and curves, and they afford me the opportunity to turn off and be contemplative, but there’s just nowhere I can sit, watch, observe, turn off and feel. I just don’t feel too welcome anywhere; it’s the problem of urban density, where every property has trespassing rules, where sitting too long is considered loitering. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder for the security guard on his golf cart coming to chase me off. That’s what I hate about this town.

In 2000, just days before I moved away from Texarkana for good, I made it a point to visit my field on Oak Ridge Rd. for one last bit of closure. It was just after sunset, the stars were coming out, and I sat on my trunk while the radio played. As I reflected on my impending life change, the radio belted out the opening strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man”, and after all the times I’ve sat through that song waiting on it to be over, it struck a chord with me that night. No matter how my life was about to change, all I had to remember was to stay simple, and I can keep myself sane.

Nine years later, I’m still trying.

So I made it back from Texarkana. The visit was ok. The travel was ok. So I’m back. And I thank you kindly for not robbing my apartment in my absence.

Getting back into the swing of things, and I am dragging so much ass. I know I got some sleep last night, but the sleep was poor. All day I’ve been fighting the urge to take a nap. That’s no good. This should be like kindergarten where we’re guaranteed at least a 15-minute nap after recess. Didn’t get much good sleep this weekend, what with the couch and the pets and the TV on. It’s like camping but in reverse.

Spent all of my time with my family. Didn’t do much sightseeing (as is my habit when visiting, just to see what’s changed), and I visited none of my friends. So I had a lotta quality time. I do feel guilty for not at least calling up my old guard and seeing how they’re doing, but it’s been 9 years since we’ve hung out on a regular basis. Friendship is proximity. I feel pretty safe saying that because none of my old friends bother to read this anymore. Yep.

So anyway, yeah, the swing of things. Had to clean my bathroom when I got home; had the tub refinished just before I left, and the room was a wreck. The new finish certainly is glossy, but it ain’t great. Kind of a slop job, if you ask me. And then work today, which is a whole paradigm shift from my weekend, and then trying to stay awake on top of all that. :sigh:

Maybe this coffee will help.

Saw my sister’s place yesterday. Lives way out in the boonies. Lulz were had.