What a gourd-geous evening in Denver

I guess I’m on a Halloween theme this week. Someone should alert Collin Nissan because this post is all about Glow at the Gardens, an even highlighting pumpkin carving and more at the Denver Botanic Gardens. After all, we know what season it really is.

Anyway. A few photos from the evening.

Continue reading “What a gourd-geous evening in Denver”

Haunted Tiny House: A ghost story

TinyHouse
Source: HGTV

Note: My smart-ass comment about tiny houses in yesterday’s post prompted a great comment from my stepsister, which in turn led me to write this. Not quite what she was asking for, but I like it.

HAUNTED TINY HOUSE

EXTERIOR – NIGHT: A dark, cloudy moonless night. The wind whips through the trees surrounding a clearing. In the clearing sits what looks like a child’s playhouse.

INTERIOR – NIGHT: We’re inside of a tiny house, 8 x 10 if that. We enter through the door and into a kitchen/living area, with a tiny fridge and a tiny stove and a tiny table. The camera tracks left and up a tiny ladder to a tiny loft where a white hipster couple — CLEMENTINE and DJANGO — sleep.  Clementine has dark black hair cut into a bob. Django has red shaggy hair and a giant beard. Both have multiple piercings and tattoos.

A LOUD BANG IS HEARD — awakening the CLEMENTINE, who sits up too fast and bangs her head into the ceiling.

CLEMENTINE (whispering to herself):
Ow. Shit.

Continue reading “Haunted Tiny House: A ghost story”

A very spooky story

hillhouse
Credit: Netflix

Cara and I have been watching “The Haunting of Hill House.” It’s not for the faint of the heart. In fact, if anyone says he isn’t afraid of the movie, that person is already dead inside and should be reported to either the Ghostbusters or Van Helsing.

The point is, it’s a creepy show and within one episode you’ll be checking under your bed, wishing you didn’t have a basement, and contemplating a move into a newly built tiny house where you can be 100% sure that no one has ever died and where ghosts couldn’t fit (and, besides, ghosts wouldn’t be caught dead in a tiny house because tiny houses are just a hideous expression of hipster privilege and virtue signaling and if you wanted to actually save money and downsize you could have just bought a trailer).

Continue reading “A very spooky story”

A Weird State: Colorado

44455673_10156939657843092_4272446557674012672_o

Friday morning. About three weeks after moving to Colorado. I’d accumulated a bill and a pay stub and the other forms of identification I needed to get a Colorado driver’s license. So I woke up bright and early with the intent of getting to the DMV in Boulder the minute it opened at 7 a.m.

But alas, life happens. I got a little bit of a late start. I let the dogs hang out in the yard a little longer than I’d planned — I’m a sucker for what the dogs want. I didn’t get to the DMV until 7:30.

Continue reading “A Weird State: Colorado”

Drama at the Laundromat! 

Showed up to pick up my laundry this morning at 7:50. The laundromat opens at 7:30. Guess what.

It was closed.

“He ain’t here yet, bro” said a bro from across the street. “I even called him. Said he’d be here in five minutes. That was 10 minutes ago.”

Not a minute later, our friendly laundromat guy shows up, opens doors, grabs MadBro’s shirts and hands them over.

MadBro’s bill was $12 but he threw 5 down on the counter and said “That’s all you fucking getting from me cuz I been waiting outside 20 minutes.” Then he grabbed his shit and left.

Laundromat Guy didn’t even realize what had happened until MadBro was out the door. “That guy only gave me five dollars. He owed me twelve. Makes no sense!”

And I, your always cool, calm and collected narrator (cough) said, “I guess some people are just mad all the time.”

(I paid my bill in full and tipped the amount appropriate for people who wash my nasty clothes and then fold it all nice and neat.) 

THE END

How Facebook works: Taco edition

Post: “Where can I get the best taco in Mexico City?”
 
Comment 1: “I like the chalupa at Taco Bell.”
Comment 2: “I’ve never been to Mexico City, but I heard it’s really awesome.”
Comment 3: “The taco was actually invented in 1495 by a Korean.”
Comment 4: “The best taco in Los Angeles is at that one truck.”
Comment 5: “No. The best taco in L.A. is at the other truck.”
Comment 6. “Everyone knows the best taco in L.A. is in the backroom of that taco speak-easy that I’ve never actually been to, but I heard is awesome.”
Comment 7: “Lemme know when you get there, so we can build that wall. LOLOLOLOL.”
Comment 8. “When we were in Cozumel on the cruise we had tacos at this one hotel. I can’t remember it’s name, but they were pretty good. Even if they only had soft shells.”
Comment 9. “Taco BELLLLLLLLLLL.”
Comment 10. “Where are you going in Mexico?”
(Note: I’m not actually looking for tacos or going to Mexico City. But I also know how Facebook works, so someone’s going to ask me when I’m going to Mexico?)

A few words about Charles Wheaton, my parrain

Daddy on the left. Uncle Charles on the right.

In South Louisiana, the Cajun French word for godfather is parrain. Good luck pronouncing that correctly. It’s one of the few Cajun French words I know that isn’t a curse word. Parrain.

Last night my parrain died. Charles Wheaton. My daddy’s younger brother.

I saw him last year at my brother Daniel’s wedding. But the last time I had any kind of extended conversation with him was a few years ago, in Opelousas. I’d swung by the group home where he was still working at the time, before the state of Louisiana decided that taking care of adults with developmental disabilities wasn’t worth its time or money. Uncle Charles had some choice words about that.

But what we actually talked about that day, and what sticks with me, was my first novel. The one about the priest. He told me he got a kick out of the book, that he loved it. And let me tell you, that’s going to go down as one of the proudest achievements in my writing career. Because Uncle Charles was the storyteller of the family. I might be able to write a story or two, but Uncle Charles could start talking and the whole house would fall silent. Only for a minute or two, though, because it wasn’t long before people were practically falling off of furniture from laughing so hard.

I seem to remember his stories starting with, “Hey, yall remember that old boy.” His stories were often about some old boy. Back in the day. That did something that was hilariously unspeakable. I remember at least one that involved a horny farm boy, an unwilling animal, and a load of one party’s excrement dropped into the other’s pants. Uncle Charles didn’t worry much about mixed company. And he often seemed to delight in making pearl-clutchers clutch their pearls just a little bit harder.

Continue reading “A few words about Charles Wheaton, my parrain”