A Short Western

The town was small, crowded, and smelly. The smell carried back behind the general store to the dead grass and onto the road from Bisbee. Archer Jameson wanted to turn around right when the cow dung, old beer, sweating gallon hats and sun bathed out house scents reached his ears but he had heard of the poker games here and how he would make a killing. Bisbee hadn’t been good to him and he had not left on his own terms. He could handle a smell if it meant winning. Besides, he reckoned he didn’t smell princely either.

His velvet shirt was caked with dirt, his hair was tossed around under his straw tan hat and his month tasted of chewing tobacco and whores lipstick. At least he had gotten a kiss from her before being dragged out by the two largest men he had ever seen and told not to come back to the nice small mining town tucked away in the mountains of Southern Arizona.

            “Tombstone will have ya!” the two men had yelled. Fate, he thought, while walking his horse out of town.

Two rows of new wooden buildings lined the main street and the people strolled between each laughing, talking, and assimilating to the smell. Archer strolled his horse lightly through, envying the shade of the board walks on either side. Some boys were running between the crowds playing with poppers; a few ladies whispered and stared at him and an old timer rocking outside the barber’s leaned forward and gave him a nice toothless smile.

Most of the buildings sold clothes, food, feed, guns and entertainment of some sorts. There was a theater he wasn’t that all interested in, a deputy’s office he wanted to stay clear of and an ice cream parlor that sounded mighty good right now. If it hadn’t been for the sight of men stumbling out of one of the wood buildings he would have gotten himself a nice scoop of vanilla.

Caseys was the name of the place and the doors were still swaying that creaking noise that held a special place in Archer’s heart because it signified entering and leaving. Not a lot of things meant opposites. The stalls up front were all full and he knew his horse needed some nice water for putting up with him. He parked her a few stalls up from the saloon and walked up to the door with the piano sounds, the shrinks and laughter of women, and the pounding of glass on a wooden counter.

It was darker than the afternoon outside but the crowd inside was much more rambunctious than the crowd outside.  Two eager women laughed and exposed their thigh highs with an old man smoking a cigar off in a corner. In the other corner five gambling tables were full with shouts of joy, accusations, threats, sadness, drunkenness and boisterous comments.  The bar was full with a few spurs, business men with soft talking voices and Mexicans drinking tequila. There were other women prancing around to a few circular tables off to his right; gesturing the men upstairs to shouts, screams and whatever they wanted for a few coin.

            If only he had some money, Archer thought. There was nothing like laying next to a woman after a long ride. It made for a quick one usually but the long draw from the cigarette, your hand running through their hair and the raising of their head lying on your breathing chest made you feel calm and you wanted to stay there forever.

The bar tender was a tall, bald man with glasses and a toothpick in his month. He didn’t smile and looked like he had been cleaning the same beer glass his whole life. Archer couldn’t hear what the others were calling him when he leaned against the wood. He didn’t want to seem informal after seeing the last guys get thrown out.

            “Wha’ you havin’?” the bartender asked while setting his glass down and looking over his glasses at him.            

“Whiskey,” Archer said.

“Where you from boy?” a business man asked next to him.

“Jus’ rode in from that copper town south of here.’

“You mean Bisbee?”

“Wasn’t there long ‘nough to get the name.”

“I do business there. I’m into copper, of course. Do you know what you can do with a thing like copper boy?”

“Here you go,” the bartender said; giving him a glass of whiskey.

Archer smiled at the business man and took a long sip of the whiskey. The man scoffed under his white mustache and turned back around to his friend. The whiskey burned and Archer caught himself twitching his jaw back.

“Oooy wiiiii….That’s some mighty strong whiskey bartender. I’ll have another.”

“Put the coin down I’ll get ya.”

“You got credit? I’m lookin’ to do me some gamblin’ over at your tables.’

“Buy-in’s fifty.”

“Fifty?  What kine of place you runnin’ here? I got games in Kansas City for half that.”

“This is high end gamblin’ son. If you don’t want none take your drink and leave now before I kick ya out.’

Archer smiled again but the bartender didn’t budge. He only picked up another glass and kept rubbing.

“You lend me another drink and twenty five and I’ll make ya it all back in an hour or so.”

“You think I got money that grows on trees? You better be some hustler or what not to do that. We got a guy who’s been runnin’ that table for fifteen hours now and no one’s been taking him down.”

“What you got to lose than ‘tender?’

“People don’ talk like you round here.”

“Well, I ain’t from ‘round here. Hey copper man, where’s the other gamblin’ at in this town?”

“My name is Ben Stepford not copper man, mind you. I don’t know what is in town like I said…I do business in Bisbee,” he said; turning around.

“Listen boy what you…”

“I’ll give you the money,” Stepford said.

“Now, why’d you do that?” Archer asked.

“Just take the twenty five and give me back when it’s doubled. I’m in the copper business. Do you know what you can do with a thing like copper?” he said, handing him a twenty bill and a few coins.

“Sir…much obliged. I didn’t like you at first but the whiskey and money has changed my mind.”

Archer stepped away and Stepford nodded his hand and returned talking to another business man.  Archer grabbed the other twenty bill and five coins from his pocket and smiled on his way to the table. There was only one spot open at one of the tables and judging by the high chips and the man’s red eyes, this was the fifteen hour man’s table. Whoever had been in the chair before had been scared off and no one passing by had liked it enough to stop and sit down.

            The hands were five card poker with the dealer shuffling after each hand. The dealer didn’t look like the type to be tipping to anyone and Archer didn’t catch any signals. Everyone only looked down as the man with the red eyes dictated the raises and the pace. Even if he didn’t win the hand he made sure to make everyone else take each other out. He was very calculated when he played and sometimes he got away with a lying or at least Archer thought. Something in the way he rubbed his chin and eyes gave it away. Like a good player, though, he never showed his cards at the end of each hand.

“Anyone settlin’ in here?” Archer asked the dealer.

“It’s fifty to buy in, ten minimum bet,” the dealer said.

“That’s fine by me. How y’all doing today?” Archer asked the crowd.

A fat man huffed his breath in and nodded toward Archer. A dim looking farmer, red in the face and hands from long days, rolled his eyes and blew air to the bill of his hat. The other man had a decent stack of chips but his boy tie was loose and his suit was wrinkled like he had spent the night behind the bar. He was drinking a glass of milk but his eyes weren’t as red as the winner. The winner had a handle bar mustache with a little bit of stubble below his red, tired eyes. His sleeves were rolled up and he kept clicking his spur on the ground.

CH-CHA. CH-CHA. CH-CHA his spurs went; rattling against the saw dusted wood.

He slouched low but straightened up when Archer spoke. For how tired the man looked he seemed focused; like he was saving all of his energy for every hand he intended to play.

“You don’ want to join this table, boy,” the farmer said.

“Well, at least I know I won’t have any trouble with you. You better get out before you lose another horse.”

“You’re goin’ lose more than those chips if you keep talking like that.  Back off that month now,” the famer told Archer.

“Are you two going to bet now or keep yelling at each other? I….I….intend to turn this around, chaps,” the fat man said.

“Let’s bet ten,” Archer said.

The winner stayed quiet and the dealer dealt the cards. Archer held them close to the table and only bent them up to see the indicating corner. The fat man held them to his chest while leaning back and the farmer bent the corners up. The winner tipped both up in front quickly and laid them back down just as quick.

“Don’ bend those corners now,” the dealer said.

“I wan’ to take more money out of your pocket,” Archer said.

“Jus’ shut up and play,” the farmer said.

Archer turned the cards up again: two sevens, red ace, black queen, and a five. It wasn’t the worse hand he had gotten but it was pretty close. The others facial expressions were steady from the long hours and Archer told himself to keep smiling so he would be consistent. The milk man had the first bet and then it came to the Archer.  

“I haven’t talked since this man came in,” he said; pointing to Archer. “Time to see what he’s made of then. Let’s raise it another ten.”

Archer slowly looked at his cards again. Whether it was worth the bet was besides the point now because he had a part to play and he needed to make himself believable. He could pull a two pair and the queen and ace weren’t bad. He knew the farmer next to him was done because he was setting his chin in his hand but he’d hate to have red eye’s raise.

“I’ll see it.”

“Ah shit…I’m out,” the farmer said.

The red eyes flipped his cards over and winked a couple of times. Archer saw the watery eyes forming just before he wiped at his eyes. He leaned forward and looked sideways at the rest of the players. The spurs kept tapping and Archer made sure to keep smiling.

“I’m glad you’re smiling,” he said. “It’s gonna be a fun hand. I’ll call it as is. Now ge me some real cards,” he said; throwing four down.

The cards flipped in everyone’s hands and the facial expressions of the fat man and the winner stayed the same. Archer had to hold back a scream of joy and kept smiling through his draw of two aces. A full house with the seven’s and aces made this hand a little more tempting but more dangerous because poker wasn’t a hand but a series of hands. It was about reeling people in to making them think they knew what you were thinking. These guys already figured he was full of shit so why not keep them thinking.

“Well. You didn’t do me right on that one Buddy,” the milk man told the dealer.

“I ain’t trying to help no one out any more than the other.”

“I’ll raise it ten,” the milk man said.

“I’m goin’ do you right now. Let’s go twenty,” Archer said; throwing his chips in.

“You’re going to spend it all in one hand, my boy. Not something to do at this table,” the fat man said.

“Don’ be givin’ him advice now. He’s stupid enough to figure it out, now,” the farmer said.

“You’re not even in this hand, red. I suggest you act accordingly,” Archer said.

“I’ll do whatever I damn please, boy. Don’t tell me how to “conduct” myself!”

“You two need a room or somethin’? Let us play the game farmer! I didn’ come here to listen to your bitchin’!” the winner said.

The farmer was redder than ever; biting his lip and rubbing his hat. Archer could have hardly cared and wasn’t listening all that much to the others. He loved playing a role. Hell, it was one of the advantages to gambling in places like these. You didn’t have to be you; you just had to be whoever could win.

“What’s your bet?” the dealer asked the winner.

“Oh ya. Sorry. I got caught up in shit that shouldn’t be happening at a poker table. How much you got left there?” the winner asked Archer.

“That twenty was my last,” Archer said.

“How ‘bout I loan you fifty just to play in? Cause I want to bet fifty and I need someone to play against. Fat man over there ain’t going to do it and you…well….you’ll jus’ owe what’s already in the pot anyhow. Wha’ you say?”

“No excuse me…” the fat man started to say.

“Listen, now! I’m talking to this man right now! I apologize but I don’t know your name and once I’m done here I can get it but, for now, you’re the fat man!” the winner yelled.

The fat man pulled back his head, shock it back and forth, and flipped his cards down. The winner smiled and looked back at Archer.

This was how he had been kicked out of the last place, Archer remembered. Getting in too deep was always a high risk, high reward scenario that gave Archer satisfaction. He’d rather get kicked in the butt and ruin a nice pair of jeans than go around thinking about what if. He had never attributed it to being young and stupid but he always used it as an excuse. Really, he thought he was the smartest guy in the room because he had the balls to make mistakes.

“Let’s do it,” Archer said.

“What is going on, boy?” Stepford said from behind him.

“He’s lookin’ to lose your money,” the farmer said.

“Now, now…I think the man here has the best hand,” the milk man said; setting his cards down.

“I trust the fifty at least. The good thing is I can afford to lose it,” Stepford said.

“Where’s the fun in gamblin’ without risk?” the winner said.

“Show your cards now!” the dealer said.

Archer turned his over first, heard the silence, and knew the farmer was steaming. The fat man probably didn’t care and the milk man felt a little reassured. Archer only looked at the winner and kept the same grin on his face.

“You damn sure weren’t bluffing,” he said; turning over two pair of aces and queens.

“Nothin’ to lose for you,” Archer said.

“I jus’ make back the fifty. I jus’ want someone to play with me instead these fairies,” the winner said.

The hands went on and Archer didn’t have to look back from the loan. He played smarter than the first because he knew he had the winner’s attention. Everyone else played about the same and it stayed pretty even for the next hour. The farmer kept glaring over at Archer and he didn’t like that. The milk man chatted enough to not seem awkward but the fat man seemed a little hurt and was only in long enough to make his money back and leave.

“This place doesn’t have any more milk, does it? The cows are all dry in this county, is that it?” the milk man asked.

“None of mine ain’t. You come to the farm and I’ll give ya the best milk in Arizona, by far,” the farmer said.

Archer wanted to say something smart but figured he’d checked the lay of the land before pissing the farmer off more as the farmer and the winner were carrying. The winner was more discreet than the other and Archer only guessed the gun was on his right because of the lean to his left. The farmer had a nice hunting rifle leaning against the table that he occasional stroked when he was thinking about bluffing. The milk man was here for the game and, if he was carrying, it was on his ankle.

Archer had a sidearm on his left because he was special. He wished he had a gun on both sides because he had always wanted to try to shot two at a time. Granted, anyone he’d seen who had tried went out with a few bullets in them and couldn’t even hit a barn door. If he tried with one gun he was much better off.

The farmer was down to his last chips and the winner had ordered his fifth whiskey since Archer had sat down. The saloon was thinning out as the whores did their jobs and the day past. Poker played tricks on men’s minds and, as long as they had the money, they could play for hours and it would seem like minutes.

The winner kept looking at the farmer; trying to force him out of the game with his eyes. Archer knew when a man was about to break and the farmer was one who had been close for a few hands.

“That there is a royal flush, red,” the winner told the farmer; setting down his cards. Now…” the winner said. “You got any daughters out on that farm? I’d like to drink their milk.”

“YOU MUTHA….,” the farmer said.

The farmer stood up quick and flung the gun up the same. Before Archer knew it the nozzle was pointing right in the winner’s face. The winner stood still as the milk man flung his chair back and fell on the ground. Archer stood still and set down the chip he had been playing with.

“TAKE THAT BACK NOW!” the farmer screamed.

“Take what?”

“You know damn well! I should blow your god damn head off righ’ now for wha’ you gone and said. I’ll give ya my money but you ain’t goin’ take nothin’ else from me,” he said.

“HEY! YOU TWO JUS’ CALM DOWN NOW!” Archer yelled; throwing his chair back and drawing his gun.

“This ain’t you boy. Sit back down!” the farmer said.

“You better oblige sir. I would lay down where I’m at,” the milk man said.

“SHUT UP! ALL OF YAS! PUT THE GUN DOWN HANK!” the bartender yelled.

Archer turned his head real quick and began to back up. The bartender was out in front of the stools and the rest of the place had cleared out all except for the bartender and Stepford under a chair. Archer heard a couple of doors creaking open up top and hushed whispers from the whores. The Mexicans had gone and Archer figured they didn’t speak enough English to tell anyone what had happened. He hoped the rest of the men were stuck up in the rooms or else the law would be strolling in soon.

“VIRGIL! YOU DIDN’T HEAR WHAT THIS MAN SAID! GOD….AIN’T ANYONE GOT RIGHTS NOW-A-DAYS? HE INSULTED MY KIN!”

“HEY BOY! STOP BACK ING UP TOWARD ME! I’M LIABLE TO CUT YOU DOWN. PAY YOUR BILL AND GET OUT! THIS IS MY MATTER!” the bartender yelled at Archer.

“NO, NO! I INTEND TO LEAVE WITH MY MONEY NOW! EVEN IF I HAVE TO STAND AND SEE SOME BRAINS FLY!” Archer yelled.

“Just leave boy! It’s not worth your life now,” Stepford said as Archer neared closer.

“Copper man. Leave it be. You got a horse in this,” Archer said.  

“WHAT WILL IT BE, FARMER? THAT MILK SURE DO SOUND GOOD RIGHT NOW. MAYBE BRING YOUR DAUGHTER OVER….”

BANG! The winner’s brains splattered out, his body fell on the table, and his red eyes rolled.

BANG! The farmers head went back, the gun cha-chugged to the ground, and he collapsed right next to his sit.

 BANG! Archer’s mind went blank, blood splattered out in front of him, and he fell to the ground.

“NO GOOD MOTHERS. COMIN’ INTO MY BAR AND…”

BANG! The bartender stared down at his chest, the adrenaline helping him stand. He looked up and saw the milk man with a small smoking pistol crouched down and flashing him a smile under his thin mustache. BA DON!

“Well, well….that was not what I expected. You over there? What is it….Stepford? GET UP!” the milk man yelled.

“Oh…oh…pa…pa…please don’ hurt….”

The milk man walked over and threw the chair Stepford was under to the side.

“I’m not going to hurt you. How much did that boy owe you?”

“Fif…fif….fifty.”

The milk man jumped over the bar. He rummaged around until he found the change box with all the bill and coin. There was rustling outside as he jumped back over the bar. The sheriff had to coming, he thought.

“Here’s your fifty. Me and you are straight. I suggest you follow me out the back before they think you killed all of these people.”

“There’s a…a…back to this place?” Stepford asked.

“There’s always a back to a whore house,” the milk man said walking toward the back rooms.

“Come on Stepford! It’s a pity you know.”

“What?”

“If only they’d had had another glass of that nice farmer’s milk all of this could have been avoided.”

A Reflection on Boston

I remembered where I was when Giffords was shot, when Auroa happened and when the two towers fell but….this was different. I was lying by the pool yesterday, tanning and listening to the wind run through the palm trees when my girlfriend told me about what was happening in Boston. As I often do, I had to tell myself what day it was because it was a weekend and all the day usually combine into one long, relaxing break from work. I thought the marathon had happened on a Sunday and I was surprised I was just now hearing about it. It made me think of how disconnected I got from the world on the weekends and I remembered the other day just talking about how I needed to stop my information overload. But, this made me think I should have paid more attention and at least checked Yahoo so I could have heard about this.

Almost as soon as I had thought it was Sunday, though, I realized it was Monday. I would find out later that kids in Boston had this day off from school and it was named Patriot Day. The Red Sox had an early afternoon game that everyone could go to and than walk down to the finish line to see the thousands of runners passing through. I remembered my brother had said Boston is a great walking city and I imagined how easy and surreal it would all be. Standing behind the green monster waiting for a Big Papi home run, eating a hot dog, walking out onto the streets, and then venturing over to the finish line to see someone with a story finish because everyone who ran a marathon had a story for why their doing it. There’s no way you could run one of those and not have a story.

I than remembered my mom running marathons when I was a kid. I couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 when I opened the window of our hotel room out to the downtown of San Francisco; smelled the smell of cities, heard the horns, and the ringing of the trolley. I remembered taking a cab with my dad to the finish line, my mom shaking from exhaustion with aluminum foil wrapped around her and a smile on her face when she saw us waving to her near the finish line. It was one of the most uplifting and motivational scenes you could be around. To this day whenever I don’t feel like going to the gym, finishing that last rep, or doing abs at the end of a workout I think of my mom running those marathons and I realize what I’m doing isn't that tough after all. That was the story for my mom; she wanted to do it to motivate us, to prove to herself that she could.

I remembered that a lot of people run marathons for charities. They do it for someone they lost or a charity that’s trying to save others. To go through that pain and hard work just to show your support to someone or honor a group of people is truly admirable. It’s tough to watch because it makes you feel a little worthless and you begin to wonder what the hell you’re doing with your life. I remembered all of these feelings before I brought myself back to the present; to what had happened at a scene devoid of selfishness and filled with inspiration. I felt all of this before I realized the selfish act that some person committed that afternoon and until this morning I didn't know what to think about it.

I told my girlfriend it felt like I was seeing some news from Israel or Pakistan. I wondered how those people handled it or if someone ever really handled something like this. Her and I couldn't comprehend it or understand it. I thought for a second, throwing away my idealism's  that this was just something that happened. I know that’s a very harsh thing to think but, at the time, it was the only way I could get it off my mind. With the Newtown shooting, Auroa Colorado and Giffords I had exhausted myself trying to explain any of it. Frankly, I still didn't understand it.

Driving into work I turned on Dan Patrick because, when I woke up, Boston had been on my mind again and I wasn't watching anything to distract me from it. Dan’s voice was somber; prompting me to almost change it after a few minute. I kept it on though because I remembered how angry I had been when Giffords had been shot. I had said it was a turning point in the cultural fabric of our society; when elected officials began to be shot. The system, however much better it was than others, was beginning to show signs of revolt. I was idealistic and angry that no one appreciated anything anymore. I wanted to see if I could feel that again because, when I had felt that with Giffords, it made me feel a little different from everyone else and that was good for me at the time. I couldn't relate to the scene of Giffords though so this was different because I could relate to standing at a finish line; to that scene of hope and joy.   

Dan talked about the eight year old kid that had died and how he had been waiting for his dad to finish. My eyes watered and I thought about myself when I was eight. I didn't know anything; all I had was happiness and the next minute, hour, and day. That was all I lived for when I was eight. All of these ideals, questions, responsibilities that have now consumed my thinking this child would never now experience. He had woken up to go see his father finish a race that he would never have the opportunity to run. I was that child; I was that innocence at the finish line that knew life was better and there was good things to be had after I saw my mom cross the finish line. I wondered if the kid had seen his dad cross? I hoped that he died with his innocence living.

I thought about the people who had done this and about evil. It is such a foreign thing to us; evil. It’s easier to quantify good and to explain what good is. Evil we have a tougher time explaining because it is unique among humans. It is unique in the sense that very few do it. When evil is done our emotions cloud everything that can be used to explain it. We don’t want to explain it or confront it because it is easier to be angry at it; yell, scream, and curse at it. Now I was angry because I wanted to find whoever had done this and show them pictures of the boy; show them his life and what they took from a family. I wondered if they would even care, though. I couldn't see how some ideal could be worth a little boys life. It should be easier to evil because we know so much about good, I thought.

I couldn't figure out why and, right now, I can’t find myself thinking about it anymore. It makes me angry to think about it and nobody wants to do anything that makes them angry. I can only hope that the justice is swift to whoever did this. But, I can’t allow myself to think this is what the world is now because evil is unique. Unique problems require unique solutions and that is something the world is forgetting.

From here, I will remember that hope and joy that existed at the finish line before all of this. We’re all in a race against people like this and we need to strive to make this situation unique. We need to strive to keep that hope and joy. 

A Journey

Jose opened his eyes. The moon was as big as he had ever seen and the sun was starting to show itself. His left arm was asleep as he sat up and his legs felt too tense and sore to stand. Dust was littered throughout his hair and flung out as he rubbed. The stars were on their last leg. Oh, what he would give to be able to walk to them. He’d jump from one to the other making his way to the smiling moon like in the America cartoons. The moon would comfort him and make him forget about his sore legs. It would remind him of his home back to the south.

           

The last day there had been hot and smoggy. His uncle had told him how sore he would be. He told him it would be nothing compared to a day in the fields. Sweet would eek its way into crevices of the body he didn’t even know he had, his uncle had said. Jose’s hands would be scared from the veins and dry from the swirling sands and rocky soil. It sounded horrible now but, at the time, his uncle had convinced him otherwise.

           

Away from the congestion of where Jose lived in Mexico City his uncle owned a plot of land with an adobe house, goats, cows and pigs. His grandkids, Jose’s cousins, played in the plot with a futbol. They pretended to be Pele, Messi, or one of the Ronaldos. Through the smoke from his pipe and over the laughter of the children, Jose’s uncle told him about his journey north.

           

It had been fifteen years, many seasons, bus rides back and forth, envelops home, sleepless nights and hundreds of hours baking under the sun before the chair and the pipe. Now, it was all worth it, his uncle had said. His uncle had found pain in America. With pain in America came richness in Mexico.

           

“You are young, my nephew. This is when you do this.”

           

The voice had played in his head the next morning. Nothing had ever seemed so right to Jose and it all made sense; everyone would support him. His girlfriend knew it was the order of things. His mother would be thankful for the extra money and his younger brothers would be thankful for the nights he’d come home on the bus with tales of America. Their eyes would light up and they would not sleep for hours. The tall buildings, the food, the lights would keep them dragging at Jose’s pants as he left for another trip. Whether or not that first trip back home would be with Dominic and Escobar, he did not know.       

           

Dominic had been across many times. He was ten years older and had told Jose the stories of America during hot summer days of soccer and cola. Dominic had embraced Jose and gotten a nice bottle of tequila when he heard Jose would be joining him. He said the journey was better with more people and he would not be lonely this time around. Dominic joked he would miss talking to himself. Jose did not know Escobar but he was young. Dominic had said he had done the journey many times and would be a good man.

           

Both Dominic and Escobar snored as the sun came up. It wasn’t as beautiful without the smog but he could see more because there were no buildings. The fire from last night smoldered and his jacket smelled like ashes. A howl came from the distance and Jose saw a skinny coyote scampering off. Its ribs shown and it had been a tough summer for the animal. Jose felt his ribs to make sure he wasn’t like the coyote. He had been feeling weaker but the fat there reassured him.

           

More refried beans would keep him honest. He had rarely eaten breakfast back home but here he needed to pass the time. Besides, the beans gave him energy for the day. Before Dominic and Escobar woke up he would always get his full and they let him because he was smaller than them. Dominic rolled over to face him as he ate the beans; stretching his arms out of the sleeping bag.

           

“Why are you up, brother?” Dominic asked.

           

“I was too sore to sleep.”

           

“Soon you’ll be proud of the soreness. You’ll respect nights under the stars and in the cool air. You’ll respect it when you don’t have to move and you can just lay.”

           

“I’ve always needed to move.”

           

“Soon you will need to rest.”

           

“I rested enough. Besides, I wanted to see the sunrise.”

           

“The smog makes it prettier in Mexico,” Dominic said.

           

“You are right.”

           

“I do not miss it, though.”

           

“Yes. I probably miss it more than you, though,” Jose said.

           

“It is your first trip so it is only natural.”

           

“Puntas! Let me sleep,” Escobar yelled.

           

“No, no Escobar. It is cool now and we need to walk.”

           

“Ahhh….but they never patrol here.”

           

“The last time I came they weren’t here. The time before we hid from the helicopter and that time before the cars came and took us back to Mexico. We’re due,” Dominic said.

           

“Since we’re due we should just sleep,” Escobar said; turning to face them.

            “Sleep will be far away once the sun begins to bake your neck. That is the truth. I only said the patrol would come to scare you and make you get up.”

           

“You should know nothing scars me, Dominic,” Escobar said.

           

“It will be cooler,” Jose said.

           

“You’re lucky I am a man of the majority,” Escobar said.

           

The beans were sticky and cold. The jerky was dry and rough on the teeth but was easy to swallow with the cool water from the evening. The beans would have been better heated but the time was not right for a fire. Enough warmth came from the sun and Jose already found himself sweating. He felt tired immediately after eating and missed his coffee. He would have even gone with the grounds at the bottom of the cup. The sun brought enough energy for his first steps forward but nothing like what coffee used to do for him in the early mornings laying bricks. It was better, though, because Jose had time to pay attention to the sun rise.

           

He noticed when the orange had gone and his neck felt the first hints of a cool breeze bringing far distant clouds from the west over to meet the sun. Jose hoped for cover throughout the afternoon. Until then they would wrap bandannas around their necks to dim the burn.

           

“Why haven’t we seen snakes yet?” Jose asked.

           

“They only come out when it’s cold. Maybe tonight one will slither by you. Hisssss….,” Escobar said.

           

“It gives me the chills. I’ve never liked their skin,” Jose said.

           

“One time I saw one curled up five feet away from me in the desert. Its tail was shaking back and forth and I had to move slowly so I didn’t startle it. Its slanted eyes disturbed me more and I was scared. I was even more scared than when the helicopter came,” Dominic said.

           

“Helicopters do not care about weather. They will come whenever,” Jose said.

           

The desert rolled for miles and Jose saw rabbits ducking in and out of the dying bushes and behind the tall cactuses. Jose’s pants rubbed against the low hanging branches of mesquite trees and his nose and hands dried up. He wanted to lick his hands but had tried that yesterday and knew it would only lead to more cracks.

           

Escobar took the lead and made sure not to hit any of the plants. Jose noticed a glint of silver from his butt and he thought back to the cartel back home. The men who hung around the café he cleaned at and who stared at his girlfriend every time she came by to say hello. When he had stared at them they had lifted their shirts and the same glint of silver had come out. It was the only time he had seen a gun. It was the only time he ever looked at them, as well.

           

Jose looked at Dominic and saw he was in another world. Maybe Escobar had it for snakes, Jose thought. The road was going to be tough and bring many challenges. If they starved or got off track they needed a way to find food. Dominic had said Escobar was a seasoned border traveler.

           

“There is water up here,” Escobar said.

           

“Who left it there?” Jose asked.

           

“Some Americans who like us,” Dominic said.

           

Jose filled his bottle up, drank half, and then filled again.  You could never have enough water, his uncle had said. Some did not plan ahead and that was what led to their defeat in the desert. They had seen empty bottles next to trees along the way. Dominic had proclaimed these past travelers idiots for leaving bottles. Jose did not plan on being one of these idiots.

           

“This water is warm but thank god for Americans,” Dominic said.

           

“Yes. Why do some want us and others don’t want anything to do with us?” Jose asked.

           

“Because they can choose either way,” Escobar said.

           

“Cartels don’t rule there?”  

           

“Only in different ways,” Escobar said.

           

“As long as you don’t bother them you will get by,” Dominic said.

           

“Ya just keep telling yourself that,” Escobar said.

           

Jose started walking and drinking more. He wanted to get in front of Escobar so he would not see the glint of silver. It had made him uneasy when he had seen it.

Jose thought he heard Escobar talking about him from behind. Escobar spoke a quicker, more southern dialect than he was used to and Jose did not sometimes catch all of it. Jose did not look back and kept to himself in case Escobar was talking about him. He had to make it across in one piece and thought it would be stupid to come all this way only to be beat up and killed by one of your traveling companions.  Jose walked more and heard the sounds of desert. He had almost escaped and gotten away from his thoughts when he heard the rumbles.

           

Clouds of dust in front of Jose moved closer and closer. He knew they came from cars but he could not see them. As the dust came closer he saw the green and white cars and heard the low hum of the engine. They were quieter and larger than the diesels back home that would wake up his neighborhood in the morning. He had ridden those cars many times out for weekend work and these cars were not like them; they were big and silent.  

           

Just when he thought the engines would whine and speed toward them the cars stopped. A hundred yards away the dust swooshed in front of them and Jose heard the banging of doors.  He ducked behind the bush in front of him before he could think more about it. Jose looked to his left and right to see Dominic and Escobar doing the same. He tucked his legs and felt sweat tripping down his brow. Dominic was sweating as well and holding a finger up to his month. Escobar looked at Jose and struck a small grin. Both of them were flipped around and looking at the cars. Jose followed suit.

           

The dust was gone and two green uniforms were starting to walk around and away from the cars. One was taller and the other shorter. They both had hats on and the distance made it tough to see their eyes. They walked casually and Jose did not know if they had any guns. Jose saw Escobar getting up into a lunge to catch a better glimpse. Escobar looked more comfortable there but Jose did not want to try because he knew he would slip.

           

Jose began to hear gibberish that he assumed was the American language. He noticed the shorter one was brown like him and the taller one was white. Jose looked down and saw a puddle of sweat in the brown dirt. Escobar’s back lag was twitching and Dominic was as still as a statue.

           

“HELLO! WELCOME TO AMERICA!” the Spanish words rang from one of the green uniforms.

           

Jose couldn’t tell where it came from but assumed the shorter one had said it. They were laughing as they walked closer to them. This laughter did not sooth Jose as laughter usually did.

More gibberish hit his ears and he could feel them very close now. Jose did not want to look at Escobar because it would only disturb him more so he looked at Dominic. Dominic looked more resolved and nodded his head toward Jose while smiling.

           

Jose looked back where they had come from. Light grey clouds traveled across the horizon teasing the plants calling for rain. Jose saw another skittish coyote trotting toward them. The desert had been harsh on him but he was still trotting around. Jose felt a breeze against his face and saw the mesquites struggling to sway. Those plants never went away and Jose imagined their roots were long in this desert.

           

BANG! BANG!

            Jose swung his neck toward the sounds and saw Escobar crouched with the glint of silver in his hands.

           

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

           

Escobar’s arms swung down and his body moved back and forward with each bang. Little puffs of smoke jumped up from his chest and his arms swung back and forth. It wasn’t till a little after the last bang that Escobar fell over and his blood flowed on the rough, tan sand.

           

The last bang reverberated in Jose’s ears and his eyes became finely tuned into the eyes of Escobar. Wide open, still, green, and hanging on to the last light of life. His month was not grinning as it had been the whole trip. Instead his lips were flat and normal and dull purple. He saw the blood settling under his face and smearing one end of lips.

           

“COME OUT NOW! HANDS UP!”

           

Jose was sweating and saw through the glistening drops that Dominic was standing up with his arms shaking.

           

Jose moved slow. His whole body twitched and his vision glazed over. He saw the men in uniforms moving their lips but he heard no talking. He didn’t hear anything until he felt the crushing of his nose, the dirt in his eyes and a foot on his lower back. After the foot his vision came back with the sensation of pain and he heard the yelling of the green uniform he figured was on top of him now. He saw Escobar again. This time his eyes were rolled back and as white as pearls. His blood was dark and thick; a red Jose had never seen. It was like thick, dark batter with a sprinkling of desert dirt in it.

           

Jose was pulled up quick and he only had his memories of Escobar now. He looked down and saw blood drops. He figured it came from his nose but could not find out now. They walked back to the cars and Dominic was slammed up against the car with him. The taller green uniform picked up a black box and started talking into it. Jose tried to look at Dominic but his head was down and he could not feel Jose’s eyes.

           

“Did you know this man?” the short one asked in Spanish.

           

Dominic stared up at this and nodded his head to the man.

           

“My friend did not. I only knew him as a traveler,” Dominic said.

           

The short one stared at them both for awhile, smiled, and then took their bags from them. Jose noticed he had Escobar’s already.

           

He dumped everything onto the ground but made sure to make piles for them. He saved Escobar’s for last and threw out two bricks. Jose had seen these bricks before coming out of trucks in the neighborhood, on the back of motorcycles, and in dark alleys when you wanted to make sure no one saw you looking. Jose knew the reward that came with carrying them across the border but also knew the danger.

           

“You didn’t know he was carrying these?” the short one asked.

           

“No. We’re just trying to get across,” Dominic said.

           

The man kept his glasses on and shoved the bricks back into the bag. He lifted his head and stared at Jose for a good while. Jose did not look up but felt the man’s eyes prying on him. From then on, Dominic and Jose both looked down and there was no more talk.

           

More vehicles came, dust settled and Dominic and Jose sat on the ground.  People walked through, around and in some cases over them. All of these people moved their lips after hitting them and Jose thought they were apologizing. Jose saw a large black sack put into a red and white van that had been very nosy when it had come up. It reminded him of the late hours before the sun came up back home. If you were in the right part of Mexico City you didn’t even need a roster or alarm clock because you had the sirens.

           

Other green uniforms looked at them and made them stand up to take a picture, turn and take another and turn and take one last one. The two that had caught them talked to many people and received many pats on the back. Jose tried to talk to Dominic but could never find any words. Eventually they were loaded into the back of a truck with only their thoughts and themselves to occupy them.

           

“What happens now?” Jose finally asked.

           

Dominic taped his hat a couple of times and looked straight ahead, He didn’t smile or nod. He was thinking of a time in the future.

            “We try again.”

A Day on the Web

James Franco wrote a poem about Obama
Kobe blamed himself
Ninety died in Algeria, according to reports
Te'o broke his ankles, figuratively and literally
Funny, the news you see in a day

Beyonce lip synced the whole thing
Dwight wants more shots
Thirty-seven died in Algeria, according to reports
What's everyone talking about today?

I didn't know the inauguration even happened for the second term
People always find an excuse to party
The Lakers were wreaked before anyone wrote about it
When did the French start fighting in Algeria?

Short clips are better for people
Unless you have Kevin Bacon to follow
Than you'll get the best hour of any Monday night
Monday nights must not be that fun if that's the best

You know Harrison died of a cold or something?
Giving the same speech back in the day
I bet some people wish Washington had bad weather yesterday
Shame on them

What does anyone write about anymore?
It's just talking, talking, and talking
And opinions, opinions, opinions
At the end of the day it all happened

Obama got inaugurated
The French kept fighting in Algeria
The Lakers still suck
Why do I keep surfing the internet and finding the same stuff?

It's been awhile.

Carpool

Aw, the lesser known of American suburban splendors: the commute. Most people who talk, and all who participate in the commute talk about the commute, say that they have the worst one. Five hours in bumper to bumper, stuck behind a fleet of school buses, catching every protest that happened to come through town, behind an idiot every hour of the commute, and catching every wreck. There are millions of faces staring back at each other on the drive in but, the only faces that make it into the talk  in the commute are those in the car pool. Faces, none the less, that are the farthest thing away from joy; a world that couldn’t be described with any black and white ink from Webster’s.  These people make it into the talk because they are experiencing it all with you; you are all united in the one constant effort to make it to the next Friday. Their feelings and yours are what makes your commute the worst commute in the history of America.

            It is these feelings that bring about the more awkward and, yet, awe inspiring small talk ever heard. Because, no matter how hard Robert had tried or sworn to himself that work was work and social was social, spending eight hours with the same people for five days a week was bound to bring about talk of something besides the office. Robert liked this of course, he preferred not having to talk about the office before his first four cups of coffee but, awkward talk was not his forte.

            Initially the talk had been introductory; a casual where you from, and what kind of B.Sdegree you had. A joke was poked at the college sports team you never watched or the slutty girl from the guy’s high school that you should have known out of the 20,000 people that went to your college. From here you got to know your car pool and expand it until you found yourself only having to drive once a month. You got to know the man you thought was the most like you because you were both single and liked to party. You began to never know the father of two who was having all the fun in the world but no fun at all. You got to know the man who would go out for a drink and play it cool; only to end up not being cool at all. No commute had these types exactly but, Robert’s car pool had these people exactly; all lined up thinking they knew anything about Robert but at the same time knowing nothing of Robert.

            The younger man was taller than Robert; a son of one of the higher ups in the company with black hair, blue eyes and an attempt at a beard. He was drifting along in an ocean thinking he was in a pond. His name was Kevin McDaniels and he wasn’t a bad fellow in most people’s minds. Kevin couldn’t think of any other place to be but, at the same time, he talked like he was always going somewhere else all the time. Mark Swisher was a twenty five going on forty dad, brown hair, green eyes, two kids and always seeming to try to have another one. He acted young but was older than he was.  Then, the perceived straight edge of the group, Daniel (Danny) Gutierrez, shorter Mexican with a mustache bordering on seventies porn star who was always talking like he knew everything and everyone else only knew nothing. He wasn’t always like that but he acted like it enough to make it a distinguishing trait.

            The introductory small talk had become nonexistent over the past year or so; giving way to laughs to exploits of the former weekend or awkward comments that only warranted laughs, so as not to piss off the originators. Laughing was always a good pause to figure out what the hell to say; how to respond to worthless talking that was filling the space. Robert sometimes didn’t mind it; sometimes it was refreshing. Other times he didn’t see the point of it. Why talk like you really give a shit? At the end of the day all you want to do is get away from these people; why act as if you want to get closer? Thoughts like these made Robert think of himself as a hypocrite because these were the same people he looked forward to during the sliver of sunshine that got him through the morning routine.

            “Morning Robert. What’s going down?” the driver, Kevin said as Robert sat in the four door Chevy Cobalt; shotgun.

            “Just trying not to think of work. How’s everyone doing today?” Robert asked; filling the space.

            “Good,” Robert heard, not too sure who said it first.

            “Nice…..had myself a chill weekend. Hung out and watched some ball. Those Packers are looking pretty legit. What happened to your Boys this weekend Danny?” Robert asked; looking behind him at Danny.  

            “Man, every time I watch them I move a little more toward alcoholism. The defense has been off man and I don’t know why. But of course it’s always Romo’s felt,” Danny said; snickering a little at the end.

            “Why do you hate Romo so much? He’s not a bad quarterback,”  Mark said, intervening and gaining a nod of the head from Kevin.

            “You don’t know what it’s like man to have a consistent quarter back, man. Someone who shows up ever week and you know what you’re going to get out of him. I never know what the fuck Romo is going to do. He’s got his brilliant four touchdown games and then he has his happy go lucky four interception games. And….you know….the guy is always smiling man; even when he fucks up he’s never pissed; he’s just always fucking smiling.”

            “What’s wrong with that?” Kevin asked.

            “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it; man….it just bugs me. You need to have some passion in your play man; be a little more involved. I just think you can’t lead without a little bit of passion,” Danny said; looking a little annoyed. Like most, no one ever liked talking when questioned and hardly wanted to be questioned.

            “I just think you hate him because he’s the easiest to blame and the first guy to come under the knife. One of the toughest jobs in sports because of that spot light. So nitpicky. I mean, imagine if our job had media outlets and every dick, jane, and berry talking about us Monday thru Saturday. It’s got to be nerve racking,” Mark said.

            “Ya, but at the end of the day they’re playing a game,” Danny said; sounding a little smart.

            “Its more than a game at that level; it’s their job and a multi-million dollar business. You think that there’s no stress at that level then? You’re living on fantasy island bro, if you do,” Robert said

            “I never said that. It is a game though and…you can’t say that they’re not having fun, you know. It’s got to be one of the better day jobs.”

            “Ah….I don’t know about that man. I wouldn’t want to get hit by 6’5 three hundred pound guys eight hours a week,” Mark commented.

            “I bet you would want 6’5 three hundred pound guys all over you Marky Mark. Ha, ha,” Kevin said; coming in right on time to change the subject before it got too serious.

            “Fuck off man. At least I got a good cover with the wife and kids; no one will ever expect anything. Ha, ha. I had to add that in for the preservation of my self perception,” Mark said; smiling.

            “Keep telling yourself that, little gay boy,” Danny yelled; the car resonating with laughs.

            “Self perception? What, you talking like your image?” Robert asked; trying to get past the annoying laughs.

            “You hit that one on the bull’s eye, Rob. Ya, you got to have a good one of those to get through life. Look good, feel good….that type of deal,” Mark explained.

            “Ya, if you think you’re a piece of shit your work is going to be a piece of shit,” Kevin added.

            “I don’t know man, you think you have a different image of yourself at work then you do at home?” Robert asked, seeing Danny snap out of his morning space out session.

            “It all flows into one mindset eventual. I used to think that I could keep that stuff separate but these last couple of years it’s been tough. I’ve stopped my political correctness and I guess opened up to full disclosure,” Kevin said.

            “You don’t want full disclosure, though, man. Work is work and not play,” Danny said.

            “But, you’re supposed to enjoy what you do, right? Can you get enjoyment without fun? I feel like those go hand in hand,” Kevin said.

            “Ya, but what you’re talking about is the picture you paint when you step in that office. I’m not going to talk about the crazy shit I did over the weekend to some regular guy I do work with. Now, the car pool….that’s a whole different story cause we chill outside of work and I trust you guys. But, you got to be careful what you let on man cause all people need are a little glimpse of who you are. All they need is the back cover of the book and they’ll act like they already read the whole god damn book that is your life,” Danny said; putting some emphasis on the last sentence. How poetic, Robert thought.

            “You can’t just be a robot, man, you know? You have to be able to show a human side so people remember you and don’t just think of you as some statue at work, taking up space,” Mark said; interjecting before Kevin spoke.

            “You could let your work speak for yourself,” Robert said.

            “You just end up being the guy in the corner who’s an “expert”. My dad always said if you want to move up never do too much in your current position to the point where you become crucial and non-expandable. It takes luck and people skills to get up in the world. I mean, if you just want to be that expert cool, you know, whatever….but I just don’t agree with the whole work hard and everything works out. Its Santa Claus shit,” Kevin said; bending forward and letting out a long yawn.

            “Man I don’t want to go to work…..Friday needs to be tomorrow,” Kevin said; rubbing his eyes giving off an air of awkwardness; as if he was scared of revealing his opinion.

            “I mean, it takes a little luck ya, but….sorry back to what you were saying didn’t mean to spoil the bitching session, you build up your own luck, you know. You do something good and, I think, that something good happens,” Robert said.

            “You just say that, though, cause you have good luck,” Danny said.

            “You don’t think you have good luck?” Robert asked.

            “It has nothing to do with me. It has everything to do with the guy who just never seems to have anything go right with him his whole life. The guy who’s the nicest guy you know but also has the worst luck. In that situation he must have inherited an empty vault of karma, huh?” Danny asked.

            “There’s always an exception to the rule, Danny. You go through life living off every little exception you’re never going to think anything will work out. You have to have some ideals,” Robert said.

            “You think you need ideals in this day and age? Live life hard and fast; by the sit of your pants and just see what happens,” Mark said, jumping back into the conversation.

            “You would say that’s an ideal, though, Mark. A maybe immature ideal but an ideal,” Kevin said.

            “What’s immature about it? You got to experience life, you know. Man, when you’re young you got to do that kind of stuff…be crazy. You got to be a little selfish before you find something you can love a little more than yourself. I know that sounds vain, but, it’s just what I’ve always thought,” Mark said, setting a sober mood in the car that none of the younger passengers, except Robert, wanted to address. 

            “You know, it’s not bad to be a little selfish. You have to take care of yourself first, you know, and then after that everything will fall in place,” Robert said; thinking it was bullshit at first but hoping it would become fact.

            “You’re really confident in this whole fate thing, huh, man?” Danny asked Robert.

            “No, I don’t believe in fate. Fate is something you don’t have control over. I believe in control, that’s what I believe in,” Robert said.

            “Ya, I like to think that. Sometimes it feels like you don’t have any though. It’s easier to blame and bitch if you think it’s outside of your control,” Mark said.

            “I don’t know Mark. I don’t like to whine like a bitch about stuff so I just assume I can do whatever the hell I want. HA!” Kevin sarcastically said.

            “Well, you’re not surrounded by women all day. I think women are born with that inherent ability. Fuck cancer, map the genome and figure out what the bitching gene is,” Mark said, rolling with the sarcasm.

            “They would get rid of it then, if they found it. Then I wouldn’t be attracted to any women,” Danny said.

            “You like them with attitude, huh, Dan?” Mark asked.

            “Oh ya. They have to have opinions, you know. Just the right combination of a little annoying and intelligence. They have to keep me interested, you know man,” Danny said; smiling on a topic that piqued his interest.

            “I feel that man. I feel that a lot more then that bright, shiny mecca of productivity in front of us,” Mark said; pointing toward the office; the politically correct term for the building.

            “Shit man, I didn’t release we were that close. Throw the women and children over board first, HA!” Kevin said.

            “It’s okay guys; it is going to be that bad,” Robert said.            

            “Bad as in good? That’s what all the kids are saying now-a-days,” Mark said.

            “That’s what we’re saying now-a-days,” Kevin said.

            “Don’t date me, man,” Mark said.

            “Of course I wouldn’t want to date you. You’re ugly and, unlike Danny, I don’t appreciate a good bitch,” Kevin said; looking at Danny in the rear view and smiling.

            “Well, guys, it was nice knowing you,” Mark said.

            “Till our release date in t-minus 8 hours,” Robert said; the car stopping and everyone not wanting to be the first to open the door.

            Welcome to work.

12 Things to Think About During the 2012 Election

Instead of writing all my political ramblings in a status update I figured I would blog about it like every 50 year old former hippie who just discovered the internet. Now, don't let my sarcasm fool you in some of these statements because I really do believe this is the most important election in my short lifetime because of the state of America's political system; which is more resembling an American Idol competition than what our fore fathers wanted it all to be. So, I will outline some bullshit thinking that I believe is spreading like an infectious disease throughout this country and every time I do that I will follow with a statement of my outlook on how, I believe, it should be viewed as. I hope you all disagree with me and feel brave enough to comment because if there is one thing that is missing from this country it is our ability to have logical, non-personal conversations about politics and policies in our government.

12 Things to Think About During the 2012 Election

1. Who would win in a fight? 

Obama is a lean mother fucker and a known Baller!. He's got endurance and knows how to get in your head to the point where you've lost before you have even thrown a punch. Now, in my personal experience, every Morman I have met has been a tough son of a bitch and I would gladly buy them a virgin Shirley Temple than go toe to toe with them in their Sunday best. Romney also has a larger family that would back him up if it came to fist-ta-cuffs. But....Obama has Jay-Z in his corner so....4-1 on Barack.

2. Leaders come in all shapes and forms

We, as humans, are very judging of appearances; its just part of our genetic make up. Our tall friends are always getting the ladies, even if we don't want to admit it some races scar us a little more than our own and if we see a tough little guy we all say he has a "short man" complex. How about we stop painting this ideal picture of a leader and, instead, start painting a picture of the actions and thoughts we would want that leader to do and have. Who gives a shit if they're missing two front teeth, are black,white, orange, purple or look like they should be giving me happy face stickers at Wal Mart. Let's listen a little before we decide to stop looking.

3. Mascot Fight: A donkey or elephant?

Elephants are pretty crazy animals, as one Indian man found out, and should not be thought of as having big ears and just wanting to fly. They're big mo fo's and the Cardinals could use them on their offensive line. As for the donkey, the loveable Jackass, is a force to be reckoned with. It has one hell of a kick and knows how to put on a show south of the border. But, at the end of the day, you have to go with the animal who you would rather have lead you down the Grand Canyon: Elephant.

4. Why are parties pitted against each other? 

Sure, I get it; everyone has different opinions. But, whenever problems existed for projects, work, or in situations that I was involved in we met up, talked it over, and arrived at the most logical and feasible choice. Everyone always didn't agree but at the end of the day we went forward fully engaged. Now, I didn't get together and start harassing my fellow teammates and slender them with accusations about how they spend their weekends and what grade they got on the last test because we were all in the same room together and we all had the same problems. I know that the spending, for some reason, complicates it all. But, let's start talking about the problem of money in politics; about these super PAC's and the people making the rules. Let's stop getting caught up in one way to fix a problem but instead let's start focusing and talking about the reasons we're all in the same room.

5. Who do you want to have a beer with?

This is unfair to Mr. Romney, I know. But, he does get some brownie points for being governor of the great beer loving state of Massachutes and, I wouldn't mind getting slammed with him because you know you have a DD. Obama went to Harvard people, just accept that one, and this makes him an immediate person to philosophize and enlighten my drunk mind for a night. Also, he knows basketball and I'm sure we could banter on about the Lakers for a good two or three hours. But, if I'm going out next Monday night and want to make it out to the polls, I need to get home safely. Mr. Romney, you don't have to drink Diet Coke; your skinny enough to have regular Coke.

6. Likability? Does it really matter?

Did you always like your Dad and Mom? Did you always like that crazy sports coach or that annoying teacher? Does anyone truly always like their boss? No, but you worked with the person and hopefully got something good out of it. Some people feel like they have to be best friends with you to get things done or that after meeting you for 20 minutes they can talk to you like they've known you for 20 years.  Don't strive to be likable, strive to be respected and strive to understand that working with someone, being lead by someone, is going to have its ups and downs. Don't get caught up in the moment, don't get caught up in wanting everything now and, instead, step back and ask yourself....are we moving forward from a big picture standpoint everyday.

7. Faith: Christian or Mormon? 

Obama has been known to associate with some controversial figures but it has not been a big point people have made about him since the last election. Now, I don't know much about the Mormon religion so I will let
Peter Griffin explain it.

8. IT DOESN'T MATTER!!!!

Listen, the Muslims didn't fly into the World Trade Center, Jews don't swindle you and every Roman Catholic family doesn't have ten kids. It is a faith; there is no logic behind it, no one is wrong, and more power to someone who is convinced they have found some sort of order in this crazy world of ours. I could give two shit's what any of these guys do on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday and who they get their sermons from. We are not a nation under god but a nation bogged down by debt, a shrinking middle class, unemployment, and discomfort. The only faith we should be caring about is the faith that we can make it out of the state of America we are in now.

9. Everyone's a Nazi

I'm going to let my good friends at the Daily Show(three minute mark) show you the great reporting and rhetoric going on in our country.  And, apparently, we have united under one party. 

10. What happened to moderates?

Listen, the media is out of hand; any sane person knows this. But, it is all these networks who somehow keep building up followings, keep dragging most of indifferent America around on their coat tails. Don't get caught up in all of these agendas but, instead, demand journalistic integrity; demand that people slow down this 24 hour news cycle and start to give you the facts and information you need to make your own choice. Be logical about it because, right now, I believe that most of the country has moderate viewpoints but they're getting drowned out by the loud, ignorant right and left wingers who just want to get enough air time to get their point across. Start engaging in some healthy brainstorming.

11. Watch all of the coverage and such, for one news cycle

Plucking myself in front of the t.v. and watching the news for 24 hours straight might be enough to convince me to call in sick on Nov. 6 . Every half an hour I would switch from cnn to fox to msnbc etc. and....on my lap I would have my lap top; serving some of these sites. Because, what better way to take in one of the most relevant and, these days it seems irrelevant, days in American history?

12. Broaden your mind

Stop this polarization that is infecting this country and look at everything. Look at the opinions you think are stupid  look at the opinions you think are smart and especially look at the ones you're indifferent too. Do it with no emotion and see what you take away from it. I bet it will be something you didn't expect and, in the process, it will make you feel better about your own opinion.


Well, hope you enjoyed the post and stuck around with me long enough to maybe get something out of it. And please, I want to hear your opinions and I want to get some discussion going. Let's have a brainstorm session and not a debate. Thanks and GET OUT AND VOTE!!!!