Redneck Special

Inspiration comes from the most random of elements, and it's typically a surprise when it happens.  I have found that the harder I try to find it, the more elusive inspiration becomes.  For me, it's best to just move around and see what I see and wait for it to hit me upside the head. In this case, an abandoned La-Z-Boy and a bumper sticker, both from completely unrelated sites, provided exactly what I needed to pull an idea together.

Robert and I get together at least once a month to talk about ideas and determine what might be interesting  for a photo/design project.  We toss ideas around and many of them are simply disregarded for lack of interest.   Today's ideas were either lukewarm or had been in progress for several months.  We didn't have anything new and interesting.  We ate lunch and took a back road towards my house when we spotted the abandoned chair.

We pulled over and took a closer look.  The material was a nice light blue velour that looked like it would show nicely against the nearby wheat field.   Upon closer inspection the top of the backrest was covered in bird crap and there were numerous stains on the fabric.   I wondered if he was game for photos.

"You willing to sit in that thing?", I asked.

"I can't get crabs from it, can I?", he replied.

"No way", I said, hoping I was right.

We decided to come back at dusk because not much good comes from shooting photos in the midday sun. I knew Thompson's Corner was nearby so we decided to kill some time there.

I've driven by the place at least 100 times but never went in.  Apparently it's the oldest bar in Solano County and the architecture and decor certainly reflect this.  It's a two story building with a high pitched roof.  The main level is the bar and the upper level used to be a dance hall, although it's no longer used.  The bartender said the San Francisco symphony played there once.  The interior decor fits exactly what you would imagine a "local dive bar" to look like.  The walls and floor are all wood and the ceiling is littered with bras and boxer shorts.   Nearly every inch of space is covered with signs, graffiti, stickers, mirrors and whatever else you can imagine hanging in a bar of that age.  One could spend 3 days reading the walls and not be finished.  It's brilliantly tacky.  I'll be back.

We bellied up and ordered a few beers and considered how we might make the shots in the chair.  We had some  decent ideas, but it wasn't until we saw a bumper sticker on the wall that the theme became crystal clear.

"Robert, read that one on the upper right hand side".

"I came here to drink and fuck, and I'm almost done drinking", he read aloud.  We both giggled.

There it was:  the dude in the chair would be a loud, belligerent redneck.

The cooler behind the bar had Pabst Blue Ribbon, a redneck delight.  I indulged in a few and we knew we had the perfect prop.

When dusk rolled around we went back to the site and got the chair set up in the wheat and Nikki tagged along as our lovely lighting assistant.  As it turned out, Robert had a fresh farmer's tan that fit the theme perfectly.

We shot for about a half hour and tried as many different poses as we could muster in a single chair.
On the ride home we had a debate about crabs.  I knew a guy in high school who claims he got crabs from a girl simply sitting on his lap.  I suspect it's urban myth, but for Robert's sake I'm hoping it can't be transmitted so easily because that chair has seen some things.

Oh well, at least we got the shot.  That's all that matters, right?

Adult Conversation

I spent the weekend getting caught up on 15 years of conversation with my childhood friend Justin Reid.  That's a lot of time, especially when the gap encompasses going from a college senior to a married father of two.  Things are easy when you're in college and you only have a vague sense of time creeping up on you.   As you near age 40, time looks you in the face, slaps you, and mockingly asks, "Whatcha gonna do about it, bitch"?  And problems become very real.  During this time you become a man and you gain wisdom and you gain perspective and you find a way to articulate your thoughts about the world and how you feel about it.  Justin changed and I was amazed by his transformation.

My first memory of him is standing outside his house, watching his parents move in next door.  He was 5, I was 7.  He was shy but we became friends immediately, spending a lot of time roaming the neighborhood and doing whatever it is boys do at that age.  We were both active types so it wasn't difficult to find things to do.   We played a lot of sports, most often engaged in duels on the tennis court and at the ping-pong table.

As time went on he grew from a shy kid to a gregarious youth, once taking his parents' car for a joyride at age 14 while under the guardianship of my mother.  Though a gentle soul, she was enraged at him, but only for a short time.   He had that effect on people, and still does.  It wasn't possible to stay mad at him because he was too goofy, too positive, and too much fun.   Some people suck the energy out of a room, and some bring tremendous energy.  He brings energy with his walk, his smile, and his demeanor.  Because he's so fun, you tend to chant his name when he enters (Reid!).

At some point during my high school years, he moved away and we saw each other only sporadically.  He went one way to college and I went another, and we kept in touch from time to time and were both in the other's wedding.  I moved to California and he moved to Minneapolis where he became a firefighter and has had some success as a model.  We had fun when we were together briefly during those times and I noticed small changes, but I never saw the transformation until we talked during this visit.

There's a comfort level with old friends that can't be replicated in other relationships.  We easily drifted into conversation like there was never a gap.  We talked about the shared memories and we talked about the years where we've been apart.   The stories he told indicated the kid went from gregarious to a bit crazy, but he seemed to have always remained the likeable "Reid"! that I always knew.  I heard rugby stories (a pole and a naked King Zulu dance), mushroom stories (cowboys?), and LSD stories (beef jerky!).  My stories weren't quite as good or entertaining, but the conversation flowed easily and effortlessly, even when we got to the difficult times.

Anybody that is married or has been married knows the inherent difficulties in the lifelong Bataan Death March that is marriage (I joke Nikki, I joke), so I wasn't surprised when Justin started talking about his.   We talked in depth and analyzed his situation from every conceivable angle.  When it comes to these situations, it really doesn't matter who's at fault because there's never a winner.  Each party sort of loses and there's pain.  That's it.  The thing that struck me was how he has reacted to it and how he is able to articulate his thoughts about it.

In the time we've been apart Justin has developed an intensely strong faith.  You wouldn't know it, necessarily, because it's not in your face or prevalent.  As we talked, though, I could see how extremely important it is to him and how he is sure that it has kept the marriage together and given him comfort.   The things he said were profound and sincere and deep.  He spoke so philosophically about his situation that I became inspired to be a better person.  It was never preachy, it was something else.  It was mature.   This wasn't the rugby dude or the quiet kid or the goofy teen.  This was a full on man.  His faith had completely transformed him.  It had changed him, but it didn't change him.

He went on to tell me some happier stories about camping with his friends and his kids, and I'm convinced he still has the Reid! inside of him.  I can tell by the way he speaks about his kids that he's passionate about being a father.  I think they get to see the younger Justin from time to time.  I was worried he might have lost the inner light, but it's still there.  It's a little different, but better, as most things are when they've aged and mellowed.    When I dropped him off at the airport I could tell he was excited about getting back to his family.   We promised not to let another 15 years pass before our next visit, but you know how those things go.  I'm just thankful we got to share a little of that light while he was here in our house.

Seeing the Past and Future Me

Anybody who has followed this blog for any time knows my basic theory on life is that everything is a pain in the ass (EIAPITA).  This was never more true than when I completely tore my achilles tendon two weeks ago playing tennis (in this case, the last A in the acronym becomes ankle, hey-o).  When it happened, it was very confusing and disorienting, as you can imagine it might be when you are convinced you took sniper fire to the leg.  I thought my doubles partner had hit me with his racket, although he was at least fifteen feet away.  Imagine your tendon being an electrically charged guitar string that is pulled 6 inches to the side and then released, allowing the electrical charge and vibration to course through your body while you try to figure out who the sadistic devil is that would do such a thing.  It was all three of those things.  Surprisingly, the pain only lasted about 3 hours, although the thought of the  immediate sensation I felt still makes me quiver from time to time.

The unexpected part of this experience is that it has allowed Nikki to see me both as a 5 year old and as a 75 year old in the span of two weeks, each persona intermingled with different experiences so that it becomes difficult to tell which one I am.  I suppose this  makes sense since it's been said we become child-like in our old age, sort of charming in the quaint and gregarious things we say, but ultimately dependent on others to get through our daily life.

I noticed the first chuckles from Nikki when I was hobbling around the house.  I didn't have the pre-surgery walking boot yet and the only way I could move was to lock the knee of my injured left leg so that it became rigid.  This becomes necessary when you don't have an achilles and you cant bend your foot up or down.  The net effect is that the injured stick becomes the equivalent of a pirate's wooden leg.

"Oh my god, I just saw my life at 75", Nikki said.  "You look like our neighbor Ken when you walk".  Ken is an 85 year old man with Alzheimer's and a bad back, who I've written about here before.  Because of these two conditions he hobbles panifully to the mailbox 10 times a day, including Sundays.  I'm guessing he doesn't remember how painful it was the last time he checked the mail ten minutes ago.  Even after I got the walking boot she continued to laugh at the site of me walking because I still had a pronounced limp for the next week.  Anyone who is or has been married has heard this from their wife at least once, "I can't imagine what it was like for your mom to take care of you".  For Nikki, this rhetorical question became a reality the minute I got home from surgery.

By the time I got home from the procedure, 14 hours had passed since my last meal.   I couldn't wait to eat and Nikki quickly cooked me up a grilled cheese sandwich.   I took a couple bites and these charming bits made a brief visit to my stomach, introduced themselves, then quickly hightailed it back out  of there and into the trash can.  I estimate their stay to be between 10-15 seconds.  Damn you anesthesia!  I'm pretty sure I could still taste the gas.  Now Nikki was seeing what it was like for my mom.  Surely I must have performed that very act hundreds of times for her in my childhood.

The next day Nikki came in the room said she was pretty sure she had stepped in a puddle in the bathroom.  In my narcotic induced situation, I'm not sure if I responded to her or only answered in my head "I'm not surprised".  I'd be surprised if I actually hit the toilet considering the delicate ballet required to perform this act while in a drug induced haze.  Not only was I dizzy, but my ankle felt like a 20 psi tire that had been inflated to 100 psi.  It can't bear any weight, so it has to be suspended slightly behind me, making me crane forward and have to use my left hand against the mirror for support.  I now have  only one hand available for the rest of the logistical details and my leg isn't getting any lighter.  Oh, and by the way, the urgency is only increasing.  Having never taken target practice in this fashion, the end results were quite predictable, about the same as a 5 year old with no directional control.  I don't think she had the heart to chastise me in my condition so she told me I'd do better next time.   Just as with a child in potty training, encouragement  for the effort is always the best tactic.  I was waiting to hear that I would receive candy the next time I hit the big boy potty.

After the first three days it became abundantly clear that I needed a shower.  By this time most of the latent pain had subsided, though it still hurt when I got up.  It's extremely difficult for me to accept the fact that I need physical help, so I waited until Nikki went to work to give a shower a try.  I bagged up the leg, put the chair in the shower and made the hop up the step and into our shower, whereupon my bare foot immediately slipped on the shower floor and both of my legs splayed forward into the wall.  Much like the scenario I described with the cows, the time-space continuum evaporated and everything sort of went  in to slow motion and I had an internal conversation while falling.   Here's the conversation:

Me to Myself:  Boy, Nikki is really going to be mad at you for this one, you should have waited for her help.  I know, but it didn't seem like that big of a deal.  Oh no,  I hope I don't break the shower door when my back hits it.  Ohh, that really was jarring when my buttocks just hit the tile, and that little ridge at the shower entrance doesn't feel good on my lower back.  Your splinted leg hit the wall pretty hard, do you think you tore the achilles again?  I don't think so, but my toes are numb from being jammed into the wall.  Can you get up?  Yes.  Ok, get in the seat and proceed as if nothing happened.  Ok.

Amazingly, the next morning this scenario repeated itself when I got up to go to the bathroom in the dark and I fell over again.  And I had virtually the same internal conversation on the way down.    When I fell I felt like a 75 year old man about to break his hip, but then I felt like a 5 year old when Nikki ran in and asked "What the hell is going on"? It was just like when I had slumber parties as a kid and we made too much noise.   I am happy to report, however that I was 95% accurate this time.

Nikki has been an absolute angel through this whole ordeal.  She has taken excellent care of me and I couldn't be more lucky to have somebody as patient as her in my life.  She has seen what my mom experienced, and she has seen what our future may hold and as far as I know, she plans on staying with me.  It can't be easy living with the proverbial bull in the china shop, but I hope in some way I make it fun.

Last night Nikki got me squared away in bed and shut the door to go sleep in peace in the other room.  I had to get up and grab my water bottle and I loudly banged a crutch against the dresser.  "What the hell is going on in there?", she yelled from the hallway.  I giggled like a 5 year old.