Monthly Archives: July 2015

Jul7

Bill Clinton, Rude Lesbians, and a Hypocrite

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Surprisingly, my time at the parking lot ended as it started, with some guy trying to talk to me about Bill Clinton.

The first guy was waiting for the rest of his party to meet him at the front of the parking area when he started telling me that in his opinion Bill Clinton had included too much land in the national monument, protected too many trees from logging. While I’m not fan of Bill Clinton (or any other President, politician, or pork barrel so-and-so), I am a big fan of trees, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about why this guy thought folks should be allowed to cut down more of them. Luckily, a car pulled in, and I jumped up to help them, effectively truncating the guy’s impending rant.

At the end of the day, a group walked up to the front to pay their parking fee. (When they’d pulled in, I didn’t know if they’d have space to park, so I told them to pay after they’d found a place for their giant truck.) I’d already packed my chair and my backpack into the van, so I showed them the self pay envelopes and where to drop theirs once they’d put the money in.

The old man with the group looked at me and said, Were you here 18 or 20 years ago when Bill Clinton….

I interrupted him and said, Nope. I wasn’t here. I’m not from California. I’d never even been to California twenty years ago.

My rambling left the guy momentarily speechless, and I jumped into my van and made my escape.

I. Do. Not. Want. To. Discuss. Bill. Clinton.

In between the two Bill Clinton guys, I had two cars of rude lesbians. No, I did not witness these women engaged in any sapphic activities. However, I’ve spent enough of my life drinking at lesbian bars (RIP Charlene’s), going to lesbian potlucks, reading lesbian literature, and hanging out with lesbians searching for some sapphic activity to have a pretty good idea of what side of the fence these women were on.

The passenger in the first car interrupted my information spiel to ask if I could renew their campground car pass. I said no, that their camp host would have to do it. She told me in a snotty little tone that their campground didn’t have a host. I said she’d have to wait for a patrol person so do it because I couldn’t renew it.

When I tried to resume my information spiel, the driver said in an angry voice, I know all that! I’ve been here many times!

Ok, great, I said, handing her the day pass and trail guide and walking off.

Seems like if she’d been there many times, she wouldn’t have had to holler at me halfway across the parking lot five minutes later, asking if there were restrooms on the trail.

I said no, that the only restrooms were in the little house in the middle of the parking lot.

She yelled back, saying she knew about those restrooms, but wondered if there were any on the trail.

I just said no ma’am, and left it at that.

The women in the second lesbian car were not verbally rude, but they tried to zip around another car whose driver was paying the parking fee. Such attempted zipping around seems like an act of aggression to me. Even if they didn’t know I was collecting a fee (and plenty of people figure it out by stopping long enough to read the sign which states the fee), even if they thought I was just shooting the shit with the people in the car ahead of them, they should have waited for me to wave them on if I had no business to conduct with them.

The hypocrite was in one of the last vehicles I collected a fee from. He was driving a big truck, and between him and the passenger, I saw a tall piece of clear plastic which looked to me like the pitcher of a blender. I thought it was some sort of trucker blender one could plug into the cigarette lighter and use to blend on the road.

Are y’all making margaritas in here? I teased.

The driver and the passenger both seemed confused.

Is that a blender? I asked.

Turns out it was a lantern, hence the tall piece of clear plastic. The lantern’s battery had run out the night before, so it was plugged into the cigarette lighter (at least I’d gotten that much right), charging.

Oh, I thought y’all were making margaritas in here, I joked again.

We don’t drink, he said, and I thought oh great, I’ve stuck my foot in my big ol’ mouth again. Then he added, We’re Christians, the implication being (I guess) that real Christians don’t drink alcohol.

As all this talking was going on, he’d handed me a $10 bill, and I was trying to hand him back a five. When I pulled out the five, three more came halfway out with it, making it look like I might hand him $20 in exchange for his $10 bill. I said oops! and shoved the extra fives back into my little accordion file.

That’s when the man showed his true colors and said something about how he’d keep those extra fives if I handed them to him.

I said, No you wouldn’t because you’re a Christian. If I gave you too much change, you would return it to me.

The he tried to say he meant he would keep the extra money if I gave it to him freely. (I didn’t think in the moment to tell him that the money wasn’t mine to give away, so if I gave it to him, it would still be stealing.)

Give me an honest drunk over a Christian with selective morals any day.

To read more about the parking lot, go here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/06/09/parking/ and here: http://www.rubbertrampartist.com/2015/06/13/wackadoodles-in-the-parking-lot/.

Jul5

Some People Are Just Idiots

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IMG_3178Today I gave two of the restrooms in my campground a scrub down cleaning.

I was at it at a little after six in the morning. The first thing I did in each restroom was use a big garbage bag to cover the toilet paper so it wouldn’t get soggy. Next I used soapy water and my brand new scrub brush to thoroughly clean the toilet (lid, seat, risers), the floors, the walls. The insides of the toilets were still pretty clean after the scrubbing I gave them a few days before, but I swished the toilet brush around inside and made sure everything looked really good. Then I hauled a bucket of water for each restroom, sloshed the toilet, floors, and walls to rinse away the suds from the Micro-Muscle cleaner.

I swept out the water as best I could, but the floors were still wet and slippery. I left the restroom doors open to help with the drying process, but set my bucket in one of the doorways and propped my broom diagonally to block the other.

IMG_3176If you were staying in a campground and walked up on a restroom with an obstacle in the doorway, a wet floor, and black plastic covering the toilet paper, what might you think? Might you think you should use the restroom on the other side of the campground? And if you didn’t know the location of another restroom might you ask the camp host–who was outside puttering around on her own campsite–where you might find another restroom?

Not my campers. Oh no.

Four of the seven people staying on the side of the campground with the toilets I’d scrubbed not only bypassed the obstacles in the doorways, but moved them completely in order to close the door. Four people also moved the black plastic over the toilet paper. Not a single one asked me if there was another restroom to use.

The only conclusion I can draw is that these people are idiots.

IMG_3177

(These are one set of restrooms in my campground. I took these photos.)

 

Jul4

Wet Dog

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This incident took place several weeks ago, before I moved to my campground, when I was still filling in at the larger campground.

I made it back to the campground on the afternoon of my second day off ten minutes before the snow started. Twenty minutes after the snow started falling, there was a dusting on the ground and on the branches of the trees. After that, the eerie fog rolled in. I turned on my little propane heater and read for a while before going to sleep.

In the morning, the sky stayed grey, and the fog clung to the tops of the tall trees. The air was cold even after the snow melted, and I did my paperwork while sitting close to the heater.

Around three o’clock, I felt like a pretzel with cabin fever after spending hours curled up on myself in the van. I put my jacket on over my uniform (which was on over my long underwear) and went to sweep restrooms.

I was working on the four-plex of vault toilets near the front of the campground. I’d done the two women’s toilets  and had just walked around to the other side to do the men’s. I looked across the small concrete porch to the other side of the building and saw a…creature…looking at me.

The fog had me on edge already, and I didn’t think there were any campers in the campground, so my brain didn’t immediately register the grey, fluffy-headed, pointed-eared creature as “dog.” My brain sort of thought “bear” and sort of though”Ewok,” but mostly thought “SURPRISE!” I yelled, not a full-on blood-curdling scream, but a yell loud enough to alert the dog’s person.

The woman came over. I blamed my edginess on the fog, which was true. I also told her I didn’t realize anyone was in the campground. She said they’d only been there about ten minutes. I complemented her on their tent assembling skill, because their tent was already up.

The woman told me she was there with her husband. They only lived about twenty-five miles away, but it was their anniversary, and they’d decided to go camping to celebrate.

People are different, and thank goodness for that. (One of my dad’s right-on little nuggets of wisdom is If everybody liked the same thing, there wouldn’t be enough to go around.) But if I were having an anniversary, I would not want to spend it in a tent in a wet, muddy, cold, foggy campground. (I’m more the comfy warm bed type.)

I asked her about the dog’s parentage. He was mostly husky, she said, but his father had been part timber wolf. He was a big, grey, handsome, friendly dog. He was running around the otherwise deserted campground, and it was beautiful to see. He was one of those dogs that is just a natural athlete.

He particularly enjoyed running alongside the golf cart as I drove. He ran with me when I went to the group site area to sweep the restrooms there. I could see how wet he was from running through the soggy meadow and moving through the misty air.

I wondered how those people were going to have anniversary sex with a big, wet dog in the tent with them. For the sake of their marriage, I hope he spent the night in the truck.

The fog had me on edge...(This photo by me.)

The fog had me on edge…(This photo by me.)

Jul3

Lucinda Williams and an Angel Named Al

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I wrote the following in early 2013 while I was spending winter months with friends in Austin, Texas.

Last night I got a free ticket to see Lucinda Williams perform at The Paramount Theater. When I lived in Austin [in the summer of 2000] I would go to the Summer Movie Classics at the Paramount. It was so wonderful to go there after a long day in the heat and humidity and sit in the coolness, surrounded by such beauty and watch movies on the big screen. I saw Easy Rider there, and Yellow Submarine (when I left the theater after that one, I felt like I was trippin’ even though no drugs were involved), Harold and Maude, Fast Times at Ridgemont High (for the first time), The Princess Bride, and Altered States.

I look at Craigslist a lot these days. That’s how I got my house/dog sitting job that has evolved into a housecleaning and cooking job. I got my temp job giving free samples from a Craigslist ad. I got the study at the UT neuroscience lab from Craigslist.(And I have another study with another UT department lined up, this one related to emotions. I am the control subject, matched up to a depressed 42 year old white female.)

As of the first of the year, I had only looked at job ads and the ride share board. Then one night as I was coloring Shrinky Dinks, I watched a documentary on Netflix called Craigslist Joe. (In a strange and interesting aside, as I was watching the movie, my new friend D. came over. I did not mention that I was in the process of watching a movie. She said, “There’s this movie you should watch…It’s called Craigslist Joe…” I told her, “I am watching it RIGHT NOW!” She didn’t even believe me until I turned the computer around and showed her what was on the screen.)

In the documentary, Joe goes out into the world with only the clothes he is wearing, a cellphone (with no phone numbers of anyone he knows on it), a laptop, and his passport. He has no money in his pockets. His plan is to spend a month getting all of his needs met through Craigslist. He goes to free events, meets people, tells them what he’s doing, and strangers feed him and give him a place to sleep. He rides with people and helps them drive and goes from California (can’t remember if it’s San Fran or LA) all the way to NYC and BACK AGAIN all in a month! Of course, nothing in the movie really surprises me because I live a similar way of life, although in the past, I haven’t used Craigslist quite so extensively. But for someone who thinks Craigslist is full of nothing but murderers and scam artists, for people who don’t believe in the kindness of strangers, this movie could be eye opening and mind blowing.

In the movie, one of the guys Joe takes a class from talks about how he checks Craigslist repeatedly every day. He lists the order he looks at different postings. He mentions looking at Strictly Platonic. I didn’t even know that list existed, so I started looking at it.

(Don’t forget, this is all related to Lucinda Williams.)

So I was looking at the Strictly Platonic ads one day and saw this

“Lucinda Williams Concert wed night – m4w – 61 (N. Austin)
I have two tickets to the Lucinda Williams concert at The Paramount Theatre Wed Jan 16th @ 8pm, Looking for a Lucinda Williams fan and a music / concert fan in general to join me for the show. We can talk about where when to meet and exchange pictures in e-mails. My Name is Al 61 years old 5’8″ about 175 lbs.”

When I first got to Austin, Lou and I were flipping through The Chronicle and saw that Lucinda was doing this show. I mentioned that I had never seen her play and had always wanted to, then promptly forgot about it, as I knew I was not going to spend money on a show that wasn’t Furthur. Then a couple of days before the concert, I saw Al’s ad. I figured he’d probably gotten 400 responses and already had someone lined up, but I also figured what the hell, and sent him an email.

In the subject line I wrote, “I love Lucinda Williams!” and then said ,”Did you find someone to go to the Lucinda Williams show with? If not, let me know. I am interested. And I am a real person. My favorite Lucinda CD is Car Wheels on a Gravel Road. What a collection of songs of loss and longing.”

Well, guess who was chosen to be the recipient of the extra ticket? (You already know the answer.) Al told me he got a few other responses, but he chose me because I said right up front that I love Lucinda. I guess the other responders were lukewarm about Lucinda and that’s not the kind of person he wanted to spend the evening with. (If I’m anything, it’s not lukewarm.)

Al is a really nice guy. He told me about his long-haired hippie exploits before I was born. It was pretty cool. He’s from Michigan. He loves music, has seen Eric Clapton, George Harrison, just saw BB King at the Paramount. The list of musicians he’s seen is so long I can’t even remember most of them. I was pleased that I did get to impress him by telling about the time I won tickets to a Bo Diddly show in NOLA. (KJ was my companion that night, and if I remember correctly, we had a ball!)

The Kenneth Brian Band opened. They are from Alabama, and they are great.

There was an intermission after the opening act, then Lucinda took the stage. It was only her and her guitar player Doug Pettibone up there. No drummer, no keyboards, no bass. Doug is AWESOME, a really fantastic guitar guy. He played steel guitar and I think a mandolin too. He really impressed me.

They opened with “Lake Charles,” which is one of my favorites, but Lucinda sped it up a bit, and it sounded a little like she was just going through the motions. Then she ended the song in the middle of a line and I wondered if she were drunk.

She took a drink (of water?) and came back to the mic and admitted that was a weird place to end the song. “I had to cough,” she laughed, and my hope was renewed. She got better with each song she sang, her voice got stronger. By the time she did “Can’t Let Go,” (the third or fourth song of the set), it was ON! By the time she did “Drunken Angel,” she was on fire! I love her voice, so strong and raspy, just like the old broad singing the country blues that she is. Did her voice make her life or did her life make her voice? Before almost every song, she told a little bit of its story, when she wrote it, some little piece of information. I liked that part a lot too. And the fans were awesome, shouting “we love you, Lucinda” and similar sentiments between songs. It was nice to be in a venue small enough to really hear fan reactions and know she heard them too.

Last night was such a blessing. Thank you, universe, for sending me an angel named Al.

Jul1

Southern Gothic Declining Gentility Edifice

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One of the jobs I found on Craigslist while I was in Austin during December 2012 was a house and dog sitting gig. The woman looking for the sitter was very upfront in her ad that whoever stayed at her house had to be ok with sharing the bed with her dog. I was at a point in my life where I couldn’t be too picky, so I took the job. I wrote about the house and the job while I was there.

This place where I am house sitting is weird. And kind of creepy. And messy. There is a heap of recycling (I think) in the corner of the kitchen. It’s a bunch of newspapers literally thrown haphazardly into a corner. There are old fashioned, creepy-as-fuck baby dolls under glass.

The refrigerator is full of rotting food. I am not speaking in metaphor or hyperbole. The refrigerator is full and a good portion of the food in it is rotting. (One of the disgusting items in the refrigerator was a whole pie covered in a fuzzy growth. Who lets a whole pie go bad? Sacrilege!) Usually I would be excited to dig through someone’s leftovers and eat what would go bad before their return. This refrigerator simply scares me. I dare not open a takeout box for fear that what is in that box will try to eat me! (The homeowner told me she would clean the refrigerator before she left so I would have room to put food in there. She did not. I tentatively moved some things so I could get my stuff in.)

I’m in some Southern Gothic declining gentility edifice.

I’ve already had a talk with the ghost(s) that I’m sure are here. I told it/them not to haunt me. I explained that if it/they have haunting to do, C. (who owns the house) is the woman to haunt, that I’m just here temporarily and they should keep it down so I can sleep. Not that I’ve had one good night’s sleep since I’ve been to Austin, but I didn’t tell the ghost(s) that.

The lady I am house sitting for didn’t tell me until I had already agreed to sit and came out here to pick up keys that I have to give the dog half a pill twice a day so she (the dog) won’t pee in her sleep. Seems to me a potential dog sitter should know the dog is half incontinent and in need of pills before s/he agrees to take the job. Luckily, the dog eats up the pill in a blob of peanut butter, but still! (The dog also woke me repeatedly each night so I could let her out into the backyard. Was she peeing or just checking out the scene? I don’t know. It was dark, and I couldn’t see what she was doing out there. I didn’t want to take the chance that she actually needed to pee and by not letting her out, I was setting myself up to mop up dog urine.)

Here’s another crazy thing that happened. C. hadn’t mentioned money, so I figured she figured my payment was getting a free place to stay. I hadn’t brought up money either. Yesterday when I came over, as I was about to leave, she said she would leave “half” on the table, would a check be ok, or did I prefer cash?  I said cash and told her I don’t have a bank account. I was pretty excited that I would be getting some money (especially since now the dog is getting pills and oh, there’s a cat to feed too). Well, when I got here this evening and looked on the table, there was NO MONEY. Weird. Weird. Weird!

When C. returned to Austin, she did pay me, and she hired me to clean her house and cook for her. We had the following exchange one day when I was working at her house.

C. told me that she is only the second owner of her house. It was built in 1932, and the first owner (a woman) DIED in the back bedroom (C.’s bedroom, where I slept with the dog while house sitting) in the 80s. I fucking knew there was a ghost in the house! I felt it! Not that it did anything. I think my little preemptive speech took the wind out of its ghostly sails. Anyway, I asked C. if she believes in ghosts. (She is a psychologist, so I would not have been surprised if she had said no.) She said, “Probably.” I asked if she ever thought there was a ghost in the house and she said no, but maybe there was a guardian angel. I didn’t tell her that I felt some kind of presence there, and I didn’t tell her I did a little out loud talking about how I was not there to be haunted.