No Reservations

Just finished watching my second episode of No Reservations, a relatively new program airing Mondays at 10 on the Travel Channel.
I wasn't fond of the promos, wherein a certain smug, unshaven, earringed and slightly greasey urbanite steamrolls a small mountain of chintzy souvenirs. Even if I didn't have a six-year-old (whom I frequently torture with programs like those appearing on the Travel Channel) to protect, there's still enough creampuff in this fat, balding cynic to ensure that the wanton destruction of inflatable sharks, carnival teddies and other vacation baubles will make his tummy squirm.
After an hour or so in the company of host Anthony Bourdain, however, I found myself liking the jerk. He's bright, foul-mouthed, a glutton for good food and drink. Though often a bit of a smart-ass, he also comes across as charming and self-deprecating, the kind of a guy who buys you a drink but somehow gets pissy about it.
The biggest draw for me, however, is the concept of visiting from out of town without succumbing to the tourist route. I've shared this philosophy all my life, and have the bad back and ex-wives to prove it.
A prime example was my trip to the Keys in August of '88.
Glenda (wife number one) and I had gotten as far as Bahia Honda when we opted to camp in the national park. Kay West was only a half-hour's drive or so. We had a tent. It was cheap.
Trouble was, tent-camping in August in the Keys is one of the world's biggest mistakes. Come sunup, you either climb out immediately and look for refreshment or begin to braise in your sleep. We vacated the place and headed south, stopping for a danish before hitting the bars. Come dinner time, we decided to fire up the hibachi right there on Duval, grilling drumsticks, drinking Red Stripes and chilling to Ziggy Marley.
An effiminate, middle-aged man and his dog happened by, both wearing matching bandanas. Ever the gregarious wench, Glenda invited the jolly poofter to share in our bounty. He declined, though my offer of a beer was accepted with relish.
"What's his sign," the pixie asked my bride.
I began to get a little perturbed, but on second thought felt quite relieved that he hadn't asked me directly.
"Pisces," she answered.
"Pisces," he mused, finding my eye.
"Uh-huh," she giggled, obviously revelling in my latent homophobia. "Why? What's that mean?"
"He will wear his heart on his shoulder sleeve."
"Ah-hah," Glenda nodded slowly, feigning comprehension, a bemused smirk frozen on her fuzzy, lipless mouth.
Her replacement rarely showed much shoulder, either.

Luck of the Drill

Hanging blinds this afternoon, was reminded of just how mechanically inept I’ve always been.
It’s a shame, really. I like the idea of building things. My granddad, pap and brother, though a tad clumsy, could and can claim at least some degree of motor coordination. Drawing doesn’t count. Everything’s in slow motion.
Anyway, I was attempting to fasten a cubic retainer to the top of the window frame whilst juggling screw and rechargeable drill, picturing my doughy personage crashing through the new pane, splintering shin twisting the spigot and wasting water.
In the old condemned Third Street residence, I once endeavored to install an FM antenna procured for me by my late former father-in-law from the eave of a shuttered business next door.
But how to run the coax through the cinderblock wall? I borrowed Papa’s drill, crawled under the desk in my Study and began to bore. About two inches in I realized that the block I was drilling through had been filled with concrete and that my bit would go just past halfway.
All of 26 at the time, I naively opted to measure the distance from the outer edge of the door frame leading to the deck to the spot I’d dug in the wall. Following the strip of mortar three blocks from the floor, I measured upward to complete the other axis.
Lighting a smoke and stepping outside, I measured both ways to locate an adjacent point behind the azaleas and went to burrowing once more. About another two inches in and I began to realize what a hopeless farce I’d created. With a three-quarter-inch bit, if I was off just a fraction I’d be screwed.
What was I doing making holes in the wall? We’d not even been there a year. I’d have to buy some caulk or putty or something and patch everything up and repaint over that. The partial can in the storage shed had been thrown out weeks ago.
I finally reached the end of my chuck, Papa’s brand-new bit a chalky white and dull as a paper knife.
I put down the drill and peeked inside. I could just make out the BTO logo on an old album cover.
I said a little prayer of thanks that night, settling down to retool my presets.

Storm & Drink

With Hurricane Katrina slamming Miami, I'm reminded of a late summer evening almost twenty years ago when another powerful monsoon threatened the Bay Area with high winds and localized flooding.
My best pal, then most often referred to simply as The Doctor, suggested we ride out the storm on the wraparound porch of a recently-vacated woodframe.
Purchasing a pair of cheap twelvers from the last open Circle K for miles and feeding the boombox fresh D-cells, we proceeded to trespass and settle ourselves on the floor at the westerly end.
We tuned to the local AM news and followed the storm's progression as the slightly more sane might an SEC championship, growing ever drunker and giddier as the winds picked up and howled. The announcer was warning of storm surge, mandatory evacuations and power outages. Our biggest worry was that our dope might get wet.
Sure enough, the surrounding homes and street lights soon went very dark indeed, sheets of horizontal rain forcing our little party ever nearer the wall at our backs.
For the first time in a long while I had begun to become truly frightened. What were the folks doing right now? Where was my cat? Why hadn't we gotten more ice?
I don't remember a whole lot after that. My stomach went sour, the storm passed, we packed up our shit and went home.
Sure, I was thankful we both didn't die. But one day I feel we just might.

Switch in Time

I have a diver's watch of which I'm rather fond.
I use its little ratchet wheel quite frequently at work, timing my smoke and lunch breaks and the occasional mid-morning poo.
When I noticed the outer ring had fallen to the floor a couple days ago, I found it a little upsetting. The feeling soon passed as I leaned out to reach it and pissed down the back of my pants.
That afternoon I took the watch to Wal-Mart. The bangle frau explained that because mine was a water-resistant chronometer, Wal-Mart could not guarantee the battery's seal and was thereby serving official notice that should I decide to replace said battery and thereafter expose my diver's watch to moisture, Wal-Mart would not be held liable for its repair or replacement. In conspiratorial tones she finally suggested I visit a real jewelry store.
I had been to the real jewelry store. The real jewelry store wanted eight bucks for the battery alone, five more to re-attch the little segmented piece.
Thanking the crone, I turned to leave her department when I noticed a display of plasticine boxes, each containing a timepiece.
Three bucks.
I chose a shiny silver pocket model and gladly paid the lady in cash, plus my seven percent to Uncle Sam.
The diver's watch sits in a little puzzle box beside the TV on my dresser.
I hope my wrist doesn't peel.