World Wide Web, get Kraken

AC/DC’s “If You Want Blood … You Got It” screamed out of the speakers. He took a swig of Shiner Blonde as his girlfriend’s dog warily eyed him. She had left just seconds before, taking back an expired package of Stir Fry sauce back to the local Food Lion. He would have gone ahead and made the food, but she was a stickler for such things. It was one of the things that made them compatible – having the differences be in such little things.

Of course, their taste in music differed slightly as well. She still listened to a lot of heavy metal and garage music. The stuff he liked in college, but had gravitated away from to enjoying more alt-country music.

But who gives a damn.

They were good in bed together. They made each other laugh. They knew when it was OK to cry.

He didn’t like turning the air conditioning on. Only in hotel rooms. “It’s free there,” he said, justifying his sweaty existence that most folks would deem “eccentric.” He deemed it frugal. And hell, with the coming economic apocalypse, he’d be used to not having air conditioning a lot more so than most of the people he knew. It was a bit of a hipster badge of honor. Like his flip phone and reading “Writer” magazine. Ha. How is that hipster. It’s not.

Getting drunk tonight was a priority. He had to drive to Richmond tomorrow night. Had a job interview set up. Didn’t know if he wanted the job, but figured what the fuck. It was a newspaper job. It was a work from home – mostly – job. Something a lot closer to the General Assignment Sports Writer job he supposedly had in Greenville, North Carolina, about three years prior. Only problem with that job was the sports editor was such a control freak he didn’t allow it to be a free-for-all reporting job – as advertised by him in luring him away from a very comfortable sports editor job of his own – and he ended up sitting on his ass designing the agate pages too many nights.

Photography and video shooting, not so much editing, skills were honed during the time. He won a couple more writing awards. Then he was laid off.

Oh well, he thought when the phone call came to his desk. Everyone else was sitting around on pins and needles. He figured he’d be the one. Newest hire, highest salary. It was a no-brainer, really.

He took it in stride. Even the next day when he was on a list of people not allowed back in the newsroom on the new secretary’s desk. Her eyes bugged out when he said he wanted to go there, and she didn’t quite know what to do. Before long the H.R. lady was there, taking his paperwork and shooing him back out the door.

Thinking about that right now made him chuckle. And take a couple extra sips of beer.

Her dogs stared at the door. Wondering where his girlfriend went. “Did she leave us here?” had to be going through their minds.

Bon Scott says “Shazbot, Nanu-Nanu,” it makes him laugh. Then he gets a bit sad. Bon Scott is dead. Damn. It makes him think of his other heroes, and how so many of them are dead. Joe Strummer. Johnny Thunders. Stiv Bators. Freddie Mercury. All dead. Bill Hicks. Dead. Johnny Carson, Marlon Brando. Brian Jones.

And yet Jay Leno lives.

Yes, God has a very wicked sense of humor. He wants all the good guys with him sooner. The rest have to stay longer. I’m sure they get the same great welcome, but it’s later. Much later. Then he thinks about himself. He almost died once while driving. Twice while contemplating just leaving. Would he have been greeted by God? Or by Keanu Reeves?

Thoughts are a dangerous things.

He doesn’t like thinking as much as he used to.

Nor reading. Books he still buys quite often. Sometimes he starts them. But usually then end up in a pile of others. Or they start a new pile. They get dirty. The salt air here really wreaks havoc on books. Paperbacks especially. He had to write wreaks havoc in a headline at work this past week. It is one of the laziest phrases he thinks, because really, how often is havoc really wreaked?

He wants to buy a book about the author John Kennedy Toole. But he knows he won’t read it. It’ll just sit in a pile, dusty eventually. Much like the Warren Oates biography he got for Christmas last December. His uncle gave it to him. Asked “why Warren Oates?” He replied “because he kicks ass.” They both laughed. The book has sat in a pile ever since. Kind of like Warren Oates in most people’s memories. He’s that guy in a lot of movies. But he’ll always be Sgt. Hulka to most. And he really still wants to see “92 in the Shade.” Why can’t it be legal to get ahold of movies that aren’t digital yet? And why isn’t that one digital.

He wished the internet world would just send it to him.

It worked with Johnny Thunders’ documentary, why not a Warren Oates flick?

Get busy getting busy.

Warren Oates > Warren Buffet

My man crush developed late on him.

I’d known of his existence from at least the first time I saw the movie “Stripes.” So, that would make it sometime in the early 1980s.

He was dead by then, most likely.

However, these last few weeks, Mr. Warren Oates has become my new favorite. The go-to guy when I’m having a bad night. Or day. Or life.

His characters seem to always be on the other side of luck. Yeah, sometime he got the pretty girl. But it seemed she always did something to screw it up. See “Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia” or “China 9, Liberty 37”.

When he was the tough guy, it went wrong.

When we was in the race, he wrecked.

I’m in awe of him right now. Will it pass? Maybe. I used to think Robert DeNiro could do no wrong. And Jack Nicholson. But they certainly went down wrong paths.

So far, Oatesy hasn’t.

Maybe I’ll dig into something one day and it won’t be quite right. I am trying to get a hold of “92 in the Shade” right now. Only on VHS they say. So I bid a buck for one on ebay. Maybe I’ll win. And it’ll be life changing.

Of course, that may be my problem, always searching for some sign, some life-changing fact or journey from a movie. Or a book. Or a song. Instead of looking inside.

Maybe my father is right. There isn’t much in there to begin with. All the brains and no desire to do anything with them, he always implies but never out-right says.

Last conversation I had with the old drunk, he told me I needed to “figure out what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”

I laughed, like I usually do. First it was kind of funny. Second, it’s a defense mechanism.

He’s right. I know. But then he uses his life as some kind of shining example of what “success” is. He started rambling on about civic organizations, things he’d done with his life, being proud, raising three college-educated kids, and so on.

Yes, he’s done a lot of things. But do you need to sit there and list them in a drunken stupor to prove it? Or to prove to your son that he’s a failure when measured up to that?

“Dad, me and you, we have different definitions of success,” I said. “Maybe it’s that simple.”

He stared at me blankly when I said it. I didn’t regret it for a moment. Those times when the truth slip out of my mouth when I’m talking to him get rarer and rarer. They used to come freely. And they always ended in fights. Yelling. Temper tantrums. From both of us. This one wasn’t going to end that way. He knew it. I knew it. It was just going to end.

“If you are happy doing what you do, then so be it,” he slurred. “I just don’t get ….” he trailed off into babble.

That night, after driving home I sat in bed. I started to say things out loud. Cursing my ex-girlfriend for “still taking up space in my thoughts” and the like. It dawned on me how much me and my dad are alike at that moment. Bitter shells of what we once thought we were.

It don’t do much good sulking about it anymore. A lot of folks make choices that hurt people. Hurt them real bad. I’ve done it at least twice in my life. Probably a lot more. Fuck you if you think your hurt is worse than anyone else’s. Everyone has pain. Some are lucky and it doesn’t hit for a long, long time. Some get hit early and never seem to dodge it again. But eventually, it gets everyone. How you respond goes a long way in determining what happens next. Boy, that thought came out stupid. But that’s why I (used to) sit here and just type and type and type. Something good comes out every so often.

Back to Mr. Oates. Not the guy with Hall, but the one with a big toe named bill murray.

He could replace Harry Dean one day as the top dog. Steve Buscemi threatened, but never quite reached the pinnacle. Mickey Rourke went nuts, which didn’t disqualify him, but his surgery did. Hell, I understand what happened, my man, women can drive you to the verge and over the verge of stupidity. You went berserk, I got drunk and apathetic. You probably won that round. Except for the hitting part. If it’s true?

Anyways, I’d rather be Warren Oates than Warren Buffet any day. Pride is greater than money. Except when you need a good suit.