Month: May 2015

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Introducing Dale

Postaday for May 27th: Baggage Check. We all have complicated histories. When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?

I got one of them headaches here you swear you’ll never drink again. Which is a lie because in my hand, a jelly-jar full of wild turkey. To take the edge off. Woke up at 2 am to gobble some exedrin and spent the next three hours moaning at the pillow where my wife’s head left a dent.

Ha, now you got to guess if she divorced me or died, and then guess if that’s why I drink.

The name’s Dale. Jason made me up— he says that sometimes when these writing prompts leave him flat, he’s going to hand it over to me, let me say a few things. Purely fictional, of course, but then, as he says, the point’s to write, not report. No one’s building a biography about poor old bukkhead.

So where was I. Sitting here in my overstuffed, looking out the window. Hurray for us, another hazy day my little corner of LA. You know how there’s New York City, and then there’s Queens, and there’s Long Island? That’s what this part of LA is like. Right in there and no where close. I don’t look out my window for the celebrities.

Truth is, my history ain’t so complicated. I don’t have to make too many major decisions. Wouldn’t be great if I got to tell you that I pulled the plug on my wife, on account of I had to make the same decision about my ma and I let her linger too long and we all suffered for it? But nah.

Look at me shrug, slosh a little wild turkey on my wrist, and say, sorry, to you, not my wrist.

That’s the second time I’ve brought up my wife. I think Jason’s trying to get somewhere with this. Now, I can’t have murdered her or anything, because he wants me to chime in now and again, and if all I am is a wife-o-cide, that’ll get real boring real fast. I need to be more complicated.

How about this. My wife didn’t leave me, and she ain’t dead. She’s visiting her sister. In, let’s say, Berkeley. Last time she went up there, I made a few bad calls. Sowed some oats. Nothing illegal, broke no vows, but had to take a couple hundred showers to get the glitter out of my chest hair, if you know what I mean.

So this time, major decision: two six packs and the Netflix. That kept me from driving any place. My oats went sowless.

Now what I have to decide is, was it worth it. What I gained in clean conscious, I lost in pounding migraine. And here I am, 10 in the morning, wild turkey in hand, staring out the window. Hazy day. My lawn needs mowing. Gloria, the neighbor, just backed out of her driveway and got slammed by some idiot kid doing 50. 50 in a residential zone. Broken glass everywhere. Kid’s half-hanging out his windhsield. I should call the cops. But damn, this headache is something fierce.

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NaBloPoMo Day 27: Portrait

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Which do you cherish more: old family photos or old family stories?

I guess old family stories, since those are more fun, easier to share, adaptable to the situation they’re told in. I don’t have too many old family photos though, so maybe I’m biased. Or maybe my old family’s not all the photogenic.

There’s old photos floating around, of course, and they get passed from one person to another on occasion. But not so many as to establish any kind of record. Not that way we do with the stories.

Perhaps I am having difficulty with that word “cherish,” when I don’t know that I put that much thought into it. (Thus starting this post with “I guess.”) As I’ve said ad-nauseum, I’m not one much for memories or nostalgia.

So, to compare the two, pictures versus stories, since I like to use photography to create, and I like to create stories too, as much as I want to be an artistic photographer, I’m much more comfortable and accomplished with stories. More bias!

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Portrait

#Selfie with suit, beard oil, hotel room lighting, 2015.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


Selfies are de facto portraits, right?

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Bridges Like Roller Coasters

Postaday for May 26th: Nightmares. Describe the last nightmare you remember having. What do you think it meant?

We went to San Diego a week ago, and had occasion to drive over a bridge to Coronado. Have you seen this thing? It’s terrifying. It’s steep and narrow and when you’re on it you’re pointed at the sky. I don’t have nightmares very often, but when I do, often I’m in a car going up an impossibly steep road, over a bridge. There’s no immediate danger, but a feeling of deep dread.

I’m happy to report that while sighting that bridge at Coronado sparked memories of nightmares, the drive itself was not so bad. Nor have I had any nightmares since. Last night, I DID dream that I was late for Spanish class, but that’s silly because I haven’t been in school in 20 years and I never took Spanish. But I digress (doesn’t all dreaming digress?)

Another super duper scary bridge along these lines is the San Mateo Bridge in the Bay Area. Every time we visit the in-laws, there’s occasion to drive over this darned thing, and it gives me the willies when I’m a passenger. When I’m driving, no problem at all. Which is funny, because in the nightmare version, I’m always the one driving.

I did a quick Google search for scary bridges, but they were all “scary” due to length, width, high winds, terrible tolls, etc. None of them seemed to have that super-steep part that gives me the heebiejeebies. Maybe it’s a roller coaster thing— you know, that initial steep climb before the big plunge? I’m not the biggest fan of roller coasters, just because I find them a bit tedious. But my wife loves them, so I won’t hesitate to go on one.

She makes us stand in the longer line that you stand in so you can sit in the front car. I get why she wants to sit there, as opposed to elsewhere; she figures why waste time on waiting unless you get the best seat? But when we finally do, and I’m sitting there, and the car goes cerclunk and we start to move, I’m fine. And then we hit that first dip before the big climb, and I’m okay. And it inches up and up, and more and more of the amusement park comes visible as we keep climbing, and I look up and see there’s still a lot of track to climb, and I’m good, I am. I might be a little bit nervous, but that’s probably sympathetic, next to my giddy wife who’s practical foaming with anticipation.

And then that very top part, where we crest, and since we’re in the front car we seem to hang there for a few seconds while the weight from the rest of the cars gets redistributed, and then that click and a second of utter silence— a loud silence, since I’d forgotten I was listening to the clunk clunk clunk of the chains pulling us up. A huge silence, the breeze up here at 500 feet a cold and frosty…

And then the screaming starts. The rest is getting thrown around the roller coaster car, knocking heads with my wife, posing for the part where they take the picture. Nothing like my nightmares at all.

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NaBloPoMo Day 26: Still Life

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: Tell us about the first time you held a camera.

Can’t remember. My memory’s not so good in general. How the first time I held a DSLR? Or my first DSLR? Or the first one paid for myself? Want to go back further, to my first digital camera, a big old honking Kodak that I took to a nearby swamp to photograph old abandoned fire hydrants? Back then I was using bootleg Photoshop and trying to be artsy. The only difference now is I pay for Photoshop.

My mom has been taking pictures for 50 years or so, which means there was a camera there my whole life. I’m sure the first I held a camera was very very young. Probably a Brownie Instamatic or whatever they were called. One of those black boxes with the hard edges; you’d press a button and then wind the film with your thumb.

Remember, back then, you’d have to load film with a specific IOS, there was no auto-focus, no focus at all. Nowadays, the have filters to mimic the light leaks and bokeh and other issues we’d face. Nowadays, they have whole aps dedicated to making a digital photo look like those old shots. Faded and yellow and poorly developed.

Don’t worry, I’m not being nostalgic. Or wistful. Or even a Luddite. I’m just explaining why I can’t remember the first time I held a camera.

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Still Life

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on

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Another Night at Tums

Postaday for May 25th: Fill In the Blank. Three people walk into a bar . . .

Three people walk into a bar. Mary, Maria, and little Marissa, just turned 21. Three generations, none of them related. They work together at Roma, Inc, an office around the corner. The bar is called Tums. Everyone inside is more or less losing their minds. There’s sports on the TV and one of the teams has done something that has driven this after-work bar crowd wild. Mary, Maria, and Marissa glide through the chaos like cherry blossoms floating through a pre-maelstrom breeze. They arrive at the bar.

Mary, Roma Inc. VP, finance, thin as bones and skin so tight she looks like she’d bounce off of swords. Says to the bar in general, “Rum and Coke” and it appears before her, instantly.

Maria is an operations director, and she will never ever be a VP. She’s married, which isn’t the problem, but she has no kids, which is the problem. She glares at the bartender until he appears. She glares at him until he picks up a glass and a bottle of Chardonnay. She glares while he pours, glares when he sets in front of her. Glares as he backs away, slowly. Maria has curly brown hair, wears a lot of lipstick. She sips the wine with lips pursed so tight that only water molecules pull through, leaving behind the alcohol.

Marissa just started at Roma. Marissa went to college a year early, got her bachelors in two years, and decided to take a year off to back pack around Europe. She wanted to really slut it up, sleep around, experiment, just go nuts. But everywhere she went, people treated her with respect and dignity. Men we courteous, almost chivalric. She got nowhere with them. She put pictures of herself online, as a test, and was reassured when anonymous assholes unambiguously noted the dirty things they’d like to do to her. So it wasn’t her. Fine. Whatever. Came back home, got her MBA in one year, got a job, turned 21, and somehow ended up walking out after work one evening at the same time as Maria who happened to be walking out at the same time as Mary.

Marissa asks the bartender for a boilermaker. He brings her a margarita. God damn it.

Mary looks over at the other two. “I’m Mary. VP.”

Maria says “Maria. OD, been with Roma 20 years.”

Marissa says “Marissa. Just started. I have no idea what I do.”

They each sip their drinks. The bar has calmed down quite a bit. In fact, many people have left. In fact, Mary, Maria, and Marissa are the only people left. Not even the bartender is there any more. There’s a loud booming sound as the door to the bar closes. The boom echoes, then all is silent.

“Marissa, you’re young,” Mary says, like one of those questions that comes out like a statement.

“Yes,” Marissa says.

“Does this story pass the Bechdel test?”

“Uh….”

“Not anymore,” Maria says, setting down her glass. She slides off her barstool, and walks towards the door. She leaves. A soon as she does, the door opens and people walk in. The bar’s a little brighter now, and the TV’s back on.

Marissa stares into her margarita. She hates margaritas. Has hated them every since Spain, where she found the only Mexican restaurant in Madrid, and drank about a dozen of them.

Mary finishes her Rum and Coke. She stands up too. The bartender’s back, and there’s a few more people at the bar now, a few in booths. A waitress walks by, carrying a tray of chicken wings. “See you tomorrow I guess,” she says, and leaves.

Through the increasing bar noise, as more and more people are getting into the game on the TV, Marissa says “No you won’t.” It’s not cynical. It’s just that VPs work on the 12th floor, and Marissa’s stuck on three.

The bartender comes by, and without asking, sets down another margarita, and a bill for all four drinks. She picks it up, walks over to a booth where a bunch of people are going to town on some jalapeno poppers. Sets the bill down amongst their soiled napkins. Asks one where the women’s restroom is. Walks in the opposite direction when it’s pointed out to her. Leaves.

The door closes behind her, shutting out the screams and hollers of a hundred sports fans losing their god damn minds.

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NaBloPoMo Day 25: Nature

Today’s NaBloPoMo Prompt: What is the oldest photo you own?

According to the folder where I finally got around to organizing everything, the oldest photo I own is a picture of my wife’s ex-boyfriend from back in 2000. Not very old. I took all of the photos off all the hard drives and old laptops and put them in one place. That picture of him, a self-portrait he took while holding up some painted ceramic thing he’d made for her, is the one at the top of the list.

This would be a more interesting story of the answer was “A picture from 1933 of my grandmother waiving good by to my grandfather has he goes off to war,” but then I don’t know what war would have been going on at that time if I’ve even got the right ages for war-going fathers of my mom or dad right.

But this just goes back to the idea that as much as I can I don’t like to keep things, and that includes old photos. But I fail miserably, and probably in some box somewhere there’s an old photograph from my youth. So this prompt has prompted me to meditate on the nature of clutter, more than the nature of memories.

Because, as you poor people who read this have read a hundred times before, I don’t take pictures for the sake of memory, but for the sake of making something. And making things leads to clutter, doesn’t it?

Today’s NaBloPoMo Photo Prompt: Nature

Wenatchee sunrise.

A photo posted by Jason Edwards (@bukkhead) on


Took this one just a few days ago.

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We’re Going to Need a Bigger Orchestra

Postaday for May 24th: Mix Tape. Put together a a musical playlist of songs that describe your life, including what you hope your future entails.

Well obviously all I need to do is pull up the Daredevil OSC and play that. Boom. Life described and planned, in strings and timpani.

Now I know what you’re thinking, your thinking, “But Bukkhead, Daredevil the motion picture starring Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, or the recent Netflix original with Debra Ann Woll and Vincent DeNofrio?” Friends, I’m here to tell you: both. Both describe my life to a T. Both project how my life is going to go in the future. Allow me to elucidate.

What the two soundtracks have in common is that I’ve only heard bits and pieces of each, and only once, as I’ve seen the movie only once and seen the TV show only once. And let’s be clear: I’m not talking about rock n roll songs from the movie. I’m talking the deep moody stuff that plays in the background when it rains or there’s a fight that goes on too long. What’s that song by that band that was a big hit after the movie came out? Bring Me to Life by Evanescence? I like that song, like it alot, but it doesn’t capture my life at all. For example, when that song came out, I was getting over a terrible crush. The words go: “How can you see into my eyes like open doors?” and later “Now that I know what I’m without.” Sounds plaintive. What it needs to describe is the tons of pizza I ate that summer.

Which the strings and timpani stuff does! Just think about it: a city on the edge of dusk, horizon’s fire dying as the camera sweeps up a tenement, over the rooftops, and there perched on a ledge, as the horns swell and the strings skitter towards an angsty foreboding, a chubby guy on a computer shoving pizza in his face and playing video games. I get chills just thinking about it!

And let’s face it, what with the way my life is going now: fighting that bulge still, the one created by eating all that pizza years ago, a habit forged and hard to break. Just like the sounds backing a frenetic martial-arts fight, violins swooping, trumpets blasting, drums rat-a-tatting as I land punch after punch on the bad guys, the which are my urges to eat more pizza. Good god I’m hungry all of a sudden.

My apologies if this comes across as lazy. I know some people have worked hard and thought long about each song on their own lifetime playlist, combining their personal experiences with the songs themselves as well as the deep metaphors from the lyrics that evoke their best hopes and dreams. Mostly I listen to instrumentals, so I don’t have lyrics to work with. And when a soundtrack fits, it just fits!

Maybe, hmm… maybe I should change my blog from “Bukkhead” to “Daredevil in Cargo Shorts.”

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