The kind folks at Foundling Review have it featured in their December 2013 issue. Thank you to them for giving it a great home.
A small excerpt:
We used to go down to Lake Elmo and catch catfish. You gutted, I cooked; I could never stand the blood and entrails. We’d get drunk and skip stones. You never talked a lot except when you drank. But when you really did talk, folks listened. I sure wish I would have. Because I didn’t know you were telling me the truth that day.
I got nothin left for me here, you said. Soon, I’m breakin ground, kid.
Where you gonna go, John?
Anywhere that doesn’t have my name on it. Anywhere that ain’t easy.
Your voice—soft and calm. I never took you seriously until you filled out the paperwork. Enlisted like you were such a badass motherfucker. You even got that skinhead haircut. That time at the lake, one of the last times, I remember you glancing at the sky and asking for rain. I had a bite but I never reeled it in.
If you read one piece of mine this year, make this one it. Do iiiiit. For this (wo)man.
If you travel and you don’t make a mix CD/playlist with the song of the place you’re going to, you’re dead to me.
A few weekends ago, the husband and I set off to wonderful Telluride, CO. Of course, the first song on my mixed CD was Tim McGraw’s Telluride.
Hello, 2001
After a quick pit stop at the Easy Rider gas station…(woot!)…we headed into CO.
All that’s missing is the LSD.
In every state I travel, there’s always a different vibe. You can feel it hanging in the air. I had been to Denver before but driving through Colorado, the small towns, the mountains, there was a very striking “you’re on your own” quality to it. Get lost in the wilderness and let a bear eat your face kinda vibe.
It made me miss Montana.
The adorable town was similar to a Montana fave of mine – Red Lodge. Quaint, everything within walking distance, a main street with overpriced and indulgent shops.
We went during the off-season but that was peachy keen because the lines weren’t long and the streets weren’t crowded. Telluride was seriously a dream. No worries, no cares, hey screw email! and yay! let’s drink!
This blog post could be a million miles long but for the sake of your sanity I’ll try to narrow down the trip. I’ll leave out the part about kidnapping a hitchhiker, so you’re welcome. Although, is it really kidnapping if he stole my mescaline?
The Basics:
Stay:
Viking Lodge – condos and relaxation. Walking distance to everything and the slopes. Great service and amenities. Can’t go wrong. So don’t.
Eat:
All of the food was hands-down amazing in Telluride. There was no shitty bar food that gave you gas and cramps. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. Just good food, tasty Colorado brews and serious cooks.
Brown Dog Pizza – drink Dirty Hippie Beer and order the award-winning 3-1-3 Specialty Detroit Square Pizza. Take photos of a man who reminds me of one of my story characters at the bar. (sorry to the husband)
Floradora Saloon – four star cuisine in a dark bar. Duck tacos. Baked Brie and Apples. Gourmet Burgers.
Baked – go eat donuts every morning and gain five pounds. It’s worth it.
Shop:
Telluride Sports – one of the best sport shops there – although a bit pricey – the items they have are unique and very furry.
Telluride Music Company – I bought a harmonica.
Overland – a leather and fur shop with steampunk and aviator hats. Fun to browse and try the merchandise.
The Signs:
As prior posts tell you, I love signs. They’re so much fun. Story ideas. Insights. Neuroses. Honesty scrawled on walls. Stuck with stickers. They can lead the way. Not everything prophetic, but still. Telluride was filled with goodies.
On the literal front, some of my favorites consist of:
When it rhymes, you know you’re in for a good time.
Clearly, the condo was expecting me.
Douchebag check #1.
Douchebag check #2.
A Telluride shop was awesome enough to put this at their registers.
Beautiful sticker graffiti.
Like my vagina.
A toilet stall scrawl.
Best. Sign. Ever.
Love this.
And this.
The People:
Story #1
I don’t talk a lot. But on vacations I’m a little bit less like Patrick Bateman and instead turn into a veritable Elle Woods – minus everything annoying about her.
P.S. I seriously hate myself for that reference.
Kismet is a strange bitch. This particular Sunday (Nov 10, 2013, to be exact) was filled with so much “coincidence” it was scary.
To set the stage – I’m at a bar (odd, right?) with a book, ignoring the football game and listening to these two men’s conversations. And I’m eavesdropping because 1) I’m a writer 2) I love their accents and I reckon they’re from Tennessee.
How I watch football
One catches me ogling (I’m real sly) and tells me I can laugh at his accent. He’s getting used to people laughing at his drawl.
Feeling like a dipshit, I say I’m just listening because I love his accent and the current book I’m writing is set in TN and I was wondering if he’s from there. Smooth, Jules, smooth.
The man – Terry – is kind. He’s got a smile that makes me want to buy him a beer. Genteel manners. He asks my husband if it’s okay with him that we’re chatting. Asks if he can buy ME a beer. Southern charm can kill me now.
So we strike up a conversation. He’s on the road to visit all the sites on his bucket list, having had a heart attack about six months ago. He was on his way to see the Grand Canyon, got turned around, flipped a coin on where to go, and randomly ended up in Telluride. Traveling by van and meeting new friends along the way, he’s been posting his story on Facebook. I ask if I can follow him and his trip and this leads to phones being whipped out.
When I find him on Facebook, I see we have mutual friends. A bit mystified, I scroll closer.
Um, what?
Our mutual friends are my ex-neighbor’s (“ex” as in because they moved away, not “ex” as in because they are severing-ties assholes) who just recently moved to Salt Lake City. He met them a day ago at Arches in Utah. They had dinner together. That very same day, my husband and I had been considering going to Arches but decided to postpone.
Needless to say, small what-the-fuck world.
It was kinda surreal. Here, Terry had somehow stumbled into Telluride. My husband and I chose a bar we probably wouldn’t have chosen if the other bars weren’t so crowded.
We invited Terry to dinner. Shared stories and drank beers. Though I hung out with Terry for maybe eight hours total and had never met him before in my life – I love him so hard. There’s something incredibly special about him and I feel so, so honored to have spent the time I did with him. It also makes you think about – and believe in – fate. A whole hell of a lot.
Exhibit A.
Meanwhile…that same night…
Story #2
At that very same bar I met another man with a sweet fedora. A cool cat, we chatted about motorcycles, writing, art, books and a variety of other random topics. Come to find out he’s a DJ at the local radio station KOTO on Sunday nights. He invites the husband and I to come down and hang during his 9pm – midnight shift.
And so after dinner with Terry we grab a bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey and head to the station.
DEARGODIMINHEAVEN.
Praise jebus.
Glorious CDs everywhere. A small space and music. He tells us to start picking tunes and it’s like a shrimpfest going on in there. Sensory overload of awesome. I’m hanging with a Telluride DJ, drinking wine out of a coffee cup, and helping choose the music that is going on the radio.
Exhibit B.
For three hours, this is my life. FUUUUUCK YES. Writer’s gold. How many people can say they wrangled their way onto a radio station in a strange town?
I ask him to show me how he works the controls – for future story knowledge – and select The Velvet Underground as my first song.
Cut to later at night when I realize I have a CD from Parker Millsap in the car. Mister Millsap is a singer/songwriter from Oklahoma who I interviewed about a month ago (interview to be published in December). I goddamn adore his music and what better way to spread it than on the radio? Hey, I’m a pimp, okay?
So I slip into my husky voice and the DJ puts on the tune and I introduce the song. Boom! Parker Millsap blowing your minds out in Telluride.
You can watch the clip of me introducing the song and trying to be suave afterwards. Please note, it’s my first time ever on the radio. It’s not my forte to speak off the cuff. I’m proud I didn’t gag like Sweet Dee on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.
Instead I just got all giggly and silly. So enjoy the herp derp moments.
Their name is fun to say: The Doctor T.J Eckleburg Review. A mouthful of literary goodness. And I happen to have a piece in their Eckleburg online section.
The piece is called “Good Bones“. And it starts something like this:
My sister wears a salami down the front of her pants. She says it makes her feel closer to god.
She comes to my bedroom one night, when I’m still wondering what in the hell she and my ma have done to it in the short time I’ve been gone, and stands in the door frame. The particle board walls have chalk outlines on them, a basket of wool and knitting needles in one corner, a suitcase full of beads and thread in the other. A bipolar art project. Ma hocks her wares and uses Lola. Somehow, she uses her.
So now it’s time to hock my wares. Family, friends, readers, even enemies can use the coupon code: “contributor-discount” to get half off. $2.50 gets you forever access to the Eckleburg Review. Ain’t too shabby. Shit can’t always be free you cheap bastards. Or if you already subscribe, then “Good Bones” is already available for your reading pleasure.
This month, I have an interview and a story and two flashes (oh my!).
Meg Tuite interviews my crazy. I talk about puking in gutters, my sister stabbing me in the leg with a pen, and kindergarten prostitutes. You can read it here. I apologize in advance.
You can read my story “A Father Orders and Pays for His Daughter’s Playboy Subscription or AKA: True Love” here.
Thanks to the talented Meg Tuite. Thanks to Ken Robidoux and the great Connotation-Press. It’s an honor being featured there for the second time.
Last Saturday night, my husband and I checked out The Avett Brothers. One of my fave bands thanks to their super awesome beards and long hair, microphone screaming and gorgeous lyrics.
The Avett Brothers have outlawed smiling.
But seriously, I have a raging lady boner for all three of those.
Scott and Seth Avett are a blend of bluegrass, country and rock. Want background? Go to here to read about them. I’m too lazy to get into it. But to make a long story short (“too late” as Clue would say) their lyrics and acoustics are killer.
As a writer, I truly, truly adore their words.
Side note: Concerts bring out the best and the worst in me.
as evidenced by the wine (violence) and the peace sign (peace)
I am insanely anal (gentlemen) about timing. I must be there before the first act, proper parking must be found, dinner must be eaten. If I am murdered at a concert by my husband, consider it a valid death.
This concert was held at the Mesa Amphitheater. It was a venue I had never been to before, but once there, I totally dug it. It was kinda like a mini-Woodstock, classed up and with less BO and flowers in the hair. But someone did light up a fat doob so at least we had some memory of the past.
a photo that is not mine.
As always, I need a drink in hand for a concert. There were six beer lines. Guess which one I picked? The fucking worst line ever. Molasses moving, people griping, it was like the Trail of Tears over here.
I swore if the concert started and I was still in line for a drink, murder would be had.
Luckily, for the 12-year old bartender (no, seriously), I made it in time. The Avett Brothers started off their set with the George Strait cover “Ocean Front Property” (in Arizona, yo) and this was evidence as to why I love them.
Guarantee they try to personalize an opener for each city they visit.
I can’t testify to that fact, but I bet it.
Hard.
The crowd was cool and into the show. Regrettably, I was three glasses of wine deep by now and ended up calling some blonde a tramp in when she blocked my view. Don’t worry mom, I immediately felt bad about it. Luckily, I don’t think she heard me either. But her boyfriend did. He gave me a I-know-what-you’re-talking-about kinda look and then we both proceeded to watch the concert in easy peace and love.
oh the feels.
But back to the Avett’s.
The set list covered so many great ones: I and Love and You; Colorshow; February Seven; Perfect Space; SSS; Go to Sleep, and many more.
Yet, the very best songs were a cover of Paul Simon’s Slip Slidin’ Away and one of my favorites Murder in the City.
Though the video is shit, the music speaks for itself. Watch them here (Your life will change. No seriously. Pardon my screaming.):
If you need an excuse to get an album their brand spankin new one drops on 10/15. Magpie and the Dandelion sounds really tasty. And judging from what I’ve heard so far, I’m sure it’s not a bad listen, either. You can preview it here FREE, you cheap bastards. (Thanks, NPR!).
The show was fabulous. It probably falls into my top three concerts. See The Avett Brothers if you ever have the chance. They are well worth the money. They give a great show, at two hours, you will dance and sing and cheer and be damn pleased when you go home.
And when you see them, after the concert, make sure to get donuts.
When I travel, I like to eat well. I don’t have time to waste calories on superfluous foodstuffs. I will wander in agonized hunger until I find a restaurant with delicious food.
Luckily, I planned the trip well and knew exactly where we were dining for brunch on Saturday morning.
Downtown Las Vegas, I found a little joint aptly named Eat. We pulled up and my husband stared. Eat. was nestled below low income apartments and across from a dirt lot. He questioned if I was sure I wanted to eat there. Granted, it did look sketch, but all sources pointed to yes. I’d brave a shanking any day for a full stomach.
this is the place to die.
Enter stage right…Eat. is freaking adorable.
WANT.
We stepped inside and the restaurant was gorgeous and quaint as all hell. Cozy atmosphere, awesome menu, home cooked food, delicious coffee from the Colorado River Roasters – I could go on and on. But I won’t. Instead look at the photos, salivate and make plans to go-to-there.
Day 2 – Stop #2 – The Mob Museum
You like Italians, murder and mug shots? Well, then friends, the Mob Museum is for you.
fuhgeddaboudit.
‘Merica.
But seriously. This has got to be one of the best museums I’ve ever gone to. And I’m a sucker for a good museum. You get a fabulous in-depth history of the mob, as well as a lengthy section dedicated to the mob’s involvement in Las Vegas. You can get touchy-feely with exhibits but hands off the security guards. They don’t take kindly to donkey punches.
or this.
So kids, when in Vegas and you don’t want to blow your wad at the slot machines come waste two hours at the Mob Museum.
I left secure in my knowledge that I would make a great mob wife.
You haven’t lived until you renew your vows with Elvis officiating.
For our ten year anniversary, I wanted something fun. Something odd. Something with sequins.
strike that.
We decided to get re-hitched at the Graceland Wedding Chapel. It’s a pretty sweet deal because you get a limo AND flowers AND Elvis Presley singing “Love Me Tender”.
What more could you want in life?
yeah. this.
Day 2 – Stop #4 – Gordon Ramsay Steak
After our shotgun wedding, we headed to Gordon Ramsay Steak at the Paris Las Vegas to have a celebratory meal full of steak and wine.
oh, the fullness.
Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much. I love Gordon Ramsay; however he is a celeb, so I was expecting his restaurant to mostly be based on hype instead of great food.
Well good sirs, I was wrong. The food was amazing.
After wheeling out the jaw-dropping steak cart…
every cow on earth is now weeping.
We selected an assortment of oysters for an appetizer, the Hell’s Kitchen dreaded Beef Wellington, and for dessert we had the Sticky Toffee Pudding.
Dear god. See that stick of “butter”? Fools, that is not butter. That is ice cream. Delicious, delicious buttery ice cream.
god’s gift.
And with that, the Sticky Toffee Pudding ended Day #2.
Day #3 consisted of poolside lounging so I’ll spare you that blog post of Coors Light and trucker hat photos.
Las Vegas was a fabulous blast. Go-to-there and do not gamble.
A blow-dryer in a bathroom where I stared at painted toenails and yellowed tile. Where I decided a Las Vegas vacation was in order. Ruminating the possibilities of sweats or sequins. It seemed like an unassuming notion. No real harm. I hadn’t set foot in Las Vegas for near on seven years. The last time I cared about clubbing was the great Billings, Montana Wild West Saloon debacle of 2002.
do not ask.
But I wasn’t going for the bars and clubs. This time I wanted Las Vegas for the big 1-0. 10 years of marriage deserves a trashy Vegas wedding complete with a Fat Elvis. Easily, I talked my husband into it. And by easily, I mean booked everything without asking.
I didn’t want the typical Vegas experience of night, strip and dance clubs. I wanted old school Vegas with a side of culture. Fear and loathing, baby. Hunter S. Thompson. The mob. Good food. A seedy underbelly with a side of sunny.
I think that’s why people get disenchanted with Vegas. You go once, burn yourself out, puke in the gutter and before you know it, you’re the one asking a bum for change. No need to go back, right? Wrong. Sure, the city’s kinda trashy. But there’s also ton of other cool shit to do that doesn’t include shame filled mornings.
so much shame.
I planned an itinerary and booked a room at the Flamingo. I washed my Challenger before we left because HST would have wanted me to. It slid easily through the shiny desert, passing propane tanks and trailer parks in Wickenburg, town signs painted with white paint on plywood in Kingman. I watched the landscape change from craggy desert rocks to burnt reds and browns to sandstone white.
The desert is beautiful. It’s also awesomely creepy. As we passed trailers and possible meth labs, I reminded my husband that this is how a Hills Have Eyes movie starts.
i see no difference.
After stopping at the Uranus Gas Station (located on Highway 93, between Kingman, Arizona and the Hoover Dam, Nevada)
…we landed in Las Vegas, Nevada, which is really just an uglier version of Phoenix.
So without further adieu, if you don’t want the token Vegas experience, here are a few little pit stops to make before you start slumming it on the Strip.
Day 1 – Stop #1 – Count’s Vamp’d
Counting Cars on the History Channel is one of our favorite shows (nerd alert) and Danny “The Count” Koker can get my motor running any day.
He has a bar called Vamp’d and it was our first stop after landing in Vegas.
Needing fuel before hitting up The Flamingo we moseyed on in. It was noon on a Thursday and decently deserted. We sat at the bar and I met the first bartender I could not charm. She was goth and stony. But she had flair. Oh yes.
So did the sign scrawled in the Ladies Bathroom.
consider this a trip highlight.
Surprisingly, for bar food, the food was tasty. I got a chicken wrap and my husband a cheeseburger. The atmosphere was biker-chic-vampire-shades-of-grey.
Or something like that.
The restaurant even had a coffin phone booth so that was a huge plus.
Another History Channel show favorite, we had decided NOT to hit up the pawn shop on Pawn Stars. However, driving around downtown Las Vegas we randomly happened by, and randomly scored a super sweet parking spot, and randomly happened upon no line.
that’s a lot of randoms.
It’s cool. I enjoyed it. However, do note that nothing is easily affordable or attainable here. This pawn shop is fancy pants. Stop if you have time but if you don’t make it, you’re not missing much.
except your 15 minutes of fame.
Day 1 – Stop #3
Agonizing over where to eat is a habit with my husband and I. I do not want to fill my gullet with filth. If I eat, it will be damn good so I can gorge myself.
Beijing Noodle #9 at Caesar’s Palace fed me some damn fine Chinese food. Hand pulled noodles? Buddha beer? Multitudes of bitter gold fish held captive in huge tanks? What more could you ask for?
so soupy good.
the fish can’t see you if you don’t move.
A fork.
You could ask for a fork.
Because hell if I know how to use chop sticks.
HURRRR.
Day 1 – Stop #4 – The Strip. At night.
You can drink on the street, baby. It flashed me back to New Orleans and my true love of street boozin’. Eager to reminisce about NOLA I happily snagged a daiquiri and me and the man trekked down the strip.
One daiquiri and one PBR later…I remember standing outside Caesars Palace, drunkenly gazing at this statue…
and having this conversation…
Me: Man, can you believe we have artifacts like this?
Husband: …
Me: I mean, even though this is Vegas, it’s still so beautiful, man. It’s just as good as France.
Please God. I rest my forehead against the hot dashboard of the old Buick. Please God, brake now. Brake now and plant me through the windshield. Anything to get me out of here. My fingers twitch, fighting the urge to un-snap my seat belt and bail from the car.
Does our heroine do it? Will the seat belt hold? Is there cake?!
Well, you can read the rest here and find out for yourself. Count the serial killer/horror movie references. Maybe it will spur you to work on your credit history or call your mom. Or maybe you can just look at photos of Mad Men/Arrested Development memes.
But I digress.
Little Fiction is a very cool online mag that makes the stories they publish digital and portable and free, which is good because you take them with you. Anywhere. That combined with great writers and unique covers is such a fun concept.
I thank Troy Palmer for the great artwork and for including me at Little Fiction.
I have no problem shopping alone. Eating alone. Traveling alone. And bathing alone is definitely non-negotiable.
Uh, this may prove problematic.
I can even see movies alone. I don’t very often, mostly because I’m lazy and it requires leaving the house and forcing my corneas toward bright, bright sunlight, but yesterday I went to see The Conjuring all on my lonesome.
Alone, in a darkened theater, yesterday’s inner monologue went something like this:
please no one sit by me
really? You need a large popcorn?
don’t sit in front of me don’t sit in front of me –damn it
hey, why is there a kid here
nearest exit? check
ethan hawke still has an acting career…huh
this Dolby Surround Sound sounds rapey
i feel like Patrick Wilson is a robot
ugh why did I buy that popcorn
man, i should have bought that exorcism kit when i had the chance
ron livingston…mama like…
As you can probably tell, this isn’t a blog post about the movie. (Side note: It was very Poltergeist-y, well-plotted and well-acted. I enjoyed it.) This is a post about the movie going experience and why I don’t do the things I did yesterday.
1) Sugary Liquids and Popcorn are not your friends
Because I’m all about living life large and having delicious first world problems I decided to treat myself to a small popcorn and a Cherry ICEE. I giggled when placing the order. I felt so carefree and youthful.
Twenty minutes later, halfway through the ICEE and bag of popcorn, I had a sugar buzz and an uncomfortable stomach. Oily butter coated my tongue. I longed for a toothbrush. I regretted my purchase. It made me wish for simpler things. Like being a kid again, slurping down juice boxes with abandon and throwing rocks at cars.
Instead, I pulled an Arrowhead Water I had smuggled in out of my purse and settled for being a boring old square.
2) People annoy the shit out of me
Really? there’s an usher and a flashlight in my face right when shit’s getting real?
Oh, hey, man who’s moving in front of me through a crucial plot point, thanks for that.
Yo, ladies behind me, ever heard of an inside voice? The movie’s starting. No one needs your dissertation on Bradley Cooper’s hair style.
So now comes to the worst part. The part that seriously had me on edge. The two women in front of me ate popcorn in a way that had me considering murder.
Though there is no instruction manual on how to eat popcorn correctly, it’s not that complicated. I don’t know about you, but I full throttle force a palmful into my mouth at one time. Then I chew that buttery goodness. Two steps. That’s it.
Two. Steps.
These women would pick up a piece – just one piece – and nibble on it. Goddamn nibble like bunny rabbits. One bite. Two bites. Three. At first I leaned forward because I honestly thought they were cracking open pistachios, the sound was so loud.
This continued throughout the entire movie.
I considered pouring that ICEE on top of their heads.
“Almost,” I whispered to myself in the dark.
3) The scary movie atmosphere is tainted
In my opinion, you need to focus on a horror movie more than you would on a drama or action flick when it’s seen in the theater. You need to get into it to really feel the thrills.
In an action movie where Jason Bourne is running around, you don’t have to be too engrossed to see him leaping from rooftops or roundhouse kicking villains.
“Ho hum. He’s running again.”
In a horror movie, you have to have that vibe. That cocoon of creep.
Unfortunately, as I realized yesterday, with the masses around it’s pretty much damn near impossible to achieve.
Sure, I shrieked a couple of times at The Conjuring but it doesn’t compare to a few nights ago when I watched the Evil Dead in the comfort of my own home, screaming so loud the cats fled. In a theater, you censor yourself. You don’t fully get the psychological experience. Maybe I’m curmudgeonly but I like my horror movies scary. Christ, I paid nine bucks for a ticket, ain’t nobody got time for ADD at a horror movie.
And so, after yesterday, I learned that when it comes to watching scary movies I’m better off staying home. Home. All alone. With my couch, dim lights, and no human contact.
Or maybe you forget it in the cart letting someone else reap the benefit of finding this treasure.
I found this beauty in Safeway and promptly snatched it up with glee.
“A…National…Treasure…” -Nic Cage
It’s intriguing. A piece of paper someone wrote. The possibilities of who they are in my mind. Story fodder. It’s fun. You’re a detective.
Not like this.
Some thoughts…
I feel by the use of shaky cursive the writer is an older female, 60s or 70s.
I applaud the choice to narrow down the Lean Cuisine selections. Clearly this woman knows exactly what she likes.
I wonder if “alcohol preps” refers to medicinal or intoxicating uses.
In case you haven’t spotted it already, the bracketed “Hemroid Sup.” and “Analsol” tell me these purchase were crucial. I hope she found them. These two items caused me to have a giggling fit in the middle of Aisle 6.
One day when I am old, maybe I will make lists like this.
Until then I will analyze the ones I do find.
And so, the moral of this blog: Do not eat your grocery store lists. Because I will find them. And write about them.
Jules Just Write 