The following is a true story. Unfortunately.
When I was living with my old roommate, he would occasionally "dog sit" for his then girlfriend, now fiancee. The dog was a cute little King Charles Spaniel, white with brown spots. It was sickly and puny, as was mockingly identified in its ironic name. Samson. We had a few good times together. It has since passed away, but that is not why I am writing.
Samson's usual daily schedule was this: wake up early with Benn (my old roommate), enjoy his breakfast, fiddle around the house through the morning, sleep the day away. Most working adults have an opposite schedule. One morning Samson aroused me from my sleep very early in the morning. Very early. I don't recall what I did the night before but I know I was out late and I was intentionally trying to catch up on sleep that morning. Samson wouldn't have it. The house was empty except the two of us and I guess his insecurity drove him to a barking frenzy.
I sat there in bed for a while, hoping that surely he would shut up. He wouldn't. I got up, swung open my door, stomped into the next room and found him sitting there. Barking. At nothing. My fury erupted to the point where there was no chance I was going back to sleep. I picked him up and carried him upstairs, tossing him on Benn's bed, closing the door behind me and set out to start my day. A few hours earlier than intended.
I couldn't work though. I was bent on revenge. I can't believe I honestly did this, but I did. Benn's room is where Samson sleeps, where he enjoys his long, lazy afternoons. And Benn's room is also where the computer and internet is. After breakfast I made my way back upstairs to do some work on the computer and found Samson curled up on the sheets, arousing from a morning nap at my presence. "Wake up." I snapped at him as I sat down at the computer. And what I did for the next few hours was intentionally keep him from sleep. He can't think that he is going to wake me up in the morning and not get away with it. If he is going to cost me sleep, I will cost him his. So I did my work and every now and then I would look over and see if Samson was sleeping. If his eyes were shut, I would shout and wake him. "Don't you dare go to sleep," I threatened. And then back to the computer I went. And I'd look over a few minutes later and his eyes were heavy and nearly closed. "Wake up!" I'd snap again. I think I even went over to him and shook him once. Just to make sure he wasn't catching up on the sleep that he cost me.
I honestly did this. For the rest of the afternoon. A few months later I moved out and then found out about Samson's passing. I can't help but think that at some level I am responsible. I prevented a dog from sleeping for an entire afternoon. And in retrospect, I can hardly fathom I actually did that. But I had my revenge. And it was sweet. And now I enjoy my quiet mornings.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
My Friend Clint Rule
I recently returned from the wedding of one Clint Rule and Nicole Powell. They got married August 6th in Edmond, Oklahoma somewhere between one and two o'clock. And as I reflect on the event, my heart gradually swells with happiness and sorrow. You could even say it ebbs and flows with joy and sadness, though I'm not too sure what ebbing means. The ontology of our relationship has changed. A radical shift has occurred. And it is a beautiful thing. A wonderful thing to be thankful for. But the very shift is an ever present reminder that the chapter of our lives where we happened to overlap is now closed. And while there is much reason for celebration about the future, about a life reveled in the wonders of matrimony, there is also much reason to reminisce, to reflect, and to mourn. And to that end I dedicate this blog. To the memories of a single Clint. To the man who was once a member of adolescence. To the man who logged 76 straight hours of conscienceness for the sake of personal experiment. To the man who has stolen my heart. So raise your glasses with me as we explore the man himself, my friend Clint Rule.
Clint Elliot Rule emerged from the dust hole of Elk City, a strange blip on the radar of Western Oklahoma. It was there that his social apathy and surpassed intellect drove him to the uncharted waters of cyberspace. He mastered the internet, enjoying what he grew to understand as the golden era of pirating music, movies, television shows, and anything else you could desire with just a simple download away. I first walked into his dorm room as a junior. He was a freshman. As we acquainted ourselves with each other, I studied his bookshelf, the posters on his wall, and his stacks of CD cases labeled "Seinfeld." A bit confused I asked, "What are all those Seinfeld CDs?" "Episodes," he responded. I was blown away. A huge Seinfeld fan myself, I thought I had mastered the art of gathering them by recording them on VHS tapes, complete with commercials and all. "But how?" "The internet." It was then I knew that we would be great friends. Well, either that or I knew I had to glean everything I could from his brain.
He stood out on the hall for the simple fact that he wore tight, Wrangler bluejeans (has anyone seen Clint wearing anything else?), ratty Thrift store Ts and had rumors hovering around him that he smoked marijuana, courtesy of Steve Harrington. Therefore, I'm not quite sure how we developed our friendship. He was always tucked away in his dorm room, downloading things, typing away on Instant Messenger, listening to obscure music I had never heard of before. Come to think of it, how did he get to know anyone? His schedule nearly overlapped everyone's in those days because he would stay up till breakfast and sleep the day away while the rest of the world conducted business. There were those memorable occasions when he and Russ Edwards played video games through the night and enjoyed breakfast together in the cafeteria when it opened at 7 am.
In time his dorm room became a little haven for the hall. It was dark and cluttered, but cozy and intimate. And it had a couch. And blinds that he hung up over his bottom bunk to guard the invading sunlight. And it smelled funny. It was in that room that he introduced our inexperienced minds to "films." I still remember seeing Requiem for a Dream sitting on that couch of his. And I still have nightmares about that film. He showed us how to record music. He taught us how to evaluate movies. He introduced us to new bands and innovative music. It was in this way that he cultured all of us. Jones House Dormitory became the canvas that he painted, showing all of us a glimpse into our culture and into a reality we had never experienced. And his tutelage was in the little things. Little, strange things I observed from him. The simple idea of carrying around a thought journal. The forgotten genious of using pencils (they have erasers). The brilliance of a little mousse in the hair to make it "crunchy," as he called it.
The Dorm years were an amazing time for me. My relationship with Clint grew and strengthened with such silly and stupid events. We raided Norman for free pizza together. We attacked fraternities with water balloons and carried out a 15-man toilet paper heist on a sorority together. We lounged in hot tubs with Taco Bell while it was snowing. We performed on stages together in front of hundreds and thousands. We've chunked water balloons at cows before. I've seen him through E. coli poisoning, a busted head, a broken heart, below freezing rivers, Blake's unbearable snoring, two full length albums, uncountable regrettable nights, and the time he puiked immediately after kissing a girl. I shared a room with him at the infamous Crested Butte where we watched Seinfeld and Family Guy in our beds together with sack fulls of Taco Bell every night. There were several nights where he actually read me to sleep from the book of John (not lying).
He's Clint Rule. He eats very slowly. He was very hostile in the first book discussion group I led. He eats frozen fish sticks and corndogs. He is committed to truth, love and service. He knows how to enjoy himself. He has consumed more allergy medicine than he has milkshakes. And now he is married. And so in sad way the Clint we have all known is gone forever. It will be a rare day indeed that I throw another water balloon at a cow or a frat guy with him. I will most likely never steal and roll a pumpkin with him racing down country roads in his Volkswagen van at 60 mph again. I will probably never step foot into the slaughterhouse with him hiding on the second floor. But in a strange way, that is probably a good thing. And we all look forward to getting to know Married Clint. A Clint that will pay bills. A Clint that will be known as "husband" and someday "father." A Clint that will mow the grass and clean the gutters and change the oil and take out the trash and use words like "mortgage" and "insurance" and "rates." This is the Clint that I very much look forward to getting to know. And if I have that privilege 30 years from now, I will be greatly blessed.
Nicole, I hope you like Taco Bell.
Clint Elliot Rule emerged from the dust hole of Elk City, a strange blip on the radar of Western Oklahoma. It was there that his social apathy and surpassed intellect drove him to the uncharted waters of cyberspace. He mastered the internet, enjoying what he grew to understand as the golden era of pirating music, movies, television shows, and anything else you could desire with just a simple download away. I first walked into his dorm room as a junior. He was a freshman. As we acquainted ourselves with each other, I studied his bookshelf, the posters on his wall, and his stacks of CD cases labeled "Seinfeld." A bit confused I asked, "What are all those Seinfeld CDs?" "Episodes," he responded. I was blown away. A huge Seinfeld fan myself, I thought I had mastered the art of gathering them by recording them on VHS tapes, complete with commercials and all. "But how?" "The internet." It was then I knew that we would be great friends. Well, either that or I knew I had to glean everything I could from his brain.
He stood out on the hall for the simple fact that he wore tight, Wrangler bluejeans (has anyone seen Clint wearing anything else?), ratty Thrift store Ts and had rumors hovering around him that he smoked marijuana, courtesy of Steve Harrington. Therefore, I'm not quite sure how we developed our friendship. He was always tucked away in his dorm room, downloading things, typing away on Instant Messenger, listening to obscure music I had never heard of before. Come to think of it, how did he get to know anyone? His schedule nearly overlapped everyone's in those days because he would stay up till breakfast and sleep the day away while the rest of the world conducted business. There were those memorable occasions when he and Russ Edwards played video games through the night and enjoyed breakfast together in the cafeteria when it opened at 7 am.
In time his dorm room became a little haven for the hall. It was dark and cluttered, but cozy and intimate. And it had a couch. And blinds that he hung up over his bottom bunk to guard the invading sunlight. And it smelled funny. It was in that room that he introduced our inexperienced minds to "films." I still remember seeing Requiem for a Dream sitting on that couch of his. And I still have nightmares about that film. He showed us how to record music. He taught us how to evaluate movies. He introduced us to new bands and innovative music. It was in this way that he cultured all of us. Jones House Dormitory became the canvas that he painted, showing all of us a glimpse into our culture and into a reality we had never experienced. And his tutelage was in the little things. Little, strange things I observed from him. The simple idea of carrying around a thought journal. The forgotten genious of using pencils (they have erasers). The brilliance of a little mousse in the hair to make it "crunchy," as he called it.
The Dorm years were an amazing time for me. My relationship with Clint grew and strengthened with such silly and stupid events. We raided Norman for free pizza together. We attacked fraternities with water balloons and carried out a 15-man toilet paper heist on a sorority together. We lounged in hot tubs with Taco Bell while it was snowing. We performed on stages together in front of hundreds and thousands. We've chunked water balloons at cows before. I've seen him through E. coli poisoning, a busted head, a broken heart, below freezing rivers, Blake's unbearable snoring, two full length albums, uncountable regrettable nights, and the time he puiked immediately after kissing a girl. I shared a room with him at the infamous Crested Butte where we watched Seinfeld and Family Guy in our beds together with sack fulls of Taco Bell every night. There were several nights where he actually read me to sleep from the book of John (not lying).
He's Clint Rule. He eats very slowly. He was very hostile in the first book discussion group I led. He eats frozen fish sticks and corndogs. He is committed to truth, love and service. He knows how to enjoy himself. He has consumed more allergy medicine than he has milkshakes. And now he is married. And so in sad way the Clint we have all known is gone forever. It will be a rare day indeed that I throw another water balloon at a cow or a frat guy with him. I will most likely never steal and roll a pumpkin with him racing down country roads in his Volkswagen van at 60 mph again. I will probably never step foot into the slaughterhouse with him hiding on the second floor. But in a strange way, that is probably a good thing. And we all look forward to getting to know Married Clint. A Clint that will pay bills. A Clint that will be known as "husband" and someday "father." A Clint that will mow the grass and clean the gutters and change the oil and take out the trash and use words like "mortgage" and "insurance" and "rates." This is the Clint that I very much look forward to getting to know. And if I have that privilege 30 years from now, I will be greatly blessed.
Nicole, I hope you like Taco Bell.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Flight of the Bumblebee
In three hours from now I will be on a plane, how ever many thousands of feet in the air heading for Dallas.
And I am terrified.
I have posted before about my fear of flying. It's actually a fear of heights. Or even more actually, a fear of falling. The other day I went over to the Baton Rouge capital, a 27 story-phallic-like-goverment-building, and I couldn't take the elevator to the top. My heart began to race. My stomach began to turn in on itself. I had to wait at the bottom.
And as far as I can remember, this has only been a recent phobia. I loved roller coasters growing up. I wanted to bungie jump and sky dive. But now there is no monetary amount that would kick up the desire to do it. There is nothing you could do to persuade me. I will be called derogatory names. My character will be defamed. I am ok with that. I will take my insults and wait at the bottom where the farthest distance I may fall is 6 feet.
The thing that I am so upset about is that I developed this phobia so young. I am going to have to travel throughout my life; I would love to get back to Europe sometime; and today is not the last time I am going to be in a plane. I wish it would have come later in life, you know, when you're worthless and don't do anything. But I have my whole life ahead of me. And the most convenient way to get around (for some reason) is thousands of feet in the air. Maybe, and I'll keep praying, they will invent some other form of transportation to where if something goes wrong, there isn't 3 thousand feet between you and the earth. Maybe.
One other thing. As I have been saying bye to people today, they usually say "Have a good flight" or something of that nature. They are commanding me to have a good flight. I always say "thanks" but I want to ask "How in the world am I supposed to insure that I have a good flight?" There is nothing I can do. I just sit there and hope that the pilot knows what in the world he's doing. My life is in his hands. The only way for me to insure having a good flight is not getting up and going into the cockpit. Maybe that is what people mean when they say that. "Hey Matt, don't get out of your seat and bug the pilot. Have a good flight. Not a bad one." Maybe they should say, "Hey Matt, I hope the pilot has a good flight." That would make more sense. He is the one behind all the little buttons and switches and levers. I'm in the back trying to read, trying not to look out the window, and going back and forth between my decision for Sprite or Coke (sometimes I read SkyMall catelog).
So into the wild blue yonder I go. If you read this before 6 o'clock today, pray for my sanity.
And I am terrified.
I have posted before about my fear of flying. It's actually a fear of heights. Or even more actually, a fear of falling. The other day I went over to the Baton Rouge capital, a 27 story-phallic-like-goverment-building, and I couldn't take the elevator to the top. My heart began to race. My stomach began to turn in on itself. I had to wait at the bottom.
And as far as I can remember, this has only been a recent phobia. I loved roller coasters growing up. I wanted to bungie jump and sky dive. But now there is no monetary amount that would kick up the desire to do it. There is nothing you could do to persuade me. I will be called derogatory names. My character will be defamed. I am ok with that. I will take my insults and wait at the bottom where the farthest distance I may fall is 6 feet.
The thing that I am so upset about is that I developed this phobia so young. I am going to have to travel throughout my life; I would love to get back to Europe sometime; and today is not the last time I am going to be in a plane. I wish it would have come later in life, you know, when you're worthless and don't do anything. But I have my whole life ahead of me. And the most convenient way to get around (for some reason) is thousands of feet in the air. Maybe, and I'll keep praying, they will invent some other form of transportation to where if something goes wrong, there isn't 3 thousand feet between you and the earth. Maybe.
One other thing. As I have been saying bye to people today, they usually say "Have a good flight" or something of that nature. They are commanding me to have a good flight. I always say "thanks" but I want to ask "How in the world am I supposed to insure that I have a good flight?" There is nothing I can do. I just sit there and hope that the pilot knows what in the world he's doing. My life is in his hands. The only way for me to insure having a good flight is not getting up and going into the cockpit. Maybe that is what people mean when they say that. "Hey Matt, don't get out of your seat and bug the pilot. Have a good flight. Not a bad one." Maybe they should say, "Hey Matt, I hope the pilot has a good flight." That would make more sense. He is the one behind all the little buttons and switches and levers. I'm in the back trying to read, trying not to look out the window, and going back and forth between my decision for Sprite or Coke (sometimes I read SkyMall catelog).
So into the wild blue yonder I go. If you read this before 6 o'clock today, pray for my sanity.
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