Cleaning Up after Ma Bell

[Editor's Note]:  During the initial stages of minimum-wage-sponsored, full-time education, Frank submitted to employment as an overnight janitor at the Southwestern Bell Building in Austin.  Whenever possible, he suckered his "friends" to help him and then knock off for the rest of the evening.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities. 


June 1994
Austin, Texas




Not owning a working vehicle is not as intimidating as it sounds, particularly in a pedestrian-friendly town, except when you might need to get to anywhere too far north, west, or very far south of the center of town.  Hour-long bus rides are typically excruciatingly boring, but every now and then, something deranged occurs and you realize the fragility of society is tested on a daily basis at such a local scale.  


Once on a long, north-south bus ride to school, i was jamming out to my cassette walkman at no doubt annoying volumes, i observed a rather thoroughly muscled ogre of a man boarding my bus, complete with oversized leather weightlifting belt and fingerless gloves.  He shuffled down the walkway and sat right behind me.


Approximately 1 to 7 minutes later, well into side 2 of my tape, and BOOM--i caught an off-balance right cross to the jaw!  Completely baffled and bell-wrung, i stood up, ripped off my headphones, and screamed, "What the fuck!?"  The gorilla just stared directly at me, rang the bell, and got off the bus.


Adrenaline coursing, nearly in tears, i scanned the panorama of other passengers, and not a single man, woman, or child would look me in the eye.  The driver was oblivious.  I was sniffling "what the hell...," and our whole crew rode the rest of the way in complete, awkward silence.  I went to class, then another (thoroughly uneventful) bus ride to work.


So i used to empty the trash at the SW bell building at St. John's and IH-35 in Austin.  The crappy, third-shift schedule was inappropriately compensated at near-minimum wage, but infinite flexibility and lack of oversight calmed your own particular 8 hours of BS.


Emptying the trash, vacuuming, sweeping, and mopping 4 floors doesn't really take that long when you account for the resident population's holidays, vacation, sick leave, clean freaks, and loafers.  Only about 40% of the employees create any trash on a given day.


Luckily this evening i had suckered "Ben" and "Chris" into helping me at the equivalent of $4 per hour, tax free.  Idiots.  So the "work" portion took only about 2 hours, we had the entire building to ourselves for the next six hours.


An introductory round of smear-the-queer ended when "Chris" was discovered riding on top of the elevator car, obviously cheating.  We discovered a closet with a handwritten note asking us to dump about ten huge stacks of continuous-feed computer printouts in the trash.  Once we located a dolly, we rolled the first stack out to the loading dock and into the roll-off dumpster.


Far too ordinary for such a night, i suggested we take each of the stacks of roughly 7000 sheets to the roof and dump them off. Nice.  Shortly thereafter, "Ben" tested newton's first two laws of gravitation and jumped off of the third-story roof into the dumpster full of paper.  


Not to be outdone, i followed with a front flip, and "Chris" groaned somewhere behind me.  Several hours of pointless recreation followed.  Upon completion, we noticed several shattered florescent lights and a broken office chair in the dumpster.  Good thing nobody landed on that crap, would have been a pain in the ass to deal with.


Whole-floor-width rubber band slingshots, with such projectiles as empty soda cans, whole rolls of toilet paper, and styrofoam cups full of pencils, pens, and thumbtacks.


Nerf gun wars, two boomerangs and a nerf javelin.  Slingshots were not a good idea.


Indoor soccer, multiple balls and multiple goals.


Likely very weak parkour of 4 floors of cubicles, stairwells, elevator shafts, and a roof access ladder; no broken bones to date.


Helium tank? Full 55-gallon plastic trash bags are like 5 feet tall and 3 feet around, and really, really want to fly up to heaven.  Roof launches were fairly dramatic when a streamer was lit on fire.  Do these red blinking lights up here mean we are on the flight approach for the airport? 


Trash-catapult, trash deadfall, trash bumper cars, trash pendulum.


Speaking of trash, my brother, "Ben," had an animalistic bad karma episode at Pizza Nizza on Barton Springs.  Closing the restaurant and taking the trash out, he played trash catapult and when the giant bag of refuse landed in the dumpster, a raccoon was ejected from his perch on a cardboard box.  The evil beast landed in "Ben's" lap and scratched him up pretty good [requiring the 6-week rabies vaccine]; however, this is the same "Ben" who has been treed by stray dogs and bitten by a barracuda, so nothing out of the ordinary.


Sometimes the Best jobs are the Simple ones,

Francois (Frank) Dillinger

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.

Meds Baaaad! Frankenstein no like, Burn with Fire!

Editor's Note:  Frank was recently sent to the "doctor" to address his increasingly manic episodes of consumerism, destruction, and resurrection.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.


Wow this sucks even worse than drunk typing...

Seroquel xr is the devil

frank

Let Yer Freak Flag Fly

[Editor's Note]:  Frank used to amuse himself and any cohorts by staying up late and killing time on the campus of the largest public university in Austin.  The main flagpole, approximately 60 feet high, was a favorite location.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.




September 1993
Austin, Texas


One fine late summer evening in the live music capital of the world presents many opportunities for a great deal of fun, granted you are 21 or have a fake id.  For some of the rest of us, nightfall means something entirely different: mayhem.


The latest great idea was to get our meager collection of climbing gear together and do a little urban rappelling or climbing.  Downtown Austin has many fine buildings to scale and descend, either by fire escape, elevator shaft, roof access stairwells, etc.  Likely one-third of the buildings had been deflowered by us without raising any serious alarm or security response [these sorties occurred way before you could get charged with terrorism for trespassing].


Supreme boredom creates monsters.  We talked ourselves into a drive to campus for mayhem; my girlfriend had a working vehicle and "Chris" and i had the hardware.  So, the 3 stooges went to the "six pack" for some climbing, and the flagpole for some "flagpole flying." [Flagpole flying involves hooking up the steel flag cable to the belay loop at the back of a climbing harness, then having someone on the ground tow you at top speed.  Eventually the cable winds up violently, and the rider slams into the flagpole.]   


After several rounds of flying, "Chris" slinks off to take a leak.  Me and the girlfriend have a few more flights, and wonder what's taking him so long.  I'ts not like we were drinking or anything.  Probably 25 minutes had elapsed and we finally hear a faint cry of "hey, help!"


We follow the cries to the first building of the six pack, a 5 or 6 story building with large limestone blocks in an offset pattern around the exterior, perfect for some free climbing.  "Chris," as it turned out, had climbed most of the way up this building, then ran out of arm strength (he wasn't very good at technical climbing), and jumped down about 20 feet.


The major problem with our immediate situation was that "Chris" landed on a first-floor porch roof made of spanish tile.  He was moaning inside of a large crater of shattered terracotta.  He thinks he broke both of his ankles, and maybe an arm or wrist.  Pussy.


First, we needed to get him to ground level.  I gave him a harness, and after 15 minutes of whining, he was ready to tie in.  I climbed a tree next to the porch roof and set up 2 pulleys and a figure 8 as a brake.  I tied myself to the tree, and was getting the ropes ready for loading.


As i was explaining to "Chris" [who was likely in moderately serious shock by now] that he was to scoot to the edge of the roof and then when i say "go" he would kind of roll of the edge and be lowered to safety, he went ahead and did all of it immediately.  The ropes were not ready at all.  Not having a brake other than my bare hands, the system behaved like a human pendulum with infinite length of swing.


"Chris" swung from the roof, past the hypothetical nadir below the tree, to about 8 feet up in free space and then fell flat on his back in the grass, letting out a forced screech of "Ungh!F**k!!"  My hands took some moderate damage in the form of 2nd degree rope burns, and my girlfriend was cackling hysterically near the truck.    I guess i should have just gone with a zip line and achieved the same wipeout.  Oops.


We pack up the gear and get zombie "Chris" into the truck and i begin to drive us to the nearest hospital for some medicine. Unfortunately, only the parking lights were turned on, and we were quickly stopped by campus pd.  As the cop ran my license, i was fairly nervous due to an unpaid citation for driving without a license [Now an outstanding warrant].  "Chris" was yelling at the cop, "i'm f**king bleeding here you a**hole, we're going to the hospital--" my girlfriend was trying to get him to stfu.


"Please step out of the vehicle..."  Weak.  Austin jail on a tuesday night, not very busy or intimidating.  Within an hour i was bailed out and at the hospital to check on "Chris."  Some halfheartedly suicidal dude and i shared a smoke and a bunch of conversation outside, and i stole 2 boxes of tongue depressors, some open-back gowns, and a speculum from the waiting room.  


"Chris" was going to be fine, just two severely sprained ankles, a cut wrist, and as soon as he wakes up, a sore ass.


Don't climb shit you shouldn't,

Francois (Frank) Dillinger

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.

Thanks for Understanding, Austin Fire Department

[Editor's Note]:  Frank once found a recipe for home-made smoke bombs, and immediately enlisted his older brother "Ben" to be the Beaker to his Prof. Honeydew.  The journal was quite charred and reeked of burnt sugar, but the general scene was recreated below.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.




November 5, 1994
Austin, Texas




Now in a certain book written by a certain anti-establishment hippie, one may find a recipe for some serious homemade smoke bombs (among other invaluable informations).  The recipe is simple, four parts [OMIT] and six parts sugar.  The dry ingredients are mixed together and carmelized in a saucepan, then the semi-solid goo is decanted to whatever container you want to see destroyed by fire.  The mixture burns quite hotly, and the combustion reaction is water-resistant.


One fine fall morning, my brother "Ben" and i skipped college and decided to install a makeshift rope swing at my apartment complex on east Riverside.  Most of the  residents were ignoring our experiments, but the other kids who should have been in school were very excited for the adventure.  We tired of the rope swing fairly quickly, and i mentioned the smoke bomb recipe.


An hour later, we had large quantities of both ingredients, and began cooking.  The first batch was ready for trial, and we went back down to the creekbed where the rope swing was, and hey--someone already stole the rope swing!  Wonder where they are going to put it...


The first batch was a success, two large muffin smokers erupted into a football-field-sized cloud of dense white smoke.  Excitedly we returned to the lab [apartment] to make some more.  Emboldened by the initial success, we readied a huge batch, probably close to a pound of dry ingredients.


Now the trickiest part of making these is Patience.  I apparently have none.  When melting the sugar to homogenize the mixture, too much heat may cause the stuff to ignite!  Make sure to use low-med heat-- [At this point the journal becomes unreadable due to a combination of soot, CO2 foam, beer, and what appeared to be refried beans.  The remaining narrative was loosely recreated based on Frank's oration.]


So we are cooking up a huge batch in a teflon fry pan on the stove in my girlfriend's apartment on East Riverside.  She is at work at the movie theater, where i also work, and so "Ben" and i had a free day pass to mayhem (hence the smoke bombs).  I get a little impatient with the melting process and turn up the heat to med-high.  Continuous stirring, it's melting nicely.  This shade of brown looks too dark, kind of like--Oops, Ignition!


Within 15 seconds the entire one-bedroom apartment is completely full of white smoke.  I grab the flaming frying pan and toss it into the sink, and turn on the water full blast.  No change, still burning.  I grab the wet, scalding pan and run towards the (back) sliding patio door.  Droplets of flaming plasma are erupting from the pan and burning my arms and hands, so i chuck the pan out the back door, but someone closed the screen door and the pan lands face down on the carpet.


"Ben" is laughing quite tauntingly, i will get him later.  My next sprint was for the fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink.  I get the pan put out, but a gargantuan column of white smoke is still streaming from the patio door.  "Ben" seems to have made it outside, so i run back in and set up a box fan to blow out the remaining smoke.


Smoke relocated, we survey the damage.  Half-melted frying pan, giant puddle of (now solid) plasma goo sitting in a hole in the carpet the size of the kitchen sink, and a blackened patch of the underlying concrete slab.  Uh-oh.  Looks like we put burned pock marks all over my favourite barcalounger and my girlfriend's Klimt posters, as well.


A quick trip to the dollar store produced cleaning supplies and a small throw rug.  Within ten minutes, we had the entire place scrubbed down and basically back to original condition unless one were to look under the new rug or examine the posters too carefully (or take a big whiff of the burned sugar smell).  What's that sound in the background? Sirens...


After a very quick debate and a couple of punches, "Ben" and i decide the best course of action is to fess up.  We walk down the parking lot where the two fire trucks were pulling in, and told them the Truth.  As luck would have it, smoke bombs are legal within the city limits, and we detailed the recipe and showed them where we set them off in the creek (no need to share the apartment fire unless asked, don't push your luck).  We even got to ride on the back of the fire truck for a few blocks.  Nice.


Spirits soaring, we began the long walk of shame to the movie theater to inform my girlfriend of the recent redecoration of the apartment.  "Ben" vanished somewhere along the way, that bastard.  Me and the girlfriend broke up about 4 months later.    




Don't make smoke bombs Inside,

Francois (Frank) Dillinger

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.

Dudes, Weak; aka, The Death Knell of customer Service

[Editor's Note]:  Frank considers himself a savant at nothing in particular, "Like Enoch, I wear my cape...(Dr.Octagon)"  Maybe a misguided Daniel Waterhouse wannabe, but not certainly.  The journal was flashed onto a TI-994A phone emulator cartridge, and took several hours to retrieve.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.




October 27, 2010
San Antonio, Tejas




In addition to the airline and parking BSs, i have observed and experienced several more failed customer service interactions and captured them for the page.  Due to my recent epiphany and subsequent application of the 'small town pace,' toward all aspects of daily life, i have time for greater reflection on events occurring in the present; no more racing the Clock and forcing things. 


With the inception of this blog, it became necessary to acquire a droid.  Until recently, my trusty moto razr did the job unflinchingly.  A few clicks led me to the "shopping" page at the Big One, and a few more found a re-up deal worthy of consumption.  Error, we suck.  Duh.


Now attempting voice contact, i was pleasantly surprised to hear a velvety southern twang greet me with a smile.  Some minor investigation revealed the Big One's website down, no online orders.  Our carefree chat led to a special promo, no activation fees and bonus rebate.. "Virginia," you are as an angel--suddenly, a smooth talking manager interrupted us and declared the deal to be expired, but due to my longevity, i was a valued customer.  I was led to believe that a customer Service rep would call in the morning to finalize the deal.  


18 hours later, i called them after attempting to find /index_of_promo*, and made another attempt to vocally order the deal, and was shot down by teller#1.  Next up the ladder says deal doesn't exist, and i finally get to talk to a "customer Service manager."


After only negotiating free shipping, i tucked my tail and ran with it.  The cSm knew it had four aces: the Big One holds the very best network in the country (and most of the world).  200 years of counter-anti-trust-legislation creates a giant, evil twin fetus growing from a tumor.


A special shout out to the hopelessly inept species of human that staffs the local Wal Marts, "WTF, Over?"


Homo Depot staff really dropped the ball when i asked a simple question about Faraday flashlights (way to know nothing about the products you try to sell me!); and the tweaker at  the returns desk couldn't figure out that a dual-socket Y breaks sometimes and you have to bring it back and exchange it for another.  I ended up paying for the old one and the new one just to have mercy.


By far the best experience was the local "Halloween store."  A rushed first  trip made for a quicker return trip (traffic starting to ooze along already) and all the registers were open and with the exhange i was in and out in 7 minutes.  Nice.


The rest of you bastards take note: I will Not Stand for this impertinence and lack of attention.  Maybe i need to text you my request for better Service.  Suck It.


About to Drop Out of the Grid,
Francois (Frank) Dillinger

Open Letter to the university ministry of auxiliary services parking division

[Editor's Note]: Frank is currently enrolled at a local public school.  The university has doubled in size in 10 years and has failed to foresee the parking nightmare that is-- A dictated rebuke of the anachronistic parking penalty fee schedule follows.  As usual any names may have been changed to protect local identities.

October 25, 2010

San Antonio, Texas

Ministry of auxiliary services

parking [enforcement] division

local public university

san antonio

Dear sir or madam:

Cease immediately these shenanigans!

It has been rumored that the school is approaching tier 1 research status, please catch up with the new century, please.

I recently had the pleasure of being escorted off of Western Michigan University's gorgeous campus; and a reckless parking choice produced a citation for unpermitted parking in a 24-hr reserved dormitory lot.

Total Cost of Citation: $10.00--That's Right, 10 DOLLARS.

The students of WMU are far better served when able to spend their meager allowances on All Campus Services instead of playing musical parking lots, drive-'n'-hike, spot the fake permit, etc.

Please stop being greedy and let us go to school in peace.

We are here to LEARN, not to pay for parking every day.

tuition is expensive enough without the stress of Das Boot!

Irreverently yours,

Francois Dillinger

[About the author]: Sorry, not this time.  Come and Find me.

Hemisfair Zombies 2010

[Editor's Note: Every year San Antonio and hopefully the remainder of the civilized world celebrates All Hallow's Eve...  Frank assumed it would be a good idea to drag the family downtown for some fresh BRAAINS.  The journal was completely indecipherable and written in [likely] human blood and gray matter.  As usual all names may have been changed to protect local identities.




October 24, 2010
San Antonio, Texas


Oh the smell of fresh (frightened) meat,

Wife, boy, and i motivated ourselves to dress up as a Zombie family and attend the annual ZombieWalk in downtown SA this evening.  A brisk drive downtown parked us next to the Institute of Texan Cultures and the Tower of the Americas (formerly the 2nd tallest free standing tower in the world only kowtowing to the CN tower in Toronto), both remnants of the 1968 World's Fair (Hemisfair).

We immediately joined up with a sizable group of  misanthropes, and jaywalked to the assembly area.  Free t-virus snow-cones!  We all had some, and the change occurred quite rapidly...

Groaning, shuffling, skulking, hissing.  Approximately 3300 undeads ambled through 12 blocks of the hometown, pausing intermittently to zombiepile an unsuspecting tourist,  Boy these nor'easters [BRAINS] taste funny, kind of like clams.  Need something spicy...

Zombie infants, zombie kids, zombie dogs, zombie grandparents.  Zombie spiderman, zombie wedding, zombie operating room staff.  You name it, we ate it.  Where do you [BRAINS] live?

Unabashedly Undead,
Francois (Frank) Dillinger


[About the author]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.

Really, Airlines?

[Editor's Note]: Last week, Frank was in middle Tennessee for a bit of historical detective work.  The journal was relieved of his possesion between 5pm and 1am during air transit back to the hometown.  Frank dispatched a vicious all-points bulletin in print form.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.

October 16, 2010

San Antonio, Texas

Dear Airlines, The [Federal] Security Administration, and anyone else who may have come into contact with my Belongings:

I will require my employer's intellectual and physical property to be reinstated to my possesion immediately!  To the Spineless Pilferer who thought they were getting some firearms, eat a bag of dongs.  Anyone else, please accept my humble apologies for any rudeness directed in your general direction; in 20 years of air travel have i never experienced such a situation...

Friday, October 15.  After two 12-hour (mostly sober) days of intensive research at three different libraries and several federal installations, the Thirst was very great.  The local O'Charley's has awesome happy hour specials, so i got 8 2-for-1 pints.  A sleepy drive to Nashville only took about an hour, luckily  i was headed north, the southbound lanes were jammed with traffic due to a giant sinkole that swallowed the road.  Looks like i'm early for the flight(s) home, so i checked my rucksack which was way too heavy with not-beer.

Under most circumstances, i would Never stow electronics (laptop) in my checked bag.  The Fear was sneaking up on me again, and the laptop was very heavy and had not powered up properly in about a week (bad battery connector).  So i put it at the bottom of my forest green fabric shopping bag, and put about 800 loose pages of unclassified research documents on top of it.  Nice package fit right into my pack.  I locked down all of the straps, buckles, reversed the hip belt, and the backpack may as well have been a smooth sided duffel with only one handle.  No loose ends whatsoever.  Man am i thirsty.

The airline clerk seemed bitter about the whole thing, "you all know your (no doubt she said your and not you're) not supposed to put no 'lectronics in yer check bags, right?"  I glared.  I handed the duffel-pack to The [Fed] Security Admin guy, who was in no hurry whatsoever to put my bag into the temporal-variant coupled MRI Frontal Lobe Scanner or whaterver they have nowadays.  Good thing they can't read my thoughts yet, Minority Report here we come!  However, any visit to a "small town" really slows you down to the local pace of totally don't give a crap about anything; it is quite refreshing.

Unfettered, i look for the nearest wet spot.  My colleauge "Paul" told me not to miss Tootsies in downtown Nashville so i hopped a city bus.  Oops, No Drinking on the bus, so this stinky dude next to me and myself must be more careful to hide the OE we were sharing.  25 minutes and a slight buzz later, downtown welcomes me spectacularly.  Reimann Auditorium, Titans Stadium, and innumerable Honkytonks line both sides of Broadway.  I gawk at the stadium, tours are already over with at the Reimann, so i start honkytonking.

An attempted One Beer at each of the 29 honkytonks did not end as well as it began.  I will not even try to name all of the hot spots, suffice to say any influential musician in the last 200 years played here, and it's super awesome.  Everyone is very friendly, the weather is gorgeous, and the trees are all turning from green to yellow, orange, red, brown, purple.  Wow Tennessee harbors some first class musicians and the groupies who try to be seen but all look the same...

Also, somewhere along the way i ended up with a half-empty Shiner Bock in one pocket, a broken cigar in another, and a wicked canadian whisky drunk.  Water seems to be helping a bit.  Taxi! Airport! 20 Minutes! 20 bucks! Let's go!

Security, check.  Sitting in proper seat on airplane, check.  F those commercials.  Need more canadian whisky.  Old leatherface the steward(ess?) says, "we only got Jack."  I order vodka.  She sneers.  I sneer back.  Properly lubed, i visually eavesdrop on my row-mate's ipad playing Dark Knight.  Great performance, Mr. Ledger, you will be missed.  The Bengali princess on the other side of me is likely trying not to throw up in her mouth (or get a buzz) from my Vapours.  I smile at her and tell her to read my blog immediately.  Maybe we can arrange a "Holiday."

Not so bad only 2 hours from Nashvill to DFW.  Watching the Rangers/Yankees game at the only open bar in this terminal, just made it before closing time at 10.  10? What the Hell, am i not back in Texas?  Another plane.  Sit on the runway for an hour, weak.  A quick, 40-minute parabolic flight to SAT, need some cofee.

Weary walking to baggage claim, as usual in no hurry to look at the empty baggage carousel.  Finally the red light and sirens, baggage ho.  What's this?

MY FING BACKPACK HAS BEEN EMPTIED COMPLETELY AND DUMPED UPON THE CONVEYOR BELT!  HOW IS THIS EVEN REMOTELY ACCEPTABLE! 
Calm down.  Not Even.  I had better get lifetime Presidential Elite Status for this. Where is my other shoe you bastards!

Please keep in mind that this backpack has accompanied me Everywhere, including to the summit of the 18,500ft El Pico de Orizaba stratovolcano (Citlaltepetl) in Veracruz, Mexico.  This bag does Not Ever open by itself or fail in any way.  [Frank's bag was deliberately opened (and undoubtedly hand-searched by The [Fed] Security Administration (read:NSA), and upon uncareful inspection, the (Ha-Ha!) broken laptop and (Unclassified, Public FOIA) documents were likely siezed.]  Great, now i will end up in the No-Fly list express lane.  Oh well, driving's better for the soul, anyway.  

I seem to have been unfortunately rude to the baggage [desk] lady, i went back to apologize, and here's my other shoe, nice.  I leave happy.

Saturday, October 16.  Oh NO. Laptop and green bag with documents missing.  Drive back to airport and talk to 23 different airline people until finally i get to fill out some paperwork.  Joke's on them though, lukily i hand carried e-copies of most of the documents, and the work is sending me a new laptop.  Go F yourselves, airline.  Hope you catch the rat bastard thief, Security Administration people, because that person is a danger to themself and others and needs to be behind [jail cell] bars; as a former kleptomaniac, i should know.

I foresee a great number of trips back to the ariport in the next few weeks, none of which will involve flying anywhere.  The airport sucks enough when passing through, try conducting Business!

Thats all, any important updates will follow.

Unfortunately still have to fly places,

Francois (Frank) Dillinger

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.

January in the Chisos

[Editor’s Note]: In January 2003, Frank took a trip with his school buddies to Big Bend National Park in West Texas.  Portions of the journal had been destroyed by either fire or chemical burn (unexplained cause) but the minimally legible remainder has been organized slightly.  As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.

January 20, 2003

San Antonio, Texas

After twelve early hours of work, it’s home to change, pack, repack, and drink beer.  “Mike” arrives at six; we load up and go get his crap.  Waiting for “Paul,” “Tom,” and “Susan;” a twilight round of drunken hackysack was surprisingly poor.  Finally, departure; the open road.

On through Hondo, D’Hanis, Sabinal, Del Rio, Comstock, US Border Patrol Illegal Alien Checkpoint, Dryden, Langtry, Sanderson, Marathon, another US Border Patrol Illegal Alien Checkpoint, then the entrance to Big Bend National Park.  Ten more beers and riding shotgun kicked my low-grade narcolepsy into a tailspin, so I dozed on and off through the six-and-a-half hour drive.

Through Persimmon Gap, the Chisos Mountains were visible as purple hulks, many jagged peaks and smooth crests.  We blow by the ranger station at 85 mph, no time to say hi.  On to Glenn Springs Road.  Half an hour of bumping, sliding, creeping over rocky, ill-graded track by first-quarter moonlight, all the way to Juniper Canyon.

“Tom” turns off to Pine Canyon.  They’re not behind us.  Pissed, “Mike” drives back to Pine Canyon.  An hour later, we find “Tom,” “Paul,” and “Susan” at a campsite setting up tents.  “Mike” and I unload, unpack, and get out the cooler.  Rum and cokes all around, picosos hot peanuts; turn off the damn flashlights!

A hundred billion stars, planets, meteorites, satellites, and UFOs stare back at us; every now and then, some space junk enters the atmosphere with varying degrees of spectacularity.  Two moons visible around Jupiter, couldn’t find the international space station.  Orion, the dippers, Corona Borealis, Cygnus the Swan, the Pleiades, Capricorn?  Toll Mountain, Hayes Ridge, Casa Grande, Emory Peak.  Unfortunately the Sierra del Carmen is slightly hazy. 

We are under a covert attack by a platoon of Steven’s Kangaroo Rats (so say the biologists).  “Paul” reaches for peanuts, yelps.  We find a cute, furry, big-eared, tufted-tailed, fievel-looking, rat-mouse sitting upright on its powerful back legs inside the can of peanuts.  Rat-bastard is munching down on our snacks. 

The mouse-burglar sees us, grabs something like 22 whole peanuts, stuffs them into his cheeks and bolts.  How cute, one distracts us while others look for another way in.  I hope we don’t all wake up immobilized by hundreds of tiny yucca ropes and the entire tribe of kangaroo rats encircling us, taunting us with lechugilla spears and ocotillo clubs.

Everyone sleeps in tents, snoring.  “Susan” the buzzsaw, “Paul” the congested, and “Tom” the emphysema-gonna-die super snore/mouth fart.  “Mike” is sawing wood somewhere behind us.  I sleep in the hammock-bivy and dream of covert kangaroo-rat counterintelligence ops.  Sunrise comes on quickly and forcefully, it is clear and cool.  By 8:30 it’s 80 degrees in the desert; (is it January?) wonderful.  Breakfast of bagels, apples, cheese, coffee; car camping food, very tasty.

“Paul” chooses beer as an after-breakfast snack, we follow.  “Can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning,” indeed.  Leisurely we pack up, drive to the ranger station, check in for free (poorly counterfeit USGS credentials) and get backcountry permits, maps, toothbrushes. 

Finally to Juniper Canyon, we get the sweet campsite next to the trailhead.  A warm afternoon of drunken desert disc golf, drunken desert hackyscack, magic cookies, more beer, picture taking.  “Susan” says, “These cookies are good.  They taste kinda funny.”

The Sierra del Carmen are looking good in the late afternoon.  Looking up at the South Rim, our destination.  Tomorrow.  Sunset is amazing, slow as it wants, innumerable shades of yellow, orange, pink, red, blue, purple, black. 

I finally convince them all not to set up tents and we meadow crash on “Paul’s” tarp.  More shooting stars and UFOs.  The night is cool but only about 50 degrees.  At 2:45 am the wind rips off the mountains at 35 mph.  Yes, blow the pollution back to Mexico.

Sleep through sunrise, get up pack, eat breakfast, repack, drink water. Embark on Juniper Canyon Trail to South Rim.  Each of us has individually-packed gear for two days; about 40-60 pounds each.  Ouch.  I carry two gallons of water for some stupid reason, (oh yeah, survival). 

Early afternoon is warm, these heavy packs causing us to sweat profusely.  Drink water.  Walk more.  Eat dried fruit.  Drink water.  Piss.  Walk more.  Up the riverbed through gravel, creosote bush, grass, sotol, lechugilla, cholla cactus.  Up the hill into junipers and pines. 

Six hours and six miles later, exhausted, dazed, we waddle into camp.  We gained 4000 feet in elevation, “Paul” is dehydrated and hypothermic.  “Tom” hasn’t been seen in three hours.  We rest, make food, hydrate “Paul”.  He’s in zombie mode for sure.  Fat, tame mule deer wander about.  Sun going down.  Getting cold. 

Where’s “Tom?”  “Mike” looks for “Tom.”  Both come back.  “Tom” is slurring his speech.  Bad sign.  Make more food, get the hypo-thermics into sleeping bags.  Sleep.  The wind kicks up at 2:45 am. 

Sunrise is blocked by the mountains, still cold.  Eat oatmeal, pancakes, discuss today’s hike.  Everyone is down to about one liter of water, maybe Boot Spring is flowing.  We talk “Tom” into going with us to the South Rim, no packs.  Hiking again in the Chingasos Mountains.

“Mike” pumps a liter out of “Boot Spring.”  The water stinks and tastes like its namesake.  We move on.  Probably less funky water upstream.  Still stinks.  When we reach the South Rim, the self-inflicted torture of backpacking is all worth it.  One could see for 100 miles in every direction on a clear day in 1900.  Today we see about 20 miles through the smog and haze.  Sierra del Carmen, Dominguez Mountain, Santa Elena Canyon, Boquillas.  Breathtaking views.  Take some pictures, including: “Full Moons Over the Desert, with Nuts.”

We decide to send “Paul,” “Tom,” and “Susan” down the Pinnacles trail to the Basin, a three mile, 2000-foot-elevation-loss switchbacked trail, much easier.  “Mike” and I bomb down the JC trail at five mph.  If it weren’t for the hour and a half drive to the Basin, we would have beaten them there.

“Tom” looks dead, “Paul” is halfway there, “Susan” is off primping.  We leave the park for Terlingua ghost town; Viva Terlingua!  Eat at the Starlight Theater restaurant-bar, full of locals.  Still on a personal quest to wipe cows off the planet, I order filet mignon.  We have chips and salsa and a bottle of Australian chardonnay, while waiting for entrees. 

Locals next to us tell us about some a-hole turning Lajitas into an exclusive golf community, $100,000 members only.  That sucks.  Food is magnificent; the dichotomy of civilization plays out in my head.  Old rancher next to us has an elk-tooth pocket-watch dangle.  “The whistlin’ tooth, only ivory in the lower 48;” we all have after-dinner cocktails then drive to Marfa.

Cold as hell out here, next to the highway and train tracks at the “Marfa Mystery Lights Official Viewing Area.”  They are soon to add an adobe visitor center with bathrooms.  The lights are unimpressive tonight.  Every 30 seconds an 18-wheeler belches by, with alternating trains every 30 minutes.  People come and go from the rest stop.

Locals from Alpine “Country Ed” and “Lindsay” talk about visiting Santa Elena and Boquillas.  Santa Elena is a dry town in Mexico, I didn’t think they existed.  “Paul” makes a hobo fire out of a broken pallet—and commences singing:

“Just livin’ my hobo life,

 Stabbin’ kind folks with my hobo knife,

 But not you all, tonight

 I’m a singin’ hobo, not a stabbin’ hobo”

Cold Sleep at Marfa, “Tom” sleeps in the truck.  Water bottles frozen when we wake up.

Back to civilization again, go to Alpine and have huevos rancheros, huevos divorciados, huevos mineros, café de olla.  Excellent.  In the vehicles for some high-speed travel back to SA, watching Full Metal Jacket on the laptop DVD player.  Blessed, wretched technology.

Finally the Batteries are recharged,

François (Frank) Dillinger

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR]: Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.

Fear and Zombies in Kalamazoo

If you want not to read the whole thing at once start at the bottom of my twitter: @tobinmartin

[Editor’s Note:] In late September, Frank left San Antonio for Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he was required to perform an all-expenses-paid, week-long project.  During the other 12 hours of each day, little time was devoted to eating or sleeping, as Frank was prone to intermittent episodes of “the Fear.”  Upon his return, a ruthless narrative was constructed from the shambles of his journal.  All names may have been changed to protect local identities.

“Laura”

WMU Council of 13

www.zombiesversushumans.com

      `                                   October 2, 2010

                                          San Antonio, Texas

Dear “Laura”:

      Upon my arrival in the hamlet of Kalamazoo, Michigan, I was greeted by a near postcard of such stunning scenery that I nearly wept...

Monday, September 27.  Redeye from SAT to DTW then AZO.  Considering the utter lack of anything resembling rest, my hands aren’t shaking as badly as I had hoped when the rental car clerk asked me if I would like to add the damage waiver for an additional—my water-eyed glare said enough.

      Unleashed.  An unfamiliar and unsuspecting town stirs in the brisk morning.  Good coffee should be federally insured, this swill is useless.  0800 hours, time to get paid.  1800 hours.  Well, this job should be a cakewalk.

      Hotel, suitcase, shower.  The thirst is powerful this evening.  Local restaurant selection is impressive, everything from $5 unlabeled (front yard!) BBQ plates to 5-star haute cuisine; but my manna is classless.  The first pub I stumble upon is Shakespeare’s.

Due to the unfortunate configuration of one-way streets in Kalamazoo, a six mile drive took well over an hour.  Thank the gods that the local college radio station (WIDR, 89.1FM) shreds.  Finally seated at the bar, local beer specials were $1 half pints, so I ordered many severals.  Free popcorn, regardless of quality, is always well received.  The local free newspaper detailed the upcoming week’s prey.

Closing time, oops.  A strong police presence greets the weary traveler in the early morning.  “NO PARKING on city STREETS from 2AM TO 6AM,” great.  Sure wish this stupid car had cruise control.  A tour bus fire and multi-car pileup seems to have distracted the entirety of the police and fire departments, and an hour and a half later, I finally open the hotel door.

Tuesday, September 28.  Work, lame.  A new friend named “Chris” meets me for some disc golf at Robert Morris.  The nearby village of Comstock hosts this beautiful course, and we finish the round at sunset.

      Shakespeare’s welcomes me warmly.  Tonight considers a trip to nearby Oshtempo Township and Western Michigan University (WMU), where a rumored “zombies versus humans (ZvH)” game is underway.  Eight more pints and I’m convinced.  A quick stop at Wal-Mart, and I’m armed to the teeth.

      An uneventful drive parks me near Bigelow Hall on campus.  Luckily, Michigan sells both liquor and beer at the gas station until 2AM.  2 30-packs of MGD for $13 each and a liter of Jagermeister round out my last cash.  The ZvH is supposedly happening at Miller Auditorium.  Wonder where that might be.

      A mostly slurred conversation with an irish-italian political activist wearing an Italian soccer jacket and a soft black driving cap revealed no zombie activity recently.  Maybe the undead are unsleeping.  I keep walking.

      Four hours later, no zombies or additional humans were encountered, and 14 beers seem to have fallen out of my bag and into my stomach.  A quick nap in the car, and good to go.  What’s this?  A parking ticket.  Good thing I locked myself in the trunk.

Wednesday, September 29.  Yeah, work.  Later, I spend an hour trying to drive back to campus.  What is the deal with these one way streets, crapsandwiches.  Free parking available at the parking garage for Homecoming/Parent’s Weekend, zombie fodder population explosion.  Good, A-lamo-Rent-a-Car doesn’t need any more parking tickets.

      A quick walk provides the first zombie sighting of the week!  With my trusty nerf six-shooter holstered and my heavy-again satchel replenished, I boldly walk into the group of five ghouls.  The first shot sails wide right, I dodge that direction.  Strafing back sinister, I catch zombie #1 right in the forehead with a hip shot, but the suction cup wouldn’t stick.  Zombies #2 and #3 are closing in behind, my spin was not well balanced, and I’m the meat in zombie sandwich.

      Zombie #3 asks me for my token, I shrug.  They inform me that I need to register at the flagpoles.  We all walk to the flagpoles.  Registration complete, I drink some pure zombie blood to confirm my virulence.  I stow my gun and the change ensues...

      Hunting the ultimate prey is not as easily accomplished as one first imagines.  At least I had the foresight to dress in some [BRAINS] homemade urban camouflage while still human.  The newly enlarged zombie horde disperses in all directions.  My undead companions and I shuffle off to somewhere.  A little stalking music was highly in order so I opted for B-Boys: “Sabotage” on repeat.  I had considered Mr. Cash or Creedence singing about Kalamazoo, but my sickness wouldn’t allow it.

      The rats ambushed the ambushers!  As I was skulking into position and enjoying a refreshing beverage, my [BRAINS] zombie pals got nuked at the food cache we were staking out.  These sober humans seem to be good at tactical seamanship.  Excellent, we will see...

      Flying solo, I have gathered two kills.  Apparently, the campus PD is well aware that several hundred of the most inept ninjas ever are prowling about looking for trouble and damaging private property.  A fellow zombie Texan named Tobin shows up ranting about geology and how Kalamazooan rhymes with bryozoan or something, but he talks too much, so I ditch him, too.

      A spectacularly beautiful elf-vixen wearing a black hoodie and a nosering was nearly my next meal, but pity and fate intervened.  She confessed that she wanted to play the ZvH game, but did not know of or care for the rules of engagement; she just wanted to shoot zombies.  I offered her [BRAINS] beers, and I nearly donated my gun to her, but she said she was meeting some people and will murder me later.  “Farewell, evenstar” I may have muttered.

      Four hours and the rest of the 30 pack led to some interesting encounters with both living and undead.  The human population had been dwindling quickly as “the Rooster” had apparently re-animated, a group of stealth zombies and I attempted various sorties with Jagermeister, and the humans were increasingly demanding in their enforcement of the Treaty of [BRAINS] Versailles or something weak like that.

      Finally, near midnight, I was being tracked by two Australian aborigines and a Lakota medicine man.  Thirty feet up in a pine tree says they can’t catch me—Wow, who knew eleven ounces of beer could be so noisy when hitting the ground.  A brutal shimmy and leap lands me on a balcony, then I drop into a bush.  They probably didn’t hear me.  Not too much blood.

      “Laura” has shattered my zombie heart.  The elvin empress repeals her hoodie to reveal alabaster skin and waist-length fiery curls and her position on the Council of 13, the governing body of ZvH.  I have been exiled.  WMU is a dry campus, and I’m all wet (literally, a few of the beers must have exploded upon impact with my torso, and I reek of beer and BRAINS, where’s the Jagermeister?).  Additionaly, I have been cited for: climbing, jumping off of and/or over walls, etc., and general malaise of sportsmanship.  Game Over.  Shakespeare’s will drown my sorrows. 

Thursday, September 30.  Work almost complete.  Losing track of what day it is.  A two hour drive east affords me a look at Lake Michigan.  The dark waters of the Great Lakes are surprisingly cold in late September.  Upon completion of my four-yard breaststroke, the coughing and shivering seems to have subsided, but the smell won’t.  Soggy driving, but at least I’m not thirsty anymore.

      Downtown Kalamazoo reminds me of downtown Austin.  Yippies, blue collars, hipsters, gangsters, crackheads, you name it.  Everyone is here to enjoy the great foods, live musics, bar scenes.  This town seems a gem of scenic beauty lit by a diverse and friendly population.  The land of moustaches is a great place to be when there are not feet of snow covering everything.

      Shakespeare’s wants to know what that odor is, but I just tell them stale beer.  Pints are delicious.  I read in the paper that a Bigfoot movie begins filming in Kalamazoo tomorrow.  Sounds fun.

Friday, October 1.  Project Complete.  Peace, work.  Friday night!  Where first?  Obviously.  Pints with strangers and we discuss an entire spectrum of topics in a couple of hours.  “Ryan” virtually eye-rapes me the whole conversation, so we finish our beers and walk through downtown.

      A stop at Fandango’s to return the disc golf park pass to “Chris,” and Robert Downey, Jr. and I [Frank imagined “Ryan” looking exactly like the actor] barhopped until last call.  Beer, double Crown Royal rocks with neat water back, cigars, headaches.  Need to be at the airport in three hours.

      Four young urban campers offer to keep me company until my flight, so I accept.  They help me finish off the remaining 26 beers and Jager.  I give them my hotel key and say enjoy the shower and bed for tonight.  So long “Airica,” “Ben,” “Matt,” and “Stephany;” y’all were some of the most genuinely real people I’ve met during my travels.  Live Free.

      Seventy minutes of driving lands me at the Kalamazoo airport.  I pseudo-park the rental car and pour out my belongings onto the street.  Hasty inventory says I’ve only lost two items thus far: my desperately necessary chap-stick, and my trusty pocket knife.  Oh well.  A bit of Sherpa wrestling attains zipperdom, and upon remittance of the various luggage fees, taxes, duties, and a reverse-dowry, the airlines quickly deposit me into an aisle seat at the rear of the plane, out of plain view of the regular passengers.  The Fear has no home in the air.

      Likely violent sleep separates the flights.  All of the sudden, my bulbous suitcase waddles down the conveyor, and I am autonomously dragging it to the parking garage.  Some driving and something about a lost ticket and more driving.  Sure is bright in Texas for a zombie.

And to the dear “Laura” who has captured my very being, I await our next encounter with breathless anxiety and the undying fondness of memory: a dream.

Eternally yours,

François (Frank) Dillinger

[ABOUT THE AUTHOR:] Frank Dillinger was born in Oakland, California.  He lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas with his wife and son and dog.