You Kids Git Outta My Yard! (Guest Post)

**The Blissful Adventurer is running about Italy at the moment so in his stead we happily endorse and support the work of the following blogger, Charles Mashburn of Marbles In My Pocket. Please check out this post, leave comments for exchange with the author, and give their blog a read.**

Charles (Charlie) Mashburn is just an ordinary guy, with some "ordinary" tales to tell, many of which deal with childhood escapades most of us experienced. He always wanted to write, but never thought he was good enough, or smart enough, to pull it off. But when he met his wife, Sherry, 17 years ago, all that changed; she encouraged him to go for it, and, by golly, he did. Recently retired from the commercial construction field, he now devotes most of his time to writing, and is loving it! He thinks you will love the tales he has to tell!

Hey y’all! If you’re reading this, Michael has obviously honored me with a guest post on his blog, and I am thrilled! I hope you enjoy this little trip with me back to my home town (and my younger days).

You Kids Git Outta My Yard!

When I was a kid growing up in the little desert farm town of Buckeye, Arizona, I got yelled at, cussed at, fussed at, and even got shot at once. Everybody said the watermelon farmer was just shootin’ salt pellets, and they wouldn’t kill you, but they’d make you think twice about stealin’ his melons. But those were the teenage years.

When we were eleven or so, me and my pal, Barry, would sleep out in the backyard. I use the word sleep loosely, because what we did, was sneak around the neighborhood all night. Sneak? Ha! Like a couple of cats wearin’ hip-waders! You could probably hear us comin’ a block away. I’m pretty sure we didn’t fool our parents with the sleep-out gag either; in fact, I think they sent a memo to all the neighbors. Some of them seemed to know we were in their yard before we even decided we were going there.

We never hurt anything; that was one of the main rules back then; don’t mess with other people’s stuff. So, we made sure we never fooled with anybody’s house or car, but we didn’t see any harm in pilfering a peach now and then.

Hardly anybody had fences back then; if they did, it was usually one of those short chain-link jobbers any eleven year-old can jump over. It’s noisy as the dickens if you misjudge and catch your Keds on the doggone thing though. The fence doesn’t make much noise—just one quick rattling clang—but your pal laughin’ like a loon will wake every dog on the block. It works out though, ‘cause the barking covers your giggling as you high-tail-it out of there.

When we got older, we’d ride our bikes all the way downtown. Buckeye was one of those towns you always hear about that roll up the sidewalks at ten o’clock. After the bars closed, you could sit at the corner of Monroe and 4th Street for two hours, and not see another soul—except, maybe, the one policeman on duty.

We rode to the city pool one hot summer night; racing down dark streets, grinning ear-to-ear with excitement, and sweat soaking our shirts as we pedaled madly. Once there, we tossed our bikes in the bushes, scaled the fence—a six-footer—and took us a little dip. We only did it once; didn’t much care for the fence-climbing part of the deal.

Yep, those were the good ol’ days; prowlin’ around the neighborhood, and slipping downtown when it got late. The excitement was a rush, and let me tell you a fact; nothing can get a kid’s eyes bugged out, get him runnin’ and giggling, and keep him awake ‘til dawn, like a gruff voice growlin’ from a dark porch, “You kids git outta my yard!”

In closing, I’d like to say how much I appreciate Michael allowing me to guest post on his blog, and thank him for his constant encouragement. A while back, he suggested I should publish a book of these types of stories. His suggestion actually inspired this story, and encouraged me to start putting together such a book. I think this would be a great lead-off story, and I also think I’ll call the book, “You Kids Git Outta My Yard!”

And, one more thing:

My Dinner with Malcolm Gladwell (Part 2)

...he smiled to himself, adjusted his laptop screen downward hiding his work, turned his chair in my direction and told me...

MG - I find it curious how often I am asked that question..uhm...uh..

Me - Michael...(beat) don't worry man I am sure you forget quite a few names

MG - (cutting me off) No I don't. I forget very few names and even fewer faces

Me - Would you say you had spent 10,000 hours getting to that level of mastery with names? (smiling to myself as I knew I had him on that one)

MG - Yes, for sure. Imagine that I have been writing for the New Yorker since 1996 and imagine the number of interviews I have conducted; with and without the assistance of recording equipment

Me - What are you drinking?

MG - Excuse me?

Me - What kind of coffee drink are you drinking?

MG - Oh, this is a cappuccino with a little less textured milk, so really it is more like a latte' without so much milk...

Me - Or a cappuccino without schiuma

MG -What was that?

Me - Schiuma, the Italian name for the foam. Italians don't go down the path of naming things cutely just to make a menu sound better. I mean, an Italian will use many words to describe something, but taking license with the structure of the language seems pretty Anglo

MG - Why do you speak Italian, or do you actually speak it?

Me - I speak it, it is not always correct, but I like to speak

MG - Obviously

Me - Touche'...so look man, I know you're busy and I apologize for..(girl walks over to the table)

Girl - Are you Malcolm Gladwell?

MG - Yes I am

Girl - I knew it. Today is my celebrity day. I met the mayor this morning at Randalls and now you. It must be some kind of something in the air

MG - (silent)

Me - (more silent)

Girl - (looking over shoulder at friends in line) I knew it was him, I mean no one has that hair

MG - (silent)

Me - (seething to myself - do not fuck this up for me you fucking sow. I knew some someone like you would come in here and bust my balls)

MG - (politely) well nice to meet you (he looks back at his computer)

Me - so why Houston?

MG - another question I am asked with some frequency. I get the feeling there is some derision among the locals and from my research..

Me - so you are doing research! when is next?

MG - maybe two years (his eyes light up) but I have started (as he begins to get up)

Me - OK, can I throw you a curve ball?

MG - besides asking me if I considered my own book a legitimate piece of writing?

Me - hey, I was really just looking for an ice breaker as I know you are likely exhausted by generally obsequious behavior and, I wanted to welcome you to Texas

MG - I am actually here quite often

Me - perfect, as I know you likely have an enormous following here and at least a reasonable social network I would imagine you get a little tired of the giving of yourself to everyone else's cause

MG - are you suggesting that "celebrity" (he actually made finger quotes..oooh) gets tiring (really quirky laugh and head shake)

Me - I am saying you likely spend way more time with obligations than having fun. I have no idea whether you like food or wine, but my wife and I do a fair amount of cooking and we spend much of our time in Europe so dinner is a sacred space for relaxing, chatting, and especially unwinding...

MG - That is really kind of you, but I am only here through Thursday and I do have obligations

Me - But what if you didn't?

MG - (sigh)

Me - I know you are looking for an out right now (laughing at my own brazen assessments of him) but I assure you we are fun. We just got back from Vietnam and we are all about some cool wrap and roll stuff with killer herbs

MG - Vietnam is fascinating in that people are so fascinated with Vietnam. I have been told I should see Vietnam if I would like to discuss the opening of the SE Asia corridor to commerce and how the Roman alphabet may have diminished the work ethic of the rice farmer in Vietnam

Me - Man those people have it all. Along the Mekong there is fruit in every yard. The old people build tombs on the farms so the kids can't sell the property

MG - That would give a whole new meaning to buying the farm ahhahahah (really snarky nasally laugh, but he was starting to enjoy what I was saying at least)

Me - seriously, the place is amazing and we brought back the most amazing coffee from there. Why don't you come for dinner I can show you some seriously cool photos

MG - You would think that I get offers to do dinners, etc. a great deal of the time, but actually I think most people assume that I have an obligation or that I would never consider such an offer, when in reality I have a profound enjoyment of dining in smaller settings and especially for food that is homemade.

Me - I would guess on the road you don't get much of that, Just like winemakers and wine reps when they come to town are usually taken to the cuisine of their origin which probably blows compared to what they eat at home or they are carted off to steak which people equate with Texas even though the stuff comes from the Midwest.

MG - The steak served in restaurants here comes from the Midwest?

Me - Not all of it, but a ton of it. Come on are you being facetious?

MG - (wry smile) not entirely

Me - This is why you are here isn't is? Why Texas Myths have powered Monsanto?

MG - So, how long have you been cooking and why do you know where winemakers are taken to dinner?

Me - (recognizing he was being evasive yet again) Since I was 11. I was in the kitchens with my grandmothers and watching them can jam, preserves, and pear honey. I helped make pickles, cook okra, and the world-famous hamburger steak; which I promise I won't cook if you come. Seriously, I was inspired by my friend Helga to upgrade my cuisine many years ago and then while living in Rome I cooked with my buddy's brother in Milan who taught me risotto. As for wine, I worked in that biz for 14+ years and did many nights out with tired, sad, winemakers who were sick of steak.

MG - Risotto is one of my favorite foods

Me - No way (getting way too excited) I have likely cooked 400 risotti in my time and it is my signature dish. Once again, you show up here on the day I tell the world I am going to write and now YOU tell ME that you love risotto and it is what I do best. Come on, I have put like 10,000 hours into risotto

MG - (Actually enjoying the reference) (big sigh)

Me - You want to come

MG - Would there be other guests?

Me - Do you want other guests?

MG - No, and in fact you would have to keep it under your hat that I was there

Me - You mean I couldn't post all over FB that Malcolm was "outlying" low at my crib?

MG - uhhhh..

Me - Seriously, my wife is a nurse and has to see people like Barbara Bush naked all the time so I assure you discretion is paramount at our place.

MG - Well, if Barbara trusts you guys...(really nerdy laughing and so much so that I kind of wanted to move)

Me - so, you are in? How about tomorrow at 8?

MG - Oh, I thought you meant tonight

Me - It can be tonight..sure..tonight is perfect (Juliet I know will be working late and completely exhausted)

MG - Now I am inconveniencing you and that is not at all why I have accepted your offer.

Me - Look, this will be fun and I have a risotto in mind I actually already have the ingredients to make. Any allergies?

MG - Food?

Me - You're allergic to food?

MG - funny...yeah..I don't really eat much meat, but I since I am in Texas...(laughing again)

Me - OK, so I am making what I have. I have a new wine from Piedmont I just picked up at the Houston Wine Merchant, which is a great shop.

MG - I know that place

Me - Do you know Marcy?

MG - I am not sure

Me - You must not, because if you did, you would know. Do you have a car, do you need a ride? What part of town are you?

MG -  I am actually staying with someone in Bellaire, and yes I have a car. This is Texas.

Me - Does 8 work for you

MG - Yes it does, do you mind if I bring a guest? I was supposed to have dinner with this person and it was my choice, so now that I have chosen you I do not want to exclude her if possible. Forgive me if that was an ungracious request.

Me - Are you kidding me? Cooking for 4 is no different than 3 and we have plenty of wine.

MG - She does not drink

Me - She can't come...just kidding

MG - OK, it was very nice to meet you Michael. I must be on my way.

Me - Here is my address and phone number if you need anything at all or if anything changes. Please park near the building office and give me a buzz when you arrive and I will let you in.

MG - Is it not possible for me to get in without calling you? (seeming disturbed)

Me - It is, but you would have to wait at the gate till someone pulls in and then follow them, park in a visitor section and then follow them up the elevator because you cannot get in anywhere without a key fob

MG - Wow, I thought I was the one who needed privacy and discretion. It sounds like you live in a fortress

Me - This is Houston, we all think we need security and in reality, have little.

MG - Do you know the origin of the word Fob as in key fob?

Me- No, but I bet you do (laughing to myself)

MG - I don't but the word seems strange.

Me - Today seems strange sir.

MG - Ahhh..well, I must be on my way and thank you. Thanks also for keeping this conversation and our meeting discreet

Me - The pleasure has been all mine and tonight will be fun for you, and I know the risotto will be worth it even if my wife and I bore you to death.

MG - (courtesy smile) Goodbye

Me - Ciao!

....to be continued

Notes from 1997 | Toronto to Sydney (Guest Post)

**The Blissful Adventurer is running about Italy at the moment so in his stead we happily endorse and support the work of the following blogger, Jennifer Avventura of My Sardinian Life | La Mia Vita Sarda. Please check out this post, leave comments for exchange with the author, and give their blog a read.**

Jennifer Avventura is a freelance writer living in Sardinia, Italy. In her spare time she runs, hikes and writes the popular blog at My Sardinian Life | La Mia Vita Sarda.

Notes from 1997 | Toronto to Sydney

“Mom, I’m moving to Australia for a year.”

“But … where will you go? What will you do? Where will you live? How will you make money?” my mother asked in her usual motherly way.

Thirty-two long air flying hours later I was sitting at the bus station outside Sydney International Airport without a clue where I would go next.

I sat on the wooden bench for what seemed an eternity, while listening to departure times over the intercom system to cities and towns yet unfamiliar to me. I flipped the pages of my passport in anticipation, but for what? I really had no plan.

When my mother asked her questions, I simply said “I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

Hints of Irish Spring soap filtered through the warm Australian air triggering memories of my childhood past.

He sat down beside me without a care in the world, dropping his green and orange backpack at my feet.

“Hi, I’m Ireland. Where ye heading?”

“I … I … don’t really know. I have no plans. Where are you going?” I said slightly nervous at Ireland’s gregarious smile.

“Kings Cross, it’s the place to be seen! Want to come?”

“Sure, okay.” I naively said.

We hopped on the next bus to Kings Cross station. My body and mind clock still on Canadian time, I was glad to have found this gregarious travel companion.

He ran on in his lovely Irish accent, telling me stories of bombs and beer, talk of jobs and ex’s left behind. His story was similar to mine with the exception of the bombs.

We arrived into the early morning sun and booked a hostel room at Jolly Swagman Backpackers.

“All dorms are co-ed,” said Mr. Dreadlocked, tattooed surfer who sat perched on a stool made of beer cans.

“Coed? Like boys and girls in the same room?”

“Ah, don’t be an eejit! There’s nothing to it. Book us into the same room,” Ireland said.

I didn’t have time to object as he thrust his credit card at the surfer. He booked us for the night into a four bed dorm. Ireland told me I could reimburse him the room fee by buying dinner that evening. I was beginning to feel crowed in Ireland’s presence; he was slightly over-bearing and rather obnoxious.

Thoughts of uncertainty danced in my head, I had never shared a room with a boy, let alone three other stinky boys.

“Hi, my name’s Canada.” I held out my hand in eager anticipation

“Hola, I’m Spain and this is my boyfriend New Zealand.” Spain was gorgeous with long flowing dark locks and a mysterious golden light in his eyes. Did he just say boyfriend?

New Zealand grabbed Spain by the back of the neck and deeply kissed his beautiful Spanish boyfriend. My momentary flash of Spanish romance quickly evaporated into the rising heat of the room.

“Welcome to Kings Cross, Canada,” New Zealand said, barely coming up for air.

I discarded my backpack on the overly used, dusty bunk bed number three and enquired about an eating establishment.

“Eat? Eat?” Spain questioned with a local sarcastic sneer. “This is Kings Cross my dear, the last thing on one’s mind is eating.”

“Well, I’m hungry, it’s been a long day. Did you know I spent thirty-two hours…?”

I was oddly interrupted by a soft twang.

“You’ve come to the wrong place Canada. Kings Cross is a cesspit of sexual desire, a place where dirty deeds are done dirt cheap and a place where food is used for other purposes.” New Zealand squealed.

“Oh.” I said, slightly embarrassed.

Seeking dirty deeds was the last thing on my mind. I’d just finished a long term relationship in Canada. Australia was to be my awakening, my place to find me, a place to seek my soul.

“Ireland, I’m going to grab something to eat. If you want your reimbursement come now, or I’ll give you cash later this evening.”

“I'm coming," boasted Ireland as he slapped Spain and New Zealand on the rear.

I turned to leave when I noticed a sign:

Bondi Beach – A Backpackers Oasis by the Sea
FREE Bus for Backpackers
Daily Departures: 8am and 5pm.
Show up at one of the times. It’s easy.

Early the following morning with a MacDonald’s breakfast settling uneasily into my stomach, I left the three boys to their vices and headed for the beach. I never saw them again until Future knocked and brought me to their door.

On the road to Bondi Beach and independence, I wrote a postcard to my mom:

Haiku Sunday - New York (Guest Post)

**The Blissful Adventurer is running about Italy at the moment so in his stead we happily endorse and support the work of the following blogger, Ryan Henisey of lifeasgood. Please check out this post, leave comments for exchange with the author, and give their blog a read.**

K. Ryan Henisey is a teacher, artist and poet living in Los Angeles. He currently spends his days teaching first graders in a public school. In the evenings and along his commute he composes verse and paints. Henisey's work can be seen at lifeasgood.com. He has published pieces for Equal Magazine, Amatistrad Jewelry, and has a collection (Status Haiku) available on Amazon. His ongoing account of creating and teaching a small after school art program can be seen at EALLA.org. Henisey has a Master's in English from CSU Bakersfield. He lives with his partner, a happy dog and a mischievous cat.

New York

The Lincoln Tunnel
Breeds romance; I’ll meet my love
In New York City.

From the bus, I see
The city stir; I’ll soon be
In that living air.

Stations in tile; the
Underground bustles around
Scenes in mosaic.

Concrete, plastic, steel,
Glass, flesh, blood, the rats, morass,
And hope embodied.

Night falls as dawn rose,
Empire State’s top veiled in a
Fine obscuring mist.

The city gleams in
Light and glass, reflected quick
Under passing clouds.

Bryant Park teams with
Visitors; the trees gaily
Laugh in light and breeze.

Asphalt, horns, grinding
Gears – behind the glass; love friends,
And a warm embrace.

Oxidized copper
In filigree recurs and
Speaks; This is New York.

Our lives are made of
Lines – wires, tracks, and roads – real as
Ink upon the page.

~

Thank you, Blissful Adventurer and readers for this guest post. My poetry, photography, and art can be regularly seen at LifeasGood.com. These haiku first appeared on twitter, where I chirp micropoems daily. They are collected in my first volume, Status Haiku, which is available for download on Amazon.

My Dinner with Malcolm Gladwell (Part 1)

On Tuesday afternoon I went into my beloved Catalina coffee for an afternoon pour-over of their fabulous Rwanda coffee that had recently arrived. I had just eaten a below-average lunch at a "hot" joint on Wash-Av and needed a dose of quality in my diet to assuage the misery in my still hungry stomach. At my sad lunch I had ordered a Ceviche and a Mushroom tamale for my lunch. My server came to my table moments later with tamale in-hand and informed me that the kitchen had dropped my Ceviche and would be re-making it. I informed him very politely that I really wanted the cold ceviche before my warm tamale and he obligingly took it back and very likely stuck in under a lamp.

The ceviche arrived shortly thereafter with 1 wedge of lime and appeared to have no other seasoning or acid added. I squeezed the shit out of the lime and when I had more than enough lime fibers on my fingers I attempted to eat the ceviche which was generously piling out of the sundae glass and spilling over on the very average blue corn chips on the saucer below. Sadly, the shrimp were muted and iodine was too pronounced, the tilapia tasted like a dirty little tilapia farm (or lake-water that goes up your nose while water skiing) and their was the ubiquitous Houston food-stuff, lump crab meat. Are there any crabs left in the sea? Do Houstonians eat this stuff on their cereal? I fumbled through as much of the not so fresh ceviche as I could take and had pushed it to the side just as my tamale arrived. It was dry from the lamps, swimming in a cream sauce from circa 1992, and was 85% masa and only 15% all other ingredients combined. My server was kind, interested, but sadly helpless to correct his kitchen's failings on this very slow Tuesday lunch.

After blocking out the previous 45 minutes I arrived at Catalina where after 75+visits I know that every person behind their bar wants to make a good product. This place is really one of a kind in Houston and while the guy at Greenway makes great coffee, I am not parking my car to have a cappuccino with the stirrings of a corporate army of slaves buzzing around me.

At the moment I received my pour-over and before I could take a first sip, I glanced towards the bar and an interesting looking fellow caught my eye. I thought to myself that the guy looked like Malcolm Gladwell and how many people could look like Malcolm Gladwell. I took a sip of coffee, hmmm... was fucking brilliant as always. The coffee was pushing the nasty little shrimps further into my gut when I looked at the guy again more closely and decided he looked enough like Gladwell with the kinky hair, authors' glasses, and curious eyes that I was sure he was accosted by fans of Outliers regularly. The guy grabs his coffee goodie, walks into the dining area and sits immediately at the table on my right. Tables at Catalina are no more than 24 inches apart so this guy and I were on the same plane at less than an arm's length. At this point the temptation was too great and I looked over and half-jokingly said, "you aren't Malcolm Gladwell?" The man looked at me, and right through me as if he was a blind soothsayer from a Greek tragedy and said while lightly nodding his head in quick little gestures hoping to go unnoticed, "yes I am."

I must have smiled halfway from Houston to Mars as I told him immediately of my brand new decision to write full-time and that he; Malcolm Gladwell, was an enormous influence upon my writing because of his incessant curiosity. He waited patiently for me to finish my verbal genuflections and gave me a "hmmph sound" and a please don't yell out who I am sir, look. I gathered myself pretty quickly as I have worked in the service of luminaries before and I did not want to be that guy who invites an author to read his manuscript; although I considered it. I took a breath and picked up my iPhone as if I had something of extreme urgency to attend to and upon finishing that invisible task a moment later, I looked back over to Gladwell and said, "at least you chose the best coffee shop in Houston." He responded with a more friendly (sensing I was going to leave him alone) tone, "yes, I always come here when I am in town."

I was suddenly lost in my thoughts. When you are in town? What? This means you may be here for a reason. You, Malcolm Gladwell, may be doing important research. Could it be possible that the amazing Malcolm Gladwell was conducting some of his famous research in my anonymous city, at my bad-ass coffee shop, sitting right the fuck next to me and feeding off my newly acquired Quantum particles of writers intention? Wow, this changed the game.

I had to come up with a plan. It had to be fate that Malcolm "Blink"ing Gladwell rolled up next to me at the Catalina having what appeared to be a cappuccino while looking nervously at his computer screen. I could leave him alone, or I could see what he was all about. This is Texas, and we are nosy, chatty, and very want to tell people about ourselves; therefore, if I just start a chat it will either become a legitimate chat, or possibly one of the suicide scenes from Airplane. I took a shot of Rwanda to instill some bravery and I blurted out "do you really think it takes 10,000 hours to be good at something or was that just a really clever theme you created to state the obvious reason people are good at things is because they try harder than everyone else?"

Gladwell, pretended for a moment that he could not hear me and that I was not even there. I could see in that instant that he hoped he could simply vanish from the shadow of this big, loud, Texas tool sitting next to him. However, as quickly as he had seemed perturbed, he smiled to himself, adjusted his laptop screen downward hiding his work, turned his chair in my direction and told me...to be continued