Some might say I’m from the South, but I say I’m from Oilfield country.  I was raised around a lot of cowboys and rednecks. Where I’m from, rednecks generally are roughnecks, because oil and football goes hand in hand in my hometown. This varies from place to place depending on what resources each have.

         

Now, roughnecks are oilfield hands and though some may not be very book smart—they make damn good money risking their lives everyday on a rig. If you marry a redneck, you are, by default a redneck yourself and will have little child-RENs running around with bright red necks. Now, my mom married a redneck/roughneck after I was born so by default I got some traditional behaviors but it’s not in my blood line. I’m a mix of all kinds of desirable concoctions and some less than desirables brews. I come from cowboys, Frenchmen and IRS tax agents.

   

Now, I was raised about 100 miles west of Midland TX in a little town called Lovington.  Yes, the same Midland Texas our former good-ol’-boy George W. Bush called home for many years. I wasn’t born in this tiny desolate town, but came into this world through my mom’s vagina in a little hospital in Utah. (No—I’m not a Mormon). As a child, we moved around a lot, but always went back to that small dogmatic town resting inside the southeast corner of New Mexico and about 20 minutes away from the Texas perimeters.

      

So, you ask, “What does Lovington have to offer?” Well, a career in oil and dairy cows is not a bad way to make a living in Lea County. Actually, it’s pretty much the only way.  Now, most of the residents in Lovington believe in Jesus and has a vast scope of dominations and churches. High School football follows Jesus and the Wildcat is the town’s second messiah. Now, this town’s not all bad, but it’s not all good either. It has its fair share of corrupt law enforcement, guns, domestic beer, dirt weed and a high teenage pregnancy rate. Some living there might find a few of those to be assets not problems. I don’t own a gun but I haven’t stopped lookin’ for one yet, either. It’s in my nature to desire shooting a gun. (Not at animals) Thursday Tejano night at the Inn is a big deal and on many occasions will result in a bar fight and (a lot of the time) drug deals gone, well…good. 

It’s not secret Lovington has a large number of crystal meth/cocaine addicts. Sadly, it’s a growing trend in rural areas in between the bigger cities. Lovington can be really dull and stagnant so kids end up doing drugs and fucking—in that order. Then they grow up to be parents who do drugs—not in that order. Drugs are an addicts first priority and everything else comes last.



          
Lets us accentuate the positive and point out Lovington has produced seven world champion calf and team ropers, and most notably the famous Chicago Bear, Brian Urlacher, as well.

Anybody living or passing through Lovington’s city limits knows how proud the town is of Brian. They have a monstrous size mural of Urlacher painted on the side of the old abandoned Gibson’s store building. You can’t avoid noticing this tribute as you drive into the town.  He was the football jock that farted extremely loud in class and blamed it on less popular unsuspecting individuals. Yes, yours truly was one of those less popular unsuspecting nerds in Jr. High and some of High School. At one time I was good friends with Brian; then he became popular overnight and left his out-of-favor friends behind. I’ll be honest; it took me awhile to be happy for him and his success. I got tired of being resentful and put that burden down and moved on to wish him nothing but the best.

        

Okay, back to my point: What else, besides the great/bad qualities I mentioned does Lovington have to offer?  The answer: REDNECK/ROUGHNECK BARBEQUE’S! That’s right—beer guzzling, shitty dirt weed, pit bull on a thick chain (if you’re lucky), crispy skinned chicken legs, hamburgers, potato salad/beans and hot dogs burning on a small charcoal grill cookout!

Throughout my on and off again living arrangements in Lovington, I attended many redneck barbeques throughout the course of my adolescents and young adulthood. For those of you that have never had the pleasure of attending one of these great “special” events, I’m gonna break it down for all of you.

 
Oh, you'll only find a house like this on the outskirts of LVT 
                            (funny though)

First you’ll arrive to either a house with weeds as grass and blankets as curtains. Or for some it may be a trailer house with rusted aluminum siding and at least one cracked window with duct tape holding it together.  You’ll have to park on a dirt road somewhere in between all the trucks with big tires and rebel flag décor on the license plates with “piss on Ford” stickers next the gun rack in the back window.  You’ll either hear Lynard Skynard’s, ‘Free Bird’ or ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ blaring from inside of the house.

It’s usually so loud that that the ones smoking weed in the back have to scream at each other during a rather stoned and ‘enlightened’ conversation.

       
                       Good ol' trusting Jimmy Joe

Now, Rednecks usually smoke weed inside the house but are too paranoid at the beginning of a cookout. Mainly because they’re not drunk enough to worry about Jimmy Joe bringing over a sneaky snitch because he’s slow and trusts anyone that has a bag of weed— including undercover narcotic officers.  

There’s no need to knock on the front door. Nobody will hear you over the cheap stereo with busted speakers and no bass that sounds as though Johnny Van Zant has the microphone right up to his tonsils.

    

This is when you reluctantly walk around to the backyard hoping the pit bull (because there will be one) is tied up with a very thick SHORT metal chain. You push the gate back as far as it will go before it gets caught up in tree size weeds blocking the path. You will then have to climb over the weeds and creep into the backyard. This is when you will notice a circle of guys standing around the grill. They all will have a beer and cigarette in the same hand while passing either a pipe or joint with the other. This will be around the time your presence is noticed and the pit bull begins snarling while dispersing lots of dog spit that hangs from its jaws. 

REDNECK/ROUCHNECK BARBEQUE TIP 1:
If there is no thick chain on the pit bull—don’t run! Be patient and stand very still until you are placed. Otherwise you will only provoke the dog and your mauling will become a source of entertainment.

Usually whoever has the joint will desperately hold his hit in while hiding the joint behind his back trying to determine if you’re cool or not. He’ll spend the next ten minutes hacking his brains out and If he doesn’t know you then you better hope someone around him does. If you’re found to be ‘cool’ you can join the circle. It’s important to make sure and take a hit to show just how “cool” you really are. If you don’t smoke weed then save your ass by telling them you’re on parole and have a piss test the next day and they might let you slide but you still will be treated like a narc.

REDNECK/ROUCHNECK BARBEQUE TIP 2:
Watch out for the children. They can be mean little dysfunctional fuckers. Usually, you’ll spot them teasing the dog by throwing flaming Black Jacks or bottle rockets at its head. Watch your ass because they will steal your cigarettes or wallet. 

REDNECK/ROUCHNECK BARBEQUE TIP 3:
Sometimes when the fire goes out (yes there will be a fire) and the wood is gone, rednecks/roughnecks get drunkenly creative. Don’t laugh when they leave and come back with a very large tree dragging behind their truck (roots and all) because it will piss them off. Folks, I’ve seen it happen first hand and not making this shit up! We sat on one end of the tree while it burned from the other end.

It’s important to be aware of my tips and etiquette of a redneck barbeque if ever find yourself midst of one. Trust me certain things do not fly at hillbilly social events. If you do not heed my warnings it could cause a lot of, “you better not be hittin’ on my ol’ man,” confrontations. You must learn the basics and follow the rules. 

First: Everybody is suspicious of everybody else at a redneck barbeque. Someone is either not breaking down with their coke stash; another person’s bag of weed is missing or someone is fucking another persons husband/wife. I’ve been at both ends of that latter part of that warning and it wasn’t pretty. I ran into a husband and a wife I had sex with (on different occasions) and I left quickly.

Always note, toward the end of the night there will be drama. An old argument from the past will come up in a drunken conversation between Billy and Tiny Joe which later will make amends by one or the breaking down with their stash.

Secondly, a cat fight will happen between two middle-aged females with names like Tammy Jo and a Barbra. Why? Most likely because Barbra consoled Tammy Jo’s ol’ man (she gave him a blow job in his truck in the parking lot of a local bar) while his marriage was going through a rough patch.  This is when the red chipped nail polished claws come out and a hair starts being pulled; flying about inside a dirt cloud.

Sadly, it’s not erotic as you’d hope.  Both are wearing very short daisy dukes with old shirts from their ol’ mans closet they cut into half shirts with no sleeves. They’ll have a red burn tan on their arms (up to were the sleeve’s been cut) but everything else is ass white.  Now, both will have two handful of kiddos between them and it has taken quite a toll on their bodies.  

Beware: During these fights legs will twist in all kinds of un-aesthetically pleasing directions. You will unwilling observe both have neglected to maintain their hairy pussies for many years— and are obviously not wearing any panties. 

   
REDNECK/ROUCHNECK BARBEQUE TIP 4:
During the fight, do not taunt the angry pussy because it will have teeth and bites! Trust me on this. I was once a drunken fool that dared to get close enough to point my finger five inches away from an angry bearded vagina, while saying, “Dude, check out that hairy vagina.”  It gave a growl and snapped at me. 

    

After both females are finally split apart all of the remaining drunks will itch to get invited to the back room to do a line of whatever stimulant is being offered. Most need it because they are too drunk to function. Be careful because there’s a lot of ass kissing around this time mixed in with paranoia. Most will be pacing as they wait on Tommy to get back with the bootleg liquor and Billy to return with more drugs and or their money.

It’s sad, because several days later you will run into Billy or Tommy at an Allsup’s convenience store looking disheveled buying beer and cigarettes. Both twisted off to go on a week long coke/speed bender; the party never stopping until the money from their last paycheck has gone up their nose or in their arm.

Oddly, as much as I hated going to those redneck barbeques and all the dysfunctional drama they embodied I find myself missing them from time to time. I don’t miss the drugs in the slightest and glad I don’t find myself in the position of seeming ‘cool’ any longer. As I grow older I’d like to attend more ‘King of the Hill’ like barbeques that bring good-hearted people together over food with a simple ‘hometown’ atmosphere; void of pretentious assholes that base their values on trends and labels.

I may seem as though I’m making fun of the people of Lovington and I will tell you what…I am. But I’m making fun of myself as well; because it’s the place I spent most of my life. It’s apart of me. I have many wonderful friends I love dearly from that area. Not all the law enforcement is corrupt, but by-the-book and hard working. Not all my memories are bad but warm and kind. Some living in Lea County are conservative bigots but some are giving and accepting to those less fortunate or different from themselves.

   

So Lovington: A place you can go to feel relieved about leaving but happy to spend a minute to reminisce. And until it crumbles into a big oilfield ditch, it will always be a place for the best Redneck/Roughneck Barbeques on this here earth...I'll tell you what...

Thanks for reading.

"Everyone sooner or later sits down to a banquet of consequences.”-  Robert Louis Stevenson

Last summer, I was talking to a former  “friend” on the phone trying to help with her latest run in with the MVD. I've had my issues with them and was giving  advice about what she needed to do in order to resolve her situation. It's easy to get  blind sided by all the power trips the MVD likes to bestow on us meek unsuspecting maggots.  

Then out of the blue she says, “I think your bad luck is rubbing off in my life, I mean, every since I’ve been friends with you, I’ve had bad luck--But don’t worry, I still want to be your friend.”

I processed this absurdity in the few seconds and responded, “Way to take responsibility for your life.”

 
"No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible."-  George Burns

Then it hit me! She was actually serious about what she said!  I quickly told her that I needed to go then hung up the phone. I had only been friends with her around seven months and once again didn’t listen to my instincts. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and sadly it didn't work out. This is why I’m reluctant to make new friends. Usually right when you’re least expecting they put on their tinfoil hats and begin speaking in foreign tongue.  I have no expectation anymore because it leads into disappointment. 

She was having some “bad luck” lately, as she called it, and had been trying to figure out as to "why."  It’s a normal reaction when we all experience the wrath of our choices. Then the blame game begins with accountability struggling in last place. 

I could understand if I actually spoke in negative terms or chained her up in my basement so she couldn’t pay her ticket. Or held a gun to her head and forced her to speed down those long highways. Or had the power to alter the economy and to get in people’s minds and tell them NOT to buy a $500,000 home from her….but I didn’t. I gave her sales books, offered free marketing to grab the consumers attention, (I’m a graphic designer) and listened to her problems and tried to give understanding and advice when asked.

So, the absurdity of her comment lead to me saying we shouldn’t be friends any longer so maybe the “good luck Gods,” will smile down her once again.

I resigned from that situation of being someone’s excuse or even my own. I attract certain undesirable situations in my life, without noticing, and I’m working on identifying when they arise and pull back. BUT until I let go of hoarding those drama filled boxes of good-for-nothing circumstances and they are completely fixed,  I will cut ties immediately with someone in my life that shows disrespect and demonstrates shadows of shady character. I have low tolerance for bullshit, as of late, and won’t waste my time trying to stop an inevitable train wreck. I just jump off instead of dealing with the crash and burn. Hince the name, Falling From Trains....

I’m not scared to say, that I have few friends that I completely trust, and that's hard for me to say, because of fear of it going away.  I am fortunate to be able to trust my family, because I've observed, on so many occasions, families turning on each other, and to me it one of the worst things you can do to someone you love.  But mostly,  I’m beginning to trust myself.

I trust myself... It's so cool to say!

I used to play the blame game, and don’t get me wrong--blaming another for something they’ve done that caused harm, hardship or outright pain of any kind, is warranted. I'm talking about those other circumstances when we search for things/people to blame outside ourselves because we can’t look beyond our resentment, anger, and culpability  to notice the only object standing in our way is ourselves. By doing this we are failing ourselves the choice of growing into our potential. I’ve failed myself on many occasions doing this exact thing, but I’m learning to recognize when I’m doing this negative behavior and stop to move out of my way.

 "Hell begins on the day when God grants us a clear vision of all that we might have achieved, of all the gifts which we have wasted, of all that we might have done which we did not do.”-  Gian-Carlo Menotti

We tend to forget all the good in our lives when we have shitty things happening to us. Look around and see all the awesome things you have in your life that most don’t. A full belly, roof over your head, family that loves you and you love them, and most of all you got yourself.

We can point our fingers all we want but in the end it’s up to us to recognize the opportunity to generate our own “luck” and create or new beginnings. “Luck” is about being ready when the opportunity knocks. Not just one chance, but the many that pound on our doors day in and night out. We just got to open it up and take the first step in welcoming them into our lives.

What I’ve learned in my life is nobody forced me to do those drugs, nobody forced me to drink and nobody forced me to make the buffet of mistakes I've made. I had experiences that gave me reasoning, but once I understood how those events contributed to my self-destructive behavior; they no longer were a reason, but an excuse.  

You know, I quit drugs when I found out I was pregnant, because I felt my child deserved so much better, (Thank you so much for Levi) but now I wonder why I never felt like I deserved better and didn't quit sooner  for myself. Why  couldn't I do that for myself? I deserved better, too.  There's a saying: "Treat yourself as though you were a five year old."  No way I would've done any harm to a five year old version of myself! Would you? So that's that I'm searching for right now: Why did I not feel I was worth anything better? It's a whole process of fixing your thought defensives and patterns then digging back deep in the past to find the moment(s) when it all just divided inside you...then piece it back together. 

Oh by the way:

Once in a blue moon, I'll run into some old time "friends"  I had 'partied' with way back when and they still blame their drug abuse or taking on things that’s happened to them in their lives. They still will not accept that they made a choice—like I made mine. Come on people!  We are not 18 any more. We’re adults now. Nobody forced that shit up our noses. Nobody forced us to consume large masses of alcohol and nobody forced us to keep on doing it way past our body’s limits.  We made our choices.  I made my choices and I'm dancing with accountability and let me tell you, most of the time, I'm not leading...

 "The vast possibilities of our great future will become realities only if we make ourselves responsible for those realities."-  Gifford Pinchot

I’m not here to judge, but realizing all this helps me understand my family a little better. and what they went through when I was too blind to my own selfishness. I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'm so sorry I hurt me. 

I’m not saying I’m perfect, and I have no desire to be perfect. I’m more perfectly imperfect as it gets. I harbor no faux pride in denying that fact, but I am trying to take responsibility for my life, choices, and actions. It's not easy, either. It's hard and draining but worth it. I have no choice but to accept my part in my life and the paths I've taken on my own accord. 

 "Be faithful to that which exists nowhere but in yourself."

 Thanks for reading.

“The swish of the soft leather of your intruder's coat--As you walk him step by step back to the door--Having talked him down off the ledge of a very bad idea.” Ani Difranco Parameters

How many of you have been raped, beaten, and tied to the forever haunt of an inappropriate sickness? How many of us have had that violation and pain stuck in us as adults?  Worse--probed and prodded as children to be left stuck in a dark room that we just can’t pull ourselves out of? How many of us have had that blood between or legs from being ripped open which still bleeds out periodically from the scar that stubbornly doesn’t heal? How many of us had our hands chopped off by a predator that keeps our grip on their mantle as a trophy of badly chosen power and intrusion? Leaving us barely hanging on to it all and scarcely trusting...

How many of us brush by someone walking down the street and the air surrounding them slices into us like a bolt of lightening; leaving us opened, insides exposed like a child, and our breath unwilling to breathe? It unwraps the wounds to the pain they will and have inflicted. You know this because someone gave you the gift of sniffing out predators in sheep's clothing.  You walk away knowing, that fucked up foresight, will be given to another “marked” little girl or boy. A boy or girl that one day they will join you at the nearest drug store, buying anything to make it  just fucking stop shaking.  It persistently rattles us from the roots. The seed of rape planted in us at each of our own unchosen moments.

 
“My point is not to grieve for the victims and denounce the executioners. Those tears, that anger, casit into the past, deplete our moral energy for the present. And the lines are not always clear. In the long run, the oppressor is also a victim. In the short run, the victims, themselves desperate and tainted with the culture that oppressed them, turn on other victims”  Howard Zinn A People’s History of the United States 1492-Present pg 10

The Marked, as I call them, are the ones that easily trust and easily broken.  I have bore this mark since my birth and I can see it on the ones that bare the same distinction.  We don’t know we’re marked, at first, but we learn through time.  We are effortlessly manipulated and experience introduces us to our reality: that it’s “okay” to rape, beat, trick, hurt, reject and abandon us.  Some marked children, "The Innocent," as I call them, are sniffed out by the Fallen, the ones that turned their childhood cries into a fallen rebuttal. The Fallen fell to the other side of the fence and continue on their childhood offense by inflicting it on others. I can see them too. Others, like me, can see both sides of the fence, and want to protect The Marked/Innocent from those predators with every ounce of our being. We grieve for the ones that fell and tripped to create a list of victims for  themselves. How awful to feel that much pain that you have to violently give it to someone else in order to relieve that ache. How wrong it is to prey on children and be that person. 

How do you tell a parent of a marked child their child is in danger?  They are vulnerable everyday.  How do you tell them their son or daughter is being sniffed out and they MUST teach them about what’s out there preying upon them? They must teach these child to be safe so their trust for the world will stay mended? Not to make them afraid, but aware.  I usually just bend down and kiss the mark that rests on their forehead with hope that someday, they will help others like themselves. For me, it's hard to trust people with my child. The thought of him experiencing the things I did, makes my stomach turn and paralyze with fear. 

For us, that had our cores divided and fates carried out, there’s no statistic that really can tell you who we are, where we are, and how many of us are out there. We see each other, though.  We see each other at the bus stop. We touch elbows in between the bars and notice each other thumping the cantaloupes at the grocery store. We see each others dark branch shadow tattooed hard against our skin and see the pain echoing in the quick glances.

We see each others inner bleeding from the same wound that bleeds in us. We envision our hands reaching inside them frantically trying to stop the gushing and save them. We do it, because we wish that someone would reach inside us because no matter what we do, the bleeding will not stop until we can learn to forgive the unforgiveable—and accept it. Forgiving won’t define me, but neither will the forgetting.

There isn't any sarcastic humor to guard my wounds in this blog. It’s just me, opening up about a pain put in me long ago, and a mark on my forehead for the world and me to see. I see yours and you see mine…We are, as is, and have no childish illusions because we’ve earned our disillusions. We have struggled with forgiving of ourselves; wrestled with the shame and all the attempts mixed in with chemicals to numb it away. You don’t have to smile if you don’t want too, and I won’t smile to make you feel the need. I don’t want your pity for pity’s sake. Just thought maybe if you knew, we could make a deal…I’ll forgive what happened to you and you can forgive what happened to me.

That way our hands can grow back, inch by inch, and we can hold on to the “now’s”, and walk away from what’s behind those dark parameters in the past.