Too Much Catsup

You have no palate, she tells me.
You’re supposed to taste the fries, not just the ketchup.
I object immediately to her spelling;
I always say “catsup” instead
But she rolls over me and continues heaping scorn on my head

You have no future, she tells me.
You’re too far behind to ever catch up.
I’m caught off guard by the change of subject
We’re just here eating a meal
But she lays into me deeper, heedless of how it makes me feel

You get on my nerves too much, she tells me
Our hopes and dreams don’t match up.
I realize she’s taken this opportunity to dump me
And I cast my eyes down at my food
Hopelessly hoping that the next bite might improve my mood

I guess what I’m saying is, we’re done, she says
And before I can respond, she gets up.
Maybe this is better, I try to rationalize
As tears, unbidden, well up in my eyes
But regretting, nonetheless, that you can never un-catsup over-catsuped fries.

My Pest Friends

Rusty Rice, Brian Shoemaker and Tommy Lieberman (in back) kidnapping me on my 18th birthday.

Kevin Noland and Sam with me on Graduation Day.

Another birthday, this one at a pizza joint.  I'm not going to remember all the names, but among this crew you'll find Brian, Tommy, Rika, Mee Hee, Steve Sanderson, Fernando, Rusty, Mike Spier, Sam and myself.  I think Tran is also in the photo, but his face has been scratched off.

(In the photo.  Not in real life.)

When I finished Basic Training, I gave Eric some pointers in applying camouflage.  The broken wrist is self-taught.

Sam and I kickin it at Hanauma Bay.  In the background are Cissy & Jon Barrett and Russ Duchaney.

Of course, Jon, being an asshole, isn't really a friend per se.  But he had a cute wife, so photos were taken.

Another Haunauma shot.  Russ, Ed Fallen, Danielle Duchaney, James Miller, Sam & I, Cissy, asshole Barrett, and Bill Moore's cousin with the unrememberable name.  (I guess Moore is the guy behind the camera.)

Sam & I on the North Shore.

Francis Danley, myself and Russ D. at the Honolulu Zoo.

Sgt. Mike Pippin and myself on our first SCUBA outing after qualifying for C-cards.  Sgt. Dave Lutz was also there, but is holding the camera for this shot.

Lutz holds the camera again for Mike & myself.

I notice I'm always squinty in these outdoor shots.

While on deployment to the environs of Ft. Huachuca, we were granted a day of leave to cross the border into Nogales.  Jason Lytle, some girl with a glowing face, McGowan, Keebler, Asshole Barrett, myself, Anonymous Street Vendor, Cute Chick, and Russ Duchaney.

A couple shots of aspiring Gonzo journalist Andrew Tyler, a friend from Sealy whom I bumped into in Houston a year or so after moving back into town.

I won't remember all the names here either, but Greg, Cris, Dana and Andie are hard to forget.

Jaima's always a lot of fun.

MJ's couch as clown car.  Myself, Mary Jo, Jennifer & Greg.

Myself, Jenn, Eric, MJ, Ben, Greg, Andie & Dana.  Jenn, as usual, is being a bit handsy.

I'm capable of looking cheerful for minutes at a time.

Before Bennifer, and before Brangelina, there was HollyBerry.

Holly, the Dancing Queen, on a table in a bar in New York.

Holly's principal contribution to my photo album is this fine shot of a New York New Year's Eve attendee demonstrating what partying is all about.

The night we all switched heads.  Good times, good times.

We did eventually get things sorted back out.  This was probably from Greg's housewarming party.

Eric warily takes up station in the center of the room, eyeing the exits.

I don't actually know most of these people, but I can make out Myke (in white shirt) and MJ among the rabble.

I'm only willing to take selfies when the camera obscures my face.  Ben and Sindy are providing moral support.  Taken at Greg's house.

The only shot from our high school 20-year reunion in which I recognize more than one person.  Rusty, left, and K.C., center.  I believe that's her husband to the right.

This appears to be from Ben's downtown apartment at the old Rice Hotel.  Greg, MJ, Cris and a slice of Sindy.

At Ben's place.  Ben, Sindy, Dana, Greg & Cris.

Greg and Ben are the two blurriest people I've ever met.

Kristin's blinding bosom shades me from the blinding Round Rock sun.

Can't place this guy's name either.  But boiled in cajun seasoning with corn on the cob and potatoes, he was delicious.

Dana is the only recognizable face in this crowd, which appears to be hanging out at Greg's house.

And now, a tribute to absent friends.

Alfred Montano, 1968-20012

Jeffrey Todd Andes, 1969 - 2005

Jay Catillo, 1973 - 1992

Eric Berglund, 1972 - 1992, with Pepper.

The Bother, Himself

On January 18, 1970, in a staggering feat of mutational engineering (never before seen, and never again attempted, for reasons that will become clear as this pictorial unfolds), Byff was born.

After the waves of global protest subsided, and it was judged safe to leave the hospital, his parents retired to a presumably safe existence in Bryan, Texas.  Byff responded by trying to burn the apartment down (throwing a pillow from his crib into an electric space heater).

Plotting his escape.

An early fascination with firearms has become a lifelong interest.

For a while, he was a toddler.

Even in the heart of the cold, cold city, he's always been a country boy.

Trees made for good conversation.  Bugs made for good eating.

His parents took to leaving him outdoors, sometimes for weeks at a time.

Then more stuff happened.

The crinkle of the pool's plastic, the glint of the ball's colors, and the smell of the inflatable boat.
All still vivid memories.

He got meningitis.

The brain damage was deemed minimal at the time, but sadly, later experience did not bear this out.

He got a sister.

The family moved to Houston.

He had birthdays.

He dreamed of being a cowboy.

Or maybe just a cow-eating boy.

He discovered boobs.

The fact that his fly is open in this shot is probably unrelated to the fact that he's staring at the older woman to his left.

The family moved to Waco.

Where he had relatives.

He had more birthdays.

Christmases, too.

Somewhere along the way, he picked up a few cousins as well.

And even more cousins.

He got into music.

The family moved out to the country.

Into a fixer-upper.

This gratified his outdoorsiness.

The coy-dog in the upper left of the photo was his beloved Greyhound, the Coyote Who Followed Him Home.

Fifty acres of open spaces, horses and wildlife.

And sisters.

More Christmases ensued.

And the family moved back to Houston.

Into a slightly better house.

Then he was a tween.

More Christmases followed.

Then, abruptly, acne, voice breaking, and surly early teen disposition.

Sometimes his sisters had birthdays.

Then braces, a maddening tendency for his hair to curl, and a surly mid-teen disposition.

But as long as he could get away to the country from time to time, he could maintain an even strain.

He got himself a guitar.

He even learned to play it a little.

But details from this time are a little blurry.

He continued to get along better with animals than with people.

And to maintain an even strain.

But he did make friends.

Kidnapped on his 18th birthday.  Tragically, the perps were apprehended before they could properly dispose of him.

Even girlfriends.

Well, a girlfriend.

He graduated from high school.

He bought himself a car.

From his parents, but still.  He bought it.

He went to college.  He hung out with friends.

Then he joined the Army.

That surly, early 20 attitude.

He organized his friends into civilian militias.

He got married.

They lived in Hawaii.

He danced with Charo.

Don't ask where his hands are.

Then he was a civilian again.

And divorced.

He got drunk.

He sold stuff.

Then he moved to Sealy, Texas, and was lost to history for several years.

Probably because of stuff like this.

He moved back to Houston.  Again.

And some of Sealy kept turning up there.

A note from Andrew S. Thompson (pictured above).

He got into politics.

The face of sheer patriotism.

He got into IT work.  Then Web design work.  Then Web development work.

The face of sheer professionalism.

And now, finally, he's all growed up.

The face of sheer happiness.

Still have the acne and the surly teen disposition, but at least the voice is no longer cracking.