This Will Surely Be An Aimless Ramble

Reading Kurt Vonnegut today. “There is an almost intolerable sentimentality beneath everything I write…I put bitter coatings on sugar pills.” Wampeters Foma & Granfalloons. Although this is not exactly something I directly relate to, I liked it right away because I got it right away. And also because I didn’t think others would. But now I’m sharing it with you. And basically spelling it out for you. Dude was a sentimental cynic, a pessimistic hopeful, an embittered dreamer. Damn I wonder what old Kurt himself would think about my elementary assumptions. What do I know about Kurt Vonnegut? I just liked the line. This will surely be an aimless ramble. I will try not to bitter coat this sugar pill.

I just wanted to talk. More than the need to just fill blog space, which we at Jambo Dickwater apparently have no qualms slacking on, I thought I might finally post some of the nonsense I have deemed worthy of ink and paper. Suffer through it if you must, critique it if you will, but know it is at your own risk.

1.                                     My Life With Child

(This was a Dream, the first half anyway)

I woke up from a nap. I had missed my 2:00 class again. Failure is inevitable. Sincere regret pulsed through me as I peeled off the sweaty blankets and swung my legs to the floor. What the hell am I going to do with myself now? For some reason missing that class meant dropping out of school completely. Failed due to gross absences, never to return. Shamed.

I have a baby. I flash back to what must’ve been hours earlier, the reason for my nap, to another normal house and Carla on a table with my sister acting as midwife. What was apparent was that it was my child. The girl pushing it out had very little to do with it. Mo nursed me and coerced me and led that little girl into my arms. From there I go back to the nap and I wake up with this baby in my arms, resting peacefully in the flannel hammock my droopy limbs had made for her. For this part of the dream I hardly notice the child. I walk a weird wrapping road, which turned half bridge as it swung out over the bay to make it into town. I arrive at a hybrid bohemian coffee shop/trendy fashion store/music venue/restaurant and walk up to a large table with about 12 people, most of whom I recognize. Some of whom I consider friendly. One of whom was Carla. I tried to give the baby to her and tell her it was hers as well. She was having no part of it. Hardly paying attention to me, busy chatting with friends and ordering drinks. I felt like a fucking waiter trying to special a baby.

I left the store. I had studies but I took the baby. I walked home. The birth was beautiful. This time Carla was not there. Mo was very much there. Wimbo was there too offering encouragement and soft hands. Mo handed me the baby. What I remember best is the sheer beauty of the little creature. I had created a full life and she was perfect. Small, curling lips instantly formed words and we had a wonderfully deep conversation which has gone beyond me…her life and our life and life… She had big freckles already as if the sun shone through the womb and right onto her blessed little face. She had round blue eyes that always peered into my deepest depths. As mo handed her to me I felt completely inept and afraid of dropping the damn thing, as I usually feel around babies. Then I felt it. Our hearts connected. I put her chest on mine and our paces found the same rhythm. We shared one heart. I held her there and just talked to her for hours, in between sobs that had been trapped inside me my entire life. When it was time to feed her I walked the long wrapping road to town and went back into the store. Past the bohemian partiers, past Carl, to the baby section. I wanted only what was best for her.

Wimbo, Mo and myself completely committed to raising that baby. I loved her with everything I had and I wanted nothing less than the world for her. Fuck school or anything else. I was a daddy. I sobbed with her in my arms for hours. Heavy, low sobbing that didn’t disturb the baby but rather acted as a lullaby. She was the most perfect baby I had ever known. She was my best friend.

“What do you think so far?” “Cold. I like the lights. They give us reasons to use our eyes. Life would be so different without those man made bulbs to cut through the night. We would all just rise at dawn and fall at dusk. Probably the way it should be. Honest. People work outside right?” “Oh yeah. Call them farmers, or loggers…ers mostly. They got it pretty right.” “Do you work outside daddy?” “Who me? Hell No. I’m a writer. I sit back in disdain and scribble events while trying to twist them into interesting bundles which I then try to sell to the very people I write them about. I observe human nature and attempt its capture. Not an easy assignment. One that most realize at an early age is utterly futile. A real losing ticket. I always thought I would prove them wrong. Now I realize I am just another monkey in a cage, silently shouting at the page, praying the written word will scream back. It rarely does. And even when it does shoot to the core, the people who get it already got it. They are not the ones who need enlightenment. We writers consider ourselves a high breed not better than others but smarter and quicker. In many ways we do feel we are better than most but we are not allowed to say that. Especially to the obvious idiots who will never “get” anything at all. Not even the religion they flock to. They don’t have passion. Hell. I don’t either most of the time. I just act like I do. Tis the angst that keeps me going.” “What the hell dad. I didn’t ask for your jaded rant on the world. But thanks. I have a pretty good idea of what not to do. So what do you have planned for me? College? I’m sure you have no fund set up but you could find scholarship foundations anytime right?” “Isn’t it a bit soon for that talk, kid?” “Yeah, but I know you. You will lag and procrastinate no matter how early I get on you about it. I won’t have you messing up my life. Not yet.”

We bathed every morning at dawn together. I sacrificed my showers for the sake of a clean and happy baby. I shaved in the tub, sitting cross-legged in bubbly water with an infant doggie paddling around my hairy torso. She smiled every time I got up. She giggled as the water rolled off my body and danced in the sporadic waterfall it provided. She would always primp and prime herself like a woman had taught her how to. She would selectively choose her socks and shoes even though she didn’t need them. All she needed was the blanket I wrap her up in but she insisted I put on her wool socks and moccasins. She sat in my armcradle and went with me everywhere. If I had a meeting at headquarters she would be there with me, whispering in my ear ideas that would blow away the dudes in the newsroom. I always took credit for her ideas. She said it was cool until she was an adult. I had a fruitful career with her in my ear, overseeing my undeserved success. I won awards, wrote the novels I always said I would write, and felt like shit about it the whole time. She knew that and tried so hard to cheer me from the fact that I was plagiarizing my own infant daughters brilliant ideas.

I told her I was to stop. No more unoriginal work. All from the heart now. But I fell off. I blew it with my publishers who were disappointed with my  new work’s lack of anything good. I left the country with the girl and sulked on third world beaches while friends made feeble attempts to contact me and bring me out of my funk. Many caring women would come up to me while I laid on a beach and ask what in the word my drunk ass was doing with a child. Then they would look at my bundle of joy and walk away, apparently dropping their convictions and moving along passively. It was not until I got a letter from my only real friend in the world that I got a clue. I know he is my friend because he does not write and has never read my work. He was genuinely missing me and made a real attempt to get a hold of me. I told him to come out. He did.

We were sitting at a bar facing the ocean, surf crashing yards away, cheap beer in metal buckets and citrus trees with branches reaching down so everyone could grab a fresh lime for their beer. We were going through the usual motions and then I remembered her. “How rude of me, I didn’t even introduce you to my daughter. I don’t know what I call her. Meet her.” “Maybe you could call her bundle of rags man. That’s all that is. Is that what you’ve been carrying around with you for all this time? I heard you had gone a little off the deep end but dude, you really think that little blanket is a human life? You been fucking too many sheets.”

2.

SmuG TroLL

He walked in and I dug his style,

Not his face, an ugly, trollish, red face,

But his euro loafers, his sailor outfit, it was good.

He had the whole table rolling, throwing their empty heads back,

Eating his shit up like it was pasta.

He ordered for everyone, and after cocktails and appetizers,

After dinner was finally ordered, after two hours of being ignored,

He wanted the “wine card” and he was irritated because he had asked me for that long ago,

Can We have the Wine CARD!

I throw it down without him noticing,

Then I go back to the table and he gives me that pinched face, irritated, troll gaze, and I point to the menu card.

He quickly chooses the Bethel Heights Pinot Noir Reserve, an expensive bottle.

I bring it, after making them wait ten minutes, and give him the sample,

After a perfect presentation,

He sips, pinches up, gives that troll look again, and smugly proclaims,

“You get what you pay for.”

Their heads roll back, their aged teeth exposed, their cocktails kicking in.

I pour the wine and leave their awful presence.

Their dinner comes, they eat it, slowly, slowly, painfully.

“How is your dinner I ask?”

“Eh,” grunts troll.

I pick up the remains of his braised beef. Just beef left, sitting their looking like troll boogers.

“I’m not done.”

Isn’t there a nicer way to say that troll man?

I come with the bill in my pocket, praying this ordeal is over.

Will there be any dessert tonight?

He looks to his lemmings, “Are you in a hurry? Are you in a hurry?”

“We’ll have another bottle. The same. You remember the one?”

“I got it.”

I bring it, they drink it. Slowly. Oh so slowly. Laughing. Indulging the troll. His troll face is getting more red, almost purple. His skin is thick, tough, burnt, and scarred by what must’ve been acne vulgaris.

I drop dessert menus. I come back in minutes and look to him to order the damn dessert for his table of whores.

“Pick three. The best.” He rolls his shoulders. He can afford to spend frivolous money on cheap American wine and dessert.

You got it buddy, the most expensive three, coming right up.

I bring them. They eat them. Acting like they were mediocre. They were great.

The wine is gone. The dessert is gone. The troll is slouched in the corner of the booth. Drunk.

I make them sit and laugh and wait before I bring the bill.

I make them ask for the bill.

Are you in a hurry? Are you in a hurry?

Here you go. Now go.

I come back around.

Smug troll has discovered a discrepancy.

“This is not the right bill, this wine is not the wine I chose. This say its a hundred dollar bottle.”

“Well, sir, it does say there are two hundred dollar bottles here. It’s the Bethel Heights Reserve. This seems to be the one you ordered. I’ll just go and consult the menu.

“You do that.”

Lo and behold, fuckbag troll man thought his scoffable American wine selection was $40, when, indeed, his squinted, impaired troll eyes read the card wrong. He was reading the line ahead of the Bethel. The Bethel had a real long, expensive name and it took two lines, making the price the fourth line down. Not a problem for those of us that read.

He took it. The bill had come to $350. He was not happy, but I was.

I strolled by, smug, and grabbed the credit card. I had half a mind to throw an auto grat on there. Knowing, thinking, presupposing that this wine ordeal would surely not leave him in a generous mood. Regardless of the near-perfect, if not agro service I gave them.

The card is given back. I thank them and get ignored for the last time.

I do not get the door for them.

He tipped me $30. Ten percent. A real shot to the groin. But I didn’t care. The night had been good otherwise.

I was contented that I didn’t get bent over by the troll.

He paid. I won.

Reggie “Origenald” Cashmere Bumhug

This is dedicated to Daniel who supports everything we are about.

We try and pry, live and die, drinking the devils piss, and smoking the grits.

We, the adored duo known round the world as Jambo Dickwater, would like to issue a formal apology for the lack of posts of late. It’s not that we lost all inspiration, but more so we assumed we had a lacking, slacking following. Now we know the truth…That the world is eagerly awaiting our next post. And here it is

We fib, we like to goof, for a giggle, its the truth.

And Tuesday marks the birth of the man, the myth, the messiah, your new favorite bum, Reggie “Origenald” Cashmere Bumhug. We discovered Origenald lurking underneath a man-made (bum-made) lean-to next to a construction site near our campus apartment. He wore a hard-hat with a loose beanie over it, ski goggles, a red headlamp, some Mardi-Gras beads, a neck-tie, a gold corduroy jacket worn fashionably inside out, and one mitten. We asked Reggie why he wore the hard hat. “Times are hard.” he said, and then we offered him a beer or two and he obliged us with a story. It goes something like this…

“The origin of Origenald”

Well, my mom named me Reg. She thought that was the full name. My friends call me Reggie. I call myself Origenald. My mother was not a good mother. She raised me in the streets, while she went home to her real family. She would leave our alley for days on end and occasionally leave me a dish with water and what she called chili. The neighborhood dogs loved my chili. One day, after she had beat me for asking strangers for change, she gave me a neck tie and told me she could no longer afford to provide me with a dish full every week, and she said I should go out and get myself a career. So I strapped on the neck tie and went on the job hunt. I went into every legitimate establishment in the campus area, and got a pretty good reception. Many people offered me free water, scraps of food, and the business section of the paper, but no jobs. For some reason, and I don’t think it was because of my resume, no one wanted to offer old Origenald a job. So I veered away from campus a few blocks to continue my search. On my way I got in one bum fight, ran from an alley cat, got spooked by my own reflection in a muddy puddle, fell in the puddle, and discovered the single mitten I wear today. People say I give the best high-fives this side of the alley. And ever since I flipped my corduroy jacket over as a fashion statement, and to hide the mud stains from the puddle, I was labeled the best hum bugger, or bum hugger in all of lower eastside Eugene. I’ve basically got everything I need strapped to my body at all times. Everything one might need to start a family, go skiing in Hendrick’s Park, start a fire, and make a happy home. So after my mom gave me the boot, I ventured out and found my path. The bike path. It makes a real cozy bed if you have a little used cardboard. And that folks is where you can find old Reggie “Origenald” Cashmere Bumhug. I want to thank the sweet sweet boys who offered me beer and walnut brownies, and provided a place me for to take my annual bum bath. Sorry fellas if I stunk up your kitchen, but Reggie gots to stay fresh.

Black Friday Shit Show

The day after the day of thanks and I have many things to be thankful for. The multiple elaborately put together meals we scraped on, the beers we drank for free, the leftovers we looted, the family we got to impress. Wearing clean collared shirts and swanky sports coats we made fashionably late entrances met with the joyful gleam of our family’s eyes. We gave thanks for our fathers who are not here to give thanks with us. We gave thanks for the fathers we did have, even though none of them were actually fathers. Just righteous figures that mentored and heckled and taught us. I’m sure a vast majority of our generation has this same space missing in their holidays. A sad, but often unmentioned gap at the family table. And people always try, like they have to try, to fill that space. People that came way too late to have any real impact on us, people that never seemed right for our beloved single mothers. People that try too hard, and probably for the wrong reasons. And I wish they didn’t have to try so hard. But I still give thanks. And now Black Friday is here and my better half is slaving away all day at both jobs, the latter just so happens to be at the mall of all places. Hope his guardian angels fly swiftly above him. He will need it. People asked me, Are you excited for Black Friday? Do you like shopping? No. And even more I hate crowds of shoppers. But hate is a strong word. I just wouldn’t choose to put myself through that for the deals, the sales, the marked up prices momentarily marked down for a frenzy of yuppy mothers to capture this season’s best offerings. For her family that doesn’t need the new slippers and ugh boots. But otherwise it is a spectacular Fall day perfect for a bike ride. And I give thanks for that and for my bike.

This is the Beginning

This is a collaboration of two genius minds. We promise you one thing, we will never take our blog seriously. Hey Go DUCKS! But LTD can lick my sweaty shaven nutsack. Little catch phrase from a local hero that we felt like sharing. Mainly because he rode by our apartment and screamed it. Wasn’t the first time and sure not to be the last. Little slice of Eugene pie, plenty more where that came from.

 

A few things we’re about here at Jambodickwater.wordpress.com:

1. We’re not sure what we are about.

2. We want to make sweet love to this world through our words.

3. We love the freedom of the Internet word.

4. We are hoping WordPress is not one to censor blasphemous creativity.

5. We’re about giggles at any cost.

6. Dancing in the rain, in our birthday suits of course.

7. The only thing that is certain is that nothing is certain.

8.We do not do cake.

9. We do pie.

10. We have come to realize that friends are often good people, but shitty friends. 

11. And like family you cant choose your friends, or can you?

12. We are ambitiously gunning for the number 1 blog spot in the world.

13. Fuck Perez Hilton. What a fake ass name.

14. Oh yeah, we also all about that paper.

15. Industrial hemp paper.

16. I don’t want to be in this shitty movie.

17. We believe turkey’s should be subject to mass slaughter only on the last Thursday of November.

18. And we believe you should give thanks on this day as well.

19. Mostly for the Turkey’s

20. But also for the general privileges bestowed upon our wonderful first world nation.

21. America. Fuck Yeah!

10/22. Sorry to break the cycle, but 10/22 is not only one of the sexiest number combos ever to hit the streets, but is also soon to be the freshest rad gear clothing line since Jesus was roaming the desert.

23. What else are we about you ask?

24. Thats it for now.

24. Come back soon for 24 more random pointless point lists.