The Bell Boy Reunion of 2010: Delilah, Meningitis and the Return of the Southern Bell

Every Bell Boy Family Reunion on Beaver Lake is unique. And every year, it's very much the same. Some reunion traditions - they're hard to shake.

You can always count on five skinny-legged Bell Boys, hillybilly chin-ups and bottomless beer. You'll find bubba burgers, trout lines and hours of top choice family time coupled with the sweet background tunes of Delilah. You're guaranteed one "pull my finger" joke and some version of a Forrest Gump accent, (likely, "I'm not a very smart man") at one point or another. Complain about a sore neck (a potential case of meningitis according to me), and you'll have the karate chops of Suzie Bell coming down on you, showing you how a real sore neck feels. You'll also get a physician-directed script pictured above. And if you don't at least mention the Razorbacks in conversation somehow, you'll be sorry.

I was not sorry. The reunion was this, and more. This year, one difference for me personally, was the re-introduction of running. Labor Day marked the first date the doctor was allowing me to run again, post-broken metatarsal. I was determined to capitalize on this freedom, and after pushing myself to a near vomiting state, I proceeded to water ski, kayak and participate in hillbilly chin-ups. Let it be known that I am having trouble moving as I stand today. Let it also be known that my 88 year old grandfather did four times the chin-ups I was able to do, which if you want to get techincal, turned out to be only one.

On the plane ride home, a very chatty Gary asked me where I was coming from. When I replied, "Arkansas," he chuckled and asked if I knew any hillbillys. I tried to explain the difference between hillbilly and country, when he demanded an example. A bit taken back, I replied:

"A hillbilly is someone who duck-tapes their shoes when they are overworn. They balance beer on their defined beer belly. They swallow dip instead of spittin' and when their dogs go into heat, they diaper them with yarn and athletic socks.

"Someone who is country..." I continued, "...knows how to change their own oil and enjoys a good whiskey. They're also well accustomed to dodging deer, 'dilla, and possums."

He seemed satisfied with that answer. I leaned forward on my tray table and smiled. My family was very much a combination of both descriptions I had provided, and I was proud. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to be from the quirky town of Eureka Springs, Arkansas.  And maybe, I've been drinkin' the southern koolaid.

Another Bell Boy Reunion under my belt. And another reunion to remember, that's for certain.

Note: If you're like most people and have trouble deciphering the pictured script, it reads: Aleve - 1-2 twice daily with food. Heating Pad. Limit Pale Ale 3 daily MAX.

Pale to the Ale

It's a rare occasion that I spend the night alone these days. My roomate isn't one to travel a lot, and when he does leave the house for an evening out, it's not an all-night event. In fact, in the year and a half that I've lived with Neil, I've spent one weekend alone in the apartment. The quiet isn't something I'm accustomed to here, and it's certainly not something I'm comfortable with.

Last night, I came home from Sunday Funday festivities to find a pristinely clean apartment, a to-do list that was completely checked off, and a silence I wasn't sure what to do with. I tried to take advantage - blasted my chick music, cooked breakfast for dinner and settled in on my couch to some peaceful and much needed reading. I was overdue to finish "The Help" for a book club meeting that had already met last week.

Approximately 20 minutes into my alone time, and the darkness hit. The clicking in Neil's bedroom had my ears perked up and my mind shifted from the civil rights era to the era of crazies and psychos that was right now. Was that one of those circular glass cutting machines that spies used to break windows quietly? Calm down, RB. It's his blinds rubbing up against each other when the fan hits them just right.

Back to the book; it was really getting good. POP from the kitchen. WHAT WAS THAT NOISE? I snapped my feet up from the floor in case rats came rushing out from the banging source. Silence. More clicking from Neil's bedroom. It's just the blinds. It's time to get some sleep, you maniac. It took a serious pep talk to get up from the couch, but a half hour later I was on my feet, sprinting into my bedroom.

I practically dove into my bed and the silence didn't let up. Booze, I need booze. I dashed into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine, bringing it back to bed with me. My sheets felt like silk and finally, it felt good to let myself collapse into the comfort of my own safe haven of a bed. Safety.

And silence. More silence.

What is that ominous shadow in my closet? I was carefully peeking over my covers, and there was something hook-like, swaying in my walk-in closet. Squinting my eyes closed, I commanded my mind to think of normal, peaceful things. Carebears. My Little Ponies. My outfit for work tomorrow. I had to wear red, cause we were taking a picture for the intern. The red team. I dozed off to sleep in a terror-striken state.

5:00am and I sprung up from a nightmare. My heart was pounding and I was sweating so intensely I was literally stuck to my sheets. Shadows circled my room, and the creeks from outside my room I was now certain were going to kill me. This is it. I could try and run, but the man under my bed will swipe my feet. I'll just hide under my sweat-drenched sheets. Praying for salvation from the nonexistant murderer in my third-story apartment, I drifted off again into a troubled slumber.

When I awoke the next morning, my head throbbed. It felt like I had gone on a familiar whiskey binge, but in the light of day, everything looked different. The robe that was my killer hung loosely on the hook, and my pathetic air conditioner clicked on and off in a losing battle against the Arizona heat. I was safe. I was alive.

What was it about the silence, the absence of another individual that had me convinced I was literally going to die? I can be a drama queen - sure - but the feeling of sincere danger I felt in my bones, that was real. And timely as all get out, I was recently considering the option of living alone. Well, that is simply unrealistic. I made it through one night, but who's to say I will be so lucky the next time?

There's nothing more terrifying than the silence. There's nothing more powerful than your own mind. Nothing that is, except massive amount of pale ale. I'm going to need to invest in a case of that stuff.

The Last Laugh?

I certainly think of myself as the type of person who likes to lighten most situations, and with that, when my presence fills a room, my laugh is not generally far behind. Some might add that on top of my louder than average demeanor, my laugh rarely takes the back seat. I laugh loudly. Sue me.

This week, my first full work week post-trial, I had three people separately approach me about their dreams. Not terribly unusual, as most people understand my interest in digging deeper into the meaning of the subconscious in our sleeping state. But what was odd, wasn't that I was a character in each of these individuals' dreams, but that the star of the dreams...was my laugh.

I'm trying to wrap my arms around this. Each person recounted their dream in which I was laughing at others. Let me elaborate:

In the first, I was hurling my exercise ball (which I use for my chair, so this is not a small ball) towards each coworker, and then walking through the office laughing, congratulating myself with each whack. The next dream, I was dissuading a friend from getting a tattoo, and then proceeded to cut off one of her pigtails with a set of raw scissors. That, I again found hilarious, and as she was forced to cut her other pigtail off, I threw my head back in a second roar of laughter. The final dream was brought to me from an intern in my office. She dreamt of the staff and myself in the lunch room. As this girl went to join us, she could hear my cackle of laughter floating into the foyer. Instead of coming and dining with us, she turned around and ate at her desk.

What does this laugh symbolize? And why is it such a seemingly cruel laugh? It seems I'm being viewed as some sort of a bully...but I can't help but wonder why...


As a disclaimer for my Possum Hunter followers: while the trial is done, the details of the case are not those that I find acceptable nor entertaining for this forum. My jury was hung...so the case will be retried in 90 days. When a conviction is made, I might oblige in more detail for the curious at heart, like myself. But until then, bear with me.

Where the Wild Things Are (For Ms Gloria Slakoff)

This phenominal children's picture book always made me wonder; Where is that land where all the wild things live? I've since discovered pockets of society - the underworld - that the wild things inhabit. And apparently -  they're also at the Maricopa County Courthouse. (And no, I'm not going to dole out juicy details about my case, so stay in your seat people.)
The wild thing I speak of, came to me this week in the form of a blind homeless man. I know it's not fair to satirize the handicapped, but since I'm still technically a member of the club, I'm giving myself a hall pass. And in this instance, there was no avoiding this scenario. It came to me.

It started when I was seated in the courthouse cafeteria trying to avoid my fellow jurors and any related family members. I heard the hollering right behind me. It wasn't angry or scary yelling, but rather a controlled, suave, trash-talking session. To my surprise and delight, the debating men I thought I heard - turned out to be a singular gentleman: blind, black and offering up a foul odor that was drifting nearer and nearer to my lunch. He sat alone at a table in the middle of the very corporate legal lunch hussle, unphased. With his best gangster lean, he proceeded - as smooth as jazz, and in a voice I can only associate with a true pimp - to shout and gesture insults. Each exclamation seemed less and less related to the one prior, but not less in fervor. Oh no.  He gestured like he was smoking a blunt, and between words, he produced a clicking noise...you know, the type that is reserved only for a sleezy wink, or even for throwing the guns.

With my back almost directly to this man, I leaned back and enjoyed the show:

"Sheeeeeiiiiiiiiiit. Is hot outside." - Fair enough.

"Buy me some'm good baaaaaby." - Hopeful, but unlikely.

"You want seix? No ma'am! I don't give a shit!" - Delusional, as nobody in their right mind would be asking for sex from this man.

"Get owwn outta her, girrrr." - Fair enough.

"I toad her, I'm 52; I'm not gon listen to yo cryin." - Again, appropriate.

"What happen to you? You prolly had about 15 yawds in the hood of my trunk!" - Wait, what? 15 yards of what? And why is it in the HOOD of your trunk?

"Let me tell you. How does he know Gary? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you. You. Can't. Get. NOTHIN'" - My mind drifts to the CFO of my past job, in which case, not very many people do indeed, know Gary.

"My Momma. My Baby. My lady. My Guuuuuuuurl." - Hmmmm.

"I tried to tell em, ya hear. But you know...motha fuckas...they just don't listen." - Touché, sir.

I think we can learn a lot from our fellow wild things. At the very least, we're guaranteed a chuckle, which is rightly what I received. Thank you, insane blind man. You bettered my lunch hour.

 Dedicated to my dearest Gloria Slakoff who, above all else, loves lunch... precisely when this "sighting" occurred.

Location, Location, Location

One of the biggest selling points about the apartment that Neil and I reside in is the location. It's in the middle of the city, with easy interstate access and our third story loft has premium views of Camelback Mountain.  But for us, certainly the most important characteristic of our residence, is what we are privy to witness of the other neighbors. I don't want to come off creepy - it's just that I'm so, so curious.

On one particularly steaming desert Saturday, we watched in delight as our dexterous neighbor launched his very own pigeon eradication effort. The ditry bastards liked to perch on his patio, and he had had enough. In the sweltering heat, he proceded to hammer and drill an intricate algorithm of cross strings across the entry-way of his small adobe patio. Hours later, he was pleased and took his tools inside to enjoy a celebratory beverage; he had conquered.

Pictured is one Grade A, top-choice, people-watching instance. If you look closely, you'll see a plump and unphased pigeon perched inside the said patio. I watched it happen. The little bastard landed on the edge, and simply side-stepped right inside as if he'd done it a hundred times.

I called Neil outside to enjoy the spectacle, and we sipped our icy beers awaiting the devastation to ensue.

We never did see the determined man emerge from his apartment that night. Likely, he saw the fruits of his toils resulting in nothing, which was just...too much to face. Especially when you have a captive audience...

And I can't help but notice the irony of the whole affair. Building unnecessary barriers just to have them literally, stepped over. Superabundant effots to keep something out, to witness its ease of access just seconds later. I write this knowing good and well the existence of karma. But before it strikes...I'll just enjoy the sights. It's something nice.