The Creek: a Crapshoot.

I've written several times about Bull Creek. Today Dana, Bella and I got there early, round 11am, before the onslaught of families, dog-owners, river rats, and stoners arrived. We got comfortable in our stone ledge castle, jumping into slightly smelly but refreshing water and climbing back up the rock wall to dry in the sun. These two signs made me laugh a little, the first for a missing parrot and the second admonishing us to keep Bella on a leash and pick up her poop.








Some days at BC are heaven--you meet the coolest people with the best dogs, share a beer, and relax. But sometimes you see things that make you doubt the inherent goodness of humanity. I sensed trouble when what appeared to be a pregnant man, two googley kids, and a miserable-looking woman stumbled up the creek bed. He had some of the worst tattoos I'd ever seen: baby footprints (presumably his own offspring, which if you think about it metaphorically is just said) on his chest, just off matching shamrocks on his "pecs." A paint splatter surrounded by the words "Got Balls?" on one shoulder, a Notre Dame leprechaun on the other. His back was covered with a horrible mess of green, orange, and black--nothing discernable. Now I'm not going to judge a person for getting bad ink...much. However, he was dragging a sweet and terrified puppy through the water--he later pushed the poor thing off the rock, its claws extended like a Halloween cat and panic in its eyes. His lumpy wife (who most likely wore baseball caps with pony-tails through the back and glasses with snazzy white sneakers to look "hot" in her pre-child years) carried a bag in one hand and held her cigarette aloft with the other as she yelled profanities to her hapless boys. Later when Dana and I jumped in again I commented on the shame of litterers, saying we always carried out twice as much trash as we came with, and she agreed wholeheartedly as she flicked her butt into the water. I growled, wanting to steal the poor puppy and give the children to Oprah.

Nevertheless, the sky was big and blue and full of sun, and we exulted in it. Bella drank some beer and we read Redbook, learning the secrets of happily married women, recipes, and 21 spicy sex moves we already knew. The creek banks began filling up, looking like shantytowns in some spots with large families with grills and chairs setting up shop. An older guy, probably early 40's but the kind that probably lies and says 30's, began jumping in next to us again and again, doing backflips and climbing up higher to show off, egging his 6 year old to do the same. I gasped when the back of his head skimmed the rock wall, and giggled inwardly later when he gulped a mouthful of pee/dog water.

By two, the place was packed, and my drinking was constantly interrupted by having to give two persistent and incompetent middle-school girls a hand in climbing back up the wall. We decided to split, slightly incredulous at what shitheads some people are but still in good spirits and happy the day was still young--only 2pm.

Keeping with the day's theme of recreation and leisure, PBS had on a documentary called Great Old American Parks. Here. Watch.

the body of Christ

Corpus Christi is a strange place, one where there are million dollar mansions on the beach and blocks away from street corners with anywhere between 4 to 7 crackheads chillin. The Catholic influence seems to be stronger here, yet it's the capital of spring break, debauchery, thongs and beer bongs. Have and have-nots. Do and do-nots. The gulf is beautiful to me. I grew up on a muddy river you'd not want to put your feet in, much less swim. Here the sea gulls cry, the waves advance and recede soothingly, the constant seabreeze brings about fro-like hair conditions and my skin tasty salty and sweetly sweaty all the time. The oil refineries and factories stand out in the wide open sunset of watercolors. I like it here. The sand feels right between my toes. I'm going to buy a boogie board next week. And lucky for me, it's my second home for the next month as I will be there every week from Tuesday through Thursday, teaching classes and staying in a kickass hotel right on the beach (boyyyy).



The first week was a comedy of errors--a gross hotel room, an FFA convention overrunning the town, shipping and inventory problems, new classes and students, etc. The drive down is a bitch, and the drive back is bitchier. But I found time to walk the beach some, to get some sun, eat some fresh seafood. I've always wondered who the first guy was that pulled a crab or a lobster out of the ocean and thought to himself, "I bet whatever's in here tastes good. I'm gonna rip it open and eat what I find." I thought about water, how it was here before anything else, and how we're mostly water. The Bible says God created the heavens and the earth, and then light. Apparently water was already there, because "the Spirit was hovering over the waters," an image that has always stuck with me since childhood. I thought about how you can stand and face the ocean, where it blends into the sky itself, a melding of blues and grays, and when you turn back around and face the world your problems don't sound as bad. Not when you turn back around and look into that expanse of power and life. The disciples were fishermen. We're baptized in water. The Catholics have holy water. We all cry and leak water. Just interesting. Water.

Thursday night I decided to reward my hard work with a nice dinner at a nice restaurant. Sure enough, a girl can't get any peace eating alone, and a old dude came over. I mean grandpa-old, bald, wearing a Hawaiian shirt with the top buttons undone to make sure that nice gray chest hair was showing. He was nice enough, and although I didn't really want to, I agree to let him join me and listened to him talk about boring lawyer stuff while I tried to enjoy my pontchartrain. Suddenly looking forward to the solidarity of my drive home, we went outside for a cigarette. I saw another woman walking outside for the same reason, so I jumped on this excuse to include other strangers besides Grandpa and me. She joined us. Then things got weird.

Leeann, who grew up in Corpus Christi and was now returning to live with her mother after a messy divorced, got married (the first time) when she was 14. That's right, 14. She looked to be in her early 40's to me, and claimed to have never drank or partied til she was 39, and her grownup kids didn't like that, so that seemed to have something to do with her moving back as well. She talked a mile a minute and had gold blush on. It nicely complimented the blue eyeshadow and liner. Then Old Boy came out, Leann's latest catch, whose IQ and number of teeth were within the same range, and not in a good way. Choking back laughter I ordered one more beer and asked how they met. In a convenience store. Leeann shrieked (and imagine this with a heavy redneck accent), "I had just rolled outta bed that mornin and we needed some ahce (ice) so I went down to the convenience store, I didn't have no makeup on, no shoes, I don't even think I had a bra on!" Old Boy laughed and said he had no idea how that all happened, and I wondered if that was due to drunkenness or repressing the memory. Leeann's last husband (I'm not sure how many there were) was 12 years younger than her, and had pretty much moved in on their first date and never left. Then two more rednecks came out, friends of Leeann and Old Boy, and I realized I was sitting with 5 people and at least 8 divorces. I felt the red-neckedness and desperation hanging thick in the air and decided it was time to go home.

Til next week, Corpus.