Tuesday, June 25, 2002
a journal entry from the father of rachel cooke; a 19-yr. old girl who was visiting her parents in georgetown during her winter break and was apparently kidnapped while jogging over 5 months ago.
Saturday June 22
The search this morning went well. Nine searchers attended, and we finished the two search areas before 11:00 a.m. That was a good, because the temperature was up to 90 degrees by then.
My sister Elaine has a meeting scheduled for Monday afternoon with our new Media and Special Events Team. We would like to do something to put Rachel back in the news. I think that it is important to keep her there and in the public eye.
I heard that over 100 investigators are assigned to the Elizabeth Smart case. Over 40 of those are from the FBI. I keep asking myself why Rachel is not as important as Elizabeth? They were both taken from their loving families, and they both need to be returned home. What is the difference? I don't see anything but 5 years difference in their ages. I can understand the national media favoring a younger person but not law enforcement. It is not right!
why indeed. and furthermore, 40 GODDAMN FBI AGENTS??? and not one, NOT ONE for these poor people. i'm so sick of hearing of the obsfucation and outright cheap-ass IDIOCY of our federal agencies. especially the FBI. not enough resources. they just need more power. too much going on at once. more reorganization under fascist names like homeland security. like my friend kevmo sez...poop poo poopy poo poo. keep it comin' boys. i hope to god our country is better than this.
Sunday, June 23, 2002
just got through watching the deer hunter for the 3rd time in my life. i'm sick as shit by the way. so is lonanne. and thomas. is it me or are we sicker than most? my doctor says nope. that's normal with kids, etc. but i can't help feeling like the hmo pays her to say that. anyways, at the end when they're all around the table (after walken's funeral) and they start singing God Bless America...jesus, i started crying like a baby. i don't remember crying the first 2 times i saw that flick. i don't care what AFI says, Cimino is a goddamn genius and that is definitely one of my top ten favorite films. i read a book a long time ago about another film of his (final cut). it details that cimino had the original movie cut at 4 hours. universal was horrified and privately had an editor trim it to 2 hours. cimino responded by threatening to destroy the original film stock. he said he was willing to kill someone if they had trimmed his movie. i think that's beautiful. and i defy you to find any of these young hotrod indie shits (other than paul thomas anderson with his tom-cruise-padded POS magnolia) to come up with a magnum opus of substance and style and motherfucking grace that comes even close. cimino went on to direct the biggest flop in the history of flops; heaven's gate. he effectively bankrupted united artists and killed of the western genre for 10 years. god i love that guy.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
i recently heard that this blog sounds like the journal of an old, married guy. i'll try to include more smack bar stories. in the meanwhile, we went to san antonio this weekend for a pure summer white bread experience. my wife's mom went too. hi shirley. we stayed at the adam's mark and went to sea world. the boys went nuts par usual. i threw money at everything from $5 brownies to $3 waters to $8 lockers to hold my $10 pants and my $20 shoes. i like throwing money at cheap and fast craziness. it makes me feel american.
thomas rode the big waterside and was absolutely terrified/excited by it. i wasn't so sure he could do it, but i let him go anyway. throw 'em in the water. that's my theory. sea world is run by annheuser/busch, which i did not know. so, as a matter of course, there's a hospitality house in every sea world that is essentially a bar with all sorts of free beer. hospitality house. anyone that publicly disses sea world needs to be reminded of that precious nugget. of course there were hundreds, if not thousands of fat, sweaty, pushy folks who felt it was their personal duty to fully catalog sea world in pasted-together panorama shots. one woman was taking pictures of the bathrooms. i shit you not.
other than all the amusement parks and that fat turd of an alamo dome, san antonio is a severely depressed place. and i'm not just talking about the economy. people move at the rate of molasses and wear king frowns the size of, well, a grande burrito. it's hard to get decent service and when you do, you're not sure that it's not some form of resentment. you also don't want to really bring up the alamo with most folks in san antonio. the hispanics feel like their side won and probably still hold up a bit of a grudge against all this davy crockett hero worship. they also loathe the tourist economy, which is their primary means of employment. there aren't the booming telcos of dallas or the high tech startups of austin. there isn't even any real houston oil money to draw from. no, what they've got is the alamo. a crumbling facade of a building that stands for something most of them would like to forget; that they won once and possibly never again.
when we strode up to the limestone facade of that altogether texas attraction (ron howard's making a movie), there was a guy in the middle of the promenade shouting at the top of his lungs. he was holding a bible and appeared to be trying to give a sermon about hell and the lack of benefits it carries with it. most people were ignoring him, but, hellfire and brimstone he was loud. and annoying too. here i am with my kids and my wife and my wonderful mother-in-law on a beautiful june day in the middle of the fading ruins of a once glorious city and all i can do is worry about sheilding my kid's ears from this foaming lunatic.
"he's talking about death dad."
"yes, i know son.
"what's hell dad?"
i really could've squared that guy in the nuts and not thought twice about it. i walked up to a state trooper who was standing off to the side.
"can't you do anything about this madman?" i asked.
"that's why i'm standing over here," he said.
"that's why i'm standing over here," he said. "i can't hear a word he's saying."
vaya con dios san antonio.
Wednesday, June 12, 2002
played 3 games of basketball last night. i've got a fadeaway jumper like a mutha and a pretty good grip on the ball. but that's about it. then i went over to zilker and played with the boys a bit. thomas and william just ran around and screamed their heads off. there was a bluegrass concert in the park, but thomas wanted no part of it. he slid down the slides. william drove the fire truck and fended off older, rougher boys. one boy ran up with his little brother. he must've been 6 or 7. he was covered from head to toe in a sticky green substance. i asked him what his brother's name was. he said "i don' t know, i just call him brother." white trash forever.
then we came home. there's a friend of my wife's that comes over to work on our couch. some stupid barter deal that i agreed to. me of all people. she's really into bartering. you do this for me, i do this for you. no money. i did a website for her. she's doing a slipcover for our couch. i can't figure it truthfully. she was also at the concert in the park. she asked why we didn't come over to see the show. i told her thomas wanted to play on the playground. she said "i don't know what's wrong with that kid." now instead of practicing my fadeaway jumper on her head like i should have, i just smiled politely. but i felt like explaining how kids like going nuts and eating dirt and someday she might realize this and make a conscious effort to return to planet earth, her real home. listening to bluegrass music on a blanket in 90 degree heat? i'll take the playground with thomas any day...
Saturday, June 08, 2002
sweet mother of mary. do not watch this movie. unless you are already screwed up. or want to be. ok, that sounds like an invitation. it's not. i've warned you. i rented it the other night and still haven't quite gotten the last 30 minutes out of my head. it's what david lynch wishes he could do. on a good day.
Tuesday, June 04, 2002
this life is too full of prayers and hospitals.
my mom has stage 3 ovarian cancer. i went to st. luke's in houston to visit her. there she was in the private room on the 25th floor, post-surgery, tubes sticking out in every direction, skin pale as vanilla. i nearly tripped over all the cords. there is something that happens to your guts when you see a parent in the hospital. first a weakness comes up from the knees. then, a slight trembling. you grip your stomach around your nerves to keep from breaking down completely. i've got nothing to say that hasn't already been said about hospitals. they are soaked in pallid stares. the staff at st. lukes, however, were beyond helpful. bright asian and african women who beemed into that tiny room a small ray of pastel hope. her doctor is a big texan guy with a firm grip and a smile. by the second day of our visit, my mom seemed much improved. she's a tough woman. a God fearing woman. hi mom. i don't pray much. i'm a little out of practice, but here goes: not yet God. that's all i have to say. we don't have enough time as it is. these kids already lost two grandparents. not yet you son of a bitch.