Posts Tagged ‘Bud Light’


Since I had nothing better to do, I bought a 12-er of Bud Light (the official beer of Tucson)  and toddled on over to one of my neighbor’s places tonight.

His two 80-or-90 pound  mutts threatened me when I walked through the gate, until I said, “Knock off the shit, motherfuckers” and put my hand down toward them, fingers curled back, so they could sniff me. They were fine after that.

There were only the three of us tonight — yours truly, my neighbor, and his gay nephew — a really nice guy I’ve known for years.

This is how much things have been changing: my neighbor’s nephew (early 40s) is very open about being gay, and that ain’t all that unusual around here anymore. It’s “fine, whatever…” Nobody gives a shit.

But his boyfriend, from Hermosillo, keeps it all a secret. Up here, not so much. Down there, yeah, a secret. A shameful secret.

One hopes that the more tolerant attitudes up here along the border will seep down. Maybe. Probably.

One other really weird thing we talked about was one of my ex-GFs, a Texan from Houston. She’s a barely disguised racist — against Mexicans — not that she’ll admit it — but is fine with black people.

Weird, yeah. I know.

I think my neighbors were kind of disgusted that I’d have anything to do with — let alone have sex with — such an asshole, but didn’t want to say anything about it.

Go figure. Needless to say, that’s over with.

And this is over with for now: another tale from the hood.

Stay tuned.

(More utterly depressing pictures from out my front door shortly.)

 

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I was sitting around with one of my neighbors tonight, killing the remains of the Bud Light (the official beer of Tucson — official motto: “Bud Light, because why not?”) from his previous night’s party and amusing each other with stories about idiotic things former co-workers had done.

About three beers in, I told him a tale about working at a trailer (“caravan” for you furriners) factory in Idaho in the 1970s where I was installing plumbing in the optimistically titled “mobile homes,” when I looked up one afternoon, saw a numbnuts who was doing carpentry sitting on top of one of the coaches with a circular saw in hand, preparing to cut a 2X4 he was, yes, holding across his legs. There’s no need to mention what happened next.

I hadn’t described a thing about the guy — height, weight, age, race: nothing — when my neighbor asked, “Was he a redneck?”

I was a bit taken aback, and said, “Yes! How did you kn–?” when I caught myself and realized that the question answered itself.

(To get a taste of how awful that job was, check out the tunes, in part inspired by that job, “Pinche Blues” and “Postal.” Both were inspired by true-life work experiences.)