For reasons I care not to elaborate upon, I found myself in the big city of Bandera this weekend in desperate need of a Compact Flash (CF) Card Reader. At the intersection of Main Street and Highway 16, I had three choices: a 1980s-inspired Super S, a "Gun & Pawn" down Main, and a little strip-mall store with a lime-green sign blaring "COMPUTERZ". Seeing as how the Super S and the Gun & Pawn had no guarantee of anyone knowing what a CF Card was, much less how to read one (is it like a Hallmark card or what?), I went with COMPUTERZ and crossed my fingers. At least this store had somewhat entered the 90s.
I pulled into the Chevron/Tattoo Parlor/COMPUTERZ parking lot, which was naturally filled with quad-cab Dodge Rams and F-250s and cute cowboys with too-tight blue jeans and steel-toed boots (this IS the Cowboy Capital of the World), my hopes began to dwindle. Three men tipped their hats at me from the car to the curb, and my hopes sank even further. CF was going to be as foreign here as Twitter and ethnic equality.
Opening the door, COMPUTERZ was exactly what I'd imagined it to be. An old guy with a half-blad head and twenty-year beard was sitting behind a counter that was decorated in bright green rope lights. Motorola flip phones from 1996 were stacked in the glass shelving underneath, and the walls were littered with changeable covers for the Noika 3310. I had stepped back in time a decade, and the cigarette-smoking beard dude didn't seem to mind being here.
"Can I help you?" he asked, putting his cigarette out on the countertop. "Sure," I replied. "I'm looking for a CF Card reader, or, at least for the cord to connect a card reader to a USB port."
I shouldn't have been shocked by his response. "A what? A cord for a card?"
Jesus. COMPUTERZ was still working in command prompt on MS DOS. "I'm looking for a memory card reader; if you don't have the reader itself, I'm looking for the cord that would potentially connect the reader to the USB port in the computer."
His reply was a muddled mix of "uh huh" and "what the hell", and I followed him back to the rear of the store, where he had cords of all kinds hanging from pegs in the wall. "Think you can find it over here?" he asked, looking down at me. Of course I could find it... but would I be locked in the store and stuffed in a closet in the process?
As I sifted through cords I'd definitely never seen before, dude picked up a different cigarette off a different desk and lit up. I found the cord I was looking for--though it looked like a beaver had attempted to build a chewed-up house out of it--before he could take his first long drag, and asked him how much he'd sell it to me for. "Twenty bucks," he said, and I couldn't help it: I laughed in his face. "Twenty bucks?!" I replied; "These things with the readers actually attached are 15 bucks brand new."
"Oh," he replied, somewhat puzzled. Then a look of clarity came over his face, and he re-put-out his cigarette stub. "You mean, one of these things?" He walked over to a visibly broken monitor and pulled a trusty Targus 6-in-1 card reader out from a heap of rubbish. "Yes," I said. "One of those things."
"Uh, twenty bucks." I laughed again. "Look, lady, do you want it or not?"
It was life or death; card reader or no card reader. If the luckiest I was going to get was a used, beaver-chewed card reader, I better take my luck and run. I had eighteen bucks in cash in my wallet, which was good enough for him. I collected my card reader--along with my wits--and dashed out the door. My three cowboy friends were still gathered in the parking lot. They politely nodded at me again, in succession.
***
I've lived in small towns all of my life. For a brief four months I lived in Denton, which is small town enough; for five years I lived in San Antonio which is smaller than people might think. But I grew up in a true small town, and reside in one now. I do so by choice. People in small towns have something that people in big cities do not: trust. We trust our neighbors; we trust our police officers and tax collectors; we trust people we won't ever even know. We do this, because without this trust, we'd just live in a smaller, shittier version of a "bad side of the city". Figuratively, of course.
Why COMPUTERZ brings me to appreciate this, I have no idea. I started thinking about Bandera as I drove away from that store, which turned my thoughts to Boerne and then to San Antonio. Certainly, had I walked into a store called COMPUTERZ in good ol' SA, it would be for a going-out-of-business battle that the local owner was losing to the new Best Buy across the street. Old dude with beard wouldn't be making his living anymore trying to cheat twenty bucks of ignorant-looking small girls. And three cowboys wouldn't be standing in the parking lot, waiting for the chance to get the door to the convenience store behind them.
Small towns hold these keys to the past--that, granted, aren't always the best for growth or life--that keep them rooted in what's important. Not what's important to the girl in the Passat that's just stopping by, but what's important to them, their fathers, their grandfathers, and what they want to teach as important to their sons and their grandsons.
I'm rambling. I guess what I meant to say by this whole story is that while the rest of the world has moved on to value THINGS, there are a handful of small towns out there that have shunned the moving on so that they can still value VALUES. How this came up from COMPUTERZ, I guess I'll never know.
27 February 2010
11 January 2010
06 December 2009
on Teeth.
There is a song that goes, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth." Well, since I am missing my Upper Left Lateral, this song seems quite fitting. I wrote my parents a note saying that I am saving up money to buy my tooth for Christmas, and they set up a cool thing for me. So for the one person (maybe two) who ever read this, you can help me buy my next body part.
Dear friends and family members:
As most of you know, my status as a 'slack-jawed yokel' has far run its course, as the hole between my Upper Left Central tooth and my Upper Left Cuspid has become quite an annoying presence (or lack thereof). Though I have had my fair share of fun pretending to have my tooth fall out if someone accidentally bumps into my mouth, or taking it out to be a farmgirl for Halloween, it is time to fill that hole with a shiny new piece of porcelain tooth. As we look towards a new year, I am also looking forward to having my Dental insurance run out, so I am in need of filling this toothless gap as soon as possible. What a fantastic gift it would be, to find a shiny new tooth under my Christmas tree!
In other words, all I want for Christmas is my one front tooth, and I can't do it without your help (aka money). I know that money is really impersonal, but really--you have no idea what a personalized gift this would be for me. You could even tell all your friends that you helped buy someone a body part for Christmas.
Dear friends and family members:
As most of you know, my status as a 'slack-jawed yokel' has far run its course, as the hole between my Upper Left Central tooth and my Upper Left Cuspid has become quite an annoying presence (or lack thereof). Though I have had my fair share of fun pretending to have my tooth fall out if someone accidentally bumps into my mouth, or taking it out to be a farmgirl for Halloween, it is time to fill that hole with a shiny new piece of porcelain tooth. As we look towards a new year, I am also looking forward to having my Dental insurance run out, so I am in need of filling this toothless gap as soon as possible. What a fantastic gift it would be, to find a shiny new tooth under my Christmas tree!
In other words, all I want for Christmas is my one front tooth, and I can't do it without your help (aka money). I know that money is really impersonal, but really--you have no idea what a personalized gift this would be for me. You could even tell all your friends that you helped buy someone a body part for Christmas.
29 November 2009
on Chips
I will never be able to move to Mexico if I don't stop wasting all my money on these damned potato chips:
09 November 2009
on Thailand
What is it about a warm beer buzz in the early morning hours that makes me want to move to Thailand?
It wasn't my idea. It was just a thought at first, spawned by Lord knows what crisis or contemplation. It was a "Let's move to Thailand" that didn't have any seriousness or weight. And hell, why not? With a 500$/month price tag, it doesn't sound all that bad.
Enter logic and reason, telling me that I couldn't survive a day without HEB or Family Guy, or that it's probably pretty difficult to pay student loan bills on time while living across the world. I suppose this is where the beer buzz comes in. The logic and the reason start to fade away and I'm left with the burning urge to go somewhere, anywhere, if just to have the experience of starting something new.
A simple Google search in the middle of the work day brought the logic and reason back to reality. Evidently, it's not that easy to move to Thailand... but doesn't that make getting there all the more intriguing? Evidently, it's not that easy to find a job in Thailand, unless you planning on teaching or making your own. Evidently, it't just not what you might expect.
Honestly, Thailand, I didn't have that high of expectations in the first place. Sure, it wouldn't be the United States--not Texas or Boerne or a 900 square foot apartment with central air and heat. But there you go: it's not the United States. And, sure, I'd miss my family and my three or four friends, but what is life if you don't go fucking crazy and just pick up and move to Thailand?
At 2:30 in the afternoon, I've been staring at a computer for 6 straight hours today, and though I don't have that warm beer buzz yet this afternoon, I am starting to realize why that "Move to Thailand" voice is getting louder and louder.
Ugh. I don't think I even know where Thailand is on a map.
It wasn't my idea. It was just a thought at first, spawned by Lord knows what crisis or contemplation. It was a "Let's move to Thailand" that didn't have any seriousness or weight. And hell, why not? With a 500$/month price tag, it doesn't sound all that bad.
Enter logic and reason, telling me that I couldn't survive a day without HEB or Family Guy, or that it's probably pretty difficult to pay student loan bills on time while living across the world. I suppose this is where the beer buzz comes in. The logic and the reason start to fade away and I'm left with the burning urge to go somewhere, anywhere, if just to have the experience of starting something new.
A simple Google search in the middle of the work day brought the logic and reason back to reality. Evidently, it's not that easy to move to Thailand... but doesn't that make getting there all the more intriguing? Evidently, it's not that easy to find a job in Thailand, unless you planning on teaching or making your own. Evidently, it't just not what you might expect.
Honestly, Thailand, I didn't have that high of expectations in the first place. Sure, it wouldn't be the United States--not Texas or Boerne or a 900 square foot apartment with central air and heat. But there you go: it's not the United States. And, sure, I'd miss my family and my three or four friends, but what is life if you don't go fucking crazy and just pick up and move to Thailand?
At 2:30 in the afternoon, I've been staring at a computer for 6 straight hours today, and though I don't have that warm beer buzz yet this afternoon, I am starting to realize why that "Move to Thailand" voice is getting louder and louder.
Ugh. I don't think I even know where Thailand is on a map.
15 October 2009
on Health and Health Care
I'm torn. I am too poor to afford Health Insurance but I do not want anyone else paying for it for me. I'm supposed to be a good Conservative here, but I'm torn.
Before my recent medical debacle, I have always considered myself a fairly healthy person. I eat right and don't like dessert. I don't really exercise that much, but I love being outside, and figure that I get enough exercise being mad and storming around the office all day, running amok when possible.
But the time has come for my fantastic medical insurance to run out. And I mean fantastic. I had coverage for anything and everything thanks to my short time at the Express-News. Obama (yeah, I know) even extended my COBRA coverage and helped me pay for it--and I didn't even have to ask him!
However, now I must ween myself off government assistance and dive into the world of the self-insured. Self-employed, self-sufficient, I might as well be self-insured, too; right? One small problem: I flat out can't afford it. I cannot afford to pay some dude to sell me some other dude's promise that IF I get sick I MIGHT have some financial assistance for it.
Perhaps I am way too uneducated on public policy to even begin to understand this debate. Or too conservative at heart. Or something. Do conservatives even have hearts? Anyway. I'm torn, and I don't know that there is any easy answer besides "Get Richer."
Before my recent medical debacle, I have always considered myself a fairly healthy person. I eat right and don't like dessert. I don't really exercise that much, but I love being outside, and figure that I get enough exercise being mad and storming around the office all day, running amok when possible.
But the time has come for my fantastic medical insurance to run out. And I mean fantastic. I had coverage for anything and everything thanks to my short time at the Express-News. Obama (yeah, I know) even extended my COBRA coverage and helped me pay for it--and I didn't even have to ask him!
However, now I must ween myself off government assistance and dive into the world of the self-insured. Self-employed, self-sufficient, I might as well be self-insured, too; right? One small problem: I flat out can't afford it. I cannot afford to pay some dude to sell me some other dude's promise that IF I get sick I MIGHT have some financial assistance for it.
Perhaps I am way too uneducated on public policy to even begin to understand this debate. Or too conservative at heart. Or something. Do conservatives even have hearts? Anyway. I'm torn, and I don't know that there is any easy answer besides "Get Richer."
08 September 2009
on The Horrible yet Undeniable Fact that One Cannot Possibly Repossess Lost Time
I was sitting on the couch a couple of evenings ago, watching Seinfeld re-runs on TV, scratching my way-too-spolied cat under his cute little chin, when it struck me: I am sitting on the couch, watching Seinfeld re-runs on TV, scratching my way-too-spolied cat under his cute little chin. Not just any couch: my couch. Not just any TV: my TV. And not just any cat: my cat. All these things are mine mine mine.
Wow, I'm vapid and narcissistic and it's only 9 p.m.!
But back to me: for a fleeting moment, I looked around my wonderful and wonderfully clean apartment and realized that I am proud of myself. I am proud of the efforts I have made to be who, where, and what I am today. I'm a pretty decent person, though sometimes I drink too much. I'm mostly nice to people, and believe that getting through the day with a smile on my face is one of my best qualities. I have an amazing job that I absolutely love and wouldn't trade for anything, I have a cat who wakes me up in the morning with cold little nose kisses, and I have a fireplace. A fireplace!
For a 23 year old with bundles of student loans and a car that I don't actually own, I think I'm doing pretty well. I work, I make money, I pay bills, and I buy myself a bottle of wine at the end of the week. I'm happy; I'm supposed to be.
I guess this is the point in my life and in this ridiculously redundant blog entry that I go ahead and admit it: I would give anything to NOT be where I am today.
I remember when I could stay up till 5 or 6 in the morning, crash for a 40 minute nap, and then ace a final exam at 8:30. I want it back. I remember when I could sit down with a different group of friends every day for lunch, happy with pizza or Ramen or an extra-large Coca Cola from the fountain. I want it back. I remember vodka and kool-aid, the ability to study for 48 hours straight, the sanity to deviate from a schedule for a road trip or a trip to the room down the hall.
There was a piano in the practice rooms in the music building; a grand piano, and the keys were perfect. It wasn't always in tune. It didn't matter. I had a magical card with a magical magnetic strip that would open the door to this magical piano. Maybe I just miss that card the most.
Jeanna, here's your lesson: the couch that's yours, the TV that's yours, the cool orange light-up flowers and the Teflon frying pans don't mean shit without the things that actually do mean something. And since, it seems, I can't get those things back--no Coates or piano practice rooms or hammocks and 6-packs--I must do my best to get them again.
I feel like I'm writing fiction, or a terrible Lifetime screenplay. But it's how I feel: I want these things again, the things that aren't "things," but memories and smiles and laughter and energy. And I will have them.
Wow, I'm vapid and narcissistic and it's only 9 p.m.!
But back to me: for a fleeting moment, I looked around my wonderful and wonderfully clean apartment and realized that I am proud of myself. I am proud of the efforts I have made to be who, where, and what I am today. I'm a pretty decent person, though sometimes I drink too much. I'm mostly nice to people, and believe that getting through the day with a smile on my face is one of my best qualities. I have an amazing job that I absolutely love and wouldn't trade for anything, I have a cat who wakes me up in the morning with cold little nose kisses, and I have a fireplace. A fireplace!
For a 23 year old with bundles of student loans and a car that I don't actually own, I think I'm doing pretty well. I work, I make money, I pay bills, and I buy myself a bottle of wine at the end of the week. I'm happy; I'm supposed to be.
I guess this is the point in my life and in this ridiculously redundant blog entry that I go ahead and admit it: I would give anything to NOT be where I am today.
I remember when I could stay up till 5 or 6 in the morning, crash for a 40 minute nap, and then ace a final exam at 8:30. I want it back. I remember when I could sit down with a different group of friends every day for lunch, happy with pizza or Ramen or an extra-large Coca Cola from the fountain. I want it back. I remember vodka and kool-aid, the ability to study for 48 hours straight, the sanity to deviate from a schedule for a road trip or a trip to the room down the hall.
There was a piano in the practice rooms in the music building; a grand piano, and the keys were perfect. It wasn't always in tune. It didn't matter. I had a magical card with a magical magnetic strip that would open the door to this magical piano. Maybe I just miss that card the most.
Jeanna, here's your lesson: the couch that's yours, the TV that's yours, the cool orange light-up flowers and the Teflon frying pans don't mean shit without the things that actually do mean something. And since, it seems, I can't get those things back--no Coates or piano practice rooms or hammocks and 6-packs--I must do my best to get them again.
I feel like I'm writing fiction, or a terrible Lifetime screenplay. But it's how I feel: I want these things again, the things that aren't "things," but memories and smiles and laughter and energy. And I will have them.
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