OctoberTime

Bathroom Poetry & Art

My First Birthday Party

On the Road

I've been avoiding too much personal stuff lately for some of the obvious reasons, but I am moving out, up, above and beyond and am feeling back to myself again. I have moved back to the city, gladly, and have (I know, I know) begun working again. It's about time, I realize, and am so glad to be breaking the patterns I was living under. The best part is seeing a pattern and stopping it before I get ingrained in it. Anyway...

I was putting in the braces for shelves where a doorway was once usable for my new roomie. I grab from the shelf above me a random book. Trying to find one that is adequately used just in case I screw one up and pull out ON THE ROAD by the, need I say, venerable Jack Kerouac. Is venerable the right word? I'm not sure. BUT, that's not the point...the point:

The point is, I knew then (as I had suspected before) that I was indeed living with a person I could enjoy living with. That's not a slant or slice against anyone else, but it feel like a fresh start altogether. I met her about a week before we moved in together on the very first night that she got to New Orleans.

Her name is Emilie. She had never been to New Orleans and was out grabbing a beer with her boss. I was on the street having left listening to a friend of mine play music on Frenchmen Street. Glad not to have to set up or tear down anyones' sound stuff that night, I was hanging out with my college friend Art from ye old frat days. I was showing Art and his sister, who had previously lived here, around town. Why, cause I think they're fine people. I noticed that, inside of D.B.A., there was a couple pointing out the fact that I had a mohawk.

I couldn't rightly let that go and went in and started talking to them. It was her first night in NOLA and in need of a place to stay within a week. I was sleeping on a friend's couch and had the same timeline for getting out, so we started a partnership in earnest to find a place to live. Yada yada. There aren't any details worth gossiping of babbling about...we're new friends and we're roommates. Starting anew, breaking the patterns, moving forward...

So, Emilie, the new roommate is cool. We get along well. On the Road and other book selections and musical interest and all that other shit reinforce that we can share the same space together comfortably. And, for all those interested in my well being, she reinforces the positive side of Dingler that you all know and love. If, you indeed, know and love me. So, three cheers for the brotherhood of mankind and the willingness to talk to strangers...so long as they aren't too strange.

PEACE,
REX

On or around the 5th of October

Friends, I would like the below photos to serve as a warning to all who think it's a good idea to make a bet with an Irishman in an Irish bar. Many of us may reflect on the Irish as leprechaun-like people who say cute things and wear green, but being mostly Irish myself, I know better. Or at least I like to think I know better.

Me, Carlsbad, New Mexico, 2006


Me, Trinidad, Colorado, 2006


I think I was somewhere in the mountains, 2006


Me, New Orleans, Louisiana, 2006


Me, New Orleans, Louisiana, 2006

FACES ARE SECONDARY

What worship do we have
when faces are secondary?
What span of millennia is registered
and voted for as the most beautiful?

Everything modern becomes inconsequential-
the focus of happiness fades, people become real.
Stereotypes fail and fall away
as hours melt, the past a clear blur.

Facades crumble into pebbles, dust
and even I become vacant, superficial.
Reality becomes itself unguised
and intrigue vanishes into folklore-
all mystery needed nevermore.

-Both the poem and the painting were done in July of 1998 by yours truly-

Christ's Ship of Fools

We’ve all been born sad on Christ’s ship of fools,
that's the people who make the real money,
a stagnant beat that corrupts the honest trades.
Trades, huh? Yeah, I traded my life
for what I thought was right,
but it wasn’t a factor in my diminishing growth, my decline.
There’ve been too many times I should have
been truthful – it would have been fruitful –
a cornucopia of scream genie magic.
What a fucking tragic life
my life has been, too many times I have sinned
and been marked as a wanted man in a tainted land.
I’m playing this hand, but I haven’t been dealt
any aces, I’m just learning all the paces
back and forth screaming to the cypress knees,
too many times I have been there and begged please-
only to be looked at like I’m disease-ridden,
but free, free to live a life of solitude.

Michael J. Dingler & Trey Gerkin
Oct 2006

Po-Boys, poboys and poor boys...

A friend of mine recently sent me an email asking about the nature of the supposed greatness of New Orleans po-boys. So, this is a quick description and a little bit of a 'don't you tell me your yankee subs can beet out po-boys any day of the week.' In the spirit of our friendship, I posted the response and am keeping her name anonymous for her own safety from the po-boy patrol. It begins like this:

Your question about Po-Boys is not such a simple one to answer because the greatness of New Orleans Po-Boys is such a "great thing" that it cannot simply be explained. It has to be understood in such a way that you've experienced it. And, experienced it in the right places. But, if were to sum it up in a quick, let's cut to the artery on things, it's all in the French Bread. Sure, the northern mind could say that it's nothin' but like a hoagie bread. However, it's nothing like a hoagie bread. It's like the sandwich bread that Jesus would have made had he been a baker instead of a carpenter. We make all sorts of sandwiches together with them and when I figure out how to do it, maybe I'll send you a half loaf of french bread. I say a half loaf because the full loaf is a yard long. I'll try to go to one of the bread places so that it is freshly made and it'll won't be all grody and shit by the time it get to you. Since I got a bunch of stamps, I may even try and send it overnight (d'pending on the price) so that you can then understand. We even have french fry po-boys that the dress and poor roast beef po-boy gravy on. Yum. You are missing out on food like all-fuck down here! But, yes, it IS much different that a hoagie and a sub. So, the simple answer is da bread.

And, what's the rage? No rage, we just always done rolled like d'at. And as for your commentary about your subs beating our po-boys...Only a philly cheese steak from Philly could beat one of our po-boys (if the bread is fresh). So don't get all uppity on d'at one. And if I could send you a roast beef po-boy, dressed, 'extra sloppy' without the end result in the mailbox being tragic...or a fried oyster po-boy...or even a french fry po-boy, you'd have a change of heart. What I'd normally write is that%2

I Hop

The dining experience at IHOP is indeed a worthwhile one, if it's a new one. I recommend the new one in Metairie by the Days Inn on the Service Road South. To show you the sheer joy of a dining experience, I've enclosed a picture. The old IHOPs may still be questionable.

AND, an honorable mention goes out to my Irish friends who supported and were there for the moral support of the new haircut. My the sun always shine on your rosy ass.