(no subject)
Holy crap, my cousin's a beatnik.
Well, technically I doubt he's doing beat poetry in bars, 'cause he was never the type for bongos, much less poetry, but he's got the look pretty well down. He's wearing a lot of black and he's got a little triangular goatee and 'stache and his hair's below his ears and it was a sight to see. And he's got a tattoo he's managed to hide from our grandparents for months. This would be less remarkable were it not that a) he's always spent quite a lot of time with our grandparents (long story) and b) it's on the inside of his wrist. It's not an enormous tattoo but it's a good inch and a half by two inches, so that's a bit of a feat. He said he'd been folding his arms a lot.
That, and the eyebrow piercing, and the "My Chemical Romance" hat, and the "Avenged Sevenfold" wallet (as well as the idea inspired by said wallet of tattooing a skull with bat wings across his shoulders), has made me wonder if the car accident he was in a year or two ago might not have affected him a little more than he tends to show. He's always been sanguine about it, but it was the sort of thing that really might shake a person.
I might as well explain. A year or two ago, my cousin was in a car wreck. He was the only one in the car, and as I recall, the only one seriously hurt; I don't recall where exactly the fault lay, but I think it was probably on both sides. His car was pretty well totaled; I know because they've still got the wreck of it in the back of my grandparents' yard, and he insisted on showing it to me. I don't know why, but he pointed out the remains of the driver's seat to me with a smile on his face, and hearing about the incident has creeped me out a bit since then.
Which is bad enough on its own, but let me give you a piece of useless advice: never get sick in Marianna, Florida. I realize this isn't the sort of thing you generally have a choice about, but if you can make it to the next town, it really might be worth the risk. Justifying this statement: they only had one surgeon; this surgeon nicked an artery; this surgeon then went off to vacation; this surgeon then dismissed several nurses' and doctors' calls telling him that they were pretty damn sure his patient was bleeding internally; it took at least several hours (maybe even a day or two; I don't get told too much about these things, and remember even less) to persuade this surgeon to return from his vacation, at which point his seventy-year-old physician father (with shaky hands) was threatening to go on and do the surgery himself if his son didn't show up. So, based on this and other incidents, I would suggest if you're ever sick in Marianna, beg the paramedics to go to Tallahassee or Dothan. The extra drive might be far less risky than arriving at that hospital would be.
A nurse apparently told him he nearly died three times; the rest of the family isn't so sure about the number, but it impressed my cousin enough that the tattoo he's gotten is a spade with three skulls inside. He said something about the spade and some card game in which it means you get another round, but he was pretty vague about it and I don't know a damn thing about card games. We got talking about the incident this afternoon, though it's never something I'd bring up; I don't even know what to do with the memories of helping him with homework assignments and Hooked On Phonics, a near-death experience is out of my reach entirely. He said he talked to God but he can't remember what he said. I don't think it's the sort of thing he'd make up, but I'm not convinced I'd know anymore. Just because he tells me things he doesn't tell anyone else in the family doesn't mean I know a damn thing about him.
He's never seemed fazed by the incident, but that's probably stranger than if he'd broken down or broken up: but probably I wouldn't know if he had. I wouldn't be there and I wouldn't be told, because I was the baby of that family until my cousin Mallory was born, and I'm starting to suspect that in a way, I always will be. In some ways, anyway-- it doesn't entirely make sense, because I was never the one they thought they had to take care of.
So I guess I'm just wondering who he is, what he thinks about these things. But I don't know how to ask, and I suspect he doesn't think about them at all, and I suspect that I might not want to know the answers. I suspect even more strongly that I'm overthinking the whole damn thing, because I suspect that's my default state. I submit the whole of this journal as evidence. :)
I can relate just about any song to a fandom-- so much so that I wonder what would happen if I actually tried-- but it occured to me recently that "Hook" by Blues Traveler might possibly be the most perfect song for Ten ever. Of course, I have my biases. And I don't know every song ever written. But it even has a bit near the end where the singer talks way too quickly about nonsense. The more I think about it, the more perfect it gets. And there's your completely irrelevant opinion of the day. :)
Well, technically I doubt he's doing beat poetry in bars, 'cause he was never the type for bongos, much less poetry, but he's got the look pretty well down. He's wearing a lot of black and he's got a little triangular goatee and 'stache and his hair's below his ears and it was a sight to see. And he's got a tattoo he's managed to hide from our grandparents for months. This would be less remarkable were it not that a) he's always spent quite a lot of time with our grandparents (long story) and b) it's on the inside of his wrist. It's not an enormous tattoo but it's a good inch and a half by two inches, so that's a bit of a feat. He said he'd been folding his arms a lot.
That, and the eyebrow piercing, and the "My Chemical Romance" hat, and the "Avenged Sevenfold" wallet (as well as the idea inspired by said wallet of tattooing a skull with bat wings across his shoulders), has made me wonder if the car accident he was in a year or two ago might not have affected him a little more than he tends to show. He's always been sanguine about it, but it was the sort of thing that really might shake a person.
I might as well explain. A year or two ago, my cousin was in a car wreck. He was the only one in the car, and as I recall, the only one seriously hurt; I don't recall where exactly the fault lay, but I think it was probably on both sides. His car was pretty well totaled; I know because they've still got the wreck of it in the back of my grandparents' yard, and he insisted on showing it to me. I don't know why, but he pointed out the remains of the driver's seat to me with a smile on his face, and hearing about the incident has creeped me out a bit since then.
Which is bad enough on its own, but let me give you a piece of useless advice: never get sick in Marianna, Florida. I realize this isn't the sort of thing you generally have a choice about, but if you can make it to the next town, it really might be worth the risk. Justifying this statement: they only had one surgeon; this surgeon nicked an artery; this surgeon then went off to vacation; this surgeon then dismissed several nurses' and doctors' calls telling him that they were pretty damn sure his patient was bleeding internally; it took at least several hours (maybe even a day or two; I don't get told too much about these things, and remember even less) to persuade this surgeon to return from his vacation, at which point his seventy-year-old physician father (with shaky hands) was threatening to go on and do the surgery himself if his son didn't show up. So, based on this and other incidents, I would suggest if you're ever sick in Marianna, beg the paramedics to go to Tallahassee or Dothan. The extra drive might be far less risky than arriving at that hospital would be.
A nurse apparently told him he nearly died three times; the rest of the family isn't so sure about the number, but it impressed my cousin enough that the tattoo he's gotten is a spade with three skulls inside. He said something about the spade and some card game in which it means you get another round, but he was pretty vague about it and I don't know a damn thing about card games. We got talking about the incident this afternoon, though it's never something I'd bring up; I don't even know what to do with the memories of helping him with homework assignments and Hooked On Phonics, a near-death experience is out of my reach entirely. He said he talked to God but he can't remember what he said. I don't think it's the sort of thing he'd make up, but I'm not convinced I'd know anymore. Just because he tells me things he doesn't tell anyone else in the family doesn't mean I know a damn thing about him.
He's never seemed fazed by the incident, but that's probably stranger than if he'd broken down or broken up: but probably I wouldn't know if he had. I wouldn't be there and I wouldn't be told, because I was the baby of that family until my cousin Mallory was born, and I'm starting to suspect that in a way, I always will be. In some ways, anyway-- it doesn't entirely make sense, because I was never the one they thought they had to take care of.
So I guess I'm just wondering who he is, what he thinks about these things. But I don't know how to ask, and I suspect he doesn't think about them at all, and I suspect that I might not want to know the answers. I suspect even more strongly that I'm overthinking the whole damn thing, because I suspect that's my default state. I submit the whole of this journal as evidence. :)
I can relate just about any song to a fandom-- so much so that I wonder what would happen if I actually tried-- but it occured to me recently that "Hook" by Blues Traveler might possibly be the most perfect song for Ten ever. Of course, I have my biases. And I don't know every song ever written. But it even has a bit near the end where the singer talks way too quickly about nonsense. The more I think about it, the more perfect it gets. And there's your completely irrelevant opinion of the day. :)