The shirt read, “Don’t worry, I’m on 500mg of fukitol.” I knew it was going to be a long week. The gym was packed with meatheads, yelling out their rep count while trying to forcibly teach innocent bystanders to powerlift. “This is how you isolate the rear delt.” I put on my music, stared at the bulging neck and muscle shirt, and then mentally went somewhere else. The treadmill springy beneath my Topos. Sweat flicking and flying up and on the machine. Outside, the Gulf of Mexico slipped by silently under a cloud of diesel smoke.
The crushing heat began in Galveston, followed me to a fake city in Mexico, then on to Cozumel and back across the Gulf.
I was here on a mission. Day four out of five. Perform for a few hours, do my thing, dust off the photographic memory, and try not to miss anything. Whatever thoughts I had about photography were reinforced as time went by. This is not for me. Not like this anyway. Walking down a rural Mexican road cut from the jungle. Every bone in my body thinking, “This is precisely what I should NOT be doing.” Situational awareness a nine out of ten. Clothing soaked through. Small paths to the right and left. Just keep walking. Hope the dogs don’t find me.
“I got my second citizenship in Iraq,” he said as we haggled over a bottle of tequila. “Iraq,” he said, rolling his eyes and making a pained expression. “It was Hell.” “I’m not a war guy, it’s so stupid,” he added. I buy a beer and a bag of Mexican Doritos, which have clearly been designed and fabricated by the Gods. So much better than ours. “Excess calories, excess salt” reads the bag. Perfect. Massive piles of seaweed line the beach, held at bay by miles of netting. The Gulf is warming too quickly. Hundreds of nautical miles of dead zone, with strung-out patches of growth. Not good. This is not good, but the tropical drinks flow from the pool bar, and nobody onboard seems to notice. Most sit facing the sea, scrolling Instagram or TikTok, random clips of stupidity designed to numb them from the real world passing by in liquid blue.
My internet doesn’t work, and that’s just fine by me. Being disconnected is SO profoundly good. I dance closer to the edge of the dancefloor and begin to wonder what it would be like to just step off and not look back. See you all later, much later, or never. Don’t worry. I’d pop up again, somewhere, like a police report or most wanted poster. Gone walkabout, Mexican style. A little corn with chili, sand between my toes, and a shifting address that can’t quite ever be pinned down. Just keep moving, plenty to see here.
Galveston brings back memories from 1987. My head shaved, uniform, cramped quarters and the nagging question of “Why did I do this to myself?” E Company, Third Platoon. Engineers. Shine that buckle dipshit. Pinging off the coast of South America. A young Danno, clueless, but suddenly exposed to a real photographer. That moment, somewhere off the north coast of Brazil put the hooks in me, and they are still firmly embedded. No use trying to shake them now.
Galveston on the return is awash in birds. New species for my prying eyes. The blue turns to brown as development cranes spot the horizon as America embraces sprawl and build at all costs, regardless of the price to us or them. There is a sense of gloom returning to America. Even the guy in the “Trump Was Right About Everything,” hat looks hungover and depressed, and admits he’s not happy about a bevy of things. But his hate of “the other side,” keeps him pushing dead ideas and self-inflicted wounds. “Best of luck, my friend,” I say.
The roadway west of Houston is lined with endless strip malls. A hundred miles of everything and nothing. Gas stations with over one hundred pumps. Shoulder to shoulder inside. “This entire place will be gone in twenty years,” he says. “Replaced by something else.” “Maybe,” I think. “But I sure as shit won’t be here to see it.” No way. I’ll be gone, somewhere else. I’ll be getting out while the getting is still somewhat good. A sailboat? Sea kayak? Motorcycle? Bicycle? On foot? Crawling? Whatever it takes.
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Welcome back, Dan! I loved your the way you machine gun your thoughts—fast and furious. 🙂
Author
That’s a complimentary way of saying it….but you are correct. I just sit and let it flow. That comes from the daily notebook.
Brings back good memories of D.F.Wallace’s essay “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.”
Never a doubt you will always stick with the real name of the Gulf 🙂
Author
Everyone is sticking with the real name. Those who aren’t are the truly lost. And someone else recommnended that essay!! Thank you!
Love this, Dan!
Author
Thank you. I would do this all the time if I could..
Things sure have been quiet around these parts without ya!
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I sometime forget I have this site….
I bet you’re on 600 mg of fukitol, though. Always gotta be better than the next meathead.
Author
I’ve got it in an IV drip.
My wife is a hospice nurse and has found 60o mg of fukitol to be an effective elixir for most ailments.
Author
We all need to up the dosage.
A wonderful way to start the week …..thanks ….. a glimmer of hope for humanity.
Author
Oh yes, the spark is there, regardless of how our leaders are trying to snuff it out.
Danielsan…So many thoughts, so many directions, so well written. As for your end-thought. I fear I’m getting too old now and will most likely be forced to go down with the ship. That said, I hear the multi-billionaires are all building bunkers in the few areas that would survive a multi-target launch. One of which, has some of the best dry fly fishing in the world – doesn’t seem right – It isn’t (let me know if you make it, I’ll send you the list of flies needed).
Author
I’m studying to be a Ninja. It will help getting to the best water left.
Mate… sounds like you took a one way cruise through existential hell and racked up more emotional mileage than a busted Hilux doing laps of the Nullarbor. But hey, you survived……. mostly thanks to those “Fukitol” lollies you’ve been popping like Skittles, building up resistance to the shitfuckery of modern life hehe. Speaking of which, I could do with some Fukitol myself but with Trump’s tariffs about to smack us around, I might have to switch to the local stuff… maybe a few Notmyprobleminols, Aussie made and proudly apathetic 🙂
Anyway, good to have you back and firing on all cylinders.
Art, I’m guessing the word “shitfuckery” never garners the response, “what does that mean?” That’s why I’m adding it to my list of descriptive curse words…Thank you.
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It’s a GEM.
Glad to be of linguistic service, Jeff. Use it wisely, or recklessly either way, it gets the bloody point across.
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Poleaxed is another great word.
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“Shitfuckery” is one of the best words EVER.
“Galveston, oh, Galveston
I still hear your seawaves crashin
While I watch the cannons flashin’
I clean my gun, and dream of Galveston….”
-Glen Campbell
Never been to Galveston the place, but it lives in my mind….
first heard these lyrics when I was 13, and knew then that we were in trouble.
Dan, stay out of gyms…..and when I hear the words AI, that’s when I reach for my revolver…..
Author
I photographed Glen Campbell in Phoenix in 1993. At his house. At least I think so. I remember his smile and wondering “How did I get here?”
I caught this as I wait in line. I’ll timed spur of the moment gambit to transfer ownership of a vehicle. Bye bye Landcruiser, hello Lexus. 22-year-old Lexus.
Cooling my heels without book, notebook or camera. The Milnor teachings haven’t sunk in I guess?
I did mention this was unplanned. I’m supposed to be sweating my behind off working on a clients deck.
I’ll look for the fukitol T-shirt later.
Author
what year Cruiser? What model? I had an 1983, FJ60, four speed in faded sky blue. My dad had a 1973, FJ40 bobtail. And the first generation of the modern cruiser which was an underpowered gas hog but a GREAT vehicle.
It was a 1994. Not necessarily as cool as an FJ60 or FJ40, but it was fun. My wife didn’t really dig riding in it or driving it. The 10 mpg was a bit silly too.
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I think my parents had one of those.
Sailboat…has to be the sailboat!
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I dream of sailboat. And clear, skinny water.