Coconut Soda

Between this heinous chest cold, the medicine and my recent consumption of the largest drink Starbucks makes… I feel a bit strange. But functional.

Wish I knew what’s going on in my chest that makes it hurt when I lie on my side. But I slept a little better last night, even if I was limited to one position.

***

I’ve made a heinous error regarding Texas Wesleyan: I thought I was going to get some scholarship money from this program they talked about. Turns out it’s only for undergrads though. THAT was an unpleasant surprise.

But I’m not too late to apply for federal financial aid for the fall, so all is not lost.

I broke down and looked into scholarships for Indians. I’m off the hook, as they seem to all want ¼ Indian blood, and I’m about 1/8. My particular blend of bloodlines doesn’t seem to add up to free college money at this point.

***

New job isn’t bad, I’ve gotta be honest. It’s so much more relaxed than BACS was. There’s a level of chatter and rapport here that would raise eyebrows over there.

BACS has just issued a “no streaming media at work” mandate, suggesting employees bring CDs instead if they want tunes.

Gotta be careful there… in ’03 I was chastised in a surprise “interim review” for bringing in CDs. I’m not kidding. And I hardly brought in any at the time since I had Launch.

I've gotta say that chastising me for a bunch of imaginary offenses during that review was probably the most puzzling thing that's happened in my career. I still wish I knew what was really going on.

***

Couple days ago I saw some guys across the street who’d been hired to trim and haul off some trees. Since I still have part of a tree I cut down some time ago in the back yard, I thought I’d approach them to see if they’d haul off my stuff.

I was trying to prepare myself in case they didn’t speak English. Hmm… “Por favor, puedo pagarte para traer mis pedazos de mis arboles...?”

As I approached, one guy stood up. “Hey, JOE,” he said. We started to talk, and his English was okay.

But… that wasn’t a Mexican accent at all, and his features were all wrong.

“Where are you from, my friend?” I asked.

“Tonga.” he said.

***

There’s a big community of Tongans in the mid-cities. Lots work for the airlines, as does Mr. Manisela, the man I hired to haul off my limbs.

They have their own market, and I went in once. BACS was having a potluck lunch with a Hawaiian theme. The Polynesian Market was the most likely place to find something authentic to bring.

A guy in his late teens helped me as I asked what I could bring for our conference room luncheon.

“Well, you could dig a pit and roast a pig…”

Um, no thank you.

Then he showed me this fruit I’d never seen. “You chop it up, strain out the pulp and drink the juice and it’ll give you a REAL GOOD BUZZ, man.”

“Oh, like coffee?” I asked.

“No, stronger… and if the cops stop you it’s not even illegal!”

“Um… I think I’ll just take the coconut soda…”

***

When I was working high school football playoffs last fall, a lot of those mid-cities teams had strappin’ Tongan kids on the line. Plenty reached the 300 pound mark. Some of the names were tough to fit on the jerseys though.

***

It’s Friday… how bad could it be?