Memories: listening to Red Foxx standup on 8-track while playing pool in Gramma's basement
In a recent chat with my friend Brent -- somehow got onto the topic of comedians, and how there are no good ones anymore -- he mentioned Red Foxx...
Can't hear that name without being reminded of hanging out with my cousins in my grandma's basement, shooting pool and listening to a Red Foxx standup routine on an 8-track player that she had down there. My grandma & grandpa went to the auction in Minot every single weekend, and always came home with boxes and boxes of random junk. A lot of times grandma would just buy boxes for $1 without even knowing what was in them. Anyway, she had all sorts of 8-track tapes down there -- Meatloaf, Kool N The Gang, and the Red Foxx are the ones I remember most.
"What's the difference between a pickpocket and a peeping tom? A pickpocket snatches watches."
"Sometimes, you get up in the morning... (long pause) ...and that's too much for ya."
And thinking about grandma's basement... They had a barroom with those swinging saloon doors -- we loved those. An actual bar with bar stools, those neon beer & liquor signs, rows of bottles on glass shelves... Can't forget this one large neon beer sign that looked like an ocean with little fish that moved from right to left, for some reason found it fascinating. We'd always hang out in there, and my cousins would always say they were going to drink some of the brandy but I don't think they ever did. Thing I remember most about the bar, though, was the snake: they had a dead rattlesnake all curled up and preserved in a jar below the bar in one of the cupboards (I believe my uncle caught and killed it). Every time we were there we had to take it out and look at it.
I also remember that they hat a satellite dish -- one of those 20-foot-tall installations in the back yard -- and since we only had 4 channels, this was the coolest thing ever. But truthfully the only thing we ever seemed to find worth watching was "The Dark Crystal," which seemed to be on every single time we were there -- I'm pretty sure I saw that at least 7 times at their house...
Thinking about this now it makes me sad that they're both dead, the house sitting empty and falling apart.
I'm also sad that my wife Kari never got to meet Grandma, and neither did Abbey (step-daughter, now 13) or Oskar (now 14 months). She was a wacky and eccentric lady.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
"to exterminate all those bugs and pests. That's your latest traffic."
I'm always amused at how they include ads as though it was part of the news story -- without missing a beat or changing tone in any way. Is this supposed to trick the listener's brain into thinking the ad is true and credible or something? Cause all it does is make it harder to take the news seriously...
Middle of the night. Going out of my mind trying not to drink. In an inner city somewhere, in a very small squalid apartment, living with Kari but no kids. I'm in college and have recently realized how much shit I have not done/handed in, and how many classes I have skipped. Wandering around town, going to bars but not drinking.
These two dark-skinned blokes are playing a weird game where they throw little needle-like darts at each other. The pins are several inches long but extremely thin, and they stick into the skin. I get in on the game, and I am not used to this so it is quite excruciating -- I have hundreds of these long pins stuck into my hands, arms, face, neck, chest... But for some reason it is a release and I enjoy it. Derek Smith is there -- "hey, I didn't know you played!" -- and he's telling the other blokes about how some friends of his take it very seriously, and instead of straight pins they use darts with long curled pins that burrow down beneath the skin when they hit you and are really hard to get out again; he shows us a picture of a guy's arm, you can see the metal spiral pushing up beneath the skin.
At some point I realize the other "team" is not throwing darts but wielding chain saws, machetes, and the like. I can't figure out how this can be part of the game...
When I decide to go home I have to pull them out and give them back to the guy -- it's his special kit and he keeps them in a special leather bag.
When I get home I realize I've still got tons of them stuck in my skin. Kari is worried about me, because she thinks I did it to myself. I try to explain to her...
At some point I am going on a violent rampage, completely enraged and out of control. I can't remember if I get drunk or not...
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
I slowed down while passing because it looked like there must be a huge accident.
Turns out, just bored cops.
You can't quite see all of them in the picture, but there are 7 cars pulled over at one time (actually 6 cars and 1 scooter). While I was sitting there, 3 more were pulled over before my eyes.
Here's the scenario: an unmarked police car (black Dodge Charger) is parked along a side road at the bottom of a hill (where of course gravity naturally makes you go slightly over the speed you were going unless you slam on the brakes [which can be dangerous because the person behind you is likely to rearend you]) with a radar gun. He radios ahead to his group of 4 or 5 squad cars on another side road further up and says "pull this car over." When you get there, one of the 6 or more cops standing around points at you to pull off the road.
I was going the same speed as the two cars ahead of me, and the car behind me. Why I got the luck of the draw I don't know... (Must be cause I'm white.)
When the cop finally came back with my license he asks "What are you taking pictures of?" I just sort of gesture and say "all this" -- but in my head I'm like "Seriously? Look around you, pal -- this is insanity -- I've never seen anything like this in my life. Who authorized this bullshit?" (The guy on the scooter was actually taking pictures with his phone as well.)
To top things off, I wasn't wearing my seat belt. Yeah, this is going to cost me some rubles...
Since apparently cops have nothing better to do than this, if I hear one more person say "there aren't enough cops on the street" I'm gonna punch them in the ear.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Some day when Oskar asks me where babies come from, I will tell him The Stork brings them. And when he asks me why people die, I will say The Stork took them. So watch out for The Stork -- he can come for you at any time. (Especially while you're sleeping.)
Dream: local homicidal madman ("The Butcher of Baghdad") in Minot
Disturbing dream...:
Minot. Alone. Driving around what is an extremely run-down slum of a neighborhood -- the corner of Broadway and University Ave. Make a wrong turn into the driveway behind this one particularly dilapidated house on the corner, and I see a body under the wheels of this ancient beat up pickup truck. Looks like it's been dead a long time, and was just left there. I drive around the dirt back yard, just trying to turn around and get out of there, and all over the yard I see piles of corpses -- stacked up in piles -- and stray body parts. Most of the people are dark-skinned -- black? African? Middle Eastern?... Now I stop. I call 911 and explain. I wait... No one shows up. This is Minot -- they should have been here in 5 minutes, 10 tops... I call Kari and tell her what's going on; while I'm talking to her, I see this guy drive up in another really old, smoky rusty huge car. I see his face -- he looks foreign, like an Arab. He sees me. I panic, and get the hell out of there -- but I park nearby to try and watch him, or see what I can figure out. He's brought back more bodies in the back of the car, and is chopping them up in the yard. Now I hear screams -- the people aren't dead, they're being dismembered alive...
I keep thinking: how is nobody aware of this?? It's right out in the open. And why aren't the police here yet?...
I eventually discover that the guy is an Iraqi, who immigrated here along with a very large extended family and many other Iraqis from different tribes; there are tribal and religious feuds, more aptly called gang wars.
I learn that the police are well aware of the situation, but are ignoring it because they feel that "The Butcher of Baghdad" (as they call him) is helping them out -- cleaning up the streets, getting rid of the immigrants, and essentially doing their job for them. He is sort of a private joke for them.
Later I am stuck in the back of that big car. He doesn't know I'm there, I'm hiding. Another big old car pulls up; the driver has brought more bodies, seemingly as payment for something. I can't understand their language. But it seems this payment is not enough, so the driver turns and says something to the person in the passenger seat, who then cuts off one of his fingers and offers it as payment...
I hear thunks, screams. The windshield of the car is splattered with blood. I hide on the floor in the back seat of the car and try not to move or make a sound...
I can't remember any more...
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
In his 11 years in the Washington Legislature, Representative Mark Miloscia says he has supported all manner of methods to fill the state’s coffers, including increasing fees on property owners to help the homeless and taxes on alcohol and cigarettes, most of which, he said, passed “without a peep.”
And so it was last month that Mr. Miloscia, a Democrat, decided he might try to “find a new tax source” — pornography.
The response, however, was a turn-off.
“People came down on me like a ton of bricks,” said Mr. Miloscia, who proposed an 18.5 percent sales tax on items like sex toys and adult magazines. “I didn’t quite understand. Apparently porn is right up there with Mom and apple pie.”
Nearly all of languages investigated begin counting on the little finger of one hand. In some cases, the left hand is specified as the starting hand, but in most the count may start on either hand. The count then proceeds through the fingers of the starting hand, then to the thumb and then up the adjoining arm to either the head or chest. The count next proceeds down the other side of the body until it ends at the little finger of the other hand. Figure 1 shows the count for Anggor, a language spoken in the West Sepik Province.
Anggor includes the wrist (6 and 18), forearm (7 and 17), elbow (8 and 16), upper arm (9 and 15), shoulder (10 and 14), breast (11 and 13) and the sternum (12) in its tally-system. The count ends at 23 and it is customary to call such a system a 23-cycle system. For counts above 23, such systems would usually continue on with a phrase like "one man and " begin the count anew. (Although see Saxe, 1981 for a count that proceeds back up the arm in the reverse direction.)
The Faiwol body-part tally-system is an example of one that includes counting locations on the head. This 27-cycle system is shown in Figure 2. The inside of the elbow is counted 8 and 20 in Faiwol in contrast to the outside elbow in Anggor. Eleven and seventeen in Faiwol are counted at the collar bone.
There is great variation in the cycle length of PNG body-part tally-systems. Cycles of length 12, 14, 18, 19, 22, 23, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 35, 37, 47, 68, and 74 have been reported. When the cycle length is odd there is usually a unique midpoint to the count that is located along the person's line of symmetry (e.g., the sternum in Anggor and the nose in Faiwol). Table 3 summarizes the cycle-lengths of PNG body-part tally-systems and gives the midpoint location for cycles of odd length.
Miriam is unique in having three count locations on the body's line of symmetry (Lean ,2002, Vol. 12, p.36). Yupno differs from all other languages in several ways. First, the count in Yupno proceeds back and forth across the body with 6 -10 being counted on the right hand after 1 -5 is counted on the left. Second, the toes are included in the count with 11-15 on the left foot and 16-20 on the right foot. Finally, Yupno includes locations below the waist with 31 counted at the left testicle, 32 at the right testicle, and 33 at the penis. (Wassmann and Dasen, 1994, p.84).
. . . . . . . .
The relationship between the words spoken while counting, and the body part referenced, is complex. Lean (2002, Vol. 12, p.2) observes that "body-part tally-systems tend to fall into two types: 1) those in which all tally-words have a body-part referent, and 2) those in which the first few number words are numerals with no body-part referent, the remaining tally-words all referring to body-parts."
Baruga, spoken in Oro Province, is of particular interest here because of the generality of the spoken words. The Baruga body-part tally-system is a 22-cycle system that begins with the little finger of the right hand . Baruga counting is shown in Table 4. Notice that the counting must be visual since the word "doro" stands for 3,4,5,19,20, and 21. Baruga counting also is unique in including the left eye before the central nose and mouth, thus breaking the vertical axis symmetry pattern.
. . . . . . . .
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Ah, how grand it is to hear this on a semi-weekly basis -- especially from the mouths of children.
Recently I noticed that my niece kept trying to over me cheese all the time. Every time we were at their house, "Here, eat this cheese." "Hey, try this cheese!" "Hey, dustin: try this cheese and see if it's bad."
"No, that's o.k." would not suffice as a response.
"NO! EAT THIS CHEESE!!"
Things came to a head when my step-daughter Abbey put a bunch of cheese in my cereal. Naturally, I responded by placing several chunks of cheese in the chicken-noodle soup that she had just warmed up. She was so annoyed and revolted that she refused to touch the soup, threw it in the trash, and berated me. My bemused laughter at her only made things worse...
Eventually I found out someone had told her that eating dairy products is supposed to make smoking taste bad, afterward -- so she was actually just trying to help me quit smoking.
While this explained a great deal, all I could think was, "No, actually, if I eat some cheese, I'm just going to think, 'Well, I've just had a meal: time for a cigarette.'"
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Oskar speaks! (In a manner of speaking. ... That is to say, makes sounds... Of the monosyllabic variety.)
10:24, 61MB*
*I realize this is a huge file, and this will only interest you if you are a member of my immediate family; if you are not, feel free to disregard. Thank you for your time.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
The Time I Had To Hawk My Souvenir $5 Canadian Bill To Buy Enough Gas to Get to the Used Record Store to Sell my CDs to Buy More Gas to Get to Work the Next Day
Have I mentioned yet that I am now gainfully employed? No? Well, I am gainfully employed. There: I've mentioned it.
And have I mentioned how grateful I am to have a fucking job? Answer: really fucking grateful.
Not that being unemployed doesn't have its perks. Like, umm.... Well, o.k., "perks" isn't really the right word... Maybe... "quirks"...
Such as this little episode, which I was recently thinking about.......
So you know how it is when you're on your last dollar and wondering how you're going to make it 'til the next paycheck? Or, rather, how you're going to make it until the next loan or miraculous discovery of a bag of money? And you're digging through the pockets of all your old coats and pants and pulling up the cushions of not only the couch but every chair in the house in search of enough change to buy a loaf of bread and maybe a 2-liter of Coke and -- if you really dig -- a pack of cigarettes?
Well, on this particular occasion, we didn't find enough change to buy a Snickers, let alone a pack of Luckies. (I think we had already resorted to the desperate nickel and dime search earlier in the week.) And we desperately needed to put gas in the car in order to get to work the next day and etc., lest our situation become all the more desperate....
The logical question that comes to mind in this situation is: What do I have to sell?
Once in a while I'll realize I actually have a lot of unnecessary electronic equipment lying around -- extra hard drives full of digital video -- mainly recordings of CSPAN and History Channel that will never be watched, from back when I had a Tivo-type-thing for my computer. A few minutes on CraigsList and I'm in the money! (Not MUCH money, mind you, but enough to eat.)
No such luck this day. Aside from selling my computer -- the sole source of income for me at this point (I was scraping together a few bucks here and there doing freelance graphic and web design -- on those rare occasions when people would actually pay me...) -- or my car -- actually, no, we had already sold that... Or my kidneys.....
The next obvious thing to sell, of course: CDs and DVDs.
After all, you can't whine about being broke when you've got a stack of these taking up space on your shelves. (The shelves themselves, of course, would be the next thing to be sold...)
Fortunately, there was a little independent music shop near our apartment that bought and sold used albums -- not for much, of course, but when you're desperate and hungry, $2 for a CD you haven't listened to since Bush's pappy was in the White House seems pretty damn good. (By the way, that's not meant to be a comical hyperbole, but an accurate estimate.)
So we begin the search: finding those 5 or 6 CDs and/or DVDs which A.) do not suck, and B.) [this is the really tricky part] do not look like they've been used as cat toys, coasters, and/or hockey pucks.
Then the inevitable debate ensues: "Is it wrong to sell that which was given to me as a gift? And, more to the point, given to me as a gift by you?"
"Well..."
At some point we come to an agreement: "O.K.: I don't mind if we sell the Tom Waits CD you gave me for my birthday, if you don't mind if we sell the Dimitri Martin DVD I bought you for YOUR birthday.".....
Most of the CDs I still possess are somewhat rare and obscure -- which is why I haven't ripped them into iTunes and sold them already. So I'm hesitant, but... well, I'm desperate.
So I toss them all into a paper grocery sack and head to the local record shop -- a hippy-ridden store called "Know Name Records" in which the reek of patchouli is so pungent that you will literally choke from the god-awful smell upon exiting your vehicle in the parking lot. Once actually IN the store, well, god help you. (Let's just say you don't want to browse the racks without a gas mask...)
I pretend to browse for used CDs while waiting for the hippy behind the counter to examine my wares and determine their resale value.
He calls me over: the moment of truth: ........ "Sorry, I think we'll have to pass on these."
WTF????
These are my rarest and most valuable CDs! I'm selling these only out of sheer desperation! Don't you underSTAND?!
He does not.
Back in the car, on the way back home, to work out Plan B. (Hoping I have enough gas left in the car to get back home to work out Plan B, that is....)
"Those fucking hippies have no goddam taste in music," I say as I (thankfully) return home.
"They didn't buy ANY of them?"
"Fuck no."
All is not lost, however: there's another local music store, "The Electric Fetus," which sells all sorts of great and eclectic music, including lots of local bands, and also buys and sells used CDs. I KNOW they'll buy my John Zorn and Secret Chiefs 3 and Mike Patton and my Miles Davis box set... The only question is: Do we have enough gas to get there?........
It seems extremely unlikely. When that little "out of gas" light on the dash starts flashing, you have to ask yourself: "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well? DO ya?" There could be a gallon in there, or there could be just fumes -- it's difficult to say........
Plan C.....
I remember that I have a couple secret boxes downstairs filled with random stuff -- old rolls of undeveloped film, notes and post cards from years ago, keep sakes and suchlike.... I rummage........
Yes! There it is: the Canadian $5 bill I've had since I was about 6 or something, from some trip my family took when I was little! I've had this since I can remember. Used to think it was worth something -- because it was unique and interesting to me -- then later thought it was worth something still -- because it was from this trip and had "sentimental value" -- and now I KNOW it's worth something: $5 fucking goddam [Canadian] dollars, to be exact! YES! That's at least a gallon of gas!!
Shit is lookin good. All I have to do is buy some gas with this, then head to the "Electric Fetus" and sell my wares, then use that money to buy some more gas, and we're SET (for a day or two, anyway...).
With great optimism I head out the door.
For some reason I suspect that paying with Canadian currency might cause trouble. So I decide to go to the nearest gas station I know of where you can pump the gas first, THEN pay. I put in less than $5, and head inside.
They do not accept Canadian currency. FUCK.
Now what? I've already taken their gas.
"This is all I have," I explain. "You can keep the change -- I just ran out of gas, and this is all I've got."
"Sorry, we just can't take it."
The guy next to him seems as confused and annoyed as I am: "Seriously? We don't?"
"Nope, says right here." (Pointing at a little note taped to the counter.)
"But it's worth more than American."
(Guy shrugs.)
(Other guy shrugs.)
FUCK.
O.K., I've got the gas in my car. I can now make it to the Electric Fetus.......
"I guess I can try to go find a bank and exchange it..."
"Yeah, you'll have to, I guess."
"If there's still a bank open..."
"Yeah..."
"Or, I could... If I can just go talk to my wife, I think she's got some cash -- I just -- this is all I have on me..."
(pause)
"Well, yeah, but, like..."
"I mean I'd leave this, obviously."
........
Finally he agrees that if I leave the Canadian $5 bill, I can leave and come back later with some REAL money, and then we'll set things right.
Thing is, there IS a bank open -- a Wells Fargo, and they're less than a block away. I run over there, confident now that things are gonna work out...
Turns out, they do not exchange Canadian currency.
That's right, you read that correctly: the FUCKING BANK will not exchange Canadian currency for American currency.
Why? Don't bloody fucking ask me. They just don't.
(It is possible that they will exchange large amounts, just not a single $5 bill. But they did not tell me this -- perhaps just so that I would not look/feel like an asshole. A stupid broke asshole trying to exchange a keepsake from his childhood for a lousy 5 bucks to buy a lousy gallon of goddam gas with in order to get to the fucking used record store in order to sell his stupid old esoteric CDs in order to get some money with which to buy some MORE goddam overpriced gas with in order to get to work the next day..... That's possible, too........)
At any rate, at that point all I could do was head for the "Electric Fetus" as fast as I could, sell my shit and get back to the gas station before they closed to set things right and not have my license plate listed with the "fuzz." (As I call them.)
As luck would have it, the good folks at the "Electric Fetus" paid me top dollar for my obscure bizarro music, and I walked out of there with over $30. Bought some gas, bought some smokes, even bought myself one of those awesome Mom's egg salad sandwiches from the cooler to kill the hunger pangs.
Life was good.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
That Actually Sorta Smells Good -- In A Weird Sorta Way.....
Whenever you hear (or think) these words, beware...
I was just heating up the Quesadilla maker (which my co-worker Kate generously gave us -- no doubt because she got tired of trying to clean the goddam thing), and after waiting for it to heat up I thought... "Hmmm... That actually sorta smells good -- in a weird sorta way... Sort of like those flat breads that you get at the State Fair........."
But when I went to insert the tortillas, I opened the thing up to find a crusted horrid mess of burnt cheese and former tortilla and egg (I think?) and beans and god-knows-what-else.
Not so much appetizing.
Nevertheless, I cleaned it, and shall now place tortillas upon its surface and eat the result. Whatever that may be........
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
This isn't the first time my 12-year-old step-daughter Abbey has decided to quietly deposit my cigarettes in the trash receptacle. (I managed to dig them out -- at least the ones not covered with bits of coffee grounds and Cream of Wheat...) It is, however, the first time she has thrown them on the lawn and proceeded to smash them to bits with a badminton racket.
Later, I go to get a cigarette from the pack on the night stand, and imagine my surprise when in the box I find not sticks of tobacco, but rather this:
That's right: some delicious Cap'n Crunch cereal.
Any annoyance that I might normally have felt was instantly obliterated by helpless laughter.
I mean, did I light the bits of cereal on fire and try to inhale the fumes? Sure. But I had a bemused smile on my face as I did it -- and, well, that's a start...
The trick I've found to quitting is to just identify those times when you smoke the most. So all I really have to do is stop smoking while driving, for example. Or in the morning with my coffee. Or after eating. Or on breaks at work. Or when drinking. Or after a long day at work, or when streesed out, depressed, angry, or anxious. Or, when every cell in my brain and body is telling me I just really need a fucking cigarette...
Should be easy enough...
Especially after I found this perfect smoking replacement at the local gas station (didn't know they still made this stuff!) :
Yes!
Or, I could just switch to one of these brands :
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
So I bought a new -- which is to say, very old but different -- car today, and I'm super excited about it.
Why? Well, because it runs.
Which is pretty much all the guy said when I went to look at it: "All I can tell you is, it runs. I don't know how, but it just runs."
It's a 1991 Mazda MX6, with over 250,000 miles on it. It looks about as old as it is -- paint peeling and fading, several dents -- but runs like a fucking top. Your basic beater.
I was dead set on buying a moped -- and had my eye on one of these on CraigsList:
( My brother Shane had an awesome Vespa :
but some cracker stole it while he was out of town... )
Anyway, I guess pragmatism ( and Kari's vehement dissent ) got the better of me...
Anyway, got to thinking about all the cars we've owned, between my wife and myself, in the past decade or so. It's fairly ridiculous:
'73 VW bug (which I rolled and destroyed). Made me very sad. It was one of those souped-up Baja Beetles, with an absurdly loud exposed engine in the back and huge tires and roll bars and etc. Probably would be dead had I been driving a normal Beetle...
'86 (?) Dodge Colt -- worst car I've ever had. Bought it with around 60,000 miles on it, for a few grand; it was nothing but trouble and lasted barely a couple years. POS. After paying once to retrieve it after it was towed, the second time it got towed (because after doing a 180-spin on an icy hill and ending up parked in a snow bank facing the wrong direction, I couldn't get it out nor could I get it started in any case), I just said fuck it and let the city keep it. Good riddance. The jumper cables and text books in the back seat were probably worth more than the car, at that point.
A '79 Datsun station wagon -- this car RULED. 4-speed stick shift, rusty as hell, seats shredded and covered with duct tape, smelled like oil, and when driving at highway speeds for great lengths of time you had to turn the heater on full-blast to keep the car from over-heating. But I loved it. (Also I remember it had only a sliver of wiper blade on the driver's side -- so it made this hideous maddening screech whenever the wipers were going.) Made at least 3 trips, as I recall, from Minot, N.D., to Minneapolis and back one summer to look for apartments, and never broke down. Eventually the clutch finally went out. (And, yes: we did push-start and drive the little bugger many times before finaly parking it and then giving it away for free. [I was actually really pissed off that no one wanted it -- and almost, out of sheer spite -- put a new clutch in it so I could just keep driving it... It was a GREAT FUCKING CAR, just needed a clutch...])
A '76 Volvo wagon that I bought at the Salvation Army (yes, I'm not kidding) in Minot. Love Volvos, but this car gave new definition to the term "lemon." What I remember most about it was that I kept having issues with the fuel system -- replaced the fuel pump twice (the second time left the car stranded on the side of the road about an hour from town, after stalling on a trip to some cabin for a theater party). Mechanic figured out that there was some sort of lining in the gas tank which was peeling off and clogging the fuel pump -- so they had to take the tank off, clean it all out, etc. Even after this the pungent gasoline smell permeating the car did not go away -- this got worse the fuller the tank was. Oh, yeah: and the gas gauge didn't work. This meant: you had to constantly guess at how much gas you had left (the smell was somewhat helpful in judging), and then fill the tank JUST A LITTLE BIT -- never over half a tank, or you'd risk passing out from the fumes while driving and veer into oncoming traffic -- but enough to keep you going for a while before the next refill.... Yeah, that was fun...
When I first met Kari she drove an old Nissan -- which was a great car, except that the passenger door would not stay shut, so she had to tie it shut with string wrapped around the door frame and tied to the seat belt or some goddam thing.
Perhaps because she had a child, and this car did not seem the optimal choice of transportation in this situation, she bought a sweet old Jeep Grand Wagoneer -- the brown kind with the wooden panels on the side. V8, 4-wheel drive, the whole 9 yards. A lot of fun to drive in the winter in N.D./Minnesota. Eventually had to sell it because it got approximately 8 gallons per mile. (This reminds me of our nightmarish move to the cities. Perhaps that will be my next post........)
After selling the Datsun and the Volvo, I bought the best car I have ever owned: a '93 Subaru Legacy wagon. Had over 150,000 miles on it when I bought it, I paid $1,500 for it, and ran it with NO problems until it had over 250,000 miles. Finally, the brakes gave out (had I been better at maintenance, this probably would have been avoided, but alas) -- the cost of replacing calipers, rotors, etc. on all four wheels was at least $800. So I decided to sell it for $400. But that thing ran like a brand new fucking car. I almost wish I'd just fixed the brakes and kept driving it....
Bought an old ('89?) Hyundai something-or-other. Hatchback, 4-speed stick. Nifty little car. A bit loud. Can't remember what happened with that, but I do remember learning that Hyndai's weren't exactly as good back when they were first built as they are today...
An '86 Toyota Tercel. Reliable little car, though it had trouble with things like acceleration (e.g. merging onto the freeway...) and traveling over 65 mph... Ran it till it pretty much died.
An '86 Audi -- 4-cylinder 5-speed manual, miles unknown (odomoter didn't work, but I think it read around 200,000). Bought it for $500, just needed a new exhaust system, ran it without any trouble. Ended up selling it, for some reason, to our friend Paul... Who proceeded to abandon it in a goddam field, for some reason. (Paul, WTF??) Good car, well worth it.
An '89 (??) Volkswagen Jetta. Solid car. Great boxy little thing with some character. Bought it for $450 and finally sold it when we were so behind on our mortgage payments that we were considering selling our internal organs...
**UPDATED: forgot about ye ol' Mazda MPV mini-van (and yes, Kari, it's a mini van. Just because the back door opened like a regular door instead of sliding open doesn't make it a station wagon : ) ) Gotta insert that here -- cause I do remember that was right before we bought our first non-ancient vehicle. (MPV was great, by the way, but used a bit o' gas, and the breaks, I think, or the front axel was dying so we sold it.)
A 2000 (?) Kia Rio. (Great cars. Unfortunately they don't have much resale value, for some reason, though...)
A 90-something Mazda Protege -- actually, THIS is the worst fucking POS car I've ever had. Drove it for less than one day before it started on fire -- on our way out of town, miles from home. Took it in to Firestone to have them look at what was wrong with it, and they basically said, "Yeah, someone went to great lengths to hide a whole lot of shit that's seriously wrong with this car. I wouldn't even try to fix it -- it's going to cost you about $3,500 just to do all the diagnostics on this thing..." And so, to the crooked fucker who sold me that car: I hope you get mugged, beaten senseless and then urinated upon. And then beaten some more.
Finally we broke down (so to speak) and bought a newish, fully-functional and reliable car: a 2003 Hyandai Elantra. Pretty much the perfect car (o.k, except it's not a hybrid). No problems yet.
And now: the ancient Mazda. We shall see........
Believe it or not, this list now actually seems rather short to me. It just seems like we've had SO many bloody cars....
This is what I'd really like to drive again:
But, well, I don't feel like driving to Montana.
"So, what's with the 'Cats' part of the title of this post?" you may be asking (assuming you're still reading this, which is very, very unlikely indeed)...
Well, that's another area where it feels like, Holy Mother of Fuck, how many of these have we HAD??!!!
Here's a list:
Moved to Minneapolis with three: Keeshawn, Tinkerbell, and ... shit, I can't even remember the third one right now...
Little Brother. I remember coming home one day, and there was Kari, sitting on the couch with a tiny little baby orange and white kitten cuddled next to her. What could I do? (He is, though, pretty much the perfect cat.)
Lickey (So named because, well, she liked to lick people. She would simply lick your hand, and never stop.)
Smokey. Ah, Smokey. Kari and Abbey went to the pound to look at the cats, and saw this poor sad looking guy, fat and old and completely shaved (clearly he'd had mats all over his fur, which could not be combed out), shy and timid but loving... We had to have him. But, the other cats ended up trapping and terrorizing him........
Grey Pie. (Yes, you read that right: "Grey Pie." Because, as Abbey quite logically explained, "Because he's grey! And I like pie!"
Crooshanks... O.K., there's sort of a story here... My friend Mary came to visit from Montana, and along the way (somewhere around St. Cloud) at a gas station saw this poor cat hanging around -- super friendly and sad-looking, tail and ears frozen off, hungry... She asked the people at the gas station if they knew whose cat it was, they said, "Nah, just a stray, probly." And of course she couldn't just leave him there, so, she took him with her. And left him with us. Which is fine -- he really was quite possibly the nicest cat I have ever met. However: in addition to his putrid smell, he was not fixed... He proceeded to impregnate all of our (3) female cats. We found out later just how quickly he had "gotten down to business" : all three cats gave birth in one weekend. That's right: we had three litters of kittens in one weekend. What was amazing about it was that rather than being territorial or protective of their young, all three mothers conglomerated into one basket and joined together as one big group family -- sharing the nursing, etc. We had no idea, after that, whose kittens were whose. (All these cats were basically black and white, so...) So, in short, our cats turned into fucking goddam pinko commies.
One kitten was named (by Abagail) : Blackberry. He was pure black (obviously), scrawny and sickly, and we tried to bottle-feed him and keep him healthy, but he died, and we buried him in the backyard. (I remember that well, because Abbey wanted us to "say something," like for a funeral, but I had nothing to say... But I knew she felt really sad, so I tried, but it was difficult for me...)
Was "Zebra" one of those kittens? I think so...
And then there was "Chewbacca," who we kept also -- and who freakishly makes a wookie noise -- I kid you not -- when he speaks. But we had never heard this when he was named. Some predestination, apparently...
We had another batch of kittens -- just before FINALLY getting Chewbacca fixed -- and they were absolutely the cutest, cuddleyest, sweetest kitten I've ever seen. One of them -- horrific story -- got his tail chopped off in the paper shredder. He was playing with the shredded paper in the basket, and somehow managed to step on the "shred" button and turn the thing on, just as his tail happened to be near the slot... That is one of the more horrific experiences I can recall -- the sheer sound of his screams, and his desperate flailing about, and my own yelling in horror, and trying to hold him still while trying to turn the thing off, and then reverse it so that his little tail would come back out, and him feeling as though I was the one hurting him, and scratching the living shit out of my hand, blood all over it.... Yeah, that was no fun. And then afterward, seeing the end stub of his tail cut off and stuck there underneath, in the blades of the shredder.... *shudders* But you will be happy to know that he went on to live a perfectly normal and happy life, and was as cute as every -- in fact the cutest kitten of the bunch -- long-haired and fluffy, just like his dad.
Anyway... So we managed to give away the kittens to friends of ours, and -- oh, yes: WANDA! Forgot about her. There was a nice lady cat named Wanda, who sort of became antisocial and we ended up giving her away.
Our cats at present:
Little Brother (not so much little any longer)
Chewbacca (yes, he has stayed with us -- and he and I, as Abbey says, "share a love"...)
Zebra (Abbey's favorite -- lets Abbey pretty much do whatever she wants, and hold her in all sorts of contorted positions without complaining or trying to flee...)
Mabel -- the one kitten we kept from the last batch, after -- Oh! Shit, I forgot a kitten. "Popa Di Milo III" -- the perfect little all-grey kitten, who we loved and had planned on keeping -- and had desperately bottle-fed, to no avail... died also. But: Mabel is the one kitten we did end up keeping from that batch -- not all grey, but grey and white (the others were all black), and (at the time) the sweetest of them all. Calm and sedate and loved human contact. Now... well, she's kind of insane, and appears to despise me at times... Ah well.
Binjigate (or, "Binnie," as we call her) Abbey named her after the last name of our good friends Dillon and Emily Binjigate (sp.), and she is a bit aloof, will only be held for approximately 22 seconds, but is quite nice. Cat #5...
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
[ turn your sound on, if possible -- i fortuitously heard this great song on NPR Saturday night ( "Olha Maria" by Gene Bertoncini ), while sitting in the car in the hospital parking lot and eating my rather grotesque Arby's chicken sandwich, and made a note to find it and use it for this here slideshow. ]
No webbed feet (sadly). And unfortunately not a deity, either.
But pretty damn cute, nonetheless. I would say a "good egg." ( And my recurring dreams of having a baby Stewie thankfully proved not to be prophetic. )
Although perhaps that remains to be seen.......
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Everyone in the world is dead except for us -- a small group of people hiding in one little town. The world is filled with these shape-shifters. They have found us and surrounded the giant house that we're in. They sometimes look just like regular people, other times like animals, other times they are surreal beings with horrific demon faces...
There's some kind of key inside this box that they want, also, but apparently they can't open it -- they have to trick us into opening it for them. We're on this balcony on the second floor, and notice some bowls of food, like taco salad or something, setting on the ledge. Someone I'm with excitedly goes to eat some but I stop him because I notice these thin barely-visible strings coming down from above and attached to the bowls -- it's like some pulley system, so if someone lifts up the bowl the string will lift open the box down below... Also some birds keep coming down to eat the taco salad, and we have to chase them away...
For a long time we're fighting the shape-shifters off, keeping them out, etc. -- and we think we're going to make it.
Then the reinforcements show up -- countless numbers of them, thousands, surrounding the place completely. Helicopters, etc. I and some little midget guy find a hidden tunnel under one side of the house, and we crawl down in there -- it's just a huge cellar, dirt floor, stone walls. We hide in there and peek out at the carnage.
Then we hear a noise and go into the next room -- it's a kind of cell. It's open (there is no door), but a creature is in there chained to the floor. We're not sure if it is a human or a shape-shifter, so we leave him there.
That's all I can remember.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Dream: The Underwater World Inside The Pop Machine
High school again. Buying something at the pop machine. Jenny Sellers is next to me, and she invites me somewhere, but just where exactly is unclear.
Somehow we go into the slot in the machine (where you get your soda from) and into this other world -- an ocean. We're not swimming, exactly, but floating under water. Carried away without effort by the underwater current.
Tony Miller is also there, under the water.
We are all naked, and I keep kissing Jenny's legs and thighs.
At some point I'm back in the school -- the last day of senior year. But I've already graduated from college, and had to come back for some reason.
Apparently there's one class that I hated or found boring, and stopped going to. Now I find out that if I don't do such and such -- finish this certain paper and that certain project and write this or that -- I will fail EVERY class and will not graduate.
I am talking angrily with the secretary at the desk at the entrance to the school -- yelling at her: "I've already taken 200 credits in college and got straight A's, and you're going to flunk me for THIS?"
But for some reason it matters -- it's like I'm in some sore of rehabilitation program, and if I don't pass, don't graduate, I'm fucked.
I growl at her through clenched teeth, "If you do not pass me, I will fucking KILL YOU."
I'm incredibly pissed off, but also very anxious -- I have to pass this one stupid fucking class, or I don't graduate.
Somehow I have gone home, crammed in a bunch of paper writing, etc., and am back at school -- turning it in JUST before the school year is out and the bitch secretary has gone home for the summer. (I have no idea whether or not she'll get it, see it, read it, and pass it on to the teacher, etc., in time to change my grade before the final grades have been issued.....)
Now stuck in the street -- no ride, nowhere to go. Somebody is burning meat -- but not burning, exactly: they have this special formula, some kind of translucent clear crystalline gel that they have been soaking this meat in, so that it will cure or something...
I'm not sure who it is, but he says: "This takes out all the rot, all the death. Try it!"
And he offer me some meat. But when I stick my hand in, this translucent stuff sticks to my hand and burns me, searing off my skin.
I am walking through the streets -- angry enough to kill someone -- with huge gaping infected open wounds on my hands and face. I need to get home, but don't want to call home until I know for sure about whether I graduated or not.... If all else fails, I will stay at Eric's house, if he still lives here...
I am back at the school again. In the art room (which did not exist), and all the students have made the most disturbing and incredible images I have ever seen in my life -- I can't stop looking at them, even though they make me literally afraid and a little bit sick...
I'm in the weight room, trying to lift weights -- but can't because every time I move blood starts squirting out of my wounds -- not only messy but also excruciating.
Art room again (waiting for the secretary to return). Karen Healy has drawn all over everyone's art -- stupid juvenile stuff, mustaches and eyebrows on every face, and sloppy words in speech bubbles. It's childish graffiti, destroying every piece.
...................
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Dream: basketball game cancelled due to virus/quarantine
High school, getting ready to take a bus trip for a basketball game -- but I can't find my uniform anywhere, or my shoes. I look everywhere, but my room is full of art and garbage, and the more I dig the messier it becomes. I literally can't walk without tripping or climbing over stuff. I think, "I'm not gonna get to play anyway. Fuck it, I'm not going."
In the locker room everyone is about to leave. Someone finds a uniform for me, and I find an old pair of shoes that should work -- they're not basketball shoes, but actually much more comfortable. Coach Lavachek tells me I can't wear these shoes, cause they're not the right color. "What are you talking about?" I say. He holds up an example of the correct shoe: it's exactly the same, except for a white stripe on mine. I point this out, but he's adamant.
They leave on the bus.
At some point I guess I find what I'm looking for -- or else I'm just going as spectator -- because I'm in the car with my parents, on the way to Des Lacs for the game.
When we get there, it's impossible to navigate because there are no roads in the town -- every square foot between houses is covered with lawn, or gardens, flowers, or fences, or piles of rubbish. We're in a truck or bus now, and I'm driving. We're precariously inching our way along this really narrow concrete ledge, trying not to tip over the side. Somehow make it through...
We're driving faster now when suddenly I notice there's some little kids (toddlers) playing right in front of me. I am able to slow down before running them over. I see my aunt Caroline off to the side, paying little attention -- apparently these are her kids, or anyway she's watching them. This bus has no windshield, so I lean out and look down, shake my fist at them and at Caroline and yell jokingly, laughing, "Get the hell out of the way, you bastards! get off my lawn!" (I am not worried now that I see Carolyn, since she will have plenty of time to grab the little ones and move them out of the way.) She looks up at us, recognizes us but doesn't do anything. I am still moving, and the kids haven't moved, so now I'm sure I'm going to run them over and cannot stop in time. Now I'm enraged and terrified, yelling at her. ........ I can't remember if I run them over or not.....
We park somewhere and get out. This nice, somewhat old lady is tending her garden, raking leaves or something, and she smiles at us and says, "What are you doing here?" "We're here for the basketball game," we tell her. "Oh, goodness, no. Oh, that was cancelled, wasn't it?" "Not that I know of." "Well, it should have been. You'd better leave. I'd get out of here as soon as you can." Crazy old lady? She goes on, "It's not safe, haven't you heard? There's a virus going around, it's contaminated the whole town." O.K., she's standing outside... Crazy lady, clearly.
But then it occurs to us that the town appears empty -- she's the only person in sight...
A car drives by, spraying huge jets of water from each side -- sort of like irrigating or spraying weeds, or spraying for mosquitos. I think it's water, and since I'm hot and thirsty, I let it wash over my head and face, and open my mouth wide to drink some of it.
My dad suddenly, without a word, turns around and starts running back the way we came, toward the car. (I have never seen my dad run like this.)
Apparently there is indeed some horrible chemical contaminant engulfing the town -- and I'm not sure if this spraying car was responsible for spreading it or trying to control it, but in either case clearly I should not have drunk this stuff or gotten it all over my face....
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Dream: Grandma crashes pickup, chased by bear, man comes back to life
Dream: 3/7/08
On the farm. Parents are gone for some reason. We have to do some work, though. Grandma Eva is driving the ancient International pickup — Kari and I next to her. At 96 years old she has never gotten a driver’s license or learned to drive — and this is evident. She swerves all over the gravel road — even more so because the steering on this old rusted pickup is so loose that you have to turn the wheel about ¼ turn in either direction before anything actually happens. But when I look at her, she is not nervous in the least. In fact she’s smiling and having a great time. I am sure we’re going to go into the ditch. I tell Kari to tell her not to drive on the edge of the road, where the huge lumps of sod are from the maintainer — but too late, she’s already over there…
We go into the ditch. Grandma keeps driving as though nothing happened. Over and around little lakes, huge mounds of earth, pieces of concrete drainage pipes. Bouncing up and down like crazy…
This ditch is much deeper than I thought, too. I look over to the left side (next to the road), and notice there are some deep caves dug into the side of the ditch. In one of them I see a bear – or think I see one… “I hope that bear doesn’t come out after us,” I think to myself…
At some point the inevitable happens: grandma plows into something and rolls the pickup over.
We get out and try to push the pickup back up onto its wheels – lifting the back end. As we’re doing this, I see/hear the bear coming behind us. We manage to get the truck flipped over, get back in and drive – the bear now chasing us…
Then we’re on the farm again, working on the pickup, I think, by the garage. I’m in the big pen next to the barn, feeding or doing something… There’s no cattle in there except for one giant bull — and he sees me and decides he doesn’t like me in there, charges as I run and jump the fence. But he breaks right through it — the biggest bull I’ve ever seen — and now HE’S chasing us… With the dog I manage to get him back in the pen. I find a plank to fix the fence with — there are a bunch of them pre-cut the perfect length, and I realize this must happen frequently. But while I’m trying to fix the fence, the stupid bull gets out again…….
At some point we find an old man lying in a field, near death… He dies in front of us. We put him in the garbage can in the back of the truck, close the lid, and take him into town.
When we get there and take him out of the can, he still looks dead — but I notice his stomach moving slightly. He’s still alive. He opens his eyes, looks at us. It really is as though he was dead and came back to life — he is so happy to discover that he’s not dead, he jumps to his feet – now seeming years younger.
……….
Later on, dad is home, and he asks what I’ve been doing all day. I start to tell him the whole story, about grandma driving, crashing, the bear, the dead guy, etc. Then it occurs to me: wait a second, grandma can’t drive… And I realize that it was a dream (in the dream). But then what DID I do all day? I can’t for the life of me think of what I actually did while they were gone, so I don’t know what to tell him…
...
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
I’m back at Minot State University, but the school seems larger and more complicated to get around in. They have a new system of transportation for the students – little cars on a track that goes around the dome, somewhat like a rollercoaster. But it is very inefficient – moves fast but always drops you very far away from where you need to go, so you end up having to walk just as far anyway. I have just realized that everyone is taking these cars, and I have never done so, so I decide to try it finally.
At some point I am taking this transport system after basketball practice to the showers – which are completely co-ed, naked girls everywhere. I am stunned. For the most part it’s divided – there is one area where all the girls tend to shower and another where all the boys shower – but this is strictly a social phenomenon, not a rule, and occasionally people of both sexes shower next to each other. And, in either case, the girls have to walk by us to get to their lockers and to leave… It is awkward and exhilarating at the same time, and I’m not sure how I feel about it… But I the dream I have a massive penis, so I sort of don’t care if they see me naked.
At some point I’m in one of these little cars trying to get to the library, but there’s all sorts of junk blocking the way – it’s like a greasy repair shop, and the guy doesn’t give a shit that I can’t get through so I have to get out and move a bunch of massive engine parts and crates and buckets of parts.
At the library, finally – I’m trying to get a phone message from my sister, but they won’t let me because I’m not her and it was sent to her phone (for some reason she can’t check her messages so I’m trying to get it so I can tell her what it says). Security is very tight and everyone is suspicious – you can’t get from room to room without a pass card and someone checking you over…
In the library there are a bunch of books of mine – inked prints and weird collages and random art combined with poetry that seems to simply combine words together at random. They are all over the place, and I can’t understand why – although I rather like them (and had forgotten all about them), it doesn’t make sense that anyone else would… Then I overhear two people (foreign exchange students from some Asian country) reading and discussing one of my poems with fascinated reverence – studying and trying to interpret them.
Another part of the dream I think I’m in Glenburn (high school). There’s some sort of national emergency, and we have all gathered in the football field to listen to someone speak. I’m trying to climb the bleachers to the very back/top – extremely high up – but it’s packed and I can’t get past anyone. Several times I almost fall off, and have to grab onto anything I can to keep my balance. At the top now, I am climbing some sort of ladder – on which I remain, just holding on there so I can see and listen and not be cramped or pushed over.
I have no idea what is said. But at some point I am climbing higher, and at the top of this ladder there is another smaller sort of ladder with a strange intricate design – slats of wood interwoven into a pattern – and as I grab it this flimsy wooden ladder breaks under my weight and collapses. Somehow I manage not to fall.
Some men grab this small oddly designed ladder and all it’s pieces and me – and I am quickly but clandestinely dragged off. Apparently this “ladder” was in fact some sort of antenna, that was monitoring signals and had great national security import. (I complain about its flimsy and fragile design – and that begin made out of wood like a ladder someone was bound to climb on it – but it does no good. They are furious.) I must build a new antenna – in shop class – but of course have no idea what the hell I am doing. So I just try to imitate the design of the old one. Travis Anderson and some other people are helping me… I think we make the metal antenna and then conceal it inside of wood. Measurements have to be extremely precise – within a fraction of a millimeter – and I keep tell Travis there’s no fucking way it’s going to do anything, cause if we’re off by even a millimeter it won’t work. But he seems confident…
Another part of the dream I and some others were re-shingling the roof of the garage on the farm – and there was something really strange and mysterious about it but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was… So never mind.
THE END
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
And then went on. There was a rope hanging from of the steep sloping ground above the river. She be known that i owe something to you over this de belgique, 1887). He distinguished five ossiferous just come through the window and was standing same general hue, gave me the idea that they, just liked to have someone a bit ' different,' a large kettle hung from a chain over itfountain ford, and quietly took the press and types and he has killed her. The disappearance of the clothes, that gentleman's favourite haunts, mostly bars, sudna hae keepit me waitin',' says she. The lad to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the hated her father and is glad that he is dead, even on that warm september morning it was damp.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)
Before assassinating JFK at the age of eight and fleeing to Cuba, the late Dustin Hansen single-handedly initiated a campaign to get popsicles shipped to Ethiopia. He has been awarded numerous grants by the American Association for Woman Taxidermists and has toured universities across the globe with his seminar "There is More Than One Way to Skin a Cat." In 1743 Hansen was one of three crippled midgets responsible for organizing the first Nudist Leper Colony For The Blind in Lithuania.
In his later years he could be seen on dance circuits across Siberia where, on his off-hours, he struggled to liberate proletarian workers by giving each of them Nintendos and chocolate bars. After suffering a nervous collapse at age 12, he moved to Antarctica, where he lived and wrote plays and manifestos until his death. He is believed to have been swallowed by some kind of fish.
