The time of reckoning is nigh. I estimate that by 1:00 p.m. Tuesday, October 19th, my car will hit 100,000 miles. I have had very few cars with this many miles on them. I am known as being a little restless with my cars. I normally don't keep them very long compared with most people.
So, the fact that Grandma Marjorie Rubenstein (Ruby/Large Marge the Barge) is becoming a chilioicentenarian is a big deal to me. Today, I washed and waxed her. She cleans up ok, but she definitely looks like she's been rode hard and put away wet a few times.
For instance, there's the beat up trim around the driver's door window where someone broke in the car because they felt as though the stuff in it was misappropriated in my custody. There are the small dimples where the back of the car and some of the roof was ravaged by a pernicious little hailstorm last summer. There are the scars on the rear bumper commemorating the time I backed right into a retaining wall, just as though I meant to. There is road rash all over which despite my best efforts cannot be buffed out and the wheels have a lot of scrapes and brake dust stains on them.
Overall, she still looks pretty good. Sure the driver seat squeaks like a taxi cab and she has a wicked shimmy at 80... and the driver's side power lock doesn't work, and the one touch power window switch for the driver's window is no longer one touch, and it needs a brake job, and some sway bar bushings. The carpets are dirty because the factory floor mats, inadequate from the beginning, are past their sell-by date. But most of these problems will be solved by the bi-annual interior detailing that I will perform tomorrow and the major service that will be performed after I get my next paycheck.
I have a wandering eye and have been searching for awhile now online to find Ruby's replacement. But, I can't make up my mind. Even if I could, the Controller says it wouldn't matter anyway as there are no funds for a new ride.
Basically, I have to love the one I'm with for at least another year, by which time the car will have far more miles on it than any car I have owned. How many cars have you owned, Bill? I am glad you asked because I have every intention of telling you.
My first car was a 1986 Mustang. Navy blue with smurf blue interior. It had a removable moon roof which was wonderful. I loved it. It was my first car and therefore I was able to look past many of its flaws. The main one being it was owned by a woman who I think didn't take too good care of the car. It was $3,500 and my father bought it for me. He had to, by that time he had already bought my sister a fleet of cars that she went through like matches on a windy day. And I was a boy. I named it Griffin. It was terribly unreliable as most cars of the era were. My dad would have to rescue me from being frozen within on the coldest winter days at it would freeze shut. Several times I had to crawl in through the hatch back and out through the aforementioned sunroof.
My second was a 1977 Toyota Corolla so rusted that when I went to buy it, a bird flew out of the hole in the front fender. There was a full-on nest in the fender. It was brown, but you couldn't tell, because there was only intermittent metal held together by impressively large swaths of rust. It cost me $175.00 and it was worth every penny and not a penny more. It was meant to be a winter beater. I bought it in July. It died before winter. It was so comically awful that I did not feel bad when we had a painting party and all my friends spray painted various things like a peace sign and some lewd phrases on it. I also had a million bumper stickers on it, most load bearing. One said "OTAY!" like Eddie Murphy's SNL Buckwheat. I got $75.00 for scrap value after the braked failed and I was quoted $700.00 by the man at Tuffy who was shitting his pants he was laughing so hard. It qualifies as the slowest, ugliest car I ever owned. It couldn't win a drag race with an 88 horsepower Ford Fairmont wagon fully laden with six football playing boys in it. It's name was not polite, so I won't mention it here.
Next was the 1989 Probe GT which was turbocharged to within an inch of its life. It could beat almost anything on the road due to a little "modifying." It had so much boost that it regularly blew the spark plugs straight out of the head. It was a huge step up from the 'Stang. I remember thinking I was invincible on account of all the technology it had. 4 wheel disks with ABS, independent rear suspension, variable rate dampers and I'm sure even more that I have forgotten. I showed my friend Jon how well they worked by cresting a hill at over 100 mph and slamming on the brakes on the down slope for the stop sign up ahead. I expected the car to perform a miracle. We went through that stop sign at nearly 80 mph. thankfully there was no cross-traffic, so I guess the car did perform a miracle. I learned a lesson that day. Her name was Lilly because the sale of some Eli Lilly stock made her possible. seems they had just gotten approval for a little drug called Prozac and the stock rocketed. She was $7,250 and if I could have her back, I would. She was wonderful all the way around.
I bought my sister a 1981 Honda Prelude that much like the Toyota had terminal cancer. It was vaguely blue and well ventilated. It was a 5 speed and had an electric sunroof. I was fond of it. I don't remember what I paid, but it wasn't more than $500.00. My sister needed a car and a Honda is nearly unbreakable. No sooner did she pay me back for the car did she blow it up. When I say blow it up, the Kentwood Fire Department was involved. I never saw that car again. I just took the title to the wrecking yard and paid $25.00 and I didn't own it anymore.
Abigail Blue was a 1998 Ford Contour and my first brand new car. It was navy blue with navy blue interior. It was a V6 with a 5 speed. It was a snappy little number and I liked it. But what a chunk of crap. I couldn't believe I paid $16,000 (a huge sum of money to me even now) for such a bad car.
I traded Abigail in on the first Grand Marquis, a 1998 silver Ultimate. It had been old lady driven said the salesman. I believed it, too since the seat belt smelled like old lady perfume. It was essentially a brand new car with virtually no miles. I paid almost nothing for it. Her name was Grandma Belle, the Broadway Bomber. I loved her, but she got ass-ended in Jersey and the love affair was over. I believe I paid $15,000 for her. That was a bargain and when I traded it in, I believe I got $10,000. The car was basically free.
In came Elwood Blues, the Chrysler 300C which is the most expensive and fastest car I owned. At $33,000 I expected a quality automobile. I loved it so much and still think it is in concept the perfect car. But it was a Chrysler and as such was constructed of 100% post consumer corrugated material held together with spit and the power of prayer. It was plagued with problems, beset with quality issues and the dealership was crap. But they were so popular, that even though I put 70,000 miles on it in two years, I got more than what I owed out of it. And they say American cars don't hold their value.
In came the Mazda CX7, which we leased. It became my wife's car. It was ok. It was pretty and had decent utility. Good stereo. All wheel drive made it sure footed. The car had no name. It never inspired one. That's all that needs to be said about that. I seem to recall the sticker on that being $34,000 but since we leased it, it doesn't count.
In 2006 I officially bought the family Corvette, Bruce. She had been in my life for 18 years at that time. She was my prom ride, my wedding ride and generally the coolest car I have had. She is still with us and probably will be forever. She is like an old movie star, best when viewed from afar in dim light. Too close and too bright and the veneer of beauty gives way to the flaws that permeate her visage. I paid a very fair $7,500 for the car. It is now not worth $5,000. Hey, Dad. Can I get a $2,500 rebate?
I drove what used to be my wife's car, a 2002 Mazda Protege during the CX7 period. It was silver, sharp and peppy, good looking and reliable. I will say it is simply the best car I ever owned. If it was a 5 speed, I'd still own it. The automatic was the only thing I didn't like about it. It has a great sunroof, solid power and never asked for anything but gas and oil. Her name was Lucy. I miss her. she was my second brand new car and was originally bought for Emily. Her sticker was in the $17,000 range, but we paid $15,000. We bought 2 cars in one month from the same dealer, so we got a little deal. We bought her to replace Emily's car, Bo which is the only mention of that shunck of chit I will grant. Lucy's final gift was an amazing resale value that made it possible to buy Ruby.
Emily took the CX7 for a service and saw the preview of the new Mazda6 and said she wanted it. So, we went in, signed the papers and essentially for no additional money (other than continuing our monthly payment) leased Haley. Her lease will be over in October 2011. We may keep her, because I am done buying my wife new cars since she doesn't hardly drive and I am tired of paying so much for something that simply sits in the driveway. Or, we won't replace it and live for 6 months with one car until Ruby is paid off. We can keep Ruby and I can have my new current dream car.
I am totally eying a new Mustang. I think the V6 will suffice, six speed, premium electronics package and sport package. Should run me $35,000 new, or maybe I can find one off lease or repo'd and pay a lot less. That would be ok, too.
Did you count? That's 13 cars mentioned here. The first bought in 1991. That is an average of just under 3/4 of a "new" cars each year. But it doesn't include several I bought and sold for the purposes of making a profit. Factor in those and you can add 7 more which brings us to an even 1 new car per year. A nice round number.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
An Ode to My Felines, Or a CATastrophe in Rhyme.
My bedroom smells like poop. These cats, they run my life.
Despite the best intentions of me and of my wife.
They own the place and know it, they strut around with glee.
They are the boss and show it, no regard her or me.
There's a litter box in my room because one won't go downstairs.
She did it fine for many years but now she does not care.
If we don't place the box up there, her business just goes everywhere.
She'll do it as we gape and stare, our bed, God knows what's under there.
These cats, they run my life.
This one wants to be fed, he rubs my legs and jukes.
I feed him and he eats so fast he gags and then he pukes.
Why can't he pick the hard floor, where it's easier to wipe?
He simply does not give a whit, it's simply not his type.
There's a scratching post that's placed in the middle of the floor.
With all this carpet 'round the house, they don't scratch it anymore.
And the chair pads in the dining room have seen some better days.
The cat that camps in there destroys them with her ways.
These cats, they run my life.
I vacuumed just a day ago but the but house it filled with hair.
It is on the furniture and in the rugs, it's floating on the air.
It is illuminated through the window by the shining sun.
I cannot rid my house of it, I chase it but it runs.
This cat wants some love, the other wants to play.
This cat wants to scratch and that cat wants to spray.
They don't like each other much and I think they don't like me.
These must be the most spoiled cats in all of history.
These cats, they run my life.
Despite the best intentions of me and of my wife.
They own the place and know it, they strut around with glee.
They are the boss and show it, no regard her or me.
There's a litter box in my room because one won't go downstairs.
She did it fine for many years but now she does not care.
If we don't place the box up there, her business just goes everywhere.
She'll do it as we gape and stare, our bed, God knows what's under there.
These cats, they run my life.
This one wants to be fed, he rubs my legs and jukes.
I feed him and he eats so fast he gags and then he pukes.
Why can't he pick the hard floor, where it's easier to wipe?
He simply does not give a whit, it's simply not his type.
There's a scratching post that's placed in the middle of the floor.
With all this carpet 'round the house, they don't scratch it anymore.
And the chair pads in the dining room have seen some better days.
The cat that camps in there destroys them with her ways.
These cats, they run my life.
I vacuumed just a day ago but the but house it filled with hair.
It is on the furniture and in the rugs, it's floating on the air.
It is illuminated through the window by the shining sun.
I cannot rid my house of it, I chase it but it runs.
This cat wants some love, the other wants to play.
This cat wants to scratch and that cat wants to spray.
They don't like each other much and I think they don't like me.
These must be the most spoiled cats in all of history.
These cats, they run my life.
Don Rickles Had a Son...
I have never been too good at holding my tongue. I don't know where I get it from because all my life my parents tried to keep me from expressing myself too much. By that I mean they really tried to teach me about the times when I would do well to keep my mouth shut.
I paid them back by once slapping (yes, slapping) my next door neighbor (rest her soul) for saying something about my friend Chris. My mother will correct me if I am wrong, but I couldn't have been more than 6 years old and Marion was 50 if she was a day. I don't remember the incident to be honest, but I remember the spanking and subsequent grounding. I'm not sure what was said was even slap-worthy. Probably not. But I took offense and went into action. I even had the nerve to admonish her "Don't talk about my friend that way!"
Irene Waterson from church. I was 12. Told her to shut up. She was (I'm guessing) 6,000 years old. She dropped her dentures in the punch bowl upon my display of intransigence. I was too old to spank by then, but I remember the conversation involving very terse words about how I was not making Mommy and Daddy look very good in front of their friends.
Same church, 2 years later. Now a hyper-precocious teen, I was helping my mother in the narthex of the church. It was a table upon which were books for sale. She was just sitting there and I was bored. Someone needed to shill and it wasn't Mom. "Buy a book or go to hell!" was my line. Wonder if that made Mommy and Daddy look any better.
This year alone I have been heard to say the following quotes. to my boss. In person. These are verbatim.
"I have such low expectations of you, professionally and as a human being, yet you continue to fail to meet them."
"I will hit you so hard your front teeth will straighten out!"
"Hang on... We were on mute so you couldn't hear the chorus of laughter on this end. Say that again," (This one was on the other end of a conference call just this Monday).
And many many more. I am like a K-tel records greatest hits of snide remarks. I can't be stopped. They are out in the air before I even know I am saying them. People accuse me of baiting them into saying certain things so I can pull out a line on them, as though I have nothing else to do with my time but sit and think of pejorative things to say to people should the situation arise. And then, presuming I had the time for all that, I would have the ability to create, manipulate and predict a the path of a conversation to the sole end of using said line.
Ridiculous. That only happens sometimes. Mostly my lines are extemporaneous and improvised. They are a sign of my barely contained Id. My Id has Tourrette's Syndrome.
I pour this out on the page because I am very proud of my quick wit and I would never change it. It is what makes me, well, me. But I do recognize that I will never get ahead in this world because I can't control it.
"Play the game, son." was the piece of advice my Father most often gave (and gives) me. And it is a great piece of advice, isn't it? How can you go wrong if you learn the rules, master the strategy and win the game? You cannot go wrong. I know the rules, but I cannot master the strategy because I have to be the one to fight for everything.
I have been called the Chez Guevara of my company. Wherever there is injustice, Chez is called. Wherever there is a person mistreated, used, spoken to rudely, Chez will fight for them. Chez is the man who will lead his people out of the desert. O.k., that last one was a classic mixed metaphor, but you get the gist.
And I can't stop. Because it is expected. And because I simply cannot stop.
I have even gone to new locations, new jobs in hopes of turning over a new leaf. This time I am going to be good. I will recognize the righteousness and wisdom and all encompassing power of the prevailing authority. I will pick up the rope, grab it with all my strength and pull, pull in the same direction as everyone else without question, without care and without stopping!
Bullshit. Like they say, you can go to the end of the Earth and when you get there, you are still there. I wonder is Don Rickles is my biological father. Seems right. Bald, not too attractive, mean spirited in a funny way. Hmmm. Food for thought.
I paid them back by once slapping (yes, slapping) my next door neighbor (rest her soul) for saying something about my friend Chris. My mother will correct me if I am wrong, but I couldn't have been more than 6 years old and Marion was 50 if she was a day. I don't remember the incident to be honest, but I remember the spanking and subsequent grounding. I'm not sure what was said was even slap-worthy. Probably not. But I took offense and went into action. I even had the nerve to admonish her "Don't talk about my friend that way!"
Irene Waterson from church. I was 12. Told her to shut up. She was (I'm guessing) 6,000 years old. She dropped her dentures in the punch bowl upon my display of intransigence. I was too old to spank by then, but I remember the conversation involving very terse words about how I was not making Mommy and Daddy look very good in front of their friends.
Same church, 2 years later. Now a hyper-precocious teen, I was helping my mother in the narthex of the church. It was a table upon which were books for sale. She was just sitting there and I was bored. Someone needed to shill and it wasn't Mom. "Buy a book or go to hell!" was my line. Wonder if that made Mommy and Daddy look any better.
This year alone I have been heard to say the following quotes. to my boss. In person. These are verbatim.
"I have such low expectations of you, professionally and as a human being, yet you continue to fail to meet them."
"I will hit you so hard your front teeth will straighten out!"
"Hang on... We were on mute so you couldn't hear the chorus of laughter on this end. Say that again," (This one was on the other end of a conference call just this Monday).
And many many more. I am like a K-tel records greatest hits of snide remarks. I can't be stopped. They are out in the air before I even know I am saying them. People accuse me of baiting them into saying certain things so I can pull out a line on them, as though I have nothing else to do with my time but sit and think of pejorative things to say to people should the situation arise. And then, presuming I had the time for all that, I would have the ability to create, manipulate and predict a the path of a conversation to the sole end of using said line.
Ridiculous. That only happens sometimes. Mostly my lines are extemporaneous and improvised. They are a sign of my barely contained Id. My Id has Tourrette's Syndrome.
I pour this out on the page because I am very proud of my quick wit and I would never change it. It is what makes me, well, me. But I do recognize that I will never get ahead in this world because I can't control it.
"Play the game, son." was the piece of advice my Father most often gave (and gives) me. And it is a great piece of advice, isn't it? How can you go wrong if you learn the rules, master the strategy and win the game? You cannot go wrong. I know the rules, but I cannot master the strategy because I have to be the one to fight for everything.
I have been called the Chez Guevara of my company. Wherever there is injustice, Chez is called. Wherever there is a person mistreated, used, spoken to rudely, Chez will fight for them. Chez is the man who will lead his people out of the desert. O.k., that last one was a classic mixed metaphor, but you get the gist.
And I can't stop. Because it is expected. And because I simply cannot stop.
I have even gone to new locations, new jobs in hopes of turning over a new leaf. This time I am going to be good. I will recognize the righteousness and wisdom and all encompassing power of the prevailing authority. I will pick up the rope, grab it with all my strength and pull, pull in the same direction as everyone else without question, without care and without stopping!
Bullshit. Like they say, you can go to the end of the Earth and when you get there, you are still there. I wonder is Don Rickles is my biological father. Seems right. Bald, not too attractive, mean spirited in a funny way. Hmmm. Food for thought.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Wonder Woman's Used Car Emporium and Lasso Repair
I have a secret. I am so excited to tell you, but I am afraid you won't believe me. I hardly believe it myself but there are too many things that have happened today that simply prove beyond a shadow of a doubt what I am about to reveal.
My. Car. Is. Invisible. For real. I, and I alone can see my car. I don't know when it happened, or how, but it is true. I got my first clue driving down my street this morning. I took caution coming up to the corner where the other street has to yield. I do this as a matter of course because I have no trust and am generally misanthropic.
Sure enough, since my car is invisible, the Saturn blew the yield sign completely, crossing the intersection at the time and place where the front of my car would have been had I not been so fastidious.
She never even looked. I even gave her the Universal WTF shrug of the shoulder and exaggerated facial strain which brings most other drivers I put that move on go limp and pee themselves.
Maybe, I thought to myself, being of mostly rational mind and the doctor says sound body, (both predicated on the continuing existence of the good people at Phizer), maybe she thought it was a 4 way yield! Then of course the concept of a 4 way yield slowly wafted over me. Getting a 4 way yield to work would be like getting Isreal and Palestine to have pig roast and reminisce about old times.
Therefore, there was only one logical conclusion. My car, and apparently me when I am in it, is invisible.
The next thing happened only a little down the road when at the gas station, while waiting patiently for a pump to open, a car came in from the other side and totally bogarted my pump. Well, if the man had been driving a BMW, I would have chalked it up to general deuchebaggery, but since he drove a Chevy Malibu, I can only assume he did not see me waiting there.
Because I was invisible.
Getting on the interstate a truck did not yield the lane to me, though he could have easily done so.
Because I was invisible.
Later, a woman turned left right in front of a car in front of me. She never even saw him. I stopped short, being able to see the potential for carnage, and only at the last second did she see the other car and the smoke trailing from his wheel wells. To her credit, she gave a little wave of contrition, but was so flumoxed by the fact she had just seen an invisible car appear out of nowhere that she cut off two other cars on the opposing side of the road.
It was then I realized, that every car in proximity to my car is also invisible. It wasn't until there was enough distance between us that the car in front of me became visible to the woman who cut off the other cars, and those cars never even slowed down because that woman too had become invisible!
Amazing! Now, I am at almost 100,000 miles and I never keep a car this long, so I don't know, but maybe it is a latent feature from the factory. You know, the car gets a little worse for wear. Don't take it to the body shop and spend all that dough, your car, and all its imperfections will simply fade from view! Perhaps it is a feature of my extended warranty?
Update:
I guess it was a temporary condition. The officer assures me that he, and his radar can see my car just fine, and that 94 is too fast in a 70. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.
P.S.
The last part is hyperbole (by which I mean a bald-faced lie), I did not get pulled over. Because my car is invisible.
My. Car. Is. Invisible. For real. I, and I alone can see my car. I don't know when it happened, or how, but it is true. I got my first clue driving down my street this morning. I took caution coming up to the corner where the other street has to yield. I do this as a matter of course because I have no trust and am generally misanthropic.
Sure enough, since my car is invisible, the Saturn blew the yield sign completely, crossing the intersection at the time and place where the front of my car would have been had I not been so fastidious.
She never even looked. I even gave her the Universal WTF shrug of the shoulder and exaggerated facial strain which brings most other drivers I put that move on go limp and pee themselves.
Maybe, I thought to myself, being of mostly rational mind and the doctor says sound body, (both predicated on the continuing existence of the good people at Phizer), maybe she thought it was a 4 way yield! Then of course the concept of a 4 way yield slowly wafted over me. Getting a 4 way yield to work would be like getting Isreal and Palestine to have pig roast and reminisce about old times.
Therefore, there was only one logical conclusion. My car, and apparently me when I am in it, is invisible.
The next thing happened only a little down the road when at the gas station, while waiting patiently for a pump to open, a car came in from the other side and totally bogarted my pump. Well, if the man had been driving a BMW, I would have chalked it up to general deuchebaggery, but since he drove a Chevy Malibu, I can only assume he did not see me waiting there.
Because I was invisible.
Getting on the interstate a truck did not yield the lane to me, though he could have easily done so.
Because I was invisible.
Later, a woman turned left right in front of a car in front of me. She never even saw him. I stopped short, being able to see the potential for carnage, and only at the last second did she see the other car and the smoke trailing from his wheel wells. To her credit, she gave a little wave of contrition, but was so flumoxed by the fact she had just seen an invisible car appear out of nowhere that she cut off two other cars on the opposing side of the road.
It was then I realized, that every car in proximity to my car is also invisible. It wasn't until there was enough distance between us that the car in front of me became visible to the woman who cut off the other cars, and those cars never even slowed down because that woman too had become invisible!
Amazing! Now, I am at almost 100,000 miles and I never keep a car this long, so I don't know, but maybe it is a latent feature from the factory. You know, the car gets a little worse for wear. Don't take it to the body shop and spend all that dough, your car, and all its imperfections will simply fade from view! Perhaps it is a feature of my extended warranty?
Update:
I guess it was a temporary condition. The officer assures me that he, and his radar can see my car just fine, and that 94 is too fast in a 70. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.
P.S.
The last part is hyperbole (by which I mean a bald-faced lie), I did not get pulled over. Because my car is invisible.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
The Summer's Gone
Que Lastima! (Oh, the fate!) Summer is put away. The Corvette is washed and in its bed. The swings and chairs and toys of summer out of sight, but not out of mind. Today is one of those early fall days where you can't believe the weather. We in Michigan are often blessed with days like this in October, sunny, 75 degrees, soft breeze. The smells of autumn, the colors of autumn but with the feel of summer.
We won't remember these days come Thanksgiving, however. Usually Thanksgiving is raw cold, windy, ice and snow and muck and yuck. Sometimes we get lucky (2007 for instance) and it is like today. I hope we have a mild winter as I am just positive I can't physically or mentally bide a harsh one.
The retired man down the street enters his season of discontent, running his gas powered leaf blower for 3 hours a day or more, obsessively trying to remove leaves from his yard. He inexplicably starts in the front, which takes forever and then goes to the back. He then sullies his perfect front yard by blowing the leaves from the back, through the front and out into the street. All the way out into the street. Literally and completely standing out in the middle of the street. Apparently they are somebody elses problem at that point.
And back we go to the front yard to remove the leaves he just blew into the yard. Smart. Meanwhile the rest of the neighborhood is going mad at the never-ending cacophony of 2 stroke motor, (imagine being circled for three hours by a jet ski at full song and you get the idea).
Why it is such a production to remove the leaves in such a small yard is beyond any of us. Of course, it may have something to do with not wanting to be inside. Not to mention the droning of the motor helps reduce his hearing, which I am guessing helps him quite a bit when he is inside.If you'd met his wife, perhaps you would begin to understand.
Em and I were walking today and we met up with another neighbor who is similarly annoyed by this daily ritual of futility. I decided we should have little flags, like the ones that mark utilities, printed up that just says 'leaf' and going late at night and impaling the leaves that have fallen, just to torment him a little. Or a lot.
These are the things you live with in the urban neighborhood we chose. We love it. But, I wouldn't cry if I could have a small out of the way place in a wood or along some water to watch the seasons roll into one another in peace. From the stark whites of barren Winter to the slow awakening of Spring, which I am told by people whose eyes are not swollen shut as a result of allergies is a sight to behold, followed by the deep lush greens of Summer and finally the loud pops of color that marshal in the Autumn.
No leaf blowers need apply. In fact, the longer the grass and the deeper the leaves the better. Just me, a cup of coffee a view and my thoughts. That is perfection whatever the season.
We won't remember these days come Thanksgiving, however. Usually Thanksgiving is raw cold, windy, ice and snow and muck and yuck. Sometimes we get lucky (2007 for instance) and it is like today. I hope we have a mild winter as I am just positive I can't physically or mentally bide a harsh one.
The retired man down the street enters his season of discontent, running his gas powered leaf blower for 3 hours a day or more, obsessively trying to remove leaves from his yard. He inexplicably starts in the front, which takes forever and then goes to the back. He then sullies his perfect front yard by blowing the leaves from the back, through the front and out into the street. All the way out into the street. Literally and completely standing out in the middle of the street. Apparently they are somebody elses problem at that point.
And back we go to the front yard to remove the leaves he just blew into the yard. Smart. Meanwhile the rest of the neighborhood is going mad at the never-ending cacophony of 2 stroke motor, (imagine being circled for three hours by a jet ski at full song and you get the idea).
Why it is such a production to remove the leaves in such a small yard is beyond any of us. Of course, it may have something to do with not wanting to be inside. Not to mention the droning of the motor helps reduce his hearing, which I am guessing helps him quite a bit when he is inside.If you'd met his wife, perhaps you would begin to understand.
Em and I were walking today and we met up with another neighbor who is similarly annoyed by this daily ritual of futility. I decided we should have little flags, like the ones that mark utilities, printed up that just says 'leaf' and going late at night and impaling the leaves that have fallen, just to torment him a little. Or a lot.
These are the things you live with in the urban neighborhood we chose. We love it. But, I wouldn't cry if I could have a small out of the way place in a wood or along some water to watch the seasons roll into one another in peace. From the stark whites of barren Winter to the slow awakening of Spring, which I am told by people whose eyes are not swollen shut as a result of allergies is a sight to behold, followed by the deep lush greens of Summer and finally the loud pops of color that marshal in the Autumn.
No leaf blowers need apply. In fact, the longer the grass and the deeper the leaves the better. Just me, a cup of coffee a view and my thoughts. That is perfection whatever the season.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Just One Look
You've got the look
I just got a look. From a woman! It is the first one in a long while, but it was definitely, unapologetically a look. Walking down a long hall, we've seen each other before. She's young and attractive, I'm old and married anyway, so no harm in smiling and saying good morning.
So I do. And she always does the same.
Today, she looked. Up and down, from a long way down the hall and tracked as we got closer. Continuing to look and smile. She was first to say good morning. She kept looking while she did. It was a big smile. If I had turned, I think I would have seen her looking back as she walked on But no, why ruin the moment?
I don't think it was a sultry look, or a flirtatious look. Just an acknowledgment that after a lot of effort as late, I look pretty good. She can see the improvement. The brand new tailored sport coat, perfectly fitted pants and cashmere mock turtle notwithstanding.
What a great feeling, to get a look. It has been a long time. With the exception of my wife, who God bless her still looks (I notice, dear and I appreciate it). I notice people notice her. I sometimes struggle between pride that my wife is look-worthy and abject rage that someone looked at my wife.
Today was my day to get a look. It made me walk taller, smile brighter and be bolder. Today, I got a look. And it feels wonderful.
Life is Good
Why is it that all the people I see with the little stickers on their car that say "Life is Good" are driving cars that are about a half a mile away from exploding in dramatic fashion? Do they need the sticker to convince themselves? Do they come out of their crappy houses all pissed off at the world and then see the sticker and go "Oh yeah! Life is good! Thank you, sticker!"
I notice similar phenomena surrounding other common stickers. The more stickers on a car, the more likely the car is more sticker than car. These cars and their drivers are to be avoided at all costs. I can't think of too many things I would want to advertise by putting it on my car. I admit, I have a concept of people who put a bunch of stickers on their car are sorta lower class.
I have a sticker identifying myself as an alumnus of Central Michigan University. It is discreetly on the lower left corner of my rear window. If I had popped the extra $10.00 I could have had a special license plate exclaiming the same. My wife's car has one of these plates, hence no sticker.
I was surprised to see a man driving a clapped out Camry this morning the back of which was, except for the actual tail light lenses, covered in stickers. I began to read as I got close enough. I expected to see "Visualize Whirled Peas" and "Meat is Murder" or "I love my Corgi" or some crap like that. Not so! This man was a walking (well driving) billboard for every ultra right-wing dogma that could be condensed down to bumper sticker size. Several Ron Paul's (not that he is wrong-headed or anything, but a Ron Paul bumper sticker says a lot about a man and his dedication to his beliefs), Three pro-lifes and a number of Charlton Hestons (including the ubiquitous "...cold dead hands" sticker) and anything else you can think of. He was smoking a cigarette going 60 in the left lane.
He did not yield. Since he was a proclaimed gun owner, I decided to let it be.
I would much rather have an electric sign in my rear window. It would have pre-programmed missives that could be called up at the push of a button. This would allow me to calmly inform my fellow drivers of how I feel about their performance behind the wheel. Occasionally, maybe my sign would even describe my feelings for the other driver him or herself.
There is a more whimsical side of the sign idea. You could compliment people, for instance."Way to yield!" "Thanks for letting me in, your mother should be proud. She did a good job" "Can you believe that guy? Jeez!" and the ever important, "Nice headlights!"
It would extend the whole social networking idea to the roads. Of course, I can see where Mr. Clapped out Camry and his cold dead hands might shoot me if I express my first amendment rights. In fact, I wonder if that would be covered under the free speech clause... Would it be considered inciting speech?
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Broad Spectrum
Friday we went to Heather's house and stayed the night ahead of the CMU game on Saturday. I would be writing about the game, but is was cold and we lost. The company was good and that is the beginning and end of what needs to be said about that. Heather just got the house and is living with her very autistic brother Bob. I haven't seen Bob in a long time, 15 years. It is good to see the small progress he has made in that time. For instance, he seemed pleased to have company and to the extent it was possible for him to do so, he interacted with us and kept up with the conversation.
It was hard for me to watch t.v. with Bob keeping my normal running commentary on mute. Bob keeps the volume down very low since like many autistic people, he has super human hearing. It was a stretch for me to just sit and watch. Many autistic people cannot process large amounts of information coming at them. It is like noise or constant distraction. As such, it is important with Bob to measure your tones, make eye contact as long as it feels comfortable and keep it short.
I don't know enough about the disease of autism to say for sure, but I would bet the lack of ability to process the world and it everyday inputs comes not from an incapability of processing power, but rather a lack of power to filter and dismiss unimportant things. Think of walking through a shopping mall at Christmas, or through Times Square. The amount of stimuli available are just too much to handle. We filter or dismiss much of this and can usually focus on the important item to us. Bob can't.
What Bob has as a result is a steel trap memory and a concentration level that inspires awe within me. I bet Bob could remember every single word I ever said to him.
We are a lot alike, too. We both love cars and planes. We will wile away as many hours as possible watching televised auto auctions and be pleased as punch to do it. Bob likes jokes. He can't tell them, but he loves to laugh at them. In fact laughing is the one thing Bob does like a normally functioning person. He laughs easily and honestly. It is an astoundingly good feeling to hear Bob laugh at a joke because you know he is there, he's in tune, he's happy. It is heartbreaking to know he probably has something funny to say right back, but cannot. Will not. Never will be able to.
Heather says if you give Bob a couple of beers, you will be rewarded with a couple of sentences. Whole complete sentences that must sound like heaven. Of course, with his medication, drinking a couple beers is mostly out of the question and ask anyone who turns to alcohol as regular therapy whether that's a good idea or not.
Mostly you get shrugs of shoulders and single word utterances like "yeah" or "no" which sound so much the same coming out at such small volume. You really have to listen because you dread asking him to repeat. The amount of energy it takes to say "yeah" or "no" to a stranger is incalculable.
Bob does the laundry and puts the dishes away. He and Heather eat dinner together most nights. She works so hard to draw him out. I am sure he displays more personality when in the comfort of her company than he does among outsiders but I am sure it is a lot of work for Heather to conduct the strained conversation each night. He does show genuine concern and compassion for all his siblings out of character with his generally flat affect.
They say Autism is a broad spectrum disease with numerous manifestations and faces. As time goes on, it seems that the spectrum will have to be broken up, defined and the patients in each part dealt with appropriately to their needs. One thing is for sure, with 1 in 150 births resulting in autism and a general population rate higher by 10 times the rate of diagnosis in the 1980's something needs to be done.
Austism has been likened to a complicated puzzle. One where you have all the pieces, but can't make them fit together. I think of autism as a cage where you have the key but the lock moves all the time. Something that hits home today misses the mark completely tomorrow. It is a demon, playing keep-away with the minds of otherwise able people.
It was hard for me to watch t.v. with Bob keeping my normal running commentary on mute. Bob keeps the volume down very low since like many autistic people, he has super human hearing. It was a stretch for me to just sit and watch. Many autistic people cannot process large amounts of information coming at them. It is like noise or constant distraction. As such, it is important with Bob to measure your tones, make eye contact as long as it feels comfortable and keep it short.
I don't know enough about the disease of autism to say for sure, but I would bet the lack of ability to process the world and it everyday inputs comes not from an incapability of processing power, but rather a lack of power to filter and dismiss unimportant things. Think of walking through a shopping mall at Christmas, or through Times Square. The amount of stimuli available are just too much to handle. We filter or dismiss much of this and can usually focus on the important item to us. Bob can't.
What Bob has as a result is a steel trap memory and a concentration level that inspires awe within me. I bet Bob could remember every single word I ever said to him.
We are a lot alike, too. We both love cars and planes. We will wile away as many hours as possible watching televised auto auctions and be pleased as punch to do it. Bob likes jokes. He can't tell them, but he loves to laugh at them. In fact laughing is the one thing Bob does like a normally functioning person. He laughs easily and honestly. It is an astoundingly good feeling to hear Bob laugh at a joke because you know he is there, he's in tune, he's happy. It is heartbreaking to know he probably has something funny to say right back, but cannot. Will not. Never will be able to.
Heather says if you give Bob a couple of beers, you will be rewarded with a couple of sentences. Whole complete sentences that must sound like heaven. Of course, with his medication, drinking a couple beers is mostly out of the question and ask anyone who turns to alcohol as regular therapy whether that's a good idea or not.
Mostly you get shrugs of shoulders and single word utterances like "yeah" or "no" which sound so much the same coming out at such small volume. You really have to listen because you dread asking him to repeat. The amount of energy it takes to say "yeah" or "no" to a stranger is incalculable.
Bob does the laundry and puts the dishes away. He and Heather eat dinner together most nights. She works so hard to draw him out. I am sure he displays more personality when in the comfort of her company than he does among outsiders but I am sure it is a lot of work for Heather to conduct the strained conversation each night. He does show genuine concern and compassion for all his siblings out of character with his generally flat affect.
They say Autism is a broad spectrum disease with numerous manifestations and faces. As time goes on, it seems that the spectrum will have to be broken up, defined and the patients in each part dealt with appropriately to their needs. One thing is for sure, with 1 in 150 births resulting in autism and a general population rate higher by 10 times the rate of diagnosis in the 1980's something needs to be done.
Austism has been likened to a complicated puzzle. One where you have all the pieces, but can't make them fit together. I think of autism as a cage where you have the key but the lock moves all the time. Something that hits home today misses the mark completely tomorrow. It is a demon, playing keep-away with the minds of otherwise able people.
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