I hate exercising. I do it all the time but I hate it. I have a co-worker that drives me crazy by constantly talking about how much she loves working out because it makes her feel great. I work out because if I did not I would be the size of a small Ukrainian village. I’m not talking about a tiny hamlet of Slavic dwarfs. I’m talking about a small city of big hearty meaty Ukrainians. I work out because I want to maintain some semblance of good health and I desire to keep my girth somewhat less then ginourmous not because ‘it makes me feel great’. Think in terms of a necessary evil.
Back when I traveled for work and was basically living on the road, I would occasionally get into a good workout regiment. It would last for a while but then a few months later my life would be uprooted again. My nifty disciplined schedule of running/ aerobics/ cardio would soon end up in ruins. Because of that my weight has seesawed up and down as frequently as a small Ukrainian village concubine (I have got to get my head out of Eastern Europe).
Since I settled down and got married I have had a very consistent exercise routine. I ran a few miles a day until I hurt my back, then, upon my chiropractor’s advice, I switched to 50 minutes on an elliptical five days a week. When that started hurting my knees I went back to minor weight lifting and running four miles most every day. Through all this I have gained and lost the same 25 pounds several times. The weight usually drops if I am good and stay away from too much beer and fried food but then again everything tastes great with Salo* on it.
I have a hard time sticking to a very healthy diet. The bad stuff tastes so damn good. I would hate to be mowed down by a bus and find myself laying in a hospital bed near death and with my last breath saying I should have had that bleu-cheese burger and fries for my last meal yesterday night instead of that bowl of carrot sticks and rice cakes.
So a couple of months ago a friend was trying to get back on track with his weight as well. He had been going to a ‘boot camp’ exercise program three mornings a week. Apparently these are very popular. You show up at 5:00 am and pay a faux drill sergeant to bark out orders like “ run 3 laps” or “do 2 minutes of push-ups”. He was having trouble getting back on track and I thought, since the pounds were sneaking back up on me, it might be worth a try so I pulled the old ‘I’ll go if you go’ thing.
Setting an alarm for 4:20am is bad enough. Setting an alarm for 4:20am to get up and go to boot camp for and hour is as miserable as the Mongols overthrowing Vladimir The Great’s 200 year-old empire. (I must have some crazy Ukraine fever). I was a cross between apprehensive and scared the first time I went (to boot camp not the Ukraine). It ended up being much easier then I expected. Things like squat jumps, pizza walks, football drills and luggage lifts worked out muscles I had not used for years, but I could do all the different exercises pretty well.
After the first month, I started integrating the boot camp workout with my usual running and stuff. The next step was to modify my eating habits with slightly better options and a lot better portion control. Things were going great until two weeks ago. We were getting into place for the last drill of the day, a sprint across the gym. I took off and felt a pop on the back of my calf. I assumed it was a cramp or charlie horse so I finished the run and subsequent stretches.
I limped home. I limped around at work. I limped with my wife. I limped with my friends. I limped for about four days assuming things would get better. My leg didn’t. My wife and co-workers have taken credit for convincing me to go to the doctor, but like the peaceful Orange Revolution of 2001 to over turn the rigged Ukrainian Presidential elections, the truth was obvious to the participants that trying to pretend the inevitable was not real just was not going to work anymore.
It took the doctor about 30 seconds after looking at my swollen and multicolored leg to diagnose a torn tendon. She sent me for an MRI to see ‘not if’ but rather ‘how bad’ it was. I got to the place on time for the test but they were running an hour or so late. The receptionist suggested I go have lunch. I went down the street and had a small snack and a couple of beers. The only bad side effect of that was instead of fearing claustrophobia during the MRI, I worried about the possibility of desperately needing a restroom.
Bladder intact, I made it through the MRI and eventually got good news from the doctor the next day. It does not look like I need surgery but I do need to wear a very large strap on boot for a few weeks. The doctor phoned the prescription into the nearest medical supply place which happens to be a tiny storefront with half the shop dedicated to medical stuff and the other half to small cheap collectable figurines. It looks like my nickname will be Boot-Boy for the time being. My boot might be big, ugly and uncomfortable but I bet it could kick some Bolshevik ass.
* Salo—salted pork fat, similar to bacon but with significantly higher ratio of fat to meat, or occasionally raw pig fat (sometimes jokingly referred to as Ukraine's "official food". Other Slavs sometimes call Ukrainians by this name as they find the thought of eating it unpleasant). (wikipedia)
http://www.ukraine.org/
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
ELMER part 2
In 1987 I made my second trek across the country in a horrible little gold colored Plymouth Horizon. During the last leg of this three-day midsummer drive to Los Angeles, the air conditioner in this shoebox of a car died. I pulled off the road in what I assumed would be a vain search of a service station with a real mechanic late on a Friday afternoon. I had never been in the thriving metropolis of Needles CA before. I thought it was a fictional place created by Peanuts author Charles Schultz for Snoopy’s desert dwelling brother Spike.
Amazingly enough, right off the highway I found a gas station with a mechanic who after glancing at the engine for less then two minutes shot me a big toothless grin and said the problem was a loose plate connected to the A.C. compressor. He said if I wanted to spend the night a truck could have the part delivered to him late in the morning and it would cost about $50 bucks to fix. If I wanted to continue the six hours to L.A., he said “a-long you don’t mind sweatn’, yuh can keep on-a driving without hurting nuttin, if yuh keeps a AC off.”
I am not sure if I did not trust him or I simply did not want to spend an extra day in the middle of nowhere but I opted to continue my drive. I figured I could get the job done under my warranty once I got to L.A. I waited a few hours till the sun went down and headed onward with the warm dry desert air blowing on my face. With the windows open the desolate and baron Mojave Desert seemed eerily alive.
A couple of days later the mechanics at an L.A. dealership had a different opinion of what the problem was and got the A.C. working again by ‘jiggling things’ around. About a week later I got a call from work and had to rush to a job in Georgia. A few miles into the trip the air conditioner died. I ended up driving cross-country in a gold colored Plymouth sauna. During the next month two other dealerships full of trained mechanics in Georgia tinkered around making minor adjustments also not related to the little compressor plate and got the AC working but not long after each time it soon again died.
Eventually I made it home to Florida where the dealership that sold the car told me the A.C. did not work because the compressor was shot and it would not be covered under the warranty. They also mentioned that this $575 repair could have been avoided if I would have had the plate connected to the compressor repaired before I put a few thousand miles on the car. In less then two minutes the toothless mechanic in Needles diagnosed the problem with more accuracy then three dealerships full of heavily trained repairmen.
Several years and two cars later, I found myself on the side of the road during a cool desert evening with a nasty blown out tire about an hour outside of Needles. Having just survived a series of self-inflicted panic attacks while changing a tire on the precipice of the Mojave Desert, I was now faced with a tough decision. Do I continue in the correct direction for unknown distance to find someone to fix my flat hoping the mini doughnut does not blow out stranding me with my car full of possessions in the middle of nowhere? Or do I admit there is no chance of actually reaching L.A. that night and head back to Needles the home of the mechanic that could have saved me months of grief and wasted money a few years earlier.
When you sit alone in a car driving for days on end your mind starts to play tricks on you. Your judgment gets a little out of whack. After 20 hours of driving I once stopped off at a diner outside of Tucson that I could swear was filled with the pig-faced people from a Twilight Zone episode. The longer the drive the stronger the desire is to reach your destination. No matter what. I knew that doubling back to Needles, the land of toothless genius mechanics was the smart, safe, sane decision. Yet even though I had recently passed a sign that said ‘next services 140 miles’, I opted to drive deeper into the lonely desert solely because it was the direction of my goal.
My Mazda’s manual said when driving on the mini-spare to stay under 40mph and not to go farther then 50 miles. I started to question my decision when a group of huge tractor trailers almost ran me off the road after quickly raced up behind me at double and triple my speed. Getting more concerned with each passing mile of nothingness, I plodded along about 30 miles until I saw a light off the side of the road. It was getting later and night had settled in when far off the side of the road a Shell sign became clear.
If I got off this exit and searched for the gas station, the window of time to find someone to fix my tire that night 60 miles down the road in the bigger city of Barstow would soon start to close. I gambled and took the empty exit and headed north towards the glowing Shell sign. Up the road a ways I turned a bend and there it was. A huge brightly lit open Shell service station was right in front of me. As I approached, I was elated to see a garage bay with the doors open and two walls filled with tires.
It was 7:00pm when I pulled up to the doors. I got out of the car and walked around to the front of the gas station and saw two men talking. When one jumped back into his car I approached the heavy set older man in a plaid shirt and jeans with suspenders. I told him my blowout story and asked if he could fix a flat tire. He did not say very much except that his name was Elmer and “yeah I can change a tire” but he made no movement to do so.
After I found several other creative ways to ask about repairing my tire, Elmer finally got the hint and asked me where my car was. I pointed to the only car in the entire gas station, “The Mazda over by the garage is mine”. Elmer took the long route winding through the front room of the gas station while I walked past the pumps over to my car. I removed the tire from my backseat where I had hastily shoved it back on the side of the road and rolled it into the building. In the light I saw that it was in pretty bad shape.
I looked around for Elmer but I could not see him. I wandered into the gas station backroom where he was loudly talking to himself. I told him I had the tire ready and he seemed pretty excited about that. Instead of heading out to the garage though, he sat down and started telling me stories about other people in distress that had wandered into the station. Then he told me about the man that owns the station. Then he told me how he came to live near there. Then he told me about other people in distress again. Eventually I reminded him enough times as to why I was there and we headed outside.
Elmer said the tire looked pretty bad and that it would be hard to fix. I told him if he thinks it’s not safe to drive on I would just buy a new one from him but he made it clear he wanted a shot at “mendin’ it”. Although it was obvious where the gaping hole was, he put more air in the tire and dropped it in a large bucket of water. Massive amounts of air gushed out of the obvious gash. He very slowly put the wheel on a machine that removed the tire from the rim. Moving at a pace slightly slower then Tim Conway’s old man character, he spent about 20 minutes smearing rubbery clear glue on the hole. I repeatedly suggested it might be easier/ safer/ smarter/ quicker to just get a new tire.
At about 8:00 Mrs. Elmer showed up in a well-worn old Chevy to help Elmer shut down the station and drive him home. The very short stocky woman in a housedress walked up and immediately started yelling at Elmer for trying to fix such a ‘destroyed’ tire. I had run out of ways to say maybe we should just get a new one from the giant wall of tires behind him, so I was thrilled when he listened to her suggestion of getting a new one.
Mrs. Elmer went inside to ‘count the bossman’s money’ while Elmer went to the big bolted down ‘tire conversion’ book, to find out what tire would fit my car. After checking and rechecking the numbers several times, he pulled about a half dozen tires off the wall finally settling on one from the top shelf. He said it was a $120 tire and I said I would go inside and pay his wife for it right away to save time.
When Mrs. Elmer and I finished we went out to check up on things. Elmer was in the process of scooping out what had to be the twentieth giant handful of lubricant from a white bucket and was smearing it all over the inside of the tire. Crazily enough while I was shocked at how much he had put on, Mrs. Elmer was equally as shocked at how little he used. As she urged him to slather more and more on, I started slowly backing up to take cover. Eventually they put this tire encrusted in slime on the machine that pops it onto the rim. I ducked when he started it and sure enough pounds of the stuff went flying in every direction as the tire worked its way into place. Both of them got hit with some of the glop but neither seemed to think this was an odd occurrence.
It was pushing 9:00 when Elmer finally rolled the new tire over to my car. To speed things up I had taken off the baby spare myself. It soon became very clear something was very wrong. The new tire was at least six inches bigger then the other tires. It was so big that it did not even fit in the wheel well, of course that did not stop him from trying to wedge it into place. While Mrs. Elmer yelled at him for screwing up, I went over to the bolted down conversion book to find the right tire. It turned out that not only did they not have the exact tire I needed, they did not have anything even remotely close to what might possibly fit on my car. I looked closely; most of the tires were for trucks.
It was near 9:30 and was obviously getting too late to buy a new tire either back in Needles (city of the anti-Elmer mechanics) or ahead in Barstow. My chance of getting to L.A. that night was quickly disappearing into the cool desert night as well. I dejectedly handed Mrs. Elmer my credit card again so she could run my refund while Elmer played another round of ‘splatter the lubricant around the garage’ as he removed the oversized truck tire from my rim.
I shoved my busted tire and rim into the backseat, politely said goodnight and got out of Elmer’s place. I headed down the highway at 45 rpm on my mini spare sure that it would explode any minute and now that it was so much later I would most certainly be stranded all night out in the middle of the desert. Stressed to the max, at 11:30 I got to Barstow but could not find anyplace open to sell me a tire. I found a hotel next door to a Good Year store and wandered out into the night to find some food and a beer.
Early the next morning I drove next door to buy a new tire but when I went to pay for it I realized that Mrs. Elmer had not returned my credit card to me. Eventually I tracked down the phone number of the station and I called Elmer. He looked around and said he found the card and I could pick it up anytime. I reminded him that I was just passing through but he said he would hold it for me.
I asked if he could mail the card back to me. I tried to give him the address but he said he needed to know my name even though it was on the card in front of him. I told him ‘Dan’ and started to spell my last name but he made me go back and spell ‘Dan’. Slowly. ‘D’ (pause) ‘A’ (pause) ‘N’ (pause)… It took some time but we got through the entire address and sure enough an envelope with the word ‘Dan’ spelled wrong on it, arrived a few days later with my card inside.
Over the years I have taken that same route several times and each drive I have wondered if I should go look for Elmer. I guess like looking for the restaurant of pig-faced people, some things are better left alone.
Amazingly enough, right off the highway I found a gas station with a mechanic who after glancing at the engine for less then two minutes shot me a big toothless grin and said the problem was a loose plate connected to the A.C. compressor. He said if I wanted to spend the night a truck could have the part delivered to him late in the morning and it would cost about $50 bucks to fix. If I wanted to continue the six hours to L.A., he said “a-long you don’t mind sweatn’, yuh can keep on-a driving without hurting nuttin, if yuh keeps a AC off.”
I am not sure if I did not trust him or I simply did not want to spend an extra day in the middle of nowhere but I opted to continue my drive. I figured I could get the job done under my warranty once I got to L.A. I waited a few hours till the sun went down and headed onward with the warm dry desert air blowing on my face. With the windows open the desolate and baron Mojave Desert seemed eerily alive.
A couple of days later the mechanics at an L.A. dealership had a different opinion of what the problem was and got the A.C. working again by ‘jiggling things’ around. About a week later I got a call from work and had to rush to a job in Georgia. A few miles into the trip the air conditioner died. I ended up driving cross-country in a gold colored Plymouth sauna. During the next month two other dealerships full of trained mechanics in Georgia tinkered around making minor adjustments also not related to the little compressor plate and got the AC working but not long after each time it soon again died.
Eventually I made it home to Florida where the dealership that sold the car told me the A.C. did not work because the compressor was shot and it would not be covered under the warranty. They also mentioned that this $575 repair could have been avoided if I would have had the plate connected to the compressor repaired before I put a few thousand miles on the car. In less then two minutes the toothless mechanic in Needles diagnosed the problem with more accuracy then three dealerships full of heavily trained repairmen.
Several years and two cars later, I found myself on the side of the road during a cool desert evening with a nasty blown out tire about an hour outside of Needles. Having just survived a series of self-inflicted panic attacks while changing a tire on the precipice of the Mojave Desert, I was now faced with a tough decision. Do I continue in the correct direction for unknown distance to find someone to fix my flat hoping the mini doughnut does not blow out stranding me with my car full of possessions in the middle of nowhere? Or do I admit there is no chance of actually reaching L.A. that night and head back to Needles the home of the mechanic that could have saved me months of grief and wasted money a few years earlier.
When you sit alone in a car driving for days on end your mind starts to play tricks on you. Your judgment gets a little out of whack. After 20 hours of driving I once stopped off at a diner outside of Tucson that I could swear was filled with the pig-faced people from a Twilight Zone episode. The longer the drive the stronger the desire is to reach your destination. No matter what. I knew that doubling back to Needles, the land of toothless genius mechanics was the smart, safe, sane decision. Yet even though I had recently passed a sign that said ‘next services 140 miles’, I opted to drive deeper into the lonely desert solely because it was the direction of my goal.
My Mazda’s manual said when driving on the mini-spare to stay under 40mph and not to go farther then 50 miles. I started to question my decision when a group of huge tractor trailers almost ran me off the road after quickly raced up behind me at double and triple my speed. Getting more concerned with each passing mile of nothingness, I plodded along about 30 miles until I saw a light off the side of the road. It was getting later and night had settled in when far off the side of the road a Shell sign became clear.
If I got off this exit and searched for the gas station, the window of time to find someone to fix my tire that night 60 miles down the road in the bigger city of Barstow would soon start to close. I gambled and took the empty exit and headed north towards the glowing Shell sign. Up the road a ways I turned a bend and there it was. A huge brightly lit open Shell service station was right in front of me. As I approached, I was elated to see a garage bay with the doors open and two walls filled with tires.
It was 7:00pm when I pulled up to the doors. I got out of the car and walked around to the front of the gas station and saw two men talking. When one jumped back into his car I approached the heavy set older man in a plaid shirt and jeans with suspenders. I told him my blowout story and asked if he could fix a flat tire. He did not say very much except that his name was Elmer and “yeah I can change a tire” but he made no movement to do so.
After I found several other creative ways to ask about repairing my tire, Elmer finally got the hint and asked me where my car was. I pointed to the only car in the entire gas station, “The Mazda over by the garage is mine”. Elmer took the long route winding through the front room of the gas station while I walked past the pumps over to my car. I removed the tire from my backseat where I had hastily shoved it back on the side of the road and rolled it into the building. In the light I saw that it was in pretty bad shape.
I looked around for Elmer but I could not see him. I wandered into the gas station backroom where he was loudly talking to himself. I told him I had the tire ready and he seemed pretty excited about that. Instead of heading out to the garage though, he sat down and started telling me stories about other people in distress that had wandered into the station. Then he told me about the man that owns the station. Then he told me how he came to live near there. Then he told me about other people in distress again. Eventually I reminded him enough times as to why I was there and we headed outside.
Elmer said the tire looked pretty bad and that it would be hard to fix. I told him if he thinks it’s not safe to drive on I would just buy a new one from him but he made it clear he wanted a shot at “mendin’ it”. Although it was obvious where the gaping hole was, he put more air in the tire and dropped it in a large bucket of water. Massive amounts of air gushed out of the obvious gash. He very slowly put the wheel on a machine that removed the tire from the rim. Moving at a pace slightly slower then Tim Conway’s old man character, he spent about 20 minutes smearing rubbery clear glue on the hole. I repeatedly suggested it might be easier/ safer/ smarter/ quicker to just get a new tire.
At about 8:00 Mrs. Elmer showed up in a well-worn old Chevy to help Elmer shut down the station and drive him home. The very short stocky woman in a housedress walked up and immediately started yelling at Elmer for trying to fix such a ‘destroyed’ tire. I had run out of ways to say maybe we should just get a new one from the giant wall of tires behind him, so I was thrilled when he listened to her suggestion of getting a new one.
Mrs. Elmer went inside to ‘count the bossman’s money’ while Elmer went to the big bolted down ‘tire conversion’ book, to find out what tire would fit my car. After checking and rechecking the numbers several times, he pulled about a half dozen tires off the wall finally settling on one from the top shelf. He said it was a $120 tire and I said I would go inside and pay his wife for it right away to save time.
When Mrs. Elmer and I finished we went out to check up on things. Elmer was in the process of scooping out what had to be the twentieth giant handful of lubricant from a white bucket and was smearing it all over the inside of the tire. Crazily enough while I was shocked at how much he had put on, Mrs. Elmer was equally as shocked at how little he used. As she urged him to slather more and more on, I started slowly backing up to take cover. Eventually they put this tire encrusted in slime on the machine that pops it onto the rim. I ducked when he started it and sure enough pounds of the stuff went flying in every direction as the tire worked its way into place. Both of them got hit with some of the glop but neither seemed to think this was an odd occurrence.
It was pushing 9:00 when Elmer finally rolled the new tire over to my car. To speed things up I had taken off the baby spare myself. It soon became very clear something was very wrong. The new tire was at least six inches bigger then the other tires. It was so big that it did not even fit in the wheel well, of course that did not stop him from trying to wedge it into place. While Mrs. Elmer yelled at him for screwing up, I went over to the bolted down conversion book to find the right tire. It turned out that not only did they not have the exact tire I needed, they did not have anything even remotely close to what might possibly fit on my car. I looked closely; most of the tires were for trucks.
It was near 9:30 and was obviously getting too late to buy a new tire either back in Needles (city of the anti-Elmer mechanics) or ahead in Barstow. My chance of getting to L.A. that night was quickly disappearing into the cool desert night as well. I dejectedly handed Mrs. Elmer my credit card again so she could run my refund while Elmer played another round of ‘splatter the lubricant around the garage’ as he removed the oversized truck tire from my rim.
I shoved my busted tire and rim into the backseat, politely said goodnight and got out of Elmer’s place. I headed down the highway at 45 rpm on my mini spare sure that it would explode any minute and now that it was so much later I would most certainly be stranded all night out in the middle of the desert. Stressed to the max, at 11:30 I got to Barstow but could not find anyplace open to sell me a tire. I found a hotel next door to a Good Year store and wandered out into the night to find some food and a beer.
Early the next morning I drove next door to buy a new tire but when I went to pay for it I realized that Mrs. Elmer had not returned my credit card to me. Eventually I tracked down the phone number of the station and I called Elmer. He looked around and said he found the card and I could pick it up anytime. I reminded him that I was just passing through but he said he would hold it for me.
I asked if he could mail the card back to me. I tried to give him the address but he said he needed to know my name even though it was on the card in front of him. I told him ‘Dan’ and started to spell my last name but he made me go back and spell ‘Dan’. Slowly. ‘D’ (pause) ‘A’ (pause) ‘N’ (pause)… It took some time but we got through the entire address and sure enough an envelope with the word ‘Dan’ spelled wrong on it, arrived a few days later with my card inside.
Over the years I have taken that same route several times and each drive I have wondered if I should go look for Elmer. I guess like looking for the restaurant of pig-faced people, some things are better left alone.
Friday, February 15, 2008
ELMER part 1
I purchased new tires the other day. Although they were a bit expensive, this was the first time in my life that I didn’t get the feeling I had just been ripped off while driving off of the lot. A client of mine manages a tire store and he sold the tires to me at the ‘rack price’ (that’s the official tire shop term for ‘really cheap’) and barely charged me for the balancing and stuff. Usually I leave one of those places feeling like a 350lb member of the Hell’s Angels gave me a prostate exam (oh wait, we covered that in the ‘Fo-Tee-Fo entry from Sept 26th). Finally I am benefiting from one of those ‘one hand washing the other’ deal-e-o things; I feel like an elected official on a lobbyist paid for Bahamian vacation.
Buying tires is one of those necessary evils that we all hate but have to do at some time. It’s like having to quickly buy a new refrigerator while your old one is rapidly turning what remaining food you have into foul furry fungi covered Chia pets. At least I was lucky this time. Even though I rode on my badly worn wheels for longer then I should have, I did not have to deal with a roadside flat.
These days with my current relatively short commute, the thought of being on the side of the road changing a tire does not bother me too much. Back when I used to travel for work it was not uncommon for me to load the car with enough luggage and comforts from home to live out of it for six months. Being my usual paranoid self, I constantly worried about my car breaking down in the middle of nowhere with my mountain of possessions exposed for anyone to steal. I certainly had my share of car problems all over the country, but when I think of tire issues I always think of Elmer.
I was on the last leg of a three-day cross-country drive with about four hours to go until I made it to Los Angeles. The sun was setting as I drove deeper into the eastern California desert. About a half hour earlier I had passed the sign outside of Needles that read ‘next services 150 miles’. I was enjoying the quiet beauty of day turning into night in the barren desert when a loud ‘bam’ rocked the car. My rear passenger tire blew out. I immediately pulled off to the side of the road, caught my breath, and started to deal with the inevitable.
As it got darker and darker I unloaded my jam-packed trunk of possessions onto the road to get to the spare tire. I had thought it was smart to pull off the road as far as I could so as to not get hit by a speeding tractor trailer but as I dug out the little mini ‘doughnut’ spare tire I kept feeling like I was one foot too many in the desert. It soon became pitch black. Imagining desert critters big and small watching me, I worked as fast as I could move. Between turning lug nuts I constantly stared into the nothingness right behind me to spot whatever it was that was about to bounce on me.
When the occasional truck did come along, I used the beams of their headlights to hastily scan the desolate terrain until they passed right next to me shaking my car, blowing over my stuff and kicking up a mini windstorm of dust. As their tail lights faded into the night things seemed even darker then before until my eyes readjusted to the light. Sure that some desert creature was about to drag me into the unknown, I changed the tire with the speed of a Nascar pit crew.
I tossed the blown out wheel in the back seat and shoved all my stuff into the trunk as fast as I could. Faced with the decision of going the wrong direction after driving over 2000 miles to a sure thing service station back in Needles or continuing to drive towards L.A. at 40 miles an hour with the chance that the ‘mini spare’ will blow out in the middle of nowhere, I opted for the journey deeper into the desert. Little did I know I would soon meet Elmer.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Buying tires is one of those necessary evils that we all hate but have to do at some time. It’s like having to quickly buy a new refrigerator while your old one is rapidly turning what remaining food you have into foul furry fungi covered Chia pets. At least I was lucky this time. Even though I rode on my badly worn wheels for longer then I should have, I did not have to deal with a roadside flat.
These days with my current relatively short commute, the thought of being on the side of the road changing a tire does not bother me too much. Back when I used to travel for work it was not uncommon for me to load the car with enough luggage and comforts from home to live out of it for six months. Being my usual paranoid self, I constantly worried about my car breaking down in the middle of nowhere with my mountain of possessions exposed for anyone to steal. I certainly had my share of car problems all over the country, but when I think of tire issues I always think of Elmer.
I was on the last leg of a three-day cross-country drive with about four hours to go until I made it to Los Angeles. The sun was setting as I drove deeper into the eastern California desert. About a half hour earlier I had passed the sign outside of Needles that read ‘next services 150 miles’. I was enjoying the quiet beauty of day turning into night in the barren desert when a loud ‘bam’ rocked the car. My rear passenger tire blew out. I immediately pulled off to the side of the road, caught my breath, and started to deal with the inevitable.
As it got darker and darker I unloaded my jam-packed trunk of possessions onto the road to get to the spare tire. I had thought it was smart to pull off the road as far as I could so as to not get hit by a speeding tractor trailer but as I dug out the little mini ‘doughnut’ spare tire I kept feeling like I was one foot too many in the desert. It soon became pitch black. Imagining desert critters big and small watching me, I worked as fast as I could move. Between turning lug nuts I constantly stared into the nothingness right behind me to spot whatever it was that was about to bounce on me.
When the occasional truck did come along, I used the beams of their headlights to hastily scan the desolate terrain until they passed right next to me shaking my car, blowing over my stuff and kicking up a mini windstorm of dust. As their tail lights faded into the night things seemed even darker then before until my eyes readjusted to the light. Sure that some desert creature was about to drag me into the unknown, I changed the tire with the speed of a Nascar pit crew.
I tossed the blown out wheel in the back seat and shoved all my stuff into the trunk as fast as I could. Faced with the decision of going the wrong direction after driving over 2000 miles to a sure thing service station back in Needles or continuing to drive towards L.A. at 40 miles an hour with the chance that the ‘mini spare’ will blow out in the middle of nowhere, I opted for the journey deeper into the desert. Little did I know I would soon meet Elmer.
TO BE CONTINUED….
Thursday, February 7, 2008
MOVE IT
I live in a new house. My wife and I moved into the place a couple of weeks ago. The move went pretty smooth, well almost. I have never really used movers to move all my stuff before, well not professional paid ones. At least the movers did not rip us off like you hear about in those moving horror stories, well not too badly.
As I have previously mentioned, my wife and I have amassed a large quantity of stuff. Well over 350 boxes plus furniture. The movers had given us an estimate but come the morning of the move they tried to jerk us around. I have heard about extortion tricks like holding your stuff hostage until you pay some newly discovered fees but these guys were not that good (bad?). Armed with the knowledge that it is unlikely we could get a new mover right away or reschedule our move at the last minute, they showed up and said the move will cost triple the estimated price and that they needed a big chunk of it up front in cash.
The moving company we contracted them through was called ‘Starving Students’. Struggling Ivy leaguers they were not. We made a quick call to their boss and magically the cash part was forgotten about and the price fell back down to where it should have been. Maybe had they actually gone to school they would have learned it is easier to rip somebody off after you start moving their crap into the truck. After some early stress everything ended up perfect and they actually did a great, fast job at a reasonable price; I just would not want these ‘Starving Students’ around me too much.
I did not always have so much stuff. For years I kept my possessions to a minimum. That does not mean I am a minimalist; someone that owns a lamp shaped like a bust of Elvis and several thousand books and records just cannot wear that moniker. Granted some of my stuff might be pretty damn heavy but until I got married all of my stuff could fit in one room. If I moved, the vast Dan-estate could be easily put into one of those teeny tiny trailers that hook onto the back of a car.
Back when I graduated college I could cram most everything I owned into my 1972 Skylark. It was a great car…or at least it was the decade or so prior to me driving it when it was remotely newish. I recall when the black leather-like roof started rotting my Dad thought he was doing me a favor by painting it white with some extra exterior roof paint that someone gave him. Unfortunately it started to peel quickly. That was OK because it just helped it match the rest of the car. The paint had originally been green but it was starting to rust. I ‘bondo’ed the rusted through holes with the gray color filling putty but never got enough money together to paint it so the green/gray body started to get orangey patches. By the time I left college the car was green, rust, gray, black and white colored.
During my last few months at Florida State my car’s engine had started to occasionally catch fire. Nothing real serious. Well as non-serious as flames shooting out of a car engine can be. It had starting problems and I often had to prop open the carburetor and shoot in some of that canned ‘Spray Start’. Every few times a flame or two would shoot out. Just in case it spread I kept a fire extinguisher under the seat.
I was a bit concerned during my final drive home after graduation that everything I owned might go up in a flaming inferno. I put all my most important things in the passenger seat next to me just so I could grab them if I needed to make a hasty retreat into some ditch. I took it as a bad omen when an hour into the drive I actually passed a car engulfed in flames on the side the road. The rest of the trip I envisioned my car exploding from the fiery heat with my record collection turning into thousands of flaming vinyl projectiles.
Four out of my five of my next moves other people moved my stuff for me while I was out of town working. Usually I would get a map sent to me with how to get to my new abode. I would pull up for the first time and get the grand tour climaxing with an introduction of my new room already filled up with all my worldly possessions. That is the way to move. I have only had one other move that was easier
When I briefly moved back up to New York from Florida, I arranged for some college aged friends from Ohio to make a weekend road trip to The City (read my last entry). I had told them if they carried my stuff up the three flights of stairs for me I would buy them dinner in China Town and drinks and a local pub. It was some of the best money I had ever spent on a move.
As I have previously mentioned, my wife and I have amassed a large quantity of stuff. Well over 350 boxes plus furniture. The movers had given us an estimate but come the morning of the move they tried to jerk us around. I have heard about extortion tricks like holding your stuff hostage until you pay some newly discovered fees but these guys were not that good (bad?). Armed with the knowledge that it is unlikely we could get a new mover right away or reschedule our move at the last minute, they showed up and said the move will cost triple the estimated price and that they needed a big chunk of it up front in cash.
The moving company we contracted them through was called ‘Starving Students’. Struggling Ivy leaguers they were not. We made a quick call to their boss and magically the cash part was forgotten about and the price fell back down to where it should have been. Maybe had they actually gone to school they would have learned it is easier to rip somebody off after you start moving their crap into the truck. After some early stress everything ended up perfect and they actually did a great, fast job at a reasonable price; I just would not want these ‘Starving Students’ around me too much.
I did not always have so much stuff. For years I kept my possessions to a minimum. That does not mean I am a minimalist; someone that owns a lamp shaped like a bust of Elvis and several thousand books and records just cannot wear that moniker. Granted some of my stuff might be pretty damn heavy but until I got married all of my stuff could fit in one room. If I moved, the vast Dan-estate could be easily put into one of those teeny tiny trailers that hook onto the back of a car.
Back when I graduated college I could cram most everything I owned into my 1972 Skylark. It was a great car…or at least it was the decade or so prior to me driving it when it was remotely newish. I recall when the black leather-like roof started rotting my Dad thought he was doing me a favor by painting it white with some extra exterior roof paint that someone gave him. Unfortunately it started to peel quickly. That was OK because it just helped it match the rest of the car. The paint had originally been green but it was starting to rust. I ‘bondo’ed the rusted through holes with the gray color filling putty but never got enough money together to paint it so the green/gray body started to get orangey patches. By the time I left college the car was green, rust, gray, black and white colored.
During my last few months at Florida State my car’s engine had started to occasionally catch fire. Nothing real serious. Well as non-serious as flames shooting out of a car engine can be. It had starting problems and I often had to prop open the carburetor and shoot in some of that canned ‘Spray Start’. Every few times a flame or two would shoot out. Just in case it spread I kept a fire extinguisher under the seat.
I was a bit concerned during my final drive home after graduation that everything I owned might go up in a flaming inferno. I put all my most important things in the passenger seat next to me just so I could grab them if I needed to make a hasty retreat into some ditch. I took it as a bad omen when an hour into the drive I actually passed a car engulfed in flames on the side the road. The rest of the trip I envisioned my car exploding from the fiery heat with my record collection turning into thousands of flaming vinyl projectiles.
Four out of my five of my next moves other people moved my stuff for me while I was out of town working. Usually I would get a map sent to me with how to get to my new abode. I would pull up for the first time and get the grand tour climaxing with an introduction of my new room already filled up with all my worldly possessions. That is the way to move. I have only had one other move that was easier
When I briefly moved back up to New York from Florida, I arranged for some college aged friends from Ohio to make a weekend road trip to The City (read my last entry). I had told them if they carried my stuff up the three flights of stairs for me I would buy them dinner in China Town and drinks and a local pub. It was some of the best money I had ever spent on a move.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
CHARLES NELSON RILEY & NEW YORK OLD LADIES
I was born in New York City. I can’t shake the place. I might try to fit in as a Texan or Floridian but I am a New Yorker at heart. I find an odd homey comfort in strolling through the streets of New York just listening to the ever-present din of ambient street sounds. I know. To some people the thought of that is a living hell but for me it transports me to easier times in my life (i.e. before all the responsibilities of the real world climbed onto my back and started repeatedly kicking me in the back of my head).
One of those quintessential New York experiences that always makes me smile is when I find myself walking down a crowded sidewalk on a busy avenue and then turn onto a strangely calm and quiet side street. Within seconds the loud street noises fades to the background until I pass the front of some residences and suddenly you are accosted by the familiar sounds of regular people just living their lives. Thick Brooklyn accented ladies with kerchiefed hair loudly bitching about god knows what from thier front stoops. Young guys trying to sound a lot tougher then they really are as they bust each other’s chops. Multiple forign accents and languages layered on top of each other. Is it strange to wax nostalgic about things that would annoy most people?
Even if it is just for a short visit I enjoy being emmersed in the City. That’s what we call it up there, The City. As if there are no other cities and to folks from New York, there is no other. Living in Texas I have learned there is a huge similarity between New Yorkers and the Dallas Cowboys, you either love them or you love to hate them.
When I was in Junior High School I moved to Florida. The person I am today has definitely been shaped by the combination of the fast paced New York lifestyle and the laid back beach life of Florida. I miss both places. As much as I need my occasional New York fix I also need to walk on a beach and listen to the ocean. There are beaches in New York but rather then seashells the shore is often littered with bottle caps, broken glass and god knows what. Of course sometimes I wonder if I miss the actual places or do I really miss the particular time in my life that I spent there.
My wife and I usually find someway to travel to a beach every year but getting to New York is a little harder. To get my fix I sometimes go to the New York Daily News web site. It’s not as stiff as the New York Times but not quite as low-brow as the ‘National Enquire’-like New York Post. Every few weeks I click on to see the world through a New Yorker’s eyes and I feel a little less lonely in the world.
With my recent move deeper into the northern suburbs of Dallas (or ‘Oklahoma’ as the folks downtown call this area) I have a mountain of unpacking that needs to be done but on my day off Wednesday I decided to do very little and recover from the past few weeks of intensely packing. I slept late (for me) and eventually sat down in front of the computer. I drifted onto the Daily News website and ended up on one of those lists of famous people that passed away this past year. Of course the list was somewhat ‘New York’ biased; I do not think that Grace Paley and Brooke Astor made most of the national lists.
As I scanned the article one of the names that jumped out at me was Charles Nelson Riley. I had forgotten that he had died in May. As a little kid I knew him from an insanely bizarre psychedelic Saturday morning show I used to religiously watch called Lidsville (I can still sing the theme). Most people do not remember Charles Nelson Riley from his long acting career but rather for his campy appearances on old game shows like Match Game.
When I was young I used to walk home from Elementary school. I would get home a little after 3:00 and not long after that my Mom would often turn on the TV and the sound of Match Game would echo through the house. That must be why hearing of Charles Nelson Riley’s death triggered the same wave of nostalgia as being in New York does for me.
Things eventually turned even more morose on Wednesday as I scanned down the list wondering what it will be like to watch all the famous icons my generation grew up with die. The other star of that freaky Lidsville show was Butch Patrick, the kid that earlier played Eddie Munster. He’s not that much older then me, I wonder if he is famous enough to someday make the Daily News’ year end dead celebrity list?
One of those quintessential New York experiences that always makes me smile is when I find myself walking down a crowded sidewalk on a busy avenue and then turn onto a strangely calm and quiet side street. Within seconds the loud street noises fades to the background until I pass the front of some residences and suddenly you are accosted by the familiar sounds of regular people just living their lives. Thick Brooklyn accented ladies with kerchiefed hair loudly bitching about god knows what from thier front stoops. Young guys trying to sound a lot tougher then they really are as they bust each other’s chops. Multiple forign accents and languages layered on top of each other. Is it strange to wax nostalgic about things that would annoy most people?
Even if it is just for a short visit I enjoy being emmersed in the City. That’s what we call it up there, The City. As if there are no other cities and to folks from New York, there is no other. Living in Texas I have learned there is a huge similarity between New Yorkers and the Dallas Cowboys, you either love them or you love to hate them.
When I was in Junior High School I moved to Florida. The person I am today has definitely been shaped by the combination of the fast paced New York lifestyle and the laid back beach life of Florida. I miss both places. As much as I need my occasional New York fix I also need to walk on a beach and listen to the ocean. There are beaches in New York but rather then seashells the shore is often littered with bottle caps, broken glass and god knows what. Of course sometimes I wonder if I miss the actual places or do I really miss the particular time in my life that I spent there.
My wife and I usually find someway to travel to a beach every year but getting to New York is a little harder. To get my fix I sometimes go to the New York Daily News web site. It’s not as stiff as the New York Times but not quite as low-brow as the ‘National Enquire’-like New York Post. Every few weeks I click on to see the world through a New Yorker’s eyes and I feel a little less lonely in the world.
With my recent move deeper into the northern suburbs of Dallas (or ‘Oklahoma’ as the folks downtown call this area) I have a mountain of unpacking that needs to be done but on my day off Wednesday I decided to do very little and recover from the past few weeks of intensely packing. I slept late (for me) and eventually sat down in front of the computer. I drifted onto the Daily News website and ended up on one of those lists of famous people that passed away this past year. Of course the list was somewhat ‘New York’ biased; I do not think that Grace Paley and Brooke Astor made most of the national lists.
As I scanned the article one of the names that jumped out at me was Charles Nelson Riley. I had forgotten that he had died in May. As a little kid I knew him from an insanely bizarre psychedelic Saturday morning show I used to religiously watch called Lidsville (I can still sing the theme). Most people do not remember Charles Nelson Riley from his long acting career but rather for his campy appearances on old game shows like Match Game.
When I was young I used to walk home from Elementary school. I would get home a little after 3:00 and not long after that my Mom would often turn on the TV and the sound of Match Game would echo through the house. That must be why hearing of Charles Nelson Riley’s death triggered the same wave of nostalgia as being in New York does for me.
Things eventually turned even more morose on Wednesday as I scanned down the list wondering what it will be like to watch all the famous icons my generation grew up with die. The other star of that freaky Lidsville show was Butch Patrick, the kid that earlier played Eddie Munster. He’s not that much older then me, I wonder if he is famous enough to someday make the Daily News’ year end dead celebrity list?
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