Virgil and Marty and Blessed be The Fruit of the Loom

Here we are at the edge of the precipice; the day before the great culmination of a month’s worth of baking, shopping and decorating. It’ll be over quicker than a groom on his wedding night. But that doesn’t make it any less fun.

This morning I opened the last of the advent boxes on the calendar, and inside was a little gingerbread man with Bruce Campbell’s face pasted on the head. It was pretty cool. Norton assured me I could eat it because he’d printed it with edible paper or something along those lines – but I’ve seen the stuff that he eats, and I’m also pretty sure in elementary school he was the kid who ate paste.

I won’t take up much space today because a) I don’t feel like spending all my time on the computer today and b) it’s Christmas Eve.

When I was a kid I loved Christmas Eve, it was the anticipation more than anything. Although we didn’t have the best presents under the tree there was always something there from Santa. It may not have been what we’d asked for (almost always not) but it was usually something we could use. Invariably it was underwear or a tooth brush, and one year our stockings were full of mandarin oranges - and nothing else.

Whenever I hear certain Carols I think about my little brother Curt who with the ears of a kid heard things a little differently. He was always perplexed by Verge. There was Mary, who was the mother of Jesus, and Joseph, the wise men and the shepherds and all the animals but who was Verge? Because they always talk about the Verge and Mary but you never get to find out about him.

Anyways, the way we used to think of Christmas as kids shouldn’t be too far away from how we act as adults. So here’s hoping there’s a least one pair on gonch under the tree this year.

Merry Christmas to all, and hope they don’t fit too tight.

Bittersweet Emily Jane and Christmas Candy Caning

I have a lot of mixed feelings as Christmas approaches. I like Christmas, but some days all I seem to conjure up is a rather warped reflection of memories superimposed over a thin layer of hope that smells a little bit like a fresh litter box.

Today is the 17th and should be a happy day because it's a Friday, and marks the start of the last weekend before Christmas really hits in all its glory. Back in 1973 though it was a Monday and I was ten years old.  Mom and Dad had been fighting the night before (which wasn't exactly news, as they didn't hide it from us kids that's for sure) and that morning Dad left for good ... although at the time I was told he was going on a business trip. He gave Curtis a kiss and them he mussed my hair, squatted down on his haunches and whispered in my ear that I was the man of the house now and to look after baby Curt.

He gave my hair a last ruffle then he got in his old truck and drove off.  Three guesses as to what kind of truck it was.

Mom who was always tightly wound and a cracker short for a cheese plate was never the same.  I'm not sure where this is going, or why I'm bringing this up.  This is supposed to be cathartic or something, who knows maybe it is.

Anyway that day I went to school, and came home to was an empty house.  No big deal, I had a key and it was after all the 70s.  We invented the term latchkey kid. I remember watching TV, although I can't remember what I watched.  Chances are it was Gunsmoke or H.R. Pufnstuf.  We didn't have a lot of choice, and as far as Pufnstuf goes but me a break, I also watched The Banana Splits.

Anyways the time dragged on and I started getting hungry, and still no Mom.  After a while I figured I'd make myself a hot dog.  Mom always had a package of wieners in the fridge.  We were allowed to eat them raw if we wanted.  After all it was the 70s.  However, I wanted a boiled hot dog, so I put on some water.  After a few minutes it was boiling, and as I went to take the lid off, I burned my fingers on the steam, and when I pulled my hand back I caught the handle of the pot that was sticking out over the edge of the stove.

You can kind of figure out what happened next.  In hindsight I was pretty lucky.  I made more of a mess than anything, but I scared myself silly.  Of course timing being everything, this was the moment Mom decided to walk through the door.  There I was standing in the kitchen bawling my eyes out with water all over the floor, some on me, a wiener in one hand and pot lid in the other.

There's one thing Mom's the world over have in common. They cover ground in a hurry when they want to.  Little Curtis was standing there, eyes like two saucers and he was holding on to an over sized candy cane.  Mom rushed over and I put my arms out in the universal "pick me up and cuddle me" gesture.  What she did was grab me, bend me over and spank me - with what would have been my candy cane.

Of course later she was sorry, but at that moment I was as scared as I'd ever been.  The grown up in me kind of understands why she snapped after years of trying to hold things together and provide for us (in her own way), but the ten year old in me has never forgotten or forgiven her. 

So today for dinner, as it's been every December 17 since I moved out on my own, I had hot dogs for dinner.  It mark's the the day I became a man.

Pushing Buttons and Ringing Bells

I decided today was a good day to do some shopping. It's not like I have a lot of presents to buy. There's Margaret, my Mom and then I buy a fistful of scratch and win tickets for those "Oh shit I need a gift" moments.

Normally I shop alone. Yea with nobody else. And when I shop alone, I prefer to be by myself (with apologies to George Thorogood). So what happens? Norton wants to tag along. Rather than let him bug me, I just let it slide. I drove to the mall in relative silence other than the radio, and once there I just did my purpose driven walk thing. First off I went to the sexy store, I have no idea what it's called for real. It's just the sexy store. Margaret likes pajamas and I like her in pajamas - which is funny because when she's in them she doesn't actually get to wear them for long ... cough, anyway - moving on. There was a nice cozy pair on the womannequin that I figured would fit her, so I bought them.

Next it was off to the lottery kiosk to pick up a half dozen tickets. Then it was off to find Mom her gift and since 1991 I've been getting her the same thing: A fruitcake. Who says I'm not thoughtful? Its a gift that says you're a nut loaf, and its soaked in alcohol. They have a lot in common. I have no idea if they let her have it in prison - but I've never had one returned. Apparently Mom is up for parole for her last brush with the law in a few months. We'll see. I usually get a call asking for money just before she gets out.

Anyways, I'd done what I'd set out to do, but Norton was looking decidedly cagey. I was heading back to the van when Norton stopped. I kept walking, but after a few steps my conscience, that most evil of internal devices, made me stop. I shit you not, there was a tear in his eye.

Shit.

"What's the matter boy?" Calling him boy usually gets his goat something serious, but all I got was a lot of nothing. I thought I saw a lip quiver, but it was hard to tell in that light.

"I don't know what to get for Fiona." His girlfriend, and if I am to be honest a nice kid.

"How about a fruit cake?" again no response. I didn't have time for this, I wanted to go home and watch some TV. Besides, I had to fish the tinsel out of the litter box - it was starting to look like a French disco. So I opted to buy some time. "Has she dropped any hints? You know pointed stuff out, mentioned anything?" Of course she had. Come to think of it Margaret had been dropping a lot of hints too. But at the moment dang me if I could remember any of them. I looked at the bag with the PJ's. I was pretty sure this was on her list.

Norton was in think mode which meant I could steer him. Which I did to the nearest exit. As we walked out the door we passed one of those bell ringing Santas. He gave us a jolly "Ho ho ho" and rang his bell in my ear. I threw in the change from my pocket and kept walking.

Now Norton had me second guessing myself, but not for long. When I got home I wrapped up the PJ's feeling confident I was going to be the hero of Christmas. I also got Mom's gift in the mail.

All in all I was feeling quite pleased with myself.

But I couldn't quite shake the feeling there was something awry in the land of Chapman.

O Tater Tots and a Parked Tree in the Front Room

Sunday afternoon I went to look for a tree.  I'd gotten the Fargo back during the week and despite the damage to my wallet I have to admit that the old girl was running better than it had in ages.  The weird clunk from second to third was gone, although going up hill the motor laboured and wheezed - you could almost hear it saying, "I think I can, I think I can."

Margaret and I went to one of those "You Cut" places that seems to charge by the inch.  Still, Christmas only comes around once a year and to be honest I've never really outgrown the holiday.  I love to decorate for Christmas, although I draw the line at tinsel.  Cats and tinsel are a very bad combination. I have a terrible memory from my childhood of our Siamese cross running around the house with several inches of tinsel trailing out its backside. What was worse was when Curtis dared me to pull it out.  Which I did and it was quite possibly the longest piece of tinsel in history - I should have taken a picture and sent it to the Guinness people.  Have I mentioned I have three cats?

I digress.

So we cut down a nice seven footer, and tossed it in the back of the truck and I put it on the porch to dry.  Margaret stayed over for a while, and convinced me that "Eat Pray Love" would be fun to watch on a Sunday evening. To quote the inimical Forrest Gump, "that's all I got to say about that."

Anyways I got home this evening from running a couple of odd jobs to find Norton and Margaret in the living room stringing up lights on my tree.  Margaret came over and gave me a hug and a kiss, and Norton was grinning. "Hey John, look it's a Christmas tree!"

Last year Norton and Margaret decorated the tree while I was out at a job, and I returned home to find the two of them grinning like lawn gnomes at a garage sale. I threw a major hissy fit and let them know in no uncertain terms that it was MY HOUSE DAGNABBIT (I actually said dagnabbit, I don't know where it came from, but out it came) and tree decorating in my house was to be done by me when I said so.  I even remember stomping my foot once or twice.

Here we were a year later and thing one and thing two were decorating the tree - without me. Margaret sensing I was about to throw another wobbly quickly pointed out they were not decorating at all.  They were merely staging the tree and no actual decorating could occur until the lights were on anyway. Norton nodded like a bobble head.  I looked and sure enough the boxes marked "tree decorations" were on the floor. Unopened.

"Well let's get decorating." I pulled over a box and started taking out ornaments. Most of what I have has come to me through various yard sales and hand-me-downs. I prefer to think of the stuff as vintage.  I have stuff that's never been opened, and through the years I don't think the tree has ever looked the same twice.

We were about fifteen minutes in when Norton's tummy gave a growl that made once of the Clarence's jump a little. "John, what's for dinner?"

"Gee, I don't know Norton.  You've been home all day, what are you making?" Margaret made a face at me.  It had been a long day, and I wasn't about to go fix a big dinner. "How about breakfast?"

"Oh yummy, breakfast for dinner." Norton actually clapped his hands. 

Margaret didn't seem to be offering to cook, so I took her silence as a yes.  The tree was looking pretty decent and was mostly done by the look of things.  Although how much of this was due to me and Norton and how much was Margaret re-decorating when she thought we weren't looking I'm not sure. She'd probably say "A lot." Me, I'm not so sure. She's a typical tree Nazi and won't rest until she's conquered the tree all by herself.

From the kitchen I called out to Margaret and Norton, "Pancakes, bacon and eggs okay?"

Norton called back, "No hash browns?"

I looked in the freezer and found a bag of tater tots. "I got taters."  I could hear clapping again. I always get the urge to throw a fish at him, but it would be pointless.  I shuffled around the kitchen getting things going, and after about half an hour I wandered back into the living room to see what was going on.

"John, look what we found!  Isn't it awesome.  This is totally cool.  And the cats love it!"  The tree was delicately decorated with discretely placed strands of tinsel.  No clumps, none of the haphazard blobs that was the calling card of my childhood efforts. This was almost elegant in its execution - it was definitely Margaret's work. Be that as it may, it was still tinsel.

Where did they find tinsel? I didn't even know I had any - which just goes to show I really don't have any idea what's in those boxes. Norton was dangling a piece in front of Clarence who was on his back and trying to catch it with his front paws.

I couldn't watch.

This will end badly.  I just know it.  There's a lot of days between now and Epiphany when the tree comes down.

At least I was able to put the star on the tree, despite Norton trying to call dibs.  After all, my house - my tree. Tinsel and all.

Cabana Cowboys and Idiots

Today started out with so well. December 2nd yielded another gummy zombie, which I had with my oatmeal. Norton didn't look pleased. Apparently the way the advent calendar works is we alternate days. I just figured it was mine and all mine (insert maniacal laughter here). He just sat there pouting, and wouldn't touch his breakfast. "Its too hot." he said grumpily. Which I thought was a load of shit because mine was just right.

I didn't have much on the go today so I decided it would be good to go out and perhaps do a little Christmas shopping and wander through the shops. It's not like I really like shopping, but I do enjoy people watching and besides it would get me out of the house.

Norton's list was still hanging from the fridge, so I took it down on my way out of the house. I figured I'd just deliver it. This was a mistake on two counts. First I touched the list, which I assume gave Norton the idea that I was taking said list with me shopping so I could fill his stocking with love and happiness on Christmas morning. Second Norton took this as an invitation to come along with me, because no sooner had I plucked the list when he shouted "Shotgun!"

Norton in many ways is what an inbreed golden retriever would be like if it was a human. As we drove into town I was expecting him to roll down the window and stick his head out. I'm glad he didn't because it was pretty cold outside. When I'm driving I'm not a great conversationalist. It's not that I'm concentrating or anything it's just that I'm not a great conversationalist. Norton on the other hand is a constant jibber jabberer.

For whatever reason he was on a social justice kick today. "John, did you know that the Nobel Peace prize is going to Loo Zaboo this year? I mean all I'm saying is give peace a chance."

I couldn't help it, I rolled my eyes. Which launched Norton into fresh stream of bumper sticker observations about the world and odd lyrical misquotes from old Bob Dylan songs - I have to assume was unintentional because I'm pretty sure he has no idea who Bob Dylan is.

He was driving me crazy. I needed a drink, but it was too early for a drink drink so I opted for coffee. "Norton, want to grab a coffee?" I didn't really expect an answer because I was looking for a place to park. They says there's a Starbucks on every corner, and that's not too far from the truth. I'm not the biggest fan of their coffee but it'll do in a pinch. We walked in, Norton was still mumbling away and I was doing my best to ignore him. After waiting in line a few minutes a happy smiling face asked "What can I start for you today?"

"I'll have a coffee please. Black."

"Will that be dark, or mild? Room for cream?"

I'd learned the hard way after suffering the explosive diuretic effects of their dark roast the last time I'd had their coffee that this was actually a serious question. "Mild please, and I'll take it black thank you."

Norton on the other hand knew exactly what he wanted "I'll have a vente Cabana Boy..." I think that's what he said, it was followed by more gibberish I didn't quite understand, but to the trained ear of a Starbucks barista it was plain English.

So we sat at a little round table where Norton launched right into a series of bold statements that left me somewhat dumbstruck. It reminded me a little of the conversations first year philosophy students have about whether they really exist or not. He was so earnest that I bit my tongue and tried not to resort to my usual response which was "Norton, you're an idiot." What I said was "Norton, the problems of the world today can be summed up in one word: Cows. Cows are the root of all the world's problems."

He was about to say something but I cut him off. "Norton, tell you what. You stop talking I'll look at your list, and I'll get you something. Okay."

Norton grinned like an idiot and did that zipping the lips thing and pretended to throw away the key. It was pretty convincing. He made a point of unzipping to drink his "coffee" and rezip after he was done.

The rest of the day passed in relative silence.

It's Beginning to Feel a lot Like I Should Be Doing Something

December 1st marks the descent into the hornidays. Or as Margaret calls them, "The Twelve Lays of Christmas." Oh wait, I'm getting ahead of myself ... and am about to back myself into a very dark place with only one exit. Just to make it more uncomfortable the way out looks like a giant raisin that can dilate. This type of observation, when I make them at kitchen table, is usually followed by Norton covering his eyes with his hands and say, "Oh John puts bad pictures in Norton's head."

Dang I'm still in the dark place ...

Time for an obloggitory mulligan.

December 1st marks the descent in the holidays (so far so good). Now, I like Christmas - it's a wonderful time, and things usually slow down enough for me that I can take time to enjoy myself and actually decompress while others get themselves wound up into walking stress balls. Norton on the other hand approaches Christmas with the enthusiasm of a nine year old. The little bugger has been living with me a couple years now and after the initial surprise he sprung on me when December rolled around, I've been nervous about going to be November 30th.

I woke up this morning to bells. Little dingle bells ... twelve of them, attached to three very unhappy looking cats. Norton had made tiny tinfoil boots for the cats and tied a small bell to each foot. The cats were spastically lurching across the floor, the bells making a noise that sounded oddly like “Bang on a Can” by Steve Reich.

Christmas music was playing somewhere in the house. I got dressed and went to the kitchen to make myself some breakfast and feed the cats who were tangling themselves in my feet. I went to open the fridge where I noticed something new hanging from the general clutter of notes, cartoons and unpaid bills. It was a note from Norton. Actually that’s not true – it was a Christmas list. I’d have to remember to drop this in Mrs. McCleary’s (I still can’t think of her as Barbara) mailbox.

When I sat down to eat Norton came in grinning like an idiot. He was holding something behind his back. After a minute or so of just standing there waiting for me to bite he handed me a large flat wrapped gift. “Happy December first. Open it!”

I did.

It was an advent calendar. Okay this is where I have to admit this was no ordinary advent calendar. It was obviously home made, but it is something that I am sure will come out every year. It was an Army of Darkness Advent Calendar.

“Well, open the first window already!”

I did and inside was a twisted up black gummy bear.

“It’s one of the zombie army dudes. Pretty cool huh?” I had to admit it was pretty cool and I was looking forward to opening the big window on December 24th.

As much as Norton irritates the shit out of me, he’s slowly grown on me. He’s more the annoying little brother than the kid you’d beat up for lunch money and over the next couple of weeks his infectious love of the holidays would rub off on me, and I hate to admit it, but he’ll make things interesting around the house if not fun.

The cats on the other hand won’t go near him …

I Don’t Do Sick Well

The adage goes something like “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Which is of course complete and utter horseshit. At some point between the other day and today my body decided that it was time to act up and see how miserable it could make things for me before I gave up and took to my bed.

The short answer is: too long.

You see I hate being sick. I don’t do sick well. I hate being sick, and when I’m sick I keep going like I’m not sick, which usually results in me making things worse for myself, and not just health wise. You see when I’m sick I tend to exercise really bad judgment.

Take today for instance. I got up and immediately I could tell something wasn’t right in the old body department. I’m not talking the usual cricks, pops and pains a guy my age has to deal until my joints warm up. Nope, this was my bodies early warning system telling me if I was to return to bed and get some rest immediately there was a good chance things would reset themself in short order and I’d be right as rain (another stupid phrase, but I’m limiting myself to one stupid rant per phrase today) in no time at all.

So what did I do?

That’s right, I got up. Intent on rising to the challenge, I was hell bent on trying to seize the day.

Right off the bat my brain was determined to make as many bad choices as possible. What better ammunition than a phone call before my first coffee and a chance to thaw out the noodle? The phone rang, and of course rather than let the call go to voicemail I answered it.

It was a work call.

More to the point it was a call to do work I didn’t want to do – or like to do, or for that matter even have to do, for a person I swore I’d never do work for. Ever. What’s the point in being your own boss if you give yourself shitty work you don’t like doing, for people you don’t want to interact with? Well, I must hate myself because before I knew it I’d said I’d be over later in the week to take a look and see what I could do.

Crap.

On the plus side the job wasn’t very far away, and I’d never built a koi pond before. Besides, this was a job I’d get Norton to help with … after all it was for his mother, and if I played my cards right I wouldn’t have to pay him.

Even though I felt like shit on a hot sidewalk I wasn’t feeling bad about taking the job – which I’m sure was due to being sick, because I’m sure I’ll regret it later. However for now I feel like all is right with the world.

I’m going to bed to sleep the sleep of the righteous … thanks in part to cold medicine, and the hot buttered rum. Who knows I may just wake up and this will have just been a bad dream.

Carpe diem as they say … or in this case it’s just carp.

And for the final groaner: I’m trying not to be koi.

With that I’m off to bed.

Cut me a break, I’m sick.

Backwards Jesus with Bacon and Eggs

I still can’t quite settle on a church that feels like home. I stopped going all together for several months, and I have to say that Norton was pretty irritating about it, although to his credit he stopped short of calling me a hell bound backslider.

Sometimes it’s the little things that seem to connect everything together. I’ve tried imagining how those farmers know how to carve out the pictures in the cornfields when they’re at ground level. I mean it’s not like they have a spotter in the air giving them directions.

Spirituality is kind of like that for me most of the time. I’m stuck at ground level, and it doesn’t feel like I’m getting anywhere, or making a difference. The difference between me and the farmer in the tractor is that I believe I have a spotter somewhere up there, and although I’m not getting the clearest of directions, if I can get a decent vantage point I can see what I’ve been doing.

Ooh, this is deep shit huh?

So this morning Norton and I are sitting at the kitchen table having a chat while the cats had their morning snack. Norton was reading the label on one of the empty tins. “Hey, did you know that cat backwards is tac?”

Normally I try to ignore Norton until I’ve had a coffee, but he managed to catch me before my guard was up. “Norton, say ‘focus’ backwards, but instead of starting with the “s” use the “f” life you would if you were saying it normally.”

It took him a few moments as he mumbled it out, and when he finally blurted it out, he looked shocked and then blushed. It shut him up for a couple of minutes. “John, you coming to church today?”

Rather than respond I tried to distract him. “Norton did I ever tell you about my buddy Tony? When we were kids he was the cleverest guy I’d ever met. Funniest guy I’ve ever known, and more curious than all the Clarence’s put together. Did you know he could actually speak backwards? When he first did it I thought it was gibberish, you know the kind you hear on that TBN network you like to watch when you think I’m not home. I actually recorded him once and when I played it backwards it made sense.”

He seemed to be paying attention so I thought I’d be clever. “Tell you what, if you can make me think going to church is better than staying at home and making a nice breakfast for me and the cats I’ll go with you today. What do you say?”

Norton sat there quietly. He was turning the can around in his hand. After a couple of minutes he put the can down. He looked me in the eye (only one, as Norton had an inability to focus on both eyes. He’d either look at my nose, or one of my eyes). “John, you sure love your breakfast don’t you?”

I nodded.

“and you know that Jesus loves you, right?”

I nodded again.

“Did you know that if you say Jesus backwards it sounds like sausage? If you love breakfast, and Jesus loves you, and if Jesus is part of your breakfast don’t you think he’d appreciate you coming to church after you’d had breakfast to say thank you?”

To be honest, I was kind of struck dumb. Norton wasn’t finished though. “It’s still pretty early, you have time to make a nice breakfast for both of us and we can still be on time for the service.”

And that’s how Norton got me to church today. I have to say it was nice to go, and as usual their coffee was excellent.

To Dream the Impassable Dream

There’s nothing like a sense of urgency to convince oneself that normally irrational behavior is acceptable because you need to get it done, and chances are you’d end up making the same decision more or less anyway – so just cut out all the unnecessary planning and preparation and just make a decision and stick to it. No regrets, no remorse, just a sense of accomplishment at being a man of action.

That was the plan.

I now own a minivan.

Let me go back a little and fill in some of the blanks.

Jimmy is a bit of a car whore. Which is an understatement, but despite our many years of acrimonious exchanges (these are the ones where money leaves my pocket and goes into his) I have to say that Jimmy was there for me.

After the death of the Pulsar, Jimmy gave me fifty bucks and towed it around back of his shop and put it with the other neighborhood derelicts. Jimmy was looking pretty proud of himself, and put a hand on my shoulder. “How you plan on getting around Johnny? Bus?”

I’ll stop here and set the record straight. I am not Johnny, or Jonathan, or Jon, or Jack – if someone can tell me how in the hell Jack is short for John please let me know. I especially hate it when Jimmy calls me Johnny.

“I’ll be using the Fargo I ‘spose.”

Jimmy tapped my shoulder and turned me around so that I was looking at the open bay door to his shop where my beloved Fargo was up on the hoist looking a bit like a small beached whale. “About that, I’ve been meaning to call you. The tranny is shot on the beast, and I’m pretty sure I can get my hands on something that’ll fix it up, but it’s going to take me about a week to put the guts back in and get ‘er back on the road.

Oh lord the bus. There was no way I was going to be stuck trying to lug my tools around on the bus. I suppose I could call Margaret and we could go car shopping. It had been years since I’d been car shopping. It’s not that I was afraid of car shopping – I was afraid of the salesmen, and I was more afraid of the hidden manager guy behind the curtain who held the fate of my purchase in his hands.

Jimmy then said an odd thing. “You need a new car. What say you and me go out and take a look see and see what’s out there? Who knows it could be fun.”

Now I have to be honest, the last couple of years have kicked the shit out of my wallet what with the down turn and all, and people have been holding on to their cash. So it wasn’t like I was going to be shelling out for something off the showroom floor. Anyway Jimmy and I hashed out a few things over a coffee. What was I looking for, what was I using it for, how long did I want it to last (apparently forever isn’t a viable option).

So we spent the day wandering from dealership to dealership kicking tires, and test driving everything in my price range. Jimmy was having a blast, and I was actually enjoying myself. But nothing was really tickling my fancy. Then near the end of the day we found the van. I laughed and said there was no way I was going to get a minivan. Minivans were for soccer mom's and pussy whipped men. But Jimmy winked at the salesman, which I found very unsettling, and the two of them proceeded to show me the features. There was a lot of space – as much as the Fargo. There was seating, more than the old Pulsar. It was up high like the truck, and it had decent power, and it had a nice stereo. After a bit of cajoling the salesman handed me the keys and we took it for a drive.

I hate to say it, but I was hooked. Jimmy could tell too, because he was grinning. “Who’d a thunk huh Johnny? A minivan. Okay, let’s take it to the shop I want to take a look at this thing and see what’s under the under bits.”

So we did and Jimmy poked and prodded and looked in the weird dark places and pronounced it good enough for Johnny. So we drove back to the dealership where the salesman was waiting and when he saw us pull in he looked relieved. I suppose we were gone a while.

He met me at the door before I could get out. “So what do you think?”

“I think we’re going to have to sit down and see what your manager thinks about what I’m going to offer."

On Top of Old Smokey

I love my old truck. God bless a country that can make a truck that can go for just about ever. By the same token there is a curse for the country who made my old Datsun. Now to be fair, I loved my old Pulsar. Back in 1983 when I first got that little black beauty I thought I was the cat's pajamas (don't ask, but in case you do - I do know what cat's pajamas look like). Those little pop up headlights, and purring little engine that put out 70 horsepower was a hoot to drive. Heck even after the the thing started to smoke, and the lights stopped popping up consistently - the little thing kept on motoring. Just about 600,000 kilometers on it too - then fate that most cruel of mistresses reared her ugly head and put a final stake through the heart of my daytime Datsun (yes I know its a Nissan, but I got it just around the time of the name change and the decal on the trunk says DATSUN so cut me a break, I'm in lament mode here).

Now it isn't like I hate change. I love change. I buy my coffee from Cindi most of the time with change. However in life I kind of like things the way they are. Which explains why I still have the Fargo despite Jimmy's attempts to take it off my hands. Speaking of the devil, it was Jimmy who pronounced the car dead. Which for him must have been hard, because he's been milking me dry over that car for the last 15 years. I think it was the letter from the police that convinced him that it's timing belt was up (oh look, I made a car funny).

I'm losing you aren't I? That's the problem with letting your fingers type while your brain is trying to organize what's supposed to come out. I don't type that fast, but apparently I type faster than I can think. Please don't tell Margaret. I'd never hear the end of it.

Now where was I? Right - the car.

Is there a point to this? Sure there is, and I'm working my way to it as sure as a rat eventually finds the cheese at the end of the maze. You just have to bear (I'm not changing animals, I'm sticking with the rat thing) with me while I bump into some dead ends along the way.

I think I mentioned my car smoked. It didn't just smoke a little it smoked a lot. I mean people who drove behind me put on their lights, in the day, it was that smokey. It would settle down after a couple of miles to just chimney smoke type smoking, but when I first fired up the car (a pun, but not intended) it was pretty unbelievable. Over the years Jimmy suggested a head gasket job, which I passed on. Then a ring job, which I passed on. He actually had a motor for it, but I passed on that - then reconsidered, but the motor was gone. His nephew had taken it and put it in a go kart. So I did the next best thing - Jimmy had me use the thickest oil, and every month did an oil change and put in a bunch of stuff intended to reduce the amount of oil the car burned through ... I wonder how bad it would have been if Jimmy hadn't done all that stuff?

Anyways, to cut a long story somewhat shorter last week I was going to drive over to see Vernon about some stuff. I had hardly pulled away from the house when I heard the siren. I looked in the rear view mirror but couldn't see anything - literally. It got louder so I pulled over to the right, and the siren sort of followed me. Now in my heart of hearts I'd been expecting this for a long long time, but always figured it was a problem for the future John, not the now John or as Margaret says when I'm feeling frisky "Not now John". I stopped and as the smoke dissipated could see the tell tale blue and red flashing lights. I could also see a rather large officer of the law walking toward the car.

He tapped on my window. He had a sheaf of paper in his hand. "Is your car on fire?"

"No officer." I replied.

"Your car isn't on fire?" he repeated and turn the paper over in his hand and looked at it, and then at the back of the car, and then at me.

"Um, no - not on fire" and then I quickly added "Sir." I could sense the jig was up, and more to the point I caught a glimpse of a beaming Mrs. McCleary in the mirror as she stood at the end of her driveway. "My car smokes a little when I first fire it up." In my mind I knew that totally came out wrong.

"Sir, you can no longer drive this vehicle." He handed me the notice which had obviously been prepared in advance basically summarizing what he'd just said.

I took the paper, and went to start the car to drive home. But the nice policeman was still standing there. "Perhaps I wasn't clear. You ... cannot ... drive ... this ... car."

Mrs. McCleary had actually made her way down the sidewalk, and was close enough to be able to hear what was going on. I looked over and made a face I hoped was menacing. Sadly the cop thought it was for him, and before I knew what was going on I was outside the car with my legs spread and my head on the hood.

All in all it was a pretty shitty way to say goodbye to my car. I pushed the car home, and as I was just about to the top of the driveway Norton popped his head out the front door, "Hey John, need a hand?"

Next I'll tell you about my new car. But not now, you could say that the memory is too fresh and I'm fuming just thinking about it.

Dutch Ovens and White Linen

I make no apologies for liking to sleep. Depending on how you average it out, in my life I will spend about two hundred thousand hours looking at the back of my eye lids and dreaming happy dreams where I am the king of the world, and as a side job get paid to be a breast softness tester.

Before you get on me about wasting my life away sleeping, I'll defend my love of the pillow by stating my firm belief that I'm not wasting my life at all, I'm merely allowing myself more time in my alternate reality.

I digress (which is nothing new ... I am after all easily distracted) Ask Margaret ... "oooh shiny thing" ... what was I saying?)

Margaret doesn't stay over that often. I'm not sure how much of this is due to Norton's tendency to flush the toilet when he pees in the middle of the night, or the fact that night time is farty time. Margaret is one of those rare women who can burp like a bull frog, and laughs at knock knock jokes - one thing she doesn't do is fart.

I'll amend that, she farts. I'm sure she farts. One time at lunch, she stifled a sneeze and I'm sure I heard something that sounded like a balloon squeak - but I'm not sure. I would also bet a quarter that when she's sitting making doodie she farts ... but she doesn't fart for pleasure.

Me on the other hand, I enjoy a nice toot now and then. Heck, Norton who usually irritates the shit out of me just by being in the house while I'm home is an exceptionally fine farter. I'm not sure I've mentioned it, but his all time hero is Joseph Pujol. Norton may not have his skill, but the other day at dinner he pulled off the opening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony. I was really impressed but the lingering after burn hinted there was a little more substance to the last note than either of us was expecting. Margaret who was there was totally unimpressed, and she put to rest Norton's claim that she hits like a girl. The bruise on his shoulder lasted a good week.

I truly digress.

Margaret was over for the night, and we were having a nice cuddle and chatting about silly nonsense. I think the phrase I'm looking for is spooning. Yup, spooning. We were spooning, and to be honest I was doing a little grinding and making growly noises. I really thought I was turning her on. Because she was pushing back against me.

Turns out what she was doing was positioning.

In the history of great farts, what happened next wouldn't even qualify as a footnote. It was fairly unremarkable, except for the source. Margaret farted. It wasn't a girly thing. It reminded me of Norton's nefarious Beethoven movement.

What sealed the deal was Margaret flopping over onto her back grabbing the covers and pulling them over my head. She held them there for a long time.

A really long time.

Then she punched me in the arm, and dang it, it wasn't one of those girly hits. It'll leave a mark for sure. Then she rolled onto her side and resumed the cuddle.

The last thing she said before falling asleep was, "You tell anyone I'll deny it. And then I'll kill you."

In the morning I had to do the laundry.

Catching Up on What's Left Behind

Life gets weird if you let it. Life also gets weird when you least expect it. In general life can be weird.

I can almost hear you, "Shit John, where you been? Two years and nothing, and you come back and you start with this?"

Well, it's true. Life is weird. Life has been weird. These last couple of years have been extremely weird (note the use of italics?). I promise to fill in the blanks as best as I can, but to be honest I just want to think of the last couple of years as my "lost weekend period" without the drugs and May Pang, although Margaret has been righteously solid.

Now before you think I'm all peaches and gravy I'll be up front and break some bad news up front. Norton is still hanging around, and he has a girlfriend who spends an inordinate amount of time in my house (again I have to point out the italics). Her only redeeming quality is her near insatiable appetite for zombie movies. I cannot begin to tell you how many movies there are out there. Norton and Margaret can't stand them, and frankly next to watching Bruce Campbell movies it's a close second.

I've got to knock off, but I'll be back.

Really.