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.

... And Twice on Sunday

I have an unusual relationship with the big man upstairs. I love that he loves me and all, but I wish he'd talk to the rest of his followers and remind them that they're supposed to love each other, and not just themselves. There's only so much of the "Jesusweetjesus" stuff I can take before I start to taste my own vomit.

I was given a choice today by Norton: I could come to church, or I could stay home; but I wouldn't like it.

I believed him.

Last time Norton gave me a choice I stayed home. The little shit went into my TV controller box thing and locked me out, but before doing that he'd programmed in a marathon session of Jack Van Impe, and his lovely and enthusiastic wife Rexella. Where I learned (among other things) that black holes were the scientifically proven location of hell. Norton also managed to disable the volume and the off button.

So to make a long story even longer when Norton gave me the option, I figured getting a shot of Jesus and a decent coffee was better than listening to Dr. Van Impe try to guess the date of the second coming - considering that "no man knows the hour ... " does his claiming to know make him less of a man?

A horn sounded outside. Norton poked his head in the kitchen. "Mom's here, let's go." Then he raced out the door calling shotgun. Crap. I hated the back seat. Thankfully the church (okay it was in a school gym) was just down the street. We arrived in record time - Mrs. McCleary could really pedal when she put her mind to it. Remind me to tell you about the time she spent the weekend in jail for street racing.

I went inside and went for the coffee, and grabbed a mug. Today's inspirational message was a bit of a surprise. "Jesus said,'Turn the other cheek.'" then in small print it read brought to you by the Christian Men's Proctology Association.

It didn't help that the chair I got didn't have padding. So I sat there, and suffered in my own way and when it was all over I felt better.

All in all, one of those awkward moments that loses a lot in the retelling.

The Seven Irritating Habits of an Irritating Person

September is one of my favourite months. Everyone I know makes their resolutions in January to coincide with the start of a new year. Me, I turn over my leaves after Labor Day. I have to try to make them "new" leaves, otherwise I keep turning over the same leaf, and repeat the same mistakes over and over. But for the most part I tend to feel rejuvenated come fall.

Norton's been living with me now for a couple of months, and despite my initial worries, he actually turning out to be a pretty decent kid. He does the lawn without having to be told, and I haven't gotten any calls from his mom in weeks. Outside the first week Norton moved in when he cut into the lawn "If you can't read this, YOU'RE STANDING TOO CLOSE!"

I've had to adjust to his little foibles, and he has a lot.

1. He hums when he's eating something he enjoys.
2. He likes Bruce Campbell (how is this a bad thing? He likes Alien Apocalypse - a lot)
3. He likes ABBA. More than is natural. (He sings like Pierce Brosnan with a cold)
4. He irons his socks.
5. He likes to clean up my workshop.
6. He's always leaving the seat down on the toilet.
7. His hero is Joseph Pujol. He's practicing to be like his hero. He does a lot of laundry.

Was there any point to this? Not really, but it was more fun than doing what I supposed to be doing. Starting Monday, I really am going to try and keep up with stuff. One of the first things will be to go see Vernon, something I've been putting off for the last month and a bit.