Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Hitchhiker's Guide

Everytime I taste chocolate milk it reminds me of spring day in my teenage years. The day Gary Lynn threw chocolate milk at my car for not picking him up hitchhicking. Gary was one of local characters, a well loved schizophrenic that meant no actual harm.  He lived with his parents until he passed in his early forties. Gary made money by roaming the Island trimming trees, but he didn't have a car. So Gary would hitchhike around the island with his chainsaw or ax.  Besides being woefully intimidating looking, the truth is I never stopped to pick him up for fear he might get chainsaw oil on my oarnge crushed velour seats.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Weird Science

I have come to believe that each of us is an Atom. We being the nucleus and our family (chosen or blood) are the protons that make up our core. Circling the core are the electrons (friends) in multiple rings. Those electrons are drawn towards us for some reson unknown to us but for a purpose. When this nee electron is drawn toward us we and them are changed. Sometimes it brings stabilty and a positive metamorphosis. Othertimes it displaces or we shed an electron, also changing what we are. 
It doesn't always feel like a positive change, nor is it necessarily permanent. 

Sunday, February 15, 2015


While perusing through untouched phone apps I stumbled across my blogger app and realized i had a saved draft from over a year ago I had never published. I released it out into the blogger sphere with all of it's irrelevance intact. 
Janet is long gone, another mistress of the orient has came and left and I am back behind the wheel of Korea in the guise of a white Soul. It is my second, the first I dumped because it represented a larger failure or lesson that needed to be learned and after the dust settled I missed it. Enter "Amanda" she is everything I loved about the first Soul sans all the annoying bits. 

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Captain of my own ship/Captain my Captain

I've been reminded that I don't blog enough and I thought I should explain. I am my own worst critic to nobody's surprise. I am worried that the words meant to encourage me to be a better writer will just cut and burn instead of inspire. Luckily if there was going to be a casting of a TV show based on my circle, my friends would be playing the hornless roles while I would have the pitchfork.

 I think that girl in Peyton place said it best(the original movie, none of the shenanigans that followed)... I don't go to school for writing because I already know how to write". I write in a stream of consciousness, And I appreciate the same when I read. Maybe that is why I have read miles more of wiring diagrams than sentences in novels. I dont like the rules. This is my journey to take you on good or bad, so sit right back and ill tell you a tale.

Through a chain of events that I interpret to be very positive, I have found myself back at the helm of an American Rear wheel drive V8. Most will mock me for being "old" and make jokes of casino runs and handicap parking. But there is a reason why other than the affordmentioned. These cars stir my soul. Not to be confused with a previous Korean car that shall remain nameless. I connect with them. Only one other form of transportation does this and it requires lots of water and deep pockets.

Around town parking is a slight nuisance, the gas station is more of an event than a pit stop sometimes, but it is worth it. When you find the interstate and let this creature roam it embraces you with solitude. it shields you from all the white noise of the world. It is that broken in leather sofa that greets you after a long day and wraps its itself around you like a mother should. Driving through the Utah desert and having the rd rock and blue sky's reflection wash over the hood and reflected into you. All I can hear is the faint symphony of machine verses the pavement and the whispers of the plastic and leather having a tug o war in the background.

I have sampled the wears of from around the globe, and each one has its own character. Some are all machine with no soul that tirelessly serve, making no imprint on their pilot. Others are all personality and devoid of a work ethic, battling you every time you call on them. This friend I see in my life for longer than I saw the rest. I see her as gift to cherish. Maybe I'll give her a name...

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

The white stuff please...

You either love it, or hate it and if you are a fan you then must pick a team. Red or White. I'm betting that the title had your mind in the gutter which was no accident. The topic at hand is in fact Clam Chowder. Not to be confused as racist, I only eat white.

I grew up surrounded by salt water. The son of a long line of fishermen, clam chowder is in my blood. I have many fond memories of eating chowder with various family members through the years. My favorite are with my Grandfather down at the pier. Taking turns feeding the seagulls a french fry and dipping the next in that creamy concoction before savoring one myself. Yes, seagulls love french fries.

Here at a mile high in the middle of America, fish is foreign. "Seafood" restaurants are where one gets fried frozen Pollock and fries. Denver is the home of Green Chili, which is amazing and I'm sad the the Salmon heads back home have no idea what it is, but it's not Chowder.

To get my fix these days I find myself stalking the TARGET meat department for their once every month or so delivery of Ivar's Clam chowder. I buy all the tubs they have and horde it in the freezer. I feel like a Chowder junky and well, admitting it is the first step to recovery.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

An awful friend

 I think we have all at some point realized that we have made the wrong friend or are in a relationship that just isn't complementing who we are. They are usually the one that is fun to be with but leads you down a path you regret. Some shed this friend in one quick termination like ripping a bandaid from a furry patch of skin, others let them just drift silently away and swear they lost your number. This friend for me is Alcohol.

We met when I was 13, in the form of Strawberry Daiquiris from a punch bowl at a a neighbors Crystal party. I rode my mini bike home across the field with a warm buzz and my mother running behind me screaming in terror. We didn't dance again until I was 15. I was at a friends for sleepover where we snuck out to a party in the woods with a bonfire and a keg. Some of my Dads students were all to happy to help me celebrate. Keg stands seemed easy then. When I was 17 I passed out behind the wheel of my Prelude after combining a fifth of Monarch and some Sunny D. I rolled the car end for end across my PE teacher's driveway a mile and a half from home. ALWAYS wear your seatbelt.  A family friend helped scrape my belongings from the street and called my father to come rescue me. I wonder if he knows how grateful I am to this day for his help.

The bad decisions continued all through my twenties and who knows how many guardian angles. I shake my head in horror walking down this blurry memory lane of shame to write this. You will never know how thankful and blessed I feel that no innocents had to pay for those decisions. I've watched my Mom's side of the family be torn apart and crippled by the last 30 years being poured over the rocks or squeezed out of a grape. My last relationship came to an ugly end, and looking back I see that the worst of the fights usually involved that old "Friend" and that alcohol hasn't brought me joy or cheer, usually just tears and a headache. The last three times I've been out to the bar with him I didn't have more fun, and I'm usually sad as I watch great people reduced to sloppy copies of themselves.

If your'e not enjoying the journey, change the direction you're headed.

And please don't take this as preachy piece of judgement, this isn't about you. This is just me realizing who my friends really are.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Number 40?

I've always found it strange when someone has the same car for years, I mean I get the appeal, financial stability and well some cars just fit you so well you make a bond and they become family. I've only been in car love a twice. My first car, a 1979 Saab 900 GLi.
It was my Grandfather's car that I bought from him with money I made fishing in Alaska. I was 15, and one night I snuck the car out at the adult acting age of 15 with a friend to drive around the Island. We ended up jumping the car 127ft through the air before doing 360's spins for a 1/4 of a mile and coming to rest backwards in a ditch. My Father made me fix the car and drive it for the next two years. I miss it's airplane cockpit cabin and ignition down on the floor and the way it's odd egg shaped silhouette would swallow three bales of hay, but not the way it flew. I'm suspicious of it's Airplane heritage the way it fell nose first from the sky.
I can still remember the smell of that car, like it always had a fuel leak, and the disconnected feel of the shifter and every time I see one of those quirky Swedes I melt.

I traded the Saab to a Croatian man for a 1967 Lincoln Continental Coupe that had been sitting in a barn for twenty years.
There was so much dust and chicken crap on the car you could barely tell the car was white. The first time I sat in her she felt like home. Much what I imagine Arnold felt like in the movie Christine when he slid behind the wheel of that haunted 57 Fury. Instead of the scent old Chrysler Vinyl, I  was greeted with a musty waft of hand worked leather seats and and one of my favorite examples of functional automotive art.

I spent the next month making the road worthy and had the car for twelve years. The liquid torque that she had and the way she would glide past 100 mph like a supersonic sofa, the Concorde had nothing on her. Bad decisions and my twenties made me abandon the car and my dreams of being buried in it. 

I had one more Saab, and two more Lincoln's and well, maybe about 38 other cars from almost every other brand except Nissan, but none have made a home in my heart yet like those two. My daily commute has me back in American Eco Luxury by the name of a carefree plastic West Coast Haven... Malibu. Sexy and sinister, like the Bat mobile Sans Balls.