Yesterday and Today
Yesterday: I related something similar to what happened yesterday in my blog last spring. Maybe it's a seasonal thing. I was standing, along with a lady, at the bus stop outside my apartment yesterday waiting to catch my morning ride to work. A car pulls up and a couple of blank eyed jesus freaks slither out of the car clutching those pamphlets that tell you all the ways god will send you to hell if you don't submit to their brainwashing.
The lady standing at the bus stop with me is a pleasent lady in her 40's that uses a cane to walk. She's closer to the freaks and can't move too fast so she doesn't have a chance. They swoop onto her. As they start pulling out those goddamn pamphlets she gives me that look the wildebeast in the jaws of the croc gives to the one scurrying up the opposite bank. She's too nice to say no to these leeches and she gives them her time. After I catch her eye I immediately turn my bank on the horror and become very engrossed in the book I was reading.
Just as the bus is pulling up and they release their victim one comes over to me and says "would you like something else to read also?" You have to admire their unlimited gall in the face of obvious displeasure. I say, "No, thanks."
I allow the nice lady with the cane on the bus first. She is holding one of the pamphlets. She says to me, "You got off easy!" and she cackles jovially.
I say to her, "They pick on us at the bus stop because they know we can't leave."
Today
I got me a new bed a few days ago. It's a queen-sized behemoth that takes up almost one-quarter of the floor space in my bedroom. For the longest time I had a single bed and had forgotten the joys of a nice large bed. What a delight it is to really stretch out. I need to hurry up and get a girlfriend so I can break the new bed in.
This morning I woke up somewhere between 2 and 6 am. I was on my back and my orange cat, Gallagher the Invincible, was curled up in the crook of my left arm. He was using my elbow as a pillow. It was very cute but a little startling. I can't fall asleep on my back buy I always wake up there. Number one on a new list of ten things you may not know about me nor care to.
Saturday, May 31, 2003
Friday, May 30, 2003
Thursday, May 29, 2003
Poor guy
One of our regulars called today. He's old WWII vet that can't hear, has diabetes and has short term memory loss. He's a hoot, let me tell you.
He called today and wanted me to find out who his doctor was. He was seeing a doctor to get some tests and he couldn't remember the doctor's name or the clinic he works at. All he could remember was the street and block number the clinic was on and what floor the doctor's office was on. After a couple minutes of sleuthing I was able to determine the doctor he was seeing and give him a number. What was this particular doctor testing him for you may ask? Alzheimer's, of course.
One of our regulars called today. He's old WWII vet that can't hear, has diabetes and has short term memory loss. He's a hoot, let me tell you.
He called today and wanted me to find out who his doctor was. He was seeing a doctor to get some tests and he couldn't remember the doctor's name or the clinic he works at. All he could remember was the street and block number the clinic was on and what floor the doctor's office was on. After a couple minutes of sleuthing I was able to determine the doctor he was seeing and give him a number. What was this particular doctor testing him for you may ask? Alzheimer's, of course.
Wednesday, May 28, 2003
Back to the ole drawing board
Don't you just hate it when you have a great idea for a book and some asshole beats you to it!?
Don't you just hate it when you have a great idea for a book and some asshole beats you to it!?
Monday, May 26, 2003
A night at the dirt track, part II
Since there were about six series that ran on Saturday night I won't go into a lot of detail about them all. I'll just tell you about the featured series of the night which is called superstock.
The superstock series was the division that looked, drove and souned most like the stock cars you see racing in the NASCAR Winston Cup series. It also seemed to consist of the drivers that the fans in attendance were the most familiar and enthusiastic about. The final feature race had a purse of $2,000 that would be awarded to the winner. My informant next to me told me that the usual purse for the superstock in $700 and that may explain the chaos of the final race.
Before the finals of each series they had to qualify by driving in "heats." Depending on the size of the field they would hold two heats for each series and take the top drivers from each heat and put them in the finals.
The final race of the superstock event consisted of 16 drivers. Before the 30 lap event was over there were about seven cars. The attrition rate was very high. There was a lot of slamming and banging and crashing which raised the crowd into fever pitch. I have to give these drivers a lot of credit they were fearless. They would drive their cars hard into each corner and execute these amazing slides through the turns. The noses of the cars would be pointed toward the inside wall and they would be gassing the cars all the way through while leaning on the car next to them. I think there were more wrecks because the large purse was causing drivers to hang it out a bit more than usual. Maybe not, I'll let you know if they always drive with such abandon the next time I go.
As the race progressed it came down to two cars. One driver had the faster car but the driver on his ass seeemed to be a better driver. He had a daring pass with two laps to go and took the lead. He had the race one but lost control for a second coming out of turn 4 on the white flag lap and lost the lead on the final lap. For the last few laps the crowd screamed, howled and jumped around like it was the last lap at the Daytona 500. It was intoxicating and their enthusiasm was picked up and echoed by Chris and me.
I have to say that this experience reminded me a lot of the trip Chris, Wendell and I took to a juke joint in Mississippi back in 1997. Like the juke joint it was rural, local, friendly, loud with a lot of energy and booze. I encourage anyone who reads this to contact me and come along the next time we go. You will have fun.
Since there were about six series that ran on Saturday night I won't go into a lot of detail about them all. I'll just tell you about the featured series of the night which is called superstock.
The superstock series was the division that looked, drove and souned most like the stock cars you see racing in the NASCAR Winston Cup series. It also seemed to consist of the drivers that the fans in attendance were the most familiar and enthusiastic about. The final feature race had a purse of $2,000 that would be awarded to the winner. My informant next to me told me that the usual purse for the superstock in $700 and that may explain the chaos of the final race.
Before the finals of each series they had to qualify by driving in "heats." Depending on the size of the field they would hold two heats for each series and take the top drivers from each heat and put them in the finals.
The final race of the superstock event consisted of 16 drivers. Before the 30 lap event was over there were about seven cars. The attrition rate was very high. There was a lot of slamming and banging and crashing which raised the crowd into fever pitch. I have to give these drivers a lot of credit they were fearless. They would drive their cars hard into each corner and execute these amazing slides through the turns. The noses of the cars would be pointed toward the inside wall and they would be gassing the cars all the way through while leaning on the car next to them. I think there were more wrecks because the large purse was causing drivers to hang it out a bit more than usual. Maybe not, I'll let you know if they always drive with such abandon the next time I go.
As the race progressed it came down to two cars. One driver had the faster car but the driver on his ass seeemed to be a better driver. He had a daring pass with two laps to go and took the lead. He had the race one but lost control for a second coming out of turn 4 on the white flag lap and lost the lead on the final lap. For the last few laps the crowd screamed, howled and jumped around like it was the last lap at the Daytona 500. It was intoxicating and their enthusiasm was picked up and echoed by Chris and me.
I have to say that this experience reminded me a lot of the trip Chris, Wendell and I took to a juke joint in Mississippi back in 1997. Like the juke joint it was rural, local, friendly, loud with a lot of energy and booze. I encourage anyone who reads this to contact me and come along the next time we go. You will have fun.
The most recent coolest thing ever or Ed goes to a dirt track race in Lancaster, SC
Chris and I had been discussing going to a dirt track race for a while. We realized that we enjoy major league baseball and we also attend the occasional minor baseball game so why shouldn't we take our NASCAR fandom to a local level also? After talking about going for a few months Chris got a Saturday off from work and we took a trek south to the Lancaster Speedway located in Lancaster, SC.
The Lancaster Speedway is a half mile high-banked track carved out of the Carolina clay. It's a bare boned facility which is probably running barely in the black but it is a very efficient operation. We were initially struck by how many people were in attendance. At one point in the evening the announcer mentioned that there were over one thousand fans in the stands. I think he mentioned later that the gate was 1,100.
After we arrived and the local police officer checked our coolers to determine we were not carrying bottles we grabbed a seat a few yards beyond the start/finish line. We ended up sitting about halfway up and a major thoroughfare of the grandstands was right in front of us. Most of the traffic consisted of children running back and forth to the playground and that was almost as entertaining as the racing on the track. I was constantly afraid I would stretch at the wrong moment and clothesline a four-year-old.
The first on-track action was a short testing session for each series that was referred to as "hot laps." There were around six series racing that night. Each series, or division, is determined by experience and type of cars being run. There is not much explanation from the announcer as to the difference between the divisions but you could tell some divisions had faster racecars and the drivers of the faster cars were obviously more experienced.
I was also able to determine the rules of the events by quizzing a guy sitting next to us with his handsome family and beautiful wife. He looked like Dale Jarrett was a petite and very southern blonde lady. She had that beautiful country accent that could have melted ice in the freezer. Before the night ended I was in love. Later when Chris and I were enthusiastically telling each other how much fun we were having he said "It doesn't hurt that the prettiest woman here is sitting next to you." I had to agree.
What was readily apparent as the evening wore on was that the whole affair is very local. People were constantly waving to friends as they moved through the stands, shouting out to their peeps and clusters of people who were sitting together were turning around to discuss the events occuring on the track with those around them. The community connections did not end in the stands. All the drivers were local boys and the fans knew who they were. The Jarrett look-alike with the handsome family told me that several drivers were friends of his and one was an employee that drove a tractor on his farm. He even told me he was a co-sponsor one of the cars in the featured series, called superstock, through a convenience store chained he partially owned.
Before I arrived I expected something like minor league baseball. Instead I witnessed an event that is more closely related to American Legion baseball that used to permeate the south. This was local men putting their asses on the line for the thrill of competition in front of their friends and family. It reminded me of the softball league in northern Michigan in which my father participated in the 70's. Hundreds of locals would show up then and cheer on local heroes also.
That's enough for now. Chris and I are settled in. We've watched the hot laps, talked to a couple of folks and we are very excited about watching the races to come. I finish this tomorrow.
Chris and I had been discussing going to a dirt track race for a while. We realized that we enjoy major league baseball and we also attend the occasional minor baseball game so why shouldn't we take our NASCAR fandom to a local level also? After talking about going for a few months Chris got a Saturday off from work and we took a trek south to the Lancaster Speedway located in Lancaster, SC.
The Lancaster Speedway is a half mile high-banked track carved out of the Carolina clay. It's a bare boned facility which is probably running barely in the black but it is a very efficient operation. We were initially struck by how many people were in attendance. At one point in the evening the announcer mentioned that there were over one thousand fans in the stands. I think he mentioned later that the gate was 1,100.
After we arrived and the local police officer checked our coolers to determine we were not carrying bottles we grabbed a seat a few yards beyond the start/finish line. We ended up sitting about halfway up and a major thoroughfare of the grandstands was right in front of us. Most of the traffic consisted of children running back and forth to the playground and that was almost as entertaining as the racing on the track. I was constantly afraid I would stretch at the wrong moment and clothesline a four-year-old.
The first on-track action was a short testing session for each series that was referred to as "hot laps." There were around six series racing that night. Each series, or division, is determined by experience and type of cars being run. There is not much explanation from the announcer as to the difference between the divisions but you could tell some divisions had faster racecars and the drivers of the faster cars were obviously more experienced.
I was also able to determine the rules of the events by quizzing a guy sitting next to us with his handsome family and beautiful wife. He looked like Dale Jarrett was a petite and very southern blonde lady. She had that beautiful country accent that could have melted ice in the freezer. Before the night ended I was in love. Later when Chris and I were enthusiastically telling each other how much fun we were having he said "It doesn't hurt that the prettiest woman here is sitting next to you." I had to agree.
What was readily apparent as the evening wore on was that the whole affair is very local. People were constantly waving to friends as they moved through the stands, shouting out to their peeps and clusters of people who were sitting together were turning around to discuss the events occuring on the track with those around them. The community connections did not end in the stands. All the drivers were local boys and the fans knew who they were. The Jarrett look-alike with the handsome family told me that several drivers were friends of his and one was an employee that drove a tractor on his farm. He even told me he was a co-sponsor one of the cars in the featured series, called superstock, through a convenience store chained he partially owned.
Before I arrived I expected something like minor league baseball. Instead I witnessed an event that is more closely related to American Legion baseball that used to permeate the south. This was local men putting their asses on the line for the thrill of competition in front of their friends and family. It reminded me of the softball league in northern Michigan in which my father participated in the 70's. Hundreds of locals would show up then and cheer on local heroes also.
That's enough for now. Chris and I are settled in. We've watched the hot laps, talked to a couple of folks and we are very excited about watching the races to come. I finish this tomorrow.
Friday, May 23, 2003
Bonus blog entry
I wrote this review of an Iggy Pop show I went to in 2001. It was a form letter I sent to friends. It was also before I had a blog. I present it now for your enjoyment.
Iggy Pop
Monday Oct 29, 2001. Tremont Music Hall, Charlotte.
It's impossible for me to capture the vitality of what I witnessed Monday night but here goes: Iggy came onstage shirtless and bouncing like a child. He never stopped moving throughtout the evening. It was like every demon in his soul was trying to punch its way out through his skin and he had to keep moving to keep them off balance. He addressed the crowd as "fuckers" continually but the word did not have a perjorative feel to it. It was the same form of the word you use to address your best friend.
The first song they played was "Mask" which is the first cut off his new album. "You're wearin' a mask! Which mask are you?"
He played about four songs off the new album. They all went over pretty well except for a song called "Howl" which, as the
title implies, requires a lot of howling.
The highlights of the show were "Search and Destroy" and "I Wanna be your Dog." The second featured a stage diving Iggy and an improptu crowd sing along of the chorus while Iggy crouched at the front of the stage bouncing up and down on his haunches.
Like most high-energy performers there is the stigma of violence that surrounds Iggy. Violence had nothing to do with Monday's
performance. It was a celebration of just being alive and Iggy knows that nothing makes you feel more alive than a little danger. It's not his trips into personal oblivion that made his appearance an event, it was his eclipsing of that persona that was so powerful. It's health and the limitless joy at just breathing that is important. Not being a survivor. Not the "isn't is amazing that he's still alive?" pose. Iggy Pop doesn't consider it any particular miracle he's still around. He is and he's playing rock and roll and having a good
time and entering into the temple of rock and roll ecstacy and wants to "take you there with me" as Bruce Sprigsteen said in New York.
He ended the show with "No Fun" which confused me since I was having fun and so was he and all the people around me. Certain things may suck about this world and often it is "No Fun" but that isn't any reason why 600 devotees and one manic 54 year old
can't celebrate for a little while.
I wrote this review of an Iggy Pop show I went to in 2001. It was a form letter I sent to friends. It was also before I had a blog. I present it now for your enjoyment.
Iggy Pop
Monday Oct 29, 2001. Tremont Music Hall, Charlotte.
It's impossible for me to capture the vitality of what I witnessed Monday night but here goes: Iggy came onstage shirtless and bouncing like a child. He never stopped moving throughtout the evening. It was like every demon in his soul was trying to punch its way out through his skin and he had to keep moving to keep them off balance. He addressed the crowd as "fuckers" continually but the word did not have a perjorative feel to it. It was the same form of the word you use to address your best friend.
The first song they played was "Mask" which is the first cut off his new album. "You're wearin' a mask! Which mask are you?"
He played about four songs off the new album. They all went over pretty well except for a song called "Howl" which, as the
title implies, requires a lot of howling.
The highlights of the show were "Search and Destroy" and "I Wanna be your Dog." The second featured a stage diving Iggy and an improptu crowd sing along of the chorus while Iggy crouched at the front of the stage bouncing up and down on his haunches.
Like most high-energy performers there is the stigma of violence that surrounds Iggy. Violence had nothing to do with Monday's
performance. It was a celebration of just being alive and Iggy knows that nothing makes you feel more alive than a little danger. It's not his trips into personal oblivion that made his appearance an event, it was his eclipsing of that persona that was so powerful. It's health and the limitless joy at just breathing that is important. Not being a survivor. Not the "isn't is amazing that he's still alive?" pose. Iggy Pop doesn't consider it any particular miracle he's still around. He is and he's playing rock and roll and having a good
time and entering into the temple of rock and roll ecstacy and wants to "take you there with me" as Bruce Sprigsteen said in New York.
He ended the show with "No Fun" which confused me since I was having fun and so was he and all the people around me. Certain things may suck about this world and often it is "No Fun" but that isn't any reason why 600 devotees and one manic 54 year old
can't celebrate for a little while.
Field Day
We're in the open squad bay in a long narrow building. Cale and I are getting out of our camouflage utilities and preparing to put on shorts and ratty t-shirts so we can begin our field day. At the far end of the squad in an area occupied by our to corporals one of them, which we will call the freckled dork, is spouting silly marine non-commisioned officer nonsense. He saying pointless things like "let's go marines," " the sooner we get started the sooner we can finish," "let's get motivated and get this done right the first time" and "the company gunnery sergeant is coming through tomorrow and I don't want to be embarrassed."
As often happens, Cale and I had a new saying that just permeated our conversations. One of those childish and often crude phrases that get funnier for no other reason but repetition. We often bought lottery tickets and I claimed that if I won I would by a Corvette and my vanity license plate would have this phrase.
After the corporal finished spewing his nonsense Cale uttered our saying just loud enough for the freckled dork to hear. He said, "Eat me."
The freckled dork corporal shrieked like a spoiled rich girl who'd just been told her homely date stood her up. "Who said that!? Johnson, was that you!?"
Cale smiled like a ten year old pulling a cat's tail, "Wadn't me corporal."
The freckled dork stepped out from behind the press-board wall lockers that seperated the non-commisioned officer sanctuary from the land of the non-rates. He has the blouse of his utilities off and is standing shirtless with his cloth belt undone. Even his white stomach has freckles. "I know that was you, Johnson."
"Wadn't me, corporal," Cale says and he continues to dress. I'm trying not to crack up.
"If it wasn't you then who was it?"
"I don't know but it wasn't me."
The freckled dork is stumped. He stands where he is for a moment the turns back into his private chamber and continues to change his clothes. His lame utterances have stopped, for a while.
We're in the open squad bay in a long narrow building. Cale and I are getting out of our camouflage utilities and preparing to put on shorts and ratty t-shirts so we can begin our field day. At the far end of the squad in an area occupied by our to corporals one of them, which we will call the freckled dork, is spouting silly marine non-commisioned officer nonsense. He saying pointless things like "let's go marines," " the sooner we get started the sooner we can finish," "let's get motivated and get this done right the first time" and "the company gunnery sergeant is coming through tomorrow and I don't want to be embarrassed."
As often happens, Cale and I had a new saying that just permeated our conversations. One of those childish and often crude phrases that get funnier for no other reason but repetition. We often bought lottery tickets and I claimed that if I won I would by a Corvette and my vanity license plate would have this phrase.
After the corporal finished spewing his nonsense Cale uttered our saying just loud enough for the freckled dork to hear. He said, "Eat me."
The freckled dork corporal shrieked like a spoiled rich girl who'd just been told her homely date stood her up. "Who said that!? Johnson, was that you!?"
Cale smiled like a ten year old pulling a cat's tail, "Wadn't me corporal."
The freckled dork stepped out from behind the press-board wall lockers that seperated the non-commisioned officer sanctuary from the land of the non-rates. He has the blouse of his utilities off and is standing shirtless with his cloth belt undone. Even his white stomach has freckles. "I know that was you, Johnson."
"Wadn't me, corporal," Cale says and he continues to dress. I'm trying not to crack up.
"If it wasn't you then who was it?"
"I don't know but it wasn't me."
The freckled dork is stumped. He stands where he is for a moment the turns back into his private chamber and continues to change his clothes. His lame utterances have stopped, for a while.
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