Hi there, remember me? Last year this time I showed you how much I would do for you, worked around the clock with that friggen' blizzard, and received verbal praise from you like I had never heard before.
As I melted off and returned to my corner of the garage for my much needed rest, I was gleaming with pride, and overwhelmed with a sense of self worth.
I knew it was only a matter of time that you would pick up the phone and schedule a tune up for me.
My belts were worn, my spark plug was foul as a drunken sailor on holiday, my scraper had been shaved down to the point my auger housing was getting molested by the pavement, and don't even get me started on my paddles.
They threw more snow in 5 minutes than that pretentious "ergonomically designed" shovel you bought from Target ever could.
So there I sat, waiting. And waiting. And finally, fall comes around. I was stoked my spa treatment was just around the corner. I've seen you leave in the morning and return with your Mario Tricoci bag knowing full well you were relaxing under hot stones, getting mani/pedi's, and deep tissue massage.
It was my turn.
But nothing.
Halloween came and went. I said to myself, "Maybe my operator is really busy, I'm sure by Thanksgiving I'll be picked up by that nice guy with the trailer."
But then Christmas came around, and some lady who smelled like wine came out and started throwing empty boxes and wrapping paper at me. Before I knew it I was covered in trash, in the dark, and all alone.
Then it happened. From a distance I heard the familiar rumble of the snow plow. All hope wasn't gone after all. Somebody is going to dust me off, pour this putrid stale gas out of my tank and fill me up with some fresh, high octane go-go juice. Any minute now, I'm gonna get my cord pulled!!
I sat there in anticipation the whole night and finally the next morning, you opened the door, walked out, grabbed that trollop shovel, and started dancing her around like she was Ginger Rogers, and you were Fred Astaire .
I felt like someone drained my oil. After all that I did for you, IN RECENT HISTORY I MIGHT ADD, you kicked me to the curb like some useless piece of garbage.
Not too much longer the same scenario played out.
Then another.
Then New Years came and went. It was then that I started to feel my fuel line start to dry out. Already stiff, it started to crack while swelling internally due to all the ethanol you poison me with. You've heard of ways around that, special gas you could buy for me at the small engine dealer, but no, "this will be good enough."
So here we are with Valentines Day fast approaching and we are short on time. Oh sure, you have called on me as late as April and even May, but we both know this season will be over soon. If I don't get a little attention, I don't know if I will be starting up for you ever again. The only thing around here more neglected than me is that stupid bike, hanging upside down from the ceiling with the flat tires and rusty chain.
Oh yeah, and don't cry poor to me, or say it's because of the economy being bad. That's bullshit and you know it. When that blizzard buried you, you would have paid any amount to fix me if I hadn't went to bat, so save that story for someone else. And ever since my corner of the garage became the garbage overflow area, there has been quite a few Rosati's boxes thrown my way, and I know that place ain't cheap. So if you can throw $35 a week at the pizza guy, you should have no problem throwing the small engine guy $90 one time a year.
I didn't mean to make this all about me. I realize I am nothing without you. I just wanted to let you know, in a last stitched effort, my carburetor has begun to leak internally, flooding my intake manifold with stale fuel, and dripping on your concrete floor so your sense of smell will remind you of me, and the good times we once had.
I'd also like to warn you, when you leave the door open sometimes, I receive quite a few looks from that guy with the piece of shit truck that trolls the neighborhood looking for scrap. I sometimes wonder if that's what I am to you, scrap.
So there you go, I've finally got this off my block, if you want to work together in the future, remember this is a two way street. You help me, I help you. It's that simple.
Sincerely,
Your snowblower
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The power of bullshit
Why the fecal matter of a male animal became the word used to describe so many things wrong with the world is beyond me. What people gossip about becomes fact, whether it is true or not. A fact is merely something everyone agrees on. It was a fact the world was flat. It was fact that Columbus discovered America.
When someone declares to the masses that someone did this or that, it is considered fact. Even if later it comes out the first story was bullshit, it doesn't matter, people already believed the bullshit the first time around.
Take a look at your in-depth knowledge of pop culture. I know all sorts of "dirt" on all types of celebrities, and you probably do to. I have never bought a tabloid, watched "Extra", or clicked my way through "OMG", but somehow I know all about movie stars, famous musicians, and even folks that are famous, just for being famous. Most of what I know about them is bullshit. I know this, but it is still what pops up, whenever their name gets mentioned.
Snopes is only for urban myth research, and there seems to be no one to check on the day to day lies and bullshit being slung at us from every direction of the media, and whisper circles concerning more important matters. I suppose such an organization would require too many resources especially when the result would only be the truth.
I pride myself on the fact that I do not intentionally involve myself in other peoples drama, I have enough going on in my own life. But when the weather has already been discussed, people naturally move onto bullshit. We even refer to it as bullshit. "We were just sittin' around bullshittin'." Even though I don't want to be part of it, reading a paper, going on line, or watching the TV envelopes people with bullshit.
The latest bullshit to upset me is the story of Presidential hopeful Herman Cain. I don't know or care if he hit on those women. Even if it were true, a suggestion is merely that. It is ridiculous that we have somehow made that a crime. How come a guy building so much momentum can be cut off at the knees with simple bullshit? Why would people spend time talking about this? How could an allegation of a sexual advance somehow steer the world into thinking this guy is a pig, and not worthy of the nod for candidate for the GOP?
Because we listen. We watch the news, we buy into it, we talk about it, we believe it. The only way we can ever overcome bullshit is to stop consuming it, and stop sharing it. I'm not so sure this movement I'm suggesting will ever catch on.
I'm going to try to lead by example. For the rest of the year, I am tuning out. If someone starts feeding me bullshit, I'm going think about something else while they're talking. I will completely fade them out and hopefully will not absorb any more bullshit. There are only eight weeks or so left in the year, so it shouldn't be as hard as it sounds. I will post after the New year how it went, as I will be taking notes. If all goes well, the notepad will be blank, or full of doodles.
By the way, the mob killed Kennedy, not Oswald. That was bullshit.
When someone declares to the masses that someone did this or that, it is considered fact. Even if later it comes out the first story was bullshit, it doesn't matter, people already believed the bullshit the first time around.
Take a look at your in-depth knowledge of pop culture. I know all sorts of "dirt" on all types of celebrities, and you probably do to. I have never bought a tabloid, watched "Extra", or clicked my way through "OMG", but somehow I know all about movie stars, famous musicians, and even folks that are famous, just for being famous. Most of what I know about them is bullshit. I know this, but it is still what pops up, whenever their name gets mentioned.
Snopes is only for urban myth research, and there seems to be no one to check on the day to day lies and bullshit being slung at us from every direction of the media, and whisper circles concerning more important matters. I suppose such an organization would require too many resources especially when the result would only be the truth.
I pride myself on the fact that I do not intentionally involve myself in other peoples drama, I have enough going on in my own life. But when the weather has already been discussed, people naturally move onto bullshit. We even refer to it as bullshit. "We were just sittin' around bullshittin'." Even though I don't want to be part of it, reading a paper, going on line, or watching the TV envelopes people with bullshit.
The latest bullshit to upset me is the story of Presidential hopeful Herman Cain. I don't know or care if he hit on those women. Even if it were true, a suggestion is merely that. It is ridiculous that we have somehow made that a crime. How come a guy building so much momentum can be cut off at the knees with simple bullshit? Why would people spend time talking about this? How could an allegation of a sexual advance somehow steer the world into thinking this guy is a pig, and not worthy of the nod for candidate for the GOP?
Because we listen. We watch the news, we buy into it, we talk about it, we believe it. The only way we can ever overcome bullshit is to stop consuming it, and stop sharing it. I'm not so sure this movement I'm suggesting will ever catch on.
I'm going to try to lead by example. For the rest of the year, I am tuning out. If someone starts feeding me bullshit, I'm going think about something else while they're talking. I will completely fade them out and hopefully will not absorb any more bullshit. There are only eight weeks or so left in the year, so it shouldn't be as hard as it sounds. I will post after the New year how it went, as I will be taking notes. If all goes well, the notepad will be blank, or full of doodles.
By the way, the mob killed Kennedy, not Oswald. That was bullshit.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Why I suck at guitar, and every other instrument I own.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was 1980, I was 7, and my Mom permitted me to take the $25 Harmony guitar she owned and never played for years and string it backwards to accommodate my left handedness, so I could learn to play it.
This was huge. I was going to be the next Doobie Brothers. Sadly, I never took the time to learn that classic opening lick from "Long Train Comin'" until 2008. When I did learn it, I realized how easy it would have been to just apply myself a bit when I was a sponge, instead of taking my mediocre abilities for what they were.
But that's life right? Everyone could do better. Hind sight is always 20/20.
Main Street music was a small music shop in town that my brother worked at, and Paul, the owner, gave lessons. So, I strut in there for my first lesson gleaming with pride, cause little does Paul know, I've already been practicing. Smoke on the water, Another one bites the dust, shit like that. I was sure to impress.
I take the warped piece of sweat shop particle board out of the case and sit down, a little nervous, but very excited. This is where I learn to melt faces.
Paul sees me take the guitar, assuming rock position, then says, "Yeah, uh, that's not gonna work."
Needless to say I was dumbfounded, so I asked "What's not gonna work"?
" Since you don't know how to play yet, I'll teach you how to play right handed, so later in life, you can jam with anyone, or play any guitar in a music store." he said. Don't know how to play? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I can play Smoke on the water, some 3 chord Cars tune. Shit, I even know the opening to Fly by night from Rush.
Reluctantly, I hand the Harmony over to him, and for most of the next 15 minutes, I watch him string the guitar for the majority of players who unlike me, aren't in their right mind. Jimmy was a lefty. Paul McCartney was a lefty. Shit, even Dave Matthews was a lefty. I had somehow underestimated this guitar virtuoso Paul. He obviously doesn't know shit.
So finally he hands me my new guitar, and shows me how to hold it backwards, and gets my left hand to contort to a G chord. This felt similar to when the evil nurse forced my broken hand into an "Okay" position and had me hold it for an excruciating 5 seconds while she fumbled for the x-ray button. From top to bottom I strum and barely make out 3 of the 6 notes that are supposed to be coming out. Now I'm pissed. Before I know it, Paul takes out a pen, takes my left thumb, and on the tip of it draws a smiley face. Evidently my thumb isn't supposed to be coming over the neck, and this 7 year old is here to amuse him. ("Am I a fuckin' clown? Am I here to amuse you?")
Out of respect, I hold back my anger and move onto the C. A little easier, but still awkward as shit.
Finally, a natural feeling D chord was explained and all the notes rang out. Hey, I knew that chord Left handed. That's the Fly by night chord. So, basically, the lessons over, and all I got out of it were these 2 chords and I get to re-train my brain into thinking I'm a righty? What the fuck. I put the guitar back in the case, find my coat, and go outside to wait for my Mom to pick me up. Disappointment was in full force, and I decided if I were the one paying for the lessons, this would be my last. I'm going to have to search the land for a left handed guitar instructor. Someone who blows doors down. Someone who could kick Paul's ass in a fight, and in a guitar battle like the one with Ralph Machio and David Lee Roth's guitar player from that short solo career he had. Yeah, fuck this guy.
So from down the street I see the yellow AMC Hornet wagon pulling up to fetch me, and as the car stops at the corner, I open the back door to gently place my Harmony inside, and low and behold, there on the ground lies a $20 bill. It might as well have been a hundred. I quickly snatch it up, and think to myself, Holy shit! Twenty bucks! I'm fuckin' rich! I slip the bill into my pocket and slide onto the front seat, without mentioning the lucky find. I guess I thought my Mom would have made me put it in the bowl at church. Come to think of it, she would have. Fuck that. I can buy whatever I want with it, cause nobody knows about it but me.
She asks how the lesson went, and I was still excited from the found money, so my enthusiasm was falsely taken as feedback from the lesson. Next week was lesson number 2, and I had to practice 15 minutes every day so I could put my new found chords to good use. This is where why I suck at guitar comes in. Fifteen minutes a day of practice was 13 minutes to long for me. To this day, for me to run up and down the neck with a chromatic scale for more than 3 minutes is an achievement. Although I have played in bands, and by myself for almost 30 years, I never practiced. I only played. Practice is work, playing is play. I don't know if that makes me A.D.D., lazy, or just a hedonist, but that's why I suck. If Paul had instructed be to religiously practice for 4 minutes everyday, I would be a guitar master. You know. Like Eddie Van Halen, or Joe Satriani, or any one of those pompous dick heads that nobody likes, and couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Yeah, Paul kept me mediocre for a reason. I'd like to think he did it for my own good, he was a religious guy, so he was probably looking out for me, but I was too young to understand. In my second and last lesson with Paul, he had me tie the 3 chords together and sing the tune "Hang on Sloopy." Thanks Paul.
This was huge. I was going to be the next Doobie Brothers. Sadly, I never took the time to learn that classic opening lick from "Long Train Comin'" until 2008. When I did learn it, I realized how easy it would have been to just apply myself a bit when I was a sponge, instead of taking my mediocre abilities for what they were.
But that's life right? Everyone could do better. Hind sight is always 20/20.
Main Street music was a small music shop in town that my brother worked at, and Paul, the owner, gave lessons. So, I strut in there for my first lesson gleaming with pride, cause little does Paul know, I've already been practicing. Smoke on the water, Another one bites the dust, shit like that. I was sure to impress.
I take the warped piece of sweat shop particle board out of the case and sit down, a little nervous, but very excited. This is where I learn to melt faces.
Paul sees me take the guitar, assuming rock position, then says, "Yeah, uh, that's not gonna work."
Needless to say I was dumbfounded, so I asked "What's not gonna work"?
" Since you don't know how to play yet, I'll teach you how to play right handed, so later in life, you can jam with anyone, or play any guitar in a music store." he said. Don't know how to play? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I can play Smoke on the water, some 3 chord Cars tune. Shit, I even know the opening to Fly by night from Rush.
Reluctantly, I hand the Harmony over to him, and for most of the next 15 minutes, I watch him string the guitar for the majority of players who unlike me, aren't in their right mind. Jimmy was a lefty. Paul McCartney was a lefty. Shit, even Dave Matthews was a lefty. I had somehow underestimated this guitar virtuoso Paul. He obviously doesn't know shit.
So finally he hands me my new guitar, and shows me how to hold it backwards, and gets my left hand to contort to a G chord. This felt similar to when the evil nurse forced my broken hand into an "Okay" position and had me hold it for an excruciating 5 seconds while she fumbled for the x-ray button. From top to bottom I strum and barely make out 3 of the 6 notes that are supposed to be coming out. Now I'm pissed. Before I know it, Paul takes out a pen, takes my left thumb, and on the tip of it draws a smiley face. Evidently my thumb isn't supposed to be coming over the neck, and this 7 year old is here to amuse him. ("Am I a fuckin' clown? Am I here to amuse you?")
Out of respect, I hold back my anger and move onto the C. A little easier, but still awkward as shit.
Finally, a natural feeling D chord was explained and all the notes rang out. Hey, I knew that chord Left handed. That's the Fly by night chord. So, basically, the lessons over, and all I got out of it were these 2 chords and I get to re-train my brain into thinking I'm a righty? What the fuck. I put the guitar back in the case, find my coat, and go outside to wait for my Mom to pick me up. Disappointment was in full force, and I decided if I were the one paying for the lessons, this would be my last. I'm going to have to search the land for a left handed guitar instructor. Someone who blows doors down. Someone who could kick Paul's ass in a fight, and in a guitar battle like the one with Ralph Machio and David Lee Roth's guitar player from that short solo career he had. Yeah, fuck this guy.
So from down the street I see the yellow AMC Hornet wagon pulling up to fetch me, and as the car stops at the corner, I open the back door to gently place my Harmony inside, and low and behold, there on the ground lies a $20 bill. It might as well have been a hundred. I quickly snatch it up, and think to myself, Holy shit! Twenty bucks! I'm fuckin' rich! I slip the bill into my pocket and slide onto the front seat, without mentioning the lucky find. I guess I thought my Mom would have made me put it in the bowl at church. Come to think of it, she would have. Fuck that. I can buy whatever I want with it, cause nobody knows about it but me.
She asks how the lesson went, and I was still excited from the found money, so my enthusiasm was falsely taken as feedback from the lesson. Next week was lesson number 2, and I had to practice 15 minutes every day so I could put my new found chords to good use. This is where why I suck at guitar comes in. Fifteen minutes a day of practice was 13 minutes to long for me. To this day, for me to run up and down the neck with a chromatic scale for more than 3 minutes is an achievement. Although I have played in bands, and by myself for almost 30 years, I never practiced. I only played. Practice is work, playing is play. I don't know if that makes me A.D.D., lazy, or just a hedonist, but that's why I suck. If Paul had instructed be to religiously practice for 4 minutes everyday, I would be a guitar master. You know. Like Eddie Van Halen, or Joe Satriani, or any one of those pompous dick heads that nobody likes, and couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Yeah, Paul kept me mediocre for a reason. I'd like to think he did it for my own good, he was a religious guy, so he was probably looking out for me, but I was too young to understand. In my second and last lesson with Paul, he had me tie the 3 chords together and sing the tune "Hang on Sloopy." Thanks Paul.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Back in Blog
Why the hell would anyone want to read the ramblings of an under educated cigar chewin' truck mechanic anyway? I dunno, but to pass the time I've tried just about everything since launching my first blog in 2005, to which I posted twice. I found it may need a second chance, so here I go.
It's not that I'm bored, or I quit drinking and I have all this new found time to spend. (I still drink plenty ...hic-up) It's that I quit my job 6 years ago and retired. My new days of self employment allow some self time that I yearned for but didn't exactly know what to do with. 4 months of the year I work 60-90 hours a week, and the other 8 months I work for 6 or so hours a day, and fuck off the rest. Not to say this expression of words is fucking off, but to my wife, had she read my blog, would probably say I'm fucking off.
I decided some time ago, I'd spend my fuck off time playing golf, eating out, learning tai chi, creating yard art out of metal with my welder, making a vodka still, writing my third book, getting my first book published, completeing my second book and getting it published, organizing my desk, office, dresser, garage, and personal effects, building a fire place for the patio, shit like that.
I realized though, I have way to many fucking hobbies for any one person to get good at anything. I'm a good mechanic, but that's only because I was forced to do it in repition for 15 years. I don't like working on shit, I was never a gearhead. When I got my first car I didn't even know how to change the fucking oil! I could dismantle the heating duct work to allocate a hiding place for my bowl, though.
Everytime I would be introduced to another male who envied my carreer I would have to sit through " Yeah, I put a four and a quarter cam with rhodes lifters in it to do like, low 9's and edelbroch intake with mallory ignition should get like 500 horse at the rear wheel if the humidity is below 40" "STOP", I'd say. "Not only do I not give a fuck, I have no fucking idea what your talking about." I was never that kind of mechanic. I fix broken shit, that's it. If you need a brake job, fine. If you want to have me power your son's tricycle with the engine from your rototiller, no.
One gear head truck driver, ( By the way, all truck drivers are gear heads. And, they have a toolbox just like mine at home, full of snap on only tools.) saw that every truck was getting new shocks but his. After weeks of complaining about the shocks, (boss said no, by the way) he confided in me that he didn't care about the ride, he just didn't want to beat the truck with these under performing shocks. Aww. How could I deny this guy the right to take care of his rig, I mean, I was the head mechanic in the shop right?
So, the asshole comes in on a friday, leaves the truck for service, and while he's gone I take a can of brake clean & get all the grease off the shocks. Then I rattle canned em' black. Then, I took a socket one size too big and ran it over the nuts to make it look like they had been changed.
He comes back from lunch, sees the shocks, and like an Indian looking at litter, a single tear falls from his eye. "Thanks man" he said. I told him to let me know how they work out.
Next week I see this asshole pull up and I run right over. "How those new shocks work out?" I asked.
"It's like a whole new truck. They made all the difference in the world."
And so begins another blog. Tune in next time for, "Why I suck at guitar, and every other instrument I own"
It's not that I'm bored, or I quit drinking and I have all this new found time to spend. (I still drink plenty ...hic-up) It's that I quit my job 6 years ago and retired. My new days of self employment allow some self time that I yearned for but didn't exactly know what to do with. 4 months of the year I work 60-90 hours a week, and the other 8 months I work for 6 or so hours a day, and fuck off the rest. Not to say this expression of words is fucking off, but to my wife, had she read my blog, would probably say I'm fucking off.
I decided some time ago, I'd spend my fuck off time playing golf, eating out, learning tai chi, creating yard art out of metal with my welder, making a vodka still, writing my third book, getting my first book published, completeing my second book and getting it published, organizing my desk, office, dresser, garage, and personal effects, building a fire place for the patio, shit like that.
I realized though, I have way to many fucking hobbies for any one person to get good at anything. I'm a good mechanic, but that's only because I was forced to do it in repition for 15 years. I don't like working on shit, I was never a gearhead. When I got my first car I didn't even know how to change the fucking oil! I could dismantle the heating duct work to allocate a hiding place for my bowl, though.
Everytime I would be introduced to another male who envied my carreer I would have to sit through " Yeah, I put a four and a quarter cam with rhodes lifters in it to do like, low 9's and edelbroch intake with mallory ignition should get like 500 horse at the rear wheel if the humidity is below 40" "STOP", I'd say. "Not only do I not give a fuck, I have no fucking idea what your talking about." I was never that kind of mechanic. I fix broken shit, that's it. If you need a brake job, fine. If you want to have me power your son's tricycle with the engine from your rototiller, no.
One gear head truck driver, ( By the way, all truck drivers are gear heads. And, they have a toolbox just like mine at home, full of snap on only tools.) saw that every truck was getting new shocks but his. After weeks of complaining about the shocks, (boss said no, by the way) he confided in me that he didn't care about the ride, he just didn't want to beat the truck with these under performing shocks. Aww. How could I deny this guy the right to take care of his rig, I mean, I was the head mechanic in the shop right?
So, the asshole comes in on a friday, leaves the truck for service, and while he's gone I take a can of brake clean & get all the grease off the shocks. Then I rattle canned em' black. Then, I took a socket one size too big and ran it over the nuts to make it look like they had been changed.
He comes back from lunch, sees the shocks, and like an Indian looking at litter, a single tear falls from his eye. "Thanks man" he said. I told him to let me know how they work out.
Next week I see this asshole pull up and I run right over. "How those new shocks work out?" I asked.
"It's like a whole new truck. They made all the difference in the world."
And so begins another blog. Tune in next time for, "Why I suck at guitar, and every other instrument I own"
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